As she regarded the croyel, it turned its head to gaze at the malformed throne with malignant rapture. A grin bared its fangs.

Involuntarily, as if the monster’s attitude compelled her, Linden asked, “That thing.” Her voice shook. “That throne. Do any of you recognize it? Do you know what it represents?”

She did not expect a reply from Esmer, although she felt sure that he or the Demondim-spawn could have answered her. But perhaps the Ardent—

The Insequent shook his head with an air of misery, as if he could sense dangers worse than jaws crowding toward him. Flatly Branl said, “The Haruchai have seen or heard nothing to account for it, or for any secret hidden within the Lost Deep.”

Abruptly Jeremiah raised his head. Grinning like the croyel, he said, “It’s a copy of a-Jeroth’s throne in Ridjeck Thome. An exact copy. It might as well be the place where Lord Foul sat while he still thought he could get what he wants with armies and war. The Viles made it after they stopped worshipping themselves and started trying to do something useful with all that power.

“It’s homage.”

The croyel’s grin was as feral as its desire for Jeremiah’s blood.

Instinctively Linden shied away from the sight. It hurt her more than Covenant’s fragmented absence.

Homage? she thought bitterly. No. Jeremiah’s possessor was lying again—or distorting the truth. The Demondim had been used by Lord Foul. The ur-viles had served him for centuries or millennia. But she had met Viles: she did not believe that they had ever bowed down to the Despiser.

Above Glimmermere, Esmer had asserted as much.

“Linden Giantfriend,” insisted the Ironhand. “I fear that the Ardent’s alarm augurs ill for us. We must attempt to cross the Hazard ere She Who Must Not Be Named rises.

“And”—she turned to Galt—“we must not be slowed by the boy. Master, I acknowledge your devoir. I honor it. But it impedes us. If you will permit me, I will hold the krill in your stead, bearing Linden Giantfriend’s son as I do so. Doubtless there is evil in any contact with the croyel, but I am armored against it.” She tapped her cataphract. “And we will no longer lag behind our companions.”

Like Covenant, if in a different fashion, Linden was losing her grip on the present. She had struggled for too long; had depleted herself over and over again—Remembering the Viles, who had once been worthy of admiration, she also remembered her parents, from whom she learned her deepest nightmares. She did not know how to endure the croyel’s rapt avarice.

Briefly Galt appeared to hesitate. Presumably he, Branl, and Clyme were debating the implications of Coldspray’s suggestion. Then the Humbled reached a decision.

Nodding to the Ironhand, Galt shifted to make room for her.