Eventually Linden resumed her meal. Her companions did the same. None of them seemed inclined to talk: she certainly was not. If she had the ability to attract aid and allies, the price was too high. The Land and everyone around her would be better served by despair.

To that extent, at least, she was learning to understand High Lord Kevin.

Seeking numbness, she drank too much wine; and soon she began to drift on a current as slow and necessary as the stream. God, she was tired—Every price was too high. While the Giants were still eating, she stretched out on the sand and fell asleep.

During the heat of the afternoon, she awakened briefly, sweating in direct sunlight. For a few moments, she studied the sky, watching for some indication that the weather might change. Then she moved to a patch of shade and settled herself for more sleep.

This time, she did not awaken until she was roused by the stirring of her companions. With her eyes closed, she felt the Staff of Law propped against a rock nearby. Shadows covered her, easing the pressure of the sun: they covered the watercourse and the swath of sand and the lower hillsides. Among the movements of the company, she smelled food again; heard the Giants murmuring to each other. And when she extended her attention, she sensed Covenant’s absence. Claimed by memories and mortality, he wandered among the broken places of his mind; and his features knotted and released as though he were remembering horrors.

If Linden had dreamed, she did not remember it. But she had not forgotten terror and shrieking, or the scurry of centipedes.

After a few moments, she raised her head and sat up to look around. Jeremiah still stood in Galt’s uncompromising grip. The blade of the krill still kept the croyel’s fangs away from her son’s neck. The Cords had gone somewhere, no doubt at Mahrtiir’s command. But the Manethrall stood with Stave, watching Covenant blindly. Mahrtiir seemed impatient, as if he were waiting for a chance to talk to the first Ringthane.

Covenant’s white hair looked stark in the dim shade; so distinct that it almost seemed to glow.

Anele sat in the curve of Galesend’s breastplate, gnawing with apparent contentment on a chunk of cured beef. In contrast, Liand leaned restively on the same rock that supported the Staff, studying Linden sidelong. His black brows arched above his eyes, ominous as the wings of a raven. As she blinked the blur of sleep from her sight, she considered the tension moiling within him, and realized that she recognized it.

When he had determined to offer health-sense to the destitute villagers of First Woodhelven, and again when he had conceived the idea of summoning rain against the skurj, his aura had revealed the same growing apprehension and resolve, the same impulse for self-expenditure.