She heard him. She must have: she paused. Reflections accumulated in her eyes, a wild glare of madness. Her body stiffened as though she feared that he would rape her.

Her reply was a scream that clawed its way out of her taut throat.

“Leper!”

Straining, she lifted her arm; clenched her fist.

Ah, hell, Covenant groaned in silence.

He could not use his hands. He needed them to grip the krill. It was his only conceivable defense. But it was not enough. His life and will and even his love seemed to leak out of him from too many injuries. Tottering on the cluttered seabed, he was too drained to do anything except bare his teeth. And the Humbled could not help him. They had already given him the pure gift of their support. They were not substantial here.

Yet he was not dead. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.

With all of the air that he could force from his rent chest, he made a thin whistling sound through his teeth.

Then he waited for death or life.

Any delay would have been fatal; but he was answered instantly. Somewhere behind him, two Ranyhyn trumpeted defiance into the night.

When he heard Mhornym and Naybahn, he secured his grasp on the krill and mustered his resolve.

Joan heard them as well. She heard horses. Holding her arm poised, she looked away from Covenant.

A moment later, her face crumpled. Her fury vanished. Even her insanity seemed to vanish. Tears welled in her eyes: they spilled into the blood on her cheek and mouth. Her fist dropped.

While turiya Kinslaughterer spat and gibbered within her, she opened her arms to welcome Mhornym and Naybahn.

Careless and quick among the stones and reefs, the shivering pools, the Ranyhyn cantered toward her. As they ran, they neighed again: a kinder call now fretted with compassion and sorrow. Together they came near as if they were eager for her embrace.

On their foreheads, their stars shone like echoes of Loric’s eldritch gem; instances of salvation.

Covenant did not hesitate. He would not be able to stay on his feet much longer. He had to act—

In spite of his peril, he sacrificed a moment for the Humbled. Swinging the krill, he slapped at Clyme’s chest with the flat of the blade. He did the same to Branl. Needy as a supplicant, he touched both of them with the inferred possibilities of wild magic.

A heartbeat later, he lurched into motion, stumbling toward Joan.

The Raver tried to warn her. He howled for her attention; roared to break the enchantment of horses. But in her that magic was older than his mastery: much older. It endured like bedrock beneath the rubble of her madness. Rapt in the face of her one remaining love, she waited with her arms wide while Covenant struggled to reach her.

Five wracked steps. Six.