into the cleft of the burning tree. And before the flames could blacken her age-etched skin, he lifted Variol and set him beside her, calling again, “Hail!” Their shared smile could be seen for a moment before the blaze obscured it. So they lay together in consummation.
Already dead, Covenant groaned. That Bloodguard was killed. Oh, Mhoram! In his confusion, he could not distinguish between grief and anger.
His eyes now dry, Mhoram turned to the company, and his gaze seemed to focus on Covenant. “My friends, be still at heart,” he said comfortingly. “Hold peace for all your grief. Variol and Tamarantha are ended. Who could deny them? They knew the time of their death. They read the close of their lives in the ashes of Soaring Woodhelven, and were glad to serve us with their last sleep. They chose to draw the attack upon themselves so that we might live. Who will say that the challenge which they met was not great? Remember the Oath, and hold Peace.”
Together, the Eoman made the heart-opening salute of farewell, arms spread wide as if uncovering their hearts to the dead. Then Quaan cried, “Hail!” and led his warriors back to the work of piling Cavewights and burying Woodhelvennin.
After the Eoman had left, High Lord Prothall said to Mhoram, “Lord Variol's staff. From father to son. Take it. If we survive this Quest to reach a time of peace, master it. It has been the staff of a High Lord.”
Mhoram accepted it with a bow.
Prothall paused for a moment, irresolute, then turned to Covenant. “You have used Lord Tamarantha's staff. Take it for use again. You will find it readier to aid your ring than your Hirebrand's staff. The
Remembering the red blaze which had raged out of that wood to kill and kill, Covenant said, “Burn it.”
A touch of danger tightened Mhoram's glance. But Prothall shrugged gently, took Lord Tamarantha's staff to the fire, and placed it into the cleft of the tree.
For an instant, the metal ends of the staff shone as if they were made of verdigris. Then Mhoram cried, “Ware the tree!” Quickly, the company moved away from the fiery spars.
The staff gave a sharp report like the bursting of bonds. Blue flame detonated in the cleft, and the riven tree dropped straight to the ground in fragments, collapsing as if its core had been finally killed. The heap of wood burned furiously.
From a distance, Covenant heard Birinair snort, “The Unbeliever's doing,” as if that were a calumny.
Don't touch me, he muttered to himself.
He was afraid to think. Around him, darkness lurked like vulture wings made of midnight. Horrors threatened; he felt ghoul-begotten. He could not bear the bloodiness of his ring, could not bear what he had become. He searched about him as if he were looking for a fight.
Unexpectedly, Saltheart Foamfollower returned.
He shambled out of the night like a massacre metaphored in flesh-an icon of slaughter. He was everywhere smeared in blood, and much of it was his own. The wound on his forehead covered his face with a dark, wet sheen, and through the stain his deep eyes looked sated and miserable. Shreds of Cavewight flesh still clung to his fingers.
Pietten pointed at the Giant, and twisted his lips in a grin that showed his teeth. At once, Llaura grabbed his hand, pulled him away to a bed which the warriors had made for them.
Prothall and Mhoram moved solicitously toward the Giant, but he pushed past them to the fire. He knelt near the blaze as if his soul needed warming, and his groan as he sank to his knees sounded like a rock cracking.
Covenant saw his chance, approached the Giant. Foamfollower's manifest pain brought his confused, angry grief to a pitch that demanded utterance. He himself had killed five Cavewights, five-! His ring was full of blood. “Well,” he snarled, “that must've been fun. I hope you enjoyed it.”
From the other side of the camp, Quaan hissed threateningly. Prothall moved to Covenant's side, said softly, “Do not torment him. Please. He is a Giant. This is the
I killed five Cavewights! Covenant cried in bereft fury.
But Foamfollower was speaking as if entranced by the fire and unable to hear them. His voice had a keening sound; he knelt before the fire in an attitude of lament.
“Ah, brothers and sisters, did you behold me? Did you see, my people? We have come to this. Giants, I am not alone. I feel you in me, your will in mine. You would not have done differently-not felt other than I felt, not grieved apart from my grief. This is the result. Stone and Sea! We are diminished. Lost Home and weak seed have made us less than we were. Do we remain faithful, even now? Ah, faithful? My people, my people, if steadfastness leads to this? Look upon me! Do you find me admirable? I stink of hate and unnecessary death.” A chill blew through his words. Tilting back his head, he began a low chant.
His threnody went on until Covenant felt driven to the brink of screaming. He wanted to hug or kick the Giant to make him cease. His fingers itched with mounting frenzy. Stop! he moaned. I can't stand it!
A moment later, Foamfollower bowed his head and fell silent. He remained still for a long time as if he were preparing himself. Then he asked flatly, “Who has been lost?”
“Very few,” Prothall answered. “We were fortunate. Your valour served us well.”
“Who?” Foamfollower ached.
With a sigh, Prothall named the five warriors, the Bloodguard, Variol and Tamarantha.
“Stone and Sea!” the Giant cried. With a convulsion of his shoulders, he thrust his hands into the fire.
The warriors gasped; Prothall stiffened at Covenant's side. But this was the Giantish
Foamfollower's face stretched in agony, but he held himself still. His eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets; yet he kept his hands in the fire as if the blaze could heal, or at least sear, the blood on them, cauterize if it could not assuage the stain of shed life. But his pain showed in his forehead. The hard heart-pulse of hurt broke the crust on his wound; new blood dripped around his eyes and down his cheeks into his beard.
Panting, Hellfire hellfire! Covenant pushed away from Prothall. Stiffly, he went close to the kneeling Giant. With a fierce effort that made him sound caustic in spite of his intent, he said, “Now somebody really ought to laugh at you.” His jutting head was barely as high as the Giant's shoulder.
For a moment, Foamfollower gave no sign of having heard. But then his shoulders slumped. With a slow exertion almost as though he were reluctant to stop torturing himself, he withdrew his hands. They were unharmed-for some reason, his flesh was impervious to flame-but the blood was gone from them; they looked as clean as if they had been scrubbed by exoneration.
His fingers were still stiff with hurt, and he flexed them painfully before he turned his bloody face toward Covenant. As if he were appealing a condemnation, he met the Unbeliever's impacted gaze and asked, “Do you feel nothing?”
“Feel?” Covenant groaned. “I'm a leper.”
“Not even for tiny Pietten? A child?”
His appeal made Covenant want to throw his arms around the Giant, accept this terrible sympathy as some kind of answer to his dilemma. But he knew it was not enough, knew in the deepest marrow of his leprosy that it did not suffice. “We killed them too,” he croaked. “I killed-I'm no different than they are.”
Abruptly he turned, walked away into the darkness to hide his shame. The battleground was a fit and proper place for him; his nostrils were numb to the stink of death. After a time, he stumbled, then lay down among the dead, on blood surrounded by graves and pyres.
Children! He was the cause of their screams and their agony. Foul had attacked the Woodhelven because of his white gold ring. Not again-I won't. His voice was empty of weeping.
I will not do any more killing.
Eighteen: The Plains of Ra
