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he followed it； tottered down it； fluttering in the wind like a maimed wildman； thinking only：
Hate。
Atiaran Trell…mate had said that it was the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead。 He had a whole Land full of death to make meaningful。 Behind him； Lena lay slain in her own blood； with a wooden spike through her bell｝。 Elena was buried somewhere in the bowels of Melenkurion Sky weir； dead in her private apocalypse because of his manipulations and his failures。 She had never even existed。 Ranyhyn had been starved and slaughtered。 Banner and Foamfollower might be dead or in despair。 Pietten and Hile Troy and Trell and Triock were all his fault。 None of them had ever existed。 His pain did not exist。 Nothing mattered except the one absolute question。
He moaned deep in his throat； 〃Hate？〃
Nothing could have any meaning without the answer to that question。 Despite its multitudinous disguises； he recognized it as the question which had shaped his life since the day he had first learned that he was subject to the law of leprosy。 Loathing； self…loathing； fear； rape； murder； leper outcast unclean…they were all the same thing。 He hobbled in search of the answer。
He was totally alone for the first time since the beginning of his experiences in the Land。
Sick gray dawn found him laboring vaguely northeastward…poling himself feverishly with the spear； and shivering in the bitter ague of winter。 The dismal light seemed to rouse parts of him。 He plunged into the shallow lee of a hillside and tried to take the measure of his situation。
The shrill wind gibed around him as he plucked with diseased and frozen fingers at his pant leg。 When he succeeded in moving the fabric； he felt a numb surprise at the dark discoloration of his flesh above the ankle。 His foot sat at a crooked angle on his leg； and through the crusted blood he could see slivers of bone protruding against the thongs of his sandals。
The injury looked worse than it felt。 Its pain grated in his knee joint dully； gouged aches up through his thigh to his hip； but the ankle itself was bearable。 Both his feet had been frozen senseless by the cold。 And both were jabbed and torn and painlessly infected like the feet of a pilgrim。 He thought blankly that he would probably lose the broken one。 But the possibility carried no weight with him； it was just another part of his experience that did not exist。
There were things that he should have been doing for himself； but he had no idea what they were。 He had no conception of anything except the central need which drove him。 He lacked food； warmth； knowledge of where he was or where he was going。 Yet he was already urgent to be moving again。 Nothing but movement could keep his lifeblood circulating …nothing but movement could help him find his answer。
No tentative or half…unready answer would satisfy his need。
He levered himself up； then slipped and fell； crying out unconsciously at the unfelt pain。 For a moment； the winter roared in his ears like a triumphant predator。 His breathing rasped him as if claws of cold had already torn his air passages and lungs。 But he braced the spear on the hard earth again； and climbed up it hand over hand until he was erect。 Then he lurched forward once more。
He forced himself up the hill and beyond it to a low ridge lying across his way like a minor wall。 His arms trembled at the strain of bearing his weight； and his hands slipped repeatedly on the smooth shaft of the spear。 The ascent almost defeated him。 When he reached the top； air whooped brokenly in and out of his frostbitten lungs； and icy vertigo made the whole winterscape cant raggedly from side to side。 He rested； leaning on the spear。 His respiration was so difficult that he thought the frozen sweat and vapor on his face might be suffocating him。 But when he tried to break it； it tore away like a protective scab； hurting his skin； exposing new nerves to the cold。 He let the rest of his frozen mask remain； and stood panting until at last his vision began to clear。
The hard barren region ahead of him was so dreary； so wilderlanded by Foul's cruelty； that he could hardly bear to look at it。 It was gray cold and dead from horizon to horizon under the gray dead clouds…not the soft fortable gray of twilit illusions； of unstark colors blurring like consolation or placency into each other； but rather the gray of disconsolation and dismay； paradoxically dull and raw； numb and poignant； a gray like the ashen remains of color and sap and blood and bone。 Gray wind drove gray cold over the gray frozen hills； gray snow gathered in thin drifts under the lees of the gray terrain； gray ice underscored the black； brittle； leafless branches of the trees barely visible in the distance on his left； and stifled the gray； miserable current of the river almost out of sight on his right； gray numbness clutched at his flesh and soul。 Lord Foul the Despiser was everywhere。
Then for a time he remembered his purpose。 He set his ice…muzzled teeth into the teeth of the cold and hobbled down from the ridge straight toward the source of the winter。 Half blinded by the opposition of the wind； he stumped unheeding past slight shelters and straggling aliantha； thrust his tattered way among the hills； dragging his frozen foot like an accusation he meant to bring against the Despiser。
But gradually the memory faded； lapsed from his consciousness like everything else except his reiterating interrogation of hate。 Some inchoate instinct kept him from wending downward toward the river； but all other sense of direction deserted him。 With the wind angling against his right cheek； he struggled slowly upward； upward； as if it were only in climbing that he could keep himself erect at all。
As the morning passed； he began to fall more often。 He could no longer retain his grip on the spear； his hands were too stiff； too weak； and a slick sheen of ice sweat made the spear too slippery。 Amid the crunch of ice and his own panting cries； he slipped repeatedly to the ground。 And after several convulsive efforts to go on； he lay face down on the ruined earth with his breath rattling in his throat； and tried to sleep。
But before long he moved again。 Sleep was not what he wanted； it had no place in the one focused fragment of his consciousness。 Gasping thickly； he levered himself to his knees。 Then； with an awkward abruptness； as if he were trying to take himself by surprise； he put weight on his broken ankle。
It was numb enough。 Pain jabbed the rest of his leg； and his foot twisted under him。 But his ankle was numb enough。
Ignoring the fallen spear； he heaved erect； tottered…and limped extremely into motion again。
For a long time； he went on that way； jerking on his broken ankle like a badly articulated puppet manded by clumsy fingers。 He continued to fall； he was using two hunks of ice for feet； and could not keep his balance when the hillsides became too steep。 And these slopes grew gradually worse。 For some reason； he tended unevenly to his left； where the ground rose up to meet black trees； so more and more often he came to ascents and descents that affected him like precipices； though they might have seemed slight enough to a healthy traveler。 He went up them on hands and knees； clawing against the hard ground for handholds； and plunged rolling helplessly down them like one of the damned。
But after each fall he rested prone in the snow like a penitent； and after each rest he staggered or crawled forward once more； pursuing his private and inevitable apotheosis； though he was entirely unable to meet it。
As the day waned into afternoon； his falls came more and more often。 And after falling he lay still and listened to the air sob in and out of his lungs as if the breaking of his ankle had fractured some essential bone in him； some obdurate capacity for endurance…as if at last even numbness failed him； proved in some way inadequate； leaving him at the mercy of his injury。 By degrees he began to believe that after all his dream was going to kill him。
Sometime in the middle of the afternoon； he slipped； rolled； came to rest on his back。 He could not muster the strength to turn over。 Like a pinned insect； he struggled for a moment； then collapsed into prostrate sleep…trapped there between the iron heavens and the brass earth。
Dreams roiled his unconsciousness； giving him no consolation。 Again and again； he relived the double…fisted blow with which he had stabbed Pietten。 But now he dealt that fierce blow at other hearts…Llaura； Mane…thrall Rue； Elena； Joan； the woman who had been killed protecting him at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven…why had he never asked anyone her name？ In dreams he slew them all。 They lay around him with gleams of light shining keenly out of their wounds like notes in an alien melody。 The song tugged at him； urged…but before he could hear it； another figure hove across his vision； listing like a crippled frigate。 The man was dressed in misery and violence。 He had blood on his hands and the love of murder in his eyes； but Covenant could not make out his face。 Again he raised the knife； again he drove it with all his might into that vulnerable breast。 Only then did he see that the man was himself。
He lurched as if the blank sky had struck him； and flopped over onto his chest to hide his face； conceal his wound。
When he remembered the snow in which he lay； he got quavering to his feet and limped on into the late afternoon。
Before long； he came to a hillside he could not master。 He flung himself at it； limped and crawled at it as hard as he could。 But he was exhausted and crippled。 He turned left and stumbled along the slope； seeking a place where he could ascend； but then inexplicably he found himself rolling downward。 When he tumbled to a stop at the bottom； he rested for a while in confusion。 He must have crossed the top without knowing it。 He hauled himself up again； gasping； and went on。
The next hill was no better。 But he had to master it。 When he could not drive himself upward any farther； he turned to the left again； always left and up； though for some strange reason this seemed to take him down toward the river。
After a short distance he found a trail in the snow。
Part of him knew that he should be dismayed； but he felt only relief； hope。 A trail meant that someone had passed this way…passed recently； or the wind would have effaced the marks。 And that someone might help him。
He needed help。 He was freezing； starving； failing。 Under its crust of scab and ice； his ankle was still bleeding。 He had reached the infinitude of his impotence； his inefficacy； the point beyond which he could not keep going； could not believe； envision； hope that continuation； life； was possible。 He needed whoever or whatever had made that trail to decide his fate for him。
He followed it to the left； downward； into a hollow between hills。 He kept his eyes on the trail immediately before him； fearing to look up and find that the maker of the trail was out of sight； out of reach。 He saw where the maker had fallen； shed blood； rested； limped onward。 Soon he met the next hill and began crawling up it along the crawling trail。 He was desperate…alone and impoverished as he had never before been in the Land。
But at last he recognized the truth。 When the trail turned； crawled away to the left； fell back down the hillside； he could no longer deny that he had been following himself； that the trail was his own； a circle between hills he could not master。
With a thick moan； he passed the boundary。 His last strength fell out of him。 Keen gleams winked across the dark gulf behind his closed eyes； but he could not answer them。 He fell backward； slid down the hill into a low snowdrift。
Yet even then his ordeal continued。 His fall uncovered something in the snow。 While he lay gasping helplessly； felt his heart tremble toward failure in his chest； a smell intruded on him。 Despite the cold； it demanded his notice； it rose piquant and seductive in his face； ran into him on every breath； pelled him to respond。 He propped himself up on quivering arms； and wiped the snow away with dead fingers。
He found g