White Gold Wielder

  But Covenant had never seen Pitchwife at work before. Grateful for any distraction, he studied Pitchwife with fascination as the First’s husband completed his preparations. Consigning his vat to another Giant, he hoisted a slab of setrock in a sling over his shoulder, then went to the ropes and began pulling himself slowly up the foremast.

  Below him, the crew set his vat of pitch into a net that they had rigged from a pulley fixed as high as possible on the mast. When he reached that height himself, supported now by a line lashed under his arms and around the mast, two Giants hauled the vat up to him. His breath plumed crisply in the cold.

  At once, he began his work. Scooping up gouts of pitch, he larded them into the jagged crown of the mast. The pitch seemed viscid, but he handled it deftly, fingering it down into the cracks and smoothing it on all sides until he had fashioned a flat butt for the broken stone. Then he reached back to his setrock, snapped a chip from one edge, and tapped the piece into the pitch.

  Almost without transition, the pitch became stone, indistinguishable from the mast’s granite.

  Muttering his satisfaction, he followed his vat back down to the deck.

  Sevinhand sent several Giants swarming up to the yard to undo everything which had been rigged to the mast. At the same time, other crewmembers began binding ropes around the ends of the intact spar and preparing new gear up on the yard.

  Pitchwife ignored them, turned his attention to the fallen portion of the mast. It had broken into several pieces; but one section was as long as all the rest combined. With pitch and setrock, he formed both ends of this section into flat butts like the new cap of the foremast.

  Covenant could not see what all this would accomplish. And his need for haste made him restless. After a time, he realized that he had not seen Galewrath since he had come out on deck. When the dead had been given to the sea, she had gone to some other task. In an effort to keep himself occupied—and to generate some warmth—he tugged his robe tighter and went looking for the Storesmaster.

  He found her in her particular demesne, a warren of holds, watercests, and storage-lockers belowdecks amidships. The dromond carried a surprising amount of wood for use both as fuel for the stoves and as raw material for repairs or replacements which could not be readily achieved with stone at sea. Galewrath and three other Giants were at work in a square hold which served as the ship’s carpentry.

  They were making two large sleds.

  These were rough constructs with high rails and rude planking. But they looked sturdy. And each was big enough to carry a Giant.

  Two crewmembers glued and pegged the shells together while Galewrath and the other Giant labored at the more difficult chore of carving runners. With files, knives, and hand-adzes, they stripped the bark from beams as thick as Covenant’s thigh, then slowly shaped the wood to carry weight over ice and snow as easily as possible. The floor was already thick with bark and curlings, and the air smelled of clean resin; but the task was far from finished.

  In response to Covenant’s question, Galewrath replied that to reach Revelstone Covenant and his company would need more supplies than they could bear on their backs. And the sleds would also transport Covenant and Linden when the terrain permitted the Giants to set a pace the humans could not match.

  Once again, Covenant was wanly abashed by the providence of the people who sought to serve him. He had not been able to think farther ahead than the moment when he would leave Starfare’s Gem; but the Giants were concerned about more than the stark question of their ship’s survival. He would have died long ago if other people had not taken such care of him.

  His route back toward the upper decks passed the Master’s cabin. The door was shut; but from within he heard the First’s voice, raised in vexation. She was urging Honninscrave to stay with the dromond.

  The Master’s answering silence was eloquent. As ashamed as an eavesdropper, Covenant hastened away to see what progress Pitchwife and Sevinhand had made.

  When he gained the foredeck, the sun stood above the gap where the midmast should have been, and the deformed Giant’s plans were taking shape. Covenant was almost able to guess his intent. Pitchwife had finished the long stone shaft on the deck; and he and Sevinhand were watching as the crew wrestled the one unbroken spar up onto the yard. There they stood the spar against the truncated mast and secured it with loop after loop of cable. For two-thirds of its length, the spar reached above the end of the mast. To the upraised tip had been affixed the pulley of a massive block-and-tackle.

  Covenant eyed the lashings and the spar distrustfully. “Is that going to hold?”

  Pitchwife shrugged as if his arms had become too heavy for him. His voice was husky with fatigue. “If it does not, the task cannot be accomplished in one day. The spar I can mend. But the mast we hope to raise must then be broken to smaller fragments which I may bear aloft and wive whole again.” He sighed without looking at Covenant. “Pray this will hold. The prospect of that labor I do not relish.”

  Wearily he fell silent.

  When the tackle had been attached to one flat end of the mastshaft Pitchwife had prepared, eight or ten Giants lifted the shaft and positioned it below the yard so that the lines hung as straight as possible in order to minimize the sideward stress on the spar. Creaking in its pulleys, the tackle tightened.

  Covenant held his breath unconsciously. That spar looked too slender to sustain the granite shaft. But as the ropes strained tighter and the end of the mast-piece lifted, nothing broke.

  Then the shaft hung straight from the spar, brushing against the bole of the mast. As the Giants pulled slowly on the towline of the tackle, the shaft continued to rise. When its butt reached the level of Covenant’s head, Pitchwife coughed, “Hold!”

  The Giants on the towline froze. The tackle groaned; the shaft settled slightly as the ropes stretched. But still nothing broke.

  His hands full of pitch, the deformed Giant moved to the shaft and gently covered the butt with an even and heavy layer. Then he retreated to the other side of the mast. A rope dangled near him. When he had carefully cleaned his hands, he gripped it and let the Giants on the yard haul him upward.

  Bracing himself once again within a loop of rope passed around the mast and his back, he labored foot by foot up toward the maimed stump. Alone above the yard, he looked strangely vulnerable; yet he forced himself upward by main strength. Finally he hung at the rim of the mast.

  For a long moment, he did not move; and Covenant found himself panting as if he sought to breathe for the Giant, send Pitchwife strength. The First had come to the foredeck. Her gaze was clenched on her husband. If the spar snapped, only a miracle could save him from being ripped down by falling stone and flying tackle.

  Then he signalled to the Giants below. Sevinhand whispered a command; the crew began to raise the shaft again.

  Now the bowing of the spar was unmistakable. Covenant could hardly believe that it was still intact.

  By wary degrees, the shaft was drawn upward. Soon its flat crown ascended above Pitchwife’s head. Then its butt reached the level of his chest.

  He looked too weak to support his own weight; but somehow he braced himself, reached out his arms to prevent the shaft from swinging over the end of the mast—from scraping off its layer of pitch or mating crookedly. The Giants fisted the lines tighter, raised the shaft another foot; then Sevinhand stopped them. Slowly Pitchwife shifted his position, aligned the stone with the mast.

  He gave an urgent gasp of readiness. Fervently careful, the Giants began to lower the shaft. Alone, he guided it downward.

  The flat ends met. At once, he thumbed a sliver of setrock into place; and the line separating stone from stone vanished as if it had never existed. The First let relief hiss through her teeth. A raw cheer sprang from the Giants as they let the tackle go.

  The mast stood. It was not as tall as the aftermast—but it was tall enough now to carry a second spar. And two spans of canvas forward might give the dromond the balance it
needed to survive.

  The task was not yet done: the spar had to be attached to the new foremast. But most of the afternoon remained, and the necessary repairs were clearly possible now. Two Giants swarmed upward and helped Pitchwife down to the yard, then lowered him to his jubilant comrades. The First greeted him with a hug which looked urgent enough to crack his spine. A jug of diamondraught appeared from somewhere and was pressed into his hands. He drank hugely, and another cheer was raised around him.

  Weak with relief, Covenant watched them and let his gratitude for Pitchwife’s safety and success wash over him.

  A moment later, Pitchwife emerged from the crowd of Giants. He was made unsteady on his feet by exhaustion and sudden diamondraught; but he moved purposefully toward Covenant. He gave the Unbeliever a florid bow which nearly cost him his balance. Then he said, “I will rest now. But ere nightfall I will set the spar. That will complete the labor I can do for Starfare’s Gem.” The raw rims of his eyes and the sway of his stance were acute reminders that he had saved the dromond from sinking before this day’s work began.

  But he was not done. His voice softened as he added, “Giantfriend, I thank you that you accorded to me this opportunity to be of service to the Giantship.”

  Bright in the sunshine and the reflections of the ice, he turned away. Chuckling at the murmured jests and praise of the crew, he linked arms with the First and left the foredeck like a drunken hero. In spite of his deformed stature, he seemed as tall as any Giant.

  The sight eased Covenant in a way that made his eyes burn. Gratitude loosened his tension. Pitchwife had proved his fear and anger unnecessary. As Sevinhand and his crew went back to work, stringing new tackle so that they could hoist the spar into place against the foremast, Covenant moved away in search of Linden. He wanted to show her what the Giant had accomplished. And to apologize for his earlier harshness.

  He found her almost at once. She was in the galley, asleep like a waif on her pallet. Her dreams made her frown with the solemn concentration of a child; but she showed no sign of awakening. She was still recuperating from the abusive cold of the Soulbiter. He let her sleep.

  The warmth of the galley reminded him of his own chilled weariness. He stretched out on his pallet, intending to rest for a while and then go back to watch the Giants. But as soon as he closed his eyes, his fatigue arose and carried him away.

  Later, in a period of half-consciousness, he thought he heard singing. At first, the songs were ones of gladness and praise, of endurance against exigent seas and safe arrival Home. But after a while the melodies began to grieve, and the songs became ones of parting, of ships lost and kindred sundered; and through them ran a sound like the crackle of flames, the anguish of a caamora, auguring doom. Covenant had attempted a caamora once, on the headrock of Coercri. But that bonfire had not been violent enough to touch him: in the night of the Unhomed’s dismay, he had succored everyone but himself. Now as he sank back into dreams he thought perhaps a more absolute blaze was needed, a more searching and destructive conflagration. And he knew where to find that fire. He slept like a man who feared to face what was coming.

  But when he awakened at last, the idea was gone.

  The way Seasauce and Hearthcoal bustled about their work suggested that a new day had dawned. Abashed by sleep, he fumbled himself into a sitting position, looked across at Linden’s pallet and saw that it was empty. She and Mistweave were not in the galley. But Cail stood nearby, as impassive as if impatience were unknown to him.

  When Covenant looked at him, the Haruchai said, “You are timely roused, ur-Lord. The night is past. Those who will sojourn with you ready themselves for departure.”

  A pang went through Covenant. Ready, he thought. The people around him did everything possible on his behalf; but he was never ready. Struggling to his feet, he accepted the bowl of porridge Hearthcoal offered him, ate as much as his haste could stomach. Then he went to the door Cail held open for him and stepped out into the sharp morning.

  Again, ice-glare and sunlight stung his eyes, but he fought them into focus. After a glance at the new foremast, he picked his way across the frozen afterdeck toward (he Giants thronging near the port rail.

  Hails greeted him. The crew parted, admitting him to their midst. In a moment, he found himself at the edge of the deck with Linden and Mistweave, the First and Pitchwife, and Honninscrave.

  Both Linden and Pitchwife looked stronger than they had the previous day, although she avoided Covenant’s gaze as if she did not trust him. The First eyed the west with the keenness of a hawk. But Honninscrave appeared painfully unsolaced, as though he had spent the long night haunted by his conflicting duties.

  A glance past the railing showed Covenant that Galewrath*s sleds had already been set down on the ice. Both were heavily laden; but the sacks and bundles of supplies had been arranged to accommodate at least one passenger in each sled.

  When she had acknowledged Covenant, the First turned to Sevinhand, Galewrath, and the rest of the Giants. “Now has the time of parting come upon us once more.” Her voice rang crisply across the frigid air. “The hazard is great, for no longer stands Cable Seadreamer’s Earth-Sight at the helm of the Search. Yet do we pursue our sworn purpose—and for that reason I do not fear. We are mortal, and the visage of failure is heinous to us. But we are not required to succeed. It is required of us only that we hold fast in every gale and let come what may. On all the seas of the world, there are none better for this work than you who remain with Starfare’s Gem. How then should I be afraid?

  This only do I charge you: when the ice uncloses, come after us. Sail to that littoral which you know, to Seareach and brave Coercri, The Grieve. If there we fail to meet you or send word, then the Search falls to you. Do what you must—and do not fear. While one valiant heart yet defends the Earth, evil can never triumph utterly.”

  Then she stopped, looked down at Pitchwife as if she were surprised by her own words. For answer, he gave her a gleam of pure pleasure. Sevinhand’s eyes reflected hints of the cunning skill which had saved Starfare’s Gem from the warships of the Bhrathair. Galewrath glowered stolidly at the future as though it had no power to daunt her. Weary and imperilled though they were, the crewmembers held up their heads and let their pride shine. Covenant suddenly did not know how he could bear to leave them.

  But he had to. The First started down the ladder with Pitchwife behind her; and Covenant had no choice. They were not responsible for the Earth’s peril; but their lives were at stake as much as his. When Cail offered him the ladder, he gestured the Haruchai ahead to catch him if he fell. Then he stooped through the railing, set his numb feet into the rungs, and fought his vertigo and his cold bones downward.

  The ice felt as dead as the nerves of his soles, and in the shadow of the Giantship the breeze was as sharp as the sea; but he strode and slipped across the treacherous surface to one of the sleds. Linden followed him, her hair fluttering like the banner of her determination. Then came Mistweave, still stubborn in his resolve to serve the Chosen.

  Honninscrave was last. He seemed hardly able to refrain from giving Galewrath and Sevinhand a host of unnecessary final instructions. But after a moment of silence like a mute cry he wrenched himself away from his ship and joined the company.

  Abruptly several Giants shifted out of Vain’s way as he approached the rail. He vaulted over the side, landed lightly on the ice, and at once resumed his characteristic immobility, his black orbs gazing at nothing.

  A shadow glided out of the air: Findail melted back into his human form near Vain as if he and the Demondim-spawn belonged to each other.

  Obeying the First’s murmured instructions. Covenant climbed into one of the sleds, sat down among the supplies. Linden settled herself in the other sled. Honninscrave and Mistweave picked up the leads, harnessed themselves into the lines. The First and Pitchwife went to the fore. Cail stood between the sleds; Vain and Findail brought up the rear.

  Runners crunched against the ice as C
ovenant and his companions left the Giantship in search of hope.

  Sixty-three days had passed since they had said farewell to Sunder and Hollian and Seareach. They were at least eighteenscore leagues from Revelstone.

  FIVE: Landward

  The First set a rapid pace. Steam panted from Honninscrave’s and Mistweave’s lungs as they hauled the sleds along; but they did not hang back. All the Giants were eager to get out of sight of the dromond, to put behind them their crippled vessel and imperiled people. The runners of the sleds pounded through hollows in the ice, bit and slewed across pressure-ridges. Covenant and Linden were tossed ungently from side to side among the supplies. But Linden clung to the rails, made no protest. And Covenant wanted every stride of speed the Giants could attain. The Land and Lord Foul had taught him many things; but he had never learned how to leave behind friends who needed him. Hunching down into the heavy robes and blankets he had been given, he kept his face turned blear-eyed and cold-bitten toward the west and let Honninscrave draw him at a hungry trot into the white wilderland.

  Yet at last the thought of what he was doing impelled him to look back toward the dromond. Stark in the distance beyond Vain and Findail, the vessel shrank as if it were being slowly swallowed by the bleak floe; and the sight of its abandonment stuck in his throat. But then he descried the pennon flying from the aftermast. Sevinhand must have raised it as a salute to the departing company. Vivid with color and jaunty in the wind, it captured for a moment the spirit of Starfare’s Gem like a promise of valor and endurance. When Covenant’s vision became too blurred to make out the Giantship any longer, he was able to face forward again and let the stone vessel go.