It takes me nearly five minutes to traverse the gardens of Duke Bastienne's chateau. For what is likely the man's smallest estate, his little nook of Val Royeaux, he has managed to construct (or rather, order the construction of) an impressive expanse of well-tailored greenery. I am almost disappointed the salon is to be held within; the atmosphere of the cooling evening and the soft walls of the hedgerows around me inspire the idea of Orlesian subtlety and cunning just as well as ball music and elaborate masks.
Naturally, it is between the hedgerows where I am next assailed. In truth I should be ready for this sort of thing, but the calming atmosphere of the evening air distracts from the natural danger of being in Val Royeaux at all. I am only afforded warning by the sound of rustling leaves, naturally drawing my eye; there is no wind to speak of this evening, and it's the first I've heard the greenery move.
Then my hand leaps to my sword, as Beck thrums alive and I turn to face the black-clad figure lunging toward me with a long, slender blade in hand.
They are not an unskilled foe; they lash toward my legs to start, forcing an awkward block as I twist my sword about to deflect the blow. Before they can follow up I lunge forward and slam my shoulder into their chest, pushing them back. They don't fall over but I leave them wrongfooted, following up with a mighty overhead stroke. That forces a hasty deflection of their own, before their sword lashes toward my face.
I duck away from it, then step forward again, pressing my captured momentum as Captain Vendrick taught so many years ago. They stab at me again, but I twist and let my chain take the blow, scraping along my side and swinging for their neck. They are quick, ducking beneath my blade, and so we begin in earnest. Back and forth we dance for what seems like an eternity, neither of us able to land a proper blow on the other; they are faster than I am, considerably, but my armour affords me room to breathe as they strike at me. It is a stalemate.
I hate stalemates.
I stab forward and, sure as I'd hoped, the man parries the blow. What I do next is risky enough to actively anger Cassandra, I suspect; I let my sword fall from my hand as if knocked loose, and the assassin steps forward with sword raised, ready to strike. Metal glints in the dying sunlight, before I throw myself forward with my spirit-blade in my hand. I only need a few inches of blade, enough to drive through their breast; Beck provides with a surge of blue light and as the sword descends I thrust.
There is a quiet sound like silk rasping against steel. A gentle gasp for air that will not come, turning wet and warbling; then the fall, my assailant toppling backward as all strength leaves them. I let the blade vanish, and they hit the ground. I see lines of black and purple across the face, winding around the eyes down toward the lips. Antivan, I think. A Crow perhaps, or some other assassin near enough to count. I cannot say if it is a man or a woman, and it hardly matters. They must have overheard in the tavern, or elsewhere, and waited here for the strike when I was alone.
That's two of six. Four left to go, by my math. I am bloodless, unharmed. Fortune favours me, I think. I'm just grateful there was no arrow or bolt involved; I've yet to learn how to deflect missiles. I leave the corpse where it lies, retrieve my dropped sword and hurry through the rest of the garden, eyes up and ears keened for any disturbance. The Crow could have been the first of any number of assailants, but I make it to the chateau's front door unmolested, and enter after a moment of slow breathing to calm my nerves.
"Ser Markus Venier of Chanson, representing the Inquisition."
The herald intones my name and position with a cool, detached tone. Considering how many people I've heard sneer it at me over the last few weeks, it's a welcome change of pace. I stride up the center of the ballroom, taking in the breadth of the attendant crowd with a watchful eye. The gathered nobility are drawn to the sight of me, nearly to a man. I am unmasked and unornamented; my surcoat is without mark, and the only sign of the Inquisition I bear is upon the vambraces I wear and the mark burnt into my hand.
I get the feeling I could insert myself into just about any group of people here; conversations are hushed, the mood subdued but anxious. I make my way to a table of refreshments opposite the entrance first and seek something to drink; a flute of wine is instead offered to me near the centre of the room by an elvish serving man. I take it with a humble smile and a nod of gratitude, and the elf seems a touch disconcerted by my attention as I move away.
The wine is alright. Pale gold and tart, with a faint hint of some fruit I can't be asked to name. The group I end up drifting into is a small gathering of what appear to be older nobles, two women and a man. All wear different regalia of Orlais' rich and powerful; the women are in dresses with wide skirts and puffed shoulders, the man wearing an engraved drakestone breastplate etched with a rather excellent coat of arms displaying a roaring dragon and an elk rampant, contesting a tower between them. I don't recognize the sigil, but the man seems to recognize mine.
"You are the one they are insisting the title of Herald upon, I presume," he says, with the perfect lilting air of smug disinterest. "Lord Illian de Reman, Master of Sanchelle and Keeper of the Adantine Vale. A pleasure, I presume."
He doesn't even bow properly, I think. That's alright; I don't bother to bow either. I clap a fist to my breast in Templar salute, before bowing to the two women in attendance. One, in a white half-mask with her nose and mouth exposed, smiles.
"We have heard the strangest tales about you and your Inquisition," she says, before covering her mouth a silk-gloved hand, concealing a playful grin. "I cannot imagine that even half of them are true."
"Then you are a better judge of truth than most," I reply, putting on my most charming smile. "Much of what is said is likely exaggerated, and more still is probably complete fabrication."
"So you would tell us you did not cast down a spire of the Black City to dash apart a daemonic foe at the great rift?" the other woman, whose hair forms a long silver braid draped over one shoulder and whose mask resembles a fox, teases.
"There was a daemon at the rift," I reply. "But it was Scout Lavellan of the Inquisition who slew it, not I. As for the Black City, I have beheld it naught but in nightmares and the words of the Chant."
The older woman nods reverently, and Lord de Reman hums thoughtfully. I wonder if it is my story of battle or my frank honesty with his companion that has intrigued him. But just as I begin to address him again, the inevitable occurs; an expected yet unwelcome scoffer speaks up to interrupt me.
"The Inquisition…" a sneering drawl declares, as a man descends the nearby stairs with a hand dismissively waving off his own words. "What a load of pig shit."
His words are spoken loud enough to carry, and the vast majority of the nobility in attendance catch the scent of drama on the air and turn to look, moving closer to better observe the coming confrontation. I turn my head to look at the man, but in spite of the duelling blade at his hip I do not turn to face him fully. He approaches directly; his mask is bronze, with a pointed nose and bushy silver moustache, his doublet sewn half in cream and half in pale blue. He is tall and lean, with thin lips beneath the edge of his mask set in a cold smirk.
"Washed up sisters and crazed Seekers, nobody in their right mind takes them seriously," he says, finally coming to a stop less than a dozen paces away. "They are a stain on the honour of the Chantry, and the memory of the Divine."
"It was the Divine's writ that saw the Inquisition refounded," I retort, at last turning to face the man with a frown. "And the will of Andraste that saw to its first successes. I would be wary of how you phrase your accusations, ser."
"Then I shall phrase them thusly; you and your Inquisition are a band of conniving, power hungry fools, and blasphemers besides!" His words are harsh enough to draw gasps from the attendant crowd, and he takes a step forward. "And if you were a man of honour, you would step outside and answer the charges, ser."
I do not rise to his challenge, but I do gently rest a hand on my belt, right beside my sword. His own hand descends toward his blade, but before he can draw it forth I clear my throat in interruption. He pauses, thankfully, hand hovering near his sword but not touching hilt or pommel; he has not broken the rules just yet.
"We are guests here, you and I," I say, my eyes flicking to the landing above where I can see a figure in white moving gracefully toward the steps. "Let us not draw blood needlessly. My Lady de Fer, I would request your permission to see this man's challenge met in the garden outside your lovely salon."
Vivienne descends the stairs like a ghostly vision of a queen; stark white are her garments, her pleated skirt and leggings, with black leather forming a corsage that frames her hips and sides. The dress is open faced, exposing her decolletage, but it is the twin silver horns of her hennin that draw the eyes first, descending slowly to her cold eyes. From there the silver ornaments that flow from her collar up and along her shoulder like the wings of a butterfly ensure one's eyes always return to her face or chest. She is dark, darker than any of the rest of the men and women in attendance, marking her as an outsider, but it is her presence that brings the whispers, murmurs and gentle words to a full stop.
Spirits of Command indeed.
My greeting brings a halt to her descent, as her head turns slowly to look upon me. She smiles, a chilly expression that does not quite meet her eyes, but there is a mirth there beneath the ice; I have pleased her already.
"My good Ser Venier, I see no reason why I should deny your request," she says, framing each word with undeniable care. "But, my dear Marquis, I am most displeased that would use such unkind language in my house, addressing my guests…"
The Marquis is unsettled, his head turning to face her. I take the opportunity to slide a finger along the pommel of my spirit blade, silently bidding Beck to make ready. The young lord is plainly nervous now; Vivienne's presence alone has torn away his confidence, and his bluster is broken into a quieter, more subdued stance as he withers beneath her icy gaze.
"M-My Lady Vivienne… I humbly beg your pardon…" he stammers. "I… I-I should be pleased to withdraw the challenge, if-if that is your desire…"
"And leave the insult to Ser Venier's honour standing?" Vivienne asks, descending the steps to stand level with us. I am slightly annoyed when I note that she, like just about everyone else I've met, is taller than me. "My dear, that will not do at all. No, it has been too long since the duelling field has seen use…"
She snaps a finger and at once the great doors swing open. I can sense the magic thrumming in the air, as she gestures for myself and my unfortunate foe to step outside. I bow, respectfully, before leading the Marquis out; he follows slowly, nervously wringing his hands. The evening air is cool against my face. I take a tiny bit of grim amusement when I think of the dead Crow right behind the hedges to my left, before I look at my enemy and bow my head.
"I have come armoured, Ser," I say, as I slip off my surcoat and hand it off to a servant, who dashes to my side. "Most improper, I must admit. Pray give me a moment."
I discard of my vambraces, my chain shirt and my greaves. The last to go is my padded vest; I am left in a linen shirt and rough sewn trousers, with my swordbelt about my hips. That is all, that and the boots; even the Marquis wears his sewn doublet and long gloves. The crowd about me stares unabashedly; most of the party has moved outside now, eager to witness the duel to come. The Marquis settles a nervous hand on his sword, but as each piece of armour comes off his confidence grows.
When I am fully ready, I bow to Vivienne, then to the Marquis, taking my place on the left side of the ring of sunken stones in the grass. The Marquis takes post opposite me, but then I pause a moment.
"Ah," I say, as though remembering something. "Pardon me."
I unbuckle my sword from my belt and cast it to the side, letting another servant rush forward to grab it. The crowd seems confused, but I can sense Vivienne's curiosity. The Marquis' confidence triples; he scoffs, and sneers behind his mask.
"You would duel disarmed?" he asks. "Is this some form of surrender with which I am not familiar, Ser?"
It's impressive how he can make a title of respect into an insult, but my hand slips down to my belt and settles on the hilt of my spirit blade, and I smile at him.
"I do not need steel to best you, ser," I say. "Only faith."
And I take the spirit blade from my hilt. None in attendance recognize it, bar the only one whom I care to impress; Vivienne's quiet gasp would not be audible to one who is not listening for it. The Marquis certainly has no idea what I hold; he scoffs again.
"Then die a fool." And before anybody gives the word to begin he draws his sword and lunges, ready to run me through.
Beck warms about my wrist and the spirit blade ignites, three feet of sapphire light erupting from the hilt. The Marquis' first blow is knocked aside, and his momentum is halted the instant the magic weapon comes into play. He backsteps, but I afford him no chance to recover; I slash for his neck, deliberately slowing my arm, and he blocks with his sword and a yelped curse.
I am not ashamed to admit that although I play with my food, it is not an easy battle; the Marquis is so baffled by the circumstances at hand that his counterattack is sloppy but savage, his sword flailing about with a manic energy, rapid thrusts and jabs forcing me on the back foot. I am no great master of the blade, and even without the spirit blade I anticipate I would struggle all the more. But I am calmer than he, with Calm on my arm, and so I let him make a fool of himself. I set to deflecting each blow, letting him wear down his stamina until at last he is ragged and damp with sweat, swinging his thin-bladed sword with both hands.
"Retract your insults, ser," I command, stepping forward and striking at his torso, cutting into the fabric of his doublet at the left side, then the right, with two quick slashes. "Beg forgiveness and I shall be merciful."
That only angers him, be it the idea of surrender or the vandalism of his outfit, and with a howl of rage he strikes with a savage downward stroke. I loft my blade and catch his attack, twisting it to the side. Then I draw back my right hand and punch him in the face with a wicked cracking sound, splitting the painted wood of his mask down the middle and exposing his face as he stumbles backward. It hurts, a splotchy bruise already forming on my knuckles, but it is my turn to sneer as I stride forward and knock his sword from his hands.
He stumbles, and falls flat on his ass. I bring the blade to his throat.
"Your apology, ser," I say with a stony expression. "Now, if you will."
"I-I was wrong!" he cries, tears of terror in his eyes as he stares down my glowing blade, unable to meet my eye. "Y-You are no blasphemer! A-And your Inquisition, it-it is not… I was wrong!"
Beck hums softly against my arm as the sword's blade vanishes, and I descend to one knee before the man. The crowd begins to titter and whisper again. Gently I touch a hand to his chest, where I split his shirt earlier, and I smile.
"You are forgiven," I say. "Go in the Maker's light, but do not forget; those who bear false witness, and work to deceive others, know there is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker, and He shall judge their lies."
"Y-Yes…" the Marquis whispers, and when I rise and offer him a hand, he takes it, standing beside me.
"With this, our feud is concluded," I say to him, nodding. "Live well, Alphonse."
My knowledge of his name surprises him, but I do not linger; I go to Vivienne, whose surprise is rather well hidden by the silver of her mask and the small smile on her lips. I have not pleased her; I have delighted her. She curtseys, and then meets my eye.
"Ser Venier, I would be most delighted to speak with you in confidence," she says. "Regarding the Inquisition, and the aid I may well be able to render it."
Soon enough we are inside and upstairs, leaving the excited chatter of the salon behind to withdraw to a private parlour. She closes the door behind us with a snap of her finger, and a wave of her hand sees the locks glow a soft blue. My armour was returned to me, but I donned only the surcoat, leaving the rest with a servant whom Vivienne instructed to have my things washed and tended to.
"My sincerest apologies regarding Alphonse," she says first, gesturing for me to sit upon a well-padded chair near the roaring fire in the hearth, before settling herself down primly in a similar seat across from me. "His aunt will be scandalized by his conduct; she is a devout woman. He may well be disowned for this."
"I hope it is not so," I say, shaking my head. "His concerns were entirely valid, if very poorly expressed. I do not doubt many in Orlais regard the Inquisition in a similar light, or worse."
"The nature of expression is the most important part of a declaration, my dear," she says, smiling. "But your mercy does you credit."
"How shall His children apology make?" I reply, bowing my head. "I seek only to follow the example set before me."
"Indeed." I cannot say if my piety pleases or displeases her; she is far better at concealing her emotions than any of my other companions, bar perhaps Solas. "My dear, I cannot help but feel as though I have you at something of a disadvantage. Do you remember me?"
Remember her?
Remember Vivienne…
Markus cries out in my mind, and I wince, then shudder, as memories flood in like a crashing wave. Things I've glimpsed, half seen, half remembered; fourth child of five, absurd. A lie, invented to obfuscate the truth. But here and there; Solas has heard parts; Lysette and Varric too. No doubt Cassandra knows, from Leliana; indeed all of them would know. And Vivenne knows, because Vivienne was there…
There on the day Markus'... on the day my mother begged them to send me away.
"I-I…" I swallow, hard, and Vivienne shifts forward in visible concern as my demeanour is broken clean in two, and the grief of my earliest days overcomes me. "I think… I do."
I swallow again, trying to force the lump back down my throat. The anguish can settle in my stomach, that much I can handle; but I need my words now, not tears. Heedless they come, flooding my eyes, but I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Vivienne seems discomforted, though I wonder if it isn't because she has so thoroughly discomforted me with only four simple words.
I remember her. I remember it all now, Markus' gates unsealed by the key of her voice intoning the question. I remember her looking down upon me, alongside all the other Enchanters; my mother, pleading her case, the Templars overseeing it; and a four year old Markus Venier, whose last name was not yet a matter of fact but an appended half measure, a placeholder in the event my mother chose to do as she did. I remember sobbing, a little boy lost in the throes of confused misery as his own mother pleaded with the powers that be to have him sent away, the hands on my arms, guiding me away, gentle but firm. The Enchanters looking on, uncomfortable with it all but resolute in protecting their own.
I didn't remember. I remember now. It's… I don't understand it. The memory was mine, but it was Markus' and not Marcus'... but Marcus remembers everything, why, why couldn't I remember that? What else have I forgotten? What else is missing? My head aches, like I've been battered about the head by a mace, and I cradle my face in my hands.
The worrisome thought that perhaps it wasn't me forgetting occurs. Did Markus choose to forget? Hide it away so he could pretend it wasn't real? How the fuck does that even work? How does any of this work? Am I Markus, Marcus, some gestalt of the two, or a third person sharing two memories? I can't be the last if one of the two sets can be deliberately repressed, can I? Or is Marcus hiding stuff too, some terrible secret?
That string of thought makes the headache worse. This is almost as bad as the damned Mark, and at least that only hurts when I'm helping. Beck warms my skin but she can't aid with this; this isn't physical or magical, purely mental. Maybe even spiritual. I don't know. It hurts more to think about. No wonder I can't keep myself in one singular fucking mindset, I've not even had full access to my own mind! Markus or Marcus or whatever the fuck I am, lying to the rest of myself like some kind of shield against trauma that wasn't mine until now, why would I… he… we do that?
"My dear, are you alright?" Vivienne asks, leaning toward me, a hand outstretched to gently brush against my cheek. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry… I didn't think of how terrible it must to dwell upon."
"It… It is alright…" I say, finally forcing the screaming child begging for his mother's forgiveness back down and away into the corners of my mind, forcing myself to straighten up, to blink away the tears. "I… I have not afforded myself the chance to think of my… of her, in some time…"
"I understand, my dear." What shocks me most is that in the way she says those simple words, so often spoken in lie, she sounds almost tragically honest. "It was terrible, the whole affair. And far too much of it fell upon your shoulders. You were hardly more than a babe, and yet…"
"I've grown since then," I reply, finding my sense of self again as the storm fades. "I… Chanson raised me well. Well enough to be who I am now."
For a moment she examines me, really taking in the sight of me. Doubtless I am an umipressive sight; small enough to be called diminutive, with my clothes still stained by the dust of the road, my hair growing in ragged and untended. I'm still a bit sweaty from the exertions of the duel outside, eyes puffy from my unexpected breakdown. But she doesn't judge me at once; she looks deeper, I think, trying to see the Herald instead of the ragged Inquisition agent. Then she nods.
"They did," she agrees. "And yet… mmm, there is much to be done, my dear. I must insist you remain at the chateau for the duration of your time here in Val Royeaux. Your display at the plaza has attracted much undue attention, and I worry for your safety in some tavern in the summer districts…"
"Worrying for my safety already?" I ask, managing a weak chuckle as I force myself to align as one again. "Am I to take it you wish to join the Inquisition then, Enchanter?"
"Oh but of course, dear, of course…" She smiles. "It will not do for the enchanter to the Imperial Court to stand idly by while the fate of mages all across the world is decided. No… I will join you. I'll send some things ahead to Haven, but from here on I will serve at your distinction."
And in that, it is done. Vivienne is with us now; another to add to my inner circle. A shared history with the Iron Lady is an imposing thought, but I suppose I should be grateful for the opportunity. Once again her hand touches my cheek, softly.
"Allowing Montsimmard to send you away was cruel of us, my dear," she says, her voice softer than I ever expected to hear it. "I pray you will forgive me for that, in time."
"I try not to dwell on it." I say in reply. "To have you working with us in the Inquisition is more than enough for penance. We would be honoured to have you, Lady Vivienne."
I stand and salute her, though my legs still feel weak.
"I have companions here with me, in the city," I say. "Varric Tethras, Ser Lysette du Montefort and an elf mage named Solas. Would they be permitted to stay here as well?"
She laughs at that, but it isn't a cruel sound.
"My dear, this wing of the chateau alone has twelve guest rooms and two kitchens," she replies. "All your companions are welcome to join us for the duration of your stay; when your business in Val Royeaux is concluded, I will arrange for transportation back to Haven."
"Thank you." I bow my head respectfully, but her finger presses gently against my chin and pushes me to look up at her. She's not all that much taller than me, a few inches at most, and her shoes doubtless help.
"Saluting was enough, my dear; you are not a Templar any longer, from what I understand." I flush red, and she smiles again, amused. "And please, just call me Vivienne. I serve at your distinction, not the other way around."
There is another thrum of magic, and I feel a cool chill settle across my face. The puffiness in my eyes recedes, and she uses a handkerchief to clean up the rest of me. I don't dare move as she does so; she takes to the task with a singular sort of focus, and I fear what may come of my interrupting her.
We return to the salon, and I mingle with high society for the rest of the night once my surcoat and armour are back on. The attendants are delighted by me; I am the talk of the evening, I and my magic sword. I dare not reveal Beck's presence, but I do explain away the magic of the sword using the Mark as a convenient scapegoat. Old grouchy chevaliers and young pretty women alike are awestruck by the dazzling blue blade, though I am careful not to display its ability to shift in length. That particular advantage is one I would like to keep to myself for as long as possible.
Vivienne sends runners to seek out my fellows, and after an hour has passed Varric and Lysette join us inside, Solas hovering in the garden. I also make sure to have the dead Crow cleaned up, Vivienne looking somewhat embarrassed when she sees I was nearly murdered a mere sixty feet from her doorstep.
Varric takes to the party like a duck in a pond, moving between circles of people and always having something witty and/or amusing to say. Lysette just sort of hovers near me, but she isn't awkward; just vigilant. She looms at my side like a bodyguard, and her presence only increases the general sense of respect people seem to have for me here. No doubt the word of the Herald of Andraste and his arcane sword will fill many parties, balls and fetes for weeks and months to come; Leliana will have questions when we return.
A good start, all told, and as Vivienne watches me introduce myself and make nice with the various figures of power a part of me wonders if that wasn't a part of the point. She's showing me her value; not as a mage, but as a political figure, able to draw all these important people to one place on her say-so, giving me an audience. She knew Alphonse as well… was his being her a deliberate gesture? Ensuring I would have an opportunity to make a scene, to test how I handle myself in that sort of circumstance?
Clever. Too clever. I wonder how much of the rest of it was manipulation as well, if any of it was or was not. Orlais has the potential to give one a headache if they dwell too long on the particulars of this or that interaction. An Empire of Masks and Liars, where the truth is curled like a serpent beneath the brush, waiting to strike.
The wine is making me a poet. I've had two cups now. Three? It tastes better with each sip, but I don't feel drunk. Just… lubricated. Words flow easier, the angst of before falling away completely to be replaced with a confident sort of charisma born of a young man with too much liquor in his belly and a cool magic sword at his hip. It helps the headache as well, so I can put thoughts of my own dual-mind well away until tonight. I hope Beck can pull me into a waking dream; I need time to figure this out, and I can scarcely afford daytime hours.
Eventually the salon comes to an end, right as the moon reaches its zenith in the sky above. I'm out in the garden again, locked in a rather intriguing discussion on the topic of Massache's Method with a chevalier wearing entirely too much purple, which gradually becomes a retelling of my time in Ferelden. He delights in hearing about our battle with the apostates, and the tale of my final duel with Gavriel makes him clap his hands like a giggling schoolgirl.
"You are most accomplished, young ser," he says. "And your Inquisiton has had a most auspicious beginning! But forgive me, I must away. My mistress grows most furious if I do not return to her before morning."
I shake his hand and he departs, promising to see if he can't send a few soldiers to scout the Inquisition and see if it merits further support. I'll need to send a letter ahead to Cullen, to warn him… and Josephine, to alert her to the interests of Lady… Olivia de Sarre, and Lady Rowena… Rowena…
"Who uh… who was the Rowena again?" I ask Lysette, and she thinks for a moment.
"Rowena Lavonne," she replies. "The one whose husband is the… captain, of something…"
"Rowena's husband is the Captain of the Guard in Val Chevin, my dears," Vivienne says, smoothly gliding out from the chateau proper and down the steps, having seen off the last of the guests inside. "Her interests are like to be purely fanciful, but a well timed letter to her husband would doubtless see the Inquisiton able to supply itself with Orlesian-made blades; so long as you don't mind taking them from the Empress' forces."
"Val Chevin is neutral," I note, but Vivienne shakes her head.
"In politics, my dear, of course." She doesn't snap her fingers this time, but I still feel the gentle thrum of magic wash out from her, likely a spell to detect undesirable listeners. After a moment, she nods "But in business, Val Chevin's smiths have been most eager to arm both sides. Under the table, of course. But Verigon, Rowena's husband, is a very loud supporter of Gaspard's cause. Any weapons from him would likely be seized from a smithy "tarnishing the city's decree of neutrality", who would of course have been selling to Celene."
"Would the swords making their way to the Inquisition implicate a favouring of Gaspard?" I ask, and Vivienne shakes her head.
"No my dear; not so long as the Inquisition remains neutral in posture." She leads us back up the steps. "It would likely be anticipated that you have no possible idea that the weapons were effectively stolen from Celene's cause. Anybody intelligent would know that you did know, but they would not dare speak aloud their suspicions."
"Because any who do speak out would be dismissed as angry followers of Celene's cause." I conclude, and Vivienne nods, a hint of pride in her bearing.
"Such is the rigour of the game, my dear," she says. "One's words must be overseen at all times, lest you let something slip at a time where it affords no advantage."
Lysette's eyes flick between the two of us as we talk, clearly struggling a touch to keep up. She was removed from her family before she could be properly introduced to the courtly intrigue of Orlesian ritual, but I get the feeling my unlikely paramour has little of a sense for politics anyways. She's more forward than that, I reflect as my nose throbs with ghost-pain from a wound weeks old. Much more forward.
"Swordplay is similar," I note, and Lysette nods in understanding though the words are, on the surface, for Vivienne. "I've bested more than a few foes by hiding this or that advantage."
"Swordplay indeed, my dear." Vivienne's eyes settle on my spirit blade at my hip, and she raises a single eyebrow. "I must inquire as to how Hugo Demaret's spirit blade hilt found itself upon your belt, and how in all Thedas you were able to bring the blade to bear."
"I bear on this hand of mine a key to the Fade, ma'am," I reply, holding up the Mark for her to see again. "I suspect the magic within it pours outward into the blade, perhaps in imitation of when I beheld Hugo and his foe do the same."
"Interesting…" Vivienne touches a finger to her chin as she ponders the strangeness of it all. "I suppose your possession of it means dear Hugo has met his end?"
"He died valiantly," I reply, and she sighs. "In battle with the apostates in Ferelden."
"I do not doubt it was valiant," she says. "But I doubt it was necessary. There are too few Knight Enchanters left after this dreadful mess began. So many of us charged into rebellion without any thought for the consequences. I thought Hugo was wiser than that."
"He died saving my life," I say, feeling a strange heat as I defend the dead man's honour. "Were it not for he and Shartan, Gavriel would have killed me for certain."
"Gavriel?"
There is a familiarity in her voice; a familiar sort of anger, as if bringing up something or someone she just can't abide by. She pauses, Lysette bumping into my shoulder as we all come to a sudden halt, then scowls.
"He is dead?" she asks, much more curt than I expected.
"I laid open his stomach with this very sword," I say. "I… that was when I learned I could even use it."
"Good." Now she sounds pleased, leading us on toward the guest rooms. "Gavriel was a blight upon the Circle from his earliest days. Always pushing and prodding, practically baying for blood… when Fiona's foolishness was voted through it was he who pushed for a war with the Templars the loudest. I am surprised he lived long enough to make it to Ferelden."
"He was a Knight Enchanter as well," I note, and Vivienne scoffs.
"My dear, Gavriel Kyr was a thug of the highest order." She speaks with venom in her voice. "He was a staunch Resolutionist. Most Knight Enchanters were Loyalists or Aequitarians, and none were willing to take him as a disciple. That blade was not his. Like as not he plucked it from Enchanter Gregory's corpse after murdering the poor old man himself."
"I… I see." I swallow. "I meant no offense, Lady Vivienne."
"And none was taken, my dear." Lysette scoffs at that, and Vivienne's only retort is to open the door to one of the guest rooms and gesture her inside. "Here, darling; you look rather like you could use some rest. My dear Markus, would you be so kind as to join me for a brief nightcap? There are a few matters of import I wish to speak about, before you retire as well."
"I think it is best if I remain with Ser Venier," Lysette tries, but Vivenne just tuts and gestures again to the room.
"Darling, I understand your devotion to your leader, but he is quite safe with me." Vivienne shakes her head. "No, best for you to rest a while, after the trying day you've had."
Lysette goes to retort, but Vivienne hits her with a look; I don't really know how to describe it; it's cold, frightening, but so overwhelmingly patient it almost makes me feel guilty, and I'm not even the target. Lysette swallows back her words and, with a brief nod and a squeeze of my hand, goes into the room. Vivienne closes the door behind her.
Vivienne says nothing more for a while; she leads me back upstairs to that little parlour where I so recently had my very, very ill-timed awakening to my own history, practically guiding me by the hand to sit me down. The wine has settled and I'm starting to feel a little foggy, so I'm grateful for the chance to rest my legs.
She pours us each a small snifter of brandy; I've never partaken before, either of me, so I take it and sniff it because that seems rational, it's called a snifter after all. It smells like alcohol. Cherries too.
"You did wonderfully tonight, dear," Vivienne says, setting her glass aside to reach up and remove her hennin and mask. "An excellent display all around. I will admit, with your past I was concerned you would lack certain graces, but you show promise."
She sits down, prim and proper, her smooth pate gleaming gently in the candlelight. I raise my glass in salute to her, before taking a sip. Then I cough, because brandy is apparently much, much stronger than wine, and she actually giggles a little as I touch a hand to my burning throat.
"There are still some things in need of refinement, but you've made an excellent first impression." Vivienne nods, before taking a small sip of her brandy, letting it settle for a moment before swallowing. "Perhaps we might keep up that subtle pious naivete you present; it is an excellent means of tricking your more unscrupulous foes into a sense of false security. And the Chantry Mothers will find it most endearing."
"That's a dead end," I reply, shaking my head. "The Chantry hates me. I'm a Templar, and a false prophet and whatever else. Didn't even show up to their own… uh…"
I rack my liquor-hazed brain for the name of the meeting, the actual word for it, but Vivienne swoops in to save me from my own idiocy.
"Their own conference, dear," she says, before shaking her head. "And that sorry display was no true conference. The wiser mothers have already seen through Giselle's maneuvering; those three were little more than bait."
"For the assassins." I nod. "Or… for me. So I'd come and get killed by the assassins. There's six. Er, no, four now… I killed one in the garden and the other got shot."
"I had only heard of three…" Vivienne frowns. "Evidently my own network has a few gaps… but if there are four left, it is all the more imperative you remain here until all your business in the capital is concluded. You will be safer here than anywhere else."
"Thanks." I nod. "You… I expected you to be meaner."
"Meaner?" She says the word with something like laughter, before leaning forward a bit. "Whatever do you mean by that?"
"I…" I'm veering dangerously close to saying something stupid, so I course correct with a half-lie instead. "In… In Chanson, we heard about you. The Enchantress to the Imperial Court, w-with the Empress' ear. You had a… reputation."
"As a bitch, no doubt." she deadpans. "I wouldn't be surprised. I am a supporter of the Templars, but my position at court made them regard me with no small amount of doubt. That I held the Empress' ear made me the envy of many, not least of which the late Lord Seeker."
"Never met Lambert," I admit, though it's hardly surprising. "Chanson was small. Really small. One elvish tower and a drumfort around it. Twenty mages at the most, I think… and about fifteen Templars."
"How quaint." Somehow it doesn't sound like an insult, though that's probably the wine helping. "My dear, you are remarkably less perspicacious when intoxicated, did you know that?"
"I-I don't… drink much…" I admit, cheeks burning red.
"That will need to be worked on," she says. "Strongwine and brandy are common at the higher levels of soiree; a lack of fortitude may see you unconscious before the end of the second dance, and it is most terribly rude to refuse offered drink."
"So I gotta drink more." I nod, but she shakes her head.
"No darling, you must drink more carefully," she says. "You are too young to indulge, and it would be shameful for the Herald of Andraste to become a wastrel. But all of that can be learned later. For now, we must focus on the key basics. Your attire is acceptably rugged for a questing knight, dear, but hardly suitable for high society. I'm certain we can find you a few decent outfits better suited to mingling with the nobility. As for your appearance, that hair will need a good trim…"
She goes on for a bit, laying out a multi-step plan to make me the ideal figurehead for the Inquisition as its Herald. Part of me wonder if she isn't also grooming me for the position of Inquisitor at the same time, but after the brandy everything sort of fades into a slurry of words and ideas until I'm all but unconscious on her couch.
That she actually physically helps me walk to a guest room across the hall instead of using magic or something is… odd.
But soon enough I'm drunkenly pulling off my boots and coat. She helps with the armour, sending me to bed with a pat on the head and a glass of water, and I fall asleep only to wake up a moment later on a very different bed, in a room with stone walls and no ceiling, and Beck looking at me with concern. I lurch upwards, meet her eyes, and nod.
"We need to figure this out," I say. "Because I'm getting really tired of being two people at once."
AN: So, full disclosure; I'm a Vivienne fan. She is much like the Templars in that most people seem to hate her, and I think she's great. The Iron Lady will not be the most important companion in this tale, but I'll not be shuffling her off to "snide observations from the sidelines" duty either.
After all, who else is gonna teach Markus how to actually use a Spirit Blade?