Then his eyes began to adjust. The precipice grew wider, darker; more compulsory. The faint flames of the Feroce did not shed enough light to protect him. Clyme became a more substantial avatar of night.

While Covenant’s head reeled, Clyme grasped his left arm and pushed him firmly toward the hard wall of the hill.

Instinctively he wanted to resist. Vertigo sang to him, as siren and alluring as the music of merewives. Seductions spun in his head, his stomach, his muscles. Did he trust the Haruchai? He had always said that he did. Put up or shut up.

When his shoulder touched stone, he jammed his face and chest against it; clung to it. Not this time, he swore at his spinning mind; or at the Despiser. You can’t have me now. Wait your damn turn.

Out of the dark, Branl said, “Extend your arm, ur-Lord. We will support you. You will not fall.”

The appalled voice of Covenant’s alarm sneered, Oh, sure. Extend my arm. Like that’s going to happen. But he was already reaching for Branl. He had come too far and learned too much: his fears did not rule him.

A hand as trustworthy as granite gripped his wrist, rock that defied corrosion. Between them, Branl and Clyme urged him along the base of the hill.

The cleft was millennia away. Creeping on the verge of panic, Covenant would need an age of the Earth to cross the distance. But the Humbled were oblivious to the impossibility of their task. Ignoring the frenetic stutter of Covenant’s heart, they impelled him toward the crack in the hill; the entrance to the maze.

When he stood at last between solid walls with gutrock under his boots, he staggered in relief; nearly stumbled to his knees. Still his companions upheld him.

Here there was no light at all. The drained flames of the Feroce did not reach into the cleft.

Gasping for balance, Covenant panted, “Remind the Ranyhyn. Insist, if you have to. They can’t follow us. We need them.” Then he managed to add, “Thank you.”

“We are the Humbled,” Branl answered impassively, “Masters and Haruchai. We do not require gratitude.

“On the Plains of Ra, the Ranyhyn reared to you. They will heed your wishes.”

“In that case—” Gradually the gyre in Covenant’s head eased. By increments, his nerves released their terror and yearning. The Haruchai feared grief. It was their one maiming weakness. Naturally they did not want gratitude. “We should keep moving. I need a clearing of some kind. A little open ground. Maybe we can find it before the skest come at us again.”

Storms of impatience and dread brewed in the background of his thoughts. But he did not protest when Clyme and Branl remained still. He was not steady enough to walk yet.