Against All Things Ending by Stephen R. Donaldson

will serve you with our last strength.”
    Covenant tried to focus on Galt. But the krill plucked at his attention, luring him with images which had once been as familiar as Time. In shards and slivers, flaws, he caught glimpses of Loric’s prolonged, arduous search for a stone which could be shaped into the gem that formed the nexus of the dagger: a search which had taken him deep under Melenkurion Skyweir, following the Black River inward from Garroting Deep until he found a fragment of crystal made perfect by eons of contact with the Blood of the Earth. Like peering through cracked glass, Covenant saw Loric forge the metal of the krill , striving to emulate white gold. He lacked the raw materials to fashion white gold itself. But from his inherited and acquired lore, he had gleaned a comprehension of alloys: he worked with ores that could be transmuted and commingled until they became strong enough to sustain the pristine possibilities of the gem. If Covenant allowed himself to drift, he would be able to watch as though he stood at Loric’s side while the dour High Lord sweated over his incantations and fires—
    But Linden needed something from Covenant, something that his lost memories could not supply. And he had already failed her too often. If he slipped away now, he might break the promise implied by speaking to her when he should have remained silent. Trust yourself . Do something they don’t expect . Broken as he was, he could still see that she hung on the brink, the outermost edge, of Kevin’s despair. Her sense of abandonment, of betrayal, might topple her. Any nudge—Infelice’s flagrant terror and scorn, the Harrow’s machinations, Kevin’s condemnation, the repudiation of the Humbled—might send her plunging into an abyss from which she could not be retrieved.
    Desperately Covenant clung to the present. Wavering on his feet, he struggled to meet the demand of the Humbled. He could not distinguish it from Linden’s need.
    “What will you do?” he countered. “If I don’t command you? If I refuse to respect what you’ve done to yourselves?”
    Fingers had been severed from their right hands in his name; but he did not want that honor.
    Branl’s eyes widened. Clyme almost appeared to wince. But Galt did not hesitate.
    “Then I will ride to Revelstone,” he announced inflexibly, “that I may warn the Masters of the Chosen’s Desecration. Clyme and Branl will remain with her to prevent further evil. Your ring will be returned to you. If you do not claim the Staff of Law, it will be conveyed to Revelstone, where it may be preserved for the Land’s last defense.”
    Liand opened his mouth to protest. Mahrtiir’s glower promised defiance. The Ranyhyn tossed their heads restively. But Linden did not appear to hear the Humbled. She stared at Covenant as though he filled her with horror that had no end.
    “Then listen,” Covenant told Galt with as much force as he could find in his riven spirit. “And pay attention. I can only say this once.
    “The Wraiths allowed her. They preserve Andelain, and they allowed her. Hellfire, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
    Shedding memories like pieces of his soul, he met Linden’s appalled stare.
    “Linden.” Nearly undone by weakness and rue—by the numbness in his fingers and the frailty of his mind—he strained to make himself heard. “I’ve said it before. I know this is hard. I know you think you’ve come to the end of what you can do. But you aren’t done. And I trust you. Do you hear me? I believe in you. I’ll do everything I can to help. If there’s anything left—”
    Linden flinched as though he had promised her the opposite of his intent. On her face, new hurts twisted against older shocks and chagrin. “Can you see it?” she asked Liand or Mahrtiir or Stave. Her voice throbbed like internal bleeding, as if she spoke with her heart’s blood. “He’s right. He can’t hold on. Something inside him is collapsing. I brought him