"There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for."
The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien
Evelyn scanned the square with a smug sense of accomplishment. Just a few months ago she had been in that exact spot as the Chantry decried the evils of the Inquisition and attempted to rally the templars against her. Now, she grinned, she was the toast of the Royan court. The past weeks had been a hurricane of events, shifting alliances, and reexamining evidence. What everyone agreed on, though, was that they had struck Corypheus a significant blow. There was little time to rest on her laurels, however. Shortly after Halamshiral, Josephine had found herself embroiled in an odd assassination plot to be carried out by the House of Repose. The entire situation was so ludicrous that even the hired assassins hinted at the regrettable circumstances by affording Josephine a rare warning and unusual reprieve. Leliana had been ready to send in her own assassins to do away with the contract on Josephine's head, but Josephine was beside herself.
"I do not want anymore blood spilled because of me!" she had warned them.
It would have been infinitely easier, Evelyn thought, to simply let Leliana do her shady work. But ever since Leliana's name had begun being uttered among Chantry leaders as a contender for the position of Divine, she had felt a strong tug at her own conscience. Leliana teetered between piousness and dark intrigue because of her past and because of her skills. She knew her spymaster could be quite ruthless, but she had also witnessed the depth of her devotion. She'd been adamant from the beginning, as far back as Haven, even, that they would not be agents of terror, securing their influence through needless bloodshed. It made her question the nature of the previous Divine, as her Left Hand had been very willing to deploy any means necessary to achieve their goals. It had taken time, many a conversation, and the forging of a bond based on mutual trust and affection to help her shift into a more sanguine approach to her affairs. The only viable solution to that convoluted case had been to curry favor with judges, ministers, and other people of influence who could help sponsor and ratify the restitution of aristocratic status to the Du Paraquette family that had placed the original bid over a hundred years ago. The family had eagerly pledged its support and willingness to revoke the original bid, of course, and now she found herself back at Val Royeaux often, between that sordid business and the Inquisition's participation in the drafting of new treatises between Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches.
She had taken the evening off for herself, entrusting the negotiations on the rights to some disputed trading routes right between Orlais and Ferelden's borders to Josephine. Having to be on her toes in the presence of two very clever and cunning foxes, Celine and Briala, would help distract her mind from the whole assassination affair. She had invited Cole to keep her company during dinner, as he was rarely intrusive.
Well, as much as a mind-reading entity could be, she snickered.
The early evening was still sunny and gloriously warm; spring had begun to spread out in the valley beyond the mountains. The bustle of the downtown area actually soothed her- Royans, and their colorful fashions, love of good cuisine and conversation had an infectious joie de vivre. Although Celine always insisted she sojourn at the palace during her visits, she enjoyed her little forays into town.
She wandered towards a favorite open-air tavern off the main square, aware of Cole weaving in and out of her line of sight as he perused the crowd.
"Inquisitor!" the maitre-d' exclaimed gleefully— and loudly, she noticed amusedly, as heads began to turn and notice her. "You honor us with your presence!" he completed with a florid little bow.
"Will you be dining alone, Your Worship? Or will others be arriving later?"
Although Cole had been standing fairly close by, the Maitre-d' had not taken notice of him. He began to walk among the tables, interestedly.
"Who can tell these days? I didn't even realize I was alone just now," she smiled politely.
He returned her smile and with a sweeping hand gesture, welcomed her into the dining area.
"Very good, Your Worship. Right this way, please."
He ushered her to her table, close to where the minstrel plucked a languid melody.
Cole approached them and paused before the man.
"You can tell her. She'll laugh, and then do it, because she loves you. She wants to make you happy," he stated enthusiastically.
The maitre-d' paused and blinked at him, caught for a brief moment in his thoughts. She placed her napkin over her lap while observing them. The man simply turned and walked away.
Evelyn arched an eyebrow.
"Anything you'd like to share?" she asked, watching the man step back behind his podium.
"He wants his wife to tie his hands to the bedposts. Little silk ribbons. He worries she'll hate him," he reported.
Yes, Royans do have a joie de vivre.
A waiter brought her a basket of freshly baked bread, butter, and the usual fussy couvert popular in Orlais: dainty hardboiled quail eggs, pâté, and fresh crudités in a small glass bowl filled with crushed ice. He poured her a fresh goblet of water and handed her a parchment with the day's fare.
"She only said it because she was jealous of your shoes. Remember his hand on your waist as the music swelled," he said to a dour-looking woman sitting beside a masked man.
They both turned to listen to him. He disappeared in the blink of an eye and the pair began to edge their way towards a timid conversation.
Evelyn popped a quail egg in her mouth.
"So many little hurts, even here, away from blood and battle," he confided to her.
Even spirits of compassion can use a little change of pace, she observed.
"I wouldn't have heard them before," he revealed. "Now I can, thanks to you."
"So you help them with a few whispered words?" she marveled.
"The right words," he emphasized. "Plus, what I am, a little of me making the happiness stronger, so the pain fades. I don't steal the pain," he explained. "The nightmare demon at Adamant did that. It made them less so it could grow. I help them heal. They never need to know I was here."
We are at our best when we are helping others, he remembered.
"You've made me better," he told her gratefully.
"It was my pleasure!" She told him sincerely, looking into those eyes the color of the sky on a clear day.
He flickered and reappeared beside a man engaged in a conversation with an officer by the entrance. She could barely make out his words.
"Remember Old Maurice, too proud to forgive, gnarled hands clutching the back of an empty chair. Find another path."
He meandered back to the table.
"There was someone, before. He was my friend, but he didn't know what I was. When he found out, he changed. I lost him. You found out, but you didn't change, didn't make me change. You let me be this, be more."
Evelyn listened, moved by his words.
"Thank you for helping me find this again, For believing in me. You don't know what it means."
"You're welcome," she said gently.
He proceeded to disappear and reappear throughout the meal, offering his enigmatic words of comfort to all. Despite herself, she found herself smiling. She dabbed at her lips self consciously, wondering if people would start talking about the dotty Inquisitor smiling daftly at nothing.
What do I care? she shrugged, stabbing at an elusive mushroom. I wonder how many people will leave today feeling lighter, happier? She noticed the Maitre-d' seemed to have caught a second wind, welcoming his guests with far more verve. He definitely has a spring to his step!
"They will never know," Cole startled her, reappearing by her side unexpectedly. "But I know. Thanks to you."
"I helped the best I could. The choice was ultimately yours."
"Let her know I will be there, one step back, then to the left, back up, and to the right. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four… in the shape of a square," he said in deep concentration.
Evelyn squinted.
"Now that's unexpected!…"
Cole smiled.
"He'll escort you to the Marquis' ball. He didn't think he'd be able to, but they left a day earlier."
"Cullen?" her eyes widened. "That's impressive, Cole! How are you able to channel his thoughts from so far away?"
"I hope you didn't order dessert yet," a familiar voice spoke behind her.
She smiled broadly, watching Cullen slide onto the bench opposite her, a pleased grin on his face.
"Well played, Messeres. Well played!" she laughed.
The line in front of the courier carriage departing for Orlais was, as usual, long and slow. One of the Chantry Sisters had a stack of letters going all over the country, but had failed to specify codes.
"But this is going to the Gracevine camp in Emerald Graves," she insisted. "There is only one Gracevine camp!"
"Yes, Sister, but if you don't identify it by its code, once the letter goes through sorting at Val Royeaux, it'll get tossed aside because no one has time to hunt down the codes."
"That is terrible!" the woman said, outraged. "I don't have any of those codes—and these messages are vital to the faithful!"
The courier sighed deeply and with a shrug of resignation, reached inside his carriage for a battered, poorly bound catalog.
"Here you go, Sister. Why don't you look for the codes?" He peered over the line and announced loudly, "I need to take a short break while Sister here fills out her codes. I should be back in a quarter of an hour."
The small crowd issued a bevy of complaints and mild jeers as the courier indifferently jaunted away. The Chantry Sister clutched the charcoal pencil the courier had handed her and recruited the man standing behind her for help.
"Can you help me, my son?"
The man, who had been grimacing and huffing earlier, replied humbly.
"Of course, Sister."
They all watched as the man leafed back and forth through the catalog seeking out the codes for the locations she dictated to him.
"Highgrove Camp," she announced. "That's in Emprise du Lion," she explained patiently, peering down at him from her thick spectacles.
"Think I have time to run to the commissary for molasses?" a woman behind Ava whispered to her friend.
Ava wondered if she had enough time to pick up a few supplies herself. She reached into her apothecary's apron hoping she'd had the foresight of bringing a few more coins beyond the ones needed to send out her letter. Her fingers grazed the tip of the seashell in her pocket and she grinned. Cole had been drifting in and out of the infirmary at random hours, frequently missing her shifts altogether. She still saw him, though, a reassuring and comforting presence at her patients' bedsides. Almost no one else remembered him despite all his efforts to alleviate their troubles, she thought sadly. Children often noticed him without any difficulty, however, and liked to giggle at the man with the funny hat. He also seemed to be away more often than not those days, she realized. Still, they had developed a way of communicating even when they couldn't meet: they'd leave each other little gifts on the dispensary's windowsill. Two days earlier she had left him a dazzling red bird feather. That morning she'd found the feather gone and a tiny seashell in its stead.
She had already read and reread Adan's letter as soon as it had arrived, a bit earlier. He wrote to her almost daily, as did she. She kept all his letters, tied in a neat stack with light blue ribbon by her night table. He told her about the vast landscape, the endless slopes of sand that shifted, and the unrelenting, scorching heat. She liked his descriptions of Griffon Wing Keep and the people he met there: soldiers, workers, traders. He described his work, sometimes venting over the lack of progress or smugly congratulating himself for figuring out the way out of an impasse—she always grinned and shook her head at that. He'd befriended a scholar, Frederic de Serault, and had enjoyed many conversations about the man's field of expertise, which Adan had been annoyingly elusive about, making Ava suspect she would be quite livid if she ever found out the man's specialty. He drew her detailed pictures of gruesome beasts—quillbacks and varghests— and more delicate sketches of the resilient plants that endured the punishing climate and terrain. He had a keen eye for detail and a way with words so that she felt as if she were there with him. He would ask her about her disposition and about her health—something she found endearingly quaint. He begged her to describe her days, update him on her studies, and share her thoughts and impressions. She adored his letters, especially when he would remind her of how much he missed her, how much he cherished her, and how deeply he loved her. She'd find her mind wandering to a particularly stirring passage and on more than one occasion had to be called several times out of her reverie by her colleagues. She held the thick letter addressed to him patiently. The day was still crisp, but in the breeze she could catch a hint of spring. Nubbly buds had begun to pinpoint the bare trees in the courtyards and in the garden. Further ahead in the line, two men began to speak to each other loudly.
"My sister down in Lothering said that mages were trying to establish these portals through which small objects could be sent from one place to another. If that were to happen, can you imagine? No more wretched lines."
His companion, a gruff, stocky man, turned to face the back of the line.
"Oi! Mage!" he called out.
Ava stiffened, suddenly so nervous it took her a moment to realize that the man was addressing the young man standing a few people ahead of her.
"What say you? Can you get us in on some of that action?" he chuckled.
"If I could, do you think we'd all be standing here?" the young man replied jovially.
Ava grinned, exhaling with relief. It wasn't too long ago that such a conversation might have gone quite differently, she reflected.
"They'd have to make a portal big enough for what I want to send my wife!" a booming voice stated suggestively from the back of the line.
Ava peeked over her shoulder to see a dark haired, bearded dwarf. A volley of laughter and cat calls erupted. The Chantry Sister looked up disapprovingly.
"That's hardly appropriate!" she chastised the ribald crowd.
"I meant my love, Sister! My love! It knows…no bounds!" the dwarf continued, apologetically. The Sister pursed her lips, not convinced one bit. "Sweet Andraste, I wonder what she thought I was referring to!" he said in a exaggerated whisper.
Ava suppressed a laugh.
Better days are coming, she thought hopefully.