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

imagine—you might want to remember that we didn’t
start
it. It’s the Despiser’s doing. We couldn’t have prevented anything. All we’ve ever done is react to what he does.
    “Even if this whole world only exists in our minds—even if damn Foul is just an expression of a part of ourselves we don’t like—we can’t be blamed for it. We didn’t
make
ourselves. We were born into lives we didn’t choose, parents we didn’t choose, problems we didn’t choose. We aren’t responsible for that. We’re only responsible for what we do about it.
    “If what we do isn’t enough, too bad. Let the Creator worry about what happens next. If he doesn’t care, at least he can’t accuse us of anything.”
    Gentle as a caress, Covenant cupped his palm to the side of Linden’s neck and offered to kiss her.
    For a moment, she resisted. He had not given her enough. Nothing would ever be enough. But he had given her what he had. And he was Thomas Covenant, her husband and lover. As much as possible, he was even her protector. And he would do what he could for Jeremiah. She could not refuse him. She did not want to refuse him.
    While she kissed him, she thought, Thomas of my heart. I can’t do this.
    But she imagined that perhaps she could. As long as he never let her go.

    ong moments passed before she found the strength to step back. She was not done with Covenant. She needed his touch, his arms, his mouth. She could have held him, and been held, as long as time remained in the world. But she was also Jeremiah’s mother. Her heart was divided.
    In this, she knew, she was not alone. All hearts were divided, Covenant’s as much as hers. She would not have been surprised to learn that his desire for her and his concern for the Land and his need to confront Lord Foul threatened to tear him apart whenever he faltered. But her divisions were more personal. And when she scanned the company—the Giants washing in the stream and those waiting nearby—she saw no sign of her son.
    Her stomach tightened reflexively. At once, she turned to Stave. “Where’s Jeremiah? You said that Branl would watch him.”
    “He does so.” Stave nodded stolidly toward the shining on the rise beyond Linden. “The Chosen-son parted from the company to wend upstream. Branl followed at a slight distance. He does not neglect his charge.”
    Linden flung a glance at Covenant; but he shook his head. “He didn’t say anything. I tried to get him talking, but he had too much on his mind.”
    If something had happened to her son, she would have felt it. Surely she would have felt it?
    “Beyond the hillside,” Stave continued, “the boy has discovered a stretch of grass among sheltered stones. It bears some resemblance to that which Anele had cause to fear. There he stands, offering demands and imprecations. Yet naught transpires. For that reason, Branl does not intervene.
    “It appears that your son does not partake of the vulnerability or flaw which exposed Anele to Corruption. We conclude that the boy has inherited only Anele’s openness to Kastenessen—a peril which no longer threatens him. His wish to encounter evil is foolhardy, but it does not endanger him.”
    “Or,” Linden countered over her shoulder, “Lord Foul just hasn’t taken advantage of it yet.”
    She was already running.
    Boulders like raised fists complicated her path. Possibilities reeled through her. Stave might be right. The gifts and curses which Jeremiah had received from Anele might have strict limits. She was not lorewise enough to know. But she could imagine other explanations.
    Kastenessen could have used his ability to take Jeremiah at any time, whenever the boy stood on bare dirt. Yet the
Elohim
had not done so, despite his driving pain and fury. Instead he had waited, bided his time until the opportunity he desired presented itself.
    If he could exercise such restraint, Lord Foul could do so with ease. His malice was colder than Kastenessen’s—and far more calculating. The Despiser had allowed Anele to walk on rough grass unpossessed for a considerable distance during Linden’s flight from Mithil Stonedown.
    Yet naught transpires. Linden did not doubt Stave—or Branl. Nevertheless the danger was real. It was always real.
    And Jeremiah did not understand it. He thought that he would be able to defend himself as long as he was not taken by surprise.
    The slope ahead of her was not steep. And she was too frightened to feel tired. She should have been