10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

The contact faded in a garble of discomfort that left Jarveena imagin- ing for several seconds that she had four stomachs and a mouthful of regurgitated hay.

The sensation passed. The laces of her jerkin still unfastened, she dashed down the slanting ladders that served this house for stairs and cuffed aside a sleepy apprentice who tried to stop her unbarring the main door on the grounds that Master Melilot was still asleep. Beyond, in the wan gray light of dawn, she saw a form upon the cobblestones, face turned aside, one arm outflung, chest smeared with blood still red thanks to the sharp cold: victim, presumably, of some chance robber’s knife . . .

“Klikitagh!” she whispered, dropping on one knee beside the … corpse?

It was indeed. No pulse was to be felt. A rime of frost had formed upon its hair, its beard, its hands , . .

Slowly she straightened, gazing down in wonder.

“So your journey ended here, in Sanctuary,” she murmured. “Well, death was what you most desired. And . . .”

A thought occurred, as wonderful as it was terrifying.

“If I’m to believe what Enas Yorl asserts-and who but him should I believe in such a matter?-it follows that the worst crime in the history of the world has been committed. It was yours, my Klikitagh. And yours alone.”

It was going to snow any moment. The air was so cold, the lips she licked were numb. She half expected to taste ice.

“But even you have reached the last stage of your pilgrimage in search of expiation. What now becomes of you will be no matter. Let your shroud be snow. Let dogs and thieves assail your body-you won’t care.