Mhoram spoke to him carefully. “My friend-this is the knowledge which I have withheld from you. The withholding gave you unintended pain. Please pardon me. The Council feared that this knowledge would cause you to abominate the Unbeliever.”
“Damn right,” Troy panted. “Damn right.”
Suddenly, his accumulated passion burst into action. Guided by a sure instinct, he reached out swiftly, snatched away Lord Mhoram's staff. He spun once to gain momentum, and levelled a crushing blow with the staff at Covenant's head.
The unexpectedness of the attack surpassed even Bannor. But he recovered, sprang after Troy, jolted him enough to unbalance his swing. As a result, only the heel of the staff clipped Covenant's forehead. But that sent him tumbling backward down the hill.
He caught himself, got — to his knees. When he raised a hand to his head, he found that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in the centre of his forehead.
He could feel old hate and death seeping into him from the blasted earth. Blood ran down his cheeks like spittle.
The next moment, Mhoram and Quaan reached Troy. Mhoram tore the staff from his grasp; Quaan pinned his arms. “Fool)” the Lord rasped. “You forget the Oath of Peace. Loyalty is duel”
Troy struggled against Quaan. Rage and anguish mottled his face. “I haven't sworn any Oath! Let go of me!”
“You are the Warmark of the Warward,” said Mhoram dangerously. “The Oath of Peace binds. But if you cannot refrain from murder for that reason, refrain because the Despiser's army is destroyed. Fleshharrower hangs dead on the gibbet of Gallows Howe.”
“Do you call that victory? We've been decimated! What good is a victory that costs so much?” Troy's fury rose like weeping. “It would have been better if we'd lost! Then it wouldn't have been such a waste!” The passion in his throat made him gasp for air as if he were asphyxiating on the reek of Covenant's perfidy.
But Lord Mhoram was unmoved. He caught Troy by the breastplate and shook him. “Then refrain because the High Lord is not dead.”
“Not?” Troy panted. “Not dead?”
"We hear her battle even now. Do you not comprehend the sound? Even as we listen, she struggles against dead Kevin. The Staff sustains her-and he has not the might she believed of him. But the proof of her endurance is here, in the Unbeliever himself. She is his summoner-he will remain in the Land until her death. So it was when Drool Rockworm first called him.
“She's still fighting?” Troy gaped at the idea. He seemed to regard it as the conclusive evidence of Covenant's treachery. But then he turned to Mhoram and cried, “We've got to help her!”
At this, Mhoram flinched. A wave of pain broke through his face. In a constricted voice, he asked, “How?”
“How?” Troy fumed. “Don't ask me how. You're the Lord! We have got to help her!”
The Lord pulled himself erect, clenched his staff for support. "We are fifty leagues from Rivenrock. A night and a day would pass before any Ranyhyn could carry us to the foot of the cliff. Then Bannor would be required to guide us into the mountain in search of the battle. Perhaps the effects of the battle have destroyed all approaches to it. Perhaps they would destroy us. Yet if we gained the High Lord, we would have nothing to offer her but the frail strength of two Lords. With the Staff of Law, she far surpasses us. How can we help her?"
They faced each other-as if they met mind to mind across Troy's eyelessness. Mhoram did not falter under the Warmark's rage. The hurt of his inadequacy showed clearly in his face, but he neither denied nor cursed at his weakness.
Though Troy trembled with urgency, he had to take his demand elsewhere.
He swung toward Covenant. “You!” he shouted stridently. “If you're too much of a coward to do anything yourself, at least give me a chance to help her! Give me your ring! — I can feel it from here. Give it to me! Come on, you bastard. It's her only chance.”
Kneeling on the dead, sabulous dirt of the Howe, Covenant looked up at Troy through the blood in his eyes. For a time, he was unable to answer. Troy's adjuration seemed to drop on him like a rockfall. It swept away his last defence, and left bare his final shame. He should have been able to save Elena. He had the power; it pulsed like a wound on his wedding finger. But he had not used it. Ignorance was no excuse. His claim of futility no longer covered him.
The barren atmosphere of the Howe ached in his chest as he climbed to his feet. Though he could hardly see where he was going, he started up the hill. The exertion made his head hurt as if there were splinters of bone jabbing his brain, and his heart quivered. A silent voice cried out to him, No! No! But he ignored it. With his halfhand, he fumbled at the ring. It seemed to resist him-he had trouble gripping it but as he reached Troy he finally tore it from his finger. In a wet voice, as if his mouth were full of blood, he said, “Take it. Save her.” He put the band in Troy's hand.
The touch of the pulsing ring exalted Troy. Clenching his fingers around it, he turned, ran fearlessly to the hillcrest. He searched quickly with his ears, located the direction of Rivenrock, faced the battle. Like a titan, he swung his fist at the heavens; power flamed from the white gold as if it were answering his passion. In a livid voice, he cried, “Elena! Elena!”
Then the tall white singer was at his side. The music took on a forbidding note that spread involuntary stasis like a mist over the hilltop. Everyone froze, lost the power of movement.
In the stillness, Caerroil Wildwood lifted his gnarled sceptre. “No,” he trilled, “I cannot permit this. It is a breaking of Law. And you forget the price that is owed to me. Perhaps when you have gained an incondign mastery over the wild magic, you will use it to recant the price.” With his sceptre, he touched Troy's upraised fist; the ring dropped to the ground. As it fell, all the heat and surge of its power faded. It looked like mere metal as it struck the lifeless earth, rolled lightly along the music, and stopped near Covenant's feet.
“I will not permit it,” the singer continued. “The promise is irrevocable. In the names of the One Tree and the One Forest-in the name of the unforgiving Deep-I claim the price of my aid.” With a solemn gesture like the sound of distant horns, he touched his sceptre to Troy's head. “Eyeless one, you have promised payment. I claim your life.”
Lord Mhoram strove to protest. But the singer's stasis held him. He could do nothing but watch as Troy began to change.
“I claim you to be my disciple,” the singer hummed. “You shall be Caer-Caveral, my help and hold. From me you shall learn the work of a Forestal, root and branch, seed and sap and leaf and all. Together we will walk the Deep, and I will teach you the songs of the trees, and the names of all the old, brave, wakeful woods, and the ancient forestry of thought and mood. While trees remain, we will steward together, cherishing each new sprout, and wreaking wood's revenge on each hated human intrusion. Forget your foolish friend. You cannot succour her. Caer-Caveral, remain and serve!”
The song moulded Troy's form. Slowly, his legs grew together. His feet began to send roots into the soil. His apparel turned to thick dark moss. He became an old stump with one last limb upraised. From his fist green leaves uncurled.
Softly, the singer concluded, “Together we will restore life to Gallows Howe.” Then he turned toward the Lords and Covenant. The silver brilliance of his eyes increased, dimming even the orcrest fire; and he sang in a tone of dewy freshness:
Axe and fire leave me dead.
I know the hate of hands grown bold.
Depart to save your heart-sap's red:
My hate knows neither rest nor weal.