“Then my question is twofold. If orcrest no longer wields the virtue of sanity, does it yet ward him from possession? If it does not, what purpose is served by his grasp? In another’s hands—in the Timewarden’s, perchance, or in yours—it might aid us well.”

It might force Covenant to remain present. If so, he would reject it.

“And if Anele no longer finds himself in orcrest,” Coldspray continued, “are you not blameless for Liand’s death? While the skein of his mind remains confused, the deeds which ensued from your heedlessness would not have been altered. Does his state not demonstrate the unwisdom of claiming fault? Does he not give you cause to excuse yourself?”

Linden shook her head. “No.” Still she avoided Coldspray’s eyes. “He’s even more vulnerable like this.” She had found no forgiveness while she was alone with Liand’s body. “Orcrest isn’t affecting him right now”—she scrutinized the old man to confirm her perceptions—“because he isn’t letting it.

“Usually it triggers the Earthpower bred in his bones—or his magic triggers Earthpower from the Sunstone. Then he’s sane. But now—” Linden shrugged stiffly. “He’s hiding himself somehow. I didn’t know he could do that. But he needs his madness.”

Like an answer, the old man muttered, “Anele fears.”

His voice snatched at Linden’s attention. Cautiously she moved toward him. “Anele?”

He sat in the curve of Galesend’s breastplate, jerking his head from side to side. Occasional glints of argent accentuated the milky hue of his eyes. One hand gripped the Sunstone against his stomach as if to appease his incessant hunger. The other punched a rhythm at the cataphract, bruising his knuckles.

“He fears to fail—and to succeed.” With every phrase, he rocked back and forth in time to his blows. “He wears shackles of horror and shame. Murder. Futility. Error. Greater spirits speak of hope. They do not grasp that he is old and weak. Unable. He must, and cannot. Must. Cannot.”

Repeating, “Must,” and, “Cannot,” like a mantra, he hit the stone, oblivious of his audience.

“Anele?” Linden asked again softly, as if she were crooning to a child. “Anele?” The idea that he knew what he had done to Liand ached in her chest. “Just let it happen. Let it happen. I know that it hurts. But it might help us understand. We might be able to take better care of you.”

“Must,” Anele replied like an echo of himself. He may not have heard her. “Cannot.”

Gritting her teeth, Linden swallowed curses. She was intimately familiar with at least some of Anele’s emotions, and they ravaged her.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she admitted unhappily to Coldspray. “Trusting him is the only thing that I can think of. His parents were my friends. And they were talking to him in his dreams before he ever got to Andelain.