Halewhole Bluntfist agreed. “And let us discard also the Worm itself, and She Who Must Not Be Named, and Fangthane Despiser. Doubtless such evils must be answered. There again, however, strength and swords will achieve no worthy effect. Those who wield wild magic and Earthpower”—she glanced at Galt—“aye, and Loric’s eldritch krill must devise our course. We cannot.”

Linden swallowed an empty protest. Clearly Bluntfist and the others were still counting on her; and they were wrong. Yet she could frame no real objection. The Giants were being practical: their reasoning made sense.

Coldspray considered her comrades briefly. Then she admitted, “Nor do we suffice against Esmer mere-son. There we must place our trust in the ur-viles and Waynhim. As for the Elohim, their plight is beyond our ken. Thus our deliberation is simplified. We need contemplate only the Timewarden’s former mate—their son and his army of Cavewights—and mad Kastenessen.”

Only? Linden thought. Only? But before she could find her voice, Mahrtiir put in sharply, “And also the Ringthane’s son and the croyel. That burden has not been relieved by Liand’s death.”

“Aye,” Rime Coldspray assented. “I hear you, Manethrall. Nonetheless his plight is a matter of theurgy. While Linden Giantfriend remains thwarted by the croyel, and Covenant Timewarden is absent, we can do naught to ease the boy.”

“Aye,” grumbled Mahrtiir in turn, conceding the Ironhand’s point.

Linden gnawed her lip and tried to guess what conclusion the Giants and the Ramen would reach.

“Thus,” Coldspray said again. “The Timewarden’s former mate. Their son. Kastenessen.” She looked around at her comrades once more. “Upon another occasion, I will require your condolences for such concision. For the present—” Then she faced the two Haruchai. “Master. Stave. You have not spoken. Do you consent to the nature of our counsels? Is there aught which we must add or discard ere we continue?”

A glance like a knife passed between the Humbled and the former Master, although their miens were impassive; and a spatter of tension ran down Linden’s spine. She could not see beneath the surface of either man, but she felt—

As if to the air rather than to Coldspray or Stave, Galt said, “I will speak when your deliberations are done.”

“And I will answer you,” promised Stave.

Without explanation, he shifted his gaze to the Ironhand.

“I would urge,” he told her, “that some forewarning must be conveyed to the Masters in Revelstone. Yet I cannot conceive how my desire may be accomplished. If the word of an Elohim is to be believed, scant days remain to us, and even a rider Ranyhyn-mounted must have more than a few to gain Lord’s Keep.”

He shrugged delicately. “Thus my wishes for my kindred come to naught.” With an air of formality, he concluded, “Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, I am content with your counsels.”