secrets

Early mornings in April, there’s still frost thick on the ground when he wakes up, coating every blade of grass and collected in rimes where the horses have churned up the mud. Most days, it coats him as well, dusting his bedroll, edging his nose and mouth and eyelids where they emerge from under the blanket.

He’s up before the sun—the cold helps—rolling his blankets up and strapping them behind his saddle, striding over to the trough and breaking the ice that has formed on it overnight so the horses can drink. By the time the light peeks over the edges of the mountain, sparkling brilliant crystal on the silent fields, he’s tacked up and riding.

He never stays long in one place. He can ride for days and never leave the ranch—and, when he does, there’s only prairie anyway, wheatgrass and sagebrush and wild horses dotting the landscape without much else between him and the horizon.

Krem likes the quiet. He’s spent enough of his life in choking cities, his father stitching shirts and saddle blankets by candlelight until he about went blind of it, then cleaning the streets in the slums because that’s the job there was for a man who had no other option. It wouldn’t be him, he swore, and it wasn’t. There are a lot of things he swore he wouldn’t be, but riding out here on the plains, running the horses and checking the fences and burning the brush like there’s no one in the world but the two of them, he can forget about needing to swear at all and just be.

Corimer Vesperian could trace his heritage back a long fucking way, okay? A long fucking way, because that’s one of the primary requirements to be a member of the Magisterium. Requirement one, as much magical talent as it is humanly possible to pack into one person (and I do mean humanly, because the Magisterium would never consider anything else, much like how people with pale skin are never immigrants, only expats). Requirement two, perfection—in every possible way: physical, mental, hell, the Magisterium will check your hairline and count the freckles on your skin when it comes to determining whether or not you are a worthy candidate. And requirement three, a pedigree that must be bound in multiple volumes, ideally in leather, ideally with gold-embossed text on the front, and the only pedigrees worth having are the ones where the oldest volumes can only be read by a few select scholars in modern Minrathous, because nobody speaks Old Tevene that old anymore.

Corimer Vesperian had all three. Not because he was a member of the Magisterium, per se, but because the requirements for the position his descendants were made to hold are all that and more.

But if you look at the oldest volumes of Corimer Vesperian’s pedigree, the scholars in Minrathous can’t even read them, because they don’t recognize the alphabet, let alone the language. It’s some kind of runic script, maybe, or… pictograms? Perhaps something in that liminal space in between. They don’t know. Nobody knows. They might get somewhere if they started asking a different kind of scholar—the kind, maybe, that you can only find in the Shaperate—but nobody in Minrathous would do that because they would never consider anything else. Much like how people with pale skin are never immigrants, only expats. And Corimer Vesperian, and the Vesperian before that, and the Vesperian before that, have met with the Magisterium’s approval.

This means that Corimer Vesperian’s youngest son, who has every volume of that pedigree on a shelf in the Argent Spire, can trace his heritage back so far that heritage ceases to be a concept and becomes something else—inheritance. Something buried in the way he works that makes him a child of… not just Vesperians, not just magisters, not just the Imperium, but something much older and deeper. Something that runs so faintly through his veins that even the blight can barely recognize it, but it’s there. And when Ashur says, “I’m fine,” it’s… he’s not fine, not exactly, but the thing is, it’s not just Ashur speaking.

The scion of the Vesperians, it’s said, is the sum of Tevinter’s greatness. The Venatori once described him as “the fruit of at least four great bloodlines.” Not all of those great bloodlines come from Corimer Vesperian; it’s something not everyone in the Magisterium bothers to acknowledge, but Ashur had a mother, too—someone chosen for Corimer Vesperian because she met every requirement: the magic, the perfection, the pedigree.

Ashur owns no volumes of his mother’s heritage because those went to a sibling of hers, most likely an eldest son. This is how things work in the Tevinter Imperium. Ashur doesn’t know and he’s never asked—this is not a priority for him and, given the company he keeps, it would feel almost hypocritical to wonder—but he knows the broad strokes. His father knew more. The Magisterium likely knows more still. What they don’t know, though, is lost to time and the lies ancient Tevinter chose to perpetuate to build itself into what it once was. Ashur’s mother was human, of course, in the same way that people with pale skin are never immigrants, only expats. Her father and mother were human; their fathers and mothers were human. Or at least, their ears were softly rounded, their eyes the blue and brown and hazel that a Magisterial pedigree allows.

But, if you go far enough back, someone might have had green eyes. Someone might have had ears that were… round, still, but in a more chiseled way. And farther back than that, and then farther back still, someone had violet eyes. Someone had ears that were… not round, not this far back, but another shape that no one in modern Minrathous would acknowledge. And farther back than that, and then farther back still, someone had no body at all, but made one for herself. And the inheritance of that body, shared over thousands of years, became the mother of Ashur Vesperian.

And that body, the one that was made… well, it’s ironic, isn’t it? That body was the first home of the blight that now lives in Ashur Vesperian’s veins; its creator; its corruptor.

They say the blight recognizes its own. That this is the reason Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn, and darkspawn can sense Grey Wardens. There are other things, too, other senses, other songs, but Ashur Vesperian doesn’t know about those. The Magisterium doesn’t know about those (and wouldn’t care if it did). But blight calls to blight, and the blight in Ashur Vesperian’s veins… it doesn’t feel like something that shouldn’t be there. Not quite. Almost. But not quite.

But that body—the first home of the blight—Ashur Vesperian’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s… well—that body was stolen from another. And the body it was stolen from—that body, shared over thousands of years, became the father of Ashur Vesperian.

And that body, the one that even the Shaperate has forgotten… well, it’s ironic, isn’t it? That Ashur Vesperian, the Imperial Divine, the man groomed from birth to be the embodiment of the Maker in the mortal realm… well, even in the Magisterium, that was never meant to be literal.

On being the best

“I just don’t understand why it matters,” Ashur says. “Why does anyone care if I’m the best at this? It’s not like mathematics or medicine or… well, it’s not useful.”

Dorian smiles, although it’s halfway to a grimace. “They don’t care whether it’s useful, Ashur,” he says, his tone patient even as he rolls his eyes at the concept in its entirety. “They only care that it proves your superiority at something.”

Ashur, who has been taught to hold his tongue, doesn’t suggest that he become the best at Space Invaders or apostasy or slave-freeing. Instead, he asks, “What were you best at?”

That earns him a raised eyebrow from Dorian. “It was diplomacy,” he says, “and I’ll have you know I am the best in Tevinter. The simple fact is that there’s little use for diplomacy in the Imperium these days—we’re hardly Orlais, after all, and most people would prefer a show of force to a convincing word in another’s ear. I’ll let you think about why that might be.”

It doesn’t take much thinking. There’s little love lost in Tevinter, even among families, and it’s rare that a public demonstration of power doesn’t serve more than one simultaneous purpose. In Tevinter, the fewer enemies a family has, the less they are worth knowing at all.

What’s more confusing is… “Why is a diplomat a Dance Dance Revolution coach?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

*

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Dorian,” says Ashur on their way back from the Magisterium, “but I… don’t think you’re a very good diplomat.”

“What gave it away?” asks Dorian. “Was it the threat of burning down the Archon’s palace or the part where I told them all I’d feed them to the dogs?”

“Both?”

“Well,” says Dorian, “it’s about time they got their heads out of their—” But he interrupts himself, shaking his head. “The diplomacy, Ashur, is that I didn’t carry out my threats.”

*

A funeral pyre for Tarquin’s clothes

The car that pulls around to the front of the hotel is bigger than any Tarquin has been in—bigger than any he’s even seen, in fact. A man steps out of it and holds the door open, waiting without looking at them. Tarquin shoots a quick glance at Ashur to make sure he’s doing the right thing; Ashur climbs in as gracefully as such a thing can be done, then offers Tarquin a hand to help him in. Dorian is the last to join them and, although Tarquin sees his gaze land on the hand Ashur hasn’t released, he pointedly says nothing at all.

The Vesperians apparently have a home in Minrathous and an estate outside the city, which sounds practically made up to Tarquin—like they can swap homes the way other people swap their dirty T-shirts. Which is a point, actually.

He glances at Ashur, but feels a bit weird asking him, and anyway he seems to have been lulled into a sort of dozing rest by the car’s plush seats and the low hum of its engine. Instead, he says very quietly, “Dorian?”

The man’s eyes are on him immediately. Tarquin gets the sense there’s very little Dorian misses—probably what makes him a coach worthy of Corimer Vesperian’s approval. “Problem?”

“Sort of,” says Tarquin, still trying to decide on the least embarrassing way to explain. “I, um, didn’t really… plan for a long trip.” With his free hand, he gestures toward his backpack, slung into the footwell in front of him. It’s seen better days; there are holes in the bottom where it’s been dragged across rough ground, one of the straps is half-separated from the shoulder, and the whole thing is a lot dustier than he would have preferred a Vesperian to see, but that’s not the real problem. The real problem is that, inside it, Tarquin only has a couple of pairs of shorts and a few T-shirts, none clean. He was supposed to be ending the day in Ventus, where he has… well, other clothes, at least.

Thankfully, Dorian understands straight away—which doesn’t stop him chuckling at Tarquin’s face, flushed with the awkwardness of the situation. “We have all the clothing you need,” Dorian assures him. “Yours can be washed.” He nudges the backpack with the toe of one very clean, shiny, flashy-looking trainer. “Or… burned.”

Tarquin looks at his ratty backpack, which has slumped over the toe of Dorian’s shoe. “Probably burned,” he admits.

“Yes,” Dorian says, “I did rather think that would be the case.”

*

Of course he owns an arcade machine

If Tarquin was impressed by the fancy metal pads and big screen of Ashur’s setup at the hotel, what he has at the Vesperian estate should blow Tarquin’s mind. There’s an actual arcade machine—nicer than at Tarquin’s actual arcade—just sat there against the wall, waiting for someone to want to use it. Pads, bars, neon lights, everything. Tarquin can’t believe it’s just here all the time, even when nobody is practicing.

Ashur shrugs like he’s embarrassed. Which maybe he should be, Tarquin thinks. Maybe all the highbloods in Minrathous with their luxury estates and their luxury cars and their luxury Dance Dance Revolution machines should think about what all that money could buy if it were in the hands of people who really needed it.

But it’s not Ashur’s fault, at least not right now. Maybe someday it will be. Or maybe someday things will be different. Ashur may not get it, may not understand what it’s really like to live without everything he’s had since the day he was born, but he doesn’t seem like the type to think he deserves it just because of who his parents are. Or the type to think other people—people like Tarquin—don’t.

“This is your room?” he asks, looking at the big screen on the wall, the training equipment stacked up in the corners, the open door to a walk-in closet full of sports clothes that look like they’ve never been worn.

“It’s for training,” says Ashur. “My rooms are down the hall.”

Tarquin doesn’t miss rooms, plural, nor the way Ashur tries to make it sound like it’s nothing, but he doesn’t push. To be honest, even the guest room he was shown to is too big, too elegantly furnished, the sheets too shiny and the bed too large and the ceiling too high for comfort. He can’t imagine having rooms. If it weren’t for Ashur, taking him around and showing him things and talking to him like they’re both just normal people doing normal things, he’d probably be hiding in there now, trying to make sense of everything.

As it is…

“Want to play?” Ashur asks, gesturing to the arcade machine. And that, at least, is something familiar. Besides, Tarquin is pretty sure this is supposed to be why he’s here in the first place.

Ashur steps up onto the dance pad and holds out a hand. Tarquin takes it, settling his feet into a familiar starting position, and turns his attention to the screen as Ashur begins scrolling through song options. His hand is warm where their fingers met and he keeps it at his side, curled into a fist as though that will keep Ashur’s touch safe inside it.

*

Corimer’s veins are in danger

Beyond this point lie vague discussions of gender; be ye warned

“So,” says Dorian. “We should talk.”

Tarquin levels a suspicious stare at him. He’s good at meaningful stares and, although Dorian has been (on average) extremely kind to him—and, more importantly, to Ashur—that doesn’t mean Tarquin can just forget that he’s a wealthy Altus from the capital city.

Finally, he says, “About what?”

Dorian seats himself in the chair nearest to Tarquin, folds his arms across his chest, and says, “You understand, of course, that Ashur has been groomed from birth to be the perfect… well, everything. Heir. Politician. Socialite.”

“So?”

“And,” Dorian says pointedly, “to continue the Vesperian bloodline.”

Tarquin snickers. “Reckon they’ll lose that bet,” he mutters and he is absolutely certain he sees a smirk at the corners of Dorian’s mouth.

“Nonetheless,” says Dorian. “Tarquin, I’m not here to warn you off. I wouldn’t dream of anything so ridiculous.”

“You’re not?”

“Perish the thought,” says Dorian. “I want you to go on until Corimer’s veins explode. But… there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Tarquin gives him a guarded look. “Like what?”

Dorian looks back at him—steady, even, but it’s not like Corimer’s stares. Ashur’s father has a kind of rigid implacability to him that threatens, if pushed too hard, to shatter into a thousand crystalline blades. His danger lies below the surface, but not invisible, just contained. Dorian is different. Dorian disarms his enemies with exaggeration; he seems just this side of a figure of fun until the moment he’s not anymore, and by the time Dorian’s blades come out, it’s too late for an opponent to save themselves.

Dorian is not threatening Tarquin now. His gaze is unmoving, but it’s soft, like he’s trying to communicate that he’s on Tarquin’s side. Tarquin isn’t used to people being on his side, especially not a wealthy Altus from the capital city.

Tarquin sighs. “You know how you wanted to make Corimer’s veins explode?”

*

Dorian takes them both into the obviously wealthy part of Minrathous, where the Magisterial Halls are kept behind high walls and ornate wrought-iron fences. Ashur has been here so many times that he initially ignores their surroundings, until Tarquin’s combination of amazement and disgust draws him into the commentary. There are things here that Tarquin has never seen before—windows of richly tinted stained glass; fountains that spout perfumed water, their pools bedecked with petals; intricately carved grotesques that put any in Ventus to shame—but even as he looks around, eyes wide, he’s also scoffing at the sheer waste and exhibitionism of it all.

Normally, they’re here because Ashur is accompanying Dorian to some stultifyingly boring magisterial session or other. Today, though, Ashur gets to sit on the velvet-covered bench in the musty corridor, leaning his back against the polished wood under the watchful eye of magisterial security while Dorian and Tarquin go into the office of Maevaris Tilani. At least, he thinks, she’s one of the nicer magisters, even if she is a little… severe. Ashur has never been entirely certain whether or not Magister Tilani likes him, but she doesn’t ooze at him like some of them do, trying to curry favor with the Vesperians, nor does she look at him like he’s something that shouldn’t be on the bottom of her perfectly polished shoe.

He watches the door close behind them and then settles in to wait. As a small child, he kicked his heels against the wooden legs of benches just like these, ran his fingers over the carved arms and plush fabric, but he was taught early to sit still and emotionless, betraying no weakness—not even one as small as impatience. Now, sitting stone-faced in the magisterial offices comes as naturally to him as the desire to play and explore once did. 

He can’t help wondering, though, how Tarquin is doing, sitting in front of a magister for the first time with only Dorian—who is technically also a magister, albeit not currently in office—for support. 

*

Meeting a magister is nothing like Tarquin imagined it would be, especially after making Corimer Vesperian’s acquaintance. He’s expecting Maevaris Tilani to be able to kill him with a look and, although he’s still pretty sure she could, it doesn’t seem like she wants to, which in itself is a surprise.

She offers them tea. That’s a surprise, too. Dorian accepts; Tarquin declines and hopes he’s been polite enough about it. He trusts Dorian, sort of, but a small part of him is still afraid that he’s about to be kicked out of Tevinter. Or arrested. Or killed. Especially if they’re here for the reason he thinks.

“So,” she says finally. “Tarquin. It is Tarquin, right?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Dorian has told me a lot about you.”

He has? Tarquin clears his throat, hoping his voice comes out as strong as he means it to. “What did he say?”

“He said I should talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Well, Dorian usually comes to me for two things. One is backup for his less popular opinions…” She gives Dorian a significant look that Tarquin can’t interpret. “And the other,” and here she switches her focus to Tarquin and the look softens, “is when he meets people like me who might need help.”

“People like you?” She can’t mean him. Tarquin can’t imagine anything he and this beautiful, capable, powerful woman might have in common.

“People who weren’t born quite the way they should have been,” she clarifies as Dorian slips out and silently closes the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone in Magister Tilani’s office. “People who were told that they were boys when they aren’t. Or maybe told that they weren’t boys when they clearly are.”

He studies her, trying to figure out exactly what she means. Dorian has obviously told her about him—but like her?

She says, “I don’t know what you did before you came to Minrathous, but I’m guessing you didn’t keep up with the magisterial gossip.”

He shakes his head and she nods briskly.

“I always knew I was a girl,” she explains, “but… other people didn’t always agree. When I was fifteen, my father presented me to the Magisterium as his heir. And his daughter. Which you can imagine ruffled quite a few feathers.”

Tarquin isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to answer, so he nods, hoping that’s ambiguous enough to pass muster.

“Dorian, of course, has always been a dear friend,” she continues. “You might be surprised to hear, though, that Corimer Vesperian—for all he tends to lean toward the traditional—was really quite decent about the whole thing. He pointed out that, as my father’s only child, I was entitled to inherit his magisterial seat no matter whether I took it as a man or as a woman.”

All of the stuff about politics is a little beyond Tarquin, but he’s just about grasped what Magister Tilani is saying. That she—that a magister—is… well. Like him.

No wonder Dorian insisted on bringing him here.

“Does… Ashur know?”

“About me? It was all anyone talked about for weeks. Anyone with any connection to the Magisterium knows. And Dorian has a habit of collecting misfits.”

“Is that what I am?” Tarquin knows he’s being difficult, but he can’t think of anything better to say. He’s still trying to work out what his place is in this conversation.

“You tell me,” says Magister Tilani.

He shrugs. The truth is, he doesn’t fit here any more than he does anywhere else, but he may as well be a misfit here as anywhere. At least here, there’s Ashur. And Dorian, he supposes, although he’s a little surprised that his mind has put them both in the category of things that are all right about Minrathous.

Magister Tilani asks, “Have you thought about talking to Ashur?”

Of course he has. He thinks about it all the time. He just doesn’t have any answers. Or any ideas.

“I don’t…” He stops. He does think about it all the time, but what he thinks is, what if Ashur sends him back to Ventus? What if Corimer Vesperian decides to make it—him—a problem? What if Ashur hates him? Or worse?

“You should,” she says gently.

“It’s all right for you,” he says, then clamps his mouth shut in alarm. He’s just snarked off at a magister. In the Magisterial Halls. And not one like Corimer Vesperian, who was rude first; Magister Tilani seems like she's actually trying to help.

“Go on.”

“Well, you’re all… rich and magisterial and everything,” he says. “Been going to be a magister all your life. Got your fancy house and all. And your dad—” But that treads just a little too close to home and, despite the knowing look in Magister Tilani’s eyes, is not something Tarquin feels like bringing up. “If I tell Ashur and…”

She nods. “I can’t make you, Tarquin, and I’m not going to try. You do this in your own time and in your own way. But I don’t think you need to worry about Ashur.”

He glances at the door, wondering what Ashur and Dorian are doing outside. Whether they’re talking, or just waiting, or have gone off somewhere else entirely.

“Now,” she says, “what do you want to do about it?”

“Do?” he asks.

Magister Tilani pauses to refill her teacup from the pot.

“Obviously, you have no interest in looking like me,” she says. “So let me tell you about some of my friends.”

*

It must be a couple of hours at least before Tarquin comes back out of Magister Tilani’s office. Even then, they have to wait, because Dorian goes back in to talk to her, leaving Ashur and Tarquin alone in the corridor.

“How was it?” Ashur asks.

Tarquin looks at him wide-eyed. There’s a look on his face that Ashur has never seen before and can’t read, which is unusual for Ashur. 

What Tarquin actually says is, “Fine. It was fine.” Then he returns his attention to the carpet, absently digging the toe of one shoe into the carved wooden leg of the bench, his mind a million miles away.

*

They don’t pay Dorian enough for this

Ashur is sitting on the couch in Dorian’s chambers, quietly having a panic attack. Dorian is being very compassionate, which is to say, he’s trying not to laugh.

“What if I make a mistake?”

“Were you worried about that five minutes ago?”

“I was here five minutes ago.”

“All right, were you worried about that yesterday?”

“No,” Ashur admits. “I mean, yes. But not the same way.”

“So the only thing that has changed is that you now know how not to make a mistake,” Dorian points out reasonably.

“But I don’t,” is Ashur’s equally reasonable reply. “I don’t know anything about… this.”

“Ashur,” says Dorian patiently, “what exactly has changed about Tarquin since yesterday?”

Ashur frowns, always a sign that he is thinking carefully about his answer. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Exactly. And have you made any mistakes yet?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“Ashur, if you had somehow offended Tarquin, do you think he’d be likely to make a secret of it?”

At this, Ashur grins a little. “No.”

“Then, Maker’s holy name, why would you act any differently now?”

He can almost see Ashur’s thought processes, the hesitant move toward conceding that Dorian has a point. But then the words Dorian has used catch up to Ashur and—

“Maker’s—what if it’s… does the Chantry…” Ashur hesitates.

Dorian gives him a look. The kind of look he gives Ashur the sixth or seventh or tenth time he makes the same misstep while they’re training. But also the kind of look he gives Ashur when Ashur asks him about dressing in certain ways or meeting certain types of people or darkening the delicate skin around his eyes.

“Remind me,” he says, “which one of us has been trained from birth in the intricacies of Chantry doctrine?”

The look he gets back is a mirror to his own. Ashur sighs, but eventually says, “All men are the work of our Maker’s hands?”

“This isn’t a test, Ashur. I’m not going to give you a prize if you come up with the right verse of the Chant. What do you think? Are your friends abominations in the eyes of the Maker or are they, perhaps, just… people?”

He sees Ashur open his mouth to object, to argue that of course there’s nothing wrong with Tarquin, with Maevaris—and then he sees his point hit home.

“Just people,” Dorian says before Ashur can speak. “Who probably want you to keep on behaving exactly the way you have been, so stop worrying.”

Again, Ashur opens his mouth to say something; again, Dorian forestalls it.

“And don’t go back to your rooms and be all—all anxious and careful with Tarquin,” he says. “He’ll hate that. You know he will.”

Ashur nods soberly. That much is certainly true. But another thought strikes him.

“What about, um…”

The long pause finishes the question for him. Dorian lays his head in his hands, making sure his muttered profanities won’t be heard. He’s a Dance Dance Revolution coach, not some sort of mentor to a young Vesperian who’s still finding his way around… certain things. This is not what he signed up for.

“As your coach, and therefore your father’s employee, duty compels me not to answer that question,” he says. “And my sense of self-preservation compels me to pretend you never asked it.”

Except it is what he signed up for, really, isn’t it? Ever since he first laid eyes on the youngest Vesperian and knew. And decided that he was not going to let Corimer Vesperian become Halward Pavus. Not going to let Ashur become—well. It’s not a perfect analogy.

“And Ashur,” he says as his young protégé rises to leave, “when—and if—that becomes a concern, you’ll just have to ask the only person who could possibly know.”

For a brief, nightmarish second, he imagines Ashur asking him who that is, making him spell it out. Fortunately, his faith in Ashur’s faculties is borne out.

When the door closes and Dorian is once again alone in his chambers, he deems the conversation a success. Ashur, at least, seems somewhat reassured, and he himself has emerged with only minor psychic wounds. He still can’t help feeling like he’s fumbling the whole thing, but he supposes it will have to do. Even Dorian Pavus is better than nothing at all.