Pitiless Games, Chapter 12: The Ragged Wood

[aithne]

Chapter Twelve renews all sorts of acquaintances, and goes by The Ragged Wood (and on AO3. Full text also below the cut.) Chapter is SFW; story overall is rated M.

Title: Old Roads: Pitiless Games
Rating: M (for the sexytimez, and for occasional graphic violence)
PC: Amell
Word Count: ~109k, ~9k this chapter
Spoilers: At this point, it's not so much spoilers as it might not make any sense if you haven't played through Origins/Awakening...
Summary: Amaranthine is destroyed, and Warden Amell travels to Vigil’s Keep to take command. But one either must play the game of politics or be used as a pawn, and like it or not, every last one of Kathil’s demons are about to come home to roost... Amell/Zevran/Cullen, post-Awakening, multiple viewpoints, Part 5 of Old Roads.

Twelve: The Ragged Wood

---

In the time after our world broke like an egg,
those who were no longer mortal and yet not of us waited.
Wanting. The hunger burned in them, scorching claws
within them! Home, they cried. Home.

Then Moros, human-named Despair, came to them
and whispered:
My daughter, she too is misplaced.
This thing that has broken us, trapped you here,
put it right and you will be—
released—

Remember, mortals, that among all of us Despair is the most truthful.
Remember, too, that truth is not one thing but many,
a ragged wood with many paths,
a jewel with a thousand facets.

—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza five: of the Twisted

---

Leliana:

"Tell me," she said to Murena beside her on their perch on the wall-walk. "What do you see down there?"

The girl cocked her head. "Three women, two men. Good clothes, warm cloaks. Boots are covered with mud, so they've walked a fair distance. The one doing the talking is an elf, the rest human." She squinted. "The woman in the back wears her purse where a pickpocket could get to it. She doesn't want anyone to see her face. The elf is..." She frowned. "She reminds me of someone, massime. Do you know her?"

A complicated question, for all its simplicity. "A bit," she said, and it was not a lie precisely. "Her name is Erlina. She is in our trade. Let us go intercept them, yes?" She hopped down from her perch, and Murena did the same. A rising wind teased tendrils of hair from the girl's tight braids.

There were stairs from the wall walk down to quite near the bailey. They took them by twos, the girl's stride lengthening as she tried to keep up with Leliana. With adequate food and fresh air, the girl had gone from being scrawny to lanky, bidding fair to be as tall as Leliana. It was a good sign; Leliana could teach her how to use height to her best advantage.

They arrived at the gates just as the guards waved through the small group. Erlina had turned to the woman beside her, saying something in a low voice. Leliana stepped into view, keeping her hands well away from her weapons. "Maîtresse Erlina," she said in Orlesian. "So good of you to visit. And Remy—" She bared her teeth at the tall man who she had last seen in Minrathous. "I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but you do have a habit of turning up where you are not wanted."

Remy, to his credit, did not reply. Erlina turned towards Leliana. There was no surprise on her face whatsoever; she had been expecting to find Leliana in residence, then. "Pivoine," she said in that artlessly cultured voice that had won her so many admirers years ago. "Just the person I was hoping to see. You will be our guide to this fortress, yes?"

"Once you tell me why you have come, and brought such...distinguished guests," Leliana replied. Behind Erlina, the elf's companions had drawn together. She rather admired the boldness of their approach to the keep; though the chance was low that someone might recognize Anora, it still existed. "Or did you think that we host all fugitives that come to our gates?"

The elf tipped her head gracefully towards Leliana. "Rumor says precisely that. The rebel Keep, standing fast against the slings and arrows of the Chantry's disapproval. It seems the sort of place where all sorts of troublesome folk might find a place."

Lelaiana looked over the group of them. Anora she knew, and Remy, of course. The older woman appeared to be related to Anora, and the young man looked vaguely familiar, with that dark red hair that was so common in Ferelden. "Perhaps introductions are in order?" she said. "Since it appears that you have invited yourself in."

Anora stepped forward. "We have met, I believe. Fort Drakon." The former Queen smiled tightly. Though there were dark circles under her eyes and the beginnings of lines at the corners of her mouth, she was still a beauty. There was some other difference in her, something Leliana could not begin to name. She still had that imperious look, that strident voice; perhaps it was now tempered by the hard-won knowledge that came with imprisonment. Anora pursed her lips slightly, and returned Leliana's considering look. "You have also met Remy, it seems. This is my mother, Celia d'Orise, formerly Mac Tir. And this is my brother, Sionn." She gestured at the lanky young man.

Leliana's eyebrows went up. "I thought you were an only child?"

"So did I." The corners of Anora's mouth lifted. Leliana would not call that expression quite a smile. "Sionn was born in Orlais, after my mother fled Ferelden."

And thus, he is likely not General Loghain's son. Leliana considered the young man; though he had his mother's nose and her graceful brow, his jaw was strong and stubborn, and that hair—Leliana's hair had always been notable, in Orlais, since so much of the population was fair-haired. Even more in Tevinter. She turned to Murena, who had been standing silently beside her, watching. "Find the Commander," she said. "Tell her that there is something that requires her immediate attention. She will be in the mage salle this time of day, I expect." The girl nodded and took off, vanishing around the corner.

"Your apprentice?" Erlina asked.

"She is. I do not expect her to take my name, but stranger things have happened, haven't they? So, do you have any plans for the moment other than convincing the Warden-Commander not to turn you in?"

A hard expression flickered in Erlina's eyes; Anora looked taken aback. "Turn us in? But—"

"You forget that she is such very good friends with King Alistair." Leliana allowed herself one small, cruel smile. "And Alistair, had he been any wiser then he is, would not have allowed Anora to live past the dawn that he was crowned. I know what you are, Erlina. I know what Remy is, and I have heard the name Celia d'Orise whispered among the flowers for many years."

"And we know what you are, Pivoine," Erlina said. "There is advantage in alliance, surely. I have contacts all over this country, now, and many outside of Ferelden. Celia has her contacts in Orlais. Remy has his in Tevinter, though I am told you ruined a good number of them, yes?"

Leliana shrugged. "You know where my loyalties lie. Last summer's Denerim jeu was an insult that had to be answered. I did not know when I left for Tevinter that Remy was involved. Though perhaps I should have suspected." She eyed Remy, who did not have the grace to look abashed. He slipped his hand into Celia's. Lover, then. Which explains what he is doing here. "You are here seeking employment, then?"

"For the moment." That was Anora. Her Ferelden accent was harsh against the softness of their voices. "While I may have support in this country, it has been five years now. People have gotten used to Alistair, and he seems to be doing good things for Ferelden."

"That is odd," Leliana said. "It is more usual for a deposed ruler to try to take back power however they can."

Now that was a sly little smile that curved Anora's lips. "There are many different kinds of power, of course. Not all of them involve cheering crowds and wearing a crown. Ferelden has a narrow window of opportunity to take its place are more than just a southern backwater. With information, we can build alliances. With alliances, we can bring the world to this country. Wealth is built in trade."

Leliana frowned. "You and the keep's treasurer would get along well," she said. "What you are proposing requires that you find a powerful patron. Preferably the crown."

"Or an arl," Anora said. "This keep will be hosting quite the collection of nobles soon. One of them may prove amenable."

"That's several weeks away. I am not sure you will be here that long."

Celia stepped forward, letting go of Remy's hand. "That is for the Warden-Commander and the Arl of Amaranthine to determine, is it not? And here is the commander, now."

Indeed, that was Kathil in her armor rounding the corner, Lorn beside her and Murena trailing in her wake. She came to a dead halt when she saw Anora. "You are kidding me," she blurted, her mouth twisting. "As if I didn't have enough trouble on my hands."

Leliana winced. Evidently Kathil was in one of those moods. She gave her friend a warning look. "Allow me to introduce you," she said. "Anora you know, and Erlina. This is Anora's mother, Celia d'Orise, and her son Sionn. And this is Remy. A bard most recently in the service of Empress Celene."

Remy's shoulders stiffened. "I have not been in her employ for years," he said. "And well you know it."

Celia lifted her head with quiet dignity. "More to the point, he has been in my service for some time now." In response to Kathil's raised eyebrow, she said, "I am a handler of bards, and of information. And I am very good at what I do." She glanced at Leliana, and there was a question in those blue eyes.

The web that was Orlesian intrigue was convoluted, so much so that effect could not be linked directly to cause. A nobleman spilled wine on a lady's bosom; four days later and a hundred miles away, a comtesse's summer estate burned. That Remy had been resident in the house of the magister that had ordered an attack on Alistair and Rima, Leliana had thought largely unrelated.

Perhaps not.

"They are here to claim shelter," Leliana said. Beside Kathil, Lorn sat down and began to use one large hind paw to scratch industriously at his neck. Sionn looked fascinated. A young man raised in Orlais might indeed find a Mabari exotic, Leliana reckoned. "And perhaps to offer their services."

Kathil took a breath, her features settling into that familiar look of hard suspicion. "How do I know you're not already working for someone else?" she asked Celia

Celia twitched an eyebrow. "Handlers do not enter into employment, not as you mean the term. We are not bought and sold, not as bards or assassins are. Perhaps, with a generous enough stipend, we might be convinced to provide information exclusively to one party. Usually we act merely as the broker for those not wealthy enough to be a bard's patron. But that is all moot, now." She shrugged one shoulder, elegantly. "Ferelden is not Orlais, and the games here are very different."

"I'll say." Kathil surveyed them with some distaste. "Leliana, what do you think?"

I believe you should be careful what you wish for, dearest.

Because had it not been just the other night that the mage had paced in front of the firepit in the great hall, trying to decide which Wardens to send in response to some troubling rumors out of the Free Marches? A thaig beneath the Deep Roads opened, and whispers of something having escaped? I should send Nathaniel, she'd said. I don't want him that far away, though. Just in case.

Leliana drew a long breath. "I believe you have your Kirkwall correspondents," she said. "At the very least, they could delve into the rumors without attracting attention."

"And it gets them out of the country, and saves me having to decide whether to turn them over to the crown." One corner of her mouth twisted. "A year of service in the Free Marches, with regular reports sent to Vigil's Keep. It will cost me a copper or three, I imagine."

"Not as much as you might think," Remy said. "I have contacts in Kirkwall."

"Of course you do," Anora muttered with a sidelong glance at the bard. "Kirkwall...that's where so many people fled when the Blight began. People who might be convinced to return."

"And the place has a certain reputation, yes? A place where a young man may make a name for himself." Celia spared a fond glance for her son. "And it allows Alistair some time to decide that Anora being free does not mean the world will end."

"So, how much is this going to cost me?" Kathil asked.

Celia and Anora exchanged glances. "Remy, which contacts were you thinking of?" Celia asked.

He wrinkled his distinguished nose, looking briefly vulpine. "The Friends of Red Jenny are active in Kirkwall. I have worked with them before, and they pay well for the sort of work that I and Sionn do. Less well for your work, Celia, but the last I heard Kirkwall is lousy with darkwork. It will not be hard to pick up some."

Kathil's eyebrows had gone up. "There's a name I never thought to hear again. Red Jenny has quite a few friends, doesn't she?"

"And they are all dangerous. As is Red Jenny, if the rumors are to be believed." He inclined his head towards Kathil. "It is wise to not ask too many questions about her."

"I'll take that under advisement." Kathil shifted her stance, scratched Lorn behind the ears. "Fifty sovereigns and passage to Kirkwall, and I don't mention to Alistair you were here."

Celia smiled. "All that, plus a Mabari pup for Sionn if you have one."

The mage blinked. "How did you—never mind, I don't want to know. Thirty sovereigns, passage, a pup, and carefully avoiding the subject of who got that pup." It was a handsome offer, particularly since Mabari were never sold as such. They were always gifts, their value too great to put a price on. Leliana saw Sionn light up like a sunrise. A son of Ferelden, indeed. He glanced at his mother, hope shining on his face.

He looked a little familiar, she thought, and then wondered who he reminded her of.

"Acceptable, for a year of service." Celia folded her hands together. "We can be ready to leave at your convenience."

Kathil quirked her mouth. "The coins aren't a problem. The pup is. Dracene had her pups, but they're only six weeks old, too young to be weaned. You're in luck that there's one not spoken for yet, but it's the runt of the litter. We wanted to make sure the pup would survive." Dracene had been sent from Highever, accompanied by Kerrither, her handler and former castellane of Highever Castle. The pair of them had been a gift of sorts from Fergus Cousland. Cullen, on his recruitment trip there, had mentioned that Vigil's Keep was in need of a castellan, and soon after he had arrived home Kerrither and Dracene had arrived. The castellane had been mounted on a fine spotted palfrey, her hound coursing at her side.

He says he has fond memories of our visit, Kathil had told Leliana. What I think he means is that he has fond memories of Zevran. But, too, he said that his sister was passionate about the Wardens and would have joined, if she'd lived.

The castellane had started organizing the Vigil as if it had personally offended her. Dracene had had her pups soon after their arrival. They were cute things, though Leliana had seen Lorn cheerfully killing on command a little too often to be entirely comfortable with them.

"The first of the guests for the celebration will arrive in a fortnight," she reminded Kathil.

"Fortunately, it's a big keep, and I think our guests are practiced at staying out of sight," she said. She scratched her chin. "Let me find Kerrither. Follow me."

Kathil led them away, leaving Leliana standing with Murena, watching them go. "What do you think about them?" she asked her ward. "And take your hair out of your mouth, bibi."

Murena flushed and pulled the damp end of her braid out of her mouth. "The vhathir is like the Bone Queen," she said. "Dance all you want. She'll just pull the rug out from under you at the end."

Vhathir was the Tevinter word for a kind of large spider; it was also a term of respect used for men and women like Celia, who controlled the flow of information. "Indeed," she said, and bent to kiss Murena's head. The girl's attempt to duck out of the way was more for form's sake than anything else. "Let us go peruse the entrance logs and see what the guards have written about our guests. Perhaps it will be an opportunity for you to practice your lettering, yes?"

The girl nodded, and they went. Perhaps all will be well.

Perhaps.

---

Wynne:

There was a familiar presence on the other side of the Veil.

As she gained more control over her ground, she found it easier to keep track of the goings-on on both sides; even if the Veil had not been particularly thin here, a Templar was always impossible to mistake from this side. Templars had a certain solidity to them, rocks in the river of the Veil.

And this Templar...well.

She pressed her awareness into the mortal world. The Veil shivered against the surface of her mind, and she began to translate what she was perceiving.

Why have you come here. Greagoir?

He was standing next to the scholar who was making a study of dragons, here in the Blackmarsh. He was the one who had strung together the skeleton that Wynne had temporarily animated when Cullen and the rest had been ambushed. Fortunately, the people who had moved to the Blackmarsh seemed to take a dragon skeleton coming to life and killing apparent raiders in stride. The scholar had promptly re-strung the damaged skeleton, afterwards, and had been adding more and more bones to it since. It was nearly complete, ready for use if she needed it.

It was strange, how the mortals here seemed to believe that someone was truly watching out for them. Anywhere else, they might be fearful; here, among the bones of the dragons and the remains of what had once been a thriving village, they allowed themselves to hope.

Hope, that most tenacious of mortal emotions. Hope destroyed the world, and then rebuilt it.

Greagoir did not look much different than the last time she had seen him, some mortal years ago. He was out of armor—a surprise—and perhaps his face was a bit thinner, his beard a little longer. Still, his face was one of the handful as familiar to her as the lines on her palms, seen and studied so often over the years. First young, and then settled into a dignified middle age that seemed eternal as the Tower itself.

Seeing him, she was more Wynne than she had been in some time, and it was a shock to realize just how much of her mortal self had been worn away.

"So it just...came to life?" he was asking the scholar.

"We assume it was some magic left over from the days when this was a place where dragons came to die. Some old protective magic that was well-built enough to determine malign intent. It's fascinating—I've already started writing a treatise on it! There is so much we don't know about the ancient dragons and how they lived and died."

Greagoir looked pained. "It did not occur to you that there are old things that it's best to leave sleeping?"

"I don't think that I'm going to disturb any living dragons by studying their dusty bones. Besides, the spell that animated the bones quite clearly showed that it could tell friend from foe." The man ran a hand across his bald pate. He was the sort of small, efficient-looking man that Wynne always associated with account-books and abacuses. "After all, it only killed the raiders, which argues for some discrimination there. I hope those Wardens got away all right. We looked for them, but didn't find any trace other than the cart they left behind."

Greagoir didn't answer at first, only looked up at the dragon skull with its empty eye sockets, those teeth that were not broken wickedly curved and serrated at the edges. "You said it was the Warden-Commander who was staying here when the village was attacked?" he asked. "I saw her on my way to Amaranthine. She was alive and well."

And that answered why Greagoir was doing here. Wynne could well imagine a well-meaning Kathil telling Greagoir to come here, if she had the opportunity. You are a meddler, little one. She could not bring herself to be angry. After losing the Tower, she had not thought to see Greagoir or Irving again.

The little man enthused in Greagoir's direction for some time, then bounded off to see if there was anyone who could put him up for the night. There was nothing like an inn here; the village was too small, and visitors far too infrequent. Greagoir was left alone by the town gates to contemplate dragon bones and the Blackmarsh.

Wynne pressed herself against the Veil, and gathered herself to wrap it around her and step into the mortal world.

This was only possible because the two worlds were so close together, because the land here had the very strong memory of having been in both places at once. It felt strange to still be connected to the shifting realm of the Fade but have her feet on unmoving, unchanging mortal stone. It always took her a moment to remember how to stand, how to confine herself entirely within her own edges.

Greagoir started and turned, his hand going to his sword. "You—" He stopped, frowned. "If this is a joke, demon, it is in excruciatingly poor taste."

It took Wynne a moment to remember how to laugh. "No joke, Greagoir. It's me—as much of me there is left, anyway. I take it you were sent here by Kathil."

He was staring. "You—you're dead."

"I am." It was easy to admit, now, as bits and pieces of her fell away into the waters of the Fade. "You knew I had bonded with a spirit. Irving had to have told you, after I wrote him. I don't think there was a single thing he didn't tell you."

"He did. And so...what are you?"

"A spirit." She spread her arms wide, gestured at the village and marsh around them. "A spirit who remembers being Wynne, who is Wynne as most would reckon it. For the moment, I am guarding this place. So. Whatever possessed you to listen to a single thing Kathil says?"

Greagoir snorted. "At the time, I thought she simply wanted to put off the question of whether to let me into Vigil's Keep for a few more weeks. There is a...situation at the keep that I'm not sure you're aware of."

He told her about that situation, about how Kathil had so floridly shown the Chantry to the gates of Vigil's Keep and told them in no uncertain terms to stay out. "I am not sure she believes that I am retired," he said, and a look of something like wistfulness crossed his face. "To be honest, I am not entirely sure that I believe it myself, so some doubt may in fact be in order."

"What led you to leave the Tower?" she asked.

He looked away from her, spent a few moments studying the bone dragon. "Irving died," he said. "I found him at his desk, his head on a book. I knew it was coming, he had been unwell for some time, but..." He shrugged. "I discovered that duty is a hollow comfort, at times. Almost all of the Templars under my command were young, and the few with some years of duty on them left to join the Grey Wardens. Most of the older mages are gone now, as well. Best to leave the Tower to the young. The world is changing, and the Tower will need to change with it."

"And you miss him," she said, understanding.

"I do. It had been a long time since you and I went our separate ways. I had forgotten how empty it leaves you after so many years of standing guard."

"You two were good together." And they had been; Irving and Greagoir had been the most important people in each others' lives. No matter how many lovers Irving had taken, no matter how Greagoir had blustered and shouted at him, their working relationship had been based on friendship and mutual respect. It was so strange, to think of the Tower without the two of them.

And there was something else, something about what he'd said. He had never acknowledged before that they had parted ways at all, that there had been anything at all to part from. She studied him, trying to see in him the man she'd known all those years ago, the one she'd never admitted she'd loved. That Greagoir was still in there, she thought. Buried deeply, but still alive.

"There's more," she said. "Isn't there? You'd never have left the Tower without something pushing you."

Greagoir grimaced. "I lost my way in the library. Took a wrong turn and found myself in a corner that I knew should be familiar but I could swear I'd never seen before. Then I started losing things. Then I couldn't remember which ledger had the accounts and which one was the Harrowing records. Little things, adding up to something larger. The last straw was the day that I tried to put on my armor, but couldn't manage the buckles." His voice was not angry, but contemplative, facing the words with characteristic stolidity. "I've seen what happens when Templars try to deny the lyrium sickness, and the pups in the Tower were too young to know the signs. So I decided that it was time. Best exit with dignity rather than endanger any in my care once I forget names and faces and duties."

She inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of it. "Time wears away at us all, Greagoir. I've lost so much of who I was, who Wynne was. Some day, I'll no longer be here. I'll be reduced to nothing but a memory in the mind of a spirit." She brushed her fingertips over her lips; the sensation was distant. "What was my favorite color? I...don't remember. And it bothers me that I don't."

He breathed in, startled. "Green. I think. The hair ribbon you gave me was green."

"That seems right. The color of grass, and trees, and growing things." She remembered, now. That ribbon...she'd given it to him that night they'd spent together, the longest night of the year.

Greagoir looked away from her, returning to studying the dragon bones. "I kept it. The ribbon. As a reminder."

Wynne raised an eyebrow. "Of what, exactly?"

He chuckled, and it did her aching heart good to hear it. It reminded her that there had been days when he'd laughed, before the stone of the Tower had closed around the two of them. Once, she had been the one made of thorns and bristles, and he had been the one who had smiled. "At first, it was a reminder of my weakness. Later...I think it was a reminder that I had been human, once."

There passed a long moment then where the only sound was the wind stirring the treetops, the soft sounds of water nearby, distant banging of someone working on a house. "Will you stay here?" Wynne asked. "We can help each other remember."

He turned to her. "It's an odd thought. I had planned on staying at Vigil's Keep for a time."

"This place will be here, and I am not going anywhere." She smiled, just a little.

This, too, was grace; to stand with someone who she'd once been young and foolish with, everything they had never said to one another hanging in the silence between them. She had loved the Circle. It had taken her in when she had been outcast from everywhere familiar, wrapped her up and made her at home. It had been her family, her friends, living and breathing the theory and practice of magic. The Templars had been part of that, and this Templar in particular.

Her memories of the Circle were her memories of Greagoir. Wynne could never separate the two. And of late, those memories had been slipping away from her, one by one, leaving soft mouse-colored absences behind. Soon enough, she would forget that there had been anything to remember in the first place.

His brow furrowed slightly. "You say you are a spirit. What kind of spirit?"

"In your language, I am Faith. One of many." She gestured with one hand, her fingers opening. "We are small but numerous. Unlike most of my kind, I found myself...entangled with mortals. We are drawn to those who are like us. I have been fortunate in my choice of mortals, I think. And it is fair to say that I am Faith, but also Wynne. Bonded as we are, we are one and the same. The only reason that I am losing the part of myself that is Wynne is that our mortal body has died, and in the Fade nothing is permanent now. Not even memories."

"I...understand." He looked like he was trying, at least. Wynne felt a sharp pang of pity; that Templar fear of demons was so ingrained that the idea of Fade citizens being anything more than clotted malice was difficult for them. Even for Greagoir—Greagoir, who knew better. Had always known better.

There might have been more, but Wynne felt a pressure, a mortal approaching. She nodded to Greagoir and let go of the mortal world. The Fade folded around her, waters rising to claim her.

This weight within her, this melancholy, was a pain both bitter and sweet. Perhaps they would remind each other, for a time, of who they had been. And perhaps when they faded, they would fade together.

Wynne closed her eyes, and began to call flowers into being all around her.

---

Kathil:

After several months of having Murena around, Arcanum-accented Fereldan was a familiar sound in and around Vigil's Keep. However, it was not usually heard coming from a grown woman's mouth, especially not a woman who was asking rather plaintively if anyone could take her to see the keep's commander.

Kathil was in the outer ward for once, Cerys in her sling and Lorn and Cullen flanking her, Fiann ranging out from them and greeting everyone who could be persuaded to pat her head. She was tired of hiding in the keep, and things had been quiet for the last week. It was good to walk in the outer ward, especially now that the place was starting to resemble less a refugee camp than an actual village sheltered by the outer walls. A makeshift market had spring up in the center of the ward, flanked by shelters that were little by little being turned into actual houses. The repairs to the walls were coming along as well; some of the scaffolding had come down.

And there was a woman asking a guard if there was any way she could be taken into the keep proper.

Kathil studied the woman, noted her homespun Ferelden dress that was a little too tight in a couple of places and a little too loose in others, her dark skin and darker curls. She looked a little like Sati, though her nose was shorter and turned up a little. She and Cullen glanced at each other, and then Kathil strode forward, past a guard who started when he saw her. "You're looking for the Warden-Commander?"

"I am, yes." The woman's accent rendered all of her consonants soft, as if she were speaking through falling water.

"You've found her," Kathil said. Lorn sniffed the air and wrinkled his brow, expression caution in the stillness of his body and tail.

Fiann gave a sharp bark. Mage! Their new friend was a mage! Mage-friend-lady! She pranced in place, glancing at Cullen, obviously looking for permission to go greet the stranger. Cullen laid a restraining hand on her head.

The woman's eyebrows went up. She glanced at Cerys, then Cullen, then back to Kathil. "I...see. Well. I am actually looking for a friend, and I was hoping you might know where she is. Her name is Leliana. She spoke of you often and with great affection, and mentioned she was going to see you when she returned to Ferelden."

Everything was making quite a bit more sense, now. "I will tell you where you can find her, if you tell me what an Imperial magister wants with her."

Her mouth fell open. "Magister? Me? Ah, nami, no, you are quite mistaken. Not all mages in the Empire are magisters. My talents were always too small to be worth the apprentice-price." Her smile was quick and warm. "Many of us live quietly and carefully out of the view of the magisters. Until recently, I was a...in your language, the word is courtesan. That word is inadequate, but it does cover the basics."

Kathil's eyebrows went up. "You must be a professional acquaintance of Leliana's, then."

"It started that way." The woman touched her fingertips to her mouth, as if to hide a smile. "It did not end so. My name is Amity. From how you speak, Leliana is in residence. Would you let her know that I am here?"

Kathil looked at Amity, trying to read her as if she were a riddle to be solved. The other woman looked back at her, impassively. She wondered if the twisting sensation in her chest was jealousy. Amity. Why is that name familiar? "Of course. If you'll just—" She stopped. "What's that?"

Beyond Amity, at the gates to the outer ward, a commotion was building, the usual sounds of the outer ward subsiding underneath of a rising murmur. "I passed a caravan on the way here," Amity said. "The banner they carried was a green sunburst on blue."

"Denerim," Cullen said. "Do you think—"

There was no time. Kathil turned on her heel and walked as fast as she could without running towards the gates to the inner ward. "That's Eamon," she said, her voice harsh. "Alistair gave him the Denerim arling. We have to be ready to greet him." In the sling, Cerys squirmed and stretched her legs fitfully. "I know, little one. Amity, come with us. We'll point you in Leliana's direction." Hopefully, if the mage was dangerous, Leliana would be able to keep her out of trouble for the moment. "He's early. Maker's Breath."

"I take it that this Eamon is your enemy?" Amity asked. She was stretching out her legs, keeping up with them as they climbed the stairs to the ward gate.

"Not exactly. It's a long story. Felsi!" Kathil had caught sight of the dwarven woman, talking to Lieutenant Nadine at the foot of the stairs. Felsi had been settling as the castellane's assistant, much to Oghren's suspiciously loud dismay. The position allowed her to keep her son close by, and she could take the skills she learned and use them anywhere in Ferelden should she choose to leave. "Find Kerrither, tell her that we're about to have the first of the guests we talked about. Lieutenant, send a page to find Zevran, he's about to be needed in the great hall. When our guests show up, send them in." She bounded up the steps, much to Cerys's amusement. The dogs sprinted ahead.

She had just enough time to send Amity off to find Leliana and settle Cerys in the cradle kept to one side of the dais for just such occasions before Eamon walked into the great hall with Isolde on his arm, flanked by a pair of veterans whose scarred hands and calm expressions spoke of long years spent in the service of the arl.

Zevran had slipped in through a side door. "I had nearly forgotten," he murmured to her, smoothing her hair down with a hand. "It seems Eamon has not."

She gave him a half-smile as he stepped back. Then she turned her attention to Eamon, fighting the urge to cross her arms defensively. Kathil inclined her head towards them. "Eamon, and Isolde. Welcome to Vigil's Keep."

There was a long, uneasy silence. Eamon was looking older, though he still retained that deceptive sense of ease that had fooled Kathil into thinking that he was just a good man caught up in events beyond his control. "Thank you," he said, finally. "I trust you're aware of why I chose to arrive early?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I can only imagine that you missed my company so much that you chose to travel ahead of Alistair."

He favored her with a sour look. "You've recruited a convicted criminal into your ranks," he said. "He has escaped justice for far too long."

"And you would have me do what with him?" she asked, keeping her tone mild.

"Turn him over to face the justice that he should have faced five years ago."

She had known it was coming, still, if she had been a cat, she'd have arched her back and spat. "No."

"He tried to murder me. He taught my son blood magic." Eamon glanced at Isolde. There were two spots of color burning bright on her cheeks, but her mouth was firmly closed. "You turned him over to Teagan yourself, and now you choose to shelter him? Why?"

"The Wardens hold the Right of Conscription, Eamon. You know this. I was conscripted rather than be sent to the Aeonar. Alistair was conscripted away from the Templars. Nathaniel Howe was conscripted from the cells of this keep. My reasons for conscripting Jowan are my own, and I am not going to change my mind just because you would like to see him strung up." She eyed the man and added, "And I will remind you that Jowan did not teach Connor blood magic."

"Then how did he learn it?" Isolde burst out, apparently no longer able to keep silent. "Where did my boy learn such terrible things from?"

"The same way most mages learn it," Kathil said. "They look a demon in the eye and accept a bargain offered to them. Connor wanted to save one of the most important things in the world to him, and he did not have anyone to see the warning signs. As much as I hate to say it, Isolde, if your son had been in the Tower, with teachers and Templars around him every hour of the day, he likely would never have gone down the path that he did. The Tower is an evil, but it also does some good." She returned her gaze to Eamon. "But let's stop pretending that this is about justice, shall we? This is about power. specifically, whether or not you have the power to make the Warden-commander of Ferelden accede to your requests."

Eamon's expression hardened, his jaw firming under his beard. "Your flouting of the Chantry—"

"Is my business, and the Chantry's." She reached for calm and found very little to be had. "The answer is no, Eamon. You had a hand in pushing me to take this position. As a Warden, I do not answer to you or anyone in Ferelden's nobility. Even the crown. I am not the Arl of Amaranthine."

"And this is what you do with that power?" Eamon said. "Needle the Chantry into moving against you, cause strife among the nobility, shelter men who should be shown the noose? Do you have any idea the magnitude of disaster you're in the middle of causing?"

"Sometimes it takes a disaster to change things," she said, her voice blade-edged. "I am not manageable. And you are not Alistair."

Beneath the scowl, Kathil thought she could see Eamon realizing that perhaps this was a skirmish he wasn't going to win. He'd hated Anora, she knew, not because she was a bad ruler but because she was difficult for him to control. She wondered just how well he was getting along with Rima; she hoped the Princess Consort was giving the old wolf a difficult time. Eamon, it seemed, was destined to be thwarted by strong-willed women.

Anora. Oh little sodding hells.

The former Queen and her family were doing a good job of staying out of sight, but if Eamon found out about her, he would use them against her. I'll have to see if I can get her out of here, and soon.

"If that is all," she said, "and if you are done asking me to condemn one of my most useful Wardens to an untimely death, I can have our castellane show you to your rooms." Kerrither had appeared at one of the side doors, her sharp-boned face vivid against the shadows. Dracene was at her side, evidently taking a break from her pups. "I'm sure you have things you wish to discuss with Arl Varel."

Eamon looked like he wished to argue, but held his tongue. There was still a fortnight before the celebration; they would be hosting him and his people until then. She watched them file out of the room and into the winding hallways, and breathed out.

She would warn Anora, and deal with the fallout when it came.

That night, the Wardens gathered in the common room in their wing, as was their habit. Sigrun brought a pair of bottles to share; Nathaniel little wheels of wine-rimed goat cheese. Kathil had opened the windows to the mild evening air, and they talked and passed Cerys around. Keili sat next to Jowan; her hand would occasionally brush his arm carelessly. The might be sleeping together. Kathil had not asked, as it was none of her business.

The door opened, and Leliana was on the other side, as well as that mage—Amity, Kathil remembered now. She motioned to Leliana to come in. The bard would often join them in the evening for conversation and music. Leliana occasionally teased Nathaniel that she was going to teach him how to be a bard. (Please don't, Kathil had told Leliana privately. Nathaniel has many talents. Singing is not among them.)

Leliana strode in and lighted on a low stool. Amity sat on the floor next to her, sinking to the stone with grace so practiced that it was nearly unconscious. Leliana's cheeks were flushed, a little blotchy; her gaze sought Amity as if the mage were a candle and the bard a fluttering white moth. "You have met Amity, yes? I met her in Tevinter, when I was there."

Kathil nodded and glanced over at Amity. She was still wearing that ill-fitting homespun dress. "I did," she told Leliana. "Tell me, what brings you to Ferelden, other than Leliana?"

"Things are unsettled in the Empire," Amity said. Even her voice was beautiful in a studied and formal way, though her accent grated slightly on the ear. Dark eyes caught the firelight, and gave little light back. "A magister died recently. Not an uncommon occurrence, but what we did not know was that Magister Numicius was the pebble in the dam. His death has unleashed the floodwaters, and there is no reining them in." Her mouth pursed thoughtfully, and the gesture was so familiar that Kathil's breath stuttered briefly. "My doyenne sent us all out of the Empire, for our own safety. I close to go south, knowing that Leliana had returned to Ferelden, but I was quite surprised at how easy she was to find. I thought to be searching for months, but here she was in nearly the first place I looked."

Someone had passed Cerys to Zevran, and he sat the infant on his knee and looked at Amity. "A mage, yet not a magister, and living in Tevinter. You have powerful friends, no?"

"Not powerful enough to shield me and those like me from the bloody games of the magisters, I am afraid." A small smile played on her lips, briefly appearing and then gone once more. "Numicius left behind a vacuum of power, and the last I counted there were twelve factions vying for that place, nine of which were taking credit for his murder. Two of the three remaining are less concerned with who killed him than the fact that a certain qunari artifact that Numicius had nearly secured has now vanished. The last believes that outside forces murdered Numicius, that it was a politically motivated attack. An Orlesian bard graced the hallways of the Mata Numis, after all. He was well-placed to coordinate an attack."

"It was Remy," Leliana said. "He is innocent, of course, but he left Tevinter afterwards, and has landed briefly in Ferelden." She smiled, slowly. "Amity is willing to ply her trade here, if you'd have her."

Kathil raised an eyebrow. "Her trade? I thought—"

"Think of it as something akin to my own profession," Leliana said. "Closer to Celia's than mine. A courtesan, in Tevinter, does not hire out her affections. They are court observers and arrangers of happenings large and small, from assignations to murder."

"My father was a Warden," Amity added. "I have always been fascinated by them. It would be a pleasure to observe how an installation of the Grey functions on a day to day basis."

Kathil looked at Amity sharply. "Your father was a Warden? What was his name?"

"His name was Duncan," she said.

A hush fell on the room, all eyes turning towards the Tevinter woman sitting so casually on the stone floor. "Duncan," Nathaniel said. "Surely you don't mean—the Duncan?" He was playing cat's-cradle with Murena, and his hands were full of string. He held his hands still, keeping the design intact.

"I never knew his family name, but according to my mother he was Warden-Commander in Ferelden for some time." She turned her eyes on Nathaniel, calmly, and folded her hands.

Kathil remembered a Warden's Oath that was still resident in her wardrobe, handed to her by Leliana. Amity. That was the name. Duncan's daughter, here in Vigil's Keep.

"You are more than welcome to stay as long as you like," Kathil said into the silence. "You can tell us more about modern Tevinter. We hear very little of the news from Minrathous."

Then Sigrun laughed and cracked a dry little joke, and Jowan passed the wine bottle next to him around the room, and the dogs came padding in from wherever they had been and settled down by the fire. Kathil settled Cerys between Lorn and Fiann, and went to sit between Cullen and Zevran. They draped an arm each around her shoulders.

For this little space, this small time, surrounded by her family and her people—she could forget what lurked outside the room, waiting for her to stumble.

---

Leliana:

Amity's skin was flushed all the way down to her belly as the two of them lay against one another. Leliana traced her fingers down Amity's side, feeling soft, exertion-damp skin. "You are a very wicked woman," she told Amity, and smiled.

Leliana had sent Murena to spend the evening with the family of the head cook, so she and Amity had been spending their private time in an altogether pleasant fashion. Amity propped herself up on one elbow, only half her face visible in the light from the lantern. "I know," she said, and her voice was pleased beyond measure. "You do not seem to mind."

"Not in the slightest." She stretched, feeling the slight ache of muscles well-used. "Though I meant the half-truths that you told Kathil, yes?"

"She does not need to know about the Daughters," Amity said. "We are seeds scattered to the wind in the hope that some of us will take root. It was the only thing left to do after the killings. Too many of us have died." Her voice had gone soft and her eyes distant. "We carry too much knowledge that cannot be risked to books and yet must not be lost entirely."

The Daughters of Silence had once served the Old God Dumat. Leliana raised an eyebrow. "And you constantly gather more information. Including information about the Grey Wardens...the only non-darkspawn who can hear the song of the Old Gods."

Amity froze, looking down at Leliana. "You know."

She laughed and reached up to pull Amity down next to her. The other woman's form molded against her own. "I surmised. And I knew you had to have come looking for me for more reasons than mere affection."

"Ah." She was silent for a moment, curling against Leliana. Her breath was warm against Leliana's neck. "The affection was the greatest part of it. That you are so intimate with the Fereldan Wardens was good enough reason for my doyenne to let me go south rather than west as she originally wanted. I know you have no reason to believe me, but..."

Leliana rolled to her side, pulling Amity tightly against her. "I missed you," she said. "We are both women who deal in falsehood, but that is the truth. I will trust, Amity, until my trust is betrayed."

And that was the core of it, was it not? That even a bard had to occasionally place trust where there was no logical reason for trust to be warranted. She had done so once, with Marjolaine, and her trust had been rewarded by betrayal.

Still. Even if this ends as it did with Marjolaine, I am willing to see where this road will take me.

She held her lover in the dim of the room, and closed her eyes. It would be as it was, and she would sing this song until its ending.

---

Author's Note:

Ah, real life, always getting between me and writing.

I should be able to complete this story over the next few weeks, but we'll see. I am so very ready to be done with it, and I'm excited about the conclusion. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, and for sticking with e through this long and weird ride!

Comments

[stormyseasons]

... Kirkwall... Varric and Bertram's deep roads expedition! Almost sending Nathaniel to investigate! Creepy things that have no business existing being brought out of the thaig! This plot just gets more and more delicious with each chapter... The Daughters of Silence, investingating the Grey... who can hear the song of the Old Gods... without being homicidal darkspawn...Anora and her formidable mother...

[stormyseasons]

And because I forgot, earlier... The bittersweetness of Wynne/Faith and Greagoir...Their mutual forgetting - and not even memories stay in the Fade...

And, ow, Leliana...

Yeah. Eamon. Trying to be kingmaker's not all it's cracked to be, eh?

[aithne]

Thank you!

And, yeah. Attempting to run the show from behind the scenes is all well and good until you have to deal with someone who you really don't have a handle on other than an appeal to her better nature...which, you know, she really doesn't have. :)

[stormyseasons]

Your fic and amhran's AoA is one of the reasons I started reading DA fic at all. It gives me pleasure to express my fondness for it in comments when I can.

[analect]

Oh, this is lovely! I have to go and catch up properly now. Right now. Especially love the ethereal fluidity with which you handled the Wynne/Fade sequence. Gorgeous.

[solitae]

The Greagoir/Wynne scene brought tears to my eyes. So sweet and sad.

I'm really intrigued to see where you're taking things with Amity and the Daughters of Silence. I've been curious about when she would show back up.