For himself, Liand did not share Pahni’s alarm. When Linden had allowed him to accompany her away from his life in Mithil Stonedown, she had opened the way for a discovery of both the Land and himself: a discovery that still thrilled him. Inadvertently she had cast a glamour over him which she distrusted and he did not. It had made him the first true Stonedownor since before the time of the Sunbane.

And he had new strengths now; strengths that might sustain him if or when Linden failed to justify his faith in her.

Beyond her more human friends, the Giants shared a measure of Mahrtiir’s grimness and excitement. Knowing the Earth as they did, they could probably imagine the dangers better than any Raman. Yet they treasured the tales that resulted from hazard and daring. And they loved stone: they did not fear to seek Jeremiah, or any fate, underground. Linden saw possibilities for joy in them that the Manethrall lacked.

Like the Humbled, Stave remained entirely himself: unreadable in his dedication to the absolute in any situation; his apparent rejection of all sorrow. But Anele grew increasingly impatient. Linden could not guess what prompted his restiveness, but it was evident in his tense shoulders and twitching fingers; in the way he jerked his head from side to side as if he were hearing a multitude of voices. His gaze, milky and sightless, darted from place to place as though he expected horrors to emerge from the sumptuous grass.

And Covenant, the man whom Linden had loved and lost, as she had loved and lost her son: he remained as alone as Jeremiah in spite of his physical presence. Indeed, he seemed immured under a mountain of mental or spiritual rubble. His efforts to extricate himself were palpable, so plain that Linden could almost follow their progress.

Huddling into himself, he talked inexplicably of a time when he and Lord Mhoram had stood looking down into Treacher’s Gorge while an army of Cavewights marched forth.

“So many of them,” he muttered. “Too many to count. Lord Foul used them whenever he wanted fodder for one of his wars. He spent thousands of them fighting Hile Troy. And thousands more against Revelstone. They’re intelligent enough to be used. They’re just not smart enough to recognize lies. They’re so good at killing, it’s easy to forget how badly they’ve been misled.

“Hell, they don’t need wars. The Wightwarrens have everything they want. They didn’t ask to be shock troops. Even poor Drool—His only real mistake was listening to Lord Foul. Everything after that was the Despiser’s doing.”

Covenant’s eyebrows were an arch of strain across his forehead. From time to time, he punched his bound fists against each other if he hoped that the pain would jolt him back into coherence. Dampness in his eyes suggested that he might weep. To Linden, he seemed altogether pitiable.