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

Forestals, and the barrenness of Gallows Howe, lay passions of another kind altogether.
    While her companions waited, staring, Linden stepped back from the Forestal; cleared enough space to wield her Staff. Then she reached into herself, reached into the black shaft defined by runes between bands of High Lord Berek’s iron lore, and brought forth Earthpower and Law for their intended purpose: not for battle and killing, but for sustenance and restoration.
    This might be her last chance to use her Staff condignly. From this moment on, she foresaw only strife and carnage; possible Desecrations. With her whole heart, she sought to give her best to Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s bower.
    Her health-sense guided her, first into recognition of the thetic nature of the Forestal’s harmonies, then into awareness of their interplay, then into sensitivity to their tones and timbres. Her power was as black as the coming storm of the Worm, but it was made for this, God, it was
made for this
. Perhaps her magicks were flames. Perhaps she only imagined them as flames. Nevertheless they suited her purpose. When she had refined her fire to suit the chords and lines of the music which inspired the lush grass and the rushing brook, the willow with its limbs and leaves and glimmerings, the bedizened shade of the sanctuary, she poured out fuligin in the form of vitality.
    She went deep into the dirt to fill it with Earthpower, feed every questing root. Baked and beaten earth she enriched until it became loam. From the soil, she brought Law and energy upward, encouraging sluggish sap, enhancing the hardiness of bark, suffusing boughs and twigs and leaves with anticipation. Among the branches, she added luster to the Forestal’s gleams until they shone like refined stars.
    Everything that Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir had brought into being, she increased. The willow stretched taller, spread its shelter wider. Bursting from the ground, the brook became a stream gurgling with gladness. Grasses grew like dancing until they twined around the feet and ankles of the company. The faces poised before Linden were lit with spangles like epiphanies.
    In response, the Giants bowed low, too entranced for speech. Covenant’s eyes reflected the shining of leaves. Moved in spite of his mood, Jeremiah brought forth gentle flames the color of sunshine from his hands and forearms. Only Stave did not react. He stood with his arms folded as if the sole task required of him was to bear witness.
    And as Linden worked, the Forestal himself seemed to grow taller. His aura of exaltation and severity expanded until the nearest Giants and even Jeremiah backed away, giving themselves room for wonder. The promise of his mien became a cynosure, as compelling as a demand. Soon his fierce vigor filled the bower.
    He needed only an instrument to wield his will against the Worm.
    Then the Ironhand returned, harried by winds, to give Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir what he lacked. While Linden withdrew her power and stepped aside, Rime Coldspray bowed deeply, showing her blade naked in her hands. When the Forestal nodded his consent, she moved to the edge of the bower, readied her glaive.
    With one stroke, she lopped off a limb as tall as she was. As she did so, a sting of pain shot through the music, and the lights of the Forestal’s theurgy glittered furiously. But the willow’s distress soon passed, leaving a renewed tranquility under the canopy.
    Leaves and twigs and all, Coldspray brought the bough to Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir.
    Though it was twice his height, he accepted it easily; held it high as if it were the chorus of a hymn. For an instant, all of its leaves quivered. Then they began to glisten as if they were dewed with power.
    “I am armed,” he sang. “Let every force and foe which disdains the glory of wood and green be warned. Though I have no forest to sustain me, I will not be thwarted while one tree stands at my back.”
    Through a quick blur of tears, Linden watched him as if he had been transformed again; as if he had surpassed his given exaltation.
    “Linden,” Covenant murmured as if he had no other language for what he felt. “Linden. Hellfire.”
    “Nonetheless, ur-Lord,” Stave put in brusquely, “we must depart. If we do not attain a considerable distance, we will not survive the Worm.”
    Covenant shook himself. He seemed to struggle for words. “I know. We should go.”
    His tone said,
Now
.
    “Aye, Timewarden,” the Ironhand sighed. “Doom crowds close