It hadnât taken them long to return to Bastianâs estate, briskly traversing the winding streets until they came panting to the front doors. Cyrus was spirited away to one of the rooms, while plans were drawn up to leave aboard the Riptide as soon as he was stabilized. A bobbing, swaying ship, would only hamper the healing process if they couldnât stop the bleeding. Too crowded in the room, theyâd said. She believed them. They would have their hands full keeping him from falling apart. Zahra, and the others, were left alone to their own devices, either to pack their things or take a breath. Relax for as long as they could, before the long journey home.
Relaxation would not find her. Sleep seemed hilariously out her reach. Exhausted as she was, she felt restless. Her thumping heart, beating loud in her temples. It made her feel dizzy. Lost. The wound heâd suffered was⊠grievous. She couldnât get the image out of her head. It replayed, over and over again. Thumping to the ground like he weighed nothing. A listless corpse. All the blood. On her, him, Leon. Sheâd never been the sort to agonize over what-ifâs, but there they were, reconstructing into plausible angles, precautions she could have taken, but didnât. Seeing him like that made her stomach turn over, sick. What would Stel think? What would she say? That she was the cause of it, because sheâd been selfish enough to involve him in her business, and he, the smarmy, selfless fool had jumped in front of a blade to save her idiot-brother.
She gripped onto the front of her shirt and slumped against the wall, eyebrows drawn together. The fabric pinched between her fingers as she loosened her grip, letting her hand fall back to her side. Sitting here, tormenting herself over what had already happened, would do no one any good. Most of all, herself. Still, she didnât think she was ready to face the others, especially Stel. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, as she pushed herself away from the hall, facing towards the lounge area closest to the kitchen. Bastian had allowed Corveus sanction for the night, but nothing longer than that. Tevinter politics. Something she understood, and cared, little about.
Maleus hadnât strayed far from his side. From habit, perhaps. Their relationship was as inscrutable as Corveus was. Though the shroud of mystery surrounding him had dampened considerably since escaping his families estate, seeing how there was no longer anything to hide behind. No mirrors, no masks. That, in itself, was a comfort. She didnât like being kept in the dark. About anything, let alone something so important to her. As for Maleusâs proximity to the man, she wasnât sure how she felt. Whether the roles were still in place, Corveus being a dominus, and her brother, a simple slave, hounding faithfully behind. She hoped that wasnât the case. She hmâd quietly, and decided quickly enough. She needed to talk to her brother.
It was a start, at least.
Zahra found them easily enough. In the kitchen, talking in loud, brazen voices. There was a laugh she didnât recognize, along with one she did. At first, she lingered beside the doorway, cursing herself for eavesdropping. She couldnât help it. Leaning slightly forward, but enough to be tucked away beside the door frame, she could see them facing the counter. Maleus was seated in one of the stools, a knuckle of bread in one of his hands, talking with his mouth full and Corveus was standing behind him, hands fiddling at the heavy collar wrapped around his neck.
âStop squirming. I swear, it wonât hurt,â Corveus chided, pushing at his shoulders. He drew one of his hands up to his mouth and shifted, exhaling sharply. Biting at his thumb, deep enough to draw blood.
âEasy for you to say. You donât have this thing wrapped âround your neck,â her brotherâs response. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He didnât seem to believe him, the way he was trying to square his shoulders, raising them so that the collar shifted closer to his ears. Still, he hadnât moved away. Only wrenched his head to the side, allowing a better vantage.
The lordling drew his finger down the top of the collar, dragging it downwards, a look of consternation twisting his features.
There was a hissing noise, and the black, polished hinge was being bent under the pressure of whatever magic he was using. His hand lingered there, careful enough not to touch skin. Another sound. This time, an obvious heavy, metal crack. A clean break, right along the middle, where someone else had applied the initial weld, still a yellow-gold with the applied heat. His hand slid away and he made a sound, a rather triumphant hmph. âSee. How does that feel?â
Maleus was the one who drew his hands up, cracking the collar wide enough to slip from his neck. His expression was unreadable, a veil of muted surprise. âIt feelsâŠâ He held it for awhile, before his eyes swung towards her, and the confusion melted away, replaced by a grin she sorely missed. The drawn out look on his face didnât escape her, and neither did his eyes, red-rimmed. Like heâd been crying.âWhatâre you doing, gawping there? Snooping isnât like you, Zee.â
Zahra blinked, stupidly. When had sheâglancing to the side, she hadnât realized that she had taken a step in, without thinking. No, sheâd never been good at snooping. On anyone, or anything. Too loud, always too loud. It wasnât her style. She much preferred bullying her way into someoneâs business, nosy as ever. She wasnât sure why sheâd done it in the first place. Maybe, she hadnât wanted to interrupt. Corveus looked mildly uncomfortable by her presence, though she couldnât discern why. She didnât mind seeing him look unsure, awkward even, rather than smug. Almost looked like he wanted to vacate the room. She cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, âThought Iâd drop in and see how you were doing.â A pointed pause, before she glanced over to the only other person in the room, âYou too. Iâve got questions, and I think I deserve some answers. We all do, yâknow. For the shit we went through.â
They could mourn afterwards, when they were safe in Skyhold. For now, she needed answers. Badly. For Cyrus, for her.
Corveus seemed surprised by this, though he didnât protest. Instead, moving to perch himself on one of the stools. Clearly unprepared. He set his hands across the table for a moment, before decidedly pulling them into his lap. âAs you wish. Iâll answer what I can.â
An irksome response. One that she expected given how uncooperative heâd been so far. She circled around the counter, and chose to lean her elbows on it, facing them directly. There was a set to her lips, one that she oft used with people who often bullshitted her. She wouldnât allow it here. Maker knew, she had so many damn questions, blustering to be spoken aloud. One at a time. She studied Maleusâs face, and turned back towards Corveus, eyebrows drawing. âYour brother died today, because you agreed to bring us there. Doesnât that bother you? Why would someone like you even want that?â It didnât make sense to her. She couldnât stop the question before it tumbled out, a startled lilt. Confused. He was family, after all. Like her brother was to her.
To his benefit, he hesitated before speaking. Floundered for words, whereas he seemed to nonchalant before. Not so assured this time, cornered into a query that he didnât quite seem to know how to answer. There was a pinch to his brow, as he studied his hands, set in his lap. He seemed to turn them over, as he broke the silence, âFaraji. He changed over the years. He used to be⊠good. Or better. I donât expect you to understand how things operate here in Tevinter. There are people who stand on each others shoulders just to have more, and there are families who will go to any length for an edge, for power.â He seemed to chew on his words, before continuing, âFaraji was a product of ill upbringing. He became dangerous, to himself and everyone else. Cruel.â
âIll upbringing?â There was a terseness to her tone, one that she failed to smother down. Incredulous. Half the people in the Inquisition had ill upbringings. What made him any different? What made their suffering horrible enough to warrant torture? The same sort of exasperated outrage tickled out, threatening to spill over. Back in the estate, sheâd understood why Cyrus was so angry at his response, how heâd casually dismissed the inhumanities they passed by. It made sense to her then, and now. But sheâd wanted so badly to bring her family home, that it seemed⊠less. That implication, in itself, made her feel sick. How she could decided who was worth more, and who less. It was something she wouldnât readily admit. Not now, maybe not ever. She felt the same thing when sheâd seen Cyrus on the ground, and decided that he was worth more, certainly enough to leave those prisoners behind.
Corveus met her gaze for once, and held it. âMagisters donât only frown on anyone who crosses too many lines. Blood magic. Experimentation. They excommunicate. My mother never cared for those lines. She walked them. And those who knew, ignored it. Faraji was unlucky enough to be her favorite. The heir to the family.â He raised his hands, disfigured and mottled with scar tissue. Slash wounds forming white and pink bands. âAnd I served my own purpose, making sure the magic wasnât dangerous enough to kill him. Dutiful sons.â
Maleus seemed ready to squabble to his defense, though he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gripped the collar tighter in his hands, offering a feeble, âItâs true, what they were doing there. Corv kept me from the worst of it, yâknow. If it wasnât for himââ
Zahra waved a hand at him, dismissively. Sheâd heard enough. Maybe, she didnât want to hear anymore. That people like that actually existed, treating family like dirt, like something so easily expended, made no sense to her. It made her sick. She didnât want to hear anymore, certainly not from Corveusâs mouth. Didnât want to think of Faraji as anything other than a monster, one that had hurt one of her friends. Her family. She breathed out, and remembered something.
âThe prisoners. What about them? Cy⊠we said weâd get them out of there.â A demand. It sounded like one, even if she wasnât entirely sure what he could do from here. From the sounds of it, he didnât carry much weight there, in the first place. Her hand had drawn itself into a fist atop the counter, and she was sure, so sure, that if he replied with anything but benevolence, sheâd crawl over the table and strangle him. The prisonerâs were left to who-knows-what kind of future treatment. They deserved freedom most of all.
This time, a small, wistful smile tugged on the corner of Corveusâs lips, skin taut against sharp cheekbones, âThatâs something I can do, until I find a way out of Tevinter. I didnât fulfill my side of the promise, did I?â
She never did hear what the end of his deal had been.
Relaxation would not find her. Sleep seemed hilariously out her reach. Exhausted as she was, she felt restless. Her thumping heart, beating loud in her temples. It made her feel dizzy. Lost. The wound heâd suffered was⊠grievous. She couldnât get the image out of her head. It replayed, over and over again. Thumping to the ground like he weighed nothing. A listless corpse. All the blood. On her, him, Leon. Sheâd never been the sort to agonize over what-ifâs, but there they were, reconstructing into plausible angles, precautions she could have taken, but didnât. Seeing him like that made her stomach turn over, sick. What would Stel think? What would she say? That she was the cause of it, because sheâd been selfish enough to involve him in her business, and he, the smarmy, selfless fool had jumped in front of a blade to save her idiot-brother.
She gripped onto the front of her shirt and slumped against the wall, eyebrows drawn together. The fabric pinched between her fingers as she loosened her grip, letting her hand fall back to her side. Sitting here, tormenting herself over what had already happened, would do no one any good. Most of all, herself. Still, she didnât think she was ready to face the others, especially Stel. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, as she pushed herself away from the hall, facing towards the lounge area closest to the kitchen. Bastian had allowed Corveus sanction for the night, but nothing longer than that. Tevinter politics. Something she understood, and cared, little about.
Maleus hadnât strayed far from his side. From habit, perhaps. Their relationship was as inscrutable as Corveus was. Though the shroud of mystery surrounding him had dampened considerably since escaping his families estate, seeing how there was no longer anything to hide behind. No mirrors, no masks. That, in itself, was a comfort. She didnât like being kept in the dark. About anything, let alone something so important to her. As for Maleusâs proximity to the man, she wasnât sure how she felt. Whether the roles were still in place, Corveus being a dominus, and her brother, a simple slave, hounding faithfully behind. She hoped that wasnât the case. She hmâd quietly, and decided quickly enough. She needed to talk to her brother.
It was a start, at least.
Zahra found them easily enough. In the kitchen, talking in loud, brazen voices. There was a laugh she didnât recognize, along with one she did. At first, she lingered beside the doorway, cursing herself for eavesdropping. She couldnât help it. Leaning slightly forward, but enough to be tucked away beside the door frame, she could see them facing the counter. Maleus was seated in one of the stools, a knuckle of bread in one of his hands, talking with his mouth full and Corveus was standing behind him, hands fiddling at the heavy collar wrapped around his neck.
âStop squirming. I swear, it wonât hurt,â Corveus chided, pushing at his shoulders. He drew one of his hands up to his mouth and shifted, exhaling sharply. Biting at his thumb, deep enough to draw blood.
âEasy for you to say. You donât have this thing wrapped âround your neck,â her brotherâs response. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He didnât seem to believe him, the way he was trying to square his shoulders, raising them so that the collar shifted closer to his ears. Still, he hadnât moved away. Only wrenched his head to the side, allowing a better vantage.
The lordling drew his finger down the top of the collar, dragging it downwards, a look of consternation twisting his features.
There was a hissing noise, and the black, polished hinge was being bent under the pressure of whatever magic he was using. His hand lingered there, careful enough not to touch skin. Another sound. This time, an obvious heavy, metal crack. A clean break, right along the middle, where someone else had applied the initial weld, still a yellow-gold with the applied heat. His hand slid away and he made a sound, a rather triumphant hmph. âSee. How does that feel?â
Maleus was the one who drew his hands up, cracking the collar wide enough to slip from his neck. His expression was unreadable, a veil of muted surprise. âIt feelsâŠâ He held it for awhile, before his eyes swung towards her, and the confusion melted away, replaced by a grin she sorely missed. The drawn out look on his face didnât escape her, and neither did his eyes, red-rimmed. Like heâd been crying.âWhatâre you doing, gawping there? Snooping isnât like you, Zee.â
Zahra blinked, stupidly. When had sheâglancing to the side, she hadnât realized that she had taken a step in, without thinking. No, sheâd never been good at snooping. On anyone, or anything. Too loud, always too loud. It wasnât her style. She much preferred bullying her way into someoneâs business, nosy as ever. She wasnât sure why sheâd done it in the first place. Maybe, she hadnât wanted to interrupt. Corveus looked mildly uncomfortable by her presence, though she couldnât discern why. She didnât mind seeing him look unsure, awkward even, rather than smug. Almost looked like he wanted to vacate the room. She cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, âThought Iâd drop in and see how you were doing.â A pointed pause, before she glanced over to the only other person in the room, âYou too. Iâve got questions, and I think I deserve some answers. We all do, yâknow. For the shit we went through.â
They could mourn afterwards, when they were safe in Skyhold. For now, she needed answers. Badly. For Cyrus, for her.
Corveus seemed surprised by this, though he didnât protest. Instead, moving to perch himself on one of the stools. Clearly unprepared. He set his hands across the table for a moment, before decidedly pulling them into his lap. âAs you wish. Iâll answer what I can.â
An irksome response. One that she expected given how uncooperative heâd been so far. She circled around the counter, and chose to lean her elbows on it, facing them directly. There was a set to her lips, one that she oft used with people who often bullshitted her. She wouldnât allow it here. Maker knew, she had so many damn questions, blustering to be spoken aloud. One at a time. She studied Maleusâs face, and turned back towards Corveus, eyebrows drawing. âYour brother died today, because you agreed to bring us there. Doesnât that bother you? Why would someone like you even want that?â It didnât make sense to her. She couldnât stop the question before it tumbled out, a startled lilt. Confused. He was family, after all. Like her brother was to her.
To his benefit, he hesitated before speaking. Floundered for words, whereas he seemed to nonchalant before. Not so assured this time, cornered into a query that he didnât quite seem to know how to answer. There was a pinch to his brow, as he studied his hands, set in his lap. He seemed to turn them over, as he broke the silence, âFaraji. He changed over the years. He used to be⊠good. Or better. I donât expect you to understand how things operate here in Tevinter. There are people who stand on each others shoulders just to have more, and there are families who will go to any length for an edge, for power.â He seemed to chew on his words, before continuing, âFaraji was a product of ill upbringing. He became dangerous, to himself and everyone else. Cruel.â
âIll upbringing?â There was a terseness to her tone, one that she failed to smother down. Incredulous. Half the people in the Inquisition had ill upbringings. What made him any different? What made their suffering horrible enough to warrant torture? The same sort of exasperated outrage tickled out, threatening to spill over. Back in the estate, sheâd understood why Cyrus was so angry at his response, how heâd casually dismissed the inhumanities they passed by. It made sense to her then, and now. But sheâd wanted so badly to bring her family home, that it seemed⊠less. That implication, in itself, made her feel sick. How she could decided who was worth more, and who less. It was something she wouldnât readily admit. Not now, maybe not ever. She felt the same thing when sheâd seen Cyrus on the ground, and decided that he was worth more, certainly enough to leave those prisoners behind.
Corveus met her gaze for once, and held it. âMagisters donât only frown on anyone who crosses too many lines. Blood magic. Experimentation. They excommunicate. My mother never cared for those lines. She walked them. And those who knew, ignored it. Faraji was unlucky enough to be her favorite. The heir to the family.â He raised his hands, disfigured and mottled with scar tissue. Slash wounds forming white and pink bands. âAnd I served my own purpose, making sure the magic wasnât dangerous enough to kill him. Dutiful sons.â
Maleus seemed ready to squabble to his defense, though he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gripped the collar tighter in his hands, offering a feeble, âItâs true, what they were doing there. Corv kept me from the worst of it, yâknow. If it wasnât for himââ
Zahra waved a hand at him, dismissively. Sheâd heard enough. Maybe, she didnât want to hear anymore. That people like that actually existed, treating family like dirt, like something so easily expended, made no sense to her. It made her sick. She didnât want to hear anymore, certainly not from Corveusâs mouth. Didnât want to think of Faraji as anything other than a monster, one that had hurt one of her friends. Her family. She breathed out, and remembered something.
âThe prisoners. What about them? Cy⊠we said weâd get them out of there.â A demand. It sounded like one, even if she wasnât entirely sure what he could do from here. From the sounds of it, he didnât carry much weight there, in the first place. Her hand had drawn itself into a fist atop the counter, and she was sure, so sure, that if he replied with anything but benevolence, sheâd crawl over the table and strangle him. The prisonerâs were left to who-knows-what kind of future treatment. They deserved freedom most of all.
This time, a small, wistful smile tugged on the corner of Corveusâs lips, skin taut against sharp cheekbones, âThatâs something I can do, until I find a way out of Tevinter. I didnât fulfill my side of the promise, did I?â
She never did hear what the end of his deal had been.