The Last Dark: The climax of the entire Thomas Covenant Chronicles (Last Chronicles of Thomas Cove)

carry.
    She felt Frostheart Grueburn moving toward her; but she did not know why until Grueburn scooped her from the ground. Clasping her under her arms, Grueburn held her high, extending her into the grey light as if she were the standard around which all of the Swordmainnir rallied; and as Grueburn did so, the other Giants called Linden’s name softly, celebrating her with murmurs. Then Grueburn set Linden on her feet.
    There Mahrtiir took her arm. Baring his teeth like a hunter who had finally found the spoor of his prey, he said, “Come, Ringthane. Lean upon me while you may. In a moment, Stave will summon the Ranyhyn. To spare our companions, we must gain a wary distance ere you attempt the creation of a Fall. We will walk while we await great Narunal and valiant Hyn.”
    Linden accompanied him because he drew her with him. Her attention was contracting. Already the Giants were becoming dim. Stave had begun to fade. Jeremiah was little more than a will-o’-the-wisp bobbing among the boulders and shards. But she was not growing faint with fatigue and fear; not sinking back into the blankness which had overcome her in front of She Who Must Not Be Named. Rather she was concentrating inward, seeking the private door, secret and familiar, that opened on wild magic; the learned impulse which allowed her to invoke rampant argent.
    Its imperfection is the very paradox of which the Earth is made, and with it a master may form perfect works and fear nothing.
Kasreyn of the Gyre had said that. But he may have been wrong. And she was not a master.
    Still she persisted. In recent days, she had surrendered any number of things. The time had come to surrender hesitation and doubt. Like a derelict, she limped over the cratered ground. Step by step, the stains mapped into her jeans and the runes which defined her Staff led her away from her son. Without the Manethrall’s help, she could have fallen.
    Vaguely she heard Stave whistling. Soon the Ranyhyn would come: yet another reason for gratitude. It impelled her to turn her mind outward once more.
    Resting on Mahrtiir’s support, she asked, “You do understand, don’t you? You can let Hyn and Narunal know what we want?”
    “Aye, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir answered steadily. “I comprehend. And that which I comprehend, our mounts will grasp as well. Are they not Ranyhyn, the great horses of Ra, Tail of the Sky, Mane of the World? Their devoir will both serve and preserve us.”
    Linden nodded, but she was not listening. He had said enough. Now she needed wild magic, and it did not come naturally.
    Perhaps she managed a hundred paces. The scuff of her boots cast small plumes of dust into the swirling wind, the increasing chill. Then she heard or felt the approach of hooves.
    Gratitude, she thought. Maybe that was the answer. Gratitude and trust. Jeremiah was alive and free. So was Covenant, in spite of Joan. And Covenant had urged Linden to take this risk. Hyn and Narunal would make it possible. Maybe if she remembered to be grateful and have faith, she would be able to avoid High Lord Kevin’s tragic arrogance.
    When the mare and the stallion joined her, Mahrtiir spent only a moment in homage. Then he boosted Linden onto Hyn’s capable back. A heartbeat later, he mounted Narunal. In the half-light, he looked to Linden like all of the Land’s bounty incarnated in one mere human as frail and fallible as herself.
    Prompted by Narunal’s imperious whinny, Linden passed the Staff of Law to the Manethrall. Covenant’s ring she lifted from its hiding place under her shirt. Pressing the wedding band between both of her hands, she brought forth silver flame as if she had the courage to defy the Earth’s doom.
    As if she believed that good could be accomplished by Desecration.
    In the distance, Jeremiah seemed to call her name. Overhead Kevin’s Dirt appeared to catch fire and burn, lit by wild magic. But she paid no heed. Taking the risk, she created a disruption of Time and history that might destroy the world.

8.
    The Right Materials

    Jeremiah was only a boy, but in some ways he knew too much. In others, he knew too little.
    Dissociation had denied him the normal processes of growing up; the gradually acquired experience of passions and denials, of joys and disappointments. Even in the most practical matters, his development—his acquisition of earned knowledge—had been stunted. At the age of fifteen, he had never so much as changed his own clothes. Certainly he had