Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty

[scarylady]

Much love to bellaknoti theComma Fairy who kindly tidies up my chapters.

Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_Strife

Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Philippe, Anders, Leliana, Zevran, Teagan and Kallian
Rating: T  
This chapter:   Waiting for your loved one to return from danger isn't easy.

 

-oOo-

Even here, far from the heart of the Bannorn, the harvest was critical, and every able-bodied man rallied round for it. When even Arl Teagan turned up at breakfast in homespun clothes, Alistair insisted on doing his bit.

“Alistair, are you sure you want to?” Teagan frowned, concerned. “There’ll be no way of guarding you.”

“I was thinking I’d poke the King’s Own and get them to help out with the harvest.” Alistair dug into his breakfast and grinned like a boy. “Philippe, you should come too, get some colour in your cheeks.”

“Oh? What colour are you hoping for, mon frère? As I burn in the sun, la couleur you are most likely to see is raw flesh.” Alistair laughed at Philippe’s grumpy tone and threw a cheerful breadroll at him; his brother-in-law was not good at mornings at the best of time, and been in a mood for days, ever since Zevran and Leliana left.

“You can wear a hat. Come on, it’ll be good for you, anything is better than watching you mope.”

Philippe sipped his tea and frowned direfully at his tormentor. “I do not mope. I conduct myself like a gentilhomme, which does not involve getting straw in one’s hair.”

A tinge of colour appeared in Teagan’s lean cheeks at some stray memory. “Oh, I don’t know…” he murmured.

A battery of interested eyes turned to the Arl, who kept his head down and devoted himself to the consumption of his breakfast.

Upon rising from the breakfast table, the King changed into plain shirt and loose trousers and tromped down to the fields, laughing and joking with his men as though on a high treat. Several hours wielding a scythe did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm and, when they broke for lunch, he consumed a tankard of cider and several rustic pastries with every evidence of enjoyment.

Seeing him so, the awestruck farmers and peasants began to relax a little and, as a direct result, a curious incident occurred. A man slowly shuffled over to where Alistair and Teagan stood in a cluster of workers, chatting in a desultory way as they ate their lunch. The slightly furtive nature of his advance alerted Cedric, who stepped in front of the King to prevent his approach. He made no attempt to pass the Captain, merely twisting his hat between his hands and looking nervous. 

A sixth sense for Cedric’s sudden tension made Alistair turn, and seeing the situation, he laid a reassuring hand on Ced’s arm. “It’s fine,” he said, and stepped up to his Captain’s side. “Was there something you wanted?” he asked the newcomer with a smile.

Alistair’s easygoing charm seemed to put the man a little more at ease, although he was still obviously uncomfortable. “Um… if it please you, Your Majesty, I was wonderin’…” he moistened his dry lips, “I was wonderin’ if it were possible to get the help o’ the Blessed Lady.”

“The B- Oh, you mean M- You mean the Queen?” At the man’s enthusiastic nod, Alistair relaxed, pleased.   “Of course; of course we’ll help.    If you speak to the Arl’s secretary, he’ll arrange an appointment for her to come out and attend to your fields, sometime in the next couple of days.”

“Oh… um… not the fields, Your Majesty. I was hopin’ that… I mean, I was wishful of…” under Alistair’s puzzled gaze, the man flushed up to his side-whiskers. “It’s my wife,” he blurted, casting a desperate look up at his monarch, “she… well, we ain’t got no children, you see, an’ we was thinking that maybe if your sainted lady was to lay her hands on my Bessie, then the Maker might see fit to bless us with a little ‘un.”

“Oh.” Alistair looked at him blankly for a moment. “I- er… I don’t think she can do that.” At the farmer’s downcast look, he hastened to explain. “Not that she wouldn’t try for you; I just don’t think she can make anything fertile, apart from plants.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Majesty, but the Queen… well… I heard that she’s the chosen of Holy Andraste and has done miracles.” Alistair nodded slowly at the man’s slow, painful logic; he could clearly see the pitfall looming before him, but was left with no real choice but to topple into it. “Well now, I be thinkin’ that it ain’t for us to say what power the Almighty sees fit to grant her.”

Maker damn me for an idiot, why didn’t I see this coming?

“Um… perhaps you are right, I-“

“Your Majesty!” The voice came from behind him, sharply imperative, and Alistair turned, relieved. A messenger from the castle, red and sweating in the sun, bowed. “Lady Leliana and Signore Arainai have returned, sire. His Highness, the Queen’s brother, said you’d wish to be informed immediately.”

 

-oOo-

Whether he was prepared to admit it to Alistair or not, Philippe was well aware that he was, in fact, moping. Never before had he watched as a loved one rode off into obvious danger. Never before had he experienced the torment of not knowing if they, he, would return.

It was driving him mad.

After all the husky enthusiasts left for a day of hauling in crops, Philippe ambled aimlessly off to annoy his sister. She gave his languishing expression one exasperated look, and announced her intention of inspecting the kitchen gardens.   These proved to be quite extensive, and were in the process of being reseeded with winter vegetables. This was, of course, meat and drink to his Maddy; after a while he left her locked in an animated discussion with the Head Gardener, concerning precisely how much frost parsnips and sprouts required, in order to be at their best.

Philippe wandered back to the front of the castle and stood on the battlements, looking out over the road. He’d spent rather a lot of time here yesterday.  He began to realise why Zevran behaved as he did.

If he doesn’t come back, if something has gone wrong...

Philippe didn’t want to think too closely about that; but it seemed certain that, if the worst happened, he would always regret not snatching at happiness when it was offered.

Four days. 

They had said that it took a day’s travel to get to the Circle Tower. However many times he did the numbers, however many times he reminded himself that they would have to wait for nightfall once they arrived, he still couldn’t make it add up any differently. They were overdue; not by much, but enough to chew on his nerves.

An hour or so of these whirling thoughts was about as much as Philippe could stand. He was just about to give up and go when he saw them; two figures approaching up the hill, the morning sun catching copper and gold lights in their hair.

-oOo-

It didn’t seem to matter how many experiences you had in your life, there were always new ones to take your breath away. 

This one was definitely new.

The two of them were barely through the gates when Philippe descended upon Zevran. The Antivan was crushed against an immaculately tailored silk doublet and kissed with a kind of desperate intensity he’d never before encountered.   Never one to waste opportunity, Zev dropped his bag to the flagstones and buried his hands in Philippe’s hair, dragging it from the neat silk ribbon. The warmth and taste of his prince was so sudden, so unexpected, his head swam with it and he opened to the assault with unusual passivity.

After a few moments of idyllic bliss, the intensity diminished, becoming a touch languorous before Philippe retreated a little further, so that their mouths barely touched. Zevran’s face was held between two soft hands, long fingers tracing his tattoo. 

“Praise be to the Maker, you’re safe.” The words were murmured against his lips and created a frisson of shock in the assassin.   The idea that there had been someone worried about him, waiting for him to return safely…

It was unthinkable.

A faint giggle broke the moment; Leliana, having thus far refrained from interrupting, now spoke, “We need to clean up and report to Alistair. Is he here?”

Philippe pulled his mouth from Zev’s, turning his head to look at her. One hand slid down to rest against a tanned throat, while the other smoothed over blond hair. “J m’excuse, Leliana, I was rude to ignore you. Alistair is out in the fields with Arl Teagan and others. I’ll get a runner to fetch him.” 

Leliana made a leg, demonstrating a flawless Orlesian Court bow, despite her martial gear and heavy pack. “It’s perfectly alright, siegneur.” Her smile was impish. “I understand completely. When Alistair arrives, please tell him I’ll be down as soon as I’ve bathed and changed.” She made her way into the castle, leaving them behind.

“I should clean up also, mio dolce principe.” Zevran was torn between a deep reluctance to move and the overwhelming instinct to run. “I am soiling your beautiful clothes with my road dust.”

The deep blue eyes gazing down at him were filled with so much emotion it brought a lump to Zev’s throat. “Damn my clothes.” With a total disregard for any guards or passing servants who may be watching, Philippe drew Zevran back towards him, kissing him gently, lovingly. As on other occasions with this man, the assassin felt a peculiar sensation of warmth and enjoyment that had nothing to do with desire. Oh, he wanted the man - wanted him quite desperately, after all these months of abstinence, in fact - but Philippe’s kisses, these soft, caring caresses of mouth on mouth, promoted a sense of wellbeing that was entirely new to him.

It was with significant reluctance that he disengaged. “I must bathe, caro mio, and you must summon the King, no? He will want our news.”

Philippe sighed. “You are right, mon amour.   I shall see you later.”

It was only after they had parted, each to their own errands, that Zevran realised that it hadn’t even occurred to him to offer the customary playful request to come and wash his back, or some such.   How strange.

-oOo-

They gathered in the library; Alistair and Maddy, Teagan, Philippe, Zevran, Anders, Leliana and Kallian. They lounged in chairs or sofas, perched on the deep windowsill, or propped up walls, according to their personal comfort.

It occurred to Alistair that over the months they had all grown immensely comfortable together; even Kallian was slowly losing some of her prickly coating. Teagan, of course, had only been told the parts of the story that were for the consumption of the nobles; poisoned lyrium, abused children, mage burnings. Nothing at all about Maddy and her mage-like abilities; the Arl, like everyone else, had been left to draw his own conclusions from the rumours which grew and multiplied with every passing day.

The room was filled with chatter and laughter; Maddy was shaking showers of straw out of Alistair’s shirt cuffs and giggling with Kallian at the resultant mess. Neither he nor Teagan had stopped to change after their exertions. Leliana was doing a similar service to Teagan’s braid, picking chaff out of the strands and rebraiding it. Alistair was thankful he’d always had short hair; Leliana’s hair obsession was just… odd. Philippe was sprawled on the arm of Zevran’s chair, conversing with him in low-voiced tones. It was strange to see his brother-in-law like this; he was usually very restrained about showing his affection for Zevran in public. Maker only knew what he saw in the elf.   Only Anders seemed tense, obviously concerned about the information they were here to receive. Noticing this, the King decided it was time to get things moving.

“Zev, hey Zev… Maker’s Breath, settle down, you noisy lot.” When noise was reduced to whispers and rustling, he tried again. “Right, Zev, tell us what you discovered.”

The assassin lounged at his leisure in a deep armchair, freshly washed and clothed, his hair still a little damp. He leaned slightly towards the side where Philippe was perched; Alistair wondered briefly whether he was even aware of it. Zevran’s passions were a mystery to the King, they seemed so very shallow, and yet there had been nothing shallow about Zev’s fury over Melissa.   Alistair realised that he was musing, which seemed to happen more and more the longer he was away from Court, and pulled himself back to the conversation and words that Zevran was speaking.

“…some bottles from the chest, I checked one while I waited for my bath to be filled. It is poisoned as we suspected. The others I have left intact; the Chantry seal should stand as proof that I have not tampered with them.”

“Won’t the Knight Commander notice that the replacements aren’t Chantry-sealed?” It was Teagan who asked the question.

Zevran tutted and smirked, emanating an aura of infuriating smugness. “What kind of amateur do you think I am? The replacements are Chantry-sealed also, acquired from Ser Bryant when we were back in Gwaren.”

Anders chimed in with an explanation. “Rather than risk that Ser Bryant may have received any tainted ones, we swapped his lyrium allocation for some we’d checked ourselves, so we could be sure he remained sane.” He nodded at Leliana. “We’ve done the same with all the Templars who have joined up.”

This was what Alistair loved about working with this group; unlike a set of Palace guards and courtiers, they thought for themselves and got on with it. 

Zevran picked the tale back up. “I went through all the paperwork in the office, naturally, but there was not much of interest. Rather a lot of trading in magical artefacts, though. Tell me, Alistair, do you regulate the export of such things?”

The King frowned in thought and then shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you the law off the top of my head. It’s the kind of thing that Eamon knows more about than I. I’m not aware of it being a big issue, to be honest, I thought we imported, more than anything else.”

“We do.” Anders was sat forward on his window perch, twisting his staff between his fingers. “How much and what kind of things are we talking about here, Zev?”

The assassin told him and Anders gaped in disbelief. “You’re telling me that, not only are the Circle exporting armour, weapons and runes, but also knickknacks? They haven’t got the resource for that; no-one outside Tevinter has the resource for that.”

Zevran spread his hands. “I can only tell you what I saw, my friend. I’m not even sure what the word ‘knickknack’ means; it’s a Ferelden word I assume.   Tell me, though; what kind of resource are you referring to?”

Well, lyrium for a start. The Chantry has a stranglehold on the market, but Orzammar retains the bulk of what they mine, and what they do sell is expensive. But also, manpower. The best crafters are all Tranquil, no-one’s really sure why. It’s something to do with the way their Fade connection is removed. Also, like dwarves, lyrium doesn’t addle the wits of the Tranquil.” Anders shifted uneasily. “What wits they have left, that is.”

Alistair jumped in with a question. “Tell me, in crafting terms, how much difference is a ten percent cut of the Templars’ lyrium going to make?”

Anders gaped at him. “Andraste’s tits; of course! They’ve got buckets of extra lyrium right there. Maker’s blood, that woman is devious. She’s poisoning her Templars and gaining a chunk of extra craft goods at the same time.”

Leliana’s lilting voice also sounded impressed. “Once the first batch of goods are sold, there is lots of money to buy more lyrium from Orzammar, no? And so the cycle continues.”

“One moment, though, mes amis.   What about these Tranquil of which Anders speaks? Is the Circle working them day and night to make these things? They must still sleep, n'est-ce pas?”

Anders nodded agreement. “Yes, they’re human, just not…” He abandoned that line of thought and turned from Philippe to Zev. “Did you make it into the Tranquil quarters?” The question caused a small crease to appear between Zevran’s eyes. 

“Well now, that is a good question. I definitely found their workrooms. When we discussed the layout, Anders, you told me that the Tranquil had their rooms beside their workshop, did you not?” At Anders’ nod of confirmation, Zevran continued. “I saw no living quarters beside their workroom. That whole section of the first floor was devoted to workrooms and storage.”

“What?”   Then where were the Tranquil?”

Zev, shrugged. “How am I meant to tell one room full of sleeping bodies apart from another? They were not where you said, that is all I can be sure of.”

“Oh, you can tell the difference.” Anders’ voice was grim. “The mages rooms have Templars in them, or at the very least, outside every door. They don’t see the Tranquil as needing the same level of supervision.”

“We can’t be sure of that.” Alistair’s interjection was matter-of-fact. “I know for a fact that a lot of the rules were tightened after Uldred, and I’m betting that Cullen has changed them again. Not to mention that six mages high-tailed it to Orzammar. He’ll be watching everyone after that.”

“True.” Anders frowned, dissatisfied. “Well, I guess we’ll have to leave that for now. Maybe the mages in Orzammar can throw more light on it.   What’s worrying me…” he stopped, rolling his staff between his fingers, while everyone waited, watching him. He looked up at them, his good-humoured face rather haunted. “What’s worrying me is that, if they are working the Tranquil to death, there’s only one way of replacing them.”

“Maker’s Breath!” The dismay in Alistair’s tone was reflected in several faces. “You mean that he could be… to the mages?”

Zevran’s cynical laughter cut through their horror. “My dear friend Alistair, always your innocence betrays you into thinking too small.” He turned in his chair to face the mage; harsh, vicious amusement in his face.  “Tell me, Anders: does one have to be a mage, in order to be made Tranquil?”

All across the room there were gasps and indrawn breaths. Every eye turned to Anders, waiting on the answer. The mage stared at the assassin; his gaze turned inward, thinking. In the end, he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “possibly not. We all have a connection to the Fade and that’s what they cut. Only the First Enchanter, the Knight Commander, and a few immediate subordinates are taught the method of making someone Tranquil, however. Without knowing the process, I can’t really hazard a guess.”

“I saw it once, when I was in Templar training.” Alistair’s voice was quiet, but anger throbbed under the surface. “It’s a magical branding iron, infused with lyrium. It’s not hot, it doesn’t sear the skin. The brand sinks into the mage’s forehead and then he… changes. I have no idea how it’s prepared, though.” He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully across the back of Maddy’s hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost unnaturally calm. “If I find that the Chantry has been enslaving my subjects, then I’m struggling to think of an execution worthy of them.”

“They’ve been enslaving your subjects for centuries, Alistair. But mages don’t count, right?” Bitterness carved a yawning chasm in Anders’ words, but again Zevran cut across it with a depth of cynicism that made it seem like a shallow ditch.

“Ho, you think they would have to take slaves, Alistair? You foresee forlorn little columns of them, yes? Shuffling along to the Circle Tower in chains?” He made a noise of utter contempt. “There are many who will give themselves to this fate. What are a man’s hopes and dreams worth if he starves? He will cheerfully exchange them for good food, a warm bed and steady work.”

“Plenty of people in the Alienages would.” Kallian’s interjection was unusual enough to turn heads, and the colour rose in her face under such unwelcome scrutiny. “Well, they would,” she insisted, roughly, “and who’d care enough to stop it?”

“I really don’t think the Chantry would do this.” Leliana had been quiet, listening, but now her voice rang with sincerity. When both Anders and Zev rolled their eyes at her, she shook her head at them severely. “No, they would not. It undermines how they are perceived, don’t you see? Perhaps they could open workhouses in the cities and do this thing, and it would be accepted. The nobility might even approve.” Alistair frowned direfully at this, but Teagan looked thoughtful. “But not to take commoners and house them in the Circle; it muddies the waters too much, throws too much doubt on how they treat mages.”

Teagan cleared his throat, clearly reluctant to interrupt this group, the King’s inner circle. “If I may say so, there’s no advantage to pursuing this any further, right now. It’s all conjecture. The only facts are that the Tranquil workroom is bigger, they are producing more goods, and the Tranquil themselves appear to have been relocated to other rooms.” He turned to Zevran, and a note of appeal entered his voice. “Did you get into the Apprentice quarters? Are the children well-treated?”

Zevran spread his hands, helplessly. “The ground floor was crawling with Templars. The untrained are considered the greatest threat, no? I made it through the library, which was quite empty, and to the first bend of the part of the Circle where the apprentices were housed, but I could go no further.” He considered Teagan’s question for a moment and his eyes went flat with some thought to which they were not privy. “I can tell you this – I heard the usual cries and snuffles, the unhappiness of children in such places. I heard nothing that I would associate with… harsher training.”

Teagan looked as though he wasn’t sure what to do with this assessment, and Alistair felt for him, knowing that his nephew was in there. “Hopefully, I’ll have more news for you when I get to Orzammar, Teagan. The mages there will be able to clarify a lot of this.” He sighed, “I was hoping to have Eamon meet me at Orzammar. Bhelen is cleverer than I am, and I need Eamon’s subtle mind if I want to cut a good deal with the dwarves. Unfortunately, I got his letter this morning; Loopy Leanna has declared another mage-burning next week, so Eamon has to stay in Denerim to stop it. He’s not sure he can then make it to Orzammar in time.”

“I got a letter too, this morning.” Anders stood and stretched, his face weary. “Leonie is meeting us at Orzammar. Apparently, Bhelen wrote to her, saying that he wants to discuss reclaiming the thaigs.”

 “I’m at your disposal, if I may be of assistance, Alistair.” 

Alistair smiled, acknowledging Teagan’s courteous offer. “Thank you, Teagan.  You’d be very welcome. But you know, and I know, that Eamon can think circles around the pair of us, and so can Bhelen.”

“I do not see this at all.” Stubborn pride resonated in Maddy’s voice. “You are capable of anything, mon mari. Have we not seen that already? Particularly when you have all these wonderful friends to assist you.”

Alistair’s heart swelled, hearing her say so, but what made him blink, astonished, and swallow a sudden lump in his throat, was the murmur of assent that went around the room.

Maker’s breath, they believe in me.

It was a truly terrifying thought.

-oOo-