Jherek sat in the morning sun in the small court off the temple of Lathander that overlooked the Athkatlan docks. He felt empty, totally dispirited. The low stone wall he sat on, already soaking up the sun, felt warm. His body was still filled with aches and pains from the fight in the tavern half a tenday ago, but he didn't give much thought to them. Only some of the swelling and little of the bruising had gone away.

Sabyna, despite Captain Tynnel's words, never came to see him. Breezerunner sailed that same afternoon. The ship's mage hadn't even left a note. That dealt Jherek a harsher blow than he had expected. Her absence, and the lack of a response about his lost passage, struck a hollow resonance inside him that he'd never before experienced, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Even when he knew Breezerunner had been about to leave, he hadn't been able to try to contact Sabyna. He'd hobbled down to the dock and watched in silence as the ship had sailed away, his new stitches tight in his flesh.

Now he watched the activity at the docks with a mixture of emotions, working hard to keep them all in check. If he failed to control any one of them: pain, rage, or confusion, he was certain he'd be lost. He felt homesick and thought often of returning to Velen and facing whatever awaited him there.

Live, that you may serve.

Those words, that command, belonged to someone else. He'd convinced himself of that. Perhaps a someone he might have been had the fates not conspired against him. His birthright was the tattoo on his arm, not some ghostly voice that echoed in his head.

The deckhands labored night and day, but they weren't just loading ships, they were packing goods onto barges and wagons that would be part of the numerous caravans traveling along the Alandor River or the River Road trade way to Crimmor. From there, the barges would off-load onto more wagons for the trip up the Bitten Road between the Fangs, into the Cloud Peaks, and on to Nashkel. Then began the increasingly dangerous trip north along the Coast Way, an overland trade route that had been only seldom used since the sea trade had opened. During his days of convalescence, Jherek had learned a lot about the overland trade routes that had become so heavily trafficked of late.

News continued drifting into Athkatla about the vessels and cargoes that were lost at sea, going down to sahuagin attacks and to leviathan creatures that erupted from the ocean bottom. Few ships reportedly reached Waterdeep or came from there. The other points north along the Sword Coast were just as dangerous. Paperwork, which had been only given lip service at many of the smaller ports, had become more sternly enforced.

More and more investors were starting to put their cargo on caravans. The losses at sea were too much. The overland trips took longer and grew increasingly dangerous as well. Ores and goblins, and all too human bandits, passed information along about the caravans. Few, if any, reached their destinations unscathed.

A few cargo ships still attempted the sea trade north. Primarily ones that couldn't take the loss on the goods they'd agreed to deliver, and weren't able to find someone else to deliver it for them.

Jherek didn't like thinking about Sabyna traveling into those hostile waters, but he couldn't help himself. He'd failed her. If he hadn't gotten into the fight with Aysel, he'd have made the journey with her, could have been there to protect her.

He got frustrated with himself for thinking that one man could make such a difference. That only happened in the romances Malorrie started him reading. He heard footsteps glide softly along the stone courtyard.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

Jherek turned, finding Fostyr approaching. The priest wore the robes and vestments of Lathander, the Morninglord. Colored in bright yellow taken from a dawn morning, the robes had seen better days, and so had the temple. Lathander's beliefs weren't a prime pursuit in Amn.

"Better," Jherek answered. "Thank you for asking."

The courtyard held a small wicker table and three mismatched chairs. Berries grew along the south wall, against the small rooms where the four priests slept. Although he'd been invited in, Jherek had slept outside all five nights, wanting to be in the open and in the salt air.

The bedroll and pack that contained all of Jherek's possession was neatly packed and sitting in the corner of the courtyard. The priest's eyes flickered over them, and he sat in one of the chairs. He was a small man with skin the color of buttered rum. Only in his thirties, he kept his head shaved. His quick, dark hazel eyes surveyed Jherek.

"You've had morningfeast?" the priest asked.

"Aye."

"And your appetite, how was it?"

"Good," Jherek answered.

"You have to eat to keep your strength up."

"I know, Fostyr, and thank you for being so attentive."

"I worry about you, my friend. Kythel told me you were working in the gardens yesterday, and you washed your own clothes when we could have seen to it."

"I feel I have to earn my keep," Jherek said. "I'm not a man to sit idly by."

"Still, you have been wounded and should rest. You're here at the temple as our guest."

Jherek curbed his impatience. It wasn't the priest's fault that he hated lying fallow. Ilmater forbid that he should ever become a burden on anyone.

"Aye, I know that, and I thank you for your hospitality."

"But you will not simply accept that hospitality?"

Jherek shook his head. "I can't."

Surprisingly, Fostyr only smiled and said, "Such responsibility in one so young."

"Not so responsible," Jherek disagreed. "Otherwise I'd have never gotten into that fight in the tavern. That wasn't the course of a responsible man."

"According to my friend who brought you here you fought for a lady's honor."

"Aye, I suppose I did."

"Another responsible act."

"I'm not so sure," Jherek said. "What Aysel said were only words. I could have walked away."

"But where do I draw the line?" Fostyr mused. "That is your question isn't it?"

"Not mine," Jherek replied.

Fostyr nodded, then took another tack. "I saw you at the service this morning," the priest said.

"Aye."

"What drew you there?"

Jherek shifted positions gingerly, mindful of the aches and bruises he'd received. "I wanted to pay my respects to Lathander. You could have turned me away when I was brought here bleeding, covered in ale-reeking sawdust."

"Do you know of our religion?" the priest asked.

"Some," Jherek admitted. "I'm a follower of Ilmater."

"He is a good god to study, but Lathander might have something to offer as well. Lathander is the god of spring and the dawn, of birth and renewal, of beginnings. I've heard the nightmares that plague you, my friend, when you were in the grip of the fever that took you the first two nights you were here."

The priest hadn't mentioned that to Jherek before, and his face burned hotly. "What did I say?" he asked.

"You mean did you mention that you're the son of Falkane, one of the most feared pirates along this coast? Yes, you did."

Jherek shook his head in wonderment. "There's a price on the head of any man who sailed with Falkane," he told the priest. "You could have turned me in."

"No, I couldn't have," Fostyr said. "I prayed for you, that you might find peace and happiness, and that the fear in your life will depart."

Jherek didn't mean to sound harsh, but his voice was tight. "You've seen the tattoo on my arm?"

"Yes."

"It's a brand, Fostyr, and there's no getting rid of it. As long as it's with me, I'll be forever marked and my life won't be my own."