The Names We're Given

Chapter 10: Dangerous Company

by Dreamer In Silico

The Circle Tower

As the large rowboat made its ungainly, wallowing way across the glass-still waters of Lake Calenhad, Zevran took a mental inventory of his poison supplies one final time. He was never underprepared for a fight, of course, but his once-obsessive habit of reviewing the ever-changing contents of his oilcloth-lined pouch had gained the familiarity of ritual over the years, the list falling into a cadence like a prayer to some forgotten death god. Soldiersbane on daggers, Deathroot on the throwing knives. The Warden expected trouble to come from templars; he would need to incapacitate them as quickly as possible.

Adder's Kiss, two vials, left side. The boat was silent save for the light splashing of the paddles as they cut into the water. Mei stood in the prow with the wildskin witch an inky blot upon her shoulder, looking for all the world as if she rode instead on a cart to the gallows. Would she be chanting some litany of her own against the anxiety of waiting? Did she wonder, despite those strange words of calculated trust two nights before, whether she would have his support at the critical time?

Soldiersbane, one extra in the center. What of the others? Did she count on their loyalty if her enemies sought to reclaim her? He would seek her favor over the templar's; that choice left far more – and far more interesting – opportunities open to him. What demons awaited her in that inelegant Tower, beyond the name "apostate," and all the perils that went with it?

Magebane, two vials, right side. It always paid to have the one you didn't think you'd need, and Zevran was inclined to extra caution for lack of the opportunity for stealth. He almost envied Morrigan her shapechanging – she at least would have something of the element of surprise should they need it. Instead, he would have to settle for fading to visual insignificance within the tableau, passing relatively ignored beside Sten's size, Alistair's clanking splint mail, and Mei's searing antipathy for her surroundings. It would suffice.

Deathroot extract, three vials, secondary pouch, packaged for easy reapplication.

The boat's edge jostled gently against the weathered wooden pier. They had arrived.

Alistair debarked immediately, with a smile of thanks to the young recruit who had ferried them that quickly faded to determination as he reached the broad stairs to the Tower door. He carried himself tall, confident in his safety and welcome by the guardians of this place, which attitude made Zevran smile to himself in amusement. There was a situation in the Tower, the recruit had said, and the words had straightened Alistair's spine even as they had put Mei still more on-edge, if such a thing was even possible. Leliana had been interesting to watch then, too – she had looked back and forth at the two Wardens, then set her jaw and contrived to stand between them on the boat, carefully breaking Alistair's line of sight on the mage. Her eyes had found Zevran's in a silent request for him to enlist in her efforts at insulating firesteel from tinder; she clearly knew he watched as closely, if not moreso than she. Clever woman. He had assented for lack of a reason not to, though with the pensive wall the other elf had erected around herself for the short voyage, it would have been a source of no small wonder for her to even hear the antagonism should Alistair give it.

Now that wall gave way before the great oak door, and he heard her shaky intake of breath just before it began to creak on its hinges as she pulled.

Inside the atrium, a greying templar with marks of rank and the air of one accustomed to deference was conferring with a pair of underlings, a harried cast to his blunt features as he paced across the floor.

Then he looked up, and his eyes turned to flint.

"You."

The Warden's voice was quiet as she answered, admirably betraying very little of her unease, at least as of yet.

"Yes, me, Greagoir."

The lesser knights stepped into guard positions to either side of their commander, and others in the room – perhaps ten, at a glance – all seemed to stand up straighter at once. Zevran loosened his stance ever so slightly to give himself a malleable lightness that would allow him to spring into action in any direction. The knight Greagoir merely crossed gauntleted forearms in front of him, sweeping a disdainfully appraising eye over their motley party. "I must say, in all my years of service, this is the first time I've ever seen a wanted apostate come slinking back to the Circle. Arrest her."

And here it begins. That was quick.

Both of Greagoir's flanking guards drew swords and stepped forward immediately at his command, but Zevran slid his daggers free of their scabbards and smoothly swept down into a ready crouch a half-step in front of the Warden. There was movement to his right; Leliana had done the same, eschewing her preferred bow for blades in the relatively close quarters of the atrium.

"Not yet, Morrigan," came Mei's barely-there whisper as feathers rustled irritably. Good. If the witch revealed herself now, there would be no avoiding a fight. Already jumpy, the templars would all be upon them at once if a bird suddenly manifested as another apostate with rare shapeshifting powers, and the resulting skirmish would not have odds he cared to have to bet on. It was a minor relief, as well, that their leader seemed to share this preference, at least for now – Zevran had not been certain she would not jump at the chance to strike back at her former captors, foolhardy though it may have been.

When the templars hesitated in their advance, Sten drew his own massive two-hander, shrugging to resettle Morrigan's gnarled staff more stably across his shoulders. Alistair, frozen in place, had been rapidly darting his gaze between the Knight-Commander and the coalescing party, looked more hesitant with every heartbeat. His eyes fastened eventually somewhere beyond Zevran's shoulder, likely on Mei, and whatever it was he saw in her face finally pushed him to speak.

"Knight-Commander..." Alistair coughed to clear his throat. Zevran suppressed a sigh. The man had missed 'authoritative' by several degrees and sounded merely apologetic instead, but at least he would not turn on his fellow Warden now. That would be messy. "I was a templar, and am now a Grey Warden, as is my company – "

Clearly unimpressed, Greagoir cut him off with a whipcrack rejoinder. "Boy, this Circle is in bedlam, a half-dozen of my people are dead, and there are demons and abominations running amok throughout the Tower! I am not about to allow an apostate who may well have had something to do with it run loose, and I command you to stand down."

Interesting. Did he have reason to believe she was some sort of maleficar, or did he simply accuse because she was present? The idea that she might have had something to do with the Circle's current crisis was ludicrous, but he could not help wondering what score the good Knight Commander thought he had to settle with the Warden.

"He doesn't answer to you, Greagoir. He answers to the Grey Wardens, of whom we are the last two in Ferelden in the middle of a Blight. Stand down." Mei's voice was almost the caricature of exasperation, as if she forced that tone to cover something more threatening… which was probably exactly what she was doing, come to think of it.

Her adversary was having none of it, however. "You come sauntering back in here like you own the place and you expect me to – "

"My audacity is neither here nor there at the moment. We come peaceably and at dire need, and if your men attack us, a lot of people are going to die who do not need to – and from the sounds of it, that you can ill afford." Her voice had begun to crack; she was losing her hold on composure, and in his peripheral vision, Leliana turned with a worried frown to look at her.

No, dear bard, you should know this. Any other time, he might have shaken his head, but now he had no wish to present unnecessary movement. No more assessing eyes; they are like stones being held up by wet parchment...

"Knight-Commander." Alistair broke in, blessedly with much more firmness than he had previously managed. "I have been with this woman since the battle of Ostagar, where she fought in service to King Cailan and in defense of all of Ferelden. Whatever problems you have with her, the Blight is a bigger one, I promise you. Please, can we talk about that instead of killing each other?"

A tense silence stretched across the room, Zevran holding himself statue-still and watching for the first sign of an aggressive move by any party. Nearly every pair of eyes was on Alistair and the older templar.

A gesture from the Knight-Commander set the silence thrumming like a lightly-plucked bowstring, but it did not snap – he'd signaled his guards to ease. Behind and beside him, Zevran heard quiet exhalations of relief from the two women, and stepped back to the Warden's flank both to allow her a clearer view and to allow him to watch her. No sense in denying himself information, was there?

"You realize claiming to be Grey Wardens is scarcely better than being an apostate? There's a price on your heads if what you say is true," Greagoir said, tone all studied skepticism and foreboding.

Zevran could have laughed. And I hear that the man who has claimed guardianship of the throne has even gone so far as to hire assassins, so much does he fear them! As well he should, apparently. Of course he wouldn't say such things out loud – it wouldn't do to announce his presence in the Wardens' party any more blatantly than was strictly required. Particularly if he still found reason to leave their company… prematurely.

Alistair took his hand off his sword hilt as he replied. "Yes, funny thing, that – The regicide doesn't want us telling on him. Can't say I blame him about that, really." The other human's eyebrows shot up. "Setting that bit of unpleasantness aside for the moment, we have a treaty with the Circle of Magi promising aid against darkspawn incursions, and we've come to call on that aid now."

Greagoir let out a disbelieving chuckle, a sound that did not seem familiar to the stern man. "Do you see a Circle here?" He gestured expansively, eyes resting on the barricaded door at the far end of the chamber. "Our situation is critical; I have sent for the Right of Annulment and a contingent of reinforcements so that this corruption may be cleansed."

There was a sharp gasp from the Warden, and Leliana's eyes had widened like saucers. Zevran himself had never heard of this Right of Annulment, but it was not difficult to make a guess at what that might mean, especially considering the reactions from those who must know.

Even Alistair looked aghast. A very bad sign. "Erm, that's a bit… extre – "

Mei was having none of Alistair's lukewarm protestation, however, cutting him off and confirming Zevran's morbid guess in a jagged half-yell, her face bloodless and eyes wild. "Andraste wept! There is no way there aren't untainted survivors in there! And you would slaughter them all?"

The flint eyes swung back toward the Warden. "Sacrifices must be made for the greater security, apostate, something you did not understand before, and apparently have failed to remedy since you left here."

Her retort came in a snarl. "Oh no, I understand very well. 'Sacrifice' means 'kill mages,' and 'the greater security' is whatever you sodding well find most convenient at the time… which barbarism you have apparently failed to remedy since I left here."

So there had been an abuse of power by the templars, beyond the normal oppressive environment mages faced in their pens. He'd suspected as much, both by her behavior and because it was the sort of thing the assassin had seen many, many times, especially among the younger Masters with their cells and apprentices. Cruelty came easily when escape was impossible – or near enough to it – and resistance could be punished however the Master saw fit.

"Not helping…" Alistair muttered under his breath at Mei.

For a moment, Zevran thought she might turn to attack him instead, but she visibly yanked her anger to heel. It still screamed from her clenched fists and the aggressive set of her posture, but when she spoke again, she was performing. The earnestness was quite false to his trained ear – she was trying too hard and overshooting – but the desperation had enough truth in it to be believable. Though she needed to learn to lie better under pressure, he suspected she would be quite proficient at it in less extreme circumstances, and that observation was summarily filed away for future use.

"Let us past the barricade. You don't want to risk your people further without aid – I understand. Let us be that aid. We'll handle the demons. At best we succeed without any more of your people put in harm's way… and at worst, you still haven't lost anything."

Except us, whom you would be quite happy to be rid of. Well played, Warden… if we survive, of course.

The heavy stone door grated closed behind them like the lid of a coffin, and the party was greeted by a draft of cold air that carried the scent of fire and some cloying sweetness reminiscent of rotting fruit. Zevran disliked the place immediately.

Alongside him, Mei caught his eyes with her own bloodshot ones and nodded. Was this supposed to be a thank-you for his defense in the antechamber? He inclined his head and tossed her a cheeky grin, regardless, and she met it with a valiant attempt at a smile. She made a point of briefly capturing the bard's attention, as well – definitely gratitude, then. Perfect. (Except for the whole bit about being trapped in a prison full of demons, but there wasn't much he could do about that except kill lots of them, which he certainly held no objections to.)

Flickering light and the muffled sound of shouting around a bend ahead drew the whole party's attention, and Mei held up her arm for a halt.

"Morrigan," she said quietly to the sleek creature on her shoulder, "probably as good a time as any to prepare to fight, since it shouldn't be templars."

There was a croak and a flutter and a rush of air larger than any crow should be able to produce, and the witch stood again in her own form, black hair wisping across her brow like the feathers she had just banished. "More is the pity," she agreed, earning a searing glare from Alistair and a frown from Leliana as she reclaimed her staff from Sten.

"Try to stay quiet until we know what's happening up there," Mei cautioned, drawing her swords and moving forward warily. Alistair stepped to the front of the group with her, though he was pointedly avoiding her eyes; she moved to his unshielded flank, and Zevran fell into step behind her. If he needed to, he could tumble past her or Alistair and catch an opponent by surprise; he simply had to be prepared for the charge Sten would likely want to make at the same time. No matter, though – Zevran was quite sure he was quicker. Now that fighting demons was a guarantee rather than a mere possibility, his lips turned upward into his habitual combat grin. Anyone could say what they liked about traveling with the Wardens; at least their company was far from boring.

A gust of warmer air brought the renewed scent of brimstone and an inhuman shriek of rage, but a human voice followed in its wake, and Mei stopped cold just in front of him. Someone she recognized?

"Petra, the shield! Be ready!" The voice was female, with the soft modulation common in the well-educated, and laced with the faintest quaver of old age. There was another awful screeching and a child's cry of fear, and Mei had begun moving again. Within moments, they were rounding the corner just in time to see the white-haired human force the burning demon to abandon its physical manifestation and flee to the Fade. A shimmering wall of magic began to form in the doorway on the far side of the room, and the elder added her power to the younger woman's to lend it a near-solid quality.

"That… should hold. For now," she said, half-breathless. "Could you – "

But Petra had turned with widened eyes to see the group standing in the doorway. "Senior, we have newcomers!"

The old woman turned, heeding the exclamation, then stopped, thunderstruck.

"Hello, Wynne," Mei said in a voice like a sigh of resignation.

"Child…? What are you doing here?" The mage Wynne asked, uncertainty evident in every aspect of her manner.

The Warden tensed, but did not raise her weapons. "Saving the Circle, ostensibly. We came seeking help against the Blight and found… this." She stepped forward into the room, apparently expecting her companions to follow her into clear view. Wynne's expression deepened from surprise into astonishment.

"And who is 'we,' then?"

Gesturing toward Alistair, she explained, "Grey Wardens. Or Alistair and I are. The others are… …."

Does it matter?

"Friends," Leliana supplied from nearby, inclining her head respectfully.

"Speak for yourself, girl," Morrigan muttered, albeit not loudly. Zevran wished she had held her tongue altogether, for the Circle elder was now sternly fixated on the barbarian apostate, looking more skeptical by the moment.

"Friends and allies," Mei summed up hastily, drawing Wynne's eyes back to her.

"I… see." The human was scanning their faces with such a schoolmistress's exactitude that Zevran found himself comparing her to one of the older whores who had been among his surrogate mothers, so long ago. Her sparse brows drew together in a frown and her eyes flicked back over the group from where they had lingered for a long few seconds on Sten, and then to Mei once more. "What of Giselle? Did she take the Grey with you?"

The question seemed to catch the Warden like a blow; her violent shudder was dramatically visible by the quivering of the empty scabbards on her back. Interesting. A friend, or a lover?

"Dead. Templar hunters." The words were short, ugly, and acrid as coffee left forgotten on a cookfire overnight.

"Oh, child, I am so – "

"Don't. Please don't," Mei gritted, cutting her off. "You did what you could at the hearing. We have work to do here," she said with a desperate finality. Definitely a lover.

Zevran loosed an inaudible sigh. This explained much – the sleepwalker's stare she wore when no one demanded her attention, the fraying edge to her anger that was too raw to be anything but fresh. Fate was still laughing, it seemed, but its sense of humor had grown black as a stormcloud, and for once he didn't care for the joke. Had the Warden seen that same ripped edge to him when she spared his life, then, or could he dare to hope that his own past would continue to enjoy a privacy that hers clearly did not?

The old woman gave a solemnly approving nod – Stoicism. The perfect elder. She is sympathetic, but probably unhelpful – and resettled her grip on her staff. "So we do. How did you get in? Petra tried the door to the atrium and found it heavily barred and artifact-warded."

He could almost see Mei wrapping the tattered remains of her equanimity around herself like a cloak as she answered. "Greagoir let us in, I think mostly because he hopes it will save him the trouble of trying to kill me himself. We don't have much time – the shit-eating prig has sent for the Right of Annulment. We need to find Irving before he can get the reinforcements to carry that out."

Wynne blanched, holding her silence for several long seconds before replying, "Oh, Maker…. The Knight-Commander seeks to acquit himself well of his duties, Mei… he is wrong, but do not speak of him so." Zevran curled his lip in disgust. He'd stake his own ears on the bet that this woman had never tasted the full measure of hardship at the hands of their keepers.

Mei seemed to share his sentiment, and explosively so. "I'll call the man who signed her death warrant – and all ours, as well! – whatever I sodding well please," she spat. "Save the breath you'd spend defending him for the demons. Have you any idea what happened to start all this?"

Petra spoke up from where she had been comforting a small knot of apprentices, the eldest of whom was an elven child who couldn't have been more than ten. "None whatsoever – I was helping Senior Wynne with the little ones when we first heard the screaming… we tried to get them out, but were trapped down here when they sealed the doors."

"And we've been holding here ever since," Wynne finished.

"Alright." Mei took a long, audible breath and glanced around. "We need to get through your barrier, then; it looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

Wynne shared a steely glance with Petra, then gave a decisive nod and turned back to their party. "Very well. I am coming with you."

Truly, old woman? This should be good.

There was a derisive snort from nearby; the witch was more vocal in her opinions. "What use have we for a templar pet of a Circle mage?" Morrigan scoffed.

The Senior Enchanter paused, already half-turned to dispel the shimmering wall, and blinked at the apostate again before looking askance at Mei. "You keep dangerous company, child."

That statement, cast as a reprimand, was simply hilarious, given the circumstances. The petite mage in front of him even made a strangled, hiccupping noise that sounded as if it wanted to be a laugh.

Zevran allowed himself a silky chuckle. "It is good that this one thinks so highly of us already."