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

that it would topple. “But even if it’s enough, it’s useless. We can’t get at it.”
    “Chosen-son.” Now Stave’s tone was unmistakably a reprimand. He regarded Jeremiah as if the tugging of the fractured gale did not touch him. “You judge in haste. Therefore you judge falsely. Have you come so far in Linden Avery’s care and failed to learn that despair gives poor counsel? If the needed stone lies beyond your grasp, withdraw. Retreat to the foot of the rockfall. Acknowledge this truth, that you are not alone.”
    Jeremiah opened his mouth; closed it. A mordant voice inside him snarled, What’re you going to do? Fly up there? I dare you. But that reaction arose from memories which he strained to suppress. He would have pulled down the ridge gladly to bury them. And Stave was impervious to Jeremiah’s galled incredulity. Withdraw. Fighting himself, Jeremiah moved backward under the pressure of Stave’s severe gaze. Retreat.
    Mom! Where are you? I don’t know what’s going on.
    Retreat from
what
?
    Awkward as a youth who had never been sure of anything, Jeremiah went down the rubble as quickly as he could manage.
    When he reached bare dirt, he peered upward. Just for a moment, he could not locate Stave. But then a suggestion of movement snagged his attention. Squinting, he spotted a hard shape like a piece of condensed midnight untouched by starlight. Stave had already climbed beyond the top of the rockfall. Now he hung splayed against the ridgefront, searching with his fingers and toes for holds which would enable him to lift himself toward the immense hollow cut by Linden and Earthpower.
    He must have been creeping: he hardly seemed to move at all. Jeremiah could not imagine how he found cracks and rims still solid enough to support him. Yet Stave did move. Sudden jerks conveyed the impression that a grip had failed, or a toehold. He appeared to swing from side to side, hanging by one hand; perhaps by one finger. Uncertain as hallucinations, bits of debris dropped away. But he did not fall.
    He was
Haruchai
, born to the crags and precipices and flensing winds of the Westron Mountains.
    If he gained the gouge, he would be able to climb more easily, at least for a while. Its lower surface was not vertical. He would be halfway to the monolith.
    The monolith itself was three times his height, many times heavier. It could have served as a monument for a Giant. He would not be able to dislodge it by simply throwing rocks at it. His only choice would be to work his way higher.
    But toward the back of the hollow, the ascent would become steeper. Then the harmed stone above him would tilt outward. There the slab he strove to reach stood on a crude protrusion like a snout. That formation multiplied the hazards. He would have to climb beneath it, hanging precariously in the air—
    Jeremiah heard one of the Swordmainnir moving toward him, but he could not look away from the small flutter of darkness that represented Stave. Over and over again, he held his breath as if he believed that his own tension might protect the former Master. The whole night had come to this: the little increments, barely perceptible, of Stave’s efforts.
    Wrapped in winds, Rime Coldspray towered out of the night to stand beside Jeremiah. The Ironhand had left her armor and sword behind, but she moved as if she still carried them—and had another Giant sitting on her shoulders. That she had slept was plain. But she needed more than rest. She needed sustenance. Above all, she needed relief. She and her comrades had known little except struggle and strife since they had first approached the Land.
    Briefly she regarded Jeremiah. Then she lifted her gaze toward the ridge and Stave.
    He had almost reached the hollow. Holds broke in his hands; but he cast those shards away and hunted for better grips. Occasionally Jeremiah heard the clatter as rocks hit the slope. At other times, gusts carried the sounds away, and Stave seemed to climb in a preternatural silence, fraught as a clenched breath.
    “Stone and Sea,” murmured Coldspray. “If this is not madness incarnate, it serves some purpose which I do not discern.”
    Jeremiah pointed. “He’s trying to reach that slab. It has malachite I need. But I don’t think he can even get there. He won’t be able to break it loose.”
    “Ah.” The Ironhand released a sigh. “Now I comprehend. The malachite itself is vague to my sight. But consider the stone within which it is