Yet somehow Covenant endured his agony; his scorched and melting skin. Roger could not aim Kastenessen’s fist at Linden because he was forced to defend himself from his father.

Before the croyel could strike at Stave, the Haruchai bounded up from the floor. Imponderably swift, he whirled a flying kick at Jeremiah’s head. The creature could not evade him.

But its backward flinch diminished the impact of the kick. Jeremiah’s head snapped sideways: blood and saliva sprayed from his lips: he staggered. Wailing, skest scattered to avoid contact with their master. Yet Jeremiah did not go down.

Stave rushed after him. As Jeremiah hit the wall, Stave was poised to deliver a second blow.

A thin stream of blood dribbled from Jeremiah’s mouth. Nonetheless the croyel was unharmed. Perhaps no merely physical assault could harm it. Spite and eagerness frothed in its eyes as its fangs bit down harder on Jeremiah’s neck.

Involuntarily Jeremiah jerked up his halfhand—and Stave fell back as though he had crashed into an invisible wall.

He could not hope to defeat the croyel. In moments, he would be dead. Briefly, however, he had prevented the creature from aiding Roger against Covenant and Linden.

While she could, Linden poured Staff-fire straight at Roger’s face; at his bitter mockery of his father’s features.

Exalted by runes and blackness, weeping and frenzy, she compelled Roger to turn away from Covenant.

Covenant plunged, helpless, to his knees. Smoke rose from his twisted fingers. But he did not release the krill. As if his flesh had melted onto the dagger—had become one with it—he clutched it while he struggled to regain his feet.

Argent still blazed from the krill’s gem. But now its incandescence began to falter. Joan’s awareness of him was fading. She was too weak to support turiya’s demands on her.

A quick glance told Linden that Covenant’s hands would never be whole again. Given time and peace, she might be able to unclose his fingers from the krill without peeling away too much skin. She might be able to straighten them; heal them enough to let them flex. But with her best efforts she would never make them more useful than blunt stumps—

Distracted, she let a blast of Roger’s rage brush her cheek. He may have burned her badly, perhaps disfigured her; yet she felt no pain. Her cracked kneecap did not trouble her. She had not forgotten Jeremiah and the croyel, or the waiting threat of the skest: she had not forgotten Stave or Liand. For the moment, however, she fought as though nothing mattered except what had been done to Covenant’s hands.

Goading herself with the Seven Words, she forced Roger to retreat from his father.

Somehow Covenant regained his feet. Every movement was shrill with pain; but he did not retreat. Instead he advanced on Roger, still aiming the krill at Kastenessen’s hand.