Every mage, at some point or another, dreamed of one day becoming a magister in Tevinter. And if they told you differently, chances were they were lying.
It wasn't necessarily outright lying—because it was so easy to lie without realizing it, to ignore a dream as a wisp from the Fade, or to blame temptation solely on demons. It was just that no demon could offer something to a person they didn't already want. That was rather how the system worked—as it had for years, with no sign of changing.
So every mage, wayward apostate or anxious apprentice, baffled adolescent or senior enchanter, had considered the idea at least once.
Anders was no exception.
He wasn't sure if his reasons were the same reasons or different reasons or if those reasons even mattered. Mostly, he'd once thought that wearing whatever robes he liked—not being too cold with bare arms and thin silk in the winter—was the epitome of freedom. Tales of balmy Imperium weather didn't hurt that impression, either.
Acolyte robes were itchy, but more than that they were ugly, not at all impressive, certainly not what anyone thought of when they decided who to be jealous of or impressed by. Mages had it rough in Ferelden—and really, in all other parts of Thedas that weren'tthe Imperium—and the robes they had to wear played a significant part in that: muted grays and dull purples and sometimes faded pinks, high collars and shapeless middles and downright depressing cowls.
Anders couldn't count on the fingers of both hands the number of poor sods he'd seen on a daily basis wearing hats that looked like the back-end of a sickly chicken. Even worse than that was how readily they all accepted it.
In Tevinter, mages could wear whatever they pleased. Anders knew a magister—a battle mage, and a bit of a paranoid eccentric, but then again who wasn't, these days?—who wore light armor, thinly hammered silverite inlaid with dragon scales, and wielded a staff made of dragon bone. The rules seemed to be that, when you'd killed the dragon yourself, you could do anything with it you liked—such as commission dragonbelly boots from a trusty armorer, or make dragon claw earrings for all your closest friends.
That was why Anders had a dragon claw earring in the first place. It was a bit heavy, a bit ostentatious—and it was probably the best dinner gift he'd ever received, not to mention his very favorite piece of jewelry. No matter how cool the pale, salty breezes were, blown in over the open water, it was always warm, a dragon-forged heat swaying like a secret next to Anders's pulse.
Only in Tevinter.
There were some nights Anders thought about it, bare elbows resting on the sill of his second floor picture window, just like this—not due to nostalgia or any real sense of loss, because there wasn't much he missed about Ferelden—but because he could, and that was usually the best reason to do anything. He didn't think about the itchy robes, or the fussy senior enchanters, or the frequent trips to the first enchanter's office, the polished templar helms and templar swords, or any of those details designed to put and keep him in his place. He supposed he took the time out to appreciate the experience— the soft, silky feathers bunched around his shoulders, themselves a glossy bottle blue, tickling his arms whenever the wind picked up—and to enjoy the view, all the lanterns being lit along the wide bazaar streets, the black spires blotted against the blacker sky, not to mention the occasional shriek in a nearby cul-de-sac as some proud magister stepped on the toes of another.
Hungry young mages sought to test their mettle against their elders, who were either more experienced or more complacent. Sometimes the former needed healing, sometimes the latter, and sometimes both.
Sometimes they were beyond that.
Anders rested his chin in the palm of his hand, watching the slaves put up the lanterns in the windows of the villa across the way. He could see their dark shadows moving thin and narrow from each bright pool of light to the next, heads bowed, disappearing and reappearing with a rhythm all their own. The same should have been happening in Anders's villa, only he was in the way, leaning over the windowsill to spy on other people's business.
His neighbors allowed it, if only because he was so useful to have close at hand—to heal their injured slaves or their injured children, or their gout, or their toothaches, or their duel wounds, or, most commonly, whatever diseases they'd recently picked up from some fresh boatload of untested house slaves.
Anders didn't mind battle magic—he enjoyed a well-placed fireball now and then; and what mage didn't?—but being a healer in Tevinter didhave its perks. Like dragon claw earrings, and your very own villa by the shore, in the most fashionable part of the city, enjoying the patronage of all the most incorrigible magisters, who were also the most incorrigible gossips. That was the best Anders could say about them, really.
Once he'd promised to keep an archon's dirty secrets—the reason why the man was so itchy down there—he'd made himself invaluable. Practically a Minrathous institution. He wasn't dangerous; he was the opposite of that, useful, everyone's friend, invited to all the parties, enjoying—to a point—the fruits of someone else's labor.
Anders closed his eyes. He felt a seaside breeze ruffle his hair; he heard the rustle of the curtains and a flash of flint sizzling beside the next window over, just loud enough to be heard above the laughter blooming from the open ceiling in Danarius's atrium.
Anders opened his eyes.
One of his slaves, the pale, obedient sort with downcast eyes—house slaves were so often local, born and bred into slavery, without any imagination for possibility—stood before him, neither patient nor impatient. Just waiting.
'I'm in your way again,' Anders said. It wasn't a question, because those were never answered, anyway.
True to form, the slave said nothing in reply. That was the way of things, and despite how odd Anders found it—lonely one day, and downright comical the next—he'd learned to work around those silences, pretending they weren't there or filling them himself, depending on how tired he was, or what sort of weather they were having that day. There were times when a silence could be defeated, pierced, deflated like an empty wineskin, and other times when it had to be accepted, or abandoned, or allowed—when it simply was, at least for an hour or so.
Anders swept away from the window, as though that had been in his plan all along, leaving his bedchamber with a soft whisper of silks.
It wasn't an untimely interruption. Anders was already overdue at Caladrius's summer pavilion for that evening's festivities. He'd skipped the dinner portion altogether—on hot summer days he couldn't bear the thought of so much oil and fish—but there was bound to be talk if he missed the dancing, not to mention the pouring of wine.
One of the slim advantages of being a foreign magister, Anders had discovered, was that everyone accepted your decisions and flaws as personal quirks—eccentricities to be commented on and even laughed at in the heat of the moment, but not an outright threat, or worse, a challenge. Anders would take being funny over being suspicious any day of the week. And he still hadn't come around to the Tevinter style of feasting: the noxious fishes and the limp, sauced vegetables.
Anders enjoyed his meals alone, and drank freely with his fellow magisters later. It was a solution that caused no one offense—Anders's favorite kind of solution, in fact, just like chasind robes were his favorite kind of robes, and dragon claws were his favorite kind of earring.
He left the house that evening with the smallest retinue of slaves: just two, one for serving wine with Caladrius's household, and one to wait on him as the night wore on. Any more than that, and he risked putting on airs in front of the others; they might start to think that a man with so many slaves was worth a duel or two in the streets, and that was a lifestyle Anders was keen to avoid.
He couldn't spare the time to heal if he was busy trying to preserve his own skin.
It was a warm night, the wind that blew in off the ocean waves stirring the feathers at Anders's throat in sudden gusts followed by pointed stillness. Men and women walked the streets with less care than they took during the day; they blundered into their companions on the open road, chuckling as they drank from clay bottles glazed in green. Caladrius lived to one side of the bay, in a slightly less-fashionable manse than Anders himself, but his parties were always lavish and colorful, full of the most ludicrous and inappropriate people.
Anders appreciated that flair, that sense of style over substance.
According to popular gossip, Caladrius had only just returned from a slaving jaunt in Ferelden, where he'd managed to run afoul of an infamous Rivaini pirate along the way.
Typical. Anders wasn't in the least bit surprised. Some people couldn't help attracting attention wherever they went, even if that attention was bad, and some people didn't even realize the difference.
At least it would give them a topic of conversation to avoid all night. Anders often found parties more entertaining when everyone was trying to ignore the unspoken ogre in the room.
The sound of lyre-music filled the air as Anders crossed the threshold to Caladrius's villa, keeping time with the lower tones of a slave's sistrum. It was a shame no one put out their lutesanymore. Anders always looked, but there was never one to be found. Most likely his talents as an amateur had halted the conversation too much for Caladrius's liking.
He always hadbeen the sort of man who hated losing the crowd's attention, especially in his own home.
There were slaves to meet Anders in the atrium, directing him through to the front hall, lit with tall candles and crowded with magisters and their wives, slaves painted in nothing but peeling gold leaf; dancing girls writhed to the plink and pluck of the sistrums, the metal rounds of their belts clinking in time with the music. There was a half-eaten suckling pig set on the far table, and a glass of dark Imperium wine in everyone's hand.
Anders tugged at the smooth shape of the dragon's claw in his ear. It held its warmth, after all this time.
'There you are, healer,' called one of the magisters, an older man with a forked beard like a serpent's tongue. 'I was beginning to think you wouldn't show. Been liking my gift that much, have you? She's always been one of a kind—what do they call them in Ferelden? A real…spitfire?'
'Adoring her,' Anders agreed, despite the fact that the gift in question was now more of a scullery maid than a bedtime assistant, a deft hand at classic Fereldan dishes. He waved off a slave to find him wine—to give the girl a purpose that wasn't getting her ass slapped by a handsy archon—before settling onto the nearest low couch, draped in slippery purple cloth. It slid along the cushion, against the skirts at Anders's thighs. The Imperium was always so tactile, a confluence of physical appreciation to combat the less tangible but more frequent magics. 'Besides, miss the festivities andwaste my chance to impose on Caladrius's hospitality? I'd never. No, you must have me confused with some other charming healer. Don't be embarrassed; it happens all the time. I just have one of those faces, I suppose.'
As the man settled in beside him with a groan, Anders could see the broken veins in his nose, bright red from a lifetime of drinking wine and eating the delightful organ meats everyone prized in Minrathous. He wrinkled his own nose, then pretended it was from the smell of the wine, heady and thick as the late-night dregs, enough to knock a grown nug flat on its back.
The magister's slave—an elf with dark hair and cheekbones gaunt as a rogue's twin daggers—looked away quickly, her face betraying a panicked twitch.
Anders was always making other people's slaves nervous. Since they wouldn't talk to him, he could never figure out why.
'Never mind your face,' the magister said, waving a hand with five glittering rings. They werenice, sparkling, sharp-cut jewels centered in gold, but none of them nearly so impressive as a single dragon claw. 'They're about to make the announcements for tomorrow's tournament.'
'Delightful,' Anders murmured.
That was the sort of thing he needed to be drunk for—or at least mildly dizzy, reeling from the scent of the warm Agreggio. The magister offered him his cup, deep but closer to half empty than half full, and Anders steadied himself against it, both hands cradling the smooth dome.
It was always easier to find equilibrium when you had something to hold onto. That was the whole principle behind staffs.
Above the haze of the incense, the flies flitting about the carcass of the suckling pig, and the thick smell that rose from the depths of Anders's cup, candlelight flickered over the pate of a familiar, bald head. Caladrius was making his rounds in the distance, charming his guests one at a time while showing off for the rest. He had a new scar—just under his left eye, one he kept touching self-consciously despite being proud of it—and Anders sipped at the spiced brew, wishing Caladrius's tastes were just a hair less sweet, especially in the summer.
His belly was warm, a thick pool of sugar resting just beneath the vibrant hops, when Caladrius clapped his hands for attention. Gossip continued, a few hushed, scuttling whispers, then faded away entirely for the sake of breathless anticipation. Even the plink and plunk of the sistra died down, in all four corners of the square room, while the slaves scattered, and the main doors flew open.
'Caladrius,' the magister at Anders's side muttered. 'Why is it that baldmen always feel the need to show off the most?'
'Because they haven't any hair,' Anders replied.
He'd have thought that would be obvious.
Anders leaned against the scrolling arm of his couch, cup tucked against his chest, watching over the rim as the fighting slaves filtered in. They were all chained together, but that didn't foster any sense of camaraderie—probably because they were meant to fight one another to the death tomorrow, and as such couldn't afford to nurture any budding friendships. They had to hate one another, whether or not they knew one another from before the long journey to Minrathous, packed in some dank galleon hold, some of them looking more or less defeated by it.
There were two types of new slaves—the ones who were afraid, and the ones who were angry. Neither of them knew yet that fear and anger were the opposite sides of the exact same coin.
Anders took another pull of his wine, the syrupy liquor burning a narrow path down the back of his throat. He'd be drunk soon, just a little, and that would feel better.
'Kirkwaller,' he murmured to the lute-playing slave crouched beside him, a young elf who couldn't decide if Anders was mad and should be humored, or if it might be all right simply to ignore him. But Anders liked to play this game, whether he had outside participation or not, spotting each member of the lineup by nationality, since their expressions were always more or less the same. 'And…Kirkwaller. And qunari—oh, that'll go over well. What a lucky bunch. Elf, elf, elf, Orlesian, and… Fereldan, I'd say.'
The lutist said nothing. He held onto his lute instead. Anders strummed his own instrument, the earthenware cup, swirling his finger around the rim.
Fereldans were no more obvious than qunari, for example, or Orlesians, a bit less of a mixed bag than Kirkwallers, but they were always easy to pick out of the crowd because of how stubborn they were. A man didn't weather mud and dog piss and Fereldan ale without it affecting his personality in some eternal way. Anders recognized them, those blunt faces and unforgiving mouths. Usually, Fereldans were the angry type of new slave.
Not to play to stereotype or anything, but Anders had seen enough of them to recognize a distinct pattern.
This one did seem angry, but he was also determined not to let it show—as if it could be that easy to outmaneuver his captors where emotions were concerned, or as if everyone in the room didn't already know, instinctively, when a man was trying too hard. His nose was broken, blood streaked over the bridge and in his unkempt beard, hair matted along his brow with dirt.
'My money's on the qunari,' the magister said, while Caladrius went down the line, turning his fighters' chins up with two fingers so the magisters' wives could appreciate their build, and musculature, and also indulge in gladiatorial fantasy. Some of their husbands were doing the same. 'Before Caladrius kills him for beinga qunari, that is.'
'Ha ha,' Anders agreed. When the magister looked his way, he offered a tipsy, crooked smile.
The magister shook his head. 'You never could hold your wine, could you?'
'But I'm holding it right now,' Anders replied, wrapping his arms tighter around the cup, embracing it the way some men he knew held onto a slim elvhen lover. 'The only trouble is, it's not holding me back.'
The show was all he needed to remain harmless in their eyes, helpful and unnoticed and properly inconsequential. The magister chuckled at him, not unkindly, just bemused—and Anders did so enjoy being funny.
The lutist at his side didn't laugh, of course—he probably didn't know what laughing was, since there was no such joy in his music, just a sorrowful undercurrent, not at all appropriate for so fine a party. Anders wished he would laugh, then laughed at himself for harboring such a foolish thought, more foolish than all the others, yet somehow more prevalent.
Caladrius waved him over a little while later—when the main show had ended, the magisters gossiping separately from their wives, some more interested in how handsomethe catch of the day was, while others focused on talent, odds, luck, background, who had the most good teeth, that sort of thing. Anders listened in with one ear while he swayed in front of Caladrius; everyone was trying to decide if it was worth the cost of their pride to bet on the qunari, or if they wished to throw their lot—and their backing—into another candidate.
Freshly defeated qunari were always good for Imperium morale. There was nothing the magisters enjoyed so much as a public qunari thrashing, followed immediately by a farcical re-enactment of certain passages from the Qun, followed even more immediately by slaves and song, the perfect end to the perfect day.
'Well?' Caladrius asked. 'What do you think?'
'You should have asked me when do you think,' Anders told him. 'Then I could tell you: practically never.'
Caladrius fingered the fresh line of his scar. It was red and angry and swollen, flanked by a deep bruise, stinking of elfroot, impressively infected. 'Hilarious,' he said. 'I meant about the scar. Can you fixit, healer?'
'And here I thought you were asking me about your new litter,' Anders replied, brushing Caladrius's fingers out of the way to inspect the salty wound. It was never a good idea to practice any sort of magic on someone you liked while inebriated—so it was a lucky thing Anders didn't like Caladrius much at all. 'All of whom areimpressive, by the way. The qunari especially has the ladies all in a flutter, and some of the men, too. You know what they say about Tevinter women and Qunari fetishes, don't you Caladrius?'
From the line of slaves, the Fereldan import snorted. The chains looped around his manacles clanked, not exactly subtle.
'Oh dear,' Anders said. He jerked his finger lightly against the corner of Caladrius's eye, pretending to slip in order to prevent the man from turning his bald head toward the source of the noise. 'It sounds like one of your slaves may have picked up a cough on the trip over, Caladrius. I warned you about those moldy holding quarters, didn't I? If you aren't careful, it'll spread through the whole retinue like wildfire. Have you ever seen a qunari with a cold? Just one sneeze could rock the coliseum's very foundations—and it'd give himquitean unfair advantage in the battles to come, I'd say.'
'Your uniquesense of humor aside,' Caladrius said, holding obligingly still, 'I'm more interested in what can be done about my face, at present.'
'Of course you are,' Anders agreed. Crisis averted, laughter ignored, Caladrius's keen sense of pride maintained—it was rare that any plan ran so smoothly anywhere in Tevinter. 'It's such an important face, after all.' He sucked in a breath, smelling faintly of Agreggio, and drew on the healing magic that rested always at his fingertips. Caladrius was impossibly vain—an unfortunate trait for a baldman to possess. He wouldn't only expect the infection dealt with, but the scar to disappear, as well.
Anders did the best he could; the wound had been left improperly treated for too long, since all the battle mages scoffed at learning lesser healing spells, but there were ways to make the mark less obvious. Pale light shimmered from the pads of his fingers, drawing out the poison and muting the red tone of Caladrius's flesh. The scar shrank down until it was a silvery-white flicker against his cheek, no more noticeable than a wrinkle, or a laugh line.
Caladrius, unlike his slaves, had a few of the latter.
When he turned, it was nothing more than a shadow, a trick of the candlelight. Anders allowed himself to feel a keen sense of pride, too, at seeing the scope of his work, the pleasure in a job well done, despite its less-than-savory clients.
Caladrius would always know it was there, of course, but other people wouldn't. And that was usually Caladrius's chief concern.
He sighed deeply when it was over, palming his smooth skin, a positively beatific smile beneath, and Anders gladly stepped away, establishing a more social distance between them. He didn't glance toward the slaves, or more specifically toward the laughing Fereldan, to see whether or not he'd appreciated Anders's swift distraction, or any of his further jokes.
That was one of his chief eccentricities: looking to slaves, expecting them to be a real part of any conversation. Anders had done his best to stamp the impulse out—he was never rewarded for it on either side of the equation—but the notion still lingered like flies around the dregs in Caladrius's sweet wine barrels.
'Mirror,' Caladrius barked. He snapped his fingers, and one of the house slaves jerked to her feet to oblige him. She disappeared behind a fluttering curtain; Anders caught side of the narrow corridor it obscured, the darkness beyond that, the rat's warren hidden just behind the house-cat's favored napping cushion. '…You have my gratitude, Anders.'
'Even before she brings you your mirror?' Anders fussed with a few of his more troublesome feathers. They were cool against the arcane warmth still heating his skin. 'I'm flattered.'
'If I have any concerns, I trust I can raise them with you tomorrow,' Caladrius said, smoothing a hand over the back of his head, bare skin shining in the light from the atrium. 'Youwillbe coming to check this midden heap over before the matches start, won't you? I can't suffer another embarrassment like last time. All those down-turned thumbs.' He paused, prodding the flesh where his wound had been, tongue against the corner of his mouth, remembering the insult that it bore.
Anders wished he knew the story behind it. But Caladrius was never the sort to tell tales where he featured as anything but the victor.
'I'll be there,' Anders promised instead. At last, his eyes flicked down the line of chained slaves, from the blond Orlesian to the ashen qunari, through the row of nondescript elvhen, the Kirkwaller with his armor in disarray, all the way to the Fereldan on the end, staring straight into nothing. If his nose was giving him pain, it didn't show on his face.
That was a Fereldan for you. They were stubborn as their dogs, and just as swift to balk at an unwanted collar.
Anders wondered how he'd fare tomorrow, if that stubbornness was his only weapon and only friend, and felt the red wine in his belly give a twist. Perhaps, for the first time in years, he had a reason to stay and watch the matches, after his preliminary examinations were through.
#
The coliseum was the jewel of Minrathous, a magnificent stone amphitheater set at the center of town. It was said to be visible from the cliffs of The High Reaches themselves, and when there was a proper battle on, slave and magister alike could hear the roar of the crowd throughout the entire city.
Anders wasn't its biggest fan.
In earlier years, it had been something of a polarizing topic between him and his fellow magisters, before Anders had learned not to share his opinions with everyone who had ears. The simplest explanation he could offer was that, as a healer, one gained a certain respect for the way bodies fit together, how veins and arteries interconnected to hold life and blood within. Watching that natural phenomenon be hacked to pieces under a barbarian's blade was disheartening, at least for the person whose calling involved putting everything back in its proper place.
Hearing—and observing—carnage happen to the cheers and cries of a delighted audience was even worse. These days, Anders only visited to certify the health of the competitors, and to see if he could squeeze in a look afterward, to pop someone's eye back into place, or reattach lost fingers.
It was gruesome work, but the magisters appreciated not having to lose a good investment, and the slaves generallyappreciated not having to lose their limbs.
Anders said 'generally' because this wasn't always the case. Some of the ones who wished to die the most were the ones who were denied that right, that privilege, even in the face of monumental, often inhuman pain. They fought not to win but to lose, and yet there was always a moment—just before death came—when some other instinct set in, when they couldn't quite bring themselves to let down their shields.
Usually, that moment occurred right before a qunari pike came hurtling at their face.
Anders knew it didn't make him the best person to ignore the whole thing, to try and sneak in a mid-afternoon nap while everyone else indulged in the spectator sport of outright bloodlust. But it didn't make him the worstperson, either, and often that was enough to ease his conscience.
That conscience was always quieter than the roars from the coliseum, in any case.
One of Caladrius's men saw Anders into the underground, past the many cells, and the champions in said cells, all glistening muscle and dark faces, old scars and missing teeth. Anders recognized some of them but knew only a bare handful of their names; others were strangers, new to the arenas and their purpose within them, trying—bless their hearts—to pace, chains clanking all the way.
For whatever reason, they were never grateful to see him, though Anders hadn't gone on any slaving expeditions lately—or ever—and his touch was always a healing one, never the hand that wielded the whip. Maybe it had something to do with the feathers, the high, gold-trimmed collar at his throat, while they wore sullied leather trousers and not much else.
Maybe they just didn't like mages. Or maybe they just didn't like men who wore gaudy earrings.
It was impossible to tell, probably a confluence of all three details, along with the pretty swish of Anders's chasind robes as he held them, gingerly, above the dirt-packed floor, the freckles on his pale arms not quite the same as the whip-scars on theirs.
There was no reason for them not to get along, except for the fact that there was also every reason. And so it went, in Tevinter, but especially in the tunnels below the coliseum, where no slave had a friend beyond their daily weapon.
'I don't know his name, but the Fereldan has a broken nose,' Anders explained, while Caladrius's man unhooked the keys from their chain and opened the first rusty cell door. Anders peered over his broad shoulder to the scene within, hoping—if the Maker still cast his gaze toward Minrathous now and then—that it wasn't the qunari he had to deal with today.
But it wasn't—of course it wasn't; the magisters preferred their qunari fighting handicapped, cut tendons in their ankles to make them stumble, to watch them fall under the blow of a lesser opponent. It was the Fereldan, instead, still bloody, still angry, still Fereldan, wrists crossed between his thighs, chafed skin beneath his silverite cuffs.
'Gave us a bit of trouble last night,' Caladrius's man said. 'Had to put him in solitary.'
'And rough him up too, of course,' Anders replied.
The man—a Rivaini without so much as a pinch of humor—failed, as always, to acknowledge words could ever have a second meaning.
'Of course,' he said.
'Leave us,' Anders suggested, more straightforward this time.
Caladrius's man knew, at least, what those words meant. 'Don't get too fussy,' he warned, the door creaking shut behind him. 'This one's up first. Against the qunari, too.'
'Lucky you,' Anders said, reaching out to survey the extent of the damage.
It wasn't bad—it could have been worse—just a few fresh bruises blooming in the hollow of a sharp cheek, a split lower lip, and the problem with the nose that Anders had noticed before. The way the Fereldan sat, with stiff shoulders and shallow breaths, suggested he might be trying to hide a few broken ribs as well, more likely due to his treatment here than any older injury.
Anders contemplated how dirty the cot was, how much dirtier the floor was, and how clean his robes were in comparison. Then, he tricked his skirts up somewhere around his knees, crouching to place himself on eye level with his patient.
That was supposed to foster companionship, or at least trust. But the Fereldan's dark eyes and clenched jaw wasn't encouraging in the slightest, much less friendly, or welcoming, or inclined to talk.
'They'll want the qunari to die,' Anders explained. The words were subterfuge, a distraction, meant to keep the Fereldan busy while Anders inspected the ribs beneath his dirty leather chestpiece. 'So you have that going for you, at least. But I still think it's better to fight when you aren't considerably handicapped. Threebroken ribs? Don't tell me you tried to escape.'
Anders was met with the same silence he always courted, under the circumstances. It meant nothing, no agreement, no disagreement, neither humor nor displeasure. It simply was, without interpretation or acknowledgement. Even the newer slaves learned quickly when it came to the importance of holding their tongues, when they wanted to keep said tongues from being cut out of their mouths.
At least the cats Anders kept at home had the decency to meow in response every now and then. When that was the best conversation a man could get outside of a drunken orgy, he had to know his social circles were narrow indeed.
Anders smoothed his fingers beneath the worn leather armor-straps, against sweat-soaked cotton and skin that was just a pitch too warm. It wasn't because of fever but rather hot blood, anger and anticipation, and possibly a touch of dread.
No one could hear they were about to fight a qunari warrior in single combat and not have somereaction.
The heated skin and tight muscle under Anders's fingertips twitched, but accepted his magic without further protest. Sometimes, his patients cursed, in foreign languages or common, hating the magic they needed to keep them going, to piece them back together again. Sometimes, they acted as though they'd never been healed before—and maybe they hadn't, too accustomed to clutching elfroot poultices over festering wounds, suffering needlessly without a healer's touch.
The Fereldan was accustomed to healing. Either he knew a good healer, or wasn't as stupid about them as everyone else.
'Better?' Anders asked.
Silence again. But the Fereldan shifted in place, and the silence was broken—by the hiss of metal link against metal link in his chain, and the creaking of his small cot beneath him. He took a deep breath, ribcage swelling, before he let it out.
If his ribs hadn't been better, he wouldn't have been able to do that without an obvious wince.
'I suppose that's one way to answer,' Anders said. He wasn't looking forward to healing the nose or the lip—touching someone's face always made them feel vulnerable, the gesture itself intimate, and he had to time his approach perfectly, also subtly, refusing to be obvious about his intentions until after the first connection. Once the healing began, warm light and an arcane hum, it was too late to pull away, to snarl or—this had happened before—bite Anders's hand.
Danarius had a slave who'd tried that once. An experience like that made anyone wary—once bitten, twice shy, and all that.
The Fereldan was different, so brittle, so determined not to flinch that even when Anders settled his palm against his cheek he refused to blink. Anders pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, testing the bruised flesh, and his attempt to avoid reacting was admirable, if unnecessary. Anders finally saw it, just a curl of his lip against the dark bristles of his beard, fresh blood blooming along the dust-caked crack in the flesh.
'Do what you have to so I can breathe,' the Fereldan muttered. His voice was deeper than expected, with a wry cut of heat that took Anders by surprise. But it was that same accent Anders knew, if distantly now, a lilt and a curl rarely heard this far into the Imperium. 'It doesn't have to look pretty.'
Anders cleared this throat, thumb running over the lump of shattered cartilage in the bridge more lightly this time. It wasa handsome nose. Breaking it had done little to detract from the shape.
Down beneath the coliseum's ring, men wore all kinds of armor: scars from the whip or scars from an opponent's blade, and each marking told anyone with eyes that its owner had lived through certain kinds of adversity. Come to a place like this withoutany markings, and you might as well advertise yourself as fresh nug-meat, unspoiled and looking to be bruised.
Anders understood the principle behind that philosophy, even if he didn't particularly agree with it.
'Suit yourself,' he said, injecting a liberal amount of false cheer into his voice. 'It's your nose, after all. I could remove it altogether, if you'd like. Reallyget the air flowing in those passages.'
The Fereldan flexed his forearms, thick fingers clenched tight against his palms. 'No thanks.' His nostrils flared as Anders's healing magic seeped below the skin, healing fragmented bone and bruised flesh, the lean slants of muscle stretched tight beneath. 'It'd just be another hole in my face for the qunari to kick sand or lodge a spear into.'
Perhaps it had been too much to hope for a laugh. Anders was always expecting too much from his companions—that the slave had spoken to him at all was something of a breakthrough.
Then again, slaves often behaved unexpectedly below the coliseum's ring. They cried out for their mothers, and in the same breath cursed Anders, cursed Anders's mother and his magic, then finally the Tevinter Imperium itself. Somewere friendly enough, after Anders had healed their gashes, restoring lumps of flesh that had been lopped off, like ears or toes—but those were usually the ones who were killed first, and it was better not to get too attached to them.
It was just Anders's luck. He could never pick a proper champion, which was why he never bothered to bet on the matches anymore. Betting was such a depressing endeavor, when one had jewelry and prime real estate on the coast to lose, and Anders couldn't help but feel responsible that, every time he picked a man, the poor fool up and died in the ring within the hour.
His backing wasn't so much an endorsement as it was a curse.
'I don't think qunari ever kick sand,' Anders said, easing his index finger along the slope of the Fereldan's nose to examine the bump for any further swelling, something burst below the surface, or shattered bone. 'It's too dishonorable for them. Kicking sand: nota part of the Qun.'
'Just have the spears to look out for, then.' The Fereldan wrinkled his nose, brows furrowing as he pulled his face away from Anders's capable hands.
'Think of it this way,' Anders said, standing now that his services were no longer required. 'If you're lucky, you won'thave to see me again.' The muscles in his calves were sore from having crouched that long in the dirt, but he was stubborn about some things, and resting face-to-face with his patients was one of them.
Under the ring there were no masters and slaves, only patients and healers. Or rather, healer, in the singular.
Even if Anders was the only one foolish enough to believe that, it was no less important to him.
The Fereldan snorted. Seeing him in profile allowed Anders to better admire his handiwork: the streak of blood remained, as did the lump in the bone, but he was holding himself straighter now, and Anders gauged his steady breathing by the gentle rise and fall of his chest, a calm that descended and strengthened his posture.
Every man prepared for battle in his own way. Anders could scarcely imagine how one was supposed to ready himself for entering into single combat with a qunari, but he was certain remaining calmwasn't the most common reaction.
Then again, some people had no choice but to become uncommon—if they wanted to live another day.
'Move it along, healer!' A guard rattled his club against the cell's iron bars, loud and unpleasant, while Anders pressed his palms together, trying not to rattle with the sound. 'Unless you want to be the one to explain to those up top why the festivitieshave been delayed.'
'Coming, coming,' Anders called. He brushed the dust from his skirts, casting one last look at the Fereldan. It was pure contrariness, Anders knew—the same way he lavished attention on his least friendly cat—but despite understanding it, the impulse lingered. 'Watch the horns,' he added. 'They're just as dangerous as the spears, and no one thinks to look for them until it's too late.'
The Fereldan's gaze passed in his direction, eyes wary as a wild hound's. 'If I do bring him down, I'll cut one off.' Something tugged at the humorless set of his mouth. 'You can wear it in your other ear.'
'They're starting up top,' the guard said. 'Don't act like I didn't warn you.'
Anders slipped out the cell door, picking up his robes again one-handed as he walked through so much piss and blood and dirt. His fingers rose to trace the curve of his dragon claw, its sharpness dulled over the years, its warmth never fading. Overhead, the crowd had already begun to chant.
For the first time in recent memory, a slim shiver of excitement pierced Anders's natural dread of the ring.
He wouldn't cheer for death, but he also knew a nap was right out of the question during the match to come.
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