AN: First and foremost, I know that this story seemed to have been abandoned in a corner. It is not so; only, real life (and real death, and sickness in the family, plus a PhD that doesn't seem to come to an end) got to me and made me quite forget an important lesson - that one should stick to those things that bring a bit of joy and lighten the mood a little, especially during dark times. It's what keeps us going, and keeps us human (and helps us not get excessively morose when the others are in the exactly same deep - pile of - and depend on us). Although, indeed, this simple fact is so easy to forget when in the middle of it all. Not an excuse, just - well.
I do remind you that I deeply appreciate reviews, constructive critics and discussions, and I thank you all who read, reviewed, followed or simply enjoyed this story so far. Which, at this point, stands thus:
After Loghain killed the Archdemon, Queen Anora seized Wynne and Leliana, sending one to Aeonar, under Templar custody, and the other to be imprisoned in Highever. Leliana escaped her escort only to run into the hands of the terrible Clarice Cousland, where Kallian, Zev and Morrigan found her bloodied, blinded and bound in irons. After an even, if savage, fight, CLarice and Kallian managed some kind of truce, and the party removed their wounded friend from Clarice's camp.
Not willing to give up Wynne either, the four separated and left to investigate the two possible places that could hold clues about the location of the mages prison: Morrigan and Zevran went to the Circle, while Kallian, Leliana and Con the dog left to Denerim, seeking to infiltrate the Chantry. As Kallian paid a visit to her family, she unknowingly put all of them in danger: a couple of overzealous guards interrupted the family dinner, which lasted long after curfew.
Thinking that perhaps they'd been the cause for the impromptu visit, Kallian and Leliana put up a huge diversion, in order to get rid of the said guards in a place and in a manner that made the deed impossible to be traced back to Cyrion's house - also using the opportunity to breach inside the Royal Palace, in an attempt to retrieve whatever incriminating papers Anora could have on Leliana.
After making sure that Cauthrien's report over the night's events had already left, bearing only the news that they wanted it to contain, Kallian revealed herself to sister Justine in the Denerim Chantry.
Disclaimer: Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.
Chapter 11 – Cause and Consequence
They are riding west. The foul weather eased as they left Denerim behind, and the sun feels nice between the blades of one's shoulders. They are heading for the Circle, and, although there's no news from Morrigan, it's good to be on the road while everyone is looking for them in Denerim. And, it's nice and warm, for a change. On the outside.
On the inside, well. It's been a bit tiring, lately, and a bit too dark. The tiny glitter of hope that perhaps Kallian's cousin might have kept some of Andraste's ashes, that the ashes would make her whole again and give her back the light, is gone, too. She is tired. She would – just for a bit – let herself be the girl that she was a long time ago and cry. Except, she has no tears. She would let herself go, just the once. All that happened has been a bit much, even for a surviving girl such as herself. She would go and hide, seek succor, in a place like the Chantry of Denerim maybe, where she knows every room and garden path like the back of her hand - like she knows the words of the Chant. She knows all the words, in Fereldan as well as in Orlesian, backwards and forth - and she'd sing it better this time. She wouldn't try and tempt the Maker again by asking impious proof, she wouldn't ask herself again whether the words of the Chant are more important than its substance, or whether words in general are more or less than their designated meaning. She'd be nice, this time, if only they would let her rest. Except, she's never been a nice girl to begin with. And, there is Kallian.
They stopped for the day, and Kallian is building a fire. Kallian is filling a pot with water; Kallian is making some tea; elfroot, judging by the scent of it. Kallian doesn't say a word; Kallian is simply there, at an arm's distance, careful, watching. When she reaches to pour herself some tea, Kallian knows better than to offer; although, surely, the fact that she spilled some over the brim of the cup doesn't go unnoticed. She is too tired to pour properly, but Leliana's years of training won't allow her to let go of the cup as the hot brew burns her fingers. She is still resilient enough to pain. Con's muzzle tugs at her fingers, and he lays his head in her lap. He knows when to intervene, the mutt. Could as well be a bard, the way he can squeeze a smile out of people.
She reaches for her lute. As her fingers find the familiar strings, the darkness recedes. It has been less praying, more playing, of late. Whatever works best. With the evening sun warming her shoulders, she can imagine the exact hue of yellow honey that soaks the fresh green leaves; it's dripping down from the song of birds, and rising up from the fragrant moist in the grass. It tastes a little bitter in the elfroot tea, but it is there, shiny, soothing, nevertheless. The tune ads to it, making the picture whole.
Kallian rummages through the leaves of a book.
"So, what would you have me read to-nite?"
Evenings in Redcliffe were easy on the eye and pleasantly warm in spring, especially if one was out in the courtyard for sword practice among the fragrant early blossoms of elfroot and Andraste's grace. Alistair King of Ferelden was such a one, and, while the reason that had driven him out there had been a rather less fortunate series of events, his mood was light enough as he charged full of zeal at the straw mats that made his target. Sun burned through the pauldrons of the mismatched veridium set of armor that he used in the practice yard lately, signaling that they'd sustained quite their – and his – limit of exposure, and the sweat thoroughly collected underneath was ought to bring his hours of freedom to an end.
When the rooster'd first called the break of dawn, Alistair had already been up and about. He'd sneaked out of his royal bedroom, clad only in shift and trews, barefoot, with his doublet tucked underarm, like an illicit lover removing himself out of his paramour's chambers – and the irony had not been lost on him as he'd gone straight to the armory, where he'd donned some red steel greaves, a pair of light black boots, an old battered veridium plate over his doublet and steel gauntlets over the leather training gloves. As he'd hit the straw matt in the yard for the first time that morning, the anger that had sent him out of bed that early had started cooling off, so that a whole day spent outside having at it had left him only with a slight annoyance, that he could easily subdue.
Or, perhaps not. Every time he decided he'd worked enough, his temper rose again, giving him new strength to hit and bash and shout war cries that made the windows clatter. The night before, Erlina had showed up, wearing a lace gown and a smirk on her face, cooing at his door. Alistair felt his temple pulsing each time he remembered what she'd said and how she'd said it – and the fact that it was late in the day and he was dead-tired changed nothing of it. He bashed into the straw matt with the full of his shield as he pitched his voice in a peevish mimic of Erlina's most sultry voice. "Oh, Majestee, my mistress thought you may enjoy – hum…" – "…the company of an Orlesian woman… "- and the nerve that had conveyed that undue emphasis on the word Orlesian… how dared she? "No." he'd said curtly then. Now, he added in his normal tone "I am enjoying this more", as he was hitting the mock target again, curtly, once and twice, with the flat of his blade. He pitched his voice again, genuinely purring - "If I may, your Majestee, perhaps to help you – hum – get more acquainted with your – hum" - he was pummeling the dummy's head into nothingness – "…intimate self, yes?" He addressed the already maimed bundle of dirty straw one last finishing blow. "I am quite acquainted with my intimate self, thank you ever so much." Finally satisfied with the day's work, he sheathed his sword and saluted the scraps of the dummy with a curt bow.
He would have entered the castle, his battle with his nerves won at last, if it hadn't been for the odd commotion over the battlements.
'Rider for the Queen!' there was a shout, and then another, in reply, 'Rider for the Queen, letting through!'
The great gate shrieked and opened.
Rider for the Queen – huh, Alistair scowled. It was time to act the King.
"Ho there! What message?"
The rider drew near. With his hood off, he looked very much the boy, maybe sixteen springs. He held his head high, no doubt infused with enough pride as it was suiting with the important task at hand.
"I'm sorry, ser, it's for the Queen's hand only."
"Give it to us." Alistair replied, in his primmest royal voice. "Or, you could at least un-horse yourself and properly salute your King" he added, half annoyed and half amused at the blank expression of the boy. Right after, though, Alistair found himself stung by a pang of guilt of a flavor totally new to him, as the boy went pale with awe when handing him the scroll sealed with the Maric's Shield coat of arms with a trembling hand. Aww. Frightening the lad like that had not been anywhere close to his intention.
"Here you are, ser, -er, your Majesty, I mean – "
"Thank you. What's your name, squire?"
"Pick, ser – your Majesty – but I'm no squire, ser. Only a messenger, ser."
"You're surprisingly loyal for a messenger. Say – have you been to Ostagar?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
The page was shifting on his feet, visibly puzzled by all the unexpected attention. But Alistair wasn't ready to let him go that easily, now that he'd recognized the poor boy that Kallian had tricked into giving away the sword he'd been carrying. The lad had been to Ostagar, and that meant something to the young king. Even moreso, as fate appeared to have brought the elf that Kallian had been so cruel towards in his path again, it seemed only fair to Alistair to provide some sort of compensation. But, what would that be? He was clad in his training armor and he had no gold upon himself.
"Here, lad." Alistair fumbled to remove his gauntlets and gloves, and reached for one of the two golden rings that adorned his fingers. "Go get some food and rest."
Justice being served, Alistair trotted inside, cheerful beside himself. The parchment that he'd rightly seized in such a dignified manner burned his fingers, however, and curiosity got the better of him on the staircase, somewhere in mid-distance to the second floor, where he stopped to read it, leaning against one of the coarse stone walls. The letter was from ser Cauthrien, and it bore some extraordinary news.
"Your Majesty,
I am dread to report an incident that took place during the night of 18th of Molioris at the Royal Palace.
The said incident took place under my command and under my vigilance, the failure of which I am to be accounted for, as well as for the dishonor that goes with: one individual has broken into the Palace during the night and has gotten away unhindered.
But, with your will, your Majesty, I shall try and describe the night's events to the best of my knowledge, as resulted from the investigation.
On the night of the 18th, around midnight, three warriors armed and equipped, bearing the Maric's Shield coat of arms, walked into a wire-and barrel trap in front of the Royal Palace. It was presumed that, these three were escorting a prisoner towards Fort Drakon. It may be that they were attacked right after the explosion by forces unknown, although the eye witnesses that I could find do not agree on the particulars. More of a certainty is that the three were beaten to death by the crowd that had miraculously gathered at that exact moment in front of the Palace, on the alleged reason that the three had detained the Warden herself. This stands consistent with the wounds we found upon them – none of the burns and the blade cuts were serious enough as to provoke death, but they had sustained such injuries by beating.
None of the witnesses we retained can positively affirm that they had actually seen the Warden, although at first mostly all of them demanded that it had been so.
Whether any of what I wrote above is true, or none of it, is of less importance. The fact is that our vigilance slipped and all of us that were on guard duty that night went out in the street to restore order.
It was during this time that the Palace was broken into, and several locked chambers searched, although no valuables were taken. This, of course, makes the whole of the events outside an obvious diversion. The fact that I can't seem to identify the three dead warriors by their name - or as being part of Maric's Shield - comes as a confirmation, too. The one thing that seems to me not to add up, though, is the use of the Warden's name. Whoever plotted this elaborate hoax went as far as trying to convince me in person that the Warden lives, an attempt that I cannot possibly see the purpose of. I have been slipped a note, which I attach hereby, presumably written by none other than the Warden herself."
The small note had slipped down on the stairs while Alistair was reading, so he had to go down a few steps to retrieve it. Alistair's hand trembled slightly. The writing was Kallian's, no doubt about it, with those scrawny 'm's and 'n's and with the tormented 'b's and 'g's and 'f's scratching the paper almost all the way through to the other side – no-one who'd learned their letters in a proper manner could have faked it. It read – 'Cauthrien, I am alive. I have reason to believe that people in power wish me ill. Please, keep this in confidence. Trust me, as you did before. Kallian'
As he finished reading, Alistair took a deep breath and leant into the staircase wall for support. His mind was moving slow. He could vouch for Kallian's handwriting. That meant that Cauthrien was wrong, and Kallian was alive. It meant that Leliana was innocent. Leliana had killed nobody; he'd known it in his heart all the time; she was too sweet a being to do a thing like that. He had to let everybody know. Paying heed to nothing else around him, he darted up the stairs and into Anora's chambers, ready to voice his enthusiasm.
As he entered the room, two things stopped him in mid-step, however.
The first one was Erlina's unwelcome presence, whose merrily giggling in a corner of the room was apparently indispensable for Anora to have a proper working day – or evening. The second was the sudden realization of the fact that the ring he'd given Pick the messenger had been his wedding ring.
He must have looked plain awkward, standing stun in the doorstep as he was, as Anora called at him in her most shrill voice.
"Alistair. Don't just stand there, say something. What is it?"
That was bad. When he'd become 'Alistair' in Anora's speech, it usually meant that he'd done something wrong, and that Anora was cross with him. Well, he was acting like a boy, truth be said. Alistair braced himself and, carefully, with his left hand securely hidden behind his back, he approached Anora's desk and offered Cauthrien's report from a safe distance, gingerly holding it from one end in his right.
"Here. This arrived just now from Denerim with a rider."
"Oh? Give it over."
Anora started to frown long before reaching the middle of the letter, and by the end of it she appeared positively flustered.
"This is unexpected. To say the least." She motioned curtly to Erlina to take the parchment.
"Well?" Alistair was shifting nervously.
"Well, what?"
"Well. You told me that Kallian was dead, that Leliana slew her during the battle." Alistair said, carefully.
"You don't think she is alive, now, do you?"
"Who? Kallian, or Leliana?" Alistair said, a little harsher that he'd intended. He opened Kallian's note again. "'People in power wish me ill…' - this could be you, my dear, could it not?"
"Oh? You believe that nonsense?"
"It is her writing."
Anora seemed vaguely annoyed with his insistence.
"Alistair." Here it was, 'Alistair', again… "Your dear bard stabbed the warden in the guts with a poisoned blade. She is dead. We all witnessed her faithful Qunari watchdog carrying her corpse to the woods."
"How do you know? I mean, it must have been madness there. How could your people tell one wound from another? How could they tell?" Alistair's temper was rising quickly, and he spoke before realizing what Anora had just said. They had seen Kallian die. Cauthrien too.
He had the distinct impression that something quite crucial was eluding him. He wasn't even sure that he recognized Kallian's writing any more. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a gulp to calm his nerves. By all accounts, he wasn't among friends here. Still, there was something in Anora's discourse that rang true.
"This is a hoax, my King. You must not believe. To me, this all seems to be the work of bards. Besides entering the palace, they created turmoil and spread bad rumors among our people. We must to Denerim, and soon."
Alistair took another gulp from his glass. A certain idea was beginning to slowly unravel in his head.
"You go to Denerim. I must see Leliana."
"You should come to Denerim with me. People must see us together."
"No. Where is Leliana? Have you killed her too?"
Anora's head jerked up, like she'd just swallowed a stick.
"I don't like your choice of words, my King. If you mean to imply that I have a hand in the Warden's death, you may wish to think again. As for your precious bard – yes, it was impossible to not notice your insultingly persistent infatuation with her – I have proof of her transgressions. Here."
The box that Anora produced from her drawer was indeed full of rolled pieces of parchment, of the sort that may've had spent some time wrapped in a small cylinder, such as the ones attached to the legs of messenger birds. They were sparse in Ferelden and expensive to keep, but Alistair remembered that the Chantry used to have a few – although it had always a bit of a secret, as they were not supposed to be used for mundane purposes. In Orlais, though, that must have been an altogether different matter.
"What is this?"
"Your bard had betrayed you all along. This is what we found among her belongings."
He rummaged through the small curled notes and picked one at random.
"Chere Leliana. Je suis heureuse de savoir que vous continuez sur l'oeuvre du Créateur, et je me réjouis de votre nouvelle amitie avec la Garde des ombres. Je vous souhaite toute la joie, et que le Créateur veille sur vous et votre entreprise.D."
At Alistair's puzzled expression, Anora waved her hand impatiently.
"Yes, yes. I'm aware they're in Orlesian. Luckily, Erlina, here, can help us with that."
"Well, what does it say?" Alistair offered the note, but Erlina shook her head.
"Erlina can't read, Alistair. You'll have to read it to her…"
"What?! You want me to try and read… this?!"
"Yes. This is how we've done it, Erlina and I."
"Oh, fine then… ehm, Erlina, how would you translate … "hjuro-uz"..?
"I'm sorry, ser, I don't understand, heroes, perhaps?"
"I'm not sure… it's spelled very differently… how about… let's see… "a-mi-ty"?
"That may be "amitie", it means friendship."
"Oh. And "gard-e"?"
" "Garder" means to guard. "Garde des ombres" is the name for the Grey Wardens in Orlesian. It could mean either."
"That makes sense…"
Anora was showing signs of impatience.
"Try this one."
The note that she produced was thoroughly crumpled and stained, as if with tears, and very worn out at the corners, as if someone had read it, crumpled it, and then read it again and again. It was very short.
"Allright. … "gard-e" means Warden, Archie-Demon is the Archdemon… what does "tahr" mean?"
Erlina tried to say something, but Anora wouldn't let her.
"We spent lots of time on that one, but Erlina cannot think of any other word than "kill" – how do you pronounce it, again, Erlina?"
"Tuer."
"I'm still not convinced. I'll go speak to her."
"Alistair, face it. She was spying on you. Maker knows what she wrote to this mysterious D - about you, about Ferelden, about us all. There is "kill"and "Warden" in the same note. She came willingly when I showed this note to her."
"Have you questioned her upon it?"
"Of course not. She's a bard, my King. She could say anything in her defense, and, more likely than not, make all of us believe it, too."
"No matter." Resolution grew within Alistair as he spoke. He gathered all the notes and put them back in the box. Hopefully, the fact that he retained this last one could pass unnoticed, as he stashed it together with Kallian's in his gauntlet. Then, he put both his hands on Anora's writing table, in a final manner. "By all means, you and Erlina should go to Denerim, see what all this attack on the Palace is about. But I must speak to her. So, for the last time, please tell me: where are you keeping Leliana?"
"Highever." Anora said, thoroughly massaging her brow.
The meeting was over. Alistair drank the last of his wine and left the glass on the desk.
"Highever it is, then."
Then he turned to go.
As Alistair walked away down the corridor, Erlina spoke.
"Milady, have you noticed? His Majesty was missing his wedding ring. I hope there is no secret meaning to it."