The First had been joined by Galewrath. Crewmembers hastened between them and the nearest hatchway. With grim celerity, the First unbelted her sword, removed her mail. Her eyes were fixed on the flat water as if it had become a place of concealment for something fatal. In moments, the Giants brought up two long canvas tubes like hoses from the under-decks. They reached in long coils across the foredeck and out of sight through the hatch. Then a shout echoed from below; and the tubes began to writhe and hiss like serpents as air was forced through them.
They were taking too long. Covenant’s grip whitened Linden’s hand, but he could not relax it. He could not judge how long Cail and Brinn had been gone. Surely they were dying for lack of air. Heat rose in him again. The effort of self-restraint made his head spin as if the dromond’s movement had accelerated.
To the Giants near her, the First muttered, “Forewarn the Master. It is said that the merewives know little kindness when they are reft of their prey. If we do not fail, there will be need of his sea-craft.”
One of the crew dashed away to convey her message. For an instant, she looked at Covenant, at Linden. “Hold hope,” she said tautly. “I do not mean to fail.”
Go, he wanted to bark at her. Go!
Linden pulled away from him, took a step toward the First. Her lips were compressed with severity; the lines of her mien were as acute as Brinn’s accusations. Covenant was learning to read her with an intimacy that almost matched her percipience. He heard the desire for vindication in her voice as she said, “Take me with you. I can help.”
The First did not hesitate. “Chosen, in this need we are swifter and more able than you.”
Without delay, she and Galewrath took hold of the tubes, climbed over the railing and jumped for the water.
Pitchwife watched them as if he were afraid. Covenant followed Linden to the hunched Giant’s side, drawn there by the rush of the hoses. Like the Haruchai, the First and the Storesmaster appeared to vanish without marking the static water. But the tubes ran into the depths swiftly, and bubbles trailed back to the surface.
The waterspouts did not lessen. Rather they seemed to grow more eager, as if they were tasting an answer to their long insatiation. Beyond them, the squalls continued to batter each other back and forth. The afternoon thickened toward evening. Yet the bubbles rose like implications of hope. Belowdecks, Giants labored at the pumps, forcing air down the tubes.
The suspense clawed at Covenant’s restraint, urging fire. His fists closed and unclosed helplessly. Abruptly he shoved himself from the railing. “I’ve got to do something.” Rigid with suppression, he stalked toward the prow of the dromond.
Linden accompanied him as if she still feared he might succumb to madness or merewives at any moment. But her presence steadied him. When he reached the prow, he was able to confront the Appointed without shouting his desperation.
Findail’s yellow eyes squinted in potential anguish. Covenant measured him with a glare. Then, roughly, he said, “You want to be trusted. No, not trusted. You’re Elohim. You don’t need anything as mortal and fallible as trust. You want to be understood. This is your chance. Help my friends. They’ve done everything flesh and blood can do to keep me alive. And not just me. Linden. The Sun-Sage. That has got to count for something.” His arms were locked at his sides; his hands, knurled into fists. Flame bled between his fingers, too potent and necessary to be quenched. The scars on his forearm ached with the memory of fangs. “By hell, you’ve got to do something to help my friends.”
“And if I do not?” Findail’s tone held no hauteur. Difficulty and apprehension seamed his voice. “Will you compel me? Will you rend the Earth from its foundations to compel me?”
Covenant’s shoulders were trembling. He could not still them. Word by word, he articulated, “I am asking you.” Danger bled in his throat. “Help my friends.”
Implicit recognitions filled Findail’s gaze. But he did not relent. Slowly he said, “It is sooth that there are many tales told of these merewives, the Dancers of the Sea. One such is the tale that they are the descendants and inheritors of the woman whom Kastenessen loved—that she took with her the power and knowledge which she gained from him, and also the daughters of all men-betrayed women, and set herself and them to seek restitution from all men who abandon their homes in the name of the sea. The Haruchai have gone to meet a jeopardy which arises only from the quenchless extravagance of their own hearts, for the merewives did naught except sing—but the Haruchai answered. I will not offend further against that which was born of Kastenessen’s mad love.”
Deliberately he turned his back as if he were daring Covenant to smite him.
Passion ran down Covenant’s arm, itching for violence. Findail refused every gesture which might have palliated the harm his people had done. Covenant had to grit his teeth to hold back protests which would have written themselves in fire across the Giantship. But Linden was with him. Her touch felt cool on his hot forearm.
“It wouldn’t do any good.” His voice choked between his teeth. “Even if I tore his heart out with my bare hands.” But he believed in restraint. Blood-willingness appalled him, his own more than any other. Why else had he let Lord Foul live?
Her soft eyes regarded him as if she were about to say, How else can you fight? Bitter with vulnerability, she had once said, Some infections have to be cut out. That pain was still apparent in the marks of death and severity around her mouth; but now it took a different form, surprising him. Arduously she said, “After Hergrom rescued you—killed that Guard—For a while, we were alone with Kasreyn. Brinn wanted to kill him then. And I wanted him to do it. But I couldn’t—Couldn’t let him. Even though I knew something terrible was going to happen to Hergrom. I couldn’t be responsible for more killing.” Her mother was vivid in her eyes. “Maybe Brinn’s right. Maybe that makes me responsible for what happened. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. We couldn’t have killed him anyway.”
She stopped. She did not need to go on. Covenant understood her. He could not have killed Lord Foul. Despite was not something which could be made to die.
Yet she was wrong about one thing: it would have made a difference. The same difference that killing her mother had made to her.
He wanted to tell her that he was glad she had not unleashed Brinn at Kasreyn. But he was too crowded with other needs. He remained still for a moment in recognition of her. Then he jerked into motion back toward the knot of Giants who paid out the hoses over the edge of the dromond.
Pressing himself against the rail, he stared at the bubbles. The cross-support was like a bar across his chest. Terrible amounts of time had passed. How could Brinn and Cail still be alive? The bubbles rose in bursts, as if the two Giants had reached a depth where the pressure threatened their lungs. The tubes throbbed and wheezed stertorously, articulating the labor of the pumps. He found himself breathing to the same rhythm.
He wrenched his gaze from the sea. The imponderable dance of the waterspouts went on, slowly invoking Starfare’s Gem to its grave. The First’s longsword lay in its scabbard on the deck like an abandoned thing, bereft of use and name. Linden was peering distractedly around the zone of calm, registering unspecified perceptions. Unconsciously her lips spelled out the high geyser and spray of an alien tongue.
Abruptly the hoses stopped moving.
At once, the enclosed atmosphere shivered as if it had been shocked. For an instant, a sound burned Covenant’s brain like the song of the merewives violated into outrage. The squalls seemed to loom forward like fists of wrath, clenched for retribution.
Reacting to some felt signal, the Giants began to haul the tubes upward, pulling hand-over-hand with swift strength.
Covenant tried to turn toward them. But the sight of Linden held him. She had gone as pale as panic. Her hands covered her mouth; her eyes gaped whitely into the distance.
He grabbed at her arms, dug his numb fingers into her flesh. Her gaze stared past him, through him. “Linden!” he snapp
ed, acid with fear and truncated sight. “What is it?”
“The squalls.” She spoke to herself, hardly seemed aware she was speaking aloud. “They’re part of the Dance. The merewives raise them to catch ships. I should’ve seen it before.”
As suddenly as a flash of intuition, her eyes sprang into focus. She thrashed against him. “The squalls!’ she panted urgently. “I’ve got to warn Honninscrave! They’re going to attack!”
In bare comprehension, he released her. She staggered backward, caught her balance, flung herself into a run toward the wheeldeck.
He almost went after her. Her tense, fleet form drew him powerfully. But the First and Galewrath were being lifted toward the surface. With Brinn and Cail? Why else did the Dancers want to attack?
Giants heaved at the hoses. White-knuckled with anticipation, Pitchwife’s hands clenched one of the rails. Seadreamer stood ready to dive if the First or Galewrath needed aid. The scar under his eyes was avid for anything which was not Earth-Sight.
The atmosphere concentrated toward a detonation.
Voices rose from the direction of the wheeldeck—first Linden’s, then Honninscrave’s. The Master was bellowing commands across the Giantship. Every crewmember who was not needed at the hoses leaped for the rigging.
Peering far over the side in spite of his vertigo, Covenant saw vague shapes rise. Pitchwife called unnecessarily for ropes; they were already at hand. As heads broke water, the lines were cast downward.
The First snatched a look upward, caught one of the ropes with her free hand. Galewrath did the same. Immediately they were pulled out of the sea.
The First clutched Brinn to her chest with one arm. Galewrath had Cail draped over her shoulder.
Both the Haruchai hung as limp as sleep.
Pitchwife and Seadreamer stretched out their hands to help the divers aboard. Covenant tried to squeeze past them to get a closer look at Brinn and Cail, but could not.
As the Swordmain and Galewrath gained the foredeck, the entire sky shattered.
The waterspouts and the stillness vanished in one fractured instant. From every direction, squalls sprang at the Giantship with the fury of gales. Rain hammered the decks; ire blotted out the horizons. In the midst of its spin, Starfare’s Gem staggered into a vicious concussion of waters. The stone quivered from mast to keel.
Covenant stumbled against Seadreamer, clung to the mute Giant for support. If Honninscrave had not been forewarned, the dromond might have lost its yards in the twisting savagery of the blasts. The masts themselves might have been torn from their moorings. But the crew had started to slacken sail before the violence hit. The dromond lurched and bucked, kicked wildly from side to side. Sheets leaped into snarls and chaos; canvas retorted in the conflict of winds. But Starfare’s Gem was not hurt.
Then all the squalls became one, and the confusion resolved into a blast like the howling of a riven heart. It caught the Giantship broadside, heeled it far over onto its side. Covenant might have tumbled overboard if Seadreamer had not held him. Rain scythed against his face. The Master was no longer audible through the roar and slash of the storm.
Yet the Giants knew what had to be done. Somehow they tautened a sail on the foremast. Canvas bit into the blast: Starfare’s Gem surged upright as it turned. For an instant, the vessel trembled from stem to stern, straining against the leash of its own immense weight. Then more sail took hold, and the dromond began to run along the wind.
Covenant reeled from Seadreamer to the First. He clutched at Brinn, imploring the Haruchai for some sign of life. But Brinn dangled with his face open to the rain and did not move. Perhaps he was not breathing. Covenant could not tell. He tried to shout up at the First, but no words came. Two more deaths on his head—two men who had served him with a fidelity as great as any Vow. Despite his power, he was helpless to succor them.
Torrents gnashed at the decks. “Saltroamrest!” the First barked. At once, she strode toward the nearest hatchway.
Covenant followed as if no mere storm, no simple battering of wind and rain, no plunge and roll of footing, could keep him from her.
A deluge pursued him through the hatch, tried to tear him from the ladder as he struggled downward. Then it was cut off as Seadreamer heaved the hatch shut. Instantly the sounds of the storm were muffled by granite. Yet the companion way pitched as the dromond crashed through the seas. The lanterns hanging from the walls swung wildly. Starfare’s Gem’s peril felt more personal in the constriction of the underdecks—unreadable, not to be escaped. Covenant hurried after the First and Galewrath, but did not catch up with them until they reached the huge bunk-hold of Saltroamrest.
The space appeared as large as a cavern—a hall where nearly two score Giants slung their hammocks without intruding on each other. Lamps hung from all the pillars which supported the hammocks, making Saltroamrest bright. It was virtually empty. The crew was busy fighting for the dromond, either at the pumps or aloft.
In the center of the hall, a longtable had been formed into the floor. The First and the Storesmaster hastened to this table, laid Brinn and Cail carefully atop it.
Covenant went to the edge of the longtable. It was as high as the middle of his chest. While he blinked at the water dripping from his hair, the prone Haruchai retained their semblance of death. Their brown limbs lay perfect and devoid of life.
But then he saw that they were breathing. Their chests rose and fell gently. Their nostrils flared slightly at each inhalation,
A different salt stung Covenant’s eyes. “Brinn,” he said, “Cail.” Oh dear God.
They lay as if they were wrapped in the sleep of the damned and did not move.
From an emotional distance, he heard the First say, “Bring diamondraught.” Pitchwife went to obey. “Storesmaster,” she continued, “can you waken them?”
Galewrath approached the longtable. She studied the Haruchai bluntly, raised their eyelids, chaffed their wrists. After a moment spent listening to their respirations, she announced that their lungs were free of water. With the First’s permission, she slapped Cail’s face gently, then harder and harder until his head lolled soddenly from side to side. But no flicker of consciousness touched his visage. He and Brinn were twinned in sopor.
She stepped back with a frown knotted between her brows.
“Merewives,” the First muttered. “How could we have believed that comrades as staunch as these Haruchai would fall prey?”
Pitchwife returned at a swift, awkward gait, carrying a pouch in one hand. The First took it from him. While Galewrath propped Brinn into a sitting position, the First raised the leather mouth to his lips. The smell of diamondraught filled the air. Brinn swallowed reflexively. But he did not awaken. Cail also swallowed the liquor which was poured into his mouth. Nothing changed.
Covenant was beating his fists lightly against his thighs, trying to contain his urgency. He did not know what to do. The Giants scowled their ignorance at each other. “Linden,” he said as if they had spoken to him. “We need Linden.”
As if in answer to his need, a door at the aft end of Saltroamrest opened. The Chosen entered the hall, lurching against the pitch of the dromond’s pace. Mistweave came with her, shadowing her in Call’s place. She was drenched and storm-battered—hair bedraggled, robe scattering water about her legs. But she came purposefully forward.
Covenant did not trust himself to speak. He remained silent and desperate as she approached the longtable.
After a moment, the First found her voice. “Stone and Sea, Chosen,” she muttered harshly, “you are not come too soon. We know not how to rouse them. Diamondraught they have been given, but it avails nothing. We have no lore for such somnolence.”
Linden stopped, stared at the First. Roughly the Swordmain continued, “It is our fear that the hand of the merewives yet holds them—and that their peril is also the peril of Starfare’s Gem. Mayhap we will not escape the wrath of the Dancers while they remain thus bound to the Haruchai. How else to regain what t
hey desire, but to break the dromond with their storms?”
At that, Linden flinched. Her eyes flashed splinters of the unsteady lantern-light. “And you want me to go into them.” Covenant saw a vein in her temple throbbing like a small labor of fear. “Break the hold. Is that it?” Her glare demanded, Again? How much more do you think I can stand?
Covenant felt her protest acutely. At times in the past, he had experienced the health-sense which dismayed her, though he had never possessed it as keenly as she did. And the Haruchai had inflicted so much distrust upon her. But he was more helpless here than she. Blinded by the truncation of his nerves, he could not use his white fire for anything except destruction. Brinn and Cail lay as if they were less alive than Vain. He held Linden’s hot gaze, made a broken gesture toward the Haruchai. Thickly he replied, “Please.”
For a moment longer, she did not move. Pitchwife and the First held themselves still. Then Linden shrugged like a wince, as if her shoulders were sore. “It can’t be any worse than what I’ve already done.” Deliberately she stepped to the edge of the longtable.
Covenant watched her hungrily as she explored Brinn and Cail with her hands and eyes. As soon as she accepted the risk, apprehension for her rose up in him. Her every movement was distinct and hazardous. He had felt the power of the merewives, knew what it could do. And he remembered how she had looked in the dungeon of the Sandhold, after she had rescued him from the silence of the Elohim. Behind her rigid mouth and tormented past, behind her fear and grimness, she had a capacity for self-expenditure that shamed him.
But as she studied the Haruchai her manner softened. Her expression eased. The surety of the Haruchai seemed to flow into her through her hands. Softly, she said to herself, “At least those merewives know health when they see it.” Then she stepped back.
She did not look at her companions. In a tone of abrupt command, she told Pitchwife to take hold of Brinn’s left arm, anchor the Haruchai to the table.