White Gold Wielder

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 desirable-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 travellers 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 ground-sheets, 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 ground-sheet 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 ground-sheet.

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 ground-sheet. 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, the 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.

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.