REALMS OF MAGIC
Edited by Brian Thomsen and J. Robert King
Copyright (c) 1995 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd. Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.
FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.
Cover art by Bias Gallego
First Printing: December 1995
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 94-61634
987654321 ISBN: 0-7869-0303-1
TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE Brian Thomsen
GUENHWYVAR R. A. Salvatore
SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS Jeff Grubb
THE MAGIC THIEF Mark Anthony
THE QUIET PLACE Christie Golden
THE EYE OF THE DRAGON Ed Greenwood
EVERY DOG HIS DAY Dave Gross
THE COMMON SPELL Kate Novak-Grubb
THE FIRST MOONWELL Douglas Niles
THE LUCK OF LLEWELLYN THE LOQUACIOUS Alien C. Kupfer
TOO FAMILIAR David Cook
RED AMBITION Jean Rabe
THIEVES' REWARD Mary H. Herbert
SKOFSWORDS William W. Connors
THE WILD BUNCH Tom Dupree
A WORM TOO SOFT J. Robert King
GUNNE RUNNER Roger E. Moore
THE DIRECT APPROACH Elaine Cunningham
EPILOGUE Brian Thomsen
PROLOGUE
Tym Waterdeep Limited had been the publisher of Volothamp Geddarm ever since the day that the wandering rogue and the savvy entrepreneur had first struck a deal, each side convinced he had taken advantage of the other. Many volumes later, Volo was justifiably known as the most famous traveler in all the Realms, and Justin Tym as Faerun's most successful publisher.
In the intervening years, Volo had been handed off to numerous editors, each a bit more willing to take partial credit for the gazetteer's success, and it had been more than a few seasons since the great publisher and the noble rogue had had a "face-to-face." The recent dismissal of his last editor, coinciding with the master traveler's scheduled stopover in the City of Splendors, afforded an ample reason for a meeting between the two gentlemen.
As Volo remembered it, Justin had always been a late sleeper-no doubt a habit borne out of many nights of routinely wining and dining authors, agents, and booksellers (a practice the gazetteer wholeheartedly endorsed). So, needless to say, Volo was more than a little surprised to find a message at his accommodations moving their meeting up from the civilized hour of "noonish" (with the tacit promise
of a gratis lunch) to the ungodly hour of market opening, thus necessitating an early morning call that proved most inconvenient for both himself and his hostess, Trixie. Still, Justin's advances did indeed finance his extravagant accommodations, and so, slightly bleary-eyed, and not entirely rested, Volo set off for his publisher's office.
The streets were brimming with eager merchants en route to trade, peddlers hawking their wares from makeshift mobile markets, and laborers trotting off to their common jobs. Volo did not envy any of his fellow commuters, and quietly resented Justin's subjecting him to Waterdeep's legendary early-morning rush hour. Still, bills had to be paid. By this time tomorrow, with any luck, he would once again be flush with gelt and ready to enjoy the freedoms of the open road, where appointments were scheduled as "when you get there," and deadlines were set as "when the manuscript is done."
All told. Justin's advances were more than worth this temporary inconvenience.
The crowded storefronts along the thoroughfare soon save way to extravagant office space for consulting wizards, high-priced solicitors, and even more high-priced tavern clubs. Volo was entering the district where Tym Waterdeep Limited had been situated since its origin as a print shop of "exotic pamphlets and titillating tomes'* years ago. As business had prospered, so had the neighborhood, and the shadowy warehouse district had become the new "in" place for professionals to set up shop.
Despite many buy-out offers from Kara-Turian interests and Cormyrian holding companies, Justin had steadfastly maintained his independence, and prosperity had followed him.
In Tym's words, "he hadn't traded up; everyone else had traded down," and that was the way he liked it.
A new floor had been added to the storefront offices, overhanging yet another section of the already narrow street. The road here was shadowy, not unlike some underworld back alley rather than a main Waterdeep thoroughfare.
Business must be good, Volo thought. I wonder when
Justin will buy out his across-the-lane neighbor? Another expansion out and up, and he would undoubtedly overhang their property.
As he had expected, the door was open, and Volo proceeded upstairs without impediment. Knowing Justin, he thought, his office has to be on the top floor.
Four floors up, just beyond an unmanned reception desk with an office overlooking the busy thoroughfare below, sat a tall, bespectacled, and almost entirely bald rogue. The publisher was nattily dressed in the most fashionable attire gelt could acquire for his unathletic form. He took to his feet immediately to greet his star author.
"Volo, my boy, how long has it been?" he enthusiastically hailed.
"Longer than either of us would like to remember," the gazetteer responded, adding, "and since when have you become an early bird? I almost doubted that the message was really from you."
The publisher hesitated for a moment and then jibed, " 'Tis the early bird that catches the wyrm, in business as well as in dungeon crawling, I'm afraid."
Volo chuckled at the fellow's response, thinking to himself, Justin has never seen the inside of a dungeon in his life, let alone crawled around in one. Still the old coot is a queer bird, if not an early bird at that.
Justin motioned to a chair for the house's star author and quickly returned to his place behind the desk.
Volo took a seat, kicked it back on its rear legs, set booted feet against Justin's expensive desk, made himself at home, and asked absently, "So, how's business?"
"Couldn't be better," the publisher replied.
"Any new hot titles coming up?"
"Sure," Justin replied, pausing for just a moment till he had located a mock-up cover from the top of his desk. "We've got a really hot new book on Cormyr coming out. Here's the proposed cover."
Volo looked at the handsome illustration of a purple dragon against a mountainous landscape, framed at the top by the title and below by the author's name.
"Cormyr: A Novel," Volo read aloud, "by Greenwood
Grubb. Don't you think the title is a little dull?"
"Not at all, my boy," Justin replied with a smile that bespoke all of the sincerity of an orcish grifter. "Besides, the editor-in-chief and the author picked the title. I picked the art."
"I see," said Volo, surprised at the hands-off manner the controlling rogue seemed to have adopted.
"Still," the publisher added, "I did just fire the editor-in-chief. Maybe 1 should reconsider...."
"Why did you fire him?"
"You mean her," Justin corrected. "She was a ninny and a bit of a flake, even for a gnome, if you know what 1 mean."
"In what way?" the author asked, realizing that editors, good or otherwise, might truly be the most endangered species in all Toril.
"She kept changing the spelling of her name. I was going to go broke if I had to keep printing new letterhead and business cards for her."
"I see," the gazetteer replied.
"She also kept trying to take credit for books she had nothing to do with. Once she even claimed to have discovered you, and signed you up for your first book. Of course, I knew she was lying, but everyone else didn't. When I pressed her to clear the matter up in public, she claimed she had meant that she landed Marcus Wands, also known as Marco Volo. Ever hear of him?"
"On occasion," Volo replied, wishing that the scurrilous scoundrel would change his name and avoid this ongoing confusion, which had already caused him much inconvenience.
"Needless to say, Marco Volo is no substitute for the real Volo, Volothamp Geddarm."
"Of course," the gazetteer replied, glad his publisher was taking the time to butter him up.
"But enough of this chitchat," Justin said. "What wonderful new volume do you have for us today? I want a good strong title to follow up on our expected success with Volo's Guide to the Dalelands ,.. like, maybe, Volo's Guide to the Moonsea. Ever since that big blowup at Zhentil Keep, the
market has just been clamoring for information."
"Moonsea is already in the works," Volo replied confidently, "in fact, I'm on my way to Mulmaster after I finish my business here in Waterdeep. I figure a few more months of research, tops, and it will be done."
Justin furrowed his brow. "That's fine, I guess," he replied hesitantly, "but I was sort of hoping for something we could publish a little sooner."
"But, of course," Volo replied, adding seductively, "that's why I've brought along another project."
"Good," the publisher agreed, " a little something to tide us over between guide books."
"No," the author contradicted adamantly. "Something that will outsell all the guides, combined. Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, & Expanded Edition."
Before the author had even gotten out the word "magical", Justin was already shaking his head no.
"Sorry, old boy," the publisher insisted. "There's just no way. The Guide to All Things Magical almost put this company six feet under, for good. When Khelben and company ban a book, they ban a book. Every copy-poof!-disappeared without ever a mention of refund for production costs or lost sales revenues. I have no desire to play that game again."
"Neither do I," the author replied confidently. "That's why it's revised."
"How?"
"This time it is all based on interviews, stories, and legends that I have gathered from the far corners of Faerun. Nothing pilfered or stolen, which is not to say that there was anything improperly obtained the last time."
"But, of course," the publisher conceded absently, while trying to concentrate on coming up with a diplomatic reason why refusing this volume would not constitute the breaking of an option, thus allowing his star author to go elsewhere. He concluded that there wasn't a diplomatic alternative.
"Volo," the publisher said firmly, "I can't do it. Even a revised tome of secret spells and such would get us in
trouble. The text would once again be suppressed, and who knows what Khelben would do to a repeat offender."
"I'm not scared of old Blackstaff," the cocky gazetteer replied. "He owes me one for saving his butt and all of Faerun during that doppleganger conspiracy1."
"I wasn't thinking of you," Justin replied. "I was referring to me."
"Afraid he still remembers that hatchet-job unauthorized biography by Kaeti Blye you published?"
"It was supposed to be a solid piece of investigative journalism," he justified. "How was I to know that that dwarf was more adept at turning out fiction than turning up facts?"
A wide smile crossed Volo's face.
"Well you don't have any such worries this time, I assure you," he stated in his still-cocky tone. This time, Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, the Revised, Authorized, etc., is no notorious expose of the arcane and dangerous, but a we 11-researched compilation of documented second-hand accounts of various magic subjects in all the Realms. After all if people told me these tales, they would have told anyone. Ergo, they're all accessible to the public, depending on one's travels, and contacts . . . and as you well know, no one travels better or has better contacts than Volothamp Geddann."
Justin leaned back in his chair and scratched his ear as if it had been tickled by the almost nonexistent fringe that remained of his once-full head of hair.
"Go on," the publisher pressed. "What type of accounts would be in it?"
"Basically anything magical from AioZ. Magic items, places, and spells, both the famous and the obscure. Enchanted artifacts from the past, spectral creatures, and famous feats. Personalities like Elminster and Khelben ... nothing to offend, mind you . .. notorious mages and lowly apprentices ... you know, stories about student wizards ..."
"I see, " interrupted the publisher, "but. . ."
"I even have a few stories about 'smoke powder', the latest
1 See Once Around the Realms-
forbidden substance, which everyone is talking about."
The publisher was perplexed. Obviously a collection of stories on "all things magical" was a poor substitute for the wonderfully desirable toine that had been suppressed . . . but since no one had ever gotten to read the original, no one would have a basis for comparison. Who's to say it wasn't just another collection of stories?
"You'd be willing to call it Void's Guide to All Things Magical, etc., etc.," the publisher pressed.
"Of course," Volo replied, glad to see that he had hooked his publisher and would be dining high that evening on the advance that was sure to be handed over. "So we have a deal?"
"Not so fast," Justin replied shrewdly. "You don't expect me to buy a pegasus in the clouds do you?"
"Of course not," Volo replied, feigning indignation at the inference that he might try something less than above-board. "Would you like to see the manuscript?" he added, removing a sheaf of pages from his pack.
"Hand it over," the publisher replied, leaning forward, his arm reaching across the desk to accept the pile of pages.
"Careful," Volo instructed, handing over the manuscript. "It's my only copy."
Justin began to rifle through the pages.
"What are you doing?" asked the impatient author.
"Looking for the good parts,(tm) the publisher replied.
Volo fingered his beard in contemplation. He didn't want to be here all day waiting for Justin to peruse until he was satisfied. Suddenly a solution occurred to him.
"Justin," Volo offered, "I know you are a busy man. Why don't I just tell you some of the good parts."
Justin set the manuscript in front of him on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "You always were a good storyteller, Geddarm," he replied, "so do tell."
Volo rubbed his hands together, took a deep breath, and began to tell the tales.
GUENHWYVAR
R. A. Salvatore
Josidiah Starym skipped wistfully down the streets of Cormanthor, the usually stern and somber elf a bit giddy this day, both for the beautiful weather and the recent developments in his most precious and enchanted city. Josidiah was a bladesinger, a joining of sword and magic, protector of the elvish ways and the elvish folk. And in Cormanthor, in this year 253, many elves were in need of protecting. Goblinkin were abundant, and even worse, the emotional turmoil within the city, the strife among the noble families-the Starym included-threatened to tear apart all that Coronal Eltargrim had put together, all that the elves had built in Cormanthor, greatest city in all the world.
Those were not troubles for this day, though, not in the spring sunshine, with a light north breeze blowing. Even Josidiah's kin were in good spirits this day; Taleisin, his uncle, had promised the bladesinger that he would venture to Eltargrim's court to see if some of their disputes might perhaps be worked out.
Josidiah prayed that the elven court would come back together, for he, perhaps above all others in the city, had the most to lose. He was a bladesinger, the epitome of what it meant to be elven, and yet, in this curious age,
those definitions seemed not so clear. This was an age of change, of great magics, of monumental decisions. This was an age when the humans, the gnomes, the halflings, even the bearded dwarves, ventured down the winding ways of Cormanthor, past the needle-pointed spires of the free-flowing elvish structures. For all of Josidiah's previous one hundred and fifty years, the precepts of elvenkind seemed fairly defined and rigid; but now, because of their Coronal, wise and gentle Eltargrim, there was much dispute about what it meant to be elvish, and, more importantly, what relationships elves should foster with the other goodly races.
"Merry morn, Josidiah," came the call of an elven female, the young and beautiful maiden niece of Eltargrim himself. She stood on a balcony overlooking a high garden whose buds were not yet in bloom, with the avenue beyond that.
Josidiah stopped in midstride, leapt high into the air in a complete spin, and landed perfectly on bended knee, his long golden hair whipping across his face and then flying out wide again so that his eyes, the brightest of blue, flashed. "And the merriest of morns to you, good Felicity," the bladesinger responded. "Would that I held at my sides flowers befitting your beauty instead of these blades made for war."
"Blades as beautiful as any flower ever I have seen," Felicity replied teasingly, "especially when wielded by Josidiah Starym at dawn's break, on the flat rock atop Berenguil's Peak."
The bladesinger felt the hot blood rushing to his face. He had suspected that someone had been spying on him at his morning rituals-a dance with his magnificent swords, performed nude-and now he had his confirmation. "Perhaps Felicity should join me on the morrow's dawn," he replied, catching his breath and his dignity, "that I might properly reward her for her spying."
The young female laughed heartily and spun back into her house, and Josidiah shook his head and skipped along. He entertained thoughts of how he might properly "reward" the mischievous female, though he feared that,
given Felicity's beauty and station, any such attempts might lead to something much more, something Josidiah could not become involved in-not now, not after Eltar-grim's proclamation and the drastic changes.
The bladesinger shook away all such notions; it was too fine a day for any dark musing, and other thoughts of Felicity were too distracting for the meeting at hand. Josidiah went out of Cormanthor's west gate, the guards posted there offering no more than a respectful bow as he passed, and into the open air. Truly Josidiah loved this city, but he loved the land outside of it even more. Out here he was truly free of all the worries and all the petty squabbles, and out here there was ever a sense of danger-might a goblin be watching him even now, its crude spear ready to take him down?-that kept the formidable elf on his highest guard.
Out here, too, was a friend, a human friend, a ranger-turned-wizard by the name of Anders Beltgarden, whom Josidiah had known for the better part of four decades. Anders did not venture into Cormanthor, even given Eltargrim's proclamation to open the gates to nonelves. He lived far from the normal, oft-traveled paths, in a squat tower of excellent construction, guarded by magical wards and deceptions of his own making. Even the forest about his home was full of misdirections, spells of illusion and confusion. So secretive was Beltgarden Home that few elves of nearby Cormanthor even knew of it, and even fewer had ever seen it. And of those, none save Josidiah could find his way back to it without Anders's help.
And Josidiah held no illusions about it-if Anders wanted to hide the paths to the tower even from him, the cagey old wizard would have little trouble doing so.
This wonderful day, however, it seemed to Josidiah that the winding paths to Beltgarden Home were easier to follow than usual, and when he arrived at the structure, he found the door unlocked.
"Anders," he called, peering into the darkened hallway beyond the portal, which always smelled as if a dozen candles had just been extinguished within it. "Old fool, are you about?"
A feral growl put the bladesinger on his guard; his swords were in his hands in a movement too swift for an observer to follow.
"Anders?" he called again, quietly, as he picked his way along the corridor, his feet moving in perfect balance, soft boots gently touching the stone, quiet as a hunting cat.
The growl came again, and that is exactly when Josidiah knew what he was up against: a hunting cat. A big one, the bladesinger recognized, for the deep growl resonated along the stone of the hallway.
He passed by the first doors, opposite each other in the hall, and then passed the second on his left.
The third-he knew-the sound came from within the third. That knowledge gave the bladesinger some hope that this situation was under control, for that particular door led to Anders's alchemy shop, a place well guarded by the old wizard.
Josidiah cursed himself for not being better prepared magically. He had studied few spells that day, thinking it too fine and not wanting to waste a moment of it with his face buried in spellbooks.
If only he had some spell that might get him into the room more quickly, through a magical gate, or even a spell that would send his probing vision through the stone wall, into the room before him.
He had his swords, at least, and with them, Josidiah Starym was far from helpless. He put his back against the wall near to the door and took a deep steadying breath. Then, without delay-old Anders might be in serious trouble-the bladesinger spun about and crashed into the room.
He felt the arcs of electricity surging into him as he crossed the warded portal, and then he was flying, hurled through the air, to land crashing at the base of a huge oaken table. Anders Beltgarden stood calmly at the side of the table, working with something atop it, hardly bothering to look down at the stunned bladesinger.
"You might have knocked," the old mage said dryly.
Josidiah pulled himself up unceremoniously from the floor, his muscles not quite working correctly just yet.
Convinced that there was no danger near, Josidiah let his gaze linger on the human, as he often did. The bladesinger hadn't seen many humans in his life-humans were a recent addition on the north side of the Sea of Fallen Stars, and were not present in great numbers in or about Cormanthor.
This one was the most curious human of all, with his leathery, wrinkled face and his wild gray beard. One of Anders's eyes had been ruined in a fight, and it appeared quite dead now, a gray film over the lustrous green it had once held. Yes, Josidiah could stare at old Anders for hours on end, seeing the tales of a lifetime in his scars and wrinkles. Most of the elves, Josidiah's own kinfolk included, would have thought the old man an ugly thing; elves did not wrinkle and weather so, but aged beautifully, appearing at the end of several centuries as they had when they had seen but twenty or fifty winters.
Josidiah did not think Anders an ugly sight, not at all. Even those few crooked teeth remaining in the man's mouth complemented this creature he had become, this aged and wise creature, this sculptured monument to years under the sun and in the face of storms, to seasons battling goblinkin and giantkind. Truly it seemed ridiculous to Josidiah that he was twice this man's age; he wished he might carry a few wrinkles as testament to his experiences.
"You had to know it would be warded," Anders laughed. "Of course you did! Ha ha, just putting on a show, then. Giving an old man one good laugh before he dies!"
"You will outlive me, I fear, old man," said the bladesinger.
"Indeed, that is a distinct possibility if you keep crossing my doors unannounced."
"I feared for you," Josidiah explained, looking around the huge room-too huge, it seemed, to fit inside the tower, even if it had consumed an entire level. The bladesinger suspected some extradimensional magic to be at work here, but he had never been able to detect it, and the frustrating Anders certainly wasn't letting on.
As large as it was, Anders's alchemy shop was still a
cluttered place, with boxes piled high and tables and cabinets strewn about in a hodgepodge.
"I heard a growl," the elf continued. "A hunting cat."
Without looking up from some vials he was handling, Anders nodded his head in the direction of a large, blanket-covered container. "See that you do not get too close," the old mage said with a wicked cackle. "Old Whiskers will grab you by the arm and tug you in, don't you doubt!
"And then you'll need more than your shiny swords," Anders cackled on.
Josidiah wasn't even listening, pacing quietly toward the blanket, moving silently so as not to disturb the cat within. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and, moving safely back, tugged it away. And then the bladesinger's jaw surely drooped.
It was a cat, as he had suspected, a great black panther, twice-no thrice-the size of the largest cat Josidiah had ever seen or heard of. And the cat was female, and females were usually much smaller than males. She paced the cage slowly, methodically, as if searching for some weakness, some escape, her rippling muscles guiding her along with unmatched grace.
"How did you come by such a magnificent beast?" the bladesinger asked. His voice apparently startled the panther, stopping her in her tracks. She stared at Josidiah with an intensity that stole any further words right from the bladesinger's mouth.
"Oh, I have my ways, elf," the old mage said. "I've been looking for just the right cat for a long, long time, searching all the known world-and bits of it that are not yet known to any but me!"
"But why?" Josidiah asked, his voice no more than a whisper. His question was aimed as much at the magnificent panther as at the old mage, and truly, the bladesinger could think of no reason to justify putting such a creature into a cage.
"You remember my tale of the box canyon," Anders replied, "of how my mentor and I flew owl-back out of the clutches of a thousand goblins?"
Josidiah nodded and smiled, remembering well that
amusing story. A moment later, though, when the implications of Anders's words hit him fully, the elf turned back to the mage, a scowl clouding his fair face. "The figurine," Josidiah muttered, for the owl had been but a statuette, enchanted to bring forth a great bird in times of its mas-ter's need. There were many such objects in the world, many in Cormanthor, and Josidiah was not unacquainted with the methods of constructing them (though his own magics were not strong enough along the lines of enchanting). He looked back to the great panther, saw a distinct sadness there, then turned back sharply to Anders.
"The cat must be killed at the moment of preparation," the bladesinger protested. "Thus her life energies will be drawn into the statuette you will have created."
"Working on that even now," Anders said lightly. "I have hired a most excellent dwarven craftsman to fashion a panther statuette. The finest craftsman . . . er, craftsdwarf, in all the area. Fear not, the statuette will do the cat justice."
"Justice?" the bladesinger echoed skeptically, looking once more into the intense, intelligent yellow-green eyes of the huge panther. "You will kill the cat?"
"I offer the cat immortality," Anders said indignantly.
"You offer death to her will, and slavery to her body," snapped Josidiah, more angry than he had ever been with old Anders. The bladesinger had seen figurines and thought them marvelous artifacts, despite the sacrifice of the animal in question. Even Josidiah killed deer and wild pig for his table, after all. So why should a wizard not create some useful item from an animal?
But this time it was different, Josidiah sensed in his heart. This animal, this great and free cat, must not be so enslaved.
"You will make the panther ..." Josidiah began.
"Whiskers," explained Anders.
"The panther ..." the bladesinger reiterated forcefully, unable to come to terms with such a foolish name being tagged on this animal. "You will make the panther a tool, an animation that will function to the will of her master."
"What would one expect?" the old mage argued. "What else would one want?"
Josidiah shrugged and sighed helplessly. "Independence," he muttered.
"Then what would be the point of my troubles?"
Josidiah's expression clearly showed his thinking. An independent magical companion might not be of much use to an adventurer in a dangerous predicament, but it would surely be preferable from the sacrificed animal's point of view.
"You chose wrong, bladesinger," Anders teased. "You should have studied as a ranger. Surely your sympathies he in that direction!"
"A ranger," the bladesinger asked, "as Anders Beltgar-den once was?"
The old mage blew a long and helpless sigh.
"Have you so given up the precepts of your former trade in exchange for the often ill-chosen allure of magical mysteries?"
"Oh, and a fine ranger you would have been," Anders replied dryly.
Josidiah shrugged. "My chosen profession is not so different," he reasoned.
Anders silently agreed. Indeed, the man did see much of his own youthful and idealistic self in the eyes of Josidiah Starym. That was the curious thing about elves, he noted, that this one, who was twice Anders's present age, reminded him so much of himself when he had but a third his present years.
"When will you begin?" Josidiah asked.
"Begin?" scoffed Anders. "Why, I have been at work over the beast for nearly three weeks, and spent six months before that in preparing the scrolls and powders, the oils, the herbs. Not an easy process, this. And not inexpensive, I might add! Do you know what price a gnome places on the simplest of metal filings, pieces so fine that they might be safely added to the cat's food?"
Josidiah found that he really did not want to continue along this line of discussion. He did not want to know about the poisoning-and that was indeed what he considered it to be-of the magnificent panther. He looked back to the cat, looked deep into her intense eyes, intelligent so
far beyond what he would normally expect.
"Fine day outside," the bladesinger muttered, not that he believed that Anders would take a moment away from his work to enjoy the weather. "Even my stubborn Uncle Taleisin, Lord Protector of House Starym, wears a face touched by sunshine."
...
Januszek66