The One Tree

Ten: Escape from Elohim

THE bells were clear to Linden now; but she no longer cared what they were saying. She was locked to Covenant's vacant eyes, his slack, staring face. If he could see her at all, the sight had no meaning to him. He did not react when she took hold of his head, thrust her horrified gaze at him.

The Giants were clamouring to know what had happened to him. She ignored them. Desperately marshalling her percipience, she tried to penetrate the flat emptiness of his orbs, reach his mind. But she failed: within his head, her vision vanished into darkness. He was like a snuffed candle, and the only smoke curling up from the extinguished wick was his old clenched stricture:

“Don't touch me.”

She began to founder in that dark. Something of him must have remained sentient, otherwise he could not have continued to articulate his self-despite. But that relict of his consciousness was beyond her grasp. The darkness seemed to leech away her own light. She was falling into an emptiness as eternal and hungry as the cold void between the stars.

Savagely, she tore herself out of him.

Honninscrave and Seadreamer stood with the First at Covenant's back. Pitchwife knelt beside Linden, his huge hands cupping her shoulders in appeal. “Chosen.” His whisper ached among the trailing wisps of dark. “Linden Avery. Speak to us.”

She was panting in rough heaves. She could not find enough air. The featureless light of Elemesnedene suffocated her. The Elohim loomed claustrophobically around her, as unscrupulous as ur-viles. “You planned this,” she grated between gasps. “This is what you wanted all along.” She was giddy with extremity. “To destroy him.”

The First drew a sharp breath. Pitchwife's hands tightened involuntarily. Wincing to his feet as if he needed to meet his surprise upright, he lifted Linden erect. Honninscrave gaped at her. Seadreamer stood with his arms rigid at his sides, restraining himself from vision.

“Enough,” responded Infelice. Her tone was peremptory ice. “I will submit no longer to the affront of such false judgment. The Elohimfest has ended.” She turned away.

“Stop!” Without Pitchwife's support, Linden would have fallen like pleading to the bare ground. All her remaining strength went into her voice. “You've got to restore him! Goddamn it, you can't leave him like this!”

Infelice paused, but did not look back. “We are the Elohim. Our choices lie beyond your questioning. Be content.” Gracefully, she continued down the hillside.

Seadreamer broke into motion, hurled himself after her. The First and Honninscrave shouted, but could not halt him. Bereft of his wan, brief hope, he had no other outlet for his pain.

But Infelice heard or sensed his approach. Before he reached her, she snapped, “Hold, Giant!”

He rebounded as if he had struck an invisible wall at her back. The force of her command sent him sprawling.

With stately indignation, she faced him. He lay grovelling on his chest; but his lips were violent across his teeth, and his eyes screamed at her.

“Assail me not with your mistrust,” she articulated slowly, “lest I teach you that your voiceless Earth-Sight is honey and benison beside the ire of Elemesnedene”

“No.” By degrees, life was returning to Linden's limbs; but still she needed Pitchwife's support. “If you want to threaten somebody, threaten me. I'm the one who accuses you.”

Infelice looked at her without speaking.

“You planned all this,” Linden went on. “You demeaned him, dismissed him, insulted him-to make him angry enough so that he would let you into him and dare you to hurt him. And then you wiped out his mind. Now”-she gathered every shred of her vehemence-“restore it!”

“Sun-Sage,” Infelice said in a tone of glacial scorn, “you mock yourself and are blind to it.” Moving disdainfully, she left the eftmound and passed through the ring of dead trees.

On all sides, the other Elohim also turned away, dispersing as if Linden and her companions held no more interest for them-With an inchoate cry, Linden swung toward Covenant. For one wild instant, she intended to grab his ring, use it to coerce the Elohim.

The sight of him stopped her. The First had raised him to his feet. He stared through Linden as though she and everything about her had ceased to exist for him; but his empty refrain sounded like an unintentional appeal.

“Don't touch me.”

Oh, Covenant! Of course she could not take his ring. She could not do that to him, if for no other reason than because it was what the Elohim wanted. Or part of what they wanted. She ached in protest, but her resolve had frayed away into uselessness again. A surge of weeping rose up in her; she barely held it back. What have they done to you?

“Is it sooth?” the First whispered to the ambiguous sky. “Have we gained this knowledge at such a cost to him?”

Linden nodded dumbly. Her hands made fumbling gestures. She had trained them to be a physician's hands, and now she could hardly contain the yearning to strangle. Covenant had been taken from her as surely as if he had been slain-murdered like Nassic by a blade still hot with cruelty. She felt that if she did not move, act, stand up for herself somehow, she would go mad.

Around her, the Giants remained still as if they had been immobilized by her dismay. Or by the loss of Covenant, of his determination. No one else could restore the purpose of the quest.

That responsibility gave Linden what she needed. Animated by preterite stubbornness, she lurched down the hillside to find if Seadreamer had been harmed.

He was struggling to his feet. His eyes were wide and stunned, confused by Earth-Sight. He reeled as if he had lost all sense of balance. When Honninscrave hastened to his side, he clung to the Master's shoulder as if it were the only stable point in a breaking world. But Linden's percipience found no evidence of serious physical hurt. Yet the emotional damage was severe. Something in him had been torn from its moorings by the combined force of his examination, the loss of the hope his brother had conceived for him, and Covenant's plight. He was caught in straits for which all relief had been denied; and he bore his Earth-Sight as if he knew that it would kill him.

This also was something Linden could not cure. She could only witness it and mutter curses that had no efficacy.

Most of the bells had receded into the background, but two remained nearby. They were arguing together, satisfaction against rue. Their content was accessible now, but Linden no longer had any wish to make out the words. She had had enough of Chant and Daphin.

Yet the two came together up the eftmound toward her, and she could not ignore them. They were her last chance. When they faced her, she aimed her bitterness straight into Daphin's immaculate green gaze.

“You didn't have to do that. You could've told us where the One Tree is. You didn't have to possess him. And then leave him like that”

Chant's hard eyes held a gleam of insouciance. His inner voice sparkled with relish.

But Daphin's mind had a sad and liquid tone as she returned Linden's glare. “Sun-Sage, you do not comprehend our Wurd. There is a word in your tongue which bears a somewhat similar meaning. It is 'ethic.' ”

Jesus God! Linden rasped in sabulous denial. But she kept herself still.

“In our power,” Daphin went on, "many paths are open to us which no mortal may judge or follow. Some are attractive-others, distasteful. Our present path was chosen because it offers a balance of hope and harm. Had we considered only ourselves, we would have selected a path of greater hope, for its severity would have fallen not upon us but upon you. But we have determined to share with you the cost. We risk our hope. And also that which is more precious to us-life, and the meaning of life. We risk trust.

“Therefore some among us”-she did not need to refer openly to Chant-“urged another road. For who are you, that we should hazard trust and life upon you? Yet our Wurd remains. Never have we sought the harm of any life. Finding no path of hope which was not also a path of harm, we chose the way of balance and shared cost. Do not presume to judge us, when you conceive so little the import of your own acts. The fault is not ours that Sun-Sage and ring-wielder came among us as separate beings.”

Oh, hell, Linden muttered. She had no heart left to ask

Daphin what price the Elohim were paying for Covenant's emptiness. She could think of no commensurate expense. And the timbre of the bells told her that Daphin would give no explicit answer. She did not care to waste any more of her scant strength on arguments or expostulations. She wanted nothing except to turn her back on the Elohim, get Covenant out of this place.

As if in reply, Chant said, “In good sooth, it is past time. Were the choice in my hands, your expulsion from Elemesnedene would long since have silenced your ignorant tongue.” His tone was nonchalant; but his eyes shone with suppressed glee and cunning. “Does it please your pride to depart now, or do you wish to utter more folly ere you go?”

Clearly, Daphin chimed:

— Chant, this does not become you. But he replied:

— I am permitted. They can not now prevent us.

Linden's shoulders hunched, unconsciously tensing in an effort to strangle the intrusion in her mind. But at that moment, the First stepped forward. One of her hands rested on the hilt of her broadsword. She had leashed herself throughout the Elohimfest; but she was a trained Swordmain, and her face now wore an iron frown of danger and battle. “Elohim, there remains one question which must be answered.”

Linden stared dumbly at the First. She felt that nothing remained to the company except questions; but she had no idea which one the First meant.

The First spoke as if she were testing her blade against an unfamiliar opponent. “Perhaps you will deign to reveal what has become of Vain?”

Vain?

For an instant, Linden quailed. Too much had happened. She could not bear to think about another perfidy. But there was no choice. She would crack if she did not keep moving, keep accepting the responsibility as It came.

She cast a glance around the eftmound; but she already knew that she would see no sign of the Demondim-spawn. In a whirl of recollection, she realised that Vain had never come to the Elohimfest. She had not seen him since the company had separated to be examined. No: she had not seen him since the expulsion of the Haruchai. At the time, his absence had troubled her unconsciously; but she had not been able to put a name to her vague sense of incompleteness.

Trembling suddenly, she faced Chant. He had said as clearly as music, They can not now prevent us. She had assumed that he referred to Covenant; but now his veiled glee took on other implications.

“That's what you were doing.” Comprehension burned through her. “That's why you provoked Cail-why you kept trying to pick fights with us. To distract us from Vain.” And Vain had walked into the snare with his habitual undiscriminating blankness.

Then she thought again, No. That's not right. Vain had approached the clachan with an air of excitement, as if the prospect of it pleased him. And the Elohim had ignored him from the beginning, concealing their intent against him.

“What in hell do you want with him?”

Chant's pleasure was plain. "He was a peril to us. His dark makers spawned him for our harm. He was an offense to our Wurd, directed with great skill and malice to coerce us from our path. This we will never endure, just as we have not endured your anile desires. We have imprisoned him.

“We wrought covertly,” he went on like laughter, “to avoid the mad ire of your ring-wielder. But now that peril has been foiled. Your Vain we have imprisoned, and no foolish beseechment or petty mortal indignation will effect his release.” His eyes shone. “Thus the umbrage you have sought to cast upon us is recompensed. Consider the justice of your loss and be still.”

Linden could not bear it. Masking her face with severity so that she would not betray herself, she sprang at him.

He stopped her with a negligent gesture, sent her reeling backward. She collided with Covenant; and he sprawled to the hard ground, making no effort to soften the impact. His face pressed the dirt.

The Giants had not moved. They had been frozen by Chant's gesture. The First fought to draw her falchion. Seadreamer and Honninscrave tried to attack. But they were held motionless.

Linden scrambled to Covenant's side, heaved him upright. “Please.” She pleaded with him uselessly, as if Chant's power had riven her of her wits. “I'm sorry. Wake up. They've got Vain.”

But he might as well have been deaf and senseless. He made no effort to clean away the dirt clinging to his slack lips.

Emptily, he responded to impulses utterly divorced from her and the Giants and the Elohim:

“Don't touch me.”

Cradling him, she turned to appeal one last time to Daphin's compassion. Tears streaked her face.

But Chant forestalled her. “It is enough,” he said sternly. “Now begone.”

At that moment, he took on the stature of his people. His stance was grave and immitigable. She receded from him; but as the distance between them increased, he grew in her sight, confusing her senses so that she seemed to fall backward into the heavens. For an instant, he shone like the sun, burning away her protests. Then he was the sun, and she caught a glimpse of blue sky before the waters of the fountain covered her like weeping.

She nearly lost her balance on the steep facets of the travertine. Covenant's weight dragged her toward a fall. But at once Cail and Brinn came leaping through the spray to her aid. The water in their hair sparkled under the midday sun as if they-or she-were still in the process of transformation between Elemesnedene and the outer maidan.

The suddenness of the change dizzied her. She could not find her balance behind the sunlight as the Haruchai helped her and Covenant down the slope, through the gathering waters to dry ground. They did not speak, expressed no surprise; but their mute tension shouted at her from the contact of their hard hands. She had sent them away.

The sun seemed preternaturally bright. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the featureless lumination of Elemesnedene. Fiercely, she scrubbed at her face, trying to clear away the water and the glare as if she wanted to eradicate every suggestion of tears or weeping from her visage.

But Brinn caught hold of her wrists. He stood before her like an accusation. Ceer and Hergrom braced Covenant between them.

The four Giants had emerged from the trough around the fountain. They stood half-dazed in the tall yellow grass of the maidan as if they had just wandered out of a dream which should not have been a nightmare. The First clutched her broadsword in both fists, but it was of no use to her. Pitchwife s deformity appeared to have been accentuated. Seadreamer and Honninscrave moved woodenly together, linked by their pain.

But Brinn did not permit Linden to turn away. Inflectionlessly, he demanded, “What harm has been wrought upon the ur-Lord?”

She had no answer to the accusation in his stare. She felt that her sanity had become uncertain. To herself, she sounded like a madwoman as she responded irrelevantly, “How long were we in there?”

Brinn rejected the importance of her question with a slight shake of his head. “Moments only. We had hardly ceased our attempts to re-enter the clachan when you returned.” His fingers manacled her. “What harm has been wrought upon the ur-Lord?”

Oh my God, she groaned. Covenant so sorely damaged. Vain lost. Gifts refused. Moments only? It was true: the sun had scarcely moved at all since her last glimpse of it before entering Elemesnedene. That so much pain could have been committed in such a little time!

“Let me go.” The plaint of a lorn and frightened child. “I've got to think.”

For a moment, Brinn did not relent. But then Pitchwife came to her side. His misshapen eyes yearned on her behalf. In a hobbled tone, he said, “Release her. I will answer as best I may.”

Slowly, Brinn unlocked his fingers; and Linden slumped into the grass.

She huddled there with her face hidden against her knees. Old, familiar screams echoed in her, cries which no one had been able to hear until long after her father had bled to death. Tears squeezed from her eyes like involuntary self-recrimination.

The voices of her companions passed back and forth over her head. Pitchwife began to recount the events in Elemesnedene; but shortly the demand for brevity dismayed his Giantish instincts, and he trailed off into directionless protests, The First took the task from him. Tersely, she detailed what she knew of Covenant's examination, then described the Elohimfest. Her account was succinct and stark. Her tone said plainly that she, like Pitchwife, ached for a full and formal telling. But this maidan- with the Elohim so near at hand-was no place for such a tale; and she withheld it sternly. She related how the location of the One Tree had been revealed and what price Covenant had paid for that vision. Then she stiffened herself to her conclusion.

“Vain the Elohim have imprisoned. It is their word that he is perilous to them-a threat directed against them across the seas by those who made him. They will not suffer his release. Mayhap they have already taken his life.”

There she fell silent; and Linden knew that nothing else remained to be said. She could not hope for any inspiration to rescue her from her burdens. As if she knew what they were thinking, she watched while Ceer and Hergrom splashed back to the travertine slopes of the fountain, attempting once again to enter Elemesnedene. But the way was closed to them. It had been closed to all the company, and there was nothing else left to be done. Yet when the two Haruchai retreated to the maidan, the water seemed to gleam on the surface of their stubbornness; and she saw with a groan of recognition that she would have to fight them as well. They had not forgiven her for sending them out of Elemesnedene.

She tried to rise to her feet; but for a while she could not. The weight of decision held her down. Who was she, that she should try to take Covenant's place at the head of the quest? Gibbon-Raver had promised her an outcome of anguish and ruin.

But her companions were asking themselves how they could force or trick their way back into the clachan. Though she felt that she was going crazy, she seemed to be the only sane one among them. And she had already accepted her role. If she could not at least stand loyal to herself, to the decisions she had made and the people she cared about, then everything she had already been and borne came to nothing.

Clinching her long intransigence, she interrupted the company by climbing upright. Then she muttered, “There's nothing more we can do here. Let's get going.”

They were struck silent as if she had shocked them. They glanced among themselves, wondering at her-at her willingness to abandon Vain, or at her attempt to command them. The First had sheathed her blade, but she showed her desire for battle in every muscle. Honninscrave and Seadreamer had found their way past pain into anger. Even Pitchwife had become enthusiastic for combat. And the Haruchai stood poised as if they were looking for a place to hurl violence.

“Don't touch me,” Covenant answered. The abysm behind his eyes made him look like a blind man. His reiterated warning was the only evidence that he retained any vestige of mind at all.

“I mean it.” Linden's tongue was thick with despair; but she knew that if she recanted now she would never be able to stop fleeing. “There's nothing we can do for Vain. Let's get back to the ship.”

“Chosen.” The First's voice was as keen as iron. “We are Giants. Whatever his purpose, this Vain is our companion. We do not blithely turn from the succour of any companion.” Linden started to object; but the Swordmain cut her off. ''Also, we have been told that he was given to Covenant Giantfriend by the Dead of Andelain. By a Giant of the Lost-by Saltheart Foamfollower, the Pure One of the sur-jheherrin. Him we have beheld in the opening of Covenant's mind.

“We will not see such a gift lost. Though we do not comprehend him, we conceive that the gifts given to Covenant by his Dead are vital and necessary. Vain must be recovered.”

Linden understood. The Elohim had planted a seed of possibility, and its fruit was apparent in the gazes of her companions. That she should take Covenant's ring and use it.

She shook her head. That would be a violation as fundamental as any rape. His ring was his peril and his hope, and she would not take it from him. Its power meant too much to her.

And she had other reasons to deny the idea. Covenant's plight could wait, at least until the company was safely away from this place; but Vain's could not. What the Demondim-spawn needed from her was not what it appeared to be.

To the First, she said flatly, “No.” In this, at least, she knew who she was. “It isn't up to you.”

“I am the First-” began the Swordmain.

“It would've been Covenant's decision,” Linden went on severely, clamping herself rigid with all her will, “but he's in no condition. That leaves me.”

She could not explain herself for fear the Elohim would hear her and take action. They were surely able to hear anything they desired, uncover any purpose they chose. So she invented reasons as if she knew what she was talking about.

“You can't do it. He's so important because he comes from outside. Like the white gold. You don't. We wouldn't be here at all if the job could be done by anybody else. You can't take his place,” she insisted. "I'm going to, whether I can or not.

"And I say we're going to leave. Let Vain take care of himself. We don't even know why he was given to Covenant.

Maybe this is the reason. To get him into Elemesnedene, so he can do whatever he was created for. I don't know, and I don't care. We have what we came to get. And I don't want to keep Covenant here. They're after his ring. I'll be damned if we're going to stand around and let them hurt him again."

The First replied with a perplexed frown, as though Linden's stability had become a matter of open doubt. But Brinn showed no doubt. In a voice like stone, he said, “We know nothing of these questions. Our ignorance was thrust upon us when we sought to serve the promise we have given the ur-Lord.” His accusation was implicit. "We know only that he has been harmed when he should have been in our care. And Vain is his, given to him in aid of his quest. For that reason alone, we must stand by the Demondim-spawn.

“Also,” he continued inflexibly, “you have become a question in our sight. Vain made obeisance to you when you were redeemed from Revelstone. And he it was who strove to bear you from the peril of the graveling and the Sunbane-sickness. Perchance it was he who brought the sur-jheherrin to our aid against the lurker, in your name. Do you lack all wish to serve those who have served you?”

Linden wanted to cry out at his words. He rubbed them like salt into her failures. But she clung to her purpose until the knuckles of her will whitened. “I understand what you're saying.” Her voice quivered, deserted by the flat dispassion which she had tried for so long to drill into herself. “But you can't get in there. They've closed us out. And we don't have any way to make them change their minds. Covenant is the only one they were ever afraid of, and now they don't have that to worry about.” If Covenant had chosen that moment to utter his blank refrain, her control might have snapped. But he was mercifully silent, lost in the absence of his thoughts. “Every minute we stay here, we're taking the chance they might decide to do something worse.”

The challenge of Brinn's gaze did not waver. When she finished, he replied as though her protest were gratuitous, 'Then heal him. Restore to him his mind, so that he may make his own choosing on Vain's behalf."

At that, Linden thought she would surely break. She had already endured too much. In Brinn's eyes, she saw her flight from Covenant during his venom-relapse returning to impugn her. And Brinn also knew that she had declined to protect Covenant from Infelice's machinations. The First had not omitted that fact from her tale. For a moment, Linden could not speak through the culpability which clogged her throat.

But the past was unalterable; and for the present no one had the right to judge her. Brinn could not see Covenant deeply enough to judge her. Covenant's plight was hers to assess-and to meet as she saw fit. Gritting her control so hard that it ached in the bones of her skull, she said, “Not here. Not now. What's happened to him is like amnesia. There's a chance it'll heal itself. But even if it doesn't-even if I have to do something about it-I'm not going to take the risk here. Where the Elohim can tamper with anything.” And Vain might be running out of time. “If I'm not completely careful-” She faltered as she remembered the darkness behind his eyes. “I might extinguish what's left.”

Brinn did not blink. His stare said flatly that this argument was just another refusal, as unworthy of Covenant as all the others. Despairingly, Linden turned back to the First.

“I know what I'm doing. Maybe I've already failed too often. Maybe none of you can trust me. But I'm not losing my mind.” In her ears, her insistence sounded like the frail pleading of a child. “We've got to get out of here. Go back to the ship. Leave.” With all her determination, she refrained from shouting, Don't you understand? That's the only way we can help Vain! “We've got to do it now.”

The First debated within herself. Both Honninscrave and Seadreamer looked studiously elsewhere, unwilling to take sides in this conflict. But Pitchwife watched Linden as if he were remembering Mistweave. And when the First spoke, he smiled like the lighting of a candle in a dark room.

Dourly, she said, “Very well. I accept your command in this. Though I can fathom little concerning you, you are the Chosen. And I have seen evidence of strange strength in you, when strength was least looked for. We will return to Starfare's Gem.”

Abruptly, she addressed the Haruchai. “I make no claim upon your choosing. But I ask you to accompany us. Vain lies beyond your reach. And the Giantfriend and the Chosen require every aid.”

Brinn cocked his head slightly as if he were listening to a silent consultation. Then he said, “Our service was given to the ur-Lord- and to Linden Avery in the ur-Lord's name. Though we mislike that Vain should be abandoned, we will not gainsay you.”

That Vain should be abandoned. Linden groaned. Every word the Haruchai uttered laid another crime to her charge. More blood on her hands, though she had taken an oath to save every life she could. Maybe Brinn was right. Maybe her decision was just another denial. Or worse. Are you not evil?

But she was suddenly too weak to say anything else. The sunlight blurred her sight like sweat. When Cail offered her his arm, she accepted it because she had no choice. She felt unable to support herself. As she joined her companions moving along the River Callowwail toward Woodenwold and the anchorage of Starfare's Gem, she was half-blind with sunlight and frailty, and with the extremity of her need to be right.

The maidan seemed to stretch out forever ahead of her. Only the cumulative rush of the River marked the expanse, promising that the grass was not like Elemesnedene, not featureless and unending, Cail's assistance was bitter and necessary to her. She could not comprehend the gentleness of his aid. Perhaps it was this quality of the Haruchai which had driven Kevin Landwaster to the Ritual of Desecration; for how could he have sustained his self-respect when he had such beings as the Bloodguard to serve him?

The Callowwail reflected blue in turbulent pieces back at the sky. She clung to her own self-respect by considering images of Vain, seeking to remember everything he had done. He had remained passive when the demented Coursers had driven him into a quagmire in Sarangrave Flat. And yet he had found a way to rejoin the company. And surely he had chosen to hazard Elemesnedene for his own secret reasons?

Slowly, her sight cleared. Now she could see the splendid autumn of Woodenwold rising before her. Soon she and her companions would be among the trees. Soon—

The sudden fierce clanging of the bells staggered her. Except for Cail's grasp, she would have fallen. The Elohim had been silent since her expulsion from the clachan; but now the bells were outraged and desperate in her mind, clamouring woe and fury.

Pitchwife came to her, helped Cail uphold her. “Chosen?” he asked softly, urgently. “What harms you?” His tone reflected the stricken pallor of her countenance.

“It's Vain,” she panted through the silent clangour. Her voice sounded too thin and detached to have come from her. “He's trying to escape.”

The next instant, a concussion like a thunderclap buffeted the company. The cloudless sky darkened; powers blasting against each other dimmed the sun. A long tremor like the opening howl of an earthquake ran through the ground.

Giants yelled. Fighting to keep their balance, the Haruchai circled defensively around Linden and Covenant.

As she looked back toward the fountainhead of the Callowwail, Linden saw that the water was on fire.

Burning and blazing, a hot surge of power spread flames down the current. Its leading edge spat out fury like the open door of a furnace. On either side of the swift fire, the maidan rippled and flowed as though it were evaporating.

In the heart of the heat, Linden descried a dark figure swimming.

Vain!

He struggled down the Callowwail as if he were beset by acid. His strokes were frantic-and growing weaker every moment. The flames tore at his flesh, rent his black essence. He appeared to be dissolving in the fiery current.

“Help him!” Vain's need snatched Linden to a shout. “They're killing him!”

The Haruchai reacted without hesitation. Their doubt of her did not hamper their gift for action. Springing forward, Ceer and Hergrom dove straight into the River and the crux of the flames.

For an instant, she feared that they would be consumed. But the fire did not touch them. It burned to the pitch of Vain's ebon being and left their flesh unharmed.

As the Haruchai reached him, he threw his arms around their necks; and at once the erosion of his strength seemed to pause as if he drew sustenance from them. Gathering himself suddenly, he thrust them beneath the surface. With a concentrated effort, he cocked himself, braced his feet on their shoulders. From that base, he leaped out of the Callowwail.

The flames tried to follow; but now they ran off his sleek skin like water, fraying in the sunlight. He had escaped their direct grasp. And the sun poured its light into him like an aliment. Over all the maidan, the air was dim with preternatural twilight; but on Vain the sun shed its full strength, reversing the dissolution which the Elohim had wrought against him. Spreading his arms, he turned his black eyes upward and let the light restore him to himself.

The bells rang out keen loss, wild threats, but did no more damage.

In the River, the power faded toward failure. Ceer and Hergrom broke the surface together, unscathed, and climbed the bank to stand with the rest of the company, watching Vain.

Slowly, the Demondim-spawn lowered his arms; and as he did so, midday returned to the maidan. In a moment, he stood as he had always stood, balanced between relaxation and readiness, with a faint, undirected smile on his lips. He seemed as uncognisant as ever of the company, blind to assistance or rescue.

“Your pardon,” said the First to Linden in quiet wonder. “I had given too little thought to the compulsion which drives him to follow you.”

Linden remained still, held by vindication and relief. She did not know whether Vain followed herself or Covenant-and did not care. For once, she had been right.

But the company could not stay where it was. Many of the bells had faded back into silence, receding with the flames. However, others were too angry to retreat; and the threat they conveyed impelled her to say, “Come on. Some of them want to try again. They might not let us leave.”

Honninscrave looked at her sharply. “Not?” His glad memories of the Elohim had already suffered too much diminution. But he was a Giant and knew how to fight. “Stone and Sea!” he swore, “they will not prevent us. If we must, we will swim from the Raw, towing Starfare's Gem after us.”

The First gave him a nod of approval, then said, “Still the Chosen speaks truly. We must depart.” At once, she swept Covenant into her arms and set off at a lope toward Woodenwold.

Before Linden could try to follow, Seadreamer picked her up, carried her away along the verge of the Callowwail. Cail and Ceer ran at his sides. Brinn and Hergrom dashed ahead to join the First. Eager for his ship, Honninscrave sped past them. Pitchwife's deformed back hindered him, but he was able to match the pace the First set.

Behind them, Vain trotted lightly, like a man who had been running all his life.

Eleven: A Warning of Serpents

BEFORE Starfare's Gem had passed halfway to the open Sea, the wind became a stiff blow like a shout from the Rawedge Rim. It drove the dromond as if the Elohim in their wrath were determined to expel the quest for all time from their demesne. But Honninscrave did not let the wind have his vessel. The cliffs and turns of the Raw became darker, more bitter and hazardous, as the afternoon waned. Therefore he shortened sail, held the Giantship to a careful pace. The company did not reach the end of the gullet until nearly sunset.

There Starfare's Gem stumbled into a long fight to keep itself off the rocks of the coast. The exhalation of the Raw conflicted with the prevailing wind along the littoral; and they pulled the dromond into a maze of turbulence. Tacking in flurries, struggling to run one guess ahead of the next shift, Honninscrave and his crew laboured back and forth against the southern promontory of the Raw.

Twilight quickly darkened into night, turning the rocky verge to a blackness marked only by the sea's phosphorescence and the wan light of the stars; for there was no moon. To Linden, who had lost track of the days, the absence of the moon felt ominous and chilling. She could have believed that the Elohim had stricken it from the heavens in retribution. In the dark, she saw no way for the quest to win free of the moiling winds. Every shift seemed sharper than the one before, and every other tack carried the dromond closer to the ragged and fatal bluffs.

But Honninscrave was a cunning reader of air currents, and at last he found the path which ran toward the safety of the open sea. Slipping free of the last toils of the Elohim, Starfare's Gem went south.

For the rest of the night, the littoral loomed against the port horizon. But the next morning, Honninscrave angled a few points farther west of south, and the headland began to sink into the Sea. During the afternoon, another promontory briefly raised its head. But after that nothing remained to be seen in any direction except the sunlight rolling in brocade across the long green ocean.

While they had fled through and away from the Raw, the Giants had held themselves clenched against the winds and the unknown purposes of the Elohim, tending the ship, springing to the Master's commands, with a tense and unwonted silence. But now their mood eased as Honninscrave allowed himself to relax and the ship sailed confidently into a perfect evening. At dusk, they gathered to hear the tale of Elemesnedene, which Pitchwife told with the full flourish and passion which the Giants loved. And Honninscrave described in detail what he had learned about the location of the One Tree. With the exact map of the stars to guide the quest, any possibility of failure appeared to fade. Slowly, Starfare's Gem regained much of its familiar good cheer.

Linden was glad for that easement. The Giants had earned it, and she watched it with a physician's unselfish approval. But she did not share it. Covenant's condition outweighed the instinct for hope which she absorbed empathically from the Giants.

The Haruchai had to care for him at every moment. He stayed wherever, and in whatever position, he was left. Standing or sitting in motion or at rest, he remained caught in his blankness, devoid of will or intent or desire. Nothing lived in him except his most preterite instincts. When he was deprived of support, he retained his balance against the slow stone rolling of the ship; when food was placed in his mouth, he chewed, swallowed. But nothing assuaged the fathomless plunge which lay behind his gaze. At unmotivated intervals, he spoke as distinctly as if he were reading the fate written on his forehead. Yet he did not react when he was touched.

At last, Linden was driven to ask Brinn to take Covenant to his cabin. The pathos of his plight rested squarely on her shoulders, and she was unready to bear it. She had learned to believe that possession was evil-and she could think of no way to attempt his aid without possessing him.

She clung to the hope that rest and peace would cure him. But she saw no amelioration. Well, she had promised herself that she would not shirk his healing, regardless of the price. She had not chosen this burden, just as she had not chosen the role of the Sun-Sage; but she did not mean to flee it. Yet she felt bitterly worn in the aftermath of Elemesnedene. And she could not clear her mind of rage at the way Covenant had been harmed. Intuitively, she sensed that the mood in which she attempted to penetrate his blankness would be crucial. If she went into him with anger, she might be answered with anger; and his ire would have the power to send Starfare's Gem to the bottom of the sea in pieces. Therefore for the present she stayed away from him and strove to compose herself.

But when Covenant was not before her to demand her attention, she found that her sore nerves simply shifted their worry to another object-to Cable Seadreamer. His pain-bitten visage unconsciously wielded its ache over the entire Giantship. He wore a look of recognition, as if he had gained an insight which he would have feared to utter even if he had not already been bereft of his voice. Moving among his people, he stopped their talk, silenced their laughter like a loneliness that had no anodyne.

And he was conscious of the hurt his mute woe gave. After a time, he could no longer endure it. He tried to leave his comrades, spare them the discomfort of his presence. But Pitchwife would not let him go. The deformed Giant hugged his friend as if he meant to coerce Seadreamer into accepting the care of his people. And Honninscrave and Sevinhand crowded around, urging upon him their support.

Their response brought tears to Seadreamer's eyes, but not relief.

Softly, painfully, the First asked Linden, “What has harmed him? His distress has grown beyond all bounds.”

Linden had no answer. Without violating him, she could see nothing in Seadreamer except the extremity of his struggle for courage.

She would have given anything to see such a struggle take place in Covenant.

For three days while the dromond ran steadily west of south at a slight angle to the wind, she stayed away from him. The Haruchai tended him in his cabin, and she did not go there. She told herself that she was allowing time for a spontaneous recovery. But she knew the truth: she was procrastinating because she feared and loathed what she would have to do if he did not heal himself. In her imagination, she saw him sitting in his chamber exactly as he sat within his mind, uttering the litany of his bereavement in that abandoned voice.

For those three days, Starfare's Gem returned to its normal routine. The general thrust of the wind remained constant; but it varied enough to keep the Giants busy aloft. And the other members of the Search occupied themselves in their own ways. The First spent considerable time cleaning her battle gear and sharpening her broadsword, as if she could see combat mustering beyond the horizon. And on several occasions she and Pitchwife went below together to seek a little privacy.

Honninscrave seemed half feverish, unable to rest. When he Was not actively commanding the dromond, he engaged in long deliberations with the Anchormaster and Galewrath, planning the ship's course. However, Linden read him well enough to be sure that it was not the path of the quest which obsessed him, but rather Seadreamer's plight.

She seldom saw Brinn; he did not leave his watch over Covenant. But Ceer and Hergrom busied themselves about the Giantship as they had formerly; and Cail shadowed her like a sentry. Whatever the Haruchai felt toward her did not show in their faces, in Cail's ready attendance. Yet she sensed that she was watched over, not out of concern for her, but to prevent her from harming the people around her.

At times, she thought that Vain was the only member of the Search who had not been changed by Elemesnedene. He stood near the rail of the afterdeck on the precise spot where he had climbed aboard. The Giants had to work around him; he did not deign to notice that he was in their way. His black features revealed nothing.

Again, Linden wondered what conceivable threat to themselves the Elohim had discerned in the Demondim-spawn, when his sole apparent purpose was to follow her and Covenant. But she could make nothing of it.

While Starfare's Gem travelled the open Sea, she grew to feel progressively more lost among things she did not comprehend. She had taken the burden of decision upon herself; but she lacked the experience and conviction-and the power-which had enabled Covenant to bear it. He ached constantly at the back of her mind, an untreated wound. Only her stubborn loyalty to herself kept her from retreating to the loneliness of her cabin, hiding there like a little girl with a dirty dress so that the responsibility would fall to somebody else.

On the morning of the fifth day after Starfare's Gem's escape from the Raw, she awakened in a mood of aggravated discomfiture, as if her sleep had been troubled by nightmares she could not remember. A vague apprehension nagged at the very limit of her senses, too far away to be grasped or understood. Fearing what she might learn, she asked Cail about Covenant. But the Haruchai reported no change. Anxiously, she left her cabin, went up to the afterdeck.

As she scanned the deck, her inchoate sense of trouble increased. The sun shone in the east with an especial brightness, as if it were intent on its own clarity; but still the air seemed as chill as a premonition. Yet nothing appeared amiss. Galewrath commanded the wheeldeck with gruff confidence. And the crewmembers were busy about the vessel, warping it against the vagaries of the wind.

The First, Honninscrave, and Seadreamer were nowhere to be seen. However, Pitchwife was at work near the aftermast, stirring the contents of a large stone vat. He looked up as Linden drew near him and winced at what he saw. “Chosen,” he said with an effort of good humour which was only partially successful, “were I less certain of our viands, I would believe that you have eaten badly and been made unwell. It is said that Sea and sun conduce to health and appetite-yet you wear the wan aspect of the sickbed. Are you ailed?”

She shook her head imprecisely. “Something-I can't figure it out. I feel a disaster coming. But I don't know-” Groping for a way to distract herself, she peered into the vat. “Is that more of your pitch? How do you make it?”

At that, he laughed, and his mirth came more easily. “Yes, Chosen. In all good sooth, this is my pitch. The vat is formed of dolomite, that it may not be fused as would the stone of Starfare's Gem. But as to the making of pitch-ah, that it skills nothing for me to relate. You are neither Giant nor wiver. And the power of pitch arises as does any other, from the essence of the adept who wields it. All power is an articulation of its wielder. There is no other source than life-and the desire of that life to express itself. But there must also be a means of articulation. I can say little but that this pitch is my chosen means. Having said that, I have left you scarce wiser than before.”

Linden shrugged away his disclaimer. “Then what you're saying,” she murmured slowly, “is that the power of wild magic comes from Covenant himself? The ring is just his-his means of articulation?”

He nodded. “I believe that to be sooth. But the means controls intimately the nature of what may be expressed. By my pitch I may accomplish nothing for the knitting of broken limbs, just as no theurgy of the flesh may seal stone as I do.”

Musing half to herself, she replied, “That fits. At least with what Covenant says about the Staff of Law. Before it was destroyed. It supported the Law by its very nature. Only certain kinds of things could be done with it.”

The malformed Giant nodded again; but she was already thinking something else. Turning to face him more directly, she demanded, "But what about the Elohim? They don't need any means. They are power. They can express anything they want, any way they want. Everything they said to us-all that stuff about Seadreamer's voice and Covenant's venom, and how Earthpower isn't the answer to Despite. It was all a lie." Her rage came back to her in a rush. She was trembling and white-knuckled before she could stop herself.

Pitchwife considered her closely. “Be not so hasty in your appraisal of these Elohim” His twisted features seemed to bear Seadreamer's pain and Covenant's loss as if they had been inflicted on him personally; yet he rejected their implications, refused to be what he appeared. “They are who they are-a high and curious people-and their might is matched and conflicted and saddened by their limitations.”

She started to argue; but he stopped her with a gesture that asked her to sit beside him against the base of the aftermast. Lowering himself carefully, he leaned his crippled back to the stone. When she joined him, her shoulder blades felt the sails thrumming through the mast. The vibrations tasted obscurely troubled and foreboding. They sent rumours along her nerves like precursors of something unpredictable. Starfare's Gem rolled with a discomforting irrhythm.

“Chosen,” Pitchwife said, “I have not spoken to you concerning my examination by the Elohim.”

She looked at him in surprise. The tale he had told during the first night out from the Raw had glossed over his personal encounters in the clachan as mere digressions. But now she saw that he had his own reasons for having withheld the story then-and for telling it now.

“At the parting of our company in Elemesnedene,” he said quietly, as if he did not wish to be overheard, “I was accorded the guidance of one who named himself Starkin. He was an Elohim of neither more nor less wonder than any other, and so I followed him willingly. Among the lovely and manifold mazements of his people, I felt I had been transported to the truest faery heart of all the legends which have arisen from that place. The Giants have held these Elohim in an awe bordering on sanctity, and that awe I learned to taste in my own mouth. Like Grimmand Honninscrave before me, I came to believe that any giving or restitution was feasible in that eldritch realm.”

The grotesque lines of his face were acute with memory as he spoke; yet his tone was one of calm surety, belying the suggestion that he had suffered any dismay.

“But then,” he went on, “Starkin turned momentarily from me, and my examination began. For when again he approached, he had altered his shape. He stood before me as another being altogether. He had put aside his robe and his lithe limbs and his features-had transformed even his stature-and now he wore the form and habiliments of a Giant.” Pitchwife sighed softly. "In every aspect he had recreated himself flawlessly.

"He was myself.

"Yet not myself as you behold me, but rather myself as I might be in dreams. A Pitchwife of untainted birth and perfect growth. Withal that the image was mine beyond mistaking, he stood straight and tall above me, in all ways immaculately made, and beautiful with the beauty of Giants. He was myself as even Gossamer Glowlimn my love might desire me in her pity. For who would not have loved such a Giant, or desired him?

“Chosen”-he met Linden with his clear gaze-“there was woe in that sight. In my life I have been taught many things, but until that moment I had not been taught to look upon myself and descry that I was ugly. At my birth, a jest had been wrought upon me-a jest the cruelty of which Starkin displayed before me.”

Pain for him surged up in her. Only the simple peace of his tone and eyes enabled her to hold back her outrage. How had he borne it?

He answered squarely, “This was an examination which searched me to the depths of my heart. But at last its truth became plain to me. Though I stood before myself in all the beauty for which I might have lusted, it was not I who stood there, but Starkin. This Giant was manifestly other than myself, for he could not alter his eyes-eyes of gold that shed light, but gave no warmth to what they beheld. And my eyes remained my own. He could not see himself with my sight. Thus I passed unharmed through the testing he had devised for me.”

Studying him with an ache of empathy, Linden saw that he was telling the truth. His examination had given him pain, but no hurt. And his unscathed aspect steadied her, enabling her to see past her anger to the point of his story. He was trying to explain his perception that the Elohim could only be who they were and nothing else-that any might was defined and limited by its very nature. No power could transcend the strictures which made its existence possible.

Her ire faded as she followed Pitchwife's thinking. No power? she wanted to ask. Not even wild magic? Covenant seemed capable of anything. What conceivable stricture could bind his white fire? Was there in truth some way that Foul could render him helpless in the end?

The necessity of freedom, she thought. If he's already sold himself—

But as she tried to frame her question, her sense of disquiet returned. It intruded on her pulse; blood began to throb suddenly in her temples. Something had happened. Tension cramped her chest as she fumbled for perception.

Pitchwife was saying wryly, “Your pardon, Chosen. I see that I have not given you ease.”

She shook her head. “That's not it.” The words left her mouth before she realised what she was saying. “What happened to Vain?”

The Demondim-spawn was gone. His place near the railing was empty.

“Naught I know of,” Pitchwife replied, surprised by her reaction. “A short while after the sun's rising, he strode forward as though his purpose had awakened in him. To the foremast he fared, and it he greeted with such a bow and smile as I mislike to remember. But then he lapsed to his former somnolence. There he stands yet. Had he moved, those who watch him would surely have informed us.”

“It is true,” Cail said flatly. “Ceer guards him.”

Under her breath, Linden muttered, “You've got to be kidding,” and climbed to her feet. “This I've got to see.” When Pitchwife joined her, she stalked away toward Foodfendhall and the foredeck.

There she saw Vain as he had been described, facing the curved surface of the mast from an arm's length away. His posture was the same as always: elbows slightly crooked at his sides; knees flexing just enough to maintain his balance against the choppy gait of the dromond; back straight. Yet to her gaze he wore a telic air. He confronted the mast as if they were old comrades, frozen on the verge of greeting one another.

To herself, she murmured, “What the hell-?”

“Forsooth,” responded Pitchwife with a light chuckle. “Had this Demondim-spawn not been gifted to the ur-Lord by a Giant, I would fear he means to ravish the maidenhood of our foremast.” At that, laughter spouted from the nearby crewmembers,

then spread like a kinship of humour through the rigging as his jest was repeated to those who had not heard it.

But Linden was not listening to him. Her ears had caught another sound-a muffled shout from somewhere belowdecks. As she focused her hearing, she identified Honninscrave's stertorous tones.

He was calling Seadreamer's name. Not in anger or pain, but in surprise. And trepidation.

The next moment, Seadreamer erupted from one of the hatchways and charged forward as if he meant to hurl himself at Vain. Honninscrave followed him; but Linden's attention was locked on the mute Giant. He looked wild and visionary, like a prophet or a madman; and the scar across his visage stood out stark and pale, underlining his eyes with intensity. Cries he could not utter strained the muscles of his neck.

Mistaking the Giant's intent, Ceer stepped between him and Vain, balanced himself to defend the Demondim-spawn. But an instant later, Seadreamer struck, not at Vain, but at the foremast. With his full weight and momentum, he dove against the mast. The impact sent a palpable quiver through the stone.

The shock knocked him to the deck. At once, he rebounded to his feet, attacked again. Slapping his arms around the mast like a wrestler, he heaved at it as if he wanted to tear it from its moorings. His passion was so vivid that for a moment Linden feared he might succeed.

Honninscrave leaped at Seadreamer's back, tried to pull him away. But he could not break the hold of Seadreamer's ferocity. Ceer and Hergrom moved to help the Master.

A worn sad voice stopped them. “Enough.” It seemed to sough from the air. “I have no desire to cause such distress.”

Seadreamer fell back. Vain stiffened.

Out of the stone of the mast, a figure began to flow. Leaving its hiding place, it translated itself into human form.

One of the Elohim.

He wore a creamy and graceful robe, but it did not conceal the etched leanness of his limbs, the scar-pallor of his skin. Under the unkempt silver sweep of his hair, his face was cut and marked with onerous perceptions. Around his yellow eyes, his sockets were as dark as old blood.

Gasping inwardly, Linden recognized Findail the Appointed.

As he took shape, he faced Seadreamer. “Your pardon,” he said in a voice like habitual grief. “Miscomprehending the depth of your Earth-Sight, I sought to conceal myself from you. It was not my purpose to inspire such distrust. Yet my sojourn through the seas to accompany you was slow and sorely painful to one who has been sent from his home in Elemesnedene. In seeking concealment, I judged poorly-as the swiftness with which you have descried me witnesses. Please accept that I intended no harm.”

Everyone on the foredeck stared at him; but no one replied. Linden was stricken dumb. Pitchwife she could not see-he was behind her. But Honninscrave's features reflected what she felt. And Seadreamer sat huddled on the deck with his hands clamped over his face as if he had just beheld the countenance of his death. Only the Haruchai betrayed no reaction.

Findail appeared to expect no response. He shifted his attention to Vain. His tone tightened. “To you I say, No.” He pointed rigidly at the centre of Vain's chest, and the muscles of his arm stood out like whipcord. “Whatever else you may do, or think to do, that I will not suffer. I am Appointed to this task, but in the name of no duty will I bear that doom.”

In answer, Vain grinned like a ghoul.

A grimace deepened the erosion of Findail's mien. Turning his back on the Demondim-spawn, he moved stiffly forward to stand at the prow of the Giantship, gazing outward like a figurehead.

Linden gaped after him for a moment, looked around at her companions. Honninscrave and Pitchwife were crouched beside Seadreamer; the other Giants appeared too stunned to act. The Haruchai watched Findail, but did not move. With a convulsion of will, she wrenched herself into motion. To the nearest crewmember, she rasped, “Call the First.” Then she went after the Elohim.

When she reached him, he glanced at her, gave her a perfunctory acknowledgment; but her presence made no impression on the old rue he had chosen to wear. She received the sudden impression that she was the cause of his distress-and that he meant to hide the fact from her at any cost. For no clear reason, she remembered that his people had expected the Sun-Sage and ring-wielder to be the same person. At first, she could not find the words with which to accost him.

But one memory brought back others, and with them came the rage of helplessness and betrayal she felt toward the Elohim. Findail had faced back toward the open Sea. She caught hold of his shoulder, demanded his notice. Through her teeth, she grated, “What in hell are you doing here?”

He hardly seemed to hear her. His yellow eyes were vague with loss, as if in leaving Elemesnedene he had been torn out of himself by the roots. But he replied, “Sun-Sage, I have been Appointed to this task by my people-to procure if I can the survival of the Earth. In the clachan you were given no better answer, and I may not answer more clearly now. Be content with the knowledge that I intend no hurt.”

“No hurt?” she spat back at him. “You people have done nothing but hurt. You-” She stopped herself, nearly choking on visions of Covenant and Vain and Seadreamer. “By God, if you don't come up with a better answer than that, I'll have you thrown overboard.”

“Sun-Sage.” He spoke gently, but made no effort to placate her. “I regret the necessity of the ring-wielder's plight. For me it is a middle way, balancing hazard and safety. I would prefer to be spared entirely. But it boots nothing to rail against me. I have been Appointed to stand among you, and no power accessible to you may drive me forth. Only he whom you name Vain has it within him to expel me. I would give much that he should do so.”

He surprised her. She believed him instinctively-and did not know what to do about it. “Vain?” she demanded. Vain? But she received no reply. Beyond the prow, the rough waves appeared strangely brittle in the odd raw brilliance of the sunlight. Spray smacked up from the sides of the Giantship and was torn apart by the contradictory winds. They winced back and forth across the deck, troubling her hair like gusts of prescience. Yet she made one more attempt to pierce the Elohim. Softly, vehemently, she breathed, “For the last time, I'm not the goddamn Sun-Sage! You've been wrong about that from the beginning. Everything you're doing is wrong.”

His yellow gaze did not flinch. “For that reason among many others I am here.”

With an inward snarl, she swung away from him-and nearly collided with the hard, mail-clad form of the First. The Swordmain stood there with iron and apprehension in her eyes. In a voice like a quiet blade, she asked, “Does he speak truly? Do we lack all power against him?”

Linden nodded. But her thoughts were already racing in another direction, already struggling for the self-command she

required. She might prove Findail wrong. But she needed to master herself. Searching for a focal point, an anchorage against which to brace her resolve, she lifted her face to the First.

“Tell me about your examination. In Elemesnedene. What did they do to you?”

The First was taken aback by the unexpectedness, the apparent irrelevance, of the question. But Linden held up her demand; and after a moment the First drew herself into a formal stance. “Pitchwife has spoken to you,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you will comprehend that which befell me.” With one hand, she gripped the hilt of her falchion. The other she held straight at her side as if to restrain it from impatience or protest.

“In my testing,” she said, “one of the Elohim came before me in the semblance of a Giant. By some art, he contrived to wear the lineaments and countenance of Pitchwife. But not my husband as I have known him. Rather, he was Pitchwife as he might have grown from a perfect birth-flawless of limb, tall and proud of stance, hale in every way which becomes a Giant.” Memory suffused her gaze; but her tone held its cutting edge. “He stood thus before me as Pitchwife should have been born and grown, so that the outward seeming well became the spirit I have learned to love.”

Pitchwife stood near her, listening with a crooked smile. But he did not try to express the things which shone in his orbs.

The First did not waver. “At first I wept. But then I laughed. For all his cunning, that Elohim could not equal the joy which enlightens Pitchwife my husband.”

A glint of hard humour touched her tone. “The Elohim misliked my laughter. But he could not answer it, and so my examination was brought to a displeasurable ending for him.”

Pitchwife's whole face chortled, though he made no sound.

A long shiver of recollection ran through Linden. Speaking half to the First, half to the discomfited sea and the acute sky, she said, “The only thing Daphin did to me was answer questions.” Then she stepped past the Giants, left their incomprehension behind as she made her way toward Foodfendhall and the underdecks. Toward Covenant's cabin.

The uncertainty of the dromond's footing affected her balance. Starfare's Gem moved with a tight slewing pace, veering and shaking its head at the unexpected force of the swells. But Linden caught herself against walls when she had to, or against Cail, and kept going. Maybe she had no power to extort the truth from Findail. But Covenant did. If she could somehow pierce the veil which covered his consciousness like a winding-sheet. She was suddenly eager to make the attempt.

She told herself that she was eager for his restitution. She wanted his companionship, his conviction. But she was thin-lipped and stiff with anger, and within her there was darkness stirring.

At the door of Covenant's cabin, she met Brinn. He had come out to meet her. Stolidly, he barred her way. His distrust was tangible in the air of the companionway. Before Elemesnedene, he had never questioned her right of access to Covenant; but now he said bluntly, “Chosen, what is your purpose here?”

She bit back a curse. Breathing deeply in an effort to steady herself, she said, “We've got an Elohim aboard, in case you haven't heard. It's Findail. They sent him here for something, and there doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it. The only one of us who has that kind of power is Covenant. I'm going to try to reach him.”

Brinn glanced toward Cail as if he were asking Cail to vouch for her. Then he gave her a slight bow of acquiescence and opened the door.

Glaring, she moved into the cabin, then watched him until he closed the door after her, leaving her alone with Covenant.

There for a moment she hesitated, trying to muster her courage. But Covenant's featureless presence gripped her like a hand on the back of her neck; it compelled her to face him.

He sat in a stone chair beside the small round table as if he had been deliberately positioned there. His legs were straight, formally placed; he did not slouch; his forearms lay on his thighs, with his hands open and the palms laid bare. A tray on the table contained the remains of a meal. Apparently, Brinn had been feeding the Unbeliever. But Covenant was unaware of such things. His slack face confronted the empty air as if it were just another avatar of the emptiness within him.

Linden groaned. The first time she had ever seen him, he had thrown open the door of his house like a hurling of vituperation, the fire and fever of his eyes barely restrained; his mouth had been as strict as a commandment. In spite of

his exhaustion, he had been living the life he had chosen, and he had appeared to her strangely indomitable and pure.

But now the definition of his features was obscured by the scruffy helplessness of his beard; and the gray which raddled the hair over his forehead gave him an appearance of caducity. The flesh of his face sagged as if he had lost all hope. His eyes were dry-lustreless as death.

He looked like her father had looked when his last blood had fallen to the warped old floorboards of the attic.

But Covenant still had pulse and respiration. Food and fluids sustained his life. When he uttered his refrain, as distinct as an augur, he seemed beneath all his loss to be aware of her-and terrified of what she meant to do to him.

She would have to possess him. Like a Raver. The thought filled her mouth with acid revulsion. But she did not hesitate. She could feel paralysis crouching around her. The fear which had so often bereft her of will was imminent in every wrench of her heart. The fear of what she would become. Trembling, she pulled the other chair close to Covenant's knees, sat down, placed her hands in his flaccid grasp as if even now he might preserve them from failure. Then she tried to open herself to his dead gaze.

Again, his darkness flooded into her, pouring through the conduit of her senses.

There she saw the danger. Inspired by his passive slackness, his resemblance to futility, her old hunger rose up in her gorge.

Instinctively, she fought it, held herself in the outer twilight of his night, poised between consciousness and abandonment. But she could not look away from the fathomless well of his emptiness. Already she was able to perceive facets of his condition which were hidden from the outside. She saw to her surprise that the power which had silenced his mind had also stilled the venom in him. It was quiescent; he had sunk beyond its reach.

Also she saw the qualities which had made him pervious to the Elohim. They would not have been able to bereave him so deeply if he had not already been exposed to them by his native impulse to take all harm upon himself. From that source arose both his power and his defenselessness. It gave him a dignity which she did not know how to emulate.

But her will had fallen into its familiar trap. There could be no right or valid way to enter him like this, to desecrate his integrity with her uninvited exigencies-and no right or bearable way to leave him in his plight, to let his need pass without succour. And because she could not resolve the contradiction, she had no answer to the dark, angry thing in the pit of her heart which came leaping up at the chance for power. Covenant's power: the chance to be a true arbiter of life and death.

Fierce with hunger, she sprang down into him.

Then the night bore her away.

For a time, it covered all the world. It seemed to stagger every firmament like a gale; yet it was nothing like a gale. Winds had direction and timbre; they were soft or strong, warm or chill. But his darkness was empty of anything which would have named it, given it definition. It was as lorn as the abysm between stars, yet it held no stars to chart its purpose. It filled her like Gibbon's touch, and she was helpless against it, helpless-her father had thrown the key out the window and she possessed no strength or passion that could call him back from death.

The dark swept her around and down like a maelstrom without movement or any other sensation except loss; and from its pit images began to emerge. A figure like an incarnation of the void came toward her across the desert. It was obscured by heatwaves and hallucination. She could not see who it was. Then she could.

Covenant.

He struggled to scream, but had no mouth. Scales covered half his face. His eyes were febrile with self-loathing. His forehead was pale with the excruciation of his lust and abhorrence. Eagerness and dread complicated his gait; he moved like a cripple as he approached her, aimed himself at her heart.

His arms had become snakes. They writhed and hissed from his shoulders, gaping to breathe and bite. The serpent-heads which had been his hands brandished fangs as white as bone.

She was caught. She knew that she should raise her hands, try to defend herself; but they hung at her sides like mortality, too heavy to lift against the doom of those fangs.

Surging forward, Covenant rose in front of her like all the failures and crimes and loves of her life. When his serpents struck, they knocked her away into another darkness altogether.

Later, she felt that she was being strangled in massive coils. She squirmed and whimpered for release, unable to break free. Her failed hands were knotted in the blanket Cail had spread over her. The hammock constricted her movements. She wanted to scream and could not. Fatal waters filled her throat. The dimness of her cabin seemed as ruinous as Covenant's mind.

But then with a wrench the fact of her surroundings penetrated her. This was her hammock, her cabin. The air was obscured with the dusk of dawn or evening, not the dark void into which she had fallen. The faintly remembered taste of diamondraught in her mouth was not the taste of death.

The cabin appeared to lie canted around her, like a house which had been broken from its foundations by some upheaval. When she felt the dromond's pitching, she realised that Starfare's Gem was listing heavily, causing her hammock to hang at an angle to the walls. She sensed the vibration of winds and seas through the hull of the Giantship. The dimness did not come from dawn or evening. It was the cloud-locked twilight of a storm.

The storm was bad-and becoming monstrous.

Her mind was full of snakes. She could not wrestle free of them. But then a movement near the table took her attention. Peering through the gloom, she made out Cail. He sat in one of the chairs, watching her as if no inadequacy or even betrayal on her part could alter his duty toward her. Yet in the obscurity of the cabin he looked as absolute as a figure of judgment, come to hold every count of her futility against her.

“How long-?” she croaked. The desert was still in her throat, defying the memory of diamondraught. She felt that time had passed. Too much time-enough for everything to have recoiled against her. “Have I been out?”

Cail rose to his feet. “A day and a night.”

In spite of his inflexibility, she clung to his dim visage so that she would not slip back among the serpents. “Covenant?”

The Haruchai shrugged fractionally. “The ur-Lord's plight is unaltered.” He might as well have said, You have failed. If it was ever your purpose to succeed.

Clumsily, she left the hammock. She did not want to lie before him like a sacrifice. He offered to assist her; but she rejected his aid, lowered herself alone to the stepladder, then to the floor, so that she could try to face him as an equal.

“Of course I wanted to succeed.” Fleeing from images of Covenant's mind, she went farther than she intended. “Do you blame me for everything?”

His mien remained blank. “Those are your words.” His tone was as strict as a reproof. “No Haruchai has spoken them.”

“You don't have to,” she retorted as if Covenant's plight had broken something in her chest. “You wear them on your face.”

Again, Cail shrugged. “We are who we are. This protest skills nothing.”

She knew that he was right. She had no cause to inflict her self-anger on him as if it were his fault. But she had swallowed too much loathing. And she had failed in paralysis. She had to spit out some of the bile before it sickened her. We are who we are. Pitchwife had said the same thing about the Elohim.

“Naturally not,” she muttered. “God forbid that you might do or even think much less be anything wrong. Well, let me tell you something. Maybe I've done a lot of things wrong. Maybe I've done everything wrong.” She would never be able to answer the accusation of her failures. “But when I had you sent out of Elemesnedene — when I let the Elohim do what they did to Covenant — I was at least trying to do something right.”

Cail gazed flatly at her as if he did not mean to reply. But then he spoke, and his voice held a concealed edge. “That we do not question. Does not Corruption believe altogether in its own lightness?”

At that, Linden went cold with shock. Until now, she had not perceived how deeply the Haruchai resented her decisions in Elemesnedene, Behind Cail's stolid visage, she sensed the presence of something fatal-something which must have been true of the Bloodguard as well. None of them knew how to forgive.

Gripping herself tightly, she said, “You don't trust me at all.”

Cail's answer was like a shrug. "We are sworn to the ur-Lord. He has trusted you." He did not need to point out that Covenant might feel differently if he ever recovered his mind. That thought had already occurred to her.

In her bitterness, she muttered, “He tried to. I don't think he succeeded.” Then she could not stand any more. What reason did any of them have to trust her? The floor was still canted under her, and through the stone she felt the way Starfare's Gem was battered by the waves. She needed to escape the confinement of her cabin, the pressure of Cail's masked hostility. Thrusting past him, she flung open the door and left the chamber.

Impeded by the lurch of the Giantship's stride, she stumbled to the stairs, climbed them unsteadily to the afterdeck.

When she stepped over the storm-sill, she was nearly blown from her feet. A predatory wind struck at the decks, clawed at the sails. Angry clouds frothed like breakers at the tips of the yards. As she struggled to a handhold on one of the ascents to the wheeldeck, spray lashed her face, springing like sharp rain from the passion of a dark and viscid sea.

Twelve: Sea-Harm

THERE was no rain, just wind as heavy as torrents, and clouds which sealed the Sea in a glower of twilight from horizon to horizon, and keen spray boiling off the crests of the waves like steam to sting like hail. The blast struck the Giantship at an angle, canting it to one side.

Linden gasped for breath. As she fought her vision clear of spume, she was astonished to see Giants in the rigging.

She did not know how they could hold. Impossible that they should be working up there, in the full blow of the storm!

Yet they were working. Starfare's Gem needed enough sail to give it headway. But if the spars carried too much canvas, any sudden shift or increase in the wind might topple the dromond or simply drive it under. The crewmembers were furling the upper sails. They looked small and inconceivable against the hard dark might of the storm. But slowly, tortuously, they fought the writhing canvas under control.

High up on the foremast, a Giant lost his hold, had to release the clew-lines in order to save himself. Dawngreeter was instantly torn away. Flapping wildly, like a stricken albatross, it fluttered along the wind and out of sight.

The other Giants had better success. By degrees, Starfare's Gem improved its stance.

But towering seas still heaved at the vessel. Plunging across the trough of a wave, it crashed sideward up the next ragged and vicious slope, then dove again as if it meant to bury its prow in the bottom. Linden clutched the stairs to keep herself from being kicked overboard.

She could not remain there, She feared that Starfare's Gem was in danger for its life-that any increase in the storm might break the ship apart. And the storm was going to increase. She felt its fury concatenating in the distance. The dromond rode the fringes of the blast: its heart was drawing closer. This course would carry the Giantship into the worst of the violence.

She had to warn Honninscrave.

She tried to creep up onto the stairs; but the wind flung her hair against her face like a flail, sucked the air from her lungs, threatened to rend her away. An instant of panic flamed through her.

Cail's arm caught her waist like a band of stone. His mouth came to her ear. “Seek shelter!” The wind ripped the words to pieces, making his shout barely audible.

She shook her head urgently, tried to drive her voice through the blow. “Take me to the wheeldeck!”

He hesitated for a moment while he cast a look about him, estimating the dangers. Then he swung her up the stairs.

She felt like a ragdoll in his grasp. If he had been any ordinary man, they would both have been slashed overboard. But he was an Haruchai. Surging across the weight of the wind, he bore her to the wheeldeck.

Only three Giants were there: Honninscrave, Galewrath, and the First. The Storesmaster stood at the great wheel, embracing it with both arms. Her muscles were knotted under the strain; her feet were widely planted to brace herself. She

looked like a granite monolith, capable of standing there and mastering Shipsheartthew until the sea and time broke Starfare's Gem into rubble.

Anchored by her weight and strength, the First remained still. The Search was out of her hands. Under these conditions, it belonged to the storm-and to Starfare's Gem. And the dromond belonged to Honninscrave.

He stood near Galewrath; but all his attention was focused forward like a beacon, burning for the safety of his ship. The bony mass of his brows seemed to protect his sight. He bore himself as if he could see everything. His trenchant bellow pierced the wind. And the Giants responded like a manifestation of his will. Step by arduous step, they fought sheets and shrouds and canvas, tuned Starfare's Gem to endure the peril.

Linden tried to shout; but the wind struck her in the teeth, stuffed her voice back down her throat. With a fervid gesture, she directed Cail toward the Master.

“Honninscrave!” She had to scream to make herself heard. “Change course! We're running right into the storm!”

The import of her words snatched at his attention. Bending over her, he shouted, “That cannot be! This storm rises from the south! Riding as we do, we shall remain on its verge and be driven only scantly from our path!”

The south? She gaped at him, disbelieving that he could be wrong about such a thing. When she forced her vision in that direction, she saw he was not wrong. Her senses plainly discerned a cusp of violence there, though it was several leagues distant. Honninscrave's present course would carry Starfare's Gem around the fierce core of that storm.

But a look toward the northwest verified what she had seen earlier. A hurricane crouched there, titanic and monstrous. The two storms were crowding together, with Starfare's Gem between them. Every heave and crash of the dromond's keel angled it closer to the savagery of the stronger blast.

With a cry that seemed to tear her throat, she told Honninscrave what she saw.

Her news staggered him. He had never had a chance to see the hurricane. The first storm had taken hold of the Giantship before it entered the range of the second. Disaster loomed along the heading he had chosen. But he recovered swiftly. He was the Master of Starfare's Gem in every nerve and sinew. He sounded ready for any peril or mischance as he shouted, “What is your counsel?”

Gritting herself, she tried to think-gauge the intersecting paths of the storms, estimate the effect they would have on each other. She was not adept at such visualizations. She was trained to map the insidious cunning of diseases, not the candid fury of gales. But she read them as best she could.

“If we keep on this way!” Her chest ached at the strain of yelling. “We might be able to pass the one in the south! Or the worst of it! Before we get too far into the other one!”

Honninscrave nodded his approval. The abutment of his forehead seemed proof against any storm.

“But the other one!” She concluded as if she were screaming. “It's terrible! If you have to choose, go south!”

“I hear you!” His shout was flayed into spray and tatters. He had already turned to hurl his orders across the wind.

His commands sounded as mad as the gale. Linden felt the hurricane ravening closer, always closer. Surely no vessel-especially one as heavy as the dromond- could withstand that kind of fury. The wind was a shriek in the ratlines. She could see the masts swaying. The yards appeared to waver like outstretched arms groping for balance. The deck kicked and lurched. If Galewrath did not weaken, the rudder might snap, leaving Starfare's Gem at the mercy of the hungry seas. While Linden hesitated, the last sail left on the aftermast sprang suddenly into shreds and was gone, torn thread from thread. Its gear lashed the air. Instinctively, she ducked her head, pressed herself against Cail's support.

Yelling like ecstasy, Honninscrave sent Giants to replace the lost canvas.

Linden pulled her face to the side of Cail's head, shouted, “Take me forward! I've got an idea!”

He nodded his understanding and at once began to haul her toward a stairway, choosing the windward side rather than the lee to keep as much of the tilted deck as possible between her and the seething rush of the sea.

As they reached the stairs, she saw several Giants-Pitchwife and others-hastening across the afterdeck, accompanied by Ceer and Hergrom. They were stringing lifelines. When she and Cail gained the foot of the stairs, Pitchwife and Ceer came slogging to join them. Blinking the spray from his eyes, Pitchwife gave her a grin. With a gesture toward the wheeldeck, he shouted like a laugh, “Our Honninscrave is in his element, think you not?” Then he ascended the stairs to join Ws wife and the Master.

Linden's clothes were soaked. Her shirt stuck to her skin. Every gobbet of water the seas hurled at her seemed to slap into her bones. She had already begun to shiver. But the cold felt detached, impersonal, as if she were no longer fully inhabiting her body; and she ignored it.

Then rain gushed out of the clouds. It filled the air as if every wavecap had become foam, boiling up to put teeth into the wind. The ocean appeared to shrink around Starfare's Gem, blinding all the horizons. Linden could barely see as far as Foodfendhall. She spat curses, but the loud rain deafened her to her own voice. With so little visibility, how would Honninscrave know when to turn from the approaching hurricane?

She struggled to the nearest lifeline, locked her fingers around it, then started to pull her way forward.

She had an idea. But it might have been sane or mad. The gale rent away all distinctions.

The afterdeck seemed as long as a battlefield. Spray and rain sent sheets of water pouring against her ankles, nearly sweeping her down the deck. At every plunge of the Giantship, she shivered like an echo of the tremors which ran along the dromond's keel. The lifeline felt raw with cold, abrading her palms. Yet she strove forward. She had failed at everything else. She could not bear to think that this simple task might prove beyond her strength.

Ceer went ahead to open the door of the housing. Riding an eddy of the storm, she pitched over the sill, stumbled to the floor. The two Haruchai slammed the door; and at once the air tensed as if pressure were building toward an explosion in Foodfendhall, aggravated by the yammer and crash outside. For a moment of panic, she thought she heard pieces of the ship breaking away. But as she regained her breath, she realised that she was hearing the protestations of the midmast.

In the lantern-light, the shaft of the mast was plain before her, marked by engravings she had never studied. Perhaps they revealed the story of Starfare's Gem's making, or of its journeys. She did not know. As she worked forward, the groans and creaks rose into a sharp keening. The spars high above her had begun to sing.

She nearly fell again when Ceer opened the door, letting the howl strike at her like a condor. But Cail braced her, helped her back out into the blast. At once, the rain crashed down like thunder. She chose a lifeline anchored to the foremast.

With the cable clamped under one arm so that it upheld her, she lowered her head and went on against the wind.

A Giant loomed ahead of her, following the lifeline aft. As they reached each other, she recognized Sevinhand. He paused to let her pass, then shouted like an act of comradeship, “Such a storm! Were I less certain of our charting, I would believe that we had blundered unwitting into the Soulbiter!”

She had no time to reply. Her hands burned with friction and cold. The cable wore at her side like a gall. She had to reach Findail. He alone on Starfare's Gem had the power to avert the disaster of the advancing hurricane.

At the foremast she rested briefly, standing so that the wind pressed her to the stone. In that position, the torment of the mast thrummed acutely into her. The granite's vitality was being stressed mercilessly. For a moment, the sensation filled her with dread. But when she thrust her percipience into the mast, she was reassured. Like Honninscrave, the dromond was equal to this need. Starfare's Gem might tilt and keen, but it was not about to break.

Yet the heart of the hurricane was towering toward her like a mountain come to life, a dire colossus striding to stamp the Giantship down to its doom. Clinching a cable which ran in the direction of the prow, she went on.

As she squinted through sheets of water as binding as cerements, she caught sight of Vain. The Demondim-spawn stood midway between the foremast and the prow, facing forward as if to keep watch on Findail. And he was as rigid as if the heaving surface under him were a stationary platform. Even the wind had no effect upon him. He might have been rooted to the stone.

Findail became visible for a moment, then disappeared as the Giantship crashed into the trough of the seas and slammed its prow against the next wave. A deluge cut Linden's legs from under her. She barely kept her grip on the lifeline. Now she could only advance between waves. When Starfare's Gem lifted its head, she wrestled forward a few steps. When the prow hit the next wave as if the dromond were being snatched into the deeps, she clung where she was and prayed that her grip and the cable would hold.

But she moved by stages and at last reached the railing. From there, she had only a short way to go.

The last part was the hardest. She was already quivering with cold and exhaustion; and the Giantship's giddy motion, throwing her toward and then yanking her away from the sea, left her hoarse with involuntary curses. At every downward crash, the force of the vessel's struggle hit her. The sheer effort of holding her breath for each inundation threatened to finish her. Several times, she was only saved by the support of Cail's shoulder.

Then she gained Findail's side. He glanced at her between plunges; and the sight of him stunned her. He was not wet. The wind did not ruffle his hair; the rain did not touch him. He emerged from every smash into the waves with dry raiment and clear eyes, as if he had tuned his flesh to a pitch beyond the reach of any violence of weather or sea.

But his unscathed aspect confirmed her determination. He was a being of pure Earthpower, capable of sparing himself the merest contact with wind and spray. And what was any storm, if not Earthpower in another form-unbridled and savage, but still acting in accordance with the Law of its nature?

At the impact of the next wave, she ducked her head. The water pounded her, covered her face with her hair. When the dromond lifted again, she loosed one hand from the rail to thrust the sodden strands aside. Then she drove her voice at Findail.

“Do something! Save us!”

His pain-lined expression did not alter. He made no attempt to shout; but his words reached her as clearly as if the storm had been stricken dumb.

“The Elohim do not tamper with the life of the Earth. There is no life without structure. We respect the workings of that structure in every guise.”

Structure, Linden thought. Law. They are who they are. Their might is matched by their limitations. Starfare's Gem dove. She clung to the rail for her life. Chaos was death. Energy could not exist without constriction. If the Lawless power of the Sunbane grew too strong, it might unbind the very foundations of the Earth.

As the deluge swept past her, she tried again.

“Then tell Honninscrave what to do! Guide him!”

The Elohim seemed faintly surprised, “Guide-?” But then he shrugged. “Had he inquired, the question would have searched me. In such a case, where would my ethic lie? But it boots nothing now.” The Giantship plunged again; yet Linden could hear him through the tumult of the water and the shrill wind. “The time for such questions is lost.”

When the prow surfaced, she fought her sight clear and saw what he meant.

From out of the heart of the hurricane came rushing a wall of water as high as the first spars of the Giantship.

It was driven by wind-a wind so savage and tremendous that it dwarfed everything else; a wind which turned every upreaching sea to steam, sheared off the crest of every wave, so that the ocean under it mounted and ran like a flow of dark magma.

Starfare's Gem lay almost directly athwart the wall.

Linden stared at it in a seizure of dread. In the last pause before the onslaught, she heard Honninscrave roaring faintly, “Ward!” Then his shout was effaced by the wild stentorian rage of the wind, howling like the combined anguish and ferocity of all the damned.

As the wall hit, she lunged at Findail, trying to gain his help-or take him with her, she did not know which. The impact of the great wave ended all differences. But her hands seemed to pass through him. She got one last clear look at his face. His eyes were yellow with grief.

Then the starboard side of the Giantship rose like an orogenic upthrust, and she fell toward the sea.

She thought that surely she would strike the port rail. She flailed her arms to catch hold of it. But she was pitched past it into the water.

The sea slammed at her with such force that she did not feel the blow, did not feel the waters close over her.

At the same moment, something hard snagged her wrist, wrenched her back to the surface. She was already ten or fifteen feet from the ship. Its port edge was submerged; the entire foredeck loomed over her. It stood almost vertically in the water, poised to fall on her, crush her between stone and sea.

But it did not fall. Somehow, Starfare's Gem remained balanced on its side, with nearly half of its port decks underwater. And Cail did not let her go.

His right hand held her wrist at the farthest stretch of his arm. His ankles were grasped by Ceer, also fully outstretched.

Vain anchored the Haruchai. He still stood as if he were rooted to the deck, with his body at right angles to the stone, nearly parallel to the sea. But he had moved down the deck, positioned himself almost at the waterline. At the end of his reach, he held Ceer's ankles.

He did not trouble to raise his head to find out if Linden were safe.

Heaving against the rush of water, Ceer hauled Cail closer to the deck; and Cail dragged Linden after him. Together, the Haruchai contracted their chain until Cail could grip Vain's wrist with his free hand. The Demondim-spawn did nothing to ease their task; but when both Cail and Ceer were clinched to him, holding Linden between them, he released Ceer's ankles. Then the Haruchai bore her up Vain's back to the deck.

Braced against his rigid ankles, they gave her a chance to draw breath.

She had swallowed too much water; she was gagging on salt. A spasm of coughing knotted her guts. But when it loosened, she found that she could breathe more easily than before the great wave struck. Lying on its side, Starfare's Gem formed a lee against the wind. The turbulence of the blast's passage pounded the sea beyond the ship, so that the surface frothed and danced frenetically; but the decks themselves lay in a weird calm.

As she caught her breath, the dromond's plight struck her like a hand of the gale.

On every level of her senses, the granite vessel burned with strain. It radiated pain like a wracked animal caught in the unanswerable snare of the blast. From stem to stern, mast-top to keel, all the stone was shrill with stress, tortured by pressures which its makers could not have conceived. Starfare's Gem had fallen so far onto its side that the tips of its spars nearly touched the water. It lay squarely across the wind; and the wild storm swept it over the ocean with terrifying speed.

If there had been any waves, the dromond would certainly have foundered; but in that, at least, the vessel was fortunate, for the titanic gale crushed everything into one long flat and seething rush. Yet the Giantship hung only inches from capsizing. Had the great weight of its masts and yards not been counterbalanced by its enormous keel, it would already have plunged to its death.

In a way, the sheer force of the wind had saved the ship. It had instantly stripped the remaining canvas to ribbons, thus weakening the thrust of its turbulence against the masts. But still the vessel's poised survival was as fragile as an old bone. Any shift of the dromond's position in the wind, any rise of the gale or surge of the sea, would be enough to snap that balance. And every increase in the amount of water Starfare's Gem shipped threatened to drag it down.

Giants must have been at the pumps; but Linden did not know how they could possibly keep pace with the torrents that poured in through the hatches and ports, the broken doors of Foodfendhall. The wind's fury howled at the hull as if it meant to chew through the stone to get at her. And that sound, the incisive ululation and shriek of air blasting past the moire-granite, ripped across the grain of her mind like the teeth of a saw. She did not realize that she was grinding her own teeth until the pain began to feel like a wedge driven between the bones of her skull.

For a terrible moment, the ship's peril blanked everything else out of her. But then her heart seemed to come alive with a wrench, and implications of panic shot through her. Grabbing at Cail, she cried over the ferocious background of the wind, “Covenant!” His cabin was to port below the wheeldeck. It must be underwater. He would not be able to save himself from the sea as it rushed in through riven hatches, ruptured portholes, doors burst from their moorings. He would sit there, helpless and empty, while he drowned.

But Cail replied, “Brinn was forewarned! The ur-Lord is safe!”

Safe! Good Christ! Clinging to that hope, she shouted, “Take me to him!”

Ceer, turned, called a hail up the deck. A moment later, a Giant near the foremast threw down the end of a rope. The two Haruchai caught it, knotted it around Linden's waist, then gripped it themselves as the Giant drew them all up the steep stone.

Vain remained where he was as if he were content to watch the sea speeding within arm's reach of his face. For the present, at least, he had satisfied his purpose. The black rigor of his back said plainly that he cared for nothing else.

When the Giant had pulled Linden and the Haruchai up to him, he snatched her into a fervid hug. He was Mistweave; and the fear he had felt for her trembled in his thews. Over her shoulder, he shouted praise and thanks to the Haruchai.

His Giantish embrace tasted impossibly secure in the gale. But she could not bear to be delayed. The dromond hung on the verge of destruction. “Where's Covenant?” she yelled.

Carefully, Mistweave set her down, then pointed away aft. “The Master gathers the crew above the aftermast! Covenant Giantfriend is there! I go to assist at the pumps!”

The Haruchai nodded their comprehension. Mistweave tore himself away, scrambled to a hatch which gave access to the underdecks, and disappeared.

Holding Linden between them, Cail and Ceer began to move toward Foodfendhall.

Cautiously navigating the lifelines, they brought her to the upper door. Within the housing, they found that the Giants had strung more cables, enabling them to cross the wreckage to the afterdeck. One lantern still hung at a crazy angle from the midmast, and its wan light revealed the broken litter of tables and benches which lay half-submerged in the lower part of the hall. The destruction seemed like a blow struck at the very heart of the Giants-at their love of communal gathering.

But the Haruchai did not delay to grieve over the damage. Firmly, they bore Linden out to the afterdeck.

Most of her other shipmates were there, perched in various attitudes along the starboard rail above the mast. Through the clenched twilight, she could see more than a score of Giants, including Pitchwife, the First, Seadreamer, and Honninscrave. Pitchwife shouted a relieved welcome to her; but she hardly heard him. She was hunting for a glimpse of Covenant.

After a moment, she located the Unbeliever. He was partially hidden by Seadreamer's protective bulk. Brinn and Hergrom were braced on either side of him; and he hung slack between them as if all his bones had been broken.

Ceer and Cail took Linden up a lifeline to one of the cables which ran the length of the afterdeck eight or ten paces below the railing, lashed there to permit movement back and forth, and to catch anyone who might fall. In the arrangement of the lines, she recognized Honninscrave's meticulous concern for his crew, the life of his ship. He was busy directing the placement of more cables so that his people would be enclosed in a network of supports.

As she was brought near Covenant, his presence gave her a false energy. She took hold of the arm Seadreamer extended toward her, moved like braciation from him to Brinn and the railing. Then she huddled beside Covenant and at once began to explore him for injuries or deterioration.

He was nearly as wet as she, and automatic shivers ran through him like an ague in the marrow of his bones. But in other ways he was as well as the Elohim had left him. His eyes stared as if they had lost the capability of focus; his mouth hung open; water bedraggled his beard. When she examined him, he repeated his warning almost inaudibly against the background of the wind. But the words meant nothing to him.

Weakened by relief and pain, she sagged at his side.

The First and Pitchwife were nearby, watching for her verdict on Covenant's state. Linden shook her head; and Pitchwife winced. But the First said nothing. She held herself as if the absence of any bearable foe cramped her muscles. She was a trained warrior; but the Giantship's survival depended on sea-craft, not swords. Linden met the First's gaze and nodded. She knew how the Swordmain felt.

Looking around the dromond, she was appalled to see that Galewrath still stood at Shipsheartthew. Locked between the stone spokes of the wheel and the deck, the Storesmaster held her place with the stolid intransigence of a statue. At first, Linden did not understand why Galewrath stayed in a place of such exposure and strain-or why the Master allowed anyone to remain there. But then her thinking clarified. The dromond still needed its rudder to maintain its precarious balance. In addition, if the wind shifted forward Galewrath might be able to turn Starfare's Gem perpendicular to the blast again; for the Giantship would surely sink if any change sent its prow even slightly into the wind. And if the gale shifted aft, she might have a chance to turn away. With the storm at its back, Starfare's Gem might be able to rise and run.

Linden did not know how even a Giant's thews could stand the strain Galewrath endured. But the blunt woman clung like hard hope to her task and did not let go.

At last, Honninscrave finished setting his lifelines. Swarming from cable to cable, he climbed to join the First and Pitchwife near Linden. As he moved, he shouted encouragements and jests to the hunched shapes of his crew. Pitchwife had described him accurately: he was in his element. His oaken shoulders bore the dromond's plight as if the burden were light to him.

Reaching Linden's proximity, he called, “Be not daunted, Chosen! Starfare's Gem will yet redeem us from this storm!”

She was no match for him. His fortitude only underscored her apprehension. Her voice nearly broke as she returned, “How many have we lost?”

“Lost?” His reply pierced the blind ferocity of the hurricane. “None! Your forewarning prepared us! All are here! Those you see not I have sent to the pumps!” As he spoke, Linden became aware that bursts of water were slashing away from the side of the ship above her, boiling into mist and darkness as the wind tore them from the pumpholes. “Those to port we cannot employ. But those to starboard we have linked across the holds. Sevinhand, who commands below, reports that his crew keeps pace. We endure, Chosen! We will survive!”

She groped for a share of his faith and could not find it. “Maybe we should abandon ship!”

He gaped at her. She heard the folly of her words before he responded, “Do you wish to chance this sea in a longboat?”

Helplessly, she asked, “What're you going to do?”

“Naught!” he returned in a shout like a challenge. "While this gale holds, we are too precarious. But when the change comes, as come it must-Then perhaps you will see that the Giants are sailors-and Starfare's Gem, a ship-to make the heart proud!

“Until that time, hold faith! Stone and Sea, do you not comprehend that we are alive?”

But she was no longer listening to him. The imponderable screech and yowl of the blast seemed to strike straight at Covenant. He was shivering with cold. His need was poignant to her; but she did not know how to touch him. Her hands were useless, so deeply chilled that she could hardly curl them into fists. Slow blood oozed from several abrasions on her palms, formed in viscid drops between her fingers. She paid no attention to it.

Later, large bowls of diamondraught were passed among the companions. The Giantish liquor reduced her weakness somewhat, enabling her to go on clinging for her life. But still she did not raise her head. She could not think why Vain had saved her. The force of the storm felt like an act of malice. Surely if the Demondim-spawn had not saved her the blast would have been appeased.

Her health-sense insisted that the hurricane was a natural one, not a manifestation of deliberate evil. But she was so badly battered by the wind's violence and the cold, so eroded by her fear, that she no longer knew the difference.

They were all going to die, and she had not yet found a way to give Covenant back his mind.

Later still, night effaced the last illumination. The gale did not abate; it appeared to have blown out the stars. Nothing but a few weak lanterns-one near Galewrath, the rest scattered along the upper edge of the afterdeck-reduced the blackness. The wind went on reaping across the sea with a sound as shrill as a scythe. Through the stone came the groaning of the masts as they protested against their moorings, the repetitive thud and pound of the pumps. All the crewmembers took turns below, but their best efforts were barely enough to keep pace with the water. They could not lessen the great salt weight which held Starfare's Gem on its side. More diamondraught was passed around. The day had seemed interminable. Linden did not know how she could face the night and stay sane.

By degrees, her companions sank into themselves as she did. Dismay covered them like the night, soaked into them like the cold. If the wind shifted now, Galewrath would have no forewarning. In the distant light of her lantern, she looked as immobile as stone, no longer capable of the reactions upon which the dromond might depend. Yet Honninscrave sent no one to relieve her: any brief uncertainty while Shipsheartthew changed hands might cause the vessel to founder. And so the Giants who were not at the pumps had no other way to fight for their lives except to cling and shiver. Eventually, even the Master's chaffering could not rouse them to hope or spirit. They crouched against the rail, with the black sea running almost directly below them, and waited like men and women who had been sentenced to death.

But Honninscrave did not leave them alone. When his guyings and jollyings became ineffective, he shouted unexpectedly, “Ho, Pitchwife! The somnolence of these Giants abashes me! In days to come, they will hang their heads to hear such a tale told of them! Grant us a song to lift our hearts, that we may remember who we are!”

From a place near her, Linden heard the First mutter mordantly, “Aye, Pitchwife. Grant them a song. When those who are whole falter, those who are halt must bear them up.”

But Pitchwife did not appear to hear her. “Master!” he replied to Honninscrave with a frantic laugh, “I have been meditating such a song! It may not be kept silent, for it swells in my heart, becoming too great for any breast to contain! Behold!” With a lugubrious stagger, he let himself fall down the deck. When he hit the first lifeline, it thrummed under his weight, but held. Half-reclining against the line, he faced upward. “It will boon me to sing this song for you!”

Shadows cast by the lanterns made his misshapen face into a grimace. But his grin was unmistakable; and as he continued his humour became less forced.

“I will sing the song which Bahgoon sang, in the aftermath of his taming by his spouse and harridan, that many-legended odalisque Thelma Twofist!”

The power of his personal mirth drew a scattering of wan cheers and ripostes from the despondent Giants.

Striking a pose of exaggerated melancholy, he began. He did not actually sing; he could not make a singing voice audible. But he delivered his verses in a pitched rhythmic shout which affected his listeners like music.

"My love has eyes which do not glow

Her loveliness is somewhat formed askew,

With blemishes which number not a few,

And pouting lips o'er teeth not in a row.

"Her limbs are doughtier than mine,

And what I do not please to give she takes.

Her hair were better kempt with hoes and rakes.

Her kiss tastes less of diamondraught than brine.

"Her odorescence gives me ill:

Her converse is by wit or grace unlit:

Her raiment would become her if it fit.

So think of me with rue: I love her still."

It was a lengthy song; but after a moment Linden was distracted from it. Faintly, she heard the First murmuring to herself, clearly unaware that anyone could hear her.

“Therefore do I love you, Pitchwife,” she said into the wind and the night. “In sooth, this is a gift to lift the heart. Husband, it shames me that I do not equal your grace.”

In a beneficial way, the deformed Giant seemed to shame all the crew. To answer his example, they stirred from their disconsolation, responded to each other as if they were coming back to life. Some of them were laughing; others straightened their backs, tightened their grips on the railing, as if by so doing they could better hear the song.

Instinctively, Linden roused herself with them. Their quickening emanations urged her to shrug off some of her numbness.

But when she did so, her percipience began to shout at her. Behind the restoration of the Giants rose a sense of peril. Something was approaching the Giantship-something malefic and fatal.

It had nothing to do with the storm. The storm was not evil. This was.

“Chosen?” Cail asked.

Distinctly, Covenant said, “Don't touch me.”

She tried to rise to her feet. Only Cail's swift intervention kept her from tumbling toward Pitchwife.

“Jesus!” She hardly heard herself. The darkness and the gale deafened her. “It's going to attack us here!”

The First swung toward her. “Attack us?”

As Linden cried out, “That Raver!” the assault began.

Scores of long dark shapes seethed out of the water below the aftermast. They broke through the reflections of the lanterns, started to wriggle up the steep stone.

As they squirmed upward, they took light. The air seemed to ignite them in fiery red.

Burning with crimson internal heat like fire-serpents, they attacked the deck, swarming toward Covenant and Linden.

Eels!

Immense numbers of them.

They were not on fire, shed no flame. Rather, they radiated a hot red malice from their snakelike forms. Driven by the lust of the Raver in them, they shone like incandescent blood as they climbed. They were as large as Linden's arm. Their gaping teeth flashed light as incisive as razors.

The First yelled a warning that fled without echo into the wind.

The leading eels reached the level of the mast; but Linden could not move. The sheer force of the Raver's presence held her. Memories of Gibbon and Marid burned in her guts; and a black yearning answered, jumping within her like wild glee. Power! The part of her that desired possession and Ravers, lusted for the sovereign strength of death, lashed against her conscious loathing, her vulnerable and deliberate rejection of evil; and the contradiction locked her into immobility. She had been like this in the woods behind Haven Farm, when Lord Foul had looked out of the fire at her and she had let Covenant go down alone to his doom.

Yet that threat to him had finally broken her fear, sent her running to his rescue. And the eels were coming for him now, while he was entirely unable to defend himself. Stung by his peril, her mind seemed to step back, fleeing from panic into her old professional detachment.

Why had Foul chosen to attack now, when the Elohim had already done Covenant such harm? Had the Elohim acted for reasons of their own, without the Despiser's knowledge or prompting? Had she been wrong in her judgment of them? If Lord Foul did not know about Covenant's condition—

Hergrom, Ceer, and the First had already started downward to meet the attack; but Pitchwife was closer to it than anyone else. Quickly, he slipped below his lifeline to the next cable. Bracing himself there, he bent and scooped up an eel to crush it.

As his hand closed, a discharge of red power shot through him. The blast etched him, distinct and crimson, against the dark sea. With a scream in his chest, he tumbled down the deck, struck heavily against the base of the mast. Sprawled precariously there, he lay motionless, barely breathing.

More eels crawled over his legs. But since he was still, they did not unleash their fire into him.

Hergrom slid in a long dive down to the stricken Giant. At once, he kicked three eels away from Pitchwife's legs. The creatures fell writhing back into the sea; but their power detonated on Hergrom's foot, sent him into convulsions. Only the brevity of the blast saved his life. He retained scarcely enough control over his muscles to knot one fist in the back of Pitchwife's sark, the other on a cleat of the mast. Twitching and jerking like a wildman, he still contrived to keep himself and Pitchwife from sliding farther.

Every spasm threatened to bring either him or the Giant into contact with more of the creatures.

Then the First reached the level of the assault. With her feet planted on the deck, a lifeline across her belly, she poised her broadsword in both fists. Her back and shoulders bunched like a shout of fear and rage for Pitchwife.

The First's jeopardy snatched Linden back from her detachment. Desperately, she howled, 'No!"

She was too late. The First scythed her blade at the eels closest to her feet.

Power shot along the iron, erupted from her hands into her chest. Fire formed a corona around her. Red static sprang from her hair. Her sword fell. Plunging in a shower of sparks, it struck the water with a sharp hiss and disappeared.

She made no effort to catch it. Her stunned body toppled over the lifeline. Below her, the water seethed with malice as more eels squirmed up the deck into air and fire.

Ceer barely caught her. Reading the situation with celerity bordering on prescience, he had taken an instant to knot a rope around his waist. As the First fell, he threw the rope to the nearest crewmember and sprang after her.

He snagged her by the shoulder. Then the Giant pulled on the rope, halting Ceer and the First just above the waterline.

“Don't move them!” Linden shouted instantly. “She can't take any more!”

The First lay still. Ceer held himself motionless. The eels crawled over them as if they were a part of the deck.

With a fierce effort, Hergrom fought himself under command. He steadied his limbs, stopped jerking Pitchwife, a heartbeat before more eels began slithering over the two of them.

Linden could hardly think. Her friends were in danger. Memories of Revelstone and Gibbon pounded at her. The presence of the Raver hurt her senses, appalled every inch of her flesh. In Revelstone, the conflict of her reactions to that ill power had driven her deep into a catatonia of horror. But now she let the taste of evil pour through her and fought to concentrate on the creatures themselves. She needed a way to combat them.

Seadreamer's reflexes were swifter. Tearing Covenant from Brinn's grasp, he leaped down to the first cable, then began hauling himself toward Foodfendhall.

Brinn went after him as if to retrieve the ur-Lord from a Giant who had gone mad.

But almost immediately Seadreamer's purpose became clear. As the Giant conveyed Covenant forward, the eels turned in that direction, writhing to catch up with their prey. The whole thrust of the attack shifted forward.

Soon Ceer and the First were left behind. And a moment later Pitchwife and Hergrom were out of danger.

At once, the Giant holding Ceer's rope heaved the Haruchai and the First upward. Honninscrave skidded under the lifelines to the mast, took Pitchwife from Hergrom's damaged grasp.

But the eels still came, Raver-driven to hurl themselves at Covenant. Shortly, Seadreamer had traversed the cable to its mooring near the rail at the edge of Foodfendhall. There he hesitated, looked back at the pursuit. But he had no choice. He had committed himself, was cornered now between the housing and the rail. The nearest creatures were scant moments from his feet.

As Brinn caught up with him, Seadreamer grabbed the Haruchai by the arm, pulled him off his feet in a deft arc up to the canted roof. He landed just within the ship's lee below the mad gale. Almost in the same motion, Seadreamer planted one foot atop the railing and leaped after Brinn.

For an instant, the wind caught him, tried to hurl him out to sea. But his weight and momentum bore him back down to the roof. Beyond the edge of Foodfendhall, he dropped out of Linden's view. Then he appeared again as he stretched out along the midmast. He held Covenant draped over his shoulder.

In spite of the fearsome risks he took, Linden's courage lifted. Perhaps the wall of the housing would block the eels.

But the creatures had not been daunted by the steep slope of the deck; and now they began to squirm up the side of Foodfendhall, clinging to the flat stone with their bellies. As their fire rose, it came between her and the darkness at the mast, effacing Seadreamer and Covenant from her sight.

At Honninscrave's command, several Giants moved to engage the eels. They fought by using lengths of hawser as whips-and had some success, Discharges of power expended themselves by incinerating the ropes, did not reach the hands of the Giants. Many eels were killed by the force of the blows.

But the creatures were too numerous; and the Giants were slowed by their constant need for more rope. They could not clear their way to the wall, could not prevent scores of fire-serpents from scaling upward. And more eels came surging incessantly out of the sea. Soon Seadreamer would be trapped. Already, creatures were wriggling onto the roof.

Urgency and instinct impelled Linden into motion. In a flash of memory, she saw Covenant standing, valiant and desirable, within the caamora he had created for the Dead of The Grieve — protected from the bonfire by wild magic. Fire against fire. Bracing herself on Cail, she snatched at the lantern hanging from the rail above her head. Though she was weak with cold and off-balance, she turned, hurled the lantern toward Foodfendhall.

It fell short of the red-bright wall. But when it hit the deck, it broke; and oil spattered over the nearest eels. Instantly, they burst into flame. Their own power became a conflagration which consumed them. Convulsed in their death throes, they fell back to the water and hissed their dying away into the dark.

Linden tried to shout; but Honninscrave was quicker. “Oil!” he roared. “Bring more oil!”

In response, Ceer and two of the Giants hurtled toward a nearby hatchway.

Other crewmembers grabbed for the remaining lanterns. Honninscrave stopped them. “We will need the light!”

Seadreamer, Covenant, and Brinn were visible now in the advancing glare of the eels. Seadreamer stood on the mast, with Covenant over his shoulder. As the eels hastened toward him, he retreated up the mast. It was a treacherous place to walk-curved, festooned with cables, marked with belaying-cleats. But he picked his way up the slope, his eyes fixed on the eels. His gaze echoed mad determination to their fire. In the garish illumination, he looked heavy and fatal, as if his weight alone would be enough to topple Starfare's Gem.

Between him and the attack stood Brinn. The Haruchai followed Seadreamer, facing the danger like the last guardian of Covenant's life. Linden could not read his face at that distance; but he must have known that the first blow he struck would also be the last. Yet he did not falter.

Ceer and the two Giants had not returned. Measuring the time by her ragged breathing, Linden believed that they were already too late. Too many eels had gained the roof. And still more continued to rise out of the sea as if their numbers were as endless as the malevolence which drove them.

Abruptly, Seadreamer stumbled into the turbulence beyond the lee of the ship. The gale buffeted him from his feet, almost knocked him off the mast. But he dropped down to straddle the stone with his legs, and his massive thighs held him against the blast. Light reflected from the scar under his eyes as if his visage were afire. Covenant dangled limp and insensate from his shoulder. The creatures were halfway up the mast to him. Between him and death stood one weaponless Haruchai.

Raging with urgency, Honninscrave shouted at his brother.

Seadreamer heard, understood. He shifted the Unbeliever so that Covenant lay cradled in his thighs. Then he began to unbind the shrouds around him.

When he could not reach the knots, or not untie them swiftly enough, he snapped the lines like string. And as he worked or broke them free, he passed the pieces to Brinn.

Thus armed, the Haruchai advanced to meet the eels.

Impossibly poised between caution and extravagance, he struck at the creatures, flailing them with his rough-made quirts. Some of the pieces were too short to completely spare him from hot harm; but somehow he retained his control and fought on. When he had exhausted his supply of weapons, he bounded back to Seadreamer to take the ones the Giant had ready for him.

From Linden's distance, Covenant's defenders looked heroic and doomed. The mast's surface limited the number of eels which could approach simultaneously. But Brinn's supply of quirts was also limited by the amount of line within Seadreamer's reach. That resource was dwindling rapidly. And no help could reach them.

Frantically, Linden gathered herself to shout at Honninscrave, tell him to throw more rope to Seadreamer. But at that moment, Ceer returned. Gripping a large pouch like a wineskin under his arm, he dashed out from under the wheeldeck, sprang to the nearest lifeline. With all his Haruchai alacrity, he sped forward.

Behind him came the two Giants. They moved more slowly because they each carried two pouches, but they made all the haste they could.

Honninscrave sent his crew scrambling out of Ceer's path. As he rushed forward past the aftermast, Ceer unstopped his pouch. Squeezing it under his arm, he spouted a dark stream of oil to the stone below him. Oil slicked the deck, spread its sheen downward.

When the oil met the eels, the deck became a sheet of flame.

Fire spread, burning so rapidly that it followed Ceer's spout like hunger. It ignited the eels, cast them onto each other to multiply the ignition. In moments, all the deck below him blazed. The Raver's creatures were wiped away by their own conflagration.

But hundreds of them had already gained the wall and roof of the housing; and now the crew's access to Foodfendhall was blocked. Fire alone would not have stopped the Giants. But the oil made the deck too slippery to be traversed. Until it burned away, no help could try to reach Seadreamer and Brinn except along the cable Ceer used.

They had only scant moments left. No more line lay within Seadreamer's reach. He tried to slide himself toward the first spar, where the shrouds were plentiful; but the effort took him farther into the direct turbulence of the gale. Before he had covered half the distance, the blast became too strong for him. He had to hunch over Covenant, cling to the stone with all his limbs, in order to keep the two of them from being torn away into the night.

Ceer's pouch was emptied before he gained Foodfendhall. He was forced to stop. No one could reach the housing.

Honninscrave barked commands. At once, the nearer oil-laden Giant stopped, secured her footing, then threw her pouches forward, one after the other. The first flew to the Master as he positioned himself immediately behind Ceer. The second arced over them to hit and burst against the edge of the roof. Oil splashed down the wall. Flames cleared away the eels. Rapidly, the surviving remnant of the attack was erased from the afterdeck.

Honninscrave snapped instructions at Ceer. Ceer ducked around behind the Giant, climbed his back like a tree while Honninscrave crossed the last distance to the wall. From the Master's shoulders, Ceer leaped to the roof, then turned to catch the pouch Honninscrave tossed upward.

Flames leaped as Ceer began spewing oil at the eels.

With a lunge, Honninscrave caught at the edge of the roof. In spite of the oil, his fingers held, defying failure as he flipped himself over the eaves. Giants threw the last two pouches up to him. Clutching one by the throat in each hand, he crouched under the gale and followed Ceer.

Linden could not see what was happening. Foodfendhall blocked the base of the mast from her view. But the red flaring across Brinn's fiat visage as he retreated was the crimson of eel-light, not the orange-and-yellow of flames.

A moment later, his retreat carried him into the grasp of the wind.

He tottered. With all his strength and balance, he resisted; but the hurricane had him, and its savagery was heightened by the way it came boiling past the lee of the roof. He could not save himself from falling.

He lashed out at the eels as he dropped. Simultaneously, he pitched himself back toward Seadreamer. His blow struck an attacker away. Its power outlined him against the night like a lightning-burst of pain.

Then a pouch flashed into view, cast from Ceer or Honninscrave to Seadreamer. Fighting the wind, Seadreamer managed to raise his arms, catch the oilskin. Pumping the pouch under his elbow, he squeezed a gush of oil down the mast.

The eel-light turned to fire. Flames immersed the mast, fell in burning gouts of oil and blazing creatures toward the sea.

Linden heard a scream that made no sound. Yowling in frustration, the Raver fled. Its malefic presence burst and vanished, freeing her like an escape from suffocation.

The illumination of eels and oil revealed Brinn. He hung from one of Seadreamer's ankles, twitching and capering helplessly. But in spite of seizures and wind which tossed him from side to side like a puppet, his grip held.

The oil burned away rapidly. Already, the afterdeck had relapsed into the darkness of the storm-night assuaged only by a few faint lanterns. Ceer and Honninscrave were soon able to ascend the mast.

Moored by a rope to Honninscrave, Ceer hung below the mast and swung himself outward until he could reach Brinn. Hugging his kinsman, he let Honninscrave haul the two of them back to relative safety. Then the Master went to aid his brother.

With Covenant supported between them, a link more intimate and binding than birth, Honninscrave and Seadreamer crept down out of the wind.

Linden could hardly believe that they had survived, that the Raver had been defeated. She felt at once faint with relief and exhaustion, fervid to have Covenant near her again, to see if he had been harmed.

He and his rescuers were out of sight beyond the edge of Foodfendhall. She could not bear to wait. But she had to wait. Struggling for self-possession, she went to examine Pitchwife, the First, and Hergrom.

They were recovering well. The two stricken Giants appeared to have suffered no lingering damage. The First was already strong enough to curse the loss of her sword; and Pitchwife was muttering as if he were bemused by the fool-hardiness with which he had charged the eels. Their Giantish immunity to burns had protected them.

Beside them, Hergrom seemed both less and more severely hurt. He had not lost consciousness; his mind had remained clear. But the twitching of his muscles was slow to depart. Apparently, his resistance to the eel-blast had prolonged its effect upon him. His limbs were steady for the most part, but the corners of his face continued to wince and tick like an exaggerated display of trepidation.

Perhaps, Linden thought as if his grimacing were an augury, perhaps the Raver had not been defeated. Perhaps it had simply learned enough about the condition of Covenant and the quest and had gone to inform Lord Foul.

Then she turned to meet the return of Ceer and Bruin, Honninscrave and Seadreamer. With the Unbeliever.

They came carefully along the lifelines. Like Hergrom, Brinn suffered from erratic muscular spasms. But they were receding. Seadreamer was sorely weary after his struggles; but his solid form showed no other hurt.

Honninscrave carried Covenant. At the sight, Linden's eyes filled with tears. She had never been able to control the way her orbs misted and ran at any provocation; and now she did not try. Covenant was unchanged-as empty of mind or will as an abandoned crypt. But he was safe. Safe. When the Master set him down, she went to him at once. Though she was unacquainted with such gestures, perhaps had no right to them, she put her arms around him and did not care who saw the fervour of her embrace.

But the night was long and cold, and the storm still raved like all fury incarnate. Starfare's Gem skidded in a mad rush along the seas, tenuously poised between life and death. There was nothing anybody could do except clinch survival and hope. In the bone-deep shivers which wracked her, the weariness which enervated her limbs so thoroughly that even diamondraught scarcely palliated it, Linden was surprised to find that she was as capable of hope as the Giants,

Their spirit seemed to express its essence in Honninscrave, who bore the command of the ship as if Starfare's Gem itself were indomitable. At Shipsheartthew, Galewrath no longer appeared too frozen by duty to meet the strain. Rather, her great arms gripped the spokes as if she were more indefeasible than the very storm. Brinn and Hergrom had recovered their characteristic imperviousness. The dromond lived. Hope was possible.

Yet when dawn came at last, Linden had fallen so far into bare knotted endurance that the sun took her by surprise. Stupefied by exhaustion, she did not know which astonished her more-the simple return of day, unlooked-for after the interminable battery of that night, or the fact that the sky was free of clouds.

She could hardly credit her eyes. Covered by the vessel's lee, she had not noticed that the rain had stopped sometime during the night. Now the heavens macerated from purple to blue as the sun appeared almost directly behind the Giantship's stern. The clouds were gone as if they had been worn away by the incessant tearing of the wind. And yet the gale continued to blow, unabated and unappeased.

Blinking weakly, she scanned her companions. They looked unnaturally distinct in the clear air, like men and women who had been whetted by stress to a keener edge, a sharper existence. Their apparel was rimed and crusted with salt: it marked their faces like the desiccated masks of their mortality, drifted in powder from the opening and closing of hands, the bending of arms, the shifting of positions. Yet they moved. They spoke hoarsely to each other, flexed the cramps out of their muscles, cast raw and gauging glances at the sea. They were alive.

Linden took an inventory of the survivors to assure herself that no one had been lost. The stubborn thudding of the pumps gave her an estimate of the Giants who were below; and that number completed her count. Swallowing at the bitter salt in her throat, she asked Cail if anyone had seen Vain or Findail.

He replied that Hergrom had gone forward some time ago to see if the Demondim-spawn and the Elohim were still safe. He had found them as she had last seen them: Findail riding the prow like a figurehead; Vain standing with his face to the deep as if he could read the secrets of the Earth in that dark rush.

Linden nodded. She had not expected anything else. Vain and Findail deserved each other: they were both as secretive and unpredictable as sea, as unreachable as stone. When Cail offered her a bowl of diamondraught, she took a sparing sip, then passed it to the Giant nearest her. Squinting against the unfamiliar light, she turned to study the flat seethe of the ocean.

But the sea was no longer flat. Faint undulations ran along the wind. She felt no lessening of the gale; but it must have declined somewhat. Its force no longer completely effaced the waves.

With a sting of apprehension, she snatched her gaze to the waterline below her.

That line dipped and rose slightly. And every rise took hold of another slight fraction of the deck as the waves lifted more water into the Giantship. The creaking of the masts had become louder. The pumps laboured to a febrile pitch.

By slow degrees, Starfare's Gem was falling into its last crisis.

Linden searched the deck for Honninscrave, shouted his name. But when he turned to answer her hail, she stopped. His eyes were dark with recognition and grief.

“I have seen, Chosen.” His voice carried a note of bereavement. “We are fortunate in this light. Had gloom still shrouded us-” He trailed into a sad silence.

“Honninscrave.” The First spoke sharply, as though his rue angered her. “It must be done.”

“Aye,” he echoed in a wan tone. “It must be done.”

She did not relent. “It must be done now.”

“Aye,” he sighed again. “Now.” Misery twisted his visage. But a moment later he recaptured his strength of decision, and his back straightened. “Since it must be done, I will do it.”

Abruptly, he indicated four of his crewmembers, beckoned for them to follow him, and turned aft, Over his shoulder, he said, “Sevinhand I will send to this command.”

The First called after him like an acknowledgment or apology, “Which will you select?”

Without turning, he replied with the Giantish name for the midmast, uttering the word grimly, like the appellation of a

lost love. “Starfare's Gem must not be unbalanced to fore or aft.”

With his four Giants behind him, he went below.

Linden groped her way in trepidation to the First's side. “What's he going to do?”

The First swung a gaze as hard as a slap on Linden. “Chosen,” she said dourly, “you have done much-and will do more. Let this matter rest with the Master.”

Linden winced at the rebuff, started to retort. But then her hearing clarified, and she caught herself. The First's tone had been one of grief and frustration, not affront. She shared Honninscrave's emotions. And she was helpless. The dromond's survival was in his hands, not hers. In addition, the loss of her sword seemed to take some vital confidence out of her, making her bitter with uncertainty.

Linden understood. But she had no comfort to offer. Returning to Covenant, she took hold of his arm as if even that one-sided contact were a reassurance and focused her attention on the waterline.

The faint dip and rise of the waves had increased, multiplying by increments the sea's hold on the Giantship. She was sure now that the angle of the deck had become steeper. The tips of the spars hung fatally close to the undulating water. Her senses throbbed to the strain of the ship's balance. She perceived as vividly as vision that if those tips touched the sea Starfare's Gem would be dragged down.

Moments later, Sevinhand came hurrying from the underdecks. His lean old face was taut with determination. Though he had spent the whole night and most of the previous day commanding the pumps, sweating at them himself, he moved as if Starfare's Gem's need transcended everything which might have made him weak. As he went forward, he called several Giants after him. When they responded, he led them into Foodfendhall and out of sight.

Linden dug her fingers into Covenant's arm and fought to keep from trembling. Every dip of the waves consumed more of the Giantship, drew it another fraction farther onto its side.

Then Honninscrave's bellow of inquiry echoed from the underdecks. It seemed to come from the vicinity of the holds under the midmast.

In a raw shout, Sevinhand answered that he was ready.

At once, a fierce pounding vibrated through the stone. It dwarfed the exertion of the pumps, pierced the long howl of the wind. For a mad instant, Linden thought that Honninscrave and his crew must be attacking the underdecks with sledgehammers, trying to wreck the dromond from within, as if in that way they could make it valueless to the storm, not worth sinking. But the Giants around her tensed expectantly; and the First barked, “Hold ready! We must be prepared to labour for our lives!”

The intensity of the pounding-fury desperate as bereavement-led Linden's attention to the midmast. The stone had begun to scream like a tortured man. The yards trembled at every blow. Then she understood. Honninscrave was attacking the butt of the mast. He wanted to break it free, drop it overboard, in order to shift the balance of the dromond. Every blow strove to break the moorings which held the mast.

Linden bruised Covenant's arm with her apprehension. The Master could not succeed. He did not have enough time. Under her, the Giantship leaned palpably toward its death. That fall was only heartbeats away.

But Honninscrave and his Giants struck and struck as if they were repudiating an unbearable doom. Another shriek sprang from the stone-a cry of protest louder than the gale.

With a hideous screech of rent and splintered granite, the mast started to topple.

It sounded like the death throes of a mountain as it rove its moorings. Below it, the roof of the housing crumpled. The falling mast crashed through the side of the Giantship. Shatterings staggered the dromond to its keel, sent massive tremors kicking through the vessel from prow to stern. Shared agony yammered in Linden's bones. She thought that she was screaming, but could not hear herself.

Then the cacophony of breakage dropped below the level of the wind. The mast struck the sea like a pantomime of ruin, and the splash wet all the decks and the watchers soundlessly, as if they were deaf with sorrow.

From the shattered depths of the dromond, Honninscrave's outcry rose over the water that poured thunderously through the breach left by the mast.

And like his cry Starfare's Gem lifted.

The immense weight of the keel pulled against the inrushing sea. Slowly, ponderously, the Giantship began to right itself.

Even then, it might have died. It had shipped far more water than the pumps could handle; and the gap in its side gaped like an open wound, admitting more water at every moment.

But Sevinhand and Galewrath were ready. The Anchor-master instantly sent his Giants up the foremast to unfurl the lowest sail. And as the wind clawed at the canvas, tried to tear it away or use it to thrust the vessel down again, Galewrath spun Shipsheartthew, digging the rudder into the furious sea.

There Starfare's Gem was saved. That one sail and the rudder were enough: they turned the dromond's stern to the wind. Running before the blast, the Giantship was able to stand upright, lifting its breached side out of the water.

For a time, the vessel was barely manageable, too heavily freighted with water. At every moment, its one sail was in danger of being shredded. But Sevinhand protected that sail with all the cunning of his sea-craft, all the valour of his crew. And the Giants at the pumps worked like titans. Their efforts kept the ship afloat until Honninscrave had cleared access to the port pumps. Then their progress improved. As the dromond was lightened, the strain on its canvas eased; and Sevinhand was able to raise another sail. Alive in spite of its wounds, Starfare's Gem limped before the gale into the clear south.

Thirteen: Bhrathairain Harbour

THE gale diminished slowly. It did not fray out to the level of normal winds for two more days. During that time, Starfare's Gem had no choice but to run straight before the blast. It could not turn even slightly westward without listing to port; and that would have lowered the breach into the water. The Giants already had more than enough work to do without also being required to pump for their lives. Whenever the seas became heavy enough to slosh into the gap, Honninscrave was forced to shift his course a few points eastward so that Starfare's Gem leaned to starboard, protecting its injury,

He did not try to raise more canvas. Those two lone sails in that exigent wind required the constant attention of several Giants. More would have kept too many of the crew from the manifold other tasks which demanded their time.

The rigging needed a great deal of attention; but that was the least of the dromond's problems. The havoc of the under-decks presented a much larger difficulty. The felling of the midmast had left chaos in its wake. And the day which Starfare's Gem had spent on its side had had other consequences as well. The contents of the holds were tumbled and confused or broken. Huge quantities of stores had been ruined by salt water. Also, the sea had done severe damage to parts of the ship-the port cabins and supply-lockers, for example-which had not been designed to be submerged or overturned. Though the Giants worked hugely, they were not able to make the galley utile again until late afternoon; and the night was half gone before any of the port cabins had been rendered habitable.

But hot food gave some ease to Linden's abraded nerves; and Brinn was at last able to take Covenant down to his own chamber. Finally, she allowed herself to think of rest. Since her cabin lay to starboard, it had suffered only slight harm. With Cail's unasked aid, she soon set the table, chairs, and stepladder to rights. Then she climbed into her hammock and let the frustrated whine of the gale sweep her away from consciousness.

While the wind lasted, she did little but recuperate. She left her cabin periodically to check on Covenant, or to help Heft Galewrath tend the crew's injuries. And once she went forward with the idea of confronting Findail: she wanted to demand an explanation for his refusal to aid her or the Giantship. But when she saw him standing alone in the prow as if his people had Appointed him to be a pariah, she found that she lacked the will to contest him for answers. She was weary in every muscle and ligature. Any information she might conceivably wrest from him could wait. Dumbly, she returned to her cabin as if it were full of sleep.

She was sensitive to the restless labour of the crew; but she had neither the strength nor the skill to share their tasks. Still their exertions touched her more and more as she recovered from the strain of the storm. And eventually she felt the end of the gale approaching across the deeps. No longer able to sleep, she began to look for some chore with which she could occupy her mind, restore the meaning of her hands.

Seeing her tension, Seadreamer mutely took her and Cail below to one of the grainholds which was still clogged with a thick slush of seawater and ruined maize. She spent most of the day working there with him in a companionable silence. He with a shovel, she and Cail with dippers from the galley, they scooped the slush into a large vat which he took away at intervals to empty. The Giantish dipper was as large as a bucket in her hands, and somewhat unwieldy; but she welcomed the job and the effort. Once on Haven Farm she had laboured at a similar task to steady the clenched unease of her spirit.

From time to time, she bent her observation on Seadreamer. He seemed to appreciate her company, as if his Earth-Sight found a kind of companionship in her health-sense. And in other ways he appeared to have reached a point of calm. He conveyed the impression that his distress had been reduced to bearable dimensions, not by any change in his vision, but by the simple fact that Starfare's Gem was not travelling toward the One Tree. She did not have the heart to trouble him with questions he could not answer without an arduous and chancy effort of communication. But still he looked to her like a man who had seen his doom at the site of the One Tree.

Clearly something had changed for him in Elemesnedene, either in his examination or in the loss of the brief hope Honninscrave had given him. Perhaps his vision had shifted from the Sunbane to a new or different danger. And perhaps — The thought tightened her stomach. Perhaps he had seen beyond the Sunbane into Lord Foul's deeper intent. A purpose which would be fulfilled in the quest for the One Tree.

But she did not know how to tackle such issues. They were too personal. As she worked, a pang of yearning for Covenant went through her. She met it by turning her thoughts once again to the nature of his plight. In memory, she re-explored the unaneled cerements which enclosed his mind, sought the knot which would unbind them. But the only conclusion she reached was that her last attempt to enter him had been wrong in more ways than one-wrong because it had violated him, and wrong because of the rage and hunger which had impelled her. That dilemma surpassed her, for she knew she would not have made the attempt at all if she had not been so angry-and so vulnerable to darkness. In one way, at least, she was like Seadreamer: the voice in her which should have spoken to Covenant was mute.

Then, late in the afternoon, the last of the gale fell apart and wandered away like an assailant that had lost its wits; and Starfare's Gem relaxed like a sigh into more gentle seas. Through the stone, Linden felt the crew cheering. Seadreamer dropped his shovel to bow his head and stand motionless for a long moment, communing with his kindred in an act of gratitude or contrition. The Giantship had won free of immediate danger.

A short time later, Cail announced that the Master was calling for the Chosen. Seadreamer indicated with a shrug and a wry grimace that he would finish cleaning the grainhold. Thanking the mute Giant for more things than she could name-above all, for saving Covenant from the eels-Linden followed Cail toward Honninscrave's cabin.

When she arrived, she found the First, Pitchwife, and Galewrath already in the Master's austere quarters. The occasional shouts which echoed from the wheeldeck told her that Sevinhand was tending the ship.

Honninscrave stood at the end of a long table, facing his comrades. When Linden entered the cabin, he gave her a nod of welcome, then returned his attention to the table. Its top was level with her eyes and covered with rolls of parchment and vellum which made small crinkling noises when he opened or closed them.

“Chosen,” he said, “we are gathered to take counsel. We must choose our way from this place. Here is the matter before us.” He unrolled a chart; then, realising she could not see it, closed it again. “We have been driven nigh twentyscore leagues on a path which does not lead to the One Tree. Perhaps we are not greatly farther from our goal than we were ere the storm took us-but assuredly we are no nearer. And our quest is urgent. That was acute to us when first the Search was born in Cable Seadreamer's Earth-Sight.” A wince passed over his features. "We see it more than plainly in his visage now.

“Yet,” he went on, setting aside his concern for his brother, “Starfare's Gem has been grievously harmed. All seas are perilous to us now. And the loss of stores-”

He looked at Galewrath. Bluntly, she said, “If we eat and drink unrestrained, we will come to the end of our meat in five days. The watercests we will empty in eight. Mayhap the unspoiled grains and dried staples will endure for ten. Only diamondraught do we have in plenty.”

Honninscrave glanced at Linden. She nodded. Starfare's Gem was in dire need of supplies.

“Therefore,” the Master said, “our choice is this. To pursue our Search, trusting our lives to the strictness of our restraint and the mercy of the sea. Or to seek either landfall or port where we may hope for repairs and replenishment.” Reopening his chart, he held it over the edge of the table so that she could see it. “By the chance of the storm, we now approach the littoral of Bhrathairealm, where dwell the Bhrathair in their Sandhold against the Great Desert.” He indicated a spot on the chart; but she ignored it to watch his face, trying to read the decision he wanted from her. With a shrug, he tossed the parchment back onto the table. “In Bhrathairain Harbour,” he concluded, “we may meet our needs, and those of Starfare's Gem. Winds permitting, we may perhaps gain that Harbour in two days.”

Linden nodded again. As she looked around at the Giants, she saw that each of them wanted to take the latter course, turn the dromond toward Bhrathairain Harbour. But there were misgivings in their eyes. Perhaps the right of command which she had wrested from them outside Elemesnedene had eroded their confidence in themselves. Or perhaps the quest itself made them distrust their own desires for a safe anchorage. Covenant had certainly spoken often enough about the need for haste.

Or perhaps, Linden thought with a sudden inward flinch, it's me they don't trust.

At once, she compressed her mouth into its old lines of severity. She was determined not to cede one jot of the responsibility she had taken upon herself. She had come too far for that. Speaking in her flat professional voice, like a physician probing symptoms, she asked Pitchwife, “Is there any reason why you can't fix the ship at sea?”

The deformed Giant met her soberly, almost painfully. "Chosen, I am able to work my wiving wherever the seas permit. Grant that waves and winds are kind, and I lack naught else for the immediate need. The wreckage belowdecks will provide ample stone to mend the dromond's, side-yes, and also to seal the decks themselves. But the walls, and Foodfendhall-“ He jerked a shrug. ”To mend Starfare's Gem entirely, I must have access to a quarry. And only the shipwrights of Home can restore the mast which was lost. It may be possible,“ he concluded simply, ”for the Search to continue in the lack of such luxuries."

“Do the Bhrathair have a quarry?”

At that, humour glinted from Pitchwife's eyes. “In good sooth. The Bhrathair have little else but stone and sand. Therefore their Harbour has become a place of much trade and shipping, for they must have commerce to meet other needs.”

Linden turned to Galewrath. “If you make the rations as small as possible, can we get to the One Tree and back to the Land with what we have?”

The Storesmaster answered stolidly, “No.” She folded her brawny forearms over her chest as if her word were beyond refute.

But Linden continued, “You got supplies when you were off the coast of the Land. Couldn't we do the same thing? Without spending all the time to go to this Harbour?”

Galewrath glanced at the Master, then said in a less assertive tone, “It may be. At times land will lie nigh our course. But much of what is marked on these charts is obscure, explored neither by Giants nor by those who have told tales to Giants.”

Linden held Galewrath's doubt in abeyance. “Honninscrave.” She could not shake her impression that the Giants had qualms about Bhrathairealm. “Is there any reason why we shouldn't go to this Harbour?”

He reacted as if the question made him uncomfortable. “In times long past,” he said without meeting her gaze, “the Bhrathair have been friends to the Giants, welcoming our ships as occasion came. And we have given them no cause to alter toward us.” His face was gray with the memory of the Elohim, whom he had trusted. "But no Giant has sojourned to Bhrathairealm for three of our generations-ten and more of theirs. And the tales which have since come to us suggest that the Bhrathair are not what they were. They were ever a brusque and unhesitating people, for good or ill-made so by the long trial of their war for survival against the Sandgorgons of the Great Desert. The story told of them is that they have become gaudy."

Gaudy? Linden wondered. She did not know what Honninscrave meant. But she had caught the salient point: he was unsure of the welcome Starfare's Gem would receive in Bhrathairain Harbour. Severely, she faced the First.

“If Covenant and I weren't here-if you were on this quest without us-what would you do?”

The gaze the First returned held none of Honninscrave's vague apprehension. It was as straight and grim as a blade.

"Chosen, I have lost my broadsword. I am a Swordmain, and my glaive was accorded to me as a trust and symbol at the rites of my achievement. Its name is known to none but me, and to those who bestowed it upon me, and that name may never be revealed while I hold faith among the Swordmainnir. I have lost it by my own misjudgment. I am greatly shamed.

"Yet some weapon I must have. In this lack, I am less than a Swordmain-less than the First of the Search.

“For all implements of battle, the Bhrathair are of far renown.”

Her look did not waver. “In my own name I would not delay the Search. My place as the First I would give to another, and myself I would content with such service as lay within my grasp.” Pitchwife had covered his eyes with one hand, hurt by what he was hearing; but he did not interrupt. Now Linden understood the unwonted tenor of his reply to her earlier question: he knew what a decision to bypass Bhrathairain Harbour would mean to his wife. “But the need of Starfare's Gem is clear,” the First went on. “Given that need, and the proximity of Bhrathairealm, I would not scruple to sail there, for the dromond's hope as well as for my own. The choice between delay and death is easily made.”

She continued to hold Linden's gaze straightly; and at last Linden dropped her eyes. She was moved by the First's frank avowal, her stubborn integrity. All the Giants seemed to overtop Linden in more than mere physical stature. Abruptly, her insistence on making decisions in such company appeared insolent to her. Covenant had earned his place among the Giants-and among the Haruchai as well. But she had no right to it. She required the responsibility, the power to choose, for no other reason than to hold back her hunger for other kinds of power. Yet that exigency outweighed her unworth.

Striving to emulate Covenant, she said, “All right. I hear you.” With an effort of will, she raised her head, suppressing her conflicted heart so that she could meet the eyes of the Giants. “I think we're too vulnerable the way we are. We won't do the Land any good if we drown ourselves or starve to death. Let's take our chances with this Harbour.”

For a moment, Honninscrave and the others stared at her as if they had expected a different response. Then, softly, Pitchwife began to chuckle. A twitch of joy started at the corners of his mouth, quickly spread over his face. “Witness me, Giants,” he said. “Have I not avowed that she is well Chosen?”

With a flourish, he caught hold of the First's hand, kissed it hugely. Then he flung himself like glee out of the cabin.

An unfamiliar dampness filled the First's eyes. She placed a brief touch of recognition or thanks on Linden's shoulder. But she spoke to Honninscrave. In a husky tone, she said, “I desire to hear the song which is now in Pitchwife's heart.” Turning brusquely to contain her emotion, she left the chamber.

Galewrath's face showed a blunt glower of satisfaction. She seemed almost glad as she picked up one of the charts and Went to take the dromond's new course to Sevinhand.

Linden was left alone with the Master.

“Linden Avery. Chosen.” He appeared uncertain of how to address her. A smile of relief had momentarily set aside his misgivings. But almost at once his gravity returned. “There is much in the matter of this Search, and of the Earth's peril, which I do not comprehend. The mystery of my brother's vision appalls my heart. The alteration of the Elohim- and Findail's presence among us-” He shrugged, lifting his hands as if they were full of uncomfortable ignorances. "But Covenant Giantfriend has made plain to all that he bears a great burden of blood for those whose lives are shed in the Land. And in his plight, you have accepted to support his burdens.

“Accepted and more,” he digressed wryly. “You have averred them as your own. In sooth, I had not known you to be formed of such stone.”

But then he returned to his point. “Chosen, I thank you that you are willing for this delay. I thank you in the name of Starfare's Gem, that I love as dearly as life and yearn to see restored to wholeness.” An involuntary tremor knotted his hands as he remembered the blows he had struck against the midmast. “And I thank you also in the name of Cable Seadreamer my brother. I am eased that he will be granted some respite. Though I dread that his wound will never be healed, yet I covet any act or delay which may accord him rest.”

“Honninscrave-” Linden did not know what to say to him. She had not earned his thanks. And she had no answer for the vicarious suffering which linked him to his brother. As she looked at him, she thought that perhaps his misgivings had less to do with the unknown attitude of the Bhrathair than with the possible implications of any delay for the Search-for Seadreamer. He appeared to doubt the dictates of his concern for his ship, as if that instinct had been deprived of its purity by his apprehension for Seadreamer.

His inner disquiet silenced anything she might have said in support of her decision or in recognition of his thanks. Instead, she gave him the little knowledge she possessed.

“He's afraid of the One Tree. He thinks something terrible is going to happen there. I don't know why.”

Honninscrave nodded slowly. He was no longer looking at her. He stared past her as though he were blinded by his lack of prescience. Quietly, he murmured, “He is not mute because he has lost the capacity of voice. He is mute because the Earth-Sight cannot be given words. He is able to convey that there is peril. But for him that peril has no utterable name.”

Linden saw no way to ease him. Gently, she let herself out of the cabin, leaving him his privacy because she had nothing else to offer.

Troubled by uncertain winds, Starfare's Gem required two full days to come within sight of land; and the dromond did not near the mouth of Bhrathairain Harbour until the following morning.

During that time, the quest left behind the last hints of the northern autumn and passed into a hot dry clime unsoftened by any suggestion of approaching winter. The direct sun seemed to parch Linden's skin, leaving her always thirsty; and the normally cool stone of the decks radiated heat through her shoes. The weather-worn sails looked gray and tarnished against the acute sunlight and the brilliant sea. Occasional suspirations of humidity breathed past her cheek; but they came from virga scudding overhead-isolated clouds shedding rain which evaporated before it could reach the sea or the ship-and did not relieve the heat.

Her first view of the coast some leagues east of Bhrathairealm was a vision of rocks and bare dirt. The stony littoral had been bleached and battered by so many arid millennia that the boulders appeared sun-stricken and somnolent, as if they were only prevented from vanishing into haze by the quality of their stupefaction. All life had been squeezed or beaten out of the pale soil long ago. Sunset stained the shore with ochre and pink, transfiguring the desolation, but could not bring back what had been lost.

That night, as the dromond tacked slowly along the coast, the terrain modulated into a region of low cliffs which fronted the sea like a frown of perpetual vexation. When dawn came, Starfare's Gem was moving past buttes the height of its yards. Standing beside Pitchwife at the port rail of the afterdeck, Linden saw a gap in the cliffs ahead like the opening of a narrow canyon or the mouth of a river. But along the edges of the gap stood walls which appeared to be thirty or forty feet high. The walls were formed of the same pale stone which composed the bluffs. At their ends-at the two points of the gap-they arose into watchtowers. These fortifications tapered so that they looked like fangs against the dusty horizon.

“Is that the Harbour?” Linden asked uncertainly. The space between the cliffs appeared too narrow to accommodate any kind of anchorage.

“Bhrathairain Harbour,” replied Pitchwife in a musing tone. “Yes. There begins the Sandwall which seals all the habitation of Bhrathairealm- both Bhrathairain itself and the mighty Sandhold behind it-against the Great Desert. Surely in all this region there is no ship that does not know the Spikes which identify and guard the entrance to Bhrathairain Harbour.”

Drifting forward in the slight breeze, the Giantship moved slowly abreast of the two towers which Pitchwife had named the Spikes. There Honninscrave turned the dromond to pass between them. The passage was barely wide enough to admit Starfare's Gem safely; but, beyond it, Linden saw that the channel opened into a huge cove a league or more broad. Protected from the vagaries of the sea, squadrons of ships could have staged manoeuvres in that body of water. In the distance, she descried sails and masts clustered against the far curve of the Harbour.

Past the berths where those vessels rode, a dense town ascended a slope rising just west of south from the water. It ended at the Sandwall which enclosed the entire town and Harbour. And beyond that wall stood the massive stone pile of the Sandhold.

Erected above Bhrathairain in five stages, it dominated the vista like a brooding titan. Its fifth level was a straight high tower like a stone finger brandished in warning.

As Starfare's Gem passed between the Spikes, Linden was conscious that the Harbour formed a cul-de-sac from which any escape might be extremely difficult. Bhrathairealm was well protected. Studying what she could see of the town and the Sandwall, she realised that if the occupants of the Sandhold chose to lock their gates the Bhrathair would have no egress from their own defences.

The size of the Harbour, the immense clenched shape of the Sandhold, made her tense with wonder and apprehension. Quietly, she murmured to Pitchwife, “Tell me about these people.” After her meeting with the Elohim, she felt she did not know what to expect from any strangers.

He responded as if he had been chewing over that tale himself. "They are a curious folk-much misused by this ungiving land, and by the chance or fate which pitted them in mortal combat against the most fearsome denizens of the Great Desert. Their history has made them hardy, stubborn, and mettlesome. Mayhap it has also made them somewhat blithe of scruple. But that is uncertain. The tales which we have heard vary greatly, according to the spirit of the telling.

“It is clear from the words of Covenant Giantfriend, as well as from the later voyagings of our people, that the Unhomed sojourned for a time in Bhrathairealm, giving what aid they could against the Sandgorgons. For that reason, Giants have been well greeted here. But we have had scant need of the commerce and warlike implements which the Bhrathair offer, and the visits of our people to Bhrathairain have been infrequent. Therefore my knowledge lacks the fullness which Giants love.”

He paused for a moment to collect the pieces of his story, then continued, “There is an adage among the Bhrathair: 'He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.' This is undisputed sooth.” Grim humour twisted his mouth. "Yet the manner in which a truth is phrased reveals much. Many generations of striving against the Sandgorgons have made of the Bhrathair a people who seek to strike before they are stricken.

“The Sandgorgons-so it is said-are beasts birthed by the immense violence of the storms which anguish the Great Desert. They are somewhat manlike in form and also in cunning. But the chief aspect of their nature is that they are horrendously savage and mighty beyond the strength of stone or iron. No aid of Giants could have saved the Bhrathair from loss of the land they deem their home-and perhaps from extinction as well-had the Sandgorgons been beasts of concerted action. But their savagery was random, like the storms which gave them life. Therefore the Bhrathair were able to fight, and to endure. Betimes they appeared to prevail, or were reduced to a remnant, as the violence of the Sandgorgons swelled and waned across the depths of the waste. But no peace was secured. During one era of lesser peril, the Sandwall was built. As you see”-he gestured around him — "it is a doughty work. Yet it was not proof against the Sandgorgons. Often has it been rebuilt, and often have one or several of these creatures chanced upon it and torn spans of it to rubble.

"Such the lives of the Bhrathair might have remained until the day of World's End. But at last-in a time several of our generations past-a man came from across the seas and presented himself to the gaddhi, the ruler of Bhrathairealm. Naming himself a thaumaturge of great prowess, he asked to be given the place of Kemper-the foremost counsellor, and, under the gaddhi, suzerain of this land. To earn this place, he proposed to end the peril of the Sandgorgons.

“This he did — I know not how. Mayhap he alone knows. Yet the accomplishment remains. By his arts, he wove the storms of the Great Desert into a prodigious gyre so mighty that it destroys and remakes the ground at every turn. And into this storm — now named Sandgorgons Doom-he bound the beasts. There they travail yet, their violence cycled and mastered by greater violence. It is said that from the abutments of the Sandhold Sandgorgons Doom may be seen blasting its puissance forever without motion from its place of binding and without let. It is said that slowly across the centuries the Sandgorgons die, driven one by one into despair by the loss of freedom and open sand. And it is said also”- Pitchwife spoke softly-"that upon occasion the Kemper releases one or another of them to do his dark bidding.

"For the gaddhi's Kemper, Kasreyn of the Gyre, remains in Bhrathairealm, prolonged in years far beyond even a Giant's span, though he is said to be as mortal as any man. The Bhrathair are no longer-lived than people of your kind, Chosen. Of gaddhi’s they have had many since Kasreyn's coming, for their rulership does not pass quietly from generation to generation. Yet Kasreyn of the Gyre remains. He it was who caused the building of the Sandhold. And because of his power, and his length of years, it is commonly said that he holds each gaddhi in turn as a puppet, ruling through the ruler that his hand may be concealed.

“The truth of this I do not know. But I give you witness.” With one long arm, he indicated the Sandhold. As Starfare's Gem advanced down the Harbour, the edifice became more clear and dominant against the desert sky. “There stands his handiwork in its five levels, each far-famed as a perfect circle resting to one side within others. The Sandwall conceals the First Circinate, which provides a pediment to the Second. Then arises the Tier of Riches, and above it, The Majesty. There sits the gaddhi on his Auspice. But the fifth and highest part is the spire which you see, and it is named Kemper's Pitch, for within it resides Kasreyn of the Gyre in all his arts. From that eminence I doubt not that he wields his will over the whole of Bhrathairealm- aye, and over the Great Desert itself.”

His tone was a blend of respect and misgiving; and he aroused mixed emotions in Linden. She admired the Sandhold-and distrusted what she heard about Kasreyn. A man with the power to bind the Sandgorgons also had the power to be an unconstrained tyrant. In addition, the plight of the Sandgorgons themselves disquieted her. In her world, dangerous animals were frequently exterminated; and the world was not improved thereby.

But Pitchwife was still speaking. He drew her attention back to the Harbour. The morning sun burned along the water.

“Yet the Bhrathair have flourished mightily. They lack much which is needful for a prosperous life, for it is said that in all Bhrathairealm are only five springs of fresh water and two plots of arable ground. But also they possess much which other peoples covet. Under Kasreyn's peace, trade has abounded. And the Bhrathair have become prolific shipwrights, that they may reach out to their distant neighbours. The tales which we have heard of Bhrathairain and the Sandhold convey echoes of mistrust-and yet, behold. This is clearly not a place of mistrust.”

Linden saw what he meant. As Starfare's Gem approached the piers and levees at the foot of the town, she discerned more clearly the scores of ships there, the bustling activity of the docks. In the Harbour-some at the piers, some at berths around the Sandwall-were a variety of warships: huge penteconters; triremes with iron prows for ramming; galleasses armed with catapults. But their presence seemed to have no effect on the plethora of other vessels which crowded the place. Brigantines, windjammers, sloops, merchantmen of every description teemed at the piers, creating a forest of masts and spars against the busy background of the town. Any distrust which afflicted Bhrathairealm had no influence upon the vitality of its commerce.

And the air was full of birds. Gulls, crows, and cormorants wheeled and squalled over the masts, among the spars, perching on the roofs of Bhrathairain, feeding on the spillage and detritus of the ships. Hawks and kites circled watchfully over both town and Harbour. Bhrathairealm must have been thriving indeed, if it could feast so many loud scavengers.

Linden was glad to see them. Perhaps they were neither clean nor gay; but they were alive. And they lent support to the Harbour’s reputation as a welcoming port.

When the dromond drew close enough to hear the hubbub of the docks, a skiff came shooting out into the open water. Four swarthy men stroked the boat swiftly toward the Giantship; a fifth stood in the stern. Before the skiff was within clear hail, this individual began gesticulating purposefully at Starfare's Gem.

Linden's perplexity must have shown on her face, for Pitchwife replied with a low chuckle, “Doubtless he seeks to guide us to a berth which may accommodate a ship of our draught.”

She soon saw that her companion was right. When Honninscrave obeyed the Bhrathair's gestures, the skiff swung ahead of the Giantship and pulled back toward the docks. By following, Honninscrave shortly brought Starfare's Gem to a deep levee between jutting piers.

Dockworkers waited there to help the ship to its berth. However, they quickly learned that they could do little for the dromond. The hawsers which were thrown to the piers were too massive for them to handle effectively. As Giants disembarked to secure their vessel, the Bhrathair moved back in astonishment and observed the great stone craft from the head of the levee. Shortly, a crowd gathered around them-other dockworkers, sailors from nearby ships, merchants and townspeople who had never seen a Giantship.

Linden studied them with interest while they watched the dromond. Most of their exclamations were in tongues she did not know. They were people of every hue and form; and their apparel ranged from habiliments as plain as those which Sunder and Hollian had worn to exotic regalia, woven of silk and taffeta in bright colours, which would have suited a sultan. An occasional sailor-perhaps the captain of a vessel, or its owner-was luxuriously caparisoned. But primarily the bravado of raiment belonged to the Bhrathair themselves. They were unquestionably prosperous. And prosperity had given them a taste for ostentation.

Then a stirring passed through the crowd as a man breasted his way out onto the pier. He was as swarthy as the men who had rowed the skiff, but his clothing indicated higher rank. He wore a tunic and trousers of a rich black material which shone like satin; his belt had been woven of a vivid silvery metal; and at his right shoulder was pinned a silver cockade like a badge of office. He strode forward as if to show the throng that a ship the size of Starfare's Gem could not daunt him, then stopped below the afterdeck and waited with a glower of impatience for the invitation and the means to come aboard.

At Honninscrave's order, a ladder was set for the black-clad personage. With Pitchwife, Linden moved closer to the ladder. The First and Seadreamer had joined the Master there, and Brinn had brought Covenant up from his cabin. Cail stood behind Linden's left shoulder; Ceer and Hergrom were nearby. Only Vain and Findail chose to ignore the arrival of the Bhrathair.

A moment later, the man climbed through the railing to stand before the assembled company. “I am the Harbour Captain,” he said without preamble. He had a guttural voice which was exaggerated in Linden's ears by the fact that he was not speaking his native language. “You must have my grant in order to berth or do trade here. Give me first your names and the name of your ship.”

Honninscrave glanced at the First; but she did not step forward. To the Harbour Captain, he said evenly, “This vessel is the dromond Starfare's Gem. I am its Master, Grimmand Honninscrave.”

The official made a note on a wax tablet he carried. “And these others?”

Honninscrave stiffened at the man's tone. “They are Giants, and the friends of Giants.” Then he added, “In times past, the Giants were deemed allies among the Bhrathair.”

“In times past,” the Harbour Captain retorted with a direct glare, “the world was not what it is. My duty cares nothing for dead alliances. If you do not deal openly with me, my judgment will be weighed against you.”

The First's eyes gnashed with ready anger; but her hand gripped an empty scabbard, and she held herself still. Swallowing his vexation with an effort, Honninscrave named his companions.

The Bhrathair wrote officiously on his tablet. “Very well,” he said as he finished. “What is your cargo?”

“Cargo?” echoed Honninscrave darkly. “We have no cargo.”

“None?” the Harbour Captain snapped in sudden indignation. “Have you not come to do trade with us?”

The Master folded his arms across his massive chest. “No.”

“Then you are mad. What is your purpose?”

“Your eyes will tell you our purpose.” The Giant's voice grated like boulders rubbing together. “We have suffered severe harm in a great storm. We come seeking stone with which to work repairs and replenishment for our stores.”

“Paugh!” spat the Bhrathair. “You are ignorant, Giant-or a fool.” He spoke like the heat, as if his temper had been formed by the constant oppression of the desert sun. “We are the Bhrathair, not some peasant folk you may intimidate with your bulk. We live on the verge of the Great Desert, and our lives are exigent. What comfort we possess, we gain from trade. I grant nothing when I am offered nothing in return. If you have no cargo, you must purchase what you desire by some other coin. If you lack such coin, you must depart. That is my word.”

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 Harbour 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 Harbour 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 Harbour 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 centre 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 Harbour 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 Harbour Captain appear especially crestfallen, the soldier faced Honninscrave and the First. “Your pardon,” he said. “The Harbour 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 Harbour 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 labour 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 humour 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 Harbour 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 Harbour 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 Harbour. 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 Harbour 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 Harbour 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 neighbours 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 odours 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 Jove 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 mould 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.

But soon Linden stopped noticing such things. The Sandwall rose up in front of her, as blank and sure as a cliff, and she did not look at anything else.

Rire Grist was leading the company toward the central of the three immense gates which provided egress from Bhrathairain and access to the Sandhold. The gates were stone slabs bound with great knurls and studs of iron, as if they were designed to defend the Sandhold against the rest of Bhrathairealm. But they stood open; and at first Linden could see no evidence that they were guarded. Only when her mount neared the passage between them did she glimpse the dark shapes moving watchfully behind the slitted embrasures on either side of the gates.

The Caitiffin rode through with Honninscrave and the First beside him. Following them while her heart laboured unsteadily in her chest, Linden found the Sandwall to be at least a hundred feet thick. Reaching the sunlight beyond the gate, she looked up behind her and saw that this side of the wall was lined with banquettes. But they were deserted, as if Bhrathairealm's prosperity had deprived them of their function.

That gate brought the company to the smooth convex surface of another wall. The Sandhold was enclosed within its own perfect circle; and that wall was joined to the defences of Bhrathairain by an additional arm of the Sandwall on each side. These arms formed two roughly triangular open courts, one on either hand. And in the centre of each court arose one of Bhrathairealm's five springs. They had been fashioned into fountains by ornate stonework, so that they looked especially lush and vital against the pale walls. Their waters gathered in pools which were kept immaculately clean and from there flowed into underground channels, one leading toward Bhrathairain, the other toward the Sandhold.

In the arm of the Sandwall which enclosed each court, a gate stood open to the outer terrain. These provided the Bhrathair with their only road to their scant fields and three other springs.

Two more gates facing the fountains gave admittance to the fortifications of the Sandhold. Rire Grist led the company toward the gate in the eastern court; and the fountain made the atmosphere momentarily humid. Confident that they were in no danger, crows hopped negligently away from the hooves of the horses.

As her mount traversed the distance, Linden studied the inner Sandwall. Like the defences of Bhrathairain, it was as uncompromising as the Kemper's arts could make it; but over the gate its upper edge rose in two distinct sweeps to form immense gargoyles. Shaped like basilisks, they crouched above the entrance with their mouths agape in silent fury.

The portals here were similar to those of the town. But the guards were not hidden. A squat muscular figure stood on either side, holding erect a long razor-tipped spear. They were caparisoned in the same manner as Rire Grist and his cohorts; yet Linden perceived with a visceral shock that they were scarcely human. Their faces were bestial, with tigerlike fangs, apish hair, porcine snouts and eyes. Their fingers ended in claws rather than nails. They looked strong enough to contend with Giants.

She could not be mistaken. They were not natural beings, but rather the offspring of some severe and involuntary miscegenation.

As the company approached, they blocked the gate, crossed their spears. Their eyes shone hatefully in the sunlight. Speaking together as if they had no independent will, they said, “Name and purpose.” Their voices grumbled like the growling of old predators.

Rire Grist halted before them. To the company, he said, “These are hustin of the gaddhi's Guard. Like the Harbour Captain, they conceive their duty straitly. However,” he went on wryly, “they are somewhat less accessible to persuasion. It will be necessary to answer them. I assure you that their intent is caution, not discourtesy.”

Addressing the hustin, he announced himself formally, then described the purpose of the company. The two Guards listened as stolidly as if they were deaf. When he finished, they replied in unison, “You may pass. They must tell their names.”

The Caitiffin shrugged a bemused apology to Honninscrave.

Warnings knotted in Linden's throat. She was still shaken by her perception of the hustin. They were only tools, fashioned deliberately to be tools; yet the power or person that required such slaves-!

But the company was too far from Starfare's Gem. And Starfare's Gem was too vulnerable. If she spoke, she might spring the trap. In this place, she and her companions could only hope for safety and escape by playing the game devised for them by the gaddhi or his Kemper. Gritting her teeth, she remained silent.

Honninscrave did not hesitate; his decisions had already been made. He stepped up to the hustin and gave his answer. His voice was calm; but his heavy brows lowered as if he wished to teach the Guards more politeness.

“You may pass,” they replied without expression and parted their spears. Rire Grist rode between them into the dim passage of the gate, stopped there to wait. Honninscrave followed him.

Before the First could pass, the Guards blocked the way again.

Her jaws chewed iron. One hand flexed in frustration at the place where the hilt of her broadsword should have been. Precisely, dangerously, she said, “I am the First of the Search.”

The hustin stared primitive malice at her. “That is not a name. It is a title.”

“Nevertheless”-her tone made Linden's muscles tighten in preparation for trouble or flight-“it will suffice for you.”

For one heartbeat, the Guards closed their eyes as if they were consulting an invisible authority. Then they looked back at the First and raised their spears.

Glowering, she stalked between them to Honninscrave's side.

As Seadreamer stepped forward, the Master said with half-unintended roughness, “He is Cable Seadreamer my brother. He has no voice with which to speak his name.”

The Guards appeared to understand; they did not bar Seadreamer's way.

A moment later, the soldier leading Linden's horse approached the gates and spoke his name, then paused for her to do the same. Her pulse was racing with intimations of danger. The hustin dismayed her senses. She felt intuitively certain that the Sandhold would be as hard to leave as a prison-that this was her last chance to flee a secret and premeditated peril. But she had already done too much fleeing. Although she strove to match Honninscrave's steadiness, a faint tremor sharpened her voice as she said, “I'm Linden Avery the Chosen.”

Over her shoulder, Cail uttered his name dispassionately. The hustin admitted them to the gate.

Ceer and Hergrom were brought forward. They went through the same ritual and were allowed to enter.

Then came the soldier with Covenant and Brinn. After the soldier had given his name, Brinn said flatly, “I am Brinn of the Haruchai. With me is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Giant-friend and white gold wielder.” His tone defied the hustin to challenge him.

Blankly, they lifted their spears.

Vain and Findail came last. They approached the gate and halted. Vain held himself as if he neither knew nor cared that he was no longer moving. But Findail gazed at the Guards with frank loathing. After a moment, he said grimly, “I do not give my name to such as these. They are an abomination, and he who made them is a wreaker of great ill.”

A shiver of tension went through the air. Reacting as one, the hustin dropped back a step, braced themselves for combat with their spears levelled.

At once, the Caitiffin barked, “Hold, you fools! They are the gaddhi's guests!” His voice echoed darkly along the passage.

Linden turned against the support of Cail's arms. Ceer and Hergrom had already leaped from their mounts, poised themselves behind the hustin.

The Guards did not attack. But they also did not lower their weapons. Their porcine eyes were locked on Findail and Vain, Balanced on thick, widely-splayed legs, they looked mighty enough to drive their spears through solid ironwood.

Linden did not fear for Vain or Findail. Both were impenetrable to ordinary harm. But they might trigger a struggle which would damn the entire company. She could see disdain translating itself into ire and action on Findail's eroded mien.

But the next instant a silent whisper of power rustled through the passage, touching her ears on a level too subtle for normal hearing. At once, the hustin withdrew their threat. Lifting their spears, they stepped out of the way, returned to their posts as if nothing untoward had happened.

To no one in particular, Findail remarked sardonically, “This Kasreyn has ears.” Then he passed into the gloom of the gate with Vain at his side like a shadow.

Linden let a sigh of relief leak through her teeth. It was repeated softly by the First.

Promptly, Rire Grist began apologising. “Your pardon, I beg you.” His words were contrite, but he spoke them too easily to convey much regret. “Again you have fallen foul of a duty which was not directed at you. Should the gaddhi hear of this, he will be sorely displeased. Will you not put the unwise roughness of these hustin from your hearts, and accompany me?” He made a gesture which was barely visible in the dimness.

“Caitiffin.” The First's tone was deliberate and hard. “We are Giants and love all amity. But we do not shirk combat when it is thrust upon us. Be warned. We have endured much travail, and our appetite for affront has grown somewhat short.”

Rire Grist bowed to her. “First of the Search, be assured that no affront was intended-and no more will be given. The Sandhold and the gaddhi's welcome await you. Will you come?”

She did not relent. “Perhaps not, What will be your word should we choose to return to our Giantship?”

At that, a hint of apprehension entered the Caitiffin's voice. “Do not do so,” he requested. “I tell you plainly that Rant Absolain is little accustomed to such spurning. It is not in the nature of rulers to smile upon any refusal of their goodwill.”

Out of the gloom, the First asked, “Chosen, how do you bespeak this matter?”

A tremor still gripped Linden's heart. After the sun's heat, the stone of the Sandwall felt preternaturally cold. Carefully, she said, “I think I want to meet the man who's responsible for those hustin”

“Very well,” the First replied to Rire Grist. “We will accompany you.”

“I thank you,” he responded with enough underlying sincerity to convince Linden that he had indeed been apprehensive. Turning his mount, he led the company on through the gate.

When she reached the end of the passage, Linden blinked the sun out of her eyes and found herself facing the sheer wall of the First Circinate.

A space of bare, open sand perhaps fifty feet wide lay between the Sandwall and the Sandhold. The inner curve of the wall here was also lined with banquettes; but these were not deserted. Hustin stood along them at precise intervals. Frequent entryways from the banquettes gave admittance to the interior of the wall. And opposite them the abutments of the First Circinate rose like the outward face of a donjon from which people did not return. Its parapets were so high that Linden could not see past them to any other part of the Sandhold.

Only one entrance was apparent-another massive stone gate which stood in line with the central gate of the outer Sandwall. She expected Rire Grist to ride in that direction; but instead he dismounted and stood waiting for her and Covenant to do the same. Cail promptly dropped to the sand, helped her down; Hergrom accepted Covenant from Brinn's grasp, lowering the ur-Lord as Brinn jumped lightly off his horse's back.

The Caitiffin's soldiers took the five mounts away to the left; but Rire Grist beckoned the company toward the gate. The heat of the sand rose through Linden's shoes; sweat stuck her shirt to her back. Bhrathairealm sprawled under a sempiternal desert sun like a distant image of the Sunbane. She felt ungainly and ineffectual as she trudged the yielding surface behind Honninscrave and the First. She had had nothing to eat or drink since dawn; and the wall before her raised strange tenebrous recollections of Revelstone, of Gibbon-Raver's hands. The sky overhead was the dusty hue of deserts. She had glanced up at it several times before she realised that it was empty of birds. None of the gulls and cormorants which flocked over Bhrathairain transgressed on the Sandhold.

Then an unexpected yearning for Pitchwife panged her: his insuppressible spirit might have buoyed her against her forebodings. Covenant had never looked as vulnerable and lost to her as he did in the sunlight which fell between these walls. Yet the hustin had done her one favour: they had reminded her of ill and anger. She did not permit herself to quail.

The gates of the Sandhold were closed; but at a shout from Rire Grist they opened outward, operated by forces or Guards within the walls. Honninscrave and the First entered with the Caitiffin. Clenching her fists, Linden followed.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, Rire Grist began speaking. “As you have perhaps heard, this is the First Circinate of the gaddhi's Sandhold.” They were in a forecourt or mustering-hall large enough for several hundred people. The ceiling was lost in shadow far above the floor, as if this whole space had been formed for the explicit purpose of humbling anyone admitted to the Sandhold. In the light which streaked the air from huge embrasures high above the gates, Linden saw two wide stairways opposite each other at the far end of the forecourt. "Here are housed the Guards and those like myself who are of the gaddhi's Horse.“ At least a score of the hustin stood on duty around the walls; but they did not acknowledge either the Caitiffin or the company. ”And here also are our kitchens, refectories, laving-rooms, training-halls. We number fourscore hundred Guards and fifteenscore Horse.“ Apparently, he sought to reassure the company by giving out information freely. ”Our mounts themselves are stabled within the Sandwall. Such was the Kemper's foresight that we do not yet fill this place, though our numbers grow with every passing year."

Linden wanted to ask him why the gaddhi- or the gaddhi's Kemper-required such an army. Or, for that matter, why Bhrathairealm needed all the warships she had seen in the Harbour. But she set those questions aside for another time and concentrated instead on understanding as much as possible of the Sandhold.

While he spoke, Rire Grist walked toward the stairway on the right. Honninscrave asked him a few seemingly disinterested questions about foodstores, water-supplies, and the like; and the Caitiffin's replies took the company as far as the stairs.

These led in a long sweep to the Second Circinate, which proved to be a smaller and more luxuriously appointed version of the First. Here, according to Rire Grist, lived all the people who comprised the gaddhi's Chatelaine-his attendants, courtiers, advisers, and guests. There were no Guards in evidence; and the forecourt into which the stairways opened was bedecked and tapestried like a ballroom. Light came from many windows as well as from flaming cruses as big as cauldrons. The inner walls held balconies for spectators and musicians; sculpted stone tables stood ready to bear refreshments. But at the moment the hall was empty; and in spite of its lights and accoutrements, it felt strangely cheerless.

Again, two wide stairways arced upward from the far end. Strolling in that direction, the Caitiffin explained that the company would be given chambers here, granted time for rest and sustenance in privacy, once they had been presented to Rant Absolain.

Honninscrave continued to ply their guide with easy inquiries and comments. But the First wore a glower as if she shared Linden's apprehension that the Sandhold would be difficult to leave. She carried her shield on her back like an assertion that she would not cheaply be made captive. But the swing of her arms, the flexing of her fingers, were as imprecise as a cripple's, betraying her bereavement of her broadsword.

No other voice intruded on the hollow air. Covenant shambled forward in Brinn's grasp like a negative image of Seadreamer's muteness. The Haruchai bore themselves in poised silence. And Linden was at once too daunted by, and too busy studying, the Sandhold to speak. With all the frayed attention she could muster, she searched the gaddhi's donjon for signs of evil.

Then the company ascended from the Second Circinate and found themselves in the Tier of Riches.

That place was aptly named. Unlike the lower levels, it was structured in a warren of rooms the size of galleries. And each room was resplendent with treasure.

Here, Rire Grist explained, the gaddhi kept the finest works of the artists and artisans of Bhrathairealm, the most valuable weavings, artifacts, and jewels gained by the Bhrathair in trade, the most precious gifts given to the Sandhold's sovereign by the rulers of other lands. Hall after hall was dedicated to displays of weaponry: rank upon rank of sabres, falchions, longswords; rows of jerrids, spears, crossbows, and innumerable other tools for hurling death; intricate engines of war, such as siege-towers, catapults, battering rams, housed like objects of worship in magnificent chambers. Other rooms contained gemwork of every conceivable description. Dozens of walls were covered with arrases like acts of homage, recognition, or flattery. Several chambers showed finely wrought goblets, plate, and other table service. And each was brightly lit by a chandelier of lambent crystal.

As Rire Grist guided the company through the nearest rooms, Linden was amazed by the extent of the gaddhi's wealth. If these were the fruits of Kasreyn's stewardship, then she was not surprised that no gaddhi had ever deposed the Kemper. How could any monarch resent the servant who made the Tier of Riches possible? Kasreyn's hold upon his position did not arise only from great age and thaumaturgy. It also arose from cunning.

The First's eyes gleamed at the display of swords, some of which were large and puissant enough to replace her lost blade; and even Honninscrave was struck silent by all he saw. Seadreamer appeared to be dazzled by splendour. Apart from Vain and Findail, only the Haruchai remained untouched. If anything, Brinn and his people became more watchful and ready than ever, tightening their protection around Linden and Covenant as if they felt they were nearing the source of a threat.

In the Tier, the company met for the first time men and women who were not soldiers or Guards. These were members of the gaddhi's Chatelaine. As a group, they appeared uniquely handsome and desirable. Linden saw not one plain face or figure among them. And they were resplendently dressed in velvet gowns encrusted with gems, doublets and robes that shone like peacock-feathers, gauzy cymars which draped their limbs like the attire of seduction. They saluted Rire Grist in the tongue of the Bhrathair, gazed at the company with diversely startled or brazen curiosity. Yet their faces wore brightness and charm as vizards; and Linden noted that although they moved around the Tier like appreciative admirers, they did not give their attention to the displayed wealth. From each of them she felt a vibration of tension, as if they were waiting with concealed trepidation for an event which might prove hazardous-and against which they had no defence except their grace and attire.

However, they were adept at concealment. Like the Caitiffin, they betrayed no disquiet which would have been apparent to any senses but hers. But her percipience told her plainly that the Sandhold was a place ruled by fear.

One of the men gave her a smile as superficially frank as a leer. Servants moved noiselessly through the rooms, offering goblets of wine and other courtesies. The First could hardly draw herself away from a particular glaive which hung at an angle in its mounts as if it were leaning toward her. With an inward shiver, Linden realised that the Tier of Riches had been designed for more than the gaddhi's gratification. It also acted as bait. Its very luxuriance was dangerous to people who had reason to be wary.

Then a tremor passed through the air, pulling her to a halt. A moment passed before she understood that no one else had felt it. It was not a sound, but rather a presence that altered the ambience of the Tier in a way only she was able to perceive. And it was moving toward the company. As it drew closer, the susurrus of voices rustling from chamber to chamber fell still.

Before she could warn her companions, a man entered the gallery. She knew who he was before Rire Grist's bow and salutation had announced him as the gaddhi's Kemper. The power which poured from him was as tangible as a pronouncement. He could not have been anyone other than a thaumaturge.

The aura he radiated was one of hunger.

He was a tall man, stood head and shoulders above her; but his frame was so lean that he appeared emaciated. His skin had the translucence of great age, exposing the blue mapwork of his veins. Yet his features were not ancient, and he moved as if his limbs were confident of their vitality. In spite of his reputed longevity, he might have been no more than seventy years of age. A slight rheum clouded his eyes, obscuring their colour but not the impact of their gaze.

In a flash of intuition, Linden perceived that the hunger shining from him was a hunger for time — that his desire for life, and more life, surpassed the satiation of centuries.

He was dressed in a gold-coloured robe which swept the floor as he approached. Suspended by a yellow ribbon, a golden circle like an ocular hung from his neck; but it held no lens.

A leather strap enclosed each shoulder as if he were carrying a rucksack. Linden did not see until he turned to answer the Caitiffin's greeting that the burden he bore was an infant swaddled in yellow samite.

After a brief word with Rire Grist, the Kemper stepped toward the company.

“I am pleased to greet you.” His voice revealed a faint quaver of age; but his tone was confident and familiar. "Permit me to say that such guests are rare in Bhrathairealm- thus doubly welcome. Therefore have I desired to make your acquaintance ere you are summoned before the Auspice to receive the gaddhi's benison. But we need no introduction. This worthy Caitiffin has already spoken my name. And in my turn I know you.

“Grimmand Honninscrave,” he went on promptly as if to set the company at ease with his knowledge, “you have brought your vessel a great distance-and at some cost, I fear.”

He gave the First a slight bow. “You are the First of the Search-and very welcome among us.” To Seadreamer, he said, “Be at peace. Your muteness will not lessen the pleasure of your presence for either the gaddhi or his Chatelaine.”

Then he stood before Linden and Covenant. “Thomas Covenant,” he said with an avid tinge in his voice. “Linden Avery. How you gladden me. Among such unexpected companions”-a flick of one hand referred to the Haruchai, Vain, and Findail-“you are the most unexpected of all, and the most pleasurable to behold. If the word of the gaddhi's Kemper bears any weight, you will not lack comfort or service while you sojourn among us.”

Distinctly, as if on cue, Covenant said, “Don't touch me.”

The Kemper raised an age-white eyebrow in surprise. After a quick scrutiny of Covenant, his eyes turned toward Linden as if to ask her for an explanation.

She resisted his intense aura, trying to find a suitable response. But her mind refused to clear. He disturbed her. Yet the most unsettling aspect of him was not the man himself, not the insatiaty he projected. Rather, it was the child on his back. It hung in its wrappings as if it were fast and innocently asleep; but the way its plump cheek rested against the top of his spine gave her the inexplicable impression that it fed on him like a succubus.

This impression was only aggravated by the fact that she could not confirm it. Though the infant was as plainly visible as the Kemper, it did not impinge at all on the other dimension of her senses. If she closed her eyes, she still felt Kasreyn's presence like a yearning pressure against her face; but the infant disappeared as if it ceased to exist when she stopped gazing at it. It might have been an hallucination.

Her stare was too obvious to escape Kasreyn's notice. A look of calculation crossed his mien, then changed to fondness. “Ah, my son,” he said. “I bear him so constantly that upon occasion I forget a stranger might wonder at him. Linden Avery, I am uxorious, and my wife is sadly ill. Therefore I care for our child. My duties permit no other recourse than this. But you need have no concern of him. He is a quiet boy and will not trouble us.”

“Forgive me,” Linden said awkwardly, trying to emulate Honninscrave's detached politeness. “I didn't mean to be rude.” She felt acutely threatened by that child. But the Kemper's welcome might become something else entirely if she showed that she knew he was lying.

“Give no thought to the matter.” His tone was gently condescending. “How can it offend me that you have taken notice of my son?” Then he returned his attention to the Giants.

"My friends, much time has passed since your people have had dealings with the Bhrathair. I doubt not you have remained mighty roamers and adventurers, and your history has surely been rich in interest and edification. I hope you will consent to share with me some of the tales for which the Giants have gained such renown. But that must come later, as my service to the gaddhi permits.“ Abruptly, he raised a long, bony ringer; and at the same instant a chime rang in the Tier of Riches. ”At present, we are summoned before the Auspice. Rire Grist will conduct you to The Majesty." Without farewell, he turned and strode vigorously from the room, bearing his son nestled against his back.

Linden was left with a sense of relief, as if a faintly nauseating scent had been withdrawn. A moment passed before she realised how deftly Kasreyn had prevented her companions from asking him any questions. And he had not voiced any inquiry about Covenant's condition. Was he that incurious? — or was he capable of discerning the answer for himself?

Rire Grist beckoned the company in another direction. But Honninscrave said firmly, “One moment, Caitiffin.” His posture showed that he also had doubts about Kasreyn. “A question, if you will. I ask pardon if I am somewhat forward-yet I cannot but think that the gaddhi's Kemper is more than a little advanced in years to be the father of such an infant.”

The Caitiffin stiffened. In an instant, his countenance became the visage of a soldier rather than of a diplomat. “Giant,” he said coldly, “there is no man or woman, Chatelaine or Guard, in all Bhrathairealm who will speak to you concerning the Kemper's son.” Then he stalked out of the room as if he were daring the company not to follow him.

Honninscrave looked at Linden and the First. Linden felt neither ready nor safe enough to do anything more than shrug; and the First said grimly, “Let us attend this gaddhi, All other reasons aside, it rends my heart to behold so many brave blades I may not touch.”

The Master's discomfort at the role he played showed itself in the tightness of his shoulders, the weight of his brows. But he led the company after Rire Grist.

They caught up with the Caitiffin two galleries later. By then, he had recovered his courtly politesse. But he offered no apology for his change of manner. Instead, he simply ushered the company onward through the Tier of Riches.

The chime must have included all the Chatelaine in its call. The sumptuously clad men and women were now moving in the same direction Rire Grist took. Their ornaments glittered in accompaniment to their personal comeliness; but they walked in silence, as if they were bracing themselves for what lay ahead.

Linden was briefly confused by the complexity of the Tier, uncertain of where she was headed. But soon the chambers debouched into a hall that took the thickening stream of people toward a richly gilt and engraved stairway which spiralled upward to pierce the ceiling.

Surrounded by the courtiers, she was more sure than ever that she saw shadows of trepidation behind their deliberate gaiety. Apparently, attendance upon the gaddhi represented a crisis for them as well as for the company. But their knurled cheeriness did not reveal the nature of what they feared.

The treads climbed dizzily upward. Hunger, and the fatigue of her legs, sent low tremblings through Linden's thighs. She felt too unsteady to trust herself. But she drew a mental support from Cail's hardness at her shoulder and trudged on behind the Giants and Rire Grist.

Then the stairs opened into The Majesty, and she forgot her weariness.

The hall into which she stepped seemed almost large and grand enough to fill the entire level. At this end, the air was only dimly lit by reflected light, and the gloom made the place appear immense and cavernous. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The hustin that lined the long, curving wall nearby looked as vague as icons. And the wall itself was deeply carved with huge and tormented shapes-demons in bas-relief which appeared to be animated by the dimness, tugging at the edges of Linden's sight as if they writhed in a gavotte of pain.

The floor was formed of stone slabs cut into perfect circles. But the gaps between the circles were wide, deep, and dark. Any misstep might easily break an ankle. As a result, the company had to advance with care in order to approach the light.

The rest of the hall was also designed to be daunting. All the light was concentrated around the Auspice: skylights, flaming vats of oil with polished reflectors, vivid candelabra on tall poles cast their illumination toward the gaddhi's seat. And the Auspice itself was as impressive as art and wealth could make it. Rising from a tiered plinth of stairs, it became a monolith which reached for the ceiling like an outstretched forearm and hand. Its arm was crusted with precious stones and metals, and the hand was an aurora of concentric circles behind the seat.

The Auspice appeared to be enormous, dominating the hall. But after a moment Linden realised that this was a consequence of the light and the hall's shape. The ceiling descended as it entered the light, enhancing the Auspice with an illusion of more size than it truly possessed. Spangled with lumination and jewel-work, the seat drew every eye as a cynosure. Linden had trouble forcing herself to watch where she put her feet; and her apprehension tightened another turn. As she strove to walk forward without stumbling into the gaps which marked the floor all the way to the Auspice, she learned to understand The Majesty. It was intended to make everyone who came here feel subservient and vulnerable.

She resisted instinctively. Glowering as if she had come to hurl revolt at the sovereign of Bhrathairealm, she followed the Giants, took her place among them when Rire Grist stopped a short distance from the plinth of the Auspice. Around them, the Chatelaine spread out to form a silent arc before the gaddhi's seat. Looking at her companions, she saw that the Giants were not immune to the power of The Majesty; and even the Haruchai seemed to experience some of the awe which had led their ancestors to Vow fealty to Kevin Landwaster. Vain's blankness and Findail's unimpressed mien gave her no comfort. But she found a positive reassurance in the uncowed distinctness with which Covenant uttered his empty refrain:

“Don't touch me.”

She feared that she might be cunningly and dangerously touched in this place.

A moment later, another chime sounded. Immediately, the light grew brighter, as if even the sun had been called to attend the gaddhi's arrival. The hustin snapped into still greater rigidity, raising their spears in salute. For an instant, no one appeared. Then several figures came out of the shadow of the Auspice as if they had been rendered material by the intensity of the illumination.

A man led the way up onto the plinth. To each of his arms a woman clung, at once deferential and possessive. Behind them came six more women. And at the rear of the party walked Kasreyn of the Gyre, with his son on his back.

Every courtier dropped to one knee and bowed deeply.

The Caitiffin also made a profound obeisance, though he remained standing. In a careful whisper, he breathed, “The gaddhi Rant Absolain. With him are his Favoured, the Lady Alif and the Lady Benj. Also others who have recently been, or perhaps will be, Favoured. And the gaddhi's Kemper, whom you know.”

Linden stared at the gaddhi. In spite of the opulence around him, he was plainly arrayed in a short satin tunic, as if he wished to suggest that he was unmoved by his own riches. But he had chosen a tunic which displayed his form proudly; and his movements hinted at narcissism and petulance. He accepted the adoring gazes of his women smugly. Linden saw that his hair and face had been treated with oils and paints to conceal his years behind an aspect of youthful virility.

He did not look like a sovereign.

The women with him — both the Favoured and the others — were all pretty, would have been lovely if their expressions of adoration had not been so mindless. And they were attired as odalisques. Their scant and transparent raiment was a candid appeal to desire: their perfumes, coifs, movements spoke of nothing except bedworthiness. They had found their own answer to the trepidation which beset the Chatelaine, and meant to pursue it with every allure at their command.

Smirking intimately, the gaddhi left his Favoured on the plinth with Kasreyn and ascended to his seat. There he was an effective figure. The design of the throne made him appear genuinely regal and commanding. But no artifice could conceal the self-satisfaction in his eyes. His gaze was that of a spoiled child-surquedry unjustified by any achievement, any true power.

For a long moment, he sat looking out over the obeisance of his Chatelaine, enjoying the way so many men and women humbled themselves before him. Perhaps the brightness dazzled him; he seemed unaware that Linden and her companions were still on their feet. But gradually he leaned forward to peer through the light; and vexation creased his face, betraying the lines which oil and paint had concealed.

“Kemper!” he snapped irritably. “Who are these mad folk who do not take to their knees before Rant Absolain, gaddhi of Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert?”

“O gaddhi.'” Kasreyn's reply was practiced-and faintly sardonic. "They are the Giants and voyagers of whom we spoke just now. Though they are ignorant of the greeting which should properly be accorded the gaddhi Rant Absolain, they have come to accept the welcome which you have so graciously proffered them, and to express their profound thanks, for you have redeemed them from severe distress."

As he delivered this speech, his eyes were fixed purposefully on the company.

Honninscrave responded promptly. Moving like a man in a charade, he dropped to one knee. “O gaddhi” he said clearly, “your Kemper speaks good sooth. We have come in glad thanks for your most hospitable and needful welcome. Forgive us that we are ill-schooled in the homage which is your due. We are a rude folk and have little acquaintance with such regality.”

At the same time, Rire Grist made a covert gesture to the rest of the company, urging them to follow Honninscrave's example.

The First growled softly in her throat; but she acknowledged the necessity of the masque by lowering herself to one knee. Her shoulders were rigid with the knowledge that the company was surrounded by at least three hundred Guards.

Linden and Seadreamer also bowed. Her breathing was cramped with anxiety. She could think of no appeal or power which would induce the Haruchai, Vain, or Findail to make obeisance. And Covenant was altogether deaf to the need for this imitation of respect.

But the gaddhi did not press the issue. Instead, he muttered an impatient phrase in the brackish language of the Bhrathair; and at once the Chatelaine rose to their feet. The company did the same, the First stiffly, Honninscrave diffidently. Linden felt a moment of relief.

The gaddhi was now looking down at Kasreyn. His expression had fallen into a pout. “Kemper, why was I called from the pleasure of my Favoured for this foolish assemblage?” He spoke the common tongue of the Harbour in an oddly defiant tone, like a rebellious adolescent.

But the Kemper's reply was unruffled. “O gaddhi, it is to your great honour that you have ever been munificent to those whom you deign to welcome. Therefore is your name grateful to all who dwell within the blessing of your demesne, and the Chatelaine are exalted by the mere thought of attendance upon you. Now it is seemly that these your new guests should come before you to utter their thanks. And it is also seemly” — his voice sharpened slightly-"that you should grant them your hearing. They have come in need, with requests in their hearts which only such, a monarch as the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm may hope to satisfy, and the answer which you accord them will carry the fame of your grace across all the wide Earth."

At this, Rant Absolain settled back in his seat with an air of cunning. His mood was plain to Linden's senses. He was engaged in a contest of wills with his Kemper. Glancing out over the company, he smiled nastily. “It is as my servant”-he stressed that word-“the Kemper has said. I delight to give pleasure to my guests. What do you desire of me?”

The company hesitated. Honninscrave looked to the First for guidance. Linden tightened her grip on herself. Here any request might prove dangerous by playing into the hands of either the gaddhi or his Kemper.

But after a momentary pause the First said, “O gaddhi, the needs of our Giantship are even now being met at your decree. For this our thanks are unbounded.” Her tone held no more gratitude than an iron bar. “But your graciousness inspires me to ask a further boon, You see that my scabbard is empty.” With one hand, she held the sheath before her. “The Bhrathair are renowned for their weaponwork. And I have seen many apt blades in the Tier of Riches. O gaddhi, grant me the gift of a broadsword to replace that which I have lost.”

Rant Absolain's face broke into a grin of satisfaction. He sounded triumphant and petty as he replied, “No.”

A frown interrupted Kasreyn's confidence. He opened his mouth to speak; but the gaddhi was already saying, “Though you are my guest, I must refuse. You know not what you ask. I am the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm- the servant of my people. That which you have seen belongs not to me but to the Bhrathair. I hold it but in stewardship. For myself I possess nothing, and thus I have no sword or other riches in my gift.” He uttered the words vindictively, but his malice was directed at the Kemper rather than the First, as if he had found unassailable grounds on which he could spite Kasreyn. “If you require a sword,” he went on, “you may purchase it in Bhrathair am.” He made an effort to preserve his air of victory by not looking at Kasreyn; but he was frightened by his own bravado and unable to resist.

The Kemper met that glance with a shrug of dismissal which made Rant Absolain wince. But the First did not let the matter end. “O gaddhi,” she said through her teeth, “I have no means to make such a purchase.”

The gaddhi reacted in sudden fury. “Then do without!” His fists pounded the arms of his seat. “Am I to blame for your penury? Insult me further, and I will send you to the Sandgorgons!”

Kasreyn shot a look toward the Caitiffin. Immediately, Rire Grist stepped forward, made a low bow. “O gaddhi,” he said, “they are strangers, unfamiliar with the selfless nature of your stewardship. Permit me to implore pardon for them. I am certain that no offense was intended.”

Rant Absolain sagged. He seemed incapable of sustaining any emotion which might contradict the Kemper's will. “Oh, assuredly,” he muttered. “I take no offense.” Clearly, he meant the opposite. “I am above all offense.” To himself, he began growling words like curses in the tongue of the Bhrathair.

“That is well known,” said the Kemper evenly, “and it adds much to your honour. Yet it will sadden you to turn guests away with no sign of your welcome in their hands. Perhaps another request lies within their hearts-a supplication which may be granted without aspersion to your stewardship.”

With a nameless pang, Linden saw Kasreyn take hold of his golden ocular, raise it to his left eye. A stiffening like a ghost of fear ran through the Chatelaine. Rant Absolain squeezed farther back in his throne. But the Kemper's gesture appeared so natural and inevitable that she could not take her eyes away from it, could not defend herself.

Then he met her gaze through his ocular; and without warning all her turmoil became calm. She realised at once that she had no cause for anxiety, no reason to distrust him. His left eye held the answer to everything. Her last, most visceral protests faded into relief as the geas of his will came over her, lifted the words he wanted out of her.

“O gaddhi, I ask if there is aught your Kemper can do to heal my comrade, Thomas Covenant.”

Rant Absolain showed an immediate relief that the eyepiece had not been turned toward him. In an over-loud voice, he said, “I am certain Kasreyn will do all in his power to aid you.” Sweat made streaks through the paint on his face.

“O gaddhi, I serve you gladly.” The Kemper's gaze left Linden; but its effect lingered in her, leaving her relaxed despite the raw hunger with which he regarded Covenant. Honninscrave and the First stared at her with alarm. Seadreamer's shoulders knotted. But the calm of the Kemper's geas remained on her.

“Come, Thomas Covenant,” said Kasreyn sharply. “We will attempt your succour at once.”

Brinn looked a question at Linden. She nodded; she could do nothing but nod. She was deeply relieved that the Kemper had lifted the burden of Covenant's need from her.

The Haruchai frowned slightly. His eyes asked the same question of the Giants; but they did not contradict Linden. They were unable to perceive what had happened to her.

With a shrug, Brinn walked Covenant toward the Kemper.

Kasreyn studied the Unbeliever avidly. A faint shiver touched his voice as he said, “I thank you, Brinn of the Haruchai. You may leave him safely in my hands.”

Brinn did not hesitate. “No.”

His refusal drew a gasp from the Chatelaine, instantly stifled. Rant Absolain leaned forward in his seat, bit his lip as if he could not believe his senses.

The Giants rocked subtly onto the balls of their feet.

Explicitly, as if he were supporting Brinn, Covenant said, “Don't touch me.”

Kasreyn held his golden circle to his eye, said in a tone of tacit command, “Brinn of the Haruchai, my arts admit of no spectation. If I am to aid this man, I must have him alone.”

Brinn met that ocular gaze without blinking. His words were as resolute as granite. “Nevertheless he is in my care. I will not part from him.”

The Kemper went pale with fury and amazement. Clearly, he was not accustomed to defiance-or to the failure of his geas.

A vague uneasiness grew in Linden. Distress began to rise against the calm, nagging her toward self-awareness. A shout struggled to form itself in her throat.

Kasreyn turned back to her, fixed her with his will again. “Linden Avery, command this Haruchai to give Thomas Covenant into my care.”

At once, the calm returned. It said through her mouth, “Brinn, I command you to give Thomas Covenant into his care.”

Brinn looked at her. His eyes glinted with memories of Elemesnedene. Flatly, he iterated, “I will not.”

The Chatelaine recoiled. Their group frayed as some of them retreated toward the stairs. The gaddhi's women crouched on the plinth and whimpered for his protection.

Kasreyn gave them cause for fear. Rage flushed his mien. His fists jerked threats through the air. “Fool!” he spat at Brinn. “If you do not instantly depart, I will command the Guards to slay you where you stand!”

Before the words had left his mouth, the Giants, Hergrom, and Ceer were moving toward Covenant.

But Brinn did not need their aid. Too swiftly for Kasreyn to counter, he put himself between Covenant and the Kemper. His reply cut through Kasreyn's ire. “Should you give such a command, you will die ere the first spear is raised.”

Rant Absolain stared in apoplectic horror. The rest of the Chatelaine began scuttling from the hall.

Brinn did not waver. Three Giants and two Haruchai came to his support. The six of them appeared more absolutely ready for battle than all the hustin.

For a moment, Kasreyn's face flamed as if he were prepared to take any risk in order to gain possession of Covenant. But then the wisdom or cunning which had guided him to his present power and longevity came back to him. He recanted a step, summoned his self-command.

“You miscomprehend me.” His voice shook, but grew steadier at every word. “I have not merited your mistrust. This hostility ill becomes you-ill becomes any man or woman who has been granted the gaddhi's welcome. Yet I accede to it. My desire remains to work you well. For the present, I will crave your pardon for my unseemly ire. Mayhap when you have tasted the gaddhi's goodwill you will learn also to taste the cleanliness of my intent. If you then wish it, I will offer my aid again.”

He spoke coolly; but his eyes did not lose their heat. Without waiting for a reply, he sketched a bow toward the Auspice, murmured, “With your permission, O gaddhi” Then he turned on his heel, strode away into the shadow behind the throne.

For a moment, Rant Absolain watched the Kemper's discomfited departure with glee. But abruptly he appeared to realize that he was now alone with people who had outfaced Kasreyn of the Gyre-that he was protected only by his women and the Guards. Squirming down from the Auspice, he thrust his way between his Favoured and hurried after the Kemper as if he had been routed. His women followed behind him in dismay.

The company was left with Rire Grist and fifteenscore hustin.

The Caitiffin was visibly shaken; but he strove to regain his diplomacy, “Ah, my friends,” he said thickly, “I pray that you will pardon this unsatisfactory welcome. As you have seen, the gaddhi is of a perverse temper-doubtless vexed by the pressure of his duties-and thus his Kemper is doubly stressed, both by his own labours and by his sovereign. Calm will be restored-and recompense made-I assure you.” He fumbled to a halt as if he were stunned by the inadequacy of his words. Then he grasped the first idea which occurred to him. “Will you accompany me to your guesting-rooms? Food and rest await you there.”

At that moment, Linden came out of her imposed passivity with a wrench of realisation which nearly made her scream.

Fifteen: “Don't touch me”

THOMAS Covenant saw everything. He heard everything. From the moment when the Elohim had opened the gift of Caer-Caveral, the location of the One Tree, all his senses had functioned normally. Yet he remained as blank as a stone tablet from which every commandment had been effaced. What he saw and heard and felt simply had no meaning to him. In him, the link between action and impact, perception and interpretation, had been severed or blocked. Nothing could touch him.

The strange self-contradictions of the Elohim had not moved him. The storm which had nearly wrecked Starfare's Gem had conveyed nothing to him. The dangers to his own life — and the efforts of people like Brinn, Seadreamer, and Linden to preserve him — had passed by him like babblings in an alien tongue. He had seen it all. Perhaps on some level he had understood it, for he lacked even the exigency of incomprehension. Nothing which impinged upon him was defined by the barest possibility of meaning. He breathed when breath was necessary. He swallowed food which was placed in his mouth. At times, he blinked to moisten his eyes. But these reflexes also were devoid of import. Occasionally an uneasiness as vague as mist rose up in him; but when he uttered his refrain, it went away.

Those three words were all that remained of his soul.

So he watched Kasreyn's attempt to gain possession of him with a detachment as complete as if he were made of stone. The hungry geas which burned from the Kemper's ocular had no effect. He was not formed of any flesh which could be persuaded. And likewise the way his companions defended him sank into his emptiness and vanished without a trace. When Kasreyn, Rant Absolain, and the Chatelaine made their separate ways out of The Majesty, Covenant was left unchanged.

Yet he saw everything. He heard everything. His senses functioned normally. He observed the appraising glance which Findail cast at him as if the Appointed were measuring this Elohim-wrought blankness against the Kemper's hunger. And he witnessed the flush of shame and dismay which rushed into Linden's face as Kasreyn's will lost its hold over her. Her neck corded at the effort she made to stifle her instinctive outcry. She feared possession more than any other thing-and she had fallen under Kasreyn's command as easily as if she lacked all volition. Through her teeth, she gasped, “Jesus God!” But her frightened and furious glare was fixed on Rire Grist, and she did not answer the consternation of her companions. Her taut self-containment said plainly that she did not trust the Caitiffin.

The sight of her in such distress evoked Covenant's miasmic discomfort; but he articulated his three words, and they carried all trouble away from him.

He heard the raw restraint in the First's tone as she replied to the Caitiffin, “We will accompany you. Our need for rest and peace is great. Also we must give thought to what has transpired.”

Rire Grist acknowledged the justice of her tone with a grimace. But he made no effort to placate the company. Instead, he led the gaddhi's guests toward the stairs which descended to the Tier of Riches.

Covenant followed because Brinn's grasp on his arm compelled him to place one foot in front of the other reflexively, as if he were capable of choosing to commit such an act.

Rire Grist took them down to the Second Circinate. In the depths of that level behind the immense forecourt or ballroom, he guided them along complex and gaily lit passages, among bright halls and chambers-sculleries and kitchens, music rooms, ateliers, and galleries-where the company encountered many of the Chatelaine who now contrived to mask their fear. At last he brought the questers to a long corridor marked at intervals by doors which opened into a series of comfortable bedrooms. One room had been set aside for each member of the company. Across the hall was a larger chamber richly furnished with settees and cushions. There the companions were invited to a repast displayed on tables intricately formed of bronze and mahogany.

But at the doorway of each bedroom stood one of the hustin, armed with its spear and broadsword; and two more waited near the tables of food like attendants or assassins. Rire Grist himself made no move to leave. This was insignificant to Covenant. Like the piquant aromas of the food, the unwashed musk of the Guards, it was a fact devoid of content. But it tightened the muscles of Honninscrave's arms, called a glint of ready ire from the First's eyes, compressed Linden's mouth into a white line. After a moment, the Chosen addressed Rire Grist with a scowl.

“Is this another sample of the gaddhi's welcome? Guards all over the place?”

“Chosen, you miscomprehend.” The Caitiffin had recovered his equilibrium. “The hustin are creatures of duty, and these have been given the duty of serving you. If you desire them to depart, they will do so. But they will remain within command, so that they may answer to your wants.”

Linden confronted the two Guards in the chamber. “Get out of here.”

Their bestial faces betrayed no reaction; but together they marched out into the hall.

She followed them. To all the hustin, she shouted, “Go away! Leave us alone!”

Their compliance appeased some of her hostility. When she returned, her weariness was apparent. Again, the emotion she aroused made Covenant speak. But his companions had become accustomed to his litany and gave it no heed.

“I also will depart,” the Caitiffin said, making a virtue of necessity. “As occasion requires, I will bring you word of the gaddhi's will, or his Kemper's. Should you have any need of me, summon the Guard and speak my name. I will welcome any opportunity to serve you.”

Linden dismissed him with a tired shrug; but the First said, “Hold yet a moment, Caitiffin.” The expression in her eyes caused his mien to tense warily. “We have seen much which we do not comprehend, and thereby we are disquieted. Ease me with one answer.” Her tone suggested that he would be wise to comply. “You have spoken of fourscore hundred Guards-of fifteenscore Horse. Battleremes we have seen aplenty. Yet the Sandgorgons are gone to their Doom. And the Kemper's arts are surely proof against any insurgence. What need has Rant Absolain for such might of arms?”

At that, Rire Grist permitted himself a slight relaxation, as if the question were a safe one. “First of the Search,” he replied, “the answer lies in the wealth of Bhrathairealm. No small part of that wealth has been gained in payment from other rulers or peoples for the service of our arms and ships. Our puissance earns much revenue and treasure. But it is a precarious holding, for our wealth teaches other lands and monarchs to view us jealously. Therefore our strength serves also to preserve what we have garnered since the formation of Sandgorgons Doom.”

The First appeared to accept the plausibility of this response. When no one else spoke, the Caitiffin bowed his farewell and departed. At once, Honninscrave closed the door; and the room was filled with terse, hushed voices.

The First and Honninscrave expressed their misgivings. Linden described the power of the Kemper's ocular, the unnatural birth of the hustin. Brinn urged that the company return immediately to Starfare's Gem. But Honninscrave countered that such an act might cause the gaddhi to rescind his welcome before the dromond was sufficiently supplied or repaired. Linden cautioned her companions that they must not trust Rire Grist. Vain and Findail stood aloof together.

With signs and gestures, Seadreamer made Honninscrave understand what he wanted to know; and the Master asked

Brinn how the Haruchai had withstood Kasreyn's geas. Brinn discounted that power in a flat tone. “He spoke to me with his gaze. I heard, but did not choose to listen.” For a moment, he gave Linden a look as straight as an accusation. She bit her lower lip as if she were ashamed of her vulnerability. Covenant witnessed it all. It passed by him as if he were insensate.

The company decided to remain in the Sandhold as long as they could, so that Pitchwife and Sevinhand would have as much time as possible to complete their work. Then the Giants turned to the food. When Linden had examined it, pronounced it safe, the questers ate. Covenant ate when Brinn put food in his mouth; but behind his emptiness he continued to watch and listen. Dangerous spots of colour accentuated Linden's cheeks, and her eyes were full of potential panic, as if she knew that she was being cornered. Covenant had to articulate Ms warning several times to keep the trouble at bay.

After that, the time wore away slowly, eroded in small increments by the tension of the company; but it made no impression on Covenant. He might have forgotten that time existed. The toll of days held no more meaning for him than a string of beads-although perhaps it was a preterite memory of bloodshed, rising like blame from the distance of the Land, which caused his vague uneasinesses; rising thicker every day as people he should have been able to save were butchered. Certainly, he had no more need for the One Tree. He was safe as he was.

His companions alternately rested, waited, stirred restlessly, spoke or argued quietly with each other. Linden could not dissuade Brinn from sending Ceer or Hergrom out to explore the Sandhold. The Haruchai no longer heeded her. But when the First supported Linden, they acceded, approving her insistence that the company should stay together.

Vain was as detached as Covenant. But the long pain did not leave Findail's face; and he studied Covenant as if he foresaw some crucial test for the Unbeliever.

Later, Rire Grist returned, bearing an invitation for the company to attend the Chatelaine in banquet. Linden did not respond. The attitude of the Haruchai had drained some essential determination out of her. But the First accepted; and the company followed the Caitiffin to a high bright dining-hall where bedizened ladies and smirking gallants talked and riposted, vied and feasted, to the accompaniment of soft music. The plain attire of the questers contrasted with the self-conscious display around them; but the Chatelaine reacted as though the company were thereby made more sapid and attractive-or as though the gaddhi's court feared to behave otherwise.

Men surrounded Linden with opportunities for dalliance, blind to the possible hysteria in her mien. Women plied the impassive Haruchai determinedly. The Giants were treated to brittle roulades of wit. Neither the gaddhi nor his Kemper appeared; but hustin stood against the walls like listening-posts, and even Honninscrave's most subtle questions gleaned no useful information. The foods were savoury; the wines, copious. As the evening progressed, the interchanges of the Chatelaine became more burlesque and corybantic. Seadreamer stared about him with glazed eyes, and the First's visage was a thunderhead. At intervals, Covenant spoke his ritual repudiation.

His companions bore the situation as long as they could, then asked Rire Grist to return them to their quarters. He complied with diplomatic ease. When he had departed, the company confronted the necessity for sleep.

Bedrooms had been provided for them all; and each contained only a single bed. But the questers made their own arrangements. Honninscrave and Seadreamer took one room together; the First and Ceer shared another. Linden cast one last searching look at Covenant, then went to her rest with Cail to watch over her. Brinn drew Covenant into the next chamber and put him to bed, leaving Hergrom on guard in the hall with Vain and Findail. When Brinn doused the light, Covenant reflexively closed his eyes.

The light returned, and he opened his eyes. But it was not the same light. It came from a small gilt cruse in the hand of a woman. She wore filmy draperies as suggestive as mist; her lush yellow hair spilled about her shoulders. The light spread hints of welcome around her figure.

She was the Lady Alif, one of the gaddhi's Favoured.

Raising a playful finger to her lips, she spoke softly to Brinn. "You need not summon your companions. Kasreyn of the Gyre desires speech with Thomas Covenant. Your accompaniment is welcome. Indeed, all your companions are welcome, should you think it meet to rouse them. The Kemper has repented of his earlier haste. But wherefore should they be deprived of rest? Surely you suffice to ward Thomas Covenant's safety."

Brinn's countenance betrayed no reaction. He measured the risk and the opportunity of this new ploy impassively.

While he considered, the Lady Alif stepped to his side. Her movements were too soft and unwily to be dangerous. Tiny silver bells tinkled around her ankles. Then her free hand opened, exposing a small mound of fulvous powder. With a sudden breath, she blew the powder into Brinn's face.

One involuntary inhalation of surprise undid him. His knees folded, and he sank in a slow circle to the floor.

At once, the Lady swept toward Covenant, smiling with desire. When she pulled him by the arm, he rose automatically from the bed. “Don't touch me,” he said; but she only smiled and smiled, and drew him toward the door.

In the corridor, he saw that Hergrom lay on the stone like Brinn. Vain faced Linden's chamber, observing nothing. But Findail watched the Lady Alif and Covenant with an assaying look.

The gaddhi's Favoured took Covenant away from the bedrooms.

As they moved, he heard a door open, heard bare feet running almost silently as one of the Haruchai came in pursuit. Ceer or Cail must have sensed the sopor of Brinn and Hergrom and realised that something was wrong.

But beyond the last door, the stone of the walls altered, became mirrors. The Lady led Covenant between the mirrors. In an instant, their images were exactly reflected against them from both sides. Image and image and flesh met, fused. Before the Haruchai could catch them, Covenant and his guide were translated to an altogether different part of the Sandhold.

Stepping between two mirrors poised near the walls, they entered a large round chamber. It was comfortably lit by three or four braziers, seductively appointed like a disporting-place. The fathomless blue rugs asked for the pressure of bare feet; the velvet and satin cushions and couches urged abandon. A patina of incense thickened the air. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes like echoes of lust. Only the two armed hustin, standing opposite each other against the walls, marred the ambience. But they made no impression on Covenant. They were like the spiralling ironwork stairway which rose from the centre of the chamber. He looked at them and thought nothing.

“Now at last,” said the Lady with a sigh like a shiver of relish, “at last we are alone.” She turned to face him. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “Thomas Covenant, my heart is mad with desire for you.” Her eyes were as vivid as kohl could make them. “I have brought you here, not for the Kemper's purpose, but for my own. This night will be beyond all forgetting for you. Every dream of your life I will awaken and fulfil.”

She studied him for some response. When none came, she hesitated momentarily. A flicker of distaste crossed her face. But then she replaced it with passion and spun away. Crying softly, “Behold!” as if every line of her form were an ache of need, she began to dance.

Swaying and whirling to the rhythm of her anklets, she performed her body before him with all the art of a proud odalisque. Portraying the self-loss of hunger for him, she danced closer to him, and away, and closer again; and her hands caressed her thighs, her belly, her breasts as if she were summoning the fire in her flesh. At wily intervals, pieces of her raiment wafted in perfume and gauze to settle like an appeal among the cushions. Her skin had the texture of silk. The nipples of her breasts were painted and hardened like announcements of desire; the muscles within her thighs were smooth and flowing invitations.

But when she flung her arms around Covenant, pressed her body to his, kissed his mouth, his lips remained slack. He did not need to utter his refrain. He saw her as if she did not exist.

His lack of reply startled her; and the surprise allowed a pure fear to show in her eyes. “Do you not desire me?” She bit her lips, groping for some recourse. “You must desire me!”

She tried to conceal her desperation with brazenness; but every new attempt to arouse him only exposed her dread of failure more plainly. She did everything which experience or training could suggest. She stopped at no prostration or appeal which might conceivably have attracted a man. But she could not penetrate his Elohim-wrought emptiness. He was as impervious as if their purpose had been to defend rather than harm him.

Abruptly, she wailed in panic. Her fingers made small creeping movements against her face like spiders. Her loveliness had betrayed her. “Ah, Kemper,” she moaned. “Have mercy! He is no man. How could a man refuse what I have done?”

The effort of articulation pulled Covenant's countenance together for a moment. “Don't touch me.”

At that, humiliation gave her the strength of anger. “Fool!” she retorted. “You destroy me, and it will avail you nothing. The Kemper will reduce me to beggary among the public houses of Bhrathairain for this failure, but he will not therefore spare you. You he will rend limb from limb to gain his ends. Were you man enough to answer me, then at least would you have lived. And I would have given you pleasure.” She struck out at him blindly, lashing her hand across his bearded cheek. “Pleasure.”

“Enough, Alif.” The Kemper's voice froze her where she stood. He was watching her and Covenant from the stairs, had already come halfway down them. “It is not for you to harm him.” From that elevation, he appeared as tall as a Giant; yet his arms looked frail with leanness and age. The child cradled at his back did not stir “Return to the gaddhi.” His tone held no anger, but it cast glints of malice into the room. “I have done with you. From this time forth, you will prosper or wane according to his whim. Please him if you can.”

His words condemned her; but this doom was less than the one she had feared, and she did not quail. With a last gauging look at Covenant, she drew herself erect and moved to the stairs, leaving her apparel behind with a disdain which bordered on dignity.

When she was gone, Kasreyn told one of the Guards to bring Covenant. Then he returned upward.

The husta closed a clawed hand around Covenant's upper arm. A prescient tremor forced him to repeat his litany several times before he found ease. The stairs rose like the gyre of Sandgorgons Doom, bearing him high into the seclusion of Kemper's Pitch. When they ended, he was in the lucubrium where Kasreyn practiced his arts.

Long tables held theurgical apparatus of every kind. Periapts and vials of arcane powders lined the walls. Contrivances of mirrors made candles appear incandescent. Kasreyn moved among them, preparing implements. His hands clenched and unclosed repeatedly to vent his eagerness. His rheum-clouded eyes flickered from place to place. But at his back, his putative son slept. His golden robe rustled along the floor like a scurry of small animals. When he spoke, his voice was calm, faintly tinged with a weariness which hinted at the burden of his years.

“In truth, I did not expect her to succeed.” He addressed Covenant as if he knew that the Unbeliever could not reply. “Better for you if she had-but you are clearly beyond her. Yet for her failure I should perhaps have punished her as men have ever punished women. She is a tasty wench withal, and knowledgeable. But that is no longer in me.” His tone suggested a sigh. “In time past, it was otherwise. Then the gaddhi drew his Favoured from those who had first sated me. But latterly that pleasure comes to me solely through observation of the depraved ruttings of others in the chamber below. Therefore almost I hoped that you would succumb. For the unction it would have given me.”

A chair covered with bindings and apparatus stood to one side of the lucubrium. While Kasreyn spoke, the husta guided Covenant to the chair, seated him there. The Kemper set his implements on the nearest table, then began immobilizing Covenant's arms and legs with straps.

“But that is a juiceless pleasure,” he went on after a brief pause, “and does not content me. Age does not content me. Therefore you are here.” He lashed Covenant's chest securely to the back of the chair. With a neck-strap he ensured that the Unbeliever would sit upright. Covenant could still have moved his head from side to side if he had been capable of conceiving a desire to do so; but Kasreyn appeared confident that Covenant had lost all such desires. A faint sense of trouble floated up out of the emptiness, but Covenant dispelled it with his refrain.

Next Kasreyn began to attach his implements to the apparatus of the chair. These resembled lenses of great variety and complexity. The apparatus held them ready near Covenant's face.

“You have seen,” the Kemper continued as he worked, "that I possess an ocular of gold. Purest gold-a rare and puissant metal in such hands as mine. With such aids, my arts work great wonders, of which Sandgorgons Doom is not the greatest. But my arts are also pure, as a circle is pure, and in a flawed world purity cannot endure. Thus within each of my works I must perforce place one small flaw, else there would be no work at all.“ He stepped back for a moment to survey his preparations. Then he leaned his face close to Covenant's as if he wished the Unbeliever to understand him. ”Even within the work of my longevity there lies a flaw, and through that flaw my life leaks from me drop by drop. Knowing perfection-possessing perfect implements-I have of necessity wrought imperfection upon myself.

“Thomas Covenant, I am going to die.” Once again, he withdrew, muttering half to himself. “That is intolerable.”

He was gone for several moments. When he returned, he set a stool before the chair and sat on it. His eyes were level with Covenant's. With one skeletal finger, he tapped Covenant's half-hand.

“But you possess white gold.” Behind their rheum, his orbs seemed to have no colour. "It is an imperfect metal-an unnatural alliance of metals-and in all the Earth it exists nowhere but in the ring you bear. My arts have spoken to me of such a periapt, but never did I dream that the white gold itself would fall to me. The white gold! Thomas Covenant, you reck little what you wield. Its imperfection is the very paradox of which the Earth is made, and with it a master may form perfect works and fear nothing.

“Therefore” — with one hand, he moved a lens so that it covered Covenant's eyes, distorting everything-“I mean to have that ring. As you know-or have known-I may not frankly sever it from you. It will be valueless to me unless you choose to give it. And in your present strait you are incapable of choice. Thus I must first pierce this veil which blinds your will. Then, while you remain within my grasp, I must wrest the choice I require from you,” A smile uncovered the old cruelty of his teeth. “Indeed, it would have been better for you if you had succumbed to the Lady Alif.”

Covenant began his warning. But before he could complete it, Kasreyn lifted his ocular, focused his left eye through it and the lens. As that gaze struck Covenant's, his life exploded in pain.

Spikes drove into his joints; knives laid bare all his muscles; daggers dug down the length of every nerve. Tortures tore at his head as if the skin of his skull were being flayed away. Involuntary spasms made him writhe like a madman in his bonds. He saw Kasreyn's eye boring into him, heard the seizing of his own respiration, felt violence hacking every portion of his flesh to pieces. All his senses functioned normally.

But the pain meant nothing. It fell into his emptiness and vanished-a sensation without content or consequence. Even the writhings of his body did not inspire him to turn his head away.

Abruptly, the attack ended. The Kemper sat back, began whistling softly, tunelessly, through his teeth while he considered his next approach. After a moment, he made his decision. He added two more lenses to the distortion of Covenant's vision. Then he applied his eye to the ocular again.

Instantly, fire swept into Covenant as if every drop of his blood and tissue of his flesh were oil and tinder. It howled through him like the wailing of a banshee. It burst his heart, blazed in his lungs, cindered all his vitals. The marrow of his bones burned and ran like scoria. Savagery flamed into his void as if no power in all the world could prevent it from setting fire to the hidden relicts of his soul.

All his senses functioned normally. He should have been driven irremediably mad in that agony. But the void was more fathomless than any fire.From this, too, the Elohim had defended him.

With a snarl of frustration, Kasreyn looked away again. For a moment, he seemed at a loss.

But then new determination straightened his back. Briskly, he removed one of the lenses he had already used, replaced it with several others. Now Covenant could see nothing except an eye-watering smear. In the centre of the blur appeared Kasreyn's golden ocular as the Kemper once again bent his will inward.

For one heartbeat or two, nothing happened. Then the smear expanded, and the lucubrium began to turn. Slowly at first, then with vertiginous speed, the chamber spun. As it wheeled, the walls dissolved. The chair rose, though Kasreyn's compelling orb did not waver, Covenant went gyring into night.

But it was a night unlike any he had known before. It was empty of every star, every implication. Its world-spanning blackness was only a reflection of the inward void into which he fell. Kasreyn was driving him into himself.

He dropped like a stone, spinning faster and faster as the plunge lengthened. He passed through a fire which seared him-traversed tortures of knives until he fell beyond them. Still he sped down the gullet of the whirling, the nausea of his old vertigo. It impelled him as if it meant to hurl him against the blank wall of his doom.

Yet he saw everything, heard everything. Kasreyn's eye remained before him, impaling the smear of the lenses. In the distance, the Kemper's voice said sharply, “Slay him.” But the command was directed elsewhere, did not touch Covenant.

Then up from the bottom of the gyre arose images which Covenant feared to recognize. Kasreyn's gaze coerced them from the pit. They flew and yowled about Covenant's head as he fell.

The destruction of the Staff of Law.

Blood pouring in streams to feed the Banefire.

Memla and Linden falling under the na-Mhoram's Grim because he could not save them.

His friends trapped and doomed in the Sandhold. The quest defeated. The Land lying helpless under the Sunbane. All the Earth at Lord Foul's mercy.

Because he could not save them.

The Elohim had deprived him of everything which might have made a difference. They had rendered him helpless to touch or aid the people and the Land he loved.

Wrapped in his leprosy, isolated by his venom, he had become nothing more than a victim. A victim absolutely. The perceptions which poured into him from Kasreyn's orb seemed to tell the whole truth about him. The gyre swept him downward like an avalanche. It flung him like a spear, a bringer of death, into the pith of the void.

Then he might have broken. The wall defending him might have been pierced, leaving him as vulnerable as the Land to Kasreyn's eye. But at that moment, he heard a series of thuds. The sounds of combat; blows exchanged, gasp and grunt of impact. Two powerful figures were fighting nearby.

Automatically, reflexively, he turned his head to see what was happening.

With that movement, he broke Kasreyn's hold.

Freed from the distortion of the lenses,his vision reeled back into the lucubrium. He sat in the chair where the Kemper had bound him. The tables and equipment of the chamber were unchanged.

But the guard lay on the floor, coughing up the last of his life. Over The Husta stood Hergrom. He was poised to spring. Flatly, he said, "Kemper, if you have harmed him you will answer for it with blood."

Covenant saw everything. He heard everything.

Emptily, he said, "Don't touch me."

Sixteen: The gaddhi's Punishment

FOR a long time, Linden Avery could not sleep. The stone of the Sandhold surrounded her, limiting her percipience. The very walls seemed to glare back at her as if they strove to protect a secret cunning. And at the edges of her range moved the hustin like motes of ill. The miscreated Guards were everywhere, jailers for the Chatelaine as well as for the company. She had watched the courtiers at their banquet and had discerned that their gaiety was a performance upon which they believed their safety depended. But there could be no safety in the donjon which the Kemper had created for himself and his petulant gaddhi.

Her troubled mind longed for the surcease of unconsciousness. But underneath the wariness and alarm which the Sandhold inspired lay a deeper and more acute distress. The memory of the Kemper's geas squirmed in the pit of her heart. Kasreyn had simply looked at her through his ocular, and instantly she had become his tool, a mere adjunct of his intent. She had not struggled, had not even understood the need to struggle. His will had possessed her as easily as if she had been waiting for it all her life.

The Haruchai had been able to resist. But she had been helpless. Her percipient openness had left her no defence. She was unable to completely close the doors the Land had opened in her.

As a result, she had betrayed Thomas Covenant. He was bound to her by yearnings more intimate than anything she had ever allowed herself to feel for any man; and she had sold him as if he had no value to her. No, not sold; she had been offered nothing in return. She had simply given him away. Only Brinn's determination had saved him.

That hurt surpassed the peril of the Sandhold. It was the cusp of all her failures. She felt like a rock which had been struck too hard or too often. She remained superficially intact; but within her fault lines spread at every blow. She no longer knew how to trust herself.

In her bedchamber after the banquet, she mimicked sleep because Cail was with her. But his presence also served to keep her awake. When she turned her face to the wall, she felt his hard aura like a pressure against her spine, denying what little courage she had left. He, too, did not trust her.

Yet the day had been long and arduous; and at last weariness overcame her tension. She sank into dreams of stone-the irrefragable gutrock of Revelstone. In the hold of the Clave, she had tried to force herself bodily into the granite to escape Gibbon-Raver. But the stone had refused her. According to Covenant, the former inhabitants of the Land had found life and beauty in stone; but this rock had been deaf to every appeal. She still heard the Raver saying, The principal doom of the Land is upon your shoulders. Are you not evil? And she had cried out in answer, had been crying ever since in self-abomination, No! Never!

Then the voice said something else. It said, “Chosen, arise. The ur-Lord has been taken.”

Sweating nightmares, she flung away from the wall. Cail placed a hand on her shoulder; the wail which Gibbon had spawned sprang into her throat. But the door stood open, admitting light to the bedchamber. Cail's mien held no ill glee. Instinctively, she bit down her unuttered cry. Her voice bled as she gasped, “Taken?” The word conveyed nothing except inchoate tremors of alarm.

“The ur-Lord has been taken,” Cail repeated inflexibly. “The Lady Alif came for him in the Kemper's name. She has taken him.”

She stared at him, groped through the confusion of her dreams. “Why?”

Shadows accentuated Cail's shrug. “She said, 'Kasreyn of the Gyre desires speech with Thomas Covenant.' ”

Taken him. A knife-tip of apprehension trailed down her spine. “Is Brinn with him?”

The Haruchai did not falter. “No.”

At that, her eyes widened. “You mean you let — ?” She was on her feet. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders. “Are you crazy? Why didn't you call me?”

She was fractionally taller than he; but his flat gaze out-sized her. He did not need words to repudiate her.

“Oh goddamn it!” She tried to thrust him away, but the effort only shoved her backward. Spinning, she flung toward the door. Over her shoulder, she snapped, “You should've called me.” But she already knew his answer.

In the corridor, she found the Giants. Honninscrave and Seadreamer were straightening their sarks, dressing hurriedly. But the First stood ready, with her shield on her arm, as if she had slept that way. Ceer was also there. Vain and Findail had not moved. But Brinn and Hergrom were nowhere to be seen.

The First answered Linden's hot visage sternly.

“It appears that we have miscounted the Kemper's cunning. The tale I have from Ceer. While we slept, the Lady Alif approached Hergrom where he stood with Vain and this Elohim. Speaking words of courtesy and blandishment, she drew nigh and into his face cast a powder which caused him slumber. Neither Vain nor Findail”-a keen edge ran through her tone — "saw fit to take action in this matter, and she turned from them as if their unconcern were a thing to be trusted. She then approached Brinn and the Giantfriend. Brinn also fell prey to her powder of slumber, and she bore Covenant away.

“Sensing the unwonted somnolence of his comrades, Ceer left me. In this passage, he saw the Lady Alif with Covenant, retreating.” She pointed down the corridor. “He went in pursuit. Yet ere he could gain them, they vanished.”

Linden gaped at the First.

“The slumber of Brinn and Hergrom was brief,” the Swordmain concluded. “They have gone in search of the Giantfriend-or of the Kemper. It is my thought that we must follow.”

The labour of Linden's heart cramped her breathing. What could Kasreyn possibly want from Covenant, that he was willing to risk so much coercion and stealth to gain it?

What else but the white ring?

A surge of hysteria rose up in her. She fought for self-command. Fear galvanized her. She turned on Ceer, demanded, “How could they have vanished?”

“I know not.” His countenance remained impassive. "At a certain place beyond these doors“-he searched momentarily for a word-”an acuteness came upon them. Then they were before me no longer. The means of their vanishment I could not discover."

Damn it to hell! With a wrench, Linden dismissed that unanswerable how. To the First, she gritted, “Kemper's Pitch.”

“Aye.” In spite of her empty scabbard, the Swordmain was whetted for action. “Kemper's Pitch.” With a jerk of her head, she sent Honninscrave and Seadreamer down the corridor.

They broke into a trot as Ceer joined them. At once, the First followed; then Linden and Cail ran after them, too concerned for Covenant to think about the consequences of what they were doing.

At the first corner, she glanced back, saw Vain and Findail following without apparent haste or effort.

Almost at once, the company encountered the Guards that had been stationed outside their rooms earlier. The faces of the hustin registered brutish surprise, uncertainty. Some of them stepped forward; but when the Giants swept defiantly past them, the hustin did not react. Mordantly, Linden thought that Kasreyn's attention must be concentrated elsewhere.

Like the Haruchai, the Giants had obviously learned more about the layout of the Second Circinate than she had been able to absorb. They threaded their way unerringly through the halls and passages, corridors and chambers. In a short time, they reached the forecourt near the stairways to the Tier of Riches. Upward they went without hesitation.

The Tier was as brightly lit as ever; but at this time of night it was deserted. Honninscrave promptly chose an intricate route through the galleries. When he arrived in the resting-place of the longsword at which the First had gazed with such desire, he stopped. Looking intently at her, he asked in a soft voice, “Will you not arm yourself?”

“Tempt me not.” Her features were cold. “Should we appear before the gaddhi or his Kemper bearing a gift which was denied us, we will forfeit all choice but that of battle. Let us not rashly put our feet to that path.”

Linden felt dark shapes rising from the Second Circinate. “Guards,” she panted. “Somebody told them what to do.”

The First gave Honninscrave a nod of command. He swung away toward the stairs to The Majesty.

Linden ran dizzily after the Giants up the spiralling ascent. Her breathing was hard and sharp; the dry air cut at her lungs. She feared the hustin in The Majesty. If they, too, had been given orders, what could the company do against so many of them?

As she sprang out of the stairwell onto the treacherous floor of the Auspice-hall, she saw that her fears were justified. Scores of squat, powerful hustin formed an arc across the company's way. They bristled with spears. In the faint light reflecting from the vicinity of the Auspice, they looked as intractable as old darkness.

The pursuing Guards had reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Stone and Sea!” hissed the First through her teeth. “Here is a gay pass.” Seadreamer took an impulsive step forward. “Hold, Giant,” she ordered softly. “Would you have us slain like cattle?” In the same tone, she addressed Linden over her shoulder. “Chosen, if any thought comes to you, be not shy to utter it. I mislike this peril.”

Linden did not respond. The posture of the Guards described the nature of Kasreyn's intentions against Covenant eloquently. And Covenant was as defenceless as an infant. The Elohim had reft him of everything which might have protected him. She chewed silent curses in an effort to hold back panic.

The hustin advanced on the company.

The next moment, a high shout echoed across The Majesty:

“Halt!”

The Guards stopped. The ones on the stairs climbed a few more steps, then obeyed.

Someone began to thrust forward among the hustin. Linden saw a vehement head bobbing past their ears, accompanied by a thick flurry of yellow hair. The Guards parted involuntarily. Soon a woman stood before the company.

She was naked, as if she had just come from the gaddhi's bed.

The Lady Alif.

She cast a look at the questers, daring them to take notice of her nudity. Then she turned to the Guards. Her voice imitated anger; but beneath the surface it quivered with temerity.

“Why do you accost the guests of the gaddhi?”

The porcine eyes of the hustin shifted uncomfortably toward her, back to the company. Their thoughts worked tortuously. After a pause, several of them answered, “These are not permitted to pass.”

“Not?” she demanded sharply. “I command you to admit them.”

Again the hustin were silent while they wrestled with the imprecision of their orders. Others repeated, “These are not permitted to pass.”

The Lady cocked her arms on her hips. Her tone softened dangerously. “Guards, do you know me?”

Hustin blinked at her. A few licked their lips as if they were torn between hunger and confusion. At last, a handful replied, “Lady Alif, Favoured of the gaddhi.”

“Forsooth,” she snapped sarcastically. “I am the Lady Alif, Favoured of the gaddhi Rant Absolain. Has Kasreyn granted you to refuse the commands of the gaddhi or his Favoured?”

The Guards were silent. Her question was too complex for them.

Slowly, clearly, she said, “I command you in the name of Rant Absolain, gaddhi of Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert, to permit his guests passage.”

Linden held her breath while the hustin struggled to sort out their priorities. Apparently, this situation had not been covered by their instructions; and no new orders came to their aid. Confronted by the Lady Alif's insistence, they did not know what else to do. With a rustling movement like a sigh, they parted, opening a path toward the Auspice.

At once, the Favoured faced the company. Her eyes shone with a hazardous revenge. “Now make haste,” she said quickly, “while Kasreyn is consumed by his intent against your Thomas Covenant, I have no cause to wish your companion well, but I will teach the Kemper that he is unwise to scorn those who labour in his service. Mayhap his pawns will someday gain the courage to defy him.” An instant later, she stamped her foot, sending out a tinkle of silver. “Go, I say! At any moment, he may recollect himself and countermand me.”

The First did not hesitate. Striding from circle to circle, she moved swiftly among the hustin. Ceer joined her. Honninscrave and Seadreamer followed, warding her back. Linden wanted to take a moment to question the Lady; but she had no time. Cail caught her arm, swung her after the Giants.

Behind the company, the Guards turned, reformed their ranks. Moving stiffly over the stone slabs, they followed Vain and Findail toward the Auspice.

When the Giants entered the brighter illumination around the throne, Brinn suddenly appeared out of the shadows. He did not pause to explain how he had come to be there. Flatly, he said, “Hergrom has discovered the ur-Lord. Come.” Turning, he sped back into the darkness behind the gaddhi's seat.

Linden glanced at the hustin. They were moving grimly, resolutely, but made no effort to catch up with the interlopers. Perhaps they had now been commanded to block any retreat.

She could not worry about retreat. Covenant was in the Kemper's hands. She ran after the First and Ceer into the shadow of the Auspice.

Here, too, the wall was deeply carved with tormented shapes like a writhe of ghouls. Even in clear light, the doorway would have been difficult to find, for it was cunningly hidden among the bas-reliefs. But Brinn had learned the way. He went directly to the door.

It swung inward under the pressure of his hand, admitting the company to a narrow stair which gyred upward through the stone. Brinn led, with Honninscrave, Seadreamer, and then Ceer at his back. Linden followed the First. Urgency pulled at her heart, denying the shortness of her breath, the scant strength of her legs. She wanted to cry out Covenant's name.

The stair seemed impossibly long; but at last it reached a door that opened into a large round chamber. The place was furnished and appointed like a seduction room. Braziers shed fight over its intense blue rugs, its lush cushions and couches: the tapestries bedecking the walls depicted a variety of lurid scenes. Almost instantly, the incense in the air began to fill Linden's lungs with giddiness.

Ahead of her, the Giants and Haruchai came to a halt. A husta stood there with its spear levelled at the questers, guarding the ironwork stair which rose from the centre of the chamber.

This husta had no doubt of its duty. One cheek was discoloured with bruises, and Linden saw other signs that the Guard had been in a fight. If Hergrom had indeed found Covenant, he must have passed through this chamber to do so. But the husta was impervious to its pains. It confronted the company fearlessly.

Brinn bounded forward. He feinted at the Guard, then dodged the spear and leaped for the railing of the stair.

The husta tracked him with the point of its spear to strike him in the back. But Seadreamer was already moving. With momentum, weight, and oaken strength, he delivered a blow which stretched the Guard out among the cushions like a sated lover.

As a precaution, Honninscrave jumped after the husta, caught hold of its spear and snapped the shaft.

The rest of the company rushed after Brinn.

The stairs took them even higher into the seclusion of Kemper's Pitch.

Gripping the rail, Linden hauled herself from tread to tread, forced her leaden legs to carry her. The incense and the spiralling affected her like nightmare. She did not know how much farther she could ascend. When she reached the next level, she might be too weak to do anything except struggle for breath.

But her will held, carried her panting and dizzy into the lucubrium of the gaddhi's Kemper.

Her eyes searched the place frenetically. This was clearly Kasreyn's laboratory, where he wrought his arts. But she could not bring anything she saw into focus. Long tables covered with equipment, crowded shelves, strange contrivances seemed to reel around her.

Then her vision cleared. Beyond the spot where the Giants and Brinn had stopped lay a Guard. It was dead, sprawled in a congealing pool of its own rank blood. Hergrom stood over it like a defiance. Deliberately, he nodded toward one side of the lucubrium.

Kasreyn was there.

In his own demesne, surrounded by his possessions and powers, he appeared unnaturally tall. His lean arms were folded like wrath over his chest; but he remained as still as Hergrom, as if he and the Haruchai were poised in an impasse. His golden ocular dangled from its ribbon around his neck. His son slept like a tumour on his back.

He was standing in front of a chair which bristled with bindings and apparatus.

Within the bindings sat Covenant.

He was looking at his companions; but his eyes were empty, as if he had no soul.

With her panting clenched between her teeth, Linden slipped past the Giants, hastened forward. For an instant, she glared at Kasreyn, let him see the rage naked in her face. Then she turned her back on him and approached Covenant.

Her hands shook as she tried to undo the bonds. They were too tight for her. When Brinn joined her, she left that task to him and instead concentrated on examining Covenant.

She found no damage. His flesh was unmarked. Behind the slackness of his mouth and the confusion of his beard, nothing had changed. She probed into his body, inspected his bones and organs with her percipience; but internally also he had suffered no harm.

His ring still hung like a fetter on the last finger of his half-hand.

Relief stunned her. For a moment, she became lightheaded with incomprehension, had to steady herself on Brinn's shoulder as he released the ur-Lord. Had Hergrom stopped Kasreyn in time? Or had the Kemper simply failed? Had the silence of the Elohim surpassed even his arts?

Had it in fact defended Covenant from hurt?

“As you see,” Kasreyn said, “he is uninjured.” A slight tremble of age and ire afflicted his voice. “Despite your thought of me, I have sought only his succour. Had this Haruchai not foiled me with his presence and needless bloodshed, your Thomas Covenant would have been restored to you whole and well. But no trustworthiness can withstand your suspicion. Your doubt fulfils itself, for it prevents me from accomplishing that which would teach you the honesty of my intent.”

Linden spun on him. Her relief recoiled into fury. “You bastard. If you're so goddamn trustworthy, why did you do all this?”

“Chosen.” Indignation shone through the rheum of his eyes. “Do any means exist by which I could have persuaded you to concede Thomas Covenant to me alone?”

With all the strength of his personality, he projected an image of offended virtue. But Linden was not daunted. The discrepancy between his stance and his hunger was palpable to her. She was angry enough to tell him what she saw, expose the range of her sight. But she had no time. Heavy feet rang on the iron stairs. Behind the reek of death in the air, she felt hustin surging upward. As Brinn drew Covenant from the stair, she turned to warn her companions. They did not need the warning. The Giants and Haruchai had already poised themselves in defensive positions around the room.

But the first individual who appeared from the stairwell was not one of the hustin. It was Rant Absolain.

The Lady Alif was at his back. She had taken the time to cover herself with a translucent robe.

Behind them came the Guards.

When she saw the fallen husta, the Lady Alif's face betrayed an instant of consternation. She had not expected this. Reading her, Linden guessed that the Favoured had roused the gaddhi in an effort to further frustrate Kasreyn's plans. But the dead Guard changed everything. Before the Lady mastered her expression, it gave away her realization that she had made a mistake.

With a sting of apprehension, Linden saw what the mistake was.

The gaddhi did not glance at Kasreyn. He did not notice his guests. His attention was locked to the dead Guard. He moved forward a step, two steps, stumbled to his knees in the dark blood. It splattered thickly, staining his linen. His hands fluttered at the husta'? face. Then he tried to turn the Guard over onto its back; but it was too heavy for him. His hands came away covered with blood. He stared at them, gazed blindly up at the crowd around him. His mouth trembled. “My Guard.” He sounded like a bereaved child. “Who has slain my Guard?”

For a moment, the lucubrium was intense with silence. Then Hergrom stepped forward. Linden felt peril thronging in the air. She tried to call him back. But she was too late. Hergrom acknowledged his responsibility to spare his companions from the gaddhi's wrath.

Hustin continued to arrive. The Giants and Haruchai held themselves ready; but they were weaponless and outnumbered.

Slowly, Rant Absolain's expression focused on Hergrom. He arose from his knees, dripping gouts of blood. For a moment, he stared at Hergrom as if he were appalled by the depth of the Haruchai's crime. Then he said, “Kemper.” His voice was a snarl of passion in the back of his throat. Grief and outrage gave him the stature he had lacked earlier. “Punish him.”

Kasreyn moved among the Guards and questers, went to stand near Rant Absolain. “O gaddhi, blame him not.” The Kemper's self-command made him sound telic rather than contrite. “The fault is mine. I have made many misjudgments.”

At that, the gaddhi broke like an over-stretched rope.

“I want him punished!” With both fists, he hammered at Kasreyn's chest, pounding smears of blood into the yellow robe. The Kemper recoiled a step; and Rant Absolain turned to hurl his passion at Hergrom. “That Guard is mine! Mine! Then he faced Kasreyn again. ”In all Bhrathairealm, I possess nothing! I am the gaddhi, and the gaddhi is only a servant!“ Rage and self-pity writhed in him. ”The Sandhold is not mine! The Riches are not mine! The Chatelaine attends me only at your whim!“ He stooped to the dead husta and scooped up handfuls of the congealing fluid, flung them at Kasreyn, at Hergrom. A gobbet trickled and fell from Kasreyn's chin, but he ignored it. ”Even my Favoured come to me from you! After you have used them!“ Rant Absolain's fists jerked blows through the air. ”But the Guard is mine! They alone obey me without looking first to learn your will!“ With a shout, he concluded, ”I want him punished!"

Rigid as madness, he faced the Kemper. After a moment, Kasreyn said, “O gaddhi, your will is my will.” His tone was suffused with regret. As he stepped slowly, ruefully, toward Hergrom, the tension concealed within his robe conveyed a threat. “Hergrom-” Linden began. Then her throat locked on the warning. She did not know what the threat was.

Her companions braced themselves to leap to Hergrom's aid. But they, too, could not define the threat.

The Kemper stopped before Hergrom, studied him briefly. Then Kasreyn lifted his ocular to his left eye. Linden tried to relax. The Haruchai had already proven themselves impervious to the Kemper's geas. Hergrom's flat orbs showed no fear.

Gazing through his eyepiece, Kasreyn reached out with careful unmenace and touched his index finger to the centre of Hergrom's forehead.

Hergrom's only reaction was a slight widening of his eyes.

The Kemper dropped both hands, sagged as if in weariness or sorrow. Without a word, he turned away. The Guards parted for him as he went to the chair where Covenant had been bound. There he seated himself, though he could not lean back because of the child he carried. With his fingers, he hid his face as if he were mourning.

But to Linden the emotion he concealed felt like glee.

She was unsure of her perception. The Kemper was adept at disguising the truth about himself. But Rant Absolain's reaction was unmistakable. He was grinning in fierce triumph.

His mouth moved as if he wanted to say something that would crush the company, demonstrate his own superiority; but no words came to him. Yet his passion for the Guards sustained him. He might indeed have been a monarch as he moved away. Commanding the hustin to follow him, he took the Lady Alif by the hand and left the lucubrium.

As she started downward, the Lady cast one swift look like a pang of regret toward Linden. Then she was gone, and the Guards were thumping down the iron stairs behind her. Two of them bore their dead fellow away.

None of the questers shifted while the hustin filed from the chamber. Vain's bland ambiguous smile was a reverse image of Findail's alert pain. The First stood with her arms folded over her chest, glaring like a hawk. Honninscrave and Seadreamer remained poised nearby. Brinn had placed Covenant at Linden's side, where the four Haruchai formed a cordon around the people they had sworn to protect.

Linden held herself rigid, pretending severity. But her sense of peril did not abate.

The Guards were leaving. Hergrom had suffered no discernible harm. In a moment, Kasreyn would be alone with the questers. He would be in their hands. Surely he could not defend himself against so many of them. Then why did she feel that the survival of the company had become so precarious?

Brinn gazed at her intently. His hard eyes strove to convey a message without words. Intuitively, she understood him.

The last husta was on the stairs. The time had almost come. Her knees were trembling. She flexed them slightly, sought to balance herself on the balls of her feet.

The Kemper had not moved. From within the covert of his hands, he said in a tone of rue, or cleverly mimicked rue, “You may return to your rooms. Doubtless the gaddhi will later summon you. I must caution you to obey him. Yet I would you could credit that I regret all which has transpired here.”

The moment had come. Linden framed the words in her mind. Time and again, she had dreamed of slaying Gibbon-Raver. She had even berated Covenant for his restraint in Revelstone. She had said, Some infections have to be cut out. She had believed that. What was power for, if not to extirpate evil? Why else had she become who she was?

But now the decision was upon her-and she could not speak. Her heart leaped with fury at everything Kasreyn had done, and still she could not speak. She was a doctor, not a killer. She could not give Brinn the permission he wanted.

His mien wore an inflectionless contempt as he turned his back on her. Mutely, he referred his desires to the leadership of the First.

The Swordmain did not respond. If she were aware of her opportunity, she elected to ignore it. Without a word to the Kemper or her companions, she strode to the stairs.

Linden gave a dumb groan of relief or regret, she did not know which.

A faint frown creased Brinn's forehead. But he did not hesitate. When Honninscrave had followed the First, Brinn and Hergrom took Covenant downward. At once, Cail and Ceer steered Linden toward the stairs. Seadreamer placed himself like a bulwark behind the Haruchai. Leaving Vain and Findail to follow at their own pace, the company descended from Kemper's Pitch. Clenched in a silence like a fist, they returned to their quarters in the Second Circinate.

Along the way, they encountered no Guards. Even The Majesty was empty of hustin.

The First entered the larger chamber across the hall from the bedrooms. While Linden and the others joined the Swordmain, Ceer remained in the passage to ward the door.

Brinn carefully placed Covenant on one of the settees. Then he confronted the First and Linden together. His impassive voice conveyed a timbre of accusation to Linden's hearing.

“Why did we not slay the Kemper? There lay our path to safety.”

The First regarded him as if she were chewing her tongue for self-command. A hard moment passed between them before she replied, “The hustin number fourscore hundred. The Horse, fifteenscore. We cannot win our way with bloodshed.”

Linden felt like a cripple. Once again, she had been too paralyzed to act; contradictions rendered her useless. She could not even spare herself the burden of supporting Brinn.

“They don't mean anything. I don't know about the Horse. But the Guards haven't got any minds of their own. They're helpless without Kasreyn to tell them what to do.”

Honninscrave looked at her in surprise. “But the gaddhi said-”

“He's mistaken.” The cries she had been stifling tore at the edges of her voice. “Kasreyn keeps him like a pet.”

“Then is it also your word,” asked the First darkly, “that we should have slain this Kemper?”

Linden failed to meet the First's stare. She wanted to shout, Yes! And, No. Did she not have enough blood on her hands?

“We are Giants,” the Swordmain said to Linden's muteness. “We do not murder.” Then she turned her back on the matter.

But she was a trained fighter. The rictus of her shoulders said as clearly as an expostulation that the effort of restraint in the face of so much peril and mendacity was tearing her apart.

A blur filled Linden's sight. Every judgment found her wanting. Even Covenant's emptiness was an accusation for which she had no answer.

What had Kasreyn done to Hergrom?

The light and dark of the world were invisible within the Sandhold. But eventually servants came to the chamber, announcing sunrise with trays of food. Linden's thoughts were dulled by fatigue and strain; yet she roused herself to inspect the viands. She expected treachery in everything. However, a moment's examination showed her that the food was clean. Deliberately, she and her companions ate their fill, trying to prepare themselves for the unknown.

With worn and red-rimmed eyes, she studied Hergrom. From the brown skin of his face to the vital marrow of his bones, he showed no evidence of harm, no sign that he had ever been touched. But the unforgiving austerity of his visage prevented her from asking him any questions. The Haruchai did not trust her. In refusing to call for Kasreyn's death, she had rejected what might prove the only chance to save Hergrom.

Some time later, Rire Grist arrived. He was accompanied by another man, a soldier with an atrabilious mien whom the Caitiffin introduced as his aide. He greeted the questers as if he had heard nothing concerning the night's activities. Then he said easily, "My friends, the gaddhi chooses to pleasure himself this morning with a walk upon the Sandwall. He asks for your attendance. The sun shines with wondrous clarity, granting a view of the Great Desert which may interest you. Will you come?"

He appeared calm and confident. But Linden read in the tightness around his eyes that the peril had not been averted.

The bitterness of the First's thoughts was plain upon her countenance: Have we choice in the matter? But Linden had nothing to say. She had lost the power of decision. Her fears beat about her head like dark wings, making everything impossible. They're going to kill Hergrom!

Yet the company truly had no choice. They could not fight all the gaddhi's Guards and Horse. And if they did not mean to fight, they had no recourse but to continue acting out their role as Rant Absolain's guests. Linden's gaze wandered the blind stone of the floor, avoiding the eyes which searched her, until the First said to Rire Grist, “We are ready.” Then in stiff distress she followed her companions out of the room.

The Caitiffin led them down to the Sandhold's massive gates. In the forecourt of the First Circulate, perhaps as many as forty soldiers were training their mounts, prancing and curvetting the destriers around the immense, dim hall. The horses were all dark or black, and their shod hooves struck sparks into the shadows like the crepitation of a still-distant prescience. Rire Grist hailed the leader of the riders in a tone of familiar command. He was sure of himself among them. But he took the company on across the hall without pausing.

When they reached the band of open ground which girdled the donjon, the desert sun hit them a tangible blow of brightness and heat. Linden had to turn away to clear her sight. Blinking, she looked up at the dust-tinged sky between the ramparts, seeking some relief for her senses from the massy oppression of the Sandhold. But she found no relief. There were no birds. And the banquettes within the upper curve of the wall were marked at specific intervals with hustin.

Cail took her arm, drew her after her companions eastward into the shadow of the wall. Her eyes were grateful for the dimness; but it did not ease the way the arid air scraped at her lungs. The sand shifted under her feet at every step, leeching the strength from her legs. When the company passed the eastern gate of the Sandwall, she felt an impossible yearning to turn and run.

Talking politely about the design and construction of the wall, Rire Grist led the company around the First Circinate toward a wide stair built into the side of the Sandwall. He was telling the First and Honninscrave that there were two such stairs, one opposite the other beyond the Sandhold-and that there were also other ways to reach the wall from the donjon, through underground passages. His tone was bland; but his spirit was not.

A shiver like a touch of fever ran through Linden as he started up the stairs. Nevertheless she followed as if she had surrendered her independent volition to the exigency which impelled the First.

The stairs were broad enough for eight or ten people at once. But they were steep, and the effort of climbing them in that heat drew a flush across Linden's face, stuck her shirt to her back with sweat. By the time she reached the top, she was breathing as if the dry air were full of needles.

Within its parapets, the ridge of the Sandwall was as wide as a road and smooth enough for horses or wains to travel easily. From this vantage, Linden was level with the rim of the First Circinate and could see each immense circle of the Sandhold rising dramatically to culminate in the dire shaft of Kemper's Pitch.

On the other side of the wall lay the Great Desert.

As Rire Grist had said, the atmosphere was clear and sharp to the horizons. Linden felt that her gaze spanned a score of leagues to the east and south. In the south, a few virga cast purple shadows across the middle distance; but they did not affect the etched acuity of the sunlight.

Under that light, the desert was a wilderness of sand-as white as salt and bleached bones, and drier than all the world's thirst. It caught the sun, sent it back diffused and multiplied. The sands were like a sea immobilized by the lack of any tide heavy enough to move it. Dunes serried and challenged each other toward the sky as if at one time the ground itself had been lashed to life by the fury of a cataclysm. But that orogeny had been so long ago that only the skeleton of the terrain and the shape of the dunes remembered it. No other life remained to the Great Desert now except the life of wind-intense desiccating blasts out of the deep south which could lift the sand like spume and recarve the face of the land at whim. And this day there was no wind. The air felt like a reflection of the sand, and everything Linden saw in all directions was dead.

But to the southwest there was wind. As the company walked along the top of the Sandwall, she became aware that in the distance, beyond the virga and the discernible dunes, violence was brewing. No, not brewing: it had already attained full rage. A prodigious storm galed around itself against the horizon as if it had a cyclone for a heart. Its clouds were as black as thunder, and at intervals it sent out lurid glarings like shrieks.

Until the Giants stopped to look at the storm, she did not realize what it was.

Sandgorgons Doom.

Abruptly, she was touched by a tremor of augury, as if even at this range the storm had the power to reach out and rend—

The gaddhi and his women stood on the southwest curve of the Sandwall, where they had a crystal view of the Doom. Nearly a score of hustin guarded the vicinity.

They were directly under the purview of Kemper's Pitch.

Rant Absolain hailed the questers as they approached. A secret excitement sharpened his welcome. He spoke the common tongue with a heartiness that rang false. On behalf of the company, Rire Grist gave appropriate replies. Before he could make obeisance, the gaddhi summoned him closer, drawing the company among the Guards. Quickly, Linden scanned the gathering and discovered that Kasreyn was not present.

Free of his Kemper, Rant Absolain was determined to play the part of a warm host. “Welcome, welcome,” he said fulsomely. He wore a long ecru robe designed to make him appear stately. His Favoured stood near him, attired like the priestesses of a love-god. Other young women were there also; but they had not been granted the honour of sharing the gaddhi's style of dress. They were decked out in raiment exquisitely inappropriate to the sun and the heat. But the gaddhi paid no attention to their obvious beauty; he concentrated °n his guests. In one hand, he held an ebony chain from which dangled a large medallion shaped to represent a black sun. He used it to emphasize the munificence of his gestures as he performed.

“Behold the Great Desert!” He faced the waste as if it were his to display. "Is it not a sight? Under such a sun the true tint is revealed-a hue stretching as far as the Bhrathair have ever journeyed, though the tale is told that in the far south the desert becomes a wonderland of every colour the eye may conceive.“ His arm flipped the medallion in arcs about him. ”No people but the Bhrathair have ever wrested bare life from such a grand and ungiving land. But we have done more.

“The Sandhold you have seen. Our wealth exceeds that of monarchs who rule lush demesnes. But now for the first time” — his voice tightened in expectation-“you behold Sandgorgons Doom. Not elsewhere in all the Earth is such theurgy manifested.” In spite of herself, Linden looked where the gaddhi directed her gaze. The hot sand made the bones of her forehead ache as if the danger were just beginning; but that distant violence held her. “And no other people have so triumphed over such fell foes.” Her companions seemed transfixed by the roiling thunder. Even the Haruchai stared at it as if they sought to estimate themselves against it.

“The Sandgorgons.” Rant Absolain's excitement mounted. “You do not know them-but I tell you this. Granted time and freedom, one such creature might tear the Sandhold stone from stone. One! They are more fearsome than madness or nightmare. Yet there they are bound. Their lives they spend railing against the gyre of their Doom, while we thrive. Only at rare events does one of them gain release-and then but briefly.” The tension in his voice grew keener, whetted by every word. Linden wanted to turn away from the Doom, drag her companions back from the parapet. But she had no name for what dismayed her.

“For centuries, the Bhrathair lived only because the Sandgorgons did not slay them all. But now I am the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm and all the Great Desert, and they are mine!”

He ended his speech with a gesture of florid pride; and suddenly the ebony chain slipped from his fingers.

Sailing black across the sunlight and the pale sand, the chain and medallion arced over the parapet and fell near the base of the Sandwall. Sand puffed at the impact, settled again. The dark sun of the medallion lay like a stain on the clean earth.

The gaddhi's women gasped, surged to the edge to look downward. The Giants peered over the parapet.

Rant Absolain did not move. He hugged his arms around his chest to contain a secret emotion.

Reacting like a good courtier, Rire Grist said quickly, “Fear nothing, O gaddhi. It will shortly be restored to you. I will send my aide to retrieve it.”

The soldier with him started back toward the stairs, clearly intending to reach one of the outer gates and return along the base of the Sandwall to pick up the medallion.

But the gaddhi did not look at the Caitiffin. “I want it now,” he snapped with petulant authority. “Fetch rope.”

At once, two Guards left the top of the wall, descended to the banquette, then entered the wall through the nearest opening.

Tautly, Linden searched for some clue to the peril. It thickened in the air at every moment. But the gaddhi's attitude was not explicit enough to betray his intent. Rire Grist's careful poise showed that he was playing his part in a charade-but she had already been convinced of that. Of the women, only the two Favoured exposed any knowledge of the secret. The Lady Benj's mien was hard with concealment. And the Lady Alif flicked covert glances of warning toward the company.

Then the hustin returned, bearing a heavy coil of rope. Without delay, they lashed one end to the parapet and threw the other snaking down the outer face of the Sandwall. It was just long enough to reach the sand.

For a moment, no one moved. The gaddhi was still. Honninscrave and Seadreamer were balanced beside the First, Vain appeared characteristically immune to the danger crouching on the wall; but Findail's eyes shifted as if he saw too much. The Haruchai had taken the best defensive positions available among the Guards.

For no apparent reason, Covenant said, “Don't touch me.”

Abruptly, Rant Absolain swung toward the company. Heat intensified his gaze.

“You.” His voice stretched and cracked under the strain. His right arm jerked outward, stabbing his rigid index finger straight at Hergrom. “I require my emblem.”

The gathering clenched. Some of the women bit their lips. The Lady Alif's hands opened, closed, opened again. Hergrom's face betrayed no reaction; but the eyes of all the Haruchai scanned the group, watching everything.

Linden struggled to speak. The pressure knotted her chest, but she winced out, “Hergrom, you don't have to do that.”

The First's fingers were claws at her sides. “The Haruchai are our comrades. We will not permit it.”

The gaddhi snapped something in the brackish tongue of the Bhrathair, Instantly, the hustin brought their spears to bear. In such close quarters, even the swiftness of the

Haruchai could not have protected their comrades from injury or death.

“It is my right!” Rant Absolain spat up at the First. “I am the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm! The punishment of offense is my duty and my right!”

“No!” Linden sensed razor-sharp iron less than a foot from the centre of her back. But in her fear for Hergrom she ignored it, “It was Kasreyn's fault. Hergrom was just trying to save Covenant's life.” She aimed her urgency at the Haruchai. “You don't have to do this.”

The dispassion of Hergrom's visage was complete. His detachment as he measured the Guards defined the company's peril more eloquently than any outcry. For a moment, he and Brinn shared a look. Then he turned to Linden.

“Chosen, we desire to meet this punishment, that we may see it ended.” His tone expressed nothing except an entire belief in his own competence-the same self-trust which had led the Bloodguard to defy death and time in the service of the Lords.

The sight clogged Linden's throat. Before she could swallow her dismay, her culpability, try to argue with him, Hergrom leaped up onto the parapet. Three strides took him to the rope.

Without a word to his companions, he gripped the line and dropped over the edge.

The First's eyes glazed at the extremity of her restraint. But three spears were levelled at her; and Honninscrave and Seadreamer were similarly caught.

Brinn nodded fractionally. Too swiftly for the reflexes of the Guards, Ceer slipped through the crowd, sprang to the parapet. In an instant, he had followed Hergrom down the rope.

Rant Absolain barked a curse and hastened forward to watch the Haruchai descend. For a moment, his fists beat anger against the stone. But then he recollected himself, and his indignation faded.

The spears did not let Linden or her companions move.

The gaddhi issued another command. It drew a flare of fury from the Swordmain's eyes, drove Honninscrave and Seadreamer to the fringes of their self-control.

In response, a Guard unmoored the rope. It fell heavily onto the shoulders of Hergrom and Ceer.

Rant Absolain threw a fierce grin at the company, then turned his attention back to the Haruchai on the ground.

“Now, slayer!” he cried in a shrill shout. “I require you to speak!”

Linden did not know what he meant. But her nerves yammered at the cruelty he emanated. With a wrench, she ducked under the spear at her back, surged toward the parapet. As her head passed the edge, her vision reeled into focus on Hergrom and Ceer. They stood in the sand with the rope sprawled around them. The gaddhi's medallion lay between their feet. They were looking upward.

“Run!” she cried. “The gates! Get to the gates!”

She heard a muffled blow behind her. A spearpoint pricked the back of her neck, pinning her against the stone.

Covenant was repeating his litany as if he could not get anyone to listen to him.

“Speak, slayer!” the gaddhi insisted, as avid as lust.

Hergrom's impassivity did not flicker. “No.”

“You refuse? Defy me? Crime upon crime! I am the gaddhi of Brathairealm! Refusal is treachery!”

Hergrom gazed his disdain upward and said nothing.

But the gaddhi was prepared for this also. He barked another brackish command. Several of his women shrieked.

Forcing her head to the side, Linden saw a Guard dangling a woman over the edge of the parapet by one ankle.

The Lady Alif, who had tried to help the company earlier.

She squirmed in the air, battering her fear against the Sandwall. But Rant Absolain took no notice of her. Her robe fell about her head, muffling her face and cries. Her silver anklets glinted incongruously in the white sunshine.

“If you do not speak the name,” the gaddhi yelled down at Hergrom, “this Lady will fall to her death! And then if you do not speak the name”-he lashed a glance at Linden-“she whom you title the Chosen will be slain! I repay blood with blood!”

Linden prayed that Hergrom would refuse. He gazed up at her, at Rant Absolain and the Lady, and his face revealed nothing. But then Ceer nodded to him. He turned away. Placing his back to the Sandwall as if he had known all along what would happen, he faced the Great Desert and Sandgorgons Doom, straightened his shoulders in readiness.

Linden wanted to rage, No! But suddenly her strength was gone. Hergrom understood his plight. And still chose to accept it. There was nothing she could do.

Deliberately, he stepped on the gaddhi's emblem, crushing it with his foot. Then across the clenched hush of the crowd and the wide silence of the desert, he articulated one word:

“Nom.”

The gaddhi let out a cry of triumph.

The next moment, the spear was withdrawn from Linden's neck. All the spears were withdrawn. The husta lifted the Lady Alif back to the safety of the Sandwall, set her on her feet. At once, she fled the gathering. Smiling a secretive victory, the Lady Benj watched her go.

Turning from the parapet, Linden found that the Guards had stepped back from her companions.

All of them except Covenant, Vain, and Findail were glaring ire and protest at Kasreyn of the Gyre.

In her concentration on Hergrom, Linden had not felt or heard the Kemper arrive. But he stood now at the edge of the assembly and addressed the company.

“I desire you to observe that I have played no part in this chicane. I must serve my gaddhi as he commands.” His rheumy gaze ignored Rant Absolain. “But I do not participate in such acts.”

Linden nearly hurled herself at him. “What have you done!”

“I have done nothing,” he replied stiffly. “You are witness.” But then his shoulders sagged as if the infant on his back wearied him. “Yet in my way I have earned your blame. What now transpires would not without me.”

Stepping to the parapet, he sketched a gesture toward the distant blackness. He sounded old as he said, “The power of any art depends upon its flaw. Perfection cannot endure in an imperfect world. Thus when I bound the Sandgorgons to their Doom, I was compelled to place a flaw within my theurgy.” He regarded the storm as if he found it draining and lovely. He could not conceal that he admired what he had done.

“The flaw I chose,” he soughed, “is this, that any Sandgorgon will be released if its name is spoken. It will be free while it discovers the one who spoke its name. Then it must slay the speaker and return to its Doom.”

Slay? Linden could not think. Slay?

Slowly, Kasreyn faced the company again. "Therefore I must share blame. For it was I who wrought Sandgorgons

Doom. And it was I who placed the name your companion has spoken in his mind."

At that, giddy realizations wheeled through Linden. She saw the Kemper's mendacity mapped before her in white sunlight. She turned as if she were reeling, lurched back to the parapet. Run! she cried. Hergrom! But her voice made no sound.

Because she had chosen to let Kasreyn live. It was intolerable. With a gasp, she opened her throat. “The gates!” Her shout was frail and hoarse, parched into effectlessness by the desert. “Run! We'll help you fight!”

Hergrom and Ceer did not move.

“They will not,” the Kemper said, mimicking sadness. “They know their plight. They will not bring a Sandgorgon among you, nor among the innocents of the Sandhold. And,” he went on, trying to disguise his pride, “there is not time. The Sandgorgons answer their release swiftly. Distance has no meaning to such power. Behold!” His voice sharpened. “Though the Doom lies more than a score of leagues hence, already the answer draws nigh.”

On the other side of the company, the gaddhi began to giggle.

And out from under the virga came a plume of sand among the dunes, arrowing toward the Sandhold. It varied as the terrain varied, raising a long serpentine cloud; but its direction was unmistakable. It was aimed at the spot where Ceer and Hergrom stood against the Sandwall.

Even from that distance, Linden felt the radiations of raw and hostile power.

She pressed her uselessness against the parapet. Her companions stood aching behind her; but she did not turn to look at them, could not. Rant Absolain studied the approaching Sandgorgon and trembled in an ague of eagerness. The sun leaned down on the Sandhold like a reproach.

Then the beast itself appeared. Bleached to an albino whiteness by ages of sun, it was difficult to see against the pale desert. But it ran forward with staggering speed and became clear.

It was larger than the Haruchai awaiting it, but it hardly had size enough to contain so much might. For an instant, Linden was struck by the strangeness of its gait. Its knees were back-bent like a bird's, and its feet were wide pads, giving it the ability to traverse sand with immense celerity and force. Then the Sandgorgon was almost upon Hergrom and Ceer; and she perceived other details.

It had arms, but no hands. Its forearms ended in flat flexible stumps like prehensile battering rams-arms formed to contend with sand, to break stone.

And it had no face. Its head was featureless except for the faint ridges of its skull beneath its hide and two covered slits like gills on either side.

It appeared as violent and absolute as a force of nature. Watching it, Linden was no longer conscious of breathing, Her heart might have stopped. Even Covenant with all his wild magic could not have equalled this feral beast.

Together, Hergrom and Ceer stepped out from the Sandwall, then separated so that the Sandgorgon could not attack them both at once.

The creature shifted its impetus slightly. In a flash of white hide and fury, it charged straight at Hergrom.

At the last instant, he spun out of its way. Unable to stop, the Sandgorgon crashed headlong into the wall.

Linden felt the impact as if the entire Sandhold had shifted. Cracks leaped through the stone; chunks recoiled outward and thudded to the ground.

Simultaneously, Ceer and Hergrom sprang for the creature's back. Striking with all their skill and strength, they hammered at its neck.

It took the blows as if they were handfuls of sand. Spinning sharply, it slashed at them with its arms.

Ceer ducked, evaded the strike. But one arm caught Hergrom across the chest, flung him away like a doll.

None of them made a sound. Only their blows, their movements on the sand, articulated the combat.

Surging forward, Ceer butted the beast's chin with such force that the Sandgorgon rebounded a step. Immediately, he followed, raining blows. But they had no effect. The beast caught its balance. Its back-bent knees flexed, preparing to spring.

Ceer met that thrust with a perfectly timed hit at the creature's throat.

Again the Sandgorgon staggered. But this time one of its arms came down on the Haruchai's shoulder. Dumbly, Linden's senses registered the breaking of bones. Ceer nearly fell.

Too swiftly for any defence, the Sandgorgon raised one footpad and stamped at Ceer's leg.

He sprawled helplessly, with splinters protruding from the wreckage of his thigh and knee. Blood spattered the sand around him.

Seadreamer was at the edge of the parapet, straining to leap downward as if he believed he would survive the fall. Honninscrave and the First fought to restrain him.

The gaddhi's giggling bubbled like the glee of a demon.

Cail's fingers gripped Linden's arm as if he were holding her responsible.

As Ceer fell, Hergrom returned to the combat. Running as hard as he could over the yielding surface, he leaped into the air, launched a flying kick at the Sandgorgon's head.

The beast retreated a step to absorb the blow, then turned, tried to sweep Hergrom into its embrace. He dodged. Wheeling behind the Sandgorgon, he sprang onto its back. Instantly, he clasped his legs to its torso, locked his arms around its neck and squeezed. Straining every muscle, he clamped his forearm into the beast's throat, fought to throttle the creature.

It flailed its arms, unable to reach him.

Rant Absolain stopped giggling. Disbelief radiated from him like a cry.

Linden forced herself against the corner of the parapet, clung to that pain. A soundless shout of encouragement stretched her mouth.

But behind the beast's ferocity lay a wild cunning. Suddenly, it stopped trying to strike at Hergrom. Its knees bent as if it were crouching to the ground.

Savagely, it hurled itself backward at the Sandwall.

There was nothing Hergrom could do. He was caught between the Sandgorgon and the hard stone. Tremors like hints of earthquake shuddered through the wall.

The beast stepped out of Hergrom's grasp, and he slumped to the ground. His chest had been crushed. For a moment, he continued to breathe in a wheeze of blood and pain, torturing his ruptured lungs, his pierced heart. As white and featureless as fate, the Sandgorgon regarded him as if wondering where to place the next blow.

Then a spasm brought dark red fluid gushing from his mouth. Linden saw the thews of his life snap. He lay still.

The Sandgorgon briefly confronted the wall as if wishing for the freedom to attack it. But the beast's release had ended.

Turning away, it moved at a coerced run back toward its Doom. Shortly, it disappeared into the sand-trail it raised behind it.

Linden's eyes bled tears. She felt that something inside her had perished. Her companions were stunned into silence; but she did not look at them. Her heart limped to the rhythm of Hergrom's name, iterating that sound as though there must have been something she could have done.

When she blinked her sight clear, she saw that Rant Absolain had started to move away, taking his women and Guards with him. His chortling faded into the sunlight and the dry white heat.

Kasreyn was nowhere on the Sandwall.

Seventeen: Charade's End

FOR a time that seemed as unanswerable as paralysis, Linden remained still. Kasreyn's absence-the fact that he had not stayed to watch the contest of the Sandgorgon-felt more terrible to her than the gaddhi's mirth. She knew that there were needs to be met, decisions to be made; but she was unable to recognize them. Hergrom's name ran along her pulse, numbing her to everything else.

She nearly cried out when Covenant said like an augur, “Don't touch me.”

Cail had released her; but the marks his fingers had left on her upper arm throbbed, echoing her heartbeat. He had dug his sternness into her flesh, engraved it on her bones.

Then the First moved. She confronted Rire Grist. The suffusion of her gaze made her appear purblind. She spoke in a raw whisper, as if she could not contain her passion in any other way.

“Bring us rope.”

The Caitiffin's face wore a look of nausea. He appeared to feel a genuine dismay at Hergrom's fate. Perhaps he had never seen a Sandgorgon at work before. Or perhaps he understood that he might someday displease his masters and have a name of terror placed in his mind as punishment. There was sweat on his brows, and in his voice, as he muttered a command to one of the hustin.

The Guard obeyed slowly. He snapped at it like a sudden cry, and it hastened away. In a short time, it came back carrying a second coil of heavy rope.

At once, Honninscrave and Seadreamer took the line. With the practiced celerity of sailors, they secured it to the parapet, cast it outward. Though it seemed small in their hands, it was strong enough to support a Giant. First the Master, then Seadreamer slid down to the bloodied sand and to Ceer.

Cail's touch impelled Linden forward. Numbly, she moved to the rope. She had no idea what she was doing. Wrapping her arms and legs around the line, she let her weight pull her after Honninscrave and Seadreamer.

When she reached the ground, her feet fumbled in the sand. Hergrom's body slumped against the wall, accusing her. She could hardly force her futile legs to carry her toward Ceer.

Cail followed her downward. Then came Brinn with Covenant slung over his shoulder. In a rush of iron grace, the First swarmed down the rope.

Vain gazed over the parapet as if he were considering the situation. Then he, too, descended the line. At the same time, Findail melted out of the base of the Sandwall and reformed himself among the questers.

Linden paid no heed to them. Stumbling to her knees at Ceer's side, she hunched over him and tried not to see the extremity of his pain.

He said nothing. His visage held no expression. But perspiration ran from his forehead like droplets of agony.

Perceptions seemed to fly at her face. Assailed by arid heat and vision, her eyes felt like ashes in their sockets. His shoulder was not too badly damaged. Only the clavicle was broken-a clean break. But his leg—

Jesus Christ.

Shards of bone mangled the flesh of his thigh and knee. He was losing blood copiously through the many wounds. She could not believe that he would ever walk again. Even if she had had access to a good hospital, x-rays, trained help, she might not have been able to save his leg. But those things belonged to the world she had lost-the only world she understood. She possessed nothing except the vulnerability which made her feel every fraction of his pain as if it were mapped explicitly in her own flesh.

Groaning inwardly, she closed her eyes, sparing herself the sight of his hurt, his valour. He appalled her-and needed her. He needed her. And she had nothing to offer him except her acute and outraged percipience. How could she deny him? She had denied Brinn, and this was the result. She felt that she was in danger of losing everything as she murmured into the clenched silence of her companions, “I need a tourniquet. And a splint.”

She heard a ripping noise. Brinn or Cail placed a long strip of cloth in her hands. At the same time, the First shouted up at Rire Grist, “We require a spear!”

Working by touch, Linden knotted the cloth around Ceer's thigh above the damage, She pulled the tough material as tight as she could. Then she shifted back to his shoulder because that injury was so much less heinous and called for Cail to help her.

Her hands guided his to the points of pressure and stress she required. While she monitored Ceer's collarbone with her fingers, Cail moved and thrust according to her instructions. Together, they manipulated the clavicle into a position where it could heal safely.

She felt the Giants watching her intently, grimly. But she lacked the courage to open her eyes. She had to lock her jaw to keep from weeping in shared pain. Her nerves were being flayed by Ceer's hurt. Yet his need consumed every other consideration. With Cail and then Brinn beside her, she confronted his thigh again.

As her hands explored the wreckage, she feared that the mute screams in his leg would become her screams, reaving her of all resolve. She squeezed her eyelids shut until the pressure made her head throb. But she was professionally familiar with shattered bones. The ruin of Ceer's knee was explicable to her. She knew what needed to be done.

“I'm going to hurt you.” She could not silence the ache of her empathy. “Forgive me.”

Guided by her percipience, she told Brinn and Cail what to do, then helped them do it.

Brinn anchored Ceer's upper leg. Cail grasped Ceer's ankle.

At Linden's word, Cail pulled, opening the knee. Then he twisted it to realign the splinters of bone.

Ceer's breathing gasped through his teeth. Hard pieces of bone ground against each other. Sharp fragments tore new wounds around the joint. Linden felt everything in her own vitals and wanted to shriek. But she did not. She guided Cail's manipulations, pressed recalcitrant splinters back into place, staunched the oozing of blood. Her senses explored the ravaged territory of the wound, gauging what needed to be done next.

Then she had done everything she could. Chips of bone still blocked the joint, and the menisci had been badly torn; but she could not reach those things-or the torn blood vessels, the mutilated nerves-without surgery. Given Ceer's native toughness and a sharp knife, surgery was theoretically possible. But it could not be done here, on the unclean sand. She let Cail release Ceer's ankle and demanded a splint.

One of the Giants placed two smooth shafts of wood into her hands. Involuntarily, she looked at them and saw that they were sections of a spear. And Seadreamer had already unbraided a long piece of rope, thereby obtaining strands with which to bind the wood.

For a moment longer, Linden held herself together. With Cail's help, she applied the splint. Then she removed the tourniquet.

But after that her visceral distress became too strong for suppression. Stiffly, she crawled away from Ceer's pain. Sitting with her back against the Sandwall, she clasped her arms around her knees, hid her face, and tried to rock herself back under control. Her exacerbated nerves wailed at her like lost children; and she did not know how to bear it.

Mistweave's plight had not hurt her like this. But she had not been to blame for it, though the fault for Covenant's condition had been hers then as it was now. And then she had not been so committed to what she was doing, to the quest and her own role in it-to the precise abandonment and exposure which Gibbon-Raver had told her would destroy both her and the world.

Ceer's pain showed her just how much of herself she had lost.

Yet as she bled for him she realised that she did not wish that loss undone. She was still a doctor, still dedicated to the one thing which had preserved her from the inbred darkness of her heritage. And now at least she was not fleeing, not denying. The pain was only pain, after all; and it slowly ebbed from her joints. Better this than paralysis. Or the unresolved hunger that was worse than paralysis.

So when the First knelt before her, placed gentle hands on her shoulders, she met the Giant's gaze. One of the First's hands accidentally brushed the bruises which Cail had left on her arm. Shuddering, she opened herself to the First's concern.

For a moment, her fearsome vulnerability and the First's arduous restraint acknowledged each other. Then the Swordmain stood, drawing Linden to her feet. Gruffly, like a refusal of tears, the First said to the company, “We must go.”

Brinn and Cail nodded. They looked at Seadreamer; and he answered by stooping to Ceer, lifting the injured Haruchai carefully in his arms.

They were all ready to begin the walk to the gate.

Linden stared at them. Thickly, she asked, “What about Hergrom?”

Brinn gazed at her as if he did not understand her question.

“We can't just leave him here.” Hergrom had spent his life to save the company. His body slumped against the wall like a sacrifice to the Great Desert. His blood formed a dark stain around him.

Brinn's flat eyes did not waver. “He failed.”

The force of his absolute gaze stung her. His judgment was too severe; it was inhuman. Because she did not know any other way to repudiate it, she strode over the sand to strike at Brinn's detached countenance with all the weight of her arm.

He caught the blow deftly, gripped her wrist for a moment with the same stone strength which had ground Cail's fingers into her flesh. Then he thrust down her hand, released her. Taking Covenant by the arm, he turned away from her.

Abruptly, Honninscrave bent to pick up the ornament which Rant Absolain had dropped. The black sun of the medallion had been broken in half by Hergrom's foot. Honninscrave's eyes were rimmed with rue and anger as he handed the pieces to the First.

She took them and crumbled them in one fist. The chain she snapped in two places. Then she hurled all the fragments out into the Great Desert, turned and started eastward around the curve of the Sandwall.

Seadreamer and Honninscrave followed her. Brinn and Covenant followed them.

After a moment, Linden, too, thrust herself into motion. Her wrist and upper arm ached. She was beginning to make new promises to herself.

With Cail behind her, and Vain and Findail behind Cail, she joined her companions, leaving Hergrom bereft of the dignity of care or burial by the simple fact that he had proven himself mortal.

The outer face of the wall was long; and the sun beat down as if it rode the immobile tide of the dunes to pound against the company. The sand made every stride strenuous. But Linden had recoiled from Ceer's pain into decision. Hergrom was dead. Ceer needed her. She would have to perform a miracle of surgery to preserve the use of his leg. And Covenant moved a few paces ahead of her, muttering his ritual at blind intervals as if the only thing he could remember was leprosy. She had endured enough.

At last, the Sandwall stopped curving. It became straight as its outer arm reached to join the wall which girdled Bhrathairain and the Harbour. In the middle of that section stood the gate the company sought. It admitted them to the open courtyard, where one of Bhrathairealm's fountains glistened in the sunlight.

There the questers halted. To the right stood the gate which opened on the town; to the left, the entrance toward the Sandhold. The way back to Starfare's Gem seemed unguarded. But Rire Grist and his aide were waiting at the inner gate.

Here, again, there were birds-here, and everywhere around Bhrathairain, but not in the proximity of the Sandhold. Perhaps the donjon had never fed them. Or perhaps they shied from the Kemper's arts.

Unexpectedly, the Appointed spoke. His yellow eyes were hooded, concealing his desires. “Will you not now return to your dromond! This place contains naught but peril for you.”

Linden and the Giants stared at him. His words appeared to strike a chord in the First. She turned to Linden, asking Findail's question mutely.

“Do you think they'll let us leave?” Linden rasped. She trusted the Elohim as much as she did Kasreyn. “Did you see the Guards inside the wall when we came in? Grist is probably just waiting to give the order.” The First's eyes narrowed m acknowledgment; but still her desire to do something, anything, which might relieve her sense of helplessness was plain.

Linden gripped herself more tightly. “There's a lot I need to do for Ceer's leg. If I don't get the bone chips out of that joint, it'll never move again. But that can wait a while. Right now I need hot water and bandages. He's still bleeding. And this heat makes infection spread fast.” Her vision was precise and certain. She saw mortification already gnawing the edges of Ceer's wounds. “That can't wait. If I don't help him soon, he'll lose the whole leg.” The Haruchai watched her as if they were fundamentally uncertain of her. But she clung to the promises she had made, forced herself to ignore their doubt. “If we go on pretending we're the gaddhi’s guests, Grist can't very well refuse to give us what we need.”

For a moment, the company was silent. Linden heard nothing except the cool plashing of the fountain. Then Brinn said flatly, “The Elohim speaks truly.”

At that, the First stiffened. “Aye,” she growled, “the Elohim speaks truly. And Hergrom expended his life for us, though you deem it failure. I am prepared to hazard somewhat in the name of Ceer's hurt.” Without waiting for a response, she swung toward the Caitiffin, calling as she moved, “Ho, Rire Grist! Our companion is sorely injured. We must have medicaments.”

“Instantly,” he replied. He could not conceal the relief in his tone. He spoke rapidly to his aide, sent the man running toward the Sandhold. Then he said to the First, “All you require will await you in your chambers.”

Honninscrave and Seadreamer followed the First; and Linden went with them, giving Brinn and Cail no choice but to do the same. Vain and Findail brought up the rear.

The two Guards stepped aside. Either they were now able to identify the gaddhi's guests, or they had been given new orders. Together, the company passed through the Sandwall, hastened as best they could over the sand toward the entrance to the Sandhold. Linden clinched herself against the moment when she might break and forced herself to match the First's pace.

Within the high forecourt of the First Circinate, the old gloom lurked, momentarily concealing everything beyond the direct light from the gates. Before her eyes adjusted, Linden received a confusing impression of Guards and people-and of another presence which surprised her.

For a fleeting moment, she was aware of the people. They were servants, but not the comely and graceful servitors who had waited on the Chatelaine the day before. Rather, they were the menials of the Sandhold, men and women who were too aged or unbecoming to please the eye of the gaddhi- or of the Kemper. And the wealth of Bhrathairealm clearly did not extend to them. Dressed in the tattered habiliments of their impoverishment, they were on their hands and knees, cleaning up after the horses which had been exercised here earlier. Linden wondered how many of them had once been courtiers or Favoured.

But then her senses cleared, and she forgot the servants as her heart bounded toward Pitchwife.

Several hustin stood around him, holding him where he was but not threatening him. Apparently, they had been instructed to make him wait here for his friends.

At the sight of the First and her companions, relief stretched his misshapen features. But Linden read the nature of his tidings in the hunching of his shoulders and the unwonted darkness of his gaze.

The sudden softening of the First's features revealed how keenly she had been yearning for her husband. Pitchwife started toward her as if he could not wait to embrace her.

His mien brought back the company's peril to Linden. Deliberately, she keyed her voice to a pitch and timbre which compelled the attention of the Giants. “Don't say anything. Kasreyn hears everything the Guards hear.”

Indirectly, she watched the Caitiffin. His face flushed as if he were suppressing apoplexy. In the privacy of her mind, she permitted herself a severe grin. She wanted the Kemper to know that she knew at least this much about him.

With one hand, Cail brushed her arm like a reminder of the marks he had left in her flesh. But she ignored him. She knew the risk she had taken.

Pitchwife's face clenched as he bit back his native volubility. The First tensed in recognition of Linden's ploy, shot a glance at Honninscrave. The Master dropped a shutter of blandness over his visage as he resumed his role as spokesman for the company; but the knotting of his jaw made his beard jut like belligerence. Smoothly, he introduced Pitchwife and Rire Grist to each other. Then he urged the Caitiffin to make haste for the sake of Ceer's leg.

Rire Grist appeared glad to comply, unintentionally eager for haste, as if he felt a personal need to finish this duty so that he would be free to consult with his master, ask for new instructions. Without delay, he led the company up out of the First Circinate, through the back ways of the Second to the guesting-rooms. Then he stood as if his kneecaps were quivering while he waited for the company to let him go.

In the sitting-room across from the bedchambers, the questers found Rire Grist's aide and an assortment of medical supplies: a large brass urn of boiling water; various dippers and cutting-implements; bolts of clean linen for bandages; an array of balms and unguents in small stoneware pots. While Linden inspected what he had brought, the aide asked her if she required the services of one of the Sandhold's chief surgeons. She refused-would have refused even if she had wanted such help. She and her companions needed a chance to talk freely, unheard by any spying ears.

When she nodded to the Giants, Honninscrave dismissed the Caitiffin and his aide. Linden took a grim satisfaction from the promptitude of their departure.

Cail placed himself on guard outside the door, which Brinn left open as a precaution against the kind of subterfuge the Lady Alif had practiced earlier. Seadreamer had laid Ceer gently down among a pile of cushions. While Linden bent to the task of Ceer's knee, Pitchwife and the First confronted each other.

“Stone and Sea!” he began. “I am gladdened by the sight of you-though it wrings my heart to discover you in such straits. What has become of Hergrom? How has such harm befallen Ceer? Surely this tale-”

The First interrupted him softly. The edges of her tone frayed as if she would have wept if she had been alone with him. “What word do you bring from Starfare's Gem?”

All the feigned politesse was gone from Honninscrave's face. His eyes lanced at Pitchwife. But Seadreamer had turned away from them. He knelt opposite Linden to assist her if he could. His old scar was vivid with apprehension.

Carefully, Linden bathed Ceer's mangled leg. Her hands were deft and certain. But another part of her mind was focused on Pitchwife and the First.

The malformed Giant winced. But he shouldered the burden of his tidings. His voice wheezed faintly in his cramped chest.

“An attempt has been made upon the Giantship.”

Honninscrave hissed a sharp breath. Seadreamer knotted his hands in a pillow; but it was too insubstantial to steady

him. With an effort, the First held herself as still as the Haruchai.

“After your departure”-his tale made Pitchwife awkward — “the Harbour Captain complied with Rire Grist's commands. Stores were opened to us-food, water, and stone in abundance. Ere sundown, our holds were replenished, and with my pitch I had wived the side of Starfare's Gem, restoring it to seaworthiness-though much labour awaits me to repair the other damages.” He had to struggle against his instinctive desire to describe his work in detail. But he coerced himself to relate the pith of his tidings, nothing more. "No harm or suggestion of harm was offered to us, and even the Harbour Captain swallowed some measure of his affronted pride.

“But it is well for us that Sevinhand Anchormaster holds caution in such esteem. At day's end, watches were set at all points, both within and upon the dromond. In my folly, I felt secure, for the moon rose nigh to fullness above Bhrathairain, and I conceived that no hurt could accost us unseen. But moonlight also cast a sheen upon the waters, concealing their depths. And while the moon crested above us, the watch which Sevinhand had set within Starfare's Gem heard unwonted sounds through the hull.”

Removing Ceer's splint, Linden finished cleaning his wounds. Then she turned her penetration to the medicaments Rire Grist's aide had provided. Clearly, the Bhrathair had a wide-ranging medical knowledge-the fruit of their violent history. She found cleansing salves, febrifuges, narcotic balms: drugs which promised effectiveness against a variety of battle hurts. They appeared to have been produced from the various sands and soils of the Great Desert itself. She chose an unguent for antisepsis and a balm for numbness, and began applying them to Ceer's leg.

But she did not miss a word of Pitchwife's tale.

“At once,” he said, “Sevinhand asked for divers. Galewrath and Mistweave replied. Quietly entering the waters, they swam to the place the watch indicated, and there with their hands they discovered a large object clinging among the barnacles. Together they wrested it from the hull, bearing it with them to the surface. But Sevinhand instantly commanded them to discard it. Therefore they cast it to the pier, where it became an exploding fire which wrought great damage-though not to Starfare's Gem.”

In grim irony, he continued, "To my mind, it is somewhat odd that no man or woman from all Bhrathairain came to consider the cause of that blast.“ Then he shrugged. ”Nonetheless, Sevinhand's caution was not appeased. At his word, Galewrath Storesmaster and others explored all the outward faces of the Giantship with their hands, seeking further perils. None were found.

“In the dawn,” he concluded, “I came in search of you. Without hindrance I was admitted to the First Circinate. But there I was given to understand”-he grimaced wryly-“that I must await you.” His eyes softened as he regarded the First. 'The wait was long to me."

Honninscrave could not contain himself. He stepped forward, required the First to look at him. “We must return to Starfare's Gem.” He was urgent for his ship. “We must flee this Harbour. It is intolerable that my dromond should fall prey to these Bhrathair- and I here helpless.”

The First replied darkly, “Yes.” But she retained her command over him. “Yet the Chosen is not done. Grimmand Honninscrave, relate to Pitchwife what has transpired among us here.”

For a moment, the Master's visage knotted as if her order were cruel. But it was not: it gave him a way to contain his apprehension. He scowled like a fist, and his beard bristled with ire; but he obeyed. In words like the pieces of the gaddhi's medallion, he told Pitchwife what had happened.

Linden listened to him as she had to Pitchwife and clasped her promises within her. While Seadreamer supported Ceer's leg, she spread medicaments over his thigh and knee. Then she cut the linen into strips for bandages. Her hands did not hesitate. When she had wrapped his leg from midthigh to calf in firm layers of cloth, she reset the splints.

After that, she had Seadreamer lift Ceer into a sitting position while she strapped his shoulder to stabilize it. The Haruchai's eyes were glazed with pain; but his mien remained as stolid as ever. When she was done with his shoulder, she lifted a flagon of diluted wine to his mouth and did not lower it until he had replaced a good measure of the fluid he had lost.

And all the time Honninscrave's words reached her ears starkly, adumbrating Hergrom's death until she seemed to relive it while she tended Ceer. The stubborn extravagance or gallantry of the Haruchai left her overtaut and certain. When the Master finished, she was ready.

Pitchwife was groping to take in everything he had heard. “This gaddhi” he murmured in fragments. “As you have described him. Is he capable of enacting such a chicane?”

Linden rose to her feet. Though his question had not been directed at her, she answered, “No.”

He looked at her, strove for comprehension. “Then-”

“It was Kasreyn from the beginning.” She bit out the words. “He controls everything, even when Rant Absolain doesn't realize it. He must have told the gaddhi exactly what to do. To get Hergrom killed. And he doesn't want us to know it,” she went on. “He wants us to be afraid of Rant Absolain instead of him. He failed with Covenant once. He's trying to get another chance. Maybe he thinks we'll ask him to save us from the gaddhi.”

“We must flee this place,” Honninscrave insisted.

Linden did not look at him. She faced the First. “I've got a better idea. Let's go to Rant Absolain. Ask his permission to leave.”

The First gauged Linden with her iron gaze. “Will he grant us that?”

Linden shrugged. “It's worth a try.” She was prepared for that eventuality as well.

With an inward leap, the First made her decision. Pitchwife's presence, and the prospect of action, seemed to restore her to herself. Striding out into the corridor, she shouted to the Guards that waited within earshot, “Summon the Caitiffin Rire Grist! We must speak with him!”

Linden could not relax the over-tension of her nerves. The bruises Cail had left on her upper arm throbbed like a demand.

When she met the First's gaze again, they understood each other.

The Caitiffin returned shortly. Behind the desert-tan of his face lay a suggestion of pallor, as if he had not had time to consult with his master-or perhaps had been refused a hearing. His manner had ragged edges, betraying glimpses of strain.

But the First had recovered her certainty, and she met him with steady composure. “Rire Grist,” she said as if he had nothing to fear from her, “we desire an audience with the gaddhi.”

At that, his cheeks blanched unmistakably. Words tumbled out of him. "My friends, let me dissuade you. Assuredly the loss of one comrade and the injury of another are sore to you-but you are unwise to hazard further offense to the gaddhi. He is sovereign here, and jealous. You must not task him for what he has done. Having obtained the punishment he sought, he is now perhaps inclined to be magnanimous. But if you dare his ill-favour, he will take umbrage swiftly, to your cost."

He began to repeat himself, then jerked to a halt. Clearly, Kasreyn had not prepared him for this dilemma. Sweat spread around his eyes as he forced himself to meet the First's scrutiny.

She was unruffled. “Caitiffin, we have taken decision among ourselves to respect the gaddhi's right of punishment.” Linden felt the lie under the fiat surface of the words, but she saw that Rire Grist did not. “We are grieved for our companions, but we will not presume to judge your sovereign.” The First permitted herself a subtle inflection of contempt, “Be assured that we will offer the gaddhi no offense. We desire merely to ask a frank boon of him-one easily within his grant and plainly honourable to him.”

For a moment, the Caitiffin's eyes shifted back and forth, searching for a way to inquire what that boon was. But then he grasped that she did not mean to tell him. As he wiped a discomfited hand across his forehead, he looked like a man for whom a lifetime of ambition had begun to crumble. Yet he remained tough enough to act. Striving to contain his uncertainty, he answered, “It is rare for the gaddhi to grant audience at such a time. But for his guests he may perhaps make exception. Will you accompany me?”

When the First nodded, he turned as if he wanted to flee and left the chamber.

Quickly, she looked at her companions. None of them hesitated. Seadreamer lifted Ceer from the cushions. Brinn took hold of Covenant's arm. Honninscrave moved forward tightly, holding his emotions in both fists.

Vain remained as blank as ever; and Findail seemed to be entranced by his own distress. But neither of them lingered behind the company.

Linden led them after Rire Grist.

She followed him closely, with Cail and then the others behind her. She wanted to ensure that the Caitiffin had as little opportunity as possible to prepare surprises. She could not prevent the brackish shout he directed at the first hustin he met, sending two of them at a run ahead of him; but she saw no cunning in the set of his back, heard no duplicity in the tone of his voice. When he informed her over his shoulder that he had told the Guards to bear the company's request to Rant Absolain, she was able to believe him. Whatever hopes he had left did not require him to betray the quest now.

He led the company directly upward through the Tier of Riches to The Majesty. As Linden ascended into the audience-hall, she found everything arranged as it had been during the company's initial presentation to the gaddhi: scores of Guards were stationed around the wall; and all the light was focused toward the high Auspice. Only the Chatelaine were missing. Their absence made her realize that she had not seen any of them since the previous day. She grew tighter. Were they simply staying out of harm's way? — or had they been commanded into seclusion so that they would not interfere with Kasreyn's machinations?

The Caitiffin spoke to one of the hustin and received an answer which relieved him. He faced the company with a smile. “The gaddhi elects to grant you audience.”

Linden and the First shared a moment of preparation. Then they followed Rire Grist across the circles of the floor toward the Auspice.

In the zone of light, they stopped beside him. The Auspice lifted its magnificence into the lumination as if it were more truly the suzerain of Bhrathairealm than Rant Absolain himself.

The gaddhi was not there.

But after only a moment's delay he emerged from the shadows behind his seat. He was alone, unaccompanied by either his women or the Kemper. And he was nervous. Linden sensed the trembling of his knees as he ascended the throne.

Rire Grist dropped to one knee. Linden and the Giants mimicked his obeisance. Her tension made her want to shout at Brinn and Cail, at Vain and Findail, to do the same; but she kept herself still. As Rant Absolain climbed through the brightness to take his seat, she studied him. He had put off his formal robe and now wore a light tunic which appeared to be a form, of bed-attire. But underneath his raiment, his inner state was clouded. It was clear that he had been drinking heavily. The wine obscured his emanations.

When he took his seat, she and the First arose without waiting for his permission. The other Giants and Rire Grist also stood. Seadreamer held Ceer into the light like an accusation.

Rant Absolain peered out at the company, but did not speak. His tongue worked the inside of his mouth as if he were dry with thirst. A patina of wine blurred his vision, made him squint until aches squeezed his temples.

The First gave him a moment of silence like an act of forbearance toward his weakness. Then she took a step forward, bowed formally, and began to speak,

“O gaddhi, you honour us with this hearing. We are your guests and desire to ask a boon of you.” The edge of her voice was masked in velvet. "Word has come to us that our vessel is now replenished and repaired, according to your grace. O gaddhi, the quest which drives us across the seas is urgent and consuming. We ask your grant to depart, that we may pursue our purpose, bearing the honour of your name with us as we go."

She spoke in a reassuring tone; but her words brought down consternation on Rant Absolain. He shrank against the Auspice. His hands gripped the arms of the seat for an answer it did not provide. While he wrestled for a response, his lips mumbled, No. No.

Linden felt a touch of pity for him; but it was not enough to ease the pressure which stretched her to her resolve.

At last, he rasped against the desert in his throat, “Depart?” His voice cracked helplessly. “I cannot permit it. You have suffered in Bhrathairealm.” Somehow, he found the strength to insist defensively, “Through no fault of mine. Blood was shed. I am required to exact justice.” But then he became timorous again, painfully aware of his isolation. “But you must not bear such tidings of me to the world. You are guests, and the gaddhi is not harsh to his guests. I will make restitution.” His eyes winced as his brain scrambled in search of inspiration. “Do you desire a sword? Take what you wish in the name of my goodwill and be content. You may not depart.” His gaze beseeched the First not to press him further.

But she did not relent. Her voice hardened. “O gaddhi, I have heard it spoken that the hustin are yours, answering to your will absolutely.”

She surprised him; but he did not perceive the nature of her attack. The thought of the hustin restored to him a measure of confidence. “That is true. The Guard is mine.”

“It is untrue.” The First slipped her intent like a dirk through his defences. “If you command them to permit our departure, they will refuse.”

The gaddhi sprang to his feet. “You lie!”

She overrode his protest. “Kasreyn of the Gyre commands them. He made them, and they are his.” Sharply, she drove the deepest wedge she could find between Rant Absolain and the Kemper. “They answer you only at his whim.”

“Lies!” he shouted at her. “Lies!” Magenta anger or fear suffused his visage. “They are mine!”

At once, Linden responded, “Then try it! Tell them to let us go. Give us permission to leave. You're the gaddhi. What have you got to lose?”

At her demand, all the colour drained from his face, leaving him as pallid as panic in the focus of the light. His mouth gaped, but no words came. His mind appeared to flee inward, reaving him of self-consciousness or choice. Dumbly, he turned, descended from the Auspice, came down to the level of the company. He trembled as he moved-as frail as if the moments were years and all the stone of the Sandhold had turned against him. Staring vaguely before him, he shuffled toward Linden, brought his fear to her. He swallowed several times; his gaze slowly clarified. In a hoarse whisper like an internal wound, he said, “I dare not.”

She had no reply. He was telling the truth-the whole truth of his life.

For a moment longer, he faced her, appealing to her with his dread. Then he turned away as if he understood that she had refused him. Stumbling over the gaps in the floor, he made his vulnerable way into the shadow of the Auspice and was gone.

The First looked at Linden.

“That does it.” Linden felt that she was near her breaking-point. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

With a deft movement, the First unbound her helm from her belt, settled it upon her head. Her shield she unslung from her back. Lashing her left forearm into the straps of the shield, she strode toward the stairs.

Rire Grist started after her, spouting expostulations. But Honninscrave caught hold of him. A precise blow stretched the Caitiffin senseless on the floor.

None of the Guards reacted. They gripped their spears at rest and stood where they were, waiting for some voice they recognized to tell them what to do.

Linden hurried after the First; but she did not let herself run. The time for running had not yet come. Her senses were alert and sharp, etching out perceptions. Her companions were behind her in formation, poised for violence. But here nothing threatened them. Below them, the Tier of Riches remained empty. Beyond that her percipience did not reach.

In silence marked only by the sounds of their feet, the questers spiralled down to the Tier. There the First did not hesitate. With a warrior's stride, she passed among the galleries until she reached the one which displayed the blade she coveted.

“Heard my ears aright?” she murmured in stern irony as she lifted the longsword from its mounts, hefted it to ascertain its balance. “Did the gaddhi not grant me this glaive?” The falchion's edges were as keen as the light in her eyes. Her mouth tasted names for this blade.

Chortling to himself, Pitchwife went with Honninscrave to find other weapons.

They rejoined the company at the stairs to the Second Circinate. Pitchwife bore a spiked cudgel as gnarled and massive as his own arms. And over one shoulder Honninscrave carried a huge iron-bound timber which must have been part of some large siege-engine. The thrust of his beard threatened peril to anyone who dared oppose him.

At the sight, Brinn's gaze brightened; and a look like a smile passed over Ceer's pain-disdaining visage.

Together, the companions started downward.

But when they reached the Second Circinate, Linden halted them. Her tension was scaling toward hysteria. “Down there,” All her senses rang like hammered metal. Opposition too dense to be enumerated crowded the forecourt of the First Circinate. “He's waiting for us.” Kasreyn's presence was as unmistakable as his hunger.

'That is well.“ The First stroked her new sword. Her certainty was iron and beauty in her countenance. ”His life in Bhrathairealm will no longer be what it was. If he is required to declare his tyranny, many things will be altered-not least among them the prosperity of this land." Her voice was acutely eager.

The company arrayed itself for battle. Knotting her fear in her throat, Linden took Covenant from Brinn, freeing the Haruchai to fight. The First and Honninscrave, Pitchwife and the two Haruchai, positioned themselves around Seadreamer,

Ceer, Covenant, and Linden. Ignoring the Demondim-spawn and Findail, who needed no protection, the company walked defiantly down the stairs to the First Circinate.

There Kasreyn of the Gyre awaited them with four-or fivescore hustin and at least that many unmounted soldiers.

He stood with his back to the gates. The gates were closed.

The only illumination came from the sunlight striking in shafts through the unattainable windows.

“Hold!” The Kemper's shout was clear and commanding. “Return to your chambers! The gaddhi denies your departure.”

Fired by the mad peril of her promises, Linden retorted, “He'd let us go if he dared!”

The company did not stop.

Kasreyn barked an order. The Guards levelled their spears. In a sharp hiss of metal, the soldiers drew their swords.

Stride by stride, the forces converged. The company looked as insignificant as a handful of sand thrown against the sea. Without Covenant's power, they had no chance. Unless they could do what Brinn had wanted to do earlier-unless they could get to Kasreyn and kill him.

Then the First called like a tantara, “Stone and Sea!” and Honninscrave attacked. Heaving his timber broadside against the hustin, he broke their ranks halfway to Kasreyn's position. At once, he sprang into the confusion, began felling Guards on every side with his great fists.

The First and Pitchwife went with him, passed him. Pitchwife had neither the First's grace nor the Master's strength; but his arms were as sturdy as oaks, and with his cudgel he bashed assailants away from the First's back while she slashed her way forward.

She went for Kasreyn as if she meant to reap blood right to the wellspring of his heart. She was the First; and he had manipulated and slain her comrades while she had been weaponless. Her sword flashed like lightning among the sunshafts, first iron and then red as she flailed bloodshed about her.

The spears of the Guards were awkward for such in-fighting. No soldier could reach the Giants with an ordinary sword. The three seafarers fought through the throng toward Kasreyn and were impossibly successful.

Seadreamer, carrying Ceer, herded Covenant and Linden forward. On either side, Brinn and Cail seemed to blur as they fought. Whirling and striking in all directions, they dealt out blows and swift death. For long moments of inchoate attack and precise rebuff, the company moved down the length of the forecourt.

But the task remained impossible. The questers were grievously outnumbered; and more hustin arrived constantly. Dodging the thrust of a spear, Seadreamer stumbled against Linden. She slipped in a swath of blood and fell. Warm fluid smeared her clothes, her arms. Covenant stopped moving. His empty eyes witnessed the movements around him; but he did not react to the clangour of combat, the cries of the wounded.

Scrambling to her feet, Linden looked back at Vain and Findail for help. Soldiers hacked wildly at the Elohim, but their blades passed through him without effect. Before their astonished eyes, he melted away into the floor.

Vain stood motionless, offering his aimless smile to his attackers. Spear-tips and swords shredded his raiment, but left his flesh unmarked. Blows rang against him and broke into splinters of pain for those who struck. He appeared capable of mastering all the hustin alone, if he but chose to act.

An assault rushed at Covenant, was barely beaten back. “Vain!” Linden raged. “Do something!” He had saved her life more than once. They all needed his help now.

But the Demondim-spawn remained deaf to her.

Then she saw the wide golden hoop which came shimmering through the air. Honninscrave roared a warning. Too late. The hoop settled toward Covenant's head before anyone could save him.

Desperately, Seadreamer released one arm from Ceer, tried to slap the lambent circle away. But it was formed of mist and light, and his hand passed through it, leaving no mark.

As the hoop dropped around Covenant, his knees folded.

Another was already in the air. It came from Kasreyn.

Toward Seadreamer.

Suddenly, Linden realised that the Guards and soldiers had fallen back, forming a thick cordon around the company.

In a fury of frustration, the First gave up her attack. With Pitchwife and Honninscrave, she retreated to defend her comrades.

Linden rushed to Covenant's side, swept his head into her arms, thrust her vision into him. Her stained hands smudged red into his shirt.

He was asleep. A slight frown marred his forehead like the implications of nightmare.

Seadreamer sprang away from the shimmering gold. But the hustin were ready, holding their spears to impale him if he fled. Brinn and the First charged the cordon. Spears splintered and broke; hustin fell. But there was not enough time.

Though the mute Giant struggled to evade it, the hoop encircled his head, wafted downward to cover Ceer. Seadreamer fell. The unconscious Haruchai sprawled across the floor.

Kasreyn waved his ocular, barking incantations. A third circle of gold light lifted from the metal, expanding as it floated forward. Pitchwife beat at it with his club; but his blows meant nothing to such theurgy.

With Covenant in her arms, Linden could not move. Gently, the hoop settled over her and carried her down into darkness.

Eighteen: Surrender

SHE awoke in dank dark, tugged step after step toward consciousness by the dull rhythmic repetition of a grunt of strain, a clash of metal.

Her upper arms ached like the folly of all promises.

She could see nothing. She was in a place as benighted as a sepulchre. But as her mind limped into wakefulness, her senses slowly began to function, giving names to what they perceived.

She did not want to be roused. She had failed at everything. Even her deliberate efforts to make Kasreyn unsure of himself-to aggravate the implicit distrust between the gaddhi and his Kemper-had come to ruin. It was enough. Within her lay death and peace, and she yearned for them because her life was as futile as everything she had ever striven to deny.

But the stubborn grunt and clash would not let her go. That even iteration rose from somewhere beyond her, repudiating her desire for sleep, demanding that she take it into account. Gradually, she began to listen to the messages of her nerves.

She was hanging upright: all her weight was suspended from her upper arms. Her biceps were clasped in tight iron circlets. When she found her footing, straightened her legs, the pressure of the fetters eased; and spears of renewed circulation thrust pain down her arms to her swollen hands.

The movement made her aware of her ankles. They, too. were locked in iron. But those bonds were attached to chains and could be shifted slightly,

The fetters held her against a wall of stone. She was in a lightless rectangular chamber. Finished rock surrounded her, then faded into an immense impending weight. She was underground somewhere beneath the Sandhold. The walls and the air were chill. She had never expected anything in Bhrathairealm to be so chill.

The faint sick smell of dead blood touched her nostrils-the blood of hustin and soldiers, soaked into her clothes.

The sounds went on: grunt of effort, clash of resistance.

Within the dark, another darkness stood before her. The nerves of her cheeks recognized Vain. The Demondim-spawn was perhaps ten feet from her. He was harder than any granite, more rigid than any annealed metal. The purpose he obeyed seemed more sure of itself than the very bones of the Earth. But he had proven himself inaccessible to appeal. If she cried out, the walls would be more likely to answer her than he.

After all, he was no more to be trusted than Findail, who had fled rather than give the company aid.

The sounds of effort went on, articulating themselves across the blackness. Every exertion produced a dull ringing like the noise of a chain leaping taut.

With an inchoate throb of ire or anguish, Linden turned away from Vain and identified Honninscrave.

The Master stood upright no great distance from her. The chamber was not particularly large. His aura was a knurling of anger and resolve. At slow, rhythmic intervals, he bunched his great muscles, hurled all his strength and weight against his chains. But their clashing gave no hint of fatigue or failure. She felt raw pain growing where the fetters held his wrists. His breathing rasped as if the dank air hurt his chest.

From another part of the wall, the First said hoarsely, “Honninscrave. In the name of pity.”

But the Bhrathair had tried to sink Starfare's Gem, and he did not stop.

The First's tone revealed no serious physical harm. Linden's senses began to move more swiftly. Her ears picked out the various respirations in the chamber. Her nerves explored the space. Somewhere between the First and Honninscrave, she located Pitchwife. The specific wheeze with which his crippled chest took and released air told her that he was unconscious. The pain he emitted showed that he had been dealt a heavy blow; but she felt no evidence of bleeding from him.

Beside her, she found Cail. He held himself still, breathed quietly; but his Haruchai flesh was unmistakable. He seemed no less judgmental and unyielding than the stone to which he was chained.

Brinn was bound against another wall, opposite the First. His abstract rigidity suggested to Linden that he had made the same attempt Honninscrave was making-and had judged it to be folly. Yet his native extravagance responded to what the Master was doing.

Seadreamer stood near Brinn, yearning out into the dark toward his brother. His muteness was as poignant as a wail. Deep within himself, he was a knot of Earth-Sight and despair.

For a moment, his intensity deafened Linden to Ceer. But then she became aware of the injured Haruchai. He also was chained to the wall across from the First, Pitchwife, and Honninscrave. His posture and respiration were as implacable as Brinn's or Cail's; but she caught the taste of pain-sweat from him. The emanations of his shoulder were sharp: his bonds held him in a position which accentuated his broken clavicle. But that hurt paled beside the shrill protest of his crushed knee.

Instinctive empathy struck at her legs, taking them out from under her. She could not stand upright again, bear her own weight, until the misery in her upper arms brought her back to herself. Ceer was so hurt, and held the damage in such disdain-All her training and her long labour cried out against what had happened to him. Groaning, she wrestled with the memory of Kasreyn's defalcation, tried to think of something she might have done to alter the outcome.

But there was nothing-nothing except submission. Give Covenant to the Kemper. Help Kasreyn work his will on Covenant's irreducible vulnerability. Betray every impulse which bound her to the Unbeliever. No. That she could not have done-not even to save Ceer from agony, Hergrom from death. Thomas Covenant was more to her than—

Covenant!

In the unaneled midnight of the dungeon, he was nowhere to be found.

Her senses clawed the dark in all directions, searching manically. But she discovered no glimmer of pulse or tremor of breath which might have been the Unbeliever. Vain was there. Cail was beside her. The First, Honninscrave in his exertions, Ceer bleeding: she identified them all. Opposite her, beyond Vain, she thought she perceived the flat iron of a door. But of Covenant there was no sign, nothing.

Oh dear God.

Her moan must have been audible; some of her companions turned toward her. “Linden Avery,” the First said tightly. “Chosen. Are you harmed?”

The blackness became giddy and desperate, beating about her head. The smell of blood was everywhere. Only the hard accusation of the bonds kept her from slumping to the floor. She had brought the company to this. Covenant's name bled through her lips, and the dark took it away.

“Chosen” the First insisted.

Linden's soul cried for an end, for any blankness or violence which would put a stop to it. But in return came echoes of the way her mother had begged for death, mocking her. Iron and stone scorned her desire for flight, for surcease. And she had to answer the concern of her friends. Somehow, she said, “He's not here. I lost him.”

The First released a taut sigh. Covenant gone. The end of the quest. Yet she had been tempered to meet extremities; and her tone acknowledged no defeat. “Nonetheless it was a good ploy. Our hope lay in setting the gaddhi and his Kemper at each other. We could not have done otherwise.”

But Linden had no heart for such cold comfort. “Kasreyn has him,” The chill of the air sharpened her gall. “We played right into his hands. He's got everything he wants.”

“Has he?” The First sounded like a woman who could stand upright under any doom. Near her, Honninscrave strained against his fetters with unceasing ferocity. “Then why do we yet live?”

Linden started to retort, Maybe he just wants to play with us. But then the true import of the First's words penetrated her. Maybe Kasreyn did want to wreak cruelty on the questers, in punishment or sport. And maybe maybe he still needed them for something. He had already had one chance at the white gold and had not succeeded. Maybe now he intended to use the company against Covenant in some way.

If that were true, she might get one more chance. One last opportunity to make herself and her promises mean something.

Then passion burned like a fever through her chilled skin. The dark made a distant roaring in her ears, and her pulse laboured as if it had been goaded.

Sweet Christ. Give me one more chance.

But the First was speaking again. The need in her voice caught and held Linden's attention. “Chosen, you have eyes which I lack. What has befallen Pitchwife my husband? I hear his breath at my side, yet he gives no response.”

Linden felt the First's suppressed emotion as if it were a link between them. “He's unconscious.” She had become as lucid as perfect ice. “Somebody hit him pretty hard. But I think he's going to be all right. I don't hear any sign of concussion or coma. Nothing broken. He should come out of it soon.”

The ferocity of Honninscrave's exertions covered the First's initial relief. But then she lifted up her voice to say clearly, “Chosen, I thank you.” The intervening dark could not prevent Linden from tasting the First's silent tears.

Linden gripped her cold sharp lucidity and waited to make use of it.

Later, Pitchwife roused himself. Groaning and muttering, he slowly mastered his dismay. The First answered his questions simply, making no effort to muffle the ache in her voice.

But after a few moments, Linden stopped listening to them. From somewhere in the distance, she seemed to hear the sounds of feet. Gradually, she became sure of them.

Three or four sets of feet. Hustin- and someone else?

The iron clatter of the door silenced the company. Light sprang into the cell from a brightly lit corridor, revealing that the door was several high steps above the level of the floor. Two Guards bearing torches thudded heavily down the stairs.

Behind them came Rant Absolain.

Linden identified the gaddhi with her nerves. Blinded by the sudden illumination, she could not see him. Ducking her head, she blinked and squinted to drive the blur from her vision.

In the light on the floor between her and Vain lay Thomas Covenant.

All his muscles were limp; but his arms were flat against his sides and his legs were straight, betraying that he had been consciously arrayed in that position. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling as if he were no more than the husk of a living man. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest showed that he was not dead. Smudges of blackened blood marked his shirt like the handprints of Linden's culpability.

The cell seemed to become abruptly colder. For a moment like the onset of hysteria, Linden could not grasp what she was seeing. Here was Covenant, plainly visible-yet he was completely invisible to the other dimension of her senses. When she squeezed her eyes shut in wonder and fear, he appeared to vanish. Her percipience found no evidence of him at all. Yet he was there, materializing for her the instant she reopened her eyes.

With an inward quaver, she remembered where she had sensed such a phenomenon before. The Kemper's son. Covenant had become like the infant Kasreyn bore constantly on his back.

Then she noticed the golden band clasped around Covenant's neck.

She was unable to read it, did not understand it. But at once she was intuitively certain that it explained what had happened to him. It was Kasreyn's hold on him; and it blocked her senses as if it had been specifically designed for that purpose. To prevent her from reaching into him?

Oh, Kasreyn, you bastard!

But she had no time to think. The Guards had set their torches on either side of the door, and Rant Absolain advanced between them to confront the quest.

With a fierce effort, Linden forced her attention away from Covenant. When she looked at the gaddhi, she saw that he was feverishly drunk. Purple splashes sotted his raiment; his orbs were raw with inebriation and dread.

He was staring at Honninscrave. The Giant's relentless fury for escape appalled him. Slowly, rhythmically, Honninscrave knotted his muscles, hurled himself against the chains, and did not stop. From manacle to elbow, his arms were lined with thin trails of blood.

Quickly, Linden took advantage of Rant Absolain's transfixion to scan her companions.

In spite of his impassivity, Ceer's pallor revealed the extent of his pain. His bandages were soaked with the red of a reopened wound. Pitchwife's injury was less serious; but it left a livid swelling on his right temple.

Then Linden found herself gaping at the First. She had lost both shield and helm; but in her scabbard hung her new falchion. Its grip was just beyond the reach of her chained hands. It must have been restored to her to taunt her helplessness. Or to mock Rant Absolain? Did Kasreyn mean to task the gaddhi for that ill-considered gift?

But the First bore herself as if she were impervious to such malice. While Rant Absolain stared his alarm at Honninscrave, she said distinctly, “O gaddhi, it is not wise to speak in the presence of these hustin. Their ears are Kasreyn's ears, and he will learn the purpose of your coming.”

Her words pierced his stupefied apprehension. He looked away, staggered for balance, then shouted a dismissal in the Bhrathair tongue. The two Guards obeyed, leaving the door open as they departed.

Honninscrave fixed his gaze on that egress as he fought to break his fetters.

As soon as the Guards were gone, Rant Absolain fumbled forward as if the light were dim. For a moment, he tried to peer up at the First; but her height threatened his stability. He swung toward Linden, advanced on her until he was so close that she could not avoid breathing the miasma of his besottedness.

Squinting into her face, he hissed urgently, secretively, “Free me from this Kemper.”

Linden fought down her revulsion and pity, held her voice level. “Get rid of him yourself. He's your Kemper. All you have to do is exile him.”

He winced. His hands plucked at her shoulders as if he wanted to plead with her-or needed her help to keep from falling. “No,” he whispered. “It is impossible. I am only the gaddhi. He is Kasreyn of the Gyre. The power is his. The Guards are his. And the Sandgorgons-” He was shivering. “All Bhrathairealm knows-” He faltered, then resumed, Prosperity and wealth are his to give. Not mine. My people care nothing for me.“ He became momentarily lugubrious. But then his purpose returned to him. ”Slay him for me.“ When she did not reply at once, he panted, ”You must."

An odd pang for his folly and weakness touched her heart.

But she did not let herself waver. “Free us,” she said as severely as she could. “We'll find a way to get rid of him.”

“Free-?” He gaped at her. “I dare not. He will know. If you fail-” His eyes were full of beggary. “You must free yourselves. And slay him. Then I will be safe.” His lips twisted on the verge of sobs. “I must be safe.”

At that moment, with her companions watching her, Linden heard footsteps in the corridor and knew that she had a chance to drive another nail into his coffin. Perhaps it would have been the final nail. She did not doubt who was coming. But she had mercy on him. Probably he could never have been other than he was.

Raising her voice, she said distinctly, “We're your prisoners. It's cruel to mock us like this.”

Then Kasreyn stood in the doorway. From that elevation, he appeared commanding and indefeasible, certain of his mastery. His voice caressed the air like the soft stroke of a whip, playful and threatening. “She speaks truly, O gaddhi. You demean yourself here. They have slain your Guards, giving offense to you and all Bhrathairealm. Do not cheapen the honour of your countenance with them. Depart, I bid you.”

Rant Absolain staggered. His face stretched as if he were about to wail. But behind his drunkenness some instinct for self-preservation still functioned. With an exaggerated lurch, he turned toward the Kemper. Slurring his words, he said, “I desired to vent my wrath. It is my right.” Then he shambled to the stairs and worked his way up them, leaving the cell without a glance at either Kasreyn or the questers. In that way, he preserved the illusion which was his sole hope for survival.

Linden watched him go and clinched herself. Toward Kasreyn of the Gyre she felt no mercy at all.

The Kemper bowed unkindly to his gaddhi, then stepped into the cell, closed the iron door. As he came down the stairs, the intensity of his visage was focused on Linden; and the yellowness of his robe and his teeth seemed to concentrate toward her like a presage of his geas.

She made a resolute effort of self-command, looked to verify what she had seen earlier. It was true: like Covenant, the Kemper's infant was visible to her superficial sight but not to her deeper perceptions.

“My friends,” Kasreyn said, addressing all the company but gazing only at Linden, “I will not delay. I am eager.” Rheum

glazed his eyes like cataracts. “Aye, eager.” He stepped over Covenant to stand before her. “You have foiled me as you were able, but now you are ended.” Spittle reflected a glode of light at one corner of his mouth. “Now I will have the white gold.”

She stared back at him direly. Her companions stood still, studying her and the Kemper-all except Honninscrave, who did not interrupt his exertions even for Kasreyn of the Gyre.

“I do not maze you.” His tongue quickly licked his lips. “Well, it may not be denied that to some degree I have slighted your true measure. But no more.” He retreated slightly to her left. “Linden Avery, you will grant the white gold to me.”

Clenching herself rigid-awaiting her opportunity-Linden rasped mordantly, “You're crazy.”

He cocked an eyebrow like a gesture of scorn. “Am I, indeed? Harken — and consider. I desire this Thomas Covenant to submit his ring into my hand. Such submission must be a matter of choice, and there is a veil in his mind which inures him to all choice. Therefore this veil must be pierced, that I may wrest the choice I desire from him.” Abruptly, he stabbed a bony finger at Linden. “You will pierce it for me.”

At that, her heart leaped. But she strove to conceal her tension, did not let her angry glare waver. Articulating each word precisely, she uttered an obscene refusal.

His eyes softened like an anticipation of lust. Quietly, he asked, “Do you deny me?”

She remained silent as if she did not deign to reply. Only the regular gasp and clatter of Honninscrave's efforts denned the stillness. She almost hoped that Kasreyn would use his ocular on her. She felt certain that she would be unable to enter Covenant at all if she were in the grip of the Kemper's geas.

But he appeared to understand the folly of coercing her with theurgy. Without warning, he whirled, lashed a vicious kick at Ceer's bloody knee.

The unexpected blow wrung pain through Ceer's teeth. For a moment, his ambience faded as if he were about to faint.

The First sprang against her manacles. Seadreamer tried to swipe at Kasreyn, but could not reach him.

The Kemper faced Linden again. His voice was softer than before. “Do you deny me?”

Tremors built toward shuddering in her. She let them rise, let herself ache so that she might convince him. “If I let you persuade me like that, Brinn and Cail will kill me.”

Deep within herself, she begged him to believe her. Another such blow would break her. How could she go on spending Ceer's agony to prevent the Kemper from guessing her intent?

“They will not live to lift finger against you!” barked Kasreyn in sudden anger. But a moment later he recollected himself. “Yet no matter,” he went on with renewed gentleness. “I have other suasions.” As he spoke, he moved past Vain until he was standing near Covenant's feet. Only the Demondim-spawn was able to ignore him. He held the company in a grasp of horror.

He relished their abomination. Slowly, he raised his right arm.

As he did so, Covenant rose from the floor, jerking erect as if he had been pulled upright by the band around his throat.

Kasreyn moved his hand in a circular gesture from the end of his thin wrist. Covenant turned. His eyes saw nothing. Controlled by the golden neckpiece, he was as blank as his aura. His shirt was stained with death. He went on turning until Kasreyn motioned for him to stop.

The sight nearly snapped Linden's resolve. That Covenant should be so malleable in the Kemper's hands! Whatever harms he had committed, he did not deserve this indignity. And he had made restitution! No man could have striven harder to make restitution. In Coercri he had redeemed the Unhomed Dead. He had once defeated Lord Foul. And he had done everything conceivable for Linden herself. There was no justice in his plight. It was evil.

Evil

Tears coursed hotly down her cheeks like the acid of her mortality.

With a flick of his wrist, Kasreyn sent Covenant toward her.

Fighting her manacles, she tried to fend him away. But he forced himself past her hands, thrust forward to plant a cold dead kiss on her groaning mouth. Then he retreated a step. With his half-hand, he struck her a blow that made her whole face burn.

The Kemper recalled him. He obeyed, as lifeless as a marionette. Kasreyn was still gazing at Linden. Malice bared his old teeth. In a voice of hunger, he said, “Do you see that my command upon him is complete?”

She nodded. She could not help herself. Soon Kasreyn would be able to instruct her as easily as he used Covenant.

“Then witness.” The Kemper made complex gestures; and Covenant raised his hands, turned his fingers inward like claws. They dug into the flesh around his eyes.

“If you do not satisfy me”-Kasreyn's voice jumped avidly — “I will command him to blind himself.”

That was enough. She could not bear any more. Long quivers of fury ran through all her muscles. She was ready now.

Before she could acquiesce, a prodigious effort tore a howl from Honninscrave's chest. With impossible strength, he ripped the chain binding his left arm from its bracket; and the chain cracked outward like a flail. Driven by all the force of his immense exertion, it struck Kasreyn in the throat.

The blow pitched the Kemper backward. He fell heavily on the steps, tumbled to the floor. There he lay still. So much iron and strength must have shattered every bone in his neck. Linden's vision leaped toward him, saw that he was dead. The fact stunned her. For an instant, she hardly realised that he was not bleeding.

The First let out a savage cry. “Stone and Sea, Honninscrave! Bravely done!”

But a moment later Kasreyn twitched. His limbs shifted. Slowly, stiffly, he climbed to his hands and knees, then to his feet. An instant ago, he had had no pulse: now his heart beat with renewed vigour. Strength flowed back into him. He turned to face the company. He was grinning like a promise of murder.

Linden gaped at him, horrified. The First swore weakly.

The infant on his back was smiling sweetly in its sleep.

He looked at Honninscrave. The Giant sagged against the wall in near exhaustion. But his intent glare warned plainly that with one hand free he would soon be free altogether.

“My friend,” the Kemper said tightly, “your death will be one to surpass your most heinous fears.”

Honninscrave responded with a gasping snarl. But Kasreyn remained beyond reach of the Master's chain.

Slowly, the Kemper shifted his attention away from Honninscrave. Facing Linden, he repeated, "If you do not satisfy me.“ Only the tautness of his voice betrayed that anything had happened to him. ”I will command him to blind himself."

Covenant had not moved. He still stood with his fingers poised to gouge out his eyes.

Linden cast one last long look at his terrible defenselessness. Then she let herself sag. How could she fight a man who was able to rise from the dead? “You'll have to take that band off his neck. It blocks me,”

Cail surged against his chains. “Chosen!” the First cried in protest. Pitchwife gaped dismay at her.

Linden ignored them. She was watching Kasreyn. Grinning fiercely, he approached Covenant. With one hand, he touched the yellow band. It came away in his grasp.

At once, Covenant slumped back into his familiar emptiness. His eyes were void. For no reason, he said, “Don't touch me.”

Before Linden could reach out to him in yearning or rage, try to keep her promises, the floor near Vain's feet began to swirl and melt. With surprising celerity, Findail flowed out of the granite into human form.

Immediately, he confronted Linden. “Are you a fool?” The habitual misery of his features shouted at her. “This is ruin!” She had never heard such anguish from any Elohim. “Do you not comprehend that the Earth is at peril? Therefore did I urge you to your ship while the way was open, that these straits might be evaded. Sun-Sage, hear me!” When she did not respond, his apprehension mounted. “I am the Appointed. The doom of the Earth is upon my head. I beg of you-do not do this thing!”

But she was not listening to him. Kasreyn stood grinning behind Covenant as if he knew he had nothing to fear from Findail. His hands held the golden band, the threat which had compelled her. Yet she ignored the Kemper also. She paid no heed to the consternation of her companions. She had been preparing herself for this since the moment when the First had said, Why do we yet live? She had striven for it with every fiber of her will, fought for this chance to create her own answer. The removal of that neck-band. The opportunity to make good on at least one promise.

All of her was focused on Covenant. While her companions sought to distract her, dissuade her, she opened her senses to him. In a rush like an outpouring of ecstasy or loss, rage or grief, she surrendered herself to his emptiness.

Now she took no account of the passion with which she entered him. And she offered no resistance as she was swept into the long gulf. She saw that her former failures had been caused by her attempts to bend him to her own will, her own use; but now she wanted nothing for herself, withheld nothing. Abandoning herself entirely, she fell like a dying star into the blankness behind which the Elohim had hidden his soul.

Yet she did not forget Kasreyn. He was watching avidly, poised for the reawakening of Covenant's will. At that moment, Covenant would be absolutely vulnerable; for surely he would not regain full possession of his consciousness and his power instantly, and until he did he would have no defence against the Kemper's geas. Linden felt no mercy toward Kasreyn, contained nothing at all which might have resembled mercy toward him. As she fell and fell like death into Covenant's emptiness, she shouted voiceless instructions which echoed through the uninhabitation of his mind.

Now no visions came out of his depths to appal her. She had surrendered so completely that nothing remained to cause her dismay. Instead, she felt the layers of her independent self being stripped away. Severity and training and medical school were gone, leaving her fifteen and loss-ridden, unable at that time to conceive of any answer to her mother's death. Grief and guilt and her mother were gone, so that she seemed to contain nothing except the cold unexpungeable horror and accusation of her father's suicide. Then even suicide was gone, and she stood under a clean sun in fields and flowers, full of a child's capacity for happiness, joy, love. She could have fallen that way forever.

The sunlight spread its wings about her, and the wind ruffled her hair like a hand of affection. She shouted in pleasure. And her shout was answered. A boy came toward her across the fields. He was older than she-he seemed much older, though he was still only a boy, and the Covenant he would become was nothing more than an implication in the lines of his face, the fire of his eyes. He approached her with a shy half-smile. His hands were open and whole and accessible. Caught in a whirl of instinctive exaltation, she ran toward him with her arms wide, yearning for the embrace which would transform her.

But when she touched him, the gap was bridged, and his emptiness flooded into her. At once, she could see everything, hear everything. All her senses functioned normally. Her companions had fallen silent: they were staring at her in despair. Kasreyn stood near Covenant with his ocular held ready, his hands trembling as if they could no longer suppress their caducity. But behind what she saw and heard, she wailed like a foretaste of her coming life. She was a child in a field of flowers, and the older boy she adored had left her. The love had gone out of the sunlight, leaving the day bereft as if all joy were dead.

Yet she saw him-saw the boy in the man, Thomas Covenant-as life and will spread back into his limbs. She saw him take hold of himself, lift his head. All her senses functioned normally. She could do nothing but wail as he turned toward Kasreyn, exposed himself to the Kemper's geas. He was still too far away from himself to make any defence.

But before the Kemper was able to use his ocular, the instructions she had left in Covenant reached him. He looked straight at Kasreyn and obeyed her.

Distinctly, he articulated one clear word:

“Nom.”