Thank you all for reading! Special thanks as always to suilven for the careful and thoughtful beta!
Thule let himself out of the library, closing the doors very quietly behind him. He saw no one nearby, so he had hopes that his jaunt outside the confines of the ball had gone unnoticed.
But before he had gone two steps, a coolly amused voice came from the shadows. "Well, well. What have we here?"
He stopped still. "Show yourself."
"Have no fear, I shall. I have been waiting for you."
The woman who emerged from the shadows was one of the most beautiful women Thule had ever met. Her hair was black as a raven's wing, glossy and thick, her eyes tilted and golden like a cat's. There hung about her an exotic perfume that went straight to Thule's head. It was a pity she had such poor fashion sense, however—her gown was an amalgamation of many different styles, lace and panels and brocade and jewels piled on top of each other as though she couldn't get enough finery; as though, like a raven, she collected everything shiny she saw and felt the need to wear it. On the whole, he decided, he much preferred Cassandra's severe tailoring.
"So you're the Empress's occult advisor, I take it."
"I am. And you are the leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith. Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself."
She had quite the voice, purring and cultured and redolent with promise—if only it hadn't been so superior at the same time. Thule had never enjoyed being talked down to, not in any sense.
"It didn't quite happen that way," he pointed out.
The woman smiled. "Naturally not. One would have to believe there was such a spirit as Andraste still extant to swallow such a tale. But it has its uses in calming the masses, to be sure."
"Inconvenient types, those unruly masses."
"Sometimes." She inclined her head in belated greeting. "I am Morrigan."
"Thule Cadash."
"You have been very busy this evening, Thule Cadash, hunting in the dark corners of the palace."
He shrugged. "What can I say, I was raised in the Carta. Old habits die hard."
"You need not be coy with me, Inquisitor. I believe that you and I hunt the same prey. You do not wish harm to befall the Empress; no more do I."
"Because she's expedient, or because you care for her?" he asked.
Morrigan laughed. "You can hardly expect a truthful answer to such a blunt question, not here in the heart of the Great Game itself. Let us say because I owe her, and because I oppose chaos."
"Chaos can be very hard to manipulate."
"It can, indeed. Also, if something were to happen to her, to whom would the eyes turn? To her 'occult advisor', naturally. I cannot afford such scrutiny." She gestured with a tilt of her head that he should follow her down the hall, farther from the party. Thule moved cautiously after her, glad to feel his hidden daggers moving with him. This woman viewed herself as being very powerful, so perhaps if she meant him harm there would be no time to use them, but he had faith in his own quickness. "I will speak first, if that will make you more comfortable. Recently, I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest in these halls. An agent of Tevinter." She reached into the bag that dangled from her wrist and removed a key, handing it to Thule. "I took this from his body."
"What does this open?"
"I cannot say. And if the Empress is in danger, I cannot leave her unwatched long enough to search. However, you can."
"I can't stay away from the party indefinitely, not without causing a scene."
"You strike me as a most resourceful type, Inquisitor. I am certain you can manage."
"Did you manage to get any useful information from the Tevinter before you killed him?"
"Sadly, no. He attacked me first, and in defending myself I killed him more quickly than I would have wished." Morrigan gave a small shrug. "I regret that I could not capture him alive, but these things do happen."
Thule looked at the key in his hand. Sera had told him the elven servants were whispering about issues in the servants' quarters. "I think I know where to try this key first."
"Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound here, not all of them aligned with Tevinter." Her eyes cut in his direction. "What is the former Court Enchanter doing this evening? To whom does she speak? What webs does she weave? 'Tis something to think on, is it not?"
Thule wasn't worried about Vivienne … at least, not enough to fall for such a blatant attempt to make him do so. She was out for her own power, that was something she had never hidden from him, but it was power on her terms. She didn't want to be Inquisitor, or to topple the Inquisition. Of that he was sure. "No doubt up to something she doesn't want me to know about," he said to Morrigan. "I have far greater concerns this evening."
"Far be it from me to tell you your business, Inquisitor." Morrigan touched a door in front of them, pushing it open, and there they were in the ballroom, the people dancing. Morrigan smiled, watching them, a calculating smile. "Do say hello to your spymaster for me."
She didn't wait for his response, moving gracefully through the crowd. Thule watched the eyes watching her for a moment—suspicious eyes, hungry eyes, angry eyes, covetous eyes, frightened eyes—and then made his own way amongst them, hunting for the red jacket and dark hair that meant Cassandra. Partially to tell her he needed her help in the servants' quarters, and partially because this time spent with Morrigan, who wore danger like a perfume, had made him long for the safety and comfort of Cassandra's presence.
Lilias found Alistair wending his way through the nobility, and was warmed all through by the way his face brightened when he saw her. "Just the person I was looking for! I'm sorry that took so long. Maker, that man can talk."
"That's pretty funny, coming from you."
He grinned. "True, I've been known to ramble a bit now and again." Alistair extended his arm to her. "Would you care to dance? I tend to step on the ladies' toes, but it's expected, and you're the only person here I have any interest in dancing with."
If he had injected emotion or seduction into the remark, Lilias would have been uncomfortable, but he said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that she couldn't help but agree with him. Of everyone here, he was the only person she wanted to dance with as well. These past few days traveling from Skyhold, and here tonight, she was remembering what had first drawn her to him in Kirkwall, other than his looks, that was. His openness, his genuine good humor, his jokes, how easy it was to be comfortable with him, the way he made her laugh as she hadn't done in ages. There were so many ways in which he reminded her of Carver, or her father, it almost felt like being with family.
She tried her best not to think of the end of it all, of the building of desire, that night in her room, the touch of his hands and the taste of his skin, or of the rough whisper in the dark that had ended everything. They were new again, starting over, and none of that existed for the moment.
Lilias followed Alistair out onto the dance floor, glad it was a relatively simple dance. Her mother had taught her the rudiments, growing up, and between Varric and Bodahn they had drummed a few of these intricate dances into her head when she was named Champion and expected to attend such gatherings as these, but she was nowhere near as practiced as most of the people on the floor. Of course, neither was Alistair—he hadn't been exaggerating when he promised to stomp on her feet.
Finally they got into some kind of rhythm, sweeping around the floor. "Where were you before?" Alistair asked. "Once I got disentangled from Bann Tinsler, I must have looked for you for an hour."
"I was summoned by the Empress."
"Really? By Celene herself? What did she want to talk to you about?"
Remembering the conversation, Lilias flushed. "You."
"Me? Maker," Alistair groaned. "She isn't still on about that, is she?"
"What, wanting to marry you and create some massive southern kingdom under your joint rule? The topic did come up."
Alistair scowled. "Her rule, you mean, with me as her grinning puppet. I know I'm not the best king Ferelden's ever had, but even I know you don't marry into the royalty of the nation your country was conquered by just a generation ago."
"A good rule," Lilias agreed.
"I hope you told her never, no way, and uh-uh, in that order."
"She told herself, actually. She … had been watching us, and … asked me what we were doing here together. You'll …" Lilias cleared her throat. "You'll be glad to know she told me she was withdrawing any claim on you."
"She did? Why?"
"To … avoid breaking my heart."
Alistair stared at her in surprise. "Well, what do you know. The Empress has a heart."
"Or claims to," Lilias agreed. She hesitated, then said, "I think … I think she's lonely."
He considered that, his head tilted to the side as he thought about it. "You're probably right. I'm lonely, myself, and I don't have the added pressures of the Game, or multiple claimants to the throne."
"Are you?" Lilias forgot herself to look at him, intrigued and saddened by how easily and naturally he had made the admission.
"Yes. Very much so."
"Is that why you're still here? With the Inquisition, I mean."
"That, and … other reasons."
"Me."
"You." The word was little more than a breath, and Lilias realized they had stopped moving and were standing in the corner of the dance floor, staring at one another. She wanted to kiss him—she was afraid to kiss him—she wanted—
And then someone brushed against her back, murmuring an apology, and the moment was broken. Alistair was staring off over her shoulder as if he had seen a ghost.
"What? What is it?" The look on his face was like icy water down her back.
"Someone … I thought I would never see again."
"Someone from the Blight," Lilias said bitterly. "Someone who knew Leyden."
At least he had the grace to admit it. "Yes."
"Go, then."
He hesitated only a moment, looking at her as though he wanted to protest that it wasn't what she thought, but then, mercifully, he thought better of it, and was gone. Lilias made her way off the dance floor, looking for a dark corner to hide in, wishing she had never come.
The blood was pounding in Alistair's head as he moved through the crowd after Morrigan. How could it have been Morrigan? Here, in Orlais, in the Winter Palace, in a ball gown? It was impossible. But that could have been no one else but Morrigan. It must be her.
He was practically pushing people out of his way in his hurry, barely aware of the displeased whispers he left in his wake. Let them stare at the rude and clumsy Fereldan king. He had never expected to see Morrigan again, and little as he liked her, Leyden had been her friend. Maybe she knew … something. Anything. He didn't even know what he expected her to know—he only knew he had to reach her, to talk to her.
At last, he found her on the stairs that led down to the outer gardens. Morrigan stopped to look at him, her eyes holding the same amused, arrogant, patronizing expression they had always held. Maker, how he remembered—and hated—that look. "Alistair."
"Morrigan, what are you doing here?"
"Here? In Orlais, or at the ball?"
"Either. Both! Where have you been all this time?"
She smiled, that enigmatic and secretive smile that made him want to choke her. Alistair took a long breath, and then another. How was it possible that he had forgotten how maddening she was?
"Fine, so you're not going to tell me where you've been. Are you going to tell me why you're here?"
"I am surprised you didn't know. Did Celene never mention me to you, during all your long … tete-a-tetes?"
"You know perfectly well there have been none of those, or you do if you know Celene that well. Why do you know Celene that well?"
"I am her 'occult advisor'."
He stared at her. "Of course you are. I should have guessed that after you abandoned us—abandoned her—you'd find some way to land on your feet."
"Naturally. A person's first responsibility is to themselves, wouldn't you say, Your Majesty?" She tipped her head to the side, an expression of exaggerated sympathy on her face. "And after all this time, still carrying that sodden torch? Did your Leyden deserve such devotion? I wonder."
"Don't speak of her if you're just going to …" He didn't even have the words for what he would do if she started slandering Leyden just for fun.
"So you are still carrying the torch. I wonder what you would say if you knew …" Morrigan dropped the words in front of him almost gaily, but her eyes were deadly serious, the eyes of a predator toying with its prey.
And even though he knew that was what she was doing, he couldn't stop himself from pouncing on the words, lying there before him shiny and tempting. "If I knew what?"
"Nothing."
"It's not nothing," he insisted doggedly. "You meant something. Tell me!"
She stayed silent, her very stillness an eloquent reminder that he had never been able to force her to do anything. At last, she said softly, "What would it have been worth to you, Your Majesty, to save her life? What would you have been willing to do? To what lengths would you have gone? I very much wonder."
"What do you mean?" She was walking away from him, leaving him here with only her hints and innuendoes to cling to, and he couldn't bear it. "Morrigan!" he shouted.
And then she touched a panel in the wall and was gone, where he couldn't follow, and Alistair stood in the midst of the tangled vines that still held him, despite all his attempts to cut through them.