Caesures yowled at her from every direction. Their sheer wrongness made her want to puke up her soul.

Bhapa may have rubbed something under her nose. He may have dabbed a powder as fine as dust onto her tongue. Nothing made any sense—

—until she closed her mouth and swallowed; inhaled through her nose.

At once, the acrid sting of amanibhavam ignited flames in her as if she were tinder, apt only for bonfires and lightning, conflagrations that would consume the housing of her entire life.

She needed flame. Oh, she needed it!

With an inadvertent slash of Earthpower and despair, Linden sent Bhapa tumbling down the slope. Involuntarily her gaze followed his plunge; but she could not afford to watch what happened to him. The Fall which had routed Clyme was only heartbeats away. Bhapa was not swift enough to catch his balance and sprint aside.

This, too, was her doing.

There were four other Falls. They were all advancing. But she did not look at them. Crying curses as if they were the Seven Words, she flung dire Earthpower and Law like a shriek into the abomination which threatened Bhapa.

Perhaps she extinguished it. Perhaps she failed. She did not wait to observe the outcome. Like a surgeon surrounded by carnage, she did not pause to check her work or watch for intimations of survival. With Stave’s help, she whirled away.

Four more caesures. Four unconscionable rents in the necessary fabric of time.

Her Staff was a streak of midnight in Linden’s hands as she wheeled it around her head; lashed ebon fire like the scourge of a titan in every direction. Her theurgy had changed, but she did not feel the difference. It was an exact reflection of her spirit.

Blinded by fury and woe, she did not know whether she snuffed the Falls, any of them. Her own flame consumed her. Moments ago, she had been helpless; paralyzed. She had simply watched while Liand was slain; watched and done nothing. But if Lord Foul, or Joan, or Roger, or any abhorrent bane had stood before her now, she would have striven to tear them apart.

I perceive only that her need for death is great.

God damn right!

Shouting accompanied her grief-stricken rage, her inconsolable slash of flame. She may have been yelling herself. The only voices that she could hear clearly were the cries and excoriation of She Who Must Not Be Named’s victims. Around herself and her companions and the ridgecrest, she created a whirlwind to answer the seethe and distortion of the Falls. But she no longer knew what she did. Exalted or broken by pain and loss, she whipped blackness into the dark heavens until it seemed to erase the stars.

Until Stave reached out to catch hold of the Staff.

Until her vehemence and Stave’s grip nearly ripped the Staff out of her hands.