Twenty Four: The Isle

THE sky remained beclouded and blustery for two days, echoing the gray moil of the sea like indignation, as if Starfare's Gem were an intrusion which vexed the region. But then the wind rose in dismissal, and the dromond was swept into a period of clear days and crystal nights. Under the sun, the sea joined the heavens without seam or taint; and at night the specific glitter of the stars marked out the path of the quest for any experienced gaze to read.

Grimmand Honninscrave grew more eager every day. And the immaculate wind seemed to fan both the First and Pitchwife into a heat of anticipation. At unguarded moments, his misborn grotesquerie and her iron beauty looked oddly similar, as if their progress toward the One Tree were deepening their intimacy. The three of them studied the distance constantly, searching the horizon for validation of the choices which had taken them away from the Land in spite of Seadreamer's plain Earth-Sight.

Their keenness spread out across the Giantship, affecting all the crew. Even Heft Galewrath's blunt features took on a whetted aspect. And Sevinhand's old sadness passed through periods of sunshine like hope.

Linden Avery watched them as she watched the ship itself and Covenant, trying to find her place among them. She understood the Giants, knew that much of their eagerness arose on Seadreamer's behalf. His dumb misery was vivid to everyone. His people champed to accomplish their purpose and head back toward the Land, where he might be able to seek relief in the crisis of the Sunbane, the apotheosis of his vision. But she did not share that particular longing. She feared that the Giants did not recognize the true nature of his vision.

And Covenant's mood only aggravated her apprehension. He seemed avid for the One Tree to the point of fever. Emotionally if not physically, he had drawn away from her. The rejection of the Haruchai had driven him into a state of rigid defensiveness. When he talked, his voice had a ragged edge which he could not blunt; and his eyes sent out reflections of bloodshed. She saw in his face that he was remembering the Clave, people butchered to feed the Banefire, self-distrust; remembering power and venom over which he had no control. At times, his gaze was hollow with recollections of silence. Even his lovemaking became strangely vehement, as if despite their embraces he believed he had already lost her.

She could not forget that he intended to send her back to her former life. He was fervid for the One Tree for his own reasons, hoping that it would enable him to fight Lord Foul with something other than white fire and destruction. But he also wanted it because of her. To send her back.

She dreaded that, dreaded the One Tree, Seadreamer's mute and untouchable trepidation ached in her like an open wound. Whenever he came within range of her senses, she felt his ambience bleeding. At times, she could barely rein herself from urging Covenant, the First, anyone who would listen to abandon the quest—forget the One Tree, return to the Land, fight the Sunbane with whatever weapons were available and accept the outcome. She believed that Seadreamer knew exactly what Lord Foul was doing. And she did not want to be sent back.

Late one night, when Covenant had at last fallen into a sleep free of nightmares, she left his side, went up to the decks. She wore her woollen robe. Though the air had become noticeably cooler during the past few days, she shied away from her old clothes as if they represented exigencies and failures she did not wish to reconsider. On the afterdeck, she found Starfare's Gem riding unerringly before the wind under a moon already in its last quarter. Soon nothing would stand between the dromond and darkness except the ambiguous stars and a few lanterns. But for this night, at least, a crescent of light remained acute in the heavens.

Sevinhand greeted her quietly from the wheeldeck; but she did not go to him. Beyond the wind, the long stone sea-running of the dromond, the slumber of the Giants who were not on watch, she sensed Seadreamer's presence like a hand of pain cupped against her cheek. Huddling into her robe, she went forward.

She found the mute Giant sitting with his back to the foremast, facing the prow and Findail's silhouette. The small muscles around his eyes winced and tightened as he stared at Findail—and through Findail toward the One Tree—as if he were begging the Appointed to say the things which he, Seadreamer, could not. But Findail seemed immune to the Giant's appeal. Or perhaps such supplications were a part of the burden which he had been Appointed to bear. He also faced the prospect of the One Tree as if he feared to take his eyes from it.

In silence, Linden seated herself beside Seadreamer. He sat cross-legged, with his hands in his lap. At intervals, he turned the palms upward as if he were trying to open himself to the night, accept his doom. But repeatedly his fists clenched, shoulders knotted, transforming him to a figure of protest.

After a moment, she breathed, “Try.” The frail sickle-moon lit none of his visage except the pale scar which underlined his gaze; the rest remained dark. “There's got to be some way.”

With a violence that made her flinch, his hands leaped upward. Their heels thudded bitterly against his forehead. But an instant later he snatched air in through his teeth, and his hands began sketching shapes across the night.

At first, she was unable to follow his gestures: the outline he attempted to form eluded her. But he tried again, strove to grasp an image out of the blank air. This time, she understood him.

“The One Tree.”

He nodded rigidly. His arms made an arc around him.

“The ship,” she whispered. “Starfare's Gem.”

Again, he nodded. He repeated the movement of his arms, then pointed forward past the prow. His hands redelineated the tree-shape.

“The ship going to the One Tree.”

Seadreamer shook his head.

“When the ship gets to the One Tree,”

This time, his nod was stiff with grief. With one finger, he tapped his chest, pointing at his heart. Then his hands came together, twisted each other—a wrench as violent as a rupture. Trails of silver gleamed across his scar.

When Linden could no longer bear the sight, she looked away—and found Findail there, come to witness the Giant's pantomime. The moon lay beyond his right shoulder; all his face and form were dark.

“Help him,” she demanded softly. Help me. “Can't you see what he's going through?”

For a long moment, the Elohim did not move or reply. Then he stepped close to the Giant, reached out one hand to Seadreamer's forehead. His fingertips pressed gentleness onto the fate written there. Almost at once, Seadreamer slumped. Muscle by muscle, the pressure ran out of him as if it were being absorbed by Findail's touch. His chin sagged to his breast. He was asleep.

In silence, Findail turned back to the station he had chosen in the dromond's prow.

Carefully, so that she would not disturb the Giant's rest, Linden rose to her feet, returned like mute rue to lie at Covenant's side and stare at the ceiling of her cabin until she slept.

The next morning, she brought up the question of Seadreamer in front of the First, Pitchwife, Honninscrave, and Covenant. But the Master had no new insight to give her. And Pitchwife reiterated his hope that Seadreamer would gain some relief when their quest for the One Tree had been accomplished.

Linden knew better. Severely, she described her encounter with the mute Giant the previous night.

Pitchwife made no effort to conceal his dismay. Cocking her fists on her hips, the First gazed away past the prow and muttered long Giantish curses under her breath. Honninscrave's features knotted like the stiff tangle of his beard.

Covenant stood among them as if he were alone; but he spoke for them all. His gaze wandered the stone, avoiding Linden as he rasped, “Do you think we should turn back?”

She wanted to answer, Yes! But she could not. He had invested all his hope in the One Tree.

For a time, Honninscrave's commands to the crew were tinged with uncertainty, as if within him a voice of denial cried out that the dromond should be turned at once, sent with all possible speed away from its fatal destination. But he kept his fear to himself. The Giantship's path across the seas did not waver.

That clear wind blew for five days. It became gradually but steadily cooler as the vessel angled into the north; but it remained dry, firm, and insistent. And for three of those days, the quest arrowed swiftly along the waves without incident, meeting no danger, sighting no landfall.

But on the fourth day, a cry of astonishment and alarm rang down from the lookout. The stone under Linden's feet began to vibrate as if the sea were full of tremors. Honninscrave shortened sail, readied his ship for emergency. In another league, Starfare's Gem found itself gliding through a region crowded with Nicor.

Their immense shapes each broke water in several places; together, they marked the sea like a multitude. Their underwater talk thrummed against Linden's senses. Remembering the one Nicor she had seen previously, she feared for the safety of the dromond. But these creatures appeared oblivious to Starfare's Gem. Their voices conveyed no timbre of peril to her percipience. They moved without haste or hunger, lolling vaguely as if they were immersed in lethargy, boredom, or contentment. Occasionally, one of them lifted a massive snout, then subsided with a distant soughing of water like a sigh of indifference. Honninscrave was able to steer his vessel among them without attracting their attention.

“Stone and Sea!” Pitchwife breathed softly to Linden, “I had not thought that all the seas of the Earth together contained so many such creatures. The stories of them are so scanty that one Nicor alone might account for them all. What manner of ocean is it that we have entered with such blithe ignorance?”

The First was standing beside him. He looked up at her as he concluded, “Yet this will be a tale to delight any child.”

She did not meet his gaze; but the smile which softened her eyes was as private as the affection in his tone.

Honninscrave's care took the Giantship slowly among the Nicor; but by midafternoon the creatures had been left behind, and Starfare's Gem resumed its flying pace. And that night, a mood of over-stretched gaiety came upon the Giants. They roistered and sang under the implacable stars like feverish children, insensate to the quest's purpose or Seadreamer's pain; and Pitchwife led them in one long caper of enforced mirth, as if he were closer to hysteria than any of them. But Linden heard the truth of their emotion. They were affirming themselves against their own apprehensions, venting their suspense in communal frolic. And Pitchwife's wild effort heightened the mood to a catastasis, finally giving rise to a humour that was less desperate and more solacing—warm, purified, and indomitable. If Covenant had sought to join them, Linden would have gone with him.

But he did not. He stood apart as if the recanting of the Haruchai had shaken him to the core of his strength, rendering him inaccessible to consolation. Or perhaps he held back because he had forgotten how to be alone, how to confront his doom without loathing his loneliness. When he and Linden went below to her cabin, he huddled on the pallet as if he could hardly endure the bare comfort of her flesh. The One Tree was near. With the muffled uproar of the Giants in her ears, she hung on the verge of urging him, Don't do it. Don't send me back. But her inbred fears paralyzed her, and she did not take the risk.

All night, she felt that she was redreaming familiar nightmares. But when she awakened, they were gone from her memory.

Covenant stood beside the hammock with his back to her. He held his old clothes as if he meant to don them. She watched him with an ache in her eyes, begging him mutely not to return to what he had been, what they had been toward each other.

He seemed to feel her gaze on him: he turned to her, met her look. His face wore a grimace of bile. But he did not retreat from what he saw. Though his anticipation of the One Tree felt more like dread than eagerness, he was strong yet, as dangerous as she remembered him. After a moment, he threw his garments deliberately into the corner. Then he knelt to her, took her in his arms.

When they went out on deck later, he wore the woollen robe he had been given as if his leprosy inured him to the late autumn coolness of the air. His choice relieved her; and yet he appeared curiously ill-prepared in that robe, as if his love for her had robbed him of more defenses than she knew how to estimate or compensate for.

They paced out the day across the decks, waiting. They were all waiting, she and Covenant and the Giants with them. Time and again, she saw crewmembers pause in their tasks to peer past the ship's prow. But throughout the morning they saw nothing except the expanse of the sea, stretching to the edges of the world. After their noon meal, they went on waiting and still saw nothing.

But in the middle of the afternoon, the call came at last—a shout of annunciation which nevertheless struck Linden's tension like a wail. Giants sprang for the rigging to see what the lookout had seen. Seadreamer appeared from belowdecks, climbed grimly upward. Covenant pressed his chest against the foredeck rail for a moment, as if in that way he might force himself to see farther. Then he muttered to Linden, “Come on,” and set off toward the vantage of the wheeldeck. Like him, she could hardly keep from running.

The First and Pitchwife were there with Honninscrave and a Giant tending Shipsheartthew. Sevinhand and Galewrath arrived shortly. Together, the companions stared ahead for some glimpse of the Isle of the One Tree.

For a league or more, the horizon remained immaculate and unexplained. Then Honninscrave's arm leaped to point almost directly over the prow. Linden was not as far-eyed as the Giants; but after another league she also spotted the Isle. Tiny in the distance, it stood like a point of fatality at the juncture of sea and sky—the pivot around which the Earth turned. As the wind carried Starfare's Gem swiftly forward, the Isle grew as if it would fulfil all the quest's expectations.

She looked at Covenant; but he did not meet her gaze. His attention was fixed ahead: his stance was as keen as if he were on the verge of fire. Though he did not speak, the strict, gaunt lines of his visage said as clearly as words that his life or death would be decided here.

By slow degrees, the island revealed itself to the approaching vessel. It stood like a cairn of old rock piled on the surface of the sea. Weather had softened and rimed the gray, jumbled stones, with the result that they seemed almost pure white where the sun touched them, nearly black where they lay in shadow. It was an eyot of day and night—rugged, hoary, and irrefragable. Its crown stood high above the Giantship; but the shape of its upper rims suggested that the island had once been a volcano, or that it was now hollow.

Later, the dromond drew close enough to discern that the Isle sat within a ragged circle of reefs. These jutted into the air like teeth, with many gaps between them; but none of the openings were large enough to admit Starfare's Gem.

As the sun declined, Honninscrave set the Giantship on a curving course to pass around the cairn so that he could look for a passage while his companions searched for some sign of the One Tree. Linden's eyes clung to the island: she studied every variation of its light-and-dark from crown to shore with every dimension of her sight. But she found nothing. The Isle was composed of nothing but blind stone, immune to every form of vitality but its own. Even among the rocks where the waves surged and fell, there lived no weeds or other sea-growths.

The rocks themselves were vivid to her, as massive and consequential as compressed granite—an outcropping of the essential skeleton of the Earth. But perhaps for that very reason they played host to none of the more transient manifestations of life. As she studied them, she realised that they did not even provide a roost for birds. Perhaps the water within the reefs did not hold fish.

“Where is it?” Covenant muttered, speaking to everyone and no one. “Where is it?”

After a moment, Pitchwife replied, “Upon the crest. Is that not a natural bourne for the thing we seek?”

Linden kept her doubts to herself. As the sun began to set, casting orange and gold in an unreadable chiaroscuro across the slopes, Starfare's Gem completed its circuit of the Isle; and she had seen nothing to indicate that the One Tree was here—or that it had ever existed.

At a nod from the First, Honninscrave ordered the furling of the sails, the anchoring of the dromond beyond the northern reefs. For a few moments, no one on the wheeldeck spoke; the emblazoned visage of the Isle held them. In this light, they could see that they were facing a place of power. The sun withdrew as if it were bidding farewell to the Earth. Behind the murmurous defense of the Giants, the complaining °f lines and pulleys, the wet embrace of the waves upon the reefs, everything was silent. Not one kestrel raised its cry to ameliorate the starkness of the Isle. The eyot stood within its protective teeth as if it had stood that way forever and would never be appeased.

Then the First said quietly, “Giantfriend, will you not await the new day, ere you attempt this place?”

A shudder like a sudden chill ran through him. In a rough voice, he replied, “No.”

The First sighed. But she did not demur. She spoke to Sevinhand; and he went to supervise the launching of a longboat.

Then she addressed Covenant again. “We have come a great way to this Isle. Because of your might—and of that which you wrought in The Grieve of our lost kindred— we have not questioned you concerning your purpose. But now I ask,” In the west, the sun seemed to be dying behind the long curve of the sea. Covenant's gaze was an echo of fire. “Have you given thought to the how of this Staff of Law you desire to conceive?”

Linden answered for him, claiming her place in the company because she did not know any other way to dissuade him from his intent for her. “That's why I'm here.”

He looked at her sharply; but she kept her eyes on the First. “My senses,” she said, awkward with self-consciousness. “The things I see and feel. Health. Rightness. Honesty. What else can it mean? I'm sensitive to Law. I can tell when things fit—and when they don't. I can guide him.”

Yet as soon as she made her claim, she knew that it was not enough. His emanations were precise. He had been counting on her help. But he did not change his mind. Instead, he regarded her as if she had expressed a desire to leave him. Hope and grief were indistinguishable in him.

Incognisant of Covenant's self-contradiction, the First accepted Linden's answer. With Pitchwife and Honninscrave, she left the wheeldeck, went to the railing where the longboat was being lowered.

Galewrath assumed command of Starfare's Gem. When she had satisfied herself that the dromond was being given proper care, she said to Covenant and Linden, “Go well.”

Covenant made no reply. He stared at the Isle as if he could read his doom in the fading glory of the sun.

Linden stepped close to him, placed her hand upon his shoulder. He turned stiffly, letting her see the conflicts in his face. He was a figure of illumination and darkness, like the Isle.

She tried again to make him understand her. “Seadreamer is afraid. I think he knows what Lord Foul is doing.”

His features knotted once, then released as if he were about to afflict her with a smile like the one he had once given Joan. “That doesn't matter.” Slowly, his expression grew more gentle. “When I was in Andelain, Mhoram said, 'It boots nothing to avoid his snares, for they are ever beset with other snares, and life and death are too intimately intergrown to be severed from each other. But it is necessary to comprehend them, so that they may be mastered.' ” Then he stiffened again. “Come on. Let's go find out what kind of trouble we're in.”

She did not want to let him go. She wanted to fling her arms around him, hug and hold him, make him stop what he was doing. But she did not. Was this not why she loved him—because he did not shy from his own pain? Gritting her courage, she followed him down the stairs as if he were leading her into night.

Sunset still held the masts, but the afterdeck had fallen into gloaming. She needed a moment to adjust her sight before she was able to descry Seadreamer standing at the rail with Honninscrave, the First, and Pitchwife. Vain was there also, as black as the coming dark. Findail had moved aft as well; his robe formed a pale blur beside Vain's ebony. And Brinn and Cail had come. Linden was surprised to see them. Covenant's stride faltered as he neared them. But they did not speak, and he went abruptly past them. Reaching the First, he asked, “Are we ready?”

“As ready as may be,” she replied, “with our fate unknown before us.”

He answered like the darkness thickening around the dromond, “Then let's get started.”

At once, Findail interposed in a tone of warning and supplication, “Ring-wielder, will you not bethink you? Surrender this mad purpose while choice yet remains to you. I tell you plainly that you are the plaything of powers which will destroy you—and the Earth with you. This attempt upon the One Tree must not be made.”

Mutely, Seadreamer nodded as if he had no choice.

Covenant jerked around to face the Appointed. Speaking softly, almost to himself, he breathed, "I should've known that's what you're afraid of. The One Tree. The Staff of Law.

You're afraid I might actually succeed. Or why did you try to capture Vain? Why have you tried so hard to keep us from trusting ourselves? You are going to lose something if we succeed. I don't know what it is, but you're terrified about it.

“Well, take a look,” he went on grimly. “Vain's still with us. He's still got the heels of the old Staff.” He spoke as if his doubt of the Demondim-spawn no longer mattered. “I'm still here. I've still got my ring. Linden's still here.” Suddenly, his voice dropped to a whisper like a suspiration of anguish. “By hell, if you want me to surrender, you have got to give me a reason.”

The Appointed returned Covenant's demand in silence. Clearly, he did not intend to answer.

After a moment, Covenant swung back to the rest of the company, glaring as if he expected them to argue with him. But Honninscrave was tense with empathy. There was no hesitation in the First's stern resolve or Pitchwife's anticipation of wonder. And Seadreamer made no attempt to dissuade the Unbeliever.

Driven by the demons of his personal exigency, Covenant moved to the railing, set his feet to the rope-ladder leading down to the longboat.

Linden followed him at once, unwilling to let even one Giant take her place at his side.

Cail and Brinn were right behind her.

All of the Isle had now fallen into shadow except its crown, which held the fading sunset like an oriflamme that was about to be swallowed by the long night of the Earth. But while the light lasted, it made the crest look like a place where the One Tree might indeed be found. As she turned her back on the sight in order to descend the ladder, Linden remembered that this night would be the dark of the moon. Instinctively, she shivered. Her robe seemed suddenly scanty against the chill dark which appeared to rise out of the water like an exhalation. The rocking of the waves forced a splash up between the dromond and the longboat just as she was reaching one leg toward the smaller craft; and the water stung her bare flesh as if its salt were as potent as acid. But she muffled her involuntary gasp, lowered herself into the bottom of the boat, then moved to take a seat with Covenant in the prow. The water tightened the skin of her legs as it dried, sending a tingle through her nerves.

The Haruchai were followed by Honninscrave. While his bulk came downward, the sun lost its grasp on the Isle's crown, fell entirely beyond the horizon. Now the Isle was visible only as a shadow on the deep, silhouetted by the slowly emerging stars. Linden could not discern the lines of the reef at all. But as Honninscrave and Seadreamer seated themselves at the oars, their oaken shoulders expressed no doubt of their ability to find their way. The Master was speaking to his brother, but the chatter and splash of water covered the words.

Pitchwife and the First descended to the longboat in silence. From out of the night, a shadow floated into the bottom of the craft at Seadreamer's back, where it solidified and became Findail. Vain placed himself in the other half of the boat with Brinn and Cail, near the stem where the First and Pitchwife sat.

Linden reached out, took Covenant's hand. His fingers felt icy; his numbness had become a palpable cold.

The First waved a salute to the Giants of Starfare's Gem. If Sevinhand or Galewrath returned an answer, it was inaudible over the chill chuckling of the waters. Deftly, Honninscrave unmoored the longboat, thrust it away from the dromond with his oar. Surrounded only by lapping waves, the company moved out into the night.

For several moments, no one spoke. Covenant sat with his face turned to the dark, clenching Linden's hand as if it were an anchor. She watched the Isle gradually clarify itself as the stars behind it became more explicit; but still she could not make out the reefs. The blackness rising from the water seemed impenetrable. Yet the oars beat steadily, slipping in and out of the unquiet seas; and the boat moved forward as if it were being impelled at great speed, headlong toward its unknown end. The Isle loomed massively out of the night, as dangerous to approach as the entryway of hell.

Linden became suddenly and irrationally alarmed that the boat would strike one of the reefs and sink. But then the First said softly, “Somewhat to starboard.” The longboat changed directions slightly. A few heartbeats later, jagged coral shapes leaped up on either hand. Their unexpected appearance made Linden start. But the longboat passed safely between them into calmer water.

From this vantage—so close to the sea, with the night complete from horizon to horizon—the Isle seemed much farther away than it had from Starfare's Gem. But for a while the company made good progress. Goaded by vision, Seadreamer hauled heavily against his oars, knocking them in their locks at every stroke; and Honninscrave matched the rhythm if not the urgency of his brother's pull. As a result, the Isle grew slowly taller and more implacable, reaching toward the sky as if it were the base upon which the firmament of the stars stood. Linden began to think that the slopes would be unscalable in the dark—that perhaps they could not be climbed at all, especially if Covenant could not master his vertigo. His hand in hers felt as chill as if his very bones were cold.

But a short time later she forgot that anxiety, forgot even to grip Covenant's fingers. She was staring at the change which came over the Isle.

The First and Pitchwife stood. The boat glided to a stop in the water. Honninscrave and Seadreamer had lifted their oars so that they might look past the prow toward their destination.

Plumes and streamers of mist had begun to flow down off the sides of the island. The mist seemed to arise like steam from unseen cracks among the rocks. Some of it curled upward, frayed away into the sharp night. But most of it poured toward the sea, gathering and thickening as the streams commingled.

The mist was alight. It did not appear to shine of its own accord. Rather, it looked like ordinary fog under a full moon. But there was no moon. And the illumination was cast only upon the mist. Stately banners and rills of air came downward like condensations of moonglow, revealing nothing but themselves.

When its nimbus spread like a vapour of frost around the shores of the eyot, the mist began to pile out over the sea. Gradually all the Isle except the crown disappeared. Silver and ghostly, the glowing fog expanded toward the longboat as if it meant to fill the entire zone of the reefs.

Linden had to suppress a desire for flight. She felt viscerally certain that she did not want that eldritch and inexplicable air to touch her. But the quest's path lay forward. With an oddly stern and gentle command, the First returned Honninscrave and Seadreamer to their oars. “I am done with waiting,” she said. “If this is our future, let us at least meet it by our own choice.”

Thrust and sweep, the oars measured out the quest's progress toward the advancing mist. The stars overhead glittered as if in warning; but the longboat went on straight at the heart of the wet vapour. The mist continued to pile onto the sea. Already, it had become so thick that the sides of the eyot could no longer be seen, had accumulated so high that the rocky crown was almost obscured. Its illumination made it look gnashed and lambent with moonlight. Its outward flow accentuated the speed of the longboat; the craft seemed to rush madly across the dark face of the water.

Then the First murmured a command. Honninscrave and Seadreamer raised their oars. The boat glided in silence and poised apprehension into the mist.

At once, the sky disappeared. Linden felt the touch of moist light on her face and flinched, expecting danger or harm. But then her senses told her that the mist's power was too elusive, too much like moonshine, to cause damage—or to convey comprehension. Her companions were clearly visible; but the sea itself had vanished under a dense silver carpet, and the ends of the oars passed out of sight as if they had been gnawed off.

With a new twist of anxiety, she wondered how the quest would be able to find its way. But when the First spoke again, sending Honninscrave and Seadreamer back to their defense, her voice held an iron certainty; and she suggested small corrections of course as if her sense of direction were immune to confusion.

The movement of the longboat made the mist float against Linden's face. Beads of evanescent light condensed in Covenant's hair like the nacre sweat of his need and might. After a few moments, the mist swirled and folded, opening a glimpse of the crest of the Isle. Before the gap closed, Linden saw that the First's aim was accurate.

Pitchwife began speaking. His voice seemed to rise with difficulty, as if his cramped lungs were filling with mist and moisture. He complimented Honninscrave and Seadreamer on their rowing, wryly praised Vain's inscrutability, described other mists he had encountered in his voyages. The words themselves had no significance: only the act of uttering them mattered. For the sake of his companions—and of himself—he sought to humanize the enhancement of the mist. But an odd echo paced his speech, as if the vapour were a cavern. The First finally whispered tightly to him. He desisted.

In silence punctuated only by the splashing of the oars, the longboat went forward.

By degrees, the mist came to feel like a dream in which long spans of time passed with indefeasible haste. The obscure light exerted an hypnotic fascination. Drops of water like tiny globes fell from the line of Covenant's jaw, leaving faint spatters of illumination on his robe. Linden's raiment was bedizened with dying gems. Her hair hung wet and dark against the sides of her face.

When the mist unwound itself enough to permit another momentary view of the Isle, she hardly noticed that the rocks were no closer than before.

Honninscrave and Seadreamer continued rowing; but their breath slowly stiffened in their lungs, and their backs and shoulders cast emanations of strain. They made Linden aware of the passage of time. The trancelike vapour seemed to have consumed half the night. She tried to throw off her numbness, rub the damp stupefaction from her cheeks. At the next opening of the mist, she saw the Isle clearly.

The longboat had not advanced at all.

“Hellfire,” Covenant rasped. “Hell and blood.”

“Now am I mazed in good sooth,” began Pitchwife. “This atmosphere—” But he lost the words he needed.

Findail stood facing the Isle. His mien and hair were dry, untouched by the mist. He held his arms folded across his chest as if the sea were gripped motionless in the crooks of his elbows. The focus of his eyes was as intent as an act of will.

“Findail—” Linden began. “What in God's name are you doing to us?”

But then violence broke out behind the Appointed.

Brinn attempted to leap past Honninscrave and Seadreamer. Seadreamer grappled for him, held him back. Thrashing together, they fell into the bottom of the boat. Honninscrave shipped his oars, then caught hold of Seadreamer's as they slipped from the locks. At once, Pitchwife came forward to take the oars. Honninscrave swung around and began trying to extricate Brinn and Seadreamer from each other.

Cail moved toward the fray. Rising to her feet, the First caught hold of him, jerked him unceremoniously behind her. Then her sword was in her hands.

“Enough!”

Honninscrave shifted out of her way. Seadreamer stopped fighting. Before Brinn could evade her, she had her blade at his throat.

Cail tried to go to Brinn's aid. Honninscrave blocked him.

“Now,” the First said, “you will tell me the meaning of this.”

Brinn did not reply to her. He directed his voice at Covenant. “Ur-Lord, permit me to speak with you.”

At once, Seadreamer shook his head vehemently.

Covenant started to respond. Linden stopped him. “Just a minute.” She was panting as if the mist were hard to breathe. Quickly, she crossed the thwarts to Seadreamer. He huddled in the bottom of the longboat. His eyes met hers like a plea.

“You've seen something,” she said. “You know what's going on here.”

His visage was wet with condensed mistglow. The moisture made his scar look like an outcry.

“You don't want Brinn to talk to Covenant.”

Seadreamer's eyes winced. She had guessed wrongly.

She tried again. “You don't want him to do what he has in mind. You don't want him to persuade Covenant to let him do it.”

At that, the mute Giant nodded with fierce urgency.

Her intuitions outran her. Seadreamer's intensity conveyed a personal dismay which transcended logic. “If Brinn does it—what he wants to do—then all the terrible things you've been seeing are going to happen. We won't be able to stop them.” Then the sight of his distress closed her throat. This is your only chance to save yourself.

Fighting to regain her voice, she confronted Covenant across the forepart of the boat. “Don't—” She was trembling. “Don't let him do it. The consequences—”

Covenant was not looking at her. He watched Brinn with an aghast nausea which forced Linden to wheel in that direction.

The Haruchai had gripped the First's blade in one hand. Against her great strength, he strove to thrust the iron away from his throat. Blood coursed down his forearm as the long-sword bit his flesh; but his determination did not waver. In a moment, he would sever his fingers if the First did not relent.

“Brinn!” Linden protested.

The Haruchai showed no sign that he heard her.

Cursing under her breath, the First withdrew her sword. “You are mad.” She was hoarse with emotion. “I will not accept the burden of your maiming or death in this way.”

Without a glance at her, Brinn climbed to his feet, moved toward Covenant. His hand continued to bleed, but he ignored it—only clenched his fingers around the wound and let it run. He seemed to carry his fist cocked as if he meant to attack the Unbeliever.

But near Covenant he stopped. “Ur-Lord, I ask you to hear me.”

Covenant stared at the Haruchai. His nod appeared oddly fragile; the acuity of his passion made him brittle. Around them, the mist flowed and seethed as if it would never let them go.

“There is a tale among the Haruchai” Brinn began without inflection, "a legend preserved by the old tellers from the farthest distance of our past, long ages before our people ever encountered Kevin Landwaster and the Lords of the Land. It is said that upon the edge of the Earth at the end of time stands a lone man who holds the meaning of the Haruchai—a man whom we name ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. It is said that he has mastered all skill and prowess that we desire, all restraint and calm, and has become perfection-passion and mastery like unto the poised grandeur of mountains. And it is said, should ever one of the Haruchai seek out ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol and contest with him, we will learn the measure of our worth, in defeat or triumph. Therefore are the Haruchai a seeking people. In each heart among us beats a yearning for this test and the knowledge it offers.

“Yet the path which leads to ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol is unknown, has never been known. It is said that this path must not be known—that it may only be found by one who knows without knowledge and has not come seeking the thing he seeks.” In spite of its flatness, Brinn's voice expressed a mounting excitement. "I am that one. To this place I have come in your name rather than my own, seeking that which I have not sought.

“Ur-Lord, we have withdrawn from your service. I do not seek to serve you now. But you wield the white ring. You hold power to prevent my desire. Should you take this burden upon yourself, it will be lost to me—perhaps to all Haruchai forever. I ask that you permit me. Of Cable Seadreamer's Earth-Sight I comprehend nothing. It is clear to me that I will only succeed or fail. If I fail, the matter will fall to you. And if I succeed—” His voice dropped as if in no other way could he contain the strength of his yearning. “Ur-Lord.” Clenched as if it were squeezing blood out of itself, his fist rose like an appeal. “Do not prevent me from the meaning of our lives.”

Linden had no idea what Brinn was talking about. His speech seemed as unmotivated as an oration in a nightmare. Only Seadreamer and Findail showed any understanding. Seadreamer sat with his hands closed over his face as if he could not bear what he was hearing. And Findail stood alone like a man who knew all the answers and loathed them.

Roughly, Covenant scrubbed the mist-sweat from his forehead. His mouth fumbled several different responses before he rasped, “What in hell are you talking about?”

Brinn did not speak. But he lifted his arm, pointed in the direction of the Isle.

His gesture was so certain that it drew every eye with it.

Somewhere beyond the prow of the craft, a window opened in the mist, revealing a stark ledge of rock. It stood at a slight elevation above the sea. The elusive pearl vapour made distances difficult to estimate; but the damp, dark rock appeared to be much closer than the Isle had been only a short time ago. In fact, the ledge might not have been a part of the Isle at all. It seemed to exist only within the context of the mist.

Cross-legged on the shelf sat an ancient man in a tattered colorless robe.

His head was half bowed in an attitude of meditation. But his eyes were open. The milky hue of cataracts or blindness filled his orbs. Faint wisps of hair marked the top of his head; a gray stubble emphasized the hollowness of his cheeks. His skin was seamed with age, and his limbs had been starved to the point of emaciation. Yet he radiated an eerie and unfathomable strength.

Brinn or Cail might have looked like that if the intensity of their lives had permitted them to reach extreme old age.

Almost at once, the mist closed again, swirling back upon itself in ghostly silence.

“Yes,” Findail said as if he did not expect anyone to hear him. “The Guardian of the One Tree. He must be passed.”

Covenant stared at the Appointed. But Findail did not answer his gaze. With a wrench, the Unbeliever aimed himself at Brinn. The mist lit his face like the lambency of dismay.

“Is that what you want to do?” His voice croaked in the nacre stillness. “Confront the Guardian? Fight him?”

Softly, Brinn replied, "The Elohim has said that you must pass him to attain the One Tree. I conceive him to be ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. If I succeed, we will both be served.”

“And if you fail?” Covenant lashed the word at Brinn's dispassion. “You already believe you're unworthy. How much more do you think you can stand?”

Brinn's visage remained inflexible. “I will know the truth. Any being who cannot bear the truth is indeed unworthy.”

Covenant winced. His bruised gaze came to Linden for help.

She saw his conflict clearly. He feared to hazard himself—his capacity for destruction—against the Guardian. But he had never learned how to let anyone take his place when he was afraid: his fear was more compulsory than courage. And he did not want to deny Seadreamer. The mute Giant still hid his face as if he had passed the limits of his soul's endurance.

Linden wavered, caught by her own contradictions. She instinctively trusted Seadreamer; but the need which had driven Brinn to thrust aside the First's sword moved her also. She understood the severity of the Haruchai, yearned to make her peace with it. Yet she could not forget Seadreamer's rending efforts to communicate his vision to her.

The First and Pitchwife were standing together, watching her. Honninscrave's fingers kneaded Seadreamer's shoulders; but his eyes also studied her. Covenant's gaze bled at her. Only Brinn was not waiting for her response. His attention was locked to the Unbeliever.

Unable to say yes or no, she tried to find another way out of the dilemma. “We've been rowing half the night”—she directed her words at Brinn, fought to force the tremors out of them—“and we aren't getting any closer. How do you think you can reach that man to fight him?”

Then she cried out; but she was too late. Brinn had taken her question as a form of permission. Or had decided to forego Covenant's approval. Too swiftly to be stopped, he leaped into the prow of the longboat and dove toward the Isle.

The mist swallowed him. Linden heard the splash as he hit the water, but did not see the wake of his passage.

She surged forward with Covenant and Honninscrave. But the Haruchai was beyond reach. Even his swimming made no sound.

“Damn you!” Covenant shouted. His voice echoed and then fell dead in the cavernous fog. “Don't fail!”

For a moment like a pall, no one spoke. Then the First said, “Honninscrave.” Her voice was iron. “Seadreamer. Now you will row as you have not rowed before. If it lies within the strength of Giants, we will gain that Isle.”

Honninscrave flung himself back to his oar-seat. But Seadreamer was slower to respond. Linden feared that he would not respond, that he had fallen too far into horror. She gathered herself to protest the First's demand. But she had underestimated him. His hands came down from his face into fists. Lurching, he returned to his seat, recovered his oars. Gripping their handles as if he meant to crush them, he attacked the water.

Linden staggered at the suddenness of the thrust, then caught herself on a thwart and turned to face forward at Covenant's side.

For a moment, Honninscrave flailed to match his brother's frenetic rhythm. Then they were stroking like twins.

The mist opened again. A glimpse of stars and night beyond the crest of the Isle demonstrated that the longboat was still making no progress.

A heartbeat later, the vapour moiled, and the shelf of rock became visible once more.

It appeared far closer than the island. And it was empty. The old man had left it.

But this time the mist did not reclose immediately.

From behind it, Brinn stepped up onto one end of the ledge. He bowed formally to the blank air as if he were facing an honoured opponent. Smoothly, he placed himself in a stylized combatant's stance. Then he recoiled as if he had been struck by fists too swift to be evaded.

As he fell, the mist swirled and shut.

Linden hardly noticed that the Giants had stopped rowing. Twisting in their seats, Honninscrave and Seadreamer stared forward intensely. There were no sounds in the longboat except Pitchwife's muttering and Covenant's bitten curses.

Shortly, the mist parted again. This time, it exposed a cluster of boulders at a higher elevation than the shelf.

Brinn was there, leaping and spinning from rock to rock in a death-battle with the empty atmosphere. His cut hand was covered with blood; blood pulsed from a wound on his temple. But he moved as if he disdained the damage. With fists and feet he dealt out flurries of blows which appeared to impact against the air—and have effect. Yet he was being struck in turn by a rapid vehemence that surpassed his defenses. Cuts appeared below one eye, at the corner of his mouth; rents jerked through his tunic, revealing bruises on his torso and thighs. He was beaten backward and out of sight as the mist thickened anew.

Covenant crouched feverishly in the prow of the craft. He was marked with beads of illumination like implications of wild magic. But no power rose in him. Linden was certain of that. The chill sheen on his skin seemed to render him inert, numbing his instinct for fire. His bones appeared precise and frail to her percipience. He had stopped cursing as if even rage and protest were futile.

Cail had come forward and now stood staring into the mist. Every line of his face was sharp with passion; moisture beaded on his forehead like sweat. For the first time, Linden saw one of the Haruchai breathing heavily.

After a prolonged pause, another vista appeared through the mist. It was higher than the others, but no farther away. Immense stones had crushed each other there, forming a battleground of shards and splinters as keen as knives. They lacerated Brinn's feet as he fought from place to place, launching and countering attacks with the wild extravagance of a man who had utterly abandoned himself. His apparel fluttered about him in shreds. No part of his body was free of blood or battery.

But now the Guardian was faintly visible. Flitting from blow to blow like a shadow of himself, the old man feinted and wheeled among the shards as if he could not be touched. Yet many of Brinn's efforts appeared to strike him, and each contact made him more solid. With every hit, Brinn created his opponent out of nothingness.

But the Guardian showed no sign of injury; and Brinn was receiving punishment beyond measure. Even as Linden thought that surely he could not endure much more, the Haruchai went down under a complex series of blows. He had to hurl himself bodily over the stones, tearing his skin to pieces, in order to evade the old man's attempt to break his back.

He could not flee quickly enough. The Guardian pounced after him while the mist blew across the scene, obscuring them with its damp radiance.

“I've got—” Covenant beat his fists unconsciously against the stone prow. Blood seeped from the cracked skin of his knuckles. “Got to help him.” But every angle of his arms and shoulders said plainly that he did not know how.

Linden clung to herself and fought to suppress her instinctive tears. Brinn would not survive much longer. He was already so badly injured that he might bleed to death. How could he go on fighting, with the strength running from his veins moment by moment?

When the mist opened for the last time, it revealed an eminence high above the sea. She had to crane her neck to descry the slight downward slope which led to the sharp precipice. And beyond the precipice lay nothing except an avid fall from a tremendous height.

After a moment, Brinn appeared. He was being beaten backward down the slope, toward the cliff—reeling as if the life had gone out of his legs. All his clothing had been shredded away; he wore nothing but thick smears and streams of blood. He was hardly able to raise his arms to fend off the blows which impelled him to retreat.

The Guardian was fully substantial now. His milky eyes gleamed in the mist-light as he kicked and punched Brinn toward the precipice. His attacks struck with a sodden silence more vivid than any noise of battered flesh. His robe flowed about his limbs as if its lack of color were the essence of his strength. No hint or flicker of expression ruffled his detachment as he drove Brinn toward death.

Then Brinn reached the edge of the cliff. From somewhere within himself, he summoned the desperation to fight back. Several blows jolted the Guardian, though they left no mark. For a moment, the old man was forced back.

But he seemed to become more adept and irresistible as he grew more solid. Almost at once, he brushed aside Brinn's counterattack. Lashing out like lightnings of flesh and bone, he coerced Brinn to the precipice again. A cunning feint toward Brinn's abdomen lowered his arms defensively. At once, the old man followed with a hammerblow to Brinn's forehead.

Brinn swayed on the rim, tottered. Began to fall.

Covenant's shout tore through the mist like despair:

“Brinn!”

In the fractional pause as his balance failed, Brinn glanced toward the aghast spectators. Then he shifted his feet in a way that ensured his fall. But as he dropped, his hands reached out. His fingers knotted into the old man's robe.

Surrendering himself to the precipice, he took the Guardian with him.

Linden crouched against the thwarts. She did not hear Seadreamer's inchoate groan, Pitchwife's astonished pain, Cail's shout of praise. Brinn's fall burned across her senses, blinding her to everything else. That plunge repeated in her like the defense of her heart. He had chosen.

Then rock scraped the side of the longboat; its prow thudded into a gap between boulders. Water sloshed along the impact. Linden and Covenant pitched against each other. Grappling together automatically, they stumbled into the bottom of the craft.

When they regained their feet, everything had changed around them. The mist was gone, and with it most of the stars; for the sun had begun to rise, and its nascent light already greyed the heavens. Starfare's Gem could be seen vaguely in the distance, riding at anchor beyond the barrier of the reefs. And above the craft, the Isle of the One Tree towered like a mound of homage to all the Earth's brave dead.

Honninscrave stepped past Linden and Covenant, climbed onto the boulder-strewn shore to secure the longboat in the place where it had wedged itself. Then he stooped and offered to help Linden and Covenant out of the boat. His face was blank with unexpected loss. He might have been a figure in a dream.

Cail approached Linden like triumph, put his hands on her waist and boosted her up to Honninscrave. The Master set her on the rocks behind him. Stiffly, she ascended over several boulders, then stopped and stared about her as if she had lost her sight. Covenant struggled toward her. Dawn set light to the crown of the Isle. The absence of the dromond's midmast was painfully obvious. Seadreamer fumbled at the rocks as if his exertions or Earth-Sight had made him old. The First, Pitchwife, and Honninscrave climbed behind him like a cortege. Vain and Findail followed the Giants like mourners But it was all superficial. Beneath everything lay the stark instant of Brinn's fall. Haunted by what they had witnessed, the companions did not look at each other as they gathered a short distance above the longboat.

Only Cail showed no distress. Though his expression remained as dispassionate as ever, his eyes gleamed like an inward grin. If she could have found her voice, Linden would have railed at him. But she had no words in her, or no strength to utter them. Brinn had met Covenant's cry with recognition—and had fallen. No words were enough. No strength was enough.

Pitchwife moved to Covenant's side, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The First put her arms around Seadreamer as if to lift him up out of himself. Vain stared at nothing with his ambiguous smile. Findail betrayed no reaction. Yet Cail's gaze danced in the rising sunlight, bright with exaltation. After a moment, he said, “Have no fear. He did not fail.”

And Brinn appeared as if he had been invoked by Cail's words. Moving easily over the rocks, he came down toward the company. His strides were light and uninjured; the swing of his arms expressed no pain. Not until he stood directly before her was Linden able to see that he had indeed been severely wounded. But all his hurts were healed. His face and limbs wore an intaglio of pale new scars, but his muscles bunched and slid under his skin as if they were full of joy.

In the place of his lost apparel, he wore the colorless robe of the Guardian.

Linden gaped at him. Covenant's mouth formed his name over and over again, but made no sound. Honninscrave and the First were stunned. A slow grin spread across Pitchwife's face, echoing the gleam in Cail's eyes. Seadreamer stood upright in the dawn and nodded like a recognition of doom. But none of them were able to speak.

Brinn bowed to Covenant. “Ur-Lord,” he said firmly, “the approach to the One Tree lies before you.” He gestured toward the sun-burnished crown of the Isle. His tone carried a barely discernible timbre of triumph. “I have opened it to you.”

Covenant's face twisted as if he did not know whether to laugh or weep.

Linden knew. Her eyes burned like the birth of the morning.

The mute Giant went on nodding as if Brinn's victory had bereft him of every other answer.

Covenant was going to send her back.