Infelice demanded Linden’s attention. “Linden Avery,” she protested in anguish and ire, “Wildwielder, you must not. Does the harm of this night fail to content you? The Insequent speaks of forces which he cannot comprehend. He will hasten the reaving of the Elohim and accomplish no worthy purpose. He will merely gain for himself a scant, false glory while the world falls.”

Stave ignored the Elohim. He did not glance at the Wraiths or Covenant. As if Infelice had not spoken, he said inflexibly, “Be wary, Chosen. I mislike the word of this Insequent. And the exchange which you contemplate is unequal in his favor. It may be greatly so. With wild magic and Law, perhaps wielded through High Lord Loric’s krill, he will acquire an imponderable might—and you will receive only your son. He may prove powerless against the Worm, and still wreak untold havoc ere the end, leaving naught but despair to those who briefly retain their lives.”

Linden hardly heard either of them. Held by surprise at the return of the Wraiths, she watched them bob and flicker over Covenant’s unconsciousness. The precise yellow-and-orange of their fires countered the inhuman silver of the krill. Chiming like the highest bells of a distant carillon, nameless and ineffable, they alit in throngs on his arms and legs, his torso, his face. And each touch was an infusion of their arcane vitality. Together they wove health through him, repairing his over-burdened flesh.

In spite of their generosity, Linden discerned no indication that the Wraiths would or could affect the fissuring of his mind. Nor did they relieve his leprosy. It was inherent to him. It may have been necessary. Nevertheless they swarmed to expend themselves so that his body would be able to bear the strain of his incalculable spirit.

When each Wraith had given its gift, its answer to the animosity between the Elohim and the Insequent, it danced away so that its place could be taken by another small flame.

Reassured, Linden faced Infelice and the Harrow again. Fervently she replied to both Stave and the Elohim.

“I’m not worried about that. If he’s wrong—if he can’t stop the Worm—he’ll die like the rest of us. But he may not be wrong. He didn’t work so long and hard for this just so that he can enjoy a few days of empty superiority. And I am going to free my son. I can’t do anything else, but I can try to do that. I’m going to stop his suffering. I’m going to hold him in my arms at least one more time before the Worm gets us. If he and I have to die, his last memory is going to be that I love him.”

For the span of several heartbeats, Stave considered Linden. When he was confident of what he saw with his single eye, he said simply, “Then I am content.”

“I am not!” shouted Infelice: a raw blare of passion that reminded Linden of Esmer’s eerie power. “Wildwielder, you have become Desecration incarnate. Your folly is too vast to be called by any other name. Do you not grasp that the Harrow intends a fate far more malign than mere extinction for the Elohim?”