Ruins of Myth Drannor

Pool of Radiance: Ruins of Myth Drannor

A Forgotten Realms novel by Carrie Bebris

“That one’s mine.”

Kestrel inclined her chin ever so slightly toward the richly attired stranger ambling through Phlan’s busy marketplace. Her practiced eye had taken only a minute to single him out of the throng. Was he a rich trader? A visiting nobleman? No matter. She’d never been fussy about her victims’ professions, just the size of their pocketbooks.

Ragnall studied Kestrel’s choice and nodded his approval. “Want any help?” The thrill of the hunt glinted in the rogue’s clear blue eyes.

“Nope.” She worked alone, and Ragnall knew it. The fewer people she trusted, the fewer she had to share the spoils with—and the fewer could betray her. Besides, the greenest apprentice could handle this job solo. The graybeard was an easy target. He’d been careless as he purchased a gold brooch, chuckling to the young female vendor about the weight of his money pouch when he’d accidentally dropped it. Kestrel was more than willing to relieve him of that burden. The brooch too, with any luck. “I’ll meet you later at the Bell.”

Ragnall’s gaze had already shifted to a middle-aged woman overburdened with parcels. “If you’re successful, the ale’s on you.”

“If?”

They parted. Kestrel dismissed Ragnall from her mind, concentrating on the task at hand. To Ragnall, several years her junior and born to a respectable family, thieving was a game. To her it was serious work.

She followed her target through the noisy bazaar, weaving past haggling merchants and ducking behind vegetable carts as she maintained her distance. When the man stopped to purchase a sweetmeat she paused several stalls away to admire an emerald-green silk scarf.

“It matches your eyes,” said the seller, a young woman about Kestrel’s age. She draped the scarf around Kestrel’s neck and held up a glass. “See?”

Kestrel made a show of studying her reflection, actually using the mirror to keep an eye on her mark. “It does indeed,” she said, combing her fingers through her wayward chestnut locks. She sighed. Someday when she’d made her pile and no longer had to work for a living, she’d grow her hair out of the boyish but practical cut she’d always worn. Though she doubted she’d ever wrap a fancy scarf around her neck—it felt too much like a noose.

In the mirror, the gentleman finished paying for his treat and moved on. Kestrel handed the looking glass and scarf back to their owner. “Perhaps another day.”

She considered “accidentally” bumping into her target as he savored the confection but elected for a less conspicuous method this afternoon. She’d been in Phlan several months, and already some of the Podol Plaza vendors recognized her. Too many obvious accidents like that and everyone would know her for a thief. She couldn’t afford that kind of attention. Though the local thieves’ guild operated openly, she had not joined it. The guild required its members to lop off their left ears as a sign of loyalty—a practice she considered barbaric. She planned to leave town before the guild pressured her into joining.

The nobleman stopped thrice more, admiring a jeweled eating knife, studying a plumed helm, testing the fit of a leather belt around his considerable girth. The latter he purchased. By all the gods, was he going to spend the entire pouch before she could get to it?

At last, an opportunity presented itself. The gentleman paused to watch a brightly garbed performer juggle seven flaming torches while singing a drinking ballad and balancing on a wagon wheel. Good old Sedric. She really ought to give the entertainer a commission for all the distractions he’d unknowingly provided.

She approached her target’s left side, eyeing the bulge just under his velvet cape. Casually, she bent down as if to secure her left boot and withdrew a dagger from inside. Sedric finished the ballad, caught the last torch in his teeth, and hopped off the wheel. The gentleman raised his hands, applauding heartily.

With a quick slice through straining purse strings, the moneybag was hers. By the time her victim noticed the missing weight from his hip, she was long gone.

Kestrel had learned—the hard way—that after lightening a gull’s pockets, it was best to get as far away as possible from the scene of the crime. She slipped down an alley, her leather boots padding noiselessly in the soft dirt, until she could no longer hear the din of the marketplace. A few strides more brought her to the grounds of Valjevo Castle. No one would bother her here as she counted and stashed her newly acquired coins.

The once-proud stronghold, like the city it had protected, was ruined by war and later corrupted by nefarious inhabitants. From what Kestrel had heard, a pond known as the Pool of Radiance had formed in a cavern beneath the castle. Thought to confer great wisdom and leadership on those who bathed in its waters, the pool instead turned out to be an instrument of evil, used by the power-hungry creature Tyranthraxus to advance his self-serving schemes. Though Tyranthraxus had been defeated and the pool had evaporated into a mundane hole in the ground, the castle remained empty and undisturbed despite improved prosperity in the city. Most residents yet feared to tread anywhere near the pool’s dry basin or its ominous environs, so few ventured this way intentionally.

Kestrel, however, came and went with perfect ease. The thief had grown up in the streets of a dozen cities, and it took more than a ruined castle to scare her. She’d never encountered trouble there and found the deserted cavern a convenient hideout. Though cutthroats and a few common creatures also enjoyed the isolation from time to time, generally the once-menacing cavern was safer than most city streets.

Safe enough, at least, that she had hollowed out a cavity beneath a pile of fallen rocks to use as a cache for the coins and other items she acquired. As she thought of the small hoard that waited for her within the castle, her fingers drifted to the nobleman’s money pouch at her side. Her stash of treasure was growing steadily—just yesterday she’d added a walnut-sized ruby to the hoard, courtesy of a quintet of sixes in a game of Traitors’ Heads. She wouldn’t use those dice anymore, however, until she left Phlan. She’d never live to roll them again if anyone discovered they were weighted.

It wouldn’t be too much longer before she could leave petty thievery behind, and the dangerous, seedy lifestyle that went with it. When she had enough coin she’d live and travel in style, supplementing her savings with an occasional high-profit, low-risk heist. No more dockside inns with flat ale and lumpy mattresses, no more tramping from city to city on foot, no more risking her neck for a few measly coppers, no more wearing the same clothes until she itched. She’d secretly ply her trade among a better class of people while enjoying the easy life. The one she and Quinn had always imagined.

She entered the castle bailey and negotiated its once-formidable hedge maze. When Tyranthraxus had been defeated, a wide swath had been cut through several rows of the sawlike leaves, black flowers, and poisonous six-inch thorns, but in the years since then the hedges had grown back enough to warrant caution. She ducked and sidled her way through, careful to avoid even the slightest brush with the menacing vegetation.

Once past the maze, she relaxed her guard. She approached the white marble tower, half-ruined and defaced with sinister-looking but now impotent runes, and circled to an ebony door marked with an intricate carving of a dragon. Standing in the spot she’d marked twenty-five yards from the door, she withdrew a dagger from one of her boots and gripped it in her left hand. Though she could throw a dagger accurately with either hand, her dominant left provided more force and deadly aim.

She hurled the blade at the entrance. The dagger stuck in the door with a solid thunk, landing dead center between the dragon’s eyes. Foul-smelling yellow mist issued from the dragon’s mouth—another lesson she’d learned the hard way. If not for the potion of neutralization she’d happened to carry on her first visit, she’d never have lived to return.

After waiting ten minutes for the poisonous cloud to disperse, she retrieved her dagger and opened the door onto a landing in the main room of the ruined tower, which lay open to the sky all the way down to the subterranean cavern. Birds, bugs, and spiders made their homes in the nooks and crevices of the interior tower walls. Despite the fact that rain could fall freely inside, the pool basin below had always remained dry.

She nimbly padded down the black iron stairway, alighting at the bottom and heading toward her secret cache. She stopped abruptly when she heard voices.

Bandits. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but she could see them through the rubble, not fifty paces away. She quickly slipped into the shadow of a large unearthed boulder. How stupid she had been—approaching so carelessly, without even glancing down into the cavern! Fortunately, the intruders appeared not to have noticed her.

A tingling spread along her collarbone. It was a sensation she had experienced only a few times before, always a forewarning of serious danger. While others felt chills up their spines, hers apparently traveled up her spine and continued across her shoulders. Previously, however, the heightened perception had alerted her to perils more extraordinary than a handful of brigands. When her intuition kicked in, it usually meant something very, very bad lay in wait.

Her instincts must be working overtime today. Nevertheless, they’d saved her life before. She glanced back the way she’d come, assessing the possibility of a silent retreat.

Too risky. The iron grillwork stairway was far too exposed, and she’d been fortunate to escape notice the first time. Stifling a sigh, she turned her attention back to the bandits. If she couldn’t leave, she might as well see what these visitors were up to—and make sure they didn’t get too close to her cache.

There were three of them, young men with a week’s growth of stubble on their faces and a lifetime’s worth of maliciousness in their dark eyes. They hadn’t observed her because they were arguing among themselves over a sack the largest man gripped tightly in his fist. As their voices rose in anger, she caught snatches of their conversation.

“… said we’d split it evenly, Urdek!”

“That’s right. A quarter for each of you, a quarter for me, and—” the large man, Urdek, flashed a stiletto—“a quarter for my friend here.”

Kestrel silently shook her head. There truly was no honor among thieves. Urdek’s betrayal illustrated precisely why she worked alone.

The two smaller men produced daggers as well. One of them approached Urdek, muttering something Kestrel couldn’t make out. Urdek swiftly kicked the dagger out of his opponent’s grasp, sending the weapon flying to the ground with a wet splat.

The sound caught more of Kestrel’s attention than the ensuing fight. She shifted her position to get a better look at the ground where the dagger had landed. It lay in a puddle of muddy water. Tiny rivulets of brown liquid streamed into it from the direction of the dry pool.

Which was no longer dry.

She gasped. In one rainless night, the basin had filled with amber fluid. Its surface lay smooth as a mirror, not a single ripple marring the stillness. The water caught the late afternoon sunlight, seeming to infuse it with a golden glow. To someone unfamiliar with its history, the pond appeared almost serene.

Almost. Around its perimeter, nothing grew. The moss and weeds that had begun to spring up around the dry basin had withered and fallen to dust. Shriveled, skeletal husks lay dead where just yesterday thistles had flourished. The lifeless band of earth extended two feet from the rim of the pool, nearly reaching the scuffling bandits.

Kestrel turned her gaze back to them. Urdek had killed his weaponless comrade and disarmed the other. The smaller man tripped as he backed away, landing near the dead man’s dagger. He grabbed for it.

And screamed.

At first Kestrel thought the puddle’s liquid burned away the skin it had touched, but the stench that drifted toward her soon revealed otherwise.

The man’s flesh was rotting off his bones.

As she and Urdek watched in horrified fascination, the tissue and muscle of his hand turned green, then brown, then black in the space of seconds. Finally it disintegrated, exposing a skeletal claw.

The rot continued up his arm, to his torso and the rest of his body. Putrid hunks of flesh and decomposing organs fell into the dirt until finally the decay crept up his neck. White hair sprouted from his head; the skin on his face withered. His eyes dried up and shriveled until they became nothing more than two gaping sockets.

The once-human creature lurched to its feet still clutching the dagger. Its scream of pain now a murderous cry, it advanced on Urdek.

Kestrel turned and ran as fast as her nimble legs could carry her, not caring how much noise she made.

“Now can you tell me?”

Kestrel lowered the shotglass back to the table and shuddered—whether from the liquor or the memory of what she had witnessed earlier, she couldn’t say. She shook her head at Ragnall. “One more. At least.”

“You’ll regret this in the morning, you know. I’ve never known you to drink firewine before.” Nat’s firewine, the Bell’s house liquor, was said to be distilled from wine mulled in the inn’s washtub. It was also said to pack a nasty wallop. Despite his warning, Ragnall signaled to the barmaid for another shot.

Kestrel regarded her friend. At least, Ragnall was the closest thing she’d had to a friend in a long time—the fair-haired scoundrel had never betrayed her, which was more than she could say for most of her acquaintances.

The only person she’d ever really trusted in her life had been Quinn, the old rogue who had found her in a burned-out house when she’d been barely old enough to walk. Quinn had raised her as a daughter, at first trying to protect her from the shady side of his life but eventually teaching her everything he knew. At the age of seven she was winning bets from unsuspecting tavern patrons by throwing daggers with amazing accuracy. At nine, her mentor had deemed her old enough to dabble in minor illegal activities like picking pockets. By twelve she was learning more lucrative—but also more dangerous—skills.