Lord Foul's Bane

He burned at Foamfollower, willing the Giant to support his last chance for autonomy, and after a grave moment the Giant said, “My friend Thomas Covenant speaks truth, in his way. Atiaran Trell-mate believed the worst of herself.”

“Nevertheless!” Osondrea snapped. “Perhaps she blamed herself for guiding him to the Celebration for enabling-Her pain does not approve him.” And Prothall insisted in a low voice, “Your token, Covenant. The necessity for judgment is upon us. You must choose between the Land and the Land's Despiser.”

Covenant, help them!

“No!” he gasped hoarsely, whirling to face the High Lord. “It wasn't my fault. Don't you see that this is just what Foul wants you to do?”

Prothall stood, braced his weight on his staff. His stature seemed to expand in power as he spoke. “No, I do not see. You are closed to me. You ask to be trusted, but you refuse to show trustworthiness. No. I demand the token by which you refuse us. I am Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council. I demand.”

For one long instant, Covenant remained suspended in decision. His eyes fell to the graveling pit. Covenant, help them! With a groan, he remembered how much Atiaran had paid to place him where he stood now. Her pain does not approve. In counterpoint he heard Bannor saying, Two thousand years. Life or death. We do not know. But the face he saw in the fire-stones was his wife's. Joan! he cried. Was one sick body more important than everything?

He tore open his shirt as if he were trying to bare his heart. From the patch of clingor on his chest, be snatched his wedding band, jammed it onto his ring finger, raised his left fist like a defiance. But he was not defiant. “I can't use it!” he shouted lornly, as if the ring were still a symbol of marriage, not a talisman of wild magic. “I'm a leper!”

Astonishment rang in the Close, clanging changes m the air. The Hearthralls and Garth were stunned. Prothall shook his head as if he were trying to wake up for the first time in his life. Intuitive comprehension broke like a bow wave on Mhoram's face, and he mapped to his feet in stiff attention. Grinning gratefully, Foamfollower stood as well. Lord Osondrea also joined Mhoram, but there was no relief in her eyes. Covenant could see her shouldering her way through a throng of confusions to the crux of the situation-Could see her thinking, Save or damn, save or damn. She alone among the Lords appeared to realize that teen this token did not suffice.

Finally the High Lord mastered himself. “Now at list we know how to honour you,” he breathed. “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold Wider, be welcome and true. Forgive us, for we did not know. Yours is the wild magic that destroys peace. And power is at all times a dreadful thing.” The Lords saluted Covenant as if they wished to both invoke and ward against him, then together began to sing:

There is wild magic graven in every rock,

contained for white gold to unleash or control—

gold, rare metal, not born of the Land,

nor ruled, limited, subdued

by the Law with which the Land was created

(for the Land is beautiful,

as if it were a strong soul's dream of peace and harmony,

and Beauty is not possible without discipline—

and the Law which gave birth to Time

is the Land's Creator's self-control) -

but keystone rather, pivot, crux

for the anarchy out of which Time was made,

and with Time Earth,

and with Earth those who people it:

wild magic restrained in every particle of life,

and unleashed or controlled by gold

(not born of the Land)

because that power is the anchor of the arch of life

that spans and masters Time:

and white-white gold,

not ebon, ichor, incarnadine, viridian—

because white is the hue of bone:

structure of flesh,

discipline of life.

This power is a paradox,

because Power does not exist without Law,

and wild magic has no Law;

and white gold is a paradox,

because it speaks for the bone of life,

but has no part of the Land.

And he who wields white wild magic gold

is a paradox—

for he is everything and nothing,

hero and fool,

potent, helpless—

and with the one word of truth or treachery

he will save or damn the Earth

because he is mad and sane,

cold and passionate,

lost and found.

It was an involuted song, curiously harmonized, with no resolving cadences to set the hearers at rest. And in it Covenant could hear the vulture wings of Foul's voice saying, You have might, but you will never know what it is. You will not be able to fight me at the last. As the song ended, he wondered if his struggling served or defied the Despiser's manipulations. He could not tell. But he hated and feared the truth in Foul's words. He cut into the silence which followed the Lords' hymning. “I don't know how to use it. I don't want to know. That's not why I wear it. If you think I'm some kind of personified redemption-it's a lie. I'm a leper.”

“Ah, ur-Lord Covenant,” Prothall sighed as the Lords and Foamfollower reseated themselves, “let me say again, please forgive us. We understand much now-why you were summoned-why the Hirebrand Baradakas treated you as he did-why Drool Rockworm attempted to ensnare you at the Celebration of Spring. Please understand in turn that knowledge of the ring is necessary to us. Your semblance to Berek Halfhand is not gratuitous. But, sadly, we cannot tell you how to use the white gold. Alas, we know little enough of the Lore we already possess. And I fear that if we held and comprehended all Seven Wards and Words, the wild magic would still be beyond us. Knowledge of white gold has come down ID us through the ancient prophecies-foretellings, as Saltheart Foamfollower has observed, which say much bet clarify little-but we comprehend nothing of the wild magic. Still, the prophecies are clear about your importance. So I name you “ur-Lord”, a sharer of all the matters of the Council until you depart from us. We must trust you.”

Pacing back and forth now on the spur of his conflicting needs, Covenant growled, “Baradakas said just about the same thing. By hell! You people terrify me. When I try to be responsible, you pressure me-and when I collapse you You're not asking the right questions. You don't have the vaguest notion of what a leper is, and it doesn't even occur to you to inquire. That's why Foul chose me for this. Because I can't-Damnation! Why don't you ask me about where I come from? I've got to tell you. The world I come from doesn't allow anyone to live except on its own terms. Those terms-those terms contradict yours.”

“What are its terms?” the High Lord asked carefully.