Ling's hand was still pressed to her chest when her existence began to reach.
All of her, every part of the Root that was her whole being, had begun to stretch upward, toward something far above both of them in the frozen dark. Threads of her lifted off her skin, pale and shining, rising like steam off warm water in wintter. Her ribbons, long lost in the battles, seemed to drift back into being around her wrists out of nothing. The air around her went thin and bright and very cold.
She was reaching for Immensity.
And she knew it!
Her face went white. She clutched at her chest with both hands as though she could hold herself down, and the threads kept rising regardless, pulling at her, drawing her upward toward the door she had watched slam shut on the Plain of Accord.
In a rush of half-sentences, she told him what she was feeling. Terror, first!
