White Gold Wielder Read Free Page A

tale of how Cable Seadreamer my brother came by his scar?”
    His eyes were hidden beneath his heavy brows. His beard slumped on his chest. The shadow of the table’s edge cut him off at the torso; but his hands were visible, gripping each other. The muscles of his forearms and shoulders were corded with fatigue and strain.
    “The fault of it was mine,” he breathed into the empty light. “The exuberance and folly of my youth marked him for all to see that I had been careless of him.
    “He was my brother, and the younger by some years, though as the lives of Giants are reckoned the span between us was slight. Surely we were both well beyond the present number of your age, but still were we young, new to our manhood, and but recently prenticed to the seacraft and the ships we loved. The Earth-Sight had not yet come upon him, and so there was naught between us beyond my few years and the foolishness which he outgrew more swiftly than I. He came early to his stature, and I ended his youth before its time.
    “In those days, we practiced our new crafts in a small vessel which our people name a
tyrscull
—a stone craft near the measure of the longboats you have seen, with one sail, a swinging boom, and oars for use should the wind be lost or displayed. With skill, a
tyrscull
may be mastered by one Giant alone, but two are customary. Thus Seadreamer and I worked and learned together. Our
tyrscull
we named Foamkite, and it was our heart’s glee.
    “Now among prentices it is no great wonder that we reveled in tests against each other, pitting and honing our skills with races and displays of every description. Most common of these was the running of a course within the great harbor of Home—far sufficiently from shore to be truly at sea, and yet within any swimmer’s reach of land, should some prentice suffer capsize—a mishap which would have shamed us deeply, young as we were. And when we did not race we trained for races, seeking new means by which we might best our comrades.
    “The course was simply marked. One point about which we swung was a buoy fixed for that purpose, but the other was a rimed and hoary rock that we named Salttooth for the sheer, sharp manner in which it rose to bite the air. Once or twice or many times around that course we ran our races, testing our ability to use the winds for turning as well as for speed.”
    Honninscrave’s voice had softened somewhat: remembrance temporarily took him away from his distress. But his head remained bowed. And Covenant could not look away from him. Punctuated by the muffled sounds of the sea, the plain details of Honninscrave’s story transfixed the atmosphere of the cabin.
    “This course Seadreamer and I ran as often as any and more than most, for we were eager for the sea. Thus we came to stand well among those who vied for mastery. With this my brother was content. He had the true Giantish exhilaration and did not require victory for his joy. But in that I was less worthy of my people. Never did I cease to covet victory, or to seek out new means by which it might be attained.
    “So it befell that one day I conceived a great thought which caused me to hug my breast in secret, and to hasten Seadreamer to Foamkite, that I might practice my thought and perfect it for racing. But that thought I did not share with him. It was grand, and I desired its wonder for myself. Not questioning what was in me, he came for the simple pleasure of the sea. Together we ran Foamkite out to the buoy, then swung with all speed toward upthrust Salttooth.
    “It was a day as grand as my thought.” He spoke as if it were visible behind the shadows of the cabin. “Under the faultless sky blew a wind with a whetted edge which offered speed and hazard, cutting the wave-crests to white froth as it bore us ahead. Swiftly before us loomed Salttooth. In such a wind, the turning of a
tyrscull
requires true skill—a jeopardy even to competent prentices—and it was there that a race could