THE KINGDOM WITHIN
Chapter 1: Affiance
Alistair lifted his chin from the reports on his desk and beamed boyishly whenever he heard a rap on his door. He relinquished his quill, figuring it was Cada, and announced, "Come in."
The door rattled, and Alistair was disappointed to see that it was Bann Teagan. Well, not disappointed. Teagan was a good man, who often put up with Alistair's antics entering seedy taverns and cavorting with the common folk too often with a fatherly grin and a shake of his head. Alistair was happy to see him, although with the abject frown on his lips, Cada's cheerful company would have been preferable. Alistair feared that something huge was amiss. He could see it in Teagan's eyes.
That was the disappointment.
"Your Highness-"
"It's Alistair, remember?"
"Ah," Teagan afforded himself a small grin, "Alistair."
He soberly drifted across the room and extended a sealed scroll to Alistair. He took it warily, glancing at the parchment and the heraldic seal pressed into the wax binding the letter shut. Before he could slide his fingers under the seal to open the letter, Teagan suggested, "I would prefer to tell you the contents of the letter myself, if you wouldn't mind."
"No, no," Alistair replied, hastily shoving the scroll into the pile of documents scattered over his desk, "Please, tell me."
"I… have no way to lighten this news," Teagen warned, "But there is evidence of social unrest brewing in Denerim. It has reached an uncomfortable level as of late. Jobless men have rallied around the garrisons demanding work, women have taken to the markets protesting the shortages of food for their children. Homes are in shambles, and businesses lie vacant still."
"It is being taken care of."
"Is it?"
"I have given control of the reconstruction in the city to Bann Tabris," Alistair answered. Teagan sighed.
"That is what I fear, Alistair. She has invested no insignificant amount of the gold in our treasury to the alienage. Her district flourishes, while the rest of the city has received only the most basic repairs. Private homes are still wrecked, schools are still closed. Denerim remains intact, thank the Maker, but the humans now live in the constant shadow of the magnificence of the alienage."
"For once, the elves have it better than the humans," Alistair laughed under his breath. But Teagan's brow furrowed in fretful silence.
"I… would not wish ill upon any person, be they elf or human. But the elves are the minority, and the fact that their district in Denerim is the most lavishly rebuilt of all districts in the city strikes many people – humans – as favoritism towards what is now the elite few," Teagan explained, "I would not normally make a suggestion so reactionary, but I think that Albine has taken the liberation of her people beyond what the humans can bear, and I recommend you find some way for Albine to reimburse the city of Denerim for it."
"That's ridiculous!" Alistair exclaimed, "That sounds worse than slavery, expecting the elves, who we've treated so poorly for centuries, to repay us for something as trivial in the course of history as a decent place to live!"
"I wish I shared your idealism. I, too, wish to see the elven people treated fairly. But the tables have turned too quickly in favor of the elves, and now, the humans of Denerim threaten to rebel. Ferelden is too weak, Denerim is too weak, to take that blow."
Teagan rubbed his temples, the red velvet of his surcoat glistening in the mid-morning light pouring in from the windows. He was an excellent advisor, an honest man amongst the charlatans and thieves that were often attracted to a life in politics. Alistair had never seen him so concerned, and so the King found himself standing from his chair to join the bann at the center of the study. He grasped Teagan's shoulders, asking, "What must I do?"
"You must write to Bann Tabris," he said, "The scroll I sent you contains the draft of the letter composed by your advisory staff, suggesting that she repay the city of Denerim for the same amount as the gold she has invested in the alienage."
"Send it to her."
"Alistair, you have not even read it."
"Have you?"
Teagan shook his head, "No, I haven't. I… I will send it to Denerim, as you wish. I pray that whatever it says, it will end the strife in the city. I pray that whatever it says, it does not lead to a revolution, whether by the elves or by the humans."
He retrieved the scroll from Alistair's desk, hesitating before he exited the study.
"Lady Cousland is practicing archery in the fields just outside. After you are finished with the politics that await you at your desk, I recommend you pay her a visit. Her attempts at marksmanship are, shall we say, amusing."
As Teagan hoped, the worried lines on Alistair's face softened at the thought.
--
Cada snatched the arrow by its fletching out of the haystack, beaming with triumph as she replaced it back into her quiver. The cerulean sky had just begun to soften into the pinks and oranges of evening, and the Wardens and soldiers at Amaranthine's fortress were retreating back into the drinking halls and residential buildings after a lengthy day of training and construction. It had been a little over a year since the battle against the archdemon in Denerim, and the fortress- thanks to the hard work of the Wardens from all over Thedas- was nearly completed. With each stone laid into the buildings, Cada felt a renewed sense of patriotism, and hope for a nation that would not betray her as it had when Arl Howe reigned.
As she collected the remaining arrows and placed one foot victoriously atop the bale, her hands glued to her waist, Cada declared to her brother behind her, "Haha! You've been bested by your little sister, Fergus! How does it feel?"
"May I remind you," he chuckled as he made his way across the field outside the fortress and gathered his own arrows, "That this is the first and only round all afternoon that you've actually beaten me?"
"Ah, fine, fine, I yield!" she admitted, "Did you see the second shot I made? Utter failure! That had to be the most embarrassing attempt at archery I've ever suffered. Maker preserve me if I have to retrieve that arrow. It's probably sticking out of some unfortunate tree out in the woods."
The siblings began to walk across the grass towards the stairs that lead atop the tall barricades situated around the plateau where the fortress stood. Propped against the wall, smirking boyishly, was the flaxen-armored king Alistair. He watched as Cada traipsed across the grass and curtsied at the top of the steps, greeting, "Good afternoon, your Majesty."
"And you, Lady Cousland. From the looks of it, your aim hasn't improved one bit," he said, "Although I suppose that's why we employ rangers and assassins in the Wardens. They are far better marksmen than warriors such as you and I. In fact, I'll remember to leave you to the less refined butchery of darkspawn should they ever attack Ferelden again, and arm you with the largest sword I can locate in the armory."
"Any sword chosen by you, your Highness, I would be honored to carry into combat," she purred. Fergus rolled his eyes as he bowed.
"It was a pleasure to see you, your Majesty," he said, "I hope to see you on the morn."
"And you, Teryn Cousland."
As Fergus sulked away, Alistair surveyed the area to ensure that no one else watched them. Once he had verified that the scene was clear, he swept Cada off her feet and into an alley between two buildings, shedding his pauldrons as he kissed her nose, her lips, and the bottom of her ear. He mewled, "Why must you speak so formally to me? Must we be so secretive about our love?"
"Yes!" Cada exclaimed, "There is no thrill in romancing a king if I cannot put on this little masquerade for the rest of the Wardens."
"Oh, I see, you think that even after months of this creeping about and giggling every time we see one another, they don't know," Alistair joked, his hands crawling down her sides where his fingers looped around her belt, "I mean, I definitely haven't mentioned it, but I think by now it must be extraordinarily obvious. Did you see the look in your brother's eyes when he stomped off? He is furious that you're frolicking around with the King of Ferelden, isn't he?"
"Frolicking? Frolicking?!" Cada shrieked, giggling as Alistair cupped a hand over her mouth.
"Shhh! If we're caught, I will never let you live it down!"
"Alistair!" She replied in a muffled tone. He removed his hand from her lips and she whispered, "For Andraste's sake, we should just retreat to your quarters to be alone."
"And risk my chatty servants seeing us? Oh, great, they'd tell all of Thedas that I'm wooing someone. Look, Cada, love, we need to keep this quiet for now. My advisors are relentlessly trying to marry me off to an Orlesian bride to… bridge relations, as they call it. I have no intentions of marrying who they say. It's just…"
"You are king, Alistair," she uttered, "You may marry as you please."
"I know, I know," he frowned, "I just always try to make people happy. I don't want to disappoint anyone. Not like Cailan did."
"I should think the people would hardly disapprove of marrying the woman you love, Alistair," she murmured, stroking the pale shadow of blonde stubble on his jaw, "There is nothing scandalous about our relationship. I am a daughter of a great teryn, and a Warden who has been trained by the Orlesians. I know something of politics, and even more of battle, which is often the more relevant topic. It is not as if you wish to wed a Tevinter slave, for goodness sake!"
Alistair sighed, combing aside chocolate wisps of hair away from her bronzy, hazel eyes. The sun was falling fast, and the men and women of the fort had no doubt retired for dinner and bed. The air was warm and quiet, and more importantly given Ferelden's typical weather, dry. It was a perfect night, divorced from the bustle of Denerim or the eerie silence of the Wilds. But it was tainted by the very realistic fear that had, for the past handful of months, loomed on the edges of Alistair's mind. The king grazed Cada's cheek with his hand, lamenting, "What I fear, what I believe my advisors fear… is that I won't be able to produce an heir. And if I marry you, I just… the likelihood, the likelihood of ever having a child decreases tremendously. We are both Wardens, and that is part of the cost, of… I- don't know if we will ever be able to-"
"We have both seen what happens to Ferelden when it has no heir," she agreed gently. Alistair's dark russet eyes met hers, wide with sorrow and the stain of apprehension. Cada laced her hands around his waist, saying, "My sadness at having to let you go would be a small price to pay knowing that my country would have an heir, if you should take another woman as a wife."
"Cada-"
"I was not able to arrive to Ferelden in time to fight the archdemon. I feel as if somehow, I am indebted to my country. And there would be no better sacrifice on my part than relinquishing my relationship with you, knowing it would serve the crown and my people," Cada promised. But Alistair shook his head vehemently.
"I know this is probably selfish," he replied, "But I want no other wife in Thedas but you."
"Are you proposing marriage to me, Alistair?" she cooed.
"What if I was?"
"I would say yes." Cada whispered.
"Well, then, Cada Cousland," Alistair uttered, "Will you marry me?"
She smiled, her ivory teeth glittering against the tanned palette of her skin in the orange light of the evening, "I have already given my answer, your Highness."
--
The elven man squealed as the whip cracked against his back for the eighth sequential time. Blood splattered from the fresh wound and coated the bottom of his brunette pony tail as it sprayed and trickled down his sides. He struggled against the thick wooden post he was bound to, weeping and screaming out to the young elf woman wailing for clemency behind a ring of armored guards, presumably his lover or wife. Which, or who, it did not matter; her presence did nothing to soften the ricochet of the barbed whip against the accused man's skin. The crowd of elves gathered in a circle around the condemned man cheered wildly as Albine wiped the blood off the barbs of the whip on her blue linen sleeve.
"I have employed you, housed you, and fed you," she proclaimed, "And yet you repay me with absolute ingratitude."
"I won't work for you! You drive us like slaves! Twelve, fourteen hours a day-"
He bawled as Albine's whip snapped, slicing through wounds that already bled on his back.
"There is no price- not in coin, not in hours, not in lives lost- that can be placed on liberation," Albine declared.
"No, no I won't work any longer, I won't-"
For the tenth and final time, the barbs of the whip grazed him. The elf collapsed to the grass, sobbing and quivering as the guards moved in to cut the rope around his wrists and pry him off the ground. Albine closed her eyes, breathing slowly, as she coiled the whip and replaced it on her belt. She beckoned the terrified woman from the crowd that she figured was the man's love. Wide-eyed with fear, she approached, crying. Albine removed a pouch of gold from her belt and offered it to her. Silently, nervously, the woman accepted it.
"This will afford his stay in the infirmary until he is fit to return to his post at the bridge," Albine lowered her voice ominously, "Ensure he does not rebel again. I will not be so lenient a second time."
"Y-yes, yes, Ladyship," the woman sniveled, "T-th-thank you."
As the throng dispersed and Albine's guards assembled to escort her back to her estate, Zevran emerged from the droves of people scurrying with construction supplies between buildings in the district. As her captain of the guard, clad in a suit of black leather armor with silvery chainmail glistening beneath, a red sash draped in some elegant Antivan fashion around his waist, he looked as dashing as any proper rogue in his position. Albine's cheeks warmed at the sight of him. He was shaking his head, arms crossed casually over his chest as he swaggered towards her, saying, "Another insurgent brutally punished, I take it?"
"By my own hand, lest it not have been so merciful," she replied, asking almost guardedly, "How goes the construction of the academy?"
"As you wish it, my lady," he responded as he took her in his arms, "Quickly, so as not to delay the entry of the first students through its doors. The architect expects it to be completed in the month, though Lady Anora is less optimistic."
"You have spoken to her?"
"She wishes your audience, which is why I came to retrieve you," he said.
"What for?"
"Oh, she'd certainly tell such things to the untrustworthy Antivan son-of-a-whore," he gritted his teeth, "No, she did not say, especially to the likes of me. But I imagine you will find out soon, yes? You are returning to the estate?"
He extended his arm, and Albine looped her elbow through his. As they strode through the district, Zevran could not help but admire it. What was once a prison had become a palace. Denerim's elves were free, and through their dedication and the visionary governance of their new bann, Albine had lovingly crafted a veritable heaven for her people.
Though it was far from finished, lacking orphanages and the academy and hospice that Albine was only now in the process of constructing, Zevran could not deny the beauty of the alienage. The district was a maze of winding streets, of hidden groves amidst the towering buildings of the city, a patchwork of a few merchant stalls and stores and an inn. The elven people rebuilt it with their own hands faster than any other district in the city. Before Denerim's market district even stood on rock foundations and not on rickety, wooden supports, the elves had homes to call their own. Albine negotiated with stone quarries all over Thedas, with the Dalish for wood for construction, and with the king, securing proper wages for her people from the taxes collected throughout Denerim.
It had not been easy. Albine was notorious for driving the elves like slaves. Work days lasted for countless grueling hours, and for men and women too young or weak to build were endlessly transporting materials, tending to children and orphans, writing orders for supplies. Those who did not comply to the hard labor assigned to them were shipped to the homes of Ferelden's nobles to toil away as servants, beaten, or in exceptional cases, killed.
It was a callous policy, and Albine a ruthless bann if not a pitiless woman. But without it, Zevran knew, the elves would never have risen from their squalor. Having suffered under the oppressive thumb of the Crows, he knew how sacred freedom was, and he- like Albine- would give anything to extend the same freedom and equality to their fellow elves.
Despite their efforts, however, the alienage remained a gilded cage. The humans still loathed the elves and were happy that they lived in isolation from them. But the elves were truly free and thrived independently of humans. At last, they had pride, and they had Albine, their tireless defender. Soon, Zevran would have Albine as well. He wanted to marry her, and intended to tell her- whenever the moment presented itself- that he would make do on the promise of her engagement ring to quietly marry her, in secret, away from the lavish pageantry of court. With the alienage nearing completion, they could finally settle down in Denerim, and lead the life of relative peace that they had always envisioned, oceans away from Antiva, and miles and miles away from the Crows.
He hadn't told Albine about the Crows.
They had entered the city and attempted to kill him twice. He murdered the assassins on both occasions, sustaining injuries that he successfully masked from Albine. On one night, he nearly bit his tongue in two with agony as he made love to her despite suffering a shattered wrist. Once she had fallen asleep- naked and sweating - on the sheets, he crept out of bed and bandaged the wound himself, biting grooves in his tongue with his teeth as he stifled a pained moan. After the second wave of assassins broke into their estate on the edge of the district, Zevran nearly broke the news to her. But as they sat down to dinner one night, and he parted his lips to speak on it, there was a part of him that feared she would retaliate against the Crows, and provoke more to come.
Or worse, and more likely, she would cheerfully join their ranks.
It had been three weeks since the last assault transpired, and she was none the wiser. As the captain of her guard, there was no one more appropriate to know about the attacks, and certainly no reason to inspire unnecessary anxiety over the recent incidents in anyone else. So Zevran remained mum, and said nothing to her of the attacks.
As Albine and her party rounded the corner, they were greeted with the yellow stucco surface of the Bann's estate, its white marble pillars carved in organic helixes surrounding the airy atrium. It was by no means expansive, but it reminded Zevran of the homes in Antiva City's wealthiest district that not even Crow masters dreamed of ever owning themselves. Narrow birch trees shaded the trimmed hedges that framed the open doorway that they passed through as they entered the house.
"I am particularly curious as to the nature of the matter Anora wishes to needed my attention," Albine mused almost to herself as she sauntered through the hallway beneath the vaulted, white carved ceilings, scoffing, "We speak in the evenings, after dinner. Whatever the cause, it must be great for her to have sent you."
Zevran gulped, swallowing his fear. He prayed it wasn't the recent assaults by the Crows. He hoped that no one else had found out. But why would Anora be so hasty to send for Albine otherwise? He could not know. As Albine strolled into the study where Anora sat waiting with a folded letter in her lap, the assassin lingered outside, remaining until his Ladyship was done, until he knew he would have to break it to her that the Crows had descended upon Denerim at last.
--
Cada crept past the door and into her lodgings as silently as possible, awaiting the click of the handle in its lock before she sighed in relief that she had made the long trek from Alistair's quarters on the other side of the fortress without being detected back to her room. A grand, glorious, and nefarious part of her felt as gleeful as a rogue after a successful robbery, so criminal was her stay – and escape – from the King's bedchamber. The rush that accompanied the realization that soon they would be married, and she would become queen- queen!- had not yet faded as she shrilly squeaked with delight and removed her armor as she made her way to the chair in the corner.
Before she collapsed into it in a fit of girlish glee, Cada saw Clarene slouched in it.
"Back so soon?" She muttered. Cada's cheeks flushed.
"I did not expect to be so long visiting- my, brother," she stammered.
"You are a fool to have pursued him this far, though I cannot deny that your secretiveness is remarkably tactful," Clarene jeered, "If I were bedding the king, I surely would not desire my fellow Wardens to think I was attempting to enter the King's favored graces."
"You treat me like a whore," Cada snarled, but Clarene rose from the chair and pointed at the other Warden accusingly.
"You think I don't look out for you?" she snapped, "How many guards do you think I've told to turn the other cheek while you sneak to Alistair's chambers? I have, many times. I am still your superior, and it is still my duty to protect you, even from the interests of the other Grey Wardens. Lying with the king is dangerous."
"He proposed to me tonight," Cada murmured meekly in reply. Clarene's lips froze shut, her eyes wide with disbelief as the momentary shock wore off. She again sunk into the chair, rubbing her brow as she collected her thoughts, finally running a weary hand through her burnished crimson hair before she responded.
"Cada, in the past months I have never attempted to intervene in your relationship with Alistair. You are the daughter of a teryn who bravely battled alongside King Maric, and I know you to be a worthy bride both in blood and in character for a king of Ferelden. And that is why I fear for you. That is why, though I will do anything to protect your relationship, I wholly disagree with it," Clarene explained. Baffled, Cada dropped her belt and scabbard on the table before the fireplace, and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her mentor.
"If you think I would make a fine queen, I see not why you disapprove of me marrying Alistair," Cada answered. Clarene frowned.
"If you marry Alistair and become his queen, you stand to inherit a kingdom whose monarchy is fragile and whose capital city is wrecked. Ferelden lacks the trade connections of Antiva and the enormous wealth of Orlais. It is headed by a man who was trained to become a templar, for Andraste's sake, not a king. You may be in love, but you cannot be blind to the very likely possibility of rebellion or invasion of the country in so weak a state," Clarene said, "If such insurrection did occur, your life would be amongst the first to be taken."
Cada promised, "I am willing to risk the sacrifice for him."
"Can you blame me if I am not so eager for the possibility? You life was already threatened by Arl Howe. Your family was murdered, and you nearly with them. Cada, I swore to the Wardens and to your family that I would protect you. And now, you leap into marriage with the King of Ferelden, who sits on a shambling throne overlooking a fractured kingdom. Love may not see practically, but I do. And I see the very real possibility that marriage to the king will lead to ruin."
"But it will also lead to happiness, a thing few noble women ever know in marriage," Cada countered. Clarene lowered her voice.
"Yes, there can be happiness. And I know how you can have it," the Orlesian rose from her chair again, leafing through the books on the shelf until she found a volume of some interest that she vaguely flipped through as she formulated the words in her head and arranged them in a response. She did not want to tell Cada, but she knew that there was a way to circumvent the danger of rebellion. Clarene feared that it was more treacherous than simply allowing Cada to marry Alistair and risk being ousted or killed in office. Yet Cada would not budge, and Clarene would not make her. Cada loved Alistair. And so Clarene, far from the diplomatic intrigues of her home courts in Orlais, found herself once again entangled by politics. She began, "I told you whenever we arrived in Ferelden that there was an elf, named Albine."
"Well, certainly. Everyone knows who Albine is. She slayed the archdemon. She's a legend. And I don't see how she has anything to do with Alistair and I."
"You, perhaps not. But Alistair? Now there's a point of interest. Do you think Alistair rules of his own accord? No. He does not. He may be quick to learn politics, but it is Albine who rules the nation. Is it not curious that over a year after Denerim was sieged by darkspawn that the elven alienage is now the most exquisite and completed district in the city? How do you think Albine managed to do so much for the elves, while the rest of Denerim remains in relative squalor?"
Clarene tossed the book aside. It was a useless distraction. Petting flat the green damask of her surcoat anxiously, she continued, "Aside from Alistair's project here in Amaranthine rebuilding the Wardens, the coffers have paid for little for the benefit of the people of Ferelden. Albine has successfully redirected much of the treasury to use in the alienage. Gold that could be invested in paying diplomats to ease tensions with Orlais, Rivain and Antiva, gold that can be used to fortify our borders and protect against future rebellion, is used for the elves. So if you wish to remain queen without having to live in constant fear of the threat of revolution or invasion, where must you turn to source the money needed to secure Ferelden? Albine."
"But she saved Ferelden, and is well respected, especially amongst her own people. It is common knowledge even amongst the Wardens living here. No one will turn against her, least of all Alistair. He swears she placed him on the throne, and ousted Anora. I couldn't possibly remove her from her station," Cada insisted, "She is a hero."
"And that spares her scrutiny? Cada, if you do not wish to be deposed from your throne weeks within being coronated, you will have to appease the people of Ferelden immediately. They tire of destitution. You do not think the common human inhabiting Denerim does not gaze upon the alienage and wonder why they live still in hovels, over a year after the defeat of the archdemon? Alistair has traveled too frequently between Amaranthine and Denerim for the people to rally against him successfully, but the rebellion is brewing, and I do not think our king will intervene. That, you must do."
"Then you think it can be done?" Cada murmured. Clarene shrugged.
"Theoretically speaking, yes."
"I'm hardly the most deceptive woman in the world."
"Oh? With little help from me, you managed to keep your romance with Alistair a secret."
Cada smiled slowly, "And my father wondered why I hated politics growing up..."
--
Albine held the letter limply in her lap, her eyes glazed over as she stared into the crumpled ashes of the fireplace. Anora tugged at her dress, crossing her legs irritably as she said, "I warned you that this construction was moving too fast."
"Do not chastise me."
"I'm not chastising you!" Anora exasperatedly snapped, "I merely informing you of your exceptional foolishness in a time of diplomatic disaster throughout Ferelden. I knew that this would happen, and that at some point in the future – that point being now, my knife-eared friend – you would receive a letter of this exact time directly from the desk of the king! And was I not absolutely correct?"
"It was not Alistair who wrote this."
"No! No, it was not. He is far too much of a fool enchanted by the Wardens to have ever considered the security of Ferelden, just as Cailan was. This was likely penned by his advisors, and Alistair merely and blindly stamped the royal seal on the envelope and sent it away. Isn't that how he has chosen to run his kingdom? Truly, I had thought him so enamored with your legendary status amongst our people that he would pluck out his ribcage if you so commanded it. Now he sends this, at the behest of the imbeciles that advise him? The point, elf, is that you have drained the coffers to build this district, and now Alistair wants those funds repaid in full so that he may repair the other districts and prevent revolt amongst the humans."
"That will take years, as you are aware," Albine mouthed. Anora snarled.
"I know!" She hissed, "You do not think I see how much gold we have invested into the alienage?! Do you think I wish to see you exiled if you are unable to repay him?! Surely he will send me with you, to rid himself of the possibility that someone sensible and intelligent lives that could actually have a claim on the throne of Ferelden."
"Are you finished?" Albine whispered.
"Yes, quite. Any more words that slip my lips will be gratuitous, and Maker know neither of us needs that," Anora hissed, "Thank you for your audience, ladyship. May it not be the last before Alistair has the head lopped from your shoulders. Just like he did my father."
The former queen felt tears suddenly spring in her eyes. She furiously batted them away with her sleeve, managing, "Albine, you have granted me an opportunity where no one else ever would have. In a world ruled by arranged marriages and unhappy wives, you have made me a free woman in an alienage that not so long ago knew nothing but squalor. You rescued me from imprisonment. I will not see anything happen to you, least of all under an incapable king."
Albine remained wordless. Anora figured that she would not vocally respond to such a genuine emotional plea, but the elf's expression softened, and Lady Mac Tir felt the poignancy of her point wash over her. Albine dismissed her, and she curtsied as a noblewoman would, leaving the elf to the lonely quiet of the study.
Zevran watched Anora hastily glide out of the room, and poked his head around the doorframe to see Albine seated alone in the study. Having heard all of what the women spoke of, and relieved it had nothing to do with the recent attacks by the Crow agents, he drifted in and offhandedly propped his back against the shelves. He asked, "I presume all went well?"
"I cannot say it did, no," she yielded, "The… alienage is in a precarious position. The district is required to repay the reconstruction costs to the city of Denerim for its other districts, lest I be exiled from Ferelden."
"And being exiled to, oh, Antiva would be a bad thing?" he chuckled. Seeing that his laugh left Albine just as dejected as before, her lips sinking into an even more hopeless frown, he knelt beside her chair and laced his fingers around hers. He whispered, "My faith in you has always been great. I would advise you on how best to go about generating this money, but I am not your councilor, I am your husband."
Albine's minty eyes met his immediately, as she protested, "But we're not-"
"Ah, well, we shall have to remedy that, yes?" He murmured, "What if I suggested we be married tonight, in secret?"
"I would ask you how inebriated you were whenever you concocted this plan," Albine huffed.
"Not inebriated, inspired. You see, it is rumored that Alistair has proposed to a young noblewoman from Highever. We shall have to beat him to the altar, my dear, before he has a chance to be focused on marrying off all of his nobles in a similar fashion," he said. Albine stroked his chin, running a finger down his bottom lip as she shook her head.
"That is no solid reason to marry," she replied.
"No," he murmured, "But loving you as much as I do is."
"Zevran…"
"You aren't going to protest, are you?"
She tumbled out of the chair, sprawling across the carpet alongside him and embracing him in her arms, not parting her lips to speak another word.
--
"Zevran, this is absolutely ludicrous," she chirped as he led her through the corridors of the estate towards the courtyard, "We- we can't just leave the alienage and run away like-"
He spun Albine around a corner, pinning her against the wall with a kiss.
"Like that?"
"Yes, yes precisely in that… fashion," she brushed her taupe skirt flat, hissing as his hand tugged at the laces of her bodice, "This is hardly the appropriate time! We should be fleeing like criminals. Oh, for Andraste's sake-"
She grabbed his wrist and bolted down the hall with the Antivan in tow. He was snickering like the complete scoundrel Albine knew he was beneath the polished exterior of the elven bann's consort. Consort. Her head swooned to think that the title would soon be changed to husband, if they made it out of the elven alienage alive and the guards did not intercede. Or should they have been even far less fortunate, if Albine's father Cyrion uncovered their plot.
"Why do I feel like a small boy escaping the wrath of some shopkeeper he stole candies from?" Zevran mused. Albine crept across the passageway and rattled the locked door on the opposite side. She flattened her back against the stained glass window, tense as a palace guard floated past without detecting her. She released a hefty sigh of relief as he reeled down another corridor.
"Why do I feel like a proper chantry wedding in Denerim would have been preferable to this subterfuge?"
"Because we are assassins?" Zevran grinned.
"If the guards find us-"
"Alistair will know if it, which makes our escape all the more imperative. He would force us to marry in a ceremony larger than Morrigan's ego, in front of all of Ferelden and his slew of human and noble sorts. Neither of us wants that," he reminded her, "May I remind you that the last time you, weddings and human nobles mixed, it ended badly."
"The last time you and I mixed it ended badly," Albine rejoined as she procured her picks from her belt and tinkered with the lock on the door. Zevran knelt next to her, gazing up in the pale evening light at her swan-white face. The curve of her narrow ivory jaw, her delicate nose, the scrutinizing sweep of her brow. Or was it the icy, mint green of her eyes that coaxed his cheeks to flush? As she twisted the knob open to the free world outside, Albine faced him. She whispered, "Are you ready?"
"Would I really back out after shelling out all of that hard-earned gold on such an extravagant ring?" He smirked, gazing outside on the alienage from the door. Even from the view on the side entry that they were departing from, it was resplendent. The night has freshly fallen on the reconstructed buildings. Stone pillars rose like white beacons from the ground around the wooden and stucco homes swathed in ivy vines and climbing roses.
He stepped through the door, chasing her down the alley and towards the chantry.
But midway down the path, a thunderous force collided with his chest, and he reeled backwards, landing in dirt. Scrambling to his knees, he heard the clamor of Albine's heeled boots against the ground, and caught the sound of muffled whines. The Crows had arrived. And they had descended first upon Albine ahead of him.
Zevran leaped headlong into battle.
He scrambled to his feet and dashed down the alley, leaving his assailant in his wake. Removing two knives from his belt he rounded the corner and entered the wider corridor at the end of the alley leading to Denerim's chauntry in the market district. He skidded to a halt, thrashing his head side to side as he searched for Albine.
"Here," she uttered. Zevran glanced to his right, and saw her kneeling over the two assassins, both now dead, as she cleaned her dagger on the embroidered kerchief she procured from her pocket. Before Zevran set a foot in her direction, he was seized from behind by the last assassin. As Zevran grappled for freedom, the enemy flung his knife wildly and grazed the Antivan's neck. Albine soared into combat, standing her ground with a snarl on her carmine lips and her freshly cleaned blades extended out towards him.
"Relinquish him," she ordered. The assailant held the flat side of his knife against Zevran's ear.
"I will cut off the point of his ear if you draw any nearer," the assailant sneered, his grayish shadows of facial hair visible beneath the otherwise concealing hood, saying, "Drop your weapons. It is I who is in the position to barter with you, not the other way around. After all, I see I have something of value to you."
"Have I taught you nothing, love? Kill him!" Zevran exclaimed to Albine. As the assassin wrenched his arm around Zevran's neck in retaliation for the comment, Albine remained frozenly still.
"If you are willing to barter, it is evident that you are not above diplomacy," she observed. The attacker cocked his hooded head with interest, begging her to continue, "I would be willing to speak with you on more civil terms if you agree to return quietly to my estate."
"Whoever said I was sent to talk?"
"Had you been sent to kill, as you infer, you would like any proper assassin have already completed your mission."
The assassin eyed her warily, but released Zevran. As the Antivan rubbed his throat from the lock that the other assassin had on his throat and teetered back towards Albine, he removed his hood. A spray of coffee-brown hair and grayish stubble on his jaw framed the central color of his face, found in two pale blue-colored eyes situated like aquamarines alongside his crooked nose. He bowed, refusing to remove his eyes from Albine's, announcing, "I am Dalton Edgworth, sent by Master Ignacio of the Antivan Crows. I will tell no more until we are safely inside."
Albine narrowed her eyes, pausing, but eventually nodded in agreement as she led him back to her estate silently. Zevran trailed behind them, a dagger drawn, in case the assassin's motives were not as diplomatic as they seemed.
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Author's Notes
Now that I've finished my month-long independent research essay at college, I hope to expedite the time it takes to write and post each new chapter of this story. Speaking of chapters, I hope you enjoyed this one, and thank you for your kind reviews and readership. I am very blessed to have such a gracious audience. As always, send me suggestions at will!
With love,
Julia
apeacockpersian