Talvinder watches Savreen pace back and forth in the large entry chamber of the Assembly building, equally unsure about what, exactly, they should do. They've been waiting here, in this room, for the better part of an hour now, just waiting and listening to the Assembly argue behind a huge set of stone doors. The words they hear are faint, but they carry—though that's to be owed more to the sheer volume and emotion of the speakers than anything else.
"Your mind has gone to dust if you think we would pass such a writ. Half our houses would go broke without the surface trade!" Tali isn't sure about the specifics, but it would appear that the Assembly has devolved into arguing about stopgaps and trading measures related to the King's death. That's her best guess, and it's a fairly good one, but she wouldn't dare try to explain the snippets of debate that she's heard to anyone else, even the others of their party sitting on black stone benches carved into the walls. Especially not Zevran, who lays on his back, throwing his dagger up, over and over again, in an apparent attempt to spin it as many times as is possible before catching it.
"The proposal is only effective until we have a king to ensure we are respected by the surfacers!" The current shouting match is particularly rancorous, studded by the occasional thumping sounds of fists being driven into desks, or tables. Maybe even feet stomping into the floor—it all just turns into thumps, indistinguishable in cause. It does little to calm the frustration and anxiety felt by all waiting in the lobby. In fact, it does exactly the opposite.
"Leaving you conveniently positioned to take over all contracts. I'll see your head on a pike, first!" There's a clamor and an uproar, and Sav stops pacing, eyeing the doors with worry until three short, sharp bangs ring out, like the sound of a gavel. A slightly frantic voice, one that Tali has heard before trying to regain order, calls out above the din.
"Deshyrs of the Assembly: I have already doubled the guard to prevent violence. Must I summon more?" Most of the noise quiets, but there are still those unwilling to fall silent. They cry out now, voices full to the brim with accusations of injustice.
"Steward Bandelor, Bhelen's sympathizers are tying our hands with trivialities! They may as well open us to the sky!"
"I suggest we put the matter to a vote."
"And I suggest you have a taste of my family's mace—" Before more chaos can break forth, the Steward intervenes once more. His voice is surely worn ragged from the shouting, of that Tali has no doubt. There are three more sharp bangs of the gavel, and then silence.
"Enough! The Assembly is now in recess and will remain so until the members can regain control of their emotions!" Finally, there seems to be movement within the chamber. Sav ceases her pacing and watches as the doors are opened, sending forth a crowd of dwarven nobles, each of them simmering in anger. When the last noble has exited, heading out to the street, a tired figure traipses slowly from the chamber, his hair grey and back slightly bent. With a motion of his hand, the doors are closed once more, and he stands there, leaning against his ornate staff, muttering something that sounds very much like 'stone forsaken fools and dusters.'
"Steward Bandelor, I presume?" Savreen asks, her voice soft and diplomatic. The man appears to notice her—and the others—for the first time, and he looks back and forth.
"I am sorry, I was quite preoccupied. This is the Assembly of the Clans. Only deshyrs and occasional guests are allowed in, so unless you have express business here…?" His voice trails off in an expectant manner as he gestures to the door out to the street, and Tali can't help but step forward and speak. They've been waiting this long, after all, and the thought of all that waiting and doing nothing resulting in just being sent back out to the street makes her whole body itch.
"We were told by the gate—" She scarcely gets her words out before the Steward claps a head to his forehead, groaning in forgetfulness.
"Oh, Stone! The topsiders with Assembly business. I completely forgot about the gate guards' message—it arrived in the midst of the session. You are correct—I am Steward Bandelor. Please speak—although the Assembly is in recess, I may help you as I am able." Tali turns to look at Sav. Their cloaks are still drawn over their armor, covering whatever might reveal them as Wardens, but now that is no longer an option, not if they're going to present the treaty to the Steward. Anxiety courses through her as Sav speaks, and even though she knows there is no other choice, Tali can't help but fear what the response will be, especially after the outburst of Loghain's soldiers at the gate. Haltingly, uncertainly, Savreen speaks.
"Steward, to speak plain, we are Grey Wardens." This revelation does not seem to surprise the man, and while Tali holds her breath, she sees no indication that he's about to clap them in irons or imprison them. Plainly relieved, Sav continues, holding out the Warden treaty so that the Steward can see it—and, more importantly, the bright seal across its surface. "We have come with this treaty to seek allies to face the coming Blight."
"I trust you know that there are people looking for you, Warden." The whole group tenses. Alistair takes a single step backwards, as though preparing to run, but his face is unreadable. Morrigan snarls preemptively, and Zevran casually removes his dagger once more from its sheathe, spinning it through the air with emphasis. Leliana, Sten, and Ranjit all stand impassive, but their hands move to their weapons. Savreen, though, does not move, does not give any ground even in the slope of her posture.
"I trust you do not mean that as a threat, Steward," she says, and her voice is light, even if her hand rests on the pommel of one of her swords.
"Indeed not. Merely a warning. You will find no foes here, at least none that have followed you down from the surface. Orzammar retains her sovereignty." Steward Bandelor bows, a small inclination of his head, and everyone relaxes again, like a breath being released. "I hope you can forgive our unrest, and the state of the Assembly. Whatever your treaty says, the loss of our king has hit us hard. Respect for you and your role is great, but you won't receive a proper hearing until we have a new king on the throne." It is just as frustrating now as it was to hear first from Loilinar, but it is not unexpected. The Steward looks ruefully over his shoulder, back to the closed doors of the Assembly chamber, and speaks with a heavy sigh in his voice. "I must tell you the Assembly is locked in debate, and has been for some days now. It does not appear that any headway is being made. Your wait could be…substantial."
Unease animates Alistair's shoulders, pulling them up around his ears as he runs a gauntleted hand through his hair.
"A Blight is coming, Steward. It will not wait." His words do not move the Steward. All the man does is shake his head mournfully before responding once more.
"Troubling for us all, to be sure, but it will still seem distant compared to the empty throne. The assembly is blind to all else: the succession cannot be forestalled." This is not the answer Alistair wants to hear—nor is it the answer Tali wants to hear, for that matter. Alistair is the one who speaks first, though, struggling not to raise his voice and, for the most part, failing.
"Does this city not care the world is about to end?" It's not a shout, exactly, but it does echo against the stone walls that surround them, the low ceilings. It feels nearly claustrophobic with the sound bouncing around them, and Steward Bandelor only stares sternly at Alistair.
"This is their world, and it ended when King Endrin died. And while the Wardens are respected, young man, the dwarves have faced the Darkspawn far longer and more often, so I would refrain from that line of reasoning in front of the Assembly." The expression on Alistair's face twists into an awkward grimace, red flush heating his cheeks.
"Apologies," he mutters, sinking down into his own posture once more. Steward Bandelor does not seem overly upset, but Tali has to admit—letting Sav do the talking is probably for the best. Her cousin sighs a little before speaking once more, doing her very best to smooth over the situation.
"Is there nothing we can do to help? Any way to break this stalemate, or to bring our treaty to the Assembly sooner?" It is the Steward's turn to sigh, and sigh he does.
"I must admit, Warden, I am at a loss myself. You would have more luck meeting with the presumptive heirs to the throne—either one of them—than with a single member of the Assembly." As Tali watches, she sees Sav perk up slightly.
"Who are these heirs? What can you tell us of them?" The question is either the wrong one, or exactly the right one, what with the way Steward Bandelor glances nervously around the room, double checking for any other listening ears.
"There is…much to say, and not enough time in which to say it. As the Steward of the Assembly, I am to remain neutral."
"Then grant me your neutral opinion," Sav asks, voice hushed. Swallowing heavily, Steward Bandelor appears to consider his words carefully. Then, at last, he speaks.
"There are…rumors. They are not taken to very kindly by the supporters of Prince Bhelen."
"Prince Bhelen?" Tali remembers this name; the name shouted during the scuffle to which they bore witness, the name shouted by the side who walked away unscathed while another man died in the street. The Steward nods, barely meeting Tali's eyes.
"King Endrin's last remaining son. It was…tragedy after tragedy."
"Who is his opponent? The other presumptive heir?" Savreen is nonchalant as she asks the question, but the Steward is far from it in answering.
"Lord Harrowmont. He—King Endrin wished Harrowmont to succeed him; he drew up the writ on his deathbed."
"I see." Tali wonders what, exactly, Sav sees. There are quite a few couched meanings in all these words, and understanding them isn't Tali's forte. When Sav speaks next, though, she thinks she has an idea. "These tragedies. They wouldn't happen to have provided King Endrin with possible motivation to remove the throne from his son's reach, would they?" Steward Bandelor neither nods nor shakes his head. But that non-answer is an answer enough, even for Tali, especially when he clears his throat and forcibly moves the conversation forward.
"If you wish to speak with either of their representatives," the Steward says, as though Savreen's entire line of questioning were nothing but the buzz of a gnat in his ear, "you will find them easily enough. Vartag Gavorn, hand of Prince Bhelen, is to be found on the palace grounds. Dulin Forender, Lord Harrowmont's man, remains at the Harrowmont estate." He takes one last moment to look around the room once more, but they are truly alone. There are no others, no stragglers, no one to hear him. "I hope you choose your allies well, Warden. Any king will do for the purpose of your treaty, but Orzammar without a rudder is not something I would like to see."
The Steward bows shallowly to them all then, evidently done speaking, and heads for the doors out to the city, leaving them in silence. After a beat, Tali clears her throat, looking around at the others as she levies a proposal.
"What do you say we go talk to Harrowmont's man?" No one disagrees.
There is, thankfully, enough time to find an inn before they must also find Dulin Forender. There are only a few patrons there, and the innkeeper seems delighted to have business while the city is closed. The eight of them split up across four small rooms, all but the three Wardens retiring to bathe, to sleep in real beds, or to eat. Savreen wishes she were able to bathe now, but all there's time for is to pull off her char-aina, to comb her hair, and to obscure any sign that she is, in fact, a Grey Warden. They may need to explain themselves to their allies and the Assembly, but she would prefer caution while walking the streets of the city. Trust is hard for her to come by since leaving Redcliffe and walking right into the path of an assassin—even if said assassin is now among the number of their party.
With a sigh, she shoves those thoughts from her mind. Anxiety and distrust will only make them stand out in the streets as people who wish to hide. Suspicion follows those who give reason, this she has long known. She pats the rug by the hearth, leaves a small piece of dried meat for Sher, and waits until he curls up before pulling her boots back on, signaling to him that he's to stay there until she returns. Quickly, she and Tali head back out to the inn's hall, where Alistair already waits for them, and then make their way through the city to the noble estates.
Harrowmont's home is smaller than some, but still grand, and the three of them wait silently in a large foyer lit by several crackling braziers. Savreen notices Tali glancing back and forth between Alistair and herself, as though wanting to say something, but she's grateful when no words are forthcoming. Not that she doesn't want to hear whatever it is Tali has to say, of course—it is simply that she would rather it not be here, in this strange foyer, while Savreen is trying to focus on how to convince Harrowmont of their honest desire to help. It does bother her, too, that Alistair would be Tali's concern at a time like this, not the critical meeting at hand. It feels too much like Savreen is being left to do all the work herself, and when she knows very well that Tali can contribute, that she did contribute at Redcliffe, it frustrates her.
But Tali says nothing, asks no questions, just looking back and forth between her cousin and her fellow Warden.
"When we go in there—" Savreen begins at last, trying very hard not to let the frustration get the better of her. Tali and Alistair both perk up, looking to her as though awaiting a command, and it makes her stutter and stop, just as a voice rings out through the foyer.
"You must be the Grey Wardens," a stocky dwarven man calls out, loud enough to make Savreen wince. She had hoped that there might be a touch more discretion applied to their identities, but it does not appear that that will be the case. The dark-blonde-haired dwarf continues speaking as he approaches, making carefully spaced steps across the stone floors, watching his feet as he goes. "I am Dulin Forender, First Lieutenant and advisor to Lord Pyral Harrowmont, King Endrin's own choice as successor. I hear that you seek an audience with him?" Sighing, Savreen can do nothing but nod. Just how much of their plan, how many of their secrets, are to be known by others in this city? Dulin smiles, either oblivious to her frustration or choosing to ignore it. "Steward Bandelor's wife is my cousin, you see," he says by way of explanation. It does little to make Savreen feel better.
"We thank you, Lieutenant Forender." Savreen bows slightly as she speaks, and out of the corner of her eyes, she sees both Tali and Alistair follow suit. "You have heard correctly, though it may have been better had you not." The man's smile turns quizzical, and Savreen sighs before explaining. "We seek secrecy, Lieutenant Forender."
"Ah, yes, I see, I see. Well, my apologies—that may no longer be possible. But do not fear; Prince Bhelen's men would be stripped of their names and cast from the city were they to lift a finger against you." It's not the foe Savreen fears, not by a long shot, but perhaps it's a good sign regardless. Perhaps they're at their safest from Loghain here, under the mountain. It is not a comforting thought, no matter how much Savreen wishes it were.
"That is certainly…helpful," she says lamely, but Dulin barely hears her, already moving on to his next thought.
"Now, in an ordinary time, Lord Harrowmont would be honored to meet you." The 'but' that lingers behind his words makes Savreen want to squeeze her head and pull her hair. It's another stumbling block, another obstacle in the road when it seems that they've faced nothing but since leaving Ostagar. Instead, she stays standing with a blank smile on her face, waiting for the man to continue, only thinking about pulling out her hair. "Unfortunately, we've already caught more than one of Bhelen's spies approaching Harrowmont under a pretense of friendship." Here, the smile vanishes from Dulin's face. He turns away from the three Wardens, hands clasped behind his back. As he does, the shine of his dagger just so happens to catch the light, heavy and jeweled on his hip, ornate but clearly well sharpened. "So, I am afraid that I won't be able to take your word. If you want to speak to Harrowmont, it will be on our terms."
Dulin looks back at Savreen, brows arched expectantly, and she crosses her arms across her chest. His friendly countenance is all but gone, no remnant of the blustering, slightly foolish man who blared out his introduction mere moments ago. Savreen has to admire his composure, even if he thinks of them as potential enemies before possible allies.
"What are His Lordship's terms, then?" she asks, on guard. In response, Dulin's smile returns to his face, and he relaxes, turning further so that his dagger once more is hidden from the group.
"They are quite simple. Tomorrow there is a grand Proving, meant to honor the ancestors. Much of the city will be there in the stands. Meet with him there, in public." Savreen considers it for a moment—what are their other choices, really? To meet with Bhelen's hand? To barge into the Assembly and demand an audience? Neither is a choice she wants to make, even if they are choices that are open to her.
"You are certain that we will be safe?"
"Oh, very. The Proving is the safest place to be—and for Grey Wardens? The heroes of the Deep Roads? You will face no trouble, you have my word." Groaning inwardly, Savreen nevertheless maintains a smile.
"Very well, then. We shall meet Lord Harrowmont at this Proving."
"It's been…far too long," Tali says, only the very top of her face poking from the water of the heated bathing pool. Savreen laughs, just a little—she's right, of course. Cold rivers and streams are well and good in summer, but they've left those days behind, and it's been an unfortunate number of days since their last bath. It's been months, though, since the last time they bathed in hot water, and the large inn bathing pool, fed by underground springs and heated by the lava that runs through the city, is a luxury.
"The water is very nice," Savreen says at last, when Tali pulls her head from the water, hair streaming in slick black rivulets down her back and clinging to her skin. There's a faint expression of confusion on her cousin's face, and Savreen finds herself unexpectedly self-conscious. "What?"
"I didn't mean—well yes, the bath is nice." As Tali speaks, she takes her kangha and a small bottle of shampoo from the lip of the pool, beginning to work her fingers through her hair. "It's just that we haven't had any time alone. Just us. In private." Savreen blinks, hands frozen in the middle of scrubbing her skin. Tali's right—she can hardly remember the last time they sat together in each other's company, with no one else alongside. The closest she can come is that night in camp after leaving Flemeth's hut the first time, on the way to Lothering, where they had finally been able to speak about Highever, about their feelings. But still, they had only had as much privacy as camp had allowed, and they had needed to whisper to avoid waking the others. Here, they're truly alone—no one else is in the bathing rooms at this hour, and what's more, there's no one in the whole inn but themselves and two other groups of merchants. Privacy is more than an imagined thing, for the first time in a long time.
"It has," Savreen agrees, and she feels more than a little sad. Before, when they were not Wardens, when they were just cousins, just Tali and Sav, they had spent so much of their time together. Training, sparring, bathing, swimming, hunting, riding, even in the hours they turned to their needlepoint and embroidery—they had always been together, able to speak freely. They're still together, of course, it would be silly to think anything else, but they can't be the same as they were before. There are no walls on the road, no rooms where they can go and lay themselves bare only to each other.
A lump, hard and painful, forms in the back of Savreen's throat, and she tries to swallow it down. Maybe now would be a good time to talk to her, she thinks, to ask Tali about my decisions, my mistakes, about leading.
"Can I…can I tell you about Alistair?" Tali asks instead, pulling herself from the pool with speedy grace. She looks back down at Savreen with wide, hopeful eyes as she dries herself off, then wraps herself in a slightly too-small robe provided by the inn's staff. Savreen watches her, watches the way her fingers and knuckles move as she braids her long, pin straight hair away. It reminds her of their fathers. The brothers share—shared the same straight hair, long and heavy and glossy.
"Mm-hmm," she intones, nodding. The lump in her throat is still there, and if anything, it's grown more painful. Tali smiles, biting her lower lip, and then sits back down on the pool's edge, kicking her feet in the water with small splashing sounds.
"We—well I don't know what's going to happen," she says, a faint flush rising to her cheeks, her throat, her chest. "But I—that is, we both—we kissed, Sav." There's a giddiness to the way she talks, and Savreen can remember another time, so many years ago it seems, when they talked of crushes and kisses and such. How she wishes this were then, that these baths were not in Orzammar but Highever, that they were anything other than Wardens. "And I know things have been hard, lately. Of course they have. Everything is…everything is different. But we both want to try, I think. Well, I know. I know I want to try. I don't want to feel like I'm waiting to live again, even in the midst of all…this. The Blight, Loghain, our—our family. I think they would want us to be happy, Sav."
The way Tali says it all makes Savreen squeeze her eyes shut. She's right, Savreen knows that she's right, but it makes her think of Ranjit, of the very real possibility that she's ruined that forever. It makes her think of her conversation with Sten, weeks ago now, of her duty and what she wants, what she needs. What she'll do when this is over, who she'll be. She wants to say that, to tell Tali, to reach out for Tali's help, but when she opens her eyes and sees her cousin sitting there, staring at her hopefully, waiting for her approval, she can't bring herself to give voice to anything that would take away from Tali's joy, her excitement.
"I'm so happy for you," she says, and it is true, it is. Alistair is good and kind, she's known that since they met him on that dais in Ostagar, and he cares about Tali—he made that clear in the Brecilian Forest, when he refused to leave her side. And he makes Tali happy, that much is obvious. Savreen has no reason not to be happy for her cousin, and indeed unhappiness is not what she feels as they leave the bath, nor as they return to their room, chatting idly. Unhappiness is not what she feels as they ready for bed, dressing in clean nightclothes purchased from the market. Unhappiness is not what she feels when Tali drifts into silence and then sleep, leaving Savreen alone in her wakefulness. Unhappiness is not what she feels as she lies in bed, staring up at the dark carven ceiling, Sher resting his solid head on her stomach.
What Savreen does feel, though, is an agonizing bubble, a festering wound swelling up inside of her, just under her skin. It follows her into her dreams, dark things where she is trapped in an endlessly shrinking tunnel, where the stone and rock around her will not let her go, where the pressure forces her inward until she feels as though she's about to explode.