Linden wanted her son near her; but she understood why Galt and Coldspray came last. The croyel was not powerless: it was only afraid. If it decided to risk an attack, its place at the rear would limit its ability to hurt the rest of the company.

The Giants ran with giddy speed. The flawless passage was a moonstone blur. Staring forward, Linden concentrated on the Staff and percipience; extended Earthpower like sunlight to enclose all of her companions. They needed health-sense as badly as she did.

The ur-viles flinched at the Staff’s strength. A few raced ahead: others dropped back. Law was inherently inimical to them. But they had demonstrated time and again that they could withstand its effects, at least briefly. Linden counted on that. She was not confident that she or any of her friends would be able to resist the seductions of the palace without fire and Law.

The bane’s advance had become a visceral pounding. Its pulse thudded in Linden’s bones. She half expected to feel the walls of the passage shake. But the roused evil’s force was not physical: not yet. It was a drumbeat in the spirit rather than the substance of the stone. Without percipience, she might not have sensed it at all.

As if from a great distance, she heard Covenant mutter, “Hellfire! This is going to be close. We have to hurry.”

The Giants were already running hard. The harsh strain of Grueburn’s breathing rasped in Linden’s ears. She could not imagine how Stave kept up with her. Galt and the Ironhand were falling behind with Jeremiah and the croyel. Yet Esmer matched the haste of the Swordmainnir easily.

Ahead of Linden, Latebirth and then Stonemage burst through curtains of ensorcelled water into the intricate wonders of the palace. On one of the crystal stairways, the two Giants were joined by the Waynhim, less than a dozen of the grey creatures: all that survived of their kind. As the Ardent and a number of the ur-viles entered the chamber, the Waynhim scampered downward, urging Linden’s companions to follow.

An instant later, Grueburn rushed past the curtains; and Linden felt a jolt along her nerves, as if she had been plunged into the frigid waters of Glimmermere. She was exerting far more Earthpower than Liand had summoned earlier: her fire should have sufficed to shed any confusion. But the magicks which sustained the palace were obdurate and enduring. For a moment, her concentration faltered, and the effects of the Viles’ eerie lore nearly caught her. Rugs as sumptuous as tapestries. Immaculate marble. The fountain and chandeliers—the mosaics—Then she tightened her grip on herself; on the Staff. While Grueburn took the stairs four at a time, Linden strove against achievements that surpassed her comprehension.