Disclaimer: Obsidian owns everybody but Kayla. I've messed with the Sunken Flagon dialogue a bit.

The trip back to the flagon had been one long nightmare, for Kayla. They had walked back to Elder Mayne's house only to find that their horses still had not been delivered, so they went back to the docks. The last one was being off-loaded then, and hung suspended from a crane over the deck while workers argued over whose turn it was to clean up the mess. Casavir had solved that conundrum by grabbing a shovel from the one, scraping the objectionable material off the deck, and depositing it in the harbor. Grimly, he handed the shovel back. The two men muttered something, and completed the transfer to the dock.

From there, they rode. The next evening, at nightfall, they were still riding. They had covered some sixty miles since midnight, and Kayla's body screamed in protest. Her legs and buttocks had never been so sore. Their last break, she had been afraid to dismount for fear that she would be unable to stand. So she sat on the horse in the rain. It had been pouring since the night before, too, though at least the wind had died down. Of them all, only Casavir, Qara, and Shandra were unaffected by the long ride... and Grobnar, but that was because he'd spent most of it in front of Casavir like a lady riding side-saddle. Even with the shortened stirrups, it was difficult for the gnome to straddle a horse for more than a couple hours at a stretch, so Casavir had taken him onto his own horse. The paladin had spent most of the day riding with his reins in one hand and his other arm wrapped around the gnome, to keep him from sliding off.

Shandra had fallen into a stony silence, after the shock of her rescue wore off. She took food when it was offered, but gave no indication that she even heard anyone who tried speaking to her. For the last several hours, no one had. They were all just too tired.

Finally, Casavir, who rode in the lead, held up his closed fist. Kayla leaned back on the reins, but she did it too fast. Peaches stopped too suddenly, and her groin collided painfully with the saddle.

"Are we going further tonight, Casavir?" she asked once she'd gotten her breath back.

"No," he said. "We'll walk off the road a bit and make camp. I don't know how must rest we'll get, but the horses have come far enough today. We'll have to walk them before we can water them."

Khelgar grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "slave-driver" and all but fell off his horse. But his dwarven constitution served him well. A few strides, and he had recovered enough to stand fully upright. Neeshka and Elanee, too were able to walk out their stiffness easily enough, though Neeshka rubbed her backside and muttered under her breath.

Kayla's earlier fears about not being able to stand were confirmed. The moment her feet hit the ground, she collapsed in a puddle. Khelgar hauled her to her feet.

"Walk it off," he suggested kindly, and allowed her to lean on him while she took her first steps. It felt strange, having her knees together again. They met like long-parted friends: joyfully, but still bearing the agony of separation.

"Healing spells all around," she said.

"Save them for the morning," Casavir said. "It will be worse then."

He was right.

The next day, it did not rain, but the sky was still overcast, and the air cool. Casavir wanted to cover forty miles by nightfall, more if their horses could bear it. He hoped to make Neverwinter in three days. Kayla did not see how it was possible, but she held her peace. Casavir was not being callous, she knew. She saw the compassion in his eyes. He knew of their pain, but Shandra's danger was real. Nothing else would have compelled him to drive them, or their horses, that hard. But the third day was better than the second, and their horses were holding up very well indeed. Their riders might be suffering, but Kayla, Elanee, and Casavir had healing spells for that.

They reached the Sunken Flagon at nightfall on the third day, their fifth since leaving Neverwinter.

Duncan was delighted, but astonished to see them back so soon. Still, he seemed more pleased by the woman they brought back with him than he did by their speedy return.

"Well, now!" he said. "I see you've brought someone new to my establishment. Now who is this young lady?"

"This is Shandra," Kayla said wearily, "Shandra, Duncan. Duncan, Shandra."

"Please, lass, come in, come in," he gushed, giving Kayla a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek. "Make yourself at home. This here is the Sunken Flagon, I own it - you'll be safe here. Grobnar, play a tune or something, make the lady feel welcome."

"Why, of course," Grobnar said, "I was just th-"

"Look," Duncan snapped, "we don't need a lecture on what passes through your head and out your mouth. Just play."

"Well," Shandra muttered, "the innkeeper certainly runs hot and cold."

"That's my uncle," Kayla said, gingerly seating herself. "You can trust him."

Shandra did not seem willing to go along with that.

"All right," she growled, "I agreed to let you bring me here, now I want some answers. What happened at my farm? Who were those creatures? And why were they after me?"

"I know you've been through a lot," Kayla began, "but calm down, pl-"

"'Calm down?' Calm down? You try being calm when your farm is attacked by monsters and burnt to the ground!"

"Shandra," Casavir said calmly, "we realize this is difficult, but your life may be in danger - and I swear to you, we are trying to protect you, not make more trouble for you."

Shandra stared at the paladin. Kayla knew that look. She'd worn one just like it, that morning near Old Owl well, when first she beheld Casavir's beardless face. Something ugly twisted in her gut.

"Oh," Shandra said. "All right, sorry. Guess the whole thing's hard to take all at once."

"A little paladin charm sure calmed her quick," Neeshka muttered darkly.

"We were hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for us," Casavir went on.

"But..." Shandra protested, "what could I know that's so important?"

Kayla felt Casavir's eyes on her, but she was still distracted by Shandra's worshipful expression.

"You are kin of Ammon Jerro, are you not?" he asked at last.

"Ammon Jerro?" Shandra sounded puzzled. "He was my grandfather. Or my great-grandfather... or was it my great-great-grandfather? I have no memory of meeting him. But my mother told me that he saw me a few times as a babe, but I was too young to remember. Mother said he would cradle me and sing to me, and I would pull out his beard hairs."

"You just keep away from me, lass," Khelgar rumbled.

Shandra did not seem to hear him.

"I heard he was an eccentric, but humble wizard," she said, "but he died a long time ago. What's he got to do with this whole mess?"

"His haven may contain information we need," Casavir replied.

"My mother told me about the Haven when I was a child. I thought it was just a tale she used to make me do my chores on time. She always threatened to lock me in there if I wasn't a good girl."

"The Haven is real," Casavir said, "and we need to find it."

"I have no idea where it is," Shandra said irritably. "Knowing its location wouldn't help you much anyway. My mother said something about a... path you have to walk to get to it. Like a series of challenges, but I don't remember what they are. She also said getting into the Haven requires a pint of fresh blood. And not just any blood will do... it has to be Jerro blood..."

Her voice trailed off, and she stared at Kayla.

"Wait... is that why you 'rescued' me? So you could bleed me?"

"That was not our intention, Shandra," Casavir reassured her. "Please... hear us out."

"You might not want to drain my blood, but I'm not so sure about the rest of you. Besides, if you think I'm going to some dark dungeon that used to give me nightmares, well... think again."

"If Ammon Jerro was 'eccentric, but humble,'" the paladin said, "it is not likely his Haven is a place to fear."

"Hmmm..." Shandra mused, "you know, I never thought of it that way. You may be right. Look, I can barely think, let alone stand. I really need rest... we can talk about this tomorrow."

"Perhaps we should retire," Casavir said soothingly, "we all could use the rest. Shandra, I believe Duncan has rooms upstairs."

"I do!" Duncan said eagerly.

"Oh..." Shandra yawned, "uh, thanks for the hospitality... uh, Casavir, right? I appreciate it."

"Of course," the paladin replied. "You have been through a great deal, it is the least we can offer."

"That I can offer, he means," Duncan interrupted. Kayla could not decide which man she wanted to kill first. "My inn, you know, always eager to help a lass in distress, we are, here at the Sunken Flagon. Except that Sal's yelling for me. Casavir, be a good fellow and show her up to twelve, will you?"

Casavir hefted Shandra's pack and extended his arm to her. Kayla stared after them. She was tired, she was sore, and she was not thinking straight. She wanted to punch her uncle and strangle the paladin, and she did not even know why. She needed to have a lie down to think about it... and then she needed a hot bath... and another healing spell. And food. Maybe not in that order. She could not decide.

In her weary, pain-soaked brain, something clicked. She had reached a decision. She would kill the paladin first, then her uncle.

By the time Casavir returned, she could not even bear to look at him. She grabbed her own pack and went up to her room.

After bidding Shandra good night, Casavir returned to the common room. He stopped at the bar to get a tankard of ale for himself and sought out his leader. She had been strangely quiet during the dialogue with Shandra, and her silence troubled him. She was no longer in the taproom.

"Where has she gone?" he asked Khelgar.

"Dunno," the dwarf shrugged. "She just up and left, while you were talking to Sal."

Casavir sighed. He did not have much experience with women, but what he did have told him that when one of them "just ups and leaves", delay in finding out the reason would unlikely benefit anyone.

He took a gulp of his ale, handed the rest to Khelgar, and trudged toward the stair.

He knocked at her door. She opened it and stepped aside to allow him to enter the room. It no longer smelled of herbs. The porter must have scrubbed the floor, while they were gone.

"You were very kind to Shandra, just now," she said. There was something odd about her voice, the paladin thought. He looked at her. Why was her nose red? And her eyes, too...

"I thank you for the compliment, my lady, but it was the least I could do after her ordeal," he replied, praying that she would come to the point before too much longer.

"That was not a compliment."

"My lady..." Casavir did not understand. She seemed angry with him. "Do you feel my conduct was inappropriate?"

"No," she sighed, sinking down to sit on her bed. "It's not that..."

"My lady," he said, dropping to one knee so he could look her in the face, "do not make me guess why you are vexed with me."

"It's just that... it was my uncle's place to offer hospitality, not yours," she said, though her voice sounded choked, to Casavir.

"You are right," he sighed. "I overstepped my authority in that, and I am sorry. But that is not all that troubles you, is it?"

"I don't recall you being so solicitous of any of my other companions," she said, her lower lip trembling.

"Your other companions follow you of their own free will, not because they were burned out of their homes and they had nowhere else to go."

"But I know what that's like, Casavir!" she sobbed. "I didn't take to this life because I wanted it. It was forced on me very much like Shandra's misfortune was forced on her."

Casavir's heart wrenched. She was right, he knew. She had not even twenty winters, and she led them bravely. Not a day passed that he did not admire the skill with which she kept her band of misfits together, yet for all that, she, too, had been cast out into the world with nothing more than a mace and a sliver of silver. And she was still crying.

"My lady..." words failed him. Not knowing what else to do, he embraced her. Weeping, she fell off the bed, into his arms. They sat there on the floor for a few moments. He held her, stroked her hair, made soothing, nonsensical noises. Finally, she calmed, though he did not release her.

"You are not like Shandra, my lady," he said. "You are far from helpless... and is that what you really want? Do you want me to talk to you as if you were a child, alone in the world, unable to even protect yourself?"

"Sometimes, yes!" she wailed. "I'm tired of having to be the strong one all the time. Sometimes, I want to be the one who's being protected."

He blinked.

"I would protect you with my life," he said.

"I know," she said, another tear tracing a wet line down her still damp cheek, "I just don't want you to have to die to prove it."

He drew her tightly against his body, cradled her head against his shoulder. His heart raced. She needed him. Pride welled in his breast. That surge of desire he had felt when she first saw him as a man was nothing compared to the emotion that gripped him now. This virtuous, indomitable creature wanted his protection. He felt invincible!

His warrior instinct was not the only thing stirred by her words. He felt like a man in another, far less noble way, as well. He had never been more roused, he was certain, and there she was, in his arms, tender and completely vulnerable. Perhaps it was a trick of his memory, but he imagined he could still smell the perfume of her hair. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. Every time she drew breath, they pressed against him. How he longed to take her! Yet she clung to him, trusting him, unaware of the lust that writhed in him, even now. She sat between his outstretched legs, with her shapely buttocks pressed against the inside of his thigh. One gently curved hip grazed his flesh, though thankfully, she was not near enough to sense how badly he wanted her. Her lips trembled against his neck. He shuddered, nearly losing his last shred of control.

He must flee. He could not satisfy the demands of his body and the demands of his sacred calling, too. He had sworn to submit to Tyr's will long ago. His body must be made to submit, as well. She needed him to be her shield against the world. He would not violate her trust.

He could not stay, but neither could he just walk out, leaving her sitting on the floor staring after him... and she certainly must not be allowed to see him in profile.

Casavir lifted her and set her on the bed. He knelt beside it, and took her hand.

"I must leave you now," he said. "You must rest."

"Casavir..." she breathed. She pressed the back of his hand to her lips.

Gods, no... not now! Can't she see... no, she can't. She doesn't know what a filthy creature I am.

"I will be here for you, my lady," he said. His voice sounded strangled, even in his own ears. If I have to geld myself to do it, he added bitterly, in the privacy of his mind.

He forced himself to kiss her hand, then her forehead. "Sleep well, my lady."

He turned away from her as he stood, and almost managed not to run from the room.

He closed the door behind him and leaned his brow against the wood, gasping. Resolutely, he went to his own door, turned the key in the lock, and went in. He needed to do many things before he could retire. He must see that the horses had been rubbed down and watered, and then he must bathe and shave, and get some food. It would wait. There was something he needed to do first. He locked the door.

For several long moments, Kayla stood in the corridor outside Casavir's room. She could bring herself neither to knock nor return to her own room. He had left so abruptly. She was certain something was wrong.

Finally, she knocked. Was he sleeping already? Without even eating anything? Maybe he was in the taproom. She went down and asked Khelgar, but last the dwarf saw, he was headed upstairs to look for her. Maybe he was asleep. She went back to his room and knocked again. The door opened, and she found herself staring at the paladin's bare chest.

"I'm sorry, Casavir!" she gasped. "You should have said you were indisposed. I did not mean to interrupt your bath."

Looking past him, she could see there was no tub in the paladin's room. His chair once more served as his armor rack, and his tunic was draped over the foot of his bed. The blankets were askew and wrinkled, so he must have been resting. His shirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The room smelled of musk and sweat.

Ah, the joys of owning a gambeson, she thought. Though the odor was mildly offensive, it was also strangely stimulating. And the man himself stood not three feet away, with a faint sheen of perspiration gleaming on his fair skin. A musky, vaguely spicy scent rose from him. She fought back the desire to rub herself against him. Had Elanee been here, she would have said that it was animal instinct, the desire of the female to cover herself in the scent of the male, and perfectly natural. But Elanee was not here, and she thought herself a bit of a freak.

"I was not bathing," he said, then reddened. She saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"Forgive me, my lady!" he said, looking down at his own naked torso and blanching. He grabbed his tunic and held it in front of his body. "If you would just..."

Giggling, she turned around while he put his tunic back on.

"My lady," he said after a moment, "shouldn't you be resting?"

"I wanted to apologize," she said, turning back to him. "Gods know what you must think of me. I'm not normally this sensitive, and your behavior with Shandra was perfectly proper..."

Or was it?

"You give me too much credit, my lady," he said. "I had no right usurping your uncle's place, nor should I have made light of the many obstacles you have overcome. I assure you that I shall not repeat either mistake. As for the rest, the last few months have been a trial for you, and the last few tendays, doubly so. I am impressed that you were able to bear it."

Now that Casavir was here in front of her, she could not think of what she wanted to say to him.

He likes simple, honest things, Neeshka's words floated back to her, and you don't get much more simple than farmers. Shandra was a farmer... and she was beautiful. Her features were flawless, certainly, and her skin had the warm, healthy glow of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors without needing to rely on salves to keep from burning. Even her flaxen hair was sun-streaked and lovely. And her body... Shandra had a generous figure, but her occupation had made her strong. She would not need a Girdle of Frost Giant Strength just to wield a mace competently. And Shandra appealed to the paladin's protective instincts without wailing about it.

Kayla now understood the real reason behind Casavir's chivalry toward Shandra. Yes, it had been excessive, but that was because he was falling in love with her. Yes, he still treated Kayla kindly. He would not be cruel enough to abandon a weeping woman.

She was ashamed of herself, and the weakness she had shown him, and painfully aware that she had acted like a jealous, spoiled child. What could she say to him now?

"Shandra has not your strength," Casavir had said. Perhaps not. Shandra needed protection more, but Shandra had not thrown herself weeping into the paladin's arms like Kayla had done, despite her "strength." Yet Kayla had demanded his service.

Perhaps he was not yet as comfortable around Shandra as he was around Kayla, but he was a reserved man. He would overcome his shyness. From the moment he met Shandra, he had not hesitated to call her by name, and he had only used Kayla's the once.

There would be no more kisses from Casavir.

She sighed. The thought saddened her, but there was nothing she could do. The paladin was not hers to keep. If he wanted someone else, she might regret it, but she could do nothing to prevent it, and she would only make a fool of herself trying. She could not even bring herself to hate Shandra for it. It was not her fault that she suited his tastes. Still, Kayla might yet be his friend, if she could get her own emotions under control.

"Were you going to eat first, or call for your bath?" Kayla decided to give friendship a try.

"I was going to ensure that the porter looked after the horses properly," he said. "And then I was going to eat, bathe, and go to bed."

"I'll walk with you to the stables," she said. "We might as well drop your shirt off for laundering."

She reached for the discarded undergarment, but he deliberately kicked it under the bed. When she straightened, his face was red again.

"I will take it down myself," he said. "I shall have more laundry than that."

"Are you all right, Casavir?" she asked. He did not look good. "First, you're all red, then you're white as bleached linen, and now you're red again, and that tic in your cheek is acting up. I know you can't be ill, but something is wrong."

"It is nothing, my lady," he assured her, though he did not meet her gaze, "only fatigue. Let us go to the stables."

After the stables, they stopped in the taproom. Kayla arranged for a plate to be sent up to Shandra's room. If the trip to Neverwinter had not killed her, it was unlikely that Sal's cooking would do it. Everyone else had already eaten and ordered their baths, so Kayla added their names to the waiting list.

"Would you like to come in for a drink while we wait, Casavir?" she blushed a little at her lack of subtlety, but for once, she really did intend to simply have a glass of wine with him.

To her surprise, he accepted her invitation. They sat at the table in her room, sipped wine, and talked of pleasant, inconsequential things until the porter arrived with the tub. Several maids followed with steaming buckets.

"Yers is comin' right up, m'lord," the porter said. "Will ye take it 'ere, or do ye want it in yer own room?"

Casavir blanched, and Kayla's mouth fell open in stunned disbelief at the porter's candor.

"In my own room, please," he replied quickly, and stood up.

"Good night, my lady."

Once the paladin was gone, Kayla sank gratefully into the tub. She would be sore in the morning. She had ridden too far and too long not to be. But she had healing spells for that.

Casavir as a friend... she could live with that. She wanted him, true, but that need not affect her judgment. After all, she had been attracted to Bishop, too. There were probably a lot of men in Faerûn whom she might desire, and she was absolutely positive that not all of them were for her. Someone would be, one day. There's always another morning. It was not as if she were in love with Casavir herself. Perhaps she could have loved him, but that opportunity was unlikely to arise now. In her current state, though, she had to admit that what she really wanted was for him to be in love with her. It was a childish desire, she knew, and not a noble one, but denying its existence did not make it untrue.

Now that she was over her emotional outburst of earlier that evening, she was not even so sure of the paladin's lack of regard for her, or his infatuation with Shandra. What had been oh-so-clear before was far less certain when seen rationally. His attitude toward her shifted alarmingly before they had even met Shandra, running from apparent indifference to shy... whatever that was, and then back again. The pendulum might just be swinging the other way for a while.

She sighed. She really did have far more important things to worry about.

Casavir's promised bath arrived at his room not long after he did. He was glad of it. He was weary, he was sore... and he was dirty.

His second visit with The Lady had been much more satisfying than his first, though it had begun even more uncomfortably. She had very nearly caught him at his worst, but the important thing was that she had not, and the ever-resilient woman had once more made him feel relaxed and content, moreso than he had ever been around any woman he found beautiful.

She did not seek to change him. He knew that he was ill at ease among strangers, but she did not force him to endure it any more than was necessary for their mission. She encouraged him to participate in conversation with others, but she did not compel it, if he wanted to be silent. He was also aware that his manner of speech was more formal than most people used, the legacy of learning to interact with others through books, rather than in person. He had spent his childhood among priests. Older boys did not want a youngling tagging along, interrupting whatever leisure time their studies allowed with his juvenile questions and childish fancies, and there had been none his own age at the school. So, while his classmates spent their formative years doing whatever it was normal children did, he conversed with adult priests and paladins and read. Still, she did not find fault with him for that, or try to jolly him into "relaxing." Relaxing! How could such a simple word be so misused? He was most at ease when he could just do what he did, and talk the way he wanted to talk, without worrying that his listener would interpret his reserve as coldness, and that was precisely how she treated him. Nor did she change her own ways for him. That, too, was pleasing. To be fair, none of the others did, either, but that was one of the reasons he found his present company so agreeable. They all accepted him as he was.

If only he could do the same. The Lady's closest friend was a tiefling. Lathander was a tolerant god, and encouraged his followers to overlook racial bias in any form, but tieflings carried the blood of the lower planes. Having a demon for a sire was a bit different than having an elf, a dwarf, or a gnome for one. Yet he knew the tiefling was not evil. He had cast the spell, but more importantly, he had observed the creature's actions, and apart from the thieving, he could see no evil in her. And thievery was a human failing, not a demonic one.

Earlier, he had called The Lady's band misfits. It was true. Her companions were a tiefling who defied everything he believed to be true of the race, a gnomish bard who somehow failed to be entertaining, but who was endearing in his failure to be such, a dwarf who would rather be a monk, a sorceress who would not have been at home in any company at all, an elven druid who was much more comfortable around animals than people... and himself.

She'd done well. He'd put them all through three days of hell, and she'd come out of it with enough spirit to laugh at his nudity.

Those three days... he would have to watch them carefully, especially Shandra. The Lady was a Harborman, and would not sicken from a night in the rain, or those two weary days that followed. She would be sore, but she could cure that without his help. That vexed him. Nothing would have pleased him more than easing her hurts after the trials of the road, but she did not need him for that. She would probably not allow him to return the kindness she had done him after his wrestling match with Bishop... unfortunately... but it would have pleased him no end if she wanted him to heal her. Though perhaps it was improper for him to desire the opportunity to use his powers for such selfish reasons. But he had other companions. He owed them consideration as well. Neeshka's demonic blood kept her warm and she was a natural rider, besides. Elanee could be no less comfortable on horseback than she was walking. Her kinship with animals was too great for such a thing to trouble her. He'd done what was necessary to help Grobnar himself. The gnome was no rider, but his weight was no more two extra waterskins to Minnow, and Casavir had been heavier himself, once. Not that he'd likely see those days again, any time soon. Khelgar's extraordinary constitution kept him hale, so he need not worry about the dwarf. Qara would not sicken unless it was to her advantage, he was sure of it. But Shandra had neither The Lady's inherent toughness nor Qara's selective resilience. Three days of forced march might be hard for her to overcome. He could watch and wait. Tyr gave him gifts that might combat sickness in others.

The water was cooling, and he was exhausted. He would rest. In the morning, he would go to Sand's shop and buy a new bottle of scent for his leader... and a nightshirt. He might have one here. Such luxury! Tonight, however, he was content just to sleep.