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

“What—?”
    Now a different kind of shock reeled through Linden. Kastenessen was gone—but he had not been Anele’s only vulnerability. More than once, another being had possessed the old man.
    “This grass,” Stave stated flatly, “is of another kind. That which cloaks the hills about Mithil Stonedown grows more thickly, and remains shorter.”
    And nothing had harmed Anele among the lush verdure of the Verge of Wandering. Still—
    Linden studied the grass, probed it with her health-sense. “But it’s similar. I’m not sure that it’s safe.”
    “
Mom?
” Jeremiah insisted.
    The Giants stared. Some of them gathered nearby. The others seemed content to stand and breathe. None of them interrupted Linden’s concentration.
    Covenant turned his horse to face her. He watched her as though he knew what was in her heart.
    “I’m sorry, Jeremiah,” she said, thinking furiously; trying to calm herself. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But I don’t know how much you’ve inherited from Anele. Kastenessen wasn’t the only one who could use him. Lord Foul—” The memory of the Despiser’s voice in Anele’s mouth ached like a bruise too deep to heal. “Whenever his feet touched a certain kind of grass, Lord Foul could take him.”
    Whenever the Despiser had felt like taunting her.
    Even his aid had been manipulation. True, he had led her to hurtloam. Indirectly he had enabled her to avoid recapture by the Masters. But that ploy had served his purposes as much as hers. If the Masters had been able to prevent her from reaching the comparative sanctuary of the Ramen and the Verge of Wandering—prevent Hyn from choosing her—prevent her from retrieving the Staff of Law—she would never have been able to find Loric’s
krill
and resurrect Covenant. But she also would not have awakened the Worm.
    “I don’t want that to happen to you,” she told her son. “It was agony for Anele, but at least he knew how to mask himself. There were parts of him that Lord Foul and Kastenessen didn’t recognize or couldn’t reach. If you have to defend yourself that way—if you go back into hiding—I’m afraid that you won’t be able to get out again.”
    He had no bones with which he might devise another portal. His racecar was gone.
    The troubled silt of Jeremiah’s eyes held more than surprise; more than chagrin. Their sullen smolder looked like fury.
    “That doesn’t make sense,” he protested.
I want Lord Foul dead
. “I stood on grass when we went to the Sarangrave. When we drank at the edge of the marsh. Nothing happened.”
    “I know,” Linden admitted. She had not known then that he was vulnerable. “But maybe that was the wrong kind of grass. And Lord Foul isn’t Kastenessen,”
compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence
. “He only shows himself when it suits him.
    “We know that he wants you. At some point, he’s going to try to take you.”
    She ached to protect her son; but her warning seemed to miss its target. His expression grew darker.
    “Fine,” he muttered. “Let him try. I don’t care. Kastenessen surprised me. Lord Foul won’t.”
    His attitude stung her. For the first time in their lives together, she wanted to slap him; to get his attention somehow. But she held back. In spite of her alarm, she could see that he would not heed her: not on this subject, at this moment. His bitterness was too strong. And she knew how he felt. His manner reminded her of herself when she had been about his age, at her mother’s abject bedside. If anyone then had told her not to end her mother’s life, she would not have listened. Her own distress had ruled her, and she had already chosen her path.
    “Then don’t rush into it,” she replied unsteadily. “It’s going to happen whether you’re ready for it or not. And the Despiser is stronger than Kastenessen.” A lot stronger. “Give yourself as much time as you can.”
    Jeremiah glared at her for a moment. Then he turned his head away. “Fine,” he snorted again: a response that gave her nothing.
    Linden winced. She did not know what to say. She had been possessed once herself. More than once, she had fled within herself in terror and dismay. She knew at least that much about what he had endured—and what lay ahead of him. But she could not simply
tell
him what those experiences had taught her, or what they had cost. No description would suffice.
    Aching for him, she sighed, “All right. As long as you know what might