One Tree (17 page)

Shortly the longboat ground into the shingle which edged the lagoon. Ceer and Hergrom sprang out to hold the craft as the others disembarked. While Honninscrave and Seadreamer secured the longboat, Linden climbed to the first fringe of the grass which led away into the trees. The air felt stronger here—a crisp and tranquil exudation from the valley ahead. Her nose thrilled to the piquant scents of fall.

A backward glance showed her the Giantship. It appeared small against the dark up-rise of the Rawedge Rim. With its sails furled, its masts and spars stark in the half-light, it looked like a toy on the still surface of the lagoon.

Covenant stood near her. His stiff frown could not conceal the moiling within him; venom; power; people dying in the Land; doubt. They were a volatile mixture, crowding close to deflagration. She wondered if he were truly prepared to sell himself to gain access to the One Tree. Yes, she could see that he was. But if the
Elohim
were not to be trusted—?

Honninscrave interrupted her thoughts. With Pitchwife, the First, and Seadreamer, he came up the shingle in long Giantish strides. Then he gestured toward the trees. “Yonder lies Woodenwold,” he said in a tight voice. “Our way is there, along the Callowwail. I adjure you to touch nothing. Harm nothing! In this place, appearances deceive. Mayhap Woodenwold is another thorp of the
Elohim
, like unto
Elemesnedene
itself.”

Covenant scowled in that direction. “How much farther? When are we going to meet these
Elohim
?”

The Master’s reply was sharp. “We will not meet them. Perchance they will elect to meet us. If we give them no offense.”

Covenant met Honninscrave’s hard gaze. After a moment, the Unbeliever nodded, swallowing the bile of his thoughts.

No one stirred. The air seemed to hold them back, urging them to accept this gentleness and be content. But then Ceer and Hergrom
started forward; and the stasis of the company was broken. The First and Honninscrave went after the two
Haruchai
, followed by Linden and Covenant, Cail and Brinn, Seadreamer and Pitchwife. And behind them came Vain, walking as if he were blind and deaf. In this formation, they approached the River Callowwail and the marge of Woodenwold.

As they neared the trees, Hergrom and Ceer found a natural way along the riverbank. Soon the quest was among the woods, moving toward sunlight. Woodenwold was dense with oak and sycamore, ash and maple punctuated by willow, old cottonwood, and young mimosa. In the shadow of the Rim, they shared the mood of the dour stone: their browns and greens were underscored by gray and ire. But when the sun touched them, they sprang instantly into vibrant autumn blazonry. Crossing the shadowline, the companions passed from gray into glory. Woodenwold was an ignition of color—flaming red and orange, sparkling yellow, russet and warm brown. And leaves danced about their feet as they walked, wreathing their legs in gay anadems so that they seemed to trail fire and loveliness at every step. Among them, Linden walked as if each stride carried her farther from her mortality.

The distance passed without effort as the mountains retreated on either hand to make room for the valley. The River Callowwail chuckled like the glee of leaves beside the company. It was not a wide river, but its depths were full of life and sun-spangles. Its waters shone like a new birth. The light of midday gleamed, clinquant and refulgent, on every tree bough and swath of grass.

Around her, Linden thought she heard the sound of bells. They rang delicately in the distance, enhancing the woods with music. But none of her companions appeared to notice the chiming; and she could not stop to question it. It felt like the language of the trees, tanging and changing until it formed words she almost understood, though the meaning slipped away into music whenever she tried to grasp it. The bells were as lovely as the leaves; and yet in a vague way they disquieted her. She was troubled by an intuitive sense that she needed to comprehend them.

Ahead of her, Woodenwold was thinning, opening. The trees spread north and south around the foothills of the Rim; but along the Callowwail, Woodenwold faded into a sun-yellow lea which filled the whole bottom of the valley. Between the company and the mountains, purple with distance, which closed the east lay one wide bowl of golden grass, marked only by the line of the Callowwail as it curved slowly northeastward toward its source.

Honninscrave halted among the last trees. Indicating the lea, he said, “This the
Elohim
name the
maidan
of
Elemesnedene
. At its center lies the
clachan
itself, the spring and fountain of the Callowwail. But that
clachan
we will never find without the guidance of the
Elohim
. If they do not choose to meet us, we will wander the
maidan
as it were a maze, and there we will leave our bones to nourish the grass.”

The First studied him narrowly. “What then is your counsel?”

“This,” he said, “that we remain here, awaiting the goodwill of these folk. This is their land, and we are in their hands. Here, at least, if we are not welcomed we may return unmazed to Starfare’s Gem and cast about us for some other hope.”

The First made some reply; but Linden did not hear her. The sound of bells became abruptly louder, filling her ears. Again the chiming reminded her of language. Do you—? she asked her companions. Do you hear bells? For the space of several heartbeats, she was unaware that she had not spoken aloud. The music seemed to enter her mind without touching her ears.

Then the company was no longer alone. With an eldritch concatenation like the slow magic of dreams, the belling swirled around the trunk of a nearby ash; and a figure flowed out of the wood. It did not detach itself from the tree, was not hidden against the bark: from within the ash, it stepped forward as if it were modulating into a new form. Features emerged as the figure shaped itself: eyes like chrysoprase, delicate brows, a fine nose and soft mouth. Wattle-slim and straight, deft and proud, with a grave smile on her lips and a luminous welcome in her gaze, the woman came forward like an incarnation of the soul of the ash in which she had been contained; and her departure left no mark of presence or absence in the wood. A cymar draped her limbs like the finest sendaline.

Linden stared. Her companions started in surprise. The
Haruchai
were poised on the balls of their feet. Covenant’s mouth opened and closed involuntarily.

But Honninscrave faced the approaching woman and bowed as if she were worthy of worship.

She stopped before them. Her smile radiated power of such depth and purity that Linden could hardly bear to look at it. The woman was a being who transcended any health-sense. Softly she said, “I am pleased that you so desire our goodwill.” Her voice also was music; but it did not explicate the ringing in Linden’s mind. “I am Daphin.” Then she nodded to Honninscrave’s bow. “You are Giants. We have known Giants.”

Still the bells confused Linden, so that she was not sure of what she was hearing.

Daphin turned to Brinn. “You we do not know. Perhaps the tale of your people will interest us.”

The chiming grew louder. Daphin was gazing directly at Linden. Linden had no control over the sound in her head. But she almost gasped in shock when Daphin said, “You are the Sun-Sage.”

Before Linden could react or respond, the woman had turned to Covenant. He was staring at her as if his astonishment were a wound. At once, her smile fell. The bells clamored like surprise or fear. Distinctly she said, “You are not.” As the questers gaped at her, she suddenly melted down into the grass and was gone, leaving no trace of her passage on the wide lea.

Linden clamped her hands over her ears, and the chiming faded—not because of her hands, but because the gesture helped her focus her efforts to block or at least filter the sound. She was sweating in the humid sunlight. The Sun-Sage? Hints of panic flushed across her face. The Sun-Sage?

Covenant swore repeatedly under his breath. His tone was as white as clenched knuckles. When she looked at him, she saw him glaring at the grass where Daphin had vanished as if he meant to blight it with fire.

The
Haruchai
had not moved. Honninscrave’s head had jerked back in astonishment or pain. Seadreamer gazed intently at Linden in search of understanding. Pitchwife stood beside the First as if he were leaning on her. Her eyes knifed warily back and forth between Linden and Covenant.

Vain’s black mien wore an aspect of suppressed excitement.

“Sun-Sage?” the First asked rigidly. “What is this ‘Sun-Sage?’ ”

Linden took a step toward Covenant. He appeared to be cursing at her. She could not bear it. “I’m
not
.” Her voice sounded naked in the sunshine, devoid of any music which would have given it beauty. “You know I’m not.”

His visage flamed at her. “Damnation! Of course you are. Haven’t you learned anything yet?”

His tone made her flinch. Daphin’s
You are not
formed a knot of ire in him that Linden could see as clearly as if it had been outlined on his forehead. He would not be able to alter the Sunbane. And because of him, the Elohim had withdrawn her welcome.

With hard patience, the First demanded again, “What is this ‘Sun-Sage’?”

Covenant replied like a snarl, “Somebody who can control the Sunbane.” His features were acute with self-disgust.

“They will not welcome us.” Loss stretched Honninscrave’s voice thin. “Oh,
Elohim
!”

Linden struggled for a way to answer Covenant without berating him. I don’t have the
power
. Sweat ran into her eyes, blurring her vision. The tension of the company felt unnatural to her. This anger and grief seemed to violate the wide mansuetude of Woodenwold and the
maidan
. But then her senses reached farther, and she thought, No. That’s not it. In some way, the valley’s tranquility appeared to be the cause of this intensity. The air was like a balm which was too potent to give anything except pain.

But the opening of her percipience exposed her to the bells again. Or they were drawing closer. Chiming took over her mind. Pitchwife’s voice was artificially muffled in her ears as he said, “Mayhap their welcome is not yet forfeit. Behold!”

She blinked her sight clear in time to see two figures come flowing up out of the ground in front of her. Smoothly they transformed themselves from grass and soil into human shapes.

One was Daphin. Her smile was gone; in its place was a sober calm that resembled regret. But her companion wore a grin like a smirk.

He was a man with eyes as blue as jacinth, the same color as his mantle. Like Daphin’s cymar, his robe was not a garment he had donned, but rather an adornment he had created within himself. With self-conscious
elegance, he adjusted the folds of the cloth. The gleam in his eyes might have been pleasure of mockery. The distinction was confused by the obligate of the bells.

“I am Chant,” he said lightly. “I have come for truth.”

Both he and Daphin gazed directly at Linden.

The pressure of their regard seemed to expose every fiber of her nature. By contrast, her health-sense was humble and crude. They surpassed all her conceptions.

She reacted in instinctive denial. With a wrench of determination, she thrust the ringing into the background. The
Elohim
searched her as Gibbon had once searched her.
Are you not evil
? No. Not as long as the darkness had no power. “I’m not the Sun-Sage.”

Chant cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

“If anybody is, it’s him.” She pointed at Covenant, trying to turn the eyes of the
Elohim
away. “He has the ring.”

They did not waver. Daphin’s mien remained pellucid; but Chant’s smile hinted at fierceness. “We have no taste for untruth”—his tone was satin—“and your words are manifestly untrue. Deny not that you are what you are. It does not please us. Explain, rather, why this man holds possession of your white ring.”

At once, Covenant snapped, “It’s not her ring. It’s mine. It’s always been mine.” Beside the
Elohim
, he sounded petulant and diminished.

Chant’s smile deepened, gripping Linden in its peril. “That also is untrue. You are not the Sun-Sage.”

Covenant tensed for a retort. But Daphin forestalled him. Calmly she said, “No. The ring is his. Its mark lies deeply within him.”

At that, Chant looked toward his companion; and Linden sagged in relief. The shifting of his gaze gave her a palpable release.

Chant frowned as if Daphin’s contradiction broke an unspoken agreement. But she went on addressing Linden. “Yet here is a mystery. All our vision has seen the same truth—that the Sun-Sage and ring-wielder who would come among us in quest are one being. Thereon hinge matters of grave import. And our vision does not lie. Rawedge Rim and Woodenwold do not lie. How may this be explained, Sun-Sage?”

Linden felt Covenant clench as if he were on the verge of fire. “What do you want me to do?” he grated. “Give it up?”

Chant did not deign to glance at him. “Such power ill becomes you. Silence would be more seemly. You stand among those who surpass you. Permit the Sun-Sage to speak.” Notes of anger ran through the music of the bells.

Covenant growled a curse. Sensing his ire, Linden twisted herself out of the grip of the
Elohim
to face him. His visage was dark with venom.

Again his vehemence appeared unnatural—a reaction to the air rather than to his situation or the
Elohim
. That impression sparked an inchoate urgency in her. Something here outweighed her personal denials. Intuitively she pitched her voice so that Covenant must hear her.

“I wouldn’t be here without him.”

Then she began to tremble at the responsibility she had implicitly accepted.

The next moment, Pitchwife was speaking. “Peace, my friends,” he said. His misshapen face was sharp with uncharacteristic apprehension. “We have journeyed far to gain the boon of these
Elohim
. Far more than our mere lives hang in jeopardy.” His voice beseeched them softly. “Give no offense.”