White Gold Wielder by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

the spell broke with an audible crackle and shatter of ice. Linden lifted raw hands to her face, blinked her cold-gouged eyes. Coughing and cursing, Honninscrave reeled back from the rail. “Move, sluggards!” His shout scattered flecks of blood. “Ware the wind!” Relief and dismay were etched in frost on different parts of Pitchwife’s face.
    Numbly the other Giants turned from the vista of the sea. Some seemed unable to understand what had happened; others struggled in mounting haste toward their stations. Seasauce and Hearthcoal bustled back to the galley as if they were ashamed of their prolonged absence. The First and Galewrath moved among the slower crewmembers, shaking or manhandling them into a semblance of alertness. Honninscrave strode grimly in the direction of the wheeldeck.
    A moment later, one of the sails rattled in its gear, sending down a shower of frozen dust; and the first Giant to ascend the ratlines gave a hoarse call:
    “The south!”
    A dark moil of clouds was already visible above the
dromond
’s taffrail. The gale was coming back.
    Covenant wondered momentarily how Starfare’s Gem would be able to navigate through the flotilla of icebergs in such a wind—or how the ice-laden sails would survive if the blast hit too suddenly, too hard. But then he forgot everything else because Linden was fainting and he was too far away to reach her. Mistweave barely caught her in time to keep her from cracking her head open on the stone deck.

FOUR: Sea of Ice
    The first gusts hit the Giantship at an angle, heeling it heavily to port. But then the main force of the wind came up against the stern, and Starfare’s Gem righted with a wrench as the sails snapped and bellied and the blast tried to claw them away. The
dromond
lay so massively in the viscid sea that for a moment it seemed unable to move. The upper spars screamed. Abruptly Dawngreeter split from top to bottom, and wind tore shrilling through the rent.
    But then Starfare’s Gem gathered its legs under it, thrust forward, and the pressure eased. As the clouds came boiling overhead, the Giantship took hold of itself and began to run.
    In the first moments, Honninscrave and the steerswoman were tested to their limits by the need to avoid collision with the nearest bergs. Under these frigid conditions, any contact might have burst the granite of the
dromond
’s flanks like dry wood. But soon the flotilla began to thin ahead of the ship. Starfare’s Gem was coming to the end of the Soulbiter. The wind continued to scale upward; but now the immediate danger receded. The
dromond
had been fashioned to withstand such blasts.
    But Covenant was oblivious to the ship and the wind: he was fighting for Linden’s life. Mistweave had carried her into the galley, where the cooks labored to bring back the heat of their stoves; but once the Giant had laid her down on her pallet, Covenant shouldered him aside. Pitchwife followed Cail into the galley and offered his help. Covenant ignored him. Cursing with methodical vehemence under his breath, he chaffed her wrists, rubbed her cheeks, and waited for the cooks to warm some water.
    She was too pale. The movement of her chest was so slight that he could hardly believe it. Her skin had the texture of wax. It looked like it would peel away if he rubbed it too hard. He slapped and massaged her forearms, her shoulders, the sides of her neck with giddy desperation pounding in his temples. Between curses, he reiterated his demand for water.
    “It will come,” muttered Seasauce. His own impatience made him sound irate. “The stoves are cold. I have no theurgy to hasten fire.”
    “She isn’t a Giant,” Covenant responded without looking away from Linden. “It doesn’t have to boil.”
    Pitchwife squatted at Linden’s head, thrust a leather flask into Covenant’s view. “Here is
diamondraught
.”
    Covenant did not pause; but he shifted his efforts down to her hips and legs, making room for Pitchwife.
    Cupping one