The Reign Of Istar (38 page)

“You can heal him, Michael,” she was saying.

Near her, the strange, black-robed mage, Raistlin, who had fought one of his own kind,
watched Michael with glittering eyes that reflected back the goddess's light, seemed to
see and know all that was passing.

Who was this Raistlin? What was his purpose? Michael didn't know, didn't understand. He
didn't fathom any of this, knew himself suddenly to be nothing more than a frayed thread
in a tangled skein.

Anger stirred in him again. What was his life or any of their lives worth to the gods, who
live forever? How could he be expected to know what was right and what was wrong if he stumbled through life as
blind as he'd been in that enchanted forest?

“While I am in the world, its concerns are mine,” cried Michael. “When I took your vows,
Lady, I accepted responsibility for the world and its people. Those will be mine, as long
as I live. How can you ask me to break them?”

“But by killing this man, Michael, you do break my vows.”

“So be it,” said the cleric harshly. He gripped the dagger with hands that trembled. “Must
... must I stab him?”

“No,” said the goddess gently. “Draw blood only. That will break the spell.”

“And my vows?” Michael looked up at her again, calmly, not pleading, but in deep sadness.
“Will I lose your favor?”

The goddess did not reply.

Michael bowed his head. The blue light faded. Time began its ticking, like the beating of
a heart. He heard, behind him, Akar's trampling footfalls, the rasping of his breath. He
saw, before him, Nikol regarding him hopefully, expectantly. He felt the knight's hand,
still clasped in his own, stiffen in agony, saw the young man's face twist.

“Strike now!” ordered Raistlin, so weak with coughing that he could not stand. “Or else
all is lost!”

“Strike? What do you mean?” Nikol sprang to her feet. She saw the dagger in Michael's
hand, suddenly understood his intent. “What are you doing? False cleric! You have betrayed
me!” She turned to Raistlin. “Help me! You understand what I feel! Don't let him kill my
brother!”

She wasn't watching. Michael must strike now, while she wasn't watching. Barely able to
see for the tears in his eyes, Michael rested the dagger's tip on the knight's sweat-
covered brow and pressed the point into the flesh. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the
scratch.

Akar cursed bitterly.

Nicholas opened his eyes, turned his head. The light of the bridge shone on his face.

“Paladine is merciful,” he said. “He gave me strength.”

At the sound of his voice, Nikol turned swiftly. “Nicholas!”

His eyes had closed. His breath left him in a sigh. The lines of pain and suffering were
smoothed away, as if by some immortal, soothing hand.

She saw Michael lay the dagger reverently on the knight's bare breast.

“Nicholas!”

Nikol's voice, ragged with grief, pierced michael more deeply than the dagger had pierced
her brother's flesh. The barrier was lifted. She fell upon the lifeless body. The hair
that she had shorn for his sake mingled with the hair that was so like it that it was
impossible to tell them apart.

Suddenly, she raised her head, stared at Michael and Akar.

“The cleric killed your brother!” Akar cried. “It was my spell that kept him alive. The
cleric broke it!”

Michael could say nothing, couldn't explain, if she didn't understand.

She stared at him, eyes empty of all feeling.

Rough hands grabbed hold of Michael from behind, jerked him to his feet. A black-robed arm
wrapped around his neck.

“Here, cleric!” Akar said. “Come up here to the temple. Away from that evil wizard,
Fistandantilus. You don't know him. He's dangerous!”

Michael started to cry out a warning. Akar's hand covered the cleric's mouth.

“Yes, I've captured you. The good and virtuous!” Akar laughed beneath his breath. “I saw
the goddess speak to you! You are in her favor. Your blood will do as well as the
knight's!”

Michael tensed, prepared for a struggle.

“I wouldn't try it,” breathed the wizard, “unless you want to see the young woman die in
flames! There, that's better. Come quietly. And you, Fistandantilus!” Akar sneered, all
the while dragging Michael backward, up the stairs. “You are too weak to stop me!”

Raistlin was on his knees, clutching the staff to keep from falling. Blood flecked his
lips. He could not speak, yet he smiled and pointed.

Michael, clasped close against the mage, heard Akar draw in a sucking breath.

The dagger. The dagger lay shining on the knight's lifeless breast.

STEEL MUST DRAW THE BLOOD.

Akar halted, ground his teeth in frustration. Michael saw the bridge beneath his feet. And
now that he was this near to the other side, he could hear cold voices calling for his
death, see shadowed shapes writhing in eager ness to be free.

Michael had, at first, thought it was his fevered imagination, but now he was sure of it -
the light of the bridge was growing gradually dimmer, the clamoring shouts of the dead
growing louder, more frantic. The Night of Doom was ending.

“Girl!” Akar's voice was suddenly soft, sweet and thick and warm. “Girl, bring me the
dagger.”

Nikol shifted her gaze to him, blinked. Slowly, she lowered her eyes to the dagger that
rested on her brother's body.

“The false cleric killed him, this knight that was dear to you. Bring me the dagger, girl,
and you will have your revenge.”

Nikol reached out with her hand, lifted the dagger in fingers that trembled. She stared at
it, looked from it to the wizard, from the wizard to Michael. Her eyes were dark. Slowly,
she rose to her feet and began to climb the stairs of the Lost Citadel, coming toward
them, the dagger in her hand.

Was she ensorcelled? The wizard had spoken no words of magic, had cast no spell that
Michael had heard.

“Come, girl, swiftly!” Akar hissed.

Nikol did as he bade. She walked forward steadily, her eyes as empty as her brother's.
Something within her had died with him.

Akar's grip around Michaels throat tightened. “I know what you're thinking! But if you
break free, cleric, it will be her blood I spill on the bridge. Make your choice. You or
her. It matters little to me.”

Nikol was level with them, the dagger held loosely in her limp, outstretched hand. Her
left hand. Her sword hand, her right, was free.

The light of the bridge was fading fast. A pale glow in the far distant sky presaged
morning, a gray morning, a dawning of unhappiness and fear for those left in a world where
man had forsaken the gods.

Akar had seconds only. He made a grab.

Nikol's grasp tightened on the dagger. She stabbed. The blade tore through the wizard's
palm, tore through bone and tendon and muscle, thrust out, blood-blackened, on the other
side of the hand.

Akar howled in pain and rage. Michael broke free of the mage's weakening grasp, flung
himself to the ground. The only help he could offer Nikol was to keep clear of her sword
arm.

Nikol's blade, which had been her brother's and his father's before him and his father's
before that, swept past Michael in a shining silver arc. The wizard screamed. The blade
drove deep into his vitals.

Michael rolled over, was on his feet. Akar stood spitted on Nikol's sword, his hands
grasping at it, his face distorted with fury and pain.

Nikol jerked the sword free. Blood burst from Akar's mouth. He pitched forward on his face
and lay dead on the steps of the Lost Citadel.

Her face pale and set, as rigid as the stones, gray in the morning light, Nikol nudged
Akar's body with the toe of her boot.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you,” she said to Michael. “I had to play along with him. I
feared he'd cast a spell on me before I could slay him.”

“Then you do understand!” was all Michael could think to say.

“No,” Nikol answered bitterly. “I don't understand any of it. All I know is that this Akar
was the one responsible for my brother's death and, by the Oath and the Measure, that
death is avenged. As for you” - her lifeless gaze turned ,to Michael - “you did what you
could.”

Nikol turned and walked back down the temple steps.

Sickened by the terrible death he had just witnessed, shaken by his ordeal, the cleric
tried to follow, but his legs gave way. Sweat chilled on his body. He leaned weakly
against a crumbling pillar, his wistful gaze going back to the shining bridge, that line
of peace-filled, serene figures leaving this world of pain and sorrow and suffering.

The bridge was gone. The door amid the stars was closed.

Part X The morning was deathly quiet. Quiet. Michael raised his head. The dread voices of the dark clerics were silenced. Their threat to take over the world, now that all the true clerics
of the gods were gone, was ended.

All true clerics gone. Michael sighed. His hand went to the symbol of Mishakal that hung
dark and cold about his neck. He had questioned when he should have believed. He had been
angry, defiant, when he should have been humble, submissive. He had taken life when he
should have acted to save it.

Michael drew a deep breath to dispel the mists that blurred his vision. One more task was
left for him to perform, the only task for which he was seemingly worthy now - composing
the body of the dead for its final rest. Then he could leave, leave Nikol alone with her
bitter grief, remove himself and the knowledge of his failure from her sight. It was poor
comfort, but all he could offer. He pushed himself away from the pillar, slowly descended
the stairs.

Nikol knelt beside her brother's body, his lifeless hand clasped fast in her own. She did
not glance up at Michael, did not acknowledge his presence. Her armor was splattered with
the blood of the dead mage. Her skin was ashen. The resemblance between the twins was
uncanny. It seemed to Michael that he looked on two corpses, not one. Perhaps he did.
Daughter of a knight, Nikol would not long outlive her brother.

A shadow fell across the two, and a gasping cough broke the stillness. Michael had
forgotten the black-robed mage who had led them here, was startled to find the man
standing quite near him. The smell of rose petals and decay that dung to the soft black
robes was unnerving, as was the fevered heat that emanated from the frail body.

“You got what you wanted?” Michael asked abruptly, bitterly.

“I did.” Raistlin was calm.

Michael rounded on him. “Who are you, anyway? You gave us one name. Akar gave you another.
Who are you? What was your purpose here?”

The mage did not immediately answer. He leaned on his staff, stared at Michael with the
brown eyes that glittered gold in the chill light of a sad dawn.

“If I had met you a year ago and asked you the same questions, cleric, you would have
answered glibly enough, I suppose. A month ago, a day ago - you knew who you were - or
thought you did. And would you have been correct? Would your answer be the same today as
it was yesterday? No.” Raistlin shook his head. “No, I think not.”

“Stop talking in riddles!” Michael said, fear making him angry, frustrated. “You know who
you are, why you came. And we served your needs, whatever they were, since you were too
weak at the end to stop Akar yourself. I think you owe us an explanation!”

“I owe you nothing!” Raistlin snapped, a flush of color mounting in the pale cheeks. “It
was I who served your needs, far more than you served mine. I could have dealt with Akar
on my own. You were a convenience, that is all.” The mage lifted his right arm. The black
sleeve fell away from the thin wrist. A flash of metal gleamed cold in the sunlight. A
dagger, held on by a cunning leather thong, slid into Raistlin's hand when the mage
flicked his wrist. The movement was so fast that Michael could scarcely follow it.

“If she had tried to murder you,” the mage said, turning the dagger, making it flash in
the light, “she would not have succeeded.”

“You could have slain Akar.”

“Bah! What good would that have done? He was never anything more than a tool for the Dark
Queen. He was not needed, only the blood of the good and virtuous, spilled in anger.”

“You would have killed Nikol!” Michael stated in disbelief.

“Before she killed you.”

“But, then, the curse would have been fulfilled anyway. Her blood would have fallen on the
bridge.”

“Ah,” said Raistlin, with a cunning smile, “but it would no longer have been the blood of
a good and virtuous person. It would have been the blood of a murderer.”

Michael stared at him, shocked. The calculating coldness of the mage appalled him.

“Go away,” he said thickly.

“I intend to. I am needed in Istar,” said Raistlin, briskly. “Events will move fast there
in these last thirteen days before the Cataclysm, and my presence is essential.”

“The Cataclysm? What is that?”

“In thirteen days' time, the gods in their wrath at the folly of men will hurl a fiery
mountain down upon Ansalon. The land will be sundered, seas will rise, and mountains
topple. Countless numbers will die. Countless more, who will live in the dark and terrible
days to follow, will come to wish they had died.”

Michael didn't want to believe, but there was no doubting the calm voice or the strange
eyes, which seemed to have witnessed these terrifying events, though they had not yet come
to pass. He recalled the words of Mishakal. HE WILL GATHER THEIR SOULS TO HIM, REMOVE THEM
FROM A WORLD THAT SOON WILL ERUPT IN FIRE.

Michael looked back down at the two motionless figures, who seemed to personify the
wizard's prediction:

one who was dead, one who could not bear the pain of living.

“Is there no hope?” Michael asked.

“You are the only one who can answer that, my friend,” the mage responded dryly.

At first it seemed to Michael that there was no hope. Despair would cover the world in a
black tide that must drown all in its poisonous waters.