I Am Yours

Chapter 2

As Zevran moved away, Alistair stepped closer to her. "Are you sure bringing him along is a good idea?" he whispered.

Naia sighed. "Truthfully? No. Not even a tiny bit sure."

The smart thing to do would have been to kill him back in the valley. She'd been ready to do it—but then he'd started talking. It had been the story about the slave markets that had done it. She couldn't kill him with image of an elven child, bound and sold to the highest bidder, seared in the front of her mind.

Which was almost certainly what he'd anticipated. Andraste's ass, he's smart. He played me like a damn flute.

Zevran was an assassin—her assassin. Worse yet, Alistair's assassin. As badly as they needed more people to fight alongside them, she knew she couldn't trust him.

And yet, she believed his tale about wanting to leave the Crows. And part of her wondered if there was anything left of that elven child.

"I'm watching him," she promised Alistair. "Closely."

"Me too." The other Warden crossed his arms. "I just hope it's closely enough."

********

Zevran realized two things shortly after he awoke following the failed attempt on the Wardens. First, Rendon Howe had been dead wrong about the leader of the Wardens' little band. He saw the way all heads turned towards the elven woman, waiting for her to decide whether he lived or died; she, not Alistair, commanded this group.

Second, some part of him still wished to live.

He had little expectation that the revelation would mean anything, given that he was tied up by people he had just tried to kill. But he kept talking, watched for the stories that lit sympathy or curiosity in the Warden's eyes, and somehow, he had convinced Naia Tabris to accept his pledge of service.

I am your man, without reservation.

The rest of the group, however, did not share that lack of reservations. They mostly gave him a wide berth as they walked the dusty path to the Brecelian Forest, though Leliana had been willing to talk with him—or, more accurately, scold him for asking inappropriate questions about her time in the Lothering Chantry. There was a story there, he was certain. Leliana knew rather a lot about the Crows for a rosy-cheeked Chantry sister. The rest took his measure from a distance, assessing him with quiet glances and—in Alistair's case—outright glares.

And then there was the Warden herself.

Leliana had told him that Naia was raised in the Denerim alienage. She had apparently been a Warden for less than a day before the great battle at Ostagar—Howe had been correct about that much, at least. He was most curious about where Naia had learned to fight. There were rough edges to her technique, but she was fast and precise—his Crow masters would have been salivating over the chance to bring her into their ranks.

The Warden was talkative and curious. In the short time he'd been with the group, Zevran had heard her quiz Alistair about growing up with the Templars, ask Leliana about Orlais, and even try to probe Sten about the Qunari. She could sometimes seem very young, but then in a moment her face would grow silent and grim, and she'd stare into the distance and seem far older than her years.

He had been sincere in his oath when he swore it to her at the valley. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but wonder if he ought to strike again, consistency not being something he usually found expedient. He still had a chance to return to the Crows in minimal disgrace if Alistair and Naia died now.

He was surprised to find that the idea held little appeal. His master's cold dismissal of Rinna's death still echoed in his ears. Why should we be angry? She was nothing to us. And neither are you, for all your arrogance and boasting. Remember that.

He was tired of being nothing. If the Warden could help him evade the Crows long enough to disappear, he would follow her.

"Zevran? Do you know anything about Dalish elves?"

Zevran was startled out of his thoughts by his new mistress's voice, and he barely avoided stumbling. It had been years since anyone had successfully snuck up on him, and yet Naia had appeared by his side as if from nowhere. I cannot afford to be so distracted.

"Not much, I am afraid," he said smoothly, covering as best he could. "My mother was Dalish, but I was not born among them."

"Why not?" Naia asked. That inquisitive look was back in her eyes. Zevran turned his face away from her, pretending to watch the road ahead.

"She fell in love with a woodcutter and followed him to Antiva. But he died, and she found herself working in a brothel to pay his debts. She died during my birth, I am afraid. All I ever knew of her people was a pair of Dalish gloves she left me—soft leather, handsomely embroidered. The other whores raised me, at least until I was old enough to put for sale on the slave markets."

This was not an uncommon tale among the Crows, and in Antiva, the story would have garnered little reaction beyond a nod. Naia, however, had a different reaction. "Maker's fucking balls, they raised you and then put you up for sale?"

Zevran looked over at her, startled. The Warden's eyes were wide and angry, her expression indignant. He felt his brow furrow in confusion.

"The whores were not unkind," he assured her, wondering if she had misunderstood. "I think a few of them regretted having to sell me. But I could fetch a price, and this is the usual thing done with children born in the brothels. It is ... simply the way the world works."

Naia shook her head angrily, her red braid swinging behind her. "It shouldn't be. They should have found another way."

The assassin chuckled. "You are amusingly naïve, aren't you?"

"Call it what you want. I would say I have high standards." The Warden seemed unbothered by his assessment of her.

"I see." Zevran shrugged, uncomfortable for a reason he couldn't quite identify. "Tell me, why ask about the Dalish? Do you know nothing of them yourself?"

She shook her head. "My friend Alarith has met some, but everything I know about them came from his stories. I don't quite know what to expect, to tell the truth."

Despite himself, Zevran felt a keen interest in seeing the Dalish for the first time. He had fantasized about running away to them as a child—he imagined almost all elven children did. Even though he had long since abandoned such silly wishes, he could not deny that the idea of meeting his mother's people pleased him greatly.

Of course, he said none of this to the Warden.

They walked in uneasy silence for several paces more. Zevran found himself studying Naia out of the corner of his eye. She was not much like her picture. Oh, the features had been accurate enough, but the sketch had utterly failed to capture the intelligence in her green eyes or the lithe grace of her frame. In person, she was far from plain—in fact, she was strikingly attractive. Some would have thought her beauty marred by the livid scar running from her temple to her jaw, but Zevran personally felt that scars added to a woman's mystique.

Then Naia broke the quiet. "What happened to the gloves? Your mother's?"

"The Crows took them from me." He had thought himself long past caring about his training, but he suddenly realized that he could remember every faded stitch of embroidery on those gloves. "We were not supposed to have personal things."

Naia's brows drew together, ever so slightly, but she said nothing; she just nodded and resumed her walk. Zevran was left with the disconcerting feeling that the Warden pitied him.