Twilight was deepening into night as Rilian and Zevran stood before the Alienage wall. Thin, sharp needles of rain pattered down, striking the stone in a staccato rhythm and plastering red hair and blond to their scalps. Both wore light, nondescript leather armour; both were armed with longsword and dagger. Zevran carried a light bow, strapped to his back - Rilian did not. He teased about her inability to master what was still considered Elvenkind's signature weapon, and Rilian took it with good grace. From her earliest training with Adaia to Duncan's lessons, the sword was already her weapon of choice: face-to-face, hand-to-hand. She shrugged and said softly:
"If I were carrying a bow, I couldn't bring this," She patted the large goatskin bag at her belt. It sloshed. "Arl Eamon told Alistair the truth - I really was buying supplies." She winked. "Oil," she explained, and then patted the small pouch on her other side, "Flint and tinder."
Zevran's grin gleamed white in the darkness. His golden eyes flickered left and right, never still. He had left a handful of silver in the eager palm of the guard on duty - an enterprising sort with a knack for averting his eyes at exactly the right moment - and there were no other soldiers in sight.
Zevran uncoiled a length of rope from his belt and threw the grappling hook to the top of the wall. Rilian tried not to think about how flimsy it looked as he climbed up, as soundlessly as a bat, his movements graceful, confident, never wasted. She found herself thinking of Soris' pet cat, One-Eyed-Sal (so called not because she only had one eye, but because she had eyes of different colours: one pale blue, and one a brilliant green. In the dark, she was unnerving, with that single emerald orb staring out at you). Rilian had watched her glide silently through shadows and shrubbery, leaping to rocks and window-sills at a full run. Even when she fell short, she managed to make the mistake seem intentional, never losing her agile dignity. Zevran's lithe commitment to every action reminded her of that cat.
When he reached the top, Rilian followed him, though with far less grace. He had to help her up the last few feet, and when she reached the top she flattened herself along the foot-wide ledge and stared down at the human side of the city, catching her breath.
Covered torches were everywhere - hanging from walls, nestled into stone alcoves, lighting the way for an ever-busy market. Golden light spilled out, gilding the rain-slick streets with an iridescent sheen. Shouts and haggling and laughter drifted upward. The Orlesian oils sold by the woman Liselle scented the air like some dark, heavy perfumed flower. The shop rooftops offered a landscape of their own - Rilian suspected Zevran knew them as well as most of Denerim's citizens knew its streets. The rain could be seen as much as felt: a continuous spattering of light-rings on the surface of puddles. It began to fall more heavily, shining on the mirror-wet stone and streets that wound beneath her like glistening black snakes. The torchlight reflected in it, making the city blur in Rilian's vision, becoming a dark, sparkling jewel around her.
"Zevran, look!" she whispered, enchanted, "It's like - like one of those weird paintings Arl Eamon has: imp…something or other! Or the perfect map…" But Zevran had already started on his descent. Rilian bit her lip, rather ashamed of sight-seeing when there was work to be done. As skillfully as she could manage, she followed after him.
Zevran let go of the rope a few feet from the ground, shifting his weight a bit to compensate for the bow on his back. In one smooth move he drew the Crow dagger and landed in a crouch, eyes shifting left and right, checking for danger.
Rilian tried the same, only lost her grip on the rope a few moments before she meant to. Her world turned over, splintered into a rain-lashed vortex that spun crazily. Unlike Zevran, she did not land lithely on her feet. Her body exploded into a tornado of screaming bruises as she hit the ground and rolled over, coming to rest in a graceless heap at the assassin's feet. To her amazement, nothing seemed to be broken - not even the seal on the goatskin bag. Zevran extended a hand to help her up - his entire face lit up in a maddening smirk.
"Not a word," she muttered, glaring at him.
"My lips are sealed, my Warden."
On this side of the Wall, the scents and sounds and candlelight were snuffed out as though they had never been. Foul-smelling water pooled darkly in the gutters like blood; the crumbling wooden shacks seemed to sink into the mud like decaying molars. Even this early in the evening, the streets were completely deserted. That wasn't normal - even with the curfew Arl Urien had imposed, the streets of her home were normally lively well into the night. Men drained mugs after work at the docks, or sat in their doorways playing cards while their wives cooked and children played. Memories of all the evenings she and Shianni and Soris had spent as children: huddled in Alarith's store over tales of exotic lands, clutching mugs of the ale that Cyrion had forbidden them - or later, when it was just her and Shianni and the other girls, gossiping about lads and matchmaking - rose up in a fierce wave of longing; she struggled to hold back the tears. In the distance, the Arl of Denerim's estate towered over everything like an inky iceberg.
"Come on," Rilian said, when she was sure her voice was steady, "We'll go to my father's house - he'll fill us in with what's happened." She absolutely would not allow herself to consider any alternative. Zevran only nodded, and they made their way through narrow, winding streets. Darkened, faceless buildings were shut and boarded. The airless, lightless place smelled of mold and rot, of long-lost hopes. Rilian saw only one figure, lying curled on his side as though sleeping. It was Timon: an elderly man, crippled in a dockside accident. Rilian had known him, and given him what she could, though he'd been too proud to accept Cyrion's offer of shelter. She called out to him - then stopped.
His dead face was disfigured by something that looked like plague. An emaciated cat was eating one of his hands.
Rilian turned away, bent double, and threw up against the side of a building, the vomit hardly making a difference amid the general filth.
"If that's what it looks like, we'd best not get too close," Zevran warned her.
For a moment, Rilian wanted to yell at him: the heartless assassin who'd seen so much death one more hardly registered. She yearned for Alistair - he would have understood: he'd taken the sights of Dust Town so much to heart he hadn't even considered supporting anyone but Prince Bhelen. Then she stopped, ashamed. She hadn't lived like Zevran: what right did she have to judge?
"Plague on top of slavery," Zevran murmured, "Well - with any luck the slavers will get it too; one less problem to deal with. And just because it took one old man doesn't mean your family will be affected."
Rilian managed a tremulous smile and squeezed his hand. "You're good at this, aren't you? You really are a sweet man."
"Just what every guy wants to hear," Zevran muttered, "Come on; we have work."
When they reached the little wooden door that marked the entrance to Cyrion's house on the corner, Rilian's heart almost stopped. It looked as empty and boarded up as all the rest. She stood for a moment, frozen. It had been easier to face the dragon than it was to approach - so she walked up quickly, face white and set as though in battle.
There was no answer to her knock - but something moved faintly inside: a thud and then a scrape.
"Father," she called out, "Cyrion - it's me. It's Ril…"
The door was unbolted and opened a crack - and Rilian looked into a face very like hers though rounder, the woman shorter and more feminine. Stared into features warped into a caricature of the Shianni she knew. Eyes like moons. Throat muscles ridged like steel cables. Lips pulled back in a grimace of fear and determination; one hand holding a kitchen knife.
That knife dropped to the ground with a clatter. "Ril? It is you? I thought - they said - Ostagar…"
A moment later they were in each other's arms, Shianni stroking her cousin's hair as though it were Rilian who needed comforting. Laughing, crying, Shianni looked past Rilian to Zevran; sized him up with expert eyes. "I must say you do have good taste!"
"I…" Rilian stammered, "He's not - I mean, this is Zevran. Zevran - meet my cousin, Shianni."
Now, she thought, was not the time to explain about Alistair. She had spent hours imagining the moment she introduced him to her family - surely once they met him they would love him, as she did. But they'd have to meet him first: if I just say, "I'm seeing a shem - by the way, he's the future King"… and to Shianni - well, now's hardly the time anyway…
It made sense to wait. So why did she feel furtive, ashamed?
There were two other people at home besides Shianni. Rilian's face lit up as she saw Soris. Her other cousin was slouched insouciantly against the wall in a familiar pose - but the drawn closed look on his face was new.
"So - you're the Warden?" he asked, "The one everyone's been talking about? The dragon-slayer? I might have known." He gave her an oddly flat half-smile.
The third person wasn't her father, but a human - a familiar one! At first glance he always looked old - but Rilian knew he wasn't. The hairless head was scarred from flame; the milky, sightless eyes stared out of a young man's face. Ser Otto had been the Templar assigned to the Alienage for several years - he had escorted Mother Boann when she came to teach or perform ceremonies. She had seen Arl Urien's guards make fun of his faltering steps once, and had stepped forward and offered him her arm. I don't need pity, he had snapped. Just as well, she had replied, I had to waste mine on those ignorant shems who never learned basic manners. The response had startled him into becoming her friend. He had even visited their house and sampled her father's famous cooking (Cyrion could make even gruel taste good; what he had done with the food the knight brought had to be tasted to be believed).
"Ser Otto - it's so good to see you again!"
The Templar smiled. He had always liked Rilian - and enjoyed the fact that she said a sentence like that without the slightest shred of embarrassment (unlike most of his comrades, who always dried up at mention of the word "see").
"We held your funeral service five months ago," he told her, "Along with those of Mother Boann and Tir and all the others who went to Ostagar. I…" his face seemed to come alive, then freeze, "I suppose there is no chance…"
"I'm sorry," Rilian whispered, "There were only four of us that made it out. My…my fellow Grey Warden, Alistair - a Circle Healer named Wynne - and my mabari, Ravenous."
She, too, closed her eyes. For long months after Adaia had died her father had been so sunk in grief she'd had to look after him. It had been Mother Boann who had helped her, who had been mentor, teacher, friend. She had always hoped the woman and Ser Otto would get together - her instinct for matchmaking had gone into overdrive. But both had been too devoted to their vows - and now the young cleric had died as she had lived: helping others. At least - in Rilian's reality she had died, though she hadn't seen it, because the alternative was…at once, an iron curtain came down in her mind, shutting off that train of thought.
"Well, I am glad that, at least in your case, the ceremony proved premature," he said softly, the ghost of a smile flickering about his lips.
Shianni bustled about, the clear mistress of the house, making tea for Rilian and Zevran and Ser Otto (Soris was already drinking what smelled like strong ale - Rilian was puzzled; he'd never been used to it before - she and Shianni had always ended up picking him off the floor at Alarith's) and pulling up wooden crates so they could sit (Ser Otto had the only proper chair). Rilian could almost believe this was a normal reunion - almost forget the dread that surrounded them and the reason she had come. She petted the little dog, Helm-Piddle, who was curled as close as he dared to their meager fire. The lion's share was occupied by Soris' cat, Sal. She was as thin and scruffy as all the other Alienage cats, yet there was a certain weird beauty about her that appealed to Rilian. She was very pale and very sleek - with a long pointed face, very long ears, and almond-shaped, mismatched eyes. She possessed the large paws and rippling hard muscle structure of a born hunter, and right now her arched back and bristling fur showed her displeasure at the intrusion. The first time she had encountered Helm-Piddle she had puffed up like three cats, uttered a fearful miaow of hatred and defiance, and launched herself at him. Helm-Piddle had known ever afterwards who was boss - Rilian found herself wondering if she dared bring Ravenous home, and a smile crept onto her face. Perhaps deciding that she did not like the company - or perhaps that it was time to hunt - the cat rose lithely to her feet and marched disdainfully past Rilian with her tail held high. She leaped atop the box - her tail twitched once against Rilian's thigh - then up onto the windowsill. The boards Shianni had nailed to the inside left just enough space for her to squeeze though. For just an instant she glared into the room with queenly hauteur - then she was gone.
When the little group were sat together Rilian could no longer avoid the question she dreaded.
"Shianni," she whispered, "Where's father?" Why were you so afraid when I knocked - has it started already? Or is he…
Shianni's face crumpled. "I'm so sorry, Ril. He's…"
…No…
"He got sick three days ago, along with Elder Valendrian. No-one knows what started the plague - it's not like anything I've seen. There are healers here - shems - they took them into hospital along with the others - but they won't let anyone see them!" Shianni's voice had risen - she banged the table in frustration and got up to pace about, "No-one will answer questions. But I think it's strange that healers arrived at the same time as the sickness - and Ser Otto says…"
"I don't think it's a natural sickness. I'm a Templar - I can sense dark magic at work. That's why I'm here - to find answers. I tried to tell my superiors but they…feel I'm making too much of a perfectly natural tragedy."
They feel that once a man loses the ability to fight he's not worth listening to, Rilian thought angrily, Or that he's making it up to regain some former glory…
But what she said was, "If the healers have started the plague how do they protect themselves? Is there magic that can do that - take members of one race, and leave another…
The very thought was so monstrous she paled. She had seen Ser Otto's scars - gained in a duel with a maleficar - long before she had met mages like Wynne. Everything she had seen in that Tower had only confirmed her belief that unchecked magic was dangerous. I can't see how any group of people can have that much power that others can't share without being tempted to misuse it, she had said to Wynne - who had agreed. And yet - it had been the Templars who had run through a boy of fourteen, and men like Vaughan didn't need magic to be sadistic. It's not the magic that corrupts; it's having power…
"I'm afraid I believe so," Ser Otto said heavily, "What I don't understand is - why?"
"I know," said Rilian bitterly, "Zevran intercepted a letter from Teyrn Loghain giving Arl Howe permission to sell Elves into slavery. The list had twelve names on it: Mathis, Shanis, Tomas, Pic, Girnis…"
"All arrested this morning," Shianni said, "We'd expected something like it for a while: there'd been trouble - the new Arl's courtyard got smashed… it's why everyone's hiding in boarded-up houses. But this - if the plague's a cover - they could take a lot more before we even questioned it. By the time we found out, there wouldn't be enough of us left to resist."
"Magic allied to the greed of slavers and the ruthlessness of a man like Teyrn Loghain is a recipe for pure evil," Ser Otto said flatly, "We must stop it."
Rilian grinned - got to her feet, "That's why Zev and I are here."
To her surprise Soris stepped forward angrily. "How?" he demanded, "Anything you do will just make things worse for the rest of us. You weren't here when the old Arl's men took revenge for our rescue of you and Shianni and the others. You didn't see…"
Sick at heart, Rilian watched Shianni get to her feet, pale and trembling and fighting back tears. "What are you saying, cousin - that you wish you hadn't come? That you and Nelaros had just left the five of us to that…that shem? I know folks were hard on you after Ril left: they blame the blameless, the victim - people always do. But how could things be worse than slavery; we should be glad these two are here - we should help!"
It was question Rilian had sometimes asked herself. If Soris and Nelaros hadn't come after them she and all the others would have shared Shianni's fate - but they would live. Nelaros would be alive…she could find it in herself to wish they hadn't come, just for that. She thought about power - about her plan to force Loghain to terms - what would the cost be to her people if it went wrong? Wasn't it wrong to force her plan on them - for their own good - just because she had the power to do so? What gave her the right to decide?
"Shianni," she said softly, cutting across the tension, "I need you to think about something. It's not a choice between slavery and safety. If we do manage to put a stop to the slave trade, our community will either be stuck here - in a city soon to be attacked by darkspawn - or fleeing as refugees, with nothing but the clothes on their backs. I..I even thought: Zev and I have the use of a ship; we could take some people - the ones marked for arrest anyway, anyone who wants to fight - to join our army. But I'm a Warden - any men I lead, it's towards the darkspawn, not safety. And we couldn't take nearly everyone. The Alienage isn't defensible - anyone who stays will be hiding in cellars praying the creatures overlook them."
Shianni was glaring at Rilian, getting more and more angry. "Well - that fate's the same as for any humans left in Denerim; why should arrogant shems get to decide that we can be sold like cattle - for our own good! We were both prisoners once - I don't know about you, Ril, but I decided: never again. As a family, we live free, or we die free."
Shianni was staring at her cousin in baffled exasperation. Rilian was magnificent: in the armour that she wore casually, the flat sinewy muscles of her tanned arms criss-crossed with battle-scars. She looked as if she had grown several inches: there was pride in her bearing, an unconscious carry-over of command. Now that Shianni knew she was the Warden, those stories became internalized: something for their family to take pride in. Yet her amber eyes could only be called haunted, as if all her sights of the world beyond the Alienage walls had made her more frightened, not less. They were the eyes of a child who has seen that there really are monsters under the bed.
"I would rather be a slave than be taken by darkspawn," Rilian said, and the haunted look only deepened.
She said no more. Shianni wondered why she wouldn't share. They were close as sisters; Shianni the elder by two years: Rilian had always confided in her. There were changes going on in her: dark, wrenching concerns and realizations that Shianni couldn't guess at. She sensed it all as a warning, and winced inwardly. Rilian was a good person; eager to do the right things. Why did she feel that now, when Rilian was most at risk and needed someone to be afraid for her, that she was a little bit afraid of her? And why in the world did that make her feel all the more protective? It was confusing.
"Maybe you're right, cousin," Shianni allowed, "It's not really for either of us to decide - it's for Valendrian. But they've taken him - and the reason those shems took him first is so we'd lose the power to decide our own fate. Just for that, I say we do this. I'm in - I'll help you any way I can."
"Shianni…"
But her cousin had already reached under the floorboards and pulled up the bow that they had practiced with, in secret, under Adaia's guidance. Rilian knew now that it was hardly a proper bow - not one such as the Dalish or human soldiers used. That knowledge had dried up among the city elves: what they had could take a man in light armour at very close range, but no more. Still - this entire thing would be fought in close quarters. Shianni handed her something - and Rilian gasped, her eyes suddenly full of tears.
"This is mother's dagger - I didn't know father had kept it!"
"I'm sure she'd want you to have it," Shianni said gently.
Rilian again opened her mouth to talk Shianni out of coming - realized it would do no good, and shut it. Ser Otto was standing next to Zevran - to her surprise the assassin was acting as his guide:
"If we're taking on mages you're going to need me," the knight said with a grin, "You can be my eyes - and I'll provide the Cleansing Aura, Holy Smite and Mana Drain!"
Rilian grinned too, excitement beginning to spark in her like flame. No matter her doubts, coming together in a group like this to defend their home was thrilling. Last of all, she looked at Soris.
"I'm sorry about what happened after I left," she told him quietly, "And if - you feel it's best…"
But Soris was already holding the longsword he'd borrowed from Duncan all those months ago - she hadn't known he'd kept it. He looked at her and shrugged.
"Someone's got to keep you out of trouble."
The five of them headed out the door, down rain-lashed, deserted streets, until they reached the centre of their community. The great tree towered up into the sky, as if above all mortal concerns. Rilian knew as little as all Alienage elves about the worship of her ancestors: were they gods, or just planted to remind us of them? I'll have to ask Lanaya…
The large building the "healers" had appropriated had been a storehouse once - Rilian saw two guards at its entrance.
"Zevran," she ordered, "Scout out the rear of the building - I want numbers and escape routes. You three, stay here - for now."
Zevran was already moving, alert as a stalking cat, making no more sound than the narrow shadow he cast. An instant later, even the shadow was gone: he disappeared into the night so completely it was as though he'd been swallowed by it. Rilian remained with the others, considering. She knew this building led to a series of abandoned apartments; in turn these led to the docks warehouse. The question was: fight their way through, or go round? There were any number of other routes to the docks, where they could avoid combat until the very end - but that would leave enemies between them and home, and they didn't know where the slaves were being held. Better to fight our way through, if the numbers allow it…
The minutes dragged by - Rilian strained to pierce the night, to follow Zevran's progress, but she could see nothing. Soris began to fidget, hands curling and uncurling round his sword-hilt, shifting from foot to foot. His twitchy aggressiveness might have acted on her frayed nerves, if she hadn't seen it before in raw recruits.
"Patience," she murmured, forcing a grin, and he began to relax, her calmness rubbing off. Shianni's amber eyes were steady - she always had been, even in their worst moments.
Zevran's hand on her shoulder out of the darkness made her jump - she swallowed her shriek of startlement before it left her lips, glaring. "Show-off."
"There's an exit round the back; one guard, already taken care of. And a group in the apartments beyond."
"How can you tell."
"Noise. Firesmoke. And traps at the entrance, which I've disarmed. The question is: around or through?"
"You and I will take care of the "hospice" - the Elves might be in there. Afterwards: I want you, Shianni and Soris to take the long way round and come at the docks warehouse from the back."
"But that just leaves you and Ser Otto…"
"Indeed," Rilian said, squeezing the knight's hand, lips quirked in an impish grin. "I have a bluff in mind - a good bluff's always more important than muscle: you taught me that, Zev."
Rilian and Zevran crept towards the two guards, from shadow to shadow. Rilian copied Zevran, and for once her night skills matched his. When she stood a few feet from the nearest man, she struck. The flat of her blade cracked him behind the ear. He grunted; sagged sideways. Rilian caught him; clapped a hand over his mouth. "Quiet. One sound - you die. Understand?"
The man nodded, fear-rounded eyes glistening. Slowly, cautiously, Rilian loosened her grip. The dark, terrified eyes remained locked on hers. Arching his back, the man pulled away. He opened his mouth to call for help. The attempt was less than a yelp - a pitiful squeak choked by the blade in his throat. Rilian threw herself on top of him. They struggled, rolling on the rain-slick ground, stones scraping under them, the man still trying to cry out. His blood mixed with the rain and mud; black under the moonlight.
Rilian rolled off him and Zevran - for the second time that evening - gave her a hand up.
"And that is why you must ignore your first impulses, my fair Warden," he admonished, "They are often merciful."
Rilian gave a shaky snort. Zevran's turn of phrase could lighten even the darkest day. He had a knack for finding dark humour in the worst of times, and often what he said carried a sting of sense. She had sat with him in taverns, or on watch, sharing stories. Zevran's cynical view of the world was expressed with a knowing delight and an ability to laugh at himself as well as others. Rilian, who often felt too much - loved or hated too passionately - to see the funny side of life, often found her anger over suffering and injustice was soothed by listening to him.
He had already taken care of his man. Without a word, the two kicked open the hospice door - all surprise was lost anyway. Instead of Elven patients, there were only two guards, sat at the far end of the building playing cards. One raised a crossbow - Zevran took him down with an arrow. The other came at Rilian, who ducked under his swing and came up with a swift jab of her dagger to his throat.
They rejoined the others quickly, and split up: Rilian and Ser Otto heading for the apartments; the others taking the longer route to the warehouse proper.
The Warden and Templar met no resistance until they were several doors down. A frightened Elven servant warned them what to expect and then bolted for the corridor towards the Alienage, getting as far away from what was coming as he could.
Rilian opened the next door into what looked like a headquarters of some kind: an opulent rug covered the dirty wooden floorboards; a fire blazed in the grate. Two crossbowmen guarded the door at the far side, and a dark-haired woman who had to be a captain of some kind sat at a desk, reading a scroll. She rose and turned with feline grace; a slender sword leapt to life in her hand.
Rilian gasped. "How can you - an Elf - be a part of this!"
One lustrous black eyebrow raised. "Oh, really," the woman drawled, "Do you think that makes us kin? I am a member of the Tevinter Imperium first; the Minrathous Circle second. Those are the things that matter. In Tevinter many of those who sell Elves into slavery are their own kin - and they profit by it. In my country, Elves can be slaves - or Magister Lords. Ability and power decide. Is your country really so different? Fereldens drone on about freedom - but it was the Hero of River Dane himself who signed the papers. Our presence here is authorized."
"I suppose your mages are responsible for the plague, too," Rilian said. Her voice sounded dry and unmoved, vaguely heartless - she kept a lid on the seething rage it barely covered, remembering their bluff. "If it targets Elves, how do you stay immune?"
In response the woman held up a jewelled ring on one slender hand. Ser Otto gave an angry start beside her. He could not see it, Rilian knew - he must sense something.
"Magic can cut both ways," the woman said, "But don't worry. Come dawn we have all the cargo we need - for now. The plague will vanish when we leave."
…Or when you die…
"Do you still want to fight me?" Dark eyes were glittering, mocking, as the woman sized up the other Elf, taking in the armour, weapons, the lithe physical grace that Rilian wasn't even aware of. "Another Elf that bows to no-one."
It was very similar to something the fierce and beautiful Isabella had said to her, when Rilian, Zevran and the captain of the Siren's Call had met in the Pearl earlier today. Isabella had agreed to help them - in exchange for all the gold they had on them and the promise of more when they reached Rilian's army. It would still not have been enough - but she had made allowances for old times' sake. Those old times had been gone over, in lurid detail, over wine and song, to Rilian's delight and Zevran's embarrassment. Amid the soft music and languor, candlelight gleaming in Zevran's golden eyes and shining on the woman's soft dark skin, Rilian had felt drawn to the two of them in a way that surprised her, though all they had done was talk. When Isabella had drawn a comparison between them Rilian had felt flattered. Now this woman - a fellow Elf - did the same and all she could feel was disgust.
"I'm afraid, madam, that my Order cannot allow that." Ser Otto strode forward, mace glittering in the candlelight, a picture of confidence. The woman could not see the milky eyes in the dim light, but she recognized the distinctive armour.
The woman sneered. "I assure you: Teyrn Loghain has full authority to…"
"The authority of the Regent of Ferelden does not supersede the authority of the Chantry, as you well know. Reverend Mother Boann has sent me to put an end to the Teyrn's misguided decision. The Chantry and Tevinter do not have the best of histories: I am sure the Magister Lords would not look kindly on your leader risking another Exalted March for the sake of a meager profit."
The sneer held - but beneath it the woman looked a little worried.
"I only wish to talk," Ser Otto said soothingly, "If you will take me to your superior - Caladrius, I believe - we can discuss it."
"I…suppose the request is reasonable. But I warn you - if you try anything foolish, my guards will kill you."
Rilian hooked an arm around Ser Otto's as the woman led the way, careful to make it look as though she were leaning on him for protection. The two crossbowmen flanked the party like large bookends.
They made their way across a series of bare rooms and winding corridors. Rilian plotted the route Zevran and the others would take, and tried to calculate how long they would need to keep Caladrius talking. At last the long, dusty corridor opened like a clam shell into vast space. They stood on a wooden gangplank some fifteen feet above the warehouse floor. The building stretched away from her in all directions. Its black spaces and high rafters swallowed up the tiny, guttering lamp and echoed for her with the memory of familiar shouts, curses, orders - and occasional laughter. When she had worked here it had seemed much smaller, packed with people and goods, a hive of activity. Now there were only bars, behind which her people were packed like animals. Two guards patrolled it - one had his crossbow trained on her with emotionless, singular intensity. She did not search for familiar faces among the prisoners - for her father - she had to keep her mind on Caladrius. The woman sent one of her guards to fetch him.
As soon as the slaver arrived, flanked by another two guards, the shadows fled like live things from the light of his glowing blue staff. The heavy breath of velvet robes swirled across the floor; a wave of revulsion shook her as she took in the smooth-shaven head and carefully waxed moustache, the air of louche confidence.
"Really, Devera, I hope you have good reason for this?"
"I do, my lord - these "visitors" say they are from the Chantry…"
"And so you decided to bring the Grey Warden straight to me. Foolish, foolish Devera…"
"Grey Warden?" Despite the unraveling of their plan, Rilian treasured the shock and chagrin on that haughty face. She smiled at the woman, relishing the acid of it, and hoped the woman read the unspoken promise: you'll go first…
"Stairs to your right," Rilian whispered to Ser Otto, "Two guards on the warehouse far side, another two centre, around the mage."
"I sense him. How long do we need?"
"A few more minutes." Come on, Zevran…
"Really, my dear, you must get out more." The mage seemed to be deciding to help them, wasting time ridiculing his companion. "You know, mix with the locals."
So much for equality, Rilian thought. Ability and power might decide in Tevinter, but it clearly didn't take much to expose the old prejudices. The Elven woman's face had gone rather white and set.
At last the mage tired of that game - he turned back to the main challenge. "Well - an unexpected guest is still a guest," he said smoothly, "And since you must see that you are outnumbered, perhaps you would like to talk terms?"
"Indeed, I would," Ser Otto said, his voice carrying a strength that impressed Rilian. Without warning, he suddenly turned away from her and began to descend the stairs with almost flawless confidence, following the beacon of the slaver's magic. "My companion might be a Grey Warden, but I represent the Chantry's interests in this matter, and wish to discuss an arrangement…" He talked until he was positioned a few feet from the mage. Rilian watched Caladrius like a hawk: she saw him size up the Templar, read the calculation on his face. By all appearances the man was blind - yet he had walked so unerringly towards his position that he had to wonder.
Then Zevran, Soris and Shianni burst through the door at the far end.
"What treachery…"
The crossbowmen guarding the cages went down - Zevran's and Shianni's arrows in their chests. Rilian was already moving. Fang stabbed through the armour-join of the nearest guard. She jerked it free and engaged Devera, who met her with sword and dagger, careful to keep the woman between her and the second guard. Devera was good: her twin weapons weaved in seamless patterns, her slender body never there to hit. It was like fighting a snake. Through the riot of attack, dodge and parry, Rilian was half-aware of Ser Otto's powers: that strange wave that seemed to radiate from him, driving away the heavy darkness of Caladrius' magic. The air around them took on the fresh, washed feel of a spring morning after rain. Soris, Zevran and Shianni were taking on the remaining three guards. The fight took on a surreal quality. The guards loomed in the light of Caladrius' staff, and every sound echoed ominously. Wounded men screamed, and the walls repeated it over and over. Outmatched by Devera's skill, Rilian found herself pushed backwards. She dropped down - a variation on the most basic and dirty trick in a gutter fighter's repertoire - and kicked upwards. The woman dodged - and Rilian turned the kick into a scissors chop of her legs, sweeping the woman's feet from under her. Devera landed heavily, the breath knocked out of her. Rilian was on her instantly, the tip of her sword pointing to the woman's throat.
"Mer…"
Rilian leaned into it, putting her whole weight behind it; Devera jerked and writhed once, then went still.
Turning, Rilian looked over the railing and saw to her horror that Caladrius had drawn a wicked looking blade. Ser Otto could counter any magic - but he couldn't see the weapon coming.
"To your left!" she screamed. The Templar dodged - but Caladrius recovered to slash again, blade scraping against the fine Templar armour, grinning wickedly like a cat toying with its prey.
Rilian vaulted right over the railing and leapt down. When she hit the ground she collapsed into herself and rolled to absorb the impact. Then, despite the numbness in her feet and legs, she rose to join the fight. Ha - Zevran didn't have to help me up this time…
She would still not have been in time to defend Ser Otto - Caladrius could have killed the knight before Rilian got there. But he was too focused on her sudden appearance, bloodied weapon raised. He threw down his own sword and raised his hands, a fixed smile slashed across waxen features. There was a pleading whine in his voice, and Rilian was reminded of a half-starved Alienage dog that had wagged its tail in welcome before snapping at her throat.
"Warden - surely we can come to some arrangement…I know Teyrn Loghain is an enemy of yours: I can give you these documents as evidence…"
"I could take them from your body," Rilian growled - but even as she made the threat she knew the man had her. Not because of anything he offered, but because he was making her talk - and Rilian couldn't kill in cold blood.
"Then," he cast about desperately, "I could…cast a spell…enhance your attributes: the life-force of…these slaves…"
A red haze swirled about the room; the loathsome voice echoed oddly in Rilian's ears. When the rage passed, she saw the slaver was dead. His stomach was slashed, a gaped mouth, exposing a mass of wet things. Her dagger, clutched in her trembling hand, was bloody to the hilt.
Rilian drew a short, sharp breath; shook her head to clear it. She looked around, assessing danger, assessing cost. There was none: all her companions were unhurt, save for Zevran tying a makeshift bandage around one arm. He winked and shrugged; she saw the injury was superficial, the trickle of blood already slowing as he applied pressure. Soris was shaking slightly; she remembered that white, blind look he'd had in Arl Urien's estate. Shianni, the only one of them who'd never fought before, put a steadying hand on her cousin's shoulder. Ser Otto's young, resolute face was serene, steadfast. His lips were quirked in a small smile, and something like joy crinkled the corners of his eyes - the joy of a man who has found, unexpectedly, something he had thought lost forever. You faced this blind, Rilian thought, I've seen some brave people in my time, but you… She sheathed her blade, took his hand with her unbloodied right, and linked an arm through his.
"We did it, ser!"
"We certainly did."
The two stood together a moment, sharing triumph.
Zevran padded over, and knelt to take the documents from the slaver's body. The parchment with Teyrn Loghain's seal was soaked in blood - the writing almost illegible.
"Good thing we have the letter," he said. He looked from the slaver's body to Rilian with a very odd expression on his face. "I worry about you, sometimes, my Warden," he said. "A thing like that becomes completely personal to you."
Nonplussed, Rilian stared. "Would it be better if I just killed, like swatting flies?"
"It might be better for you. Anger in combat clouds judgement. And fighters who feel too much always go a little mad."
Rilian riveted on him that gaze of peculiar intensity with which she told a secret. "I can never just kill. I know it; I've felt it. It's then that I…"
"Rilian!"
Rilian turned at her cousin's shout. Shianni and Soris were struggling to undo the locks on the cages. She and Ser Otto raced over to help. Rather than loot the bodies for a key, Zevran merely pulled out a long, slender lockpick. Hands working in amazing circles, he had the cages open in a matter of moments. "Amateurs," he scoffed. The Elven prisoners - nearly fifty in all - crowded around them: Rilian saw the twelve rioters among them: Elder Mathis - that wonderful old man looked like he had fire in his belly still! - Widow Shanis - Tomas - Pic - Girnis…These people looked the least shocked by what had happened: they had been arrested, so had known what to expect. The others were frozen in shock: the pain-filled eyes in their sickness-ravaged faces were wide. There was Elva - who had been so rude the day of her wedding - Rilian put an arm around her and the dazed woman leaned into the contact. She saw the other faces through a blur of tears: Rica, Shand, Yarly… Elder Valendrian, calm and serene as the Vhenadahl tree, even in this crisis. And there was…
"Father!"
Cyrion's tired eyes in his worn face lit up at the sight of her; he opened his arms and she raced into them. Her father only came up to her chin, yet he made her feel protected. She felt the stooped, shaking shoulders - the wiry upright strength - the palms that stroked her hair dry and rough as old bark after a lifetime's hard labour. It was as though a piece of her that had been missing since the day she left home had just slotted into place. She was centered, whole, no longer in danger, not even from herself.
The little group gathered, milling, most too shocked to speak, while Valendrian, Cyrion, Shianni and Rilian organized things as best they could. The Hahren listened calmly as the two girls explained what had happened, and made his decision.
"Those who were arrested must go on this ship: their lives are forfeit. Anyone else must make his or her own decision. Had we time, I'd rouse the rest of the community - but I fear the chaos would alert the Arl's men. Best to leave now: that way those who do stay will be found in their homes, unconnected to this trouble. I will remain, of course: the folk need me."
"I'll go join this army," Soris decided, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice, "Life hasn't been good for me here for some time."
"I, too," Shianni added. Rilian hadn't expected anything else from her: live free or die free…
"And I." Rilian gaped in amazement at her father.
"Don't look so surprised, lass: I'll wager that army of yours needs a good cook. You certainly look like they haven't been feeding you enough."
Not sure whether to laugh or cry, Rilian did both. She wasn't sure whether the tears came out of pride in her family, or fear for them.
Used to desperate situations, the Elves organized quickly, and without fuss. A further fifteen decided to join Rilian's men: those without families at home, or those who had their families with them - Rilian saw an old couple and a teenage son. The rest filed out, following Valendrian back the way Rilian had come.
Ser Otto had not left Rilian's side; when she looked at him, he sensed the movement, and smiled. "I'll go with you. We work well together."
Rilian would not insult him by arguing. "We do," she said simply.
Together, the little group left the warehouse for the docks. Rilian, Zevran and Ser Otto took point. The fresh, salty air hit Rilian like a caressing wave. She breathed deeply and sighed.
"Mmm - just like home," Zevran murmured, "You have the corrupt politicians too. Antivan leather boots: check. Fish chowder…"
Rilian giggled.
The rain had stopped. The sea formed a vast crescent in the harbour, glittering with reflected stars. Those stars paled even as she watched: dawn was perhaps thirty minutes away. Already the eastern horizon was tinged pink. The moored ships were stately, silent: all save one. The Siren's Call glimmered with activity: Isabella and her men making preparations, ready to fulfill their part of the bargain. The woman had been going to leave anyway: I'll sail as far as the Anderfels if I need to, to escape the Blight. The sea will look after her own… It was no great inconvenience to make a small detour northward to Rilian's army. So many times Rilian had loaded and unloaded cargo on these ships, and daydreamed of sailing on one, toward distant shores. For her people that dream had nearly been a nightmare: at the thought, she squinted to where the nearest ship was moored.
"That's the one," Zevran agreed, "Those colours are Tevinter's." Rilian nodded grimly and as Shianni led Ser Otto and the others towards Isabella's people she and Zevran headed down to the beach, towards the row of small boats. It was not enough just to kill Caladrius: the rest of the Tevinters would be in the city, enjoying its pleasures before departure. Or Loghain might have other men to carry out his plan.
A single guard stood watch, but beside him were three mabaris chained to a post. Quickly, almost nonchalantly, Zevran nocked his bow and fired. In the same instant the guard released the dogs. They circled, growling. In the faint light, their rippling muscles were a dance of shadows; they looked like a single, erratic entity. Rilian spoke to them without words, the way she did with Ravenous. She growled, and jabbed with her sword, warning them off. Two of the dogs held their ground, heads low. The third, the leader, advanced.
"The blood," Zevran warned, "It excites them."
The leader leapt for her throat. Rilian dodged to the side - the descending slash of her right arm decapitated the dog. A spreading pool of blood soaked the rubble, black and gleaming.
The other dogs disappeared into the night, fading away like smoke. Rilian looked away from the pitiful corpse, wincing. She'd looked with near-detachment at the carnage in the warehouse, but she saw Ravenous in that ruined heap, and flinched.
Zevran pushed the nearest boat out to sea, and Rilian followed him. Once inside, he rowed with swift, sure strokes. Well, of course, Rilian thought, He can scale walls without falling in a heap; disarm traps I can't even spot - why wouldn't he be good at this too? The current pushed and pulled like a live thing, and Rilian gave herself up to the experience, one hand trailing in the black, frigid water. Her fingers went numb almost immediately. They came alongside the looming hulk of the vessel, towering over them like some bleak monument. Rilian hoped - for their sake and even for that of the Tevinter crew - that the ship was as deserted as it looked. Zevran threw his rope - the grappling hook caught the side. When they climbed up they found themselves on a grey expanse of deck, oddly insubstantial in the fading moonlight. Rilian uncorked the goatskin flask - sloshed oil generously about the deck, the mast, the ropes. When she lit the oil the orange flames licked upwards, hesitantly at first, but quickly catching hold. Their work complete, Rilian and Zevran quickly lowered themselves back into the small craft, and rowed hard for shore.
Isabella's men were still loading the last of their cargo. The Elves watched Rilian's progress from the deck. The first shouts drifted to them from the warehouse.
"Hurry!" Zevran urged her. They raced towards Isabella's people just as the first guards arrived on scene - guards wearing the grey-and-yellow insignia of Arl Howe. They were not going to make it before the men caught up with the crew. In unspoken agreement, Rilian and Zevran turned to face the threat, swords leading.
Yelling, firing arrows, the guards rushed them. Between Rilian and Zevran's strikes and the accurate return fire of Isabella's men on deck, the shore erupted in pandemonium. Men fell, screaming. The two Elves held off the milling, cursing crowd. A commanding voice called for reinforcements. Men in Tevinter uniforms began to pour from the warehouse. Zevran and Rilian raced to join Isabella's men, shouting for the gangway to be lowered. The flames licking the Tevinter ship built to a spectacular crescendo. Blue-violet flame balled, billowed to red, leaped into the night like an early dawn. That light illuminated Rilian and Zevran cruelly; they showed up as perfect targets for Howe's archers. Two groups converged from either flank, ready to encircle them; there was a deep shout: "I want the Warden alive - take her!"
Rilian stopped, slashed with her blade, almost disappearing into the roiling crowd. They parried and dodged, forbidden to kill. Rilian, suffering no such restraints, did terrible damage. Zevran continued on for several yards until he realized she was no longer beside him. Suddenly she darted inland, heading for the cover of the dockside shacks she knew so well - the entire landscape was a warren, offering a thousand places to hide. She called to the now-stationary Zevran. "Get to the ship - quickly! If you delay, I won't have the chance to lose them in the dark. They need me here anyway. Run!"
Zevran twitched, ripped by indecision. The guards rushed towards him. Face white and set, he ran, stumbling onto the ship while eager hands helped him. He turned to see Rilian running, away from the light of the shore, into darkness, towards the town.
Isabella called for her men to raise anchor.
On deck, a dishevelled Shianni, her face masked in horror, reached Zevran. In a voice wretched with disbelief, she begged him to tell her it hadn't happened: that the person left on shore, alone among Arl Howe's men, wasn't her cousin.