Covenant alone gave her any hope. With Loric’s blade, he had found a way to control the croyel. But he was failing. Joan’s power had done him irremediable harm, and it burned brighter with every passing moment—

God, Joan must hate him! Or perhaps he represented everything that she loathed in herself. Even turiya Herem’s possession hardly sufficed to account for her focused vehemence now. The Raver could only keep her alive, and fan the fires of her rage, and blaze with delight. He had not caused her long years of self-inflicted anguish.

Linden did not know why Covenant had not already screamed and fallen. To some extent, his leprosy shielded him. His proximity to the source of Kevin’s Dirt accentuated his affliction. The essential pathways of agony had been killed or cauterized. But still—

Was that his secret? The keystone of his impossible valor? Had alienation and numbness somehow made him more than human?

Around Linden, the rest of her companions gathered. Galesend bore Anele, who had fallen asleep again. Latebirth still carried Mahrtiir, while Onyx Stonemage cradled Liand’s unconscious form. Limping on gnawed legs, in feral pain which he refused to acknowledge, Stave preceded the Ardent. Wreathed in ribbands, the Insequent approached unsteadily. Stifling his confessed fears, he forced himself to join Linden’s friends. In a knot of cloth, he gripped Liand’s orcrest.

Among the Giants, ur-viles and Waynhim stood upright, or braced themselves on all fours, barking quietly: a low clamor of objurgation or alarm. The Ironhand gripped her stone glaive, poised to cut, against Esmer’s neck. But Esmer ignored her as if her great size and strength were trivial; meaningless. Distress seethed in his gaze: he seemed to weep like Linden’s heart.

He did not move—and Rime Coldspray did not. Her eyes were fixed on Jeremiah and Covenant and the krill.

Hoarsely Mahrtiir asked, “Do we confront the croyel?” Apparently the Staff in Linden’s hands had restored a portion of his health-sense. “Does this malice possess the Ringthane’s son?”

No one answered him. Like Pahni, Esmer studied Linden. The Ardent watched Cail’s son fearfully. Everyone else seemed transfixed by Covenant’s struggle to withstand Joan.

His hands would never be healed.

His scar reflected argent like a scream cut into the flesh of his forehead. His silver hair resembled flames of wild magic: his mind may have been on fire. In spite of his illness, he was wracked by so much pain—

As if he did not expect anyone to hear him, he gasped, “Joan knows what I’m doing.” His voice implied a wailing defeat. “Or turiya does. She’s stronger now. I’m not protecting the Arch. I can’t hold on.”

Linden would have been willing to maim herself for his sake; but she did not know how to block Joan’s madness. She had never known.

Covenant held the croyel. Clyme held Jeremiah.