The air of the caldera was full of stars. They winked and spangled in front of her, around her, between her and her son, as evanescent and irrefusable as sun-dazzles. They were the gems of Infelice’s raiment, the eldritch jewels of her chiming, and they sang a song of immobility that ruled the basin, dominated the bones. Jeremiah still stood facing his construct with his right arm extended toward Linden: for him, nothing had changed. But Stave had been snared in mid-stride. Impossibly balanced on one foot with the other reaching for its step, he remained like a statue carved from stone.

Linden tried to move, and could not. She had forgotten how to breathe.

Only Infelice moved. Graceful as a breeze, she floated toward Jeremiah with a kind of gentle inevitability, as though his doom had been written eons ago in the materials of his construct.

The Ranyhyn trumpeted warnings that no one heeded.

As Infelice neared Jeremiah, she opened her arms to embrace him with ruin.

In horror, Linden watched as if helplessness were the ultimate truth of her life. She had no answer to it. Perhaps she had never had an answer. It may have been the true source of her despair.

But Stave—

Ah, God.

Somehow he found the will to speak.

“You delude yourself, Elohim.” His voice was a whisper hoarse with strain. Stars like commandments resisted it. Yet he made himself heard. “Do you deem me helpless? I am Haruchai. I do what I must. When you strive to enact your desires against Linden Avery’s son, I will strike a blow which will alter your conception of power.”

Bright gemstones swirled around him, bursts of suzerain coercion. He could not move: of course he could not. Nothing except wild magic could counter the force of the Elohim.

And yet—

—he did move. Slowly, arduously, inexorably, he closed the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

Visibly startled, Infelice turned to stare at him. Her music shaped words which she did not utter. No. You will not.

You. Will. Not.

Ignoring her denial, Stave clenched his fist. His arm shook as he raised it.

At the same time, the pressure binding Linden within herself eased slightly.

She could breathe again. Her heart beat.

Stave had given her a gift greater than power or glory.

It would be brief. In another moment, Infelice would gather enough of her vast magicks to crush the Haruchai.

Linden had to act now.

She was no match for Stave. She did not try to equal him. In spite of Jeremiah’s peril, she ignored her Staff, made no attempt to reach for Covenant’s ring. Infelice would react to any effort of theurgy, any overt challenge. Instead, while the ire of Infelice’s stars forced Stave to lower his arm, Linden slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans.

The pocket where she carried Jeremiah’s red racecar.