White Gold Wielder (12 page)

But Covenant did not have any relief to offer the Giant, and the door was open. Frowning at the pain all the people around him had to bear, he went into the Master’s cabin, leaving Cail outside.

Honninscrave’s quarters were austere: except for a few chairs sized for Giants, a huge seachest, and a deep bunk, its only furnishings were a long table cluttered with nautical instruments and charts and two lamps hanging in stone gimbals. Honninscrave stood at the far end of the table as if Covenant’s arrival had interrupted him in the act of pacing. Sevinhand sat on the edge of the bunk, more melancholy than ever in his weariness. Near him was the Storesmaster, her shoulders touching the wall, no expression on her blunt features. The First and Pitchwife occupied two of the chairs. She held her back straight, her scabbarded blade across her thighs, as though refusing to admit how tired she was; but her husband was slumped with fatigue, emphasizing the deformation of his spine.

In one corner of the chamber, Linden sat cross-legged on the floor. Sleep made her eyes bleary: when she raised them to acknowledge Covenant, she seemed hardly able to see him. In the company of these Giants, she appeared tiny and misplaced. But the hue of her skin and the steadiness of her respiration showed that she had been essentially restored to health.

The air of the cabin felt tense, as if Covenant had entered the middle of an argument. None of the Giants except Pitchwife and Sevinhand were looking at him. But when he turned his unspoken question toward Pitchwife, the First’s husband bowed his head and did not answer. And the lines of Sevinhand’s old rue were too deep to be challenged.

Covenant was stretched taut beyond gentleness. In a raw, brusque voice, he demanded, “So what do you think we should do about it?”

Linden frowned as if his tone hurt her. Or perhaps she had already read the nature of his intent. Without lifting her head, she murmured, “That’s what they’ve been arguing about.”

Her explanation eased him somewhat. He had gone so far down the road of his fate that he instinctively expected every hostile or painful or simply difficult emotion to be directed at himself. But his question remained. “What choice have we got?”

At that, the muscles at the corners of Honninscrave’s jaw clenched. Sevinhand rubbed his cheeks with his palms as if he sought to push back the sorrow. The First let a sigh breathe softly through her teeth. But no one answered.

Covenant pulled air into his lungs, gripped his courage in the insensate cold of his fists. “If you don’t have any better ideas, I’m going to break us out of this ice.”

Then every eye was on him, and a shock of apprehension recoiled through the cabin. Honninscrave’s face gaped like a reopened wound. All the sleep vanished from Linden’s orbs. The First surged to her feet. As harsh as iron, she demanded, “Will you hazard the Earth to no purpose?”

“Do you think your restraint is that good?” Linden added instantly. She, too, had come to her feet as if she wanted to meet Covenant’s folly standing. “Or are you just looking for an excuse to throw power around?”

“Hell and blood!” Covenant barked. Had Findail taught everyone aboard the
dromond
to distrust him? “If you don’t like it”—his scarred forearm itched avidly—“give me an alternative! Do you think I
like
being this dangerous?”

His outburst sent a grimace of chagrin across the First’s face. Linden dropped her eyes. For a moment, Pitchwife’s difficult breathing punctuated the silence. Then his wife said softly, “Your pardon, Giantfriend. I did not intend affront. But we are not without choice in this strait.” She turned, and her gaze went like the point of a blade toward Honninscrave. “You will speak now, Master.”

Honninscrave glared at her. But she was the First of the Search: no Giant would have refused to obey her when she used that tone. He complied slowly, uttering each word like a flat piece of stone. Yet as he answered his hands made truncated, rumbling movements among the charts and implements on the table, contradicting him.

“I am uncertain of our position. I have been granted scant opportunity for sightings since the cloud-wrack cleared. And this sea has been little frequented by our people. Our charts and knowledge are likewise uncertain.” The First frowned a reprimand at his digression; but he did not falter. “Where knowledge is insufficient, all choices are hazardous.

“Yet it would appear that we lie now some four- or fivescore leagues north and east of the coast which you name Seareach, home of the Unhomed and site of their destitute city and grave,
Coercri
, The Grieve.” He articulated that name with a special distinctness, as if he would prefer to hear it sung. Then he outlined the alternative which the First had in mind: that Covenant and the leaders of the Search leave Starfare’s Gem and strike westward across the ice until they found land, after which they could follow the coast into Seareach.

“Or,” Linden interposed warily, studying Covenant as she spoke. “we could forget Seareach and head straight for Revelstone. I don’t know the terrain, but it’s bound to be quicker than detouring that far south.”

“Aye.” Honninscrave permitted himself a growl of disgust or trepidation. “Should this littoral lie within hope of our charts.” Emotion rose in his voice, slipping out of his rigid grasp. “And should the ice remain intact and traversable to that coast. And should this winter hold—for we are somewhat southerly to have encountered such ice in the natural course of the seas, and it may thaw beneath us unseasonably.” To keep himself from shouting, he ground out the words like shards of rock. “And should the northward reaches of the Land be not rugged or mountainous beyond all possibility of travel.
Then
—” He grabbed a mouthful of air, held it between his teeth. “Then, I say, our way is clear before us.”

His distress was acute in the confinement of the cabin. But the First did not relent. “We hear you,” she said sternly. “The choice is jeopardous. Complete your tale, Master.”

Honninscrave could not look at her. “Ah, my tale,” he grated. “It is no tale of mine. My brother is dead, and the
dromond
I cherish lies locked in ice and crippled. It is no tale of mine.” Yet the First’s authority held him. Clutching a chart in each fist like a weightless and insufficient cudgel, he directed his voice at Covenant.

“You have offered to sunder the ice. Very good. To Cable Seadreamer my brother who gave his life, you refused the fire of release. But in the name of your mad desire for battle you will attempt a league of ice. Very good. But I say to you that Starfare’s Gem cannot sail. In this maimed state, no. And were the time taken to do what mending lies within our power—time which is so precious to you—and were a channel opened to the sea, then still would our plight remain, for the
dromond
is no longer proof against the stress of the seas. With a kind wind, perchance, we might make way toward Seareach. But any storm would hold us in its mercy. A score of days—or tenscore—might find us yet farther from our goal. Starfare’s Gem”—he had to swallow heavily to force out the words—“is no longer fit to bear the Search.”

“But—” Covenant began, then halted. For an instant, he was confused. Honninscrave’s grief covered an anger which he could not utter and Covenant could not decipher. Why was the Master so bitter?

But suddenly the implications of Honninscrave’s speech swept over Covenant like a breaker; and his comprehension tumbled down the riptide. Starfare’s Gem could not sail. And the First wanted the Search to leave the Giantship, set out afoot toward the Land. He found himself facing her with a knot of cold clenched around his heart. Dismay was all that kept him from fury.

“Nearly forty Giants.” Foamfollower’s people, the kindred of the Unhomed. “You’re talking about leaving them here to die.”

She was a Swordmain, trained to battle and difficult choices. Her sternness as she returned Covenant’s gaze looked as careless of costs as a weapon. But behind her eyes moved shadows like specters of pain.

“Aye.” Honninscrave’s voice scraped the air. “They must be left to die. Or they must accompany us, and Starfare’s Gem itself must be left to die. And from that day forward, no one of us shall ever again set gaze upon the crags and harborage of Home. We have no means for the making of a new
dromond
. And our people know not where we are.” He spoke softly, but every word left a weal across Covenant’s mind.

It was intolerable. He was no sailor; he could bear to abandon the Giantship. But to leave nearly forty Giants behind without hope—or to strand them in the Land as the Unhomed had been stranded!

The First did not waver: she knew her duty and would not shirk it. Covenant swung away from her, confronted Honninscrave down the length of the table. Its height made the Master appear tall and hurt beyond any mitigation. But Covenant could not accept that outcome.

“If we leave the crew here. With the ship.” He drove his gaze up at the Giant until Honninscrave met it. “What will they need? In order to have any chance at all?”

Honninscrave’s head jerked in surprise. For a moment, his mouth parted his beard incredulously, as though he half believed he was being taunted. But then with a wrench he mastered himself. “Stores we have in plenty.” His eyes clung to Covenant like an appeal:
Be not false to me in this
. “But the plight of the Giantship remains. It must have all the mending which Pitchwife may contrive. It must have time.”

Time, Covenant thought. He had already been away from the Land for more than sixty days—away from Revelstone for closer to ninety. How many more people had the Clave killed? But the only alternative was to leave Pitchwife behind with the ship. And he would surely refuse. The First herself might refuse. Stiffly Covenant asked, “How much time?”

“Two days,” replied Honninscrave. “Perhaps three. Much pitch will be required. And the labor itself will be awkward and arduous.”

Damnation! Covenant breathed. Three days. But he did not back down. He was a leper: he knew the folly of trying to purchase the future by selling the present. Grimly he turned to Pitchwife.

Fatigue seemed to emphasize the Giant’s deformities. His back bent as if it had been damaged by the weight of his limbs and head. But his eyes glittered, and his expression had lifted. He looked at Covenant as though he knew what the Unbeliever was about to say—and approved of it.

Covenant felt wooden with failure. He had come here primed for fire; but all he had been able to offer his companions was a patience he did not possess. “Try to do it in one,” he muttered. Then he left the cabin so that he would not have to endure the reactions of the Giants.

Pitchwife’s voice followed him. “Stone and Sea!” the Giant chuckled. “It is a small matter. What need have I of an entire day?”

Glaring at nothing, Covenant quickened his pace.

But as he reached the ladder leading to the afterdeck, Linden caught up with him. She gripped his arm as if something had changed between them. Her intent seriousness bore no resemblance to her old severity, and her eyes were damp. Her soft mouth, which he had kissed with such longing, wore the shape of a plea.

Yet he had not forgiven himself; and after a moment she dropped her hand. Her gaze retreated somewhat. When she spoke, she sounded like a woman who did not know the words she needed.

“You keep surprising me. I never know what to expect from you. Just when I think you’re too far gone to be reached, you do something like that. Like what you did for Sunder and Hollian.” Abruptly she stopped, silenced by the inadequacy of what she was saying.

Covenant wanted to cry out. His desire for her was too acute to be suffered. He had already perverted whatever authenticity he might have had with her. And she was a healer. She had more right to his ring than he did. Self-loathing made him harsh.

“Do you really think I just want to throw power around? Is that your opinion of me?”

At that, she winced. Her expression turned inward like a baffled wail. “No,” she murmured. “No. I was just trying to get your attention.” Then her eyes reached toward him again. “But you scared me. If you could see yourself—”

“If I could see myself,” he rasped so that he would not put his arms around her, “I’d probably puke.”

Savagely he flung himself up the ladder away from her.

But when he gained the open air and brittle cold of the afterdeck, he had to knot his arms across his chest to hold in the hurt.

While he ate his breakfast in the galley, trying to absorb some of the stoves’ warmth, he could hear the sounds of work outside. At first, Sevinhand’s voice and Galewrath’s commanded alternately. He supervised the preparation of the foredeck; she led the breaking of the ice and the ritual songs for the burial of the three fallen crewmembers. But after a while Pitchwife made himself heard over the scuffle of feet and clatter of gear, the stiff hiss and thud of half-frozen cable. When Covenant had collected what little courage he had left, he went out to watch.

During the night, the crew had cleared and organized the wreckage. Now they were busy readying the truncated foremast. Pitchwife was hunched over a large stone vat of his special pitch; but his eyes and voice followed the sailors as they rigged lines between the intact yard and the splintered end of the mast. Except for the necessary questions and instructions, the Giants were unusually quiet, disspirited. The Dolewind had held them for a long time; and since their encounter with the Soulbiter they had had no rest at all. Now their future had become as fragile and arduous as ice. Even Giants could not carry so much strain indefinitely.

But Covenant had never seen Pitchwife at work before. Grateful for any distraction, he studied Pitchwife with fascination as the First’s husband completed his preparations. Consigning his vat to another Giant, he hoisted a slab of setrock in a sling over his shoulder, then went to the ropes and began pulling himself slowly up the foremast.

Below him, the crew set his vat of pitch into a net that they had rigged from a pulley fixed as high as possible on the mast. When he reached that height himself, supported now by a line lashed under his arms and around the mast, two Giants hauled the vat up to him. His breath plumed crisply in the cold.