“Accepted and more,” he digressed wryly. “You have averred them as your own. In sooth, I had not known you to be formed of such stone.”
But then he returned to his point. “Chosen, I thank you that you are willing for this delay. I thank you in the name of Starfare’s Gem, that I love as dearly as life and yearn to see restored to wholeness.” An involuntary tremor knotted his hands as he remembered the blows he had struck against the midmast. “And I thank you also in the name of Cable Seadreamer my brother. I am eased that he will be granted some respite. Though I dread that his wound will never be healed, yet I covet any act or delay which may accord him rest.”
“Honninscrave—” Linden did not know what to say to him. She had not earned his thanks. And she had no answer for the vicarious suffering which linked him to his brother. As she looked at him, she thought that perhaps his misgivings had less to do with the unknown attitude of the Bhrathair than with the possible implications of any delay for the Search—for Seadreamer. He appeared to doubt the dictates of his concern for his ship, as if that instinct had been deprived of its purity by his apprehension for Seadreamer.
His inner disquiet silenced anything she might have said in support of her decision or in recognition of his thanks. Instead she gave him the little knowledge she possessed.
“He’s afraid of the One Tree. He thinks something terrible is going to happen there. I don’t know why.”
Honninscrave nodded slowly. He was no longer looking at her. He stared past her as though he were blinded by his lack of prescience. Quietly he murmured, “He is not mute because he has lost the capacity of voice. He is mute because the Earth-Sight cannot be given words. He is able to convey that there is peril. But for him that peril has no utterable name.”
Linden saw no way to ease him. Gently she let herself out of the cabin, leaving him his privacy because she had nothing else to offer.
Troubled by uncertain winds, Starfare’s Gem required two full days to come within sight of land; and the dromond did not near the mouth of Bhrathairain Harbor until the following morning.
During that time, the quest left behind the last hints of the northern autumn and passed into a hot dry clime unsoftened by any suggestion of approaching winter. The direct sun seemed to parch Linden’s skin, leaving her always thirsty; and the normally cool stone of the decks radiated heat through her shoes. The weather-worn sails looked gray and tarnished against the acute sunlight and the brilliant sea. Occasional suspirations of humidity breathed past her cheek; but they came from virga scudding overhead—isolated clouds shedding rain which evaporated before it could reach the sea or the ship—and did not relieve the heat.
Her first view of the coast some leagues east of Bhrathairealm was a vision of rocks and bare dirt. The stony littoral had been bleached and battered by so many arid millennia that the boulders appeared sun-stricken and somnolent, as if they were only prevented from vanishing into haze by the quality of their stupefaction. All life had been squeezed or beaten out of the pale soil long ago. Sunset stained the shore with ochre and pink, transfiguring the desolation, but could not bring back what had been lost.
That night, as the dromond tacked slowly along the coast, the terrain modulated into a region of low cliffs which fronted the sea like a frown of perpetual vexation. When dawn came, Starfare’s Gem was moving past buttes the height of its yards. Standing beside Pitchwife at the port rail of the afterdeck, Linden saw a gap in the cliffs ahead like the opening of a narrow canyon or the mouth of a river. But along the edges of the gap stood walls which appeared to be thirty or forty feet high. The walls were formed of the same pale stone which composed the bluffs. At their ends—at the two points of the gap—they arose into watchtowers. These fortifications tapered so that they looked like fangs against the dusty horizon.
“Is that the Harbor?” Linden asked uncertainly. The space between the cliffs appeared too narrow to accommodate any kind of anchorage.
“Bhrathairain Harbor,” replied Pitchwife in a musing tone. “Yes. There begins the Sandwall which seals all the habitation of Bhrathairealm—both Bhrathairain itself and the mighty Sandhold behind it—against the Great Desert. Surely in all this region there is no ship that does not know the Spikes which identify and guard the entrance to Bhrathairain Harbor.”
Drifting forward in the slight breeze, the Giantship moved slowly abreast of the two towers which Pitchwife had named the Spikes. There Honninscrave turned the dromond to pass between them. The passage was barely wide enough to admit Starfare’s Gem safely; but, beyond it, Linden saw that the channel opened into a huge cove a league or more broad. Protected from the vagaries of the sea, squadrons of ships could have staged maneuvers in that body of water. In the distance, she descried sails and masts clustered against the far curve of the Harbor.
Past the berths where those vessels rode, a dense town ascended a slope rising just west of south from the water. It ended at the Sandwall which enclosed the entire town and Harbor. And beyond that wall stood the massive stone pile of the Sandhold.
Erected above Bhrathairain in five stages, it dominated the vista like a brooding titan. Its fifth level was a straight high tower like a stone finger brandished in warning.
As Starfare’s Gem passed between the Spikes, Linden was conscious that the Harbor formed a cul-de-sac from which any escape might be extremely difficult. Bhrathairealm was well protected. Studying what she could see of the town and the Sandwall, she realized that if the occupants of the Sandhold chose to lock their gates the Bhrathair would have no egress from their own defenses.
The size of the Harbor, the immense clenched shape of the Sandhold, made her tense with wonder and apprehension. Quietly she murmured to Pitchwife, “Tell me about these people.” After her meeting with the Elohim, she felt she did not know what to expect from any strangers.
He responded as if he had been chewing over that tale himself. “They are a curious folk—much misused by this ungiving land, and by the chance or fate which pitted them in mortal combat against the most fearsome denizens of the Great Desert. Their history has made them hardy, stubborn, and mettlesome. Mayhap it has also made them somewhat blithe of scruple. But that is uncertain. The tales which we have heard vary greatly, according to the spirit of the telling.
“It is clear from the words of Covenant Giantfriend, as well as from the later voyagings of our people, that the Unhomed sojourned for a time in Bhrathairealm, giving what aid they could against the Sandgorgons. For that reason, Giants have been well greeted here. But we have had scant need of the commerce and warlike implements which the Bhrathair offer, and the visits of our people to Bhrathairain have been infrequent. Therefore my knowledge lacks the fullness which Giants love.”
He paused for a moment to collect the pieces of his story, then continued, “There is an adage among the Bhrathair: ‘He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.’ This is undisputed sooth.” Grim humor twisted his mouth. “Yet the manner in which a truth is phrased reveals much. Many generations of striving against the Sandgorgons have made of the Bhrathair a people who seek to strike before they are stricken.
“The Sandgorgons—so it is said—are beasts birthed by the immense violence of the storms which anguish the Great Desert. They are somewhat manlike in form and also in cunning. But the chief aspect of their nature is that they are horrendously savage and mighty beyond the strength of stone or iron. No aid of Giants could have saved the Bhrathair from loss of the land they deem their home—and perhaps from extinction as well—had the Sandgorgons been beasts of concerted action. But their savagery was random, like the storms which gave them life. Therefore the Bhrathair were able to fight, and to endure. Betimes they appeared to prevail, or were reduced to a remnant, as the violence of the Sandgorgons swelled and waned across the depths of the waste. But no peace was secured. During one era of lesser peril, the Sandwall was built. As you see”—he gestured around him—“it is a doughty work. Yet it was not proof against
the Sandgorgons. Often has it been rebuilt, and often have one or several of these creatures chanced upon it and torn spans of it to rubble.
“Such the lives of the Bhrathair might have remained until the day of World’s End. But at last—in a time several of our generations past—a man came from across the seas and presented himself to the gaddhi, the ruler of Bhrathairealm. Naming himself a thaumaturge of great prowess, he asked to be given the place of Kemper—the foremost counselor, and, under the gaddhi, suzerain of this land. To earn this place, he proposed to end the peril of the Sandgorgons.
“This he did—I know not how. Mayhap he alone knows. Yet the accomplishment remains. By his arts, he wove the storms of the Great Desert into a prodigious gyre so mighty that it destroys and remakes the ground at every turn. And into this storm—now named Sandgorgons Doom—he bound the beasts. There they travail yet, their violence cycled and mastered by greater violence. It is said that from the abutments of the Sandhold Sandgorgons Doom may be seen blasting its puissance forever without motion from its place of binding and without let. It is said that slowly across the centuries the Sandgorgons die, driven one by one into despair by the loss of freedom and open sand. And it is said also”—Pitchwife spoke softly—“that upon occasion the Kemper releases one or another of them to do his dark bidding.
“For the gaddhi’s Kemper, Kasreyn of the Gyre, remains in Bhrathairealm, prolonged in years far beyond even a Giant’s span, though he is said to be as mortal as any man. The Bhrathair are no longer-lived than people of your kind, Chosen. Of gaddhis they have had many since Kasreyn’s coming, for their rulership does not pass quietly from generation to generation. Yet Kasreyn of the Gyre remains. He it was who caused the building of the Sandhold. And because of his power, and his length of years, it is commonly said that he holds each gaddhi in turn as a puppet, ruling through the ruler that his hand may be concealed.
“The truth of this I do not know. But I give you witness.” With one long arm, he indicated the Sandhold. As Starfare’s Gem advanced down the Harbor, the edifice became more clear and dominant against the desert sky. “There stands his handiwork in its five levels, each far-famed as a perfect circle resting to one side within others. The Sandwall conceals the First Circinate, which provides a pediment to the Second. Then arises the Tier of Riches, and above it, The Majesty. There sits the gaddhi on his Auspice. But the fifth and highest part is the spire which you see, and it is named Kemper’s Pitch, for within it resides Kasreyn of the Gyre in all his arts. From that eminence I doubt not that he wields his will over the whole of Bhrathairealm—aye, and over the Great Desert itself.”
His tone was a blend of respect and misgiving; and he aroused mixed emotions in Linden. She admired the Sandhold—and distrusted what she heard about Kasreyn. A man with the power to bind the Sandgorgons also had the power to be an unconstrained tyrant. In addition, the plight of the Sandgorgons themselves disquieted her. In her world, dangerous animals were frequently exterminated; and the world was not improved thereby.
But Pitchwife was still speaking. He drew her attention back to the Harbor. The morning sun burned along the water.
“Yet the Bhrathair have flourished mightily. They lack much which is needful for a prosperous life, for it is said that in all Bhrathairealm are only five springs of fresh water and two plots of arable ground. But also they possess much which other peoples covet. Under Kasreyn’s peace, trade has abounded. And the Bhrathair have become prolific shipwrights, that they may reach out to their distant neighbors. The tales which we have heard of Bhrathairain and the Sandhold convey echoes of mistrust—and yet, behold. This is clearly not a place of mistrust.”
Linden saw what he meant. As Starfare’s Gem approached the piers and levees at the foot of the town, she discerned more clearly the scores of ships there, the bustling activity of the docks. In the Harbor—some at the piers, some at berths around the Sandwall—were a variety of warships: huge penteconters; triremes with iron prows for ramming; galleasses armed with catapults. But their presence seemed to have no effect on the plethora of other vessels which crowded the place. Brigantines, windjammers, sloops, merchantmen of every description teemed at the piers, creating a forest of masts and spars against the busy background of the town. Any distrust which afflicted Bhrathairealm had no influence upon the vitality of its commerce.
And the air was full of birds. Gulls, crows, and cormorants wheeled and squalled over the masts, among the spars, perching on the roofs of Bhrathairain, feeding on the spillage and detritus of the ships. Hawks and kites circled watchfully over both town and Harbor. Bhrathairealm must have been thriving indeed, if it could feast so many loud scavengers.
Linden was glad to see them. Perhaps they were neither clean nor gay; but they were alive. And they lent support to the Harbor’s reputation as a welcoming port.
When the dromond drew close enough to hear the hubbub of the docks, a skiff came shooting out into the open water. Four swarthy men stroked the boat swiftly toward the Giantship; a fifth stood in the stern. Before the skiff was within clear hail, this individual began gesticulating purposefully at Starfare’s Gem.
Linden’s perplexity must have shown on her face, for Pitchwife replied with a low chuckle, “Doubtless he seeks to guide us to a berth which may accommodate a ship of our draught.”
She soon saw that her companion was right. When Honninscrave obeyed the Bhrathair’s gestures, the skiff swung ahead of the Giantship and pulled back toward the docks. By following, Honninscrave shortly brought Starfare’s Gem to a deep levee between jutting piers.
Dockworkers waited there to help the ship to its berth. However, they quickly learned that they could do little for the dromond. The hawsers which were thrown to the piers were too massive for them to handle effectively. As Giants disembarked to secure their vessel, the Bhrathair moved back in astonishment and observed the great stone craft from the head of the levee. Shortly a crowd gathered around them—other dockworkers, sailors from nearby ships, merchants and townspeople who had never seen a Giantship.
Linden studied them with interest while they watched the dromond. Most of their exclamations were in tongues she did not know. They were people of every hue and form; and their apparel ranged from habiliments as plain as those which Sunder and Hollian had worn to exotic regalia, woven of silk and taffeta in bright colors, which would have suited a sultan. An occasional sailor—perhaps the captain of a vessel, or its owner—was luxuriously caparisoned. But primarily the bravado of raiment belonged to the Bhrathair themselves. They were unquestionably prosperous. And prosperity had given them a taste for ostentation.
Then a stirring passed through the crowd as a man breasted his way out onto the pier. He was as swarthy as the men who had rowed the skiff, but his clothing indicated higher rank. He wore a tunic and trousers of a rich black material which shone like satin; his belt had been woven of a vivid silvery metal; and at his right shoulder was pinned a silver cockade like a badge of office. He strode forward as if to show the throng that a ship the size of Starfare’s Gem could not daunt him, then stopped below the afterdeck and waited with a glower of impatience for the invitation and the means to come aboard.
At Honninscrave’s order, a ladder was set for the black-clad personage. With Pitchwife, Linden moved closer to the ladder. The First and Seadreamer had joined the Master there, and Brinn had brought Covenant up from his cabin. Cail stood behind Linden’s left shoulder; Ceer and Hergrom were nearby. Only Vain and Findail chose to ignore the arrival of the Bhrathair.
A moment later, the man climbed through the railing to stand before the assembled company. “I am the Harbor Captain,” he said without preamble. He had a guttural voice which was exaggerated in Linden’s ears by the fact that he was not speaking his native language. “You must have my grant in order to berth or do trade here. Give me first your names and the name of your ship.”
Honninscrave glanced at the First; but she did not step forward. To the Harbor Captain, he said evenly, “This
vessel is the dromond Starfare’s Gem. I am its Master, Grimmand Honninscrave.”
The official made a note on a wax tablet he carried. “And these others?”
Honninscrave stiffened at the man’s tone. “They are Giants, and the friends of Giants.” Then he added, “In times past, the Giants were deemed allies among the Bhrathair.”
“In times past,” the Harbor Captain retorted with a direct glare, “the world was not what it is. My duty cares nothing for dead alliances. If you do not deal openly with me, my judgment will be weighed against you.”
The First’s eyes gnashed with ready anger; but her hand gripped an empty scabbard, and she held herself still. Swallowing his vexation with an effort, Honninscrave named his companions.
The Bhrathair wrote officiously on his tablet. “Very well,” he said as he finished. “What is your cargo?”
“Cargo?” echoed Honninscrave darkly. “We have no cargo.”
“None?” the Harbor Captain snapped in sudden indignation. “Have you not come to do trade with us?”
The Master folded his arms across his massive chest. “No.”
“Then you are mad. What is your purpose?”
“Your eyes will tell you our purpose.” The Giant’s voice grated like boulders rubbing together. “We have suffered severe harm in a great storm. We come seeking stone with which to work repairs and replenishment for our stores.”
“Paugh!” spat the Bhrathair. “You are ignorant, Giant—or a fool.” He spoke like the heat, as if his temper had been formed by the constant oppression of the desert sun. “We are the Bhrathair, not some peasant folk you may intimidate with your bulk. We live on the verge of the Great Desert, and our lives are exigent. What comfort we possess, we gain from trade. I grant nothing when I am offered nothing in return. If you have no cargo, you must purchase what you desire by some other coin. If you lack such coin, you must depart. That is my word.”
The One Tree Page 27
