Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A party was never quite a proper party in Tevinter until there was at least one assassination attempt, and the novelty in the attempt at Magister Caius’ party lay not quite in its actual occurrence but in the ambition of its assassin.

At the height of Caius’ decidedly juvenile lyrium-laced drinking game, during the start of dinner, Magister Fabiana made a sudden gesture close to the Divine, all the while leaning closer, as if to say something private. Divine Leonthius’ hand snapped up, viper-quick, grabbing Fabiana’s hand high on the wrist. She rose from her seat, fright and outrage both in her eyes, fire stealing hot up from her trapped wrist before it was abruptly… gone.

Shock froze Fabiana’s snarl in her throat, even as, with a gentle, almost intimate economy, Leonthius pulled Fabiana towards him and shoved a dagger up through her ribcage.

He settled her gurgling, twitching body back in its seat, blood foaming out around the hilt of the knife over Fabiana’s brilliant sapphire-blue gown, and as though the Divine had done nothing more than discuss the weather, he continued to eat his soup, even through the sudden silence that rippled out over the long table.

Seated opposite Leonthius, Archon Dorian studied Fabiana’s death throes, morbidly amused, despite himself. So the reports had been true, after all. At his right hand, Caius shot Dorian a faintly beseeching stare, and Dorian arched an eyebrow for a moment before saying, “Magister Fabiana seems to have grown a little faint. Perhaps we could prevail on Magister Caius’ staff to escort her to a guest room?”

Caius stiffened, even as Leonthius’ spoon paused briefly enroute from the bowl to his mouth. The faint, sharp smile that flit over the new Divine’s lush mouth was so quick that for a moment, Dorian was sure that he had imagined it: Leonthius didn’t even glance up when Caius’ slaves hastened over at their master’s gesture to carry the bloody corpse out of the dining room, others scrubbing at the blood spatter. In what felt like a matter of moments, with even Fabiana’s place at the table swept away, it was as though the magister was never there.

Which was as it should be. Outright war declared while only the starters had been served? How uncouth.

The rest of the dinner party was somewhat subdued, the dessert positively rushed, and Dorian was mildly disappointed. He had thought Caius an old hand at Tevinter politics, not quite one to be fazed by something as commonplace as a botched assassination.

Unless…

Curious now, Dorian made a mental note to have one of his little birds recheck Caius’ circle of friends and acquaintances, and slipped out of the soiree when Leonthius made his leave, following the Divine out of Caius’ summer villa. A human slave had led Leonthius’ destrier out of a stall to the courtyard, the normally spirited animal meek and quiet, and even as Leonthius hesitated, sensing something amiss, Dorian drawled, from behind him, “Allow me.”

“Archon,” Leonthius greeted Dorian with surprise, but Dorian ignored him, walking straight over to the horse. The slave did not look up at his approach, and Dorian studied her for a moment before he sighed, and with a gesture, drew all ambient magical energy into his own signature, leashing it to form a barrier, just in case.

Horse and slave both collapsed heavily, as the trap-wards upon them broke, having been leashed and written in place by their life-energy, the backlash washing off his barrier, discharging harmlessly into the ground. Behind him, Leonthius swore harshly under his breath, then exhaled irritably.

Dorian caught Leonthius’ gauntlet-clad wrist as the man began to head back towards the villa. “Not tired of the party after all, Divine Leonthius?”

“I was thinking of dragging Caius out here and shaking the worth of my Cyrus out of his Maker-damned hide, actually,” Leonthius retorted bluntly. “By your leave, Archon.”

“My dear man,” Dorian said dryly, “If you had to wet your blade with every single person who might have possibly meant you ill, Tevinter would be a very quiet place indeed. At this point in time, in any regard.”

Leonthius narrowed his eyes. Even in the mage-light of the courtyard, a silvery moon-like hue that was currently fashionable in Tevinter, Leonthius still looked like his name incarnate: golden-haired, with a strong jaw, comely and broad-shouldered. The new Divine looked like a lion made flesh, more so now that he decided to smile, all lazy catlike mischief, a gorgeous smirk that went beautifully with the ruthlessness in his gaze.

The new Divine was somewhat of a mystery. He was not only the first man not of Tevinter blood to be named Divine, he was also, perhaps more strangely, not a mage at all. The Maker only knew what the Imperial Chantry had been thinking, when they had elected to make the then-Commander of the Imperial Templar Order the new Divine: speculation had ignited Tevinter with gossip, and not even Dorian’s little birds had managed to prise out the Chantry’s secrets in this regard.

Still, whatever they had been thinking, at least Divine Leonthius was pretty as a picture, even in his rather forbiddingly… spiky set of black-enamelled full plate armour and mail and the thick black pelt of some unlucky animal that rode over his shoulders in lieu of a cloak. He wore the Divine’s heavy gold chain of office over his chestplate, but the rest of his armour was not in the least decorated, none of the gold and silver filigree so beloved by Tevinter fashion of late. But for the gold chain and the obviously finely-made blade that hung by Leonthius’ hip, the new Divine would have looked like any other Tevinter soldier.

“So then,” Leonthius said dryly, breaking into Dorian’s perhaps too obvious appreciation. “What do you suggest?”

“I’m beginning to grow a little curious about our friend Magister Caius. Let me satisfy that for a while, and then we will see.”

“‘Satisfy’,” Leonthius repeated, amused. “You and your spies.”

Dorian’s eyebrows arched. “You are so very bluntly spoken. Rather like talking to a hammer. It’s… strangely refreshing. But yes, if we do have to be crude. My ‘spies’.”

Leonthius nodded curtly. “If you wish. Have a good night, Archon.”

The Divine took a step towards the gates, and surprised, Dorian asked, “You’re going to… walk back to the Argent Spire?”

“… Yes?” Leonthius noted, with studied patience.

“One assassination within the night isn’t enough for you?”

“I could do with the exercise.” Leonthius smirked, again that gorgeous leonine smile, and Dorian bit down on a sigh. Well. It wasn’t as though he did go very far at all to hide his weaknesses.

“Perhaps I could offer you a lift.”

Leonthius studied Dorian for a moment, then he shrugged, all jingling armour. “Fine.”

Dorian swallowed his instinctive ire at Leonthius’ ungraceful acquiescence, motioning for one of his personal guard to prepare his carriage. He had not, until recently, had any time at all to speak to the new Divine in an unofficial capacity, and it was only now that Dorian realized what an oversight that might have been.

Leonthius was silent and reserved, keeping his hands loose on his knees and his booted feet flat on the ground as the carriage made its way through the boulevards of Minrathous. When they passed the Grand Proving Arena, the tiers of gardens lit up with sapphire and amber magelights in the night, Leonthius turned to look out of the carriage window, though he still kept his silence.

“Nothing like that in Ferelden, I presume?” Dorian guessed, and Leonthius glanced at him sharply.

Instead of the retort that Dorian was hoping for, however, Leonthius nodded. “Nor anywhere else.”

“Is it commonplace in Ferelden for heads of state to walk about without guards?” Dorian inquired innocently, undeterred.

This time, Leonthius smiled thinly. “Depends on the person in question.”

“I should mention,” Dorian said lightly, “That it’s a rather unusual practice in Tevinter for anyone remotely important not to be followed about by scads of retainers. Rather like walking about without your shirt on, perhaps.”

Leonthius snorted. “Not interested.”

“Without your armour on, in your case.” Dorian corrected, a little nettled by Leonthius’ blithe disinterest in his personal security.

“I never take my armour off,” Leonthius said, with a perfectly straight face, and when Dorian blinked, Leonthius held his blank look for a moment longer before he smirked again and looked back out of the window.

Giving that topic up as a bad job, Dorian said blithely, “Perhaps you don’t. You do seem to be always on guard. Your… response to Fabiana was so immediate.”

“She’s been twitching to do something all evening,” Leonthius said, without looking back at Dorian. “It was obvious in how she was walking and talking. Tensed up. Forced smiles. Sweating a little under that gown. Wish she tried something before that dinner so I could’ve left early and be done with it.”

“What you did to her, however,” Dorian said, keeping his tone idle. “You shut down her magic.”

This time, Leonthius looked back, his eyes narrowed. “Imperial Templars can’t do anything of the sort.”

“Clearly you’re no ordinary Templar. Going from being one of the Chantry’s dogs to the leader of the pack? That’s impressive.”

“I’ve been blessed."

“And also,” Dorian added sharply, dropping his playfulness, “Most of the Imperial Templar Order would not even be aware of the existence of such a practice.”

“It’s common knowledge outside Tevinter, where I was born.” Leonthius said smoothly enough, though the suspicion remained in his eyes.

“If I saw it, Caius saw it as well.”

“Saw what?”

Dorian sighed. “Come now, ‘Most Holy’. In the game we play here in Tevinter, it’s bad manners when you lose points with ill grace.”

“Given what you suspect,” Leonthius said flatly, “I’m surprised that you got into the carriage with me, then.”

“Oh,” Dorian steepled his fingers before him, leaning back in his cushioned seat, “I don’t think that you’re an enemy of mine. Not yet, in any regard.”

“‘Not yet’? Do you expect some sort of outbreak of hostilities in due course?”

“I hope not,” Dorian said, with exaggerated disdain. “I always find it so distressing whenever I have to arrange for handsome men to disappear. It’s such a waste.”

Leonthius rolled his eyes, again with that brash and open disrespect. This time, irritation warred quietly with amusement, and the latter won out. The new Divine, in Dorian’s opinion, was very unlikely to last the month, let alone live long enough to fulfil whatever madcap reason for existence had propelled him onto the Argent Throne.

Maker. It would be such a damned waste.

“I could probably kill you right now if I wanted to,” Leonthius said conversationally. “It would be easy.”

It took all of Dorian’s self-control not to tense up and rise to Leonthius’ bait. “You won’t survive the attempt.”

“It wouldn’t be an attempt,” Leonthius corrected, with a sharp smile. “But yes, I probably wouldn’t survive the consequences. Still,” he added, with a tilt of his head, “You’re right. At present, you’re not my enemy. And I hope it stays that way.”

“You have such a refreshing way of declaring allegiances.” Dorian marvelled archly. “I simply must teach it to all my diplomats. It’ll make the Senate so much more exciting. Maybe you should hold classes.”

“Daggers in front rather than behind your backs?” Leonthius asked bluntly. “Maybe. You should watch yours,” he added, when Dorian sniffed. “There’s a canker growing in the ranks of the Chantry that’s quite likely spread everywhere else, even in among the Altus. It’s certainly touched the magisters.”

“The Chantry is that concerned about the Venatori?”

“You know that we are,” Leonthius retorted. “Your ‘little birds’ are everywhere.” At Dorian’s faint surprise upon hearing the use of his favourite pet term, Leonthius smirked. “We have ears of our own, Archon.”

“Perhaps concerned enough,” Dorian mused out aloud, “To elect a non-mage to the Argent Throne for the first time?”

“Perhaps,” Leonthius said, his tone neutral. “We’re looking to our own. Watch your own people.”

“Says the man who nearly mounted a trap-warded horse tonight.”

Leonthius grunted, irritated again. “Bloody bastards. I liked that horse.”

“Pity about the girl too, eh?” Dorian asked pointedly, and Leonthius shot him a guarded look.

“What does the Archon care about a slave?”

“Why does the Archon care about anything at all?” Dorian countered, and when Leonthius said nothing, he added, “I would wager a destrier that your split second decision to barge back into the party to murder your host was based more on the death of that girl than your horse.”

Leonthius was silent for a long moment, then he shrugged, and looked away. “Blood magic is forbidden. Technically,” he added, a little bitterly.

“We do love our technicalities.”

“You don’t practice it,” Leonthius said matter-of-factly.

“Oh? You can tell?”

“So I’ve heard,” Leonthius corrected, and grimacing, Dorian made a mental note to sweep his own household again for Chantry spies. “It’s how I know that you’re not my enemy.”

“A mage doesn’t need to practice forbidden magic to be dangerous,” Dorian pointed out, irritated.

“I know that. I meant that you’re not the sort of mage that the Order is very much concerned with.”

“The Order,” Dorian said mildly, “Is really the Circles' private militia, serah.” The unfamiliar mode of address sat heavily on his tongue, but it did make Leonthius flinch slightly, as though in guilty recognition. “Whatever you might think.”

“Not anymore,” Leonthius said curtly, and smiled his leonine smile when Dorian narrowed his eyes.

“Prior to being named Divine Leonthius,” Felix began his report briskly as Dorian settled down behind his desk, propping his boots up on the antique sandalwood, “The Most Holy was known as Cullen Stanton Rutherford, born in Honnleath in the Arling of Redcliffe in Ferelden. Joined the, ah, Southerner Templar Order in Kinloch Hold, but left prior to the Blight, reasons unexplained. Surfaced in Tevinter, joining the Imperial Templar Order, where he rose quickly in the ranks to become the Knight-Commander. Served as Knight-Commander for a year before being elected recently to the role of Divine.”

“There are so many gaping holes in that report, Felix,” Dorian closed his eyes, steepling his fingers again.

“Yes, well,” Felix retorted, unperturbed, “I did only have all the notice of ten minutes, give or take. ‘Tell me about the new Divine, Felix. Right now, if you please.’ Why, yes of course, Archon, I live to please, even if the report was insufficient, given the short notice.”

“Why haven’t your various… friends… found out more about the man? It’s been a month!”

“Because the Chantry’s started one of their spring cleans, and weeded out our best moles,” Felix shrugged. “We countered by weeding out their moles, and so on. It’s a constant battle of attrition. Very sad. Sort of like a high-stakes game of pull-the-pigtail.”

Dorian glanced at Felix sourly. As the Left Hand of the Archon, Felix was, by default, Dorian’s spymaster, and although his childhood friend had risen to the role with as much aplomb as he treated life in general, a lifelong friendship had been instrumental in ensuring that Felix did not usually treat their current roles with anything near the appropriate measure of respect or seriousness.

“Well, find out more about him,” Dorian groused. “Something’s going on in the Argent Spire. I need to know what.”

“Could the Archon be perhaps more specific?” Felix inquired. “All manner of things ‘go on’ in the Argent Spire, shall we say. Templar training, praying, perhaps some actual spring cleaning, more praying-“

“The Venatori,” Dorian interrupted, a trifle irritably. “The Chantry are worried about the Venatori. Perhaps enough to elect this outsider non-mage to the Argent Throne. Find out why they’re so worried.”

“Perhaps there are Venatori in the Enchanter ranks.”

“There are obviously Venatori in the ranks. I want to know how many.”

“Do you want me to arrange for them to have… stairwell accidents?”

“No,” Dorian decided, leaning back further in his chair. “The Chantry can ask for aid, if they want it. After all, the new Divine is so very self-confident. I can’t wait to see it all explode in his face.”

“Pity,” Felix observed. “He’s very pretty.” Felix smirked when Dorian affected exasperation. “Of course you noticed. I would wager that it’s the only thing you noticed about the man, up until dear Caius’ ill-fated birthday party. Maybe that was their play all along. Elect the prettiest person in the Chantry to the Throne, such that the Archon spends a month doing little more than stare at his fine arse during official events.”

“I did not,” Dorian said, offended. Felix arched his eyebrows, and after a moment, Dorian sighed. “All right. Maybe a little.”

“Hah!”

“That aside,” Dorian said pointedly. “The Imperial Chantry hasn’t usually concerned themselves with the Venatori problem. So find out what’s ruffled all their feathers up in the Spire. And have Caius investigated. The roast goose he served up was quite dreadful. Someone needs to hang for that travesty.”

“Investigate Magister Caius… investigate the Divine… investigate the Chantry… Anything else? How about the Senate as well, and perhaps the entirety of the Altus class?”

“Just get to work,” Dorian flapped his hands at Felix, and Felix bowed with mock obsequiousness before letting himself out of Dorian’s office.

Dorian rocked back on his chair for a moment, then he exhaled and settled down, getting to his feet. circled away from the desk, padding out towards the balcony of the Dragon’s Roost, resting his palms on the grooved balustrade, looking up into the sky over his city, the view banked to his left by the Nocen Sea. His country-

The clear blue sky abruptly turned a roiling gray, clouding over for as far as Dorian could see, and pure arcane energy in a sickly greenish hue rippled outwards, like the leading wave to a storm, the tide of a shockwave that sped out in an ever-widening arc over the sea.

What in the Maker’s name…?

Dorian was still squinting futilely into the distance when Felix made his reappearance, out of breath and leaning to catch it, hands on his knees. “Did you see that?”

“What was it?”

“Nothing natural, that’s for sure,” Felix strode over to his side, frowning up at the sky. “And whatever it was, it came from the south.”

“If that was the aftereffects of some sort of spell…” Dorian’s tone trailed off uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine the magnitude of a spell that would give off an arcane aftershock of that scale, let alone what such a spell could be for. “Send out ravens. If whoever cast that spell is in Tevinter, I want to know who it was, and what it was for.”

“‘In Tevinter’?” Felix repeated. “Where else could something like that have come from? I bet it’s those Maker-damned ‘experimental thaumaturgists’ over in Vol Dorma again.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dorian said carefully. If a spell like that had originated from outside Tevinter… “Maker, I hope you are.”