With the Dalish alliance secured, Naia determined that they would go next to the Circle of Magi, another group that had signed a treaty with the Wardens long ago.
Naturally it turned out that the Circle was overrun with demons. They spent a rather frustrating day in the Fade before Naia brought them all out of it through sheer force of will. But at least they left with a promise of aid, and a new ally: a no-nonsense mage named Wynne with marvelous skill at healing wounds. A week later they found more demons in a tiny hamlet called Honnleath, along with a cranky stone giant named Shale.
Then it was on to Orzammar, third treaty in hand. It was around that time that Zevran noticed something strange. No one was watching him any more. They assigned him to take shifts guarding the camp at night; no one gave the food a skeptical look if he'd helped cook it.
It was several days before it occurred to him that their lack of suspicion gave him the perfect chance to strike. The thought came and went so quickly that it was barely there.
Somewhere around Orzammar, Zevran began to see a change in the Warden.
The quest to find Paragon Branka was not pleasant for anyone. Even Zevran, who had thought himself too cynical to be horrified by anything, had nightmares about the Brood Mother. While he himself would have wanted the Anvil of the Void, he was not surprised when the Warden sided with Caridin and destroyed it. Branka's fate was sealed the moment Naia met Hespith. The Warden would never accept an ally who abandoned people who trusted her to the crushing dark of the Deep Roads. She made a more practical choice when she selected Bhelen as Orzammar's King, but guilt haunted her eyes when Harrowmont was executed.
When he saw her again in the light of the surface, the Warden looked far older than her twenty-four years. She was still talkative, still optimistic, but when she thought no one was looking she would pinch the bridge of her nose and close her eyes, as if wishing this all away. Her sleep was poor; Zevran noticed that she volunteered for extra night watches, and that even when it was not her turn, she often walked the camp rather than rest in her tent.
The one thing that seemed to brighten her spirits was the decision to go to Denerim. Perhaps they could finally get the cure Eamon needed—and in the meantime, Naia would see her family.
Zevran probably should have been concerned about returning to Denerim. There was always the chance that he might be recognized, however remote. But he had to admit that being back in a city pleased him. The bustle of people, the smell of food cooking, the market stalls—the chaos was familiar and pleasant, though he did miss the smell of fish guts that hung over Antiva City. He did not particularly share the Warden's eagerness to visit the Denerim alienage, however. From what little he had seen of Ferelden's elves, he could not imagine it would be a pleasant place. But Naia had cousins there, and a father, and she had mentioned seeing them nearly every day since leaving Orzammar.
Zevran wondered what it would be like, to have people in his past he missed.
Naia could barely contain her impatience as Alistair and Zevran stopped in the market—Zevran to buy a sharpening stone, Alistair to replace torn socks that Wynne refused to repair any further. She was constantly shifting from foot to foot, her eyes widening in frustration if either man picked up a second object.
"Andraste's ass, Alistair, they're just socks, " she wailed when her fellow Warden lifted two pairs to compare.
"Socks? Wait, these are socks? Oh, Maker, why didn't you tell me sooner? I wanted a hat. Now I'll have to start all over," he shot back.
Zevran concealed a laugh as Naia groaned.
Finally, they were ready to leave the market. There was a lightness to the Warden's step as she led them out of the commercial district, down a dustier and shabbier road than the others he'd seen in Denerim. But her steps slowed as she rounded a corner. A heavy gate barred the way.
A bored-looking guardsman stepped in front of her. "Alienage is closed." It sounded as if he said this many times a day.
Naia blinked. "But I'm an elf. My family's in there. Don't you have to let me in?"
"Sorry." The guardsman did not sound particularly sorry. "One of them killed the old arl's son, and some of the boys didn't take too kindly to a knife-ear taking out a noble. It all turned into a riot, and Arl Howe ordered it closed off for everyone's protection. Just be thankful you're on this side of the gate."
At his side, Alistair put a hand on his sword. Zevran, too, felt himself grow tense. This wasn't the kind of thing Naia was going to take lying down. He braced himself for her next words.
"I—oh." She took two steps back, her face paling, then turned back to Alistair and Zev with a dazed expression. "I—I guess we can't see them today."
As she turned and walked away, Zevran stared after her, too stunned to follow. Admitting defeat, turning away from her goal? Who was this person? Alistair, too, looked concerned, but he obediently turned and started walking away from the alienage.
They were just past the central market when Zevran heard a quiet retching noise. Naia was vomiting her breakfast onto the street.
Alistair rushed to her side. "Maker! Are you ill?"
Naia shook her head, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand. "Not—not exactly. I just—something I ate, I guess. We need to keep moving. Come on."
"Naia! We can wait a moment!" Alistair called futilely as the other Warden all but ran towards the city gate.
Zevran trailed behind, his curiosity piqued. He had a strong suspicion that the elf who had killed the Arl's son was not locked behind the alienage gate.
Naia spent the rest of the afternoon with Zevran and Leliana, trying to find out as much as they could about what had happened in the alienage from a harried-looking guardsman named Sergeant Kylon who was walking a patrol in the market district. The news was not encouraging. Though Kylon knew only a little—the Arl's men had been the ones to put down the riot—there had been deaths, and likely a fire.
When Naia asked Kylon if there might be a way into her home, he shook his head, pity visible on his weathered face. "The Arl gave strict orders that no one was to be allowed in or out. You could try to climb the walls, I suppose, or fight past the guard. But I get the sense that the Arl is watching for someone." He gave Naia a meaningful look. "Whoever he's looking for, things could get a lot worse for the elves if he finds out they're in there."
Naia nodded, looking sick.
That evening, back at the camp, Zevran noticed Naia trading Feddic a few copper coins for a bottle of whiskey. As soon as the night was quiet, her companions engaged in other activities, she snuck into the woods behind her tent, the bottle in hand.
Zevran followed quietly, an odd worry nagging at him. When he found her again, a good distance from the camp, she was sitting on the ground and pulling the cork from the bottle with her teeth. She spat it in the dirt and took a hard swig from the bottle. "I guess you had your revenge, Vaughan," she said bitterly, raising the bottle to the empty night sky. "Rot and freeze in the hells."
Something compelled him to speak. "If you are toasting invisible drinking companions, it may be time to put down the bottle."
Naia looked over. Her mouth was twisted in agony and her eyes were lifeless; he had never seen her expressive face so devoid of feeling. "What did I tell you about spying on me?"
"I was merely out for a walk, my Warden. May I join you for a drink?"
"No." She took another swig. "I'm not sharing. I'm drinking until the searing guilt goes away. You can stay if you want to hold my hair back when I throw up, though."
Zevran closed the remaining distance between them and sat at her side. "So my suspicions were correct. You are the elf who killed the Arl's son. May I ask what he did to earn your wrath?"
Naia went very still. When she spoke, he could barely hear her voice. "He raped my cousin Shianni. Him and two of his friends. They're dead too."
"And you feel guilt over their deaths?" Zevran asked disbelievingly.
"What? No! I—not exactly." She paused, then the words tumbled from her mouth in a rush. "I should have done better. I should have known the shems would take it out on the alienage if Vaughan died. But he wouldn't let her go, and I just—I was so angry!"
She sounded near tears. Zevran felt profoundly uncomfortable. He had been many things in his life, but never a shoulder to cry on. "Out of his depth" did not begin to describe his situation.
I should find Leliana. Or Alistair.
Instead, he found himself speaking. "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."
The tale was a grim one. The Arl's son had come to Naia's alienage in search of easy victims among the elven women, but ran off when Naia's cousin broke a bottle over his head. Evidently, bravery—and temper—ran in the family.
A day later, Bann Vaughan returned with reinforcements and kidnapped Naia, Shianni, and three others. One woman died at the hands of the Bann's guards, but Naia's cousin Soris had appeared with a stolen sword and saved her from a similar fate. The two of them fought their way to the Bann's chambers only to find they were too late to prevent Shianni's rape.
"I tried to reason with him. I offered to leave if he released Shianni and the others. He said he was keeping the other women and offered me forty sovereigns instead. I had to fight him to escape. That's when I got this." She ran a finger down the side of her face, tracing the long scar. "We dueled, he sliced my face open, and I stabbed him through the throat." She punctuated that sentence with a fierce, pleased smile—a bloodthirsty look Zevran had never seen on her face before, not even in battle.
It faded quickly. "But it was a stupid thing to do. Whatever the shems did in the alienage, they did because of me." She took a long swig, her face drawn and hard with misery.
Zevran waited until she lowered the bottle. "Tell me something, Naia. How long do you plan to continue this absurd fit of self-punishment?"
"Excuse me?" Naia said icily.
"The Arl's son attacked you, hurt your family, and refused a very merciful offer that he frankly did not deserve. You did the only thing you could do to save yourself and your cousins. Blaming yourself for what happened afterwards is preposterous."
Naia glared at him, her mouth open and her expression indignant. Zevran took the opportunity to snatch the bottle from her fingers and give it a cautious sniff. He recoiled at the smell, a combination of burned varnish and damp wood. With a disgusted grimace, he turned the bottle upside-down, letting the cheap whiskey tumble out into the dirt. "And I am not permitting you to drink any more of this vile beverage."
"Hey!" Naia protested, making a grab for the bottle. Zevran held it out of her reach, shaking it to empty it faster.
"I will replace it with a bottle of Antivan spirits, or fine wine if I cannot find Antivan spirits in Ferelden," he informed her, blocking her hands with his left forearm. "A woman as beautiful as you should be getting drunk on a much better class of liquor."
Naia sat back and snorted. "Are you ever going to stop the empty flattery, Zev?"
"Empty, my Warden?" Zevran asked softly, dropping the bottle. He locked eyes with Naia, pleased to see that she was annoyed. Annoyed was much better than the helpless despair she'd started with. "Hardly empty. You are beautiful. That is a fact. A fact that you know quite well."
The Warden rolled her eyes extravagantly. "Oh, do I, now?"
Zevran chuckled. "Come now, my dear Warden." He held her gaze for a moment, then let his eyes drift down the length of her body, catching every lithe muscle and curve, not bothering to hide his admiration.
He gave her a slow smile as his eyes returned to hers. "Where was I? Oh yes. You are an observant woman. I am certain you have noticed that men enjoy looking at you—as do many women, come to think of it."
The Warden was silent, her face unreadable. For a brief moment Zevran suspected he'd pushed his flirtation too far—but then suddenly Naia tilted her head to the side and gave the assassin a small, playful smile. "So are you saying that you enjoy looking at me, Zev?"
Zevran was momentarily too startled to reply. Naia saw the surprise on his face; her grin widened wickedly. "I suppose you must. Or do you stare at everyone the way you stare at me?"
From experience, Zevran knew this kind of conversation would likely end in one of two ways. She would either invite him into her bed or try to stab him. With Naia, he wasn't sure which outcome was more likely.
"I do not. You are a rare creature, my Warden. But do you object? If you do not wish me to notice your charms, just say the word. I am a gentleman—all appearances to the contrary."
The Warden paused for a moment, that odd, suggestive smile still playing on her lips. "A gentleman? Well, that's a pity."
She shifted her body then, leaning closer to him—almost as if she meant to kiss him. Her eyes held his with playful intensity. "By all means, Zevran, continue looking if you enjoy it. I don't mind in the slightest. As long as you don't mind me looking back, that is."
Zevran raised his eyebrows. "I will certainly keep that in mind."
For a moment he wondered if he should take the opportunity to close the distance between them and kiss her. But the opportunity passed too quickly. Naia arched an eyebrow at him, then pulled her legs underneath her and sprang to her feet.
"Good night, Zevran. You owe me a bottle of Antivan spirits."