3.

(The Sunken Flagon)

"I... I wish to be alone now. Please." This is a side of Casavir I rarely see. The invisible weight of whatever agony hangs over him is palpable. Yet still, he manages to carry himself with dignity, despite the threat on his life and any words that had come with it. More than anything I long to approach him, to wrap my arms around him, to tell him that everything will well. But will it? The scenario stinks of an assassination attempt, and not by the githyanki that couldn't give us a week to breathe before sending something dreadful after us again. Besides, we've ended their threat with the death of Zeeaire. My friend, and the man I am slowly coming to care for, rises from the table. He is like a shadow of himself. Somewhere trapped inside of his own mind.

Duncan, sensing the tension, doesn't approach him to ask if he needs another glass. The one in Casavir's fist has shattered, cutting him, because he has been squeezing it so forcefully. He hastily bandages his own hand while Shandra and I sit at a nearby table stunned by the emotional impact of the sound of crushed glass. I feel that it would be impossible to get through to him when he is in this state. What happened in that room? Dare I ask? She'd been planning to kill him. I saw her take the daggers off of the back of her belt over that long skirt. Had I been a few seconds late, it would all have been over for him. The thought is too much to bear in silence. Why won't he speak to me? Surely, we've faced worse than assassination attempts?

There's more to it. That I can sense. Did he know her? Shandra reaches over to squeeze my arm reassuringly.

"You know how it is with men. He'll come around."

I shake off the comfort. "Not like this. This isn't the Casavir I know. It can't be just that someone tried to kill him."

"Someone did more than that. Someone tried to murder him in his bed, Una. It's the only place we think is safe, and now it isn't safe anymore for him."

"One of us should sleep in his room from now on. One of the men, I mean." I've added the last bit too quickly. My face colors as I look down at my meal.

"Well," Shandra says, smiling, "I'm not sure that Casavir would be so willing to bunk up with a smelly dwarf or a ranger with a bad attitude. Besides, Bishop would sooner cut his throat than try to save it."

My head snaps up at her words. I drop my spoon into the bowl of stew, finding myself suddenly disinterested in its contents.

"You may have something there, Shandra." I stand up, steeling myself, and carefully approach Casavir. In a tone most uncharacteristic of the man I've come to know, he asks, "What is it?"

I sit across the table from him. His eyes are red-rimmed from the lack of sleep and endless thoughts that appear to wring him out from the inside. I take a deep breath, then reach my hand across the table to place it atop his own.

"Casavir, I don't know what happened to you in that room, but I want you to know that whatever it is, and whatever you aren't telling us, it doesn't change at all who and what you are. Or how we feel about you." I clear my throat. "How I feel about you." One of the problems with having such a fair complexion is flushing to the very tips of my ears when I have to say anything of importance. He doesn't say anything beyond an uncomfortable clearing of his throat.

"My Lady, I do not mean to offend you, but I cannot discuss this at the moment." There is genuine distress in the way he forces out each word. I can feel the ache within me that answers to his pain, and I know at that instant that without a doubt I feel more for this man than simple friendship.

"I can respect that, and I will leave you to your thoughts. But, Casavir, when you feel that you need to unburden your heart, I ask that you... that you let me be the one to listen. It matters to me." I swallow back the lump in my throat. "That is, you matter to me."

Quietly, he whispers, "Thank you, My Lady."

I rise from my chair and touch his back in a friendly gesture. Before my hand has even reached the cloth of his tunic, he flinches.

I head to my room to gather my things. "If this does have anything to do with you, Bishop, I will see you dead."

(An unnamed alleyway in the city of Neverwinter)

"If I hadn't been interrupted, he would be dead already." I look down at my daggers as if they have personally failed me. Although I can still taste the fear and the sweat of him, I haven't had enough.

"Dead already is what I paid you for. What's the problem, Triana? Was he wearing your favorite cologne? Something expensive from Blacklake, maybe?"

Bishop circles me, taunting, throwing every insult he can muster in my direction. "I didn't pay you to make women fawn over him like a little boy lost. If this is something you can't handle, there are others that could do the job for you."

"The contract is mine, Bishop. If you take it away from me, you'll regret it."

"Oh, don't bothering threatening me. You may have a sharp tongue, but that mouth can't go a week without homing in on what your employer's got to offer it." Crudely, he reaches for his groin and thrusts himself in my direction.

Cold anger flashes over me in a way that I find most disconcerting. I feel something of the chill of the first grip of morning crawling up the back of my neck. I look down, almost casually, to see how my fingernails are digging into my palm. The blood eases down the side of it, slipping in drops to the street below. It fascinates me.

"I'll see the contract completed. Have no doubt of that."

"That's a good girl. I've got somewhere else to be tonight. Now, spare yourself the embarrassment of tears, if you would. I haven't got time to stand around putting your world back together."

"Tears, Bishop?" The smile that rises to my face is a grim one. "I think you should find another bed to sleep in this evening. You've got me all wrong if you think I give a damn where you lay your head at night. But wherever it is, you ought to be careful who knows about it."