So upon Mhoram's return Osondrea had assumed the High Lordship. Until her death, she had used her power to rebuild the Council, expand the Wayward, and grow Revelwood, the new home of the Loresraat.
After returning to Revelstone, Quaan-the Warhaft of the Eoman that had accompanied Prothall and Mhoram-had also tried to resign. He had been ashamed to bring only half of his warriors back alive. But High Lord Osondrea, knowing his worth, had refused to release him, and soon he had returned to his duties. Now he was the Hiltmark of the Wayward, Hile Troy's second-in-command. Though his hair was white and thin-though his gaze seemed rubbed smooth by age and use-still he was the same strong, honest man he had always been. The Lords respected him. In Troy's absence they would willingly have trusted Quaan to lead the Wayward.
Covenant sighed sourly, and let Bannor go. Such information did not meet his need. Clearly, he was not going to find any easy solutions to his dilemma. If he wanted proof of delusion, he would have to make it for himself.
He faced the prospect with trepidation. Anything he might do would take a long time to bear fruit. It would not become proof, brookless and unblinkable, until his delusion ended-until he had returned to his real life. In the meantime, it would do little to sustain him. But he had no choice; his need was urgent.
He had available three easy ways to create a definitive discontinuity: he could destroy his clothes, throw away his penknife-the only thing he had in his pockets-or grow a beard. Then, when he awakened, and found himself clothed, or still possessed of his penknife, or clean-shaven, he would have his proof.
The obvious discrepancy of his healed forehead he did not trust. Past experience made him fear that he would be reinjured shortly before this delusion ended. But he could not bring himself to act on his first two alternatives. The thought of destroying his tough, familiar apparel made him feel too vulnerable, and the expedient of discarding his penknife was too uncertain. Cursing at the way his plight forced him to abandon all the strict habits upon which his survival depended, he decided to give up shaving.
When at last he summoned the courage to leave his rooms and go into the Keep in search of breakfast, he brandished the stubble on his cheeks as if it were a declaration of defiance.
Bannor guided him to one of the great refectories of Revelstone, then left him alone to eat. But before he was done, the Bloodguard came striding back to his table. There was an extra alertness in the spring of Bannor's steps-a tightness that looked oddly like excitement. But when he addressed Covenant, his flat, shrouded eyes expressed nothing, and the repressed lilt of his voice was as inflectionless as ever.
“Ur-Lord, the Council asks that you come to the Close. A stranger has entered Revelstone. The Lords will soon meet with him.”
Because of Bannor's heightened alertness, Covenant asked cautiously, “What kind of stranger?”
“Ur-Lord?”
“Is it-is it someone like me? or Troy?”
In his confusion, Covenant did not immediately perceive the certitude of Bannor's reply. But as he followed the Bloodguard out of the refectory and down through Revelstone, he began to hear something extra in the denial, something more than Bannor's usual confidence. That No resembled Bannor's stride; it was tenser in some way. Covenant could not fathom it. As they descended a broad, curved stair through several levels of the Keep, he forced himself to ask, “What's so urgent about this stranger? What do you know about him?”
Bannor ignored the question.
When they reached the Close, they found that High Lord Elena, Lord Verement, and four other Lords had already preceded them. The High Lord was at her place at the head of the curved table, and the Staff of Law lay on the stone before her. To her right sat two men, then two women. Verement was on her left beyond two empty seats. Eight Bloodguard sat behind them in the first row of the gallery, but the rest of the Close was empty. Only First Mark Morin and the Hearthralls Tohrm and Borillar occupied their positions in back of the High Lord.
An expectant hush hung over the chamber. For an instant, Covenant half expected Elena to announce the start of the war.
Bannor guided him to a seat at the Lords' table one place down from Lord Verement. The Unbeliever settled himself in the stone chair, rubbing the stubble of his new beard with one hand as if he expected the Council to know what it meant. The eyes of the Lords were on him, and their gaze made him uncomfortable. He felt strangely ashamed of the fact that his fingertips were alive to the touch of his whiskers.
“Ur-Lord Covenant,” the High Lord said after a moment, “while we await Lord Mhoram and Warmark Troy, we should make introduction. We have been remiss in our hospitality. Let me present to yon those of the Council whom you do not know.”
Covenant nodded, glad of anything that would turn her disturbing eyes away from him, and she began on her left. “Here is Lord Verement Shetra-mate, whom you have seen.” Verement glowered at his hands, did not glance at Covenant.
Elena turned to her right. The man next to her was tall and broad; he had a wide forehead, a watchful face draped with a warm blond beard, and an expression of habitual gentleness. “Here is Lord Callindrill Faer-mate. Faer his wife is a rare master of the ancient suru-pa-maerl craft.” Lord Callindrill smiled half shyly at Covenant, and bowed his head.
“At his side,” the High Lord went on, “are the Lords Trevor and Loerya.” Lord Trevor was a thin man with an air of uncertainty, as if he were not sure that he belonged at the Lords' table; but Lord Loerya his wife looked solid and matronly, conscious that she contained power. “They have three daughters who gladden all our hearts.” Both Lords replied with smiles, but where his was both surprised and proud, hers was calm, confident.
Elena concluded, “Beyond them is Lord Amatin daughter of Matin. Only a year ago she passed the tests of the Sword and Staff at the Loresraat, and joined the Council. Now her work is with the schools of Revelstone-the teaching of the children.” In her turn, Lord Amatin bowed gravely. She was slight, serious, and hazel-eyed, and she watched Covenant as if she were studying him.
After a pause, the High Lord began the ritual ceremonies of welcoming the Unbeliever to Lord's Keep, but she stopped short when Lord Mhoram entered the Close. He came through one of the private doors behind the Lords' table. There was weariness in his step and febrile concentration in his eyes, as if he had spent all night wrestling with darkness. In his fatigue, he needed his staff to hold himself steady as he took his seat at Elena's left.
All the Lords watched him as he sat there, breathing vacantly, and a wave of support flowed from their minds to his. Slowly, their silent help strengthened him. The hot glitter faded from his gaze, and he began to see the faces around him.
“Have you met success?” Elena asked softly. “Can you withdraw the krill?”
“No.” Mhoram's lips formed the word, but he made no sound.
“Dear Mhoram,” she sighed, “you must take greater care of yourself. The Despiser marches against us. We will need all your strength for the coming war.”
Through his weariness, Mhoram smiled his crooked, humane smile. But he did not speak.