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 labored 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 defenses 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 center 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 defenses 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 the 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 tiger-like 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 Harbor 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, Giantfriend 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 leveled.
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 Fi
ndail’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 apologizing. “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 banquettes; 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 realized 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 favor: they had reminded her of ill and anger. She did not permit herself to quail.
The gates of the Sandhold were closed; but at a shout from Rire Grist they opened outward, operated by forces or Guards within the walls. Honninscrave and the First entered with the Caitiffin. Clenching her fists, Linden followed.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, Rire Grist began speaking. “As you have perhaps heard, this is the First Circinate of the gaddhi’s Sandhold.” They were in a forecourt or mustering-hall large enough for several hundred people. The ceiling was lost in shadow far above the floor, as if this whole space had been formed for the explicit purpose of humbling anyone admitted to the Sandhold. In the light which streaked the air from huge embrasures high above the gates, Linden saw two wide stairways opposite each other at the far end of the forecourt. “Here are housed the Guards and those like myself who are of the gaddhi’s Horse.” At least a score of the hustin stood on-duty around the walls; but they did not acknowledge either the Caitiffin or the company. “And here also are our kitchens, refectories, laving-rooms, training-halls. We number four score hundred Guards and fifteen score Horse.” Apparently he sought to reassure the company by giving out information freely. “Our mounts themselves are stabled within the Sandwall. Such was the Kemper’s foresight that we do not yet fill this place, though our numbers grow with every passing year.”
Linden wanted to ask him why the gaddhi—or the gaddhi’s Kemper—required such an army. Or, for that matter, why Bhrathairealm needed all the warships she had seen in the Harbor. But she set those questions aside for another time and concentrated instead on understanding as much as possible of the Sandhold.
While he spoke, Rire Grist walked toward the stairway on the right. Honninscrave asked him a few seemingly disinterested questions about foodstores, water-supplies, and the like; and the Caitiffin’s replies took the company as far as the stairs.
These led in a long sweep to the Second Circinate, which proved to be a smaller and more luxuriously appointed version of the First. Here, according to Rire Grist, lived all the people who comprised the gaddhi’s Chatelaine—his attendants, courtiers, advisers, and guests. There were no Guards in evidence; and the forecourt into which the stairways opened was bedecked and tapestried like a ballroom. Light came from many windows as well as from flaming cruses as big as cauldrons. The inner walls held balconies for spectators and musicians; sculpted stone tables stood ready to bear refreshments. But at the moment the hall was empty; and in spite of its lights and accoutrements, it felt strangely cheerless.
Again two wide stairways arced upward from the far end. Strolling in that direction, the Caitiffin explained that the company would be given chambers here, granted time for rest and sustenance in privacy, once they had been presented to Rant Absolain.
Honninscrave continued to ply their guide with easy inquiries and comments. But the First wore a glower as if she shared Linden’s apprehension that the Sandhold would be difficult to leave. She carried her shield on her back like an assertion that she would not cheaply be made captive. But the swing of her arms, the flexing of her fingers, were as imprecise as a cripple’s, betraying her bereavement of her broadsword.
No other voice intruded on the hollow air. Covenant shambled forward in Brinn’s grasp like a negative image of Seadreamer’s muteness. The Haruchai bore themselves in poised silence. And Linden was at once too daunted by, and too busy studying, the Sandhold to speak. With all the frayed attention she could muster, she searched the gaddhi’s donjon for signs of evil.
Then the company ascended from the Second Circinate and found themselves in the Tier of Riches.
That place was aptly named. Unlike the
lower levels, it was structured in a warren of rooms the size of galleries. And each room was resplendent with treasure.
Here, Rire Grist explained, the gaddhi kept the finest works of the artists and artisans of Bhrathairealm, the most valuable weavings, artifacts, and jewels gained by the Bhrathair in trade, the most precious gifts given to the Sandhold’s sovereign by the rulers of other lands. Hall after hall was dedicated to displays of weaponry: rank upon rank of sabers, falchions, longswords; rows of jerrids, spears, crossbows, and innumerable other tools for hurling death; intricate engines of war, such as siege-towers, catapults, battering rams, housed like objects of worship in magnificent chambers. Other rooms contained gemwork of every conceivable description. Dozens of walls were covered with arrases like acts of homage, recognition, or flattery. Several chambers showed finely wrought goblets, plate, and other table service. And each was brightly lit by a chandelier of lambent crystal.
As Rire Grist guided the company through the nearest rooms, Linden was amazed by the extent of the gaddhi’s wealth. If these were the fruits of Kasreyn’s stewardship, then she was not surprised that no gaddhi had ever deposed the Kemper. How could any monarch resent the servant who made the Tier of Riches possible? Kasreyn’s hold upon his position did not arise only from great age and thaumaturgy. It also arose from cunning.
The First’s eyes gleamed at the display of swords, some of which were large and puissant enough to replace her lost blade; and even Honninscrave was struck silent by all he saw. Seadreamer appeared to be dazzled by splendor. Apart from Vain and Findail, only the Haruchai remained untouched. If anything, Brinn and his people became more watchful and ready than ever, tightening their protection around Linden and Covenant as if they felt they were nearing the source of a threat.
In the Tier, the company met for the first time men and women who were not soldiers or Guards. These were members of the gaddhi’s Chatelaine. As a group, they appeared uniquely handsome and desirable. Linden saw not one plain face or figure among them. And they were resplendently dressed in velvet gowns encrusted with gems, doublets and robes that shone like peacock-feathers, gauzy cymars which draped their limbs like the attire of seduction. They saluted Rire Grist in the tongue of the Bhrathair, gazed at the company with diversely startled or brazen curiosity. Yet their faces wore brightness and charm as vizards; and Linden noted that although they moved around the Tier like appreciative admirers, they did not give their attention to the displayed wealth. From each of them she felt a vibration of tension, as if they were waiting with concealed trepidation for an event which might prove hazardous—and against which they had no defense except their grace and attire.
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