If she tried to impose her health-sense and healing on him, she might damage him somehow; perhaps cost him some vital memory. Or she might become as lost as he was.

She could not allow herself to forget the warnings of the Ranyhyn again.

Unsure of herself, she went to join Stave and Mahrtiir. The former Master did not appear to be paying any specific attention to Covenant’s fissured sleep; but the Manethrall studied the Unbeliever with sharp intensity.

“We have to reach him somehow,” she said without preamble. “We’re helpless where we are, and this respite can’t last. We have to make some decisions. We can’t do that without him.”

“By your leave, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir replied in a low voice, “I will make the attempt. I have searched the Timewarden as deeply as my senses permit. And I have not forgotten the Ramen tales of his long past. It may be that I am able to rouse him.”

“Please,” Linden said without hesitation. “Almost anything is worth a try.”

Nothing that Mahrtiir did would violate Covenant.

The Manethrall nodded. Around his neck, he still wore his woven garland of amanibhavam. It was shredded and blood-stained, and its yellow blooms had withered, but it had not fallen apart. The fibrous grass had been as tightly braided as rope. Carefully he pinched the nub of a dead blossom from the strand, rubbed it against one palm until it was little more than powder. In spite of its condition, the grass gave off a whetted odor that made Linden’s nose itch.

“Fresh and living,” said Mahrtiir formally, “amanibhavam may be safely consumed only by the Ranyhyn. Yet its virtues are many. According to the tales, the first Ringthane once ate of it, and did not perish. True, he fell into madness. But in the forest of Morinmoss, he was restored. It is my thought that the scent of this grass may awaken him to himself.”

Kneeling beside Covenant, he nudged Covenant’s mouth shut. Then he held the amanibhavam in his palm under Covenant’s nose, and waited.

The effect was swift. Scowling in his sleep, Covenant jerked away, knocked his head against the rock behind him. His eyes sprang open. “Hell and blood,” he breathed. “That woman healed me. I think it killed her.”

In Salva Gildenbourne, Anele had told Linden, Morinmoss redeemed the covenant, the white gold wielder. Apparently the old man had been right. Again.

While she watched, Covenant blinked memories out of his eyes and became present.

Now those days are lost.

“Linden,” he said thickly. “I’m glad you’re all right.” Then he winced. Ruefully he rubbed the back of his head: he almost smiled. “Maybe next time you won’t hit me quite so hard.”

All vastness is forgotten.