“Madness,” assented Coldspray equably. If Linden’s vehemence troubled her, she did not show it. “Utter and undoubted folly.” She may have been chuckling. “Indeed, were I not myself deranged, made so by the sad truth that I am a Giant withal, I might venture to suggest that his conduct is very nearly as demented as our own. He merely knows with whom he wagers, and how, and why. The same cannot be said of us. We have gone further, for we can name neither our foe nor our intent.”

Before Linden could respond, Frostheart Grueburn advised in an amiable grumble, “Do not heed her, Linden Giantfriend. The Ironhand jests lamely, like a Swordmain with one foot cleft. She means to aver only that in straits as extreme as ours, one gamble is much like another.

“Thomas Covenant wagers all things on his own strength and resource, and on the friable extravagance of a possessed white gold wielder. We have chosen to entrust our fate, and the Land’s, and the Earth’s to the Ranyhyn. Time—if it endures—will reveal who has been wiser.”

“And is it not also true,” Mahrtiir suggested, “that we are in greater peril from caesures and other evils than the Timewarden? We are many by comparison, and commensurately vulnerable. He and the Humbled are few. Surely their need for protection does not exceed ours.”

“It addition,” Stave stated flatly, “it is the word of the Unbeliever that you have a separate task to perform. If you strive to preserve him, you may thwart some greater purpose which we do not yet comprehend.”

Protests clamored in Linden. You don’t understand. She was running out of ways to fend off the darkness that filled her heart. I want to do something that makes sense. I can’t let Joan kill him.

But that was not what he desired of her. I expect you to do what you’ve always done. Something unexpected. And she had already missed her chance to help him: she knew that. When she had let him ride away, she had surrendered her right to share his fate—or to ask him to share hers. It was too late to change her mind. None of her mistakes could be undone. If Joan killed Covenant, Linden would have no one to blame except herself.

Trust was a bitter joke—and she had forgotten how to laugh.

Avoiding the concerned stares of her companions, she tried to pretend that she had recovered her emotional balance. “All right. I understand.” She did not want their misdirected reassurances. “I just wish I could be with him.

“Don’t worry about me. You should get some rest, all of you. Sleep if you can. I’m going to find someplace where I can see farther. The Ranyhyn can’t save us if a Fall gets too close.”

Then she turned away, hoping to forestall arguments. Unsure of her ability to climb the basalt in such darkness, she began to walk along the vale after the horses.