And it was familiar. Linden had seen it before. During the last days of her former life, its exact duplicate had occupied the hallway inside the front door of her home: hers and Jeremiah’s. Amid the mundane surroundings of the house, it had seemed so magical and dream-like that she had not asked him to take it down. She had loved it, and him, too much to wish it dismantled.

Nevertheless it had endured only until Roger Covenant had crashed through it like a wrecking ball, seeking her son—and his father’s ring.

Now she understood that Jeremiah had seen this place. He had seen it. He had not drawn his castle from the raw stuff of his sealed imagination: he had copied it from this.

It told her that she was on the right path.

And it was further evidence that Jeremiah’s spirit had indeed visited the Land years before Roger had stolen him from her. His racetrack construct in his bedroom had been a door. Roger and the croyel had told her the truth about that, if about little else.

Instinctively she stopped, halted by wonder and memory and nameless apprehensions. She did not recollect herself until Liand urged softly, “Linden! Your son is surely nigh. And the Harrow’s impatience mounts. We must not linger.”

With an effort, she looked at the Stonedownor as though she no longer knew who he was.

“Lady!” snapped the Harrow. “Despite his many follies, the youth speaks sooth. The Lost Deep matches the scope of its makers’ dreams. The halls and loreworks are vast, extending for leagues. We need not lose our path among them, but our efforts will prove bootless if you cannot contain your wonder. This realm remains hazardous, as does the bane of the abyss.”

His voice expanded to a shout. “We must have haste!”

You’re right, Linden thought. You’re. Right. But still she did not move. Scattered and broken Tinkertoys held her: the ruin of Roger’s passage as he violated her home. She saw omens in the castle. Every line of the ramparts prefigured bereavement.

“Cease your reproaches, Insequent.” The Ironhand sounded bemused by delight. “If you require haste, it will be vouchsafed to you. But briefly, briefly, we must honor our astonishment.” She gazed around as if the sheer size of her pleasure amazed her. “We are Giants, lovers of stone in every guise, yet never have we beheld such glory. This untrammeled perfection—” She stretched out her arms as if she wished to embrace the whole castle. “It is immaculate to the point of melody. In sooth, Insequent, its song is almost audible—”

Some of the Swordmainnir nodded. Others simply stared, entranced and mute.

“We will hasten to your heart’s content,” Rime Coldspray finished: a sigh of reverence or reverie. “But in a moment. In a moment—”

Her voice faded as she studied the lofty edifice.