Yet the company truly had no choice. They could not fight all the gaddhi's Guards and Horse. And if they did not mean to fight, they had no recourse but to continue acting out their role as Rant Absolain's guests. Linden's gaze wandered the blind stone of the floor, avoiding the eyes which searched her, until the First said to Rire Grist, “We are ready.” Then in stiff distress she followed her companions out of the room.
The Caitiffin led them down to the Sandhold's massive gates. In the forecourt of the First Circulate, perhaps as many as forty soldiers were training their mounts, prancing and curvetting the destriers around the immense, dim hall. The horses were all dark or black, and their shod hooves struck sparks into the shadows like the crepitation of a still-distant prescience. Rire Grist hailed the leader of the riders in a tone of familiar command. He was sure of himself among them. But he took the company on across the hall without pausing.
When they reached the band of open ground which girdled the donjon, the desert sun hit them a tangible blow of brightness and heat. Linden had to turn away to clear her sight. Blinking, she looked up at the dust-tinged sky between the ramparts, seeking some relief for her senses from the massy oppression of the Sandhold. But she found no relief. There were no birds. And the banquettes within the upper curve of the wall were marked at specific intervals with hustin.
Cail took her arm, drew her after her companions eastward into the shadow of the wall. Her eyes were grateful for the dimness; but it did not ease the way the arid air scraped at her lungs. The sand shifted under her feet at every step, leeching the strength from her legs. When the company passed the eastern gate of the Sandwall, she felt an impossible yearning to turn and run.
Talking politely about the design and construction of the wall, Rire Grist led the company around the First Circinate toward a wide stair built into the side of the Sandwall. He was telling the First and Honninscrave that there were two such stairs, one opposite the other beyond the Sandhold-and that there were also other ways to reach the wall from the donjon, through underground passages. His tone was bland; but his spirit was not.
A shiver like a touch of fever ran through Linden as he started up the stairs. Nevertheless she followed as if she had surrendered her independent volition to the exigency which impelled the First.
The stairs were broad enough for eight or ten people at once. But they were steep, and the effort of climbing them in that heat drew a flush across Linden's face, stuck her shirt to her back with sweat. By the time she reached the top, she was breathing as if the dry air were full of needles.
Within its parapets, the ridge of the Sandwall was as wide as a road and smooth enough for horses or wains to travel easily. From this vantage, Linden was level with the rim of the First Circinate and could see each immense circle of the Sandhold rising dramatically to culminate in the dire shaft of Kemper's Pitch.
On the other side of the wall lay the Great Desert.
As Rire Grist had said, the atmosphere was clear and sharp to the horizons. Linden felt that her gaze spanned a score of leagues to the east and south. In the south, a few virga cast purple shadows across the middle distance; but they did not affect the etched acuity of the sunlight.
Under that light, the desert was a wilderness of sand-as white as salt and bleached bones, and drier than all the world's thirst. It caught the sun, sent it back diffused and multiplied. The sands were like a sea immobilized by the lack of any tide heavy enough to move it. Dunes serried and challenged each other toward the sky as if at one time the ground itself had been lashed to life by the fury of a cataclysm. But that orogeny had been so long ago that only the skeleton of the terrain and the shape of the dunes remembered it. No other life remained to the Great Desert now except the life of wind-intense desiccating blasts out of the deep south which could lift the sand like spume and recarve the face of the land at whim. And this day there was no wind. The air felt like a reflection of the sand, and everything Linden saw in all directions was dead.
But to the southwest there was wind. As the company walked along the top of the Sandwall, she became aware that in the distance, beyond the virga and the discernible dunes, violence was brewing. No, not brewing: it had already attained full rage. A prodigious storm galed around itself against the horizon as if it had a cyclone for a heart. Its clouds were as black as thunder, and at intervals it sent out lurid glarings like shrieks.
Until the Giants stopped to look at the storm, she did not realize what it was.
Sandgorgons Doom.
Abruptly, she was touched by a tremor of augury, as if even at this range the storm had the power to reach out and rend—
The gaddhi and his women stood on the southwest curve of the Sandwall, where they had a crystal view of the Doom. Nearly a score of hustin guarded the vicinity.
They were directly under the purview of Kemper's Pitch.
Rant Absolain hailed the questers as they approached. A secret excitement sharpened his welcome. He spoke the common tongue with a heartiness that rang false. On behalf of the company, Rire Grist gave appropriate replies. Before he could make obeisance, the gaddhi summoned him closer, drawing the company among the Guards. Quickly, Linden scanned the gathering and discovered that Kasreyn was not present.
Free of his Kemper, Rant Absolain was determined to play the part of a warm host. “Welcome, welcome,” he said fulsomely. He wore a long ecru robe designed to make him appear stately. His Favoured stood near him, attired like the priestesses of a love-god. Other young women were there also; but they had not been granted the honour of sharing the gaddhi's style of dress. They were decked out in raiment exquisitely inappropriate to the sun and the heat. But the gaddhi paid no attention to their obvious beauty; he concentrated °n his guests. In one hand, he held an ebony chain from which dangled a large medallion shaped to represent a black sun. He used it to emphasize the munificence of his gestures as he performed.
“Behold the Great Desert!” He faced the waste as if it were his to display. "Is it not a sight? Under such a sun the true tint is revealed-a hue stretching as far as the Bhrathair have ever journeyed, though the tale is told that in the far south the desert becomes a wonderland of every colour the eye may conceive.“ His arm flipped the medallion in arcs about him. ”No people but the Bhrathair have ever wrested bare life from such a grand and ungiving land. But we have done more.
“The Sandhold you have seen. Our wealth exceeds that of monarchs who rule lush demesnes. But now for the first time” — his voice tightened in expectation-“you behold Sandgorgons Doom. Not elsewhere in all the Earth is such theurgy manifested.” In spite of herself, Linden looked where the gaddhi directed her gaze. The hot sand made the bones of her forehead ache as if the danger were just beginning; but that distant violence held her. “And no other people have so triumphed over such fell foes.” Her companions seemed transfixed by the roiling thunder. Even the Haruchai stared at it as if they sought to estimate themselves against it.
“The Sandgorgons.” Rant Absolain's excitement mounted. “You do not know them-but I tell you this. Granted time and freedom, one such creature might tear the Sandhold stone from stone. One! They are more fearsome than madness or nightmare. Yet there they are bound. Their lives they spend railing against the gyre of their Doom, while we thrive. Only at rare events does one of them gain release-and then but briefly.” The tension in his voice grew keener, whetted by every word. Linden wanted to turn away from the Doom, drag her companions back from the parapet. But she had no name for what dismayed her.
“For centuries, the Bhrathair lived only because the Sandgorgons did not slay them all. But now I am the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm and all the Great Desert, and they are mine!”
He ended his speech with a gesture of florid pride; and suddenly the ebony chain slipped from his fingers.
Sailing black across the sunlight and the pale sand, the chain and medallion arced over the parapet and fell near the base of the Sandwall. Sand puffed at the impact, settled again. The dark sun of
the medallion lay like a stain on the clean earth.
The gaddhi's women gasped, surged to the edge to look downward. The Giants peered over the parapet.
Rant Absolain did not move. He hugged his arms around his chest to contain a secret emotion.
Reacting like a good courtier, Rire Grist said quickly, “Fear nothing, O gaddhi. It will shortly be restored to you. I will send my aide to retrieve it.”
The soldier with him started back toward the stairs, clearly intending to reach one of the outer gates and return along the base of the Sandwall to pick up the medallion.
But the gaddhi did not look at the Caitiffin. “I want it now,” he snapped with petulant authority. “Fetch rope.”
At once, two Guards left the top of the wall, descended to the banquette, then entered the wall through the nearest opening.
Tautly, Linden searched for some clue to the peril. It thickened in the air at every moment. But the gaddhi's attitude was not explicit enough to betray his intent. Rire Grist's careful poise showed that he was playing his part in a charade-but she had already been convinced of that. Of the women, only the two Favoured exposed any knowledge of the secret. The Lady Benj's mien was hard with concealment. And the Lady Alif flicked covert glances of warning toward the company.
Then the hustin returned, bearing a heavy coil of rope. Without delay, they lashed one end to the parapet and threw the other snaking down the outer face of the Sandwall. It was just long enough to reach the sand.
For a moment, no one moved. The gaddhi was still. Honninscrave and Seadreamer were balanced beside the First, Vain appeared characteristically immune to the danger crouching on the wall; but Findail's eyes shifted as if he saw too much. The Haruchai had taken the best defensive positions available among the Guards.
For no apparent reason, Covenant said, “Don't touch me.”
Abruptly, Rant Absolain swung toward the company. Heat intensified his gaze.
“You.” His voice stretched and cracked under the strain. His right arm jerked outward, stabbing his rigid index finger straight at Hergrom. “I require my emblem.”
The gathering clenched. Some of the women bit their lips. The Lady Alif's hands opened, closed, opened again. Hergrom's face betrayed no reaction; but the eyes of all the Haruchai scanned the group, watching everything.
Linden struggled to speak. The pressure knotted her chest, but she winced out, “Hergrom, you don't have to do that.”
The First's fingers were claws at her sides. “The Haruchai are our comrades. We will not permit it.”
The gaddhi snapped something in the brackish tongue of the Bhrathair, Instantly, the hustin brought their spears to bear. In such close quarters, even the swiftness of the
Haruchai could not have protected their comrades from injury or death.
“It is my right!” Rant Absolain spat up at the First. “I am the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm! The punishment of offense is my duty and my right!”
“No!” Linden sensed razor-sharp iron less than a foot from the centre of her back. But in her fear for Hergrom she ignored it, “It was Kasreyn's fault. Hergrom was just trying to save Covenant's life.” She aimed her urgency at the Haruchai. “You don't have to do this.”
The dispassion of Hergrom's visage was complete. His detachment as he measured the Guards defined the company's peril more eloquently than any outcry. For a moment, he and Brinn shared a look. Then he turned to Linden.
“Chosen, we desire to meet this punishment, that we may see it ended.” His tone expressed nothing except an entire belief in his own competence-the same self-trust which had led the Bloodguard to defy death and time in the service of the Lords.
The sight clogged Linden's throat. Before she could swallow her dismay, her culpability, try to argue with him, Hergrom leaped up onto the parapet. Three strides took him to the rope.
Without a word to his companions, he gripped the line and dropped over the edge.
The First's eyes glazed at the extremity of her restraint. But three spears were levelled at her; and Honninscrave and Seadreamer were similarly caught.
Brinn nodded fractionally. Too swiftly for the reflexes of the Guards, Ceer slipped through the crowd, sprang to the parapet. In an instant, he had followed Hergrom down the rope.
Rant Absolain barked a curse and hastened forward to watch the Haruchai descend. For a moment, his fists beat anger against the stone. But then he recollected himself, and his indignation faded.
The spears did not let Linden or her companions move.
The gaddhi issued another command. It drew a flare of fury from the Swordmain's eyes, drove Honninscrave and Seadreamer to the fringes of their self-control.
In response, a Guard unmoored the rope. It fell heavily onto the shoulders of Hergrom and Ceer.
Rant Absolain threw a fierce grin at the company, then turned his attention back to the Haruchai on the ground.
“Now, slayer!” he cried in a shrill shout. “I require you to speak!”
Linden did not know what he meant. But her nerves yammered at the cruelty he emanated. With a wrench, she ducked under the spear at her back, surged toward the parapet. As her head passed the edge, her vision reeled into focus on Hergrom and Ceer. They stood in the sand with the rope sprawled around them. The gaddhi's medallion lay between their feet. They were looking upward.
“Run!” she cried. “The gates! Get to the gates!”
She heard a muffled blow behind her. A spearpoint pricked the back of her neck, pinning her against the stone.
Covenant was repeating his litany as if he could not get anyone to listen to him.
“Speak, slayer!” the gaddhi insisted, as avid as lust.
Hergrom's impassivity did not flicker. “No.”
“You refuse? Defy me? Crime upon crime! I am the gaddhi of Brathairealm! Refusal is treachery!”
Hergrom gazed his disdain upward and said nothing.
But the gaddhi was prepared for this also. He barked another brackish command. Several of his women shrieked.
Forcing her head to the side, Linden saw a Guard dangling a woman over the edge of the parapet by one ankle.
The Lady Alif, who had tried to help the company earlier.
She squirmed in the air, battering her fear against the Sandwall. But Rant Absolain took no notice of her. Her robe fell about her head, muffling her face and cries. Her silver anklets glinted incongruously in the white sunshine.
“If you do not speak the name,” the gaddhi yelled down at Hergrom, “this Lady will fall to her death! And then if you do not speak the name”-he lashed a glance at Linden-“she whom you title the Chosen will be slain! I repay blood with blood!”
Linden prayed that Hergrom would refuse. He gazed up at her, at Rant Absolain and the Lady, and his face revealed nothing. But then Ceer nodded to him. He turned away. Placing his back to the Sandwall as if he had known all along what would happen, he faced the Great Desert and Sandgorgons Doom, straightened his shoulders in readiness.
Linden wanted to rage, No! But suddenly her strength was gone. Hergrom understood his plight. And still chose to accept it. There was nothing she could do.
Deliberately, he stepped on the gaddhi's emblem, crushing it with his foot. Then across the clenched hush of the crowd and the wide silence of the desert, he articulated one word:
“Nom.”
The gaddhi let out a cry of triumph.
The next moment, the spear was withdrawn from Linden's neck. All the spears were withdrawn. The husta lifted the Lady Alif back to the safety of the Sandwall, set her on her feet. At once, she fled the gathering. Smiling a secretive victory, the Lady Benj watched her go.
Turning from the parapet, Linden found that the Guards had stepped back from her companions.
All of them except Covenant, Vain, and Findail were glaring ire and protest at Kasreyn of the Gyre.
In her concentration on Hergrom, Linden had not felt or heard the Kemper arrive. But he stood now at the edge of the assembly and addressed
the company.
“I desire you to observe that I have played no part in this chicane. I must serve my gaddhi as he commands.” His rheumy gaze ignored Rant Absolain. “But I do not participate in such acts.”
Linden nearly hurled herself at him. “What have you done!”
“I have done nothing,” he replied stiffly. “You are witness.” But then his shoulders sagged as if the infant on his back wearied him. “Yet in my way I have earned your blame. What now transpires would not without me.”
Stepping to the parapet, he sketched a gesture toward the distant blackness. He sounded old as he said, “The power of any art depends upon its flaw. Perfection cannot endure in an imperfect world. Thus when I bound the Sandgorgons to their Doom, I was compelled to place a flaw within my theurgy.” He regarded the storm as if he found it draining and lovely. He could not conceal that he admired what he had done.
“The flaw I chose,” he soughed, “is this, that any Sandgorgon will be released if its name is spoken. It will be free while it discovers the one who spoke its name. Then it must slay the speaker and return to its Doom.”
Slay? Linden could not think. Slay?
Slowly, Kasreyn faced the company again. "Therefore I must share blame. For it was I who wrought Sandgorgons
Doom. And it was I who placed the name your companion has spoken in his mind."
At that, giddy realizations wheeled through Linden. She saw the Kemper's mendacity mapped before her in white sunlight. She turned as if she were reeling, lurched back to the parapet. Run! she cried. Hergrom! But her voice made no sound.
Because she had chosen to let Kasreyn live. It was intolerable. With a gasp, she opened her throat. “The gates!” Her shout was frail and hoarse, parched into effectlessness by the desert. “Run! We'll help you fight!”
Hergrom and Ceer did not move.
“They will not,” the Kemper said, mimicking sadness. “They know their plight. They will not bring a Sandgorgon among you, nor among the innocents of the Sandhold. And,” he went on, trying to disguise his pride, “there is not time. The Sandgorgons answer their release swiftly. Distance has no meaning to such power. Behold!” His voice sharpened. “Though the Doom lies more than a score of leagues hence, already the answer draws nigh.”
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