Cutting across the damn countryside would have been faster. His carriage moved at a snail's pace along the Imperial Highway, but within two days they at last pulled into Lydes. The bustling city meant they had two options - find ship and sail across the narrowest part of the Waking Sea, or continue around the bay and to the other side via Montsimmard, Val Firmin, Velun… and finally to Val Chevin.
Val Firmin, Varric thought ruefully. Bianca's forge, the one her husband bought her when they were newly married, once existed there. Varric, unsurprisingly, never received an invitation to visit and always steered clear of it. Once, he recalled, the thought of Orlais conjured nothing but Bianca. Thoughts of where she was, what she was doing, shamefully sometimes even thoughts of whose bed she woke up in. But when he looked out the carriage window now at the rolling fields, the small farms, the quaint villages…
He remembered Maria, her Inquisition banners snapping in the wind, smoke rising into the air from burning bodies farther afield. She stood on the back of a supply cart, hair falling from the knot at the nape of her neck and sticking to her rosy skin in the heat. Displaced villagers circled the Inquisition carts and the people were only just starting to realize the Inquisitor herself was the one who distributed food into each pair of grimy, battle ravaged hands. She smiled down into open, wide eyed faces while she hauled baskets of food down as quickly as she could.
She accused him, laughingly, of making that scene up for the book. Her memories of the Orlesian Heartlands consisted of endless walking, rifts spitting out demons, desolate and abandoned villages, pits of undead. He'd been there, though, he knew what happened. He recalled looking up from the medicine he'd been sorting just long enough to see someone gently, reverently, reach out to brush their fingers over her arm with desperate hope. Maria probably hadn't even realized, she raised her hand up to her arm as if to brush away a piece of ash, intent on the next refugee. She didn't see the awe on the face of the one who touched her. She didn't see the way the sunlight hit brightly on her hair, making her a beacon in the crowd.
She didn't know what she meant to them. To him. For Maria Cadash, it had been obvious what needed done so she started it. Sitting still and letting someone else hand out rations while she waited to hear about where her scouts sighted trouble probably never even crossed her mind.
And now, possibly for the rest of his life, when he thought of Orlais, he saw her hair in the sun, conjured her eyes lit up in determination and her bow drawn taut, her lips quirking up in amusement.
Sweet hairy ancestors, that woman. That mad, impossible woman. His woman.
"Well Tethras. I'm going to be honest, we're both playing so shittily that I just now noticed we've got about twice the number of face cards this deck should have." Bea sighed, spreading her hand across the table in defeat. She did indeed have seven queens instead of four, Varric had two in his own hand as well.
"Well." Varric threw his own cards down, not even bothering to see if either of them had been close to winning. "That's what we get for trying to play Diamondback with one of your sister's Wicked Grace decks."
He almost heard Maria's amused sultry chuckle. Diamondback wasn't Maria's game, she only ever acquiesced to it for Fenris. She borrowed one of his decks or Hawke's whenever he talked her into it. Varric could go through the effort of digging out his own deck in his luggage, but these cards felt like Maria in her absence, brought her spirit to sit at the table between the two of them.
Bea traced a finger down one of the cards as if she felt it too before shaking her head. "I'd use mine, but Bela has it marked up so terribly the game is basically unsalvageable."
"At the risk of learning entirely more than I want to know, what exactly is going on there? I've known Rivaini nearly fifteen years and I've never seen her carry on like she does with you."
He'd seen Isabela carry on with lots of people, though. Men, women, elves, dwarves, she certainly couldn't be called discriminatory. Or discerning. Bea's lips twitched fondly. "You know how it is. She's got a lover in every port. I've got operations in every port. It's efficient and we're getting older."
Varric raised his eyebrow as he brought his glass to his lips. Bea ignored him serenely, shuffling the cards halfheartedly. "And..?" He prodded.
"For the love of…" Bea shook her head in exasperation, slinking down into her seat. "She's fun. I'm fun. Not every affair has to have a thrill of danger or inspire epic poetry to be worth it."
"No thrill of danger? With Rivaini?" Varric questioned in disbelief. "Managing all that leg alone seems plenty dangerous."
"I like human legs." Bea grinned, wrinkling her nose while her eyes sparkled in amusement. "Ever notice how nicely they wrap around things? Masts, trees…"
"Dwarves?" He added with no small amount of exasperation. Bea tilted her head to the side curiously.
"Have you honestly never had one?" Bea leaned forward, warming to the subject. This was probably marginally better than sitting in silence and moping. Marginally. "I thought for sure you and Hawke did the horizontal dance at least once."
He nearly spat out his drink. "Andraste's sanctified ass. Who gave you that idea?"
"According to Bela, Hawke slept with the entire brothel and most of Kirkwall."
"Congratulations." Varric's voice dripped sarcasm. "You found the least reliable source of information about Kirkwall. Truly, a feat to be proud of."
Bea frowned, disappointed. "Well. Bianca thought the two of you were sleeping together."
Funny how that sentence could start a migraine headache as easily as all the letters Bianca sent implying the very same thing. Almost like his body had just been waiting for two years to have the same damn argument. "Yeah, well. I wasn't sleeping with Hawke. Ever."
"I would." Bea propped her elbow on the table, settled her chin in her palm while she contemplated. "Even though she has a baby now. She's still the Champion, right? Something to brag about."
"Getting past Broody would be something to write home about." Varric muttered, tracing his thumb over a deep scratch on the table. The silence stretched on and Varric looked up right into Bea's piercing eyes.
Maria's eyes. His heart thudded uncomfortably and he very nearly almost conjured Maria's face out her sister's features.
"You haven't asked about her." Bea stated shrewdly, narrowing her eyes. "I thought you would."
"I don't need to ask what Rivaini's doing." Varric deflected easily. "I know she's plundering, partying…"
Bea flicked one of the cards from the deck at his face. Varric dodged just in time to avoid a papercut and the aggravating woman giggled in response. "Don't bullshit me, Tethras."
"I'm not having this conversation with you. I'm never having this conversation with you." It was awkward and probably dangerous and he couldn't see any way to make it less fraught. Bea tapped her fingers against her chin thoughtfully, pondering him like he was a difficult lock and she just needed to find the right tool.
"I like Bianca, you know." Bea stated simply. "Not all the time, but sometimes. More than I thought I would, at any rate. She's been better in the last year, happier, I think."
Happier. Varric hoped so, truly. "If she wanted me to know how she was doing, Mittens, she'd write."
"And risk giving me a letter for you?" Bea laughed. "She barely trusts me, and the way she's been burned I don't blame her. She thinks any letter she wrote would end up in Maria's ha…"
Just like that, the situation came crashing back down around them. Bea's teasing smile dropped as quickly as her eyes flew to the table. Varric's throat swelled shut, the thought of Maria's hands both sobering and depressing.
"She made it through after Hercinia." Bea stated through gritted teeth. "She'll get through this. She has to."
Varric's neck prickled and his fingers twitched for his crossbow over his shoulder, but he stilled them. No use in letting the dwarf he caught sight of in his peripheral know that Varric saw him duck into a dark corner. Varric nonchalantly waved the innkeeper over and requested one breakfast tray be sent to his rooms before turning and ambling easily back to the steps. He didn't betray that he felt the dwarf's eyes follow him, a lingering weight on his shoulder.
Andraste's freckled tits, if it wasn't one thing, it was another. Definitely Carta, he mused as he climbed. Varric could spot Carta from a mile away, but that didn't necessarily mean they were in trouble. He didn't recognize the shadowed figure, but it'd been awhile since the Cadash clan traipsed freely though Skyhold.
"Mittens." He began mildly as he shut the door behind him with a click. Bea made an irritated noise in the back of her throat, pulling the blanket up further around her ears in the bed she occupied. Varric slept on the damn chair like a gentleman, even though he felt entirely too old for this. "When you said you sent your people away, where exactly did you send them to?"
She mumbled something under the quilt. Varric sighed wearily, tugging it down impatiently. "Repeat that?"
"Amaranthine." She groaned, pulling the quilt out of his hand with a piercing glare. "Sod off, Tethras."
"Is there any chance any of them ended up in Lydes?"
Bea mumbled sleepily. "No, don't listen to me like they did for Nanna. For Maria. But they wouldn't risk going further into Orlais. Not stupid."
Shit. "So, any other enemies you've made lately? Carta clan wars you've started?"
Bea blinked once, twice, turning her eyes to him with gradual alertness coming over her features. "No. Who'd start a Carta war with the Inquisitor's sister?"
Fair point, but not reassuring. If they weren't here on their own volition, somebody paid for them. Varric had been on the wrong end of enough assassination attempts to know where this was going. "So, we've got a problem and we're going to need to rethink our plans."
"Of course we do." Bea grumbled, sitting up and pushing her frazzled curls away from her face. "What is it?"
Varric quickly explained what he saw, pausing only to retrieve their breakfast cautiously from the door. He half expected to need to dodge a crossbow bolt while he balanced the tray on one arm. "So, as you can see…"
"We don't know they're here for me." Bea's eyes swirled, a mixture of flashing emotions and half formed thoughts. "Something isn't right here."
He hated to be patronizing, but she was sorely asking for it. "Mittens, when you fuck around with the guild, you develop a rather more lengthy list of enemies than you sign up for."
She had that mutinous look on her face, the one she usually saved for Maria. Varric needed to salvage this somehow and pull the plug on whatever rebellious notions entered the younger Cadash's head. "Beatrix." He warned carefully. "Would your sister really want us to take a chance investigating the Carta lurking downstairs, or would she rather we just act like the worst is happening?"
Bea deflated in guilt, biting her lip. "You want us to split up."
"They don't know you're up here." If they knew, they'd have slipped up the stairs and slid a knife between her ribs while she slept and he waited for the innkeeper's attention. "Which means you can cut up to the harbor and find a ship to get you to Val Chevin while they follow me around the coast."
Maybe he could ditch his own coach then and cut through the heartlands the same way Dorian planned to take Maria. Risky for a dwarf on his own, but with luck he would catch up. Maria couldn't possibly be moving that quickly, not the way she'd been favoring her whole right side still. Dorian wouldn't push her, either. In fact, the poor man was probably forcing her to rest as much as possible.
"I don't like it." Bea tossed her curls over her shoulder. "I'm telling you, something stinks like nug shit."
This whole thing stunk, Varric agreed. Somebody had to have leaked Bea was with him, and he couldn't imagine who in the unholy void would do that beyond Bran, who he'd been watching very carefully for just that. "If something happens to you, I'm never going to hear the end of it." Varric remarked casually.
"I don't want to leave you behind." Bea blurted helplessly.
Because the Cadash sisters didn't leave people behind, their cardinal rule, born from a life lived without parents who died alone and forgotten in the Deep Roads. Maria repeated it over and over again, made decisions based on it first, every other consideration second. "I know, Mittens." Varric began heavily. "We don't leave people behind. I get it."
"You're not just people." Bea sighed, flopping back down on the bed hopelessly. "You're family, you great beardless oaf."
Varric had family, lots of them. He expected, rather reasonably, nearly all of them would gladly sell him out for a couple gold pieces. With a surge of fondness, he realized Beatrix Cadash wouldn't. Not unless he deserved it, anyway. He shook his head, looking down at the little sister he didn't want or need. The one the guild could pry out his cold, dead hands. "That almost sounded like affection, Mittens."
Bea's lips twitched. "It wasn't." She argued.
Varric didn't believe her for a minute.
Bea slipped out the back window with enough coin to get her safely onto a ship to Val Royeaux. From there, she'd have an easy time getting to Val Chevin. If she encountered problems there, well, Val Chevin was just a quick jaunt from the border with Nevarra and Bea was pretty certain the Siren's Revenge was going to be docked at Cumberland.
Varric waited an hour before he departed with Bran for Verchiel. This, definitively, was Maria's territory thanks to Sera and her "friends." Dorian and Maria wouldn't risk the city itself, but they'd skirt close on their way into the plains. Varric had a head start in the carriage, although surely eroding by the hour. If he dithered in Verchiel for a day, he may run right into them. Maria probably wouldn't be thrilled he sent Bea on ahead, but he couldn't summon enough concern about her temper. Hell, he'd take fury gladly if it meant she was coming back to herself.
Anything was better than the empty look in her eyes when she said he should have left her. Anything would be less a knife to the heart than that.
But Varric couldn't anticipate how utterly solitary the journey to Verchiel was. Bea's paltry distractions did more to lighten the mood than he thought and he missed them. Without her rambling, inappropriate conversation or her efforts to engage him in halfhearted card games, the air itself felt heavy as lead.
He couldn't write with the carriage moving, a frustration. If he could write, if he could pour something out onto the page, it would stop careening around his head like a trapped bird beating wings against the windows. Instead, he flicked thoughtlessly and furiously through his journal, as if he could find something comforting in the pages.
Instead, all he saw were broken pieces of his soul. There, a snippet of Tale of the Champion, telling the way Hawke held her mother, the one that didn't make it into the book because it was too close to the way she'd really fallen apart, keening, even as both Broody and Blondie tried to pull her away from the monster in front of her.
Half a verse of poetry Maria inspired when she rose from the bath, dripping like a siren, water sloshing off her pinkened skin and a smile, sly and winsome, aimed in his direction.
A rude drawing of a prick over a verbose and overly grand description of Skyhold. Sera's doing, he was sure.
A dried marguerite folded between two pages of a heavily embellished account of Maria fighting Hakon in the Frostback Basin. They grew all over the ground there and Maria nearly constantly had one tucked behind her ear. That was where she asked him to tell her story, and he'd started with that fight.
One more god for his Herald to strike down. It seemed easy then.
He started drinking nearly as soon as they got to Verchiel. Rookie mistake, really. At the very least, he knew better than to drink alone, in his room. No good story ever started out "the very sad man drank himself into a stupor," but there he was. His mother drank herself into a grave. Varric swore he'd never go the same way, but on days like this, it seemed like as good an idea as any.
Three days since he'd seen Maria. Three days since they lost their child, since she lost her damn arm. Three days since they found out they'd been pieces in a bigger game all along. He toyed with the idea of making Bran drink with him. The man was insufferable, but at least he could say he hadn't been drinking alone. But, he'd sober up in the morning and head out on his own, let Bran accompany the damned carriage the rest of the way.
Varric could spend this last night of weakness picking over the last three years with a fine toothed comb. There was Chuckles, at Haven, swearing that the mark on Maria's hand was the best damned way to close the breach. Solas grabbing her glowing hand when she appeared, careless of the way Maria flinched away from him, thrusting it towards the sky.
Solas telling her to lead them to Skyhold.
Solas asking her not to drink from the well. Begging her not to.
Solas digging the red lyrium shard from her shoulder.
Varric should have seen it coming. An Elven apostate who just happened to know as much about the fade as they needed? Who guessed how the rifts worked? They'd been fucking blind. He'd been blind, he knew betrayal. Felt it in his own back the day Kirkwall blew up. How did he miss this?
Solas told him, once, Maria would fall. He said it with an air of certain fatality because Solas fucking knew. Solas always knew.
The knock on the door dragged him from his recrimination. He ignored it. Varric instead chose to focus, morosely, on how he failed the women in his life, repeatedly. Bianca, his first failure. She'd been destined to be a paragon, he knew that then, but still… Varric wanted her regardless of the cost. If not for him, for his selfishness and greed, Bianca may have been able to be truly happy with her husband. She may not have had to flee in the night, stashed wherever Beatrix stuck her. She wouldn't be a paragon now, not hiding from her own shadow.
Hawke, his great champion, bound up in all his clever lies and fanciful stories. Was he the reason Orsino and Meredith stuck her in the middle? Her reputation was his own making, wasn't it? A game he'd played, vainly, for the masses because Varric had to hear the sound of his own voice. His best friend who tried desperately to hold his home together even when Kirkwall ripped everything away from her.
And Maria…
Maria mourning the loss of the child he wanted, broken and battered in a bed too large for her, miles away from anything remotely close to being called home. Maria fleeing into the night because he couldn't keep her sister out of a jail cell, Maria flinching from his touch the same way she flinched from Solas's the first time he grabbed her hand. Maria standing under the breach alone, always alone.
If he failed any of them, he failed Maria the most. The thought made him reach for the bottle again, even when the door burst open. He was too drunk to do more than fumble for the crossbow, barely hefted it into his arms before the blow to his head sent him into blissful unconsciousness.