The cleric had been attempting to keep Nikol from injuring herself, flinging herself again and again into the magical wall that kept her from her brother. Her hands were burned and blistered, yet, even now, she ignored the pain, trying her best to reach Nicholas, though every time she did so, a cascade of sparks burst around her.

Michael looked past her, looked past the tortured Nicholas, and saw the dagger that lay gleaming on the citadel steps, near the bridge. The black-robed wizard who had wielded it, who sought to bring into the world the dark clerics that shouted and gibbered from the other side, was recovering from his shock, was starting to look around and take stock of his situation. He was much closer to the dagger than Michael.

"You can enter, fool cleric!" Raistlin cried. The words were his last, however, tearing the breath from his body.

The spell he had cast had weakened him. A violent fit of coughing brought him to his knees, near where Nikol stood.

Akar saw his enemy falter. His eyes glinted. He lurched to his feet.

Michael grasped his holy medallion, the medallion that was dark and lifeless, and plunged forward, gritting his teeth against what he knew must be a surge of magic that would most likely kill him. To his amazement, nothing happened. The barrier parted. He ran up the stairs and plunged forward to s.n.a.t.c.h the dagger from beneath Akar's clutching fingertips. The mage's chill touch brushed the cleric's skin. Michael shrank from the horrible feel and the sight of the burning enmity in the black eyes, but he had the dagger.

Clasping the weapon in his hand, hardly knowing what he was doing, only wanting to escape the wizard, Michael stumbled back down the stairs.

At the bottom lay Nicholas. Michael looked down at the pain-twisted face, lost his fear in his compa.s.sion for the young man's suffering, his admiration for his courage. He knelt, lifted Nicholas's hand in his, held it fast. The dying knight managed a pain-filled, weary smile.

"Paladine, help me!" Nicholas said, gasping for breath.

A blue light bathed Michael, bathed the knight, washed the dreadful lines of pain from the gaunt face, as if he had been immersed in a lake of placid water. Time ceased its flow. Every person was arrested in motion, from Nikol, striving desperately to reach her brother, to the evil wizard, trying still to achieve his heinous goal. Michael, his heart filled with thankfulness, raised his eyes to the radiant blue G.o.ddess who stood at the entrance to the shining bridge.

"Mishakal," Michael prayed, "grant me the power to heal this man, Paladine's faithful servant."

The blue light dimmed. The G.o.ddess's face was sorrowful.

"I have no power here. The knight's life is bound by the magician's cursed wish to the dagger you hold. Only the dagger and the one who wields it, for good or evil, will bring this young man ease."

Michael stared at the dagger in his hand with horror and the sudden, sickening realization of what he was being asked to do.

"You can't mean this, Lady! What dread task is this you give me? I am a healer, not a killer!"

"I give you no task. I tell you how the knight's pain may be forever ended. The choice is up to you. You can see the bridge, can you not?"

"Yes," said Michael, looking with longing at the radiant, shining span and the peaceful, serene features of those ethereal figures who walked it. "I see it clearly."

"Then you may cross it. Throw aside the dagger. The concerns of this world are no longer yours."

Michael looked down at Nicholas, who lay still, eyes closed, in peaceful sleep ... as long as the light of the G.o.ddess shone on him. When it was withdrawn, the terrible spell that bound him to his cruel suffering would be empowered once more. Nikol had ceased her bitter struggle and was on her knees, as near her brother as was possible for the magical barrier that barred her way.

"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 G.o.ddess's light, seemed to see and know all that was pa.s.sing.

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 morethan a frayed thread in a tangled skein.

Anger stirred in him again. What was his life or any of their lives worth to the G.o.ds, 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 G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ddess 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 wasmy 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 G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ds.

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 G.o.ds were gone, wasended.

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."