Thanks for all the reviews and messages guys! Hugs. And my betas are epic. FYI, there are some mentions of violence in this chapter – just in case.

L Cailan

CHAPTER SIX

Consider what you think justice requires, and decide accordingly. But never give your reasons; for your judgment will probably be right, but your reasons will certainly be wrong. ~Lord Mansfield

Antiva City (a day before the final battle)

Renaldo Alfieri's dagger sailed across the courtyard, through the hot stale air. It made no other sounds but a clean whistle and a thwack as it hit its intended target with deadly precision. His smile was touched with satisfaction as he strode across the neatly manicured grasses that lined the training field of his estate to retrieve his weapon.

Beyond the intricate stone and iron gating around his property, Antiva City sparkled under the oppressive late afternoon sunshine. From the hilltop where the estate stood, Renaldo could only see hazy outlines of the sparkling stone and slate roofing of the city Chantry, and the intricate design of the palazzo steeple where Antiva's king resided. Beyond that he could just see the diamond glitter of the sea as it spread along the eternal horizon of azure skies and snow white clouds. Gulls were tiny black specs from Renaldo's vantage point, sailing lazily along the picture perfect sky.

He knew given the time of day that the roads leading down into the main city would be alive with carts and merchants as they made their way here and there, and the river that flowed through the grand, city center canal, would be crowded with boats, while the cobbled walks that housed many shops, buildings and stands would be teeming with people out and about during the late afternoon. He was much too far back on his estate property to properly see the paths towards the city, but he chose not to move.

Here on the hill it was peaceful – here he was away from the others – and he could enjoy the teeming life of the city while not compromising privacy that was a necessity. His job would not allow otherwise, for too many questions were asked, too many whispers over what he was doing and with whom. This way no one knew for sure what he was doing, and yet he could still benefit from the city of his birth.

For all the fame of being Antiva's most successful Crow Master, Renaldo did not travel frequently, and he did not desire to. He had been born in Antiva, had married a native, and would die here as well, buried right on his estate. And a man of power here, in this glorious city, got whatever he wanted.

He stepped around to the side of his property, and looked up at the massive trellises which were heavy with early summer passion fruit vines – a sight that he adored for its singular beauty.

As he stared, he found himself thinking of Rendon Howe and Ferelden. Much drabber was that country, full of mountains and hills, small villages spread far apart, and none of the beauty that he found within Antiva. There were no sapphire skies there, and no white, sparkling beaches. There were no brilliant emerald ferns, beautiful junipers or lovely passion fruit flowers. The air there was dank and redolent of garbage and wet dog.

How he hated Ferelden! How he hated the mere though of it, for never far from his mind was Bryce Cousland and what he had done with his wife. Not a day had gone by that Renaldo had not in some way dreamed of a bloody and satisfying revenge. His loathing for the result of the union between his now dead wife and that bastard Teyrn only grew – and he hated a woman he had never met, a woman who was innocent in all the dealings of her past and parentage, and yet he could not stop his hatred. How dare the Couslands disgrace him in the way they had and expect him to treat them with any kind of respect?

How dare Eleanor Cousland return here after I told her bastard husband that I would slit his throat if ever he or she stepped foot on Antivan soils once more?

And yet for whatever reason, the Teyrna had returned. Perhaps Bryce had not stressed enough the seriousness of Renaldo's threats. He still remembered how he had felt upon seeing her sitting in his visiting room that night.

The red hot rage inflamed his soul and made him tremble – even now – even years later. He turned from the splendid view of the city below him and took a shaking breath, his long fingers clenching around the dagger he was holding.

She had begged for forgiveness on the behalf of her adulterous husband. She had stated that all was forgiven and that Lucia – the name they had chosen for the red-haired babe – would be raised as if she were their very own and Renaldo would never have to worry.

As if I had cared what happened to that child!

She had asked him to be merciful for one day their daughter would want to know the truth and she should be given that right, because she was innocent, because she was a sweet and compassionate child, and she deserved their forgiveness and the whole truth.

Renaldo had spat in her face. He recalled nothing now except white hot outrage and the taste of blood in his mouth for he had bitten the edge of his tongue to keep calm. The rage that had flowed through him at first was a melee of heat and then a sudden freeze – as if his body had gone completely numb.

She had wanted mercy – and Renaldo had granted it. Instead of torturing with a knife, making her weep and beg for respite, he had used poison. Poison had sent her into an instant sleep and then death had come swiftly. And as Eleanor Cousland had lay dying, it was then that he had decided that his own wife would meet the same fate. It was in that moment that he had determined to rid himself of any and all memories and signs of what had happened between Bryce and Bettina.

Shuddering, the tall elven assassin turned once more, taking huge breaths to calm himself.

Damn Ferelden and all those bitter memories.

Let Howe have his country and his lands and his arlings. Let him have a nation full of men with no sense of decency and loyalty – men with a weak will and a roving eye willing to shame their wives just for a passing fancy in bed.

Now that he had taken care of Bryce Cousland more or less, there were only his wretched offspring to deal with. The happy go lucky Fergus who had married the unlucky Antivan woman. Whether Fergus lived or died, Renaldo did not care. He assumed sooner rather than later there would be a demand on his life for he was next in line for his father's post and Rendon Howe would not have that. The boy was as good as dead.

And of course, there was the bitch Lucia. He had received word the same morning he had visited Bryce that the Archdemon and the hordes would attack Denerim and that all available forces from all corners of Ferelden were coming together for what would be either a glorious victory or an upset of devastating proportions.

Renaldo turned towards the coming sunset as it greeted the earth with a kaleidoscope of colors. Here in Antiva, the Blight seemed only a passing threat. Life went on just as it had months before, and years before that – slowly and languidly as it always did. The Master wondered with a brief curiosity how many commoners in Antiva City even knew the seriousness of what was possible if the Archdemon was not slain in Ferelden – how it would affect the rest of the nations in Thedas.

The thought was a disconcerting one to Renaldo, but even that did not make him take back his words to Bryce earlier that week.

I do want Lucia Cousland to die trying to slay the demon. If both Wardens fail, then the Blight rages on, but Rendon Howe gets what he wants and I rid myself of the Cousland bitch.

He considered then the destruction of his most treasured Antiva.

Or perhaps Lucia falls on the battlefield and the demon is slain by the soon to be King Warden. Then Howe pays me coin to assassinate the King and we both get what we want.

The elven assassin studied his long fingers for a moment and he took comfort from that thought – it seemed to be the most comforting of all.

And if Lucia does not fail…

He smiled as he looked up towards his gorgeous estate – it was a smile of satisfaction.

Strange how life can be so serendipitous and that Rendon Howe would give me the perfect excuse to eliminate her.

He did not care much about the soon to be crowned king or Howe's land concerns and his power hungry desperation – all he cared about was that like himself, Howe wanted Lucia Cousland dead.

And we shall both have that. And I will be paid which just sweetens the deal.

Smiling to himself, Renaldo gazed towards the horizon of the setting sun and bright green juniper trees that lined the outskirts of his property – beyond those trees he could see the distant rocky cliffs that edged the other side of Antiva City. In spite of the breathtaking vista, his thoughts became troubled as he thought of his son – and the betrayal he felt.

Did he betray me? Or is that girl as difficult to assassinate as Howe has suggested?

Renaldo waited with baited breath. The feeling that his own son had betrayed him with his failing to assassinate the Cousland bitch had made him distrustful. What had happened during Zevran's time in Ferelden? What had made his son – a man who had no fear and felt no guilt – return to Antiva City alongside Taliesen without doing what he had been sent to do?

What am I missing?

Upon Zevran's return, Renaldo had locked him away as he did all those who failed at their missions though the others would have been met with a crueler fate than Zevran.

He is still my son, and how can I destroy what I created?

He had in the end been unable to slay Zevran. Renaldo hated it, but a strange sort of duty trapped him, a sense of family, as it were. Alfieri blood ran hot within Zevran's veins, even if his mother had been nothing but a common elven whore.

And she would not have allowed Zevran's death – at least not without a fight and Renaldo was not prepared to slay a woman who knew enough about his shady dealings that she could destroy him if it was her want.

He was not a man who easily shirked loyalties or turned a blind eye to threats.

After considering his options, the Master had decided that he would allow his son a second chance, and had sent him back out into the city that day to accompany the fledgling Felsi on his first lone mission. The assassination would prove once more that Zevran's duty was to Renaldo – and not to anyone else. Then he would deal with the repercussions of the Cousland failure and why it had happened.

But for now the elven Crow Master stood atop the hill, squinting in the hot sunlight. A man had been marked for death on this day – and he awaited news of the mission being completed.

Two cloaked Crows moved through the crowds along the Grand Canal slowly, their eyes wandering and their ears sharp. They knew who was marked – and they were on a hunt to kill. Behind them boats moved along the thoroughfare loaded down with goods, some textiles but mostly large sacks of sunny yellow saffron from the farmers in the hills, ripe red tomatoes and a manner of many different brightly colored fruits.

The sun was starting a slow descent in the sky making it difficult to see for it reflected off of the gleaming buildings on either side of the channel. Merchants yelled out their offers, peddling wares, and above their enticements the sizzle of the smithy could be heard along with the clanging of hammer against blade whilst forging was being done.

Zevran walked behind Antonio, for it was the newly initiated Crow's job – not his own.

Though his focus was on the task at hand – his mind continued to drift and he was puzzled as to why his father had not yet killed him. Thankfully, he was alive to kill another day, but something ate away at him – something which lay beyond the thankfulness and relief he felt. Renaldo was not a forgiving man – or was he?

He never acted as if he cared.

"Did he ever tell you, Antonio? About why I am still alive?"

The question was offered in a low voice so that no one overheard, but Zevran knew his comrade had heard for Antonio visibly stiffened with tension.

"No my friend, he did not."

The words seemed kind, but Zevran was not stupid enough to believe that Antonio held no grudge. There was too much bad blood between them, too much jealousy it seemed from the younger of the two. Antonio Felsi would have been more than happy to slice through Zevran without a thought – given the orders and the opportunity.

The blond Crow knew he had no true friends in Antiva besides Taliesen – even though he was quite in need of them.

Tragedy, thy name is Zevran.

Antonio stopped and turned. There was a sheen of sweat along his pudgy face and he brushed a black curl out of his eyes as he glared at Zevran.

"I wonder myself though. I suppose some of us get second chances, even when most get the blade, yes?"

Zevran frowned.

"You hold a grudge against me then, my friend? I cannot help the Master's decisions," he pointed out in a friendly manner which made Antonio's face twitch with distaste.

"Not everyone is right all the time, Zevran, not even our Master."

The words and their implication were not lost on Zevran. He motioned with his hand.

"Duly noted. Shall we then?" he said, allowing Antonio to fall back into his walk.

They moved along the canal, towards the ocean in the distance, sparkling like the rarest of gems. Here the air was not as hot, as it was laced with the salty wind. The air was redolent of fried meats and the faint smell of leather and gunpowder from several of the shops along the cobbled path. It was Zevran's favorite place along the busy main street for there was nothing like the scent of fresh Antivan leather.

One street from the sea, Antonio stopped.

"There," he said with a slight nod that only Zevran acknowledged.

The two stood on the dusty walkway looking towards a tall, heavily bearded man selling carpets from within a tented booth. "That is him."

Zevran smiled.

"It is your kill," he whispered moving quickly to the edge of the channel and with a charming smile he requested passage across the waterway offering two silvers.

The men were transported to the other side, and then Zevran looked to Antonio.

"I have a sudden need to browse these wares, my friend," he said with a nod. "I shall see you in a moment, yes?"

"Indeed," stated the dark haired young man and he slipped to the side, and out of eyeshot.

Zevran approached the mark, and greeted him with a smile. He was a young man, with startling blue eyes and an engaging personality. His voice was like silken caramel and his laugh was so enticing that Zevran thought it a shame that he could not bed him first and have him killed later.

The elven assassin wondered for a moment why some people were chosen to die early and why others lived long lives. He wondered many things – how did this man become so hated? Who was it that wanted him dead? Was it simply a business arrangement or was it something more?

But he was an assassin and his job was not to ask questions (or to even wonder) but to do his job and do it quickly and succinctly. He walked towards the back of the makeshift shop, knowing that Antonio lay in wait. There was something about the kill which heightened all the senses and slowed time. He could hear the sound of people walking behind him, and the laughter of women passing, children's high pitched voices, and the bellows of the men. All sound came together in one low hum as time seemed to stop.

He looked down at one of the carpets casually, running his fingers along the pattern just as he heard the scurrying sound of his comrade. It was over in a blink – Felsi's dagger never missed. The sound of blade ripping through flesh sounded soft, smooth. It was not a messy kill, but the two men worked hurriedly to wrap the cooling body in one of the carpets to avoid any sign of something amiss.

Behind the rows and rows of shops and stands the shadowed alleyway stood empty, and the two assassins dragged the body towards the terra cotta sewer pipe leading to the endless sea. The dead man's hand slipped from within the carpet and Zevran noted for the first time that he had been clothed in expensive blue and white and on one of his thin fingers sat a splendid silver and gold ring.

The blond assassin stooped, wiping sweat from his brow, and then relieved the dead man of this piece, holding it up to his companion.

"Here," he said to Antonio, who was breathing heavily from the exertion of moving the rather large man. "You should have it."

"What?" he asked his black eyes widening.

"You should have it," repeated Zevran. "You will want to remember what today felt like. This is…what we are, Antonio," he explained, swallowing.

There was no guilt and certainly very little remorse. How could there be? He was nothing if he was not a Crow – and of this fact he was not ashamed.

"As with everything, even taking a life will become ordinary to you one day, my friend. With this, you can remember today."

The two men stared at one another, the body between them and the water nearest the channel lapping at the stone walls that encased its power. There was nothing but the sweltering heat and the metallic scent of blood. The only sound was the water and the distant tumult of humanity within the city. Perhaps Antonio understood more than he seemed to let on, for he reluctantly took the expensive jewelry while staring at it with interest. Slowly he slipped it on his pinkie, the only finger that the ring would fit.

"We are Crows. Just as those others within the city are templar, or merchants, priests and the nobility. This is our station in life and we would be fools to believe that we could do better. We were nothing and now look at us! We take lives. We have power."

Either cloaked man could have said it – and in the end it did not matter who spoke, for it was the same for both.

Zevran knew that lowly elf from the whorehouses of Antiva could never have asked for a better life than one with the Crows. He understood that Antonio Felsi's life had not been much easier – he had never known who his parents were. Both had been slaves, searched out and bought for a high price by Renaldo Alfieri. To most of the other Crows, Renaldo was like a father.

And in Zevran – Renaldo's blood flowed.

Certainly, yes, the man was unfeeling and a slave driver, but that was just as well for he was no worse than many of the masters Zevran had served as a child.

Renaldo was a cruel bloodthirsty tyrant who was quick with his sword and even quicker with his tongue.

But in the end, my father still.

It may have been different for Antonio, but Zevran had learned everything he knew from Renaldo. From him he had learned stealth and quick thinking. It was with Renaldo's blade that he had taken his first victim. It was the Master that had helped him find his confidence, and with that, his purpose in life. He had been born to kill – and damned be all who looked down on him for it.

It was a lonely life, a life making choices others would find unforgivable and serving a master that was often at times unyielding and cruel. Zevran knew, however, that life was not always a choice – that you had to accept your lot. And in the end he owed Renaldo endless loyalty – and he would always be thankful to him for life.

Antonio gazed down at the body as it sank into the channel and would be swept away into the sea as if he had never existed. There were too many people in the city and too much tumult for the kill to go noticed – and even if down the line the body was discovered, the water would have destroyed any links between it and the Crows. Oh – the others would whisper and gossip that the young merchant had met with foul play, but even if they had the slightest evidence no city dweller would dare point a finger at the assassin's guild. After all, underneath Antiva City's glittering façade, death was as common as a whore.

They waited a few moments, and then Zevran put an arm on the younger man's shoulder. Perhaps an act of understanding and sympathy for he had already undergone what Antonio was going through now.

"Come my friend," he offered. "It is time for a meal, yes? Some Antivan ale is in order."

"Yes," agreed Antonio, and for that one brief moment, no enmity lay between them – for they were two men who had accepted the same hard fate.