CHAPTER THREE - SKYHOLD, PART I
"I thought Blackwall sounded different." Thalia stretches her arms above her head, ignoring how her light Grey Warden armor does nothing to keep out the chill. She doesn't like it here in Skyhold, would prefer the warmth of anywhere else, really. But the Wardens have given up their claims to any preferences.
"You knew him? The real Blackwall?"
The Warden is surrounded by three others, all wanting to talk about the rumor coming from Orlais that Warden Blackwall is actually dead. Why anyone would want to impersonate their lifestyle is beyond her. Thalia would rather be with her clan, wandering the Dales. But being born a mage in a clan with already too many limited her options.
"I did. He was Nevarran, actually. Completely different accent," she says, enjoying the moment of attention. "Soon as he opened his mouth at Adamant I knew it wasn't him."
The Wardens look at each other, before looking back at Thalia. Even though the man speaking the words was false, the words rang true and for the first time since she heard about Erimond, Thalia felt hope bubble up inside. Though she's lucky she survived the siege at all, all of them were, when so many of her brothers and sister fell.
She misses them. She misses what the Order represented, thinking of the time after the Blight, when everyone thought they could do no wrong. How quickly they learned.
"So tell me," another Warden says. Thalia looks down at the dwarf with a great sword on his back and nods encouragingly. "I heard the real Blackwall was up for Clarel's job but then he disappeared. Do you thinkā¦"
She shivers, understanding what he implies. Would things have been different under Warden-Commander Blackwall instead of Clarel? Shaking her head, she decides it's too tempting and dangerous to think in terms of what if.
#
Leliana can't help but scowl at the parchment. Cullen's handwriting is rushed and cramped and clearly not providing all of the information. He only mentions the Inquisitor once. But Leliana studies the words he did write over and over again and realizes it's happened again.
She failed.
Leliana failed the Inquisition, failed the Herald of Andraste. Just like Haven and Divine Justinia before, she failed.
What secrets might the rest of the Inquisitor's companions be hiding? Leliana knows next to nothing about Sera or Solas or Cole. Is there anything in their pasts that might cause the Inquisition harm?
Leliana recognizes Josephine's soft footsteps coming up the stairs into the Rookery. "Tell me true," Josephine demands in a quiet voice, one Leliana learned to respect. Rare is the day Josephine requests the full truth of Leliana's work, knowing the fewer details shared the better. The arrangement suits Leliana, content to keep Josephine away from her work.
"Did you know Rainier was Blackwall?"
Her fingers curl around the edge of the railing as she prepares herself. She should have told someone long ago. "I knew he wasn't Blackwall," Leliana admits. She glances at Josephine, who crosses her arms over her chest and glares as only an Antivan can. Leliana's next words are rushed and she hears the strain of revealing the truth in her voice. "But I thought he was a Grey Warden, at least. They have so many secrets. I assumed there had to be a reason he took the man's identity."
"How? How did you know?" Josephine's voice is earnest now.
"The real Blackwall was in Orlais during the Blight. Thom Rainier said he was in Ferelden," Leliana says, thinking back to that time and the hardships they all faced, especially dear Brosca. She whispers a quick prayer that her friend is safe, wherever she might be. "There were only two Wardens in all of Ferelden during the Blight and I was with them both. We could have used another's help."
Josephine sighs and walks outside onto the stone balcony, with Leliana trailing behind. "What a disaster," Josephine says softly. Leliana knows nothing Josephine says is personal, but the sense of failure still weighs on her shoulders. "You never thought to tell anyone? Especially once they became lovers?"
"What was I supposed to do, Josie?" Leliana asks in a low voice. There is no one around to overhear, but too many years of worrying about the shadows created habits she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to break. "It was clear from the start that Black- Rainier was the Herald's favorite. I wanted to wait until I had proof before there was a confrontation."
"Did you actually look for proof?" Josephine asks, a frown on her face and hand on her hip.
Leliana looks up at the sky and sees a single crow flying towards the Rookery, and wonders what news it might bring. For a moment, the optimist buried deep inside her hopes for good news, before her pragmatic side remembers there's no such thing. "Of course not," Leliana says, not able to keep out a sliver of anger in her voice, which Josephine does not deserve. "Do you think I actually have time with all the real threats out in Thedas?"
She beats her fists against her thighs once, only once, before she forces herself to be in control again. So much depends on her and her agents, and yet information keeps slipping through their fingers, like cupping water. First an assassin almost finds their way to Josephine, and now Thom Rainier, a known murderer, has been sharing the Inquisitor's bed for months.
What if this is all a ploy to get to the Inquisitor? Thom Rainier took bribes all the time. Leliana would like to believe in tales of true love and redemption, but those are stories for children and old women.
"So the question is, do we follow the Inquisitor's orders and work towards Rainier's release, or arrange an accident in the prison?" Leliana says thoughtfully as she traces the broach pinning her hood to her armor.
Josephine's face hardens and Leliana realizes she perhaps spoke out of turn. Even with her past as a bard, the Ambassador doesn't belong in the world of the shadows, and Leliana will do anything to keep her friend from joining her in the dark.
"We follow," Josephine starts, and her fingers grasp the gold sash at her waist. "We follow the Inquisitor's instructions, though I doubt she understands what it will cost us in reputation."
"And it will be us, not her, won't it?" Leliana asks, closing her eyes. She has given everything, everything, to the Inquisition. When will the Maker finally be satisfied? How much more will she be forced to give? "To the common folk, the Herald is simply trying to save her lover, but the Inquisition is the force that will make it happen."
"I will do my best to soften the blow," Josephine says, reaching out and placing her hand on Leliana's arm. The slight weight feels good and familiar and warmth spreads throughout Leliana's belly, reminding her she is not alone. None of them are. "But yes, having Rainier released to us will do the Inquisition far more harm than good." She sighs and Leliana can't help but think how young Josephine is. How young they are all. "I do not look forward to the aftermath."
#
There is a joke in the barracks: the only thing that travels faster than a crow is gossip.
Three people have stopped Cassandra on the way to the training yard, wanting to know if she heard 'the news.' The news. As if the truth of Blackwall's identity was little more than a missive about farming or the weather. The news.
How could she not have heard? Everyone has heard at this point, and they are all laughing at the Inquisition, letting a criminal into the Inner Circle of the Herald of Andraste. For more than a year and a half, Cassandra lived and breathed the Inquisition, doing everything in her power to build it up. And now Thom Rainier threatens to bring it all down on top of them.
"You look ready for a fight."
Cassandra looks over at the Iron Bull, who stands with a two-handed practice sword over his shoulder. In her youth, she would train with a two-handed sword to work on her endurance. She understands why Bull enjoys using the weapon, there is power and grace in such a blade, but she much prefers her sword and shield.
Like Rainier. The thought that she has anything in common with that murderer infuriates her. "I am always ready for a fight," she tells Bull as she rolls her neck, taking far too much pleasure in feeling the satisfying crack.
He throws her a blunted practice sword, which she catches easily. "Then let's have it."
Cassandra barely has time to bring up her weapon to block before the blow hits causing vibrations to run up her arm. This is exactly what she needs, a chance to work off some of her anger. "Good hit," she says, never unwilling to give praise where it is due.
"So why the pissed off face today?" Bull asks casually. Cassandra rolls her eyes. She forgot how much he likes to talk as he spars. "Haven't seen you this upset in a while."
She feints to the right and Bull immediately gets out of the way. Cassandra grips her sword tighter. There is no sense of urgency in this spar, but there never is with Bull. "I assume you've heard about Blackwall?"
"Yeah, yeah, not really a Warden. I could have told you all that months ago."
Her eyes squint as their swords clash. "Months ago? How?" Cassandra holds up a hand and steps back. If Bull knew something⦠She takes a gulp of air, her breathing slightly labored, and asks, "How did you know?"
"Little things," Bull says with a shrug, resting his weapon on his shoulder, seemingly content to quit sparring. "When he talked about the Wardens he never looked anyone in the eye. And then, of course, there's body language. Whenever he lied, he crossed his arms over his chest or fidgeted with his hands."
"And you just knew that?"
Bull shrugs. "Years of training. The man still did good work with the Inquisition, though."
"By playing us all for fools?" Cassandra says angrily, stabbing the tip of the sword into the dirt, standing it upright. "I trusted him. I told him about Antony and he told me about his sister." She thinks back to those quiet conversations, when she thought him a vaunted Grey Warden, someone she considered a friend. If she had known, she would not have spoken a single word to him.
"The sister thing wasn't a lie," Bull says, sounding bored as he cracks his knuckles. "He did have one and she did die."
It's not just the personal betrayal that bothers Cassandra. She thinks of the Herald, of what she must be going through right now and her hands curl into fists. "To think that someone like Rainier has been sharing the Inquisitor's bed-"
Bull chuckles and holds up a hand. "That's where your mind went? I knew there was a reason I liked you." Cassandra snorts and crosses her arms over her chest as Bull continues. "That's not a lie, either. He truly does love her. Pretty obvious to anyone who sees him look at her."
"And that's supposed to make up for what he's done?" Cassandra snaps. "No. No, it makes it worse."
"You might want to remember that the Inquisitor doesn't exactly have a squeaky clean past herself," Bull says, and she hears a gentle rebuke in his words.
Cassandra closes her eyes, thinking about that past and again just how strange it is that Andraste decided to send a dwarf in their hour of need. And such a dwarf!
But the Inquisitor has done everything they've asked of her, except believe. Once, Cassandra hoped that being called the Herald would bring her over to the Chantry, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Maker knows, Cassandra tried to get Bethroot interested in the Chantry, giving her books to read and asking questions. But the Herald seems to insist on stubbornly clinging to the Stone.
"The Herald never lied about her past," Cassandra says, knowing the excuse sounds feeble as she hears the words out loud. "She never lied about anything this important."
"Well, guess we'll see what happens," Bull says.
"I suppose we will," Cassandra says with a nod. "Thank you for the spar, such as it was."
"Any time."
Cassandra stares at the ground, thinking of all the times she and Blackwall sparred since he joined the Inquisition. More often than not, she won their battles, but each time he learned and improved, even at his age. And because of that constant improvement, he challenged her. It's not often Cassandra finds herself challenged, and she can admit she will miss their spars.
She respected him, and respect is something Cassandra does not bestow on just anyone. And there is an itch in the back of her mind, wondering if she could be wrong about Rainier, could she be wrong about the Seekers as well?
But that is a decision for another day. For now, there is work to be done.
#
Never has Josephine been more grateful that she is a maker of lists.
She flutters around her quarters, packing her trunk, checking off each item as she does. If the Inquisition is to have any chance of saving both their relationship with Orlais and Thom Rainier, she will need to be in Val Royeaux in person. She does not relish making such a journey, not for the third time in six months. Already her frequent appearances give the illusion the Inquisition prefers Orlais over other countries. It matters not that her business was personal, not professional.
Pausing in the middle of the room, Josephine gives herself one moment to decide how to best counter her visit to Orlais. The Inquisitor will simply have to go to Denerim to visit Queen Anora in person. When they will find time in her schedule is another matter entirely.
But back to work. In her trunk, she packs dresses, undergarments, jewelry and even two formal gowns in case she's invited to parties or dinner. Though she has no idea how long she will even be in Orlais. There is always the possibility Rainier will be dead by the time she arrives Val Royeaux. Maker, she hopes she will not be too late.
He is such a quiet, unassuming man; it is hard to believe he is responsible for so much chaos. But Josephine knows from her own time of being a bard that a person can hide so much underneath the surface.
Once she's satisfied with the state of her trunk, Josephine takes her largest satchel and marches out of her bedroom. She wears plain traveling clothes this morning, no silks or brocade, but a sensible wool dress that will keep out the cold from the mountains. Even her heavy boots are a concession to the realities of mountain travel, though she far prefers the softness of the slippers she wears in Skyhold.
Calliope and Vern, her two assistants, are already in her office, waiting. Josephine is pleased to see they dressed properly for the journey; neither one of them have traveled on official business with her before, and she had not the time to tell them how to dress. "Vern, please inform the footmen my trunk is ready."
"At once, Lady Ambassador," Vern says with a deferential nod before walking out of the room.
After she lamented the absence of a staff to the Inquisitor all those months ago, Josephine decided to take the initiative and do something about it. Cullen had his lieutenants and Leliana her agents. Why should she not have an assistant or two? To that end, she searched until she found Calliope, an elf from Amaranthine who worked tirelessly to improve her alienage's living condition, and Vern, who ran a tradesmen guild in the Anderfels. They had been volunteers until Josephine discreetly gave word she looked for help. Many sent in letters, asking for the positions, but they were the only two to speak to her directly.
One day, Josephine knows, she will be needed in Antiva to be the head of the Montilyet house, and her time with the Inquisition will end. She wants no disturbance when she decides to leave, and to that end, she is training Calliope for the position, though the elf doesn't realize it yet. She would probably be terrified if she found out. So for now, Josephine is content to pass along her skills with a stealth even Leliana would admire.
As Josephine walks to her desk, ready to start the arduous task of sorting through her documents, Calliope says, "I've organized them in three piles: essential, to be reviewed and unnecessary."
"Always efficient," Josephine says quietly, skimming the pile to be reviewed. It takes several minutes, but she is confident that any possible document she might need will be in her reach at Val Royeaux.
It is a five day journey to Val Royeaux, and she can't work the entire time, so once the parchment is packed, Josephine opens the bottom drawer of her desk. There, nestled between rolls of parchment, is her embroidery. It's a half-finished piece, of what she dreams the Montilyet family crest must have looked like in days of old. Perhaps she'll find some time during the journey. Perhaps.
Once her satchel is buckled, Josephine looks and Calliope and Vern, both slightly wide-eyed and nervous. "We have a great deal of work to do," she tells them, hearing a confidence she does not quite feel in her voice.
They nod and she turns on her heel, ready to lead them to the carriage. Josephine does not think of the progress the Inquisition will have to concede or the damage to their reputation, all thanks to one man. Instead, she whispers a simple prayer.
"May Andraste allow us to reach Val Royeaux in time."
