Title: Red & Gold in the Winter Palace (I)
Summary: That's the funny thing when someone "vanishes"-you're never certain where they'll turn up, and it turns out the Hero of Ferelden has a weakness of Orleasian brandy and golden-eyed sorceresses.
Surveying the ballroom from her vantage point tucked away amongst the luxurious, lapis curtains and ornate marble railings of the Winter Palace, the ghost of a smile crossed Leliana's lips. It wasn't simply that things were quietly proceeding in the Inquisition's favor, but in a small, private way, the crimson-haired bard was happy to be back in Orlais.
It was a testament to the nation's culture, or perhaps its vanity, that even amidst the throes of a civil war, nobles from every major family had flocked to Celene's palace for the chance to see the Game played on the grand stage. Peering out across the railing, she spied the Inquisitor carefully navigating the ballroom, oblivious to the aristocrats stealing glances over the rims of their crystal wine glasses or whispering to one another as she passed. In her younger days, Leliana would have envied her commander, imagining herself mingling with the rich and influential, an enigma that perplexed and excited the royal court. But that had been a long time ago, back when the Game had been a thrilling adventure.
As things stood, the spymaster was content to quietly pull strings from a distance, listening to ongoings in the palace through her agents and providing a gentle nudge in the right direction when necessary. Still, the Inquisitor was proving herself to be a rather adept player in her own right—in fact, the Dalish mage had acquitted herself quite admirably, considering. Rubbing elbows with Orlesian nobility surrounded by undercurrents of espionage and murder while wearing a fine, crimson dress, the green-eyed elf was about as far out of her element as she could've been.
Though, that wasn't to say she was on her own. The Inquisition had agents and allies throughout the palace, from friendly nobles Josephine had brought to their side, to the dozen-strong honor guard Cullen had handpicked waiting just outside if there was trouble. A handful of Leliana's people quietly mingled disguised as waitstaff, keeping close tabs on the Inquisitor.
"May I interest you in some hors d'oeuvres, Madame?"
Looking up, Leliana found herself confronted with one of her agents, a twinkle of amusement in the man's eyes behind the white porcelain mask he wore. On the serving platter he offered sat a single dish full of finger food decorated with a thin crimson ribbon tied into a bow. Beside it sat a black hand fan, worthy of a raised eyebrow from the spy.
A message from Cassandra? Most interesting.
"Thank you," Leliana said, taking the dish. The servant gave a bow, melting away into the crowd as seamlessly as he had appeared.
Setting her glass of wine down on the railing, she inspected the dish carefully. Unraveling the ribbon, she found two words written along its length in faint black ink.
Balcony. Main doors.
"Brair,"
Brair, a minor Fereldan nobleman of some thirty years with a mess of dark-brown hair and a hawkish face, appeared at her elbow. Dressed in an undecorated crimson blazer, her second in command passed quite well for the manservant he was posing as. "Yes, my lady?"
"Hold my wine, please."
The noble flashed a knowing smirk, giving a slow, servile bow. She handed him her glass, his cue that he'd be receiving reports from the Inquisition's agents and generally keeping an eye on things until she returned. "It would be my pleasure, my lady."
The spymaster rolled her eyes as she departed. If Leliana didn't know better, she might've suspected he was enjoying himself.
True to the message she'd received, the spymaster found Cassandra within sight of the main doors, the sole occupant of a somewhat secluded balcony. Though not, it seemed, secluded enough for the Seeker to escape the attention of the palace's waitstaff. There was a glass of brandy in her hand as she reclined against the marble railing, which Leliana suspected wasn't her first.
"We have a problem," She began as Leliana joined her along the banister, her accent a little thicker than usual and the fruity smell of liquor on her breath. "But, I wanted to confer with you before I brought it to the Inquisitor's attention."
With a tired, even resigned expression on her face, Cassandra gestured in the direction of the grand hall's main entrance, much to the bard's confusion.
She'd been made vaguely aware of some sort of commotion at the doors, but had been told it was nothing; a drunken guest being ejected from the palace, or a noble with an over-inflated sense of self and no invitation trying to bluster their way in—both typical occurances at a gathering like this. However, given the state the Seeker was in, it was quite apparent she'd been incorrect.
Near the top of the grand staircase, a pair of new arrivals were preparing to be announced, a young woman trying to hurriedly brush away wrinkles in her rich blue dress and repeatedly adjusting the opal mask she wore. The baroness seemed to Leliana to be quite young, perhaps only nineteen or twenty, and the bard knew this would likely be her first time attending a royal masquerade. An older woman stood quietly off to one side, dressed more plainly but quietly offering instructions to her younger counterpart. She was likely the noblewoman's minder, the spy concluded.
"Presenting, Lady Arabella Blanchard du Val, Baroness of Val Montaigne." The herald trumpeted, his voice carrying throughout the ballroom. The woman fidgeted at the mention of her name, no doubt nervous to momentarily find herself the center of attention of the great game she'd been so carefully groomed for.
Blanchard? Leliana knew the name; a relatively minor family from the southern part of the country that had sided with the Empress in the civil war. The head of the family had died suddenly several months ago, and Arabella, the eldest daughter, had unexpectedly found control of the barony thrust upon her.
"Accompanying Lady Blanchard,"
In contrast, the nobleman beside her was much older and seemed calm, even casual, offering her his elbow with a look of perfect confidence on his face. The trim blue jacket stretched across his broad shoulders was decorated in silver and white with a sword in a black leather scabbard at his side, set in contrast to his dark brown hair and tidy beard. He surveyed the ballroom with a smile, a twinkle mischief in his frost-blue eyes.
Leliana made a thoughtful sound. It was funny—from up here on the balcony, the strange nobleman almost looked a bit like—
"Lord Clyde Cousland,"
The spymaster's eyes widened. Oh.
"Arl of Amaranthine, Brother to the Teyrn of Highever, Warden-Commander of the Order of Fereldan Grey Wardens,"
From beside her, Leliana heard the Seeker give a defeated huff.
"Hero of Ferelden."
The bard felt her breath hitch. It was… no, it wasn't possible.
Years ago, the Warden had ridden out the front gate of Vigil's Keep and disappeared. After the beginning of the Mage Rebellion, the Chantry had tasked Cassandra with searching for him, but months of following leads and chasing rumors had yielded nothing but frustration and dead ends. As far as they could tell, he had utterly vanished.
Cassandra had retreated from the railing in disgust, unable to bear the sight of what the spy suspected she took as nothing short of a personal failure. The dragon huntress no doubt still blamed herself for the events at Haven, and she would probably try to argue that finding the Warden could've prevented the Divine's death. Leliana disagreed, of course, though it was a conversation she found herself too preoccupied to have at the moment. In truth, the former lay sister had quietly accepted the likelihood that her old friend had taken to the Deep Roads and undergone his Calling years ago.
But here he was. After almost ten years, he'd simply sauntered into the Winter Palace as if he'd never disappeared. Part of her wondered if she shouldn't suspect a ploy or perhaps even an imposter, but she was still trying to overcome her own shock. After all this time, why now? After a few years spent at Vigil's Keep rebuilding the Grey Wardens, he'd suddenly walked away from his duty as Warden Commander, chasing rumors about...
Ah. Of course.
Leliana's face lit up as realization dawned. It seemed so obvious now—what else could it have been?
The assembled nobles seemed to pay the new arrivals little mind, too engrossed in their own affairs to ponder the sudden reappearance of the Warden as the pair continued down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, the two separated and the nobleman turned, giving a bow and placing a light kiss on the top of the lady's gloved hand. He said a said something before rising, a compliment, no doubt. The girl tittered meekly as her matron reappeared to collect her, a victorious smirk on the Warden's face as he watched her depart.
Leliana rolled her eyes.
She'd forgotten that the man had been raised in the courts and ballrooms of Ferelden, and was well aware of the... effect he hadon women. Even when she'd traveled with him, the handsome, young lord's quick wit and roguish charm had allowed him to get away with far, far more than he should've. Even the bard had found it rather enchanting, once... but those had been younger, more carefree days.
For now, she did have questions for the man, and though she had some idea of why he was here, the spy knew she should probably speak to him sooner rather than later. After all, she had it on good authority that a certain sorceress had found her way into Celene's court and, if she'd seen the nobleman's entrance, it was important that the spy found him before she did.
...
Orlais was a beautiful country.
After months spent on the road, it was a land that Clyde had come to know well. The quiet cobble roads that meandered their way through the old growth in the south of the country reminded him fondly of the Bannorn. Away from the coast, the region was drier and the wind didn't carry the briny tang of the sea, but it was still enough to make the Warden Commander a bit homesick. As much as he loved his homeland, as he camped out under the stars he'd imagined himself owning a villa hidden away in the forest somewhere more than once.
The weary soldier was sick of traveling. All he wanted was some sense permanence, a place he could sleep late into the morning and spend every evening watching the sun dip below the horizon. If this civil war ever sorted itself out, perhaps Orlais could be that place.
Shame the place was full of Orlesians.
Alright, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, Cousland conceded as he surveyed the sea of elaborately dressed aristocrats that filled the halls of the empress' palace. Still, he was very much certain that he didn't care for the country's nobility.
Though the young arl found them to be usually quite personable in private, when they were all together like this—piled atop one another and writhing about like carp in a fisherman's net—it was almost unbearable. Grouped together, the nobles became vain and spiteful creatures. Even now, the veneer of civility was betrayed by the undertones of rivalry and treachery that hung in the air as heavily as the smell of expensive perfume. It felt as through the whole room was one petty insult or spilled glass of wine away from pulling daggers on one another.
While Orlais may've looked down their nose at the neighbors, the Warden much preferred the Fereldan tradition of stepping out into courtyard with a rival and pummeling each other to settle matters, before returning to the festivities and drinking to each other's health. At least then it wouldn't feel like he was trying to drink punch in a room full of well-dressed pit vipers.
That, and they never served enough food at these parties. For all of their purported culinary superiority, there was nothing to eat but finger food. It was absolutely maddening.
The Warden regarded the array of liquors and platters of fancy cheese that adorned the long, cloth-draped table nearby with a mixture of concern and bewilderment. Glancing uneasily between slices of pickled cobra and an edible centerpiece featuring a pair of whole, cooked swans arranged to look as though they were taking flight, he seriously considered sneaking off to a kitchen to find something a little less... complicated.
"I'm told one of the dukes brought smoked wyvern. It's something of a delicacy." An accented voice spoke from behind him, a smile in the woman's tone.
"I've had wyvern, it was rather stringy." Clyde replied matter-of-factly as he turned. Seeming to ponder the subject a moment longer, he gave a half-hearted shrug. "Then again, I cooked it over an open fire."
The redheaded woman simply made an exasperated sound as a broad, happy smile tugged at his cheeks. "It's good to see you again, Leliana."
"It's been too long." The spymaster replied agreeably, a more reserved but no less genuine smile on her face. She wore a crimson, sharp-cut blazer trimmed with gold, the garment's clean lines and high collar not dissimilar from his own.
A thoughtful noise escaped Clyde's lips. The bard had joined the Inquisition, then. Interesting.
It came as only a mild surprise. Even as isolated as he'd been scouring Grey Warden ruins and dusty archives the across the whole of Thedas, he'd still heard about the events at Haven and expected that Leliana would have been involved in some way. Seeing first an honor guard bearing the mark of the Seekers in the front gardens and now her uniform only confirmed his suspicions.
His old friend made a show of surveying the crowded ballroom around them. "May we speak in private?"
Clyde gave a nod, indicating for her to lead the way.
Leliana turned gracefully on her heel and started in the direction of a side door, deftly passing unnoticed through the groups of mingling partygoers. Cousland followed, the sea of nobles quickly parting ahead of the powerfully-built Warden, much to his wry amusement.
The music and bustle of conversation faded as the door closed behind them, and the pair found themselves in a small, warmly decorated parlor lit by the soft glow of an ornate, crystal chandelier. The walls were lined with crowded bookshelves that nearly reached the ceiling—though the veteran expected they were mostly for decoration—and room smelled of lamp oil and the pleasant must of old paper. A group of young nobles looked up at the unexpected intruders, but a suggestive nod by the warrior toward a side door sent them hastily on their way.
Watching as the door closed behind them, Leliana gave a quiet, musical laugh and turned to face Clyde.
"You know, the Chantry spent years looking for you when you disappeared. They followed rumors from the Korcari Wilds all the way to the Free Marches, but never found any real sign of you." She paused abruptly, as if carefully considering her next words. When they came, they were low, even mournful "I was afraid you'd undergone your Calling."
The Warden offered a thin smile, feeling a wave of guilt wash over him at the inflection in her voice.
He knew they'd been searching for him—he'd gone to some lengths to avoid being tracked, and agents of the Chantry had still nearly discovered him a few times.
It was selfish, he knew. Walking away from his post in Amaranthine had spurned an innate sense of duty somewhere deep inside him and it ate at him, but he had no desire to play savior like he had over a decade ago. For the first time since Howe had burned Castle Cousland to the ground all those years ago, he had something worth returning to—a beautiful, brilliant woman whom he loved without condition and a young son he wasted no opportunity to spoil.
Life was seldom easy, but they were his family, and he would do anything to protect them.
Let Thedas find a different hero—someone else to shoulder the mantle of saving the world. The Warden had played his part in the Fifth Blight, leaving behind his burning home and murdered family to battle the unimaginable horrors of the darkspawn.
And what did he have to show for it? A collected of scars that marred his body. Images of formless, grey terrors that plagued his sleep. A blood oath like an ache within his bones that made him feel old beyond his time and would likely kill him within a few short years.
"What in the world are you doing here?" The question—asked so lightly, so free of accusation—snapped Clyde out of his trance.
"Lady Blanchard's uncle has several Grey Warden tomes from the Glory Age in his private collection and permitted me to use them for my research." He explained easily. "His eldest son, a chevalier, was to escort her tonight, but he was recently wounded fighting for Gaspard and I offered to accompany her in his stead."
Leliana regarded him skeptically, no doubt aware that the journey from Val Montaigne to Halamshiral was hardly a leisurely one. "Had to see the Winter Palace for yourself, did you?"
"I heard a rumor the Empress had a chocolate fountain the size of a pond and had to see for myself." The Warden half-joked, failing to sound convincing.
The spy smirked, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "You know, the Empress recently brought a new Arcane Advisor into her court."
Clyde cracked like cheap Antivan dinnerware under the bard's scrutiny. A guilty, lopsided grin spread across his face but it was accompanied by such a swell of joy that he couldn't be bothered to even try to hide it. "I may've heard that, too."
The redhead offered a gentle smile as well, the quiet moment of familiar company harkening back to the months they had traveled together during the Fifth Blight.
Despite everything—despite the fear, the hardship, and the ever-present doubt they would be able to succeed—he'd come to remember the journey fondly. The Warden had been a different person then; young and untested. With the loss of his ancestral home and murder of his family still fresh in his mind, he was angry and without direction when he found himself thrust out into the world. Then, Alistair had found the young noble drinking himself to death in a dreary little tavern and enlisted his help in defeating the Blight.
The time on the road had changed Clyde. He'd eventually overcome his all-consuming grief and emerged tempered by his experiences; Countless battles against darkspawn and brigands had turned a promising novice into a skilled swordsman. A feeling of obligation to his noble blood had transformed in a sense of duty to his country. And somehow, amidst the turmoil that had nearly destroyed his homeland, he'd found a new family.
The Warden quietly watched as Leliana slowly made her way along the long rows of books, running one hand across the spines as she went.
"Back in Lothering, the Chantry had a library with books that were older than the village itself." The bard remarked wistfully as she surveyed the shelves. "It wasn't very large, but I still remember spending hours in there, reading by candlelight."
Clyde smiled at first, though the expression faded as his own memories of home flooding back to him. When they were young, he and his brother would race from the castle's keep at the crack of dawn each morning to collect eggs from the coops for breakfast. Despite everything he had achieved as a Grey Warden, he still missed the days of simple mornings spent with his brother in the fortress' kitchen, being taught to bake bread and poach eggs by their nanny.
But those times were long past. Lothering was gone. Castle Cousland was gone.
A few survivors like Leliana and himself were all that remained, lingering reminders of everything that had been lost. But the scars, painful as they once had been, were well-worn by now.
The companionable quiet stretched on for a couple more minutes before the bard set down the book she'd been leafing through and turned to the Warden, a certain reluctance in her voice when she spoke. "I have something important to ask of you."
"You want me to join the Inquisition." Clyde replied flatly. It wasn't a question.
She simply nodded. "I'd like you to meet with the Inquisitor."
He felt a wave of frustration tinged with betrayal wash over him, the spymaster struggling to meet his gaze as he scrutinized her. The noble quickly fought the feeling down, knowing she wasn't truly the one to blame. He had been worried Leliana would ask, but it still put him in a bad spot and she damn well knew it. The spy knew exactly what she was asking and must've had some sense of how the Warden felt about it.
Cousland understood it was important. The Divine was dead, there was a giant sodding hole in the sky spitting out demons, and they'd found some poor sap with a glowing hand and decided they were in charge of saving the world. As achingly familiar as it all seemed and as much as he sympathized for the newly christened "Inquisitor," the commander wasn't about going to get involved if there was any way to avoid it.
He'd practically walked away from his post as Warden Commander to chase after Morrigan—as insane as he knew it sounded, it was going to take more than some half-undead magister's plot to take over the world to make him walk away from his family now.
No.
He wanted to say it—to turn her down. Needed to.
But the Orlesian sister was one of the few people left that Clyde counted amongst his close friends, and that alone meant he couldn't just walk away.
Damn it. Damn loyalty, damn his sense of honor, damn it all.
"Fine." The Warden relented, the words sounding defeated as he turned for the door. "I'll meet the Inquisitor in the gardens."
The door closed behind him before he heard Leliana's answer, diving back into the crowd of nobles in search of a servant that could get him something to drink.
When he'd heard that the Inquisition would be at the Winter Palace, a part of the Warden Commander had told him to stay away, knowing that it would be impossible to avoid becoming embroiled in the war they waged across seemingly the whole of Thedas.
He wished he had listened.
…
Arana didn't like the royal gardens.
Teeming with rows of carefully arranged flowers from Orlais and centered around an ornate pavilion made of white marble with a mosaic of the royal seal painstakingly recreated with colored stones across the floor, it was all so utterly artificial that it felt like it belonged painted on a canvas. Leaning against one of the railings, she surveyed the area, the courtyard a tangle of long shadows and waning orange light as the sun began to fall below the horizon.
The elf much preferred the wild grasslands and foothills of her home in the Free Marches, where she could walk barefooted and feel the smooth pebbles beneath her feet and the tips of the bristlegrass brush her legs.
Even so, she was relieved one of Leliana's agents had pulled her away from the Orlesian nobility for a little while. There was someone the spymaster wanted her to meet who was apparently rather important—though, if Arana was honest, she'd already forgotten their name. Even if the neatly manicured hedge that ran around the perimeter of the courtyard was hiding half a dozen assassins waiting with bows drawn, the garden was still a less hostile place than the grand ballroom.
The Inquisitor snorted. An elven mage to represent the Inquisition at an Orlesian gala. It sounded like the start of a bad joke. While keenly aware that she hadn't exactly been picked for the position, it still didn't help their case.
There was no other place in Thedas that better captured the enmity between the Dalish and humans. Countless years ago in the Glory Age, armies bearing the mark of the Chantry had marched on the Dales and laid waste to her people's civilization, scattering the survivors. They'd been driven into the deep forests and the wind-battered highlands, considered contemptible vagabonds at best and murderous brigands at worst. There was little left of her people now—their history had been taken from them and they hardly knew their own language any more. Even the very stones that had once made up their cities had been pulled down and broken up by the humans to build their highways with.
And now one of those elves had returned, perhaps the only person in all of Thedas that might be able to keep Orlais from plunging into civil war.
The bitter irony wasn't lost on Arana. She could imagine herself simply standing aside and watching it happened—a look of vindictive glee on her face as she smiled over the rim of a glass of their fancy wine at the sight of the empire burning itself to the ground. That alone would make the whole ordeal worth it.
But she couldn't.
The Inquisition needed Orlais, and they needed it relatively intact. With much of Ferelden still engulfed in the war between the circle mages and the templars, the western country's military and economic power would be necessary to offset the support Corypheus received from Tevinter.
At least is was only one evening, the mage assured herself. After tonight, she could comfortably pass matters off to Josephine and move on to a part of Thedas that didn't make her skin crawl.
"Inquisitor Lavellan," A man's voice greeted from behind, sending her whirling to face the newcomer as she pushed herself up off the railing.
Clad in dark blue trimmed with light grey, the stranger's broad form stood as a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the white marble of the palace's exterior. He stood rigidly, like a soldier prepared for inspection. One hand held a short glass, idly swirling the amber liquid inside, even as the other rested on the hilt of the sword that hung from his left hip in a sheathe of fine black leather. The image of a two-headed griffon was stitched across his chest in striking silver, and the Warden met her gaze with a polite bow of the head. "Ar garas ghilana."
Arana started, her words faltering for a moment before she finally mustered a reply. "Andaran atish'an."
The man looked to be about a decade her senior, with neatly groomed, dark-brown hair that looked like it had been shorn down a while ago but had since been allowed to grow back. His elvish was rough but still intelligible, though the way the greeting rolled unevenly off his tongue indicated how strange the words were to the him. Still, it was a nice gesture—the mage couldn't recall being greeted by a human in her native tongue before.
"You'll forgive me, I haven't spoken elvish in years." He remarked wryly, regarding her with a half-apologetic smile.
After a long moment spent looking at the symbol embroidered on his chest, realization finally dawned as the message Leliana had sent through her agent suddenly came back to her. Admittedly, she sounded a little more awed than was likely appropriate for the purported Herald of Andraste. "You're the Hero of Ferelden."
The mage was surprised to see a flash of disdain cross the nobleman's expression at the title, waving the praise in her tone aside with a gloved hand. "Just Lord Cousland, please—or, Warden Commander, if you must."
The Inquisitor gave a thoughtful hum, more than a little surprised.
Being from the Free Marches, she only knew of the Hero's feats by the stories that had made their way north—epic tales told by tavern minstrels that blended fact and myth. Having become more exaggerated with each telling, in the version that had reached her clan, the Hero had leapt from the top of Fort Drakon and landed on the archdemom's back to cleave off all three of its heads in one fell blow.
Usually, she wasn't one for shemlen stories, much preferring her own people's folklore, but the Hero of Ferelden's tale had always captivated her for some reason. Perhaps it was because she knew so little about the Hero themselves—in the version told by the firelight in camp, their fate and even their identity had been a mystery. Knowing the Grey Wardens recruited amongst the Dalish, Arana had privately wondered if perhaps the Hero was a hunter from one of the southern clans.
When she'd made the trip to Ferelden, the mage had finally learned the rest of the tale—the Hero was a human nobleman from one of the country's prominent families, and he had survived the battle only to disappear a few years later.
She still liked the story, though.
"Well met, Lord Cousland." The elf said at last, realizing she'd been lost in thought and staring blankly at the man. "It seems circumstances have placed unusual titles on both of us."
The Warden snorted, a twinkle of amusement in his eye at her observation. "I've found it's not circumstances, it's people. Crawl out of a big enough crater—figurative or all too often literal—and they get the idea you know something they don't."
She gave a polite laugh, her hands clasping at one another behind her back.
Arana could understand why Cassandra and the Chantry had gone to such lengths to search for the Warden. He carried an air of confident authority, every step precise and certain without seeming strained, and despite the warrior's warm expression, his gaze was keen and cutting, taking in every detail of the dainty mage before him in a way that both intimidated and exhilarated her.
This was the Hero of Ferelden.
"I was told you could help the Inquisition." Arana explained, pressing on to the matter at hand. The arrival of the Hero had been unexpected and was a potential boon for the Inquisition, but the Dalish mage still had a civil war to end before the night was done.
The Warden made a pained expression, his gaze dropping slightly and suddenly the air of invincibility faltered. Seeming uncertain of what to say, he raised his glass to his lips and took a drink to delay answering for a moment more. He spoke haltingly sounding genuinely contrite. "The short is no, I can't."
The Inquisitor's face fell. She hadn't exactly expected the man to throw himself to his knees and pledge his wholehearted support, but to be denied outright was a shock. Still, she remained silent, allowing the man to continue.
"The long answer is that while the Inquisition has my support, there's not much I can offer. I can write letters to the Crown and my brother in Highever, but they've their own worries with the mages and templars setting the Bannorn alight. You'll have the cooperation of the Order and Amaranthine in supplying and training Inquisition forces, but I'm told the arling is too hard-pressed to spare troops."
The Inquisitor could only nod, knowing the man was telling the truth. The situation in Ferelden was bad, perhaps as bad as during the height of the Fifth Blight—the south of the country was a battlefield, and the Crown was struggling to contend with the tide of refugees flowing north and the lawlessness that followed them. Still, that didn't mean the Warden couldn't be of help.
The Hero was a powerful ally in of himself. His connections, his reputation, his skills—he was more valuable as an agent of the Inquisition than any number of ships or soldiers.
"And what about you?" Arana asked. "The Inquisition could use your help,"
The question was met with thunderous silence from the Warden, the distant, muted clamor of the party audible as he stared down into the mostly empty drink he held and began to make his way to the side of the gazebo.
In a single motion he brought the glass and swiftly drained it, setting the crystal glass down on the stone railing and leaning against it as he stared off toward the setting sun. The mage suddenly regretted asking, seeing how pensive it had made him.
"Inquisitor, what I am about to share with is known by only a handful of people outside the Order, and I would appreciate it if it stayed that way." Clyde began in a low voice. Fixing the Dalish elf with a grave stare, he waited for her to nod before turning back to the horizon and continuing. "All Grey Wardens undergo the 'Joining,' a ritual in which they imbibe darkspawn blood. It's fatal to many recruits, but those who survive are infected with a special form of the taint that gives them the ability to detect darkspawn. Unfortunately, it only delays the effects of blight sickness—given time, a Warden's mind is destroyed and they're compelled to seek out the Old Gods, just as the darkspawn do. To avoid this, at the end of our lives we undertake the Calling, preferring death in battle to corruption by the taint."
Arana shifted uncomfortably, genuinely uncertain how to react to the revelation. "I-I'm sorry."
"Don't be." The man laughed, the sharp, mirthless noise akin to the sound of steel rasping across rough stone. He finally pushed himself up and turned, apparently preferring to face the Inquisitor as he tone became somber. "For the better part of two years now I've been searching for a way to negate the effects of the Calling. I hope to save my fellow Grey Wardens... and... to live long enough to see my son grow into a man. That's why I can't help you."
The admission was low and harsh, striking a chord in the young mage that manifested itself as a tightness in her chest. She understood. More than the Warden Commander realized, she understood the way the terrible power of fate trapped and sundered all things—lives, fortunes, families.
Only a few short months ago, she'd been the First to a clan in the Free Marches. Things weren't always easy, but—surrounded by her family and the simple joys of life in the unspoiled wilds—she was content. Happy, even. Now, she was the leader of an army for a faith she didn't believe in, tasked with saving a world that had done little but abuse and revile her people.
If she were a more articulate person, perhaps she could've found the words to express her sympathy. But she wasn't. Instead, she could only stand mutely as the Hero pushed himself off the railing, giving her a departing bow of the head as he started back toward the palace. "I hope you enjoy the party, Your Worship."