And what of the knife in the dark? "You could be one of the best, Leliana." Darker hair, dress blue like blooming bruises. "This is where the rest fail. You will not." A kiss. The soon to be sister struck true that night.
It turns over inside her, a loose memory in her mind's jaw, dark, deep, defeaning. The mark's name was Yvette DuPonte, but The Hand does not want to remember. It was her first kill, and it was easy. Most of her kills are easy.
It is one of many knots: Leliana slipped out of the camp after nightfall, while the Warden's snores racked the camp. The Warden would never win the Game, no, Leliana knew. Any bard worth their salt would know when to trip the windowlatch and slip inside. They'd only have to listen for the snoring. It was a long walk from the camp back to Denerim, longer in the night.
Marjolaine's body was still laying there, dark in the moonlight, blood rusting the floorboards. Her elegant neck glimmered silver. She hadn't yet began to smell. Leliana watched her while her chest didn't rise. Leliana knelt down next to her, head bowed, benediction.
"Come on then, my sweet," Leliana reached under her rusted dress and scooped the bard into her arms. Marjolaine's head lolled to the side, her cool lips pressed against Leliana's collarbone. In their apartment in Val Royeaux, Marjolaine had spun around the doorframe, lilies in hand, and Leliana had leapt and lifted her in a twirl, for a minute Marjolaine had flown. A string quartet lilting in through the open window. She was much heavier, now. Leliana staggered to her feet.
Pearls within pearls: a statue had hidden in the cellar of the Valence chantry. Mother Dorothea had taken Leliana there the night of her Profession (falling petals, incense thick as fire, heart pounding, I do), armed with candlelight. She had tugged lose the twine, and pulled back the canvas, and held the guttering flame under the sculpture.
An elf of grey granite (male? female? it was so hard to tell with them), cheekbones sharp as glass, face twisted in grief. He was struggling to carry a human woman in his arms, her head fallen back in death over the crook of his arm and mouth hollowed open, her feet carving furrows in the ash at the base of the sculpture.
"Shartan?" Leliana had asked.
"It was a gift from a Dalish friend." No direct answer in the words, but the Reverend Mother's tone told the truth.
They had stood together in silence, watching the light flicker over the elf's gaunt eyes.
"It is the best sculpture I have ever seen," The Reverend Mother had said. And then she had knelt to the flagstone and gathered the canvas and twine off of the floor. "If I ever have to abandon my station here, the next Mother would be forced to destroy it. Pity."
Leliana had heard the command in the offhand remark, Leliana, clever, bird watching in the bush. "It's too heavy for total secrecy," she had murmured. Under the cover of dark, in a cart, under bales of hay, yes, but what of the team required to lift it on the cart? Four men, strong men, and Leliana alone in her cell with a holy book. Leliana alone in the woods with a dead woman. "But there is much artwork here. Surely this, and the rest, could all be your new requisitions as you move up in the Chantry. Or a donation? To the city of Valence. One cart of many could easily be missed."
"Your discretion is appreciated, Sister Leliana," Mother Dorothea had said. "The Maker has gifted you." Silence, but for the inbreath. "I can rely on you."
"Completely."
Long walk out to the forest from the heart of Denerim. Scraping, sullen, shadows in the road. Marjolaine sprawled, granite weight, and Leliana had no shovel. Bracken in the dark, thorns in her palms. Flint and tinder. Flowers in Marjolaine's hair. A bed of broken branches, pine, for once no smell of wet dog. Dirt all around, careful, no wandering fire to eat the trees. Sparks wouldn't catch. Leliana knelt in the Fereldan mud and cupped them with her hand, until they unfurled into plumes of flame. Smoke like incense.
A secret: her throat failed her. The Nightingale couldn't sing to send her lover away. She ran from the smell, roasting pork, she vomited at the base of an oak tree. She still cannot abide the taste of ham, flees from the morning cookfires.
Long days, long long days in the dungeon. Clothes gone. Heart opened, gushing blood in her mouth. A punch, a gauntlet against her jaw, and her tooth glittering like a diamond on the mud-red ground. How can I charm the lords without my teeth? I need to be pretty. Even so, she flees from morning cookfires.
What of the knife in the dark?
A key on the cell floor. A key and a knife, a knife in the dark. Quick! Throats split, heart hammering, Leliana crumpling at the feet of the Reverend Mother. "It was the Maker that saved you." Dorothea's fingers, cool against her scalp. The dreams would not stop coming. The dreams would not stop coming. Long days, long long days in the dungeon, and the Chantry walls could not stop the dreaming. "Let him carry you when you cannot rise."
Another night behind convent walls, shattered, screaming, sobbing, and Leliana caught up in the dreams that would not stop coming. How can I charm the lords without my teeth? I need to be pretty. Heart busted, blood bursting in her mouth.
Reverend Mother at the oaken door with a decanter of wine and a jar of honey. Leliana could not shake the dreaming, but Mother Dorothea would not let her be shaken alone. Leliana took the crystal cup and let the drink soak through her. The bitter kick of wine soothed by honey, golden, a gentle hearthfire in her throat. Dorothea's fingers, cool against her scalp.
"What do I do?" Leliana's throat working against her. "I've been living here for months, and I can't get my head out of the dungeon."
"Trust in the Maker. Pray for your soul. And hers."
The Maker who brought the key. The Maker who brought her to the Warden. The Maker with the honeyed wine.
But what of the knife in the dark?
I thicken, darken, fall to the floor. Leliana flips her dagger into her hand, letter opener that opens throats. I hold up my hands. "Good morning," I say.
"Cole." Dagger lowering, eyes still sharp. "You shouldn't surprise people like that. Especially while they're in their own chambers. They could mistake you for an intruder, and you could get hurt."
"Maybe. But I am hard to damage."
The Nightingale puts the dagger down. "What is it, Cole?"
Which thread to pull? So many, so thick the knot. I begin. "Marjolaine cried over what she did to you."
The sister does not move. "How would you know?"
"Her bow remembers." I point to the trunk under the Left Hand's dresser. "She was sometimes sorry, but only when nobody could see."
The sister still does not move. "And Mother Dorothea was very sorry, too. She wished for honeyed wine many times at her war table. She asked too much." I point to the prayer beads dangling off the post of Leliana's bed. "She whispered it when she thumbed the beads. She hoped that the Maker would forgive her."
"And was the Maker sorry for letting her die?"
I shook my head. I had gotten the words wrong. "I cannot speak for the gods." I raise my hand.
"Don't make me forget." The Nightingale bows her head, clasps her hands together. Bowed, benediction. "It's better—it's better that I know."
I hesitate, but nod. I shimmer, lift, phase away. Later in the night, I will slip honey into her wine.