Then the energies of amanibhavam and fury failed her. In an instant, her lash of Earthpower vanished, leaving only Loric’s krill to answer the irreparable night. Panting like sobs, she sagged into Stave’s clasp.

“It is done, Linden.” His voice sounded as unrelieved as the Earth’s deep rock. He seemed to know the cost of what she had done—and had failed to do. “There is no more need. Wild magic and Desecration have passed. We endure.”

Word by word, he brought Linden back from storms. Every sentence restored some riven piece of her. Leaning against him, she believed that he had stopped her at the brink of a catastrophe as intimate as her immersion in She Who Must Not Be Named.

But he could not heal her.

“When you are able,” he continued as if he spoke for the darkness, “you will observe that we have lost only Liand. Bruises and gashed flesh we have in abundance. And Kastenessen’s fires were bitter to the Swordmainnir. But they are Giants, hardy against any heat or flame. They will prevail over their hurts. Also the Manethrall has preserved the Unbeliever. He is absent once again, but unharmed. And your son stands unscathed”—Linden felt Stave shrug—“apart from the many cruelties of the croyel.

“Six Falls assailed us, Linden. Nonetheless we endure.”

He may have meant to comfort her. But she could not be comforted. She felt like a derelict in his arms, wracked beyond repair.

Nevertheless her health-sense returned by increments. As her vision cleared, she saw that Stave spoke the truth.

Above her on the ridge, Giants towered against the benighted sky. The dagger’s gem lit their forms with silver streaks like cuts. Cirrus Kindwind had taken Covenant from Mahrtiir. Vaguely Linden recognized that Covenant had again collapsed into his crippled memories. Kindwind carried him in one arm as if to protect him from himself.

Frostheart Grueburn trod heavily toward Linden and Stave while Bhapa scrambled upward. The Swordmain’s face and arms radiated a scalding pain, and a deep contusion ached on one side of her forehead. Her right hand and forearm bled from various scrapes. Yet she was essentially whole.

As was Bhapa. Patches of skin had been torn from his limbs, but those injuries were superficial. At some other time—perhaps in another life—Linden would be able to treat them.

Both Grueburn and the Cord peered at Linden, perhaps seeking to assure themselves that she was still sane. Then Grueburn called a few words over her shoulder to Rime Coldspray; and the Ironhand passed them to the other Giants. Linden Giantfriend remains among us. She has suffered no bodily wound.

Galt and Jeremiah were likewise untouched. The croyel had ceased its struggles. The boy stood slack and vacant, as if the creature had relaxed his puppet-strings. Blood and gore stained his pajama bottoms from thigh to hem.