It took almost two weeks to make the trip to Starkhaven, Fenris and Feynriel walking north over a pass through the Vimmark Mountains and into Wildervale, their few belongings and whatever supplies they weren't carrying themselves loaded on a mule that they took turns leading. There they turned to the northeast, travelling mostly east at first so that once they struck north they would avoid the more populated areas along the strong of lakes and small rivers that led north to the Minanter. Neither of them had much desire to travel through the more civilized areas, where they would be at risk of Feynriel being identified as an apostate, or might encounter a slaver looking to abduct travellers from the more heavily travelled routes for the ever-hungry markets of Tevinter.
Better the back-roads and narrow forest trails, where encounters with others were rare, both parties usually equally suspicious of each other and doing their best to avoid encounter. Fenris was clearly well-used to this mode of travel, and even more importantly, had apparently travelled this particular route several times before. He not only knew of a number of good places to stop and camp for the night along the way, but places where they might safely buy supplies, and a handful of places it was best to stay well away from. They made surprisingly good progress with few problems, as a result.
Feynriel could not help but notice that the elf grew more silent and tense the closer to Starkhaven they came; not the sort of reaction Feynriel would have expected from someone travelling to see friends that he'd feared he might never see again. By the time the walls and roofs of Starkhaven came into distant view, Fenris wasn't really talking anymore at all, barely responding to direct questions, and then mostly in monosyllables. He walked along with his head lowered, his shoulders and back rounded, as if bracing for a blow that never came.
Their final stop was just a couple of miles from the city; they could have pushed on and reached there that night, but Fenris had abruptly led the way off the road, along a path into a copse of trees, bringing them to a halt in a small clearing out of sight of the road. "We'll stay here tonight," he announced. "And enter the city in the morning." Then he'd taken off his backpack, dropping it to the ground near a soot-stained circle of stones, and stalked off to begin gathering wood for a fire.
He said nothing else the remainder of the evening, just grunting in thanks when Feynriel handed him some bread and toasted cheese and a length of dry, peppery sausage. He'd eaten the food neatly and efficiently, and was curled up in his bedroll before Feynriel had even finished his own supper.
His behaviour worried the mage, but he couldn't think of any easy way to question the elf as to the reason behind his recent behaviour. He briefly considered looking at the elf's dreams that night, but decided against such a step; it was too great an infringement on the warrior's privacy, and he would not want to lose Fenris' hard-won trust. He put away the few things he'd taken out in preparing their meal, wrapped himself in his own bedroll, and went to sleep as well.
Fenris woke him just after dawn, the elf having already brewed tea for the pair of them. Apart from the tea they had a cold meal, after which Fenris poured water over the coals of their fire and they resumed their trip. The gates of the city were already open, people travelling in and out, mostly farmers delivering produce to the city's markets. They were not stopped at all, the gate guards merely looking them over as they approached and then turning their attention elsewhere.
Fenris led the way into the city, soon turning to follow a street that led uphill, taking them out of the poorer sections and up into the areas where merchants and the reasonably well-off made their homes, then higher yet, the houses around them becoming increasingly fine in construction and large in size.
"Where are we going?" Feynriel asked nervously after a while, aware that they'd reached an area where they were drawing attention simply because they stood out in comparison to their surroundings, their clothing being nowhere near fine enough.
"We're almost there," Fenris said shortly, then sighed, and nodded further up the hill. "There."
"The palace!?" Feynriel exclaimed, shocked. "We're going to the palace?"
A faint smile crooked the elf's lips, the first such to cross his face in days. "Yes."
Feynriel stared at him for a moment, then turned his head to stare at the towering building. He bit his lip for a moment. "And the person we're going there to visit is...?"
"Prince Sebastian Vael, first of all," Fenris said, then picked up his pace, moving a few paces ahead of Feynriel. The mage stared after him for a moment, open-mouthed in astonishment, then hurried after him.
The mage expected them to be challenged at the gates; they were not, Fenris nodding familiarly to one of the guards and being greeted by name as casually as if he visited the palace every day. Feynriel tailed along behind him, his heart hammering in his chest, looking around with wide eyes as the elf led the way across a broad stone-flagged courtyard. They were obviously seen; a man in the simple clothing of a groom came hurrying out of an arched tunnel when they were halfway across, angling to intercept them at the foot of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, while a young page in a tabard worked with the Starkhaven crest appeared out of the doors at the top, and hurried down the steps, a grin on his face.
"Greetings, Ser Fenris," the page said, giving the elf a surprisingly deep bow. "Word has been sent to Prince Sebastian of your arrival. Would you like to refresh yourself before you see him, or be taken directly to him?"
"Directly to him, please," Fenris said, then turned to the groom. "See that our things are brought to my quarters," he instructed. The groom nodded and bowed, took the mule's leading rope from Feynriel's hand, and walked off with the beast and their gear.
The page led the way indoors, through a richly-appointed entrance hall and up a broad marble staircase, along a marquetry-floored hallway, then up a second set of stairs. They quickly came to a guarded pair of doors. "Ser Fenris," one of the guards said, nodding to the elf. "You're expected."
The guards opened the doors. Feynriel, not knowing what else to do, followed Fenris inside. They entered a large, high-ceilinged room, the walls lined with widely-spaced inset bookshelves, artwork and little tables littered with brick-a-brack and overstuffed chairs occupying the spaces between them. An ornate desk stood before a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, and a man was just rising from behind the desk as they entered; middle-aged, with swept-back reddish-brown hair, his temples frosted with grey. He had brilliant blue eyes, and smiled welcomingly.
"Fenris!" he exclaimed, and caught the elf's outstretched hand, the two of them gripping wrists, the man – Prince Vael, Feynriel assumed – leaning forward to briefly wrap one arm loosely around the elf's shoulders, then straightening up again, buffeting the elf's shoulder with his hand as he withdrew his arm. "It has been too long since you last graced my household with your presence, my friend," he said, then looked curiously at Feynriel. "And who is this you bring?"
"A friend," Fenris said. "You might recall his name, from our Kirkwall years; Hawke saved his life a time or two, and he recently saved mine. Feynriel. Feynriel, Prince Sebastian Vael."
The man cocked his head to one side in thought for a moment, then stiffened, eyes giving Feynriel a much sharper look. "Indeed I do remember the name," he agreed, and then shot Fenris a questioning look. "I assume there is a story behind why you have brought him...?"
"Yes. One I will share with you later, if I may. I would like to go pay my respects to Hawke first."
"Of course," Sebastian said, his face tensing into an expressionless mask for a moment. "Forgive me if I do not join you; I have work yet to do this morning," he said, gesturing toward his desk. "Join me for lunch later, perhaps, once you've had a chance to freshen up from your journey? You and your friend."
"We would be pleased to. Thank you," Fenris said, and bowed to his friend, before turning and leading the way out of the room again, Feynriel still following after him. He seemed to know where he was going, and to be trusted here; he led the way down the hallway and then up a winding staircase at the far end of it, no one they passed giving the pair of them more than a cursory glance.
"Where are we going now?" Feynriel asked, feeling very confused by this whole sequence of events.
"Here," Fenris said shortly, stopping in front of a door. He stood a moment, face setting and body tensing as if bracing himself, then drew a deep breath, and opened the door without knocking. He walked a few steps inside, then stopped, Feynriel at his heels.
They were in a sitting room, simply but richly furnished. The floor and wainscoting were of dark wood, the walls above and ceiling smoothly plastered and painted a creamy white. There was a scattering of simple furnishings, heavy old pieces also of dark wood, softened with needlework cushions. The drapes at the windows and a rug covering much of the floor were a deep red, almost the exact shade of red as the dress a woman sitting in one of the window embrasures was wearing, her head bent over a large embroidery frame. She was doing needlework, skeins of various coloured yarns spread out around her, on the broad sun-lit windowsill, spilling out of a basket by her feet.
"Hawke," Fenris said, quietly.
She lifted her head and turned to look at them, her face calm, unmoving, deep blue eyes looking expressionlessly at them, her otherwise smooth forehead marred by a tranquil brand.