One Tree (64 page)

Go, he wanted to bark at her. Go!

Linden pulled away from him, took a step toward the First. Her lips were compressed with severity; the lines of her mien were as acute as Brinn’s accusations. Covenant was learning to read her with an intimacy that almost matched her percipience. He heard the desire for vindication in her voice as she said, “Take me with you. I can help.”

The First did not hesitate. “Chosen, in this need we are swifter and more able than you.”

Without delay, she and Galewrath took hold of the tubes, climbed over the railing and jumped for the water.

Pitchwife watched them as if he were afraid. Covenant followed Linden to the hunched Giant’s side, drawn there by the rush of the hoses. Like the
Haruchai
, the First and the Storesmaster appeared to vanish without marking the static water. But the tubes ran into the depths swiftly, and bubbles trailed back to the surface.

The waterspouts did not lessen. Rather they seemed to grow more eager, as if they were tasting an answer to their long insatiation. Beyond them, the squalls continued to batter each other back and forth. The afternoon thickened toward evening. Yet the bubbles rose like implications of hope. Belowdecks, Giants labored at the pumps, forcing air down the tubes.

The suspense clawed at Covenant’s restraint, urging fire. His fists closed and unclosed helplessly. Abruptly he shoved himself from the railing. “I’ve got to do
some
thing.” Rigid with suppression, he stalked toward the prow of the
dromond
.

Linden accompanied him as if she still feared he might succumb to madness or
merewives
at any moment. But her presence steadied him. When he reached the prow, he was able to confront the Appointed without shouting his desperation.

Findail’s yellow eyes squinted in potential anguish. Covenant measured him with a glare. Then, roughly, he said, “You want to be trusted. No, not trusted. You’re
Elohim
. You don’t need anything as mortal and fallible as trust. You want to be understood. This is your chance. Help my friends. They’ve done everything flesh and blood can do to keep me alive. And not just me. Linden. The Sun-Sage. That has got to count for something.” His arms were locked at his sides; his hands, knurled into fists. Flame bled between his fingers, too potent and
necessary to be quenched. The scars on his forearm ached with the memory of fangs. “By hell, you’ve got to do something to help my friends.”

“And if I do not?” Findail’s tone held no hauteur. Difficulty and apprehension seamed his voice. “Will you compel me? Will you rend the Earth from its foundations to compel me?”

Covenant’s shoulders were trembling. He could not still them. Word by word, he articulated, “I am asking you.” Danger bled in his throat. “Help my friends.”

Implicit recognitions filled Findail’s gaze. But he did not relent. Slowly he said, “It is sooth that there are many tales told of these
merewives
, the Dancers of the Sea. One such is the tale that they are the descendants and inheritors of the woman whom Kastenessen loved—that she took with her the power and knowledge which she gained from him, and also the daughters of all men-betrayed women, and set herself and them to seek restitution from all men who abandon their homes in the name of the sea. The
Haruchai
have gone to meet a jeopardy which arises only from the quenchless extravagance of their own hearts, for the
merewives
did naught except sing—but the
Haruchai
answered. I will not offend further against that which was born of Kastenessen’s mad love.”

Deliberately he turned his back as if he were daring Covenant to smite him.

Passion ran down Covenant’s arm, itching for violence. Findail refused every gesture which might have palliated the harm his people had done. Covenant had to grit his teeth to hold back protests which would have written themselves in fire across the Giantship. But Linden was with him. Her touch felt cool on his hot forearm.

“It wouldn’t do any good.” His voice choked between his teeth. “Even if I tore his heart out with my bare hands.” But he believed in restraint. Blood-willingness appalled him, his own more than any other. Why else had he let Lord Foul live?

Her soft eyes regarded him as if she were about to say, How else can you fight? Bitter with vulnerability, she had once said,
Some infections have to be cut out
. That pain was still apparent in the marks of death and severity around her mouth; but now it took a different form, surprising him. Arduously she said, “After Hergrom rescued you—killed that Guard—For a while, we were alone with Kasreyn. Brinn wanted to kill him then. And I wanted him to do it. But I couldn’t—Couldn’t let him. Even though I knew something terrible was going to happen to Hergrom. I couldn’t be responsible for more killing.” Her mother was vivid in her eyes. “Maybe Brinn’s right. Maybe that makes me responsible for what happened. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. We couldn’t have killed him anyway.”

She stopped. She did not need to go on. Covenant understood her. He could not have killed Lord Foul. Despite was not something which could be made to die.

Yet she was wrong about one thing: it would have made a difference. The same difference that killing her mother had made to her.

He wanted to tell her that he was glad she had not unleashed Brinn at Kasreyn. But he was too crowded with other needs. He remained still for a moment in recognition of her. Then he jerked into motion back toward the knot of Giants who paid out the hoses over the edge of the
dromond
.

Pressing himself against the rail, he stared at the bubbles. The cross-support was like a bar across his chest. Terrible amounts of time had passed. How could Brinn and Cail still be alive? The bubbles rose
in bursts, as if the two Giants had reached a depth where the pressure threatened their lungs. The tubes throbbed and wheezed stertorously, articulating the labor of the pumps. He found himself breathing to the same rhythm.

He wrenched his gaze from the sea. The imponderable dance of the waterspouts went on, slowly invoking Starfare’s Gem to its grave. The First’s longsword lay in its scabbard on the deck like an abandoned thing, bereft of use and name. Linden was peering distractedly around the zone of calm, registering unspecified perceptions. Unconsciously her lips spelled out the high geyser and spray of an alien tongue.

Abruptly the hoses stopped moving.

At once, the enclosed atmosphere shivered as if it had been shocked. For an instant, a sound burned Covenant’s brain like the song of the
merewives
violated into outrage. The squalls seemed to loom forward like fists of wrath, clenched for retribution.

Reacting to some felt signal, the Giants began to haul the tubes upward, pulling hand-over-hand with swift strength.

Covenant tried to turn toward them. But the sight of Linden held him. She had gone as pale as panic. Her hands covered her mouth; her eyes gaped whitely into the distance.

He grabbed at her arms, dug his numb fingers into her flesh. Her gaze stared past him, through him. “Linden!” he snapped, acid with fear and truncated sight. “What is it?”

“The squalls.” She spoke to herself, hardly seemed aware she was speaking aloud. “They’re part of the Dance. The
merewives
raise them to catch ships. I should’ve seen it before.”

As suddenly as a flash of intuition, her eyes sprang into focus. She thrashed against him. “The
squalls
!’ she panted urgently. “I’ve got to warn Honninscrave! They’re going to
attack
!”

In bare comprehension, he released her. She staggered backward, caught her balance, flung herself into a run toward the wheeldeck.

He almost went after her. Her tense, fleet form drew him powerfully. But the First and Galewrath were being lifted toward the surface. With Brinn and Cail? Why else did the Dancers want to attack?

Giants heaved at the hoses. White-knuckled with anticipation, Pitchwife’s hands clenched one of the rails. Seadreamer stood ready to dive if the First or Galewrath needed aid. The scar under his eyes was avid for anything which was not Earth-Sight.

The atmosphere concentrated toward a detonation.

Voices rose from the direction of the wheeldeck—first Linden’s, then Honninscrave’s. The Master was bellowing commands across the Giantship. Every crewmember who was not needed at the hoses leaped for the rigging.

Peering far over the side in spite of his vertigo, Covenant saw vague shapes rise. Pitchwife called unnecessarily for ropes; they were already at hand. As heads broke water, the lines were cast downward.

The First snatched a look upward, caught one of the ropes with her free hand. Galewrath did the same. Immediately they were pulled out of the sea.

The First clutched Brinn to her chest with one arm. Galewrath had Cail draped over her shoulder.

Both the
Haruchai
hung as limp as sleep.

Pitchwife and Seadreamer stretched out their hands to help the divers aboard. Covenant tried to squeeze past them to get a closer look at Brinn and Cail, but could not.

As the Swordmain and Galewrath gained the foredeck, the entire sky shattered.

The waterspouts and the stillness vanished in one fractured instant. From every direction, squalls sprang at the Giantship with the fury of gales. Rain hammered the decks; ire blotted out the horizons. In the midst of its spin, Starfare’s Gem staggered into a vicious concussion of waters. The stone quivered from mast to keel.

Covenant stumbled against Seadreamer, clung to the mute Giant for support. If Honninscrave had not been forewarned, the
dromond
might have lost its yards in the twisting savagery of the blasts. The masts themselves might have been torn from their moorings. But the crew had started to slacken sail before the violence hit. The
dromond
lurched and bucked, kicked wildly from side to side. Sheets leaped into snarls and chaos; canvas retorted in the conflict of winds. But Starfare’s Gem was not hurt.

Then all the squalls became one, and the confusion resolved into a blast like the howling of a riven heart. It caught the Giantship broadside, heeled it far over onto its side. Covenant might have tumbled overboard if Seadreamer had not held him. Rain scythed against his face. The Master was no longer audible through the roar and slash of the storm.

Yet the Giants knew what had to be done. Somehow they tautened a sail on the foremast. Canvas bit into the blast: Starfare’s Gem surged upright as it turned. For an instant, the vessel trembled from stem to stern, straining against the leash of its own immense weight. Then more sail took hold, and the
dromond
began to run along the wind.

Covenant reeled from Seadreamer to the First. He clutched at Brinn, imploring the
Haruchai
for some sign of life. But Brinn dangled with his face open to the rain and did not move. Perhaps he was not breathing. Covenant could not tell. He tried to shout up at the First, but no words came. Two more deaths on his head—two men who had served him with a fidelity as great as any Vow. Despite his power, he was helpless to succor them.

Torrents gnashed at the decks. “Saltroamrest!” the First barked. At once, she strode toward the nearest hatchway.

Covenant followed as if no mere storm, no simple battering of wind and rain, no plunge and roll of footing, could keep him from her.

A deluge pursued him through the hatch, tried to tear him from the ladder as he struggled downward. Then it was cut off as Seadreamer heaved the hatch shut. Instantly the sounds of the storm were muffled by granite. Yet the companion way pitched as the
dromond
crashed through the seas. The lanterns hanging from the walls swung wildly. Starfare’s Gem’s peril felt more personal in the constriction of the underdecks—unreadable, not to be escaped. Covenant hurried after the First and Galewrath, but did not catch up with them until they reached the huge bunk-hold of Saltroamrest.

The space appeared as large as a cavern—a hall where nearly two score Giants slung their hammocks without intruding on each other. Lamps hung from all the pillars which supported the hammocks, making Saltroamrest bright. It was virtually empty. The crew was busy fighting for the
dromond
, either at the pumps or aloft.

In the center of the hall, a longtable had been formed into the floor. The First and the Storesmaster hastened to this table, laid Brinn and Cail carefully atop it.

Covenant went to the edge of the longtable. It was as high as the middle of his chest. While he blinked at the water dripping from his hair, the prone
Haruchai
retained their semblance of death. Their brown limbs lay perfect and devoid of life.

But then he saw that they were breathing. Their chests rose and fell gently. Their nostrils flared slightly at each inhalation,

A different salt stung Covenant’s eyes. “Brinn,” he said, “Cail.” Oh dear God.

They lay as if they were wrapped in the sleep of the damned and did not move.

From an emotional distance, he heard the First say, “Bring
diamondraught
.” Pitchwife went to obey. “Storesmaster,” she continued, “can you waken them?”

Galewrath approached the longtable. She studied the
Haruchai
bluntly, raised their eyelids, chaffed their wrists. After a moment spent listening to their respirations, she announced that their lungs were free of water. With the First’s permission, she slapped Cail’s face gently, then harder and harder until his head lolled soddenly from side to side. But no flicker of consciousness touched his visage. He and Brinn were twinned in sopor.

She stepped back with a frown knotted between her brows.

“
Merewives
,” the First muttered. “How could we have believed that comrades as staunch as these
Haruchai
would fall prey?”

Pitchwife returned at a swift, awkward gait, carrying a pouch in one hand. The First took it from him. While Galewrath propped Brinn into a sitting position, the First raised the leather mouth to his lips. The smell of
diamondraught
filled the air. Brinn swallowed reflexively. But he did not awaken. Cail also swallowed the liquor which was poured into his mouth. Nothing changed.