9. The Incident at the Palace
His room at the Pearl was dark and dingy. The curtains were drawn and an oil lamp sat unlit on the dirty floor. Through the thin wall, he could hear the muffled grunts of a couple in copulation. Geraint was in Denerim. He sat on his bed, staring at the gold pendant in his hand. He thought about her. Liam was right, he would gladly give up the fight for her. One last push, he had promised. And so it was to be. This was his last job. And she will take me back, I know it, once I am done. He held the pendant to his lips and kissed it. Please forgive me, Leliana, for what I am about to do. He put it carefully away in his pocket. Maker, don't let her ever find out.
The palace district was not far away from the main marketplace. About twenty guards patrolled the grounds. In the daytime, traders plied their goods outside the walls whilst convoys of local officials and nobles streamed through the gates. The grounds were a hive of activity. Perfect for slipping in unnoticed.
Geraint knew the layout of the palace by heart. He knew as well that the King was hardly ever alone. He always had two heavily armed guards with him. But he also knew that the King enjoyed taking long baths in his bedchamber every evening, whilst his guards waited outside the door. Plenty of time to do the deed and not a better opportunity than that, he thought. All this he gleamed readily from a banished maid-servant with a loose tongue in return for a few sovereigns.
Geraint pretended to peruse the marketstalls outside the palace walls, as he had done every day for the last week or so. He was dressed inconspicuously in commoner's clothing. Just as the trading hours were coming to an end, something caught his eye. A young servant girl was struggling to push a cart filled with sacks of grain through the gates. Perfect.
"That looks far too heavy for you. Let me help," he smiled as he approached her.
"Why, thank you so much, sir. 'Tis a nice surprise to meet a chivalrous man in this day and age," she replied with a little too much gratitude.
"Where would you like me to take this?" he asked, knowing perfectly well where she was headed to.
"The kitchen pantry. Come, I will lead the way."
Geraint kept his head down as they passed the palace guards. No one paid them any notice. The pantry itself was large and filled to the brim with foodstuff. They certainly ate well. He unloaded the cart and dusted himself off.
"I owe you my thanks, sir, but I must be going now. I am sure you can find your own way out," she said.
Geraint smiled. "Glad to be of assistance. I will take my leave," he said with a nod and waited for her to skip away.
The pantry led out into a courtyard adjoining the guards' quarters and main palace. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he crossed the yard, picking up a handful of loose cobblestones along the way. The palace corridors were poorly lit, which he used to his advantage. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, hiding easily from the patrolling guards. Before long, he found himself at the bottom of the stairwell leading up to the royal chambers.
Footsteps! Geraint swiftly braced himself against the wall, blending into the darkness. He could hear the voices of two men approaching from behind him, their steps getting louder. As they came into view, he could see that they were guards. He hadn't expected them here at this time. Why, the changing of the guards, of course. Curses! He had simply forgotten about that. With bated breath, he waited for them to pass, only breathing again once they had disappeared up the stairs. He continued to wait, unmoving.
On cue, two other guards, having just finished their shift, started descending. He inched closer to the wall, suddenly aware that the shadows had shifted. He held his breath as the first guard passed him, suspecting nothing. The second guard approached and stopped suddenly, inches from his body. Geraint felt his heart pounding in his chest. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.
"Hey..." The words hard barely formed in his mouth when the man felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck. In an instant, he had collapsed to the floor, lifeless.
The first guard turned around, blinking in bewilderment. Geraint swiftly and instinctively buried his dagger in the man's throat, killing him instantly.
He was angry at his lapse. A mistake I shouldn't have made, and time was wasted. He looked down at the two bodies on the floor. He had to hide them. The stairwell was small, but dark enough. He dragged them into a corner until they were out of sight before swiftly making his way to the floor above.
The landing led directly into a corridor, which in turn, led to the royal chamber. The two guards who had passed him earlier stood silently by the chamber door, their flanks towards him. He looked up and saw a small alcove, perfectly hidden from view. He climbed into it and waited patiently.
Geraint had little idea of how long he had been up there. He sensed that it was getting late, and even considered the notion that the King may have altered his routine. And someone will find the bodies. But soon enough, he could clearly hear the sound of footsteps emerging from the stairwell beneath him. It continued down the corridor.
"You Majesty," a guard spoke as the door opened and closed.
The King, he knew. Now is my chance. He reached into his pocket and dropped a cobblestone down the stairwell. It made a loud noise, startling the guards.
"Did you hear that?"
"It's probably the rats."
Idiots! He reached for another stone and threw it down the stairwell again, forcefully this time.
"There it goes again."
"Very well, I'll take a look."
As soon as the first guard disappeared, Geraint slipped out of his hiding place. It took him mere seconds to take down the foolishly unobservant guard left standing at the door. The shock on his face as he felt his life drain away said it all. As Geraint hid the body, the first guard returned, having found nothing of interest.
"What in the Maker's name..."
Before he could finish, Geraint had leapt at him from behind, grabbing the man's head with both hands and twisting his neck forcefully with a sickening crunch. He too, was dead.
Geraint readied his blade and stepped through the chamber door. The room was spacious, and like the rest of the palace, dimly lit. A large four poster bed stood in the centre, empty. Tapestries and other antiquities adorned the walls and shelves. He crossed the room stealthily. His palms were sweaty and his mouth dry. A wooden ornate screen hid the large copper tub from view. He heard the soft stirrings of water as he approached it. The backlit figure soaking in the tub was facing away from him, the top of its head just visible. It is now or never.
A skilled assassin may know of a number of ways to finish the job, although the art of backstabbing was always preferred. If the aim was correct, the victim would almost always die instantly. Geraint knew this well and he practised his art with much precision, using only the sharpest of blades. It certainly helped that he was blessed with stealth and lightness of foot. Tonight should have been no different. An easy kill, as he called it. But as it happens, plans can go awry sometimes and Geraint was not spared of this misfortune.
He reached from behind the figure, locking its head in the crook of his arm, choking it. The target immediately struggled and kicked out violently, albeit in vain. With his free hand Geraint brought his blade to its neck, but stopped short as the tip pierced its skin. Something was dreadfully amiss.
A sliver of light irradiated the target's face, revealing a pair of pretty eyes, delicate feminine features, pale skin and fair hair tied neatly in a bun. A woman! Geraint hesitated, confused, although his tight choke on her never wavered. What trickery is this? Her blue eyes were wide and filled with terror as she stared unblinking at him, her mouth forming words but unable to utter a single sound.
It was of course, no trick at all. He had simply not foreseen this. And how could he? Panic overcame him. Unthinking,Geraint raised his dagger and struck down on her naked chest. He drew blood but his aim was off. She struggled frenziedly some more, splashing him with soap and water. He pushed her head beneath the surface and struck her again and again with much alacrity until her movements finally slowed, then ceased completely.
Geraint drew back as the horror dawned on him. The woman's mutilated body lay motionless in the tub, her lifeless arm hung over the edge, the water slowly turning a deep crimson colour. His hands and garments were wet and bloodied. He was shaking uncontrollably. I am sorry, this was not meant to be.
Alistair had planned to pay an unannounced visit to Vigil's Keep. He was worried about the attacks in Amaranthine and hoped that his presence would help raise the morale of both the troops and Wardens over there. But his main concern was regarding his beloved Solona. Her letters had become infrequent. In her last message to him, she had written about returning to the Circle Tower for a period of respite and appointing the rogue Nathaniel Howe, now a Grey Warden, as Warden-Commander in her absence. This upset him. Not so much for the fact that the son of a traitor would soon be commandeering the Order, but that his lover was obviously ailing and had opted to keep him in the dark about it.
"I must speak with her myself," he had insisted, during dinner. "She will certainly be surprised, but only pleasantly, I hope."
"I will not stop you. But will you at least stay the night? You can leave first thing in the morning," Anora said, her eyes pleading with him. The plate of food in front of her remained untouched, its smell had turned her stomach. She had fared terribly with the sickness that accompanied her expectant state.
"I won't be away for long, my love. And the sooner I leave, the sooner I shall return," he reasoned. He had been fickle about it all day, finally deciding that he should best leave immediately before Anora caused him to change his mind again.
"So be it then. I bid you a safe journey."
Anora's sad, beautiful eyes melted his heart. He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, fighting the urge to make love to her right there on the dining table. Yet, he could not stop thinking about Solona and how he could barely wait to see her again.
The King had rushed his men to ready his horses that evening. He set forth with a small party of guards at sundown, having given little notice to his council, who were naturally surprised by his sudden departure.
For the first time since her marriage to Alistair, Anora felt vulnerable and very alone. Weary and sick, she called off her regular meeting with the royal advisors and retired to her chambers for the night. The chambermaid had filled the large copper basin with steaming, soapy water, as she had routinely done every evening for the King. Enticed, Anora undressed herself and sank into the warm, soothing bath, sleep overwhelming her quickly.
Alistair and his men had covered much ground overnight, arriving the next afternoon at their halfway mark, a small coastal village where they set up camp. Alistair inferred that they should reach the Keep by the following morning. For now, he could do with some rest.
His sleep was broken by the sound of voices outside.
"A messenger from Denerim!" A head poked through his tent. It was one of his guards.
Alistair nodded as a young man, travel-worn, staggered towards him. His face was solemn.
"I bear urgent news from the palace, Your Majesty." Trembling, he handed the King a small parchment.
