Nevertheless Linden tended them all. She had put them in peril. Without knowing it, she had succumbed to the theurgies of the Feroce. She did not understand what the creatures had done, or how; but she felt sure that they had sent her mind back to Haven Farm. By some means, their green flames had caused that rupture in her reality. They had broken her connection to her present. And she had believed—

Somehow the fact that she had cut herself the previous night had left her vulnerable. Driven by memories, she had led or compelled her companions toward the Sarangrave. Where the lurker could reach them—and her Staff.

Now she tried to make restitution. At least for a time, she was not ashamed of the hue of her power. She felt more chagrin over the immediate consequences of her weakness.

And other issues were more important.

Who or what were the Feroce? What manner of magic did they wield? Why did they serve the lurker? Why did the lurker crave her Staff?

And why had the Ranyhyn abandoned their riders?

Carried in Grueburn’s arms, Linden felt Mahrtiir’s presence nearby. The long strides of the Giants forced him to trot, but the effort suited his compressed anger, his silent fulmination at his own uselessness. And at the actions of the Ranyhyn? Linden could not tell.

Slack as a discarded puppet, Jeremiah dangled in the cradle of Galesend’s clasp. He stared at nothing, as though the sky were empty of stars. Linden still did not know whether he ever blinked. Yet Earthpower pulsed in his veins. It had become part of him, as essential and vibrant as blood—and as devoid of purpose as his sealed thoughts.

Stave had dismissed his pain; but he was still covered in filth, stained from head to foot with mud, despoiled flesh, and the shredded remains of plants that fed on rot. And Coldspray, Cabledarm, and Bluntfist were no cleaner. Fetid water drained from the confines of their armor as they plodded between barricades of hills. Latebirth and Onyx Stonemage had not fallen: only their legs were caked and sodden, roped with mire and stems and putrid skin like vines. Yet their strides were as leaden as those of their comrades, clogged with old death, as if the touch of the Flat’s foulness had wounded them emotionally.

Or as if—

Linden groaned to herself.

—they had suffered some spiritual blight while she had floundered to escape the conflagration of the farmhouse.

Why did you prevent our aid?

God, what had she done?

In the confusion of flames and terror, she had thrown her medical bag. Because Covenant had told her, Do something they don’t expect. And because the marks on her jeans had shown the way. She must have thrown the Staff at the same time; must have believed that the Staff was her bag.