No present import. Yes. Coldspray’s voice seemed to draw the Ironhand and all of the Giants out of the shadows cast by Liand’s wavering light. Her tone restored their normal solidity. Linden’s impression that she could hear or feel the echoes of extinct Viles receded.

—if we do not both—

Repulsed by the taste of the stale air, she took a flinching breath. The Sunstone made respiration possible; but the atmosphere of the cavern was too stagnant to be refreshed by mere orcrest.—if we do not—Coldspray had broken the trance of Anele’s utterances. Now it was Linden’s turn.

But she had too many concerns. She wanted to help or caution the Harrow, and understand Anele, and catch hold of Covenant as he fell like water dripping from the stalactites. She believed that she would be content if she could find Jeremiah; if she could close her arms around him one last time. She tried to believe that. But it was not the truth. She needed to see him freed from the croyel. And she would never be content without Covenant.

For her own sake, she wanted Covenant to be whole. Then she might be able to forgive herself. But he was essential for less selfish reasons as well.

If she could not think clearly in this fug of stagnation and impercipience, she should at least move. Rise to her feet. Do something. But she was too weak. Shivering spread outward from her heart. The small effort of lifting her head was beyond her.

After a moment, Manethrall Mahrtiir asked tentatively, “Is it conceivable that the Harrow also has spoken sooth?” He sounded unsure of himself, almost timid; daunted by ancientness and immeasurable stone and intimations of evil. Truly blinded. “Will his intent for white gold and the Staff of Law and the Ringthane’s son serve to forbid the Worm? Will his ploys suffice to preclude the Worm from the Blood of the Earth?”

Flatly Stave replied, “Anele’s words suggest otherwise. To his ears, or in his sight, the requisite knowledge is remembered only here. The Harrow does not truly comprehend the Worm.”

“Then,” stated Galt, “the burden falls to the Unbeliever. The promises of the Harrow are false.”

“Not so,” the Ardent objected, swirling his raiment in repudiation. He spoke loudly; yet the anxiety in his eyes, and the hectic flush of his round cheeks, belied his tone. In spite of the chill, his face was damp with sweat and apprehension. “Doubtless he does not foresee all things to their ends. And perchance his intent is flawed by arrogance or ignorance. Nonetheless he must hold fast to his given oath. If he does not, he will perish in madness.