Val Royeaux is a remarkable sight.
It occurs to Marcus that he grew up adjacent to Vancouver, the fourth most population-dense city in all of North America, so Val Royeaux should perhaps not impress so greatly as it does. Yet there it is; the capital of Orlais, the beating heart of the Masked Empire and, in the eyes of so many, the heart of the Faith of Andraste. Here have reigned a hundred emperors and empresses of an empire that stretches across the near full breadth of Thedas' heartland, a legacy which has persisted across eight ages of rulership and unity.
It is a city of white marble, gold artifice and wrought iron decoration, imposing in its size and sprawl as it is magnificent in its gleaming brightness. I halt upon first sighting it, the rest of my company pausing as well to drink in the sight. Though we are nearly late, arriving here the day of the Chantry's conference, we take a moment to behold and wonder at the vastness of it all.
"In an age long ago, this city was a hamlet," Solas says softly to me, as we march toward the city gates. "Men and women wore furs and traded beads of fishbone on strings of hide for meat and bread."
"Now it is a wonder," I say, and Solas smiles.
"You will not behold its equal anywhere else in this age, I think." He says the words with a hint of melancholy in his voice. It is odd to hear him speak so kindly of human works; I wonder if perhaps my rebuke all those weeks ago took hold in him? I dare not hope for change to come so swiftly.
I will not let you be my final foe, I promise him silently. No matter what it takes, I will prevent the coming of the Dread Wolf.
The city's gates rise to meet us, freely open for our passage. I am surprised by the lack of trouble or trial as we pass beneath the vast arch, guards in gilded armour and lion-visage masks barely affording us a passing glance as we walk into the city proper. We pass between vast bronze statues of figures from Chantry lore; Andraste herself, of course, crowned with a golden halo and bearing her blade; Hessarian, humbled and solemn, his sword downthrust and braced against like a cane; even Maferath, bereaved, his head in his hands and his sword forgotten by his feet.
No statue for Shartan, alas. Something to rectify, perhaps, in the time that comes. I remember my own ally from Ferelden a moment, and in passing lament that I could not save him as he saved me. But his killer is slain, his death avenged, and the memory passes painlessly. We carry on through crowded streets, our armour and weapons drawing roving eyes but passing through the crowds without incident. The people here are outwardly cheerful, but there is that lingering feeling of simmering tension. Orlais is at war, the sky is split open, little is well with the world. Yet here they are in their hundreds, masked and merry, saving their fears for home.
It is a curious sort of national spirit, but one Markus readily understands. This is the way of Orlesians, to project themselves as untroubled so they needn't cause any trouble to their fellows. The tension is there, but it is ignored, because in Orlais one saves such things for the privacy of home and family. Perhaps an unhealthy habit, but so deeply ingrained it is a wonder we can feel anything at all.
Cassandra knows Val Royeaux readily enough to lead us, and in time Lysette falls in beside me. Her nearness is comforting, and she slips a hand into mine as we walk. Such displays are uncommon in Orlais, but few notice us when such curiosities as a Seeker knight, elven mage and dwarven rogue are present to draw gossip and gazes both.
"I wish we had masks," Lysette says, but then I blink and recall that in truth we do, though we are not wearing them.
I reach to my belt and retrieve my helmet, a common close-faced great-helm typical to the Templar Order. Lysette has the same, and we share a moment's glance before donning them together. For Marcus this steel shroud would be stifling; for Markus it is familiar, almost comforting, the grim anonymity of metal to conceal one's identity and shield the tenderness of the skull from such cruelties as blades and bolts. Lysette and I's hands seek each other again, and we walk shielded by the anonymity the Orlesians hold so dear.
Now few bother to look at us; two Templars in strange company are hardly an uncommon sight any more, with the Order in the state it's in. We are a blessedly boring thing, and it feels good after a week in Haven spent being the centre of all attention. Lysette's fingers tighten around mine, and I can feel Varric's smug grin as he looks up at the pair of us.
Later, after what feels like an eternity of navigating vast avenues and narrower streets, we come to the open ground of the market plaza. Maker, but this is a sight to see; it must be half again as large as the whole of Haven, ringed by multi-story buildings with bustling storefronts. The crowds are thicker here, dozens of voices crying out the names of goods and advertising services all about us. Compared to the game's humble ring about a fountain, this is like a new world entirely.
I am swept up in the rush of it all; even Marcus has little experience with a place like this, and this entire plaza is likely populated by four times as many people as Markus' home in Chanson. The crowd is like a tide, ebbing and flowing as interests change; but we are swept up in the tailwind of the truest motion, and directed by mass demand and Cassandra's lead to the far side of the market plaza.
And it is here, upon a wooden stage clearly built for this precise purpose, where we see the Chantry at work. Perhaps three Mothers and twice again as many Sisters, a scattering of a dozen or so acolytes of mixed gender. I see a single knight in Chantry colours.
"This is the conference?" I hear Lysette ask, laying a hand on Cassandra's arm. "This… rabble?"
"Mother Giselle sought to have all the Chantry Mothers in Orlais present," I note. "Is this truly all there is?"
It would appear to be; or at the least, this is as many as were willing to actually engage in this doomed endeavour. A few more acolytes appear as the Mothers take the stage, the crowd swells in turn. With Cassandra at our front we manage to force our way into the first few rows of onlookers, gazing upward at this pitiable display of unity. None seem to take note of us; all eyes are aimed in accord with our own.
"Good people of Val Royeaux," one Mother calls, raising her hands hesitantly, but even as she continues, I feel a hand close around my shoulder.
"Danger," Solas utters, his voice distant, and when I glance toward him I see his eyes glowing a faint blue as he shoves me toward the ground.
It is the sudden fall that spares me from the blade that lashes out from the crowd, scoring a thin red line across Solas' forearm. The apostate scowls and wrenches his hand back, as Lysette twists around to see the source of the calamity. The figure who struck at me has vanished into the crush of people already, but her hand falls to her sword before I grab her by the wrist, rising to my knees.
"Don't," I instruct. "The crowd… there will be a panic."
"We are under assault," Lysette retorts, but I squeeze her wrist a touch tighter, accepting Varric's offered hand as he helps me to my feet.
"A single dagger is hardly an assault," I reply, before Solas shakes his head.
"There are three," he says, voice low, eyes still alive with sapphire light. "They are encircling us now."
"How can you know this?" Cassandra asks, as the Chantry Mother continues to intone her speech in the background. Our attentions are all on our elven ally as he explains, clutching his staff and looking all around.
"The spirits within the crowd are restless," he says. "Wisps of treachery and cruelty have begun to flit about. They follow three figures in particular."
Beck warms around my arm, and I swallow hard. My hand falls to my sword as well, as Solas closes his eyes for a moment, no doubt reaching out to sense more. Varric scowls, suddenly turning around. He doesn't brandish Bianca; in the press of people it would be a poor weapon. His hand slips down to his belt, firmly grasping the hilt of a dagger I've only seen him use as a toothpick.
"The mood's changed," he notes. "Stay close, Kid. Something's coming."
The subject of his concern is made apparent a few moments later; the crowd is parting, forced back by the fearful and hopeful alike as a figure familiar to Marcus in sight and Markus in bearing approaches the stage. The Chantry Mother falls silent a moment, before pointing and speaking hurriedly of salvation, of the Templar Order…
All as Lord-Seeker Lucius stalks up the steps of the stage, flanked by two faceless Templars in full plate and mail. There must be thirty in total, following in a column behind, but at Varric's nod I look around to see more moving through the crowd in small groups. At least fifty then, likely to be more. The crowd's tension seems to fade as Lucius approaches the Mother who spoke the most, but he remains silent.
Then, as the man behind him raises his fist to strike her in the fashion Marcus remembers, I grit my teeth and force my Mark to flame up.
Wilfully subjecting myself to its pain is hardly a pleasant thing. It feels like touching a lit match to my own palm just to feel the burn, but the burst of emerald light draws the eyes of my fellows instantly as I scowl and double over. It isn't as bad as I make it seem. The crowd takes no note of me, as they fall back and begin to shout, aghast at the Templars' display of violence. The lone Chantry knight steps forwards, raising his polearm, but no less than four Templars advance in swift reply, brandishing blades and shields, and he falls back in short order.
"The Chantry is worthless," Lucius calls, cold voice carrying across the crowd like the crack of a whip. "If this massing of mongrels is all it can muster, then it is a pitiable thing indeed! Templars! To me! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection."
The declaration is quick, cutting and quite effective. The crowd falls into uproar. But it is my voice that carries the loudest, the pain of my burning mark fueling my retort as I shove forward to the front of the crowd, pointing with my right hand with the burning left still braced against my stomach.
"Heretic!" I cry, and behind me I hear the rasp of steel on leather as Lysette draws her blade, advancing to my side. "You would abandon the Chantry even as daemons pour from the tatters of the Veil? In the face of doom you would run?"
Lucius seems stunned, but it is only a moment's hesitation. He rounds on me swiftly, stepping to the edge of the stage and peering down at me with cold black eyes, his face contorted in a scowl. He is not a handsome man, his face long and narrow, with slicked back brown hair and a receding hairline high over his forehead, but he is frightening enough with half a hundred Templars under his command. He looks directly at me, gaze piercing, but I look up at him unafraid.
"And who are you, ser?" he asks, speaking the honorific as though it were a slur, and I remember suddenly that I'm still wearing my damned helmet, and with it and the surcoat, chain and vambraces, I still look to be a Templar.
I reach up and wrench the helm from my head, and let him see me for who I am. I do not allow my Mark to burn again, keeping it silent upon my arm with Beck there at my wrist, just out of sight.
"I am Ser Markus Venier, once a knight of your Order, ser." I reply, calmer now, but still calling out so all in attendance might hear me. "But the Templars have forgotten their duty! I serve the Inquisition now, as should all who would seek to put the world right!"
Lucius sneers; it is a fitting expression on his face. He doesn't immediately reply to me; he turns his back, looking to his Templars, who stand in orderly ranks upon the stage. He raises his arms, every inch a showman, a speaker. Behind him, I climb up atop the stage, though for a moment I can hear Lysette and Cassandra calling after me.
"A servant of the Inquisition!" he says, voice as derisive as it is dismissing. "A wastrel band of power-hungry opportunists, say I! You name me a heretic? You, who has broken your oath?"
He turns back on me, tall and narrow and so very proud. My mark alights again as he speaks, and I thrust the other hand toward him. I don't have to force it now; I'm near enough to a daemon that it begins to burn of its own accord.
"You have spat on every oath you've ever sworn." I reply. "You, who has lied to his own warriors, led them down a red path of ruin! You would see all of Thedas consumed in blood and vengeance for your own blind ends!"
He rounds on me, fury evident in his posture. I consider for a moment that perhaps I've pressed too hard, gone too far, but even as his hand sinks down to his sword he hesitates, and then begins to laugh. It's a dreadful sound, dry and mean and miserable, and he lets his fingers fall away from the pommel of his blade. His face is contorted in a terrible smile, a crude imitation of some fatherly amusement, but the mouth is too wide, the eyes too hateful.
"This one has spirit!" he says, looking to his men for a moment, who have remained silent for all this time. "A pity you've chosen the wrong side, little brother… but should you tire of playing lapdog for washed up slaves of a dead mistress, seek us at Therinfal Redoubt. We welcome all who would aid in our holy cause."
He claps a hand on my shoulder, and I hide my hand behind my back, mark burning so hot I fear I might bite through my own cheek. He sees the pain in my eyes and there is a flicker of confusion, before he turns and addresses his men again. I step back, playing the beaten man, but this bit of theatre was not for his benefit. As Lucius and his host leave the stage I go to the side of the Chantry Mother, who is still recovering on the ground.
"You did this," she says, the swelling bruise on her jaw only adding the ugliness of her scowl. "You, you damnable blasphemer. What did you offer Giselle to have her call this farce into being?"
"I offered her nothing," I reply, voice soft, earnest, as I kneel down beside her. "She bid me come to her, so I might rescue her and her flock from apostates and renegade Templars. It was she who told me to come here, to behold this."
"And now we are ruined, all of us," the woman laments, and I shake my head.
"The Lord Seeker forgets his duties," I tell her, before showing her the Mark, letting all expression slip from my face so she might see the grim truth of things. "But I have not. I bled and burned atop that mountain so all of Thedas might sleep without fear of the demon hordes pouring down upon them. I will do so again, and again, as many times as it takes for the world to be saved."
She does not believe me. I cannot blame her; I am a threat to her, if not in body then in spirit, for I am the liar messiah of Andraste, a self-proclaimed chosen one whose words and will could change everything for the Chantry, forever. She fears me. She is right to.
"But I am not your enemy," I say, and I offer her my hand, so she might rise. "I needn't ever be, should you only stand with me."
She takes it, hesitant, and as I lift her to her feet I see her confusion, naked and plain on her face. I do not speak again, I bow respectfully, and then depart. I climb down off the stage, withdrawing to my fellows. As the crowd begins to disperse while the Templars march toward the plaza entrance, Lysette rushes to my side and grabs my wrist, raising my hand to look at it.
"Your mark," she says. "I haven't seen it burn so fiercely in some time. Is there a rift in the city?"
"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I… I don't know why it would spark like this."
I cast a cautious eye toward the distant fire of the Breach, but I already know it is as stable as I can make it. Solas joins us, followed in short order by Varric and Cassandra. The last looks most perturbed, lips twisted in a frightful scowl of outrage.
"How could the Lord Seeker do something like this?" she asks, her voice low. "He… before the Apostates, he would never have dared to…"
"Perhaps," Solas says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "His mind is not his own."
He looks to me; to the mark. Then to Cassandra, in whose eyes there is a new light dawning as his implication strikes. I blink, but it is Varric who speaks first.
"What're you implying, Chuckles?" he asks. "Because if it's what I think it is, I don't know if I wanna hear it."
"How could that be?" I ask. "The Lord Seeker is… he would be like Cassandra, trained to resist such things to the utmost of human ability! He would die before being possessed!"
"Unless the possession of his own likeness was willingly passed over," Solas replies, and Cassandra scowls. "Cassandra, you have spoken of this before. How long has it been since any Seeker you've been in contact with has seen the Lord Seeker, spoken with him?"
"Months," she replies. "Months, at least. Kirkwall, and the Conclave distracted me, I-I hadn't even considered… Maker."
"The Lord Seeker, possessed…" Lysette murmurs.
"If he has truly summoned every Templar in Thedas to Therinfal Redoubt, he could do untold damage," I say. "This… we can't let this stand. Cassandra, is there some sort of… Seeker procedure or ritual to call upon? A vote of no-confidence or something?"
Cassandra frowns, deep in thought.
"I would need to look over my materials in Haven," she says. "But… I think, perhaps, there is something. I will need to send letters to whatever Seekers Leliana and I can find as well. If I can find more proof, beyond your mark, that would be most beneficial."
As she deliberates, Solas takes me aside, a hand on my shoulder. I've gotten used to just about everyone around me being several inches taller, but I still chafe at being guided around like a child. I shrug off his hand, but he doesn't seem all that offended.
"The assassins dispersed with the crowd," he says, once we are away from the rest of our party. "But I thought I should warn you that they were not the only ones. I have sensed some six hostile individuals trailing our progress at various points since we entered the city. This feels rather like a trap."
"There's little to be done about it," I reply, shrugging. "We decided to take the bait weeks ago. All we can do is remain vigilant."
"Indeed," Solas nods. "I should like it if you allowed Lady Cassandra or I to accompany you so long as we are in the city. Lysette is an able warrior, I am sure, but she is not so able to detect hidden foes as the Seeker or I."
"That makes sense," I nod, before looking up at him. "And… Solas. I'm sorry for the way I left off the last time we spoke. It was rude of me to insult you that way."
"The fault was with me, truly," he says, though I'm not certain he wholly believes his own words. "I made assumptions unbefitting of you, and you were angered by my… I believe the phrase you used was "base insults and racial prejudice". I will admit to being rather incensed at the moment as well."
"You dislike Circles as a concept," I say. "Any argument for them would displease you, I think."
"That is true," he says, before shaking his head. "But I should not have allowed that displeasure to cloud my better judgement, and for that I apologize."
"Then I suppose we might both be forgiven." I offer him my hand and he shakes it, familiar with that custom at least. "Now then… I suppose we must congregate and discuss whatever it is that comes next."
We rejoin our party, where Cassandra has begun to pace slowly back and forth, while Lysette scans the greatly dispersed crowd with a cool eye. Varric, for his part, looks utterly relaxed; being back in a big city is probably a relief for him, back amidst the hustle and bustle where the far-flung outpost of Haven and rural expanse of the Hinterlands must seem a world away. He looks around, and nods once.
"I suppose that's all of it settled then," he says, unsurprisingly cheerful in spite of circumstances. "The Chantry's still afraid of you, the Templars are still assholes and the mages are nowhere to be seen."
He claps me on the back.
"C'mon kid." He points to the sign of a tavern across the plaza. "Let's go get something to drink and figure out our next move."
I can hardly argue with the sentiment; he leads and the rest of us follow, though Lysette opts to go ahead of us with an intent to keep watch for danger. Cassandra is beside me, and Solas behind; I feel rather well-guarded.
Not well enough to be safe, however. Solas drifts away from us a touch in the press of the crowd, his eyes suddenly turned to some storefront offering arcane trinkets, no doubt sensing some manner of spirit or another. Cassandra is still deep in thought, no doubt considering the best course of action to take regarding the Lord Seeker's condition.
As such, when a hand grasps me firmly by the shoulder, I make sure to twist hard, and the dagger intended for my back catches on the chainmail guarding my shoulder, snagging and pulling on the links. My hand reaches for my sword; the man assaulting me wears an Orlesian mask of pale yellow and brown checkered, with a silver moustache. His clothes are conventional, his height standard, his build unremarkable.
But he is trying to kill me, and even as I wrestle my sword from its scabbard the dagger descends toward my unarmoured face. I pull back, but he is lunging, stepping into the blow with a silent, deadly intent.
Then he halts mid-motion, hand falling limply, as his neck sprouts a curious protrusion from both ends. On one side, a red feather and a short length of wood; on the other, a pointed steel arrowhead, and some more wood. He stumbles forward a step, eyes wide behind the mask, then topples to the ground with a wet and bloody thud.
My eyes shoot up to the rooftops, searching for the shooter, but I cannot seem to find him. Around us the crowd is horrified for the second time in just a few minutes, women screaming and men calling out in fear. Varric squats down next to the dead man, grabbing a small bundle tied to the arrow while I put my sword away. Cassandra is still ready to fight, her blade in her hand, her eyes sharp. Lysette pushes her way back toward our group, cursing the people who have formed a wall of flesh between us.
"Mayhaps that makes five," I utter softly to Solas, as he draws magic about himself, his eyes burning blue for a moment while he scans the crowd.
"None here," he replies after a few moments. "The spirits are settled. The rest have withdrawn; no doubt they will make their own attempts later."
"Doubtless," I reply, though the sardonic edge in my tone is not lost on my elven companion, who glances at me with a raised eyebrow. "Oh come, Solas. Surely you can't expect me to be happy to be under threat of death for so long as I linger in this damned city?"
Solas shakes his head, while Lysette finally bullies her way to our side, flanked now by a city watchman in gold-edged armour, wearing a lion-faced helm and carrying a halberd on his shoulder.
Fortunately, he has few enough questions for us; it's rather immediately obvious none of us could have put an arrow through the man given our location, and Varric wisely doesn't brandish whatever it is he plucked from the arrow until after we leave the man behind, withdrawing nearer to the tavern. I'm surprised he doesn't demand more of us, but then again; he is likely just as shaken as the rest of the crowd, still reeling from the Templar's swift departure.
"With the conference ended so prematurely, there is little else for us to do here," Cassandra notes, the shock of my near-death experience having wrenched her from her musing. "Perhaps we would be best served in making our way back to Haven forthwith."
"Not so fast, Seeker," Varric says, as he lifts the bundle of paper he took from the arrow, now unfolded to reveal some manner of scribbled diagram and notation. "This was stuck to that arrow. Reads like a coded message."
"From whom?" Cassandra's question is afforded no real answer; Varric simply shrugs.
"Well that's half the point of a code, Seeker," he says, voice dipping into that warm patronizing affectation he used with Lysette and I a fair few times in the Hinterlands. "It requires decoding."
Cassandra makes one of those patented noises of disgust then, though perhaps this one could be better classified as disdain. Solas just sighs. Lysette, insistent upon examining me, finally lets me step away after checking my back for any stab wounds I might have missed. I don't hate having someone care for my wellbeing; I just wish she were a little less zealous about it.
Of course, because all things must happen to us today, we are soon accosted by a young man in mage's robes with a shaved head and an expression that meanders between consternation and nervousness as he passes me a letter.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but you are the one they call the Herald of Andraste, are you not?" he asks, and when I nod he reaches into the folds of his robes.
Lysette takes a half step forward, her hand falling to her sword, but the messenger only retrieves a small piece of paper, folded and sealed with blue wax. I take it and open it, finding a familiar message within.
Herald of Andraste,
First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer is honoured to invite you to a Salon held at the chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislaine on the eve of the eleventh.
I nod. It is the eleventh today; and a quick glance at the sun in the sky informs me I have a few hours to spare for preparations. The note also features an address, thankfully, so I won't need to ask around for directions.
"Thank you," I say to the man, who bids me a swift farewell and withdraws back into the marketplace, no doubt hurrying back to the safety of Vivienne's estate. "Well, it seems Val Royeaux may not be done with us yet."
I show the note to Cassandra, who cocks a scarred eyebrow high when she is finished reading it.
"The First Enchanter?" she says, voice low. "She must be interested in the Inquisition."
"We are rather interesting," I note in reply, and when she turns her eyes to me I grin. "Another ally cannot hurt, Cassandra."
"This could very well be a trap," Cassandra replies. "Maker knows we've seen enough of those since coming here."
It is here I must again draw upon the convenience of my role as Herald; I shake my head.
"I have seen this," I say softly. "A tower with no windows and a broken top, from which a black bird flew with a blue-sealed note in its mouth. It came to me and when I took the letter from its beak I was surrounded all at once by a dozen dancing figures in masks and gowns."
"A broken tower does sound like what's left of the Circles," Cassandra notes. "Perhaps this vision was correct."
It feels a bit wrong, to rely on a lie of prophetic visions to force events in my favour. But what else can I do? I can hardly tell her that half of my mind has perceived every event occurring in this little tale of ours as an interactive game three times before. The excuse of prophecy is at least a palatable one to the faithful of this world; and in the journeys to come I expect to meet many of the faithful.
"Then I will go," I say. "Varric, can you decode the message?"
"With some time, sure." He pulls it from within his coat. "It's a messy sort of cypher, I think. With drawings."
"Drawings." Cassandra does not sound amused.
"Yep." Varric nods. "I can puzzle it out tonight, I think, then in the morning we can figure out what to do with the information."
"Then I suppose that's our evenings figured out," I look at Cassandra then. "Perhaps you ought to go ahead of us back to Haven, to begin planning our retort to the Lord Seeker with Lady Nightingale. Solas can remain with me in anticipation of these assassins, and Varric ought to be safe with Lysette."
"I cannot see any cause to protest," Solas says, his voice oddly cheery as he nods. Upon noting Cassandra's clear hesitance, he even bows his head respectfully. "Ser Venier will be safe with me, Lady Seeker. I promise."
Cassandra's reticence takes some time to fade, but only after Solas and I take turns vowing to be as vigilant and careful as can be does she finally agree that perhaps she ought to go out on her own. I am honestly hesitant to see her depart again; I missed her in the Hinterlands, or at least Marcus did, and to be separated again does not bode well for the future. But needs must, and we have far too many to ignore. She departs with a final instruction to stay together at all times, which I only remark upon once she's long out of earshot.
"I don't know if the First Enchanter will allow a plus-one," I note to Solas, as the remainder of our party withdraws into the tavern for lunch and lodgings. "I may have to go into the party proper alone."
"If this First Enchanter is trustworthy, I don't doubt she will take strides to ensure you survive her party," he replies. "I can imagine it would be seen as unsightly to allow one's guest to be murdered at the table."
"You've developed a keen understanding of Orlesian society already." I reply, chuckling. Solas just smiles, which is enough for me.
Lunch is Orlesian fare; bread, toasted and spread with creamery butter beside a bowl of rich tomato soup. Marcus hates tomato soup but I'm too hungry to care what the anachronistic part of my composite mind dislikes and so I tuck in with relish. It is, sadly, much better than most anything that Flissa has produced in Haven thus far, and therefore leagues above our humble travel rations. Rich, creamy and ever so slightly sweet…
"I have missed this," Lysette remarks. "Do tomatoes not grow in Ferelden?"
"I do not believe the climate suits them," Solas replies, shaking his head. "I have only seen tomatoes grow in warm, humid climates, where the heat is perpetual through day and night. Ferelden's night chills are fearsome; they would likely wither on the vine."
"So Chuckles is a botanist too," Varric notes. "How about grapes, then? Is that why Ferelden doesn't make any good wine?"
"Vineyards are most common in coastal regions, where the climate is mild," Lysette notes, raising a finger. "Delisle Harbour has several vineyards around it; surely you have had a Delisle Rose before, Varric?"
"Contrary to what the Seeker believes, Kit, I'm not a drunkard," Varric laughs. "My tastes run pretty conventional; I'm not sure I could've afforded a Delisle Rose back when I hung around the Hanged Man."
"Well, it is a rather exclusive vintage," Lysette sniffs, before returning to her soup. "Though I must insist we try some. It's one of the few things Delisle is good for."
"Besides beautiful Templars, you mean." I say, winking at her across the table. When she blushes, I feel rather proud of myself.
As we tuck away the last of our meal, It is Varric who first rises from the table; or rather descends, his dwarven stature forcing him to scoot off the bench and drop down rather than dismount as the rest of us will.
"I'm going to take a crack at this letter," he says, voice low enough to avoid any unwanted eavesdropping. "You have fun at that party. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
I roll my eyes, which prompts a laugh from him before he withdraws upstairs to our rented rooms. Lysette lingers a little longer, but eventually follows him up, leaving me alone again with Solas. The god who pretends to be a humble elf finishes his own meal, and then sighs.
"I have little in the way of social graces," he says. "And the opinions of Orlesian nobility on elves are well documented. I not expect I would be welcome at this salon regardless."
"I'm sorry," I begin, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.
"It cannot be helped," he says. "And I do not expect it shall need much helping. You have a talent with people, Ser Venier. Do not discount it."
"I only wish people listened more," I reply, and he smiles.
"Such is the wish of any who must speak," he says, a knowing smile gracing the corners of his mouth. "But such a thing cannot be forced. Not by you, not by me, not even by kings and generals. It falls to the listener to make that choice."
"Why is it every time you speak I feel as though I'm being taught two different lessons?" I ask, and then he actually laughs.
"I cannot help it," He says when he's finished, still smiling. "As I said, I am not so graceful in social engagement as I would like to be. Speaking to spirits is a very different affair to speaking with people on this side of the Veil. You are less… aware, and somehow more so at the same time."
"Beck has odd perceptions of things," I agree, and when he raises an eyebrow I gesture to my upper arm where my little spirit friend still sits.
"Calm is still with you?" he remarks. "I had not expected… I thought it would have gone away by now, returned back to the Fade. You have no magic to sustain it."
"She said once…" I try to remember for a moment. "The Mountain's Blood, inside me. Blood in my blood, which made her real. I think she was talking about Lyrium."
And that throws him for a loop. It's interesting to watch a man who thinks he knows everything realize he in fact did not, and that there is something he never accounted for that is very much present to interrupt everything he thought he knew. He frowns, then scowls, then slowly it shifts to a more neutral, thoughtful expression.
"I had never heard of such a thing," he admits. "Though perhaps the concept is not so far fetched. As a Templar, you partake in refined Lyrium; mages also partake of distilled potions using the stuff, which allows them to hasten the innate regeneration of their inner reservoirs of magic. A daemon's possession involves feeding on the magic inside a mage, which is why mages are such desired targets for possession. If a daemon can feed on magic to maintain its physical presence… why then should a spirit not do the same? And if Lyrium restores the magic of a mage, doubtless it is somehow magical itself… and without magic of your own, the stores of Lyrium in your body would linger, an artificial reservoir for the spirit to feed on."
He puzzles through it slowly, carefully, but eventually he nods.
"It does make sense," he says. "As a matter of fact, it makes entirely more sense than it ought to. How is it this has not happened before?"
"The Mark," I reply, raising the hand which bears the selfsame symbol. "Beck calls it the Key. She says it makes me real to her, as real as she is to me."
"So the Mark enhances your presence in the Fade, similar to a mage." Solas nods again. "And thereby it can perceive of, and indeed attach itself to you. At which point its presence is sustained by the Lyrium."
We both sit in silence for a moment. He's just put about a thousand times as much thought into this as I did, and now I think we're both a little astonished by the outcome. After all, this has the power to change things going forward; this is something new, a mechanic which did not previously exist. I can practically see the ideas racing through his head; considerations of other ways in which to manipulate this property of my Mark.
"There is much to be done still," I note. "Solas? Perhaps we would be best served further focusing on this later, when there aren't so many people aiming knives at my back."
"Of course." he nods.
After a brief discussion of how best to counter the remaining assassins (constant vigilance being the most rational option, we decide) the pair of us withdraw to our rooms upstairs to rest a bit before heading out to the First Enchanter's salon. I'm not sure I'm ready to take that first step into Orlesian high society, when I consider it. Markus has a bit of training in the barest necessities of mannerisms and politicking, but Marcus' knowledge is limited to tidbits from the game and creative online theory-crafting. Neither has anything concrete to work with.
But Marcus is convinced we can do this; Vivienne isn't looking for surefire evidence of my vast political acumen; she wants to see if I'm worth backing in the coming fight. So long as I don't make a complete botch of it, she'll likely decide I'm worth getting along with for the time being, at least. The real trick will be preventing her and Solas from trying to kill each other over fashion or some such nonsense.
All things told, I'm not looking forward to seeing how this expanded, living world handles the conflicts between my coming allies. Without the binding strictures of game design, what's to stop Vivienne from saying one thing too many, Solas from becoming utterly fed up with me in all ways? I've taken steps to prevent the latter at least. The former… well the former will take care and attention to prevent.
"This is getting out of hand," I mutter to myself. "At least I've got you, Beck."
I touch a hand gently to my upper arm, where that familiar band of warm blue light slowly fades through my clothes, allowing me to touch it. She feels like wet silk, soft and smooth agaisnt my fingertips. Not for the first time I wonder how much she's helping me; without her presence, the Calm that she embodies, would I have lost my mind by now? In battle she is a great aid, allowing me to detach myself from the flow of events and observe with an even-handed coolness that gives me that much sought-after edge in a fight. Better still would be some of the actual insane powers the Inquisitor was capable of in the game…
But I'll take what I can get, and Beck is much more than I expected. She wraps herself around my finger as I caress her, and I chuckle as she slides up my arm to my opposite wrist, seeking to comfort me there as well. I wonder what happened to the spirit of Calm that Solas placed around Lysette's neck? Did it abandon her after a time, without the Mark to make her real? Or did she cast it away out of fear, once it was no longer of use?"
I don't think I'll ask. It's hardly important, and I wouldn't like to upset her by demanding the answers to some ridiculous question like that. It's her business what became of it, just as Beck is mine.
Time passes swiftly as I reflect; soon enough Solas knocks on my door, reminding me that the salon is slated for the evening, and the sun is soon to set. I draw myself up, fix my clothes, and meet him outside. At least neither of us has any hair worth working on. Mine has begun to grow back in, Haven lacking any proficient barbers and I lacking any real time to search for one. It's a bit of a mess, but I run some fingers through it and hope that at least renders it presentable.
We depart with haste; no words are spared, because he has as little advice to give as I do. We move through the slowly darkening streets of Val Royeaux in silence, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings while I try not to lose myself in my worries for the future. The salon, but after; Sera, the Lord Seeker, the mages yet to come…
Will I even receive an invitation from the Grand Enchanter? So much has the potential to change already, have the Venatori beat me there? What of the other timed matters? Is it possible I could simply miss a major event by virtue of bad weather? This is hardly a world where I can teleport about willy-nilly, it took me almost two weeks of riding and sailing to get to Val Royeaux.
Time will need to be managed. Properly, I mean, not just juggling operation timers around stints of adventuring. I can't spend weeks of real life time in single areas doing as I please, which is frustrating because it's looking more and more like, gauging by how damned big things are getting, I'll have to do just that.
"You seem frustrated," Solas notes, his voice calm. "Our destination still concerns you?"
"Among other things," I reply, as truthful as I can be. "Though I can't imagine it'll be too hard. The First Enchanter is likely to be scouting me out, I figure. That means she'll be hovering me the whole time, so I won't have to worry too much about impressing everyone else."
"A clever deduction," Solas agrees. "Though, by impressing her guests, you may very well impress her. Orlesians are social creatures, I suspect."
"Very." I chuckle. "We Orlesians nearly as many holidays, feast days and celebrations as some cultures do days in their calenders. I am not entirely without my social graces, you know. Even Templars are taught the basics of courtly manners."
"Teachings you have rare cause to put into practice," says Solas, and I nod as he continues. "Thereby you are concerned, as any student would be when first putting their lessons into practical use."
"Did you ever have a teacher?" I ask suddenly, but he isn't tripped up at all by the question.
"Not in the traditional manner," he says. "Spirits were my teachers. Spirits of knowledge taught me arcane secrets; I learned the value of companionship from a spirit of the same name; even a spirit of command taught me how best to project myself, to present authority in situations where I had it."
"Command sounds more like a daemon name," I note, to which Solas nods.
"They are too often corrupted into daemons of tyranny or pride, but there is such a thing as righteous command." He nods. "I suspect you know well what that feels like."
"Perhaps Cullen could use a spirit of command, the same why I've been aided so much by Beck," I wonder aloud. "It would help him project himself better."
"It is good you think that way." Solas approves, nodding. "You are… odd, for a Templar, if you do not mind my saying so."
"I'm glad to have surprised you," I say. "I don't think the Fade is evil, Solas. It is, or at least was, a creation of the Maker, the same as this world. I just… respect the danger it presents."
"Indeed." His expressions grows grave. "I know first hand the risks of the Fade… but also the rewards it offers. The visions of fallen nations, the beauty of a cherished moment lost forever to all but its echoing form… there is much to be gained in the Fade. And much to be lost."
For a moment I wonder how much of this is his cover story as the wandering apostate, and how much is born of his real story. He must have seen a great deal as a god in exile; great things and terrible ones, all at once. What stories could he tell me, if he could speak openly?
I can only wonder, because before I can even think of how to word that sort of question in a way that doesn't expose my greater knowledge, we arrive at Duke Bastien's chateau, in the higher districts of the city. Here the masks are brightly coloured, and do little to hide the sneers of the natives at Solas' pointed ears or my underwhelming adornment. The gates of the estate are closed but the guard in white and black reads my invitation and notes, in no kindly tone, that my "follower" is not welcome to join me.
"I will be contented to wait." Solas says, nodding gracefully to me as I step inside.
And so I go into the salon of Vivienne de Fer alone, and ready mysel for the politicking to come.