It is a long road to Val Royeaux.
We are mounted, fortunately; seven horses could be scrounged from Haven, enough to carry us along the Imperial Highway to Delisle Harbour, north of Halamshiral. From there we can sail across the Waking Sea, to Val Royeaux herself. I travel in the company I expected; Cassandra rides at my right side, Lysette at my left, with Varric and Solas both riding behind. Ahead rides a lone Inquisition scout at our van, and another covering our rear. Both are about a kilometer distant in either direction, affording them space enough to forewarn us of any dangers.
The landscape of Orlais sweeps broad and flat in all directions but rearward; the Frostback Mountains loom tall and proud at our backs, but ahead of us the northern reaches of the Dales and the eastmost edge of the Heartlands are glorious to behold. The Waking Sea glimmers far ot the north, a narrow band of sapphire along the horizon. It is great fortune that sees the weather at last cleared; our exit from Haven was harried by a snowstorm, but here away from the mountains the sun shines bright over our heads.
It is a good day to ride. A great day, even. I am not reminded of the Hinterlands; the land here is too flat, great plains of golden wheat to our left and south, and to our right the boundless expanse of wild grass stirred only by the gentle breeze. The heat is not so oppressive as it was in Ferelden, the breeze from the ocean cooling the air. Lysette and Cassandra both wear their full armour without a hint of discomfort, and beneath my linens and leathers and chain coat I too am rather cozy.
"Rider returning," Lysette says to me, breaking me from my idle pondering and turning my eye back to the road to see our vanguard has wheeled his horse about and approaches us at a steady gallop. His haste sparks my interest, and somewhere in that is a note of paranoia; my right hand descends to my left hip, resting there atop the pommel of my longsword.
The scout slows his horse when he reaches us, bowing his head reverently before speaking his report.
"The road ahead is blocked, Herald," he says, a note of fear in his voice. "Soldiers, it looks like, manning a barricade."
"Which banner?" Cassandra asks, her hand falling to her own sword.
"It looked to be the Empress' flag, ma'am," the scout reports. "The Orlesian mask, flanked with stars."
"A barricade this near to the Fereldan border?" Lysette ponders aloud, glancing over her shoulder at the Frostbacks. "What could the purpose be? Gaspard has no allies there."
"None that we know of," I reply, before nodding to the scout. "Join the company, ser. We will ride together, and see what is to be done to gain passage."
The scout falls into our ranks, and we ride onward. Sure enough, cresting a small rise, I see earthworks and a narrow palisade erected flanking the road on both sides. A man in the lionhead helm of the Orlesian soldiery stands at guard, a halberd in one hand. Up on a rough watchtower an archer stands overlooking us, and above the palisade a lone banner emblazoned with the blank mask of the Orlesian empire, engulfed in a golden sunburst on a blue field, flanked with half a dozen silver stars to each side. I frown to see it.
At our approach the man in the watchtower calls, and some half a dozen men-at-arms with spears advance post-haste from behind the palisade, standing ready. They wear masked helms as well, expressionless faces gazing blankly at us from beneath the wide brims of their helmets. I ride forward, Cassandra and Lysette at my flanks, and gaze down at the lionhead mask at the centre of their formation.
"Halt, in the name of the Empress Celene of Orlais!" the large man calls, his voice clear and strong. He strikes the brass butt of his halberd against the stone tiles of the Imperial Highway to punctuate his command with a loud clank.
I come to a stop as ordered, twenty paces from the narrow line of men. The archer above has his bow strung, but he has not nocked the arrow in his other hand yet. The guardsman waits for Lysette and Cassandra to stop as well, though the former seems to chafe at the order. My horse whinnies, and gently I stroke the back of its neck to calm it.
"You are an odd company, ser," the guardsman notes, his eyes narrowing behind the eyeholes of his elaborate mask. "I count a Templar, a knight of the Chantry, an elf and a dwarf amongst your company. But I do not count you, without knowing your nature."
"I am Ser Markus Venier," I tell him, my voice neutral. "Once of the Templar Order, now a warrior of the Inquisition."
The word alone sparks surprise in their squadron; I see men shift in their stance, glancing sidelong at one another, a flurry of murmurs and whispers breaking their steadfast silence. Word has spread, plainly. The guardsman, however, does not move.
"And I am Ser Lemoyne, serjeant of Her Majesty Empress Celene's army under Marshal Havelle," he replies. "What business has your Inquisition in the lands of Orlais?"
"Business in Val Royeaux," I tell him, though I do glance sidelong at Cassandra for just a moment to see if she might wish to cut in. "The Chantry calls a congregation of the faithful, to discuss the Inquisition's role in the Maker's plans. We had thought it would seem odd, for the Inquisition to not attend such a gathering."
"Blasphemer!"
The word is cried by one of the assembled soldiers, who takes a half step forward and points his spear directly at me. In an instant Lysette moves, drawing her sword with such speed it seems to leap into her hand and pointing it at the man, wheeling her horse around to intercede herself betwixt myself and the wavering steel blade. Cassandra curses softly and draws her own blade; but I see, with Beck's gentle aid, that the man is alone. His fellows dare not step forward, and Ser Lemoyne seems himself displeased, turning his head to look at the enraged soldier. My hand rests atop the pommel of my own blade, but I do not yet draw.
"Your Inquisition is naught but a grasp for-" Whatever it is we are grasping for, we shall not know; Ser Lemoyne smites the man across the back of the head with a gauntleted hand, a heavy crash of metal on metal making me wince.
"Weapon down, man!" he commands, before twisting and shoving the man back into line with his free hand, switching his grip on his halberd. "Damn you! Damn you twice! These are not your enemies!"
The spear falls from the man's hands as he's thrown back, one of his fellows catching him and helping him stand up. He glowers up at me from behind his mask, but he has been cowed by Ser Lemoyne's anger. I breathe deep.
"Ser Lemoyne," I say, carefully. "Your soldier's offense is forgiven. Pray, will you permit our passage? We ride to Delisle Harbour, where Ser du Montefort's family holds rulership. There we will sail the Waking Sea and make entrance to Val Royeaux by water."
The serjeant looks me up and down for a moment, his halberd back in his right hand. He is doubtful. I do not begrudge him that; we are, as he said, an unlikely sort of company. Beside me Cassandra and Lysette sheathe their swords, though Lysette remains at guard on my left.
"Reports will be made of this," he warns. "Marshall Havelle will be informed of your passing."
The unspoken warning is plain; what Marshall Havelle knows will swiftly be spread. We will not be travelling in anonymity for much longer. I will be known to Orlais sooner rather than later. I nod.
"We have no quarrel with the men of Orlais," I say. "Only with the daemons which torment them."
"Very well," Ser Lemoyne nods, before stepping away. "Stand aside men. The Inquisition is permitted passage."
We ride through the palisade slowly. It is not walled in on the other end; only a hastily assembled breastwork of dirt and stakes stretching in a half-ring from the edges of the palisade to encircle their tents. Cassandra frowns at the sight; I too am unimpressed. What purpose could this serve? Is Celene truly that frightened of her cousin seeking allies in Ferelden of all places?
Regardless, we carry on, the barricade soon far behind us. The Imperial Highway carries us across Orlais at a steady pace, the roads here better maintained than in Ferelden. Indeed, it seems as though several patches of highway were mended recently; public works from Celene, I would assume. But were they in aid of her image, the war effort, or simply an overdue necessity she saw fit to address? Our company welcomes them regardless.
Two days we ride, all told, and on the third day the small mountain range north of Halamshiral dominates our northwest, and we turn off the Highway onto a narrower road toward Delisle Harbour. Lysette sits more attentively here, eyes wandering all around. This is the land of her father, her home before the Order. No doubt she has come this way before, leaving or returning as a child before being sent to the Chantry. I watch her face; she is at peace here, moreso than I have seen her. She even smiles at the sight of an apple orchard on the west side of the road.
"When our carriage passed that farm," she tells me, in a quiet voice. "The farmer's sons would line the roadside to see the chevaliers who rode as our guards. My father had fifteen knights in his service, bannered men all. They would cheer for us, and the farmer's wife would give us apples fresh from the trees during the harvest time…"
She smiles, losing herself in memory. I smile to see her happy. Cassandra seems lost in thought as well when I look to her; no doubt nobility and carriage rides are sparking their own memories in her mind. Behind us, Varric sits much more easily than he did in Ferelden, jotting something down on a parchment pad with a stylus. Beside him Solas is scanning the horizon.
The lands of Delisle are quiet. I know them to be tributary to Halamshiral, ruled by the du Montefort clan for some two hundred and thirty years courtesy of Lysette's earlier recounting as we crossed the Frostbacks. She has not forewarned her family of our coming; we would not want to be waylaid, should they be less than pleased with the existence of the Inquisition. Leliana's network has yet to spread this far from Haven in any meaningful way, so the inclinations of the du Monteforts outside of our own membership.
We stop for another night outside a small hamlet shortly to the north of Delisle Harbour itself, the small city where the du Montefort clan hold their court. I can see it in the distance, but it is decided we would be best served not spending the night there. The horses will also have to go; this will be a charter journey, not a ferry, and as such there will be little room for horseflesh. I will miss my swaybacked little bay, I think, but perhaps it will be better served with a master who does not ride into battle with daemons on a regular basis.
"I think I should like to visit my family again, someday," Lysette says that night, as she curls up next to me by the small fire Cassandra has built. "It has been some years since last I saw any of them."
Her brow furrows in sudden consternation, and when I touch a hand to her shoulder she frowns.
"Do you think… they would approve of what I've done?" she asks, voice softer now. "The choices I've made?"
"They would be fools not to," I say, trying to reassure her. "You chose to stand and fight against the ruin of the world, Lysette. What greater cause could you have chosen?"
She does not reply to that, but she does nuzzle her head against my shoulder. That, I think, is enough. I hold her, one arm over her shoulder, until the two of us are half asleep and drowsily return to our own tents. I don't dream that night, thankfully; I don't mind my time with Beck in the dream world, but I do like sleeping to actually be unconscious sometimes.
The next day, we enter Delisle Harbour. Or rather, we try, until the gates refuse to open at our approach. I pause, looking up at the gatehouse above us, where no guard seems to wish to appear from. I glance sidelong at Lysette, who shrugs.
"The gates should open shortly before sunrise," she says, before nodding at the rising sun in the east. "Unless there is some issue, we should be allowed inside."
We wait as a group of seven for a few minutes, our two scouts having rejoined the company, before I shrug and cup a hand to my mouth, aiming my voice upward toward the gatehouse.
"Hello in there!" I shout, my voice carrying loud and clear through the morning air. "Is anybody there?"
For a few moments I wait in silence, to no response. With another shrug I bring my hand up again for a second try, before a shutter on the gatehouse's exterior wall swings open and a man's head pokes out. He wears a steel halfhelm and no mask, his face locked in a rictus of terror
"Quiet down there!" he calls in a whisper-shout, voice fraught with fear. "The damned monsters will hear you!"
"Monsters?" Lysette's hand is on her sword in an instant, and I rub the pommel of my own sheathed blade as I look up at the man. I speak again, more quietly this time.
"Monsters of what sort?" I ask, and the man glances back over his shoulder before swallowing.
"Daemons," he says. "From that thrice-damned portal! Opened up in the centre of town it did, and the horrors came out right after! Dozens are dead, and the things are stalking every damned shadow!"
Horrors. Daemons for certain, perhaps even the selfsame creatures he's named. I bite the inside of my cheek, before nodding up at him.
"I am Ser Markus Venier," I tell him, my voice filled with a reassuring calm I am not certain I feel. "Knight of the Inquisition and Herald of Andraste. If you open this gate, I can seal the rift, and the city will be safe."
The man goggles at me, disbelief evident in his eyes even from this distance. But, after a moment, and another fearful glance over his shoulder, he swallows.
"I'm going to unbar the gates," he says, voice low. "I'll crack them open for you, but then I'm hiding. You want to die, you can do it on your own!"
He vanishes from sight, and for a long few minutes we are alone. Lysette's teeth grind together as she scowls, drawing her sword. Behind me Solas and Varric are readying their own weapons; the scouts draw their blades, reassuring their nervous horses. I leave my sword in its sheath for now, looking to Cassandra.
"If the rift is at the heart of the town, we can ride straight to it," she notes, drawing her own blade. "Ser Markus, you are not a trained cavalier. Let me lead."
I nod, before drawing my own sword. I've not fought on horseback before; not as Markus, nor as Marcus. Templars rarely need to fight foes who ride; most mages can't, and those that can dare not cast spells on horseback for fear of terrifying their mounts and getting bucked off.
"I will follow your lead, Lady Cassandra," I say.
Lysette says nothing; she has her tower shield on her arm now, tightening the strap with an audible creaking before letting out a quiet grunt of annoyance before it finally snaps into place. Her sword glints in the bright morning sun. Varric loads Bianca with a heavy click-thud, while Solas is already readying one spell or another.
"I can provide a barrier for the charge," he says, the first time he's spoken all day. "But it will wear off by the time we reach the rift. From there I will endeavour to provide support as I can."
Before any of us can reply, the gate creaks open, the man from before peeking out at us before disappearing again, doubtless running off to cower in some closet. I scarcely blame the man, though I do wish he'd show a little more courage in the face of the foe. Varric grumbles to himself, lifting Bianca to his cheek and sighting her.
"Lysette," I say, riding to one side of the gate, and when she goes to the other we wrench both open with a heave, allowing Cassandra to spur her horse. We follow swiftly, and then the charge begins.
We ride hard and fast down the cobble road, seeing the empty streets stretch out before us. No daemons cross our path yet, nor do we see any citizens of the city. I remember the guard's plea for us to be quiet, and at once I raise my sword and let out a whooping cry.
"Andraste!" I call, my voice echoing through the narrow streets, between villas and places of business, to the deepest shadowy recesses of the city. "Andraste!"
As the first daemonic howls rise in echoed retort the rest seem to catch onto my plan, and soon we are all shouting and screaming as we ride, our voices echoing through the entire city, and drawing the daemons from their places of hiding. I look over my shoulder to see the first shades and wraiths emerging from the dark places between the buildings, chasing after us. The adrenaline encourages me to spur my horse again, hastening it forth.
On and on we ride, Cassandra wheeling along one of the central ring roads to draw more daemons after us, and then wheeling again. My horse's hooves pound the cobblestone street, and lustily I begin to sing the Litany of Fury, Lysette's voice joining mine shortly. We took lyrium this morning, as always; it ignites in my veins, the war-song growing louder in my heart and on my lips. The edges of my sword begin to alight gold and blue, dappled with the colours of sun and sky, and by the time we emerge into the central square and the mark ignites in the presence of the rift there at the heart of the plaze, half a hundred demons have swarmed to follow us in a tide of shrieking, wailing murder.
The plaza is a noble sort of place; the rings of cobbles encircle a stone fountain with low, wide walls, the figure of a bare-chested woman rising from the central pedestal and holding aloft a great bowl from which flow three streams of water. The liquid has gone black from the contaminating ooze seeping from the ugly wound of the rift, and the pale white stone the woman is carved from is cast in a sickly green pallor.
The rift flares open, a scar in the flesh of the world, and begins to wail in that discordant way as more daemons begin to pour from it; but I raise my marked hand, riding in a circle about it to evade my otherworldly foes. The line of emerald between my spell-scarred palm and the wound in the world does not break, growing brighter until at last there is a detonation of green and black, and all the deamons wail.
"Andraste!" I cry, as lean in the saddle and bring my sword down to cleave the head from a Shade's jutting shoulders.
And so the battle is joined in proper. The rest dismount hastily, the scouts laying into daemons with their swords while they stand stunned and stooped. Cassandra calls upon her Seeker abilities, a blue beacon of light and faith that poisons the fell creatures with presence alone. Lysette and I march side by side, the Litany pouring forth from us to drown the beasts in our loathing and disdain for their wickedness.
We sing of bloodshed, of misery, of the downfall of man and the cruelty of the first masters. I sing of sin, of sorrow, and as I reach crescendo the sword in my hand ignites in golden light, our blades blessed by the Maker and whatever force empower's Cassandra's silent strength. We carve through the daemons as one, and when at last the rift trembles and the air shimmers, I reach out again with the mark and command it be silent.
It obeys, as it must, and when the killing and cleansing is done we stand alone in an empty courtyard, littered here and there with the half-decayed bodies of the daemons' earliest victims, puddles of black ichor which are swiftly burned away by the light of the sun, and our own company.
"That may well be the swiftest we've ever dealt with one of these things," Lysette notes, taking a long sip from her waterskin after she speaks.
"It's getting easier," I agree, watching the last remains of the slain demons vanish into smoke and ash. "And yet… there are many left to be dealt with."
"Indeed," Lysette replies.
It is only when the first heads begin poking out from newly opened shutters and eyes begin peering at us from the shadows of doorways something occurs to me. I take the offered waterskin from Lysette, drink deeply, and when I hand it back I sigh.
"I think we've failed to pass quietly through the city," I note, and when Lysette is forced to cover her mouth to hide her smile I know I've succeeded twice today.
As folk stream from the safety of their homes to behold their unlikely saviours, I sheathe my sword at my hip and look to the rest of the company. Solas and Varric fall in with us, leading their horses, while the two scouts stand awkwardly amidst the crowd and try to make their way back to us. Cassandra rides to our side, but it is other riders who come that draw my eye; and Lysette's.
Under an unfurled red banner proudly emblazoned with a golden lion's head, twin to the one upon Lysette's breastplate, borne by a rider in armour of bright sunstone and a black tabard etched with silver filligree, ride three figures. The first is a woman with chestnut brown hair strekaed here and there with lines of silver-grey, sitting tall and proud atop a white mare enrobed in scarlet silks. A young woman rides beside her, atop a brown mare, with brown hair braided behind her ears in a gown of red. The last is a young man, who stares in awe at the pack of us from behind a chevalier's helm and visor.
The Lady du Montefort, I do not doubt. And her children, and the man in sunstone a household knight. But I glance to Lysette for a moment, who looks half-shocked and half-afeared as she looks upon her own family. She is bare-headed, her Templar greathelm still in her saddlebags.
I step forward, as the crowd of gawking onlookers part to allow the du Monteforts past. I look up at Lady du Montefort, her expression inscrutable beneath a mask of peerless white porcelain, quartered in red and white with lips of gold leaf. She looks down at me in turn, and there is something in her eyes beneath the mask; something cold, hard as steel… yet I feel I am not the target of her displeasure. She inclines her head.
"You have our gratitude, noble Ser," she says, as her son and the man in black slowly trot to encircle us. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"
I swallow. The crowd is one thing; but the eyes of nobility weigh heavy on my shoulders. I am tense, though I know she is a woman of flesh and blood just like me. It is much harder, Marcus reflects, to disregard station when the one to whom you speak displays it in their very bearing. I bow my head respectfully, before meeting her eye.
"I am Ser Markus Venier, Knight-Templar and agent of the Inquisition."
I may as well have cursed the Maker and all His plans; the crowd is shocked into silence. We chose to ride without banners to avoid this selfsame problem, but damn my drive to protect the innocent I suppose. I clap my fist to my breast in a Templar's salute. Lady du Montefort's eye does not leave me, and it is only by Beck's calming grace and my own resolute insistence upon not fearing this woman that I do not wither beneath her gaze.
"It is fortunate you came to our town when you did, Ser Venier," she says at last, voice measured, each word spoken with great care. "You have saved us."
Then at last she looks away from me, and when her eyes fall upon Lysette I can see her regal posture shift, her eyes widening beneath the mask. Lysette cannot meet her gaze, head bowed, but the hair, the face…
A mother knows her child.
"Lysette?" The word is spoken softly, half realization and half wish, as if the Lady cannot believe what she says to be true though she prays for it to be so. "Is that truly you, my little lioness?"
Lysette at last looks up, and meets Lady du Montefort's eye. She looks almost sheepish, but she does not flag or waver. She bows her head, salutes her own mother… and then speaks.
"Lady du Montefort," she says, voice strained. "I… am pleased to have aided Ser Venier, and humbly accept your gratitude."
What?
Lady du Montefort looks rather surprised as well, shifting again in the saddle. Beside me the younger chevalier, who surely must be a brother of Lysette's, shifts in the saddle as well. The young woman by the Lady's side also seems shocked, her lips opening in a little O shape. She only wears the masquerade visage, hiding her eyes and nose from sight.
"Lysette…" Lady du Montefort speaks softly, before looking back to me. "Ser Venier, it would be an honour of my house to host you this eve, to show our gratitude for your great deeds this day."
Staying in Delisle Harbour was not the plan. If we do, we'll be late to Val Royeaux; not so late as to risk our arrival, we'd planned for an arrival several days before the congregation…
I must see this through. Here is a rare chance; a chance to ingratiate ourselves to the Orlesian nobility, long before the events of the Winter Palace. A chance to observe, to further the Inquisition's mission…
And to learn more of Lysette.
I nod, gratefully.
"It would be our honour, my Lady," I say. "Lead on, if you would."
And so it is done. We mount our horses, returned to us by awestruck townsfolk, and follow the noble congregation back to the castle atop the hall. Lysette is silent as we ride; we all are. This has all been a rather swift turn from the ordinary, toward something far more bizarre. I can see Cassandra frowning out of the corner of my eye, but I do not turn to look at her. I ride with my back straight and shoulders square, head forward to follow the banner of the du Monteforts with my eyes.
The Spire Levonne rises from the southern edge of Delisle Harbour, lending its occupants a commanding view of their township and the road leading into town. It juts from the top of a great hill like a spear, a tall citadel tower ringed by four shorter drum towers and a stone wall fifteen feet in height. Markus has seen larger, but Marcus has never beheld a castle larger than Calenhad's Foothold before. Levonne is something else to his suburban-oriented mind; smaller than the skyscrapers of Vancouver, and yet somehow more imposing.
We pass beneath the narrow gate and are greeted by several more du Monteforts; two young boys, twins perhaps, stand side by side watched over by a young woman who could be Lysette's twin were it not for the lines beneath her eyes and the more aged air she bears about her, one of her hands gently set atop a shoulder each. They squirm under her grip, but they stare up at us with wide eyes, awestruck by our strange presence. Varric especially earns a few long glances, clear confusion in their eyes when he dismounts and is revealed to be scarcely taller than they.
There is another; a man with a cane, right leg in a metal brace that comes up to his thigh. He bows his head respectfully when he sees us, but then he sees Lysette and stares as long as he dares, until at last we are all dismounted. The Lady du Montefort is tall, with a rail thin build that makes her rather plainly resemble her castle. She stands alongside the lame man and the woman with children, and inclines her head.
"My son Drakosé, heir to Delisle Harbour," she says, introducing the lame man first. "And my eldest daughter Velia, and her sons Colin and Andriet."
She goes through the family one by one; the younger chevalier is the second son, named Hugenon, the younger woman the third daughter named Amietta. Through it all I keep Lysette in the corner of my eye; she stands stiff and straight, hands folded behind her back. Her discomfort is odd to me; I recall our conversation in that Fereldan hut, so long ago now it seems. Second daughter to the Lord du Montefort, given to the Chantry to prove their devotion. She is of an age with me, perhaps a year older; it will have been scarcely more than half a decade since last she saw them.
Why then does she act in this way? It does not mesh with what I know, Marcus reflects… so there is something more here. Perhaps this will give me the chance to do as I wished and learn more.
"It is an honour, Lords and Ladies du Montefort," I bow my head, before looking back to my own company. "I travel in the company of Lady Seeker Cassandra Penteghast, Varric Tethras, Solas and Ser Lysette du Montefort, as well as Ruben and Everarda, scouts of the Inquisition."
Pleasantries are exchanged, Markus' memories of Chanson aiding in the finer details of basic court mannerisms. I am uneducated in the full breadth of higher society's many traditions and demands, something that will need to be amended. No doubt Josephine has plans; Leliana as well, though they will doubtless see differently what counts as "appropriate" in a courtly setting.
For now, we follow the Lady du Montefort into the Spire Levonne as one. That she even welcomes the scouts does not go unnoticed; even Solas is permitted, which Markus knows to be rare for Orlesian nobility. No assumptions are made as to their standings.
It is Varric who first finds conversation with one of them; the older woman, whom I assume to be Lysette's elder sister, who notes softly she has read some of his work. He is… surprised, when she mentions Hard in Hightown, and the two swiftly fall into a rather long conversation about his work as an author and the inspirations behind his various pulps. Cassandra snorts quietly… but it is she who is next drawn into conversation when the young chevalier, Hugenon, asks her what her role as a Seeker is, and if she is a Templar or a Chantry knight.
"If you are of the Inquisition," the elder son, Drakosé, says to me after falling away from his mother's side to walk beside me, his cane tapping steadily on the flagstones to match his gait. "Then you must have come to Delisle Harbour to seek passage to Val Royeaux. You will attend this congregation the Chantry Mothers have called?"
"Indeed," I nod. Drakosé is a narrowly built man, like his mother in that regard, but his hazel eyes are warm and kind, and he smiles easily as if pleased by my honesty. "We had thought it… suitable, that we should attend a discussion of our own place in the Maker's plan."
"And doubtless at the recommendation of a certain Mother Giselle," Drakose says, and when I stiffen up he chuckles. "It was a cunning thing, to have her call the Chantry to declare their intent with your organization. Very well played."
I stare at him a moment. It should not shock me that he could know; any who knew of Mother Giselle's location might have been able to draw the simple conclusion that our meeting her and the resultant call for Chantry action were linked. And yet I am surprised, because… well, to Marcus' mind, this was a secret. In the games… nobody seemed to even note that you did this. And yet this man, this man who Marcus does not know at all… he did.
Another change. The world, this world, it is real, the people within it move of their own accord regardless of our… my plans. It boggles the mind in the worst way though it should not. I know this. I've known this for too long now, and yet still it catches in my mind with jagged edges and refuses to fit because Marcus still perceives all this as a game, a world bound to the rules of fiction.
"I suppose we had hoped it to be more subtle," I say at last, hiding the tremor in my voice and bowing my head, faking a bemused smile poorly enough that Drakosé plainly sees through it. "We thought ourselves rather clever."
"Cunning is sister to subterfuge, but rarely do wise men wish them joined." Drakosé says, before we come to the dining hall and our unlikely company of nobles, knights and outriders. It is a lonely, empty place; solemn, perhaps.
I have not taken a meal in a tomb before, I don't think.
Dinner is a quiet affair, bereft of all but the most banal of chatter. I catch Drakosé eyeing me sidelong multiple times, but he always manages to grin off my attentions and return to his meal. My real concern is with Lysette; she is deathly silent and almost totally still, especially whenever the eyes of her mother fall upon her, however briefly they may deign to. At one point when that formidable gaze is directed elsewhere I slide a hand over to hers and gently squeeze her for comfort. Her fingers brush against mine in return, but as if sensing our nearness her mother returns her gaze to us and we separate with a smooth sort of haste.
It is after we eat that matters take a turn from suspect to intriguing. I am invited, with all the cordial command an Orlesian noble can muster, to join Drakosé in the library for a drink and some stimulating conversation. Lysette declares her intent to see to our lodgings, though when her sisters both follow her to the stairs I raise an eyebrow.
Drakosé sits across from me in the library, a rather spacious room walled with bookshelves twice as tall as I am, filled to the brim with a variety of tomes and texts. I don't look too closely, but as my host takes the time to clear a few select volumes off the round table we share by the room's small hearth, I go through the motions of laying out two small glasses at his request. He emerges from a corner with a bottle of wine, pouring us each a few fingers of dark red liquor and raising his glass to me.
"To the heroes we do not expect," he toasts, exactly as cryptice as I've begun to expect. "And to family."
"To family," I reply, though the words bring a touch of tension to my voice. "And the hospitality of strangers."
My little wordplay bemuses him; he smiles at me and drinks, not too deeply to seem a drunkard, but without the daintiness one would anticipate of a nobleman. He seems to notice my attention, and smiles knowingly.
"All this perusing up and down the spire has given my leg a fierce ache," he says, before holding aloft his glass again, swirling the crimson liquid within. "This is medicinal."
I drink as well. It's a good Orlesian red, full-bodied and stronger than I expected. Wine is not something Markus or Marcus have a great deal of experience in, but my satisfied little hum seems to please my guest. We sit in silence and drink together for a time, before at last he begins the conversation I was promised.
"You have noticed the tensions betwixt my sister and mother," he says, voice soft and eyes alight with a certain alertness. "I trust it is obvious?"
"Quite," I agree, before taking a quick draw from my glass. "Lysette… er, Ser du Montefort did not commonly speak of her family in my company. Indeed, I had not known your names until we met just then."
"Her allotment to the Chantry was not a kind thing," Drakosé says. "It was hastily done, and rather sudden for her. I trust she told you it was a matter of piety, perhaps devotion?"
"The word was used." I nod.
"The line was fed to her by our father," Drakosé says, shaking his head. "As were so many others. My father disgraced himself rather gravely, you see; he sought the affection of another woman whilst our mother was still alive and hale."
"This is Orlais," I retort, and he chuckles softly.
"Indeed it is," he says. "And yet she was not Orlesian."
I pause a moment, considering the statement, and then raise an eyebrow.
"From the Free Cities, perhaps?" I ask, and when he shakes his head I frown. "Fereldan? Elvish? A dwarf?"
Each is met with a negative, and I wrack my brains for a moment and then, in an instant, it dawns on me.
"Surely not Qunari?" I ask, and when Drakosé nods I sigh. " scandal must have been fearsome."
"He broke his marriage vows with a foreign heathen of common birth," Drakosé replies, and somewhere in those soft tones there is a note of bitterness. "And in doing so nearly damned us all. Lysette was given as a peace offering to cover the faith's interest in the crime, and his… 'mistress' was sent away."
"I have not seen the Lord du Montefort about the keep," I note, and Drakosé nods grimly.
"Gone south, for the war, with nearly all the spears and swords our city could muster. Twelve of our fifteen chevaliers and all the men at arms they called. When the portal opened, we did not have the numbers to defend ourselves from the monsters." Drakosé speaks in plain, honest tones now, but still… he is embittered.
"Has your father sided with the Empress?" I ask, and Drakosé once again nods.
"We are linked by some blood on his side to Marshal Havelle," he says. "When she swore her forces to the Empress, my father followed in due course."
"And now he is in the Dales," I say. "And behind him his own home, besieged from within."
"Hugenon begged me permission thrice to ride for the square," he tells me. "And thrice I had to shout him down. Had we not been so drained by this war, perhaps we might have fought the daemons back. Instead…"
He pauses a moment, and sets down his cup. He leans forward, wincing slightly when he puts a little more weight on his braced leg. His eyes meet mine; hazel like Lysette, a shade darker perhaps. I see now the bags beneath them, the lines on his face. He cannot be more than twenty-five, yet the stresses of his position have left him prematurely aged a decade at least.
"We were saved by chance," he says. "Happenstance."
"Faith," I reply, and Drakosé laughs in my face, short and sharp and bristling with that bitterness I've identified prior.
"Faith has naught to do with it," he says. "My father sold my sister to the Chantry like a spare horse, then fled to the first warhorn which echoed to our holdings. I have little faith in these times; it is chance which rescued us."
"Your father is a rake," I tell him, and he grins to hear the word. "And if the world is just, he will be punished for his foolishness. But do not lay the sins of Raymond du Montefort at the feet of the Maker, nor the sins of the Chantry at the feet of Andraste."
"Andraste," Drakosé laughs. "They say you are her Herald, I'm told."
"They also say I slammed shut the Breach with my bare hands, and cast a billion daemons screaming back into the Fade," I reply. "Much is said. Little is truly meant. Littler still is known, but I know this; Herald or heretic, I bear upon this hand of mine the burning bane of daemons, and it was grace which delivered it unto me."
I present to him the mark, still flickering now and again with emerald light, Beck warm and soothing about my forearm beneath the sleeve of my coat. Drakosé leans in to see it closer, and I watch his eyes trace the shape of the black-burnt sigil for a long moment.
"Call it chance," I say. "Call it faith. Call it fate or fortune or the dread doom of destiny. Call it whatever you will; it is the procession of events which led me here, with this sigil upon my hand, to undo the wickedness that was delivered to the heart of your home. From that first day when I stumbled from the ashes to this day when I rode to the heart of Delisle Harbour, it has all occurred in accordance with the procession of things."
"You believe the procession to be planned," he says, and I nod. "How can you say?"
"Becasue it happened," I reply. "And it shall continue to happen. I cannot speak as to the ending; I can only embrace what has been, and what is being at this moment in which we occupy."
"And this is what men call faith," Drakosé says. "Is that what you mean to say?"
"Perhaps that is what you wish to hear." I reply, smiling.
And again we sit in silence, Drakosé drinking deep of his wine and wondering at my words. I, for my part, sit back and rest, wondering as well. Not about the words, for they flowed as I meant for them to. No, I wonder about where it is they came from; Marcus, nor Markus was ever quite so confident in speaking. One was, in frank terms, a nerd. The other was raised by soldiers; nether were steeped in some grand oral tradition. So where then are the words born, if not of our… their… my past?
I cannot say, in truth. Yet it troubles me still.
Eventually, Drakosé finishes his cup. I do not think I have wholly changed his mind; such a thing would be absurd. But I have, perhaps, forced him to think differently of a few things. That is enough, for now; this is not a game any longer, where a few bits of dialogue can radically alter a person's sense of self. All I need is for him to think.
"I am a clever man, Ser Venier, wouldn't you say?" He speaks suddenly and with conviction, and when our eyes meet he nods. "You needn't say it aloud; I know my own cleverness. My father and mother damn it regularly enough."
"Indeed," I say, for I have little else I can even think to say.
"And yet, for all my cleverness, there are many in the empire as clever as I am," he says. "Or worse, cleverer still. And my cleverness rarely leads me astray; it allows me to see what people may not want me to see. That is rather the point of cleverness, I think."
I too feel rather clever, because I am reading between the lines on his statements. He realized what it was we were doing in the Hinterlands, seeking out Mother Giselle. And he is far from the only person to notice such things; and many have likely come to the same, accurate conclusions he did.
"I think I see," I reply, nodding. "You have my thanks, my lord."
"Please," he says. "Your affection for my little sister is evident enough to my damnable cleverness. You may call me Drakosé if you wish, or Drako if you long for a shorthand."
"Drakosé then." He nods, ingratiated, before rising. He winces a tad when he has to put weight back on his braced leg, clutching his cane tightly. I stand as well, and together we walk from the library and toward the stairs that will carry us to the rooms I and my fellows have been allotted.
"You are, I think, a clever man yourself," Drakosé says, his voice low. "It is good I could not see it at once; many in the Chantry will err in the same way."
"Being seen as a bumpkin is rather beneficial to schemes and plans," I agree, and we share a moment's laughter before ascending the steps together. "I have spent much of my life being looked down upon by the Chantry sisters. When they look at Templars, they see tools to be made us of."
"You are no mere tool," Drakosé replies. "Not any longer, I think."
"And what then am I, Drakosé?" I ask.
And then we are at the door to my lodgings; a humble guest room, but far more luxurious than any boarding I've appreciated in my life. I step inside, but Drakosé lingers without, before speaking a final time.
"Dangerous," he says, and there is something chill in his voice then. "I think, Ser Venier, that you are a very dangerous man."
I afford him a smile, humble and kind. He is not fooled.
"Good night." He departs then, his braced leg thudding and his cane clicking and clacking on the stone floor, but I wonder if it isn't a performance for my benefit. No doubt he could be quieter if he wished.
I settle in for the night, stripping off my armour and coat, leaving my sword by the bedside out of some niggling sense of lingering threat. The sun outside is long since set somewhere in the west, and I can only hope sleep claims me quickly. I sit down on my bedside, before a gentle knock shakes my doorframe ever so slightly. I look up, blinking.
"Who is it?" I call.
"Who else?" Lysette's voice answers, soft and made softer still by the door between us.
I rise and open the door to let her in. She's doffed her armour as well, wearing a light tunic and leather leggings. She sits down beside me on the bed, sighing deeply.
"I trust Drakosé told you all you could ever hope to know about me?" she asks, voice softer than usual, fraught with something that sounds distressingly like worry.
"Only the truth of your father's missteps, and of your unjust placement within the Order," I reply, but that only seems to temper her frustration.
"I do not regret it!" she snaps, her hand grasping for mine and squeezing tight. "Do not think that of me, please. I have… I have become used to the way things are. And there is little I would rather be than what I am now. Please, do not think that I… that I hate this, that I could…"
She leans into me, and I wrap an arm about her shoulders.
"I do not hate you," she says softly. "I do not think I ever did. Only… only what you did, or what you did not do. My father… his mistakes are his own. I have paid his price for him, and in doing so I have gained so much."
"I didn't think you hated me," I tell her, and she shakes her head. "No. Lysette, I thought that once, back in Ferelden. I do not think it any more. The only thing this changes is that I know better now who you are, and what has brought you here. It pleases me."
We sit together in silence for a little then, until her arms wrap around me from the side, and she buries her face in my shoulder.
"I did not want it, then," she admits. "I was angry. I… I hated my father, and my mother for sending me away. I think I still do."
"You were a child," I reply, my voice gentle. "A girl of eleven, sent away to a strange place far from home for reasons you could scarcely understand. It would be stranger for you to be content with how things were."
"She hardly knows me any more," Lysette says, and for a moment I try to decipher which of her relatives she is referring to. "My sister. Velia. She was married a few years before I was sent away. She… she does not know me. Drakosé does, he will always know me. Hugenon as well."
"Tell me about them," I say. "Drakosé and Velia, Hugenon, Amietta. I wish to know them as you have known them."
And she d oes. We sit together, holding one another, and she speaks of Drakosé's injured leg, the horseback accident that saw it twisted in on itself trapped in the stirrup. Of Hugenon's insistence upon knighthood and his brash nature. She speaks of Velia, always the mature one, the perfect daughter, and I can hear a measure of envy in her voice that fades when she recalls her elder sister sneaking her treats from the kitchen even on the day of her wedding. She knows little of Amietta, whom she admits to having ignored as a child, too young to play with and too old to be coddled and cared for.
When it is done, her stock of stories exhausted and the both of us too tired to carry on, we sleep there together in my room. Nothing untoward occurs; we only share warmth, her body pressed softly against mine. That night, I do not dream, not of Beck, nor of Marcus' world so far away.
I simply rest, and await the trial which fast approaches.