Naia sucked a silent breath through her teeth and clenched her fists as the flap to Zathrian's tent swung shut. She wasn't sure what she'd expected—the Keeper had managed to avoid or half-answer every single one of her questions about Witherfang since they'd arrived. But somehow today's evasions felt especially insulting. They'd saved a Dalish hunter, found ironbark for the clan's weapons, and survived an attack by talking werewolves—what more did Zathrian bloody want from her?

Another deep breath. I can't afford to lose my temper here. We need them.

Even if they are a bunch of blasted stubborn prigs led by the biggest liar I've ever met.

Father, when I see you again, I'm going to apologize for all of those times I threatened to run away to the Dalish.

The other Dalish, at least, seemed less annoyed by her presence as she crossed the camp. One even gave her a wave—a friend of the hunter Deygan's, she suspected. Still, she did not fully relax until she reached the little circle they had set up outside the ring of the main Dalish camp.

Leliana was coaxing a pile of sticks into flame when Naia stepped between the tents. She looked up with a smile—one that quickly faded when she saw Naia's expression.

"Zathrian would not speak with you?"

"Oh, he said a lot." Naia scowled. "He insisted that werewolves don't talk, and then told me he had Keeper business to attend."

"I suppose we cannot blame them for being suspicious of outsiders." Leliana sighed. "We do not share a happy history, humans and elves. Still, I have been impressed. The Dalish are far less savage than I had thought."

Naia felt herself prickle, even though she had been silently complaining about the Dalish for most of the day. "I'll pass that along. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear it."

Leliana looked stricken. "I—oh dear. I did not mean to give offense."

"I know," Naia sighed. "It's just—we can't bloody win, elves. If you're Dalish you're a savage. Live in an alienage and you're a criminal."

"In Orlais there are many elves among the court," Leliana offered. "Skilled elves are much in demand as servants. They can rise higher than many humans and become quite wealthy." There was uncertainty on Leliana's face as she said this, as if she knew that this would not impress Naia but was not quite sure why.

Naia took a deep breath. "But they're still servants. They can't rise unless some human makes a pet out of them."

"I had not thought of it that way," Leliana admitted with a little frown.

Of course not. Leliana was a friend, but she could be such a shem sometimes.

Movement in a little clearing to the side of their camp caught Naia's eye. When she saw the flash of sunlight on metal she instinctively put her hand on her dagger—but then she realized it was only Zevran, training with his own daggers. The spring day was unseasonably warm and the assassin had removed his shirt, revealing a pattern of swirling tattoos over his right shoulder and down his chest and back.

He was clearly following a training exercise of some sort—the motions were smooth and elegant, designed to keep muscles warm and reflexes sharp. Naia watched as he moved, his muscles sliding underneath his olive skin, the tattoos drawing attention to the wiry definition of his arms and chest. Her breath caught a bit in spite of herself.

All right, he was an assassin, but she wasn't blind.

Leliana followed her gaze. "Aha! See something you like?" she teased.

Naia turned her gaze away quickly. Maker, she had been staring. "I'm curious about his technique," she said, only half lying. Her mother had been an excellent teacher, but she could tell Zevran's training had been on another level entirely.

"Why not ask him?" There was more than a bit of teasing in Leliana's voice. "Perhaps he would be willing to teach you."

Naia felt a smile spread across her face. Some training sounded like just the way to shake off this day. "You know, I think I will."

Zevran was coming to the end of his routine—an easy one, merely meant to stretch and soothe sore muscles—when he saw Naia approach the clearing from the camp. He pulled out of the final sequence to bow as she approached. "Ah, my Warden. How may I be of service?" He winked at her. "I have some suggestions, if you are interested."

As he'd expected, Naia pretended she hadn't caught his meaning. "Actually, I was wondering something about the way you fight. You can take down a target faster than anyone I've seen. Can you teach me?"

"No." The word was out of Zevran's mouth before he had really thought about it.

He saw Naia's eyes widen in surprise. She looked a bit offended. "Please do not misunderstand," he added quickly. "It is not a slight on your abilities. In fact, I think you would be quite a skilled assassin. But the Crows—the techniques are closely held secrets, and recruits are forbidden from discussing them."

"You left the Crows, though," Naia pointed out.

It was a good point. Zevran knew that the intelligent thing to do would be to ingratiate himself with the person sparing his life. But the idea of teaching Naia to do what he did, breaking his oath even further in the process, made him feel oddly exposed. There would truly be no going back if he betrayed the Crows' secrets. Not that he wanted to return. But nor was he ready for the Warden to own his loyalty—his life—so completely.

"Indeed I did," he answered after a pause. "And I would rather not anger them further."

It was a weak excuse. He expected her to insist, to remind him of his oath and order him to teach her. But she merely looked disappointed. "Well, it was just a thought."

Then, to his surprise, she changed the subject. "So what do you think of the Dalish?"

Zevran chuckled. "They do not quite live up to what I imagined as a child. And you?"

The Warden shook her head ruefully. "In the alienage, we used to talk of the Dalish like—like heroes. I always assumed that if city elves ran into the Dalish we'd be embraced like long-lost children. But it turns out I'm just another outsider. I might as well be a shem. Maybe they're just cautious because of everything that's happened." She sounded doubtful.

"Perhaps the hunters are. But Zathrian is hiding something," Zevran said flatly. Naia gave him an odd look. "You disagree?"

"No, I don't," the other elf said with a sigh. "I was hoping I was imagining things. He was so vague when I asked him about Danyla, and when I told him the werewolves spoke to us he seemed almost angry at the idea. It could just be that he doesn't trust us, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something about this mess that he doesn't want anyone to know."

Zevran was surprised but impressed at her wariness. I was too quick to think her naïve.

"But at least the hunters have stopped glaring holes in my head every time I pass. And I think Varathorn has managed to make something with that ironbark we found," she went on, that familiar spark of optimism back in her voice. "Want to go see?"

"Why not? I am always interested in weapons."

"Put on a shirt first?" Naia suggested, a little smile curving her mouth. "I don't want to deal with hoards of swooning Dalish maidens fainting in our path."

Zevran threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, such flattery! Not that you are wrong, of course."

"I'm never wrong. It's one of my best features," Naia said. There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice; Zevran wondered if he'd inadvertently touched a nerve. But it was gone in a heartbeat. "Come on, I want to see if that ironbark was worth all the damn trouble."

Varathorn's gift was a sword, narrow and symmetrically curved in the Dalish style, lighter than a normal longsword but still too heavy to wield as a dagger. Zevran saw the weaponsmaster flinch when Naia said that Alistair would love it—but he did not protest outright at the idea of his weapon being given to a shemlen, and he continued to thank Naia for the supply she had secured.

"I cannot be as generous as I would like, but I will offer you a discount on anything else you want to buy," Varathorn told them as his assistant wrapped the sword in a temporary sheath.

"How much for your elfroot?" Naia said immediately.

"How many bundles would you like?"

"Um. All of them, if we can afford it," Naia admitted. "Maker, we go through potions."

Zevran stepped away as the two of them began to haggle, running practiced hands over the hilts of Varathorn's daggers. He admired the craftsmanship, but nothing on the table tempted him; his own weapons had been with him so long that they almost seemed like family.

He moved on to the leather, inhaling the smell with pleasure. The Dalish used different techniques to tan their leather goods; it was stronger but less supple than the buttery boots and coats that Zevran had admired back in Antiva, and the scent was not quite the same. Still, it made him miss home.

And then one small item at the end of the table made his eyes go wide.

They were gloves—a utilitarian pair with only a bit of embroidery at the cuffs, clearly intended for a man. Something about them seemed incredibly familiar, but his mind was caught, unable to quite recall where he had seen something like this before.

It came to him in a rush when he picked them up. My mother's gloves. The leather had not been so thick, and there had been more embroidery, but the cut of the fingers, the slight curve over the wrist, the careful paneling that enabled a hand to move almost as easily as it did when bare—it was all exactly as his mother's gloves had been.

"Done," he heard Naia say, pulling at her purse strings. "That is, if you throw in the gloves too."

"You drive a hard bargain, Grey Warden," Varathorn said with a dramatic mock sigh. "Done."

Zevran stared at her as the weaponsmaster moved away to pack their herbs. There was only one pair of gloves on Varathorn's table—the ones he was holding. He held them out to her. "I fear these are made for a man, my Warden."

Naia gave him a look. "That's good, since they're for you."

"I have gloves," Zevran said, baffled. "I have not been wearing them of late, since it has been so warm, but—"

"But they have holes in the thumbs and a tear across the left palm. You can give them to Duncan to chew on. Maybe then he'll stop stealing Morrigan's shoes." She chuckled. "Actually, don't. Annoying Morrigan is a worthy goal."

"You are giving me gloves," Zevran said flatly. "What for?" Was she trying to buy his loyalty? Surely she does not think I would be so cheap as a pair of gloves.

The Warden looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "To wear. When it gets colder. To keep your hands warm. Do you really not want them?"

He almost said no—almost lied about his old gloves having sentimental value. But the idea of putting these gloves back on the table was too painful. "No, no. You are right. Mine are in poor condition. I will keep them."

"You're welcome?" Naia prompted teasingly.

Zevran shook his head, flustered. "I—thank you. I am sorry if I was graceless. I was merely startled."

The Warden arched one eyebrow. "What, no one's given you a gift before?"

"Not that I can recall, no."

Surprise lit the Warden's face, but she suppressed it quickly. Even so, Zevran felt foolish. He flashed her his most insolent grin to cover his discomfort. "At least, I have not received one from such a stunning woman. You must tell me how to thank you properly."

Naia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she did. "Just enjoy them."

Varathorn chose that moment to reappear. He handed the wrapped sword to Naia; she slung it over her shoulder and reached for the elfroot. Zevran followed her, the gloves in hand, as she walked back to their tents. He ran his thumb over the tiny stitches on the gloves with something like wonder.

For someone who prided himself on reading people, he suddenly felt as if he did not understand Naia Tabris at all.