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

not. Covenant would have died decades or millennia before Linden first met him.
    Time was a Möbius strip. Every implication looped back on itself. Every
if
led to a
then
which in turn redefined the
if
. But his human mind could not comprehend causality and sequence in such terms.
    The Humbled regarded him as if he were babbling. Their faces kept secrets.
Try to believe that you are pure
. Who had said that to him? Like his heart, his mind was failing. He could not remember. Then he could. It was one of the
jheherrin
; one of the creatures who had aided him after he had denied their prayer for salvation.
    “Ur-Lord,” Branl said finally. “Your hurts undermine your thoughts. Saltheart Foamfollower cannot be held to account for Corruption’s deeds.”
    Baffled by the simplification of such reasoning, Covenant tried to shake his head. Instead the twilight seemed to waver as if it were dissolving; as if reality itself were in flux. “That’s not the point.” The point was that the
Haruchai
had no sense of humor. “The point is, I’m not going to ride the Ranyhyn.” Foamfollower would not have known how to laugh if he had not been so open and honest in his grief. “I made a promise.” A vow. “Promises are important. You know that at least as well as I do.”
    “We do,” Clyme acknowledged. “We are the Humbled, avowed to your service. We comprehend given oaths. Yet yours contradicts ours. If you do not ride, your death becomes certain. This we will not permit while choice remains to us.”
    They had entered a
caesure
for Covenant’s sake.
    “Do you not comprehend the extremity of your straits? Weakened as you are, your oath cannot hold. Soon you will lapse from consciousness. Then we will summon the Ranyhyn and bear you away. This you can do naught to prevent. Where, then, is the harm in granting your consent?
    “Did you not permit Mhornym and Naybahn to retrieve you from the path of the tsunami? Did their aid not violate your word?”
    You don’t understand. Covenant was too weak for this argument. He could not explain himself to the Humbled. Clyme and Branl had carried him; the Ranyhyn had not. The horses had only helped the Masters help him.
    In various ways, the Ranyhyn had always aided him—but they did so because he did not ride.
    He needed Linden. If nothing else, he had to ask her forgiveness. Express his love. Confess his sins. How else would he ever be able to put his ex-wife behind him? Nevertheless he could not face her like this. Not at the price of another broken promise.
    Holding out his halfhand, he murmured, “Give me the
krill
.”
    The Humbled looked uncertain in the preternatural twilight. Branl may have lifted an eyebrow. Clyme may have frowned. But apparently they could think of no reason to refuse. After a moment, Branl placed Loric’s dagger in Covenant’s grasp.
    Trembling as though his burdens were too heavy for him, Covenant dropped the old cloth: Anele’s last legacy. He did not need it now. The
krill
was cold. Briefly he steadied the forged metal, peered at the inert gem. Then he reached up to pull the chain that bore Joan’s ring over his head.
    “You know why the light went out. Joan was the only rightful white gold wielder here. The only one with a ring that belonged to her. The
krill
’s power died when she did.
    “But I still have a claim on her ring. I married her with it.”’Til death do us part. “And I’m something more.” He had become so in the inferno of the Banefire, and in the apotheosis of his death by wild magic at Lord Foul’s hands. “I’m white gold.” How else had he been able to transmute Joan’s power, using it to heal his mind—and to refuse
turiya
Raver’s malice? “Mhoram said so. Maybe I’m not the rightful wielder of
this
ring, but I can still use it.”
    Shaking, he pushed Joan’s ring on its chain onto the little finger of his left hand. It stuck at the remaining knuckle, but he did not try to force it. He did not intend to wear it long.
    With as much care as he could muster, he closed both hands around the haft of the
krill
. Then, suddenly desperate, he stabbed the blade at the stone under him.
    The dagger was only sharp when it was vivified by the possibilities of wild magic. Lightless, it was dull. It could not pierce cooled lava.
    But it did. As he struck, the scale of his need and the fundamental strictures of his nature brought forth a familiar blaze from the gem: familiar and absolute, as necessary as breath and