In the soft light of early morning, the grounds of the keep seemed to shimmer, as the sun reflected off the drops of moisture still clinging to the grass. The day was hazy and not yet warm, and the air smelled of wet soil and something faintly metallic after the night's rain. Solona enjoyed this time of day, when the world was still and quiet, and she often woke early to savor the moments of solitude. Soon, the peace would be shattered by the clashing of swords as the soldiers trained, the barking of the few mabari they had managed to acquire, the shouts and laughter of men going about their lives.
"There you are!"
Solona looked up to see Anders jogging toward her, looking surprisingly cheerful. They had talked long into the night, Solona having eventually cracked under his repeated questions and explained about Zevran. He'd fallen asleep on her bed, and when she'd woken to find him there, snoring softly, with the pale morning sun turning his hair a lustrous gold, she'd all but bolted from the room.
He stopped in front of her, and Solona saw him grin as he noticed the leather armor she was wearing. He made a show of slowly raking his gaze up her bare legs, but when she glared at him, he merely smiled and asked, "What are you doing out here so early?"
"I need to go into Amaranthine," she said. "I had a message from Constable Aidan yesterday, saying he needed to speak with me about something important."
"Great, I'm coming, too!" Anders announced. "You owe me a present for leaving me all alone in bed this morning."
"Aw, don't tell me you finally decided to have a tussle with that manskirt-wearing freak, Commander." There was a great clatter, and they turned to see Oghren stagger from behind one of the merchant stalls, his eyes bloodshot and his beard caked with mud.
Solona sighed. So much for peace and quiet. "Oghren? Were you out here all night?"
Oghren hiccupped. "I came lookin' for that duster Voldrik. He bet me that I'd pass out before he did, and…eh…that's the last thing I remember." He looked around suspiciously, as though expecting the other dwarf to suddenly appear and claim victory, and then tripped over a displaced longsword.
Solona shook her head, moving to pick up the weapons Oghren had knocked over. "Go get yourself cleaned up, and you can come to Amaranthine with us. Maybe the walk will sober you up."
The sun had climbed high into the cloudless sky, and Oghren was just beginning to complain about needing another drink, when Solona noticed a disturbance on the road ahead. A tree appeared to have fallen across the path, and a wagon sat empty as several men attempted to clear the obstruction. One of them, larger than the rest, with dark skin and closely-cropped hair, saw them approaching and began to wave for help. "Wait," she whispered. Something about the scene in front of her seemed off, a wrongness that she was unable to name but nonetheless had her reaching for the staff secured on her back. The wagon was empty, which in itself was not suspicious – the men could have already offloaded their goods. Still, something was prickling at her memory, and when she caught the glint of steel on the tall man's back, she knew.
When the other assassins drew their weapons, Solona was prepared, stunning them with a hastily released spell before they could begin to close the distance. Anders and Oghren, though caught by surprise, followed her lead instinctively, and Solona found herself reveling in the fight after so much inaction. The dark-skinned man seemed to have marked her as the leader, and ignored the others to charge at her, sword held in a two-handed grip in front of him as he ran. She waited until he was nearly within reach to freeze him in place, and Oghren appeared at her side, his axe already swinging upward to deliver the next blow.
The assassin collapsed, and Solona crouched beside him, determined to get information before he died. She grabbed the front of his shirt, attempting to pull him into a sitting position. "Why did you attack us?"
The man coughed weakly, and drew a shallow, ragged breath before speaking. "Should have known better than…Grey…Warden."
His accent was achingly familiar, and Solona felt her pulse quicken as a terrible suspicion began to grow. "What?" she asked. "Who are you?" She shook him in frustration, but he had gone slack, and she lowered him to the ground with a curse.
"Grey Warden?" Anders repeated. "So they knew who we were. But why would anyone want to attack Grey Wardens?"
"Eh, sodding fools must've had a death wish," Oghren said. "Weren't even wearing armor."
Solona was on her knees, searching the man's body for some clue to his identity, only partially listening to the exchange. He was carrying a small pouch full of gold, but otherwise seemed unremarkable. She moved to another fallen assassin, this one an elf, his hand still loosely clutching a dagger. Solona slid the weapon from his grasp and examined it closely, wondering if it was of any value - a habit born of necessity during the Blight, when scavenging was often a means of survival. Even to her inexpert eye, it was clear that the blade was well-crafted, but there was something familiar about it, as well. The feel of it in her hand, the shape of the pommel, the perfectly balanced weight….
They had been ambushed by a large group of bandits that day, just four of them on what should have been a simple errand. The sheer number of opponents threatened to overwhelm them, and her power had nearly been drained mere minutes into the fight. Alistair, who usually stayed close to protect her, had his hands full with their leader, and the remaining bandits focused their attacks on her, having marked her as an easy target. As a result, she never saw the rogue who melted out of the shadows behind her. Her first indication that she had been in danger came only when she turned to find her assailant collapsing to the ground, the sword he had been swinging at her exposed back sliding from his grip. Zevran stood over him, his own weapons dripping with blood and his face pale and angry. He had yelled at her, calling her foolish for leaving herself so vulnerable to melee attacks, and she had responded with her own shouts that if he was so damned worried, he should do something about it.
And so she found herself in camp later that night, with an unusually irritable Zevran attempting to teach her how to protect herself in close combat. She raised the dagger, feeling absurd as she tried to remember the moves he'd shown her. A step forward, a thrust of the blade –
Zevran huffed impatiently, moving to stand behind her. "Do not swing the blade above your head – you are giving your opponent time to see the attack coming." He stepped closer, his body pressing against her back as he took her wrist, angling the blade downward. He guided her hand through the motion, nudging her hip with his own to force her to shift her balance. Her heart began to race at the feel of his body against hers, warm and solid, and in her distraction she fumbled the weapon.
Zevran spun her around to face him. "No, no…if you wish me to teach you how to fight, you must pay attention!"
"I am paying attention," she snapped. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a mage. I've never done this before."
"It is all very well to say you have never done it before – I will be sure to tell that to the next assassin, just before he takes your head off!"
They were standing very close, shouting at one another, and his hair had begun to come loose, framing his flushed cheeks. Something in her body reacted to it, the sight of him slightly out of control, and she could see from the flash in his eyes that her reaction hadn't gone unnoticed. Her breath caught as he moved even closer, and she lifted a hand, suddenly needing to know how that pale hair would feel under her fingers. Then Alistair was there, demanding to know what was happening, and Zevran snatched his dagger from her hand and stalked away.
Solona looked up to find Anders and Oghren standing over her. The dwarf was busy counting the coin they'd taken from the assassin leader, but Anders was watching her closely, his eyes narrowed in concern, and she wondered what had shown on her face.
Solona climbed unsteadily to her feet, the blade laid flat across the palm of her hand as she extended it to show the others. Anders took the weapon and examined it, then shrugged, passing it to Oghren. The dwarf grunted. "Looks like something that girly elf used to carry."
Solona nodded, forcing herself to speak around the dread and anger constricting her throat. "It's a Crow dagger."
Zevran slipped out the door of his apartment, scanning the street for anything out of the ordinary. The sun had not yet burned off the fog rolling in from the bay, and to his suspicious eye, every shadow was a potential danger. When he was assured that no one lurked in the mist, he started down the street, the hood he wore both warding off the slight chill in the morning air and obscuring his face from any curious passersby.
He made his way through the narrow streets to the docks, following the smell of fish and salt that grew increasingly pungent as the water drew nearer. Though most of the city still slept, in this quarter the men rose early. Weary fishermen unloaded the night's catch, then returned to their ships for a brief rest before taking once more to the sea. Merchants had already begun to set up their stalls for a day that promised good business, now that the rain had passed.
Zevran sidestepped a small boy who darted past – most likely a pickpocket, he thought, fleeing the scene of the crime – and finally spotted his target. He watched from a distance as she exchanged a handful of coins and a quick word with a fisherman, who passed her a wrapped package. As the man tucked the gold into his pocket and turned away, she lifted her gaze to meet Zevran's, and gestured for him to approach.
"Something for my best customer this morning?" she asked, indicating the package with a sweep of her dark eyes. Her beauty was stunning – she might have been the sort of woman men fought wars over, or the muse of a master painter, rather than a fishwife. But then she turned her head, and her hair swung away, revealing the angry scar that marred her bronze cheek. "I would be willing to offer you a special price, courtesy of my friends on the docks."
Zevran raised an eyebrow. "And when does this offer expire, my dear?"
"Oh, by nightfall, certainly," the woman replied with a smile. "Any longer, and I'm afraid it would no longer be…fresh."
"And such a shame that would be," Zevran said, reaching for the package and dropping a few coins in its place. "I will be sure to let you know if it is as good as you promise."
Back in his room, Zevran cut the binding on the package and carefully removed its wrapping, extracting the note that had been hidden between the layers of old vellum. One word had been scrawled there, in such a cramped, untidy hand that it took him a moment to decipher it. He stared at the note until he was certain he would remember the name, then tossed it into the remnants of his fire. He took his time readying for the task ahead - polishing his blades, applying fresh poison, carefully tucking assorted vials and flasks into his clothing. When at last he was prepared, he stepped into the now-bustling street, all of his thoughts focused on a single word: Caterina.
A/N: Sorry Zev's bit is short, but he was just determined to be mysterious. :) And thanks to mille libri for letting me bounce ideas off her.
