Pool of Radiance

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 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: