One Tree (66 page)

“Bannor did the same thing. Just what you’re doing. We were standing on Landsdrop—with Foamfollower. He refused to come with us, when I needed—” He swallowed convulsively. “I asked him what he was ashamed of. He said, ‘I am not shamed. But I am saddened that so many centuries were required to teach us the limits of our worth. We went too far, in pride and folly. Mortal men should not give up wives and sleep and death for any service—lest the face of failure become too abhorrent to be endured.’ The same thing you’re saying now. But don’t you understand? It’s not that simple. Anybody can fail. But the Bloodguard didn’t just fail. They lost faith. Or why do you think Bannor had to meet me in Andelain? If you’re right, why didn’t he let you just go on paying the price of your unworth?”

Covenant wanted to beat his frustration at Brinn. Grimly he restrained himself, strove instead to make his words felt through the
Haruchai
’s intransigence.

“I’ll tell you why. Maybe no Vow or promise is the answer to Despite—but neither is abdication. He didn’t give me any promises, any gifts. He just said, ‘Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination. And they will serve you well.’ ”

Then he stopped. He could not go on; he understood too well the extremity of the man he faced. For a moment, Saltroamrest was silent except for the labor of the
dromond
’s pumps, the creaking of the masts, the muffled fury of the seas and wind. The lanterns continued to sway vulnerably. Seadreamer’s eyes burned at the
Haruchai
as if he sensed a strange hope in their intractable self-judgment.

At last, Brinn spoke. He sounded almost gentle. “Ur-Lord, have we not served you well?”

Covenant’s features contorted in bereavement. But he made a fierce effort, forced himself to reply, “You know you have.”

Brinn did not flinch or hesitate. “Then let it end.”

Covenant turned to Linden. His hands groped for contact with her. But his fingers were numb. He found no other answer in her.

Later that night, in the privacy of her cabin, while the storm thrashed and clawed at the Giantship, he rubbed the sore muscles of her neck and back. His fingers worked at her as if they were desperate with loss. Gradually the
diamondraught
she had consumed to speed her recovery put her to sleep; but he did not stop massaging her until his hands were too tired to continue. He did not know what else to do with his despair. The defection of the
Haruchai
seemed to presage the collapse of all his hopes.

Later still, Starfare’s Gem lifted its sails into the gray dawn and ran beyond the grief of the
merewives
. The rain ended like tears which had fallen too long; the wind frayed away toward other parts of the sea. Honninscrave needed only a slight adjustment of course to head the
dromond
directly for its goal.

But the
Haruchai
did not relent.

The sky remained beclouded and blustery for two days, echoing the gray moil of the sea like indignation, as if Starfare’s Gem were an intrusion which vexed the region. But then the wind rose in dismissal, and the
dromond
was swept into a period of clear days and crystal nights. Under the sun, the sea joined the heavens without seam or taint; and at night the specific glitter of the stars marked out the path of the quest for any experienced gaze to read.

Grimmand Honninscrave grew more eager every day. And the immaculate wind seemed to fan both the First and Pitchwife into a heat of anticipation. At unguarded moments, his misborn grotesquerie and her iron beauty looked oddly similar, as if their progress toward the One Tree were deepening their intimacy. The three of them studied the distance constantly, searching the horizon for validation of the choices which had taken them away from the Land in spite of Seadreamer’s plain Earth-Sight.

Their keenness spread out across the Giantship, affecting all the crew. Even Heft Galewrath’s blunt features took on a whetted aspect. And Sevinhand’s old sadness passed through periods of sunshine like hope.

Linden Avery watched them as she watched the ship itself and Covenant, trying to find her place among them. She understood the Giants, knew that much of their eagerness arose on Seadreamer’s behalf. His dumb misery was vivid to everyone. His people champed to accomplish their purpose and head back toward the Land, where he might be able to seek relief in the crisis of the Sunbane, the apotheosis of his vision. But she did not share that particular longing. She feared that the Giants did not recognize the true nature of his vision.

And Covenant’s mood only aggravated her apprehension. He seemed avid for the One Tree to the point of fever. Emotionally if not physically, he had drawn away from her. The rejection of the
Haruchai
had driven him into a state of rigid defensiveness. When he talked, his voice had a ragged edge which he could not blunt; and his eyes sent out reflections of bloodshed. She saw in his face that he was remembering the Clave, people butchered to feed the Banefire, self-distrust; remembering power and venom over which he had no control. At times, his gaze was hollow with recollections of silence. Even his lovemaking became strangely vehement, as if despite their embraces he believed he had already lost her.

She could not forget that he intended to send her back to her former life. He was fervid for the One Tree for his own reasons, hoping that it would enable him to fight Lord Foul with something other than white fire and destruction. But he also wanted it because of her. To send her back.

She dreaded that, dreaded the One Tree. Seadreamer’s mute and untouchable trepidation ached in her like an open wound. Whenever he came within range of her senses, she felt his ambience bleeding. At times, she could barely rein herself from urging Covenant, the First, anyone who would listen to abandon the quest—forget the One Tree, return to the Land, fight the Sunbane with whatever weapons were available and accept the outcome. She believed that Seadreamer knew exactly what Lord Foul was doing. And she did not want to be sent back.

Late one night, when Covenant had at last fallen into a sleep free of nightmares, she left his side, went up to the decks. She wore her woolen robe. Though the air had become noticeably cooler during the past few days, she shied away from her old clothes as if they represented exigencies and failures she did not wish to reconsider. On the afterdeck, she found Starfare’s Gem riding unerringly before the wind under a moon already in its last quarter. Soon nothing would stand between the
dromond
and darkness except the ambiguous stars and a few lanterns. But for this night, at least, a crescent of light remained acute in the heavens.

Sevinhand greeted her quietly from the wheeldeck; but she did not go to him. Beyond the wind, the long stone sea-running of the
dromond
, the slumber of the Giants who were not on watch, she sensed Seadreamer’s presence like a hand of pain cupped against her cheek. Huddling into her robe, she went forward.

She found the mute Giant sitting with his back to the foremast, facing the prow and Findail’s silhouette. The small muscles around his eyes winced and tightened as he stared at Findail—and through Findail toward the One Tree—as if he were begging the Appointed to say the things which he, Seadreamer, could not. But Findail seemed immune to the Giant’s appeal. Or perhaps such supplications were a part of the burden which he had been Appointed to bear. He also faced the prospect of the One Tree as if he feared to take his eyes from it.

In silence, Linden seated herself beside Seadreamer. He sat cross-legged, with his hands in his lap. At intervals, he turned the palms upward as if he were trying to open himself to the night, accept his doom. But repeatedly his fists clenched, shoulders knotted, transforming him to a figure of protest.

After a moment, she breathed, “Try.” The frail sickle-moon lit none of his visage except the pale scar which underlined his gaze; the rest remained dark. “There’s got to be some way.”

With a violence that made her flinch, his hands leaped upward. Their heels thudded bitterly against his forehead. But an instant later he snatched air in through his teeth, and his hands began sketching shapes across the night.

At first, she was unable to follow his gestures: the outline he attempted to form eluded her. But he tried again, strove to grasp an image out of the blank air. This time, she understood him.

“The One Tree.”

He nodded rigidly. His arms made an arc around him.

“The ship,” she whispered. “Starfare’s Gem.”

Again he nodded. He repeated the movement of his arms, then pointed forward past the prow. His hands redelineated the tree-shape.

“The ship going to the One Tree.”

Seadreamer shook his head.

“When the ship gets to the One Tree,”

This time, his nod was stiff with grief. With one finger, he tapped his chest, pointing at his heart. Then his hands came together, twisted each other—a wrench as violent as a rupture. Trails of silver gleamed across his scar.

When Linden could no longer bear the sight, she looked away—and found Findail there, come to witness the Giant’s pantomime. The moon lay beyond his right shoulder; all his face and form were dark.

“Help him,” she demanded softly. Help me. “Can’t you see what he’s going through?”

For a long moment, the
Elohim
did not move or reply. Then he stepped close to the Giant, reached out one hand to Seadreamer’s
forehead. His fingertips pressed gentleness onto the fate written there. Almost at once, Seadreamer slumped. Muscle by muscle, the pressure ran out of him as if it were being absorbed by Findail’s touch. His chin sagged to his breast. He was asleep.

In silence, Findail turned back to the station he had chosen in the
dromond
’s prow.

Carefully so that she would not disturb the Giant’s rest, Linden rose to her feet, returned like mute rue to lie at Covenant’s side and stare at the ceiling of her cabin until she slept.

The next morning, she brought up the question of Seadreamer in front of the First, Pitchwife, Honninscrave, and Covenant. But the Master had no new insight to give her. And Pitchwife reiterated his hope that Seadreamer would gain some relief when their quest for the One Tree had been accomplished.

Linden knew better. Severely she described her encounter with the mute Giant the previous night.

Pitchwife made no effort to conceal his dismay. Cocking her fists on her hips, the First gazed away past the prow and muttered long Giantish curses under her breath. Honninscrave’s features knotted like the stiff tangle of his beard.

Covenant stood among them as if he were alone; but he spoke for them all. His gaze wandered the stone, avoiding Linden as he rasped, “Do you think we should turn back?”

She wanted to answer, Yes! But she could not. He had invested all his hope in the One Tree.

For a time, Honninscrave’s commands to the crew were tinged with uncertainty, as if within him a voice of denial cried out that the
dromond
should be turned at once, sent with all possible speed away from its fatal destination. But he kept his fear to himself. The Giantship’s path across the seas did not waver.

That clear wind blew for five days. It became gradually but steadily cooler as the vessel angled into the north; but it remained dry, firm, and insistent. And for three of those days, the quest arrowed swiftly along the waves without incident, meeting no danger, sighting no landfall.

But on the fourth day, a cry of astonishment and alarm rang down from the lookout. The stone under Linden’s feet began to vibrate as if the sea were full of tremors. Honninscrave shortened sail, readied his ship for emergency. In another league, Starfare’s Gem found itself gliding through a region crowded with
Nicor
.

Their immense shapes each broke water in several places; together, they marked the sea like a multitude. Their underwater talk thrummed against Linden’s senses. Remembering the one
Nicor
she had seen previously, she feared for the safety of the
dromond
. But these creatures appeared oblivious to Starfare’s Gem. Their voices conveyed no timbre of peril to her percipience. They moved without haste or hunger, lolling vaguely as if they were immersed in lethargy, boredom, or contentment. Occasionally one of them lifted a massive snout, then subsided with a distant soughing of water like a sigh of indifference. Honninscrave was able to steer his vessel among them without attracting their attention.

“Stone and Sea!” Pitchwife breathed softly to Linden, “I had not thought that all the seas of the Earth together contained so many such creatures. The stories of them are so scanty that one
Nicor
alone might account for them all. What manner of ocean is it that we have entered with such blithe ignorance?”

The First was standing beside him. He looked up at her as he concluded, “Yet this will be a tale to delight any child.” She did not meet his gaze; but the smile which softened her eyes was as private as the affection in his tone.

Honninscrave’s care took the Giantship slowly among the
Nicor
; but by midafternoon the creatures had been left behind, and Starfare’s Gem resumed its flying pace. And that night, a mood of over-stretched gaiety came upon the Giants. They roistered and sang under the implacable stars like feverish children, insensate to the quest’s purpose or Seadreamer’s pain; and Pitchwife led them in one long caper of enforced mirth, as if he were closer to hysteria than any of them. But Linden heard the truth of their emotion. They were affirming themselves against their own apprehensions, venting their suspense in communal frolic. And Pitchwife’s wild effort heightened the mood to a catastasis, finally giving rise to a humor that was less desperate and more solacing—warm, purified, and indomitable. If Covenant had sought to join them, Linden would have gone with him.

But he did not. He stood apart as if the recanting of the
Haruchai
had shaken him to the core of his strength, rendering him inaccessible to consolation. Or perhaps he held back because he had forgotten how to be alone, how to confront his doom without loathing his loneliness. When he and Linden went below to her cabin, he huddled on the pallet as if he could hardly endure the bare comfort of her flesh. The One Tree was near. With the muffled uproar of the Giants in her ears, she hung on the verge of urging him, Don’t do it. Don’t send me back. But her inbred fears paralyzed her, and she did not take the risk.