“Must?” she returned huskily. Cail's flat insistence made her wild. “You don't know what you're saying. The only way I can help him is go into him and take over. Like the Sunbane. Or a Raver. It would be bad enough if I were as innocent as a baby. But what do you think I'll turn into if I get that much power?”
She might have gone on, might have cried at him, And he'll hate me for it! He'll never trust me again! Or himself. But the simple uselessness of shouting at Cail stopped her. Her intensity seemed to have no purpose. His uncompromising visage leeched it away from her. Instead of protesting further, she murmured dimly, “I'm already too much like Gibbon.”
Cail's gaze did not waver from her face. “Then he will die.”
I know. God help me. She turned from the Haruchai, hung her arms over the cross-supports of the rail to keep herself from sagging to her knees. Possess him?
After a moment, she felt Cail withdrawing toward the afterdeck. Her hands twisted against each other as if their futility threatened to drive them mad. She had spent so many years training them, teaching them to heal, trusting them. Now they were good for nothing. She could not so much as touch Covenant.
Starfare's Gem remained becalmed throughout the day. The heat baked down until Linden thought that her bones would melt; but she could not resolve the contradictions in her. Around the ship, the Giants were strangely silent. They seemed to wait with bated breath for Covenant's eruptions of fire, his ranting shouts. No hint of wind stirred the sails. At times, she wanted to fall overboard-not to immerse herself in the Sea's coolness, though anything cool would have been bliss to her aching nerves-but simply to break the unrelieved stillness of the water. Through the stone, she could feel Covenant's delirium worsening.
At noon and again at eventide, Cail brought her food. He performed this task as if no conflict between them could alter his duty; but she did not eat. Though she had not taken one step toward Covenant, she shared his ordeal. The same rack of venom and madness on which he was stretched tortured her as well. That was her punishment for failure-to participate in the anguish she feared to confront.
The old man on Haven Farm had said, You will not fail, however he may assail you. There is also love in the world. Not fail? she ached to herself. Good God! As for love, she had already denied it. She did not know how to turn her life around.
So the day ended, and later the waxing moon began to ascend over the lifeless Sea, and still she stood at the railing on the long foredeck, staring sightlessly into the blank distance. Her hands knotted together and unknotted like a nest of snakes. Sweat darkened the hair at her temples, drew faint lines down through the erosions which marked her face; but she paid no heed. The black water lay unmoving and benighted, as empty of life as the air. The moon shone as if it were engrossed in its own thoughts; but its reflection sprawled on the flat surface like a stillborn. High above her, the sails hung limp among their shrouds, untouched by any rumour or foretaste of wind. Again and again, Covenant's voice rose ranting into the hot night. Occasional white lightning paled the stars. Yet she did not respond, though she knew he could not heal himself. The Despiser's venom was a moral poison, and he had no health-sense to guide his fire. Even if his power had been hers to wield as she willed, she might not have been able to burn out that ill without tearing up his life by the roots.
Then Pitchwife came toward her. She heard his determination to speak in the rhythm of his stride. But when she turned her head to him, the sight of her flagrant visage silenced him. After a moment, he retreated with a damp sheen of moonlight or tears in his misshapen eyes.
She thought then that she would be left alone. But soon she felt another Giant looming nearby. Without looking at him, she recognized Seadreamer by his knotted aura. He had come to share his muteness with her. He was the only Giant who suffered anything comparable to her vision, and the pervading sadness of his mood held no recrimination. Yet after a time s silence seemed to pull at her, asking for answers.
Because I'm afraid.“ His muteness enabled her to speak. ”terrifies me.
I can understand what Covenant's doing. His love for the
Land-“ She envied Covenant his passion, his accessible heart. She had nothing like it. ”I'd do anything to help him. But I don't have that kind of power."
Then she could not stop; she had to try to explain herself. Her voice slipped out into the night without touching the air or the Sea. But her companion's gentle presence encouraged her.
“It's all possession. Lord Foul possessed Joan to make Covenant come to the Land.” Joan's face had worn a contortion of predatory malice which still haunted Linden. She could not forget the woman's thirst for Covenant's blood. “A Raver possessed Marid to get that venom into him. A Raver possessed the na-Mhoram of the Clave so that the Clave would serve the Sunbane. And the Sunbane itself! Foul is trying to possess the Law. He wants to make himself the natural order of the Earth. Once you start believing in evil, the greatest evil there is is possession. It's a denial of life-of humanity. Whatever you possess loses everything. Just because you think you're doing it for reasons like pity or help doesn't change what it is. I'm a doctor, not a Raver.”
She tried to give her insistence the force of affirmation; but it was not true enough for that.
“He needs me to go into him. Take over. Control him so he can drink some diamondraught, stop righting the people who want to help him. But that's evil. Even if I'm trying to save him.” Struggling to put the truth into words, she said, “To do it, I'd have to take his power away from him.”
She was pleading for Seadreamer's comprehension. “When I was in Revelstone, Gibbon touched me. I learned something about myself then.” The na-Mhoram had told her she was evil. That was the truth. “There's a part of me that wants to do it. Take over him. Take his power. I don't have any of my own, and I want it.” Want it. All her life, she had striven for power, for effectiveness against death. For the means to transcend her heritage-and to make restitution. If she had possessed Covenant's power, she would have gladly torn Gibbon soul from body in the name of her own crime. “That's what paralyzes me. I've spent my life trying to deny evil. When it shows up, I can't escape it.” She did not know how to escape the contradiction between her commitment to life and her yearning for the dark might of death. Her father's suicide had taught her a hunger she had satisfied once and dreaded to face again. The conflict of her desires had no answer. In its own way, Gibbon-Raver's touch had been no more horrible than her father's death; and the black force of her memories made her shiver on the verge of crying.
“Yet you must aid him.”
The hard voice pierced Linden. She turned sharply, found herself facing the First of the Search. She had been so caught up in what she was saying to Seadreamer, so locked into herself, that she had not felt the First's approach.
The First glared at her sternly. “I grant that the burden is terrible to you. That is plain.” She bore herself like a woman who had made a fierce decision of her own. “But the Search has been given into his hands. It must not fail.”
With a brusque movement, she drew her broadsword, held it before her as though she meant to enforce Linden's compliance with keen iron. Linden pressed her back against the rail in apprehension; but the First bent down, placed her glaive on the deck between them. Then she drew herself erect, fixed Linden with the demand of her stare. “Have you the strength to wield my blade?”