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

that accomplish? We can’t stop the Worm. We just can’t. It’s too much for us.”
    “But I can
slow it down
!” Jeremiah crowed. “If I can build my door before it eats too many
Elohim
, I can buy us time!” With exaggerated patience, he explained, “The
Elohim
are its natural food. If it doesn’t get enough to eat, it’ll be weaker. It’ll move more slowly.
    “Then who knows?” He shrugged as though he knew nothing of uncertainty. “Maybe we’ll think of something. Or Covenant will. He’s like that.”
    If Covenant were still alive. If he had survived his encounter with Joan and
turiya
Raver. And if the Worm did not swallow Jeremiah’s door whole.
By the measure of mountains, it is a small thing, no more than a range of hills
. It would dwarf anything that Jeremiah could build.
    And still the Worm would get all of the nourishment that it needed from the EarthBlood under
Melenkurion
Skyweir. Anele had said as much. He had gleaned his knowledge from a stretch of veined malachite at the foot of the Hazard: stone lined with stains like Linden’s jeans.
    The prospect of acting on Jeremiah’s desires scared her. She drew inferences from it that appalled her. If he did what he wanted to do, she would have to—
    That thought she could not complete. It led her toward places which were too extreme to be contemplated.
    The construct which he envisioned would be vulnerable. It would need protection. She would have to—
    Against the
Worm
? She had never had that kind of strength. No one with her did. Perhaps even Covenant did not.
    She would have to—
    How could she make such choices? How could any mother put her son at risk and not stand ready to defend him?
    And yet—
    He was not the sum of her responsibilities. She had brought about the deaths of
Elohim
and stars. Liand, Anele, and Galt. Even Esmer. All of Lord Foul’s victims. She had awakened the Worm: she bore the burden of a world’s ruin.
    Holding up a hand to ward off Jeremiah’s eagerness, she said, “I’m sorry, honey.” She could not meet his hot gaze. “I need to think about this. It puts a lot of pressure on you, and we can’t be sure what the results will be.” What materials would his construct require? And where in this blighted landscape could such things be found? “I want to talk to Rime Coldspray.” She already knew what Stave and Mahrtiir would say. “Then I’ll decide.”
    “Mom!” he protested. But almost at once he bit down on his frustration. Sounding truculent, he muttered, “Talk as much as you want. It won’t change anything. I’m sure I’m right.”
    Linden glanced at Stave, asking him with her eyes to watch over her son. Then she raised her head to the Ironhand. “Do you mind if we talk alone?”
    Coldspray acquiesced with a shrug. Her jaws continued to bunch arrhythmically, chewing prayers or curses, as she walked away along the stream.
    Consumed by her own prayers, Linden followed.
    They did not go far. Linden halted when Coldspray did, still within sight of their companions. Arms folded across her cataphract, the Ironhand stood rigid, waiting for Linden to speak.
    Linden understood her attitude: she read it in the lines of Coldspray’s visage, the set of her shoulders. The Ironhand was not reluctant to talk to Linden. Instead she was shaken to the core by the sight of stars dying; by the sheer scale of what was being lost.
    “Here’s my problem,” Linden began. Reluctance and doubt made her brusque. “I don’t know what to think of Jeremiah. He’s my
son
. Seeing him like this is like seeing a new dawn. But I don’t know what’s happening to him—or in him. After what he’s been through, I don’t understand how he can be so eager. It doesn’t seem natural.
    “Mahrtiir thinks that I should trust him.”
Far more than his wounds have been restored to him, and to you
. “That’s hard for me. Where I come from, people who have been outrageously damaged don’t suddenly become whole. I know that I haven’t said much about my former life.” She had been shot through the heart. Where she had been born—where she belonged—she had no life left. “But back then, I was a doctor. A healer.” Such assertions felt false to her now. She claimed them only so that Coldspray would understand her. “I specialized in trying to help people with broken minds. And I never saw any of them recover completely without facing what happened to them. Not once.
    “I’m afraid for him, Coldspray. I’m