Chapter Text
Everything was too much. The grandeur of it all made her teeth ache.
The lights were too bright. The heat was too stifling. The string quartet sounded like dying darkspawn, regardless of the melody it played. Innumerable voices speaking in hushed whispers, low like the thrum of insects, grated against the inside of her skull.
The almost militaristic uniform felt stiff despite the fabric otherwise being rich. Josephine had insisted the Inquisition attend the Winter Palace in attire that ‘denoted their status as an organization, but remained formal enough for the occasion.’
It was a shame, Leliana thought sourly, to be so confined in a place like this, where formal attire spoke more than words could.
And yet she couldn’t disagree with dear Josephine for practicality’s sake; she was right, as she was usually when it came to more intricate court affairs. After all, why hide behind a physical mask when everyone in Halamshiral already knew who lay in wait behind it? Why not flaunt the Inquisition’s power, its status?
Not that one of those garish masks would have helped her any; everyone knew who she was. The only mask Leliana could hide behind was her own, and that was slipping as of late.
Eons passed since she was last here, but she despised this place a little more each time she stepped across its threshold. It was too much of a reminder of a bygone life.
Too many eyes as she made her way out of the vestibule and into the ballroom, as she descended the stairs to the floor to join her fellow advisors, awaiting announcement to the court. Leliana offered Cullen a curt smile as she took her place between him and Josephine. She quietly scrutinized the way he fumbled with the sash around his coat, but reached up to tug at the silk cravat around her throat back into place.
Inquisitor Trevelyan descended the stairs opposite the ones Leliana had, having been the first to be announced to the court. She, too, wore the same attire as the rest of the Inquisition, save for House Trevelyan’s crest stitched onto a pocket just below the collar: a rearing black horse upon a pallium shield, and wreathed in red hollyhock. Black with red and gold accents, the uniform fit her well.
Josephine had fussed over the young leader’s unruly pale hair, finally straightening and securing it in a typical Orlesian braid. It wasn’t the most elaborate thing, requiring some practicality should the Inquisitor undoubtedly find herself amid conflict over the night’s affairs. Then again, elaborate was never a word that described Inquisitor Elisabeth Trevelyan.
It was a blessing that Elisabeth was accustomed to some courtly intrigue, though Ostwick’s breed of courtly affairs paled compared to that of the grand Orlesian Game. Long hours were spent within the Ambassador’s office back at Skyhold, holding lessons in diction, etiquette, dancing—anything that could help acclimate her to such an event. Thankfully, she took to it like a duck to water. Still, she was a duck on a lake full of swans.
Leliana watched the people watching the Inquisitor as she made her way down the floor. Various marquis and lords, dithering ladies cooling themselves with dove feather fans. A sea of false frozen faces, pressed vests, and revealing necklines watching the oddity that walked with rehearsed steps towards their doomed-to-die Empress.
It could be any of them. A grand masquerade, held under the auspices of a peace talk? Every bard in Orlais should be here. The Nightingale would have been shocked if the Antivan Crows were not in attendance.
This was sure to be a long, irritating night.
Cullen proceeded after the Inquisitor, the next to be announced to the court. His gait wasn’t quite as practiced as it should be. The Commander would have looked more out of place had Josephine not pulled him aside the night prior for a reminder on how to present himself. Poor Cullen, she thought with a fleeting smirk, so out of his element here. It was endearing.
But she supposed it could be worse. Leliana considered it a small mercy from the Maker that the Inquisitor’s inner circle would not be making that same walk across the floor. Half the dowagers might faint upon seeing the Iron Bull.
Dear Maker, and Sera. No, that didn’t spare consideration.
On second thought, perhaps Sera’s antics wouldn’t be so bad in such an uppity atmosphere. A pie in the face of a marquis or two might go down well.
The smile melted off her face when she felt Josephine’s eyes at her side, and she tilted her head just enough to acknowledge her before raising her chin again.
The court herald announced her, and she moved automatically, following an invisible line down the ballroom floor.
“Nightingale of the Imperial Court. Veteran of the Fifth Blight.”
Feet too loud on the marble. Echoes of long hours under Lady Cecile’s instruction. Shoulders back, walk straight.
“Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine.”
The phantom feeling of Marjolaine’s hands against her arms, gentle but firm, on the first time she brought Leliana here. Smile, darling, but she couldn’t. So many names; why does she have so many names?
“Mistress to the Prince Consort of Ferelden.”
The declaration sent made her heart shudder in place.
Leliana ran her tongue across her teeth, eyes flashing up to either side of the floor, at the people whose mutterings suddenly ceased.
That was a name she had not heard in what felt like a lifetime. Funny, she thought she had dealt with anyone who knew about that stain on her life.
Well, all except the Prince Consort, that is, who had been sitting just out of reach on Ferelden’s throne for the last decade.
She bowed at the end of her walk, as was expected before Empress Celene’s presence. It was a gesture reservedly returned. Celene’s elaborate ball gown partially inhibited the movement, crippled further by the Orlesian Lion sigil at her back. The rich blue hue of the gown matched perfectly with the accents of the Winter Palace: its drapes, its rugs, and even the grand doors sharing this color.
It was fitting, Leliana thought as she righted herself, how it made the Empress little more than just another part of the decor.
“We are honored to have you in our presence once more, Sister Nightingale.” Celene made an almost imperceptible gesture with one hand; practiced and for show.
“Thank you, Your Grace, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Thedas lost a beacon to unspeakable evil. Halamshiral still mourns Divine Justinia’s death.”
“As do we all.”
Celene briefly addressed Josephine once the diplomat made her way to join before her. Leliana paid no mind to her words or the impassioned plea to the gathered nobles. Instead, she cast her eyes around the room, seeking faces, finding none but glass.
Until she felt it, like the icy breath of winter against her skin. Dread crept up her spine in a soft, familiar caress, lighting her nerves and echoing with danger. More than what was already present, she thought tiredly. No, there was no mistaking this, this feeling. She was being watched.
Of course she was , so was the Inquisition; so was everyone. But this was different, nefarious. Her eyes swept across the flock of nobles. Most looked on at the procession with a sense of obligation, others the opportunity of what gossip the night might bring.
The Empress dismissed them, formally starting the festivities. The Inquisitor and her advisors bowed once more before making their way up the stairs to the upper level; Josephine and Cullen to the left, Leliana and Elisabeth to the right. Already, patrons filed onto the ballroom floor from the opposite end.
Leliana looked up from her feet as she reached the top step, finding Elisabeth standing there, watching the crowd.
The Inquisitor discreetly motioned toward the opposite side of the ballroom, where the gathered patrons dispersed. Leliana followed, quickly scanning the sea of dresses and cloaks and other frivolities of the season’s fashion. The Inquisitor leaned in and said, “I didn’t know animal masks were a thing in the Orlesian court.”
Then it was as if the Waking Sea parted as guests took to the ballroom floor. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, lumbered through the rest of the crowd to overlook the floor. Half-armored, half dressed up, with fur trimming, tassels, and other gaudy effects. A dark red cloak flowed around his shoulders and pooled around his arms as his hands came to rest upon the railing. He observed the goings on underneath him until his head slowly rose straight to where the two of them stood. The golden lupine mask that sat upon his face might have shrouded much, but Leliana did not need to see the rest of him to know exactly who he was.
Having the Prince Consort here was sure to complicate things.
His lips curled upward, and Leliana felt her stomach pitch. “They’re not.” She gripped the Inquisitor’s arm and lead them away from the stairs, into the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, back to where the man stood, but he too disappeared into the fray.
Elisabeth craned her head as Leliana weaved them through silk bodies, straining to see over tall and decorated headwear. “Who was that?” she asked. “Do you think that’s our assassin?”
Leliana grit her teeth. The thought of Prince Consort Cousland aligning with Corypheus had eluded her, and she silently cursed herself for it. He had gone silent in the wake of disaster at the Conclave; between her grief at Justinia’s death, the attack on Haven, trekking through the Frostbacks, and the chaos of rebuilding at Skyhold, the man had entirely slipped her mind. But now it seemed so obvious. So many mistakes, she thought, one after another.
He was certainly capable, of that she had little doubt. He hoarded power like a dragon hoarded treasure; Cousland would set his holdings on fire if it meant even a scrap of influence grazed his knuckles. If he had allied with Corypheus, if he had been promised something in exchange for throwing Orlais into chaos, it would be entirely within character.
Still, to be so brazen, to make himself seen so early, to have the court herald announce her in such a way…Her gut told her he was here for something else, and the thought made her stomach turn and her blood boil at once.
This was her problem. He was her problem.
“I don’t know,” she almost deadpanned. They finally managed to escape the horde, into a clear pocket against the wall.
Elisabeth raised a brow. “I thought you knew everyone who was anyone in Orlais.”
“The civil war and Chantry leaders squabbling have done much to destabilize the nation. An opportunistic lower house looking to elevate themselves, or a foreigner looking for an in to court? It is not so unusual.” At least the Inquisitor had a head on her shoulders; Maker knows she got them this far. Still, this was Leliana’s burden to bear, and she would not send the Inquisitor in her stead. “He could also be a Venatori agent; they have spies and contacts just as we do.”
The Inquisitor’s eyes flicked over Leliana’s shoulder, searching, then back to her. “That sounds like a good first lead to me.”
Leliana suddenly felt cold, a sweat collecting on her skin as her temper bristled. She took a breath, tried not to let it show, and stopped the Inquisitor before she could even think of leaving her just yet. “It is a good lead, but not our best one. We know Briala has an underground network of elven spies within the palace. It would be easy for our assassin to slip a select few inside the palace and infiltrate the servants. A perfect place to hide, no?” Leliana watched the suggestion mull about in the Inquisitor’s eyes and watched her jaw shift in contemplation, and her apprehension cooled. “Look around; mingle, if you must, but listen and watch. My agents and I will keep an eye on this man. Should he prove a threat, we will inform you.”
That seemed to appease her. Elisabeth nodded. “If I find anything useful, should I bring it to you? Where will you be?”
“There is something I must do first, but I will return here as soon as I can.” As Leliana turned away, intending to find her agents, Elisabeth gripped her arm, stopping her. She wheeled back around; Elisabeth’s eyes had turned serious, brows furrowed together.
Elisabeth leaned in close. “You never told me you were…committed,” she said, then made a vague motion with her head when Leliana raised a brow. “‘Mistress to the Prince Consort’? You didn’t think to tell me of this?”
Oh. That. Leliana bit down a sigh and brushed Elisabeth’s hand away. If circumstances were different, she might have thought the twinge of jealousy endearing. “I am not. I have a few enemies in the court; perhaps one of them wishes to tarnish my reputation using old rumors.”
“Rumors?” The Inquisitor shook her head. “That’s hardly any better.”
This time, she did sigh and ran a hand over her eyes. “Inquisitor, I assure you it is baseless. I will tell you the whole of it, if you wish, but now is not the time.” That should have been the end of it, but she had one last barb, and she leaned in closer: “Even if it were true, you and I have an agreement, yes?”
The Inquisitor went stony-faced again. Her eyes searched down, up again. “If it were true, would our agreement be different?”
Leliana’s lips briefly turned up at the corner. “We have work to do. An assassin will not wait for us.”
The two parted. Leliana watched the Inquisitor long enough to ensure she did as intended, and let out a small sigh as the ballroom doors closed behind her.
She pushed her way in the same direction, to the grand doors leading into the vestibule. Charter, one of her best agents, waited near the doors, bent forward on the railing overlooking the floor and watching the entire sordid affair. Her face was twisted up, Leliana noticed, though she was unsure if it was simply a trick of the lighting. Charter straightened when Leliana approached, turned, and gave a slight bow.
“Enjoying yourself, Charter?”
The agent scoffed. “With all due respect, m’lady, I don’t know how you can stand it. Pit of vipers, this.”
“Most in attendance would take that as a compliment, you know.” Charter let out a derisive scoff. “Have you heard anything from the others?”
“Most of our agents are inside the palace, m’lady. There’s not much to go on yet, but something isn’t right about the servants. We’ve seen elves go in, but not come out of the servant’s quarters all night. A few coming and going out of the royal wing.”
Leliana nodded along as she spoke, looking across the ballroom again. Trying and failing to find that deviant mask. “Do we have eyes on the Empress?”
“Yes. We expect her to be preoccupied with talks with the Duke for some time, at least.” A long pause persisted between them, meanwhile the masks of the nobility all blended together, indistinguishable from one another. “If I may,” Charter said, and Leliana’s attention snapped back to her agent, “who’s the one in the dog mask? Sticks out like a sore thumb.”
She felt the skin at her neck prickle again, and Leliana cast another quick glance over the crowd. Still nothing. “Ferelden’s crown,” she said ruefully.
“Ah.” Charter crossed her arms, rocking on her feet. She did not know the whole story, but she knew enough. “Should we steer clear, then?”
“There is no reason to suspect him of being our killer as of yet, but it doesn’t hurt to keep watch.” If he was this elusive from her, an extra set of eyes could only be a good thing. “I need to confer with the others. Find me if anything changes.”
“Of course.” Charter bowed again. “Ever at your service, m’lady.”
As soon as Leliana turned her back to the ballroom, that deep sense of dread came creeping back. Her stomach fought against itself. Eyes. Eyes everywhere. She counted every step she made towards the grand doors, measured them with the racing of her heart; both loud enough that the noise of the ballroom fell away.
Relief only came when those doors clanged shut behind her. She lingered for a moment to gather herself. Deep breath in; exhale. There was work to do, and this respite could only last for so long.
She turned, facing the maw of the vestibule, and let herself slip into a mask.