White Gold Wielder

release me. Hear me you whom I have loved to this cost Is there no love left in you for me?”

“Seadreamer,” Linden groaned. Honninscrave gave a cry that tore frozen flesh around his mouth, sent brief drops of blood into his beard. The First panted faintly, “No. I am the First of the Search. I will not endure it.” But none of them moved. The cold had become irrefragable. Its victory was accomplished. Already Seadreamer was almost directly opposite Covenant's position. Soon he would pass amidships, and then he would be gone, and the people of Starfare's Gem would be left with nothing except abomination and rue and cold.

It was intolerable. Seadreamer had given his life to save Covenant from destroying the Earth. Prevented by muteness from sharing the Earth-Sight, he had placed his own flesh in the path of the world's doom. purchasing a reprieve for the people he loved. And Covenant had refused to grant him the simple decency of a caamora. It was too much.

In pain and dismay Covenant moved. With a curse that splintered the silence, he burned his hands off the rail. Wild magic pulsed through him like the hot ichor of grief: white fire burst out of his ring like rage. “We're going to lose him!” he howled at the Giants. “Get a rope!”

An instant later, the First wrenched herself free. Her iron voice rang across the Giantship: “No!”

Jerking toward the mooring of a nearby ratline, she snatched up one of the belaying pins. “Avaunt, demon!” she yelled. “We will not hear you”

Fierce with fury and revulsion, she hurled the pin straight at Seadreamer.

The Giants gaped as her projectile flashed through him.

It struck a chip from the edge of the ice and skipped away into the sea, splashing distinctly. At once, his form wavered. He tried to speak again; but already he had dissolved into mirage. The floe drifted emptily away toward the south.

While Covenant stared, the fire rushed out of him, quenched again by the cold.

But an instant later the spell broke with an audible crackle and shatter of ice. Linden lifted raw hands to her face, blinked her cold gouged eyes. Coughing and cursing, Honninscrave reeled back from the rail. “Move, sluggards!” His shout scattered flecks of blood. “Ware the wind!” Relief and dismay were etched in frost on different parts of Pitchwife's face.

Numbly, the other Giants turned from the vista of the sea. Some seemed unable to understand what had happened; others struggled in mounting haste toward their stations. Seasauce and Hearthcoal bustled back to the galley as if they were ashamed of their prolonged absence. The First and Galewrath moved among the slower crewmembers, shaking or manhandling them into a semblance of alertness. Honninscrave strode grimly in the direction of the wheeldeck.

A moment later, one of the sails rattled in its gear, sending down a shower of frozen dust; and the first Giant to ascend the ratlines gave a hoarse call:

“The south!”

A dark moil of clouds was already visible above the dromond’s taffrail. The gale was coming back.

Covenant wondered momentarily how Starfare's Gem would be able to navigate through the flotilla of icebergs in such a wind-or how the ice-laden sails would survive if the blast hit White Cold Wielder too suddenly, too hard. But then he forgot everything else because Linden was fainting and he was too far away to reach her. Mistweave barely caught her in time to keep her from cracking her head open on the stone deck.

Four: Sea of Ice

THE first gusts hit the Giantship at an angle, heeling it heavily to port. But then the main force of the wind came up against the stern, and Starfare's Gem righted with a wrench as the sails snapped and bellied and the blast tried to claw them away. The dromond lay so massively in the viscid sea that for a moment it seemed unable to move. The upper spars screamed. Abruptly, Dawngreeter split from top to bottom, and wind tore shrilling through the rent.

But then Starfare's Gem gathered its legs under it, thrust forward, and the pressure eased. As the clouds came boiling overhead, the Giantship took hold of itself and began to run.

In the first moments, Honninscrave and the steerswoman. were tested to their limits by the need to avoid collision with the nearest bergs. Under these frigid conditions, any contact might have burst the granite of the dromond's flanks like dry wood. But soon the flotilla began to thin ahead of the ship. Starfare's Gem was coming to the end of the Soulbiter. The wind continued to scale upward; but now the immediate danger receded. The dromond had been fashioned to withstand such blasts.

But Covenant was oblivious to the ship and the wind: he was fighting for Linden's life. Mistweave had carried her into the galley, where the cooks laboured to bring back the heat of their stoves; but once the Giant had laid her down on her pallet Covenant shouldered him aside. Pitchwife followed Cail into the galley and offered his help Covenant ignored him. Cursing with methodical vehemence under his breath, he chaffed her wrists, rubbed her cheeks, and waited for the cooks to warm some water.

She was too pale-The movement of her chest was so slight that he could hardly believe it. Her skin had the texture of wax. It looked like it would peel away if he rubbed it too hard. He slapped and massaged her forearms, her shoulders, the sides of her neck with giddy desperation pounding in his temples. Between curses, he reiterated his demand for water.

“It will come,” muttered Seasauce. His own impatience made him sound irate. “The stoves are cold. I have no theurgy to hasten fire.”

“She isn't a Giant,” Covenant responded without looking away from Linden. “It doesn't have to boil.”

Pitchwife squatted at Linden's head, thrust a leather flask into Covenant's view. “Here is diamondraught.”

Covenant did not pause; but he shifted his efforts down to her hips and legs, making room for Pitchwife.

Cupping one huge palm under her head, the Giant lifted her into a half-sitting posture. Carefully, he raised the mouth of his flask to her lips.

Liquid dribbled from the corners of her mouth. In dismay, Covenant saw that she was not swallowing. Her chest rose as she inhaled; but no gag reflex prevented her from breathing the potent liquor.

At the sight, his mind went white with fire. The hysteria of venom and power coursed through his muscles- keen argent fretted with reminders of midnight and murder. He thrust Pitchwife away as if the Giant were a child.

But he dared not try to reach heat into Linden. Without any health-sense to guide him. he would be more likely to kill than warm her. Swallowing flame, he wrenched her onto her side, hit her once between the shoulder blades, twice, hoping to dislodge the fluid from her lungs. Then he pressed her to her back again, tilted her head as he had been taught, clasped shut her nose, and with his mouth over hers started breathing urgently down her throat, Almost at once, effort and restraint made him dizzy. He no longer knew how to find the still point of strength in the centre of his whirling fears. He had no power to save her life except the one he could not use.

“Giantfriend.” Hearthcoal's voice came from a great distance. “Here is a stewpot able to hold her.”

Covenant's head jerked up. For an instant, he gaped incomprehension at the cook. Then he rapped out, “Fill it!” and clamped his mouth back over Linden's.

A muffled thunder of water poured into the huge stone pot. Wind shrieked in the hawseholes, plucked juddering ululations from the shrouds. Around Covenant, the galley began to spin. Head up: inhale. Head down: exhale. He had no way to keep his balance except with fire. In another moment, he was going to erupt or lose consciousness, he did not know which.

Then Seasauce said, “It is ready.” Pitchwife touched Covenant's shoulder. Scooping his arms under Linden, Covenant tried to unknot his cramped muscles, stand erect.