CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Whatever Destry had said did not feature much in Ezra’s thinking as he walked through the encroaching trees. A somnambulist, eyes wide open but registering nothing, driven only by the voices running around inside his head, he surged forward. Despite the occasional overhanging branch scraping across his forehead, to break skin, spill blood, he strode on. A hidden or exposed root might cause him to stumble, but nothing more. He did not look for such dangers. The sun, if it was even struggling to shine, barely penetrated the gloom. As if directed by an invisible light, Ezra continued. Nothing would, or could, cause him to deviate.
And then, as if drawing back the blinds, a pinkish light illuminated his surroundings as he emerged into the evening.
To his left, the mountai
