Chapter 14: Ale and Truths
The Spoiled Princess wasn't what Daylen expected after weeks of mud, darkspawn ichor, and the thin, root-tinged broth of campfire cooking.
It wasn’t a tavern; it was a declaration. Nestled on a hill overlooking the southern road to Lake Calenhad, its warm light spilled from leaded glass windows onto a meticulously graveled path. The scent hit them first as they approached—lavender and beeswax polishing oil, undercut by the richer, more complicated notes of roasting venison and spiced wine. It was a smell that spoke of linen sheets, not bedrolls.
Alistair whistled low. “Fancy. My status as a disgraced, traitorous bastard Grey Warden probably gets us the best table.”
“Doubtful,” Morrigan murmured, her eyes scanning the velvet-draped facade. “These places trade in gossip as much as wine. Our description will be known.”
“Then we’ll be quick,” Daylen said, adjusting the pack heavy with looted gear they had no use for: a few dented helmets, some unenchanted, poorly-balanced axes from the militia at the lake, a spare mail shirt torn by genlock claws. “We trade, we listen, we move on. No heroic proclamations.”
Sten’s hand rested on the hilt of his reclaimed sword, now clean and strapped to his back. His expression was one of profound distaste. “A den of idle comfort. It weakens the spirit.”
“My spirit,” Leliana said, brushing road-dust from her tunic with a futile flick of her wrist, “is weak for a feather pillow. Just one. I will not ask for more.”
The inside was a study in calculated warmth. Low, beamed ceilings held the heat from a crackling hearth. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting the Paragons in various states of dramatic undress. Plush chairs hugged small, round tables where men and women in fine woolens and brushed leather spoke in hushed, intense tones over silver goblets. The clink of glass was crisp, the murmur of conversation a soft blanket of sound.
All of it stopped when they walked in.
Five people, armed and armored, smelling of cold air, steel, and death, were not the usual clientele. The barkeep, a stout man with a impeccably waxed mustache, froze mid-polish of a goblet. His eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over them, lingering on Daylen’s shaved head and the faint, tell-tale glow of lyrium sigils etched into the leather of his vambraces. A mage. In his establishment.
Daylen didn’t wait for the challenge. He walked straight to the bar, his boots sounding too loud on the polished oak floor. He dropped his pack with a heavy thud that made a nearby noble flinch.
“We’re not staying,” Daylen said, his voice calm but leaving no room for negotiation. “We have gear to trade. Good steel. Some armor. We’re looking for potions. Antivan leather. And information on the road south to the Tower.”
The barkeep’s eyes flickered. Fear, then calculation. He set the goblet down slowly. “Information costs. The gear, we can discuss.” His tone was cautious, professional. He wasn’t throwing them out. That was something.
From a corner, a lone bard struck up a tune. It was a slow, haunting thing in a minor key, the lyrics telling of a knight lost in the Frostbacks, calling for a love he’d never see again. The music was exquisite, a blade of perfect sorrow slicing through the room’s tension. Leliana closed her eyes for a second, swaying slightly, her fingers moving as if plucking invisible strings.
Alistair leaned against the bar beside Daylen. “See? I told you the ‘disgraced bastard’ angle would work. He’s terrified.”
Daylen ignored him, keeping his focus on the barkeep. They haggled. The mail shirt was worth less than he’d hoped; the axes, even less. But the potions—vials of viscous healing draught and silvery lyrium tonic—were produced from a locked chest under the bar. Five vials for the lot.
“Not enough,” Daylen said flatly.
“Take it or leave, mage.” The barkeep’s voice had gained a sliver of steel.
Before Daylen could reply, Morrigan slid past him. She placed a single, rough-cut amethyst on the bar, the size of a robin’s egg. It was loot from a genlock Shaman they’d fought three days prior. She said nothing, just looked at the man.
His eyes widened. He snatched the gem up, examined it, then grunted. He added two more healing draughts and a pouch of dried spindleweed to the pile. “For the… unpleasantness at the door. The Tower’s closed,” he added in a lower voice, pocketing the amethyst. “No one comes in or out since the… trouble. Rumor says the Templars inside have locked it down tighter than a drum. Something about a sickness of the mind.” His gaze flicked to Daylen again. “You won’t find welcome there.”
Daylen’s stomach tightened. “Noted.”
Another form slid up to the bar on his other side. It was the bard, a redheaded elf with sharp, intelligent eyes. She smelled of rosemary and resin. “Forgive the interruption, serrah,” she said, her voice a melodious contrast to the barkeep’s gravel. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You have… other items to trade?” Her eyes were on the short bow strapped to Leliana’s pack.
Leliana perked up instantly. “It is a fine piece,” she said, unprompted, unlatching it and presenting it to the elf. “Maric Challenger, isn’t it? Antivan craft, though the string is new.”
The elf’s eyebrows shot up. She took the bow, her fingers tracing the carved rosewood limb. “You know your bows.”
“I know many things,” Leliana said with a small, enigmatic smile.
Ten minutes later, Leliana had a quiver of fletched arrows, a new bowstring of elf-hair, and the bard had the short bow and three silver pieces. Leliana looked pleased.
They claimed a table in a shadowed corner, their presence now a grudgingly accepted anomaly. A serving girl brought them bowls of thick stew and a clay jug of wine, her hands shaking slightly as she poured. The wine was rich and dark, a taste of summer fruits and oak.
It was the first proper meal they’d had in weeks. For a time, there was only the sound of spoons on bowls and the low hum of the tavern.
Sten ate with mechanical efficiency, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Alistair savored each bite, a look of near-religious bliss on his face. “I’d forgotten,” he mumbled around a mouthful of stew. “I’d actually forgotten food could taste like this and not like boiled despair.”
Morrigan picked at hers, her gaze distant. The firelight danced in her amber eyes. She caught Daylen looking at her and didn’t look away. Her expression was unreadable, but her foot, under the table, found his and pressed lightly against his boot. A spark shot through him, warm and immediate, cutting through the fatigue and the low-grade dread of the barkeep’s warning. It was a reminder of a different kind of hunger.
The elf bard started another song, this one livelier. It was about the fall of Gherlen’s Pass, a heroic last stand. Her voice soared, clear and commanding. The nobles clapped politely.
Alistair snorted into his wine. “Gherlen’s Pass. My father was there.” He took a deep drink. “He never mentioned the singing. Just the dysentery. Said the only thing ‘soaring’ were the dragons, and they were on our side for once.”
A sudden, loud laugh erupted from a table of richly-dressed merchants nearby. One, a florid-faced man with a gold chain thick enough to anchor a dinghy, slapped his companion’s back. “—so I told the knife-ear, if you can’t pay the tithe in silver, you’ll pay it in labor! Had the entire family cleaning my stables for a month!”
His companions roared. Sten’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. His knuckles were white around the handle. Leliana’s smile had frozen on her face.
Daylen felt the shift like a drop in barometric pressure. He saw Morrigan’s lip curl in a silent sneer. He saw Alistair’s jaw tighten, the joke about his father forgotten.
The florid man, feeling their stares, turned. His bleary eyes swept over them, over Sten’s imposing frame, over Leliana’s elvish features, over Daylen’s shaved head. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face. “What’s this then?” he boomed, silencing his own table. “A travelling circus? We’ve got the strongman,” he nodded at Sten, “the dancing girl,” a leer at Leliana, “and the… what are you, boy? The fire-eater?” His friends tittered.
Daylen set his spoon down carefully. “We’re just eating,” he said, his voice even.
“Eating my air, more like,” the man chuckled, standing up. He was big, used to his bulk commanding space. “This is a respectable place. We don’t need your sort bringing the stink of the road in here. Especially not your kind.” His eyes locked onto Daylen’s. “Magese. Thought you lot were locked up where you belong.”
Everything narrowed. The warm light of the tavern grew harsh. The chatter faded to a background buzz. Daylen felt the familiar, cold clarity settle over him. He saw the exits. He saw the man’s center of gravity, slightly off from too much wine. He saw Alistair, hand drifting under the table toward his sword hilt. He saw Morrigan, her fingers subtly curling, a whisper of power gathering the shadows around her like a cloak.
But he also saw the barkeep watching, fear warring with greed. He saw the other patrons, a mix of morbid curiosity and unease. A fight here would burn their welcome to the ground. It might get them thrown out with nothing. It might get Templars called.
He stood up. Slowly. He wasn’t as tall as the merchant, but his movement was fluid, a fighter’s grace that made the merchant take an unconscious half-step back. Daylen walked towards him, not aggressively, but directly, until they were a hand’s breadth apart. He could smell the wine on the man’s breath, the sweat under his perfumed oils.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Daylen said, his voice so quiet only the man could hear. “We don’t want trouble.”
“Trouble?” The merchant puffed out his chest, trying to regain the upper hand. “You are trouble. A freak who bends the rules of nature, walking free.”
Daylen smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the baring of teeth. He let a fraction of his power rise to the surface, not enough to cast, just enough to make the air around his fingertips shimmer with barely-contained heat, to make the lyrium sigils on his arms emit a faint, pulsating blue. The temperature at their table seemed to drop a few degrees.
The merchant’s confidence drained from his face, leaving behind a pallid mask of sudden, sober fear. He saw not a young man, but a force. A contained storm.
“The rules of nature,” Daylen whispered, leaning in, “are more flexible than you know. Now, you’re going to sit down. You’re going to finish your wine. And you’re going to be very, very quiet while we finish our meal.”
He held the man’s gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turned his back on him, a deliberate show of dismissal. He walked back to the table, his heart hammering against his ribs, the cool control a brittle shell over a well of hot anger. He sat down, picked up his spoon.
The tavern was silent. The florid merchant sank back into his chair, his friends suddenly very interested in their drinks.
No one spoke to them again.
They finished their meal in the newfound silence, paid with the last of their silver, and filed out into the cold night air. The tension didn’t break until the tavern door swung shut behind them, muffling the resumed, quieter hum of conversation within.
Alistair blew out a long breath that fogged in the chill air. “Well. That was… diplomatically handled. In a ‘I-will-turn-your-insides-to-ash’ kind of way.”
Sten grunted, a sound of approval. “The threat of force is superior to its application. A lesson many fail to learn.”
Leliana adjusted her new quiver. “He was a pig.”
“He was a fool,” Morrigan corrected, her voice like silk over ice. She was looking at Daylen, her gaze intense. “And you showed restraint. An intriguing choice.”
Daylen didn’t answer. The anger was still there, a hot coal in his gut. Restraint. It tasted like ashes. He looked back at the warm, glowing windows of The Spoiled Princess, a haven that wasn’t theirs, a world that saw him as a monster or a tool. He thought of the Tower, locked down, sick. A different kind of cage.
“We head for the Tower at first light,” he said, his voice rough. “Whatever’s waiting there, it’s our problem now.”
He turned and led the way down the hill, away from the light, back towards the dark, open road. The Calling thrummed in his blood, a distant, dissonant song pulling him south. The memory of the merchant’s fearful face warred with the imagined gates of the Circle, looming ahead in the dark. They had their potions. They had their gear. They had each other.
It would have to be enough.