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

the Unbeliever, the Timewarden, waiting for him to make a decision. As if there could possibly be any doubt—
    But he ignored them. Instead he faced the Feroce.
    Wreathed in green, they clustered a few paces beyond him. Some of them stood with their feet in the pond, but they did not sink away. Again they appeared to commune with each other. Their fires danced like language in their hands.
    Linden winced at the sight. They were definitely smaller. Shrinking. Losing faith.
    Covenant’s impatience showed in the clench of his shoulders, the rigidity of his back. He seemed to want some form of confirmation from the creatures, even though the company’s path was obvious. After a tense pause, he demanded, “Now what? We can’t just hang around here. We don’t have time.”
    The Feroce did not look at him. Their voice quavered as if they expected to be struck down.
    “You will be wroth with us. You will not heed.”
    “What?” Covenant’s surprise echoed faintly around the walls. “I’m going to get angry because you’re trying to help? Why?”
    Two of the creatures pointed at the fissure. “You must not enter there. It misleads.” Two others indicated the rank moil of the second inlet. “You must follow richer water.” Then they crowded closer together. “Now we perish. You will not suffer us.”
    “Thomas!” Linden protested. She gestured urgently toward the crack. “That water is
fresh
.” It did not stink of threats.
    Giants nodded their assent.
    “Oh, stop,” Covenant growled at the Feroce. “I’m not going to do anything to you. None of us are.” He squinted over his shoulder at Linden, then addressed the creatures again. “But we need an explanation. ‘Richer’ water? I assume you mean water with more crud in it. That doesn’t make sense. Never mind that it’s likely to poison us. Suppose you’re right. Suppose it does run closer to the Wightwarrens. Even Giants can’t swim against that kind of pressure. And we sure as hell can’t hold our breath long enough to find air.”
    “Wait a minute,” Jeremiah murmured. Ebony tendrils curled across the pond. They searched along the far wall. But he did not say more; and the alarm clamoring in Linden’s ears prevented her from heeding him.
    “So tell me,” Covenant continued. “Why
that
water? Why is a trail we can’t even follow better than one we can?”
    The creatures flinched. Their fires guttered. “We are the Feroce. We obey, as we must. We cannot answer ire.”
    Covenant swore softly.
    Quivering, the damp voice said, “We do not know your goal. We do not know the mountain. But we taste the memories mingled here. Those waters do not hold the Maker’s scorn. Other powers enrich them, yes. They urge false worship, abhorrent to us, seductive.” The Feroce shuddered. “Yet we are certain. Memory is certain.”
    “Wait a minute,” Jeremiah said again.
    Everyone ignored him.
    “The stream of mere water. The plain path. It misleads. It does not recall light. No light has shone upon it. No sun. No flame. No magicks.”
    No light—?
    “Stone and Sea!” rasped the Ironhand. Other Giants muttered their chagrin.
    The
Haruchai
watched and listened as if they were drawing different conclusions.
    “The richer waters,” said the Feroce, “remember much. They recall darkness and horrible strength. Strange theurgies. Time without measure. And light. Light! In a distant age, they have known the sun. They have not forgotten.
    “The memory is there.”
    As one, the creatures pointed at the turbulence spewing from beneath the surface of the pond.
    Oh, God. Floundering, Linden thought, Light—The cascade of fresh water had never seen torches. It had never felt the ruddy glow of rocklight. Therefore its long plunge did not intersect the catacombs. Even Cavewights needed illumination.
    But the other stream—Ah, hell. That impassable gush came from the Soulsease. It had once traveled the Upper Land. It had known the warmth of the sun. And far to the west, the Soulsease entered the Wightwarrens. But only a few days ago, it had lost its way through the mountain. Now it plunged toward the Lost Deep. For that reason, it was fraught with the anguish and rage of She Who Must Not Be Named.
    “Thomas.” Linden’s voice had fallen to a whisper. She was too frightened to raise it. “I can’t. There’s no way—”
    She could not submerge herself in water that reminded her of the bane. She would go mad.
    In a taut rumble, the Anchormaster