“Sometime long ago, he decided to be crazy—not to mention blind—because he couldn’t stand what was happening to him, or how he looked at himself, or what he thought he might have to do. But he’s still the son of his parents. I have to believe that his heart is as good as theirs. Eventually he’ll prove himself.”

So far, everything that Anele had contributed to the company, and to the Land, had been imposed on or wrested from him. In effect, insanity, blindness, and survival were the only choices that he had made for himself.

The Ironhand had come to stand near Linden. Now she rested a gentle hand on Linden’s shoulder. “We believe as you do. The old man has become dear to us. And we see no point of resemblance between his plight and Lostson Longwrath’s. For his sake, we pray only that ‘eventually’ will not be long delayed.”

Thus she sanctioned Linden’s desire to leave Liand’s birthright in Anele’s hands.

Then Coldspray stepped away. To her comrades, she said, “Come, Swordmainnir. A task awaits us. We must grieve with effort and stone, having no other caamora.”

At once, the other Giants readied themselves to depart. They seemed grimly eager to confront their own pain and loss. Only Cirrus Kindwind did not join them. Indicating her maimed arm with a grimace, she rose from her knees to stand near Covenant.

Linden smelled sunrise in the air. Soon dawn would find its way into the canyon. Of course the Giants needed to grieve. How could they not, being who they were? Nevertheless she felt a primitive desire to hold them back. When they had honored Liand with their sorrow, the company would need to make decisions. But she had no idea what to do—or how to face being asked to choose. She had failed Jeremiah. And she had sacrificed Liand in the name of her failure. How could she answer her friends when they posed their questions again?

Forcing herself, she nodded to Rime Coldspray. “I’ll wait here. Maybe Covenant will recover. Or Pahni and Bhapa will come back. There might be something that I can do for them.”

Certainly she had done nothing to heal the Giants’ burns and gashes, or Stave’s. In spite of her assertions to the Humbled, she feared the blackness of her power.

“That is well,” assented the Ironhand. “We will return when we are content.”

Without more words, the leader of the Swordmainnir turned her back on the stream and strode away. Flanked by her comrades, she rose into the first gloom of dawn until she and they became one with the gloaming, discernible only by their troubled auras.