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

He did not need to think about it. Instead he tried to understand how the parts fit together. He wanted to see the
design
.
    If he could do that, he would know how to use the Staff. He would have power. He would be able to
do
things. Things that might make a difference. Things that might excuse him.
    Things that might silence the scorn in his mind, block visions of the Worm. Then he would have a chance—
    Linden had given him that gift. His mother: the one who loved him, not the one who had put her own hand in Lord Foul’s bonfire. Studying the Staff, he believed that he would cheerfully kill anybody or anything that tried to hurt her.
    But the design—the secret of Linden’s gift—eluded him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not
see
it. He was beginning to sense some of the Staff’s uses. A few of them might even be possible for him. And while he concentrated on those possibilities, Lord Foul’s visions lost some of their harrowing vividness, their inevitability, their weight of ridicule. Still the design itself, the key that would unlock the gift, was beyond him. He could not alter the blackness of the flames.
    In his heart, he was still only five.
    Eventually his efforts to find his way felt less like his familiar obsession with building. They became a kind of fever, a ragged desperation that went nowhere. When Cirrus Kindwind offered him food, he ate. He accepted water. Vaguely he noticed the Swordmainnir and the sailors talking together, adding details and explanations to their stories, discussing the hazards ahead. He heard them decide to give their dead to the river, hoping that the lurker would convey the bodies to the cleaner waters of the sea. He saw Linden and Covenant wander away together—not far, but far enough so they could at least pretend that they were alone. Without thinking about it, he knew that Stave and Branl watched over the whole company. But his real attention remained fixed on the Staff.
    It should have been everything he wanted. Calling upon the resources of Earthpower and Law should have been as natural as reaching out his hand.
    It was not. His ability to raise and shape flames like midnight blossoms mocked him with all that it was not. His fire did not extend his percipience or ease his fatigue. It was too insubstantial for healing. It had no force. And it was always black.
    The laughter in his head derided him. Involuntary glimpses of the Worm made fun of him.
    Are you not therefore the cause of their sufferings? How then do you now refuse blame?
    The Staff of Law required a Linden Avery—or a Thomas Covenant—and Jeremiah was just a kid.
    Finally he dropped it as if he were merely worn out. With both hands, he tried to scrub the bitterness off his face. Hiding behind a scowl, he gnawed on a dry sausage for a while, drank more water. Then he looked for a patch of level ground where he could stretch out.
    Almost immediately, Linden called, “Jeremiah, honey. Are you all right?”
    He wanted to retort, Leave me alone! I don’t need you worrying about me. But of course if he said that everybody would know how he felt.
    Instead he muttered, “Just tired, Mom. I need sleep.”
    “Rest as much as you can.” Covenant sounded distant. He was thinking about something else. Probably about Linden. “We’re running out of time. I want to start before midnight.”
    Fine, Jeremiah thought.
You
start. I’m going to lie down until somebody takes pity on me.
    But he did not mean that. He meant, I’m lost. I need help. But you can’t help me. You’ve already done everything. The rest is up to me, and I’m not enough.

    e expected to lie awake, chewing his misery while voices laughed and the Worm ravaged. But he was more tired than he realized. He surprised himself by falling out of the world.
    In dreams, he watched the stars spin. At first, they wheeled slowly, as cautious and deliberate as if they were performing an unfamiliar dance. Later they moved faster. And as they swirled, they drew closer to each other, contracting their glitter, leaving the rest of the heavens drowned in blackness, as doomed as the Lost Deep. After a while, they began to collide and join. Yet the merging of one distinct gleam with others, and then still others, did not make their shining brighter. Instead their private lives seemed to extinguish each other. Soon hundreds or thousands of them had become one, and that one was scarcely visible: a dying ember in the fathomless ruin of the night.
    But at