Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine
The morning had been so promising with its blue skies and bright rays of sunlight. Now those skies were grey and the air hung heavy with moisture. Auria kept an eye on the horizon as she finished her inspection of yesterday's destruction. There would be a storm by evening, perhaps midnight if they were lucky. The weather hung on the cusp of spring, that wonderful in-between season of iced-over mud and muck two feet deep. Ferelden storms were always unpredictable, but it was worse at this time of year. Whereas last night's storm brought rain and soaked the ground, she had a feeling the next one would cover that same ground with ice, freezing all the moisture in place. Give her true snowstorms, or better, the gentle rains of real spring. Sleeting rain and frigid moist air got in her bones and brought back nostalgia for the cozy work rooms of the Circle. There was nothing about the Circle she wanted to remember with fondness, not even its warmth. The Keep was unlikely to have such warmth, not even with its many hearths.
Vigil's Keep was different than she'd imagined – not only because she'd arrived in the midst of a darkspawn attack, but also because of its size and scope. While the Circle Tower jutted straight into the air, as if in denial of the rock it was part of, the Vigil seemed like a natural growth of the landscape, like some great carved mountain uncovered from the earth instead of built upon it. And it was huge. She'd gotten lost trying to find her way down to the courtyard. Not that she'd admit it to anyone. A Commander should appear to be in control at all times. Plus, she had last night to live down. Being carried up the stairs. How could she have let herself get into that state? She pushed the thought away – she knew exactly how, and this wasn't the time to think about it. The survivors were whispering rumors about her and Alistair – maybe she should encourage them. Better the people think her amorous than unable to walk herself up the stairs.
"Commander—" a girl of no more than twelve stood several steps away, attempting a strange bobbing curtsy. The dirty ragged dress didn't help her any. "Uhm, I mean Arlessa. Commander Arlessa. Warden Commander Arlessa—"
"Commander is fine," she interrupted the girl. The child's face had a hollowed out look that had nothing to do with one day of battle, no matter how heinous. "And what should I call you?"
The girl stared at her blankly, large blue eyes wide.
"Your name," Auria prodded gently.
"V… Verimensis, your grace. Commander," she stuttered out. Her jaw clamped shut and then opened again, as if deciding to be brave, "but no one calls me that. Most folk call me Pigeon, or Veri." Staring at the ground she added, "I like Veri better."
"Thank you, Veri. Did you have a message?"
"Uhm, yes Commander," the girl said to her bare toes, "Sen'shal told me to find you. They're ready for you— not the Sen'shal, he's in the upper quarters, he just told me to get you for the King, umm, his majesty..." she cleared her throat. "I'm supposed to say that your presence is requested by the King. His highness... majesty… is waiting in Arl Howe's study—uhh... no, not the Arl's—the—" she stopped, breathlessly, as if not sure what to call the room now that Howe had been killed and proven traitor.
"Where can I find the study?" Auria asked, looking the girl over. Her hair was so dirty it was hard to tell the color and she was tall, nearly as tall as she was herself. That wasn't a feat for most humans, but usually she could at least count on being taller than the children. Not that height had anything to do with leadership or skill. The last man to believe her height gave him an advantage was lying namelessly out in a ditch somewhere between Denerim and Vigil's Keep. The thought gave her an unbidden satisfaction and even as she tried to deny it, a feral smile spread across her face.
"Ummm… it's… he's…" the girl backed up a few paces, "he's in the study on the second floor. The King is, I mean, not the Arl. It couldn't be the Arl, he being dead and all. And you being the Arlessa and not being marr—oh. I didn't mean.. I just…" she wrung her hands nervously. "The study is on the second floor, fourth door from the stairs, if you take the stairway from the Great Hall."
"Thank-you. Take a message to Cook, and let her know the new Wardens will need meat again tonight at supper and double the normal amount of wine. Also, let her know a large storm is due in tonight, and I expect it to rain for…" Auria paused, channeling a bit of her will into the atmosphere, her sense of water finding its kindred in the approaching storm. "About three days, hard. Possibly an ice storm."
Veri's eyes opened wider, although Auria wasn't sure how that was possible. "A weather witch," she breathed. "My own mam knew one once, she got mad one day and called a storm to blow all the roofs off the houses!"
"I can promise I won't be blowing the roofs off any houses in my Arling, so you and your mam can rest easy."
"Oh, I'm not afraid," the girl said, losing a bit of her anxiety in excitement. "We'll have good crops for sure now. Could you make it storm whenever you wanted? Fallon said icicles shot from your fingers and you brought lightning down from the sky, but I didn't believe him, he's such a big liar. He's always saying—"
"Veri. Will you please deliver my message now?" Auria's eyes caught on the pointed edges to the girl's shoulders, as if they'd been sawed off at a right angle. "Tell the cook I said to give you something nice for your troubles."
"Oh, yes'm, thank you, ma'am, I'll be right quick! Commander, Ser, your ladyship!" The girl bobbed her head again and ran off, bare feet flying up the steps toward the front hall.
A weather witch. She wasn't one, not really. Not in the sense most country folk meant. She couldn't change weather patterns or cause gentle rains to fall on farmland, nor could she bring out the sun when they needed a warm day. Immediate howling storms, yes – lightning that forked out of nowhere, yes – but they were self-contained, like she'd displaced a small bubble of atmosphere and made it her own. They did nothing to help or hinder the weather outside of them. Given, the frost and snow would lie on the ground until it melted, but that wasn't much use in the larger scheme of things. Not when farmers were trying to recover from a blight and food was scarce all around.
Whoever this Fallon was, he'd been right. She had left icicles dripping like pointed teeth along the upper parapets. Creating fountains of flames or ice or electricity took no great effort. Those were the first spells she'd mastered, the ones that had, in fact, allowed her to be promoted into the advanced classes at the Circle. She'd always had an affinity for primal spells. Upon leaving Kinloch Hold she'd also discovered a talent for reading storms and tides, for knowing just where a river traveled as it wound its way through the countryside. Water. It was at the heart of her magic. Ironic that she should be so deathly afraid of drowning – even now the thought made her uncomfortable.
Every mage had a spell that came to them first, a spell that announced both to themselves and the world at large that yes, they could wield magic. For Anders that had been healing. For her, it had been water. Not ice, which was the more like the discipline of fire. Pull the heat out and an object freezes. Water was fluid and akin to earth magic in the way it was manipulated. Not many realized that – Circle mages didn't learn water spells, at least, not the ones in Ferelden. No, the mages in Ferelden were half-drowned and encouraged to see water as death.
Auria didn't like to think about her first spell. She wished it had been healing, anything innocent and innocuous. Maybe that first spell had marked her. Maybe that was why blood magic called out to her, why she could command it with such ease and deftness – perhaps even why the sword called out to her. A wielder of death, that was what she was. What she had been from the age of five. Death bringer. No wonder her parents hadn't tried to hide her. Not one person in the alienage stood up for her when the templars came. No, instead they'd pushed her out into the street and closed their doors. Not that she cared. Her parents had not been kind people, and even a five year old knows when they are unwanted.
The adults at the Circle had been nice to her, templars and mages both. They let her sleep in a bed and clothed her in thick robes and socks. No one ever mentioned her first spell or talked about what happened. She'd kept silent, unsure if they knew. Maybe guards didn't talk to templars. Certainly no one at the Circle would give hot food and warm clothes to an elf, not if they knew the truth.
Auria wasn't sure what the truth was anymore. Maybe it had been a trick of a child's imagination. She'd certainly never been able to manipulate water the way she remembered. To be fair, she'd never really tried. Yet, something had happened that night. The guards came, and the men were dragged away from her. They'd hung so limply, and she'd seen their eyes… Why was she thinking of this? What was done was done, and it was no use dwelling on the past. Only the present and the future mattered, and in them she wasn't a sad, scared girl, she was a commander – The Commander. People put their trust in her to save and protect them, they put the trust of their future in her hands. She would do whatever was needed to secure that future: victory, vigilance, sacrifice. The joining cup seemed to loom in her thoughts. It wasn't her fault if sometimes that sacrifice belonged to others. It wasn't, she repeated to herself, opening the door to the main hall.
Auria stopped short. Anders was at the other end room, surrounded by a few servants. A few women servants, of course. He looked… good. The Orlesian style of clothes suited him, as did his hair. He'd smoothed it back into a clean ponytail, blonde highlights sparkling in the lamplight above him. As he gestured with his hands the girls tittered with laughter, one of them reaching out to grasp his arm as if his words were so funny she couldn't stand on her own. Auria rolled her eyes. He hadn't changed, not at all. What had she expected? That the aim of this morning's attempted visit had been to make some silly declaration? To tell her he'd never forgotten? No, if she had meant anything to him he would've found her years before. Turning the corner quickly, she started up the steps before he could see her.
...
Anders' heart gave an unwieldy thump as he saw Auria leave the hall. The robe she wore should've been plain, but the way she'd belted it – leather straps criss-crossing at her waist to hold the skirt just high enough to give her stride freedom, a dagger at each hip – it was mesmerizing. She obviously didn't feel the same about him – the look she'd flashed his way was contemptuous, as if he were no better than the mud on her boots. Well. She would have to deal with him, whether she wanted to or not. He would have an answer, or he would let Rylock cart him away. But… hero, part of his mind whispered. Grey Warden, saving the world. Freedom. No, he commanded himself. The blight was over and he'd get down on his knees and pray to Andraste before he willingly made himself vulnerable to blood magic. And that was saying something.
"Excuse me, girls," he smiled, squeezing each of their hands in turn, "I can't wait to continue this conversation, but, duty calls. Tell you what… the first one to find me after dinner will get a very special magic trick," he winked, and pulled into existence three exquisite ice roses. The spell had taken him a long time to perfect, but it had been worth it. Oh, had it been worth it. Maybe Auria… no, she had her king.
"Ooo, it's cold!" one girl exclaimed, the one with the long plaited hair. She tucked her frozen fingers into her mouth, looking up at him through her lashes.
"All the better to warm you up, later," he said, giving her a last lingering glance as he swept away to the stairs. Damn, but he wished he had his robes. They really gave the final touch to his performance. Ah well, the Orlesian clothes weren't too bad, although they wore their pants a little snugger than he was comfortable with. A little too confining. Perhaps it would distract Auria. She must've come this way. Maybe he could even catch her alone—
Maker take it! Did that man have to be everywhere? Anders ducked into an alcove, hoping Doyle hadn't noticed him. He'd been surprisingly strong for such a thin man – no, not thin, sleight. Being on the receiving end of that strength had not been his idea of fun. The dark-haired man had gripped his arm and bodily dragged him down the stairs, completely uncaring of his weakened state. His arm still felt bruised, even though he'd healed it. Those muscles were well-hidden on the man's small frame. Doyle had also worn at least three daggers and what felt disconcertingly like a vial of poison. It left an unpleasant stickiness on Anders' fingers, like touching the slime from a snail – very different than the warm blush of elfroot or the tingling of lyrium.
If Doyle was an ordinary King's man he'd give up drink for a fortnight. For one, he had a completely average face. The very unremarkableness of it made it remarkable. Except Anders amended, when he scowled. Then those plain blue eyes became as steely and sharp as any blade. He'd bet a gold coin that men twice his size backed down at his scowl. It had just that right tinge of madness mixed with confidence, almost like some type of glamour. He should know, he'd witnessed the effect first hand when the blighter caught him in the stairwell.
For two, Anders just didn't like him. Why did he need a reason? He was perfectly within his rights to be biased. The man had taken advantage of his hung-over state, easily overpowering him and then shoving him off on some servant girl. Well, the servant girl part wasn't too bad, not once he'd found her and apologized. She'd promised never to bring him clothes from the rag pile again. Then she'd promised him a little more… Hopefully, he'd be alive to enjoy it.
Anders peered around the corner, Doyle was gone. Silently casting a little 'don't notice me' spell over himself he slipped down the hall. The spell wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny, but it was good enough when someone didn't expect him to be there. People were amazingly good at only seeing what they wanted. A door stood ajar, faint voices coming from within.
Three, he thought, grimacing at the scene in front of him – he didn't like the familiar way the wiry man sat with Auria. Who did he think he was, bending his head close to hers like that? And why was he scruffy all the time? Shouldn't a king's man either keep his face shaven or grow a beard? Scruff was best left for the artistically scruffy. Not for overly familiar little tossers who thought they were in charge of everyone else. And what was that, with the hand touching? He should go in there right now and demand Auria speak with him, break up their little tête-à-tête.
Instead, Anders leaned into the shadows of the hall, straining his ears to hear their conversation.
...
The room was empty when she arrived. It was quiet and somehow peaceful – almost cheerful. Veri must've been wrong, this couldn't have been Howe's study. The décor was soothing, the desk much too petite and she didn't see one ostentatiously ornate carving. There were blood stains on the carpet, and a good chunk of a bookcase was strewn across the floor as if a great hammer had taken a swing at it, but that was to be expected. It even had a small hearth of its own, which someone had lit. Perhaps she could learn something from Varel. The Keep ran with surprising smoothness, given only yesterday battle had raged in its halls.
A quick rap on the open door made her turn. Not Alistair. Doyle. His face was strained, and her spine stiffened in automatic response.
"How bad?" she asked, a tone of sharp command.
"Not unsalvageable," his mouth twisted wryly.
Auria's eyes flicked back to the door, "Alistair?"
"Distracted, but I doubt for long."
"Leave the door open, it wouldn't do for us to be found alone in a closed room." She sat at the desk, motioning for him to take a stool across from her. They faced the ever increasing gloom of the afternoon, dark grey clouds slowly replacing blue sky.
"I'm glad to see you with Alistair," she said, giving him one of her rare smiles. Doyle was a good man. He'd been a conscript during the war, but one who fell to it with determination, quickly moving up the ranks. He'd been at the battle of Denerim and she'd seen him take down more than his fair share of darkspawn, blades moving faster than her eye could follow. Most the men he'd led had survived and he'd received a commendation from Teagan. When he volunteered to serve her after Alistair's coronation she'd immediately accepted, placing him where she most needed a trusted ally – at Alistair's side. "Report?"
"The King almost left without me. Eamon sent me into the city on some fool's errand, but an army of that size doesn't travel as fast as one man on horse. The Captain of the Guard didn't look happy to see me. He's a tool of Eamon's."
"Not good, but not unexpected."
"I found notes in the Captain's pouch, these are the copies," Doyle slipped a rolled up sheath of papers into her hand, "I don't believe he's had time to send any of his observations on to Denerim, but we've already received two missives today – one from the Orlais ambassadors and the other from Bann Esmerelle in Amaranthine."
She lifted an eyebrow quizzically.
"I don't know, m'lady," he answered her unspoken question. "Both have used very intricate seals which I haven't had time to break. It's unknown how they knew the King was here." Doyle's speech was neat and precise, much like his person. "I recommend we use the Captain to feed Eamon information."
Auria nodded agreement, "Continue."
"Two templars rode off at sunrise, Rylock was not among them. I've heard rumors of strife within the Chantry, a civil war of clergy, if you will, each templar and priest choosing a side. These are unfounded rumors as of yet. I hope to bring you concrete evidence – I've sent a man to follow the templars." His jaw clenched as he stared out the window.
"What are you not telling me?" Auria's voice was deceptively quiet.
With a sigh, Doyle answered bluntly, "Arl Eamon has added Chancellor and Regent to his titles."
Auria's nostrils flared and strands of hair floated from her carefully smoothed bun. The room grew noticeably colder.
"He convinced Alistair it was a necessary step when leaving Denerim on campaign."
After all she had done to keep this very thing from happening. All the mincing words and petty politics she'd been forced to play into. "But the Landsmeet – they must've been called if he was naming a Regent."
"They were, but Eamon pushed it through quickly – not many attended, and those who did were in his pocket. He's turned many of your allies, including most the ears you left in the castle."
The fire in the hearth flickered low, valiantly sputtering to give off heat.
"Commander," Doyle said gently.
"Continue," she shook off his concern. "Quickly."
"I'm working on obtaining proof, but I believe Eamon engineered the mix-ups in both your departure and the King's. Alistair was told you couldn't be bothered to wait for him, and you would see him in six months. Those were the King's words to me as we traveled; I haven't found who fed him that information."
"That… explains quite a bit."
"Also, you were correct. Several parties are planned for this coming summer, with an eye to finding a Queen for Ferelden."
Modifié par sabreene, 15 novembre 2010 - 02:28 .
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