At the edge of his attention, he was aware that Elena had left the room. But he did not raise his head until she returned and stood before him. In her hands she held a flask of springwine which she offered to him.
He could see a concern he did not deserve in the complex otherness of her gaze.
He accepted the flask and drank deeply, searching for a balm to ease the splitting ache in his forehead and for some way to support his failing courage. He dreaded the High Lord's intentions, whatever they were. She was too sympathetic, too tolerant of his violence; she allowed him too much leeway without setting him free. Despite the solidness of Revelstone under his sensitive feet, he was on unsteady ground.
When after a short silence she spoke again, she had an air of bringing herself to the point of some difficult honesty; but there was nothing candid in the unexplained disfocus of her eyes. “I am lost in this matter,” she said. “There is much that I must tell you, if I am to be open and blameless. I do not wish to be reproached with any lack of knowledge in you-the Land will not be served by any concealment which might later be called by another name. Yet my courage fails me, and I know not what words to use. Mhoram offered to take this matter from me, and I refused, believing that the burden is mine. Yet now I am lost, and cannot begin.”
Covenant bent his frown toward her, refusing with the pain in his forehead to give her any aid.
“You have spoken with Hile Troy,” she said tentatively, unsure of this approach. “Did he describe his coming to the Land?”
Covenant nodded without relenting. “An accident. Some misbegotten kid-a young student, he says-was trying to get me.”
Elena moved as if she meant to pursue that idea, but then she stopped herself, reconsidered, and took a different tack. “I do not know your world-but the Warmark tells me that such things do not happen there. Have you observed Lord Mhoram? Or Hiltmark Quaan? Or perhaps Hearthrall Tohrm? Any of those you knew forty years ago? Does it appear to you that-that they are young?”
“I've noticed.” Her question agitated him. He had been clinging to the question of age, trying to establish it as a discrepancy, a breakdown in the continuity of his delusion. “It doesn't fit. Mhoram and Tohrm are too young. It's impossible. They are not forty years older.”
“I also am young,” she said intently, as if she were trying to help him guess a secret. But at the sight of his glowering incomprehension, she retreated from the plunge. To answer him, she said, "This has been true for as long as there has been such lore in the Land. The Old Lords lived to great age. They were not long-lived as the Giants are-because that is the natural span of their people. No, it was the service of the Earthpower which preserved' them, secured them from age long past their normal years. High Lord Kevin lived centuries as people live decades.
“So, too, it is in this present time, though in a lesser way. We do not bring out all the potency of the Lore. And the Warlore does not preserve its followers, so Quaan and his warriors alone of your former comrades carry their full burden of years. But those of the rhadhamaerl and the lillianrill, and the Lords who follow Kevin's Lore, age more slowly than others. This is a great boon, for it extends our strength. But also it causes grief-”
She fell silent for a moment, sighed quietly to herself as if she were remembering an old injury. But when she spoke again, her voice was clear and steady. “So it has always been. Lord Mhoram has seen ten times seven summers-yet he hardly carries fifty of them. And-” Once again, she stopped herself and changed directions. With a look that searched Covenant, she said, “Does it surprise you to hear that I rode a Ranyhyn as a child? There is no other in the Land who.has had such good fortune.”
He finished his springwine, and got to his feet to pace the room in front of her. The tone in which she recurred to the Ranyhyn was full of suggestions; he sensed wide possibilities of distress in it. More in anxiety than in irritation, he growled at her, “Hellfire. Get on with it.”
She tensed as if in preparation for a struggle, and said, "Warmark Hile Troy's account of his summoning to the Land may not have been altogether accurate. I have heard him tell his tale, and he confuses something which I-we- have not thought it well to correct. We have kept this matter secret between us.
“Ur-Lord Covenant.” She paused, steadying herself, then said carefully, “Hile Troy was summoned by no young student, ignorant of the perils of power. The summoner was one whom you have known.”
Triock! Covenant almost missed his footing. Triock son of Thuler, of Mithil Stonedown, had reason to hate the Unbeliever. He had loved Lena-but Covenant could not bear to say that name aloud. Squirming at his cowardice, he avoided Triock by saying, “Pietten. That poor kid-from Soaring Woodhelven. The ur-viles did something to him. Was it him?” He did not dare to meet the High Lord's eyes.
“No, Thomas Covenant,” she said gently. “It was no man. You knew her well. She was Atiaran Trell-mate- she who guided you from Mithil Stonedown to your meeting with Saltheart Foamfollower at the Soulsease River.”
“Hellfire!” he groaned. At the sound of her name, he saw in his mind Atiaran's spacious eyes, saw the courage with which she had denied her passion against him in order to serve the Land. And he caught a quick visionary image of her face as she incinerated herself trying to summon him-entranced, bitter, livid with the conflagration of all the inner truces which he had so severely harmed. “Ah, hell,” he breathed. “Why? She needed-she needed to forget.”
“She could not. Atiaran Trell-mate returned to the Loresraat in her old age for many reasons, but two were uppermost. She desired to bring-no, desire is too small a word. She hungered for you. She could not forget. But whether she wanted you for the Land, or for herself, I do not know. She was a torn woman, and it is in my heart that both hungers warred in her to the last. How otherwise? She said that you permitted the ravage of the Celebration of Spring, though my mother taught me a different tale.”
No! moaned Covenant, pacing bent as if borne down by the weight of the darkness on his forehead. Oh, Atiaran!
"Her second reason touches on the grief of long years and extended strength. For her husband was Trell, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl. Their marriage was brave and glad in the memory of Mithil Stonedown, for though she had surpassed her strength during her youth in the Loresraat, and had left in weakness, yet was she strong enough to stand with Trell her husband.
"But her weakness, her self-distrust, remained. The grave test of her life came and passed, and she grew old. And to the pain you gave her was added another; she aged, and Trell Atiaran-mate did not. His lore sustained him beyond his years. So after so much hurt she began to lose her husband as well, though his love was steadfast. She was his wife, yet she became old enough to be his mother.
“So she returned to the Loresraat, in grief and pain-and in devotion, for though she doubted herself, her love for the Land did not waver. Yet at the last ill came upon her. Fleeing the restraint of the Lorewardens, she wrought death upon herself. In that way, she broke her Oath of Peace, and ended her life in despair.”
No! he protested. But he remembered Atiaran's anguish, and the price she had paid to repress it, and the wrong he had done her. He feared that Elena was right.
In a sterner voice that did not appear to match her words, the High Lord continued, “After her death, Trell came to Revelstone. He is one of the mightiest of all the rhadhamaerl, and he remains here, giving his skill and lore to the defence of the Land. But he knows bitterness, and I fear that his Oath rests uneasily upon him. For all his gentleness, he has been too much made helpless. It is in my heart that he does not forgive. There was no aid he could give Atiaran — or my mother.”