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Sereda gripped her maul, holding it in a ready stance in case she had to swing it down on the assassin’s head. For now, though, she needed answers more than she needed justice.
“I… Oh, oeugh,” he elf moaned, slowly opening his eyes to the carnage around him. “I rather thought I would wake up dead.”
Gorim took a step closer, bearing his shield to cover His Lady’s blindspot.
“That can still be rectified,” he warned.
–
When the job came in, truthfully, Zevran scratched his head. Certainly there were dwarven assassins, no? As lithe and dangerous and well-worth his price was, even Zevran could admit that conscripting the Crows was a bit, well, overkill. And everyone knew getting smuggled in Orzammar was a pain, even if the tunnels were better suited for his stature than that of a human.
All for the best, however.
It meant it was easy for Zevran to win the bid. He laughed when the contract was accepted; Rinna would have known it was hollow. Taliesen might have as well, but Zevran didn’t allow himself to look over and check.
–
He felt just a little bad for the woman, though, when they stumbled upon her brother’s corpse. How was he to know they were related? In any case, the poor dwarf was not nearly as quick-witted and nimble-footed as his new mistress.
And he did attempt to argue in her favor, but, ah, perhaps letting the assassin live was a black mark against her? In retrospect, of course.
–
“When I pledged my life to you, princess,” Zevran carefully plucked the worst of the rotted straw mats. “I must admit I expected the pledge to last just a little longer. Ah, but fate is a sly and fickle mistress.”
“I’m not a princess.” Lady Aeducan’s back was partially towards him; they had been stripped of their belongings, clothed in needlessly and offensively tattered garments, and placed in adjacent cells.
Zevran shrugged. “Bastard, then?”
She pinned him with her dark-honey eyes; she wore little face paint, just a faint shadow of kohl-black on her eyelids to give them a sunken, intense look. An old keloid scar bisected her cheek, cutting up and towards the missing upper tip of her left ear. Her fair-copper hair was trimmed short, cropped tight around her skull, and her arms and legs were dusted heavily with downy hair as well. Perhaps it even extended to her stomach as well, and, wasn’t that a delightful thought? Thinking it certainly kept Zevran warm in this damp cell.
All-in-all, out of her expensive noble armor, she looked more like an alleycat than of royal blood. Her posture, though—that was undeniable. Straight, aloof. Unbending.
And then she laughed, the sound loud and brash, like a donkey.
“If only,” she said, once she quieted. Tears had escaped out of her eyes. “But no, actually, yesterday I had been given the title of Commander.”
“Congratulations!”
“Yeah,” she snorted. “Some ceremony.”
“Now, I do not wish to seem impertinent, or ungrateful, but I’m surprised you tied my fate to yours.”
“Why not? They’re either going to listen to my testimony, which would be strengthened by yours, or they’re going to kill us, and my brother’s killer will be revenged.” She wiped at her eyes; they had not stopped leaking tears.
“...Ah. So you are as wise as you are beautiful.” Zevran eyed her a little closer. Only her clenched white knuckles betrayed any other physical tension. “You’re taking this very well.”
On an exhale, she relaxed them. “The first time an assassin came for me, I was four. My nursemaid died in front of me. Her blood was still tacky on the floor when my brother told me to stop crying.”
“Impressive memory.”
“We had a Shaperate as a royal guest at the time, so the moment was well recorded in our Memories. It will never be forgotten.” She kicked at the bar of the cage, startling a curious rat and sending it scampering away. “Unless I’m erased. Which is a possibility, should we be banished like Gorim was.”
“It’s better to be forgotten then dead, no?”
She didn’t respond, just looked out the bars of her cell. A moment later, Zevran heard the guards return to retrieve them.
–
“Er, no, no thank you.” Zevran raised his hands in an open, friendly manner. “I am not cut out to be a Grey Warden. It is simply not my best color.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Aeducan,” Duncan said, “but we need recruits. We cannot—”
“He’s with me,” she interrupted. Under the glow of the lava light, her cropped hair shone like fire, like she was wearing a crown and not corpse-robbed leather armor. “I pledge myself to your cause, Warden, but the elf is in service to me and me alone.”
Zevran hid his surprise. He thought he was going to have to toss an acid bottle at the ground and make a run for it, risking dreaded darkspawn over dour wardens, but suppose he didn’t have to now.
“Very well, La—”
“I’m not a Lady, and neither is that name mine.” Despite her words, her bold voice was one that made people sit up and listen. No one could think her a commoner.
Duncan inclined his head. “Of course. What would you like to be called, then?”
She hesitated, then, “Salroka’s fine.”
–
“I am curious, my friend. It seems as though you were not on good terms with your brother—the elder, that is. The younger, ah, that’s a more straightforward reason for your split.”
“Trian? He was an ass.” Salroka passed him a game pheasant. She was an expert at striking one down with a crossbow, but clueless when it came to plucking—she hadn’t eaten fowl before coming topside. Duncan was securing the perimeter of their camp against bandits, although those were less common the closer they got to the army at Ostagar. “Inconsiderate of our citizens, and cruel to me throughout my youth. He would have made a terrible king.”
“I see.”
“I’m not... It’s complicated. Had we been in the Smith caste, or even just another noble family, out of line of inheritance, it would have been different. You can argue with a brother, have grievances. But Trian was never just my brother—he was to be my king.”
“Trust me, Warden, I understand the line between duty and love.” He motioned for her to pass him a pot, the pheasant cleaned and ready to be cooked. “To betray love hurts more, but duty often wins, does it not?”
“Void if I know. Bhelen moved against us first. I never had to make that choice And I understand… I understand stripping Trian of his title, I could have understood if Bhelen felt the need to push his hand, but…” Salroka cleared her throat. “I did consider Bhelen my younger brother. Suppose that was my mistake, not realizing he didn’t see me the same. I thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“Sal—may I call you Sal?”
She sighed heavily, but the corners of her mouth twitched all the same. “Do you think my answer is going to be different the sixth time you ask that?”
“Perhaps the seventh.”
A smile escaped before she could smother it.
“You could always call me Zev, my—”
“—friends do?” she finished for him.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Very well.” She grinned at him now, fully and without remorse. It was a lopsided, lovely thing to look at. “Pass me the salt, will you, Zevran?”
–
Zevran did not pace. Instead, he lounged, silently, against the gritty ruin walls, and waited for Aeducan to wake.
The bodies of the other… recruits had a sheet laid over them, and Duncan was speaking in quiet voices with a Tranquil mage to discreetly remove them for cremation.
“Say, did you really commit regicide? Against her own brother?” the younger Warden asked. Alistair had been miserable waiting in silence for a change in Salroka’s condition, but so had Zevran, so he was feeling less than charitable.
“Does it count as regicide if he was not my king?” Zevran used a teasing, light tone. “Also, technically speaking, he was not a king.”
“But he was her brother.”
“Yes, well. Family is complicated, as they say.”
Alistair huffed, shaking his head and letting the matter drop. “I can’t believe she begged Duncan to keep you along.”
Zevran shrugged, too tired to come up with a proper innuendo. It was a poor choice on the Warden’s end, even if Duncan had been in no danger from Zevran’s blades at the time.
Now, however, it was a different story. Braska! Should Salroka perish in this cursed—in this cursed ritual or whatever it was they were doing, Zevran would slit their throats.
Or, he’d attempt to. Certainly they were thinking of doing the same to him. There wasn’t enough of whatever was in that goblet to force Zevran to drink it, and he’d seen what happened to those who let the secret out. Foolish, perhaps, that he had jumped out of his hiding place in alarm when she had collapsed.
For now, he continued to lounge, playing with his golden earring.
–
“You’re awake.”
Zevran rubbed his pounding head. “This is the second time I’ve woken to your lovely face, when I fully expected to meet the Maker instead.”
She snorted and sat down on his bed. “I’m less religious than you. Maybe if I converted to the human’s beliefs, I’d have a beauty of my own.”
“Am I not comely enough to be that beauty?” he pouted, taking stock of the hut they were in. “If you continue to wound me, I really will perish.” The room was… in a state of disrepair, that was a way to phrase it. The room was warm, at least, but smelled peaty and musky. “We were saved by a dragon, yes, or was that just my blood loss?”
“Both. Come on, you’ll like her. The dragon is a mad woman who lives in a swamp, and she talks only in riddles and circles. You’ll fall for her instantly,” she said.
But she made no movement to leave the room.
“Yes, Salroka—Warden?”
“Warden, huh? I guess so.” She picked a loose thread off the wool blanket covering his torso. “Duncan died.”
“I remember, yes.”
“But we have the treaties.” Her face twisted. With grief, anger, humor—Zevran couldn’t tell. “I became a Warden to return to Orzammar. Sereda Aeducan is stricken and banished, but Warden Salroka cannot be kept from her duty in the Deep Roads.”
“And you need my testimony.” He shifted, letting the blanket fall off him. He was wearing a shift, but he felt oddly underdressed. Not a common feeling, for him. For another, even more bizarre moment, he almost laid his hand atop hers. “I’m happy to give it, Salroka. I’m with you, remember?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Utterly ridiculous. If someone had told me that this was going to be my life a month ago, I would have assumed they were lyrium-addled.”
“Is that where we’re going next? Orzammar?”
“No. We need to go to the Circle first, this mission is too important to be without their aid. If any of them can do a fraction of what our mysterious new friend can do, we’ll need them to defeat the Archdemon.” She grinned at him. “You up for it, Zev?”
Absent-mindedly, Zevran pulled on his earring. “Yes,” he answered simply.