Cullen tiredly started to follow the waiting soldier when he heard a shouted “Hold!” A muscular dark-haired woman strode up to a young man at a pell, snatching his wooden sword away. “I thought you were a soldier, not a drunken dock hand!” From there she tore into him, calling him a lazy, pot-bellied pile of nug s**t and elaborating in colorful detail, her crisp, penetrating alto dropping into absolute, unmoving silence. When she ordered the man to report to the stables for extra duty, every soldier in sight visibly jumped back to work. At that moment, Cullen was fixed by piercing violet eyes framed by precisely braided black hair. She ran her eyes over his armor, up and down aggressively, an arms master looking for flaws with a militant self-assurance that made him stiffen in reaction. Then her eyes lit on his vambraces, and violet flashed back to golden eyes as if identifying him. Stiffly, without giving away any of her thoughts, she inclined her head slightly, then turned toward the guard perimeter.
“Who in the Maker’s name is that?”
“She’s a right terror from them Free Marches, she is.” The private suddenly remembered Cullen was from Kirkwall and swallowed nervously. “This way, Ser.”
Cassandra and Leliana greeted him at the door to one of the more substantial buildings. “I thought I heard Sil’na’s dulcet tones, Commander, did you meet her?”
“If you mean that fishwife, no, thank the Maker.” The private seemed to be strangling on something. “So, where is this Lady Trevelyan you wrote about?”
Leliana glanced at the soldier. “Please ask the lady to join us.” The man quickly vanished as the two women steered Cullen inside, settling him into a chair with a mug of hot mulled wine to warm him. “The lady is shy, I think, and not used to Fereldan’s climate, so we sent her to rest.”
“Spoiled and pampered?” He sighed. “Is that fishwife her body guard?”
A wry voice brought him back to his feet. “You say fishwife like it’s an insult, Ser.” The dark-haired woman leaned casually against the door jamb, her arms crossed over her breastplate.
Leliana recovered first, smiling sweetly. “Ah, Sil’na, may I introduce Commander Cullen? Cullen, this is Lady Sil’na Trevelyan.” Cullen stared, patches of pink creeping up his cheeks.
“Do I sense disapproval, Commander? Well, it’s true, I am a lousy noblewoman; believe me, I can recite a dozen versions of that lecture by heart. But I’m a d****d good soldier, and soldiers die when their officers are soft. If it would keep these people alive, I’d do an Antivan fire dance naked in the snow while balancing a goblet of wine on my head.” Cassandra coughed suddenly, and Cullen realized the Seeker was laughing. “I’m long past apologizing for being good at what I’ve had to be.”
“I suppose I deserved that, Lady Trevelyan, it’s just…” he hesitated, “I am, was, a Templar; I don’t expect that kind of language from…an officer.”
Sil’na shrugged. “You left out noble, everyone gets around to complaining about that one eventually. Usually about the time they remind me that I’m called the Wolf B***h of Ostwick.” She chuckled at his expression. “Leliana, you are a wicked woman. Shy?”
“I thought the Commander should discover your unique qualities for himself since you’ve been gifting us with them.”
“I’ll point out that I haven’t held a sword to anyone’s throat.”
Leliana simply grinned back. “Yet.”
Shooting his own sharp glance at the redhead, Cullen rose to bow. “I apologize, Lady Trevelyan, if we could start over.”
“Accepted, Commander. And my sister is Lady Trevelyan, not me, so just Sil’na. Commander, the troops are all yours. I hope you won’t mind if I keep them on their toes, though?”
“I suspect you’ll keep all of us on our toes, Trevelyan.” He watched as her violet eyes flashed in response to his challenge.
“Only if I have to, Commander.”