Pool of Radiance Read online

  She turned back to the row where she had left off, located a bit of elk horn dust in her pouch, and sprinkled it on the shelf. Then she whispered three arcane words and shouted, “Rasal!” Instantly the vials and components on the rack before her rose several inches from the shelves. As they hung there suspended, she quickly dusted the four tiers in a fraction of the time it would have taken her otherwise.

  “Ah, yes, there are advantages to magic,” Shal said jubilantly. She moved on to the next rack of shelves and the next, repeating the same cantrip. After cleaning three more racks, she decided to try her hand at doing two at a time.

  She concentrated a moment longer this time before incanting the words of the cantrip. To her delight, all of the items on both racks floated from the shelves. As before, she reached out with her dusting cloth, but this time, one of the magical items, a large crystal sphere, began to glow a bright blue. Shal leaped back, startled out of her wits. Instantly all of the components came crashing down with a terrifying clatter—except for the sphere. The sphere proceeded to glow ever brighter, its indigo light blazing like a hot flame, searing Shal’s wide-open eyes with its brilliance.

  Instinctively she called out to Ranthor for help. But, of course, Ranthor wasn’t there. She realized, once she recovered from her initial start, that the glowing blue orb that hung before her was probably carrying a message from Ranthor. After all, blue was his favorite color, and there hadn’t been any word from him since he’d left.

  Quickly Shal picked up the sphere, whisked it into the next chamber, and placed it on the casting stand. Ranthor’s words came back to her: “Concentration is the key here … Concentration, and not letting the ball touch anything before you’re completely finished with it.”

  But how had Ranthor raised the crystal to just the right distance above the casting stand? Shal didn’t know. Surely her master hadn’t used anything as mundane as the Raise Objects cantrip she had been practicing moments ago…. It couldn’t hurt to try, though, Shal thought. Slowly she waved her hands over the glowing ball as she had seen Ranthor do. Then, concentrating hard, she spoke the words of the cantrip. Moving so slowly that Shal could hardly detect it, the globe rose to a perfect hand’s height above the casting stand, just as it had for Ranthor! Again she focused her thoughts, staring into the brilliant swirls of blue, 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. She could see no face, no features, only that the arm lashing out with the dagger was adorned with a bizarre snake’s-head armlet.

  “Sha—!” Ranthor’s scream ended in a grotesque gurgle, and the crystal ball burst into shards and splinters.

  Shal’s muscles went limp and she dropped to the floor. “My god! Oh, my god! Ranthor …”

  Tears formed in her eyes, and she stared absently at her arms. Blood was welling up in a dozen places where fragments of crystal had embedded themselves in her flesh. Shal watched numbly as droplets of blood became engorged and then burst and trickled down her arms. She reached up and touched her face, brushing gently at more splinters lodged there.

  “Damn it, Ranthor! Why didn’t you teach me more so I could warn you or cast a spell and save you? You should’ve taught me some way to help you! Damn! You can’t leave me like this! Please … come back!” In rapid succession, numbness turned to anger, anger to rage, rage to disbelief, and disbelief to depression. Sobs racked Shal’s small frame as she continued to sit, clutching her knees to her chest.

  “Keep this scroll, Shall.”

  Shal bolted to a standing position. The voice was her master’s, and she had heard it as clearly as if he were standing beside her. Could he still be communicating with her through the crystal? No, the crystal was no more.

  “Open it only if you have reason to believe I will not return….”

  It was Ranthor’s voice once again, and this time Shal realized that he was not speaking to her himself. She remembered him telling her about Magic Mouth spells, which enabled wizards to leave messages in their own voices. What she was hearing, she knew, was from a spell he must have cast before he left. Something she had done, or something that happened, had triggered the voice.

  Shal plucked the remaining fragments of crystal from her skin and clothing and hurried to her study area. Her master was no longer with her, but she could still observe his wishes.

  There, on her study table where she had left it, was the scroll, a blue aura shimmering around it. Her hand trembled violently as she reached for the scroll. She didn’t want to read it, knowing that to do so was to admit that Ranthor was dead. Finally she clenched her teeth and picked up the carefully tied piece of parchment. As Shal unfastened the silk tie, the blue aura dispersed. She knew that if someone else had tried to open the scroll, his hand would have burned to cinders when he violated the magical seal. She placed one of her spellbooks on the top of the unfurled scroll and one at the bottom and sat down to read it.

  Ranthor’s script was bold and fluid. He had always chided Shal for her sloppy penmanship, and as she recognized for the first time the full beauty of Ranthor’s writing, Shal vowed that she would work to improve her own.

  My dearest Apprentice, Shal Bal of Cormyr,

  I cannot know the exact circumstances that bring you to read this, only that, somehow, I have been taken from you and from the Realms we walked together as teacher and student. You can do nothing for me, except to follow my instructions one last time.

  Go now to my personal chambers. The door will open at your bidding when you speak, with the full authority of magical command that I have taught you, the word “Halcyon.”

  Use wisely the magical legacy and treasures you find within those walls. I know you can surpass me and become a great spell-caster—if that is your most sincere desire.

  You have my eternal love. May the gods be with you.

  Ranthor

  Shal sat for a moment, dazed, staring at the letter. She read it through again, then cried aloud, “I don’t want your treasures, Ranthor! What kind of a ghoul do you think I am?” She was about to crumple the scroll and throw it across the room, when the center of the parchment began to smoke. A pale yellow flame licked up, burning an ever-widening circle in the paper. Shal quickly grabbed her spellbooks from the desk before they, too, were caught in the magical blaze. The fire stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving no damage whatsoever to her desk and not even a trace of the scroll Shal had just read.

  Shal wanted to scream out, but the words from the scroll prompted her to action: “Go now to my personal chambers….” Shal swallowed hard, raised herself to her feet, and walked purposefully to the door of Ranthor’s quarters. Straightening her shoulders, she held her head high and cried, “Halcyon!” The great oak doors swung open at her command, and she walked in, her eyes wide, knowing that this room contained her master’s most cherished personal items and that he was entrusting all he had left therein to her.

  She definitely did not expect, however, the stamping, snorting bluish-white stallion that stood proudly in the center of the room. “A magical steed for a magical journey.” Shal was startled once again by the sound of Ranthor’s voice, no doubt the product of another spell cast before he left for Phlan. “
Trust his warnings and you won’t go wrong. I summoned this steed, my trusted familiar, when I was your age. Cerulean has served me well, and so he will serve you.”

  Shal had seen Ranthor riding the big white horse, but it had never occurred to her that the animal was anything other than just a horse. Shal had talked with Ranthor about familiars, intelligent animal companions many mages relied on for character judgments, a word of advice, or a second set of eyes during times of danger. Ranthor had said Shal would know when it was her time to summon a familiar, that the desire for trustworthy companionship grows stronger as a mage becomes more engrossed in his or her craft. At the time, Shal had taken that as one of Ranthor’s many gentle nudges to work harder at her magic.

  Shal gingerly held her hand out toward the obviously high-strung horse, then sighed in relief as he relaxed, whuffled quietly, and nuzzled her hand. Next Cerulean nudged Shal’s shoulder and walked toward the back of the room. Shal followed him to a huge onyx table. Running her hands over its shiny black surface, she stared in awe at the array of magical items spread before her. She recognized two potions of healing that she had helped Ranthor collect ingredients for and the Wand of Wonder she had often seen in her master’s hand. There were also a small square of shimmering indigo velvet, a ring, and a straight rosewood staff that stood taller than Shal.

  “I wish I could be here in person to guide you, Shal but you must learn your craft by yourself.” Ranthor’s voice, as preserved by his spell, was soft and gentle. She could sense his regret. “The items assembled before you are functional and powerful. They will aid you until you mature in your own spell-casting ability. The potions, of course, you already know how to use. The Wand of Wonder is simply pointed at a target in a time of need, while you express the need in the tongue of the arcane. But I must caution you: Do not use the wand unless you have no alternative. Its effects are always wondrous, as the name implies, but they are random, which can sometimes be dangerous. The Cloth of Many Pockets I have filled with everything you might need for a journey.”

  “Everything I might need? In this?” Shal lifted the small square of velvet and unfolded it—again and again and again. Soon the blue cloth was spread over the entire table. Dozens of pockets covered its surface.

  “Simply tell the cloth what you need. As long as it’s one of the things on the list you’ll find in the top right corner pocket, you’ll find it simply by reaching your hand into any one of the pockets. Try it. Say ‘Feed for my horse,’ and reach into any pocket.” Ranthor’s voice paused.

  Shal felt as if she were being watched. “ ‘Feed for my horse,’ ” she said self-consciously. Even after being told what would happen, Shal could hardly believe it when she reached into a pocket and removed a sack of oats and a feed bag. The cloth was an incredible resource, worth many thousands of gold pieces on the open market.

  “Now pick up the staff.” The voice was again Ranthor’s, but this time it seemed to be coming from the other side of the room. He must have left yet another message preserved with a spell. Some day, Shal vowed, she would learn the spell Ranthor had used to communicate his final wishes. The voice went on: “This is the Staff of Power. Look carefully, and you will see many runes etched along its length.”

  Shal hefted the staff, admiring its workmanship. It was much lighter than it appeared, and it was perfectly balanced, a splendid weapon even if it had no magic. The lower portion of the staff was polished to a smooth finish and tapered to an end just blunt and thick enough to support the weight of someone using it for a walking staff, but sharp enough to use as a weapon if need be. The rest of the staff, from a point about a foot off the ground to the large, perfectly smooth wooden ball that capped its end, was ringed with the carved figures of each of the benevolent gods of the Realms. As Ranthor had noted, the surfaces between the carvings were covered with ornately etched runes.

  Ranthor’s voice continued its explanation. “The runes are now just so much poetry but speak the same word you used to open my chamber door and the staff will be covered with the magical script I have taught you to decipher. Study these writings. They are the command words you will need to make this tremendous weapon serve you. I received the staff from a wizard friend who has passed from this plain, so unfortunately there is no way of knowing how many magical charges it retains. Therefore, do not squander its power. Keep the Staff of Power in the Cloth of Many Pockets until you are forced to use it. I advise you not to use the staff in front of strangers unless you plan on killing them, or you are willing to trust them with your life. Many a young mage has lost his life as a result of displaying such power to newfound friends.”

  Shal felt a chill pass through her body. She had never had reason to kill anyone. Somehow, though, as she heard Ranthor’s voice speaking of killing, she felt a deep rage rising up inside her. What moments ago had been senseless anger directed at herself, at Ranthor, and at the world at large was growing into a directed fury against whoever, or whatever, had taken Ranthor from her. Nothing she could do would bring her master back, but she vowed to avenge him. She owed Ranthor that and more.

  The voice continued. “I have one more thing to show you, Shal. Pick up the ring and place it on the middle finger of your right hand. Say nothing and do nothing further until I have finished.”

  Shal was startled by a sudden sternness in Ranthor’s voice. She placed the ring on her finger, marveling at its perfection and the way it fit—almost as if it had been made for her hand.

  “You now wear on your hand a Ring of Three Wishes. You have studied wishing lore, so I’m sure you understand how great a force you have at your disposal. Use it only at times of greatest need. And one more caution. Don’t even think of wishing me back.”

  Her master had read her mind, even in death.

  “Though the ring is powerful enough to accomplish even that, I am now where fate and the gods would have me. I lived many years and am fully prepared for what awaits me in death. You must now use the ring and all else I have given you for your own good.”

  Shal bit her lip. She could feel the tears starting to well up again.

  “Weep not for me.” Ranthor’s voice was now directly in front of her. She could almost imagine his warm hand grasping her shoulder. “My life was full, especially these last three years that you were with me. May yours be as much and more. Farewell, Shal Bal of Cormyr.”

  Shal knew that she had heard her master’s voice for the last time. She thought back to how she had come to study under the great wizard. Her family—her father, her mother, and brothers—were all sell-swords. Shal was quite small and slightly built, to the point that wielding even a short sword was difficult for her, not to mention trudging the countryside decked out in pounds of chain mail and other battle gear. There had never been any magic-users in their family, and her parents had no reason to suspect that their daughter should have any talent in that area, but when Shal turned sixteen, they heard of the proclamations announcing that the great Ranthor of Cormyr was interviewing for an apprentice, and they sent Shal.

  She had watched transfixed as a young man before her had caused a cloth to ignite by speaking a word. A young woman had made a pitcher rise into the air and pour a drink for the wizard. Shal had felt foolish and inept. She couldn’t even perform a simple shell trick, let alone true magic. Her parents had admonished her, “Be honest and promise diligence at your studies,” and that is what she had done. When Ranthor asked her what magic she had studied, she wanted to run away and hide, but she’d said with all the courage she could muster, “None, sir.” When he asked her what purse her parents had brought to pay for her education, she wanted to bolt from his presence. They had sent nothing with her. She stammered a response. “It—it was billed as—as an apprenticeship. They—I thought my labor would pay.”

  “And it will,” Ranthor had said simply. It was not until much later that Shal learned that most apprentice mages pay enormous sums for their educations, especially when they study under a wizard of Ranthor’s st
ature. She also learned, as she came to know other young apprentices, that many youthful mages were veritable slaves to their masters, yet Ranthor never expected more of her than the performance of routine chores—and above all, diligence at her studies.

  Shal stared down at the onyx table, her eyes taking in the many things Ranthor had left her. Suddenly Cerulean nudged her shoulder with his muzzle. He pushed the sack of oats to the floor and quickly began to rifle the bag. “Poor thing. I suppose even magic steeds have to eat.” She poured some oats into the feed bag and held it out to the horse. Instead of eating greedily as Shal thought he would, the horse pressed his head hard against her back and pushed her toward the doorway.

  “Oats aren’t good enough for you, or are you just being friendly in some odd way?” Shal asked, amused at the animal’s gesture.

  Naturally I like oats, but I don’t really need them. After all, I am magical, you know.

  The mental communication from the horse took Shal completely by surprise. The last thing she had expected was a response. She’d lived around magic for three years and had seen many unusual things. In the back of her mind, she even knew that familiars communicated somehow with their masters, but she had never experienced the mental barrage of telepathy—or taken part in a conversation, telepathic or otherwise—with a horse. She found it more than a little unnerving.

  It’s you who needs to eat You’re planning to go to Phlan, aren’t you?

  Shal looked at Cerulean quizzically. As if mental communication wasn’t jarring enough, he “thought” with the pronounced accent of someone from the Eastern Realms. Shal responded aloud. “I’ve been thinking about it. Do you read minds, too?”