her the salute of welcome. She did not return it. Her face bore a look of concentration, as if she were already feeling her song.
When she reached the stage, she did not speak, said nothing to introduce or explain or identify her song. Instead, she took her stance in the centre of the stage, composed herself for a moment as the song came over her, then lifted her face to the sun and opened her throat.
At first, her melody was restrained, arid and angular — only hinting at burned pangs and poignancies.
I stood on the pinnacle of the Earth:
Mount Thunder, its Lions in full flaming mane,
raised its crest no higher
than the horizons that my gaze commanded;
the Ranyhyn,
hooves unfettered since the Age began,
galloped gladly to my will;
iron-thewed Giants
from beyond the sun's birth in the sea
came to me in ships as mighty as castles,
and cleft my castle from the
raw Earth rock
and gave it to me out of pure friendship—
a handmark of allegiance and fealty
in the eternal stone of Time;
the Lords under my Watch laboured
to find and make manifest
the true purpose of the Earth's Creator,
barred from His creation by the very
power of that purpose—
power graven into the flesh and bone of the Land
by the immutable Law of its creation:
how could I stand so,
so much glory and dominion comprehended
by the outstretch of my arms—
stand thus,
eye to eye with the Despiser,
and not be dismayed?
But then the song changed, as if the singer opened inner chambers to give her voice more resonance. In high, arching spans of song, she gave out her threnody — highlighted it and underscored it with so many implied harmonies, so many suggestions of other accompanying voices, that she seemed to have a whole choir within her, using her one throat for utterance.
Where is the Power that protects
beauty from the decay of life?
preserves truth pure of falsehood?
secures fealty from that slow stain of chaos
which corrupts?
How are we so rendered small by Despite?
Why will the very rocks not erupt
for their own cleansing,
or crumble into dust for shame?
Creator!
When You desecrated this temple,
rid Yourself of this contempt by
inflicting it upon the Land,
did You intend
that beauty and truth should pass utterly from the
Earth?
Have You shaped my fate into the Law of life?
Am I effectless?
Must I preside over,
sanction, acknowledge with the bitter face of treachery,
approve the falling of the world?
Her music ached in the air like a wound of song. And as she finished, the people came to their feet with a rush. Together they sang into the fathomless heavens:
Ah, Creator!
Timelord and Landsire!
Did You intend
that beauty and truth should pass utterly
from the Earth?
Bannor stood, though he did not join the song. But Covenant kept his seat, feeling small and useless beside the community of Revelstone. Their emotion climaxed in the refrain, expending sharp grief and then filling the amphitheatre with a wash of peace which cleansed and healed the song's despair, as if the united power of the singing alone were answer enough to Kevin's outcry. By making music out of despair, the people resisted it. But Covenant felt otherwise. He was beginning to understand the danger that threatened the Land.
So he was still sitting, gripping his beard and staring blankly before him, when the people filed out of the amphitheatre, left him alone with the hot brightness of the sun. He remained there, muttering grimly to himself, until he became aware that Hile Troy had come over to him.
When he looked up, the Warmark said, “I didn't expect to see you here.”
Gruffly, Covenant responded, “I didn't expect to see you.” But he was only obliquely thinking about Troy. He was still trying to grapple with Kevin.
As if he could hear Covenant's thoughts, the Warmark said, “It all comes back to Kevin. He's the one who made the Seven Wards. He's the one who inspired the Bloodguard. He's the one who did the Ritual of Desecration. And it wasn't necessary-or it wasn't inevitable. He wouldn't have been driven that far if he hadn't already made his big mistake.”
“His big mistake,” Covenant murmured.
'He admitted Foul to the Council, made him a Lord. He didn't see through Foul's disguise. After that it was too late. By the time Foul declared himself and broke into open war, he'd had time for so much subtle treachery that he was unbeatable.
'In situations like that, I guess most ordinary men kill themselves. But Kevin was no ordinary man-he had too much power for that, even though it seemed useless. He killed the Land instead. All that survived were the people who had time to escape into exile.
'They say that Kevin understood what he'd done just before he died. Foul was laughing at him. He died howling.
“Anyway, that's why the Oath of Peace is so important now. Everyone takes it-it's as fundamental as the Lords' oath of service to the Land. Together they all swear that somehow they'll resist the destructive emotions-like Kevin's despair. They-”
