Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [3]
He paused and faced his apprentice, holding out a yellow, rolled parchment. "Keep this scroll, Shal. Open it only if you have reason to believe I will not return. I must go now to Denlor, to Phlan. May the gods be with you-and with me." Ranthor had whispered a magical command, then vanished into the smoky blue haze of his Teleport spell…
That was the last Shal had seen or heard from her teacher. She knew she wasn't likely to make progress on her Weather Control spells or any other kind of magic until she received some word of reassurance from Ranthor. In the meantime, she realized, there was a tower full of chores that beckoned-wonderful, mindless activities that would serve as distraction from her anxious thoughts.
She decided to tackle a task she had been putting off for days-dusting the countless shelves of magical components in Ranthor's storeroom. A wizard's components, she knew from her training, were almost as important as his spellbooks. Someone had to keep them all in order, and once a wizard reached a certain level, that someone was almost invariably an apprentice.
As Shal entered the storeroom and faced its row after row of shelving, she sighed and began musing to herself. She sometimes wondered why anyone would ever want to become a wizard's apprentice. It seemed a never-ending stream of menial chores and discouraging hours of practice. Somehow she couldn't picture Ranthor ever stumbling over a word, as she frequently did, when he cast a spell. Shal smiled grimly as she tried to imagine Ranthor stooping down to dust shelves. He must have found some way to bypass the apprentice stage and progress straight to wizard, she thought wryly.
Shal stared at the rows of shelving stretched out before her. It would take hours. The dust hadn't been at all selective about which shelves or components to cover. The fine film of gray powder coated everything, and the spiders had been having a heyday. Shal stood staring for several more seconds, then grabbed a rag and plunged ruefully ahead into the maze of shelving.
As Shal reached the end of a long row of shelves, she wiped her brow and paused, turning to glance at herself in the large viewing mirror that Ranthor used to practice his gestures. Her shoulder-length hair, though matted with perspiration at the ends, was vibrant and silky and shimmered auburn red even in the dull light from the handful of lamps that lit her master's huge laboratory. Her skin was clear and as smooth as polished ivory, and her nose and cheeks were fine and delicate. She couldn't help but know she was attractive-just tall enough to set off her perfectly sculpted petite frame, and just saucy enough in her mannerisms to attract the attention of almost any man she took a fancy to.
From her studies under Ranthor, Shal had learned of the damage that certain powerful magic could do to the caster's skin, hair, and overall vigor. She had discussed the subject with Ranthor on several occasions, expressing some of her fears. Ranthor had chided her for her vanity, but he also reminded her that beauty and magic were not mutually exclusive. "There are times," he had said, "when you must use strong magic. There are other times when you can avoid it. But you must never get caught up in your fear of the physical consequences of spell-casting. It will hinder your ability to excel at your chosen profession."
Nonetheless, Shal had still persisted in asking Ranthor about the effects of different spells. She knew that the Burning Hands spell was not one she wanted to use often. The Weather Control spells were not so bad-and, of course, they'd never hurt her at all if she didn't figure out how they worked! She turned her attention back