Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Twenty-Two: A Roadside Encounter

There was a contentment that came with the arrival of dawn, of travelling the open water beneath the late summer sun. Not much, but enough to ease the pain of Nimue’s loss, to help gather himself in preparation for the greater struggle before them. From the bow of Bessie’s Bounty, Sagramor took what ease he could, finally permitting himself to accept the victory of saving the Circle, the small flotilla following in the Bounty’s wake a sight to lift any man’s spirits. First Enchanter Irving was true to his word; despite all the losses the Circle had endured and the short notice they’d received, by the time dawn broke over the distant horizon, eight vessels, mostly fishing ships hired from the villages that dotted Lake Calenhad’s shores, were well on their way towards Redcliffe, each laden with mages, Templars, and the lyrium needed both for Jowan’s ritual and to sustain them for weeks. With Kinloch Hold still in great disarray, and the darkspawn threat unabated to the south, it was decided that the contingent would remain in Redcliffe to help protect the castle should the Blight’s advance turn westwards. “Losing Redcliffe Castle would have been a disaster,” Irving emphasised before they took ship, “for there is no greater fortress in this part of Ferelden. If there’s anything we can do to keep it safe, we shall.”

If we arrive back in time to make a difference… Sagramor mused, tamping down on the anxiety as best he could. He’d thought of little else besides Redcliffe and Nimue that night, and while the latter had been condemned beyond his reach, he’d no such certainty regarding the former… or its inhabitants. They were still a few hours out from the fortress, yet not for the first time, the elven Warden twisted about so he faced south, grey eyes nervously scanning the distance for the vaguest clue of its fate, fingers anxiously drumming on the rail as he mentally urged the boat to go faster.

Sensing his anxiety, Leliana took his hand in hers. “We’re making good time, Sagramor,” she insisted firmly, watching the waves swiftly pass beneath the oaken keel. “Unless a griffon shows up to give us a ride, we won’t get back to Redcliffe any faster than we are now.”

“True enough,” Sagramor conceded, nerves settling with her gentle words. Indeed, they’d made excellent time, Wynne’s powerful sorcery taming the winds and water for their benefit and allowing the Bounty to travel swifter than ever before. At the tiller and mast, Samuel and Bessie glanced worriedly at the arcane forces enshrouded their beloved vessel, only the Warden’s assurances and the need for haste overcoming their hesitation regarding magic. All around the Bounty, a barrier of swirling air nullified the prevailing winds that had carried them northwards the previous morning, while more winds of the mage’s design filled the expanse of the canvas sail, steady and strong. The very waters of the lake too bent themselves to the Senior Enchanter’s will, forming an artificial current beneath the hull that carried them unerringly south and increasing their speed yet further. Throughout the rest of the impromptu flotilla, similar spells had been cast, nature’s whims brought to heel by the power of the Circle to ensure a far speedier journey. Leliana was right: they were going as fast as they could and no more could be expected of them.

Spells in place, Wynne settled down at the Bounty’s bow with the rest of the company. “So, you know I’m a Templar, right?” Alistair hesitantly inquired.

“I believe what I heard was that you were not, in fact, a Templar,” the mage insisted evenly, “but you were trained as one before you became a Grey Warden.”

“That’s right, but I still have all the abilities of one, of course,” he explained, taken aback by Wynne’s calm acceptance. “That doesn’t… make you nervous?”

A slender eyebrow arched questioningly. “Should it? I am no apostate. Perhaps you should direct that question to this Morrigan girl you mentioned.”

“Well, she claims not to be afraid of me, or anything, really,” deflected Alistair, eager to win the elder mage’s trust. “But you’ve had more experience with Templars than her, and I just want to make sure you’re comfortable working with me. I know how mages can sometimes-”

“The Templars serve a function, Alistair, and a necessary one,” Wynne sternly declared. “If what has happened at the Towers proves anything, it’s that we mages are dangerous, even to ourselves.”

“That’s… one way of looking at it.”

“Still seems like the Templars are the ones holding all the cards,” Sagramor interjected, Nimue’s loss still fresh in his mind. “Wynne, they would have killed you all if we weren’t there to stop them, all for the sake of their own fears. Can you really say they’ve never taken advantage of that authority, or abused the power given to them?”

“You are correct, such power is indeed open to being exploited, though to his credit, Greagoir does his best to ensure such abuses do not come about. There are many in the Templar Order who are far less sympathetic,” Wynne acknowledged. “But the fact remains that ability to wield magic is a tremendous power, and like all power, must be employed responsibly. There will always be mages in Thedas, Sagramor, thus there will always be a need to educate and guide them. The Circle is simply the best way we’ve found of doing so. It is not without its flaws, and finding the right balance between the freedom of mages and the security of everyone else will always be a challenge. But it is not a system immune to all reform, and whatever alternatives exist would be far worse for mages and mundanes alike.”

“Even so, I find it difficult to accept that the Maker would grant people such wondrous powers only to see them imprisoned,” expressed Leliana. “They are meant for far more than to be locked away by fearful men and released only when the Chantry has need of them.”

“Leliana’s right,” said Sagramor. “As it stands, the Circle seems more like a prison than a place of education.”

“Sadly true,” Wynne acknowledged, the shadow of some deep-seated fatigue suddenly emerging only to pass just as quickly. “It is something I’ve hoped to change, though Uldred’s insane rebellion will likely make things more difficult for us. Still, the effort must be made. Perhaps in fighting the Blight, the Circle will gain the leverage it needs to undertake these reforms, having demonstrated our worth on the battlefield.”

“I know the feeling, Wynne, and I hope you’re right,” Sagramor affirmed, offering a nod of approval. Stopping the Blight was a goal that required no justification, and having seen what he’d seen, he could no more deny the darkspawn threat than he could his own parentage. But to prove the value and courage of his people in the process was what kept him going even in the darkest moments, and if he could change the attitudes of even a few towards the elves, then the struggle would be worth every hardship. “Maybe having the Circle fight against the darkspawn will encourage Ferelden to rethink their prejudices towards mages.”

“One can hope. If nothing else, freeing Connor and restoring order to Redcliffe will be a good first step. I--”

“Do you see that?” Leliana interrupted, gesturing eastwards. Sagramor followed the trial of her outstretched arm towards the horizon, grey eyes widening at the distant bloom of smoke coming from just beyond the shoreline, billowing thick and fierce, a stark disfigurement upon the endless blue canvas of the cloudless sky. “It must have ignited just now, or we would have noticed it before.”

“Charcoal burners, maybe?” suggested Alistair.

From behind the mast, Bessie shook her head in disbelief. “Unlikely, my lord, not unless the mound got breached. My pa was a charcoal burner, and in all the time I spent helping him, I never seen one go up like that.”

“We should assume the worst, Wardens,” counselled Wynne. “Much may have transpired since you departed Redcliffe, and with Cailan’s army destroyed, I doubt the darkspawn have been idle.”

“Agreed. Let’s check it out,” said Sagramor, turning towards the rest of the fleet, hands cupped around his mouth. “First Enchanter!”

“You see the smoke too?” Irving called back from the nearest ship.

“We’re going to investigate. Keep heading south, we’ll meet up in Redcliffe!”

The old mage waved in acknowledgement. “We’ll see you there! Good luck!”

“You too!” shouted the elf, turning back to his companions as Bessie’s Bounty veered away from the rest of the flotilla, Wynne’s enchantments shifting to mimic the rudder’s course. “Think you can get us to shore, Samuel?”

“Easy enough, Warden,” the fisherman replied, grip firm upon the tiller, narrow eyes squinting at the intensifying smoke, its source hidden behind the dense stretches of woodland that lined the lakeshore. “There’s plenty of little inlets and beaches along this stretch, and I’d wager a mule to a courser that the smoke’s coming from no more than a mile inland. Ain’t no problem to drop you off and pick you up again.”

“Glad to hear it. Once you get us back on dry land, take the Bounty back out into the lake proper. When we’re ready to get back aboard, we’ll call for you.”

“Sure about that, Warden?” asked Bessie.

“I am. We don’t know what caused that fire, or what might be waiting for us once we arrive, and I don’t want to risk you getting hurt by some enemy when our backs are turned. Stay at least a bowshot’s length from the shoreline. Worst comes to worst, head back to Redcliffe, we can always travel cross-country if we need to.”

After a moment’s consideration, Samuel shook his head. “We ain’t the sort to leave good folk behind. We’ll keep our distance like you ask, but I’ll be damned if I’ll abandon anybody for sake of my own hide.”

Smiling warmly, Sagramor accepted this display of loyalty with a grateful nod. “Serves me right for questioning your dedication,” he admitted. ”Very well. We’ll try not to linger any longer than necessary.”

Grunting in approval, Samuel expertly steered the fishing boat into the shelter of a shallow inlet, great willows bending low in homage, branches dipping into the dark waters as the keel ground softly upon the mud. Leaving their Warden tabards behind for safekeeping, the party swiftly disembarked, setting through the dense woodland with a caution borne of experience, furtively glancing about the shadowed glens for any sign of threat. Before them, the trees gave way to a gravel-strewn road running along their path, the deep ruts in the earth testament to the traffic it had seen over the years, and further to their left, the smoke billowed forth even more fulsomely, inspiring Sagramor to length his stride. “Looks like it’s just down the road,” stated Leliana, pausing to string her new longbow, a gift from Kinloch Hold’s grateful Templars to replace the one Uldred had destroyed. “Could darkspawn be responsible?”

“No, not this time,” Sagramor assured her, the nauseating sensation he’d come to associate with the darkspawn absent. Still, that was no reason to become complacent, for there were perils besides darkspawn to be found in the world. “Maybe we should stick to the woods as we approach, just to make--”

“Help!”

It was a woman’s cry, cutting through the song of nearby birds and the distant crackle of the flames, and out of the ditch that lined the eastern edge of the road stumbled a young elven woman, her long dress left tattered and soiled with dirt. Upon seeing the little company, she let out a desperate shriek, throwing herself at Sagramor’s feet, green eyes wide with tears as she frantically clutched at his mail. “Oh, praise the Maker you’ve come, ser, you must help!”

“It’s all right, you’re safe now,” promised the Warden, gently prying her fingers off him. “What happened?”

“Our caravan was attacked by bandits! They took my sister! Please, hurry!” she exclaimed, glancing about fearfully for any sign of her attackers. Before the elf could learn anything more, she darted back the way she came, heedless of their calls to return and leaving the party dumbfounded in her wake.

“All right, something doesn’t add up,” Alistair stated what they were all thinking. “Why in Andraste’s name would the victim of a bandit attack run back towards the danger, especially unarmed? It’s not like we can’t see their handiwork from here,” he said, gesturing towards the billowing smoke.

“True,” Sagramor admitted, his own unease growing. To be fair, it wasn’t like there was a guidebook for how victims of brigandry were supposed to act, and between shock, panic and concern for her sister, it made sense for her to act irrationally. Yet instinct, honed sharp by too many disasters and close calls in recent days, insisted he maintain his vigil. “Let’s head after her, but be ready for anything. If there really are bandits lurking around here, I doubt they’d let us go without a fight.”

“And if it’s a trap?” asked Alistair, unbuckling the shield from his back.

“But what if it’s not?” Wynne suggested. “If there are people in need, Warden, then we should help, no matter the risk to ourselves.”

“Agreed. If it’s a trap, then we’ll trip it, but one way or another, we need to figure out what’s going on here.”

Down the path, the woman screamed once more, desperate and pleading. Without further hesitation, the Warden took up the pace, loping down the path with blade drawn, the others close behind. Ahead, the trees began to thin out into a small clearing, and the elf noticed how the ditches that lined the road gave way to stone fences, constraining them upon the path. The smoke gusted thick and fast now, sent towards them by the errant breeze, and coughing and choking through the clouds of soot, Sagramor burst through, the warning cries of his instincts reaching a fever pitch as he beheld what lay in wait for them.

For the band of hardened killers that occupied the clearing were waiting for them, the barricade they’d thrown up at the other end of the road proof enough of their premeditation, the dozen crossbowmen lining the gentle hills on either side levelling their weapons toward the killing ground they’d established. A half-dozen more thugs remained on the low ground, each clad in leather armour and bearing a blade in each hand and wolfish grins on their lips, joined too by the apparent damsel in distress, the mask of hysteria discarded as she joined her fellows in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

And from out of the ranks beside her strode an elven man, the olive skin of his face marked with elaborate tattoos the likes of which Sagramor had never seen before, the confidence of his demeanour verging on arrogance, longsword and dagger slung across the back of his polished leather armour. With a lazy gesture, he signalled the trap be closed, and with the awful creak of snapping branches and splintering wood, the great oak fell across the road, the Warden’s party barely managing to leap aside as it came down with a thunderous crash to block their escape. “The Grey Warden dies here!” proclaimed the elf, red steel singing free of their scabbards.

And the long quarrels flew.

Faster than an old woman had the right to move, Wynne reacted, the butt of her staff planted hard into the earth, the air shimmering as she threw up an arcane shield to intercept the missiles. As one, the bolts struck, their combined force ringing out against the barrier, throwing her back several paces. Lightning suddenly sprouted from the hands of the false damsel, shattering Wynne’s defenses, but Alistair’s shield and Templar powers sheltered Wynne from its wrath. “Into them!” shouted Sagramor, meeting the first assassin head-on, greatsword cutting the thug down. They were confined and exposed out on the road, left vulnerable to a successive volley from the crossbowmen once they’d managed to reload, and to remain on the defensive was to be trapped and cut down by their ambushers. The only way forward was through, to risk the blades of their would-be assassins and fight their way to the missile troops, and their assailants knew it, rushing to meet the Warden’s charge head-on.

Alistair hammered another of the assassins down with the flat of his shield, buying Wynne the breathing room needed to unleash a wave of gravitational force, knocking several of the crossbowmen flat. With lightning speed, Leliana nimbly scaled over the fallen tree, her arrows picking off more of the crossbowmen from the concealment of the oaken branches, cutting them down as they laboured to reload their clumsy weapons. Another of the knife-wielding assassins fell split open, brought down by the Warden’s fury, and out of the corner of his eye, Sagramor saw their leader give an almost rueful smile. The ambush had been well-prepared and executed, their would-be killers unrelenting from the very first moment. Yet, despite being able to identify the Wardens, they could not have known about Wynne’s presence, the swift and brutal nature of their initial strike countered by her magic. No doubt the assassin hoped the opening volley would have finished them off without the need to dirty his blades, and Sagramor took advantage of that miscalculation, fury kindling in his breast. It seemed almost ignominious to perish at the hands of mere assassins after surviving an onslaught of abominations, not to mention Ostagar, and he made the thought of such dishonour his whip and spur, cutting through his attackers without hesitation. Another of their number came at him, twin daggers raised high to plunge into his skull, and he put the longer reach of his greatsword to good use, tearing out his adversary’s throat. More assassins surrounded Alistair, wicked blades descending from all angles, until a hooked dagger finally found purchase through the armour, cutting deep into his upper back and drawing forth a cry of pain. The former Templar’s concentration faltered, and the enemy mage struck with renewed fury, Leliana dodging frantically away as the tree caught fire around her, smoking the beautiful archer out of cover and forcing her to dodge fresh bolts from the surviving crossbowmen.

Snarling, Sagramor bullied the closest assassins to the turf and made a beeline for the mage, all other dangers forgotten in the face of Leliana’s peril. The elven assassin, their leader, intercepted his furious charge, parrying the wild swing with a disdainful flick of his red steel arming sword, and Sagramor stumbled away, wrong-footed, barely avoiding the thrust of the assassin’s dagger towards his ribs. Smirking, the assassin offered a mocking bow, voice laced with the husky tones of distant Antiva. “Shall we dance?”

With a growl, Sagramor took up the offer, the ring of their clashing swords echoing throughout the clearing. The Warden had both reach and power on his side, but the assassin was quick, twin blades forcing him on the defensive. Nothing was off limits for his adversary, red steel flickering towards his hands, eyes, throat, groin, and Sagramor found himself hard-pressed to counter the assassin’s skill, heavy blade barely able to keep up with the flurry of attacks. All around him, he could hear his companions locked in the fray, but he could not spare a moment’s attention for them. Any distraction meant death at the hands of such a skilled swordsman, and so he lunged forward, eager to finish off his current foe rather than leave his friends unaided for an instant longer.

The assassin must have noticed his desperation, for he shifted tactics accordingly. As Sagramor brought the greatsword down, the Antivan darted to the side of blow, before lunging with the arming sword right for his heart. Cursing, Sagramor brought up his blade to deflect, and simultaneously, the curved dagger plunged into his side, piercing mail and flesh alike.

Howling in pain, Sagramor acted on instinct, greatsword discarded in the sudden agony. Mail-clad fingers suddenly caught the assassin’s wrist in an iron grip, pinning the dagger in place within his own flesh, and green eyes widened in shock as the assassin struggled to tear it free to strike again. With a lupine smile, the dark-haired elf viciously headbutted his attacker, sending him reeling. Desperately, the assassin tried to bring his arming sword to bear, but Sagramor was within his guard now, a second headbutt leaving his foe concussed and utterly vulnerable to a savage knee to the groin. A final left hook and he collapsed insensate, his hold over his weapons slackening, and Sagramor hurled his limp body to the turf with a curse, finally pulling the long dagger free.

“Zevran!” came the outraged scream of the false damsel, and Sagramor was hurled along the grass by the apostate’s lightning bolt, flesh and armour sizzling. Templar anti-magics smothered the heat of her magic just as a goose-fletched arrow sprouted in her breast, and Wynne’s voidfire swept over her a moment later, burning her to ash and leaving the clearing silent once more, save from the laboured, painful gasps of the Warden.

Leliana barely spared a moment to ensure there were no further threats before she rushed to the Warden’s side, wide blue eyes horrified at his injuries. “Andraste, that was reckless of you, Sagramor. Why in the Maker’s name would you let him stab you like that?”

“I disarmed him, didn’t I?” Sagramor jested weakly, wincing in pain at the scorched blisters marring his pale flesh, right hand closed over the knife wound, sticky with fresh blood. “See to Alistair first, I’ll be fine for a moment.”

“This is a triage situation, Sagramor, and you are in quite a state,” proclaimed Wynne, fingers tracing arcane shapes over the wounded elf. Once more, the blue light of her healing magic settled over Sagramor, and as ever, he was left awestruck at how quickly it worked to steal away the pain, washing over the livid burns, knitting the knife wound closed and restoring strength to his battered limbs, all in the space of moments. The light faded, and Sagramor permitted Leliana to help him to his feet, gingerly stretching to ensure no lingering pain endured. “Leliana is right, that was a very risky move on your part.”

“Needs must, Wynne, but thank you,” answered the elf, offering a nod of gratitude. “Did any of the enemy manage to escape?”

Leliana shook her head, gesturing over to the bodies of their attackers. “Whoever these assassins were, they were committed; they all died fighting rather than escape.”

“Except for this one,” declared Alistair, marching over to where the elven assassin still lay unconscious, longsword heavy in his hand and a distasteful grimace on his lips. “I can take care of this one for you, if you’d like.”

“Alistair, wait!” Leliana insisted. “Don’t kill him.”

“He did try to kill us!” the former Templar retorted, still smarting in the wake of the ambush. “I know it’s dishonourable to kill someone like this, but assassins aren’t ones to complain about underhanded tactics, are they? Besides, he’s too dangerous to let live; Sagramor nearly bleeding out is proof enough of that.”

“Yes, he did try to kill us, Alistair, with a very effective ambush and an apostate amongst his number, not to mention that he recognized you as Wardens, even without your tabards. These were trained professionals, not desperate peasants frantically throwing themselves at us for Loghain’s reward. Kill him now, and we’ll never know who they were or how they found us.”

“She’s right,” said Sagramor. “We need to know what we’re dealing with here, and we can always kill him later if his answers don’t measure up.”

“Fair enough,” Alistair acceded, slamming the longsword home in its scabbard. “Might as well take what loot we can.”

“Let Wynne see to you first. Leliana, keep watch. I doubt there are any more assassins lurking about, but let’s not take any chances. I’ll secure the prisoner.”

So ordered, the little party went about their tasks. Behind the barricade to the north, the assassins had set up a small camp next to a small, quick-flowing stream, and once the wound on his back had been tended to, Alistair and Wynne swiftly set about searching it and the bodies of the fallen for anything of value, a small pile of coin pouches, weapons and salvaged armour materializing from their efforts. They discovered too the source of the blaze that had lured them into the ambush, a great bonfire comprised of wet green wood and lengths of old ship’s cables, still sticky with tar. “No wonder we thought it was a farmstead burning,” said Alistair, eyeing the prodigious plume of smoke it produced.

“I wonder how many others it ended up luring here,” Sagramor questioned, accepting several lengths of rope from his fellow Warden. “Doubt the assassins would have bothered taking prisoners.”

“The only corpses here belong to the assassins, and given we only just saw it ourselves, I doubt anyone else had time to blunder in here.”

“Maybe. We should douse it, though, keep it from luring anyone else or burning half the forest down,” Sagramor ordered, keeping his eyes on the unconscious elf. A quick search of the assassin uncovered a wide assortment of throwing knives and hidden blades concealed on his person, and only after ensuring that he was completely disarmed did the elf bind his wrists and ankles in front of him. Best not to take any chances with this one. “Anything, Leliana?”

“No, all seems quiet,” replied the Orlesian woman. “We should not linger here; Redcliffe still needs us, and Loghain may have men patrolling the roads, even this far southwest.”

Behind him, Alistair succeeded in dousing the fire, several buckets worth of water drawn from the stream finally quenching its heat. “We’ll be away before anyone else arrives,” Sagramor promised her, taking another bucket. “But for now, let’s see what this one has to say for himself.”

With a grunt, Sagramor hurled the bucket’s contents over the stunned assassin, the sudden shock of the cold water jack-knifing him awake, sputtering and coughing. The prick of the greatsword’s point beneath his chin made him go very still, and quick, mischievous green eyes turned upwards towards his captor, provoking a wry smile. “And here I thought I would wake up dead,” the assassin remarked calmly. “Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet…”

“Refuse to cooperate, and I’m certain I could fix that,” Sagramor growled, keeping the greatsword levelled. Alistair had not been wrong: there was dishonour in striking down a weaponless and captive prisoner, and in most circumstances, such an act could hardly be justified. But this man had tried to kill them, to murder his comrades, all for a pouch of coin, and the fury that so often sustained him in battle roiled and seethed beneath the iron-hard countenance of his gaze, overcoming all thoughts of mercy.

“Ah, so I am to be interrogated, then?” said the assassin, seemingly unperturbed by the greatsword’s threat. “Then let me save you some time. My name is Zevran Arainai, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought her for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens... which I have failed at, sadly.”

Beside him, Alistair went tense with anger. “The Antivan Crows…” Sagramor mused, hastily searching the chambers of his memory. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“I can tell you that,” piped up Leliana, keeping her back to the party as she maintained her vigil. “They are an order of assassins out of Antiva, very powerful, influential and renowned for always getting the job done, so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.”

“Quite right,” Zevran boasted. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the Crows out here. Where I come from, we’re rather infamous.”

“Not for being good assassins, it seems,” countered Sagramor.

“Oh, is this how Fereldens treat their prisoners? Mocking them!” Zevran shouted in mock indignation, idly straining against his bonds. “Such cruelty! Such unrepentant sadism!” Teeth flashed in a delighted smile. “I’m rather beginning to like you.”

“So who was it exactly that hired you?”

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital… Loghain, I believe his name was.”

“Of course it was Loghain,” Alistair growled, bitter as ever at the mention of the traitorous general. “You came all the way from Antiva just to bend the knee to that bastard?”

“Not precisely. I was in the neighbourhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see. As for Loghain, I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I’d imagine: you threaten his power in some way, yes? Beyond that, no, I am not loyal to him. I was simply contracted to perform a service, that is all. He wouldn’t be the first nobleman I’ve taken coin from when they needed an enemy removed.”

“And when were you to see him next?” asked Sagramor, mind racing at what Zevran had told them. Poison, desertion and now outright murder… what else is Loghain capable of?

“I wasn’t,” Zevran explained. “If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results, if he didn’t already know. If I had failed, I would be dead, or I should be at least, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then. The guild is efficient like that.”

“But how exactly did you know where we were so you could ambush us?” the elven Warden persisted. “Was Loghain aware of the Circle’s troubles?”

“No one in the Tower would have betrayed you after all you’ve done for us, Sagramor, I can assure you of that,” insisted Wynne.

“There was Kester the boatman, remember?” Alistair reminded them. “And the inn near the docks was fairly crowded, any one of them could have passed a message along.”

“A worthy deduction, Wardens, but no,” said Zevran. “Loghain knew a great deal about both of you, enough to suggest you would try to seek refuge in Redcliffe Castle; this ‘Bann Teagan’ fellow apparently seemed the sort to offer aid to Loghain’s enemies. We also learned from your little adventure in Lothering that you had something of a heroic streak, thus, the nature of our little trap. That’s also how I learned what you looked like, the soldiers you’d spared in Lothering were quite happy to offer a description of you once they learned their lives were on the line, though I must say, the sketches given to me did not do you justice.” The assassin’s wrists flexed against the tough coils of ropes. “Tell me, who exactly was it that bound me so?”

“That would be me,” Sagramor replied, too crestfallen to bother evading the question. He should have expected as much: the oaths of loyalty sworn to their liege lord would have meant far more to the soldiers in Dane’s Refuge than a brief act of mercy by an elf, and they would have relayed the tyrant everything they knew about him at first opportunity. That Leliana had approved of that mercy seemed small consolation when it had led to the peril she experienced, and Sagramor forced away the rising tide of melancholy to address the issue at hand. “Why do you ask?”

“I merely wish to commend you on your technique, ser. You’ve quite a knack for it. In point of fact, there are many houses of pleasure in my native land where such skills would prove quite lucrative. You could make quite a killing there, should this whole Grey Warden thing not work out for you.”

Blushing, Sagramor turned away, stifling the unexpected rush of laughter before it could emerge. “Out of curiosity, exactly how much were you paid to kill us?”

“I wasn’t paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely, or so I understand. That does make me about as poor as a Chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn’t for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.”

“So why be one?” snapped Alistair.

“To tell you the truth, I was never given much choice in the matter. The Crows bought me when I was very young, and at a bargain price too, or so I was led to believe.”

“You were a slave?” asked Wynne, aghast at the very notion.

“Correct. I think I’ve paid my worth back to them plus tenfold, but ‘retirement’ isn’t a word bandied about the Crows other than as a euphemism. Indeed, the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I’d really think twice about it.”

“You seem to be quite free with this information,” said Sagramor.

Zevran gave a sharp laugh. “And why not? I wasn’t paid for silence! Not that I offered it for sale, of course.”

“Aren’t you at least loyal to your employers?”

“Loyalty is an… interesting concept,” the assassin casually remarked. “If you wish, and you’re done interrogating me, we can discuss the matter further.”

Sagramor kept the greatsword where it was. “Very well. Say what you have to say.”

“Well, here’s the thing: I failed to kill you, and under the code of the Antivan Crows, my life is now forfeit,” Zevran explained. “That’s how it works. ‘No one fails the Crows and lives,’ as they say, so even if you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Oddly enough though, I happen to like living, and you are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you instead.”

It was all Sagramor could do to keep his jaw from dropping. “This is insane!” Alistair declared, unwilling or incapable of concealing his utter scorn for the idea. “You must think we’re the dumbest people alive, don’t you?”

“I think you’re all royally tough to kill, and rather gorgeous in the bargain,” the assassin proclaimed slyly, offering Sagramor a winning smile. “Not that I think you’ll respond to simply flattery, but there are far worse things in life than serving the whims of a handsome elven sex god.”

Sagramor’s blush deepened yet further, mentally thrown off-balance by the other man’s flirtations. Amongst the alienage folk, relations between people of the same sex were generally looked down upon; maintaining their population in the face of constant attrition at the hands of disease, workplace accidents and human persecution was considered critical, and elven families were encouraged to be fruitful in their unions and so secure the future of their people. Indeed, many of the more conservative elves considered taking a lover from one’s own gender to be behaviour more suited to the corruption and decadence of humans, of yet another moral weakness displayed by their persecutors. For his part, Sagramor held such folk no enmity. A man’s virtue was defined by the choices he made, not by whom his heart desired, and given his own growing attraction towards Leliana, he was hardly in a position to condemn someone for seeking an unconventional relationship. He’d simply never been the subject of such desires before, and the blade began to ever-so slightly waver in his discomfort. “Tell me, can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you?”

“I happen to be a very loyal person,” Zevran insisted. “Up until the point that someone expects me to die for failing. That’s not a fault, really, is it? Unless you happen to be the sort who’d demand the same thing, in which case, I don’t come very well recommended, I suppose. Certainly, that is not something you insist for your other companions, I would imagine, yes?”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” the Warden permitted, well-aware of the incredulous looks Alistair and Wynne were giving him. Recruiting the man who’d been hired to kill them seemed an idiotic notion, and yet… “And what’s to stop you from finishing the job later?” he asked, largely to buy himself a moment to ponder.

“Besides gratitude for sparing my life? Well, to put it simply, I don’t have very many options. Even if by some twist of fate I were to kill you, the Crows would still kill me for failing the first time; there are no exceptions, especially not for a junior member of the guild such as I. Plus it would mean I’d finally be free of the Crows, and that alone is worth standing by you.”

“Would you able to defend us should the Crows come calling again?”

“Of course! I happen to know their wily ways. I can protect myself, and you, not that you seem to need much help. And I’d help you fight darkspawn, Loghain’s men, anything we encounter you’d like me to kill for you, of course, I’d not be a charity case.” The assassin offered a smug grin. “You’ve already seen my skills with a blade in action, Grey Warden, and I’m not hesitant about employing them. Spare me, and such talents are at your disposal.”

“And what happens after, assuming we survive?”

“Well, I’d imagine at some point down the line when you no longer have need of me, I would go my own way. Until that day comes, I am yours. Is that fair?”

It was fair; indeed, it was nothing more than he’d asked of his other companions, yet still Sagramor hesitated, caution warring with mercy in his soul. Letting Loghain’s men walk out of that tavern in Lothering had done little but given the so-called Regent a source of information he could use to destroy them, and only thanks to Wynne’s presence had they avoided paying the price for that decision. Yet it went against the grain to cut Zevran down like a wounded animal; Vaughan’s depravities had earned him such a fate, but as far as he knew, Zevran had yet to descend that far, and to squander the assassin’s skills for the sake of his own misgivings seemed a waste. Sensing his comrade’s indecision, Alistair crossed to his side, whispering urgently. “For the Maker’s sake, Sagramor, you can’t really be taking his offer in good faith, are you?”

“I am considering it,” Sagramor replied. “You object to bringing him along?”

“Of course! He tried to kill us, Sagramor, and on Loghain’s orders at that. That should be enough to condemn any man! Does this really seem like a good idea to you?” the former Templar insisted, eyes widening with shock at the terrifying notion that crept into his mind. “And what if this is all just some ploy to get to Arl Eamon? He makes a show of fealty, we bring him back to Redcliffe, and then he slits the Arl’s throat?”

Before them, Zevran chuckled in genuine amusement at the notion. “I can assure you, my good ser, that I have no intention of doing so.”

Face taut with rage, Alistair wheeled back on the bound assassin, fists trembling at his sides. “And how can we trust you on that?”

“Well, first off, it’s like I said, no one fails the Crows and lives. Killing this Arl Eamon would not make up for my failure to depose of both of you; the Crows have not gotten as powerful as they have by accepting the mistakes of their underlings, and to show tolerance to such weakness risks undermining the integrity of the guild. I could bring them the contents of a dragon’s hoard, much less Arl Eamon’s head, and they’d still put me to death. Secondly, I would not kill Arl Eamon because no one has paid me to do so. I don’t know how you do things in Ferelden, but where I come from, if you’re good at something, you don’t do it for free. And as much as I love the sparkle of treasure, sparing my life outbids any offer one might make for his life, or anyone else’s. I’ll not be accepting any contracts while sworn to you, be assured of that.”

“He’s right, Alistair,” said Leliana, wandering away from her picket to join the discussion. “Besides, what assassin would dare tempt such a risk when death seems the only outcome?”

Alistair gave a frustrated scoff. “One of these days, you’re going to tell me how a Chantry Sister speaks so confidently about criminal matters.”

“It’s just common sense!” she retorted, cheeks flushed red with irritation. “If an assassin truly wished to kill Arl Eamon, then there are much safer and surer ways than ambushing us and pleading for our forgiveness. Besides, Loghain meant to kill the Arl subtly, to disguise it as some terrible ague. It’s a strange sickness that leaves a man with a slit throat. Let him come, Sagramor. He can earn his redemption in battle, fighting for a just cause, and we will need all the strength we can muster to defeat the darkspawn.”

“Wynne?” asked Sagramor. “What’s your take on all this?”

“It is a tremendous risk, and not one I would personally consider,” the elder mage admitted, eyeing Zevran with no small disdain. “Yet as I understand it, you have brought many into the fold that others would have dismissed out of hand. I do not trust this assassin, Sagramor, but your judgment has so far proven reliable. If you feel he is worth it, despite the danger he poses, then I will stand by you in that decision.”

“Thank you, Wynne,” said the elf, privately pleased to have earn her respect, even in the short time he’d known her. She was absolutely right; bringing Zevran along was a tremendous risk, perhaps to the point of foolishness. But risk was part and parcel of his life now, and in many respects, this was a lesser risk than in many of the choices he’d faced so far. There’d been risk in accepting Flemeth’s aid, in sparing the Circle when others would have seen them purged, in trusting the judgment of a human nobleman like Bann Teagan, even in storming the Arl of Denerim’s palace to rescue Shianni in the first place. Risk could not be wholly eliminated, merely balanced against the demands of the mission and of his conscience, and that, he reckoned, was the truest test of what it meant to be a Grey Warden, and a leader.

A moment passed, and the greatsword finally withdrew. “What?!” Alistair demanded. “We’re taking the assassin with us now?”

“We do need all the help we can get,” Sagramor reminded him, kneeling down before Zevran. “But before we take you into this company, let’s set a few ground rules, shall we?”

“That is only to be expected, Warden,” Zevran said, a jovial twinkle entering his green eyes. “Go ahead.”

“First off, you will obey my orders. I’m not the sort to make arbitrarily demands of my companions, but when I ask you to do something, it’ll be for a good reason. Clear?”

“Understood.”

“Second, we’re a company. We stand or fall together. I’d expect that you work with my companions and myself in all things, and fight to the death to defend them if necessary. Do that, and you can be assured we’ll stand by you in kind.”

“A quite reasonable arrangement. I can get behind that.”

“Three,” Sagramor continued, ticking off his fingers. “Should I hear the slightest whisper of treachery from you, Zevran, I will cut you down where you stand. My trust is something to be earned, not given, especially seeing as how you tried to kill my friends, and I have endured enough betrayal as of late without you stabbing me in the back, figuratively or otherwise. I will have your oath, and you will abide by it.”

“Fair enough. I accept your terms, Grey Warden, and will gratefully uphold them,” Zevran declared, offering Alistair a sly glance. “That is, if your fellow Warden is in agreement.”

“All right, all right, I see your point, Sagramor,” declared Alistair, throwing up his hands in submission. “Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, it just knocked on the door and said hello. I don’t like it, but you’re in charge. I just hope you know what you’re doing, I really do.”

As do I, my friend, Sagramor muttered inwardly. The belt knife slipped free of its scabbard, and Zevran sprang to his feet, rubbing his wrists and ankles before offering Sagramor a deep bow. “I’ll have that oath now.”

The assassin’s right hand shot forward to grasp Sagramor’s own, the lighthearted ease with which he’d answered the Warden’s questions gone in favour of the strictest solemnity. “I, Zevran Arianai, hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, Sagramor Tabris, until such time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation and to whatever end. Your goals are my goals, your friends my friends, and your enemies my enemies. May my life be forfeit should I break his pledge. This I swear.”

Sagramor gripped his newfound companion’s hand for a moment longer. “I will hold you to that, Zevran.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Zevran chuckled.

With a smile, Leliana stepped forward to greet the new addition to the party. “Welcome, Zevran. Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan.”

A blonde eyebrow rose quizzically. “Ohh? You are another companion-to-be, then?” Zevran remarked, bringing her hand to his lips and provoking a sudden flare of jealous in his fellow elf. “I wasn’t aware such… feminine loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely.”

Quick as lightning, Leliana snatched her hand back. “Or maybe not.”

Grinning, Zevran stepped over to his fallen blades, sheathing them at his back with a dramatic flourish. “Shall we proceed, then? I’d imagine we have a great deal to do.”

“That we do, Zevran,” Sagramor responded calmly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the assassin as the little company moved out, bundles of captured armour and weapons under their arms. Ignoring the frustrated glares of Alistair burning a hole in his back, the elven Warden maintained his stride, eager to return to the relative safety of the Bounty. Maker grant that this risk pays off. Otherwise, I may have just killed us all…