about to find some utterly unexpected spot of leprosy. He looked as if he were withering.
After a time, people began to talk again. Prothall and Mhoram handed their leaf plates back to the Winhomes, and turned their attention to the Manethralls. Covenant caught glimpses of their conversation. They were discussing him the message he had brought to them, the role he played in the fate of the Land. Their physical comfort contrasted strangely with the seriousness of their words.
Near them, Foamfollower described the plight of Llaura and Pietten to one of the Manethralls.
Covenant scowled into the fire. He did not need to look down to see the blood change which came over his ring; he could feel the radiation of wrong from the metal. He concealed the band under his fist and trembled.
The stone ceiling seemed to hover over him like a cruel wing of revelation, awaiting the moment of his greatest helplessness to plunge onto his exposed neck. He was abysmally hungry.
I'm going crazy, he muttered into the flames.
Winhome Gay urged him to eat, but he did not respond.
Across the circle, Prothall was explaining the purpose of his Quest. The Manethralls listened uncertainly, as if they had trouble seeing the connection between evils far away and the Plains of Ra. So the High Lord told them what had been done to Andelain.
Pietten gazed with blank unfocus out into the night, as if he were looking forward to moonrise. Beside him, Llaura spoke quietly with the Cords around her, grateful for the Ramen hospitality.
As Foamfollower detailed the horrors which had been practiced on the two survivors of Soaring Woodhelven, his forehead knotted under the effort he made to contain his emotion.
The fire shone like a door with an intolerable menace waiting behind it. The back of Covenant's neck was stiff with vulnerability, and his eyes stared blindly, like knotholes.
The green stains on his robe marked him like a warning that said, Leper outcast unclean.
He was nearing the end of his VSE. Behind him was the impossibility of believing the Land true. And before him was the impossibility of believing it false.
Abruptly, Gay entered the circle and confronted him, with her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing. She stood with her legs slightly apart, so that he saw the bloody coals of the fire between her thighs.
He glanced up at her.
“You must take food,” she scolded. “Already you are half dead.” Her shoulders were squared, drawing her shift tight over her breasts. She reminded him of Lena.
Prothall was saying, “He has not told us all that occurred at the Celebration. The ravage of the Wraiths was not prevented-yet we believe he fought the ur-viles in some way. His companion blamed both herself and him for the ill which befell the Dance.”
Covenant trembled. Like Lena, he thought. Lena?
Darkness pounced at him like claws of vertigo.
Lena?
For an instant, his vision was obscured by roaring and black waters. Then he crashed to his feet. He had done that to Lena-done
Around him, people sprang to their feet. Mhoram came forward quickly, stretched out a restraining hand. “Softly, Covenant,” he said. “What is wrong? We are guests.”
But even while he protested, Covenant knew that Atiaran had not been wrong. He had seen himself kill at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven, and had thought in his folly that being a killer was something new for him, something unprecedented. But it was not something he had recently become; he had been that way from the beginning of the dream, from the beginning. In an intuitive leap, he saw that there was no difference between what the ur-viles had done to the Wraiths and what he had done to Lena. He had been serving Lord Foul since his first day in the Land.
“No!” he spat as if he were boiling in acid. “No, I won't do it anymore. I'm not going to be the victim anymore. I will not be waited on by children.” He shook with the ague of his rage as he cried at himself, You raped her! You stinking bloody bastard!
He felt as weak as if the understanding of what he had done corroded his bones.
Mhoram said intently, “Unbeliever! What is wrong?”
“No!” Covenant repeated. “No!” He was trying to shout, but his voice sounded distant, crippled. “I will not- tolerate- this. It isn't right. I am going to survive! Do you hear me?”
“Who are you?” Manethrall Lithe hissed through taut lips. With a quick shake of her head, a flick of her wrist, she pulled the cord from her hair and held it battle-ready.
Prothall caught her arm. His old voice rattled with authority and supplication. “Forgive, Manethrall. This matter is beyond you. He holds the wild magic that destroys peace. We must forgive.”
“Forgive?” Covenant tried to shout. His legs failed under him, but he did not fall. Bannor held him erect from behind. “You can't forgive.”
“Do you ask to be punished?” Mhoram said incredulously. “What have you done?”
“Ask?” Covenant struggled to recollect something. Then he found it. He knew what he had to do. “No. Call the Ranyhyn.”
“What?” snapped Lithe in indignation. And all the Ramen echoed her protest.
“The Ranyhyn! Call them.”
“Are you mad? Have a care, Ringthane. We are the Ramen. We do not call-we serve. They come as they will. They are not for your calling. And they do not come at night. ”
“Call, I tell you! I! Call them!”
Something in his terrible urgency confounded her. She hesitated, stared at him in confused anger and protest and unexpected compassion, then turned on her heel and strode out of Manhome.
Supported by Bannor, Covenant tottered out from under the oppressive weight of the mountain. The company and the Ramen trailed after him like a wake of dumbfounded outrage. Behind them, the red moon had just crested the mountain; and the distant Plains, visible beyond the foothills in front of Manhome, were already awash with crimson. The incarnadine flood seemed to untexture the earth, translate rock and soil and grass into decay and bitter blood.
The people spread out on either side of the flat so that the open ground was lit by the campfires.
Into the night walked Lithe, moving toward the Plains until she stood near the far edge of the glade. Covenant stopped and watched her. Unsteadily, but resolutely, he freed himself from Bannor's support-stood on his own like a wrecked galleon left by the tide, perched impossibly high on a reef. Moving woodenly, he went toward Lithe.
Before him, the bloody vista of the moonlight lay like a dead sea, and it tugged at him as it flowed closer with each degree of the moonrise. His ring smouldered coldly. He felt that he was the lodestone. Sky and earth were alike hued scarlet, and he walked outward as if he were the pole on which the red night turned-he and his ring the force which compelled that tide of violated night. Soon he stood in the centre of the open fiat.
A winding-sheet of silence enwrapped the onlookers.
Ahead of him, Manethrall Lithe spread her arms as if she were beckoning the darkness toward her. Abruptly, she gave a shrill cry. “
For a long moment, silence choked the flat. Striding defiantly, Lithe moved back toward Manhome. As she passed Covenant, she snapped, “I have called.” Then she was behind him, and he faced the siege of the moonlight alone.
But shortly there came a rumbling of hooves. Great horses pounded the distance; the sound swelled as if the hills themselves were rolling Manhome-ward. Scores of Ranyhyn approached. Covenant locked his knees to keep himself upright. His heart felt too weak to go on beating. He was dimly conscious of the hushed suspense of the spectators.
Then the outer edge of the flat seemed to rise up redly, and a wave of Ranyhyn broke into the open-nearly a hundred chargers galloping abreast like a wall at Covenant.
