Pool of Radiance Page 2

  Then Quinn had died.

  That had been ten years ago, and she'd survived on her own ever since. All she had left of him was the knowledge he'd passed on to her and a custom-made club he'd com­missioned. The compact steel baton was easy to conceal, but with the flick of a wrist it telescoped to thrice its size. She'd lost track of how many times the weapon—and Quinn's training with it—had saved her life. While dag­gers were her weapon of choice, the club sometimes proved more practical.

  Though there had been times when she'd wished for Quinn's advice or guidance, years had passed since she wanted to talk to him as badly as she did tonight—not as a master thief, but as the only parental figure she'd ever known. The scene at the pool had shaken her more than she thought possible.

  Quinn was gone, and she was an adult now. She pulled her thoughts back to the present conversation and Ragnall's admonition about the firewine. "I'll be fine," she said. "You know I could drink you under this table if I wanted to."

  "I know," he conceded. "I've witnessed it."

  Kestrel rarely drank to excess. In her profession, it was too risky not to be in full possession of one's faculties. She didn't intend to get drunk this evening, just dull the tin­gling in her collarbone. Though she'd fled Valjevo Castle hours ago, the sensation hadn't ceased. If her adrenaline didn't stop pumping at this rate, she'd be too exhausted to leave town in the morning.

  Which is exactly what she planned to do. Phlan could keep its creepy Pool of Radiance and the undead creatures it spawned. She was moving on.

  The serving wench returned with the liquor bottle. She refilled the shotglass, which Kestrel immediately emptied and slid forward for more.

  "Slow down, Kes—you'll make yourself ill." Ragnall turned to the barmaid. "Bring us two tankards of ale instead."

  Kestrel made no objection. The firewine was burning a hole in her gut anyway. "And some bread and cheese," she added.

  She looked around, taking in the atmosphere of Nat Wyler's Bell one last time. Though she'd called it home for several months, she wouldn't miss this dingy little corner of Phlan. The common room had a hard-packed dirt floor and rushes that hadn't been changed in years. The tables and walls were scratched and scarred. At its best, the fare was mediocre. Her corn-husk mattress upstairs was in desperate need of restuffing. The inn's main appeal—its only appeal—was that Nat minded his own business and encouraged the serving girls and other patrons to do the same.

  No, she wouldn't miss the Bell, or Phlan as a whole. It was a place, just another place. By next week she'd be in a new one.

  The food arrived. Kestrel tried to eat, but the doughy bread stuck in her throat. She washed it down with the ale, but it sat like a lump in her stomach.

  "So tell me what happened." Ragnall lifted his own tankard but set it down without drinking, his blue eyes narrowing. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

  "Who?"

  "The old goat in the market today."

  "No!" Kestrel snorted.

  "What is it, then? I've never seen you quite like this."

  She stared at him a moment, debating. Would he think her crazy? On the other hand, what she'd witnessed today might make her crazy if she didn't tell someone. She quaffed more ale and leaned forward.

  "The Pool of Radiance has reappeared," she said in a low voice.

  Ragnall's eyes widened. "You know this for a fact?"

  "I saw it suck the life out of someone today—rotted his flesh right off his bones."

  He leaned back in his seat and let out a low whistle. "After we parted at the market, I heard a few rumors, but I didn't put any stock in them."

  She frowned. "What kind of rumors?"

  "Stories similar to yours. I guess several people—the number increases with each telling—have disappeared since last night, and others speak of undead creatures wandering the city. Like I said, I thought they were just bogeyman tales to keep children in line, but supposedly Elminster himself arrived tonight to investigate."

  "Elminster? How did he get here so fast? Or even hear about this?"

  Ragnall shrugged. "How do wizards do anything?"

  How indeed? Kestrel disliked spellcasters, considering them more treacherous than the sneakiest assassin. They were always muttering under their breaths, moving their hands in strange gestures, collecting odd substances. They gave her the creeps. Just when a body least expected it, they'd blow something up or send objects flying through the air. Or worse—set traps, like the one at the tower, that unleashed their sorcery long after the spellcaster had left the scene. She still bore a scar on her left wrist from trying to pick an ensorcelled lock three years ago.

  "You going to report what you saw?" Ragnall asked.

  "Yeah, right," she said. "That's what I need—to solicit a wizard's notice. No thanks."

  "I hear there's a reward."

  That got her attention. "What kind of reward?"

  "One hundred gold pieces for a genuine firsthand account." He broke a hunk of cheese off the wedge. "That's what I heard anyway. Don't know if it's true."

  A hundred gold pieces. Kestrel had been debating the wisdom of trying to retrieve her treasure from its hiding spot near the pool. If she couldn't get to it, the nobleman's money pouch was all she had in the world, and any addi­tional coins would make a big difference. Even if the rumors of reward proved false, perhaps she could con­vince Elminster that her tale was worth paying to hear.

  She stood, immediately regretting the quick move­ment. A wave of dizziness rocked her. That firewine must have been more potent than she'd thought.

  Ragnall extended a hand to steady her. "You all right?"

  She nodded. The dizziness passed, but her head remained cloudy. "Fine. Where did you say Elminster was?"

  "Meeting with the Council of Ten." He snorted. "As if the blowhards who run this city could have anything use­ful to say. Why do you ask?"

  She drained her tankard, tossed a few coins on the table, and fastened her cloak around her shoulders. "I'm off to see the wizard."

  Kestrel groaned and rolled over. She was going to kill whoever had stuffed her mouth with cotton. And glued her eyes shut And now shone a lantern in her face.

  Someone was sitting on her head.

  Slowly, she forced one eye open. Then the other. Then both. Then squeezed them shut again.

  She was back in her room at the Bell, lying facedown on her lumpy mattress. Sunlight poured in the window, sending darts of pain shooting through her eyes. Her head hurt so badly she feared her skull might explode.

  Damn that firewine. And damn Ragnall—for being right about it.

  By minuscule degrees, she pried herself off the mat­tress and into a sitting position. When the room stopped spinning, she glanced down. Relief flooded the tiny cor­ners of her brain not occupied with processing pain sig­nals. However intoxicated she'd been, she'd at least managed to pass out on top of the money pouch, prevent­ing anyone from stealing it while she slept. Her thieves' tools also remained undisturbed, as did the club secured to her belt. Her twin daggers, of course, remained untouched, one hidden in each boot.

  No one else was in the room. Either Nat hadn't rented out the other two beds last night, or the lodgers had risen and left. Either way, she was grateful for the solitude—she didn't think she could bear the sound of even a whispering voice. The murmurs rising from the common room below were bad enough.

  She crept over to the washstand, her body stiff from having slept in her leather armor. She splashed cold water on her cheeks and looked into the glass. Deep creases from her mattress webbed the skin on the left side of her face. She must not have budged all night.

  What time had she returned to her room? She recalled drinking with Ragnall downstairs and his talk of Elminster. After that, she couldn't remember anything specific. Had she really gone to see the old mage? Blurred images of a mysterious bearded man floated through her mind, but they could just as easily be remnants of a firewine-induced dream.

  She pulled together h
er scattered thoughts and tried to clear the fog from her head. For someone who had planned to travel many miles from Phlan today, she was off to a poor start. From the strength of the sun, she judged the time to be close to noon. She needed to obtain provisions for her trip, collect her treasure from its hiding spot, and hit the road. Or the docks—she really ought to decide where she was going. Sembia, perhaps? Cormyr?

  An hour later, her pack stocked with food and other sup­plies, Kestrel strode toward the castle. She'd considered leaving her stash behind and coming back for it later, but greed had gotten the better of her. Who knew when she'd return to the Moonsea? Her travels might never bring her here again. In the meantime, the thought of those riches just sitting beneath the rocks rankled her thief's soul. The idea of starting over—of having to wait that much longer before living a life of ease—sank her heart

  Already her collarbone tingled. She ignored the sensa­tion. She knew she headed toward danger, but she also trusted her ability to avoid it. Just get in, get the goods, and get out. That's all she needed to do. Stay away from the water and be alert for any stray puddles.

  As she entered the tower, she saw three figures near one end of the pool. She could tell from his uniform and standard-issue chain mail that one was a member of Phlan's city patrol. The guard was a large man, at least six and a half feet tall, with a pair of the widest shoulders Kestrel had ever seen. Beside him stood a knight in full plate armor, the scales-and-warhammer symbol of Tyr emblazoned on his tabard. He wore a sword sheathed at his side and a war-hammer strapped to his back. A paladin, she assumed. He was about half a foot shorter than the guard and of a more average build. The third figure, a slender woman, wore brown leggings, leather knee-high boots, and a dark green cloak. She leaned on a wooden staff, listening to a conver­sation between the two men. The woman's hood shadowed her visage and the fighters' helmets obscured theirs, so Kestrel could not get a good look at any of their faces.

  Silently, Kestrel berated herself. Of course, she should have guessed that in light of yesterday's events the pool would draw investigators or gawkers today. She glanced around for evidence of the ill-fated brigands but saw no sign of them. Their bodies, if anything remained of them, must have been disposed of while she'd snored her way through the morning.

  She assessed her surroundings. The cache lay on the other side of the strangers, but their focus seemed to be on the pool itself. If she moved very quietly and kept to the shadows as she circled around, she might manage to reach it without arousing the group's notice. The exposed stairway was unavoidable, but if she didn't take a chance she could grow old waiting for the trio to leave.

  "Lord of Shadows preserve me," she muttered. She crept to the stairway and slowly descended, hugging the wall to make as much use of the thin shadows as possible. When she reached the bottom, she started her cautious circle toward the rock pile. As she padded, she eaves­dropped on the party's conversation.

  "So Elminster thinks this has something to do with goings-on in Myth Drannor?" the guard asked. "What does the ruined elven capital have to do with us?"

  "From what he explained to me, he has suspected for weeks that someone has created a new Pool of Radiance there," the woman said in a hushed tone. "Now with Phlan's pool reawakened, he's all but certain. Even as we guard this site, he's trying to contact a party of adventur­ers he sent there to investigate. If they do find a new pool, they will destroy it—and whoever created it."

  "You sound sure about that," the paladin said. "Those ruins have a reputation for eating adventurers alive."

  "These are not ordinary adventurers," the woman replied. "Elminster hand-picked them, and they bear the Gauntlets of Moander—artifacts created specifically to destroy such pools. They will succeed where lesser par­ties would fail."

  Yeah, right, Kestrel thought She'd heard her share of tales about thieves lured to the ancient elven city hoping to find untold riches in its ruins. She'd heard very few tales of thieves who'd actually returned. Elminster better have sent a score or more adventurers into that den of doom.

  She made it about halfway to her goal before her foot slipped on some rubble. Damn! To Kestrel's ears, the tell­tale scuffling sounded loud as a thunderclap.

  "Who's there?" the guard called out. All three of the figures now peered in her direction. "Show yourself!"

  Kestrel paused, torn between trying to elude them and attempting to brazen it out. Before she could make up her mind, the hooded woman raised her hand, palm facing Kestrel's direction, and murmured some words the thief couldn't understand. A spellcaster! Kestrel turned to escape whatever sorcery was about to be hurled at her...

  ... And a moment later found herself unable to budge.

  She tried to fight the magic, but her body refused to respond. Her feet, arms, even her mouth could not move. She was stuck in a half-twist, half-crouch, helpless to defend herself. Heart hammering, she watched the trio make its way toward her.

  The paladin reached her first assessing her from head to heel. "A thief, by the look of her," he said with obvious distaste. "Identify yourself!"

  The sorceress approached. "She can't speak until I release her from the spell."

  Gods, but Kestrel hated wizards! She'd not only lost control of the situation but of her own body. How long was the witch going to keep her like this? What did she plan in the meantime? Her vulnerability made Kestrel want to scream.

  The paladin nodded toward the guard's short bow. "Train that on her." When the guard complied, the knight of Tyr unsheathed his long sword, pressed the tip of it beneath Kestrel's chin, and met her gaze. His eyes were as gray as his steel and just as cold. "Don't try anything foolish." He lowered the blade but kept it drawn.

  She wouldn't. If the paladin didn't cut her down first, Phlan's guards were known to be quick to release a bow­string. Accurate with their aim, too—though at this range, the fighter could be blind and still hit her. Kestrel's agility and weapons couldn't help her now; she would have to rely on her wits.

  The wizard spoke a command word, and Kestrel's body sagged. The rogue caught herself from falling and stood upright to face her captors.

  "Who are you and what are you doing here?" the pal­adin demanded.

  She considered lying but decided a modified version of the truth might ring more genuine in the holy warrior's ears. "My name is Kestrel, and—"

  "Kestrel!" The guard lowered his bow. "You're late!"

  "I—I am?" She glanced from one member of the trio to the next. The paladin still regarded her warily, but the mage appeared suddenly guilt-stricken. The guard actu­ally looked as if he were greeting an old friend. Did she know him—all of them—from somewhere?

  "Er . . . yes. I am late," she stated boldly. "I apologize. Profusely. Didn't mean to keep you waiting."

  "We weren't so much waiting as concerned," the guard said. "I thought maybe you arrived before us and some­thing happened." He removed his helm, revealing coarse blond locks, a square jaw, and a neck thickly corded with muscles. "My name's Durwyn. Like you, I volunteered to stand watch here."

  Volunteered? When in her life had she volunteered for anything? A sense of dread swept her. "Just... um, when did you volunteer for this duty, Durwyn?"

  "Last night. Elminster told my commander that you and two others would be here today."

  Damn and double-damn Nat's firewine! She'd actually gone to see Elminster and now couldn't remember what transpired. What in the world had she gotten herself into?

  The paladin cleared his throat to draw her attention from Durwyn. "Tell me if you would, Kestrel, what you were doing skulking about if you indeed came to stand guard with us?"

  A fair question, but his tone chafed nonetheless. The inflections of his voice suggested noble birth. Holy war­rior or not, if he thought she'd tolerate arrogant conde­scension very long, he was sorely mistaken.

  She lifted her chin. "Spying on you, of course. You don't expect me to put my trust in people I know nothing about, do you? I was trying to jud
ge what sort of folk I'm to work with."

  "Honest ones. Which, I imagine, is more than we can expect from you."

  She bit back the retort she would have liked to let fly. Paladins of Tyr, if indeed that's what this knight was, were known for their self-righteous sense of honor and justice. Rogues avoided them like the gallows. "You mind tossing me your name between all the insults?"

  "Corran D'Arcey, Defender of Tyr the Even-Handed, and third son of Baron Ethelred D'Arcey of Sarshel."

  So, she'd guessed correctly. A paladin of Tyr and a blue-blood. She held his gaze without blinking, determined to show him that his titles did not intimidate her. "I'll just call you Corran for short."

  "And I'll just—"

  "Aren't we supposed to be guarding a pool here, Cor­ran?" she asked.

  The rebuke silenced him for a beat. "Yes, we are," he said tightly. He sheathed his sword and strode back to stand nearer the water.

  In the awkward quiet that ensued, Durwyn shrugged and followed him.

  Kestrel was disappointed to be left standing with the sorceress and not the guard. Durwyn seemed kind but not particularly bright—the perfect source to pump for more information about what she'd gotten herself into. The spellcaster, on the other hand, made her nervous.

  The mage, who had not yet spoken to Kestrel, drew back her cowl. By her gold-flecked blue eyes and slightly pointed ears, Kestrel guessed her to be of partial elven descent. Moon elf, judging from the bluish tinge to her ears and chin. "I am Ghleanna Stormlake," she said. "Had I known your identity, I would not have thrown that spell."

  Kestrel could not tell whether Ghleanna's words held contrition or criticism. Was she supposed to have strutted into the tower declaiming her name?

  "Apology accepted," she said, whether one had been offered or not. Then, deciding Ghleanna could prove informative, she added, "I should have arrived on time."

  The mage's lips formed a half-smile. "Elminster told me you might have a... headache ... when you awoke."