“That your world is a dream.”
In the startled stillness of the Close, Covenant grimaced, winced as images flashed at him-courthouse columns, an old beggar, the muzzle of the police car. A dream! he panted feverishly. A dream! None of this is happening-!
Then Osondrea shot out, “What? A dream? Do you mean to say that you are dreaming? Do you believe that you are asleep?”
“Yes!” He felt weak with fear; his revelation bereft him of a shield, exposed him to attack. But he could not recant it. He needed it to regain some kind of honesty. “Yes.”
“Indeed!” she snapped. “No doubt that explains the slaughter of the Celebration. Tell me, Unbeliever-do you consider that a nightmare, or does your world relish such dreams?”
Before Covenant could retort, Lord Mhoram said, “Enough, sister Osondrea. He torments himself- sufficiently.”
Glaring, she fell silent, and after a moment Prothall said, “It may be that gods have such dreams as this. But we are mortals. We can only resist ill or surrender. Either way, we perish. Were you sent to mock 3 us for this?”
“Mock you?” Covenant could not find the words to respond. He chopped dumbly at the thought with his halfhand. “It's the other way around. He's mocking me.” When all the Lords looked at him in incomprehension, he cried abruptly, “I can feel the pulse in my fingertips! But that's impossible. I've got a disease. An incurable disease. I've-I've got to figure out a way to keep from going crazy. Hell and blood! I don't want to lose my mind just because some perfectly decent character in a dream needs something from me that I can't produce.”
“Well, that may be.” Prothall's voice held a note of sadness and sympathy, as if he were listening to some abrogation or repudiation of sanity from a revered seer. “But we will trust you nonetheless. You are bitter, and bitterness is a sign of concern. I trust that. And what you say also meets the old prophecy. I fear the time is coming when you will be the Land's last hope.”
“Don't you understand?” Covenant groaned, unable to silence the ache in his voice. “That's what Foul wants you to think.”
“Perhaps,” Mhoram said thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” Then, as if he had reached a decision, he turned the peril of his gaze straight at Covenant. “Unbeliever, I must ask you if you have resisted Lord Foul. I do not speak of the Celebration. When he bore you from Drool Rockworm to Kevin's Watch-did you oppose him?”
The question made Covenant feel abruptly frail, as if it had snapped a cord of his resistance. “I didn't know how.” Wearily, he reseated himself in the loneliness of his chair. “I didn't know what was happening.”
“You are ur-Lord now,” murmured Mhoram. “There is no more need for you to sit there.”
“No need to sit at all,” amended Prothall, with sadden briskness. “There is much work to be done. We must think and probe and plan-whatever action we will take in this trial must be chosen quickly. We will meet again tonight. Tuvor, Garth, Birinair, Tohrm-prepare yourselves and those in your command. Bring whatever thoughts of strategy you have to the Council tonight. And tell all the Keep that Thomas Covenant has been named ur-Lord. He is a stranger and a guest. Birinair-begin your work for the Giants at once. Bannor, I think the ur-Lord need no longer stay in the tower.” He paused and looked about him, giving everyone a chance to speak. Then he turned and left the Close. Osondrea followed him, and after giving Covenant another formal salute, Mhoram also departed.
Numbly, Covenant moved behind Bannor up through the high passages and stairways until they reached his new quarters. The Bloodguard ushered him into a suite of rooms. They were high-ceilinged, lit by reflected sunlight through several broad windows, abundantly supplied with food and springwine, and unadorned. When Bannor had left, Covenant looked out one of the windows, and found that his rooms were perched in the north wall of Revelstone, with a view of the rough plains and the northward-curving cliff of the plateau. The sun was overhead, but a bit south of the Keep, so that the windows were in shadow.
He left the window, moved to the tray of food, and ate a light meal. Then he poured out a flask of springwine, which he carried into the bedroom. There he found one orieled window. It had an air of privacy, of peace.
Where did he go from here? He did not need to be self-wise or prophetic to know that he could not remain in Revelstone. He was too vulnerable here.
He sat down in the stone alcove to brood over the Land below and wonder what he had done to himself.
Fifteen: The Great Challenge
THAT night, when Bannor entered the suite to call Thomas Covenant to the evening meeting of the Lords, he found Covenant still sitting within the oriel of his bedroom window. By the light of Bannor's torch, Covenant appeared gaunt and spectral, as if half seen through shadows. The sockets of his eyes were dark with exhausted emotion; his lips were grey, bloodless; and the skin of his forehead had an ashen undertone. He held his arms across his chest as if he were trying to comfort a pain in his heart-watched the plains as if he were waiting for moonrise. Then he noticed the Bloodguard, and his lips pulled back, bared his teeth.
“You still don't trust me,” he said in a spent voice.
Bannor shrugged. “We are the Bloodguard. We have no use for white gold.”
“No use?”
“It is a knowledge-a weapon. We have no use for weapons.”
“No use?” Covenant repeated dully. “How do you defend the Lords without weapons?”
“We”- Bannor paused as if searching the language of the Land for a word to match his thought- “suffice.”
Covenant brooded for a moment, then swung himself out of the oriel. Standing in front of Bannor, he said softly, “Bravo.” Then he picked up his staff and kit the rooms.
This time, he paid more attention to the route Bannor chose, and did not lose his sense of direction.
Eventually, he might be able to dispense with Bannor's guidance. When they reached the huge wooden doors of the Close, they met Foamfollower and Korik. The Giant greeted Covenant with a salute and a broad grin, but when he spoke his voice was serious. “Stone and Sea, ur-Lord Covenant! I am glad you did not choose to make me wrong. Perhaps I do not comprehend all your dilemma. But I believe you have taken the better risk-for the sake of all the Land.”
“You're a fine one to talk,” replied Covenant wanly. His sarcasm was a defensive reflex; he had lost so much other armour. “How long have you Giants been lost? I don't think you would know a good risk if it kicked you.”
Foamfollower chuckled. “Bravely said, my friend. It may be that the Giants are not good advisers-all our years notwithstanding. Still you have lightened my fear for the Land.”
Grimacing uselessly, Covenant went on into the Close.
The council chamber was as brightly lit and acoustically perfect as before, but the number of people in it had changed. Tamarantha and Variol were absent, and scattered through the gallery were a number of spectators
Foamfollower took his former seat, gesturing Covenant into a chair near him at the Lords' table. Behind them, Bannor and Korik sat down in the lower tier of the gallery. The spectators fell silent almost at once; even the rustle of their clothing grew still. Shortly, everyone was waiting for the High Lord to begin.
Prothall sat as if wandering in thought for some time before he climbed tiredly to his feet. He held himself up by leaning on his staff, and when he spoke his voice rattled agedly in his chest. But he went without omission through the ceremonies of honouring Foamfollower and Covenant. The Giant responded with a gaiety which disguised the effort he made to be concise. But Covenant rejected the formality with a scowl and a shake of his head.
When he was done, Prothall said without meeting the eyes of his fellow Lords, “There is a custom among the new Lords-a custom which began in the days of High Lord Vailant, a hundred years ago. It is this: when a High Lord doubts his ability to meet the needs of the Land, he may come to the Council and surrender his High Lordship. Then
