“So?”
“But the power over death is a delusion. There cannot be life without death.”
Covenant recognized that this was a fact. But he had not expected such an argument from the Giant. It made him want to get out of the cave into the sunlight. “Foamfollower,” he muttered, climbing out of his bed, “you've been thinking again.” But he felt the intensity of Foamfollower's gaze. “All right. So you're right. Tell me, just where the hell do you get hope?”
Slowly, the Giant rose to his feet. He towered over Covenant until his head nearly touched the ceiling. “From faith.”
“You've been dealing with humans too long-you're getting hasty. “Faith” is too short a word. What do you mean?”
Foamfollower began picking his way among the flowers. “I mean the Lords. Consider, Covenant. Faith is a way of living. They have dedicated themselves wholly to the services of the Land. And they have sworn the Oath of Peace-committed themselves to serve the great goal of their lives in only certain ways, to choose death rather than submit to the destruction of passion which blinded High Lord Kevin and brought the Desecration. Come, can you believe that Lord Mhoram will ever despair? That is the essence of the Oath of Peace. He will never despair, nor ever do what despair commands-murder, desecrate, destroy. And he will never falter, because his Lordship, his service to the Land, will sustain him. Service enables service.”
“That's not the same thing as hope.” With the Giant, Covenant moved out of Manhome to stand in, the sunny fiat. The bright light made him duck his head, and as he did so he noticed again the moss stains which charted his robe. Abruptly, he looked back into the cave. There the greenery was arranged among the columbines to resemble moss lines on white samite.
He stifled a groan. As if he were articulating a principle, he said, “All you need to avoid despair is irremediable stupidity or unlimited stubbornness.”
“No,” insisted Foamfollower. “The Lords are not stupid. Look at the Land.” He gestured broadly with his arm as if he expected Covenant to view the whole country from border to border.
Covenant's gaze did not go so far. But he looked blinking beyond the green flat toward the Plains. He heard the distant whistles of the Bloodguard call to the Ranyhyn, and the nickering answer. He noticed the fond wonder of the Winhomes who came out of the cave because they were too eager to wait in Manhome until the Ranyhyn appeared. After a moment, he said, “In other words, hope comes from the power of what you serve, not from yourself. Hellfire, Giant-you forget who I am.”
“Do I?”
“Anyway, what makes you such an expert on hope? I don't see that you've got anything to despair about.”
“No?” The Giant's lips smiled, but his eyes were hard under his buttressed brows, and his forehead's scar shone vividly. “Do you forget that I have learned to hate? Do-But let that pass. How if I tell you that I serve you? I, Saltheart Foamfollower, Giant of Seareach and legate of my people?”
Covenant heard echoes in the question, like the distant wrack of timbers barely perceived through a high, silent wind, and he recoiled. “Don't talk like a damned mystic. Say something I can understand.”
Foamfollower reached down to touch Covenant's chest with one heavy finger, as if he marked a spot on Covenant's mapped robe. “Unbeliever, you hold the fate of the Land in your hands. Soulcrusher moves against the Lords at the very time when our dreams of Home have been renewed. Must I explain that you have the power to save us, or orphan us until we share whatever doom awaits the Land?”
“Hellfire!” Covenant snapped. “How many times have I told you that I'm a leper? It's all a mistake. Foul's playing tricks on us.”
The Giant responded simply and quietly. “Then are you so surprised to learn that I have been thinking about hope?”
Covenant met Foamfollower's eyes under the scarred overhang of his forehead. The Giant watched him as if the hope of the Unhomed were a sinking ship, and Covenant ached with the sense of his own helplessness to save that hope. But then Foamfollower said as if he were coming to Covenant's rescue, “Be not concerned, my friend. This tale is yet too brief for any of us to guess its ending. As you say, I have spent too much time with hastening humans. My people would laugh greatly to see me-a Giant who has not patience enough for a long story. And the Lords contain much which may yet surprise Soulcrusher. Be of good heart. It may be that you and I have already shared our portion of the terrible purpose of these times.”
Gruffly, Covenant said, “Giant, you talk too much.” Foamfollower's capacity for gentleness surpassed him. Muttering, Hellfire, to himself, he turned away, went in search of his staff and knife. He could hear the noises of preparation from beyond the flat; and in the village the Winhomes were busy packing food in saddlebags. The company was readying itself, and he did not want to be behind-hand. He found his staff and knife with the bundle of his clothes laid out on a slab of stone amid the flowers, as if on display. Then he got a flustered, eager Winhome to provide him with water, soap, and a mirror. He felt that he owed himself a shave.
But when he had set the mirror so that he could use it, and had doused his face in water, he found Pietten standing solemnly in front of him; and in the mirror he saw that Llaura was behind him. Pietten stared at him as if the Unbeliever were as intangible as a wisp of smoke. And Llaura's face seemed tight, as if she were forcing herself to do something she disliked. She pushed her hand unhappily through her hair, then said,
“You asked the Ramen to make a home for us here.”
He shrugged. “So did Foamfollower.”
“Why?”
His hearing picked out whole speeches of meaning behind her question. She held his gaze in the mirror, and he saw the memory of a burning tree in her eyes. He asked carefully, “Do you really think you might get a chance to hit back at Foul? Or be able to use it if you got it?” He looked away at Pietten. “Leave it to Mhoram and Prothall. You can trust them.”
“Of course.” Her tone said as clearly as words that she was incapable of distrusting the Lords.
“Then take the job you already have. Here's Pietten. Think about what's going to happen to him-more of what you've already been through. He needs help.”
Pietten yawned as if he were awake past his bedtime, and said, “They hate you.” He sounded as sober as an executioner.
“How?” Llaura returned defiantly. “Have you observed him? Have you seen how he sits awake at night? Have you seen how his eyes devour the moon? Have you seen his relish for the taste of blood? He is no child-no more.” She spoke as if Pietten were not there listening to her, and Pietten listened as if she were reciting some formula of no importance. “He is treachery concealed in a child's form. How can I help him?”
Covenant wet his face again and began lathering soap. He could feel Llaura's presence bearing on the back of his neck as he rubbed lather into his beard. Finally, he muttered, “Try the Ranyhyn. He likes them.”
When she reached over him to take Pietten's hand and draw the child away, Covenant sighed and set the knife to his beard. His hand was unsteady; he had visions of cutting himself. But the blade moved over his skin as smoothly as if it could remember that Atiaran had refused to injure him.
By the time he was done, the company had gathered outside Manhome. He hurried out to join the riders as if he feared that the Quest would leave without him.
The last adjustments of saddles and saddlebags were in progress, and shortly Covenant stood beside Dura.
The condition of the horses surprised him. They all gleamed with good grooming, and looked as well-fed and rested as if they had been under the care of the Ramen since the middle of spring. Some of the Eoman mounts which had been most exhausted were now pawing the ground and shaking their manes eagerly.
The whole company seemed to have forgotten where they were going. The warriors were laughing together. Old Birinair clucked and scolded over the way the Ramen handled his
The company's good spirits disturbed Covenant like a concealed threat. He understood that it arose in part from rest and reassurance. But he felt sure that it also arose from his meeting with the Ranyhyn. Like the Ramen, the warriors had been impressed; their desire to see in him a new Berek had been vindicated. The white gold
