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had killed himself and blamed her for it; and she had killed her mother with her own hands; and now his, Covenant’s, death seemed as certain as the Desecration of the Earth. But those things served only to give her the purpose he had lost. She was wearing her old severity now—the same rigid self-punishment and determination with which she had defied him from the moment of their first meeting. Yet the fierce fire in her eyes was new. And he recognized it. It was the unanswered anger of her grief, and it swept all costs aside in its desire for battle.
    You’ve decided to give up?
    Her demand made his failure as acute as agony. He could have shouted, I don’t have any choice! He
beat
me! There’s nothing I can do!
    But he knew better. He was a leper and knew better. Leprosy itself was defeat, complete and incurable. Yet even lepers had reasons to go on living. Atiaran had told him that it was the task of the living to give meaning to the sacrifices of the dead; but now he saw that the truth went further: to give meaning to his own death. And to the prices the people he loved had already paid.
    In the name of Linden’s harsh insistence, he sat up in the hammock and asked hoarsely, “What do you want?”
    His response seemed to steady her. The bitter pressure of her loss eased somewhat. In a hard voice, she said, “I want you to go back to the Land. To Revelstone. And stop the clave. Put out the Banefire.” He drew a hissing breath at the sheer audacity of what she required; but she went on without heeding him, “If you do that, the Sunbane’ll slow down. Maybe it’ll even recede. That’ll give us time to look for a better answer.”
    Then she surprised him again by faltering. She did not face him as she concluded, “Maybe I don’t care about the Land the way you do. I was too scared to go into Andelain. I’ve never seen what it used to be like. But I know sickness when I see it. Even if I weren’t a doctor, I’d have the Sunbane carved on me in places where I’ll never be able to forget it. I want to do something about that. I don’t have anything else. The only way I can fight is through you.”
    As she spoke, echoes of power capered in Covenant’s veins. He heard what she was saying; but his fear took him back to the beginning. Stop the Clave? Put out the Banefire? In blunt alarm, he replied, “That’ll be a lot of fun. What in hell makes you believe I can even think about things like that without endangering the Arch?”
    She met him with a sour smile, humorless and certain. “Because you know how to restrain yourself now. I felt it—when you called back all that wild magic and used it to send me away. You’re more dangerous now than you’ve ever been. To Lord Foul.”
    For a moment, he held the look she gave him. But then his eyes fell. No. It was still too much: he was not ready. The ruin of his life was hardly a day old. How was it possible to talk about fighting, when the Despiser had already defeated him? He had only one power, and it had been transformed by venom and falsehood into a graver threat than any Sunbane. What she wanted was madness. He did not have it in him.
    Yet he had to make some reply. She had borne too many burdens for him. And he loved her. She had the right to place demands upon him.
    So he groped in bitter shame for a way out, for something he might say or do which would at least postpone the necessity of decision. Still without meeting Linden’s stare, he muttered sourly, “There’re too many things I don’t understand. I need to talk to Findail.”
    He thought that would deflect her. From the moment when the Appointed of the
Elohim
had first attached himself to the Search, he had never come or gone at any behest but that of his own secret wisdom or cunning. Yet if anyone possessed the knowledge to win free of this defeat, surely his people did. And surely also he would not come here simply because the Unbeliever asked for him? Covenant would gain at least that much