Before the Ardent could protest, Mahrtiir put in, “I stand with the Ringthane, Giants, as I have done from the first. Also we have cause to consider that there may be no salvation for the Land if we do not redeem her son.”

“If you fear to remain among us, Insequent,” Stave added without inflection, “depart. I stand with the Chosen as well. And I deem that the Swordmainnir will not consent to abandon any member of their company.”

“Aye,” Frostheart Grueburn panted. “We are Giants, are we not? Having joined our fate to that of our companions, we will endure or perish with them. Also,” she added, “children are precious to us. We cannot gainsay Linden Giantfriend in this.”

The other Swordmainnir nodded; but Clyme stated flatly, “We concur with the Ardent. To delay here invites calamity. If the Land can be redeemed, its salvation lies with the Unbeliever, not with Linden Avery’s boy.

“In addition”—his tone sharpened—“we question whether Esmer’s presence is potent to quench wild magic when white gold is held by its rightful wielder. Linden Avery,” he commanded, “release the ring to the ur-Lord. Let us discover whether he is as powerless as this scion of merewives wishes us to believe.”

Oh, God. Clyme’s order stung Linden to the heart. He might be right. The ring—In the wrong hands, it’s still pretty strong. But it doesn’t really come alive until the person it belongs to chooses to use it. Esmer’s influence might not suffice to block the true white gold wielder.

Twisting in Grueburn’s arms, Linden turned to Covenant. Days ago, unaware of Roger’s glamour, she had declined to surrender the ring. In Andelain, struggling, she had sacrificed it to the Harrow. Now she did not hesitate. With one hand, she swept the chain over her head, extended Covenant’s wedding band toward him.

“Here,” she demanded; pleaded. “Take it. It’s too dangerous for me. Even if Esmer weren’t here, I couldn’t save us.”

Not from She Who Must Not Be Named.

Until that moment, Covenant had seemed preoccupied with pain, too hurt to react. Yet he heard her appeal. Meeting her gaze, he gave her a look of anguish, stricken and faltering, as if she had asked him to betray himself—or her. His hair resembled a silver conflagration, as if his thoughts burned with dismay.

Nevertheless he did not refuse. He may have believed that he was responsible for her plight; and he was not a man who shirked. Trembling, he reached out with his charred hands.

He would not be able to grip his ring, but he could cup it in his palms. Branl or Clyme would loop the chain around his neck.

Spitting spume like nausea, Esmer said, “You regard my treacheries too lightly.” So swiftly that Linden hardly saw him move, he swept toward Covenant.