|Chapter 4: The Nicor of the Deep|
Then Brinn blurred and faded as tears disfocused her vision. She could no longer see Covenant, except as a pool of hot argent in the streaked lambency of the lanterns. Was this why Lord Foul had chosen her? So that she would cause Covenant's death?
Yes. She had done such things before.
She retreated into the numbness as if she needed it, deserved it. But the hands which grasped her shoulders were gentle and demanding. Softly, they insisted on her attention, urged her out of her inner morass. They were kind and refused to be denied. When she blinked her gaze clear, she found herself looking into Pitchwife's pellucid eyes.
He sat in front of her, holding her by the shoulders. The deformation of his spine brought his misshapen face down almost to her level. His lips smiled crookedly.
"It is enough, Chosen," he breathed in a tone of compassion. "This grief skills nothing. It is as the First has said. The fault is not yours."
For a moment, he turned his head away. "And also not yours, my wife," he said to the shadow of the First. "you could not have foreknown this pass."
Then his attention returned to Linden. "He lives yet, Chosen. He lives. And while he lives, there must be hope. Fix your mind upon that. While we live, it is the meaning of our lives to hope."