"You've given me no reason to do so," he points out, hoisting his pack on his shoulders.

"I could kick you." She lifts her boot.

"No you won't," he says. "It would be terribly wicked."

"Perhaps I am wicked." Arrobeða growls low in her throat, in case that helps.

"If you were so wicked," the pest points out, "you would not have slain a chimera."

"Wicked creatures kill each other all the time."

"And they fish little boys out of their enemies' stomachs and heal them? I don't know as much about wickedness as I thought."

Damn it.

"I wouldn't have, if I'd known you were going to follow me around."

"You're the most interesting person for a league either direction. I'm not about to let you leave me to the life of a fisherman."

"And so instead you want me to bring you along, on the extremely brief life of a prepubescent adventurer?"

"You're four years older than me," he points out. "How long will your life be, on your own?"

"I have a sword. And I'm strong. And I can heal myself."

The pest concentrates for a moment. A nearby pebble rockets into a nearby tree, sending splinters flying and leaving a gouge like an axe-blow.

"What in the Hells-"

She walks over slowly. Feels the ragged edges of the wood, the fading heat in it.

"Are you a sorcerer?"

Shrug. "Dunno. If I am, I don't have many spells. But I can keep doing that one as long as I like."

"It would still probably be wicked of me to take you along. Even if you would be... useful."

"Do you need to stop me from coming with you? Because I'll be honest, you'd have to break my legs."

"That would also be wicked, I will admit."

He bows. "Aḥyl. Is my name."

"Ajobeða."

Neither of them has any reason to know that within a few centuries, due to sound shifts in the Taldane language family and changing location of the prestige dialect, the common pronunciation of this name will change.

It doesn't seem terribly relevant.

There's a small campfire. Aḥyl shot a buck, and Beða got it skinned and gutted, and Aḥyl is roasting it.

"If you can throw stones like that all you like, why didn't you kill the beast?" Beða wonders.

"I tried! I think I even got one to stick, but the others kept just bouncing off its hide. D'you have a magic sword, or something?"

"Ah. Not that I'm aware of... but I did have a sort of holy vision? A great eye looked down on me and saw through me, saw all that I would ever be and said it was good, showed me a vision of the woman I will become - leader of armies, builder of cities, crusader nonpareil - and guided my blade as an instrument of its will."

"A destined hero! Exciting!"