=S=

The path back to her room felt like miles—every man that passed was a potential follower of Fadrique—and Sajantha's fingers were knotted with tension by the time she reached her room and unclenched her hilt.

Kill him. Yes. She could do that. ('This is the heart,' Irenicus said.)

She covered her mouth, bit down on a knuckle.

Not like that, she could do it, but not like that; it needn't be like… like that. She'd killed that slaver last night, hadn't she? Swift and clean, just like that.

Simple. Less simple was how to catch him unaware. If only Yoshimo were here, to tell her how to tail a mark, to track one. If only Edwin were here, to make success seem so easy.

But she was alone. What did she have to work with? Sajantha glanced around at her meager possessions, which looked even less impressive against the equally bare and downtrodden room.

If she wanted to creep up behind him, she still had the cloak of 'unremarkability,' for the paladins hadn't asked for it back. Yet what if they found out? That she was sneaking about plotting something like this? With a sigh, Sajantha fell onto her bed.

Any action outside the law would surely clash with their tenants. And just as surely tarnish Anomen's view of her. And, Keldorn… She bit her lip. How would he feel, knowing a child of Bhaal was set to plan a murder?

Phrasing it like that, so stark and clear, set a squirming in her stomach. Until she remembered Zaviera's strong voice catching and Lacey's pleading eyes.

As Sajantha stared up at the ceiling, a plea to Oghma for direction shriveled on her tongue. Who would accept her prayers?

Ilmater, Keldorn had mentioned the Crying God, the Broken God, earlier, and they were of a kind, weren't they, for they both knew what it felt like to be carved apart. But Ilmater was about suffering and enduring it; he didn't advocate violence (unlike another).

"Bhaal is dead." The assertion sounded not half so certain as it vibrated in the air around her.

Endure. One step at a time, 'one day at a time,' Lacey had said. But when did it end? Ilmater suffered in eternal pain. Was that all which awaited her?

Endure. Not living, not hoping, just surviving.

Endure. Like a thud, the repetition vibrated a dull heavy beat within her, her head swimming in the sound.

Sinking. Darker, deeper.

One step at a time. Step-step-step and inside her head her feet pounded, running and running and getting nowhere, as Irenicus asked with cold amusement: 'Where do you think you are running to?' The blade in his hand glinted with icy promise; he stepped forward and his eyes disappeared into shadow.

'Don't let him!' Imoen's scream hung shrill in the air. 'Don't let him get me!'

A figure stood before her (falling apart), his torn-apart body skinned and scarred, and shook his head with sorrow. "For our sins," he held out scarred arms, seams growing and splitting as they spread across him, "we must bear this."

She looked up at his face—faceless, skinless—it warped into a mockery of a woman's face.

"You judged me for not caring about death? How little did mine mean to you?" Tyrianna. But as she collapsed, 'twas Zaviera who fell, blood bubbling from her neck.

Shaking her head, Sajantha took a step back.

The shadows all across the room coalesced, forming into one massive figure, imperious and imposing. Irenicus. "How many more will die before you accept the path before you? Follow. Follow, if only to protect those who die because of you."

Swaying, with a sick dropping lurch, Sajantha flung herself free. "It's not my fault. It's not my fault." Around her, bloody eyes, dead eyes stared, and her fingers tightened around the dagger, but the enemy wasn't anywhere in reach.

Organs strained, bulging beneath the slice of the knife. The knife—

'Because of you.'

Her fingers spasmed open, and the blade fell to the floor.

In a moment, she was on her knees beside it, spittle in her tangling hair as she gagged on memories, on the stink of blood and offal, already fading. Nightmare. Just a nightmare. But still she shook.

The sudden rap upon the door jolted through her.

She wanted nothing else but to curl up, to shrink into the tiniest speck, unnoticeable, and she wanted to explode outward releasing all the sharp shards that fought for a place inside her—

But she got to her feet. And walked (stumbled) to the door.

A bearded face waited. Dark hair, familiar—

Anomen. Anomen concerned and worried and reaching out—

And with a hiccuping breath, she half-dove, half-fell into him.

It's not my fault not my fault and he would believe her would keep holding her, close and safe and warm and solid and alive—alive!—the resonance of it a victory, an anchor to pull her free of the shadows and madness at her back.

Morning already. Morning was safe.

"Are you alright?" The words brushed her ear. Even though his armor was between them, it made the arms rising around her reassuringly heavy as they settled on her back.

Keldorn had asked that the first night, as he pulled her free of that living nightmare. 'Are you alright?' She'd answered then (for once) with the truth. But the truth wasn't safe.

She stepped back, wiping at her eyes. "I… I'll be alright." Yes. It wasn't a lie, not really, for the nightmares had once more dissipated into the ether where they couldn't reach her (until she was alone).

Anomen wouldn't abandon her. (Not unless she gave him cause to.)

"You needn't apologize!" Sajantha hopped up the Order's stone steps after Anomen. "I'm here to see the both of you, and of course Keldorn's more free to indulge me." But that hadn't been the right way to reassure him, for Anomen still looked a bit pinched as he turned to face her.

"I'll try to get free as soon as I can," he promised.

"There's no need to be so serious about it. I'm happy to spend time with either of you!"

"It is just…" Anomen rubbed at his neck. "I mislike leaving you so."

So that was it—he was worried about her! Something between being pleased he cared and irritated that she kept showing weakness tugged within her. "I'm better, truly. After walking with you… a lot better." She smiled as if that could prove it, and maybe it could, for as much else as was confusing, she did feel safe around him. And the brilliant seaside sunrise. Sajantha squinted up at him.

"I am glad to hear it," he said gravely, holding the great door open for her.

"Thank you." Her tone matched his, heavy enough to carry a lot more with it.

"After Highbite," he vowed, and this time she smiled at his seriousness.

The day almost fell into a schedule reminiscent of Candlekeep, did her tutors there cover such topics as 'how to detect and subdue a vampire', something that paladins and paladins-in-training were uniquely suited to do, though Sajantha at least collected a couple tips she'd hopefully never need to use herself.

Keldorn kept her busy until Highbite, when he led her down one of the great marble halls to a crowded dining area. It wasn't that there was a shortage of open seats so much that the folk here took up so much room; some of the men here were the size of two Candlekeep monks, easily, and many looked as if they'd have no trouble lifting two monks.

Wistfulness for the slight and nearsighted friends she'd left behind left a bitter taste on her tongue; she took another bite of the spicy roasted vegetables and focused on chewing, instead.

Beside her, Keldorn looked up from his own meal. "Ah, the Five Flagons must have conditioned your tongue." He gave a nod to the food. "Most northerners find this fare a bit overwhelming."

Taking a drink, Sajantha nodded, though it was hard to remember just what she had dined upon at the Flagons. The last time she'd eaten something so spicy was easier to remember, from Edwin and his conjured Thayvian cuisine. After that, very little would manage to be 'overwhelming.'

"You have returned there?"

"What?" Why would… oh. Sajantha set down her fork. Oh, he must not believe she was still staying at the Copper Coronet and not the Flagons where they'd met. And 'twas certainly an unwelcome place to return to—to admit to!—what would he think? But the Coronet was the only place she could stretch coins out so thin. "I don't suppose as it matters where I stay." That was a truth, if not much of one, shifting from the practical to the theoretical. "It's not as though I've a place to call my own." And she could never hope to belong someplace like this, with all she'd done and all that she had yet to do.

"Always having battle and worry thrust upon you, never in the possession of sanctuary… it is a difficult life you must lead." Keldorn let out a sympathetic sigh. "I miss it, truly, the little I have known of home and the Order."

"Home?" An image of Candlekeep appeared, dark and full of statues (shattering into pieces), and she shook her head to clear it. 'Home is with the people you care about.' Hadn't Imoen said that? But that couldn't matter now, either. "It's so far away, I don't think I'll ever reach it." Far away. All of it: so, so far away. She bit down hard on her lip. How much farther was Imoen?

"Oh, Sajantha, leave your worries at the door, for once. I have been watching you, and… and praying for you, over this past while."

"Don't–" The pitch was wrong in her voice, too rushed too high, even the stumble in her words revealed just how close she was to crying. "Don't pray for me, Keldorn." What would Torm care of her troubles? "What's the point? I'm not… what if it's already too late?" He knew about Bhaal, aye, but there was so, so much more.

"It is never too late," he said softly.

'To save a life, sometimes death needs be delivered.' He'd said that once, how would he feel about her hunting someone down? Lurking in the shadows? How would he feel about… about… (Red, hot and thick, slipped through her hands.) Her fingers tightened into knots.

"I sense that you are searching desperately for a touchstone of some sort: something solid, to which you might cling."

She could not look at him. She tugged at her cloak, 'til it settled over her, and hugged her arms beneath it. "You can sense that?"

"Take care where you reach out to steady yourself." His hand settled on her shoulder. "Alone, I am no match for the essence of a dark god, but that is where faith comes in, is it not? I am old, but in what time I have left to me, I would help you forge a path of light into this world." Something lighter stirred within her, a fresh breath of wind to soothe her guilt. Keldorn's hand managed to be even more reassuring than even his words, as if just his touch could offer comfort enough.

"Thanks. For just—for just being here." She blinked away the warm spots in her eyes.

"Tomorrow I will take you to my home. You can meet my daughters." He clapped her shoulder, smiling as he straightened. "Now, go. Anomen awaits you on the practice field."

Sajantha pushed sweaty strands of hair out of her eyes.

"Enough, for now." Metal rasped as Anomen's sword slid into his sheath. "You tire. But this is a different tired than before, I think." They stepped off the practice field past the sparring recruits, though she lagged a step behind him.

Different? Aye, this fatigue did not drain quite so deeply. It had only taken a couple days at this to fall into what already felt a familiar pattern. "I feel different." Might her muscles be strengthening? Or was this added energy from something else?

"I think I just need someone to…" Take care of her? No! Gods, that could not be it, could it? Exactly what Edwin said she needed to avoid! But for the first time in months, the sick quiver in her heart had begun to quiet. So, she did; maybe she did need other people. Was that so very large a weakness? Yes, the Edwin in her head insisted. "Someone to trust," she finished.

"You do not trust your companions?" Anomen pursed his lips, then nodded. "I can see why you would have reservations."

"No—it's not that. Exactly. I just… I don't know how comfortable I feel around them." When they only reminded her of her failures, of all they had sacrificed, all they had lost. Because of her. She dropped her chin as she returned her blade to its holster. Almost smoothly this time, but she still had to look as she did it.

"But you feel comfortable around me?"

She nodded.

Anomen didn't know any of that. He didn't know what she was (nor what she'd done) and perhaps she should tell him, shine a light through those dark corners of her soul, but right now he smiled at her and was not disgusted nor horrified nor afraid—but she was—she was such a coward, wasn't she? Yes, Edwin agreed. But Anomen thought her something sweet and gentle and worth protecting… and maybe, just maybe, part of her still could be.

"Comfortable, aye." A smile tugged at her lips. "When you're not being an overprotective goose."

His surprise kept him from spluttering overmuch, though his face tinged a bit pink. "I must apologize. It goes against all my training… my very nature… to stand aside whilst you are in danger."

Her smile grew heavy. "The danger's not going to go away," she said softly. "Not until we've found Imoen." 'Chaos shall be sewn in their footsteps.' Not so very likely after that, either.

"No." He cleared his throat. "Of course not. And I vow I will see you through it." He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. "Even if it means the occasional protection along the way."

"Anomen! Did you just make a joke?" She poked him in the side, grinning, and though he fended off her fingers from further attack, he grinned back.

The sounds of the practice field grew fainter as they stepped into the dappled shade of trees. Just on the borders of the Order's grounds, the gardened area looked the perfect spot to rest.

They sat down on a stone bench with a close view of the canals, and Sajantha leaned back with a sigh at the breeze that cooled her sweaty skin. "Do you think I could ever be so good with a sword as you?"

"I've been working at this for half my life. You've a sharp eye and quick reflexes that should serve you well, if you can invest so much time in it."

"I don't suppose as I have that much time." Sajantha bit her lip. "I don't know that I'm really so good at anything."

"What else would you wish to work at?" He glanced over at her. "You studied music," he prompted.

That again. Her face heated. She'd not touched that looted harp yet, save to relocate it to a pile on the floor.

Sajantha smoothed her skirts, though they didn't quite reach her knees. Strange, them so much shorter, even if the leggings kept her skin covered, it felt as if something was missing. "I wasn't anything more than adequate."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Not that you know anything about music." Half-tease, half-reminder.

"I know something about being too hard on yourself." Anomen didn't respond to it as a tease, staring at his hands with a sudden seriousness. "On always worrying you're never going to be good enough."

"Oh? Who were you trying to impress? Your father?"

Lips pinched together, he let out a sigh through his nose, gaze shifting out over the waters. "I do not know there is a point to it now, but aye. I… think I was. For my young life."

"I suppose it's one of those things that never really goes away, feeling like you need to prove yourself." She kicked her feet beneath the bench. "There was a man when I was growing up—always judging me, nothing I could do would please him." At least now 'twas clear why. "Your father sounds quite like him."

"If so, he must have been cruel indeed. Difficult for any child."

No. It all made sense now. That should take the sting from it, learning why he was like that: Ulraunt had known she was a Bhaalspawn; he'd just been waiting for her to slip. And all that had happened—all the blood in her wake—was only more proof of it, that he had been right to mistrust her.

But Anomen had not been born with such a stain upon his soul: "Whatever your father held against you, it was surely some fault in his own life that made him lash out; you never deserved that. And he never deserved so devoted a son as you, to love him despite it."

"Nor a daughter like my sister, nor a wife like my mother. I fear even beneath the ground, my mother is better off without him."

"But she must have loved him once. And he, her."

"I wonder. He certainly loved controlling her. 'Twas against his wishes that she gained me entry into the priesthood, after he refused to sponsor me to knighthood. It tore at her, to defy him. Even on my behalf. Why would she have remained with him so long? I had thought it duty, but… aye."

He bowed his head, a lock of hair spilling loose to curl over his eyes. "She surely loved some part of him I could never see. There are those whom love is wasted on—who do not deserve it."

"I think…" she looked down, "those who don't understand it often need it the most."

"It is you who does not understand." But there was a smile in his voice, and he touched her chin 'til she raised it back up. "You are too sweet. Some are beyond reaching."

"Anomen! There you are!" They both straightened; a lanky boy ran towards them, out-of-breath. "Sir Ryan's a-fixing to go over your next mission."

"Thank you, Marcel." Anomen rose.

She stood with him. "Duty calls."

"Indeed. I did not expect it to call quite so suddenly, though." He frowned. "I apologize I've not the time to escort you myself, but I will see that someone walks you home."

Home. Her heart sank. "That's not—that's not necessary. Really."

His eyes darkened, brooking no protest. "I—" And then his face and voice both change, dlighter. "Sajantha, would you do the honor of allowing Marcel your company? He and Joce need to pick up some supplies for me in the market. You may as well walk together as far as the Coronet."

She lifted her eyebrows in mock warning, letting him know his little maneuvering hadn't gone unnoticed, but he responded with such a pleased expression that she couldn't help but laugh. He was making an effort, and that counted for something.

"It would be my pleasure."

The messenger's—Marcel's—face lit red. He couldn't have been older than thirteen, all arms and legs and energy. "Right, um. Sajantha? I'll go and get Joce, I will; you just wait right here." He took off at a trot, glancing back as if afraid she would disobey.

She looked up at Anomen. "I appreciate it."

"I wouldn't have anyone under my charge walk these streets alone."

She scoffed. "I appreciate your listening to me."

"Take care of yourself," he answered, and the words sounded so very different than the ones Edwin had left with her: Where the latter was an order, direct and to-the-point, the former was a heartfelt request, warm and utterly lacking sharpness.

The low sun peeked between the buildings as they walked through the Bridge District in glimpses of orange.

Sajantha took in a deep breath of the salt-tinged breeze. No skinners remained anymore to pollute the air, but she paid careful attention to her boots and the gritty cobblestone path as they passed the tanners' dark entry.

"So you're training with Anomen, then?" Marcel sounded half-disbelieving, half-impressed, and all curious.

"Indeed I am." She looked up to find his expression matched his voice. "You, too?"

"Yes'm. He's right strict, he is."

"I bet. And I bet he wouldn't be half so good if he wasn't." Like Edwin, it was that kind of discipline and focus that made him so reliably competent.

"You haven't seen nothing." Where Marcel looked an unbridled colt all ready to charge ahead, Joce was a handful years older and as placid as his steady gait suggested: a good counterpoint to the younger boy; Anomen knew his recruits well. Joce shook his head, shaggy hair falling into his eyes as he glanced over at her. "He's taking it easy on you, miss."

"Well, of course he is! I've only just begun." But something in his voice sounded almost scornful. Towards Anomen or to her?

"Mayhap, but that sure isn't how he is with other recruits, if he's not yet knocked ye arse over teakettle—"

"Joce! Hush it now; she's a lady."

Joce blinked. "We're taking her to the Coronet, aye? She's no lady."

Not a bit of it untrue, yet warmth still flushed her cheeks. "I'm not a noble, no." Sajantha smoothed her skirts. "You needn't watch your language about me, in any case." Yet how quickly Anomen had jumped at Korgan back in the tombs for his tongue! Though that had been an entirely different subject matter, leaving the both of them blushing.

"Out of the way, traveler!" The tinny voice muffled through a helm bade her look up: a guard was gesturing at her. For… oh!

The groaning weight of an overlaid wagon rumbled by—far too close!—everyone had gotten out of its way save her and her distracted thoughts. Sajantha hurriedly stepped aside, and Marcel darted after her; they flattened themselves against the bridge's iron fencing by the soldier, and waited for it to pass. Wild in the ocean breeze, her hair whipped at her face as the clop of hooves and spitting up of pebbles left them behind.

She blinked through the grit and dust that followed the wagon, and as it cleared—as the figures on the other side of it came into focus—her heart lurched.

Her fingers twisted into Marcel's sleeve. "It's him!" For once she'd not even been on-edge thinking of him, but it could be no one else: the same dark complexion as Zaviera, the same thick black hair, the same dark eyes, though one was covered with an eye-patch, bejeweled with a garish ruby to stare fire.

"Who?" Marcel squinted. "One of them noble fellers?"

"The one with the eye-patch." Who else could it be? "He's wanted for… for murder." Being flanked by two initiates of the Order was not the best time to find him—not with what she planned—but she had to explain something for freezing up and blocking traffic. A horse blew out a disapproving snort as its rider dodged around her.

Joce wasn't impressed. "Sounds like a garrison matter, miss." At her other side, he tugged at her hand, but she pulled free of them both.

"The garrison?" Her laugh was tired, flat. "The garrison would miss a beholder's eye!"

"Wanted for murder, you say?" The tinny voice behind her didn't sound very amused. Oops. "And what jurisdiction is this?"

"One where guards don't do their jobs, else he'd have been hanged already." And wouldn't that have been simpler.

Behind the slit in his visor, the guard's eyes narrowed. "That there's Lord Isaea Roenall, Captain of the Guard. I assure you, he does no business with outlaws. He'll clear this right up."

"N-no, that's alright—" Damn, damn, damn. This ship was sinking fast.

Marcel stared at her with wide eyes. "If he's who you think he is, we oughta check him out, right?"

The protest choked in her throat, for the two nobles were already heading over. Gods damn it. Fadrique was cozy with the guard-captain? The last guard-captain she'd had the misfortune of meeting had been one of Sarevok's lackeys—who'd nearly killed Imoen. All the muscles in her back tensed, but she tilted up her chin. Time to face the music.

"What's this, then?" The Captain of the Guard raised a hand as he slowly swayed towards them. His gaze fell on Sajantha and he gave her a smile. "How may we be of service, madam?"

"I fear your companion is a murderer most foul, Captain. He destroyed a family! The Saavedras. When their daughter wouldn't marry him, he killed her lover and then her brother." And who knew what had happened to her father, once Zaviera wasn't in the picture to marry.

The captain did not so much as glance at his companion, who was staring at Sajantha with distant amusement. A snake, Zaviera had called him, and so did he look as if he might lazily strike, as if victory were assured. "You saw him do this?"

"Me? I—no, but—"

Fadrique shook his head almost sadly. "Accusations without proof are called slander, my dear. The fall of the Saavedras fortune was tragic, yes. However, the investigation revealed no ties to me."

"Do you wish to press charges, m'lord?" the guard asked.

Him—? Him—! Gods, this damned city—! Sajantha stifled the urge to shout, curling her fingers into fists.

He was—he was so blatantly lying, and the sound of it shivered her nerves; every note in his voice rang false, off-key, like a pitch below whatever it ought be. A vibration built inside her, whirring as heat surged through her.

Paladins could detect untruth, couldn't they? Gods, please let Marcel or Joce feel something of this! "You're trying to tell me you don't have a habit of killing those in your way?" Any little slip, any hint of falsity: she was too far in to back out now. "To get what you want?"

"I do wonder from whence you could have possibly heard such things." The dismissive tone of his voice matched his bored face, but then his head tilted, a thoughtful look crossing over his features. "Whoever have you been talking to?"

"No doubt 'tis the gossip-monger spreading such vile tales who should be brought before justice," the guard-captain said.

The soldier nodded. "I'm going to have to ask you to calm down, ma'am, and not waste any more of these gentlemen's time."

"It is no trouble," the guard-captain said grandly. "We cannot hold the cognitive failings of the lower classes against them, can we?"

Marcel's face turned as red as Sajantha's felt. A small mercy, for the two boys weren't wearing any sort of livery to mark their loyalties: at least the Order's name wouldn't be dragged into this mess.

"We will pardon the girl her ignorance so long as this mistake is not made again." The guard-captain's gaze stabbed hers with a piercing blue. "Feel free to lodge a complaint against the proper authority. That would be me."

Sajantha bit down on her tongue. Brushing her off, like her words were nothing; like she was nothing! And Fadrique was just standing there, so damnably unruffled; he was the reason that Zaviera hid crying, the reason she'd ended up in this life in the first place! Something inside Sajantha sobbed (screamed), begging to be set free.

Someone touched her shoulder, and prickles washed down her spine; she spun—nearly swinging—to step out of range, sucking in a quick breath.

Joce eyed her as if she were a loose horse about to bolt. "Let's get you back to the Coronet, yeah?"

"The Coronet, hm?"

She tossed back a glance only to find Fadrique watching, wearing that infuriating calmness like a smirk that needed to be smacked off.

Gods, the only way this could have possibly gone worse were if she'd ended up in a jail cell. For he'd won this round, hadn't he?

And now he knew her face.

=E=

The hair on Edwin's neck and arms still rose with the electric charge left in the air, and along with the burning scent of ozone served as persistent reminder of the earlier lightning exhibition. (As if he could possibly forget with the sparking white still staining his eyelids with every blink!) A druid duel was… quite the spectacle.

"Cat got your tongue?"

The rogue's unnecessary quip earned him a perfunctory glare, but in truth it was difficult to divert attention from the disturbing sight of the Harper who had so recently eviscerated her opponent. Moments before tearing out the woman's throat. With her teeth.

"There is much that still requires healing," a bloodstained but whisker-free Jaheira said, "but this grove will return to its peace."

Edwin's nose wrinkled. She knew. Of course she knew! But still she did nothing, did not wipe her mouth; in fact, a smile stretched slowly over her face and he made an effort not to shudder. "(Disgusting animals, whatsoever forms they walk in.)"

And the Harper once more stood upon two legs, but seemed as indifferent as her beast-form had to the blood that painted her from chin to chest. Ugh. These druids were unbelievably off-putting. Surely bathing in blood could not be healthy, nor savaging an opponent so thoroughly that some of the shadow druid ended up outside the bounds of the dueling ring.

"You rival an axe-wielding berserker in your choice of…" Edwin flicked a wet piece from him, "accessory. (No doubt rolling around in gore is somehow part of this 'natural' order.)"

The male druid opened his mouth before any could silence him: "Nature herself is the natural state of the earth; like a bird breaking through the intricate detail of a spider's web, it is humans that disrupt her patterns."

"Birds, is it? How about this: 'Like a bird enamored of its own voice, you trill a constant stream of nonsense.' " Edwin turned back to the Harper. "And you, are you so unevolved you lack even the precepts of basic hygiene? Residing under a rock would not excuse this poor upkeep. (Such lackluster maintenance was not observed whilst her husband was yet around, I note.)"

"What?" The snarling beast may as well have returned; she held in the same coiled fury. "You dare speak of Khalid to me, Wizard?" Yes, she still carried the panther within her, in this feral rage and in those bared pink teeth, small though they were. "Have you such a wish to die?"

Even with a Stoneskin spell awaiting activation, the druid's proximity was… unsettling. "What I wish is for us to be quit of this place as soon as possible. (If certain members of our party are less fragrant for the return journey, 'twould be but an added boon.)"

Jaheira (at last) wiped a rag across her face, and while this did little more than smear the blood, she somehow managed to summon a mouthful of it—which she spat out at his feet. Charming.

"Ah," the barbarian buffoon heaved a sigh, "Boo likes this place. The acorns here are delicious! So he says."

"Perhaps our druids might find a way to make them more palatable for the rest of us, hm?" The rogue had more patience than any other here to humor him. "And I have heard cattails are quite fine to forage," he added (in what he likely thought was a sly voice).

Ugh. Who wished to become embroiled in converse with these two? "I will never be so desperate as to dig about in the dirt for my meals, but you are welcome to do as you like. Later." Edwin swept past them, past the other druids who had remained back far enough not to bother with. " 'Tis time to return."

Though she had very likely been about to share the same sentiment, Jaheira only glared.

=S=

The morning sun lit up the domed roofs and spindled towers into a sparkling sea of gold: they weren't in the slums anymore.

The bridge through Athkatla separated more than just south from north, it separated the haves from the have-nots—by force, if necessary—abundantly clear by the sheer number of guards they encountered. Who knew the city employed so many after all! The Gem District, of manicured lawns and white sculptures, patrolled by soldiers as shining as the bubbling fountains, was an entirely different world than the one she'd left; even the air was cleaner, clearer, higher as it sat from the rest of the city. Of course the nobles here would not share even the same ground as the peasantry.

A man in armor nodded at them as they walked by. If she were here without the esteemed presence of Keldorn at her side, would they allow her to so easily pass? Any given patron belonging to the Coronet would be accosted at once! But what a wasteful extravagance, to purchase clothing simply to better blend in, even when the guidebook—and Edwin—insisted, 'twas difficult to reconcile the cost of finery.

Yet every step upon the paved path, winding through lush greenery and grand many-storied mansions and golden domed towers, only underscored how out-of-place she was. The clothing Edwin had recommended for her was surely expensive enough for its armored enchantments, but 'twas clearly no flowing silks and layered gems like the noblewomen they passed; airy laughs soared by them on the breeze.

Sajantha smoothed her hair back behind her ears.

The Firecam estate sat raised upon the district's edge, with a great drop on one side to the middling houses well below, but enough trees between them softened the view. She stepped back from the edge as Keldorn reached the door.

He spoke warmly with the servant who greeted them at the door, however flustered she seemed to see him. The old woman left them in the entry, hurrying to summon his wife.

A small fountain warbled softly before them. Sajantha shifted. Best not scuff her boots upon this polished tile. "You've a lovely home." Despite the flurry of servants—as if their arrival were so very unsettling to the normal order of things!—a peace underneath hung in the air, the kind of calm that bespoke comfort.

Keldorn smiled, but didn't answer, his attention all for the figure approaching.

Her gown sweeping the ground with every straight-backed stride, a tall woman entered the room, and her stern gaze fell upon Sajantha but briefly. "So, who is this?" Beauty still clear whatever her age, only a frown blemished her features, deepening the light wrinkles on her face. "A heathen you converted in Calimport, a traveling pilgrim you stumbled across in Saradush?"

"Maria, this is Sajantha of Candlekeep. I'm sure you recall hearing of the heroes of Baldur's Gate?"

Whether or not she did, she did not answer. "You've been gone for two months, then I hear you've been in town for days without even informing your family?"

"I sent a runner. Maria, I was on the trail of an evil committing vile murders in this very city, and—"

With her tight face and still expression, his wife was not impressed. "There's always some evil, always some danger you're hot on the trail of."

"Lady Firecam," Sajantha stepped forward, "he saved me. Your husband saved me. He's been helping people who are in trouble, people who are hurting. I know that may not matter to you right now. But for some people, it's their whole life."

Her lips thinned. "You don't need to tell me that my husband is a good person, that he has a good heart! You think I do not love him for this? You think I am not hurting—do I not deserve the same regard as this parade of strangers? Gods! I wonder often if everyone has his heart but me. Keldorn…" She took in a shaky breath, tried again. "Keldorn, I've been seeing someone else."

"You… what?" The strength sagged out of him in a single heartbeat, his slumped shoulders making him shorter in his surprise. "Gods, Maria! I… Do not tell me this." He looked at once ready to run, as if the words could be left behind, and far too drained to do so.

"What do you wish me to tell you?" Her voice was soft. "Do you wish me to tell you that even though you have left me here alone I still need someone? The girls still need a father? Do you wish me to tell you he took them to the circus? That he—"

No longer reeling, Keldorn only shook his head. "What is his name." Carved from granite, Keldorn's face, and his stiff posture spoke the same.

Maria folded back in on herself. "William—Sir William of Thorpe. I… I beg of you, don't hurt him. If I can't have you—please." Her hand came up to hide her face, her shoulders shaking. "Please, let me have something."

The face that turned towards Sajantha wasn't one she'd ever seen, this Keldorn with eyes flashing, face red. His armor did not weigh him down as he sped from the room, sending the door slamming open.

With a gasp, Maria knelt on the floor, dress pooled around her, face hidden behind her hands. A young girl peeked out from behind a door, then disappeared when she caught Sajantha's eye.

"I'm sorry," Sajantha whispered. To all of them, to none of them. An intruder, a stranger, she did not belong there. She followed her friend outside; 'twas easy enough to tell where he'd gone, even without the string of stunned servants in his wake.

Keldorn stood, head bowed away from the late afternoon sun, with hands clenched. "Curse the dictates of honor!" A vein pulsed in his forehead. "Sir William shall be hanged, and my love imprisoned. There is no other outcome."

"I may not know so much as a paladin about honor…" She lifted a hand to his arm. "But I think that's what the law dictates. I don't think that's the same as honor."

"You are right: you do not understand." But there was no scorn in his voice, only resignation and the clipped tone of a fury but barely subdued. "You know of Torm, yes? Duty. Obedience. She has betrayed the law—our oaths—as she has betrayed me. The very gods demand this be brought before the courts."

"I do know something of Torm; I've read about him. 'Question unjust laws.' That's a tenet, isn't it? So he knows that the law isn't always right just because it's the law. And I know there's things more important than laws and rules." Would that be heresy, to a paladin? "Love," she whispered. "Love is one of those things. It's more important than anything! She still loves you. Is that honor, to turn your back on that, on all you two have made together?"

"She turned her back on us first—on our life—you heard her." His voice was low enough to growl. "She has chosen this William. A good man, I always thought him, but…"

"He wasn't her choice—he was her second choice. Couldn't you see it? She loves you. She wants you. Everything she did, she did for lack of you. Does that deserve punishment? Does William deserve to die, for trying to make her happy?" Who could pretend there was aught righteous about that!

Keldorn's lips pinched tight, his whole face gripped in tension.

"You have to choose love. Before all else. Before vengeance or punishment, or anything. Vengeance won't fill you up; it'll only leave you empty. And without them? That's empty, too. Keldorn. That's not a life. Whatever you can do, to get them back—you have to at least try."

Keldorn stared at the ground a long moment before raising his eyes to her. "You are so young, to be so wise." He tried to smile.

She tried to smile back, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "I learned from experience." Vengeance… vengeance didn't fix anything.

"The most brutal of teachers." Keldorn gave a nod. "I will take your advice, Sajantha. And thank you for it. Still, I would speak with this William. Let us see if there is sense that can be made of this."

"The Mithrest Inn. He is often here." Keldorn held open the door, and they stepped from the squawking streets of the Promenade into the soft and hushed entry.

Dim light flickered from the torches ensconced on the wall, dancing in time with the candles on the deep burgundy tables. Piano music played softly—an enchantment to muffle it?—the large instrument was right at the entrance to greet them and ought have been far louder than its tinkling tones.

Attention fell upon them both in the form of narrowed eyes, raised noses. Clearly they did not belong with this crowd of rich fabrics and jeweled turbans and gold glinting from everyone; the muted lighting did not at all soften the pointed scrutiny they underwent.

Her vest—still stained and sweaty from practice—was surely too tight and the torches in the room too hot, for how could their stares alone render her thus? Face warm, she followed Keldorn. The paladin had not noticed their cool welcome enough to be halted by it, for he had narrowed in upon his quarry in the crowd.

"Can I help you, sir?" one of the servers spoke to Keldorn. Without looking at her.

Keldorn ignored the server, stared past him. "Sir William."

"Ah." The man at the table behind him rose. "My Lord Firecam. I was hoping to speak with you."

"Then you know why I am here."

"I know what drove you here, though I do not know what you will be doing." Calm, this William, but he stood straighter as Keldorn approached. As well he might, for William was slender of stature, and the fully-armored paladin stood taller than even Edwin, an intimidating bearing even when he wasn't hovering so near to hostility.

"You—" Keldorn's composure broke, teeth grit tight together. "What do you think I should be doing? You defiled my children with your presence, my wife with your—your—gods! I cannot even…!"

William looked down at his hands before holding them out, palms up. "I prefer to think of it differently. What is done in pursuit of love and beauty cannot be judged through so dark a lens. But Lady Maria does not love me; there is no need to battle me for her heart whilst you yet hold it. She sought someone to fill your absence. Did you forget you had a family? For they felt forgotten." He gave his head a shake. "If you love her, my lord, if you would keep her… best let her know. And never let her forget it."

"I…" Keldorn turned, gaze traveling to the door.

"He's right." Sajantha touched his arm. "Go back. Go back and tell her how much you love her, and how you wouldn't know how to live without her. Go back to them. Family's important; it's everything. You only get one."

He glanced back. "This might be awhile. Perhaps you had best…"

Oh. Oh. "I—of course. Don't worry; take as much time as you need."

But he hesitated.

"Go," she managed to laugh, "go, get out of here! You're chomping at the bit, I know. I'll be fine." The Coronet was in the opposite direction from his home; he'd not be able to escort her if he wished to make it before evening fell. And he'd been parted from his wife long enough.

"We will meet here tomorrow. Highmorn?"

"Sure, aye. As you wish. Go." She gave him a smile, and a small one lightened his bearing, quickened his steps as he left the room.

Sir William stared at the door as it closed, a ghost of a smile on his face, though a bitter tug pulled down at its edges as he returned to his seat. "Their love can only be stronger for it. I hope someday he might thank me."

"Why did you do it?"

He cocked his head. "You wish to lecture me on morally righteous behavior?"

"No, I mean… why did you choose to get involved with someone whose heart you couldn't ever hold?"

" 'Choose?' Did I miss the part where the heart gives us the option to refuse its choice? Alas. Do you know so little of love?"

"I…" Heat crept up the back of her neck. "I've read all sorts of tales, you know? But I don't suppose as that means anything. All I think I know keeps turning out wrong."

"There may be things stories can prepare you for. But love will never be among them." Introspective, his gaze was lost into his glass. At least he wasn't laughing at her. "Stay, and have a drink with me."

"No, I—thank you, but I need to be getting back. It'll be dark soon, and I've a ways to go." And the slums weren't the sort of place guards were keen on patrolling.

The sinking sun lent the Promenade a distinctly golden glow, outlining the still-plentiful patrons in its radiance. Such a crowd here! All milling about in a casual lack of urgency, so—so very careless, as if none of what had occurred so very near them meant anything, not where the circus tent had been taken over, not where the exploded stone marked Irenicus's collapsed dungeon.

While they skirted away from the upturned ground of the mage's massacre, the citizens centered 'round the circus tent, eager once the danger had passed to partake in its lingering mystery. These folk would have been content to leave the circus and her patrons to their fate, never interceding, and only now investigated to share the thrill of secondhand peril.

And now, as it darkened, they'd return to the people waiting for them. Lovers. Loved ones. 'Home is with the people you care about.'

And what did she have? Where did she have to go to? (To whom?)

Everyone walked about, so—so willfully ignorant—and it didn't matter to them who had been lost here, who had died here, or whether all of them would have been slain had the circus spell not been stopped. No, they'd pick up the items on their shopping lists, share the local gossip, gawk and laugh at the circus and at the animals trapped in their cages.

And then they'd go home.

How dare they—how dare they, when she could not—

Sajantha gasped in air, pain searing through her head, through her chest; her fingers clenched dirt and grit beneath her nails. Dirt. Ground. She was on the ground, on her knees; the shadows of people passing her (ignoring her) darkened her vision.

They ignored everything, didn't they, like the destruction just days before, just steps away: the rubble that had yet to be removed, a reminder screaming in a voice no one else could hear, that trembled through every vein in her body and shook down her arms.

Breathe. Just breathe.

"Are you alright?"

Sajantha's gaze snapped up: someone stared down at her, back-lit by the setting sun, her features shadowed. But with a voice soft and familiar—the elf from the circus—the shy girl she had brushed aside.

Sajantha nodded mutely, clambering to her feet.

Aerie straightened with her. "You're the girl who helped us! I must thank you again, for saving me—for saving the circus." She turned a pretty pink, as if the color of the sunset teased forth onto her cheeks.

'Girl'? As she'd just thought of the elf—the full-blooded elf—who could easily be four times her age, if not more.

"I'm sorry for Uncle Quayle, before—truly!" Aerie spoke quickly. "I… I know why you don't wish me to accompany you–" With hope, she did not! "–and I'm sure you're right; I've never really been outside in the world, hardly left the circus, even!" Her voice lowered, her eyes lowered. "I… I know it's not all marvel and adventures out there."

Sajantha swallowed, looking away. "No," she managed, "it's not."

"If you need help, you must simply say the word!" the elf pleaded. "I hate to see anyone in pain, in trouble… if there is anything I can do… Her gaze drifted down towards the bloodied shoulder of Sajantha's cloak.

Sajantha bit her lip. Surely she could come up with something, anything which would end this train of thought; she drew up her cloak with a sweeping flourish and dug deep for her wit. "I thank you for your kindness, sweet elf. That such a gentle soul should continue spreading kindness is payment enough."

Aerie looked both embarrassed and delighted. "You remind me almost of the bards with that air!" She giggled.

'Almost a bard.' Well, 'twas true enough.

After a day spent amidst perfumed gardens and all the soft richness of upper-class stations, the thick air in the Coronet hit twice as hard when Sajantha stepped within its grimy walls.

"Oy, it's the little adventurin' girl." The man tugged the lip of his hat down over greasy hair, giving her a leer. "How ye be, lass?"

No! Not him again. The Coronet's price was worth putting up with some things, but…

Sajantha bowed her head, folding her arms up, walking faster.

"Miss me?" he continued, walking along with her. "Couldn't stay away, eh?"

Ugh! How did these drunken lechers always maneuver to block her path? Too close to pretend she didn't see them, she knocked against a table in an attempt at a dodge. "I'm not in the mood."

"Not in the mood? You hear that, boys? She ain't in the mood! That just means you need a little convincing." His arm snagged at her as she passed. "C'mere and—"

"No." She jerked away. "That's not what it means. Leave me alone." The stairs, the stairs, just get to the stairs.

"Oh?" His friends blocked her in against a table, the stink of stale sweat and leather overpowered by the sour stench of ale. "What are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?"

She couldn't dodge, couldn't move any more around them. Couldn't pass. What was she going to do? Gods.

Cold crept up her back, down through her flexed fingers. Daggers at their hips, but none wore full armor. Armpits uncovered (axillary artery) legs uncovered (femoral artery). No. She snapped her hand closed before it edged to her hilt. (Throats opened slashed jugular choking gasping bubbling red—) No no no.

She tore her gaze away with a gasp. There—on the other side of them— "B-Bernard!" she called through them, and the innkeep's assistant lumbered over.

"Ye're Jaheira's friend, ain't ye? What can I do for ye?" Bigger than the others—at least in circumference—Bernard eyed the men, who'd taken a few steps back. "There a problem here?"

They shrugged. "We was just having a little fun, is all."

Sajantha grimaced. "You were having fun. I wasn't."

"No sense of humor, huh. What're you doing in here, if you don't want the attention?"

Their ringleader tipped his hat at her again. "Next time, then."

She ascended the staircase to her room, their stares hot on her back, hot as the blood still pounding through her (the blood that wished to spill their own).

She locked herself into her room.

Lightning cut the battling figures into sharp relief. Blades and spells flashing, clashing, the entire hillside lit up. A silhouette that should be familiar, but it was not Sarevok wielding the blade, no, nor even Irenicus and his knives.

A voice filled the air, like a distant rumble of thunder. 'Follow, if only to protect those that fall because of you.'

Warmth dribbled over chilled steel. Slick hands could not grasp the hilt.

Light, there, on the other side of the rise: it gave a glow behind the hill. She staggered forward. Upward. Bodies scattered, mixed with boulders to clutter the grassy ground. Some face-down. Some—recognizable.

Dynaheir stared up, sightless. 'More pieces than thine may fall.'

Another body, this torn open from collar to groin—she shut her eyes before she could see his face—and stepped on something soft. (Someone.) But as she looked closer, stared into his blank gray eyes, his features changed. Not Gorion's, no.

Keldorn's death-pale face was strangely peaceful. 'We can help what we become.'

[Author's Note]: I know I didn't end up going crazy into Edwin's POV adventures or anything but thanks to Winding Warpath and Kyn for some ideas/inspiration with how to handle things way back when! JAHEIRA HULK MODE, RAWR.

And since I can't send you a PM, special thanks to guest reviewer Ng who zoomed right through BG1 and 2; it was so much fun reading your comments as you went along and I'm so happy you took the time to let me know what you think! :D

I still feel like everything is a giant mess urgalkjdlkfjf though at least I am staying on schedule posting?! Thanks to everyone sticking with it as we get to the parts I'll be more confident at/excited for! :)