Later she returned to the stretch of sand where Covenant sat with Liand, Pahni, and Bhapa. While Mahrtiir paced, and Anele snored to himself, Galt stood with Jeremiah and the croyel like a carving in the Hall of Gifts, a close grouping of conflicted figures as unreadable as the first dim gleam of stars. Farther up the canyon, the Swordmainnir continued their Giantclave, speaking quietly so that they would not disturb their companions.

Knowing that she needed rest, Linden stretched out on the sand with one arm folded beneath her head for a pillow. But then she decided that she would not sleep. She feared her dreams. Instead, she told herself, she would only relax and think until she was ready to face the challenge of Jeremiah’s straits.

But the sand seemed to settle around her, adjusting to her contours as comfortably as a bed. Between one thought and the next, she dropped like a stone into a soothing river of slumber.

When she awoke, she knew at once that midnight had passed. Dawn was still some hours away. And there was no moon. Apart from the impersonal glitter of the stars, the only light was the ghostly illumination of High Lord Loric’s krill. Its gem shed silver streaks past Jeremiah and the croyel as if Linden had awakened in the insubstantial realm of the Dead.

From his seat across the sand, Covenant regarded her with argent like instances of wild magic in his eyes. Linden could not tell whether or not he had slept. She was only sure that he was present, concentrating on her as though she embodied futures which had no reality without her.

Around the floor of the canyon, several of the Giants slept like Anele, abandoned to their need for rest. Liand and Pahni had gone somewhere, apparently seeking a degree of privacy. Alone among his human companions, Bhapa had hidden from his doubts and dreads in slumber. However, the Ironhand, Frostheart Grueburn, and Onyx Stonemage remained watchful, although they lay propped against boulders in attitudes of rest. Barely visible against the heavens, Clyme and Branl stood motionless on their respective hillcrests. And Mahrtiir still paced, measuring out his frustration in bearable increments. To avoid disturbing the sleepers, he had gone down to the water’s edge, where he fretted back and forth beside the stream.

As quietly as she could, Linden grasped the Staff of Law and rose to her feet. While she brushed sand from her clothes, she confirmed that Jeremiah’s racecar still nestled in her pocket; that Covenant’s ring hung on its chain around her neck. The time had come. She was not ready for it. Perhaps she had never been ready for anything. Nevertheless she had made up her mind.

Now or never.

How often had she said that to herself?