My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

Lana shivered thanks to her exposed shoulders and arms bumping heads with the night winds. Getting inside was preferable to freezing to death in the courtyard from the creeping cold. Starting a fire would only draw more attention to the mage hidden amongst them like a snake in the grass. Most people from a distance would chuckle at her ensemble. Ah, a dragon, how droll being worn upon such a small woman. Then they'd draw close and notice the scars bisecting her shoulders and arms. That's when the chuckles drifted off to impolite stares and gasps. For being proud of their game, the Orlesian gentry seemed immune to making complete jackasses of themselves when truly surprised.

  What she needed was to get through the gates, hole up somewhere away from prying eyes, and wait for a signal from the Inquisitor. But he had to get his ass over to her first. Lana cracked her neck absentmindedly and the lady beside her started from the sound. She smiled at the terrified woman, which only startled her more. Maker, Lana tapped her well shod toe, where was he?

  "Excuse me, pardon, begging your rather ample backside..." the voice flitted through the sea of finery until Josephine's noble escort popped out.

  "Lord Whitley," Lana sighed. If one took a toad and crossed it with a nug you'd get an unholy abomination and also the closest approximation to Lord Whitley's appearance. He wasn't particularly ugly in the classic sense, but from the way his eyes flitted to the edges and his tongue lapped against his lips when he was approximating thought it was natural to fear Whitley was about to gobble up flies. The man was some distant cousin of the Empress so unloved by the family they somehow kept losing his invitation. But his blood was blue enough he could pass on the Hero of Ferelden's arm, or so Josephine assured her. At the moment, Lana placed the odds of him surviving to the steps at 3:1 and fading fast.

  "Ah, my Lady, you are ravishing by moonlight," he pinched his eyes together and stepped closer, "I think. Never you matter, I had a delightful talk with the Duke over there. Seems he has plans to open up an iron ore trade with..."

  "I do not care," Lana interrupted.

  "Oh, what about...?"

  "You are a means to an end, as am I for your 'deals.' Let us get this over quickly before my arms frost over," she sighed while rubbing her fingers along her shoulders.

  "I could offer some assistance in that--" his grubbing fingers reached out for her skin and Lana slapped both away. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he shrugged, "I'm only trying to help; you don't have to tear my head off for it."

  I will do more than tear your head off, you little toad. She hoped that Josephine was unaware Whitley was the type of man to call her 'a chocolate morsel' and expect to survive the night. If not, she needed to keep a closer eye on the ambassador. Lana flexed her fingers, willing the fire spell away from them. She had far bigger dragons to slay tonight.

  "Come," picking up her skirts, she clipped quickly towards the steps of the Winter Palace. Whitley scurried behind her, shouting immaterial tripe about how important the point of his existence was, but she shook it off. Shoving through the gate, anger drove away the vision of the hallway before her. It was probably very elegant and tasteful, with tapestries and other things people hung in their palaces to impose upon others with the same decorating sense. All Lana saw was a red haze burrowing in the back of her brain warning her to control her temper. While the nobles might enjoy a few fireworks here and there, a true unleashing of magic would send them all scampering to the winds, blowing whatever the plan was for the night. It would have been nice for her to have been included in a moment or two of it at least.

  When she approached the mahogany door to the ballroom, Lana had managed to talk herself down to a calm. She hadn't seen any sign of the Inquisition for a few days, having taken her own horse and joined with another caravan of nobles bound for the Winter Palace. Hopefully they were already in place, or were about to arrive. Lana paused and snickered. It would be her luck that something changed mid-stream and they were off fighting Corypheus on the other edge of thedas while she diddled about with canapés and Orlesians.

  "Madam." The palace's herald approached her and extended his scroll. Jabbing a finger at the list, he coughed from below his mask, unable to make any useful body language to tell her what he wanted. Maker, what was with this blighted country? In Ferelden, you just shouted you arrived, then ran off to see what was left on the meat table. Lana was probably supposed to have servants to handle such things, but she leaned over and whispered her name into his ear. He sniffed at her lack of decorum and seemed unperturbed at her name until he found her entry. That narrow patch of face visible below the porcelain nose paled so white she feared she might have to catch him. He coughed a few times, checked to make certain that wasn't some grave insult to her, then gestured she get in line.

  Gathering up the fire skirts, Lana slipped behind a pair of women in matching emerald dresses. People lined the battlements along the dance floor. There was probably a more impressive term for the floors overlooking them bound back by railing, but she couldn't shake the thought of a condemned prisoner walking past rows of archers lining to take the kill shot. A few guards stood watch over the stairs, but nowhere near as many as she'd expected. Most of the guests mingled among themselves on the top floors. Despite their positions along the not-battlements, somehow every eye twisted around to watch the entrance, all to size up and pounce upon anyone who'd fallen down the pecking order. Jutting out her chest, Lana stared up at the chandelier hovering above the dance floor and fixed her face with grim determination.

  "You have to take my arm," Whitley slipped close to her, his elbow knocking her in the side.

  "Why?"

  "It's tradition," he said nudging into her chest again as if she were an underripe fruit.

  Growling under her breath, Lana touched his arm with only two of her fingers. She couldn't bring herself to get any closer. Whitley smiled at her and turned to gaze out at the proceedings himself.

  "Should be a grand night," he whistled. "Your first time?" And yours, Lana mouthed under her breath but she was out of patience for the man and wanted this done with. Even speaking to him seemed a waste of strength. "Don't worry," the toad had the audacity to pat her arm, "I'll keep watch over you."

  "Maker, give me strength," she muttered audibly, tipping her head back.

  "Presenting Lady Solona Amell," the herald's voice boomed over the murmuring crowd. Her name didn't even warrant a skip in the small talk, the din rising in volume. Gathering up her skirts, Lana began the walk down the stairs with Whitley trailing beside her. The herald continued to read from the list of accomplishments Josephine gave him, "Arlessa of Amaranthine." That drew a few curious stares from the crowd. With a shore upon the Waking Sea, Amaranthine often did trade with Orlais and other neighboring city-states.

  The herald coughed, and in a voice tinged with respect and pants-wetting awe he hollered, "Hero of Ferelden, conquerer of the Blight, and Warden Commander of the forces in Ferelden."

  With a crash, the sea of whispers stilled to a dead drop leaving only silence in the waves. Lana kept her head held high as she crossed in front of every eye in the empire watching her, waiting to see what this mage only legends and tavern songs spoke of would do. She made it another five steps before the wave returned, people pointing in awe and surprise at the tiny woman out of myth crossing their ballroom floor. The herald continued to drone on with Whitley's meager accomplishments, but no one paid him any heed, their focus glared upon her. Lana paused at the landing and turned her head up to the imposing woman in the sapphire dress. For a brief second Lana wanted to ask her how she fit through doors, but she bit it back. Maker, her legs wobbled under the fire skirts. She wasn't good with nobility. The only one she ever had to deal with was Alistair and he put up with her brand of brashness because he had no choice. As did the rest of the royalty in Ferelden seeing as how she was the one who kept them in non-blighted lands. It made all of this pomp and circumstance much easier.

  "You do us much honor with your presence, Hero of Ferelden," Empress Celene
bobbed her head.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lana caught Whitley go stark white and try to bend at the waist. She caught the idea and curtsied deeply. "The honor is all mine, your majesty."

  "We are curious, what drove you to accept our invitation after all these years?"

  "Peace concerns us all, your highness, even the wardens," Lana lied through her teeth.

  Celene blinked from below her mask. She turned briefly to the woman beside her. This second one spoke at the Empress' silent command, "And which way does the Warden's favor attend?"

  "Whichever way brings safety to the lands of Orlais and southern thedas," Lana shouted out, then she tacked on, "my lady."

  The woman sneered, but Celene chuckled, "A most careful answer. Please, enjoy the evening. We hope you find it satisfactory."

  "I am certain I will, your highness," Lana curtsied again then headed for the stairs. People parted from her as if she carried the plague, women dragging upon the cuffs of men so they'd scurry out of her way. Whether it was because Lana was Ferleden, a warden, or a mage, she ignored all the panicked gasps and tried to get a sense for the landscape. The ballroom was about as gilded and silk encrusted as she'd expected, but fewer people than she anticipated circled around the area. Lana touched her face feeling naked with her bare skin on display. Twenty masks glanced towards her direction, each porcelain facade measuring her up.

  Whitley yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his brow. "They tell me you are a mage," he tried to strike up a conversation with her. Why he was still following her she had not a clue.

  "Is the they you mentioned named common sense?" Lana shot back. She whipped her head around; a familiar antivan accent broke above the conversation wave but she couldn't see Josephine. What Lana wouldn't give for Hawke's height right about now. Or her crowd clearing abilities.

  "A quick tongue on you," the toad grinned. Lana's shoulders stiffened from the familiarity in his voice. She didn't respond, only continued to hunt through the crowd for a friendly face. "I have a passing fascinating with the arcane arts. Do tell me, have you found in your particular travels a way to create a love potion?"

  Lana's posture snapped to steel as she turned upon the man. "A love potion?" her voice was pure ice, daring him to continue.

  "Or spell. You know, something to increase the amorous affections from one in another. Think of the possibilities," Whitley grinned as if he'd stumbled into the next great idea to make him rich and put him in what he considered his deserved standing.

  Despite being shorter, Lana loomed over the man speaking without a clue, "A love spell? You wish to alter a person's mind fully against their own wishes for your menial means?"

  "For the sake of romance, of course."

  "Ah," she lifted her head away in understanding, "yes. I know of what you speak. That is called blood magic and unless you want the chantry to strip you of every title you hold I would refrain from drawing upon this love potion concept of yours." Whitley squeaked from the threat of her barred teeth. Withering lower to the floor, he murmured something about the dangers of blood magic and how he was only postulating, of course. There was no possible chance he'd dare have anything to do with blood magic or its heathen ways. Lana smoothed down her hackles as best she could by turning away from the man. It was amazing he'd survived past his fortys with a flapping tongue attached to so little brain. The Orlesian nobility must think so little of him he's not even worth cannibalizing.

  "Pardon, madame," a servant gently prodded into her arm. "Would you care for one?"

  Lana slipped a smile on and reached for the plate when the smell smashed into her gut. Orange wedges decorated with candied cloves sat upon a leafy vegetable. The fist bundling up her skirts dug in deeper, pain keeping her grounded to the here and now. She tried to slide away politely, when Whitley scooped up one of the treats and bit into it. Orange acid and the juice splattered through the air to plop across Lana's cheek and every ounce of control in her body shattered. Panic clawed up from her gut with tendrils through her chest, each finger knocking against every one of her ribs until it wrapped around her throat and squeezed like a garrote.

  She stumbled back from the smell, gasping to find fresh air, but the anxiety rattling in her brain wouldn't leave. People pressed around her, people who could split in half with a demon's claws. Intestines spilled upon the ground, blood splattering into the mud like gristly raindrops, and all around it the smell of oranges. Throwing her hand over her mouth, Lana ran for any direction she could find. She couldn't offer excuses, just dropped down her shoulder and barreled through the highest nobility Orlais had to offer. Rounding through a pair of doors, the night air stung her cheeks and froze the sweat percolating across her forehead. She stumbled into a banister and tried to ground herself, to will back the demons knocking about her heart. But it was too late. Bending over, Lana vomited up all the bile in her system over the Winter Palace's balcony. Her inner demons splattered against the ground three stories below her. Shaking and trembling from her shoulders down to her toes, Lana clung tight to the marble banister while the meager food she managed to eat earlier left her. At least no one was directly below; it was a small mercy.

  Unfortunately, she wasn't alone on the balcony. "Oh dear, seems the Hero of Ferelden doesn't care for the food."

  "Or cares too much for the wine."

  "What would you expect from a dog lord?"

  There was nothing left in her guts, but she kept her head hanging off the edge in case she was wrong. Cool air washed down her raw throat. She gulped it as if it was a refreshing mountain stream. Slowly, her mind came back from its precarious perch, dragging with it the embarrassing realization of what just happened.

  A warm hand ran across her back and she snapped up expecting to find Whitley glowering at her, but she stared deep into amber eyes.

  "Are you all right?" Cullen whispered, pressing his face close to hers.

  Lana nodded, grateful that it was he who found her and no one else. Then she reared back, aware of the smell upon her breath. "I..." her eyes darted around the other people trying to politely listen in. Whispering in explanation, she gestured to one of the serving trays, "They have oranges here." She doubted he would remember her confession from four years ago, but Cullen blanched. His fingers dug into her shoulders, massaging away the knot she built up in about three seconds.

  "Do you need some time?" he whispered.

  "No, it's..." Her eyes darted up from the man she wasn't supposed to know to the one she wished she didn't. Whitley stood at the door, another three orange slices in his hand.

  "What are you doing?" he shouted, as if concerned another man dared to wrestle in on his claim.

  Lana slid back, her behind bumping into the banister. Any further and she'd fall right off the edge to join her meager dinner, but her brain was screaming at her to get away by any means necessary. Cullen turned upon Whitley and sneered, "This woman is ill. Fetch her something to drink. Now."

  "I..." his eyes darted from Lana back to the commander who looked about to grab his legs and hurl him off the balcony. "Uh, right away. Sure." He jammed another orange in his mouth and scurried off.

  Struggling down a calming breath, Lana returned to those amber eyes. "Thank you."

  Cullen's fingers picked back up the massage as he turned his attention fully on her, "Are you okay to continue? If you need a moment or..."

  "No, no, I am fine." She swallowed down the panic ringing in every nerve. "Going to have some wonderful nightmares I'm certain." She shrugged through the pain but Cullen grimaced, perhaps aware of a similar outcome in his life. "Maker, I hate oranges." Shaking her head as if that could reset her broken spirit, Lana slapped on smile, "What of the Inquisitor? I have not seen him. It seems my party was delayed outside for longer than others."

  "He's investigating some information were received about the servant's quarters. Some disturbance involving halla statues and," Cullen bent low to whisper in her ear, "Venatori."

&n
bsp; "Delightful," Lana spoke it with a laugh in her voice, but Cullen caught her true meaning. This wasn't going to be an easy night and it'd already begun on such a high note. His fingers pulsed against her skin three times more, grounding her away from the demons haunting her thoughts and back to the masked ones surrounding them. Her job was to blend in, to overhear what the Inquisition's forces could not and so far all she managed was to make a colossal fool of herself over some fruit. She had no idea what was happening within the machinations behind the scenes, and she wasn't supposed to be talking to the man caressing her birthmark. But she didn't have the strength or will to point that fact out. Andraste's tears, his strong fingers across her skin almost lulled her into a catatonic state. Like drifting away into a warm bath, Lana didn't want him to stop.

  "Commander! Here you are!" a woman's high pitched voice screeched through the doors. Cullen's hand slipped off of Lana and he stepped aside, but she didn't miss the scowl knotting up his face.

  "Commander," a second woman spoke, her voice even more babyish than the first, "we were so concerned when you vanished. You're missing out on the recent arrival of...Who is this?" Her eyes trailed across Lana and she gave a dismissive snort.

  Lana smiled, "A woman of no import, I assure you. Just someone who cannot handle her wine. Thank you for your assistance, Commander Collin."

  "Ah, Cullen actually," he said. Lana bobbed her head and she stepped between the two women. Both parted far from her as if terrified she might vomit upon their shoes next. Lana could make their night far worse than they could imagine, but she was in no mood to play their little games. The first thing she needed to find was a drink to clear out her throat, and then it was time she paid her respects to the Empress of Orlais. Word was Celene had a fascination with the arcane arts, and who better to dazzle her than the Hero of Ferelden?

  Behind her she heard one of the women coo to the other, "Rather scrappy thing he was playing with, wasn't it?"

  "I wouldn't concern yourself. She doesn't even have a mask, no chance he'd affiliate himself with her."