Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

“Yes,” said Nikol softly, her hand closing over Michael’s, holding him tightly for support. “Yes! That is my brother. You’ve seen him?”

“I have. And I offer you this counsel. Turn back. There is nothing you can do for him. He is a dead man. You will die yourselves. Nothing you can do will save him. Isn’t that true, Revered Son of Mishakal?” The voice seemed to sneer.

“I am not a Revered Son,” answered Michael quietly, “only a humble brother.”

“Not even that, seemingly,” said the voice.

Michael felt eyes staring at him, strange eyes that he swore he could almost see, eyes like hourglasses. Selfconsciously, the healer put his hand over the medallion on his chest, thrust it hastily beneath his robes.

“Let him alone,” Nikol retorted angrily. “He has no reason to be here, not as I do. He comes with me not out of love, but out of loyalty.”

“Is that so?”

Michael could see the hourglass eyes laughing at him.

“So you come in here for your brother, Sir Knight?” the voice continued, soft, hissing. “Give him up. You can do nothing for him except die with him.”

Nikol spoke steadily. “Then I will do so. I could not live without him. We are twins, you see—”

Twins?” The voice was altered, low and dark, darker than the woods. Twins,” it repeated.

“Yes,” said Nikol, hesitant, uncertain at the sudden change she sensed in the speaker. Did it bode good? Or ill? “We are twins. And if you know anything of twins, you know that we are close, closer than most siblings.”

“I know … something of twins,” said the voice.

The words were spoken so softly that the two might not have heard them, but both were straining every sense to make up for the loss of their eyesight.

“Then you know that I will not abandon him,” said Nikol. “I will go after him, to save him if I can, die with him if I cannot.”

“You cannot save him,” said the voice, after a moments pause. “Your brother has been captured by a powerful wizard of the Black Robes, a man named Akar. He needed a virtuous person. Is your brother, by chance, a knight as well?”

“My brother is a knight,” answered Nikol. “I am not. I am a woman, as you well know, for I can feel your eyes on me, though I cannot see them.”

“One twin born to a body fragile and frail, one twin strong and powerful. Did you never resent him?”

“Of course not!” Nikol answered too fast, too angrily. “I love him! What are you talking about?”

“Nothing important” The voice seemed to start to sigh, but the sigh was broken by a cough that seemed likely to rend the man apart.

Involuntarily, forgetting that he was powerless, Michael reached with a hand toward the stranger. He heard a hissing laugh.

“There is nothing you could do for me, healer! Even if you retained the favor of your goddess. It is the wrath of heaven that batters this poor body of mine, the anger of the gods that will soon cleanse this world in fire!”

The voice changed, abruptly, becoming cool and business-minded. “Do you speak truly, Lady? Will you follow your brother, though the way be dark and terrifying, the end hopeless?”

“I will.”

“How can we go anywhere?” Michael demanded. “We cannot see the way.”

“I can,” said the voice, “and I will be your eyes.”

Michael heard a rustle of cloth, as of long robes brushing across the ground. He heard odd sounds, objects hanging from a belt, perhaps, clicking and rubbing together. He heard a soft thud that accompanied whispering footfalls—a staff, helping the speaker walk. Michael sniffed, his nose wrinkled. He smelled the sweetness of rose petals, and a more horrible sweetness—that of decay. He sensed an arm moving toward them.

“Wait a moment,” Michael said, halting Nikol, who had sheathed her sword and was reaching out to the stranger. “If you can see in the light of Nuitari, then you, too, must be a mage of evil, a wizard of the Black Robes. Why should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t, of course,” said the voice.

“Then why are helping us? What is your reason? Is this a trap?”

“It could be. What choice do you have?”

“None,” said Nikol, her voice suddenly gentle. “Yet I believe you. I trust you.”

“And why should you do that, Lady?” The voice was bitter, mocking.

“Because of what you said about twins. One weak, the other strong …”

The stranger was silent a long moment. Michael might have thought the man had left them, but for the rasping breathing of sickness-racked lungs.

“My reason for helping you is one you would not understand. Let us say simply that Akar has been promised that which is rightfully mine. I intend to see he does not acquire it. Will you come or not? You must hurry! The Night of Doom approaches. You have very little time.”

“I will go,” said Nikol. “I will follow where you lead, though it cost me my life!”

“And you, Brother?” said the wizard softly. “Will you walk with me? The woman has pledged her life. For you, as you surmise, the cost will be greater. Will you pledge your soul?”

“No, Michael, don’t!” Nikol said, interrupting the cleric’s answer. “Go back. This is not your battle. It is mine. I would not have you sacrifice yourself for us.”

“What’s the matter, my lady?” snapped Michael, suddenly, irrationally angry. “Don’t you think I love Nicholas as well as you? Or perhaps you think I don’t have a right to love him or anyone else in your family? Well, my lady, I do love! And I choose to go with you.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, the jingle of armor, her body stiffening.

“The decision is yours, of course, Brother,” she said in a low voice. She reached out to hold the mage’s arm.

The wizard made a raspy sound that might have been a laugh. “Truly, you are blind!”

Michael reached out, and his hand closed over the wizard’s arm—as thin, frail, and fragile as the bones of a bird. Fever burned in the skin; the sensation of touching the mage was an unpleasant one.

“What is your name, sir?” Michael asked coldly.

The wizard did not immediately answer. Michael was startled to feel the arm he held flinch, as if the question was a painful one.

“I am … Raistlin.”

The name meant nothing to Michael. He assumed, from the wizard’s hesitation, that he’d given them a false one.

The mage led them forward into a darkness that grew impossibly darker, as he had warned. They walked as fast as they dared, not entirely trusting him, yet holding tightly to his guiding arm, listening to the rustle of his robes, the soft tapping sound of his staff.

In their nostrils was the smell of roses and of death.

No harm befell them. They began to trust Raistlin and, as their trust increased, they started to move with incredible speed. Michael’s feet barely skimmed the ground. A chill wind blasted in his face, stung his blind eyes. Branches scratched his cheek, tore his hair. Thorns and brambles caught at his robes. He pictured vividly what it would be like to smash headlong, at this speed, into tree or rock, or hurtle into some boulder-strewn chasm. He grasped harder the mage’s frail-boned body.

Michael had no idea how long they traveled through the darkness. It might have been the span of a heartbeat, or it might have been eons. He wondered how much longer he could keep going, for though it didn’t seem that he exerted himself, his body was growing more and more fatigued. He was forced to lean heavily on the mage’s shoulder, wondered that such a frail body could support his own. His limbs were stones; he could barely move them. His feet stumbled. He tripped, lost his grip on Raistlin, and fell.