Eventhe stayed. She’d dreamed for years of the moment when the Eye would suffer for its sins–but not like this. Sometimes when she couldn’t meditate, she would picture the miners who lolled outside her door taking up their picks and giving them to their Pupil landlords, who would work to death in their own mines. She’d never wanted this.
She would wait at the other end of the sandbar, away from the refugees, Arcite and Emaria and everyone else. No use going farther; she hid in deserts. The whole world was desert now.
The Glass Thief 