Staying Put
By midafternoon, Beregost had made its decision.
The rain showed no sign of easing—not the kind that passed with a single hard burst and left the roads grateful for it, but the steady, punishing sort that softened everything it touched. Water crept into the seams between stones, filled ruts that had once guided wagons, erased distinctions the ground relied on to stay honest.
Travel didn't stop entirely. It just became selective.
The party accepted it without ceremony.
Montaron claimed a corner near the hearth, gear laid out with practiced efficiency, running a cloth along metal that didn't strictly need it yet. Khalid and Jaheira had settled into a quieter rhythm—waiting, watching, conserving energy rather than arguing with the weather. Xzar drifted between interest and boredom, muttering occasionally to himself in a way that suggested rain only mildly inconvenienced whatever was happening in his head.
Imoen lingered near the common room, posture loose, eyes always moving. She looked comfortable in the pause, like someone who knew how to exist between plans.
I tried to do the same.
It wasn't working.
Time had a way of sharpening comparisons when there was nothing immediate demanding attention. I was surrounded by people who knew what they were doing—who understood their roles instinctively, who didn't need to question whether they justified the space they occupied.
I did.
I hadn't chosen to be a bard. I'd been assigned it, dropped into the role with a vague promise of flexibility and the unspoken expectation that I'd figure out the rest before it mattered.
It was starting to matter.
Montaron shifted his grip on a dagger near the hearth, testing its balance once before setting it back with the others. His eyes flicked up briefly—toward me, then away again—as if confirming a suspicion he didn't feel the need to voice.
That bothered me more than it should have.
Gold weighed heavier in my pouch than it ever had before—not because there was much of it, but because I was newly aware of what it represented. Coin had gone from abstraction to consequence in a very short span of time. Time bought. Errors absorbed. Options preserved. Spending it meant choosing which mistake you were willing to make.
I found myself thinking again of the flyer I'd seen earlier, its edges already curling where the rain had caught it. The name wasn't important. What mattered was the implication: someone publicly competent at being what I was supposed to be. A bard who performed, who acted, who knew how to exist in this world without becoming a liability.
Hiring help felt indulgent.
So did being dead weight.
The rain drummed steadily against the windows, patient and unyielding. Beregost wasn't going anywhere. Neither were we.
I stood, adjusting my cloak, the decision settling without announcement.
On my way toward the door, I paused near the bar, more out of habit than uncertainty.
The woman wiping down the counter didn't look up at first. She worked with the easy rhythm of someone who had already made her peace with the weather.
"Looking for something?" she asked, glancing up at last.
"A place," I said. "The Jovial Juggler."
That earned a brief smile—not warmth, just recognition.
"West side of town," she said, nodding vaguely past the wall behind her. "Follow the main road until it bends, then take the narrower street. You'll hear it before you see it. Can't miss it. Even in this."
"Thanks."
She was already back to her work.
I adjusted my cloak again and turned—
I had already made it halfway to the door when I felt it. That quiet shift in the room that meant I was being watched by someone who knew me well enough to ask questions.
Imoen leaned back in her chair, chair legs balanced on instinct alone. "You heading out?"
I stopped.
"Yes," I said.
True.
She waited.
"I want to walk a bit," I added after a moment. "See more of the town while we're staying put."
Also true.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the rain streaking the window, then back to me. Curious, not suspicious.
"Want company?"
I hesitated.
Not long. Just enough to feel the weight of it.
"Not this time," I said carefully. "I won't be long."
Imoen studied me for another second, then let the chair legs drop back to the floor.
"Alright," she said easily. "Don't get lost."
"I won't."
That, too, was true.
I stepped out into the rain.
The western road narrowed as promised, buildings leaning closer together as though sharing shelter. Lantern light smeared across wet stone, distorted by falling water. Cloaks brushed past me, faces downturned, everyone intent on reaching somewhere warmer than where they were.
I heard the music before I saw the sign.
Not loud—projected. A single voice cutting cleanly through the rain, trained to carry without force. It wasn't singing to impress. It was singing to be understood.
The Jovial Juggler announced itself a moment later, windows glowing warmly despite the weather. Laughter followed the music when the door opened—not raucous, but responsive. An audience engaged rather than merely present.
I paused across the street, rain darkening my sleeves, and listened.
The song wasn't heroic. It told a story, paced carefully, shaped for the room rather than the road. Each line landed where it was meant to, the pauses placed with intention.
Whoever was performing understood something I didn't yet: attention wasn't seized. It was invited.
I crossed quickly and pushed inside.
Warmth hit first. Then sound.
The common room was crowded but orderly, travelers drying cloaks, locals settled close, eyes turned toward a small cleared space near the hearth. The performer stood there without armor or ornament, posture open, voice steady, expression alive with the story he was telling.
He didn't just perform it.
He inhabited it.
When the song ended, he let the final note linger just long enough for silence to notice itself—then stepped back, smiling faintly as applause filled the room.
I knew who he was.
I had known before I came in.
A bard I had never recruited. A calculation I had dismissed. Talented, expressive, but not built for the roads the way the rest of us were. In another context, I would have walked past him without a second thought.
This wasn't that context.
He accepted the applause politely and drifted toward the bar, posture relaxed, expression open. He spoke easily with a woman who leaned in close, his attention sincere, his smile unguarded. He missed the way her interest sharpened and faded in quick succession, unaware of the surface currents shifting beneath the exchange.
Well-mannered. Kind.
Naïve.
He noticed me only when I moved closer, straightening slightly as our eyes met, expression brightening with easy curiosity.
"Yes?" he asked pleasantly. "Did you enjoy the performance?"
"Yes," I said. "You held the room well."
His smile widened—not with pride, but relief. "Thank you. That's good to hear."
"I saw your notice."
Understanding flickered across his face. Not suspicion. Recognition.
"Oh," he said, with a soft laugh. "Right. I suppose you would have."
He waited.
"I'm looking for instruction," I said carefully. "For a day."
His brows lifted slightly. Curious, not offended.
"A day," he repeated. "In what, exactly?"
"Being less embarrassing at what I'm already pretending to be."
He blinked.
Then smiled, warm and unguarded. "Ah," he said. "That I can help with."
I reached into my pouch and placed the coins on the bar, counting them with care. He glanced at them, then nudged them back—just an inch.
"I don't charge without knowing what you need," he said gently. "Sit with me. Tell me what you think a bard is supposed to do."
We moved to a quieter table.
Up close, the confidence softened into something earnest. He listened closely as I spoke, eyes attentive, posture open.
"You're uncomfortable being seen," he said at last, not accusing. "And you're worse at pretending you aren't."
I exhaled.
"I don't need to be impressive," I said. "I just need to stop being a liability."
His expression shifted—not alarmed, but concerned.
"That's… a dangerous way to describe yourself," he said.
"I've noticed."
He nodded, filing it away. "Here's what I can do," he said. "I can teach you how to enter a room without apologizing. How to speak so people listen instead of waiting you out. How to tell a story that lands even when the details are thin."
He hesitated.
"I can't teach you how to fight," he added, almost apologetically.
"I wouldn't ask you to."
Relief crossed his face.
He took the coins then, counting them carefully before nodding. "One day," he said. "We'll start simple. No audience. Just structure."
He stood, reaching for his cloak.
"And for what it's worth," he added, softer now, "you're not pretending. You're just early."
I didn't know what to do with that.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And for the first time since it began, I didn't mind staying exactly where I was.