White Gold Wielder

melted. Ice clogged their beards and hair, and their eyes were haggard Covenant made occasional forays out on deck to observe the state of the ship; but what he saw-the thick, dire sea, the lowering wrack, the frozen knurs of spume which were allowed to chew at the railings because the crew was too hard pressed to clear them away- always drove him back to the galley with a gelid knot in his chest.

Once he went far enough forward to look at Findail. When he returned, his lips were raw with cold and curses. “That bastard doesn't even feel it,” he muttered to no one in particular, although Pitchwife was there with Linden, Mistweave, the two cooks, and a few other Giants. “It goes right through him.” He could not explain his indignation. It simply seemed unjust that the Appointed should be untouched by the plight of the dromond.

But Linden was not looking at him: her attention was fixed on Pitchwife as if she wanted to ask him something important. At first, however, she had no opportunity to interpose her question. Pitchwife was teasing Hearthcoal and Seasauce like a merry child and laughing at the concealed humour of their rebuffs. He had a Giant's tall spirit in his bent frame, and more than a Giant's capacity for mirth. His japing dissipated some of Covenant's acid mood.

At last Pitchwife wrung an involuntary laugh from the cooks; and with that he subsided near Covenant and Linden, the heat of the stoves gleaming on his forehead Covenant was conscious of Linden's tautness as she mustered her inquiry. 'Pitchwife, what're we getting into?”

The Giant looked at her with an air of surprise which might have been feigned. “Nobody wants to talk about it,” she pursued. “I've asked Galewrath and Sevinhand, but all they say is that Starfare's Gem can go on like this indefinitely. Even Mistweave thinks he can serve me by keeping his mouth shut.” Mistweave peered studiously at the ceiling, pretending he did not hear what was said. “So I'm asking you. You've never held anything back from me.” Her voice conveyed a complex vibration of strain. “What're we getting into?”

Outside the galley, the wind made a peculiar keening sound as it swept through the anchor-holes. Frost snapped in the cracks of the doors. Pitchwife did not want to meet her gaze; but she held him. By degrees, his good cheer sloughed away; and the contrast made him appear older, eroded by an unuttered fear. For no clear reason, Covenant was reminded of a story Linden had told him in the days before the quest had reached Elemesnedene- the story of the role Pitchwife had played in the death of the First's father. He looked now like a man who had too many memories.

“Ah, Chosen,” he sighed, “it is my apprehension that we have been snared by the Dolewind which leads to the Soulbiter.”

The Soulbiter.

Pitchwife called it an imprecise sea, not only because every ship that found it did so in a different part of the world, but also because every ship that won free of it again told a different tale. Some vessels met gales and reefs in the south; others, stifling calms in the east; still others, rank and impenetrable beds of sargasso in the west. In spite of this, however, the Soulbiter was known for what it was; for no craft or crew ever came back from it unscathed. And each of those ships had been driven there by a Dolewind that blew too long without let or variation.

Linden argued for a while, vexed by the conflicting vagueness and certainty of Pitchwife's explanations. But Covenant paid no heed to either of them. He had a name now for his chill anxiety, and the knowledge gave him a queer comfort. The Soulbiter. It was not Lord Foul's doing. Neither could it be avoided. And the outcome of that sea might make all other fears unnecessary. Very well. The galley was too warm; but outside cried and groaned a cold which only Giants could endure for any length of time. Eventually, even the din of the cooks became soothing to him, and he passed out of trepidation into a kind of waking somnolence-a stupefied inner silence like an echo of the emptiness which the Elohim had imposed upon him in Elemesnedene.

That silence comprised the only safety he had known in this world. It was a leper's answer to despair, a state of detachment and passivity made complete by the deadness of every nerve which should have conveyed import. The Elohim had not invented it: they had simply incarnated in him the special nature of his doom. To feel nothing and die.

Linden had once redeemed him from that fate. But now he was beaten. He made decisions, not because he believed in them, but because they were expected of him. He did not have the heart to face the Soulbiter.

In the days that followed, he went through the ordinary motions of being alive. He drank enough diamondraught to account for his mute distance to the people who watched him. He slept in the galley, took brief walks, acknowledged greetings and conversations like a living man. But inwardly he was becoming untouchable. After years of discipline and defiance, of stubborn argument against the seduction of his illness, he gave the effort up.

And still Starfare's Gem ploughed a straight furrow across the grey and gravid sea while the wind blew arctic outrage. Except for a few worn paths here and there, the decks were now clenched with ice, overgrown like an old ruin. Its sheer weight was enough to make the Giants nervous; but they could not spare time or strength to clear the crust away. There was too much water in the wind: the blow sheared too much spray off the battered waves. And that damp collected in the sails faster than it could be beaten clear. At intervals, one stretch of canvas or another became too heavy to hold. The wind rent it out of its shrouds. A hail of ice-slivers swept the decks; tattered scraps of sail were left flapping like broken hands from the spars. Then the Giants were forced to clew new canvas up the yards. Bereft of its midmast, the granite dromond needed all its sails or none.

Day after day, the shrill whine of the rigging and the groans of the stone became louder, more distressed. The sea looked like fluid ice, and Starfare's Gem was dragged forward against ever-increasing resistance. Yet the Giantship was stubborn. Its masts flexed and shivered, but did not shatter. Grinding its teeth against the gale, Starfare's Gem endured.

When the change came, it took everyone by surprise. Rest had restored the combative smoulder to Linden's eyes, and she had been fretting for days against the maddening pressure of the blast and the constriction of the galley; but even she did not see what was coming. And the Giants had no warning at all.

At one moment, Starfare's Gem was riding the howl of the wind through the embittered heart of a cloud-dark night. At the next, the dromond pitched forward like a destrier with locked forelegs; and the gale was gone. The suddenness of the silence staggered the vessel like a detonation. There was no sound except the faint clink and crash of ice falling from the slack sails. Linden Jerked her percipience from side to side, probing the ship. In astonishment, she muttered, “We've stopped. Just like that”

For an instant, no one moved. Then Mistweave strode to me forward door, kicked it out of its frost. Cold as pure as absolute winter came flowing inward; but it had no wind behind it. The air across the Giantship was still.

Shouts sprang along the decks. In spite of his inward silence, Covenant followed Mistweave and Linden out into the night.

The clouds were gone: the dark was as clear and sharp as a knife-edge. Spots of light marked out the Giantship as the crew lit more lanterns. Near the eastern horizon stood the moon, yellow and doleful. It was nearly full, but appeared to shed no illumination, cast no reflection onto the black and secret face of the water. The stars littered the sky in every direction, all their portents lost. Linden muttered to herself, “What in hell-?” But she seemed unable to complete the question.

Honninscrave and Pitchwife approached from opposite ends of the ship. When the First joined them, Pitchwife said with unconvincing nonchalance, “It appears that we are here.”

Covenant felt too numb to be cold. But Linden was shivering violently beside him. In a bitten voice, she asked, “What do we do now?”

“Do?” replied Honninscrave distantly. His visage was benighted, devoid of content. “This is the Soulbiter. We must await its will.” Plumes of steam came from his mouth as if his spirit escaped him at every word.

Its will Covenant thought dumbly. My will. Foul's will. Nothing made any difference. Silence was safety. If he could not have hope, he would accept numbness. Returning to the galley, he curled up on his pallet and fell immediately asleep.

But the next morning he was awakened by the cold and the quiet. The stoves put out no heat. Except for Cail, the galley was deserted. Abandoned. Starfare's Gem lay as still as if he and the Haruchai were the only people left aboard.