“Be certain of it,” Stave replied as he drew Covenant’s arm across his shoulders. “Return to us when the Chosen desires it. There is no present need for haste.”

“He means,” Covenant muttered, “we don’t have any food, so you might as well do what you can to save your strength.”

Then he and Stave turned away, heading for the small scrap of beach and the nearest hillside.

Was that north? Linden wondered briefly. Yes, her health-sense assured her. Or rather northwest. But she dismissed such matters almost immediately. Her percipience had become as precise as Loric’s krill; and she was acutely conscious of muck and strain staining her hair, her skin, her clothes. While Covenant and Stave rose dripping from the stream and began to angle across the littered hillside, she confirmed that Jeremiah’s healed racecar still rested deep in her pocket. When she explored her sore ribs, her cracked kneecap, her battered shin, she found that they did not demand care. She dismissed them as well.

As soon as Covenant and Stave disappeared beyond the ridgeline, she braced her Staff on the streambed, bent close to the water, and began trying to pull off one of her boots.

She could not move it. Full of water, it stuck to her; or she was too weak.

At once, however, Pahni came closer. “Permit me, Ringthane.” Before Linden could reply, the girl ducked beneath the surface. Able to use both hands, she tugged off Linden’s boot and sock.

Grateful at last, Linden put her foot down, raised her other boot to Pahni. Then the Cord stood up; took a breath; tossed the water from her eyes.

“If you will grant me a moment, Ringthane, I will set your footwear upon a rock to dry.” She nodded toward the shore. “Then I will return to wash your garments while you bathe.”

Linden was already unbuttoning her shirt. “Just throw them. I’ll do something about it later if they’re uncomfortable.”

“As you wish.” Turning, Pahni flung the boots to the scallop of sand. Then she held out a hand for Linden’s shirt.

The red flannel was damaged in a variety of ways. Ruefully Linden eyed the bullet holes, front and back. She was fortunate, she supposed, that the slug had passed straight through her. Even now, she did not know how she had healed herself. If the bullet had remained in her—

Making so many mistakes, taking so many risks, she had apparently given Lord Foul exactly what he wanted. But she refused to second-guess herself now. Regret was costly; as draining as battle. If Covenant did not want her love, he could go to hell. She had found her son. Now she intended to concentrate on learning how to free him from the croyel.

Passing her shirt to Pahni, Linden crouched to the challenge of peeling off her jeans.