"Of course." Gensor pulled up his hood and turned toward the door.
"Go, then, but bring back word this evening. Understand?"
"I think so. Oh, before I forget… what of the Lord of the Ruins?" asked Gensor.
"What do you mean?"
"What have you done to satisfy his inquiries about the gnoll encampment? He must be furious."
"As soon as I meet with his next messenger, I'll explain that I was forced to take action but that I'll see that those parts quickly fall back into his hands."
"Interesting." Gensor scrutinized Cadorna with a look. "Is that really your intent?"
"Is that really your affair, mage?"
"I suppose not. But I'll know soon enough, in any event." Gensor turned and slipped through the door. Cadorna just barely made out the mage's parting words: "See you too soon."
Slate-colored thunderheads billowed and churned in a circle directly over Shal's head. Lightning bolts raged out in every direction above her. Shal extended her well-muscled arms skyward and flexed her taut fingers at precisely the right moment as she incanted yet another Weather Control spell. The bit of moistened earth she'd been holding vanished into the gray sky, and the bottom of the nearest thunderhead immediately became like so many bowls of gray dust, swirling first in one direction and then another.
The largest of the bowls swelled and bulged as if the cloud's mists were fighting against themselves and the confines of the bowl. Moments later, a snake of curling, writhing vapor broke free from the thunderhead and spiraled down, bringing with it the dragon winds of a fierce tornado. In a triumphant gesture, Shal dispatched the descending cyclone out to sea, where it became a waterspout filled with fury, vacuuming the Moonsea's waters into its hungry vortex and spewing them high into the air.
When the twister did not dissipate as she had intended but continued to rage across the bay, Shal beat the air with her fists and exhaled through clenched teeth. "Damn!" She watched in despair as the waterspout changed direction and surged back toward the docks of Phlan, which were lined with boats whose captains had chosen not to risk travel during such a violent storm. Shal spoke the words of a simple cantrip, one she had tried only on much smaller, less volatile subjects, and did her level best to push the tornado away. It held and came no closer, but she had to channel all her energies and repeat the cantrip three times to finally get it to turn back to sea. For several minutes, the twister darkened the waters of the bay. Finally it slowed, began to dissipate, and spewed its last. Shal slumped down on the rooftop of the inn, exhausted.
Her nose and mouth buried in her steepled hands, her windblown red hair spilling down her back and arms, she spoke quietly to Cerulean, who stood, shimmering a rich amethyst color, beside her. "I did it, Cerulean. I mastered the weather."
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…"
Ican 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."