Naia expected to wake with a wicked hangover, but her head felt surprisingly clear the next morning. A good thing, too, since Leliana bounced into her room soon after the sun rose to help her style her hair.
"I thought you said you liked the way I wear my hair!" Naia protested as the bard pulled out dozens of gem-studded pins and clips and began holding them up to her head.
"Oh, yes, it is very becoming. But surely you would not object to a little change, today of all days. All of Ferelden has turned out to get a glimpse of their hero."
Naia was getting rather tired of hearing the word "hero," but she couldn't bring herself to snap at her friend. Nor could she bear to tell Leliana the truth: that she was supposed to die on the roof of Fort Drakon. The only logical explanation she could come up with was that the Archdemon was still alive, that she'd somehow botched the killing blow. I'm not a hero, Leliana. Just a fraud.
As Naia worried, Leliana subjected her hair to a thorough series of experiments. After what felt like hours, the Orlesian bard determined that the best look for the armor was to pile Naia's hair in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. The style, despite its apparent simplicity, required an astonishing number of hairpins.
The Orlesian bard had just helped her secure all of the straps on her new drake-scale armor when Alistair knocked on the door to her chamber. "I hope you're almost ready, the citizens of Denerim are packed three hundred deep outside the palace," he called through the door. "I'd like to pretend it's for my coronation, but I think they'd rather see you."
"Come in!" Naia called.
Alistair pushed the door open and grinned broadly at her. "Well, how about that. You look splendid, Commander."
Naia gaped. Alistair was wearing heavy golden armor, the most elaborate she'd ever seen, and his bearing was confident—more than confident, regal. She almost didn't recognize her friend. "So do you, Your Majesty," she said with a little curtsy.
"Now, what did I tell you about calling me that? All right, that's it." Alistair made a playful grab for his fellow Warden; Naia danced away, grinning.
Leiliana cried out in alarm. "Do not muss her hair!"
"Sorry, sorry," the King said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Come on, Hero, let's get these ceremonies over with."
"The coronation will be first, then there will be a speech in honor of your victory. I'm planning to grant the arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens," Alistair told her as they descended the stairs to the throne room. "The Howes are in no position to oppose, not after what Rendon did in the basement of the Denerim estate. And I'm going to offer you a reward for what you've done. Have you any thought as to what you might like?"
"Fair treatment and justice for the elves in all of Ferelden's alienages," Naia said promptly. "But I trust you to do that anyway. Amaranthine for the Wardens is enough for me, Alistair."
"How would you like to be the first Bann of the Denerim alienage?" Alistair suggested.
"Not me. Shianni."
"Shianni!" said Alistair, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
"Don't let her fool you. She's got a temper—"
"Really? She has a temper, and she's related to you? Will wonders never cease!"
"—but she's smart and determined, and she won't be intimidated by human nobles," Naia finished, pretending she didn't hear the King. "Besides, I'll be in Amaranthine rebuilding the Wardens. Shianni will know better what the elves need."
"Hmmm. I wonder how many heart attacks the members of the bannorn will have when I introduce Bann Shianni of the Alienage?" Alistair looked positively delighted at the thought.
Naia smiled back. She wanted to let him simply enjoy the moment, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Alistair … have you thought at all about what might have happened at Fort Drakon? Why I'm still alive, I mean?"
The King quickened his steps. "Not really," he lied. "We'll talk about it later, all right?"
The long Chantry ceremony that preceded Alistair's coronation seemed to take years, though Naia did enjoy the sour expression on the face of the Grand Cleric when she blessed Alistair's reign. Presumably it was the same Grand Cleric who had tried to prevent Alistair from leaving the Templars. She wondered if the woman's bitterness was over having a Grey Warden as King or over losing the opportunity to have a lyrium-addicted Templar on the throne.
To her surprise, Naia felt nervous when Alistair called her to his side. I shouldn't be here, she thought, gazing out over the crowd. Don't applaud. I should be dead. What will they do when they realize the Archdemon is still alive?
Her fellow Warden knew her well enough to realize that the lofty praises of her victory was causing her distress; to her relief, Alistair smoothly moved on to the part of his speech where he announced reforms for the alienages of Ferelden. She heard her father gasp aloud when Alistair announced that Shianni would be a noblewoman, though Shianni herself just looked stunned, and Soris couldn't smother a bit of astonished laughter. When the ceremonies ended she ran to her family and hugged them each in turn. The alienage had suffered tremendously, but she knew it would be rebuilt in time—and without any signs promising death for elves with swords.
Soris was teasing Cyrion about his new status as the father of the Hero of Ferelden when Shianni abruptly shushed him. "We should leave Naia to more important things. I doubt she wants to spend her celebration listening to your babbling, Soris."
"No! You can't leave me," insisted Naia, reaching for her cousin's hand.
"We won't be far," Shianni said reassuringly before grabbing Naia's arms, spinning her around, and giving her a firm shove in the opposite direction. Naia found herself stumbling right into a man dressed in a red doublet. She looked up at him to apologize, but the apology died in her mouth when she realized who it was. Damn you, Shianni.
"I … Zevran. I haven't seen you since Fort Drakon. How are you?" she asked, taking a quick step back.
"Well enough. These formal events always make me nervous," he said, tugging at the collar of his fine clothes. "They are perfect places for assassins to strike."
"You don't think the Crows will still come after you," Naia said with alarm.
Zevran shrugged. "Not immediately, no. But I should not stay in one place too long. Who knows when the Crows may regain their urge to hunt me?"
"Well. You'll always be welcome at Amaranthine," Naia said, forcing a friendly smile.
"I may take you up on that someday," the assassin said nonchalantly. "Perhaps the Wardens could use a mascot."
Naia swallowed hard. "Listen, Zev …"
"Now is not the time for a lengthy conversation. We can talk later, yes?" Before she could respond, he'd turned away.
She watched him slip into the throng, cursing her own stupidity. Honestly. Who falls for their own assassin?