An instant later, hands snatched them upward. Quickly Linden released Covenant so that Pahni and Stave could lift him to the surface before he inhaled water. Then she raised herself. Braced on Stave, she gained her feet in a cascade bright with sunshine and sorrow.

When she wiped her eyes clear of rills and lank hair, she saw Covenant aghast in front of her. He seemed barely able to stand; so weak with relief and dismay that he could not find his balance.

“Oh, Linden—” he panted. In the sun’s light, the scar on his forehead looked like a denunciation. “Damnation. I nearly—”

“Don’t say it.” She, too, was panting. Some of the fetters had been struck from her heart: it seemed to fill her chest, leaving too little room for breath. “It doesn’t matter. You saved me.”

“Chosen.” Stave’s harshness hurt Linden’s hearing like a remembered shriek. “He endangered your life.”

Dumbly Pahni nodded as if she shared Covenant’s consternation.

Linden shook her head, pushed her dripping hair behind her ears. “I don’t care.” Memories of Elena and screaming clogged her throat: she could not continue until she swallowed them. “You don’t know where I was.”

Stave’s tone changed. “Chosen?” His irrefusable hands turned her to face him. “Linden?”

Because she had no words for what she felt, Linden reached out for the Staff. Without hesitation, Pahni released it; and at once, Linden pulled it to her, wrapped her arms around it as though it might shield her.

“The bane got me,” she said, still panting. “Or I thought it did. I was part of it, and I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t. Until Covenant—” In spite of Stave’s insistence, she looked at Covenant again. “I don’t care how you did it. You were my only chance, and you saved me.”

Her affirmation eased him. She could see the lines of his self-judgment soften. He made a twisted effort to smile. Opening his hands, he indicated himself: his physical incarnation or his mental presence. “Then we’re even.”

Even? Never! Linden wanted to launch herself at him again; to feel him return her embrace of his own volition. A part of her had spent years dying to be held as well as to hold; withering like a plant that could not live much longer without sun and rain. He was not Jeremiah: he could choose—

Before she moved, however, she saw a quick flaring of alarm in his eyes. He raised his hands to ward her away; stumbled backward. “Don’t touch me.” Some private conflict undermined him: she felt its emanations. He was barely able to make himself heard over the fretted susurration of the current. “Linden, please. I’m not ready. I’ve lost too much of myself. I’m afraid of what I’m becoming. Or what I might have to be. I need to find that out before—” His voice faded. Pain blurred his gaze. The muscles of his jaw clenched. Obviously forcing himself, he finished, “Just don’t touch me. There’s too much at stake.”