Esmer’s effect on him bore no resemblance to the stasis which the Elohim had once used against him. The Elohim had severed him from thought and concern; from any kind of reaction. Esmer had merely knocked him off balance, tripping him into the maze of broken time. He could still think and care and strive. In that sense, he was only lost, not helpless. And anything that could be lost could also be found.

If he climbed high enough, or used his memories in the right way, he might conceivably rediscover his physical present by his own efforts.

If Esmer did not cast him down again.

If.

He had to try. The bane was coming closer.

After uncounted ages within the Arch, Covenant did not have enough time.

She Who Must Not Be Named lifted Herself like a pyre from the burning waters. Even at a distance, She appeared to tower over the company. Her fury shook the ledge in spite of Esmer’s efforts to steady it. For no clear reason except that they were Giants and courageous, all of the Swordmainnir except Rime Coldspray stood at the edge of falling and flames with their weapons ready. They must have known that no mortal blade would cut their foe; yet they confronted Her simply because they refused to accept defeat.

In that respect, they could have been Saltheart Foamfollower’s daughters.

Behind them, the Ironhand still supported Jeremiah with one arm, holding the krill against the croyel’s throat. Despite the bane’s ferocity, Jeremiah’s muddy eyes gazed at nothing. Spittle slid from one corner of his mouth. But the croyel had lost its feral grin. Squirming its talons deeper into the boy’s flesh, the creature seemed to brace itself for one last ploy, some act of power or cunning that might save its life.

Without hesitation, Stave scooped Linden into his arms and carried her to the wall, leaving the Giants room to swing their swords. Glimpsed past lank, untended strands of hair, the slackness of her mouth and the unfocused glaze of her eyes told Covenant that she had become as unreactive as her son. She had endured too much—He could only pray in silence that something within her still lived and loved, and could be reached.

Clyme and Branl had already dragged him back from the edge of the shelf. Galt stood in front of him like Bannor or Brinn: a display of resolve as brave as that of the Giants, and as wasted. At the same time, the Cords had taken Liand and the Staff, their Manethrall, and Anele as far from the rim of the ledge as they could. There Anele squatted against the wall as if he sought to curl his emaciated frame into the stone. Whispering aimlessly, he slapped at his old cheeks.

Nearby the Ardent wrapped every shred of his marred raiment around himself as though he hoped irrationally to ward his plump flesh with cloth. Panic glistened among the reflected fires in his eyes.