Finally the seam debouched into a junction where several passages and breaks crossed each other. Together they formed an open space six or seven paces across, perhaps ten wide. Its surface was littered with detritus: old rubble, brittle shards of weapons, splintered scraps that may once have been bones. At every step, Covenant tripped on a rock, kicked something metallic, or crushed a desiccated shape to powder.

Against one high bluff of the Hills crouched a pit as black as an abyss: obviously a cave. Two of the intersecting passages looked or felt as broad as roads. They were too clear to be natural formations. They may have served as corridors for Lord Foul’s armies long ago. Or they might be lures—

Clyme stopped; indicated the pit. “Skest crowd there. At present, they stand in abeyance. Doubtless they will soon pour forth.” Then he nodded at one of the broad passages. “That path ends in blind stone. There we will render ourselves helpless. The other clear way holds more skest.

“Ur-Lord, will this juncture meet your need? Other choices are open to us, but along them we may be readily overtaken.”

Fears thronged in Covenant’s throat. He swallowed hard. “I wanted more room.” There was too much at stake. “But I guess we’ll have to make do with this.”

“Then I ask again,” Clyme said like the voice of the darkness. “What is your intent?”

“Stay with me.” Covenant’s hands shook as he pulled the bundle from his waist. “Don’t stay with me.” Hell and blood! I don’t have the courage for this—“It’s up to you.” Every choice led to doom of one kind or another. He had already been killed once: he did not want to die again. “I can’t stop now. If I had a better idea, we wouldn’t be here.

“Sometimes we just have to take the chance—”

How many times had he told Linden to trust herself?

Vehement with self-coercion, he gripped the bundle in his left fist and began to unwrap the krill. But he was careful not to touch the dagger. Cursing his many trepidations, he bared the haft of the blade; uncovered the gem.

Avid brilliance burst into the night. It glared on every rock, every shard, every sign of ruin. It limned the crowding hills until they seemed to impend over him, stark against the blinded black of the sky.

“At least this way,” he panted through his teeth, “the damn skest won’t attack us until they see what happens next.”

Before Clyme or Branl could protest, he stroked Loric’s lore-cut jewel with the numb fingers of his halfhand.

In spite of the danger, he rubbed the gem until he smelled scorching flesh.