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

gentle in her bafflement. Therefore she is precious among us.”
    For her, Jeremiah felt a flush of sympathy. He knew too well that an absent mind fostered the illusion of safety—and that the illusion was dangerous.
    Muttering to himself, he looked around for his mother.
    Until Covenant had left to summon the Feroce, he and Linden had slept together on a stretch of churned earth thirty or forty paces closer to the high cliff which confronted the valley. She was awake now, brushing dirt from her clothes, combing her fingers through her hair. As she came toward Jeremiah, her right hand clung to her wedding band, turning it around and around her ring finger as if she feared that it would be taken from her.
    “Jeremiah, honey,” she asked when she drew near, “were you able to sleep?”
    “Mom.” He met her holding the Staff of Law in front of him like a promise—or a defense. “Don’t worry about me. I’m making progress.” He ducked his head to hide conflicting reactions: eagerness for what he might be able to accomplish; chagrin for what he could not. “I mean, sort of.”
    Her concern reached out to him. Argent reflections haunted her gaze like the residue of horrors. Wordless and worried, she hugged him tightly. Then she stepped back. “Remember what I told you. There’s no such thing as failure.
Sort of
progress is better than nothing. Under the circumstances, it’s probably impressive. We can only do what we can.” The ruefulness of her smile twisted his heart. “I need to remember that myself.”
    Before he could think of a response, she turned to meet her husband.
    Covenant came grimly up the side of the valley, walking like a man who had left behind anything that might have softened his severity, his personal commandments. The time had come to essay Mount Thunder; and Jeremiah could see that Covenant was as afraid as Linden. But for him, strangely, fear seemed to be a source of strength. In the illumination of the
krill
, his silver hair shone like wild magic, the contained conflagration of his heart.
    He returned Linden’s embrace briefly; linked his arm with hers as he approached the Giants. Just for a moment, he looked like he might be on the verge of frenzy or tears. Then his expression hardened. The lines on his face resembled slashes.
    “I talked to the Feroce,” he announced unnecessarily. “I guess that’s obvious.” The creatures stood a dozen steps behind him, as timorous as ever, and as compelled. “They say they’ve never been inside the mountain. And they don’t want to go. They call it a
Maker-place
. Lord Foul’s home. It scares them.
    “But the lurker didn’t give them a choice. I didn’t even have to argue. I only had to promise them that
that
”—he pointed down at the gullet of the Defiles Course—“isn’t a Maker-place. It’s like the Shattered Hills. It defends Lord Foul, but he doesn’t live there. He’s somewhere up in the Wightwarrens, probably in Kiril Threndor. The Feroce can help us without going that far.
    “They don’t know what we’ll find. They aren’t sure they’ll do any good. But they know water—especially polluted water. They’ll try to guide us. And—” Abruptly Covenant paused. For a moment, he covered his eyes as if he had been assailed by memories too painful to countenance. Then he controlled himself, shrugged stiffly. “They’ll try to make the water remember where it comes from. If they can do that, it might be as good as a map.”
    “What does he say?” asked Baf Scatterwit. “A map? Does he speak of a chart?” She was becoming agitated.
    The Anchormaster rested a lean hand on her shoulder, murmured a soft command which appeared to soothe her. She smiled at him, nodded, and did not speak again.
    In a taut voice, Covenant finished, “If what the Feroce can do doesn’t take us into the Wightwarrens, we’ll have to find our own way.”
    The Ironhand nodded sternly. “Then, Timewarden, only two matters remain. You and Linden Giantfriend and the Chosen-son must eat to sustain your strength. And we must look to our survival within the mountain.
    “We are Giants, lovers of stone. We do not fear to attempt the hidden passages. Also the Anchormaster and our comrades of Dire’s Vessel will accompany us, for so they interpret the wishes of Brinn
Haruchai
, the last Guardian of the One Tree.”
    Stoutgirth grinned as if he found her assertion risible; but he did not return a jest.
    “Being sailors,” Coldspray