Lord Foul's Bane

glimpsed the import of Mhoram's description, made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless, and old. Barren-how could there be any limit to a barrenness which had already lasted for two thousand years? “How,” he croaked, “how old are you?”

“I came to the Land with the first Haruchai, when Kevin was young in High Lordship. Together we first uttered the Vow of service. Together we called upon the Earthpower to witness our commitment. Now we do not return home until we have been slain.”

Two thousand years, Covenant mumbled. Until we have been slain. That's impossible. None of this is happening. In his confusion, he tried to tell himself that what he heard was like the sensitivity of his nerves, further proof of the Land's impossibility. But it did not feel like proof. It moved him as if he had learned that Bannor suffered from a rare form of leprosy. With an effort, he breathed, “Why?”

Flatly, Bannor said, “When we came to the Land, we saw wonders-Giants, Ranyhyn, Revelstone-Lords of such power that they declined to wage war with us lest we be destroyed. In answer to our challenge, they gave to the Haruchai gifts so precious-” He paused, appeared to muse for a moment over private memories. “Therefore we swore the Vow. We could not equal that generosity in any other way.”

“Is that your answer to death?” Covenant struggled with his sympathy, tried to reduce what Bannor said to manageable proportions. “Is that how things are done in the Land? Whenever you're in trouble you just do the impossible? Like Berek?”

“We have sworn the Vow. The Vow is life. Corruption is death.”

“But for two thousand years?” Covenant protested. “Damnation! It isn't even decent. Don't you think you've done enough?”

Without expression, the Bloodguard replied, “You cannot corrupt us.”

“Corrupt you? I don't want to corrupt you. You can go on serving those Lords until you wither for all I care. I'm talking about your life, Bannor! How long do you go on serving without just once asking yourself if it's worth it? Pride or at least sanity requires that. Hellfire!” He could not conceive how even a healthy man remained unsuicidal in the face of so much existence. “It isn't like salad dressing-you can't just spoon it around. You're human. You weren't born to be immortal.”

Bannor shrugged impassively. “What does immortality signify? We are the Bloodguard. We know only life or death the Vow or Corruption.”

An instant passed before Covenant remembered that Corruption was the Bloodguard name for Lord Foul. “Then he groaned, ”Well of course I understand. You live forever because your pure, sinless service is utterly and indomitably unballasted by any weight or dross of mere human weakness. Ah, the advantages of clean Wig,

“We do not know.” Bannor's awkward tone echoed strangely “Kevin saved us. How could we guess what eras in his heart? He sent us all into the mountains into the mountains. We questioned, but he gave the order. He charged us by our Vow. We knew no mason to disobey. How could we know? We would have stood by him at the Desecration-stood by or prevented. But he saved us-the Bloodguard. We who swore to preserve his life at any cost.”

Saved, Covenant breathed painfully. He could feel the unintended cruelty of Kevin's act. “So now you don't know whether all these years of living are right or wrong,” he said distantly. How do you stand it? “Maybe your Vow is mocking you.”

“There is no accusation which can raise its finger against us,” Bannor averred. But for an instant his dispassion sounded a shade less immaculate.

“No, you do all that yourself.”

In response, Bannor blinked slowly, as if neither blame nor exculpation carried meaning to the ancient perspective of his devotion.

A moment later, one of the sentries beckoned Covenant toward the Close. Trepidation constricted his heart. His horrified sympathy for Bannor drained his courage; he did not feel able to face the Lords, answer their demands. He climbed to his feet as if he were tottering, then hesitated. When Bannor motioned him forward, he said in a rush, “Tell me one more thing. If your wife were still alive, would you go to visit her and then come back here? Could you-” He faltered. “Could you bear it?”

The Bloodguard met his imploring gaze squarely, but thoughts seemed to pass like shadows behind his countenance before he said softly, “No.”

Breathing heavily as if he were nauseated, Covenant shambled through the door and down the steps toward the yellow immolation of the graveling pit.

Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea, Foamfollower, the four Bloodguard, the four spectators-all remained as he had left them. Under the ominous expectancy of their eyes, he seated himself in the lone chair below the Lords' table. He was shivering as if the fire-stones radiated cold rather than heat.

When the High Lord spoke, the age rattle in his voice seemed worse than before. 'Thomas Covenant, if we have treated you wrongly we will beg your pardon at the proper time. But we must resolve our doubt of you. You have concealed much that we must know. However, on one matter we have been able to agree. We see your presence in the Land in this way.

“While delving under Mount Thunder, Drool Rockworm found the lost Staff of Law. Without aid, he would require many years to master it. But Lord Foul the Despiser learned of Drool's discovery, and agreed for his own purposes to teach the Cavewight the uses of the Staff. Clearly he did not wrest the Staff from Drool. Perhaps he was too weak. Or perhaps he feared to use a tool not made for his hand. Or perhaps he has some terrible purpose which we do not grasp. But again it is clear that Lord Foul induced Drool to use the Staff to summon you to the Land-only the Staff of Law has such might. And Drool could not have conceived or executed that task without deep- lored aid. You were brought to the Land at Lord Foul's behest. We can only pray that there were other powers at work as well.”

“But that does not tell us why,” said Mhoram intently. “If the carrying of messages were Lord Foul's only purpose, he had no need of someone from beyond the Land-and no need to protect you from Drool, as he did when he bore you to Kevin's Watch, and as I believe he attempted to do by sending his Raver to turn you from your path toward Andelain. No, you are our sole guide to the Despiser's true intent. Why did he call someone from beyond the Land? And why you? In what way do you serve his designs?”

Panting, Covenant locked his jaws and said nothing.

“Let me put the matter another way,” Prothall urged. “The tale you have told us contains evidence of truth. Few living know that the Ravers were at one time named Herein, Sheol, and Jehannum. And we know that one of the Unfettered has been studying the Wraiths of Andelain for many years.”

Unwillingly, Covenant remembered the hopeless courage of the animals that had helped the Unfettered One to save him in Andelain. They had hurled themselves into their own slaughter with desperate and futile ferocity. He gritted his teeth, tried to close his ears to the memory of their dying.

Prothall went on without a pause, “And we know that the lomillialor test of truth is sure-if the one tested does not surpass the tester.”

“But the Despiser also knows,” snapped Osondrea. “He could know that an Unfettered One lived and studied in Andelain. He could have prepared this tale and taught it to you. If he did,” she enunciated darkly, “then the matters on which you have refused to speak are precisely those on which your story would fail. Why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven test you? How was the testing done? Who have you battled with that staff? What instinct turned Atiaran Trell-mate against you? You fear to reply because then we will see the Despiser's handiwork.”

Authoritatively, High Lord Prothall rattled, “Thomas Covenant, you must give us some token that your tale is true.”

“Token?” Covenant groaned.

“Give us proof that we should trust you. You have uttered a doom upon our lives. That we believe. But perhaps it is your purpose to lead us from the true defence of the Land. Give us some token, Unbeliever.”

Through his quavering, Covenant felt the impenetrable circumstance of his dream clamp shut on him, deny every desire for hope or independence. He climbed to his feet, strove to meet the crisis erect. As a last resort, he grated to Foamfollower, “Tell them. Atiaran blamed herself for what happened to the Celebration. Because she ignored the warnings. Tell them.”