From Jeremiah’s back, the croyel’s bitter eyes studied Liand’s supine form. The creature’s gaze conveyed the impression that the croyel craved Liand’s death.

At intervals, Mahrtiir glanced toward Jeremiah and the croyel; regarded them with senses other than sight. Then he resumed his examination of the east as if he awaited an epiphany.

When the sun gilded his forehead, however, and warmed the begrimed bandage that still covered his eye sockets, he shrugged slightly. Stiff with disappointment, he turned to face Covenant and Linden.

“There is an old tale among the Ramen,” he began brusquely, “concerning Hile Troy. He was a stranger to the Land, as you know, and eyeless from birth. According to the tale, the Land’s sun gifted him with true sight in spite of his blindness.

“Here Kevin’s Dirt does not corrupt the light. For that reason, I permitted myself to imagine that my vision might be restored.” He had contributed nothing to the company’s escape from the Lost Deep and the bane. Clearly his uselessness galled him. “But my hope was delusion. I am Ramen. We are given no gifts except those of service to the Ranyhyn.”

Covenant expected him to add that even that service would be denied him if he returned to his people. Without sight, he would not be considered worthy of the great horses. Instead, however, he changed the subject.

“The Cords will soon return, bearing word of water. The season’s rains have been abundant. Our old tales inform us that there are few springs in this region—and fewer still which do not draw some venom from the earth. Battles have been fought between Sarangrave Flat and Landsdrop. Many of the Land’s defenders have perished here—aye, and many of Fangthane’s servants also. Their blood and magicks stain this ground across the millennia.

“However, this watercourse was formed by rains gathering from the Upper Land. If the stream does not run here, it will flow nearby. We will be able to quench our thirst, though we appear to lack aliantha, and have no other sustenance.”

Covenant nodded. His own thirst was real enough, but he felt sure that it was trivial compared to the deprivation suffered by the Giants and the Ramen, Liand and Anele; Linden herself. They were able to sleep only because their exhaustion was greater than their need for water.

But he did not know why the Manethrall was talking to him; telling him things that he already understood. Stroking Linden’s hair tenderly, he waited for Mahrtiir to continue.

After a moment, the Manethrall nodded toward the southeast. “A caesure moves there. I had thought that the absence of Kevin’s Dirt would diminish the virulence of such evils. Yet its emanations”—he lifted a hand to his face—“suggest that its force is enhanced.”