As Shianni had predicted, the Tevinter "healers" shuttled Naia and Zevran into the quarantine with barely an inquiry about their supposed symptoms. Arnas glared daggers and made a bitter comment about waiting every day for a week for treatment. Naia simply dipped her head and hoped he would not recognize her and give the game away.
The soldier inside the makeshift clinic had a predatory gleam in his eyes as he took them in. But his face paled when he got a good look at Naia's face.
"Fasta vass, you idiots! Haven't you seen the posters? That's the Grey Ward-"
He did not finish his sentence before Zevran's blade found his throat.
When the guards were dispatched, Zev moved to unlock the alley door as Naia began searching the desk. She found stacks of ledgers filled with numbers and dates she could not make out in a hurry. Maybe if I bring this to Shianni—
But then her fingers found a loose page. A letter, dated only a few days ago.
Bring eight males and six females for the next shipment.
"Oh look, more people who wanted to kill us," Alistair said wryly as he stepped inside, glancing down at the slain soldiers. "Sorry I didn't get to meet them."
Naia normally would have laughed, but she could only muster a faint smile. Alistair's own good humor faded when he saw her face.
"What did you find?" Zevran asked, stepping to her side.
Naia swallowed hard as she passed him the letter. "They're slavers."
The slavers had left a trail of loss through the alienage. Apartments and homes were empty, their furniture upturned and broken. A terrified man in one of the tenements told them that the Tevinters brought through a parade of prisoners every few days, including children. He then refused to tell them more, fearing that he too would be taken.
"Coward," Zevran spat as they walked away from him.
Naia felt sorry for the man. But she didn't disagree with Zev.
In the short months since they had arrived in the alienage, the slavers had built a horrifyingly intricate shipping route that enabled them to take their prisoners out of Denerim unseen. But not even the Tevinters could equal the knowledge Naia had gained over a lifetime of exploring in the alienage, of mentally mapping every boltholes and alleys and place to hide that she could find. The group struck hard and fast, from places the slavers did not expect, breaking the operation apart piece by piece as the afternoon went on.
Every room cleared, every potential slave freed, made Naia a little more frightened.
Where is my father?
The winding path finally took them to a warehouse, one of the more valuable buildings in the alienage-it backed onto the Drakon river, and in good times was the source of shipping jobs for the elves. Naia's limbs felt cold and numb as she pushed open the building's door. If more were to be rescued, they would have to be in here.
This may be my last chance to find him.
Slowly, warily, she stepped onto a landing overlooking a wide, empty floor. A cluster of Tevinter soldiers and mages looked up at her, their eyes cold.
At the left and right sides of the room stood cages filled with elves.
Naia's chest grew heavy with panic as she looked through them, looking for the familiar grey hair, that funny old-fashioned braid behind the ear.
Then motion from the lefthand cage caught her eye.
Cyrion Tabris stepped to the bars of the cage, his face white as he stared up at her. He looked like a man who was seeing his fondest wish and his worst fear realized in the same moment.
Naia realized, suddenly, that one of the mages was speaking.
"Here is my offer," the man said, sounding for all the world as if he were haggling over pies in the Denerim market. "I have a letter with the seal of the Teyrn of Gwaren upon it, giving us permission to run our operation. For one hundred sovereigns, I will—"
"Shut up," Naia snapped.
The man seemed genuinely offended. "I had hoped we could be civilized about this, Grey Warden."
"You have my family and friends locked in cages," Naia spat. "Fuck your civilized. "
"I see," the mage sighed. "Loghain did mention something about your, ah, unfortunate background. But surely you must be a pragmatist, Grey Warden. The fate of all Thedas rests on your shoulders. Would you risk that over a handful of—"
"I have a counteroffer," Naia interrupted, as if he had not spoken. "Leave the documents, leave the elves, take your people, and get out. In return, I'll stop the Blight from reaching your shores, and you get to leave Denerim with all of your limbs in their current places."
She stared hard at the mage, wondering if the sheer force of her hatred might burn him. "Believe me when I say that's the only offer you're going to get."
She could not conceal a pleased smile when the slaver reached for his staff.
Zevran had been impressed by the Warden's skill in battle before, but in this fight, she was one of Leliana's stories incarnate. Every swing of her enemies' swords missed; every blow she struck hit true. She flowed like water through the fight, beautiful and invincible and utterly without mercy. Soon, the enemy's forces were decimated to just Caladrius. The slaver was gasping for breath and saying something about surrender. Zevran strongly suspected the Warden would not be interested.
As Naia put an end to Caladrius, Zevran pulled his lockpicks out of his belt and set to work on the cages. The dazed-looking elves spilled out, barely glancing at the carnage around them before running for the door. Zevran wondered if they even realized who had saved them.
At least one man did.
An elf in his mid-fifties, iron-haired and tanned, was taking tentative steps towards the Warden. He reached out a hand but then paused. He looked as if he was afraid to touch her, as if he feared she might vanish if he did.
"Naia?" he asked softly. "Naia, can it really be …?"
Naia turned away from Caladrius's body. Her daggers dropped from her hands as tears filled her eyes. Without another word, she flung herself forward, seizing her father in a bone-crushing hug. Blood from her armor smeared his tunic as she buried her face in his shoulder.
Cyrion didn't seem to mind. Tears ran freely down his face as he rested his head against hers. "My little girl. My warrior. You came home."
Even with the devastation in the alienage, Cyrion Tabris was a remarkably good host. He pulled his curtains to hide the broken windows and the sad view of the dusty streets; when he lit his candles and a fire in the hearth, suddenly his home felt cozy and almost cabin-like. Bottles of wine appeared from underneath floorboards; a meal was scraped together from the stock in Alarith's store. Zevran realized, with some shock, that Cyrion was well-off by alienage standards.
"You really needn't cook for us!" Wynne protested gently when Soris and Shianni returned from Alarith's.
"It is the least, the very least, we could do." When Wynne opened her mouth, Cyrion held up a hand to forestall further protests. "I insist. I have been trapped in a cage for the better part of two days. All I want now is to share a good meal with the people who got me out of it."
Zevran winked at the mage. "My dear Wynne, we had best resign ourselves to a home-cooked meal," he murmured under his breath. "It is as I told you. One glimpse of your magical bosom, and men simply cannot stop themselves from offering you their hospitality."
Wynne made a disgusted noise and went to offer her help with the food.
While Soris and Wynne cooked and Shianni peppered Alistair with skeptical questions about the Landsmeet, Zevran watched from the corner as Cyrion tended to Naia. He was fretting quietly over a bruise on her brow, wiping the sweat and blood caked on her forehead to get a better look. Wynne could have healed the injury easily, of course, but that wasn't really the point. Cyrion was watching Naia with such wonder in his expression, and Naia was looking back with such relief and joy in hers, that Zevran almost had to look away.
He had never felt so different from the Warden, or so distant from her.
As the meal drew close to being ready, Shianni and Soris found a tablecloth and bowls and spoons. Naia, grinning, began to pull a cork out of a wine bottle. Cyrion sat back in the house's one armchair, clearly tired, but smiling contentedly at the scene.
Then a knock on the door startled all of them.
Cyrion moved instinctively to open it, but Naia caught his arm. "Ask who it is," she whispered, her form suddenly tense.
"Hello?" Cyrion called. "Who's there?"
"Just a visitor." The voice was muffled, but Zevran detected a Marcher accent-an oddly familiar one. "I wish to speak to the Grey Warden. I believe she might be able to help me."
The speaker's identity struck Zevran like a blow to the stomach.
"Braska, " he swore, standing. "Naia. You must take your family to safety. That is no visitor."
Wynne's mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. "And just how do you know this, Zevran?"
"I know because he was once my friend." Zevran swallowed. "His name is Taliesin, and I suspect he is here for me."
He looked around the small room, at Shianni and Soris setting the table, at Cyrion still weary and pale from his ordeal. He looked over at Naia, finally home, finally with her family.
I cannot let Taliesin threaten them.
Perhaps he will go if he gets what he wants.
Zevran began to move towards the door, but suddenly, Naia was standing in his way. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
"I am giving Taliesin what he came for," Zevran said simply. "I have always known I could not run from the Crows forever, my Warden. And Taliesin was a friend, once. Perhaps I can reason with him." That was a lie, of course. Taliesin was more dangerous, not less, because of their old bond. "Let me pass. It is best if I deal with him alone."
Naia shook her head. "No."
Zevran had expected that. But he did not expect the chorus of voices that rose alongside hers.
"No!" Soris gasped.
"Don't you bloody dare," Shianni said, crossing her arms.
"Certainly not." Cyrion stood beside his daughter. "I don't care how dangerous your old friend is. I just watched the four of you cut down a roomful of slavers. There must be another way."
Zevran opened his mouth to explain what he had to do—to convince the Tabris family that really, it was best if he dealt with Taliesin himself. But looking around the four stubborn faces, he found himself at a loss for words.
"There is another way," Naia said confidently. "Wynne, take my family out the back door to Alarith's. Alistair, you're with me. Zevran, you wait in here while I try something. I'm going to see if we can lie our way out of this."
"And if you cannot?" Zevran asked uncertainly.
"Then you join us outside and we get rid of them together." Naia smiled. "Like my father just said, we're very good at that."
As Wynne escorted the Tabris family out the back door, Zevran stayed in the shadows while Naia and Alistair stepped out the front. Once all of the doors were shut, he crossed the room as quietly as he could and settled in by Cyrion's one unbroken window, cautiously lifting a corner of the curtain.
For the first time in over a year, his eyes fell on Taliesin.
His fellow Crow stood on the broken path in front of Naia's home, flanked by a small handful of mercenaries—Zevran counted three that he could see, but suspected Taliesin would have archers hiding in the shadows. He thought he spotted a new tattoo behind Taliesin's left ear, but otherwise the other man was much the same as he'd been a year ago. That thought seemed almost unfathomable to Zevran. For him, that year had been a lifetime and more.
"I was beginning to think you were planning to ignore me, Grey Warden." The Crow's voice was cheerful, almost friendly. "I hope I did not come at a bad time?"
Naia crossed her arms. "Well, I'm about to have dinner with my family for the first time in a year, and I'm hungry. So yes, bad timing. What do you want?"
"Straight to the point. I think I like you, Grey Warden." Taliesin grinned. "I'll get to the point too. I want Zevran."
Naia straightened, as if surprised by this request. Then, to Zevran's surprise, she snorted with laughter. "Zevran?" she said boldly. "Zevran's dead."
Zevran could tell that this was not the response Taliesin had expected. "Indeed? And how did my friend come to meet such an end? I'd heard he was traveling with you."
Naia arched an eyebrow and looked out at Taliesin with apparent amusement. "Oh, he was all flattery and charm at first. But the moment he had me naked, he tried to put a blade to my throat. It landed in his instead. I'm sorry about your friend, but surely you understand that I couldn't let that sort of thing go unpunished."
It was a brilliant story. Zevran almost believed it himself, and for a moment, he hoped Taliesin would too.
"Ah, that does sound like Zevran," Taliesin said, shaking his head in mock regret. "I don't suppose I might see his body, to verify your story?"
Naia shrugged. "We left it somewhere in the Brecelian Forest."
"It was probably torn apart by werewolves," Alistair added helpfully. "So, you know. Good luck looking and all that."
"The Brecelian Forest, eh? But what about those who told me that they saw him in your company yesterday, in the Pearl and in the alienage?"
Naia didn't miss a beat. "Paid informants saw him, you mean?" Taliesin gave a slight nod. "They lied to get your coin. Which you really should have known. Are you that desperate to believe he's alive?"
Taliesin shrugged. "It does seem rather unbelievable. The idea of Zevran dead, I mean."
Naia's eyes narrowed cruelly. "Oh, dear. Are you one of the lovers he bragged about? I'm sorry. Would it help if I told you he whispered your name as he died?"
Her smile was perfectly vicious. Zevran shook his head in wonder. To think he'd ever thought her guileless or naïve. She was a better liar than he.
Taliesin studied Naia's face for a long moment. Then a smile spread over his features. He began laughing, his head thrown back in genuine merriment. "By the Maker, you are clever, Grey Warden. I thought your reputation must be exaggerated and here I find that you exceed it. But let us stop this dance. I know that he lives, and I know that he travels with you. Where is Zevran?"
Zevran watched Taliesin's men reach for their blades, and saw Taliesin's own shoulders tense, preparing for battle. With a mixed sense of disappointment and relief, he opened the door.
"I am here, Taliesin." He turned his head casually towards Naia as he stepped out into the dirt. "It was a valiant attempt, Warden, but he was lying about the informants. Taliesin stalks his targets personally. Isn't that so, my friend?"
As quickly as he could, he shifted his gaze from Naia to Taliesin. I cannot let him know about her.
… know what?
Zevran shook aside that unwelcome thought. "So. Were you sent? Or did you volunteer?"
"I volunteered, of course!" Taliesin declared merrily. "I had to see this for myself. It's worse than I imagined. The great Zevran, playing the faithful follower?" He tsk 'd his tongue. "I only wish I could have come sooner. You need to get back to Antiva, my friend. Let's kill the Wardens and get on the next boat. We'll think of a good story on the way home to explain your temporary lapse in judgment."
"Ah." Zevran sighed with mock regret. "I fear I must decline. You have not seen the Warden in battle, Taliesin. I can assure you that you are proposing suicide."
Taliesin raised his eyebrows. "Zevran. Would you really abandon the Crows? I remember when you would spit on the corpses of those who betrayed us." His upper lip curled in a cruel half-smile.
The memory of Rinna's death flared in Zevran's mind. Guilt and rage and despair boiled to the surface. He fought them back.
"I abandoned the Crows months ago, Taliesin," he said quietly, all pretense of friendliness gone. "I will only tell you this once more. Walk away from this place. This is not a fight you can win."
Zevran was disappointed, but not surprised, when Taliesin drew his knives.
The men who joined Taliesin's attack were mere mercenaries, not Crows, and Zevran knew that his companions could dispatch them with ease. His concern was keeping Taliesin away from Naia. Fortunately, the Crow was far more interested in crossing blades with his former comrade. "The girl seems to know you well, Zevran," he remarked, parrying Zevran's initial strike.
"What can I say, she is most observant," Zevran returned, slashing at Taliesin's face with his left-hand dagger.
Taliesin dodged the blow and aimed for Zevran's heart; the elf twisted away from the blade easily. For a while, all talk ceased as the two assassins fought. Taliesin had always been better at hand-to-hand combat, but Zevran's months of battling the Darkspawn had improved his skills. He could tell Taliesin was surprised that the fight had not yet turned in his favor.
"You've gotten better, Zevran. It must be the company you keep. Do you know, that Warden reminds me a bit of Rinna. I wonder if she'll beg for her life as well, when I kill her?"
Every fiber of Zevran's being went cold.
"You will not get that chance."
Zevran was not quite sure how, but somehow, his next strike stabbed Taliesin full in the chest.
Taliesin dropped to his knees, choking, blood bubbling up over his lips. The blow was fatal, but Zevran knew it would take some time for the assassin to die. Almost gently, he swept his dagger across Taliesin's throat. His former friend collapsed on the dusty street.
Zevran knelt beside Taliesin's body, torn between relief and sorrow. He looked into the wide, staring eyes, remembering when he had smiled to see Taliesin's face. They both had once been such proud Crows, so certain of their skills, so pleased with their work for the Guild.
But Taliesin had not loved Rinna.
Was that, in the end, the difference between us?
He wondered if his old friend had ever regretted for a moment what they had done to Rinna. Then he wondered if he could have talked Taliesin into letting him go—into backing down from this fight so that Zevran could spare his old friend's life. He knew, with a sad certainty, that the answer to both questions was no.
Gently, Zevran reached out his hand to close Taliesin's eyes.
"I'm sorry, Zev."
With a slight start, Zevran realized that the Warden had been watching him-from a respectful distance, but closely enough to see his reaction.
He stood, prepared to make a quip, to dismiss what had just happened. But the words caught in his throat. Finally, he managed, "I—I should return to the Arl's estate, my Warden. I will ask Sergeant Kylon to deal with this unpleasantness."
"Zev?" Naia asked softly, her eyebrows knotting together.
"Please offer my apologies to your family, and my thanks for their hospitality. But I should not be here."
With those words hanging in the air, Zevran walked out of the alienage.