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.
