The One Tree

The distance passed without effort as the mountains retreated on either hand to make room for the valley. The River Callowwail chuckled like the glee of leaves beside the company. It was not a wide river, but its depths were full of life and sun-spangles. Its waters shone like a new birth. The light of midday gleamed, clinquant and refulgent, on every tree bough and swath of grass.

Around her, Linden thought she heard the sound of bells. They rang delicately in the distance, enhancing the woods with music. But none of her companions appeared to notice the chiming; and she could not stop to question it. It felt like the language of the trees, tanging and changing until it formed words she almost understood, though the meaning slipped away into music whenever she tried to grasp it. The bells were as lovely as the leaves; and yet in a vague way they disquieted her. She was troubled by an intuitive sense that she needed to comprehend them.

Ahead of her, Woodenwold was thinning, opening, The trees spread north and south around the foothills of the Rim; but along the Callowwail, Woodenwold faded into a sun-yellow lea which filled the whole bottom of the valley. Between the company and the mountains, purple with distance, which closed the east lay one wide bowl of golden grass, marked only by the line of the Callowwail as it curved slowly northeastward toward its source.

Honninscrave halted among the last trees. Indicating the lea, he said, “This the Elohim name the maidan of Elemesnedene. At its centre lies the clachan itself, the spring and fountain of the Callowwail. But that clachan we will never find without the guidance of the Elohim. If they do not choose to meet us, we will wander the maidan as it were a maze, and there we will leave our bones to nourish the grass.”

The First studied him narrowly. “What then is your counsel?”

“This,” he said, “that we remain here, awaiting the goodwill of these folk. This is their land, and we are in their hands. Here, at least, if we are not welcomed we may return unmazed to Starfare's Gem and cast about us for some other hope.”

The First made some reply; but Linden did not hear her. The sound of bells became abruptly louder, filling her ears. Again, the chiming reminded her of language. Do you-? she asked her companions. Do you hear bells? For the space of several heartbeats, she was unaware that she had not spoken aloud. The music seemed to enter her mind without touching her ears.

Then the company was no longer alone. With an eldritch concatenation like the slow magic of dreams, the belling swirled around the trunk of a nearby ash; and a figure flowed out of the wood. It did not detach itself from the tree, was not hidden against the bark: from within the ash, it stepped forward as if it were modulating into a new form. Features emerged as the figure shaped itself: eyes like chrysoprase, delicate brows, a fine nose and soft mouth. Wattle-slim and straight, deft and proud, with a grave smile on her lips and a luminous welcome in her gaze, the woman came forward like an incarnation of the soul of the ash in which she had been contained; and her departure left no mark of presence or absence in the wood. A cymar draped her limbs like the finest sendaline.

Linden stared. Her companions started in surprise. The Haruchai were poised on the balls of their feet. Covenant's mouth opened and closed involuntarily.

But Honninscrave faced the approaching woman and bowed as if she were worthy of worship.

She stopped before them. Her smile radiated power of such depth and purity that Linden could hardly bear to look at it. The woman was a being who transcended any health-sense. Softly, she said, “I am pleased that you so desire our goodwill.” Her voice also was music; but it did not explicate the ringing in Linden's mind. “I am Daphin.” Then she nodded to Honninscrave's bow. “You are Giants. We have known Giants.”

Still the bells confused Linden, so that she was not sure of what she was hearing.

Daphin turned to Brinn. “You we do not know. Perhaps the tale of your people will interest us.”

The chiming grew louder. Daphin was gazing directly at Linden. Linden had no control over the sound in her head. But she almost gasped hi shock when Daphin said, “You are the Sun-Sage.”

Before Linden could react or respond, the woman had turned to Covenant. He was staring at her as if his astonishment were a wound. At once, her smile fell. The bells clamoured like surprise or fear. Distinctly, she said, “You are not.” As the questers gaped at her, she suddenly melted down into the grass and was gone, leaving no trace of her passage on the wide lea.

Seven: Elemesnedene

LINDEN clamped her hands over her ears, and the chiming faded-not because of her hands, but because the gesture helped her focus her efforts to block or at least filter the sound. She was sweating in the humid sunlight. The Sun-Sage? Hints of panic flushed across her face. The Sun-Sage?

Covenant swore repeatedly under his breath. His tone was as white as clenched knuckles. When she looked at him, she saw him glaring at the grass where Daphin had vanished as if he meant to blight it with fire.

The Haruchai had not moved. Honninscrave's head had jerked back in astonishment or pain. Seadreamer gazed intently at Linden in search of understanding. Pitchwife stood beside the First as if he were leaning on her. Her eyes knifed warily back and forth between Linden and Covenant.

Vain's black mien wore an aspect of suppressed excitement.

“Sun-Sage?” the First asked rigidly. “What is this 'Sun-Sage?' ”

Linden took a step toward Covenant. He appeared to be cursing at her. She could not bear it. “I'm not:' Her voice sounded naked in the sunshine, devoid of any music which would have given it beauty. ”You know I'm not.'

His visage flamed at her. “Damnation! Of course you are. Haven't you learned anything yet?”

His tone made her flinch. Daphin's You are not formed a knot of ire in him that Linden could see as clearly as if it had been outlined on his forehead. He would not be able to alter the Sunbane. And because of him, the Elohim had withdrawn her welcome.

With hard patience, the First demanded again, “What is this 'Sun-Sage'?”

Covenant replied like a snarl, “Somebody who can control the Sunbane.” His features were acute with self-disgust.

“They will not welcome us.” Loss stretched Honninscrave's voice thin. “Oh, Elohim!”

Linden struggled for a way to answer Covenant without berating him. I don't have the power. Sweat ran into her eyes, blurring her vision. The tension of the company felt unnatural to her. This anger and grief seemed to violate the wide mansuetude of Woodenwold and the maidan. But then her senses reached farther, and she thought, No. That's not it. In some way, the valley's tranquillity appeared to be the cause of this intensity. The air was like a balm which was too potent to give anything except pain.

But the opening of her percipience exposed her to the bells again. Or they were drawing closer. Chiming took over her mind. Pitchwife's voice was artificially muffled in her ears as he said, “Mayhap their welcome is not yet forfeit. Behold!”

She blinked her sight clear in time to see two figures come flowing up out of the ground in front of her. Smoothly, they transformed themselves from grass and soil into human shapes.

One was Daphin. Her smile was gone; in its place was a sober calm that resembled regret. But her companion wore a grin like a smirk.

He was a man with eyes as blue as jacinths, the same colour as his mantle. Like Daphin's cymar, his robe was not a garment he had donned, but rather an adornment he had created within himself. With self-conscious elegance, he adjusted the folds of the cloth. The gleam in his eyes might have been pleasure of mockery. The distinction was confused by the obligate of the bells.

“I am Chant,” he said lightly. “I have come for truth.”

Both he and Daphin gazed directly at Linden.

The pressure of their regard seemed to expose every fiber of her nature. By contrast, her health-sense was humble and crude. They surpassed all her conceptions.

She reacted in instinctive denial. With a wrench of determination, she thrust the ringing into the