Act IV:ii
No one believes in the Maker faster than an Elf born in Tevinter. Mainly because they needed to have someone to curse once they realized their fate. Born to be nothing but property they were the lowest even in the ranks of slavery. They were bred like livestock, abused for pleasure, given as gifts or sacrificed in blood rituals. Their highest aspiration was to be liberated, which in Tevinter meant only the opportunity to be poor and fall back into slavery again. Realistically, any elf slave kept their head down and just prayed they wouldn't be sold to a blood mage or soldier. Being invisible was their best chance to survive.
Elani sucked at being invisible. From the time she could speak, she argued. With her mother, her fellow slaves, her superiors; even the owner himself. Her mouth got her into trouble a thousand times but it was her hands that got her punished. Stealing table scraps was expected and broken baubles tolerated, the occasional coin was dangerous but a weapon unforgivable. The Imperium had grown rather paranoid, as could happen when elf slaves kept converting to the Qun to become sleeper agents. In such an air of constant suspicion, revealing a stolen knife up your sleeve was begging for death.
That the weapon was only exposed because one of the bigger slaves was getting a bit too friendly helped convince their owner that Elani wasn't actually a Qunari assassin. That she'd stolen the dagger months before got her put up for sale. The fact that she successfully sliced open her attacker's face got her purchased by an army general. He seemed to think she might survive longer on the front lines than his last few.
Elani cursed the Maker with every blasphemy she could invent until she found out the other slave was sold to a maleficar. Life in Seheron sounded a shit load better than death by sacrifice. Getting out of Tevinter was every elf's dream. The war zone wasn't much of an escape but it was a first step. Within a month of setting foot on the disputed island, she vanished in a market attack and made her way to the Qunari. It was then that she began to learn how to be invisible.
"They trained you to be an Infiltrator? Just like that? " Hawke marveled, both at the elf's story and the Qunari's obvious mistake.
"I had to prove myself a few times," Elani shrugged, dozens of crimes resting on that simple shoulder twitch, "And the training took years in Par Vollen. It was months before I understood that everyone yelling Bas was talking to me. I kept forgetting the whole no names thing. You know I met a guy they called Eva? He was promoted through three different names while we were sleeping together. Got a bit confusing. He died just after they made him Taarlok."
The elf felt a familiar pang of sadness. Eva – as she would always think of him, because it was sodding hilarious – had been fun to spend time with. Great for blowing off a bit of steam. It hadn't taken long for Elani to notice the one gaping hole in Qunari society's infrastructure. There were Tamassrans for popping any random man's cork but a glaring absence of men around to supply similar services. Once she had free run of Qunandar she'd tried the Tamassran option but found they were a little, well, lacking. Took the job waaaaaay too seriously. Cross species breeding wasn't allowed. Nor, for that matter, was any unauthorized breeding and it took all of Elani's argumentative skills to convince her teachers that breeding wasn't the actual goal. Eventually, she won. They introduced her to Eva, a recent convert from the Imperium like herself. The fact that he was human and a magister made the irony too delicious to pass up. Damn Seheron. Damn the fog warriors. Damn Eva for actually thinking any of it was worth dying for.
"So when did you decide to betray the Qunari put all that training to more profitable use?" Hawke broke Elani's silent fuming. The Champion watched her closely for this answer. It was the most important question they could ask. It would tell them everything they truly needed to know about the thief.
"From the day I walked into my first reeducation center and asked to learn the Qun." Elani's eyes glittered with malicious pride. It hadn't matter what they wanted her to learn, she'd play along until the time was right. That they taught her all the tricks she'd eventually use against them just made it easier to wait. Shok ebasit hissra. Struggle is an illusion. The Qun was just another master, the greediest of all since it tried to make slaves of everyone.
"No wonder they hunted your sweet ass across Rivain." Isabela laughed. She had more than enough experience to know how dogged the Ox-men could be when they were on your trail. She'd stolen a piece of their heritage and had to hide for six years. This thief took their secrets before running away.
"I never should've gone to that Maker-forsaken country. I was just trying to get through to Antiva." Elani scowled at the mistake that had landed her in reeducation once more. This time with far less benevolent 'instructors.'
"You're here now. Look around. Might be the last time you're safe in this kingdom." Hawke gestured at the scenic hills receding into the distance.
"She's right. Even if you do the job successfully it is likely to make you a target. Antiva is not a safe place for any enemy of the Crows. Ever." Aveline agreed with the Champion, eyes briefly darting toward Isabela.
"Aw, worrying about me, big girl? Don't fret," The pirate clucked her tongue, "There isn't a place in all Thedas safe from the Crows. The trick is to be very difficult to kill."
"So, Tevinter, Par Vollen, Rivain and by tomorrow: Antiva. I really hope Orlais is nice because I'm running out of places I can take a vacation." Elani sighed. In slavery she'd dreamed of seeing the world, she just hadn't expected to have to travel so much of it at once.
"Not necessarily. How do you feel about the ocean?" Hawke's glance darted to Isabela as she asked the question, catching a spark of wicked delight in the captain's eyes.
Morrigan didn't expect Lady de Vici to truly be waiting for her when she finally came downstairs. A few minutes of rest had turned into several hours. The long raven flight after so adventurous an evening had tired her more than she thought. Yet, when she entered the large common space that was both parlor and tavern, her eyes almost immediately fell on a familiar figure reclining by the window. The woman was gazing out to the activity of the street as if watching the performance of a theatre troupe, noting every nuance and detail. Occasionally she lifted a miniature cup to sip the black tar that passed for coffee in these parts.
"You needn't have waited." Morrigan approached the table and skipped formalities.
"I knew you would eventually appear. Besides," the noble smiled in greeting, a lingering gaze sweeping from head to toe, "You are more than worth the time."
"What is it Varric wants us to do?" the witch concentrated on ignoring the blatant flattery. Antivans were known for being aggressively charming. Why the woman insisted on directing such attentions at her was beyond Morrigan's comprehension. Either she was being painfully obvious about an impulsive desire or amusing herself with the mage's discomfort. In either case, Morrigan found it juvenile and irritating. She didn't like things she couldn't ignore. She hated anything she couldn't explain.
"Careful with our diminutive friend's name, my dear. Even in whispers it can still reach the wrong ears. Come, I'm sure you will find our assignment most enlightening." The raven haired assassin tossed a few coppers on the table and rose to leave. Morrigan felt a flash of anger at being ordered so casually, left ignorant like some servant. Her hands were clenching tight, preparing for violence she couldn't even identify.
"Lady de-," The witch started to object but was swiftly cut off.
"Ravenel," the Antivan corrected, playful challenge wrapped around the name but then her teasing suddenly disappeared, "Your hand, you didn't heal it?"
The woman had stepped into Morrigan's personal space to fluster the apostate but her brow furrowed when she saw the forming fists. The white cloth wrapped around one palm captured her complete attention and she instinctively reached for it. A killer needs faster reflexes than a mage and before Morrigan could retreat, her injured hand was held carefully in both of de Vici's.
"Medicine and a bandage. Not everything requires magic." The witch of the wilds dismissed all concern. She'd suffered far worse injuries a hundred times over. A scratch from a blade was hardly going to warrant the use of her extensive skills. The pained regret in Ravenel's face was almost as uncomfortable as the way she cradled the wounded fist.
"Even if you aren't vain enough to be worried about scars, you should've known no assassin uses a blade without poison," the Antivan woman sighed with patient irritation, removing the bandage to inspect the damage beneath, "You are tired, yes? My daggers are always tipped with fatigue."
"I don't usually try to think like an assassin." Morrigan shot back, annoyed to be receiving both criticism and concern. Ravenel's brow arched briefly, promising the scorn had hit its mark, but she didn't answer. A small bottle appeared from beneath her cloak and she sprinkled a few drops onto the cut flesh.
"An anitdote. Your energy should return shortly," the bottle disappeared and then the wound was being gently re-wrapped, "You were foolish to be off running errands rather than resting. Most people would have already succumbed to dreams for a full day."
"I am not like most people." The witch of the wilds could feel heat under the bandage, tingling warmth feeding into her blood. Whatever the assassin had used was clearly quick and potent and entirely responsible for any pleasant sensations, not the touch of fingers stroking the back of her hand.
"No, you're definitely not." Ravenel chuckled, the hint of her smile promising that she was pleased to agree.
"Shall we continue?" Morrigan pulled her hand free, heading towards the door. She wasn't sure why but her pride was stinging. She felt she'd lost a battle and couldn't for the life of her figure out what the fight was even about.
Outside the inn stood a sleek black carriage. Heavy curtains shrouded the interior; the entire design reminiscent of some opulent king's hearse. It was the same coach de Vici had used to intercept them the night before, impressive under the dark sky but rather ridiculous in the light of day.
"There are some trappings simply expected of an assassin," Ravenel easily read Morrigan's distaste as she opened the door, "People get terribly confused when known killers ride around in bright green."
"Then why am I now certain you have another carriage in exactly that color?" The witch climbed inside the coach, engulfed immediately in darkness and velvet.
"Because you are most perceptive, my dear. Though, I was thinking of trading it in for yellow." De Vici's smile gleamed bright in the shadows, wider at hearing the Fereldan laugh. A tap of her fingers against the cab wall set them in motion. Morrigan watched out the window for several minutes as the city began to roll by at a stately canter.
"Am I allowed to know our destination?" The apostate finally turned her gaze back to her escort. The woman seemed to grapple with the candid question.
"Lady Morrigan, when you look at me like that I could swear you see through me," Ravenel fidgeted, uncomfortable but unwilling to look away, "Allow me this piece of mystery?"
De Vici had clearly proven she could be deceptive and evasive when necessary. Yet, the witch couldn't find a trace of either in her response. She was more like an excited child trying to keep a secret. Like Kieran. The realization tore at Morrigan's thoughts, instantly aware of the distance separating her from her son. Kieran loved trying to surprise his mother. It never mattered that she could clearly see the mystery gift poking out of his pocket or behind his back or chewing on a rug (in the case of a Fennec pup), it had been his own enthusiasm that made any revelation wonderful. Ravenel had the same nervous delight glittering in her eyes that Morrigan had seen dozens of times before. She could never destroy it in her child. Oddly, she also found she didn't want to harm it now.
"Very well." The witch turned back to watching the scenery. That way she didn't have to see the sincere pleasure of the other woman's smile. Or think about why it made her glad.
"The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil
And grew jealous of the life"
Solona's eyes wandered the Divine's throne room with the methodical sweep that had grown habitual. From her position towards the back she could easily see most of the audience as well as the movement of any servants. The location was no accident; over the past few days several of Leliana's spies had reported suspicious activity. Only the powerful of Thedas and superiors of the Chantry were allowed in the throne room for the Chant of Light but the courtyard below swarmed with thousands of faithful. At least one or two of whom were guaranteed to have their own ideas of what being 'faithful' meant. Solona had developed a custom of checking the room every few minutes, watching for any hint of martyrdom or murder. Safe so far.
"They could not feel, could not touch.
In blackest envy were the demons born."
The Canticle of Erudition was always difficult for the Hero to sit through. Not just because it was long and full of biased doctrine but because Solona felt it was an oversimplification. Demons were spirits corrupted by mortal minds. True, they thrived on the darkest of emotions but those could be, oh so powerful. When men themselves were too weak to resist such feelings, how could spirits?
Even now, looking around this room full of nobles and worshipers she could see subtle vices beneath each face of devotion. Envy and Fear in the glares of clerics and Mothers; all jockeying with each other for position in the ranks of the Chantry, stepping on others and only stopping to complain if they were squashed. Pride in the boredom of the nobles, lost in thoughts of their own power and no concern for the Maker. Sloth weighted many weary eyes. Most of all she saw people's expressions twisted with Hungers; some literal but most abstract. Hunger wasn't so clever as Desire but it was more desperate, more pervasive. Hunger was based on need. Everyone in this room had needs.
Everyone. Solona let her eyes track to Leliana, a wash of conflicting demands tightening her chest. Keep her safe, keep her close, keep your distance. So beautiful. So powerful, so vulnerable. Protect her reputation, her position, her person. Die for her, live for her, love her; dear Maker, no matter what, love her. The Hero stared so hard at the woman it was a miracle she didn't catch fire. This new and bizarre twist of the Maker's plans for them took more of her self-discipline than any other before. Become a warden, slay an archdemon, save Ferelden, rebuild the wardens – none of those tasks felt as daunting as this. Probably because she still wasn't even sure what this was. What in the great Golden City was she supposed to be doing here?
A glint of light caught Solona's eye and for a moment she thought divine guidance was about to appear to settle all these tumultuous misgivings. (Days of listening to the Chant of Light can give you some inflated expectations). Turning to catch the twinkling brightness the Warden felt her heart sink. Not just because it wasn't a vision from the Maker to clarify her life. It was metal. The sun caught and flickered off a piece of metal in the upper gallery of the east wing. A position that provided a clear view directly into the throne room of the Divine. Perfectly unobstructed.
Crossbow. Solona was on her feet and moving as quickly as possible out of the chamber without causing alarm. Once she was through the doors she burst into a dead run, cold sweat already prickling her neck. Even as she raced through the corridors, terrifying the servants that dove out of her path, she tried to convince herself it was nothing. Leliana had spies and scouts scattered throughout the Grand Cathedral. Many nobles had guards specifically hidden among the crowds to keep them safe. For that matter, an assassin could just as easily be aiming for Empress Celene or King Pentaghast or anyone of a dozen other aristocrats all equally exposed. The Warden's pounding heart didn't care.
She broke onto the airy promenade and quickly spotted the irregular shadow hidden behind a column. She stopped and slid out of view, catching her breath. From there the shooter could see all of the throne room as well as the courtyard below. Which meant he could be seen and so could she. Using magic would cause a panic. The Chantry/Mage relations were already tenuous as thread; any spells unleashed during the enthronement would send Thedas into chaos once more. No fire or ice or quaking. Without magic she'd have to rely on her second best weapon.
"Quite a view, right?" she announced herself, stepping out of shadows and diving to the side as an arrow shot overhead. The archer had swung around, bow pointed straight at her but with the tiny wavers that told her his hands were shaking. He wasn't wearing armor or even a disguise. Maker, he looked like he'd come straight from the fields.
"Farm boy, right?" Solona held her hands up in surrender, trying to keep him calm, "I don't think you really want to be doing this."
"Someone has to!" The would-be assassin sounded like he'd repeated the words to himself a thousand times. He was probably up all night before just reciting that mantra.
"Okay, I'm not here to hurt you, see? Just talk a bit. Maybe find out what's got you all up in arrows?" The Hero backed away, ascribing a slow and careful arc. The bow stayed pointing at her, the boy shuffling anxiously to keep her in his sights.
"She can't be the true Divine! She's going to Unify! Mages in the Chantry after what they've done? My brother was a Templar, they killed him. My farm was burned to the ground!" His voice wavered like his aim, shaking with emotion.
It was Leliana he'd been aiming for after all. Warden Amell's soothing smile began turning to stone. He was obviously too incompetent to hit the Divine at this distance but he could kill any one of a hundred other innocents trying. He wanted to hurt her Nightingale. The Hero felt conviction settle like placid water over the chaos of her mind. This was why she was in Val Royeaux; this was why she would always be at Leliana's side. Be it the Maker's will or not, she was here to keep her safe.
"She's blaspheming the Chant, betraying the Maker! Her and that mage whore of hers!" The fanatic was clearly excited to have an audience for his many grievances. That last one was a bit new.
"Mage?" She knew for a fact that the rumors about Divine Victoria's company were very carefully monitored. Not only did no one suspect her of having a lover, she was personally well aware that Most Holy's vows had been flawlessly kept. Once they'd been made, anyway.
"That accursed apostate!" his hands shook harder, "It isn't enough she's turned the Empress against us but now she's seducing a Divine?! The Maker will rain judgment on them all!"
"Oh, that mage!" Solona knew laughing was probably not the best reaction but she couldn't resist. They thought Morrigan was corrupting Leliana? What a mental image that was! She could hardly wait to see their faces when they found out.
The Hero finally stopped moving. Having carefully walked the assassin in a half circle he now had his back to the railing, completely turned away from the courtyard and anything beyond. No one else could get hurt. Now she just had to find a way to disarm him. Fortunately he was too lost in his own hateful rhetoric to notice her distraction.
"They all are spitting on the Ashes of Andraste! Magic is to serve man! She's going to turn us into the Imperium, making slaves and sacrifices of -!" The rant came to an abrupt halt with a heavy thud. The archer's head snapped back before he crumpled forward, arrow discharging harmlessly into the ground.
"Do all fanatics memorize the same tired speeches? Doesn't seem to matter if they're protesting Divines, Kings or the price of root vegetables. Blah blah the corruption of principle this, the breakdown of society that." The King of Ferelden grinned as he stepped over the fallen body, flexing his gloves.
"Throw in a reference to Tevinter and everyone starts grabbing whatever's sharp," Solona agreed, smiling at her friend and former adventuring partner, "Nice of you to join me, Alistair."
"I couldn't let you have all the fun. You get so greedy about it." He crouched beside the unconscious dissident, joined immediately by Amell as they began to search for clues. She found what she wanted in a pouch around his neck. The weathered scrap of paper had been folded and refolded, handled dozens of times until the edges curled. The ink was smeared from being close to body heat but the Hero could make out the titles of the Canticles. The order of the Chant written in columns. Alongside was a list of names. He wasn't working alone.
"Here: Erudition and Gawyn. He's the first of half a dozen who're down here. All assigned to different parts of the song." She tapped the first name, identifying their failed extremist.
"Solona, some of these Canticles go on for better than three days. How are we supposed to know when they're going to strike?" Alistair's groan promised he had many objections to the length of the Chant and not just because of assassination timing.
"Let's get him to Leliana's people. If he has any other information they'll get it out of him. After that?" The Hero got to her feet and gazed to the distant throne room. Did she see a flicker of Leliana's glance searching for her? The Nightingale never missed a thing, "We're going to need more eyes."
"Well, there's me of course. So long as Anora hasn't gouged mine out," Alistair grabbed a leg of the limp body and began to drag it as they strolled away, "And I imagine we must have a few friends lurking about for the festivities?"
"More enemies, but they aren't quite so cooperative," The Warden confessed, "Leliana's friend Josephine brought several of the Inquisition. She and the Commander are certainly trustworthy."
"The Empress has Briala in the throne room; we can make use of her. And I believe Ser Michel is in attendance as well." The King added to their list, both of them ignoring the noise of Gawyn's unconscious head thumping down the stairs as they walked.
"As are Mother Giselle and Prince Sebastian," Solona nodded, growing more comfortable with every familiar and trusted name, "Those two will die to protect the Chantry. I'm pretty sure they'd kill for it too."
"I'd say that gives us a powerful network. Now we just need a few misfits like a golem and an offensive dwarf or two, then we'll be in business." Alistair smiled, nostalgia merry in his voice. Ah, yes, like back when we were rebels and underdogs instead of heroes and kings. Solona threw an arm around her fellow warden's shoulder, recalling how easy it had been to rely on him all those years ago.
"Just like the good old days," she hummed happily, "Which reminds me: that was pretty impressive, what you did. Swooping in like that to the rescue? Very heroic."
"It was, wasn't it? Here I always thought swooping was something bad."
If any servants thought it odd that the King and Hero of Ferelden were laughing their way down the corridor dragging a comatose man behind, they wisely held their tongues and went back to work. Denizens of the Grand Cathedral were used to strange sights.
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