White Gold Wielder

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Covenant had no sea-craft, but he recognized that Honninscrave was right: without sails forward to balance the canvas aft, Starfare’s Gem would never be able to navigate.

  Aching within himself, he turned to find out what the vessel had struck.

  At first, what he saw seemed incomprehensible. Starfare’s Gem lay surrounded to the horizons by a vast flat wilderland of ice. Jagged hunks were crushed against the dromond’s sides; but the rest of the ice was unbroken. Its snow-blown surface appeared free of any channel which could have brought the Giantship to this place.

  But when he shaded his gaze and peered southward, he discerned a narrow band of gray water beyond the ice. And, squinting so hard that his temples throbbed, he traced a line between the dromond’s stern and the open sea. There the ice was thinner. It was freezing back over the long furrow which Starfare’s Gem had plowed into the floe.

  The Giantship was trapped—locked here and helpless. With all three masts intact and a favoring wind, it could not have moved. It was stuck where it sat until spring came to its rescue. If this part of the world ever felt the touch of spring.

  Damnation!

  The ship’s plight stung him like the gusts which came skirling off the ice. In the Land, the Clave was feeding the Banefire, stoking it with innocent blood to increase the Sunbane. No one remained to fight the na-Mhoram’s depredations except Sunder and Hollian and perhaps a handful of Haruchai—if any of them were still alive. The quest for the One Tree had failed, extinguishing Covenant’s sole hope. And now—!

  Have mercy on me.

  But he was a leper, and there was never any mercy for lepers. Despite did not forbear. He had reached the point where everything he did was wrong. Even his stubborn determination to cling to his ring, to bear the cost of his doom himself, was wrong. But he could not endure the alternative. The simple thought wrung a mute howl from the pit of his heart.

  He had to do something, find some way to reaffirm himself. Passivity and silence were no longer viable. His despair itself compelled him. He had to. Linden had proved the Elohim right. With his ring she was able to heal. But he could not forget the taste of eager fire when he had warmed the stewpot to save her. Had to! He could not give it up.

  His ring was all he had left.

  He had become the most fundamental threat to everything he loved. But suddenly that was no longer enough to stop him. Deliberately he set aside Linden’s reasons—her wish to see him do what she believed she would do in his place, her desire to fight Lord Foul through him—and chose his own.

  To show himself and his companions and the Despiser if necessary that he had the right.

  Without looking away from the ice, he said to Cain, “Tell Honninscrave I want to talk to him. I want to talk to everybody—the First, Linden, Pitchwife. In his cabin.”

  When the Haruchai moved soundlessly away, Covenant hugged the scant protection of his robe and set himself to wait.

  The idea of what he meant to do made his pulse beat like venom in his veins.

  There was blue in the sky, the first blue he had seen for days. A crusty glitter reflected the sun. But the ice was not as smooth as the sunlight made it appear. Its surface was marked with sharp spines and ridges, mounds where floe-plates rubbed and depressions which ran from nowhere to nowhere. The ice was a wasteland, its desolation grieving in the cold, and it held his gaze like the outcome of his life. Once in winter he had fought his way through long leagues of snow and despair to confront the Despiser—and he had prevailed. But he knew now that he would never prevail in that way again.

  He shrugged against the chill. So what? He would find some other way. Even if the attempt drove him mad. Madness was just a less predictable and scrupulous form of power. And he did not believe that either Lord Foul or Findail had told him the whole truth.

  Yet he did not intend to surrender his scruples or go mad. His leprosy had trained him well for survival and affirmation against an impossible future. And Foamfollower had once said to him, Service enables service. Hope came from the power and value of what was served, not from the one who served it.

  When Cail returned. Covenant felt that he was ready. Slowly, carefully, he turned from the sea and picked his way across the clogged stone toward one of the entryways to the underdecks.

  Below, the door to Honninscrave’s cabin was open; and beside it stood Mistweave. His face wore a conflicted expression. Covenant guessed that the Giant had undertaken more than he realized when he had assigned himself to Cail’s former responsibility for Linden. How could he have foreseen that his dedication to her would require him to ignore the needs of the dromond and the labors of the crew? The dilemma made him look unsure of himself.

  But Covenant did not have any relief to offer the Giant, and the door was open. Frowning at the pain all the people around him had to bear, he went into the Master’s cabin, leaving Cail outside.

  Honninscrave’s quarters were austere: except for a few chairs sized for Giants, a huge seachest, and a deep bunk, its only furnishings were a long table cluttered with nautical instruments and charts and two lamps hanging in stone gimbals. Honninscrave stood at the far end of the table as if Covenant’s arrival had interrupted him in the act of pacing. Sevinhand sat on the edge of the bunk, more melancholy than ever in his weariness. Near him was the Storesmaster, her shoulders touching the wall, no expression on her blunt features. The First and Pitchwife occupied two of the chairs. She held her back straight, her scabbarded blade across her thighs, as though refusing to admit how tired she was; but her husband was slumped with fatigue, emphasizing the deformation of his spine.

  In one corner of the chamber, Linden sat cross-legged on the floor. Sleep made her eyes bleary: when she raised them to acknowledge Covenant, she seemed hardly able to see him. In the company of these Giants, she appeared tiny and misplaced. But the hue of her skin and the steadiness of her respiration showed that she had been essentially restored to health.

  The air of the cabin felt tense, as if Covenant had entered the middle of an argument. None of the Giants except Pitchwife and Sevinhand were looking at him. But when he turned his unspoken question toward Pitchwife, the First’s husband bowed his head and did not answer. And the lines of Sevinhand’s old rue were too deep to be challenged.

  Covenant was stretched taut beyond gentleness. In a raw, brusque voice, he demanded, “So what do you think we should do about it?”

  Linden frowned as if his tone hurt her. Or perhaps she had already read the nature of his intent. Without lifting her head, she murmured, “That’s what they’ve been arguing about.”

  Her explanation eased him somewhat. He had gone so far down the road of his fate that he instinctively expected every hostile or painful or simply difficult emotion to be directed at himself. But his question remained. “What choice have we got?”

  At that, the muscles at the corners of Honninscrave’s jaw clenched. Sevinhand rubbed his cheeks with his palms as if he sought to push back the sorrow. The First let a sigh breathe softly through her teeth. But no one answered.

  Covenant pulled air into his lungs, gripped his courage in the insensate cold of his fists. “If you don’t have any better ideas, I’m going to break us out of this ice.”

  Then every eye was on him, and a shock of apprehension recoiled through the cabin. Honninscrave’s face gaped like a reopened wound. All the sleep vanished from Linden’s orbs. The First surged to her feet. As harsh as iron, she demanded, “Will you hazard the Earth to no purpose?”

  “Do you think your restraint is that good?” Linden added instantly. She, too, had come to her feet as if she wanted to meet Covenant’s folly standing. “Or are you just looking for an excuse to throw power around?”

  “Hell and blood!” Covenant barked. Had Findail taught everyone aboard the dromond to distrust him? “If you don’t like it”—his scarred forearm itched avidly—“give me an alternative! Do you think I like being this dangerous?”

  His outburst sent a grimace of chagrin
across the First’s face. Linden dropped her eyes. For a moment, Pitchwife’s difficult breathing punctuated the silence. Then his wife said softly, “Your pardon, Giantfriend. I did not intend affront. But we are not without choice in this strait.” She turned, and her gaze went like the point of a blade toward Honninscrave. “You will speak now, Master.”

  Honninscrave glared at her. But she was the First of the Search: no Giant would have refused to obey her when she used that tone. He complied slowly, uttering each word like a flat piece of stone. Yet as he answered his hands made truncated, rumbling movements among the charts and implements on the table, contradicting him.

  “I am uncertain of our position. I have been granted scant opportunity for sightings since the cloud-wrack cleared. And this sea has been little frequented by our people. Our charts and knowledge are likewise uncertain.” The First frowned a reprimand at his digression; but he did not falter. “Where knowledge is insufficient, all choices are hazardous.

  “Yet it would appear that we lie now some four- or fivescore leagues north and east of the coast which you name Seareach, home of the Unhomed and site of their destitute city and grave, Coercri, The Grieve.” He articulated that name with a special distinctness, as if he would prefer to hear it sung. Then he outlined the alternative which the First had in mind: that Covenant and the leaders of the Search leave Starfare’s Gem and strike westward across the ice until they found land, after which they could follow the coast into Seareach.

  “Or,” Linden interposed warily, studying Covenant as she spoke. “we could forget Seareach and head straight for Revelstone. I don’t know the terrain, but it’s bound to be quicker than detouring that far south.”

  “Aye.” Honninscrave permitted himself a growl of disgust or trepidation. “Should this littoral lie within hope of our charts.” Emotion rose in his voice, slipping out of his rigid grasp. “And should the ice remain intact and traversable to that coast. And should this winter hold—for we are somewhat southerly to have encountered such ice in the natural course of the seas, and it may thaw beneath us unseasonably.” To keep himself from shouting, he ground out the words like shards of rock. “And should the northward reaches of the Land be not rugged or mountainous beyond all possibility of travel. Then—” He grabbed a mouthful of air, held it between his teeth. “Then, I say, our way is clear before us.”

  His distress was acute in the confinement of the cabin. But the First did not relent. “We hear you,” she said sternly. “The choice is jeopardous. Complete your tale, Master.”

  Honninscrave could not look at her. “Ah, my tale,” he grated. “It is no tale of mine. My brother is dead, and the dromond I cherish lies locked in ice and crippled. It is no tale of mine.” Yet the First’s authority held him. Clutching a chart in each fist like a weightless and insufficient cudgel, he directed his voice at Covenant.

  “You have offered to sunder the ice. Very good. To Cable Seadreamer my brother who gave his life, you refused the fire of release. But in the name of your mad desire for battle you will attempt a league of ice. Very good. But I say to you that Starfare’s Gem cannot sail. In this maimed state, no. And were the time taken to do what mending lies within our power—time which is so precious to you—and were a channel opened to the sea, then still would our plight remain, for the dromond is no longer proof against the stress of the seas. With a kind wind, perchance, we might make way toward Seareach. But any storm would hold us in its mercy. A score of days—or tenscore—might find us yet farther from our goal. Starfare’s Gem”—he had to swallow heavily to force out the words—“is no longer fit to bear the Search.”

  “But—” Covenant began, then halted. For an instant, he was confused. Honninscrave’s grief covered an anger which he could not utter and Covenant could not decipher. Why was the Master so bitter?

  But suddenly the implications of Honninscrave’s speech swept over Covenant like a breaker; and his comprehension tumbled down the riptide. Starfare’s Gem could not sail. And the First wanted the Search to leave the Giantship, set out afoot toward the Land. He found himself facing her with a knot of cold clenched around his heart. Dismay was all that kept him from fury.

  “Nearly forty Giants.” Foamfollower’s people, the kindred of the Unhomed. “You’re talking about leaving them here to die.”

  She was a Swordmain, trained to battle and difficult choices. Her sternness as she returned Covenant’s gaze looked as careless of costs as a weapon. But behind her eyes moved shadows like specters of pain.

  “Aye.” Honninscrave’s voice scraped the air. “They must be left to die. Or they must accompany us, and Starfare’s Gem itself must be left to die. And from that day forward, no one of us shall ever again set gaze upon the crags and harborage of Home. We have no means for the making of a new dromond. And our people know not where we are.” He spoke softly, but every word left a weal across Covenant’s mind.

  It was intolerable. He was no sailor; he could bear to abandon the Giantship. But to leave nearly forty Giants behind without hope—or to strand them in the Land as the Unhomed had been stranded!

  The First did not waver: she knew her duty and would not shirk it. Covenant swung away from her, confronted Honninscrave down the length of the table. Its height made the Master appear tall and hurt beyond any mitigation. But Covenant could not accept that outcome.

  “If we leave the crew here. With the ship.” He drove his gaze up at the Giant until Honninscrave met it. “What will they need? In order to have any chance at all?”

  Honninscrave’s head jerked in surprise. For a moment, his mouth parted his beard incredulously, as though he half believed he was being taunted. But then with a wrench he mastered himself. “Stores we have in plenty.” His eyes clung to Covenant like an appeal: Be not false to me in this. “But the plight of the Giantship remains. It must have all the mending which Pitchwife may contrive. It must have time.”

  Time, Covenant thought. He had already been away from the Land for more than sixty days—away from Revelstone for closer to ninety. How many more people had the Clave killed? But the only alternative was to leave Pitchwife behind with the ship. And he would surely refuse. The First herself might refuse. Stiffly Covenant asked, “How much time?”

  “Two days,” replied Honninscrave. “Perhaps three. Much pitch will be required. And the labor itself will be awkward and arduous.”

  Damnation! Covenant breathed. Three days. But he did not back down. He was a leper: he knew the folly of trying to purchase the future by selling the present. Grimly he turned to Pitchwife.

  Fatigue seemed to emphasize the Giant’s deformities. His back bent as if it had been damaged by the weight of his limbs and head. But his eyes glittered, and his expression had lifted. He looked at Covenant as though he knew what the Unbeliever was about to say—and approved of it.

  Covenant felt wooden with failure. He had come here primed for fire; but all he had been able to offer his companions was a patience he did not possess. “Try to do it in one,” he muttered. Then he left the cabin so that he would not have to endure the reactions of the Giants.

  Pitchwife’s voice followed him. “Stone and Sea!” the Giant chuckled. “It is a small matter. What need have I of an entire day?”

  Glaring at nothing, Covenant quickened his pace.

  But as he reached the ladder leading to the afterdeck, Linden caught up with him. She gripped his arm as if something had changed between them. Her intent seriousness bore no resemblance to her old severity, and her eyes were damp. Her soft mouth, which he had kissed with such longing, wore the shape of a plea.

  Yet he had not forgiven himself; and after a moment she dropped her hand. Her gaze retreated somewhat. When she spoke, she sounded like a woman who did not know the words she needed.

  “You keep surprising me. I never know what to expect from you. Just when I think you’re too far gone to be reached, you do something like that. Like what you did for Sunder and Hollian.” Abruptly she stopped, silenced by the inadequa
cy of what she was saying.

  Covenant wanted to cry out. His desire for her was too acute to be suffered. He had already perverted whatever authenticity he might have had with her. And she was a healer. She had more right to his ring than he did. Self-loathing made him harsh.

  “Do you really think I just want to throw power around? Is that your opinion of me?”

  At that, she winced. Her expression turned inward like a baffled wail. “No,” she murmured. “No. I was just trying to get your attention.” Then her eyes reached toward him again. “But you scared me. If you could see yourself—”

  “If I could see myself,” he rasped so that he would not put his arms around her, “I’d probably puke.”

  Savagely he flung himself up the ladder away from her.

  But when he gained the open air and brittle cold of the afterdeck, he had to knot his arms across his chest to hold in the hurt.

  While he ate his breakfast in the galley, trying to absorb some of the stoves’ warmth, he could hear the sounds of work outside. At first, Sevinhand’s voice and Galewrath’s commanded alternately. He supervised the preparation of the foredeck; she led the breaking of the ice and the ritual songs for the burial of the three fallen crewmembers. But after a while Pitchwife made himself heard over the scuffle of feet and clatter of gear, the stiff hiss and thud of half-frozen cable. When Covenant had collected what little courage he had left, he went out to watch.

  During the night, the crew had cleared and organized the wreckage. Now they were busy readying the truncated foremast. Pitchwife was hunched over a large stone vat of his special pitch; but his eyes and voice followed the sailors as they rigged lines between the intact yard and the splintered end of the mast. Except for the necessary questions and instructions, the Giants were unusually quiet, disspirited. The Dolewind had held them for a long time; and since their encounter with the Soulbiter they had had no rest at all. Now their future had become as fragile and arduous as ice. Even Giants could not carry so much strain indefinitely.