White Gold Wielder Page 11

  Linden studied him across the gap between their sleds; but he had nothing to say to her which would support being shouted over the hard scrunching of the runners, the rhythmic thud of the Giants’ feet and the gasp of their breathing. Once again he was being borne toward his goal and his fear, not by any effort of his own, but by the exertions of people who cared about him. At every crisis along his way, it was the same: for all his passion and power, he would have come to nothing without help. And what recompense did he make for that help? Only pain and peril and at least one lie; nothing more. But that was not something which his sore heart could cry out under these conditions, under the bitter blue of the sky and the gazes of his companions.

  They were traveling due west. When they had left the vantage of Starfare’s Gem, a strip of open water had still been visible against the southern horizon; and they could be certain that the closer they went to the sea the less reliable the floe would become. Under the circumstances, Covenant only hoped that they would not be forced northward to find a safe passage.

  The First had pushed several paces ahead of her companions to watch for flaws and fissures in the frozen expanse. Behind her trotted Pitchwife. Though he bore no burden except his own deformation, his gait betrayed that he was already being pressed to his limits. By comparison, Mistweave and Honninscrave appeared able to sustain this speed for days, dragging the heavy sleds behind them and never faltering. And Cail was one of the Haruchai, born to ice and arduous survival. Only the vapor that plumed from his nostrils and the white crystals which formed along his cheeks showed that he was breathing more deeply than usual.

  As for Vain and Findail, they moved as though the long trek ahead meant nothing to them. Vain’s wooden forearm dangled uselessly from his elbow, but in every other way he remained the structurally immaculate enigma which the ur-viles had created for their own secret reasons. And the Appointed had long since demonstrated his conclusive immunity to any physical peril or stress.

  Around them, the plain of ice seemed featureless and devoid of any content except cold to the edges of the world. The sun came down hard on the white floe, making the ice glare, forcing Covenant to squint until his temples throbbed. And the cold soaked into him through every fold and clasp of his coverings. The beat of the Giants’ feet and the expulsion of their breath marked out the frigid silence. The sled jostled him incessantly against a bundle of firewood packed beside him. Grimly he hugged his blankets and huddled into himself.

  The First’s fall took him by surprise. She was nothing more than a gray blur across his disfocused stare as she stepped into a fissure.

  Scattering snow, she plunged heavily forward. Her chest struck the rim of the break. For an instant, she scrabbled frantically at the edge, then dropped out of sight.

  Pitchwife was four or five strides behind her; but immediately he dove after her, skidding headlong to snatch at her disappearing arms.

  He was too late. And he could not stop himself. In a flurry of limbs and snow, he toppled after his wife.

  Slewing over the slick surface, Honninscrave and Mistweave wheeled the sleds to a halt The one bearing Linden was nearly overturned; but Cail caught it, slammed it back onto its runners.

  Covenant pitched out of his sled, landed on the ice, lurched to his feet. Ahead of him, the Master and Mistweave wrestled at the bindings which harnessed them to their burdens. Findail and Vain had stopped; but Cail was already halfway to the fissure.

  Covenant and the Giants reached the rim together, with Linden a scant step behind them. Cail stood there gazing downward as if he had forgotten urgency.

  The First and Pitchwife hung a few feet below the edge. The fissure was only a little wider than her shoulders, and she had clamped herself between the walls, holding her position by main strength. Pitchwife’s arms clasped her hips; he dangled awkwardly between her thighs.

  Below his feet, the snow which had fallen into the fissure became gray slush as the sea absorbed it.

  He jerked a glance upward. “Stone and Sea!” he gasped. “Make haste!”

  But the Master and Mistweave were not slow. Honninscrave threw himself flat on the ice with his head and shoulders over the rim. Mistweave braced the Master’s legs; and Honninscrave reached down to take hold of the First.

  In a moment, she scrambled out of the fissure, towing Pitchwife after her.

  Her stern visage showed no reaction; but Pitchwife was breathing hard, and his gnarled hands trembled. “Stone and Sea!” he panted again. “I am a Giant and love an eventful journey. But such happenings are not altogether to my taste.” Then a chuckle of relief came steaming between his bared teeth. “Also I am somewhat abashed. I sought to rescue my wife, yet it was she who caught my own fall.”

  The First rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Mayhap if you were less impetuous in your rescuing.” But as she turned to Honninscrave, her voice stiffened. “Master, it is my thought that we must bend our way somewhat northward. This ice is not safe.”

  “Aye,” he growled. Ever since he had been forced to the realization that the company would have to leave Starfare’s Gem, he had not been able to stifle the undertone of bitterness in his voice. “But that way is longer, and we are in haste. Northward me ice will be not so easily traveled. And this north is perilous, as you know.”

  The First nodded reluctantly. After a moment, she let out a long sigh and straightened her back. “Very well,” she said. “Let us attempt the west again.”

  When no one moved, she gestured Covenant and Linden back to the sleds.

  Linden turned to walk beside Covenant. Her face was red with cold and severe with concentration. In a flat, quiet voice, she asked. “Why is this north perilous?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” The scars on his right forearm itched in reaction to the First’s fall and the suggestion of other hazards. “I’ve never been north of Revelstone and Coercri.” He did not want to think about nameless dangers. The cold was already too much for him. And he could not figure out how the company was going to get across the fissure.

  But that problem was simply solved. While he and Linden climbed into their sleds, the First and Pitchwife leaped the gap. Then Honninscrave and Mistweave drew the sleds to the rim of the crack. There Covenant saw that the sleds were long enough to span the fissure. Honninscrave and Mistweave pushed them out over the gap; the First and Pitchwife pulled them across. When the rest of the company had passed the crack, Honninscrave and Mistweave slipped their arms into the harnesses again, and the First went on her way westward.

  Now she set a slower pace, in part for caution and in part to accommodate Pitchwife’s weariness. Still her speed was greater than any Covenant could have matched afoot. The ice seemed to rush jolting and skidding under the runners of the sled. But whenever she saw something she distrusted, she dropped to a walk and probed ahead with her longsword until she was sure that the ground was safe.

  For the rest of the morning, her care proved unnecessary. But shortly after the company had paused for a brief meal and a few warming swallows of diamondraught, the point of her sword bit into the crust, and several hundred feet of packed snow along a thin line to the north and south fell from sight. This fissure also was easily crossed; but when the companions gained the far side, the First faced Honninscrave again and said, “It is too much. This ice grows fragile beneath us.”

  The Master breathed a curse through his frosted beard. Yet he did not demur when the leader of the Search turned toward the northwest and thicker ice.

  For most of the afternoon, the floe remained flat, snow-brushed, and unreliable. From time to time, Covenant sensed that the surface was sloping upward; but the brightness of the sun on the white landscape made him unsure of what he saw. Although he sipped diamondraught at intervals, the cold sank deeper into his bones. His face felt like beaten metal. Gradually he drifted into reveries of conflagration. Whenever he became drowsy with liquor and chill, he found himself half dreaming wild magic as if it were lovely and desira
ble—flame sufficient to tear down Kemper’s Pitch; passion powerful enough to contend with the Worm of the World’s End; venom capable of subsuming everything in its delirium. That fire was vital and seductive—and as necessary as blood. He would never be able to give it up.

  But such dreams led him to places where he did not want to go. To the scream which had nearly torn out his heart when Linden had told him the truth of the venom and the Worm. And to that other fire which lay hidden at the roots of his need—to the caamora which he had always failed to find, though his soul depended on it.

  Urgent with alarm, he repeatedly fought his way back from the brink of true sleep. And the last time he did so, he was surprised to see that the north was no longer blank. The First’s path angled toward a ridge of tremendous ice-chunks. Piled into the sky, they reached out for the horizons, east and west. Although the sun was near setting, it was far down in the south and did not blind him, but rather shone full and faintly pink on the ridge, making the ice appear as unbreachable as a glacier.

  Here the First turned toward the west again, keeping as close to the base of the ridge as possible without sacrificing a clear route for the sleds. But in her way boulders and monoliths lay like menhirs where they had rolled or fallen from the violence which had riven the ice. She was forced to slow her pace again as the difficulty of the terrain increased. Nevertheless her goal had been achieved. The surface which supported that ridge was unlikely to crack or crumble under the pressure of the company’s passage.

  As the sun sank, vermilion and fatal, into the west, the travelers halted for the night. Pitchwife slumped to the ice and sat there with his head in his hands, too tired even to talk. Covenant and Linden climbed stiffly from their sleds and walked back and forth, rubbing their arms and stamping their feet, while Mistweave and Honninscrave made camp. Honninscrave unpacked sections of heavily tarred canvas to use as groundsheets, then laid more blankets. Mistweave unloaded Linden’s sled until he had uncovered a large flat rectangle of stone. This he set out as a base on which to build a fire, so that melting ice would not wet the wood. To no one in particular, the First announced her estimate that the company had come more than twenty leagues. Then she fell silent.

  When Mistweave had a crisp blaze going, Pitchwife struggled to his feet, rubbed the frost from his face, and went to do the cooking. As he worked, he muttered indistinctly to himself as if the sound of some voice—his own if no one else’s—were necessary to his courage. Shortly he had produced a thick stew for his companions. But still the pall of the waste hung over them, and no one spoke.

  After supper, Pitchwife went to sleep almost at once, hugging his groundsheet about him. The First sat sternly beside the fire and toyed with the fagots as though she did not want to reconsider her decisions. As determined as ever to emulate the devotion of the Haruchai, Mistweave joined Cail standing watch over the company. And Honninscrave stared at nothing, met no one’s eyes. His orbs were hidden under the weight of his brows, and his face looked drawn and gaunt.

  Linden paced tensely near the fire as if she wanted to talk to someone. But Covenant was absorbed by his visceral yearning for the heat of white flame. The effort of denial left him nothing to say. The silence became as cold and lonely as the ice. After a time, he gathered his blankets and followed Pitchwife’s example, wrapping himself tightly in his groundsheet.

  He thought he would be able to sleep, if only because the cold was so persuasive. But Linden made her bed near his, and soon he felt her watching him as if she sought to fathom his isolation. When he opened his eyes, he saw the look of intention in her fire-lit face.

  Her gaze was focused on him like an appeal; but the words she murmured softly took him by surprise.

  “I never even learned her name.”

  Covenant raised his head, blinked his incomprehension at her.

  “That Giant,” she explained, “the one who was hurt when the foremast broke.” The one she had healed with his ring. “I never found out who she was. I’ve been doing that all my life. Treating people as if they were pieces of sick or damaged meat instead of actual individuals. I thought I was a doctor, but it was only the disease or the hurt I cared about. Only the fight against death. Not the person.”

  He gave her the best answer he had. “Is that bad?” He recognized the attitude she described. “You aren’t God. You can’t help people because of who they are. You can only help them because they’re hurt and they need you.” Deliberately he concluded, “Otherwise you would’ve let Mistweave die.”

  “Covenant.” Now her tone was aimed at him as squarely as her gaze. “At some point, you’re going to have to deal with me. With who I am. We’ve been lovers. I’ve never stopped loving you. It hurts that you lied to me—that you let me believe something that wasn’t true. Let me believe we had a future together. But I haven’t stopped loving you.” Low flames from the campfire glistened out of the dampness in her eyes. Yet she was resolutely unemotional, sparing him her recrimination or sorrow. “I think the only reason you loved me was because I was hurt. You loved me because of my parents. Not because of who I am.”

  Abruptly she rolled onto her back, covered her face with her hands. Need muffled the self-control of her whisper. “Maybe that kind of love is wonderful and altruistic. I don’t know. But it isn’t enough.”

  Covenant looked at her, at the hands clasped over her pain and the hair curling around her ear, and thought. Have to deal with you. Have to. But he could not. He did not know how. Since the loss of the One Tree, their positions had been reversed. Now it was she who knew what she wanted, he who was lost.

  Above him, the stars glittered out their long bereavement. But for them also he did not know what to do.

  When he awakened in the early dawn, he discovered that Honninscrave was gone.

  A wind had come up. Accumulated snow gusted away over the half-buried remains of the campfire as Covenant thrashed out of his blankets and groundsheet. The First, Pitchwife, and Linden were still asleep. Mistweave lay felled in his canvas cover as if during the night his desire to match Cail had suffered a defeat. Only Cail, tne Demondim-spawn, and Findail were on their feet.

  Covenant turned to Cail. “Where—?”

  In response, Cail nodded upward.

  Quickly Covenant scanned the massive chaos of the ridge. For a moment, he missed the place Cail had indicated. But then his gaze leaped to the highest point above the camp; and there he saw Honninscrave.

  The Master sat atop a small tor of ice with his back to the south and the company. The wind tumbled down off the crest into Covenant’s face, bearing with it a faint smell of smoke.

  Blood and damnation! Grimly Covenant demanded, “What in hell does he think he’s doing?” But he already knew the answer. Cail’s reply only confirmed it.

  “Some while since, he arose and assayed the ice, promising a prompt return. With him he bore wood and a fire-pot such as the Giants use.”

  Caamora. Honninscrave was trying to burn away his grief.

  At the sound of Cail’s voice, the First looked up from her bed, an inquiry in her eyes. Covenant found suddenly that he could not open his throat. Mutely he directed the First’s gaze up at Honninscrave.

  When she saw the Master, she rasped a curse and sprang to her feet. Awakening Pitchwife with a slap of her hand, she asked Covenant and Cail how long Honninscrave had been gone.

  Inflexibly the Haruchai repeated what he had told Covenant.

  “Stone and Sea!” she snarled as Pitchwife and then Linden arose to join her. “Has he forgotten his own words? This north is perilous.”

  Pitchwife squinted apprehensively up at Honninscrave; but his tone was reassuring. “The Master is a Giant. He is equal to the peril. And his heart has found no relief from Cable Seadreamer’s end. Perchance in this way he will gain peace.”

  The First glared at him. But she did not call Honninscrave down from his perch.

  Eyes glazed with sleep and vision. Linden gazed up at the Master and said nothing.<
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  Shortly Honninscrave rose to his feet. Passing beyond the crest, he found his way downward. Soon he emerged from a nearby valley and came woodenly toward the company.

  His hands swung at his sides. As he neared the camp, Covenant saw that they had been scoured raw by fire.

  When he reached his companions, he stopped, raised his hands before him like a gesture of a futility. His gaze was shrouded. His fingers were essentially undamaged; but the aftereffects of his pain were vivid. Linden hugged her own hands under her arms in instinctive empathy.

  The First’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Is it well with you, Grimmand Honninscrave?”

  He shook his head in simple bafflement. “It does not suffice. Naught suffices. It burns in my breast—and will not burn out.”

  Then as if the will which held him upright had broken he dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into a drift of snow. Tattered wisps of steam rose around his wrists.

  Dumb with helpless concern, the Giants stood around him. Linden bit her lips. The wind drew a cold scud across the ice, and the air was sharp with rue. Covenant’s eyes blurred and ran. In self-defense there were many things for which he could claim he was not culpable; but Seadreamer’s death was not among them.

  At last, the First spoke. “Come, Master,” she breathed thickly. “Arise and be about your work. We must hope or die.”

  Hope or die. Kneeling on the frozen waste, Honninscrave looked like he had lost his way between those choices. But then slowly he gathered his legs under him, stretched his tall frame erect. His eyes had hardened, and his visage was rigid and ominous. For a moment, he stood still, let all the company witness the manner in which he bore himself. Then without a word he went and began to break camp.

  Covenant caught a glimpse of the distress in Linden’s gaze. But when she met his look of inquiry, she shook her head, unable to articulate what she had perceived in Honninscrave.