One Tree (58 page)

That pain demanded attention, awareness, like a scourge. Repeatedly her old black mood rolled in like a fog to obscure the landscape of her mind; and repeatedly the hurt whipped it back.
You never loved me anyway
. When she looked out from her cabin at the gray morning lying fragmented on the choppy seas, her eyes misted and ran as if she were dazzled by sheer frustration. Her right hand lay in her lap. She kneaded it fiercely, constantly, with her left, trying to force some meaning into the inert digits. Ceer! she moaned to herself. The thought of what she had done made her writhe.

She was sitting in her cabin as she had sat ever since Pitchwife had brought her below. His concern had expressed itself in murmurings and weak jests, tentative offers of consolation; but he had not known what to do with her, and so he had left her to herself. Shortly after dawn—a pale dawn, obscured by clouds—he had returned with a tray of food. But she had not spoken to him. She had been too conscious of who it was that served her. Pitchwife, not Cail. The judgment of the
Haruchai
hung over her as if her crimes were inexpiable.

She understood Cail. He did not know how to forgive. And that was just. She also did not know.

The burning spread down into her biceps. Perhaps she should have taken off her clothes and washed them. But Ceer’s blood suited her. She deserved it. She could no more have shed that blame than Covenant could have removed his leprosy. Suffering on the rack of his guilt and despair, he had held himself back from her as if he did not merit her concern; and she had missed her chance to touch him. One touch might have been enough. The image of him that she had met when she had opened herself to him, rescued him from the affliction of the
Elohim
, was an internal ache for which she had no medicine and no anodyne—an image as dear and anguished as love. But surely by now Cail had told him about Ceer. And anything he might have felt toward her would be curdled to hate. She did not know how to bear it.

Yet it had to be borne. She had spent too much of her life fleeing. Her ache seemed to expand until it filled the cabin. She would never forget the blood that squeezed rhythmically, fatally, past the pressure of Ceer’s fist. She rose to her feet. Her pants scraped her thighs, had already rubbed the skin raw. Her numb hand and elbow dangled from her shoulder as if they had earned extirpation. Stiffly she moved to the door, opened it, and went out to face her ordeal.

The ascent to the afterdeck was hard for her. She had been more than a day without food. The exertions of the previous night had exhausted her. And Starfare’s Gem was not riding steadily. The swells were rough, and the
dromond
bucked its way through them as if the loss of its midmast had made it erratic. But behind the sounds of wind and sea, she could hear voices slapping against each other in contention. That conflict pulled her toward it like a moth toward flame.

Gusts of wind roiled about her as she stepped out over the storm-sill to the afterdeck. The sun was barely discernible beyond the gray wrack which covered the sea, presaging rain somewhere but not here, not this close to the coast of
Bhrathairealm
and the Great Desert.

The coast itself was no longer visible. The Giantship was running at an angle northwestward across the froth and chop of the waves; and the canvas gave out muffled retorts, fighting the unreliable winds. Looking around the deck, Linden saw that Pitchwife had indeed been able to repair the side of the vessel and the hole where Foodfendhall had been, making the
dromond
seaworthy again. He had even contrived to build the starboard remains of the hall into a housing for the galley. Distressed though she was, she felt a pang of untainted gratitude toward the deformed Giant. In his own way, he was a healer.

But no restoration in his power healed the faint unwieldiness of the way Starfare’s Gem moved without its midmast. That Sevinhand had been able to outmaneuver the warships of the
Bhrathair
was astonishing. The Giantship had become like Covenant’s right hand, incomplete and imprecise.

Yet Covenant stood angrily near the center of the afterdeck as if he belonged there, as if he had the right. On one side were the First and Pitchwife; on the other, Brinn and Cail. They had fallen silent as Linden came on deck. Their faces were turned toward her, and she saw in their expressions that she was the subject of their contention.

Covenant’s shirt still bore the black hand-smears of
hustin
blood with which she had stained him in the forecourt of the First Circinate.

Behind her, Honninscrave’s voice arose at intervals from the wheeldeck, commanding the Giantship. Because Foodfendhall no longer blocked her view forward, she was able to see that Findail had resumed his place in the prow. But Vain remained standing where his feet had first touched the deck when he had climbed aboard.

Seadreamer was nowhere to be seen. Linden found that she missed him. He might have been willing to take her part.

Stiffly she advanced. Her face was set and hard because she feared that she was going to weep. The wind fluttered her long-unwashed hair against her cheeks. Under other circumstances, she would have loathed that dirt. She had a doctor’s instinct for cleanliness; and a part of her had always taken pride in the sheen of her hair. But now she accepted her grimy appearance in the same spirit that she displayed the dark stains on her thighs. It, too, was just.

Abruptly Pitchwife began to speak. “Chosen,” he said as if he were feverish, “Covenant Giantfriend has described to us his encounter with Kasreyn of the Gyre. That tale comes well caparisoned with questions, which the Appointed might answer if he chose—or if he were potently persuaded. He perceives some unhermeneuticable peril in—”

Brinn interrupted the Giant flatly. His voice held no inflection, but he wielded it with the efficacy of a whip. “And Cail has spoken to the ur-Lord concerning the death of Ceer. He has related the manner in which you sought Ceer’s end.”

An involuntary flush burned Linden’s face. Her arm twitched as if she were about to make some request. But her hand hung lifeless at the end of her dead forearm.

“Chosen.” The First’s throat was clenched as if words were weapons which she gripped sternly. “There is no need that you should bear witness to our discord. It is plain to all that you are sorely burdened and weary. Will you not return to your cabin for aliment and slumber?”

Brinn remained still while she spoke. But when she finished, he contradicted her squarely. “There is need. She is the hand of
Corruption among us, and she sought Ceer’s death when he had taken a mortal wound which should have befallen her.” The dispassion of his tone was as trenchant as sarcasm. “Let her make answer—if she is able.”

“Paugh!” Pitchwife spat. His grotesque features held more ire than Linden had ever seen in him. “You judge in great haste,
Haruchai
. You heard as all did the words of the
Elohim
. To Covenant Giantfriend he said, ‘She has been silenced as you were silenced at the
Elohimfest
.’ And in taking that affliction upon herself she purchased our lives from the depths of the Sandhold. How then is she blameworthy for her acts?”

Covenant was staring at Linden as if he were deaf to the interchanges around him. But the muscles at the corners of his eyes and mouth reacted to every word, wincing almost imperceptibly. His beard and his hot gaze gave him a strange resemblance to the old man who had once told her to
Be true
. But his skin had the hue of venom; and beneath the surface lay his leprosy like a definitive conviction or madness, indefeasible and compulsory. He was sure of those things—and of nothing else, either in himself or in her.

Are you not evil
?

In a rush of weakness, she wanted to plead with him, beg him to call back those terrible words, although he was not the one who had uttered them. But Brinn was casting accusations at her, and she could not ignore him.

“No, Giant,” the
Haruchai
replied to Pitchwife. “The haste is yours. Bethink you. While the silence of the
Elohim
was upon him, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant performed no act. He betrayed neither knowledge nor awareness. Yet was she not capable of action?”

Pitchwife started to retort. Brinn stopped him. “And have we not been told the words which Gibbon-Raver spoke to her? Did he not say, ‘You have been especially chosen for this desecration’? And since that saying, have not all her acts wrought ill upon us?” Again Pitchwife tried to protest; but the
Haruchai
overrode him. “When the ur-Lord fell to the Raver, her hesitance”—he stressed that word mordantly— “imperiled both him and Starfare’s Gem. When the
Elohim
sought to bereave him of our protection, she commanded our dismissal, thus betraying him to the ill intent of those folk. Though she was granted the right of intervention, she refused to wield her sight to spare him from his doom.

“Then, Giant,” Brinn went on, iterating his litany of blame, “she did not choose to succor the ur-Lord’s silence. She refused us to assail Kasreyn in Hergrom’s defense, when the Kemper was alone in our hands. She compelled us to reenter the Sandhold when even the Appointed urged flight. Her aid she did not exercise until Hergrom had been slain and Ceer injured—until all were imprisoned in the Kemper’s dungeon, and no other help remained.

“Hear me.” His words were directed at the First now—words as hard as chips of flint. “Among our people, the old tellers speak often of the Bloodguard who served the former Lords of the Land—and of Kevin Landwaster, who wrought the Ritual of Desecration. In that mad act, the old Lords met their end, for they were undone by the Desecration. And so also should the Bloodguard have ended. Had they not taken their Vow to preserve the Lords or die? Yet they endured, for Kevin Landwaster had sent them from him ere he undertook the Ritual. They had obeyed, not knowing what lay in his heart.

“From that obedience came doubt among the Bloodguard, and with doubt the door to Corruption was opened. The failure of the Bloodguard was that they did not judge Kevin Landwaster—or did not judge him rightly. Therefore Corruption had its way with the old Lords and with
the Bloodguard. And the new Lords would have likewise fallen, had not the ur-Lord accepted upon himself the burden of the Land.

“Now I say to you, we will not err in that way again. The purity of any service lies in those who serve, not in that which they serve, and we will not corrupt ourselves by trust of that which is false.

“Hear you, Giant?” he concluded flatly. “We will not again fail of judgment where judgment is needed. And we have judged this Linden Avery. She is false—false to the ur-Lord, false to us, false to the Land. She sought to slay Ceer in his last need. She is the hand of Corruption among us. There must be retribution.”

At that, Covenant flinched visibly. The First glowered at Brinn. Pitchwife gaped aghast. But Linden concentrated on Covenant alone. She was not surprised by Brinn’s demand.

Outside the Sandwall, his apparent callousness toward Hergrom’s death had covered a passion as extravagant as his commitment. But Covenant’s silence struck her as a final refusal. He was not looking at her now. From the beginning, he had doubted her. She wanted to go to him, pound at him with her fists until he gave some kind of response. Is that what you think of me? But she could barely lift her arm from the shoulder, still could not flex her elbow.

A stutter of canvas underscored the silence. Gusts beat Linden’s shirt against her. The First’s expression was hooded, inward. She appeared to credit the picture Brinn had painted. Linden felt herself foundering. All of these people were pushing her toward the darkness that lurked like a Raver in the bottom of her heart.

After a moment, the First said, “The command of the Search is mine. Though you are not Giants—not bound to me—you have accepted our comradeship, and you will accept my word in this matter.” Her assertion was not a threat. It was a statement as plain as the iron of her broadsword. “What retribution do you desire?”

Without hesitation, Brinn replied, “Let her speak the name of a Sandgorgon.”

Then for an instant the air seemed to fall completely still, as if the very winds of the world were horrified by the extremity of Brinn’s judgment. The deck appeared to cant under Linden’s feet; her head reeled. Speak—?

Is that what you think of me?

Slowly words penetrated her dismay. The First was speaking in a voice thick with suppressed anguish.

“Chosen, will you not make answer?”

Linden fought to take hold of herself. Covenant said not one word in her defense. He stood there and waited for her, as the Giants and
Haruchai
waited. Her numb hand slapped softly against the side of her leg, but the effort was futile. She still had no feeling there.

Thickly she said, “No.”

The First started to expostulate. Pitchwife’s face worked as if he wanted to cry out. Linden made them both fall silent.

“They don’t have the right.”

Brinn’s mouth moved. She cracked at him in denial, “You don’t have the
right
.”

Then every voice around the afterdeck was stilled. The Giants in the rigging watched her, listening through the ragged run of the seas, the wind-twisted plaint of the shrouds. Brinn’s visage was closed against her. Deliberately she forced herself to face the raw distress in Covenant’s eyes.

“Did you ever ask yourself why Kevin Landwaster chose the Ritual of Desecration?” She was shivering in the marrow of her bones. “He
must’ve been an admirable man—or at least powerful”—she uttered that word as if it nauseated her—“if the Bloodguard were willing to give up death and even sleep to serve him. So what happened to him?”

She saw that Covenant might try to answer. She did not let him. “I’ll tell you. The goddamn
Bloodguard
happened to him. It wasn’t bad enough that he was failing—that he couldn’t save the Land himself. He had to put up with them as well. Standing there like God Almighty and serving him while he lost everything he loved.” Her voice snarled like sarcasm; but it was not sarcasm. It was her last supplication against the dark place toward which she was being impelled.
You never loved me anyway
. “Jesus Christ! No wonder he went crazy with despair. How could he keep any shred of his self-respect, with people like them around? He must’ve thought he didn’t have any choice except to destroy everything that wasn’t
worthy
of them.”