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

pursuing
turiya
—they would have headed northwest from the Shattered Hills.
    Covenant looked around at the caliginous vista of the grass, the slope rising incrementally toward the east, the greying of the world. When he was ready, he announced, “I want to stop for a while. I ache everywhere. I need to walk around some. I’m sure this nag”—he indicated Mishio Massima with his chin—“can use a break.” In fact, the Ardent’s beast seemed preternaturally hardy. Unlike the Harrow’s charger, apparently, this horse had been bred for endurance. “If nothing else, it probably wants grass. And we should talk.”
    He felt sure that the Humbled had much to tell him—if they chose to do so.
    Clyme and Branl consented promptly: a bad sign. Had they trusted Brinn’s advice, they would have argued that Covenant required haste. But they slowed their mounts without a word. Mishio Massima eased to a bone-rattling trot, then jerked to a walk like a thing formed of tree-limbs rather than flesh and bone.
    Before the beast halted, Covenant slid out of the saddle. At first, his legs refused to hold him, and he dropped to his knees. Fortunately the turf cushioned the impact. Then he forced himself to his feet. Stifling a groan, he began to stamp in a circle, trying vainly to drive some sensation back into his ankles and feet. Their numbness affected him like imminent vertigo: he needed to rediscover balance. As he moved, he twisted his trunk from side to side, testing the condition of his ribs. Briefly he rolled his head and swung his arms. When he had assured himself that he was substantially intact, he took a few deep breaths and braced himself to confront the Humbled.
    They had dismounted. Now they stood facing him, Branl with his clenched frown, Clyme with his hands curled into fists. But the mounts were moving away, trotting westward. Covenant guessed that they had caught the scent of water.
    Alone with his companions, he rubbed at the crusted blood around his eyes; probed the new scar on his forehead with the nub-ends of his fingers. His fingers felt nothing, but the tenderness of the cut assured him that it needed more time to heal.
    The Humbled had not endured their
ak-Haru
’s reproach gently: that was obvious. Groping for a tone of respect, Covenant said, “I’m not sure, of course. I was asleep. But I get the impression there are things you should tell me. Something happened while I was out—and I’m not talking about Kevin’s Dirt. Did Brinn say anything else? Did he—?”
    Clyme interrupted him curtly. “He did not. We were not heeded. No further speech was exchanged.”
    Covenant stared. “Are you sure? He said something about a boon. A service. He didn’t tell you what it was?”
    Brinn was
Haruchai
: he could have spoken to the Humbled mind to mind more fluently and thoroughly than aloud.
    “He did not,” Clyme repeated, rigid as metal. “He refused our mental communion, as only Stave has done heretofore. In his thoughts we found only silence.”
    Frowning like Branl, Covenant wavered on his feet. Keeping his balance was as difficult as he had feared. Too much had happened. He needed the feedback of nerves which no longer communicated with the rest of his body.
    To that extent, at least, he knew how the Humbled felt. The Guardian had undermined their foundations.
    “What does that mean to you?” he asked carefully. “Has he given up on us?”
    After a moment, Clyme appeared to relent. His shoulders released some of their tension. Less stiffly, he replied, “When the
ak-Haru
had extended his strength for your healing, he was much reduced. Indeed, he resembled a man drawing the last breaths of extreme age. We deem that he did not speak again of a boon because he had come to the end of himself. He could not do more.”
    Ah, hell, Covenant sighed. He hated to think that Brinn had simply passed away. After so much time and devotion—He wanted to believe that his former companion would find some form of resolution or contentment; but Clyme gave him scant reason for hope.
    However, he could not afford to dwell on grief. Other issues were more compulsory.
    “Then tell me what’s changed for you.” He strained his eyes to study the faces of the Humbled. When neither of them spoke, he made an attempt to sound gentle. “Was being criticized by your
ak-Haru
that bad?”
    Both men stiffened. Their anger made them vivid in the gloom. Branl’s glower looked fierce enough to split his skull. Clyme