White Gold Wielder

Pitchwife came over to Linden and Covenant “You have slept well, my friends,” he said, chuckling as if he were inured to the expectancy which filled the air. “Stone and Seal this vitrim is a hale beverage. A touch of its savour commingled with our diamondraught would gladden even the dullest palate. Life be praised, I have at last found the role which will make my name forever sung among the Giants. Behold!” With a flourish, he indicated his belt which was behung on all sides with leather vitrim-skins. “It will be my dear task to bear this roborant to my people, that they may profit from its potency in the blending of a new liquor. And that unsurpassable draught will be named pitchbrew for all the Earth to adore.” he laughed. “Then will my fame outmeasure even that of great Bahgoon himself!”

The misshapen Giant's banter drew a smile from Linden. But Covenant had climbed out of sleep into the same mood with which the peril of the Waynhim had first afflicted him. Frowning at Pitchwife's humour, he demanded. “What's going on?”

The Giant sobered rapidly. “Ah, Giantfriend,” he sighed, “you have slept long and long. Noon has come to the wasteland, and the Waynhim are gathered to prepare for battle. Although the arghuleh advance slowly, they are now within sight of this covert. I conceive that the outcome of their conflict will be determined ere sunset.”

Covenant swore to himself. He did not want the crisis to be so near at hand.

Linden was facing him. In her controlled, professional voice, she said, “There's still time.”

“Time to get out of here?” he returned sourly. “Let them go out there and probably get butchered as a race without so much as one sympathetic witness to at least grieve? Forget it.”

Her eyes flared. “That isn't what I meant.” Anger sharpened the lines of her face. “I don’t like deserting people any more than you do. Maybe I don't have your background”- she snarled the word- “but I can still see what Bamako and. the Waynhim are worth. You know me better than that.” Then she took a deep breath, steadied herself. Still glaring at him, she said, “What I meant was, there's still time to ask them about Vain.”

Covenant felt like a knotted thunderhead, livid and incapable of release. Her pointed jibe about his background underscored the extent to which he had falsified their relationship. From the time of their first meeting on Haven Farm, he had withheld things from her, arguing that she did not have the background to understand them. And this was the result Everything be said to or heard from the woman he loved became gall.

But he could not afford release. Lord Foul was probably already gloating at the possibility that he Covenant, might unleash wild magic to aid the Waynhim. Grimly, he stifled his desire to make some acerbic retort. Instead, he replied, “No. I don't want to hear it from Hamako. I don't want to let Findail off the hook.”

Deliberately, he turned toward the Appointed. But Findail met him with the same trammelled and impenetrable rue with which he had rebuffed every challenge or appeal. More to answer Linden than to attack Findail, Covenant concluded, “I'm waiting for this bloody Elohim to discover the honesty if not the simple decency to start telling the truth.” Findail's yellow eyes darkened; but he said nothing.

Linden looked back and forth between Covenant and the Appointed. Then she nodded. Speaking as if Findail were not present, she said, “I hope he makes up his mind soon. I don't like the idea of having to face the Clave when they still know more about Vain than we do.”

Grateful for at least that much acceptance from her Covenant tried to smile. But he achieved only a grimace.

The Waynhim were milling around the cavern, moving as if each of them wanted to speak to everyone else before the crisis; and their low, barking voices thickened the atmosphere. But the Giants were no longer among them. Honninscrave leaned against one wall, detached and lonely, his head bowed. Pitchwife had remained with Covenant, Linden, and Cail. And the First and Mistweave stood together near the opposite side of the space. Mistweave's stance was one of pleading; but the First met whatever he said angrily. When be beseeched her further, her reply cracked over the noise of the Waynhim.

“You are mortal. Giant. Such choices are harsh to any who must make them. But failure is only failure. It is not unworth, You are sworn and dedicate to the Search, if not to the Chosen, and I will not release you.”

Sternly, she left his plain dismay, marched through the throng toward the rest of her companions. When she reached them, she answered their mute questions by saying, “He is shamed.” She looked at Linden. “His life you saved when Covenant Giantfriend's was at risk. Now he deems that his indecision in your need is unpardonable. He asks to be given to the Waynhim, that he may seek expiation in their battle.” Unnecessarily, she added, “I have refused him.”

Linden muttered a curse. “I didn't ask him to serve me. He doesn't need- “

Abruptly, she cried, “Honninscrave! Don't!” But the Master did not heed her. Fury clenched in his fists, he strode toward Mistweave as though he meant to punish the Giant's distress.

Linden started after him; the First stopped her. In silence, they watched as Honninscrave stalked up to his crewmember. Confronting Mistweave, the Master stabbed one massive finger at the Giant's sore heart as if he knew the exact location of Mistweave's bafflement. His jaws chewed excoriations; but the interchanges of the Waynhim covered his voice.

Softly, the First said, “He is the Master. It is enough for me that he has found room in his own pain for Mistweave. He will do no true harm to one who has served him aboard Starfare's Gem.”

Linden nodded. But her mouth was tight with frustration and empathy, and she did not take her eyes off Mistweave.

At first, Mistweave flinched from what Honninscrave was saying. Then a hot belligerence rose up in him, and he raised one fist like a threat. But Honninscrave caught hold of Mistweave's arm and snatched it down, thrust his jutting beard into Mistweave's face. After a moment, Mistweave acquiesced. His eyes did not lose then heat; but he accepted the stricture Honninscrave placed upon him. Slowly, the ire faded from the Master's stance.

Covenant let a sigh through his teeth.

Then Hamako appeared among the Waynhim, came toward the company. His gaze was bright in the light of the braziers. His movements hinted at fever or anticipation. In his hands he bore a long scimitar that looked like it had been fashioned of old bone. Without preamble, he said, “The time has come. The arghuleh draw nigh. We must issue forth to give combat. What will you do? You must not remain here. There is no other egress, and if the entrance is sealed you will be ensnared.”

The First started to reply; but Covenant forestalled her. Venom nagged at the skin of his forearm. “We'll follow you out,” he said roughly. “We're going to watch until we figure out the best way to help.” To the protest in Bamako's mien, he added, 'Stop worrying about us. We've survived worse. If everything else goes to hell and damnation, well find some way to escape.”

A grin momentarily softened Hamako's tension. “Thomas Covenant,” he said in a voice like a salute, “I would that we had met in kinder times.” Then he raised his scimitar, turned on his heel, and started toward the throat of the cavern.

Bearing curved, bony daggers like smaller versions of Hamako's blade, all the Waynhim followed him as if they had chosen him to lead them to their doom.

They numbered nearly two hundred, but they needed only a few moments to march out of the cavern, leaving the company behind in the undiminished firelight Honninscrave and Mistweave came to join their companions. The First looked at Covenant and Linden, then at the other Giants. None of them demurred. Linden's face was pale. but she held herself firm. Pitchwife's features worked as if he could not find the right jest to ease his tension. In their separate ways, the First, Mistweave, and Honninscrave looked as unbreachable as Cail.

Covenant nodded bitterly. Together, he and his friends turned their backs on warmth and safety, went out to meet the winter.

In the tunnel, he felt the temperature begin to drop almost immediately. The change made no difference to his numb fingers and feet; but he sashed his robe tight as if in that way he might be able to protect his courage. Past the branchings of the passage he followed the Waynhim until the company reached the rude antechamber where the sleds were. Mutely. Honninscrave and Mistweave took the lines. Their breath had begun to steam. Firelight transmuted the wisps of vapour to gold.

The entrance to the rhyshyshim was open; and cold came streaming inward, hungry to extinguish tins hidden pocket of comfort. Deep in Covenant's guts, shivers mounted. His robe had previously kept him alive, if not warm; but now it seemed an insignificant defence against the frozen winter. When he looked at Linden, she answered as if his thoughts were palpable to her:

“I don't know how many. Enough.”