have been killed. Since the enemy had gone-so there was no compelling need to ride back to warn the Lords-they had decided to search for survivors. They had erased the signs, so that any returning marauders might not find them, and had ridden south.
Early in the afternoon, they found the woman and child fleeing madly without thought or caution. Both appeared injured; the child gave no sign of awareness at all, and the woman vacillated between lucidity and incoherence. She accepted the Bloodguard as friends, but was unable to tell them anything. However, in a lucid moment, she insisted that an Unfettered Healer lived a league or two away. Hoping to gain knowledge from the woman, the scouts took her to the cave of the Healer. But the cave was empty-and appeared to have been empty, for many days. So the scouts brought the two survivors back to Soaring Woodhelven.
The two stood before the Lords, the woman clutching the child's unresponsive hand. The boy gazed incuriously about him, but did not notice faces or react to voices. When his hand slipped from the woman's, his arm fell limply to his side; he neither resisted nor complied when she snatched it up again. His unfocused eyes seemed preternaturally dark, as if they were full of black blood.
The sight of him jabbed Covenant. The boy could have been the future of his own son, Roger-the son of whom he had been dispossessed, reft as if even his fatherhood had been abrogated by leprosy. Children! Foul? he panted. Children?
As if in oblique answer to his thoughts, the woman suddenly said, “He is Pietten son of Soranal. He likes the horses.”
“It is true,” one of the scouts responded. “He rode before me and stroked the Ranyhyn's neck.”
But Covenant was not listening. He was looking at the woman. Confusedly, he sorted through the battle wreckage of her face, the cuts and burns and grime and bruises. Then he said hesitantly, “Llaura?”
The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Clouds blanked the horizon, and a short twilight was turning rapidly into night. But as the sun fell, the air became thicker and more sultry, as if the darkness were sweating in apprehension.
“Yes, I know you,” the woman said in a flagellated voice. “You are Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. In the semblance of Berek Halfhand. Jehannum spoke truth. Great evil has come.” She articulated with extreme care, as if she were trying to balance her words on the edge of a sword. “I am Llaura daughter of Annamar, of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. We had no warning. Be-”
But as she tried to say the words, her balance failed, and she collapsed into a hoarse, repeating moan- “Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn-” as if the connection between her brain and her throat broke, leaving her struggling frantically with her inability to speak. Her eyes burned with furious concentration, and her head shook as she tried to form words. But nothing came between her juddering lips except, “Uhn, uhn, uhn.”
The Bloodguard scout said, “So she was when we found her. At one moment, she can speak. A moment later, she cannot.”
Hearing this, Llaura clenched herself violently and pushed down her hysteria, rejecting what the scout said. “I am Llaura,” she repeated, “Llaura-of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. I am Llaura, I am Llaura,” she insisted. “Beware-” Again her voice broke into moaning, “Uhn, uhn.”
Her panic mounted. “Be-uhn, uhn, uhn. Be-uhn, uhn. I am Llaura. You are the Lords. You must I-uhn, uhn. Amb-uhn, uhn, uhn.” As she fought, Covenant glanced around the company. Everyone was staring intently at Llaura, and Variol and Tamarantha had tears in their eyes. “Somebody do something,” he muttered painfully. “Somebody.”
Abruptly, Llaura seemed to collapse. Clutching her throat with her free hand, she shrieked, “You must hear me!” and started to fall.
As. her knees gave way, Prothall stepped forward and caught her. With fierce strength, he gripped her upper arms and held her erect before him. “Stop,” he commanded. “Stop. Do not speak anymore. Listen, and use your head to answer me.”
A look of hope flared across Llaura's eyes, and she relaxed until Prothall set her on her feet. Then she regained the child's hand.
“Now,” the High Lord said levelly, staring deep into her ravaged eyes. “You are not mad. Your mind is clear. Something has been done to you.”
Llaura nodded eagerly,
“When your people attempted to escape, you were captured.”
She nodded,
“You and the child.”
“And something was done to him as well?”
“Do you know what it was?”
She shook her head,
“Was the same done to you both?”
“Well,” Prothall sighed. “Both were captured instead of slain. And the ur-vile loremaster afflicted you.”
Llaura nodded,
“Damaged you.”
“Caused the difficulty that you now have when you speak.”
“Now your ability to speak comes and goes.”
“No?”
Prothall paused to consider for a moment, and Covenant interjected, “Hellfire! Get her to write it down.”
Llaura shook her head, raised her free hand. It trembled uncontrollably.
Abruptly, Prothall said, “Then there are certain things that you cannot say.”
“There is something that the attackers do not wish you to speak.”
“Then-” The High Lord hesitated as if he could hardly believe his thoughts. “Then the attackers knew that you would be found-by us or others who came too late to the aid of Soaring Woodhelven.”
“Therefore you fled south, toward Banyan Woodhelven and the Southron Stonedowns.”
She nodded, but her manner seemed to indicate that he had missed the point.
Observing her, he muttered, “By the Seven! This cannot do. Such questioning requires time, and my heart tells me we have little. What has been done to the boy? How could the attackers know that we-or anyone-would come this way? What knowledge could she have? Knowledge that an ur-vile loremaster would fear to have told? No, we must find other means.”
At the edge of his sight, Covenant saw Variol and Tamarantha setting out their blankets near the campfire. Their action startled him away from Llaura for a moment. Their eyes held a sad and curiously secret look. He could not fathom it, but for some reason it reminded him that they had known what Prothall's decision for the Quest would lie before that decision was made.
“High Lord,” said Birinair stiffly.
Concentrating on Llaura, Prothall replied, “Yes?”
“That young whelp of a Gravelingas, Tohrm, gave me a
“Hurtloam?” Prothall echoed in surprise. “You have some?”
“Have it? Of course. No fool, you know. I keep it moist. Tohrm tried to teach me. As if I knew nothing.”
Mastering his impatience, Prothall said, “Please bring it.”
A moment later, Birinair handed to the High Lord a small stoneware pot full of the damp, glittering clay- hurtloam. “Watch out,” Covenant murmured with complex memories in his voice, “it'll put her to sleep.” But Prothall did not hesitate. In darkness lit only by Birinair's
