Ten would not, in fact, be able to get down to Hathenor Pen for another few weeks. First, another storm blew in - this one a warmer and rudely wet affair with sleet that made the solid ice and banked snow of the first two seem tidy in comparison. Shortly thereafter, as the queen regent had figured out that her very good friend had been found - the severed head of a certain teyrn did for that quite nicely - Ten found herself on the receiving end of several very strong suggestions to appear in various rooms at the palace to give her opinion on several items for which she was definitely not qualified.
The first was choosing a new captain-at-arms for the palace, for which she was expected to sit and whisper things in the queen's ear while the queen herself sat with her bare feet in the lap of a shirtless manservant who massaged her swollen ankles the entire time and made all four of the knights in the running extremely uncomfortable. One of them, to Ten's delight, was Ser Kristhen Whitcroft of Highever, who kept looking at her curiously, and then she had the privilege of observing the very moment when his soul momentarily departed his body when he realized where he recognized her from. Perhaps in another situation he would have simply seen himself out, but in this one, he could not insult the queen, so Ten had the further privilege of sitting there in a comfortable chair, grinning at him while he stammered through a speech on all his accomplishments, shrinking under her gaze. Queen Anora looked at her afterwards, and she shook her head. They settled on one Ser Hildebrand DeTreece, a young knight from Amaranthine, who started his pitch by insulting the entire Howe line up to their fourth great grandfathers in language that was somehow both flowery and disturbingly profane. He appeared to be moderately knowledgeable on the subject of urban warfare but was, more importantly, devastatingly handsome, possessed of both strikingly bright blue eyes and also a swarthy complexion and well-groomed black beard. In their brief session after all four had sung their own praises, Ten, the queen and the two female knights who had been called in to advise, agreed on this point most handily and decided that it - all other things being equal - would get him the post.
The second task was a bit more boring at first, figuring out how to finance the level of recruitment that would be necessary for defense of the siege which was sure to come. Not one to be cutting funds to infrastructure but also not fully understanding all of the items in the expenditure columns, Ten was completely baffled and had no idea what she was looking for. Anora, for her part, seemed uninterested, as she was knitting furiously away at something that would likely be baby clothes. After looking through the books from what was now technically Anora's teyrnir, now that her father was no more, it did jump right off the page that the salary of the diminutive Ser Cauthrien would pay for an entire regiment for a year. Ten could not help but smirk at the delight which lit up Anora's face when she told the poor long-suffering Jock Stillpass - whose kneecaps were intact for the moment - to go fetch Ser Cauthrien. She appeared not ten minutes later, with a young woman by her side that Ten did not recognize. Anora gave her the lay of the land, not looking up from her knitting.
"But… your grace, who will lead them?" the knight pleaded after it had been pronounced that they simply could no longer afford her.
"Who's that over there?" Anora asked.
"My squire?"
"Come here," the queen commanded.
The squire in question swaggered up. She was barely taller than her knight, but carried herself with the presence of a much taller woman. She doffed her cap, displaying dark brown hair braided tightly back, and bowed low. "Your majesty," she said, her voice raspy. She turned to Ten, then, and without a second thought, bowed again, though less lowly this time, "My lady."
Is it bad that I kind of like the sound of that?
"What's your name?" asked the queen briskly.
"Aurinda Mabley, your grace."
"How long have you served Ser Cauthrien?"
"Ten years, your grace."
"Well, I'm sure you know everything she does by now. How much do you need?"
Aurinda blinked a couple of times, "I'm not sure if I understand the question, your grace."
"How much do you need? Annually?"
"I… I'm not sure."
Anora quoted a figure that was a fraction of what Cauthrien had been paid and yet Ten got the feeling it was more money than Aurinda had ever seen at one time.
"Th-that would do nicely, your grace. It is an honor, your grace."
"Wonderful. Kneel."
Aurinda did so, unsure of what to expect. Anora looked around the room and, finding it devoid of swords, took one of her knitting needles and touched it to both of the squire's shoulders. "There, now you're a knight. Go to, Ser Aurinda, I need a new regiment by next month. Try the villages in the river valley, they always have too many children. Cauthrien, you can serve under her at a normal wage or you can vacate that cottage on what is now my estate. I truly do not care which."
By the fourth such circus, Ten was starting to feel like a pet monkey on a chain, trotted out mostly to see how people would react. It was amusing the first few times, watching various nobles be very clearly uncomfortable with her presence in the halls of state and yet not daring to say anything and thus insult the queen. However, it eventually got tiresome, and Ten could not say she really cared for most of Anora's retinue. There were a handful of lady knights, mostly rangy country girls who'd learned to fight out of necessity and happened to be good enough at it to earn their belts, and a few who were noblemen's daughters who saw combat as an art form much like calligraphy or playing the lute. Those Ten found absolutely fascinating to talk to, but they were unfortunately outnumbered by the gentlewomen from various households who treated her as a curiosity, telling her how much they had cared for their elfin lady's maids or nannies, and constantly cooing over how 'well-spoken' and 'articulate' she was. And so, by the time she put her foot down and said she must be away to take care of some very important Warden business, she was mostly just looking forward to not having to explain very basic things like no, I will not teach you how to recite verses of the Chant in Elvish, pretty sure that would cause something in the room to spontaneously combust and no, your great great great great great great grandmother was definitely not the gentle daughter of an elfin chieftain who granted your family all their lands out of love and generosity.
She managed to corral all of her errant companions around the large table in the common room one afternoon while the patter of melting snow made an erratic drumbeat on the windowsills. Ten consulted Lelianna first, who necessarily had more experience negotiating the passes through the mountains between Ferelden and Orlais, pointing to several options on the large map spread out on the table before them.
"It will be slow going ," the good sister said, "But… it is always slow going, and there are not so many of us. And the cold will not be as dangerous as it was this time last month."
"Orzammar has entrances to the Deep Roads," Sten observed, a glint forming in the depths of his dark red eyes.
"It does, and you may go there and slice up however many darkspawn you choose. Dissect them. Study them. Pull out their innards and roll around in them," Ten said.
"I have been meaning to see if covering oneself head to toe in the blood will lead them to believe you are one of them," Sten said, stroking his chin.
"It doesn't," Alistair said, "Really you could have just asked."
"So you have attempted it," Sten said.
"Well not on purpose."
"Fascinating, do you think you could provide a written account of the experience?"
"Is he even literate?" Morrigan commented.
Alistair tore a corner of the notes Ten was working from off, wrote 'go fuck yourself' on it in a fine curling script with several flourishes and slid it in front of the witch, who looked at it, scoffed, and lit it on fire with a spark from her fingertip.
"Oh right, that's why I wasn't looking forward to getting back on the road," Ten sighed, hoping they would not be in too much trouble if Avrenis couldn't get the scorch mark out of the table.
"Well you're the reason we keep getting beset by assassins, so maybe let's not cast stones," Morrigan said, "I heard what you've been up to, blackmailing half of the peerage."
"Three quarters," Ten corrected.
"So what do you think they're going to do when we're outside of the Arl of Redcliffe's protection?" Morrigan said, "Do you think every one of these people values their lives over their reputations? At least one of them is going to have it out for you."
Shit. She has a point. "Where did you get that idea? All those novels?" asked Ten.
"Well given what happened last time," Morrigan gestured at Zevran, "How many of him do you intend to collect?"
"Why, do you want one?" Zevran countered.
"I'd rather sit naked on an ant hill," the witch remarked.
"What you and the ants get up to in your free time is none of my business," Ten said, "So if you would all let Lelianna finish…"
"Oh no, I want to hear about the ants," Lelianna said, raising her eyebrows, "I have never heard of that predilection before."
"What sort of ants are we talking about? I have heard there is a species that if it bites a man he is… insatiable for several hours," Zevran said.
"There's a spider which has that effect," said Ten, "But the several hours ends because the venom also causes seizures and makes your lungs stop working so I wouldn't go seeking them out."
"Well, perhaps not soon," Zevran acknowledged, "Still, I think that is how I should like to go out. Perhaps in several decades."
"Are we really not capable of having any conversations without one of you derailing them with something filthy?" Wynne admonished.
"I would think given the men you tend to bring back that any aid in that department would be welcome," Zevran said mildly, then jumped as a small jolt of lightning hit him in the side of the head.
"Oh right, this is why I didn't miss all of us stuck together at all times," Ten sighed, "Just… get your things together. If the weather doesn't betray us I'm hoping to get on the road in four days."
"I am sorry, Zevran," Lelianna observed, "It cannot wait until summer."
"No, I actually am eager to… leave town," Zevran said, "I will tolerate the weather."
"What happened?" Lelianna asked, "You always curse up a storm when asked to be in the cold."
"Oh, you know. I was never one to stay in one place for too long. I am feeling constrained."
"Is one of the fifteen-odd people you're sleeping with getting a little clingy?" Ten asked, raising her eyebrows.
"I do not need to justify myself to the likes of you. You probably have cobwebs down there," Zevran retorted.
"Surely do," Ten said, "So if I say I would appreciate your company on a brief visit to that village where we recuperated after the Battle of the Inbreds, you might actually agree without too much fuss?"
"Why would we need to do that?"
"I want to show the Dalish treaty to their elder. See if he knows that clan's migration patterns. They're a suspicious lot, not that I can blame them. I doubt they'll take kindly to anyone they don't know showing up on their doorstep."
"I think I could handle that."
"Good," Ten said, "It really isn't far, but I'd still rather get a move on. I don't want to wind up out there after dark again."
"Especially after what happened last time…" Zev said, fingering what was now a coin-sized scar under his left arm.
There was a short silence. The tap-tap-tap of water droplets hitting the outside of the window had gotten faster as the sun began to come around.
"Why is everyone looking at me?" Alistair asked. He had been focused on the contours of one of the roads on the map, but looked up after the silence became awkward.
"You have nothing to add?" Lelianna asked, her brows drawing down in confusion.
"What could I possibly have to add?" he asked, "I'm certainly not trying to get sniped at by elfin separatists."
"But… usually this is when you tell Ten she's being stupid and reckless," Morrigan observed, "And then she yells at you and calls you all sorts of names. That's my favorite part."
Alistair shrugged, "Ten knows what she's getting into. And, let's be honest, if what they said about routing the mob is true they probably aren't eager to get into it with strange elves again."
Fact was, the two of them had already had this argument, very quietly, very early that morning. Ultimately, they had settled the disagreement in the way that any two people who had recently come into each others' affections tended to settle all disputes. After that, neither could remember why they had been angry in the first place and had just gone back to sleep.
"Young man, are you feeling alright?" Wynne asked, "Are you that hungover?"
"I'm fine. Would you people stop looking at me? This is getting creepy."
"Right," Ten said, slapping the table as she rose, ending the meeting before anyone could start examining the issue further, "Come on, daylight's wasting."
The trip down the coast to the hill which housed the strange village was shorter and more pleasant without a concussion and several broken ribs, though the memory of Cillian Fain leaping to his death still haunted Ten as they passed the place where he had jumped, the tree with his name carved into the trunk.
"So what have you been up to?" Ten asked, genuinely curious. Besides spreading disease among the good townsfolk of Denerim.
"Oh, this and that. I took a few jobs for your six-fingered friend," Zevran said, "He was quite happy to give work to a local boy, especially given how many of his regulars have died or left town recently."
"Who'd you kill? Anyone I know?"
"Probably, you do seem to know everyone."
"Anyone I'd miss?"
"Doubtful. How do you know him, anyway?"
"I apprenticed with one of his nieces," Ten said, truthfully.
"Ahh, yes I had forgotten that you learned your fell trade at the hands of a proper Antivan mistress of poisons."
"Y todas las palabras malas también."
"You really do have the worst accent in every language," Zevran scoffed.
"You can hardly expect me to be a native speaker..."
"No, it's not that you sound Fereldan - you're definitely foreign but I wouldn't be able to pinpoint from where if I didn't already know. It's that you somehow picked up the accent out of the tanner's quarter. It's the very worst one to have. You get made fun of anywhere else in the country."
"Aren't you from the tanner's quarter?"
"Yes, but I've managed to smooth the rough edges over the years," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't I? I want people to respect me!" Zevran said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"If people can't respect me talking like I'm from where I'm from then I don't care what they think," Ten declared, "And it's good enough for the queen. Regent."
"This is a nation with quite a lot of… how do you say it… social mobility compared to some. It's not like Marches, of course, where anyone with money is automatically of the right class, but elsewhere? You could be the richest, best-connected, most educated…. And they will still call you a peasant behind your back if you don't pronounce your r's correctly," Zevran declared.
"I think it might have something to do with us being nothing more than a handful of warlords feuding over sheep and gorseland until a few generations ago," said Ten, remembering the little thrill that had gone up her spine when Ser Aurinda called her 'my lady.' "And when I say 'us' I speak of the nation, the formation of which certainly did not include me."
"Yes… it is strange. We are simultaneously of our nations, and not. But you and I, manita, are from better stock."
"You think so?" Ten asked, a little surprised.
"Oh don't tell me you don't think it a little bit too," Zevran said, chuckling.
"Maybe," she said, "Hard to remember, sometimes…"
"That they cheated," Zevran said, "That they learned enough magic to destroy what once was but after how many generations haven't managed to build anything that holds a candle to it."
Ten looked up at the columns of the Tevinter road above them, "And meanwhile the greatest things they built are crumbling all around us."
As if it could hear her, a large chunk of white granite, weakened by this latest round of freeze, thaw, freeze, thaw, cracked loose from the column about them, and the both dove out of the way as it crashed down through the fir branches above and finally fell harmlessly to the side. Chastened, they continued on their way without speaking any disparaging words about their human compatriots.
They emerged from the treeline at the eastern edge of the village. There was a yeoman on one of the watchtowers with an arrow trained on them as they clambered up the hill to the main gate. He lowered it once they got close enough that he could see that they were only two, and of the right persuasion.
"What's your business?" the watchman called.
"We need to speak with Eimaril!" Ten called, "We're friends!"
"Oh! I know you! You're the ones who routed the Riders of Kinnisboro! All right, come on in."
He signaled to someone on the ground and with a groan of rope and wood, the great gate swung open just wide enough that they could each slip in. Ten had not had the time nor, frankly, the energy to observe too much about the village the last time she was there. Now she observed that every single one of the watchmen would have been considered quite tall if they had been human, and doubly so since they were elves, tug shut a gate fashioned out of the same pointed logs and drive a stake intended to keep it shut several feet into the ground with enormous mallets.
"You're looking better than the last time we saw you," one of the watchman said.
"I'm sorry I don't remember you," Ten said.
"I'm surprised you remember much, the wounds on you," he said, chuckling.
They made their way to the center of the village where the perpetual fire burned. There were the same group of varied artisans, going about their sitting tasks before it, one spinning thread on a drop spindle from a basket of what looked to be rabbit fur, one sharpening a series of knives on a whetstone. And Eimaril was there, sitting, contemplating the fire as though he had not moved an inch in the months since they had been there last.
"You have returned. Sick of living among shem?" he asked. The singsong Dalish cadence made it absolutely impossible for Ten to tell if he was joking, "The hard part's over now that winter is passing. Plenty of room for a couple of new houses… or one?"
Oh, he thinks we're…
"What do you say, mi amor, plenty of room for a dozen fat babies," Zevran said, nudging her with an elbow, but couldn't keep a straight face, and then neither could she. To Eimaril's credit, he laughed along with them.
"Alas," said Ten, "I do not yet have the luxury of thinking about where I'm going to live. We are here because I am hoping to get your counsel on a particular document. An agreement between my order and the Dalish. I don't know much of your … original people, and wouldn't know where to find them or if I were even talking to the right group if I were."
"I was quite young when I left. But… many of the clans travel through here, and when they do, they make camp within range of our watchtowers," said the elder, "So I may be able to offer some guidance."
Ten took out the treaty and handed it to him, watching his eyes travel down the page. He paused at the end. "What… what do you need to know?"
"Well it was signed with a specific clan, yes?" she asked, "I need to know how to find them."
"When was this signed?" Eimaril asked.
"Well I don't know precisely," Ten said, "But we found it in a Tevinter ruin out in the Korcari wilds, so several hundred years at least."
The elder's face shifted into an expression midway between fear and distrust, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening and swallowing some of his tattoos. "Well," he said slowly, "I believe this is Zathrian's clan, they usually make camp far to the south of here, in the Brecilian forest, but not until later in the spring. They'll be on the move right now, and with halla, the route they take to get there is never the same twice. You'll have better luck waiting for them to make camp. But… I am not sure how to put this…"
"But what?" asked Ten.
"When I was a child, I was a member of that clan," said Eimaril, "Our keeper was Zathrian."
"And?"
"When I chose a settled life," Eimaril said, "I was young, but not that young. Closer to thirty than twenty. And… our keeper was still Zathrian."
"Why did you leave?" asked Zevran.
"I didn't like our ways," Eimaril said, "Too many secrets. So this feels... oddly vindicating."
"All right?" Ten said quizzically, wondering where he was going with this.
"My old clan came through on their way south about five years ago," said Eimaril, "They made camp in the glen down there. We brought them supplies, traded, exchanged stories. I did not see him, but… the clan members I spoke to said that the keeper of my clan was still Zathrian."
"Well… I mean… you're still around, yes?" Zevran asked, "It isn't that unusual is it?"
"I have seen no fewer than seventy-five winters," Eimaril said, "And I thought at the time that it was unusual that he was still in charge, but wouldn't be unheard of. Maybe he was just extraordinarily long lived, ancient but sharp enough to continue leading. After all, children are not always good at knowing how old adults are, perhaps he was very young when he took the post. Perhaps he was no more than fifteen or twenty years my senior. A keeper in their nineties… it has happened."
"I sense there's a but coming," said Ten.
"Well, the thing is…" Eimaril said, handing the document back to Ten, with one gnarled finger emphasizing the signature line, "It appears that he signed this treaty."