Then Linden thought that she would surely move. She would go to the ring and take it, if for no other reason than because she trusted neither the Appointed nor his ebon counterpart. Vain was either unreachable or utterly violent.
Findail showed alternate compassion and disdain as if both were simply facets of his mendacity. And Covenant had tried to warn her. The abrupt brutality of his dismissal drew anger from her waning heart.
But she had waited too long. The mounting winds blew through her as if she were a shadow Covenant's head had become far more real than her legs; she could not shift them. The ceiling leaned over her like a distillation of itself, stone condensed past the obduracy of diamond. The snapped fragments of the stalactites were as irreducible as grief. This world was too much for her. In the end, it surpassed all her conceptions of herself. Flashes of rocklight seemed to leave lacerations across her sight. Findail and Vain struggled and struggled toward the ring; and every one of their movements was as acute as a catastrophe. Vain wore the heels of the Staff of Law like strictures. She was fading to extinction Covenant's dead weight held her helpless.
She tried to cry out. But she was too insubstantial to make any sound which Mount Thunder might have heard.
Yet she was answered. When she believed that she had wasted all hope, she was answered.
Two figures burst from the same tunnel which had brought her to Kiril Threndor. They entered the chamber, stumbled to a halt. They were desperate and bleeding, exhausted beyond endurance, nearly dead on their feet. Her longsword was notched and gory; blood dripped from her arms and mail. His breathing retched as if he were haemorrhaging. But their valour was unquenchable. Somewhere, Pitchwife found the strength to gasp urgently, "Chosen! The ring!”
The sudden appearance of the Giants defied comprehension. How could they have escaped the Cavewights? But they were here, alive and half prostrate and willing. And the sight of them lifted Linden's spirit like an act of grace. They brought her back to herself in spite of the gale pulling her away.
Findail was scarcely a step from the ring. Vain could not hold him back.
But the Appointed did not reach it.
Linden grasped Covenant's wedding band with the thin remains of her health-sense, drew fire spouting like an affirmation out of the metal. It was her ring now, granted to her in love and necessity; and the first touch of its flame restored her with a shock at once exquisitely painful and glad, ferocious and blessed Suddenly, she was as real as the stone and the light, as substantial as Findail’s frenzy, Vain's intransigence the Giants' courage. The pressure thrusting her out of existent did not subside; but now she was a match for it. Her lung took and released the sulphur-tinged air as if she had a right to it. With white fire, she repelled the Elohim. Then, as kindly as if he were alive, she slid her legs from under Covenant’s head.
Leaving him alone there, she went to take the ring.
For an instant, she feared to touch it, thinking its flame might burn her. But she knew better. Her senses were explicit this blaze was hers and would not harm her. Deliberately, she closed her right fist around the fiery band.
At once, argent flame ran up her forearm as if her flesh were afire. It danced and spewed to the beat of her pulse. Bu it did not consume her, took nothing away from her: the price of power would be paid later, when the wild magic was gone. Instead, it seemed to flow into her veins, infusing vitality. The fire was silver and lovely, and it filled her with stability and strength and the capacity for choice as if it were a feast.
She wanted to shout aloud joy simple joy. This was power and it was not evil if she were not. The hunger which had dogged her days was only dark because she had feared it, denied it: It had two names, and one of them was life.
Her first impulse was to turn to the Giants, heal the Firs and Pitchwife of their hurts, share her relief and vindication with them. But Vain and Findail stood before her the appointed held by the clench of Vain's hand-and they demanded her attention.
The Demondim-spawn was looking at her: a feral grin shaped his mouth. Rough bark unmarked by lava or strain enclosed his wooden forearm. But Findail could not meet he gaze. The misery of his countenance was now complete. His eyes were blurred with tears; his silver hair straggled to his shoulders in strands of pain. He sagged against Vain as if a his strength had failed. His free hand clutched at his companion's black shoulder like pleading.
Linden had no more anger for them. She did not need it. But the focus of Vain's midnight eyes baffled her. She knew intuitively that he had come to the cusp of his secret purpose-and that somehow its outcome depended on her. But even white gold did not make her senses sharp enough to read him. She was sure of nothing except Findail's fear.
Clinging to Vain's shoulder, the Appointed murmured like a child, “I am Elohim. Kastenessen cursed me with death-but I am not made for death. I must not die.”
The Demondim-spawn's reply was so unexpected that Linden recoiled a step. “You will not die.” His voice was mellifluous and clean, as perfect as his sculpted flesh-and entirely devoid of compassion. He neither dismissed nor acknowledged Findail’s fear. “It is not death. It is purpose. We will redeem the Earth from corruption.”
Then he addressed Linden. Neither deference nor command flawed his tone. “Sun-Sage, you must embrace us.”
She stared at him. “Embrace-?”
He did not respond: his voice seemed to lapse as if he had uttered all the words he had been given and would never speak again. But his gaze and his grin met her like expectation, an unwavering and inexplicable certainty that she would comply.
For a moment, she hesitated. She knew she had little time. The pressure which sought to recant her summoning continued to grow. Before long, it would become too potent to be resisted. But the decision Vain required of her was crucial. Everything came together here-the purpose of the ur-viles, the plotting of the Elohim, the survival of the Land-and she had already made too many bad choices.
She glanced toward the Giants. But Pitchwife had no more help to give her. He sat against the wall and wrestled with the huge pain in his chest. Crusted blood rimmed his mouth. And the First stood beside him, leaning on her sword and watching Linden. She held herself like a mute statement that she would support with her last strength whatever the Chosen did.
Linden turned back to the Demondim-spawn.
For no sufficient reason, she found that she was sure of him. Or perhaps she had become sure of herself. White fire curled up and down her right arm, plumed toward her shoulder, accentuated the strong rush of her life. He was rigid and murderous, blind to any concerns but his own. But because he had been given to Covenant by Foamfollower-because he had bowed to her once-because he had saved her life-and because he had met with anger the warping of his makers-she did what he asked.
When she put her arms around his neck and Findail's, the Elohim flinched. But his people had Appointed him to this peril, and their will held. At the last instant, he raised his head to meet his personal wϋrd.
In that instant. Linden became a staggering concussion of power which she had not intended and could not control.
But the blast had no outward force: it cast no light or fire, flung no fury. It might have been invisible to the Giants. All its energy was directed inward.
At the two strange beings hugged in her arms.
Wild magic graven in every rock,
contained for white gold to unleash or control—
gold, rare metal, not born of the Land,