Pool of Radiance
POOL OF RADIANCE
Again Shal focused her thoughts; staring into the brilliant swirls of blue inside the globe, trying to envision her mentor. In a moment, she saw him.
She sucked in her breath. How could a man have changed so in a matter of days? Ranthor’s robes were torn to shreds. His hair was unkempt and wild-looking. And his eyes … his eyes were haunted-looking, as if he had seen sights no mortal eye should see.
“Shal, listen carefully. There is little time. I have risked everything to send this message to you. Despite our efforts, the beasts have somehow infiltrated the tower. My old friend is dead … murdered. I must warn you to beware of the dragon of bronze. I have done all that I can to diminish its awesome power, but it still thrives. Shal, you must—”
“Ranthor! Look out!” Shal screamed wildly, but her words obviously didn’t penetrate through the crystal. A dark figure loomed behind her teacher, and before Shal could do or say any more, it began to slash savagely at him with a long black dagger….
POOL OF RADIANCE
©1989 TSR, Inc.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
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All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Clyde Caldwell
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6287-7
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v3.1
To Dad and Aleta.
—J.C.H.
To my mother. Thanks, Mom, for making me take that typing class. You were right and I was wrong.
—J.M.W.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1 - Look Into the Crystal
2 - The Test
3 - The Night Begins
4 - Fists and Friends
5 - Sokol Keep
6 - Restless Spirits
7 - Deceived
8 - Half-Gnoll
9 - Assassination Weather
10 - Yarash
11 - Valhingen Graveyard
12 - The Pool of Radiance
Epilogue
About the Authors
Look Into the Crystal
Shal had spent days scouring the markets and traders’ shops of Eveningstar and Arabel, the two towns nearest to the keep of her master, the Great Ranthor of Cormyr. The object of her search was a rare Wa herb, which her teacher refused to find for her. When she finally located the component he claimed made “a superlative dust for incendiary spells,” she returned to his keep, where she read and reread the Burning Hands spell and tried for several days to master it. By the fourth day, Shal’s hands were the only things blazing after repeated attempts to cast the spell.
“Drat!” she cried, hurling her spellbook and herbal components down in disgust, convinced that it was time for her to move on to another profession. Before her eyes, the handful of herbal dust puffed into a sensational blue cloud, and a vision of Ranthor, her teacher, appeared, besieged by a horde of vicious-looking orcs. The pig-faced creatures were armed with murderous weapons, and they were surging toward Ranthor in a wide band, leaving him no avenue of escape.
Blood and drool dripped from their grotesque mouths. Shal could feel herself being caught up in the vision, could smell the orcs’ filthy bodies as they pressed closer, jabbing their jagged swords and knives at Ranthor … at her. She backed away, but the wall that kept her from backing farther also seemed to stop Ranthor. Fear gripped her like a torturous clamp, making every muscle in her body rigid, unresponsive. Sweat streamed down her face, her back, and her breasts. She could no longer control her own breathing, and she knew she was going to die.
At that moment, Ranthor cast the Burning Hands spell. White-hot jets of flame burst from each of his fingertips, blasting the entire horde of orcs high into the air, incinerating each of the creatures they touched. The handful of orcs that landed on the ground alive proceeded to claw, pull, and scramble away from the wizard as fast as they could go, leaving the smoldering bodies of their companions behind them.
“Nice spell, Burning Hands,” said Ranthor with a chuckle. “Comes in handy sometimes.”
The blue cloud vanished, and Shal saw the discarded components arranged neatly on top of her spellbook….
That had happened more than three weeks ago, and she had mastered the Burning Hands spell the next day. With that one vision, Ranthor had managed to renew her interest, not only in a spell she had given up on, but also in spell-casting in general. Without a single harsh word, he had provided the insight that allowed her to identify which gesture she was performing incorrectly. Ranthor always seemed to have some way to keep her enthusiastic about magic. With subtle encouragement, he could get her dreaming of moving mountains or defeating the numerous monsters that threatened the people of their sparsely populated region.
Whenever she felt discouraged, her old master would remind her of her great promise. Whenever she grew tired of the rigors of memorizing spells or performing the dozens of routine tasks that made up her day, she would receive a magical message from him, reminding her that promise means nothing without diligence.
At the moment, Shal stood on the grounds of Ranthor’s keep, struggling with a Weather Control spell he had encouraged her to try once she had mastered the Burning Hands spell. She faced the wind, just as Ranthor had instructed, and tried to visualize it. Her mind pictured the wind as pale, violet-white wisps of cloudlike material, and she imagined herself collecting the wisps within the exaggerated reach of her gesturing hands and molding them into a flat sheet so thin and so swift-moving that it could slice her enemies in two. Next she envisioned a solid wall of force that would push back her opponents. Then a churning funnel cloud that would suck them into its whirling vortex. Finally she intoned the words to the spell, taking care to match the inflection indicated in the runes she had so painstakingly memorized.
Unfortunately, each time she tried the spell, the results were the same. There was no wall of force … not even a good strong gust. There was no cyclone … not even a tiny dust devil. There was just a faint whoosh, and instantly the wind would pass by and out of her reach.
Tired and discouraged, Shal left the wind to its own devices and went inside the tower. She wished Ranthor were present to give her some of his usual valuable advice and support—some clue, anything. She wished, plain and simple, that he was back from his mission so she could stop worrying about him.
The day after Shal had mastered the Burning Hands spell, the same day Ranthor had suggested she try her hand at Weather Control, her master had departed.
Shal had been in Ranthor’s spell-casting chamber working on a Lightning spell. She knew she wasn’t ready yet to attempt the spell outside. She wanted merely to create one little bolt that would arc between the conductor she had positioned on the crux of Ranthor’s casting stand and the copper spike she’d fastened to a nearby shelf of components.
She meditated for a moment to help her mind focus, then traced and retraced with her eyes the path that she wanted the lightning to follow. Finally she lifted her hands and spoke, with all the intensity she could muster, the words of the spell. A crystal orb on a nearby shelf of components began to blaze red, growing steadily. With the final word of the spell still on her tongue, Shal screamed for Ranthor, and immediately the lightning began to pulse about the room, rattling the jars of magical components and sending several crashing to the floor. Her aging master rushed into the chamber as fast as his rheumatism-ridden legs could carry him. In one hand, he held a wand, its tip glowing with a molten fire, and in the other, he held a small bag of sparkling dust, no doubt some powerful weapon he had grabbed to use against whatever horror he found in the spell-casting area.
When he entered the room, he found Shal braced against the wall, an expression of stark terror on her face, pointing at the glowing crystal. He took one look and began to laugh, first a light, whispering snicker, then a full belly laugh. “Shal, my student of three years, do you not yet know that wizards use orbs to contact each other? That is simply my old friend Denlor calling me,” Ranthor explained, pointing at the crystal. He breathed a single arcane syllable, and the orb rose into the air and began to float toward Shal. Despite her teacher’s amusement, Shal could feel the hairs rise on the back of her neck as the glowing orb drifted closer.
“Pick it up, Shal.” Ranthor removed the bronze cone from the center of the three-legged casting stand and pointed at the crux where the three legs met and crossed. “Pick it up,” he repeated when she hesitated. “Put it here.”
Shal expected nothing less than for her fingers to sizzle the moment they made contact with the blazing crystal ball. She reached out gingerly, turning her head aside so she wouldn’t have to watch as her flesh melded to its fiery surface. Much to Shal’s surprise, the ball was cold to the touch—icy, in fact—and when she did touch it, she felt her body suddenly awash in fear of a different sort. So chilling was the ball’s aura that Shal nearly dropped it before she could place it in the ebony stand.
“Watch, and I’ll show you how this is done,” said Ranthor, his voice still sounding with a hint of laughter. “Not that you should be playing with crystal balls on your own any time soon, you understand …”
He waved his hands over the globe with practiced deliberation, then stepped back with a pleased look on his face as the ball floated to a secure position just a hand’s height above the casting stand. “Concentration is the key here, young lady. Concentration, and not letting the crystal ball touch anything before you’re completely finished with it.
“Look into the crystal with me. Concentrate. Picture a wizard … much like myself, but shorter, stockier, and dressed in red.”
Shal closed her eyes to concentrate.
“No! You must look into the crystal. The crystal will project the image, but it needs your help.”
Opening her eyes until they were mere slits, Shal stared into the swirling, iridescent red blaze of the globe. Wizard, she thought. Like Ranthor but shorter. She leaned closer. Yes! There was something there—the outline of a robe, the image of a man…. Finally it came into clear focus. The man in the globe was obviously a wizard, but he looked nothing like Ranthor. Even with his crippling rheumatism, Ranthor had a commanding presence. His gestures, his meticulously pressed blue robes—everything about him bespoke style. The man in the globe, however, was rumpled, disheveled-looking. He obviously cared little about his appearance. Nonetheless, his smile was warm, and Shal could feel an unusual bond of loyalty flowing between this mage, Denlor, and her master.
“Ranthor, my trusted friend! You must know how glad I am to have reached you.”
Shal stared, wide-eyed. Denlor wasn’t speaking. Instead, she was somehow experiencing his thoughts—the words, as if spoken aloud, and much more than that. She could feel his exhaustion … and his panic.
“I would not have called on you, Ranthor, if my need were not great. Every vile beast ever belched up from the Pit is clamoring at the gate to my keep in Phlan. The protective magicks emanating from my tower are steadily weakening. I need your help, old friend. I can’t hold out much longer, and there is much more at stake than just my aging bones.”
Denlor’s desperation washed over Shal. She could hear the sound that had echoed in the mage’s brain day after day for untold nights—the din of a thousand unspeakable beasts growling, snarling, slavering, clawing at the walls that kept him and his tower from destruction. Denlor thought of his waning defenses, magical and otherwise, and as he did, his thoughts were Shal’s thoughts. She gasped as she realized that she now knew the location of every trap in Denlor’s keep, the arcane words that would open or seal every door in his tower, and she sensed the vulnerability of what had once been an impenetrable magical fortress.
“Ranthor, please … please help me!” Denlor pleaded imploringly.
Suddenly the image within the globe faded into a swirl of red, and then the sphere returned to its original icy crystal white and nestled gently back into the crux of the ebony tripod.
Shal let out her breath and turned to her master.
“My dear Shal, I’m so sorry,” Ranthor began sincerely. “That wasn’t any way to introduce you to crystal balls. Please understand that they can bear good news as well as bad. But this time, I’m afraid, the news is bad indeed. I must go immediately to the aid of my friend. I charge you to keep up with your magical studies and watch after this place until I return.”
Shal never even had a chance to respond as Ranthor flew from one room to the next with a flurry of gestures, words, and instructions that left her dizzy. Just as she finally recovered the presence of mind to ask if there was anything she could do to help, the mage whisked into his private spell-casting chamber, the door closed with a definitive thud, and she was left standing outside, alone. More than an hour passed before Ranthor emerged, but when he did, Shal was still standing exactly where he had left her.
He paused and faced his apprentice, holding out a yellow, rolled parchment. “Keep this scroll, Shal. Open it only if you have reason to believe I will not return. I must go now to Denlor, to Phlan. May the gods be with you—and with me.” Ranthor had whispered a magical command, then vanished into the smoky blue haze of his Teleport spell….
That was the last Shal had seen or heard from her teacher. She knew she wasn’t likely to make progress on her Weather Control spells or any other kind of magic until she received some word of reassurance from Ranthor. In the meantime, she realized, there was a tower full of chores that beckoned—wonderful, mindless activities that would serve as distraction from her anxious thoughts.
She decided to tackle a task she had been putting off for days—dusting the countless shelves of magical components in Ranthor’s storeroom. A wizard’s components, she knew from her training, were almost as important as his spellbooks. Someone had to keep them all in order, and once a wizard reached a certain level, that someone was almost invariably an apprentice.
As Shal entered the storeroom and faced its row after row of shelving, she sighed and began musing to herself. She sometimes wondered why anyone would ever want to become a wizard’s apprentice. It seemed a never-ending stream of menial chores and discouraging hours of practice. Somehow she couldn’t picture Ranthor ever stumbling over a word, as she frequently did, when he cast a spell. Shal smiled grimly as she tried to imagine Ranthor stooping down to dust shelves. He must have found some way to bypass the apprentice stage and progress straight to wizard, she thought wryly.
Shal stared at the rows of shelving stretched out before her. It would take hours. The dust ha
dn’t been at all selective about which shelves or components to cover. The fine film of gray powder coated everything, and the spiders had been having a heyday. Shal stood staring for several more seconds, then grabbed a rag and plunged ruefully ahead into the maze of shelving.
As Shal reached the end of a long row of shelves, she wiped her brow and paused, turning to glance at herself in the large viewing mirror that Ranthor used to practice his gestures. Her shoulder-length hair, though matted with perspiration at the ends, was vibrant and silky and shimmered auburn red even in the dull light from the handful of lamps that lit her master’s huge laboratory. Her skin was clear and as smooth as polished ivory, and her nose and cheeks were fine and delicate. She couldn’t help but know she was attractive—just tall enough to set off her perfectly sculpted petite frame, and just saucy enough in her mannerisms to attract the attention of almost any man she took a fancy to.
From her studies under Ranthor, Shal had learned of the damage that certain powerful magic could do to the caster’s skin, hair, and overall vigor. She had discussed the subject with Ranthor on several occasions, expressing some of her fears. Ranthor had chided her for her vanity, but he also reminded her that beauty and magic were not mutually exclusive. “There are times,” he had said, “when you must use strong magic. There are other times when you can avoid it. But you must never get caught up in your fear of the physical consequences of spell-casting. It will hinder your ability to excel at your chosen profession.”
Nonetheless, Shal had still persisted in asking Ranthor about the effects of different spells. She knew that the Burning Hands spell was not one she wanted to use often. The Weather Control spells were not so bad—and, of course, they’d never hurt her at all if she didn’t figure out how they worked! She turned her attention back to the dusty shelves, wishing she knew a spell that would make the chore a little less tedious.
She thought about Ranthor, trying once more to picture him as an apprentice dusting shelves. As she did, a thought came to her. Of course! she reasoned. Why didn’t I think of it before? Ranthor would never pick up every vial and pouch. He’d use the very first cantrip he ever taught me! And here I thought I was going to be here till dusk!