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

returned as if he had never questioned himself. “Why not? Otherwise we’re all just dead. If it’s too much for me, I can always hide again. Lord Foul will still be able to use me, but I won’t have to feel it. Not like I did with Kastenessen, and he only got me because I didn’t expect it.”
    He gave the impression that he meant, Maybe I don’t have to be useless. Covenant said he needs us. But Linden heard more. As if Jeremiah had spoken to her like the
Haruchai
, mind to mind, she heard him say, I want Lord Foul
dead
.
    Oh, my son—
    “Linden?” Covenant asked. Now he sounded deliberately neutral, as if he thought that he had already put too much pressure on her. “It’s up to you.”
    From him also, she heard more than he said.
    I know what I have to do.
    I can’t do it without you.
    She recognized the knots that defined his face, the lines like cuts, the clench of understanding and regret. How often had he regarded her like that? When he knew what the Land’s need required, and regretted it for her sake rather than his own?
    Eventually we all have to face the things that scare us most
.
    A flick of grit forced her to shut her eyes for a moment. She felt suddenly parched in spite of the lingering taste of treasure-berries; scorched by the heat of Covenant’s gaze. She had ashes in her veins instead of blood. God, he was a cruel man sometimes. Cruel and terrible and irrefusable.
    Barely able to clear her throat, she said, “You aren’t just my husband,” Thomas of my heart. “You’re Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. And Jeremiah is willing. I’ll go with you as far as I can.”
    At that moment, the sudden lift of relief and hope and even love in Covenant’s gaze did not touch her. And she ignored the reactions of the Giants. Their Ironhand had already given her assent. Instead she remembered Berek Halfhand among the Dead.
    He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence
.
    The Lord-Fatherer’s pronouncement made her want to weep. He may have been trying to warn Covenant rather than her. He may have been describing Jeremiah.
    Or he may have seen the Land’s doom in all three of them.

    second circle of wild magic. A second rush of disorientation. A second reflexive response from Linden’s wedding band. Then the horses and the Giants pounded as if they were deranged down the bottom of a ravine that Linden almost recognized.
    Weathered hills rose on either side. The cut between them was comparatively shallow, a crooked trough wide enough for the company. The sand and age-smoothed stones of the bottom provided an easy surface for the mounts and the Swordmainnir as they pounded along, slowing with every stride. And ahead of them—
    Black in the unnatural twilight of midday, a stream slid past a widening fan of sand punctuated by the jut of a few boulders. Complaining against rock on the far side, the water flowed down a small canyon that arced around the swath of sand.
    As Hyn’s gait eased, and Linden’s nerves began to recover from the mad reel of translation, she realized that she did indeed know this place. Here the company had rested days ago. Here she had rejoined her companions after Covenant had retrieved her from nightmares of She Who Must Not Be Named. Here the Ardent had delivered a feast, and had lost his grip on name and use and life. And back there, behind her now, lay the ridge of fouled gypsum where Liand and then Galt had been slain, and Anele had perished; where Esmer had passed away: the crest crowned by cairns. In this low canyon, Covenant had ridden away with Branl and Clyme as if he did not want her love. It was a place of loss and struggle and butchery, a black omen.
    The Ranyhyn must have chosen this destination. As far as she knew, Covenant did not have such control over his translations.
    Fortunately the company had arrived in a region of calmer winds. The Worm seemed far away, as if it had lapsed back into abstraction.
    As Mishio Massima slowed, Branl took the
krill
from Covenant, held it up to light the way. Near the water’s edge, the horses stamped to a halt. Heaving for air as if they had run for hours instead of moments, the Ironhand and her comrades stopped. Briefly silver glared like frenzy in their eyes. But within moments they began to breathe more easily. As they looked around, they nodded their recognition.
    At the forefront of the company, Covenant practically fell out of his saddle, tottering like a man on the