Six: Pivoine
Kathil:
There were so many people here—almost as many as had attended Alistair's coronation, more than had attended his wedding, and far more than she'd ever been used to encountering in one place as a child of the Tower. And so many of them were looking at her.
Many likely knew who she was, but she was content to pretend that for this one night she was one of this brightly feathered flock. Not a mage, not a hero, just a woman in a rather scandalous frock and a mask. She saw Cullen and Zevran dancing together, then Cullen and Leliana, then Zevran and a woman who might have been Arlessa Isolde.
Then she lost track of all of them as she was swept into the crowd.
She was caught up by a man in a midnight-black costume, his mask a snarling wolf. In contrast with his mask, the man's voice was pleasant, an orator's voice smooth as silk. She kept on asking him questions as they executed the slow formal dance he'd claimed, just to hear him talk.
"It had been lovely, but you have many other admirers," the wolf-masked man said. "And I will not be so selfish as to keep you from them." He took her hand in his, his palm against hers. "Until we meet again."
His hand tightened on hers, and Kathil yelped as something—one of his rings, it felt like—bit into her skin. She jerked her hand back, seeing a ruby drop of blood forming near her middle finger. Putting her hand to her mouth, she tasted copper. The wolf-masked man was gone.
The scratch was minor and she would have forgotten all about it, except for the fact that scarce a quarter of an hour later, she began to feel unwell.
It started out as a feeling of heat and a little dizziness, her vision sparkling a little around the edges. Cold swept over her, prickling the back of her neck. She needed to sit down—but there were so many people in the hall, and for the moment she was on her own, unable to see Zevran or Cullen or Leliana or even Alistair, who might have done. She wished Lorn were here. The warhound had helped her to safety when she was hurt or ill more times than she could count.
But she was close to the side door of the hall, and she made her way out of it and into the far quieter hall beyond. There was a crowd close to the door, but as she retreated a bit farther towards the double doors that led into the courtyard, she found a padded bench without occupants.
She dropped down onto the bench, her legs giving out, and tipped herself over so she was lying down. The world was spinning just a little. Something was wrong.
The ring. Poisoned.
Her hand was throbbing, and she shivered. She would think of what to do in a moment.
In just a moment…
The next thing she knew, Cullen was there, propping her against him. She tried to tell him she was fine, she just needed to wait a little, but the words weren't coming out properly and she didn't understand what he was asking her. She held up her injured hand. "A wolf bit me," she said, but the words were distant and she wasn't sure if he could hear her. "A wolf."
*****
Alistair:
There were flashes and flutters of white out of the corner of his eye.
It seemed like everywhere he turned, whether it was to offer an arm to Rima or a smile to a masked noble, there was Kathil just at the corner of his vision. It was starting to drive him just a little mad, especially the way she kept on fading away when he turned towards her. You'd think someone dressed like she is wouldn't be so difficult to pick out in a crowd, he grumbled silently.
Then she was in front of him, beckoning. The noise in the hall was unrelenting, between everyone talking and the music playing, and she must be wanting a quiet word with him. There was something strange about the way she was moving--was she limping? Alistair followed her through the crowd as people stepped aside to let them pass.
She was heading towards a corner of the hall, still in full view. He met her there, and she turned around and held out her hands, obviously wanting him to take them. Puzzled, but willing to bet there was something going on here that he didn't yet understand, he put his gloved hands in her bare ones.
Her bare hands.
Her unscarred, bare hands.
Alistair yanked his own hands back, realizing that this woman, though costumed exactly as Kathil had been and nearly the same height and weight, was not the Grey Warden he had known for five years. But she had a grip on him that refused easy loosening, and she was folding something into his palm and closing his fingers around it. He felt a small crunch as he crushed whatever it was in his glove—
And the woman was releasing him—
And Rima was there, and there were shouts rising, and there was a golden blur as Zevran dove between Alistair and his wife and tackled the woman in white.
*****
Zevran:
Leliana brushed by him.
As she did, he felt something press into his hand. He glanced down, curious, and saw that he held in his hand a coin. It was not money, however.
He had only seen a few of these in his time. It was a thin coin with a coppery sheen to it and the prickly feel of lyrium, and stamped into both sides was a design that looked like an elaborately carved flower surrounded by deeply toothed leaves. A peony, he knew.
It was a token of a group that most believed was more legend than reality. He knew better, and had encountered them personally once or twice. The sundowners were a loose confederacy of those who specialized in confidence games; more than mere thieves, they were artists of the darkest part of mortal hearts.
That Leliana had one of these…
But was it hers, or had she taken it off of someone else?
He was altogether too willing to believe that Leliana was up to some game, but what she wanted him to do about it was a mystery. She'd vanished again, and for that matter he could not see Cullen or Kathil.
Ah, there. He spotted a flutter of shining white and turned to see his Grey Warden, Alistair on her heels, heading towards a back corner of the hall. He was an expert at reading crowds, and he could see the disturbance the mage and the King made as well as another, smaller one--Rima heading towards them, a woman with a checkered mask and a dress that seemed to be made of parti-colored spiderwebs beside her.
Zevran blinked. Looked again.
That was not his Grey Warden in that costume.
He was willing to stake his life on it. And, more importantly, willing to stake Kathil's. That costume had been made for her, and that someone owned a replica could only mean mischief. He was in motion now, saw the woman in white fold Alistair's hand around something, saw Rima nearly running towards them, her beautiful face twisted in anger. The woman in white backed away, intending to slip off into the crowd while Rima confronted what she undoubtedly had been told was a wayward husband—
Zevran slid through the crowd (like an eel, he heard Luisa's voice in his memory, you must slip through the smallest of gaps), dodging and twisting out of the way of costumed dancers who were only now beginning to realize something was wrong.
He had a brace of small, wicked knives strapped beneath his shirt. Short blades were just as deadly as long ones. One simply had to place them with more care. Those little knives under his shirt were single-edged, meant to be used with a thumb along the blunt side for greater leverage to make up for a lack of handle and heft, and meant to slash flesh rather than stab.
One of those blades was in his hand and he was closing, flying between Rima and Alistair and stretching his body into a tackle.
And for that moment, an eternity suspended, he entertained a doubt.
If I am wrong...
Doubt was poison, in the moment of death.
But the moment he touched her, he knew he was not wrong. This woman was no mage, and no warrior, and as they went flying into the crowd he brought one hand up and sank the short blade into her neck, slicing open the great vein and artery on the left side. Blood flying, they hit the floor of the hall with a cracking thud, and he did not think it mattered that the woman was bleeding out. That crack had heralded her skull breaking, and when he let go of her the woman's body curled up in a posture he had seen a number of times before. It spoke of swiftly approaching death.
Whether it was the bleeding or the cracked skull or both, he would never know, but a moment after he shoved himself up and away from the woman, her blood staining his face and shirt, she made a rattling noise and stopped breathing.
"What have you done?"
Zevran turned towards the voice.
Rima stood aghast, one of her hands groping towards Alistair, staring at the dead woman. Zevran frowned. She had folded something into Alistair's glove, Zevran could see where the glove was wet, and Rima's hands were bare. He was moving again, this time grabbing Alistair's arm and wrenching it away from Rima. Alistair snarled a protest, but before he could do more than that Zevran had stripped the glove from his hand and dropped it on the floor, then released Alistair's arm and stepped away. "I have saved your life, Princess Consort. You are welcome."
He did not feel like following that last with a charming smile just now.
"But—Kathil—"
"Not her," Zevran said. "Burn that glove away from where anyone will breathe the smoke. It is poisoned." He stooped and gently loosened the mask from the would-be assassin's face and pulled it away. The white scarves were drinking in her spilled blood, taking on the color of death.
The dead woman was not his Grey Warden. It was, however, a woman who looked enough like her to be her sister. This one was younger than the mage by a few years, and life had not used her nearly as hard. He dropped the mask on her chest and stood. "And if you will excuse me, I have a Grey Warden to locate."
And a bard.
Alistair stepped forward, shaking his head. "Zevran—"
"I will explain later, Alistair." He glanced at Rima, and was unsurprised to see that the woman in the checkered mask who had accompanied her was gone. Likely halfway to the docks by now. "It is not a subject fit for discussion in public, yes? And Kathil may be in trouble." He turned on his heel and walked away.
It was only then that he heard the rising panic of the crowd, the little screams of women as the news spread, and all at once the hall erupted into pandemonium. Alistair could not have followed him even if he'd tried; Zevran was very good at negotiating even panic-stricken crowds.
Now to find his Grey Warden, and with luck prove the rest of his fears false.
*****
Cullen:
Kathil was muttering about wolves. Still.
Cullen had come into the hallway and emerged from the crowd to see Kathil crumpled on a bench, her scarves wilting around her. He'd caught the arm of a servant and sent him running to the chapel, to see if the Sister on duty had any knowledge of the healing arts. When he pulled off Kathil's mask, he saw that her skin was far paler than normal. Her pulse was strong but slightly irregular, her breathing rapid, and every time he tried to sit her up she nearly fainted.
He had no idea what was wrong with her.
Something had happened in the great hall. He could hear a rising babble, and the crowd around the door abruptly doubled and then tripled in size as people exited the hall, those at the edge of the crowd nearly running.
Cullen did not have much experience with out of control crowds, but he did have battle experience, and the crowd now pouring down the hallway had the potential to be very dangerous despite itself. There was limited space in here, and his instincts were screaming at him that he had best get while the getting was still good.
"Sorry about this," he said as he scooped Kathil up and started running.
She was heavier than he'd expected. At least she wasn't struggling, instead fisting one hand in his shirt and holding on for dear life. He was out into the courtyard ahead of the crowd, taking the stairs down two at a time, and when he reached the bottom he paused and looked around.
A familiar figure waved to him from a doorway across the courtyard, torchlight reflecting on the scandalous amount of skin that her dress showed. Leliana. Thank the Maker. He hurried towards her, and she led him through an arched doorway into what he recognized as a guard barracks. Bunks lined the walls, stretching away into the dim. "Lay her down here," the bard said, indicating one of the bunks. She had a bag with her that she'd picked up somewhere, and was rummaging through it.
He laid the mage down on the bed, and her head lolled to the side as she went briefly limp. Cullen moved aside as Leliana took his place, dropping to one knee next to the bunk. "You would be sensitive to it, dearest," she muttered as she laid a hand on Kathil's neck. "Cullen. Prop her head up." There was a flask in her hand. "I need to get a bit of this into her."
Cullen came around the bunk, sliding his hands under Kathil's hair. The metal ornaments braided into it dug into his hands. "What's wrong with her?"
"Poisoned. Concentrated foxglove, to be exact. Swallow a little, dearest. That's it, yes? A little more. Good. You can put her head back down, Cullen." The bard had her hand at the mage's neck again. After a moment, she nodded. "The salts in the tonic will strengthen her heartbeat until the foxglove wears off. In another hour, she will be right as rain."
A terrible suspicion was crossing Cullen's mind. "How did you know? Poison, maybe, but how did you know it was foxglove?"
"Because, unless I am terribly mistaken, our Chantry mouse picked out the poison and told her accomplice what dose to give her." Zevran was leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed. There was venom in his voice. "Enough to make her ill enough to leave the hall but not enough to kill her."
Leliana stood. Her lush lips pressed together hard, and she had a wary look in her blue eyes. "She lives. And so do both Alistair and Rima, yes?"
"They do." The elf's gaze was still flat, and Cullen found himself wishing he had a blade to hand, though right now he didn't know exactly who he wanted to defend.
"Then all went as I planned," the bard said. She tilted her head. "May I have my token back, Zevran?"
"Perhaps in a bit, my dove." There was still that bladed tone in Zevran's voice. "I believe you have some explaining to do."
Leliana quirked one corner of her mouth. "Come in and close the door, then." After a moment, the elf did so. Cullen heard Kathil move, and turned to her as she sat up, a confused look on her face. He went to sit down next to her, putting an arm around her and feeling her lean into him.
Leliana sat down on the bunk across from them, took a breath, and began to speak.
"I am a sundowner…"
*****
Leliana:
The story was remarkably easy to tell. Strange, after all this time of keeping it to myself. Meeting Marjolaine, realizing that the other woman was not only an accomplished bard but one of the fabled soleils vers le bas, the bards who worked almost exclusively in confidence games. Learning the art of using humanity's most base emotions and desires against them.
Chasing down Marjolaine after the Blight was broken, killing her, and taking her name from her. "Pivoine," she said. "She was Pivoine, and now I am. The sundowners have some local people, and I am known to one or two. I was contacted a number of weeks ago about a jeu de blaireau."
"A what?" Kathil asked. The color was beginning to return to the mage's face. She turned on the bunk so her back was against Cullen, one leg dangling off the bed and the other tucked beneath her.
Leliana spread her hands. At this moment, Kathil was in no shape to fight and Cullen was unarmed, but she still worried about Zevran, who was taking this evening's game much more badly than she'd expected. Perhaps I have misjudged him. "A badger game," she translated. "Usually, one manipulates a man into a compromising position with a woman. They are interrupted by a man pretending to be her angry husband, yes? The husband threatens to expose the mark to his family and his peers. And then the mark pays for reparations and for silence. Only in this case—"
"The jealous wife was quite real," Zevran broke in.
"Indeed she is. It was a jeu commissioned with Alistair as the mark and Rima as the payment, so to speak." Leliana took a breath, and stood straighter. "Kathil is removed from the hall. A woman similar in looks to her and costumed identically goes in and beckons Alistair to follow her. A play on trust and desire. Then someone whispers into Rima's ear—see the King with the Grey Warden? Whatever could they be talking about?"
"And Rima reacts predictably," Zevran said softly. "Then there was a second act of the jeu."
"Simple enough." Leliana smiled a bit at the elf, who scowled. It did not look very good on him. "The accomplice with Alistair has a very fragile glass vial filled with a contact poison—much deadlier than the one given to Kathil. She breaks it in Alistair's glove. And when the King goes to comfort the Princess Consort, to tell her it was all innocent, he lays his glove on her skin without thinking. The oil goes onto her skin, the glass shards scratch her and let her absorb the poison much more quickly. And the Princess Consort dies, and Alistair blames himself. The nobles, who do not know Kathil well, blame our Grey Warden for starting it. Only it did not quite work out that way, did it?"
There was a long moment of silence, heartbeats stretching out, and then Zevran shook his head. "I killed the false Grey Warden."
"As I knew you would, Zevran." She smiled at him again. "If there is nothing else we can rely upon you for, it is that you always know exactly who needs to die to resolve a situation. I could not stop the jeu, it was already in motion by the time I joined. But I could make sure that it did not end as commissioned. It only ever takes one uncontrolled factor to spoil a game, and you were that factor today. None of the players will suspect that I was the one to alert you."
He looked not in the least impressed.
Kathil spoke, breaking the silence. "So let me get this straight, Lei. You had the seamstress make a copy of my costume and mask. You told someone exactly how to poison me, and with what. You likely gave someone all sorts of information about me, about Alistair—"
"It had to be convincing, dearest," Leliana said gently. "I had to be convincing. Because what I have not told you yet is who commissioned the jeu."
"Who?"
"The mist, it is said." She dug into her bag and brought out a pair of coins. Handing them both to Kathil, she said, "The Grey Wardens. Only that is not quite the truth, yes? This did come through one of the Grey Wardens—the one called Anthoine. He was merely playing messenger boy for an old friend. Anthoine was not born in Orlais. He was born in Tevinter, and it is there he received his education."
And that had been information hard-won. As had the name of the true originator of the jeu. "Those coins are Orelesian," she continued. "But if you look carefully, the edges are clipped. Worthless, in Orlais."
Zevran was looking thoughtful. "Everything that goes into Tevinter comes out less than it was," he said. "People, caravans, coins. So. Do you have a name for us?"
"I have a name," she said. "But it is not for you. There are those who have an interest in disrupting the Fereldan government, yes? Rima dies, Kathil is disgraced in the eyes of the banns and the arls. Alistair is left to deal with worsening internal conflict, conflict that Rima has been working so hard to repair. And too many people still suspect that the Grey Wardens are up to no good." She shook her head. "All think the Tevinters are too busy fighting the qunari to bother with anything else, but the truth is that their gaze has been turning south. Ferelden was a conquered nation for a very long time, yes? Now it begins to become more of a power."
Kathil was rubbing her temples. "It appears as though I am playing in politics despite myself."
"Play the game, or be used as a pawn, Kathil." She gave her friend a small smile. "It is always that way. But, no. No name. It does not matter, anyway. By the time word reaches Tevinter that the jeu has failed, we will be gone from Denerim. They will not try this gambit again."
Zevran shifted, then looked at Cullen. "Look after Kathil," he said, and then turned and walked away. He was gone before any of them could make a move to protest.
Leliana looked at Kathil, confused. The mage had her eyes closed, a look of pain crossing her face. "I did not expect him to react in this way," Leliana said. "He does understand these games."
"Did he ever tell you of his last contract before he came to Denerim the first time, Lei?" Kathil asked. Leliana shook her head mutely. "It's not my tale to tell, then. I should go after him." In the dim of the barracks, her eyes were depthless black.
She went to the bunk where the mage was sitting, and knelt next to her on the blanket. Behind Kathil, Cullen looked worried. "I am sorry, dearest," Leliana said. "I would never put you in danger if it was not necessary, and warning you would have vastly increased the peril to both of us." She reached out to tuck an escaped lock of pale hair behind Kathil's ear. "You know what I am. You have known for a long time."
Kathil closed her eyes again, tilting her head into Leliana's hand. "I have. It does not make it easier to know that we are all so easily manipulated, though."
"It is the way of the human heart, I fear." She slipped her hand down to Kathil's jaw, laying her palm along the mage's cheek. "Even the best among us has shadows, and every shadow has a use. But I think this will be a useful lesson for Alistair and Rima, and I do not think the harm will last. Forgive me, dearest?" She leaned forward to kiss the mage's forehead.
"If you have broken Zevran, I am going to be very angry with you," Kathil murmured. "Maybe, Lei. You play wicked games, but your heart is good. I should have known you were up to something, but I've been distracted."
"Such a handsome distraction, too." She took Kathil's face in both hands, and kissed the pointed tip of her nose. The scar on Kathil's face deepened as the mage smiled. "If you are feeling well enough to walk, go after your assassin. I will go see if there is some damage control to be done. Do not go far, Cullen, I may need a Grey Warden."
"What about the rest?" Cullen blurted, frowning. "Your—accomplices?"
Leliana released Kathil and shrugged. "It is such a pity that the docks are so dangerous. There are a few women down there who have been paid in clipped Orelesian coins to make sure that none of the crew of the jeu ever reach their boats." She rose from the bunk and smiled at the two Grey Wardens. "And from that barking, I think there is someone looking for you, Kathil."
"Oh, Maker, Lorn." The door of the barracks burst open, revealing the Mabari on the other side of it. Lorn barreled in, nails scrabbling for purchase on the stone floor, and leaped onto the bunk with Kathil and Cullen.
The warhound was licking Kathil's face, declaring that there had been trouble and he had not been able to find her and he had been worried and where had she been? The Mabari was clearly most wroth with his human, and Leliana took advantage of Kathil's attention turning away from her to slip out of the barracks.
She would find her way back into the palace proper, and from there—well, perhaps Alistair did need to hear a tale of tonight's jeu. A heavily edited one. Kathil would be able to find and settle Zevran. She did not know exactly what his problem was, but she thought she might be able to guess at the outline of it.
She wished her friend luck with him.
There werestill knots and crowds of frightened nobles in the courtyard, and Leliana slipped between them and into the shadow-hung palace.
*****
Kathil:
She didn't remember there being quite this many stairs up to the wall walk. Lorn was at her side, and he paused as she stopped to rest, looking at her quizzically. See? This was what happened when he allowed her out of his sight. She got slow.
"I'm fine, Lorn," she said. She straightened and continued climbing, keeping one hand on the wall next to the stairs.
Lorn looked doubtful. She didn't smell fine. She smelled like she needed to be lying down in a pile of pillows with her elf and her dust-knight fussing over her, not climbing up to the walls of the palace.
"And who made you my nursemaid, hound?" Lorn nudged her hip, and she chuckled. "I just have to talk to Zevran, if he's up here. Then we'll be off to bed. I promise."
She had better, said a single tail-wag.
When they reached the top of the wall, she paced off the length of the narrow walk. At one end, near the guard tower, a figure sat on the wall with its legs dangling over the edge. In the wavering light of the lanterns hung at intervals on the walls, she could see that the figure had a very familiar outline indeed.
She went to lean on the wall next to him, looking out over Denerim. She could see pools of light in the darkness—lanterns, torches, an illuminated window. "She does mean well," Kathil said softly. Behind her, she heard Lorn lie down, and knew that he would warn them if anyone approached. "You've never told her about Rinna."
"I did not believe I had to." Zevran did not look down at her, keeping his gaze focused out over Denerim. "I thought I had learned my lesson. Perhaps not."
"Which lesson?"
Now he did glance at her, though she could not read the expression on his face. "I am still capable of destroying what I…hold in great esteem. The imposter was very good. For a moment, I wondered if it was you after all, and still I killed her."
She shrugged. "It wasn't me."
"And if it had been?"
Kathil straightened, and took his wrist in her hand. He raised an eyebrow but did not pull away. "I could at this moment send a bolt of lightning through you and stop your heart. Or I could freeze you in place and push you off the wall. It's a long way down. And I know you have at least a pair of knives under your shirt. Even without blades, you could probably kill me. Break my neck, strangle me, throw me off the wall. But we don't, you know. We have every chance to kill each other, every means, and we do not. Do you mind telling me what this is actually about? You're as bad as Cullen, sometimes."
The elf grimaced. "A fair comparison, if not flattering, my Grey Warden. One of my fellow Crows, a very wise woman named Ville, once told me that love only ever ended one way. With a dead body. It is something I forgot only once."
She turned her hand so that her palm was against his. "Rinna."
"Indeed." No lightning-quick smiles now, little humor in his voice. She ached for him; this man was not made for unhappiness. "I find myself wondering if history will repeat itself. And when."
She tightened her hand on his, and then let go. "Every breath is a choice. Sometimes, you have to choose to let the past be gone. Right now, I am choosing to go to bed. I've just gotten done being poisoned, having my best friend try to explain to me why it was her in charge of a confidence game that might have gotten Rima killed, and you're worrying about whether or not admitting that you're in love with me is going to doom you to killing me." She gave him a half-smile. "Come to bed when you're finished brooding, Zev."
"Ah, she is so very cruel to me," he said, and she could see the smile returning to his face. "When you put it that way, my Grey Warden, it does sound somewhat silly, no?" He swung his legs over the wall and stood, holding a hand out to her.
She took his hand, then pulled him close. "Only a bit. I am not Rinna, Zev. You tried to kill me once, and it didn't stick."
"True, that is." He put an arm around her. "I am well chastened, yes? Off to bed with us."
She didn't move. The lamplight was playing over his tanned features, handsome in that sharp way that elves often were, his hair falling forward to nearly hide his tattoos. They were alone on the wall except for Lorn, the city stretched sleeping below them, and the moment pressed on her.
"I love you," she said, keeping her voice soft. "Just in case you were wondering." And before he could reply, before he could say anything (because he was looking oddly surprised at her statement, and she wondered if he really had not known), she kissed him.
It took them a long time to part, and when they did it was in silence. Wordlessly, Kathil began to move towards the stairs, keeping her arm around Zevran. Lorn fell in behind them, and together they went down the stairs, towards their room.
Later, in the dark, Kathil was on the edge of sleep, with Zevran curled around her. "I, as well," he murmured into her ear, in a voice so low she almost could not hear him.
She slipped under the surface of sleep, and warmth followed her down.