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

continued, “they have borne with them a goodly quantity of rope. Such providence will surely serve us well.”
    The muscles at the corners of her jaw bunched. “Yet we must breathe. It is certain that the airs within the water’s channels will be foul beyond bearing. Ere long, respiration alone will prove fatal.” Her tone was exposed gutrock. “Therefore I am compelled to inquire. How can we dare Mount Thunder if we cannot breathe?”
    “Maybe the Feroce—” began Covenant darkly.
    Jeremiah took a step forward. “Wait.” His hands itched with anticipation on the Staff. “I’ve been working on this.” He glanced quickly at Stave. “I’m not sure, but I’m learning. Maybe I can—”
    Abruptly he closed his eyes; forgot words. Now or never. His mother had trusted him with her best instrument of power. If he proved her wrong, he would have to return it. Her hopes for him—and his own—would be gone.
    Just for a moment, malice pealed through the dark behind his eyelids. Prove her wrong, puppy? How can you not? You are naught but a tool, a means to an end. Your every deed serves my desires.
    But Jeremiah refused to listen. The whole company was watching. And the Staff was
alive
. In small ways, it answered his Earthpower, his health-sense. He could believe that those responses would grow. And in the meantime—Right here, right now, he could feel the air, taste it; almost touch its nature. He could distinguish between health and sickness.
    Deliberately he poured flames into the cups of his hands. Ignoring their taint, he wrapped them around the Staff. Then he asked the wood for more theurgy than his mere body contained. As hard as he could, he concentrated on breathing—
    —on pushing away poisons and corruption—
    —on rejecting putrescence and vilification—
    —and on drawing the cleanliness that remained toward him.
    And when he knew that he was inhaling and exhaling
life
, he extended his edifice of good air toward his companions.
    See? he told the mockery inside him. I can do this. I can
do
it.
    Then he opened his eyes to see the effects of his efforts.
    Linden gasped as she took an unconflicted breath. “Jeremiah,” she murmured. “My God—” Covenant filled his lungs and seemed to stand taller, as if the air had confirmed him. He gave Jeremiah a look like a shower of sparks from a whetstone. Rime Coldspray and Bluff Stoutgirth raised their heads, sampled the spread of vitality. Grins like promises showed their teeth. With gestures and relief, they exhorted their comrades to crowd closer.
    As the whole company began to breathe more comfortably, the Ironhand announced, “This is well done, Jeremiah Chosen-son. I confess that I did not foresee it. If you are able to sustain such exertions—”
    She swallowed the rest of what she might have said; the questions she might have asked.
    “It’ll get easier,” Jeremiah muttered self-consciously. “I mean, I think it will. I’m not used to it yet. I just need practice.”
    Chuckling, Blustergale swung a clap at Jeremiah’s back that would have felled him. But at the last instant, the Giant seemed to recall that Jeremiah was little. His hand patted Jeremiah gently and withdrew.
    Stave bowed his approval. A tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a smile.
    Behind Covenant, the Feroce squalled in soft voices, as if they feared to be overheard; but Jeremiah did not know how to interpret their cries.

    ow that he had begun to prove himself, he was eager to try the uncertain ascent along the watercourse. But Rime Coldspray reminded him again that he needed food—as did Covenant and Linden. Reluctantly Jeremiah let go of his magicks.
    While they ate and drank, the company discussed uncertainties and perils.
    This approach to Mount Thunder’s heart was Covenant’s idea, but he did not know whether the path of the Defiles Course within the mountain would prove passable. In the past, he had only entered the Wightwarrens from the Upper Land. Certainly the Giants were skilled climbers and delvers. The
Haruchai
were born to crags and cliffs. And they were adequately supplied for their immediate purpose—or so the Anchormaster asserted. Nevertheless they could imagine obstacles which they would not be able to surmount. Water was water, after all. Under pressure, it could find its way through constrictions which would refuse Giants or
Haruchai
or Feroce.
    In addition, the Despiser clearly knew where to look for his enemies; and his