Lord Foul's Bane

At first, all he could see were three figures, one back against the wall of the outer corridor and two directly in the doorway. One of them held a flaming wooden rod in either hand, and the other had each arm wrapped around a pot of graveling. The dazzle made them appear to loom toward him out of a penumbra, and he stepped back, blinking rapidly.

As if his retreat were a welcome, the two men entered his room. From behind them a voice curiously rough and gentle said, “May we come in? I am Lord Mhoram-”

“Of course,” the taller of the two men interrupted in a voice veined and knuckled with old age. “He requires light, does he not? Darkness withers the heart. How can he receive light if we do not come in? Now if he knew anything, he could fend for himself. Of course. And he will not see much of us. Too busy. There is yet Vespers to attend to: The High Lord may have special instructions. We are late as it is. Because he knows nothing. Of course. But we are swift. Darkness withers the heart. Pay attention, young man. We cannot afford to return merely to redeem your ignorance.”

While the man spoke, jerking the words like lazy servants up off the floor of his chest, Covenant's eyes cleared. Before him, the taller man resolved into an erect but ancient figure, with a narrow face and a beard that hung like a tattered flag almost to his waist. He wore a Woodhelvennin cloak bordered in blue, and a circlet of leaves about his head.

His immediate companion appeared hardly older than a boy. The youth was clad in a brown Stonedownor tunic with blue woven like epaulets into the shoulders, and he had a clean, merry face. He was grinning at the old man in amusement and affection.

As Covenant studied the pair, the man behind them said admonishingly, “He is a guest, Birinair.” The old man paused as if he were remembering his manners, and Covenant looked past him at Lord Mhoram. The Lord was a lean man about Covenant's height. He wore a long robe the colour of High Lord's Furl, with a pitch-black sash, and held a long staff in his right hand.

Then the old man cleared his throat. “Ah, very well,” he fussed. “But this uses time, and we are late. There is Vespers to be made ready. Preparations for the Council. Of course. You are a guest. Be welcome. I am Birinair, Hirebrand of the lillianrill and Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. This grinning whelp is Tohrm, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl and likewise Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. Now harken. Attend.” In high dignity, he moved toward the bed. Above it in the wall was a torch socket. Birinair said, “These are made for ignorant young men like yourself,” and set the burning end of one rod in the socket. The flame died; but when he removed the rod, its fire returned almost at once. He placed the unlit end in the socket, then moved across the chamber to fix his other rod in the opposite wall.

While the Hirebrand was busy, Tohrm set one of his graveling pots down on the table and the other on the stand by the washbasin. “Cover them when you wish to sleep,” he said in a light voice.

When he was done, Birinair said, “Darkness with-the heart. Beware of it, guest.”

“But courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream,” murmured Tohrm, grinning as if at a secret joke.

“It is so.” Birinair turned and left the room. Tohrm paused to wink at Covenant and whisper, “He is not as hard a taskmaster as you might think.” Then he, too, was gone, leaving Covenant alone with Lord Mhoram.

Mhoram closed the door behind him, and Covenant got his first good look at one of the Lords. Mhoram had a crooked, humane mouth, and a fond smile for the Hearthralls lingered on his lips. But the effect of the smile was counterbalanced by his eyes. They were dangerous eyes-grey-blue irises flecked with gold that seemed to pierce through subterfuge to the secret marrow of premeditation in what they beheld-eyes that seemed themselves to conceal something potent and unknown, as if Mhoram were capable of surprising fate itself if he were driven to his last throw. And between his perilous eyes and kind mouth, the square blade of his nose mediated like a rudder, steering his thoughts.

Then Covenant noticed Mhoram's staff. It was metal-shod like the Staff of Law, which he had glimpsed in Drool's spatulate fingers, but it was innocent of the carving that articulated the Staff. Mhoram held it in his left hand while he gave Covenant the salute of welcome with his right. Then he folded his arms on his chest, holding the staff in the crook of his elbow.

His lips twisted through a combination of amusement, diffidence, and watchfulness as he spoke. “Let me begin anew. I am Lord Mhoram son of Variol. Be welcome in Revelstone, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and message-bearer. Birinair is Hearthrall and chief lillianrill of Lord's Keep-but nevertheless there is time before Vespers. So I have come for several reasons. First to bid you welcome, second to answer the questions of a stranger in the Land-and last to inquire after the purpose which brings you to the Council. Pardon me if I seem formal. You are a stranger, and I know not how to honour you.”

Covenant wanted to respond. But he still felt confused by darkness; he needed time to clear his head. He blinked at the Lord for a moment, then said to fill the silence, “That Bloodguard of yours doesn't trust me.”

Mhoram smiled wryly. “Bannor told me that you believe you have been emprisoned. That is also why I determined to speak with you this evening. It is not our custom to examine guests before they have rested. But I must say a word or two concerning the Bloodguard. Shall we be seated?” He took a chair for himself, sitting with his staff across his knees as naturally as if it were a part of him.

Covenant sat down by the table without taking his eyes off Mhoram. When he was settled, the Lord continued: “Thomas Covenant, I tell you openly-I assume that you are a friend-or at least not an enemy-until you are proven. You are a guest, and should be shown courtesy. And we have sworn the Oath of Peace. But you are as strange to us as we to you. And the Bloodguard have spoken a Vow which is not in any way like our Oath. They have sworn to serve the Lords and Revelstone-to preserve us against any threat by the strength of their fidelity.” He sighed distantly. “Ah, it is humbling to be so served-in defiance of time and death. But let that pass. I must tell you two things. Left to the dictates of their Vow, the Bloodguard would slay you instantly if you raised your hand against any Lord-yes, against any inhabitant of Revelstone. But the Council of Lords has commanded you to their care. Rather than break that command-rather than permit any harm to befall you-Bannor or any Bloodguard would lay down his life in your defence.”

When Covenant's face reflected his doubt, the Lord said, “I assure you. Perhaps it would be well for you to question Bannor concerning the Bloodguard. His distrust may not distress you-when you have come to understand it. His people are the Haruchai, who live high in the Westron Mountains beyond the passes which we now name Guards Gap. In the first years of Kevin Loric-son's High Lordship they came to the Land-came, and remained to make a Vow like that swearing which binds even the gods.” For a moment, he seemed lost in contemplation of the Bloodguard. “They were a hot-blooded people, strong-Joined and prolific, bred to tempest and battle-and now made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless and old. I tell you, Thomas Covenant-their devotion has had such unforeseen prices-Such one-mindedness does not come easily to them, and their only reward is the pride of unbroken, pure service. And then to learn the bitterness of doubt-” Mhoram sighed again, then smiled diffidently. “Inquire of Bannor. I am too young to tell the tale aright.”

Too young? Covenant wondered. How old are they? But he did not ask the question; he feared that the story Mhoram could tell would be as seductive as Foamfollower's tale of the Unhomed. After a moment, he pulled the loose ends of his attention together, and said, “I've got to talk to the Council.”

Mhoram's gaze met him squarely. “The Lords will meet tomorrow to hear both you and Saltheart Foamfollower. Do you wish to speak now?” The Lord's gold-flecked eyes seemed to flame with concentration. Unexpectedly, he asked, “Are you an enemy, Unbeliever?”

Covenant winced inwardly. He could feel Mhoram's scrutiny as if its heat burned his mind. But he was determined to resist. Stiffly, he countered, “You're the seer and oracle. You tell me.”

“Did Quaan call me that?” Mhoram's smile was disarming. “Well, I showed prophetic astuteness when I let a mere red moon disquiet me. Perhaps my oracular powers amaze you.” Then he set aside his quiet self deprecation, and repeated intently, “Are you an enemy?”

Covenant returned the Lord's gaze, hoping that his own eyes were hard, uncompromising. I will not-he thought. Am not- “I'm not anything to you by choice I've got-a message for you. One way or another, I've been pressured into bringing it here. And some things happened along the way that might interest you.'

“Tell me,” Mhoram said in soft urgency.

But his look reminded Covenant of Baradakas-of Atiaran-of the times they had said, You are closed- He could see Mhoram's health, his dangerous courage, his vital love for the Land. “People keep asking me that,” he murmured. “Can't you tell?”

An instant later, he answered himself, Of course not. What do they know about leprosy? Then he grasped the