awkward position, ever again. I’m supposed to stand for justice and honor, he thought, not show the world an example of deception and trickery.
Well, he thought, Fallcrest will see Bahamut’s justice meted out at the point of my sword soon enough. And my little deception will be forgotten.
The bridge crossed over the fastest and loudest part of the river before the falls, depositing him just south of the Upper Quays. The street was choked with people, milling around or loitering under the eaves of buildings. He saw people settling their families into makeshift camps inside wagons or in the mouths of alleys. He saw people who looked more like respectable shopkeepers than the downtrodden and destitute, standing on street corners and begging for food. He saw desperation, fear, or despair in the eyes of nearly everyone he passed.
He looked over his shoulder at Tempest, whose eyes were fixed on the cobblestones at her feet. She and Fallcrest are the same, he thought. Both besieged, invaded, and violated-and reeling from the shock of it. But how do I deliver her?
Lost in his thoughts, he led the way to the Silver Unicorn Inn-not typically his first choice of places to stay in Fallcrest, but with the Nentir Inn in flames, he had little choice. The service was better, anyway, but the group would pay handsomely for it. If there were rooms to be had at all-with Hightown so crowded with refugees from the rest of the town, it seemed unlikely.
His thoughts turned to the Blue Moon Alehouse, his favorite place in all Fallcrest to pass the time between adventures. Thanks to the labors of its brewmaster, Kemara Brownbottle, the Blue Moon offered the finest ales and beers in the whole Nentir Vale, rivaling anything he’d tasted even in Nera. He and Tempest had first met Albanon there, when the young apprentice wizard had come to hear the tales of their adventures. The Blue Moon was in Lowtown, though, which meant it was abandoned-or worse. How long will it take Kemara to recover? he wondered. Assuming we do drive the demons away.
The sound of breaking glass jolted him from his thoughts. He spun around and saw a shattered bottle on the cobblestones, and Shara glaring around at the crowds.
“Who threw that?” Shara demanded. “You want to fight him? Come out and fight!”
The drow. He’d been right after all-fear and suspicion were at terrible heights in Fallcrest, and he provided a convenient focus for those emotions. Though the crowd was silent in the face of Shara’s challenge, it had all the appearance of an angry mob, and Roghar suspected they’d been shouting jeers and catcalls while he was lost in his thoughts. Shara had her arm linked through Quarhaun’s and a defiant glare on her face, but Quarhaun himself looked far too weak and tired to face any challenger who emerged.
Roghar stepped to Quarhaun’s other side and lifted the drow’s arm over his own shoulder. “Shara,” he said. “Ignore them. We’ve got to get him off the street and into a bed.”
Shara looked at Quarhaun and blanched at the realization of how weak he was. She nodded to Roghar and hurried along toward the inn. The jeers resumed as they walked, but Roghar paid them no heed.
“They’re scared, Shara,” he said. “Getting angry at them isn’t going to soothe their fear. They’ll change their attitudes when they see what we do.”
Shara nodded and gritted her teeth, and they reached the Silver Unicorn without further incident. Uldane spoke to the halfling proprietor, Wisara Osterman, and returned with the happy news that rooms were available, albeit expensive. Apparently, Wisara had addressed the high demand for rooms in Hightown by raising her already high rates beyond the amount that most of the displaced folk would be willing or able to pay. Unfortunate for the refugees, Roghar thought, but lucky for us.
He helped Shara get Quarhaun upstairs, half dragging him, and laid him into one of the down-stuffed beds for which the Silver Unicorn was justly famous. The drow’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the comfort of the bed, then closed again as exhaustion claimed him.
“Platinum Dragon,” Roghar whispered, “let your power flow through me to soothe Quarhaun’s injuries and ease his weary body. Grant him patience to face the fears and mistrust of the good folk here. And grant him the faith to trust in your goodness and mercy.”
Roghar felt strength leave him and flow into the drow, soothing Quarhaun’s rest. “He’ll be all right,” he told Shara. “He should sleep easier now, and he’ll feel better in the morning.” He stood up to leave.
“Roghar,” Shara said, stopping him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, of course,” Roghar said. “But I hope he truly deserves the trust you’re placing in him.”
Shara smiled down at Quarhaun, a little wistfully, Roghar thought. “I hope so, too,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Shara sat by Quarhaun’s side for hours, watching him sleep. He seemed troubled-from time to time, he’d furrow his brow, murmur in a language she didn’t understand, or even thrash his head from side to side and cry out. In the worst times, she put her hand on his hot forehead and whispered his name until he settled down again. Once, in a long string of what she guessed were Elven words, she heard her name repeated several times in what might have been an impassioned plea or perhaps an angry tirade.
If only Albanon were here to translate. Or maybe that would be too embarrassing, she thought, as Quarhaun’s voice shifted to a deeper, softer tone.
She dozed in the chair beside him for a few minutes at a time, waking up each time with a painful knot in her neck or a plate of armor biting into her skin somewhere.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said to herself at last. With a glance to make sure Quarhaun’s eyes were still closed, she started working the buckles of her armor, grimacing at the caked blood and grime that glued leather and metal to her skin in places and the painful wounds that she pulled open again as she worked.
“Do you need any help?”
Shara gasped and replaced the breastplate she’d just started pulling free from her chest, then wheeled on Quarhaun. “You’re awake!” she said, holding her armor carefully in place.
“I am gifted with incredible timing,” Quarhaun said, smiling weakly. He blinked hard, making an effort to keep his eyes open.
“How do you feel?”
“Stiff and sore, but that’s better than I’ve felt in a while. How long have I been asleep?”
Shara started working the buckles that would keep her armor in place without help from her hands. “Only a few hours,” she said. “I don’t think Roghar and Uldane have even come up to bed yet. You can keep sleeping.”
Quarhaun shook his head. “I need to get out of this armor,” he said.
“Why don’t I step into the hall and give you some privacy?”
“I might need help. I’m still weak.”
“Well,” Shara said. “Certainly I can get your boots off.” She pulled her chair to the foot of the bed and sat on it. She tugged at one of his boots, but his whole body moved and he gave a yelp of pain. “Sorry!”
“Buckles,” Quarhaun said.
“Of course.” She loosened the buckles that held a boot tight around his calf and slipped it off easily.
“Shara?”
“Hm?” She turned her attention to the other boot, carefully avoiding his gaze.
“There are things I don’t know how to say in this language,” he said. “Things I’ve never said to anyone, expressing … feelings that are not really accepted among the drow. And not discussed.”
“Quarhaun, I don’t think-”
“Please let me finish.”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She yanked his other boot off, harder than necessary, and he bit back another cry of pain.
“Why not?” he said.
“Gods, you’re impossible!” Her face was flushed again, which only fueled her frustration. “I … don’t want to disappoint you, Quarhaun.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” he said, the hint of a lascivious look in his eye.
