Chapter Three: Sister Nightingale
Shadows and spears of twilight played across the neatly tended park behind Denerim's Chantry. The woman walking there exulted in the beauty. Her Chantry robe featured an embroidered sun with the Maker's eye in the centre. It gleamed with the lustre of new acquisition. Shyly, almost disbelievingly, she traced a hand across its stitched edges.
A nightingale swooped gloriously across her path, so close she felt the heavy breath of air currents, the dark-beating wings. The incandescent beauty thrilled her; it was the wrong season for nightingales, but there it was, just as the dead rosebush had flowered in Lothering. Like prisms splitting light-beams, the rose and the nightingale refracted the Maker's glory. Holding her breath at the beauty and power, she tried to follow the soaring flight. The thick trunks of the trees defeated her. They were very old, planted in rigid lines, gnarled by weather and time. Whimsically, the woman recalled the stories her Elven cousin had told her about the Vhenadahl: which reached even higher to the heavens. Shianni had said, too, that the Alienage had a saying: "The tall tree catches the forester's eye." It was meant to be a warning to avoid drawing notice as dear Rillian had done. Leliana wondered whether the Chantry's grove held a similar oblique message.
Heavy branches spanned horizontally towards the other trees in the grove, so that no one grew alone, without support. Now, they were bare and stark, snow-laden. In summer a thicket of green shoots would rise from each branch, creating a thick, swaying canopy. This was shelter and succor: all the things Leliana had found within the Chantry and nowhere else.
Looking about her, she was reminded that her visit to the grove had its own secretive need. Newly declared Seeker Leliana - proud, humble, joyous, frightened - had sought the grove for its soft, snow-shrouded silence. She felt the ponderous tree trunks excluding the world. She touched the new symbol again, setting off delicious memories of the moment Queen Anora had told Grand Cleric Leanna that Sister Leliana had earned the gratitude of the Crown. The Grand Cleric's response had been to promote her.
It was not - standard practice for religious appointments to be brought about by secular authorities: but the new Grand Cleric was one who would always be where power lay. Rumour had it that this cleaving to power had disgraced the Grand Cleric: seen her prostitute her vows by turning a blind eye to Rendon Howe's atrocities. Naturally, now that Howe was dead, she wished the Crown to protect her from inconvenient reminders.
Unless, of course, Grand Cleric Iona triumphed at the Landsmeet, in which case the Orlesian Chantry would have no better friend.
Leliana had been bitterly disappointed to realise the Chantry she adored was possessed of the same scheming, infighting and power-mongering as the life she had fought so hard to leave behind. Still, the Chantry herself endured, no matter how her individual clerics fell short. It was difficult for Leliana to articulate what that meant to her. To be part of it meant to be part of a family - meant to redeem herself for her abandonment of Lothering - meant to leave behind the life she had run from. Her heart swelled with dreams of the clerics who had preceded her, how they healed, guided, consoled. And Leliana - the itinerant bastard of Lady Cecile's husband and her Elven maidservant, Delena - now possessed them all.
She sought one of the wooden benches provided for just the sort of contemplative solitude she needed. Snuggled against the high back, she pulled her feet up under her and seemed to blend into the thick cedar slabs.
Not even the delight of her new rank could dispel the purposelessness that had seized her after the defeat of the horde. She was filled with a dissatisfaction that refused to be identified. Alternately listless or given to frenetic action, she irritated those around her and embarrassed herself.
Until now she had resisted the urge to use the Captivating Song as a means of escape. The Song could corral whole crowds - and, when that failed to prevent capture - the inward withdrawal that resulted could withstand any torture. The resulting calm peacefulness was so pleasant that Marjolaine had warned against the technique. There were sinister rumours of bards who had become enslaved by their ability to lose themselves in self-induced bliss.
Yet she could think of no other way to find the peace that eluded her. Finally, she sealed her senses against the outside world and drifted on the tides of music. Pulses trembled softly in her temples and throat. She dozed as the nightingale does, ever poised for flight.
Her mind refused her. It bolted through images of the darkspawn battles in a series of snapshots of violent death. Finally, she abandoned the attempt. Her bardic senses tingled: vibrated with her own tensions and those of another.
Someone else was in the grove.
She opened her eyes. For a heartbeat, they refused her focus, so that her first impression was of an out-of-place purple cloak that made her think of crocuses - as if spring had come early. As her vision cleared, she recognized the opulent cloak of Grand Cleric Leanna. The older woman advanced with her mouth twisted in the smile that always made Leliana think of a painted shield. This evening, there were mists floating among the trees, silvery against the black of their ancient trunks. The fog was alive, filtering in and out of the living towers. Even as she watched, the tendrils folded in on themselves, shimmering to nothing like a thing sent to trick and bewilder. Repelled, fascinated, she stared at the teasing maneuvering. There was something about the way the mist's veil slipped across the landscape that frightened her. The unceasing waves and invisible currents made her think of an enemy: probing, prying, testing the land's defenses.
Leliana remembered Harwen Raleigh's dead face. Light that streamed from the estate's windows had disguised the features, mottled them, so that Leliana didn't know if the wide, sightless eyes begged for mercy or winked in macabre jest.
Why would the Grand Cleric come to her with the same wavering, unsure features?
Leliana rose to greet her. Without any return greeting, the woman said: "This is a message. From the Divine to me. You must hear."
Leliana shook her head, befuddled. What had she done to warrant the attention of Divine Beatrix III?
My words will reach you at the time our delegation arrives in Denerim. As friend to both Chantry and Wardens, you have the honour of being summoned to Montsimmard.
The Grand Cleric's words came as if she had sand in her teeth. "Prepare to meet with Grand Cleric Iona. I suggest you isolate yourself and pray. You have a problem with pride."
Covering her unease, Leliana executed a graceful curtsey that seemed to irritate Leanna all the more. Rising to leave, the older woman patted her hand. Her thick, two-fingered ring of gold and amethyst hit with enough force to hurt. Leliana almost giggled, reflecting that even the symbol of the Grand Cleric's office had its hidden dangers.
Leanna said: "Our Orlesian Sister has more information for us, intended for the ears of all the Landsmeet. You may go."
Leliana barely got through her goodbyes. To go home to Montsimmard. The answer to all her restlessness?
During the Blight, she had followed Rillian. There had been repression, intrigue, and the chance to use her finely-honed skills. It had given motion and excitement to life, but not fulfillment. Now that the Blight was over, peace would give Anora the opportunity to grow into the ruler Ferelden needed and provide ever-better service to her people. Grand Cleric Leanna would always seek more power. She was perfectly capable of conniving with the old guard who longed to put the blood of Calenhad back on the throne.
If Leliana earned the Divine's favour, she could probably hope to match Leanna with her own schemes: replace her in the distant future. If the old schemer didn't outwit death itself.
The first words of the voice came so softly that Leliana was afraid it was the Maker. The touch of ice tingled on her flesh. When the whisper came again, she realized the voice was human. "Don't turn around, Sister Leliana. I have no wish to be seen by you, or anyone. Our meeting must remain unobserved."
A man. At first, Leliana thought the rich, musical accent must be Orlesian. But underneath the familiar music was a darker, richer tone. It was the difference between champagne and spiced brandy. Antivan? Nevarran? Eyes straight ahead, Leliana said: "Who are you, to be so certain we're not watched?"
Laughter rustled like the soft gusts of snow falling from dead branches. "It is my business…no, my life, to be unseen. The Seeker flourishes best when unobserved."
"You're working with Grand Cleric Leanna? You're…" Leliana bit down on the questions an instant ahead of amused interruption.
"That over-stuffed Winterfest turkey? That bird will be ripe for the plucking at the Landsmeet: the Couslands have proof of her treachery. Your suggestion of an alliance is - insulting. I raced her. I speak for Grand Cleric Iona alone. Listen. The Chantry is in the greatest danger since the war with Tevinter. The Qunari are rising. An embassy has already made landfall in Kirkwall. The Arishok watches and waits, spreading their false religion. To defeat them, the Chantry must lose no opportunity; deny no weapon. You understand?"
"Yes." Leliana hardly heard herself.
The unseen speaker continued. "These so-called "Orlesian ships" actually come from Kirkwall. No fleet would dare sail from Orlais in midwinter. Grand Cleric Iona and the Knight Divine were sent to Kirkwall by Divine Beatrix last summer, to deal with the so-called mage resistance. The Empress' own representative has been in Ferelden for longer: unseen, waiting. Her abilities to listen, suborn, pervert would be impressive - if they were not tied to a base squabble over a mud-soaked mutt-ridden backwater. This representative has passed back and forth between Ferelden and Kirkwall as a simple refugee, reporting faithfully. The Maker alone knows how unfaithfully she may report to someone else. Iona is here to deal with the crimes of General Loghain: but she has become concerned that the Divine has been seduced by the Empress' desire to reclaim this unimportant backwater. A troubling precedent: the old fool Elthina nearly lost the Templar presence in Kirkwall due to a squabble over Orlesian shipping rights: a squabble begun by the Divine at the Empress' behest. Iona is concerned that politics may lead to schism, preventing the Chantry being what she should be, must be: immortal, immutable, universal and unchanging."
Leliana's throat worked convulsively, fighting against welling nausea. Iona was going to betray the Divine: betray her chosen successor, Mother Dorothea - Leliana's saviour. And yet - wasn't her path the right one? Wasn't defense of the faith a worthier goal than the Great Game Leliana had tried so hard to leave behind?
The speaker waited, knowing that questions must come.
Reluctantly, Leliana forced herself to address the central issue. "If Grand Cleric Iona does not approve of the Divine's goals, then she cannot truly wish to see me summoned to Montsimmard. What does she really want of me?"
"Ahhh. They said you were as quick-minded as you are…gifted." There was a pause both before and after the last word; a pause that raised the hair on the back of Leliana's neck. Then: "Grand Cleric Iona sees a single threat to the Chantry's unity that goes beyond politics. She sees heresies unleashed and forbidden experiments conducted. The Chant tell us: The foulest evil can be done in the guise of the fairest favour. She wishes nothing from you but an honest recounting of your travels with Warden Rillian Tabris."
Leliana's hands were shaking. She gathered herself, said: "The Chant also tell us: Truth manipulated or misunderstood is evil's poisoning.
"Obey your instructions. Rillian will not be harmed. Iona only wishes to guide her down the proper paths. I am directed to tell you this: the Orlesian representative is a Lady Marjolaine Reveur. She has named you a traitor. Fail to be completely honest, and Iona will fail to protect you. Your life will become an unending prayer for release. Am I understood?"
"Yes." Leliana was an unanchored vessel drifting on strange tides. She swayed. There was a silent withdrawal of the presence behind her: only the stillness in the air telling her she was alone once more. The sun had almost dropped below the horizon before she could bring herself to move.
When she finally rose, the motion was firm and controlled. After all, before this happened, wasn't she complaining of the lack of excitement in her life? And the Seeker wasn't as clever as he thought: he had called her Sister Leliana, when her true rank was also Seeker. A small chink in the armour of knowledge.
She had taken no more than three steps when the false self-confidence collapsed. Traitor. Marjolaine had framed that charge - but Celene would believe it anyway. Worse: Leliana had truly been a traitor to Ferelden. Five years ago she had been involved in Marjolaine's plot to steal details of King Maric's voyage. Should that knowledge ever come to light, Loghain's vengeance would make Celene's seem like a pleasant dream.
She could beg protection of Dorothea and the Divine - but they were very far away. Iona, Marjolaine and Loghain were here.
Rillian was here, too. But, Leliana had never told her Elven cousin about Marjolaine. Not even when Rillian, in her innocence, had described her as the woman who had trained her mother. Leliana had never admitted she had worked with Adaia – that the training had been more than music. She had told herself it was kinder: Rillian believed her mother a victim wrongly accused of theft. It would have been cruelty to tell her the accusation had been true - and that the theft had been something worse than coin. Leliana and Adaia had escaped Harwen Raleigh together – she would die before she told Rillian she had kept on running even as the guards cornered Adaia.
Rillian must never know. Iona was her only hope.
Leliana watched night pour an intense purple wine into the grove, where it swelled up the sides of the tree trunks. Just before the darkness drowned colour, the greens, browns and greys shimmered in a moment of defiant vitality. When it swallowed the last of the sun's light, she leaned heavily on one of the old, comforting trees. Memories of Rillian - hair red as her own, cocky, brilliant, laughing - raced through her mind like beads on a golden chain that was slipping through her fingers. A single word stole through her mind, fouling all it touched.
Betrayal.