Now as he rode, Covenant listened to the travelling noises of the company. The Lords and Bloodguard were almost entirely silent, preoccupied; but over the thud of hooves, he could hear talk and snatches of song from the warriors. In Quaan's leadership, they sounded confident and occasionally eager, as if they looked forward to putting their years of Sword training to the test.
Sometime later, Lord Mhoram surprised Covenant by saying without preamble, “Ur-Lord, as you know there were questions which the Council did not ask of you. May I ask them now? I should like to know more concerning your world.”
“My world.” Covenant swallowed roughly. He did not want to talk about it; he had no desire to repeat the ordeal of the Council. “Why?”
Mhoram shrugged. “Because the more I know of you, the better I will know what to expect from you in times of peril. Or because an understanding of your world may teach me to treat you rightly. Or because I have asked the question in simple friendship.”
Covenant could hear the candour in Mhoram's voice, and it disarmed his refusals. He owed the Lords and himself some kind of honesty. But that debt was bitter to him, and he could not find any easy way to articulate all the things which needed saying. Instinctively, he began to make a list. We have cancer, heart failure, tuberculosis, multiple sclerosis, birth defects, leprosy-we have alcoholism, venereal disease, drug addiction, rape, robbery, murder, child beating, genocide-but he could not bear to utter a catalogue of woes that might run on forever. After a moment, he stood in his stirrups and gestured out over the ruggedness of the plains.
“You probably see it better than I do-but even I can tell that this is beautiful. It's alive-it's alive the way it should be alive. This kind of grass is yellow and stiff and thin-but I can see that it's healthy. It belongs here, in this kind of soil. By hell! I can even see what time of year this is by looking at the dirt. I can see
“Where I come from we don't see-If you don't know the annual cycles of the plants, you can't tell the difference between spring and summer. If you don't have a standard of comparison, you can't recognize-But the world is beautiful-what's left of it, what we haven't damaged.” Images of Haven Farm sprang irrefusably across his mind. He could not restrain the mordancy of his tone as he concluded, “We have beauty, too. We call it “scenery”.
“Scenery”, Mhoram echoed. “The word is strange to me-but I do not like the sound.”
Covenant felt oddly shaken, as if he had just looked over his shoulder and found himself standing too close to a precipice. “It means that beauty is something extra,” he rasped. “It's nice, but we can live without it.”
“Without?” Mhoram's gaze glittered dangerously.
And behind him Foamfollower breathed in astonishment, “Live without beauty? Ah, my friend! How do you resist despair?”
“I don't think we do,” Covenant muttered. “Some of us are just stubborn.” Then he fell silent. Mhoram asked him no more questions, and he rode on chewing the gristle of his thoughts until High Lord Prothall called a rest halt.
As the day progressed, Covenant's silence seemed slowly to infect the company. The travelling banter and singing of the Eoman faded gradually into stillness; Mhoram watched Covenant curiously askance, but made no effort to renew their conversation; and Prothall looked as night-faced as the Bloodguard. After a time, Covenant guessed the cause of their reticence. Tonight would be the first full of the bloody moon.
A shiver ran through him. That night would be a kind of test of Drool's power. H the Cavewight could maintain his red hold even when the moon was full, then the Lords would have to admit that his might had no discernible limit. And such might would be spawning armies, would almost certainly have already produced marauders to feed Drool's taste for pillage. Then the company would have to fight for passage. Covenant remembered with a shudder his brief meeting with Drool in the cavern of Kiril Threndor. Like his companions, he fell under the pall of what the night might reveal.
Only Variol and Tamarantha seemed untouched by the common mood. She appeared half-asleep, and rode casually, trusting the Ranyhyn to keep her on its back. Her husband sat erect, with a steady hand on his reins, but his mouth was slack and his eyes unfocused. I They looked frail; Covenant felt that he could see the brittleness of their bones. But they alone of all the company were blithe against the coming night-blithe or uncomprehending.
The riders camped before dusk on the north side of a rough hill, partially sheltered from the prevailing southwest breeze. The air had turned cold like a revisitation of winter, and the wind carried a chill to the hearts of the travellers. In silence, some of the warriors fed and rubbed down the horses, while others cooked a spare meal over a fire that Birinair coaxed from one of his
Covenant found himself wishing for some of the camaraderie that had begun the day. But he could not supply the lack himself; he had to wait until High Lord Prothall rose to meet the apprehension of the Quest.
Planting his staff firmly, he began to sing the Vespers hymn of Revelstone. Mhoram joined him, followed by Variol and Tamarantha, and soon the whole Eoman was on its feet, adding its many throated voice to the song. There they stood under the stern sky, twenty-five souls singing like witnesses:
Seven hells for failed faith,
For Land's betrayers, man and wraith:
And one brave Lord to deal the doom
To keep the blacking blight from Beauty's bloom.
They raised their voices bravely, and their melody was counterpointed by the tenor roll of Foamfollower's plainsong. When they were done, they reseated themselves and began to talk together in low voices, as if the hymn were all they needed to restore their courage.
Covenant sat staring at his knotted hands. Without taking his eyes off them, he knew when moonrise came; he felt the sudden stiffening around him as the first crimson glow appeared on the horizon. But he gnawed on his lip and did not look up. His companions breathed tensely; a red cast slowly deepened in the heart of the fire; but he clenched his gaze as if he were studying the way his knuckles whitened.
Then he heard Lord Mhoram's agonized whisper, “
The next moment, there came a distant wail like a cry of protest. It throbbed like desolation in the chill air. In spite of himself, Covenant looked over the blood-hued plain; for an instant, he expected the company to leap to the relief of that call. But no one moved. The cry must have come from some animal. Glancing briefly at the full violated moon, he changed his grip and lowered his eyes again.
When his gaze reached his fingers, he saw in horror that the moonlight gave his ring a reddish cast. The metal looked as if it had been dipped in blood. Its inner silver struggled to show through the crimson, but the bloodlight seemed to be soaking inward, slowly quenching, perverting the white gold.
He understood instinctively. For one staggering heartbeat, he sat still, howled silent and futile warnings at his unsuspecting self. Then he sprang to his feet, erect and rigid as if he had been yanked upright by the moon-arms tight at his sides, fists clenched.
Behind him, Bannor said, “Do not fear, ur-Lord. The Ranyhyn will warn us if the wolves are any danger.”
Covenant turned his head. The Bloodguard reached a restraining hand toward him.
“Don't touch me!” Covenant hissed.
He jerked away from Bannor. For an instant while his heart laboured, he observed how the crimson moon made Bannor's face look like old lava. Then a vicious sense of wrong exploded under his feet, and he pitched toward the fire.
As he struck the earth he flung himself onward, careless of everything but his intense visceral need to escape the attack. After one roll, his legs crashed among the flaming brands.
But as Covenant fell, Bannor sprang forward. When Covenant hit the fire, the Bloodguard was only a stride away. He caught Covenant's wrist in almost the same instant, heaved him child-light out of the flames and onto his
