Covenant ached with memories like old wounds. His grief rose like keening. But he kept it to himself. “Yes.”

“The deed of her undoing was yours. Do not protest to me that you merely requested Anele’s sanity and service. I will not hear you. I grant that you did not or could not foresee what would follow.” The Manethrall seemed to bite down on each word, restraining an impulse to shout. “Still the deed was yours.”

Covenant faced Mahrtiir as steadily as he could. “Yes.”

Like an indictment, Mahrtiir proclaimed, “The Waynhim teach that ‘Good cannot be accomplished by evil means.’ I do not fault you for removing the krill from Andelain. You enabled the capture of the Ringthane’s son. Nor do I question your valor. Your hands are proof enough that you do not fear to bear the cost of your choices. But for millennia, from the moment of her conception until her last fall beneath Gravin Threndor, you have brought only ruin upon your daughter. Upon your daughter, Timewarden.

“Therefore I fear you.”

Because he ached, Covenant objected, “We’re still alive—”

The Manethrall cut him off. “By evil means. Do you name the expenditure of your daughter good? The Ringthane would not do so. Nor would she sacrifice her son for any purpose.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Covenant admitted. “I wouldn’t either. He’s still alive.

“But,” he insisted, “I did not know what was going to happen.” He needed to be clear about this. He already had more burdens than he could carry. “Sunder and Hollian picked Elena. I didn’t.

“And I’m not done.”

“Not done?” Mahrtiir barked a humorless laugh. “Do you intend to confront She Who Must Not Be Named again, for High Lord Elena’s sake?”

“Don’t put it past me,” Covenant growled. Linden’s weight against his chest was an accusation that he did not mean to deny. Her soiled shirt, plucked and torn, had endured as much as his old T-shirt and jeans. In his time, he, too, had worn stains that should have guided him. “I’ve done more harm than I can stand. I always have. But we’re still alive. That means we still have a chance.” More quietly, he finished, “I still have a chance.”

Abruptly Branl jumped down from the edge of the gully to approach Covenant and Mahrtiir. “We will hear no more of this, Manethrall,” he stated in a tone like polished obsidian. A threat—The loyalty of the Humbled ran deep. “You are unjust, both to the Unbeliever and to the Dead.”

Mahrtiir’s bandage emphasized his scowl. “How so?” He seemed to need conflicts. His sense of his own uselessness required an outlet.