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. "I am
tired, so very tired. I want to return to my sleep." Walking
across the stone floor, his black robes rustling about his
ankles, his soft unheard footsteps leaving no trail at all in
the thick dust, the archmage came to stand before the velvet
curtain. Placing his hand on it, he stopped and looked
around the laboratory that he could not see except in his
memories, in his mind.
"I just want you to know," Raistlin cried, "that I didn't do
this for you, mages! I didn't do it for the Conclave. I didn't
do it for my brother! I had one more debt to pay in my
lifetime. Now I have discharged it. I can sleep in peace."
In the darkness, Raistlin could not see the staff he leaned
upon, but he didn't need to. He knew every curve of the
wood, every tiny imperfection in the grain. Lovingly he
caressed it, his delicate fingers touching the golden dragon's
claw, running over each facet of the cold, dark crystal it
held. Raistlin's eyes stared into the darkness, stared into the
future he could glimpse by the light of the black moon.
"He will be great in the Art," he said with quiet pride. "The
greatest that has yet lived. He will bring honor and renown
to our profession. Because of him, magic will live and
flourish in the world." The arch-mage's voice lowered.
"Whatever happiness and joy was in my life, Palin, came
from the magic.
"To the magic, I give you. . . ."
Raistlin held the staff an instant longer, pressing the
smooth wood against his cheek
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