“I think the lyrium might be poisoned,” Teia suggested. “He blacked out after taking it. Said it made him sick.”
“If that’s true, our killer’s not a seasoned poisoner.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Lyrium’s an extremely volatile, unpredictable substance,” Viago explained as he poured a white powder over the lyrium kit’s instruments. “Mixed with a toxin, it will almost certainly overpower the poison and dilute it.”
“That’s why you don’t keep any on you?”
“Like I said, I’ve no use for it. Most people—even experienced Crows—assume combining two dangerous substances together will produce something even more deadly. But some things just shouldn’t mix.”
Once the powder settled, Viago used a dropper to dribble a clear solution onto the kit. “The reaction will take a few minutes.”
While they waited, Teia filled him in on Dante’s arrangement with Lera, his deal with Bolivar, and that he’d taken his dagger from Giuli’s room.
“Your serum worked like a charm.” She reached up to brush a bit of nonexistent lint from Viago’s coat. He stepped back, tripping over his own feet. Even if it was a compliment, Viago didn’t want the image of Dante and Teia in his head.
“The powder should be ready,” he replied tersely. He leaned over to check the kit and inhaled sharply as he watched the substance turn purple.
Teia was at his side, her arm lightly brushing his. “Does that mean something?”
“That you were right. Dante was poisoned—with the Quiet Night.”
Her rosy cheeks paled. The Quiet Night was a highly lethal toxin. A favorite among the Crows, it put the victim into a deep slumber and slowed their heart until it stopped beating—forever.
“He should be dead.”
“If this had been mixed with anything other than lyrium, he would be.”
“Then Dante’s not our killer?”
Viago tried to ignore the acute stab of disappointment in his gut. “He wouldn’t have been able to walk, much less slit Giuli’s throat. That cut was clean.”
“Then it must be Bolivar.”
“Must be?” Viago challenged.
“Yes,” Teia pressed on. “He must have found out about Dante, Lera, and Giuli’s plan to oust him as Sixth Talon and decided to kill all three of them.”
“Bolivar’s family has been losing ground for years—and he’s done nothing but roll over.”
“Maybe this time was different. Bolivar wouldn’t be the first man desperation gifted a backbone.”
“I still don’t like it.” Flopping down in a chair, Viago groaned. “We’re missing something.”
“Then let’s start from the beginning,” Teia suggested. “We know Lera died before dinner, but after her argument with Dante in the garden.”
“The absence of defensive wounds implies that she knew her attacker.” Thinking back, he conjured the scene of Lera’s death in his mind. “Her murder was staged to look like Queen Madrigal’s. Everything was the same down to Hessarian’s Blade of Mercy.”
“No.” Teia’s eyes flashed with realization. “The lyrium! That part wasn’t historically accurate. The killer deliberately wanted to point the blame toward Dante. And how fitting that the incriminating evidence would be lyrium—the crutch of Dante and Bolivar’s deal.”
Hands on her hips, Teia smiled victoriously, but Viago couldn’t share in her enthusiasm. Something still didn’t sit right.
“What?” Teia asked. “Why don’t you like Bolivar for this? He’s an asshole. And he has motive and opportunity.”
“But not the means,” said Viago, trying to keep up with the wheels spinning in his head. “The Blade of Mercy wasn’t a shoddy copy, it was a perfect replica. And the poison used to kill the servants—”
“Maferath’s Embrace?”
“I have one vial in my possession—it took over a year to make. We know from the tainted lyrium that our killer isn’t a master poisoner. So they must’ve bought it. Another costly expense.”
“The pearls around Giuli’s neck weren’t cheap either,” Teia admitted, sinking down on the armrest beside him. “But if it’s not us, and it’s not Dante or Bolivar, that leaves Nonna and Emil.”
Viago wet his lips. “Bolivar wasn’t the only Talon who would’ve been displeased with Lera and Dante’s engagement. They wanted to keep their relationship a secret from someone specific.”
Teia jumped from the armrest—away from him. “Nonna would never—”
“She would,” Viago said with a level stare. “If she felt threatened, she would.”
Teia wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. “Caterina arranged this summit to protect Antiva, not thin out the competition.”
Aware he was walking on eggshells, Viago lowered his voice. “Unless she believed the two were one and the same. The Qunari could soon be on our doorstep and Lera and Dante were planning to upset the balance of power.”
Teia’s face was hard with white-hot anger. Something inside Viago warned him to stop, but he wasn’t one to leave a point unspoken. “She’s the one who brought us to this island with no bodyguards, no servants of our own. She had access to the kitchens—the funds to acquire Maferath’s Embrace. And don’t you think it’s a bit odd she didn’t check on Lera after receiving that note at dinner? For all we know, she paid the servants to do the deed, then knocked them off to tidy up loose ends.”
“You always think the worst of people,” Teia whispered.
“And I’m usually right,” Viago spat. “You should know how people are. You grew up in the dirt.”
He regretted the words immediately. Teia’s eyes glossed over with disgust.
“I guess the dirt treated me better than your gilded cage.”
Viago’s own temper flared. “Don’t—”
She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Viago flinched from the contact.
“See, unlike you, I’m not ashamed of where I came from.” She stepped back toward the door. “And I don’t let it define me.”
* * *
Dinner that evening was a sad affair of cold cuts and cheese. Viago and Dante were still confined to their rooms, but to be safe, the remaining Talons made their own plates and poured their own wine from sealed bottles.
The table had been built for eight, but only four seats were filled. And one of them is the murderer, Teia thought coldly. It was such an ugly word—murderer. She didn’t think it fit her line of work at all. Assassin was much nicer. Pushing a bit of cheese around her plate, Teia mused maybe that was the difference between herself and Viago: semantics. Murderer. Assassin. They painted different colors with the same brush.
In the distance, she heard a soft thumping sound. Teia assumed it was a tree branch. Outside, a storm brewed, and the beat was irregular, like something swaying in the wind. She looked around to see if anyone noticed.
Emil and Caterina both seemed enamored with their plates, but Bolivar twitched with each thump like it was a jab to the ribs.
If Teia thought the Sixth Talon looked rough this morning, the afternoon had not done him any favors. Dark circles surrounded the elf’s gray eyes, giving him a skeletal appearance. He had yet to touch his food, choosing instead to pursue a liquid diet.
The effects of a guilty conscious? Teia pondered, not quite ready to cross him off her list of suspects. A Crow’s business was always lucrative. It was feasible Bolivar had sold the pearl-diving operation to pay for the murders. But his lack of obvious coin combined with a history of spinelessness made Teia less certain than she was before.
Still, Bolivar’s innocence meant the guilt of either Caterina or Emil. Just the thought made Teia’s stomach lurch and she regretted choosing the corseted, red satin gown over the slinkier black number. Emil and Caterina had been the most welcoming when she’d been named Talon. An elf born in an alley with no family or connections, Teia and her rise to power had caused quite the controversy. The Antivan Crows always told new recruits that anyone
could become a Talon, but it rarely happened.
Teia glanced furtively at the woman she’d considered a mother for the past twenty years. Caterina wore a gown of dark purple that served as the backdrop for a stunning amethyst necklace.
Viago’s words echoed, unwanted, in Teia’s mind—She would. If she was desperate, she would. As if guilt could be etched on the skin, Teia searched the fine lines of the older Talon’s face, but all she found was mild annoyance.
Two seats down, Emil cleared his throat. “Eat something, Bolivar.”
“It’s that damn noise!” the elf complained. “It’s driving me crazy.”
Teia was also starting to find the sound unbearable. She thought of Viago upstairs. Their last conversation had left a sour taste in her mouth, but she could stand his company if it meant escaping this room.
“Nonna, should I bring a plate to Dante and Vi? Or do we mean to starve them?”
Caterina rolled her eyes and gestured dismissively. “Take Emil with you.”
“You’re leaving me? With her?” Bolivar pointed accusingly at Caterina.
“Would you rather come with me?” Teia asked. Holding his gaze, she bent over the table to take a sip of his wine.
Bolivar crinkled his nose in disgust.
“I didn’t think so.” Teia laughed, then joined Emil at the door.
“I’ll need a new glass,” Bolivar called after them.
“As if drinking from the bottle’s ever stopped you before,” Teia replied. Emil chuckled at her side.
“Don’t let him bother you,” he said, when the door shut behind them. “He’s only jealous because you’re everyone’s favorite.”
“Even yours?” Teia teased.
“Even mine.”
Teia took Emil’s arm and steered him toward the kitchen.
The thumping grew louder.
“Do you know how the Crows began?” Emil asked. “Before the masks and the tattoos and the houses?”
Teia thought back to her lessons as a girl. “They were monks—near Treviso? They poisoned a duke who was terrorizing their village.”
He nodded approvingly. “They were a group of individuals who did what needed to be done to protect the Antivan people. Over the years, we lost sight of that. Now, it’s all about family. Blood. Instead of a claw working as one, we fight over scraps. Eventually, we’ll all starve.”
Thump, thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Goose bumps prickled Teia’s brown skin. The noise was right outside the kitchen, between the first and second floors.
She slowed. “I hate to agree with Bolivar, but I don’t think that’s the wind.”
“No, my dear, I don’t think it is.” From his burgundy jacket, Emil produced a curved dagger. He motioned for Teia to arm herself.
They flanked the servants’ entrance, blades raised at the ready. On the count of three, Teia shoved the door open …
Just in time to witness Dante Balazar’s body crash to the ground.
* * *
Upstairs, Viago was sulking. There was no other word for it.
Since Teia had left, he’d rotated between huffing in a chair to reenacting their earlier exchange in fervent, incoherent whispers—but with cleverer retorts on his part now that he’d had time to think of them. No matter how many ways the conversation played out, Teia’s final words stopped him.
“I don’t let it define me,” he grumbled, recognizing the doubt in his own voice.
Viago was hardly Antiva’s only royal bastard. His father had taken many a mistress before and after his mother. To protect the line of succession, the illegitimate children were given a choice: live a life of luxury in exile or join the Crows. Viago was simply the only one who had chosen the latter.
Rising to the rank of Talon should’ve been enough. With a small army of assassins at his beck and call, Viago was more powerful than the king. But the harder he worked, the more resentful he became of his half-siblings, who knew nothing of ruling or tactics. The knowledge that, if given a chance, he could restore strength to the Crown dogged him—leaving a hole that no contract or coin could fill.
Viago took a deep breath. His clothes, which he’d starched and pressed this morning, felt stale and rumpled from the day’s events. Unbidden, the image of Teia moving beneath him—her arms around his neck, a sweet sigh escaping her lips—came to mind. He squeezed his eyes shut to settle the pangs of embarrassment and lust vibrating within him.
A change of clothes and a fresh pair of gloves—that would set things right.
Viago pulled at the buttons of his jacket, unfastening them with sharp, urgent movements. The shirt followed. Then, finger by finger, he tore off his gloves and placed them next to his bed. The inside surface of the gloves shimmered green in the candlelight from where he’d touched Teia’s lips earlier.
His exposed flesh shivered in the open air, and Viago imagined his pores gasping and taking deep gulps of air while they still could. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the relief that rolled over him, then crossed the room to the wardrobe. Upon opening the door, he became distracted by a chip in the wardrobe’s decorative carvings. Viago was sure it hadn’t been there before—he had an eye for imperfections.
Someone’s been here.
The breeze on his back no longer felt refreshing. Viago reached inside for the brass box containing his gloves. Instead of cool metal, his fingers brushed against a line of scales. A forked tongue flicked against his wrist.
Viago wrenched back just as a flat, diamond-shaped head lunged through layers of indigo.
The Crow was quick. The adder was quicker.
Viago growled as the snake’s jaws clamped around his forearm. The death adder’s fangs sunk deep, pumping his bloodstream with venom.
Cazza, he thought, unceremoniously.
Viago knew the species well. They didn’t adorn his walking stick for show. At home, he had a pair of adders whose venom he milked to make Adder’s Kiss. But he’d never been bitten by one.
As fast as it came, the snake retreated to the cool shadows of the wardrobe.
Viago slammed the door shut, trapping the creature inside, then staggered back. Already, his muscles were loose and unresponsive—a side effect of the paralyzing component in adder venom. His legs folded like a bad hand of cards, and he hit the ground face-first.
* * *
Dante’s skin was the shade of blood-spattered slate. His lips and nose—broken—were a violent eggplant. A torn bedsheet, knotted together like a rope, was wrapped around his neck. The other end disappeared behind the windowpane—Teia guessed it was tied to something sturdy in his room.
While they’d been eating cheese and drinking wine, Dante’s body had been thumping against the side of the villa, until the sheet had finally ripped under his weight.
Teia swallowed down the bile rising in her throat.
“I remember this one—the insatiable Prince Estefan,” Emil said behind her. “He had a penchant for high-born married women and used sheets to sneak in and out of their bedroom windows. Until one day, he found a Crow waiting.”
The public version of the story was that Estefan had “accidentally” gotten tangled in the bedsheet and broke his neck. Dante’s neck was still intact. Judging from the hand-shaped bruising around his mouth, he’d been suffocated, then hung out to dry.
Because I knocked him unconscious, Teia thought grimly.
The killer must’ve hoisted him down from the window. A broken neck would’ve been a kinder, cleaner death, but if the sheet snapped, Dante might’ve survived.
“The wife,” Teia whispered.
“Sorry?” Emil asked.
“The one whose bedroom Estefan was visiting,” she clarified. “Remind me—what happened to her?”
“Ah. Marcella.” Emil gave his close-cut beard a rueful rub. “A beauty. She loved pretty things. They hid a death adder among her clothes.”
“The same night?” Teia asked, trying to keep her voice level.
<
br /> “I believe so, why—” As he asked, Emil followed her line of thought.
“Vi!” she rasped, then bolted toward the stairs.
* * *
Breathe, you idiot, Viago told himself. The more he panicked, the faster the venom spread. He only hoped his daily dose of Adder’s Kiss had built up his immune system enough to buy some time.
Through sheer will, Viago pushed himself up on his elbows and dragged his sluggish body toward the desk—toward his case.
“Antivenin,” he stated through gritted teeth.
The case had a leather strap. If he could get close, all he needed to do was reach up and pull. And, hopefully, not break a bunch of other lethal poisons over my head.
Black spots stained the edges of his vision. His face muscles went slack, causing drool to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Viago knew with cold, logical horror that he was going to pass out.
His right arm extended—and hit one of the desk’s four legs. The strap dangled above his head, taunting him.
Just a bit more, Viago thought, but even thinking was like wading through molasses now.
His eyelids drooped.
There was a loud thud in the distance.
Then all was dark and silent.
* * *
In the few, short seconds it had taken Teia to get up the stairs, she had prepared herself to find Viago on the floor. Perhaps dying. Perhaps already dead.
But not shirtless—never shirtless.
“You know,” she groaned, turning him over. “This isn’t how I imagined seeing you naked.”
Despite her flippant tone, Teia’s heart pounded against her ribs. Viago’s breathing was leaden, but present—thank the Maker. A quick scan revealed two puncture wounds on his forearm. The skin surrounding the bite marks was swollen and had turned a sickly hue of plum.
His throat emitted a guttural noise.
“Vi!” She brought her ear to hover above his lips.
With substantial effort, Viago pushed out the words, “Wearing … trousers.”
Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Page 43