White Gold Wielder

Her grief hurt him like the raw acid of his guilt. This, too, was on his head. He wanted to descend from the hammock, go to her, take her in his arms; but he had forfeited that privilege. There was nothing he could do but fight back his own rue and protest, “It’s not your fault, You tried. I should’ve told you. You would’ve saved me if you could.”

The vehemence of her reaction took him by surprise. “Stop that!” she spat. “I’ve got eyes! A mind of my own! I’m not some innocent kid you can protect.” The sun flashed on her face. “You’ve been lying down here ever since we came back aboard as if you were to blame for everything. But you’re not. Foul set this up. He manipulated you into it. What’re you trying to do now? Prove him right?”

“I can’t help it!” he retorted, stung by the salt she rubbed into his futility. “Of course he’s right. Who do you think he is? He’s me. He’s just an externalization of the part of me that despises. The part that- “

“No.” Her contradiction cut him off, though she did not shout. She had become too clenched and furious for shouting, too extreme to be denied. “He’s not you. He’s not the one who’s going to die.” She might have said, I’m the one who kills-The words were plain in every line of her visage. But her passion carried her past that recognition as if she could not bear it in any other way. “Everybody makes mistakes. But all you’ve done is try to fight for what you love. You have an answer. I don’t.” The heat of her assertion contained no self-pity. “I haven’t had one since this thing started. I don’t know the Land the way you do. I haven’t got any power. All I’ve been able to do is follow you around.” Her hands rose into fists. “If you’re going to die, do something to make it count!”

Then like a quick touch of ice he realised that she had not come here to question him simply because the First desired a destination. She wants to know where we’re going. Her father had killed himself and blamed her for it; and she had killed her mother with her own hands; and now his, Covenant’s death seemed as certain as the Desecration of the Earth. But those things served only to give her the purpose he had lost. She was wearing her old severity now — the same rigid self-punishment and determination with which she had defied him from the moment of their first meeting. Yet the fierce fire in her eyes was new. And he recognised it. It was the unanswered anger of her grief, and it swept all costs aside in its desire for battle.

You’ve decided to give up?

Her demand made his failure as acute as agony. He could have shouted, I don’t have any choice! He beat me! There’s nothing I can do!

But he knew better. He was a leper and knew better. Leprosy itself was defeat, complete and incurable. Yet even lepers had reasons to go on living. Atiaran had told him that it was the task of the living to give meaning to the sacrifices of the dead; but now saw that the truth went further: to give meaning to his own death. And to the prices the people he loved had already paid.

In the name of Linden’s harsh insistence, he sat up in the hammock and asked hoarsely, “What do you want?”

His response seemed to steady her. The bitter pressure of her loss eased somewhat. In a hard voice, she said, “I want you to go back to the Land. To Revelstone. And stop the Clave. Put out the Banefire.” He drew a hissing breath at the sheer audacity of what she required; but she went on without heeding him, “If you do that, the Sunbane'll slow down. Maybe it'll even recede. That'll give us time to look for a better answer.”

Then she surprised him again by faltering. She did not face him as she concluded, “Maybe I don't care about the Land the way you do. I was too scared to go into Andelain. I've never seen what it used to be like. But I know sickness when I see it. Even if I weren't a doctor, I'd have the Sunbane carved on me in places where I'll never be able to forget it. I want to do something about that. I don't have anything else. The only way I can fight is through you.”

As she spoke, echoes of power capered in Covenant's veins. He heard what she was saying; but his fear took him back to the beginning. Stop the Clave? Put out the Banefire? In blunt alarm, he replied, “That'll be a lot of fun. What in hell makes you believe I can even think about things like that without endangering the Arch?”

She met him with a sour smile, humourless and certain. “Because you know how to restrain yourself now. I felt it when you called back all that wild magic and used it to send me away. You're more dangerous now than you've ever been. To Lord Foul.”

For a moment, he held the look she gave him. But then his eyes fell. No. It was still too much: he was not ready. The ruin of his life was hardly a day old. How was it possible to talk about fighting, when the Despiser had already defeated him? He had only one power, and it had been transformed by venom and falsehood into a graver threat than any Sunbane. What she wanted was madness. He did not have it in him.

Yet he had to make some reply She had borne too many burdens for him. And he loved her. She had the right to place demands upon him.

So he groped in bitter shame for a way out, for something he might say or do which would at least postpone the necessity of decision. Still without meeting Linden's stare, he muttered sourly, 'There're too many things I don't understand. I need to talk to Findail.”

He thought that would deflect her. From the moment when the Appointed of the Elohim had first attached himself to the Search, he had never come or gone at any behest but that of his own secret wisdom or cunning. Yet if anyone possessed the knowledge to win free of this defeat, surely his people did.

And surely also he would not come here simply because the Unbeliever asked for him? Covenant would gain at least that much respite while Linden tried to persuade Findail.

But she did not hesitate-and did not leave the cabin. Turning to face the prow, she rasped the name of the Appointed stridently, as if she expected to be obeyed.

Almost at once, the sunlight seemed to condense against the wall; and Findail came flowing out of the stone into human form as though he had been waiting there for her call.

His appearance was unchanged: behind his creamy mantle and unkempt silver hair, within his bruised yellow eyes, he looked like an incarnation of all the world's misery, an image of every hurt and stress that did not touch his tranquil and self absorbed people. Where they were deliberately graceful and comely, be was haggard and pain- carved. He appeared to be their antithesis and contradiction a role which appalled him.

Yet something must have changed for him. Before the crisis of the One Tree, he would not have answered any summons. But his manner remained as distant and disapproving as ever. Though he nodded an acknowledgment to Linden, his voice held a note of reproof. “I hear you. Vehemence is not needful.”

His tone made no impression on Linden. Bracing her fists on her hips, she addressed him as if he had not spoken. “This has gone on long enough,” she said stiffly. “Now we need answers.”

Findail did not glance at Covenant. In Elemesnedene, the Elohim had treated Covenant as if he were of no personal importance; and now the Appointed seemed to take that stance again. He asked Linden, “Is it the ring-wielder's intent to surrender his ring?”

At once Covenant snapped, “No!” Refusals ran in him like echoes of old delirium. Never give him the ring. Never. It was all that remained to him.

“Then,” Findail sighed, “I must answer as I may, hoping to persuade him from his folly.”

Linden glanced up at Covenant, looking for his questions. But he was too close to his internal precipice: he could not think clearly. Too many people wanted him to surrender his ring. It was the only thing which still wedded him to life, made his choices matter. He did not respond to Linden's gaze.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, gauged his condition. Then, as if she were wrenching herself back from a desire to comfort him, she turned away, faced Findail again.

“Why-?” She spoke with difficulty, wrestling words past a knot in her chest. “I hardly know where to begin. There's so much-Why did you people do it?” Abruptly, her voice became stronger, full of indignation she had never been able to forget. “What in God's name did you think you were doing? All he wanted was the location of the One Tree. You could've given him a straight answer. But instead you locked him in that silence of yours.” They had imposed a stasis upon his mind. If Linden had not risked herself to rescue him, he would have remained an empty husk until he died, blank of thought or desire. And the price she had paid for that rescue-! Her outrage pulled him into focus with her as she concluded, “You're responsible for this. How can you stand to live with yourself?”

Findail's expression turned into a glower. As soon as she stopped, he replied, “Does it appear to you that I am made glad by the outcome of my Appointment? Is not my life at hazard as much as yours? Yes, as much and more, for you will depart when your time is ended, but I must remain and bear the cost. The fault is not mine.”

Linden started to protest; but the gathering sadness in his tone halted her. “No, do not rail against me. I am