A/N: Thank you, Lisa, for your very helpful beta and for making sense of the gibberish! :)
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Behind the Masks

Grand and glorious, the city of Val Royeaux was home to the Chantry, the Templar Order and the most powerful monarch in Thedas. Beyond the docks and wharves, the city was revealed in all her grandeur. For Anya, returning reminded her of all she had given up when she'd joined the Grey Wardens, a choice that she had never regretted. She stared at the sprawling city before her, knowing that for all its beauty it was also corrupt and gradually decaying from within. As much as Celene tried to introduce social programs, the myriad nobles who jockeyed for power and wealth dismantled those programs almost before they were introduced. Sometimes Anya felt the only significant change that would ever occur in Orlais would be when the poor revolted against the nobles.

Often compared to a beautifully-gowned woman, the city was gleaming golden white in the waning sun. The Imperial Palace, with its translucent white marble walls, stood at one end of a wide, flower-bedecked boulevard, the buildings gracefully curving around the Imperial Gardens.

At the other end was the towering glory of the Grand Cathedral, its thick pink granite walls flecked with gold and deep blue. Built of granite unique to the Gamordan Peaks, the pink was as light as a maiden's blush, turned radiant by the setting sun. The columns, rising above the Grand Cathedral, were capped in gold leaf, each bearing witness to the life of Andraste; tall golden statuary graced the square in tribute to the Bride of the Maker.

Between the Grand Cathedral and the Imperial Palace was the White Spire, rising to embrace the bright blue sky, a pure white marble, continuously lit by the use of magic as homage to the Maker and referred to as the Sword of the Maker. It was visible from anywhere within the city and was a reminder of the importance of the Templar Order in protecting the citizens of Thedas, although Anya referred to it as the White Irony.

The White Spire, home to the Orlesian Circle of Magi, housed the phylacteries of every First Enchanter in Thedas, as well as all the mages within the Spire. It was, as far as Anya was concerned, a repressive prison for the mages, a place where the order ruled with an iron fist yet felt no compunction in using the very magic they touted as a danger to man. In her mind, it summed up everything wrong with the current state of politics in Orlais, not to mention the little she'd seen of Kirkwall where the templars had an even tighter hold.

With great care Anya made her way down the gangplank, painfully aware of her limp, as well as the eyes of her brother and his men watching her slow progress. Nathaniel followed her and she was thankful that he didn't attempt to help her, grateful that he knew her well enough not to. Carver and Flynne had the prisoner positioned between them, cloaked and gagged, hands bound. She'd given all three men permission to stop him by any means necessary should he attempt to escape, ensuring that Rousel heard her orders and their acknowledgement.

As she neared her brother, she saw the classic signs of anger in his stance, in his eyes. She felt a tickle of alarm, the old familiar twist of childhood arguments turning her stomach, but she continued across the worn planks of the pier until she stood before him. A thin smile stretched his lips upwards but it failed to reach his eyes before it was gone.

In a quiet voice, he greeted her. "I hear you have an old friend with you, Warden Commander Caron."

She felt her heart sink. He was more than angry; he was furious and his voice reflected the cold formality of his station. "You have been misinformed. I have only a new Grey Warden recruit with me."

"Poppet, you know I can't allow you to parade Rousel through the streets of Val Royeaux," Raoul tutted with just enough condescension in his voice to make Anya's temper rise.

He was deliberately goading her and she vowed not to succumb to the anger that rippled through her blood. If she gave him that power in front of both her men and his, she would not be able to reclaim the moral high ground later. She silently cursed her brother's attempt to undermine her, refusing to allow it.

Leaning in close to him, she fought to keep her voice and expression neutral. "He is a Grey Warden conscript and, as such, will be taken to the compound like any other conscript. Now," she continued, lowering her voice and allowing a hint of anger to show through, "unless you want your childhood pet name known to all of Val Royeaux before sunset, you will do well to refrain from using mine while in the company of subordinates."

Their eyes locked and she refused to breathe or blink. She was no longer the child he seemed to consider her and it was time he understood that. Finally, after several painfully slow moments, he nodded briefly. A hint of sheepishness graced his handsome face, giving Anya a flash of childish triumph. He clicked his heels and bowed formally. "Warden Commander, as an agent of Her Imperial Highness, Empress Celene the First, I welcome you to Val Royeaux and offer you my sword arm."

Relief allowed her to breathe again and she returned his bow. "I accept the honor bestowed upon me, Commandant de l'Epée Caron."

"So, tell me what Rousel has done that merits conscription. Has he suddenly grown a backbone? A brain? Never tell me he has developed a heart?"

Despite herself, she chuckled, though she quickly swallowed it in an effort to maintain even a hint of dignity. "No, none of those. But he was found spying on me and has learned several Warden secrets. I had the option of killing him or conscripting him and you know we Wardens never waste a potential asset."

The lie, so close to the truth, flowed from her with surprising ease, but a pang of guilt pierced her conscience. In all their time growing up, she had trusted him, worshipped him and envied him. And now she was lying to him. She remembered their meeting a few months earlier in Jader and wondered if that was when she first began to wonder about his loyalty to the family. He had suggested that Celene was using Anya's position in the Wardens to bolster the defenses of Orlais and that he was a part of that plan. Would he really sell out his family for political gain? No, she told herself resolutely. Raoul was a Caron first and foremost, she reminded herself forcefully. It wasn't her immediate family she distrusted; it was everyone else in Val Royeaux.

"A moment, Commander?" he asked, stepping away from the circle created by his men and hers. She nodded, motioning for her men to stay where they were, and limped after her brother.

"You are using him for bait," Raoul said flatly as soon as they were alone.

"I am. I will use whatever means necessary to accomplish my missions, Raoul. You taught me that, you and Father. Don't even pretend to be somehow surprised by who I have become."

Pain rested briefly in his expression and he glanced away for a minute. "No, I'm not. I am sad, Poppet, not surprised. And I apologize for my high-handedness earlier. You didn't deserve that. I was angry that you hadn't given us warning of your visit."

Shrugging, she gave him a half-smile. "You'll retract that apology when you hear about my confrontation with Raimond de Luc."

The change in his demeanor was instant, his mouth twisting from a smile into a grimace. "If you didn't kill him, then it I can only hope you maimed him."

Unease grew in her and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. "What do you mean? Has he fallen out of favor with Father?"

"Fallen out of favor? He jumped out of favor of his own accord. He left the chevaliers to become Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons's steward."

Unease grew like a wild vine to curl around her lungs and squeeze, making it impossible to breathe. She saw her brother's concern chase across his face but only because she knew him. Anyone else would not notice a change in his expression. Finally, she managed to speak around the dread. "He was wearing his chevalier uniform. I had no idea he was no longer in father's service. Why did Father not insist he turn over all badges and honors of the office?" she asked, baffled by the strange turn of events.

"He did, Poppet. You know Father well enough to know he would never allow a chevalier to resign without first returning the uniform. Obviously he had someone make him another."

Anya thought of the dagger she had packed in her trunk, the only evidence of the attack in the fog months earlier. "Whoever made that also made a dagger with the Imperial mark on it. Obviously there is a traitor even closer than you imagined."

Raoul barely masked his shock. "We must get off the streets and out of the open, Pop – Anya. I know you want to use Rousel to lure whoever hired him out of hiding, but there will be more men than even your Wardens can manage. If you will allow me, I have three carriages waiting, and masks and cloaks for each of my men, as well as yours. Do you trust me?"

He was right, of course. She hadn't anticipated just how deep the schisms were among the nobles. While she might have attracted the attentions of whoever Rousel was working for, she would also have left herself and her men vulnerable. She nodded briskly and heard the exhalation of relief from her brother. "Thank you. I will not disappoint that trust."

Watching the men don helmets with masks for faceplates, as well as identical blue cloaks, it soon became nearly impossible to tell who was who. She could sense her men by their taint, but otherwise they were indistinguishable from Raoul's guards and Rousel. The men were given orders not to speak or in any way give their identity away, even to each other.

Raoul handed her into a carriage with three others and followed her in. With a shouted order to the driver, the carriage lurched forward along the paved streets. "Each coach will take a different route to the Palais de Dirigeant."

She knew that the man directly across from her was a Warden and she was fairly certain it was Carver, based on his build, but couldn't be positive of anything more than the presence of the taint in the man. The other masked men could have been anyone, although she strongly suspected that Rousel was not one of the passengers in her carriage. Raoul was too clever to do anything so obvious. She glanced at her brother. "Let's hope this works."

"Have faith, Anya."

They rode in silence after that, the carriage winding along the streets of Val Royeaux, through the park dedicated to Kordillus Drakon the First, with all its marble statuary of the first emperor of Orlais in various heroic poses, then along the dank, dark alleys that skirted the broad boulevards. The streets were filled with noise; street vendors called to customers, men and women exchanged greetings, horses whickered and neighed, and above it all, the soothing sweetness of the Choir of the Divine, raising its voice in the Chant of Light. It was home, and yet Anya felt as if she was a stranger.

Nearly an hour after leaving the docks, the carriage pulled up before the ornate wrought iron gates of the Palais de Dirigeant, her former home. "Have the other carriages arrived?"

"Only one, Commandant Caron."

"Blood and thunder! Both carriages should have arrived within minutes of each other," Raoul cursed.

Anya recognized the anger that masked his fear. Her own fear mounted. Had the missing carriage been attacked or merely delayed by the throngs of people still out on the streets of Val Royeaux? And where were her men?

"We need to go in search of them," she said quietly.

"Agreed, but first we speak with Father. He'll want to know that you are safe."

Anya bit back her arguments, giving only a curt nod before stepping out of the carriage and looking up at the imposing palace she had grown up in. She hadn't taken two steps before a carriage came clattering around the corner. Horses reared as they were pulled to a stop and a man leaned out.

"We've got wounded! Send for the healers!" the driver yelled.

"Flynne!"

Anya turned at the sound of Carver's voice, watching as his helmet hit the ground. His voice was filled with anguish and she saw that emotion haunting his eyes as he sprinted in the direction of the carriage. Her thoughts were jumbled and confused, much like the scene unfolding in the courtyard in front of her. She hurried toward the carriage, Raoul and the others quickly passing her.

The gates slammed shut, reverberating metallic sounds shrill in the air. Men came streaming out of the barracks, many in their uniforms, weapons drawn. Her father appeared on the steps of the palace, his eyes searching the crowd and then locking on hers, his expression mirroring his shock at seeing her disability for the first time. As quickly as the shock registered, it disappeared behind his usual mask of command, but not so quick that Anya hadn't seen it.

"Where is the prisoner?" Raoul shouted.

"We've got him!" yelled a soldier from the second carriage.

"Take him below, to the dungeons. Put him in the care of Devlin and tell Devlin I will hold him personally accountable for the prisoner's safety," Enrique ordered brusquely.

Turning away from her father, afraid she would show her hurt at his reaction, and her fear for her men, she continued to the coach, all too aware of the odd hopping skip she performed in her haste, her frustration and fear giving way to one persistent and chilling question.

Where was Nathaniel?

~~~oOo~~~

"Are you sure?" Margaret asked, already striding from the room in search of her medical kit.

Varric, breathing heavily as he tried to keep up, complained, "Slow down, Hawke. Blondie's out for the count; he isn't going anywhere."

Despite Varric's reassurances, once she had her kit, she hurried along the dark passageways between her wine cellar and Anders's clinic. She was thankful that Fenris had already departed, the letter from Minrathous in hand, before Varric's arrival. He would have insisted on accompanying her and that would have led to an argument that she'd prefer to avoid.

Entering the clinic, she was surprised to find it empty. A thin layer of dust covered the examination tables and the long countertops where she usually sat to make potions and poultices.

"In his room," Varric said in anticipation of her question.

"Varric, are you positive that there isn't someone named Fallon staying with him?" she asked again.

"Hawke, this is me you're talking to. If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have said anything," Varric retorted, a trace of hurt in his voice, but he gave her a roguish grin. "My boys watch this place day and night. The only one who's living here is Blondie. Although…" he trailed off, frowning.

"What?" Margaret prompted, pausing at the door to Anders's living quarters.

"Frander and Mawcin said they heard Blondie talking to himself several times in the past few weeks. I figured it was just him talking to that thing of his."

Fear blossomed in her chest, making it feel tight and drying her mouth, making her next words difficult. "Let's hope he's just suffering from exhaustion. A lack of sleep can cause hallucinations," she said, embarrassed by the tremor and defensive tone in her voice. The notion sounded far-fetched even to her.

"Yeah, because it couldn't possibly have anything to do with carrying around extra passengers," Varric scoffed, but he gave her a brief, sympathetic grin.

Fingers trembling, she opened the door and stepped into his bedroom. He was curled up on his side in a protective posture as he slept. Margaret knelt beside the cot and stared at her friend. He was pale and drawn, even more than normal, his skin translucent, as if he was a marble effigy of himself.

"Anders," she whispered, mentally preparing a warding spell if necessary. She reached out a hand and rested it on his clammy brow. Her heart ached to see him looking so fragile. "Anders, it's Margaret."

An eye opened and she could see the struggle within him to focus. For the beat of a heart, she saw fury and madness and then he blinked and opened his eyes wide and he was Anders again. "Annie?" he asked plaintively and closed his eyes again as if he couldn't bear to see the truth.

"It's all right, Anders, I'll take care of you," Margaret promised, wondering if he was beyond her care. She had to try. And trust in Fenris to understand the healer in her needed to do everything within her power to help Anders, even if it meant ripping off the mask he hid behind and exposing the madness within.

She shivered, wondering if she wasn't a bit mad herself to even contemplate assisting him. Varric laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze before he stepped back.

"Looks like shit, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "Can you send out for some food? He doesn't appear to have been eating well."

"Or sleeping. Ancestors' tits, Hawke, those circles under his eyes have circles," the dwarf muttered on his way out of the room.

Reaching out with her magic, she tried to find any sign of illness or injury. She had learned from her father that tumors in the brain could cause all manner of hallucinations and she held out hope that was the cause of his symptoms. Her spell wavered and dissipated, as if it had hit a wall of some kind. Frowning, she tried again, increasing her focus.

She felt resistance to her spell but pushed on, gathering her willpower around her. She willed her spell, wisps of dark blue magic that sought to find any abnormality, into Anders as she closed her eyes, visualizing the path her spell was taking as it probed him, remembering the anatomy and physiology lessons just as her father had taught her. Everything seemed – she jerked, stumbling backwards as if a powerful force had shoved her. Her magic hovered, twisting as she fought to regain her focus but the spell was already blinking out of existence.

"Hawke?" Varric asked, re-entering the room.

"I can't seem to break through whatever traps Justice or Vengeance have placed in Anders's head. My spells are useless," she explained in a low voice laced with frustration.

"That can't be good."

"I need you to gather some items for me, Varric. And I'll need Merrill, too."

"What about Broody? He'll kill me if I don't let him know."

Sitting down at the desk, she uncapped the inkwell and dipped a quill in it, before beginning to make her list.

"You worry about these items and Merrill. I'll worry about Fenris."

"What? You're going to leave Blondie alone? You think that's wise?"

"He'll be restrained by wards and I'll put him into a deep sleep. I'd rather not be left alone with him," she explained quietly when Varric quirked his brow at her.

"Ah, makes sense."

"But just in case, can some of your men keep an eye on the place?"

"Already on it, Hawke."

Moments later she hurried down the dark passageway to her home, placing wards along the way and feeling guilty with each one she cast. For the first time since she'd met Anders, she was genuinely afraid of him. He should not have been able to resist her spells, which told her that the entity that lived within him was responsible, that Vengeance was in control. She had failed to help her friend and now she was concerned not only for his safety but for her own. There had been something in his eyes the only time he had opened them that had been malevolent and unreachable. Even after it had faded away, the air still felt wrong. She had to find a way to reach Anders and help him regain control before he was lost to Vengeance.

She felt the bitterness of tears gathering and she blinked her eyes, refusing to give in to them.

~~~oOo~~~

Nathaniel removed his helmet and bent over the man who was slumped against him. Blood dripped steadily from underneath the man's mask and Nathaniel worked the fastenings until he was able to ease the helmet off the man. Flynne was already casting a spell, whispering in a language unfamiliar to him.

They'd been waylaid by a dozen men, who apparently hadn't expected a mage in the enemy ranks. Nathaniel's bow had been useless but he'd drawn his daggers and protected Flynne as the mage cast his spells. The fight had been brutal but brief and they had left ten men behind them. Nathaniel had tried to keep at least one alive, but the men who'd attacked had obviously been given orders to succeed or die trying.

After seeing to the wounded, he pulled two dead bodies into the coach and then ordered one of the men to climb into the coachbox and get the carriage moving again. They were too vulnerable as they were and the sooner they reached the compound the better.

One of Raoul's men gave a brisk nod and climbed over the bodies. A moment later the coach jerked forward and gathered speed. Worry gnawed at him as he thought of Anya. Had she also been attacked? And why hadn't anyone come to their aid? He pushed the heavy curtain aside and looked out of the window, realizing they were in a dark alleyway, completely isolated from the crowded sidewalks. Their attackers had known exactly where to strike.

Once inside the vast grounds of the palace, Nathaniel assisted the wounded and then let his eyes sweep the crowd in search of Anya. He moved towards her, his steps quickening as she hurried along the uneven cobblestones. He wanted to pull her into his arms and satisfy himself that she hadn't been injured but waited for her to make a gesture, unwilling to embarrass her in front of her family. She stopped in front of him, her eyelashes awash in unshed tears that shimmered like diamonds in the lowering sun.

"Thank the Maker," she whispered, leaning against him. He allowed himself to inhale deeply, his fingers caressing her cheek briefly.

"An interesting way to greet foreigners," he remarked.

"You should feel flattered. We usually save that type of welcome for high ranking nobles," a man said, coming to stand behind Anya.

He couldn't be anyone but Anya's father. The deep russet hair, the penetrating blue stare, the aristocratic nose and full lips all proclaimed his heritage. She stepped back and smiled up at Nathaniel.

"Nathaniel, this is my father, Enrique Caron, Dirigeant of the Chevaliers of Orlais. Father, this is the man who saved my life and won my heart, Nathaniel Howe."

Aware of the appraising stare directed at him, Nathaniel said quietly, "It's an honor to meet you, Dirigeant Caron."

"And you, Warden Nathaniel. We will speak later. For now we need to get inside and debrief."

By the time the debriefing was over it was late. He could see Anya's weariness in how much more pronounced her limp became, as if she was too tired to struggle with her hip. He was tempted to carry her up to her room and help her into a warm bath when the door to the large office they were in opened and platters of food were brought in by servants, led by a tall blonde woman with piercing grey eyes. She was dressed in an elegant silk gown and greeted them all cordially, her voice cooling when she greeted Anya.

"Anya, did I not tell you this would happen if you insisted on doing a man's work?" the woman admonished. Nathaniel's gut tightened and he found himself leaning forward, outraged at the tone and tenor of the woman.

"Yes, Mama, you did and as I told you then: I would rather die from a wound sustained in battle than from boredom as a dutiful wife," Anya replied with a matching coolness.

The air in the room became charged with tension. Both women seemed locked in silent battle and none of the men present, most especially not the Caron men, seemed inclined to break up the moment by commenting. Long moments dragged out and he could hear shuffling, guessing it was probably Carver who had claimed his mother was a histrionic woman given to blaming others for her own unhappiness. It was an opinion reinforced by a talk he'd had with Varric during their recent visit in Kirkwall. Apparently Anya's mother blamed her for something and he felt pride in how well Anya was managing mixing with a primitive need to protect her from any more stress.

"So, is that roast venison I smell, Mother?"

"Of course, Raoul. How are Sherise and my grandchildren?" The dig was obvious and Nathaniel saw the color drain from Anya's cheeks.

"But where are my manners. I am Giselle Caron. Are you Anya's friends?"

Another slap and Nathaniel's anger ratcheted up but it was Enrique who spoke with quiet authority, his voice tinged with resignation. "This is not the time, Giselle. Let us eat and show these brave souls to their rooms."

Choosing the seat beside Anya, Nathaniel sat close enough for his leg to brush hers, letting her know as unobtrusively as he could that he supported her and loved her. She gave him a brief, wry smile before turning her attention to her heaping plate.

An hour later, they were shown their rooms and he was relieved to see he was next door to Anya's room, having had a fear of being in a completely different wing, which he suspected her mother would have preferred. Several moments after being shown his room, he left it, in search of Carver and Flynne.

He wasn't surprised when Raoul Caron accosted him in the dark hallway. He'd been expecting it ever since they had first met, when Raoul had made obvious his deep affection for his sister, and his fierce need to protect her. That should have formed the basis for friendship between the two men, but Raoul appeared to view him with wariness and suspicion.

"Were you there when she was attacked?" the man asked without preamble.

"No, I found her after," Nathaniel replied, trying to keep the residual notes of guilt out of his voice.

"But you know who did it, yes?"

"I do," Nathaniel agreed, feeling the old familiar tug of anger clench in his belly.

"This person is dead, then?"

Nathaniel shook his head, once. He would not explain the situation to the man if Anya had chosen not to. Raoul's eyes, so like hers, narrowed and a look of contempt curled the man's lips into a sneer.

"You know who did this to her and yet you haven't killed him? You can't possibly love her as you proclaim if that is the truth."

Nathaniel's hand shot out and closed around Raoul's neck, pinning the man to the wall as his fingers tightened their hold. Rage coursed through him, icy and unyielding, sudden and intense. "Accuse me of anything else you want, but not that," he replied, his voice cold and precise.

Something in the man's face shifted and Nathaniel saw approval in Raoul's eyes. As quickly as the rage had arrived, it dissipated. He loosened his grip on Raoul and watched as the man grasped his neck and coughed.

"So you are not as aloof as you first appear," Raoul managed with an approving smile. He slapped Nathaniel on the back. "Take care of her or you'll deal with me. And," he added, reaching out to jab Nathaniel in the chest with his finger, "know that I will always be watching, that I have resources you could only hope to have."

"Understood. But you won't need to watch me; keep an eye on her. If something happens to her it will be because I'm already gone."

Blue eyes studied him with the same intensity that Anya studied her new recruits and Nathaniel found himself liking the man, despite his arrogance. He smiled, shaking his head. "Poppet? I'm surprised she didn't eviscerate you for that."

"There's still time and she has a long memory."

"Yes, I've learned that the hard way. She also packs a mean punch and is more stubborn than anyone I've ever known."

"That is the Caron blood in her. We're all stubborn. Some would say dangerously so, but there have been Carons at the right hand of the Imperial Court going back to Kordillus Drakon. And we will always fight for what we believe in. Obviously she believes in you."

"Enough to marry me, I hope."

"Ah, so that's why you have asked my father for an audience. Let me give you some friendly advice. Don't grab him by the throat when he questions your integrity."

Nathaniel grinned sheepishly. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"If you're looking for Anya, she went down the hall to pay a visit to Carver."

She was just leaving Carver's room when he rounded the corner and her smile grew as she spied him.

"Nathaniel, just who I was coming to see," she greeted with a wink.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I want to discuss the tapestry in your room," she said, linking her arm with his.

"You want to discuss a tapestry this late at night?"

"It's a special tapestry. I just demonstrated its uses to Carver, although he seemed very distracted."

She was intoxicating, the vanilla and verbena from her soap tantalizing his senses, washing away his fatigue. The thought of just laying in bed, holding each other, her scent filling him, was more than a little appealing after the day they'd had.

"Indeed. By all means, let me hear more about this tapestry."

A tapestry of a country scene, complete with a manor and ornate gardens, hung on his wall. He'd barely noticed it earlier, but she limped to it and flashed him a suggestive smile. "When you want to visit, simply push the tapestry aside and use this mechanism to open a panel into my room. I would suggest you knock first, lest you find me with one of the very handsome swains my mother will attempt to force on me while we're here," she teased, adding, "I'm sorry for that."

"As long as you tell the swains to go to the Void, you have nothing to apologize for," he reassured, pulling her into his arms, his lips seeking hers.

She met him half way, her hands coming to rest on his hips as she leaned up, her lips clinging to his.

A moment later, she leaned back, an eyebrow raised. "You don't seem all that tired now. Why is that?"

Dawn was teasing the night sky by the time she rose from his bed to slip behind the tapestry to her own room.

A/N: Those who read Peaches and Cream will know all about the tapestries!