Three
Silver-tongued? Was that a compliment? An insult? Or, Maker preserve him, an innuendo? Anders paced in his chambers, turning over his conversation with Tavia until it made even less sense than when he began. He had picked apart every word, every gesture and expression, and he was still no closer to understanding her intent.
Anders looked at his palm. He had been warming the sapphire necklace in his hand all evening. After a long, blessed bath and a shave, he dressed in a fresh robe and snatched the necklace out of his pack. Pounce kept track of Anders with half-lidded eyes. He had found a nice comfy spot on the window sill and watched his master with distinctly feline disdain.
"Don't look at me like that," Anders snapped. "I know, I know. You're right. Just give her the bloody thing and be done with it. It's not a proposal, it's a gift. A tiny, insignificant gift. But it's… No it's more than that! Agh, Andraste's fiery asshole!"
He raised his fist, tempted to chuck the necklace at the window. It was still raining, the droplets beating against the thick glass relentlessly. How long had he sat in that warm bath, letting the cold and sweat wash away, dreaming of his gallant entrance to the main hall? He would wear his best robe, the scarlet one that brought out the amber in his eyes, and he would stride into the hall, locate the Commander and pointedly not address her. She would be driven mad by this, desperate for his attention, and then she would come to him, ask him to dance. He would sweep her around the floor and, just before the evening ended, present her with the necklace.
Pounce yawned.
"Well kitty," Anders said, dressed and combed and still clutching the damn necklace, "How do I look?"
The cat ignored him, swatting at an invisible bug. Fantastic. Even his pet thought he was a bore.
There was a sharp knock at the door. Oh Maker, maybe it was her. Pull yourself together, Anders. He took one last glance in the mirror, straightening his collar. The robe really was perfect for him – scarlet brocade worked with cloth of gold at the hems. It laced at the neck and he had purposefully left it open just a little, to allow the tiniest peek of chest hair. The sleeves widened to deep bells – mimicking more formal magewear - giving a flash of the silk lining. Tight bands of gold and burgundy wound around the biceps. A braided red belt cinched the robe in at the waist.
He hadn't worn the thing in ages, finding no reason to dress up when he usually ended the day covered in blood. Anders had always taken pains to be strong and fit. The noodly mages in the tower couldn't lift a window sill without getting winded. Spending weeks in solitary confinement gave Anders an appreciation for exercise. Bored to tears, he would conjure stones and weighted discs and exhaust himself into peak physical condition. He stretched his shoulders and the robe flattened against his chest, straining.
He smirked. Ladies, please form an orderly queue…
Anders went to the door and threw it open.
"Good evening." Nathaniel bowed stiffly at the waist. Weeks of hardship together and the man still treated him like a perfect stranger. "Are you quite ready?"
"Can't you tell?" Anders spun, letting Nathaniel get a good look.
"The guests have begun arriving," Nathaniel replied. "The Commander expects us in the hall soon."
Anders nodded, slipping the necklace into the pocket of his robe. He followed Nathaniel out into the hall, winking at Pounce just before locking the door. Nathaniel was silent as they traversed the tall, echoing halls of the keep. Not even tapestries and thick carpets could stop the sounds of their feet bouncing around. Anders eyed Nathaniel, saw the way he was holding his neck and shoulders very straight. Tense, are we? He and Nathaniel were almost exactly the same height, but Nathaniel was stockier, bigger through the middle. Still, he must have inherited some noble insights from his father. He was dressed in a beautiful tunic and wine-colored hose that showed his well-muscle legs to advantage.
My competition.
Anders almost tripped over his own feet at the realization. Of course Nathaniel wanted Tavia. Wasn't it obvious? He was always fretting over her, trying to help when she sustained a wound or pointing out irrelevant factoids about whatever tree they were passing under. Anders could hear his obnoxiously cloying voice in his head even then. Did you know, Commander, these trees are not native to this part of Fereldin? They were brought over by blah, blah, blah…
Well, that certainly made things more interesting… and more complicated. Anders liked Nathaniel when he wasn't being a kiss-ass. He was an amazing archer, accurate to a fault, and he had a certain wounded sweetness that reminded Anders of a baby bird who had fallen out of a tree. Nathaniel was aching to be fixed, and he had his sights on a potential healer…
"You must be awfully familiar with these kinds of parties," Anders observed.
"Me? Oh not really. I left for the Free Marches before I had the chance to attend many festivals. I was too young to be betrothed and children aren't welcomed at such things. I was always sent to bed before the guests arrived. And in the field, well, you know how it is." Nathaniel shrugged. "Not a lot to celebrate when you're busy digging graves or planning strategies."
"Lovely, then I won't be the only novice," Anders replied. "Although I have this nasty feeling that you and I will spend the bulk of the evening keeping Oghren from passing out in a corner."
"Commander warned him not to drink too much."
"You say that like it will stop him."
A wave of sound rose up to meet them, filling the corridor. Anders wasn't necessarily nervous, he could handle crowds, but Nathaniel looked ready to projectile vomit at any second. Anders squeezed the man's shoulder roughly.
"Have a cup of wine," Anders murmured, "It will ease your nerves."
They rounded the corner and descended the broad staircase that would bring them to the doors before the hall. The doors were flung wide, dispersing the merry sounds of drinking and conversation. A small quartet of bards had been invited to play music, and the rich luster of a lute soared over the mingling voices.
Nathaniel went first, squaring his shoulders and marching into the hall like a soldier going to his execution. Anders admired his grit. He wasn't going to shrink away into the shadows after all. Anders swiped a goblet of wine and joined Justice at one of the stone alcoves. An immense suit of armor loomed over them, polished to gleaming perfection. Anders chose Justice as his initial companion since Oghren was intolerable and Justice was good company, if only because he was so hilariously frank. The corpse-man had no idea just how funny he was.
"Enjoying yourself, Justice?" Anders sipped his wine, keeping a weather eye on the proceedings. Justice had opted to wear his armor, standing just as still as the statue behind them. He might have been a decoration if not for his grisly face.
"We must present our best face to the nobility," Justice recited calmly. "This is the way of your politics. The Commander bids it and so I will play my part to the best of my limited ability."
"I wouldn't call you limited, Justice, just… unfairly disadvantaged. Your, um, hard sense of morality doesn't exactly fit with the politics of the nobility."
"A lie is a lie," Justice replied firmly. "And I have already heard many this evening."
Anders wrinkled his nose. No matter what, the faint scent of sweet rot followed Justice everywhere he went. He scanned the crowed, deciding that maybe Justice wasn't suitable company for a feast. After all, the man didn't even need to eat. Anders spotted Velanna stewing in the opposite corner, throwing challenging glares at any nobleman who dared glance her way. She was a gorgeous woman, but looked choked and uncomfortable in the high-necked gown she had been given for the evening. Anders had to laugh. He didn't envy the Commander. Forcing Velanna out of her twigs and leaves and into a gown must have been a scuffle for the ages.
Sigrun and Oghren stood together near the keg, sneaking full mugs of ale whenever the crowd gave them cover. It wouldn't be long before one or both of them gave a rousing performance on the tabletops. Anders had a feeling it was up to he and Nathaniel to actually impress the nobility. The Commander was going to have a difficult time smoothing things over when she had nothing but a rogue's gallery to show her guests.
It took a moment to locate the Commander. She was not tall and her small elven stature meant she was difficult to spot in the crush of fancy nobles. Finally he found her, standing at the very center of the hall, not far from the musicians. She was in deep conversation with the Seneschal and an older noblewoman. But Anders wasn't particularly interested in their discussion. Seeing Commander Tabris out of her armor and in a leather tunic was one thing, but seeing her in a gown was quite another. She hadn't chosen one of the fussy, frilly things favored by most of Fereldin's upper crust. Instead, she wore a sleeveless dress with a small keyhole over the bust, a heavy beaded collar draped over the shoulders. It was pale purple, amethyst perhaps, and made fabric that looked like it had been spun from a cloud.
"You are staring at her." Justice had crept up on him, standing stock-still again. "Why are you staring at her?"
The brightest star in the firmament he was not…
"I've never seen her so… clean. Or so dressed up," Anders replied. Honesty was best with Justice. He had an infallible nose for a lie.
"She looks presentable, yes."
As he watched, the Commander turned to accept a small mug of wine from Nathaniel. Her gown was completely open in the back. "Maker's hand."
Anders felt himself drifting toward her. He blindly groped for a reason to pull her aside or to at least get her away from the Seneschal. That man could talk and talk and not actually say a bloody thing. But Anders paused halfway across the hall. Nathaniel had wedged himself into the group and now he was talking to the Commander and she was laughing. When had Nathaniel ever said a funny thing in his life?
Dumbstruck, Anders watched as Nathaniel asked the Seneschal to please hold their cups. Then he took the Commander's hand and led her over to the dancers. No, this is all wrong. I'm supposed to be dancing with her, I'm…
But his thoughts were interrupted by a wink of silver over his shoulder. He turned slowly, at the waist, and saw the knife and the way it was held, poised to throw. The man was wearing black, hidden behind a pillar. There had already been one assassination attempt on the Commander, could there really be another so soon? But Anders wasn't thinking, he was running, planting himself in front of the Commander. The knife was flying toward him, spinning end over end. The music ended abruptly. He held out his hand, summoning his powers as quickly as he could. Someone screamed. He wasn't fast enough.
The knife struck him and stuck in his left shoulder. He stared down at it, mildly surprised, but detached from the pain.
A little purple shape blurred past. Anders was falling slowly to his knees, but through his dazed sight he could see the man in black being thrown to the ground. A knife materialized in the Commander's hand. Where had she kept it? There weren't many hiding places in that dress. Maker, why was he thinking about that at a time like this…
A flash of red. Another scream. The man's nose was running with blood, it dribbled into his mouth. The Commander was shaking him.
Who sent you? Who sent you?
Then it was all dark and Anders wondered if he would ever get the blood out of his favorite robe.