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

constraint. He could imagine himself accomplishing
everything and nothing
,
    hero and fool
    potent, helpless—
    and with the one word of truth or treachery,
    he will save or damn the Earth
    because he is mad and sane,
    cold and passionate,
    lost and found.
    Just like lepers everywhere, he reminded himself so that he would not falter. Just like all of us. Everybody who still cares. We’re all in the same mess.
    “Well, hell,” he drawled unsteadily. “What’s the point of dithering? Now’s as good a time as any.”
    Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The Despiser’s favorite game.
    Wincing as though he expected to be struck down, Covenant released his left hand from the blade’s haft and slapped Joan’s ring against the shining gem.
    In that instant, his whole body became fire.
    He was burning, but he was not burned: he blazed unconsumed. He felt as incandescent as the torrent of wild magic with which Lord Foul had once slain and freed him, yet he was not harmed. All around him, the twilight became darkness, impenetrable, impermeable. But within the ambit of his theurgy, silver reigned. It made every blade of grass along the sloping turf look sacred; distinct and ineffable. Argent lit Branl and Clyme on their Ranyhyn, holding Mishio Massima between them: it etched them against the sunless world as if it had incarnated them from the numinous substance of Covenant’s imagination. Emblazonry shone on Rallyn’s forehead, and on Hooryl’s. Even the Ardent’s horse resembled reified sorcery, ready to run between realities. Power surged in Covenant’s veins until he did not know how to contain it.
    “Ur-Lord!” Branl called through the blare of light. “Be wary! Such might is perilous!”
    But Covenant knew his limitations. He knew the difference between his puissance now and the immensely greater forces which he had wielded in his past life. In any case, he was still too frail to sustain so much power—and this ring was not his. The
krill
was probably burning his halfhand. For all he knew, Joan’s ring was burning his finger. He simply could not feel the pain.
    Deliberately he dropped his left hand to his side, gripped the dagger with only his right. As he did so, the fire left him. He no longer spread brightness and flame in all directions; no longer poured out light as though his flesh were wild magic. But the
krill
’s gem retained the radiance which he had summoned from it. Theurgy ran down the blade like water or blood.
    At once, he stooped to touch the grass with the point of Loric’s weapon. He let the blade’s weight sink in as deeply as it wished, but he made no effort to drive the
krill
deeper. Then he watched as the rough turf became lambent as if it had been touched with ecstasy.
    He feared to see that the
krill
’s touch had killed the grass, left it scorched and withered. But somehow he had invoked a form of power which was not destructive. Instead of dying, the turf continued to shine where he had cut through it.
    Crouched and stumbling, he began to drag the dagger in a line through the grass.
    His heart strained as he moved on. He intended to draw a circle around the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima; to enclose them in wild magic. But of course such precision was impossible for him. Rather than a circle, he was creating a ragged imitation of one. Nevertheless he persisted; and his silver clung to the grass.
    Now he could feel a throb of yearning from Joan’s ring in his wrist and forearm. Her wedding band ached for more power. Perhaps it remembered the use which she had made of it, and craved ruin. But there was no wish for harm in Covenant’s heart, and he was familiar with wild magic. His argent did no hurt.
    Staggering, he looked around to get his bearings. Then he went on, pulling Loric’s dagger through the grass; inscribing his crude and hopeful mockery of a circle.
    His heart beat harder. He tottered from step to step in a cripple’s stoop that cramped his lungs, exhausted his muscles. He wanted to stop. Wanted rest. An end to all this striving and inadequacy.
    But he wanted other things more.
    Gradually he passed behind the horses. Over his shoulder, he could see the place where he had begun. It still shone as though it fed on streams of his life-blood.
    Come on, leper, he urged himself. Just take it one step at a time. One step. At a time.
    Drawing argent with him as if it were alive in the grass, he went on.
    “Hold to your purpose, ur-Lord,” Clyme urged. “You near