Again, Covenant shook his head. I don't want any honour. I made that mistake once already.
After an inquiring pause, the High Lord said, “Very well.” Turning toward the Giant, he raised his voice. 'Hail and welcome, Giant of Seareach, Saltheart Foamfollower, Rockbrother and inheritor of Land's loyalty. The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land.
Stone and Sea are deep in life.
Welcome whole or hurt, in boon or bane-ask or give. To any requiring name we will not fail while we have life or power to meet the need. I am High Lord Prothall; I speak in the presence of Revelstone itself.'
Foamfollower stood to return the salutation. 'Hail, Lord and Earthfriend. I am Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from the Giants of Seareach to the Council of Lords. The truth of my people is in my mouth, and I hear the approval of the ancient sacred ancestral stone-
raw Earth rock—
pure friendship—
a handmark of allegiance and fealty in the
eternal stone of time.
Now is the time for proof and power of troth. Through Giant Woods and Sarangrave Flat and Andelain, I bear the name of the ancient promises.” Then some of the formality dropped from his manner, and he added with a gay glance at Covenant, “And bearing other things as well. My friend Thomas Covenant has promised that a song will be made of my journey.” He laughed gently. ”I am a Giant of Seareach. Make no short songs for me.'
His humour drew a chuckle from Lord Mhoram, and Prothall smiled softly; but Osondrea's dour face seemed incapable of laughter, and neither Variol nor Tamarantha appeared to have heard the Giant. Foamfollower took his seat, and almost at once Osondrea said as if she were impatient, “What is your embassy?”
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 endeavour 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 peoples-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 fulfilment 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
“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.
“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 humour, 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.
“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
“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 millenia of our loyalty have not been enough to repay seven Gildenlode keels and rudders.”
