Get it over with.
He touched the hard, hidden metal of his ring to steady himself, then levered his reluctant bones erect. Glaring at the doorway as if it were a threshold into peril, he lumbered through it and started down the corridor. At Bannor's commanding back, he moved out of the tower, across the courtyard, then inward and down through the raveled and curiously wrought passages of Revelstone.
Eventually they came through bright-lit halls deep in the mountain to a pair of arching wooden doors. These were closed, sentried by Bloodguard; and lining both walls were stone chairs, some man-sized and others large enough for Giants. Bannor nodded to the sentries. One of them pulled open a door while the other motioned for Bannor and Covenant to enter. Bannor guided Covenant into the council chamber of the Lords.
The Close was a huge, sunken, circular room with a ceiling high and groined, and tiers of seats set around three quarters of the space. The door through which Covenant entered was nearly level with the highest seats, as were the only two other doors-both of them small-at the opposite side of the chamber. Below the lowest tier of seats were three levels: on the first, several feet below the gallery, stood a curved stone table, three-quarters round, with its gap toward the large doors and many chairs around its outer edge; below this, contained within the C of the table, was the flat floor of the Close; and finally, in the center of the floor, lay a broad, round pit of graveling. The yellow glow of the fire-stones was supported by four huge lillianrill torches, burning without smoke or consumption in their sockets around the upper wall.
As Bannor took him down the steps toward the open end of the table, Covenant observed the people in the chamber. Saltheart Foamfollower lounged nearby at the table in a massive stone chair; he watched Covenant's progress down the steps and grinned a welcome for his former passenger. Beyond him, the only people at the table were the Lords. Directly opposite Covenant, at the head of the table, sat High Lord Prothall. His staff lay on the stone before dim. An ancient man and woman were several feet away on either side of him; an equal distance from the woman on her left was Lord Mhoram; and opposite Mhoram, down the table from the old man, sat a middle-aged woman. Four Bloodguard had positioned themselves behind each of the Lords.
There were only four other people in the Close. Beyond the High Lord near the top of the gallery sat the Hearthralls, Birinair and Tohrm, side by side as if they complemented each other. And just behind them were two more men, one a warrior with a double black diagonal on his breastplate, and the other Tuvor, First Mark of the Bloodguard. With so few people in it, the Close seemed large, hollow, and cryptic.
Bannor steered Covenant to the lone chair below the level of the Lords' table and across the pit of graveling from the High Lord. Covenant seated himself stiffly and looked around. He felt that he was uncomfortably far from the Lords; he feared he would have to shout his message. So he was surprised when Prothall stood and said softly, "Thomas Covenant, be welcome to the Council of Lords." His rheumy voice reached Covenant as clearly as if they had been standing side by side.
Covenant did not know how to respond; uncertainly, he touched his right fist to his chest, then extended his arm with his palm open and forward. As his senses adjusted to the Close, he began to perceive the presence, the emanating personality and adjudication, of the Lords. They gave him an impression of stern vows gladly kept, of wide-ranging and yet singleminded devotion. Prothall stood alone, meeting Covenant's gaze. The High Lord's appearance of white age was modified by the stiffness of his beard and the erectness of his carriage; clearly, he was strong yet. But his eyes were worn with the experience of an asceticism, an abnegation, carried so far that it seemed to abrogate his flesh-as if he had been old for so long that now only the power to which he devoted himself preserved him from decrepitude.
The two Lords who flanked him were not so preserved. They had dull, age-marked skin and wispy hair; and they bowed at the table as if striving against the antiquity of their bones to distinguish between meditation and sleep. Lord Mhoram Covenant already knew, though now Mhoram appeared more incisive and dangerous, as if the companionship of his fellow Lords whetted his capacities. But the fifth Lord Covenant did not know; she sat squarely and factually at the table, with her blunt, forthright face fixed on him like a defiance.
"Let me make introduction before we begin," the High Lord murmured. "I am Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council. At my right are Variol Tamarantha-mate and Pentil-son, once High Lord"-as he said this, the two ancient Lords raised their time-latticed faces and smiled privately at each other-"and Osondrea daughter of Sondrea. At my left, Tamarantha Variol-mate and Enesta-daughter, and Mhoram son of Variol. You know the Seareach Giant, Saltheart Foamfollower, and have met the Hearthralls of Lord's Keep. Behind me also are Tuvor, First Mark of the Bloodguard, and Garth, Warmark of the Warward of Lord's Keep. All have the right of presence at the Council of Lords. Do you protest?"
Protest? Covenant shook his head dumbly.
"Then we shall begin. It is our custom to honor those who come before us. How may we honor you?"
Again, Covenant shook his head. I don't want any honor. I made that mistake once already.
After an inquiring pause, the High Lord said, "Very well." Turning toward the Giant, he raised his voice. "Hail and welcome, Giant of Seareach, Saltheart Foamfollower, Rockbrother and inheritor of Land's loyalty. The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land.
Stone and Sea are deep in life.
Welcome whole or hurt, in boon or bane-ask or give. To any requiring name we will not fail while we have life or power to meet the need. I am High Lord Prothall; I speak in the presence of Revelstone itself."
Foamfollower stood to return the salutation. "Hail, Lord and Earthfriend. I am Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from the Giants of Seareach to the Council of Lords. The truth of my people is in my mouth, and I hear the approval of the ancient sacred ancestral stone
raw Earth rockpure friendship a handmark of allegiance and fealty in the eternal stone of time.
Now is the time for proof and power of troth. Through Giant Woods and Sarangrave Flat and Andelain, I bear the name of the ancient promises." Then some of the formality dropped from his manner, and he added with a gay glance at Covenant, "And bearing other things as well. My friend Thomas Covenant has promised that a song will be made of my journey." He laughed gently. "I am a Giant of Seareach. Make no short songs for me."
His humor drew a chuckle from Lord Mhoram, and Prothall smiled softly; but Osondrea's dour face seemed incapable of laughter, and neither Variol nor Tamarantha appeared to have heard the Giant. Foamfollower took his seat, and almost at once Osondrea said as if she were impatient, "What is your embassy?"
Foamfollower sat erect in his chair, and his hands stroked the stone of the table intently. "My Lords Stone and Sea! I am a Giant. These matters do not come easily, though easier to me than to any of my kindred-and for that reason I was chosen. But I will endeavor to speak hastily.
"Please understand me. I was given my embassy in a Giantclave lasting ten days. There was no waste of time. When comprehension is needed, all tales must be told in full. Haste is for the hopeless, we say-and hardly a day has passed since I learned that there is truth in sayings. So it is that my embassy contains much that you would not choose to hear at present. You must know the history of my peoples-all the sojourn and the loss which brought us ashore here, all the interactions of our peoples since that age-if you are to hear me. But I will forgo it. We are the Unhomed, adrift in soul and lessened by an unreplenishing seed. We are hungry for our native land. Yet since the time of Damelon Giantfriend we have not surrendered hope, though Soulcrusher himself contrives against us. We have searched the seas, and have waited for the omens to come to pass."
Foamfollower paused to look thoughtfully at Covenant, then went on: "Ah, my Lords, omening is curious. So much is said-and so little made clear. It was not Home that Damelon foretold for us, but rather an end, a resolution, to our loss.
Yet that sufficed for us-sufficed.
"Well. One hope we have found for ourselves. When spring came to Seareach, our questing ships returned, and told that at the very limit of their search they came upon an isle that borders the ancient oceans on which we once roamed. The matter is not sure, but our next questers can go directly to this isle and look beyond it for surer signs. Thus across the labyrinth of the seas we unamaze ourselves."
Prothall nodded, and through the perfect acoustics of the Close, Covenant could hear the faint rustle of the High Lord's robe.
With an air of nearing the crux of his embassy, Foamfollower continued, "Yet another hope we received from Damelon Giantfriend, High Lord and Heartthew's son. At the heart of his omening was this word: our exile would end when our seed regained its potency, and the decline of our offspring was reversed. Thus hope is born of hope, for without any foretelling we would gain heart and courage from any increase in our rare, beloved children. And behold! On the night that our ships returned, Wavenhair Haleall, wived to Sparlimb Keelsetter, was taken to her bed and delivered-ah, Stone and Sea, my Lords! It cripples my tongue to tell this without its full measure of long Giantish gratitude. How can there he joy for people who say everything briefly? Proud-wife, clean-limbed Wavenhair gave birth to three sons." No longer able to restrain himself, he broke into a chant full of the brave crash of breakers and the tang of salt.
To his surprise, Covenant saw that Lord Osondrea was smiling, and her eyes caught the golden glow of the graveling damply-eloquent witness to the gladness of the Giant's news.
But Foamfollower abruptly stopped himself. With a gesture toward Covenant, he said, "Your pardon you have other matters in your hands. I must bring myself to the bone of my embassy. Ah, my friend," he said to Covenant, "will you still not laugh for me? I must remember that Damelon promised us an end, not a return Home-though I cannot envision any end but Home. It may be that I stand in the gloaming of the Giants."
"Hush, Rockbrother," Lord Tamarantha interrupted. "Do not make evil for your people by uttering such things."
Foamfollower responded with a hearty laugh. "Ah, my thanks, Lord Tamarantha. So the wise old Giants are admonished by young women. My entire people will laugh when I tell them of this."
Tamarantha and Variol exchanged a smile, and returned to their semblance of meditation or dozing.
When he was done laughing, the Giant said, "Well, my Lords. To the bone, then. Stone and Sea! Such haste makes me giddy. I have come to ask the fulfillment of the ancient offers. High Lord Loric Vilesilencer promised that the Lords would give us a gift when our hope was ready-a gift to better the chances of our Homeward way."
"Birinair," said Lord Osondrea.
High in the gallery behind Prothall, old Birinair stood and replied, "Of course. I am not asleep. Not as old as I look, you know. I hear you."
With a broad grin, Foamfollower called, "Hail, Birinair! Hearthrall of Lord's Keep and Hirebrand of the lillianrill. We are old friends, Giants and lillianrill."
"No need to shout," Birinair returned. "I hear you. Old friends from the time of High Lord Damelon. Never otherwise."
"Birinair," Osondrea cut in, "does your lore recall the gift promised by Loric to the Giants?"
"Gift? Why not? Nothing amiss with my memory. Where is that whelp my apprentice? Of course. Lorliarill. Gildenlode, they call it. There. Keels and rudders for ships. True course-never becalmed. And
strong as stone," he said to Tohrm, "you grinning rhadhamaerl to the contrary. I remember."
"Can you accomplish this?" Osondrea asked quietly.
"Accomplish?" Birinair echoed, apparently puzzled.
"Can you make Gildenlode keels and rudders for the Giants? Has that lore been lost?" Turning to Foamfollower, Lord Osondrea asked, "How many ships will you need?"
With a glance at Birinair's upright dignity, Foamfollower contained his humor, and replied simply, "Seven. Perhaps five."
"Can this be done?" Osondrea asked Birinair again, distinctly but without irritation. Covenant's blank gaze followed from speaker to speaker as if they were talking in a foreign language.
The Hearthrall pulled a small tablet and stylus from his robe and began to calculate, muttering to himself. The scrape of his stylus could be heard throughout the Close until he raised his head and said stiffly, "The lore remains. But not easily. The best we can do. Of course. And time-it will need time. Bodach glas, it will need time."
"How much time?"
"The best we can do. If we are left alone. Not my fault. I did not lose all the proudest lore of the lillianrill. Forty years." In a sudden whisper, he added to Foamfollower, "I am sorry."
"Forty years?" Foamfollower laughed gently. "Ah, bravely said, Birinair, my friend. Forty years? That does not seem a long time to me." Turning to High Lord Prothall, he said, "My people cannot thank you. Even in Giantish, there are no words long enough. "Three millenia of our loyalty have not been enough 1v repay seven Gildenlode keels and rudders."
"No," protested Prothall. "Seventy times seven Gildenlode gifts are nothing compared to the great headship of the Seareach Giants. Only the thought
we have aided your return Home can fill the emptiness your departure will leave. And our help is fourty years distant. But we will begin at once, and it
may be that some new understanding of Kevin's Lore will shorten the time."
Echoing, "At once," Birinair reseated himself.
Forty years? Covenant breathed. You don't have forty years.
Then Osondrea said, "Done?" She looked first at Foamfollower, then at High Lord Prothall. When they both nodded to her, she turned on Covenant and said, "Then let us get to the matter of this Thomas Covenant." Her voice seemed to whet the atmosphere like a distant thunderclap.
Smiling to ameliorate Osondrea's forthrightness, Mhoram said, "A stranger called the Unbeliever."
"And for good reason," Foamfollower added.
The Giant's words rang an alarm in Covenant's clouded trepidations, and he looked sharply at Foamfollower. In the Giant's cavernous eyes and buttressed forehead, he saw the import of the comment. As clearly as if he were pleading outright, Foamfollower said, Acknowledge the white gold and use it to aid the Land. Impossible, Covenant replied. The backs of his eyes felt hot with helplessness and belligerence, but his face was as stiff as a marble slab.
Abruptly, Lord Osondrea demanded, "The tapestry from your room was found. Why did you cast it down?"
Without looking at her, Covenant answered, "It offended me."
"Offended?" Her voice quivered with disbelief and indignation.
"Osondrea," Prothall admonished gently. "He is a stranger."
She kept the defiance of her face on Covenant, but fell silent. For a moment, no one moved or spoke; Covenant received the unsettling impression that the Lords were debating mentally with each other about how to treat him. Then Mhoram stood, walked around the end of the stone table, and moved back inside the circle until he was again opposite Osondrea. There he seated himself on the edge of the table with his staff across his lap, and fixed his eyes down on Covenant.
Covenant felt more exposed than ever to Mhoram's scrutiny. At the same time, he sensed that Bannor had stepped closer to him, as if anticipating an attack on Mhoram.
Wryly, Lord Mhoram said, "Thomas Covenant, you must pardon our caution. The desecrated moon signifies an evil in the Land which we hardly suspected. Without warning, the sternest test of our age appears in the sky, and we are utterly threatened. Yet we do not prejudge you. You must prove your ill-if ill you are." He looked to Covenant for some response, some acknowledgment, but Covenant only stared back emptily. With a slight shrug, the Lord went on, "Now. Perhaps it would be well if you began with your message."
Covenant winced, ducked his head like a man harried by vultures. He did not want to recite that message, did not want to remember Kevin's Watch, Mithil Stonedown, anything. His guts ached at visions of vertigo. Everything was impossible. How could he retain his outraged sanity
if he thought about such things?
But Foul's message had a power of compulsion. He had borne it like a wound in his mind too long to repudiate it now. Before he could muster any defense, it came over him like a convulsion. In a tone of irremediable contempt, he said, "These are the words of Lord Foul the Despiser.
"Say to the Council of Lords, and to, the High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian, that the uttermost limit of their span of days upon the Land is seven times seven years from this present time. Before the end of those days are numbered, I will have the command of fife and death in my hand. And as a token that what I say is the one word of truth, tell them this: Drool Rockworm, Cavewight of Mount Thunder, has found !he Staff of Law, which was lost ten times a hundred years ago by Kevin at the Ritual of Desecration. Say to them that the task appointed to their generation is ors regain the Staff. Without it, they will not be able to gist me for seven years, and my complete victory
will be achieved six times seven years earlier than it would be else.
" `As for you, groveler: do not fail with this message. If you do not bring it before the Council, then every human in the Land will be dead before ten seasons have passed. You do not understand-but I tell you Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord's Keep in two years if the message fails. Already, the Cavewights are marching to his call; and wolves, and ur-viles of the Demondim, answer the power of the Staff. But war is not the worst peril. Drool delves ever deeper into the dark roots of Mount Thunder-Gravin Threndor, Peak of the Fire Lions. And there are banes buried in the deeps of the Earth too potent and terrible for any mortal to control. They would make of the universe a hell forever. But such a bane Drool seeks. He searches for the Illearth Stone. If he becomes its master, there will be woe for low and high alike until Time itself falls.
"'Do not fail with my message, groveler. You have met Drool. Do you relish dying in his hands?"' Covenant's heart lurched with the force of his loathing for the words, the tone. But he was not done. " `One word more, a final caution. Do not forget whom to fear at the last. I have had to be content with killing and torment. But now my plans are laid, and I have begun. I shall not rest until I have eradicated hope from the Earth. Think on that, and be dismayed!"'