Basins of water and soft towels were perched near the door. At the center of the large room was a long table and chairs holding food and drink. After cleaning the dust from their hands and faces, a few of their number settled down at the small oasis. Maeva joined them, stuffing a large bite of cheese into her mouth.
Ellana breezed into the room with a flock of unrequested servants in her wake. "At last! The entry process took so long I worried we'd miss the introductions!" she said, dropping heavily onto the large bed that Maeva had been eyeing. "Josie, tell me we're not late."
"We're not late. They would certainly accept us even if we were, Inquisitor," reassured Josephine. "We still have most of an hour, and first-bell isn't until later still."
A sarcastic grumble emitted while Ellana yawned, stretched, then rose again. With the room's large doors shut for privacy, she, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine began changing into their red uniforms with efficient speed. Despite the long travel, the Inquisition's true work had not yet begun.
Leliana handed Maeva a shirt of dark green ring-velvet. "Put this on. It will go under the coat."While Maeva removed her usual jerkin, the woman headed for a half-unpacked chest filled with smaller boxes of various shapes and sizes. "I believe Vivienne packed us a selection of cream paints, now where are they... Inquisitor, who is to paint her face?"
Ellana stood in front of a paneled mirror where the Inquisition sash and emblem were being fastened over the blood red uniform. "Hmm? Oh, right, Maeva's face. Get Solas to do it."
"Solas, to paint a Dalish face?" asked Leliana in surprise.
"Yes. June knows I would if I could, but I haven't the skill nor the time. Solas is an artist, and he certainly knows what vallaslin looks like."
Leliana guided Maeva to an empty side chamber, one of the few places where no one was in mid wardrobe change. She handed Maeva the paint supplies and told her to wait.
Somewhat alone for the first time in days, Maeva sat down on a nearby tufted bench next to an open window. It was nice to be out of the mountains again. Orlais was a temperate climate and the late-afternoon sun warmed her face as she looked outside.
While she waited, idly testing the ply of the paint brushes, she wondered what the application of a real vallaslin felt like. It was a tattoo; colored ink embedded pore by pore into the top layer of one's skin. Maeva had not known what a tattoo was until she witnessed one being made when she lived in Denerim. In her memory, the man receiving the tattoo had chosen a dragon design. The skin around the edges was reddened and he was clearly feeling pain but trying his best to conceal it. She'd asked her mother at the time about her vallaslin.
Did it hurt?
Many things in life hurt, but the pain is worth it.
Why did you get it?
It is tradition among the Dalish. It is symbolic of who I was born to be.
Should I have one too? What was I born to be?
Your path is not yet decided.
Some minutes later Ellana appeared in the doorway with a scowling Solas. An attendant trailed behind the Inquisitor, still working on the final touches of the leader's uniform.
Solas wore the same red uniform top like the rest of them, but had on the most ridiculous hat. Thanks to Josephine's crash course on palace hierarchy, she recognized the hat as indicating a high-placed servant of Free Marchean order. He still looked ridiculous in it.
A shocked expression escaped his usual countenance, surprised by something Ellana said, and he looked at Maeva sharply. He said nothing while Ellana continued to talk into his ear in a hushed voice.
"Very well, Inquisitor," he said finally, looking back at Ellana with a controlled face.
Ellana smiled warmly and placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Solas."
He made his way over to Maeva and sat down next to her on the bench. She'd placed the paint and brushes on a nearby table. They regarded each other silently. She could tell he wasn't happy about his task.
Maeva couldn't stop staring at the hat he wore. It was like a metallic crown that held a nest of fabric wrapped around a central spike. It almost looked like a dessert. Adding to it, Solas's voice was forcibly flat while saying, "I'm told your disguise requires a vallaslin, and I have been appointed to its creation."
Laughter burst out and Maeva slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it. Solas followed her gaze and remembered that he was wearing the hat, then removed it. He looked like himself again, scowl and all.
"It's a historic helmet. This was worn by the royal footmen. Now then. The vallaslin? "
Abandoning the topic, Maeva nodded and said nothing. He sighed as he reached for the paint jar and examined the color and texture with a brush. He seemed more at ease around her than in front of Ellana or the other officiants of the Inquisition. At least, that's what she told herself was the reason for him actually expressing his discontent instead of hiding it. He didn't care what she thought of him.
"Which deity's markings would you like on your face?" he asked.
"Ghilan'nain," she replied immediately, thinking of the beautiful antler symbols that had adorned her mother's forehead and cheekbones.
"Very well. Hold still."
Maeva obeyed and shut her eyes. The tickle of the brush started at the center of her forehead and swept above her brow to one side. Similar streaks followed near it, and then more on the other side of her forehead.
In the main room next to them, the business of preparation continued, footsteps and various conversations and the rustling of clothes and travel chests.
"Do you know what is the vallaslin? " he asked quietly while he worked.
"It means blood writing. The term is one of the oldest known elvish words."
"I see you've been keeping up on your language lessons," he said with a hint of smile in his voice.
"It represents alignment with one of the elven gods," she continued, "one that the person feels the most affinity to. The vallaslin is traditionally bestowed upon reaching adulthood and being accepted as a full member and protector of the clan."
"That is one way of seeing it, I suppose," he said. The painting continued onto her cheekbones.
"Were you part of a clan, Solas?" she asked.
"No," he huffed indignantly. "You should know by now that I am not Dalish."
"But don't all elves seek to gain the vallaslin, to represent their beliefs?"
"Certainly not. The Dalish have their traditions, but not all elves are Dalish, and not all follow their order."
"Like city elves?" She remembered seeing elves in Kirkwall that did not have vallaslin but the same elves also prayed at the vhenadahl tree in the alienage.
"City elves are unfortunates, trapped by walls and their shemlen masters. Even without a vallaslin they are slaves."
"Without it...?" she asked, hearing his implication.
"Why do you think the vallaslin was created in the first place, Maeva?"
She furrowed her brow and felt the brush slip.
"Try not to move," he reminded her.
"Sorry." He wiped a corner of her cheek then resumed painting. "Do you mean that the ancient elves did not use the markings as signs of worship?"
"Oh, there was worship, to be sure," he said bitterly. "But a vallaslin was originally a mark of ownership. The so-called gods' ownership of their slaves."
She was shocked but tried to keep holding still. Suddenly the enjoyable sensation of the brush felt like a curse. They said nothing more while he finished painting her face.
"There. It is done." He stood and she opened her eyes. "Come," he gestured.
Maeva followed Solas to a wall mirror. She gasped upon seeing her reflection. Moss green lines arched over and around her eyebrows, twisting and branching up her forehead. Similar lines followed her cheekbones, curving up to almost meet the edge of her eyes. The vallaslin was elaborate, akin to Ellana's, but nonetheless the resemblance to Anthena's face was remarkable. Tears threatened her eyes and she swallowed thickly to try to keep them back lest they make the paint run.
"Why the Halla?" Solas asked. He stood behind her watching the reflection.
"My mother," she replied quietly. "She was Dalish before... Before she had me."
Solas's demeanor softened, perhaps he felt bad for talking ill of the Dalish tradition.
"The doctrine of Ghilan'nain was one of the most pure and gentle," he said. "If only more had followed her ways."
Maeva choked up and sniffled loudly. He put a hand on her shoulder to turn her away from the mirror.
"Let us get back to business. I'm sure you fit the role well," he said.
She nodded at him and he moved away to rejoin the others. Alone again she returned to the mirror, not for sentimentality but to assess her would-be identity.
As the Dalish handmaiden to the Inquisitor, Maeva wore the long-sleeved blue ring-velvet shirt under the Inquisitor's coat of taupe leather. It was belted around the waist by a red sash that held a few pouches. The set of lockpicking tools was hidden under the folds of cloth. The brown leggings were Maeva's own, as were the elven foot wrappings. To top it off, an Inquisition sunburst medallion hung from a chain around her neck. Combined with her vallaslin, there was no mistaking her allegiance and role.
Today I am Dalish, like my mother before me. And also steward to the Inquisitor.
With her hands she smoothed her dark hair to the sides as symmetrically as possible, then returned to the main room. Josephine saw Maeva approach and moved to her side. Her customary scribe board and paper were already covered with notes and more than a few rogue ink splotches. Despite that she was already in her uniform, and her hairstyle remained impeccable, the normally tidy woman was clearly rather frazzled.
"Ah, Maeva. You look perfect, good job on the makeup." Maeva was about to explain that a vallaslin was not makeup, but Josephine pointed the fluffy end of her quill at the young woman. "You know what you must do, yes? You will stand tall and walk with purpose, but you are not here to invite conversation. When you arrive at the Marquis's quarters you must be polite but firm. Remember; you represent the Inquisitor herself and you may not be refused. You have the letter?" Maeva produced the slender item from her sash. "And you remember where to put it?" She nodded then replaced the items securely.
"Maker, Josie, that's enough!" Leliana appeared and quelled Josephine's concerns. "She knows very well what to do. We went over it a hundred times during the journey."
Ellana swept in as well, closing ranks with the other women. "Oh, Maeva, the vallaslin is perfect! Solas did an amazing job!"
A grin broke out on Maeva's face. "Ghilan'Nain was my mo--"
"Inquisitor, please, there is little time left!" The tailor had attached the sash and pins but was trying to fix Ellana's hair when she'd come over.
Next to them, Josephine discussed the evening's itinerary with Ellana. Somewhere in the background, chatter murmured around the room and questions were tossed to Josephine from all corners. She began replying, voice high, while scribbling more notes onto her scribe board.
Ellana took Maeva's hand and guided her to one side of the room. The tailor followed, silently other than a disapproving whimper when she knelt to her knees in front of a now-seated Maeva.
"You look perfect," said Ellan with a motherly smile. "You remind me of home." Behind her, the tailor resumed work on the elaborate braided hairstyle.
"Thank you," replied Maeva, unsure what else to say.
"Ghilan'Nain?" Ellana prompted.
"It was my mother's vallaslin." Ellana's expression changed to one of sympathy. "It reminds me of home too," Maeva added while Ellana took her hands in hers. It was an unexpected comfort. Maeva didn't know what to make it. The last time they'd spoken was when the ring's memory had been read.
"Ghilan'Nain was the vallaslin of my... clanmate who became First Apprentice." Ellana's eyes focused on different thoughts before she returned to Maeva's face. I'm glad it brings you joy as well. Now, then." She cleared her throat and straightened her back higher, seeming the Inquisitor all the more. "You have your instructions, and I know you will do fabulously. I'll see you later. Try to have fun, okay?"
They returned to the group by the doors. Josephine gestured that Maeva could leave, satisfied that the Inquisitor approved, so she left for the antechamber.
All persons 'ready' were instructed to assemble here, on the wide marble balcony that overlooked the foyer. One by one, they grew in number. This was the group that would follow the Inquisitor as she first entered court.
Solas lounged against a wall by the door, fluffing his historic hat. Varric was nowhere to be found; Maeva figured he was off making deals or intrigue already. Hopefully he was working on finding Eranan.
Cassandra shooed away an assistant that was trying to apply makeup powder on her face. She stood strong, tilting her face away from them, and her expression communicated quite clearly that she would not be altered.
"Oh, it's you," she said, noticing Maeva as she approached. "I almost didn't recognize you."Maeva smiled at this, then remembered to tone down her façade to maintain the disguise.
"Do you have a weapon?" asked Cassandra.
Maeva's brow furrowed and she shook her head. Cassandra reached into her vest and retrieved a small dagger in a decorative sheath.
"Take this. One should always be ready for danger wherever politics are involved."
"Don't you need—"
"I have others," said Cassandra with a half-smile.
Maeva accepted the dagger with a raised eyebrow, wondering where Cassandra kept the 'other' weapons in the slim Inquisition uniform. As the woman moved away to speak with others, Maeva looked at the sheathed knife. It was surprisingly ornate for something that Cassandra would carry. Perhaps it had been a gift? The sheath was white leather inlaid with golden design, while the dagger's handle was made entirely of engraved tarnished gold depicting the Inquisition sunburst. She tied it to her belt at the side in Dalish fashion she'd seen in the past.Once the group was ready to depart, a local steward-- recognized by his Orlesian clothing and steward's badge on the immaculate vest-- led the Inquisition group from their villa toward the main palace entrance. Ellana and senior leadership were at the front, following the steward as an armada of red uniforms. Behind them were subordinates including Maeva and other personal assistants she recognized from Skyhold but had never properly met.
For long minutes they followed twisting garden pathways between glamorous trellis, fountains, and buildings. Gradually as they penetrated the palace grounds the smaller groups branched off to go about their assigned business. Maeva was now the only assistant remaining, trailing closely behind Leliana.
They entered an indoor area, following a passage along the wall that went from the courtyard door to an inner hallway. It was clearly for staff only; no nobles would tread upon stone floors that were not pristine. To the right was a large room where many palace servants went about busy tasks, moving with fluid harmony like worker bees.
A man carrying a pristine tea service was going to cross the room through another doorway that Maeva and her group were cutting in front of. Maeva couldn't help but cross his gaze as she passed. He looked calm, paused in patient waiting, but there was more than a glint of frustration in his eyes. She projected an apology toward him, possibly winced a bit. As short as the exchange was, he saw her face and managed a nod toward her.
Was that a sign of respect or of pity? Did he do that because of the vallaslin or because I am elven?
"Has anyone seen Élise?" she overheard from a small group of servants in the middle of the room. "She was supposed to meet me in the Comte's lounge. I had to set up everything by myself."
"No one has seen her," replied the other woman. "Jacques was looking for her too. The last time she reported in was at dejeuné."
Now they were going down a hallway, then through archways, then passing more hallways, each one different than the last. Doors to multiple rooms were on both left and right, some closed and some open. Her and the group did not speak to each other other than Ellana and Cullen at the front, who were talking quietly to the steward still.
The stairs and hallways became of higher quality, and it was almost time for Maeva to detach and move off on her own mission.
Leliana stepped into line next to her, indicating that they should slow their pace. Once out of earshot, she said: "The Marquis's quarters are through the eastern wing. His sigil is a boar with three arrows." With that, the Nightingale and group veered left down a wide hall that led toward the formal party, and Maeva veered right.
The short journey through the building took her down grandiose stone stairs and tall gilded hallways, heading toward the doorway into sunlight at the end. While passing the ornate doors and opulent portraits of historic nobles, she felt a sense of déjà vu. Surely she'd never been in a place of such finery, even if Kirkwall. Perhaps this had been in a dream once upon a time?Arriving outside she found herself in a garden that acted as a long avenue through many smaller guest villas. It was customary to hang the sigil of the guest over the door, if they were of sufficient importance. Finally she recognized the correct sigil and arrived at the door of the Marquis de Presquefoux. The massive double doors were open, so she slowly went inside, letting her eyes adjust back to darkness.
The entrance chamber was small and decorated with few but beautiful pieces of furniture. A high table with a golden bell on a tray stood in the very middle. Reluctantly she picked up the bell and made it ring. Barely had the chimes settled when a male servant entered from the other room, hands clasped in front of him.
He looked her over from head to toe, eyes lingering on the Inquisition medallion on her chest, then asked how he could be of assistance. Maeva relayed that her mistress required she deliver a direct message to the Marquis. The man nodded kindly but informed her that the Marquis was regretfully at the spa still, but would return shortly.
"I am instructed to not leave until the message is delivered in person," she said, trying to come across as polite but determined. Fortunately, the man did not fight her on this, and he offered that she wait in the Marquis's salon.
Maeva knew the Marquis wouldn't be back yet. Everything was going according to plan. The servant guided her two rooms in, to a lavish salon, then he departed with a curt bow. Once alone, Maeva looked around. She'd seen the layout plans of the villas along this avenue; they were all the same, and the room behind the closed door in front of her was the Marquis's personal office and bedroom.
Listening carefully and ensuring the servant's footsteps were gone down the hall, Maeva took a breath and tried the door. It was locked.
Of course that would be too easy, she thought. Too bad I know how to ask for the key but that wouldn't be appropriate right now.
She examined the door's lock. The lockface was so smooth she could see her reflection in it. She knew from practicing on various locks during the caravan that scratches made by her lockpicks would be very obvious. And, she knew that it was very difficult to not make any scratches. Picking this lock would leave too much evidence. Varric had shown her a trick, of mounting a protective surface around the keyhole for just such a purpose, but she did not have the time nor materials.
One wall of the salon was open to two small balconies. Eagerly, she leaned over the balustrade and looked in the direction of the room she was locked out of. That room's window had an identical balcony. The gap between the curvy stone balconies was not small, but didn't look too big either. She climbed onto the wide top rail then carefully jumped the gap and landed safely.Maeva heard voices and ducked. As large as the courtyards and their snaking wide passages were, sounds richoted in this area and she wasn't sure where the voices came from. A cursory glance found no faces in the open windows across the courtyard so she figured it was people passing through the garden below. Fortunately the balcony rail of stone was thick and obscured her from them, as long as they didn't look up and directly through the gaps in railing supports.The window door was locked so she untucked the lockpicking tool set from her sash. She pulled out a couple of picks and the hook then laid the pouch on the ground before her while she stood on her knees. The lock to the window door was right in front of her face.
Gods pray that the same locks I practiced on are the same as in the palace.
She heard the tumblers move as she lodged them one by one into place. She had to remind herself to breathe. After stressful minutes, the lock gave way and she opened the door to the room.
The space contained a large bed, armoire, ostentatious end tables and chandeliers, a chair by a fireplace, and lastly, the most important piece of furniture: the desk. Maeva reached into her coat and retrieved the letter.
She paused in front of the desk, wondering where to place it. All she knew was that this letter incriminated the Marquis in some way that ruined his support for Celene. Support that otherwise would have thwarted both Gaspard and Briala, something the Inquisition did not want. Apparently there would be an event later that night that would call out this evidence and defame the Marquis.
The letter was a thick fold of good-quality paper. The wax seal of Gaspard was deliberately broken, so it was clear the contents had been acknowledged.
How the item would be discovered, she did not know. She was only told to put it in his desk without his knowing and before the dancing part of the evening began.
She tried the large front drawer but it didn't budge. She could pick this lock, too, but time was scarce. Instead she settled for adding it to a side drawer among blank papers and dry quills. Hopefully it didn't matter which drawer it was in.
Job done, Maeva left the room and shut the balcony door, praying they would not notice that it was unlocked. She scrambled over the balcony rails and re-entered the front room as fast as she could. Footsteps sounded just outside the inner door; she wasn't a moment too soon. She was almost out of breath so she turned her back to the door and pretended to admire a large painting.
The servant from earlier came into the salon. Maeva did not miss that his eyes glanced at the locked door for a few seconds before addressing her. "Thank you for your patience, mademoiselle. His excellence will be here momentarily."
At last the Marquis entered. He was an older man, white hair emerging behind his obligatory gilded mask. It was hard to tell his expression behind the mask, but his demeanor seems wise and tired.
Maeva curtseyed and delivered the short speech she was instructed to give. She-- on behalf of the Inquisitor-- requested the Marquis's generosity in an effort to liberate the Emprise du Lion, as it was known that his investments in dawnstone mining there had been thwarted by the recent chaos.
His reply was formal and polite, that he would consider the request and write to the Inquisitor soon enough, after this long day was over.
On her way out Maeva felt unsure about her actions. She knew the Inquisition was helping Thedas, but the business with the Imperial Court seemed so complicated that no path to victory was wholly good.
Her next mission was to find Leliana, who would be in the main ballroom where the formal introductions took place. Maeva went there, following the hallways that got bigger and more ornate. She didn't have to ask for directions. The cacophony of talking and preening overtop orchestral music swam into her ears. More and more people-- nobles, for certain-- began to populate the halls and side chambers.
"Look at that one," she heard from an adjacent room. "She looks like the elven bitch queen."
"Probably her servant," said another voice, both male.
Maeva did her best to not look toward the voices. She kept her same pace and posture, facing front and headed toward the ballroom.
"Same thing. Wildling elves thinking they're more than slaves," rasped the first voice, choking into a laugh.
The next archway came and she exhaled in relief when she disappeared through it. She felt angry and disgusted. A brief sanctuary of shadow allowed her face to fall naturally for a few seconds before she forced her own mask back on.
Finally she rounded a corner and emerged into a cavernous room of majesty.
This was the first time Maeva saw Orlesian nobles in such numbers and such finery. The richest of Kirkwall couldn't shake a golden stick to the people in this place. Up until now, she'd thought that the Madame de Fer was the most fashionable woman in Thedas. Overlooking the crowd in this room, she could picture Vivienne fitting in here with ease, but could not claim 'best-dressed' without challenge.
The Orlesian fashion sense tonight was extraordinarily opulent. Women moved about in bouffant skirts like dandelion seeds in the wind. Their manner and gestures were delicate and graceful like those of dancers.
The Orlesian style was both varied and consistent. Shoulders were either covered in short capes or nearly bared, lined in the finest embroidery. Patterned or plain, corset-like forms ran from the hip to the breast. Face coverings ranged from lace overlays to half-masks to full-mask ceramic cameos. Hair was not seen as hats or wraps adorned their heads. A rare few faces were unmasked but not without a large hat to shy behind.
Among the males, half-masks were the most popular. They sported shiny armor beneath their outer clothes, and Maeva wondered if they were a faction of the military like the Duke Gaspard. As opulent as the womens' clothes were, the mens' carried the same quality but in a more slender form.
At last Maeva spotted Leliana across the gap of the sunken dancefloor, which was filled with mingling parties, no dancing. It was fortunate that the Inquisition wore the same uniform and could be recognized easily. The red tunic and shiny blue sash-- the simplicity of their uniform-- made them stand out from the rest of the Court.
Reminding herself that she was a Dalish attendant by all appearances, Maeva straightened her back and lifted her chin. One step at a time, she moved through the crowd, leaving a wide berth to any she must navigate around. She felt the stares from all around. The chattering buzz increased the deeper she went.
Yes, I am Dalish. Yes, I am with the Inquisition, and Lady Lavellan is my mistress. No, we do not fear you.
She did her best not to scowl. The normal Maeva would have, and might have even returned their gaze in a challenging manner. This was not the time nor place.
Meanwhile, she listened. She heard everything. Tapping in to multiple conversations at once, the sounds, and telltale signs of emotion, an index of keywords poured into Maeva's head in a jumble of impressions. Curiosity and disdain were the most common theme, but there were seasonings of awe and exasperation too.
As if sensing her approach, Leliana turned around. She'd been speaking to Cullen, who nodded at Maeva. Keeping in character, Maeva performed a Free Marchean curtsy and to the pair of them. Cullen's smile turned into a smirk as a corner rose high. His eyes glittered a bit. Maeva knew that he was amused by her appearance in the disguise. She fought to conceal a smile of her own in response. In front of all the watching eyes, she immediately realized that if she did smile back it would look like flirting, and that would certainly cause rumors.
Turning her attention to the Nightingale she resumed her role fully. "The Marquis de Presquefoux sends his gracious thanks for the thoughtful gift, and says he will consider the Inquisition's generous offer."
"Very well. Thank you, you are dismissed. Commander," said Leliana, turning to Cullen, "you mentioned another noble we could potentially ally with?"
It was all rehearsed, deliberately performed to incite curiosity from the listeners and watchers.
Her job done, Maeva turned to walk away. She spied the gaze of six nobles on her face, two others on Leliana and Cullen. The whispers paused for a moment until Maeva began walking, resuming her guise of Dalish handmaiden, or whatever they assumed her to be.
She was relieved to leave the palace main building for the wide garden pathways that would return her to the Inquisition villa. The turbulence of noise and oppressive energies in the palace were absent and Maeva breathed easily for the first time in hours. The sky above the flat rooftops was painted a beautiful mix of colors. She wanted to slow her walk and take time to enjoy the evening, but her responsibilities continued still.
A short walk later she entered the villa and went to the large bedroom where she'd been before."... but your dance card is already full," Josephine was saying. "I told the Comte it was not possible to make any more changes. Therefore he'll be sending you a letter and gift package to Skyhold, and hopes to meet with you directly in the near future."
Ellana was being dressed in her ballgown for the dance portion of the evening. The red velvet of the Inquisition uniform's tunic was combined with shimmering gold into patterns along the corset and skirt. The outfit was not actually a dress; Ellana wore black leather leggings similar to Dalish fashion, with a skirt bustled into the back as a train. Elements of Orlesian men's boots rose high above her knees. Golden shoulderpads pointed up, a mixed style between soldier pauldrons and noblewomens' frills. On top of it all were golden elven cords in knotted fashion. They twisted and braided around the waist of the corset, looped over the tufts of bundled skirt, and lined the edge of the low bodice along her pale chest.
Maeva recognized the varying styles that contributed to the outfit, but what stood out most were the sleeves. Her right arm was mostly bare except for a slender gauntlet, to signify combat. Her left arm was dripping in wispy cloth that travelled down to her wrist and around her hand. It was rift-magic green.
Ellana held still in front of a large mirror as the mask was put over her face. It was the sheer cloth with gold filigree that Maeva had spied through her dreams, but this version had been improved. Now the mask fit over her face with more precision to her eye and mouth openings, which were refined with delicate edges. Her usual twist of braids was let down so her golden hair cascaded over her back, wrapped here and there with silver threads. The mask, if you could call it that, had clever cuts that let it split and dive between the locks of hair. Remembering Solas's impression in the dream, the mask successfully concealed most of her red vallaslin, letting her face appear bare under the disguise.
The Inquisitor was magnificent like the sun. But it wasn't a dominating force, it was warm like a song.
"Ah, Maeva, you've returned," said Josephine. She was slightly less frazzled than earlier, clearly having taken a break to perfect her hair and appearance.
Maeva saluted and grinned at Josephine. "Mission complete, captain!"
"Good, thank you! I can check that off the list," she breathed. "Up next is that you need to find Varric."
"What? I thought I have the servants quarters mission next. Is Varric in trouble?"
"No, no, nothing like that. He asked for you to meet him, just next villa over. He's waiting for you."
Maeva shrugged and turned back to the door she came through.
"When you see him," called Ellana, peering over her shoulder while two tailors fussed at her perfect appearance, "tell him to get his arse back here. We're almost ready to go!"
Laughing, Maeva skipped down the steps and through the foyer to the gardens. She was enjoying herself, just like Ellana had said.
There was only one villa close enough to be considered neighboring, and Maeva walked around until she could find entrance through a servants' door. The building was mostly empty, and the elves she crossed paths with paid her no mind. Slipping through the ground floor rooms she found no Varric.
Finally she came to a front-house hallway-- as was evident by the increase in golden decorations-- and found Varric. He leaned against the wall by a closed door, deep in though, arms crossed over his chest.
He looked up as she approached. His expression was unusual, unreadable, but only for a few moments. A growing smile restored his normal countenance. "Don't tell me I never do you favors," he said teasingly.
"Ha! Of course you do. Just not always good ones," she replied, amused.
He looked down and chuckled. "Hopefully this is a good one."
Maeva cocked her head, then her eyes went round and her jaw dropped. Could it be? Had he found him?
The question was visible on her face. He seemed to consider saying something more, then shrugged and stood straight. "You have about an hour, then we have to meet back at the villa after the dance is over. Keep track of time." He walked away before she could respond.
Heart pounding, she looked at the door. Is he truly here? Did Varric mean something else?
Her face flushed and her mouth dried from anticipation. Sweat broke out on her neck. She gulped and forced a few deep breaths. Her hand landed softly on the ornate door handle and turned. The tall door arced open to reveal a back-house passageway with a stairwell. In the middle of the landing stood a young elven man with ebony hair. His eyes twinkled and his growing smile showed he'd been waiting for her.
Eranan.