He was probably right. Long before Lord Foul fashioned and occupied Ridjeck Thome, an insidious miasma had hung over portions of the Lower Land. Baleful creatures had arisen from the corrupt waters pouring out of Mount Thunder. The lurker of the Sarangrave had come to life in the effluvium of bitter theurgies. And the Ravers had taken form among the malign spirits of the region. Interdicted by the Colossus of the Fall, they had spread much of their harm south and east toward the Despiser’s eventual seat. Over time, they had done such damage that those lands had come to be named the Spoiled Plains.

Covenant could well believe that caesures flourished across the Lower Land, fed by a history of wrongness. Especially south of Mount Thunder—

“Is it coming this way?” he asked the Manethrall.

Mahrtiir shook his head. “At present, it tends northward, delivering havoc among the sloughs and mires of Sarangrave Flat.”

“Then don’t worry about it.” Briefly Covenant remembered the Spoiled Plains as they had once been, before they were tainted. Then the rubble of his recollections shifted, and the memory was gone. “We have more urgent problems.”

The movement of his hands indicated Linden’s apparent catatonia; but he was thinking of Joan. He no longer knew with any certainty where turiya Raver had hidden her. That memory, unfortunately, was gone as well. But he could guess.

Mahrtiir’s manner sharpened. More harshly, he replied, “I have not forgotten the Ringthane’s plight, or that of her son. Indeed, her spirit appears broken by all that she has endured.” His tone was bile. “Nor do I discount our own peril. I have neither aid nor counsel to offer. I speak merely to hear myself and know that I remain among the living.”

The fierce lines of his face suggested that he would have preferred death.

Covenant sighed to himself. There was so much pain all around him; and he could relieve none of it.

“Don’t underestimate Linden,” he said gruffly. “Too many people make that mistake.” Including Sunder and Hollian, who should have known better. “Hell, even she does it. She’s come back before. Give her time. She’ll find her way again.”

If his numb touch gave her any comfort or aid, it lay beneath the surface, hidden.

The Manethrall confronted Covenant squarely. “I do not fear for her, Timewarden. I fear you.”

Covenant waited. He was not surprised: he feared himself. His new humanity had too many flaws.

“I acknowledge,” Mahrtiir continued, “that you are mysterious to me. You surpass my comprehension. For that reason, among others, my fealty belongs to the Ringthane rather than to you.”

Covenant started to say, I know, but Mahrtiir did not pause.

“Nonetheless I am able to grasp that the spectre of High Lord Elena has been devoured by She Who Must Not Be Named.”

“Yes.”

“She is your daughter.”