It was cold.
Colder than she'd ever felt.
Colder than the world should be.
The sleeves of her dress didn't quite reach her elbows, and the skirt not quite her knees. It made a poor cover; ripped and full of holes, scattered, where moths had eaten. Too much love wore the hem ragged months ago, and a hanging edge had caught a branch and tore when she scrambled into the bush. In its present state, it kept her no warmer than ribbons of scrap.
No matter how she tried she couldn't pull it down far enough to cover her completely. What was left just wasn't enough for her disappear inside the folds in search of warmth, and the collection of callouses and scars that littered her legs from reckless climbing did little to protect her either.
They should have — they were supposed to make her stronger.
Parts of her had already gone numb, while others ached with a pain so deep and terrible she thought she'd die to bear it… but had no choice. She'd long lost the ability to move. And even if she could, there was nowhere to go — she was lost and alone. This place would be her grave.
If thirst didn't kill her by morning, exposure would take her first.
The knowledge gave her no fear; just the weight of solemn, tired, acceptance that settled over her like a heavy cloak. There was nothing for it now. She would join the bodies on the road before her, faces hidden under a scatter of hair. Frozen, caked in blood.
Once she saw a deer die of hunger. Nearly, anyway — it would've soon if she hadn't found it first. Since the hard winter hit food had been so scarce that even the forest creatures couldn't scavenge enough to sustain them. Starvation worked its way up the chain over a matter of weeks: starting with the typical cold-weather lull of farming and flora, to the birds in search of seed, beasts who ate their meat, and finally to people — until all they could do was make a meal for the earth. Hope their bodies nourished the next cycle so those who survived this time would not suffer their fate winter next.
Every day she worked her fingers raw digging up the frozen ground in search of roots and grubs. Every day she found little, if anything, for her effort. She wanted to help, but was still too small — and too weak — to go on the hunts. So she was left alone and instead accomplished nothing.
Useless.
Until she spied that deer.
It was laying behind a fallen log, near to where she'd been cutting into a pine tree for its inner bark. It was so weak and pitiful it could not even bear its own weight to flee at the sight of her knife when she brandished it. Instead only rolled its head to one side, as though baring its neck for sacrifice. Dark eyes dulled, it could not even muster the will to beg for its life.
Days, maybe weeks, it had wasted away before she found it. Slowly. Mournfully. A once-proud beast reduced to moaning through its last hours. Now nothing but taut skin pulled over sharp bones. It would barely make a meal — but it was still meat. When she brought her blade to its throat she could not bear to meet its eye. At the very least she could ensure the last memory anyone had of it would be of its bounty, rather than its pain.
When its last breath rattled in its throat she whispered a prayer to both Andruil and Ghilan'ain for their blessing. Meek though it was.
Meek.
Almost as much as she was now. Sitting in her thread-bare clothes — soiled and ragged — hoping death would claim her before she had to endure another long night.
At least the deer's pitiful end served a purpose: it fed them for a night or two. But her? She'd die weary and forgotten; no flowers could take root in this frozen ground. Her body would nourish nothing. Thin bones carried off by wolves and her pretty dress in shreds, scattered to the winds.
Maybe she would have felt differently if she'd listened, and instead not worn it at all.
Maybe everything would have been different.
It wouldn't be so cold and her proper clothes would've added no extra weight to the pack to slow their progress and—
She only picked it out of stubbornness, and vanity. It never kept her warm enough. Too special for travelling and she knew it. Yet she loved it too much to let it sit in the bottom of a bag. Worse, she didn't even ask to wear it — she insisted. Begged and cried, even though she knew better.
It was the only fine thing she owned. When she wore it she felt pretty. It was a gift that outshined her freckles, her untamed hair, and even her knobby, skinny, limbs. One so fine it surely took months to pay for. That's all that mattered to her when they left.
Three days ago was so long past — almost an eon. Soon, a lifetime.
Inquisitor?
The skirt flared when she twirled. Like a bell, or the tops of puffy white mushrooms. The ones she picked with mamae. The ones she loved to eat cut into slices and fried in butter.
The next breath left her with a painful shudder.
Even the briefest imagining of food was enough to stoke the fire in her stomach. She shuddered, curled up and heavy with the weight of its emptiness. Bent helplessly over raised knees.
It's cold.
She thought of the smoke rising from the frying pan and the way it smelled in the morning.
So, so cold. There is nothing here.
Now her hair was full of burrs. Face filthy, smeared with dirt and stained from tears.
The bite of frozen skin had taught her an important lesson; penance for her obstinance.
'We'll never win this argument. Let her go ahead; she'll learn on her own when she gets cold. She won't make the same mistake twice'.
Inqu—
I won't. I promise. I'll never wear it ever a—
"—isitor."
It's cold, and the shadows were closing in. She could feel their fingers at her throat, ready to choke the last breaths from her body. And she would let them. Despair was welcomed. Join the bodies on the road so they'd die as a f—
"Ellana!"
Only once her name was shouted did it manage to pierce the veil of sleep — a nightmare — and she was finally torn from it. It was a violent awakening. With a gasp she pitched forward, out of her seat, and in her shock nearly came out swinging. One fist already balled upon her thigh, ready to fight whatever had set her heart racing.
Breathing hard, uncomfortably cold, and briefly very confused, it took a moment for her senses to return to the point that she could remember where she was and how'd she'd got there.
She took quick stock of her surroundings. There were three faces pointed at hers — each wearing the same concerned expression. Silent, as they waited for her assurance that all was well.
All four shared a horse-drawn carriage with the curtains drawn. Cullen was at her side — and his hand hovering just above her elbow told her he'd been the one to wake her — while Vivienne and Solas were seated across. Worry tying them in rare agreement. She almost thought to ask them where they were before reality finally came crashing back.
They were travelling. Halamshiral — the gala. Everyone was dressed in their finest. She'd felt ill on the way, and Cullen suggested she try to sleep it off. They'd had hours to go and the pace was slow. The rhythmic rocking over uneven cobblestones set her head spinning.
Her last conscious thoughts had been of how deeply, vehemently, she hated carriage travel.
And maybe it wasn't the bumpy ride that did it over the experience of being torn so violently from dreaming, but it seemed the suggestion of rest hadn't worked as well as she'd hoped. She'd barely taken three breaths before a hot, familiar, prickle ran up the back of her neck. With it the knowledge that she wouldn't even get the door open in time.
Fortunately, in the space between that terrible realization and the heave of her stomach, Solas had already acted. He grabbed a vase — the large, mostly-empty, container meant to hold the discarded rinds and unwanted pieces of the fruit they'd been provided for the journey — and leapt off his seat, thrusting it beneath her mouth with barely a second to spare before she doubled over it.
The Commander visibly recoiled as she grasped it from his hands. Averting his gaze to the window and lifting his fingers to his temple to shield his eyes while she coughed and retched. Though a hardened soldier, stoic and unshakable on even the bloodiest fields, there was something uniquely uncomfortable about being seated mere inches from someone getting sick into a ceramic pot. Somehow, this was worse.
"Excellent reflexes," he muttered with a vague nod in Solas' direction. Equal parts impressed and grateful for his uncanny speed. Their arrival at the palace was imminent and things would go much differently if the Inquisitor ruined her gown before they even made it to the gate. That would be a fate not even the finest magic could fix.
All things considered it was nothing short of miraculous that the nausea only culminated in a few dry heaves and an ugly coughing fit. Still, Ellana kept the vase held between her knees. Just in case.
Once the threat of sick had finally ebbed she rest her chin upon folded arms and breathed in deep. Sighing, slowly, on each exhale to calm her racing heart.
Vivienne took it upon herself to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon the party. "Alright now, my dear?"
Nodding, "Yes," Ellana affirmed, but not so far from caution that she didn't still cover her mouth with the back of a hand. The gesture also granted her a precious few seconds to stall for a suitable excuse. "I don't think carriage travel agrees with me. Maybe sleeping was a bad idea."
"Bad dreams?" prompted Cullen. He risked a glance in her direction. Eyeing the vase first to ensure she wasn't still bent over it.
She was grateful for the suggestion, and would be sure to thank him later for it, as it lent weight to an otherwise thin excuse.
Nodding, "Yes," she agreed, "Something about a deer… and a dress, I think. A very nice dress."
That part wasn't a lie — the dreams had been distressing, she'd had more of them recently than ever before — but she was losing her grip on what remained to tell of the truth. The memory of had already faded into whispers.
"Sounds terrible."
A twitch of his mouth betrayed the dry delivery, and she offered him a wry smile in return. She bore no love for fancy parties, or dresses — it was hardly a secret.
"Positively awful," Ellana confirmed with a smirk. Smoothing a hand over her skirts for emphasis. "I cannot imagine anything worse than wearing a gown."
"Travel has always given me loathsome dreams," Vivienne interjected. Her eyes flicked between Ellana and the break in the curtains, watching the road. One hand folded demurely beneath her chin for balance. "Carriage rides may be comfortable but they are terribly boring, and what sleep that tedium gifts you tends to be rather colourful. Worse, if you're sick for the trouble."
Something outside caught her eye, and she paused to take a pair of gloves out of the small clutch on her lap. Pulled them on and buttoned the wrists. The carriage's pace began to slow: they were nearing the gates.
"You get used to it in time."
Ellana scoffed, dismissive. "My hope is not to do this often enough to build a tolerance."
"Social obligations may not be your favourite way to spend an afternoon but it's in your best interest to do more than endure them," Vivienne replied, and though her tone was not as warm now there was no malice in the advice she offered — only harsh for the truth she spoke. It was the same tone of voice Ellana was accustomed to hearing from her advisors. The kind that brokered no argument. It even made the Commander sit up a little straighter.
"While droll, these events are a necessary part of any position of leadership. Beyond the opportunities for gathering allies and information, your mere presence brings import to your hosts and hope to their audiences. Do nothing but show up and you'll still have done them a service. But you're more than a chess piece, my dear: you're a symbol. And the number of invitations you'll be expected to respond to will only grow with your influence. You cannot avoid them all, though being selective in your replies builds sturdier bridges.
"The adjustment may be difficult, and with your heritage you'll struggle more than most—" Beside her Solas turned, brow lowered, and looked ready to interject on her behalf until a quick glance stilled his tongue. The point of Dalish upbringing clashing with Orlesian expectations was a valid one. Neither intended, nor taken, as the insult he found it to be. "—but once you make the time you may find there are some aspects you find enjoyable about the events.
"It is a Game, darling," and the snap of her clutch locking served as punctuation, "play it."
Ellana could not argue the point, and was not so prideful that she meant to try. Instead, she offered the Enchanter a nod, conceding her the argument. The gesture pleased her. Painted lips curling into a fond smile that easily reached her eyes and, ah — there's the love, she thought. Vivienne was firmest when she cared most, and softest when her advice was heeded.
A soft whoa from the carriage driver marked their arrival. The horses slowed to a canter. In a moment the door would open and they'd be led inside.
Ellana fumbled with the vase, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, unsure of what exactly to do with it lest she be presented while it was still caught between her knees. Though unsoiled by her sour stomach, somehow she still felt as though she'd violated its purpose.
Fortunately Solas came to her aid a second time. Standing, he extended a hand to take it back from her — but didn't quite get that far. It didn't occur to him to grab hold of the leather loop hanging by the door until after the carriage came to a sudden, lurching, halt and he was flung forward. Fortunate to catch himself on her leg before they collided and did any real damage to each other. A bloody nose before introductions wouldn't do, either. They exchanged a pair of apologetic smiles before he righted himself, took the vase, and placed it back in the same corner he'd taken it from. This time making use of the strap, just in case.
Outside there was a parade of soft clicks as the high-heeled shoes of their driver and host hit the cobblestones, met with other servants of the palace, and arranged themselves. Then they opened the doors.
A young man in a colourful suit and a white mask bowed to the occupants. Threw an arm wide. "Your worship," he greeted, "welcome back to Halamshiral."
Behind him was a crowd of nobles, dignitaries, and other important people whose names she'd never remember. Many were gathered just outside the doors; lingering beyond their own introductions in the hope of catching a glimpse of the next guests. Pretending to talk, to look busy, lest they be accused of gawking. Others strode inside immediately upon arrival with the confident air of one too good for gossip.
It's all pageantry.
Two dozen curious faces turned toward their carriage when the doors opened. All wearing masks of varying expense and detail, bobbing in the crowd like buoys at sea.
White for servants, unless they're polished. Colours for nobles. Metallics for import.
Ellana went over the list of families she'd studied, ticking them off her fingers one by one as she sighted their symbols, carved in brass and silver. Lions, deer, bears, bucks, rabbits and birds. It pleased her to know she was much better at it this year than last. Masks were easier to recall than faces. Chevaliers and guards were not difficult to pick out, as were bards. The Empress could be spotted a mile away with her glimmering dress and high-necked ruff standing tall above her head like a halo.
Telling the difference between the lesser nobles — the ones who didn't have the standing to claim intricate designs associated with their families — was still a bit of a challenge.
Surely she'd have plenty of opportunities to commit them to memory with them all staring at her like that.
It was on that thought that she hesitated, finding herself suddenly unable to take the first step outside. Anxiety dropped a heavy weight, like lead, in her belly and she was paralyzed by the gravity of it. The burden of secrets, lies and presumption that would follow her wherever she went. All those faces reading her own.
Then a hand touched her arm. Gentle. "Shall we?" Cullen asked, then he tucked in his palm and offered her his elbow. The crooked smile told her he sensed her apprehension; likely even shared it.
So she breathed, deep, and took it with a smile that she hoped would substitute for nerve until she gathered it. "Indeed we shall. Lead on, Commander."
Together they stepped out of the carriage and made their way to the main doors. Drawing fawning faces eager to see the picture they made of a leader in arm with her dapper escort, the head of her armed forces. Smiling and flirting with passers-by as though there was nothing bizarre about attending parties amidst a conflict.
You'll get used to it in time.
Following their entrance the next cart in the convoy was opened and out stepped Cassandra, Iron Bull and Leliana. The officers travelling with them stayed behind, waiting their turn in the order of importance.
Back in the carriage Solas waited not to be prompted to leave. As an elf he'd take up the rear of the party — forgotten and unnoticed. Fortunate. It left him free to slip through the palace as an observer and do what he willed with his time.
Only once the Commander and the Inquisitor were inside, and the warriors almost through the entrance, did the young man at the carriage door gesture for the next group to exit. Sure to give them time for an appropriate spectacle. When Vivienne made to leave Solas politely offered her his arm to aid her exit from their transport. It was no surprise that she refused.
It was a surprise, however, that she chose to take the moment to offer him some advice. Stalling, under the guise of donning her mask.
"You should mind the way you show familiarity to the Inquisitor," she warned.
Unexpected, he'd admit.
But there was no reason to believe it was anything more than a comment on the tone of conversation they'd exchanged on the way, so he feigned ignorance. "Far be it from me to speak out of turn," he said, and followed it with a barb: "I forget that you do not expect the same from the Elves you kept at court. Were they all delegated to duties that kept them from offending your sight?"
Her laughter was cold, with just enough of an edge to bite. And the way she pressed her fingers to her lips was a gesture meant to emphasize that mirth rather than hide it. "You misunderstand me, Solas. It isn't your words that concern me as much as your habits. An Elven apostate ingratiated into her inner circle may only raise a few brows in the Inquisition, but in Orlais they will be searching for a reason why. 'Expert on the Fade' holds little meaning here, and though you play the Game well for someone without a mask your hand on her thigh speaks of a position in her council more intimate than the title would imply."
Dryly, he replied, "I shall endeavour not to trip in her presence lest a sordid fiction be writ of where I fell."
"It was not the fall but catching yourself, my dear, and that she was so accustomed to the touch that she did not take notice of your trespass."
"Nor is she likely to: she is Dalish," he countered easily. "Her people are easier with their affection, and accustomed to sharing close-quarters."
It was not a lie: she often talked with her touch. A hand laid carelessly on his shoulder or knee was startling before he grew accustomed to it. A habit born in any small, familial, community like the clans where space and privacy were luxuries few enjoyed.
It was not a lie, but near enough to one that it might not please her to hear it, were she present.
And it failed to pass Vivienne's scrutiny. "Please," she admonished, and finished fastening her mask. The look she gave him from beneath it served as warning not to belabour the point — she had no patience for this dance. Not with him. "Orlesian court are not so blind as peasants and soldiers: a display so careless would set tongues wagging."
"I'm surprised I've not yet heard tale of her numerous affairs if it takes only a stumble to invent one."
This time her laughter was genuine. "You cannot possibly be that naive, Solas. Rumour and supposition always follow power; a hundred lies are told of leaders every day. An interesting fiction they'll trade for free — but a secret they will kill for."
She stepped down from the carriage floor unaided. All smiles and grace as she greeted the servants that waited by the doors to introduce her. Offering a final warning over her shoulder, "Try not to give them any knives."
Another five minutes passed before the driver prompted Solas to follow. The entire delegation had arrived and been introduced by then. Even the soldiers were given the privilege before him. Though the order bore him no trouble: now more than ever he was grateful for the invisibility his appearance gifted him.
The Enchanter's lecture had gotten under his skin. It wasn't just the satisfaction she wore so plainly in having painted him into a corner, where any rebuttal he offered would be mistaken for a poor defence. More than that, her tone set his teeth on edge: she spoke to him as though he were a wayward child she was scolding about forgotten manners. It stirred a part of him he'd not felt in a long time. Some rebellious, youthful, and entirely inappropriate impulse to test her rather than take the advice to heart… if only to remind himself that he had far more experience manipulating a court than she could ever hope to attain in her limited, human, life in the Circle.
The evening would never end.
There would be no lull in the gaiety, the musicians would never stop playing, leaving all the guests trapped in an endless waltz like charmed beasts. Lulled into a stupor by vengeful spirits bent on watching them dance to death on the bones of her ancestors.
A honeyed trap for all who dared to toast upon this sacred ground.
…Or something like that.
They'd arrived sometime mid-afternoon and though it had reasonably only been dark a few hours surely an entire day had already passed in that time.
Perhaps two.
It was impossible to tell when the hours blurred into an endless tedium of flowing skirts and high laughter, faked behind folded wrists and polished masks. Guests fawning over cake and wine, the baubles on shoes — did you see her pearls? — and the interesting hats worn by families of import. Whatever accident of fashion was sure to inspire next year's trends. It was all so terribly, terribly droll.
But it wasn't initially. At first her presence was a curiosity — a delight, even! The Inquisitor, here, and not even on business. Mingling among the people after a long isolation in that cold and lonely tower on the border of their lands. What a mystery she'd proved to be! How timely that she'd finally graced them. She'd been on the receiving end of far more passive aggressive, hemming, questions than she'd ever thought possible.
Amusingly, Skyhold was even more of a puzzle to them. If it wasn't rumoured to be her grave it was a too-convenient watch post, a clever advantage, or a hard-won prize. A fascinating narrative had been built to answer the question of how she acquired the fortress, as knowledge had begun to spread about its importance as a defensive position.
'I stumbled upon it' simply wasn't good enough to travel, apparently.
My Elvhen paramour gifted us his ancient station to save us all from freezing to death in the mountains, would probably play better.
All told, it was a little alarming how many people knew nothing of Skyhold. The holdings had been theirs for well over a year, with repairs nearly completed, yet no one she'd spoken with had actually seen it. Most didn't even realize it was a proper castle at all and instead seemed to think it was a palatial city in the clouds, shrouded in mystery. Home of spirits and ghosts alike.
And really, there was no reason to correct their assumptions.
Following Josephine's advice, only the most pertinent questions were answered.
No, I did not disappear; rumours of my death were highly exaggerated. We are well-stocked and supplied for the winter and receive visitors year round. We also host guests of honour regularly. There are merchants… and even a tavern! We have a battalion of veteran soldiers protecting us. Make the climb sometime and see us. You probably won't die on the way. Bring a coat and good shoes.
Once she had a chance to be passed between several ballrooms the novelty finally began to wear off and she was awarded the opportunity to lean against a wall and catch her breath between introductions. Actually enjoy some of the food.
She lingered in the dining hall longer than she meant to: a few new, curious, dishes required additional investigation. At one table sat an ornate bowl filled with a medley of forest-grown vegetables, nuts and mushrooms — steamed — that absolutely nobody was eating from. On a plate next to it a stack of simple, flattened, cakes dusted with powdered sugar that had the distinctly earthen smell of a dish made with Halla butter.
Curious.
A careful taste confirmed it: these were Dalish foods. Or an Orlesian kitchen's best approximation, anyway.
Two explanations were possible: either they were made specifically with her palate in mind, or her position had inspired enough shallow intrigue into her culture to borrow and bastardize a few recipes for the exotic appeal. Another bite and, the second, she decided. Significant effort was required to swallow the taste of their cloyingly sweet version of a hearth cake.
Truly, this was Orlais' finest legacy: fucking up all things Elven.
Beyond that initial rush the evening dragged on with little fanfare — she quickly grew bored. The hours past sunset net her only a scatter of polite smiles and shallow conversation. Each new face counted by a glass of summer wine she'd graciously accepted, sipped once, and then traded off with a mostly-empty flute Cullen carried past her. She'd lost count of how many they'd exchanged this way, but if the rosy flush of his cheeks were any indication it would've been well enough to leave her hurting in the morning if she'd imbibed instead.
If she gave him any more he'd need a chaperone of his own.
For that freedom she envied him.
Not for the drunkenness, though that would be nice to offset the boredom, but for the lack of constraints. No one would begrudge him stumbling, flirting, or laughing too loud.
Sometime after the fifth glass she lost sight of him, though she imagined he wouldn't wander far. Part of his duty that night had been to keep an eye on her; he'd not retire until after she did. Leliana would ensure it.
The rest of the party were spread evenly throughout the palace. Vivienne, gratefully, stayed nearby for the first few hours — the Enchanter did well to intercept the flow of well-wishers and ensure she wasn't overwhelmed by the crowd upon arrival. Allow only the most important to have a proper audience. Leliana checked in two or three times. Cassandra and Bull she spied in the halls between ballrooms while trying to make her way into the dining hall. Each gave her a friendly nod, but did not leave the posts they'd chosen.
She didn't see Solas once until much later. He was exceptionally good at staying hidden when he meant to, and it was only once she was actively searching that she finally found him. Unguarded and alone, leaning against a window in the shadow of some curtains with his eyes on her. He wore an expression she could recognize even across the room. Confident. Amused. Waiting for her to realize she was being watched.
For his blatant indiscretion she envied him, too.
Had she the opportunity she'd do the same: he looked dashing. Smoulder and smile. Last time they were here she wasn't privy to all his secrets, and so could only wonder at what strange history granted him the ability to be so comfortable at court. Now she could see it for what it was: rebellious nobility at play in his natural environment. While status had never done much for her before, there was something about the taboo of Elvhen gentry that was… oddly alluring.
But lingering too long on the sight would be suspect, so she let her gaze pass over him instead. Following the ebb and flow of dancers moving through the room in pairs. And when she looked again he was gone. Briefly she wondered if she'd just imagined him, but then he emerged from the crowd — already half-way to meet her.
Not so subtle. He knew full well how to leverage his inconspicuousness to play to her interest.
Bastard, she thought wryly.
Solas' steps were as graceful as they were quiet; having foregone the hard-heeled shoes of the mens' dress uniforms in favour of a leather pair, he could easily pass without notice. Skirting shadows cast by tall windows and hung tapestries. Artfully evading the crowd. An old, practiced, dance. It was fascinating to watch him move. Like a fox on the hunt.
Between the fingers of one hand he carried two flutes of wine. Paler than the fragrant, fruity blend she'd been offered all evening. He stopped two paces before her and with a flick of his wrist unfolded a scrap of cloth in his free hand that she recognized as a kerchief embroidered with the Inquisition's sigil. Tucking it against his palm, he used it to delicately grasp one of the crystal stems and offer it to her.
A small, supplicating, gesture practiced by the palace's servants. Lest they leave fingerprints on the glassware reserved for nobles and dignitaries.
She wasn't entirely sure how to feel about the pantomime — she was hardly high society — though clever, she'd admit, for the sake of keeping up appearances. More interesting was how quickly he'd chosen, and slid into, the role of lowly subordinate. In a matter of hours he'd effortlessly adopted the mannerisms of the staff, lending more credence to the title of 'serving man' over the loftier, 'Fade Expert'.
So, "Thank you," she said, and brought the glass to her lips to feign a sip.
The smell was much milder, almost as though—
"It is mostly water," supplied Solas before she could ask. Then tucked the kerchief back into the pocket of his dress coat and slid behind her, leaning a hip against the stone column she'd been resting upon so he faced her back as she faced the room. A careful choice. Hidden, but not so far that they couldn't converse at a low volume. And not so close that it would be too familiar.
Close enough to be coy, if they were not looking at each other, and she did not spare the opportunity.
She teased, "Is it so wise to be caught staring?"
"Wisdom is often absent in the face of such beauty," he countered. Smooth. It was more charming than she'd like to admit. "But I doubt my attention would be noticed: much as the last time you visited the palace you have drawn many eyes this evening. Were you so inclined, you could have your choice of lovers."
Is that what this is about?
She hid her laugh in a sip of watered wine. "Fortunate for you, I am not so inclined."
The silver buckles on his belt made a soft sound as they slid along the marble. And the next words he spoke were little nearer than the last. "Fortunate for me."
There was a promise laid in the timbre of his voice that made her pulse leap. A low, flirtatious tone he was usually very careful with; reserved for games they played in hushed voices when privacy was not assured. Suddenly she understood why he'd waited until she settled in this corner before he'd made an appearance.
And she'd been terribly bored before he walked up.
The next move was hers. Advance and parry. "Tell me, have you heard many salacious rumours while hiding in the shadows?"
"Plenty," he replied. "You'd be surprised how little care is paid to what is said around the servants, or those taken for one."
"For example?" prompted Ellana.
Another shift of fabric, buttons clinking, as he stood a little straighter to better scan the room. Half a moment passed in quiet contemplation before he found a suitable subject for the challenge.
"The woman in the lavender gown and the extravagant hat. To your far left."
It was hard to miss her. With all the feathers she'd tucked into the band she could be mistaken for a bird that flew in through an open window. Ellana recognized the sleek, rounded, chin of the mask she wore beneath it. Rare, as most masks only covered the upper half of the face. That design was on one of the lists she'd studied.
"De Bonne?"
"Mm," Solas confirmed as he sipped from his glass. "She is having an affair with the same woman as her husband. Though neither are aware of the other. Their shared, and much younger, paramour intends to gain enough influence from the boudoir to have their wealth willed to her when they pass."
That did raise her eyebrows — "Truly?" — and at his affirmative hum, added, "Good for her."
The quip rewarded her with a startled snort of laughter, then a cough to cover it.
"Give me another."
This was a far better way to pass the time.
It took him half the time to find a second example. "The man with the gold mask, standing by the marble bust across the room. Third window from the right—" He waited for her to nod before continuing. "—he considers himself a particularly enchanting suitor, and a master of romance. 'A purveyor of fine fruits' I believe is what he called it."
"Colourful."
"Indeed. He intends to charm your Spymaster."
She chuckled. "Oh, I wish him the best of luck with that."
"As do I. He'll need it if he intends to survive beyond introductions. Though I admit it the spectacle of his attempt would be entertaining, should we be privileged to witness it."
There was a high laugh from across the room that drew her attention. A woman in a large, ruffled, skirt was entertaining a circle of men. The ungloved hand she laid upon one's shoulder spoke of her intention to single him out of her audience. Rather than a mask she wore only a band of black lace to cover her eyes. Uncommonly exposed for Orlais. Streaks of silver in her elaborate braid put her at middle age, though her face held little evidence of it save for the lines at the corners of her eyes.
The sway of her hips and the surety of her smile made her an interesting target. So, "what about her?" Ellana tested, gesturing with her chin. "She's rather striking."
"Ah, the Lady Mercier?" he supplied. Too quick. He might be cheating. "A dangerous choice. Her husband died of a sudden illness some years ago, and she has yet to find another. Interestingly, two of her previous lovers also fell victim to it. I suspect the man she has her eye on this evening may find himself in a similar state."
A black widow. She smirked. At her age, money was surely the motivator. "Is it their lordly assets that attract her interest?"
"And their wealth, as well."
That was enough to make her toss a glance over her shoulder. Surprised to find him intimately close now, leaning his back upon the column just behind her with his arms loosely folded. Now-empty glass dangling from his fingers. He made a tempting picture with his easy posture, the bottom two buttons of his coat undone and a dusky shade in his cheeks from the drink.
She gave him an appraising look, lingering on the plush of his bottom lip, and the tick in his brow said he took note of her interest. "Now you're making things up."
"I appreciate the compliment," he said, and laughed. "But I'm no dramatist. Only Varric could craft a story so interesting."
"Don't sell yourself short. You're an excellent liar." It was dry, but not without humour.
But the dig failed to give him the shake she'd intended — wine had made him cocky — and when she turned back to the ballroom he moved with her. One half-step forward to close the last inches between them so that his hand would brush the back of her hip, stilling her. Lips at her ear. He held her there just long enough to impart a quiet, "Not with you," then slid back into her shadow.
While she had some suspicion of his aim when he first approached, now she was sure: she was being seduced.
Dangerous choices, a distant part of her warned, and recalled all the careful warnings her diplomat had given her before she left for this event. Appearance, posturing and conversation. Don't refuse a glass of wine nor food too rich. Do not laugh too loud, nor act too cold. Be friendly, but do not dance close. Draw no unnecessary attention.
All sound advice.
But she'd said nothing about flirtation specifically.
And in that glaring oversight Ellana found herself ensnared. The temptation of a small, private, rebellion proved too much. Now all she could think about were how many witnesses stood between them and the down-soft bed in the guest quarters she was shown upon arrival. Too many. There was no way to discreetly bring a companion to her bedchamber while dozens of people were on the floor. Surely someone would be watching that door for just such an error.
That wouldn't stop her from indulging in a little coquetry. That was harmless.
"Are all these secrets about sex?"
He chuckled softly. Low. "No, some are far worse."
It felt like a trap but she still took the bait. Asked, lightly, to highlight the irony: "What could possibly be worse than tactical seduction and secret affairs?"
He paused long enough that she nearly asked the question twice, but then his hand was on her elbow — a touch hidden in shadow — running a finger along the underside of her arm. Slowly. Taking his time to draw a line along sensitive skin. Sliding to her wrist where his thumb and forefinger could take hold and sharply point her hand toward the right side of the room. "There."
A dozen men and women stood in the direction he'd indicated. Any of them a fair candidate. Between hats and masks and wire-framed skirts they were all equally flamboyant. Birds of paradise in a roving, chattering flock.
She made a guess: the lone dull colour amidst a circle of brighter ones. "The grey gown?"
Solas slid close enough behind her that she could almost feel him nodding. "A tragedy," he whispered. So close she could feel his breath upon her neck. Nose against her ear. "Not three days past."
"What happened?" She held her breath.
In a low, inviting voice he answered.
"Her cat went missing."
Laughter came so sudden, so unexpectedly bright, that she utterly failed to stifle it.
Fortunate that he'd anticipated her and already stepped away before any eyes were drawn to the sound. Ensuring more than enough space stood between them to imply a respectful distance. His expression a picture of innocence with a soft smile. Amused by her good humour, and nothing more.
Once she caught her breath, and the only guests who'd taken notice of her impropriety had wandered away, she hid her lingering grin behind a raised glass. Bottom lip tucked playfully between her teeth. In this place of stifling rules and decorum, where offence could be paid for something so simple as taking too much food on your plate, his attempts to make her laugh out loud were as effective as the smoothest proposition when it came to setting her heart alight.
It was bold, and intimate, and terribly attractive.
"If you keep flirting with me, I may have to find a darkened corner to drag you into."
His reply was immediate: "What makes you think I have not found one already?"
That answer was wholly unexpected. He was rarely so brazen with his pursuit. Coy cat and mouse in crowded rooms was a titillating way start to an evening, and was a game they'd played before to build tension, but when it came to resolving it he remained discreet. They would always wait until the end of the night. The teasing was fun, of course, but he never pushed it so far that there was a real risk in it.
Here, in The Winter Palace with rumour surrounding absent months and two layers of pleated skirts to hide the cause, the risk could not possibly be higher.
Tempting.
Her eyes flicked toward the exit at the end of the room, the one opposite the guest quarters that led further into the palace. It was unguarded. "That," she warned, "is a dangerous bluff."
"I was not bluffing."
The resolution in his voice severed the last thread maintaining her casual façade, and she shifted, turning, to look him in the eye — measure the weight of his conviction for herself. Something he anticipated, it seemed, as he was just quick to catch her by the arm and hold her body in place before she managed anything beyond a curious tilt of her chin.
Pinned, "Solas," she whispered instead. "Are you drunk?" Just in case this was a line he'd regret crossing, come morning.
A throaty chuckle and, "No," he answered.
Before she could manage another question he pushed off the column and slipped past her, leaving the relative seclusion of the corner they'd occupied. The hand on her arm twisted so he could touch his fingers to bare skin exposed by the billow of her sleeve, and run them once more from elbow to wrist as he passed. A single nail catching on her downturned palm.
For a moment their eyes locked and the heat in them was unmistakable.
"The art in the upper library is lovely," he was saying, gaze lowering to indulge in the view offered by the cut of her dress. There was no misreading his intent. "It is a shame no one is ever present to appreciate it."
And with that he turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and exited the ballroom. Leaving Ellana alone with the invitation.
The thumping beat of her heart in her ears made it difficult to give it the consideration it was due. Ultimately she found she could not gather enough sense to weigh reason against desire, and overpower the lure of doing something wholly and completely unadvisable.
The hundred heartbeats she waited before she followed were quite possibly the longest of her life.
The small room at the back of the library's upper wing may once have been a functional office. A decade ago, perhaps. Now the collection of old chests, books, and dusty paintings told only of its neglect. It had been years since it was used as anything other than storage — likely near as long since anyone graced it with their presence. The room went unappreciated for so long that knowledge of its very existence had faded; doomed to be forgotten among the dozens of others in the palace just like it.
As it happened, when next the door burst open to admit the stumbling, clumsy, tangle of limbs that had rediscovered it, the pair had little care for its history.
It was less a dance and more of a mad dash. A backward push across the room, with one of Ellana's hands gripping Solas' collar while the other blindly groped behind her. She'd glimpsed an old oak table in the back corner of the room when it was briefly illuminated by the ray of light spilling in from the hall. She had only a second to register its position before she was spun round, thrown against the door to close it, and plunged into near darkness.
One — two — eight stumbling steps and her fingers found purchase on the edge. She heaved herself atop it, pushing aside several stacks of books to make room for their bodies. The tomes fell to the floor with a series of muffled thumps, releasing a cloud of dust that neither could bother to notice. Too occupied with each other — lips and teeth and frantic kisses — as they wordlessly set to work on buckles, buttons and sashes. Losing only the clothing that was required to come off and moving aside the rest.
Her smalls were already hanging off an ankle and her heeled shoes on the floor by his belt and pouch by the time Solas thought to point two fingers at the door and draw a pattern in the air. Cast the faint outline of a warding glyph that flickered upon the surface of the old wood not quite long enough to seal it. A pithy attempt at security he tried three times before her hand found its way down the front of his unbuttoned trousers. The firm grip of her fingers closing around his length sent a thrilling heat through him that culminated in an accidental burst of flame from his open palm. The spell stopped just short of scorching the wall and he felt, rather than saw, the triumphant grin Ellana flashed him as she caught his lip between her teeth.
He gave up on sealing the door.
Then it was her turn to lose herself to sensation. Shuddering, as his hands slid along the inside of her thighs, navigating beneath the layers of her dress hitched around her waist to find the heat of her core. Clever fingers made a study of slick flesh, coaxing her apart just enough to push inside, and found her wanting.
When she moaned aloud, he shushed her. Lips against her ear whispering a warning she would struggle to heed: "You must be silent, or someone might come looking." Nodding, she tucked her face into his neck to muffle any further cries she teased from her.
He pressed the meat of his palm against her centre, working in tandem with the thrust of his fingers to create a tight grip she could rock into. Move with him. Build a rhythm that he matched with his own hips grinding wantonly into the barrel of her hand. Unable to stop himself from chasing the relief she offered, even if it meant his endurance would suffer for his selfishness. This was not an encounter made for lazy strokes and long kisses. They had mere minutes.
He vowed to make up for it later.
It took only a moment spent at play until her body began to tighten, slick pooling at the base of his fingers, and she breathed an urgent, "Please," across his lips. This was good, so good, but she wanted it better.
With the desperation so evident in her voice he couldn't have refused her if he tried.
She hooked one leg over his elbow and wrapped an arm around his neck to steady herself. Keep him near enough to still reach his mouth to kiss as he lowered her down for a better angle.
The slow, aching, push inside was near enough to make his knees weak. A moment was spared simply to enjoy the feel of her, tight and hot, and he so deep within that it could not be said where she ended and he began. Take a long, slow, breath to centre himself so this would not end too soon. Allowing her to work him up was, perhaps, a mistake made in eagerness… but he could not bring himself to regret it now.
The first rock of his hips drew a deep groan that he didn't even think to stifle.
Her breath caught, but, "You must be silent," she teased. Parroting his warning back to him in a whisper.
They laughed, softly. Together. Before he dragged his mouth along the column of her throat to her shoulder and confessed: "I have been thinking of this for hours". Then inhaled, deep, the sweet scent of her skin and began to move in time with her breaths.
A monumental effort was made to pace himself but the task proved impossible. Each attempt to slow them down was met with a roll of her hips — and a quick squeeze of her one leg wrapped around his back — to draw him further in. Urge him to pick up the rhythm. Soon, all hope of a lasting encounter was lost. Tender lovemaking this was not. Rather a desperate, hard, chase toward release they craved too terribly to go without even for one more hour.
Ellana felt his need laid bare in the careless way he wound his fingers into her hair; an attempt to cradle her neck gone awry once he was driven to distraction by the movement of her body. Nails catching in the knots teased into her curls by Vivienne's careful hand just a few hours earlier. She could spare only a second of consideration for the Enchanter's wasted work before the pleasant tingling of her scalp chased it away.
His breath came hard and hot upon her lips, brushed across her cheeks, against the shell of her ear as gave up on kissing her and instead turned his face into the crook of her neck. Teeth upon her jaw. She could feel the coils of muscle in his arms tighten around her as the steady rock of his hips began to stutter. The little gasps of breath beginning to colour with the choked sounds that heralded his end. Too close, too soon; though she had no concern for time spent when she was cresting with him.
Between the planning and the preparations, the travel and the introductions, they'd had precious little time together — to say nothing for time spent alone.
The event was stifling. Decorum restricting. Even the beautiful dress held her too tight.
But this?
This was freeing.
This was a private rebellion… just for the two of them.
And so, "Don't slow down," she plead, when his rhythm began to falter. Shallower thrusts replacing deeper ones as he fought for time to bring her pleasure before he reached his own.
The thin rasp of his voice at her ear when he tried to speak made her stomach twist in knots. He didn't heed her order. Instead swallowed hard and gave a small, subtle, shake of his head. Managed only the barest protest of, "I can't—" before she cut him off.
"Then don't."
An order she sealed with a searing kiss. Drawing out a series of high, soft, sounds that spoke to the effort he made at staving off his end… unravelling. It was enough to make her stomach swoop, and that pool of tension push her past the point of no return.
It was only once her hips lifted, back bowing as she rose toward her climax, that the last threads of Solas' careful control snapped. The hand on her neck slipped, came down hard upon the desk, fingers searching for an edge to steady himself as his knees gave out. The other held fast to her hip beneath her skirts, so tight she could feel the prick of his nails.
He came half a moment before her with a string of broken Elvish whispered so fast, so breathless, that she didn't catch a single word of it. And when she followed she pressed the sounds of her pleasure into the padded shoulder of the dress shirt he never did manage to get out of.
When the last of the aftershocks had subsided they slowed — stilled — and rest their foreheads together. Breathless, awash in the gauzy glow of relief. Giddy at their own impatience.
For a while they said nothing.
Simply enjoying the last minutes they had together ensconced in this forgotten room for a tryst.
Ellana broke the silence first. Running a hand up his neck to cradle his head in her palm, she whispered softly, "If we ruined this dress Josephine will have me killed."
In reply, Solas only chuckled.
It seemed that only a moment passed in that comfortable space before somewhere in the distance the band changed tunes. A waltz.
There was a chime. Then a cheerful sound erupted from the crowd in the East hall, below them, followed by the movement of several dozen making their way to the main ballroom to enjoy the last round of dances before the revelry was called for the evening. Her absence would be noted soon, and they wouldn't find a better opportunity to slip back into the crowd.
Solas had the same thought. "We should return," he said. Tucked a weft of hair, now looser than before, behind her ear. He lingered to run a finger along its edge, smiling when she hummed an approving sound.
She could not resist one more opportunity to be coy. "Lest someone think I have run away with a lover?"
"Perish the thought," he murmured in return. Urged her chin to one side with a gentle push of his nose. Baring flushed skin to the feather-light caress of his lips so he might leave a trail of kisses along her jaw.
Smiling, Ellana tilted her head back to invite a kiss upon her throat. An act he indulged in without hesitation. She said, "I would love for you to join me in my room this evening."
His answer was breathed across her neck. "Somehow I do not think it would endear you to Josephine after all the effort put into protecting the image of your chastity."
A snort. "And yet here we are," she replied pointedly, "fucking in a storeroom."
That won her a proper laugh. "Merely a few stolen moments; an entire night spent in each other's company is a different matter."
"Then perhaps you could find a way to steal a few more before the morning comes?"
A moment, as he feigned consideration. Then, "I could hardly refuse such a tempting offer," Solas replied, and stole another long, slow, kiss. Indulgent and greedy in this private space. A final embrace before they parted for a promise of later. "But for now, your public awaits. I fear we have dallied enough already."
Solas left her half-seated on the desk with her skirts bunched around her waist, toes not quite touching the ground, and retrieved what little clothes they'd discarded on the floor. Shoes, bloomers, belt, sash. He pulled something from one of the coat pockets — the kerchief — and handed it to her along with her smallclothes.
When he'd used it earlier she'd thought it an odd accessory for him to carry — now she understood why he'd chosen it. She took them both, grinning. "Such a gentleman to be so prepared." She narrowed her eyes, "…Did you plan this?"
His gaze flicked toward her as he buttoned his shirt, a guilty smile playing at his lips. "It was a possibility I considered."
"Perhaps less a gentleman and more a scoundrel."
Solas gave her a look but said no more.
Ellana waited until he was done dressing and had begun to help her fix her hair before prompting, "What was it you said?"
He raised a brow. Tucked a loose curl back into the curled bun and smoothed it over with a palm. "Regarding?"
"What you said in Elvish. To me. At the end."
There was a near-imperceptible twist of his mouth before he replied. A guilty, sheepish smile. "I do not recall," he replied, as his eyes bounced between her and the floor. Then to his fingers as he straightened his collar.
Easy tells when he was too exposed to hide them better.
"Liar," she accused, though it was hardly an insult when he'd done such a poor job at it. "Say it again in Common."
In the brief silence that followed she could swear, even in the dark, that she saw his cheeks colour a shade deeper beyond the pink flush of exertion.
"It was, 'your body is a wonder, and I lose myself to it'."
That was an even worse attempt.
"That is not what you said."
A soft, breathy laugh — and he dropped the pretence of ignorance. She saw it in his eyes, too, when he met hers again. Tugging at the cuff of his jacket to fasten the final button. "No," he admitted. "That was considerably more polite."
When the dancing was done and the first wave of guests retired to their rooms — leaving only the drunk and debaucherous behind on the floor to titter their stories of conquest and status — he went to her room.
Patience awarded to him by their earlier encounter meant it was hardly an effort to take the time to find a discreet path. Navigating the corridors with the quiet confidence of one accustomed to moving through shadows. His sureness was earned: eons of espionage had taught him well the skills required to pull off something as simple as a midnight tryst in a grand palace.
First he crafted an alibi: ensuring he was witnessed leaving the main floor long after the Inquisitor had been escorted to her room, and in a direction opposite the guest wing. Toward the servant's quarters where he'd been 'accidentally' stationed. A gesture surely meant to pay him insult for his inclusion in the Inquisition's envoy. But it caused him no real hardship, so he had no complaints.
He carried wine in a curled, long-stemmed, glass. An item pilfered from one of the head tables in the ballroom; different from the standard fare. The design drew stares and a few whispers from the servants as he passed. The sheer audacity of an attendant drinking from the pieces reserved for nobility was a memorable sight. Anyone else would surely be punished for the insolence but the protections awarded to him by his association with the Inquisition, that same ones that kept him from being thrown in chains with the other apostates, also assured no harm would come for testing the limits of Orlesian convention.
He stumbled, swaying when he caught himself — to sell the story — then smiled at a young Elven maid who flashed him a grin as she watched the show. Delighted by this small act of defiance. Even if his imagined bravery was only caused by an indulgence of drink. The seed was sown: when those who bore witness to the performance returned to their tasks they'd bring with them the tale of the flushed apostate who forgot his station and showed up those who'd spent the evening looking down upon him. A small, achievable, rebellion that might inspire others to do the same when circumstances allowed it.
No piece was moved without considering the board.
The curious girl left to fetch water for someone's bath before he made it all the way to his room, and so never saw him double back in the direction he came. Sober and sure, now — no more swagger in his step.
It took him fifteen minutes to find his way back across the palace and tap twice upon the Inquisitor's door. A signature knock used only when he came to her in secret.
In another ten the last layer of her gown was dropped upon the floor.
Thirty, until he'd breathed her name across her cheek a final, urgent, time and they lay entwined in the sheets.
Twenty more to enjoy the lazy glow that followed. Drawing nonsense shapes and lines across her shoulders with his fingertips while her head rest comfortably upon his chest. Heart beat beneath her ear, and the swell of her middle tucked against his hip. The steady rise and fall of his breath soon rocked her to sleep… and it was only a few moments more before he slid out of her arms. Pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Dressed, kissed her cheek, and left.
He slipped, unseen, from the guest-of-honour quarters. Entering the hall only once he was assured it was as empty as expected. Any staff normally assigned to this side of the palace would be working the main floors, and would likely remain there for some time.
Though the ball had wound down over the last few hours it was far from over. Gatherings such as these tended to go on for several days — hosting several talks, events and entertaining displays — working the servants to such extremes that it was not uncommon to find an elf, exhausted, propped up against the wall in a darkened corner. As a rule the party-goers tended to ignore them this time of night, and so they were gifted an hour or two of precious rest before returning to their duties.
As Solas passed the rooms assigned to other members of the Inquisition, he noted — with some amusement — that each included a small vase hung on the doorframe. A bouquet of white flowers tucked inside. A lovely detail, but less for beauty and more for the message it imparted. The symbolic kind: passed between staff to warn them not to disturb the occupants until they left their beds on their own accord. Guests who required tending were assigned blues and yellows. For the loyalists who deserved extra care and attention: violets.
Leiliana's room stood apart — decorated by a single stalk of foxglove. The intent either to serve as a warning of her deadly reputation, or to identify her as the Spymaster to others in the network.
He'd made it all the way out of the guest wing, beyond the adjoining hall, and into an unused corridor that led into the garden when a sound caught his ear. A click upon the marble floor. Sharp heeled shoes: neither advancing nor retreating. Just a shift of movement. Someone was there. A single person, lost, or simply enjoying a tour as he was.
His pace slowed to a wander, hands tucked at his back, as he rounded the next corner. There, he sighted Briala, newly appointed Marquise of the Dales and Empress' Spymaster, standing off to one side of the hall by a row of paintings. Still dressed in her evening fineries: silver mask, and an off-shoulder gown deliberately picked to balance prestige and deference, but not so modest as to hide the status she'd gained with her assignment. Her gaze swept over him with a single brow raised, unimpressed, as though she'd set a meeting he was late for.
As he approached she rocked her weight from one foot to the other, cocking her hip against a glass display full of old swords from Chantry-won battles. Rusted and dirt-worn. Then greeted, "If it isn't the Inquisitor's Elven serving man."
The words were thick with ire, leaving no question of her opinion on the introduction he'd been given. They had met during his last foray to the palace: she knew him both as valued member of the Inquisition and as agent in an old network.
"Hello, Solas."
"We do not always have the luxury of choosing our titles, Ambassador," he replied cordially. Solas came to stand before her, eyes drifting to follow the dance of her fingers as they drew patterns on the surface of the locked display behind her. Hands empty and open to view. She carried no weapons — only words. "I did not see you at the soirée earlier. Are you well?"
Casual introductions, to gauge her intent — she could be looking to trade. The meet was odd without a previous contact. Unlikely she was here to strike up conversation on the weather.
Ruby-painted lips quirked in an expression that came just short of an actual smile. "Quite," she answered, folding her arms. She pushed off the case and walked a slow, measured, circle around him. Calculating. All the pride and confidence of a cat who had cornered an injured bird.
That was new.
"You're a bit far from the servant's quarters. Isn't it a rather late to be up wandering the halls?"
Ah, they were fencing.
Allez - lunge.
"I was merely admiring the artwork," he parried, turning to the wall with a nod. "Empress Celene has diverse taste. It is an impressive collection." He gestured to a particularly large painting depicting the Exalted March, noting, "It appears to have been added to since my last visit."
Briala was unmoved by the deflection. Curious, her attention drifting to the evidence he'd missed: a loose button at the top of his dress shirt hanging by a thread where it had been roughly tugged, and the dusky mark on his neck not quite hidden by the edge of his starched collar.
But, "It does lend a certain ambiance to the guest wing," she agreed. Orlesian accent catching on the consonants as they rolled across her tongue. When it was clear the subtlety had failed to move him, she renewed, adding a pointed, "Though I've always thought the paintings displayed in the master room are rather gauche by comparison. They simply don't add anything to the narrative, wouldn't you agree?"
Feint.
There was a pause as he considered the lure. Was she inquiring or insinuating? And to what end?
Ultimately, he decided against taking the bait. Choosing to sidestep — "I will have to take your word for it," — rather than an outright denial. He would grant her that advance.
Though she was far from discouraged. Instead, the Marquise pursed her lips and gave a quiet hum of amusement, cupping her chin in one hand. "Of course, they may not strike your interest," she acknowledged. "The works in the library above the Eastern wing may be more to your taste. So quiet there… away from the crowds."
With his eyes falling closed Solas did not see the way Briala's smile followed the tilt of her head.
She had his attention now.
Touché
"Do you know else that wing offers? An excellent view of the statues of the Valmont family. In the lower garden. Alas, not many appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into stone carving the way I do. I happened to be enjoying some time there earlier this evening. Alone."
One hand raised — held in the air for the space of a breath — then slid slowly into her blouse. Carefully telegraphing her intention to retrieve something from it. Fingers delved beneath the seam at her breast, found the hidden pocket sewn there, and removed a small trinket.
A pendant — gleaming in the candlelight — delicately crafted of silver. It's design a familiar weave of flower and horns. Snapped chain tucked neatly in her palm.
Briala held the lost charm between a finger and thumb. Tapped it with a nail. "I was always more fond of the old apartments off of the northern hall, myself. That is, if you can stand the dust. They've been under repair for years. Even the servants hardly know they're there. Most importantly, the windows are all boarded. Light can still pass through curtains." The Marquise toyed with the little sigil, rolling it between her fingers, then looped the broken chain over one and let it drop. Dangling from her hand as she extended it toward him. Swinging the prize side to side like a pendulum. "There's even a bed."
The match was hers. And Solas conceded her the win with a steeled glare and cold silence.
The trinket could have won her a negotiation if she'd have chosen to leverage it. Nothing played better than blackmail. But he would not thank her for the sacrifice.
He extended a hand — palm up — and she dropped the necklace into it. He tucked it into a coat pocket for safe-keeping.
"What a scandal that would be," she was saying, "A torrid romance between the Herald and her serving man. Elves doing what they do best, they'd say." She turned back to the display and ran a finger along the outermost edge. Rubbed it against her thumb. Making a show of checking it for dust.
She frowned when her fingers came up dirty — it had not been cleaned for some time.
They were safe to talk here.
"Rumour and supposition often follow power," Solas deflected, borrowing the turn of phrase from a friend. "And without evidence, a rumour it would remain. It would hardly be the first she'd endured."
Her eyes narrowed beneath the mask. "This is an interesting one though, as it does offer you quite a favourable position to suit your means. Beyond the protection it offers you as an apostate. There's no better place to listen than at the bedroom door. I imagine all manner of things learned there would be valuable to your contacts.
"I'd say the accomplishment was testament to your skill but you don't seem like the type to break hearts. Additionally, this would only threaten her reputation — and by extension yourself — if you were any less careful. A trusted confidant could gain nearly as much insight from a safer distance with the right approach." The gaze turned penetrating. "It got me wondering: is the impunity offered by her bed worth the risk? Or was this something more simple?"
In a single step she closed the polite distance between them and flicked the button on his shirt. And when he drew back in surprise at their sudden, uncomfortable, proximity she followed it with a laugh. Pleased by having taken him off guard so easily.
"Something tells me tactics didn't play a part." A pause for thought. Theatre — there wasn't a word she hadn't carefully planned. "Do give my compliments to her tailor: the dress flatters her curves well, it's rare we enjoy them so ample."
That cut was far surer, and when he turned a darkened gaze upon her she was set alight beneath it. Surprised and thrilled by the weight with which her strike had landed. Immediately, terribly, Solas saw his error.
It was bait and he'd taken it. She hadn't known.
"No," she breathed. Troubled by the revelation, but exhilarated by the victory that she'd won with it.
This prize was better than blood — he'd handed her a knife.
One with which he expected her to strike again.
But instead, "This is a very dangerous game you're playing and not one many win," she warned in a low whisper. All pretence dropped.
Once more she'd managed to surprise him. Enough so that he was briefly rendered speechless. Struggling to think of a suitable reply other than the counter he'd prepared for an insult he'd expected, but never came.
Quickly, "You speak from experience," he responded. It was not a question, but neither an accusation. This had given them a strange common ground.
Her voice was hard. "Beyond the laughter and derision, Celene nearly lost both her position and her life when it came to light. Love is a vice few will tolerate in a leader when their chosen does not elevate their station. For someone already under scrutiny it will only offer detractors another weakness to exploit. There were wolves waiting to snap at any softness Celene showed, and in effort to prove her leadership was not compromised by it she laid waste to hundreds. Though I cannot forgive her the cruelty I also can't say it wasn't calculated; her actions assured she held the throne, where she could do better things for Elves than her cousin. Gaspard would've killed us all without a thought.
"If the Inquisitor is as worthy as she has shown it may balance her inexperience and give her the ability to face those wolves, but it will not guarantee victory against them. I have known the Dalish: and they are ruthless when they mean to be. But you underestimate the hardship this will cause you both." Slowly, she reached up and moved her mask aside so she might meet his eye properly. Her gaze cold. "Leaders must do terrible things to survive, and she will be no exception. If you have made yourself a part of this those things will either be for you, or to you."
That was a lie that came too close to the truth. It was not her potential for harm that he was worried for.
"It is something I bear well in mind." Then, "Enough of this," he snapped. Rapidly losing patience with the lecture. "Is this truly what you sought me for? Did you only come to gloat, or was there a point you were making?"
"Originally I came with information — the gloating was secondary." She waved a hand her point made she drew her shoulders back into a surer stance. Guarded: the mask slid back on. Once more a woman of rank. "I would have given it to the Inquisitor directly but our connections have been scarce since my appointment, and those we've exchanged were passed largely through Nightingale. Due to the sensitivity I'd rather it be handled with discretion. You were the logical contact even before I knew of your association—" she drew the word out slowly, giving emphasis to each syllable, "—as it turns out we share more in common than I once thought. Ironically, that will only make you a better point of contact.
"There's been rumour of threats made of the Inquisitor coming from an Elven source in the Val Royeaux alienage. Individuals capitalizing on perceived softness — but for Humans. Not unlike what surfaced for Celene. And like the Empress, regardless of the choices the Inquisitor makes from her seat I have a vested interest in her keeping it. She is an important representative to Elves hoping for change and her face forward benefits that end."
Solas bristled. "The Inquisitor has done more good in her position than to deserve be reduced to serving as mouthpiece for her race."
"Our race," Briala corrected. "And currently she controls the highest seat one has ever held. The limitations of her command from it are a point of contention among many. Some feel she should be doing more, others fear she has too much influence already. Gods forbid an Elf ever issue a command someone else be forced to heed," she scoffed. Then continued, "These few I speak of believe she's a puppet of the Chantry, and something of a false idol to city Elves. They are hardly notable and barely a threat but it is a faction to watch, especially if they should gain any allies or she give them any reason to radicalize further. A lack of intervention in Orlais' alienages, for instance…"
It was absurd enough that he almost laughed. Cutting her off to reply, "What is she expected to do in Orlais? She has no jurisdiction here. Nor beyond Skyhold, truly. The Inquisitor has neither lands nor the influence to impress rule upon either the Empress or King. The Inquisition was created to challenge Corypheus, not enact law." With an indignant flourish, he gestured to her. "You of all people have a far better position to carry out change."
Briala's face fell and, "Oh, Solas," she cautioned, clucking her tongue. He'd never hated the sound of his name more than when it bled from her mouth in that low, pitying tone. As if he were an even greater fool than her lowly expectations had set. "I hope you are not already so blinded that you would take offence to a friendly warning. I am not here to discuss my interventions. And it isn't my thoughts that should concern you: thieves and thugs do not deal in truths. Her actual influence isn't the point —and I am merely a messenger."
"Then what do thieves and thugs intend to do, Briala?"
"If they are motivated? Sow discord in the most direct, messiest, way possible. Not much else matters; be it the truth or the wider impact of their actions. These types merely wish to stir trouble. Make a lasting impact. They will play dirty — and they will find a weakness to exploit."
That point he could not argue. He'd known more than his fair share in his time.
Rather than reply, he bit his tongue and gave her a sharp nod of acknowledgment. Swallowing his pride rather than risk quarrelling further.
It was a cue that they had no more reason to linger here.
Point taken, warning exchanged, and lecture heard.
They were done.
She took the hint.
Although she would not leave the chance to twist, a final time, the knife she'd stolen from his mouth.
"I do hope, for both your sakes, that you do not fall prey to 'rumour and supposition'. Among other things, I imagine whomever you report to would not be pleased to learn that you've compromised yourself." She sighed. Somber — almost pitying. "I'd be sad to see you go. I do like you, Solas."
It was almost funny.
Almost.
And he almost smirked. "Do you always ply your friends with threats and blackmail?"
"Only the ones I like the most," she teased.
The click of Briala's heeled shoes echoed in the empty hall when she finally turned away. Retreating back to the shadows that played in the flickers of low candlelight, streaming from the sconces mounted on dusty columns and old displays.
"Consider the necklace a gesture of good faith. In your gratitude you'll owe me debt I can call upon later. And do pass on my well wishes," she called as she left. Just loud enough for her voice to carry. She was not blind to the power she wielded with it. "For all the blessings you've brought upon her organization."
And then she was gone.