“Well, then,” began the Ironhand abruptly. “A Giantclave tailored to the brevity of humans, and to the stoicism of Haruchai. It is an arduous task in all sooth. Yet we must prove worthy of it. Doubtless there are needs and queries nurtured within each of us. How shall we consider them?”

Directly or indirectly, the whole circle seemed to refer Coldspray’s question to Linden. While her friends waited for her, however, Covenant spoke.

“We’re too weak the way we are. Anywhere on the Upper Land, Kevin’s Dirt cramps Linden and her Staff. And as long as there are caesures, she can’t afford to risk the ring.” He did not call it his—or hers. “We need power.

“Kastenessen is responsible for Kevin’s Dirt. He gets its force from She Who Must Not Be Named, but it’s his doing. His and Esmer’s and moksha Raver’s. We have to do something about him.”

“And about Joan,” Linden put in harshly. She needed to be angry. Don’t touch me. Otherwise she could not face him now.

“I know.” Covenant rubbed his cheeks with his foreshortened fingers; ran them through his hair. Dusk cut by slashes of argent emphasized his maimed hands. “And Joan.”

“And Roger,” Linden continued.

“Yes,” Covenant sighed. “My son. I know that, too.”

“Also,” Mahrtiir added, “the Ardent has spoken of Sandgorgons and skurj in rampage against treasured Salva Gildenbourne. And it is his word that the first Ringthane’s son has amassed an army of Cavewights.”

“But how may we counter such evils,” asked Liand, “when we are few and weak, and the distance is great? Surely we cannot journey so far before the coming of the Worm? And can we deny that the Ardent has been our great ally? He has kept hidden his reasons for placing us in this region. Yet surely those reasons exist. Do we not dismiss them at our peril?”

Without hesitation, the Manethrall replied, “We need have no fear of distance. The Ranyhyn will answer when they are summoned. And these Giants have demonstrated beyond all question that they can run. The leagues are an obstacle, aye, but they are not our peremptory concern.”

The thought of Hynyn roused an ache in Linden’s chest. Mahrtiir was right. The horses would answer. And Hynyn’s devotion was a poignant argument against the dire images which had filled Linden’s participation in the horserite.

But the help of the Ranyhyn could wait. They had cautioned her—and she had failed to heed them too often.