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[maradeux]

Interesting and scary stories Shayle could tell here... both transformations - this into a golem and this back to a dwarf - were terrible. It's understandable that Wynne had heft. She has (as well as Alistair) problems with decisions of ambivalent nature, when it's not quite clear what's "good" or "bad" and if the prize it takes is bearable. She had surely expected Shayle would give up the transformation as soon as she was informed that blood magic and slaves would be involved. (Besides this she must be in time in Amaranthine to meet Asleena. ) And did I understand right that a dwarf had to die, so Shayle could take over her body? :-/

Confrontation with Xai in the next chapter? Can hardly wait.

[DreGregoire]

I continue to look forward to each new addition. I enjoyed your shorts too. hehehe Shayle.

[jenovan]

Well... I chain-smoked The Hunt and what there is so far of The Kill in a day, and I could never do so much excellent text proper justice with a short review. A few words that do come to mind are "bloody fantastic", "brilliantly written" and "please, ser, may we have more?". I'll be following along and hoping for Zev to get his happy-ish ever after too.



(And hooray for Shayle! She disappears from the Warden's story entirely after Origins, so it's great to see what she might have been up to XD)

[Phoenix Swordsinger]

definitely looking forward to next chapter.. How will Xai explain his deplorable actions?

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

@maradeux - Yes, I did a short piece on Shayle becoming a golem (I think you saw it) and you're right, the stories she could tell if she could fully remember As for if a dwarf had to die for her to get a new body...it's possible. That will most likely be revealed in time. And yes, Wynne had to leave in time for Amaranthine, well-spotted XD

@DreGregoire and Phoenix Swordsinger - Thanks!

@jenovan - Yay! Gees, I always squee so hard when someone says they read through the entire thing in one sitting. Thank you!

Which reminds me, if any of you guys haven't seen this, it's jenovan's take on Zevran and Ferrix's much-mentioned epic infiltration of Fort Drakon. Do read its awesomeness if you have the time.


Part 13 - Predator and Prey

With the exception of a brief trip into the city, Zevran chose to rest for the remainder of the day and wait for nightfall to infiltrate the embassy. With Shayle’s help and dressed plainly he had already cased both that location and the Grey Warden compound from the outside, and spying Shianni at the door of the embassy had decided Zevran’s mind on where he would find Xai Merras. The red-haired elven lass had been sitting in a chair by the door when Shayle and Zevran passed by the grounds, looking as anxious as a wife waiting for her husband’s return from war.

Zevran had also noticed that the Ferelden love of dogs had carried over into the Imperium; guards patrolling the courtyard of the embassy did their rounds in the company of mabari, which were a more troublesome obstacle than the soldiers themselves. The magically-bred animals would spot, scent or hear him much more quickly than a human or elven guard, they could raise the alarm with a single howl, outrun him and overwhelm him. The former Crow somewhat doubted he’d be able to bribe the dogs to look the other way with a few tasty morsels of dried meat or mabari crunch, though the guards might be fooled by such a thing. If elves were considered good for anything, it was making menial deliveries. For that reason there was a small box of melted cheese-topped double baked treats by the door, prepared by a Ferelden-born slave who had once worked for Fort Drakon’s Kennel Master no less.

Could he have just walked in, called on Shianni to verify who he was and avoided all this? Naturally he could, but where was the fun in that? Besides, as soon as any of the Fereldens at the embassy knew he was there, Xai would find out. What Zevran wanted was to get the drop on the master assassin, and he especially wanted to savour doing so. Just thinking about it made his lips curve in predatory anticipation and that thrill-of-the-hunt sensation coil in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t felt quite like this since his Crow days, when planning the move on some challenging mark.

His weapons and equipment were currently laid out across the lavishly embroidered bedspread in the room Shayle had dubbed his, and he went over them with a critical eye. Somehow the broken dar’misaan he’d liberated from the elven thrall he’d slain had ended up in his possession; an ornate hilt with about a foot of curved blade that ended in a twisted wreck, and the rest of the blade here…

He picked the two pieces up in either hand, pondering if the weapon could be repaired. The balance and elegant design of the sword made it looked worth saving, and there was a scrawl of flowing elven runes all the way along the outside edge, the kind of thing the Dalish clans would no doubt love to examine as part of their stolen history.

Zevran hummed to himself, closed his eyes and replayed how it had been broken in his mind: the twin Imperial Edges coming up to snag the blade between a double row of serrated teeth then jerking hard against it, twisting and snapping the metal…

Xai owned a pair of Imperial Edges. Zevran had never seen the man employ this particular move, but the Tevinter assassin had always given the impression of keeping many of his secrets closely guarded. Perhaps in the expectation he might need such advantages at some point in the future. An ace up the sleeve, as one might say.

The Antivan smiled to himself again, and laid the broken sword aside.

What else?

His own sword and off-hand dagger enchanted with paralysis and silverite (and he made a mental note to find someone able to replace the latter runes with dweomers, considering he’d be up against more mages than darkspawn for a time), a diminished collection of throwing knives, ground pepper scrounged from the villa’s kitchen and turned into small bombs that might deter any mabari, his repaired leather armour…

Zevran’s eyes fell last upon the dar’misu he’d stolen from the jailkeeper before killing her with it. Dragonbone, he noted while running appraising fingertips down the blade, and as elegant a design as the sword, though not as embellished. Only a few small runes marked it, and Zevran cocked his head when he found he recognised one of them…though last time he’d seen it etched in stone, upon the statue of a wolf. He angled the weapon against the fading light coming in through a window and tried to recall the fractured pieces of Dalish lore he had never held much interest in.

Fen’harel. The Dread Wolf. The Trickster.

Galahan had spoken of this Dalish god in an undertone once, back in Highever, while he and Zevran had watched Xai train with the Warden Commander and been mid-speculation on the man’s loyalties as a Crow Master and as a Grey Warden:

“Do you know of Fen’harel, Zevran? The Trickster is one of the gods of the People.

“Elgar’nan, Mythal and the other gods of heaven saw him as a brother, kin by blood. But Fen’harel’s ways were wily and cunning, and because of this the Forgotten Ones, the abyssal gods of terror and malice, they considered him kin as well due to his nature.

“The gods of both heaven and the abyss saw him as one of their own and trusted him, and so were both sides betrayed by him because the Dread Wolf’s loyalties were, as they all discovered too late, to none but himself.”

Crepi il lupo, Zevran thought to himself, his smile turning grim. He sheathed the Dalish dagger and added it to his belt, then picked up the box by the door and headed outside.

May the wolf choke on me.

**

Sound.

The soft tread of leather-soled boots against stone tiles, then the scrape of a metal key in a lock. Brass hinges gave a quiet creak as the door opened.

Light.

A rectangle of candlelight spilled into the night-darkened room, silhouetting the Warden on the threshold and painting his shadow across the thick Ferelden rug lying on the floor.

Smell…

The human carried a tray of food to the table that stood atop the rug, a metal spoon and knife rattling against each other at the movement, and the delicious aroma of fresh bread, butter, and a steaming soup that scented of pumpkin and herbs filled the room like a cloud. Typical of a former Crow to fetch his own repast rather than risk being served poison…

Darkness.

Even though flint and steel rested on the table beside a fresh taper, Xai closed and locked the door without lighting it first. Pale moonlight streaming through a far window near bed and vanity was enough to see by and sink the room into shades of black and grey, but night-vision had to reassert itself after the brightness of the corridor.

Patience.

There is more to the first strike than merely waiting for the mark’s back to be turned and his guard lowered. You can wait until he merely isn’t expecting to be attacked, or persevere until a moment of weakness, of vulnerability, tips the scales irrevocably in your favour.

Even assassins need to disrobe, eat, sleep, wash, crap…even assassins get tired and slip up, mistaken in the belief that they are ever completely safe...

In the shadows near the bed, there was the clicking of buckles and the rasp of leather. A few indistinct thuds and a glint of moonlight on metal heralded the swords dropping to blankets, followed by gloves, bracers, breastplate and tunic.

As the food on the table cooled further, the human crossed to the vanity and the bowl of water resting below the mirror. He washed his hands, splashed his face, dried his skin with a towel then braced his hands against the wood for a moment while avoiding his own gaze in the looking glass. When he set the dampened cloth aside his body shifting a little to more fully face the glass. Moonlight streaked lines across his chest and glinted against spidery lines of shiny blue ink…

In the darkness, amber eyes narrowed.

Words.

“Mar toh mhero tara.”

Spoken with a note of authority, like a command. The Warden’s fingers tensed around the rim of the vanity as though for support.

“Mati go mhero.”

Xai’s face lifted from the water bowl to the silvered surface of the mirror, but his eyes were shut.

“Harth.”

Lids and black lashes lifted. Assassin and reflection stared at one another.

The last word was repeated, more softly and drawn out…

“Harth…”

But this time he didn’t move, save for a thinning of his lips that almost went unnoticed in the night.

“His ma vansk.”

Steel flashed. Glass split. Xai stepped back from the mirror, his dagger protruding from the glass and surrounded by a jagged web of cracks that threw back the moonlight in stark white lines. A few errant shards tinkled against the wooden top of the vanity, or plinked into the basin. He gazed at the fractured image a short while longer, teeth bared, before turning away and muttering something too softly to be understood.

He crossed towards the table…

…leaving his swords on the bed.

Silence.

Zevran materialised behind the Grey Warden like a wraith, every footfall perfectly timed with the human’s to mask unwanted sound, sword and dagger angled so as to not catch the light, eyes watching the exposed back of his prey for any tell-tale shift of muscle beneath flesh.

They were only a step away from the table when Zevran saw the minute warnings, the subtle shadow-play of pale light over skin, and ducked as the human spun, hand sending a streak of steel whizzing through the space the elf’s head had formerly occupied.

Smile…

Zevran laughed softly, half crouched, sword arm extended and ready in the face of Xai’s drawn boot daggers.

“For a moment there I thought this would be too easy,” the elf practically purred, enjoying the other man’s expression of surprise at seeing his opponent’s identity. “I am pleased to be wrong, however. I was hoping for a little fight to get the blood pumping.”

“Zevran,” Xai said in a tone of…what? Disbelief? Horror? The Warden’s eyes flicked to the dagger in the mirror then back to Zevran in a flash, but his defensive stance did not waver.

“Hm, yes, what was that about?” Zevran chuckled, straightening slowly. “Do you know how tired I have become hearing things I do not know the meaning of, Xai Merras? So what did they mean, those words…what were they? His ma vansk.”

The Crow Warden lunged at him, one dagger parrying the sword as the other surged up towards Zevran’s throat, and the obvious intent to make the kill was exactly what Zevran had hoped to see…for it meant he could relate the former master’s tragic death to Asleena Cousland with a completely clean conscience.

Being proven right was just a bonus.

Elf and human struggled in the dark room, the lashing of blades and boots in blackness familiar to any Crow worth his tattoos, and not once did Xai try to call for guards; maybe he wanted the personal pleasure of Zevran’s death as much as Zevran wanted his. Even with the disadvantages of shorter weapons and no armour above the waist, the former master should have been far cry from an easy conquest. Zevran had observed his fighting style enough to know Xai’s defensive techniques were vastly superior to his own, but this night the human seemed to have lost all sense of self-preservation. He threw himself at the blond assassin with single-minded purpose, dark eyes barely registering pain as Zevran’s sword tore crimson stripes across his body, or even satisfaction when one of his daggers slashed the elf across the face.

At that point Zevran threw a pepper bomb at the Warden’s feet, sucking in a gulp of fresh air and leaping backwards before it hit the floor and exploded. A black cloud sprayed up into the human’s face and eyes, and in the midst of the choking and blindly-swinging blades, Zevran circled around behind his mark with a cold, detached step and brought the edge of his sword across the back of Xai’s knees, tearing through leather and tendon.

That got a sound of pain out of the man, and brought him down as his legs buckled beneath him. Hands braced instinctively against the floor before he could pitch headfirst into it, the human still coughing uncontrollably.

“You do remember how to fight, yes?” Zevran smirked, sliding the flat of his blade beneath Xai’s chin so close that his short beard scraped against the metal. He flipped his offhand dagger blade-down, ready for a killing stab, then waited until it seemed the other man was regaining his breath and wit enough to know who had won.

“Allow me to say this, Master Xai,” Zevran said quietly. He drew the edge of his sword feather-light against the skin of the man’s throat, forcing his head up. “I know you craftmaster types prefer to make the kill through elaborate indirect means, but there is something to be said for looking your victims in the eye when you send them to their funeral pyre, no?”

“I was not trying to get you killed,” Xai rasped, his face turning slightly towards Zevran. Even in the moonlight his eyes were reddened from the pepper, and his face was wet with tears.

“Come now, you expect me to believe that after—?”

“Those words were a kill command, Zevran!” The human coughed harshly and glared. “You ordered me to kill you!”

Zevran had no trouble laughing. “These lies you come up with are truly inspired, my friend. Kill commands? I suppose you have something equally entertaining to explain away selling me to a blood mage.”

To his credit, Xai did not flinch as the sword grazed his neck, but his glare faded to uncertainty. “I was expecting to get you out of there myself.”

“Truly?” Zevran wiped blood off his face with the back of one glove. “Such concern for my well-being would be more believable in other circumstances. Surely you are aware of this.”

“I told you to scream when the magister cast his magic. I warned you to pretend weakness.”

“You said nothing of such dire consequences, however.”

“As if you would have listened!” Xai hissed as this response earned another slide of sharp steel across his throat. “So you will kill me for your own arrogance? You always were a proud one, Zevran, but I never pegged you as being stupid.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you how unwise it is to taunt a man holding a blade to your neck? A man who, need I say, you were trying to kill only moments ago?”

Xai’s jaw clenched angrily. Sweat glistened on his skin. He didn’t make some useless ‘You wouldn’t dare kill a Grey Warden,’ challenge, because, Zevran suspected, he believed what Zevran himself did: if Asleena was told her Warden recruit had been killed over a matter of betrayal, she would take Zevran at his word. The Warden Commander was trusting like that, almost to a fault; it was disloyal to disbelieve the word of a friend.

“Magister Ezio,” Xai said eventually, “stated his desire to buy you when you fell without making a sound. I had already explained our purpose in the Imperium to him, Zevran, and had I refused the demands of a ranking Enchanter he could have made our task impossible. Do you think the Imperial Circle will bend over for the Grey Wardens or the queen of a backwater barbarian kingdom on the arse-end of Thedas?”

“So you sold me for seven crowns?”

“More than that. I also secured his word to assist with buying back the Ferelden slaves. If you doubt me, speak to Shianni; paperwork was delivered earlier today detailing those who the Circle kept or sold on the auction block.”

“Are your haggling skills supposed to make me feel better?”

Xai’s hands rested flat on the floor, fingers splayed. He stared down at them. “I intended to break you out before you could be processed, and you being here now means I obviously failed. The entrance I made use of last time I was here was inaccessible—”

“The last time you were here?” Zevran interrupted. “As an assassin?” He moved and pushed, forcing Xai to either drop and roll onto his back or cut his own throat. He lay quiescent as the tip of Zevran’s sword dipped down to hover above the tattoo inked over his heart. “Or as a thrall?”

“As an assassin,” Xai said flatly. “As a Crow.”

“Then what is this mark of yours, hm?” Sharp cold metal traced a delicate path along the gleaming blue lines. “I saw this ink in the tower, Xai Merras. The outlines of the overall shapes were different, but these thin wavy lines rather than a solid fill?” He tsked. “Why not tell me the truth while you have the chance?”

“It is not your concern.”

With a casual flick of his wrist, Zevran’s sword point was pressed to Xai’s throat.

“No?” the elf said quietly, dropping his smile. “I think it is my concern if a man with blood slave brands sells his comrade off to a Tevinter magister, then babbles something about kill commands. I think I can take that personally, my good friend Xai, and worry that it might happen again. I would just as soon not take that risk, and if that means you have to die, so be it.”

The human’s fists clenched where he lay. “It’s lyrium ink,” he said after a few short seconds of quiet. “The minor designs follow some technique stolen from the elves when Arlathan fell. The magisters use it to mark their thralls and heighten the effects of spells; the Crows used it on me with the aid of a maleficar and the intent of getting an expendable assassin close to a blood mage mark. This tattoo is nothing more than the legacy of a disguise which has served its purpose.”

Zevran cocked his head, the blade in his hand unwavering. “You would not have been so reluctant to admit it if that were the whole truth. There is more.”

“In the details only. I masqueraded as a blood slave, I killed the Tevinter Circle’s First Enchanter, I got out.”

“Are your secrets worth your life, Xai Merras?”

“Some of them. Yes.”

“Like those so-called command words?” Zevran smiled. “What kind of assassin needs those to make a kill?”

“A blood mage-killing assassin,” Xai said, helpless anger sparking behind his eyes. “It was part of the disguise: one healthy pre-conditioned thrall, no need for months of disciplinary training, a gift to the First Enchanter. Most of the commands do what they were advertised to do, or I never would have gotten near him. Others, like that one…my master misrepresented.”

“In what way?” Zevran heard himself ask.

“It was supposed to be a command to kill a target, not an order to kill the one who spoke the command.”

The elf shook his head slowly. “But this makes no sense, my friend. Why would blood mages need words when their magic alone can command obedience?”

“They don’t,” Xai admitted quietly. “But slaves who obey without the magisters needing to exert their will and sacrifice energy are useful, like a trained mabari or an broken warhorse is useful. Like a Crow is useful.”

This…was as close as Zevran had ever heard the master assassin expressing anything like bitterness or resentment to the guild he had once been, to all appearances, absolutely loyal to. He hovered over the prone human, uncertain, seeing in his mind’s eye how the thralls in the tower had bowed down to their masters like good dogs, trained animals who knew there could be punishment for disobedience, and what chastisement a blood mage could provide...

Did you sell me for the reasons you claimed, I wonder? Or because you remembered what it felt like, and were afraid to defy a magister?

Zevran backed away slowly until he reached the table, hardly knowing how to proceed from here, and remained standing in the dim moonlight as Xai propped himself up with his arms and wiped pepper and tears from his face.

“I’m impressed, by the way,” the human said.

“How so? Because I bested a Master Crow?”

A slight shake of the head. “You got out of the Circle Tower in a day, maybe less. It took me much longer.”

“Fate intervened, being the coy minx that she is.”

“Ah. You seem to be the golden child of Luck, Zevran Arainai,” Xai noted, with a bitter undertone. “Even when things appear to be going rapidly downhill for you, you always manage to end up on top. How fortunate you must feel to be you.”

“I lead a charmed life, or so it’s said.”

“And now?” The Warden made a small gesture with one hand. “What happens?”

“What do the other commands I heard you say accomplish?” Zevran asked, and the human glanced aside.

“Nothing dangerous. But I would take it as a…kindness…if you never used them. The results are somewhat humiliating. Submission commands,” he elaborated when Zevran let the silence draw out in a pointed fashion. “Kneel, grovel, kiss feet…so on.”

Zevran decided not to tell him he’d already forgotten what most of the words were in the excitement that had followed, well aware of the power this information gave him. Instead he chuckled. “I think this little scene is humiliation enough, yes?”

Xai kept his eyes carefully averted, and his voice neutral. “As you say, then.”

“Does anyone else know them?”

“It’s…possible some of the magisters employ the same code for their thralls. Makes it easier to command a group, you see. Beyond that, I think only the maleficar who conditioned me knew, and my Crow Master. Both have since died.” The dark gaze flicked back to Zevran’s. “Master Anton. Did you hear about him?”

“Anton Cuero? He killed himself, as I recall. It was suicide.”

“Yes.” Xai’s lips twisted into the ghost of a smirk.

Zevran sighed and leaned against the table’s edge. His anticipation of the kill, along with his own personal dislike of this man, had dissolved into an unwelcome confusion.

“If you have decided against killing me,” Xai said, as though sensing this, “might I suggest that we continue as before? With you in charge, of course. I am not your enemy, Zevran. Not your friend, no…but not your enemy.”

Well…a lot of these claims could be verified somewhat once the blood slaves were liberated, especially the Ferelden thralls.

“Tell me what it means when the tattoos and eyes glow white,” Zevran said suddenly, and saw the other man’s brow furrow.

“If a lyrium brand is glowing it means its bearer is under the influence of blood magic, but as to the eyes? I don’t know.” He paused, then continued cautiously: “Perhaps if you…explained what transpired I could hazard an educated guess.”

“Perhaps,” Zevran agreed in a quiet tone. He turned his head to an empty-looking corner of the room and said, “Sindel? You can come out now, my dear.”

There was no noise at all, and then a dark shadow became visible beneath the table. The hare cleared the wooden barrier above, shook herself once and then grew into a slender female form with black hair, elven armour and a sheathed sword.

“Extraordinary claims,” she murmured as Xai made a visible effort to keep his composure, and Zevran took the opportunity to turn his back on the master assassin and light the candle.

The Antivan elf smiled in the newborn glow of the flame, gold glints echoing the colour of his eyes.

“How many of them are true, I wonder?”

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 02 novembre 2010 - 12:52 .

[Corker]

“I think it is my concern if a man with blood slave brands sells his comrade off to a Tevinter magister, then babbles something about kill commands. I think I can take that personally, my good friend Xai...'

ROFL. Golden.

I am always surprised how many authors will toss stuff out for their readers to put together, but don't allow their characters to assemble the same puzzle. It always leads to Idiot Plots. So glad to see the opposite.

“You do remember how to fight, yes?”

D'awww... was Xai fighting recklessly on purpose?  If the original purpose of the command was to kill the blood mage, it seems like you'd want him to be able to use all his discipline to get the mark.  Seems to imply that since he couldn't not try to kill Zevran, he tried to kill him in a way that gave Zev the maximum opportunity to stop him from doing so.

Which, given how that almost turned out for Xai, hints at either something of a functioning conscience or one hell of an opinion of his own oratory abilities and his ability to read Zevran.  (Not that it would be an unfounded opinion, mind you...)

Modifié par Corker, 02 novembre 2010 - 02:05 .

[DreGregoire]

Phew, I read this on my cell phone first and was elated to read the long awaited confrontation. It wasn't what I was expecting but it exceeded my expectations. I love how Zevran started all hell bent on revenge and ended up all confused, but still managed to pull out a trump card.

[Phoenix Swordsinger]

Shadow, miss ya Want to wish everyone a happy holiday

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Happy holidays! I will update before Christmas (or that is the plan! Got some time off work and mean to use it ).

@DreGregoire: Thanks Yep, Zev pretty much doesn't know what to think now, heh.

@Corker: Haha, the stories where you want to shake the book and yell, "Are you STUPID? I figured this out five chapters ago!" re: Xai, he definitely wasn't fighting at his full potential, no.

Edit: Seen the new DA2 companion Fenris? He has lyrium brands and was the slave of a Tevinter magister! o_O

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 17 décembre 2010 - 02:59 .

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

So much for that idea >.< Anyway, here we go. I've stewed on this bloody chapter long enough.


Part 14 - Catching Up

Sindel was easily able to heal Zevran’s wounds, but Xai’s required a bit more attention, especially where Zevran had hamstrung him. So while the Dalish elf had the human lying face-down on his bed as she worked her magic, the Antivan poked his head outside and instructed the first servant who passed to fetch Shianni. If he was going to explain what happened in the tower, he’d tell them both at the same time.

When he sat at Xai’s table, booted feet resting near the man’s twin swords and by now stone-cold meal, the human said, “I don’t suppose either of you would care to explain how Sindel came to be in the Imperium.”

Zevran merely raised his brows, while Sindel replied, “I flew.” She glanced at Zevran while healing blue light continued to stream from her extended fingers, and at his shrug and smile elaborated: “He sent a letter to Highever before leaving Denerim, asking that I meet him at the Grey Warden compound in Minrathous after a certain number of weeks. The teyrnir was not too troubled when the time to leave came, so I decided to risk the voyage.”

“I wished to see if she could provide any aid with Shianni,” Zevran said when Xai glanced at him.

“Ah.” The human looked thoughtful. “The similarities of your…individual misfortunes, I presume.”

“That was the general idea. But when the current situation reared its ugly head I thought to myself, ‘Zevran, why not ask her to provide some assistance with Xai while she is here?’”

Xai smirked slightly. “The great Zevran Arainai asked for backup during an assassination attempt?”

Zevran grinned in return and stretched his legs further. “Backup? No, no, my friend, I asked for an audience. Alas, Sindel was the only one interested, but as this is my debut in Tevinter I am confident word will spread of my prowess, yes? I expect glowing reviews from the town criers all across the city.”

“Expecting calls for an encore already, are we?”

“Let us say I am now prepared for such, hm?” Zevran shot a meaningful glance at the broken mirror and Xai’s expression practically froze at the implication. Zevran hummed to himself, thinking he might have to reconsider throwing that threat around so casually. For one thing, he wouldn’t be able to follow through with it if neither he nor Sindel could remember the words, and for another, those who’d held similar power over the former assassin in the past were now, according to him, quite dead.

“What is the situation in Highever?” Xai asked after a silent moment, looking back over his shoulder at Sindel.

Zevran had already asked her this when he’d found her in Minrathous, but listened in to her reply anyway. “The darkspawn presence is increasing all along the Coastland,” she said. “It’s getting pretty bad, and Fergus is having to make some tough choices on which parts of his lands to protect. Highever still doesn’t have enough soldiers since the Howe occupation during the Blight, but Alistair, Galahan and I have been helping as much as possible. I’ll be heading back as soon as I’m done here,” she added with another glance at Zevran. “Before dawn, I hope.”

Xai’s brow furrowed. “Amaranthine?”

Sindel sighed. “From what I understand, Asleena arrived at Vigil’s Keep in the middle of a darkspawn attack. None of the Orlesian Wardens who were stationed there survived the assault, but she managed to rescue some survivors and liberate the keep when she got there. I don’t know much more than that, I’m afraid. I flew there before I came here to see if she wanted to pass on any news, but she wasn’t around. Out on Grey Warden business, looking into rumours of a...of a broodmother nest,” she finished, a shade reluctantly, and even Zevran felt a twinge of unease.

“She’s the only Warden there?” Xai said.

“Not anymore. She’s been recruiting. Which reminds me of something I forgot to tell you,” she added in Zevran’s direction. “You’re a friend of Felsi’s husband, aren’t you? You were companions during the Blight.”

“Are you speaking of Oghren, my lovely woman?” Zevran stopped as it clicked. One of his feet slipped off the table with a thump. “Oghren is a Grey Warden? Oghren? Are you quite serious?”

Sindel laughed at his reaction. “You should have seen Alistair’s face at the news. You know, in some ways I think you two are quite similar.” Smiling as Zevran scoffed, she stepped back from Xai’s bedside and flexed the fingers of either hand against each other. “All right. See how that feels.”

Zevran pretended not to pay too much attention as the other assassin got up and tested his legs, but toyed with a dagger he could throw at a moment’s notice. He still wasn’t sure how much he was prepared to trust the human with regards to his personal safety, but he had come to one reluctant conclusion: without Xai’s aid they had little chance of rescuing the Denerim elves. Shianni’s altercation with the magister and inexperience with Tevinter politics counted against her, and Zevran’s rampage through the Circle would not make his presence at any negotiation particularly helpful. Additionally, as Xai had pointed out when they’d first arrived, Shianni and Zevran were both elves.

“What if someone recognises you?” Zevran asked suddenly. “You told that magister Ezio your name, yes?”

“Yes,” Xai said, “but when I came here as an assassin I used a different one. My hair was longer, I was younger, and I had little contact with any mages here but the First Enchanter. Superficial recognition may not be an issue.” He sat on the bed and drew one knee up to his chin, then the other, stretching muscles carefully. “If they see the brand they will recognise the ink, naturally. And if I am subjected to their magic they are liable to sense the heightened connection.”

“All magic? Not just blood magic?” Zevran shot a glance at Sindel, who shrugged.

“I always assumed he possessed some item that enhanced the effects of certain spells,” she confessed. “Asleena’s amulet amplifies healing energies, and I have a shield back in Highever that does similar.”

“A Tevinter blood mage is likely to recognise when he’s dealing with a lyrium brand,” Xai said. “I honestly don’t know what they would do with me considering I’m a Grey Warden now, but blood mages have plenty of options, subtle and otherwise. Maybe I would just disappear in the night one eve, following dark dreams.” He gave a twisted smile. “Grey Wardens go missing all the time, don’t they? A hazard of the job, you could say.”

“So in short,” Zevran said dryly, “if you are discovered, things may get complicated.”

“You’re not off the hook either, Arainai. Did Ezio just allow you to escape? Did you kill him? You don’t have to be a thrall for a magister to come after you, and we both know he’s tasted your blood. He’s got your scent, and for all we know a vial of blood to boot.”

A chill prickled down Zevran’s spine, but he hid his discomfit and drawled, “Legally I am now in the proud possession of a delightful dwarven lady. If the magister wants me he will have to pay a substantial sum.”

Xai made a hrmph sound, but asked, “How substantial?”

Zevran thought for a moment, smiled, then held his hands apart like so. “About…this much refined lyrium. Give or take. Impressive, no? I expect no slave in the history of the Imperium could claim such an extravagant price!”

“Not honestly, no,” Xai murmured dryly. “But if you escaped your new owner, you’re effectively fair game, Zevran, and if Ezio learns you are seeking refuge at the Fereldan Embassy—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Shianni’s oddly subdued voice identifying herself on the other side. Xai threw on a shirt and Zevran removed his foot from the table before the other man called for her to enter. He’d been quite looking forward to seeing Shianni’s reaction at seeing he had returned, and was not disappointed. Her face lit up, her relief that he was whole was palpable, and he had to speak up after a while to interrupt her stream of apologies for getting him into trouble in the first place.

“Here now, my dear,” Zevran said. “I am alive, yes? And unharmed? I am prepared to strip down if you wish to examine me more thoroughly, but I assure you I am quite well. Come, join us at the table. We have much to discuss.”

“We do?” Shianni said anxiously as Xai pulled out a chair for her. The girl sat, then gave Sindel a confused look as the armoured Dalish elf drew her own seat and sank into it with a clinking of mail. Xai claimed the place across from her.

“Ah, forgive my manners. Shianni, this is Sindel, Arcane Warrior of the Fereldan Grey Wardens and formerly of the Dalish clans.”

“I didn’t know elves could be Grey Wardens…”

“One of the most famous Wardens of old was elven,” Sindel said, smiling at her. “But we can speak of that later, Shianni.”

She nodded and promptly turned to Zevran. “How’d you get out?”

Zevran chuckled. “I’m so glad you asked.”

*

He explained as much as he could remember, leaving out only the finer descriptions of the thralls’ tattoos in case Shianni was clever enough to come to the same conclusions as Zevran had. By the time he’d finished, Xai was pouring drinks for the four of them and apparently deep in thought, Sindel was examining the dagger, broken sword and book Zevran had scavenged from the tower (the latter of which, Zevran had been disgusted to learn, was about rearing halla and carving horn rather than something even remotely interesting), and Shianni was trying to figure out who the elf had been that had reacted to her name and Soris’.

“Blonde, you said?” she asked again.

“With lavender eyes,” Zevran confirmed. “Utterly gorgeous. Wicked sense of humour, too. And possessed of a very strong grip,” he added as a wry afterthought.

“Ciela was blonde,” Shianni said reluctantly, as though prodding a sore tooth. “She hated people calling her eyes lavender, though, because it was unusual and made her stand out. She preferred blue.”

“Vivid colours are a mark of old Dalish bloodlines running strong,” Sindel said, looking up from her book. “Amongst the People it is common to have purple eyes.”

“Yeah, well, we lived in an alienage. Looking different or standing out just meant the shems paid you more attention—of the unwanted variety.” Shianni twisted one of her fingers distractedly and so missed Sindel’s concerned expression. “Zevran…I was given a list of the slaves from Denerim. It tells you everything. Who’s in the Circle Tower, who was taken to auction and sold, and who’s…not alive anymore. It says Uncle Cyrion is all right, but Ciela…she’s dead.”

“They could have lied,” Xai said, setting down the glasses and reclaiming his chair. “I have told you this. What better way to keep possession of valuable slaves than deny their existence?”

“Taeodor said only two of the Denerim elves were taken to become thralls,” Zevran said thoughtfully. “Ciela Tabris was one, but the name of the other…ah, what was it? Valdaran something?”

“Valdaran Dasu?” Shianni supplied. “I don’t know him, but his name was on the list Valendrian gave me. I’ve already compared it to the Tevinter one.” She frowned. “I would have to check to be sure, but I think they listed him as dead too.”

“But the description Zevran gave matches your cousin’s?” Xai said, sipping at his wine.

“She knew her way around a sword,” Zevran pointed out. “Not a common alienage talent with that ban on elves owning blades, I imagine.”

“It sounds like her,” Shianni conceded hesitantly. She fiddled with the stem of her glass. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up. Maybe we should just rescue the ones we know are alive and get out before anyone else is hurt.”

There was silence until Zevran noted, “That’s very unlike you, my dear.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Shianni muttered, staring at her drink. She started to pick the glass up, then lowered it again and pushed it away to the middle of the table. “So far my brilliance has gotten the people I care about abducted, raped, killed, imprisoned, sold into slavery and tortured by blood mages. Nice record, huh? Xai, you asked me back on the ship what I’d want to do if we learned the magisters were unwilling to let some of my people go. I said I’d want to save them if it wouldn’t risk any more lives, didn’t I?”

“You did,” the former master confirmed quietly.

“We don’t know if Ciela is alive,” Shianni said. “If she is, then they’re keeping her somewhere we’d have to break into, right? After what Zevran went through simply trying to escape, we could end up risking everyone for nothing. And if the magisters catch us what would they do with us? What would they do with the elves we’d just saved?”

“If it came to springing anyone out of the tower by less than legal means,” Xai said, “the last thing we’d want to do is transport them on the same vessel as the other elves.” He traded a glance with Zevran here. “If they wished, the magisters would be able to follow their blood scent, similar to how Templars tracks apostates via a phylactery, and Minrathous would have little trouble readying a warship complete with mages to hunt us down.

“If we were to free any thralls,” he went on, “I would save them until last. Rescue the other slaves first and send the ship back to Denerim without us. When they are safely away, we liberate the thralls and leave the Tevinter Imperium separately.”

“I am hoping there is a little more detail to this plan of yours than just that,” Zevran remarked, leaning back with his wineglass in hand.

Xai smiled faintly. “Of course. But details are unnecessary if Shianni has no wish to proceed.”

“Why not rescue all the thralls?” Sindel asked.

“That would be very dangerous, sister, and maybe impossible,” Xai said sombrely. “The thralls’ cells aren’t sealed by key and lock, but by magic. Unlike the regular blood slaves, which are ‘common property’, thralls are more akin to being personal pets. The magical fields holding them are a combination of more than one mage’s power, and can be lowered only by the cooperation, incapacitation or deaths of said mages. To free all the thralls we would have to deal with many powerful blood mages.”

“I think I have seen a spell such as you are describing,” Zevran said. “During the Blight, Arl Howe detained Anora in the Denerim Estate. There was a purple field sealing her door, and we had to slay two mages to dispel it. Not even Alistair and Asleena’s combined Templar arts could bring it down.”

“If procedure is the same as the last time I was here, on my contract to kill a magister,” Xai added for Shianni’s benefit, “it will be a minimum of two mages to a cage: one the overseer, the others whoever ‘owns’ or has an interest in the specific thrall—”

Shianni interrupted. “You’re talking like it’s already decided we’re going through with this!”

“Are we not?” Zevran asked innocently. “Have I not broken into heavily guarded fortresses before and rescued Grey Wardens in distress? And let us not forget our friend Xai, who has infiltrated this very same tower in the past, killed his mark and escaped to tell the tale. What is there to fear?”

“Plenty!” the girl shouted, jumping to her feet and staring at him in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, Zevran, I felt what that blood mage’s spell was like. I saw him cast it on you! Do you want to feel that again?”

Xai set his glass down atop the table with a firm sound. “There is a simple way around this,” he said.

“Is there now?” Zevran asked warily, and even Shianni looked suspicious.

Xai nodded. “When the regular slaves are freed, Shianni can travel back with them to Ferelden on The Royal Sail. Zevran and I can attempt to rescue any thralls on our own.”

Zevran had to struggle not to gawp at the colossal gall of this calm-faced proposal of partnership. Sindel was making a choked sound beside him, and Shianni blurted, “What?! You can’t send me away while you rescue my own cousin without me!”

“Can you give me a reason why not?” Xai asked, his innocent expression of curiosity almost as good as a smirk.

“Because she’s my cousin! I got her into this and I have to get her out!”

“Then you have until we free the other elves to make your decision on whether you’re going with them, or staying with us,” Xai told her.

“Why do you even care? You’re human! And you’re not even Fereldan!”

“Our instructions were, if I recall the wording correctly, ‘to buy back or otherwise liberate those who were illegally sold into slavery during the Blight.’”

“Sod your…sodding orders, shem! Aren’t you even a little worried about what those mages will do to you if they catch you? Aren’t you afraid?”

“Should I be?” Xai asked, and for once Zevran believed he saw the lie beneath the serene façade.

“Maybe you would be if you knew what it felt like,” Shianni snapped at him.

“I’ve been here before, Shianni,” Xai reminded her evenly. “I assure you, I am aware of the risks in this place.”

When the girl sat, looking a little shame-faced after her accusation had been shot down, Xai turned to Zevran. “Would you care to hear my observations now?”

Zevran swirled his wine, his eyes gazing absently at Shianni’s untasted glass. “At your pleasure, my friend.”

“The magisters have been experimenting with lyrium, blood magic and fragmented scraps of plundered lore for centuries,” Xai said. “I can hardly claim to know everything they’ve achieved, only what I have seen and heard for myself. I have not heard of this…glowing eyes effect you described. At the least it seems like the magisters found a way to control their thralls over a greater than usual distance, even with obstacles between them.”

“This is not a common blood mage skill?” Zevran asked.

“In my experience, any sort of blood control to the effectiveness you described would require the mage in power to be able to see what he’s…doing.” Xai blinked at nothing. “Four Swords…it’s that simple?”

“They can see through the thralls’ eyes?” Zevran demanded. “This is what you think?”

“Perhaps. It could help explain how the thralls managed to find you so easily, if they were not the ones doing the searching but relying on the mage behind them and within them.” His expression registered disgust for a brief moment. “If we’re right, we’d better pray the range isn’t significant, otherwise it won’t make getting away any easier.”

“This sounds disturbingly similar to some theories I have heard on abominations,” Sindel said, looking disturbed. “A demon comes across a sleeping mage in the Fade and attempts to possess him, through force or guile. If it succeeds, the spirit of the mage is still within the Fade with the demon, but it gains control of the body, sees through his eyes, acts with his hands.”

“Wait, wait,” Shianni said, looking between them. “Please tell me that if we do end up rescuing Ciela, or anyone who’s a thrall, there’s some way to make sure the magisters can’t control them whenever they like! There’s a way to protect them, isn’t there?”

Xai shrugged, but Sindel said, “If these brands the thralls bear are like our vallaslin, tattoos”—she indicated the markings of Andruil on her own face here—“then it may be possible to burn them off.”

“But…” Shianni hesitated. “Zevran said Ciela’s tattoo was over one of her eyes. Burning it off would…really hurt, wouldn’t it? And scar her for life.”

“If not destroy the sight in her eye,” Xai said. “Yes.”

Sindel leaned forward. “I might be able to help there. I’ve had experience with healing burns magically and mitigating pain. I have even helped my old clan remove vallaslin.” She glanced at Zevran. “A story for another time. Suffice to say, my skill is not insignificant. When the time comes I could assist with removing any brands. If it might remove a blood mage’s power over someone, it’s worth a try isn’t it?”

The very slight emphasis she put on the offer to remove any brands prompted Zevran to glance at Xai, whose smile at Sindel’s words was vaguely self-mocking. It wouldn’t work then? Or was there something else? But Shianni looked grateful at Sindel’s offer and said, “Thank you.” The discussion moved on.

“For now, we have to worry about reaching the thralls and getting them out,” Xai said. “Zevran, how much do you trust that dwarf who bought you?”

“Shayle? We are old companions, as I said. I trust her well enough. She has also been in contact with a number of the mages,” Zevran went on musingly. “They are attempting to woo the rest of her lyrium from her, you see, tempting her to dinners and dances. Perhaps she can learn if our thralls live, or who their masters are. I saw them, however briefly, and she was there with me.”

He gave an approving nod, seeming even a little impressed. “We have time. Shianni and I will organise the other slaves, but I strongly suggest you stay with your new mistress for now. We can contact you if there is any news.”

Zevran didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at this idea. “So I am to sit around doing nothing, hm?”

“By all means, sneak out, visit the Grand Cathedral, lie, cheat, swindle, wench, try to assassinate someone else if it pleases you,” Xai said dryly. “Just don’t draw any more attention to us, if you would be so kind.” His lips stretched into a shadow of his usual smile. “But you are in charge, of course.”

“So kind of you to remember.”

The smile widened a fraction before he turned serious again. “I will try to secure some half-decent floor plans of the tower, and if you wish you can do the same. See if Shayle can assist. Several floors are open to the public so it shouldn’t be hard to get hand-drawn maps from hawkers, complete with lists of visitor attractions, but anything reliable for the upper levels will be hard to find without a mage’s assistance. I will draw what I remember, but it’s old information at best.”

“What can I do?” Shianni asked, looking determined to be included now.

“When we start bringing the Denerim elves in,” Xai told her, “talk to them. All of them. They will have the most up-to-date knowledge of what goes on in the tower and what the day-to-day habits of some of the mages are. Everything will be useful, and you are one of them. They will answer your questions if it means rescuing more of their own, I expect.”

“I can do that.”

“Other than that,” Xai glanced at Zevran, “and brainstorming ways to leave the city, there is nothing else to be done for now except enchant your weapons with the most powerful dweomer runes you can find.”

Zevran’s eyes flicked to the two Imperial Edges on the table. Both were already enchanted with two grandmaster dweomer runes apiece. He nodded. “I am sure Shayle’s dwarven associates can assist me there.”

Sensing the discussion was drawing to a close, Sindel pushed her chair back and rose, collecting the book, dar’misu and dar’misaan as she did so. “I regret I can’t stay longer and help, but the others will need my skills back in Highever and I should leave as soon as it’s light. Zevran, would you mind waiting for me out front?” When he indicated he would, she motioned to Shianni with a smile. “I would very much like to speak to my elvhen kinswoman before I go. Would you mind?”

The girl looked dubious, but rose and shrugged. “If you want. We’ll go back to my room.” Giving the two men a nod goodnight, she left with the Dalish Warden following.

As soon as the heavy door had closed, Zevran said, “You must have considered burning the tattoo off or cutting it away, so why have you never attempted it yourself?” Xai didn’t answer immediately, and remained staring at the door with an unreadable expression. “The mark on your chest would not be so hard to erase, true?”

“In case you hadn’t figured this out already, Zevran, it wouldn’t stop the words from working.”

The elf snorted. “That is an excuse, surely. What of the magic side you spoke of? You are walking around with a vulnerability to mages that is begging to be exploited. A pair of enchanted swords won’t save you every time.”

“It’s a sacred Crow symbol. The House would have killed me for destroying it.”

“Another excuse. You have been free of the Crows for nigh a year, Xai Merras, and tangling with enough darkspawn emissaries to be a liability to your Grey Warden companions, not to mention a risk to your Commander.” Zevran watched the man carefully for reactions. “Did you not try to get rid of me for a similar failing?”

Xai gave him an irritated look. “The Commander believes the heightened effects I receive from benign spells are not without value.”

“O-ho! Now she is making excuses for you?”

To Zevran’s secret delight, he spotted a spark of anger at that comment. The man tried to cover it by smiling. “I just love how you can all talk about putting a hot iron against some young girl’s eye as though she will actually agree to let you anywhere near her. Oh, yes. Very nice.”

“You are evading the question, my friend.”

“Question time is over.”

The two men locked eyes, Xai’s gaze challenging, daring Zevran to threaten him for more information, while the elf merely attempted to gauge how much further he could press.

“For now,” Zevran conceded finally, feeling it best not to push his luck all in one night. He rose with deliberate nonchalance and headed for the door. “Oh, except for one last thing, Merras,” he said, turning back to face the still-seated man. “You mentioned Asleena is aware of this? How much does she know?”

“More than you.” Xai’s dark eyes was steady. “And less than you.”

*

Sindel met him outside, and together they left the embassy. There was some confusion at the gate considering no one had seen them arrive, but the elven woman’s Grey Warden accoutrements and a runner sent to Xai’s rooms who returned with prompt confirmation convinced the guards to let them pass.

“Shianni is strong-willed,” Sindel said as they walked the streets of Minrathous, en route to Shayle’s estate. “We just talked, I about the Green Dales and how I became a Warden—she asked, so I gave a brief account. She spoke a little about Denerim on her own in return, but not too much. You told me enough yourself. I think she hurts most for convincing herself others suffered due to her brashness. That it’s her fault. In this our situations are…very different.”

Zevran shook his head. “She wants to rescue her cousin, but at the same time she fears bringing more people to harm. She sees blood on her hands and guilt in her heart.”

“I don’t think I can help her any more than you and Xai have managed to so far. I gave her a pair of daggers like you asked in the letter. Good ones. She seemed very pleased.” Sindel smiled faintly at him. “Said the two of you were training her.”

He tried to hide his awkwardness at her gentle approval, but something told him she wasn’t fooled. “Everyone should know how to defend themselves properly, no?”

The former Keeper smiled, then took the elegant dar’misu he’d stolen from the slavemistress off her belt and handed it back to him. “You might as well hold on to it, lethallin. I’m sure you will never want for more blades. It’s called the Fang of Fen'Harel, according to its markings. I’ve seen daggers of similar make amongst the clans, and can only tell you that this style of forging and design dates back to the time the elvhen lived in the Dales, back before it was overrun by the Chantry.”

“What of the sword?” Zevran asked. “That looked a fine weapon.”

“I couldn’t translate much of the script, and it doesn’t help that some of it is too marred to make sense of, but give me time and access to my records back in Highever and I’ll have a better idea. I don’t know if it can be repaired either, not properly. The metal’s a lyrium alloy, like Spellweaver here.” She touched the pommel of her own blade. “Maybe your new dwarven friends can take a look.”

He accepted the twisted pieces back with a shrug and a nod. “It is worth asking.”

“Do you want the book back as well?”

Zevran laughed at that. “Stealing tomes from libraries! And not even useful tomes at that. What kind of thief am I, hm?”

“History is history,” Sindel said. “There are designs for carving halla horns in here I have never laid eyes upon, lethallin, and they are beautiful. So much forgotten art is in those pages, I almost wish…” She trailed off, looking away into the night-darkened city with its shadowy towers of stolen lore. A soft sigh escaped her. “Don’t discredit what you have recovered just because it doesn’t show how to brew a stronger poison or fashion a more powerful bow. That’s not what Arlathan was.”

When they reached the gates of Shayle’s estate several minutes later, she turned to him and asked, “Is there any message you wish me to bring back to Ferelden?”

“Ah…” Zevran thought a moment. “Tell Alistair and Asleena what I said of Shayle and Wynne. That will be of interest to both of them, yes? What do you think of our Xai Merras, however? He claims Asleena knows much of what we now do.”

“I am bonded to a man who believes in keeping secret that which is not ours to share,” Sindel said, glancing up at the night sky. “Grey Wardens are also not supposed to make much of a person’s past. I am not sure this is always wise, but neither do I think carrying this information to Ferelden will help you here in the Tevinter Imperium.”

“No…no, I suppose you are right.” He sighed. “He is…convincing, I will give him that. Do you remember any of those words he said to the mirror?”

“Only the ones you repeated back to him, and that single one he said twice,” she said, and recited it for him. “Not the first two phrases. You don’t intend to use them on him, do you?”

“Only if the situation demands it, never fear.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Thank you for coming all this way, my friend.”

She smiled back and bestowed a quick embrace, the metal of her armour feeling cool against his skin in the warmth of the evening air. “Mythal protect you and Andruil guide your blades, Zevran Arainai. Dareth shiral. We miss you back home and are thinking of you.”

Zevran watched her walk off into the night, realising that he too missed the place he had come to think of as his home, and the people he had come to call his family…more keenly than he could give voice to.

*

“The painted elf has returned. I trust its treacherous enemy has been reduced to a red paste?”

Zevran sighed and sank into a chair opposite Shayle. She looked like she had been trying to sleep but given up; her black hair was rather becomingly tousled, her feet were bare, and she was wearing a cream robe that looked too warm for the weather but served to soften her features. Otherwise, the room was empty.

“No, I did not kill him,” Zevran said, not without regret. “Things were said that made it feel…unwise to proceed with my plan.”

Shayle grunted. “Disappointing. Anyone who crossed me wouldn’t have a chance to explain himself before his head was crushed. In that, at least, I have not changed.”

“I don’t know…I rather like some of your changes, my dear. If you are having trouble sleeping, there are all manner of relaxation techniques I would be only to happy to demonstrate.”

“The painted elf will stop leering at me this instant.”

Zevran chuckled. “I apologise. If it makes you uncomfortable, I will stop looking. My offer stands, however. You have been a woman far too long not to have experienced any of the pleasures of the flesh—even a simple massage!”

“It does seem preoccupied with the idea of touching. I have no interest in being poked and prodded.”

“Or probed?”

“That is disgusting! If it insists on speaking of such subjects I may be tempted to go out and kill someone myself. That always relaxes me just fine.” Shayle folded her arms, pouting slightly. “When are we returning to Ferelden?”

Zevran’s brows rose. “We? You wish to go back?”

“Certainly. This place bores me, and the mages, as I have made abundantly clear, are as aggravating as a flock of birds. The ball tonight was horrendous; they were all trilling about my new elven slave like it was some kind of scandal, then falling over themselves to introduce me to their pointy-eared servants as though I would desire to purchase an entire harem!”

“Oh? Were any of them more handsome than I?”

“What do I know of such things?” she grumped. “It’s easy with jewels—cut, clarity, lustre. Fleshy mortals are not the same.”

Zevran grinned and reclined a little further, deliberately. “You don’t find some more…pleasing to look upon than others?”

“The ones that are dead? I am always pleased to look at them.”

The assassin grinned. “Ah, well…I cannot deny I sometimes feel the same way. Getting back to Ferelden, however…I rather thought you were loath to leave your golem shell behind. Chances are we may not be able to take such a heavy thing with us.”

“I thought the painted elf arrived on a ship. Such a vessel would have little trouble carrying my body, surely.”

“Hm. This is true. I am sure you could travel with it…but if you desired my companionship I may not be present on board when the time came to leave.”

She looked displeased. “What does it mean? Why would it choose to stay in Minrathous?”

“I will explain, my fine dwarven friend. And then, if you wish, you can choose to help.”

[Corker]

XD The banter with Shayle is awesome. And I love it that your Zevran is still an outrageous flirt.

[maradeux]

@part 13:

Xai?! Why was he standing infront of his mirror and talking to himself/saying this strange code words and finally breaking the mirror? That was really strange, enigmatic and leaves me behind with a lot of questions. And it showed an unusually vulnerable side of Xai. And I loved it how Zevran succeeded to drive him into a corner and was one time not the underdog of the both.

@part 14: Sindel! Surprise, surprise. I was happy about that reunion. Interesting what she had to say about Highever and Amarenthine. I also liked it that she was a witness of the controversy between Zevran and Xai.

Everything about the thralls, the tatoos (lyrium brands) and blood magic - just fascinating and thrilling. I'm fired up for (I hope I used that phrase in the right way) anything more about the topic. And Shale - I love how you write Shale - so in character, so funny.

I'm really happy that I found some time to read your story and I can hardly wait for the next chapters.

[Corker]

maradeux wrote...

@part 13:

Xai?! Why was he standing infront of his mirror and talking to himself/saying this strange code words and finally breaking the mirror?

Can't answer for the 'why' (although I suspect he's working at breaking his conditioning), but the last words he spoke are a command to kill the person who speaks them.  So he when he said them, it made him attack the 'speaker' - the guy in the mirror.

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Part 15 - Infiltration

The innermost section of Minrathous city’s central square was cordoned off with braids of thick black silk. A steady stream of people from all walks of life stood at the edges of the secured area or paced its perimeter. Some lingered for a time, others only for a moment of cursory respect. There was prayer, heads bowed in silence, small scrolls burned and the ashes scattered on the sacred ground, stares of curiosity or religious awe.

This was where Andraste had burned.

From where Zevran and Xai stood, the Grand Cathedral of the Black Divine stood beyond the square, all breathtakingly beautiful spires and marvellous stained glass windows. They could even hear a choral chanting from within, but the words were too indistinct for Zevran to tell if it was the Chant of Light being sung or some Tevinter derivation.

Conscious that he had not had the chance to be particularly devout of late, Zevran bowed his head in the direction of the scorched stone and made a small motion with one hand—Sword of Mercy—murmuring a verse for forgiveness in Antivan. Beside him, Xai mirrored his actions so precisely it was hard to say whether he was following suit or had acted on a simultaneous impulse. Either way, they met each others’ eyes afterwards, dark brown to golden, two assassins silently acknowledging the mission they were about to begin as companions.

“Into the wolf’s mouth, hm?” Zevran suggested with a grin.

Xai’s answering smile was devoid of mirth and he did not answer. He turned his back on the square and the Chantry, starting towards the great shadow that was the Circle Tower.

Zevran smoothed the frown from his brow and followed.

*

“This is what we have. There are eleven floors in all, three below ground and the rest above. The regular slaves are kept one floor down—mages typically grab two or three before heading outside. Just because the Denerim elves are now safely away on The Royal Sail, don’t assume there aren’t plenty of bodies left down there for the magisters to call on and swamp us with at a moment’s notice. Yes Shianni?”

“Don’t we want to try springing them? A commotion could be a good distraction and I can’t help wanting to—”

“I know you want to free them, but we can’t save them all. Our success relies on being undetected as long as possible, and a mass exodus won’t achieve that.”

“All right…Fine. So I’m to wait over at this spot here with the horses and Fereldan guards until you all show up.”

“The ground floor and first few levels will be easy. Zevran and I will disguise ourselves to be on the safe side: clothes, tattoo coverage, hair dyes—”

“Black! I have tried black hair dye on one or two occasions. I looked stunning. You will think so too when you see it, mark my words.”

“—I will be Tassos Vasilis of Vol Dorma, uncle of Airlia Vasilis, a niece who’s apprenticing at the tower. Zevran will be my house servant, carrying parcels we will declare to be gifts. The baskets and wrappings contain nothing out of the ordinary, but include clothes and skin pigments we’ll use to disguise any thralls on the way out.

“The two of us will enter the tower at the main entrance, state our business and be accompanied to the mage quarters and guest lounges on the fourth floor, past the library, museum and mess hall. Shayle, do you recall your part?”

“I am to enter the tower a quarter hour after the two Crows have, and pass the time until their return conversing with the mage-guards who hold the control rods of the golems that guard the front doors.” The dwarf sighed. “How tiresome.”

*

Zevran brushed an uncooperative strand of black hair back into place, mindful not to disturb his makeup, and wished again for a hand mirror. He’d already checked his reflection so many times that morning that Shianni had suggested he should just make out with himself and get it over with (and he’d been so delighted by the jest he’d given the looking glass a long, passionate kiss just to enjoy her laughter and Shayle’s exasperation).

Attempting to maintain his pose of attentive elven servant as Xai gave their cover story to a lower mage, Zevran also tried to absorb as much of the vast entrance foyer as he could. He hadn’t had much of a chance to look at it on his way out with Shayle, and had been lucky enough not to stumble into it on his mad flight from the cells.

It resembled a huge circular throne room. Imperial banners with devices both familiar and foreign floated from the high stone walls. Towards the back of the chamber stood a single elaborately-carved chair, dragonbone if Zevran was any judge, and lavishly bejewelled with stones that glowed blood red and lyrium blue.

There was an empty crown resting on the cushioned seat of the chair.

The entire display stood on an unoccupied dais, thickly carpeted in gold-trimmed crimson, and cordoned off just as the square had been. It was also covered by a heavy layer of dust, which Zevran assumed was some sort of symbolism rather than any laxity of the cleaners. An attempt by the magisters to show that the old ruling days of magic were over, perhaps. He wondered if anyone ever fell for it.

Guards lined the edges of the hall, actual paid guards, elves and humans with bows and swords and mail of red steel with gold sunburst devices on the breastplates. They were doing a good job of pretending not to be keeping very close watch on those approaching the throne and crown to get a better look.

Behind the display and easy to miss despite being clearly visible were two mages, neither standing near the other. No one could tell just by looking at them, but they were the ones who held the control rods for the two golems hulking immobile on either side of the huge double doors; proper full-sized golems, not the smaller version ‘Shale’ had been, and fashioned of gleaming steel that sparked lightning rather than a stone-and-crystal affair.

So. Anyone making trouble in this room would have to answer to arrows, blades, magic, and two pairs of giant steel fists. Not good odds.

“Knife-ears!” Xai said sharply, in Arcanum. He’d insisted Zevran learn some rudimentary commands. “Attend! Show the gifts.”

“Yes Lord Vasilis!”

The elf stepped forward quickly, uncovering baskets and revealing bottles and jars for inspection, then neatly replaced the wrappings once the mage nodded his satisfaction.

“Wait there,” he said, pointing, then added something that Zevran assumed meant: “Should not be long.”

The quarter hour mark passed, a steady tide of humanity passing inside to view the great library or museum of relics, then streaming out again in a constant ebb and flow. Eventually a shorter figure stepped from the throng entering the tower to stand alone. Zevran saw it march up to one of the towering juggernauts, and he watched in mild horror as the huge body canted down so its head could view the squishy creature below it.

Whatever Shayle said to it went completely unheard, but the golem’s booming response of, “What shall we speak about, dwarf?” practically brought the crowd to a standstill with many a gasp and cry of wonder. One of the control rod-mages immediately crossed the hall to confront Shayle while the other observed from her post with an expression of mingled amusement and irritation that suggested she’d witnessed this scene before.

“She’d better not get kicked out of here prematurely,” Xai muttered under his breath.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Zevran replied, with more confidence than he actually felt. “Besides, if we’re lucky we may not need that part of the plan after all.”

The human made a non-committal sound and folded his arms, falling into a pose of noble impatience.

Another two minutes passed and then there was a happy squeal of “Uncle Tassos!” followed by a slender young mage in ivory robes and dark curls throwing herself into Xai’s arms.

They’d actually rehearsed this scene. Complete with happy extended family dialogue.

Airlia was one of the mages Wynne had set to dogging Shayle’s steps and, according to the dwarf, a vocal denouncer of blood slavery. The mage claimed she held views both Loyalistic and Aequitarian, believing the Chant of Light said magic should never be used to control the minds of men no matter what those in power at the Chantry dictated. To hear her explain it, there was a certain amount of politics amongst Tevinter mages about how far blood magic should be allowed to go in order to serve the nation; substituting slaves for lyrium didn’t sit well with everyone, especially when said slaves were being subjected to more than mere energy-drainage.

“The sad truth is that most people don’t care what happens to slaves,” she’d told Zevran one day at Shayle’s estate, during his efforts to glean information on both her and the tower. “So long as the magisters don’t use their powers on free people, well…that’s all right. Slaves are property, not men, so there is no blasphemy. I doubt Andraste, a former slave herself, would agree.”

Despite Zevran’s efforts to learn what he could of the young mage, Shayle’s own questioning of senior mages at dinner parties, and Shianni’s information gathering amongst the freed slaves, it had still been a leap of faith to use Airlia’s aid and make her aware of any of the plan, contingencies in place or no. In the end, an apparently free ticket halfway up the tower with inside information included had been too good to ignore. As her intelligence of the tower had corroborated or clarified just about everything Xai, Shayle and Shianni had passed on to Zevran, he had decided they would take the risk.

“Come upstairs,” Airlia urged after a brief babble in Arcanum. “We can talk in comfort there and I can send for drinks. Your elf too—he looks tired!”

Zevran bowed, Imperial style as he’d been taught, and gave the correct response: “I am humbled by the lady mage’s notice and generosity.”

“They will lose respect for you if you treat them like people,” Xai said with patrician disapproval as they walked with her to join the flow of the crowd, heading deeper into the tower towards the stairwell.

Zevran let Airlia’s response and the rest of the contrived conversation wash over him and kept his head down like a slave should, carrying his baskets and packages with care while taking note of all he passed…

**

“What about your weapons and armour? My people said that only mages and thralls ever go above the fourth floor, unless some case like Shayle’s is presented, and you need to get to the sixth. You’re not going to sneak up there disguised as a noble and servant and hope for the best, are you?”

“We’ll both be carrying some smaller hidden weapons on the way in, but our usual equipment will be waiting for us. Shayle?”

“So I was assured. Wynne trusted these apprentice mages a great deal. I believe they even warned her that the spirit within her was generating…interest. I don’t like mages on principle; they are power-hungry parasites with over-bloated egos, but Wynne I trust, and if she trusted them then I will too...despite their annoying behaviour and tendency not to shut up—”

“Shayle…”

“What? Oh, very well. Airlia and Kato have already smuggled the leathers, weapons, poisons and tools into their rooms. They also have spare mage robes that will fit over the armour, and some of those daft hats their kind are so fond of. It should be enough of a disguise to get the Crows up to the sixth level.”

“A combination of stealth and guile, yes? So long as no one spots us and asks us to take part in any magic, we should get along just fine.”

“So long as those mages don’t betray us either. Are we expected to believe they don’t care about the consequences of sneaking two assassins into the tower? They don’t mind if we kill any of their friends or associates?”

“Besides freeing the thralls, their only request was that if death is necessary it be restricted to our marks on the sixth floor.”

“And I promised them the painted elf and treacherous Warden would keep that request,” Shayle said darkly.

“In so many words, I daresay?” Xai’s lips stretched into a smile. “I will not break your oath, Lady Cadash. Zevran may not have told you this, but I am something of an expert on not killing people.”

**

The two assassins shed their outer clothes and began strapping on leathers in the relative safety of Airlia’s domicile. It wasn’t large, boasting a grand total of two rooms: one for sleeping, one for studying and recreation. It was the abode of a student.

“Do all mages here live so?” Zevran wondered aloud, using the King’s Tongue. He’d been surprised to learn many Tevinters knew the language of Ferelden until it had been explained that Denerim being Andraste’s birth place had always generated plenty of interest in both the tongue and the distant barbarian land. “I had the fortune to visit the Antivan Circle of Magi once. The rooms there were much more generous. As were the beds,” he added with a sly grin.

“Not many live within the tower itself,” came Airlia’s Tevinter-accented reply as she dragged a box of tightly-stoppered bottles and vials from the adjoining room—their poisons of choice. “Mostly only those of us studying abroad and without the means or willingness to pay for lodgings in the city. All ranking magisters have rooms reserved, but they have their own towers or estates to see to. Only the First Enchanter really lives here on a permanent basis.”

“And he’s currently off fighting qunari, correct?” Xai asked in an off-hand tone that nevertheless drew Zevran’s attention.

“I told you this already. All magisters are obliged to protect the empire when called, even the Grand Enchanter—who is also our Divine, lest you’re unaware. First Enchanter Lysander left for the warfront over a month ago, well before you arrived in Minrathous. He took some of his thralls, including Valdaran Dasu, but left Ciela and the others in the charge of his apprentice Carolos.” Airlia put her hands on her hips, scowling a little. “If you’re having second thoughts about this and want to wait until he returns so you can try to rescue them both, I really must advise against—”

“No,” Xai said, fastening a buckle across his chest as he threw a smirk at her. “Just ensuring the situation hadn’t changed. He could have returned, after all.”

“I would have told you if he had,” the mage told him, sounding slightly peeved. “He’s due back in at least a week, so you’ll have a good head start if he decides to chase you. That should be plenty of time to reach the Nevarran border and the protection of the Templars, unless you have other plans.”

Zevran paused in the act of pulling on his gloves and cast about for a moment. “Our weapons…?” he asked.

“Kato has them. Do you want me to see what’s taking him so long?”

“Much as I hate to be robbed of your presence for any stretch of time, my beautiful mage,” Zevran said extravagantly, “we are on a time limit, alas.”

Once she was gone, a light blush colouring her cheeks, Zevran picked up his gloves and eyed Xai narrowly as he pulled them on. “This First Enchanter Lysander is of interest to you, hm?”

Xai let out a long breath through his nose. “The First Enchanter I slew...his apprentice was named Lysander, but I never had anything to do with him. We never spoke or interacted. I have no designs against him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But there is a risk, no? That your mark’s code was passed on to his apprentice Lysander, and we are to deal with this Lysander’s apprentice now.”

“Keep your voice down,” Xai muttered, glancing towards the door. “If they are the same person, yes, there is a risk. There was always a risk of bumping into someone familiar with my code, if not familiar with me. You knew this.”

Zevran chuckled and gave him a dry little smile. “It seems more of a certainty now, my friend, does it not? So, then. Does our resident Master Crow have some way to protect his team from unfortunate accidents?”

“Are you worried someone will order me to kill you, Zevran?”

“Ahh, no, no…we both know where that will lead, yes? But I am allowed to be concerned that some random command will drop you on your hands and knees at an inconvenient moment.”

“I am fairly sure that I will have…minimal trouble ignoring orders that are not given directly to me,” Xai said after a moment of silent contemplation. “But it’s true…I am not certain. At your command, I can make use of this.” He crossed to the box Airlia had pulled out, picked up a jar and tossed it to Zevran. The elf unscrewed the lid, sniffed the thick yellow contents and made a disbelieving sound.

“Beeswax? You intend to plug your ears?”

“If it seems necessary. Or I can leave and you to attempt this mission solo,” Xai said, catching the jar on the return toss. “It’s your call…Master Arainai.”

“And you would simply leave if I told you to, hm?”

“Why not? It would give me something to gloat about when I rescued you.” The man smirked. “In fact, how about we wager a glass of Antivan brandy that you’d thank me on bended knee for your deliverance.”

Zevran laughed derisively. “Because your first attempt at rescuing me from the common slave cages met with such success, yes? You didn’t even manage to make it inside the tower, as I recall.”

Xai’s smile hitched. He bent his attention to the box to hide it, retrieving a jar of bright magenta liquid with one hand and a thick white cloth with the other. Zevran’s satisfaction at seeing the man whose counter-insults usually came as smooth as silk reduced to speechlessness changed to disbelief when Xai began, in a voice that sounded hesitant and apologetic, “I tried, but—” He froze, frowned, shook himself as though coming awake and looked at the bottle in his hand. “Dwarf Dream,” he said, giving it a little wave. “Knocks a man out so hard he misses the Fade on the way through. Good for ensuring a nice, long, dreamless sleep—particularly handy against blood mages and their dreamwalking abilities.”

“And former slaves who don’t wish to be tracked via their dreams?” Zevran put in shrewdly, which earned him a dispassionate glance.

“Highly addictive and toxic if used frequently. Must be inhaled or ingested.” Xai unstoppered the jar, held the cloth to its mouth and arched a brow at the elf as he began to tip the fluid. “How much are you willing to risk that our two mages are trustworthy? If they are, then we lose nothing by neutralising them—their purpose is done past this point. If, however, they do intend to betray us…”

“Better safe than sorry, hm?”

“Words to stay alive by, Zevran.”

**

“On the second hour every afternoon, Carolos—that’s the blood mage in charge of Ciela with the First Enchanter away—makes his circuit of the thralls.”

“What’s that mean? What’s he doing to her?”

“Continuing her training I expect, Shianni. The routine can differ between blood mages masters. Shayle has learned that Carolos is on the cruel side, much like his mentor. Magistra Phaedra, on the other hand, inherited her thralls rather than acquiring them herself. She is reputed to be a kindly mistress.”

“Kindly, you say? That woman tried to crush me to death.”

“The painted elf says that as though enjoying the sight of crushing an annoying bug is a bad thing.”

“Bugs I do not mind crushing—especially the ones that leave you with those little itchy bites. They are most unpleasant. Elves on the other hand, elves like me in particular…not so much, no.”

“As I was saying, Carolos is one of our marks. He’s a blood mage who dabbles in hexes and electric spells. The others are the thrall-keeper and two aides, but the duty is rotated; what schools they specialise in we won’t know unless we get hit. I suggest we try to avoid that.”

“Four mages sounds rather…hazardous to one’s health, my friend. Is there some secret to taking them all out without getting shot full of lightning?”

“How good are you at moving silently and striking from the shadows, Zevran?”

**

Zevran wrapped his arm tightly around the mage’s waist, pinning one of her arms as she struggled in his grasp and clutched at the hand holding the dosed cloth to her face. He tried not to be brutal about it for he didn’t like leaving bruises or scars, especially not on those he had no intentions of killing.

“Hush now, my dear, do not fear,” he murmured in Airlia’s ear as her thrashing weakened. “This is for our peace of mind as much as for your protection.”

Not far away, Xai had Kato similarly restrained but wasn’t bothering with soothing words; his captive was fighting too hard for them to matter.

It was over quickly. Zevran hoisted the young woman into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, where he arranged her to look like she’d merely nodded off. Xai dragged Kato into the same room, put a spare pillow under his head a blanket over his legs and left it at that.

“How long will they be out?” Zevran asked as he folded the cloth tightly and put it away.

“Several hours. Midnight at the earliest. And they will not awaken easily if someone disturbs them.”

“That’s quite the sleeping draught, my friend. You will have to share the recipe.”

“Another time, if you’re serious,” Xai said with a shrug. He picked up one of the mage robes Airlia had provided and flung it over his armour, then put on one of the Tevinter style feathered cowls.

“The mages will have to be blind to not notice we’re wearing armour under these things,” Zevran muttered, donning his shorter robe. The hat, a blue velvet creation with golden embroidery and a small cluster of white feathers at its pointed peak, he studied with considerable reluctance before fitting over his hair and ears.

“Mage armour is not a rarity in Tevinter,” Xai said, straightening his clothes in the reflection of the mirror in the bedroom, “not with the war. Moreover, this isn’t Ferelden or Antiva where the Chantry issues standard robes to every mage. Tevinters have a lot more freedom in their fashion; except for some rank restrictions to senior Enchanters, they wear whatever they like.”

Zevran checked his own reflection when Xai had moved away, and glared a little at the befeathered hat before smoothing out some creases and adjusting the magebane-anointed sword hidden at his hip.

“Time to go,” Xai said quietly after a moment, picking up a staff.

Zevran returned, claiming the other staff on the way. “I am ready.”

The Grey Warden listened silently at the door for a few seconds, head cocked and eyes distant, then gave Zevran a quick nod and pulled it open.

One after the other, the two former Antivan Crows stepped quietly back out into the Circle Tower of Minrathous.

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 10 janvier 2011 - 11:06 .

[Corker]

I like the intercutting between the action and the planning.  That works really well to explain things without getting bogged down with it.

Banter is awesome as always. 

One question:  This:
"substituting lyrium for slaves didn’t sit well with everyone,
especially when said slaves were being subjected to more than mere
energy-drainage."

Seems a little counter-intuitive?  I keep wanting to read it as either "subsituting slaves for lyrium" or else "subjected to simply mere energy-drainage."  I get that not all the magisters really care what happens to their blood slaves, but insisting on killing them seems... a little radical?

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Woops, that should be slaves for lyrium, you are right. I'll get around to fixing that, thanks. Where do you get the impression that the mages are insisting on killing their slaves though? I didn't mean that, so maybe I have to reword something else?



Thanks for the comments!

[Corker]

If it wasn't a typo, that was my impression: no lyrium for slaves, *especially* if there's killing involved! "What are you thinking? We can't risk the ritual to this new-fangled lyrium nonsense! We've used blood for two thousand years and now, in the midst of a war with a race determined to exterminate or enslave us, is no time to go fiddling with protocols!"



...okay, it sounds more plausible that way.

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

*laugh!* Hey, if the system works, don't change it. XD



Ok, transposed lyrium/slaves now!

[RogueWriter3201]

Chapter 15 was well worth the wait, and once more I am elated beyond description to have found your little corner of the BSN here. Like so many other Chapters (well, really, the story over all) there was so much tension and clandestine action in this chapter it was almost palpable.

A small moment I rather enjoyed was Zevran and Xai's pause just beyond the cordon near Andraste's Stone. It brought to mind that old adage of, "There are no Atheists in a fox hole." 

I share the opinion of others that the cuts between the actions in the Tower and the Pre-Operation breakdown was a great narrative method. On a side note, as a fan of the Spy-Action genre, it reminded me a great deal of films like The Borune Series or Mission Impossible. I could well imagine Xai sounding like Ethan Hunt.

My Geek moment aside, it really feels like the story is picking up at a rapid pace; not that any previous part was slow in the least. I'm curious to see how Xai's Ink might impact what needs to be done, and what other stunning revelations await them within the Tower.

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

@glenboy24 - Thanks! Glad to see you on BSN


Part 16 - Mage Tower

The atmosphere on the fifth floor of the tower was very different to the one below. While the fourth had possessed an almost homey lived-in feeling, made all the more palpable by the dorms and comfortably-appointed open lounge areas, the fifth was clearly a place of serious business.

Zevran followed Xai’s lead, walking as though he belonged in these magic-filled halls, and observed as much as he could as the two of them made their way down the curved stone corridor. On the whole, he thought, it didn’t seem so different from the Circle Tower in Antiva. The rooms branching towards the outer edge of the structure were being put to various uses by robed individuals: some resembled lecture halls, others training rooms with spells sizzling the air, one was filled from wall to wall with shelves of thick tomes, a couple looked like workshops or alchemy labs.

All that was lacking were templars, Zevran mused. He’d expected to see a grisly array of blood magic victims or any of a dozen kinds of maleficar evil that the Tevinter Imperium was regularly accused of by the non-Imperial Chantry, but it all felt rather…scholarly and pleasant, and not in the least bit oppressive. Of course, that would likely change if he was revealed as an assassin rather than a mage, but for now…

He found himself smirking a little at the thought of Wynne having been here. During the Blight, the woman had gone on at length about the benefits of mages being watched and ‘protected’ by templars and Chantry—she and Morrigan had quibbled about it endlessly, with much flashings of eye and heavings of bosom—and he wondered if it might have come as a shock to her seeing mages governing themselves without armoured guardians watching their every move.

They were halfway to the stairwell that would take them upstairs when a commotion from ahead made both assassins check their pace. Four white-garbed thralls were striding towards them, two on either side of a grim-faced but pale human woman dressed in nothing but a shift and manacles, while the third thrall marched directly ahead and the last behind. Of the three who had visible tattoos branded on their faces, all were glowing white but their eyes, while glazed, were normal.

Behind them followed five cowled magisters.

Other mages in the corridor pressed up against the walls to make way, but before the group reached Zevran and Xai they turned down a side corridor leading towards a central room rather than an outer chamber. An excited buzz of gossip filled the air afterwards, with several mages not a part of the delegation hurrying curiously after, so Zevran felt it safe to murmur, “What was that about? A potential thrall?”

Xai quirked a brow and paused, listening to the chatter in the corridor before answering. “A spy from Val Royeaux,” he said at last.

“A bard?”

“A templar. Let’s keep moving.” He stiffened when Zevran’s hand shot out to grab his arm, but kept his voice low and dry. “Or not?”

“They have thralls with them, no?” Zevran reasoned quietly. “How long will they take? Is there a chance they will come upon us upstairs?”

Xai’s hesitation was so fleeting Zevran wondered if he’d imagined it. “We are not going into the ritual chamber to ask them, if that’s what you’re proposing.”

“No,” Zevran drawled, “I thought we could seduce them all into a wild, magic-fuelled orgy and loosen their lips with our tongues.”

The human’s expression at that sarcasm-smothered remark was withering, but he muttered, “We will be cutting it fine, but I can listen in if you wish.”

“No orgy?” Zevran chuckled. “Have it your way.”

“My way?” Xai echoed, a dark smile dawning, but whatever he’d intended to say next fell into silence as a group of mages swept around and past them in an excited multi-coloured rush smelling of incense, all seemingly intent on the chamber the others had entered. “No guarantees,” Xai said under his breath, and attached himself to the end of the group with Zevran tagging along.

The ritual chamber, such as Xai had named it and Shayle described it, was an amphitheatre: several tiers of wooden benches atop stone steps leading down to a wide open circular area. In the very middle stood the almost-naked templar, the four thralls forming a loose circle around her, and one of the magisters, bestaffed and black-robed, standing in wait. The other four, Zevran noticed as he and Xai claimed seats close by the door, were sitting in the front row.

More mages were filing into the room and picking seats as the seconds ticked past. Two claimed places directly in front of Zevran, one leaning in to her companion and whispering in accented King’s Tongue, “That’s a templar? Doesn’t look so scary.”

“You haven’t seen them in action,” whispered the other, “in their armour and with their swords. They kill you back home in Ferelden, or drag you away to be made Tranquil, just for wanting to live a free life.”

“You’re safe here, don’t worry.”

And as the magister down below began to speak Arcanum in a loud, impressive voice, Zevran was granted a whispered translation.

“You see before you a templar,” he called to the watching students and enchanters. “A magehunter of Orlais. She was masquerading as a sister in our own Grand Chantry, no doubt to get close to the Holy Divine, but was eventually discovered with these on her person.” The magister drew a slender vial of bright blue serum from the sleeve of his robe and held it up for all to see. There was no mistaking that brilliant colour for anything but lyrium.

“Templars,” the magister said, approaching the chained woman, “are addicted to lyrium on purpose by the so-called ‘White Chantry.’” He waited for the mutterings this stirred to subside. “The corrupt priesthood that accuses us of blasphemy abuses the Waters of the Fade to enslave their ‘holy warriors’, just as they take the blood of mages into phylacteries to control and monitor our tower-caged brothers and sisters.” He held the vial to a thrall and nodded to one of the seated magisters in the front row. At once, the thrall took the lyrium and waved it tauntingly towards the templar; she stared at it with lips parted before shuddering and turning her face away, lank brown hair straggling around her face.

The magister continued. “Their minds are trained as vigorously as their bodies, making any one templar a tough opponent for a lone mage to overcome or escape. Take note if you have never encountered one: magical resistance to thwart your spells, a stubborn mental fortitude that can knock back even the mind-affecting influences of blood magic, an aura they can summon to rip down your carefully woven shields and, let’s not forget, the ability to suck our magical energies away. Their skills are both dangerous and impressive. We mages like to think ourselves all-powerful, but we are not immortal. Arrow or blade can kill us quite neatly. So how do we compete against a fully-trained veteran agent of Orlesian hypocrisy?”

He took a few steps back, faced the templar and made several gestures in quick succession. Electric sparks spat and glittered towards their target, but diffused just short of striking. A stone fist hurtled after the first spell, as solid as the tower walls, but it shattered and blew to dust without the templar even flinching. A searing bolt of fire followed only to vanish into curls of silver smoke.

There were murmurings of surprise and no little disbelief at the spectacle, as though the templar had performed some impressively ironic magic trick.

The chained woman spat upon the floor and lifted her chin defiantly.

“The answer, of course, is blood magic,” the magister went on, unperturbed. “The increased power it grants can overcome a lone templar’s defences with ease, even a group of them if you catch them by surprise. A word of warning, however, that it will not grant you control of their bodies or minds without experience and training, so don’t try if you’re in fear of your life, but even in the hands of an apprentice, blood magic can buy you time to escape or, if necessary, kill.”

A simultaneous stiffening and arching of the four thralls’ spines was followed by patterns of blood spattering across the fronts of their pristine white armour. The templar gasped something in Orlesian at the sight, her eyes gone wide, and before she could do anything else the magister made a grasping gesture with one hand. She stumbled in place then stood rooted, her body trembling violently and her face contorted. Sweat sprang up all across her body. For a full five seconds she was held before being released, at which point she collapsed face-down on the floor and was audibly sobbing. Around her, the postures of the four thralls relaxed but did not otherwise move; no flickers of expression, no sounds of pain or relief, their brands still glowing, their faces still blank.

“Over the next hour I will go through some basic techniques you can use to defend yourselves against predators like this, using your own blood or multiple sources as I have just demonstrated. The more sources you can pull upon, the less danger of unintended harm. I pray to the Maker you will never need to defend yourselves thus, but some of you have fled the Circle Towers of other nations, your phylacteries still intact…” The magister gestured to the prone templar, his face grave, “…and as you can see not even the walls of Minrathous are impervious to a dedicated magehunter. Learn well, and you need not fear them. Magistra Madazzi, would you be so kind as to heal our test subject and check on the blood slaves before we continue?”

Muted conversation broke out around the chamber as one of the other magisters descended to the dais to perform the requested tasks, some few of the watching mages getting up to leave and most talking animatedly amongst themselves. Seeing this as an excellent opportunity to depart without attracting attention, Zevran rose and gave his companion a discreet prod to the shoulder when Xai remained unmoving. The human stood immediately at the prompt and swept for the exit with unhurried steps, one hand stifling a huge yawn, but it was not enough to conceal the pallor in his face from Zevran’s narrowed gaze. One of the departing mages noticed the Warden’s apparent boredom and said something with a laugh, to which Xai smiled wryly and answered, sparking more amusement.

When Zevran didn’t laugh (and he mentally kicked himself for forgetting to play along, distracted as he’d been by Xai’s behaviour), he was pointed at and queried. Xai’s response included ‘Antiva’ and a gesture indicating the upper floors of the tower, which earned Zevran some glances and oddly pitying expressions, but seemed to pass muster.

“Come along,” Xai said at last, in Antivan, “let’s not keep them waiting.”

“What did you tell them about me?” Zevran asked in a suspicious undertone as they proceeded down the corridor.

“Does it matter?” the other man retorted, his voice managing to be both soft and cutting at the same time. “I was lying to cover your slip.”

Zevran wasn’t about to let that shot pass. “O-ho, this from the man who would still be sitting in that ritual chamber enjoying the show if I hadn’t poked him awake, as it were.”

“Memories getting the better of me,” Xai muttered reluctantly. “It won’t happen again.” Then he summoned a sneer to his face. “What’s your excuse, Arainai? Get distracted by a passing pair of breasts? That is why you’re here isn’t it? To impress a woman?”

Zevran almost had to swallow his tongue to keep from a scathing reply as a pair of mages passed in the opposite direction. He took a slow, deep breath, sternly reminding himself that a good assassin did not blow his own cover by killing a companion in a populated hallway. That sort of thing could wait for later.

When he had the leisure to relish every second of it.

“Well, I do enjoy a shapely bosom,” the elf said at last. He ran a deliberate gaze down the human’s robed body. “When is the last time you had the pleasure of one, my friend?”

Xai acted as though he hadn’t noticed the appraisal. “I’m surprised that kind of thing didn’t get you killed back in Antiva.”

“A week? A month? No need to be shy.”

“If only because you never shut up about it.”

“Surely not a year!”

They both stopped and looked at each other. Or rather, Xai looked; Zevran leered.

“Last night,” the Warden said. “Human guard at the embassy. Sophia by name. Brown hair, blue eyes, long legs, very enthusiastic, screamed my name several times and wept when I said we’d never see each other again.”

They resumed walking.

After a bit, Zevran hmmed to himself and said, “Tell me, does anyone ever believe these stories you are so fond of spinning?”

A corner of Xai’s lips twitched upwards. “Tales such as Rinna being a setup?” He chuckled softly when Zevran failed to reply and glanced at the elf sidelong. “Why is Sophia so obviously a deception? What is a story of sex compared to lies like a cold-blooded murderer becoming a changed man? Trustworthy? A hero? ‘Good’?” His lip curled again. “Or do you subscribe to that fantasy too?”

“Tell me,” Zevran said, very quietly, his anger simmering again. “Is it your intent to anger me here, in this place of blood mages, Xai Merras?”

Whether he interpreted that as a threat or a warning that Zevran’s patience was reaching its limit, the Warden fell silent and turned his now perfectly composed gaze ahead. Zevran walked at his side, trying to force emotions back behind his cold Crow calm, but his treacherous thoughts were buzzing at the former master’s words.

He wasn’t here to impress anyone, not Asleena Cousland, not Shianni. He didn’t consider himself ‘good’, no pure champion or righteous hero, nor did he believe he’d ever pretended or wanted to be such.

Or had he?

“You’re a good man,” one or another of them would say sometimes, with pride, affection or, in one notable instance on Alistair’s part, startled disbelief. As often as Zevran laughed such comments off or turned them aside with lewd humour, it had both secretly embarrassed and pleased him to hear these words…every time. He was used to having his talents at killing or making love praised, not his intentions.

Motive was unimportant amongst the Crows. Why a person did what didn’t matter so long as the deed was done. “A masterful kill,” “A smooth seduction,” “A perfect heist,” “A productive interrogation,” “An excellent assassin.” Success and failure and skill mattered. Good and evil didn’t figure into the equation. They had no place in that world.

They had no place here, he reminded himself, as the great stone stairs leading up to the next level loomed.

While it was true his friendship with certain Grey Wardens had…influenced his actions and perceptions in recent times, he was hardly reformed. His enjoyment of the hunt and love of the kill were as strong as ever, no? His considerable assassin abilities had merely been focussed elsewhere, from the killing of darkspawn to the liberating of elven slaves.

Muddy the practical discipline of an assassin with morality and wondering what was right or wrong would only breed hesitation, such as he’d displayed with that apprentice mage down in the slave pens when he’d escaped his cage.

Surely a ‘good’ person would have found a way to spare her.

…surely a cold-blooded murderer would have forgotten about her by now…

**

The top of the staircase terminated in a single long straight corridor. Zevran and Xai had quieted their steps upon nearing the top, and now paused below the landing to peer over the edge and listen to the muted sound of voices.

Xai had described the sixth floor thus:

Four main passages meeting at a circular centre like a crossroads, where the ‘front desk’ and its attendants (three mages) could be found. At the end of the branches, only one staircase down, three up. At regular intervals, branching corridors leading to the spell-sealed cells. Ciela Tabris could be in any one of these, and Xai had not been able to say for sure how many there were. At least twenty-five. When he had last been here, he’d encountered no extra wards or traps to deter unwelcome guests; the mages had been confident in their own abilities to prevent any and all trouble.

Of course, that had all been before a blood thrall had killed their First Enchanter and escaped the tower. Things could have changed, and neither of the two young mages who had aided their infiltration had been able to advise what security measures there might be, if any.

Zevran removed his mage hat and stowed it away, turning it inside-out first to protect the feathers, and Xai followed his example, though he moved more hesitantly. Their robes had been chosen with an eye to the nondescript so were not gaudy enough to warrant removing, and with their packs left behind there was nowhere to hide such large garments in any case.

“Remember what to do?” Xai breathed, to which Zevran gave a silent if irritated nod.

Both assassins watched the mages at their distant post, waiting for that perfect moment to move without being seen and planning mental routes that afforded the best possible measures of concealment. Unlike the lower slave pens, which had been bare and uninviting, this blood thrall prison was warmly decorated with leafy plants and aesthetically pleasing sculptures. A long white carpet that must have been a royal pain to keep clean stretched the entire length of the passage. Zevran wasn’t going to object to anything that would keep his steps silent or grant extra cover, but the overall ambience he was picking up on put him in the uncomfortable mind of a place of recreation, not subjection. Perhaps it was just a façade, and the cells of the thralls themselves would be different…

“Don’t act too early or too late, or we’ll both regret it.”

Zevran muttered, “I am not an apprentice, my friend,” and to prove his words slipped quietly up to the sixth floor without waiting another second. Moving carefully from shadow to flickering shadow, pausing whenever a head turned his way and making himself a part of the tower’s lavish Tevinter ornamentation, Zevran drifted with familiar ease to the first pair of side passages and slid into one of them. As soon as he’d reached his temporary hiding place he glanced curiously down the passage and saw a sequence of shimmering fields that no doubt represented cell doors. He wasn’t close enough to see through any of them from where he stood, so he glanced back towards the stairwell.

Xai was still back there. He hadn’t moved—no, he had moved…into clear view onto the main floor. The man had taken just enough steps to make a start then stopped dead.

From the floor a sigil of blood red light blazed forth, enclosing Xai Merras in a crimson cage.

It seemed the magisters had updated their security after all.

[DreGregoire]

Oops. Now what? LOL. Queen of the cliffhangers hits again *winks* And I love that the two of them never stop going at each other.

Modifié par DreGregoire, 01 février 2011 - 05:49 .

[maradeux]

What a chapter again! I could laugh at Zevran's question when Xai last time had some pleasure, was angry about Xai's vicious overtones concerning Rinna. I liked it very much how you showed Zevran's inner moral fight. And the finish just leaves me amazed with open mouth...

edit: have forgotten something (again) - the templar and how they tortured her - creepy :-/ And I had to think of Asleena, although I'm not sure if she was a templar. But there was a certain resemblance - brown hair, pale skin...

Modifié par maradeux, 01 février 2011 - 09:43 .

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Part 17 - Uneven Odds

Zevran pressed himself flat to the wall as urgent voices drew nearer then the three mages strode quickly past him, their backs to his place of concealment. Again he had to curse his ignorance of Arcanum, but from their tones and body language as they reached the spellbound Xai it was clear the Warden was causing them some confusion. The mage robes, perhaps, or the fact he was entering the level rather than fleeing it, or that none of them recognised his face as belonging to a thrall?

Of course, there was also the fact that none of them would recognise his face as that of a magister…

The elf in the shadows watched on, his breathing controlled as he prayed for the impossible: that the disguise would simply lead to Xai being released and the glyph shrugged off as some kind of magical aberration. Too much longer and Ciela’s master would be arriving, and Zevran wasn’t sure he could easily deal with three mages.

The mages seemed come to some sort of agreement. The one with the fanciest hat said something to the trapped Warden in polite, formal tones, then bowed and drew a dagger from his own belt, which he drew across his palm. He made a few arcane gestures and Xai’s half-crouched half-walking posture straightened, the red light of the glyph vanishing. Just as Zevran began to release a slow breath of relief, Xai began to remove his own mage robe with stilted, unnatural movements and a blank expression. When the garments pooled at his feet, revealing his swords and leather armour and causing the mages to exchange glances, Zevran swore in the silence of his own head. One mage said something and the other two nodded; Xai’s hands started to work at removing the leather covering his chest, which would uncover the lyrium brand over his heart.

Shedding his own robe to provide as much freedom of movement as possible, Zevran stuffed it behind a potted fern and pulled a freeze bomb from his padded belt pouch. It was the only one he’d brought with him, enough to get him out of a tight situation if need be, and slow down any pursuers if the super-cold liquid numbed legs and feet. Considering his previous visit to the tower, he’d considered the precaution a prudent one.

But just as he started to slink around the corner to get within throwing range, a sprig of feathers appeared behind Xai—a mage coming up the stairs—and Zevran barely managed to whip back around the corner before the new arrival saw him.

Brasca!

Heart pounding, cold seeping through the leather of his gloves, he risked peeking and saw the newcomer, still facing down the corridor towards Zevran rather than away, being appraised of the situation while Xai continued to remove his own armour. The position of all four mages would make it tricky, nigh impossible, to splash all of them, even if he lobbed the flask directly at Xai’s skull. He wasn’t willing to gamble they’d fall for a diversion and just run after him to be picked off one by one, not with the stairs right there and thralls to flush him out…

Come now, ser mage, you wish to come around the front with your fellows, yes…?

No…no, he did not…not until Xai’s leathers were removed, his undershirt pulled off over his head, and his small spidery tattoo made visible, gleaming white under the effects of the blood control spell.

With all four mages now distracted, backs turned, Zevran gripped the chilled flask and moved quickly on silent feet around the corner, only to dive behind a tall statue as one of first three mages backed away from his fellows while saying something, then turned and jogged up the corridor, past Zevran and off to the desks he’d first been seated at. The assassin remained still for a moment as he flicked through his options, decided one target would be better odds than three, and silently withdrew back to the shelter of the side passage, alternating his attention between the lone mage who was rooting through a box of papers, to the three who were staring at Xai’s mark and talking amongst themselves.

After a couple of tense minutes, the mage at the desk called out triumphantly, flourishing a paper, and hurried back towards his colleagues. Checking to ensure the other mages were still preoccupied with Xai, Zevran put aside his bomb, pulled the Dwarf Dream-soaked cloth from a leather pouch and coiled himself, ready to spring.

The mage hastened past his hiding place, oblivious…

…Zevran dashed out on cat-quiet feet, moving fast and strong and using the momentum to lift the slightly-built human off his feet and whirl him around, clear across the corridor and into the recess of the opposite passage with the dosed cloth clamped over mouth and nose, free arm wrapped tightly around waist. Parchment fluttered ghost-like to the floor as the man struggled briefly, his protests muffled and inaudible to the three talking mages, then he weakened and went limp. The former Crow held his position a moment longer to make sure the drug had fully sunk in, then wasted no more time whisking the body into the shadow of a decorative urn. He returned quickly for the abandoned paper, a yellowing sheaf that bore Tevinter runes and the swirling ink of two distinct patterns, the smaller of which Zevran recognised as Xai’s lyrium brand. When one of the other mages calling out a question reminded him that now might not be the time to examine his find too closely, Zevran folded the parchment with a couple of quick motions and slid it within his armour.

“Basilius!” came the repeated shout, followed by a frustrated word Zevran took to be something uncomplimentary. He grinned to himself, welcoming the release of tension that brief moment of action had achieved, the exhilaration. Even Shayle’s orders not to kill anyone felt less of an annoyance now and more like a challenge.

There was a short argument between the three remaining mages, but rather than one of them going alone to seek the fate of the first as Zevran had hoped, all three headed towards the central area with Xai followed blank-eyed behind them, his discarded equipment and clothes borne in his own arms. Pulling back out of sight as the group went by (one of the mages turned his head to glance down each side passage in passing), Zevran weighed the wisdom of trying to seize Xai before deciding against it as too hasty a move. So long as he remained undiscovered and no more mages tipped the balance, there was still a chance.

Bide your time…

Glancing once towards the stairs down to assure himself the coast was clear, Zevran tailed the group and took refuge behind a tediously familiar white statue of a robed woman as the mages reached the central area. He watched from around a shapely carved posterior as more words were exchanged, the name ‘Basilius’ shouted a couple more times, a ledger written in and stamped with a seal dangling from the late mage’s sash, and the mage who was neither Xai’s handler nor the one who had arrived late rummaged through the box the parchment with Xai’s mark had come from. This went on for several minutes, long enough that Zevran began to cast frequent anxious glances towards the staircase. Fortunately he was not the only one growing impatient, as the late mage started arguing with Fancy Hat. This ended with the latter throwing his hands up in frustration, handing control of Xai over to his assistant (or, at least, that’s what Zevran assumed; the assistant cut his palm, surely to renew the spell?), and leading the other mage further up the corridor.

That left the assistant and Xai in the central area. The Warden simply stood, immobile and ignored, brand agleam, while the mage returned to his box of files. He reached for them to continue his search, remembered his bleeding left hand, growled an angry word, and proceeded to fumble through the box one-handed, head bent to his task. Beyond, the other two mages reached a side passage and vanished within.

“This is what will happen,” Xai had explained back at the embassy, “the mages sustaining the cell door barrier will unweave the spell together. The thrall’s master will enter the cell alone and subdue the slave, then the mages will re-establish the barrier from both sides. After that, the passage itself will be sealed to prevent others from observing or interfering. We must take down those two mages before the cell barrier is restored. Once one of them is on the other side of that field we won’t be able to get to him or Ciela until he chooses the lower the barrier again, and if he knows we’re here that’s not likely to happen. Worse, he can draw on her blood to summon allies or attack us, while being completely out of our reach.”

“But if he didn’t know we were present, we could wait, yes?”

“In theory, but I assure you that Ciela Tabris will be in no condition to assist in her own escape after a full training session. As carrying an elf girl through six tower levels might arouse suspicion, I suggest we try to do it right the first time, Arainai.”

And on top of that, in less than an hour those magisters and thralls one level down would be returning. Time was, as they so liked to say, of the essence.

Zevran crept stealthily from his hiding place, skirting around the chamber. Unlike the passages, the floor here wasn’t carpeted and he was forced to place his feet more lightly, move with less speed. He sidled with care, circling, breath all but held, attention riveted on the mage until he felt sure he’d gotten beyond periphery vision and could risk quickening his step. Reaching the next patch of snowy white carpet, he ran on silent feet for the passage the other two mages had taken and promptly came face to face with Fancy Hat as he came out in the opposite direction, alone.

Jaw dropped. Eyes widened.

“Buh—!” the mage shouted, a fraction of a second before Zevran drove a fist into his stomach and shoved him backwards, then kneed him hard in the groin to give him something to think about besides casting spells.

There was a questioning call from back in the main corridor as the assassin once again plied his drugged cloth. A quick perusal of the side passage told him what he’d already guessed: Ciela’s handler had already entered her cell. When the mage beneath his grip finally went still, he went swiftly to the shimmery purple barriers and peered through each one in turn. There, in the last of the sealed cells, in a room that resembled the white-draped pleasure chambers of the Silver Veil ****house of Markham City, stood the magister, his back to the door and Zevran, a blonde elf in white on her hands and knees before him with her brow pressed to the floor.

He was too late.

“Mati go mhero,” the mage commanded.

Slowly, the elven thrall sat up into a kneeling position, her lyrium tattoo glittering blue, chin lifted towards the magister’s face…her eyes closed…

Zevran found himself staring at the familiar scene and half-remembered words…

An amused chuckle came from the mage. He started to shrug out of his heavy outer robe and purred, “Harth.”

Xai’s command words!

Eyes the colour of amethysts opened…

“His ma vansk!” Zevran shouted.

The magister turned, his face a perfect picture of surprise when he beheld the assassin, then a marvellous image of panic as he realised his error.

The thrall jumped on her master from behind. Her legs wrapped around his waist, an arm locked around his throat before he could manage to give voice to a countermand, and her bare fist smashed repeatedly and viciously into his face as he clawed, struggled, choked, then simply attempted to dislodge her by ramming her bodily against one of the stone walls.

“His ma v—argh!”

The keen edge of Xai’s Imperial Edge ripped into Zevran’s right side, tearing a path of agony from shoulder to ribs. Zevran reeled back, virtually bending over backwards to avoid the second blade’s swing at his head. He lost his balance when a wave of unnatural vertigo seized his mind. The mage! He hit the ground and rolled desperately across the floor to avoid any descending sword-strokes, clawing for his blades and managing to free his sword in time to deflect an inelegant overhand attack delivered by the enthralled Xai. The human stared down at him expressionlessly and lifted his other sword. No assassin would be fighting like this, Zevran knew. Even at the embassy when provoked by the kill command, Xai’s attacks had been fast and furious, driven by a mind that knew its own abilities and weaknesses in intimate detail.

Xai’s swords suddenly burst into flames. Zevran’s magic-addled brain couldn’t help watching as the crimson and gold tongues of fire rippled lazily from hilt to point, throwing the passageway into an eerie pattern of coloured shadows. He found himself wondering at how beautiful it looked, even as the burning blade began its lethal descent.

A white and red-spattered figure plunged into Xai from the side, slamming him into the passage wall and sending one of his swords clattering. The blonde thrall snatched up this new weapon and flew at the mage with a snarl. Zevran stumbled upright and away from Xai as the mage levelled his staff; a bolt of crackling lightning turning the world white for the barest of instants. Ciela was struck square in the chest and stumbled, toppling with a scream of pain, then the mage lifted his bleeding right hand palm out towards Zevran, who had a flash-fast recollection of Magister Ezio out in the city making that self-same gesture a second before his blood had ignited in his veins.

Brasca…Not! AGAIN!

Zevran roared, vision deserting him in a wash of bloody colour, angry light and pure agony, furious that this was how it would end after everything else life had thrown at him, but as suddenly as the spell gripped him it was then gone. He slumped sideways into a wall, fingers digging spasmodically into the stone and mortar, lungs gasping air and relief in equal measure, mind dimly aware of similar sounds coming from Xai just behind him as, up ahead, Ciela Tabris wrenched the Warden’s Imperial Edge from the mage’s chest and struck his head from his shoulders in a spurt of blood, the golden flames that still danced across the blade dying as their master did.

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 03 février 2011 - 11:03 .

[maradeux]

Oh, that was furious!

So - what's the situation now? (I hope I understood it right) Ciela decapitated her master, Xai almost killed Zevran. (oh dear - from shoulder to ribs? How shall he survive the blood loss!? *fear*) All four mages are either dead or numb (I hope for a long enough time...). Will the insane Xai find back his sanity again? And if - will he help/save Zevran or will he exploit the situation in his hate? :-/ And what will Ciela do now? It's all so thrilling *bites her fingers* I hope I don't have to wait too long for the next chapter...

[DreGregoire]

@Mardueux. LOL. Quick graft youself into the story to save Zevran! You think Xai hates Zevran?

@ Shadow, Wow I was so pleased to find a new chapter when I woke up. And an awesome one too. I got totally floored when Zevran got attack by Xai. *shakes her head sadly* I can't see a way out of this. It's the end of them all, oh wait. I forgot in my distress of Zev getting injured that Ciela took care of that mage. Yay! Chance of escape. Right? Say yes to make me happy. LOL. I am looking forward to your next chapter.

Modifié par DreGregoire, 03 février 2011 - 04:52 .