at a brave gallop. Shortly, the horses splashed into the stream, showering themselves and their glad riders with the cool spray of the Roamsedge. On the southern bank, Prothall called a halt. The passage of Morinmoss was over.
Once halted, the company tasted the toll of the passage. Their foodless vigil had weakened the riders. But the horses were in worse condition. They quivered with exhaustion. Once their last run was over, their necks and backs sagged; they scarcely had the strength to eat or drink. Despite the nickering encouragement of the Ranyhyn, two of the Eoman mustangs collapsed on their sides on the grass, and the others stood around with unsteady knees like foals. “Rest-rest,” Prothall said in rheumy anxiety. “We go no farther this day.” He walked among the horses, touching them with his old hands and humming a strengthening song.
Only the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard were unmarred by fatigue. Foamfollower lowered the child Pietten into Llaura's arms, then dropped himself wearily on his back on the stiff grass. Since the company had left Soaring Woodhelven, he had been unnaturally silent; he had avoided speaking as if he feared his voice would betray him. Now he appeared to feel the strain of travelling without the support of stories and laughter.
Covenant wondered if he would ever hear the Giant laugh again.
Sourly, he reached a hand up to get his staff from Dura's saddle, and noticed for the first time what Morinmoss had done to his white robe. It was spattered and latticed with dark green stains-the markings of the moss.
The stains offended him. With a scowl, he looked around the company. The other riders must have been more adept at dodging; they showed none of the green signature of the moss. Lord Mhoram was the only exception; each shoulder of his robe bore a dark stripe like an insignia.
Roughly, Covenant rubbed at the green. But it was dry and set. Darkness murmured in his ears like the distant rumour of an avalanche. His shoulders hunched like a strangler's. He turned away from the Questers, stamped back into the river. Knotting his fingers in his robe, he tried to scrub out the stains of the Forest.
But the marks had become part of the fabric, immitigable; they clung to his robe, signing it like a chart, a map to unknown regions. In a fit of frustration, he pounded the river with his fists. But its current erased his ripples as if they had never existed.
He stood erect and dripping in the stream. His heart laboured in his chest. For a moment, he felt that his rage must either overflow or crack him to the bottom.
None of this is happening-His jaw quivered. I can't stand it.
Then he heard a low cry of surprise from the company. An instant later, Mhoram commanded quietly, “Covenant. Come.”
Spitting protests against so many things that he could not name them all, he turned around. The Questers were all facing away from him, their attention bent on something which he could not see because of the water in his eyes.
Mhoram repeated, “Come.”
Covenant wiped his eyes, waded to the bank, and climbed out of the river. He made his dripping way through the Eoman until he reached Mhoram and Prothall.
Before them stood a strange woman.
She was slim and slight-no taller than Covenant's shoulder-and dressed in a deep brown shift which left her legs and arms free. Her skin was sun darkened to the colour of earth. Her long black hair she wore tied into one strand by a heavy cord. The effect was severe, but this was relieved by a small necklace of yellow flowers. Despite her size, she stood proudly, with her arms folded and her legs slightly apart, as if she could deny the company entrance to the Plains of Ra if she chose. She watched Covenant's approach as if she had been waiting for him.
When he stopped, joining Mhoram and Prothall, she raised her hand and gave him the salute of welcome awkwardly, as if it were not a natural gesture for her. “Hail, Ringthane,” she said in a clear, nickering voice. “White gold is known. We homage and serve. Be welcome.”
He shook the water from his forehead and stared at her.
After greeting him, she turned with a ritual precision toward each of the others. “Hail, High Lord Prothall. Hail, Lord Mhoram. Hail, Saltheart Foamfollower. Hail, First Mark Tuvor. Hail, Warhaft Quaan.” In turn, they saluted her gravely, as if they recognized her as a potentate.
Then she said, “I am Manethrall Lithe. We see you. Speak. The Plains of Ra are not open to all.”
Prothall stepped forward. Raising his staff, he held it in both hands level with his forehead and bowed deeply. At this, the woman smiled faintly. Holding her own palms beside her head, she matched his bow. This time, her movement was smooth, natural. “You know us,” she said. “You come from afar, but you ate not unknowing.”
Prothall replied, “We know that the Manethralls are the first tenders of the Ranyhyn. Among the Ramen, you are most honoured. And you know us.”
He stood close to her now, and the slight stoop of his agedness inclined him over her. Her brown skin and his blue robe accentuated each other like earth and sky. But still she withheld her welcome. “No,” she returned. “Not know. You come from afar. Unknown.”
“Yet you speak our names.”
She shrugged. “We are cautious. We have watched since you left Morinmoss. We heard your talk.”
We? Covenant wondered blankly.
Slowly, her eyes moved over the company. “We know the sleepless ones-the Bloodguard.” She did not appear pleased to see them. “They take the Ranyhyn into peril. But we serve. They are welcome.” Then her gaze settled on the two collapsed horses, and her nostrils flared. “You have urgency?” she demanded, but her tone said that she would accept few justifications for the condition of the mustangs. At that, Covenant understood why she hesitated to welcome the Lords, though they must have been known to her, at least by legend or reputation; she wanted no one who mistreated horses to enter the Plains of Ra.
The High Lord answered with authority, “Yes. Fangthane lives.”
Lithe faltered momentarily. When her eyes returned to Covenant, they swarmed with hints of distant fear. “Fangthane,” she breathed. “Enemy of Earth and Ranyhyn. Yes. White gold knows. The Ringthane is here.” Abruptly, her tone became hard. “To save the Ranyhyn from rending.” She looked at Covenant as if demanding promises from him.
He had none to give her. He stood angrily dripping, too soaked with hunger to respond in repudiation or acquiescence or shame. Soon she retreated in bafflement. To Prothall, she said, “Who is he? What manner of man?”
With an ambivalent smile, Prothall said, “He is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. He is a stranger to the Land. Do not doubt him. He turned the battle for us when we were beset by the servants of Fangthane Cavewights and ur-viles, and a
Lithe nodded noncommittally, as if she did not understand all his words. But then she said, “There is urgency. No action against Fangthane must be hindered or delayed. There have been other signs. Rending beasts have sought to cross into the Plains. High Lord Prothall, be welcome in the Plains of Ra. Come with all speed to Manhome. We must take counsel.”
“Your welcome honours us,” the High Lord responded. “We return honour in accepting. We will reach Manhome the second day from today-if the horses five.”
His cautious speech made Lithe laugh lightly. “You will rest in the hospitality of the Ramen before the sun sets a second time from this moment. We have not served the Ranyhyn knowledgeless from the beginning. Cords! Up! Here is a test for your Maneing.”
At once, four figures appeared; they suddenly stood up from the grass in a loose semicircle around the company as if they had risen out of the ground. The four, three men and a woman, were as slight as Manethrall Lithe, and dressed like her in brown over their tanned skin; but they wore no flowers, and had short lengths of rope wrapped around their waists.
“Come, Cords,” said Lithe. “Stalk these riders no longer. You have heard me welcome them. Now tend their horses and their safety. They must reach Manhome before nightfall of the next day.” The four Ramen stepped forward, and Lithe said to Prothall, “Here are my Cords-Thew, Hum, Grace, and Rustah. They are hunters. While they learn the ways of the Ranyhyn and the knowing of the Manethralls, they protect the Plains from dangerous beasts. I have spent much time with them-they can care for your mounts.”
