One Tree (68 page)

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 not 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 vapor 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 vapor. 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 labor, 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 vapor 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 glodes 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 vapor 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 mist-glow. 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 acuity 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
Harucha
i 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.

Roughly Covenant scrubbed the mist-sweat from his forehead. His mouth fumbled several different responses before he rasped, “What in hell are you talking about?”

Brinn did not speak. But he lifted his arm, pointed in the direction of the Isle.

His gesture was so certain that it drew every eye with it.

Somewhere beyond the prow of the craft, a window opened in the mist, revealing a stark ledge of rock. It stood at a slight elevation above the sea. The elusive pearl vapor made distances difficult to estimate; but the damp, dark rock appeared to be much closer than the Isle had been only a short time ago. In fact, the ledge might not have been a part of the Isle at all. It seemed to exist only within the context of the mist.

Cross-legged on the shelf sat an ancient man in a tattered colorless robe.

His head was half bowed in an attitude of meditation. But his eyes were open. The milky hue of cataracts or blindness filled his orbs. Faint wisps of hair marked the top of his head; a gray stubble emphasized the hollowness of his cheeks. His skin was seamed with age, and his limbs had been starved to the point of emaciation. Yet he radiated an eerie and unfathomable strength.

Brinn or Cail might have looked like that if the intensity of their lives had permitted them to reach extreme old age.

Almost at once, the mist closed again, swirling back upon itself in ghostly silence.

“Yes,” Findail said as if he did not expect anyone to hear him. “The Guardian of the One Tree. He must be passed.”

Covenant stared at the Appointed. But Findail did not answer his gaze. With a wrench, the Unbeliever aimed himself at Brinn. The mist lit his face like the lambency of dismay.

“Is that what you want to do?” His voice croaked in the nacre stillness. “Confront the Guardian?
Fight
him?”