“Enough.” Like an appeal for forbearance, she rested one hand on Clyme’s shoulder. “Linden Giantfriend, it is enough. If joy is in the ears that hear, then I must answer you with laughter. I do not only because I fear to augment your dismay.”

Frostheart Grueburn murmured her assent. Several of the other Giants nodded.

“You demand perfection of yourself,” Coldspray continued, “when mischance and error are the lot of all who live and die. You have assumed burdens sufficient to cow even Giants. For doing so, we honor you. If betimes you chance to stumble, as did Stormpast Galesend—

“Well.” The Ironhand tightened her grip on Clyme momentarily, then released him. “Among Giants, you would perhaps be named Blunderfoot.” Frowning, she nodded toward both Latebirth and Galesend. “Thereafter you would doubtless be often teased. But you would not be faulted. In the caamora, you would allay your pain and lamentation. Then you would arise, and shoulder your burdens again, and be held in undiminished esteem by all who accompany you.

“I myself,” she admitted, “have upon occasion assigned blame to myself. Now I cede that I erred in doing so. There was no harm in my heart when I delivered the blow which gave rise to Lostson Longwrath’s madness. There was no harm in Latebirth’s heart when by mischance she permitted Longwrath’s escape and Scend Wavegift’s death. There was no harm in Stormpast Galesend’s heart when she stumbled. And there was no harm in your heart, Linden Giantfriend, when you fixed your attention and yearning upon your son rather than upon Anele. If I grieve for you, I grieve only because your flesh cannot suffer the healing hurt of flames.

“There is wisdom in the Manethrall’s words.” Coldspray shook her head sadly. “You have spoken with the voice of despair.”

If the Ironhand had shared Linden’s nightmares, she would have recognized that voice. It was the scurry of noisome things that feasted on carrion; the shrieking of the bane’s victims. Ever since Linden had surrendered to the horror of She Who Must Not Be Named��no, ever since she had stood on Gallows Howe—she had forgotten forgiveness.

She did not choose to remember it now.

With the surface of her mind, however, she understood Coldspray. She understood Mahrtiir. Superficially she could acknowledge their arguments. And she had succeeded in her immediate aim: she had deflected the recriminations of the Humbled from both Galt and Anele.

“All right,” she muttered without lifting her head. “I get it. Liand is dead.” She said his name as if it were as dangerous as the krill. “The croyel still has Jeremiah. That’s what matters. Talking about me right now is just a distraction.

“We’re wasting time.” Grimly she forced herself to look up at her companions. “We ought to concentrate on what’s important.”