It was whole. Esmer had restored it perfectly. She could not see that it had ever been damaged. If some force had held it to its track, it could have followed the recursions of Jeremiah’s raceway construct endlessly.

Needing witnesses, she held it up for her companions to see; but she was deaf to their reactions. Deliberately she showed it to Jeremiah and the croyel, hoping that the toy would look like an augury of hope to her son—and a threat to the monster. Then she inclined her head to Esmer: a show of thanks. She had no words for her gratitude; or for her sharp shame.

The racecar’s renewed perfection filled her with weeping. At the same time, however, she saw it as a reproach, as mordant as recrimination: a reminder of the extent to which she had failed Jeremiah. Even Esmer, who intended treachery, had done more for her son than she could.

And Esmer’s gift did not rectify any of his crimes.

But she kept what she felt to herself. There was nothing that she could have said without bursting into tears. When everyone around her had beheld the racecar, she shoved it back into her pocket. Then she turned to Covenant, although she spoke indirectly to the Ardent.

“It’s time.” Somehow she faced the strict compassion in Covenant’s eyes. The loremaster had done what it could for his hands. She had done nothing. “That thing—whatever She is—She’s coming.” Because he was who he was, she made no attempt to conceal her weakness; her accumulating defeats. “We have to go.”

In spite of his pain, Covenant seemed to peer into her heart. She saw understanding and sorrow in every flensed line of his visage, every inflection of his gaze. He had urged her to find him—and had faulted himself for doing so. His whole face proclaimed that he blamed her for none of her actions; none of their consequences.

Like her, however, he did not speak of what he felt. Instead he put his hands behind him as if he did not want her to feel responsible for them. “You’re right.” He made a visible effort to muffle the hurt of his burns, but it ached in his tone nonetheless. “She’s getting close.” Then he looked past her at the Ardent. “If you can do this without the Harrow—?”

The Ardent nodded without hesitation. “Assuredly. Here I do not fear that I will fail the intent of my people. Their powers will suffice.

“However”—he glanced around the company—“my task will be eased if we are less widely scattered. Giants, will you consent to bear the lady and her companions, as you have done before?”

“Aye,” the Ironhand assented promptly. “To escape this snare, we would carry even the Demondim-spawn on our backs.”

At once, Frostheart Grueburn approached Linden. Cabledarm drew Pahni away from Liand while Bluntfist scooped Bhapa into her arms.