The Name Left to Me
He prayed with his head low, protected from the rain by an overhanging rock, his horse as dark as night huffing hot breaths into cold air. He prayed for the people he was leaving behind – the farmers in their homes, shuttered up against the storm; the peasants with their rickety huts and half-made rooftops; and the travellers, the ones who sought new heights and new worlds, that Mother Nature protected as fiercely as the Dalish did their secrets.
The winds urged his prayer on, and when he finished the rider rose to full height and clambered atop his horse. The rain hammered against one side of his cloak as he peered at the makeshift shrine fashioned out of stones and mud. Then, with a sigh, he snapped the reins, and he and his steed flew off into the night.
The fields were empty and the farm houses dark, their lights blown out and the horses stamping furiously in their stables. The man ducked his head down to avoid seeing them. He galloped past trees twisting and writhing in agony for miles, and the lightning flashing overhead blinded him until he could hardly see the dark, iron gates looming far in the distance, painted black against the stormy sky. The sight of the city sent chills down his spine:
Val Royeaux.
As the rider closed the distance between them, he steeled himself against the thought of it.
The watchtowers appeared to rise from the ground the closer he came. He saw the guards underneath the canopies with their Chantry symbols on proud display, outlined by the light of the fire-pits behind them. A crack of lightning lit up their faces, and the rider saw hard frowns and peering, distrustful eyes, watching him as he crept into the half-light of their tower.
"Hold!" one shouted. They took aim with their bows. "State your business!"
"To wait out the storm!" he replied. The pair paused and turned to confer with each other, stealing glances at him as he stood below them. The second soldier peered over the ledge of his viewpoint. The rider held his stare.
He looked up at his partner and nodded.
"Open the gates!" the first shouted, "Horse for the stables!"
The iron bars groaned open, a noise so loud and ominous that it rumbled lower than the thunder. Rain fell at a slanted angle as his horse galloped inside. The sound of his hooves echoed emptily against the stone, and for a moment the rider wondered if he had made a mistake – but the thought was fleeting, and soon he was surrounded by the lavish decorations of Val Royeaux's famous bazaar.
"Easy, Onyx," he hushed the stallion as the pair of them drew closer to the stables, "Once the storm's over, we'll be out in the fields again." There was a warm, soft light tucked in the corner of an alcove that signalled the stables ahead, and with the end in sight and a comfortable bed in mind the rider hurried his horse along.
The stables were large, but with several braziers place strategically about and the smell of hay in the air the atmosphere was cosy and inviting. The rider climbed off of his horse and looked for a suitable empty shed, listening to the low huff of mares and the stamping of stallions in need of exercise.
There was a stable-hand; a young man of about twenty with soft blue eyes and pale skin, wearing clothes that hinted towards some lower noble house. He seemed almost ghostly in the firelight. Once he caught sight of the rider, he hurried over with an apologetic smile.
"Apologies monsieur!" he said in a rush, "I didn't see you come in." The rider smiled as he held out the reins of his horse. "Mare or stallion?"
"Stallion," he replied.
"I'll put him here, then, with the others. Payment can be left on the table – I will put it in the lodger once you've left us."
The rider nodded and turned to his horse. He caressed his mane, admiring the sinews of his muscular neck, the curve of his head as he brayed low in the warmth.
"Take good care of him," he told the boy, "He's a fine horse. The best I've ever had."
"Of course, monsieur. Will there be anything else?"
He paused. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out an overfilled sack tied with a small knot and handed it to him.
"Grain," he explained, "Feed it to him if he gets restless. He's used to open spaces, not…stables."
The rider stayed until Onyx was penned up and fed some. He departed once he was certain his horse was comfortable – and on the assurance that the sheds were strong enough to weather the storm – to find an inn somewhere in the city, and stumbled across one almost as soon as he had stepped out into the bazaar. The wind and rain lashed at his face as he peered at the little sign flapping wildly above the door:
'MERRICASTLE'.
He went towards it. On closer inspection it was not quite an inn as he imagined them; made of marble with two bronze lion statues guarding the entrance, it had the expensive, regal feel that Orlais was most known for, a taste of nobility for those who could afford it. Even the windows were large and ornate. He had little coin – he determined he would go elsewhere, but as he turned to leave he heard the door open and a warm, accented voice call out, "Come in, come in!"
The rider hesitated, wondering for a moment if he should ignore it and carry on, but decided to follow as the voice called him again.
Once inside, he found that the ornamental theme continued and sprawled out into several different rooms. There were large arches that led to an enormous dining hall, the tables and chairs empty of all but a few well-dressed patrons, and a selection of 'recreational rooms' that were specialised to all tastes; reading, painting, even knitting. His cloak dripped on the flagstone floor.
"Messer!" said the voice. He turned towards it and found a woman standing near him, her smile bright and inviting. She wore an expensive petticoat with a tight waist, and a dress that draped on the floor in a perfect circle; she even wore a half-mask of silver with odd patterns swirling near the eyes.
"I'm sorry," he started, "I don't have enough coin for—"
"I know you!" she interrupted him, "I've heard about you, from my mother's stories! Messer, it's an honour!"
His smile tightened. Her eyes, so bright and cheerful, never picked up on the dark cloud suddenly looming over her guest's mood. She moved past him towards a small stand with an open lodger, continuing to talk as he pivoted and followed her.
"My mother told me the most fantastical things! Wyverns the size of giants! Battles with over a hundred men! I listened to her stories for hours as a child!"
The rider was silent, but he smiled and nodded on the occasions she paused for his response. She wittered on about fantastic beasts and where to find them – demons in the Western Approach, wyverns in the Exalted Plains, darkspawn in Denerim – all the while he watched as she flipped the pages over in her lodger, holding a quill aloft in the air.
"Ah, yes!" the lady exclaimed mid-sentence, "I've one room left, Messer!" He stopped her hand before she could scratch his name in.
"Forgive me, miss, but I haven't enough coin for—"
"Coin? Oh no, Messer! It's an honour to welcome you to our fair city, free of charge!"
The lady freed her hand and wrote his name. His arm dropped to his side, his smile fleeting and empty.
"Come, come! I'll show you to your room!"
The pair left as soon as she had finished scrawling his entry; The Dragon-Slayer.
"This is yours!"
She opened the door with a flourish, revealing a room of decent size with a marble fireplace and a four-poster bed. As he stepped inside, the rider gave it a cursory glance; mahogany dressers with golden handles; a silver tray on a nightstand with a small crystalline decanter; emerald sheets on a soft mattress. The fire was not lit, but his hostess promised him over and over that she would send someone immediately to do so.
"It's fine, miss," he said, shedding his sodden cloak and setting it down on the drawing table's chair, "I can light it myself."
She laughed, "Ah, but you've done it so often on your travels – let me send someone to help you!"
"It's quite alright. I find it comforting. Apologies, but I've had a long journey—"
"Oh! It's fine, Messer, truly!" the lady turned and added, "Please, if you need anything do not hesitate to ask!" and with that, she went out of the room and closed the door, finally leaving him on his own. He took the sudden silence as an opportunity to sit down and collect his thoughts, holding his head in his hands with a sigh.
The rider paused for a beat and stood from the bed. He lit the fire with some matches and kindling left in a tarnished silver cauldron hidden in the corner, then as the flames danced and grew he went to stare out of the large windows beside his bed. Rain spattered against the glass as lightning forked across dark skies. Thunder rumbled low and ominous across the city. He watched in silence.
After a while, he turned and untied the holsters he kept strapped to his hips. As he put them beside the decanter he inspected the weapons inside; his twin dragon's tooth blades with their jewelled hilts, each precious stone glinting at him in the firelight. He caressed the patterns that swirled around them as he set them down.
The rider shed himself of his clothes and turned his attention to old wounds; scars he needed to care for, and fresh cuts and bruises that he told himself he would let a Chantry healer inspect. He shuddered at the thought. The Chantry was always quick to remind him of the 'divine purpose' he had been bestowed.
There was another clap of thunder outside. He wondered again about those he had left out there, the people in need that lived beyond the city walls. The guilt weighed heavily on him.
In two days, he promised himself: In two days I'll leave this place.
He sighed and settled his aching bones down on the bed. He asked himself if coming to Val Royeaux had been a mistake. He questioned whether or not he had simply ignored other options. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes against the lightning flashing from his window.
It was not often that the Dragon-Slayer came to the city.