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erl will grieve。 The time has e for mourning。〃
From the top of the stairs； an excited voice cried； 〃High Lord！ The dead！ They have all fallen into sand！ Satansfist has exhausted this attack。 The gates hold！〃
Through his tears； Mhoram looked around the Close。 It was badly damaged。 The Lords' table and chairs had melted； the steps were uneven； and most of the lower tiers had been misshaped by the fire。 But the place had survived。 The Keep had survived。 Mhoram nodded to Tohrm。 〃It is time。〃
His sight was so blurred with tears that he seemed to see two blue…robed figures moving down the stairs toward him。 He blinked his tears away； and saw that Lord Loerya was with Amatin。
Her presence explained the protection which had saved him and Tohrm； she had joined her strength to Amatin's。
When she reached him； she looked gravely into his face。 He searched her for shame or distress but saw only regret。 〃I left them with the Unfettered One at Glimmermere；〃 she explained quietly。 〃Perhaps they will be safe。 I returned…when I found courage。〃
Then something at Mhoram's side caught her attention。 Wonder lit her face； and she turned him so that he was looking at the table which held Loric's krill。
The table was intact。
In its center； the gem of the krill blazed with a pure white fire； as radiant as hope。
Mhoram heard someone say； 〃Ur…Lord Covenant has returned to the Land。〃 But he could no longer tell what was happening around him。 His tears seemed to blind all his senses。
Following the light of the gem； he reached out his hand and clasped the krill's haft。 In its intense heat； he felt the truth of what he had heard。 The Unbeliever had returned。
With his new might； he gripped the krill and pulled it easily from the stone。 Its edges were so sharp that when he held the knife in his hand he could see their keenness。 His power protected him from the heat。
He turned to his panions with a smile that felt like a ray of sunshine on his face。
〃Summon Lord Trevor；〃 he said gladly。 〃I have…a knowledge of power that I wish to share with you。〃
TWELVE
Amanibhavam
Hate。
It was the only thought in Covenant's mind。 The weight of things he had not known crushed everything else。
Hate。
He clung to the unanswered question as he pried himself with the spear up over the rim of the hollow and hobbled down beyond the last ember…light of Pietten's fire。
Hate。
His crippled foot dragged along the ground； grinding the splintered bones of his ankle together until beads of excruciation burst from his pores and froze in the winter wind。 But he clutched the shaft of the spear and lurched ahead； down that hillside and diagonally up the next。 The wind cut against his right cheek； but he paid no attention to it； he turned gradually toward the right because of the steepness of the hill； not because he had any awareness of direction。 When the convolution of the next slope bent him northward again； away from the Plains of Ra and his only friends； he followed it； tottered down it； fluttering in the wind like a maimed wildman； thinking only：
Hate。
Atiaran Trell…mate had said that it was the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead。 He had a whole Land full of death to make meaningful。 Behind him； Lena lay slain in her own blood； with a wooden spike through her bell｝。 Elena was buried somewhere in the bowels of Melenkurion Sky weir； dead in her private apocalypse because of his manipulations and his failures。 She had never even existed。 Ranyhyn had been starved and slaughtered。 Banner and Foamfollower might be dead or in despair。 Pietten and Hile Troy and Trell and Triock were all his fault。 None of them had ever existed。 His pain did not exist。 Nothing mattered except the one absolute question。
He moaned deep in his throat； 〃Hate？〃
Nothing could have any meaning without the answer to that question。 Despite its multitudinous disguises； he recognized it as the question which had shaped his life since the day he had first learned that he was subject to the law of leprosy。 Loathing； self…loathing； fear； rape； murder； leper outcast unclean…they were all the same thing。 He hobbled in search of the answer。
He was totally alone for the first time since the beginning of his experiences in the Land。
Sick gray dawn found him laboring vaguely northeastward…poling himself feverishly with the spear； and shivering in the bitter ague of winter。 The dismal light seemed to rouse parts of him。 He plunged into the shallow lee of a hillside and tried to take the measure of his situation。
The shrill wind gibed around him as he plucked with diseased and frozen fingers at his pant leg。 When he succeeded in moving the fabric； he felt a numb surprise at the dark discoloration of his flesh above the ankle。 His foot sat at a crooked angle on his leg； and through the crusted blood he could see slivers of bone protruding against the thongs of his sandals。
The injury looked worse than it felt。 Its pain grated in his knee joint dully； gouged aches up through his thigh to his hip； but the ankle itself was bearable。 Both his feet had been frozen senseless by the cold。 And both were jabbed and torn and painlessly infected like the feet of a pilgrim。 He thought blankly that he would probably lose the broken one。 But the possibility carried no weight with him； it was just another part of his experience that did not exist。
There were things that he should have been doing for himself； but he had no idea what they were。 He had no conception of anything except the central need which drove him。 He lacked food； warmth； knowledge of where he was or where he was going。 Yet he was already urgent to be moving again。 Nothing but movement could keep his lifeblood circulating …nothing but movement could help him find his answer。
No tentative or half…unready answer would satisfy his need。
He levered himself up； then slipped and fell； crying out unconsciously at the unfelt pain。 For a moment； the winter roared in his ears like a triumphant predator。 His breathing rasped him as if claws of cold had already torn his air passages and lungs。 But he braced the spear on the hard earth again； and climbed up it hand over hand until he was erect。 Then he lurched forward once more。
He forced himself up the hill and beyond it to a low ridge lying across his way like a minor wall。 His arms trembled at the strain of bearing his weight； and his hands slipped repeatedly on the smooth shaft of the spear。 The ascent almost defeated him。 When he reached the top； air whooped brokenly in and out of his frostbitten lungs； and icy vertigo made the whole winterscape cant raggedly from side to side。 He rested； leaning on the spear。 His respiration was so difficult that he thought the frozen sweat and vapor on his face might be suffocating him。 But when he tried to break it； it tore away like a protective scab； hurting his skin； exposing new nerves to the cold。 He let the rest of his frozen mask remain； and stood panting until at last his vision began to clear。
The hard barren region ahead of him was so dreary； so wilderlanded by Foul's cruelty； that he could hardly bear to look at it。 It was gray cold and dead from horizon to horizon under the gray dead clouds…not the soft fortable gray of twilit illusions； of unstark colors blurring like consolation or placency into each other； but rather the gray of disconsolation and dismay； paradoxically dull and raw； numb and poignant； a gray like the ashen remains of color and sap and blood and bone。 Gray wind drove gray cold over the gray frozen hills； gray snow gathered in thin drifts under the lees of the gray terrain； gray ice underscored the black； brittle； leafless branches of the trees barely visible in the distance on his left； and stifled the gray； miserable current of the river almost out of sight on his right； gray numbness clutched at his flesh and soul。 Lord Foul the Despiser was everywhere。
Then for a time he remembered his purpose。 He set his ice…muzzled teeth into the teeth of the cold and hobbled down from the ridge straight toward the source of the winter。 Half blinded by the opposition of the wind； he stumped unheeding past slight shelters and straggling aliantha； thrust his tattered way among the hills； dragging his frozen foot like an accusation he meant to bring against the Despiser。
But gradually the memory faded； lapsed from his consciousness like everything else except his reiterating interrogation of hate。 Some inchoate instinct kept him from wending downward toward the river； but all other sense of direction deserted him。 With the wind angling against his right cheek； he struggled slowly upward； upward； as if it were only in climbing that he could keep himself erect at all。
As the morning passed； he began to fall more often。 He could no longer retain his grip on the spear； his hands were too stiff； too weak； and a slick sheen of ice sweat made the spear too slippery。 Amid the crunch of ice and his own panting cries； he slipped repeatedly to the ground。 And after several convulsive efforts to go on； he lay face down on the ruined earth with his breath r