The ‘trial’, if you want to call it that, was a quick one. The guardsman brought Tyrell before Lord Emberlash, with Aveis and I coming along as witnesses to the whole affair. When he heard the charges, the Lord frowned, and became dead serious.

The questioning was conducted within the area of a spell that compelled one to speak only the truth. The man had, apparently, never thought that he could get caught. If he hadn’t chosen his next mark poorly, he probably wouldn’t have been. With questioning of both prisoners and witnesses within the truthspeaking spell’s effect, his guilt soon became quite clear.

The problem was what to do with him. The spell he used was, apparently, one that merely enhanced his own abilities to persuade or entice someone, and did not, in fact, affect the other person’s mind at all. If he’d used such magics, then it would be a clear-cut case of rape, or attempted rape, in my case. But simply making himself sound more desirable? That was a different kettle of fish.

And there was the man’s father to think of. The merchants who linked the Dale with the lands to the south were vital to the Nine Towns’ survival in the long term. There were limits to what the Lord could do, and not expect the caravan leader to object.

Looking down on the man from his thone in the high hall of the city, Lord Emberlash proclaimed, “Tyrell Masters, you have been found guilty of using magic to suborn the people of Sleetmouth for licentious purposes. For this crime, you are sentenced to spend a day in the stocks, with no aid of magic. Further, you are hereby exiled from the Nine Towns, and ordered to leave with the first caravan heading to the southern lands.”

I smiled as I left the Lord’s mansion. Exile for the trader’s son was essentially a slap on the wrist. If the jerk returned, then he would be in trouble, but staying in the south, and running a trading house or whatever, he would be safe from the Lord’s judgement.

The day in the stocks, however, was another story. While not so harsh a sentence as imprisonment or the like, that day would not be a pleasant one for Tyrell. He would be put on display in the cold, without magic to protect him. That would be unpleasant enough, but Tyrell had a reputation, and once word spread about his using magic to win his conquests, more than a few angry individuals would be eager to ‘discuss’ the situation with him. While the guards would prevent anything that would kill him outright or even allow the people to assault him, I didn’t doubt that they would become distracted when rotten fruit or some other nastiness found itself flying in his direction.

It was an inspired bit of judgement. With this, the Lord would give the townsfolk a sense of justice, without overplaying the crime’s severity. Walking the line between what was good for the people, and what was just. Not bad, not bad at all.

The next three days were fairly dull, after that bit of ‘excitement’. Tyrell spent his day in the stocks, and then had to spend the next two recovering from the effects of exposure. It seemed that a bucket of water had ‘accidentally’ been thrown on him just after he was locked in the stocks, which, considering that it was winter in the tundra, was less than helpful to his health. The guards ensured he remained alive, but they didn’t do more than they had to. One of them had a sister that fell prey to Tyrell, last time he came through town.

At any rate, I decided to take a couple days off from dancing, because of the incident, and to get my affairs in order. I had food and water, thanks to my magic items, so there wasn’t much in the way of supplies I needed. Mainly, it was checking over my gear and making sure it was all in good repair. That, and the conversation with Tyrell’s father, Charles.

I found him at the makeshift bazaar in the town’s center, where people were already hawking their wares. When the caravans came to town, people came from across the Nine Towns to see the market in Sleetmouth, both to sell their goods gathered over the winter, and to see what the traders from the south brought. Masters was negotiating the price of some scrimshaw made from the bones of the fisthead trout that had a following amongst collectors. From what I saw, the pieces were more ‘rustic’ than ‘good’, but they’d still be exotics in the southlands. Depending on how forthright he wished to be, Masters could even spin the more rustic pieces as ‘native originals’, rather than the more ‘artistic recreations’ that the better pieces had.

At any rate, I waited for him to finish his negotiation, before stepping into his path. I wasn’t going to stalk him forever, but interfering in his business would earn me no favors. “Mister Masters, I presume?”

He turned to look at me, his eyes flitting to my wings for a moment. Any doubt about whether he knew who I was or not vanished as he scowled. “And what might you want, girl? I’ll not be paying out money for my son’s foolishness. Already had to spend a pretty penny on the healers, just to keep him alive after what happened to him.”

Melinda’s Diplomacy Roll: 1d20+13 = 29

I shrugged my shoulders, causing my wings to stir slightly, and said, “I’m not here to discuss your son, or how merciful Lord Emberlash was in his ruling. He made his choices, and when forced to speak the truth in front of a paladin, he confessed to quite a bit. If the Lord had not punished your son in some way, you would be lucky if he was still alive, and in one piece, by this time. But you strike me as a man who knows all this already, so why don’t we move past all that unpleasantness, and talk about business?”

The caravan leader took a breath, and looked as though he was about to argue, but shook his head. “Bah, you’re right, and I’ll not be taking it out on you because my boy got stupid, and left a trail of angry villagers behind him. As you said, you’re not one of the ones looking to charge me recompense for his actions. So, if you’re not looking for a payout, what ye be wanting?”

Well, that was better than I had hoped. Smiling at the man, I said, “I don’t doubt you’ve heard rumors of me, since it happened not long ago, and is still fresh on everyone’s lips, but I am a twice-born who was raised by the Tribes of the Dale, and an initiate of the Frostmaiden’s teachings. For various reasons, the lands past the mountains to the south are my next destination. Since I am not so foolish as to venture across the tundra on my own, I seek passage to the southlands with the caravan, either as a hired guard, or as a simple passenger.”

Master Charles looked me over for a second, with a more critical eye. “Hmm. No, not hiring a slip of a thing like you as a guard for my caravan. I don’t be doubting your abilities, understand. I’ve heard the tales of the battle, and, while I doubt even half of them are true, I can tell there’s likely more to you than meets the eye, or the stories wouldn’t be there to begin with. But that won’t help with the morale of my men, having a little girl who is barely a woman as their equal. And there is my son. With you as a guard, you’d be answering to him. And I’m not setting up something like that.”

That was about what I expected would happen, once the whole situation with the son went down, so I wasn’t insulted. Looking Charles in the eye, I nodded. “Fair enough. Then what is the cost for accompanying the caravan south?”

Melinda’s Diplomacy check: 1d20+13 = 21

Charles’s Diplomacy check: 1d20+10 = 25

Charles considered, and said, “If you’re riding in one of the wagons, it will be two hundred and twenty gold for the trip and safe passage. Meals included. You’ll not be asked to stand a watch, like the guards will.”

I frowned, and offered a price more to my liking. After all, that was clearly too expensive for a trip of 120 miles across the tundra, and another 40 after they got through the mountains. Passage on a sailing ship for that distance would be less than half that cost!

Still, as Charles pointed out, the dangers faced by a sailing ship upon the sea were far different from those a caravan crossing the tundra and mountains would see. Protecting me meant additional concerns for his guards, and so on. Back and forth we negotiated, until finally coming to an agreement on one hundred and forty gold pieces for the passage. More than I’d wanted to pay, for certain, but still not as bad as it could have been.

Gold exchanged hands, and Master Charles informed me that the caravan would be leaving just after the morning meal tomorrow, and that if I wished to join them, then I would need to be there on time, as he would not be pushing back the schedule for me. With that in mind, I went to both Emeline and old Aveis, intending to say my goodbyes, but they gathered me up for one last feast together at the inn before we parted ways. It had not slipped my notice that Aveis, while interested in my stories, had noticed something else to catch his attention while visiting me at the shrine one day. I decided against playing matchmaker, but, in my heart, I wished them the best. After the meal was eaten and the ale was gone, we parted company, with promises to see each other again, should fortune bring me back this way.

The next morning, I was nursing a hangover as I ate my morning meal, but even if I could barely see from the brightness of the morning sun without feeling as though someone drove a spike in my skull, I made it to the gathering point. I got to ride in the rearmost of the six wagons, amongst some worg furs that the merchants had traded for. It was not exactly comfortable, but at the time I didn’t care. I could always fly alongside the convoy if it got to be too cramped. The only reason I needed the caravan was for additional protection at night, after all.

After an hour of making sure that man and beast were in their proper places, the wagons set off at Master Charles’s direction, moving slowly through the streets of Sleetmouth until we reached the gates of the city, and the shrine of Auril. Emeline was there, dressed in her official robes, and she winked as she caught my eye. She offered a prayer and a benediction to the Frostmaiden, pleading for safe passage for the convoy through the Lady of Winter’s domain.

All but three of the caravan’s members bowed their heads for the prayer. I’d seen them before in the inn. The two elves were followers of Sehanine Moonbow, one of the elven dieties, while the last was a priest of Mystra, goddess of Magic. They were respectful enough to stay silent during the prayer, even if they did not join in. None risked offending the goddess of Winter before venturing into the tundra, after all.

And then, we were off. The horses plodded forward, and the wagon wheels rolled behind them. We passed through the gate of Sleetmouth, and turned south, along the trade road, though there was little to mark it, with this being the first convoy after the winter months. Snow covered the land as far as the eye could see, but I could not help thinking that I had just set off on an adventure. Since my rebirth, I had lived my entire life in Frostwind Dale. Now, I was turning my back to the north, and setting off to the southlands, with no knowledge of what I might find. Fear and excitement warred with each other as I gave in to wild speculation about what I’d find there.