The One Tree

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  However, they were adept at concealment. Like the Caitiffin, they betrayed no disquiet which would have been apparent to any senses but hers. But her percipience told her plainly that the Sandhold was a place ruled by fear.

  One of the men gave her a smile as superficially frank as a leer. Servants moved noiselessly through the rooms, offering goblets of wine and other courtesies. The First could hardly draw herself away from a particular glaive which hung at an angle in its mounts as if it were leaning toward her. With an inward shiver, Linden realized that the Tier of Riches had been designed for more than the gaddhi’s gratification. It also acted as bait. Its very luxuriance was dangerous to people who had reason to be wary.

  Then a tremor passed through the air, pulling her to a halt. A moment passed before she understood that no one else had felt it. It was not a sound, but rather a presence that altered the ambience of the Tier in a way only she was able to perceive. And it was moving toward the company. As it drew closer, the susurrus of voices rustling from chamber to chamber fell still.

  Before she could warn her companions, a man entered the gallery. She knew who he was before Rire Grist’s bow and salutation had announced him as the gaddhi’s Kemper. The power which poured from him was as tangible as a pronouncement. He could not have been anyone other than a thaumaturge.

  The aura he radiated was one of hunger.

  He was a tall man, stood head and shoulders above her; but his frame was so lean that he appeared emaciated. His skin had the translucence of great age, exposing the blue mapwork of his veins. Yet his features were not ancient, and he moved as if his limbs were confident of their vitality. In spite of his reputed longevity, he might have been no more than seventy years of age. A slight rheum clouded his eyes, obscuring their color but not the impact of their gaze.

  In a flash of intuition, Linden perceived that the hunger shining from him was a hunger for time—that his desire for life, and more life, surpassed the satiation of centuries.

  He was dressed in a gold-colored robe which swept the floor as he approached. Suspended by a yellow ribbon, a golden circle like an ocular hung from his neck; but it held no lens.

  A leather strap enclosed each shoulder as if he were carrying a rucksack. Linden did not see until he turned to answer the Caitiffin’s greeting that the burden he bore was an infant swaddled in yellow samite.

  After a brief word with Rire Grist, the Kemper stepped toward the company.

  “I am pleased to greet you.” His voice revealed a faint quaver of age; but his tone was confident and familiar. “Permit me to say that such guests are rare in Bhrathairealm—thus doubly welcome. Therefore have I desired to make your acquaintance ere you are summoned before the Auspice to receive the gaddhi’s benison. But we need no introduction. This worthy Caitiffin has already spoken my name. And in my turn I know you.

  “Grimmand Honninscrave,” he went on promptly as if to set the company at ease with his knowledge, “you have brought your vessel a great distance—and at some cost, I fear.”

  He gave the First a slight bow. “You are the First of the Search—and very welcome among us.” To Seadreamer, he said, “Be at peace. Your muteness will not lessen the pleasure of your presence for either the gaddhi or his Chatelaine.”

  Then he stood before Linden and Covenant. “Thomas Covenant,” he said with an avid tinge in his voice. “Linden Avery. How you gladden me. Among such unexpected companions”—a flick of one hand referred to the Haruchai, Vain, and Findail—“you are the most unexpected of all, and the most pleasurable to behold. If the word of the gaddhi’s Kemper bears any weight, you will not lack comfort or service while you sojourn among us.”

  Distinctly as if on cue, Covenant said, “Don’t touch me.”

  The Kemper raised an age-white eyebrow in surprise. After a quick scrutiny of Covenant, his eyes turned toward Linden as if to ask her for an explanation.

  She resisted his intense aura, trying to find a suitable response. But her mind refused to clear. He disturbed her. Yet the most unsettling aspect of him was not the man himself, not the insatiaty he projected. Rather, it was the child on his back. It hung in its wrappings as if it were fast and innocently asleep; but the way its plump cheek rested against the top of his spine gave her the inexplicable impression that it fed on him like a succubus.

  This impression was only aggravated by the fact that she could not confirm it. Though the infant was as plainly visible as the Kemper, it did not impinge at all on the other dimension of her senses. If she closed her eyes, she still felt Kasreyn’s presence like a yearning pressure against her face; but the infant disappeared as if it ceased to exist when she stopped gazing at it. It might have been an hallucination.

  Her stare was too obvious to escape Kasreyn’s notice. A look of calculation crossed his mien, then changed to fondness. “Ah, my son,” he said. “I bear him so constantly that upon occasion I forget a stranger might wonder at him. Linden Avery, I am uxorious, and my wife is sadly ill. Therefore I care for our child. My duties permit no other recourse than this. But you need have no concern of him. He is a quiet boy and will not trouble us.”

  “Forgive me,” Linden said awkwardly, trying to emulate Honninscrave’s detached politeness. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” She felt acutely threatened by that child. But the Kemper’s welcome might become something else entirely if she showed that she knew he was lying.

  “Give no thought to the matter.” His tone was gently condescending. “How can it offend me that you have taken notice of my son?” Then he returned his attention to the Giants.

  “My friends, much time has passed since your people have had dealings with the Bhrathair. I doubt not you have remained mighty roamers and adventurers, and your history has surely been rich in interest and edification. I hope you will consent to share with me some of the tales for which the Giants have gained such renown. But that must come later, as my service to the gaddhi permits.” Abruptly he raised a long, bony ringer; and at the same instant a chime rang in the Tier of Riches. “At present, we are summoned before the Auspice. Rire Grist will conduct you to The Majesty.” Without farewell, he turned and strode vigorously from the room, bearing his son nestled against his back.

  Linden was left with a sense of relief, as if a faintly nauseating scent had been withdrawn. A moment passed before she realized how deftly Kasreyn had prevented her companions from asking him any questions. And he had not voiced any inquiry about Covenant’s condition. Was he that incurious?—or was he capable of discerning the answer for himself?

  Rire Grist beckoned the company in another direction. But Honninscrave said firmly, “One moment, Caitiffin.” His posture showed that he also had doubts about Kasreyn. “A question, if you will. I ask pardon if I am somewhat forward—yet I cannot but think that the gaddhi’s Kemper is more than a little advanced in years to be the father of such an infant.”

  The Caitiffin stiffened. In an instant, his countenance became the visage of a soldier rather than of a diplomat. “Giant,” he said coldly, “there is no man or woman, Chatelaine or Guard, in all Bhrathairealm who will speak to you concerning the Kemper’s son.” Then he stalked out of the room as if he were daring the company not to follow him.

  Honninscrave looked at Linden and the First. Linden felt neither ready nor safe enough to do anything more than shrug; and the First said grimly, “Let us attend this gaddhi. All other reasons aside, it rends my heart to behold so many brave blades I may not touch.”

  The Master’s discomfort at the role he played showed itself in the tightness of his shoulders, the weight of his brows. But he led the company after Rire Grist.

  They caught up with the Caitiffin two galleries later. By then, he had recovered his courtly politesse. But he offered no apology for his change of manner. Instead he simply ushered the company onward through the Tier of Riches.

  The chime must have included all the Chatelaine in its call. The sumptuously clad men and women were now moving in the same direction Rire G
rist took. Their ornaments glittered in accompaniment to their personal comeliness; but they walked in silence, as if they were bracing themselves for what lay ahead.

  Linden was briefly confused by the complexity of the Tier, uncertain of where she was headed. But soon the chambers debouched into a hall that took the thickening stream of people toward a richly gilt and engraved stairway which spiraled upward to pierce the ceiling.

  Surrounded by the courtiers, she was more sure than ever that she saw shadows of trepidation behind their deliberate gaiety. Apparently attendance upon the gaddhi represented a crisis for them as well as for the company. But their knurled cheeriness did not reveal the nature of what they feared.

  The treads climbed dizzily upward. Hunger, and the fatigue of her legs, sent low tremblings through Linden’s thighs. She felt too unsteady to trust herself. But she drew a mental support from Cail’s hardness at her shoulder and trudged on behind the Giants and Rire Grist.

  Then the stairs opened into The Majesty, and she forgot her weariness.

  The hall into which she stepped seemed almost large and grand enough to fill the entire level. At this end, the air was only dimly lit by reflected light, and the gloom made the place appear immense and cavernous. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The hustin that lined the long, curving wall nearby looked as vague as icons. And the wall itself was deeply carved with huge and tormented shapes—demons in bas-relief which appeared to be animated by the dimness, tugging at the edges of Linden’s sight as if they writhed in a gavotte of pain.

  The floor was formed of stone slabs cut into perfect circles. But the gaps between the circles were wide, deep, and dark. Any misstep might easily break an ankle. As a result, the company had to advance with care in order to approach the light.

  The rest of the hall was also designed to be daunting. All the light was concentrated around the Auspice: skylights, flaming vats of oil with polished reflectors, vivid candelabra on tall poles cast their illumination toward the gaddhi’s seat. And the Auspice itself was as impressive as art and wealth could make it. Rising from a tiered plinth of stairs, it became a monolith which reached for the ceiling like an outstretched forearm and hand. Its arm was crusted with precious stones and metals, and the hand was an aurora of concentric circles behind the seat.

  The Auspice appeared to be enormous, dominating the hall. But after a moment Linden realized that this was a consequence of the light and the hall’s shape. The ceiling descended as it entered the light, enhancing the Auspice with an illusion of more size than it truly possessed. Spangled with lumination and jewelwork, the seat drew every eye as a cynosure. Linden had trouble forcing herself to watch where she put her feet; and her apprehension tightened another turn. As she strove to walk forward without stumbling into the gaps which marked the floor all the way to the Auspice, she learned to understand The Majesty. It was intended to make everyone who came here feel subservient and vulnerable.

  She resisted instinctively. Glowering as if she had come to hurl revolt at the sovereign of Bhrathairealm, she followed the Giants, took her place among them when Rire Grist stopped a short distance from the plinth of the Auspice. Around them, the Chatelaine spread out to form a silent arc before the gaddhi’s seat. Looking at her companions, she saw that the Giants were not immune to the power of The Majesty; and even the Haruchai seemed to experience some of the awe which had led their ancestors to Vow fealty to Kevin Landwaster. Vain’s blankness and Findail’s unimpressed mien gave her no comfort. But she found a positive reassurance in the uncowed distinctness with which Covenant uttered his empty refrain:

  “Don’t touch me.”

  She feared that she might be cunningly and dangerously touched in this place.

  A moment later, another chime sounded. Immediately the light grew brighter, as if even the sun had been called to attend the gaddhi’s arrival. The hustin snapped into still greater rigidity, raising their spears in salute. For an instant, no one appeared. Then several figures came out of the shadow of the Auspice as if they had been rendered material by the intensity of the illumination.

  A man led the way up onto the plinth. To each of his arms a woman clung, at once deferential and possessive. Behind them came six more women. And at the rear of the party walked Kasreyn of the Gyre, with his son on his back.

  Every courtier dropped to one knee and bowed deeply.

  The Caitiffin also made a profound obeisance, though he remained standing. In a careful whisper, he breathed, “The gaddhi Rant Absolain. With him are his Favored, the Lady Alif and the Lady Benj. Also others who have recently been, or perhaps will be, Favored. And the gaddhi’s Kemper, whom you know.”

  Linden stared at the gaddhi. In spite of the opulence around him, he was plainly arrayed in a short satin tunic, as if he wished to suggest that he was unmoved by his own riches. But he had chosen a tunic which displayed his form proudly; and his movements hinted at narcissism and petulance. He accepted the adoring gazes of his women smugly. Linden saw that his hair and face had been treated with oils and paints to conceal his years behind an aspect of youthful virility.

  He did not look like a sovereign.

  The women with him—both the Favored and the others—were all pretty, would have been lovely if their expressions of adoration had not been so mindless. And they were attired as odalisques. Their scant and transparent raiment was a candid appeal to desire: their perfumes, coifs, movements spoke of nothing except bedworthiness. They had found their own answer to the trepidation which beset the Chatelaine, and meant to pursue it with every allure at their command.

  Smirking intimately, the gaddhi left his Favored on the plinth with Kasreyn and ascended to his seat. There he was an effective figure. The design of the throne made him appear genuinely regal and commanding. But no artifice could conceal the self-satisfaction in his eyes. His gaze was that of a spoiled child—surquedry unjustified by any achievement, any true power.

  For a long moment, he sat looking out over the obeisance of his Chatelaine, enjoying the way so many men and women humbled themselves before him. Perhaps the brightness dazzled him; he seemed unaware that Linden and her companions were still on their feet. But gradually he leaned forward to peer through the light; and vexation creased his face, betraying the lines which oil and paint had concealed.

  “Kemper!” he snapped irritably. “Who are these mad folk who do not take to their knees before Rant Absolain, gaddhi of Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert?”

  “O gaddhi.” Kasreyn’s reply was practiced—and faintly sardonic. “They are the Giants and voyagers of whom we spoke just now. Though they are ignorant of the greeting which should properly be accorded the gaddhi Rant Absolain, they have come to accept the welcome which you have so graciously proffered them, and to express their profound thanks, for you have redeemed them from severe distress.”

  As he delivered this speech, his eyes were fixed purposefully on the company.

  Honninscrave responded promptly. Moving like a man in a charade, he dropped to one knee. “O gaddhi,” he said clearly, “your Kemper speaks good sooth. We have come in glad thanks for your most hospitable and needful welcome. Forgive us that we are ill-schooled in the homage which is your due. We are a rude folk and have little acquaintance with such regality.”

  At the same time, Rire Grist made a covert gesture to the rest of the company, urging them to follow Honninscrave’s example.

  The First growled softly in her throat; but she acknowledged the necessity of the masque by lowering herself to one knee. Her shoulders were rigid with the knowledge that the company was surrounded by at least three hundred Guards.

  Linden and Seadreamer also bowed. Her breathing was cramped with anxiety. She could think of no appeal or power which would induce the Haruchai, Vain, or Findail to make obeisance. And Covenant was altogether deaf to the need for this imitation of respect.

  But the gaddhi did not press the issue. Instead he muttered an impatient phrase in the brackish language of the Bhrathair; and at on
ce the Chatelaine rose to their feet. The company did the same, the First stiffly, Honninscrave diffidently. Linden felt a moment of relief.

  The gaddhi was now looking down at Kasreyn. His expression had fallen into a pout. “Kemper, why was I called from the pleasure of my Favored for this foolish assemblage?” He spoke the common tongue of the Harbor in an oddly defiant tone, like a rebellious adolescent.

  But the Kemper’s reply was unruffled. “O gaddhi, it is to your great honor that you have ever been munificent to those whom you deign to welcome. Therefore is your name grateful to all who dwell within the blessing of your demesne, and the Chatelaine are exalted by the mere thought of attendance upon you. Now it is seemly that these your new guests should come before you to utter their thanks. And it is also seemly”—his voice sharpened slightly—“that you should grant them your hearing. They have come in need, with requests in their hearts which only such, a monarch as the gaddhi of Bhrathairealm may hope to satisfy, and the answer which you accord them will carry the fame of your grace across all the wide Earth.”

  At this, Rant Absolain settled back in his seat with an air of cunning. His mood was plain to Linden’s senses. He was engaged in a contest of wills with his Kemper. Glancing out over the company, he smiled nastily. “It is as my servant”—he stressed that word—“the Kemper has said. I delight to give pleasure to my guests. What do you desire of me?”