Fool's Errand 12: Denerim

Chapter summary: The Seekers learn of Hawke's return to the world stage. Meanwhile, the companions risk further exposure by visiting an old friend in an attempt to secure entry to the King's ball in Denerim.

A/N: I'm tickled to release this chapter at the start of Sebastian Appreciation Week on Tumblr. As always, thanks to my beta for being willing to start reading for me again as I move forward with this story.

Seeker Stronghold
Val Royeaux
Orlais

Lowell hurried down the cold stone hallway of the Seeker Stronghold, but checked his headlong pace after rounding the corner into the Great Hall. Standing between himself and the new Lord Seeker's office was a blond-haired serving woman primping before a golden mirror on the wall. He stopped before she saw him and stepped into the shadow cast by an ancient tapestry featuring robed figures cowering before knights under a black sun.

Of course, he need not have bothered since she was focused completely on the mirror. Or rather, on what she saw reflected there. She had set down a tea tray on the narrow table under the mirror, shirking her duties, in order to smooth her too-shiny hair and pinch an artificial blush into her pale cheeks. She was merely the latest occupant of Colin Marchand's bed, but the kitchen staff reported she was putting on airs with the other servants. As if her service to the Lord Seeker was somehow more valuable than theirs. Lowell snorted silently before changing course to skirt around the edge of the hall unseen and continuing on his way to the Lord Seeker's office.

The dim stone hallway was draped in even more intricate tapestries whose stitching recorded the Order's past glories while the heavy layers of brocade attempted to mitigate the keep's natural chill. The ancient stronghold may have weathered the dark times from when the Chantry was new, but the aged halls were no match for the dank cold and ever present drafts. The new Lord Seeker's office was the one exception.

Upon his election as Lord Seeker, Colin had immediately modernized the chamber. He had engaged the White Spire's remaining mages to enchant the mage lights and a hearth fire that, in a variation on the Chantry's eternal flame, heated the room without tending. Mounted on the wall behind Colin's tidy desk was a shield bearing the Chantry sun in dark red and two swords crossed at the guards. The Marchand coat of arms, first bestowed on Colin by Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall to honor one of the city's most decorated scions. It was the only Marcher heraldry in the Orlesian Stronghold, and a source of whispered scandal for being earned instead of inherited.

None of the Seeker's military leaders looked up when Lowell entered, focused as they were on Colin and the large map splayed on the table before him. The soldiers were dressed in a mix of bright swords of mercy and dark all-seeing eyes, some accompanied with colorful cloaks of office. Templar lieutenants danced attention on the red-cloaked Knight-Captains and the blue-cloaked Knight-Commanders, who in turn deferred to the heads of the Templar Order, the mysterious, black-cloaked Knights Divine.

The four Knights Divine served directly under the Divine and were said to function so seamlessly as a team that they often communicated without words. The three knights stood apart from the rest, as they always had, but now there was a discernible disharmony, like an invisible hole in their ranks where their fourth member normally would be. Although they declined to discuss it, the rumor was that she had remained loyal to Justinia. One of the first casualties of the war.

Within the circle of armored men, Colin looked almost as if he were praying, with his hands steepled before his pursed lips and his eyes downcast. He studied the small troop markers distributed at strategic points across the map on his desk.

A series of pewter swords of mercy, standing upright on small stands, flagged the current troop locations of the templar army. The templar marker sitting atop the circle marked Andoral's Reach represented their crowning achievement of the war so far. The first skirmish against the mages had been a resounding victory, routing the College of Magi leadership and scattering the Circle refugees. Unfortunately, the mages had learned their lesson and no longer gathered in large numbers, preferring instead smaller, guerrilla-style attacks over frontal assaults against the armored, magic-immune knights on horseback. The templars now fought a war on multiple fronts, reduced to chasing after rumor and hearsay to learn the location of the heart of the mage rebellion and to stop them once and for all.

Lowell crept along the dark stone wall to a discrete spot behind Colin, biding his time to engage his master's attention.

"This is pointless!" exclaimed Lord Rochester, breaking the silence and gesturing sharply with one hand. Rochester scowled blackly in disapproval. A common occurrence in the days since the Conclave and the defeat of his bid to become Lord Seeker. "The Orlesian civil war is the perfect opportunity for the mages to strike back. The intelligence we received from Val Chevin is good. I say we move there." Colin continued to study at the map without looking up, but more than one of the templar lieutenants nodded in agreement at the outburst. Lowell made a mental note of which ones.

"But we've also heard of a groundswell of mage attacks along the coast in Rivain. We know the people there have always been sympathetic to the mages," said the old Rivaini Knight-Commander from the Dairsmuid Circle. "Particularly after the Annulment," he added with a disdainful sniff. It was known that the man had always had a problematic relationship with the mages there, so the fact that he had been the first to use the Right of Annulment in the war had surprised no one.

The others started to talk all at once, opening the floodgates of opinion and conjecture. Unnoticed by any but Lowell, the blond serving girl came in and started to serve her tea at last.

Colin let the chatter continue for a minute before he stood up. He looked around the room expectantly and, without having uttered a word, commanded the room to silence.

Once every eye was on him, he said simply, "We go to Ferelden."

No one spoke immediately. The Knights Divine exchanged loaded glances under lowered brows. Many looked openly baffled, or in Rochester's case, scornful.

"Surely you can't be serious, Marchand—" Rochester began.

"You will address him as Lord Seeker!" Lowell found himself saying, surprised at his own vehemence. While Lord Rochester's title was more an honorific, a remnant of the noble bloodline he had technically given up upon joining the Seekers of Truth, Colin had earned his title. But even within the Seeker ranks, the Orlesian preoccupation with bloodright remained.

Rochester narrowed his eyes, and the puckering scar at his eye almost hid the dangerous glint there. "With all due respect, Lord Seeker," he growled in a tone barely civil. "Ferelden does not require our attention. In fact, it appears to be the one place where the Purge has done its job. There have been few reports of mage reprisals there."

"Precisely," Colin agreed coolly, making Rochester frown. "The mage underground strikes at Val Chevin. The hedge witches fight back in Rivain. There are raids on the supply lines outside Ostwick. Ambushes in the Dales. The list goes on. But the silence from Ferelden is deafening. The mage leaders are there."

Germaine, the eldest of the Knights Divine judging by the gray hair thinning at his temples, stroked his chin. "You may have a point. King Alistair's neutrality on the mage issue could make it a haven for the Circle refugees. Nevertheless . . ."

"Where in Ferelden do we strike?" continued a second knight standing at Germaine's shoulder. "Do you have any proof the rebels are there?"

Rochester snorted. "Tall tales and wishful thinking," he said.

"We have evidence," Colin said sternly and his nostrils flared slightly. "The Champion of Kirkwall moves in the world again. She's been sighted in Ferelden."

The Knights Divine glanced at each other again. Germaine said, "You think there is a connection? Has she become involved in the war at last?"

"Has she not always been?" Colin countered.

"Her legend, certainly," the knight replied. "No one can deny she was there when it all began. But otherwise, the woman has been suspiciously absent since then."

"You think she is in collusion with the mages in Ferelden?" the knight beside him asked.

"She has been seen in the company of the mage Anders," Colin announced. At these words, the room erupted into murmurs and exclamations.

When the room started to quiet, Germaine said, "So. Circumstantial evidence."

"I believe the mage's sudden appearance after all this time could be the key," Colin said. "After three long years, this is the lead we've been waiting for. We're currently tracking his movements. We undoubtedly will have more intelligence soon."

"Even more wishful thinking," Rochester muttered, shaking his head.

The Knights exchanged loaded glances again, speaking their silent language before Germaine responded. "We applaud your zeal over the years in striving to bring the Terrorist of Kirkwall to justice, Marchand. But, as I'm sure you would agree, the mage underground is our priority."

"Your personal vendetta will have to wait," Rochester said smugly.

Colin didn't spare a glance at Rochester, although a muscle jumped in his jaw. Addressing himself to Germaine, he said smoothly, "It has ever been our priority, which is why I believe we're getting close."

Colin leaned forward and tapped a finger on the map, where a tower was drawn in the marshlands north of Lake Calenhad, at the edge of the Waking Sea. "We will move our base of operations to Jainen, on the northern Fereldan coast, and from there we will deploy our scouts. The Circle in Jainen, while small, is an accessible base while we narrow our search. From there we can take ship to much of Ferelden in a matter of days. With Anders, we already have found our needle in haystack. Soon we will find the heart of the rebellion. And crush it."

Several of the knights clapped their support for the plan, and the whole tenor of the room shifted. Colin had them again, eating out of his hand, as he so often did. Lowell even clapped himself, enjoying the rare occasion to express himself so openly.

Above the din, a discordant voice was heard, female and out of step. "A brilliant plan, my Lord!" the blond serving woman cried out.

Everyone in the room looked at her in astonishment, many seeing her for the first time. Everyone but Lowell, who instead watched Colin and saw the exquisite control in his master's neutral expression. Colin regarded the woman distantly, like one might observe an errant fly foolish enough to land your sleeve. He paused for that moment when you consider shooing it away versus killing it, and then said to her, "That will be all."

She immediately flushed, recognizing too late her miscalculation, and squared her shoulders before hurrying out of the room in mortification.

Colin stepped into the middle of the room, centering the attention on himself again. "We will find the mage underground. But to do so, we need to leave behind our city comforts, gentlemen, and take the fight to the wilds and hinterlands and to the mages that hide there in the dirt and squalor." He raised his hands like a shepherd drawing the assembled into his flock. "Maker guide our steps."

Colin smiled, shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries as the templars and seekers filed out of his office. As the last departed and the door shut, Colin sunk into his desk chair and glowered broodingly at the map. "They cannot evade our grasp much longer, Lowell."

"No, my Lord, they cannot," Lowell agreed, clasping his hands and continuing to wait patiently to give his report.

At last, Colin straightened and asked briskly, "So. What news?"

"There have been several sightings of the Terrorist, my Lord. He is on the move, traveling in the Bannorn in Ferelden," Lowell said.

Colin's eyes lit up and he pondered this news. "Several sightings?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "That seems rather . . . careless."

"Indeed. In one case he even clashed with some local templars just north of Lothering. There was no sign of the Champion, however."

"I see," Colin mused, considering this news with a furrowed brow. "Nevertheless, she must be nearby." He looked up at Lowell. "Stay on him. They may see him as a secondary concern, but I know that Anders is the key. We will bring him to justice yet."

"Yes, my Lord. I'll give the order. Once we move to Jainen, there will be no escaping us."

Colin's face pulled briefly into a fierce smile. "He has to make a mistake someday. Now we will be there when he does." He stood and started to pull on his gloves. "That's all for tonight, Lowell. Oh, except for the girl. You'll take care of it?"

"Of course, my Lord." Lowell smiled.

Colin paused. "Actually, the lashes can wait until tomorrow. Send her to me tonight."

"As you say, my Lord."

Denerim
Ferelden

As Varric had predicted, Denerim was buzzing with news of the new baby and the ball celebrating his birth. Colorful banners hung in every street they passed on their way toward the market district. The crowds and bustle steadily grew, and before they reached the central square, hawkers and merchants already clogged the byways. The market now overflowed with tradesmen looking to cash in on the swell of visitors to the city. Every street now was lined with rickety wooden stands selling everything from memorabilia commemorating the occasion to aphrodisiacs for encouraging heirs of your own.

Hawke led the companions on a winding path through the crush and had already brushed off two unsubtle attempts to lift her purse. She ducked her head as they passed another city guard patrol, one of the many they'd seen trying to maintain some semblance of order. Her friends followed suit, keeping their heads down until the patrol had passed. Merrill toyed with the tiny snow globe Varric had purchased for her that featured tiny figures of King Alistair and Queen Elissa holding a featureless blue blob in her arms.

They elbowed their way across the market square to the inn where they typically stayed, but every room had been let. The story was the same at the next six inns and taverns until finally they found one room to rent for the five of them at a rundown inn bordering on the nearby slums.

Varric dropped his gear in a pile on the floor and surveyed the small room. The late afternoon sun that filtered in through the grimy and smudged windows revealed a small bed with a straw tic and barely enough floor space for the whole party to lie down flat. "It's going to be cozy. Lucky we all get along so well," Varric said. Hawke unconsciously glanced at Cullen but angrily turned away when he met her eyes. Catching the interchange, Varric sighed. "Yup. Lucky."

Hawke hadn't spoken with Cullen about what had happened at the pond. Or about anything at all since then. She was both furious and mortified. She couldn't forget the look of disgust on his face as she sat there, rejected, in the dirt.

She knew he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, and up until then, she'd assumed it was because he found her attractive, too. How wrong she had been.

Sodding ingrate.

Besides, it wasn't as if she had planned for any of that to happen. Her efforts to transform his appearance had worked all too well, if the admiring glances from the Denerim females they'd passed were any indication. Clean cut again, with his hair short and his face bare except for the faint stubble that had grown up overnight around his goatee, Cullen was almost the mirror image of his Kirkwall self. Tempting at the best of times, and that was with his shirt on. Add in the heatwave that already had everyone's faculties running slow and emotions running high . . .

She shivered at the memory. Yes, in retrospect, she should have let him keep the shirt on.

Handsome bastard.

"I'll go scope out where Sebastian is staying. I won't be long," Varric said. "Play nice." He eyed Hawke and Cullen and quickly left. Merrill babbled something about going to the baths and followed Varric out the door, slipping out with her newly purchased clothes in hand. Fenris's expression of dismay suggested that he was searching for an excuse to leave as well, but before he could say anything, Cullen cleared his throat noisily.

"I need to go to the Chantry," Cullen announced to no one in particular, starting toward the door with his head down.

"No," was Hawke's flat response.

Cullen stopped at the door, his hand already on the handle, but didn't turn around. "But—"

"No," Hawke repeated. "For this to work, Sebastian needs to see everyone he will have to vouch for. We all have to go."

"Understood," Cullen said, still without looking at her, and retreated to a far corner.

"No forgiveness today," Hawke muttered before stumping to the door and yanking it open to go find the baths herself.

The wait in the drawing room of Sebastian's Denerim estate was longer than expected. Hawke willed herself to be still, concentrating so her fingers did not pluck at the stiff ribbon edging her new tunic. Or grip the dagger tucked into her skirt at the small of her back. If Sebastian decided now was the time to exact his revenge, they were at a severe tactical disadvantage. Without meaning to, her eyes sought out Cullen who stood near the door. At ease but alert, the former templar stood tall with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet planted in a militaristic stance at odds with the simple black tunic and trousers he wore. He intercepted her glance, but only nodded once in encouragement. She smiled tightly in response, pleased that they could put aside their differences for the moment.

Finally the door creaked open. "His Highness will see you now," intoned a liveried servant, directing them inside.

Hawke followed, still on edge. She reached around behind her and started to finger the dagger through her tunic, but a warm hand slipped over hers and gently moved it away from the weapon. She glanced over her shoulder at Cullen. "Steady, Grace," he said softly.

"He hasn't killed us yet," Varric said with a shrug. "That's got to be a good sign."

After a long hallway paneled in dark wood they entered a brightly lit, book-lined study. Sebastian sat in an ornate, high-backed chair behind a large wooden desk and did not bother to rise when they entered. He was a study in princely nonchalance, leaning on the gilded arm of the chair and propping his chin on his closed fist. Only the tension in his shoulders gave away his unease to someone who knew him. His brown hair had grown out and swept back from his widow's peak to brush the shoulder of his forest green cloak. The bright blue, guileless eyes she remembered were now shadowed with old pain and new responsibility.

"It's been some time, Hawke," he said in a controlled voice, his familiar burr making her unexpectedly wistful.

"It has."

He looked around the room at her friends, nodding at each in turn. "Varric. Merrill. Fenris." He paused on Cullen, frowning in an attempt to recall. "Knight-Captain Cullen?"

Cullen tensed. "It's just Cullen now," Hawke interjected.

Sebastian nodded once, accepting this at face value, and then turned back to Hawke. "Is he still with you?" Sebastian's tone was deceptively neutral. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"No. He's gone his own way."

"Shame. I've worked a long time to be able to look him in the eye without killing him."

"Would you really have let us in if he were with us?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He gave her a cold smile in answer. "So, what brings you to my door, Hawke?" he asked smoothly. "I must admit, I was surprised when I received word that you were here. I don't get many requests for an audience with wanted fugitives."

"I understand you'll be attending the royal ball."

"I didn't know the Champion of Kirkwall was moving in polite company again."

"Sebastian . . ." She took a deep breath. "I need your help. We need to get into that ball."

He only raised his eyebrows in response and she started to worry that their mission was in vain. "Why?" he asked at last.

"I'm trying to fix what we started back in Kirkwall. I intend to talk King Alistair into hosting a parlay between the mages and templars. To stop the war."

"You plan on doing this at a ball?"

"Unless you can get us an appointment at the palace?"

"Admittedly, a ball is easier . . . If I were going to help you." Sebastian spoke slowly, weighing each of his words and their impact.

There wasn't much she could say to that. She wasn't going to beg. He either was willing to help or he wasn't. Hooded blue eyes bored into hers as her last hurtful encounter with Sebastian rose unspoken between them, like a phantom mourning their broken trust and long-expired chance of reconciliation. No one moved or spoke while she waited for him to make up his mind. In the uncomfortable hush that fell over the room, she could hear the hawkers in the street outside the mansion, evidence that the royal birth hysteria reached even into the Palace District.

Eventually, Sebastian nodded sharply and straightened from his affected slouch. "You risk much, coming out in the open. Coming here. I've kept my ear to the ground for news about you and heard only whispered legends from those who hunt you. Do you truly think you can bring peace?"

"All I can do is try. Please, Sebastian, I'm not asking that you get directly involved. All we need is entrance to the ball. We'll do the rest."

Sebastian nodded again. "So long as that is clear. Starkhaven is not to be formally involved or implicated. I will arrange for your admittance, but then you're on your own. I do this to honor our former friendship, Hawke. But no more."

"I understand." She couldn't blame Sebastian. It was already more than she'd dared to hope for after the way they'd left things. She could still picture Sebastian's tear-stained face twisted in despair and hate, blaming Anders and her for Elthina's untimely death. So much had been destroyed that day.

They moved to talking about the details, and Sebastian insisted that the less he knew about their activities, the better. The ball was a masquerade which made it even easier to hide them among his retinue. Sebastian instructed his chamberlain to give them use of the tailor that was costuming the Starkhaven party. When Hawke tried to thank him for the additional favor, he brushed it aside, pointing out that it did no good to compromise their cover by being poorly dressed. Once the arrangements were set, Hawke moved to leave.

"Hawke," Sebastian said hesitantly from behind her.

She turned around to see that he had gotten to his feet. The stoic facade he'd worn throughout their interview slipped, revealing a trace of her old friend, complete with a furrowed brow that suggested a deeper concern than he'd been willing to let on. "A word of caution. For old time's sake. If you succeed here, I would presume that you intend to approach the templars about this parlay. Perhaps you've already heard that they have just elected a new Lord Seeker. Colin Marchand."

She shook her head since she hadn't heard and waited for him to continue. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "You should know that . . . he's a Kirkwaller. We grew up together as initiates of the Chantry, before he took his templar vows and was promoted into the Seekers."

He paused again, and his hesitance started to worry her. "And?" she prompted.

"Let's just say that his feelings about Elthina were rather similar to my own."

"I see. So, he's angry about the Kirkwall Chantry, too."

"No, I'm not sure you do see. Elthina was literally like a mother to him, raising him after his parents died when he was a small child. She was his only family and he's not as . . . forgiving as I am. I suppose what I'm saying is you should tread carefully with him."

"Thank you for the warning, Sebastian, and for everything. I promise you won't regret it."

He nodded curtly and sat back down in his chair. "Maker watch over you, Hawke."

A/N2: Next up: Chapter 13: One step forward, two steps back. Yup. The ball. Hee hee.