Chapter 6: Scholars' Game
Kameron closed the door behind him; it clicked quietly and the noise from the Cornaline's taproom faded and dulled through the thick wood and solid stone. Kameron took several more steps into the room, then stopped again. The curtains were partially drawn and the shadows lingered in the corners despite the bright daylight falling in dust-speckled rays across the open space.
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed in the one and a half days of his absence. His travel-coat still hung over the side of the armchair, where he had left it before leaving for the alienage. The heavy chest stood off by the wall, the lock untouched as far as he could see. Even Vigilance still rested in its scabbard on the desk, wrapped in the layers of velvet and leather to conceal it from casual observers.
He had said the truth about people recognising the weapon better than the one who carried it, but he hadn't had the heart to leave it behind. Master Wade's work was never less than excellent, but Vigilance was a class all its own. Before he had a chance to stop himself, he had strode to the desk, sliding his hands along the weapon and feeling the cold radiate even through the layers. He'd have a new scabbard commissioned, he decided, so he could carry it without drawing more attention than necessary.
Something scraped on the floor behind him, so quietly it barely registered on a conscious level. Acting on hard-won battle instinct, Kameron spun around, pulling his dagger free with the movement. He had time to see someone standing behind him, far too close already and well within striking distance. A ray of light slashed across a narrow stretch of exposed throat, just above a rigid collar. Kameron threw his free hand up and around the figure — who brought an arm up, but failed to get a good grip on Kameron's wrist. Kameron dug his fingers into his opponent's neck and felt sinews tighten, the man flinching back. Kameron brought the edge of his dagger up against the other's throat and the struggle stopped before it had even begun.
Movement stilled in a precarious balance.
"You still expose your side," Zevran said and the tip of his knife made itself felt under Kameron's arm through the cloth of his shirt. The tip pricked him and a tiny drop of wet blood tickled down his skin.
Kameron bared his teeth and leaned forward until their lips just barely touched across the naked blade pressed into Zevran's throat.
"Is there anything else you want me to expose?" Kameron drawled.
Zevran chuckled, gingerly against the threat of the blade, following Kameron's lips with a hungry look when his Warden drew back a fraction. "Quite a few things, now that you mention it."
The hard beat of thrill had put a sharp glow into Kameron's eyes. Zevran withdrew his knife and sheathed it blindly, without looking away from his Warden. Kameron lingered for longer, tightened his grip on Zevran's neck before suddenly letting go and taking his dagger away. There was no embrace, however, Kameron merely let his forehead drop to Zevran's shoulder and stayed there for no more than a heartbeat's duration, all tension breaking like a bowstring as it snapped.
And then the moment was gone. Kameron straightened away and sheathed the dagger. It was one he had taken from a dead Templar, not the best weapon he had ever seen, but it had served its purpose well enough so far. Perhaps he should keep it as a trophy.
Kameron narrowed his eyes as he finally got a good look at Zevran. A fresh scar ran the breadth of his throat, where Kameron's own dagger had rested just before.
"The Crows?" he asked.
"You would imagine they learned from their mistakes," Zevran remarked lightly. "Perhaps they do this time."
Kameron didn't answer immediately. He stepped past Zevran, giving him a quick kiss as he passed and gripped his arm, pulled him unresisting to the bed and sat him down.
"Put your head back," Kameron ordered and Zevran complied. Kameron traced his fingers along the scar, once, mapping it with his senses before he poured magic into it. He knew it wasn't a pleasant feeling. Healing didn't lend itself to his strengths and he had never bothered to learn much more than what he needed to patch people up in the heat of battle. In the tower, his teachers had never stopped bugging him with it, even Irving, who had otherwise been willing to let him pursue his own interests. Healing was a 'safe' art and all potentially powerful mages were gently encouraged to specialise in it.
"I heard there was trouble," Zevran said through clenched teeth.
"I had a bad moment," Kameron shrugged. Skin moulded itself under his fingertips, leaving only an angry red welt behind.
"So it is true?" Zevran asked. "The blood mage apprehended in the alienage was you?"
"It wasn't my fault," Kameron said and the line seemed so uncharacteristic that Zevran began to laugh so hard that Kameron had to stop with his healing.
Zevran used the moment to reach for his Warden, cup his face with both hands and kiss him. Kameron leaned into him, letting himself be kissed, slow and long and deep. Kameron broke away again, slipped his hand along the side of Zevran's face gently, then suddenly used the leverage to pull Zevran's head back again, bringing his other hand back to the scar. The magic seared to Zevran's skin, more painful than the knife that had originally inflicted the wound.
"The Templars drugged me with some version of magebane," Kameron explained matter-of-factly. "It made my head feel strange. I couldn't think straight."
Another hard tuck on skin and Zevran hissed, but held still even as Kameron took his hand away from his forehead. "All I could think of was that needed to get away from them, before they figured out what I was. I panicked."
"You panicked?" Zevran repeated. "A sight I would have liked to see."
Kameron pulled a grimace. "I'm sure I can come up with something better to show you."
"I would like to see that, too."
Kameron shook his head slightly, but made no other reply. Instead, he said, "I made a mistake. Things were already complicated in the beginning, Maker knows what happens now. I take it you haven't been in Val Royeaux long?"
"I came here directly, but the landlord was adamant not to let me in your room while you were gone. I thought I would not bother him with it, then."
"The Templars will lock the city down," Kameron continued. "I had an exit strategy, but I don't think any ship for Ferelden is going to leave without the Templars making absolutely sure there are no mages."
"We could ride," Zevran offered. "They can't control all city gates, not with the masses coming and going every day."
"Horses," Kameron chewed a little on the word as if he didn't like the taste of it. "Still a gamble, we'll look suspicious no matter what we do. Besides, we can't leave yet. I still need to try and help Anders and Justice."
"We could take ship for somewhere else," Zevran offered. "I'd rather not watch you on a horse from here to Val Chevin."
"What is it about you and watching me?" Kameron asked and finally took his hands away from Zevran. The scar was almost gone, only a faint pink line on smooth, tanned skin served as a reminder that it had ever been there at all.
"Everyone has a favourite pastime," Zevran chuckled. "And you are quite enticing to watch." He considered. "Not on a horse, maybe, but ah, all those cramped muscles I could help you with once we made camp…"
"A ship to Val Chevin will be fine."
Zevran laughed again. He let himself fall back on the bed, resting on bent elbows. "That is all? I confess I was hoping for a more passionate reunion after so many months apart."
Kameron rubbed his hand down his face. "So was I, but I still feel the effects of the magebane and I won't go anywhere near the Fade before it's completely gone. I need to rest, Zev."
Zevran shook his head firmly. "You need to relax." He sat back up and patted the bed by his side. "I'll give you a good, long massage. You know that feels good and I get my hands all over you. Everyone wins."
Kameron hesitated for a long minute, then a slow smile broke the stoic mask of his face as he didn't bother hiding the line of his thoughts, the changing of his mind as it occurred. Kameron liked to think he was a man of his word, but surely some leeway could be given to lovers who had spent the past few months apart? He pulled the laces loose from his shirt and slipped out of it.
Zevran watched with a grin as Kameron undressed. "This is going to make things… hard," he observed eventually.
"Well, I thought we could go for a win-win scenario after all."
A new sort of routine settled in the days that followed the incident with Kameron in the White Spire. It would be unwise to return to the alienage, just in case someone saw an opportunity to curry favours with the Templars by pointing out this very odd group of strangers who had made such a suspiciously quick exit. Anders refused to stay with Kameron Amell for the same reason he didn't want to go to Gwaren. The man was an abrasion on his self-control and besides, a place as public as an inn might not be a good idea anyway.
The others rearranged themselves around guarding him, just as they had done before. The rest of the time Isabela cast about for Fenris and where he might have gone. She swore he wouldn't have left, even had he had any idea of where to go. Personally, Anders still thought Fenris would eventually find his way to Starkhaven — or directly to the Templars — but he never said so.
Merrill had overwhelmed any misgivings Gervaise and the rest of the staff might have had about 'knife-ears'. It was too easy to fall for Merrill's exuberance, to buy the genuine innocence her attitude displayed. She got to working in the herb garden and helping in the kitchens or watching the assorted children of the servants as their parents worked. The irony, of course, seemed entirely lost on Merrill and the people of Ophélie's estate were as oblivious as could be. But even in his darker moments Anders didn't think Merrill would intentionally hurt anyone, though there was never any telling what would happen if it was her who slipped up and not Anders.
They exchanged a message with Kameron, making sure everyone was as safe as the circumstances allowed. Kameron wrote he would need several days until he trusted his mind with the intricacies of the ritual he would attempt and it would be best for everyone if there was no more contact between them until then.
Anders felt like the date of his execution had been postponed at the last minute, equally a blessing and further punishment.
Hawke had also taken up permanent residence in Ophélie's bedroom, but Anders and Hawke had barely exchanged two words since coming to Ophélie's house. Maybe Hawke was right and their love had never been anything but interdependency, a system of mutual exploitation that had spiralled into inevitable disaster.
Hawke was close to Ophélie, though if it was a new thing, or if he simply picked up where their relationship had suffered its dent, was beyond Anders to guess.
Oddly enough, the brief stint of violence as they had fled the alienage had left Anders much less agitated than he had been while cooped up and hiding in the tiny elven apartment. It even made sense, in a way, the passivity of it was anathema to the ideal of his name and the nature of his mission. His mind had settled, if only for a time, and the others had sensed it, too.
No one had stalked him outside, only Wuffles barely left his side these days and while the mabari was hardly his favourite companion, he was also mostly quiet and unobtrusive. And best of all, the old black cat who kept the kitchens and cellars of the townhouse free of mice, had not been deterred by the huge dog in the least.
For the first time in a long while, Anders knew a hint of peace. Though even this was laced with bitterness at the oncoming loss.
He had settled himself on the stone steps leading into the basement, at the edge of an open yard. A low wall, overgrown by ivy, separated the guards' training area from the baroness' garden. Tall trees from it threw soft shadows across it, dappled and dancing in the late afternoon sun, making the movement on the yard dreamlike and surreal, the sharp violence of their sparring both at odds and perfectly balanced with the mood.
Hawke was training with them, stealing himself into their admiration so subtly you could almost believe he wasn't doing it intentionally. Over the years, Anders had seen enough devastating fighters to have an idea about the true measure of Hawke's skill and even at his worst, Hawke stood head and shoulders above the best and most experienced of Ophélie's house-guards, yet Hawke was very careful about how much of it he showed. He was better than them, but not so spectacularly they would resent him for it.
Something similar had marked Hawke's relationship with the miners at the Bone Pit, where Hawke had been former Fereldan refugee, self-made man, benefactor and master in equal parts and the workers had adored him for it.
Anders had been sure Hawke would be the last to desert him, even as the others all trickled away one by one, but seeing him with Ophélie made him wonder. It looked as if Hawke was building something new here, something lasting. If he played his cards right, no one in Orlais would truly care too much about what had happened in Kirkwall. Even now, there were enough people willing to see only the hero in Hawke, caught up in events brought on by someone else's madness. Orlesians were known to forgive even the most outrageous scandals if their perpetrators had enough going for them, after all.
All Hawke would have to do is disavow Anders. Given all that had been between them, perhaps Hawke would not find it such an unbearable tradeoff.
The black cat suddenly appeared out of nowhere, brushing up against Anders' leg in greeting before walking off to the side to jump onto the garden wall and curl up in the brightest patch of sunlight. Anders wasn't sure what he had done to earn her favour. She'd get milk and morsels out of the nearby kitchen far easier than trying to get anything from him. She had even gifted him with a fat mouse the first day he had been in the house.
Had he met Hawke if he had never joined with Justice? It was a useless question, but one he could not quite stop himself from pursuing. Warden business could have brought him to Kirkwall, with so many entrances to the Deep Roads barely a stone's throw away. He could have stayed for a while, deciding to help the refugees. Kameron had still been Commander of the Grey back then and he wouldn't have refused Anders' request. And there would have been Hawke, looking for the maps, just as harebrained and brilliant as ever.
History wouldn't have to have been so differently without Justice. All the important things might still have been there and perhaps even better, free of so much emotional baggage. Anders would have had enough darkness within him, even so. Enough to keep Hawke interested, surely. Enough craziness to complement all the madness the man attracted at every corner.
But how could he even think that? How dared he betray his noble goal? He had brought harm into the world with what he had done, but the world had always been a terrible place where almost everything was wrong; where the greedy and the selfish enslaved who they could and had all the civilisations bow the their every whims. Ferelden, Orlais, Tevinter, it made no difference, it was all the same immoral quagmire. No wonder all the demons longed to cross the Veil, no where else could they spread their vile aspects as they could here.
The cat had begun to snore, quite loudly and deeply for such a delicate creature. Anders wanted to reach for her and pet her, he imagined the soft fur, soaked in warmth. Across the yard, Hawke helped set up archery targets. Archery was a good idea, Anders thought vaguely, where Hawke was weakest and most likely where the guards might earn a draw — or even a win — against him.
And because there was truly no such thing as Justice, Kameron Amell stepped into the yard with Zevran, but rather than join Hawke, he lingered just inside the gate to watch. His mere presence seemed to cool the air and leach the gold from the light and leave it a bleak shell of itself. The wind picked up just then, making the treetops hiss.
Wuffles pricked his ears forward and rose to attention, ready to interfere, perhaps sensing Kameron's wickedness or Anders sudden blackening mood. Anders liked to think it was the former.
Finished with the targets, Hawke spotted the newcomers and lifted his hand in greeting. He exchanged a few words with the man next to him, gave him a quick pad on the back and sauntered over to join Kameron and Zevran.
Anders rose to his feet and stood, as all three of them turned their attention to him. He held himself deliberately straight, unwilling to give either of them — especially his former commander — any show of weakness. Still, it was an unwelcome reminder that Kameron and he had not always been so opposed. There had been enough times in Amaranthine when Kameron's way to deal with being a mage had been as inviting as any demon's deal could ever be. Safe within the Wardens, Kameron had no reason to hide his powers, to bow and buckle to the Templars. He didn't even have to pay lip-service to them. More than once, Anders had seen him flaunt it, not least of all when he had faced down Rylock for him.
Thinking of Kameron Amell as an answer would lead nowhere, however. Not every mage could, or should, be made a Warden and the Chantry would never allow such even if the idea were somehow workable. No mage should ever be encouraged to walk the path Kameron had chosen, no matter the freedoms it promised.
Squaring his shoulders, Anders set out for them, ignoring the questioning whine of Wuffles as he followed close behind.
"You have licked your wounds long enough, I take it?" Anders asked, bypassing any greeting and hoping to banish whatever wistfulness there might have been with the acid in his tone.
A quick smirk crossed Zevran's face, but he thankfully said nothing.
"My mind has to be clean for this," Kameron replied.
"Ah," Anders made in mockery. "So you have decided to give up blood magic?"
Kameron shook his head. "Be contrary, if you must," he said dismissively. "I'll help you whether you want me to or not."
Anders felt his expression darken. Something black throbbed at the back of his head that he tried to pay no attention to. "You are right. Why would I want to have any say in it? It's only my whole personality you wish to dissect!"
Hawke pushed himself between them. "As a suggestion, maybe we should have this discussion somewhere else? Or we could have it out in the street and charge for the show, that'd work, too."
Anders scowled and Kameron shrugged, then nodded.
Hawke gave a few short orders to the guards he had been training, then lead them into an airy sitting room upstairs. Given its expensive, but outdated plush furniture and the unimaginative flower arrangements on the table was prove that Ophélie was unlikely to come by.
"Wuffles, go fetch Merrill," Hawke said and gave a quick look at Kameron. "I take it you'll need to put your heads together?"
Kameron made no immediate answer. He strode into the room and draped himself on a silk-covered divan. It was just as well that Fenris was gone, because he would have been compelled to slaughter Kameron three times over by now.
Wuffles ran off dutifully and Zevran closed the door behind him, leaning his back on the wall by the door, arms crossed over his chest.
"We'll need some space," Kameron added. "A basement room, ideally, it'll help concentrate the magic."
"I'm sure what you need is right under our feet," Hawke offered. "Ophélie doesn't need to know and the staff will eventually gossip, but not question."
Huffing quietly, Anders crossed the room to the window and stared out. The yard was right below them and the guards had begun their archery practice. Some of them were young, but others had seen action before. At least two of them had had Chevalier training before they falling out of favour. They were not a force to be reckoned with, but they were still two dozen fighters who might end having to decide if they wanted to protect two bloodmages and an abomination. It was impossible to tell what side they would pick. Hawke suspected as much and it was part of the reason he was putting so much energy into building up their loyalty.
"I'm sorry we had to delay for so long," Kameron said. "If you are ready, I'd proceed with the ritual tonight."
An odd feeling ran down Anders' spine, cold like dread, squeezing his chest tight, but it lasted only for a second before being replaced by a determined calm. He turned back around and fixed his stare on Kameron. He waited for the hatred to come, but there was nothing.
"What if it doesn't work?" he asked. "What if it does something worse?"
"Are you still afraid of becoming tranquil?" Kameron asked and you could believe he thought such a fear paltry and meaningless.
"If you kill me in the Fade…" Anders began.
Kameron shook his head slowly and his face suddenly became earnest, open and honest, a reminder of the trust they had once shared in Amaranthine, all those years ago.
"I won't kill you," Kameron said. "Not Anders, not Justice. The people under my command are valuable to me."
"I left the Wardens," Anders pointed out, voice laced with bitterness despite everything.
"You were driven away," Kameron said softly. "That's a different thing."
Anders frowned, but he couldn't help accepting the truth in what Kameron said. He didn't realise how his gaze kept digging into Kameron's as precious time trickled away. From the corners of his eyes, he saw as Hawke sat down on the table by the window, laced his fingers and placed his chin there, watching the scene like a cat, too lazy to pounce, but nevertheless entertained by the display.
"You are going to go into the Fade, right?" Hawke asked.
Kameron turned his head, but didn't immediately break the stare. "Which is why I wanted to be in top form, yes."
"I'm coming with you."
It was worth it just to see the flare of surprise on Kameron's controlled features. Anders could almost see the thoughts as they chased each other. It was difficult to know whether Kameron shared the impression of similarity between him and Hawke. If he did, he must already know that no argument was likely to deter Hawke at this point.
"You aren't a mage."
"Last time I checked," Hawke agreed. "But a Dalish keeper put me in the Fade without problems. And the two of you have blood magic and lyrium… surely that's not such an impossible feat?"
"Why would you even want to go?" Kameron asked.
Hawke shifted the grip of his hands. He leaned his cheek into his palm, serenely returning Kameron's scrutiny. "Family or no, you are a stranger. I like to keep you where I can see you."
"You distrust me?" Kameron asked, honest surprise on his face for the second time in the span of mere minutes.
Hawke shook his head. "No, I don't distrust you. I merely don't trust you. Mincing words, of course, but it's the best I can give you. Take it or leave it."
Unclenching his teeth with some difficulty, Anders said, "And I still don't get a say in any of it?"
Hawke looked at Anders, but his expression didn't change. A single, thin line had appeared between his eyebrows, edged almost like a scar splitting his head. "I'm game," he finally said. "What do you want?"
Anders was rendered speechless, his mind emptied out with just the one question and the seriousness behind it. He remembered their discussion, he knew Hawke wanted to help — needed to help him — because he was petrified of losing anyone else. None of them had ever had any choice on the matter. Strangely enough, Anders thought of something Sebastian had said, too long ago. He remembered scoffing at the man rather than listening to his words. Sebastian, who paid fervent lip-service to nothing but a washed-out imitation of true justice. He had been right, though: None of them were free.
Justice, Anders thought. That's what he wanted with all his heart. Freedom for the mages, but also for the elves in the alienages and the aimlessly wandering Dalish. Even for the Templars, addicted to lyrium and indoctrinated into obedience. He wanted to tear down this world so it could be rebuilt into something worthy of them, until every city everywhere was as perfect as the Golden City had ever been.
It was no answer he could give any of them. Hawke was tired of hearing it, after listening to it over and over again until all the words rang hollow. Hawke who had seen the Chantry in Kirkwall burn and who could no longer believe in the justness of Anders' motivation. And Kameron would only sneer, because he preferred to revel in the bloodied imperfection of the world as it was.
What did he want, then? Beyond the abstract and the ideal?
"I don't want to lose myself," Anders said finally. "I'm no longer Anders as you remember him." He looked at Kameron. "Anders died. I am someone else and you would rip me apart to resurrect him."
"And yet, you are already dying," Kameron pointed out. "A mortal body cannot sustain a demon for so long." He lifted his head before Anders had a chance to speak, Kameron amended, "Or a spirit. You are young and being a Warden helps, but your body and mind are wearing out. You are a mage, moreover, you are a healer. If you were your patient, what would you advise?"
"I'm…" Anders began and then trailed off into silence. Afraid, he finished in the privacy of his own thoughts. "…tired," he finished.
Even though, the admission wasn't quite the truth, it seemed to release something in his throat and in his mind. He had wanted to die in Kirkwall, he had wanted Hawke to be his judge and executioner, just as Hawke had accused him of and it would have been the ultimate cruelty. But now, forced to live, he knew his work was not done, yet. There was something to what Kameron had said. If Anders allowed himself to waste away there would be no one left who understood the purity of the goal they were fighting for. The mages who were rising up against the Chantry even now, they still needed a leader who would guide them and protect them from easy temptation. Surely it was a goal worthy to live for? Even if it meant submitting to Kameron's vile magic, even if it meant losing a part of himself. Justice had already left his mark on his thoughts and no magic, no matter how powerful or wicked, would be able to burn it away.
"I will submit to your ritual," Anders declared stiffly. And prove you wrong.
The penitence's cell was a small square room with smooth walls on all sides. There was no door and no lock, only a woven curtain. These were not cells for prisoners, after all, but for those who willingly sought to seclude themselves away from the chaos of the world. A place for meditation and prayer, where one could face their troubles and sins alone, away from the publicity of the chapels.
The bars in the window were the shape of a sun so that the light would paint their brightness across the floor and the simple carpet and cushion there. The barest comfort, but the Chantry did not punish its sinners beyond of what was needed.
Leliana knew she was hiding. She had told the Divine everything, but under the seal of the confessional, Leliana had rendered Justinia utterly powerless to act on it. It was a bad compromise if ever there had been one and Leliana was beginning to think she had acted rashly, with the impressions of witnessing Kameron's blood magic still fresh on her mind. Seeing how he killed after so many years, it had unsettled something deep within her and her own loyalty had threatened to tear her apart.
In what she had done instead, though, she had betrayed them all equally.
Someone cleared their throat outside the curtain and Leliana opened her eyes. A ray of sunlight cut across one eye and it seared into her brain, making white spots appear in her vision. Irritably, she blinked and shifted a little so her eyes were in shadow.
"Yes?"
"I would want to speak with you."
The voice was familiar, but Leliana couldn't quite place it's owner.
"You are speaking with me."
There was a brief pause and then the curtain was pushed aside and Leliana heard the gentle rattle of heavy boots used to tread lightly. The armoured knight circled Leliana's kneeling form until the light was blocked almost completely. Leliana had to put her head back.
"I am a Seeker of the Chantry," the knight began. She was slender under the bulk of her armour, serious-faced, surrounded by a tightly controlled impatience ready to break.
"I know you," Leliana said, unperturbed by her submissive position, but she wasn't kneeling to the Seeker, she was kneeling in the Maker's light and there was nothing demeaning about that.
The Seeker bowed her head slightly. "I'm Cassandra Pentaghast. I know you, as well."
"What is so important that you must disturb my contemplation?"
Cassandra seemed unimpressed. "I heard many interesting rumours these past few days," she said. "Taken separately they are oddities, but together they form a disturbing picture. I came to clarify and to ask for your support."
"Clarify?" Leliana repeated. She shook her head firmly. "There is nothing to tell."
Cassandra took a step back and then sat down on the narrow bench that ran the circumference of the room. It brought their faces nearly level, though with the light behind Cassandra's head, her expression remained obscured.
"During a raid on the alienage a few days ago, a Warden mage was arrested. At the same time, eight Templar knights were killed at the alienage gate. We sent for the Wardens to identify the mage was not an apostate, but within only a few hours he broke out of the White Spire, leaving a trail of corpses behind. Most of them, but not all, were apparently killed by blood magic."
Leliana gave her a hard look. "You spin a fascinating story, Seeker. What do you expect me to contribute?"
"The name of the mage, his location and his plans."
"The Wardens keep their own counsel," Leliana said.
Cassandra cut her off with an impatient gesture of her hand and a darkening frown. "The coincidences were already staggering. When I heard you had withdrawn here, it became one too many. You have a history with the Wardens."
"I have been exchanging letters with old friends," Leliana pointed out from behind a mask of casualness.
Cassandra leaned in, ever so slightly. "What makes you hide away like this? You know him, don't you. The Warden mage, the one who ended the Blight. The same one who slaughtered his way out of the White Spire."
"Even if it were so, what makes you think I'd know his mind?"
Close as they were, Leliana had the perfect vantage point to watch as Cassandra's temper — known to flare easily — began to push through the seams of her patience. Her eyes narrowed until they were only dangerous slits, allowing for a sharp gleam between the full lashes of her eyes. She would was a striking woman, even with the anger and suspicion leaving its marks on her face.
Cassandra said, "There is corruption everywhere. It's my duty to follow where it leads me. Certain things cannot be allowed."
Leliana allowed a slow smile to split her lips. "That's quite a hefty implication. I'm the left hand of the Divine and what you suggest will fall back on her in the end."
"I suggest nothing," Cassandra snapped, veneer breaking. She pulled back and got to her feet in a tightly controlled move, ill at ease in the confined space where her battle prowess would be as much a liability as an advantage, especially against someone of Leliana's skill-set.
"I come to a sister and ask for aid," Cassandra added in the same tone. "Isn't it clear who the enemy is? And who is not?"
Leliana gave her another moment to collect herself — or lose herself more, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Then she picked herself up from the floor with easy grace, despite having kneeled there for a long time. The move jolted Cassandra, made her stop before she could figure out how to pace in the small room.
The faced each other again with the sign of Chantry painted in sunlight across both of them.
"It is clear," Leliana agreed. "More to me than to you, I think. The Warden is no friend of the Chantry, but he is not an enemy, either."
"He is a maleficar," Cassandra countered. "He killed Templars."
"And yet he is no enemy," Leliana insisted. "But your conjecture isn't as far off the mark as I would like, but there is more at play than you could guess."
Cassandra waited, anger flagging sightly now that Leliana was giving her what she wanted. It boiled away just underneath the surface of her control, though, ready to flare up again at the faintest provocation.
"Will you help me?" Cassandra asked with some finality, tired of trading words with Leliana and suspecting she would not come out on top against a bard.
Leliana considered for a long minute, weighting options, trying to gauge all the variables. This was why she had decided to come here, after all, hoping she could avoid just such an outcome. But Cassandra was not a woman she could cow or play and Cassandra had figured out too much on her own already. She had already sunk her teeth in and she wouldn't be a Seeker of her repute if she knew how to let go.
"You might want to make sure nothing illicit goes on in baroness Ophélie's townhouse," Leliana offered.
Cassandra's expression made clear that she knew Leliana was giving her next to nothing, just a hint, a lead, just as likely to trip her as it was to truly help. But Cassandra was no idiot and she knew pushing Leliana any harder would only backfire and the bard did have connection and was herself almost beyond suspicion.
"Thank you," Cassandra said through clenched teeth in a voice more suited to death threats.
"It's less than you hoped," Leliana admitted. "I wish you, you'll never find yourself in my position."
With that, Cassandra's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "I understand," she finally said. "Thank you again. Sister."
References
"'What if' is a game for scholars." — The Lion in Winter
Zevran's scar — "DA2 Zevran Fix" by TevinterSlave at nexusmods
Author's Note: I had originally intended for this story to preserve a kind of status quo so it would fit more or less comfortably between DAII and DAIII, however, I'm not very good at pulling punches and avoiding epicness when it's within my grasp. Consider the story AU, though as always, my changes are as minimal as I can make them.
Additionally, I have no idea if the Chantry shares Catholic ideas about confessions, but considering their other similarities it's not too much of a stretch.