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respite while Linden tried to persuade Findail.
    But she did not hesitate—and did not leave the cabin. Turning to face the prow, she rasped the name of the Appointed stridently, as if she expected to be obeyed.
    Almost at once, the sunlight seemed to condense against the wall; and Findail came flowing out of the stone into human form as though he had been waiting there for her call.
    His appearance was unchanged: behind his creamy mantle and unkempt silver hair, within his bruised yellow eyes, he looked like an incarnation of all the world’s misery, an image of every hurt and stress that did not touch his tranquil and self-absorbed people. Where they were deliberately graceful and comely, be was haggard and pain-carved. He appeared to be their antithesis and contradiction—a role which appalled him.
    Yet something must have changed for him. Before the crisis of the One Tree, he would not have answered any summons. But his manner remained as distant and disapproving as ever. Though he nodded an acknowledgment to Linden, his voice held a note of reproof. “I hear you. Vehemence is not needful.”
    His tone made no impression on Linden. Bracing her fists on her hips, she addressed him as if he had not spoken. “This has gone on long enough,” she said stiffly. “Now we need answers.”
    Findail did not glance at Covenant. In
Elemesnedene
, the
Elohim
had treated Covenant as if he were of no personal importance; and now the Appointed seemed to take that stance again. He asked Linden, “Is it the ring-wielder’s intent to surrender his ring?”
    At once, Covenant snapped, “No!” Refusals ran in him like echoes of old delirium. Never give him the ring. Never. It was all that remained to him.
    “Then,” Findail sighed, “I must answer as I may, hoping to persuade him from his folly.”
    Linden glanced up at Covenant, looking for his questions. But he was too close to his internal precipice: he could not think clearly. Too many people wanted him to surrender his ring. It was the only thing which still wedded him to life, made his choices matter. He did not respond to Linden’s gaze.
    Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, gauged his condition. Then, as if she were wrenching herself back from a desire to comfort him, she turned away, faced Findail again.
    “Why—?” She spoke with difficulty, wrestling words past a knot in her chest. “I hardly know where to begin. There’s so much—Why did you people do it?” Abruptly her voice became stronger, full of indignation she had never been able to forget. “What in God’s name did you think you were doing? All he wanted was the location of the One Tree. You could’ve given him a straight answer. But instead you locked him in that silence of yours.” They had imposed a stasis upon his mind. If Linden had not risked herself to rescue him, he would have remained an empty husk until he died, blank of thought or desire. And the price she had paid for that rescue—! Her outrage pulled him into focus with her as she concluded, “You’re responsible for this. How can you stand to live with yourself?”
    Findail’s expression turned into a glower. As soon as she stopped, he replied, “Does it appear to you that I am made glad by the outcome of my Appointment? Is not my life at hazard as much as yours? Yes, as much and more, for you will depart when your time is ended, but I must remain and bear the cost. The fault is not mine.”
    Linden started to protest; but the gathering sadness in his tone halted her. “No, do not rail against me. I am the Appointed, and the burden of what you do falls to me.
    “I do not deny that the path we chose was harsh to the ring-wielder. But are you truly unable to see in this matter? You are the Sun-Sage. He is not. Yet the wild magic which is the crux of the Arch of Time is his to wield, not yours. There lies the hand of evil upon the Earth—and also upon the
Elohim
, who are the Earth’s Würd.
    “You have said that we serve the