Chapter Two

A Warden and Her Wiles

The palace was not so much a maze as he would have otherwise expected. Cyrano had little trouble following in the wake of Solona's brisk steps down corridors and up stairways, and he managed to maintain his sense of direction. The windows helped. Glass panes lined the walls where they could, letting in an abundance of sunlight. Anyone who spent a fair amount of time outdoors could tell the time and direction from that alone.

Where there were no windows, Cyrano relied on memorizing lefts and rights in accordance with the square grid pattern that the castle followed. His only issue was the lack of identifiable landmarks. Fereldans were not ones for excessive finery or useless décor. Statues were few and were mostly of the prophetess, Andraste. Sometimes, she'd actually be poised in a different position…maybe with a shield…perhaps, if she was feeling daring, she'd be wielding a sword. But it was always Andraste. If there were paintings, they were all in the same style. Either that or the Fereldans had such a brief history in this particular palace that they merely duplicated any and all portraiture of important arls, banns, and the occasional monarch. Cyrano did notice several portraits of the late King Maric, possibly as many as there were statues of Andraste. He could have at least been half as exciting as the prophetess and tried wearing a different suit of armor now and again.

Eventually, the pair came to a large wooden door reinforced with black iron. Ser Ratham stood out front and saluted Solona respectfully as she passed him to push the door open. Cyrano followed her inside. The room was spacious with a high ceiling. Tapestries in muted colors lined the walls, and sunlight poured through tall windows that faced out over the stable yard. A large bed of mahogany wood dominated one end of the room while high-backed chairs flanked a large fireplace on the other. An open doorway near the bed led off into a separate chamber where Cyrano could hear the sound of water being pumped into a large tub.

"Get yourself cleaned up and then meet me in the entrance hall," Solona said. "We will not have much time to make our rounds of the Alienage before sundown."

"But what is it that we'll be doing?" Cyrano asked curiously, noting for the first time in several minutes that he was still in manacles.

"I will brief you once you're clean and freshly dressed." The mage turned and made her way to the door.

"My lady," Cyrano called after her, even chasing her for a few steps. "My lady, please. You can't possibly expect me to bathe and dress while still in chains." He held up his wrists in emphasis.

The expression on her face was one of pure annoyance as if she, herself, had totally forgotten the full state of affairs regarding her charge. She sighed brusquely and turned back to the door.

"Ser Ratham will have to sort that out," she said as she left. "No one saw fit to give me the key."

Cyrano stared at the door after Solona closed it behind her, a scowl marring his features. A rose wreathed in brambles that one was. With a sigh of his own, he turned in the direction of the sound of water. He had no intention of bothering to deal with Ser Ratham again, especially if he was only going to be as helpful as he was the last time. That was to say: not at all. He paused near the open doorway and looked down at the chains that bound him, taking a closer look at the latching mechanism than he had bothered to when they were first put on him. The locks looked simple enough to pick, but the manacles were designed such that he, himself, had no hopes of getting free on his own. His wrists just didn't bend that way. He still required aid. Blast it.

The sound of water stopped, and a figure came to stand before him on the other side of the threshold. It was an older elven woman in a simple brown and white dress. She was much cleaner than Cyrano ever recalled seeing elven servants, and her dress even seemed to be made of good fabric rather than throw-away sackcloth. Her wrinkled face was clean and smiling, and her silver hair was pulled back to keep it out of the way.

"You must be the Commander's guest," she said brightly, ushering him into the washroom and over toward a massive stone bathtub filled with water. There was a furnace-like contraption over by the water pump that glowed with fiery embers.

"It's hot, I promise you," the woman said when Cyrano gave the water a quizzical expression. "We just need to get those chains off you, then." From her pocket she pulled what looked like a massive set of keys but were, in fact—

"Lockpicks?" The rogue could hardly believe his eyes. "The king lets you wander the palace with lockpicks? Does he even know you're here? Does the Warden-Commander?" Cyrano pulled his manacled hands away from the woman's reaching fingers. "I tell you, madam, I have only partway managed to secure my freedoms, and I will not be held responsible should one of the servants—"

"The law granting elves full citizenship hasn't passed the Bannorn, yet," the woman replied simply, snatching Cyrano's manacled wrists out of the air a lot faster than he expected her to be able to. In moments, the shackles clanked to the floor. "Until that time comes, only the head servant has anything resembling real keys. My name is Ellia. There are clean clothes for you in that armoire just there." She pointed to a large wooden cupboard against the far wall. "There should be something there that fits. We scrounged up what we could. Soap is by the tub, and the fresh towels are there." She nodded to a stack of folded linens that looked as soft as goose down. "I've been assigned to wait on you while you're here, so if you need anything just pull the cord by the bed. I'll hear the bell from the servants' quarters. Otherwise, Ser Ratham is just outside."

"I'd rather not deal with him," Cyrano replied honestly. "He's a poor hand at conversation and his glare makes me nervous."

Ellia laughed, a dry laugh that still felt warm. "Ratham isn't much for talking, no, but he does his duty. If he can't do something for you, he'll find someone who can."

"And watch me like a hawk while he's at it."

"Well, yes…I'd hope that he would. After all, you are an assassin of the Antivan Crows."

"Trained as one…sometimes I behave like one…" Cyrano shrugged. "Oft times these days, I find that death is highly overrated. I excel at killing others simply to not be killed off, myself. Otherwise, I've been known to make music while entire cities burn."

Ellia blinked at him, not entirely sure what the rogue was getting at.

"It's an expression," he clarified. "Refers to the Tevinter Imperium…something about Archon Vespasian." He looked back to the lightly steaming water of the bathtub. "But you will need to excuse me, madam. I am to meet a most lovely young maiden in the entry hall once I am clean, and it is very likely that she already considers me late."

The elf bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room

The bath turned out to be much needed for far more than general cleanliness. The heat melted the taut muscles in Cyrano's neck and back, letting him relax for the first time since he'd taken the conflicting contracts. The soap smelled lightly of mountain laurel and mint. He could appreciate that. The last thing he wanted was to go around smelling like a woman. Once he was clean, he toweled off and rummaged through the armoire. The clothing inside was a mix of different sizes, but he found a tunic and trousers that fit with no issue. They were in bland colors, and the vest he managed to also find did little to help things. Looking down at himself, he was quite certain that if he got into a fight and was knocked unconscious—or worse—and thrown into a hedge, no one would know he was there. Why couldn't there have been some Orlesian fashions lying about? Or had the Fereldans gone backward after expelling the Empire? Conversely, if he needed to look completely unremarkable or stay out of sight in a darkened alleyway, this was exactly the way to do it.

Perhaps he could live with it after all.

Once he felt he was ready, Cyrano ran his fingers through his damp hair to straighten it up a bit then stepped from his chamber and into the hallway. A large hand encased in steel and chain mail landed on his chest with almost enough force to knock him backward. Instead, he coughed and blinked and looked up to see who the hand belonged to. Naturally, it was the ever-watchful Ser Ratham.

"I'm to escort you to the entrance hall," he said, his words as terse as ever.

"Fantastic," Cyrano replied lightly. "If we keep this up, we'll be brothers by the end of the week."

Ser Ratham's brow furrowed slightly more than it already was, but he said nothing in return. Instead, he pointed down the corridor to where Cyrano remembered there being a stairway to the first level. He began walking, having no intention to truly infuriate his very own personal guard. That would have been a horrible idea, anyway. He was fairly certain that he was more agile than Ser Ratham by leaps and bounds, but the older soldier had the benefit of actually having a weapon (being a fearsomely sharp longsword of white steel) and a massive shield that had its own share of sharp edges and points quite appropriate enough to inflict damage. Cyrano had his bare hands and a few buttons and lacked the urge to even try to escape. Last he checked, he was still alive. He owed that to the Warden-Commander, the king, and even this soldier of painfully few words. Abandoning their protection meant certain death at the hands of angry Crows.

The entry hall was a large vaulted room with a stone floor and carpet almost identical to the Landsmeet Chamber itself. It had a closer, warmer feeling, however, with the overall space significantly smaller, the ceiling lower, and a distinct lack of snooty nobles with nothing better to do. Granted, there were a few nobles milling about, but they had a distinct lack of interest in him, especially now that he looked like any other Fereldan save with darker hair and more dusky skin.

Solona stood near the main entry doors to the palace. A young noblewoman with blonde hair was cheerily speaking with her about something that Cyrano yearned to know of. Whatever it was, it was making the mage smile in such a pleasant way he was almost able to totally forget that she hadn't been anything but brusque and rude with him. He still wished to encapsulate her particular beauty in some poem or ode or epic, but he knew quite well that he couldn't create something equally lovely when his muse exhibited no soul. He was intent to find that soul.

Unless of course, the woman was a complete harpy secretly possessed by a demon.

Probably a demon of desire or pride, he thought. She certainly exhibits those properties with vigorous abandon. Wait…that could be it! The loveliest of maidens corrupted by the touch of a demon, cursed forever and only…and only…Andraste's frilly knickers! What could possibly break the curse that isn't woefully overdone?

The mage's smile immediately faded the moment she saw Cyrano and Ser Ratham approach.

"You're late," she stated flatly, the cheery blonde woman immediately scurrying away as if she were afraid of becoming collateral damage.

I knew it.

"Apologies, Solona, but you were the one that insisted I clean and find a change of clothes. Such things do take time."

Solona dismissed Ser Ratham with a surprisingly polite bow that he returned, and the soldier marched off to resume his post.

"Some clarification before I take you anywhere." The mage's tone was firm and businesslike. "You will address me as My Lady or Ser. You will speak only when spoken to and stand unless otherwise asked to be seated. When you do speak, you will keep it short and to the point. And if you have the audacity to even try to touch me, I will melt what little bit of brain you have with chain lightning. Am I clear?"

Cyrano took a deep and measured breath. He was already beginning to amend his story idea from earlier. It would not be a fair maiden trapped by a high dragon of ill manners. The fair maiden would, in truth, be the high dragon of ill manners, and it would be the knight come to rescue her that would actually need the saving. It was such a tragic way to end a promising tale of romance and high fantasy…but there it was. No one ever said that life was fair.

He'd be damned if he let her get away with such behavior, though.

"Now, I don't feel—"

Blue veins of light and power crackled along Solona's hand as she clenched the iron shaft of her mage's staff.

"—that your request is any way inappropriate." Damn his will to live! "We should be off immediately, my lady. I would not want to inconvenience you further."

"Your every breath is an inconvenience," she muttered as she turned toward the door. The guard there opened it and bowed as she passed. When Cyrano walked by, he could have sworn he caught a look of sympathy on the armored man's face. In that moment, he began to feel that suffering the revenge of the Crows he betrayed would have been so much the sweeter.

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

The elven alienage wasn't quite what he'd expected it to be. The alienages he knew were filthy, run-down citadels of rotten wood and muddy streets. The alienage in Denerim had a feel of newness to it, a particular cleanliness that Cyrano was immediately both confused and impressed by. The houses were constructed of sturdy wood planks or fresh wattle-and-daub held up by rugged stone. The elves walking about seemed significantly more carefree than he had ever encountered before, and even humans could be seen about working just as hard at new construction projects as the race that normally served them. Could this be what Ellia had begun to mention? Was a law for elven equality really being proposed to the Bannorn with a hope of success? If this were so, Ferelden would prove him wrong by being less backward than he'd initially thought.

A square opened before them, full of milling elves and playing children. The atmosphere was a light one, lacking the traditional somber melancholy, and the giant tree at the center of everything provided a sense of tranquility. Even with Solona's smothering presence, Cyrano felt that he could truly breathe here.

Solona headed for a building shaded by the tree's far-reaching branches and knocked on the door. Not even a minute passed before the wooden door was opened and an elven woman's smiling face peered out at them. She had a pleasant appearance with golden eyes and rosy cheeks. Her hair was the same fiery red as the Warden-Commander, and he wondered if they were in any way related.

"Warden Solona!" the elf exclaimed happily, flinging the door open wide and bursting forth, tackling the mage in a huge hug. Cyrano was beside himself in shock. Firstly, the elf wasn't spontaneously electrocuted. Secondly…Solona was a Grey Warden? "I'm so glad Kallian sent you. You won't believe what we've found!"

Solona extricated herself just enough to respond, a smile like the one she had in the entry hall blazoned across her face.

"Shianni, I swear, if you found another hidden stash of blood lotus, you'll put the merchants from Amaranthine out of business."

"Better! Come inside." The smaller woman dragged the mage into the house by the cuff of her sleeve, and Cyrano was left to wander in behind. The house was a cozy one if a little sparse. It was an open space dominated mostly by a large table covered in pots and dishes and foodstuffs as if Shianni had been in the middle of preparing a meal when they knocked. A far corner held a small bookshelf and a set of bunk beds, a male elf with dark red hair sitting on a low stool poring over a ragged tome. Was he reading or just looking at the pictures? Cyrano's general understanding of city elf culture was destined to be shattered by the end of the day if this kept up.

Shianni let go of Solona's sleeve when they reached the table, but the elf kept walking over to the wall next to the fireplace. A low shelf hung there laden with random items that looked like a collection similar to what a common pickpocket would accumulate over the course of several successful marks. She picked up something small that glinted in the firelight and brought it over.

"Take a look at this," she said brightly, her face positively beaming. "You know how Kallian's been having us sort through all the personal effects of the darkspawn? We found that yesterday. Soren's been trying to look up anything he can on the symbols carved in it. He says it looks like it comes from ancient Tevinter, but we can't be sure. Neither of us wanted to try it on without knowing what it was."

Shianni handed the ring to Solona, and the moment the silver metal touched her skin it sparked with electric energy. Cyrano took a cautious step back, especially when he noticed the wicked grin crawl across the mage's lips.

"I could call thunder down from the heavens with this," she said with a particular inflection that twisted the Antivan's stomach. Pride demon…definitely possessed by a pride demon. I wonder if that Templar we passed getting here will still be at his post…?

"Ah! Good, I'm glad you can use it!" Shianni's expression quickly changed to one of a more serious nature. "And you'll probably get to use it sooner than you thought you would. I figured that starting off with good news would probably be the best option…don't think I didn't notice the glower when I opened the door."

"I wasn't glowering."

"Oh, yes, you were. You had the exact same expression on your face as you did when Geoff—"

"Please, Shianni…not in mixed company."

Solona jerked her thumb in Cyrano's direction, and the Antivan could swear that the elf had genuinely not noticed him until that moment. Her golden eyes became quizzical, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"And who are you?"

"He happens to be—"

"Solona, I asked him." Shianni gave the mage a pointed look, and Cyrano couldn't help but smirk when Solona truly did bite her lip and at least give the impression that she knew she was out of line.

He cleared his throat and gave a gallant, swooping bow, something that he had learned at the Orlesian court and was immensely fond of. "I," he said with a hint of courtly grandeur, "am Cyrano Rideri of Antiva, a guest of the noble Warden-Commander whom insisted that I meet you." He held out his hand for hers, but the gesture seemed to be lost on her. She continued to keep her arms crossed as she took him in from top to toe.

"Antivan…so, let me guess. You're an assassin of some sort, probably sent to kill my cousin at which you failed, and she decided to spare your life because she thinks you might be useful."

Cyrano straightened and felt some of the color drain from his face.

"You're partly right, my lady. But it was not your cousin that I was sent to kill. I was sent after one of the banns but got caught up in a distinct conflict of interests."

Shianni shook her head, looking obviously amused. "Say what you want. Kallian still stepped in to save you. That's just what she does." She turned back to Solona. "But why are you holding his leash?"

The mage shrugged, her face marred with yet another glower. "The Commander explicitly told me to bring him along, especially when it came to visiting you."

"I see," Shianni nodded, her expression looking particularly grim. She glanced back over to Cyrano. "Congratulations, rogue. Looks like I have bad news for you, too."

~~~o~~~o~~~o~~~

Cyrano cursed as he heard another chittering hiss. Would they never stop coming? With a shout, he quickly spun just in time to thrust a dagger into the thorax of a giant blighted spider, the green blood spurting from around the blade. He was in a convenient position behind it and took the opportunity to stab his second dagger—the matching pair a gift from Shianni—through the tough chitin. It bought Solona enough time to cast a lightning bolt into the foul creature's face, blinding it permanently if not doing worse damage. She followed that up with a quick burst from her staff. When the spider still didn't fall, Cyrano pulled his blades free and slashed them both inward with a great scissoring motion. The hulking body fell limply to the floor.

The rogue wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. It was unbelievable. Shianni's bad news had been to tell them that an old apartment complex was infested with "vermin". The building had been derelict since even before the darkspawn attacked Denerim six months before, and the elves were hoping to rebuild. She could have at least told them they'd be dealing with spiders. Tainted spiders. Spiders that could spread the taint to others, and, unlike Solona, Cyrano didn't have the benefit of being effectively immune.

"Behind you!"

Cyrano spun just in time to see another spider come creeping over a pile of abandoned crates. He slashed and jabbed at the creature with his daggers, but it's front legs and mandibles prevented him from getting in close enough. At this moment, he would have given just about anything to have his twin longswords returned to him.

He heard a sizzling behind him. Then there was the slight smell of ozone. Suddenly, the air around him was completely electrified, his hair feeling like it was standing on end, and he even felt the shock of it go through his limbs. All around him, lightning crackled, and the spider was caught in the center of the storm, jerking and smoking as its life was burned away. Cyrano was fairly certain he might join it as the power seemed to surge directly through him, but the sensation soon stopped. The spider was dead. He was alive. Somehow...though, he noticed he was having distinct difficulty relaxing his fingers or unclenching his jaw. Completely dazed, he fell to the floor.

Solona was immediately kneeling over him, a concerned look on her face. Cyrano almost let himself believe that she genuinely cared about his well being. He knew better. She just didn't want the buffer between her and the freakish arachnids to perish and leave her on her own. She shook his shoulder a bit then lightly slapped him in the face.

"Can you hear me? By the Maker, why did you have to be in the way?"

Cyrano blinked. He was trying to focus and get the sparks of light out of his vision.

"In the way?" he exclaimed, even though his voice was little more than a croaking noise. "Is summoning lightning all you can do?"

"No," Solona replied stubbornly. "I healed that gash on your arm, remember?"

The Antivan reached up and rubbed at his face, partially to make him more alert but mostly to conceal his infuriated expression.

"You can shoot lightning...and heal scrapes and bruises...and nothing more." He shoved himself into a sitting position and pushed Solona out of the way so he could get to his feet. "So, Miss Prissypants Lightning-fingers, what exactly is it that you're so proud of? Or are you just enormously arrogant to hide your many inadequacies?"

Solona stood and glared darkly at him.

"I'm not the one who got arrested because I couldn't handle a few dogs!"

"They were mabari war hounds, and, no, you wouldn't have gotten arrested. You would have gotten mauled and eaten because you would have exhausted yourself on that one and only spell you know." He was standing over her, now, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes shooting daggers into hers.

She met his glare and returned it, but even in the dimness of the hallway, he could see her eyes faltering, her lips mashing together so he couldn't see them tremble. She clutched at her staff like it was the only thing holding her up, and he knew he'd broken through. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was understanding people. He could be taken for a fool, oh yes. He was mortal and wasn't ashamed to admit it. But there were some things about people that were always the same no matter what race they were, no matter what land they hailed from.

The sort of pride he'd seen in Solona could only come from two places: possession by a demon or fear. Given that the mage clearly was no abomination, the odds were that she was deathly afraid of something. With how she belittled him from the very first moment they met, his bets had been on Solona being afraid of one of her own weaknesses. A big one. And given how tired he was of being given one electric shock after another, he figured it was because the mage had one trick up her sleeve and no other.

"We need to keep moving," Solona said after a long silence. "We still have one more floor to clear before we can be sure the building is safe." And with that, she walked away from him toward the end of the hallway and a flight of stairs. Her shoulders were set, her head held high, but he could see her fists trembling with rage.

Cyrano let out a heavy breath through his nose. He knelt to clean his daggers off on a ratty carpet that still clung to the dusty floor, the ichor smearing dark streaks across the rotting fibers. He only had to survive a week of this, he reminded himself. One week to prove to the Warden-Commander that he could be trusted. Perhaps that was actually the test. Not that he wouldn't try to assassinate the king or one of the banns. Not that he would steal something of value or act as a spy for someone else's political gain. He was coming to the realization that his test was if he could be trusted to not kill the Orlesian mage.

He hoped not. At this rate, it was a test he was bound to fail.