Pool of Radiance

by James M. Ward

  It was on one of the city’s wide piers that Tarl was walking when he spotted the figure of a woman, lying belly down, hammering on the dock so hard that she was actually causing the heavy wooden planks to rattle with each blow of her fists. Beside her stood a great horse. As Tarl moved closer, he could hear that the woman was crying. His curiosity piqued, he edged closer still.

  The horse raised its head as Tarl approached, but it made no movement or sound. The woman remained oblivious to his presence. Tarl could see now that blood was caking to the sides of her hands, where they were worn raw from hammering against the nails and wood splinters on the dock planking. Compelled by his faith, Tarl squatted down and grabbed the woman’s large hands in his own. “Please, lady, you must stop. Enough is enough.” Had the woman struggled against his grip, he probably could not have stopped her from pulling her hands loose and resuming pounding the dock, but she turned her head toward him and left her hands extended, as if perhaps her energies were spent. Tarl could feel the power of a healing spell flowing through his own body and into hers as he muttered a prayer to Tyr. Slowly the caked blood loosened and sloughed off. New skin formed, pink and pale, to seal the broken blood vessels. More new skin formed to cover the tender wound. Soon her torn hands became smooth again.

  Though Tarl’s clerical skills did not approach those of Sontag, he was blessed with great innate power. He had used his healing abilities before, and had always found healing a very special exchange. The process inevitably involved sharing something extremely deep and personal with the receiver. Healing this woman was no different, except that he felt as though she also had shared something deep and personal with him. He squeezed her strong hands in his own and then pulled the woman gently to a sitting position. He stared into her eyes, and even in the dim twilight, he could see that they were a captivating green. The highlights of her long, full hair shimmered red in the flickering light of the torches that lined the docks. He glanced down, aware that he was staring, and that is when he realized that her leather garments were ridiculously tight, stretched over her tall frame in such a way that they awkwardly revealed much of her impressively ample body.

  Tarl cleared his throat and started to speak. His voice cracked as he introduced himself. “I am … Tarl Desanea, a cleric of the warrior god, Tyr. I am … at your service….”

  “Thank you,” said the woman quietly.

  Still holding her hands, Tarl pulled the young woman up to her feet. He swallowed hard as he realized that she was nearly a fist’s height taller than he and impressively fit. His face reddened as he noticed that a patch of material above her left breast had torn loose, revealing more woman than he had ever seen in his twenty years. He stepped back toward the horse, releasing his grip on her hands. “Uh, do you have a … blanket … or something?”

  The big horse stamped and snorted, and Tarl flushed once more.

  “Yes, of course,” said the woman, quickly pulling the panel up to cover herself as she realized the reason for the cleric’s embarrassment. She then turned to the horse. “Easy, Cerulean. I think we can trust this man.” She pointed toward a bedroll lashed securely to the horse’s back.

  Tarl untied the bedroll, rolled a blanket from it, and moved close to drape it around the woman’s broad shoulders. As he did, he noticed her warm, perfumed scent, and as he stepped back, he prayed a silent thank-you to Tyr for not demanding abstinence from his clerics.

  “I’m sorry. It seems I’ve forgotten my manners,” said the woman, turning demurely to face Tarl again. “I’m Shal … Shal Bal of Cormyr. I am a mage, formerly an apprentice to the great Ranthor.”

  Tarl found himself staring again. He had never before seen a mage so long on physical prowess. Most, he assumed, found their way into the mentally taxing profession because they did not have the physical strength for other jobs, and once they became practicing magic-users, they damaged their bodies even further by repeatedly performing physically taxing magicks. This woman called Shal could be mistaken for a smith, or even a warrior. With practice, Tarl thought, she could probably wield a hammer as well as he, or perhaps even Anton.

  As Tarl stood appraising Shal, she was doing likewise. The young cleric’s white hair did not match his youthful face. His steel-gray eyes were wise, and yet innocent at the same time. She had no real reason to trust him. She knew only what he had told her—that he was a warrior cleric of Tyr—but she had felt a strange bond from the minute he took her hands in his and healed her. She recalled, too, that Ranthor had always spoken highly of Tyrian clerics. He’d referred to them as “just” and “men you can trust at your back,” words he didn’t use lightly.

  “Uh, Tarl,” Shal began awkwardly. “Do you know this town? Is there some place I could go to purchase some new leathers?”

  “Of course … forgive me.” He looked tentatively at the horse. “Can we both ride that animal? I mean, I assume you do, but will he let me ride, too?”

  “What do you say, Cerulean?” asked Shal, reaching for the saddle.

  If I have my say I’d say either one of you is quite heavy enough.

  Shal hadn’t really expected an answer, and as before, the horse’s mental communication took her by surprise. She was by no means used to the idea of the familiar sending messages directly to her brain.

  “So what do you want me to do—ride while he walks?” she answered in annoyance.

  Tarl looked at her quizzically. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I was just answe—uh, talking to the horse.” She might have to explain about Cerulean to him sometime, she thought, but not now. She let Tarl cinch the saddle and help her up into it, then reached down and gave him a hand.

  Oof! Double oats tonight, Mistress, especially after you made me do all that running for nothing.

  Shal attempted a mental Shut up, but she could only guess that Cerulean had “heard” her when he snorted and bolted into a trot before he had even gotten off the docks and onto shore.

  “Whoa, Cerulean! We’ll hold it to a walk for now,” Shal directed.

  The horse obliged, but Shal couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally adding an extra jar to his previously smooth gait.

  Tarl had only been in the city of Phlan for two days himself, but the brothers from the temple had been free with advice about the merchants in town, and he had done some exploring himself as he tried to learn more about the beasts and undead creatures living outside the walls of Civilized Phlan.

  He directed Shal to a seamstress, a pleasant woman who had mended Tarl’s robes for him just the day before. When Shal let the blanket drop from her shoulders, the seamstress had to fight to keep from gawking. She couldn’t recall another woman she’d ever done a fitting for with a physique like Shal’s, and she certainly couldn’t remember anyone with such ridiculously fitted clothes. “Wha—what can I do for ya?” she finally spluttered.

  Shal winced as she saw what she took to be the woman’s reaction to her size. Shal had been painfully aware, when she first stood next to Tarl, of how tall she had become, but his stares had seemed to be warm, even vaguely admiring. This woman was looking at her as if she were a freak. Shal almost wanted to break down and cry again, but she fought to keep her voice firm. “I need some clothes for the night—anything will do—and I’d like to pick up a full set of tailored leathers just as soon as you can have them ready.”

  The woman looked at the rack of clothing behind her and shook her head slowly. There wasn’t a stitch of women’s clothing in her shop that would fit the woman standing in front of her. But then she had a sudden thought and went quickly to the back room. In a few moments she returned with a full set of leathers and leather armor. “I can’t fit you up very pretty, miss, but I do have this,” she said, holding out the outfit at arm’s length. “It was made for a man—a good-sized man. He was going to pay me for it when he finished a mission to Sokol Keep. I should’ve suspected he’d never come back. He was too adventurous for his own good….” Her voice trailed off, a
nd Shal sensed that the woman must have cared for the man.

  “Are—are you sure you want me to have these?” asked Shal.

  “Sure I’m sure,” she said softly. “Besides, customers your size are few and far between.” The woman saw Shal bite her lip and quickly blurted, “No offense intended, miss. I’ll need to alter this some before you wear it. I mean, you’re tall and all, but you’ve got a trim waistline, and there’ll be … other adjustments to make. Isn’t that right, young man?” she said, turning to Tarl.

  Tarl hadn’t taken his eyes off Shal since she had removed the blanket. Now his face burned red, and he grinned sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll need to make some adjustments.”

  “Fine lotta help you are!” scolded the woman, and she shooed Tarl out into the street, with an admonishment not to come back until she pulled the curtains open again.

  The leather tunic and leggings were the softest things Shal had ever felt against her skin. She brushed one sleeve admiringly, and the seamstress cooed proudly, “Genuine chimera leather. It don’t come cheap, but it’ll last you a lifetime if you treat it right. Now, you stand still, and I’ll mark the places that need altering. I’ll be able to send you home with these tonight, if you’ve got eight silvers and a couple of hours.”

  “I guess I have both and not much choice, regardless.” Shal watched the woman as she whisked about her. She was as slender as a praying mantis, and not a muscle marred her silky skin. Just hours ago, my figure was like that, Shal thought. Now I’m nothing but a giant, some kind of freak. I even tower over Tarl, and he must be over six feet tall….

  “So, is that cleric your beau?” asked the seamstress nonchalantly, interrupting Shal’s thoughts.

  “No. Uh … he’s a friend … an acquaintance, really.”

  “His eyes weren’t sayin’ acquaintance, miss, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

  “We just met. He … he healed me. I’d injured my hands, and my clothes were ruined….”

  “You aren’t exaggerating there. They look as though you burst out of ’em. I’ll never understand how they coulda fit in the first place.”

  Shal didn’t know what to say, or indeed whether it was worth explaining to this stranger or not, but she wanted to justify herself, to explain to somebody that she hadn’t always looked like this. She told the woman part of her story, leaving out the part about how foolish she had been but explaining how she was magically changed to her current size.

  The seamstress looked at her with genuine pity. It’s sad enough a woman has to worry about her looks from the day she’s born, she thought. This one’s prettier than most, but she still feels she has to tell stories to explain her appearance. The seamstress tried to be reassuring. “I haven’t seen many women your size in this part of the Realms, miss, but you don’t need to apologize about your appearance to anyone. You look healthy as a horse, and you’ve got a nice face and beautiful hair. Why, you should’ve seen the look that young cleric was givin’ you. There’s many a woman who goes through a lifetime without being at the receivin’ end of a look like that!”

  Shal only felt worse, sensing that the woman’s words were prompted by pity. She was certain Tarl’s look was either that of a young, rather inexperienced man who’d never seen nearly so much of a woman exposed, or perhaps that of a warrior cleric admiring a person of equal brawn. At any rate, she really didn’t want to think about it, so she stood quietly through most of the remainder of the fitting. It wasn’t until the seamstress began sewing that she decided to find out if the woman knew anything about Denlor’s tower. The seamstress knew of it. She said she’d heard that the old mage had managed to hold on to new territory gained in the northeast corner of Civilized Phlan for several months before finally succumbing to the onslaughts of the creatures attacking from the outside. Shal shivered at the way the local woman said “outside,” as if she were pronouncing a curse or speaking of the Abyss itself.

  The seamstress finished taking in the last tuck and handed her the tunic and pants to try on. When she had slipped the incredibly soft leather on, the woman helped her lace the leggings and girdle. “Very impressive, if I do say so myself, miss. The black looks good on you. Do you want to comb those tresses of yours and then take a look in the mirror in back?”

  “I—I’ll comb my hair; it must look awful. But I think I’ll pass on the mirror. I trust your judgment.” Shal shuddered at the thought of seeing her reflection. She’d seen the size of the pieces the seamstress worked with, and tucks or no, they were huge. Regardless of how the clothing might look on her, though, it felt wonderful. As soon as Shal finished brushing and combing her thick, long hair, she paid the seamstress the eight silvers she had asked for, plus a generous tip.

  The moment the woman pulled open the curtains to the shop, Tarl entered. He was frankly stunned by what he saw. Shal’s freshly combed red hair shone like highly polished rosewood against the deep black leather velour of the tunic. The green in her eyes blazed in the bright light of the seamstress’s lanterns. Most of all, Shal’s full figure was accented in devastating accuracy by the seamstress’s careful tailoring.

  “Pull your jaw up, boy,” said the woman sternly. “You’d think you’d never seen a woman before.”

  “You look … great, Shal,” Tarl said, faltering.

  Great? Shal shook her head imperceptibly. She couldn’t possibly look great, but she did have to admit that she felt a little less awkward with the new clothes on. Certainly her legs and arms didn’t seem so conspicuously out of proportion now that she wore garments that were the right size. It helped, too, that the new leathers didn’t bind her so tightly that she felt like an overstuffed sausage. “Thank you,” Shal said absently, and she turned to leave.

  Tarl followed her out like an adoring puppy. “Shal, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to help you find a place where you can stay tonight. Maybe we could have dinner together, if you feel up to it. I’d really like a chance to talk some more.”

  “I’d like that, too,” said Shal. “But I could use a little time alone. I’ve lost something … some things … very dear to me recently, and I’m really not myself.”

  Tarl helped Shal mount Cerulean. “I know what you mean, Shal. I’ve lost something important to me, too. I think that may be why I felt such a special bond with you right from the start.” Tarl mounted the horse behind her and wrapped his arms around her firm waist as they began to ride toward the center of town. He had yet to get a room for himself—he’d spent the previous night at the temple, and would probably do the same tonight—but he’d been told that the Laughing Goblin Inn offered safe, if a bit overpriced, lodging. He remembered the general direction but wasn’t familiar enough with the town yet to know the most direct route to the inn. When they finally arrived and left Cerulean in the stable, Tarl had the distinctly odd feeling that the horse was annoyed with him.

  The common room of the inn was already crowded. It took some time to locate the innkeeper, but fortunately there were vacancies. The prices Sot charged kept the inn from getting too full. “I’ll show ya up to your room myself, miss,” said Sot to the big woman. “Your dinner’s included in the price,” he added.

  “For what you’re charging the lady, you should throw in meals for a week, but we thank you nonetheless,” Tarl said wryly.

  Looking to Tarl and without missing a beat, Sot said, “It’ll be another silver if you’re planning on staying with her.”

  Tarl coughed. “I won’t be, thank you. I’ll see her to her room, though.”

  As Sot left the two of them, Tarl remained in the doorway. “Shal, take as long as you need. I’ll be down in the common room waiting whenever you decide to come down.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Tarl. I won’t be too long.”

  Tarl closed the door, and Shal stared straight ahead. Hanging on the inside of the doorway was a full-length mirror. She clasped her hand to her mouth and stifled a sob. Standing before Shal was a creature that frightened he
r more than any of the monsters rumored to lurk outside the city. She knew she had changed. Every time she looked anywhere, she was aware that her perspective was that of a considerably taller person. She had been able to see hands and arms, feet and legs, that belonged to a different person. Now that she saw her full reflection, she fully comprehended the fact that every inch of her body had grown proportionally. Even the fine black leathers didn’t conceal the fact that she was bigger, considerably bigger, than she had ever imagined she could be.

  Shal had always taken pride in her slim, supple arms and legs. She was proud, too, of her small feet, delicate fingers, and fine facial features. An almost completely changed woman returned her stare in the mirror. She was relieved to see that her body parts were not distorted, initially one of her big fears. The essence of her features, the intangible something that made her recognizable as herself, was still present, but she looked as if she’d gone through a major post-adolescent growth spurt and gotten incredibly serious about physical fitness. Shal tipped her head back and sighed. There were no more tears left in her. She had chided herself for her foolishness. She had mourned the loss of her petite body. She now faced the new Shal Bal. She didn’t like it, but this was the Shal who would avenge Ranthor’s death, and this was the Shal she would face until … until she died, for all she knew.

  She backed away from the mirror till her legs brushed the bed. The big bed groaned as she lay down, mentally exhausted. She did her best to ignore it, lying still and breathing slow, easy breaths, the cleansing breaths Ranthor had taught her to quiet her mind and spirit. Each time she inhaled, she focused on pulling the loose ends of a particular fear from her extremities, and as she exhaled, she purged the fear from her body. By the time she went downstairs, her anxieties were gone. She was not happy to be living in her new body, but she was at peace. From the landing, she scanned the crowded common room until she spotted Tarl’s silver-white hair.