Disclaimer: I do not own 'Baldur's Gate', the 'Forgotten Realms' or any characters therein. Wizards of the Coast do, at my last check. Lucky them. I do, however, own Fritha and certain other characters and plot points. Basically, if you don't recognise it from the game, it's probably mine.

– Blackcross & Taylor

Author's note: Sorry, sorry, I know it's been forever; it seems the closer I get to the end, the hard it is to write. Thanks to everyone who's left feedback on the last couple of chapters. The continuing support really helps keep me motivated -or at least makes me feel guilty enough to stop playing Skyrim for a few hours. ^_^

Of Things Past

The wool beneath him was far more yielding than any mattress – and muchlumpier- and Anomen drew back with narrow-eyed confusion before he recalled just where he had slept. The barn was as dusty as it had been the night before, though not quite as dark, narrow shafts of light making a glowing edge around the large doors opposite. There was no sign of Fritha -not even her pack had been left, and the clothes she had hung last night across the bare roof beams were gone, too. The cows were absent; Melvart's herd must have long been put out to the pasture. With little else to do, he rummaged in his pack for a pair of trousers –they were not clean, but nothing he owned was by this point- and headed down into the barn proper.

Outside, the weather had cleared in the night, the rich green plains swaying under acres of glorious blue sky. A slight breeze was stirring across the drying yard, rippling puddles where clouds hung in mirrored image, and carrying with it the scent of the drying fields, and Anomen found himself filled with an incongruous sense of hope.

Beside the barn, a water butt left overflowing from the day before provided him with a bracing wash, the man splashing water across his bared chest and up through his dusty hair with a breathless satisfaction.

'Morning there, Ior!'

The cry came from clear across the yard, and Anomen whipped up in time to see Fritha round the back of the farmhouse, his clothes from the day before piled in her arms. He had been about to reply, water mopped from his face as he drew the breath, when he noticed the swarthy young girl who stood much closer, Melvart's elder daughter loitering at the edge of the well just behind him -and for much longer than she had needed to by her brimming pail.

'It seems you have an audience,' Fritha laughed, as Kalia herself started and hid her blush behind a sullen pout, the girl raising her chin, defiant to their amusement.

'If you please, Ma says said the Joahin sons will not have time to help Pa fetch the cart until this afternoon, so if you agree to help him carry some things over to Ambril for market, you can have breakfast here.'

Fritha smiled. 'Tell your mother we'd be glad to help.'

Kalia nodded, turning to trip back across the yard, her pail swinging, the girl dancing over the lingering puddles as best she could.

'You rose without me,' Anomen offered as Fritha turned back to him.

'I woke up when Melvart came to take the cows out to pasture -you must have been tired, you slept right through. Our clothes still felt damp, so I borrowed Harra's washing line for a few hours. Here, put your tunic on, before you make the woman swoon.'

He caught it with a snort, feeling alive and good-humoured from his wash. 'Do you worry for our hostess or merely for yourself?'

Fritha laughed with what could have been an insulting heartiness. 'You forget, we're married now: I am more than immune to your charms.'

Inside, the table was already set with dishes, cups and a large teapot. Melvart and his daughters were seated and tucking in to the basket of warm breadcakes Harra had just placed there, a large pot of honey and pat of butter being passed between them. It was a decent spread, even if their hostess's welcome left much to be desired, the woman turned back from the bubbling stove to set a dish of boiled eggs upon the table.

'There's tea in the pot, help yourselves -there's only one egg each mind. Melvart, elbows.'

Fritha seemed determined to set the example of uxorial devotion. 'Let me pour your tea for you, dearest. No, no, you have my egg, we have to keep you fed – you've been getting so thin of late.'

Anomen was clearly torn between amusement and discomfort by this adoration. Harra watched the girl fuss with a purse-lipped frown, Melvart cheerfully slathering a spoonful of honey over a small breadcake.

'So, how did you find the barn?'

'It was fine, thank you,' offered Anomen shortly. Fritha sent him a sunny smile.

'Even a tent becomes a palace when sleeping with your husband. Honey?'

'Er, yes, dear?'

'I meant for your bread, dearest.'

Melvart's daughters were giggling, while Harra looked as though her roll had been slathered in a sharp lemon curd.

'And how long have you been married?'

Fritha made a show of considering it. 'Ooo, it was six years this spring.'

'Good grief,' laughed Melvart, 'you barely look old enough.'

Fritha let her smile broaden, her face glowing. 'We began courting at sixteen. I moved to Athkatla from my home Beregost to take a position as scribe at the temple to Oghma. Our library stored many texts for the local faiths, and the brothers and sisters of Helm were always back and forth between our two temples. Iorwerth and I met there, and began our courting. He used to hide love notes in the returned books.'

Anomen was scarlet, Fritha and the two girls all pink and rather giggly and Melvart chuckled along with them.

'Ah, that takes me back. Here, Harra, remember that time I snuck out one night and hared over to your father's holding to put flowers in the hen coop for you where you'd find them the next morn?'

'No, not at the table I don't, now eat your egg before the yoke sets.'

His wife's admonishment went blithely ignored, Melvart barely able to continue the tale to his giggling daughter for his own laughter.

'Your uncle Estaf thought one of the wild dogs was back for another hen. We scared each other half witless when we met in the yard.'

'Aye, that would account for much,' snapped Harra, 'now eat your egg!'

A last wave from Imoen and the girl turned back to the dirt road that snaked its way through plains which still glittered with the morning's dew, Minsc and Jaheira either side of her as the three set out on the two day journey north to Ferhl.

Imoen had been in a better mood that morning, and when she had even managed a friendly farewell to Solaufein, no one had been more surprised than the drow. The girl had taken her words the night before to heart. Valygar could see it in her eyes that morning as the others had turned away on instinct to give them some privacy to their goodbyes, something in the solemn, slightly sad way she had smiled and kissed him. There had once been a time he had wished her to take life more seriously. The sages had it true; there was nothing worse than getting what you wanted.

Behind him, Solaufein was waiting on the edge of the ruined village, the man turning as he did, and there was a good few yards between them as they headed back to pack up what was left of their much reduced camp. He and the drow had never really been what Valygar would have considered friends. He did not appreciate the way the drow followed Fritha without question -and the way it made him feel guilty for questioning Imoen, both out loud and in his heart.

No one had bothered pitching tents last night, the group bedding down in the relative shelter of the open stall they had found, and he and the drow packed up their few belongings without speaking. Valygar did not care; if there was one thing he was used to, it was solitude. With the others gone to find what allies they could, he and Solaufein had been tasked with picking across the village, preparing one of the houses as a base of operations and scavenging anything that had been left which could be of use should a large body of people arrive.

'Minsc and I found a suitable house last night,' offered Solaufein as he buckled his pack closed and leant it against the crumbling brickwork of the stall, 'A larger place, a street over.'

They crossed the small, packed earth square. The way the whole village seemed to cluster about the large communal well put him in mind of Croadalta, the small village where lived those who tended his family's almond groves. It was well on into the growing season now – back north the weather would be cooling. Would Nentat have made the trip out to inspect the almond harvest yet? He had wanted to show Imoen the groves once, and she had spoken of him meeting Winthrop, plans for a life that seemed to be slowly escaping, swept away by the storm that was building about them.

The house was larger than those about it, standing at two storeys with the peaked window set in the roof likely making it three, and all in the same dun clay brick from which the rest of the village had been built. A small fenced area was before it, one side covered by a wooden awning, a chopping block, woodpile and well-made rocking chair set beneath, while on the other side, neat rows of herbs had curled to sunburnt kindling. The building had perhaps been the headman's or maybe what served as a guesthouse for any travellers who had made it to the village.

'The door will need to be replaced,' offered Valygar to the splintered gate of wood that hung miserably from the lower hinge across the doorstep, shards where an axe's blade had smashed through scattered across the brick path. Solaufein nodded

'Let us search the inside first.'

The room beyond was the kitchen, a large, airy space that had once likely been the heart of the house, and perhaps, in a way, it still was. Valygar let his eyes travel the smoke-blackened walls. A hearth dominated the right wall, the whitewashed stone chimney black with soot. At some point during or after the raid, the fire had escaped the hearth, the burnt remains of a table and chairs still standing in amongst charred cupboards and chests, all thrown open and stripped or anything of use. In the corner, stone stairs ascended, wooden banisters singed but still whole – it seemed the fire had died without spreading from that room.

'I will search the ground floor,' said Solaufein, debris crunching underfoot as he headed for the doorway opposite, and Valygar walked alone up charred and creaking stairs. At the end of the central landing, a narrower flight of wooden steps, little more than a ladder, rose, likely leading up to an attic space, while before it, four doorways opened onto opposing pairs of rooms.

He stepped into the first, dust swirling in the thin shafts of light that filtered through the shuttered windows. Aside from the smoke damage, the fire had left the place untouched. On the large bed, linens stood in crumpled peaks, as though they had been thrown off in a panic. The chests under the two windows were open, clothes strewn to the floor –someone had been searching for something- the drawers of the wooden dresser against the far wall in similar disarray, though the counter had been left undisturbed. Upon the pitted surface, a simple rosewood comb was all that was left of the woman who had once straightened out the bed linens, neatly folded away her clothes and threw shutters wide in welcome to the dawn. A few long black hairs still clung to it, snarled in the teeth, the roots of a couple just beginning to show grey.

Imoen had changed her hair. She had said she would not, had refused when he'd suggested it, but she had, and it had been the least of the changes in her recently. There was a seriousness to her now, which seemed to both stem from and feed her growing powers. Against all he would have believed he was capable, he had agreed to teach her what he could remember of the long suppressed lessons. But there had been more given in the offer that its result; she had already outgrown his tutelage and his attempts to give her a grounding in the basics had been seen as him trying to hold her back. With the magics he had seen her exhibit of late, perhaps he had been.

Above the dresser a simple mirror of polished bronze hung, and for the first time in his life he saw the man he was: a coward. Was there a single problem in his life he had not fled from? He had left home, killed his mother, avenged Suna – each time avoiding the harder course – confrontation, rehabilitation, grief.

And he had been the same with Imoen, ignoring her magic and his growing fears, in favour of trying to curb her powers with lessons and admonishments.

He gazed down at his clawed hand, the swollen knuckles looking harder than oak knots –his injury that had come between them in a way he never could have anticipated. This change in Imoen, the sudden serious focus on her magic, had come after his injury. That one incisive moment to impress upon the girl what was at stake had given her the drive she had once been lacking.

And, worse, still, what had it awoken in him?

'Valygar?'

He started, suddenly back in that gloomy bedroom, Solaufein's voice carrying up from the kitchen. Downstairs, Solaufein was in what looked to have been the parlour, the man standing before a large solid door, and in the gloom beyond Valygar could make out the, chests, shelves and tool-laden benches of a workshop; in a small village, any craftsman would have to be joiner, leatherworker and smith all in one.

'This door,' continued Solaufein, swinging the heavy wooden panel back and forth appraisingly, 'as a replacement for the front?'

'It looks too wide as it is,' Valygar answered, a cursory glance thrown back through the house to that aperture of light.

'We will need to find a saw?' ventured the drow uncertainly. Valygar snorted.

'I think a plane will suffice. This workshop looks well stocked – there may be one here. We will need a mallet, too,' he added as they stepped into the room, Solaufein moving straight to the nearest workbench – he needed no light. Valygar unfastened the closest set of shutters. 'We can use the same pegs and hinges that are in this door.'

A quick search of the room yielded what they needed -mallet, chisel and a plane – though the latter had proved the hardest to find simply for the fact the drow did not know what such a thing looked like.

'First we need to take this down,' said Valygar, the pair back at the door. Solaufein eyed it with a wary frown.

'You know how to do this? I thought you of noble blood.'

'I spent my youth watching the workers all across our lands – I know enough for this. Brace the wood for me.'

Solaufein set his body against the swinging weight and Valygar turned his attention to the upper hinge, the chisel and mallet swapping hands more than once as he tried to force stiff fingers to grip one or the other with any dexterity.

At last he settled on a position, chisel in that clawed grip and wrist pressed against the framed to steady it, the mallet drawn back for that first blow and –

The chisel hit the stone flags with a cheerful chime.

'Damnation!'

Solaufein was wise enough not to stoop for it, Valygar snatching the chisel up and letting the anger simmer down before trusting himself to try again. Two more attempts ended the same way before he turned to the drow in furious resignation.

'I cannot. You will have to.'

And with a swallowed curse and barely controlled frustration, Valygar relinquished to Solaufein the tools, his weight now braced against the door. Solaufein sent another wary scowl to the wood.

'I have never-'

'It is simple,' cut in Valygar, angered at his own inabilities and not wishing to dwell any longer on them. 'I will talk you through what is needed. You must force the chisel under the metal hinge- Have care!' he snapped, as a clumsy blow took a chunk of door frame with it, 'you will damage the pegs! Make the angle of the strike flatter – gentle taps, a bit harder. No, not like –you're splitting the wood!'

'I can do no else!'

'Stop! You have not the skill!'

'And neither have you!'

One last blow saw the pegs suddenly free, though at the cost of the shattered door frame. Valygar was unprepared for the shift in weight, the rough edges of the door sliding down his palms before he could catch it to twist the lower hinge in the agonising crack of splintering wood.

'I told you to stop!' he roared.

'And you were supposed to support the door! Here, hold it while I free the last.'

The drow crouched, a few quick strikes freeing the last pegs, though the damage had already been done.

'Only one survived,' Solaufein sighed, rolling the solitary peg between thumb and forefinger, 'the other three have snapped off in the frame.'

Valygar just resisted throwing the door with all his might. 'Hells Teeth! I could have smashed it from the frame myself!'

'I told you I had never-'

'I said to stop!'

The chisel clattered to the tiles for not the first time that morning.

'Xsa rivvil- Abyss take your slaves' work!'

Such an aberrant outburst seemed to shock them both from their anger, Solaufein ill at ease as he stooped for the tools. 'I am sorry. I am- These last few days…' He pinched in the bridge of his nose, looking more strained than Valygar had ever seen him. 'I am doing all I can.'

'You are worried about Fritha,' Valygar concluded shortly. The drow sighed.

'Of course, but what can be done? There must be some more pegs about here,' he reasoned turning into the workshop.

'Why must there? A skilled hand could fashion them as needed.'

Solaufein glared at him, though Valygar was not sure if the insult was for the drow or himself by then. Valygar sighed deeply and hefted the door under his arm. 'Come, bring the plane -we can cut this down out the front.'

Outside, the sun was higher, the meadows to the north a marbled sea of green and gold. Solaufein stared out to the horizon with narrowed, pale eyes.

'It is hard to imagine, that somewhere across those plains armies gather.'

Valygar's voice was so wistful it did not even sound like his own. 'And somewhere past them, men shake trees and women in gathered skirts dance under a hail of almonds.'

'That sounds like something Imoen would enjoy.'

A twist of bitter anger. 'If you and Fritha had not left Suldanessellar, she would have.'

Solaufein merely sighed, a frail amusement to the gesture. 'And if you and yours had not come to Saradush, Fritha and I would be as far as Sespech by now.'

The drow turned, marching back into house with renewed purpose. Sespech, a land at least as far east again as the whole length of Tethyr. Valygar followed to find him in workshop, the drow sweeping about the room scrabbling through every drawer and box he could find.

'You had planned to leave?'

'Yes, I had promised Fritha I would take her beyond even Bhaal's reach. Until your arrival, she was as eager as I to escape here. But when she was presented with those who would be left to her burden, she refused to abandon it.' Valygar watched him pause, turning back from the footlocker he had been rifling. 'So if any here should feel resentment in this, it is us.'

'Us. You pair yourself with her.'

Solaufein straightened with a shrug, setting the pegs he had found onto the workbench above. 'We were a pair… at the time.'

'Yes, and now she walks at Anomen's side.'

It was a not so subtle attempt to rile that cool façade, but the man merely shifted his focus to the pegs where his fingers played with a weary melancholy.

'Fritha will not survive as she is to see the leaves turn – I do not believe it matters who stands at her side.' He fixed him with a sudden, defiant glare. 'At least, I acknowledge it –see what it could have been. I would have done anything to save her had she allowed it. The only things which keep you from heart are your own self-imposed restrictions.'

'So I must put aside all I believe-'

Solaufein cut him off with an impatient snort. 'I used to believe surfacers were lesser creatures – that their place as slaves and sacrifices was justified. You once believed your mother was beyond saving, that Lavok was a monster. You changed your mind. Perhaps now is time for another such evaluation of your beliefs?'

The drow turned from him – the question required no answer, at least not one that needed to be vocalised, and Solaufein had already stepped back into the parlour, Valygar left alone in the dusty workshop.

So it was not merely her own secrets Fritha had been happy to share with the drow; their honesty seemed only to highlight the lack of trust within his own pairing.

He had lied to Imoen just as she had lied to him, yet he did not feel anger, merely relief, as though not only had he always known it was so, but that he was comfortable with the distance it had put between them. Suna had used to say he was hard to know.

He moved back into the kitchen, pausing at the doorway to watch as Solaufein braced the door against the listing fence and made the first few clumsy sweeps, pale curls of wood falling like leaves about his feet, the scars on his face twisting with that frown of concentration.

'You are doing well.'

A glance up to see if this praise hid an insult. It did not, and perhaps the drow saw, too, the peace offered there as well. Solaufein nodded, attention back on his work

'No, not yet, but I have a lot of door to get it right.'

Valygar stepped from the doorway, moving to set his bulk against the teetering wood.

'Here, it will be easier with two.'

'I think I preferred the rain.'

Anomen merely nodded to the girl's sigh and puffed hair that was getting too long from his eyes, the man glad for the shade of his hat under the beating sun. It seemed they had become too used to the relative cool of the forest, the plains returned to their usual blazing sunshine of the season after yesterday's storm. There was a slight breeze across the rippling grassland, and it could have been quite a pleasant day were it not for the fact he was trudging along the same wide, gravel road they had been travelling the day before, bent under the weight of everything he had, and arms straining about a sloshing milk churn. Next to him, Fritha was burdened similarly, her blue travelling robe slung over the back of her pack and sleeves rolled up in the heat, one arm raised and checking the basket of apples and eggs she had balanced on her head.

'Does that not hurt?'

'No,' she answered, very careful to move only her mouth, 'and it keeps the sun off too.'

Ahead of them, Melvart raised a hand in a friendly greeting to another passing neighbour, the gentle tap of a switch keeping the laden mule walking at his side.

'At least someone is enjoying the sunshine,' offered Anomen.

'Perhaps he's just glad to be out of the house, with Harra slamming everything she laid her hands upon.'

Harra had ended Melvart's tales the only way she knew how, rising to begin brusquely tidying her kitchen before the rest of her family had even finished eating, and she had not turned from the hearth when her husband had made his farewells.

'Where did you come up with all that?' asked Anomen, casting back to her tall tales of romance and courtship, 'At breakfast, I mean.'

A pause as she considered the question, her shaded face hidden beneath that wicker crown.

'I don't know. I've always had a knack for stories –the start just comes to me and then they flow from there. Besides,' she continued, and he could hear her sudden smile, 'it sounded nice, didn't it? Exchanging notes in books, the gentle thrill as you're leafing through a dusty tome, hoping to glimpse some scrap of parchment in his hand.'

'You speak from experience?'

Fritha gave an embarrassed giggle that rumbled all the way from her stomach.

'Perhaps. Back in Candlekeep, when I was sixteen and Imoen was fourteen, sometime between her fourth and fifth fortnightly romance, I realised no boy had ever paid such attentions to me, and I began to lose myself in daydreams of a lover, shy and warm, who would watch me from afar, but whom I could never catch. I was always susceptible to my own imaginings and I made my tale so rich and dwelled on it so long it began to feel real. He would always be about the next bookcase, or one of the dipped hoods sat behind me in the scriptorium, and if I became scared, I would calm myself with the thought that he was near.'

She eased her own embarrassment with another laugh. 'I always was an odd one! I took to walking the archives of an evening, pulling out any book that looked recently disturbed and flicking through looking for the love notes he had left. Eventually, I gave it all up as nonsense and just asked one of younger scribes if he wished to be my sweetheart. One excruciatingly awkward stroll about ramparts later, and I decided my romance was best only found in tales and left it at that. What about you?' she continued, 'Who was your first love – outside of Helm, of course.'

'Of course,' he agreed with a wry smile, casting back for the memory. 'I suppose it would have been in the seminary when I was newly arrived. Ciara was older than me by a couple of years and served as one of the lay sisters at the temple which adjoined our order.' And for a moment he was back there, lingering in the last row of pews under the painted-glass gaze of saints and paladins, his heart thudding in his chest as he watched those silken waves of dark hair escaping the ties to frame rose-flushed cheek as she scrubbed the altar steps. 'I was rather shy of ladies when I was younger, but my friends convinced me to offer her a token of my regard -as would any aspiringknight- so I made to leave a spray of lilacs within the alcove outside her room.

'I thought her in lessons, but she opened the door as I was stood there and I was so embarrassed to be caught I told her I had found the flowers on the floor outside her door and was placing them there lest they be trampled by some careless feet. All at once she was smiling, but it was not at me -though she made sure to thank me for my trouble- and tripped inside without a backward glance. I could hear her singing all the way down the corridor. I still wonder now who she believed they were from.'

Anomen started from his wistful reverie to find Fritha sending him an appraising smile. 'So mine was not the first flower you handed out?'

'No,' he conceded to her teasing, 'but at least I managed to admit it was from me that time.'

'That you did, however unobservant you were of the discomfort the confession was inducing.'

'I was quite observant of it actually: you're very pretty when you blush.'

A peal of delighted laughter. 'Oho! You are wasted here, Anomen, truly. We need to get you back to Athkatla and the ladies.'

It was as though a cloud had just passed across the sun, the smile fading on his face. 'I imagine I will be returned home much sooner than I would wish.'

'Never regret a homecoming, Anomen,' she warned, light-hearted and grave in the same breath, 'there will be too many here who won't be blessed with one.'

'I know of one for certain,' he sighed, adding after a pause, 'Does it bother you?'

She made no answer at first, her shrug looking unnatural when compared to the rigid stance in the rest of her body. 'That the apple blossom must fall is part of its beauty.'

Before them, a mountain range of distant peaks in red and grey were cresting the horizon, Melvart glancing back to them with a cheerful shout.

'We've made good time – just over two hours and we can already see it.'

The journey was easier with a destination to focus upon, the way becoming busier as they closed upon the small walled town. Melvart found room for their burdens in a cart whose driver he had befriended, and they moved through the open gates with a small group of similarly laden farmers.

He and Fritha could not have asked for a better cover; the guards barely spared any of them a glance. Before the gates was a small square where stalls crowded the gutters and citizens hurried about their business, avoiding the eyes of both the guards -and the mercenaries who seemed to swarm about the frontage of every inn. The farmers made a wary note of them, Melvart turning to make his farewells as the group prepared to part, those with goods taking the leftmost street where, above the thronging heads, Anomen could make out a bustling market square.

'Well now, thank you for your help and safe journey to you both. I hope you make the keep soon,' Melvart enthused, a brief bow seeing him turn to step back into a pair of armoured men who were elbowing idly through their group.

'Watch it, fool!' snapped the warrior. Melvart stared at him as though he has never seen someone so grizzled up close.

'I- Well, I'm sorry, of course.'

'You'll be a mite more than sorry,' snarled his friend. Melvart was floundering, his fellows suddenly looking anywhere but at him. The guards stationed at the gates had noticed the altercation, too, but were so far happy to see how things would pan out – the farmers were not locals after all. Fritha had sidled behind him, attention from either group highly unwelcome by the way she was shrinking under her hat, and Anomen felt torn as Melvart hastened to appease them.

'It was an accident, friend.'

'I ain't your friend, and you're going to-'

The finger jerked him forward a step, Anomen not even sparing a glance for the girl who still sheltered behind him as he laid an eloquent hand upon his mace. 'You are going to leave.'

The mercenaries seemed surprised to find him there, the one nearest to Melvart closing the gap between them. Anomen felt a glimmer of satisfaction as they both realised he needed to look up.

'And just what makes you-'

'Now.'

For an instant, Anomen thought he would press forward, a narrow-eyed glance sliding between the pair before the men sloped off without another word.

'Well, now, seems I owe you my thanks again,' laughed Melvart nervously and though his gratitude was enthusiastic, it was made very quickly and he was soon hurrying away with the other farmers. Like only attracted like, after all, and perhaps he had finally realised they were no simple travellers. The two mercenaries were heading towards the inn opposite, the girl making sure they'd left inside before stepping from his shadow to puff a deep sigh.

'I never thought I'd say it, but I'll be glad when I can act like a merc again and it can be me kicking off rather, than playing the distressed damsel.'

'It is best we don't draw attention to you in that way.'

'Yes, I know,' she pouted dramatically, 'I'm just a scared little kitten.'

Anomen snorted at her scorn, scanning the bustling square and the many roads that led from it. 'Where now?'

Fritha shrugged.

'Tavern?'

Anomen peeled his sleeve from the wet counter, the spilt slick of ale instantly rushing in, flowing down gullies and gorges to flood again across the scarred wooden surface. The common room was busy, more people bustling through the doors every moment as across the square, the town gates closed for the night. They took tables or hovered against the walls in small groups, waiting for rooms to be prepared, and the room felt all the more cramped for the bulk of cloaks and packs they brought with them. A familiar peel of laughter warmed the air somewhere behind, though he turned to check anyway.

Fritha was sat at a table playing cards with large group of men, though the game was seemingly coming second to this opportunity to drink and flirt with an aptly named member of the fairer sex. The damp of the previous day had left Fritha with mane of curls that no comb could have tamed, and she had not bothered to try when they had arrived in their room in the early afternoon. The best wash a basin and jug of tepid water could afford them, and Fritha had taken their clothes over to local washhouse couple streets away, though little could be done for the clothes they were stood in.

Not that her present company seemed to mind, the group of rough looking men hovering about her. More mercenaries, Anomen concluded grimly as he noted their weapons – the contrast between them and the girl reassured him she would not be recognised from any bounty, though that was not his main concern at the moment. A wiry man with a long, lean face and lank hair to his chin was leaning over the back of her chair, fingers gripped about the frame likely a perched vulture. The scar across his cheek twisted unpleasantly as he smiled – if Fritha thought the same she did not reveal so in her shining laughter.

'Another there, sir?'

Anomen turned back to nod at the address, the serving woman refilling his cup and pouring out another for the man who had just taken the empty stood beside him, stuffed pack dumped on the floor beneath as he likely waited for his room. He was a few years older than Anomen, his tanned face weathered, though his dark hair showed no streak of grey yet, his chin bearing the scrubby half-beard of too many days on the road. They raised their cups as one and shared a grimace as each drew a mouthful of sediment. The ale was low in the barrel – they should have left their cups to settle. The newcomer was thinking the same, the man shrugging off a cloak of good quality wool to lay it across his pack as he spoke.

'I can't get on with these pale, clouded ales. All wheat and wait.'

Anomen recognised the accent immediately; foolish as it was, he had been so long from home, he could not help but feel an instant kinship for his countryman.

'Yes, I always preferred the bitter ales –Purskul Dark and the like.'

A glance of pleasant surprise, the weathered face opening in a smile as the man, too, noted the shared accent. 'You are from Amn, friend? I am of those fine lands myself. What brings a fellow Amnian south into the eye of such troubles?'

'I am headed to Watcher's Keep.'

'You are heeding their call for mercenaries?' the man questioned with more than a little uncertainty – perhaps he and Fritha really did just look as any other travellers those days.

'So they are hiring - it was not merely a rumour.'

'No, indeed, and they have apparently hired many mercenaries already. There is a notice in the barracks if you would know more -though if you need me to tell you of this, you must be heading there for your own reasons.'

'I am a brother of the faith; my studies take me there.'

The man shrugged, and winced through another mouthful of ale. 'It is as good a place as any to ride out this storm.'

'You are heading that way as well?'

'No, I am heading west, I plan to get to the coast and take a boat back north -I merely hope I can make it in time.'

'You have passage already booked?'

'No, but can you not feel it? This whole land is set to explode around us. I am sourcer by trade, working out of Athkatla. I was in Darromar when all this began, trying to forge a contract with some fine furniture-makers. I took to the road a tenday after Saradush was liberated, thinking I could ride out the worst back west, but war is set to drown this land. The Silver Chalice is camped back east at Ferhl, ready to march wherever the danger rises, divisions spread all across the plains from the Apagis to the Stormantles. Then there is the Tethyran army. They've been slowly fortifying all the towns south east of the capital since Saradush and every day the rumour mill comes up with some new tale: dragons in the Calim, giants in the Marching Mountains, armies gathering the length and breadth. I swear, there are that many there would be no citizens left for them to pillage were all you hear true.'

A roar of laughter behind them that seemed to shake the very rafters, more than a few patrons glancing about at the noise, though none ventured a word against the group. The man next to him snorted his loathing.

'Damn mercenaries -they are the worst of it and they are everywhere. The roads from the east are choked with them – them and those gods-forsaken refugees. At least the army and their ilk are doing what they can, even if it has cost every household from here to Riatavin some goods or livestock in war-tithes, but those sell-swords fester in this land like a cancer. Allies to whoever can pay and falling to banditry as soon as the gold runs dry. They set any town on edge, but none dare refuse a blade now.' His eyes lingered on the girl that glowed in their midst. 'Pretty, that one.' A glance to Anomen confirmed his suspicions. 'You know her?'

'She is…' Anomen doubted the man would believe she was his wife, and he hardly wished to offer a lie that made a cuckold of him. 'My travelling companion,' he finished evasively.

'Another Helmite?' the man offered, though the inquiry was not a serious one from his grin. Anomen laughed.

'No, she is not. She is my scribe.'

'Well, she has adapted well enough to the road.'

'Your room is ready, sir.'

The man nodded to the stout girl who had halted behind his stool, draining his cup to send a final smile to him.

'Well, best of travels to you both and if you head north, try to keep to a group – there are many bandits on the road nowadays.'

Anomen turned to watch him disappear up the stairs before returning his gaze to Fritha. The cards had been abandoned now, that vulture of a man holding the table, if not the girl's interest, with a story. Fritha caught Anomen's eye to send him a wink before her attention was back on her group and nodding eagerly as someone moved to top up her cup with the local clouded brew. Anomen returned to his own drink with a smile.

Adaptable –that was one way of describing it.