The One Tree

Without death, no power can recompel that beast to its imprisonment. Alone, it may bring down upon us the former darkness. You are mighty, in good sooth,” he snapped. “A mighty cause of ruin for all Bhrathairealm.”

His ire sounded sincere; but a moment later he seemed to forget it. Other concerns preoccupied him. He looked back into his bowl as if he were waiting for something. “But no matter,” he murmured. “I will attend to that in my time. And you will not escape me. Already, I have commanded the destruction of your much vaunted Giantship. Its flames brighten Bhrathairain Harbour even as you stand thus affronting me.”

Covenant flinched involuntarily. Starfare's Gem in flames! Strands of wild magic slipped their fetters, reached for the Kemper. The effort of calling them back hurt Covenant's chest like a rupture. His skull throbbed with strain as he articulated thickly, “Kasreyn, I can kill you.” White fire outlined each word. “You know I can kill you. Stop what you're doing. Stop that attack on the ship. Let my friends go.” Power blurred his sight like the frightful imprecision of nightmare. “I'll burn every bone in your body to cinders.”

“Will you, forsooth?” The Kemper laughed-a barking sound without humour. His gaze was as raw and pitiless as the sirens. “You forget that I am Kasreyn of the Gyre. By my arts was Sandgorgons Doom formed and this Sandhold raised, and I hold all Bhrathairealm in my hands. You are mighty in your way and possess that which I desire. But you are yet petty and incapable withal, and you offend me.”

He spoke sternly; but still he did not attack. With one hand, he made a slow, unthreatening gesture toward his chair. “Have you observed my preparation?” His manner was firm. “Such gold is rare in the Earth. Mayhap it may be found no otherwhere than here. Therefore came I hither, taking the mastery of Bhrathairealm upon myself. And therefore also do I strive to extend my sway over other realms, other regions, seeking more gold. With gold I perform my arts.” He watched Covenant steadily. “With gold I will destroy you.”

As he uttered those words, his hands jumped forward, tipped and hurled his iron bowl.

A black liquid as viscid as blood poured over the table, setting it afire-splashed to the floor, chewed holes in the stone-gusted and spattered toward Covenant.

Acid: vitriol as potent as the dark fluid of ur-viles. Instinctively, Covenant flung up his arms, throwing white flame in all directions. Then, a fraction of a heartbeat later, he rallied. Focusing his power, he swept the black liquid away.

During that splinter of time, the Kemper moved. As Covenant's eyes cleared, Kasreyn no longer stood behind his table. He was sitting in his chair, surrounded by small golden hoops.

Covenant could not hold back. The wild magic required utterance. Too swiftly for restraint or consideration, he flung silver-white at the Kemper-a blast feral enough to incinerate any mortal flesh.

He barely heard Findail's anguished shout: 'No!'

But his fire did not reach Kasreyn. It was sucked into the many circles around the chair. Then it recoiled, crashing throughout the lucubrium with doubled, tripled ferocity.

Tables shattered; shelves burst from the walls; shards scored the air with shrill pain. A rampage of debris and fire assailed Covenant from every side at once. Only his reflexive shout of wild magic saved him.

The concussion knocked him to the floor. The stone seemed to quiver under him like wounded flesh. Echoes of argent reeled across his vision.

The echoes did not dissipate. Kasreyn had taken hold of Covenant's defensive conflagration. It burned wildly back and forth within the gold circles, mounting flare after flare. Its increase scalded the air.

Findail crouched in front of Covenant. “Withhold, you fool!” His fists pounded at Covenant's shoulders. “Do you not hear me? You will havoc the Earth! You must withhold!”

Caught in a dazzling confusion of flares and pressure, Covenant could hardly think. But a hard grim part of him remained clear, wrestled for choice. He panted, “I've got to stop him. If I don't, he'll destroy the quest.” Kill Linden. The Giants. The Haruchai. “There won't be anybody left to defend the Earth.”

“Madman!” Findail retorted. “It is you who imperil the Earth, you! Are you blind to the purpose of the Despiser's venom?”

At that, Covenant reeled; but he did not break. Holding himself in a grip of ire and fear, he demanded, “Then you stop him!”

The Appointed flinched. “I am Elohim. The Elohim do not take life.”

“One or the other.” Flame rose in Covenant's voice. “Stop him. Or answer my questions. All of them. Why you're here. What you're afraid of. Why you want me to hold back.” Findail did not move. Kasreyn's power mounted toward cataclysm moment by moment. “Make up your mind.”

The Elohim drew a breath like a sob. For an instant, his yellow eyes were damp with pain.

Then his form frayed, melted. He lifted into the air in the shape of a bird.

Fire coruscated around him. He flitted scatheless through it, a swift darting of Earthpower. Elongating and flattening himself as he flew, he swooped like a manta toward the Kemper.

Before Kasreyn could react, Findail flashed past his face, pounced onto his son.

At once, the Elohim became a hood over the infant's head. He sealed himself under the small chin, behind the downy-haired skull, clung there like a second skin.

Suffocating the child.

A scream ripped from Kasreyn's chest. He sprang upright, staggered out of the protection of his chair. His hands groped behind him, clawed at Findail; but he could not rake the Elohim loose. His limbs went rigid. Asphyxiation mottled his face with splotches of madness and terror.

Again he screamed — a cry of horror from the roots of his being:

'My life!'

The shriek seemed to break his soul. He toppled to the floor like a shattered tower.

Slowly, the theurgy blazing about his chair began to fade.

Covenant was on his feet as if he had intended to rush to Kasreyn's aid. Pressure for power and abomination of death shone from him like the onset of an involuntary ecstasy.

Lifting back into human shape, Findail stepped away from the Kemper's body. His visage was engraved with grief. Softly, he said, “That which he bore was no son of his flesh. It was of the croyel-beings of hunger and sustenance which demnify the dark places of the Earth. Those who bargain thus for life or might with the croyel are damned beyond redemption.” His voice sounded like mist and tears. “Ring-wielder, are you content?”

Covenant could not respond. He hung on the verge of eruption, had no choice but to flee the damage he was about to do. Fumbling for mastery, he went to the stairs. They seemed interminable. Yet somehow he withheld himself-a nerve-tearing effort he made more for Brinn's sake than his own. So that Brinn would not die in the outcome.

In the chamber below, he found the Haruchai. Brinn had choked the stair so effectively with fallen hustin that he had nothing to do except wait until the Guards farther down were able to clear their way.

He looked a question at Covenant; but Covenant had no answer for him either. Trembling in every muscle, the Unbeliever unreined only enough wild magic to open the long dead gyre of the stairway. Then he went downward with Brinn and Findail behind him.

Before he reached The Majesty, he lost control. Flame tore him out of himself. He became a blaze of destruction. The stairs lurched. Cracks leaped through the stone.

Far above him, the top of Kemper's Pitch began to crumble.

Twenty: Fire in Bhrathairain