PART II

"Aye, that's the spirit, Alistair," Oghren grinned approvingly. "And how're ye feelin', elf? Ready for another?"

Daen laughed and tipped his second empty mug towards Oghren. Zevran smiled smugly at Wynne. "You see, this is exactly what our Wardens needed."

Wynne raised a brow at him over the rim of her wine-filled mug. She had only just filled it, after letting the opened bottle stand undisturbed for a while. "I suppose. I would be willing to bet that the Wardens will beg to differ tomorrow morning, at the rate that keg is going." She took a sip and choked. "9:18, definitely," she gasped. "Although...it does grow on you."

A muffled thump interrupted Zevran's moment of triumph.

Oghren grunted. "Jus' barely managed to save yer mug, boy, watch what yer doing!"

"Whoa!" Alistair cried. "I think somebody's had a bit too much to drink! How much did you give him, dwarf?"

"Eh, I've seen 'm swallow more, an' the kind that'll rip a dwarf's beard right off his chin at that. Somebody check on 'm already."

The dog was barking at an unusual tempo and dancing anxiously beside Daen's prone form. Zevran rose from his seat as Wynne rushed to Daen's side. "Alistair, stop gawking, get those swords off of his back, and help me turn him over," she ordered. "And would somebody please calm the dog down?"

Zevran approached Soris and ran a hand down his back. He was rarely overly friendly with anyone other than Daen, but he still adored a good scratch every now and then. This time, however, the dog's muscles remained knotted and tense beneath his bristling coat of fur, and he continued to bark in quick staccato notes. "Now, Soris, your master is fine, he has just had too much to drink like a—"

"Sweet Maker! Get Morrigan! Sten, Shale, whichever—I need you to carry him to my tent. Move! Now!"

The change in Wynne's tone had Zevran hovering over her shoulder before he realized he had moved. It was difficult to discern what Wynne had seen between the interplay of shadows and wavering firelight, but Daen's eyes were rolled clear to the back of his head and his chin was covered in the dark liquid of the beer he had been sipping. He was clearly unconscious, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he struggled to breathe.

Sten bumped casually past Zevran and bent over, rising with the Warden's limp body in his arms and setting off for Wynne's tent without a word. The mage followed, outpaced only by the dog; Alistair trailed behind.

"What happened, Zevran? Did you see?" Leliana appeared by Zevran's side with a silence he took a moment to admire. She had gone to call for Morrigan, and the witch followed her with the surefooted tread of a hunting wolf.

"Yes, Zevran, pray tell what emergency requires my attention now? I certainly had no personal desire to join your latest round of debauchery." Morrigan raised her eyebrows to punctuate her irritation, heavily lidded eyes lazy with disdain. She looked at everyone like that, their lovely swamp witch, but she had been particularly disgusted with Zevran in recent weeks. Oh, he knew what he had done to earn such special treatment from those yellow eyes. But Zevran loved interfering, and Morrigan didn't appreciate interference, and somebody still had to save the poor boy from her clutches. Zevran had been more than happy to volunteer.

Zevran couldn't resist a charming smile. "I suspect our dear Warden has had too much to drink."

"Is that all?" Morrigan sighed and fiddled with the pouch of herbs hanging from her belt, puffing her cheeks slightly in relieved irritation. "'Tis not fatal, then. I certainly have the ingredients necessary to take care of a headache—'though I would personally suggest that he be allowed to suffer a bit to learn a lesson."

"I do not think it is just that he had too much to drink, Zevran," Leliana interjected. "I have never heard Wynne speak with such urgency. And the dog, I think she is trying to tell us there is something wrong."

Oghren grunted and belched, having just drained Daen's abandoned mug. "Like I said—the elf's had worse. Ye might wanna check 'm out, witchy. 'M sure it's nothing, but Wynne asked fer ye. 'T'ain't somethin' she can cure on 'er own." He paused, blinking rapidly. "Whoa. Did ye jus' see the dragon that flew by? 'Ad a hole in its belly the size o' my fist! Eh...someone should shoot it. Hand me my crossbow, would ye?"

Morrigan sighed again and headed towards the tent, sidestepping Sten as he emerged. Zevran took Sten's lack of alarm as a good sign—although the qunari never really had much of a range of expressions.

"What has happened, Sten?" Leliana called out, jogging towards Wynne's tent. Sten seemed to have decided to assume a post by the tent flap rather than return to the fire. Zevran shrugged and followed—it was unlikely that Wynne's tent would be able to hold many more people. Oghren remained at the fire, forsaking mugs to down the rest of the beer straight from the barrel.

Sten looked down at the red-haired bard. Leliana often seemed to confuse him, but he tolerated her, just as he did the others. "The Warden is not well," he said shortly. "He may have been poisoned."

Zevran felt as if the qunari had just thrown him off of a roof. "What? Maker preserve us!" Leliana cried. He watched her throw the tent flaps open and duck inside. Zevran caught a glimpse of a pile of armor and a familiar pair of bare feet before the flaps fluttered shut.

"Poisoned, you say?" Zevran echoed. It was strange feeling this way; the last time he had felt so unsteady was after watching Taliesen slit Rinna's throat. This is a dangerous sign, Zevran, he thought. But not something to think about now.

A slender hand suddenly latched on to his wrist. Morrigan poked her head out of the tent, her eyes burning like a dragon's. "Get in here this moment, assassin," she hissed. "And pray that this isn't your doing, or Wynne's tent will be dyed with your blood."

Zevran let Morrigan haul him into the tent. He could only enter up to his shoulders, as the tent was barely big enough to accommodate all of its current inhabitants. Wynne had lit enough candles to provide a deal of illumination and warmth, and now there was no mistaking that something was very wrong with the Warden. Daen convulsed against Alistair's chest, feet scraping feebly at the ground and kicking Wynne's blanket into a crumpled mess. The human's arms were wrapped under Daen's armpits and over his chest in as much an effort to keep Daen upright as it was to keep him from standing. Daen clawed at Alistair's arms with one hand. The other was caught up in Leliana's white-knuckled grasp, the bard's hair glowing like an ember in the candlelight. The elf's head lolled on Alistair's shoulder, his face had the pallor of a corpse. The dark liquid Zevran had assumed was beer was not: it was blood, smeared across his chin and draining from his nose and into his mouth, and dripping from under his lids like tears. Wynne shoved a rag against Daen's nose as Zevran watched and began dabbing at his eyes with another, but blood continued to seep through with a relentless steadiness.

Alistair threw Morrigan a glance full of alarm. "Well, do something!" he cried. Wynne interrupted, clicking her tongue in annoyance. "Hold him steady, Alistair!" she barked, throwing a soaked rag to the side and ripping a new length from a mangled undershirt. "The bleeding isn't stopping. If I could just find the source, I could heal it! It's like he's bleeding from a thousand cuts. Morrigan!"

"'Twould be more illuminating to speak to someone with a more...specific knowledge of poisons first." Morrigan tugged Zevran further into the tent.

"Is this your doing, Zevran?" Alistair asked in a low voice. The dog growled as if on cue, conveying enough threat in its bared fangs to render a wiser elf speechless. Zevran had long known that the mabari was far more intelligent than the common watchdogs he was accustomed to dealing with in Antiva, but he could only hope the dog's intelligence meant he would be able to understand what he had to say next.

"I swear it is not; my oath to the Warden holds true. But I recognize the symptoms." Zevran squeezed past Morrigan and shook his wrist free of her hand, kneeling by the bedroll. "Morrigan, boil five stalks of elfroot in two pots with enough water to cover them and bring both here, and wrest whatever remains of the beer from the dwarf if you can. Wynne, we will need many more rags. Leliana, it is best that you leave. I am sorry." The witch and the bard left the tent without a word, and the sound of ripping cloth filled the air as Wynne reduced the shirt to a pile of strips. The dog whined while Zevran gently pinched Daen's chin and tilted the elf's head back so that he could look inside Daen's mouth. The line where his gums met his teeth were already beginning to show faint signs of bleeding. Zevran's chest twisted painfully as Daen gurgled and coughed, like someone who had just been stabbed in the lungs, and he released the Warden's chin immediately.

"Well, Zevran, out with it—what is it?" Wynne snapped impatiently.

"It's a Crow concoction, isn't it?" Alistair demanded. "I've never seen anything work so...dramatically."

"Yes, it is. But not one of mine," Zevran added hastily as the dog growled again. "I cannot use it without a great deal of caution, you see. The humans call it elfbane; it only affects elves, as the name suggests. Particularly popular when one's mark is an elven mage, as they tend to be difficult to deal with using normal tactics, and they are typically the only ones worth the trouble of brewing the poison. Quite the tedious process. Ah, Alistair, it is a good idea to keep Daen upright like that for now. He wants to stand because he believes it will help him breathe, but the effort to stand alone will only make the blood come out faster. Best to keep him as still as possible."

"He stopped breathing when we put him on his back," Alistair explained. He attempted to wipe away a fresh line of blood leaking from Daen's closed eyes. "What is with all of the bleeding? How much longer does he have?"

"The bleeding is one of the nasty effects of the poison. The elfroot will help, but without it? Not much longer."

"What, is he going to bleed to death or something?" Alistair's voice cracked like an adolescent's on "bleed." The human suddenly looked much younger in Zevran's eyes, all gawky and so uncertain of himself that he could not bring himself to take on much responsibility. "Maker! How long does it take to boil water?"

"Bleeding to death is one of the options," Zevran said slowly. "The alternative essentially involves drowning in one's own blood. The poison is causing parts of his membranes to bleed—that is what you are seeing from his eyes and nose. Eventually it will be coming from his mouth as well, and that is a general sign that he has not long to live. For now, keeping him still and upright will stave off the possibility of his lungs filling with blood. Unfortunately, the more time passes, the more likely that he will bleed to death instead. The elfroot helps to slow the bleeding, but it cannot stop it. And it is as you have already discovered, Wynne, magic cannot cure a poison such as this."

"But is there a cure?" Wynne asked urgently.

"I...there is. But it will not be an easy thing to retrieve."

The tent flap rustled as Morrigan re-entered, a steaming pot in each hand and the beer barrel sloshing at her feet. She kicked the barrel a few inches in and waved a pungent-smelling pot under Zevran's nose. "Well, what now, assassin?"

Zevran plucked a few strips of rags from Wynne's pile and dipped them into one of the pots in turn. His gloves were not enough to protect him from the boiled water, but he had endured worse. He juggled the rags until they had cooled slightly, and took a pot from Morrigan. "Wynne, open his mouth for me and tilt his head back." After Wynne had done so, Zevran wrung the liquid from one of the rags directly into Daen's open mouth. The Warden coughed, but his breaths loosened. "Tilt him forward slightly—he must breathe the steam from the pot."

Alistair leaned forward with an arm across Daen's chest to keep the elf from slumping over; Wynne reached out and lay a hand on Daen's forehead, pushing his sweat-drenched bangs from his forehead and keeping his head from falling to his chest. Zevran brought the pot under Daen's face and patted the elf's twitching leg. "Can you hear me, amora?" he asked softly. "Breathe as deeply as you can. Through the mouth is fine." He couldn't resist and leaned closer, voice pitched lower to brush Daen's ears. "Just as you like it."

"Sweet Maker, do you never stop?" Alistair exclaimed, too close to have missed Zevran's addendum. Wynne shot a glance of confused disapproval at the apparently unprovoked outburst. The look Alistair gave Zevran in the meantime would have shamed a Chantry mother. Zevran had done it deliberately, of course, and he spared a quick peek to enjoy the ripples of disgust and abject horror washing over Alistair's face. He had no idea if Alistair had broached Zevran to Daen the way Wynne had (with both of them, as a matter of fact, that implacable mage), but the young human had certainly been making free with the disapproving morning stares of late. Such a Fereldan! He will do fine as the king of prudes.

Zevran's eyes darted back to Daen's face in the next moment, hoping to see a reaction there. There was none—not unless one were to count the sudden puckering of Daen's brow as a wet groan clamored up his throat. It could have been a remnant of a laugh, but it was not what Zevran was hoping to see; at any other time, the comment would have at least earned him a blush as scarlet as a fish's gill and with the wide-eyed, gape-jawed expression to match. Still, the leg beneath his hand seemed to shiver in response. The Warden did at least begin to breathe more steadily, despite the blood still dripping from his eyes and nose. The water bloomed with roses of blood, but the dripping slowed and then stopped long before the steam stopped rising from the pot. Zevran held the pot under Daen's face for a few more seconds before setting it to the side.

"He will need to remain propped up, but Alistair's height is a bit unnecessary now. We need something lower. Pillows, or perhaps some extra clothes."

"I don't have a pillow, but clothes...just a moment." Wynne turned and snatched up her knapsack. "I think I have a spare robe in here. It might not be thick enough..."

The dog barked suddenly and sat upright, his stubby tail wagging. He looked at Zevran, cocked his head to the side, and whined.

"Ah, I take it you are volunteering yourself, my slobbery friend? Very well. Alistair, to the side, if you please."

Morrigan stepped out of the tent to give Wynne and Alistair some maneuvering space. The dog settled himself into the spot Alistair previously occupied at the head of the bedroll, and Alistair gingerly lowered Daen so that the elf's head was pillowed comfortably on the dog's back while his torso rested at a gentle incline on the flank and rear paws. Soris twisted around to gaze at Daen's face and licked the Warden's neck hopefully. Daen smiled faintly and rested a hand on the dog's snout, but the movement was strained. His face relaxed into a restful unconsciousness in the next moment.

The blood had formed a crust that sealed Daen's lids shut; Zevran used a cloth to wipe it away, then placed another dampened rag across Daen's eyes.

"Hey, look, he isn't all white anymore," Alistair said with relief, leaning over Daen's face.

"We have the heat from the water to thank for that. It may not last." Wynne placed a restraining hand on Alistair's chest and pushed the Warden back. "Let him breathe, Alistair. He's had a close call. Will he be all right for now, Zevran?"

Zevran touched his fingers to Daen's pale cheek. Wynne was right; the warmth was all on the surface of the Warden's face, and he could feel it cooling already beneath his fingers. Daen turned his face into the touch so minutely it could have just been a tremble. "For now, yes. Someone should stay with him to change and refresh the compresses when they dry out, however, and there should be boiled elfroot water on hand at all times. He must alternate between breathing the steam and drinking the water every half or so. The elfroot will help to slow the bleeding, but it will only do so much."

"Good. Soris, stay with Daen and bark if anything changes. Alistair, Zevran—outside, if you please." Wynne scratched the dog briefly behind his ears and stepped out of the tent. Zevran picked up the blood-tinted pot of elfroot water and glanced back at Daen before leaving. He looked smaller than ever.

It was clear that the others had been waiting for them to emerge. "Well, are we down a Warden already?" Oghren demanded sourly. "And no Archdemon in sight. Figures."

"He's fine, for now." Wynne crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a steady gaze at Zevran. "The Crow attacks were supposed to stop, or so I thought Daen told me. How did this happen?"

Zevran hooked a foot over the butt of the beer barrel poking out of Wynne's tent and tipped it upright. "This, I would wager. Ignacio did only say that there would be no more new contracts, no? What we have witnessed is the fruit of someone who had both a great deal of money and a contract on the Wardens before our Daen concluded his business with Ignacio."

"Loghain!" Alistair cursed. "How many did he hire besides you?"

"That, I would not know. It did not matter for my own bid, after all." Zevran looked at the grass, finding it difficult to meet anyone's eyes. "It is my fault. I should have suspected..."

Morrigan snorted. "Yes, yes, your regret is most helpful. The more pressing question in my mind is why Alistair is still standing beside us—surely if Loghain's hand is behind this, he would want to remove the presumed heir to the throne as well as the otherwise inconsequential elf?"

Alistair coughed and shifted his weight uncomfortably. It had only been a few days since Arl Eamon had revealed Alistair's heritage, and not all of the companions had accepted the news easily. Daen, for one, had been especially bitter at his brother Warden's secrecy, resulting in the two having one of their rare brawls. Alistair was well trained, but Daen was much faster; in the end, the former limped away on a twisted ankle, while the latter came out of it with two cracked ribs.

Zevran, meanwhile, had been sorely tempted to slip something into Alistair's tent that night—nothing the man couldn't handle, just a small trap at the bottom of his bedroll, or perhaps a mouse or two in his pack. If the two Wardens hadn't seemed to have forgotten about the fight the next day...

All things considered now, though, it was probably a good thing that he had resisted the temptation.

"Well, yes, that does seem a little strange, doesn't it?" Alistair muttered.

"I do not doubt that they will go after you next, my friend," Zevran said, letting the barrel fall back on its side. The responding slosh of its liquid contents only served to punctuate his statement. "Divide and conquer is not an uncommon Crow strategy—and, as my attempt demonstrated, it can be very frustrating to attack two Grey Wardens simultaneously. It was perhaps just chance that they found the opportunity to poison our elf Warden first, yes?"

"But what was it?" Leliana asked anxiously.

"Some sort of Crow poison that only affects elves," Wynne replied curtly. Her grey old eyes were locked on Zevran with a sternness he had not seen since she had last approached him to scold him about Daen. "As Zevran has said, it is very expensive to make, causes excessive bleeding, is highly useful in assassinating elven mages...and there is a cure, is there not, Zevran?"

"You said you would have to retrieve it," Alistair interjected. "What did you mean? We can't just get the raw ingredients and have Morrigan make it?"

"I mean no offense to our formidable Morrigan, but I do not think she has the knowledge to do so. And, in any case, quite a few of the ingredients can only be found in specific places well outside of Ferelden. There is, for example, one very rare ingredient that only grows along the shores of the Free Marches. Traveling aside, there is a very real possibility we will spend days running up and down those shores just trying to find a single flower." Zevran shook his head. "The antidote is much more expensive and troublesome to make than the poison, and the time it will take to make it ourselves? It would be too late. We have but a day at most. The elfroot will begin to lose its effectiveness soon, and then it will be up to our Warden to fight the poison on his own."

"If only we hadn't already used the Ashes!" Alistair groaned. "I mean, not that it isn't great that Eamon's up and about, but all he was doing was sleeping and Daen's about to kick it right here."

"Helpful as always," Morrigan muttered.

"I don't see you suggesting anything," Alistair shot back.

"But what are the chances that we will find the finished antidote here?" Leliana asked, interrupting Morrigan's frosty response.

"Better than anything else, particularly as there are Crows in Ferelden. The problem is which Crow to look for. Many of the elven Crows carry the antidote on them at all times once they can afford it—insurance, you understand, in case something or someone goes awry. Oghren, coincidentally, mentioned that he procured this barrel from an elf passing by Lake Calenhad, did he not?"

"Aye, I did. Ye think she was a Crow?" Oghren rubbed his beard. "There weren't anything suspicious about 'er. Had 'er whole family along for the ride. Outrunnin' the Blight, she said, an' unloadin' everything she could fer a few coins along the way. What kind o' Crow travels with two o' 'er own puggles an' the grandparents in tow?"

"A Crow does. This may make things slightly easier." Zevran's hands tingled in anticipation. "Here is what I propose. I shall find the Crow and see if I can talk the antidote out of her. She is our best and closest bet at the moment, and to be frank, if she does not have the antidote on her, there is very little hope for our Warden. They will be on the move; I must leave immediately."

"Hold on," Alistair objected. "I don't like this. How do we know you aren't just going to run off? It seems to me that it'd be a pretty good deal for you—half of your own contract's almost done, anyway."

Zevran frowned. "You wound me, Alistair. It has been many months. I thought it would be clear by now that I have no intention of completing the contract. There was a time limit on mine and it has long since expired. I am in breach, and the only remedy to that is my death. In any case, spending as long a time with the marks as I have is quite contrary to Crow training. We do not, how do you say, caboodle with the marks for any longer than we must."

"I don't think that's the—" Alistair shook his head. "You know what, never mind. Not important. I'm still going with you. He's a Warden, for crying out loud. If there's a chance of a cure, I have to see it through."

Zevran shrugged negligently. Alistair was not as stupid and careless as he liked to portray himself, but there were times when his continued suspicion was intensely trying. Did he not realize that time was of the essence? "These Crows—they will have more poisons on them, I guarantee, and it will be difficult to deal with them without a certain degree of skill. And if I may, shall I remind you that the contract is most likely for two Grey Wardens, not just one elf? You and I may not always get along, Alistair, but I have no desire to see you turn purple and expire while your intestines leak from your nether regions."

"You're joking. You Crows actually have a poison that does that?" Alistair looked like he had just smelled sour milk. "That's sick."

"This is ridiculous. Decide something, and decide quickly. I'm putting more elfroot to boil." Wynne snatched the pot from Zevran. "Can't reuse something he's leaked into. We're going to need a lot more of these," she muttered under her breath as she stalked away.

Zevran was too focused on dealing with Alistair to pay much attention to Wynne. "With half of the Ferelden Grey Wardens bleeding his life out in the tent behind us, you are far too important to risk simply to satisfy your own mistrust. There will be plenty of time to learn of the Crows should you become king, but right now you are underestimating the training. Oghren, Sten, and Shale are all not suited for the speed and stealth that this mission will require—my apologies."

The qunari didn't even blink. "It is true. We are not."

Oghren belched. "Not that I'm agreein' with the qunari, but...I got the elf into this mess. It might be best if I stay out o' more trouble."

The golem merely shrugged. "The painted elf is wiser than I gave it credit for."

Zevran continued. "Short of the actual antidote, Wynne is best suited of all of us to care for Daen; he will not succumb so easily with her watching over him. The dog is doing his part already. This leaves Leliana and Morrigan."

"Most thrilling," Morrigan interjected dryly. "I shall join you if I must, but there is little I could offer by way of speed or stealth. 'Tis likely I am more useful here."

"Then I will go with you." Leliana stepped forward. "If it would put Alistair at ease, then I think I am most suited for the task at hand. I can risk the poison; I have had to deal with similar dangers in the past, and I am certainly not as valuable as Alistair."

"Very well." Zevran sighed. "We should leave now. Do not forget about the elfroot water. It is all that will help right now. And Wynne was correct about the pots—if he bleeds into them, it is best not to reuse them."

"Then I suppose the rest of us can at least procure more pottery." Alistair nodded. "All right, then, I guess. Get going. Leliana, I'm counting on you."

Zevran bowed sarcastically in the human's direction. Leliana bent and slung her bow over her shoulder, hesitated, and touched Zevran's elbow as he turned on his heel to depart. "Zevran. Do you not wish to see Daen before you go?" she whispered low into his ear. "There is a chance..."

Zevran almost nodded. Instinct. The wrong one. "No. It is not necessary. Let us be off."