But Stave was not done. Stiffly he continued, “Yet you have brought the Unbeliever among us. The ur-Lord Thomas Covenant. For the Masters, as for all Haruchai, he is the true Halfhand, Illender, Prover of Life. We have no experience of High Lord Berek Heartthew. We have merely heard his tale. But Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever is another matter altogether.

“He has forbidden the Humbled to oppose you. Indeed, he has demanded their fidelity to you. And his deeds in your name—his very manner toward you—confirm his desires.

“Thus the Humbled are caught in a contradiction for which they have no answer. They execrate those actions which they perceive as Desecration. Yet the Unbeliever himself stands before them, he whom they have been maimed to emulate. By his mere presence, he falsifies their understanding of Desecration.

“Now they must refuse him and grieve, or they must accept you and be shamed. Either choice is intolerable. Nevertheless they remain Haruchai. Therefore they must choose. Yet they cannot—and must—and cannot—and must.”

Finally the undercurrent of ire in Stave’s tone left him. He sounded almost gentle as he said, “For this reason, Linden, if for no other, they will withhold their opposition from you. Rather they will serve the Unbeliever. He is the ur-Lord, the Halfhand. They will trust in him to answer their contradiction.”

His assertion was like a promise of hope. Yet it did not comfort her. She was not one of the Land’s true heroes. Her loves were too small, too specific; too human. And she carried a burden of anger and darkness too heavy to be set down. Covenant had rejected her love. How could she trust any hope that depended on his support?

As calmly as she could, she asked, “How did you do it, Stave? How did you become so different?” In Revelstone, he had answered that question. Nevertheless she needed to ask it again. “You see things that the other Masters don’t. And you care differently.” He had called her by her given name. “How did that happen?”

He did not hesitate. As if the truth had become easy for him, he replied, “The Ranyhyn have laughed at my pride and shame. And the kindliness of their laughter has eased my fear of grief. Made one with them, and with you, by the eldritch waters of their tarn, I was resurrected to myself.”

After a moment, Linden was relieved to realize that her eyes were full of tears. They flowed like the stream, and with the same offer of solace. If nothing else, she had recovered her ability to weep.

Perhaps her bedrock despair was not as unyielding as she had feared.