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

verge of prostration. But his unsteadiness was vertigo, not fatigue. He began to look stronger as he recovered his balance.
    Still mounted, Linden did not meet his gaze. She was not ready. She still felt stricken by his intentions and her own acquiescence—and by her son’s peril.
    An awkward shrug clenched his shoulders. He left her to herself. Scanning the Giants, he drawled, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you all look like you need a bath.”
    Coldspray gave him a lugubrious frown. “We are clogged with grime, Timewarden, made filthy by long exertion. Indeed, we are altogether unlovely. How might your observation be interpreted wrongly?”
    He blinked at her as if he could not think of a response. Then he muttered in feigned disgust, “Giants.” More loudly, he remarked, “God knows
I
need one. Maybe my eyes are going, but I can still smell myself.” To Jeremiah, he added, “Come on. Let’s at least try to get clean. Maybe we’ll feel better.”
    Jeremiah had kept his seat on Khelen as if he were impatient to continue the journey. He avoided Linden’s eyes as she avoided Covenant’s. But he did not refuse. After only a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to the sand. Together he and Covenant splashed into the stream.
    Linden held her breath until she saw that Covenant did not take Jeremiah beyond his depth. When could her son have learned how to swim? Then she looked away and made an effort to come to terms with her dismay.
    It rose in her, a pressure that felt too strong to be contained. Covenant was taking Jeremiah to Mount Thunder. To Lord Foul. The hills crouched like threats on either side of the ravine, and on the far bank of the watercourse. The sunless stream looked more like vitriol than water. Beneath its vexed surface, it seemed to imply malice. Overhead the stars glittered as if they were trying to warn her.
    If Jeremiah thought that anger and bitterness would preserve him, he was wrong.
    Around Linden, the Giants set aside their swords, then began loosening their cataphracts, shrugging the armor off their shoulders. Of no one in particular, Latebirth asked, “Does the Timewarden mislike his odor? I cannot discern it. My own aroma precludes other scents.”
    “Aroma, forsooth,” snorted Halewhole Bluntfist amid a chorus of muted chortling. “If that is aroma, I am the suzerain of the
Elohim
. For my part, I do not scruple to name it ‘reek.’ ”
    While the other Swordmainnir jested, Frostheart Grueburn came to stand beside Linden. From Hyn’s back, Linden only had to lift her head a little to regard Grueburn.
    In contrast to her comrades, Grueburn looked grave, almost somber. Softly she said, “Linden Giantfriend, perhaps you will consent to speak with me apart from these coistrels. A matter weighs upon my heart. You will do a kindness if you allow me to unburden it.”
    “All right.” Linden’s clothes were still clean, scrubbed by the benison of Caerroil Wildwood’s power. Even her hair was clean. And she welcomed any distraction from herself. “Let’s talk.”
    As she slipped down from Hyn’s back, Stave and Branl also dismounted. At once, the four Ranyhyn turned away from the stream and followed the ravine, taking Covenant’s steed with them. No doubt they sought forage.
    Frostheart Grueburn loomed above Linden. With her back to the
krill
, the Swordmain looked benighted, mired in shadows. A lift of her arm suggested the direction taken by the horses.
    Linden glanced at Stave. “Keep an eye on Jeremiah?”
    Stave shook his head. “Branl will do so.”
    The Humbled was headed toward the stream. There he stopped, watching Covenant and Jeremiah.
    “All right,” Linden said again. To Grueburn, she added, “If you don’t mind Stave’s company.”
    “My concern is private,” replied the woman. “It is not secret. Stave Rockbrother’s companionship is welcome at all times.”
    Linden nodded. With Stave a few paces behind her, she accompanied Frostheart Grueburn up the ravine. At every step, she had to resist an impulse to stamp at the sand with her Staff. Did Covenant expect her to face the things that scared her most? She did not know how.
    Perhaps a dozen Giantish strides from her comrades, Grueburn halted. For several moments, she stood with her face raised to the sky as if she were studying the stars, or listening to them. When she lowered her head to look at Linden—and past Linden at Stave—her aura was troubled.
    “Linden Giantfriend,” she said