Chapter Fifty-Three: Aftermath
All of Qunandar was in uproar. The Festival of Tides was postponed pending investigation of recent events, and rumor spread like hurricane winds that the body that once was the Arishok would be disposed of without honors. The entire army found itself at the mercy of the tamassrans, posed with such questions that even the ranking Stens and Kithshoks were at a loss for answers.
Tevinter suddenly felt like more of a threat than it ever had. Few had been left behind to guard Seheron. Aqunarans were summoned from the blockade to answer for anything they had seen or heard. Darkspawn still crawled about the silent ruin of Kont-Aar.
And there was no Arishok.
Marian sat on a couch across from the Ariqun, Asari on one side and Isabela on the other. The three of them had been served tea, steaming and smelling of cinnamon and sweet spices. Isabela drank hers like she wished it were rum. The duel had been days ago, and the pirate was still visibly worried as if she waited for the inevitable judgment due her. But the Ariqun's face was kindly, and she maintained a casual conversation with Asari until a golden-girdled Tamassran entered the room, presented a sheaf of parchment scrawled with writing, and promptly left.
Isabela's gulp of tea seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
The Ariqun looked up at her over the papers. "Peace, child. There is nothing to be frightened of."
"But I was accu-"
"There is nothing the Arishok said that we didn't already know about you. You even told us yourself when you first arrived." She turned her eyes back to the report. "And the truly guilty would never have willingly come here to our lands. Your honor among us is established."
Marian reached over and gently squeezed her friend's hand. Isabela reacted in kind, though her grip was of iron and tight as a vice.
It was another several minutes before the Ariqun spoke again. She simply read the report given her, her face scowling in concentration as her lips moved slightly with the words. Marian sipped at her tea and stared down at her lap. She was once more comfortably dressed in her Ben-Hassrath uniform, the woven fabric soft against her skin. Her hair was tightly bound in its bun, her feet in snug leather boots. Feeling distinctly not-feminine never felt so good.
The past few days had been long and trying. All the Kirkwallers had found themselves under Ben-Hassrath questioning, but it had been graciously short and painless. Qamek in small doses made a significant difference. The trouble had come with Taarbas. The truth smoke did not affect kossith, and divulging answers from a nameless exile was a questionable business. Marian did not know what came of that. Asari, however, had made a point to mention that he was alive.
"One hundred and forty-three warriors sold their honor to Tevinter to complete this...arrangement regarding Rivain." The Ariqun looked up, locking eyes with Marian. "I ask you not as Ben-Hassrath but as Serah Hawke, Arigena of Kirkwall. What would you do in my position? The army is not mine to command, but still I must do this."
Marian's brow furrowed as she thought, an index finger idly tracing the rim of her ceramic teacup. "My answer would be little different if you had asked Ben-Hassrath. They committed treason against the people and must atone or die."
"An Arishok would have chosen death," the venerable kossith replied, "but I am no Arishok—neither are you—and we can afford to waste nothing." After a moment's pause, she set the report aside. "I must give this more thought. Thank you, Ben-Hassrath, for your wisdom. But that is not all. There is much happening within the Body of the Qun, and they are leaderless. The Kithshoks have spoken for their units. I...do not envy you the role you must now accept." She rose to her feet, and two elven women materialized from the shadows. They began to clean the space, taking away the dirty dishes and opening the doors. "Asari, I must speak with you more on this child you brought to us. That will be all Ben-Hassrath. Vashkata. The two of you should go to the barracks." She picked up the sheaf of parchment. "Sooner rather than later. Your brother will need you."
Isabela was out the door before Marian could even stand. It wasn't the task that urged her so much as simply getting out of the room, of getting out of the windowless viddathlok. Marian didn't question, merely caught up and walked beside her friend. Her sister, for all that it meant. They were silent for a long while, each digesting her own mental load.
"I'm...sorry," the pirate said at last. "We haven't had much of a chance to talk lately. I've been wanting to tell you all about the plan we had and how it went so wrong. But there's really no point in dwelling on it. I'm just...sorry that it all worked out as it did."
Marian attempted to console her with a small smile. "Did it least end the way that had been intended?"
"I honestly couldn't tell you. He asked us to find proof. We found proof. Dishonor was clearly an intention, but I don't think killing the Arishok—again—was actually the ultimate goal. All Taarbas wanted was to have his honor restored, to be a proper Qunari again." She bit at her lip. "There wasn't supposed to be any blood."
The Champion wrapped an arm about the other's shoulders and held her close as they approached the barracks and training grounds. As many ben-hassrath moved about as soldiers, and conversations were carried on in hushed tones if any dared speak at all. Marian had expected wary glances or menacing stares. Instead, she received sympathetic glances and the deep nods of respect. One soldier halted them at the doorway.
"You are Ben-Hassrath?"
"Yes."
"She who was once Serah Hawke of Kirkwall?"
"Unfortunately."
The soldier nodded. "I am Kithshok. You must come with me."
He turned without another word, walking through the gate of the training grounds and across the field of golden sand. At the far wall was a doorway and a flight of stairs, leading up into a building of pale granite. The odor of old sweat was everywhere, but as they climbed, something else became more apparent. The was the tang of lyrium. The scent of dried herbs. Long rooms branched off the corridor that were lined with beds, some occupied by those apparently wounded in battle. The infirmary? A strange place for one, given as all the physicians Marian knew of were housed in the viddathlok and surrounding grounds.
Kithshok eventually stopped at one particular doorway, taking up post just outside and not even gesturing for the women to enter or even nodding at them or acknowledging their continued existence in any way. Refusing to be deterred, Marian took a step into the doorway and lightly rapped at the frame.
A human male no older than her brother when she'd last seen him quickly turned from where he was, bent over a low cot with another wounded laid upon it. The man's eyes were brown and warm, his hair a sandy blond, and with the blue robes of asari, Marian felt her breath catch.
But it was not Anders.
"I was wondering when you would arrive," he said to her, taking up a white linen towl and wiping his hands with it. He jerked his head toward the bed. "He's been asking about you. Repeatedly. Most often in his sleep." The asari turned to regard the prone form of Taarbas on the bed. "He is resting, now, but I assure you that his health is stable. The problem was an old war wound by the looks of it, but he's in surprisingly good shape considering. Well...he's kossith. I don't think they know how to be anything but in good shape." He chuckled awkwardly as if that had been his attempt at a joke. "Anyway. I should let you go about your business." Nodding to each of them quickly, he strode from the room.
Isabela went to the door to make sure he left while Marian took a seat upon a low stool near the bed. Not long ago, it had been her lying similarly, her own body recovering, her friends not understanding the depth of her pain. The physical wound had always been nothing in comparison to the things her mind would dredge up from the wreckage of her life. Sitting there, gazing at Taarbas' sleeping face, his features tight as if with nightmare, she couldn't help but know. All this time, they had been two souls in a never-ending storm. And all they had was each other. She reached out and gently clasped his hand in both of hers.
His eyes flew open at the touch, focusing first on the ceiling above him before turning ever so slightly to land on her face. There was no expression at first, no acknowledgment or greeting. Just a simple stare. And it didn't even bother to scratch the surface. But he smiled after a time, and his fingers curled to return her comforting gesture.
"Kadan," his voice was softer than usual, weary, "my heart is glad to see that you are safe."
She smiled back at him, her own heart full to bursting. "As is mine. Did you succeed?"
Taarbas nodded a single time, strength appearing to return to him with every passing breath. "I did what I came here to do. It is done."
"And what happens, now?"
"I rest. And, in the morning, we go to the Ariqun. Only she can restore my honor." He squeezed her hand again, more urgently this time. "You must be there with me, kadan. We are so bound."
"My duty is clear," Marian replied. "And I wouldn't miss it for the world. Although...I really must ask. What was all that about? Everyone seems to know but me, and no one is saying anything useful."
Isabela chuckled lowly from across the room. "Oh, Hawke. I did tell you. But, if it pleases you, I guess we'd better start at the beginning. And where was that, Taarbas? Some three years ago back in Kirkwall?"
And so the story came out. Isabela told it this time, her calm returning first and soon followed by her wit and mirth. The more she talked of Vashkata and his betrayal, of Taarbas' ordeals in Kirkwall and abroad, the more she sounded convinced that they had, indeed, done the right thing in risking everything to prove the Arishok's guilt.
"But that's what I still don't understand," she finished, ceasing her pacing and wild gesticulations as she came to the bedside herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at Taarbas questioningly. "I mean, what were his motives? All I know is that—while you were lying there on the ground practically drowning on your own breath—he just grins so wickedly and says, 'You were always so much like him. So astute...so patient...so trusting. Too patient. Too passive. The Qunari must be made strong again. We can't do that through waiting.' ...What does that even mean? Who was too patient and passive?"
Taarbas grinned up at her with irony. "The Arishok."
Isabela scoffed. "You mean the rudding blighter that razed Kirkwall over that bloody book?" She was so animated, she was totally forgetting to bother speaking in Qunlat. Or mind her manners. Or even think about where she was.
"He waited for years for one to return what was stolen. He could have stormed your city then, even as our ships were dashed on the rocks...but he waited. He gave your people a chance to be something other than what he expected. And, for that, the impetuous found him lacking."
"I'm..." the pirate gulped and caught her breath. "I'm sorry."
Taarbas shook his head and returned his gaze to Marian. "Don't be. His life was not wasted. And he found the ultimate glory in death." His head rolled back into position on the neck rest, that curious contraption that allowed kossith to recline without having to worry about their horns being in the way. "Now, leave me to rest—even you, kadan. In the days that come, much must happen. And we must all be rested. And ready."
