Just to listen to him scream.

Desperately, Tarrin sought to touch the Weave, to join with its power, but it was beyond his senses, beyond his reach. He could not touch it. He was the victim of his own cleverness, caught in his own trap. Desperation turned to fear, soul-consuming fear as his own death stood before him, and that fear unleashed his other half once again. He struggled even harder, injuring himself in his attempts to wrest free of the Demon's crushing grip, but it had him too securely. It would not let him go.

The sword. He could see it, laying not ten spans from him. Right there, waiting for him to pick it up, but it may as well be in Suld for the good it did him. His eyes locked on the weapon, and a dim memory of something tickled him. A memory of an exploding ship's wheel, a memory of an explosion of force that cause a collapsing building to fall away from him instead of upon him. It had that same feeling of expansion that Sarraya's Druidic magic caused within him, a feeling of connection to a greater whole, a power that was warm and gentle. Those things, they had not been Sorcery.

The katzh-dashi have minor priest powers because they're technically not mortal, the Goddess had told him, long ago. By rendering them ageless, they get around the stricture that no mortal may use more than one order of magic.

Please don't experiment, my kitten, he remembered her saying. My constitution couldn't take it if you did that.

Not you can't do that, but my constitution couldn't take it.

Were-cats don't die of old age, Jesmind had told him. We live until something kills us.

All Were-cats have a touch of Druidic power, she had also told him. Mine is very weak, but it's enough to know a Sorcerer's weaving from a Wizard's spells. It's how I know a Sorcerer put that damned collar on me.

Of course!

His eyes lighting up from within, Tarrin gave the Demon an evil smile. It made perfect sense! He wasn't mortal! All Were-cats had at least some minor Druidic power! Those instances of strange power, they hadn't been Sorcery, they had been Druidic magic!

And Druidic power didn't depend on the Weave!

Reaching into himself, for the first time, Tarrin attempted to find that power, to touch it. He needed it, needed it like he had never needed it before. He had no idea how to use it, only wild, instinctual responses to threat. And he was under threat now. But his rational mind knew exactly what it needed done. He reached out with his instincts, the Cat, the soul of the animal within, seeking the power he knew was there.

And it responded.

Holding out his paw, Tarrin did exactly what he had seen Sarraya do so many times. With barely a thought, only an image, a desire, of what he needed to do, he Summoned the sword to his paw.

And it appeared.

The Demon's eyes widened in absolute shock as that black sword simply appeared his its quarry's hand. Tarrin turned that weapon against the Demon instantly, driving it point-first right into the monster's face, hitting it right in the eye. Only the very tip of the sword could reach, but it was enough to sink it into the Demon's eye and put it out. With a tremenous howl, it flinched away from the deadly sword and let go of him, staggering back with one of its small hands over its wounded face. Tarrin dropped to the ground, chest hurting, belly quaking from the pain of being in its clutches, but he ignored it as he drove forward to the attack. He slashed the monster in the side of the leg with the weapon, sending black blood flying as the deadly edge severed its hamstrings, causing it to howl again and collapse around its lamed leg. That brought its head within his reach.

With a quick slice, Tarrin sent the undamaged pincer sailing away from its wrist, turned and sliced the other away, then jumped into the air once again. It looked up at him with its remaining good eye, a look of stunned disbelief on its face as Tarrin raised the sword over his head, a look of hatred in his eyes as he met the Demon's gaze. It sought to fend him off with its pincers, but only bloody stumps rose to block the Were-cat's path to victory. And they were not enough. Tarrin reared back with a ragged cry, coiling his body like a spring.

And then cleaved its head in half with a massive overhanded blow.

Tarrin landed beside it as its destroyed body slumped to the floor, taking a few steps back as the stench of its blood assaulted him, blowing out his breath.

He had beaten it. He had won.

The game was over.

But there was little sense of victory in it. He was hurt, bloody, wounded. He had seen his dear friend Sarraya nearly get killed. He had felt the ecstacy of the Weave, had discovered newfound power within. He had vanquished an unnatural monster whose power had been incredible. But it all seemed to pale to his bone weariness, to the sober memory of what he had done to get there. And pale to the knowledge that though this game was over, another would soon begin.

Getting the book was not enough. He remembered Shiika's warning. That if he touched it, the magic that kept it hidden would be gone, and every mage and Wizard in Arak would come after him. Now he had to get the book out of there alive, get it to where they could open it, read it, find out where the Firestaff was. And then go get it.

Still holding the sword, he rushed over to Sarraya, picking her up tenderly. He couldn't heal her without Sorcery. He was too weary to even try if he could. But she seemed to be alright. Unconscious, wingless, and with a few broken bones. But she would be alright.

She had saved his life. This victory was also hers, healing him of his hideous wound, giving him the strength to continue the fight. She was something special.

Cradling her in his paw, he sheathed his sword and walked wearily up to the stand. This was it. This was what he had spent more than half a year trying to find. A large book, bound in black leather, with the ultimate secret within. It seemed so anticlimatic to him now, to be done with all obstacles, to be standing before it. He had won the game, but to him, there was little satisfaction in it now. Maybe later, but not now. The elation he thought he'd feel at standing where he was now had evaporated. Lost in his bone weariness.

With little fanfare, Tarrin reached down and picked up the Book of Ages. He held it before him, looking at its featureless black leather binding, wondering tiredly that this could be one of the most precious artifacts in the world. That countless men, men he didn't even know about, had fought, killed, or died to gain possession of it. That entire kingdoms were fighting wars over the slightest rumor of its location. That the entire world had gone mad over what was rumored to exist within it.

Funny sometimes, how things turned out.

The Questing Game was over. And Tarrin had won.

For what it was worth.

Now came a new game, a new goal. Survival. They would come for him, come after him. He had to get the book out of the Palace, out of Dala Yar Arak, and he had to do it fast. It wouldn't take them long to get on his trail, he was sure of it. Now that he had what he came for, he had to live long enough to take advantage of it.

He turned his back on the bookstand, walking towards the door. It was time to go, before Shiika managed to get there. He was in no condition to fight with her now, not with his weariness and Sarraya to protect.

There would be time enough to deal with Shiika some other day. For now, he had more important things to do.

Survive.

Getting out of the Palace turned out to be a great deal harder than getting in.

People were running everywhere now, running around and screaming, moving in large groups. He was too tired to fight now, too worried about Sarraya to push things. Cradling her in one paw and holding the Book of Ages in the other, the Were-cat had come up from the stairs and started creeping about immediately, seeking nothing other than to avoid all contact with others. But that wasn't easy. He often had to slide into doors, turn corners before they reached the intersection. A few times, he simply had to just run, outrun them and blindly hope that another batch of armed opponents wasn't waiting around the next corner. He couldn't just sit tight and wait. He had the Book of Ages, and they could use it to find him. Just as Shiika warned. So he couldn't stop, he had to get out of the Palace, get out of Dala Yar Arak, and in his condition, he also couldn't afford to fight.