You took a foolhardy risk, the familiar corrected her.
Shal lifted her head and rested her chin on her knuckles. “Perhaps. But it was a necessary step, a step I needed to take in order to see Ranthor’s death avenged and make myself worthy of his legacy.
“When Ranthor was alive,” she went on, “I merely toyed with magic. I failed to take advantage of the opportunity right in front of me.”
Agreed, but—
“You don’t need to agree with me.”
I was only trying to be, uh …
“Agreeable? Thanks, but I think I prefer you to be ornery.” Shal reached up and patted Cerulean on his flank, then gently stroked his fetlock, admiring the beauty of his color even as it faded. “I do prefer the purple,” she said absently, still flushed by her success with the difficult weather spells. She had taken a naturally overcast and blustery day and added rain, lightning, a little hail—and a tornado!
I don’t distinguish colors, Mistress, so the color of my aura makes no difference to me. But you’re changing the subject. What you did—casting spell after spell at the limits of your experience and expertise—was terribly dangerous. I simply don’t understand why you’ve suddenly become so obsessed with improving your skills so rapidly. Cerulean pawed the rooftop and turned quietly to let Shal stroke his opposite leg.
“I think you do, Cerulean. It’s more than wanting to do my best for Ranthor. As much as I admired him and want to do right by him, it’s myself I have to please now. I always thought of magic as a way of making a living, a pastime, a way to get by. It was never a profession for me, just an easy route to security. In fact, I hated to think about what it might do to my appearance if I performed too much magic. Long ago, I decided I’d use my limited skills for commercial purposes—to help someone move a little equipment around, to frighten lowlifes who didn’t pay their bills on time….”
I can see—
“No, wait, Cerulean. Let me finish. What I wanted to say is that I never took magic seriously. In Ranthor’s absence, I’ve realized, first of all, that I have talent, and second of all, that I enjoy the power magic gives me. And—and—” Shal paused, groping for words—“I don’t—I don’t hate this new body anymore. There are some real advantages to being strong. And I don’t feel so—so concerned about what magic may do to my looks. I know there is probably no reason to think this, but I feel … protected somehow from the effects of spell-casting. It’s as if my body is no longer susceptible to damage.”
“No longer susceptible to damage?” The voice came from behind Cerulean.
The big horse stamped and spun around to face the intruder.
Shal turned her head. Ren stood not more than ten feet from her, silhouetted against the brightening sky. He’d climbed the same creaky ladder Shal had climbed to reach the roof of the inn, and he had done it soundlessly. She shook her head, marveling. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“It gives me a chance to … see things,” said Ren, and he came closer, holding a hand out toward Shal.
She tipped her head and laughed lightly as she let him pull her to her feet. “To see what? An exhausted, half-baked magic-user and a purple horse?”
Ren pulled Shal up close and reached for her other hand. “A beautiful woman who I—”
The ladder creaked behind Ren. In a single motion, he dropped Shal’s hands, turned on his heels, and whisked Left from his boot.
Tarl’s head poked out over the rooftop. “Sot said I might find you he—” On seeing Ren’s stance and expression, Tarl glanced down at the ladder. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No. Tarl!” Shal pushed her way past Ren and extended her hand to Tarl. “Come up. Please.”
“Sorry about the knife. I didn’t mean to be so touchy.” Ren spoke in a hushed voice. “Ever since we got arrested coming back into the city, I’ve been a little jumpy. Even at the temple, getting my hand healed … I’ve had this feeling as if I’m not safe anywhere. I mean, it’s in my training to watch my back, and there’s always seemed to be a person or two around who has it in for me, but now I feel shadows everywhere. I don’t feel alone even after I’ve checked everything around me.”
Tarl sensed that he had interrupted something between Ren and Shal, but he was not about to be the one to bring it up. He climbed up onto the rooftop and spoke of a concern of his own. “I don’t share your eye or ear for movement, Ren, but I do know that I was followed here. The one who shadowed me didn’t try very hard to be subtle. In fact, she’s sitting downstairs in the common room right now.”
Shal and Ren looked at Tarl with intense curiosity.
“Who?” they asked in unison.
“A half-orc. She’d pass for human except for her nose. It’s as boarlike as they come. She carries an unusually small scimitar and several thief’s daggers, and she cloaks herself in a dark gray cape. I don’t know who she is or why she’s following me, but I’ve got the feeling she’s waiting for a chance to talk to me.”
“Cadorna,” said Shal firmly. “It’s not enough that he has his thugs accost us like criminals at the city gates. Now he has us followed, too.”
“You, too?” Ren asked.
“No, not that I’m aware of. But the two of you … and for what?”
Ren crouched down and spoke in a whisper. “The treasure? The part we kept?”
“Then let’s return it,” said Shal. “It’s just sitting on the nightstand in my room. We’ve no need of it. I wasn’t even sure why you wanted me to keep it in the first place.”
“Two reasons,” Ren responded. “I didn’t figure there was any way you could yank that armor out of your cloth without somebody noticing …” Ren spoke even more softly. “And I needed to get those ioun stones where they wouldn’t be found.”
“But since the stones are safe now, shouldn’t we do as Shal says and return the armor?”
Ren heaved a sigh and spoke resignedly. “If I thought Cadorna was to be trusted, I’d be the first to hand back the rest of his treasure. But he’s a rat of the first order, and I don’t want to meet the fellow he sends after me wearing that armor or wielding weapons that jewelry paid for.”
“You think he did it, don’t you?” Shal looked at Ren.
The big man arched one eyebrow, puzzled. “Did what?”
Tarl answered. “You think he killed Shal’s teacher—and that he’d kill us if he thought we knew.”
“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t know for sure. I do feel pretty certain that even if that half-gnoll was involved in it, it was work-for-hire. He at least had a sense of honor.”
Shal hissed her words. “My flesh creeps every time I get near the councilman, and my gut feeling is that he did it. But I’ve no proof, and I don’t know what his motive is. I’m prepared to test him by magic.”
Cerulean stamped and snorted as though sharing Shal’s anger and indignation.
“While coming from the temple, I heard that Cadorna has been made Second Councilman,” Tarl pointed out. “That means we need physical proof before we do anything rash. Cadorna has tremendous resources at his disposal now. I heard he even hired a mercenary militia to guard the city.”
“I’ve heard the same thing,” agreed Ren. “We’ll need to work together—carefully. When we know the why, we’ll know if Cadorna is the murderer. For now, though, I’d settle for some supper.”
“What about the woman in the gray cloak?” asked Tarl.
“If she’s really following you, maybe we can learn why … or at least who sent her,” Ren answered.
“I’ll find out,” said Shal, a strange fury in her eyes.
A sprinkling of guests sat at tables in the inn, one here, two or three there. There was someone at almost every table but not a full table in the house. Those who were with others were speaking self-consciously, the way people do when a room gets too quiet for comfortable conversation. Shal and Ren and Tarl made their way to a large oval table that had just emptied near the bar. Neither Ren nor Shal had to ask where the h
alf-orc woman was. She was seated at the center of the common room, and while no one appeared to be looking directly at her, she seemed to be the focus of attention, her shining black hair and dark complexion contrasting boldly with the light walls of the inn.
She did not look over at the three, and made no move to approach them while they ate. It was not until they had finished eating and were talking quietly that she approached their table. She didn’t wait for an invitation. As soon as she had made eye contact with all three, she sat down. She immediately leaned across the table and began speaking directly to Tarl in a treacherous, whiskey-hoarse voice. “I can make your brother well.”
Tarl sat silent, compelled to look into her black eyes.
“I can make him whole again.”
“How? What do you know about Anton? And who are you?” Tarl spoke coolly, showing no emotion.
“I am called Quarrel, and I’ve been sent as a messenger—” she hushed her voice to a whisper—“a messenger of the Lord of the Ruins.”
“The Lord of the Ruins?” Like the others, Shal had not expected to encounter an emmisary of the Lord of the Ruins inside Civilized Phlan.
Ren flashed a dagger in each hand. “Speak your piece and make it quick, orc-meat,” he hissed.
The look Quarrel returned would have sent needles of ice through a lesser man. “Hold your peace, thief! No fewer than five warriors gathered in this room are also in service to the Lord of the Ruins, and there isn’t a one who couldn’t slam a knife into your jugular before you could ever lay a hand on me.”
“You and two more would die before I fell.”
“Perhaps, but that’s not what I’m here for, nor is it what they’re here for,” she said gesturing around the room.
The woman spread her hands flat on the big table in a calming gesture, then spoke in a still-throaty but less biting voice. “I’m here to make a deal with you—a very good deal.”
“Speak,” said Shal, her staff now raised.
“I’ve already made one offer … I’ll see that the cleric’s friend is healed. I’ll also name your teacher’s murderer. I’ll even kill him for you, if you wish….”
Shal started for a moment, wondering if the woman had heard any part of their conversation on the rooftop.
“And for you, thief, I’ll get the name of the assassin who killed your red-haired lover. I’ll let you kill him yourself, of course.”
Ren fairly threw himself across the table and grabbed the orc-woman roughly by the collar. “Orc vermin! What do you know about my Tempest?”
“Unhand me, you bastard, or I’ll have that assassin kill you instead!” Six armed warriors had leaped from their tables and moved in closer.
Tarl pressed his hand firmly on Ren’s shoulder, and Ren loosed his hold. “I want to know what she thinks she can do for Brother Anton.”
“How do you know these things, and what’s the rest of your ‘deal,’ Quarrel?” Ren fairly spit the words.
She spoke slowly, facing each of the three in turn. “I know who your master’s murderer is, mage…. Cleric of Tyr, I know who can heal your friend…. And, yes, thief, I know who killed your lover. I know because I work for the one who controls all. Serve him, and each of you will be given the knowledge and the time to fulfill your quests.”
“He can heal Anton?” Tarl asked hesitantly.
Ren wheeled to face his friend. “She’ll see that he gets healed—in exchange for your soul! Think, Tarl!”
The woman’s voice was like honey again. “Your friend exaggerates, Tarl. Service to the Lord of the Ruins is hardly the exchange of one’s soul. The Lord of the Ruins is no god. He demands obedience, not worship. Look at me—I am a free woman.”
“You are a free pig!” said Ren.
“That’s enough!” Shal cried, standing to face Ren. “I’ve no more use for your bigotry than I do for her offer!” To Quarrel, she said, “I speak for the others. We’ve seen what obedience to the Lord of the Ruins means, and we want no part of your deal. Leave us!”
Fire blazed in Quarrel’s black eyes for a moment. “The Lord of the Ruins gets what he wants,” she said, “sooner or later.” The half-orc stood, pivoted on her heel, and began to walk calmly toward the exit. The warriors rose as if to follow, but just as soon as she had opened the big door, Quarrel spun around and launched a tiny dagger from her hand.
“Down!” Ren shouted, and he leaped to try to deflect the dagger, but a big warrior rammed him from behind and sent him sprawling across the table.
Before Shal could duck or react with a spell, the dagger was buried deep in her collarbone, and green death began to spread through her body. She stood for a moment, a silent mental cry shrieking through her numbness, and then she flopped, twitching and jerking, to the ground.
In a lightninglike move, Ren rolled and disemboweled the man who had rammed him from behind. Tarl reacted with equal speed, bludgeoning the two warriors closest to him before they could pull their swords from their scabbards. But it was Cerulean who reacted with the greatest ferocity. Before Shal’s silent cry was finished, he had burst forth from the cloth, trampling everything between his mistress and the assassin. The half-orc never stood a chance. The huge horse reared and stomped, reared and stomped, again and again, pulverizing her with his sharp hooves, smashing her piglike snout deep into her crushed face, so that not even the greatest mages of the Lord of the Ruins would stand a chance of fixing it.
But killing Quarrel did nothing for Shal, who continued to jerk and writhe from the spasms caused by the deadly green poison. Nor did it help Tarl with the last of the warriors, who had just sliced up under the cleric’s ribs with his sword. It was Sot who finally clubbed the man to death with the cudgel he kept hidden behind the bar.
Ren ran immediately to Shal and cradled her head and shoulders in his arms. “No! No! Not again!”
“The temple …” Tarl clutched his side and spoke in desperation. “Get us to the temple!” He tried to work some healing on himself, but he passed out before he could finish the incantation.
Sot stuffed a bar rag against Tarl’s wound and started shouting orders at the confused patrons still standing around in the inn. “What’re ya gawkin’ at? Get a wagon hitched up! Now! And, you, hand me a fresh cloth from behind the bar there! Move!”
Ren carved at Shal’s wound and sucked and spit the poison as fast as he was able to, but he could see the vein of green pushing its way toward her heart, and he wept openly as he carried her to the waiting cart, where Sot had already laid Tarl. Cerulean whinnied and whickered and stamped furiously, and none but Ren dared to hitch him to the cart, but the moment the harnesses were secure and Ren had clambered aboard, the great horse bolted away and galloped with a speed no other horse could match.
“Make way! Make way!” Ren shouted at the top of his lungs as they reached the temple gates. “Wounded aboard!”
The clerics at the gates hurried to lift the latch as priests in their studies flocked outside to see what the commotion was about. Cerulean charged through the gates and straight toward the central temple. He didn’t slow until he reached a circle of priests waiting at the temple stairs.
Ren spoke so rapidly that he jumbled his words, and it was only the clerics’ experience in dealing with distraught people that helped them to catch the words “poison” and “bleeding.” Two of the brothers held Ren as the others carried Tarl and Shal inside the temple.
“Our brothers will do everything they can for them. There is nothing more you can do, ranger. Go, find your peace where you can, and return in the morning.”
Ren stared at them numbly, tears still welling in his eyes. “You can’t let them die! If there’s anything I can do … anything at all … I’ll be … I’ll be at the Laughing Goblin Inn, or maybe … maybe at the park, the one by the wizard’s tower on that end of town.” Ren pointed absently and walked dejectedly toward the gates.
“Don’t forget your horse!” one of the clerics called.
But Ren only mut
tered, “No. It’s hers,” and walked on.
Ren didn’t remember passing anything between the temple and the park. He didn’t even have any idea how much time had passed. He had been at one place, some time ago, and now he was at another. The storm had cleared before Shal left the rooftop of the Laughing Goblin, but the sky was still cloudy, and it was now pitch dark, the kind of night when only rangers and elves saw well. Ren walked without hesitation through the annonwoods and into the center of the park, where a huge evergreen towered into the darkness.
He gathered pinecones till his hands could hold no more and laid them gently before the tree. Then he piled needles on top of those. Finally, he picked violets that had folded their flowers for the night and laid them atop the pile. He faced the tree and spoke softly. “I want desperately for my new friends to live, and I need somehow, Tempest, to finally accept your death…. You know there’s no one like you. Even Shal, as much as she looks like you, isn’t really like you at all. I’m not … I’m not going to look for your replacement anymore, Tempest. There isn’t one. But you’re going to have to forgive me if I go on now with my life.”
Ren clenched his teeth to hold back tears, then tossed the flowers and the needles and the pinecones, a handful at a time, around the tree. “What is it they say, Babe—‘from the earth to the earth’? You loved trees and the outdoors, like me, so this is my way of … of …” Ren’s voice cracked, and he stopped until he could speak again. Then he gazed skyward and continued. It seemed fitting that the nearly full moon had broken through the clouds and was shining down on the little park. “This is my way of leaving you where you’d like to be. Okay?”
There was nothing more to say, so Ren simply stood for a while, staring into the night. After several minutes, his melancholy was interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek.
Ren made his way stealthily to the edge of the park closest to the fortress wall. The sounds were coming from the opposite side of the wall. Ren launched his grappling hook high into the air. It caught, but when he tugged, it fell back to the ground. On his second try, the three-pronged hook held firm, and Ren hauled himself steadily to the top of the fortress wall.
Pool of Radiance Page 21
