old Giants had outdone him. Here was a work worthy of pilgrimages, ordeals. He was not surprised to hear Foamfollower whisper like a vestal, “Ah, Revelstone! Lord's Keep! Here the Unhomed surpass their loss.”
The Eoman responded in litany:
Giant-troth Revelstone, ancient ward—
Heart and door of Earthfriend's main:
Preserve the true with Power's sword,
Thou ages-Keeper, mountain-reign!
Then the riders started forward again. Foamfollower and Covenant moved in wonder toward the looming walls, and the distance passed swiftly, unmarked except by the beat of their uplifted hearts.
The road ran parallel to the cliff to its eastern edge, then turned up toward the tall doors in the southeast base of the tower. The gates-a mighty slab of rock on either side-were open in the free welcome of peace; but they were notched and bevelled and balanced so that they could swing shut and interlock, closing like teeth. The entrance they guarded was large enough for the whole Eoman to ride in abreast.
As they approached the gates, Covenant saw a blue flag flying high on the crown of the tower-an azure oriflamme only a shade lighter than the clear sky. Beneath it was a smaller flag, a red pennant the colour of the bloody moon and Drool's eyes. Seeing the direction of Covenant's gaze, the woman near him said, “Do you know the colours? The blue is High Lord's Furl, the standard of the Lords. It signifies their Oath and guidance to the peoples of the Land. And the red is the sign of our present peril. It will fly there while the danger lasts.”
Covenant nodded without taking his eyes off the Keep. But after a moment he looked away from the flags down toward the entrance to Revelstone. The opening looked like a cave that plunged straight into the mountain, but he could see sunlight beyond it.
Three sentries stood in an abutment over the gates. Their appearance caught Covenant's attention; they did not resemble the riders of the Warward. They were like Stonedownors in size and build, but they were flat-faced and brown-skinned, with curly hair cropped short. They wore short ochre tunics belted in blue that appeared to be made of vellum, and their lower legs and feet were bare. Simply standing casual and unarmed on the abutment, they bore themselves with an almost feline balance and alertness; they seemed ready to do battle at an instant's notice.
When his Eoman was within call of the gate, Quaan shouted to the sentries; “Hail! First Mark Tuvor! How is it that the Bloodguard have become guest welcomers?”
The foremost of the sentries responded in a voice that sounded foreign, awkward, as if the speaker were accustomed to a language utterly unlike the speech of the Land. “Giants and message-bearers have come together to the Keep.”
“Well, Bloodguard,” Quaan returned in a tone of camaraderie, “learn your duties. The Giant is Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from Seareach to the Council of Lords. And the man, the message-bearer, is Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger to the Land. Are their places ready?”
“The orders are given. Bannor and Korik await.”
Quaan waved in acknowledgment. With his warriors, he rode into the stone throat of Lord's Keep.
Thirteen: Vespers
As he stepped between the balanced jaws, Covenant gripped his staff tightly in his left hand. The entrance was like a tunnel leading under the tower to an open courtyard between the tower and the main Keep, and it was lit only by the dim, reflected sunlight from either end. There were no doors or windows in the stone. The only openings were dark shafts directly overhead, which appeared to serve some function in Revelstone's defences. The hooves of the horses struck echoes off the smooth stone, filling the tunnel like a rumour of war, and even the light click of Covenant's staff pranced about him as if shadows of himself were walking one hesitation step behind him down the Keep's throat.
Then the Eoman entered the sunlit courtyard. Here the native stone had been hollowed down to the level of the entrance so that a space nearly as wide as the tower stood open to the sky between high sheer walls.
The court was flat and flagged, but in its centre was a broad plot of soil out of which grew one old Gilden, and a small fountain sparkled on either side of the hoary tree. Beyond were more stone gates like those in the base of the tower, and they also were open. That was the only ground-level entrance to the Keep, but at intervals above the court, wooden crosswalks spanned the open space from the tower to crenellated coigns on the inner face of the Keep. In addition, two doors on either side of the tunnel provided access to the tower.
Covenant glanced up the main Keep. Shadows lay within the south and east walls of the court, but the heights still gleamed in the full shine of the afternoon sun, and from his angle, Revelstone seemed tall enough to provide a foundation for the heavens. For a moment as he gazed, his awe made him wish that he were, like Foamfollower, an inheritor of Lord's Keep-that he could in some way claim its grandeur for himself. He wanted to belong here. But as Revelstone's initial impact on him passed, he began to resist the desire. It was just another seduction, and he had already lost too much of his fragile, necessary independence. He shut down his awe with a hard frown, pressed his hand against his ring. The fact that it was hidden steadied him.
There lay the only hope that he could imagine, the only solution to his paradoxical dilemma. As long as he kept his ring secret, he could deliver his message to the Lords, satisfy his exigent need to keep moving, and still avoid dangerous expectations, demands of power that he could not meet. Foamfollower-and Atiaran, too, perhaps involuntarily had given him a certain freedom of choice. Now he might be able to preserve himself-if he could avoid further seductions, and if the Giant did not reveal his secret.
“Foamfollower,” he began, then stopped. Two men were approaching him and the Giant from the main Keep. They resembled the sentries. Their flat, unreadable faces showed no signs of youth or age, as if their relationship with time was somehow ambivalent; and they conveyed such an impression of solidity to Covenant's eyes that he was distracted from the Giant. They moved evenly across the courtyard as if they were personified rock. One of them greeted Foamfollower, and the other strode toward Covenant.
When he reached Covenant, he bowed fractionally and said, “I am Bannor of the Bloodguard. You are in my charge. I will guide you to the place prepared.” His voice was awkward, as if his tongue could not relax in the language of the Land, but through his tone Covenant heard a stiffness that sounded like distrust.
It and the Bloodguard's hard, imposing aura made him abruptly uneasy. He looked toward Foamfollower, saw him give the other Bloodguard a salute full of respect and old comradeship. “Hail, Korik!” Foamfollower said. “To the Bloodguard I bring honour and fealty from the Giants of Seareach. These are consequential times, and in them we are proud to name the Bloodguard among our friends.”
Flatly, Korik responded, “We are the Bloodguard. Your chambers have been made ready, so that you may rest. Come.”
Foamfollower smiled. “That is well. My friend, I am very weary.” With Korik, he walked toward the gates.
Covenant started after them, but Bannor barred his way with one strong arm. “You will accompany me,” the Bloodguard said without inflection.
“Foamfollower!” Covenant called uncertainly. “Foamfollower! Wait for me.”
Over his shoulder, the Giant replied, “Go with Bannor. Be at Peace.” He seemed to have no awareness of Covenant's misapprehension; his tone expressed only grateful relief, as if rest and Revelstone were his only thoughts. “We will meet again-tomorrow.” Moving as if he trusted the Bloodguard implicitly, he went with Korik into the main Keep.
“Your place is in the tower,” Bannor said.
“In the tower? Why?”
The Bloodguard shrugged. 'If you question this, you will be answered. But now you must accompany
