Crown for a Sovereign

Chapter One
Crime and Punishment

Cyrano waited patiently for the verdict.

He had been standing in the middle of the Landsmeet Chamber of the palace in Denerim for the better part of two hours. First, he had to wait for the banns to speak with the new king about whatever it was they felt his ears should hear (if Cyrano heard one more mention of "darkspawn", he'd spare the king the difficulty and just execute himself there on the spot). After that, he had to stand in front of the throne, his hands bound in iron chains and his feet sinking into the plush blue carpet. Around him, banns lined the balconies jutting out into the room, closing him in. And all the king did, his youthful brow furrowed in thought, was read the parchment handed to him by Cyrano's guard.

King Alastair rested his chin on his right hand, index finger pressed against his cheek bone. His curled fingers covered his lips entirely, so Cyrano felt himself at a bit of a loss for completely being able to read his expression. Was it vexation? Confusion? From what he knew of this new King of Ferelden it was that the boy had precious little experience. Thus, it was the figure at his right shoulder that consequently drew the majority of Cyrano's attention.

She was a pretty little redhead, short as all elves were. Her flaming hair was pulled back in a bun with two small wisps falling alongside her brilliantly green eyes. Cyrano felt her slender frame would be better suited in a flowing gown of Orlesian silks (perhaps lilac with a fine gold trim to bring out those intense eyes all the more). But, instead, she wore the somber uniform of the Grey Warden-Commander, the flat azure field flushing out what remained of her pale skin tone and the white griffon blazon doing little to improve matters. She stood close to the king, closer than any of his other advisors. It made Cyrano wonder if any of the rumors were true.

It was whispered even so far as Cyrano's native Antiva that King Alastair had refused to marry his brother's widow, Anora, who was a strong ruler in her own right. Instead, Anora was imprisoned until the banns could figure out the best way to deal with her, and the Warden-Commander never left the king's side. Cyrano would think her to be Alistair's bodyguard. Who better than the woman who slew a demon-tainted dragon and lived to tell of it? The rumors took it further. The two were lovers, they said, and that the human king would likely break with tradition and not only marry an elf but the elf that happened to lead the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.

He had heard the murmurings of the banns as he was held off to the side before his hearing. Grey Wardens rarely lived long, and with the darkspawn still threatening the countryside despite the Archdemon's death, the people had little expectation of the Warden-Commander living long enough to give the king an heir. And if she did, what of the taint? Grey Wardens all had a little of that poisonous taint in them, which allowed them to be better suited to fight the darkspawn…but to pass that on to a child? It was a topic hushed quickly in mixed company. Some complained further that the Warden-Commander, though charismatic and capable, was far from being of noble birth. Being an elf made her descended from slaves. To put another commoner on the throne as Queen Consort was going to try the patience of every noble. Especially those with marriageable daughters.

"This is all very odd," the king finally spoke, not moving his hands but lifting his hazel eyes to take in Cyrano. Those eyes of his were an odd color, hazel being the best way to describe them. But there was a brightness to the color—part glowing golden brown and part amber-green—that the prisoner could tell was not entirely human. Did the taint do that to a person? "Do you know why you're here?" he king continued.

"I imagine it's because I was caught," Cyrano replied honestly. "My boots betrayed me. That rotten meat smell…I keep forgetting how much your mabari love it."

That really had pretty much been the way of it. Cyrano remembered sneaking into the supposedly abandoned warehouse that the smugglers were using for their slave trade. He was silent as a shadow thanks to years of intensive training under the Crows, and the metal of his blades never caught a single glint of light no matter what angle it came from. There had been a mabari hound sleeping not too far away from the door, and it didn't even twitch as he approached. However, even in the throes of its dream of lamb bones (or possibly because of it), the animal's keen nose picked up the telltale scent of Antivan leather. It sniffed. It woke. It barked quite happily and began leaping around Cyrano as if he had a huge sack of mabari crunch biscuits.

There had been other dogs in the building, apparently, and there came a chorus of barking from upstairs. This was followed by the thunder of booted feet and several smugglers came tumbling down the rickety wooden steps one after the other. Fighting them off was not the difficulty. Getting out of the building with his armor not chewed to pieces had become the new goal, and that was how the bann's men found him, running through the streets of Denerim with a pack of mabari hot on his heels…the cliché more apt than he was willing to accept.

"The jailer's report says there is evidence of you being a hired assassin and operating on a contract here in Denerim, calling for your execution. However…you were arrested executing a second contract that required you to rescue children from an underground slave market?" The perplexed king shot a look to his Warden-Commander as if asking for guidance. She must have understood the glance better than Cyrano for she then looked to him directly.

"Two contracts," her firm voice intoned, "one for the Crows—which doesn't surprise me—and another for a separate organization." The king handed her the parchment for her to better get the details even though she had read over his shoulder. "The Grey Wolves. I have never heard of such an organization."

"Nor I," Alistair put in, finally uncovering his face. Cyrano had to admit that he was quite handsome with his smooth, angular jaw and closely trimmed mopping of dark blond hair. He also appeared to be older than the prisoner first expected. "Though, that is unimportant compared to the apparent…conflicting morality of the situation. One of these actions is an executable offence. The other is a charitable action to be commended. Drawing from my own experience, I refuse to send you to the block without hearing the details from you."

There was a low rumble throughout the vaulted room, the banns talking amongst themselves of their opinions of Cyrano, the situation, and even the king.

"It's really quite simple, sire," Cyrano began, flicking his head to get an annoying lock of black hair away from his face. "I switched sides, but didn't want it to immediately look like I was switching sides. The Crows are…not at all forgiving to those that abandon them. So, I came under the pretense of intending to assassinate Bann Athelstan because he knew too much about a Crow operation here on your soil. Simultaneously, I had the contract for the bann's plan to rid himself of the Crow problem, which is where the Grey Wolf contract comes into play. Thus, if you want to learn the inner workings of that second bit, I suggest questioning Bann Athelstan. As for my part in it, I was instructed to rescue children and kill their slavers. That is all."

The king sat back to ponder over that information while the Warden-Commander stepped forward, descending the steps to actually stand before the human prisoner. She was shorter than Cyrano by a full head, but that didn't make her look any less imposing. He barely managed to stop himself from flinching away from her.

"Give me the name of your contact in the Wolves." There was something in her tone, something subtle and compelling. Even without flowery verbosity used in most rhetoric, he felt himself wanting to answer her completely and honestly without any regard for the potential consequences. He managed, barely, to stop himself.

She's very well trained, he thought to himself. I'm sure the Crows are dying to acquire someone with her level of skill—if for nothing else than to get one of their own within bowshot of this new king.

"I am sorry, madam, but my contact is also the leader of the Wolves. It is yet a small organization. However, I was told there is one person I can trust to divulge any information to. I was promised that they would be a guaranteed ally in these lands so foreign to me."

"Then give me their name." The Warden-Commander shrugged as if the issue were some casual thing.

He leaned forward just enough to lower his voice for her ears only, conscious that his guard might try to stop him. "I was given a name…Kallian Tabris. I was told the bann could lead me to her if anything went wrong."

The woman laughed, a low chuckle that was barely audible but shook her leather-armored shoulders. It progressed, quickly turning into a full laugh that echoed through the hall. All murmuring stopped. The king looked thoroughly confused as Cyrano was certain he did, himself.

"Your contact was as good as his word," the Warden-Commander replied, "if a bit roundabout, as it was Bann Athelstan that had you arrested." She turned and ascended the steps back to the king's side, Cyrano left to gape in her wake. She whispered something to King Alistair, and he nodded.

"Take him to the holding cells." The king motioned to the guard. "The Warden-Commander will further question the prisoner there."

Cyrano continued to stare at the king and his favorite advisor as he was led off to a door in the northern wall of the chamber, just off the royal dais. He saw the king nod to someone beyond him. Quickly shifting his attention, Cyrano caught an armored man shallowly nodding in return. This same man stopped the guard just outside the door.

"Back to your post, soldier. I'll deal with this from here." The man's voice was gruff and stern, his hand quickly clamped around Cyrano's upper arm. His grip was as equally stern, and Cyrano winced with pain. His former guard saluted and marched off down the corridor.

"I'm Ser Ratham," the man said to Cyrano as he led him off in the opposite direction of where Cyrano was fairly certain the dungeon was. He knew because he'd only recently come from there. He didn't mind not being taken back to the cold dampness of his cell, but he rather worried that he was in for a worse fate. "The king's instructions were a ruse to confound any Crows who might have been present in the audience chamber."

"Certainly, the king himself did not tell you this. Only the Warden-Commander—"

"Sorry to leave you so out of the loop, rogue, but they both knew long before you were even brought to trial. Bann Athelstan sent a missive ahead of you."

Cyrano sighed perhaps a little too dramatically. "Played by a mark. I hate it when that happens."

His new cell was the Warden-Commander's study. Ser Ratham stood inside the door to keep an eye on him, but Cyrano was otherwise left on his own…still chained, but not everything could be ideal. Of course, he didn't have the intention of trying to escape or any such nonsense, but having the heavy manacles off would be much appreciated. And tea. Tea would be nice.

Ratham was not one for conversation in much the same way a Qunari warrior was.

"Do you expect that it will take the Warden-Commander long to join us?"

"That depends."

"Do you think she honestly understands that I was working for the bann? That she's not going to creep in through the window and stab me in the back?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe what? The understanding bit or the stabbing bit?"

"Both."

"You really don't care to talk to me, do you?"

"No."

Having no luck with conversation, Cyrano turned to the multitude of bookshelves. From the looks of things, the Warden-Commander was a very cultured woman, which was especially surprising given that she was an elf and probably had been lucky to even know how to read. She had everything from histories to magical treatises, secrets of the dwarves to documented Dalish poetry. Cyrano longed to browse through one of those elven collections, the bard in him desiring to learn the secret, beautiful songs that told of gods older than the Maker. With his hands tied, all he could do was stare at the leather-bound spines.

This was how the Warden-Commander found him, gazing longingly at her collection of tomes, his hands half-poised in the air as he constantly forgot about the manacles until they clanked and jingled and rust powder got in his nose. He sneezed.

"Maker's blessings," the Warden-Commander reflexively replied.

Cyrano looked up, startled. Ser Ratham was gone and the red-haired woman stood just inside a closed door. He hadn't even noticed. This woman was good. Too good. In any other situation, he'd most certainly be dead. And wouldn't that be embarrassing. One of the most highly prized assassins in all of Antiva gutted while drooling over books. Shameful.

"Please, take a seat." She nodded to a high backed wooden chair near her desk while she took a seat behind the massive piece of furniture. It clearly had not been made for her. Perhaps it was a relic of a previous regime, the Orlesians most likely. It was too ornate for standard Fereldan tastes, and he doubted quite heavily that a woman like the Warden-Commander would willingly go out of her way to acquire such a gaudy thing. The top of the desk was covered in books and papers, a few vials of sinister-looking potions, and a bright silver bell that seemed to glow with a soft blue light. Curious, valuable, and conveniently out of his reach.

Cyrano obediently sat and folded his hands in his lap. There was little else he could do with them.

"I apologize for the ruse," the woman went on, her voice lilting and friendly. "The Crows and I don't get along, so I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you once I heard from Bann Athelstan."

"It's no trouble, ser, I promise you."

"Call me Kallian, please. Now…your leader's name. I promise that it's just you and me."

"No holes in the walls? No spells that let mages listen in?" His gaze shifted warily from corner to corner.

"Definitely not. I know all the tricks. I especially know how to not let them be used against me."

Cyrano smiled, crinkling his deep brown eyes. "I thought as much. I noticed, in the Landsmeet Chamber, that you have a…a particular gift in speaking. It's not so much what you say as how you say it. An elf in these lands is not trained in oratory so it must have been some other way. There are limited options in the slums of an Alienage."

Kallian nodded. "And what else have you noticed?"

"That you could have snuck up on me, slit my throat, and from a lady like you, I would have enjoyed every moment of it."

The woman laughed again, as brightly as she had earlier when he'd told her her own name. "Antivans. You're all the same, aren't you? Sly flirts with shocking rates of success?"

"Shocking only in the sense that we frequently get turned down, most often by Fereldan women."

Kallian continued to smile. "Your leader's name."

"To you, it's Zevran. To anyone else, it's Shadowfang."

The Warden-Commander's expression automatically melted into one of perplexity. She blinked quietly for a moment as she processed that. When she spoke again, it wasn't to him necessarily. It sounded more like she was thinking out loud.

"I never should have taken him to see the Dalish. Now, he probably thinks he's a werewolf."

"I'm sorry?" Cyrano raised an eyebrow at her.

"Nothing, just…Zevran…he's a dear friend. Probably knocked out too many times with a club in a dark alley, but a dear friend, nonetheless."

"Good to know. When he said I could seek you out, I wasn't so sure about it. The Crows have had several contracts out on you for months. What's the point in trying to find an ally in the most wanted mark if it's only going to get you killed?"

Kallian simply sat there for a moment, clearly pondering something over that may or may not have had anything to do with what Cyrano had just said. Zevran, perhaps? He hoped she wasn't throwing him further by claiming the elf a close friend. Zevran didn't seem the sort to allow himself to be too close to anyone even if it was a fellow elf who also happened to be the Grey Warden that so famously (amongst thieves) spared his life. For one rogue to implicitly trust another was almost a contradiction in terms.

Speaking of such, why was he, Cyrano Rideri, so trusting of this woman? It was a simple answer not requiring much thought. His life rather depended on it at the moment, and he was nothing if not a fond lover of self-preservation.

The Warden-Commander wove her fingers together in front of her face, turning her focus from somewhere ambiguously middle distance directly to Cyrano's face, meeting and holding his gaze. He noticed that each hand had a ring on it. On her right hand was a ring of silver metal veined with something a deep red. On her left was a simple golden ring etched with surprisingly intricate designs. He'd seen such things before on other elves…usually married ones…usually ones married to other elves. He'd need to remember to ask her about it later when his personal freedoms weren't still in the balance. Shackled hands. They were a dead giveaway that she didn't trust him yet.

"If Zevran sent you to aid the bann," she finally said, "it should follow that I help you finish the job. Athelstan's missive said the Crows found out about your turncoat tactics before you actually managed to track down the ones in charge of this end of the operation."

Cyrano felt himself pale a bit. Hearing her state that was probably more embarrassing than being "arrested" in the first place.

"No, ser—Kallian. No, I didn't find them. We Wolves are too few, yet, to have a proper information network."

Kallian nodded. "I've learned in my dealings with them that the Crows usually have their fingers in far more than is good for them. Several of the nobles have been known to use their services…even far up the chain of command." She scowled, looking off to the side again and back into the middle distance. Cyrano had to bestill the urge to turn and see exactly what it was she stared at for concentration. "There is probably no way to actually ever get rid of them, but I want it widely known that they are not welcome, particularly within the city limits. Alistair is in too precarious a position right now, especially since the darkspawn did not immediately retreat back to their holes in the Deep Roads."

Her eyes shot back to lock with Cyrano's again. "You have one week to prove your worth to me. If we can keep the Crows thinking you're arrested and probably executed, all the better for you. We have enough information on your contract to finish it, and I'll inform Zevran, myself, when it's handled. As for your task, you owe us a bit of a favor."

Cyrano balked but found that he couldn't deny her words. She and the king—and Bann Athelstan—did just save his life. That was a huge debt to repay. Possibly too huge. However, Zevran was evidently living proof that the Warden-Commander was as good as her word.

"What…do you wish of me?" he asked hesitantly, not totally certain he wanted to know the answer.

Kallian didn't respond. Instead, she reached for a small silver hammer sitting on her desk and tapped it against the bell. There was a high, clear tone that hung in the air for several seconds. Cyrano had never before heard its like and felt a strange pang of longing almost as if he were remembering a pleasant dream. Not long after the beautiful sound faded away, the door to the study opened and soft footsteps approached. He turned around in his seat to have a look.

A young woman had entered, black hair pulled back from her face and secured into a long tail that hung down her back. She was dressed in the deep rose and crimson robes of a mage, and her waist was cinched with a belt displaying the heavy bronze seal of the Chantry. And what a waist it was! Cyrano was immediately reminded of the slim stem of a glass of fine Orlesian wine, a stem he could delicately twirl between his fingers. As with the glass, the woman's waist accentuated the shapeliness of her hips which matched the broadness of her shoulders. A perfect hourglass…and the face that went with it. Oh, Maker, Cyrano was beside himself with admiration. She had large, vibrant grey eyes, a small, straight nose, and a full mouth the color of a budding rose. Her cheeks maintained a faint, natural blush, and her heart-shaped face was lightly tattooed with a design that he couldn't immediately place but probably said something about where she was from or what magic she was expert in. Flowing lines and symmetrical patterns erupted across her smooth forehead and her cheekbones and chin held miniature variants of the same, contouring her face perfectly.

Such poetry I could compose for one such as this, Cyrano thought to himself…so intensely that it was an extreme effort not to say it aloud.

"You summoned me, Commander?"

And her voice! Cyrano found himself suddenly reeling when he heard the cultured Orlesian accent. Stories immediately began to take form in his head, stories that would long to be told as soon as they progressed further than the premise of a lovely Orlesian maiden being held captive by a jealous high dragon of ill manners.

"Solona, this is Cyrano," Kallian stated, her attention focused on the mage. All the better. Cyrano could feel himself beginning to sweat. "He owes the kingdom a boon and claims to work for a friend of mine. He has the sponsorship of Bann Athelstan, so I am willing to accept this claim until I learn otherwise." She glanced at Cyrano just long enough to give him a stern look then turned back to Solona. "I'm giving him time to prove his worth, especially if we now must keep him safe from the Crows long enough for them to consider him dead. To begin, if you wouldn't mind, kindly take him with you when you run your errands in the Alienage."

"Even to see Shianni?"

"Especially to see Shianni."

Cyrano was beside himself. From the sounds of things, he was being given over to this Orlesian beauty for the remainder of the day, which was plenty of time to begin learning about this glorious new muse. He could no longer contain his quickly-building excitement.

"Commander, you honor me!" he exclaimed, falling from the chair to his knees before the desk. He pressed his forehead to the floor than straightened. "I will gladly submit myself to this young lady's every mercy!"

A sudden jolt shot through his manacles. He yelped in pain as his body reflexively jerked and fell to the floor. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the twitching that lasted for several agonizing moments. He did manage to have enough focus to look up at the young mage, the floor giving him a more clear perspective than being twisted awkwardly in his chair. She was still exceedingly lovely, even with—or especially because of—the wicked smirk that curled her lips.

"My every mercy?" Solona maintained her smirk as she looked to the Warden-Commander. "This I can accept. I should like to be off immediately, but might I request that my…charge…first be bathed and redressed? He smells like rotten meat and wet dog."

Kallian nodded and came around the desk to help Cyrano to his feet. He was most grateful but found difficulty in actually saying so. The electricity from the manacles still seemed to be playing havoc with his system. That he wasn't drooling was a blessing that would probably see him at the Chantry later that he might give thanks…possibly in the form of a donation that he'd have to lift from somewhere else.

"My father made a room for him in the east wing. Ser Ratham is set to guard it." Solona nodded and headed for the door, Kallian followed to ensure that Cyrano made his way out without collapsing. She also took the opportunity to whisper in his ear.

"If you even so much as think of doing anything to hurt Shianni, understand that I would give my life to protect her. However, I make no guarantee that I would do anything at all…to keep her from hurting you." With that, she released him to his own two feet, the cold flagstone of the hallway, and Solona's quickly retreating form. Watching her walk away as quite the pleasant experience, and he only thought to try to catch up to her after she rounded a corner and left his line of sight.

"Yes, Commander," he stated with a quick bow to Kallian before dashing off. "Naturally, I shall give Shianni my every respect." And so he ran, ran like the mabari were after him, ran like the darkspawn vermin would eat him alive, ran like a beguiling witch had just stolen his very soul and only in her presence did he have a hope of getting it back.