Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [27]
She shook her head, smiling fondly at the memories of her first adventures with Tarl and Ren. "Together, the three of us discovered that the leader of the city's Council of Ten was in league with an evil dragon, the Lord of the Ruins. As it turned out, the councilman was responsible for the death of my dear master, who had stood in his way, as well as the death of Ren's beloved Tempest, a thief who had stolen the magical ioun stones the dragon needed to control the pool of radiance that lay in the ruins. Together, we managed to defeat both the council leader and the dragon. Then Tarl fought the vampire in Valhingen Graveyard. With his faith in Tyr, he was victorious, and regained the hammer."
Shal set down her empty teacup. "With the hammer resting on the altar in the temple of Tyr, it wasn't long before the city began to grow and prosper. More and more of the ruins were rebuilt, the monsters driven away. Phlan was truly restored, and it was the hammer's doing."
Listle nodded in understanding. "But with the hammer gone…"
"The process is reversing itself," Shal said grimly. "Eventually, Phlan will again become the ravaged place it was for so many centuries."
Listle's eyes went wide. "What are we going to do, Shal?" she asked breathlessly.
Shal tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I think I know someone who just might be able to help. The prophecy spoke of a magical pool somehow being involved in all of this, didn't it?"
Listle's head bobbed. "That's right. 'The twilight pool.'" She frowned, her bottom lip jutting out. "Whatever that is."
Shal laughed. "Well, there's only one expert on pools that I know of. Perhaps I should pay her a call. Come, let's go tell the others."
* * * * *
The sorceress bent over a small iron caldron hanging above a flickering fire. The special brew had to be exactly right. There was no margin for error. She pulled a few dried leaves from a leather pouch at her belt. Carefully, she crumpled them into the bubbling contents of the caldron.
The sorceress shivered, drawing her heavy sheepskin coat more tightly about her shoulders. The autumn air of the glade was chill with the coming winter. All around her, leaves fluttered down, mantling the ground with a crisp, crackling blanket of russet, crimson, and tarnished gold. Squirrels chattered in the branches of the ancient oak and ash trees that surrounded the clearing. The sorceress cocked her head, trying to listen to the small animals. After a minute she gave up. All squirrels ever seemed to talk about were acorns.
The sorceress sprinkled a pinch of black powder into the caldron. Close, very close, she thought. But not yet. She couldn't risk any mistakes. She leaned back against a fallen tree trunk to wait and think. She was a woman who prized patience. Patience was the key to the greatest magic.
The sorceress was clad in deerskin breeches, a thick wine-colored tunic of fine wool, soft but remarkably tough boots of wyvern leather, and a heavy cloak of forest green, its weave so tight rain dripped right off it. It wasn't a wizard's typically gaudy garb, but it suited her perfectly.
All in all, there was a rather ageless quality about the sorceress. Her long, chestnut-colored hair was marked only by a single, rather dramatic streak of gray. At first glance the sorceress might have seemed a woman barely past her third decade, but there was a wisdom in her deep green eyes that was strangely at odds with her youthful appearance. And anyone versed in the magical arts who observed the sorceress at her craft would have realized instantly that she had far too much power to be as youthful as she appeared.
In truth, the sorceress was well over a century old.
Once, she had lived an entire lifetime as an ambitious mage, doing whatever she could to acquire more and more magical power. It was an ambition that ultimately had led to disaster. She had sought to exploit a legendary pool