The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One by Stephen R. Donaldson

and step out into her arms.
    She would not, she swore to herself now, would not sacrifice that hope, or him, for any purpose. Roger Covenant had to be stopped. But if she were forced to a choice between Jeremiah and Lord Foul’s other victims, she would stand by her son.
    Thomas Covenant had believed that the Land could not be damned by such decisions.
    Linden was still afraid, but her indecision had passed. Deliberately she readied herself to go back downstairs.
    On the way, she heard Sandy call, “Linden? We’re done with the Legos. Is there anything else you need before I leave?”
    In the living room, Linden greeted Sandy with a smile; tousled Jeremiah’s hair where he knelt, rocking, beside a tall stack of Lego boxes. “No, thanks. You’ve done enough already.” To Jeremiah, she added, “Thanks for putting your Legos away. You’ve done a good job. I’m proud of you.”
    If her reaction gave him any pleasure, he did not reveal it.
    When Sandy had gathered up her knitting, Linden walked her to the door. “I can’t thank you enough,” she told the other woman sincerely. “I can’t explain what came over me today, but it shook me up. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
    Sandy dismissed the subject with a comfortable shrug. “He’s my sweetie.” Over her shoulder, she asked, “Aren’t you, Jeremiah?” Then she finished to Linden, “I’ll see both of you tomorrow, if you don’t need me tonight.”
    Refraining from more unnecessary thanks, Linden ushered her outside and said good night.
    For a moment after Sandy left, however, Linden did not return to Jeremiah. Instead she leaned against the door and considered the castle which had transformed her entryway. It seemed to contradict her fears, as though it had the power to guard the sanctuary that she had made for her son.

    R elieved for the first time since she had met Roger Covenant, she heated a casserole and fed Jeremiah while she ate. At intervals she paused to talk about anything she could think of—horses, Sam Diadem’s toys, places of wonder in the Land—hoping that the sound of her voice would also feed him, in its own way. When he stopped opening his mouth for the spoon, she took him upstairs to bathe him. Afterward she dressed him for bed in his—actually her—favorite pajamas, the sky-blue flannel shirt and pants with mustangs ramping across the chest.
    In his bedroom, she took a moment, as she often did, to marvel at how he had decorated it.
    One day two or three years ago, she had purchased a set of flywheel-driven model racing cars that featured tracks which could be snapped together into structures as elaborate as roller coasters, complete with loop-the-loops and barrel rolls. She had been drawn to the set because it included materials like plastic Tinkertoys for building towers and pylons to support the tracks. And because Jeremiah appeared to prefer large projects, she had bought every set in the store, four or five of them.
    He had shown no interest in the cars. In fact, he had disappointed her by showing no interest in the tracks, either. He had not so much as touched the boxes, or turned his eyes toward them.
    Maybe he needed time, she had told herself. Maybe his occult, hidden decisions required contemplation. Reluctant to surrender her hopes, she had carried one of the boxes up to his bedroom and left it there for him to consider.
    That night he had gone to bed still oblivious to the box. The next morning, however, she discovered that during the night he had opened it and used every available piece to build towers on either side of the head of his bed. Through the towers he had twined tracks twisted into implausible shapes. And—uncharacteristic of him—the construct was plainly unfinished. He had run out of parts before he could connect the towers and tracks to each other above the head of his bed.
    At