Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [90]
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…"
I can 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