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

Masters—and how the Masters have been misled in their apprehension of you. You and the Chosen—those of your world—The Chosen-son. Hile Troy. You judge by your hearts. It is by grief and regret that you know yourselves, rather than by deeds and effort and service.”
    In his turn, Covenant nodded. “Well, yes.” More than once, he had tried to explain himself to the
Haruchai
; but somehow he had failed to grasp the question implicit in their notions of service. “Grief and regret. What else is there? Those are just other names for love. You can’t feel bad about losing something if you don’t love it first. And if you don’t love, why else would you bother to
do
anything at all?”
    Of course, love was not so simple. He knew that as well as anyone; perhaps better than most. It spawned complications faster than it clarified them. It could be misguided or selfish. It could close its eyes. It could curdle until it became hate. And it implied rejection. Stepping in one direction required moving away from another. But at its core—
    At its core, love was the only answer that made sense to him.
    There is hope in contradiction.
    From where Branl stood, the
krill
left Stave’s features in shadow. Covenant could barely discern the outlines of the former Master’s mien. Only Stave’s eye pierced the dusk.
    Impassive as any
Haruchai
, he said, “It is a terrible burden, Timewarden.”
    Covenant shrugged. “Look at Branl. Look at the Masters. Look at yourself.” Briefly his old rage for the abused of the world rose up in him. “Hellfire, Stave! Look at the
Elohim
.” Then he subsided. Almost whispering, he asked, “Is what you see any less terrible?”
    “It is not,” Stave replied as if he were sure. “It is more so.”
    A moment later, something that may have been a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Were I inclined to the homage of mutilation—which I am not—I would now claim a place among the Humbled. Though they have aspired to emulation, they have not grasped the full import of their desires.
    “Until now,” he added in Branl’s direction, acknowledging what Branl had done and endured.
    Branl lifted a shoulder slightly. “Should the world endure,” he promised, “and the Masters with it, I will undertake to instruct our people.”
    Finally Covenant bowed his head. The Humbled had made it surprisingly easy to forgive the manner of Clyme’s death.

    radually the gloom within the temple became the more ominous twilight of late afternoon. By degrees, it thickened toward evening and full night. Branl remained standing, so motionless that he did not appear to breathe; holding Loric’s dagger steady as a beacon. Stave still sat in front of Covenant, resting while his strength returned.
    In the gathering darkness, the Giants began to wake.
    Frostheart Grueburn was the first. Muttering Giantish expletives, she rolled onto her side and struggled upright. Without a word, she left the fane. When she returned, she brought several waterskins. One she passed to Covenant.
    As Covenant drank, Halewhole Bluntfist raised her head. After gazing blearily around her for a moment, she nudged Onyx Stonemage. Stonemage responded by ascribing a list of offenses to Bluntfist’s parents; but she did not refuse to be roused.
    One after another, the Swordmainnir arose. In the stark illumination of the
krill
, they looked garish, like women who had become fiends while they slept—or had been tormented by fiends.
    Among them, Jeremiah woke up suddenly. His eyes seemed to give off glints of panic as he looked around for some sign of his mother. When he realized that she was still absent, he slumped back to the ground, covered his face with his hands. But then he practically flung himself to his feet. Ignoring his companions, he hurried out of the fane.
    The Ironhand shrugged. No one said anything.
    By turns, the Giants studied Cabledarm’s condition, offered her what encouragement they could. Stormpast Galesend urged a little water into her mouth. They had no other help to give her.
    All of them drank until they had emptied the waterskins. To no one in particular, Latebirth sighed, “I would barter my sword—aye, and my arm with it—for a handful of
aliantha
, and count myself fortunate in the exchange.” Her comrades nodded mutely.
    While Covenant watched, Rime Coldspray stretched her arms and back, loosened her neck. Then she looked at him. “Longwrath,” she said curtly, reminding him of his