Pool of Radiance (3 page)

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 stature. 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?”

No, but I’m far from stupid, and I’m not afraid to express my ideas. The horse raised its head a little with that thought. I just assume that you will be wanting to dispatch whoever or whatever killed our master.

“Our master? I’d rather you didn’t phrase it exactly that way. It makes me sound like I’m a horse.”

My apologies. How about if I call you Mistress from now on?

“Fine. So, what do you do when I’m not riding you?”

Sometimes our mas—uh, Ranthor—would make me climb in one of the pockets of that cloth. Cerulean angled his head in the direction of the table, where the indigo cloth still lay spread out. I don’t much care for that actually. It’s dark in there—pitch black, in fact. As long as there’s plenty of room, I prefer to just vanish and walk around.

“Really?” Shal asked. “And what if there’s not plenty of room?”

Then I just wait outside—you know, invisible. As long as no one runs into me, it works out fine. But we can discuss all that en route to the kitchen. You really should eat, Mistress. And then we need to make travel plans for our trip to Phlan.

Shal shook her head. She didn’t know what startled her more—the fact that the horse could communicate or that its communication was so decisive. She wondered for a moment how Ranthor had interacted with Cerulean. Whenever Shal had suggested that Ranthor had been working too hard and should eat, he would all but shoo her away. She couldn’t imagine Ranthor taking instructions from a horse. She looked wistfully toward the last place from which she had heard Ranthor’s voice. Although she expected no answer, she still asked the question: “Ranthor, you said this horse served you well. You didn’t say it had rather firm opinions about being left in the dark, or that it stood around outside waiting for someone to run into it. Where’s my ‘magic steed’ instruction booklet, Ranthor? Aren’t you the one who thought of everything?”

Well, if you’re going to be that way about it…. Cerulean’s eyes assumed a hurt look, and he stomped out of the room and vanished.

“Cerulean, come back here!” Shal called out to the thin air, feeling rather foolish. “I just haven’t got the hang of this yet.”

You mean you’ll eat?

“Yes, I’ll eat. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” Shal walked down the corridor, fully expecting at any moment to bump into an invisible horse, but when she reached the kitchen, Cerulean was already there. He was quite visible again.

Shal cut herself two pieces of goat’s cheese and bread and poured herself half a flagon of mineral water. She took a bite of the sandwich and then raised the flagon in her right hand and held it up toward Cerulean. “To Ranthor, to magical horses, and to magical journeys! May the gods be with us, Cerulean!”

Cerulean nodded his head and whinnied softly. To Ranthor and the past. To you, Mistress, and to the future.

Shal finished her simple dinner with an apple, which she shared with Cerulean. After tidying up, she packed, putting everything she thought she could use in the Cloth of Many Pockets and adding a few more things in Cerulean’s saddlebags. Then she went through the entire keep, magically sealing doorways, rooms, and passages with the command words Ranthor had taught her. Spells of protection had been one of Ranthor’s specialties, and Shal knew as she stood at the outer gate of the keep that nothing short of a god could enter before she returned. “Not bad for an apprentice—right, Cerulean?” The big stallion laid its head on her shoulder and looked back at the keep. After a last brief moment of remembering, Shal turned, mounted Cerulean, and resolved to make Ranthor proud of her on this, her first true adventure. “To Phlan, big fellow. Let’s go!”

Cerulean galloped like no horse Shal had ever ridden. The movements of the stallion’s huge body were so fluid that Shal almost felt as if she were flying. She rode for miles at an incredible pace, and Cerulean never tired.

Shal took advantage of the smooth ride to study her new magical tools and learn the command words written on the Staff of Power. Before she knew it, the sun was setting. “Well done, Cerulean! Let’s stop and rest.”

Shal started to go about the motions of setting up camp as she’d seen her brothers do when she was younger. She kept her riding gloves on to protect her hands as she gathered wood and kindling. There was no need to struggle with flint and steel to start the fire, either. Instead, she used a simple cantrip Ranthor had taught her. As the fire began to blaze, Shal stood back and proudly admired her handiwork. She unrolled her bedding and was about to heat a piece of jerky for dinner when Cerulean began to snort and stamp. “Is something wrong?” Shal whispered, wondering if she was about to encounter intruders.

Aren’t you going to take care of the beast that brought you? Do you think I want to carry these saddlebags all night? Or chew on this hunk of metal in my dreams?

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Immediately Shal began to remove the offending tack. Unstrapping Cerulean’s bridle and removing his bit was easy. Undoing the stiff saddle harness wasn’t even too taxing. But when Shal started to lift the saddle and packs off Cerulean’s back, she almost buckled under the weight.

“Oof! This is heavy! I wish I were stronger!” And with her last words, she let out a gasp.

The magic of the Ring of Three Wishes worked instantly. Shal could feel herself growing larger, stronger. The saddle became like a feather in her hands. Her once perfectly fitted riding gear bound her flesh so tightly that the seams split. She flung the saddle to the ground with a force her petite body had never been capable of and watched in horror as her delicate hands and slender arms grew into what she perceived as huge, brawny appendages. She watched her feet, calves, and thighs expand in a similar fashion, and she could feel a sheath of muscled flesh building on her once trim stomach.

“No!” she screamed. “No!” She knew enough about wishing lore to know that she had made the cardinal mistake of wishers. She had wished carelessly. “Look at me! I’m a monster! I’m huge!” she cried. Shal fell to her knees, terrified and disgusted by what she had done. She knew the change was permanent unless she used another wish.

Cerulean tried desperately to break into her thoughts. Her terror and revulsion registered on his brain like a stabbing knife. The image projected by Shal was of a grotesque parody of a human female, distorted almost beyond recognition by musculature and sinews. The reality was quite different. Cerulean could perceive human beauty. He certainly had a sense of what Ranthor found attractive in women. Shal had indeed changed as a result of the wish; she was considerably larger than she had been. But the basic beauty of her features and the proportion of her figure had not changed. If she was unattractive, it was only to someone who could not find beauty in a large woman. Her appearance was marred only by the ripped, ill-fitting clothing that still managed to hold a few parts of her expanded figure captive.

But Shal was oblivious to Cerulean’s mental shouts. She stared at the big calves that protruded from where her ankles had been, and at her forearms, where they tested the limits of the wrist cuffs. She could only imagine what her face must look like.

Her immediate thought was to wish herself back to her former size. But as much as she wanted to make that wish, she shook her head resolutely. No, Ranthor had entrusted his entire magical legacy to her. It was not to be wasted. Shal’s one goal was to make him proud. She had made a gross mistake, and she must live with it. The ring’s magic must be preserved for her quest to avenge her master’s murder.

“What a fool I am! I can’t even trust myself with a simple ring!” she chastised herself. Shal reached for the ring to pull it off, but her hands had grown much larger than before and the ring wouldn’t budge. “Damn! Instead of wishing to be strong, I could at least have wished that me and my belongings were in Phlan—”

“No!” Shal screamed as she felt the ring’s magic working once more. Before she could even blink, she found herself kneeling on the planks of a long wooden dock, facing the twilight silhouette of a city she had never seen but knew without a doubt was Phlan. Her bedroll, her saddle, and Cerulean were beside her. The horror of her stupidity bludgeoned her like a battle-axe, and she fell prostrate on the dock and wept, beating her fists against the planks with each rage-filled sob.