James M. Ward - The Pool 1 - Pool of Radiance

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Pool of Radiance
Book 1 of The Pool Trilogy
By James M. Ward and Jane Cooper Hong
Ebook version 1.0
Proofed and formatted by BW-SciFi
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. . . .
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.
1
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, ap-peared, besieged by a horde of
vicious-looking orcs. The pig-faced creatures were armed with murderous weap-ons, 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, inciner-ating 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 compan-ions 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 enthusias-tic 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 in-structed, 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 in-stantly the wind would pass by and out of her reach.
Tired and discouraged, Shal left the wind to its own de-vices and went inside the tower. She wished
Ranthor were present to give her some of his usual valuable ad-vice 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 posi-tioned on the crux of
Ranthor's casting stand and the cop-per 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 be-gan 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 amuse-ment, 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 Ran-thor, 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 de-liberation, 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 crys-tal 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. Wiz-ard, 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 fo-cus. The man in the globe
was obviously a wizard, but he looked nothing like Ranthor. Even with his crippling rheu-matism, Ranthor
had a commanding presence. His ges-tures, 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. In-stead, 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 stead-ily 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 unspeak-able beasts growling, snarling, slavering,
clawing at the walls that kept him and his tower from destruction. Denlor thought of his waning defenses,
magical and oth-erwise, and as he did, his thoughts were Shal's thoughts. She gasped as she realized that
she now knew the loca-tion 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 im-penetrable 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 fi-nally 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 de-finitive 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 yel-low, 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 com-mand, 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 Ran-thor. In the meantime, she realized, there was a tower full of chores that
beckoned—wonderful, mindless activ-ities 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
com-ponents 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 be-fore her. It would take hours. The dust hadn'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 al-most 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,
express-ing 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 of-ten. 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 pic-ture 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!
She turned back to the row where she had left off, lo-cated 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 jubi-lantly. 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 re-covered 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.
Ran-thor'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 mo-ments 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 ef-forts, the beasts have somehow infiltrated the tower. My old friend is dead .. murdered. I must warn
you to be-ware 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, Shal"
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 re-alized that he was not speaking to her himself.
She re-membered 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 ob-serve his wishes.
There, on her study table where she had left it, was the scroll, a blue aura shimmering around it. Her
hand trem-bled 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
rec-ognized 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 to-gether 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 Ran-thor'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 mas-ter's most cherished personal items and that he was en-trusting 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 jour-ney." Shal was startled once again by the
sound of Ran-thor'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 fa-miliar, 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. Ran-thor had said Shal would know when it was her time to summon a familiar, that the desire for
trustworthy com-panionship grows stronger as a mage becomes more en-grossed 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. Run-ning 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 ma-ture in your own
spell-casting ability. The potions, of course, you already know how to use. The Wand of Won-der 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 some-times 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 ta-ble. 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 fi-nal 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 bal-anced, 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 or-nately 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 deci-pher. 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 stran-gers 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 fin-ger of your right hand. Say nothing and do nothing fur-ther 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 under-stand 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 rea-son 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 re-sponse. "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 an-imal'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 some-how with their masters, but she
had never experienced the mental barrage of telepathy—or taken part in a con-versation, 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 com-munication 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 ex-press my ideas. The horse raised its head a little
with that thought. I just assume that you will be wanting to dis-patch 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 actu-ally. 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 dis-cuss 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
摘要：

PoolofRadianceBook1ofThePoolTrilogyByJamesM.WardandJaneCooperHongEbookversion1.0ProofedandformattedbyBW-SciFiPOOLOFRADIANCEAgainShalfocusedherthoughts,staringintothebrilliantswirlsofblueinsidetheglobe,tryingtoenvisionhermentor.Inamoment,shesawhim.Shesuckedinherbreath.Howcouldamanhavechangedsoinamatt...

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