Disclaimer: Obsidian owns everybody but Kayla and incidental NPCs.
They reached Port Llast around midmorning. It was not a large town, Casavir saw, but it was a vibrant one. The streets were packed with vendors selling their wares from carts, and with people surveying the merchandise. Many of these people must be travelers, he thought. There were not enough houses to shelter everyone he saw. Even the stables where they had lodged their horses were crowded with other beasts.
Casavir felt a moment of relief. If the streets were full of travelers, they must sleep somewhere. If the inn was full, they would be obliged to share rooms, if they were able to obtain them at all. If The Lady was forced to share a room with others, she would choose Neeshka and Shandra, and he would be spared the choice between disobeying Duncan and distressing The Lady...
No, he should own his faults. Duncan suggested that he protect her with his presence, but it was his own conscience he served, not Duncan's orders. He could have told her uncle no, that it was impossible, but he had not. He would still ask to share her room, if she planned on sleeping alone, but he would do so because he wanted to, not because Duncan ordered it. That little bit of honesty felt liberating.
Still, he would wait until he was sure it would be necessary before making that request of her. He had already vexed her enough for one day.
It had been an awkward morning, and it was his fault. He had refrained from placing his bedroll beside hers, but he had disobeyed her, all the same. He tried, but he could not calm himself enough to sleep while she was on the other side of the fire, so he gathered up his gear, packed up his bedroll and placed his pack beside her. He had spent the night using it as a backrest. He had awoken to a stiff neck, a sore back, and a very annoyed Dawnbringer.
He had tried to appease her by waiting on her attentively at breakfast and packing up her gear, but that just seemed to irritate her more. He could see that she was trying to be patient with him. She never raised her voice to him or told him off, but she sighed often, and it seemed that most of the tasks she would have him do were on the other side of camp.
He intended to ride beside her, to discourage Bishop's attention, but that, it seemed, was too much. She told him off then, all right, and bid him bring up the rear. At least that gave him the opportunity to watch her without incurring her anger.
He had been watching her a lot, today. She moved from merchant to merchant, asking questions, but also listening to the gossip of people on the street. He knew he should be paying attention, but he never heard what most of the people she talked to said. He consoled himself by telling himself that it was not his place to assemble her defense. Sand would look after that. His task was to ensure the safety of her person, and he could best do that by never taking his eyes off her.
He sighed. This was not as easy as he hoped it would be. He was certain that if she stopped tempting him, the turmoil he felt would be less, but it had grown, not receded. Now that she no longer touched him, he found himself living in the memory of the times she had. Worse, he found himself reaching out to her, touching her far more often than was necessary in the performance of his duty. He could not even serve her porridge at breakfast without stroking the hand that held her bowl.
She beckoned.
He went to her instantly, but it seemed that she did not want a private conversation, after all. Everyone else gathered close, as well.
"Everyone is talking about Ember, all right," she said, "but it's nothing we don't already know. Villagers slaughtered to the last man, animals cut down and left to rot, houses burned. Nothing that helps us. But the smith, Haljal, said that a local named Elgun is claiming to have been there, and to have made an attempt to drive off the attack."
"We'll have to pay this Elgun a visit," Sand said. "Anything else?"
"Haljal thinks he's lying," The Lady said. "He says that Elgun has no skill with weapons, and that the man is a coward, besides."
"An unlikely avenger," Casavir heard himself say.
"That's what I thought, too," she agreed. "He suggested that I talk to the garrison commander, Haeromos. I've been hearing that name a lot, so it's likely worth our time to investigate."
"Hmm, yes," Sand concurred. "And conveniently, the garrison is right there. Shall we?"
Haeromos proved a disappointment. It took all of The Lady's considerable powers of persuasion to convince him to allow her to interview the sole survivor of the attack. Indeed, the man's first inclination was to clap The Lady in irons at once. Fortunately, Shandra knew the survivor, a woman named Alaine. The Lady was unable to convince Alaine to recant her testimony entirely, but she was able to instill some doubt in her, at least. Casavir was pleased to see that she applied logic to the task, asking her how she could have failed to notice a tiefling or a dwarf among those that destroyed Ember. Casavir wondered why she had not asked Alaine how it might be possible that she, a Dawnbringer of Lathander, could have led such a heinous massacre, or how he, a paladin of Tyr, could have participated, but perhaps The Lady sought only to avoid confusion. Anyone might wear a holy symbol.
He shook his head. He was doing it again. She was gathering information that would save her life, and he was obsessing about trivialities.
Looking up, he noticed that he was alone, apart from Haeromos' men. He ran after her, but she was waiting outside. The others were clustered a short distance up the street.
"Cas," she said quietly, "I know you've got a lot on your mind, but you're miles away. I need you here."
"Yes, my lady," he muttered, mortified, "forgive me."
"Come on, now," she said, "we've still got half the town to cover before we can call it a day."
"Are you weary already, my lady?" he asked. "It is not yet midday."
"It's taking a lot out of me, Cas," she sighed. "I was exhausted before we even broke camp."
"I... my lady, is there nothing I can do to lighten your burden? May I carry your pack, perhaps?"
"Thank you, Cas," she said, unslinging her pack and handing it to him. "It's more my brain that's tired, but taking a load off my back helps, somehow."
He just smiled and fell into step beside her. By the time they reached the next corner, he had recovered enough from her well-justified rebuke to give her quest his full attention.
Kayla reflected on what they had learned so far. It did not take long. So far, they knew that Alaine would testify for Torio, but that her testimony might be compromised. Sand suggested that Kayla, too, might want to call Alaine as a witness. She was tempted, but Shandra was opposed to the idea. She did not want to antagonize Shandra, nor did she want to force Alaine to relive something as painful as what she had endured, but this was her life. She needed to think about it some more.
She hoped that she would find more witnesses. If all they had was Alaine, she would hang, for sure.
"Charms, my lady?" called a female voice to her right. "I've charms and potions for every need."
"I don't know if you've got a charm for what I need," Kayla muttered to herself, but the woman apparently heard her.
"Why don't you tell me what you need, and I'll tell you if I can help?" the woman suggested. She was tall and slim, with an elegant bearing that suggested that Port Llast was not the pinnacle of her ambition. Her eyes, though, were wise and kind.
"My name is Kayla of Lathander," she said flatly. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"It means that you need more than charms and potions," the woman said frankly. "I am Nya. You are a cleric of the Morning Lord, are you not?"
"I am," Kayla acknowledged.
"Then perhaps we may help each other," Nya said. "You must go to Ember. The accusations against you demand that you see firsthand the crimes of which you have been accused."
"Then you don't think I did it," Kayla blinked.
"I withhold judgment," Nya shrugged. "Yet I would be surprised to learn that a Dawnbringer could visit such horrors upon innocents."
Kayla nodded. Nya, at least, appeared to be an intelligent woman, and too rational to be swept away in the vigilante spirit that infected Haeromos and his men.
"Very true," Kayla said. "You spoke of help?"
"You will learn much in Ember, I deem," Nya said, "more, perhaps than I foresee. Advice is the aid I would give you: go to Ember, and let nothing escape your notice, because you may find clues in the most unlikely places. In return, I would ask you to perform one small service for me. As a servant of Lathander, I would not expect you to object."
"I'm listening," Kayla said. She heard Casavir shift behind her, then saw him circle around Nya. Ostensibly, he examined the charms arranged on the shelves of her market stall, but she noticed that he kept his hand on his weapon. Did he really think that she had anything to fear from a peddler who, to all outward appearances, did not seem in the least bit hostile? Still, Casavir would be Casavir. She supposed she should be thankful that he was taking an interest in the world outside his mind, for however long it lasted.
"I would like you to sprinkle wyrmsage on any bodies you might find," Nya said. "Do you know the herb?"
"It prevents the dead from rising as zombies," Kayla said, taken aback by the suggestion. "Does Ember have an undead problem?"
"It may," Nya sighed. "You will find that the villagers suffered grisly deaths. Under those circumstances, it is possible that they will rise again as undead."
"I see," Kayla nodded. Lathandrites abhorred the undead, and Kayla was no exception, yet a violent death was not usually enough to bind a soul to a body, or for the corpse to spontaneously reanimate. There had to be a curse, or some kind of necromancy at work. "Is there more that you aren't telling me? Have any priests of Velsharoon been sighted in the vicinity?"
"No... but..." Nya's voice faltered. "I fear for them, after what they suffered."
Kayla sighed. She had seen this before. Often times, priests would be called upon to aid the dead or dying, when it was really the living that needed healing. They asked for intervention for their loved ones, but really, they just needed to see that somebody was doing something for them, even if it could not possibly help them. Like any good priest of a benevolent deity, she accepted this duty. The living were her charge, and if she could bring Nya peace by doing what she asked, she was happy to oblige. Casavir might object to the deception, but she had no qualms about it. If it helped the living accept the passage of those moving on to another stage of the Great Cycle, she had done her part.
"I understand," she said. "And I will do as you ask. But if I may ask, how did you learn so much about the ways of undeath? I can see by your stock that you trade only in blessings, not curses."
Nya drew close, then, and placed her hand on her arm. Kayla took it in her own. She noticed that Casavir, too, moved closer to Nya.
"I loved a man once," Nya said, her voice barely a whisper, "a priest of Kelemvor. He taught me to revile the undead, and the ways of combating them."
"And he is here no longer?" Kayla prompted gently.
"He left some months ago," Nya said, "more than a year, now. I hope that by carrying out his work, he will hear of it and remember me, and realize that he has a helpmate."
"I understand," Kayla said gently. She risked a glance at Casavir, but his expression was icy, so she looked at Nya again. "Have you had no word?"
"None," Nya admitted, "though I have written to him many times, and asked for news from his temple superiors. I have heard nothing. I hoped..."
"You shall not hear from him," Casavir said suddenly. "He has a duty to perform, and he will not forsake it."
"Cas!" Kayla gasped, alarmed that he should be so blunt. She looked at him again. His face was grim, his lips set in a rigid line.
"It's all right," Nya sighed. "There never was much hope. Only a fool's hope."
"Love makes fools of us all," Casavir muttered, turning away.
"Cas, why don't you wait over by Shandra?" Kayla said quickly, before Casavir could say anything else that might dishearten Nya. "I'll be along in a moment."
She heard him sigh, but he obeyed her.
"Please forgive my friend," she said when Casavir was gone. "He isn't usually this rude."
"He sounded like he was in pain," Nya observed.
Kayla sighed.
"If he is," Kayla shook her head, "it is a pain of his own choosing. But don't let him trouble you, Nya. He doesn't know what he's talking about, and it has nothing to do with you, in any case. I want to help you."
"Then take this bag of wyrmsage," she smiled, "and my thanks, as well. Until we meet again."
"Farewell, Nya," Kayla said, accepting the bag. "I'll return to you once I've done as you ask."
The women shook hands and Kayla returned to Casavir. She grabbed the side of his surcoat and propelled him a short distance away. They were still within earshot of the rest of the group, but she did not really care, as long as Nya could not hear them.
"Do you want to tell me why you felt it necessary to offend the only person in Port Llast who knew who I was and still didn't treat me like a murderer?"
"I wished to spare her the pain of knowing that she hoped in vain," Casavir replied, his face infuriatingly calm. "She has a generous heart, and I would not wish to see it grieved."
"It's a little late for that, Cas," Kayla said, letting a little of her irritation show in her voice. "You don't know the man, but you practically told her to her face that he'd have to be a fool to come back to her."
"You twist my words, my lady," Casavir protested. "I told her only that she would not hear from him, and I sought to reassure her that his absence was due to his devotion to his duty, not to any lack in herself."
"You left the last part out," she scowled. "All you said to her was that he wasn't coming back, and that loving her was the same as forsaking his duty."
He sighed, and began to turn away.
"Oh, no you don't!" Kayla retorted, catching at his arm. "You were cruel to her, and you don't even have a reason. You don't know her, and you don't know him."
Casavir did not walk away, but he kept his back to her.
"I do know him," he said softly, though his voice held no emotion. "I know him well, though we have never met. He serves his faith with the same devotion I serve mine. He is never coming back."
"You don't know that," Kayla persisted. "He might not have gotten her letters. He might not know how much she loves him."
"If he did, it would not avail her," he went on in that same dead voice. "It was not ignorance of her feelings for him that drove him away, and should he learn of them, he still will not come back. He is lost to her forever."
"So what did drive him away, since you know so much?"
"A man cannot serve two masters," Casavir's voice dropped almost beyond hearing. "Driven half-mad by the strain, he must choose between the demands of his faith and the demands of his lover. He took the harder road, though it better served his soul. It was a noble sacrifice, and he shall be rewarded."
"You're wrong, Casavir," Kayla snapped. "If he really did behave as you seem to think he did, though I think it unlikely, then he was a coward, not a martyr. You forget who you're talking to. I'm a cleric, Casavir, so I hope you will allow that I know how to serve my god. A man owes his soul to his god, but his worldly love is his own to give where he will. The gods don't want it. They don't need it. What would Lathander do with the love I would give to a lover or a husband? What would Tyr do with yours?"
"I knew you would not understand," he sighed.
"You're right, Casavir," she said angrily. "I don't understand because you make no sense."
He started to walk away, but he stopped, his shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. She felt her anger drain away, but she did not welcome the cold comfort that replaced it.
While Casavir spoke, she felt that he was making a confession to her, but no, it could not be. By his own admission, if he loved her, he would have no choice but to leave her. He had not left, nor threatened to leave, so he must not be speaking of his own feelings. She, however, had said far more than she wanted to say.
"Go on, Cas," she said, trying to make her voice sound normal. "We've really got no business prying into Nya's personal life, and we really do have better things to do than gossip."
"Yes, my lady," he agreed with obvious relief.
She shook her head as she watched him walk away, then walked over to Sand. His apparent surprise at her approach was too overdone to be sincere, but she was grateful for the ruse. She hoped everyone else would at least pretend to ignore the words she and Casavir had exchanged.
"I think we've got just about everybody," she said. "Can we call it a day?"
"Yes, I think that might be wise," Sand agreed, "and we might carry on our inquiry at the inn. Eglun will be there, of course, but there may be others we wish to question."
Inside the inn, Casavir listened intently as The Lady questioned Elgun. At first, the man maintained that he had been in the vicinity hunting deer, and had fought the demons who accompanied The Lady bravely before he was overcome and forced to flee for his life, but his story rapidly fell apart. The ranger Malin had informed them that there were no deer, so Elgun could not have been led to the area chasing a herd, as he claimed, and the smith Haljal had thought little of his skill with a knife. Elgun's audience had agreed with both of these points, so he had little hope of persuading his listeners that Alaine's claim that she had seen no living person escape Ember might be false. At last, the man admitted he was lying, that he had invented his tale for no reason more noble than the attention he received in telling it.
Casavir turned away, intending to find a quiet table where he might pass the rest of the afternoon, but his gaze fell on the ranger Malin. He remembered that she had looked at Bishop while she spoke to them, and it had piqued his curiosity. While The Lady conducted her inquires, he must focus his attention there, but with that accomplished, he might pursue his own interests.
"My lady?" he greeted her. "Might I speak with you?"
"Sure," she smiled, "as long as you keep him away, that is."
He felt her eyes light on his face, then sweep over his body with too-open appreciation. She gestured to a seat beside her. He swallowed nervously, but he took the offered chair.
"Never fear, my lady -"
"Malin, please," she breathed, placing her hand on his armored thigh.
"Never fear, Malin," he repeated, though he felt himself redden, "I bear no love for the man, and do not desire his company any more than he desires mine."
"In that case, stay as long as you like," she said huskily. Her hand moved slowly up his thigh. He caught it in his own hand and raised it formally to his lips before placing it on the table.
She laughed, and took to tracing the tendons that ran along the back of his hand, instead.
"Do you know Bishop?" he asked bluntly.
To his relief, she halted her caress. Her touch did not rouse him, but her behavior baffled him.
"I know him," she said, taking her hand away from his and looking at him candidly. "And if I catch him alone, he'll have a lot to answer for."
"Has he wronged you in some way, Malin?" he asked eagerly. If he were avenging crimes Bishop committed upon Malin, he might remove Bishop without invoking The Lady's wrath.
"You might say that," Malin snorted. "He put me in prison."
"My lady?" Casavir blinked, taken aback.
"Yeah," she explained, "for his crimes. It was down the coast a ways, during the wars. We were scouts at the time, but we also carried messages. We were spotted by Neverwinter forces, and they were hailing us. I didn't understand why Bishop wanted to run, not just talk to them and move on, but he did, and fast. I asked him why, and he just said 'Stay if you want, but I'm getting out of this' and took off. Next thing I know, they're searching my pack and I've got a load of some choice imports that I know I never put there. I said I didn't know how all that black lotus got there, but nobody cared, and I lost three years of my life. It might have been more, or they might have even killed me, but the Tyrian priest didn't think I did it. Nasher wanted me locked up as an 'example to others', but it could have been a lot worse."
"I am sorry for the injustice you suffered," Casavir stammered, horrified by the tale she told. He believed every word. She had no reason to lie.
"Sorry about letting loose on you like that," Malin said, blushing. "I mean, I probably shouldn't burden a stranger with my troubles... but... er... well, I thought you might understand."
"Indeed, my lady, I hardly thought I could think less of him than I did before, but your tale provokes my sympathies. Should you wish to challenge him..."
"Thanks, if you're offering to run him through," Malin smiled a crooked smile, "but I'd rather do it myself, when he's all by himself, and... Who am I fooling? He's just too damn good at what he does. I'd never manage to kill him, and I'd just get myself killed trying. Thanks... er... I'm sorry. I don't even know your name."
"Casavir of Tyr," he supplied.
"A paladin, huh?" she raised an eyebrow, and a little of her earlier ardor returned. "No wonder I thought I could trust you. Are you here alone?"
"I travel in company," Casavir replied, puzzled. She knew he did, or she would not have asked him whether he was a friend of Bishop's.
"Is your lady present?" she asked more frankly.
"I have none," he answered, regretting his honesty almost instantly, when her hand took up its former place on his thigh.
"Would you like one?" she whispered throatily, leaning in so that her lips brushed his ear. "At least for a little while?"
"Don't waste your time, Malin," a familiar and very unwelcome voice sneered. "All that holiness has shriveled his prick, and you won't like that one bit."
"Drop dead, Bishop," Malin retorted, sliding her hand even further up his thigh. He jumped involuntarily when her hand brushed his manhood. She smiled wickedly.
"'Sides," she drawled, "from the feel of things, he's twice the man you ever were."
This was beyond Casavir's endurance. He stood abruptly, knocking over his chair in his haste to get away from her.
"My lady!" he protested.
"You really will fuck anything," Bishop snorted at the same time.
"My tastes have improved," Malin retorted. "You'd never catch me slumming with a pig like you again."
"A pity," Bishop laughed evilly, "you were always so open-minded. You'd take it anytime, wouldn't you? And anywhere... and in any way... what fun we used to have. Still, there's no use weeping over me now. I couldn't bring myself to plug your hole again, not after you've had your hand on that-"
"That's enough, Bishop!" Casavir snapped, at the same time as The Lady ordered him to silence.
"Better be careful, Princess," Bishop leered. "It looks like your pet dog is begging at other tables tonight."
"Never mind Casavir, ranger," The Lady reprimanded Bishop. "You two leave each other alone, and that's an order."
"Well, that tears it," Bishop laughed. "I tried to save you, Malin, but you heard her ladyship. Nothing but a suit of plates standing between you and the worst lay you'll ever have."
"Oh, I don't believe that for a moment," Malin said dismissively, rising so she could run her fingertips down Casavir's cheek.
"You should," he replied, his own voice nothing more than a whisper. Grimly, he had to admit that he meant it. He did not have much experience with women, but the little that he did have would allow him to make no boasts.
She was standing even closer to him now, close enough to stroke any part of him she chose.
"My lady, pray forgive me," he said quickly, stepping out of her reach, "I must see to our accommodations."
He fled.
He found The Lady speaking to the proprietor, already engaged in finding them rooms.
"We've plenty to spare, despite the crowds," the man said. "We've forty rooms, here at the Cracked Anvil."
"I'll have ten, if you please," The Lady replied.
"Surely, my lady, we will not need so many!" Casavir protested. "Had you not rather share with Shandra tonight? Or Neeshka? And I should prefer to share a room with Bishop, to ensure he causes no trouble with the other guests."
"Ten," she repeated firmly. "I want my own room tonight, Cas. For one night, I want a bed to myself, and you're out of your tiny little mind if you think I'm letting you and Bishop alone, unsupervised. Besides, you might like some time alone with a ranger whose company you might enjoy more."
"My lady... no," Casavir gasped. "You must know that I do not enjoy attention of that sort."
"The worst part is that I do," she sighed.
The landlord had finished marking his register, and accepting her payment. Casavir watched him count out ten keys. His heart sank. Her independence compelled him to ask to share her room. Yet how could he do so, with the unfortunate incident with Malin so fresh in her mind?
He accepted his key without another word, and watched her pass out the remainder. As soon as Bishop had his in hand, the ranger went over to talk to Calindra, a trader they had spoken to earlier. The woman had asked them to find her missing partner, an orange-haired man by the name of Bradbury, but Casavir doubted that Bishop sought her out for that reason. His suspicions were borne out a moment later, when the woman slapped Bishop and fled to the other side of the room. Apparently undeterred, Bishop turned his attention to a buxom, yellow-haired dancer. Casavir watched in idle curiosity as, by flattery and the flashing of a few coins on Bishop's part, the woman was persuaded to smile, and to whisper something in Bishop's ear. The ranger walked away, looking smug. Perhaps Bishop's lust might be put to good use, after all. If Bishop spent the night with a dancer, Casavir might be spared the necessity of risking further offense to The Lady.
Regardless, it was an unseasonably warm night, even for Eleasis, and his gambeson was stifling. He asked the porter to have a bath sent to his room—no need to heat the water, thank you—and went up to make himself comfortable.
It was no use. A bath was well and good, but he needed more solace than even a tub full of cold water could provide. He knelt and turned his thoughts to prayer.
He was in turmoil, but he still had his faith. It had seen him through worse. Much worse.
He had been young then, and so very foolish. He allowed his passions to rule him, and in following his heart, he had nearly damned his soul. Yet he had not Fallen. Tyr had not abandoned him. When he put worldly passion behind him forever, his life had been restored to him, so that he might atone. Justice had delivered him, tempered by no small amount of mercy, and in following the ways of the just, he had found some measure of happiness.
His life was not misery. Far from it. He had friends again, as he had before he sinned. He was no longer alone.
When at first he learned that he would be spared, he felt that his life must contain but a single purpose, to atone for the crimes that had imperiled his soul. For a long time, years, his worldly existence contained nothing else. Spiritually, he had his faith, and Tyr was all the solace he ever needed, but he had no mortal companion, no friend to cheer him or to drive away his dark thoughts.
Then, that wondrous day in Old Owl Well, that had begun no different from any of the hundreds of days before, his life changed. It was a small thing, at first, his need to serve a vulnerable creature who woke memories in him of light and warmth, but it was but the herald of other changes. Over the next few months, his heart began to beat again. When he rose in the morning, he looked forward to the coming day with boyish optimism, and when he lay down to sleep at night, he no longer lamented that he had not yet managed to secure his soul's release. He thought about the future, about a time when torment and pain might be left behind forever, and imagined that he might be alive to see it.
Even his present torment was an improvement over his previous life. Before he met her, he had become cold. Were it not for his conscience and his faith, he would have been nothing more than a golem. He felt nothing, and no one cared. Now, he felt things. He cared about his friends. Their troubles and their joys worried him and cheered him. He felt alive as he had not in eleven years.
If he had come this far, how much further might he come?
He sat back on his heels, breathless at the thoughts that filled his mind... himself, regenerated, reborn, even, living a life as full and as rich as that of a man who had never sinned, with every hope, every dream, within his reach.
No, that was too wild a fantasy, even for him. He had done nothing to earn such a gift. He had no right to expect any more than he had already attained. It was a good life, for all that certain elements of it still troubled him, at times.
And what of his troubles? The most frightful demon that worried at him was his own lust. If that was as bad as it got, he was a lucky man. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, but checked himself. It was easy enough to dismiss his libido as inconsequential now, with no temptation in sight or mind, but in certain company, those urges were impossible to ignore, and nearly so to control. No, that danger was real.
Nevertheless, he was a man grown, and he had lived in chastity nearly all of his life. If he could master himself at eighteen against the temptations of youth, he could do so at one and thirty, when his body was calmer. And the desires themselves were not evil, only what they might lead him to do.
Once more, he thought about the crime that led to his failure. Out of love of a woman, he had killed a man. Now that time and experience had granted him some wisdom, he understood that the act had not been quite as evil as he thought, at the time. The court that tried him had been wiser than he. Yes, perhaps in some part, he killed the man to rid himself of a rival, but he had also acted to protect the honor and interests of a woman and a child doomed never to be born, though he had not known that then, either. He had challenged the man in good faith, according to the laws of Neverwinter and Tyr. It was nothing less than arrogance to imagine that his own conscience was more just than the laws of his god.
That realization brought him a surge of relief so intense he could hardly breathe. He could be forgiven for arrogance, if he repented and mended his ways. He had been forgiven for his youthful arrogance. Despite his temporary discomfort, he was happy. What was his present happiness, if not proof that he was forgiven?
He would do well to think more on his present joy. His life had purpose beyond the quest for martyrdom. He had friends. People cared about him. A young, virtuous woman called him "dear one." For all that he still faced challenges, he never dreamed he would ever be so fortunate, those years in exile. By concentrating on the good in his mortal life, perhaps he might find the contentment he had in his spiritual one.
The arrival of his bath put an end to his musings, but his goal was accomplished. He was calmer, now, and more hopeful than he had been in a long, long time.
Half a candle later, he returned to the common room, dressed in fresh clothing, though he had omitted the shirt he usually wore under his tunic in the heat. He had been gone long, more than a candle, at least. He was distressed to see that The Lady had opted to forgo her armor, as well. It was well and good for him to leave it off, but she faced perils that did not threaten him. Still, he was there to protect her, so perhaps he would refrain from voicing his concerns.
Khelgar pressed Casavir to drink with him, but for a while, Casavir resisted. Until he was certain that The Lady was safe for the night, he dared not cloud his wits with ale. She, too, did not partake freely, though Shandra, who sat beside her, was well on her way to oblivion.
"I'm going out," Neeshka said suddenly.
"Careful, Neesh," The Lady warned her. "Remember the guards outside the inn. I don't think they'll start anything, after the little talk we had, but if they catch you, I don't think you'll be able to charm your way out of trouble."
"They won't catch me," Neeshka laughed. "I can avoid being seen when I want."
"So you can," The Lady agreed, visibly relaxing. "But be careful anyway, all right?"
"I always am," the tiefling reassured her. "And I'll even split my take."
"I don't want to know how much you're getting," The Lady protested.
"I never said I'd split it evenly!" the little thief giggled.
"Oh, that's just great," The Lady rolled her eyes. "Now you'll have me wondering if you're giving me too much or if you're robbing the town blind. Go on, if you're going to, and don't let me hear about the details."
Casavir felt a pang when Neeshka kissed The Lady's cheek in parting, but he disguised his discomfort by taking a pull from his tankard. He took too big a gulp, however, and lost the next several moments choking.
"Won't you ever learn?" Khelgar grumbled. "You'd make a fine dwarf, if only you'd learn to drink proper."
"I fear that I surpass the height requirement," Casavir said, once he had recovered.
"It's a state of mind," Khelgar insisted. "You've got your head on straight, for the most part, and you understand about oaths and loyalty, so you're halfway there, but if you don't learn to hold your drink, there's no help for it."
"I think you'd make a charming dwarf," The Lady said sleepily, then smiled up at him before drawing her chair closer and laying her head on his shoulder. Casavir was baffled, but pleased.
"Y'see? Even Lala agrees," Khelgar beamed. "You just gotta work on your quaffing. First off, if your clan brother passes you a drink, you gotta take it, even if you're about to fall over. Nobody cares if you pass out, but refuse heart-felt generosity, and you're no better than a human... er... no offense."
At that moment, Casavir spied the dancer moving toward the stair, with Bishop lurching not far behind. A weight lifted from him just as Khelgar pressed his tankard into Casavir's hand. Now that Bishop was safely occupied, why must he refrain from enjoying Khelgar's fraternal attention?
"Drink with me, shield brother!" Khelgar bellowed.
"Gladly!" Casavir responded, and drank gratefully.
"There, now, that wasn't so hard," Khelgar approved. "Now give it back, and pretend I'm somebody important."
"You are somebody important," Casavir heard himself say. "You are her captain."
"That'll do, for a start," Khelgar winked. "Now, let's give it a go. Will you drink from my cup, and call me your cousin?"
"I will, valiant captain," Casavir said expansively. "And your burdens shall be my burdens, in the bond of our kinship."
"Well spoken," Khelgar approved. "But you probably should have taken a bigger sip, unless it's firewhiskey. Sobriety cuts no ice. When you make an oath like that, we'll take it as binding, and the size of the oath must equal the size of the gulp. Take too little, and you'll be read as false. This is probably a good time to tell you about bragging."
"Bragging, Khelgar?" Casavir asked, somewhat blearily.
"Yeah, it's expected," Khelgar admitted. "Promise big things, because it's nothing more or less than the heroism every dwarf carries in his soul, but you'd best deliver, or die trying. The higher you go, the bigger oaths you need to make, and the drunker you'll be when you make them. But drunk or sober, you live by your word. Go back on it, and no dwarf will know you."
"I would never make a promise I would not keep, drunk or sober," Casavir vowed.
"I know it, lad," Khelgar rumbled kindly, passing him his tankard again. "And that's why I think you shoulda been born a dwarf. Even Khulmar saw it, or he'd have never given you the clan horn as freely as he did, or with his words of kinship. He gave it to you personally, and addressed you by name. Yeah, he had to give it to everybody, because withholding hospitality is the worst of all sins, apart from oath-breaking, but he called you by name, in a voice that could be heard by all the clan there present, and that means something. If he didn't think it meant something to you, or that you were worthy of it, he would have just handed it off without a mumble, like he did with Qara."
"And she refused," Casavir remembered.
"Yeah, I had to do a lot of fast talking about that one," Khelgar rolled his eyes. "The shame of it! Anyway, you'll be all right. How are you holding up?"
"Not well," Casavir admitted, suppressing a hiccup. He had downed the best part of a tankard in less than a quarter candle, and he was ill-accustomed to drink. Still, he had his friends about him, and The Lady sat dozing beside him. She had burrowed her way under his arm, and now rested her cheek against his chest, with his arm about her shoulders. He might be a little unsteady, but he was well-contented.
"Now that's a pity," Khelgar grumbled. "It isn't like we stay at inns long enough to build up a tolerance, if you've no natural inclination. When we get back to the Flagon, think you can manage to practice a bit?"
"Practice drinking?" Casavir laughed. "You must be mad."
"Suit yourself," Khelgar shrugged. "You'll get an unpleasant nickname like Casavir the Maiden or Casavir the Dry, but nobody really cares if you fall over after your third tankard, as long as you're decent when you're awake."
Casavir's next mouthful of ale almost came right back out again. Bishop's dancer was returning to the common room, looking annoyed. She was immediately accosted by what looked to be a friend and fellow dancer. Casavir was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the woman's gesture was unmistakable. She had returned because Bishop had imbibed too much to perform to her satisfaction.
Casavir froze. While Bishop might be intoxicated, he was still a threat, perhaps an even greater one, and Casavir had allowed his own judgment to compromised by too much drink.
"Speaking of which," The Lady interjected, stirring enough to sit fully upright, "I'd better turn in."
"My lady," Casavir attempted, "may I speak with you?"
"Of course, Cas," she smiled sleepily. "Here or away from the others?"
"Away, if you please," Casavir tried to enunciate clearly.
Casavir followed her up the stair, intensely aware that he was, in fact, far too impaired to have the conversation he wanted to have.
She led him to her room. She looked around for a place for him to sit, but there was none, as she was using the only chair in the room as an impromptu armor rack.
"Are you all right, Cas?" she asked, looking at him in concern.
"My lady, I fear for your safety," he said.
She blinked at him.
"We're safe enough here," she replied. "The doors lock."
"And if Bishop knocked on your door, would you let him in?"
"I let you in," she reminded him.
"My lady... I would not... I am not Bishop," he protested weakly.
"No," she agreed, "but sometimes, I think you're worse. You were having such a lovely time with Khelgar, but now, if I know you at all, you're about to say something vexing."
"My lady..." he began, cringing at the truth of her words, "I wondered if... might I persuade you to allow me to share your room. I swear by my faith that you have nothing to fear from me."
"I know that only too well," she replied, though Casavir thought he heard sadness in her voice, not mockery. "Why, Casavir? You know it only upsets us both."
"I seek only to protect you," he protested. "I would sleep on the floor. And I will, on one side of the door or the other."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" She objected, though she sounded like she was holding back laughter. "Do you think I want you lurking out in the hallway, broadcasting your insanity to everyone who happens by? Besides, you've got a perfectly good bed of your own, and there's bound to be rats, in a wharfside inn. I won't allow you to sleep on the floor."
"You will not?" he sighed. "Then allow me to sleep at the foot of your bed. My lady, I am sworn to protect you. You must allow me to do so."
She stepped closer to him, then closer, forcing him to retreat until the backs of his knees pressed against the bed rail. A change had come over her face. Before, she had regarded him with indulgence, like anyone might look on a friend who had drunk a little more than his constitution would support, but now... The warm brown of her eyes reminded him of firewhiskey, lively and intoxicating.
"You want to share my bed?" she asked softly. There was something odd about her voice, something dangerous, but thrilling.
"If you will allow it," he whispered.
She drew even closer to him, until her body almost touched him. She reached out, placing her fingertips lightly against his cheek. She wrapped her other arm about his waist, trapping him. He felt her breath warm and soft against his bare neck. Slowly, deliberately, she stroked him, tracing a line down his cheek, down his neck, along his collarbone... over his chest... down his abdomen...
He could bear no more. His passion was roused to the point where he could hardly see, let alone stand, but he lurched away, breaking free of her embrace.
"My lady..." he groaned.
"When you can accept that, Casavir, and when you can respond in kind, then you may share my bed. Not before."
Casavir fled.
He ran past his own room and down the stair. He needed air. He went out into the street, toward the docks.
Gradually, he grew calmer. His pulse slowed and his breathing grew easier. He needed a walk, he decided, to clear his head.
He saw a figure some distance behind him. He turned just in time to see it dart into an alley, but he saw enough to identify his pursuer. The bright hair and pale, slender face could only belong to The Lady. She must have followed him. Perhaps her conscience plagued her, for having tormented him so.
Let her follow, if she chose. A long walk would be a just punishment for enticing him. She played with him. There was no malice in her, he knew, but he could not accept her caress, though he longed for it. If he had been driven to the brink of Falling for a woman of half her worth, what would he not do for her? No, he must be resolute, and resist. One day, perhaps... no, he would defer that thought. He had a lifetime to think of "tomorrow," but right now, he had to be alert to danger, for both their sakes.
He would walk slowly, to allow her to stay close, under his protection. She need fear nothing, if he was near.
Note: Special thanks to my beta reader, this round. She's always great on feedback, but this would have been a whole lot darker without her help. So thanks for her persistence!
