A Writing of Value

Neither spoke as they walked toward Wyrm’s Crossing.

Rishi did not ask what spell she had almost cast.

Maeril did not ask why he had stepped back.

They both carried the image of Rook walking away with the two Guild men.

The bridge met them with the press of bodies and cart wheels, river damp rising through the boards. Maeril slipped into the moving crowd without seeming to make a path. Rishi kept beside her, close enough not to lose her among the awnings, far enough not to crowd the silence.

Above the awnings, the hawk kept pace with them.

When Maeril finally spoke, she chose a question that did not touch Rook.

“How long have you been in Baldur’s Gate?”

Rishi counted back. “I was born here. I spent about a decade away, training. Then I came back. You?”

“A few years,” she said. “Before I came here, people saw only the Abyss in my face and decided where I belonged. Usually somewhere else. Here, no one cares. So I found a pot, made myself useful, and stayed.”

A porter shouldered past them and called Maeril by name without slowing. She raised two fingers in answer.

The hawk passed overhead. Rishi’s gaze snapped up, then returned to the path. “You watch from above?”

“I keep eyes on the bridge. And on the ones it eats first.”

Her voice tightened on the last word.

“It also keeps the wrong things from surprising me.”

She went quiet for a heartbeat, measuring.

“Then I saw you step between Rook and that blade.”

She tilted her head and studied him.

“Looks like it’s a habit of yours. Those scars don’t come from one good deed.”

A small huff escaped him, almost a laugh. “Indeed.” His hand went to the back of his head. His fingers found the old knife-cut scar.

“Some things don’t stop unless someone steps in,” he said.

Maeril looked ahead. She did not ask which things.

After a moment, she smiled. “Most people can’t even stand being inconvenienced for someone else.”

“I’ve learned how to live with it,” he said. “So have you, apparently. You have your pot. I have my hands.”

“I’d rather cry over onions than cough blood,” she said.

He surprised himself with the grin that followed. “Try my stew. You’ll understand why I choose bruises.”

Her laugh came out warm and quick. “No, thank you. I’d rather stay alive.”

They left the densest part of the bridge behind. Boards gave way to packed earth. The city edge loosened: shacks spaced wider, scrub showing between them, wind gaining room. The hawk kept pace overhead, silent and steady.

Ahead, strands of beads and strips of leather hung where her hut’s door should have been. Bundles of herbs framed the opening, bitter and green in the river wind.

He frowned at the lack of a door.

“Hinges don’t stop anything that matters,” she said. “Wards do. And flying claws.” Her eyes flicked toward the hawk, as if it could hear the praise. “Some people still dare. Usually once.”

She parted the hanging strips, then stopped beside the opening.

“You can turn around. I won’t chase you.”

“You would,” he said.

“Chase you? Yes. Drag you across my threshold? No.” She held the strips aside, leaving the space open.

For a moment, he tasted the ease of leaving. The clean relief of making it simple by disappearing.

“…All right.”

Rishi stepped across the threshold.

Maeril’s ward met him there, cool pressure passing over his skin, deliberate and searching. After a heartbeat, it opened and let him through.

Inside, everything had a place: jars and bundles on ordered shelves, tools within reach, a hearth giving steady heat. Two mismatched stools stood close enough to share the fire. The air smelled of dried herbs and clean earth.

The hawk settled on a beam above them. Maeril hooked one stool closer to the hearth with her foot, and Rishi sat.

She measured mint into a pot, added honey, and poured the tea into two plain cups.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked.

Maeril smiled at the question. “Everyone needs food. It’s an easy way to earn a place when you don’t have one.”

She turned her cup between her palms, her gaze growing distant.

“I let it become one of my joys,” she continued.

She glanced toward her small working desk, crowded with the tools of practiced craft.

“Cooking quickly taught me the value of practice and the importance of measuring ingredients with care.” Her mouth tilted. “Two lessons just as useful in magic.”

The fire sank lower as Maeril spoke about learning magic when she was young and the hunger of wanting to understand it. Then she asked about Lantern Hall—where the wounded slept, how many hands kept its doors open, what happened when every bunk was full. She listened as if each answer mattered.

The longer they spoke, the more Rishi’s body settled. By the time he noticed how comfortable he had become, he was already searching for a reason to leave.

“I should let you sleep,” he said bluntly.

“You can leave if you want. But don’t pretend it’s because you’re polite,” she said. “You’re only trying to slip away because someone cares about you.”

Rishi hesitated for a moment, but did not contradict her.

“Drink your tea,” she said. “Then decide what you’re actually doing.”

He drank the last of his cold tea. His shoulders dropped a fraction. “Should we make more tea?”

She smiled at the indirect agreement and reached for the kettle.

They held silence while the water heated. Rishi listened to the kettle begin to murmur, the fire settling beneath it, the strands of beads clicking when the wind touched them. The quiet asked nothing of him, and he found he liked sharing it with her.

Maeril refilled their cups, sat back, and let the quiet settle.

Rishi took his cup, but his eyes moved past her.

The desk in the corner had looked like clutter at first: notes, paper, scrolls, ink, waxed thread, a small knife, a ruler worn smooth at the edge. Now, with the fire lower, he saw the order inside it. Pages grouped by narrow strips of cloth. Loose folios stacked beneath a flat stone. Margins marked and marked again.

“Are you writing a book?” he asked.

Maeril followed his gaze to the papers. “I wouldn’t call it that yet.” Her voice had gone quieter. “It’s more a pile of notes that learned how to accuse me.”

She traced the rim of her cup with one finger, thinking.

“For years, I told myself it was my wizard mind being unbearable. Wanting a key. Wanting Candlekeep. Wanting to know what sits behind those Emerald Doors. I started writing down pretty much anything that might become useful.”

A faint smile touched her mouth and vanished.

“Patterns on the bridge. What bad weather does to tempers. Who comes hungry. What hunger does to choices. Which children learn to steal bread. Which guards make people move before they speak. What fear can pass for law. Who stops coming.”

The fire cracked. Maeril rubbed her thumb over an ink stain on one finger.

Rishi kept silent.

Maeril’s eyes came back to him. “But that isn’t what I was doing.”

Maeril did not mention Rook, but they both knew she meant him.

“I was trying to make a record of what this city does to its young. Something the rest of the Realms could not ignore.” Her jaw tightened. “Those I tried to keep alive with bread and soup. Those who still ended up walking toward something they could not afford to refuse.”

Maeril looked down into her tea. “Some of them die. Some of them don’t. Sometimes I’m not sure which is harder to bear.”

The kettle ticked as it cooled.

Rishi set his cup down with care. “To enter Candlekeep, one must present a writing of value.”

Maeril looked at him.

He nodded toward the desk. “That may be one.”

Her fingers stopped against the cup.

“It isn’t ready.”

“No.”

“It may never be.”

“Then we begin making it ready.”

A breath left her. Not quite a laugh.

“We?”

Rishi looked at the desk again: ink, notes, hunger measured in margins, names that might otherwise disappear.

“Yes,” he said. “We.”

The corner of Maeril’s mouth lifted.

“Did you just volunteer to write?”

“It is not the worst decision I have made tonight.”

Her laugh came out warm and startled.

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Maeril lowered her gaze to the tea, still smiling.

“Come back tomorrow,” Maeril said. “And bring your neat monk handwriting.”

“My writing is not neat. My hands do other work.”

He turned one hand, showing bruised knuckles like proof.

“That’s fine,” she said. “Candlekeep can suffer a little.”