#chaitea09

“How did you know?” Hanin asked, partly curious, partly attempting small-talk to help quiet his nerves. There was so much at stake. They had a plan, albeit a loose one. He could not seem to shake the fear that it would all come crumbling down around him.

Smiling, Tahl gestured forward. “The soldiers at your front line. None of them had drawn their weapons.” He shrugged amiably, swaying with the movement of his horse. “If there was a fight, I like to think they would be ready.”

A fair assessment. Hanin grunted his agreement, flexing his hand around the reins. He’d been gripping them so tightly his fingers ached. It seemed Tahl picked up on the motion, his brown eyes lingering on him for a moment. “Are you well, Hanin? You seem tense.”

Another fair assessment. “That is because I am.” There was no point in denying it, so Hanin didn’t bother. He just huffed, part of him wishing he could expel some of the unease writhing beneath his skin. “Everything about this is dangerous. For Riven. For the soldiers. For…” He trailed off, not wanting to say Athran’s name so openly. Majority of the retinue knew nothing of the journey’s second purpose, and that was for good reason. They could not risk being uncovered before they even began. A single set of loose lips could ruin everything they had planned.

Luckily, Tahl did not require further explanation. “This was never going to be a simple thing.” He looked ahead, his eyes fixing on where Riven rode, her hart a proud visage among a sea of horses. “It is why I asked to attend. There is little for me to do, but I can provide another set of eyes and ears.”

Hanin nodded. “That is worth more than you know.” He hesitated, then added, “Aside from that, Riven appreciates you being here. You are a comfort to her.”

“And her to me.” Tahl took a deep, slow breath, his lips curving into an almost distracted smile as he watched her lean down to listen to the report of a scout. “I may join her, then, as we draw near.”

Nothing more needed to be said, and Tahl rode ahead, weaving through the soldiers until he drew alongside the Inquisitor. Strangely, Hanin felt the man’s absence by his side. There was something oddly grounding about him, like a stone that refused to shift before a hurricane. He could see why Riven was drawn to such a person.

“Um… sir?”

Another voice, this one far more familiar. Hanin turned slightly as Darren pulled up alongside him. “What is it?”

The boy - no, young man - seemed uneasy, his brow knitted tight, his movements skittish. That was not particularly out of the ordinary, so Hanin paid it no special mind. “I heard Perivantium is coming up. When we get there, are we staying with the group, or…?”

Hanin nodded. “Yes, for a time. We will be blending in with the other soldiers. Make sure everyone has a helmet on, and stay close enough to hear orders if needed.”

The city was upon them sooner than Hanin expected, the hillside of outer-Tevinter apparently masking Perivantium’s presence until the scouts crested one of the larger rises. It was a matter of hours before the procession of horses, soldiers, and wagons reached the imposing city gates, the metalwork reminding Hanin of a series of blades, points stabbing towards the sky. He eyed them warily as they passed beneath, the structure almost seeming to creak before a persistent dry wind. Perhaps it was his body language, or his lack of anything at all, but the next thing Hanin knew he was surrounded by familiar faces, the five members of his squad closing in to walk beside his horse. A sixth soldier joined them as they entered the city and began winding their way towards altus Talveron’s estate. That was Hanin’s cue.

Swiftly and carefully, Hanin swung down from the saddle, the other soldier of similar height and build taking his place on horseback. As soon as his feet hit the ground, a helmet was pressed into his hands, its design matching the those of the other soldiers as they fell into a formal march. The less any of them stood out among the crowd, the better. Just to be safe, they dispersed slightly, spreading through the procession, falling into line in pairs. Cyrus remained by Hanin’s side, the others positioning themselves nearby, each clad in a shining steel helmet, their feet pounding to the steady rhythm. Despite the situation, Hanin couldn’t suppress the swelling of warmth in his chest at his squad’s calm readiness. They had grown so much, since joining the Inquisition. The people they had become would make anyone proud.   

“Man, what a fucking ugly city.”

Hanin mouth twitched, his gaze shifting across to Cyrus. He considered scolding the man, but as far as he was concerned, Tevinter was not worth defending. “In more ways than one.”

The Orlesian’s nose wrinkled in agreement, his pale eyes glancing about, noting the increasing amount of Perivantium soldiers lining the road. “Why does some part of me feel like we’re going to get stabbed in the back?”

More soldiers seemed to appear, forming a makeshift honour guard as they proceeded towards the estate, their long glaive-esque weapons reminiscent of the gates themselves, iron-wrought and grim. “Because it is a… valid concern.” It might have been Hanin’s imagination, but it almost seemed like Cyrus moved an inch or two closer to his side as they walked. Thankfully, it was not long before they arrived at the barrier to the estate.

Awaiting them stood a figure in elegant gold and amber robes, the sleeves widening so far at the wrist that when the man clasped his hands, they hung down to his waist. He appeared in his mid-fifties, a collection of fine lines gathering like an eager crowd at the corners of his eyes, deeper ones framing the shape of his mouth, giving him the impression of a person as quick to smile as he was to scowl. His hair and beard were a dark black dusted with grey, cropped short and neat, not a single hair out of place. When he stepped forward, his expression seemed to shift, lips curving politely upwards, one hand breezing to the side as he bowed before the mounted Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, esteemed guests, it is my honour to welcome you all to my humble estate. I trust your journey was a pleasant one, and the sights of Perivantium have been to your liking?”

Riven inclined her head at the man, her face set in an equally polite mask. It was one she had perfected during their ordeal at the Winter Palace. “You must be Talveron Idaris. Myself, and the Inquisition, thank you for your hospitality at such short notice.” She bowed her head to him and the man straightened, seeming pleased by the exchanged; perhaps even pleasantly surprised. For whatever prejudices the South held against elves, in Tevinter they could only be more deeply ingrained.

“Not at all. The pleasure was mine. Truly.” Stepping out of the gate, he fanned his hand, rings glittering on each of his fingers. Responding to the signal, a handful of servants straightened from their bowed positions and approached, carefully taking the reins of mounts, allowing the visiting dignitaries to dismount and proceed on-foot to the manor. Hanin’s eyes honed in on each of them with hawk-like precision, his heart rising to his throat as he searched their faces. It fell like a rock when none of them struck any note of familiarity, the mixture of elves and humans bearing no resemblance to Athran. He almost jumped out of his skin when Cyrus rested a hand on his arm, somehow sensing his disappointment, attempting to silently reassure. Swallowing, Hanin just nodded stiffly. They had only just arrived. He had to be patient.

But Creators, Athran had been patient for far too long. Patiently waiting for a rescue that never arrived.

The Inquisitor and her advisors split off from the main group, only a handful of trusted servants and Tahl accompanying them to the main house. It was an enormous mansion, large enough to rival a seasonal palace, and only a touch less austere in its embellishments. Many of the soldiers openly gawked as they were ushered towards their own accommodations by household guards, the columns and intricately sculpted balconies standing like works of art beneath a sloping slate roof. Hanin’s eyes, however, were on the armed men in uniforms of black and amber - the servile colours of house Idaris, he assumed. Many seemed the sort who would provide protection to a nobleman, their postures rigid and militaristic, trained to operate as a single unit. Others, however, seemed rougher around the edges, dark-ringed eyes and scarred skin suggesting work well beyond the safety of city walls.

“The altus has hired mercenaries,” Hanin murmured to Cyrus. They followed a paved path around the side of the manor, the way lit by a series of lanterns affixed to ornate poles as the sun spilled its dying colours across the sky. “He is expecting trouble.”

Cyrus eyed the nearby guards warily, but ultimately shook his head. “Stop panicking. It’s not that uncommon. If you’re playing host to important people, you try to look better-off than you are. So you hire some thugs and dress them up. Probably borrow a bunch of servants from friends, too.” He snorted with no shortage of derision. “Welcome to politics. Seems it doesn’t fucking change, no matter what border you cross.”

So there were guards and trained mercenaries, likely all with wary eyes on the Inquisition’s soldiers. Hanin tried not to let the grimness of the situation overtake his sensibility. There would be a way. A change of guard. A blind spot. An opening. If not, they would just have to find a way to make one, when the time came.

The housing for the soldiers was far less austere than the manor, but still a far cry fancier than the barracks provided by the Inquisition. Testament to the Tevinter preference for design over function, Hanin supposed. Recalling Leliana’s instructions from the day before, he and the Dawn Squad slowed their walking, pretending to be utterly in awe of the magnificence of the fountains and sculptures that adorned the estate’s gardens. Soon, they found themselves at the back of the group of soldiers, their procession slowing as they reached the buildings and began filing inside.

“Hold a moment.” One of the guards, a clean-shaven human with features that could be comfortably described as unremarkable, held out a hand, halting Hanin and his squad a few feet from the building. Stepping towards a small group of guards, they exchanged a series of low murmurs, peered inside, then appeared to come to some kind of gruff form of agreement. The clean-cut man nodded and returned, expression stiff, his tone bordering on apologetic. “It appears the main barracks is at capacity. You six will be staying in the overflow quarters further around back.” He turned, motioning for them to follow. “It’s nothing special, but it is a roof and a bed.”

Cyrus huffed and rolled his eyes, muttering darkly under his breath. The man truly took to irritation like a fish to water. For his part, Hanin just gave a stiff nod, gesturing for his squad to fall into step as they broke away from the main group, pressing further down the pristine path. Until they were alone, he had to simply assume this was all according to Leliana’s plan.

The guard led them for a few minutes, always staying three paces ahead, not once looking back, his posture arrow-straight, his hand resting readily atop the hilt of his blade. Unlike some of the others, this man was clearly well-trained, no doubt beaten into shape by the hammer of noble servitude. He slowed slightly as they approached another building, this one far smaller and far less welcoming. Where the rest of the estate was maintained to the point of obsession, here the trees and bushes grew with a more natural shape, the branches of a nearby oak spreading wide, casting a net of leaves above the homely rectangular building. For Hanin, it was strangely reassuring. A small piece of familiarity in this strange, manicured world.

“Not much further,” the guard said, glancing over his shoulder. His dark eyes flicked about quickly, like a sparrow darting between trees, before coming to rest on Hanin. When he spoke again, it was with a lowered voice. “I will explain properly when we are inside.”

A small flutter of relief danced through Hanin’s chest and he nodded, glad that particular uncertainty had been lifted. It was difficult to tell who was an agent and who was not. Asking was not exactly a wise course of action, in any case. That said, neither was assuming.

The door was weathered but sturdy, the wooden panelling thick and chipped in only a handful of places from careless passage. Reaching out, the guard took another furtive glance around and knocked six times, paused, then added one more. Without waiting for answer, he turned the handle and pushed the door open, the warm wind that had accompanied them brushing a handful of oak leaves into the space as they entered. Inside was simple enough. A handful of cots, a table, an assortment of mismatched chairs. The floor was bare panelling, matching the walls, the gaps between each beam filled with a kind of dark resin to keep out the wind and insects. Covered lamps hung at various points throughout the room, each positioned over a flat stone disc; a safeguard against the possibility of wood meeting flame

However, the most interesting thing by far were the six people already in the room, two dressed as servants, four as guards. Immediately, they rose from their various positions, forming a loose line before Hanin and his squad. The first was a tall man, olive skinned, his build suggesting a life of either soldiering or hard labour. Beside him stood a woman, short and pale, her blonde hair pulled into a tight braid, a light dusting of freckles scattered across her stern face. The next two were a man and a woman of darker complexion, possibly siblings, with brown hair pulled back to reveal a pair of curious, slightly amused faces. The last was a short blond elven man who, by his looks, Hanin could not imagine was older than twenty.

Stepping forward, the guard who had brought them to the building glanced between the two groups, smirking at look of shock on the Dawn Squad’s faces. 

“I believe introductions are in order.” He bowed sweepingly, the soldierly visage melting away, replaced by something that could only be described as theatrical. “My name is Launcet. That is all you really need to know about me, but rest assured, any friends of the Nightingale are friends of mine. As for this lot…” He stepped aside, allowing the two groups to eye each other once more, one row in stunned silence, the other in mounting amusement. “Dawn Squad, meet the Dusk Squad.”

A moment passed. Then another. Hanin’s mind stalled, his mouth slightly open, at a complete loss for what to make of the situation.