There was a decided stomp in her step as she left Carver behind. Adara was definitely not irritated to realize that she had been twisting herself into knots thinking about Carver Hawke, of all people, while he was at the brothel. Maybe twisting himself into other kinds of knots. She flushed thinking of that and then scowled. It really wasn't her business what he got up to in his spare time, so why did she feel so strange about it? It could be your business, what was that supposed to even mean?
She wished that Leliana was here with her. Leliana understood people better than Adara did, her advice always gentle and insightful. Adara dragged her hands down her face and let out a little frustrated growl. Maker only knew where Leliana was, but it wasn't here. Adara would just have to keep her own counsel. Later. Right now she needed to bring her attention back to the more pressing issue of meeting with Zevran and learning about still more people who wanted her dead.
The address in the letter belonged to a warehouse near the docks, the kind that had been partitioned off into smaller subsections to rent. Adara wondered if Zevran had any idea who owned the section he was apparently using as his basecamp. That would actually be more of a surprise than him making himself at home uninvited. Adara tapped lightly on a wooden sliding door. It was silent for so long that she began to worry that she had somehow misread the address, but then the door slid open a foot or so. The door protested the movement with creaking and squeaking along a seldom-used track, and she winced at the sound.
A human woman with dark eyes and a thin face peered out at her. "For Zevran?" she asked in a hoarse, low voice. Adara couldn't place the accent, but it wasn't local. She nodded, and the woman beckoned for her to enter.
Adara only hesitated for a moment before stepping into the dark warehouse. She paused just inside, trying to let her eyes adjust to the dimness as the door squeaked and groaned shut behind her. "This way," the woman said, brushing past Adara.
Given the door's state of disrepair and the staleness of the air inside, Adara was surprised to see that the warehouse was so full. Crates were stacked to the ceiling in some places, but when she reached out to run a finger along one of them, her finger came away gray from a thick layer of dust. Some of the crates bore markings, but the lighting was too poor to make them out.
She didn't see the glyph until she was too far in her stride to stop.
The shock of having her mana drained away in nearly an instant hit her like a punch to the gut, and she struggled to draw in a breath. Adara could see the glyph now that she had triggered it, white lines glowing softly along the floor. The panic of having her magic stripped from her, to have her grip on the Fade yanked away from her, was nearly as bad as the panic of realizing she had walked into a trap. Zevran would never do this to her. The realization settled heavily in her stomach, as if her heart had dropped down into it. What a stupid mistake, she chastised herself bitterly.
The thin-faced woman was coming towards her, blade in hand. Without her magic, Adara's staff was nothing more than a large stick in her hands, but a stick was better than nothing. She swung her staff at the other woman's head with a furious cry. Get out of the glyph, she told herself. Her opponent dodged the first swing, but Adara caught her with the second one. A third swing, this time for her legs, brought the thin-faced woman to her knees.
The woman cried out a name that Adara did not recognize. She caught a flash of movement from behind her in the corner of her eye, but she did not have time to do anything more before the garrote bit into her neck.
"Do you really think you ought to be getting combat training from an assassin who can't assassinate anybody?" Alistair said from his post next to the campfire, where he was stirring a pot of something thick and colorless. He cast a baleful look towards Zevran and Adara, the former standing behind her with his arms halfway into catching her in a chokehold.
Zevran tsked. "Hurtful words, Alistair. If you are jealous, you only need to wait your turn." Alistair turned red and spluttered out denials in that awkward way that Adara found so very adorable.
Zevran wrapped one arm around Adara's upper chest, lowering his head until his mouth was right next to her ear. Alistair's scowl deepened. "Chin down, Warden. First and foremost, you must protect your lovely neck. Now, what do you do?"
"I mind blast them ten feet away."
"No, no magic allowed. What if your opponent is a templar, like our dimwitted yet oh so handsome prince companion?"
"I am not a templar!" Alistair protested.
"Truly? That is what you are choosing to protest? I'm shocked by your self-awareness," Morrigan interjected with deep amusement. She kept well apart from the rest of them physically but still near enough to be prepared to needle Alistair at any given moment.
Adara ignored their bickering. "If I let someone get this close to me, I've already lost, haven't I? I'm a mage, not a brawler."
Zevran laughed. "Don't give up before the fight has even properly begun! If you're still alive, you haven't lost yet."
"I'm not sure that I like that sentiment coming from someone who tried to kill me," Adara teased. It was a strange thing to joke about, to be sure, but strange circumstances were simply the way of things these days.
Strength is good, but quick wits will serve you better, Zevran had said at some point during their travels and impromptu training sessions. When you are small, you need to exploit every single advantage you can find.
The first advantage—or stroke of dumb luck—was that the man who came up behind her was significantly taller than she was, and he placed the garrote too high. Instead of biting into her throat immediately, the garrote hit her chin first and scraped down her jaw. Adara had a split second to get her hands beneath the wire before he pulled it taut, though she cried out as he did. The wire was razor sharp, and it bit deeply into her hands.
She made to throw herself sideways, but her attacker was prepared for that and tried to lift her. He was less prepared for the hard kick to the groin that he received a moment later, and Adara heard him curse before the wire slackened just a touch. Just enough.
Adara shrugged beneath the wire and lurched forward. A few more steps, and she just barely crossed the glyph's border. The relief was immediate, like drawing a deep breath after being kept underwater for too long. Her magic was returning slowly, but it would be enough. All panic was gone, replaced by a building fury.
The thin-faced woman staggered back to her feet with her sword at the ready. With a gesture from Adara, the sword's hilt began to glow red-hot in the woman's hands. She dropped the sword with a pained cry. "KEILI, NOW WOULD BE GOOD," the woman yelled.
How did she know that name? Adara had no time to mull it over. She felt the ripples of someone else nearby plucking at the Fade, shaping its energy into something that felt horribly familiar. She whirled around, trying to catch sight of the caster, but she saw no one before the walls of a crushing prison closed around her. Adara couldn't scream: the force pressing in on her from all sides was too painful and too great. Maker, she couldn't get a breath. The pain of her bleeding hands was quickly dwarfed by the agonizing and bizarre sensation of being crushed in from every direction.
Shit, Adara thought. What a way to go.