Then a wide roaring in his ears washed out her voice. No! he cried. No! But he was helpless. The rush of sound came over him like a dark tide, and carried him away.
Three: The Summoning
THE wide roar modulated slowly, changing the void of his sight. On the surge of the sound, a swath of grey- green spread upward until it covered him like a winding sheet. The hue of the green was noxious to him, and he felt himself smothering in its close, sweet, fetid reek-the smell of attar. But the note which filled his ears grew more focused, scaled up in pitch. Droplets of gold bled into view through the green. Then the sound turned softer and more plaintive, higher still in pitch, so that it became a low human wail. The gold forced back the green. Soon a warm, familiar glow filled his eyes.
As the sound turned more and more into a woman's song, the gold spread and deepened-cradled him as if it were carrying him gently along the flood of the voice. The melody wove the light, gave it texture and shape, solidity. Helpless to do otherwise, he clung to the sound, concentrated on it with his mouth stretched open in protest.
Slowly, the singing throat opened. Its harmonic pattern became sterner, more demanding. Covenant felt himself pulled forward now, hurried down the tide of the song. Arching with supplication, it took on words.
Be true, Unbeliever—
Answer the call.
Life is the Giver:
Death ends all.
The promise is truth,
And banes disperse
With promise kept:
But soul's deep curse
On broken faith
And faithless thrall,
For doom of darkness
Covers all.
Be true, Unbeliever—
Answer the call.
Be true.
The song seemed to reach back into him, stirring memories, calling up people he had once, in one fey mood, thought had the right to make demands of him. But he resisted it. He kept silent, held himself in.
The melody drew him on into the warm gold.
At last, the light took on definition. He could locate its shape before him now; it washed out his vision as if he were staring into the sun. But on the last words of the song, the light dimmed, lost its brilliance. As the voice sang, “Be true,” it was seconded by many throats: “Be true!” That adjuration stretched him like: the tightening of a string to its final pitch.
Then the source of the light fell into scale, and he could see beyond it.
He recognized the place. He was in the Close, the council chamber of the Lords in the heart of Revel-.: stone. Its tiers of seats reached above him on all sides toward the granite ceiling of the hall.
He was surprised to find himself standing erect on the bottom of the Close. The stance confused his sense of balance, and he stumbled forward toward the pit of graveling, the source of the gold light. The fire-stones burned there before him without consumption, filling the air with the smell of newly broken earth.
Strong hands caught him by either arm. As his fall was halted, drops of blood spattered onto the stone floor at the edge of the graveling pit.
Regaining his feet, he cried hoarsely, “Don't touch me!”
He was dizzy with confusion and rage, but he braced himself while he put a hand to his forehead. His fingers came away covered with blood. He had cut himself badly on the edge of the table. For a moment, he gaped at his red hand.
Through his dismay, a quiet, firm voice said, “Be welcome in the Land, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane. I have called you to us. Our need for your aid is great.”
“You called me?” he croaked.
“I am Elena,” the voice replied, “High Lord by the choice of the Council, and holder of the Staff of Law. I have called you.”
“You called me?” Slowly, he raised his eyes. Thick wetness ran from the sockets as if he were weeping blood. “You called me?” He felt a crumbling inside him like rocks breaking, and his hold over himself cracked. In a voice of low anguish, he said, “I was talking to Joan.”
He saw the woman dimly through the blood in his eyes. She stood behind the stone table on the level above him, holding a long staff in her right hand. There were other people around the table, and behind them the gallery of the Close held many more. They were all watching him.
“To Joan, do you understand? I was talking to Joan. She called me. After all this time. When I needed- needed. You have no right.” He gathered force like a storm wind. “You've got no right! I was talking to
A man who had been standing near the High Lord hurried around the broad open C of the table, and came down to Covenant on the lower level. Covenant recognized the man's lean face, with its rudder nose mediating between crooked, humane lips and acute, gold flecked, dangerous eyes. He was Lord Mhoram.
He placed a hand on Covenant's arm, and said softly, “My friend. What has happened to you?”
Savagely, Covenant threw off the Lord's hand. “Don't touch me!” he raged in Mhoram's face. “Are you deaf as well as blind?! I was talking to Joan! On the phone!” His hand jerked convulsively, struggling to produce the receiver out of the empty air. “She needed”-abruptly his throat clenched, and he swallowed roughly-“she said she needed me. Me!” But his voice was helpless to convey the crying of his heart. He slapped at the blood on his forehead, trying to clear his eyes.
The next instant, he grabbed the front of Mhoram's sky-blue robe in his fists, hissed, “Send me back! There's still time! If I can get back fast enough!”
Above them, the woman spoke carefully. “Ur-Lord Covenant, it grieves me to hear that our summoning has done you harm. Lord Mhoram has told us all he could of your pain, and we do not willingly increase it. But it is our doom that we must. Unbeliever, our need is great. The devastation of the Land is nearly upon us.”
Pushing away from Mhoram to confront her, Covenant fumed, “I don't give a bloody damn about the Land!” His words came in such a panting rush that he could not shout them. “I don't care what you need. You can drop dead for all I care. You're a delusion! A sickness in my mind. You don't exist! Send me back! You've got to send me back. While there's still time!”
“Thomas Covenant.” Mhoram spoke in a tone of authority that pulled Covenant around. “Unbeliever. Listen to me.”
Then Covenant saw that Mhoram had changed. His face was still the same-the gentleness of his mouth still balanced the promise of peril in his gold concentrated irises-but he was older, old enough now to be Covenant's father. There were lines of use around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was salted with white. When he spoke, his lips twisted with self-deprecation, and the depths of his eyes stirred uneasily. But he met the fire of Covenant's glare without flinching.
“My friend, if the choice were mine, I would return you at once to your world. The decision to summon you was painfully made, and I would willingly undo it. The Land has no need of service which is not glad and free. But, ur-Lord he gripped Covenant's arm again to steady him- ”my friend, we cannot return you.'
