Foamfollower sat erect in his chair, and his hands stroked the stone of the table intently. “My Lords—Stone and Sea! I am a Giant. These matters do not come easily, though easier to me than to any of my kindred—and for that reason I was chosen. But I will endeavor to speak hastily.
“Please understand me. I was given my embassy in a Giantclave lasting ten days. There was no waste of time. When comprehension is needed, all tales must be told in full. Haste is for the hopeless, we say—and hardly a day has passed since I learned that there is truth in sayings. So it is that my embassy contains much that you would not choose to hear at present. You must know the history of my people—all the sojourn and the loss which brought us ashore here, all the interactions of our peoples since that age—if you are to hear me. But I will forgo it. We are the Unhomed, adrift in soul and lessened by an unreplenishing seed. We are hungry for our native land. Yet since the time of Damelon Giantfriend we have not surrendered hope, though Soulcrusher himself contrives against us. We have searched the seas, and have waited for the omens to come to pass.”
Foamfollower paused to look thoughtfully at Covenant, then went on: “Ah, my Lords, omening is curious. So much is said—and so little made clear. It was not Home that Damelon foretold for us, but rather an end, a resolution, to our loss. Yet that sufficed for us—sufficed.
“Well. One hope we have found for ourselves. When spring came to Seareach, our questing ships returned, and told that at the very limit of their search they came upon an isle that borders the ancient oceans on which we once roamed. The matter is not sure, but our next questers can go directly to this isle and look beyond it for surer signs. Thus across the labyrinth of the seas we unamaze ourselves.”
Prothall nodded, and through the perfect acoustics of the Close, Covenant could hear the faint rustle of the High Lord’s robe.
With an air of nearing the crux of his embassy, Foamfollower continued, “Yet another hope we received from Damelon Giantfriend, High Lord and Heartthew’s son. At the heart of his omening was this word: our exile would end when our seed regained its potency, and the decline of our offspring was reversed. Thus hope is born of hope, for without any foretelling we would gain heart and courage from any increase in our rare, beloved children. And behold! On the night that our ships returned, Wavenhair Haleall, wived to Sparlimb Keelsetter, was taken to her bed and delivered—ah, Stone and Sea, my Lords! It cripples my tongue to tell this without its full measure of long Giantish gratitude. How can there he joy for people who say everything briefly? Proud-wife, clean-limbed Wavenhair gave birth to three sons.” No longer able to restrain himself, he broke into a chant full of the brave crash of breakers and the tang of salt.
To his surprise, Covenant saw that Lord Osondrea was smiling, and her eyes caught the golden glow of the graveling damply—eloquent witness to the gladness of the Giant’s news.
But Foamfollower abruptly stopped himself. With a gesture toward Covenant, he said, “Your pardon—you have other matters in your hands. I must bring myself to the bone of my embassy. Ah, my friend,” he said to Covenant, “will you still not laugh for me? I must remember that Damelon promised us an end, not a return Home—though I cannot envision any end but Home. It may be that I stand in the gloaming of the Giants.”
“Hush, Rockbrother,” Lord Tamarantha interrupted. “Do not make evil for your people by uttering such things.”
Foamfollower responded with a hearty laugh. “Ah, my thanks, Lord Tamarantha. So the wise old Giants are admonished by young women. My entire people will laugh when I tell them of this.”
Tamarantha and Variol exchanged a smile, and returned to their semblance of meditation or dozing.
When he was done laughing, the Giant said, “Well, my Lords. To the bone, then. Stone and Sea! Such haste makes me giddy. I have come to ask the fulfillment of the ancient offers. High Lord Loric Vilesilencer promised that the Lords would give us a gift when our hope was ready—a gift to better the chances of our Homeward way.”
“Birinair,” said Lord Osondrea.
High in the gallery behind Prothall, old Birinair stood and replied, “Of course. I am not asleep. Not as old as I look, you know. I hear you.”
With a broad grin, Foamfollower called, “Hail, Birinair! Hearthrall of Lord’s Keep and Hirebrand of the lillianrill. We are old friends, Giants and lillianrill.”
“No need to shout,” Birinair returned. “I hear you. Old friends from the time of High Lord Damelon. Never otherwise.”
“Birinair,” Osondrea cut in, “does your lore recall the gift promised by Loric to the Giants?”
“Gift? Why not? Nothing amiss with my memory. Where is that whelp my apprentice? Of course. Lor-liarill. Gildenlode, they call it. There. Keels and rudders for ships. True course—never becalmed. And strong as stone,” he said to Tohrm, “you grinning rhadhamaerl to the contrary. I remember.”
“Can you accomplish this?” Osondrea asked quietly.
“Accomplish?” Birinair echoed, apparently puzzled.
“Can you make Gildenlode keels and rudders for the Giants? Has that lore been lost?” Turning to Foamfollower, Lord Osondrea asked, “How many ships will you need?”
With a glance at Birinair’s upright dignity, Foamfollower contained his humor, and replied simply, “Seven. Perhaps five.”
“Can this be done?” Osondrea asked Birinair again, distinctly but without irritation. Covenant’s blank gaze followed from speaker to speaker as if they were talking in a foreign language.
The Hearthrall pulled a small tablet and stylus from his robe and began to calculate, muttering to himself. The scrape of his stylus could be heard throughout the Close until he raised his head and said stiffly, “The lore remains. But not easily. The best we can do. Of course. And time—it will need time. Bodach glas, it will need time.”
“How much time?”
“The best we can do. If we are left alone. Not my fault. I did not lose all the proudest lore of the lillianrill. Forty years.” In a sudden whisper, he added to Foamfollower, “I am sorry.”
“Forty years?” Foamfollower laughed gently. “Ah, bravely said, Birinair, my friend. Forty years? That does not seem a long time to me.” Turning to High Lord Prothall, he said, “My people cannot thank you. Even in Giantish, there are no words long enough. “Three millennia of our loyalty have not been enough to repay seven Gildenlode keels and rudders.”
“No,” protested Prothall. “Seventy times seven Gildenlode gifts are nothing compared to the great friendship of the Seareach Giants. Only the thought we have aided your return Home can fill the emptiness your departure will leave. And our help is forty years distant. But we will begin at once, and it may be that some new understanding of Kevin’s Lore will shorten the time.”
Echoing, “At once,” Birinair reseated himself.
Forty years? Covenant breathed. You don’t have forty years.
Then Osondrea said, “Done?” She looked first at Foamfollower, then at High Lord Prothall. When they both nodded to her, she turned on Covenant and said, “Then let us get to the matter of this Thomas Covenant.” Her voice seemed to whet the atmosphere like a distant thunderclap.
Smiling to ameliorate Osondrea’s forthrightness, Mhoram said, “A stranger called the Unbeliever.”
“And for good reason,” Foamfollower added.
The Giant’s words rang an alarm in Covenant’s clouded trepidations, and he looked sharply at Foamfollower. In the Giant’s cavernous eyes and buttressed forehead, he saw the import of the comment. As clearly as if he were pleading outright, Foamfollower said, Acknowledge the white gold and use it to aid the Land. Impossible, Covenant replied. The backs of his eyes felt hot with helplessness and belligerence, but his face was as stiff as a marble slab.
Abruptly Lord Osondrea demanded, “The tapestry from your room was found. Why did you cast it down?”
Without looking at her, Covenant answered, “It offended me.”
“Offended?” Her voice quivered with disbelie
f and indignation.
“Osondrea,” Prothall admonished gently. “He is a stranger.”
She kept the defiance of her face on Covenant, but fell silent. For a moment, no one moved or spoke; Covenant received the unsettling impression that the Lords were debating mentally with each other about how to treat him. Then Mhoram stood, walked around the end of the stone table, and moved back inside the circle until he was again opposite Osondrea. There he seated himself on the edge of the table with his staff across his lap, and fixed his eyes down on Covenant.
Covenant felt more exposed than ever to Mhoram’s scrutiny. At the same time, he sensed that Bannor had stepped closer to him, as if anticipating an attack on Mhoram.
Wryly Lord Mhoram said, “Thomas Covenant, you must pardon our caution. The desecrated moon signifies an evil in the Land which we hardly suspected. Without warning, the sternest test of our age appears in the sky, and we are utterly threatened. Yet we do not prejudge you. You must prove your ill—if ill you are.” He looked to Covenant for some response, some acknowledgment, but Covenant only stared back emptily. With a slight shrug, the Lord went on, “Now. Perhaps it would be well if you began with your message.”
Covenant winced, ducked his head like a man harried by vultures. He did not want to recite that message, did not want to remember Kevin’s Watch, Mithil Stonedown, anything. His guts ached at visions of vertigo. Everything was impossible. How could he retain his outraged sanity if he thought about such things?
But Foul’s message had a power of compulsion. He had borne it like a wound in his mind too long to repudiate it now. Before he could muster any defense, it came over him like a convulsion. In a tone of irremediable contempt, he said, “These are the words of Lord Foul the Despiser.
“ ‘Say to the Council of Lords, and to the High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian, that the uttermost limit of their span of days upon the Land is seven times seven years from this present time. Before the end of those days are numbered, I will have the command of life and death in my hand. And as a token that what I say is the one word of truth, tell them this: Drool Rockworm, Cavewight of Mount Thunder, has found the Staff of Law, which was lost ten times a hundred years ago by Kevin at the Ritual of Desecration. Say to them that the task appointed to their generation is to regain the Staff. Without it, they will not be able to resist me for seven years, and my complete victory will be achieved six times seven years earlier than it would be else.
“ ‘As for you, groveler: do not fail with this message. If you do not bring it before the Council, then every human in the Land will be dead before ten seasons have passed. You do not understand—but I tell you Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord’s Keep in two years if the message fails. Already, the Cavewights are marching to his call; and wolves, and ur-viles of the Demondim, answer the power of the Staff. But war is not the worst peril. Drool delves ever deeper into the dark roots of Mount Thunder—Gravin Threndor, Peak of the FireLions. And there are banes buried in the deeps of the Earth too potent and terrible for any mortal to control. They would make of the universe a hell forever. But such a bane Drool seeks. He searches for the Illearth Stone. If he becomes its master, there will be woe for low and high alike until Time itself falls.
“ ‘Do not fail with my message, groveler. You have met Drool. Do you relish dying in his hands?” ’ Covenant’s heart lurched with the force of his loathing for the words, the tone. But he was not done. “ ‘One word more, a final caution. Do not forget whom to fear at the last. I have had to be content with killing and torment. But now my plans are laid, and I have begun. I shall not rest until I have eradicated hope from the Earth. Think on that, and be dismayed!’ ”
As he finished, he heard fear and abhorrence flare in the Close as if ignited by his involuntary peroration. Hellfire hellfire! he moaned, trying to clear his gaze of the darkness from which Foul’s contempt had sprung. Unclean!
Prothall’s head was bowed, and he clenched his staff as if he were trying to wring courage from it. Behind him, Tuvor and Warmark Garth stood in attitudes of martial readiness. Oddly, Variol and Tamarantha doddered in their seats as if dozing, unaware of what had been said. But Osondrea gaped at Covenant as if he had stabbed her in the heart. Opposite her, Mhoram stood erect, head high and eyes closed, with his staff braced hard against the floor; and where his metal met the stone, a hot blue flame burned. Foamfollower hunched in his seat; his huge hands clutched a stone chair. His shoulders quivered, and suddenly the chair snapped.
At the noise, Osondrea covered her face with her hands, gave one stricken cry, “Melenkurion abatha!” The next instant, she dropped her hands and resumed her stony, amazed stare at Covenant. And he shouted, Unclean! as if he were agreeing with her.
“Laugh, Covenant,” Foamfollower whispered hoarsely. “You have told us the end of all things. Now help us. Laugh.”
Covenant replied dully, “You laugh. ‘Joy is in the ears that hear.’ I can’t do it.”
To his astonishment, Foamfollower did laugh. He lifted his head and made a strangled, garish noise in his throat that sounded like sobbing; but in a moment the sound loosened, clarified, slowly took on the tone of indomitable humor. The terrible exertion appalled Covenant.
As Foamfollower laughed, the first shock of dismay passed from the Council. Gradually Prothall raised his head. “The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land,” he murmured. Mhoram sagged, and the fire between his staff and the floor went out. Osondrea shook her head, sighed, passed her hands through her hair. Again, Covenant sensed a kind of mental melding from the Lords; without words, they seemed to join hands, share strength with each other.
Sitting alone and miserable, Covenant waited for them to question him. And as he waited, he struggled to recapture all the refusals on which his survival depended.
Finally the Lords returned their attention to him. The flesh of Prothall’s face seemed to droop with weariness, but his eyes remained steady, resolute. “Now, Unbeliever,” he said softly. “You must tell us all that has happened to you. We must know how Lord Foul’s threats are embodied.”
Now, Covenant echoed, twisting in his chair. He could hardly resist a desire to clutch at his ring. Dark memories beat at his ears, trying to break down his defenses. Shortly everyone in the Close was looking at him. Tossing his words down as if he were discarding flawed bricks, he began.
“I come from—someplace else. I was brought to Kevin’s Watch—I don’t know how. First I got a look at Drool—then Foul left me on the Watch. They seemed to know each other.”
“And the Staff of Law?” Prothall asked.
“Drool had a staff—all carved up, with metal ends like yours. I don’t know what it was.”
Prothall shrugged the doubt away; and grimly Covenant forced himself to describe without any personal mention of himself, any reference to Lena or Triock or Baradakas, the events of his journey. When he spoke of the murdered Waynhim, Osondrea’s breath hissed between her teeth, but the Lords made no other response.
Then, after he mentioned the visit to Soaring Woodhelven of a malicious stranger, possibly a Raver, Mhoram asked intently, “Did the stranger use a name?”
“He said his name was Jehannum.”
“Ah. And what was his purpose?”
“How should I know?” Covenant rasped, trying to conceal his falsehood with belligerence. “I don’t know any Ravers.”
Mhoram nodded noncommittally, and Covenant went on to relate his and Atiaran’s progress through Andelain. He avoided gruffly any reference to the wrong which had attacked him through his boots. But when he came to the Celebration of Spring, he faltered.
The Wraiths—! he ached silently. The rage and horror of that night were still in him, still vivid to his raw heart. Covenant, help them! How could I? It’s madness! I’m not—I am not Berek.
With an effort that made his throat hurt as if his words were too sharp to pass through it, he said, “The Celebration was attacked by ur-vile
s. We escaped. Some of the Wraiths were saved by—by one of the Unfettered, Atiaran said. Then the moon turned red.
Then we got to the river and met Foamfollower. Atiaran decided to go back home. How the hell much longer do I have to put up with this?”
Unexpectedly Lord Tamarantha raised her nodding head. “Who will go?” she asked toward the ceiling of the Close.
“It has not yet been determined that anyone will go,” Prothall replied in a gentle voice.
“Nonsense,” she sniffed. Tugging at a thin wisp of hair behind her ear, she coaxed her old bones erect. “This is too high a matter for caution. We must act. Of course I trust him. He has a Hirebrand’s staff, does he not? What Hirebrand would give a staff without sure reason? And look at it—one end blackened. He has fought with it—at the Celebration, if I do not mistake. Ah, the poor Wraiths. That was ill, ill.” Looking across at Variol, she said, “Come. We must prepare.”
Variol worked himself to his feet. Taking Tamarantha’s arm, he left the Close through one of the doors behind the High Lord.
After a respectful pause for the old Lords, Osondrea leveled her stare at Covenant and demanded, “How did you gain that staff?”
“Baradakas—the Hirebrand—gave it to me.”
“Why?”
Her tone sparked his anger. He said distinctly, “He wanted to apologize for distrusting me.”
“How did you teach him to trust you?”
Damnation! “I passed his bloody test of truth.”
Carefully Lord Mhoram asked, “Unbeliever, why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven desire to test you?”
Again, Covenant felt compelled to lie. “Jehannum made him nervous. He tested everyone.”
“Did he also test Atiaran?”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” Foamfollower interposed firmly, “that Atiaran Trell-mate of Mithil Stonedown would not require any test of truth to demonstrate her fidelity.”
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