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.
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-viles. 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 levelled 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.”
This affirmation produced a pause, during which tie Lords looked at each other as if they had reached an impasse. Then High Lord Prothall said sternly,
“Thomas Covenant, you are a stranger, and we have had no time to learn your ways. But we will not surrender our sense of what is right to you. It is clear that you have spoken falsehood. For the sake of the Land, you must answer our questions. Please tell us why the Hirebrand Baradakas gave to you the test of truth, but not to Atiaran your companion.”
“No.”
“Then tell us why Atiaran Trell-mate chose not to accompany you here. It is rare for a person born of the Land to stop short of Revelstone.”
“No.”
“Why do you refuse?”
Covenant glared seething up at his interrogators. They sat above him like judges with the power of outcasting in their hands. He wanted to defend himself with shouts, curses; but the Lords' intent eyes stopped him. He could see no contempt in their faces. They regarded him with anger, fear, disquietude, with offended love for the Land, but no contempt. Very softly, he said, “Don't you understand? I'm trying to get out of telling you an even bigger lie. If you keep pushing me-we'll all suffer.”
The High Lord met his irate, supplicating gaze for a moment, then sighed catarrhally, “Very well. You make matters difficult for us. Now we must deliberate. Please leave the Close. We will call for you in a short time.”
Covenant stood, turned on his heel, started up the steps toward the big doors. Only the sound.of his boots against the stone marked the silence until he had almost reached the doors. Then he heard Foamfollower say as clearly as if his own heart uttered the words, “Atiaran Trell-mate blamed you for the slaughter of the Wraiths.”
He froze, waiting in blank dread for the Giant to continue. But Foamfollower said nothing more. Trembling, Covenant passed through the doors and moved awkwardly to sit in one of the chairs along the wall. His secret felt so fragile within him that he could hardly believe it was still intact.
I am not—
When he looked up, he found Bannor standing before him. The Bloodguard's face was devoid of expression, but it did not seem uncontemptuous. Its flat ambiguity appeared capable of any response, and now it implied a judgment of Covenant's weakness, his disease.
Impelled by anger and frustration, Covenant muttered to himself, Keep moving. Survive. “Bannor,” he growled, “Mhoram seems to think we should get to know each other. He told me to ask you about the Bloodguard.”
Bannor shrugged as if he were impervious to any question.
“Your people-the
“Centuries before the Desecration.” The Bloodguard's alien tone seemed to suggest that units of time like years and decades had no significance. “Two thousand years.”
Two thousand years. Thinking of the Giants, Covenant said, “That's why there's only five hundred of you left Since you came to the Land you've been dying off.”
“The Bloodguard have always numbered five hundred. That is the Vow. The
“More?”
“They live in the mountains as before.”
“Then how do you-You say that as if you haven't been back there for a long time.” Again Bannor nodded slightly. “How do you maintain your five hundred here? I haven't seen any-”
Bannor interrupted dispassionately. “When one of the Bloodguard is slain, his body is sent into the mountains through Guards Gap, and another of the
Is slain? Covenant wondered. 'Haven't you been come since? Don't you visit your-Do you have a wife?”
“At one time.”
Bannor's tone did not vary, but something in his inflectionlessness made Covenant feel that the question was important. “At one time?” he pursued. “What happened to her?”
“She has been dead.”
An instinct warned Covenant, but he went on, spurred by the fascination of Bannor's alien, inflexible solidity. “How how long ago did she die?”
Without a flicker of hesitation, the Bloodguard replied, “Two thousand years.”
What! For a long moment, Covenant gaped in astonishment, whispering to himself as if he feared that Bannor could hear him, That's impossible. That's impossible. In an effort to control himself, he blinked dumbly. Two-? What is this?
Yet in spite of his amazement, Bannor's claim carried conviction. That flat tone sounded incapable of dishonesty, of even misrepresentation. It filled Covenant with horror, with nauseated sympathy. In sudden vision he
