WARNING: This chapter contains discussion of unwanted pregnancy and violent racism. There is also some mildly disturbing imagery near the end.

Hour 5 Hammer 4, 1371 DR

The convoy had not gone anywhere in over a day. There had been much to do, giving proper burials to the dead and repairing the extensive damage which had been done by the attack. This had given Syrin a great deal of time to ruminate about her situation, perhaps too much time.

Just before the second dawn after the attack, she found herself standing outside the tent, alone with nothing but the whispering wind to console her. She had yet to tell Rasaad that she was carrying his child. She was too terrified of the mere concept of it to say anything at all. Some small part of her hoped that if she ignored it, it would simply go away, irrational though the idea was.

Her fear was born out of a belief she had held ever since she had learned that Bhaal was her father. She had told herself that she should never have children, that to do so would be to spread Bhaal's taint. It might even result in some unpredictable evil in the child itself. She had also gone so far as to hope that she was infertile, something which was now proven to be very much not the case.

In the face of her new condition, she had no idea what to do. She knew next to nothing about carrying a child, having had very little contact with pregnant people in her mere twenty two years of life. Her belief was telling her that she needed to find a way to get rid of this problem, but she didn't know if that was even possible and if it were, whether or not the necessary resources were at her disposal. On top of that, she wasn't even sure that she was ready to be a mother or, come to think of it, that Rasaad was prepared to be a father.

These considerations ran in circles in her mind as she gazed up at the moon that was in the process of leaving to give way to the sun. She thought of going to see Zadhi yr Tariba to ask about escaping this predicament, but she did not get the chance to take action, because Rasaad came out of the tent, looking concerned. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind and rested the side of his head against hers.

"Is everything alright? Did you have another nightmare?" he inquired in whisper. Syrin swallowed hard and thought carefully about what to say. She was not at all ready to tell him what was happening, and so despite knowing that this was not something she should keep from him, she scrambled to find some viable excuse that wasn't a flat out lie, that she might forestall things a bit longer.

"No. I'm just...I'm just afraid," she murmured in return and Rasaad frowned.

"Afraid? Of what?"

"The future. I don't know where our lives are headed anymore. The open-endedness of it all is daunting." This was not a lie. It was simply another issue that had been plaguing Syrin's thoughts recently.

"What brought this on?"

"That Elvish phrase you repeated when you were dying...I don't think you fully understand its meaning. It translates very roughly as 'you hold my heart forever', which, as you can imagine, has a special meaning to elves. When I say it, it is a promise that in all the years I might have, there will be no other but you, so strongly am I bound to you. When you say it, however, it is only a reminder of how little time you have as a human. You will be gone before I'm even old enough to be considered an adult by others of my kind and I fear that," Syrin rambled, not knowing if she could explain all of this thoroughly enough for Rasaad to fully understand what she was trying to express.

"I suppose it is time for me to reveal something to you then." This made the ranger's heart jump into her throat as she stepped away from her husband to look at him fully. He bore the serious but soft expression that Syrin had always found comforting as he continued. "Monks can achieve agelessness. Some monasteries call this 'Mastering the Four Seasons', because time no longer affects the body of a person who has gained this level of training."

"Are you...are you saying that you've attained this power?" Syrin pressed her hand to her chest in a gesture of shock. She wasn't quite able to accept what she was hearing. It was too good to be true.

"Yes. I believe I've been experiencing some of the minor effects for many months now. All the time in the world is at our fingertips," Rasaad informed her serenely and without further hesitation, she gathered handfuls of his shirtfront in her grasp and yanked him into a very long, joyful kiss that allowed her to forget her other crushing concerns for a just moment. The monk hummed in delight and smiled brightly when she finally pulled back from him. "Perhaps I should have told you sooner."

"Perhaps," Syrin replied in a teasing tone. For now, she was saved from being forced to reveal her condition. She had a bit longer to think about what to do and how to keep her building anxiety in check. Once again, she found herself wishing that Imoen were here. Her sister would understand her situation better than anyone else she knew possibly could and would handle the situation calmly. The mage would surely come up with some positive spin on the fact that a potential grandchild of Bhaal was growing inside Syrin.

Unfortunately, Rasaad was the only soul the young elf could confide in at the moment. Usually, that was more than enough, since he was her best friend and husband, but because this matter so intimately concerned him, she froze up at the mere thought of seeking his counsel. She knew that she should tell him, but she just couldn't, and that made her feel like she was being drawn and quartered.

"You still seem out of sorts. Is there something else on your mind?" Rasaad suddenly asked after a few moments of comfortable silence and Syrin went rigid. She had no idea what to say. She refused to lie to him, but telling the truth seemed to be just as damning an option. "Syrin?" A fresh scowl of concern came across the monk's face and she realized that she was shaking.

"I-I can't do this," she blurted out.

"I don't understand. Syrin, what's wrong?" Rasaad reached out to her, but she stepped out of his reach, shaking her head.

"I need to be alone for a little while."

"Syrin-"

"This isn't the same kind of problem as before. Please, just let me have some space." At this, a look of helplessness and rejection came across Rasaad's dusky features that twisted Syrin's insides into a knot. "I'm so sorry," she murmured before turning away from him. There was a tense beat of silence before he replied.

"When you are ready, I will be waiting," he told her calmly.

She then heard the rustle of the tent flap, telling her that he had gone back inside. Her throat clenched painfully with the wave of guilt that struck her. Her thoughts spiraled into a familiar melodrama of how much Rasaad deserved better than the monstrous mess masquerading as an elf that she was. Trying to get ahold of herself, Syrin pulled up her veil and took a few deep breaths before setting out through the camp to see if there was anything she could assist anyone with. Nothing distracted her like fixing other people's problems.

By the late afternoon, everyone finally seemed ready to get the convoy moving again. Syrin had, in her many hours spent with various caravans, helping them with seeing to their dead and whatnot, heard the merchants debate amongst each other about why the Black Raiders had been working with a dragon. Many of the northerners seemed to be of the opinion that the Raiders had foolishly made a deal with Baeshravirlym and had planned to split the rich bounty of the convoy between them. The Calishites, on the other hand, read more into it. They believed that the Sultans had contracted both parties in order to make a statement and exert control over the merchants. Syrin learned in her discussion with Rasaad immediately following the attack that the latter was a common enough occurrence that it was more than likely the case.

The ranger's thoughts were now too plagued with other worries to speak of the subject any further with her husband as they watched the many caravans, wagons, and beasts of burden uneasily begin to continue on their journey. They had barely said more than a handful of words to each other since the day had begun, but despite the strain on their relationship, Syrin was grateful that Rasaad was heeding her wish for space. She had had the opportunity to see Zadhi in the morning and learned a little more about her condition. She was just over a month along, which gave her an idea of when it had started. It had thankfully been unnecessary to tell Zadhi about her reservations. The healer had picked up on it right away and assured Syrin that there were options if she was not ready for this. Apparently her elven physiology also gave her a little more time to make a decision than a human would have, which was a blessing, to say the least.

With this is in mind, Syrin did her best to relax and put off ruminating about it for the time being. The most pressing issue at hand was getting to Calimport, a task which was growing in difficulty alongside the ethnic tension between the caravans and the general paranoia that had become prevalent throughout the convoy after the dragon attack. Still worse was the fact that Adaran Tamasryn had joined the guard of a Waterdavian arms merchant. Syrin had no idea whether he had won this position through pity or through a genuine belief in his innocence, but it was unsettling either way. At least many of the Silver Scythe guards being saved from the blue dragon had earned Rasaad significant respect, enough that some seemed to have changed their minds about him and were even willing to cast dirty looks at anyone who made disparaging comments about him. Unfortunately, they were not always there to do so.

The convoy was only a day away from Calimport when the tensions between the northerners and the Calishites reached boiling point. It began when Syrin and Rasaad were taking a silent evening walk together through the extensive campsite. They were passing by the scarlet tents of a Luskan fur and leather trading company when they witnessed a sour-faced man with coppery hair and a badly trimmed goatee storm by them, drawing a hefty longsword as he went, several burly mercenaries at his heel. The couple quickly followed him, hoping to prevent bloodshed. The man marched right up to a Calishite silk dealer.

"Give me gold for all the pelts you ruined, you slimy Calimite bastard, or you'll be paying with your blood instead!" he spat as the silk merchant froze and stared back with a look of abject terror on his face. He seemed to get over it, however, when he glanced around and was reminded that many of his own guards were nearby.

"How dare you speak to me in this way! I have done nothing to your smelly pelts!" the Calishite shot back, at which the fur trader raised his sword and his mercenaries followed suit. The silk merchant's guards responded in kind, but Syrin stepped between them before they could start a massacre.

"Stop this!" she barked and they all stopped and glared at her in astonishment. "Have you all taken leave of your senses? There is no reason for anyone here to turn to violence. Why don't you settle this like decent men instead of pouncing at each other like animals?"

"Why would I trust a single word out of a Calimite's mouth?" the Luskan growled, bearing down on Syrin. When she stood her ground defiantly, he added, "Or take orders from a woman who spreads her legs for one?" gesturing between her and her husband as he did so. This rile the Calishites, but she stood firm.

"Hold!" she told them, raising her hand. Even Rasaad, who had been about to step forward and object, stopped in his tracks upon seeing the look in her eyes. The hostility in the air at the moment was almost thick enough for Syrin to feel it tingling on her skin. "You accused this man of sabotage. Do you have proof?"

With a contemptuous huff, the Luskan produced a scrap of orange silk which was adorned on one side with golden fringe and had a hole ripped in it.

"This. I found it on a loose nail in my caravan." Syrin took this scrap from him and examined it.

"Tabarif, does this match anything you own?" she questioned the silk merchant respectfully.

"It is a piece of a cowl of mine that has been missing for a few days."

"Lying snake!" the fur trader growled, riling the silk merchant and his guards again, though this time it was Rasaad who halted them.

"Daashah. Nashezofah uz. Seforah mazha khanar," he said sternly. From what little Syrin had understood, he had told them to let her handle it. They seemed willing to listen, if the slight lowering of their weapons was anything to go by.

"Look at this edge of the cloth," Syrin continued after taking a deep breath to keep herself calm in the face of so many blades. "It's not jagged like it would be if it had been torn off the cowl. It's clean, which means this piece was cut. That indicates that this was deliberate. Someone wants you to think that this man is responsible for your ruined furs. Probably with the intention of igniting conflict. In other words, you got played."

"You'd better be right, elf. When I find the person who did this, I'm going to flay them alive."

"Who would have done such a thing?" the silk merchant cut in.

"I suggest you start with everyone who has a lot to gain from making Calishites look bad." It didn't take a genius to realize exactly who she was referring to. Everyone knew about the debacle with Adaran Tamasryn at this point. "If you're quite done threatening each other now, I think we had all better get back to what we were doing before."

"Yes, although I have some business to attend to first," the Luskan grumbled and Syrin tried to not think about what was going to be said to Tamasryn as she slowly backed away, taking Rasaad by the arm as she went.

"That could have gone much worse," the monk commented when they were finally back in their tent. "We could have had a riot on our hands, but you talked them down. You never cease to amaze me, Syrin."

"I have to stay interesting somehow," she replied with a self-deprecating laugh as she lay down on their bedroll. Rasaad sat beside her and combed his fingers through her hair soothingly. He didn't need to tell her that she was being too hard on herself; the message was clear.

Celthica liked to play word games in the morning. Syrin supposed that it was the girl's way of getting them to fully wake up, if nothing else. She would hang around the couple as they were packing up their things and pose little puzzles to them. Their last morning on the road was no different.

Celthica perched on the back end of a nearby wagon and tried to get them to think of all the words that could be made with the letters in "triangle" while they folded up their tent.

"I suppose 'a' and 'I' don't count?" Syrin mused, glancing over her shoulder at her young friend.

"Nope! Has to be at least three letters!" Celthica replied cheerfully and the ranger sighed.

"How do you come up with these games?" Rasaad asked and the girl giggled.

"Well, I don't have much else to do, sitting in the caravan all day. There's no one to talk to accept Father, and all he knows how to talk about is business."

"Ah, I see. And it never occurred to you to ask your father if you could ride with one of us?" At this, Celthica's face screwed up in an expression that made it clear that she was extremely angry with herself for not having thought of it.

"I'm going to go ask him right now." She hoped down from her perch and started towards the caravan, but stopped in her tracks at the sound of several shocked screams. It had come from a ways down the convoy, but it drew everyone's attention. Instinctually, Syrin and Rasaad raced towards the source of the commotion, Celthica right behind them.

They worked their way through the crowd, which had gathered around the end of a wagon. There they found Adaran Tamasryn lying on the ground, the back of his head smashed in and the blood staining the sand around him an ugly reddish-brown. Syrin gasped and immediately covered Celthica's eyes before the girl could see. As much as the elf opposed hiding Celthica from the world, this was not something she needed to witness.

"Don't look. You won't like what you see," the ranger whispered to keep her friend from trying to pry her hands away.

Rasaad stepped forward and knelt down beside Tamasryn to examine his head. He glanced up at the wagon and then narrowed his eyes at the wound.

"He did not fall from the wagon. This was no accident. He was murdered. With a large blunt instrument it would seem," he reported, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the onlookers.

A/N: Okay, they will actually get to Calimport in the next chapter, I promise.