If one of the skest touched him, just one—Would the magicks which had preserved him from the Humbled and Stave suffice here? Linden did not think so. He was mortal: as human as Linden and Jeremiah. His power to ward off plain blows might not guard him against the more fatal touch of emerald corrosion. And skest were not Demondim—or Demondim-spawn. He could not simply unbind them from themselves.

And while he defended himself from them, the croyel could strike whenever it wished.

Clearly the Insequent recognized his peril. He retreated a few steps from Jeremiah and the croyel; surrounded himself with flames. His jaws chewed curses as he clenched Covenant’s ring. Linden felt his extremity as he strove to bring forth argence.

But he was not its rightful wielder.

Neither was she. Yet Covenant’s ring belonged to her far more than it did to the Harrow. Otherwise she could not have saved herself and Anele from the collapse of Kevin’s Watch.

There were scores of skest in the chamber. More came behind them. Some of them burned like kindling when the Staff’s fire caught them: they slumped into acrid pools that frothed and spat, gnawing chunks out of the granite floor. But they were many, and they kept coming. Soon they would be enough to encircle the Harrow’s defenses.

Enough to threaten Linden: enough to kill her where she stood; or to drive her away from her son.

Liand would die in quick agony.

Now, she thought. The time was now.

At last, she moved.

She could not afford to fail.

She had regained only a fraction of her health-sense; but it sufficed to guide her. The croyel had struck Liand with terrible force. He had hit one of the calcified arms of the warding construct: hit it hard. When she scanned the ridge, she saw that the impact had weakened it.

She dashed to that spot, hoping that the skest would ignore her.

The travertine was porous and fragile: she was certain of it. And in that one place, it had been damaged. Nonetheless it was stone. It did not crumble easily. Stooping, she gripped the rimose deposit; dug her fingers in among its bulges and knags until her nails tore and her skin bled; pulled at the ridge until the flesh of her palms was shredded.

The stone held.

Behind her, the Harrow roared curses and invocations in alien tongues. Skest burned like pitch, eating away the perfection of the floor. Again the croyel raised his mouth from Jeremiah’s neck to bare its teeth at the Insequent. The creature’s glee stung the back of Linden’s neck like the first caress of acid.

Her hands were not strong enough.