Sourcery
sent it beyond the help of any darning needle.
Now kill him .
Rincewind held his breath. The watching wizards held their breath. Even Death, who had nothing to hold but his scythe, held it tensely.
“No,” said Coin.
You know what happens to boys who are bad .
Rincewind saw the sourcerer’s face go pale.
The staff’s voice changed. Now it wheedled.
Without me, who would there be to tell you what to do?
“That is true,” said Coin slowly.
See what you have achieved .
Coin stared slowly around at the frightened faces.
“I am seeing,” he said.
I taught you everything I know .
“I am thinking,” said Coin, “that you do not know enough.”
Ingrate! Who gave you your destiny?
“You did,” said the boy. He raised his head.
“I realize that I was wrong,” he added, quietly.
Good —
“I did not throw you far enough!”
Coin got to his feet in one movement and swung the staff over his head. He stood still as a statue, his hand lost in a ball of light that was the color of molten copper. It turned green, ascended through shades of blue, hovered in the violet and then seared into pure octarine.
Rincewind shaded his eyes against the glare and saw Coin’s hand, still whole, still gripping tight, with beads of molten metal glittering between his fingers.
He slithered away, and bumped into Hakardly. The old wizard was standing like a statue, with his mouth open.
“What’ll happen?” said Rincewind.
“He’ll never beat it,” said Hakardly hoarsely. “It’s his. It’s as strong as him. He’s got the power, but it knows how to channel it.”
“You mean they’ll cancel each other out?”
“Hopefully.”
The battle was hidden in its own infernal glow. Then the floor began to tremble.
“They’re drawing on everything magical,” said Hakardly. “We’d better leave the tower.”
“Why?”
“I imagine it will vanish soon enough.”
And, indeed, the white flagstones around the glow looked as though they were unravelling and disappearing into it.
Rincewind hesitated.
“Aren’t we going to help him?” he said.
Hakardly stared at him, and then at the iridescent tableau. His mouth opened and shut once or twice.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yes, but just a bit of help on his side, you’ve seen what that thing is like—”
“I’m sorry.”
“He helped you .” Rincewind turned on the other wizards, who were scurrying away. “All of you. He gave you what you wanted, didn’t he?”
“We may never forgive him,” said Hakardly.
Rincewind groaned.
“What will be left when it’s all over?” he said. “What will be left?”
Hakardly looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
The octarine light had grown brighter and was beginning to turn black around the edge. It wasn’t the black that is merely the opposite of light, though; it was the grainy, shifting blackness that glows beyond the glare and has no business in any decent reality. And it buzzed.
Rincewind did a little dance of uncertainty as his feet, legs, instincts and incredibly well-developed sense of self-preservation overloaded his nervous system to the point where, just as it was on the point of fusing, his conscience finally got its way.
He leapt into the fire and reached the staff.
The wizards fled. Several of them levitated down from the tower.
They were a lot more perspicacious than those that used the stairs because, about thirty seconds later, the tower vanished.
The snow continued to fall around a column of blackness, which buzzed.
And the surviving wizards who dared to look back saw, tumbling slowly down the sky, a small object trailing flames behind it. It crashed into the cobbles, where it smouldered for a bit before the thickening snow put it out.
Pretty soon it became just a small mound.
A little while later a squat figure swung itself across the courtyard on its knuckles, scrabbled in the snow, and hauled the thing out.
It was, or rather it had been, a hat. Life had not been kind to it. A large part of the wide brim had been burned off, the point was entirely gone, and the tarnished silver letters were almost unreadable. Some of them had been torn off in any case. Those that were left spelled out: WIZD.
The Librarian turned around slowly. He was entirely alone, except for the towering column of burning blackness and the steadily falling flakes.
The ravaged campus was empty. There were a few other pointy hats that had been trampled by terrified feet, and no other sign
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