The One Tree t2cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  While Rire Grist mounted his own beast, his cohorts took the reins of their destriers. Honninscrave and the First positioned themselves on either side of the Caitiffin; Seadreamer moved between the horses which bore Covenant and Linden. Ceer and Hergrom followed, with Vain and Findail behind them. In this formation, they left the pier and entered the town of Bhrathairain like a cortege.

  The crew shouted no farewells after them. The risk the company was taking invoked a silent respect from Starfare's Gem.

  At Rire Grist's command, the throng on the docks parted. A babble of curious voices rose around Linden in tongues she did not know. Foremost among them were the brackish accents of the Bhrathair. Only a few onlookers chose to express their wonder in the common language of the port-the language Linden understood. But those few seemed to convey the general tenor of the talk. They claimed to their neighbours that they had seen sights as unusual as Giants before, that the Haruchai and Findail were not especially remarkable. But Linden and Covenant-she in her checked flannel shirt and tough pants, he in his old T-shirt and jeans-were considered to be queerly dressed; and Vain, as odd a being as any in this part of the world. Linden listened keenly to the exclamations and conversation, but heard nothing more ominous than surprise.

  For some distance, the Caitiffin led the way along the docks, between the piers and an area of busy shops which catered to the immediate needs of the ships-canvas, caulking, timber, ropes, food. But when he turned to ascend along narrow cobbled streets toward the Sandhold, the character of the warerooms and merchantries changed. Dealers in luxury-goods and weapons began to predominate; taverns appeared at every corner. Most of the buildings were of stone, with tiled roofs; and even the smallest businesses seemed to swarm with trade, as if Bhrathairain lay in a glut of wealth. People crowded every entryway and alley, every street, swarthy and begauded Bhrathair commingling with equal numbers of sailors, traders, and buyers from every land and nation in this region of the world. The smells of dense habitation thickened the air-exotic spices and perfumes, forges and metalworks, sweat, haggling, profit, and inadequate sewers.

  And all the time, the heat weighed against the town like a millstone, squeezing odours and noise out of the very cobbles under the horses' hooves. The pressure blunted Linden's senses, restricting their range; but though she caught flashes of every degree of avarice and concupiscience, she still felt no hostility or machination, no evidence of malice. Bhrathairain might try to trick strangers into poverty, but would not attack them.

  At intervals, Honninscrave interrupted his observation of the town to ask questions of the Caitiffin. One in particular caught Linden's attention. With perfect nonchalance, the Master inquired if perhaps the welcome accorded Starfare's Gem had come from the gaddhi's Kemper rather than from Rant Absolain himself.

  The Caitiffin's reply was as easy as Honninscrave's question. "Assuredly the gaddhi desires both your acquaintance and your comfort. Yet it is true that his duties, and his diversions also, consume his notice. Thus some matters must perforce be delayed for the sake of others. Anticipating his will, the gaddhi's Kemper, Kasreyn of the Gyre, bade me bid you welcome. For such anticipations, the Kemper is dearly beloved by his gaddhi, and indeed by all who hold the gaddhi in their hearts. I may say,“ he added with a touch of the same irony which lay behind Honninscrave's courtesy, ”that those who do not so hold him are few. Prosperity teaches a great Jove of sovereigns."

  Linden stiffened at that statement. To her hearing, it said plainly that Rire Grist's allegiance lay with Kasreyn rather than the gaddhi. In that case, the purpose behind the Caitiffin's invitation might indeed be other than it appeared.

  But Honninscrave remained carefully bland. “Then Kasreyn of the Gyre yet lives among you, after so many centuries of service. In good sooth, that is a thing of wonder. Was it not this same Kasreyn who bound the Sandgorgons to their Doom?”

  “As you say,” Rire Grist responded. “The Kemper of the gaddhi Rant Absolain is that same man.”

  “Why is he so named?” pursued Honninscrave. “He is far-famed throughout the Earth-yet I have heard no account of his name.”

  “That is easily answered.” The Caitiffin seemed proof against any probing. “ 'Kasreyn' is the name he has borne since first he came to Bhrathairealm. And his epithet has been accorded him for the nature of his arts. He is a great thaumaturge, and his magicks for the most part manifest themselves in circles, tending upward as they enclose. Thus Sandgorgon's Doom is a circle of winds holding the beasts within its heart. And so also is the Sandhold itself of circular formation, ascending as it rounds. Other arts the Kemper has, but his chief works are ever cast in the mould of the whirlwind and the gyre.”

  After that, the Master's questions drifted to less important topics; and Linden's attention wandered back into the crowded streets and scents and heat of Bhrathairain.

  As the company ascended the winding ways toward the Sandwall, the buildings slowly changed in character. The merchantries became fewer and more sumptuous, catering to a more munificent trade than the general run of sailors and townspeople. And dwellings of all kinds began to replace most of the taverns and shops. At this time of day-the sun stood shortly past noon-the streets here were not as busy as those lower down. There was no breeze to carry away the cloying scents; and the dry heat piled onto everything. Whenever a momentary gap appeared among the people, clearing a section of a street, the cobbles shimmered whitely.

  But soon Linden stopped noticing such things. The Sandwall rose up in front of her, as blank and sure as a cliff, and she did not look at anything else.

  Rire Grist was leading the company toward the central of the three immense gates which provided egress from Bhrathairain and access to the Sandhold. The gates were stone slabs bound with great knurls and studs of iron, as if they were designed to defend the Sandhold against the rest of Bhrathairealm. But they stood open; and at first Linden could see no evidence that they were guarded. Only when her mount neared the passage between them did she glimpse the dark shapes moving watchfully behind the slitted embrasures on either side of the gates.

  The Caitiffin rode through with Honninscrave and the First beside him. Following them while her heart laboured unsteadily in her chest, Linden found the Sandwall to be at least a hundred feet thick. Reaching the sunlight beyond the gate, she looked up behind her and saw that this side of the wall was lined with banquettes. But they were deserted, as if Bhrathairealm's prosperity had deprived them of their function.

  That gate brought the company to the smooth convex surface of another wall. The Sandhold was enclosed within its own perfect circle; and that wall was joined to the defences of Bhrathairain by an additional arm of the Sandwall on each side. These arms formed two roughly triangular open courts, one on either hand. And in the centre of each court arose one of Bhrathairealm's five springs. They had been fashioned into fountains by ornate stonework, so that they looked especially lush and vital against the pale walls. Their waters gathered in pools which were kept immaculately clean and from there flowed into underground channels, one leading toward Bhrathairain, the other toward the Sandhold.

  In the arm of the Sandwall which enclosed each court, a gate stood open to the outer terrain. These provided the Bhrathair with their only road to their scant fields and three other springs.

  Two more gates facing the fountains gave admittance to the fortifications of the Sandhold. Rire Grist led the company toward the gate in the eastern court; and the fountain made the atmosphere momentarily humid. Confident that they were in no danger, crows hopped negligently away from the hooves of the horses.

  As her mount traversed the distance, Linden studied the inner Sandwall. Like the defences of Bhrathairain, it was as uncompromising as the Kemper's arts could make it; but over the gate its upper edge rose in two distinct sweeps to form immense gargoyles. Shaped like basilisks, they crouched above the entrance with their mouths agape in silent fury.

  The portals here were similar to those of the town. But th
e guards were not hidden. A squat muscular figure stood on either side, holding erect a long razor-tipped spear. They were caparisoned in the same manner as Rire Grist and his cohorts; yet Linden perceived with a visceral shock that they were scarcely human. Their faces were bestial, with tigerlike fangs, apish hair, porcine snouts and eyes. Their fingers ended in claws rather than nails. They looked strong enough to contend with Giants.

  She could not be mistaken. They were not natural beings, but rather the offspring of some severe and involuntary miscegenation.

  As the company approached, they blocked the gate, crossed their spears. Their eyes shone hatefully in the sunlight. Speaking together as if they had no independent will, they said, “Name and purpose.” Their voices grumbled like the growling of old predators.

  Rire Grist halted before them. To the company, he said, “These are hustin of the gaddhi's Guard. Like the Harbour Captain, they conceive their duty straitly. However,” he went on wryly, “they are somewhat less accessible to persuasion. It will be necessary to answer them. I assure you that their intent is caution, not discourtesy.”

  Addressing the hustin, he announced himself formally, then described the purpose of the company. The two Guards listened as stolidly as if they were deaf. When he finished, they replied in unison, “You may pass. They must tell their names.”

  The Caitiffin shrugged a bemused apology to Honninscrave.

  Warnings knotted in Linden's throat. She was still shaken by her perception of the hustin. They were only tools, fashioned deliberately to be tools; yet the power or person that required such slaves-!

  But the company was too far from Starfare's Gem. And Starfare's Gem was too vulnerable. If she spoke, she might spring the trap. In this place, she and her companions could only hope for safety and escape by playing the game devised for them by the gaddhi or his Kemper. Gritting her teeth, she remained silent.

  Honninscrave did not hesitate; his decisions had already been made. He stepped up to the hustin and gave his answer. His voice was calm; but his heavy brows lowered as if he wished to teach the Guards more politeness.

  “You may pass,” they replied without expression and parted their spears. Rire Grist rode between them into the dim passage of the gate, stopped there to wait. Honninscrave followed him.

  Before the First could pass, the Guards blocked the way again.

  Her jaws chewed iron. One hand flexed in frustration at the place where the hilt of her broadsword should have been. Precisely, dangerously, she said, “I am the First of the Search.”

  The hustin stared primitive malice at her. “That is not a name. It is a title.”

  “Nevertheless”-her tone made Linden's muscles tighten in preparation for trouble or flight-“it will suffice for you.”

  For one heartbeat, the Guards closed their eyes as if they were consulting an invisible authority. Then they looked back at the First and raised their spears.

  Glowering, she stalked between them to Honninscrave's side.

  As Seadreamer stepped forward, the Master said with half-unintended roughness, “He is Cable Seadreamer my brother. He has no voice with which to speak his name.”

  The Guards appeared to understand; they did not bar Seadreamer's way.

  A moment later, the soldier leading Linden's horse approached the gates and spoke his name, then paused for her to do the same. Her pulse was racing with intimations of danger. The hustin dismayed her senses. She felt intuitively certain that the Sandhold would be as hard to leave as a prison-that this was her last chance to flee a secret and premeditated peril. But she had already done too much fleeing. Although she strove to match Honninscrave's steadiness, a faint tremor sharpened her voice as she said, “I'm Linden Avery the Chosen.”

  Over her shoulder, Cail uttered his name dispassionately. The hustin admitted them to the gate.

  Ceer and Hergrom were brought forward. They went through the same ritual and were allowed to enter.

  Then came the soldier with Covenant and Brinn. After the soldier had given his name, Brinn said flatly, “I am Brinn of the Haruchai. With me is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Giant-friend and white gold wielder.” His tone defied the hustin to challenge him.

  Blankly, they lifted their spears.

  Vain and Findail came last. They approached the gate and halted. Vain held himself as if he neither knew nor cared that he was no longer moving. But Findail gazed at the Guards with frank loathing. After a moment, he said grimly, “I do not give my name to such as these. They are an abomination, and he who made them is a wreaker of great ill.”

  A shiver of tension went through the air. Reacting as one, the hustin dropped back a step, braced themselves for combat with their spears levelled.

  At once, the Caitiffin barked, “Hold, you fools! They are the gaddhi's guests!” His voice echoed darkly along the passage.

  Linden turned against the support of Cail's arms. Ceer and Hergrom had already leaped from their mounts, poised themselves behind the hustin.

  The Guards did not attack. But they also did not lower their weapons. Their porcine eyes were locked on Findail and Vain, Balanced on thick, widely-splayed legs, they looked mighty enough to drive their spears through solid ironwood.

  Linden did not fear for Vain or Findail. Both were impenetrable to ordinary harm. But they might trigger a struggle which would damn the entire company. She could see disdain translating itself into ire and action on Findail's eroded mien.

  But the next instant a silent whisper of power rustled through the passage, touching her ears on a level too subtle for normal hearing. At once, the hustin withdrew their threat. Lifting their spears, they stepped out of the way, returned to their posts as if nothing untoward had happened.

  To no one in particular, Findail remarked sardonically, “This Kasreyn has ears.” Then he passed into the gloom of the gate with Vain at his side like a shadow.

  Linden let a sigh of relief leak through her teeth. It was repeated softly by the First.

  Promptly, Rire Grist began apologising. “Your pardon, I beg you.” His words were contrite, but he spoke them too easily to convey much regret. “Again you have fallen foul of a duty which was not directed at you. Should the gaddhi hear of this, he will be sorely displeased. Will you not put the unwise roughness of these hustin from your hearts, and accompany me?” He made a gesture which was barely visible in the dimness.

  “Caitiffin.” The First's tone was deliberate and hard. “We are Giants and love all amity. But we do not shirk combat when it is thrust upon us. Be warned. We have endured much travail, and our appetite for affront has grown somewhat short.”

  Rire Grist bowed to her. “First of the Search, be assured that no affront was intended-and no more will be given. The Sandhold and the gaddhi's welcome await you. Will you come?”

  She did not relent. “Perhaps not, What will be your word should we choose to return to our Giantship?”

  At that, a hint of apprehension entered the Caitiffin's voice. “Do not do so,” he requested. “I tell you plainly that Rant Absolain is little accustomed to such spurning. It is not in the nature of rulers to smile upon any refusal of their goodwill.”

  Out of the gloom, the First asked, “Chosen, how do you bespeak this matter?”

  A tremor still gripped Linden's heart. After the sun's heat, the stone of the Sandwall felt preternaturally cold. Carefully, she said, “I think I want to meet the man who's responsible for those hustin”

  “Very well,” the First replied to Rire Grist. “We will accompany you.”

  “I thank you,” he responded with enough underlying sincerity to convince Linden that he had indeed been apprehensive. Turning his mount, he led the company on through the gate.

  When she reached the end of the passage, Linden blinked the sun out of her eyes and found herself facing the sheer wall of the First Circinate.

  A space of bare, open sand perhaps fifty feet wide lay between the Sandwall and the Sandhold. The inner curve of the wall here was also lined with b
anquettes; but these were not deserted. Hustin stood along them at precise intervals. Frequent entryways from the banquettes gave admittance to the interior of the wall. And opposite them the abutments of the First Circinate rose like the outward face of a donjon from which people did not return. Its parapets were so high that Linden could not see past them to any other part of the Sandhold.

  Only one entrance was apparent-another massive stone gate which stood in line with the central gate of the outer Sandwall. She expected Rire Grist to ride in that direction; but instead he dismounted and stood waiting for her and Covenant to do the same. Cail promptly dropped to the sand, helped her down; Hergrom accepted Covenant from Brinn's grasp, lowering the ur-Lord as Brinn jumped lightly off his horse's back.

  The Caitiffin's soldiers took the five mounts away to the left; but Rire Grist beckoned the company toward the gate. The heat of the sand rose through Linden's shoes; sweat stuck her shirt to her back. Bhrathairealm sprawled under a sempiternal desert sun like a distant image of the Sunbane. She felt ungainly and ineffectual as she trudged the yielding surface behind Honninscrave and the First. She had had nothing to eat or drink since dawn; and the wall before her raised strange tenebrous recollections of Revelstone, of Gibbon-Raver's hands. The sky overhead was the dusty hue of deserts. She had glanced up at it several times before she realised that it was empty of birds. None of the gulls and cormorants which flocked over Bhrathairain transgressed on the Sandhold.

  Then an unexpected yearning for Pitchwife panged her: his insuppressible spirit might have buoyed her against her forebodings. Covenant had never looked as vulnerable and lost to her as he did in the sunlight which fell between these walls. Yet the hustin had done her one favour: they had reminded her of ill and anger. She did not permit herself to quail.