“Are you crazy?” Surprise and distress wrung the cry from her. “Why do you think it's here?”
He stopped, faced her again. But his visage was obscure in the moonlight. She could see only the waves of vehemence radiating from his bones. He had accepted his power and meant to use it.
“Linden Avery,” said the First grimly. “We know nothing of this Raver. You must tell us what it is.”
Linden's voice reached out to Covenant in supplication, asking him not to expose himself to this danger. “Didn't you tell them about The Grieve? About the Giant-Raver who killed all those-?” Her throat knotted, silencing her involuntarily.
“No.” Covenant returned to stand near her, and a gentler emanation came from him in answer to her fear. “Pitchwife told that story. In Coercri I talked about the Giant-Raver. But I never described what it was.”
He turned to the First and Honninscrave. "I told you about Lord Foul. The Despiser. But I didn't know I needed to tell you about the Ravers. They're his three highest servants. They don't have bodies of their own, so they work by taking over other beings. Possessing them." The blood in his tone smelled of Joan-and of other people Linden did not know.
“The old Lords used to say that no Giant or Haruchai could be mastered by a Raver. But turiya Herem had a fragment of the Illearth Stone. That gave it the power to possess a Giant. It was the one we saw in Coercri. Butchering the Unhomed.”
“Very well.” The First nodded. “So much at least is known to us, then. But why has this evil come among us? Does it seek to prevent our quest? How can it hold that hope, when so many of us are Giants and Haruchai? Her voice sharpened. ”Does it mean to possess you? Or the Chosen?" Before Linden could utter her fears, Covenant grated, “Something like that.” Then he faced her once more. “You're right. I won't go looking for it. But it's got to be found. We've got to get rid of it somehow.” The force of his will was focused on her. “You're the only one who can find it. Where is it?”
Her reply was muffled by her efforts to stop trembling. “Somewhere below,” she repeated.
The First looked at Honninscrave. He protested carefully, “Chosen, the under-decks are manifold and cunning. Much time will be required for a true search. And we have not your eyes. If this Raver holds no flesh, how will we discover it?”
Linden wanted to cry out. Gibbon had touched her. She carried his evil engraved in every part of her body, would never be clean of it again. How could she bear a repetition of that touch?
But Honninscrave's question was just; and an answering anger enabled her to meet him. The ship was threatened: Covenant was threatened. And here at least she had a chance to show that she could be a danger to Lord Foul and his machinations, not only to her friends. Her failures with Joan, with Marid, with Gibbon had taught her to doubt herself. But she had not come this far, only to repeat the surrender of her parents. Tightly, she replied, “I won't go down there. But I'll try to locate where it is.”
Covenant released his pent breath as if her decision were a victory.
The First and Honninscrave did not hesitate. Leaving the wheeldeck to the Storesmaster, they went down the stairs; and he sent a Giant hastening ahead of him to rouse the rest of the crew. Linden and Covenant followed more slowly. Brinn and Cail, Ceer and Hergrom formed a protective cordon around them as they moved forward to meet the Giants who came springing out of hatchways from their hammocks in Saltroamrest below the foredeck. Shortly, every crewmember who could be spared from the care of the dromond was present and ready.
Pitchwife and Seadreamer were there as well. But the First's demeanour checked Pitchwife's natural loquacity; and Seadreamer bore himself with an air of resignation.
In a tone of constricted brevity, forcibly restraining his Giantish outrage at the slayer of the Unhomed, Honninscrave detailed the situation to his crew, described what had to be done. When he finished, the First added sternly, “It appears that this peril is directed toward Covenant Giantfriend and the Chosen. They must be preserved at any hazard. Forget not that he is the redeemer of our lost kindred and holds a power which must not fall to this Raver. And she is a physician of great skill and insight, whose purpose in this quest is yet to be revealed. Preserve them and rid the Search of this ill.”
She might have said more. She was a Swordmain; her desire to strike blows in the name of the Unhomed was plain in her voice. But Pitchwife interposed lightly, “It is enough. Are we not Giants? We require no urging to defend our comrades.”
“Then make haste,” she responded. “The scouring of Starfare's Gem is no small matter.”
Honninscrave promptly organized the Giants into groups of two and sent them below. Then he turned to Linden. “Now, Chosen.” The command came from him firmly, as if he were bred for emergencies. “Guide us.”
She had been groping for a way to find the Raver, but had conceived no other method than to pace the ship, trying to track down the intruder's presence. As severely as she could, she said, “Forget everything under the wheeldeck. My cabin's down there. If it were that close, I would've known sooner.”
Through one of the open hatches, the Anchormaster relayed this information to the search parties below.
As the moon set behind Starfare's Gem, Linden Avery began to walk the afterdeck.
Working her way between the railings, she moved deliberately forward. At every step, she fought to overcome her distinctive resistance, struggled to open herself to the Raver's ambience. Even through her shoes, her senses were alive to the stone of the dromond. The granite mapped itself under her: she could feel the Giants hunting below her until they descended beyond her range. But the evil remained hidden, vague and fatal.
Soon the muscles along the backs of her legs began to cramp. Her nerves winced at each step. Gibbon had taught every inch of her body to dread Ravers. But she did not stop.
Dawn came not long after moonset, though the time felt long to her; and the sun caught her halfway up the afterdeck, nearly level with the midmast. She was shivering with strain and could not be certain that she had not already passed over the Raver's covert. When Ceer offered her a drink of water, she paused to accept it. But then she went on, knurling her concentration in both fists so that she would not falter.
Covenant had seated himself in a coil of hawser as large as a bed on one side of Foodfendhall. Brinn and Hergrom stood poised near him. He was watching her with a heavy scowl, radiating his frustration and helplessness, his anger at the blindness of his senses.
In fear that she would weaken, fail again, again, Linden increased her pace.
Before she reached the housing, a sudden spasm in her legs knocked her to the deck.
At once, Cail and Ceer caught her arms, lifted her erect.
“Here,” she panted. A fire of revulsion burned through her knees into her hips. She could not straighten her legs. “Under here. Somewhere.”
The Anchormaster shouted word down to the search parties.
Honninscrave studied her with perplexity. “That seems a strange hiding,” he muttered. “From deck to keel below you lie only grain-holds, food-lockers, water-chests. And all are full. Sevinhand”-he referred to the Anchormaster-“found pure water, wild maize, and much good fruit on the verges of the Great Swamp.”
Linden could not look at him. She was thinking absurdly, The verges of the Great Swamp. Where all the pollution of Sarangrave Flat drained into the Sea.
Gritting her teeth, she felt the darkness gather under her like a thunderhead. For a time, it lay fragmented in the depths of the ship-pieces of malice. Then it stirred. Thrumming like an assault through the granite, it began to swarm. The sunlight filled her eyes with recollections of bees, forcing her to duck her head, huddle into herself. Somewhere above her head, untended sails flapped limply. Starfare's Gem had become still, braced for the onslaught of the Raver.