Free White Gold Wielder by Stephen R. Donaldson

tried to draw some warmth back into his bones.
    In the days that followed, he spent most of his time there, sharing with her the bearable clangor and heat of the galley. In spite of his numbness, the cold was too fierce for him; and for her it was worse because her senses were so vulnerable to it. He made one more attempt to sleep in his cabin; but after that he accepted a pallet like hers in the galley. The wind mounted incrementally every day, and with it the air grew steadily more frigid. Starfare’s Gem was being hurled like a jerrid toward the ice-gnawed heart of the north. When Giants entered the galley seeking food or warmth, their clothing was stiff with gray rime which left puddles of slush on the floor as it melted. Ice clogged their beards and hair, and their eyes were haggard. Covenant made occasional forays out on deck to observe the state of the ship; but what he saw—the thick, dire sea, the lowering wrack, the frozen knurs of spume which were allowed to chew at the railings because the crew was too hard-pressed to clear them away—always drove him back to the galley with a gelid knot in his chest.
    Once he went far enough forward to look at Findail. When he returned, his lips were raw with cold and curses. “That bastard doesn’t even feel it,” he muttered to no one in particular, although Pitchwife was there with Linden, Mistweave, the two cooks, and a few other Giants. “It goes right through him.” He could not explain his indignation. It simply seemed unjust that the Appointed should be untouched by the plight of the
dromond
.
    But Linden was not looking at him: her attention was fixed on Pitchwife as if she wanted to ask him something important. At first, however, she had no opportunity to interpose her question. Pitchwife was teasing Hearthcoal and Seasauce like a merry child and laughing at the concealed humor of their rebuffs. He had a Giant’s tall spirit in his bent frame, and more than a Giant’s capacity for mirth. His japing dissipated some of Covenant’s acid mood.
    At last Pitchwife wrung an involuntary laugh from the cooks; and with that he subsided near Covenant and Linden, the heat of the stoves gleaming on his forehead. Covenant was conscious of Linden’s tautness as she mustered her inquiry. “Pitchwife, what’re we getting into?”
    The Giant looked at her with an air of surprise which might have been feigned.
    “Nobody wants to talk about it,” she pursued. “I’ve asked Galewrath and Sevinhand, but all they say is that Starfare’s Gem can go on like this indefinitely. Even Mistweave thinks he can serve me by keeping his mouth shut.” Mistweave peered studiously at the ceiling, pretending he did not hear what was said. “So I’m asking you. You’ve never held anything back from me.” Her voice conveyed a complex vibration of strain. “What’re we getting into?”
    Outside the galley, the wind made a peculiar keening sound as it swept through the anchorholes. Frost snapped in the cracks of the doors. Pitchwife did not want to meet her gaze; but she held him. By degrees, his good cheer sloughed away; and the contrast made him appear older, eroded by an unuttered fear. For no clear reason, Covenant was reminded of a story Linden had told him in the days before the quest had reached
Elemesnedene
—the story of the role Pitchwife had played in the death of the First’s father. He looked now like a man who had too many memories.
    “Ah, Chosen,” he sighed, “it is my apprehension that we have been snared by the Dolewind which leads to the Soulbiter.”
    The Soulbiter.
    Pitchwife called it an imprecise sea, not only because every ship that found it did so in a different part of the world, but also because every ship that won free of it again told a different tale. Some vessels met gales and reefs in the south; others, stifling calms in the east; still others, rank and impenetrable beds of sargasso in the west. In spite of this, however, the Soulbiter was known for