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Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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did not know how to forgive.
He thought then that surely his loss and need had become too much for him, that surely he was about to break down. But the First and Pitchwife were watching him with their concern poignant in their faces. They were his friends. And they needed him. Somehow, he held himself together.
Later Mistweave sent word that Linden had found a place to sleep at last, huddled in a corner of the galley near the warmth of one of the great stoves. With that Covenant had to be content. Moving stiffly, he went back to his hammock and took the risk of nightmares. Dreams seemed to be the lesser danger.
But the next morning the wind was stronger.
It might have been a true sailors’ wind—enough to shake the
dromond
out of its normal routine and make it stretch, not enough to pose any threat to the sea-craft of the crew. It kicked the crests of the waves into spume and spray, sent water crashing off the Giantship’s granite prow, made the lines hum and the sails strain. The sides of the vessel moved so swiftly that their moire markings looked like flames crackling from the sea. In the rigging, some of the Giants laughed as they fisted the canvas from position to position, seeking the
dromond
’s best stance for speed. If its midmast had not been lost, Starfare’s Gem would have flown like exuberance before the blow.
However, the day was dull with clouds and felt unnaturally cold. A south wind should have been warmer than this. It came straight from the place where the Isle had gone down, and it was as chill as the cavern of the One Tree. Without the sun to light it, the sea had a gray and viscid hue. Though he wore a robe over his clothes, Covenant hunched his shoulders and could not stop shivering.
Seeking reassurance, he went up to the wheeldeck, where Heft Galewrath commanded the
dromond
. But she greeted him with only a blunt nod. Her normally stolid demeanor held a kind of watchfulness that he had not seen in her before. For the first time since they had met, she seemed accessible to misgiving. Rather than trouble her with his trepidations, he returned to the afterdeck and moved forward, looking for someone who could be more easily questioned.
It’s not that cold, he told himself. It’s just wind. But still the chill cut at him. No matter how he hugged the robe about him, the wind found its way to his skin.
Instinctively he went to the galley, looking for warmth and Linden.
He found her there, seated at one wall near the cheery bustle of the
dromond
’s two cooks, a husband and wife aptly named Seasauce and Hearthcoal. They had spent so much of their lives working over the great stoves that their faces had become perpetually ruddy. They looked like images of each other as they blustered about their tasks, moving with a disingenuous air of confusion which concealed the ease of their teamwork. When they went out on deck, heat overflowed from them; and in their constricted demesne they radiated like ovens. Yet Covenant’s chill persisted.
Linden was awake, but still glazed with sleep. She had paid only a part of the debt of her weariness. Though she acknowledged Covenant, behind her eyes everything was masked in somnolence. He thought at once that he should not bother her with questions until she had rested more. But he was too cold for good intentions.
Hunkering down beside her, he asked, “What do you think of this wind?”
She yawned. “I think,” she said distantly, “that Foul’s in a hurry to get us back.
However, after another day’s rest, Linden was able to look at the weather more percipiently. By then, Covenant had worn himself petulant with aimless anxiety. He felt repeatedly that he had lost the center of his life, that he could no longer hold himself from flying outward in all directions when the vertigo of his fear arose. Nothing had happened to suggest that the
dromond
was in danger: yet his inchoate conviction of peril remained. Snappishly he asked Linden his question a
He thought then that surely his loss and need had become too much for him, that surely he was about to break down. But the First and Pitchwife were watching him with their concern poignant in their faces. They were his friends. And they needed him. Somehow, he held himself together.
Later Mistweave sent word that Linden had found a place to sleep at last, huddled in a corner of the galley near the warmth of one of the great stoves. With that Covenant had to be content. Moving stiffly, he went back to his hammock and took the risk of nightmares. Dreams seemed to be the lesser danger.
But the next morning the wind was stronger.
It might have been a true sailors’ wind—enough to shake the
dromond
out of its normal routine and make it stretch, not enough to pose any threat to the sea-craft of the crew. It kicked the crests of the waves into spume and spray, sent water crashing off the Giantship’s granite prow, made the lines hum and the sails strain. The sides of the vessel moved so swiftly that their moire markings looked like flames crackling from the sea. In the rigging, some of the Giants laughed as they fisted the canvas from position to position, seeking the
dromond
’s best stance for speed. If its midmast had not been lost, Starfare’s Gem would have flown like exuberance before the blow.
However, the day was dull with clouds and felt unnaturally cold. A south wind should have been warmer than this. It came straight from the place where the Isle had gone down, and it was as chill as the cavern of the One Tree. Without the sun to light it, the sea had a gray and viscid hue. Though he wore a robe over his clothes, Covenant hunched his shoulders and could not stop shivering.
Seeking reassurance, he went up to the wheeldeck, where Heft Galewrath commanded the
dromond
. But she greeted him with only a blunt nod. Her normally stolid demeanor held a kind of watchfulness that he had not seen in her before. For the first time since they had met, she seemed accessible to misgiving. Rather than trouble her with his trepidations, he returned to the afterdeck and moved forward, looking for someone who could be more easily questioned.
It’s not that cold, he told himself. It’s just wind. But still the chill cut at him. No matter how he hugged the robe about him, the wind found its way to his skin.
Instinctively he went to the galley, looking for warmth and Linden.
He found her there, seated at one wall near the cheery bustle of the
dromond
’s two cooks, a husband and wife aptly named Seasauce and Hearthcoal. They had spent so much of their lives working over the great stoves that their faces had become perpetually ruddy. They looked like images of each other as they blustered about their tasks, moving with a disingenuous air of confusion which concealed the ease of their teamwork. When they went out on deck, heat overflowed from them; and in their constricted demesne they radiated like ovens. Yet Covenant’s chill persisted.
Linden was awake, but still glazed with sleep. She had paid only a part of the debt of her weariness. Though she acknowledged Covenant, behind her eyes everything was masked in somnolence. He thought at once that he should not bother her with questions until she had rested more. But he was too cold for good intentions.
Hunkering down beside her, he asked, “What do you think of this wind?”
She yawned. “I think,” she said distantly, “that Foul’s in a hurry to get us back.
However, after another day’s rest, Linden was able to look at the weather more percipiently. By then, Covenant had worn himself petulant with aimless anxiety. He felt repeatedly that he had lost the center of his life, that he could no longer hold himself from flying outward in all directions when the vertigo of his fear arose. Nothing had happened to suggest that the
dromond
was in danger: yet his inchoate conviction of peril remained. Snappishly he asked Linden his question a
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