White Gold Wielder

Damnation!

The ship's plight stung him like the gusts which came skirling off the ice. In the Land, the Clave was feeding the Banefire, stoking it with innocent blood to increase the Sunbane. No one remained to fight the na-Mhoram's depredations except Sunder and Hollian and perhaps a handful of Haruchai- if any of them were still alive. The quest for the One Tree had failed, extinguishing Covenant's sole hope. And now — !

Have mercy on me.

But he was a leper, and there was never any mercy for lepers. Despite did not forbear. He had reached the point where everything he did was wrong. Even his stubborn determination to cling to his ring, to bear the cost of his doom himself, was wrong. But he could not endure the alternative. The simple thought wrung a mute howl from the pit of his heart.

He had to do something, find some way to reaffirm himself. Passivity and silence were no longer viable. His despair itself compelled him. He had to-Linden had proved the Elohim right. With his ring she was able to heal. But he could not forget the taste of eager fire when he had warmed the stewpot to save her. Had to! He could not give it up. His ring was all he had left.

He had become the most fundamental threat to everything he loved. But suddenly that was no longer enough to stop him. Deliberately, he set aside Linden's reasons-her wish to see him do what she believed she would do in his place, her desire to fight Lord Foul through him-and chose his own.

To show himself and his companions and the Despiser if necessary that he had the right.

Without looking away from the ice, he said to Cail, “Tell Honninscrave I want to talk to him. I want to talk to everybody-the First, Linden, Pitchwife. In his cabin.”

When the Haruchai moved soundlessly away Covenant hugged the scant protection of his robe and set himself to wait.

The idea of what he meant to do made his pulse beat like venom in his veins.

There was blue in the sky, the first blue he had seen for days. A crusty glitter reflected the sun. But the ice was not as smooth as the sunlight made it appear. Its surface was marked with sharp spines and ridges, mounds where floe-plates rubbed and depressions which ran from nowhere to nowhere. The ice was a wasteland, its desolation grieving in the cold, and it held his gaze like the outcome of his life. Once in winter he had fought his way through long leagues of snow and despair to confront the Despiser-and he had prevailed. But he knew now that he would never prevail in that way again.

He shrugged against the chill. He would find some other way. Even if the attempt drove him mad. Madness was just a less predictable and scrupulous form of power. And he did not believe that either Lord Foul or Findail had told him the whole truth.

Yet he did not intend to surrender his scruples or go mad. His leprosy had trained him well for survival and affirmation against an impossible future. And Foamfollower had once said to him. Service enables service. Hope came from the power and value of what was served, not from the one who served it.

When Cail returned Covenant felt that he was ready. Slowly, carefully, he turned from the sea and picked his way across Ac clogged stone toward one of the entryways to the under-decks.

Below, the door to Honninscrave's cabin was open; and beside it stood Mistweave. His face wore a conflicted expression Covenant guessed that the Giant had undertaken more than he realized when he had assigned himself to Cail's former responsibility for Linden. How could he have foreseen that his dedication to her would require him to ignore the needs of the dromond and the labours of the crew? The dilemma made him look unsure of himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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