Free Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves by Stephen R. Donaldson

sake of the Land that we must save our strength, put it to its best use here. Callindrill chose”—the authority of Mhoram’s tone faltered for an instant—“Lord Callindrill Faer-mate chose otherwise. There is no blame for you in this.”
    He saw the protest in her eyes and hastened to answer her. He did not want to hear her thought uttered aloud. “Further, I tell you that there is no blame for us in the wisdom or folly, victory or defeat, of the way we have elected to defend the Land. We are not the Creators of the Earth. Its final end is not on our heads. We are creations, like the Land itself. We are accountable for nothing but the purity of our service. When we have given our best wisdom and our utterest strength to the defense of the Land, then no voice can raise accusation against us. Life or death, good or ill—victory or destruction—we are not required to solve these riddles. Let the Creator answer for the doom of his creation.”
    Amatin stared at him hotly, and he could feel her probing the estranged, secret place in his heart. Speaking barely above a whisper, she said, “Do you blame Callindrill then? There is no ‘best wisdom’ in his death.”
    The misdirection of her effort to understand him pained the High Lord, but he answered her openly. “You are not deaf to me, Lord Amatin. I loved Callindrill Faer-mate like a brother. I have no wisdom or strength or willingness to blame him.”
    “You are the High Lord. What does your wisdom teach you?”
    “I am the High Lord,” Mhoram affirmed simply. “I have no time for blame.”
    Abruptly Loerya joined the probing. “And if there is no Creator? Or if the creation is untended?”
    “Then who is there to reproach us? We provide the meaning of our own lives. If we serve the Land purely to the furthest limit of our abilities, what more can we ask of ourselves?”
    Trevor answered, “Victory, High Lord. If we fail, the Land itself reproaches us. It will be made waste. We are its last preservers.”
    The force of this thrust smote Mhoram. He found that he still lacked the courage to retort nakedly, Better failure than desecration . Instead, he turned the thrust with a wry smile and said, “The last, Lord Trevor? No. The Haruchai yet live within their mountain fastness. In their way, they know the name of the Earthpower more surely than any Lord. Ramen and Ranyhyn yet live. Many people of the South and North Plains yet live. Many of the Unfettered yet live. Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal of Garroting Deep, has not passed away. And somewhere beyond the Sunbirth Sea is the homeland of the Giants—yes, and of the Elohim and Bhrathair , of whom the Giants sang. They will resist Lord Foul’s hold upon the Earth.”
    “But the Land, High Lord! The Land will be lost! The despiser will wrack it from end to end.”
    At once, Mhoram breathed intensely, “By the Seven! Not while one flicker of love or faith remains alive!”
    His eyes burned into Trevor’s until the Lord’s protest receded. Then he turned to Loerya. But in her he could see the discomfortable fear for her daughters at work, and he refrained from touching her torn feelings. Instead, he looked toward Amatin and was relieved to see that much of her anger had fallen away. She regarded him with an expression of hope. She had found something in him that she needed. Softly she said, “High Lord, you have discovered a way in which we may act against this doom.”
    The High Lord tightened his hold upon himself. “There is a way.” Raising his head, he addressed all the people in the Close. “My friends, Satansfist Raver has burned Revelwood. Trothgard is now in his hands. Soon he will begin to march upon us. Scant days remain before the siege of Revelstone begins. We can no longer delay.” The gold in his eyes flared as he said, “We must attempt to summon the Unbeliever.”
    At this, a stark silence filled the Close. Mhoram could feel waves of surprise and excitement and dread pouring down on him