Once again I apologize for the long delay between chapters, real life seems to have attacked again leaving me with little time for the creative process.

Thank you as always to all my readers ,reviewers and all those who have added this to their story alerts - you humble me with your interest.

Apologies for my Spanish translation of joie de vivre, it just seemed to fit better for Zev - thank you Erynnar (and yes I know Antiva is supposed to be more like Italy, but his accent makes Spanish seem more natural).

Many many thanks to my wonderful betas (Tarante11a, Brownc0at and Erynnar) who helped me hammer the rough metal of this chapter into (hopefully) shining prose.

Bioware owns all and is kind enough to let me play with their toys.

Chapter 16: Kirkwall

Zevran's alegría de vivir was infectious, and Aithne laughed as he released his embrace. "That storm… I wasn't sure we would live to see the dawn. It seems your Maker likes naughty stories."

"Should I suggest it to the Chantry, dirty stories instead of prayer?" His eyes glittered with amusement. "Ah, but they would have to design new robes to fit the theme. Think of the increase in attendance. But, alas, I don't imagine the Revered Mother would allow it."

Giggling now, Aithne poked him in the ribs. "You are terrible."

"So I have been told. If not the Chantry, perhaps your trickster Fen'Harel…."

"Fen'Harel would want elvish stories."

"I'm sure we could make some up." Zevran gave her a practiced leer.

"Later. I'd like to see if I can help the injured sailors. Anders isn't going to be of much use for a while."

Aithne struggled through their cabin door, trying to keep an anxious Sky from knocking her down. Commanding the Mabari to sit, she surveyed the chaos before her; bandages, herbs, cooking gear, clothing and a variety of other miscellaneous supplies were strewn about the cabin – a result of a packs left unsecured following her frantic delving for lyrium potions and later healing herbs during the storm. Sky had made a nest of most of her spare clothing, and Pounce was napping in Zevran's pack, having dislodged a number of poison vials to make herself comfortable. Thankfully, all of the vials were intact; Zevran chose sturdy glass to contain the tools of his craft.

Sky finally bolted past her, desperately heading for the deck after the long hours of confinement. Aithne could hear Zevran's amused voice as the dog dashed for a spot near the rail to relieve herself. Grateful that Sky seemed to like Zevran, Aithne smiled as she heard his footsteps follow the Mabari back on deck. She then dislodged Pounce from her hiding spot and began cleaning up the shambles, managing to corral most of the loose items on the bed by the time Sky trotted back into the cabin followed by Zevran.

He captured a stray vial of concentrated deathroot extract as it rolled across the floor, and then sighed as he noticed his own spare clothes were also in the pile covered by Mabari hair. "If you wish to care for the injured, I'll clean up in here."

"Thanks, Zev." Aithne quickly gathered bandaging materials and herbs from the pile on the bed.

Several hours later, after treating one broken arm, a crushed hand, several broken fingers and multiple lacerations, Aithne finally found time to check on Anders again. Her patient groaned, and his eyelids fluttered while she forced another herbal infusion into him, but the mage did not regain consciousness.

Zevran had helped with her impromptu clinic after he restored order to their room and was now seated across the cabin, deep in conversation with Isabela. Although they were trying to be quiet out of respect for the exhausted mage, Aithne could hear the thinly veiled concern as they debated the best course of action to get the crippled vessel to port for repairs.

Isabela's calculations indicated that the storm had hastened their journey north considerably. Unfortunately, with only a noontime sighting it was impossible to determine whether they had been blown east or west. The captain had her charts spread across the table and was cataloging the resources available at the small villages along the northern coast of the Waking Sea. Isabela's fingers lingered on the empty stretch of coastline between Ostwick and Kirkwall, the only ports anywhere near their probable location with the resources to repair the Siren.

Aithne drifted over to Zevran, her earlier relief at surviving the storm replaced by unease at the implications of the conversation. "So we are lost?"

"In a manner, yes. Navigation is an imprecise business at best. I must bow to Isabela's experience here, but I understand our location will be more easily determined after tonight's calculations are made." Sensitive to his lover's concern, he gave her a reassuring smile. "According to our good captain here, we are far enough north that we should be within sight of the coast in a day or two, even with only the mizzenmast left to carry sail."

Aithne looked to Isabela for confirmation; the captain's nod of agreement buoyed her some. It seemed strange, to trust their course to the oddly-shaped brass instrument in its padded leather case, but Aithne was aware that her Dalish education fell short on a number of subjects. Not knowledgeable enough to contribute further to the conversation, she excused herself for some much needed rest.

Isabela turned back to Zevran at Aithne's departure. "Your Warden is an impressive woman, Arainai. I was surprised to see you involved with one of the Dalish, but now I think I understand."

"I'm glad you do, for I still do not. She is nothing I ever expected, yet I…cannot describe it." He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. Isabela had always been too perceptive, and his feelings were something he had no wish to discuss.

"Take care of her Zev; the Crows will use her to get to you, if they can. I don't know what mission you are on, but you have returned to their territory. What might have been overlooked when you were far away in Ferelden will draw their attention in the north."

With a curt nod, Zevran rose; she had warned him before and it served no purpose to address the subject again. Her words hounded him as he descended the steps to his cabin and introduced an emotion he had been stranger to …fear. Stepping into their tiny cabin, he found Aithne already curled up on the bunk, her smile beckoning him to join her. He slipped beneath the blanket and wrapped an arm around her, unable to do anything to settle his fear but hold her close.

The storm had blown them far to the west, and they spent several anxious days creeping along the coast to reach Kirkwall. When, at last, the cluster of islands guarding Kirkwall's harbor broke the horizon, the passengers and crew of the Siren all gave a collective sigh of relief. The crippled vessel was a vulnerable target on open water, and storms were only one of many concerns to those who sailed the vast ocean.

Zevran's expression was impassive, despite his trepidation, as the walled city came into sight. He considered a disguise because of Isabela's warnings about the Crows, but with the limited supplies he had available it would be difficult to come up with something convincing. Any Crow he did encounter would probably see through a disguise anyway. They were trained for careful observation, and he was certain that his likeness and description as a renegade had been distributed through every cell. Likewise, sneaking off the ship at night would draw more attention than a simple departure in broad daylight. They would simply have to make the best of it and hope the Crow presence in the Free Marches was not as ubiquitous as Isabela thought.

The harbor was filled with a startling number of vessels, many with torn sails and broken masts, evidence the storm's fury had penetrated this far west. Isabela was forced to drop anchor out in the harbor, as all the dockside berths were filled.

Aithne knocked on the door of the captain's cabin. "Anders, are you ready? Isabela has the boat in the water."

"Just a moment, I have to find Pounce." Isabela attitude toward the cat had softened after Anders heroic efforts during the storm. Her sympathy had even extended so far as to allow Pounce to move into her cabin while the mage was abed recovering from lyrium overdose.

Aithne opened the cabin door. "Sky, find Pounce." The Mabari trotted into the room and poked her nose into a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed. The affronted cat emerged with a plaintive meow and sauntered over to Anders.

Scooping the cat into her usual spot in his pack, the mage gathered his things and followed Aithne out.

Zevran was already waiting by the rail, ready with the harness he had contrived to lower Sky into the dinghy. It took a few minutes (and some encouragement from Aithne) but the dog accepted being lowered into the boat with relative grace.

Anders' cat, on the other hand, began to object loudly as soon as he started to climb down. Pounce remained on her perch, at the top of Anders' pack, but was clearly distressed by her proximity to the water of the harbor. She did settle down once he was seated in the boat and could hold her in his lap, but it was evident she was not impressed.

The arrival of another dinghy was all but unnoticed in the chaos of the docks. With sailors shouting, vendors hawking their wares and craftsmen carting lumber and fittings to repair damaged vessels, the small group from the Siren was of no significance. After issuing a few brief orders, Isabela released her crewman to ferry some of his mates in for shore leave.

Aithne staggered a bit, and Zevran caught her elbow to steady her. "It takes some getting used to, the dry land, after spending time at sea."

Wrinkling her nose at the stench of dead fish and human refuse, Aithne followed Isabela up the quay. There was debris strewn everywhere: broken timbers, damaged cargo, destroyed fishing gear. As they picked their way through the mess and up a cobbled street, she spotted damaged buildings and fallen trees – Kirkwall had clearly suffered a direct hit from the storm.

Isabela led them to a large inn on the east side of a modest square near the market district. The building was relatively undamaged and appeared to be open for business. Early afternoon during the slow winter season had left the common room empty except for a pair of old men intent on a card game.

"Isabela, I see the storm swept you in with the rest. I hope the Siren fared better than most." A grizzled old sailor, one arm missing at the elbow, greeted the captain with genuine warmth and a Rivaini accent. He then turned to her companions. "Welcome to The Windward. Finest ale in Kirkwall; I brew it myself."

"Tyren, are you still trying to sell that swill?" Isabela teased, helping herself to a mug behind the bar and filling it with a rich, dark beer.

"I'd have some to sell if you didn't drink it all every time you're in town." Tyren's swarthy, weathered face creased with amusement, clearly pleased by the fiery captain's enjoyment of his brew. "Your usual room, I suppose?"

"Yes, and a room for my companions as well." Isabela swept an arm toward the two elves, while giving Anders a wink.

The innkeeper chuckled at the byplay. "Found yourself another one, did you?" He turned an appraising glance on Anders. "He looks a little thin; you should feed them better, Bela." Before Anders could decide whether to take offense, the wiry sailor had them seated at a table by the fire and served with steaming bowls of meaty stew and a loaf of fresh bread. The old man joined them as mugs of the hearty stout were poured by a smiling waitress. "So, how much damage did the Siren take?"

"Fore and main masts, most of the starboard rail, a few other minor things."

Tyren winced. "You'll be in port awhile. The shipwrights are scrambling with all the repairs as it is. At least the Siren will sail again, not like my Windward Lady." Shaking himself free of memory, he noticed the curious looks from Isabela's companions. "I named the inn after the Windward Lady, as fine a ship as ever sailed. She ran aground during a storm nearly fifteen years ago. I hadn't the heart to sail again without her, and I had a bit put by…." He waved his one hand, indicating the interior of the tidy inn.

"Do you know of any ships still fit to sail?" Zevran enquired.

"None that I am aware of." Tyren eyed Zevran's tattoos with narrowed eyes, easily placing the blond elf's accent and his relaxed awareness. "Isabela, I would be a poor uncle if I didn't point out that your taste in passengers leaves a bit to be desired."

Now that it had been pointed out, Aithne noticed the similarities between the two Rivaini. Family resemblance was something she rarely noted in humans, and she studied the pair as Isabela leaned over to whisper a brief explanation in the man's ear.

Tyren's eyes widened briefly at Isabela's words, but he gave the barest of nods in acknowledgement. They would have his discretion. "I'm afraid you face quite a delay if you wish to travel by sea; however, the coast road isn't too bad if you can find decent horses."

Finding decent horses proved more difficult than one might think. Leaving Anders and Sky at the inn, Aithne and Zevran traversed the subdued market to find the horse pens at its extreme edge. There were certainly plenty of horses there – plenty of horses with bowed tendons, spavined hocks, bad feet, crooked legs, and filed teeth to make them look a decade younger than they were. In short, plenty of horses that were worthless for hard riding and rough terrain. Other travelers, unwilling to delay for ship repairs, had already departed after purchasing the cream of the available horses. Zevran found one rangy mud-brown mare with a roman nose that seemed promising. She was sound and fit, if a little high spirited, and her gait was smooth and comfortable. Their remaining prospects in the sound and fit category were slim; one beautiful but ill-tempered bay stallion who snaked his head out to bite at every opportunity, and an unremarkable roan mare whose chief flaw was that she was young and only green broke. The roan mare had at least carried a pack saddle for the last few months, if the trader was to be believed.

Aithne watched quietly while Zevran bartered over the price of the horses and suitable tack, hoping the animals would suffice. She wasn't encouraged by the roan mare's balky reticence when she tried her paces, or by the bay stallion's vicious temperament. Traveling with two mares and a stallion was apt to be difficult as well; as spring progressed the mares would start to cycle, which certainly would not improve the stallion's temperament. Still, with no better options, the horses were preferable to walking.

Her attention wandered as Zevran continued to haggle, and she casually scanned the marketplace. She smiled as she remembered Zev's promise to show her the "markets of the Free Marches."

Her gaze fell on a lean elf in hunting leathers investigating the contents of a blacksmith's stall a short distance away. She couldn't see his face, but his nonchalant posture drew her scrutiny. There was something in the way he moved that reminded her of… Zevran. Now on guard, she continued her observation of the market, but nothing else caught her eye. The elf was still at the same stall when Zevran passed a handful of coins to the horse trader. The light brush of Aithne's fingertips on his arm and the direction of her gaze alerted him, and he risked a quick glance under the guise of adjusting the fit of the bay stallion's bridle.

Zevran's subterfuge nearly earned him a bite, only his lightening reflexes allowing him to deflect the bay's teeth. Fingers wrapped around the stallion's ear and twisted. " I would not recommend you make a habit of that, or the term 'crow bait' will have a rather special meaning for you," he hissed as he gained the horse's full attention. Taking a secure hold of the bay's bridle, he relaxed his hand on the ear and rubbed the stallion's head for a moment. "See now, there is no need for unpleasantness." He gave Aithne a slight nod, the stallion's antics cover for his acknowledgement of her warning.

They left their latest acquisitions in The Windward's stable, after cautioning the stable boy not to go into the stallion's stall. The two elves then returned to their room to find clean clothes neatly folded on the bed and a large tub waiting to be filled. Anders had been busy in their absence. A servant appeared only a few minutes after their arrival, and soon the tub was filled with steaming water.

Zevran only shook his head when Aithne started to speak, his wary glance at the window enough to silence her questions. Only once they were clean and sated, after enjoying the bath together, did he voice his answer to her unasked question.

"You have good eyes, my Dalish huntress – a Crow, indeed, and aware of our presence." His lips nibbled at her ear, disguising his words in an intimate embrace. "I think it best that we leave tonight, before they have time to organize. He will not be alone."

Twisting slightly in the tub, she kissed him, and then said, "Surely they will have someone watching the inn."

"That, I can handle."

They dined with Isabela, Anders and Tyren that night in a private parlor. Tyren regaled them with tales from his career as a smuggler while they partook of fine food and drink. Aithne surreptitiously informed Anders of their planned departure in the early hours of the morning, garnering a disappointed sigh from the mage. After much laughter at a few of the more improbable stories told by Tyren, they retired for a few hours sleep.

The Chantry cathedral had only tolled the second bell when Zevran slipped out of bed to don his clothing and armor. Leaving Aithne with a parting kiss, he disappeared into the night to deal with whoever had been assigned to watch them. Aithne also dressed swiftly and packed their things as Sky stood silently near the door, obedient to her commands.

Zevran slipped back into the room not fifteen minutes later. "Apprentice," he said, disgusted. "They must be short-handed to send one so unprepared."

Aithne tapped on the door to Isabela's room and was reassured by the sound of someone fumbling with their clothes.

A grumpy, "Be there in a minute," was whispered through the door.

Satisfied Anders was awake, Aithne continued to the stables to help Zevran with the horses. The disheveled mage showed up a few minutes later, trailing Tyren, who was cheerful and energetic despite the hour.

Hardly any time passed before the gates of Kirkwall closed behind them, thanks to Tyren's contacts in the city guard. It appeared the old smuggler hadn't quit the profession; he had simply revised his strategy after the loss of his ship. Without such aid, and with no one to alert them, the Crows would be delayed for hours before they could follow.

With the moon bright in the sky, they mounted and started down the coast road.