“Ringthane,” Mahrtiir put in sternly. “This tortured wight strives ever to provide both aid and betrayal. His struggles we have witnessed to our cost—and also to our benefit. And I do not forget that he received his wounds in defense of the Demondim-spawn, whose fidelity is beyond question. I do not comprehend him. Yet is it not conceivable that he seeks now to ameliorate his wrongs in some fashion?”

Linden glared at Esmer. With her fingers, she measured the damage that the croyel had done to Jeremiah’s racecar. He had brought the toy with him when Roger had abducted him: his last act of initiative or volition—and the only one which did not involve a construct. Had he picked up the car because Lord Foul had told him to do so? Because he belonged to the Despiser? Or did the toy represent something else? Had some private, unreachable part of him claimed the car because he needed it? Because it comforted him? Because it reminded him of her?

Because he was trying to tell her something—?

In the Hall of Gifts, Stave had spoken of the children of the Haruchai—and of his own sons. They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.

Then he had asked, Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son?

There, in the safety of Revelstone, she had replied like a promise, I’m going to believe that he has the right to be himself.

Since then, nothing fundamental had changed. The croyel still possessed Jeremiah—and it was still a liar. While he stood near her, the husk of a living boy, she had more difficulty trusting that some essential part of his nature held true to itself. Nevertheless nothing had changed. Not really.

In Andelain, Covenant had asserted, I refuse to believe he made choices then that can’t be undone.

She had to put her faith in something.

That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end.

Perhaps the same could be said of Esmer.

“All right.” Trembling, she drew the racecar from her pocket. Shards of pain cut her heart with every beat. “But I want it back.”

Esmer did not move. Like Caerroil Wildwood with the Staff of Law on Gallows Howe, he caused the mangled wreckage of the toy to rise from her grasp and float toward him. When he plucked the metal from the air, he folded it in both hands; enclosed it gently, as if he had captured a butterfly or some other fragile creature. For a moment, energies gathered around his head like storm clouds. The flesh of his fingers appeared to blur and melt. Then he tossed the red car upward as though he expected it to flap and flutter like a winged thing.

Instinctively Linden stepped forward, caught the racecar as it fell.