10 Cloudreach, 9:31 Dragon, Denerim
The ambush came while Alaric's team passed though the back alleys of Denerim, following a trail that led out of the alienage. A trail that carried the reek of Tevinter.
I do not trust Anora, Morrigan decided, but her network of spies within the city is certainly effective. Or mayhap our adversaries become less adept, now that Rendon Howe is no longer alive to manage such things. To discover a ring of Tevinter slavers, here in the very heart of the kingdom . . .
Then a wagon abruptly rolled out into the street before them, another behind, and faces began to appear in windows and atop buildings to either side. Alaric drew Spellweaver and hissed an order, sending all of them diving for cover.
Close by, a flight of steep and narrow stone stairs led up to the next alley to the east. From the top of those stairs, a cold laugh rang out. Then a voice, with a smooth Antivan accent, not the clipped Tevinter inflection that Morrigan might have expected. "So. This is the mighty Grey Warden, of whom I have heard so much. Hiding to save his skin for a few more moments."
A man appeared there, of average height but wiry and strong, dressed in light armor and carrying a pair of daggers. His coloring was dark: olive skin, sable hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He scanned the alley, his eyes alert, a broad smile on his lips.
"The Crows send their greetings, Warden. Once again."
Morrigan's fingers tensed upon her staff. Beside her, in the shallow doorway where she had taken cover, Leliana had an arrow at the string, ready to fire as soon as any fighting began.
The witch could not see where Zevran was hiding. The elf had a positive gift for vanishment, unless he wished to be seen. His voice was clear enough, sounding as if it came from her right and somewhat above her position. "So, did they order you here, Taliesen? Or did you volunteer for the job?"
"I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran Arainai had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself. Not to mention claim the honor of washing out that error. In blood, if necessary."
"Is that so?" said Zevran, his voice colder than Morrigan had ever heard it. "Well, here I am, in the flesh."
Taliesen glanced in that direction, opening his arms wide as if baring his heart. "You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. Anyone can make a mistake. We were a good team once, and it's not too late for us to be again. Come back and we'll make up a story."
Morrigan heard a cynical snort from her left. Alaric's voice, unmistakable. "Of course, Alistair and I would need to be dead first."
"I'm not about to let that happen," said Zevran quietly.
"What?" If anything, Taliesen looked not angry, not outraged, but enormously disappointed. "Zevran. You've gone soft!"
"Perhaps so. I'm sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no. I'm not going back . . . and you should have stayed in Antiva."
Just like that, the fight broke out.
It was terrible, fighting in such a confined space, the Crows surging out into the middle of their group before they could establish any kind of line. Arrows, knives, and small grenades flew, there came the ring of steel on steel, and Morrigan was immediately fighting for her life. Perforce, she went back-to-back with Leliana, lashing out with spell and staff at targets of opportunity. Behind her, she heard the bard's bow-string singing.
Morrigan had learned to read a battle somewhat. For a few moments, she thought this one might turn against them. Then one of Oghren's wild-seeming swings somehow connected against a nimbly dodging assassin, crushing the woman's skull. Leliana shot another man through the heart with a lightning-fast arrow. Morrigan let loose a blast of mental force, stunning a man who was about to stab Alistair in the back, giving the prince a chance to spin and gut his assailant. Slowly, the pressure came off.
In the end, it came down to single combat, Zevran against Taliesen, all the other Crows and their hirelings killed or fled.
Morrigan stood and watched in amazement. Across a hundred battles, she had become something of a connoisseur of physical combat, appreciating the sight of those who displayed mastery of the art. This match was a display the likes of which she had never seen before: two slimly athletic men at the peak of their training, fighting in the same twin-dagger style, incredibly graceful, fast, and deadly. The fight was brutal, without rules, every blow meant to cripple or kill. It ended when Zevran did . . . something too quick for Morrigan to make out. Taliesen toppled, his knives falling from his hands, a spray of blood gouting from a great wound in his throat.
Blood and damnation, she thought. I have never seen Zevran fight like that before. None of us have. Has he been holding back all this time?
Despite herself, Morrigan felt a rush of uncomplicated desire, for once attracted to a man other than Alaric. Apparently, something in the back of her mind found such superb physical competence to be quite intriguing.
Not to mention that aside from Alaric, the elf has more wit than any of the other men in the party. If only he did not leer so.
"And there it is," said Zevran, looking down on the corpse of his oldest colleague. "Taliesen is dead, and I am finally free of the Crows. They will assume I am dead along with him. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out."
Alaric stepped up beside the elf. "So, what does this mean for you?"
"I do not know. For the first time in my life, I have options. It is a very odd sensation." Zevran took a deep breath, and glanced up at Alaric's face. "I suppose the practical thing to do would be to take my leave. Go somewhere far away, where the Crows would never so much as hear a whisper of me."
"Oh," said Alaric, his voice laden with irony. "I suppose you are a most practical man, aren't you?"
The elf smirked, one eyebrow rising high. "I do have that reputation. On the other hand, I could also stay here. I did swear an oath to assist you, after all. Not to mention that saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, no?"
"I would say that saving the world is also a very practical consideration, given that we all have to live in it." Alaric extended his right hand. "Besides, if you were to leave, I would be very put out!"
Zevran laughed aloud, and took Alaric's hand in a firm grasp. "Well, we cannot have that, can we?"
With that, it was over. Zevran searched Taliesen's body with quick efficiency, and then the party moved on, as if nothing at all had happened.
Morrigan found herself walking beside Zevran, who had an unusually pensive look about him. She struggled with temptation for a moment, and then surrendered to it. "I must say, Zevran, you seem to have stumbled into a most promising prospect for your future."
The elf considered her. "Oh? Are you dispensing professional advice now?"
"It only occurs to me that Alistair is likely to have need of someone of your talents, once he becomes the king of this land. Even if he has Anora by his side. Perhaps especially if he has Anora by his side."
"I suspect there is a great difference between what Alistair might need and what he is willing to use."
"Of course," she went on thoughtfully, "if Alistair becomes king, it will certainly not be due to any brilliance on his part. Perhaps it is the one who puts him on the throne, who might best make use of your unique skills."
"A most intriguing thought," said Zevran gamely. "Tell me, beautiful one, why have we not made love yet?"
She laughed aloud, pleased to have earned a response more in character. "For what purpose? I would as soon stab you in the face as permit you to touch me."
"And yet, that somehow only makes the idea more appealing." Zevran sobered, watching her with a most perceptive look in his eye. "For the first time in my life, Morrigan, I am free to follow no one's agenda but my own. A realization with which you are familiar, yes? Is it so strange that I might continue to follow and aid those who have made that possible? Not because I must, not out of any foolish sentiment, but because I choose to do so?"
I should have a care, thought Morrigan to herself. This one has always seen just a little more than I might wish to reveal.
"Loyalty?" she asked him, for once simply interested in his thoughts.
"If you wish to call it that." Zevran pointed to the head of their party, where Alaric and Alistair walked side by side. "That man has made it possible for me to escape a life that was in no way worth living. He has helped me to find a purpose in my continued existence. I like myself better, now that I am supporting his cause. I have no desire to see an end to any of this."
Morrigan stared at the assassin. "You love him," she accused.
"Please," said Zevran, a magnificent sneer on his lips. "I have known nothing in my life but pleasure and death. Love is no doubt a wondrous thing, but it is not for the likes of me. Besides, the Warden is not the sort to have such an interest in other men. I am content to be his vassal, and perhaps his friend, so long as he has need of me."
She frowned, watching the cobblestones as they walked along.
"Now you, my beautiful one, are another story," he said, lowering his voice so that no one else would hear. "No matter what that horrible woman who raised you may have taught, you are a creature made to give and receive love. It is a great shame that you have chosen to cut yourself off from this. I hate to think that one day, you will find that you have wasted your youth and beauty, by casting yourself away on such a barren and rocky shore."
"That is none of your concern!" she snapped.
"Ah, the lovely witch does so enjoy provoking others, but is hard-pressed to respond when she is herself provoked!" Zevran chuckled. "It is no matter. Perhaps it is too soon for you to consider the merits of love. Yet even the beasts of the field and the birds of the air know what is loyalty."
She had no answer for him. Yet when they cornered the Tevinter slavers in their hideout, and Alaric led his people into a difficult fight against their magister leader, Morrigan discovered that something had indeed settled in her sinews and her bones. Something that had her thinking of Alaric, and the team, and their entire cause, all before her own desires.
Call it loyalty, perhaps. 'Twas as good a name as any.
Alaric, hard pressed by the magister's spells, saw that Morrigan was open and unopposed. He shouted her name, and threw his sword across the room to her. A gesture of perfect trust.
Without a thought, without a moment's hesitation, she snatched the sword's hilt from the air. She called upon the dirth'ena enasalin to force a surge of mana out into her wrist, her arm, her shoulder, her entire upper body. Brought the sword around in a great arc, her form suddenly perfect, as if she had been training with the weapon for years.
The magister's storm of magic fell to nothingness, as his head leaped from his shoulders.
