The One Tree

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  When she nodded to the Giants, Honninscrave dismissed the Caitiffin and his aide. Linden took a grim satisfaction from the promptitude of their departure.

  Cail placed himself on guard outside the door, which Brinn left open as a precaution against the kind of subterfuge the Lady Alif had practiced earlier. Seadreamer had laid Ceer gently down among a pile of cushions. While Linden bent to the task of Ceer’s knee, Pitchwife and the First confronted each other.

  “Stone and Sea!” he began. “I am gladdened by the sight of you—though it wrings my heart to discover you in such straits. What has become of Hergrom? How has such harm befallen Ceer? Surely this tale—”

  The First interrupted him softly. The edges of her tone frayed as if she would have wept if she had been alone with him. “What word do you bring from Starfare’s Gem?”

  All the feigned politesse was gone from Honninscrave’s face. His eyes lanced at Pitchwife. But Seadreamer had turned away from them. He knelt opposite Linden to assist her if he could. His old scar was vivid with apprehension.

  Carefully Linden bathed Ceer’s mangled leg. Her hands were deft and certain. But another part of her mind was focused on Pitchwife and the First.

  The malformed Giant winced. But he shouldered the burden of his tidings. His voice wheezed faintly in his cramped chest.

  “An attempt has been made upon the Giantship.”

  Honninscrave hissed a sharp breath. Seadreamer knotted his hands in a pillow; but it was too insubstantial to steady him. With an effort, the First held herself as still as the Haruchai.

  “After your departure”—his tale made Pitchwife awkward—“the Harbor Captain complied with Rire Grist’s commands. Stores were opened to us—food, water, and stone in abundance. Ere sundown, our holds were replenished, and with my pitch I had wived the side of Starfare’s Gem, restoring it to seaworthiness—though much labor awaits me to repair the other damages.” He had to struggle against his instinctive desire to describe his work in detail. But he coerced himself to relate the pith of his tidings, nothing more. “No harm or suggestion of harm was offered to us, and even the Harbor Captain swallowed some measure of his affronted pride.

  “But it is well for us that Sevinhand Anchormaster holds caution in such esteem. At day’s end, watches were set at all points, both within and upon the dromond. In my folly, I felt secure, for the moon rose nigh to fullness above Bhrathairain, and I conceived that no hurt could accost us unseen. But moonlight also cast a sheen upon the waters, concealing their depths. And while the moon crested above us, the watch which Sevinhand had set within Starfare’s Gem heard unwonted sounds through the hull.”

  Removing Ceer’s splint, Linden finished cleaning his wounds. Then she turned her penetration to the medicaments Rire Grist’s aide had provided. Clearly the Bhrathair had a wide-ranging medical knowledge—the fruit of their violent history. She found cleansing salves, febrifuges, narcotic balms; drugs which promised effectiveness against a variety of battle hurts. They appeared to have been produced from the various sands and soils of the Great Desert itself. She chose an unguent for antisepsis and a balm for numbness, and began applying them to Ceer’s leg.

  But she did not miss a word of Pitchwife’s tale.

  “At once,” he said, “Sevinhand asked for divers. Galewrath and Mistweave replied. Quietly entering the waters, they swam to the place the watch indicated, and there with their hands they discovered a large object clinging among the barnacles. Together they wrested it from the hull, bearing it with them to the surface. But Sevinhand instantly commanded them to discard it. Therefore they cast it to the pier, where it became an exploding fire which wrought great damage—though not to Starfare’s Gem.”

  In grim irony, he continued, “To my mind, it is somewhat odd that no man or woman from all Bhrathairain came to consider the cause of that blast.” Then he shrugged. “Nonetheless, Sevinhand’s caution was not appeased. At his word, Galewrath Storesmaster and others explored all the outward faces of the Giantship with their hands, seeking further perils. None were found.

  “In the dawn,” he concluded, “I came in search of you. Without hindrance I was admitted to the First Circinate. But there I was given to understand”—he grimaced wryly—“that I must await you.” His eyes softened as he regarded the First. “The wait was long to me.”

  Honninscrave could not contain himself. He stepped forward, required the First to look at him. “We must return to Starfare’s Gem.” He was urgent for his ship. “We must flee this Harbor. It is intolerable that my dromond should fall prey to these Bhrathair—and I here helpless.”

  The First replied darkly, “Yes.” But she retained her command over him. “Yet the Chosen is not done. Grimmand Honninscrave, relate to Pitchwife what has transpired among us here.”

  For a moment, the Master’s visage knotted as if her order were cruel. But it was not: it gave him a way to contain his apprehension. He scowled like a fist, and his beard bristled with ire; but he obeyed. In words like the pieces of the gaddhi’s medallion, he told Pitchwife what had happened.

  Linden listened to him as she had to Pitchwife and clasped her promises within her. While Seadreamer supported Ceer’s leg, she spread medicaments over his thigh and knee. Then she cut the linen into strips for bandages. Her hands did not hesitate. When she had wrapped his leg from mid-thigh to calf in firm layers of cloth, she reset the splints.

  After that, she had Seadreamer lift Ceer into a sitting position while she strapped his shoulder to stabilize it. The Haruchai’s eyes were glazed with pain; but his mien remained as stolid as ever. When she was done with his shoulder, she lifted a flagon of diluted wine to his mouth and did not lower it until he had replaced a good measure of the fluid he had lost.

  And all the time Honninscrave’s words reached her ears starkly, adumbrating Hergrom’s death until she seemed to relive it while she tended Ceer. The stubborn extravagance or gallantry of the Haruchai left her over-taut and certain. When the Master finished, she was ready.

  Pitchwife was groping to take in everything he had heard. “This gaddhi,” he murmured in fragments. “As you have described him. Is he capable of enacting such a chicane?”

  Linden rose to her feet. Though his question had not been directed at her, she answered, “No.”

  He looked at her, strove for comprehension. “Then—”

  “It was Kasreyn from the beginning.” She bit out the words. “He controls everything, even when Rant Absolain doesn’t realize it. He must have told the gaddhi exactly what to do. To get Hergrom killed. And he doesn’t want us to know it,” she went on. “He wants us to be afraid of Rant Absolain instead of him. He failed with Covenant once. He’s trying to get another chance. Maybe he thinks we’ll ask him to save us from the gaddhi.”

  “We must flee this place,” Honninscrave insisted.

  Linden did not look at him. She faced the First. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to Rant Absolain. Ask his permission to leave.”

  The First gauged Linden with her iron gaze. “Will he grant us that?”

  Linden shrugged. “It’s worth a try.” She was prepared for that eventuality as well.

  With an inward leap, the First made her decision. Pitchwife’s presence, and the prospect of action, seemed to restore her to herself. Striding out into the corridor, she shouted to the Guards that waited within earshot, “Summon the Caitiffin Rire Grist! We must speak with him!”

  Linden could not relax the over-tension of her nerves. The bruises Cail had left on her upper arm throbbed like a demand.

  When she met the First’s gaze again, they understood each other.

  The Caitiffin returned shortly. Behind the desert-tan of his face lay a suggestion of pallor, as if he had not had time to consult with his master—or perhaps had been refused a hearing. His manner had ragged edges, betraying glimpses of strain.

  But the First had recovered her certainty, and she met him with steady composure. “Rire Grist,” she said as if he had nothing to fe
ar from her, “we desire an audience with the gaddhi.”

  At that, his cheeks blanched unmistakably. Words tumbled out of him. “My friends, let me dissuade you. Assuredly the loss of one comrade and the injury of another are sore to you—but you are unwise to hazard further offense to the gaddhi. He is sovereign here, and jealous. You must not task him for what he has done. Having obtained the punishment he sought, he is now perhaps inclined to be magnanimous. But if you dare his ill-favor, he will take umbrage swiftly, to your cost.”

  He began to repeat himself, then jerked to a halt. Clearly Kasreyn had not prepared him for this dilemma. Sweat spread around his eyes as he forced himself to meet the First’s scrutiny.

  She was unruffled. “Caitiffin, we have taken decision among ourselves to respect the gaddhi’s right of punishment.” Linden felt the lie under the flat surface of the words, but she saw that Rire Grist did not. “We are grieved for our companions, but we will not presume to judge your sovereign.” The First permitted herself a subtle inflection of contempt, “Be assured that we will offer the gaddhi no offense. We desire merely to ask a frank boon of him—one easily within his grant and plainly honorable to him.”

  For a moment, the Caitiffin’s eyes shifted back and forth, searching for a way to inquire what that boon was. But then he grasped that she did not mean to tell him. As he wiped a discomfited hand across his forehead, he looked like a man for whom a lifetime of ambition had begun to crumble. Yet he remained tough enough to act. Striving to contain his uncertainty, he answered, “It is rare for the gaddhi to grant audience at such a time. But for his guests he may perhaps make exception. Will you accompany me?”

  When the First nodded, he turned as if he wanted to flee and left the chamber.

  Quickly she looked at her companions. None of them hesitated. Seadreamer lifted Ceer from the cushions. Brinn took hold of Covenant’s arm. Honninscrave moved forward tightly, holding his emotions in both fists.

  Vain remained as blank as ever; and Findail seemed to be entranced by his own distress. But neither of them lingered behind the company.

  Linden led them after Rire Grist.

  She followed him closely, with Cail and then the others behind her. She wanted to ensure that the Caitiffin had as little opportunity as possible to prepare surprises. She could not prevent the brackish shout he directed at the first hustin he met, sending two of them at a run ahead of him; but she saw no cunning in the set of his back, heard no duplicity in the tone of his voice. When he informed her over his shoulder that he had told the Guards to bear the company’s request to Rant Absolain, she was able to believe him. Whatever hopes he had left did not require him to betray the quest now.

  He led the company directly upward through the Tier of Riches to The Majesty. As Linden ascended into the audience-hall, she found everything arranged as it had been during the company’s initial presentation to the gaddhi: scores of Guards were stationed around the wall; and all the light was focused toward the high Auspice. Only the Chatelaine were missing. Their absence made her realize that she had not seen any of them since the previous day. She grew tighter. Were they simply staying out of harm’s way?—or had they been commanded into seclusion so that they would not interfere with Kasreyn’s machinations?

  The Caitiffin spoke to one of the hustin and received an answer which relieved him. He faced the company with a smile. “The gaddhi elects to grant you audience.”

  Linden and the First shared a moment of preparation. Then they followed Rire Grist across the circles of the floor toward the Auspice.

  In the zone of light, they stopped beside him. The Auspice lifted its magnificence into the lumination as if it were more truly the suzerain of Bhrathairealm than Rant Absolain himself.

  The gaddhi was not there.

  But after only a moment’s delay he emerged from the shadows behind his seat. He was alone, unaccompanied by either his women or the Kemper. And he was nervous. Linden sensed the trembling of his knees as he ascended the throne.

  Rire Grist dropped to one knee. Linden and the Giants mimicked his obeisance. Her tension made her want to shout at Brinn and Cail, at Vain and Findail, to do the same; but she kept herself still. As Rant Absolain climbed through the brightness to take his seat, she studied him. He had put off his formal robe and now wore a light tunic which appeared to be a form of bed-attire. But underneath his raiment, his inner state was clouded. It was clear that he had been drinking heavily. The wine obscured his emanations.

  When he took his seat, she and the First arose without waiting for his permission. The other Giants and Rire Grist also stood. Seadreamer held Ceer into the light like an accusation.

  Rant Absolain peered out at the company, but did not speak. His tongue worked the inside of his mouth as if he were dry with thirst. A patina of wine blurred his vision, made him squint until aches squeezed his temples.

  The First gave him a moment of silence like an act of forbearance toward his weakness. Then she took a step forward, bowed formally, and began to speak,

  “O gaddhi, you honor us with this hearing. We are your guests and desire to ask a boon of you.” The edge of her voice was masked in velvet. “Word has come to us that our vessel is now replenished and repaired, according to your grace. O gaddhi, the quest which drives us across the seas is urgent and consuming. We ask your grant to depart, that we may pursue our purpose, bearing the honor of your name with us as we go.”

  She spoke in a reassuring tone; but her words brought down consternation on Rant Absolain. He shrank against the Auspice. His hands gripped the arms of the seat for an answer it did not provide. While he wrestled for a response, his lips mumbled, No. No.

  Linden felt a touch of pity for him; but it was not enough to ease the pressure which stretched her to her resolve.

  At last, he rasped against the desert in his throat, “Depart?” His voice cracked helplessly. “I cannot permit it. You have suffered in Bhrathairealm.” Somehow he found the strength to insist defensively, “Through no fault of mine. Blood was shed. I am required to exact justice.” But then he became timorous again, painfully aware of his isolation. “But you must not bear such tidings of me to the world. You are guests, and the gaddhi is not harsh to his guests. I will make restitution.” His eyes winced as his brain scrambled in search of inspiration. “Do you desire a sword? Take what you wish in the name of my goodwill and be content. You may not depart.” His gaze beseeched the First not to press him further.

  But she did not relent. Her voice hardened. “O gaddhi, I have heard it spoken that the hustin are yours, answering to your will absolutely.”

  She surprised him; but he did not perceive the nature of her attack. The thought of the hustin restored to him a measure of confidence. “That is true. The Guard is mine.”

  “It is untrue.” The First slipped her intent like a dirk through his defenses. “If you command them to permit our departure, they will refuse.”

  The gaddhi sprang to his feet. “You lie!”

  She overrode his protest. “Kasreyn of the Gyre commands them. He made them, and they are his.” Sharply she drove the deepest wedge she could find between Rant Absolain and the Kemper. “They answer you only at his whim.”

  “Lies!” he shouted at her. “Lies!” Magenta anger or fear suffused his visage. “They are mine!”

  At once, Linden responded, “Then try it! Tell them to let us go. Give us permission to leave. You’re the gaddhi. What have you got to lose?”

  At her demand, all the color drained from his face, leaving him as pallid as panic in the focus of the light. His mouth gaped, but no words came. His mind appeared to flee inward, reaving him of self-consciousness or choice. Dumbly he turned, descended from the Auspice, came down to the level of the company. He trembled as he moved—as frail as if the moments were years and all the stone of the Sandhold had turned against him. Staring vaguely before him, he shuffled toward Linden, brought his fear to her. He swallowed several times; his gaze slowly clarified. In a hoarse w
hisper like an internal wound, he said, “I dare not.”

  She had no reply. He was telling the truth—the whole truth of his life.

  For a moment longer, he faced her, appealing to her with his dread. Then he turned away as if he understood that she had refused him. Stumbling over the gaps in the floor, he made his vulnerable way into the shadow of the Auspice and was gone.

  The First looked at Linden.

  “That does it.” Linden felt that she was near her breaking-point. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  With a deft movement, the First unbound her helm from her belt, settled it upon her head. Her shield she unslung from her back. Lashing her left forearm into the straps of the shield, she strode toward the stairs.

  Rire Grist started after her, spouting expostulations. But Honninscrave caught hold of him. A precise blow stretched the Caitiffin senseless on the floor.

  None of the Guards reacted. They gripped their spears at rest and stood where they were, waiting for some voice they recognized to tell them what to do.

  Linden hurried after the First; but she did not let herself run. The time for running had not yet come. Her senses were alert and sharp, etching out perceptions. Her companions were behind her in formation, poised for violence. But here nothing threatened them. Below them, the Tier of Riches remained empty. Beyond that her percipience did not reach.

  In silence marked only by the sounds of their feet, the questers spiraled down to the Tier. There the First did not hesitate. With a warrior’s stride, she passed among the galleries until she reached the one which displayed the blade she coveted.

  “Heard my ears aright?” she murmured in stern irony as she lifted the longsword from its mounts, hefted it to ascertain its balance. “Did the gaddhi not grant me this glaive?” The falchion’s edges were as keen as the light in her eyes. Her mouth tasted names for this blade.

  Chortling to himself, Pitchwife went with Honninscrave to find other weapons.