stopped Covenant. At first, he thought that they had become wary of him—that the danger he represented made them fearful in his presence. But then Sevinhand said simply, “Giantfriend,” and it was plain even to Covenant’s superficial hearing that the Anchormaster’s tone was one of shared sorrow rather than misgiving. Instead of apologizing, Covenant bowed his head in tacit recognition of his own unworth.
He wanted to stand there in silence until he had shored up enough self-respect to take another step back into the life of the Giantship. But after a moment Cail spoke. In spite of his characteristic
Haruchai
dispassion, his manner suggested that what he meant to say made him uncomfortable. Involuntarily Covenant reflected that none of the
Haruchai
who had left the Land with him had come this far unscathed. Covenant did not know how the uncompromising extravagance of the
Haruchai
endured the role Brinn had assigned to Cail. What promise lay hidden in Brinn’s statement that Cail would eventually be permitted to follow his heart?
But Cail did not speak of that. He did not address Covenant. Without preamble, he said, “Grimmand Honninscrave, in the name of my people I desire your pardon. When Brinn assayed himself against
ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol
—he who is the sovereign legend and dream of all the
Haruchai
among the mountains—it was not his intent to bring about the death of Cable Seadreamer your brother.”
The Master winced: his cavernous eyes shot splinters of red at Cail. But almost at once he regained his deliberate poise. He glanced around the Giantship as if to assure himself that all was still well with it. Then he turned over his command to Sevinhand, drew Cail and Covenant with him to the port rail.
The setting sun gave his visage a tinge of sacrificial glory. Watching him, Covenant thought obscurely that the sun always set in the west—that a man who faced west would never see anything except decline, things going down, the last beauty before light and life went out.
After a moment, Honninscrave lifted his voice over the wet splashing of the shipside. “The Earth-Sight is not a thing which any Giant selects for himself. No choice is given. But we do not therefore seek to gainsay or eschew it. We believe—or have believed,” he said with a touch of bitterness, “—that there is life as well as death in such mysteries. How then should there be any blame in what has happened?” Honninscrave spoke more to himself than to Covenant or Cail. “The Earth-Sight came upon Cable Seadreamer my brother, and the hurt of his vision was plain to all. But the content of that hurt he could not tell. Mayhap his muteness was made necessary by the vision itself. Mayhap for him no denial of death was possible which would not also have been a denial of life. I know nothing of that. I know only that he could not speak his plight—and so he could not be saved. There is no blame for us in this.” He spoke as though he believed what he was saying; but the loss knotted around his eyes contradicted him.
“His death places no burden upon us but the burden of hope.” The sunset was fading from the west and from his face, translating his mien from crimson to the pallor of ashes. “We must hope that in the end we will find means to vindicate his passing. To vindicate,” he repeated faintly, “and to comprehend.” He did not look at his auditors. The dying of the light echoed out of his eyes. “I am grieved that I can conceive no hope.”
He had earned the right to be left alone. But Covenant needed an answer. He and Foamfollower had talked about hope. Striving to keep his voice gentle in spite of his own stiff hurt, he asked, “Then why do you go on?”
For a long moment, Honninscrave remained still against the mounting dark as if he had not heard, could not be reached. But at last he said simply, “I am a Giant. The Master of Starfare’s Gem, and sworn to the service of the First of the Search. That is
He wanted to stand there in silence until he had shored up enough self-respect to take another step back into the life of the Giantship. But after a moment Cail spoke. In spite of his characteristic
Haruchai
dispassion, his manner suggested that what he meant to say made him uncomfortable. Involuntarily Covenant reflected that none of the
Haruchai
who had left the Land with him had come this far unscathed. Covenant did not know how the uncompromising extravagance of the
Haruchai
endured the role Brinn had assigned to Cail. What promise lay hidden in Brinn’s statement that Cail would eventually be permitted to follow his heart?
But Cail did not speak of that. He did not address Covenant. Without preamble, he said, “Grimmand Honninscrave, in the name of my people I desire your pardon. When Brinn assayed himself against
ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol
—he who is the sovereign legend and dream of all the
Haruchai
among the mountains—it was not his intent to bring about the death of Cable Seadreamer your brother.”
The Master winced: his cavernous eyes shot splinters of red at Cail. But almost at once he regained his deliberate poise. He glanced around the Giantship as if to assure himself that all was still well with it. Then he turned over his command to Sevinhand, drew Cail and Covenant with him to the port rail.
The setting sun gave his visage a tinge of sacrificial glory. Watching him, Covenant thought obscurely that the sun always set in the west—that a man who faced west would never see anything except decline, things going down, the last beauty before light and life went out.
After a moment, Honninscrave lifted his voice over the wet splashing of the shipside. “The Earth-Sight is not a thing which any Giant selects for himself. No choice is given. But we do not therefore seek to gainsay or eschew it. We believe—or have believed,” he said with a touch of bitterness, “—that there is life as well as death in such mysteries. How then should there be any blame in what has happened?” Honninscrave spoke more to himself than to Covenant or Cail. “The Earth-Sight came upon Cable Seadreamer my brother, and the hurt of his vision was plain to all. But the content of that hurt he could not tell. Mayhap his muteness was made necessary by the vision itself. Mayhap for him no denial of death was possible which would not also have been a denial of life. I know nothing of that. I know only that he could not speak his plight—and so he could not be saved. There is no blame for us in this.” He spoke as though he believed what he was saying; but the loss knotted around his eyes contradicted him.
“His death places no burden upon us but the burden of hope.” The sunset was fading from the west and from his face, translating his mien from crimson to the pallor of ashes. “We must hope that in the end we will find means to vindicate his passing. To vindicate,” he repeated faintly, “and to comprehend.” He did not look at his auditors. The dying of the light echoed out of his eyes. “I am grieved that I can conceive no hope.”
He had earned the right to be left alone. But Covenant needed an answer. He and Foamfollower had talked about hope. Striving to keep his voice gentle in spite of his own stiff hurt, he asked, “Then why do you go on?”
For a long moment, Honninscrave remained still against the mounting dark as if he had not heard, could not be reached. But at last he said simply, “I am a Giant. The Master of Starfare’s Gem, and sworn to the service of the First of the Search. That is
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