Eight: Fires Without Permission


Cullen:

Cullen came to sit on the edge of the bed. "Ran into a messenger," he said, handing her the packet. "Letters from the Tower. For you."

Kathil looked down at the packet in her hand. The corner of her mouth twisted, and she started picking apart the knot that held the wrapping closed. "A reply from Irving, I think." She opened the cover and started riffling through the contents. "Circle seal, that's Irving being formal. And—hunh. One from Petra, one from Greagoir and what does he want, and—ah! Two for you, Cullen." She held out two folded pieces of paper to him.

He took them, frowning. "Who—oh, this one's from Guaire. And this one—"

His heart gave a rather uncomfortable thump.

Kathil leaned over, peering. "Ah. You have a Greagoir letter, too." She slid one finger under the seal of the thickest of her letters, the one from Irving, then rolled up so she was sitting with crossed legs. Then she bent her head and started to read.

Cullen looked at the letters in his hand. He set aside Greagoir's letter and opened Guaire's, starting with the easiest first. Guaire was a good friend, one of the Templars he missed, about Cullen's own age. He probably just wanted to catch Cullen up on the Tower gossip.

Only—

The contents were not at all what he'd expected.

Cullen,

I'm not sure how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. I've decided to leave the Templars and become a Grey Warden. There were a lot of things that led to this. I'll explain when I see you.

See you in Amaranthine.

Guaire

He stared at the letter, trying to figure out what could lead Guaire of all people to leave the Tower. Guaire enjoyed being a Templar. It was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do. Cullen had always taken heart in Guaire's unshakeable faith, and tried to emulate it.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a small, choked sound coming from Kathil. She was staring at the page she was reading, looking disturbed. If by disturbed he meant apparently expecting the paper to turn into a snake and bite her at any moment. "Bad news?" he asked.

"An answer." She closed her eyes and bowed her head. "Not the answer I wanted. I can be a Circle mage or Warden-General. I don't get to be both. In fact, reading between the lines, it seems that there has been something of a sea change among the upper echelons of the Circle. They don't really want me back in the Tower. They'll tolerate my company, but I won't be exactly welcome." He could see her brow furrow. "I save all of their lives, and this is the thanks I get."

"They're afraid of you," Cullen said.

"And they're probably right." She shook her head sharply and folded the letter. "I'm everything they don't want to think about. Maker forbid any of us have ideas. Wind us around with obedience, lock us up with duty, entomb us in the Tower and tell us it's for our own good. Blame us for the howling coming from the Black City, blame us for the darkspawn, the Archdemons, because it's easy to blame us and to be afraid of us. How easy is it to become a monster when that's what everyone who looks at you sees?"

The mage's hands were shaking, and he reached out to take them in his own. "This isn't just about being a mage," he said. "Is it?"

She swallowed hard. "No. No, it's not. I lost myself, Cullen. Those years I was gone…I've done things I'm not proud of, because after you've killed an Archdemon and survived the experience, it's very difficult to remember how to be a person instead of a machine that kills darkspawn. I was trying so hard to come back, but I was bleeding to death, slowly."

And this was something they had never spoken of, because every time the subject neared those years, her expression had closed and she'd turned away from him. "What brought you back?"

She gave a short bark of a laugh that held no humor. "Letters. I kept finding letters in the Fade, from Alistair. I wanted to come home. I thought he might be home, but he wasn't. So…back to the Tower. The only other place I could think of where I might be home. Where I might be safe." She tightened her hands on his. "Only I wasn't. I was still bleeding. And then…Zevran showed up on the Tower doorstep."

Cullen remembered drawing steel on Greagoir, Zevran behind him, calling Kathil back from where she was wandering in the Fade. "I remember," he said. "I didn't know him well enough at the time to see it, but he was very afraid for you."

Kathil bit her lip. "There are…parts of that story that I will tell you. Some day. Not now. All right?" Cullen nodded, because he could feel the Veil trembling. "Zevran has always asked of me exactly what I am willing to give, and no more. And he never expects me to be anyone other than who I am." She drew a deep breath, and Cullen felt the Veil settle. "Well. Sometimes the choice is to leave the past where it lies. Warden-General it is. Eamon will be pleased, at least."

He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. "That's it? Just…time to go lead the Grey Wardens?"

The mage shrugged, and there was a bit of savage humor in her eyes. "Well, far be it for me to impose my presence where it's not wanted. I could just go to Amaranthine and be an ordinary Grey Warden for a while, or even travel for a bit, but the old wolf was right about more than one thing. Best that I keep myself busy. Besides." She brought his left hand to her mouth, and kissed one of his scarred knuckles. "If I'm going to be a tiger, I have something of a responsibility to keep the wolves in line." When Cullen looked confused, she added, "Ask Leliana about that one."

She released his hands, and reached for another letter. "Hm. Petra or Greagoir? Best take my medicine. What did good Ser Guaire have to say?" She loosened the seal and flipped the red wax up and away. "He was the one with the dark hair and the eyes like Lake Calenhad on a nice day, right?"

"He wrote to tell me he's joining the Grey Wardens, for what reason I have no idea," Cullen replied. "I would have sworn that the mages had no idea what the names of the Templars were."

"You all think the helms disguise who you are, but all they do is make it into a game to figure out who is who." Kathil's lips curved. "So he's joining the Grey Wardens? Too bad Sati didn't live to see it."

He thought he remembered Sati, sitting in the library with Kathil, giggling quietly over a book and sitting entirely too close together. She was tall, with dark hair and dark skin despite the fact that the mages were rarely allowed outside. "Sati," he said, feeling the shape of the name in his mouth. "She was one of the ones who..."

The mage shook her head. "Didn't make it through her Harrowing. At least, so I gather. She just…disappeared in the middle of the night. My first broken heart, and I thought I was going to fair die from the pain. I spent a lot of time draping myself over Jowan and sighing. Very romantic, let me tell you. Possibly a better way of handling heartbreak than I developed later, mind you." She quirked her mouth and opened the letter from Greagoir.

Cullen broke the seal on his own letter from Greagoir. It was several pages folded together, and he rather feared the lecture that must be inside of it. Though why the Knight Commander would be lecturing him now...

Grey Warden Cullen,

I hope this letter finds you well. I was going through some of the Templar records stored in the Tower, and came across the enclosed passages in one of the older books. I do not know if they will be of any use to you, but I thought you might find them interesting.

Give my regards to the rest of the Grey Wardens.

Ser Greagoir, Knight-Commander, the Tower.

Cullen set aside the letter and looked at the papers that had been folded with it. Greagoir had copied these himself, he saw from the familiar handwriting. He had not trusted the Chantry scribe who resided in the Tower with them. The note at the beginning from Greagoir said that these were taken from a book of Templar history, a chapter that had to do with the Grey Wardens.

It began with a list of Templars who had left the Order and gone to the Grey Wardens...and a list of the mages who had gone with them. From the way that the list was arranged, it appeared that each Templar had been assigned a particular mage to watch over. Some of the entries had notes--out of twenty-two mages, only twelve had survived long enough to become a full Grey Warden; twenty of the Templars had gone on to be entered into the Warden rolls. The Joining was not mentioned as the cause of the deaths, but Cullen knew that was what it had to be.

The following page detailed a relationship between the Chantry and the Grey Wardens using antique language that nearly obscured the actual terms of the agreement between them. Cullen set that page aside for further study. The next page used very similar language, but something near the bottom caught his eye. An' eche unto tha partnere, thet gwan out of t' Towere. F'r lette cam notting a'twixt t'mag an' t'Templar choren, lest daemons brich t'Veil.

Cullen tried to remember the little he'd learned about how to decipher the old language. And each unto their partner, they went out of the Tower. For let nothing come between a mage and a chosen Templar, lest demons breach the Veil.

Well. That was certainly clear enough.

Mages and Templars had been partnered in the past. He wondered what had changed between then and now. And he wondered why Greagoir had copied out and sent him these particular pages.

He thought it might be something in the way of an apology. He could only dare to hope.

"That's a long face you have there," Kathil said. "Bad news?"

"Good question," he said, and folded the pages together. "Something I'm going to have to think about for a bit. What's your letter about?"

"Comings and goings, mostly. And, look at this." She held out a page to him. "Petra is on her way to Amaranthine, along with three of the other mages. Nobody's saying in these letters just what's happened at the Tower, but obviously something has."

Cullen eyed her. "You say that like you're planning to go find out what it is."

"A small detour before we go to Amaranthine." Kathil added Petra's letter to the pile, then shoved the papers into her book. "We could spend the worst of the winter in Redcliffe and travel to Amaranthine when the weather clears a bit. We need to escort the Tranquil with the Mabari to the Tower, even if we're not planning on staying." She put her book to one side and caught his hand in hers again. She lay down and pulled him down beside her. "Too much worrying about the future," she said and her voice was warm. "We have a few weeks to talk about it yet."

Afternoon sunlight was pouring in the window, falling over the two of them and touching the mage's pale hair with gold. Her eyes were half-lidded, and when he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, they closed all the way.

A moment later, her breathing deepened, and to all appearances she fell asleep as abruptly as Fiann sometimes did. Asleep, her face smoothed and her lips parted just slightly, and if it were not for the scar and the dark circles beneath her eyes she might have been the mageling he'd known back in the Tower.

Except not. The mageling was dead, and the Grey Warden lived.

Cullen kept watch for a time, but the air was so warm and the light so golden that he slipped down into sleep himself.

*****

Lorn:

There are things it is important for a pup to know.

Fiann, like her mother, smells of obsidian, but not yet of either blood or darkness, just sweet milk and that universal young-thing-smell that makes Lorn forgive all of her mistakes. Like chasing cats.

Especially chasing cats.

And chickens.

And sparrows, and running children, and sometimes nothing at all.

For however-manyth time, he goes to fetch Fiann from where she has run off to. She is determinedly scrabbling at a mouse hole. This time, instead of grabbing the line, he scruffs the pup in his great jaws and picks her up. She hangs limply, whining. What did she do? Is she in trouble?

He breaks into a trot. Down this hall and around the corner, follow the smells of food and fire and sweat and iron—

Lorn puts Fiann down. Here. Here is the kitchen.

Kitchens are important. He glances at her to make sure she's paying attention. Kitchens are where biscuits come from. And gingerbread. And cheese, and bits of mutton with deliciously charred edges, and cider.

Fiann wiggles with excitement and makes a break for it, intending to dash into the kitchen and bark demandingly. He whacks her with a paw and sends her tumbling. Pay attention. Watch.

The pup's eyes go wide and she scoots back against the wall. Lorn gets to his feet and walks into the kitchens, surveying the people. He knows all of them, and picks an easy one, an elf barely out of puphood himself, who has soft hands and soft voice and soft heart. He is starting to get a bit of a crust on him like the rest in here, but he is still soft as midwinter snow, or rabbit fur.

He is lonely, this elven pup, and he likes Lorn. He goes to the elf and shoves his nose against his waist, tail wagging. When he turns, Lorn sits down and cocks his head, making sure to set his ears just so.

The elf's eyes go even softer and darker than they were. "Oh, dog," he says, and his little voice is almost a sigh. "I was hoping you'd come by. Look, I kept some of my dinner for you." He fishes in the pocket of his apron and hands Lorn part of a roll with some gravy soaked into the edges.

It's excellent. He finishes it and graciously licks the elf's hands, wagging his tail hard. Then he glances back at Fiann.

See? That is how it is done.

Fiann knows permission when she sees it. She comes bouncing forward and plunks her hindquarters down right next to Lorn, tilting her head. The elf bursts out with a peal of laughter that is louder than anything Lorn's ever heard from him before. "You have an apprentice, dog! I'm afraid I don't have anything more. You're going to have to go beg from someone else."

Lorn gives her a whuff to tell the elf that he forgives him, then gets up and scruffs Fiann again. Your ears were all wrong, he tells Fiann as he trots out of the kitchen. But you'll do.

He takes her on a tour of all of the important places in this territory: the signpost tree in the courtyard where all the Mabari males compete to see who can leave the freshest and highest mark, the exits and entrances that must be guarded, the hole in the wall that smells most intoxicatingly of both rabbit and fox. But Fiann is beginning to flag, her feet dragging, and Lorn catches the scent of obsidian and blood and knows Yvrenne is about.

He gives a sharp bark to call her, and sits down. Fiann drops down beside him, panting, and snuggles into his side. She gives him a brief wag. Are all his days like this? So busy?

This? This day was easy. But less fun than the days when there is battle, and things to bite. She will learn.

Humans and elves and one of the cracked-stone smelling people called dwarves pass by, and Lorn ignores them, until he catches a familiar scent. Fiann perks up. Big-hooved-mage-smelling-thing! He scratched me before! The human passes by without a glance at the two of them, much to Fiann's disappointment.

Lorn sniffs. Horse and mage, iron and blood. Familiar. He remembers a basement, shadows and undead, and a boy overlaid with the unmistakable scent of demon. Rotting hay. The faint, foul reek of rat warrens.

There are many people here, with many smells, and some of them are ones he has met before. This must be one of them. Yvrenne finally finds them. She growls without any real malice at Lorn and collects her wayward pup. Without a backward glance, she trots off with Fiann capering at her side.

Lorn stays where he is, thinking about the human who smells of iron and blood.

Then he shakes himself and goes to do his rounds. Perhaps his human's elf will return soon, or the singer, wherever they have gotten themselves to.

*****

Zevran:

It was an afternoon without bloodshed, which was a pity.

But it was an enjoyable afternoon nonetheless. He'd met with a few people and concluded a very particular piece of business to the satisfaction of all, then taken himself to the Gnawed Noble for some productive eavesdropping as well as a few glasses of the bartender's fabled concoctions. Besides, if he were correct…

And yes, he was.

The door opened to reveal a certain flame-haired bard, who walked in exactly as if she owned the place. Zevran sat back and waited as Leliana's gaze swept over the half-empty tavern.

She spotted him, and ah, that look of dismay.

The bard walked up to the bar, claimed a cup of cider, and came to drop down in the chair across the table from him. "I thought I was supposed to be the bard here, Zevran."

"And you are therefore supposed to hold the monopoly on predicting the actions of people one has known such a very long time, yes?" He smirked at her. "We know each other, sweet mouse. You are occasionally predictable."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "Why I tolerate you…"

Zevran shrugged. "I am useful, no? And I have done you such favors recently. So I must ask—who was the girl?" Leliana raised an eyebrow. "The one I killed. She bore a remarkable resemblance to our Grey Warden, and there is only one person who could have taught her to impersonate Kathil for even the short period of time that she did. So. Who was she?"

The bard sipped her cider, and there was a grim look in her blue eyes. "I have no idea where they found her. She sounded like she was from the south. She had an education, so she came from wealth if not nobility. All I knew about her, really, was that her name was Evvy. Short for Evangeline, I think. She had quite the talent for mimicry. Younger than Kathil by a few years."

"Kathil's mother was from the south, yes? Perhaps a cousin." He took a swallow of his own drink, keeping an eye on those around them. Only a few were close enough to eavesdrop, and those were deep in their own conversations.

Leliana was frowning. "This is eating at you, isn't it?" He opened his mouth to deny, and she held up her hand and shook her head. "I recognize the signs when I see them. I liked setting up things to fall that way about as much as you liked your part in it, Zevran. But it is done with, and if you are the wise man I think you are, you will not mention to Kathil anything about the girl, yes? I surely will not."

She had a point. But still…he misliked it, for reasons that he did not wish to think about too much right at the moment. "Should she get some idea in her head about seeking out her mother's family—"

"You will discourage her, yes?" Now Leliana's eyes had gone just a little flinty. "As will I, if I am there."

Now this brought up an interesting question. "Are you not due to go back to Orlais at the end of the summer, my Chantry mouse? Has that changed?"

"Ferelden is terrible in the winter, Zevran." She wrinkled her nose. "All that snow. And nobody here knows how to make boots that flatter the feet rather than making them ugly. I have some business in Orlais that may take me into Tevinter, but I will probably be back in Ferelden by early summer next year."

Zevran gave her half a smile over the rim of his cup. "And you cannot stay away from our Grey Warden for very long, can you?"

She arched an eyebrow. The bard was many different women, and for each of her friends she wore a different face. All of them were the true woman, and none of them were. For him, she was always the ally who had a mind and a tongue quick as the flash of sunlight on a dagger, sharp-voiced and savvy to his games. "You have little room to speak, I suspect."

"But far more reason," he said, pushing his luck.

Leliana snorted gently. "She will need me, Zevran. As she will need you, and Cullen, and Lorn. Besides, Fereldan politics are so brash. It is an interesting change."

Which was an answer, but not to the question he had asked.

He finished his drink, draining the dregs and grimacing as the alcohol bit deeply at the back of his throat. "I will see you tonight, then? For I think we are summoned to a late supper with the King and Princess Consort."

"After this morning, that should be…amusing." Leliana smiled at him, and he nodded to her and left.

Back to the palace he went; he had located rooms outside the palace that would be suitable for them, but with Rima having turned abruptly reasonable (not that he trusted that turn, but it would do for the moment), he did not know if they were going to need them. He still felt exposed, far too exposed. The summer was drawing to a close. In a matter of weeks, they would be leaving Denerim.

It could not come soon enough for him.

He reached the room he shared with Kathil and opened the door. Rather than the interrogatory bark he expected, he was greeted with silence. Lorn was not present, but both Kathil and Cullen were sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, the Templar's arm over the mage. Both of them were deeply enough asleep that they did not stir at his entrance.

He considered the two of them. He fully understood the appeal that Cullen held for his Grey Warden, and since the two of them had begun their liaison, there was a hurt he could never have reached in her that seemed to be easing. And the man had surprised Zevran by stubbornly refusing to become jealously possessive. Out of the Tower, away from the strictures of life in service to the Chantry, that part of him had submerged and had not been seen again.

This would not last. Could not last. But what in life does?

He did not look forward to the inevitable end, but he would enjoy this while it was with them.

Zevran quietly stowed the little package he carried in the cupboard that held most of his possessions, and then sat on the edge of the bed nearest Kathil to take off his boots. Alerted to his presence, the mage stirred. "You're back," she said in a voice furry with sleep. Behind her, Cullen opened his eyes, and the transformation from sleeping Templar to awake and ready to kill whatever might threaten his charge Templar was swift and complete. Then he recognized Zevran, and relaxed.

"I am, at that," Zevran said. He dropped his boots and lay down next to Kathil. The afternoon light was starting to fade as the sun dipped toward the horizon. "Where is your redoubtable hound?"

Cullen choked. "Oh, Maker's Breath. Fiann. I need to go check and make sure she got back to the kennels all right."

The Templar made a move to get up, but Kathil caught his arm. "Lorn is trustworthy, and if he didn't get her back I bet Yvrenne came to find them. Lorn's probably just off doing Mabari things. The guards know where we are, if need be. Stay here, Cullen. Please."

And there were all kinds of things in that request that were not spoken, and she turned her head so her eyes met Cullen's. Zevran remembered certain delicious possibilities he and Kathil had discussed, remembered dancing with Cullen the night before.

Cullen relented. "You're right. It's just—if you wanted to be alone with Zevran?"

"It's all right for you to be here," the mage said. She freed Cullen's arm and reached up to pull his head down, claiming his mouth for a kiss. "Besides. I'm feeling much better after sleeping most of the day today." Zevran leaned over and murmured a suggestion into Kathil's ear. "And that sounds like a very interesting idea, Zev."

"Always happy to oblige," he told her, and her wickedly impish smile answered him.

She moved abruptly, bringing one leg up and over Cullen's stomach, pulling herself into a sitting position. Her robes puddled around her legs, showing only the toes on one bare foot. She learned forward and spoke into Cullen's ear, and though at first he looked like he was thinking about fleeing, a moment later there was an intrigued expression in his eyes, and he glanced at Zevran.

And a few minutes after that, Kathil was down to her smallclothes and Zevran and Cullen were learning the basics of how to work together to elicit the most exquisite noises and reactions from her. Start him slow, she had said. Give him something familiar to cling to. With a bit of patience, he'll get brave.

Kathil seemed perfectly content to be used as a game board between them for the moment, and Zevran did not press. Not yet. And this was a most pleasant distraction.

All too soon, and before anyone other than Kathil had so much as gotten undressed, it was time to get ready for dinner. "We can continue this later," the mage said, and there were wicked promises in her voice. "For now, let's go be polite."

Cullen growled something under his breath, and she gave the Templar a sweet smile. "I have to—ah—change," Cullen said, and with that he was out of bed and across the room, letting Lorn in as he left. The warhound came to shove his head under Kathil's hand.

"Good pup," she told him as she scratched behind his ears. "We are terrible people," she said to Zevran. "Corrupting Templars."

"He's a Grey Warden now, is he not?" Zevran pointed out. "And if you are anything to go by, little bird, that darkspawn taint increases all kinds of hungers."

"Food, sex, everything," she said, and stretched. The scars on her shoulder shifted and puckered as she rolled that shoulder, loosening the joint. "Speaking of, the last thing I ate was those honey cakes, this morning. I am starving."

He pulled on a clean shirt, and then snagged a clean set of robes from her drawer and tossed it at her. "Though it is a shame to cover that lovely body, I am sure our hosts would appreciate us all being dressed at dinner."

"Pity." She wriggled into her robes, settling them on her shoulders and reaching for the wide fabric band that would wrap around her middle. "Oh. I think I'm going to Amaranthine to be Warden-General, Zev. Feel like coming along?" Though her words were casual, how she was holding her shoulders and her mouth told him that she both anticipated and feared his answer.

He lifted an eyebrow. "I go where you do, my Grey Warden." Those words came from that place of certainty within him, that place where, against everything he'd ever known, he held an unshakeable belief in this woman. "Amaranthine, it is."

The way she lit up at his words, and the very sound kiss he received a moment later—both of those confirmed that belief.

As they went out into the hall to meet Cullen, Zevran thought about Amaranthine, about the possibilities that the place enclosed. Warmer than the Tower, and far more populated. People coming and going, ships putting in at the harbor. Commerce and information flowing like a river through it.

This, I believe, is going to be amusing.

Author's Note: I have some time in the next few days, so unless something unforeseen happens, the next chapter or two should be up by the first part of next week. Thank you, everyone who's read and commented! And my apologies for the line of "old language"--it's a bit of extremely mangled Middle English.