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... strong. For your own . . .
sake as well as ... mine."
Palin couldn't speak. His throat was raw and aching, the
bitter taste of bile in his mouth choked him.
Be strong. For his sake . . .
Slowly, gripping the staff, Palin used it to pull himself to
his feet. Then, bracing himself, feeling the touch of the
wood cool and reassuring beneath his hand, he opened his
eyes.
Raistlin's body hung limply from the wall by its wrists,
the black robes in tatters, the long white hair falling across
his face as his head lolled forward. Palin tried to keep his
eyes focused on his uncle's face, but he could not. Despite
himself, his gaze went to the bloody, mangled torso. From
chest to groin, Raistlin's flesh had been ripped apart, torn
asunder by sharp talons, exposing living organs. The
dripping sound Palin heard was the sound of the man's life
blood, falling drop by drop into a great stone pool at his
feet.
The young man's stomach wrenched again, but there was
nothing left to purge. Gritting his teeth, Palin kept walking
forward through the sand toward the wall, the staff aiding
his faltering footsteps. But when Palin reached the
gruesome pool, his weak legs would support him no longer.
Fearing he might faint from the horror of the dreadful sight,
he sank to his knees, bowing his head.
But the voice came again. "Look at me . . . You . . . know
me . . . Palin?"
The young man raised his head, reluctantly
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