Before she could continue, the Harrow laughed contemptuously. “You are mistaken, Elohim, as is your wont. When I have gained that which I crave, you and your kind will be spared, left free to nurture your surquedry in any form that pleases you. I will either fail or succeed. If I fail, your plight remains unaltered. If I succeed, you will be restored to your rightful place in the life of the Earth. Therefore silence your plaint. It is naught but pettiness and self-pity.”

“Do you conceive,” countered Infelice, “that your word has worth in such matters? It does not. This is some elaborate chicane to gain your desires. You are mortal, Insequent. Your human mind cannot contain the scale of your doomed intent.”

Linden braced herself to tell Infelice and the Harrow to shut up. She had had enough of their antagonism: it shed no light on the darkness of her decisions. But before she could demand their silence, she heard Covenant.

The Wraiths had revived him. Still lying with his head propped on Mahrtiir’s shins, he spoke softly: a mere wisp of sound in the fretted night. Nevertheless his voice carried as though he had the authority to command the very air of the vale.

“Do any of you have a better idea?”

Linden wheeled toward him as if he had reached out and snatched at her arm; as if she had no choice.

The gathering around him had parted: she could see him clearly. He had not risen from the grass into the light of the krill. But Wraiths still danced about him, a penumbra of gentle fires. In spite of the distance between them, Linden saw him with frightening clarity.

The pallor of his features displayed his weakness. Neither aliantha nor the Wraiths had relieved his fundamental flaws or his illness. He still resembled an invalid, too weak to stand; perhaps too weak to think. With her health-sense, Linden could almost identify the fault-lines along which the bedrock of his mind had cracked.

Yet the galls of his face retained their compelling severity. He looked like a fallen prophet, brought low before he could proclaim the Land’s fate.

Beneath the shock of his white hair, the scar on his forehead gleamed like an accusation. See? it seemed to say. This is my mortality. My pain. It’s your doing.

While Linden studied him, he turned his gaze on everyone around him. But none of them answered him. Even the Humbled did not. Linden expected them to reiterate their denunciations of her; yet Branl, Galt, and Clyme said nothing. Covenant’s authority held them in the same way that it ruled the atmosphere of the hollow.

“In that case”—he sounded sure in spite of his frailty—“I think we should do this Linden’s way. She can make this kind of decision. The rest of us can’t.” After a moment, he found the strength to add, “Mhoram would approve.”

At once, Infelice fled like a wail from the hollow. She disappeared as though Covenant had banished her; as though her cause were lost without the Timewarden’s support.