“Misliking the Harrow as I do, I would find no small joy in thwarting him. Have I not admitted that I, too, am prone to greed? But here I personify the united will of the Insequent. Any deviation from that resolve will breach the sacred prohibition which enables the Insequent to endure and prosper. Answering you, I will bring down my own destruction and accomplish only sorrow.”

Linden had heard such reasoning before. Both the Theomach and the Mahdoubt, in their distinct fashions, had presented similar arguments.

When she understood that the Ardent was trying to walk a path as straight and strict as theirs—that his ambiguities were necessary to the singular ethics of the Insequent—she at last found her voice. Hardly knowing what she meant to say, she suggested unsteadily, “In that case, let’s play fair. If the Harrow can’t ride, you shouldn’t sit there looking down on him.”

Or on her.

The Harrow flashed her a glance that she could not read. The emptiness of his eyes swallowed the character of his reaction.

The Ardent surprised her again by emitting a loud guffaw. “Well said, lady. Doubtless you merit the Mahdoubt’s regard, ill-considered though your many extravagances may appear to be. I am neither mightier nor less flawed than the Harrow. I have merely been elected to enact the will of the Insequent.”

Laughing again, he sent out streamers of chartreuse and fuligin on all sides, bands interwoven with crimson and cerulean. They seemed to float independent of him, as though they might tug free at any moment. But he did not loose them—or they did not loose themselves. Instead, by some means that baffled Linden’s senses, they caused his mount to disappear.

Unlike the Harrow, however, he did not fall. Cradled in ribbands, he drifted gently to the grass as if his bulk were as light as air.

Delighted by his display, the Giants laughed with him. Obviously pleased, the Ardent gazed up at them with the open wonder of a child. Flapping his arms, he caused his apparel to unfurl and cavort in a glad gambol.

Their momentary mirth did not touch Linden. But it gave her a chance to gather herself and think. While the Harrow ground his teeth, waiting in vexation for the laughter to subside, she tried to guess where the potential for betrayal might lie in his vow.

Peripherally she was aware of Covenant and his escort. Ignoring or avoiding her and the Insequent, he had walked the Humbled and their accompaniment of Giants and Ramen to the rim of the hollow. There, however, he turned and began to move slowly back toward the dead stump and Loric’s krill. His manner still seemed disjointed, torn between understanding and bewilderment. He had not yet found his way back to the present.

Grasping at allusions, Linden asked Stave quietly, “What are they talking about?” With a nod, she indicated Covenant and the Masters. “Has Covenant explained the Theomach? Or the Insequent?”

Stave could still hear the mental communion of the Haruchai, although he had learned to close his own thoughts against them. In a low voice, he answered, “The ur-Lord does not speak of the Theomach. His offer to do so he appeared to forget when it had been uttered.” He may have meant, When it had accomplished its purpose by distracting the Humbled. “Rather he rambles forward and back through the most ancient history of the Haruchai, relating tales which none have forgotten. The Giants appear gladdened to hear of unfamiliar events. Saying nothing, the Cords remain wary of the Humbled.”