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

lip, Jeremiah resisted a desire to start protesting before he reached his companions. Fortunately Rime Coldspray turned toward him while he was still a short distance away. Although her disapproval was obvious, her gaze steadied him. Clearly she did not intend to keep ignoring him.
    Troubled gusts stirred up dust, carried it away. Clad in twilight, the Giants resembled shadows or stones. Like shadows or stones, they looked deaf to persuasion. Still Jeremiah walked closer until he stood near Coldspray at the edge of the arc.
    None of the Giants spoke. Stave did not. But they were all looking at him now.
    For a moment, Jeremiah clamped his teeth down on his lip. Then he tried to say something that would not make his mother’s friends angrier.
    “I know you’re tired.” He was whining: he heard it in his tone. That, too, he hated. “I know you need rest. But I can’t tell how long this is going to take”—he gestured at the slope of rocks—“or how much time we have, or how many
Elohim
we can save. And it’ll be harder at night.
    “I want to get started. Why is that wrong?”
    He felt the attention of the Swordmainnir. Nevertheless they conveyed the impression that they wanted him to go away.
    The Ironhand shifted her shoulder so that she faced Jeremiah more squarely. Even seated, she was taller than he was. She seemed to glare down at him in the gloom.
    “Young Jeremiah,” she sighed, “we are Giants. Children are more than our joy and our delight. They are our future—if the notion of any future has meaning in these fraught times. We are endlessly indulgent.”
    Before Jeremiah could ask, Then why are you mad at me? she said more sternly, “But by the measure of your kind, you are not a child. Much has been given to you. Therefore much is expected in return.”
    Wincing, Jeremiah retorted, “I know that.” The sound of his own truculence disgusted him. It sharpened the vexation of the Giants. But he did not know how to control it.
    “Do you, forsooth?” drawled Frostheart Grueburn. “You conceal your wisdom well.”
    Latebirth and Cabledarm offered their own ripostes; but the Ironhand gestured them to silence. On their behalf, she asked Jeremiah, “Do you indeed comprehend what Linden Giantfriend has done for love of you?” Her tone was a bared blade. “Your manner suggests that you do not.
    “I do not speak of her search for you across many centuries and uncounted leagues. Other mothers have done as much, if in differing times by different means. Nor do I speak of her surrender to the machinations of the Harrow, or of her perilous descent into the Lost Deep, or of her many efforts to relieve your absent mind. These things might other mothers have done as well. We ourselves have done much in Lostson Longwrath’s name, and we are not his mothers.
    “Now, however, Linden Giantfriend has exceeded our conceptions of love and fidelity.” Rime Coldspray’s voice cut. “She has surpassed the hearts of Giants. Knowing that you have need of her, she yet prizes your worth so highly that she has hazarded more than her own extinction. She has dared the end of all Time and life. This she has done for the Land’s sake, aye, but also for yours, that your endeavors here may accomplish their intended purpose.
    “Does her attempt not express her devotion? Does it not merit your esteem?”
    Remember that I’m proud of you.
    Jeremiah’s immediate reaction was a flare of anger. “She
left
me.” But then tears burned his eyes, and he wanted to weep. He understood what his mother was trying to do—and yet he had treated her courage like a betrayal. Winds swirled around him like misery. Abruptly he sank to the ground; sat cross-legged with his elbows braced on his thighs and his head down.
    Come on, he commanded himself bitterly. Don’t be a baby. If you start crying now, I’ll never forgive you.
    In a small voice, he asked the scoured dirt, “What do you want me to do?”
    Gradually the Ironhand’s aura lost its irate flavor. “Attempt patience, young Jeremiah,” she replied as if she had exhausted her reprimands. “Grant to us an hour of rest. Linden Giantfriend’s fire is a rare gift, but it cannot efface the cost of all that we have endured. When we have rested, two of us will commence the labor which your purpose requires. The others will sleep while they may. When the two must pause, they will awaken two others in turn. By twos, we will achieve what we can until all have slept. With the