“Surely there are other deeds within our strength which may serve to forestall the outcome of this Desecration. You must not permit—”

Covenant tried to hold—Linden saw that—but he failed. While she watched, he toppled into himself; slid down an inner slope. For reasons that no longer made sense, he waved her away, sending her toward the Harrow. Then he draped an arm over Galt’s shoulders and turned the Master in the opposite direction.

“Listen,” he said lightly, casually, as if he were gliding on oil, “did I ever tell you how the Theomach replaced the Elohim who guarded the One Tree? I can’t remember what we’ve talked about. The whole world is stories. Maybe I haven’t told them all.

“They didn’t call him the Guardian. He was the Appointed. The first Appointed. He used a different form every time somebody approached the Tree. He used different names. But he always stood in the way. Until the Theomach out-did him.”

In spite of his tone, Covenant’s manner seemed disjointed, confused by falling, as he drew the three Humbled with him. Yet somehow he contrived to insist; or the Masters felt required to attend him.

Indirectly he spared Linden the contention of the Humbled as she forced herself to approach the Harrow.

At once, Stave and Liand took positions at her shoulders. Mahrtiir instructed his Cords to watch over Covenant with Galt, Clyme, and Branl: then the Manethrall followed her. After an instant of hesitation, the Ironhand sent a few of her Swordmainnir to hear whatever Covenant might reveal to the Humbled. With the rest of her comrades, Coldspray joined Mahrtiir.

The Harrow waited where Linden had left him, as sure of himself as a plinth of marble. His chlamys hung at a jaunty angle from his shoulders. In the glow of the krill, the umber beads of his doublet looked strangely moist, as though they oozed damp theurgies. His trim beard jutted avidly.

Tense with fright or ire, as if the beast knew what Linden’s approach signified, the Harrow’s destrier watched her askance. But he had trained his mount well: it stood its ground.

“Lady.” The Insequent inclined his head with grave mockery. “On such a night, I am tolerant of interruption. Yet the hour is late, and the time has come for my long labors to bear their intended fruit. There can be no more apt occasion for my triumph than Banas Nimoram and the rousing of the Worm. The Elohim has fled, bearing her arrogance and self-woe to the distant reaches of the Earth. We must now speak of your son.”

Linden remembered too well the deep sound of his voice; his fertile taunts. There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being. She ached to defy his scorn. But she had created a crisis for herself, and her friends, and Thomas Covenant—for the entire living world—to which she had no answer except the most extreme sacrifice. And she had already made her decision. She recognized the danger. But she did not know—