Summary: There was an Attic challenge for Romance Wot Should Or Ought Not To Be. This is a fic about those halcyon days of early adventuring from Candlekeep...with a certain amount of Xzar. Unlikely to End Well.

First part originally posted on the Attic 10/04/10. Title lifted from a poem by Henry Vaughan.

—

The halfling regularly made veiled and less-veiled threats to slit all their throats as they slept; the wizard was at least partially insane, and a necromancer who showed excessive interest in his work to boot; Prudence's foster sister and her father's trusted acquaintances found the pair suspicious indeed. They were also still the most interesting people she had met since leaving Candlekeep, and she was doing her best to suppress Jaheira's obvious distrust. (And to avoid giving Montaron watch duties by himself.)

"Cities. The prey is so easy to find." Prudence had already noticed a display of uncharacteristic clumsiness from Montaron, bumping into a wealthy-appearing villager—and the clink of gold pieces in his hands. Like Imoen, he had clear talent as a thief. She'd better responsibly make up for that at some point.

(Thieving is less wrong than many other things. She counted her sister's guardian Winthrop—a former rogue—a foster uncle; the profession was an adventurer's standard.)

"I don't mean to sound c-confrontational, but w-would you m-mind being a little less...evil?"

"Be warned—lest ye gauge my sweet tooth." Xzar's disturbing smile was another quality she liked about the pair. He had one gap between his teeth, and slightly inclined his head to the right like a woodlands animal. One with claws; but one whose tangled, light brown hair Prudence felt occasional temptation to ruffle. Or approach with a steel-toothed comb and significant patience.

"Let's sharpen your sweet tooth on mead." That was not as witty as she wanted it to be. "We must equip ourselves and rest before entering the mines. Montaron, do you need extra bullets or crossbow bolts? It may be effective to attack from long distance."

"Let us not be honourless," Jaheira remarked dourly. "But for strategy against demons, you've a fair point. I shall prepare Entanglements several. Though I doubt residents of the Nine Hells have truly invaded this place."

Xzar released a high-pitched giggle. "Demons who feed on iron and flesh. I have seen demons with eyes like cheesecloth. 'Tis true..."

It was at that point an (another) assassin decided earning her bread on their corpses would be profitable. For a while the inn was a bloody place. The victim of a Hold Person to bind her in place— (reading about it, so quietly in Candlekeep, An Account of Offensive Clerical Casting By The Sage Thanatos, a musty brown cover and small calligraphic text, was all too different to the experience—), Prudence was grateful to feel the spell wear off in time to avoid a deadly blow, while Jaheira's staff slammed down upon the back of the woman's head. The attacker was dead, her skull caved into a misshapen, inhuman lump; Prudence could not say that she had become accustomed.

First that—that disadvantaged and impoverished person in the priest's hut with a knife, and the one in the bunkhouse—then the wizard on the steps of the Friendly Arm with the bounty— and now—

Prudence could take a hint, particularly when it was emblazoned upon enormous banners in gold and scarlet. She beat Montaron to stooping to rummage the fallen enemy's pockets, and stood up from the corpse with another scroll hidden in her armour.

"Any good loot?" Montaron watched her with narrowed eyes. She handed him the gold.

"We should rest," she said. She ought to sleep; let oblivion drive it all temporarily from her mind. Her focus would be required for the mines; would she fail and run a second time?

"Clean 'er boots, and hand 'em to me in the morning," Montaron ordered the disgusted-looking inkeeper, pointing down at the corpse's feet.

"How repulsive!" Jaheria snapped. "You befoul yourself with greed. 'Tis unnatural." She gave Prudence a meaningful stare, presumably expecting the paladin to join in the moral condemnation.

"Mines, ye fool of a wench," Montaron said. "Even halfling feet do not rejoice treading metal—and curse ye if you think my toil deserves no reward!"

That was, in fact...a pragmatic and reasonable argument.

"You should at least clean them yourself," Prudence said. She gave Jaheira an apologetic look. "I think Montaron has a point. I'll lay her to rest in slippers."

"G-good lass," said Khalid. "I-if you need help..." he offered, showing clear reluctance for the grisly task; Prudence shook her head. It must be my responsibility in any case. Mine also, to protect these companions from such things as pursue me.

"Gravedigging? Let me be the volunteer, do let me, teacher!"

Prudence used her strength to lift the spade in the barren corner of the town graveyard allotted her; Xzar, whose enthusiasm had evaporated with the warmth of the day, only watched silently, leaning against a crumbling wall as she cracked open the hard ground. The assassin's limbs had already begun to stiffen; Prudence tried not to shiver as she reached into the grave to arrange her properly. She had only witnessed a few funerals at Candlekeep, mostly aged monks who had passed to a natural rest; if she remembered correctly, the left arm ought to touch the shoulder and the right resting over it, hand paused above the heart.

"You're doing it wrong," Xzar commented. "That's Oghma's funeral rites."

Oh. Most in Candlekeep worshipped Oghma; she hadn't given the matter a thought. Surely the god of learning wouldn't be the god of an assassin. Admittedly she had also been an assassin of clerical persuasion. "Well? What deity should I use?"

"Now that is a difficult question." He bent down next to Prudence, arranging and rearranging the corpse's limbs with considerable dexterity. "Garagos, each hand raised to the chest and clutching a weapon, we can always just break this stick in two to use. Leira, the sign of questioning in the left hand and eyes open. Shar, I've a vague impression it's open palms crossed. But you really have no respect for corpses, do you, paladin?"

Ah—she had responded to his necromantic boasts that casting spells with corpses hardly harmed sapient beings, however repulsive it might be. "As a philosophical point, no, like I said. But it matters to living people—" burying Gorion with Imoen beside her, what would they not have done if someone had attempted to violate her father's unliving form? Thinking of Gorion made her lose the tangent. "And you know very well I have to do what other people would like! So how do we figure what god it is?"

"It's simple, really," Xzar said. He scribbled words on a scroll in ink black as his intricate tattoos, in runes Prudence knew barely the sounds of, not at all the meanings. "Say these words as a paladin, and no doubt at least one of your gods will hear you—and I shall perform the ritual forgiven by deities. Not that I believe in them, it only encourages them." He reached into a pouch he had concealed, and sprinkled herbs of an uncertain nature over the body. "'Tis no advanced spell, only a call to the gods in more-than-final extremity. Of course, how do you know that it does not express a sacred vow to turn Blackguard?"

Prudence sighed. Candlekeep tutors had made some efforts in educating her. "Impia iam merita scrute—scrutatus lumina dextra—merserat aeterna damnatum nocte pudorem; oedipodes longag—longaque animam sub morte traje—trahebat." Well, if I were a god, I'd judge intent... Let's hope I pronounced everything right, I have no idea how to even spell those runes out properly.

Xzar had a tinderbox; a spark flared, and fire consumed the body, such that Prudence saw a skull smiling up at her as she jumped back from the heat.

"Now her evil and/or neutral deity shall claim her soul," Xzar said. "Too bad I didn't think to save the liver. It goes so divinely with Elminster's mead." Turning abruptly, he whistled his way back to the inn; "Thank...", Prudence began, but he would not answer her. She picked up the shovel to push back the dug earth over the ashes that remained.

"You know, you could've explained your ritual before I dug all the way down!" she called after him.

—

They had met in the forest, on the road to the Friendly Arm—a tumultuous meeting, Prudence and Imoen pursued by wolves that Montaron helped them fight off after the breathless agreement Imoen had negotiated.

"We travel to Nashkel, and would not be averse to companions on the road. Perhaps Monty here will prove our sincerity...Monty, will you help the young ladies with those dreadful creatures?"

"Oh, I'll do yer toil, wizard," Prudence had heard Montaron grunt. She, lunging at the pair of wolves in front of her, scored a deep slash down the side of the closer beast; the other warrior joined her to flank them. With Imoen's arrows, the deed was soon done.

"Thank you," Prudence said. The fighter—a cut on his left hand, though not deep enough to need to lay hands upon—wore leather armour over grubby clothing, and had the curly hair and stature of a halfing; looking reluctant to clean the gore from his sword, he bent down to pluck a handful of grass. She did the same. "Uh, my name is Prudence. Where did you say you were going...?"

"Fools! The hands of fighters are best left from intellectual discussions." She had not properly noticed the halfling's companion before, a figure in tattered green robes; Prudence stared at him. He seemed a little older than she and Imoen, a slim man laughing with a strange tone to his voice; green-eyed, and more fey than several elves she had met within the library walls. "Know the name of Xzar, dullard. Necromancer...powerful."

"Pleased to meet you," she said tartly. Funny; she found it easy to accept the insults as casual byplay. Prove your intelligence, Prudence! "I don't know much about necromancing, but I did think Kilraanus's Death and Divine Casting was quite interesting." (Not that she had actually read more than the first two chapters in the library, as cleric magic was as yet far beyond her and the latter chapters went deep into technical complexities, but she could truthfully say that she aspired to it.) Paladins are allowed to impress new companions, right? Even if they were necromancers...which was still a perfectly legitimate specialization to choose in order to optimize one's selection of spells.

"Ah. I notice Candlekeep is to the west." That seemed a better response from him. "Perhaps we shall discuss our terms of alliance further—after a brief respite." They had reached a junction between two roads, a sign indicating the Friendly Inn to the north; relatively safe.

"I'm feeling a little peckish myself," Imoen said. "Hey, Pru, didya pack anything edible?"

That was completely Imoen. Boldly sneaking out of the walls of Candlekeep to follow Prudence's escape, bringing the bow and arrows that had already saved their lives—and forgetting any provisions. Though, to be honest, Prudence had had the advantage of warning for the journey.

"Like the mad wizard said, we're headed to the Nashkel Mines," Montaron explained to Prudence. "Our—client—desires a reason behind the iron shortage."

"We're going to the Friendly Arm to meet friends," Prudence said. "If you don't mind a detour, we'll be pleased to accompany you. Perhaps our friends will also." A quest to halt the iron shortage. Without Gorion —she pushed that thought to the back of her mind, for later— I do not know what to do. Perhaps, in examining the problems on the Sword Coast, I will find enough direction to at least avoid thinking about...

"Hmm. The delay is unfortunate, but with the roads as they are—I will accept such terms," Xzar said. "Take these healing potions in return. Excellent bread, by the way. Fresher than dear Monty's tastes."

From Candlekeep kitchens. That thought was also unwelcome.

"Monty," Imoen said, looking down at the halfling next to her. "Say, you're pretty good with that blade." Imoen also favoured a short sword, if deprived of her preferred bow; and, though the halfling's fighting style seemed stronger and more fluid than Imoen's, Prudence could see similarity in the techniques they favoured, much more reliance to speed and craft than simple strength.

"The name is Montaron. And I will slit yer throat at anything otherwise." Imoen looked shocked; and rallied.

"You jest well—" She punched his arm, quite hard; he reached up to rub it, scowling wickedly. Prudence looked for the swift movement of her other hand. "No, I take you seriously, Montaron. Slit my throat if you will, but look to your coin!"

Montaron reached to his belt, but too late; Imoen waved his filched purse at him.

"Thieving talent?" He belched. "Lass, you we'll show a profitable target or two. Now return my goods, lest I carry out my threat."

"Tell us more," Xzar said dreamily, his long fingers splayed on the grass; the light turned them almost translucent. "Two adrift in the forest, hailing from Candlekeep."

"We were travelling with my father," Prudence said. Actually, Imoen had been sneaking behind, but that was too much detail for comparative strangers. "He was murdered on the road by—they were bandits, I guess." The figure in dark armour had not spoken like a bandit, but that was another thing that she did not need to say. It was only last night. Only last night that she had run from the fight, betraying everything a paladin was supposed to hold dear. Just now they had found Gorion's body, and his letter... "Now we go to meet his friends, in—in his place."

Xzar ignored her. "Have you ever seen dragons with feet like rabbits?" he asked dreamily. Plucking a stick from beside him, Xzar sketched patterns on the ground. Prudence allowed herself to relax a little. If they inquired further into her story, she did not know how she would restrain herself from weeping again at Gorion's death. She tried to smile at the sunlight through the trees above them, dappling the wizard's strange drawings in gold.

"Shade 'tis cool, and sound; must be quiet; oh, how the appendix squishes, with mead and sweet beans. Monty in the shadows is so useful ; the scales went before it could look in silver! I allowed it to do so. Never lose yourself into two reflections. Rabbits, too quick, wolves, too slow; drain them all with a cantrip. Mummy would never not heal me. Do you know what happens, basilisk's blood with smoking ice in dreadwolf liver?—isn't it funny! The scaled thing had no hoard though, how terrible! Monty simply lives for gold; for my delicate needs, let me throw such incessant noise...I see you would rather listen than tell a story. I shall demand a return, and stew someone's smaller intestine at that. Allow me to sketch the rabbit in the moon; he smiles at Montaron."

The wizard was not sane; within his ramblings, though, might have been flashes of insight, and hints of stories past. In idly piecing the tangled scraps together there was welcome occupation of the mind. Xzar and Montaron were no scholars of Candlekeep, and Prudence was grateful.

The halfling finished a dirty-minded joke about lockpicking; Imoen laughed. "Yeah, that's not exactly why I became a thief," she said.

"Ho there, wanderer." Prudence looked up. Her hand immediately dove to her crossbow; how had she failed to observe the approach of another? The traveller was white-bearded, though; perhaps he intended them no harm. "Would thou stay the course a moment, to indulge an old man?"

"Certainly." Prudence stood, a little awkwardly; she gestured down to what remained of the bread and cheese laid out on her kerchief. "If you would share with us, you're welc..."

"There is no need for that, youngster. Do you travel to the Friendly Arm Inn?"

Prudence's gaze darted to the sign near them. "Perhaps rest there, briefly," she said. "I have heard it is famed in all the region." Was their course really so easy to guess? Perhaps she ought to consult Imoen as to stealth; she did not wish to leave a beacon advertising their destination to all who might wish them harm.

"Why take an interest, old man?" Montaron said. "Ye never know who ye might be talking to, times as they are." Prudence was not sure if the way he fingered his sword's hilt was intentionally ominous or not.

"I agree. One should sometimes be wary of companions." Did the old man's gaze sweep the necromancer and the halfling, deliberately? She was not sure. "But that is enough of an old man's ramblings. Fare thee well."

"Let's be off." Montaron yanked what was left of their meal away, packing quickly. "I'll not be gawked at by all travellers who please!"

"Monty, you have such a temper! Tell me about the rabbits. And the one with the gold and the bears!"

—

The band of hobgoblins came upon them. Prudence drew her scimitar, dashing forward; she heard Imoen nock an arrow behind her. The first she disarmed in one of Rolland's maneuvers, and followed with a straight thrust to its chest; the second, third, fourth, and fifth presented rather greater difficulty. She found herself matching a blade with No. Three, Montaron beside her trying to hack at another's kneecaps. She tried to use her shield defensively, protecting them both.

A shot from Imoen distracted one from her, and Xzar cried a single word. A spell, it was, white-coloured, possibly energy-stealing (...necromancy...); another arrow from Imoen buried itself in the orange flesh. Prudence kept fighting. Montaron's hobgoblin had started to bleed— She grunted when a blow bruised her sword arm. Thank Helm for solid chainmail. Xzar's unearthly laugh sounded as his second spell killed the target. Two dead.

"Mummy, help, no more spells!"

Broken loose. One of the hobgoblins she'd been trying to fight, racing to Im and the wizard. Prudence saw him ducking behind Imoen, hiding his face in his arms; she ran to protect them. Her sister, and a frail mage, chased by a large hobgoblin—Montaron would hold back the other two; she was going to trust him at her back. She flung herself on the hobgoblin, making him turn from the chase.

Protect Imoen.

Hvaltha would have approved of the strength she found to strike. (Attacking it from behind—a paladin? But it was chasing the vulnerable in my group— ) The killing. It was over rather quickly. There was almost surprise on the hobgoblin's face when it turned back to try to fight, but she withdrew her scimitar and stabbed it again, when it died. She'd killed perhaps four humanoids ever. No time to think on that; Montaron fought still, finishing one off at that very moment. One remaining. She used her shield to block its shortsword, and the halfling hamstrung it; and presently it also died.

She lowered her scimitar, rested lightly on her shield, and posed as though she had known for the whole time what she was doing. (On second thoughts: honesty is the best policy.) It had been nothing like driving away a few gibberlings alongside the Candlekeep Watchers. Montaron was already bent to the corpses, and rifled quickly through the first hobgoblin's leathers.

"Thank you," she said to him. For fighting; taking the brunt of it when she'd rushed away.

He ignored her. "Bloody hobbos never carry anything worth me time." A few coins passed through his fingers from the hobgoblin's pouch. "Ye brats feel like pulling yer weight at the looting? Mind that I'll be slitting throats if I'm cheated."

"I don't cheat," Prudence said.

"Except at solitaire," Imoen said, which didn't count. "Prudence the Mighty Paladin! You have rescued the Princess Imoen from the vile band of vile hobgoblins!" she laughed. "Not to say that Imoen the Immensely Crafty Rogue wasn't a fantastic shot with her bow as well—"

Montaron had stopped dead in his tracks; Prudence saw dust kicked up when he turned from the hobgoblin he plundered. He shouted:

"Ye what! Ye mean we've been trusting ourselves with a bloody paladin? " Scuttling several steps away from Prudence, he stared at her as if she had suddenly polymorphed into a venomous snake. "Wizard, hark at this! A feckin' paladin, and she keeps quiet as a mouse and lets us imagine she's just another fighter!"

Prudence gaped at him. "A paladin who you weren't too proud to fight hobgoblins with five minutes ago!"

"A deceptive jade indeed," Xzar agreed, stroking his chin. "Oh, evasions, half-truths, lies-of-omission don't count—was that where you were about to split hairs, my dear?" It had been, and furthermore she would have been right, and still further he wasn't nearly old enough to use the patronising adjective, Prudence noted. "Well, Monty, I don't think you ought to stab her in the back, since she's forewarned of course—"

"Well, I wonder what kind of people don't like paladins," Imoen said, posing really quite formidably with a hand on her waist. "Sis?"

"What makes you so concerned?" Prudence said to Xzar.

"Oh, I've only cast spells from dead people Monty made that way—indulged in frighteningly devious necromantic rites to imprison the soul in numerous simultaneous sequential hells—turned unliving flesh into abominations that would drive you mad mad MAD—and I did mention dead spell components, didn't I?—and rabbits, I've cast spells with rabbits too, and chatted to Netherese liches and turned peaceful innocent little villagers into zombie horrors who eat their own flesh oh yes and and and—all of which you ought to know, Prudence of the unfortunate name, with your white staring eyes looking into the soul just as bad as teeth gems glowing orangelemarine in the dark—"

"Montaron, is he really that powerful a wizard?" Prudence said. Screaming and hiding behind Imoen had failed to give her an impression of a wizard she ought to fight; she'd had to protect him. If they wished to do harm, they would have done so already. Comfort after Gorion's death...

"I'd say that it's more the blasted human whippersnapper's inevitable death I be watching fer," Montaron said. "Ye aren't inclined to hurry yer own somewhat? We've duties to be getting to."

"You gave us healing potions; we fought together; the mines sound like a good thing to do. I don't know how many other paladins you've met or what—"

Xzar burst into high-pitched laughter. "Exactly none, of course! Until you enter, pursued by wolves—"

"Because we're not stupid. While ye may not know it, the tinheads don't have a sterling reputation in all parts," Montaron snarled. "Going to do the thing with the eyes, Primrose?"

That was certainly a fighting word; Imoen had thoroughly exploited the existence of the children's scroll series involving Clover the Cleric, Primrose the Paladin, Daisy the Druid, and their little friend Winslow the Wizard.

"Not if I don't have to. Privacy, preconceptions, occasional unreliability, and makes my head hurt." She had reasoned it out in detail and believed, quite strongly, that she'd no right to glare inside another's psyche without due reason; even Rolland, who had told her either to polish his ceremonial armour yet again or run laps of the keep whenever she began theoretical tangents, had said gruffly that to overuse the gods' gifts was improper (and had then told her to fetch the polish).

Xzar nodded almost sympathetically. "Sometimes my head hurts too! Then the voices in my head start talking and the trees start moving around. Smiles everyone, smiles! This is like some great fantasy!"

He seemed to...dance.

"I don't know whether to laugh or be really, really disturbed," Imoen said.

"Now you've gone and set him off! Blasted mage will blither for hours!" Montaron scowled, and jerked a dirty thumb in Xzar's direction. "Give me a hand. Your conscience for our healing potions be your guide. Just like all good people."

Four in the wilderness. Montaron's practicality was helpful; he had Xzar sitting propped against a tree easily enough. She noted a bloodstain on his leathers the wrong tint to be hobgoblin.

"Would you like me to lay hands on you?" she offered to him. He gave a comment in return—a very inventive one, really, but a moment's thought placed it comfortably into the fifth category of possible inappropriate innuendo.

"Yes, one has to know a lot about anatomy to heal," Prudence said, which had the benefit of being entirely true; she heard Imoen snort.

A hobgoblin's blade had slid across Montaron's off arm, slashing through his light armour and cutting through the skin. She concentrated; she'd learned from Candlekeep's clerics of Oghma how the bones and muscles knit together, the melding of blood vessels and the Old Chessentan names of each of the major ones, how to bind the cut and stretch the skin together again. Prayers of healing could harm out of sheer ignorance if they were not coupled with knowledge, requiring a cleric of greater ability to inflict again and properly heal the wound. Montaron's scratches were no worse than the standard Candlekeep injury—training accidents to herself, Imoen dropping a too-heavy wine case on Winthrop's foot by accident, Dreppin falling off a stable ladder, occasional bites from rare gibberling raids—and she knew she had succeeded in fully restoring him. The bruises beneath her armour were only beginning to ache, and she promised herself she could use any healing power that remained to her upon them at the very end of the day.

"I see the Brow star rising," Xzar said; he had stood up, regathered his robes about him to some degree of order, and pointed at the sky. The faint light of the northernmost star of Mystra's Circle had started to spark against the dark blue. "What distance from the Inn, chums?"

"Five hours, I'd give with ye walking it," Montaron said.

"Then we're stopping, right?" Imoen said. "Don't get me wrong, I love the dark."

"Ye'll walk 'till we're out of hobbo territory."

There didn't seem to be room for disagreement there; "He's right," Prudence said. She carefully reshouldered her pack; she was tired, but it would do no good to show it.

"Amour chafe issues?" Xzar said. "I tire easily enough myself..."

"I'm fine." She liked to think she had enough willpower—and thankfulness toward divine grace—to last through anything that had to be done. Nevertheless she knew her own weaknesses.

"I've started to think you're secretly in league with some rabbits or other," he said. "That makes you not very boring."

"Imoen's foster father sometimes made a very good rabbit stew if there were only a few of us," Prudence said. Perhaps mentioning the consumption would bring him closer to reality?

"...And wouldn't understand a subtle concept if it attacked you naked except for an 'I Am Smitable Oh And A Subtle Concept' flag on its head."

"Dialogue does not need to be packed with insults to be...not boring," Prudence said.

"Perfect concordance and charmingly tedious repose are two phrases of the same meaning."

"And that's falsely broadening my point," she said.

"I'm so flattered you noticed. How much debate do your holy orders generally allow?"

"It depends on the order, of course," she said. "I think that words alone do no harm, but there are restrictions upon subjects..." Such as that book the Order of the Radiant Heart had deposited in Candlekeep; ten-year-old Imoen had gleefully told her about all the drawings of strange naked people in it and how Winthrop kept it in his room. But not all good deities disapproved of such things in the least.

He laughed; a sudden, quick noise, rather than long and disturbing as before. "Words do no harm! Spells are words and charms are words and bonds are words; words are bridges and journeys and founding springs to the world; words are communions and belief and change; and when they are so powerful you pay them no heed?"

"Harmless, not no heed," she corrected. "It isn't right to judge others on their words without reference to their actions. What about the case where a person speaks incautiously and does actions that are good? Insincere words might—"

"Insincere words are lies! But you were right, evasions and not-saying aren't lies. I think that's an important point. Of course these matters are hurtful and destructive. Not only the falsehood. A few words of perfect truth too mad to seem true in the great halls of the powerful and they all fall down...or pack you safely away elsewhere, that sort of thing. Not harmless—" he said.

"All right, not harmless, I'll give you that," she broke in. "But trying to murder someone just because they said something would be a lot more harm." She realized a gap she had left, and hurried to close it. "Unless it was a case where a lie directly led to an evil act or injustice, such as framing someone for a deed they didn't do. And that would be an exception," she finished.

He smiled. "You've changed your argument from harmless to It would definitely cause more harm to murder people who say things I don't like. Which is all very productive and I'm sure saves you the time and trouble of committing a few genocides here and there, but still your logic-shifting word-shifting ways—"

"Ways which in no way are akin to yours—no, that's equivocation. Opinions, while unattached to either magic or deeds, are a matter for each individual and should only be acted against if they become attached to such things and then harm others," she said.

"The shackled, rule-bound approach. How is continuity favoured by your theories? Take one word, all it has ever meant to everyone speaking it, the lack of one single moment when that boundary shall pass and that one word transforms to significance, and your result—"

"We're not supposed to fight until the circumstances require it. So we choose a particular moment, err on the side of caution, and use that arbitrary moment to help in judgement. Humans have to do that to make sense of the world." That felt slightly too simplified, but true nonetheless by practice.

"Are you really completely sure about that? The world is a glittering haze and the other name for it is Change and if you can hold more than seven continuous dimensions in your head without being driven mad you've done far better than I. Draw a line upon this." He muttered a few words; a sphere of light green mage-light sprung up about his head. Prudence hadn't realized how dark the evening had become. The small light illuminated his face; a spark of it shone brightly in his eyes.

Debate; cantrip; and—

"Here's a decent enough camping spot," Montaron informed them; his pack hit the ground with a dull thump. "Cease the blather, douse the light in case of unwelcome guests coming to slip a blade in you first, and get to work."

"Thank goodness!" Imoen said cheerily. "Y'know, she talks and talks at you, it's supposed to be a paladin-charisma-diplomacy-thing but..." Which was clearly somewhat stretching the truth.

"At least she's saner than the mad mage," Montaron said. "You're a decent cook, girl? Supplies're in that pack."

"We'll need a fire, won't we?" Imoen said helpfully.

Xzar had slumped down against a tree. "Yes, I must study; make light and warmth for me."

"Go do something—carry sticks or help with the tents," Prudence said. She detached the hatchet she had brought from Candlekeep. "I'll go into the woods." And finally take off the armour; she'd sweated terribly.

"Thy voice is ambrosia," Xzar said. "Or possibly two parts ambrosia, one part honey, three tumeric, one saffron, one basil... Which would be quite indigestible." Either way, he stood again.

"Yer still not getting anywhere near the stew. His spell components get into it," Montaron explained in an aside.

"Oh, pish, a single instance of a few gibberling fingerbones. Plebeian narrowmindedness at its worst," he said. "Still, I may be able to do something. If I must! Tell me more 'bout the rabbits!"

Prudence felt it was a relief to be walking without her chain hauberk; the night was dark, but the moon sufficient light to find kindling. Distant howls and noises sounded, and she remained as quiet as possible.

"About time," Montaron grunted; the pair of small tents both stood together. Xzar was nowhere to be seen.

"We got rid of him; he's asleep," Imoen said. "C'mon, start up the fire."

It was Imoen's dice they rolled for watch allocations, which wasn't entirely unproblematic; she took on first watch. Prudence fed the warm ashes about the pot containing what was left of Imoen's stew, for Xzar, when he'd take the watch before dawn. (Sure, the crazy wizard ain't to be trusted for much, but he'll scream like a little girl if anything happens. Chauvinistic in the mode of expression, but believable.)

Prudence took up the weight of her scimitar and began the exercises. It would be much easier to collapse like Xzar; no amount of healing prayers could take the ache from her bones, the way her weaponry felt as if it were made of dense lead. Yet if she could not do this, she would fail the next time a battle came to them. If she continued to try, broke past the exhaustion and into a second strength, she could outlast her own limits. Thanks to the gods' grace.

She ran the regular meditations, prayers, through her mind.

My father is dead.

Feint in quart.

I pray for aid in investigating this mine in Nashkel, doing what I can to help in this matter—

Hooking thrust in tierce. Gorion would wish her to follow in his footsteps as an adventurer; to grieve him in her heart rather than in place of achieving what he would approve of.

In defending my companions.

Block in seconde. The force of this was filling her mind, as it ought. Concentration.

I pray to be granted healing again this night.

Low slash from tierce. She could have stayed with Gorion, healed him—through her vocation she cast the spell faster than most Candlekeep clerics—and—

I pray for the strength to continue on.

Block in tierce. Dangerously ragged and uneven; her hand shook slightly.

Strength—

High slash from seconde.

To save other people.

—

There was nothing when she'd woken Imoen that ought to have suggested gibberlings in the air; and she had managed to sleep without dream almost from the instant she had closed her eyes. But Xzar happened to be screaming and surrounded by gibberlings at some point just before dawn.

Montaron was fast, swearing loudly, already scattering them with his short sword. Prudence gathered up her weapon belt, took hold of her shield—ought to know exactly where they were, ought to always know, ran through her mind—and joined the fight.

The gibberlings had branched into two groups—not counting a third consisting of a few running back off into the woods, they were two half-circles surrounding Xzar. Montaron methodically sliced at those to the right. Xzar was shouting, his arms windmilling and his dagger making wild swings at the creatures. She attacked at the left, charging to herd them away from Xzar—gibberlings were quick to fear—

He dropped to the ground, a gibberling on top of him. His spellbook floated above his head, bizarrely enough, bobbing and dipping as if sharing his distress. Prudence slashed her way forward, knocked the gibberling away from him. He was bleeding through his mage's robe, more than she'd seen anyone do from a gibberling—it was only gibberlings. She protected him.

A set of small teeth nipped around her bare wrist, clinging there; she shook her arm fiercely. It dropped and fell, and she cut through it. The creatures were starting to scatter. She cast her healing quickly on Xzar, stemming the deep wound, shielding with her other hand. Montaron finished the last of them.

"Cutthroats everywhere I'll not let them take us alive!" Xzar rolled aside. The spellbook still rotated around his head. "I feel better now."

"And the rivers run red! Piddling little streams." Montaron kicked a gibberling's body. "I'd rather miss my beauty sleep for better prey."

"Ewww." Imoen, recently crawled out of the tent, wrapped her arms tightly around her pink chemise. She stared at the blood and bodies of the creatures. "That's revolting. Is this supposed to happen every night?"

"Nope. What did they get away with, wizard?" Montaron kicked his way between the bodies.

"Looks like the food, and some of the pots," Imoen said.

"The iron," Montaron said. "A pox on them! Raid the bodies for what payment ye find."

"Yep: ewww. I'll be back there getting properly dressed," Imoen said.

"Squeamish, are we?" Montaron said to Prudence. A few gibberlings had rough pouches strapped to their bodies. The bite on her wrist ached dully, and she used as little of her reserves as possible against it in case of infection. "Would ye rather benefit the next travellers, or save us time and trouble?"

She unstrapped a pouch from a gibberling leg stained in light blue blood. Two human-made gold pieces; a small stained silver ring. The gibberlings hadn't carried much. It would be hypocritical, Prudence thought, to run away from the corpses when she had helped to create them.

"Five gold, two silver, three coppers; two rings," she counted. "What about you?"

"Their spleens make terrible spell components and emergency rations," Xzar said.

"Eight gold and a bloodstone amulet," Montaron said. "Not so concerned for yer modesty as the sister?"

The top lacing of her undershirt was flapping loose; she pulled it back together. "There are more important things."

"Heh. Off to yer goody-goody friends, then."

—

She could see it at last, once they emerged from a particularly dense thicket after their hours of walking: the Friendly Arm. The sun had not reached the centre of the sky, shining on the huge edifice of solid stone. It looked like a castle; hadn't it once been something of the sort? In any case, its fortifications promised a temporary respite, company, Gorion's friends.

"Gosh," Imoen said. "Have you been before? Montaron? So big! Lots of rich people staying there?"

"Rules are strict on thieving," Montaron said, though he seemed to smirk. "No getting caught."

"...and the ordinary people of the Inn have their rights and properties, Im..." Prudence said. Her sister had always (almost) returned the sundry inkwells and quills she'd swiped from the monks.

"Practicing is so important for adventurers, and I guess I can learn a lot!" Imoen gave a dimpled, innocent smile.

It did not take too long a time to reach the gates, encouraged by the sight at last. Even close up, it was a magnificent structure; that dark grey stone, imposingly placed with hair-thick lines separating one vast slab from the next, the sense of history, the battles and the blood shed here— Where had that piece of melodramatic imagining come from? Prudence smiled at the pleasant-looking guard, a tall man with bright blue eyes, and he told of the common-sense rules of the Inn. Armour surrendered; weapons surrendered; and Xzar elaborately hooked his left thumb into his belt.

They walked past the small farms within the Inn's grounds; like Candlekeep, the cows and narrow fields it kept were necessary to sustain the small world within its borders. The guard had mentioned the temple of Garl Glittergold, a small but elaborately decorated building topped with the god's symbol. The Inn should have been a content place, but in the fragments of conversations carried on the wind, the words 'bandits' and 'iron' were never far distant. It was clear that Something would have to be done about the iron crisis, and once they met Gorion's friends and left here she would help, Prudence vowed.

On the narrow steps to the Inn stood a man; he was almost as skinny as Xzar, with cramped, narrow features. The wizard robes he wore looked as though they had been slept in. Prudence saw him looking at them; and at her. She raised a hand in greeting.

"Excuse me," he said to her, facing her on the steps. "Might you be Prudence of Candlekeep?"

"Yes. Are you Khalid? I'm glad to m—"

"Don't move. I have something for you," he said. He opened his hands; something cold and invisible seemed to pass by Prudence's cheek. Imoen and Xzar screamed almost in unison, and guards too shouted in what sounded like a deathly fear.

She looked back; she had to. They weren't physically harmed, but Imoen and the others were running below like grains of wheat blown by the wind, shouting about fears they felt.

A Horror spell. And when Prudence looked back to the wizard, five of him danced. Impossible to tell which was true, which casting the next spell. For weaponry she'd but the hatchet. She stepped forward, punching blindly, the weights in her gloves adding strength—trying to find the real one— Disrupting the imposed terror.

Two burning missiles hit her in the chest. She gasped for breath, frantic prayers in her mind. Heal—please—

A pale white spell destroyed one of the images. Prudence stumbled against the shapes, and a second image seemed to blink out. She lurched forward. The wizard was chanting again, three pairs of hands in swift motion. Her right hand found the hatchet and she lunged toward the caster with the improvised weapon. The hands seem to falter slightly, the wizard's reflections sidestepped; and a second spell consumed another image. It was Xzar's casting. The final image seemed to flicker out as she swung at it; she breathed in a thick gulp of air and felt the power of the gods she called upon. One wizard remained, waving his hands still. Something—someone—half her height rushed by, moving too swiftly and silently to be more than the lightest consciousness.

She attacked again, but the wizard crumpled and fell on the steps independent of her act. Montaron, behind him, held a shortsword that he must have somehow concealed, overflowing with gore. She leaned back against the wall, touching where the spell had wounded her. Even her armour would have done nothing to stop it from burning.

Imoen was still screaming, something about pink werewolves chasing her; the Friendly Arm guards also cried for help. Xzar was near the steps, brushing dust from his hands.

"Can you dispel it?" she asked him.

"Montaron, is he really that powerful a wizard?" he recited, not unbitterly. "No, can you?" The gods had not revealed to her the ability to shape prayers in such a way.

"It will wear off soon anyway, won't it?" she said. "—Weren't you hit by it? You screamed—"

"Everyone else was. I thought I'd follow the fashion." He smiled, and the unfocused look seemed to find its way to his eyes again. "I've never liked the sunlight; 'tis just too bright. And the trees are moving again. Why don't you come smite them for me? I think—"

There were two figures standing on the top of the steps, speaking; Prudence heard a woman's voice.

"'Tis almost a slight on him, but I see it too."

"Yes, dear," her male companion said. Both of them wore leather jerkins stiff enough to be close to light armour; and the woman held a long oak staff that did not seem to be needed for purposes of support. "Excuse us, c-child, in these circumstances; but are you Prudence of Candlekeep?—"

Prudence was bloodied, slightly, standing there with the hatchet in hand; and she was thankful Montaron was still prepared for a battle.

Another—

"That's what happened to the last person who asked!" She gestured with the hatchet to the wizard's body as fiercely as she could. I am a ruthless bloodthirsty person who will kill you! she tried to project. There was someone else trying to attack, and No, you must be looking for a different tall dark human fighting woman might not have been convincing to avoid a fight— "Flee or face the consequences!" Her voice sounded close enough to Hvaltha's most authoritative moods, and something behind her eyes felt as hot as if she really would be able to tear their throats open—

They looked at each other. "Don't be absurd, child," the woman said. "We are your father's friends. My name is Jaheira," she said very slowly, which served to deflate Prudence's pose; "and this is my husband Khalid. Gorion is not with you? I must assume the worst. He would not permit his only child to travel without his accompaniment." She looked down at Montaron and his bloodied sword, drawing her lips narrowly together.

"Yes," Prudence said. Gorion was dead; she wished with all her heart that she did not have to continue to say the words of it. "My sister Imoen—you've heard of her?—is down there; and our companions Montaron, here, and Xzar saved us from wolves, and lately this...person."

"Nice bluff there. Didn't think ye had it in you," Montaron said to her.

"Montaron, I presume," Jaheira said; her tone was not overly friendly. "That girl Imoen; and your other..."

The wizard wasn't waiting at the steps any more; he'd wandered off somewhere. "Xzar!" Prudence called. He'd been bending over some of the foliage growing around the inn, and straightened up with a bunch of greenery in his hands. "We've found my father's friends! What are you doing?"

"Whiling away the exchanges of monotonous social untruths and picking daisies. Wheeeeee." He brought the fresh leaves he carried to his face; Prudence couldn't see any flowers among them.

"Those are poison ivy," Jaheira said.

—

It only encourages them—Pratchett's Nanny Ogg.

—