In his earlier state, he had recognized that this prison was also the only utile form of freedom. Another contradiction: strictures enabled as much as they denied. The Elohim were ineffectual precisely because they had so few constraints. Linden was capable of so much because her inadequacies walled her on all sides.

Now, however, he had to take that perception on faith.

But there were other truths as well, or other aspects of the same truth. His imprisonment had its own demands: it insisted upon them. And one of them was his body. The flesh which reified his spirit was both needy and exigent. He could only spend a certain amount of time in grief before the jarring of his inexpert horsemanship demanded precedence. The gait of the Ranyhyn was as smooth as water: the destrier’s was not. Already his joints were beginning to hurt. And when he finally realized that he was sitting too stiffly to endure a long ride, he also became aware that he was thirsty. The first premonitions of dehydration throbbed in his temples, and his tongue felt so dry and thick that he could hardly swallow.

Blinking to compensate for what may have been hours of neglect, Covenant peered around; tried to identify where he was.

He should have known this region. Hell, it probably even had a name. But that was only one of a myriad—no, damnation, a myriad myriad myriad—things which he had forgotten.

The hills were gone: he had lost them somewhere. Between Mhornym and Naybahn, his mount was pounding heavily across bare dirt thick with splinters and blades of flint. The beast’s hooves were iron-shod: that provided a measure of protection. But how the Ranyhyn avoided hurting themselves—Yet they flowed ahead, sweeping the ground behind them, apparently impervious to the hazards of the terrain.

As far as he could tell with his numbed health-sense, all of his mount’s fierceness was focused on endurance. But it was laboring hard. Eventually, inevitably, the beast would begin to founder. Then—

Then what? He had no notion. He had brought no water with him; no food; nothing for the horses. He had made no plans. In fact, he had given no thought to anything except getting away from Linden and heading toward Joan before his courage failed.

They’re Ranyhyn, for God’s sake. He had said that. They’ll think of something.

He had left himself no choice except to assume that Naybahn and Mhornym would compensate for his improvidence.

He rubbed at his forehead. For some reason, it had begun to itch: a reminder of falling.

“Hellfire,” he mused to himself. “This damn mortality—It’s enough to humble a pile of rocks.”

But he did not realize that he had muttered the words aloud until Branl asked over the rumble of hoofbeats, “Ur-Lord?”

Shaking his head, Covenant blinked at the Master. “Huh?”