Pool of Radiance

by James M. Ward

  The attendant bowed awkwardly, taking care not to drop the dishes, and then took his leave. Cadorna used the time to check his attire. He firmly believed that intimidation was critical to passing judgments, and that a person was always more intimidating when he looked his best. Finally Cadorna lifted his sleeve to check his poison dagger. It was held in place by a gold armlet, an heirloom that featured the Cadorna family crest, a snake with its tail coiled around a weaver’s shuttle. The dagger was loose and at the ready. Cadorna also believed that a man in his position could never be too careful.

  When Cadorna finally entered the hearing room, he was pleased to see that it was almost full. Crowds always made cases more interesting, and he felt his growing reputation deserved maximum exposure. The next case, according to the watch warden, involved two feuding groups of clerics. Each band held that the other was stealing its worshipers, but Cadorna was only half listening. Instead, he was watching the three the mage had spoken about.

  The tavern worker was a huge man, dressed in a loose tunic. With his knotted hair and baggy clothing, he appeared at first glance to be nothing more than a giant dullard, but Cadorna could see from his forearms, the breadth of his shoulders, and his posture that the man was incredibly well muscled. The woman was almost as tall as the tavern worker, and she looked strong enough and fit enough to take on almost any man. Cadorna shivered. He was himself quite tall, but he hated big men, and he had no use for large women. He preferred women who were petite and meek. The cleric of Tyr was a handsome, well-built man, obviously powerful, but nothing like the big tavern worker. His face was that of a young man, yet his hair was silvery white, the color of a much older man’s. Cadorna stared intently at each of them, hoping to detect something of their magic, but he had no such ability.

  He straightened in his chair. If he was going to use these three to his best advantage, he must make a good impression on them. He directed his attention to the cleric who was testifying. “What was that you just said, Canon? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Dessel, your honor. Canon Dessel. Honorable Councilman Cadorna,” the cleric pleaded, “these fights between our two faiths must come to a stop. No one profits from such bickering.”

  “Yes, I quite agree, and I believe I have just the remedy.” Cadorna had heard just enough of the case to have an idea. He stood up and swept his arm from one party to the other, in a grandiose gesture. He’d seen the First Councilman make the same motion before, and he was very taken with the effect. “A cleric from each temple will be dispatched immediately to spend thirty days helping heal the brave watchmen who suffer injury while guarding the walls of the city. For every report of disputes between the two temples that reaches the council, another cleric from each temple will be assigned to thirty days of healing service. In this manner, each side will be encouraged to put aside petty bickering or have little time for the maintenance of its own temple. Of course, in the meantime, you will both be serving the needs of our city.”

  The crowd began murmuring. For a moment, Cadorna worried that he may have gone too far in his judgment. Then he saw the tentative nods of agreement and smiles on people’s faces. Several clerics from each of the temples actually walked, albeit reluctantly, to the center of the room and shook hands! Cadorna beamed with pride at the sound logic of his decree.

  “The Tenth Councilman has spoken,” the watch warden declared. He ushered the canons of both temples away and then returned to announce the principals in the next case. “Shal Bal of Cormyr, Tarl Desanea of Vaasa, and Ren o’ the Blade of Waterdeep will stand before this session of the council to be judged in the matter of disorderly conduct and brawling within the city limits of Civilized Phlan.”

  Porphyrys Cadorna gazed down from his place on the dais in the most condescending and accusatory manner he could muster. “This is the council chamber of the city of Phlan,” said Cadorna in his most official-sounding voice. “You have been brought here by the Watch Guard for wrongdoing in our fair city. Rest assured that I will hear out what you have to say and carefully review the nature of your case before passing judgment.”

  Ren was barely aware of what Cadorna was saying. He was busy making a mental note of the full names and home grounds of his two newfound companions. He was still wrestling with the idea that Shal might be somehow related to Tempest. Related or no, he was stunned by her looks and more than a little taken with her candid, bright-eyed manner. Likewise, Ren had been impressed by Shal’s cleric friend, Tarl. Tarl hadn’t had any reason to jump into the midst of that fight. In fact, he could probably have sought sanctuary at his temple instead of facing judgment.

  For Shal, everything about the night had seemed strange and artificial, like a play she was watching from the wings but which she could begin acting in at any time. When the guards first caught her in their wretched nooses, Shal had been terrified. She had seriously considered pulling out the Staff of Power to learn exactly what it could do. It was the relative calm of Tarl and Ren that had kept her from doing something foolish. Neither of them had seemed particularly concerned about being captured. She also felt reassured by the councilman’s manner. She was impressed by the fairness of the decision he had imposed upon the clerics, and he had promised fairness in reviewing their case. Whatever the sentence, she hoped it wouldn’t take long to fulfill. She had hoped to travel to Denlor’s tower the next day, after a good night’s rest. This could hold her up considerably.

  Tarl had himself observed the clerics of Sune and Tempus arguing in the streets over converts and then watched with interest as they brought their argument before the night council. He, too, was impressed with Cadorna’s judgment because of its twofold prospect for good—helping the temples, while at the same time helping the city. Somehow, though, the wisdom and fairness of the decision didn’t ring true with his gut intuition about Cadorna. Tarl had seldom gone wrong trusting his first impressions of people. He was as comfortable with Shal and Ren as if he had known them all his life, but he had no such sense of comfort in the presence of Cadorna. He was conscious of the man’s posturing, something common to political leaders, and there was something else that made him feel very cool toward the man, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  “So, you three have been picked up for brawling at the Laughing Goblin Inn. How do you plead?” intoned Cadorna.

  “Guilty, Councilman,” said Ren, holding his head high. He reasoned that if their sentence were too severe, he could always use his lockpicking skills to escape. The worst sentence meted out in Phlan was being thrown over the city walls at night, but that possibility seemed remote, considering the relatively minor nature of their offense. They would undoubtedly be held in a cell for at least a little while before anything so drastic happened, and Ren could get them out.

  “Guilty, Councilman,” Tarl said. The cleric knew that the high cleric of the temple of Tyr held a position on the council. Tarl expected that he could appeal to him for leniency for himself and his two friends if need be.

  “Guilty—that is, if brawling means defending yourself and trying to get away from a fight you didn’t start, Councilman,” Shal said.

  This brought smiles to more than a few faces in the crowded room, including that of the presiding councilman. “Yes, well … Ah, be that as it may …” Cadorna was startled by the temerity of the woman and the confidence of the two men. He began to hope that these three would become the first to survive his test.

  “The council’s main function is not punishment in the customary sense, but rather giving lawbreakers such as yourselves incentive for serving the community. We provide them with missions allowing them to challenge and attempt to overcome the evil that lurks in the ruins around the civilized portion of the city. For your sentence, the three of you will undertake such a mission. Thorn Island, which is located south of Civilized Phlan, across the bay, has for too long been avoided by the good merchants of Phlan. There are purported to be monsters inhabiting Sokol Keep, the fortress that occupie
s much of the island’s surface, and these monsters are said to make sailing in the proximity of the island all but impossible. You are charged with the task of discovering the secret of the darkness that makes Sokol Keep and Thorn Island uninhabitable. Bring back any information that may be of benefit to us in recovering the island. If you are successful in this venture, you will not only have fulfilled the terms of your sentence, but you will also be rewarded by the council. For now, you are released on your own recognizance.” Cadorna signaled to the watch warden.

  “The Tenth Councilman has spoken. Next case,” the watch warden declared, and he ushered the three companions out of the council chambers.

  As the three made their way back to the Laughing Goblin, they spoke nervously of what the morning would bring. They also exchanged tales of their battle experience—or lack of it—and Tarl and Shal told Ren much of what they had told each other about their activities during the last few days. By the time they reached the inn, they were laughing like old friends. After shaking hands with Shal and Tarl and taking a last longing glance at Shal, Ren parted to go to his room in the loft above the stables. Tarl saw Shal to her room and then returned to the Temple of Tyr, where he accepted the hospitality of his brothers in the faith for what little remained of the night.

  Sokol Keep

  None of the three slept well. Shal had come to Phlan for one reason only—to avenge the death of her mentor—and so far, she had not even gotten to Denlor’s tower. Shal hadn’t planned on being sent on any mission for the town council.

  Tarl, too, was anxious. When Tarl checked on Anton that night, the big man voiced two words, but they were “no” and “die,” and his glazed eyes looked haunted. Tarl couldn’t help but think his friend was even nearer to death. Tarl’s only hope for quieting his feelings of guilt and helplessness was to take the time he needed to prepare mentally and spiritually for his return to the graveyard to regain the hammer. He had not counted on being required to “recover” Thorn Island, but he would make the best use he could out of the town council mission.

  Ren, on the other hand, was actually excited about the expedition to Thorn Island. For the first time in a year, he had a clear goal in mind—an assigned goal, granted, but a goal nonetheless. And he would be among interesting company besides.

  Tarl awoke before dawn and spent time preparing his armor in quiet meditation, as was the custom of his faith, contemplating the rightness of his motivations, and focusing on the need to display bravery and skill to the honor of Tyr. The ritual of his meditation was broken more than once by the memory of the screams of his brethren at the hands of the undead, the image of the vampire mocking him, the humiliation of giving up the sacred Hammer of Tyr, and the nightmare of Anton’s flesh sizzling at the impact of the unholy symbol from the Abyss.

  Tarl shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and said a final prayer to Tyr, thanking him for providing companionship as he sought to hone his skills until he would be ready to make his return to the stronghold of the vampire and demand the return of the hammer.

  As the sun cleared the rooftop of the temple and its light touched the back of his neck, Tarl felt invigorated. Surely it was a sign that his god had renewed his clerical powers. He stood and stretched, relishing the feel of his freshly oiled chain mail adjusting itself to his form. Picking up his backpack, shield, and war hammer, he whispered the word “Ready” and set off to find his friends—and his destiny.

  Ren, too, was observing a ritual—that of a ranger-turned-thief. First he checked the sharpness of the two jewel-handled daggers in his boots, bittersweet reminders of Tempest. She had given him the daggers as a gift some years ago, and he had later had two ioun stones from the take for which she was killed concealed inside their jeweled hilts. Ren thought of the daggers as Right and Left, in keeping with his usual straightforward line of thinking. As always, the blades were keen enough to split a baby’s hair. Ren went on to inspect his lockpicks, fire flask, hinge oil, climbing hooks, and door wedges. All seemed to be in perfect order. His nine throwing daggers and his two short swords, on the other hand, were dull and required sharpening. As a ranger, roaming the woodlands, Ren had preferred the longbow and long sword to short swords, but since he had turned to thieving in the streets of Waterdeep with Tempest, he preferred weapons that brought him up close and personal.

  After checking his other basic supplies, Ren pulled out the small amber-inlaid chest he had carried with him from Waterdeep. He brushed a layer of dust from its surface and chided himself for not taking better care of the container that held the most important tool of his trade. After disarming the three traps designed to keep intruders from the box, Ren lifted the cover.

  A sensation akin to an electrical charge coursed up Ren’s spine as he touched the enchanted gauntlets. “It’s been far too long since we were together,” Ren whispered. Carefully he pulled on the jet-black gloves. As they warmed to the temperature of his skin, their color and texture changed to match his tanned skin perfectly. He held his hands up admiringly. No one would ever know he was wearing gloves. He fitted his favorite lock-pick into the palm of his right glove, and it disappeared into the perfectly camouflaged surface. Then he tucked a pouch of sneezing powder under the right glove. Where there should have been a bulge, there was only his wrist. The magical gloves not only protected his hands, but more than that, they also added a measure of speed and dexterity to his movements.

  Ren joined his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and then reached for his black leather armor. He smiled wistfully as he lifted the durable featherweight vest. He could remember the day Tempest had stolen it for him—and how she’d taken it off him that same night. After checking the fastenings, Ren slipped into the armor. He caught sight of his reflection on the polished surface of a copper planter, and he let out a low whistle. It had been a long time since he looked that good. “This one’s for you, Tempest,” he said softly. “And when this is done, I’ll get that bastard who killed you….”

  With everything in place, he was ready for the final step in his ritual. He stood with his feet wide apart and began the first moves in a slow and complicated set of exercises. Shal Bal would have recognized them as a wizard’s trance relaxation routine. Tarl would have called it a Dan muscle stimulation. Ren simply called it the last thing he had to do.

  Like Tarl, Shal had been up since before dawn, memorizing spells she thought she might need. The last she struggled with was one Ranthor had taught her in recent months, which was called Web of Entrapment. Dipping into the Cloth of Many Pockets, Shal easily found the necessary components for the spell. She smiled, aware once again of how well her master had provided for her. “I hope to make you proud, Ranthor,” she whispered softly.

  She donned the fine leathers she had bought yesterday and her cloak, as well. “This mission isn’t what I had in mind, but it will be an adventure,” Shal said aloud, talking half to herself, half to the spirit of her mentor. “My first adventure into the ‘real’ world. I don’t suppose you packed ‘adventure equipment’ into this cloth, did you, Ranthor?” She repeated the words and then reached inside the cloth. Amazing! she thought as she pulled out item after item—a pair of daggers, a rod with a perpetual light at the tip, an odd belt with a seemingly unending array of sheaths and pouches, a leather purse filled with an assortment of common spell components, and a small bag of flour.

  “Flour? I can guess what everything else is for, but why the flour?”

  Shal reached into the final pocket and found a tiny scroll. She unfurled it and discovered a note written in Ranthor’s fluid script: The flour is there to reveal what is invisible. You should have known that, Apprentice.

  “My teacher, you truly knew me too well. I wish you could meet my two new friends,” she sighed.

  Shal took a deep breath and paused for a last moment to prepare mentally for the test she must pass before making her way to Denlor’s tower. She wondered if perhaps Tarl and Ren might help her when—if—they returned from Sokol
Keep.

  She found perfect stowing places for her spell components, rods, daggers, and magical cloth on the oddly designed belt. Shal held the belt up wistfully before buckling it, aware that it might have gone around her former self twice. Now, she needed to use the last buckle hole. When she’d pulled it snug, she marveled at the fact that it was virtually weightless once it was secured. Finally she practiced drawing the Staff of Power from the magical cloth. The six-foot-tall staff looked more than a little odd coming out of the small square of indigo cloth, but it came easily to her hand every time she asked for it. She almost laughed at the thought of employing the staff or any of her magical items on real enemies. “Yes, Ranthor, this is me, Shal—the same Shal who was afraid of a Burning Hands spell.”

  Ren was already in the common room, talking with Sot, when Shal came downstairs. He bit his lip when he saw the way she’d pulled her hair back. A large copper clip lifted her auburn hair off her face, accenting her high, flushed cheekbones, without even beginning to tame the wild red tresses that raged down her back. It was not a style Tempest had ever used, but it was stunning, and it made Ren see Shal for the first time as having a beauty unique to her and not tied up in his memories. “Good morning, Shal. You look wonderful!”

  Shal blushed and smiled. “Good morning!” Shal stopped and stood stock still at the bottom of the stairs, staring at Ren. The self-described ranger-thief, whose body had been hidden yesterday in a mangy, baggy tunic and pants held up by a drawstring, was now dressed from head to foot in body-fitting black, oiled leather. His physique was impressive, not at all that of the dumpy barkeep Shal had conversed with the day before. Whereas yesterday Ren’s blond hair had been matted to his head, today it shone a honey gold, cascading smoothly to his shoulders. His blue eyes glimmered, their deep color intensified by the brilliant blue of the gemstones set in the shoulder pads of his black armor. Shal noticed, too, that concealed cleverly on his person was a veritable armory. Strategically stowed for quick access were knives, daggers, two short swords, and several devices Shal couldn’t attempt to name. “I—I hardly recognize you,” she managed to say.