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

Mahrtiir had come. Soon she would have to face the fears which had harried her ever since Jeremiah had explained his intentions.
    She did not need to raise her head to know that the stars were still going out one by one.
    Perhaps she should have been afraid; but she was too tired. She required more than mere sleep to restore her. She needed good food and drink, long rest—and an easing of her ache for Thomas Covenant.
    Instead of thinking about what she meant to do, she turned to the question of keeping Jeremiah safe.
    In spite of their shouted greetings, the Swordmainnir and the Manethrall did not hasten. Rime Coldspray and her comrades were profoundly weary. A little more time would pass before they came close enough to require Linden’s attention.
    She could at least try to talk to Stave.
    With a muffled groan, she pulled her knees under her, pushed herself up with her arms. Her own fatigue felt as heavy as the ridge. She had to rest for a while before she shifted into a sitting position.
    Mutely Stave extended his hand to help her rise.
    She shook her head. She needed an entirely different form of aid from him—and she had to talk to him about it alone. He deserved that.
    “Stave,” she said or coughed. Her throat was as dry as the wilderland. Deliberately she did not regard her son, or her approaching friends, or what she had done to the cliff. “There’s something that I want you to do for me.”
    Cruel days ago, the Mahdoubt had said of the former Master,
He has named his pain
.
By it he may be invoked
. That had been her last gift before she was lost to use and name and life. But Linden did not want to insist. She suspected that she would damage their friendship if she pressed him.
    “Then speak of it, Chosen.” His tone was uncharacteristically wry. “Have you not learned that there need be no constraint between us?”
    Responding to a question about Kevin Landwaster, he had once told her,
In your present state, Chosen, Desecration lies ahead of you
.
It does not crowd at your back
. She knew now that he was right. Nonetheless she hoped that he was also wrong.
    “All right.” She tried to clear her throat. Then she gave up. Coughing intermittently, she said, “I have to go away, and you can’t come with me. I want you to stay with Jeremiah.”
    Stave’s silence seemed louder than curses. Was he not her friend? Had he not endured the spurning of the Masters for her? Had he not stood by her in every crisis? The ferocity with which he could have protested, and did not, made her flinch.
    “Covenant said it,” she explained hoarsely. “It’s all about power. I have to assume that Jeremiah has enough malachite. If he does, the Giants will find a way to help him. He’ll be able to build his door. And it will work. The
Elohim
will come. I have to assume all of that.
    “So he’s going to draw the Worm. I have to assume that, too. And when he does, he’ll be in danger. He has too many enemies. I might be able to hold off Roger, but I can’t fight Kastenessen. No matter how careful we are, a Raver might slip past us.” If
moksha
Jehannum took possession of Jeremiah—“I can’t even imagine what Lord Foul is going to do. And we don’t have a prayer of resisting the Worm.
    “We need more power.” She was pleading. “I’m going to go look for it. But I can’t bear to do that if you don’t stay here for Jeremiah.”
    Stave’s flat mien concealed his reactions. His aura seemed to assert that he had no emotions. Yet Linden had seen him grieve over Galt. And she knew his concern as well as his fidelity. Surely he had other human feelings as well, in spite of his stoicism and his vast memories? Surely he could understand her?
    He sounded as ungiving as schist as he asked, “Where will you go?”
    “I’ll tell you.” She was done coughing. “Everyone has to know.” She no longer flinched. “But I’m not brave enough to say it more than once. This part is between us. It doesn’t involve anyone else.”
    Again Stave was silent. Linden folded her arms over the Staff, held it against her heart, and tried to match him.
    After some consideration, he said, “Do not mistake me, Chosen.” His tone was like the dusk, unrelieved from horizon to horizon. “I await only some mention of the Mahdoubt—or perhaps of the Vizard. Were you not offered the means to command me?”
    Clinging to her weariness as if it were courage, Linden replied, “I won’t do that. I’m just asking. I’ll beg if