With a delicate Haruchai shrug, Branl rejoined Clyme and Stave on the rim of the gully, standing guard.

For a few moments, Covenant studied the strict set of the Manethrall’s shoulders. He ached for Mahrtiir: hell, he ached for everybody. Maybe, he mused sourly, it was a good thing that most of his former memories lay in ruins. Maybe it was crucial. If he could have remembered why he had spoken to Mahrtiir on the plateau of Revelstone—or to Liand, or to Pahni and Bhapa—he might not be able to resist the impulse to explain himself. Doubtless Mahrtiir would be comforted to hear that he still had an important role to play. But the knowledge would shape his decisions, affect everything about him. Directly or indirectly, it would affect the whole company. And Covenant would be responsible for the change. Linden and her friends would be guided by insights which they should not have been able to glean, except by their own efforts. In effect, they would no longer be truly free.

But Covenant had been spared by his imposed mortality, for good or ill. He was in no danger of saying too much—

Hellfire, he muttered in silence. No wonder only people like Roger and creatures like the croyel wanted to be gods. The sheer impotence of that state would appall a chunk of basalt—if the basalt happened to care about anything except itself. Absolute power was as bad as powerlessness for anybody who valued someone else’s peace or happiness or even survival. The Creator could only make or destroy worlds: he could not rule them, nurture them, assist them. He was simply too strong to express himself within the constraints of Time.

By that standard, forgetfulness was Covenant’s only real hope. No matter how badly he wanted to remember, he needed his specific form of ignorance; absolutely required it. Nothing less would prevent him from violating the necessity of freedom.

By slow degrees, sunshine crested the rim of the gully. It reached Covenant’s face: a touch that might be a curse in this desiccated region. Still in shadow, the Giants slumbered among the sand and stones and sparse grass of the gully-bottom. Liand and Anele slept. Galt gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder, holding the krill at the croyel’s throat. The boy stood as if he were too vacant to feel thirst or fatigue. The croyel’s mouth moved, perhaps yearning for Jeremiah’s neck, perhaps shaping some invocation or summons. Above the rest of the company, Stave and Galt’s comrades stood like statues, carved and voiceless.

Covenant shifted so that his eyes avoided the sun. Soon he would have to move Linden into the shade of the boulder. But shade was not water. It would not shield her for long.