The Ashes of Andraste, as it turned out, were not a myth. With Eamon restored and the Wardens' alliances secured, the path forward became clear. They would have to return to Denerim and find a way to displace Loghain as Regent. Eamon called a Landsmeet, and the group returned to Denerim's capital.
For a moment Naia entertained the hope that she might convince Loghain to stand with them, to allow the Wardens to fulfill their purpose and focus on the Darkspawn rather than some imagined threat from Orlais. Perhaps he regretted his choice at Ostagar now that he saw the danger they faced. But a meeting with the Teyrn and Arl Howe quickly crushed that thin little dream. Loghain firmly believed he was in the right, and Ferelden's armies would never fight by their side so long as he led them.
It was becoming increasingly clear to Naia that putting someone they trusted on Ferelden's throne was their only hope of defeating the Blight. Even after they rescued the Queen from Arl Howe's estate, however, Naia was not sure that person was Anora Mac Tir. The Queen's lie to Ser Cauthrien nearly got her and Alistair killed. Though she apologized after they escaped Fort Drakon, Naia couldn't shake the suspicion that Anora had been trying to eliminate Maric's heir.
But politics quickly fled from Naia's mind when Anora told them that something was wrong among the elves. It was not the only problem in Denerim, of course, but Naia knew she could concentrate on nothing else until she saw her family.
"Yes. Please," she said when the Queen asked if she should arrange for passage inside the alienage. "As soon as you can."
As they stepped inside the alienage's wooden gates, Naia heard Alistair draw his breath sharply. For the first time, Naia saw her home as an outsider would see it—the colorless shacks, the uneven cobblestone streets, the shabbily-dressed elves who would not meet their eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at her companions, wondering how they were taking this. Alistair looked horrified; Wynne, concerned; Zevran, almost angry.
"So. This is where you grew up?" her fellow Warden asked hesitantly.
Naia's throat tightened; she swallowed hard. "It's not usually this bad," she lied.
But when she looked around again, she realized it wasn't a lie. The alienage had always been poor and its homes somewhat ramshackle, but the piles of trash in the streets, the stains on the ground that looked suspiciously like old blood, the heavy boards over her father's front window—those were new. Howe's purge had taken a toll.
"Go home! There's nothing in that house that will help you!"
Naia's heart sped up at the sound of that voice. She began running, flying down the street, turning a corner, her eyes seeking the familiar red hair.
Shianni was standing in front of a white-haired elven couple dressed in rumpled clothing. The two were clinging to each other, their arms entwined, and Naia was somehow sure that both of them were ill.
"Arnas, Lia, listen to me," Shianni said urgently. "Those shems aren't here to help us. They dragged Valendrian away weeks ago. Where is his cure? Where is he now?"
"We have no choice, Shianni," the elven woman said gently, her voice creaking with age and illness. "We're too sick to refuse their treatment."
"Bah. You're being too soft on her, Lia," Arnas growled. "Stand aside, girl. You've been howling for months at the only people offering us a scrap of help. You've caused enough trouble. Now get out of our way."
Arnas brushed past Naia's cousin, shoving his shoulder hard against hers as he did. Lia spared her an embarrassed glance, but continued arm in arm with her husband as they walked down the street.
Naia's breath caught. Andraste's ass, what's happening here? She remembered Arnas and Lia—Arnas had always been crotchety, but he'd basically been a kind man. Why on earth was he treating Shianni that way?
Shianni watched the older couple go, her arms crossed defiantly. When Naia's next step crunched in the gravel, she turned her head, her expression hard.
"I suppose you shems are here to help us too?" Shianni gave Wynne a particularly nasty look. "Don't you have enough mages for your fake spells?"
She doesn't recognize me, Naia thought. Of course she wouldn't, under this helmet.
The Warden slowly pulled the hat off. "Shianni? It's—it's me," she said hesitantly.
Shianni's face went slack with shock. "Naia?"
For one awful moment, Naia thought Shianni was unhappy to see her. But her cousin's face quickly lit with joy. "Maker's breath, Naia! I can't believe it's really you!" she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. "We—we heard the Wardens were all killed at Ostagar. Valendrian even had a funeral for you. But you're here, you're actually here!" Tears glittered in her eyes. "Oh, Maker, I'm babbling, and what's wrong with me?"
She ran forward and threw her arms around Naia in a fierce hug.
Naia dropped her helmet in the dirt and returned the hug just as fiercely. "It's so good to see you," she whispered.
When the two cousins stepped out of their embrace, Naia introduced each of her companions in turn. "Shianni, this is Wynne, a mage of the Ferelden Circle. This is Alistair—he's a Warden too. And this is Zevran."
She wasn't quite sure how to introduce her elven companion. This is Zevran, he tried to kill me, but only once? This is Zevran, he's seen me naked a lot recently?
She settled on, "He's from Antiva."
Zevran bowed. "Shianni. It is a pleasure to meet you at last. You are as lovely as your cousin."
Shianni rolled her eyes. "Oh, really?"
"And just as bad at accepting compliments, I see," Zevran added with a small smile.
Shianni raised an eyebrow. "What can I say, Tabris women are hard to please."
To his great credit, Zevran kept his mouth shut at that.
"Shianni, what in the Maker's name is going on here? I heard things were bad in the alienage, but they wouldn't let me through the gate until now."
"Bad? That's an understatement. A lot has happened since your wedding." Shianni looked around. "Come on. Let's go to your father's house. We should talk in private."
Zevran had not expected to like the Denerim alienage, but it was slowly filling him with a helpless, simmering rage. Naia's home was small and comfortable, at least, and she clearly loved her family. But he could not imagine the spirited, clever Warden growing up in this dusty ghetto.
And then there was the small matter of the wedding Shianni had mentioned. Was Naia married ? Could the man's tunic drying on the hearth belong to a husband she'd left behind? Not that he would have refused to share a married woman's bed, of course, but—he would have thought she would tell him something like that.
Shianni offered the companions tea and Alistair cheerfully volunteered to help carry the mugs. When Wynne stepped aside to light the fire, Zevran and Naia were alone at the table—or, at least, as alone as two people could be in a house smaller than most of the rooms at the Pearl.
Finally, Zevran surrendered to his curiosity. "So. You had a wedding?" The words came out harsher than he'd intended.
Naia shook her head. "I was supposed to."
"But you had not told me you were betrothed. What happened?"
Naia looked down at the table. "He died."
Zevran hadn't expected that. "I—I am sorry."
"Thanks." The Warden's eyes were cold and far away; she ran her fingers down the scar Bann Vaughan had given her. Zevran took a deep breath as the pieces fell into place. Her betrothed had died in the attempt to save Naia and the other women.
Zevran found himself hating this place even more.
Shianni and Alistair placed a mismatched set of mugs down on the table, then Naia's cousin sat down, her face grave. "Cousin, I'm not even sure where to start."
"How about with why Soris has been living here?" Naia suggested, pointing to the tunic.
Shianni sighed. "His house was destroyed. After you left, a bunch of shems came through and rioted—set fire to things, beat up anyone who tried to stop them. Then Howe's men came through, set a few more fires, arrested anyone who looked at them funny, and locked the gates behind them when they left. Soris stayed with Alarith for a while but a lot of people blamed him for what happened. They kept vandalizing Alarith's store. Finally Soris came here."
"They blame Soris?" the Warden asked incredulously. "Why not blame you, or me?"
"Oh, don't worry. They do," Shianni assured her, her mouth thinning in anger.
"Maker, how can they think this is your fault? Everyone here saw us get dragged away at swordpoint!" Naia's voice was tight with fury.
Shianni snorted. "You might as well ask why no one but Soris and Nelaros came to help us. Why not the whole alienage? There should have been an army of angry elves storming that estate, not two young men who'd never held swords before."
Zevran couldn't help thinking Shianni had the right of it.
He almost didn't hear it—the soft rustling sound, the hushed whispers. But suddenly, Zevran realized there was someone outside Naia's home. "I think I hear voices," he told the Warden quietly. "Is there a back door?"
Naia nodded absently, pointing to a narrow doorway near the bunk beds. Zevran slipped out into the dusty alleyway, expecting to see Tevinter guards, or even Loghain's men.
Instead, two male elves about Naia's age were standing in the street in front of Naia's house, whispering and suppressing laughter. "Come on, do it, Barrian!" the taller of the two urged. Zevran realized that the smaller man had a rock. Barrian laughed and pulled his arm back, taking aim at Cyrion's one remaining window.
Zevran cleared his throat. "I would not, if I were you. The lady of the house is inside and she would be most unhappy."
"Who, the drunk, Shianni? What would she do, toss an empty bottle at me?" sneered Barrian. Nonetheless, he lowered his arm. "And just who are you, anyway?"
"Ah, how rude of me. My name is Zevran. I am a friend of the family, so to speak. May I ask why you are vandalizing their home?" Slowly, casually, he stepped closer.
If the two men realized the danger they were in, they showed no sign. The taller one merely snorted. "Zevran, is it? You should keep better company. That lot are nothing but trouble. Soris nearly got us all killed with his little adventure in the arl's estate."
"I was under the impression that it was less an adventure than a rescue mission. Naia said he saved her and the other women from a rather unpleasant fate." Another step closer, and another.
"Oh, you knew Naia, did you? She was the worst of them. Really, this is mostly her fault," Barrian taunted, tossing the rock and catching it in his hand.
"Oh, indeed?" Zevran asked softly.
"Well, it's not as if she was a virgin when she went in that place," the taller elf said scornfully. "If she'd just given them what they wanted and kept her mouth shut, none of this would have …"
He didn't get to finish his sentence. Zevran had closed the gap between himself and the other elves, so he punched the taller man, hard, in the stomach; the would-be vandal doubled over, gasping for breath. Another blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling into the dirt. Barrian tried to strike at him with the rock, but Zevran caught his wrist easily and twisted as hard as he could. The man cried out in pain as the stone dropped from his numb fingers.
Zevran caught the other elf by the throat and shoved him up against the nearest house. He gave Barrian a grim smile. "It might interest you to know, my friend, that Naia is alive and inside that house. May I recommend that you leave Soris and the Tabrises alone from now on?"
"What, I'm supposed to be scared of her?" Barrian said. He tried to sound disdainful, but the slight stammer in his voice betrayed him.
"A wise man would fear Naia Tabris, yes. But you are clearly a stupid man. So perhaps I can convince you to be afraid of me." Zevran tightened his grip on Barrian's throat and stepped closer. His next words came out as a low, furious growl. "If Naia's house acquires so much as a new scratch, you had best hope that she finds you before I do. She might let you live."
He stepped away abruptly, letting Barrian crumble to the ground. The elf picked himself up, shaking, then helped his friend to his feet. The two spared Zevran the briefest of terrified glances as they departed, moving as quickly as they could with their injuries.
It was then that Zevran noticed a third figure in the clearing in front of Naia's home—another elf, young and handsome, but with tired eyes set in a haggard face. He looked like someone who had not slept much recently.
Zevran gave a quick bow. "You must be Soris."
"How do you …?"
"The red hair. It seems to run in the family," Zevran said, forcing his expression to be friendly. In truth, he could still feel his blood pounding in his ears. He wondered if this was how Oghren felt in the throes of a berserker fit. "My name is Zevran."
"I caught that part. Actually, I caught all of it. Is—were you telling the truth? Is Naia really alive?" Soris said hesitantly, his expression almost desperately hopeful.
How had this gentle boy summoned the courage to invade the Arl's estate? "She is indeed. She will be most happy to see you."
Soris all but ran to the front door, but before he put his hand on the knob, he turned back to Zevran. "Hey, thanks for what you did. I guess Naia made some good friends out in the world."
Zevran had no answer for that, but Soris seemed to expect none. The other elf pulled open the door. "Naia? Maker's breath, is it really you?"
It was wonderful to see Soris again—and horrible. Naia could see every strain of the past months etched on his face. Soris had always been the sensitive one, the one who worried and fretted and felt things deeply. Having the entire alienage blame him for their devastation had taken a brutal toll.
And then Shianni told her the news that turned Naia's blood to ice.
"Naia—the Tevinters have your father."
Somehow, even though Naia felt as if her entire world might end in that moment, she forced herself to come up with a plan. She and Zevran would dress as alienage residents, conceal their knives, and try to gain entrance to the quarantine by feigning illness. They were young and strong-looking; Shianni was optimistic that the Tevinter "healers" would take the bait. From there, they could unlock the alley door for Alistair and Wynne and continue their investigation.
The rest of the group filed out of Cyrion's house to give the two elves some privacy while they changed. Naia grabbed the first of her old garments that she found—they were mismatched, but she didn't care—and then opened Cyrion's chest, running numb fingers over the familiar fabrics. Finally, she found a tunic and trousers that seemed suitable.
"Here," she said, trying not to cry as she handed the garments to Zev. "Don't worry about taking care of these. The pants are old and he almost never wears the tunic. I don't think he likes the embroidery."
Zevran accepted them, his face serious. Silently, the two of them began stripping down, taking off their conspicuous armor, keeping only the weapons they could conceal underneath their clothing. For once, Zevran had nothing suggestive to say as they shed their armor. Indeed, he was averting his eyes politely, as if he had not seen every inch of her many times before.
But as the Warden laced up her old tunic, she heard him clear his throat. "Naia."
She tilted her chin up uncertainly. Zevran's eyes met hers. "Naia," he repeated. "This is not your fault."
Naia closed her eyes and nodded. "I know. I think. But oh, Maker, it feels like it is. It feels … I can't even describe it. The shems think they can take us, do anything they want to us, and no one will stop them because no one important enough cares. And most of the time they're right." She clenched her fists. "If they've done anything to my father—"
Zevran stepped forward and caught her hands in his. "Then they will pay for it." His voice was dark and rough, and Naia knew he wasn't just saying that to make her feel better. "Whatever they have done, we will stop them, and we will make them bitterly regret the moment they set foot in your home."
That one small word— we —made Naia's racing heart slow a bit. I am not alone this time. She was not locked in an Arl's estate, weaponless and afraid, wondering if her family would even know she had died. She had blades of her own, skilled friends who would fight with her. She had Zevran, who always managed to show her a path through the darkness.
And then the oddest impulse seized her.
She wanted to step forward and hug Zevran. Not as a prelude to sex—just to hold him close, to take comfort in resting her head on his shoulder, to have him tighten his arms around her and hold her back, supporting her when she was afraid she couldn't stand. She wanted it so badly that it almost hurt, so badly that for a moment she thought she might cry from the wanting.
Only one coherent thought rose from the scatterstorm of emotions in her brain.
Shit. Wynne was right.
Suddenly, her chest felt hollow; she had to remind herself to breathe. No. No, I'm just upset, she told herself, trying to shake aside that strange, aching feeling. Focus on the task at hand. We have to find my father.
Zevran was still looking at her, his hands still wrapped around hers. Slowly, Naia nodded—and then felt a grim smile form on her lips.
"Good. Let's go make them pay."