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

fray.
    Torrents of wild magic ripped through the Raver.
Turiya
was ancient and enduring, single-minded in his malevolence. He withstood more force than Covenant could have survived. But he was going to die.
    If Covenant did not falter first.
    Badly burned, and dying for air, he grew weaker. He was human, after all, heir to every inadequacy that made life precious. No matter what his determination demanded of it, his body could not absorb unlimited quantities of damage. There were prices to be paid for the feats which he asked of himself. Collapse and unconsciousness were only the beginning.
    Without the lore of forbidding—
    Before the end, however—the Raver’s end, or Covenant’s—the
krill
was snatched away. Covenant almost dropped Joan’s ring, but its chain was tangled in his fingers. Strong arms closed around him, bore him surging toward the surface. He had no time to remember that he was not done; that the Raver was still alive. His head was lifted into the air. Of its own volition, his defeated body fought for life.
    Stentorian as a Giant, Branl shouted, “These waters harm the Pure One! He must be relieved!”
    The Master supported Covenant with one arm. In his other hand, he clasped High Lord Loric’s dagger.
    Deprived of theurgy, Covenant’s head reeled. He could not understand what was happening, could not think, could hardly suffer the burns that ravaged his skin. Confused and thwarted, sick with vertigo, he did not recognize it when the tip of a tentacle slipped between him and Branl; when it curled around him and pulled him out of Branl’s embrace. He only knew that now he hung in the air close to the seethe and lash of the pool. He did not know how or why.
    Below him, Branl sculled as if he were waiting. In fragments of residual clarity, Covenant saw a fretwork of fine blisters on the Humbled’s arms. The fabric of Branl’s tunic appeared to be rotting on his shoulders. The gem of the
krill
blazed with power that seemed purposeless, devoid of meaning.
    Hellfire, Covenant groaned as his mind wandered among his defeats. Hell and blood. What have you done?
    Then he felt
turiya
Herem rising. The viciousness of the Raver’s aura pierced Covenant’s bewilderment.
    With the slow deliberation of a torturer, Clyme of the Humbled broke the surface in front of Branl. They were no more than two arm spans apart.
    At the sight, Covenant’s confusion became keening. That was not Clyme: it was
turiya
. The Raver’s presence was too fierce to be mistaken for anything else.
    The light of the acrid waters reflected in Clyme’s eyes like the eagerness of depravity. The grin baring his teeth anticipated bloodshed and triumph.
    Oh, hell. Hell and damnation. Clyme was possessed.
Turiya
Herem had taken him.
    That should have been impossible. Covenant had said as much. He knew it to be true. The
Haruchai
could not be mastered by anything less than the concentrated evil of the Illearth Stone. They were too strong.
    Nevertheless
turiya
wore Clyme’s body like a cloak. It was his to use or discard.
    Covenant’s heart struck blows like knells inside his chest. His mind staggered, clutching at implications, inferences.
    Turiya
Herem could not have mastered Clyme. That was entirely impossible. It defied reality.
    Therefore—
    God in Heaven!
    Therefore—
    Covenant wanted to wail.
    Clyme must have
admitted
the Raver. He
must
have. No other explanation sufficed. Branl had interrupted Covenant, and Clyme had acquiesced to
turiya
, so that the brother of
samadhi
and
moksha
would not perish.
    So that Covenant would not sacrifice himself trying to destroy the Raver.
    Sweet Christ! What have you
done
?
    If Horrim Carabal had dropped Covenant again, he would have flung himself at Clyme in pure panic. But the lurker’s coils held, and Covenant was too weak to break free.
    Swimming with his head and shoulders above the surface, Clyme glared delight at Covenant.
    “Do you behold me, groveler?” the Raver panted as if words were an unfamiliar exertion. “You have attempted my end, yet you have not overcome me. Now your companion is mine.
    “Will you slay him to assail me? I judge that you will not. Your heart is flawed. It cannot sustain such deeds.”
    Groveler. That ancient epithet suited Covenant. He deserved it. He had become an avatar of abjection in the flagrant depths of the Sarangrave.
    But
turiya
Herem was not done. His malice demanded taunts which he spat out with extravagant glee. Only the effort, the