The One Tree

forgotten peril: his eyes burned like fanned coals of hope. Only the Haruchai betrayed no reaction to the ambience. They bore themselves as if they could not be touched. Or as if they saw the effect of the air on their companions-and did not trust it.

Honninscrave faced the valley with his hands knotted. “Have I not said it?” he breathed softly. “Lovely and perilous.” Then, with an effort, he turned to the First. “Let us not delay. It ill becomes us to relate our purpose in this place.”

“Speak of yourself, Master,” Pitchwife replied like a gleam. “I am very well become to stand and savour such air as this.”

The First nodded as if she were agreeing with her husband. But then she addressed Honninscrave. “It is as you have said. We four, with Covenant Giantfriend, the Chosen, and their Haruchai, will go in search of these Elohim. Caution Sevinhand Anchormaster to give no offense to any being who may chance upon him here.”

The Master bowed in acknowledgment, started toward the wheeldeck. But the First stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“You also I will caution,” she said quietly. “We must be wary of what we attempt to buy and sell with these folk. I will have no offers made, or gifts asked, without my consent.”

At once, Honninscrave’s mien hardened. Linden thought that he would refuse to understand. But he chose a different denial. “This life is mine. I will barter with it as I desire.”

Covenant looked at the Giants with guesses leaping in his gaze. In a tone of studied nonchalance, he said, “Hile Troy felt the same way. So far, it's cost him more than three thousand years.”

“No.” The First ignored Covenant, met Honninscrave squarely. “It is not yours. You are the Master of Starfare's Gem, sworn and dedicate to the Search. I will not lose you.”

Rebellions tautened Honninscrave's forehead, emphasizing the way his brows buttressed his eyes. But after a moment he acceded, “I hear you.” His voice was roughed by conflict. Turning, he went to give his commands to Sevinhand.

The First studied his back as he departed. When he was gone, she spoke to Linden. “Observe him well, Chosen. Inform me of what you see. I must not lose him.”

Not lose him, Linden echoed. Her answering nod had no meaning. If Honninscrave was in danger, then so was she.

While the Master conferred with Sevinhand, a rope-ladder was secured above the longboat. As soon as Honninscrave was ready, Ceer and Hergrom swarmed down to the craft to hold the ladder for the rest of the company. Seadreamer joined them, seated himself at the first set of oars. The First's blunt nod sent Pitchwife after Seadreamer. Then she turned to Covenant and Linden, waiting for them.

Linden felt a sharp emanation of abashment from Covenant. “I'm no good at ladders,” he muttered awkwardly. The fumbling of his hands indicated both their numbness and his old vertigo. But then he shrugged. “So what? Brinn can always catch me.” With his shoulders clenched, he moved to the railing.

Brinn went protectively ahead of the Unbeliever. Bracing his arms on either side of Covenant, he kept the ur-Lord as safe as a hammock. Vaguely, Linden wondered if there were any danger the Haruchai could not match. That they judged her for her weaknesses should have been no surprise.

When her turn came, she followed Cail downward. Pitchwife steadied her as she dropped into the bottom of the slightly rocking boat. Carefully, she seated herself opposite Covenant.

The next moment, a shout of surprise and warning echoed off the dromond. Vain came lightly over the side, descending the ladder as easily as a born sailor. Yet as soon as he was aboard the longboat he lapsed back into immobility.

The First and Honninscrave followed at once, anticipating trouble. But Vain did not react to them. She looked at Covenant: he answered with a shrug of disavowal. She frowned as if she wanted to heave Vain overboard; but instead she sat down dourly in the stern of the longboat.

Honninscrave took the other set of oars. Stroking together, the two brothers sent the craft skimming toward the shore near the mouth of the Callowwail.

As they rode, Linden tried to do something to ease or distract Covenant's knotted rigidity. Because she could think of nothing new to say about Vain, she commented instead, “You've talked about Hile Troy before. The Forestal of Andelain. But you never told me what happened to him.”

Covenant seemed unable to take his eyes away from the Rim. “I wasn't there.” Or perhaps he did not want to acknowledge the point of her question. 'The story is that he and Mhoram tried to bargain with Caerroil Wildwood, the Forestal of Garroting Deep. Troy's army was caught between one of Foul's Giant-Ravers and Garroting Deep. In those days, the Forestal killed anyone who had the gall to set foot in his forest. Troy wanted to save his army by luring the Giant-Raver into the Deep. He and Mhoram were trying to bargain for a safe- conduct.

“Caerroil Wildwood said there was a price for his help. Troy didn't ask any questions. He just said he'd pay it.”

With a grimace, Covenant looked at Linden. He was glaring, but his ire was not directed toward her. “The price was Troy's life. He was transformed into some sort of apprentice Forestal. Ever since, he's been living the life Caerroil Wildwood chose for him.” Covenant's hot stare reminded her that he was a man who had already paid extravagant prices. He meant to pay them again, if he had to.

Shortly, the longboat ground into the shingle which edged the lagoon. Ceer and Hergrom sprang out to hold the craft as the others disembarked. While Honninscrave and Seadreamer secured the longboat, Linden climbed to the first fringe of the grass which led away into the trees. The air felt stronger here-a crisp and tranquil exudation from the valley ahead. Her nose thrilled to the piquant scents of fall. A backward glance showed her the Giantship. It appeared small against the dark uprise of the Rawedge Rim. With its sails furled, its masts and spars stark in the half-light, it looked like a toy on the still surface of the lagoon.

Covenant stood near her. His stiff frown could not conceal the moiling within him; venom; power; people dying in the Land; doubt. They were a volatile mixture, crowding close to deflagration. She wondered if he were truly prepared to sell himself to gain access to the One Tree. Yes, she could see that he was. But if the Elohim were not to be trusted-?

Honninscrave interrupted her thoughts. With Pitchwife, the First, and Seadreamer, he came up the shingle in long Giantish strides. Then he gestured toward the trees. “Yonder lies Woodenwold,” he said in a tight voice. “Our way is there, along the Callowwail. I adjure you to touch nothing. Harm nothing! In this place, appearances deceive. Mayhap Woodenwold is another thorp of the Elohim, like unto Elemesnedene itself.”

Covenant scowled in that direction. 'How much farther? When are we going to meet these Elohim?'

The Master's reply was sharp. “We will not meet them. Perchance they will elect to meet us. If we give them no offense.”

Covenant met Honninscrave's hard gaze. After a moment, the Unbeliever nodded, swallowing the bile of his thoughts.

No one stirred. The air seemed to hold them back, urging them to accept this gentleness and be content. But then Ceer and Hergrom started forward; and the stasis of the company was broken. The First and Honninscrave went after the two Haruchai, followed by Linden and Covenant, Cail and Brinn, Seadreamer and Pitchwife. And behind them came Vain, walking as if he were blind and deaf. In this formation, they approached the River Callowwail and the marge of Woodenwold.

As they neared the trees, Hergrom and Ceer found a natural way along the riverbank. Soon the quest was among the woods, moving toward sunlight. Woodenwold was dense with oak and sycamore, ash and maple punctuated by willow, old cottonwood, and young mimosa. In the shadow of the Rim, they shared the mood of the dour stone: their browns and greens were underscored by gray and ire. But when the sun touched them, they sprang instantly into vibrant autumn blazonry. Crossing the shadowline, the companions passed from gray into glory. Woodenwold was an ignition of colour-flaming red and orange, sparkling yellow, russet and warm brown. And leaves danced about their feet as they walked, wreathing their legs in gay anadems so that they seemed to trail fire and loveliness at every step. Among them, Linden walked as if each stride carried her farther from her mortality.