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.

When she finally succeeded at removing them, she discovered that some trick of wet or color emphasized the green script left by the tall grasses of the Verge of Wandering. Her jeans were like the Staff, inscribed in a language which she could not read.

In Garroting Deep, Caerroil Wildwood had said of her, She wears the mark of fecundity and long grass. Also she has paid the price of woe. And the sigil of the Land’s need has been placed upon her. For that reason, he had spared her life.

And he had given her the burden of a question—

How may life endure in the Land, if the Forestals fail and perish—? Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?

Linden had promised the ancient guardian of Garroting Deep an answer; but she had no idea how to keep her word.