Chapter Twelve
The Captain and the Maiden Fair

He couldn't sleep. It was simply impossible. His body screamed from exhaustion after such a long day, but his mind was inundated by inspiration. Such ideas flurried about that it was all he could do to commit them to paper in hastily scrawled notes. Cyrano would pace before the fireplace, falling into one rôle and then another until he had each part of the scenario just right. This work would have to be his magnum opus-not necessarily from an artistic standpoint, but the rest of his life certainly depended on it.

Weariness finally overcame him close upon dawn and only after he had scrawled a few finishing lines. They had the scenario, the costumes, the masks. Now, all they needed was a troupe of passable actors, a decent band of minstrels and a fête with so much wine that none would be the wiser. This was Ferelden. He wasn't about to get his hopes up. All that could wait. For now, his eyelids were heavy; his bed was soft; and he was totally spent.

Sleep was a void of nothing. No dreams. No darkspawn whispers. No shades of dead wives come to haunt him. There was nothing until Ellia came to wake him when the sun was high above the castle turrets. Cyrano still wore his borrowed armor, and it was with a good many stiff muscles that he stripped of it to dip into the hot bath the elf woman had drawn for him. Where last night had been an endless font of inspiration, this day found him spent.

At least for the present.

His bath was scented with mint and embrium, and the heat unknotted the flesh of his back and limbs. He leaned back against the stone and simply breathed, his eyes taking in the portrait of some nondescript nobleman. What a thing to hang in the bath. A nondescript noblewoman would have been so much the sweeter. But it wouldn't have been enough for her to be nondescript. She would need eyes like silver that glared appropriately, rosy lips that smirked wickedly, and a backdrop of a raging lightning storm to convey the level of passion she had bottled away.

But why bother with a painting when one could have the real thing?

Cyrano grabbed for this towel and scrambled from the warm water. Inspiration had taken hold again, and it would absolutely not be denied. He startled Ellia when he burst back into the bedchamber, all wild eyes and dripping hair, but she was not one to be slow to recover. The silk shirt she had nearly tried to hid behind was flung down on the bed to better allow her hands to land firmly on her hips.

"And what's this about? Mabari bite your arse?"

"No, I-" Cyrano grasped for words like his fingers tried desperately to hold the towel in place. "I didn't expect you to still be here. Usually-"

"The king had a new wardrobe sent up for you," Ellia explained, turning back to her task. There were actually several shirts on the bed...and jerkins...and trousers...and short capes...and a pile of plumed hats in various styles and colors. Treasures from Orlais.

The grey-eyed temptress was nearly (almost, but not quite) completely forgotten.

"From beggar to prince," Ellia commented once she had everything laid out neatly. "I wouldn't have imagined it-not even with Alistair being the good man he is."

"I'm sorry, what?" Cyrano stopped mid-reach for a set of undergarments. They hadn't exactly sworn the plan to secrecy, but there was a very large part of him that preferred his identity as an Antivan Prince to not be revealed until the proper time.

The older woman blinked at him. "You've never heard the tales of the Beggar Prince? I'd have thought a bard... Well, perhaps children's stories aren't the sort you specialize in."

"They are Fereldan tales?" He quickly picked up the undergarments and ducked back into the other room.

"Fereldan and perhaps older. I heard them from my mother and she from hers. I have passed them to my daughter and she to hers. I can go home and say I met him, now." She laughed. "Little Danna will be thrilled."

Cyrano came to stand in the doorway as he toweled water from his ears. "He was a prince that was poor?"

"He was a prince whose stepmother hated him, and she banished him to the forest. She cursed him to think he was a woodcutter's son, one of her own spies pretending to be the woodcutter. But he- Ah, I must be boring you. And you should be getting dressed." She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed up his barely clad form with a pointed look that bordered somewhere between amusement and motherly disapproval.

"I can dress while you talk. Truly. Do go on."

Ellia smiled and shook her head. "The story merely goes that the queen's spy felt sympathy for the boy and truly raised him as his own. When the time came, he also helped to break the curse. The beggar prince regained his birthright, and all was well with the world."

Cyrano shrugged into a deep blue doublet to go with the paler shade of trousers he had chosen. "No beloved princess? No damsel in distress?"

"Not in that story. But there are many others."

The bard's hands paused as he finished with the gilt buttons. To be honest, he had only half paid attention to the elf woman's fable, but his mind had been ensnared by a few points in hindsight. A displaced prince. A wicked curse. That was it! He had toiled all night to create the perfect scenario to expose Ines while not alienating the rest of his audience. The results, though each an excellent example of theatrical brilliance, were far too Antivan. He could temper those with elements of this Beggar Prince to create a production familiar enough all. Overcome with sudden excitement, he swept Ellia into his arms and kissed both her cheeks before releasing her startled and breathless form.

"Madam, you are a genius-a treasure!" He began to dash from the room, scooping up sheets of paper on the way. "Where are the others? The king? Ratham? My sweet Solona? Where are they?"

If the servant was taken aback by his sudden fervency, she showed no sign of it. Her concern, as it very well should have been, was making sure her job was done, that her patron had the things he needed, and that she be on her way to perform her other chores.

"The king was in his study with Bann Teagan last I was aware. The others? The Wardens you came back with are in the gardens. Ratham is likely in the barracks. The lady Solona...I can't quite recall, but I hear there is another mage visiting, now. Perhaps she is with him. I am told that he is in the library."

Cyrano didn't wait to hear more. He was out the door and dashing down the corridor in an instant. More than once, he made a wrong turn and wound up in a room or stairway that he hadn't intended, but there was always a palace guard to put him on the right track. The palace library was a massive space that had a modest collection of dusty tomes primarily left over from conquering nations. A quick perusal of each aisle revealed neither Solona nor Aleix, and Cyrano found himself in the middle of the vaulted space with scenario notes hugged to his chest and no one to show them to. The gardens. The others were in the gardens. Even if it could not be his ideal, he would have his audience.

He was less in a rush to this next destination, taking the time to greet the others that he passed with a nod and a smile or a gracious bow expected of a gentleman. The occasional twittering that came from the ladies of the Bannorn would have flattered him under normal circumstances (those circumstances that had become normal over the past decade, at least), but they fell on vastly deaf ears that morning.

A very unimpressive door near the rear of the palace opened onto a vast swath of manicured green lawn. flagstone and gravel paved a grid pattern of pathways, and the central space was taken over by a prettyish bit of wilderness dominated by mature trees, shrubbery, and wildflowers. The wildness of it was deceptive. Cyrano learned as he traversed the lawn that the way everything appeared to be overgrown was intentional, that the chaos was anything but natural. The very heart of the garden was paved as if it were a plaza for common use. A great fountain stood in the center where an elegant statue of Andraste poured crystalline water from an ever-ful urn. Her face was serenity's very soul.

Nearby, the Antivans had clustered upon a circle of benches. They wore the clothes of common men, now, but Cyrano could recognize the angled face of Emilio anywhere...especially with those deep blue eyes. The way he moved was familiar, that toss of his head just before he was about to make some pointed remark where the motion was likely intended to get a shock of hair out of his face, regardless of whether the hair was actually in the way or not. The sideways smile, the half-wink that betrayed when something greatly amused him, and the very sound of his laughter were all like shadows and echoes from long-forgotten dreams.

Fool, have you not known him since he was a boy? Cyrano bit down on the inside of his cheek to bring his mind back to where it should have been. He had newly regained an entire lifetime. He expected there would be many such moments where insignificant details nagged at him and tugged at the pit of his stomach. And there would be time to ponder over such things later. Not now. Most certainly not now.

He braced himself and moved forward, striding toward his sworn men with renewed purpose. Emilio was, of course, the first to see him and stood in salute. The others quickly followed until all were silent, solemn, and with heads bowed.

"I am sorry, Signore," Emilio said, clasping his hands behind his back. "We had not expected you to sleep so late. Aleix told us to take our leisure in the meantime."

"You may take your leisure as you please," Cyrano returned as he took a seat upon one of the stone benches. A jerk of the chin and a pointed look urged the others to do likewise however hesitantly. As Cyrano, he would ask what kind of a master he had been to make such men fear him. As Sebastian, he did not need to wonder. He had not been a cruel master, but he had been hard nonetheless. He had needed men that could stand up to the Crows and best them. He had needed men that could not be bribed with wealth or power or temptations of the flesh like Antivan gentlemen were so susceptible. He had needed the most loyal and capable men the slave markets could give him, and he had needed to impress upon them early the necessity of their role.

"You...slept well, Signore?"

The bard's face brightened. "I wrote more than I slept. I had hoped to share this with the Fereldans as well since much of what will make it successful rides on their folk tales of beggars and princes. You see, it begins like this..."

And so he told them of the scenario he had created, of the love of the maiden fair for her dashing betrothed, of the villain that lusted for her, and the witch that tore them apart. The characters were all familiar: Calabria, Il Capitano, Valdorio, and La Patrista-staples of the commedia yet as varied as the actors that had ever portrayed them. The Antivans leaned forward in rapt attention, wide-eyed as boys hearing their favorite story of derring-do. When it was over, it was too soon.

"And that is how we will ensnare her," Cyrano finished, clamping his hand into a fist in emphasis.

"Ines will pick up on such subtleties?" It was not a tone of disbelief. Rather, Emilio was truly trying to decide for himself exactly how astute the sorceress was. "Her mind is its own turmoil of illusion. Such a fiction might be nothing compared to what she has forced herself to believe."

"That is where casting will be important. I will need to find the others."

"Ferelden has actors?" one of the men piped up. His sarcasm was welcomed by a chorus of laughter from his peers.

Cyrano allowed a chuckle himself. "Of a sort, perhaps. We don't need them to be surpassing fine or worthy of the Empress' court. They merely need to be able to irritate a very naughty lady and her pet Prince."

"Forget the farce, then," Emilio blurted. "Face Rudolfo man to man and slay him. Ferelden is known for its templars-they can handle Ines."

"No, my friend. Here, the punishment must fit the crime. They toyed with me for ten years. I will have my vengeance in my own fashion...and they will applaud the death I bring to them."

It was actually Solona who found him later that afternoon. Cyrano had taken a seat beneath an ancient oak tree to incorporate elements of the Beggar Prince into his scenario, branching out from the root cast to include the one character he had hoped to avoid for the sake of subtlety. But there was no way around it. Cyrano Rideri, the troubadour of charm, wit, and constant ill luck needed to be used as a mirror for Il Capitano. It was the only way.

"Emilio said I could find you here."

The bard started at the lilting Orlesian accent. Looking up from his papers, his eyes first met the rose-colored robes, the cinch with the Chantry seal hugging that wineglass waist. Up and up his gaze wandered until he beheld Solona's face, smiling as he had seen her only that once, that stolen and too-brief moment in the palace hall when he'd first been assigned into her custody. Then, the smile had most certainly not been for him. This time, however, the matter was quite the opposite.

He got to his feet at once and bowed low. Her hand, though not proffered, he took her hand to press to his lips. When he straightened, he did not let go, instead keeping hold of those delicate fingers that he might also kiss the soft underside of her wrist. Her breath caught. He could hear it.

"Amora." He smiled against her skin. "And what compelled you to seek me out?"

"The others...they said you had been looking for me." There was an uncertainty in her eyes, a nervousness in her voice. But she did not pull away. "For us. Looking for us. For Ratham and the king. They plan strategy in the Landsmeet chamber if you would see them now."

Cyrano's smile broadened as the fine linen sleeve slipped back. His lips trailed along her arm slowly to the elbow, gooseflesh rising in the wake though he barely touched her. She had not come all the way out here merely to be the object of his affections. The mage was too pragmatic for that. But he had stolen a kiss from her already, and she had certainly not begrudged him such a trespass.

She finally did gently tug her arm out of his tender grip. "What was it that you needed?"

"I need a Calabria," he replied as if her withdrawal were not a disappointment. "And a Valdorio, and a La Patrista. I need actors for the commedia I've designed to trap our enemies." He took a step closer to her and tilted her chin up to meet his eyes more directly. "You would make a divine Calabria."

"I am no actress."

"Oh?" He dipped his head closer to her ear as if to whisper in confidence. Solona was breathing faster, now, though she was visibly trying to control it. He smiled even more. It had been ages since he had last played this game, and only once before had it felt anywhere near so rewarding. "You spent your childhood pretending to not be human, your time with your stepfather to not be a mage. The Wardens had you pretend to be a Chantry lay sister until you were old enough for the Joining."

His hand slid from her jaw around to cradle the back of her head as his words moved across her flesh from her ear down the curve of her neck. Never once did his lips touch her, but even the sharpest of eyes would claim that they had. "How long has it been, then, that you have pretended to dislike me?" Cyrano drew back just enough to focus on the silver of her eyes...and how they were suddenly shaded by her long lashes. Those eyes wanted to close that she might savor something where sight was unneeded, the bard only too willing to provide. But not yet. She had not answered him, yet. "How long? When did my every breath stop being an inconvenience?"

"The spiders," Solona replied, hushed and barely audible. "When you kept me safe from the spiders."

He rewarded her with a kiss, then, light and tentative at first. Cyrano had betrayed his hand already at the hovel the night before when he had behaved with the urgency of an untrained youth. But any Antivan gentleman worth his salt knew that particular game. To delay the reward was to increase its value. It was Solona who pressed, arching her neck even as he pulled back to remain in control. A few moments more were all he allowed, unwilling to test her impatience so soon after victory. The oak hid them from prying eyes as he tasted the tang of lyrium and breathed the sweetness of roses and lavender.

There was no demon to steal this from him. No nightmare to try to drive him into madness with memories of a love long dead. One arm slid about that waist he had long admired from afar, and he pulled her further into the shade beneath the tree.

It's primarily what made the interruption that came the most aggravating thing under the sky. Cyrano felt the joy of contentment for the first time in a very long decade. His back was up against the coarse tree trunk, Solona in his arms and lost in the throes of passion that were long overdue. And, suddenly:

"Rideri!"

Solona flung herself away from the bard as if something had burned her. As the night before, she quickly set to ensuring her hair and robes were not dangerously incriminating, and all eye contact came to an abrupt end. Cyrano was left with his arms in the air, as if in entreaty, and the most bemused expression on his face. He had barely recovered by the time Ser Ratham and Alistair stood before him. The king was excitedly holding up a bit of correspondence that looked like it had traveled the Void and barely lived to tell of it.

"She's coming back!" Alistair exclaimed. "Kallian has destroyed the remnant darkspawn to the north and is on her way back as we speak!"

"Perfect!" Cyrano replied with a forced smile. His primary concern right then was still Solona. Such a curious thing to feel ashamed to be seen with him. Where most ardent lovers would have been crestfallen and melancholy, the Antivan merely tried to figure the reason why...that he might adjust his strategy in the future and not let her escape him again.

"No." The king's excitement diminished to a strange sort of fretting. "No, no, no, it's not perfect. With the preparations the servants have already done, she'll think she walked into a Tevene circus-or that the Orlesians have taken over again. Whose idea was that massive stage being erected in the great dining hall?"

"Mine," came the bard's admission, probably sharper than he'd intended. "There cannot be a celebration without the proper revels, and much more is needed in this particular situation than food, ale, and a bit of music. Don't give me that look. I have journeyed through Ferelden more than once, and it was ever a disappointment."

Ratham crossed his arms in challenge. "And what Antivan flair are you suggesting? You've already insisted that some of us dress as Orlesian swine-no offense intended to the lady. What more must we contend with just to stop your past from haunting you?"

Cyrano's face darkened into a proper glower at that. He thought it was obvious that more lives were at stake here than just his own, that a certain Antivan Prince had a filthy secret to rebury if his role as one of Queen Esmeralda's favorites was to hold. Ines was likely in the same political predicament, personal reasons aside, especially if such a spectacle had to be made with regards to the mercenaries. A small team of Crows could have hunted down one man-even in the court of a king. The large-scale reaction betrayed how pivotal a part a deposed Prince could play in the civil war, and that did not bode well for the Fereldans that harbored him.

He was terse when he explained, disinterested now that what little distraction he had was unavailable to him. Solona stood among them for a time before wandering back closer to the tree. She paced a little, her head down as she listened. Eventually, she paused to pick up the notes for the scenario and pored over them. Her silver eyes darted back and forth across the slightly rumpled papers, and Cyrano didn't realize that his voice had totally trailed off until Alistair cleared his throat.

"So a play before dinner to sow the seeds, then you actually expose yourself for who you really are during the feast?" The young king's tone was incredulous. "Signore, are you sure that's wise?"

What does she see that makes her smile so?

"It's the fencing master's feint, sire. Little more. I pour acid on an old wound then place myself within a sword's length of a man who wants me dead...trusting that he will not realize that he's also within reach of mine."

Solona's eyes shot up to meet his at last. "And Ines? You have written Valdorio's fate here clear as daylight, yet you mention nothing of the witch-" she ruffled back through to find the name "-La Patrista. The parallels are unmistakable."

"Would a chevalier slay a lady in sight of all the nobility without a fair trial?"

"No, but-"

"Then you see the part of the puzzle I have not yet figured out. Her crimes are against me personally but not so obvious as what Rudolfo has done-though I know Ines to be the instigator of it all." He stepped closer to the mage and gently took the scenario from her. "That is why I need you to be Calabria. You look the part more perfectly than you know."

She nodded, a small motion at first but deeper as the pieces fell into place. "You need protection from the spiders."

"I do. The most vicious ever seen."