In the end, it was not duty that was his undoing. It was pride.
He just couldn't let it lie.
It was a loose end. And his desire to tie it up, almost petty. But she was more now — the target on her back had grown with her. The instinct to protect her, to protect them, had grown to override his better judgement.
Corypheus' defeat propelled the story of her bravery to the farthest corners of the continent. No longer a rebellious upstart, a Dalish elf who'd stumbled accidentally into power… she'd proven herself worthy of a seat at the table. Now, a major power in her own right. Her victories elevated her above the role of the Inquisitor, more than even the Herald now; she was a saviour. The more she denied divinity the more they called that humility their proof.
The demands for her time stretched years.
Now caravans travelled regularly up the long road through the Frostbacks for their chance to see the great fortress; hoping for the reward of her patronage, a position in her service, or even just a spot in the yard. Once the weather warmed enough to make the roads passable they came in numbers too great to host, forcing many to turn back, which in turn made talk of favouritism. But she was only one person, she could not possibly hear them all.
It would be easier than ever for an enemy to slip in unnoticed.
Solas was acutely aware of the risk growing beyond his ability to handle. He had only so many agents to utilise for the task of watching a crowd, only so many ears to listen for whispers. Their time was better spent on other endeavours.
There were strange rumours coming out of Arlathan forest. Old places waking up, leaking magic into the surrounding areas. The Veil was weakening. Spirits were being pulled through in numbers too great to handle; demons prowled the edges of the land that once belonged to his people. There was activity inside the ruined temples named for the Evanuris, after standing empty for aeons now people were being sighted inside. Elves not loyal to his cause clashed with Qunari parties bent on looting the old artefacts for reasons he had yet to discern.
Though his network had grown exponentially since waking, it was stretched thin without a central base from which to lead it. For now, he stayed at Skyhold — his attention split — and that choice crippled his reach. He was only one person. With so many threats to watch it simply wasn't possible to be sure he'd catch the rumour of another plot against the Inquisitor, should one arise.
And one would arise.
He knew it as certainly as he knew he should have acted when Briala first informed him, back when they'd last visited the Winter Palace. Back when he'd instead allowed himself to be distracted. Her attempts to rile him worked — and the resulting inaction left his love with permanent scars. Not just on her body, but on her heart as well.
He could not risk it happening again.
Allowing the allies of the assassin to live on was an insult to all she'd endured through her rise. It sent a message of leniency. Of pity. All but inviting another to try again. The notoriety Ellana now enjoyed as saviour would only fan the flames that first created the dissidents; for some unfathomable reason Leliana had chosen to let that challenge stand rather than excise the rot completely. Should even one of those scattered few left behind feel motivated to find a new sponsor, or to inspire others to regroup, there would be another attempt on her life. There was no doubt. The infamy they'd gain from success at this stage would be too tempting. She was more, now — as a symbol and a trophy.
And no longer did she sleep alone in the tower.
Leliana was wrong to spare the blade. Killing the sponsor was not enough.
He couldn't let it lie.
But first, he had to wait.
A few months, maybe more, to allow the air a chance to settle following their conversation in the tower. While she'd made no accusations, it was clear the Spymaster was beginning to suspect there was more to him than first appeared. He had the messages from her agents intercepted and copied, and from those learned that she'd begun to look more closely at his origins. Soon enough she'd find them a ruse. He'd have to make assurances.
Changing the information was too conspicuous, as was coming to her directly, so instead he adjusted what she'd find if she followed a lead to its source. The story would simply fall apart. Revealing not the calculated misdirection of a greater player of the Game, but the reflexive lie of an apostate forced to employ a certain amount of deception to survive. In the end the information he gave would seem… unpolished. She'd find he'd been dishonest, but only as a natural consequence of someone whose very existence was deemed criminal.
A few other crumbs were scattered to add credibility: a sighting here, a near miss there… a few years worth of movement seeded. Nothing to tie him too closely to any one location, but enough to show he'd moved around. It would all wrap up to a simple, satisfying, narrative: he was merely a wanderer who'd had one too many close calls with Templars.
In a particularly inspired move, he pinned an old theft report — some rare tomes out of a shop in Orlais — on a perpetrator matching his description. Something he might have done as a much younger, more brash, man whose curiosity outweighed his sense. Now he had an origin point for some of his more eclectic knowledge, what drove him to deeper study, should it ever be called into question.
It all worked as intended: within a few months of Corypheus' defeat, reports informed him that Leliana's investigation had reached its logical conclusion. Those agents tasked to look into it were pulled back and reassigned. No more leading questions about his travels, no more wonderings about purported family. Their conversations felt warm again, full of good-natured ribbing and requests for his expertise. As a show of good faith, he even shared with her his recent research into the Veil. Going as far as to request scouts bring samples from areas of note. This leaning on resources he'd enjoy only as a member of the Inquisition sowed additional trust; emphasising their peer relationship.
Once confident that her attention lay elsewhere, he could finally set his plan into motion. Clean the infection she'd left to fester.
He carefully reviewed all she'd told him that night in the tower, starting with the assassin's identity. A city Elf born of Halamshiral's ill-fated alienage, she identified herself as a survivor of the Empress' purge. She'd made her way into Skyhold in the guise of an Orlesian merchant selling luxury fabrics and hand-made trinkets. Expensive things, difficult to source, curating a unique collection of wares that won her a coveted space in the yard. Credibility of that sort required both collateral and connections — things one would typically lack as a casualty of civil war. That would point to her sponsor either acting as head of a small network or importer. Either way, contacts would be left behind.
That was more than enough to begin an investigation.
But he couldn't follow the same trail Leliana herself had, both to ensure they didn't tap the same sources, and because it was poor form. Another angle was required: she'd traced rumours back to their source, whereas he looked for support that founded the business itself. This ruse was too sophisticated to be carried out by a single individual. Acquisition of the textiles alone would've required multiple hands — and rounded ears. Find the suppliers, find the traders, find where else the sponsor's money had been going, and find associates. This was not their only investment.
First, he tasked an agent to learn about her business by posing as a similar one. By understanding what was required of a new merchant, he could put together a picture of the kinds of credentials or references she'd have been required to produce. Josephine kept immaculate records of communication between agencies — and not even under lock — all he needed was a starting point.
It turned out that Skyhold, owing to its isolation, did not fall under the jurisdiction of either of her surrounding territories. And thus lacked any of the oversight, licensing and registry, that was typically required of vendors. Every stall on the row had been approved by testimonials and proof of product. Effectively word of mouth. She didn't even need to bother with forged documents, as long as her personality dazzled as much as her goods she could walk right in!
The lack of security was appalling. It was a wonder they had not been under threat sooner.
However, the competition for spaces in the concourse was fierce, and often dirty; other merchants were keen to gossip once word leaked that one of their own had been responsible for the attack. Suddenly everyone had something interesting to say about the woman they 'always knew was bad news'. Most was speculative nonsense, but one or two reports proved valuable.
With a few memories jogged, he was able to gather enough to trace her path backward through Redcliffe and West Hill. Then Lydes and Verchiel. She'd moved around quickly, staying just long enough to leave a light footprint and a few clients to provide testimonials, if needed. The cover was well-wrought but not without flaws, the most glaring of which was the one he'd been counting on: acquiring stock. No one had any recollection of her buying anything in any of the cities she'd visited. This was not surprising in and of itself, many suppliers refused to work with Elves, but it did imply someone else was in charge of the trades. And there were records of others making purchases for items she later carried. One other, in this case: an Orlesian nobleman known for his disdain of Elves and deep pockets. A man who vanished under mysterious circumstances not long after the failed attempt on Ellana's life.
And, there, he had the sponsor.
Two were dispatched to search the man's abandoned chateau for any record of his investments. Disgruntled staff left behind following his disappearance would have been a much more obvious source of information, but Leliana had already approached the ones who were the most forthcoming, and so he was forced to find creative alternatives.
Regardless, the mission was successful. In short order he was delivered some of the most poorly-coded correspondence he'd ever had the misfortune of reading, detailing the acquisition of a racing horse, the funding of it's supplies and training and, as he'd suspected, backups in case of its untimely death.
(Among the spoils found in the home was also a collection of art depicting elves in bondage. Tragically lost in a fire that later consumed the mansion).
Leliana was right to cut off the head, he would grant her that: without the connections and funding the other business fronts quickly collapsed. Those once in his employ took all they could carry and ran. But they did not make it far, and were not difficult to find. Fear made them sloppy.
One by one they fell to elven blades. In alleys and dark streets. Casualties of robbery and tavern brawls gone wrong.
Word of their dispatch came by raven first. To a rosy-cheeked scullery maid eager to hear the news of her friend's new baby. That scroll was tucked into the tie of an apron and thrown into a basket at the end of the day, ready to be picked up by the laundress. She palmed it into the hand of a runner on their way out of the bathhouse. Who placed it amongst his paints as they passed through the rotunda on their way to pick up messages from Josephine's office.
The eager sense of anticipation he felt upon plucking it from the pile of brushes was matched only by the wave of relief upon reading it. She was safe. They were safe. No longer would those who'd wished her harm pay her the insult of their continued, miserable, existence.
He couldn't let it lie.
She'd been counting on it.
Exposing Solas' deception was one of the most delicate operations she'd ever managed. He was too clever to interrogate, too quick to corner, and too good a strategist to outplay. She could not bribe or threaten him, and try though she might she had yet to uncover even a shred of information about who he represented or reported to. Once she became aware that he'd not only learned of her investigation, but tampered with it, she had to pull everything back and start over.
She had no proof of his duplicity, only a single witness testimony that — while damning — would play as hearsay if presented. It was not enough. He would simply talk his way around the accusation and walk away with what amounted to a warning. There could not be any mistakes. No half-measures. Show her hand too early and she'd never get another chance.
As an opponent he was formidable… but not invulnerable. Everyone had a weakness to exploit, and she had seen his judgement clouded before. In hubris, there was opportunity. She need only play to his pride; the enduring belief that he knew best.
If she played her cards right he would do the work for her — expose himself — all she had to do was wait.
For months she played the part expected of her: respected peer with their suspicions assuaged. She allowed him to believe his misdirection was successful; she'd found him to be nothing more than a man with a unique field of study. Meanwhile, she assigned tails for each of the surviving connections of the dead assassin. They would watch, and wait, and only send word if he made a move against them. No written record existed of the orders, and so they could not be intercepted.
She'd bet everything on the hunch that he could not let it lie, his arrogance wouldn't allow it. Not when it came to her. This was an insult he would not abide.
The very morning he read of his success, the Nightingale received word of her own.
He'd acted without caution, so blinded by pride that he didn't stop to look before he leaped. The moment he gave the order to kill the targets his fate was sealed.
And the jaws of her trap snapped shut.
