One Tree

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Honninscrave held himself still; but he looked ready for any peril. “And if we do not choose to depart? Should you seek combat from us, you will learn to your cost that two-score Giants are not blithely beaten.”

  The Harbor Captain did not hesitate; his confidence in his office was complete. “If you choose neither payment nor departure, your ship will be destroyed before nightfall. No man or woman here will lift hand against you. You will be free to go ashore, thieve all you desire. And while you do so, five galleasses with catapults will batter your ship with such stones and exploding fires that it will fall to rubble where it sits.”

  For a moment, the Master of Starfare’s Gem did not respond. Linden feared that he had no response, that she had made a fatal mistake in choosing to come here. No one moved or spoke.

  Overhead a few birds flitted downward to investigate the dromond, then scaled away again.

  Quietly Honninscrave said, “Sevinhand.” His voice carried to the Anchormaster on the wheeldeck. “Secure the dromond for assault. Prepare to forage supplies and depart. Galewrath.” The Storesmaster stood nearby. “Take this Harbor Captain.” At once, she stepped forward, clamped one huge fist around the Bhrathair’s neck. “He is swift to call down harm upon the needy. Let him share whatever harm we suffer.”

  “Fools!” The official tried to rage, but the indignity of Galewrath’s grasp made him look apoplectic and wild. “There is no wind! You are trapped until the evening breeze!”

  “Then you are likewise snared,” replied Honninscrave evenly. “For the while, we will content ourselves by teaching your Harbor to comprehend the wrath of Giants. Our friendship was not lightly given in the need of the Bhrathair against the Sandgorgons. You will learn that our enmity may not be lightly borne.”

  Commotion broke out among the onlookers around the levee. Instinctively Linden swung around to see if they meant to attack the dromond.

  In a moment, she perceived that their activity was not a threat. Rather, the throng was being roughly parted by five men on horseback.

  Riding destriers as black as midnight, the five forced their way forward. They were clearly soldiers. Over their black shirts and leggings, they wore breastplates and greaves of a silverine metal; and they had quivers and crossbows at their backs, short swords at their sides, shields on their arms. As they broke out of the crowd, they stretched their mounts into a gallop down the pier, then reined sharply to a halt at the dromond’s ladder.

  Four of them remained astride their horses; the fifth, who wore an emblem like a black sun in the center of his breastplate, dismounted swiftly and leaped at the ladder. Quickly he gained the afterdeck. Ceer, Hergrom, and the Giants poised themselves; but the soldier did not challenge them. He cast a glance of appraisal around the deck, then turned on the official half dangling in Galewrath’s grip and began to shout at him.

  The soldier spoke a brackish language which Linden did not understand—the native tongue of the Bhrathair. The Harbor Captain’s replies were somewhat choked by Galewrath’s fist; but he seemed to be defending himself. At the same time, Pitchwife gave Linden’s shoulder a gentle nudge. When she looked at him, he winked deliberately. With a start, she remembered the Giantish gift of tongues—and remembered to keep it secret. The rest of the Giants remained expressionless.

  After a yell which made the Harbor Captain appear especially crestfallen, the soldier faced Honninscrave and the First. “Your pardon,” he said. “The Harbor Captain’s duty is clear, but he comprehends it narrowly”—the venom of his tone was directed at the official—“and understands little else at all. I am Rire Grist, Caitiffin of the gaddhi’s Horse. The coming of your ship was seen in the Sandhold, and I was sent to give welcome. Alas, I was delayed in the crowded streets and did not arrive in time to prevent misapprehension.”

  Before Honninscrave could speak, the Caitiffin went on, “You may release this duty-proud man. He understands now that you must be given every aid in his grant, for the sake of the old friendship of the Giants, and also in the name of the gaddhi’s will. I am certain that all your wants will be answered promptly—and courteously,” he added over his shoulder to the Harbor Captain. “Will you not free him?”

  “In a moment,” Honninscrave rumbled. “It would please me to hear you speak further concerning the gaddhi’s will toward us.”

  “Assuredly,” replied Rire Grist with a bow. “Rant Absolain, gaddhi of Bhrathairealm, wishes you well. He desires that you be granted the fullest welcome of your need. And he asks those among you who may be spared from the labor of your ship to be his guests in the Sandhold. Neither he nor his Kemper, Kasreyn of the Gyre, have known Giants, and both are anxious to rectify their lack.”

  “You speak hospitably,” Honninscrave’s tone was noncommittal. “But you will understand that our confidence has been somewhat daunted. Grant a moment for consultation with my friends.”

  “Your vessel is your own,” responded the Caitiffin easily. He seemed adept at smoothing the path of the gaddhi’s will. “I do not presume to hasten you.”

  “That is well.” A hard humor had returned to Honninscrave’s eyes. “The Giants are not a hasty people.” With a bow like an ironic mimesis of courtesy, he moved away toward the wheeldeck.

  Linden followed Honninscrave with the First, Seadreamer, and Pitchwife. Cail accompanied her; Brinn brought Covenant. Ascending to the wheeldeck, they gathered around Shipsheartthew, where they were safely beyond earshot of Rire Grist.

  At once, Honninscrave dropped the role he had taken in front of the Bhrathair, resumed his accustomed deference to the First. In a soft voice, he asked her, “What think you?”

  “I mislike it,” she growled. “This welcome is altogether too propitious. A people who must have the gaddhi’s express command ere they will grant aid to the simple fact of sea-harm are somewhat unscrupling for my taste.”

  “Yet have we choice in the matter?” inquired Pitchwife. “A welcome so strangely given may also be strangely rescinded. It is manifest that we require this gaddhi’s goodwill. Surely we will forfeit that goodwill, should we refuse his proffer.”

  “Aye,” the First retorted. “And we will forfeit it also if we set one foot or word amiss in that donjon, the Sandhold. There our freedom will be as frail as the courtesy of Bhrathairealm.”

  She and Honninscrave looked at Seadreamer, asking him for the advice of the Earth-Sight. But he shook his head; he had no guidance to offer them.

  Then all their attention was focused on Linden. She had not spoken since the arrival of the Harbor Captain. The hot sunlight seemed to cast a haze like an omen of incapacity over her thoughts. The Sandhold loomed over Bhrathairain—an image in stone of the gyring power which had created Sandgorgons Doom. Intuitions for which she had no name told her that the gaddhi and his Kemper represented both hazard and opportunity. She had to struggle against a growing inner confusion in order to meet the eyes of the Giants.

  With an effort, she asked, “What did that Caitiffin say to the Harbor Captain?”

  Slowly Honninscrave replied, “Its purport was no other than the words he addressed to us—a strong reproof for trespass upon the gaddhi’s will to welcome us. Yet his vehemence itself suggests another intent. In some way, this welcome is not merely eager. It is urgent. I suspect that Rire Grist has been commanded not to fail.”

  Linden looked away. She had been hoping for some clearer revelation. Dully she murmured, “We’ve already made this decision—when we chose to come here in the first place.” Her attention kept slipping away toward the Sandhold. Immense powers lay hidden within those blank walls. And powers were answers.

  The Giants regarded each other again. When the First nodded grimly, Honninscrave straightened his shoulders and turned to Sevinhand. “Anchormaster,” he said quietly, “I leave Starfare’s Gem in your hands. Ward it well. Our first requirement is the safety of the Giantship. Our second, stone for Pitchwife’s wiving. Our third, replenishment of our stores. And you must contrive means to send warning
of any peril. If you judge it needful, you must flee this Harbor. Do not scruple to abandon us. We will essay to rejoin you beyond the Spikes.”

  Sevinhand accepted the command. His lean and weathered face showed no hesitance. Risk and decision were congenial to him because they distracted him from his old melancholy.

  “I will remain with Starfare’s Gem,” Pitchwife said. He looked uncomfortable at the idea. He did not like to leave the First’s side. “I must begin my wiving. And at need Sevinhand will spare me to convey messages to the Sandhold.”

  Again the First nodded. Honninscrave gave Pitchwife’s shoulder a quick slap of comradeship, then faced toward the afterdeck. In a clear voice, he said, “Storesmaster, you may release the Harbor Captain. We will accept the gaddhi’s gracious hospitality.”

  Above the ships, the crows and gulls went on calling as if they were ravenous.

  FOURTEEN: The Sandhold

  Linden followed Honninscrave, the First, and Seadreamer down from the wheeldeck to rejoin the Caitiffin. She was trying to decide whether or not she should make an effort to prevent Brinn from taking Covenant to the Sandhold. She was instinctively leery of that place. But the haze on her thoughts blurred her thinking. And she did not want to be parted from him. He looked so vulnerable in his slack emptiness that she yearned to stand between him and any danger. Also, she was better able than anyone else to keep watch over his condition.

  The Harbor Captain had already escaped over the side of the dromond, his dignity in disarray. Rire Grist delivered himself of several graceful assurances concerning the gaddhi Rant Absolain’s pleasure at the company’s acceptance of his welcome; and Honninscrave responded with his own grave politesse. But Linden did not listen to either of them. She was watching Vain and Findail.

  They approached the gathering together as if they were intimately familiar with each other. However, Vain’s ambiguous blackness formed an acute contrast to Findail’s pale flesh, his creamy raiment and expression of habitual misery. The erosion of his face seemed to have worsened since Linden had last looked at him; and his yellow eyes conveyed a constant wince, as though Vain’s presence were a nagging pain to him.

  Clearly they both intended to accompany her and Covenant to the Sandhold.

  But if Rire Grist felt any surprise at the strangeness of these two beings, he did not show it. Including them in his courtesies, he started back down to the pier. The Giants made ready to follow him. The First gave Pitchwife a brief intent farewell, then swung over the side after the Caitiffin. Honninscrave and Seadreamer went next.

  Supporting Covenant between them, Brinn and Hergrom paused at the railing as if to give Linden a chance to speak. But she had nothing to say. The lucidity oozed from her thoughts like the sweat darkening the hair at her temples, Brinn shrugged slightly; and the Haruchai lowered Covenant past the rail into Seadreamer’s waiting grasp.

  For a moment longer, she hesitated, trying to recover some clarity. Her percipience read something covert in Rire Grist: his aura tasted of subtle ambition and purposive misdirection. Yet he did not appear evil. His emanations lacked the acid scent of malice. Then why was she so uneasy?

  She had expected Vain and Findail to follow Covenant at once; but instead they were waiting for her. Vain’s orbs revealed nothing, perhaps saw nothing. And Findail did not look at her; he seemed reluctant to confront her penetration.

  Their silent attendance impelled her into motion. Walking awkwardly to the rail, she set her feet on the rungs of the ladder and let her weight pull her down to the pier.

  When she joined the company, the other four soldiers dismounted, and the Caitiffin offered their destriers to her and her immediate companions. At once, Brinn swung up behind one of the saddles. Then Hergrom lifted Covenant to sit between Brinn’s arms. Ceer and Hergrom each took a mount, leaving one for Linden and Cail. Now she did not let herself hesitate. These beasts were far smaller and less threatening than the Coursers of the Clave. Though she had no experience as a horsewoman, she put a foot in the near stirrup, grasped the pommel with both hands, and climbed into the seat. In an instant, Cail was sitting behind her.

  While Rire Grist mounted his own beast, his cohorts took the reins of their destriers. Honninscrave and the First positioned themselves on either side of the Caitiffin; Seadreamer moved between the horses which bore Covenant and Linden. Ceer and Hergrom followed, with Vain and Findail behind them. In this formation, they left the pier and entered the town of Bhrathairain like a cortege.

  The crew shouted no farewells after them. The risk the company was taking invoked a silent respect from Starfare’s Gem.

  At Rire Grist’s command, the throng on the docks parted. A babble of curious voices rose around Linden in tongues she did not know. Foremost among them were the brackish accents of the Bhrathair. Only a few onlookers chose to express their wonder in the common language of the port—the language Linden understood. But those few seemed to convey the general tenor of the talk. They claimed to their neighbors that they had seen sights as unusual as Giants before, that the Haruchai and Findail were not especially remarkable. But Linden and Covenant—she in her checked flannel shirt and tough pants, he in his old T-shirt and jeans—were considered to be queerly dressed; and Vain, as odd a being as any in this part of the world. Linden listened keenly to the exclamations and conversation, but heard nothing more ominous than surprise.

  For some distance, the Caitiffin led the way along the docks, between the piers and an area of busy shops which catered to the immediate needs of the ships—canvas, caulking, timber, ropes, food. But when he turned to ascend along narrow cobbled streets toward the Sandhold, the character of the warerooms and merchantries changed. Dealers in luxury-goods and weapons began to predominate; taverns appeared at every corner. Most of the buildings were of stone, with tiled roofs; and even the smallest businesses seemed to swarm with trade, as if Bhrathairain lay in a glut of wealth. People crowded every entryway and alley, every street, swarthy and begauded Bhrathair commingling with equal numbers of sailors, traders, and buyers from every land and nation in this region of the world. The smells of dense habitation thickened the air—exotic spices and perfumes, forges and metalworks, sweat, haggling, profit, and inadequate sewers.

  And all the time, the heat weighed against the town like a millstone, squeezing odors and noise out of the very cobbles under the horses’ hooves. The pressure blunted Linden’s senses, restricting their range; but though she caught flashes of every degree of avarice and concupiscience, she still felt no hostility or machination, no evidence of malice. Bhrathairain might try to trick strangers into poverty, but would not attack them.

  At intervals, Honninscrave interrupted his observation of the town to ask questions of the Caitiffin. One in particular caught Linden’s attention. With perfect nonchalance, the Master inquired if perhaps the welcome accorded Starfare’s Gem had come from the gaddhi’s Kemper rather than from Rant Absolain himself.

  The Caitiffin’s reply was as easy as Honninscrave’s question. “Assuredly the gaddhi desires both your acquaintance and your comfort. Yet it is true that his duties, and his diversions also, consume his notice. Thus some matters must perforce be delayed for the sake of others. Anticipating his will, the gaddhi’s Kemper, Kasreyn of the Gyre, bade me bid you welcome. For such anticipations, the Kemper is dearly beloved by his gaddhi, and indeed by all who hold the gaddhi in their hearts. I may say,” he added with a touch of the same irony which lay behind Honninscrave’s courtesy, “that those who do not so hold him are few. Prosperity teaches a great love of sovereigns.”

  Linden stiffened at that statement. To her hearing, it said plainly that Rire Grist’s allegiance lay with Kasreyn rather than the gaddhi. In that case, the purpose behind the Caitiffin’s invitation might indeed be other than it appeared.

  But Honninscrave remained carefully bland. “Then Kasreyn of the Gyre yet lives among you, after so many centuries of service. In good sooth, that is a thing of wonder. Was it not this same Kasreyn
who bound the Sandgorgons to their Doom?”

  “As you say,” Rire Grist responded. “The Kemper of the gaddhi Rant Absolain is that same man.”

  “Why is he so named?” pursued Honninscrave. “He is far-famed throughout the Earth—yet I have heard no account of his name.”

  “That is easily answered.” The Caitiffin seemed proof against any probing. “ ‘Kasreyn’ is the name he has borne since first he came to Bhrathairealm. And his epithet has been accorded him for the nature of his arts. He is a great thaumaturge, and his magicks for the most part manifest themselves in circles, tending upward as they enclose. Thus Sandgorgon’s Doom is a circle of winds holding the beasts within its heart. And so also is the Sandhold itself of circular formation, ascending as it rounds. Other arts the Kemper has, but his chief works are ever cast in the mold of the whirlwind and the gyre.”

  After that, the Master’s questions drifted to less important topics; and Linden’s attention wandered back into the crowded streets and scents and heat of Bhrathairain.

  As the company ascended the winding ways toward the Sandwall, the buildings slowly changed in character. The merchantries became fewer and more sumptuous, catering to a more munificent trade than the general run of sailors and townspeople. And dwellings of all kinds began to replace most of the taverns and shops. At this time of day—the sun stood shortly past noon—the streets here were not as busy as those lower down. There was no breeze to carry away the cloying scents; and the dry heat piled onto everything. Whenever a momentary gap appeared among the people, clearing a section of a street, the cobbles shimmered whitely.