It was dark when Ruan opened his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he had been in the cell without the light of day to mark the passage of time. Nor did he truly recall how he had arrived there. He had vague, delirious memories of being picked up and dragged away on shambling feet. Somehow, those memories seemed less real to him than the image of a being of light above him as he bled out his life onto the cobbles, or the tiny lights that played and danced around him as he was carried away, yet no-one else had seemed able to see. He remembered being constantly on the verge of laughter. Yet now he couldn't say what he had found so amusing. Those moments all seemed very distant now as he awoke, stiff and aching on a pile of filthy straw, as if they had happened to someone else. He blinked and gasped and clutched at his stomach, afraid to find hot, wet pain there. Instead he found nothing but his own skin under a torn shirt and a dull, subsiding ache like a strained muscle.

He pulled himself up and sat as his eyes adjusted to what dim light there was. The walls of the cell glistened damp and oppressively close. Ruan was able to stand in the cell with his arms outstretched, but only barely. He could see beyond the bars of the door only a few feet and could make out only the outline of a wall and the flagstones of the floor. There was a bucket in the corner that he knew more by its stench than by its shape. He was still wearing the same arming doublet and shirt, though now they were stained dark with dried blood and rank with the stink of old rainwater, sweat and worse. He was shackled with a chain between his wrists and another between his ankles. By the growth of his stubble Ruan reckoned that it was more than a day since he had been stabbed.

A sudden thought struck him then and he patted his chest. He could feel nothing through the shirt. He lifted it and ran his hand around. The leather thong and his ring were gone. His hand shook and he got down on his knees to run his hand over the floor in the dark. He rummaged desperately in the straw long past the moment he knew it was futile. Finally, reluctantly he gave up and flopped down onto his back. He bashed his head once against the stones and yelled out a wordless cry.

Thirst ran its parchment hand up and down his throat and his head was light. Some time ago a guard had walked past and dished up a cup of water and a hunk of stale bread. He took one slow breath; then another. The breathing exercise gave measurable shape to time in the darkness, and gave him a focus to busy his mind. He started to count his breaths. It helped him a little to push away gnawing thoughts; such as the memory of his sister warning him that he would be taken prisoner. He had laughed it off then. This had been part of the plan. It was necessary. He was just where he needed to be. He had joked about her living with the shame when she came to get him out. That joke didn't seem so funny anymore. The revered mother had not denied that they would come to free him and his soldiers, but she hadn't exactly confirmed it either.

Time stretched on in this way. The guard brought bread and water once more. They didn't sate Ruan's thirst and hunger, but their edge was dulled for a short time. Another stretch of time later Ruan heard the thud of a bolt sliding aside and the echo of footsteps rang down the dark corridor. Torchlight flickered on the wall and grew steadily brighter as the footsteps became louder. Two armoured men opened Ruan's cell and barked at him to "Get up, and be quick about it!" He did as he was told and was led away between the guards, shuffling with steps only as long as the chain between his legs would allow. They took him up a spiral staircase. The shackles caused him to stumble once and the guards caught between their arms and dragged back up.

He was led to a room with a tall ceiling. There was light streaming in through a small barred window high above. In the centre of the room was a table with a chair on either side of it. A few other stools were placed around the room. Teyrn Henryk Penhaligon sat at the opposite side of a table, wearing a simple green doublet trimmed with black fur. In front of him was a jug, a cup and a plate with a hunk of bread and half a roasted partridge. Ruan could smell the rich warmth of the fresh-baked bread mingling with the garlic and herbs of the roast bird. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled as he was led to the table and sat down. The guard unlocked the chain at the shackle on his left wrist and ran it through iron loops fixed into the table. Then the chain was reattached to the shackle. Teyrn Henryk watched as he tore the leg from the partridge. "My guards insisted on precautions." he said as he took a bite, pausing to chew and swallow. Ruan filled the pause with a question. "Do you think I mean you harm, your grace?"

"We hear so many stories of the things a trained chevalier is capable of. I hope you understand." Henryk replied and held the partridge leg out. Ruan's stomach griped and growled as he looked at the warm food, and all thought of refusing it evapourated. After all, the teyrn had very pointedly taken a bite of it himself. Cautiously, he reached out with his right hand to take it. As he did his left was drawn down to the iron loops. "I am not a chevalier." he said before he leaned his face down to his hand to take a bite. The meat was rich, warm and delicious. He forced himself to take only a small bite and take his time in chewing it. He did not want the teyrn to see him gnaw at the bone like a starving dog. Henryk smiled and nodded in reply. "Of course. I did hear that you left Orlais under a cloud." Ruan made no reply to that, and took another bite of partridge. Henryk tore off a chunk of the bread and popped it into his mouth before pushing the plate towards Ruan. Then he leaned back in his chair and chewed the bread as he regarded Ruan thoughtfully. "I wonder… Is that why you were so insistent that we should send our militia to Ferelden?" he asked. "Are you looking for some glory to redeem yourself, Ser?"

Ruan kept himself very still by a force of will. The pain is an illusion. The sword is real. With as much graceful manners as he could muster with his hands bound he tore off a chunk of bread and chewed it slowly. Then he answered. "I may not be a chevalier, your grace, but I have training as you say. I did not want to stand idle when that could be put to good use in helping Ferelden fight for its life."

Henryk responded swiftly. "And you would have seen men of Ostwick fighting for our life too?"

"If Ferelden falls we certainly will be. The blight threatens all of us."

"You are very quick to believe the grey wardens when they tells us that this is a new blight."

"And you seem very quick to believe the lies told about them, your grace." Henryk arched his brow at that and Ruan knew that he had cut back too quickly. Quite apart from the disrespect they showed to his liege lord, ill considered words were like arrows loosed without aiming and just as impossible to take back. If he had not learned that in Orlais he had learned nothing at all. Henryk allowed the silence, and Ruan's discomfort, to stretch on. He poured water from the jug into the cup with a steady trickle. "So certain of the grey wardens are you, chevalier?" he said and took a sip from the cup before placing it down in front of Ruan. "King Cailan was certain of them, too. Now he is dead. This would not be the first time that they had tried to seize Ferelden's throne."

Ruan did not answer. He looked down at the cup and weighed his parched thirst against the indignity of stooping down to drink from it in his shackles. His thirst won out and he leaned down to drink, barely restraining himself from downing the whole cup at once. Teyrn Henryk sighed and shrugged. "Nevertheless it matters little what you or I think. Whatever happened at Ostagar it put an end to your little exalted march. What matters now is what the people of Ostwick believe."

"Surely they will not believe that all this was a conspiracy by the grey wardens?" Ruan replied.

Henryk shrugged again, "Some certainly will. Others may not. Fewer will doubt it if you stand up and tell them just that."

Ruan almost choked on the meat he was chewing. "Me?! Why in the Maker's name would I do that?"

"Because I asked you to." The teyrn continued mildly, leaning forward to meet Ruan eye to eye. "You are a clever young man, Trevelyan. You must see that Ostwick is a cauldron. The price of bread has doubled since the troubles in Ferelden began. Half of the guilds complain that I am doing too little against the blight. The other half complain that even speaking of it hurts their trade. I have the retainers of noble houses brawling with each other in the streets over whether we should march to Ferelden. Yesterday they all learned the news from Ostagar. They are afraid. It won't take much to make it all boil over. The city needs order, and you can help me provide it."

Ruan looked incredulous, "By telling them that the grey wardens are plotting against us?"

"By giving them an enemy that they can understand instead of faraway monsters and the end of the world." Henryk leaned back in his chair again and half smiled. "I must admit that I was angry when I learned that the wardens had escaped, but perhaps it is better that they are gone where they cannot confuse our people any further. The way that you gulled my men was impressive, by the way. The real wardens were with the militia, weren't they? In disguise, I think?" Ruan said nothing as Henryk studied his face with a wry smile. The teyrn nodded. "Yes. I think that was it. An obvious fake company at the head of the militia; a loud distraction at the Dreadnaught Gate, meanwhile the wardens quietly gathered their things and slipped away in the night while we chased our tails. Clever." The teyrn sounded genuinely amused. As he finished speaking Ruan took the opportunity to fill his mouth with warm partridge and bread, which also allowed him to lower his face to the table and hide his expression. He chewed the food slowly. Henryk watched him and laughed.

"Very well, you don't have to tell me yet, but I will swear to give you my finest horse as a gift if you will swear on the chant of light that I am wrong."

"I had no idea that you were one for a wager, your grace." Ruan replied. Teyrn Henryk laughed again. It was a deep belly laugh that reminded Ruan of Conrad. "I could use a man like you, Trevelyan." he declared, "I need people of quality and talent to help me steer Ostwick through this crisis. Frankly I am surprised that your father hasn't already farmed you off to the chantry or the templars, but I am glad that he hasn't. You could rise high in my service, Ser Ruan, and I will wager that I can offer you more than a sunburst robe and a lifetime of celibacy."

"You flatter me, your grace."

"Now, now. No false modesty, Trevelyan. Let the priests hide their pride and ambition beneath pious platitudes. It becomes people like you and I to wear it without shame, like honest men."

Ruan finished his cup of water and the teyrn refilled it. He took another deep drink. "And all this honest man needs to do is perjure myself spinning a tale of a grey warden conspiracy?" he said as he set the empty cup down. The teyrn sighed, "You could stand before the court and speak nothing but the truth of what has happened and still convict the wardens in the minds of many in the city, and yourself along with them. Oh, no doubt, you could convince some that your cause was just with your tales of daring, but not all. Tell me who benefits while the city tears itself apart arguing whether to hang you or crown you champion? Not you, for one, and certainly not Ostwick." Henryk leaned forward. "I am asking you to serve your city, and serve yourself at the same time. The tale is already well woven, Ser Ruan, you need only add a few more threads and the whole city will see you as a hero; a noble warrior whose good intentions were used against him by the wardens and their cohorts."

A shiver ran down Ruan's spine. It seemed to him that the teyrn had put just a touch of hungry venom behind the word 'cohorts'. Yet he looked down at his food and took another bite, allowing Henryk to continue. "There will have to be some token punishment, but you will be under my protection. You could be a symbol of pride to Ostwick."

Ruan rubbed his stubbled chin and leaned back. "And what of these… cohorts of the wardens?"

Henryk twisted a silver ring on his finger and watched Ruan's face carefully. "They will have the same choice as you have. If they are with me they will have my protection. I have no desire to start a witch hunt. All I want is to restore the order that Ostwick needs."

Ruan shook his head, more out of disbelief than in refusal. "If that is what you want, why choose this lie? Darkspawn hordes are marching through Ferelden. Use that to unite us!"

"It is too late for that."

"It cannot be too late! We may have to fight them at our own walls before to long. You are our leader. You could call us to arms; give us courage and hope."

Henryk's laugh was dry and brittle. "I had forgotten how young you are." he said, "Do you really think that people will thank you for pointing out the horrors on the horizon now that they have an enemy at their door that they can imagine, but never have to fight? You would offer them blood, sweat, toil and tears? They want something to tut about in the tavern. No, my boy. They will not thank you. They will hate you for it. Better to give them a dummy to burn in the marketplace and let them go home to their beds feeling themselves righteous."

For a moment Ruan couldn't speak. His mouth was dry and he felt sick to his stomach. "That's what you want." he said after a long silence, looking at the teyrn as if seeing him for the first time. "You want them all hunting in dark corners for traitors. Anything but looking up and asking themselves what they should be doing; what you should be doing." Ruan felt his voice rising as he spoke. "You'll starve them of hope and feed them lies and make them all frightened cattle that you can herd at your enemies. Tell me, your grace, who is on your list for your purge? Or haven't you decided yet? If you want me to help you pour this poison down the throats of our people why don't you just put a knife in my hands and make me an assassin? I might suggest putting some ground deathroot into the granaries. You could kill us all a lot faster that way." he was breathing heavily and his jaw was set. A tangle of things unsaid pushed at the back of his throat begging to be spoken. "Thank you for the meal, but suddenly I have lost my appetite. The air in here has grown quite foul."

Teyrn Henryk glowered at Ruan. "What a waste. You disappoint me, Trevelyan."

Ruan laughed bitterly, "I have a talent for it."

"If you are so determined, then we will have a wager, you and I." Henryk's voice was quiet, but there was a new weight to it. "I cannot stop you if you choose to stand up in court and defend what you have done, and defend the grey wardens. I will wager that Ostwick will hate you for it. They will hate you for shaming them and making them afraid. Be certain before you accept my bet. It is not only your life that you are gambling. If you lose, and it is my court… you will lose… If you lose then I will have your head as a traitor. Rest assured that I will not stop there. It will be my duty to dig out all of your co-conspirators. Those men and women in the cells below will follow you to the block. Then anyone connected to you. I know that Bann Trevelyan is a proud and courageous man. No doubt he will try to shield you. It is a shame that he will endanger himself and his family by doing so. You have even entangled Conrad in all of this." Henryk's voice was quiet as a knife, "for that I will not forgive you."

Ruan's blood ran cold in his veins as Henryk shrugged and smiled at him. "Or perhaps you do not want to take my wager? Perhaps you will choose to confess your treachery. That at least would allow you to control who is and who is not to be denounced in this shameful plot. Perhaps we need look no further than you to cut out this canker. Then I may give you a swift end, Ser Ruan. You really would not enjoy it if I chose to drag it out." Ruan did not answer. The teyrn took the half eaten meal from in front of him and stood. "I shall have to take my leave of you now, Ser Ruan. I have another guest coming to take luncheon with me. Please take the time to ponder your choice."

Later, Ruan sat in the darkness of his cell, alone with his thoughts. He had been left with much time for thinking in the two days since the teyrn's visit. He was starting to regret the foolish pride that had stopped him wolfing down the whole plate of food that the teyrn had brought, for he had only been fed twice in the time since then, and only on stale bread and water. The hunger was just one of a series of discomforts which included the damp chill of the cell, the filthy straw that did little to cushion the cold hard stone floor as he sat or slept, the rich, complex odor of the place and the occasional rat that he knew either by its skittering patter, its squeeks, or a tentative nibble at his clothes or his digits. He had found that he could almost forget the rest of these inconveniences if he focused on just one at a time. At the moment hunger was king.

Yet as much as he regretted the lost half meal he had left uneaten to preserve his precious dignity, he regretted the loss of his ring far more. His index finger felt strange. For six years it had rarely been without that twist of smooth ivory, its two ends carved intricately into the shape of horses' heads. His thumb still unconsciously rubbed the side of his index finger every so often, expecting to find the shapes he could make out as much by touch as by sight.

He had first seen that ivory when he was seventeen, full of excitement as he rode under the great, green canopy of the Southern Dales. He had barely completed his first year at the University of Orlais and to be chosen to assist in an expedition led by Professeur du Plessis was a singular honour. To that day Ruan could not explain how he had got so close to the giant without noticing it. Perhaps he really had been an oblivious boy caught up in the wonder of ancient places and the confident impunity of adolescence. Then again, the great hulking beast had moved more quietly than its size seemed to make possible. At first he had taken it for a strange rock formation. Then it had started to stride towards him alarmingly quickly.

Back in Val Royeaux they had still been displaying the carcasses of the dragons which had attacked the city two years before. Yet even the hours Ruan had spent studying them had not prepared him for the experience of meeting a living monster. The ivory of the giant's tusks had not been white when he had first seen it. It was a dirty yellow, and mottled with dark dried blood. He had given many thanks in the years since for the hours spent in the saddle as a child. For it was only his skill as a horseman that had allowed him to stay ahead of the giant in the dark forest. That, and the courage and quick thinking of an elven carpenter. Meniol was a veteran of the professeur's expeditions and well versed in turning his crafts to the eccentric tasks du Plessis demanded of him. When the other workers on the scaffold had panicked and fled at the sight of the tusked monstrosity, he had known just where to cut the ropes to bring the whole thing crashing down on its head. Ruan had tried to tell the rest of the expedition so as they had congratulated him for bringing down the giant afterwards, yet it was as if they couldn't hear him. Instead they had presented him with the giant's tusks as a trophy and Meniol had been given a pat on the back and the task of rebuilding the scaffolding.

Ruan had been discreet when he had given the tusks to Meniol. "I owe you my life and I know it isn't much but I thought that they might be worth something. If you sold them, that is." Meniol had just laughed at him good-naturedly and thanked him. No thanks had ever embarrassed Ruan more. In the weeks of the expedition Meniol had got to laugh at Ruan many more times as he hung around the camp watching him work and seeking useful things to do other than follow around the professeur as an ornamental sounding board.

It wasn't until they had returned to Val Royeux that Ruan had learned just how much the giant's tusks could be worth to Meniol and his family. The elf had approached him and Ruan could remember how all the easiness in his manner had disappeared once they were inside the city walls. Gone was Meniol's easygoing laughter and he was full of 'my lords' and 'if it please yous' as he haltingly asked him if he would do a favour for him. Meniol had asked him to be the go-between in sale of the giant's tusks. He could not meet his buyer in person. No lord would ever pay an elven craftsmen the price he would give a human, and so Ruan had become the vendor of a fine pair of intricately carved giant tusks. They were a truly masterful work carved in two arching battle scenes, made to commemorate the deeds of an Orlesian nobleman's ancestor; the exalted march on the Dales rendered in gleaming white ivory.

Ruan had taken the payment, a handsome sum, to Meniol's home in the elven slums himself. He had been surprised to learn how close it was to his lodgings in the home of the du Rondval family, and yet how different. Meniol was prosperous for an elf, yet he, his wife and eleven children crowded into a small, ramshackle house. The money must have seemed like a king's ransom to them. That was when Meniol had given him the ring, carved from the tip of a giant's tusk, and insisted that Ruan should stay to take a meal with them. Meniol's youngest daughter, Siella, a child of two winters, had crawled up onto his knee wanting to play with the ring. She had grinned and held it up to him and said "Horsey." nodding with great meaning.

In the years since, Ruan had only ever removed the ring to fasten it around his neck when he needed his hands free to wield a sword effectively. So, too, had he only once returned to Meniol's home. It had been almost five years later, on his last night in Val Royeaux. On that occasion he had come running and had burst through the door. There had been blood on his blade and he was covered in soot and grime. There had been horsemen not far behind him and there was so little time to get them all out. Siella would have been six years old. This time she had run from him and hidden under the bed as he begged her to come out. She had clawed at the floor and wailed in terror as he dragged her out. He must have seemed like a giant with bloodstained tusks to her, just another ravening monster come to destroy her home. Try as he might, he could never stop that memory coming to him whenever he remembered Siella toying with a small ring of ivory, now lost. Some pain was much more than just an illusion.

When the guards came for Ruan the tears had long dried on his face and he was left with a kind of calm certainty. They took him to a room where they stripped him naked, threw a bucket of icy water over him and gave him some plain but clean clothes. He was well aware that they were making him presentable for public display. It would not do to let people think that the prisoner had been mistreated. He knew now just what he would say. A small part of him wondered whether Teyrn Henryk would still favour him if he told the lies he wanted. He rather doubted it. That was one bridge, at least, that he did not regret burning. As he was led up a staircase to the upper levels of the Principia he heard the trumpets and drums calling the teyrn's court to order. Ruan lowered his head and muttered softly under his breath.

"You who stand before the gates,

You who have followed me into the heart of evil,

The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat.

Raise your voices to the heavens. Remember:

Not alone do we stand on the field of battle."

Then he started towards the doors of the great hall. They were playing his song. It was time to dance to the music.