hear him across the distance; the noise of the two rivers obliterated distant shouts. A stiff gust of helplessness knocked down his protest, so that his voice cracked and stumbled into silence.
It was no wonder that Trell could not return home, face his daughter. How could he tell her that the High Lord had chosen friendship rather than retribution for the man who had raped her? Troy did not understand how she could do such a thing to Trell.
Another moment passed before he grasped the rest of what Mhoram had said.
“Warmark.” Lord Mhoram's tone was stern. “That was not well done. Trell's hurt is great enough.”
“I know,” Troy gritted over the aching of his heart. “But why didn't you tell me? You knew about all this.”
“The Council decided together to withhold this knowledge from you. We saw only harm in the sharing of it. We wished to spare you pain. And we hoped that you would learn to trust ur-Lord Covenant.”
“You were dreaming,” Troy groaned. “That bastard thinks this whole thing is some kind of mental game. All that Unbelieving is just a bluff. He thinks he can get away with anything. You can't trust him.” Grimly, he pushed the argument to its conclusion. 'And you can't trust me-or you would have told me all this before. She was trying to summon him. As far as you know, I'm just a surrogate.' He tried to sound lucid, but his voice shook.
“You misunderstand me,” Mhoram said carefully.
“No, I don't misunderstand.” He could feel deadly forces at work around him-choosing, manipulating, determining. He had to clench himself to articulate, “Mhoram, something terrible is going to happen to her.”
He looked at the Lord, then turned away; he could not bear the compassion in Mhoram's gaze. Patting Mehryl's neck, he sent the Ranyhyn trotting around the east side of Revelwood. He avoided the waiting Lorewardens, avoided having to bid them farewell. Gesturing roughly for the Bloodguard and Lord Mhoram to follow `him, he rode straight away from Revelwood toward the south ford.
He was looking forward to this war. He wanted to get to it in a hurry.
Sixteen: Forced March
YET even in this mood, he could not cross the ford of the Rill out of Trothgard without regret. He loved the sun-bright beauty of Revelwood, the uncomplex friendship of the Lorewardens; he did not want to lose them. But he did not look back. He could not understand why Elena had repudiated Trell Atiaran-mate's just rage and grief. And he sensed now, in a way more fundamental than he had ever seen it before, that he would have to prove himself in this war. He would have to prove that he was the fruit of hope, not of despair.
He would have to win.
If he did not, then he was more than a failure; he was an active evil-a piece of treachery perpetrated against the Land in defiance of his own love or volition-worse than Covenant, for Covenant at least tried to avoid the lie of being trusted. But he, Hile Troy, had deliberately sought trust, responsibility, command
No, that thought was intolerable. He had to win, had to win.
When he had passed the crest of the south hill, he slowed Mehryl to a better travelling pace, and allowed Lord Mhoram and the remaining eighteen Bloodguard to catch up with him. Then he said through his teeth, biting down on his voice to avoid accusing Mhoram, “Why is she taking him? He raped Trell's daughter.”
Mhoram responded gently, “Warmark Troy, my friend, you must understand that the High Lord has little choice. The way of her duty is narrow, and beset with perils. She must seek out the Seventh Ward. And she must take ur-Lord Covenant with her-because of the white gold. With the Staff of Law, she must ensure that his ring does not fall into Lord Foul's hands. And if he turns against the Land, she must be near him-to fight him.”
Troy nodded to himself. That was reasoning he could comprehend. Abruptly, he shook himself, forced down his instinctive protest. With an effort, he unclenched his teeth, and sighed, “I'll tell you something, Mhoram. When I'm done with this war-when I can look back and tell myself that poor Atiaran is satisfied-I'm going to take a vacation for a few years. I'm going to sit down in Andelain and not move a muscle until I get to see the Celebration of Spring. Otherwise I'm never going to be able to forgive that damn Covenant for being luckier than I am.” But he meant luckier in another way. Though he realized now that no other choice was possible, he ached to think that Elena had chosen Covenant, not him.
If Mhoram understood him, however, the Lord tactfully followed what he had said rather than what he meant. “Ah, if we are victorious”- Mhoram was smiling, but his tone was serious- ' you will not be alone. Half the Land will be in Andelain when next the dark of the moon falls on the middle night of spring. Few who yet live have seen the Dance of the Wraiths of Andelain.'
“Well, I'm going to get there first,” Troy muttered, trying to sustain this conversation. But then he could not keep himself from reverting to the subject of the Unbeliever. “Mhoram, don't you resent him? After what he's done?”
Evenly and openly, Lord Mhoram said, “I have no special virtue to make me resent him. One must have strength in order to judge the weakness of others. I am not so mighty.”
This answer surprised Troy. For a moment, he stared at Mhoram, asking silently, Is that true? Do you believe that? But he could see that Mhoram did believe it. Baffled, Troy turned away.
Surrounded by the Bloodguard, he and Lord Mhoram followed a curve through the hills that took them generally east southeast to intercept the Warward.
As the day passed, Troy was able to turn his thoughts more and more toward his marching army. Questions began to crowd his mind. Were the villages along the march able to provide enough food for the warriors? Was First Haft Amorine able to keep up the pace? Such concerns enabled him to put aside his foreboding, his aching sense of loss. He became another man-less the blind uncertain stranger to the Land, and more the Warmark of the Warward of Lord's Keep.
The change steadied him. He felt more comfortable with this aspect of himself.
He wanted to hurry, but he resisted the temptation because he wanted to make this part of the journey as easy as possible for the Ranyhyn. Still, by the end of that day, the eighth since he had left Revelstone, he, Lord Mhoram, and the Bloodguard had left behind the reblooming health of Trothgard. Even at a pace which covered no more than seventeen leagues in a day, the land through which they rode changed rapidly. East and southeast of them was the more austere country of the Centre Plains. In this wide region the stern rock of the Earth seemed closer to the surface of the soil than in Trothgard. The Plains supported life without encouraging it, sustained people who were tough, hardy.
Most of the men and women who made up the Warward came from the villages of the Centre Plains. This was traditionally true-and for good reason. In all the great wars of the Land, the Despiser's armies had struck through the Centre Plains to approach Revelstone. Thus these Plains bore much of the brunt of Lord Foul's malice. The people of the Plains remembered this, and sent their sons and daughters to the Loresraat to be trained in the skills of the Sword.
As he made camp that night, Troy was intensely conscious of how personally his warriors depended on him. Their homes and families were at the mercy of his success or failure. At his command they were enduring the slow hell of this forced march.
And he knew that the war would begin within the next day. By that time, the vanguard of Lord Foul's army would reach the western end of the Mithil valley, and would encounter Hiltmark Quaan and the Lords Callindrill and Verement. He was sure of it; no later than the evening of the ninth day. Then men and women would begin to die- his warriors. Bloodguard would begin to die. He wanted to be with them, wanted to keep them alive, but he could not. And the march to Doom's Retreat would go on and on and on, grinding down the Warward like the millstone of an unanswerable need. Soon Troy stretched himself out in his blankets and pressed his face against the earth as if that were the only way he could keep his balance.
