The three of them climbed the stairs, finding the fourth floor almost deserted. That would make sense, Ten thought, if he were a shrewd man Arl Howe would have left his family in Amaranthine where they would not have targets on their back, leaving only him and the queen to occupy the finest of the rooms. Ten set her jaw, suppressing the urge to scream, vomit, and tear the paintings off the walls as they walked down an eerily familiar hall, to an eerily familiar door.

"I must warn you. The scullery maids managed to get most of it out, but there really is such a curious bloodstain in the room where the queen is being held," Erlina said.

"I wonder what that could be from," Ten mused.

"Rumor has it the son of the previous arl and two of his friends were murdered there. I feel it is something of a… what is that phrase… power play, keeping her in such an ill-favored place," Erlina said, "Now, I must ask that only us women enter her chambers. She is… picky. So, you… grab a broom from that closet over there and patrol the hall."

"I live to serve," Zevran said, only a little sarcastically.

"Good," Erlina replied, not registering the sarcasm in his voice. She knocked on the door in a pattern - two loud two soft. Ten heard the sound of a bar being drawn, and she looked for a second time into the room where it had all begun.

She had laid eyes on the queen once from a distance, having found herself trapped in the district during the coronation and unable to avoid the parade. And so, the face of the woman who opened the door was both familiar and very strange to see up close. She was not trussed up in robes of state as she had been on that day. Rather, she must have still been in her nightgown and had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders that fell to her ankles, rendering her a shapeless bundle. Her face, too, was not made up, and her pale skin looked blotchy, bags under her eyes, her yellow hair clearly as yet unbrushed. Ten stood there, a slave to pure awkwardness, feeling like seeing the woman in this condition was dangerously close to treason.

"Oh thank the Maker," the queen sighed, "Is this to be our savior?" Her voice was nothing like Ten had imagined it to be, matching the delicate, feminine rest of her. But her voice was brassy and strong, as though none of the indignity of the current situation could reach her.

"I… suppose so, your grace," said Ten.

"I know your face," the queen said.

"I'm sure I just look like another maid who's been through here, your grace."

"No," said the queen, shaking her finger at her twice and then pointing, "You're the Bride."

Ten thought about denying it, feeling Erlina's surprise.

"Don't even think about denying it," the queen said, "You're the elf that chopped up Bann Vaughan in this very room, aren't you." She said it in a tone much like her late husband had, just fascinated to be meeting someone famous. "I was taken by the story, to be quite honest. I love a juicy murder," the queen continued. She turned and went back into the room. The furniture, at least, had been swapped out. The queen sat herself on the end of the bed, an ostentatious canopied affair with swans carved around the base of it. She tucked one bare foot under her, looking like any other young woman with two other young women, just itching for a little gossip, "I… may have snuck into Fort Drakon in disguise to get a look at you after they took you in."

Ten cast back to the week she'd sat in prison. Any number of people had come and gone, and gawking at the lone murderess was something she'd grown used to. Seeing the queen now in this state of unkempt told her that she likely would not even have noticed.

"I see," Ten said.

"Well, that was months ago. And who could blame you for snapping? I told Cailan, Maker's mercy be upon him, to get a handle on that bann, strip him of title and land if he didn't learn to behave. I said riling up the elves is never good policy," the queen said, "Look what happens in Orlais… but, my dear departed husband did not think it wise to involve himself in city politics. Never mind that we have to live here."

"Your grace, you are not considering leaving, dressed like this?" Erlina cut in, "I know I was off early this morning, but…"

"You think I should go around looking like the Queen of Ferelden when I'm trying to escape a place I got put in because I'm Queen of Ferelden?" the queen said, "No, today, I am only Anora, a woman who's been throwing up all morning and can't be arsed to put on a gown."

"Have you been unwell, your grace?" Ten asked.

"Quite," she said, "Did you put a curse on this room, girl?"

"I would have if I had the talent for such things, but I do not," said Ten.

"You should at least wear… outdoor clothes. It is quite cold," Erlina insisted.

"Fine, fine," the queen said, waving her hand in the air, "Well, I'm glad you're here, Vengeful Bride."

"I have some associates making a ruckus downstairs," said Ten, "I don't know how long until it's safe to go back out, but perhaps putting on clothes sooner rather than later would be… advantageous."

"Well you are the expert at getting out of things, as among the three of us," Anora said, "All right, but put me in something simple, Erlina. No corsets."

"Of course not, your grace," Erlina said. She fetched a dress that would have passed for 'simple' nowhere except the royal chambers from a wardrobe in the corner. It was of but one color and did not did not require a corset and kirtle underneath, but the fabric alone would have paid Ten and Shianni's rent for several months if not a year. The queen stood, throwing the blanket to the ground. She was not actually wearing a nightgown under it. Indeed, she was wearing nothing at all. This is a power play, isn't it. Don't react, Ten, nothing you haven't seen before. As the queen turned to the side and put her arms up for Erlina to get the dress over her head, Ten put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

"How far along?" asked Ten, then added hastily, "Your grace."

The queen shook herself, getting the pleats of the dress to fall as was intended, and waited for Erlina to return with underthings and stockings.

"I could have you burned alive for asking that," the queen said, the tone of her voice not changing a whit, as though she was commenting on the color of the flowers in the courtyard or the odds of a particular pony winning at the races.

"I mean, your grace, it is obviously more than…" Ten counted on her fingers the months since the king would have departed Denerim for the last time, "Five. Of course. I apologize for the implication, that was not my intent. I was merely inquiring about your health, as this will necessarily impact the accommodations we have planned for you." Most women aren't still spending all morning vomiting at five months. Explains a thrice weekly appointment with a rent boy who looks quite a bit like your dead husband, though. And then trying to have him killed. Though I truly have to admire the game, that is a level of dedication few could match. This makes what I know about you all the more valuable, doesn't it. "Is this why your father confined you here?"

"You use a lot of big words," the queen said, tugging her stockings up, "You know, one would think a man would be glad to hear of a grandchild, especially one who would secure our family's position."

"But he was… not?"

"It's not our family's position he is interested in," said the queen, "But his own. No doubt he intended to put me in a nunnery. I'm sure he promised whatever mistress he's kept on the side that her children would rule one day."

"Do you know who this mistress is?" asked Ten.

"I have a few ideas," the queen said, "The youngest son of his mistress at arms' looks nothing like her late husband, after all. And… wait, what was your name again?"

"Teneira."

"Teneira, I am counting on your discretion for the moment. I have heard the whispers of every bastard that my sorry excuse for a father-in-law sired, chomping at the bit, seeking to unseat me," she said, "I am looking forward to the looks on their faces."

You just like drama, don't you. Fair enough, I've been guilty of that myself.

"I don't know what you think a drudge from the Alienage could have to say about the matter," Ten said mildly.

"So, now what?" the queen asked.

"We wait," said Ten, "And hope that Missus Pughsbury doesn't have a stroke when she realizes that she is about to be in a scandal that dwarfs all others."

"Well then," the queen said, "Sit down, Vengeful Bride. I'm sure you have some quite interesting stories of the sort I don't often get to hear. I want to hear all about what it's like to chop a man up while he's still alive."

Ten was explaining for the fourth or fifth time the noise that Bann Vaughan had made when she reached his knee when a crash of glass came from outside the room, and then in swift succession three raps on the door with what sounded like a broomstick. "Manita! Please stop whatever sapphic orgy you have going on in there! You are needed in the hall," Zev's voice called through the door.

Ten mumbled an apology to the queen, grateful for not being made to relive that memory yet again, and got up from the chair she had been perched on to unbar the door. She poked her head out cautiously, and flinched as a large rat flew past the door and back down the stairs. Looking again, she could make out at the end of the hall, which dead-ended in a room with a fireplace and two sofas, a host of fighting men who had not been there before were standing, facing a single, familiar figure with his back to her.

"What happened?"

"I tried to warn them," Zevran said lowly, "Alistair, of course, did not want to listen. Lelianna went out a window and well, Morrigan…" He looked in the direction where the rat had scampered.

"Shit," Ten said, "There are twenty soldiers there, we can't possibly take them all."

"Evidently the queens' father sent that one to check on her," Zevran said nodding at the one woman among their number, wearing the Teyrn's colors.

"And she brought all of her friends," Ten sighed. She stood silently for a moment, trying to think of something to avoid the inevitable, but drawing a total blank.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Ten turned to see that the queen had followed her into the hallway. Something had changed in her posture, the way she carried herself. She was on the tall side, though not extraordinarily so for a human woman, but as she strode past Ten and Zev down the hallway, Ten drew back instinctively.

"This… ruffian has broken in," the knight said. She herself was barely taller than Ten, likely something she had been trying to make up for her entire career, but she positively shrank in the presence of the queen.

"And how, exactly, was it that he made it all the way up here before being detained?" the queen demanded. She was glared down at the knight, barely sparing Alistair a glance.

"Your grace, we were guarding the palace from a planned assassination, it was…"

"It seems the security in this home is lacking, if… that was able to get in," the queen said, looking dismissively at Alistair, who was looking around furtively, hoping for an escape route. He and Ten locked eyes, and she put a finger to her lips. He nodded, and turned back to the scene unfolding before him.

"Bring this fool to Fort Drakon," the queen ordered, "I am going to relocate to a safer location and will go there afterwards with my personal guard. I will have them handle this. That is my order. Do not think of beginning… interrogation before I arrive."

"Your grace, I don't think…"

"Don't presume to tell me what to do, Ser Cauthrien," the queens said. She sneered out the word 'ser' like it tasted bad, "Or have you forgotten who I am?"

"No, your grace. I apologize. Right away."

"You'll be lucky if you keep your head after this, let alone your job."

"Yes, your grace. Where shall I tell your father you are going?"

"You will tell my father nothing. It is his fault we are in this mess in the first place," the queen said, "Come, Erlina. You two, show me out, then you had better get to cleaning, I'm sure the downstairs is a horror show."

"Yes your grace," Ten said, curtsying awkwardly. The queen swept out of the room, followed by her lady's maid, hurrying to catch up with her.

Ten and Zevran looked at each other, and went down after them. It certainly looked like business as usual on the second and third floors, and the only clue that anything untoward had happened on the first floor were the bloody footprints leading up from the dungeons. They went out the front door this time, where Jock Stillpass was standing at attention. He did a double take as he saw them, and silently joined the group.

They made their way through the gardens to the gate. Sometime in the intervening, the picketers had scattered. There stood a carriage, nice enough, but certainly not what royalty was accustomed to, though the four horses at its front were quite well fed and groomed. The coachman waved to them, and Ten recognized Alain Villais. He winked at her. She looked to the footman, who was bundled against the cold, but she could make out the distinctive shape of Audin Villais's nose over his scarf. He jumped down off the backboard and opened the door to the carriage.

"Is this your doing?" asked the queen.

"No," Erlina said, "This was mine. It is simply too cold to walk all that way."

"Where are we going?"

"To a sympathetic home," said Ten, "I believe you will find it comfortable if you can… ignore the proprietess's career."

Erlina stood on her tiptoe to whisper something in the queen's ear. Anora's eyes went wide and she giggled behind her hand. "How thrilling!"

Glad this is such a lark for you, your grace.

Audin offered his arm first to the queen and then to her handmaiden. "You won't come with?" the queen asked.

"I need to clean up the mess my colleague made," Ten said, "And determine what exactly became of Arl Howe. I will be by, in a day or two perhaps. We have more to discuss."

"We do indeed," the queen said, "Well, I shall see you then."

Ten curtsied, a motion she was becoming used to. Audin slammed the door shut and latched it, got back up on the footboard. Jochrim joined him there, evidently more comfortable when he could see what, exactly, was going on outside the coach where his charge was sitting. Alain touched his crop to the back of one of the horses, making a clicking noise at them, and they were off.

"Now what?" asked Zevran.

"I want to see what happened in the dungeons," said Ten, "I am hoping that Arl Howe met his end in a fitting manner and we may… send another message."

"What body part are you going to send this time? Wait… don't tell me. I want to be surprised," Zevran said.

"Oh I'm not going to send a body part," said Ten, "I'm going to make it very, very clear what is going on here."

"Make way!" the imperious voice of the knight that the queen had referred to as Ser Cauthrien called. Ten and Zev stood out of the way. Two of the larger men at arms had Alistair under the shoulders and were frogmarching him uncomfortably through the gardens.

Ten tried to look up surreptitiously, but was clocked by the knight, who paused, looking down at her with disdain. "Halt!"

The men stopped abruptly. The knight came up to Ten, looking her up and down, "You look familiar. Who are you?"

"I no understand," Ten said, dropping her eyes.

"Don't play games with me, girl," the knight said.

"No understand," Ten said again.

"Ugh. Foreigners," Ser Cauthrien spat, "Come all the way here and don't even bother to learn the language."

Ten was hoping this would be the end of it, but instead the knight got right in her face and shouted. "You. Go. Back. Home. Orlais. Not Ferelden. Orlais." Her breath smelled of onions, and Ten cringed away. If she had been prepared for the blow it wouldn't have done much, but she was not, and so when Ser Cauthrien slapped her, open palmed, the chain of her gauntlet splitting her lip and leaving small abrasions on her cheek, she crumpled to the ground.

"Hey, leave her alone! She didn't even do anything!" Alistair called.

"Shut the fuck up, prisoner," one of the knights commanded. When Ten looked up, she saw that this had been punctuated with a blow to his head that had him slumped over, "Come on, leave the maid alone, let's get this lowlife to a cell where he belongs."

Shit, not another head injury.

Zevran waited until the group had left the gardens to help Ten up. "How bad was that?"

Ten spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and looked nervously over to the group that had just left. "Just embarrassing," Ten said, "Ugh, that's going to swell. Come on, let's go desecrate some corpses. I can't go break that one out until the night shift starts, the place is crawling with armed men before midnight."

They went back in the door they had come out of, but this time, followed the bloody footprints down into the cellar. It was not the horror show that Ten had expected, corpses piled floor to ceiling. Evidently, the little plot that Don Cangrejo cooked up was threatening indeed, for only three of Arl Howe's guardsmen had lost their lives there. Picking their way through the winding passage, lit only by guttering torchlight, they came across approximately ten cells standing empty, their doors leaning open. Three of them had clearly been recently occupied.

"Well, I suppose we'll learn what's in this room," Ten said. She had puzzled over the presence of what looked to be a large room on the floor plan, but was not the barracks, which were denoted by rectangles representing bunks. This room did not stand under any of the rest of the structure, but was separate, almost as though it had been hollowed out to stand apart. Now, standing in front of the iron door, set with three separate bars, she was about to find out.

She swung the door open cautiously. The stench of blood, a smell she had almost gotten used to, was stronger in there, and somehow worse, as though it had been pooling and rotting since the fort was built.

"I really could have gone to my pyre without smelling anything like this," Zevran said, covering his nose. Within was, indeed, a large room, or rather, more of a cave as it appeared cut into the bedrock itself. The floor had been finished with flagstones, but the rest of it was raw rock. The floor was stained rusty, and pools of coagulated blood likely days old stood where they had not made it to the drain set in to the lowest part of the floor. There were two corpses there, both on the floor beside a grim-looking rack, each had had a clean death, at least, a blade through the chest. One's head was covered in an executioner's hood. The other was wearing the colors of Amaranthine.

"Ah, there he is," Ten said, "Now, let's go back upstairs, I'm sure there's a hunk of lace or something we can borrow."

"What… what could you possibly want with that?" Zevran asked.

"It's no good without a message," Ten said, "Come on."

It was a little before midnight when a cry went up among the city guard at Fort Drakon. Several of the noble houses had sent servants to report the appearance of a gruesome sight, in full view of the entire district. The first breathless report that their chief, one Knight-Commander Jonden Berengier, heard, he dismissed as a bad prank. The second, he brushed off as well, thinking two or more servants must be in on it. When the third footman arrived, green in the face, and told the same story, he finally rose from his desk and went to gather his men. A squad of six marched through the desolate streets of the quarter, torches in hand, to the estate of the Arl of Denerim.

Truly I am sick of coming here. So much trouble and all in this one damned house… perhaps it is time to retire like Gwennie wants me to…

A crowd had gathered outside the gates, all pointing and looking at something at the top of the house. Straining his eyes, Jonden could see the silhouette of a woman, hanging from the highest balcony.

There's no lady of the house… some maid decided to off herself publicly I see. Poor lass…

However, when he looked closer, it was not a maid at all, but a man. A man, hanging by a noose, wearing a… Andraste's left tit, is that a bridal veil?

"Hey!" he called, "City guard! Open up!" He rattled the gate.

Nobody answered for a long time. Ever since the new arl had taken up residence, most of the staff had quit and the house which had once been bustling with activity went quiet, with movement only at the changing of shifts. Finally, a middle aged woman in a high-necked housekeeper's dress, her hair half coming free of its topknot, stumbled towards the gates and, with some effort, unbarred them.

"Thank the Maker you're here!" she gasped.

"What happened here?" Jonden asked. The woman said nothing, but grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the gardens, into the house, and up the stairs to where the balcony in question lay. Half of his men followed him, the other half attempting to control the unruly crowd of onlookers below. The house was eerily quiet, but there were signs of struggle all through it. On the balcony from which the corpse hung, Jonden ordered his men to haul it up. Jonden pushed the hunk of tulle out of the way, thinking grimly of the day, thirty years before, when he'd done the same to kiss his bride at the altar. "Maker's breath, that's Arl Howe!" He looked up at the housekeeper, who was pacing back and forth on the balcony. "Woman, what happened here?"

The housekeeper froze, looked at him, and said, huskily, "A scandal."