I see a bad moon rising
I see trouble on the way…

Hope you have got your things together
Hope you are quite prepared to die
Looks like we’re in for nasty weather
One eye is taken for an eye
	--- “Bad Moon Rising”, Creedence Clearwater Revival

Anomen waited impatiently for Patricia to return. Since carriages weren’t allowed on the marble walkways of the Temple District, she had decided to change her clothing to something a bit more suited to distance walking. He found himself feeling a faint regret at this. Patricia certainly looked different when she dressed more like his sister. She appeared defenseless somehow, more as if she needed protecting. That lout Isaea had been right in that much, anyhow. If Anomen hadn’t seen Patricia using those small bare hands to wreak havoc himself, if he’d met her first at the funeral, there was no way he’d believe she was a competent fighter. No wonder Isaea placed the blame at his door instead. He was beginning to see why Ajantis might have been attracted. He idly wondered if Imoen looked anything like Patricia, and if she too had already given away her heart.

He watched her descend the stairs and approach him at the bar. She didn’t speak to him first, though; she spoke over his shoulder to Bernard. “May I have the box, please?”

“It’s in the back, Patricia. Come with me and I’ll get it.”

Turning to Anomen, she said, “Come on, I’ve got to show this off to someone!”

Mystified, he accompanied the others to the office, where Bernard pulled out a long wooden box and handed it to Patricia. “I just want the blade for now,” she said. “Keep the box for me until later.” Deftly she opened it and withdrew one of the finest swords he’d ever seen.

“Look, Anomen! Isn’t it gorgeous? Forget all the fancy trimmings and check the balance!”

He took the proffered weapon and hefted it. He let out a low appreciative whistle. “I have never seen a better, milady. Even Sir Ryan does not possess its equal, though I would say that this weapon requires a lady to wield it, so small is its hilt.”

She nodded agreement. “Yes, I am told that it was fashioned for a woman, and I find it easier to grip precisely because the hilt is scaled down.”

“Your wanderings in the North must be even more extensive than you led me to believe,” he replied. “The workmanship of this is old indeed. Did you find this in some tomb, or perhaps that dwarven keep you and Minsc explored?”

He watched her face shutter up tight again. “Not precisely. I am sorry; I did not mean to keep you waiting. I know how anxious you are to see your sister.” She turned to the barkeeper as she fitted the scabbard onto her belt. “Thank you, Bernard.” Anomen wondered what he’d said wrong. Unless perhaps Ajantis had given her the blade, and she was embarrassed to admit it.

They were well out of the slums and had approached the Bridge before Patricia spoke again. “I was rather rude to you, Anomen, and I apologize. It’s just that I would really prefer not to speak about where the sword came from just now. There’s no shame in how I’ve come to own it, I assure you. It’s… it’s rather a sad tale, one that I’ve just learned myself. Someday… someday soon perhaps I can bear to share it with you.”

He saw with astonishment that she was wearing the same look of repressed agony that he’d seen in the stockade. “By all means, say no more, if it disturbs you so, milady. We have had enough grief for one day.”

When they reached Minna’s shop, it was still closed, though the neighbor said Minna had assured her she would return by mid-afternoon. “In that case,” suggested Patricia, “why don’t we go on to the temple, and come back in a bit? I’m still not very hungry; we can snatch a sausage roll at one of these stalls to tide us over until we meet Moira.” Anomen agreed readily.

They walked along companionably, munching their snacks. Anomen had chosen to remain in the dark blue tunic he’d worn to the funeral, since he hadn’t seen Moira in weeks, and Patricia had reappeared in a nearly identical outfit, save that her tunic was a lighter cornflower blue, with no epaulets and silver embroidery along the edges in place of his heavy gold braid. A sudden pelting of feet behind them caused them to whirl instinctively, backs together in a defensive posture and free hands seeking weapons.

Anomen removed his hand from his mace almost at once. “Terl, what brings you here in such haste?”

“Anomen Delryn, son of Cor, I come as the bearer of dire news,” the messenger gasped. “Your father requests your presence at his estate.”

“Dire news, say you? What reason would I have to return to my father?” He was startled beyond measure.

“Your sister is dead. Most foully murdered, by all accounts.”

“Dead? By Helm! Murdered? How can this be? Why would you say such a thing?” he raved. His world was crumbling underneath his feet. No! Not Moira! It could not be! Why? His sister could have done nothing to earn such a fate!

The servant looked at him with compassion. His family had served the Delryns for generations. “I am truly sorry, m'lord. Minna told me she expected you this afternoon, and we just missed you. Her neighbor told me which way you had headed. Perhaps you should return to your home as your father has requested.”

“Aye, and right quick. Patricia, make haste! We must head for the estate!”

Patricia readily answered, “Of course we shall go at once. But may we not ask the servant to tell our companions of our change in plans?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he snapped, “just hurry! Where’d that annoying Jan get off to, anyway?”

Patricia was already giving rapid directions to Terl. “Please go to Caan House and ask to speak with either Mister Jansen or Lady Nalia de’Arnise. Tell them you bear an urgent message from Lady Patricia Contemplata, and explain what has happened. If neither one is at home, ask for Lady Delcia Caan. If all else fails, wait until someone returns. We will meet the others at Caan House.”

Anomen could stand no more delay. “I must discover the truth about this murder! Let us go!” Without thinking, he grabbed Patricia by the hand and practically dragged her down the street in his haste to confront his father. Whatever had happened, he was sure it was his father’s fault. Or his own. Why, oh, why had he not forced Moira to leave and come to live with him?