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

appeared to understand. With Mishio Massima, they dropped from a canter to a trot and then a walk. In a moment, they halted.
    Clutching the saddle horn with one hand for balance, Covenant reached to Clyme for food.
    His hunger surprised him. He had eaten enough earlier; more than enough. But as soon as he bit into the first berry, he found that he craved the Land’s nurturance. Convalescence was a harsh taskmaster; and his first expenditure of wild magic had depleted his stamina. Careless of future needs, he ate eagerly.
    It was entirely conceivable that he had no future.
    Still the taste and efficacy of
aliantha
gave him their blessing. After a few swallows, the whirling in his head subsided as new energy anointed him with possibilities. As if he were choosing his fate, he devoured Clyme’s supply of treasure-berries. Formally, like an act of contrition, he thanked both of the Humbled. Then he announced that he was ready.
    His mount seemed oblivious to everything except the chance to crop grass. But the eyes of the Ranyhyn rolled fretfully, and long tremors ran through their muscles. He did not believe that they were exhausted: they were the great horses of Ra; and they had not lacked for forage and water. Rather he guessed that they were afraid. They knew where they were going.
    Something about the lurker—Covenant had heard tales of their old trepidation, the only dread that they had never mastered. No doubt he had once known why they felt such fear. Now that memory was gone, lost when he had sealed the cracks in his flawed mind.
    Thinking about the lurker, he felt a pang of his own. He had personal memories of Horrim Carabal; private reasons to be afraid. That the lurker of the Sarangrave feared white gold and the
krill
was no comfort. If
turiya
Raver managed to take possession of the monster, Horrim Carabal would resist Covenant with malice as well as terror.
    Nevertheless he did not hesitate. “What now?” he asked his companions. “How are we going to do this?”
    “I will bear you, ur-Lord,” Clyme answered, “in such a way that you need only press the
krill
into the grass.” He dropped from Hooryl’s back, offered his arms to help Covenant dismount. “Thus supported, you will complete the enclosure more swiftly.”
    He did not add that any circle he fashioned would be more symmetrical than Covenant’s.
    “Ah, hell,” Covenant sighed. “Why not?” As he let Clyme lift him down, he muttered, “But it’s too bad you couldn’t think of anything even less dignified. I should at least try to look as pitiful as I feel.”
    The Humbled gazed at him without expression. Neither of them replied. Calmly Branl surrendered Loric’s blade.
    Swearing under his breath, Covenant accompanied Clyme away from the horses. He had never accomplished anything without help; and yet he still had not learned how to accept assistance gracefully. Being a leper had taught him to think and act and live alone. He ought to act on his decisions without hazarding anyone else.
    Unfortunately he could not pretend that he was strong enough for his task. When he and Clyme reached a safe distance, he said harshly, “Let’s do this. I’m not getting any younger.”
    Vexed at himself, he unwound cloth from the
krill
’s gem. In the abrupt wash of radiance, he closed his left fist and punched the strange stone with Joan’s ring.
    Again he seemed to become argent delirancy. Power burned in his veins, flamed from his flesh, sprang toward the dying stars. In spite of his mortality, he felt that he had the resources of gods. The sensation was terrible and delicious, an exaltation of wild magic; capable of anything. But it was also brief. It forsook him as soon as he separated his hands.
    Still the effects of that moment clung to him, vivid as vision or prophecy. He hardly felt Clyme scoop him from the ground. He was scarcely aware that Clyme bent low, holding him within easy reach of the turf.
    As if of its own volition, the dagger’s blade sank until it pierced grass and cut soil, pulling Covenant’s clasp with it. Then Clyme began to move so that the
krill
sliced the earth with shining silver.
    Secured against vertigo by Clyme’s unyielding arms, Covenant watched as the flow of power which sustained his line in the grass emanated from Joan’s ring aching on his finger. Indirectly, therefore, it came from the secret recesses of his heart. That was why he had been left so depleted—and so hungry. With wild magic, he expended