for the hard run from Kevin's Watch to Doom's Retreat.
But the second night, his confidence suffered a setback. Soon after moonrise, Lord Mhoram sprang suddenly awake, screaming so vehemently that Troy's blood ran cold. Troy groped toward him through the darkness, but he struck the Warmark down with his staff, and started firing fierce blasts of power into the invulnerable heavens as if they were attacking him. A madness gripped him. He did not stop until Terrel caught his arms, shouted into his face, “Lord! Corruption will see you!”
With an immense effort, Mhoram mastered himself, silenced his power.
Then Troy could see nothing. He had to wait in blind suspense until at last he heard Mhoram breathe, “It is past. I thank you, Terrel.” The Lord sounded utterly weary.
Troy thronged with questions, but Mhoram either would not or could not answer them. The force of his vision left him dumb and quivering. He could barely compel his lips to form the few words he spoke to reassure Troy.
The Warmark was not convinced. He demanded a light. But when Ruel built up the campfire, Troy saw the garish heat of torment and danger in Mhoram's eyes. It stilled him, denied his offer of support or consolation. He was forced to leave the Lord alone in his cruel, oracular pain.
For the rest of the night, Troy lay awake, waiting anxiously. But when dawn came and his sight returned, he perceived that Mhoram had weathered the crisis. The fever in his gaze had been replaced by a hard gleam like a warning that it was perilous to challenge him-a gleam that reminded Troy of that picture in the Hall of Gifts entitled “Lord Mhoram's Victory.”
The Lord offered no explanation. In silence they rode away into the third day.
On the horizon ahead, Troy could make out the thin, black finger of Kevin's Watch, though the valley of Mithil Stonedown was still twenty-two leagues distant. After the strain of the night, he was under even more pressure than before to climb the Watch and see Lord Foul's army. In that sight he would find the fate of his battle plan. But he did not drive the Ranyhyn beyond their best travelling gait. So the valley was already full of evening shadows when he and Mhoram reached the Mithil River, and followed it upstream into the Southron Range.
Through his personal haze, he caught only one glimpse of Mithil Stonedown. From the top of a heavy stone bridge across the river, he looked southward along the east bank, and dimly made out a dark, round cluster of stone huts. Then the last penetration of his sight faded, and he had to ride into the village on trust.
When Troy and his companions had dismounted within the round, open centre of the Stonedown, Lord Mhoram spoke quietly to the people who came out to greet him. Soon the Stonedownors were joined by a group of five, bearing with them a wide bowl of graveling. They placed it on a dais in the centre of the circle, where its warm glow and fresh loamy smell spread all around them. The light enabled Troy to see dimly.
The group of five included three women and two men. Four of them were white-haired, aged, and dignified, but one man appeared just past middle age. His thick dark hair was streaked with grey, and over his short, powerful frame he wore a traditional brown Stonedownor tunic, with a curious pattern resembling crossed lightning on his shoulders. He had a permanently twisted bitter expression, as if something had broken in him early in life, turning all the tastes of his experience sour. But despite his bitterness and his relative youth, his companions deferred to him. He spoke first.
“Hail, Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. Hail, Warmark Hile Troy. Be welcome in Mithil Stonedown. I am Triock son of Thuler, — first among the Circle of elders of Mithil Stonedown. It is not our custom to question our guests before hospitality has cleansed the weariness of their way. But these are perilous times. A Bloodguard brought us tidings of war. What need calls you here?”
“Triock, your welcome honours us,” replied Lord Mhoram. “And we are honoured that you know us. We have not met.”
“That is true, Lord. But I studied for a time in the Loresraat. The Lords, and the friends of the Lords” — he nodded to Troy-“were made known to me.”
“Then, Triock, elders and people of Mithil Stonedown, I must tell you that there is indeed war upon the Land. The army of the Grey Slayer marches in the South Plains, to do battle with the Warward of Revelstone at Doom's Retreat. We have come so that Warmark Troy may climb Kevin's Watch, and study the movements of the foe.”
“He must have brave sight, if he can see so far though it is said that High Lord Kevin viewed all the Land from his Watch. But that is not our concern. Please accept the welcome of Mithil Stonedown. How may we serve you?”
Smiling, Mhoram answered, 'A hot meal would be a rich welcome. We have eaten camp food for many days.'
At this, another of the elders stepped forward. “Lord Mhoram, I am Terass Slen-mate. Our home is large, and Slen my husband is proud of his cooking. Will you eat with us?”
“Gladly. Terass Slen-mate. You honour us.”
“Accepting a gift honours the giver,” she returned gravely. Accompanied by the other elders, she led Mhoram and Troy out of the centre of the Stonedown. Her home was a wide, flat building which had been formed out of one prodigious boulder. Within, it was bright with graveling. After several ceremonious introductions, Troy and Lord Mhoram found themselves seated at a long stone table. The meal that Slen set before them did full justice to his pride.
When all the guests had eater, their fill, and the stoneware dishes and pots had been cleared away, Lord Mhoram offered to answer the questions of the elders. Terass began by asking generally about the war, but before she had gone far Triock interrupted her.
“Lord, what of High Lord Elena? Is she well? Does she fight in this war?”
Something abrupt in Triock's tone irritated Troy, but he left the answers to Mhoram. The Lord replied, “The High Lord is well. She has uncovered knowledge of one of the hidden Wards of Kevin's Lore, and has gone in quest of the Ward itself ” He sounded cautious, as if he had some reason to distrust Triock.
“And what of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever? The Bloodguard said that he has returned to the Land”
“He has returned”
“Ah, yes,” said Triock. He seemed aware of Mhoram's caution. “And what of Trell Atiaran-mate? For many years he was the Gravelingas of Mithil Stonedown. How does he meet the need of this war?”
“He is in Revelstone, where his skills serve the defence of the Keep.”
At once, Triock's attitude changed. “Trell is not with the High Lord?” he demanded sharply.
“No.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, Lord Mhoram searched. Triock's face. Then he said as if he were taking a risk, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane, rides with the High Lord.”
“With her?” Triock cried, springing to his feet. “Trell permitted this?” He glared bitterly at Mhoram, then spun away and flung out of the house.
His vehemence left an awkward silence in the room, and Terass spoke quietly to ease it. “Please do not be offended, Lord. His life is full of trouble. It may be that you know part of his tale.”
Mhoram nodded, assured Terass that he was not offended. But Triock's conduct disturbed Warmark Troy; it reminded him vividly of Trell. “I don't know,” he said bluntly. “What business is the High Lord of his?”
“Ah, Warmark,” Terass said, sadly, “he would not thank me for speaking of it. I- ”
A sharp glance from Mhoram silenced her. Troy turned toward Mhoram, but the Lord did not meet his gaze. “Before ur-Lord Covenant's first summoning to the Land,” Mhoram said carefully, “Triock was in love with the daughter of Trell and Atiaran.”
Troy barely restrained an ejaculation. He wanted to curse Covenant; there seemed to be no end to the damage Covenant had done. But he held himself back for the sake of his hosts. He scarcely heard Mhoram ask, “Is Trell's daughter well? Is there any way in which I may help her?”
“No, Lord,” sighed Terass. “The health of her body is strong, but her mind is unsteady. Always she has believed that the Unbeliever will come for her. She has asked the Circle of elders-asked permission to marry him. We can find no Healer able to touch this illness. I fear you would only turn her thoughts more toward him.”
Mhoram accepted her judgment morosely. 'I am sorry. This failure grieves me. But the Lords know only of one Unfettered Healer with power for such needs-and she left her home, and passed out of knowledge forty years ago, before the battle of Soaring Woodhelven. It humbles us to be of so little use for such needs.'
His words left behind a pall of silence in their wake. For a time like a muffled sigh, he stared at his clasped hands. But then, rousing himself from his reverie, he said, “Elders, how will you meet the chance of war? Have you
