"Uuuhhhh…." The world rolled around Zevran's eyes like a runaway carousel, before shuddering into focus. The sun was still setting, so he had not been out long. A painful straining in his back told him he had been hogtied; he nearly chuckled at the image of himself being tied up by a beautiful maiden. If only it were under better circumstances.
"Wake up, elf. I have some questions for you." A hand shoved at Zevran's right shoulder insistently; it was sore from the Warden's impressive move that had brought him into this vulnerable position. Fortunately, he did not seem badly injured, which was a plus. Shaking his head to clear it of fuzz, Zevran squinted into her face, waiting for his vision to improve as he regained consciousness.
The first thing Zevran saw were her eyes; they were a rich green, with golden flecks and seemed bottomless, like a pool. A little wrinkle between her eyebrows and the pursing of full lips bespoke waves of suppressed anger and disapproval. The skin around that wrinkle was as smooth as alabaster; loose strands of hair had worked free from her braid as a result of her earlier excursion. All in all, it was a pleasant sight to wake up to, even if it might be his last.
"Hello," he smiled, hoping to exude a little dazzling charm, even from his undignified pose on the ground. "It seems you did not kill me after all. How nice for me." The female Warden, much to Zevran's secret delight, seemed to suppress a smile in response to this brassy reception of his predicament. Her face remained stern, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that gave him hope. Behind her, the one he presumed to be the other Grey Warden glared at him with hostility, hovering protectively over his companion. Ah, was this camaraderie or something more?
"That remains to be seen," she replied finally, her expression smoothing slightly. "Who are you?"
Zevran shifted to try and get in a better position to converse. The archer immediately nocked an arrow and the witch prepared a ball of fire in her palm. By their side, a hound the size of a wagon growled menacingly. Zevran chuckled, "Fear not, my deadly vixens and furry friend. I am merely trying to get into a more comfortable position." They stayed ready, eyes following his every move as he lifted himself to prop on one shoulder and face her inquisition head-on. Wincing against his restraints, Zevran sighed and introduced himself. "My name is Zevran Ariani, an assassin of the Antivan Crows. Although not a very effective one, evidently."
The female Warden studied his eyes; her piercing gaze made him feel exposed, as if she could see things the others couldn't. "Who sent you and why?" she demanded.
"A gruff man and his little weasel, my dear lady. I could not tell you why. I think one may have been the King, but my clients' names are deliberately left unknown to me, for their own protection." Crows were not supposed to fail, but if they did it was best practice to ensure their failure only corrupted their own branch of the organization, and that it did not blacken the roots of the coterie itself.
"Loghain," the male Warden spat with disdain, kicking a nearby crate with so much force it shattered on impact. The man was built like a bull; Zevran watched his progress as he muttered with rage, finding appeal in his handsome face and brawny shoulders. Zevran turned back to the woman, intrigued. "You know of the man who was sent to kill you? How clever of you; I am many steps behind, it seems."
She had been regarding her comrade uneasily, now she turned to Zevran, regaining most of her composure. "We cannot be certain of anything without more information – what makes you think he was the King, Zevran?"
Her soft voice lulled him; she was very persuasive. He liked that in a woman; seeing his enjoyment of her, the woman leered back a little, wary of him. "Well, I was instructed to kill you in the palace. I only saw one man, but there was another. Even in shadow he seemed… imposing. He had a very deep, gruff voice. The one who ordered me around was a bully. He looked like a rat in nobleman's clothing."
The girl warden froze as if electrocuted; her companions saw her reaction and were clearly alarmed. Softly, she inquired. "He gave you no name?"
Zevran shook his head, "No, my lady, I am afraid not. But he and the man who I assumed to be King seemed close, as if they were working together." Her face went white, eyes wide with shock. Abruptly, she stood up and backed away from him, hands shaking at her sides.
"Charlotte?" the male Warden was concerned, approaching her hesitantly.
"Howe," she spat, now the one enraged. "It was Arl Rendon Howe. He is working with Loghain!" As Charlotte thought about it, it made sense. It sickened her to the core, but she could not deny the truth as pieces of evidence fell into place.
How convenient that her father, the second most powerful man in Ferelden along with Loghain, would be killed almost at the same time as the King himself, and the two people most likely to benefit from their untimely deaths would be left standing? And then, the last remaining chess piece that could check their mate, poisoned and left to die at the hands of an abomination, created with the help of a tutor sent by Teyrn of Gwaren to mentor the Arl's son? How easy would it be to allow that abomination to murder every last witness for him and sweep their ashes under the rug, with so much death and confusion the truth would be lost?
Alistair was a few steps behind, but light dawned in his face as well. He grabbed Charlotte by the arms, trying to calm her down. "Steady," he told her, his voice soothing and firm. "We must remain in control, Charlotte. Do not let those bastards make you weak with anger." Her eyes flashed as she clearly desired to fight him, but she could not argue against the wisdom in his words, especially since she had been the one saying these things to him not three days ago. Charlotte took deep breaths, covering her face with one hand as she fought for control.
Zevran lay, momentarily forgotten, on the ground. He examined this conversation with interest, getting a feel for the group dynamic and the woman in charge of his fate. So she was passionate, that much he had already discerned. But also wronged in some way; as he had suspected at the castle when he received his orders from the rat-man, there was more to this story than the King wanted Ferelden to find out. An opportunity occurred to him, but he bided his time. When it seemed a respectfully long enough pause had passed, Zevran cleared his throat to get their attention.
"Excuse me, I do not wish to bother you, but I would like to know what you intend to do with me?" He tried to be as polite as possible, with the intention of appealing to her good graces. The male Warden scowled.
"What do you mean, 'intend to do with you'?" He growled, coming away from Charlotte. "You die now."
Zevran pulled back reflexively as the warden withdrew his sword; just as the blade raised to cut Zevran asunder, a voice interrupted them. "WAIT!"
The warden stopped where he was, sword still above his head. Zevran lay poised for impact, but looked hopefully behind his attacker as Charlotte pushed her way through the group, who parted instantly. Charlotte grabbed her companion's arm and forced him to lower it; baffled, he complied, but clearly did not like it.
Charlotte's eyes locked on Zevran's; calmly, she asked him. "What could we do with you, precisely?" The male warden blurted incredulously, "What?!" but she ignored him, awaiting Zevran's answer. Zevran relaxed a little, rolling back towards her and answering in a genial tone.
"Many things, my dear Warden. I am skilled at making poisons and picking locks, among other things. I shall warn you should the Crows try something more... sophisticated. I could also just stand around and look pretty if you prefer." The elf smiled lasciviously, "Warm your bed…Fend off unwanted suitors, no?" He eyed the male warden with amusement, who stiffened angrily in response, his fist clenching visibly around the hilt of his sword. Zevran chuckled to himself.
Unimpressed, but eyes twinkling again, Charlotte raised one eyebrow. "Are you suggesting you join my ranks?" She looked around at her group of misfits and couldn't help but admit the elf had a point. Sten, who had remained impassive thus far, grunted with disapproval. Leliana also seemed to oppose this idea and interjected, "You are very willing to talk to us, assassin. Why should we believe you are not just using this as an opportunity to get closer and kill us by yourself?"
Zevran smiled at Leliana, winking. "I could not possibly kill you all by myself, my Orlesian flower. I would surely be killed in the process, and I like living." Morrigan snorted, crossing her arms and shaking her head with disbelief at the man's daring.
"So you are not loyal to your employer?" Morrigan asked with a sneer. Zevran shrugged, then winced at the bite of his restraints against the movement. "I am a very loyal person, truth be told, up until I must die for failing. If you would expect the same, then I come very poorly recommended, I suppose."
Seeing that this was winning him no favor, Zevran went for broke. "If you want to know, I was never really given a choice to join the Crows, my lady. They bought me when I was a child, for three sovereigns, I'm told – quite the bargain. Now that I have failed to kill you, my life is forfeit. I can either wait for them to kill me, or serve you. It is your decision."
This struck a chord; Zevran saw Charlotte's expression shift ever so slightly as she considered his words. After a moment, she shook her head. "You must think I'm royally stupid, to fall for a story like that."
Sensing victory, Zevran grinned. "I think you're royally tough to kill - and utterly gorgeous. Not that you'd be swayed by flattery, of course, but there are worse things in life than to serve the whims of a deadly sex goddess." His eyes danced and Charlotte snorted, shaking her head again at his gall.
"And what, pray tell, would you expect as a reward for your valiant service?" She drawled, eyebrow once again cocked with skepticism.
"Well, being allowed to live would be nice and would make me marginally more useful to you." Alistair chortled in spite of himself; Zevran smiled at him before continuing, "And, should you find you have no further use of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"
Alistair coughed not too subtly. Charlotte nodded in response and gestured to the others.
"Alistair, come over here. Leliana, Morrigan – watch him." She glanced back at Zevran, curiosity still stirring in those malachite eyes, as Alistair and the hound padded off by her side. Morrigan and Leliana closed ranks over him, both humorless in their expressions. Behind the women, the Qunari glowered, hand on hilt. Zevran leaned back and grinned up at them.
"No, no, no, no, no." Alistair wasted no time making his feelings known. Charlotte took a deep breath to clear her head.
"I understand, believe me, and yet…" she looked back at the man, relaxed even as he was surrounded by hostile enemies, seeming at ease as if he were at a tea party instead of possibly awaiting his execution. She liked him; she didn't know why, but as with the others, there was something about him that made her gut say, This one. Of course, that had led to her recruiting a slightly unhinged Chantry sister of mysterious origin and known murderer, so she tried another tack.
"Think of it this way – if we don't take him with us, we run the risk of letting him go, losing track of him, and being attacked again. If we recruit him, we can possibly win some of his loyalty with good treatment and have protection against further assassination attempts." Eyes narrowing, she muttered, "I have no doubt in my mind Loghain will send more in his place." Alistair shook his head.
"Charlotte, this is too much of a risk," his voice was firm. "Surely you see that? He just tried to kill you, for Maker's sake!"
Charlotte softened as she understood: he was afraid for her. She stroked Alistair's arm, trying to ease some of his anxiety. This was becoming personal for him and she had to make an objective decision. "I know - but this isn't about how we feel about each other, Alistair, this is about what we need as Grey Wardens. Can you deny he is a good fighter?" Alistair made a face, still unconvinced, "But-"
"No, I believe this is the right thing. I understand your reservations and that is why we will be cautious, but in this I need your support as my comrade, not your protection as my…friend." Charlotte blushed, unable to say "lover". They had not become lovers yet; she wasn't sure how she even felt about that, having never been a lover before. Alistair evidently picked up on the subtext, because he also pinkened and became considerably quieter. After a time, he cleared his throat and nodded.
"…Alright, but we will take precautions. No going soft on him because you want to be kind. You're too good at that." He grumbled, unhappy but resigned, his eyes searching hers for some sort of reassurance. Charlotte smiled and patted his hand, taking caution in front of the others so as not to weaken their word, and went back to inform the group of their decision.
Zevran's attention was drawn back to the female Warden as she approached; her friends parted to allow her access to him. She drew a knife and for a moment, Zevran was sure he was dead. At the last minute, she bent swiftly to one knee and cut the ropes at his feet, pulling them away from his ankles and sheathing the knife at her waist. "We accept your proposal, Zevran." Her expression was wary, but there was warmth there too, fighting through the caution that Zevran thought most wise of her, considering. She helped him to his feet, then trimmed the rope dangling from his wrists which had been previously bound to the knots at his ankles. His hands were left tied; Charlotte indicated Leliana, who was carrying his weapons. "You get those back when you prove yourself worthy of my trust. If we have to fight anyone, just get out of the way until they're dead. Understood?"
"Most definitely, Warden. I am most grateful, especially so to be in such delightful company."
She gave him a look, her tone sardonic. "Don't push your luck. I could still kill you."
Zevran tutted, shaking his head with mirth. "These things you say; they must drive the men back home simply wild." Alistair reddened, glaring at him with contempt. Bored, Morrigan drifted away, sparing one glance of disgust for the wily elf. She was followed by a frowning Sten and amused Leliana; hesitantly, the hound sniffed his leg, growling suspiciously before he slunk away to be next to Charlotte.
"Such a warm welcome! I hereby swear an oath of loyalty and service until such time you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear." Zevran bent at the waist, nodding somberly, before bestowing her with another wicked grin, his amber eyes sparkling.
Charlotte, however, remained coolly amused. "Nice diction. Follow me closely, Zevran; it's going to be a bumpy ride."
The Queen twisted her hands in her lap, her back stiff with restrained tension. Erlina waited in the corner of the room, eyes trained on Anora; she was concerned for how the meeting with Teyrn Loghain was going to affect her mistress. Anora had been increasingly tense as of late and no news sent by the various informants in Denerim or in the castle seemed to please her – instead, every missive seemed to add another load upon her lady's shoulders, drawing her complexion of color and her body of appetite.
There was the distance clomp of heavy footsteps, followed by a rough opening of the chamber door. A messenger dispatched by Howe to watch over Loghain's movements panted in the Teyrn's wake, having failed to outrun the stern Regent to warn Anora of his impending arrival.
"Your Highness, the Teyrn of Gw-" The messenger was cut short by Loghain's impatiently waved hand. "That will be unnecessary, Gavin. Leave us; you as well, little maid." Anora narrowed her eyes, biting back a reprimand for addressing Erlina in such a disrespectful manner. Erlina looked to the Queen, who gestured for her to go. Unhappy, the elf curtsied to her mistress, before regarding Loghain nervously and hurrying from the room. When the door shut behind her, Loghain walked towards Anora, much softened in privacy.
"It is good to see you, daughter." He clasped her delicate shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek; Anora received the affection with a face like stone, angry that he had kept her waiting. Much needed to be said, and without the audience of that sneering toadie Howe, who seemed to lurk around every corner just when she needed to speak with Loghain alone. Howe was not a man to be trusted or, if her intelligence was anything to go by, underestimated.
"And you, Father. Please sit." Anora indicated the chair across from her. She had been embroidering most of the morning to appear occupied; her wooden hoop lay discarded by the chair. A fire had been lit in the hearth; although it was now almost Solace, with a cloying humidity growing outside, rain often lowered the temperature so that a bone-chilling dampness settled over every limb. Today was gray and wet, so Anora sat near the flames to keep warm, with a pot of tea steaming invitingly on the table.
Loghain offered the shadow of a smile as he took her in, eyeing the tea with a fond chuckle. "You're like your mother – she always enjoyed tea." He was wan; she had seen him increasingly worn since his return from Ostagar. What her spies had discovered shocked her; the fact that he still sat before her, making familiar remarks after what he'd done, shocked her more.
"Father, I have concerns and there can be no further delay in discussing them." Anora was brusque, trying to harden her heart against affection for the good of the Kingdom and – even more importantly – for the good of her father, whom she hoped to save from Howe's madness. Surely he could not have done these things on his own.
Loghain scrutinized her, shifting from doting to flinty, those blue eyes turning grey for the oncoming storm. "What is it, Anora? You look pale."
Anora hesitated, wavering over the best approach. The missives she had received over the last two weeks told a harrowing tale: that Howe had murdered the Couslands in cold blood without provocation; that elves in the Alienage were going missing at night, with no investigations being led by the city guard; that two Grey Wardens had survived the battle at Ostagar and were now deemed traitors and being hunted like common criminals; and the most disturbing of all… that her father had deliberately abandoned Cailan to be overrun by darkspawn on Ostagar's battlefield.
There were also whispers of the Arl of Redcliffe falling mysteriously ill, which seemed far too impeccable for Anora's tastes, considering the outrage Arl Eamon would have raised in response to Cailan's death. As she had nothing to fear and was innocent of any crime, this would not have bothered her, but if the rumors about the Teyrn were true, then he did have reason to worry. Anora knew her father; he was not an unreasonable man – he could be hard and uncompromising, but he was not a murderer. Howe, on the other hand, seemed entirely too capable of the sort of low behavior that turned monarchs into tyrants. Could his influence have led her father astray? And, if it had, why had he been able to secure the ear of one of the most powerful, intelligent men in Ferelden?
Deciding to approach him indirectly, Anora placed her hand over his, frowning softly and filling her eyes with love and concern. "Father, I fear for your health. You are not well."
Loghain patted her hand, his expression wry with amusement. "Thank you, Anora, for reminding me of my age, but I am quite well enough, thank you." Anora huffed impatiently, her brow crinkling as Loghain leaned away to pour himself some tea.
"You have a chalky pallor and the servants carry trays full of food from your room, where you never seem to sleep. Since you became Regent, you have been placing undue pressure on yourself. I may be your daughter, but I am also Queen and have been shouldering the worries of my country for years now." Anora leaned toward him, affecting an imploring posture. Softly, she reclaimed and squeezed his hand; the other held his teacup, which he raised to his lips. "Tell me what it is that troubles you and I will help."
Loghain's expression shifted once again; it bore that hardness she had come to despise. It was an expression that belonged to Howe and the events that had transpired since her father took him as his closest friend. It was the face that told her she had already lost before she begun, but Anora was not one to give up easily. Being carefully respectful, she drew back her hand and sat up straight, preparing to do battle with her father. He in turn placed his cup back onto the low table and sat back in his chair, draping one leg over the other. Anora knew her father – he was not a casual man. That stance couldn't have been any clearer to her than if he'd drawn his blade and shield. Anora's eyes narrowed.
"Anora," Loghain began, his signature growl soothing her against her better judgment. "I know it must seem unlikely to you that an old man can manage on his own, but I was helping Maric run this country before you were born."
Anora began to feel the ties on her temper loosening, "That is not what I meant and you know it."
Loghain sighed, then grunted a short chuckle. "Well, whatever you have imagined to be of great concern is obviously not as important as you believe, or I would have brought it to you. Rest easy, my daughter. Once I have brought the nobles in line, we will find you a new King and all will be well."
Anora stared at him in disbelief, momentarily disgusted by the way he dismissed her authority. "Bring the nobles into line? Father, what of the Darkspawn threat? What of the people being trampled down by the Blight?"
Loghain's calm repose cracked; his eyes flashed before settling into careful blankness again. "There is no Blight," he answered coolly. "Only Cailan's vanity demanded that it be so." Loghain looked away, his body tenser, the leg no longer draped but propped angularly over one knee as he grasped his chin with the opposite hand and stared away from her. Anora persisted, determined to make him see reason.
"But father, there is talk of civil war. My reports tell me Lothering has been destroyed. Does this not concern you?"
"Do not lecture me on priorities, Anora. I do what is best for all of us, what is best for Ferelden." His foot began to tick, eyes dark. His face twisted into an ugly grimace Anora had never seen before. Stirrings of fear began to flutter in her breast; what was happening to her father?
"Father" she began quietly, "We need help. Did Cailan not seek assistance from Orlais? We could-"
Anora was interrupted as Loghain slammed his fist into the arm of his chair with such force a loud crack echoed inside her receiving chamber. "NEVER! Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!" Anora said nothing, stuck to the back of her seat, surprised as she was by his outburst. Loghain rolled his shoulders, affecting an easing of tension, but it seemed his only coiled more strongly around him. The tick in him grew faster, his grimace more pronounced.
"No one remembers," he spat, his eyes almost black now, the blankness gone. "No one thinks about what it takes to run a country. What could threaten their easy lives." Irritable, Loghain rose from his seat to stand by the fire, huffing and muttering to himself. Anora tried again, her voice rising insistently. "Father, we cannot deal with this crisis alone – you cannot!"
Loghain grunted something between a chuckle and a snort. Coming away from the hearth, he faced Anora, his expression harsh. "You must have faith in me, Anora. No one understands it now, but they soon will. Just like your fool husband, the nobles will realize what truly threatens Ferelden."
This struck a chord which derailed Anora from her concern for the brewing civil war; slowly, Anora rose from her chair and whispered the question the entire Kingdom was asking: "Did you kill Cailan?"
The room was thick with silence. Crackles from the fire provided a comforting background noise; Loghain's eyes scanned the beautiful items in the room – the way the mahogany glowed, polished to a high sheen; the sparkle of the silver tea set; the rich colors in the hanging tapestries. And the beauty of his loving daughter, her glossy halo of golden hair wrapped in elegant braids at the base of her neck, those lovely blue eyes sparkling at him with her restrained fury as she awaited his answer. What a ridiculous question; Loghain chuckled to himself, then glanced at her again. Anora betrayed her feelings only through her trembling hands, balled into fists at her sides as she studied his madness.
"Of course not!" He retorted, waving his hand with dismissal. Loghain went back to his seat with a sardonic smile, indicating she should follow suit. Anora lowered herself into the padded chair, taking time to ease down, her dry throat swallowing convulsively.
"Now, have some tea, my daughter." Loghain patted her knee, his smile sincere. "All will be well; you will come to see that, in time. I do what is best for us all." He patted her knee again and retrieved his cup, helping himself to some of the small sandwiches on the table as he ignored her reaction to his denial. Anora stared at him, before finally reaching for her own cup, the uneven tinkle of china against china the only indication of her alarm. She had to think; this was so much worse than she had ever imagined. Anora closed her eyes, fighting a wave of nausea. She took deep breaths, working to steady herself after the unsettling spectacle of her father's increasing instability.
"Dear Anora, you look tired. Should I call that maid of yours?" Loghain had placed his cup and saucer on his knee, favoring it carefully as he leaned toward her and placed one hand on her shoulder. His eyes were full of love and concern; Anora's throat closed at his expression. She had no choice but to do what was right for her and her country, but he was still her father. She would do her best to protect him. She had to.
"Yes, Father. Thank you."
Zevran sat in front of the camp fire, his hands still bound and his feet cold despite hours of walking. Alistair had tied his binds to the back of his horse like a prisoner of war on his way to his execution. Zevran suspected the similarity in treatment had not been coincidental.
With a sigh, the elf had to admit he couldn't blame him; he had, after all, attempted to assassinate their entire force just the day before. He only hoped that Alistair would soon see reason and allow the tired elf to ride a horse the remainder of their journey together. It wasn't as if Morrigan really wanted to use hers, after all.
The witch was still busy circling the camp, casting protection spells. They had made their three day journey to Kinloch Hold as planned, but arrived just in time for dinner - far too late to call on the Knight-Commander. When Charlotte and Leliana went down to the local inn, The Spoiled Princess, to seek out room and board, they had returned with grim news.
"They know about Loghain's edict on the Grey Wardens." Charlotte dumped some fresh bread onto the cloth Morrigan had laid out for her ingredients to make dinner. Charlotte sat down with defeat near the camp fire, Leliana standing behind her, her expression hard. "We overheard some men talking about the bounty. It wouldn't be safe to stay there."
The news, while not entirely unexpected, was not welcome for the tired group. Despite being blessed with better camping equipment from Bann Teagan, everyone had come to enjoy the luxury of a bed and had been secretly hoping they could continue to enjoy it at the inn. Morrigan had snorted, but otherwise not deigned to comment. Sten was on watch, as was Mastodon, but the latter was entirely concerned with the venison Morrigan was trying to coax into a stew. Alistair, on the other hand, had plenty to say.
"That traitorous son of a goat, I'm going to rip his head off, he betrayed Duncan, etc. etc." Zevran listened for a time, then tuned out in annoyance. Alistair may have good reasons for his anger, but Zevran felt he should learn better restraint in expressing himself. After all, tipping your hand so fantastically could only leave you vulnerable to your enemies, no?
Morrigan completed her circle of the camp and returned to the pot in the middle of the fire. The stew smelled good and Zevran's stomach grumbled, gnawing for a good meal. The ache in his back from being tied was slowly becoming excruciating, but he did not complain, determined to win the trust of the female Grey Warden. She had given him a wide berth since they set off together, with Zevran trailing her compatriot like a cow being taken to market. He had, he felt rather wisely, chosen not to push himself upon anyone, instead trying to seem as inoffensive as possible, only speaking once to ask where they were going.
He was bored out of his mind.
The only excitement he had enjoyed was to witness the group taking down a troupe of darkspawn who attacked them a mile off the Imperial Highway within sight of Lake Calenhad's docks. They had just cleared Gherlen's Pass when the taint began to reveal itself in the foul, blackened grass and oily air thick with the scent of death. The Qunari seemed to have a particularly strong reaction to their presence and cleaved through them with merciless rage. Once the sizeable group was dispatched, Zevran watching from afar from behind the protection of Charlotte's massive hound, Charlotte approached the Qunari, alarmed.
"What in Thedas was that about?" She demanded, her weapons eliciting the thick drip of poisonous ichor. Zevran tried not to wretch at the malodorous blood of the darkspawn.
"That is not your concern." Sten shook ichor from his blade and stomped off, clearly angry about something he wouldn't share.
Now, Sten sat scowling outside the edge of camp, watching for further attacks from the fetid creatures promising to overrun all of Ferelden. Zevran studied him with interest, wondering what his earlier explosion had been about. A stoic warrior such as he would not fly into such a rage over nothing.
The crunch of approaching footsteps drew Zevran out of his reverie. He had been deposited at a distance from everyone else – just close enough to stay warm, but far enough so as not to feel comfortable making conversation. The sun had descended most of the way, leaving the sky a rich, cerulean blue that seemed close to bursting with the meeting of night and day coming together in one final farewell. An army of stars twinkled at the edges, led by a moon that glowed full. Against it, Charlotte was cast almost completely in shadow, up until her approach brought her close enough for Zevran to distinguish the details of her face and figure.
In one hand she carried a bowl; in the other, the same small blade she had used to release him from his ankle restraints. When she reached him, Charlotte bent to one knee and set the bowl next to her on the ground. Without a word, she grasped his wrists and slid the blade underneath the rope holding them, working its sharp edge against the braided fibers. Zevran watched in surprise, studying her solemn face and listening to the sound of metal scraping against twine. When the connection was severed, Charlotte cast the rope aside and gently pulled his wrists around so they were rested on his knees in front of him. Zevran felt the relief in his back, but said nothing, watching her with curiosity. Charlotte sheathed her dagger and withdrew a small container of poultice from a leather pouch at her hip. Not meeting his eyes, she spread some of the poultice on each wrist, her light fingers taking care not to rub too hard. That done, the poultice was neatly placed back in the pouch and Charlotte picked up his portion of stew and held it out, her eyes rising to meet his for the first time since they spoke yesterday.
"You must eat and get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow." She pressed the bowl forward, her eyes boring into his, their enigmatic depths glittering with the light of the stars. Zevran gazed back, his eyes full of questions, before finally accepting the stew with a smile.
"Thank you." He replied, for once unable to come up with a witty riposte. This treatment was most unexpected. Charlotte offered him a shy smile, then rose and walked away, rejoining the group by the fire. Zevran's gaze hovered after her, fascinated by her mix of kindness and caution. Sensing hostility, Zevran glanced just beyond her and saw Alistair, glaring from a distance, obviously displeased. With grin that was wicked, Zevran saluted him with his bowl then dug into the warm, hearty stew.
The spire of Kinloch Hold, the tower where Ferelden's mages were all but imprisoned, rose above rocky shores into a grey sky. All had woken that morning to the threat of rain, the air crackling with unreleased pressure.
Charlotte sat with Alistair, quietly debating who to include in their diplomatic party. Sten and Morrigan seemed the most likely to get left behind; despite Charlotte's plan to invoke the Right of Conscription should any Templar question Morrigan's presence, she felt uncomfortable with risking Morrigan's safety in such a way. Leliana had proved herself to be silver of tongue, so she would accompany Alistair and Charlotte into the Circle. Looking at their group, Charlotte wished fiercely for better armor – what had ever happened to Grey Warden uniforms? Even if she and Alistair were the only Wardens, the least they could try and do to further their cause was provide an impressive image. She sighed.
"And the assassin? What about him?" Alistair was surly, already prepared for a fight. He had been in a bad mood since she recruited Zevran into their party, and quite frankly she'd had enough.
"I know you don't like him," she replied, "But he's a part of us now and there's nothing to be done about it. He's coming with us."
Alistair started at her irritable tone, "What was that about?"
"I'm tired of arguing," she answered wearily, getting up. "You and Morrigan; you and me. Don't we have enough to contend with already?" Disappointed in him, Charlotte walked away, while Alistair winced in guilt. "Charlotte-" he called, trying to get her back. Charlotte shook her head and did not return to him.
"You're coming with us," Charlotte announced to Leliana, who looked at her friend with concern. "What has upset you?" She asked. Charlotte shrugged and turned to call to Zevran, who was chatting with a skeptical-looking Sten. "Zevran, you're coming too." The elf's face lit with a delighted smile; he bowed with a flourish and joined the two women, extending his hand to Leliana.
"What is that for?" She inquired in a dry tone.
"My weapons," Zevran smiled guilelessly, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Leliana deferred to Charlotte, her lips pursed with disapproval. Charlotte waved a hand in assent, "Give them to him. We might as well." Unhappy, but compliant, Leliana retrieved his daggers for him while Charlotte went to speak with Sten and Morrigan. As Zevran tried to take the pommel of one of his blades, Leliana withdrew the other from its scabbard and held its edge against the side of his neck.
"If you do anything to try and harm her or Alistair, I will kill you." She whispered, her pretty accent making the deadly words sound inviting. Zevran chuckled, "I'm sure you would," he agreed. Leliana glared at him for a moment, then pulled back, sliding the dagger back into its sheath and shoving it into his hands. Zevran chortled to himself while he secured the straps around his shoulders, gazing after Leliana as she stomped off.
Charlotte addressed the others, unaware of her comrades' tense exchange. "Morrigan, Sten – you're staying here with the camp. Keep yourselves hidden and be cautious. Mastodon," she addressed her hound, who puffed his chest, at attention. "I want you to guard the horses."
The dog offered one short bark as his answer and went to stand in front of their mounts, which were tied to trees concealed underneath Morrigan's spells. The horses whinnied softly, taking no notice of their custodian as they sipped delicately from a little stream and ate from bags of oats tied to tree trunks.
Morrigan was smirking, so Charlotte offered her a final warning: "Morrigan, however effective your magic is, we are on thin ice covered in Templars. Do not be foolhardy in your use of magic while we are here." Morrigan wrinkled her face with displeasure and rolled her eyes, but the telling way she crossed her arms and shrugged told Charlotte the message had been received and agreed to. "Whatever you say, O fearless leader." Morrigan swanned off to her private camp area, where she would no doubt spend the afternoon brewing potions.
"Little warden, I have a request." Sten towered over her, his unsettling gaze piercing hers.
"Yes, Sten?"
"I wish to exit the camp grounds to investigate a matter of personal importance. Do I have your permission to do this?"
Puzzled, Charlotte wondered what the Qunari soldier could be connected to here, but chose not to ask. "Yes, of course. Just please be careful and do not mention who you are camping with or where."
Sten grimaced at her as if in disappointment, "I am not so foolish." He retorted, then walked away down the hill towards the local village. Charlotte shrugged to herself in resignation; nothing she did or said seemed to please the Qunari, but she had more important matters to worry about - like how they were going to assemble an army when they were being hunted by Loghain and diverted by errands that had no bearing on the Blight.
If it had not been for the treaty they held with the Circle, Charlotte would not have consented to this trip. She sympathized with Alistair's devotion to Eamon – even if she did not understand it - but the importance of personal desires did not outrank the greater good of saving Ferelden. Truth be told, she would have allowed them to execute Connor – quietly – if they had no business with the Circle and instead focused her energies on getting Teagan to take control of his brother's army, then securing his promise that they would serve the Grey Wardens. Charlotte knew little of the elder Guerrin brother, but she had only ever heard and seen good things of the younger, mostly from her mother and father when they were trying to introduce her to the workings of the Landsmeet. With all due respect to Eamon, she did not feel the same conviction Alistair did that he was the only Guerrin brother who could lead them through this crisis. It was an awfully cold thought, but needs must, and she had a duty that – as Duncan had so emphatically enunciated - could not be foresworn.
Charlotte watched as her comrades readied themselves for the meeting with the heads of Kinloch Hold. A fine mist had settled over the hills by the lake, which rolled greenly towards its shores, where steel grey water lapped at sand and pebbles. Uneven, sharp rocks rose out of the water near the lakeshore and further out, giving off the appearance of jagged teeth near the water's edge. The inn was at the bottom of their descent, where it benefited from the docks that delivered Fereldens from one side of the lake to the other as they traveled from east to west and back again. Everyone looked respectable, at least. Even Zevran, who was handsome enough to make up for his obviously untrustworthy character; were it not for his dubious loyalty, Charlotte might have left him behind, but she felt a responsibility to keep an eye on the assassin since she had been the one to spare his life and bring him into the party. All she felt now was an increasingly heavy sense of responsibility; as she and Alistair had seen the day before, the Darkspawn were now coming out in force. The group they had taken down must have had more than six members, the most she had fought at one time since they left the Wilds.
"Alright, let's make our way to the docks and see a man about a boat." Her voice carried over the camp and her diplomatic group nodded, gathering at the crest of the hill. Armor rattling gently, Charlotte breezed past them, with Alistair close on her tail, obviously determined to make amends. Leliana and Zevran gave the Warden pair a respectful distance, descending the hill at a more leisurely pace. Sensing his stare, Leliana glanced at a grinning Zevran, her face full of suspicion.
"So tell me," Zevran asked in his most appealing voice. "What do Chantry sisters do for amusement?" He cocked one eyebrow suggestively; Leliana snorted, shaking her head.
Charlotte focused on her footsteps, Alistair keeping a quick pace beside her. "I'm sorry; you were right. I shouldn't be arguing. Will you forgive me?" Alistair's hazel gaze was sincere with contrition, his handsome face hopeful. Charlotte realized she didn't want to be angry with him, and she smiled, nodding her head.
Alistair let out a breath, clearly relieved. "I can be such an idiot sometimes. I'm sorry - again, if that helps. "
Charlotte almost laughed, "What a thing to say! You're not an idiot Alistair." Winking, she added, "Well not all the time…" Alistair let out an indignant objection and Charlotte laughed, her mirth carrying back to Leliana and Zevran, who exchanged a knowing look between them.
"Are they always like that?" Zevran asked, bemused.
"They're young and inexperienced." Leliana answered, her smile affectionate. "They are finding their way. It's very romantic."
"Ah, I do love a good bit of romance. It is intoxicating, no?"
Deadpan, Leliana replied, "I am not going to sleep with you."
Zevran laughed heartily, "You are so fierce, my dear! You have no worries with me. I am not, how you say, a forceful lover. At least not until after I am invited into bed."
Leliana's tone was wry, "How lucky for me." Again, Zevran chortled.
The docks were finally in view. The foursome reached them and began to look for the boatman, their eyes straining as they fought to see through the murkiness of an overcast day mixed with heavy mist.
"Well, there's the boat," Charlotte muttered, turning around. "Where's the boatman?"
A voice like a rusty gate called to them from the fog: "Ehy, boat's not sailin' today." A rough-hewn man emerged, carrying a small lantern. His clothes were simple and needed mending; above them, eyes squinted from a face that could have been carved out of flint, flecked with white hairs. He tottered over, the lantern casting an eerie glow over his grizzled visage.
"Hello," Charlotte said, turning on her best smile. "Not sailing? Why is that?" Silently, Charlotte prayed that the Maker would preserve her from another setback.
The old man studied her with suspicion, not smiling back. "Couldn't say; I've got my orders from Knight-Commander Greagoir, and that's all I know." His eyes traveled over the group, lingering with special skepticism over Zevran, who grinned charmingly in response. The man huffed, unimpressed.
Charlotte debated, then decided to take the plunge. Mustering all her charm, honed and shaped expertly by her mother, Charlotte offered a general salute and then a bow for good measure. "I am Ser…Josselyn and these are my comrades. We come with very important business for the Knight-Commander."
"A knight, are ye?" The old man grunted; he waved the lantern, offering his greeting in return. "The name's Kester. Been running this boat almost since they gave Lake Calenhad its name." He came closer to Charlotte, looking at the rest of the group with less misgiving than before. "The truth is I haven't the faintest why Knight-Commander Greagoir won't let folks cross, but he gave his orders right strict and he's a good man. I don't want to oppose him."
Gritting her teeth, Charlotte tried not to lose patience. This man had to be coaxed, it would seem. She offered her most earnest agreement. "No, of course not. I'm just so concerned, you see, because we must reach him with an important message. It's a matter of great concern regarding the safety of the Circle." Charlotte made her eyes wide, tilting her head close to him as if they were conspiring together.
Kester was not entirely won; his gaze narrowed, he asked: "And how would you know? You don't look like no Templars to me."
This was going to be harder to pull off than she thought; Charlotte glanced behind her at the others, thinking fast. None of them looked like much of anything in particular, as different as they were. Charlotte turned back to him, her face sad.
"Well, you see Kester, we're part of the King's army." Behind her, Charlotte heard Alistair inhale a breath.
Kester's gaze widened, "You was there when the darkspawn killed the King?" His voice was hoarse with awe. Charlotte nodded, leaning even closer. Leliana joined her, offering her best look of sorrow.
"We were," Charlotte answered quickly, not wishing Leliana to speak and betray her accent. This was already going to be a feat if they managed to secure his belief; if he heard the tones of an Orlesian traveling minstrel, an unlikely recruit for Maric's shield, all would be instantly lost. "And we're here now on an urgent matter. I know we must look strange without our official armor, but we've had to be very… discreet." Charlotte glanced around her, then met Kester's eyes with a significant gaze. Alistair's obvious distaste at the thought of serving Cailan and Zevran's cool stare helped her tremendously; both men put on their best poker face, one fighting his true feelings and other accustomed to the theater of deceit.
"Andraste's golden bells… Well, then I don't know. Knight-Commander Greagoir was very clear-"
Impatiently, Zevran interrupted. "Do you really want to obstruct the business of the Crown?" he snapped, hiding his accent well. Charlotte was impressed; he sounded almost as haughty as Morrigan.
Kester was torn; without any real proof of their mission, he felt strongly he should obey the Knight-Commander's orders. But if it turned out what they said was true and Greagoir didn't receive this important message….
"Right, I'll take ye across, but be quick about it. I don't want no one else seeing this and pestering me to sail for them." Charlotte smiled, murmuring a sincere oath of gratitude, "We'll pay you extra for your trouble," she promised. Obviously uncomfortable, Kester muttered a reply, "Just so long as nobody sees..." Favoring one leg, the old man hobbled down the dock at a brisk pace, taking his lantern with him. As the others followed, Charlotte looked around them and had to wonder who, on a day like this, could see anything clearly.
Choppy water rocked against wood decorated with flaking, white paint. The sounds of wooden oars creaking against the sides of their little ketch raked against Alistair's senses as he worried over the prospect of tumbling, heavier than a stone, into the deep grey waters of Lake Calenhad. Between himself and Charlotte, both encased in chainmail bestowed upon them by Teagan's charity, the boat had sunk a whole foot into the waters, causing all those not accustomed to sailing to twist around in unease. Only Zevran, who came from the fishing city of Antiva, did not flinch when they set off for the tower rising like a giant out of the mist.
Alistair couldn't help but feel that an air of unhappiness reeked from the tower itself; even the windows, which should have glowed with candlelight on such an overcast day, were blank, bricked over by cool grey stone that watched them impassively as they drew closer and closer to the Circle's docks. The tower itself had not been constructed by the Chantry, but by the Tevinters before Andraste's Exalted March against the Imperium. It was a grand, imposing structure made of stone so silver it was almost white in places, despite the blackened streaks of age at its base. Alistair followed its line up to a bridge that had once connected the spire to the outside world; now, Alistair saw a jagged edge where that connection had been severed. The boat hit another rise in the water and Alistair leaned back, gripping the sides of the boat with his hands. As he stared at the broken stone hundreds of feet above his head, Alistair grew dizzy and wondered if any of the mages had ever tried to escape.
The group rode out their short journey in silence, each overwhelmed by the heaviness that lurked underneath the silvery mist. When Kester drew to the left and curved around the small island upon which Kinloch Hold stood, Charlotte saw how poorly tended the grounds were; dead bushes with gnarled hands bobbed in her vision on grass covered in patches of yellow and brown. Charlotte wondered if the children of the Circle were ever allowed outside to play.
The mouth of an opening yawned before them at the base of the tower. Kester led them into it with expert ease, rowing at a steady pace and chewing the end of a pipe he'd lit at the beginning of their journey. Little puffs of smoke rose and disappeared, the strong smell of tobacco mixing with the scent of wet and rain floating in the air. As they entered the gaping maw, it grew dark, with only a dim, flickering light afforded to them by torches burning low in iron brackets along the walls. In the darkness, they heard a wet drip, drip, drip coming from the ceiling. The walls looked oily under the torchlight.
Finally, Kester slowed as they reached an embarking point. He clambered from the boat and anchored it with a rope to a small stump on the wooden quay. At his signal, Charlotte exited first, followed by Leliana and then Alistair, who glowered at Zevran as he bowed to allow Alistair through. Charlotte paid Kester, her eyes searching the darkness for an opening to the upstairs.
"Thank you, miss – begging your pardon, Ser Josselyn. I expect they've got important Templar business afoot, or they've come down by now to see who you was. The way up is through that door over there," Kester pointed to a small archway to Charlotte's left, where she could see the faint outline of a wooden door. "Best get back. You have my thanks for your coin."
Startled, Alistair grabbed the old man's shoulder. "What, you're not staying to take us back?"
Kester shook his head, "Sorry, Ser, but I've got the heebie jeebies about the tower right about now. Can't you feel it? Even if you paid me fifty sovereigns I wouldn't stay. You need to get back, Knight-Commander will let me know. They've got boats too. Now I'll be on my way." Kester lowered himself gingerly into the boat, taking his rope and pipe with him. Charlotte silently watched as he pushed away, his little white face glowing in the torchlight only briefly before it was swallowed up in shadow.
They were alone with the drip, drip, drip and Charlotte knew what Kester meant: something was wrong. Why had no one come to the gate at the front to investigate their visitors? Why was the dock abandoned, with no guards?
"Gre-eat," Alistair intoned, his voice tense. It echoed around them. "Kester was right, something is most definitely not right here. All my Templar senses, dull as they are, are tingling – and not in a good way." Alistair leered in the dark, trying to see around him. Zevran chuckled, "Ah yes, a brother of the Chantry; members of your religion are most accomplished at finding doom in all places, yes?"
Alistair snorted, "Or perhaps doom is just very good at finding me."
"I understand that, my friend!" Zevran clapped Alistair on the back, smiling. In response, Alistair frowned and put a few inches between them.
"There is… something." Leliana murmured, coming close to Charlotte, who was still searching for any signal of danger. "But we'll never know what it is until we move up, yes?" Charlotte nodded and made for the door, on alert for any attackers that might leap out at them.
The door was locked. Just as Alistair opened his mouth to complain, Charlotte pulled off her helmet and produced a small pick from her hair. She reached into her hip pouch for the second piece and bent, trying to see the keyhole in the dim light.
"Alistair, could you move to the left, please?" Charlotte bit her lip, concentrating.
"My, my! Our dear Warden is full of surprises. Where did a polished woman of your caliber learn such a skill?"
Leliana gave Zevran a withering look, "You never give up, do you?"
Charlotte looked up at them both, puzzled. "What?"
"Nevermind," Alistair blurted, his face a little red. "Just ignore them. Do your stuff. Actually… come to think of it, how do you know how to pick locks?"
Charlotte grinned wickedly, "Ah, but that is a secret that my brother and I shall take to the grave." Too late, she realized her choice of words might be poor and she frowned, suppressing the wave of sorrow she felt at the thought Fergus might already be in his grave. Swallowing hard, Charlotte refocused on the lock. Zevran, new to the group, was oblivious of her reaction.
"Ooh, a brother, you say? Is he as attractive as you? Or were you the only one to benefit in such a way?"
Alistair glared, "Shut it, Zevran."
The elf raised his brows in surprise, "I have said something else to offend you? Perhaps you should warn me, or give me a list of things I can say that will not anger you so much, my temperamental friend."
With an infinitesimal jerk of his head, Alistair indicated Charlotte, whose white, drawn face Zevran finally took notice of. Understanding dawned, and Zevran frowned, silently wondering what had upset her so. Reproachfully, Leliana glared at him, before creasing her face with worry at Charlotte's back.
There was a loud click and the lock released. Charlotte stowed the pick back in her braid and replaced her helmet, shoving the turn piece into her pouch. "There, let's go."
The door swung open with a tired creak, bumping lightly into the wall behind it as Charlotte and Alistair led the group, hands hovering over hilts. When no threat approached, they proceeded cautiously up the stairs, which were dusty and deserted. No noises met them, only a silence thick with foreboding and an electricity in the air that made Charlotte's skin crawl.
At the end of their second ascent, they found a landing with a closed set of doors, which Charlotte discovered were magically protected when she tried to pick their lock. The moment she touched the doors, a spell of repulsion rolled through her like a bolt, causing her to arch back and jerk into Alistair's startled embrace. Breathlessly, she said, "I think there's more to it than that. We're going to have to leave them."
"Are you alright?" Alistair asked, alarmed. Charlotte nodded, feeling dizzy and nauseous. "I think if I'd actually tried to open them, it would have been much worse. Let's keep moving." She pulled away and shook herself off, determined not to lose momentum. They had lost enough time already.
The third staircase deposited them onto a full floor. Here, the dripping, wet walls smelled not like the slick stink of algae, but of something much worse. No torches were lit here, and the hallway evaporated into a point of darkness. On the left, Charlotte saw the doors to cells. The Circle had a dungeon?
"This is just too strange," Alistair said, creeping forward with caution as he became caught up in the spooky atmosphere. "Why has no one found us yet?"
"Hello?!" a hoarse voice croaked from the dark. Leliana leapt back with a little yelp, her cornflower eyes wide. Zevran smiled down at her and Leliana realized she had bumped right into his shoulder. "Do not worry, my dear. You can lean on me any time." He patted her on the arm and Leliana jerked away, her rosebud mouth pursed with distaste.
"Is someone there? Oh please, help!" The voice was a little louder, but not much. Charlotte hesitated, worried it was some magical trick.
"Who are you?" she demanded, withdrawing her daggers.
"I'm a mage," the voice croaked. It sounded like a young man, most likely not a healthy one. "I'm a prisoner, but they've forgotten me for days and I'm thirsty and starving. Please, I mean you no harm. I cannot even cast a spell. The enchantment in the walls prevents it." There was a harsh cough, following by the sound of retching. Suspicious, but concerned, Charlotte edged forward towards the voice in the dark.
"Charlotte," Alistair hissed, displeased at her risk-taking. Huffing with resignation, he too drew his weapon and followed, scowling at her back.
It was pitch dark and the smell was filthy; the prisoner had probably soiled himself and not been allowed to bathe. Charlotte wrinkled her nose in distaste and forged through the unpleasantness until the sounds of his coughing were very close. She stopped and listened.
"Are you there?" he wheezed; a movement in the dark, followed by the chinks of hands gripping bars made Charlotte draw back slightly. "Oh, you are, I can smell you. Roses, oh, I'd never thought I'd smell something so good again."
This was entirely too odd, Charlotte almost couldn't bear it. "Where are the torches?" She asked, hoping some light would make the experience less frightening. The man wheezed, "I'm not sure. Normally, I'm guarded by at least one Templar, but they just left, I'm not sure how many days ago. The torches eventually went out." His voice grew somewhat small at that and Charlotte shuddered, imagining what it would be like to be abandoned in the dark.
Sheathing her weapons, Charlotte groped to find the wall, until her hand settled on the iron bracket. She yanked the torch out of it and pulled it down, rummaging for her hip pack. She always carried her flint with her, even when they weren't at camp, in case of emergency. She bent to one knee and began scraping it, trying to spark a flame.
"What are you doing?" Alistair's tone was full of trepidation. His heavy footsteps scraped loudly against the wet stone and she could hear his breathing, as well as the slide of his blade against the wall as he felt his way.
"Hold on," suddenly, the flint caught and Charlotte held it to the torch. After a tense moment, it flared, the flame glowing hotly before dimming again, orange with a purple center. Charlotte rose from her kneeling position and replaced it in the bracket, turning quickly to see the face of their prisoner.
He had cowered back in the corner of his cell, covering his face and grimacing against the light of the torch. Charlotte could hardly blame him – no, it was the condition of him that shocked her the most. He was absolutely filthy, covered in dirt from head to toe, with feet black from his own excrement. His hair was stringy, his bones jutting out, and nothing but a thin cloth over his waist to cover him. Charlotte saw underneath the grime that there were bruises, some yellow with age, while others looked only days old. He was breathing heavily, squinting and trying to adjust, his thin arms held up defensively – whether it was against the light or them, Charlotte could not be certain.
"Please, please don't hurt me. I didn't mean any harm." He tried to cower further back and his foot slid on something slimy, causing him to lose balance and fall short. Aching with sympathy, Charlotte grabbed the bars, moving to try and block some of the light to ease his pain.
"We mean you no harm, either. We are not Templars."
The man lowered his shaking hands slightly, eyes still narrowed to slits, but trying to make her out. "One of you feels like one, but not at the same time." Next to her, Alistair sighed.
"That's because I was trained as one, but I never took my vows. You've nothing to fear from me." He told the prisoner gently. Leliana joined them, followed by a solemn Zevran, who studied the revolting conditions with cold, expressionless eyes. "You poor thing," Leliana cooed, her face heartbroken. "What is your name?"
Slowly, the prisoner eased to his feet, hesitating as he felt his way up the wall, with one hand still extended to protect his eyes from the light. As he adjusted, he crept forward, face contorted as he tried to make them out, until he reached the bars and collapsed against them, breathing heavily and squinting. Charlotte saw for the first time that he was an elf, and a handsome one, dirty and haggard though he was.
"Aneiren," his voice was barely more than a whisper. "My name is Aneiren Surana. I'm a mage of the Circle. At least, I was." He smiled bitterly, before sliding further down, obviously dizzy and exhausted. Alistair grabbed his wrists and hoisted him up, his jaw tense with restrained emotion. Charlotte found her voice, as horrified as all of them by the treatment Aneiren had received. Had the Templars really done this?
"Why are you here?" she asked kindly, bending slightly so he could see her face. Aneiren blinked, his eyes out of focus, his posture limp. From what she could tell, he would not be upright were it not for Alistair holding him. Aneiren coughed.
"I helped my friend escape from the Circle. They found out he was a blood mage, and so I was punished." Aneiren chuckled, leaning his head tiredly against the bars. "Jowan always warned me that the Templars would get him, but they got me first."
Alistair's eyes widened in recognition, "Jowan?" He looked at Charlotte, who had also recognized the name. Aneiren's friend was the mage who had poisoned Arl Eamon?
"I know Jowan," Charlotte told him, now even more curious than before. "He poisoned Arl Eamon Guerrin. That's why we're here."
Aneiren's head snapped up in surprise, "No," he gasped, disbelieving. Alistair reached lower to hoist him more comfortably, his nose wrinkling at the smell. "No," Aneiren moaned, "Oh Jowan, what have you done?" His head lolled, another cough wracking his body so hard his ribs looked ready to rip through his skin.
Worried for Aneiren's condition, Charlotte pulled out her waterskin, helping him drink. The elf gulped greedily, coughing hard again when he tried to drink too much and his tight stomach began to reject it. When he'd calmed, Charlotte took her handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face, exchanging a troubled glance with Alistair. Leliana tutted angrily, while Zevran remained stiff and silent in the shadows.
"I'm sorry," he moaned, "All my fault. I helped Jowan because he thought they were going to make him Tranquil. I would never have done it otherwise." Aneiren raised his head, looking into Charlotte's face fully for the first time. He had stunning eyes, with irises the color of an olive, rich and green with a thick outline of black unlike anything Charlotte had ever seen before. "Please, don't leave me here. I don't want to die." Aneiren dropped his head, rolling it against the bars, the picture of hopeless desperation.
"He's becoming delusional," Alistair said, gritting his teeth with anger. "They've been starving and beating him, not to mention the rest. We have to get him out of there. I don't care about what the Templars will say."
Leliana nodded, her eyes lit from within, "I quite agree. Where is that pick of yours?"
It was only a few moments before Charlotte was able to open the door. She was surprised there were no enchantments on the lock of his cell, but she supposed that, since the cell had been enchanted to prevent use of magic, the Templars would be forced to stick to using just a key. Alistair and Zevran each took Aneiren over one shoulder and gently dragged him out, his feet trailing along the blackened cell floor. Charlotte and Leliana led them from the dungeons to the next level, where there were more cells, until they finally reached another door, which Charlotte could not open even with her pick.
"Great," Alistair panted, steadying an unconscious Aneiren. "That's exactly what we need. To be trapped in a foul dungeon underneath possibly murderous Templars and Maker only knows what else. Perfect."
Leliana worried at the door, tracing a delicate hand over its outline as far as she could reach, searching for some sort of weakness. "There does not seem to be a reasonable explanation, so it must be a magical barrier. I am surprised it has not harmed us yet. Perhaps there is another way?"
Charlotte looked at them all, and decided enough was enough. "Hello!" she shouted, banging on the door. "Can anyone hear us?!"
There was a scuffle and a pause, and then a commanding voice demanded, "Who goes there? Begone, demon!"
There was something oddly familiar about that voice; Charlotte crinkled her forehead, "Wynne?" she called, uncertain.
The elder mage huffed and shouted back, "You will not fool me, Spirit! Do not play games!"
Excitedly, Charlotte leapt close to the door, resting both hands against the carvings in the wood. "Wynne! It's Warden Charlotte! We've come to seek aid from the Circle, but something seems awfully wrong! Let us in! Alistair's here too!"
Wynne's silence was filled with shock; after a moment, she called back. "Warden Charlotte? Can this be true? How is that even possible?"
"We came by boat with Kester! No one was at the gate, so he dropped us off at the bottom level. We found a prisoner, he's very sick! His name is Aneiren. Can you open the door?"
"Wynne!" Alistair bellowed, "It's me! For the sake of all that is Holy, please don't leave us to rot in here!"
"Alistair?" Wynne replied, perplexed. "My goodness! You have someone with you who is injured? Alright, everyone, stand back. You too, Petra. Let's see if I can open this."
Charlotte heard scraping against the wood as Wynne felt her way, trying to discern what magic trapped them. Finally, she called out instructions. "Stand back! This might have a rather strong effect, even on your side."
The group scuffled down a few steps, Zevran and Alistair struggling as they tried not to drop Aneiren and send him tumbling down the stairs. There was a tense silence with the vague sounds of chanting coming from the other side of the door. As Wynne's magic took effect, the door began to rattle in its hinges - the barrier spell was resisting her ministrations. Gradually, the magic gave more and more to Wynne's spell. Charlotte could hear the powerful rising of her voice as she called out in Latin. A blue light began to outline the door and the wood bucked, bending out as if someone were pushing the center of the wood, making it creak painfully before it snapped back again. The rattling became more pronounced. They all watched, eyes wide, as the light grew brighter and brighter, the rattling now a cacophonous shake, until Wynne's voice was a tremendous shout warring with the winds of the former spell being broken.
Suddenly, another voice roared, deep and filled with pained fury. The door exploded out, pregnant with energy, its edges straining to hold. Wynne's chanting boomed in response and Charlotte could feel she was close – but something else was too.
The door shot open, flying back so hard against the wall that the top hinge broke, causing them all to jerk back in anticipation of its descent. As it swung away, Wynne became visible through the shower of light, her arms raised with one hand clutching her staff, surrounded by a torrent of magical wind. The deeper voice's roar that had previously echoed suddenly shrank as if it were nearby, and out of the light emerged an enormous demon, torso first. He was made of fire and rage and in one claw he clutched a sword, his faceless head swinging to and fro to locate his attackers.
Abruptly, the light and wind disappeared, leaving them all almost in the dark. Behind the demon, Wynne's eyes were wide, her mouth thin with determination. Her gaze snapped down to an astonished Charlotte's and she issued yet another command, her finger pointed as light began to crackle from the top of her staff:
"KILL THE DEMON!"
A/N: Hooray! I finally got some time for writing! I wanted to explain Aneiren's name, which is different than the Aneirin from the quest, "Wynne's Regret." On an Elven language website, my spelling of Aneiren can be interpreted as "sharp hand," which is a reference to his talents as a battle mage (which we will find out more about later!) Also, the chapter's title is (if you haven't already guessed) from the movie "The Silence of the Lambs." I won't always reference films that match the theme of the chapter; mostly I'll focus on referencing films that make a catchy title. Thank you again for reading, I hope you enjoyed!