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

that. Stave did it. He and Cabledarm got hurt doing it. All I did was tell them what I wanted. Without them—”
    Helpless as a spectre, Covenant watched and listened. He loathed his silence, but did not know how to break it. Jeremiah did not mention Kastenessen or being possessed. And Covenant had no intention of telling the boy’s story for him; betraying the boy’s secrets. But he had so many other things to say.
    “I know the feeling,” Linden replied harshly. “I’ve taken terrible chances because I felt that way. You’ve seen me. But it happens to all of us. We can’t do everything alone. Or we can’t do enough. Without help, we’re all useless.”
    She was speaking to Jeremiah, but her words—or her anger—may have been directed at Covenant. How often had he said,
Don’t touch me
? How badly had he hurt her by leaving her behind?
    He, too, would have failed at everything without help.
    He could almost see Jeremiah’s needs aching in Linden’s eyes as she turned away from her son. Innominate tensions and uncertainties ruled her. She seemed unable to stop moving.
    Apparently she was trying to focus her attention on Stave.
    The music emanating from the Forestal had changed. It had assumed a more telic mode, as if he were done with study. He had set his sapling upright directly before the fane’s portal. Now he withdrew his hand—and the sapling did not fall. He had already sung its roots into the hard dirt.
    Stonemage and Galesend continued to support Cabledarm. The rest of the Giants gathered closer to Linden. Cirrus Kindwind rested her hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder as if to soothe him until Linden could attend to him again.
    When Linden looked toward Stave, her gaze snagged on Branl. On the flamberge—
    For an instant, she froze. Fright flared in her gaze. Then her features knotted. From the Staff, she summoned a curling flame; sent fire licking up and down the rune-carved surface.
    Bitter as bloodshed, she demanded, “What’re you doing with Longwrath’s sword? Is that how you’re going to kill me?”
    What else could she think? Longwrath had tried more than once to cut her down. She had not seen him since the Wraiths had repulsed his desire for her death from Andelain. And the Humbled had distrusted her from the first, in spite of her history. They had threatened and opposed and judged her.
    Nevertheless Covenant blurted, “Linden, no.” Distress broke through the blockade of his silence. Her reaction was too much for him. “It’s not like that.”
    “Why not?” She did not glance away from Branl, or quench her power. “He’s wanted me dead ever since I resurrected you. What’s changed?”
    While she spoke, Covenant seemed to hear her crying, I woke up the Worm! Is no one
ever
going to forgive me?
    Yet Branl faced her without expression, without moving. He gave no sign that he regarded her as a threat.
    “He killed Clyme,” Covenant said in a frayed croak. “Clyme let
turiya
possess him. Then Branl killed Clyme. The Raver is gone. Everything’s changed.”
    Again Linden froze. He could not read her.
    She would not have forgotten Honninscrave’s sacrifice against
samadhi
Sheol,
turiya
’s brother.
    Now Covenant felt driven to talk. He yearned to tell her about his alliance with the lurker. He wanted to convince her that she had made the lurker’s efforts against the Worm possible.
Writ in water
. When she had eluded the snares of the Feroce, she had saved him and enabled Joan’s end and given the Land precious days of life.
    But he restrained himself. He needed to say such things—but explanations of that kind were not what
she
needed. She had been through too much: her nerves and her heart were too raw. An abstract alliance would not console her.
    Near the fane, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s sapling spread new branches and put forth fresh leaves and grew as if the Forestal had compressed years of rain and sun and rich soil into brief stanzas of hymnody.
    Linden seemed unable to move. Covenant’s revelation must have shaken her conception of the Humbled. But he was not given time to continue. While he groped for better words, words that might ease her, Stave came to stand between Linden and Branl.
    Impassive as polished stone, he said, “Chosen, I am here. I have done as you asked of me.” Nothing in his gaze or his mien hinted at his intent. “Now I am in need.”
    Deliberately he showed her his savaged forearm and hand.
    One of the
Haruchai
. Asking for help.
    At the