Stephen Donaldson - The One Tree

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 laboured 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 something.” 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 labour 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.