“Why is the croyel afraid of Liand? Why not me?”

“Sadly, I have no insight.” By slow degrees, his voice was fading. “In their auguries, the Insequent did not concern themselves with the Stonedownor. And now their prescience has become water, as I endeavored to explain to your companions. I have no more to give, lady. There is no more of me.”

“Then tell me while you still can,” Linden demanded, hating her own selfishness. He was her only chance. “You said that flood changed everything. Now my fate is ‘writ in water.’ But that doesn’t make sense. Breaking open the ceiling wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even know it could break. I sure as hell didn’t know where to break it. I just did what the ur-viles wanted,” her last effort before she succumbed to the bane. “That flood wasn’t really my doing. How did it change anything?”

“Ah, lady,” sighed the Ardent. “My end crowds close about me, and I have no true answer. The Insequent have none. Perhaps the flood was in sooth the ur-viles’ deed rather than yours. They are a mystery in all things, and their strange lore has no equal.

“But if you will accept mere speculation—” He sighed again. “Lady, I have observed that your true strength lies in neither the Staff of Law nor in white gold. Rather it lies in the force of self which attracts aid and allies wherever you are, even from among a-Jeroth’s former servants. You inspired the Mahdoubt’s devoir as you did mine, and that of the Demondim-spawn as well. You do not have such friends”—he gestured around him—“because you wield magicks, but rather because you are Linden Avery the Chosen.

“This power defies both augury and foresight. Assuredly it surpasses the cunning of a-Jeroth, who knows no fealty which is not derived from possession or other mastery.”

Such friends—Appealing to her, the Ardent almost succeeded at making Linden weep. But her heart was too desolate for tears.

Before she could summon a response, he turned away. “Fare you well,” he breathed thinly. “I must depart.”

With a visible effort, he dragged the scraps of his apparel from the sand, unfurled them around him. Briefly his ribbands seemed to drift aimlessly in all directions, as if they had forgotten their purpose. But then he made a small sound like a sob, and they rallied.

Fluttering, they erased him from sight.

After a long moment like an open wound, Covenant looked at Linden. “He’s right, you know,” he said roughly. “Lord Foul is cunning as all hell, but he’s never been able to guess what we’ll do when he has us trapped. No matter how carefully he plots and manipulates, he’s never ready for us.”

But his assertion did not comfort her. It could not: it came from a man who would not let her touch him.