Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [8]
"And it will," Ranthor had said simply. It was not until much later that Shal learned that most apprentice mages pay enormous sums for their educations, especially when they study under a wizard of Ranthor's stature. She also learned, as she came to know other young apprentices, that many youthful mages were veritable slaves to their masters, yet Ranthor never expected more of her than the performance of routine chores-and above all, diligence at her studies.
Shal stared down at the onyx table, her eyes taking in the many, things Ranthor had left her. Suddenly Cerulean nudged her shoulder with his muzzle. He pushed the sack of oats to the floor and quickly began to rifle the bag. "Poor thing. I suppose even magic steeds have to eat." She poured some oats into the feed bag and held it out to the horse. Instead of eating greedily as Shal thought he would, the horse pressed his head hard against her back and pushed her toward the doorway.
"Oats aren't good enough for you, or are you just being friendly in some odd way?" Shal asked, amused at the animal's gesture.
Naturally I like oats, but I don't really need them. After all, I am magical, you know.
The mental communication from the horse took Shal completely by surprise. The last thing she had expected was a response. She'd lived around magic for three years and had seen many unusual things. In the back of her mind, she even knew that familiars communicated somehow with their masters, but she had never experienced the mental barrage of telepathy-or taken part in a conversation, telepathic or otherwise-with a horse. She found it more than a little unnerving.
It's you who needs to eat. You're planning to go to Phlan, aren't you?
Shal looked at Cerulean quizzically. As if mental communication wasn't jarring enough, he "thought" with the pronounced accent of someone from the Eastern Realms. Shal responded aloud. "I've been thinking about it. Do you read minds, too?"
No, but I'm far from stupid, and I'm not afraid to express my ideas. The horse raised its head a little with that thought. I just assume that you will be wanting to dispatch whoever or whatever killed our master.
"Our master? I'd rather you didn't phrase it exactly that way. It makes me sound like I'm a horse."
My apologies. How about if I call you Mistress from now on?
"Fine. So, what do you do when I'm not riding you?"
Sometimes our mas-uh, Ranthor-would make me climb in one of the pockets of that cloth. Cerulean angled his head in the direction of the table, where the indigo cloth still lay spread out. I don't much care for that actually. It's dark in there-pitch black, in fact. As long as there's plenty of room, I prefer to just vanish and walk around.
"Really?" Shal asked. "And what if there's not plenty of room?"
Then I just wait outside-you know, invisible. As long as no one runs into me, it works out fine. But we can discuss all that en route to the kitchen. You really should eat, Mistress. And then we need to make travel plans for our trip to Phlan.
Shal shook her head. She didn't know what startled her more-the fact that the horse could communicate or that its communication was so decisive. She wondered for a moment how Ranthor had interacted with Cerulean. Whenever Shal had suggested that Ranthor had been working too hard and should eat, he would all but shoo her away. She couldn't imagine Ranthor taking instructions from a horse. She looked wistfully