Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine, 9.30
It has been six months since the brutal defeat of King Cailan's army at Ostagar. While the south of the country falls to the encroaching darkspawn Horde, the self-proclaimed Regent of Ferelden, Loghain Mac Tir, maintains that this is no Blight and refusing to entertain any assistance from neighbouring nation Orlais. Instead, he strives to put down the brewing civil unrest which disrupts the country, seeking a means of capturing two young Grey Wardens: one, the bastard son of King Maric, and the other, the sole survival of the Cousland family massacre.
Rendon Howe operates as the Regent's main – and only – advisor, having claimed the teyrnir of Highever as well as the arling of Denerim. His youngest son, Thomas, remains at Vigil's Keep and oversees the arling of Amaranthine in his father's absence. There, too, resides his only daughter, Delilah. Of his eldest son, there is no word – and no care.
Quiet. Delilah Howe had long since learned to be quiet. In her demeanour, in her voice… but not in her thoughts. Within the closely guarded sanctuary of her head, she was loud. Shouting and screaming, she had always railed against the restrictions on her freedoms which her father had imposed throughout her life. Now, those seemed a mere trifle compared against the villainy of what Rendon Howe currently inflicted upon Ferelden, fuelled by an insatiable hunger for power.
"No conversation, Delilah?" The needling question broke the silence which smothered the banquet hall where Thomas insisted each morning that he take breakfast with his elder sister. Why, Delilah could only guess. Most likely, he wished to flaunt what he regarded as his acquired stewardship of the arling, though she doubted that her father would have described it in the same terms. Certainly, it was not through some sense of kinship. She and Thomas had not been close since before Nathaniel had been squired to their mother's cousin in the Free Marches.
"Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?" she answered, perfectly balanced in tone and respect. Her younger brother had taken to being referred to by title within days of the news of Rendon Howe's massacre of the Cousland family. It did not seem to matter to Thomas that he did not hold the title of his own accord. Nor would he ever hold such power in his own right while their father lived, but Thomas did not have the clarity of wit to see beyond the glittering falsehoods which their father told him.
"Come, come, Delilah. Although spinsterhood beckons with every passing day, there must surely be some triviality with which you might amuse me." He smeared some freshly churned butter over a slice of freshly baked bread before shoving it into his mouth. No food in Vigil's Keep was more than a day old; no matter that the arling itself was starving. "I do so prefer to attend my meetings with Esmerelle in a lighter frame of mind."
The poor fool could not even see that these numerous meetings were solely for the benefit of Esmerelle, Bann of Amaranthine City. It was she who commanded authority throughout the arling in Rendon Howe's absence, not his youngest son. No matter how favoured Thomas may be.
"It is difficult to find trivialities in the world right now, my lord," Delilah replied, risking a slight edge to her tone. News of their father's cruelty was rife throughout Ferelden. The new Teyrn of Highever, gained through betrayal and blood, and now the Arl of Denerim, achieved in perhaps even worse a manner. Each day brought yet another rumour of brutality from Denerim, the mark of her father apparent to Delilah in each detail.
"Try," came her brother's pointed response, his eyes narrowing in displeasure. He may not have the cunning of his father, but the savage temper was still there. Though Thomas' burned closer to the surface than that of Rendon.
"I had intended to write to Nath—"
"No!" The single word was accompanied by the thump of his clenched fist on the table. Thomas glared at her in a way he had never done when they were young. "No one has any need for Nathaniel here. That is why he was sent away in the first place."
She bit back her retort hard enough to taste blood. Did Thomas truly believe such nonsense? No, he must realise the truth of the matter, or he would not be so irrational in his response. Nathaniel had been sent away because he was too intelligent. He would have begun to question his father's intentions had he been permitted further into the man's confidence. Thomas, however, had never shown that natural curiosity. And Delilah? She was useful only in so far as she was a bargaining tool with any influential family and their eligible son.
Since mention of Nathaniel provoked such unwarranted rage from Thomas, Delilah opted for a change of topic for the moment. She would revisit the issue of contacting her beloved elder brother another time.
"I wondered if you would permit me to visit the city to offer healing to those who may require it," she enquired, deliberately impassive. Any hint of emotion was something to exploit, or so her father had taught Thomas.
Even so, Thomas sensed that he held the upper hand, snorting with laughter as the tension seeped from his frame. "Why would you waste time on such a futile endeavour?"
Delilah resisted the urge to clench her breakfast spoon all the tighter. Those were not the words of her brother, but of her father. Clearly, she had been discussed in one of their correspondences, therefore she would need to answer accordingly to her father's interests, not Thomas'.
"My reputation, my lord," Delilah provided without hesitation. There was power in knowing the full extent of her purpose as the only daughter of Rendon Howe. "It will serve our family well once Father has negotiated a suitable marriage for me."
Even a year ago, such a reason would have been deemed acceptable. Now though, Thomas flicked his hand dismissively, boredom smoothing out his features. "You need not concern yourself over that any longer, Delilah. Our father is both Teyrn and Arl, after all." Something flickered across his expression as he added, almost slyly, "besides, healing people now just means they will take all the longer to starve to death."
"Thomas!"
Her aghast cry was sufficient reward for him to overlook her lack of title. He grinned at her, hale and healthy, yet somehow rotten inside. How had it come to this? No, she did not need to look very far to uncover the answer to that, but she had to question it all the same or risk losing all sense.
Unable to endure another moment, Delilah stood in one abrupt movement, the wooden chair screeching against the hard flagstones. Without a word, she fled from the banquet hall, the large room echoing with the delighted chuckling of Thomas.
The malevolence which permeated through the walls of the Vigil was suffocating. To escape, Delilah sought refuge outside in the herb garden her mother had begun and which she now oversaw, tending to the plants which could be used for all manner of herbal remedies, all of which Arlessa Eliane had taught her daughter. Her mother had been extremely talented; Delilah did her best to emulate her mother's passion, not quite having the same natural gift but diligent in her studies, nonetheless.
Her green-fingered efforts were how she had come to gain the trust of Samuel, the elven groundskeeper who otherwise kept a wide berth of the humans in Vigil's Keep. Delilah could not begrudge him that, for despite his green fingers, he was treated abominably by her father and brother if ever they laid eyes upon him.
Today, though, his demeanour was different. "Lady Delilah," he addressed her as he hurried up, his agitation evident in the way his eyes flicked around for the various patrolling guards.
"Good morning, Samuel," she replied, mindful to keep her tone gentle. Mainly so as not to attract the attention of the nearby guards, but also to prevent spooking the man further. "Might I help with something?"
He tensed, his gaze snapping back to her. "It's…" he began, before forcing himself to continue. "Varel, my lady."
"Varel?" Delilah echoed, surprise uppermost in her voice. A good man, the former seneschal of Vigil's Keep. It was his insistence on opposing the cruelty of her father's will which meant he had soon been demoted from his post, gradually falling further and further down the ranks.
"Please. Just come."
Rising, she wiped her hands on her outdoor apron, nodding her agreement to his request. Yet while Samuel hurried away, Delilah knew better than to raise attention by rushing anywhere. She tidied away her gardening tools into her small basket before following unhurriedly in the direction of the groundskeeper. He waited by the door of the small tool store which was assigned to him as part of his work.
Without pausing, Delilah entered, hoping she had not attracted notice from any of the guards milling around the grounds, who kept her as much as prisoner within the Vigil as those held in the dungeon proper.
Slumped against the far wall, in-between the long-handle spades, trowels, and forks, was Varel. Even in the dim light penetrating through the gaps in the moss-covered stonework, Delilah could see the blood smeared across his face, not to mention the grimace of pain as he tried to sit up to greet her.
She knelt before him, reaching out to make her first examinations, her touch sure and steady even as her heart beat faster in shock. "Varel, who did this?"
He offered a pained chuckle, his breath snatched through clenched teeth as her fingers grazed over an especially tender point. "It is no matter."
"I assure you that it is," Delilah corrected, her lips pursing. "They are certainly trying the extent of healing skill my mother taught me."
"Never, my lady," Varel countered, smothering a groan as her fingers pressed against ribs. "Arlessa Eliane could have cured the Maker Himself."
Shaking her head, Delilah twisted around to address Samuel. "I will need a number of herbs from the garden—"
"No!" Struggling upright, Varel tried – and failed – to gain his feet. "Your brother's guards will notice. It is best you just tell us what is needed."
She stepped back, raking her eyes across the weather-worn features of the man. "Best for whom, ser?"
"For you, my lady." Even if he could not stand, his gaze remained steady as he returned her look. "There is talk that Queen Anora has been imprisoned in her chambers in the Palace. If your father has orchestrated that, there is no reason why he would not see fit to do so with you if you gave him reason."
"My father would only have done so if Her Majesty proved to be a threat," Delilah replied, sharply. "It is a credit to her and a slight upon me if he has committed so odious an act."
A soft snort spilled from Varel. "You have your mother's steadfastness, it is true." Yet even that could not convince the man to change his mind. Shaking his head, he went on, "Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I cannot stand-by while your father's orders inflict harm on others, including you, my lady."
"And neither can I," Delilah remarked, though the emptiness of her words rang hollow in her ears. What could she claim to have done to outright oppose her father since the awful news of what had happened at Castle Cousland? Nothing. Maybe that was why she added, almost pleadingly: "Please, allow me to help."
"You help more than you know, my lady." Settling back against the wall, he tried to smile at her, though it was contorted by the various cuts and bruises. "There is still one noble who resides in Vigil's Keep as long as you remain here."
For all the good it does, she thought bitterly. Yet rather than continue the disagreement, she knelt and sorted through the contents of her basket, removing what few clippings she had taken prior to Samuel's arrival. She should be able to make some form of poultice without risking a return to the herb garden.
It was then that a thought struck her. "Varel," she raised her head to meet his eye. "In the arling – there must be people who have need of healing supplies, mustn't there?"
"You cannot travel through the arling, my lady," he countered at once, fear and apprehension streaking across his normally well-schooled expression. "It… it isn't safe… not while your father and brother—"
Delilah cut him off. "I know, Varel." One Howe was the same as another, after all. And how could she chafe against the untruth of it when there was precious little evidence to prove otherwise? "But how can you say one noble still lives here when I do nothing? Please, if I were to make healing supplies, would you be able to distribute them through the arling?" She needed a way to assuage her soul; to convince herself that she did something, anything, while her father wreaked devastation upon the country. It was selfish, she knew, but she could feel herself beginning to lose herself if she did not.
"If Thomas were to find out…"
"I cannot do anything else, Varel!" she interrupted, the words vile on her tongue. "My Father still controls Amaranthine through the blind loyalty of my brother and the ruthless ambition of Esmerelle." She forced herself to take a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she rediscovered her composure. It had been some time since emotion had overruled her sense.
When she reopened her eyes, she was fully in control of herself once more. "I am not privy to any information," she explained evenly. "I cannot give you anything which might disrupt whatever treachery my family orchestrates throughout the country, but," she laid a hand on the basket, indicating the contents, "I can do this." Her expression hardened as she lifted her chin, defiant. "If my brother does find out, I will bear the consequences. I will not betray Amaranthine as he and my father have."
Despite the misgivings he possessed, it was pride which brightened the shadows across Varel's face. "And I would never believe you capable of it, my lady." He glanced over her shoulder to Samuel, some unspoken agreement passing between the men, before refocusing on Delilah. "There are others in the arling who are of the same mind. You would be welcome among us."
Relief almost made her sag. "You will take the supplies?"
"Not I, my lady. But," Varel paused, brow wrinkling in concentration as he thought out the logistics, "there is a merchant from the city. He sources the deliveries of rare wine which your brother demands. He will see to it." He snatched in a pained breath, his hand pressing gingerly against his ribs. "Tell Albert the words: 'by the dawn's chorus'. He will reply with mention of the weather. Then you will both know you can trust one another."
"By the dawn's chorus," she repeated under her breath, committing the words to memory. With a resolute nod, she caught Varel's eye. "Thank you, ser." She resumed rummaging through the last few herbs in her basket, removing the ones which would best aid healing. "Now, let us see what miracle of healing I can perform with these few ingredients."
Varel huffed a short laugh. "I am grateful, my lady."
Although she now had a plan of sorts, it took another week or so before Delilah could take the first tentative steps towards establishing her subtle rebellion. It would have drawn immediate attention if she had approached any of the visitors to Vigil's Keep without permission. So, she had to fabricate an excuse that she wished to locate a rare manuscript which detailed the use of an obscure plant for the purpose of healing the effects of too much drink. Unsurprisingly, her brother saw an advantage to such research, given that his drinking extended into the small hours of each and every morning. He had given his permission.
Hence Delilah approached the merchant who arranged the wine about three weeks after she had spoken with Varel, the clatter of deliveries being unloaded from his cart affording no secrecy as she raised her voice to be heard over the racket.
"You have been very industrious to source so much for us, ser," she remarked, mindful of the guards who were in close hearing, though not actively observing her. "I imagine you must have to be at work by the dawn's chorus."
Surprise flitted across his face but was swiftly mastered. "Be there rain or shine, my lady," he acknowledged with a deferential tip of his head.
Delilah gestured that they should step away from the clamour of the delivery. "I have permission to request the delivery of a rare manuscript," she explained, aware that her movement had drawn the watchful eyes of some guards. "Would you consent to locating it for me?"
The merchant nodded. "I will certainly do my best, my lady."
"If you would come and see a similar flower, you will know if the manuscript is correct if you should you find it."
"Certainly, my lady." He followed her away from the building and into the small herb garden. One of the guards broke away and made himself an uninvited, though not unexpected, escort as he kept close to their heels.
Yet Delilah had anticipated as much. She made a point of being painstakingly detailed in her explanation of the attributes of the flower which were both similar and dissimilar to the one supposedly mentioned in the manuscript. Knowing the type of man who her father preferred to employ, it was not long before the guard allowed his attention to be distracted, exchanging some conversation with another guard passing nearby.
"Why do you speak those words of dawn?" the merchant murmured, blinking away the slight glaze in his eyes from her longwinded explanation. Though even as he spoke, he pointed to one of the flowers upon the plant, intimating that he was discussing its qualities.
She plucked it and held it out to him in her cupped palm, her head bowed and her lips obscured. Not that she fretted over the likelihood of lip-reading. "Varel said you could arrange distributing healing supplies into the arling."
The merchant, Albert, flicked his eyes down to the flower, considering her words. Yet to any onlooker, those words would seem to relate to the flower. "Varel?" he repeated, dubiously.
"Please, ser. I know little of what happens throughout the arling, but from what Varel says there must be some resistance to the tyranny of my family. I know from my brother's anger that opposition is growing throughout Ferelden against the Regent. You must have need of healing supplies." She risked a glance upwards, meeting the brown eyes of the handsome young man with her grey. "I understand your hesitation," she murmured, "but our goal is the same."
He remained still for a moment before nodding. "I will be back in two weeks, given the usual time it takes your brother to empty a wine cask. If you have supplies," he sucked in a shaky breath, "I will take them. But for the love of the Maker, they must be discreetly packaged and hidden."
"Thank you, ser." She pressed the flower into his hand as though he was to use it for reference. "I give my word that I will bring you no harm."
Over the next week, Delilah experienced a purpose which she had not experienced since caring for her mother during the last months of her prolonged sickness. Though she did not like to dwell on it, she was indeed her father's daughter: when given the necessary information and opportunity, she could scheme as well as Rendon.
She made use of the fact that her brother was drinking more and more heavily. Since Thomas often expected Delilah to play the hostess, even when there was only the two of them, she was required to fill bottle after bottle direct from the cask. It meant that she could hide the stash of supplies ready for collection down in the cellar, away from prying eyes of the guards who, mysteriously, saw little reason to assist with the manual labour of the deliveries.
When Albert returned as promised after the two weeks, she was initially mindful that she would only have the briefest moment to ask about his success in finding the entirely fictional manuscript before trusting to the hastily made arrangements of their plan. Hence it surprised her when, rather than expressing his apologies over the delay in locating it, Albert produced a carefully rolled scroll of vellum from his satchel.
Immediately, a guard apprehended the item. "That needs to be inspected!" he barked, advancing on the pair.
"At once," the merchant replied, presenting the vellum to the guard. Delilah felt her breath catch in her throat, not knowing what was contained upon the pages.
The guard unrolled the vellum and eyed it, though the blankness of his gaze revealed that he had little notion of what was written. Literacy was not a requirement for employment by Arl Howe, only blind loyalty. Finally, he grunted and rolled it back up. Both Delilah and the merchant winced at the unsympathetic handling of the delicate vellum.
"Here." The guard shoved the scroll of vellum at Delilah with a sneer.
"Thank you, ser." She accepted the item, still none the wiser as to what it contained. Without dwelling upon it further and risking suspicion, she made her next request of the guard. "If it please you, may I show the merchant the cask of wine which my brother particularly enjoyed? He would be pleased to receive more of that vintage."
The guard grunted again, wisely not wishing to invite the ire of the self-proclaimed lord of the Vigil on his head. Leaving the commotion of the delivery, Delilah swept down into the cellar with Albert at a respectful distance behind her.
"What is on the vellum?" she breathed as they made their way along the casks of wine, slowing in her pace so that the light of the lantern she had picked up from the door let them both see the ground at their feet.
"It's the manuscript you requested," he replied with an air of guarded surprise. "What else?"
She floundered, wondering if she had misunderstood their previous exchange. "But I—"
"Patronage of my services would soon be transferred elsewhere if I could not source what is requested of me, after all," he continued until, in the flickering light of the lantern, she caught his wink. Fleeting, yet no less courageous given the surroundings.
She felt her lips twitch into a smile, the movement unfamiliar though very welcome. "Is it genuine?"
"Well, my grandfather swore by it, and if you had met my grandmother, you would understand why he found excessive drinking necessary."
Delilah bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her unexpected laughter. "You have my thanks, ser," she murmured, tone warm. "Now, let us see you put your talents to good use once more." She held the lantern aloft so that the light fell upon one cask, also illuminating the space to the side. There sat the neatly stacked supplies, ready to be taken away.
He offered an elaborate bow, playful and serious all at once. "I will see to it."
"If I am not available next time, I will instruct the guards to allow you to replace these casks without hindrance," she explained, hoping the message would be clear.
"Of course, Lady Delilah."
And so it went. Each week, she provided a small stash of healing supplies crafted from the herbs in the garden, entrusting that Albert would see to their distribution. On some occasions, the supplies were left untouched, which had panicked her the first few times, but she soon worked out that he would not take them if he deemed it too risky. When that happened, she simply made fresh supplies and waited to see if the next uplift was successful.
With each wine glass that Thomas emptied, Delilah felt another flicker of hope ignite inside her heart. It was but a small thing, barely a subversive act at all – especially given what Aedan Cousland was achieving elsewhere in Ferelden – but it was hers. And those sparks of hope had illuminated the idea of possibility within her. She was trapped by the long reach of her father, of that there was no question, but there remained someone who was not.
The very next time that she tended to Varel's injuries – for it had become that predictable – she raised her newest ambition with him.
"Do you think Albert can arrange for a letter to be sent to the Free Marches?" she asked, carefully applying a salve across the broken skin of his knuckles. "It's time for my elder brother to return to Amaranthine."
Hissing through his teeth at the stinging sensation, Varel took a moment to reply. "Albert would do his best, my lady," he remarked. "Although there is little trade between Ferelden and anywhere right now. It may be delayed in reaching Nathaniel."
His doubts would not sway her. "It's a risk I will have to take," she maintained, her fingers deftly turning to the application of a bandage. "I don't wish to endanger him by requesting that he return here, but I am tarnished by association with Thomas and my father. If anything can be done to oppose what they have done, even if it is only long enough to give the Grey Wardens a chance to oppose the Regent in the Landsmeet, it must be Nathaniel who leads it."
"But your brother never wanted to lead, my lady." Varel knotted the end of the bandage so that it would stay in place while Delilah rummaged through her basket of healing supplies. "His admiration of your father was plain to see, even though the Arl did nothing to deserve it. How can you be certain that he would not ruin everything we have in motion?"
Picking up a scrap of linen, Delilah folded and refolded it before plunging it into a bowl of clean water. "If he did, Varel, he would not be the man I remember."
"Eight years will change a man, my lady." There was an edge to his voice which held a deeper meaner. It had been about eight years since Varel had been demoted from seneschal.
Keeping her eyes focused on the graze at the side of his face, Delilah dabbed the bloodied skin with the damp linen, cleaning the wound as best she was able. "Then he has had eight years free from the poison of my father, hasn't he?" she retorted.
A strained silence fell over the pair for a long moment. Finally, Varel found his voice once more. "And who will bear the brunt if you are wrong, my lady?"
She drew back just enough so that she could meet his eye. "I am not wrong."
Varel studied her from behind a closed expression, his face weathered not only from the elements. The years of experience visible even beneath the injuries. "So be it," he muttered at last. "Leave your letter with your supplies. I will speak to Albert."
Delilah let out a long breath. "Thank you, Varel. You will see I am right; I promise you."
"We will all do as we must, my lady."
Rumours from Denerim were rife. Aedan Cousland and his companions were close to entering the city and demanding an audience with the Landsmeet. Surely it could only be a matter of time before Rendon Howe and the Regent were overthrown, and Ferelden could stand united against the onslaught of the Blight. Nathaniel, Delilah hoped, might be a part of that stand.
But that was a small and private hope that must be kept well-guarded lest it be destroyed ahead of time. She had promised Varel that sending for Nathaniel would not bring harm to those who resisted the rule of her brother and father. Anything beyond that was a boon.
Earlier that day, she had fetched two bottles of wine from the cask in the cellar, taking the opportunity to secret the letter into the usual place beside the healing poultices. Albert was due to make a delivery the next day. Soon, her letter would be making its way to her elder brother, hopefully drawing an end to this nightmare rule of her father's.
Now, with the two bottles in hand so that she might set them upon the table before evening meal, Delilah entered the banquet hall. Yet while she had expected it to be empty, instead she was caught off-guard by the sight of Thomas himself, standing with his back to the large roaring fire. He smiled upon sight of her; an expression which made the hair on the back of her neck rise. With a flourish which he could not have managed at any other time, her brother produced something from an inside pocket of his beautifully tailored coat, accompanied by the abrupt clamour of six guards entering the hall and takin up position behind her.
"I must thank you, Delilah," Thomas declared, his smile verging on the grotesque in his glee. "This is exactly what I needed to prove to Father that I was right."
Her heart sank. She recognised the distinctive green wax which she had used to seal the letter, now broken. How had the letter fallen into Thomas' hands? She had hidden it with the healing supplies… Her eyes widened with horror, and Thomas laughed outright.
"Oh, yes, I know all about your little humanitarian subterfuge. Father was really quite amused by it," his smile stretched into a sneering grin. "He was the one, after all, who advised that I wait to see whether you grew any bolder."
As a healer, she was not inclined to swoon. But in that moment, Delilah experienced the swirling effects of light-headedness, panic threatening to undo her. Blood roared in her ears, mimicking the sound of Varel's voice, repeating the warning over and over that more than just her own life rested on her discretion.
She swallowed, throat painfully dry. She had thought herself as cunning as her father; stupid, shameful pride. Yet she could not dwell on her own circumstances. Were Varel and Albert safe? Although Thomas would not have thought to have either of them followed, her father undoubtedly would have instructed it. If he had issued orders which Thomas was merely following…
She stepped towards him, hands held out in entreaty. For what? Mercy, she supposed. But for the fate of her friends rather than herself, she liked to think. "There is a Blight, Thom—"
The back of his hand struck her full force across the face. "You will not be so familiar with me!"
Clenching her jaw, Delilah blinked back tears of pain and shock, resisting the urge to cup her stinging cheek. The thought that she should settle her eyes on the floor at Thomas' feet, deferential in pose if not in deed, did rush through her head. But he had never been quite so bold as to strike her before.
No, the time for pretence was over.
"I will not be party to this any longer," she forced herself to speak, voice hoarse. Slowly, deliberately, purposefully, she raised her eyes to meet his. "You are a puppet, Thomas." Her voice grew stronger, fuelled by the knowledge that whatever else she may have done wrong, this was right. "A traitor, just as our father is."
This time, she ducked the swipe of his palm with ease. It had been many years since they had sparred as children, but she had always been the lighter on her feet than either of her brothers. Spinning away from him, she continued, bolder now: "your sheer stupidity is your only defence, Thomas. You cannot even see how you are used!"
"Guards!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips as his fingers clenched tight around the letter, crumpling it beyond recognition. At least the monstrous grin had fled his features.
Whirling around, Delilah addressed the guards, desperation meaning she threw caution to the wind. "All those who serve my brother are traitors!"
Two of the guards paused in their steps. But the remainder advanced, unaffected by such meagre matters as morals. Their care was not for King and country, but their next coin purse.
Delilah retreated further, the cold stone of the Vigil pressing against her back. Oh, she had pretty skills as a duellist, though only so much as was needed to attract a husband. Her father had never permitted her to follow through with anything that might prove to be useful for her own benefit. Nothing, save her wits.
"Stop, by order of Arl Rendon Howe!" she ordered, fighting with every fibre of her being to keep her voice steady.
It had been a long shot. Yet, unbelievably, all six of the guards hesitated. Delilah let loose a humourless chuckle. There was the proof, if any were needed, that Thomas ruled only by permission of their father. Apparently, her father had not seen fit to issue instructions that only her brother be obeyed. His oversight was her gain.
Thomas became almost apoplectic, his face colouring dark red. "Lies!" he shrieked. "I wear his signet ring! I rule the arling of Amaranthine in his name! Take her to the dungeons!"
"Any guard who lays a finger on me will answer to Arl Howe in person," Delilah immediately countered, more assured as Thomas grew more uncontrolled. "Be sure you are confident in your actions, sers."
"And any who disobey me will be executed by dawn!" Thomas bellowed, beginning to advance on Delilah's position.
In response, half drew their swords, but made no further movement. Instead, they looked between each other, weighing up with of the Arl's children were mostly likely to be believed.
Thomas was incandescent. "Do as I say! Bann Esmerelle—"
Sensing her audience, Delilah let out a short laugh. "I have no need to seek permission of a Bann," she sneered, a perfect imitation of how her father spoke of the woman behind her back. "You will stand down, guardsmen." She lifted her chin, channelling every loathsome part of her father into her demeanour. "Now."
Hot-headed rage burned in Thomas. He lunged for a weapon, ripping an ancient duelling rapier from one of the many trophy plaques around the banquet wall. He sprang towards her, slashing with wild abandon. Only by hurling herself to the side did Delilah succeeded in evading the razor-sharp tip of the blade. Alas, it broke the spell she had been casting over the guards. They shook off their befuddlement and advanced towards her, apparently deeming violence as the more convincing demonstration of who represented Rendon Howe.
Another moment and she would be surrounded. Her heightened senses suddenly caught the tinkling of glass breaking. Strange green wisps of smoke furled upwards. Then again, and again, and again: tinkling of glass. The wisps gathered into clouds, seemingly sucking the very air from the room.
"Attack!" Thomas spluttered, breaking off from his advance on Delilah. "The Vigil is under attack!"
Coughing, Delilah scrambled towards the nearest doorway, trying desperately to blink away the irritation in her eyes. The surprise of the smoke bombs had granted her a moment' reprieve, but she did not know how long it would last. She had to escape the Vigil, warn Varel and Albert, and then…
From the murky darkness of the doorway, a strong hand gripped her elbow, pressing a damp cloth over her mouth and nose. Initially, she thrashed and struggled, scraping her nails uselessly against the gauntlets of her assailant, presuming that the cloth was soaked with some sleep draught. Only when she caught sight of Varel's face, blurry but unmistakeable, did she pause.
Shouts and the clamour of metal against metal sounded from the far end of the hall. Wordlessly, Varel looped his arm around her, helping her to her feet and guiding her stumbling steps out of the hall and through the Vigil until they reached outside.
The cold night air hit her face and she ripped the cloth away from her mouth, dropping to her hands and knees, alternating between gulping in mouthful of air and retching from the vile aftertaste of the searing smoke.
"Quickly, my lady," he urged, turning to spit something out. A neutraliser for the smoke, perhaps. "We do not have time."
"Varel?" she spluttered belatedly, still dumbstruck.
He smiled at her, though there was a tension in his posture that revealed his unease. "Who else, my lady? Quickly, now. Vigil's Keep is no longer safe for you. You must leave at once."
"And go where?"
"You did not think that I would arrange your escape without a plan? You are to go with Albert. He will get you into the city. There is a ship bound for the Marches—"
"Varel, I am not fleeing to the Marches!"
"You must go to your elder brother, my lady. He is squired with your mother's blood, is he not?"
"Yes, her cousin. But…"
"Delilah." His tone brokered no argument. "Vigil's Keep will fall tonight, or we shall all be executed. Amaranthine will not be dragged further into fighting against the rest of Ferelden on the whim of a tyrant."
She forced herself up onto her feet. "Your men will need a healer," she observed, just as unwavering as he, though she still struggled to fully catch her breath. "As you say, the Vigil will fall tonight, or we will all be executed."
"I can help with the healing," came a third voice from nearby.
Whirling around, Delilah choked back a sob of relief to see Albert, limping towards them. "Thank the Maker," she breathed, taking a hesitant step towards him, hand outstretched to touch but drawing back at the last moment. "When Thomas said about the supplies—"
Even bruised and begrimed, Albert found the humour to flash her a wink. "You knew that we knew they were being watched—" He trailed off as he caught her hardening expression. "Varel said he told you—"
She spun around, fixing an unwavering stare upon the time-served soldier. "You orchestrated all of this," she surmised, those Howe wits racing to the only conclusion. "You… used me."
"Yes," he acknowledged without hesitation. "And if I survive the night, I will accept whatever punishment you choose."
"You discouraged me to send the letter in the first place!"
"I did, and I spoke truthfully about my concerns over Nathaniel's loyalty. But when I saw you would not be swayed…" He held her gaze without trace of regret. "I cannot stand by while the orders of a Howe could inflict harm on others, my lady."
A silent war played out between them in those fleeting moments. Abruptly, she brushed the grime from the ground off her hands. "Go rid this fortress of its corruption, Seneschal." Turning, she cast an experienced eye over Albert, who looked between them with an air of torn loyalty. "Your leg will need to be dressed before you can help me. You will have precious little time to rest once the wounded are brought to us."
Reaching out, Varel clapped Albert on the shoulder, deftly ending the matter of conflicted allegiances. "Defend her with your life," was all he remarked, before striding away, heading into the fray once more.
Dawn broke at last over the walls of Vigil's Keep. The clamour of revolt had quietened into the groans of hard-won victory. Thomas Howe lay slain amongst the rest of his guardsmen; though so too did many of the common folk whom he had sought to keep underfoot.
In the courtyard of the Vigil, Delilah had organised a makeshift infirmary, flitting from patient to patient. More and more of the injured were finding their way to the area, those still mobile doing their best to assist those who were not.
Finally, Varel appeared, issuing orders to a few who were still standing. Once they had left to do his bidding, he approached Delilah.
"The Vigil is ours once more," he remarked.
"Indeed, Seneschal," she remarked coldly. "You fought well."
"My lady—"
"I think it is safe to say I hold no title now, Varel." She glanced across the rows of injured, weariness borne of more than just that night's horror weighing on their shoulders. "Perhaps it is a blessing given the circumstances."
"You will come to no harm amongst the people of Amaranthine," he said quietly. "I know you were frustrated by how little you could do, but we knew it was more than anyone else amongst the nobility even thought to do."
Mention of other nobility forced Delilah to look at Varel properly. "I pray that Aedan Cousland sees to it that the Crown is restored to the Theirin line, but you must prepare for retaliation from my father if that does not happen," she warned him. "Bann Esmerelle may also take more immediate action."
"She may," he conceded, "though I think what has happened here may sway her to silence for the moment." He lifted a brow in question. "Can we count on your healing should we need it?"
She did not even need to think. "Yes."
"Thank you, Delilah." He was quiet for a moment, and for an awful moment she thought he might apologise for the deception of before, undermining entirely the integrity – however misaligned – of his decision. She could respect his conviction in his actions, even while she resented the unwitting part she had played. But instead, he gave a short nod and turned-on heel, striding away to deal with the on-going recovery of Vigil's Keep from the rule of the Howe family.
It was not until much later that Delilah stopped again; this time interrupted by Albert. He all but forced a bowl of soup into her hands. Liberated from the kitchens, she presumed. The scent of the dish awoke her hunger and she greedily sipped from the bowl, heedless to what anyone might have thought. Yet no one paid any attention. Why would they? No nobility resided in Vigil's Keep any longer.
Craning his head upward, Albert studied the towering profile of the Vigil. "Is it strange to see your home like this?"
She followed his gaze up and around the ancient stone walls, older than even the origins of Ferelden itself. "This was never a home," she said, matter of fact. "Although I am glad that it has withstood the brief period in which my family resided here."
"I can understand that," Albert nodded slowly, considering her words. He glanced over to her. "Whatever else Varel did, he was honest about having arranged passage to the Marches for you." There was the briefest hesitation, "if that is what you wish."
Delilah shook her head. "I have already promised Varel that he can rely on my healing skill if it is required." Her expression clouded. "But I will not stay here after tonight."
"I can find you accommodation in the city," he replied, his tone lighter than just a few moments ago. "We look after our own."
A smile flickered over her face, pleased to be counted amongst others. "I should like that, Albert. Thank you." She turned to the injured, taking in the hours of work still ahead of her, before looking back to the merchant again. "The ship to the Marches," she ventured, "… could a letter still be sent?"
His eyes twinkled and he nodded. "Our secret though, yes?"
For the very first time, perhaps ever, Delilah winked in return, her heart lighter than she could remember for a very long time. "Our secret."