The One Tree t2cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Linden stepped close to him, placed her hand upon his shoulder. He turned stiffly, letting her see the conflicts in his face. He was a figure of illumination and darkness, like the Isle.

  She tried again to make him understand her. “Seadreamer is afraid. I think he knows what Lord Foul is doing.”

  His features knotted once, then released as if he were about to afflict her with a smile like the one he had once given Joan. “That doesn't matter.” Slowly, his expression grew more gentle. “When I was in Andelain, Mhoram said, 'It boots nothing to avoid his snares, for they are ever beset with other snares, and life and death are too intimately intergrown to be severed from each other. But it is necessary to comprehend them, so that they may be mastered.' ” Then he stiffened again. “Come on. Let's go find out what kind of trouble we're in.”

  She did not want to let him go. She wanted to fling her arms around him, hug and hold him, make him stop what he was doing. But she did not. Was this not why she loved him-because he did not shy from his own pain? Gritting her courage, she followed him down the stairs as if he were leading her into night.

  Sunset still held the masts, but the afterdeck had fallen into gloaming. She needed a moment to adjust her sight before she was able to descry Seadreamer standing at the rail with Honninscrave, the First, and Pitchwife. Vain was there also, as black as the coming dark. Findail had moved aft as well; his robe formed a pale blur beside Vain's ebony. And Brinn and Cail had come. Linden was surprised to see them. Covenant's stride faltered as he neared them. But they did not speak, and he went abruptly past them. Reaching the First, he asked, “Are we ready?”

  “As ready as may be,” she replied, “with our fate unknown before us.”

  He answered like the darkness thickening around the dromond, “Then let's get started.”

  At once, Findail interposed in a tone of warning and supplication, “Ring-wielder, will you not bethink you? Surrender this mad purpose while choice yet remains to you. I tell you plainly that you are the plaything of powers which will destroy you-and the Earth with you. This attempt upon the One Tree must not be made.”

  Mutely, Seadreamer nodded as if he had no choice.

  Covenant jerked around to face the Appointed. Speaking softly, almost to himself, he breathed, "I should've known that's what you're afraid of. The One Tree. The Staff of Law.

  You're afraid I might actually succeed. Or why did you try to capture Vain? Why have you tried so hard to keep us from trusting ourselves? You are going to lose something if we succeed. I don't know what it is, but you're terrified about it.

  “Well, take a look,” he went on grimly. “Vain's still with us. He's still got the heels of the old Staff.” He spoke as if his doubt of the Demondim-spawn no longer mattered. “I'm still here. I've still got my ring. Linden's still here.” Suddenly, his voice dropped to a whisper like a suspiration of anguish. “By hell, if you want me to surrender, you have got to give me a reason.”

  The Appointed returned Covenant's demand in silence. Clearly, he did not intend to answer.

  After a moment, Covenant swung back to the rest of the company, glaring as if he expected them to argue with him. But Honninscrave was tense with empathy. There was no hesitation in the First's stern resolve or Pitchwife's anticipation of wonder. And Seadreamer made no attempt to dissuade the Unbeliever.

  Driven by the demons of his personal exigency, Covenant moved to the railing, set his feet to the rope-ladder leading down to the longboat.

  Linden followed him at once, unwilling to let even one Giant take her place at his side.

  Cail and Brinn were right behind her.

  All of the Isle had now fallen into shadow except its crown, which held the fading sunset like an oriflamme that was about to be swallowed by the long night of the Earth. But while the light lasted, it made the crest look like a place where the One Tree might indeed be found. As she turned her back on the sight in order to descend the ladder, Linden remembered that this night would be the dark of the moon. Instinctively, she shivered. Her robe seemed suddenly scanty against the chill dark which appeared to rise out of the water like an exhalation. The rocking of the waves forced a splash up between the dromond and the longboat just as she was reaching one leg toward the smaller craft; and the water stung her bare flesh as if its salt were as potent as acid. But she muffled her involuntary gasp, lowered herself into the bottom of the boat, then moved to take a seat with Covenant in the prow. The water tightened the skin of her legs as it dried, sending a tingle through her nerves.

  The Haruchai were followed by Honninscrave. While his bulk came downward, the sun lost its grasp on the Isle's crown, fell entirely beyond the horizon. Now the Isle was visible only as a shadow on the deep, silhouetted by the slowly emerging stars. Linden could not discern the lines of the reef at all. But as Honninscrave and Seadreamer seated themselves at the oars, their oaken shoulders expressed no doubt of their ability to find their way. The Master was speaking to his brother, but the chatter and splash of water covered the words.

  Pitchwife and the First descended to the longboat in silence. From out of the night, a shadow floated into the bottom of the craft at Seadreamer's back, where it solidified and became Findail. Vain placed himself in the other half of the boat with Brinn and Cail, near the stem where the First and Pitchwife sat.

  Linden reached out, took Covenant's hand. His fingers felt icy; his numbness had become a palpable cold.

  The First waved a salute to the Giants of Starfare's Gem. If Sevinhand or Galewrath returned an answer, it was inaudible over the chill chuckling of the waters. Deftly, Honninscrave unmoored the longboat, thrust it away from the dromond with his oar. Surrounded only by lapping waves, the company moved out into the night.

  For several moments, no one spoke. Covenant sat with his face turned to the dark, clenching Linden's hand as if it were an anchor. She watched the Isle gradually clarify itself as the stars behind it became more explicit; but still she could not make out the reefs. The blackness rising from the water seemed impenetrable. Yet the oars beat steadily, slipping in and out of the unquiet seas; and the boat moved forward as if it were being impelled at great speed, headlong toward its unknown end. The Isle loomed massively out of the night, as dangerous to approach as the entryway of hell.

  Linden became suddenly and irrationally alarmed that the boat would strike one of the reefs and sink. But then the First said softly, “Somewhat to starboard.” The longboat changed directions slightly. A few heartbeats later, jagged coral shapes leaped up on either hand. Their unexpected appearance made Linden start. But the longboat passed safely between them into calmer water.

  From this vantage-so close to the sea, with the night complete from horizon to horizon-the Isle seemed much farther away than it had from Starfare's Gem. But for a while the company made good progress. Goaded by vision, Seadreamer hauled heavily against his oars, knocking them in their locks at every stroke; and Honninscrave matched the rhythm if not the urgency of his brother's pull. As a result, the Isle grew slowly taller and more implacable, reaching toward the sky as if it were the base upon which the firmament of the stars stood. Linden began to think that the slopes would be unscalable in the dark-that perhaps they could not be climbed at all, especially if Covenant could not master his vertigo. His hand in hers felt as chill as if his very bones were cold.

  But a short time later she forgot that anxiety, forgot even to grip Covenant's fingers. She was staring at the change which came over the Isle.

  The First and Pitchwife stood. The boat glided to a stop in the water. Honninscrave and Seadreamer had lifted their oars so that they might look past the prow toward their destination.

  Plumes and streamers of mist had begun to flow down off the sides of the island. The mist seemed to arise like steam from unseen cracks among the rocks. Some of it curled upward, frayed away into the sharp night. But most of it poured toward the sea, gathering and thickening as the streams commingled.

  The mist was alight. It did n
ot appear to shine of its own accord. Rather, it looked like ordinary fog under a full moon. But there was no moon. And the illumination was cast only upon the mist. Stately banners and rills of air came downward like condensations of moonglow, revealing nothing but themselves.

  When its nimbus spread like a vapour of frost around the shores of the eyot, the mist began to pile out over the sea. Gradually all the Isle except the crown disappeared. Silver and ghostly, the glowing fog expanded toward the longboat as if it meant to fill the entire zone of the reefs.

  Linden had to suppress a desire for flight. She felt viscerally certain that she did not want that eldritch and inexplicable air to touch her. But the quest's path lay forward. With an oddly stern and gentle command, the First returned Honninscrave and Seadreamer to their oars. “I am done with waiting,” she said. “If this is our future, let us at least meet it by our own choice.”

  Thrust and sweep, the oars measured out the quest's progress toward the advancing mist. The stars overhead glittered as if in warning; but the longboat went on straight at the heart of the wet vapour. The mist continued to pile onto the sea. Already, it had become so thick that the sides of the eyot could no longer be seen, had accumulated so high that the rocky crown was almost obscured. Its illumination made it look gnashed and lambent with moonlight. Its outward flow accentuated the speed of the longboat; the craft seemed to rush madly across the dark face of the water.

  Then the First murmured a command. Honninscrave and Seadreamer raised their oars. The boat glided in silence and poised apprehension into the mist.

  At once, the sky disappeared. Linden felt the touch of moist light on her face and flinched, expecting danger or harm. But then her senses told her that the mist's power was too elusive, too much like moonshine, to cause damage-or to convey comprehension. Her companions were clearly visible; but the sea itself had vanished under a dense silver carpet, and the ends of the oars passed out of sight as if they had been gnawed off.

  With a new twist of anxiety, she wondered how the quest would be able to find its way. But when the First spoke again, sending Honninscrave and Seadreamer back to their labour, her voice held an iron certainty; and she suggested small corrections of course as if her sense of direction were immune to confusion.

  The movement of the longboat made the mist float against Linden's face. Beads of evanescent light condensed in Covenant's hair like the nacre sweat of his need and might. After a few moments, the mist swirled and folded, opening a glimpse of the crest of the Isle. Before the gap closed, Linden saw that the First's aim was accurate.

  Pitchwife began speaking. His voice seemed to rise with difficulty, as if his cramped lungs were filling with mist and moisture. He complimented Honninscrave and Seadreamer on their rowing, wryly praised Vain's inscrutability, described other mists he had encountered in his voyages. The words themselves had no significance: only the act of uttering them mattered. For the sake of his companions-and of himself-he sought to humanize the enhancement of the mist. But an odd echo paced his speech, as if the vapour were a cavern. The First finally whispered tightly to him. He desisted.

  In silence punctuated only by the splashing of the oars, the longboat went forward.

  By degrees, the mist came to feel like a dream in which long spans of time passed with indefeasible haste. The obscure light exerted an hypnotic fascination. Drops of water like tiny globes fell from the line of Covenant's jaw, leaving faint spatters of illumination on his robe. Linden's raiment was bedizened with dying gems. Her hair hung wet and dark against the sides of her face.

  When the mist unwound itself enough to permit another momentary view of the Isle, she hardly noticed that the rocks were no closer than before.

  Honninscrave and Seadreamer continued rowing; but their breath slowly stiffened in their lungs, and their backs and shoulders cast emanations of strain. They made Linden aware of the passage of time. The trancelike vapour seemed to have consumed half the night. She tried to throw off her numbness, rub the damp stupefaction from her cheeks. At the next opening of the mist, she saw the Isle clearly.

  The longboat had not advanced at all.

  “Hellfire,” Covenant rasped. “Hell and blood.”

  “Now am I mazed in good sooth,” began Pitchwife. “This atmosphere-” But he lost the words he needed.

  Findail stood facing the Isle. His mien and hair were dry, untouched by the mist. He held his arms folded across his chest as if the sea were gripped motionless in the crooks of his elbows. The focus of his eyes was as intent as an act of will.

  “Findail-” Linden began. “What in God's name are you doing to us?”

  But then violence broke out behind the Appointed.

  Brinn attempted to leap past Honninscrave and Seadreamer. Seadreamer grappled for him, held him back. Thrashing together, they fell into the bottom of the boat. Honninscrave shipped his oars, then caught hold of Seadreamer's as they slipped from the locks. At once, Pitchwife came forward to take the oars. Honninscrave swung around and began trying to extricate Brinn and Seadreamer from each other.

  Cail moved toward the fray. Rising to her feet, the First caught hold of him, jerked him unceremoniously behind her. Then her sword was in her hands.

  “Enough!”

  Honninscrave shifted out of her way. Seadreamer stopped fighting. Before Brinn could evade her, she had her blade at his throat.

  Cail tried to go to Brinn's aid. Honninscrave blocked him.

  “Now,” the First said, “you will tell me the meaning of this.”

  Brinn did not reply to her. He directed his voice at Covenant. “Ur-Lord, permit me to speak with you.”

  At once, Seadreamer shook his head vehemently.

  Covenant started to respond. Linden stopped him. “Just a minute.” She was panting as if the mist were hard to breathe. Quickly, she crossed the thwarts to Seadreamer. He huddled in the bottom of the longboat. His eyes met hers like a plea.

  “You've seen something,” she said. “You know what's going on here.”

  His visage was wet with condensed mistglow. The moisture made his scar look like an outcry.

  “You don't want Brinn to talk to Covenant.”

  Seadreamer's eyes winced. She had guessed wrongly.

  She tried again. “You don't want him to do what he has in mind. You don't want him to persuade Covenant to let him do it.”

  At that, the mute Giant nodded with fierce urgency.

  Her intuitions outran her. Seadreamer's intensity conveyed a personal dismay which transcended logic. “If Brinn does it-what he wants to do-then all the terrible things you've been seeing are going to happen. We won't be able to stop them.” Then the sight of his distress closed her throat. This is your only chance to save yourself.

  Fighting to regain her voice, she confronted Covenant across the forepart of the boat. “Don't-” She was trembling. “Don't let him do it. The consequences-”

  Covenant was not looking at her. He watched Brinn with an aghast nausea which forced Linden to wheel in that direction.

  The Haruchai had gripped the First's blade in one hand. Against her great strength, he strove to thrust the iron away from his throat. Blood coursed down his forearm as the long-sword bit his flesh; but his determination did not waver. In a moment, he would sever his fingers if the First did not relent.

  “Brinn!” Linden protested.

  The Haruchai showed no sign that he heard her.

  Cursing under her breath, the First withdrew her sword. “You are mad.” She was hoarse with emotion. “I will not accept the burden of your maiming or death in this way.”

  Without a glance at her, Brinn climbed to his feet, moved toward Covenant. His hand continued to bleed, but he ignored it-only clenched his fingers around the wound and let it run. He seemed to carry his fist cocked as if he meant to attack the Unbeliever.

  But near Covenant he stopped. “Ur-Lord, I ask you to hear me.”

  Covenant stared at the Haruchai. His nod appeared oddly fragile; the acu
ity of his passion made him brittle. Around them, the mist flowed and seethed as if it would never let them go.

  “There is a tale among the Haruchai” Brinn began without inflection, "a legend preserved by the old tellers from the farthest distance of our past, long ages before our people ever encountered Kevin Landwaster and the Lords of the Land. It is said that upon the edge of the Earth at the end of time stands a lone man who holds the meaning of the Haruchai- a man whom we name ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. It is said that he has mastered all skill and prowess that we desire, all restraint and calm, and has become perfection-passion and mastery like unto the poised grandeur of mountains. And it is said, should ever one of the Haruchai seek out ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol and contest with him, we will learn the measure of our worth, in defeat or triumph. Therefore are the Haruchai a seeking people. In each heart among us beats a yearning for this test and the knowledge it offers.

  “Yet the path which leads to ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol is unknown, has never been known. It is said that this path must not be known-that it may only be found by one who knows without knowledge and has not come seeking the thing he seeks.” In spite of its flatness, Brinn's voice expressed a mounting excitement. "I am that one. To this place I have come in your name rather than my own, seeking that which I have not sought.

  “Ur-Lord, we have withdrawn from your service. I do not seek to serve you now. But you wield the white ring. You hold power to prevent my desire. Should you take this burden upon yourself, it will be lost to me-perhaps to all Haruchai forever. I ask that you permit me. Of Cable Seadreamer's Earth-Sight I comprehend nothing. It is clear to me that I will only succeed or fail. If I fail, the matter will fall to you. And if I succeed-” His voice dropped as if in no other way could he contain the strength of his yearning. “Ur-Lord.” Clenched as if it were squeezing blood out of itself, his fist rose like an appeal. “Do not prevent me from the meaning of our lives.”

  Linden had no idea what Brinn was talking about. His speech seemed as unmotivated as an oration in a nightmare. Only Seadreamer and Findail showed any understanding. Seadreamer sat with his hands closed over his face as if he could not bear what he was hearing. And Findail stood alone like a man who knew all the answers and loathed them.