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

knowledge which
moksha
did not share. Retracing his own past, he
dissociated
the Raver; committed Lord Foul’s servant to the graveyard where he himself had once lain, hidden and lost. Almost effortlessly, he dropped the Raver into the waiting earth.
    With Earthpower and newly acquired lore, he clamped down on
moksha
Jehannum until he could no longer hear the Raver’s screams. He piled dirt over the malign spirit, stamped the grave flat. Then he turned away.
    At one side of the cave, Rime Coldspray tried to regain her feet, but she could not. Trying to evade the second monster, Frostheart Grueburn had crumpled to her knees. Canrik had found another splinter of Coldspray’s glaive. Now he looked for an opening, a chance to sacrifice his other hand.
    Gritting his teeth, Jeremiah rose up in power. A detonation like a thunderclap from one heel of the Staff tore the stone-thing apart. Rendered to powder, it fell.
    The floor heaved. The ceiling shed more rocks. Cracks yawned open, grated shut. Here and there, wounds split the walls. Patches of gutrock oozed and ran as if their essences were being squeezed out of them.
    “I’m sorry,” Jeremiah panted: a faint echo of his friends’ gasping. “I mean, I’m sorry that took so long. First I didn’t know how to do it. Then I had to wait for a chance.”
    A chance which the Swordmainnir and Canrik had given him.
    “Do not heed us,” the Ironhand managed to say between broken breaths. “The Timewarden—The Worm—”
    Jeremiah did not have time to think. Covenant needed him. Canrik was already waiting for him at the tunnel toward Kiril Threndor.
    He took the time. “You’re joking.” His tone hinted at
moksha
’s glee. He had enjoyed immuring the Raver. “I can’t leave you like this. You don’t look strong enough to stand.
    “This is Mom’s Staff. It doesn’t really belong to me. But I know how to use it now.” 
    Then he released a second blast of Earthpower.
    This detonation was as fierce as the force which had destroyed the stone-thing; but it was an entirely different kind of theurgy, a more natural magic. It hurt Coldspray and Grueburn, but it did not damage them. Instead it delivered violent healing, a ferocity of repair. He had learned too much too quickly: he was not capable of gentleness. And the Worm was feeding. Concussions spread through the substance of the world. Disruptions of Time mounted toward the last crisis of the Earth. He had to reach Kiril Threndor and Covenant.
    In a moment, he was done. He stamped the Staff on the floor once because he had no words for what he felt. Then he gathered himself to follow Canrik.
    Until he saw Rime Coldspray climb to her feet and test her limbs, trembling as if she were feverish—until he felt Frostheart Grueburn standing near him, and Canrik watching with open surprise—Jeremiah did not notice that the cave was full of warm light. He had taken it for granted—
    The Staff felt like recognition in his hands. It sent out broad swaths of flame as kindly and soothing as sunshine. Its shaft shone with the cleanliness of healthy heartwood. Along its surface, Caerroil Wildwood’s runes remained, distinct as promises, but their meaning was no longer obscure. They were an offering and an appeal: they enabled and prayed.
    To Jeremiah Chosen-son, the descendant of Sunder and Hollian in spirit if not in body, the Forestal’s script pleaded for restoration.

12.
    You Are Mine

    At the edge of Kiril Threndor’s high chamber, Thomas Covenant stood motionless, held by shock and fury while he scrambled to absorb what he saw.
    Anger was not what he needed here: he knew that. If he had failed to see the truth for himself, he could have heeded High Lord Berek among the Dead.
He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage
—Ire would mislead him when he absolutely had to be the master of himself.
    But he could not control what he felt.
    Well, hi, Dad
. That was his son. His
son
, wracked like a plague victim by power and malice.
You took your own sweet time getting here
. His son with Lord Foul’s putrescent eyes.
    The Despiser had claimed Covenant’s lost boy at last. Lord Foul had taken possession—
    The sight set a spark to the driest tinder in Covenant’s soul. Between one breath and the next, he became conflagration; incandescent wrath. Wild fire flushed across his skin in waves like the urgent knot and release of his heart. Flames spat from his eyes, lashed out from his arms and chest. His vehemence