Val Royeaux market square, Orlesian Empire, 9:41 Dragon
It was a sunny morning when the Herald of Andraste and her group reached the capital of the Orlesian Empire, Val Royeaux.
Orlais was a country known for its extravagant nobility and for being the birthplace of the Chantry. Ambitious and wealthy, it was the most powerful human nation in Thedas.
To Solas, it was ironic that this was so. In another world, that place had been nothing more than a pitiful sprawl of oiled leather tents and mud, populated by ragged humans who sold bead necklaces carved from bone… a place that smelled so foul he had avoided visiting it whenever he could.
And yet, knowledge of the past was not always useful in the present. That was why Solas had spent the last year reading about Orlesian customs and walking in the Fade through memories to form an accurate picture. He could not say his rounds among Orlesians with his agent had been unproductive, but the truth was that the culture was too complex to claim expertise after so little experience. Titles and coats of arms among the nobles were as abundant as their current fashion, which included cosmetics, elaborate masks, and an intricate style of dress… undeniably colorful.
The Herald of Andraste had been no exception to the rule that day. Josephine and Leliana had rigorously seen to dressing her in a light suit of armor as extravagant as any Orlesian attire, with dwarven craftsmanship at the edges and a blend of metals that contributed to the showy appearance Orlais prized so dearly. Of elven cultural details, not a trace—of course.
Solas did not consider it a wise choice; to him, it bordered more on cultural appropriation than diplomacy. But, well… since he was not truly a Thedosian, who was he to contradict them?
- Hey, Solas… - Elentari murmured, leaning close to his ear before they crossed the great gate that connected the inspiring avenue to the bazaar within. - Any advice before I face the Revered Mothers?
Cassandra had gone ahead to take a look before the heretical Dalish elf profaned sacred ground.
- The main objective is to show them you are not the monster they want the world to see.
- And how do I do that? I'm Dalish.
- Let your roots be your pride, Herald. Not your shame. - She made a displeased face when he didn't use her name; he didn't bother reminding her they had agreed to respect her office in public. - Remember that the Val Royeaux Chantry began—and has remained—an organization predominantly human. - She nodded. - And that it considers the other races farther from the Maker.
- Yet… a Dalish elf is its Herald. - she pointed out, painfully aware of how absurd that was.
- Yes—ironic. But it's what we have. - he replied with a shrug. Elentari let out a small smile; so did he.
- The Chantry believes the Maker won't return until even the Qunari sing in His name," Varric cut in shamelessly, cheerfully joining the blasphemy.
- For the faithful... - Solas continued in a tone that blended mockery with erudition - the other races are considered even more in need of salvation. Therefore, if you play your role well, you might manage something favorable for the Inquisition.
- But that would be lying…
- It would be… - He made a vague gesture with the hand holding his mage's staff. - Yes. Lying.
She rolled her eyes.
- Don't think of it as a lie, kid. - the dwarf chimed in. - Think of it as crafting a narrative.
- Lying. - she repeated, stubborn.
- No. - Varric denied with false solemnity. - Our goal is not to say you are Andraste's Herald…
- It's to avoid denying it. - Solas finished quickly. Varric barked a laugh; he smiled at him.
- You know? Today you're not helping at all.
- With those loud colors, you don't need anyone's help. - Varric teased, pointing at her Orlesian outfit. Solas let out a malicious little chuckle. He and the dwarf exchanged a complicit glance—they had already mocked it in private.
Just then, the Seeker rejoined the group. She threw them a murderous look the moment she heard the three of them snickering, and immediately they all stepped away from one another, as if they'd never been sharing a joke.
- Solas, Maker's breath, put that mage staff away.
Oh, yes. How clumsy. Solas obeyed without protest. Varric gave a soft laugh at his side, and Cassandra crossed her arms, clearly irritated.
- Must I remind you the city is in mourning? - she demanded, frowning. - That I am in mourning?
- Accept our apologies. You are right. - Solas said, adopting his most formal tone.
- Did you see anything of interest, Cass? - Elentari asked.
Cassandra nodded.
- I met with one of Leliana's agents. She says the Revered Mothers are expecting us—but there's also a large number of templars.
- Oh, shit. How did we not bring Curly with us? - Varric lamented.
Cassandra huffed. - People seem to think the templars are here to protect them from… us.
- Us? - the Dalish woman echoed. - You mean from me.
- No—from us, Elentari. The threat is the Inquisition. You are only the Herald.
Nothing more…
- Well… - Varric was saying, just as a citizen passed close to the group, flicked them a quick glance, and sped up as if she'd just crossed paths with a thief in the dead of night on an empty street. -...I'm not sure, but I have the impression everyone already knows who we are.
- Your skills of observation never cease to amaze me… Varric - Cassandra deadpanned.
- Forgive me, Seeker... - Solas interjected. - But what became of our spymaster's agent?
- I told her to return to Haven. - Cassandra made a displeased face as she walked. - Someone needs to inform them if we're… delayed.
Perfect. Solas wanted no Leliana agent lingering around the Val Royeaux bazaar today.
- I think that was a sound decision.
Then the group crossed the avenue and finally reached the great gate.
In contrast with the past, Solas discovered a charming change in that market square. It stretched imposing before them, decorated with striking, beautiful statues, packed with merchant stalls and a countless stream of passersby moving at different paces. The scent, at last, was pleasant.
Without question, Val Royeaux held spectacular architecture, and Solas had always been a great admirer of beautiful things in any world.
On the other hand—and as Cassandra had warned—the market was thick with templars today.
Good. Many templars, but also many citizens… the perfect chaos to slip away and gather information on his own.
He couldn't say whether he did it because it felt necessary, or simply because there were days he woke up capricious. But Solas moved closer to Elentari and, standing at her side, whispered:
- You'll do well, Herald. Trust yourself.
She turned at once, a question already on her lips, ready to demand where he was going—but he only gave her a smile touched with arrogance… and vanished into the crowd.
Cassandra and Varric, walking a few steps ahead of the Herald, didn't even notice. Elentari had no choice but to follow them.
Quickly, Solas made for one of the lower market's side lanes. He knew the place—one of his agents had scouted it beforehand. As he moved through the press of bodies, he began discreetly removing pieces of his light armor; using every brush against a passerby, he stowed the plates into his pack with precise motions until he was left in nothing but a loose white linen shirt and dark trousers.
When he reached the shade of a thick-trunked tree, he leaned back against it, turned, and with professional speed pulled a dark wig from his pack. He hid his pointed ears as best he could under the new hair.
A minor detail—enough to pass unnoticed in the crowd until he reached the tavern.
Throughout the process, his heart beat with an unexpected intensity. Vigor ran through his body and, before he could stop it, Solas found himself smiling. There was something in the disguise, the chaos, the stealth… that made him feel young again as he slipped away from his companions.
He wanted information.
"Find me still searching for someone to lead me. Can you guide me to the revolt inside me? Promise surviving the Breach," a thin, masculine voice sang somewhere in the distance.
With a firm but hastened stride, Solas entered the tavern. Without wasting time, he produced a bronze coin and headed for the artist playing that melody with practiced skill.
The musician—an elven man with blond hair and Mythal's vallaslin—displayed at his feet the open case of his lute, brimming with shining coins. In the center lay a white cloth and a small tray.
Fen'Harel crouched to drop the coin, released his ears… and with the same effortless motion, took both items.
"Maker, remind me. Gone are the days of our peace... Now we reside in the great divide, no promise surviving" the Golden Minstrel's voice continued.
Now, Fen'Harel was a servant—one who belonged to no noble house—so he wore no mask. He had little time, but he knew what he had to do.
Tray in hand, his poise immaculate, he moved inside and stopped in front of the innkeeper.
- Are you new around here, rabbit? - the man growled. "Rabbit" was the more friendly term shemlen used for elves.
- No, sir. - he replied, and bowed his head to make his respect clear. Everywhere—but especially in Val Royeaux—the hierarchy among servants was strict and unmistakable.
- Jah. All of you look the same to me.
- Of course, sir.
- Go to the kitchen. Our lord's order is waiting there. - Fen'Harel nodded again and went where he was told.
The kitchen held its characteristic suffocating heat, while dishes for each customer were prepared with speed and skill. This place was one of Orlesian nobles' favorites—where court intrigues often unfolded.
A small elf woman, her face free of vallaslin, approached him with a tray piled high on her palm.
- Oh, the Golden Minstrel. Isn't he the most attractive man you've ever seen?
- He has his charm. - Fen'Harel answered.
- What's your favorite part of 'Rise'? - That was the name of the song the artist had been performing.
And the key for him.
- 'Now we reside in the great divide, no promise surviving'
- Oh… all endings have their appeal. - Then she struck his chest playfully, pretended her load almost toppled. The cook bellowed; Fen'Harel, with martial quickness, helped her avert disaster (she would be whipped anyway—both of them knew it), and at last she moved on.
But now he had a note in his hand.
- Get over here! - the cook shouted at Fen'Harel. - Did the Maker make all of you idiots?
- I'm sorry, sir.
The big man shoved him and threw a few insults as he loaded the Wolf's tray, not paying Fen'Harel any mind.
His mistake.
Fen'Harel withdrew at once.
With steady steps, he left the kitchen. The Golden Minstrel began to sing "I Am the One, who can recount what we've lost..." and as the innkeeper barked "Rabbit, rabbit," the troubadour struck the lute strings hard, urging those present into a small dance.
At that very instant of madness, screams rose in the distance.
Everyone startled—some leaping to their feet, others rushing out to see. The innkeeper roared in a futile attempt to keep anyone from leaving without paying.
Solas only prayed the commotion had nothing to do with the Herald…
…but it most likely had everything to do with her.
He quickened his pace and disappeared from the tavern.
Once he had returned to the wandering apostate's light armor—and while he hurried to rejoin the Herald of Andraste—he allowed himself a glance at the note.
The handwriting was firm and beautiful.
He knew her script perfectly.
Enleathenera. Veilfire.
The message was concealed.
Solas rejoined the team. He would not be able to read it until he found a flame.
- Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad? - Cassandra's voice reached him.
- How well do you know him? - That was Elentari; her voice sounded worried. Varric turned to look at him; Solas inclined his head slightly in greeting. The Seeker answered.
- He took leadership of the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert's death.
Yes, yes. Solas had studied all of that thoroughly already…
Now he needed something else.
Veilfire.
He had to find Veilfire…