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

the Land, or perhaps created it anew. Perhaps it gives cause for hope.”
    Then he turned to Rime Coldspray. “I have recovered strength enough for one effort. I will expend it here. Afterward I will pray that we have no more need of it.
    “You must fashion the roof. When it lacks only its capstone, I will ascend. Receiving the stone from those below, I will place it as the Chosen-son instructs. That I will be able to do, that and no more.”
    Jeremiah winced. In her weariness, the Ironhand herself flinched. “Will you?” she asked, stern and anxious. “Stave Rockbrother, the prospect troubles me. The monolith which you dislodged is broken. The portion containing malachite is small by comparison. Still it outweighs you.
    “Your prowess is ever a cause for wonder. Nevertheless I fear that no
Haruchai
could lift and settle that fragment.”
    Gloom masked Stave’s visage. Even his lone eye was shrouded as if it had fallen into shadow. “Yet the choice is mine,” he answered. “The strength is mine. The life is mine.
    “If I am not needed, I will stand aside.”
    Coldspray rubbed her face like a woman disguising another flinch. First with one hand, then with the other, she slapped her cheeks. She seemed to dig deep into herself for a response.
    “Certainly you are needed,” she rasped.
    “Thus in the end,” one of her comrades muttered, “even Giants may be reduced to brevity.”
    Stave nodded. “Then have done with delay.”
    Jeremiah opened his mouth to argue; closed it again. How could he object? His construct was impotent without its capstone. Everything that he and the Giants and Stave had done here hung in the balance. If he wanted to spare the former Master, he would have to suggest an alternative; and he had none.
    Sighing, the Ironhand said, “Come, Swordmainnir. The task exceeds only our muscles and thews. It does not lie beyond our comprehension. We must believe that a feat which may be understood may also be achieved.”
    In response, Cabledarm lifted her head, flexed her arms. “I will join you,” she announced grimly. “I am less than I was. What of it? I am able to stand. Therefore I will be able to stand under some weight of stone.”
    Coldspray nodded. “That is well. You also are needed.”
    Like a woman walking to an execution, she went to the nearest roof stone. There she told her comrades, “Some will lift. Others will serve as pillars. The first pillar will be Kindwind. Cabledarm will be the last. When the roof is complete, Bluntfist and I will pass the final fragment to Stave. Thereafter we, too, will become pillars until the capstone is set.”
    The other Swordmainnir nodded their assent. When Cirrus Kindwind had entered the temple, Rime Coldspray and Stormpast Galesend rolled a chunk of granite inside. There they heaved it upward until Kindwind could crouch under it, accept its weight with her back and shoulders.
    At the same time, Latebirth and Grueburn began shifting another stone. Onyx Stonemage joined Kindwind: a second support. Halewhole Bluntfist and Cabledarm readied themselves.
    Jeremiah, too, was needed: he knew that. The sections of the roof had to be positioned exactly. Otherwise they would not remain in place when they were wedged by the capstone. Yet he did not move. He had lost every resource of excitement. Now he felt only a sickening apprehension.
    How much more would his companions have to suffer because he had suggested building a sanctuary for the
Elohim
?

    or a while, he sank into a kind of paralysis. Matters of scale overwhelmed him: the extremity of the Giants; the consequences of failure. Possible deaths drained the volition from his limbs. But then his fears were thrust aside by a summons which he could not refuse.
    The straining women did not call out to him. Stave did not. His construct did.
    It was crude in every detail, and so tenuously balanced that a nudge might knock it down. At the same time, it was ineffable, capable of mysteries. Eloquent as a paean, it spoke the language of his talents, his deepest needs. He had to finish it.
    Compelled, he followed a Swordmain into the temple.
    Now he seemed calm to himself, although his voice shook and his hands trembled. Fervid and sure, he told the Giants, the pillars, where they had gone wrong; urged subtle corrections of tilt and fit; encouraged them to stand taller under their burdens. While darkness mounted across the plain, he guided the placement of his materials.
    Soon only Halewhole Bluntfist