Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Five

[scarylady]

Much love as always to bellaknoti the Comma 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 Fifty Five
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Zevran, Philippe, Cedric, Leliana, Nathaniel, Anders and Wynne.
Rating: T
This chapter:  I think my ability to write chapter summaries has temporarily fused.  Just read it and find out...

 

 Pain. He tried to open his eyes and agony flooded his nerves. An attempt to cry out provided nothing more than a croak. Fragments of conversation drifted past his scattered consciousness.

“Why would they go for…?”

“We have to get him to…”

“An acid flask, we think, flung directly into his…”

“There is no time for this. Bring water, lots and lots of water.” That was Zev’s voice, sharp and clipped. Philippe tried to speak to him but couldn’t. His mouth felt so strange.

“Oh, mon frère.” Maddy sounded terribly upset, and he vaguely wondered why, but the pain dominated everything, his face was a ball of fire and torment.

“Here, amore, this will help you.” A flare of sharp anguish as fingers carefully prised open his mouth. It felt as though the skin of his cheek might crack under the strain, and then a leaf was gently inserted under his tongue. The taste was bitter, but the numbness that spread from it was welcome, pulling him back down to where the pain couldn’t follow.

-oOo-

“Leliana, you have to find a way to squash this rumour. Maker’s breath, we can’t have the populace running around saying that my wife is Andraste reborn.” Alistair’s hair was stuck up every which way and his eyes looked tired. Leliana made a mental note to ensure that something soothing made its way into his cup of tea tonight. “The Chantry will be all over us like a rash, saying that it’s sacrilegious, and for the first time this year they’d be in the right. It is.”

She regarded her friend fondly. “Alistair, you do not need me to settle this for you. Not everything is solved by espionage. Issue a royal proclamation denying it; the Chantry cannot touch you if you openly repudiate the notion.”

Alistair blinked at her. “Just like that? That’s all it will take?”

Of course not, silly. But it is a good start and one which distances you from the rumour. You see, I have listened hard in the city, and so have those who work for me, and I do not think that this rumour was planted deliberately to harm you. It is popular among the common folk; it is my belief that it originated in the farmlands.” She shook her head, a little sadly. “They have had so little to give them hope; it is not surprising that they are trying to elevate Maddy into what she is not, when her gift is like a miracle to them.”

He ruffled his hair, making not a scrap of difference to its general disarray. “All right, I’ll do it. Maker, Leliana, everything is so damned difficult, right now. Did you know that the Legate has been playing up to the nobles? He’s got a whole raft of little Banns from down south near Gwaren in his pocket, and another bunch from over Waking Sea district. Alfstanna is in his pocket, also Ceorlic and Loren, and I can’t be certain of support from the Brylands.” Alistair looked rueful. “I can’t please everyone and apparently the new shipyards are putting hackles up from those who think they should have been singled out. If that Antivan snake manages to garner enough votes, then he’ll be able to-”

A knock at the door interrupted him, and a servant inserted their person into the room. “Your Majesty, the Warden Commander is here to see you. I believe you’ve been expecting him.”

Leliana kept her face smooth while Nathaniel bowed to his King, and ignored Alistair’s sidelong glance at her. After all the time spent in Orzammar with the Wardens, and in particular with Oghren’s big mouth, she supposed it was too much to ask that her friends hadn’t heard scraps of gossip.

“Nathaniel, have a seat.” Alistair waved vaguely at a chair. “How are things at the Vigil?”

“Noisy, Your Majesty.” Nathaniel took the proffered seat, and finally slid his eyes over to Leliana, acknowledging her impersonal nod and smile with one of his own. “May I hope that you will be finding alternative accommodations for my guests soon?”

“If all goes well at the Landsmeet, I will, yes.” The strain in Alistair’s voice made her want to hug him. He’d come so far, done so well, and was working so hard to make things better for his people. “In this room, call me Alistair, please.”

“The city is a melting pot of rumour, Alistair.” She’d forgotten just how smoky his voice was. “May I ask which ones are true?”

“The vote is being taken to secede the Fereldan Chantry from the Divine’s control and into mine. You’ve seen for yourself how the Templars are behaving. It’s the tip of the iceberg, I’m afraid. I don’t have exact numbers, but at least half the mages in the Circle are now Tranquil, if my information is correct.”

Nathaniel’s lips tightened. “I was here with Leonie when they burnt those supposed maleficarum. It’s not in the interests of the Wardens to lose potential recruits in such a manner.   Surely, though, such an action will provoke an Exalted March? Ferelden can’t stand against any such, and the Wardens will not be permitted to stand beside you.”

“There will be no March, Commander, I promise. I can’t say why, but you have my word on that.”

“It is true.” Leliana raised her voice for the first time, as an unconvinced frown descended on Nathaniel’s face. “The Legate has already been here, making overtures of friendship. He would not do so if he had strong sanctions at his disposal.”

“Then you have my support.” A ghost of a smile quirked the corner of Nathaniel’s mouth. “Anything to get my Keep back to normal.”

“And Eddelbrek? Can you convince him, too?” Every vote counted, particularly with the Legate quietly bolstering the negative voting contingent.

“Oh, Eddelbrek wouldn’t dream of voting against both his Arl and his King.” There was a tinge of amusement in Nathaniel’s voice. Leliana spoke sternly to herself about paying too much attention to both his voice and his mouth. “He was always loyal to the Theirin line, and since you gave him Amaranthine City you can do no wrong.”

“Excellent.” It was warming to see Alistair brighten slightly. “In that case; Leliana, could you fill Nathaniel in on anything else he needs to know, please? I have another appointment to prepare for.”

While Nathaniel stood and bowed to the departing King, Leliana directed some hard thoughts at Alistair’s back. That was not a fair tactic.

 

 

-oOo-

While the servants dismantled the camp and rounded up the horses, while the King’s Own and the Teyrn and the Arl’s soldiers surrounded the disintegrating campsite in a bristling wall of pikes and shields, Maddy swallowed her dismay at the state of her brother and tried to concentrate on how best to help him.

“How far to Denerim?”

“Less than a day’s ride.” Cedric’s eyes were red-rimmed with weariness; he’d been up the previous night too, ever since Zevran had broken the news that they had a Crow in camp. “I’ve sent a rider already to bring back Anders to meet us on the road.”

“I should ride ahead, with Philippe before me, go to meet him. You have a small army with you, mia regina, it will move too slowly.” There was an air of desperation about Zevran that made Maddy uneasy. When the sounds of combat alerted them to the fact that the target was, in fact, her brother rather than herself, they had rushed to discover Zevran, spattered with the blood of three assassins and attempting to lift Philippe’s semi-conscious body, despite his own wounds. The look in the Antivan’s eyes… well, suffice to say that she did not consider him to be… stable, right now. “I have instructed the servant tending him to sluice and sluice with water until we can be absolutely certain that all the acid has been removed, but without swift healing he will suffer terrible pain and scarring.”

Maddy bit her trembling lip and blinked back tears at the thought of her brother, her beautiful brother. The sight of his ruined face… Mon frère, I failed you so badly. They had all been so certain that she was the target and had cushioned her in protection. She had allowed it, driven on by concern for her unborn children, and left her brother undefended. “What if there are more assassins, Zevran? You are injured and cannot protect him.” She saw Zevran flinch at these words and her heart squeezed within her. I’m not the only one berating myself for failure.

“We found one over by the corral, trussed up like a chicken.” Cedric nodded to Zevran. “Your work, I assume.”

“Ho, you have?” A spark of fierce life came into Zevran’s face for the first time. “I would speak with that one, at some length I think.”

“How much difference will an hour or two actually make to Philippe?” Maddy chewed her lip, wishing Alistair was here to make the decision for her. “We can make him comfortable in one of the wagons, keep him sedated.” Sacre Coeur d’Andraste, I cannot bear to hear him scream anymore. “This will be safer than bundling him onto a horse with insufficient guard, n’est ce-pas?”

“I agree.” Cedric’s solid presence was reassuring, a bulwark against the raging inferno of emotion coming off Zevran in waves. “A fast rider will be in Denerim in three hours, at most. Anders should meet us no more than two hours after that. It’s far better than taking any more risks.”

An almighty struggle seemed to take place before Zevran acquiesced. “Buono. Now, show me where this prisoner is held; I have work to do, before we finish striking camp.” The menace in his voice sent shivers through the young Queen.

oOo-

Following Alistair’s departure an uncomfortable silence fell. Nathaniel hadn’t seen Leliana since she left the Vigil in answer to the King’s letter some nine months ago, although word of her exploits had drifted back in scraps through both rumour and Anders’ letters to Leonie.

He squirmed internally when he remembered his last words to her, the day before she abruptly left.

“A Warden is all duty, Leliana. We… I… have nothing else but duty and blood and death.”

When he heard she had gone to Orlais with King Alistair, he’d thought perhaps she would find someone suitable there, that she had taken his words to heart. And yet, here they were again.

And nothing had changed. In fact, his words were more relevant than ever now. Leonie had gone to her Calling and he was Warden Commander. His duty to the Wardens was a greater one than ever.

“It’s late.” If his words were abrupt and his tone harsh, then it was not something he could control. “There is no need to remain, merely to instruct me. I’ll see Anders tomorrow, and he chatters enough for everyone.”

Her blue eyes flashed with some unrecognisable emotion before she closed up like a clam, leaving only the sweet smile and guileless eyes of her training visible. “You have duties to attend to, no doubt.” The slight emphasis drew a wince from Nathaniel. Leliana picked up a sheaf of papers, preparing to exit the sitting room. “Bon nuit, Warden Commander.”

A waft of her perfume reached him as she passed by, lilies and andraste’s grace; he wanted to reach out, he wanted…

He wanted all kinds of things that a Warden had no right to. He kept his hands to himself.

“Good night, Leliana.”

 

-oOo-

My fault, my fault, my fault.

The words bit into his brain like the acid that had eaten Philippe’s flesh, but Zevran kept his face blank, smooth; a perfect Crow mask.

A similar mask faced him, from behind copious mud smears. A young Crow this one, probably no more than a year or two past his initiation rite. A human, his dark hair a tangled mop caked with dirt. He was still tied hand and foot, and someone had slammed a stake into the ground behind him, pinning him by the loop made of his arms. The enclosure in which he had been thrown had been a guard post; to one side a hand of cards was still scattered on the rough table.

Zevran smiled gently, deliberately, and saw a flicker of fear in the man’s dark eyes. A very young Crow, then. “Ragazzo, you puzzle me. Why would one of the Corvi, in the middle of a mission which looked likely to succeed, turn his coat and tell me of his mark, hmm?”

The boy shrugged, as far as he was able. “Il Rinnegato held me in his power. Think you that I cared for aught else? Whether they succeeded or failed, you and I would be here now, having this discussion. I chose to anger you as little as possible.”

Zevran chuckled. “Il Rinnegato? Is that what they call me now?”

“Of course. Who else has left the Crows and lived?”

The young assassin showed good poise and control despite his fear. His voice was well-modulated and his features even. Zevran’s own voice floated back to him from the past. “After all, I wasn’t paid for silence.” He prowled around the staked prisoner. “So you spoke as you did in the hope of mercy? From me?” His laugh was cold, humourless. “I doubt that rumour paints me as merciful.”

“Rumour says that you are ruthless, skilled but, most of all, independent.” The boy moistened his lips slightly. “You are no Crow, not any longer, and not tied to their code. Mercy is denied to me from any and all Crows, but not from you. Maestro, my name is Xavier Morucci, and I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

“Who ordered the mission?” The burning question he wanted the answer to above all else. Zev longed to get his hands on the person who dared to put a contract upon his Prince.

“My padrona.” When Zevran frowned, Xavier hastened to explain. “We are, were, il corvo del nobile; our mistress tells us who she wants dead and we see to it.”

Il corvo del nobile, a cell of Crows inherited by a noble house. It was an old legacy, from the days before power slipped from the hands of the nobles and into that of the Corvi and the banks. Nobles inherited their own cells, which tended not to be as well-trained as those headed by a Corvo Maestro, and who rarely, if ever, took open contracts. They killed at the behest of their owner, and this usually amounted to little more than lethal scuffles between cells belonging to rival nobles. The rest of the world, by which one meant the rest of Antiva, cared not one jot.

A chill ran down Zevran’s back, as the identity of the buyer came to him in a flash of clarity. “And the name of your padrona?

“Principessa Luciana di Treviso. She had no desire to leave Antiva and move to Orlais, no desire to marry an Orlesian. She has a noble lover of whom she is very fond. She inherited our cell from her brother, Principe Juliano, and sent us to settle the matter.” Xavier shrugged. “What was left of us.”

“And what is left of you?” Zev shoved the knowledge aside for later. For the moment he must deal with this talkative ragazzo, not think of how Philippe’s intended had tried to have him killed. My fault that they nearly succeeded, my fault that he lies injured, my fault, my fault.

“If you killed the others then I am the last; we four were all that remained after Principe Juliano’s assassination was ordered by his cousin.” Uncertainty crept into the boy’s face, seeing and misunderstanding the fury in Zevran’s eyes. “That is the truth, maestro, why would I give you truth earlier, and see my fellows killed, only to lie now?”

“Do not call me that.”

“Why not, it is true. You are more powerful and more skilled than most of the Crow Masters.” The expression buried deep in the boy’s eyes was like looking into an old mirror. Just so must he have looked, lying helpless at the Grey Warden’s feet. “The only mercy I hope from you is a swift death, maestro, but I have another proposal, if you would hear me?”

Zevran’s prowling once again took him behind the staked figure. “Ragazzo, you have not stopped speaking since we met. Say your piece, if you must.”

Again Xavier moistened his lips. Zevran knew a final throw of the dice when he saw one. “There are many rumours about you in Antiva City, but I heard one just before I left, from a strong source. They say that the Grand Masters shall make you a Corvo Maestro in your absence, that they will recognise you again due to the strength you have shown in depleting their numbers. Your contract must stand until you die, but who will take it, when you stand in the Grand Masters’ favour? You will need a cell of your own, maestro, perhaps I ca-” His voice ended in a gurgle as blood sheeted over his muddy clothes.

“I am not going back, bambino, but you may have your mercy. As you say, I am a Crow no longer and it is mine to give.”

-oOo-

 

Anders was beginning to recall just how infuriating he’d always found Wynne.

“Ser Bryant is trying to help you, child. He can’t do that unless you trust him.”

Child. She used to do that back at the Circle, treat everyone like they were eight years old. The canvas of memory painted the annoying old bat as a valid reason for at least two of his escape attempts. “I don’t need the help of a Templar.” He ruthlessly crushed the picture that arose before his eyes, of Alistair kneeling next to him, gently cleansing while he wrestled with the devastating weight of the Fade. That was the reason he was trapped in this room with these two busybodies in the first place.

 “Look, despite what Templars have always believed, mages don’t just randomly leak power and leave the door to the Fade open. Not even deliberately, under ‘controlled conditions’ as you have so glibly put it, and for a training exercise.” He scowled at the swarthy Templar, daring him to disagree. “I’ve spent my whole life doing the exact opposite, which is why I don’t need a bloody watchdog.”

“King Alistair thinks differently, Warden.”

“I know what Alistair thinks, thank you very much, Ser Templar.” 

Blast Alistair and his high-flying ideas on how mages and Templars could work together. 

“How many abominations have you faced during your time as a Warden, Anders?” Alistair’s eyes were sombre, determined. “If your experiences are anything like mine, then the answer is ‘too many’. For all that the Chantry insists that Templars are best equipped to deal with blood mages and abominations, you and I both know just what arrant nonsense that is. The best team to put down an abomination is one or more Templars together with a mage, and I want the Chantry to learn to work that way. That means they’ll need a new training regime, one where the Templars can smite the blood mage knowing that his ally is safely out of range.” The ex-Templar had hesitated before continuing. “They also need to know how to assist a mage on their team if he becomes too… agitated. They need to understand how to help an ally without seeming like an additional threat.”

Which was all very well, but buried in it were all kinds of hints about the future of mages that made Anders uneasy. He’d thought they were fighting for the freedom of mages, not a revised set of prison bars. Somehow, Alistair had convinced him to work with the Circle-loving old biddy and stodgy Templar, but the process was making him cranky and not relieving any of his fears for the future of mages.

Assuming there were any left in the Circle by this stage, he thought gloomily. And even if they are, they’ll all be like Wynne.

Perish the thought.

It was a relief to Anders when their stilted attempts to practice accepting cleansing energy - while his brain screamed run, run, run - were interrupted by a timid knock at the door.

Half an hour later he was on a horse, riding pell-mell out of the city gates.

-oOo-