But he could not afford release. Lord Foul was probably already gloating at the possibility that he Covenant, might unleash wild magic to aid the Waynhim. Grimly, he stifled his desire to make some acerbic retort. Instead, he replied, “No. I don't want to hear it from Hamako. I don't want to let Findail off the hook.”
Deliberately, he turned toward the Appointed. But Findail met him with the same trammelled and impenetrable rue with which he had rebuffed every challenge or appeal. More to answer Linden than to attack Findail, Covenant concluded, “I'm waiting for this bloody Elohim to discover the honesty if not the simple decency to start telling the truth.” Findail's yellow eyes darkened; but he said nothing.
Linden looked back and forth between Covenant and the Appointed. Then she nodded. Speaking as if Findail were not present, she said, “I hope he makes up his mind soon. I don't like the idea of having to face the Clave when they still know more about Vain than we do.”
Grateful for at least that much acceptance from her Covenant tried to smile. But he achieved only a grimace.
The Waynhim were milling around the cavern, moving as if each of them wanted to speak to everyone else before the crisis; and their low, barking voices thickened the atmosphere. But the Giants were no longer among them. Honninscrave leaned against one wall, detached and lonely, his head bowed. Pitchwife had remained with Covenant, Linden, and Cail. And the First and Mistweave stood together near the opposite side of the space. Mistweave's stance was one of pleading; but the First met whatever he said angrily. When be beseeched her further, her reply cracked over the noise of the Waynhim.
“You are mortal. Giant. Such choices are harsh to any who must make them. But failure is only failure. It is not unworth, You are sworn and dedicate to the Search, if not to the Chosen, and I will not release you.”
Sternly, she left his plain dismay, marched through the throng toward the rest of her companions. When she reached them, she answered their mute questions by saying, “He is shamed.” She looked at Linden. “His life you saved when Covenant Giantfriend's was at risk. Now he deems that his indecision in your need is unpardonable. He asks to be given to the Waynhim, that he may seek expiation in their battle.” Unnecessarily, she added, “I have refused him.”
Linden muttered a curse. “I didn't ask him to serve me. He doesn't need- “
Abruptly, she cried, “Honninscrave! Don't!” But the Master did not heed her. Fury clenched in his fists, he strode toward Mistweave as though he meant to punish the Giant's distress.
Linden started after him; the First stopped her. In silence, they watched as Honninscrave stalked up to his crewmember. Confronting Mistweave, the Master stabbed one massive finger at the Giant's sore heart as if he knew the exact location of Mistweave's bafflement. His jaws chewed excoriations; but the interchanges of the Waynhim covered his voice.
Softly, the First said, “He is the Master. It is enough for me that he has found room in his own pain for Mistweave. He will do no true harm to one who has served him aboard Starfare's Gem.”
Linden nodded. But her mouth was tight with frustration and empathy, and she did not take her eyes off Mistweave.
At first, Mistweave flinched from what Honninscrave was saying. Then a hot belligerence rose up in him, and he raised one fist like a threat. But Honninscrave caught hold of Mistweave's arm and snatched it down, thrust his jutting beard into Mistweave's face. After a moment, Mistweave acquiesced. His eyes did not lose then heat; but he accepted the stricture Honninscrave placed upon him. Slowly, the ire faded from the Master's stance.
Covenant let a sigh through his teeth.
Then Hamako appeared among the Waynhim, came toward the company. His gaze was bright in the light of the braziers. His movements hinted at fever or anticipation. In his hands he bore a long scimitar that looked like it had been fashioned of old bone. Without preamble, he said, “The time has come. The arghuleh draw nigh. We must issue forth to give combat. What will you do? You must not remain here. There is no other egress, and if the entrance is sealed you will be ensnared.”
The First started to reply; but Covenant forestalled her. Venom nagged at the skin of his forearm. “We'll follow you out,” he said roughly. “We're going to watch until we figure out the best way to help.” To the protest in Bamako's mien, he added, "Stop worrying about us. We've survived worse. If everything else goes to hell and damnation, well find some way to escape.”
A grin momentarily softened Hamako's tension. “Thomas Covenant,” he said in a voice like a salute, “I would that we had met in kinder times.” Then he raised his scimitar, turned on his heel, and started toward the throat of the cavern.
Bearing curved, bony daggers like smaller versions of Hamako's blade, all the Waynhim followed him as if they had chosen him to lead them to their doom.
They numbered nearly two hundred, but they needed only a few moments to march out of the cavern, leaving the company behind in the undiminished firelight Honninscrave and Mistweave came to join their companions. The First looked at Covenant and Linden, then at the other Giants. None of them demurred. Linden's face was pale. but she held herself firm. Pitchwife's features worked as if he could not find the right jest to ease his tension. In their separate ways, the First, Mistweave, and Honninscrave looked as unbreachable as Cail.
Covenant nodded bitterly. Together, he and his friends turned their backs on warmth and safety, went out to meet the winter.
In the tunnel, he felt the temperature begin to drop almost immediately. The change made no difference to his numb fingers and feet; but he sashed his robe tight as if in that way he might be able to protect his courage. Past the branchings of the passage he followed the Waynhim until the company reached the rude antechamber where the sleds were. Mutely. Honninscrave and Mistweave took the lines. Their breath had begun to steam. Firelight transmuted the wisps of vapour to gold.
The entrance to the rhyshyshim was open; and cold came streaming inward, hungry to extinguish tins hidden pocket of comfort. Deep in Covenant's guts, shivers mounted. His robe had previously kept him alive, if not warm; but now it seemed an insignificant defence against the frozen winter. When he looked at Linden, she answered as if his thoughts were palpable to her:
“I don't know how many. Enough.”
Then the entrance loomed ahead. Now the air blew keenly into Covenant's face, tugging at his beard, drawing tears from his eyes. A dark pressure gathered in his veins. But he ducked his head and went on. With his companions, he strode through the opening onto the rocky ground at the foot of the escarpment.
The plain was sharp with sunlight. From a fathomless sky, the mid-afternoon sun burned across the white waste. The air felt strangely brittle, as if it were about to break under its own weight. Stiff snow crunched beneath Covenant's boots. For a moment, the cold seemed as bright as fire. He had to fight to keep wild magic from leaking past his restraint.
When his sight cleared, he saw that the whirling snow-devils which had marked and guarded the rhyshyshim were gone. The Waynhim had no more need of them.
Barking softly to each other, the creatures surged together into the compact and characteristic wedge which both they and the ur-viles used to concentrate and wield their combined force. Bamako stood at the apex of the formation. When it was complete and the invocations had been made, he would hold the lore and power of five rhysh in the blade of his scimitar. As long as they did not break ranks, the Waynhim along the sides of the wedge would be able to strike individual blows; but Bamako's might would be two hundred strong.