As the main group surrounding the Warden began to drift apart, Leliana watched them from her balcony at the top of the keep. Schmooples II was pressed against her side, crooning slightly. She gently began to stroke the nug, remembering a half hundred nights of passion, with smooth skin sliding across taut muscles and old scars, lips meeting in desire, and pleasant oblivion.
Then she looked down again, as the Warden gently kissed that blighted witch, holding her close and tenderly, as he had used to hold her, before hoisting Kieran onto his shoulders, and trekking across the open area, up the steps, and into the throne room.
She'd hoped for him to throw an arm around her, apologise for being away so long without her support, or giving word of his location. Instead, he'd ignored her in favour of the witch, dressed in her usual elegant nothing, as if she was in bed with the world. And then... he'd rejected her, pushed her away for not carrying his child. She'd wanted to be able to always answer his call... and in doing so, she'd ensured he'd never call again.
If I take away the one thing that witch has given him that I did not... he'll see her for what he truly is. And then, he'll cast her off for someone sophisticated, clever and bold, not that hussy from the swamps. What does she let him do, I wonder...
Then she sat back, beginning to mix a dozen ingredients together in her black pestle, wearing an alchemists mask as she set to the grinding.
-000-000-
Morrigan's chambers were some of the better positioned, on a lower level of the central keep, with an elegant balcony overlooking the mountains. The inside of the chambers were hung with richly coloured tapestries, showing scenes from the natural world in the splendour of close observation. Kieran pulled his father into his chamber, with an enclosed, smaller balcony, an arbour allowing plants to entwine the space, with a single trellis closing it off to adventurous and highly dangerous climbing expeditions. On his wall, Morrigan had hung a glorious tapestry of an elder high dragon, curled on a hoard of precious metals and gems, some formed into armour and weapons. There was a rack of weapons below it, wooden blades and axes wrapped with several layers of oil-soaked cloth, and a shield with the heraldry of a warden, a gryphon standing erect, wings outstretched, over a bar, with five tabs pointing downwards.
"They got the shield right." He said, grinning.
"I told then I was the son of a warden, and they painted it like that." Kieran said.
"What else has your mother given you?" He asked.
The boy immediately looked evasive.
"I'm not going to take it away." He said, reassuringly.
The boy ducked his hand into his belt, reaching inside his breaches, before pulling out an nine inch dirk. He then grinned.
"Chateau Oliviard?" He asked.
The boy nodded, enthusiastically grinning.
His father smiled back, before heading along the rack of play weapons, and quickly picking out a item. The blade sang as it was lifted from concealment.
"I see she wants to make sure you can defend yourself." Warden Cousland said, grinning. "Go and find your friends, and after the feast tonight, I'll show you a few tricks with a sword and board.
The boy scampered out, scooping up a wooden sword, his shield, and unhanging a conical helmet with a chain mail neck-guard from a hook on the door, pulling it over his head, then heading out of the door, leaving his parents alone.
Smiling, the Warden headed into his wife's bedchamber, after returning the short-sword to its home. Inside the room, Morrigan was waiting for him.
"As that was Kieran making a swift exit, I suppose we are alone here." She said, languidly. "Now, whatever shall we do to absorb ourselves until the meal tonight?"
"I'm sure we can think of something." He replied, with a smile that still made Morrigan go slightly weak at the knees with the intent and intensity it promised, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close, their lips meeting more aggressively, as he pulled her towards the bed.
-000-000-
The top of her fortress was where inquisitor Lavallan went to think. The helpfully provided butresses and untrimmed ivy made it child's play for a dalish elf to transfer herself off of the balcony and onto the thick strands of the ivy, before hauling herself onto the roof, the one place in the entire fortress where she was alone.
No-one had ever questioned the idea that Blackwall was the warden he claimed to be; Leliana had couched for his membership of that order. He was one of the best individual fighters in the inquisition, able to press even The Iron Bull with a blade. She knew that Cassandra traded wins and losses with him almost entirely evenly. The times she'd faced him on the practice field had been intense, although her dalish training had given her a repertoire of strokes and gambits he'd rarely, if ever, encountered, which was the only thing that gave her any edge.
Why would they have doubted him?
It was even more interesting that Cousland had encountered him before, from a distance, and sent one of the Fereldan wardens after him to investigate. The man had disappeared then, as now.
From inside her room, she heard a clatter of footfalls.
"My Lady Lavallan?" She heard Josephine call.
"I'm outside, Josephine!" She replied.
"Out... where... oh, maker, how did you get up there?" The ativian asked, somewhat weakly, as the inquisitor ducked her head over the edge of the tiled roof.
"I climbed. It's a thing we Dalish do."
"Would you... er... be able to come down from there?" Josephine asked, tentatively, holding out a sheet of parchment. "I think we know where Blackwall is headed."
"We do?
"We visited the barn he spends his time in, and found this. It's a execution bill, for a Cyril Mornay, accused of involvement in the massacre of a nobleman and his entire family." He's being hung in Val Royeux."
"If that is where Blackwall, or whatever his real name will be, we need to be there as well."
"I agree fully, Your Worshipfulness."
"Josephine, I thought we had an arrangement that the titles were only to be used in company."
"We are in company, my lady." She said, gesturing to the crow circling low overhead.
"That isn't the Lady Morrigan." The inquisitor commented. "I suspect that her current position is somewhat lower than this, and that she is currently rather busy."
"How... I see, Tahiri."
"Josie, how are you feeling?"
"About Blackwall?"
"Yes."
"I'm... upset. It's difficult being in love with someone who can never be a partner of anything other than the soul. And for him to suddenly vanish, and turn out to be not who he claimed to be..."
"We have a saying." Tahiri said, swinging down from the roof on the gutter, landing with extreme grace on the balcony. "Emma lath Fen'Haral."
"What does it mean?" Josephine asked.
"Literally, it means 'my love is the trickster.'" Tahiri explained. "We use it to describe those who deceive their lover or partner."
"It is certainly an accurate phrase." Josephine said. "Also, Cook Remsay sent up a flask of tea and two cups."
"Tea is the one reason I would consider cropping my ears and passing for human." The inquistor said, heading for her desk. "I trust he sent milk as well?"
"Of course." Josephine said, as she took the other armchair, preparing for their usual period of girl-talk.
-000-000-
"Her Ladyship, Morrigan Cousland, Cometess de Kokari!" The formal Herald stated, as Morrigan appeared at the entrance to the feasting hall. "Her husband, Warden-Commander The Lord Eragon Cousland, Arl of Amaranthine, and their son, Kieran Cousland."
All three Couslands were dressed for the occasion. Morrigan had ditched her day robes, and replaced them with her gown, before draping herself with the elegant collection of jewellery she'd acquired. Eragon had hauled out his formal doublet, in the grey and blue of the wardens, along with his sword, the elegant blade's hilt encrusted with gemstones. Kieran had been persuaded into a smaller version of his father's assemblage, and was being allowed to wear his shortsword in public, the small hilt wrapped simply with black leather, and a pair of garnets set into the pommel.
Kieran was quickly steered off by a page, who moved him to the children's table, laid with less breakable settings, and with the jugs of wine replaced by simpler vessels filled with grape, pear and apple juices.
Morrigan and Eragon were steered to the top table, as guests of honour. Around the hall, various groupings were seated at discrete tables, partially to allow the separation of groupings that only the most optimistic planner would seat together, such as the small embassy from the tevinter imperium, who were seated as far as possible from the delegate from the Avvar tribes, and from The Iron Bull.
Surprisingly, the templar commanders were seated at the same table as the magi of the inquisition, which would have raised a considerable number of eyebrows, although it appeared that it wasn't just the barrier between the two groups being more than distant friends that had broken down, from the intermingling of the two groups. If Eragon was any judge, the Grand Enchanter was all but sitting in the lap of her opposite number. Cullen, for his part, looked a tad shellshocked at the extremely close presence of a prime example of what was increasingly becoming his 'type': attractive, elven mages, in such close proximity. He wasn't the only templar fraternising with a mage, the warden noted.
At another table, there was a delegation of a very different type: dalish elves, dressed in their traditional garments, which seemed to blend very well into the trees on the tapestry behind them. A number of humans, several city elves, and even a lone dwarf, had joined their table.
Then the first course arrived: strips of beef, pork, lamb and dried fish, soaked with honey, and marinated in a mixture of carefully chosen spices, accompanied by jugs of sweet wine from highever and orlais, although he would have words with the cellarman about that, as the vintage was not the labelled vintage, and seemed to have been mixed with a inferior white. Morrigan quietly poured her first glass onto the floor, after a small sip. The dishes were accompanied by sweetened rice, made by mixing honey and lentils with the rice, before baking it into small, domed cakes.
The second course was just as pleasant. The chefs had taken a whole deer, before roasting it slowly over a tray of water containing saffron, thyme, and ale. Accompanying the venison was a supply of crisp vegetables, cooked enough to heat them, and painted with the same mixture of herbs as the meat had been cooked in the presence of. This time, the wine was a full-bodied red, with hints of cinnamon and cloves.
"How are you enjoying yourself?" Eragon asked Morrigan, noticing the way she was dining, the quick, sharp movements she had always accompanied tableware with a counterpoint to his own, more trained motions.
"The food is fine, if a mort fancy. As for the company, tis good the bard is not here to influence my digestion. T'would be a shame to feel her daggered glaze upon my neck throughout the meal." She harpooned a potato, quickly slicing it three times with her table-knife, an elegant dwarf-forged blade six inches long, with a raven's head at the top of the grip, chased with elegant silver.
"Leliana..."
"Is a fool, and a jealous one." Morrigan hissed. "You saw her today exposed."
"I saw a woman who might feel betrayed. I made no secret of you, and sought her bed when it was offered, once you had pushed me away." He said. "I never claimed I loved her."
"You made no such claim?" Morrigan asked.
"I had feelings for her, but they are not the same as mine for you." He said. "She was a lover. Not a wife. Not the mother of my son."
"See that you remember that." Morrigan threatened, although the slight lift in her tone betrayed the threat as byplay.
The third course arrived, elegant silver salmon more than a metre long, carried from the grill on long wooden platters, stuffed with butter and garlic, along with a layer of breadcrumbs. It was served with a smooth white, which offset the fish perfectly, as did the rows of carrot and parsnip.
-000-000-
There was always a way to almost anywhere, Leliana remembered Majorline, now dead at her hand for a decade, telling her. If you are not picky about the how, the bard can reach anywhere, and anyone.
In this case, she was in the rafters and support beams, dressed in her black leathers, looking down on the great hall, scrambling from beam to joist, until she was over her objective for the night: the children's table, directly above Kieran and his cup.
Carefully, she unfurled her tiny reel of material, lowering a thread, fitted with a ten gram lead weight, down through the smoke and fumes of the feast, before the weight trailed its tiny tail into the boy's drink. Carefully, she touched the tiny vial of toxin to the string, allowing a pair of drops to run down it, counting to ten, and rolling the string back up, clearing the area as quickly as possible without waiting to see the results of her actions.
-000-000-
Morrigan heard a chair topple backwards at the far end of the hall.
Then both she and the Warden heard a scream.
Almost without pausing, Morrigan transformed herself into her preferred raven, launching from the arm of her chair before her husband had risen to his feet. A swift, graceful glide carried her over the heads of the assembled diners, before she saw the sight she had dreaded most.
Kieran was on his back, hands clutching, panickedly, at his throat. His heels were drumming on the stone floor, and his face was blue.
It was enough to leave her reeling in horror for a brief moment, before she knew what she'd have to do.
"I love you." She told her son, before bending over him, and quickly getting to work.
Airway... she thought, remembering the time Flemeth had let her eat the root of a poisonous herb. Almost without thinking, she created a small tube within her son's throat, pushing back against the muscles in his throat that were crushing the boy's windpipe. The relief was almost immediate.
His face cleared, and he took a shuddering breath.
"Lie still." She told him, pushing him down, before hating herself for the next, inevitable step, as she created a series of magical bands, pinning her son's hands and arms to his side, then kissing his forehead, probing his body for the signature of the poison, praying it was one of the dozen she still carried the antidote for after her time in the court of Orlais. Philodenra? She thought. That is a... Bardic... poison.
Quickly, she uncorked the small vial of antidote, and poured it down her son's throat, before sitting there, stroking his hair, as her husband arrived. I am going to kill that bard.
Author's note: came up with this while I was writing the first chapter. Yes, Leliana did just attempt to kill Kieran. The long-term results of this are unknown to me. I'd like to thank the invisible pretender and Darth Hawk 32 for their reviews to the previous two chapters.