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

potent to endanger Swordmainnir will be perceived at some distance.” With a gesture, he indicated the open plain. “So far from the foes gathered in the region of Mount Thunder, I deem that we are in no imminent peril of attack. And I do not doubt that Hynyn and Khelen watch over us in their fashion.
    “Therefore permit me, Chosen-son. Carry lesser stones as you have need of them. Provide guidance to the Giants. Permit me to make use of my strength.”
    Stave’s voice conveyed an oblique impression of appeal. He seemed to want more than he asked. Apparently being separated from Linden was hard on him. He needed distractions while he waited for her return.
    Nodding, Jeremiah stepped aside. When he had remembered to say, “Thanks,” he added, “I’ll show you more as soon as you’re ready.” Then he turned away to check on the Giants.
    Latebirth had a lump in her arms that she could barely lift alone. Tortuous with caution, she picked her way downward. At the same time, Grueburn strained to loosen a boulder which was too heavy for her—and which might let the rockfall above her slip. Sure of himself in at least this one respect, Jeremiah told her to leave it. “I’ll need it”—it was veined with too much green to ignore—“but we can move it later. For now, we should look higher up.”
    Grueburn gasped a sigh as she straightened her back. For a moment, she raised her face to the stars, groaned unfamiliar curses. “Even among Giants,” she admitted, “I am proven foolish. Clearly movement here will weaken the slope. This I should have discerned without your counsel.”
    Jeremiah felt her weariness. It slapped at him like the wind. But he could think of nothing reassuring to say except, “We still have plenty to choose from.”
    Unsteady as an invalid, she accompanied him upward.
    He studied her sidelong for a moment, remembering his mother and the Staff of Law. Then he slapped his hands together, lifted fire into the night. His flames were more than light and warmth. They were Earthpower. He wanted to believe that their uses were not limited to fusing marrowmeld structures and cooking sour tubers; but he had no one to teach him. He could only learn by trying.
    “When Mom does this,” he said more to himself than to the Swordmain, “it helps.” Reaching out, he grasped Grueburn’s forearm.
    While he concentrated, trying to send his inherited magic into her, she watched him with a glint of hope in her eyes. After a few heartbeats, however, she murmured, “A worthy attempt, young Jeremiah. Alas, it is not the Staff of Law. It warms and soothes. It does not restore.”
    As if he were flinching, he let her go. His failure was obvious. He did not need to hear it named.
    Failure isn’t something you
are. His mother had told him that.
It’s something you
do. She had said it as if she believed it. But it did not feel like the truth. His inability to help Grueburn felt like just another demonstration that he was not
good enough
to deserve success.
    Without warning, he saw Lord Foul’s eyes in the bonfire that had maimed him. Unbidden and compulsory, the memory cut him like the flick of a lash. It cut deep enough to draw blood.
    In that instant, he wanted to hit back. He needed a lash of his own. He saw the
croyel
’s neck gripped in his strangling hands; saw himself pounding the Despiser’s head to pulp with a stone. His eagerness to
hurt them
was so swift and unexpected that he was unable to control it. It snatched a snarl past his teeth before he could restrain himself.
    At once, he slapped his halfhand over his mouth. But he was too late. Frostheart Grueburn had heard him.
    She studied him anxiously. For a while, she seemed to flounder, uncertain of her course. But then she summoned her frayed strength. With elaborate care, softly, she said, “Heed me, young Jeremiah. Linden Giantfriend fears for you. She fears that both the
croyel
and the Despiser have wrought untold harm. Now I discern that she has good cause. But I do not perceive the form or substance of your distress.
    “Will you not reveal yourself to me? There is much to be gained by the setting aside of such concealments. And I remind you that I am a Giant. The burden of joy is mine. It belongs to the ears that hear, not to the mouth that speaks.”
    I don’t believe you, Jeremiah retorted in silence. Hear joy? That’s not even possible. People judge. The
croyel
taught me that.
Mom
taught me that. She judges herself all the