Linden paced tensely near the fire as if she wanted to talk to someone. But Covenant was absorbed by his visceral yearning for the heat of white flame. The effort of denial left him nothing to say. The silence became as cold and lonely as the ice. After a time, he gathered his blankets and followed Pitchwife's example, wrapping himself tightly in his ground-sheet.
He thought he would be able to sleep, if only because the cold was so persuasive. But Linden made her bed near his, and soon he felt her watching him as if she sought to fathom his isolation. When he opened his eyes. he saw the look of intention in her fire-lit face.
Her gaze was focused on him like an appeal; but the words she murmured softly took him by surprise.
“I never even learned her name.”
Covenant raised his head, blinked his incomprehension at her.
“That Giant,” she explained, “the one who was hurt when the foremast broke.” The one she had healed with his ring. “I never found out who she was. I've been doing that all. my life. Treating people as if they were pieces of sick or damaged meat instead of actual individuals. I thought I was a doctor, but it was only the disease or the hurt I cared about Only the fight against death. Not the person.”
He gave her the best answer he had. “Is that bad?” He recognized the attitude she described. “You aren't God. You can't help people because of who they are. You can only help them because they're hurt and they need you.” Deliberately, he concluded, “Otherwise you would've let Mistweave die.”
“Covenant.” Now her tone was aimed at him as squarely as her gaze. “At some point, you're going to have to deal with me. With who I am. We've been lovers. I've never stopped loving you. It hurts that you lied to me-that you let me believe something that wasn't true. Let me believe we had a future together. But I haven't stopped loving you.” Low flames from the campfire glistened out of the dampness in her eyes. Yet she was resolutely unemotional, sparing him her recrimination or sorrow. “I think the only reason you loved me was because I was hurt. You loved me because of my parents. Not because of who I am.”
Abruptly, she rolled onto her back, covered her face with her hands. Need muffled the self-control of her whisper. “Maybe that kind of love is wonderful and altruistic. I don't know. But it isn't enough.”
Covenant looked at her, at the hands clasped over her pain and the hair curling around her ear, and thought. Have to deal with you. Have to. But he could not. He did not know how. Since the loss of the One Tree, their positions had been reversed. Now it was she who knew what she wanted, he who was lost.
Above him, the stars glittered out their long bereavement But for them also he did not know what to do.
When he awakened in the early dawn, he discovered that Honninscrave was gone.
A wind had come up. Accumulated snow gusted away over the half-buried remains of the campfire as Covenant thrashed out of his blankets and ground-sheet. The First, Pitchwife, and Linden were still asleep. Mistweave lay felled in his canvas cover as if during the night his desire to match Cail had suffered a defeat. Only Cail, the Demondim-spawn, and Findail were on their feet.
Covenant turned to Cail. “Where-?”
In response, Cail nodded upward.
Quickly, Covenant scanned the massive chaos of the ridge. For a moment, he missed the place Cail had indicated. But then his gaze leaped to the highest point above the camp; and there he saw Honninscrave.
The Master sat atop a small tor of ice with his back to the south and the company. The wind tumbled down off the crest into Covenant's face, bearing with it a faint smell of smoke.
Blood and damnation! Grimly, Covenant demanded, “What in hell does he think he's doing?” But he already knew the answer. Cail's reply only confirmed it.
“Some while since, he arose and assayed the ice, promising a prompt return With him he bore wood and a fire-pot such as the Giants use.”
Caamora. Honninscrave was trying to burn away his grief.
At the sound of Cail's voice, the First looked up from her bed, an inquiry in her eyes Covenant found suddenly that he could not open his throat. Mutely, he directed the First's gaze up at Honninscrave.
When she saw the Master, she rasped a curse and sprang to her feet. Awakening Pitchwife with a slap of her hand, she asked Covenant and Cail how long Honninscrave had been gone.
Inflexibly, the Haruchai repeated what he had told Covenant “Stone and Sea!” she snarled as Pitchwife and then Linden arose to join her. “Has he forgotten his own words? This north is perilous.”
Pitchwife squinted apprehensively up at Honninscrave; but his tone was reassuring. “The Master is a Giant He is equal to the peril. And his heart has found no relief from Cable Seadreamer's end. Perchance in this way he will gain peace.”
The First glared at him. But she did not call Honninscrave down from his perch.
Eyes glazed with sleep and vision. Linden gazed up at the Master and said nothing.
Shortly, Honninscrave rose to his feet Passing beyond the crest, he found his way downward. Soon he emerged from a nearby valley and came woodenly toward the company.
His hands swung at his sides. As he neared the camp, Covenant saw that they had been scoured raw by fire.
When he reached his companions, he stopped, raised his hands before him like a gesture of a futility. His gaze was shrouded. His fingers were essentially undamaged; but the after-effects of his pain were vivid. Linden hugged her own hands under her arms in instinctive empathy.
The First's voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Is it well with you, Grimmand Honninscrave?”
He shook his head in simple bafflement “It does not suffice. Naught suffices. It bums in my breast-and will not burn out.”
Then as if the will which held him upright had broken he dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into a drift of snow. Tattered wisps of steam rose around his wrists.
Dumb with helpless concern, the Giants stood around him. Linden bit her lips. The wind drew a cold scud across the ice, and the air was sharp with rue Covenant's eyes blurred and ran. In self-defence there were many things for which he could claim he was not culpable; but Seadreamer's death was not among them.
At last, the First spoke. “Come, Master,” she breathed thickly. “Arise and be about your work. We must hope or die.”
Hope or die. Kneeling on the frozen waste, Honninscrave looked like he had lost his way between those choices. But then slowly he gathered his legs under him, stretched his tall frame erect. His eyes had hardened, and his visage was rigid and ominous. For a moment, he stood still, let all the company witness the manner in which he bore himself. Then without a word he went and began to break camp.
Covenant caught a glimpse of the distress in Linden's gaze. But when she met his look of inquiry, she shook her head, unable to articulate what she had perceived in Honninscrave.
Together, they followed the Master's example.
While Honninscrave packed the canvas and bedding, Mistweave set out a cold breakfast. His red-rimmed eyes and weary demeanour held a cast of abashment: he was a Giant and had not expected Fail's endurance to be greater than his. Now he appeared determined to work harder in compensation-and in support of Honninscrave. While Covenant, Linden, and the other Giants ate, Mistweave toiled about the camp, readying everything for departure.
As Covenant and Linden settled into their sleds, bundled themselves against the mounting edge of the wind, the First addressed Honninscrave once more. She spoke softly, and the wind frayed away the sound of her voice.
“From the vantage of your caamora, saw you any sign?”
His new hardness made his reply sound oddly brutal:
“None.”
He and Mistweave shrugged themselves into the lines of the sleds. The First and Pitchwife went ahead. With Cail between the sleds and Vain and Findail in the rear, the company set off.
Their progress was not as swift as it had been the previous day. The increased difficulty of the terrain was complicated by the air
pouring and gusting down from the ridge. Fistfuls of ice-crystals rattled against the wood of me sleds, stung the faces of the travellers. White plumes and devils danced among the company. The edges of the landscape ached in the wind. Diamondraught and food formed a core of sustenance within him, but failed to spread any warmth into his limbs. He did not know how long he could hold out against the alluring and fatal somnolence of the cold.
The next time he rubbed the ice from his lashes and raised his head, he found that he had not held out. Half the morning was gone. Unwittingly, he had drifted into the passive stupor by which winter and leprosy snared their victims.
Linden was sitting upright in her sled. Her head shifted tensely from side to side as if she were searching. For a groggy instant Covenant thought that she was using her senses to probe the safety of the ice. But then she wrenched forward, and her voice snapped over the waste:
“Stop!”
Echoes rode eerily back along the wind: Stop! Stop! But ice and cold changed the tone of her shout, made it sound as forlorn as a cry raised from the Soulbiter.
At once, the First turned to meet the sleds.
They halted immediately below a pile of broken ice like the rubble of a tremendous fortress reduced by siege. Megalithic blocks and shards towered and loomed as if they were leaning to fall on the company.
Linden scrambled out of her sled. Before anyone could ask her what she wanted, she coughed, “It's getting colder.”
The First and Pitchwife glanced at each other Covenant moved to stand beside Linden, though he did not comprehend her. After a moment, the First said, “Colder, Chosen? We do not feel it.”
“I don't mean the winter,” Linden began at once, urgent to be understood. “It's not the same.” Then she caught herself, straightened her shoulders. Slowly and sharply, she said, “You don't feel it-but I tell you it's there. It's making the air colder. Not ice. Not wind. Not winter. Something else.” Her lips were blue and trembling. “Something dangerous.”
And this north is perilous Covenant thought dully, as if the chill made him stupid. What kind of peril? But when he opened his mouth, no words came.
Honninscrave's head jerked up. Pitchwife's eyes glared white in his misshaped face.
At the same instant, the First barked, “Arghule!” and sprang at Covenant and Linden.
Thrusting them toward the sleds, she shouted, “We must flee!” Then she wheeled to scan the region.
Covenant lost his footing, skidded into Cail's grasp. The Haruchai flipped him unceremoniously onto his sled. Linden vaulted to her place. At once, Honninscrave and Mistweave heaved the sleds forward as quickly as the slick surface allowed.
Before they had taken three strides, the ice a stone's throw ahead rose up and came toward them.
The moving shape was as wide as the height of a Giant, as thick as the reach of Covenant's arms. Short legs bore it forward with deceptive speed. Dark gaps around its edge looked like maws.
Cold radiated from it like a shout The First slid to a halt, planted herself in the path of the creature. “Arghule!” she cried again. “Avoid!”
Pitchwife's answering yell snatched her around. His arm nailed a gesture toward the ridge. “Arghuleh!”
Two more creatures like the first had detached themselves from the rubble and were rushing toward the company.
In the south appeared a fourth.
Together, they emitted cold as fierce as the cruel heart of winter.
For an instant, the First froze. Her protest carried lornly across the wind. “But the arghuleh do not act thus.”
Abruptly, Findail melted into a hawk and flew away.
Honninscrave roared a command: “Westward!” He was the Master of Starfare's Gem, trained for emergencies. With a wrench that threw Covenant backward, he hauled his sled into motion. “We must break past!”
Mistweave followed. As he laboured for speed, he called over his shoulder to Linden, “Do not fear! We are Giants, proof against cold!”
The next moment, the arghuleh attacked.
The creature approaching the First stopped. At Pitchwife’s warning shout, she whirled to face the arghule. But it did not advance. Instead, it waved one of its legs.
From the arc of the gesture, the air suddenly condensed into a web of ice.
Expanding and thickening as it moved, the web sailed toward the First like a hunter's net. Before it reached her, it grew huge and heavy enough to snare even a Giant At the same time, the arghule coming from the south halted, settled itself as though it were burrowing into the waste. Then violence boomed beneath it: ice shattered in all directions. And a crack sprang through the surface, ran like lightning toward the company. In the space between one heart-beat and another, the crack became as wide as the sleds.
It passed directly under Vain. The Demondim-spawn disappeared so quickly that Covenant did not see him fall.
Instinctively, Covenant turned to look toward the other two arghuleh.
They were almost close enough to launch their assaults.
The sled lurched as Honninscrave accelerated Covenant faced again toward the First.
The web of ice was dropping over her head.
Pitchwife struggled toward her. But his feet could not hold the treacherous surface. Cail sped lightly past him as if the Haruchai were as sure-footed as a Ranyhyn.
The First defended herself without her sword. As the web descended, she chopped at it with her left arm.
It broke in a blizzard of splinters that caught the light like instant chiaroscuro and then rattled faintly away along the wind.
But her arm came down encased by translucent ice. It covered her limb halfway to the shoulder, immobilized her elbow and hand. Fiercely, she hammered at the sheath with her right fist But the ice clung to her like iron.
The sleds gained momentum. Nearing the First, Honninscrave and Mistweave veered to the side in an effort to bypass the arghule. The crack which had swallowed Vain faded toward the north. Findail was nowhere to be seen. Linden clutched the rail of her sled, a soundless cry stretched over her face.
Cail dashed past the First to challenge her assailant.
As one, she and Pitchwife shouted after him, “No!”
He ignored them. Straight at the creature he aimed his Haruchai strength.
Before he could strike, the arghule bobbed as if it were bowing. Instantly, a great hand of ice slapped down on him out of the empty air. It pounded him flat, snatched him under the bulk of the creature.
Covenant fought to stand in the slewing sled. Cail's fall went through him like an auger. The landscape was as white and ruined as wild magic. When his heart beat again, he was translated into fire. Power drove down through him, anchored him. Flame as hot as a furnace, as vicious as venom, cocked back his half-fist to hurl destruction at the arghule.
Then a web flung by one of the trailing creatures caught him. The two arghuleh from the north had changed direction to pursue the company; then one of them had stopped to attack. The snare did not entirely reach him. But its leading edge struck the right side of his head, licked for an instant over his shoulder, snapped on his upraised fist.
Wild magic pulverized the ice: nothing was left to encase him. But an immense force of cold slammed straight into his brain.
Instantly, paralysis locked itself around him.
He saw what was happening; every event registered on him. But he was stunned and helpless, lost in a feral chill.
While Honninscrave and Mistweave fought the sleds sideward to avoid the arghule, the First sprang to Cail's aid with Pitchwife behind her. The creature sought to retreat; but she moved too swiftly. Bracing itself, it repeated the bow which had captured Cail.
Her left arm was useless to her, but she ignored the handicap. Fury and need impelled her. As the arghule raised its ice, she put her whole body info one blow and struck me creature squarely with all the Giantish' might of her good fist The arghule shattered under the impact. The boom of its destruction echoed off the towering ridge.
Amid volleying thunder, the sleds rushed past the First. She whirled to face the pursuing arghuleh. Pitchwife dove wildly into the remains of the creature. For an instant, he threw chunks and chips aside. Then he emerged, wearing frost and ice-powder as though even in death the arghule nearly had the capacity to freeze him. In his arms, he bore Cail.
From head to foot, the Haruchai was sheathed like the First's left arm in pure ice, bound rigid as if he were frozen past all redemption. Carrying him urgently, Pitchwife sped after the sleds.
The First snatched up a white shard, hurled it at the arghuleh to make them hesitate. Then she followed the company.
In response, the creatures squatted against the ice; and cracks like cries of frustration and hunger shot through the floe, gaping jaggedly after the travellers. For a moment, the First had to skid and dodge across a ground that was falling apart under her. Then she missed her footing, fell and rolled out of the path of the attack. The cracks searched on for the company; but the sleds were nearly out of range.
The First regained her feet Soon she, too, was beyond the reach of the arghuleh.
Covenant saw her come running up behind Pitchwife, clap him encouragingly on the shoulder. Pitchwife panted in great raw gasps as he strove to sustain his pace. The misshaping of his back made him appear to huddle protectively over Can. Cail's scar was unnaturally distinct, amplified by the translucence of his casing. He was the last of the Haruchai who had promised themselves to Covenant And Covenant still could not break the cold which clenched his mind. All hope of fire was gone.
Linden was shouting to the First, “We've got to stop! Cail needs help! You need help!”
Honninscrave and Mistweave did not slacken their pace. The First returned, “Should the arghuleh again draw nigh, will you perceive them?”
“Yes!” Linden shot back. “Now that I know what they are!” Her tone was hard, certain. “We've got to stop! I don't know how long he can stay alive like that!”
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