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

time, sealed against change as though its perfection had been made eternal—and eternally numinous.
    Bespelled, she gazed about her like a figure in a dream, forgetting life and love and peril for the sake of an ecstasy that surpassed comprehension.
    But Stave stood in front of her. She did not know him; or she did not see him; or he had no significance capable of distracting her from wonder. The scar of his lost eye dragged a frown across his visage. His hands gripped her shoulders and conveyed nothing.
    “Chosen,” he said as if he spoke from the far side of the world. “Linden Avery. Will you not hear me?”
    She gazed past him or through him as though he were only a figment, too tenuous to require notice. He may have been no more than a blur in her vision. Soon her sight would clear, and he would be gone.
    “This place is known to me.” Every word vanished as soon as he uttered it, absorbed by astonishment. “I have learned to set aside its power.” For no apparent reason, he studied her closely. “It is known to you as well, Linden. We stand where we have stood before, among the mazements of the Lost Deep. Then, however, Earthpower and the Staff of Law enabled you to turn aside from enchantment. Now you must reclaim yourself by other means.”
    In a small voice, Linden asked, “Why am I here?” But she was not talking to Stave. She simply did not understand how she had come to be blessed by so much beauty.
    His frown deepened. “A query with many replies, Linden. One is that I have guided you hither, knowing no better place for your purpose.” He hesitated; gave a slight
Haruchai
shrug. “I have no apt language for such matters. It is my belief that translations by wild magic are directed by clarity of intent. Heretofore our courses and destinations were determined by the Ranyhyn. Matters obscure to us were plain to them. Now we have found our way unaided.”
    His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Here, however, you did not choose our course. The burden of clarity was mine. As I once conveyed you to Revelstone without your consent, so also I have brought you to the Lost Deep. If I have erred, the fault is mine.”
    He was fading. Linden could hardly see him. By slow increments, an exquisite pleasure erased him from her sight. Soon her eyes would be clear, as untrammeled as the palace, and as precious. She wanted nothing in life except to see and hear and touch and smell—
    “Why have we come?” he continued as if he did not know that he was almost undone. “Another reply is that the bane rises. Though the distance is great, Her emanations are distinct. Seeking your son, Linden, we roused She Who Must Not Be Named. Thereafter it was conceivable that She would relapse to somnolence. She had been deprived of her prey by the Timewarden. Doubtless Her wrath was great. Yet She had also fed upon the soul of High Lord Elena. At another time, She might have resumed Her ancient sleep.
    “Yet now I perceive that She could not. The flood which was released against the
skurj
has filled the abyss of Her slumber. Indeed, those waters are withheld from the Lost Deep only by the lingering theurgies of the Viles. Such an inundation cannot harm a being such as She Who Must Not Be Named. Nonetheless it vexes Her. Therefore She rises.”
    The man’s tone became more urgent, although he existed only as vagueness. “She
rises
, Linden. And I fear—” His fading hands shook her. “Linden, hear me. I am
Haruchai
. I fear nothing, yet I tremble. I fear that the bane will ascend to Kiril Threndor. I fear that She will discern the scent of Corruption and the puissance of the Timewarden. I fear that She will fall upon them in fury and lay the Timewarden waste.
    “For that reason I have guided you here. It is my hope that you will call out to Her with wild magic. It is my prayer, Linden, that you will draw Her to us before She nears Kiril Threndor.”
    He must have wanted something from her. Why else did he mar the palace with his voice, his hands, his insistence? But each word evaporated as soon as his mouth shaped it. He might as well have made no sound. He persisted in her sight as nothing more than a dwindling imperfection among the meretricious entrancements of the ballroom.
    “Linden.” Although he sounded as calm as snow-clad peaks in clear sunshine, he conveyed a subtle desperation. “You must hear me. All of life tilts on the edge of a blade, and I am afraid. My hand remains able to strike you, and to