Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!
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Chapter Two: Arrow in the Dark
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Ives found himself frustrated again and again over the next few weeks. Though Isabeau should not have been difficult to track down - he was a Grey Warden, after all, and she but a recruit of the Order - it soon became clear to him that her ability to evade scrutiny was polished to a shine. Though not a complete hermit, she tended to avoid any gatherings or events which did not require her presence, including meals, one of his preferred times to catch a target unawares. Livilla was equally talented at avoiding notice, and since she was a servant, he had even fewer avenues to exploit to arrange time with her.
On the other hand, Ives prided himself on his resourcefulness. A Court Bard - well, former Court Bard - would never so easily admit to defeat in the Game. Since the lovely duo seemed disinclined to reveal their secrets to him, it was time to wander down other avenues in search of what he needed, and so his feet took him to the bowels of the Keep, or 'the Deeps' as it was affectionately called by the Wardens of Val Royeaux.
Buried within the warren of corridors that threaded the gut of the Keep, his destination lay in the middle of those areas central to making life work smoothly: the rare hot springs which had been turned into soaks and baths; the steamy laundry rooms through which endless amounts of clothing passed each week; the vast storage space which likely had items left over from the Fourth Blight; and, amidst it all, the work rooms for the servants as they went about their duties.
Ives smiled as he remembered indulging in other activities in the more remote areas of the basement warren when he had first become Warden, before he had devoted himself to his delightful wood nymph. Ah, how matters had changed. The man who had once swore an oath to his father that he would never have responsibilities now fretted himself on a daily basis about the safety and security of his rather large, extended family of Grey Wardens.
His feet took him by instinct to the room he sought, one of the cheerier rooms in the place thanks to the woman who ruled it like an Empress. His favorite source for gossip could generally be found in her customary habitat: the sewing room, where all uniforms and clothes went for repair. Of course, given that weapons practice was a large part of Keep life, Marie had touched everyone's clothing and practice armor at least once, and her place as Housekeeper gave her access to the constant ebb and flow of rumors and speculation. A stout, no-nonsense woman with plenty of gray in her tightly-lashed hair and laugh lines on her face, she sat ensconced on her padded chair, needle dancing and feet spread out on a nearby stool.
Padding up behind her on silent feet, he was about to reach out for her oh-so-tempting braid when she said, "I wouldn't do that, my lad." Her voice, still thick with the burr of Nevarra, nevertheless held amusement. "Unless you wish parts of your clothes to be too tight, that is."
"Ah, lala, you are too clever for me by half," he said with a grin as he walked around her chair. "It is my everlasting tragedy that I cannot tickle more than your fancy, so I am forced to touch of you what I can." So saying, he took her hand and placed a resounding smack on the back of it before collapsing into a nearby pile of clothes.
"You, my lad, are a flatterer," she said, a twinkle in her eye as she resumed sewing. "Now, considering you deliberately chose a time to talk to me before any of my assistants arrive for the day, who is it you wanted to talk about?"
"Are you implying that I only seek you out when I need information?" Ives gasped. "And not for the beauteous joy of your companionship?"
She shot him a look older than time, then shook her head as he chortled. "I can at least save you some breath for your amusement. You want to know about Livilla, I presume?"
"No! I'm wounded! I ... Ah, but who am I kidding?" His feigned shock only lasted a few moments. "You know me too well. That is precisely the one I need information on!"
Marie's lips pursed in thought. "A clever hand with the needle, she has - the only one besides meself that can work leather and lace both. The first couple of weeks she insisted on wearing that hood, but the heat finally got to her. The evenings may be crisp, but we can easily broil alive down here, on the hot days." Clucking her tongue, she paused her needle for a moment. "I won't lie, it gave me a turn when I first saw her face. I've been around Wardens long enough to recognize damage left by accident, and scars left over from steel. The poor thing..."
Ives frowned. He hadn't had a good look at the scars, true, but he'd assumed they were burn marks - not an unknown injury in any city of Thedas, with the prevalence of straw for building material among the poor. "That bad?"
"Aye, that bad. Someone went to a lot of effort to make her look the way she does." A hand went up to her eye and slashed downward. "Even took out one of her eyes. The fact her other eye is black as night makes it a bit unsettling to be under her gaze, even for me. I can see why she wants to keep out of sight - she'll work when I'm here, and sometimes with Rosalie-"
"The one with her own fire marks," Ives recalled. Marie's nod let him know his memory was accurate. "But not at other times?"
"Never. And she never lets even me touch her mistress' clothes, or her own. Poor thing never seems to relax, either, and jumps at shadows all the time. I can't blame her, though. I doubt I'd be able to leave behind memories such as she must bear, either." Marie shrugged, and the needle resumed its flashing dance across the slashed jerkin she was working on. "Still, for all that, when she's in a good mood, she has a wicked good sense of humor and a beautiful little laugh. Pity she likely won't find anyone to appreciate it."
That comment did bring a smile to his face - Marie was an inveterate matchmaker, and had quite the deft touch for it, too. "Surely there is someone who could appreciate the beauty in the marks."
"Oh, there are few men such as you in the world, my lad. Still, I won't object to her staying on once her mistress becomes a Grey Warden, bless her heart, and I've already let the Warden-Commander know as well. She'll always have a place here." With a little flourish, she finished the jerkin and laid it aside. "Another piece, if you please."
Absently grabbing something from the top of the pile beside him, he handed it to her and said, "Speaking of her mistress..."
"Oh, little Isabeau. Such a tiny thing, but so strong!" She shook her head as she turned the clothing around in her hands, looking for the damage. Once she found that the sleeve had nearly been torn off, she began hunting through the basket next to her chair for the right thread. "I don't know nearly as much about her, sorry to say. I did once hear Livilla call her 'Madame de Brienne' in jest, but other than that, all I can tell you is that she's just a pretty Orlesian young lady - which I'm sure you already noticed."
"I'm sure I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," Ives replied quite innocently. De Brienne...The name tugged at something in his memory, and he made a note to ask Jean about it. The information wassomething to investigate, at any rate.
"Hmph. I'd certainly trust her with Ser Jean before I'd trust her with you, my lad." Ignoring his continued protestations, she threaded her needle with an air of long practice and began to work on the shirt. "Incidentally, Livilla will be getting here soon. So unless you want your nosiness to be general knowledge, you'd best skedaddle."
Ives stood with a great sigh of regret and made his goodbyes, promising a bottle of the finest cider he could lay his hands on for her assistance. Still, that had been ... somewhat productive, he figured, since he had more information than when he had first sought out his quarry. Jean hadn't been able to help him decipher the mystery surrounding Isabeau, since he hadn't actually had an opportunity to spar with her yet. Despite her initial enthusiasm, she had avoided Jean as much as Ives, perhaps working under the accurate assumption that whatever she told Jean would make it to Ives' far more discerning ears. The initial warmth she'd shown to Jean that first day had been replaced with the same wariness that Marie had noticed in Livilla, and it made tracking the little warrior down a bit of a challenge.
Still, his troubles had not gone unnoticed. Last night, Artana had announced a mandatory archery lesson for all recruits, even going so far as to have all the senior recruits track down those who had not been at the meal (including Isabeau) to inform them of it. Caught up as he was in his own quest, Ives hadn't quite made the connection that Artana had handed him an opportunity to interact with Isabeau on a silver platter until the following morning, even if Artana had insisted it was to ensure Isabeau actually met her peers.
"Ah, my unsuspectingly brilliant little Dalish heart," he half-hummed. Naturally, Ives would need to dole out a reward for such cleverness, but first he had to get to the lesson. He stole a glance out the first window along the spiral stairs he was taking two at a time, eyeing the sky above to pinpoint the hour, and knew he needed to pick up his pace if he wanted to meet Artana on time.
When he found her, he ambushed his wood nymph and stole away her breath in a thankful kiss. He knew that Artana seldom bothered to ask why he did things like that, so she predictably rolled her eyes with some degree of affection and continued on to the courtyard. Giving her space, he followed behind and smiled as she stopped and let her eyes adjust to the change in light.
"Yet the line to become a Chevalier was half a mile on recruitment day," he heard her murmur to herself before moving into the shooting range at the west end of the courtyard. He understood why she said it, as the number of recruits awaiting her lesson were paltry compared to those of the Chevalier. According to Keep records, once the entire courtyard had rung with blades and barks of commands during a typical training session. Now, only a small part of the courtyard was occupied with all the recruits in attendance. After the fervor of the Fifth Blight ten years past had dwindled, so too had the numbers of those offering themselves to service in the Order.
He turned slightly as Jean came up beside him, and their eyes met in a moment of silent greeting before they followed her. As they progressed across the courtyard in Artana's wake, he felt an odd sensation on his neck, as if someone had laid ice upon it, but a quick search of the courtyard revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Dismissing the oddity, he focused his attention on Artana as she began the lesson.
Watching her draw a bow never ceased to amaze him: such strength and discipline in her motions, such beauty in her grace. She still fletched her own arrows and repaired her own rare ironbark bow, a fanciful wood-as-hard-as-metal that was little more than a legend here in Val Royeaux. As the silver inlay danced in her well-oiled Commander's raiment, so too did the sunlight dance on her vallaslin, giving her the alluring air of the exotic.
A vallaslin was a funny thing to him - she'd explained it to him twice, the second time with a tinge of irritation - so he didn't dare ask for a repeat. Yet to hide one's own identity in the mask of a god, etched in sacred ink into one's own skin, still made him wonder.
Granted, there was much that made him wonder, and some of it was the wonder of awe. Her career was another matter that filled him with awe and pride. She'd been promoted through the ranks in positively no time at all despite her rather unusual entry into the ranks of the Grey Wardens at the beginning of the Fifth Blight. Her exploits were legendary, and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of a battle where she had an ideal vantage.
He knew that one of the first stories all recruits learned upon arriving at the Keep was of her prowess. She had, after all, cleaned out an entire Darkspawn nest single-handedly from the safety of a well-chosen nook. Fifty Darkspawn corpses, including an ogre, was proof enough for most any Warden in the Keep, and generally earned her the immediate respect of the recruits as well.
Judging by the proud smile, he knew full well that Artana Mahariel wouldn't have settled for any less now that she'd been taken from her clan in Ferelden. She was a fully dedicated woman, and she was going to become the best at whatever she set out to do. Even, sadly, if it meant that her life would draw to a premature close. The thought seemed at odds with the bright sunlight and clear sky, yet again that chill settled over his neck, and he frowned, wondering at such dark thoughts. Still, it was true that only those very close to Artana knew that her skin held the pallor of approaching death rather than the paleness of life without sun, or that the cold that emanated from her marked her as a victim of the incredibly strong kiss of the taint which consumed her even faster than most Wardens.
If only Riordan had found her sooner,or had a mage with him to sustain her as he took her back to the Wardens at the border of Orlais... Ah, if only...
For a while, the chirp of arrows was all that he heard from Artana's lesson on all manner of bows and their proper handling, his mind wandering from the past to sifting through the events of the present. Obviously he wasn't entirely immune to distraction as a handsome, if elsewise nondescript, blond fellow who hovered near the gate to watch the lesson from the outside caught his eye. Jean's nudge finally got his attention, indicating that it had come to Isabeau's turn.
As his eyes danced back to the lesson, a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision caught his notice, and he focused for a moment on the shadow where it had originated. With a frown, he fought the mild chill that ran over his neck arms and scoured the corner of shadows, but saw nothing. Forcing his gaze back to where Artana was working with Isabeau, he straightened his posture and focused. The young woman's obvious awe of Artana hadn't escaped his notice. If anyone could get an unguarded reaction from Isabeau, it would be the Commander.
"It's a balance of strength and grace," he heard Artana say firmly, touching Isabeau lightly at various points on her shoulders and arms. Even from where he stood, Ives could see where the trouble lay - Isabeau was trying too hard to impress Artana and achieve the correct posture, and tension had tightened her shoulders enough to affect the shot. "Your stance is excellent," the Dalish continued, "but you fight the nature of the bow. I know it is hard to bond with a piece not your own, but sometimes it is best to not try harder." With another brief touch, she helped relax the woman's shoulders slightly.
Ives watched as Isabeau nodded and took another deep breath, closing her eyes and dipping the corners of her lips in the slightest frown. Her shoulders relaxed even further, and when she opened her eyes, there was a clarity in them that had not been there previously. "I think I understand," she said. "You have to let go of what you want to do, so that you can do what must be done."
Artana nodded in satisfaction. "Inhale now. You should not feel your stomach get so tight this time. There is no one to achieve for but yourself. Do not waver, but bend when you must."
Fascinated, Ives watched as Isabeau straightened her back and took a breath, holding it rather than releasing it. A calm settled over her as she drew back the string, aimed, and released in one smooth motion, exhaling only after the arrow had been loosed.
It struck dead center.
Impressed, Ives began to applaud enthusiastically, nudging Jean who stood next to him in a not so subtle hint to join him. After rolling his eyes and nudging back, his brother did so, a broad grin on his face in acknowledgment of Isabeau's feat. The greatest praise probably came on the dark-painted lips of the stoic Commander, however: she smiled.
"Very good. Dismissed."
It was not the dismissal in shame that most recruits dreaded. This was the one precious few ever heard: the 'good job, you've completed this lesson, you may leave early' dismissed, the one that earned jealous glances. To her credit, Isabeau accepted the compliment well and bowed correctly, recruit to Commander."Il a été un honneur, Commandant. I think you for your instruction."
As Isabeau turned to leave, Artana glanced at Ives, her expression clearly reminding him to take advantage of this opportunity to have a private conversation with Isabeau, even if her early dismissal had been earned and not solely for Ives' benefit. He dropped an eyelid for the briefest of moments as he confirmed this plot with a wink, his route fairly clear with Isabeau headed for a particular corner of the courtyard, behind the racks where she carefully replaced her bow.
The lesson continued without him as he moved behind the racks, hoping to avoid her notice until she'd entered the Keep proper, where he would then engage her. Every other chance he'd had to speak with her, other people had been in earshot, and so he devoutly hoped he could find her without any other close by, and that such a situation would make her more amenable to conversation.
When he entered the Keep, he paused and turned his head sharply, again catching that flicker of movement. And again, nothing was there but an empty shadow, even after his eyes adjusted to the change in light. Lips settling into a frown, he turned back to the corridor and hurried his steps, determined not to miss this chance. He slowed when he caught sight of her in a whispered conversation through a servant's door with none other than Livilla, whose long black braid was distinctive even from this distance.
He approached them quietly, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation, but what little he could hear seemed to be in the language of the Tevinter Imperium. Where on Thedas did they ever learn that language? Neither of them have a hint of an accent beyond a fluency in Orlesian. It was but one of the many questions he needed to answer, but first he had to attend to the matter of security within the Keep - beginning with why the shadows seemed to have eyes ever since their arrival here.
As he came closer, he was grateful he'd spoken with Marie. Though he himself certainly did not consider scars a detraction from beauty, even he needed to pause a moment to take in the extent of the damage done to Livilla's face. Long experience and a bard's training enabled him to see the ghost of beauty which had once been there, but Marie had been correct in her surmise: it was an act of man - a sadistic, cruel man - that had inscribed those terrible lines onto the poor girl's face. A long ragged gash slashed from forehead to chin and cut through an empty eye socket, and burn scars melted the skin around her mouth and nose. The rest of her face and neck - what was visible - showed a careful pattern of cuts and slices, their placement making him wonder if there had been some kind of ritual beyond simple brutality. Combining those observations together with the fact that they spoke Tevene, he reached an inescapable conclusion:Livilla had once been a Tevinter slave.
His thoughts were interrupted by the terribly impolite word which emerged from Isabeau's soft lips, and he watched as she took something from Livilla and stuffed it down her bodice. Ives suppressed a chuckle - thatwould be fun to retrieve - and stepped forward, making a sound for the first time since entering the corridor. Isabeau whirled to face him, and he saw the fear on her face before it vanished, replaced by a far more welcoming smile of relief.
"Bon~jour, Ma~dame," he greeted her in a playfully singsong tone. "And you, mademoiselle." The latter he directed to Livilla where she hovered in the doorway, though the florid bow he then executed was directed towards both of them as he theatrically bent at the waist. As he straightened, he shot the wide-eyed Livilla a heartbreaker's grin across his wide lips. "My mysterious damsel." If Livilla did not yet regret dawdling before her retreat, it came swiftly enough when he winked a baby blue eye at her. He knew well enough he'd made her heart flutter, jaded as she pretended to be, when her mouth opened slightly in a gasp. His smile deepened when she quickly closed the door, escaping his presence more easily than Isabeau could.
Ives turned his attention to his remaining audience, using as much of his bardic charm as he could muster to keep her from fleeing. "That was quite a performance today. A bull's eye! On the first shot! I will be singing about you some day." He came a little closer, taking her hand to delicately restrain her. Hoping to distract her from his true goal of information gathering, he deftly removed her glove and stroked the back of her hand idly with his thumb and forefinger, curious if she would recognize the gesture for what it was: the first foray in the Game of the Heart, a request for conversation that might or might not lead to further dalliance.
Her response fascinated him. It was clear she was familiar with it, given the way her gaze dropped down to where his fingers touched her as a small blush appeared on her cheeks. Ah, lala, so you dorecognize the Game. Proof that you are certainly no peasant, no matter what your accent wants us to believe. "Or perhaps," he continued, taking up the threads of the Game with a seductive drop in the pitch of his voice, "I will be singing to you."
Dark blue eyes rose to meet his, and he waited to see if she would deny her knowledge of the noble's Game or play along. Either reaction would be informative not only of her past, but of her character. When she bit her lip, he knew that she'd realized she'd been trapped into revealing more than she'd wanted to. When a smile settled over her lips, he suppressed a grin of his own, since it meant she'd decided to give up the pretense in order to distract him until she could escape.
Ah, the more entertaining option. Delightful.
"I thank you for the compliment, Ser Durante," she simpered - quite convincingly, too. "That is indeed high praise from one of such renown as yourself." Her head tilted up so she could smile and bat her eyelashes at him, a pose which would have given him an excellent view of cleavage had she been in a typical Orlesian court gown. "My mother once told me that the blood of the Durantes runs hot, but their honor runs hotter and never bends. Tell me, Ser, how hot does your blood run?"
Your mother, hmm? So, Isabeau de Brienne... born of noble blood, but on which side of the blanket? His return wink was devilish, a gift seemingly bestowed by a Desire demon itself. He knew full well that he seethed charisma, but in this instance he used it for humor as much as for seduction. It was a combination he hoped would serve to distract her so he could steal past her normal conversational defenses. "Ma chérie, I think my brother stole all the honor away, so you should be cautious! I wouldn't wish to enslave you with my charm, now, would I?" He deliberately accented the key word, gratified when her face paled ever so slightly. "That would be a most terrible crime, indeed."
"Indeed it would, Ser." Her hand tightened ever so slightly in his, and he saw her eyes dart to the side before returning to him. Her body shifted as she leaned in a bit towards him. "Yet would it not be quite the tragedy if you were caught in this dastardly act of seduction?"
He mulled over his response, trying to match the reason for the increased tension in her body with her own emphasis of words. So, Livilla had been a slave and escaped, and now they feared... her recapture? Though the medium was a trifle odd, Ives remained pleased that she was finally telling him what he needed to know, if he could but figure out how to ask the question. Slipping an arm around her waist so he could allow his eyes to glance to the side as hers had - though he saw only an empty shadow - he winked at her and replied, "Ah, lala, I fear not any man who would stand between us. I would strike them down with my rapier wit and devastating charm, and then sweep you away from all those that would seek such beauty to be within their arms!"
Admittedly, he was quite enjoying himself, both for the unexpected intrigue and because she was such a lovely warm bundle to have within his arms. Artana! he reminded himself sharply, and quickly spun them about, lowering her into a slight dip that not so incidentally put his body between her and most of the room. Such defense of her was an almost unconscious response to the sensation of being watched, though he could not determine by whom and from where.
A giggle came from her as she reached up to lightly grip his shoulder, as if to counter the effect of being lowered. "Oh, Ser Durante, surely I am not the only young lady whose head you've turned. There must beeyes upon you at all times." This time, her hand tightened when she said the key word, and her face was almost... pleading. "Perhaps 'twould be best to release me and simply admire me from a distance. I would be distraught were any harm to come to your poor, delicate heart, no?"
What do you fear, chérie? It was obvious now that she truly believed him to be in danger merely by lingering too close to her. "Well, I can admit to ulterior motives, after all. Yet I must also admit to a curious thing." He lowered her further still, shifting his grip so that one of his hands could come up and tease at the edge of her bodice, near where she'd stuffed her secret down its front. His eyes shifted back and forth, and he lowered his voice even further so it became more intimate, a mere murmur between them. "I've the most … niggling feeling we are simply not alone today. You wouldn't have an idea why that might be," his fingers came to a rest directly over where he suspected the object was, "would you, ma chérie?"
Her wide eyes and guilty flush betrayed her: whatever she had hidden was directly related to the danger she'd warned him about. An expression of burgeoning panic crossed her face, and he saw that she was trying to figure out what she should do next, given the situation she'd allowed herself to be pulled into. He'd made outright fleeing quite difficult and the panic had set in too deeply for her to find any suitable words that might allay his feelings; he knew just how limited her options were. Hopefully, a confession would be forthcoming very shortly.
Apparently, she had one other option to try, a desperate move to be sure. Without any warning, she wrapped her hands around his head and drew him into a deep, intense kiss.
He had to admit some surprise, both at the action and at her expertise. His arm tightened around her and pulled her closer, and the hand already lying on her breast squeezed for a moment before he managed to regain control of himself. Quickly, while she was still concentrating on trying to distract him - a move, he conceded, that would have worked on most men with blood in their veins - his fingers slipped inside, ignoring the more tempting alternative in favor of his original objective. A piece of paper was wrestled from its hiding place and into his palm just as she released him, and Ives chuckled softly before he spoke. "You are admirable, and so very brave to play the Game with a Court Bard. Now … what is this?" He brought the paper he'd so skillfully extracted from beneath her bodice to the side of his face, raising a black brow in inquiry.
A hand gloved in black reached from behind him and snatched the offending piece of paper from his outstretched fingers. "This is mine, Ser, and I would think you have better things to do than take advantage of impressionable young maidens in the very halls of your Order." The voice was dreadfully familiar, and Ives fought the urge to shudder as a cold sensation crept up his spine. A whisper of sound hinted at a retreat, but not before Isabeau had taken a single look at the newcomer and fainted dead away, hanging limp in Ives' embrace. Still, Ives was not daunted, and in fact his eyes rolled a little as he straightened up with the 'impressionable young maiden' still in his partial embrace.
"I don't suppose she's fainted at the sight of a mouse, hm?" No, Ives felt this was more likely to be that confusing set of eyes from the shadow. Now that he had a voice to go with it, he could put a profile and scar to the man as well, taken from the odd conversation in front of the Keep with the man he was certain was a killer. It was going to be complicated defending her with her weight on him, but he stood straight nonetheless. His right hand settled on the set of twin daggers that rested in a sheath on that side. Sadly it wouldn't be simple to draw them, but he'd just have to make do if it came to that. "Come out, souris, I can barely see you."
A chuckle echoed in the hall, making it difficult to pinpoint the source. "No, I don't think I will." Abruptly a pouch landed in front of Ives and the still-unconscious Isabeau, the piece of paper he'd recently gained and lost tied to the string holding it shut like a flag announcing its presence. "I have accomplished what I came to do, after all. The poison that was on the paper has begun to take its effect. You have two choices, monsieur. You can take that antidote and try to save the recruit and her little servant - as well as yourself - or you can try to follow me." A pause, followed by a silken whisper, "And you will never succeed."
"Question, if I may," Ives affected nonchalance out of habit, hoping the man would be more likely to betray information to his quarry if he sensed no fear. Shifting the unconscious dead weight on his arm, he leaned casually against the wall. "Well, two, actually, if you'll humor an apparently dying man. Firstly... why could you possibly want to kill someone so largely insignificant?"
"Such a low self-esteem issue you have, Ser. And here I thought the Durantes had better confidence than that," the other voice taunted. "Although, to be fair, I lied. That is no antidote to save you, as you will not suffer from the nature of this poison." Another pause, then a faint, "And your second question? It is so amusing when my shadow is talked to by someone who knows not where I am."
Having learned what he needed to with his eyes, Ives closed them, nodding a little as he listened to the questions. Abandoning the daggers, his free hand rose to rub his chin. "Ah, lala, I suppose it's true," he sighed with exaggerated melancholy and shrugged as best he could with just the one arm. "Perhaps I am off my game, no? Ahh, but yes! My second question. How many lives does a shadow have?" He pointed, and down the hall sounded a chirp from a crouched shadow of his own. The arrow that followed flew straight and true to the spot he'd indicated, and a whisper of cloth and a soft oath demonstrated his surmise had been correct. "I think not enough to remain in this Keep, no?"
Tension hung in the air before the voice responded. "A fair point. I'd forgotten how...invigorating Wardens are in the hunt." A chuckle echoed softly in the hall, before the mysterious man gave his own parting shot: "I give you a boon, my friend, the gift of a third question I presume you would have asked. 'Tis no poison such as you know. I hope you were planning on having a Joining ceremony soon, as my little targets are now fighting the surge of the taint in their veins. Until next we meet, mon ami!"
And then utter silence fell as the sensation of being watched simply vanished.
"I should not have missed." Artana stepped forward, putting her bow over her shoulder even as she critiqued herself.
"Amour, you are but one woman. You cannot solve every problem. Is it true, though? Can you see the so-called poison inside her?" Ives shifted, picking Isabeau up by swinging his right arm beneath her knees.
The elf's eyes glinted, much like a cat's in the dark. She channeled her own corruption so that she might sense it elsewhere... in Ives, on the paper, and creeping through the girl in his arms. The effort strained her enough that she quickly snapped her eyes shut once more, answering with a simple nod of the head.
Ives sighed. "Then we must do what we can. A shame, I wish she'd simply told us what stalked her. We should send a healer to look at her servant, to see if she might be saved without a Joining... At least Isabeau expected it soon enough."
"This stranger knowing our practice concerns me," Artana murmured, moving closer to draw the paper off the band of the pouch. If the poison was derived from the taint, it could certainly do her no more harm... few besides broodmothers or rotted ghouls passed the stage she was in now. "An odd mark. Are you familiar with it?" Ives glanced at it, but shook his head. A castle silhouetted in front of a full moon, though evocative, was unlike any heraldry or crest he'd ever encountered. "Then we will research this as best we can." A frown came to her face as she looked to the niche where her arrow had been directed. "The Joining is supposed to be a secret. In the past, even you were punished for leaking information to your brother."
Ives issued a half-shrug, the motion restricted by the woman in his arms. "Mm... Well, nonetheless, prepare a Joining. I will find a healer and check in on Livilla. We shall see what can be done, and if that paper tells us anything of use without Isabeau to enlighten us."
A few hours later, as he stared at the blank piece of paper Artana had handed to him with a frown and sigh of frustration, he shook his head and turned it over to look at the seal once more. In all his years as a Court Bard, he'd never come across the symbol, neither as a noble's crest nor as a merchant's sign. The paper had been but a conveyer of the taint, and an effective one at that.
He glanced at where the two women lay comatose in their beds, their chests barely moving. Artana had called in another Warden - a mage - to see what might be done to cure them, but it hardly took a minute for their fears to be confirmed. The Joining truly would be the only cure; the only way to bring the taint coursing through them under control. Ives set the paper back onto the table next to him, a frown once more on his face. This Game is unlike any I've played before. What could he possibly want?
Never had the shadows seemed so dangerous.