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

it is not the worst evil.
    Infelice believed that Lord Foul would use Jeremiah’s gifts to form a prison for the Creator.
The eternal end of Creation is shadow enough to darken the heart of any being
. For that reason alone, her people had no choice. While any of them lived, they would make one last attempt to stop Jeremiah.
    But the prospect did not scare him. He was looking forward to it. Infelice thought that she knew him. She was wrong.
    “Then, Chosen-son,” murmured Coldspray, “I ask that you bring water. Cabledarm must drink. Water may ease her.”
    “Of course.” Quickly Jeremiah looked around for the waterskins. All of the Giants needed to drink. Stave did. Jeremiah was thirsty himself. But Cabledarm—“I’ll be right back.”
    Fortunately Kindwind’s last trek to the distant spring or stream had delivered seven full waterskins: as many as she could manage. Several had been emptied, but Jeremiah found three that still bulged. With the strength of his inheritance, he carried two. One he left within Coldspray’s reach. The other he took into the temple.
    He did not want to look at Cabledarm. Her injuries still seeped blood, in spite of makeshift tourniquets and bandages. Her spirit had been reduced to embers. The idea that those sparks might fade twisted his heart.
    But he could not both lift her head and hold the waterskin. She was too big for him, too heavy. After a moment’s hesitation, he knelt beside Frostheart Grueburn, nudged her gently.
    “I need you. Please. Cabledarm is dying. I’ve got water, but I’m not strong enough to help her drink.”
    With a strangled groan, Grueburn tried to raise her head. Her eyes opened, but at first she did not appear to see. Then her gaze focused on the waterskin. Groaning again, she flung out an arm. Her hand found the waterskin. She dragged it to her.
    While she drank, Jeremiah insisted, “Cabledarm needs that. Did you hear me? She’s dying.”
    Wearily Grueburn nodded. After a few swallows, she wedged her elbows under her, forced herself to rise to her knees. There she paused while she tried to remember strength or balance or at least determination.
    “Chosen-son.” Her voice was an exhausted rasp. “Does your edifice stand?”
    Jeremiah was too anxious to answer. “Cabledarm,” he pleaded. “Water.” Grueburn would recognize the truth for herself when her mind cleared. “I’ll get another waterskin.”
    In a rush, he left the construct.
    Outside, he saw that Coldspray had managed to sit up and drink. In spite of her frailty, however, she was sparing with her own needs. Two swallows, or three: no more. Then she began to rouse her comrades.
    Jeremiah allowed himself a quick drink from the third waterskin before he carried it into the temple.
    He found Grueburn and Stonemage beside Cabledarm. Grueburn supported Cabledarm’s head and shoulders while Stonemage held the waterskin to Cabledarm’s mouth.
    Grueburn glanced up as he entered. “Our thanks, Chosen-son,” she said hoarsely. “Cabledarm will perish, or she will not. In large part, the choice is hers. For the present, this must suffice.” With a twitch of her head, Grueburn indicated the waterskin Jeremiah held. “Succor to our comrades.”
    Glad to be spared the sight of Cabledarm’s peril, he turned away.
    In the gloom beyond the entrance, Rime Coldspray was no longer the only Giant conscious. Halewhole Bluntfist sat nearby, rocking from side to side and holding her head. Latebirth had begun the arduous chore of prying herself out of the dirt. Stormpast Galesend was stirring. And Cirrus Kindwind was already on her feet. She had labored less than her comrades: she rallied with less difficulty. Now she was readying herself to go for more water.
    She gave Jeremiah a grimace that almost became a grin. “We live, Chosen-son. And we have accomplished our purpose. I have said that I honor effort and intent. Now I also honor their outcome. Few in life are given such gifts.”
    Then she nodded in Stave’s direction. “How fares Stave Rockbrother?”
    Before Jeremiah could reply, he heard a sound in the wind.
    He was expecting the chimes that announced the sovereign of the
Elohim
, waiting for it: the crystalline clear ringing of small bells, lovely and delicate. Instead he heard a sharp clatter like the ruin of gongs; like a welter of huge iron crashing down. It was not loud. Indeed, it seemed imponderably distant, as if it had reached him from the far side of the world. Yet its tone