Disclaimer: I own nothing of Dragon Age (save for all the games, books, and DVDs that allow me to throw money at Bioware)
Author's Note: No, it's not a trick. This really is a brand new chapter of Fatum, back from hiatus after nearly two years. I won't fill in the space with a lengthy explanation of where I've been - if anyone is really interested, check out my profile. I suspect most people here are just interested in the *story*, however, so let's get on to that! In honor of the update (and because I flat out couldn't find a good breaking point) this chapter runs about twice as long as the usual, and it's one that I've been looking forward to writing since long before the break. ^.^ Many thanks go out to my beta reader, Teakwood, for helping me hammer out a coherent chapter from the drafts and drafts that I kept shoving at him. Please enjoy!
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Arcanum: Fatum
Chapter Twenty-Four: Oath
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"The Grey Warden dies here!"
In hindsight, Zevran would admit that his ambush was amateurish at best, and downright foolhardy at worst. Crows did not do ambushes, not unless they were so limited in skill that it would be impossible for them to accomplish their tasks alone - fitting for the ragtag band of novices and dregs that he'd gathered around him. What they lacked in skill they made up for in numbers, however, and he could only hope it would be enough to buy him the time he needed.
He picked out the two Grey Wardens immediately, thanks to the minor intel he'd gathered before setting the trap – the human warrior, with a broadness of shoulder that he'd have been happy to admire in another time and place, and an elven mage who, he couldn't help noticing, was quite fetching to behold. Rendon Howe's words regarding prioritization between the Wardens flitted through his mind, but seeing the way that the two Wardens stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Zevran suspected that he wasn't going to get a choice in who he faced. Well, the arl's personal vendettas were not his concern – he had been hired to eliminate the Grey Wardens, both of them, and he would do just that. Or else die trying.
The mage turned her head slightly towards a man standing behind her, another mage by his robes, and murmured something that Zevran couldn't make out. Her companion gave the slightest of nods and took a step back. Zevran's keen eyes did not miss the curling of his hand at his side as if preparing a spell, though there were none of the telltale sparks that typically preceded a cast. Zevran knew little of magic in practice, but no assassin worked in this world without being able to figure out a mage's tells. They had them, just as a swordsman or an archer did, and it could meant the difference between –
Movement!
Zevran's daggers were up, blocking the first strike with a reverberating clang, a strike that came not from the warrior as he had expected, but from the mage Warden herself, the hard wood of her staff making a thudding sound only slightly duller than as if he'd struck true metal. His surprise showed only briefly at the realization that the mage had taken the point, and then there was no time to think, only react.
He adjusted his stance for more leverage and twisted his body, using his momentum to push the staff aside. He kept moving, ducking down and thrusting out his leg in a sweep aimed at her legs.
At the last moment he checked himself, pulling his leg back in and instead going into a side roll to avoid the shield that had been aimed at him. Ah, there was the warrior, moving perfectly into place during Zevran's momentary distraction as if he and his fellow Warden had planned the maneuver in advance. That alone sent alarm bells off in Zevran's head, because of course they couldn't have – which spoke volumes for how well these two worked together.
It was the warrior now who engaged him in combat when he rolled to his feet, sword and shield moving in tandem not unlike how Zevran handled his own twin blades. Some rogues preferred a combination of short sword and dagger, yet Zevran had never felt comfortable with the imbalance of length; his own blades were identical twins, customized to his exact specifications, allowing him to switch them from hand to hand at whim. He did so now, flipping one into the air as he passed the other to the now free hand, only to snatch the first dagger out of the air in the same moment he ducked to avoid another strike of the warrior's sword. The new grip flipped the weapons backward, the dull edges kissing the length of his forearms, the sharpened blades exposed and glinting in the sunlight.
Everything but the immediate slipped away. His fellow Crows, the Wardens' companions, they became nothing more than white noise, moving shapes in the background of his focus. He didn't forget about them, per se, but they grew inconsequential. All that mattered was the man who stood before him. His opponent. His target.
Zevran lunged, striking out with arms and legs both, his daggers an extension of his body. He moved like lightning, each slash and strike focused, intent on making its target. The Grey Warden met his attacks with equal skill, sidestepping, blocking and parrying each one, preventing Zevran's blade from finding any purchase in flesh. The warrior moved with unexpected grace and a fluidity of motion atypical to the heavy armor he wore, meeting Zevran stroke for stroke – and yet he never made a move to take himself off the defensive.
In the back of Zevran's mind a voice that sounded not unlike his former master whispered to him to be cautious, that a single opponent who remained defensive had reason to, and Zevran in turn ignored the warning. He pushed forward, finding advantages in their difference in height, difference in weight, in what movement their armor could allow. Zevran should have had the advantage in all of these points, and yet the Grey Warden warrior continued to match him. More than that he was showing no signs of tiring, whereas Zevran's was beginning to feel that initial burn in his muscles that preceded fatigue.
Pull back and conserve. His master's voice again, and he steeled himself against the words. He didn't want to pull back. He didn't want to conserve his energy. For the first time since then, against this warrior, this Grey Warden, he could feel his blood begin to sing with the intoxicating rush of adrenaline. He had to keep moving. Forward. No stopping. No looking back.
Strike, strike, step, twist, duck, strike. An intricate dance of footwork, the brilliant flashes of sharpened steel as his daggers whirled with his body. He aimed for the warrior's vulnerable points and was met with deterrence each time. When was the last time he had found himself so evenly matched by an opponent? He could not remember; perhaps he never had been. Certainly there were those in the Crows with skills superior to his own, but they were comrades, not threats. Not unless one of them stepped out of line, and then it was never he who was called upon to handle their elimination.
He pushed, he struck, he danced, and still the warrior remained steady, focused and undeterred. Now the battles around them had faded even from the background – were they over? And if so, had his people come out on top, or had the Wardens' companions? Judging by the way his opponent's defense never faltered, Zevran made a sparing conclusion that it was not the Crows that had come out the victors this day.
As he ducked to the side in an attempt to get a strike past the warrior's shield, dagger aimed at a break between armor pieces, he glanced up at the man's face. Whether out of arrogance or skill the Grey Warden had neglected to wear a helmet, leaving his eyes uncovered and easy to read.
It was a fleeting reaction, the way those hazel eyes shifted to the side, briefly fixing on a point beyond Zevran's shoulder. A moment's hesitation that, had he not looked up at that precise moment, the rogue would have missed completely.
He reacted instantly, taking advantage of the warrior's distraction to drop and roll, ducking underneath his opponent's arm, his own shield preventing him from striking at Zevran with his sword. The weight of his armor likewise slowed down his attempt to turn, allowing Zevran the chance to bring himself up on his knees and sweep his daggers in a forward arc aimed at the gap between cuisse and greave.
The ground shifted beneath his feet, throwing his balance off and causing his daggers to strike against the warrior's armor as his body pitched to the side. He wasn't the only one affected by it; his opponent staggered forward but recovered swiftly, as if he were used to such tremors occurring during battle. Which made no sense, unless…
The mage!
He used the momentum of his fall to roll and twist, turning to face the Grey Warden mage that he had all but forgotten during his one-on-one combat with her warrior counterpart. He brought his daggers up again, pulling back his arm to throw –
And froze, finding both the tip of the iron blade at the base of the staff pressed to the hollow of his throat, and the blade of a sword kissing the side. A long honed sense of self-preservation halted him in a flash, not even a muscle twitching in response. It would only take the slightest bit of additional pressure for his life's blood to spill, and the steadiness with which both staff and sword were held against his skin told him neither Warden would hesitate to take such an action if necessary.
That they hadn't finished him off yet told him they didn't intend to – unless he pushed them to it. The final twitch need not be theirs; the slightest perception of continued threat, and it would all end. It would all finally end. The pain of memories, the ache in his chest, the sleepless nights…over. Done. His grip tightened on his dagger.
"Don't."
That single, soft-spoken word carried an edge to it as sharp as Zevran's own blade, not unlike the quiet tones that his Master had used during his training. So similar was it that Zevran found himself doing as the voice commanded, while at the same time lifting his gaze to meet that of the woman who had spoken.
He stilled again, and this time it wasn't because of the blades against his throat.
He'd thought her lovely at the start of the battle, as he'd assessed her and her companions. Up close he realized his original assessment did her no justice. For starters, she was smaller than he'd estimated – elves by nature weren't tall, but he guessed that side by side she'd still only reach his shoulder at the most. Her ears tapered into delicate points just visible through her thick brown hair that framed a slender jaw, high cheekbones and full lips, and he thought he could make out just the barest hints of an incomplete vallaslin tattoo against her ivory skin.
What caught his attention the most, however, was neither her size nor her delicate beauty. It was her eyes – eyes of a glacial blue that darkened to a sapphire shade around the black center, eyes that met his in an unrelenting gaze, sending a surge of heat through his body in that single instant and rendering his throat dry. It wasn't possible. It made no sense, either, that another pair of such eyes could exist in this world or that he would happen upon them at this, his lowest point. A name threatened to spill from his lips, logic barely catching it, and he could only kneel before her in dumbfounded silence.
His grip on his weapons loosened, the daggers sliding out of his hands to fall to the earthen ground with twin dull thuds. He made no effort to retrieve them, instead closing his eyes and bowing his head in clear submission, not flinching as the movement caused the staff to scratch against his skin, just hard enough to raise a welt.
They remained that way for a moment longer, frozen in a macabre tableau as the question of Zevran's fate hung heavy in the air. He felt the pressure of the staff and the sword diminish as both weapons pulled back.
Something hard struck him across the temple, and all was dark.
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A low groan rose up from his throat, brought on by the dull ache that started from somewhere at the base of his skull and worked its way to the center of his forehead. It throbbed, the sheer act of trying to open his eyes sending fresh pain lancing through his head. That is the last time I allow Isabella to talk me into having a late-night Antivan brandy in the midst of a storm while at sea…
Except there had been no brandy, his clouded mind recalled with sudden clarity, and he hadn't been on a boat for days now. Despite the dizzying sensation that made it seem as if he were rocking with the sway of the open water, the ground that he lay on was coarse, damp dirt, long strands of grass scratching at the points where his armor exposed his skin. And the ache in his head, he realized, wasn't the result of alcoholic overindulgence, but of a heavy shield striking him hard against his temple. If he reached up to touch, he suspected he'd find broken skin or an unpleasant bump.
Not that he could actually make the attempt. As his senses grew more aware, less hindered by the throbbing in his skull, he noticed other things about his predicament. Important things. Such as the fact that his legs were bound together by well-tied rope at both the ankles and knees, and his arms were secured behind him, hands pressed back to back to prevent him from using his fingers to loosen the knots or squeeze out of the bindings. Whoever did this binding is someone who knows what they are doing, he thought with a hint of approval and gallows amusement.
A groan escaped from deep in his throat as he forced his eyes to open fully – and found himself face-to-face with the bared teeth, snarling visage of an angry mabari. He recognized the dog immediately, but that didn't diminish the jolt of fear that rippled down along his spine. He wasn't afraid to admit to fear. Fear, or so he'd always believed, could be a powerful motivator under the right circumstances. The trick was to not let it dictate your actions.
"Hello there," he said by way of greeting, offering the mabari his most winning smile and trying not to think too hard about the fact that any one of those teeth could be used to rip a hole in his throat should the dog feel so inclined. "I do not suppose you have a skin of water that could be spared? Or perhaps a bowl of stew? Even boiled roots would do."
One heard stories by the dozen outside of Ferelden regarding the supposed intelligence of mabari, and Zevran felt as if this one was the perfect representative – only a creature of great intellect would have stopped growling and given him such a thoroughly disgusted look following such a pathetic attempt at conversation. The mabari snorted and turned away from the elf, clearly deciding that it had concerns other than intimidation. It padded over to the closed tent flap and dropped down to the ground with a thud, lowering its head to its paws and watching him with liquid brown eyes.
Zevran sighed. "I shall take that as a no." He lay there for a moment in contemplation, then took in a deep breath and – with a certain amount of effort given the way he was currently bound – threw the entirety of his weight behind him so that he could roll himself onto his back. He hissed slightly at the pressure that settled on his hands before he could shift his weight again, but managed to get himself if not comfortable, at least to a point where he could turn his head both left and right and take stock of his situation.
He'd half expected to wake up – if he woke up at all – on a pile of a dirt, perhaps mud, being gazed upon by several pairs of glaring eyes. Reality was quite different. Instead of being left out in the open for any variety of Ferelden insect to pester while his captors waited for him to regain consciousness, he had been sequestered away in a moderately well-maintained tent. It wasn't particularly large, he noted, but there was room enough for a bedroll and a mabari, and tucked in the corner of the tent he could see a supply bag filled to overflowing with various items. No weapons in sight, which indicated that whoever the tent usually belonged to, they weren't stupid. Only a fool would believe that leaving weapons within reach of a tied-up assassin was safe.
Then again, he probably wouldn't have been able to get his hands around the hilt of a blade, much less get his bindings undone, before the mabari was upon him. The large brute of a dog was a good deterrent.
A low rumbling growl escaped the mabari's mouth.
"You are not going to have me believe that you can tell what I am thinking," Zevran informed it. The mabari responded with another growl, and did not remove itself from its sentry position in front of the only exit.
Zevran sighed and let his head fall back against the ground. An excellent predicament you've found yourself in, Zevran, he admonished himself. Surround yourself with the greenest Crow cell that you can find, challenge the only two survivors of the massacre of Ostagar singlehandedly, and somehow still manage to emerge from the battle with your head firmly attached to your shoulders. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't planned at all. He'd gone into that fight expecting only one of two outcomes – that he would either win, and they die…or he would lose, and he die. Either would have been acceptable to the Crows, though one clearly more preferable than the other. It was a hassle, sending a replacement when the first assassin failed to fulfill a contract.
Instead here he was, tied up and at the mercy of his captors. There was only one reason why they would have chosen to take him alive – they wanted something from him. Information, most likely. He'd made it quite clear that the ambush had been no random attack, which meant they knew someone had hired him to do the job. They would either want him to tell them, or confirm their suspicions.
The question that he needed to answer before then was, where did his loyalties lie and how much did he owe to those they lay with? There was Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe, the holders of his contract. By Crow law, an assassin's contract dictated his loyalties until the moment the terms were completed. The odds of him actually being able to complete the contract at this point potentially negated that particular code. The Crows were nothing if not pragmatic – although they prided themselves on taking whatever steps were necessary to see their contracts to fruition, they did not expect their assassins to fall on their swords in futility. A good assassin was a valuable asset and investment, after all. If he returned to Antiva and declared the contract impossible to complete, then the Crow masters would either re-assign it – unlikely, given their hesitance in accepting it in the first place – or declare it void.
That would negate his loyalty via contract, leaving only his loyalty to the Crows to consider. Whether a contract was completed or voided, the Crows believed heavily in integrity – one could not stick their hands in as many political pots as the Masters did and not have to maintain some aspect of confidentiality. The Crows dealt with all transgressions internally, and among the great taboos was the outside discussion of any contract details. He could vague up enough details to get him out of the situation, but the question of then what? loomed like a dark, ugly shadow over his head.
Would he return to the Crows? The failure of the contract would be a stigma that would remain with him, a dark spot on his reputation – and it was by reputation than an Antivan Crow built his safety net, his protection against the more aggressive members of his cell. Although one could not advance in the Crows without a certain amount of political savvy, Zevran had never considered himself to be particularly ambitious. Unfortunately, his personal lack of ambition wouldn't matter for those who saw him as a stepping stone to further their own advancement. He hadn't given enough thought to the potential consequences of taking the contract. Really, he hadn't given any thought at all.
Which led him to his third option – loyalty to himself.
The mabari abruptly lifted his head, ears pricking forward as he looked at the closed tent flap. Muscles bunching, the dog surged to its feet, its stub of tail working at a rapid-fire pace that made it look more like nothing more than a blur. Zevran had never witnessed such a decisive look of joy on an animal's face before and he could deduce that it meant only one thing – the mabari's master was approaching the tent.
Mistress, Zevran immediately amended as the tent flap whipped back and a familiar petite figure stepped into view.
It was the elven mage from the battle whom the mabari immediately planted himself beside, shoving his head beneath her hand in a none-too-subtle insistence for praise. She obliged by moving her hand to scratch behind his upright ears, but her eyes sought out and focused on the restrained elf currently flopped on the floor of her tent.
One dark eyebrow arched at the silent notice that her prisoner had managed to adjust his position while remaining tied, but she didn't comment on it otherwise – after all, he was still restrained, and hadn't actually managed to move from the spot, just to roll onto his back. From behind loose strands of honey-blond hair Zevran gave her his best disarming smile, to which she responded by giving her mabari's ear another scratch and drawing her hand back. "Rhys," she said calmly, "go sit."
Rhys gave another rapid-fire wag of his tail, then padded over to where Zevran lay and promptly dropped himself down on his haunches directly next to Zevran's head. "Beautiful and cruel," Zevran quipped, fighting not to show any visible reaction to the scent of a dog that had clearly seen more days wandering through the wilderness than baths. Rhys looked down at him and growled.
"Is he finally awake?" another voice – Zevran recognized the other Grey Warden, the warrior – came from behind the mage. "Because if I have to listen to another one of Morrigan's rants about how much time we're wasting by making camp here, I think my head just might end up exploding."
"Given some of the spells that we have seen her perform, that is not unlikely to happen should you continue to antagonize her," another female voice, this one bearing an Orlesian accent, chided. This one Zevran couldn't put to a face, not until the tent flap moved again and both speakers stepped inside, flanking the mage on opposite sides. The other woman proved to be the red-haired rogue from the battle.
"Me, antagonize her?" The warrior looked at her in mock indignation. "Whatever makes you think I've been doing that?"
"Really?" The mage, who had affected a look of exasperated amusement at the exchange, now turned to give her fellow Warden a pointed look. "You aren't actually going to say that with a straight face, are you?"
The warrior looked at her and reached up to rub the back of his neck with a sheepish smile and a shrug, and she let out a sigh and shook her head. When she turned back to face Zevran, however, he caught her fighting to hide a smile that she was clearly not attempting to let her companion see. For a brief moment her calm, focused demeanor slipped into something more carefree, the barest shimmer of warmth filling those glacial eyes – and the instant she noticed just how attentively Zevran was watching her, the smile vanished and her hauntingly familiar eyes grew cold.
Blue, he decided then, was an unfair label. Before unconsciousness had wrapped its dark arms around his mind, he'd had only enough time to register the shock at the sight of them. Now he had a chance to truly look, to separate out the trick of his subconscious from the definitive reality. They were not the same, these eyes that looked at him now. Similar, yes, but while the blue of his memory was more along the lines of an aquamarine gemstone, the Warden's eyes leaned forwards a paler shade of glacial blue-white. And this was particularly true now, as they gazed upon him with clear distrust and open disdain. Apparently during their brief acquaintance, he had failed to make a favorable impression.
Well, he had attempted to kill both her and her companions. He supposed he couldn't blame her for that.
For a moment the two of them simply stared at one another, she flanked on either side by the lovely redhead on one side and the warrior that he had fought on the other – an even more delightful specimen of the type now that he could observe him without reservation – while he remained in the dirt, sprawled on his back with his hands and feet trussed, his hair out of its usual braids and falling in tangles around his shoulders. He'd need a good bath as soon as he could manage one; providing, of course, that he survived this encounter.
Well, he wasn't dead yet. He just wish he could decide if that was a good thing or not.
"Well," he finally said, the dragging silence threatening to push him over the edge if it continued for any longer, "this is interesting. I rather thought I'd wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."
He purposefully affected a light tone, and it took his captor off his guard. Was that – yes! The barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, gone as quickly as it had appeared but existing nonetheless. "That could be easily rectified," she evenly replied. Perhaps too much so, the sign of someone trying to remain stern while fighting back amusement. "You're awfully glib for a prisoner."
He could not resist a chuckle at that – nor did he miss the slight twitch of the warrior's eye. Baiting one's captors was usually not the best idea, but something told him that in this one's case, it had the potential to be quite entertaining.
"It is my way, or so I am told," he replied, maintain to same casual tone as if he were not, in fact, bound hand and foot inside a dark tent. "Let's see, then – I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran; Zev, to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens – which I have failed at." He paused for a brief moment, then added, "Sadly."
The female Warden crossed her arms over her chest, nonplussed. "I have to admit, I'm rather happy you failed."
"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran acknowledged with a slight nod. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."
"Too bad for you, then."
Zevran gave his best mournful sigh, adding just a touch of downcast eyes for effect. "Yes, it's true. Too bad for me."
"What are the Antivan Crows?" This question came from the other Grey Warden, the warrior, and there was no mistaking his irritation; clearly he did not approve of banter during interrogation. Oho…someone believes he has a territory in need of defending, the impish thought stealing into Zevran's mind as he noted the way the man glanced sideways at the elf beside him. If she noticed, she gave no indication; her focus appeared to be entirely on Zevran himself.
"I can tell you that," spoke the redhead. She was watching Zevran now, her expression curious as she regarded him. Their eyes met, and at once Zevran's instincts flared to warning. This woman might appear to be nonthreatening, even with the bow strapped across her back and in the light armor she wore, but there was something about her that instantly put the assassin on alert. This, as much as the two Grey Wardens, was one to watch out for. He would need to tread carefully in her presence. Words were as much his specialty as blades, but he had a sense that in this woman he may have met his match.
"They are a band of assassins out of Antiva," the redhead continued. "Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done… so to speak." She narrowed her eyes at Zevran, then looked at the elven girl. "Someone went to great expense to hire this man."
"Quite right," Zevran agreed. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous." He intentionally kept his tone light, but still saw the warrior's hackles rise. Much too easy…
"Not for being good assassins, I see."
Her counter, spoken in complete calm, caught Zevran completely by surprise. Only when he actually redirected his gaze back to her did he see, to both his astonishment and delight, the glimmer of mischief in her eyes and the slight near-imperceptive tilt of her lips that bordered on impishness. Unwilling to miss an opportunity, he scoffed, "Oh, fine. Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty."
"Yllia." The warrior was outright frowning now, his irritation shifting into straight displeasure. Whatever tactic they must have decided to take with his interrogation, trading remarks with the assassin was likely not to have been on the list. She turned to look at him, lifting one eyebrow silently, and for a moment they merely looked at each other. They know each other well enough to not need words between them, Zevran mused unsurprised. He'd suspected as much when they'd been fighting, how they seemed to be able to anticipate each other's actions with confidence. It was the mark of a true partnership to be able to read the movements of your partner in an improvised battle, to move as if each could read the other's mind. Such partnerships were rare indeed; few were ever fortunate to be part of one.
To lose such a partnership… it could be the most painful of losses.
A pang in Zevran's chest quickly had him abandoning that line of thought, as the lady Warden – Yllia, such a unique name – sighed and broke eye contact with her companion, her expression shifting to serious as she turned to face her prisoner once more. The time for idle banter had passed, it seemed; the time for interrogation had begun.
"Who hired you to kill us?" Yllia asked, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at him expectantly.
Here it was, then; the decisive moment, so to speak. Zevran had given no thought to what would happen if he had failed in his mission, despite its low odds for success, simply because he had not expected to fail and survive. That the Wardens had taken him alive was… not surprising, given that anyone who had a contract on their head would likely want to know who had placed it there, but it was nevertheless unexpected. He was skilled, oh yes, strong and fast and agile – but he had met his match in facing the two of them. No… that was being generous. Had they wanted to, they could have killed him. Easily. His only true advantage had been his element of surprise. An advantage now long gone.
There was, of course, always a chance that once they were finished questioning him they'd end his life anyway. In such a case the logical course of action would be to hold true to his contract, keep his mouth shut, and let them do with him as they would. They would never force anything out of him that he did not want them to know, of that he had complete confidence. The Crows understood that their assassins were mortal, and mortals could make mistakes – such as finding themselves prisoner to their target. They were trained to prepare for such instances; a Crow who talked and claimed it was under duress was either a liar or weak-willed, and the Crows had no use for either.
There was also the small, simple fact that, now that he had survived his initial attempt at death by Warden, he…no longer wanted to die. He could not explain what had wrought that change in him, when every step he had taken since that fateful day in Antiva City had been leading him to this end, but he knew within his heart that it was true. Upon opening his eyes after expecting them to be closed for good, it felt as if he had, somehow, been granted a new lease on life. A second chance, as it were. And with that second chance came a sudden, striking new clarity – that it was not Zevran's death that would bring atonement.
He could not die. Not here, and not now. He had unfinished business.
Yllia, she of the glacial eyes, was still silently waiting for his answer.
Time to roll the dice, then, and see which way his luck fell next.
"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital," Zevran replied smoothly, as if he hadn't just held an internal debate within himself. "Loghain, I think his name was. Yes…that's it."
The warrior narrowed his eyes, an impressive growl emerging from his throat. Other different circumstances, Zevran might have been tempted to draw that growl out in other ways. Particularly if he could guarantee that the look in those hazel eyes accompanied it. "Loghain," the man spat with the clear distaste of hatred. "Not that I'm surprised. At all."
"We knew he'd put a bounty out for us," Yllia reminded him. "The odds were pretty stacked in his favor."
"I know, I know…but there's a difference between just putting out a bounty for any passing bandit to try for and actually hiring an assassin," her companion said with a sigh. "Though maybe I'm the only one who thinks so…" He scowled slightly, then looked at Zevran himself. "So. Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?"
Zevran shrugged one shoulder. "I hardly spoke with the man himself, and can truthfully say that I have no idea what his issues are with you. Most of my contact came through an associate of his, one Rendon Howe I believe his name was. Now, I must confess to a bit of curiosity regarding what you did to get on his bad side." He turned his amber gaze on the warrior, tilted his head slightly, and recalled a small piece of information that he had tucked way for potential use but otherwise discarded. "Particularly you."
Neither Warden could hide their surprise; it seemed that the idea that one of them might be prized above the other when the bounty simply called for the heads of the 'Grey Wardens' had never occurred to them. Zevran's second set of orders had apparently been for his ears alone – not that he had put much stock in those orders to begin with. His contract had been with Loghain Mac Tir, not Rendon Howe – the weasel-man had simply been his contact. Still, that didn't mean that the information wouldn't prove to be valuable in some fashion – particularly if that value led to Zevran procuring a guarantee that his head would remain attached to his shoulders.
"Me? What do you mean, particularly me? Why would you want me?" the warrior asked, his expression a mix of wary suspicion and slight panic. "More to the point – why does Loghain want me? Dead, I mean? Aside from the obvious."
His flustered state was endearing; it took much of Zevran's willpower to refrain from commenting on it. "As far as I know – and I do not profess to know the minds of taciturn noblemen – he does not. You were mentioned to me by a man named Rendon Howe. Though my contract was to eliminate the both of you, he was quite clear in his insistence that you were to be my priority, if such a choice needed to be made. Though perhaps he might have changed his mind had he been aware of your lovely companion's magical prowess." He flashed Yllia a smile he knew to be charming, and was quite amused when she pointedly refused to avert her gaze.
She soon turned to her companion, however, her expression troubled. "Alistair, who's Rendon Howe?"
"He's an Arl, like Arl Eamon," Alistair – the name suited him, Zevran decided – replied. "I remember seeing him once when he came to Redcliffe. I wasn't terribly impressed – he was on the scrawny side and had a face that resembled a rat. I've never met him personally, though; whenever someone noble came to visit, I got shuttled off to either the kennels or the stables with the instruction to keep myself occupied." His tone was matter-of-fact, punctuated by a slight shrug of his shoulders, but Zevran didn't fail to miss the way that Yllia's lips tightened at his offhand delivery of the words.
Alistair continued on as if he hadn't noticed. "If I'm remembering correctly, he's the…Arl of Amaranthine? I think it's located somewhere north of Denerim." He flushed slightly. "I've…never been up that way. I've just seen maps."
"North and east, to be more precise," Zevran volunteered.
"He's not an Arl any longer," the redhead spoke up then; she had fallen silent, settling into a role of observation rather than participation. Her words drew their attention once more. "I happened to overhear a few things during our stay in Redcliffe. It seems that Arl Rendon has now been granted the rank of Teyrn. The rumors have it that he exposed the former Teyrn of Highever as an Orlesian spy, and was granted the teyrnir as his reward."
Alistair looked at Leliana, stricken. "What?" he asked. "But…that's…there no way…!"
Yllia crossed her arms over her chest. "Hello," she said. "Circle mage for sixteen years, complete novice when it comes to Ferelden politics. Care to fill me in?"
Though he masked it well, Zevran was equally interested in the answer. One could not have a place within the Antivan Crows and not dip their fingers into the politics of the country, but he knew only the most rudimentary basics of Ferelden politics. Between the Crows and the merchant princes Antivan politics could be as complex as the Game of Orlais; he doubted Ferelden, a country more rustic than regal and only scant decades out of occupation, were even a fourth as intricate. It intrigued him greatly how one of the Ferelden nobles could have been an Orlesian spy and no one had been the wiser.
Alistair was visibly agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, opening and closing his fists. "Ferelden has two teyrns – Teyrn Loghain in the south at Gwaren and Teyrn Bryce in the north at Highever. I'd…I've always heard good things about Teyrn Bryce. The Couslands have always been loyal to the Crown, even when Orlais occupied Ferelden. I can't imagine him being a spy…" He looked lost, as if a part of his world had just had a giant hole smashed into it. Yllia placed her hand lightly on his wrist.
"Was Highever among the forces at Ostagar?" Leliana inquired, looking between her two companions. "I understand that soldiers were called from all across Ferelden – Templars, as well. Lothering was left nearly defenseless from it."
Alistair frowned. "Actually…" His brow furrowed in thought. "Wait. I remember Duncan talking about this. Highever's forces did show up, or most of them, but they were being led by Teyrn Bryce's eldest son Fergus. He'd brought a message saying that his father and the remainder of their forces were due to arrive later, with…" He trailed off, suddenly stricken.
"With?" Leliana tilted her head to one side.
Alistair swallowed hard; he looked ill. "The forces from Amaranthine," he finished. "They never made it to the battle. Just like Redcliffe."
The words hung heavy in the air between them, though Zevran himself could only guess why. He'd heard bits and pieces of some dire situation within the Arling of Redcliffe and rumors of an occurrence at the Ferelden Circle of Magi, but he'd paid little attention to them other than to note that the two Wardens had been spotted there as well. It was how he had deduced where to stage his ambush. Whatever had occurred there, though, clearly continued to weigh upon all of their minds.
Yllia brought her hand up to rest under her chin. "But that makes no sense," she said, puzzled. "Teyrn Bryce was supposed to bring reinforcements to Ostagar – much needed reinforcements. Why would Loghain conspire to keep him from doing so? What would he have to gain from it?"
"We have Jowan's statement that Teyrn Loghain ordered him to poison Arl Eamon, do we not?" remind Leliana. "And Arl Eamon was also supposed to bring reinforcements to Ostagar. Perhaps winning the battle again the darkspawn was not Teyrn Loghain's first priority?"
"Except that not winning the battle meant endangering the King." Yllia looked at her companions, her frustration evident. "That's what bothers me the most. I may have been locked away in the Circle for most of my life, but even I heard some things about the world beyond the tower. And one thing I remember hearing about, consistently, was how loyal Teyrn Loghain has always been to the royal family. King Maric was supposedly his best friend – their children even married. Why would he risk King Cailan by purposefully delaying reinforcements? Why would he risk Ferelden?"
Alistair snorted. "Obviously he saw a chance to make a grab for power and decided to take it," he scoffed. "We were both there, Yllia. We were in the tower. We lit the beacon, and instead of doing what he was supposed to do and lead in the reinforcements, Loghain quit the field.He abandoned Cailan. To die! How can you be skeptical about his having a hand in what happened at Redcliffe and Highever after what you saw with your own eyes?"
Zevran watched the tension appear in Yllia's shoulders, the way her eyes narrowed at Alistair's vehemence. This was not the first time she'd been the target of an outburst from the warrior, then, and from how she set her jaw it appeared she had little tolerance for it. The two of them appeared to have forgotten all about him; which was fine with him – for the moment, at least. It gave him some time to gather his thoughts and prepare for the next question once they remembered he existed.
It took Yllia a moment to respond; when she did, her voice was low, measured. "I'm not denying what we saw, Alistair," she said. "But what we saw is still only part of what happened. I'm only saying that it doesn't match with what we thought we knew about Teyrn Loghain, and we need to consider that we might not know the whole story."
"He sent an assassin after us!" Alistair said, red-faced as he swept his arm towards Zevran. "He poisoned Arl Eamon, who might still die if we don't find a way to save him! And what happened to Connor… you can't be saying that wasn't his doing!"
"Alistair." She spoke sharply, causing the warrior to blink in the way that only the truly taken aback could. "We can debate this later, but this is not the time. We've got a slightly more important issue to deal with right now, don't you think?" She raised her eyebrows at him, then tilted her head in Zevran's direction.
When Alistair's gaze followed her gesture Zevran did his best to affect the most innocent look he could muster, as if he hadn't been enjoying the momentary distraction from his plight. It didn't surprise him in the least when Alistair scowled and turned his head to the side, his arms crossing over his broad chest. Whether it was in response to Yllia or to Zevran's expression the assassin couldn't say, but it achieved the same result. Yllia turned her attention back to Zevran.
"All right," she said, ice blue eyes once again focused on him. "So we've established that Loghain hired you, and for whatever reason, this Rendon Howe wanted Alistair targeted specifically. Whose orders are you really carrying out – Loghain or Howe's?"
An easier question than he'd expected. Zevran shrugged. "Technically, Rendon Howe was merely my contact; the contract was with Teyrn Loghain and Teyrn Loghain alone. I paid little attention to Howe's request, as if I managed to succeed in my primary orders his specification was automatically accounted for. I suppose it matters little either way – after all, I am the one currently restrained and entirely at your mercy." Was that a hint of a blush that he detected on her cheeks? How intriguing. "All of that aside, however – to answer your earlier question regarding my loyalty, I was only contracted to perform a service. Beyond that I am not loyal to him, nor to his retainer."
The large mabari moved to sit beside his mistress, and Yllia placed her hand on top of his head, stroking the short, velvety fur. "And now that you've failed that service?"
"Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows…and between the Crows and myself."
"And between you and me?"
"Isn't that what we're establishing now?" Zevran flashed her a bright smile, the one that had never failed to get a response from his marks before, whether they be man or woman. Granted, they were usually more favorable responses than the exasperated look Yllia now directed at him, but well, what was that saying? Beggars could not be choosers? And he was, without shame, a beggar at the moment.
He let the smile slip away as Yllia continued with the interrogation. "When were you to see him next?"
"I wasn't. If I had succeeded I would have returned to Antiva and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results…if he didn't already know. If I had failed I would be dead." Zevran paused, then added in a quieter voice, "Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then."
"If you had failed?" Yllia asked archly.
Another flash of smile, as cheerful as he could muster. "What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although," Zevran let out a laugh that was only half-forced, "the chances of succeeding at this point do seem a bit slim, don't they?" He sobered quickly when he saw the less-than-amused frown being directed at him now, as well as Leliana and Alistair's twin glares. "No, I don't suppose you'd find that funny, would you?"
"Not really, considering the fact that Alistair and I are both rather attached to living," Yllia replied. Her hand came to rest to rest under her chin again, the lightly curved knuckle of her index finger briefly touching her lower lip as she regarded him thoughtfully. She turned to face her companions. "Alistair, Leliana – can you two step out for a moment?"
Three pairs of startled eyes fixed on her. "What? You mean – leave? You here? Alone?" Alistair asked, incredulous.
Yllia met his eyes silently and waited.
Alistair shot a glare in Zevran's direction. "I'm not okay with this, Yllia. He already tried to kill us once."
"And failed rather spectacularly," Zevran offered. Perhaps he should have kept quiet since he didn't know why Yllia was sending away her companions, but well – he couldn't resist pressing the warrior's buttons. He had such interesting reactions.
Yllia kept her attention focused on Alistair. "I'm not asking you to pull up camp and head for Denerim without me," she said. "Just step outside. You can even stand right outside the flap if that makes you feel better." When Alistair still didn't look like he was going to relent, she snapped her fingers and Rhys immediately pushed his head underneath her hand. "And I'll have Rhys with me, plus the obvious."
Still nothing, and now Yllia was beginning to look exasperated. "Alistair. He's tied up and unarmed. I have an overprotective mabari shadowing my every move, and I don't need a weapon in order to be armed. It'll be fine."
Alistair started to speak, clearly intended to argue his point further. Leliana placed a placating hand on his arm. "We will stand right outside the tent, Alistair, and you can have your hand on your sword the entire time."
With both women now looking at him in challenge, Alistair finally sighed and lowered his head. "Fine," he relented. "We'll step out, but we're standing right there. Agreed?"
"Agreed." Yllia stood with her hands resting on her hips, watching with what seemed to Zevran to be exaggerated patience. Even the mabari, standing beside to her with ears perked, seemed to be waiting for the two to leave. It piqued Zevran's curiosity – and made him wary. The warrior's presence was intimidating and there was more to the redhead than met the eye, but it was this petite, dark-haired elf who was the real threat.
Suddenly he was not particularly keen about the idea of being alone with her.
Once the tent flap fell into place, Yllia and her mabari looked at each other. She nodded, and the mabari promptly trotted over to the flap, lying down in front of it much in the same way that he had when been before his mistress had come into the tent. Yllia raised her hand, a yellowish glow at her fingertips as she traced what appeared to be a series of intricate symbols in the air.
The glow dimmed as she finished, and she dropped her hand back to her hip. "There," she said with satisfaction. She turned to look at him, and he quizzically tilted his head to the side. "Silencing spell. Entropic magic's not my forte, but we're taught the basics of each school before we find our strengths. No one will hear anything we actually say beyond this tent, even if they stand right outside it."
"Impressively devious," Zevran complimented. "I don't suppose this is the part where you confess to being utterly charmed by my good looks and roguish wit and announce your intent to release me while your companions are otherwise distracted?"
"Does that usually work, or are you just laying it on extra thick for my benefit?" Yllia asked, even though amusement sparkled in her pale blue eyes, adding a warmth to them that hadn't been present before. "To answer your question, though – no. No charming of any sort was involved in this – at least not successfully. But I might consider giving you a chance to win that freedom."
Zevran tilted his head to the side. "Oh?" She was right; he'd only been teasing. He hadn't honestly considered that she really might give thought to releasing him. Now that the suggestion had been made, however… "I believe I should listen, then."
"Smart man." Yllia walked over to him and knelt next to him, bringing herself down so that they were more on the same level. "I don't know much about the Antivan Crows, and I certainly don't know anything about you. I also don't think that the Crows will look too kindly on your spilling details of your mission to your targets, so I have to wonder - why tell us anything at all?"
Zevran let out a chuckle at the directness of the statement. There was a shrewd mind behind those eyes of ice, to be certain. "Why not?" he asked. "I wasn't paid for silence – I wasn't paid at all, in fact, though I understand the Crows were paid quite handsomely. There is nothing in my contract that states I need to throw myself on the sword for my employer."
"And what about the Crows?" Yllia asked, her expression intent. "Aren't you at least loyal to them?"
"Loyalty is an interesting concept." Zevran narrowed his eyes, gaze sharpening to become as intense as hers. "If we are in fact done with the interrogation, perhaps we can discuss it further."
Yllia inclined her head in consideration for half a beat, then nodded once. Slowly. "I'm listening."
"Well, here's the thing," Zevran began. "I failed to kill you, and so my life is now forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So…" He looked straight into her eyes and played his final hand. "Let me serve you, instead."
He had a strong suspicion that this was what Yllia Surana had been after the moment she'd dismissed her two companions from the tent, though she didn't immediately accept his offer. Points in her favor, as far as he was concerned. In the reverse, he wouldn't be so quick to trust himself, either.
"If I accept, can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you that you show to your former employer?" Yllia asked.
"I happen to be a very loyal person," Zevran immediately replied, taking care not to let his desperation show. It wouldn't do for her to realize precisely how much power she had over him right then. "Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not really a fault, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same. In which case, I…don't come very well recommended, I suppose."
"And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?" Yllia asked. She glanced towards the closed tent flap; the silencing spell apparently worked both ways, because Zevran couldn't hear anything from the outside. The mabari had his ears pricked, and he was staring at Zevran unblinking. He had the sense that the hound was judging his answers as much as his mistress.
"To be completely honest," Zevran replied, "I was never given much of a choice when it came to joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them plus tenfold – the only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. And even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."
"Won't they come after you?"
He gave that a moment of thought before responding. "Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you." He flashed her another smile. "Not that you seem to need much help. And if not, well…it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?
"You'll find me quite useful, I believe," he added. "I am skillful in many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I also have a certain knowledge of how the more underground branches of society work, and could warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more…sophisticated…now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?"
Yllia let out a burst of laugher, and Zevran could feel the lingering tension diffuse with that sweet sound. It was hard to imagine that only a couple of hours earlier he had been locked in combat with this woman and her companions, certain that he was facing his death at her hands. He grinned in response. "So what shall it be? I'll even shine armor. You won't find a better deal, I promise."
"I don't know if I've ever met anyone quite like you, Zevran Arainai," Yllia said with another laugh, shaking her head. "All right. You've convinced me to give you a chance, at least. I've already got a Qunari warrior, a Chantry sister, a blood mage and a witch of the wilds in my entourage – an Antivan assassin seems like it might be a good fit."
"I shall endeavor not to disappoint," Zevran replied. "So now that we have covered that…I don't suppose you'd be willing to allow the blood to return to my hands?" He twisted himself to show his bound wrists for emphasis, giving her his best innocent-eyed look. She rolled her eyes, but nevertheless withdrew a small dagger from within her robes and sliced the ropes that bound his wrists, then his ankles. He sat up the moment he could, rubbing at his wrists to remove the numbness tingling beneath his skin. "Ah, much better."
Yllia stood extended a hand to him, and he grasped it firmly. Once on his feet he tightened his grip, preventing her from letting go. Her eyes immediately flew up to meet his. There was no fear in them.
"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, Yllia Surana," Zevran said, "until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man without reservation. This, I swear." He released her hand and stepped back, bowing his head and bringing his arm to his chest in a salute.
Yllia smiled. "I accept your oath, Zevran Arainai," she said. "I can't guarantee that you won't regret it, but I can promise that your life is about to get a lot more interesting."
A slow smile spread across his own face, eyes dancing with keen interest. "Of that, I have no doubt."