beta-read by brightspot149, with a last minute pinch-hit from BattleFries. Thank you both!
The gates to the Winter Palace swung open, and Ciri's honor guard marched through ahead of her. Behind her, her advisors, companions, and the Trevelyan siblings stood still, a small, dark sea of ruby red and near-black. She quelled the urge to fuss with an invisible wrinkle on her skirt and strode forward as the honor guard parted and struck their chests with their right fists.
Throughout the meticulously groomed garden, masked faces turned her way, and conversations turned to speculative whispers. A man in a gold half-mask broke from the crowd and strutted confidently toward her. He wore what appeared to be formal armor made of the hide of some exotic beast, with the outer point of the couter guarding his elbows dangerously sharp and pointed. His graying hair was shaved close to his head, and his pale, square jaw bore heavy stubble.
"Inquisitor Morhen," he greeted her, inclining his head ever-so-slightly. "It is an honor to meet you at last." Blue eyes so light as to be nearly colorless looked her up and down speculatively. "From the stories we heard out of the Western Approach, I expected a woman ten feet tall who breathes fire. But you do not disappoint."
She'd seen herself in a full-length mirror before they'd left the Inquisition's guest quarters, and she knew full well the image she projected tonight. Her gown looked like something that could have been pulled from Francesca Findabair's wardrobe. The deep green skirt and long sleeves, the silvery-white underskirt, and the silver embroidery all spoke of a certain delicate elegance that was unmistakably elven. The dainty white slippers, beaded with seed pearls, practically shone in the moonlight. Leliana had been very particular about getting the slippers absolutely perfect, and Ciri could find no fault with her spymaster's judgment.
She had to resist the temptation to fiddle with the pins in her hair, which was back in its elaborate braided updo from her last soiree. Emeralds hung from her ears and around her neck – the latter a loan from the Trevelyans, and out of Iori Trevelyan's personal collection at that. The perfume dabbed behind her ears smelled, according to Josephine, like northern Rivain, with its orange groves, jasmine orchids, and sandalwood trees.
For just a moment, she'd caught a glimpse of herself from her good side in the mirror. The most familiar stranger had looked back at her, a worldly, poised lady in a silver crown, tall and straight-backed, regal and beautiful, with eyes that were still too green to meet for long. Then she'd turned and the spell was broken. The silver crown was lamplight in her prematurely white hair. She was lean and hard, not soft with the curves of a lady of the court. And below her blazing eyes sat a scar to rival Queen Meve's. Striking now, not beautiful, a Witcher peering down a path not walked and seeing what might have been.
But she was still straight-backed and tall, still striking, in a gown and gems fit for the princess she used to be, and she nodded back with a slight smile. "Grand Duke Gaspard. Thank you for your generous invitation."
Grand Duke Gaspard's mask had a curious shape to it, she observed. Two sharp points extended down from the middle of the half-mask's cheeks to the top of his jaw, lending it an almost predatory air. She knew it and Grand Duchess Florianne's mask matched the tan line of the assassin from Val Royeaux. But so did the Doucy family mask, and countless other commoners' masks.
It wasn't definitive proof of their involvement.
"How could I not, after your efforts on my behalf in the Exalted Plains?" he asked, the both of them well aware of who the original request for aid had come from. "Imagine how much more you could accomplish with the resources and support of the rightful emperor of Orlais behind you!"
Ciri took a gamble and glanced playfully behind him. "Is he ten feet tall and fire-breathing as well? I suppose his entrance will be suitably dramatic."
He went still for a breath, and just as she feared she'd misstepped, he burst into laughter. "How droll, Inquisitor! Come, walk with me."
They began to stroll into the manicured garden together, the grand duke pointedly ignoring some groups of courtiers and nodding courteously to others. Footsteps sounded behind her as the rest of her party followed her in at a distance.
"We could be of great help to one another, you and I," Grand Duke Gaspard said as they stepped just out of hearing range of another cluster of courtiers. "I am not a man who forgets his friends."
Ciri raised an eyebrow at him. "Skipping the pleasantries, Your Grace?"
"I despise the Game and its tiresome duplicities," he said, his voice sincere and slightly irritated. "You are a Marcher, a knight's daughter. I do not doubt you will appreciate candor."
She wished he wasn't wearing a mask. By all the accounts Josephine, Maxwell, and Leliana had put together, Gaspard was an accomplished player of the Game. If he sounded sincere, then he was a good liar. She'd need to keep her wits about her.
"Candor seems to be a rare thing in these circles," Ciri said. She kept her tone light and pleasant. "But if anyone would treat me honorably, it would be the head of the chevalier order."
His eyes barely flickered at that, and he smiled and inclined his head again. "Of course. And as an honorable chevalier, speaking to an honorable woman, I have a matter to bring to your attention. Something you might look into for the both of us."
Ciri gestured for him to continue, wondering what his angle was.
"That so-called 'ambassador,' the elven woman – Briala. I suspect she intends to interfere with tonight's negotiations." He tugged at the edge of one of his gloves idly as his surprisingly well-formed lips drew into a small frown. "My people have found her 'ambassadorial retinue' all over the outer walls. I would not put sabotage past such...people."
"You wouldn't be pointing me in their direction with an ulterior motive, would you, Your Grace?" she murmured.
"Candor and honor, Inquisitor," he reminded her gravely.
"Of course." She held his gaze for a second longer than was strictly polite, then smiled at him, still light and pleasant. "I'll look into it."
He said the word 'ambassador' like Keira said 'rat': with an inescapable tinge of disgust. Ciri couldn't help the feeling that there was another word he wished to substitute in its place, something far more degrading.
"But enough of such serious talk," he said, smiling back. "Are you prepared to scandalize the court by appearing at the side of a wicked usurper, my lady?"
"Are you sure I'm not the more scandalous of the two of us, given the rumors about me?"
Grand Duke Gaspard laughed quietly, turning his colorless eyes her way and looking her up and down again. "The court can have such provincial attitudes toward the elf-blooded, but yours is a cut above the rabble, I hear. As for that unfortunate rumor placing you in my family on the wrong side of the sheets…"
He reached out with a gloved hand and rested it on her shoulder. From the outside, it no doubt looked friendly, a familiar touch. But it was a heavy weight, and she stilled beneath it, unwilling to break away and set back the Inquisition's political efforts by showing disunity with their host so early.
"Adopted," he mused, "and with such coloring. It's little wonder your denials haven't met with much success here. But never fear, Inquisitor. We take care of our own."
He patted her shoulder with a wink and strode off, leaving her to stare at his back.
That was a threat.
She took a breath and pulled her mother and grandmother's confidence around her, squaring her shoulders and turning back to the garden.
"So that's the Inquisitor," a woman's voice said quietly from several feet away. "She certainly seems to have embraced her heritage."
A man answered her. "Better a human with Elvhen blood than a rabbit, Nathalie. The little beasts might get ideas, otherwise."
Nathalie scoffed. "You didn't hear Vicomte le Coq that day. 'A rabbit with docked ears is still a rabbit.' Odious little man, but he has a point."
"Hm. Perhaps."
Nathalie and her companion wandered off, their voices fading as they went. Another voice caught her attention from a different direction, the man's tone scandalously amused.
"Is that the bastard?"
"Shh! Don't say it so loudly! Not where one of Her Majesty's people might hear."
"I'm not afraid of Celene's reprisals. She only kills rabbits."
Ciri drifted off, keeping her face clear and untroubled. She went past the bubbling fountain and up the elegantly curved staircase only to stop and smile at the sight of Owain waiting at the top. Monsieur le Mire and his assistants had put him in a Free Marches style silk doublet and breeches, all somber dark gray with dramatic accents of red, and it set off his broad shoulders and trim waist beautifully. He bowed over her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, falling into step with her as they walked down the covered hall together.
"Friendly crowd," she commented softly.
"'Ser Trevelyan, zhat blemish een your family tree ees elven, no?'" he mocked under his breath. "'Forgive me, but by your size, one might theenk eet was Qunari!'"
She leaned into him for a brief moment. "Small, petty people insult and pick at things to force them to fit more comfortably in their worldview. It makes them feel better about their own small, petty lives."
He rested his hand over hers. "You've run into it already, too?"
"Mm-hm." She pulled away gently and looked up at him. "You should let Leliana and the others know – Gaspard threatened me. Very politely, very subtly, but it was unmistakable."
"We'll watch him," he assured her. "And his sister, too, if it comes to it."
"Good."
"Josephine's just inside the entrance to the vestibule," he said. "She wants a last word before you're thrown to the wolves."
"I'll make sure to speak with her. And the others?"
"Circulating. Charming," he added. "Whatever comes, we'll have the court in our corner by the end of the night."
"Varric should speak with Duke Cyril, and Triss and Evelyn with Comtesse Montbelliard," Ciri suggested. "If there's an opportunity for Josephine to arrange a game of cards with Marquis Renaud, she ought to take it. I don't know if it would benefit us more to win or lose. Someone should ask Comte Lothair about his coursing hounds – not Cullen; he's too Ferelden and I doubt he'd be able to hide his preference for Mabari. Have him speak with Marquis Etienne instead. Vivienne has an established relationship with Lord Laurent that we can use. Maxwell might be a good choice to approach Duke Germain."
"I'll take care of it. Save me a dance?"
"As many as I can."
He leaned down to kiss her cheek and stepped back, honest appreciation written across his face. "You smell amazing."
"At the price we paid, I'd better," she said dryly. She half thought the cost was so high because of the gossip Monsieur de Genellen had doled out.
"Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?"
"Twice," she said, going up on tiptoe to kiss him back. "And you're still incredibly handsome."
"Must be the Qunari blood," he quipped.
"Don't say that too loudly," she warned him with a wry smile. "You know how rumors spread with these people."
"All too well, unfortunately. I'll see you inside."
He left to head up another flight of stairs, no doubt in search of one of the people she'd mentioned. She turned as well to cross the landing and head toward the massive wrought iron gates covering the door to the palace. The guards flanking them bowed their heads and pulled them open, and she stepped through.
Josephine awaited her inside, pacing nervously. She halted as she caught sight of Ciri and came to her side at once, taking a slow, deliberate breath.
"Owain said you wanted a word with me," Ciri said.
"Just a few."
Josephine pressed something small and hard into her hand, and Ciri looked down to see a gold token the size of the tip of her thumb, a stylized halla engraved across its surface. On the back, she found a rampant lion.
"What's this?"
"Enchanted coins that servants and trusted guests use to access warded rooms," Josephine told her. "Sera got a hold of one for you. You may need it tonight."
Ciri nodded and tucked it up her sleeve carefully. "Where did our armor and weapons end up?"
"In a chest in the kitchen off the gallery. Sera swears no one has used it in days, so it should be safe to change in there. Here's the key to get in."
"You seem…" Ciri paused and reached for her hand to squeeze it gently. "More ill at ease than I thought you'd be."
"My sister Yvette is here," Josephine said in a hushed voice, squeezing back. Her eyes held a wealth of poorly concealed worry. "For her, the world is a place of song and flirtation – nothing bad ever happens in her life. She has yet to grow up. I fear her getting caught in the middle of all this."
"We'll keep her out of it as best we can," Ciri promised.
"Thank you." She pulled her hand away and took another deep breath. "Be very careful how you address the court. Your words, your tone of voice, who you give attention to, and who you snub…all of these things will be a matter of life and death tonight. I know you have some training…"
Ciri glanced swiftly around the small hallway to reassure herself they were alone. "In matters of state, not this 'Game' the Orlesians play. But my mother is a good enough example to follow tonight."
"You will do fine," Josephine said.
To Ciri's ears, it sounded more like her friend was reassuring herself. But she nodded and smiled nonetheless. "We should go in. We don't want to keep them waiting too long."
"Maker, no," Josephine said with a wince. "To arrive late to the announcement of the guests would be… Well. Let's say we would impress no one in this crowd."
They proceeded up the broad staircase together, past several more gossiping nobles. Two of them held a hushed conversation speculating on what the Inquisition's support for Gaspard might mean for Celene, and Ciri just barely kept her shoulders from tensing.
The trap needed to be sprung, that much she knew. But likewise, she'd handed Gaspard exactly what he'd wanted.
By the banister to the left, she spotted Cassandra and Cullen standing together. Somehow their discomfort with their circumstances had managed to translate into a remote sternness that they both wore almost as well as their formal clothes. And by the banister to the right, Maxwell and Evelyn engaged in light, easy conversation with a woman with dark olive skin who fairly sparkled with gold at her fingers, ears, and throat.
Grand Duke Gaspard stood by the door to the ballroom, his arms crossed and a small, satisfied smirk playing across his mouth. Ciri exchanged a surreptitious look with Josephine and joined him.
"There you are," he said, giving her another tiny incline of his head. "The herald is just about to start announcing the guests."
She wrapped Lady Yennefer's confidence around her like a cloak and gave him a long, cool look, aware he was attempting to put her on her back foot. "'About to' isn't the same as 'started already.'"
His smirk deepened, and he swept his arm before them as the doors opened. "Come, Inquisitor. Aren't you curious what the tales of you have led to?"
He didn't wait for her response; instead, he turned on his heel and strutted through the door at a measured pace, slow enough that she wasn't left behind. In the corners of her vision, she picked up red and charcoal moving her way, and she held her head up as she kept pace with Gaspard.
Inside, crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, reflecting lights off a polished marble floor twice the size of Skyhold's main hall. To either side, courtiers crowded by the railings, their attention split between the new arrivals and the two small figures at the far end.
The herald approached with a half-unfurled scroll and gestured silently for Gaspard to descend the stairs and cross the long marble floor first. The grand duke winked at her again and threw his shoulders back, continuing his proud strut toward the dais at the far end of the ballroom.
"Presenting His Grace, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons of Verchiel," the herald called out. "Premier Chevalier of Orlais' honorable Order of Chevaliers."
The herald nodded at her when Gaspard had crossed a quarter of the way, and she descended the steps as well. As her foot touched the marble floor, the herald's voice rang out.
"And accompanying him, Her Worship, Inquisitor Cirilla Morhen." Ciri stopped to curtsey to the figures awaiting them, sweeping her skirts to the side and lowering her head gracefully, then rose to continue. The herald's words filled the air as she maintained her steady approach.
"The Hand of the Maker, the vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, shepherd of the wayward Wardens, redeemer of the irredeemable, reborn blood of the immortal Elvhen."
She didn't let her smooth face falter at the patter of utter nonsense, didn't let her hands fist at her sides. 'Vanquisher of the rebel mages' – that could alienate Comtesse Montbelliard and other mage sympathizers. And 'reborn blood of the immortal Elvhen,' on top of being a lie, would ruin her ability to be cordial with Briala, and put up the backs of the racists in the court.
Clever.
"Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, High Commander of the Inquisition's forces…Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court and veteran of the Fifth Blight…Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Lead Ambassador of the Inquisition…High Chancellor Roderick Asignon of Val Royeaux, Religious Advisor to the Inquisition..."
The herald called out name after name.
"Ser Owain Trevelyan, Chief Military Strategist of the Inquisition, and second son of the noble Trevelyan family of Ostwick."
"Ser Raúl de Medina, commander of the Inquisition's military efforts in Nevarra and Antiva."
"Triss Merigold of the Starkhaven Circle of Magi, the Free Mages' liaison to the Inquisition and co-creator of the lyrium cure."
Cassandra…Vivienne…Varric…Maxwell…Dorian…on the list went, until it ended humbly with a simple "Olgierd von Everec of Denerim and Hunter Fell" and, infuriatingly, "the Inquisitor's elven servant, Solas." No mention of Cole or Sera, she noted. That made sense. They had another part to play tonight.
They fanned out behind her, and she felt her mingled outrage and worry start to dissipate with the wall of charcoal and crimson at her back, cut by a single red and white Chantry habit.
Ciri curtseyed again, studying the empress from beneath lowered lashes. Now that she could see her clearly, she saw what the grand duke and Marshal Proulx had meant. Empress Celene, resplendent in a gown of deep sapphire blue with an ornamental gold piece attached at the back radiating out like the rays of a sun, did share Ciri's coloring. Or some approximation of it, at least. She had white-blonde hair worn in a braided twist, and her skin was naturally pale below her gold half-mask.
Beside her and slightly behind stood an older woman, middle-aged at the youngest, with the same fair hair. Her mask was a match to Gaspard's, and the standing collar of her gown flared up dramatically behind her head with ribbed, stiffened silk. It appeared hand-painted to resemble the edge of a butterfly's wing.
Grand Duke Gaspard tipped his head up to the dais, pointedly refusing to bow. "Cousin. My dear sister."
In contrast, Empress Celene lowered into an entirely correct curtsey for a head of state to a peer of the realm: shallow, short, and with her head upright. But a great deal more polite than her cousin.
A point in the Game scored.
"Grand Duke," she said sweetly, "We are always honored when your presence graces Our court."
Rebutting the familiar address and use of the majestic plural. Another point.
"Don't waste my time with pleasantries, Celene," Grand Duke Gaspard retorted. "We have business to conclude."
Reestablishing the family tie and scolding the empress in front of her court. Point to the grand duke – or a point from the empress.
Empress Celene appeared unperturbed by the calculated show of rudeness and lightly chided him back. "We will meet for the negotiations after We have seen to Our other guests."
Grand Duke Gaspard lowered himself into a flourishing bow that somehow oozed sarcasm with every gesture, and as he came back up, he flicked his eyes to Ciri and smirked again before turning to leave. "Inquisitor."
"Lady Inquisitor," Empress Celene said in greeting. "We welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow Us to present Our cousin, Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible."
"Your Imperial Majesty," Ciri said with yet another curtsey. "Your Grace."
"What a pleasure to meet the woman whom all Orlais has been speaking of at last," Grand Duchess Florianne said. "When my brother said you'd agreed to accompany him, I was delighted. The famed Inquisition, here at my party." Her lips, so very similar to Gaspard's, fell into an identical smirk. "We will certainly have to speak later, Inquisitor."
She backed away from the dais and fell into shadow, leaving the attention on Empress Celene. A pregnant silence fell for a long moment as the empress gazed down at Ciri, her blue eyes searching her face for something. Similarities?
Did she truly believe that damnable rumor?
"Our court is refreshed by your presence, Inquisitor," Empress Celene said at last, "much as a summer's day is refreshed by a cool breeze."
Ciri reached for her parents' easy word games with each other and came away with a wisp of an idea. "There's nowhere a cool breeze would rather waft on a summer's day than your magnificent court, Your Imperial Majesty."
Empress Celene smiled slightly. "You are too kind, Inquisitor. We have followed your Inquisition's exploits very closely. Your victory in the Western Approach made for a thrilling tale." She gave Ciri an inscrutable look. "And your efforts in the Exalted Plains are to be commended, of course. We're certain you will appreciate a night of beauty instead of blood, however. A paltry thank you from a grateful nation."
Beauty at a masquerade held a mere stone's throw from a massacre you ordered – in a palace built on stolen land.
"Halamshiral is indeed beautiful," Ciri said instead. "I find language inadequate in the face of the splendor of your palace."
"A sentiment many express on their first visit," Empress Celene replied, smiling faintly again. "May this be only one of many. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the Winter Palace, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance."
Ciri curtseyed a final time and turned to head up the stairs to one of the balconies overlooking the ballroom floor.
"A moment, Inquisitor Morhen."
A polite voice caught her attention, and she looked over to see a well-dressed man in a silver mask edged with tiny blue gems, a small gold mustache resting beneath the sculpted nose. His dark hair was thick and hung near to his jaw, and his eyes were a close match in color to the gemstones. Leliana and Vivienne's lessons on the nobles' masks came to her in a flash, and she gave him a genuine smile.
"Duke Cyril. It's wonderful to finally meet you in person."
"Likewise, Lady Inquisitor, though I regret we could not have attended together."
To her relief, he didn't sound accusatory. There were too many ears nearby to answer with any degree of honesty, so she just let her agreement show on her face for a bare second then hid it away behind a pleasantly neutral expression.
"But I wished to thank you for all that you've done for the empire," he continued, bowing shallowly over her hand, "and for me. Chateau Haine would have been overrun with those monstrous wyverns had you not sent your soldiers. You have my most sincere condolences for the loss incurred on my behalf."
"It was the Inquisition's honor to aid you, Your Grace. Your friendship and support have been invaluable."
"Perhaps we might strengthen those ties of friendship later," he suggested with a friendly smile. "We younger members of the Council of Heralds often retreat to a parlor off the guest wing garden for a game and a drink. Do stop by to meet Marquis Renaud and Comtesse Solange before the night is through."
"Shall I bring Varric Tethras?" she asked and watched his smile widen.
"By all means. I have a question or two for him on Donnen's fate after his latest novel, and Solange was infuriated by his cliffhanger in Swords and Shields. I know Solange is also quite interested in meeting your liaison, Triss Merigold."
"I'll let her know," Ciri told him.
He paused and lowered his voice. "You should speak with Sister Nightingale."
It wasn't a good place to ask why, so she just nodded. "I'd intended to."
"Very good. We'll speak again soon. Do take care, Lady Inquisitor, and enjoy yourself."
He bowed courteously and left, but she wasn't alone for long. Leliana caught her attention with a low flick of her fingers and fell into step with her, slipping her arm through hers.
"Walk this way," she murmured. "Fewer people will hear anything of import if we keep moving, and I know a good spot where we can stop to speak."
Ciri obediently let her steer her from the ballroom as she kept up a stream of light, inconsequential chatter about the clothing and shoes that had caught her eyes. She found she could contribute to it in places after nearly a year in Thedas, though her opinions on ladies' fashion in Orlais were still less than generous.
"And the grand duchess' gown made quite a statement," Leliana said lightly, finally stopping in an out of the way nook. "That standing collar is certainly unique."
"I didn't think much of the ruched bodice, but the collar was impressive," Ciri allowed. "The silk looked hand-painted."
"Yes, to appear as a butterfly's wing." Leliana fell silent for a moment, long enough that Ciri began to wonder if she was lost in thought.
"Leliana?"
"Do you know what the Orlesian word for butterfly is, Ciri?"
"No," she said, and at Leliana's raised eyebrow, she stifled a groan of dismay. "Oh. No. Really?"
Suddenly the idea that the de Chalons were behind Papillon made all too much sense.
"She and her proxies are too widely known by her bard name for this to be anything but a declaration," Leliana said quietly. "We may have come to stop Celene's assassination, but I have a terrible feeling that you are not meant to leave here alive."
"Well," Ciri sighed. "That complicates things."
