Struggling to contain his shame and ire and repudiation, Covenant clung to the idea that Linden had saved him. It was fitting. As fitting as his certainty that Joan stood among the ruins of Foul’s Creche. There are always evil means. Even a horror like the lurker of the Sarangrave might accomplish something good in the end.

Rigid with internal conflict, Covenant said through his teeth, “I understand. I think you’re telling the truth. Now I’m ready to talk about an alliance.”

“Ur-Lord,” Branl put in, warning him. “You speak of the lurker of the Sarangrave. Even the Ranyhyn fear such evil.”

Covenant ignored the Humbled. “What are you offering?”

The Feroce also ignored Branl. Cringing before Covenant or Loric’s krill, they answered, “Our High God offers safe passage throughout the great Sarangrave for all who resist the end of life. Already he suffers the presence of one who wanders lost within his realm, bearing a token of power which has no worth against havoc. He will suffer more. All who aid you will be permitted freedom and sanctuary in Sarangrave Flat.”

One who wanders—? Covenant could not guess who that might be, and did not try. “Go on.”

“Also,” said the Feroce, malleable as mud, “we will combat the skest in your name. The Feroce despise them. Our High God feels the approach of havoc. He feels a lesser power as well. From cruel metal, it brings forth lesser hurts. It has wrought other agonies. And it is served by the skest. Our High God commands that lesser havocs must cease. They deflect might from the preservation of his life.

“The Pure One is wise in the ways of salvation. You will end the lesser hurts. If you do not fail, you will do more. Our High God offers the aid of the Feroce. We will clear your path of skest.”

Reflexively Covenant rubbed the scar on his forehead. Clear your path—That was a gift worth accepting. He did not want to lose either the Humbled or their Ranyhyn to the skest.

Probing, he asked, “Is there more?”

Abruptly the flames of the Feroce grew brighter. They seemed to double in size and vehemence, fraught with intentions which Covenant could not identify.

“There is the matter of your defeated beast,” the creatures answered. “Witness a transformation wrought by our High God’s majesty.”

They did not move. None of them waved their arms, or brandished the lamps of their hands, or glanced away from Covenant. Nevertheless their magicks seemed to accumulate puissance within the argent of Loric’s dagger.

Branl took a step forward. He clenched his fists. But he had no one to strike. Like Covenant, apparently, he could not sense a threat.

The destrier raised its head. For a moment, it looked around with an air of puzzlement, as though it wondered what had become of it. Then rage and recalcitrance began to smolder in its eyes.