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t was an expensive rite。 Each meld drained him because he could only protect his secret by giving fortitude rather than receiving it。 But he believed in the meld。 Of all the lore of the new Lords； only this belonged solely to them； the rest had e to them through the Wards of Kevin Landwaster。 And when it was practiced purely； melding brought the health and heart of any Lord to the aid of all the others。
As long as the High Lord possessed any pulse of life or thew of strength； he could not refuse to share them。
At last； the contact was broken。 For a moment； Mhoram felt that he was hardly strong enough to stand； the needs of the other Lords； and their concern for him； remained on his shoulders like an unnatural burden。 But he understood himself well enough to know that in some ways he did not have the ability to surrender。 Instead； he had an instinct for absolute exertions which frightened him whenever he thought of the Ritual of Desecration。 After a momentary rest； he rose to his feet and took up his staff。 Bearing it like a standard； he walked around the table to the stairs and started down toward the open floor around the graveling pit。
As Mhoram reached the floor； Tohrm came down out of the gallery to join him。 The Gravelingas's eyes were bright with humor； and he grinned as he said； 〃You will need far sight to behold the Unbeliever。〃 Then he winked as if this were a jest。 〃The gulf between worlds is dark； and darkness withers the heart。 I will provide more light。〃
The High Lord smiled his thanks； and the Hearthrall stepped briskly to one side of the graveling pit。 He bent toward the fire…stones； and at once seemed to forget the other people in the Close。 Without another look at his audience； he softly began to sing。
In a low rocky language known only to those who shared the rhadhamaerl lore； he hymned an invocation to the fire…stones； encouraging them； stoking them； calling to life their latent power。 And the red…gold glow of the graveling reflected like a response from his face。 After a moment； Mhoram could see the brightness growing。 The reddish hue faded from the gold； the gold turned purer； whiter； hotter； and the new…earth aroma of the graveling rose up like incense in the Close。
In silence； the three Lords stood； and the rest of the people joined them in a mute expression of respect for the rhadhamaerl and the Earthpower。 Before them； the radiance of the pit mounted until Tohrm himself was pale in the light。
With a slow； stately movement； High Lord Mhoram lifted his staff； held it in both hands level with his forehead。
The summoning song of the Unbeliever began to run in his mind as he focused his thoughts on the power of his staff。 One by one； he eliminated the people in the Close； and then the Close itself； from his awareness。 He poured himself into the straight； smooth wood of his staff until he was conscious of nothing but the song and the light…and the illimitable implications of the Earthpower beating like ichor in the immense mountain…stone around him。 Then he gathered as many strands of the pulse as he could hold together in the hands of his staff； and rode them outward through the warp and weft of Revelstone's existence。 And as he rode； he sang to himself：
There is wild magic graven in every rock；
contained for white gold to unleash or control…
gold； rare metal； not born of the Land；
nor ruled； limited； subdued
by the Law with which the Land was created…
but keystone rather； pivot； crux
for the anarchy out of which Time was made。
The strands carried him out through the malevolent wind； so that his spirit shivered against gusts of spite； but his consciousness passed beyond them swiftly； passed beyond all air and wood and water and stone until he seemed to be spinning through the quintessential fabric of which actuality was made。 For an interval without dimension in time and space； he lost track of himself。 He felt that he was floating beyond the limits of creation。 But the song and the light held him； steadied him。 Soon his thoughts pointed like a pass to the lodestone of the white gold。
Then he caught a glimpse of Thomas Covenant's ring。 It was unmistakable； the Unbeliever's presence covered the chaste circlet like an aura； bound it； sealed up its power。 And the aura itself ached with anguish。
High Lord Mhoram reached toward that presence and began to sing：
Be true； Unbeliever… Answer the call。 Life is the Giver： Death ends all。 The promise is truth； And banes disperse With promise kept： But soul's deep curse On broken faith And faithless thrall； For doom of darkness Covers all。
Be true； Unbeliever… Answer the call。 Be true。
He caught hold of Covenant with his song and started back toward the Close。
The efficacy of the song took much of the burden from him； left him free to return swiftly to himself； As he opened his eyes to the dazzling light； he almost fell to his knees。 Sudden exhaustion washed over him； he felt severely attenuated； as if his soul had been stretched to cover too great a distance。 For a time； he stood strengthless； even forgetting to sing。 But the other Lords had taken up the song for him； and in the place of his power their staffs vitalized the summoning。
When his eyes regained their sight； he beheld Thomas Covenant； Unbeliever and white gold wielder； standing half substantial in the light before him。
But the apparition came no closer； did not incarnate itself。 Covenant remained on the verge of physical presence； he refused to cross over。 In a voice that barely existed； he cried； 〃Not now！ Let me go！〃
The sight of the Unbeliever's suffering shocked Mhoram。 Covenant was starving； he desperately needed rest； he had a deep and seriously untended wound on his forehead。 His whole body was bruised and battered as if he had been stoned； and one side of his mouth was caked with ugly blood。 But as bad as his physical injuries were； they paled beside his psychic distress。 Appalled resistance oozed from him like the sweat of pain； and a fierce fire of will held him unincarnate。 As he fought the pletion of his summoning； he reminded Mhoram forcibly of dukkha； the poor Waynhim upon which Lord Foul had practiced so many torments with the Illearth Stone。 He resisted as if the Lords were coercing him into a vat of acid and virulent horror。
〃Covenant！〃 Mhoram groaned。 〃Oh； Covenant。〃 In his fatigue； he feared that he would not be able to hold back his weeping。 〃You are in hell。 Your world is a hell。〃
Covenant flinched。 The High Lord's voice seemed to buffet him physically。 But an instant later he demanded again； 〃Send me back！ She needs me！〃
〃We need you also；〃 murmured Mhoram。 He felt frail； sinewless； as if he lacked the thews and ligaments to keep himself erect。 He understood now why he had been able to summon Covenant without the Staff of Law； and that understanding was like a hole of grief knocked in the side of his being。 He seemed to feel himself spilling away。
〃She needs me！〃 Covenant repeated。 The effort of speech made blood trickle from his mouth。 〃Mhoram； can't you hear me？〃
That appeal touched something in Mhoram。 He was