Pool of Radiance

6 Restless Spirits

When he heard that the three tavern brawlers had actually returned from Thorn Island, Porphyrys Cadorna left his dinner and rushed to the council chambers. He had waited anxiously before for the return of other groups, but he had always been disappointed. This time he had intentionally gone about his normal business, not wanting to waste his energies only to be left disappointed. But the three were back, and according to Cadorna’s attendant, they claimed to carry proof of their success. The councilman positioned himself at the dais and signaled for the attendant to let them enter. He would inform the rest of the council of his victory when he was sure of their achievements and not before.

The cleric, Tarl Desanea, entered first, followed by the big man who called himself Ren o’ the Blade and the young mage, Shal Bal. They were covered with dirt and grime, and from the big man’s movements, Cadorna could see he was struggling with some great pain. Still, they made an impressive trio. Cadorna felt a chill run through him at the thought of meeting any of these three under less than amicable circumstances.

“So … what have you learned that will help us recover Thorn Island?” Cadorna asked after thumping his gavel twice, as if to silence a nonexistent audience.

“We have certain useful information, and with the help of the mighty Tyr, the Even-Handed, we have also succeeded in quelling the undead forces that made Sokol Keep uninhabitable,” announced Tarl, bowing before Cadorna with as much formality as he could muster. “The resettling of Thorn Island may begin immediately.”

This was splendid, more than Cadorna could have hoped for! He wanted to appear pleased, but he didn’t want these three to think that their obligation to the court was so easily fulfilled. He gazed down from the dais, his eyes gleaming with avarice. “You say it is so, but how do I know it is so?” Cadorna waved his hand at the three in an encompassing gesture. “Even assuming you have been to the island, how can I be sure it is safe to send our citizens there to settle that blackened rock?”

Tarl proceeded to tell the story of their encounters at the keep, with Ren and Shal occasionally adding details. They described the odd triangular medallion they found on the frog and the humanoids’ strange rantings about the Lord of the Ruins and “power to the pool.” They deleted mention only of Shal’s Staff of Power.

Cadorna could hardly contain his excitement. He had manipulated these pawns perfectly, gaining a foothold with the Lord of the Ruins by warning him of their mission and earning the trust of the three by alerting them to the likelihood of encountering orcs or hobgoblins. And they had even brought him new information about the Lord of the Ruins and the magical stones he was seeking! Perhaps, one day, these three might even be able to find such stones or the lair of the Lord of the Ruins for him…. But first things first. He still needed proof of their day’s work—perhaps a little something to add to his own coffers. “What you have told me is good news indeed, but how do I know these things are true?” Cadorna prodded.

“We bear artifacts, magical artifacts, from the armory and from the Tyrian Temple at Sokol Keep.” Tarl held out the scale. “This is a treasured holy artifact. I am sworn by the late Brother Martinez to donate it to the temple in Phlan.” Ren produced the dagger and Tarl the hammer they had found in the armory. “And these are the magical items. Even now you will notice a faint glow….”

Cadorna pulled back as Tarl moved the hammer toward him for his examination. “Yes … yes, I see.” Cadorna hated blunt objects. He had no interest in the hammer, but the dagger would be his to use or trade, a small token from the council for sensing the exact nature of the dangers at Sokol Keep and sending exactly the right party to tame the island. “You may keep the hammer for your efforts,” he pronounced beneficently. “The dagger you will place on deposit with the court attendant before you leave. And, of course, the scale you will relay to your temple.”

What a shame, thought Cadorna, that the solid silver balance cannot also be confiscated, but with the cleric’s testimony a matter of council record, he dare not risk it. Cadorna eyed the throne intensely before going on. “And the island—has the shadow lifted?”

“Yes,” answered Shal excitedly. “As we left, the afternoon sun was shining gloriously on the cliffs. The whole bay looks different—”

“You needn’t babble on,” Cadorna said sternly. “I’m satisfied that you’ve fulfilled the goals of this mission. In fact, you all deserve further reward, but I will not know the verdict of the full council with regard to such rewards as you may have coming for at least another day. In the meantime, I’d like you to think about the possibility of completing a small task for me one day soon. I happen to believe you are the perfect party for the assignment.”

Ren bristled a little at what he read as a couched threat. The way Cadorna leaned over the dais, clasping and unclasping his hands and making fleeting eye contact with each of them, left Ren with no doubt that Cadorna could and would make life very difficult for the trio if they did not at least attempt to complete Cadorna’s “small task.”

“We’ll be in town,” said Ren matter-of-factly. “You can leave a message for us at the Laughing Goblin Inn.”

“Count on it,” Cadorna said crisply, sensing Ren’s resistance. “You are free to go now—with the understanding that you are on call to me and this council until further notice.”

On the side of the city opposite Civilized Phlan, the farthest corner of the uncivilized part, a great dragon was listening to the whimpering excuses of a liver-bellied kobold, two gutless orcs, and a recreant hobgoblin. The beast met their vacant, yellow-eyed stares with its gleaming eyes, and they saw their master, the Lord of the Ruins, for the first time.

“A party of three defeated an army of fifty?” The dragon clawed the ground and spewed a jet of flame from its nostrils. “You let them tame Sokol Keep? Idiots! Clods! Humans will flood into Phlan by the shipload and gain new footholds in my portion of the city! Incompetent slugs! Die as your companions did!” The dragon exhaled, and lightning flashed and crackled about them. Before they could finish their screams, the four were encompassed in flames. In moments, their bodies had melted and drained into the golden, crescent-shaped pool nearby.

Where the incinerated remains of the humanoids met the bright water of the pool, it bubbled and boiled, blazing with the intensity of polished gold in direct sunlight. The dragon turned and lumbered slowly into the pool. In the physical portion of its brain, which reflected raw instinct and reaction, the only part still controlled by the original persona of the dragon, the water registered as hot … very hot. The dragon flinched and tried to back out of the pool. It took the power of a trenchant will to force the physical body to scald itself in exchange for the pulsing energy the water would bestow. The will was that of Tyranthraxus, the Great Possessor.

It was the will of Tyranthraxus that commanded the dragon to submerge its entire body in the pool. When it did, power—undiluted power—flowed from the pool to the dragon, and the creature commanded a hundred more humanoid slaves into it presence.

Kobolds, orcs, gnolls, and other strange creatures of the ruins flocked to the heart of Valjevo Castle, the lair of the Lord of the Ruins. Their eyes glazed over with yellow, they never saw the creature that controlled them.

“Hear me, slaves! You will spread the word that there is a price on the heads of those three, more treasure than any of you can imagine … You will also procure for me two more ioun stones. When you do, I will complete the circle of power, and I will rule all of Phlan … and much more.”

“I didn’t realize you were still hurting so from that blow to your stomach,” Shal said, touching Ren gently on the arm as they left the council room. “Here …” She took his arm and pulled it up over her shoulder, then slipped her own arm around his waist. “Let me help you.”

Ren glanced over his shoulder at Tarl and grinned in delight. “Thanks. That’s better. I’m sure by the time you walk me all the way to my room, I’ll be feeling much better.” He pulled Shal a little closer and spread his hand on her firm waist.

“As Tyr is my witness, don’t you think you’re a little big to be leaning on the lady for support?” asked Tarl.

“I’ll be fine,” said Shal, not waiting for Ren to answer. “All this size and strength has to be good for something besides climbing ropes and looking homely. I mean, you guys wouldn’t even let me row the boat.”

Ren glanced over his shoulder at Tarl and winked again. “She’ll be fine. I won’t lean too hard.”

Tarl glowered and bared his teeth in a half-mocking, half-serious warning. When they reached the inn, Sot treated them to a huge feast. Later, Tarl made a point of accompanying Ren and Shal to Ren’s room in the loft.

Ren moved swiftly from the door to the window, checking both, as was his habit, to see that they weren’t followed and then securing them to make sure no one could enter. He unbuckled the fastenings on his leather breastplate and then tugged gingerly to remove the armor. Shal was about to reach over and help, but Tarl stepped between them and carefully removed the breastplate. “I can make a poultice for you. You won’t be smelling too good while you wear it, but I think you’ll find it soothing.”

“And if I know you,” said Ren, “it’ll be about as pleasant-smelling as those orcs at Sokol Keep.”

Shal was reminded of a question she’d been meaning to ask. “Do you two know what stones those creatures kept talking about?”

“Ioun stones,” Tarl filled in the name.

“They’re incredibly valuable, but I don’t think most people understand why,” Ren said as he sat on the mattress in the center of the room. “Tempest was killed over two ioun stones.”

Shal sat down on the floor, and Tarl sat beside her.

Ren removed Right and Left from his boots. “These are ioun stones,” he said, flipping the hilts open so they could plainly see the blue-black stone inside each handle. “If you hadn’t started blasting everything in sight with your staff, Shal, I was going to pull one of these out and offer it to those goons. They probably would’ve killed us anyhow, but I might have been able to distract them long enough so you could get away.”

“What’s so special about—” Shal dropped her question and gazed in wonderment as the two dark stones floated from the hilts of the daggers and began to circle Ren’s head, glowing a deep, iridescent midnight blue.

“Wow!” Shal and Tarl breathed in unison.

“What—what else can they do?” asked Shal.

“I don’t know very much, really. I think it takes strong magic to take full advantage of their powers. For me, the ioun stones make the blades return at my command, and I never miss my mark. I guess they must add a measure of talent or strength to whoever’s in control of them.” Ren held the knives up by the blades and said “Return.” The two stones immediately dropped into the open handles, and Ren flipped the hilts shut. “Tempest died over those two little rocks, and today the three of us almost died for them. I don’t know what the head of the Assassins’ Guild wanted them for, or what the Lord of the Ruins wants them for, but I think we’ll all be better off if they don’t get them.”

“You were right to not give them up without a fight,” Tarl said. “Who can say what evil forces would do with such stones? I vow, as Tyr is my witness, to aid you to the best of my abilities should you be threatened again.”

“And I, too,” said Shal. “as Selune is my witness. But I have a mission of my own, and I’m anxious to get on with it.”

“To avenge the death of your teacher?” Tarl asked.

Shal nodded. “And after a good night’s rest, that is precisely what I plan to do.”

“You know you can count on our help,” said Tarl, speaking for Ren as well as himself.

Shal looked at Tarl and then at Ren. Before Tarl had even said anything, she knew they would stand behind her. At every encounter on Thorn Island, she had been aware that their first thought was always to protect her first, even though with her new strength she was probably as strong as Tarl, if not Ren. Since adolescence, Shal had taken pride in her looks above all else. Now her appearance was the antithesis of what she had always believed attractive, yet two thoughtful, considerate, handsome men were quite obviously vying for her attention. They admired her magic abilities and praised her newfound fighting skills, they sought her opinion despite her inexperience in countless other areas, and they certainly did not seem to be put off by her muscular body. “Thank you,” she said simply, reaching her hands out to hold each of theirs. “I’ve … I’ve never had such friends.”

Shal related what she knew of the location of Denlor’s tower and the murder of her master. She described the wretched helplessness she had felt watching his murder and being unable to communicate through the crystal. Tarl squeezed one of Shal’s hands and Ren squeezed the other as each thought of the death he had witnessed and been unable to prevent.

Using water from Ren’s canteen and a combination of herbs and tar from his pouches, Tarl made the poultice he had promised for Ren. It was effective, but offensively smelly as promised, and he and Shal made their way quickly from the room once it was applied, but not before the three of them had agreed to meet at noon, after a good night’s rest, for the trip to Denlor’s tower.

After seeing Shal to her room, Tarl returned to the temple. Before he could get to Anton’s bedside, the brothers from the temple had flocked around him. Rumors of a sunlit Thorn Island had already reached the temple, and they were anxious to hear of Tarl’s experiences there. Since all the brothers had arrived in Phlan only since the rebuilding of the new temple began, no one had known that the fortress contained a Tyrian temple. They were momentarily speechless when Tarl presented the sacred scale, and they actually clapped when he told them of the laying to rest of the tormented souls of their brothers at Sokol Keep. Tarl warmed at the praise; he had never felt so strong in his faith as he had when he faced the skeletons and convinced the spectral Brother Martinez that he could finally be at rest. Several of the brothers made plans to journey to the island the next day to pray for the peace of their brothers and to be sure that any artifacts that remained were put to good use.

Tarl finally took his leave as the others talked on into the night. He found Anton, writhing and calling out, awash in torment. Tarl no longer could feel any joy for having recovered the silver balance. As he stood there watching his friend suffer, he renewed his commitment to retrieve the Hammer of Tyr and restore it to its rightful place at the altar in the temple of Tyr.

He fought back the pain that surged through his own body as he laid his hands on Anton’s shoulders. He held on until he dropped to the floor, overcome by his brother’s agony, and there he slept.

Shal was surprised to find a package on her bed. It was a soft bundle, bound in white cotton by black string. She realized from the stamp on the cotton that the package was from the seamstress who had made her leathers. Curious, she slipped off the string and unfolded the cotton. Inside was a delicate silk nightgown. Shal laughed with unabashed delight. She was about to hold the garment up to herself to check the fit, but she stopped before touching it. She was filthy with blood, mud, dirt, and other stains she didn’t even want to think about.

Quickly she pulled off the filthy black leathers, first the tunic and then the belt and leggings. Sot had left a sponge and a tub of water waiting for her, and the water was still warm. She left the leathers in a heap beside the bed, climbed into the tub, and scrubbed herself clean. After patting herself dry with a towel from the room’s small bureau, she reached for the sensuous mulberry-colored garment and slipped it over her head. She turned apprehensively to face the long mirror on the door. The nightgown was as feminine a garment as any she had ever owned, carefully tailored to accentuate the curves of her ample form. Shal removed the clasp from her hair and shook her auburn tresses loose over her shoulders. Her gaze never left the mirror as she combed her long hair. The woman returning her stare in the mirror was at least an acquaintance now, no longer a complete stranger. She could use a whole new set of adjectives to describe herself now: powerful rather than petite, firm rather than willowy, buxom rather than diminutive—but she was every bit as much a woman. In fact, she realized with a shock, she was attractive in a way she had not previously appreciated.

Shal made a note to herself to send the seamstress flowers for her thoughtfulness. She had even remembered that Shal had mentioned purple was her favorite color. In the morning, Shal would brush the beautiful chimera leathers clean, but right now she wanted to luxuriate in the sensation of sleeping between clean sheets in a soft, feminine new nightgown. She bolted the door and secured the heavy wooden hatch that fit over the window opening, and then snuffed the flames of the room’s two lanterns before climbing into bed.

Surprisingly, sleep did not come quickly. When it did, Shal was plagued by visions of Ranthor pawing and clawing to get out of the crystal ball. “You should have warned me he was coming!” he shouted.

“But I couldn’t!” Shal shouted back. “I didn’t know how!”

“You should have known. You should have figured it out! Now, I walk the night like the skeletons you faced today! Aaaauuuggghhh!”

Once more the shadowy figure loomed behind Ranthor. He struggled even harder to escape the confines of the ball, but the dagger stabbed out again and again. With the coiled snake insignia on the attacker’s armband, it gave the doubly frightening impression of a snake striking repeatedly. The pounding of Ranthor’s fists against the crystal thundered in Shal’s ears, until finally silence exploded around her as his body slumped and slid down the inside of the globe like a discarded piece of clothing.

She woke to the feel of her own body flopping back and forth through no force of its own. She could feel sweat streaming down her front and back.

It was Sot who was shaking her shoulders. “I don’t make a habit of entering the rooms of my guests when they’re inside ’em,” he explained hurriedly, “but I heard you scream, and I ran up here to see what was wrong. I pounded on the door, but you just kept screamin’.”

Shal shook herself to clear her head of the nightmare. It was bitterly real. She was sure her master was still suffering, tormented like those skeletons at Sokol Keep, and it was her fault. She wanted to leave immediately for Denlor’s tower, but Sot managed to quiet her down enough to convince her that she should at least wait till first light. He insisted she take several large gulps of his own house liquor. It was a powerful brew that burned all the way down with each swallow….

Shal slept till well after dawn, and there were no more nightmares. It was the grumblings of her familiar that finally woke her…. I might as well spend my time in a stable. At least I’d have oats and hay to keep me company were the first words she actually comprehended. Each syllable seemed to echo in her brain like the clanging of a gong.

“Quiet!” Shal hissed, closing her eyes tighter. I’m not making any noise, Mistress, retorted the familiar. To Shal, it sounded like the crash of thunder.

“Will you please shut up?” Shal shouted, then she clasped her hands to her ears to muffle the sound of her own voice.

Pardon me, but weren’t you planning to go to Denlor’s tower today to try to find our mast—uh, Ranthor’s murderer?

Shal sat up slowly and tried through tightly squinted eyelids to see where she had left the belt with the indigo cloth. Maybe if she covered it with a pillow, the familiar’s voice would be quieter inside her head. Better yet, maybe she wouldn’t be able to hear it at all. But she saw neither the belt nor the cloth; instead, a horse was standing directly in her way.

Comprehension came slowly, and Shal did her best to ignore the monstrous animal as she got up to splash water on her face and prepare to face the sunshine she could see trying to sneak through the closed window hatch.

“Yes, I’m planning to go to Denlor’s tower today,” she finally answered. “And this will be your chance to show that you’re good for something besides making wisecracks.”

That’s not fair! The horse stomped and whuffled agitatedly. You would have been nothing but orc fodder yesterday if I hadn’t reminded you about the Staff of Power.

“You’ll be orc fodder if you don’t give me a chance to wake up in peace!”

Hmph! The very idea! …

“There’s a deep, dark pocket just waiting for you, Cerulean.”

Is that an order, Mistress?

“It will be if you don’t get out of my brain—now!”

The horse hung its head and retreated to a corner of the room.

“And please, Cerulean, don’t sulk! It doesn’t become you at all.”

The big horse lifted its head and switched its tail. Switch. Switch. Switch. He whickered quietly as he eyed the ceiling and pawed the floor gently. Not a whisper of mental communication jarred Shal’s throbbing head as she carefully brushed her leathers and then took time to meditate and memorize her spells.

Much later, she ordered Cerulean into one of the pockets and took him out to the stable, where she let him out again and fed him apples and carrots. Finally she began to brush his coat to a high sheen. “How well did you know Ranthor, Cerulean?” Shal asked, electing to speak aloud as long as she was alone in the stable, except for a half dozen or so other horses.

How well do you know anyone? He summoned me when he was an apprentice—younger than you, even. I used to help him memorize his spells. I begged him to take me along to the tower of the red mage, but he could be a stubborn old goat. I’ll bet now he wishes he had listened to me.

Shal laughed. “I’m sure if he wishes anything, he wishes he had taken you.”

The horse stamped and shook its mane, obviously pleased by her apparently improving spirits.

“Cerulean, what do you know about the Wand of Wonder? Ranthor didn’t tell me much. I suppose you know what he said.”

He got the wand as a gift some time ago, Cerulean answered. I don’t keep track of years, but he was much younger then. Still danced regularly—

“Danced? Ranthor?” Shal looked dubious, with one eyebrow raised in surprise.

He loved to dance. Never went anywhere in those days without a woman on each arm. But as I was saying, he got the wand as a gift. Used it three times, as I remember. The first time, he was deep in the Deadwood Forest, hunting secil. It’s a rare fungus he needed for a spell component. He was in quite a huff that day—swore I was stepping on every mushroom in sight—and he finally insisted I keep a good distance away from where he was working. Working—ha! Scrounging around on his hands and knees like some pauper, brushing dust into a bag. I, on the other hand, was exploring the area with dignity when I found the clump of secil. Did I step on it? No. I—

“The wand, Cerulean. What does this have to do with the Wand of Wonder?”

I was just getting to that, Mistress. Must you be so impatient? Anyhow, I didn’t step on it. I quite understandably happened to miss seeing another clump of insignificant fungus. It was brown, and spores puffed up everywhere when I stepped on it. The air was thick with the stuff, and it didn’t feel at all healthy. I could hardly breathe, and as far away as I was from Ranthor, he was still affected. He coughed and coughed, doubled over so bad he couldn’t even catch his breath to cast one of his spells. Finally he just pulled out the wand and managed to mutter a word or two.

“And?”

And all of a sudden bubbles started floating up everywhere—sticky ones that splattered icy water when they burst. The spores didn’t stand a chance. The ones that didn’t stick to the bubbles were doused to the ground when they burst, and the magical cold killed the fungus.

Naturally, Ranthor got his secil in the end, and he was quite pleased with the wand.

“You said you remember three times. What about the other two?” Shal asked.

The second time was just as successful. He was trapped between an umber hulk and a dragon—horrible things, umber hulks; look like giant beetles that walk upright. Anyway, one of his hands was hurt—Ranthor’s hands, I mean—so he couldn’t cast a spell, and that was before he had the Staff of Power. When he used the Wand of Wonder, the dragon suddenly sprouted huge worms all over its body. Well, the umber hulk simply went wild, what with worms being its preferred diet. It tore right past Ranthor and me and started attacking the dragon with its big pincers. Needless to say, we beat a hasty retreat.

“So why did Ranthor worry so much about using the wand?”

As I said, there was a third time. I was galloping with godspeed, with a foul wizard, one of Ranthor’s most powerful foes, chasing us on one of those flying carpets. Instead of just asking me to go faster, Ranthor whips out the wand, points it at the wizard and says, ‘Turtle speed.’ Before I could blink, I was the only thing going turtle speed, and the wizard was zooming by overhead. If there hadn’t been a tree in her way, we’d have been dead.

“Huh?” Shal waited for an explanation.

I slowed down so fast she overshot us. She tried to turn, but the carpet was still going at full speed, and she slammed into a tree. Wonderful old tree. Burned to a crisp when her acid blood spilled all over it and ignited the thing. Of course, the wizard went up—poof!—right along with it.

“Then that was still a positive effect, wasn’t it? So why should I worry about using the wand?”

As I said, Mistress, I was the one going turtle speed. Ranthor pitched over my head and flew almost as far as the other wizard. He swore that was when his rheumatism set in.

“Oh.” Shal couldn’t help but wonder if the wand wouldn’t be less dangerous if Ranthor had a different familiar.

I resent that!

“Sorry.” Shal hadn’t meant for Cerulean to “hear” that. She tried to change the subject. “Are you ready to go?”

“You’re asking the horse?” Ren had entered unnoticed and stood within a few feet of Shal. She almost fell into the feed trough at the sound of his voice.

“How did you get in here without my hearing you?” she demanded.

He reached for her hand and pulled her gently away from the feed trough and the dung gutter. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just practicing my thieving skills. They’ve gotten a little rusty in the last year.”

“It seems to me they work just fine,” Shal said, a little defensively. “I guess I was concentrating on what I have to do today.”

“It could be tougher than you think to get into Denlor’s tower,” Ren said. “I went there to scout it last night, and the place is a regular fortress of magical traps. Even most of the creatures that gather outside the walls at night seem to be kept at bay by some force.”

“What do you mean, you went there last night?” Shal’s green eyes blazed, and she pushed Ren’s hand away. “You were supposed to get some rest so you’d be fresh for today.”

“Could you have slept with that stinking poultice on? I laid there till the stars came out, and then I got up and scrubbed myself with salts and lye and anything I could think of until I finally got rid of that stench. I couldn’t go anywhere undetected smelling like that. And I sure couldn’t hope to get very close to you.”

Shal blushed and turned to continue currying the horse. “Your girl friend … Tempest … must have been very special.”

Ren cocked his head, surprised that Shal would bring up the subject of Tempest.

Shal answered his unspoken question. “I know you’re only attracted to me because I remind you of her.”

Ren swallowed hard and was about to say something when Tarl entered the stable. He quickly took a step away from Shal.

“You’re moving easier than you were last night,” Tarl said to Ren.

“Yeah. That poultice helped, but I think the workout I got washing it off probably did almost as much good.”

“Now, that’s a fine thank-you,” Tarl said with a smile. He turned to say good morning to Shal, but she spoke first.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’d really like to get going.” Shal related the events of her dream the previous night and her sense that Ranthor’s soul was not at rest. “Are you sure you still want to come?” she asked when she was finished.

Ren’s acknowledgement was simple. He led out a roan mare from three stalls down and began to prepare her tack.

Tarl just looked up at Shal and said, “Can I ride with you?”

The streets of Phlan were mostly straight, and Ren led the way. In the heart of town, where the Laughing Goblin Inn was located, the streets bustled with activity. At every corner, peddlers touted their wares. As was his custom, Ren took in everything, watching for anything out of the ordinary. The closer they came to the outer walls of the civilized portion of the city, the sparser the crowds grew and the more wary Ren became.

Tarl wasn’t nearly so watchful, at least at the start. He gladly wrapped his arms around Shal’s waist and leaned his head gently against hers as they cantered to the farthest end of Civilized Phlan. What made a woman smell so good? he wondered, able for the first time that day to focus on something besides Anton and his own failings. Tarl had spent every ounce of healing that remained in him yesterday on Anton, and he knew his brothers continued to do the same daily, but if Anton had made any progress, it was measured in mustard grains.

Denlor’s tower and the high walls surrounding it were built of red brick, which stood out in bright contrast to the gray-black fortress at the edge of the city. From a distance, the tower appeared friendly and inviting, a testimony to the wizard’s benevolent character. But as they came closer, they could see that whole sections had been hammered away or blackened from repeated fires.

Ren reined his horse into the midst of a small grove of annonwood trees that paralleled one dilapidated wall of the keep, motioning for Shal to follow. More bushes than trees, the orange-leafed annonwoods made up the thick border of a small park at the farthest corner of the city. “I found this place last night when I scouted the tower,” Ren said in a hushed voice. “It has a sort of natural peace about it. It’s the peace of living things, not death like so much of Phlan. We can leave the horses here in safety and move under cover to the outer gates—”

“You may leave your horse if you want,” said Shal, interrupting, “but Cerulean is coming along with us. He was my master’s magical familiar, and now he’s mine. He can be of help to us while we’re trying to get through the magical barriers that guard this place.”

Ren’s first inclination was to argue the difficulties of trying to move inconspicuously with a huge war-horse tagging along, but Shal’s tone left no room for argument. Shrugging, Ren dismounted and led the way to the tower, working slowly and silently through the border of annonwoods until they reached the stretch of wall that marked the edge of Civilized Phlan. Again and again, he glanced behind him and off to both sides, as he had when they were riding, sure but not sure that they were being followed. He noticed nothing, not even a whisper or a misplaced scent. There was just an occasional shimmer of ocher light vanishing from the corner of his eye each time he turned. It could be the sun, it could be his own lack of sleep, it could be nothing at all. Ren glanced behind himself one final time before they dashed under the vine-covered arch that led to the grounds of the tower. Still he saw nothing.

Nothing alive, at any rate. All around the tower lay the charred and rotting bodies of dozens of kinds of monsters and other marauders. Shal sucked in her breath at the sight and smell of the carnage, remembering the panic Denlor had shown in the vision through the crystal as hordes upon hordes of creatures converged on his tower, many of them gaining entrance by the force of their sheer numbers. In a fashion atypical among such creatures, those that lay at the walls had sacrificed themselves by diminishing the tower’s magical energies so that others could enter and invade it.

Tarl dropped to one knee and waved his hammer in the air to form the sign of the balances. He, too, wondered what manner of evil force could convince so many humanoids and monsters to go willingly to their deaths.

Shal wasted no time in contemplation. She picked her way around the corpses that lay on the faint path. To either side of the door, bodies were heaped like cordwood, many of them decapitated, some otherwise mutilated from battle. Most showed signs of burning. Some were rotting with age, while others may have died within the last few days.

An icy spur of fear pulsed through Shal as she approached the door to the tower. It was a great brass door, its surface marred by numerous scratches, exactly as she remembered it from the images Denlor had projected through the crystal. She shuddered involuntarily, knowing that Ranthor’s death, too, must have been just as she had seen it in the large clear globe. She reached out a tremoring hand toward the gate.

“No!” Ren hissed, grabbing her arm. “That door has a charge that will knock a person flat.” He reached in front of her and touched the metal lock with a piece of deadwood. Instantly the stick shot from his hand. Were it not for his gauntlets, his hand would have been badly cut by the sheer force of it. “This whole place is buzzing with magical energy. The side doors are also magically guarded, but I’ve brought my thieving tools along. I think that with time and care, I can get us in.”

“Ren, your tools aren’t needed here.” Shal explained how in his message, Denlor, the red mage, had left her with the “keys” to passage into and within his tower. Shal held her hand out toward the door as she had started to a moment ago and uttered two magical words. The lock began to glow a cherry red, and the door swung open. Ren and Tarl exchanged surprised glances and were about to enter cautiously, but it was Shal’s turn to hold up a hand in warning. She repeated Ren’s earlier safety measure, picking up a twig that lay on the path and tossing it into the open doorway. A crimson arc of energy illuminated the area immediately in front of the door. It wasn’t clear whether the twig ever reached the floor. There was a loud crackling noise, and flame erupted where the small stick had struck the arc, incinerating it in an instant.

Shal stood silent, obviously concentrating, and in a few moments Cerulean stepped forward, past Tarl and past Ren, and entered the tower. Brilliant red sparks erupted all around the horse’s hooves as each touched the floor. The others peered in as the big horse paraded in a circle before the doorway. In his movements, Cerulean showed no sign whatsoever of pain or discomfort, but his hide began to glow an iridescent blue, the deep, almost purple blue of a grackle’s head, and the glow intensified with each step.

Shal spoke softly. “He’s absorbing the power of Denlor’s red lightning with each step he takes. It should be safe for us to walk across the magically charged floor in a minute.”

Ren and Tarl looked on in awe as the floor continued to crackle with sparks at Cerulean’s footsteps. Ren looked to Shal, wondering if it was safe to enter yet, and when she nodded, he eased gingerly, silently into the room. By the time Tarl and Shal entered, Cerulean was glowing like a fiery beacon, but there were no more sparks.

So bright was the light from the horse’s body that they didn’t need to bother with a lantern. The door shut silently behind them before Tarl could reach back to close it. They stood inside a great rhombus-shaped room, obviously a meeting hall, with solid, heavy benches set three rows deep in a horseshoe shape. A broad, low, ornately carved rosewood lectern stood at the opening of the U. Bizarre trophies, heads of beasts not even Ren had ever seen alive, were mounted along the room’s walls.

“I didn’t know that Denlor was a teacher,” said Shal. “Ranthor always spoke of him as—”

Suddenly, from all around the room, came whispers of the name “Denlor,” as though each bench were occupied by a row of students, whispering their teacher’s name. As the whispers began to die, a red robe whisked into the room from the doorway opposite the lectern. It, too, seemed to be whispering, but in an exaggerated, breathy whisper that made it distinct from and more chilling than the others. “Denlor … I am Denlor,” it breathed. The tattered robe was draped over nothing but blackness, a blackness that defied the brilliant blue light from Cerulean that bathed the room. The robe fluttered menacingly toward them. Tarl’s hammer shone like Cerulean, as did Ren’s dagger.

“Don’t touch it!” said Shal, her tone icy. “Denlor’s spirit does not rest; he guards his tower even in death. As long as we do no damage here, he will do us no harm, but touch that robe and you’re dead.”

Tarl and Ren lowered their weapons so they were at the ready but not threatening. Both were already convinced that Shal possessed a mastery of the magicks of this place that was beyond their understanding.

“I think Ranthor was killed in a spell-casting chamber, upstairs somewhere. It’s strange and frustrating—from Denlor’s vision, I know where everything in this building is, but my only image from Ranthor is of his death.”

“I don’t mean to be gruesome, Shal, but we’ll find the place of his death soon enough,” Ren said. “For our own safety, we need to check out every room. There are signs of struggling and scuffling all over this place. Look at the way those benches are misaligned there, the broken door frame over there.” Ren went on, pointing as he spoke. “See the bloodstains on the floor … there and there? We don’t know who or what’s been here, or when, for that matter.”

Shal nodded. Her every instinct was to press up the stairs fearlessly and find the murderous beast still lurking near her master’s body, as it would happen in some stilted morality play of the type traveling thespians used to perform in the streets when she was a child. But she knew that somewhere upstairs she would find Ranthor’s days-old body and, only if she was lucky, some sign of the creature that killed him. “That doorway off to the left.” She pointed. “We can look in there first.”

Shal continued speaking but in a hushed tone, her words no longer addressed to Tarl or Ren. “What do you mean, you’d rather not go in there? … So what if they occasionally served horsemeat? It wasn’t yours. Go on, scoot! We don’t want to fry on these high-energy floors.”

The horse stepped forward, somewhat indignantly, Tarl thought, if horses can be indignant, but the floor of the kitchen he entered was normal, and the horse’s brilliant blue light started to fade almost as soon as it had passed through the doorway.

Tarl didn’t notice, however. He was lost in a muttering conversation with himself over Shal’s behavior with Cerulean. “Right. Familiars do talk to their masters, I suppose. And their masters must talk to their familiars and not to their friends.” He followed almost aimlessly behind Ren, who was following Shal. It wasn’t until he felt the gentlest hint of a chill brush his back that he realized that the red robe was fluttering along behind him like some misplaced shadow. “By my oath, I wish I didn’t feel so powerless when I’m with this woman,” Tarl muttered, then shook his fist at the ghostly cloth. “Get back a few feet, will you? You give me the creeps. I’d gladly try some clerical magic beyond my means if I thought it would make you flap away.”

The phantom obediently backed off a few steps, and Tarl felt a little better when he turned to resume following the others. Ren was already scouting the huge mess-style kitchen, examining the implements and foodstuffs left out on the cutting block and beside the great baking oven, silently opening doors to a pantry, a storage room, and a root cellar.

“I think I’ve found the cook,” called Ren from the root cellar. “I need some light.”

Cerulean’s glow was fading fast, and he wouldn’t have fit down the tight staircase anyhow, so Shal pulled out her light rod, which immediately began to glow with a constant blue-amethyst light. She held it high at the top of the stairs, then started down herself. “Here … can you see?”

“I can see fine now,” answered Ren. “She was murdered, all right, about three days ago, I’d say. That’s a burn mark from a cord that was pulled taut around her neck. It’s the work of someone proficient, if not a pro.”

Ren came up the stairs carrying the dead woman, a small figure with the dark coloring found in the far southwest reaches of the Realms. He laid her already stiff body on a long counter in the kitchen. “From what I can see, she was pushed down the stairs after she was killed. There’s still a ladle in her hand. My guess is she never even saw her murderer. We’re talking about a really brave assassin here.” Ren felt like spitting to clear the bile that rose in his mouth at the thought of the kind of vermin that would kill with so little cause.

“From the way things are laid out there,” Ren went on, pointing to an assortment of dishes, cooking utensils, and foodstuffs, “I’d say she had already finished preparing a meal for her master and guests and was working on food for the servants, if that matters any.”

Tarl spoke a prayer for the woman, soliciting Tyr’s aid in helping “… another victim of the darkness that rules the outskirts of this city” to find her peace.

“The way those rope marks pull up on her neck doesn’t look to me like the work of a kobold or anything else that short,” Ren mused.

“Whoever or whatever killed her, may Tyr help her find the solace of her patron god.”

They left the woman, agreeing to return and bury her when they left. The door across the hall led to what were apparently servants’ quarters. There were two beds, and beside one they found a young man, dead. He’d obviously seen his attacker and struggled with him—or it. He had fallen victim to repeated stab wounds to the chest. Once again, Ren noted the nature of the wounds and suggested that the killer was tall, perhaps as tall as Tarl.

“I grieved only for my teacher,” said Shal. “It never occurred to me that others died with him.” She was near tears and stood clenching and unclenching her fists as she stared down at the bloody corpse. She spoke to no one in particular, pausing between words. “When Denlor sent his message in the crystal, he was completely overwhelmed by monsters and humanoids. But Ranthor and this poor young man and the cook … you’re suggesting they were killed by another human being. I—I couldn’t see the attacker, you know—only an arm, stabbing over and over. I just—just assumed it was a hobgoblin or one of the other beasts that were attacking the towers.”

“Shal, I’m not saying for sure that it was a man,” said Ren quietly. “I’m saying I think it was. But at any rate, they wouldn’t be any less dead if it was a hobgoblin or a kobold that killed them.”

“I know that!” Shal shouted. “Don’t you see? Monsters and humanoids kill on whim alone. Men kill for reasons—however distorted. A kobold I could kill and be done with it, with no regrets. A man I’ll hate …”

Tarl put an arm around Shal. “And you will probably be right in that feeling.”

Shal gently removed Tarl’s hand from her shoulder, squeezing it firmly before letting go. “I need to find Ranthor.” She turned to leave the room.

“Wait!” called Ren, quickly reaching for Shal’s arm. “Don’t you think it would be better for Tarl and I to lead? We can’t be sure that everything within these walls is dead.”

“No, but we do know that almost everything within these walls is magical. Tarl was the right person to lead us at Sokol Keep. I’m the right person to lead us through the red mage’s tower.”

Once again Shal left no room for question. She turned again and went through the meeting hall to the door from which the red robe had emerged. The horse, the two men, and the red robe followed.

The door opened into a splendid, almost palatial landing at the foot of a great, broad soapstone staircase. The floor was inset with tourmaline, amber, amethyst, aventurine, and other semiprecious stones. A brilliant light beneath the stones shone through their translucent surface, creating a glorious speckling of many-hued rays that colored the walls in a dazzling display. The whole party stopped for a moment to admire it.

When Shal finally started up the stairs, a ruby-colored cloud, in the image of the red mage himself, formed on the staircase.

Tarl didn’t recognize Denlor. The only contact he’d had with such cloudlike visages had been with the wraiths that had killed so many of his brothers in the graveyard. He charged past Shal and would have challenged the ghostly vapors had not Shal caught hold of his armor and used all her recently acquired strength to stop him.

“Poison! It’s poison, Tarl!” shouted Shal, hauling him back. “It’s a poison image of the master of this tower!” Tarl looked sheepish, and she softened her voice. “I’m sorry, but I must insist that you let me go first. I welcome your company, and I can use your help, but as I said to Ren, this is my mission.”

Even as Shal spoke, the cloud expanded, spreading its deadly haze down the stairway. Both Shal and Tarl started to cough.

Shal held her breath and concentrated, then spoke the words she’d heard from Denlor. “Lysiam calentatem, Denlor.”

The cloud dissipated immediately, and the wide soapstone stairway once more stood vacant. Shal started up again but stopped when she heard Cerulean’s whimper inside her head.

She spun around, very nearly bumping into Ren and Tarl, who were following close behind her. “What is your problem?” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing.

Tarl and Ren, who were both feeling less and less comfortable about their roles in this venture, looked up at her and started stammering in unison.

“No!” Shal shook her head furiously and pointed down the stairs in disgust. “Not you—him! He’s whimpering in my ear like some sick child!”

Surely you can see that I could slip and kill myself on this treacherous staircase, Mistress!

“Stairs don’t come any broader or shallower than these, Cerulean,” Shal answered in a tone that was decidedly lacking in patience.

The horse continued to stand at the bottom of the stairs, shaking its head and whickering and stamping one front hoof. Bathed in the colorful lights from the stone floorway, he looked like some child’s giant stuffed toy.

Shal pulled the indigo cloth from her belt and started down the stairs, holding it out in front of her.

No, not that! Cerulean pleaded. You may need me. Just make me small and carry me up.

Shal’s eyes glinted for a fleeting moment. “If I make you small, will your voice be small, too?” She didn’t wait for a reply. She concentrated for a moment and said the words for a Reverse Enlargement spell. A cat-sized Cerulean instantly appeared, looking pathetic at the bottom of the stairs, overshadowed by the hovering robe. Shal strode down the stairs, slapped her hip a couple of times, and called, “Here, boy! Here, boy!” as if she were calling a dog.

That’s low. That really hurts! came the first of the mental barrage Shal knew would follow. But at least the voice was small, an irritating buzz at best.

Shal picked up the flailing miniature horse and climbed to where Ren and Tarl were still standing, looking more than a little bewildered.

“Would you take him?” she asked Ren, holding out the kicking animal. “I need to keep my hands free to cast spells.”

Ren’s mouth was open, but no words came out. Shal immediately headed back up the stairway.

“I thought rangers liked horses,” said Tarl, jabbing Ren with one elbow.

Ren leveled a gaze at Tarl that might have turned him to ashes, but the cleric only grinned more broadly.

Ren stuffed Cerulean up under his left arm and clamped him against his side in a near rib-breaking grip. Of course, he had no way of hearing the horse’s hysterical complaints, and Shal wasn’t paying any attention.

As Shal reached the top of the staircase, the red robe swished ahead of her and stood beyond the stairway, waiting. Shal looked back toward her friends and shrugged. “I think we have a new guide.”

The robe remained still, flitting nervously, till everyone got to the top of the stairs, which ended in the foyer to a large dining room. Like the meeting hall downstairs, the dining room was rhombus-shaped and appeared to serve as the hub of the second level. Set in walls to the right and left were two shiny brass doorways, both of which showed signs of recent battering. Straight ahead was another doorway that they could only assume led to the third level. But the red robe did not leave the room; instead, it whisked to the mammoth walnut table at its center and stopped over the high-backed head chair.

“Look—ashes,” Shal said as she reached the chair. “Denlor must have died here.”

“At the table?” asked Tarl.

“While he was sitting down to a meal, apparently with two other people,” said Ren, pointing to the haphazard place settings.

“Two? Who do you suppose—” Shal started to ask, but Tarl interrupted.

“What could possibly turn a man to ashes in his chair?” he asked, watching the robe hover over the remains of its owner.

Shal shrugged. “Denlor was terrified by the idea of having his body eaten by the creatures that swarmed around this place.” Shal paused, remembering once again the horror and helplessness Denlor had communicated through the crystal. She told how he had used every magical resource at his disposal, and how the monsters must have climbed over their own dead to press through his defenses.

She went on. “When Ranthor reached Denlor, all kinds of snarling, slavering beasts had probably already entered the tower. Denlor and Ranthor must have stood side by side, casting spells till they had no more energy left, trying to purge this place of hundreds of monsters like we saw stacked outside the tower.”

Tarl was moved by Shal’s explanation, especially her description of Denlor’s feelings as the beasts kept coming and coming, but he repeated his question. “But how was he turned to ashes? By what?”

“By himself,” Shal answered. “I’m almost certain he set a spell into place to—” she hesitated to say the word—“to cremate himself at the instant of death so no beast would feed on his corpse.” The thought of the venerable wizard dying at his own dinner table and then bursting into flames like a body on some sacrificial pyre brought tears to Shal’s eyes. “The wizard locks and magical energies we encountered, the red gas on the stairway—those were probably all activated by Denlor’s death, too.”

“Wouldn’t bursting into flames leave whatever killed Denlor in pretty rough shape?” Ren asked.

“Perhaps,” Shal said. “I don’t know for sure.” She remembered that when the parchment Ranthor left for her burst into magical flames, no harm whatsoever came to the desk. “It would depend on Denlor’s intent. If he wanted the flame to burn the things around it, I think the chair and table would have caught fire, or at least they’d show some sign of damage.” She shook her head. “A wizard of his talents might be able to make the flame burn flesh and not objects. I just don’t know.”

Tarl was still looking at the robe. “What about the robe?”

“Like I said before, I suppose that his spell may have been designed to burn flesh only.”

“No, I mean why does it stay there like that? What’s it waiting for?” Tarl pressed.

“For us to finish our business and leave, I guess.”

“Ouch!” Ren dropped Cerulean unceremoniously to the floor and shook his hand. “He bit me!”

The cat-sized horse let out a tiny whuffle, struggled to its feet, and immediately began to complain in a high, squeaky voice. That giant ape nearly flattened me! Why he would’ve crushed my ribs if I’d stayed under his arm one more second! Cerulean clomped round and round the floor, like a child wearing new hard-soled shoes.

“I’m sorry, Cerulean, but I’m sure Ren didn’t mean to hurt your ribs,” Shal reassured him.

“I didn’t mean to carry a horse around, either,” Ren muttered.

Cerulean continued to charge around the big room, galloping in steadily widening circles until he was running next to the walls. Each time he approached either of the two brass doorways, the door would glow red and the tiny horse would turn a brilliant shade of blue.

“Wizard-locked, both of them!” exclaimed Shal, not waiting for the question she knew one of her friends would ask.

Shal knew the magical commands that would get her past the wizard locks, and she used them. Tarl and Ren followed, marveling once more at Shal’s cool confidence and command of magic. They followed her first through Denlor’s private chamber and the treasure room adjacent to it, and then the scroll chamber and the magical supply room adjacent to that. She instructed them not to touch anything.

“Eventually I’ll have the skills to come back here and add part of Denlor’s magic to my own, but for now, so that his spirit can rest, we have to leave everything the way we find it. And above all, we’ve got to find Ranthor.”

Cerulean once again galloped around the circumference of the dining room, clip-clopping his way to the doorway that led to the stairs. As he started to pass through the door frame, his tiny body blazed the brilliant blue hue for which he was named, in startling contrast to the shimmering crimson curtain of energy that appeared in the doorway.

“The curtain will fight any negative energy you carry with you. To pass through it, you need to relax your thoughts and emotions,” Shal explained, then walked effortlessly through it, causing the curtain to glow brightly once again. As soon as she stood on the other side, the curtain all but vanished, giving the appearance of a few stray rays of sunlight reflected through a ruby.

Ren turned one shoulder toward the barely visible curtain and tried to barge through, but he leaped back in pain as the curtain sizzled and crackled. Next he tried to run through, only to be jolted to the floor as if he had bounced off a piece of taut leather.

Tarl reached down to help his friend up, but Ren shook his head in stubborn refusal and stood on his own. “I’ll lick this thing. Just give me a minute.”

“Stay calm,” Shal reminded him. “The key is to stay calm.”

“Let me try it,” said Tarl. “My clerical training might help me.”

“Sure, be my guest,” Ren replied, still rubbing his stinging shoulder.

Tarl began to speak the words of a traditional cleansing ritual intended to purify thoughts, “As Tyr controls the balances, may I measure the things that weigh upon my heart, and may they balance the sides of the scale equally that I may meet my god at peace.” Tarl’s words were correct, but he knew that the balances did not rest evenly within him. Thoughts of Anton, his dead brothers, and the missing hammer outweighed all else. When he tried to pass through the barrier, he was thrown to the ground with every bit as much force as Ren had been.

Tarl concentrated once more on the cleansing ritual, this time envisioning his successes at Sokol Keep and letting each small victory there offer balance against the horrors of the graveyard. When Tarl felt his inner being had reached a point of equilibrium, a point at which nothing could easily sway him off balance, he tried again … and passed easily through the shimmering curtain.

“If he can do it, I can do it,” muttered Ren. The ranger-thief knew no cleansing ritual, no rite of concentration. But he did know how to steel his thoughts before trying to disarm a foe or to silently make his way down the length of a corridor unobserved. He imagined that the wall was a passage that he must slip through unnoticed. He thought of nothing but passing through, and that is what he did. The magical panel barely shimmered as he eased through the door.

“Well done!” exclaimed Shal.

Ren’s first reaction was one of anger. Why should she praise him for finally doing something that she and Tarl had accomplished so easily? But when he looked into Shal’s eyes, he saw that her words had been sincere. Shal dropped her gaze to where Cerulean stood beside her, picked up the miniature horse, and handed him to Ren once more. She caught the big man’s attention again with her green eyes and smiled—a playful, teasing look that Ren had never seen before from Shal—and then she turned and started up the stairs.

Much steeper and narrower than the soapstone stairway, the staircase to the third floor was made of terrazzo, with sizable fragments of a deep burgundy-veined marble running through it. The stairwell was lit from above by some kind of arcane light. At the top of the stairway, they came to a bronze door, decorated with splendidly forged handiwork, obviously of dwarven design.

Shal touched the outer edges of the door with her fingertips, incanting a different syllable as she touched each of the door’s four corners and the intricately embossed lion’s head at the door’s center. At her touch, each of the four corners shone a rich vermilion. When her fingers reached the lion’s head, it blazed the color of molten metal, opened its mouth, and roared loudly. When the roaring ceased, the mouth remained open, forming an opening into the room. Shal reached through the lion’s mouth and pulled on a latch, then removed her hand. Where no seam had shown before, the door parted vertically down the center, and the two halves disappeared into the pocket frame of the doorway.

“Neat trick,” Ren commented, still nervous about watching Shal reach into the lion’s mouth.

Shal felt relieved. She knew that if the words had been spoken incorrectly or if her concentration were broken, she could have lost her arm or worse. She knew from the cold knot wrenching ever tighter in her stomach that she was near the place of Ranthor’s death. The room behind the bronze door was obviously an equipment chamber, not unlike the one she had been working in when Ranthor sent his message through the crystal. Shal didn’t stop to look around the room but proceeded straight across it, knowing that Ren and Tarl would follow.

The door on the opposite side of the room, beyond the racks and shelves full of vials and beakers, was of plain wood. Shal knew it contained the most insidious death trap of all.

“Cerulean, I need your help on this one,” Shal said, working a spell of enlargement to return the horse to his original size. Then she backed away from the door and took position behind a row of shelving, motioning for Tarl and Ren to follow suit.

Cerulean didn’t need to be told what to do. He began to paw the floor and snort. Folding his ears tight against his head, his white coat began to glow, much as it had downstairs, but this time the glow radiated around him like a shield. Finally he moved up to the door, reared on his hind legs, and kicked the wooden door in with his front hooves.

Immediately the door burst into thousands of splinters, each tipped with red—poison, Shal knew. The splinters sparked crimson against the horse’s blue shield, creating flare upon flare of purple fire so intense the three could hardly look on.

When the flames finally died down, Cerulean stood immobile, looking spent, in the open doorway. Shal emerged from her hiding place behind the shelf and went to him quickly. She patted the horse’s withers gently, feeling an appreciation and affection for the big animal she had not felt before. “Well done, Cerulean! Ranthor would be proud of you.”

Ranthor is gone, Mistress. Cerulean nodded toward the room with his head. I hope you are proud of me.

Shal patted the familiar again, then stepped past him into the spell-casting chamber.

Ranthor’s body lay crumpled behind the casting stand. Crystal fragments littered the room, many glued to the floor in Ranthor’s blood. As Shal knelt beside her former master, her shoulders and then her whole body began to shake as she felt the tears come. She had held on to the faintest, most minute hope that what she had seen in the globe was a vision only and not reality, that the chill she had experienced at her teacher’s passing was only a reaction to a vivid nightmare. Now the truth lay before her. It was irreversible. And so she wept.

Tarl knelt behind Shal, encircling her in his arms, his head bowed. Silently he prayed, both for his friend and for the man he had not known. There were no words, he knew, to comfort Shal, any more than there were words that would make him feel better about Anton or Sontag or Donal or any of the others.

Ren didn’t share Tarl’s talent for offering comfort. His mind thought in terms of action. He walked silently past his two friends and leaned over the body, then turned the stiff corpse over and examined the wounds. What he found made him recoil. Ranthor had been stabbed in the back, over and over again, with a dagger that would have killed with the first scratch, for it was tipped with the same green acid poison that had killed Tempest. From the angle and the profusion of the wounds, Ren knew that Ranthor’s murderer was taller and probably less skilled than the assassin who had killed Tempest, but unfortunately no less deadly.

Mistress … Cerulean’s gentle call penetrated Shal’s grief. Mistress, I will bring Ranthor with me into the darkness of the cloth. Once you have sealed this tower, I will take Ranthor on one last ride to put his soul to rest It will be my final duty as his familiar.

But can he truly rest if his murderer remains unpunished? Shal communicated mentally.

In the back of her mind, Shal heard Ren relating his theories about what he had found in his examination of the body, but it was Cerulean’s answer that Shal listened to. Ranthor will be at rest, Mistress. It is you who will not.

Shal stood and quietly explained the familiar’s bidding to Ren and Tarl. They lifted the rigid mage’s body onto the horse’s back and watched as Cerulean reared up, then disappeared into a small pocket of the indigo cloth. After being witness to an entire day of magical wonders, they barely thought twice about the horse’s unique method of departure.

Though near exhaustion, Shal moved through the tower hurriedly, sealing door after door, making sure all was as they found it. She spoke her assurances to the robe as they reached the second floor, but the ghostly garment continued to follow them as they removed the bodies of the cook and the servant. Finally it stood hovering inside the front door as Shal closed it and sealed it by reversing the same utterance she had used to open the great bronze door.

As they reached the park where Ren’s mare was tethered, Tarl and Ren strapped the two bodies across the roan’s broad back. Shal called Cerulean forth from the Cloth of Many Pockets. The horse leaped from the cloth and straight into the air with the grace of a unicorn and flew upward. Shal watched, misty-eyed, as it left a blue Stardust trail behind it. She could just barely make out Cerulean’s message: See you soon, Mistress.