“These oaths were carried back to all the people of the Land, and all the people swore. Then the few who were chosen at Revelstone for the great work took the First Ward to Kurash Plenethor, Stricken Stone, where the gravest damage of the last battle was done. They named the land Trothgard, as a token of their promise of healing, and there they founded the Loresraat-a place of learning where they sought to regain the knowledge and power of the Old Lords, and to train themselves in the Oath of Peace.”
Then Atiaran fell silent, and she and Covenant walked down the file in stillness textured by the whispering of the stream and by the occasional calls of the birds. He found that her tale did help him to keep up their pace. It caused him to forget himself somewhat, forget the raw ache of his shoulders and feet. And her voice seemed to give him strength; her tale was like a promise that any exhaustion borne in the Land's service would not be wasted.
After a time, he urged her to continue. “Can you tell me about the Loresraat?”
The bitter vehemence of her reply surprised him. “Do you remind me that I am of all people the least worthy to talk of these matters? You, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder-do you reproach me?”
He could only stare dumbly at her, unable to fathom the years of struggling that filled her spacious eyes.
“I do not need your reminders.”
But a moment later she faced forward again, her expression set to meet the north. “Now you reproach me indeed,” she said. “I am too easily hurt that the whole world knows what I know so well myself. Like a guilty woman, I fail to believe the innocence of others. Please pardon me-you should receive better treatment than this.”
Before he could respond, she forged ahead. 'In this way I describe the Loresraat. It stands in Trothgard in the Valley of Two Rivers, and it is a community of study and learning. To that place go all who will, and there they consecrate themselves to Earthfriendship and the Lore of the Old Lords.
“This Lore is a deep matter, not mastered yet despite all the years and effort that have been given to it. The chiefest problem is translation, for the language of the Old Lords was not like ours, and the words which are simple at one place are difficult at another. And after translation, the Lore must be interpreted, and then the skills to use it must be learned. When I”-she faltered briefly-“when I studied there, the Lorewardens who taught me said that all the Loresraat had not yet passed the surface of Kevin's mighty knowledge. And that knowledge is only a seventh part of the whole, the First Ward of Seven.”
Covenant heard an unwitting echo of Foul's contempt in her words, and it made him listen to her still more closely.
“Easiest of translation,” she went on, 'has been the Warlore, the arts of battle and defence. But there much skill is required. Therefore one part of the Loresraat deals solely with those who would follow the Sword, and join the Warward of Lord's Keep. But there have been no wars in our time, and in my years at the Loresraat the Warward numbered scarcely two thousand men and women.
“Thus the chief work of the Loresraat is in teaching and studying the language and knowledge of the Earthpower. First, the new learners are taught the history of the Land, the prayers and songs and legends-in time, all that is known of the Old Lords and their struggles against the Grey Slayer. Those who master this become Lorewardens. They teach others, or search out new knowledge and power from the First Ward. The price of such mastery is high-such purity and determination and insight and courage are required by Kevin's Lore-and there are some,” she said as if she were resolved not to spare her own feelings, “who cannot match the need. I failed when that which I learned made my heart quail-when the Lorewardens led me to see, just a little way, into the Despite of the Grey Slayer. That I could not bear, and so I broke my devotion, and returned to Mithil Stonedown to use the little that I knew for my people. And now, when I have forgotten so much, my trial is upon me.”
She sighed deeply, as if it grieved her to consent to her fate. 'But that is no matter. In the Loresraat, those who follow and master both Sword and Staff, who earn a place in the Warward and among the Lorewardens, and who do not turn away to pursue private dreams in isolation, as do the Unfettered those brave hearts are named Lords, and they join the Council which guides the healing and protection of the Land. From their number, they choose the High Lord, to act for all as the Lore requires:
And one High Lord to wield the Law
To keep all uncorrupt Earth's Power's core.
“In my years at the Loresraat, the High Lord was Variol Tamarantha-mate son of Pentil. But he was old, even for a Lord, and the Lords live longer than other folk-and our Stonedown has had no news of Revelstone or Loresraat for many years. I do not know who leads the Council now.”
Without thinking, Covenant said, “Prothall son of Dwillian.”
“Ah!” Atiaran gasped. “He knows me. As a Lorewarden he taught me the first prayers. He will remember that I failed, and will not trust my mission.” She shook her head in pain. Then, after a moment's reflection, she added, “And you have known this. You know all. Why do you seek to shame the rudeness of my knowledge? That is not kind.”
“Hellfire!” Covenant snapped. Her reproach made him suddenly angry. “Everybody in this whole business, you and-but he could not bring himself to say Lena's name “and everyone keep accusing me of being some sort of closet expert. I tell you, I don't know one damn thing about this unless someone explains it to me. I'm not your bloody Berek.”
Atiaran gave him a look full of scepticism-the fruit of long, harsh self-doubt- and he felt an answering urge to prove himself in some way. He stopped, pulled himself erect against the weight of his pack. “This is the message of Lord Foul the Despiser: `Say to the Council of Lords, and to 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.”'
Abruptly, he caught himself. His words seemed to beat down the file like ravens, and he felt a hot leper's shame in his cheeks, as though he had defiled the day. For an instant, complete stillness surrounded him-the birds were as silent as if they had been stricken out of the sky, and the stream appeared motionless. In the noon heat, his flesh was slick with sweat.
For that instant, Atiaran gaped aghast at him. Then she cried, “
The silence shuddered, passed; the stream began chattering again, and a bird swooped by overhead. Covenant wiped his forehead with an unsteady hand. “Then stop treating me as if I'm something I'm not.”
“How can I?” she responded heavily. “You are closed to me, Thomas Covenant. I do not see you.”
She used the word
“You are closed to me,” she repeated. “I do not know whether you are well or ill.”
He blinked at her uncertainly, then realized that she had unwittingly given him a chance to tell her about his leprosy. He took the opportunity; he was angry enough for the job now. Putting aside his incomprehension, he grated, “Ill, of course. I'm a leper.”
At this, Atiaran groaned as if he had just confessed to a crime. “Then woe to the Land, for you have the wild magic and can undo us all.”
“Will you cut that out?” Brandishing his left fist, he gritted, “It's just a ring. To remind me of everything I have to live without. It's got no more-wild magic-than a rock.”
“The Earth is the source of all power,” whispered Atiaran.
With an effort, Covenant refrained from shouting his frustration at her. She was talking past him, reacting to him as if his words meant something he had not intended. “Back up a minute,” he said. “Let's get this straight. I said I was ill. What does that mean to you? Don't you even have diseases in this world?”
For an instant, her lips formed the word diseases. Then a sudden fear tightened her face, and her gaze sprang up past Covenant's left shoulder.
He turned to see what frightened her. He found nothing behind him; but as he scanned the west rim of the file, he heard a scrabbling noise. Pebbles and shale fell into the cut.
“The follower!” Atiaran cried. “Run! Run!”
Her urgency caught him; he spun and followed her as fast as he could go down the file.
Momentarily, he forgot his weakness, the weight of his pack, the heat. He pounded after Atiaran's racing heels as if he could hear his pursuer poised above him on the rim of the file. But soon his lungs seemed to be tearing under the exertion, and he began to lose his balance. When he stumbled, his fragile body almost struck the
