The One Tree

  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 vapor 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 honored 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 hammer-blow 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 labor 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 grayed 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 itse
lf. 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 Call’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.

  TWENTY-FIVE: The Arrival of the Quest

  Covenant stared at Brinn and felt ruin crowding around him. The whole island was a ruin, a place of death. Why were there no moldering corpses, no bleached bones? Not death, then, but eradication. All hope simply swept out of the world. The sunrise lay as rosy as a lie on the hard rocks.

  I’m losing my mind.

  He did not know what to do. Every path to this Isle was littered with gravestones. The Isle itself loomed above the company like a massif, rugged and arduous. The boulders of the slopes swarmed with implications of vertigo. And yet he had already made his decision, in spite of the fact that he hated it—and feared it was wrong, dreaded to learn that it was wrong, that after all he had endured and still meant to endure the only thing he could really do for the Land was die. That the logic of the old knife-scar over his heart could not be broken.

  His voice sounded distant and small to him, insanely detached. He was as mad as the Haruchai. Impossible to talk about such things as if they were not appalling. Why did he not sound appalled? The approach to the One Tree lies before you. So the Tree was here after all, in this place of piled death. Not one bird trammeled the immense sky with its paltry life; not one weed or patch of lichen marked the rocks. It was insane to stand here and talk as if such things could be borne.

  He was saying, “You’re not Brinn.” Lunatic with distance and detachment. “Are you?” His throat would not accept that other name.

  Brinn’s expression did not waver. Perhaps there was a smile in his eyes; it was difficult to see in the early light. “I am who I am,” he said evenly. “Ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. The Guardian of the One Tree. Brinn of the Haruchai. And many other names. Thus am I renewed from age to age, until the end.”

  Vain did not move; but Findail bowed as if Brinn had become a figure whom even the Elohim were required to respect.

  “No,” Covenant said. He could not help himself. Brinn. “No.” The First, Pitchwife, and Honninscrave were staring at the Haruchai with dumbfounded eyes. Seadreamer went on nodding like a puppet with a broken neck. Somehow, Brinn’s victory had sealed Seadreamer’s plight. By opening the way to the One Tree? Brinn.

  Brinn’s gaze was knowing and absolute. “Be not dismayed, ur-Lord.” His tone reconciled passion and self-control. “Though I may no longer sojourn in your service, I am not dead to life and use. Good will come of it, when there is need.”

  “Don’t tell me that!” The protest broke from Covenant involuntarily. I’m going to die. Or break my heart. “Do you think I can stand to lose you?”

  “You will endure it,” that composed voice replied. “Are you not Thomas Covenant, ur-Lord and Unbeliever? That is the grace which has been given to you, to bear what must be borne.” Then Brinn’s visage altered slightly, as if even he were not immune to loss. “Cail will accept my place at your side until the word of the Bloodguard Bannor has been carried to its end. Then he will follow his heart.” Call’s face caught the light ambiguously. “Ur-Lord, do not delay,” Brinn concluded, gesturing toward the sun-limned crest. “The way of hope and doom lies open to you.”

  Covenant swore to himself. He did not seem to have the strength to curse aloud. The cold numb mist of the night clung to his bones, defying the sun’s warmth. He wanted to storm and rave, expostulate like a madman. It would be condign. He had done such things before—especially to Bannor. But he could not. Brinn’s mien held the completeness toward which Bannor had only aspired. Abruptly Covenant sat down, thudded his back against a boulder and fought to keep his grief apart from the quick tinder of his venom.

  A shape squatted in front of him. For an instant, he feared that it was Linden and nearly lost his grip. He would not have been able to sustain an offer of comfort from her. He was going to lose her no matter what he did, if he sent her back or if he failed, either way. But she still stood with her back to the sun and her face covered as if she did not want the morning to see her weep. With an effort, he forced himself to meet Pitchwife’s anxious gaze.

  The deformed Giant was holding a leather flask of diamondraught. Mutely he offered it to Covenant.

  For a moment like an instance of insanity, Covenant saw Foamfollower there, as vivid as Pitchwife. Foamfollower was commenting wryly, Some old seers say that privation refines the soul—but I say that it is soon enough to refine the soul when the body has no other choice. At that, the knot in Covenant loosened a bit. With a raw sigh, he accepted the flask and drank a few swallows of the analystic liquor.

  The way of hope and doom, he thought mordantly. Hellfire.

  But the diamondraught was a blessing to his abraded nerves, his taut and weary muscles. The ascent of the Isle promised vertigo; but he had faced vertigo before. To bear what must be borne. Ah, God.

  Handing the flask back to Pitchwife, he rose to his feet. Then he approached Linden.

  When he touched her shoulders, she flinched as if she feared him—feared the purpose which she could surely perceive in him as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. But she did not pull away. Af
ter a moment, he began, “I’ve got—” He wanted to say, I’ve got to do it. Don’t you understand? But he knew she did not understand. And he had no one to blame but himself. He had never found the courage to explain to her why he had to send her back, why his life depended on her return to their former world. Instead he said, “I’ve got to go up there.”

  At once, she turned as if she meant to attack him with protests, imprecations, pleas. But her eyes were distracted and elsewhere, like Elena’s. Words came out of her as if she were forcing herself to have pity on him.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. It isn’t really dead.” Her hands indicated the Isle with a jerk. “Not like all that ruin around Stonemight Woodhelven. It’s powerful—too powerful for anything mortal to live here. But not dead. It’s more like sleep. Not exactly. Something this”—she groped momentarily—“this eternal doesn’t sleep. Resting, maybe. Resting deeply. Whatever it is, it isn’t likely to notice us.”

  Covenant’s throat closed. She was trying to comfort him after all—offering him her percipience because she had nothing else to give. Or maybe she still wanted to go back, wanted her old life more than him.

  He had to swallow a great weight of grief before he could face the company again and say, “Let’s go.”

  They looked at him with plain apprehension and hope. Seadreamer’s face was knotted around his stark scar. The First contained herself with sternness; but Pitch wife made no effort to conceal his mixed rue and excitement. Honninscrave’s great muscles bunched and released as if he were prepared to fight anything which threatened his brother. They were all poised on the culmination of their quest, the satisfaction or denial of the needs which had brought them so far across the seas of the world.

  All except Vain. If the Demondim-spawn wore the heels of the Staff of Law for any conceivable reason, he did not betray it. His black visage remained as impenetrable as the minds of the ur-viles that had made him.

  Covenant turned from them. It was on his head. Every one of them was here in his name—driven through risk and betrayal to this place by his self-distrust, his sovereign need for any weapon which would not destroy what he loved. Hope and doom. Vehemently he forced himself to the ascent.