In Setheneras , a traditional Dalish song

In setheneras iras ar'an mala hamir In waking dreams where we now dwell

Girem ahn inan era'mana Captive to the past

Ebalir el boranehn Grieving for our lost joy

Ahn inan gasha mala danem What was once whole now sundered

An uth shiral mah em'an A long journey lies before us

Dera revasan To reach the place where freedom dwells

Boot heels rang out against the marble tiles. A slow gait. Dramatic. The speaker strolled between the lower benches, hands folded behind his back, voice echoing grandly under the high gilt ceiling. Every eye in the chamber followed his progress with rapt attention; only the slaves flanking the gallery, listlessly waving their embroidered silk fans, kept their gazes downcast. Their efforts were largely symbolic. Minrathous was a stone oven at this time of year, and all the fan-flapping in the world wasn't going to change it. The sea breezes flitting between the marble columns were thick and clinging, and even the strategically-placed ice orbs, enchanted to a temperature well below that of anything in nature, brought little relief.

None of which deterred the speaker holding forth on the floor. Magister Grotius Philion wore the sweat on his brow as testament to the seriousness of his words, literally dripping with gravitas. "These are dark times, colleagues," he intoned as he continued pacing. "They call for boldness. Decisiveness. They call, above all, for leadership." He'd reached the head of the chamber now, and he paused before the empty throne, as if inviting the assembly to imagine him seated there. Quite unintentionally, of course. Purely a coincidence. But these were dark times, after all, and if the Archon were to meet an untimely end, well… It was always best to be prepared. "And so, my fellow magisters, I ask you." Philion pivoted slowly, letting his gaze sweep the floor before rising to the balconies. "With the ox-men despoiling our shores, is it not merely prudence to make use of the gifts the Maker, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon us? Is it not, indeed, the only responsible course?"

The assembly was stirring now, a few sheep bleating in agreement.

"Shall we quail before our own power, too cowed by delicate foreign sensibilities to give our all in defence of our homeland? Or shall we embrace our destiny and uphold the Imperial legacy?"

He let the question hang in the air. Then, just as he filled his lungs for the final dramatic flourish:

"Ah! That's bingo, I believe."

The voice drifted down from the balconies like a stray leaf falling from a tree.

Philion glanced up in indignation, as if he'd just been shat upon by a bird. "I beg your pardon?"

"Bingo," Dorian Pavus repeated, holding up a sheet of vellum and tapping it with a quill. "See here? I was only waiting on Imperial legacy, which you were so kind as to furnish immediately after destiny."

"Pooh," said the woman at Dorian's side, frowning at her own card in elegant disapproval. "I was certain I had it this time." Maevaris Tilani sighed and proceeded to fan herself with the vellum, gold bracelets jingling.

Dorian smiled inwardly. Trust Mae to one-up him on the showmanship.

A murmur ran through the lower benches. Half the chamber was trying to hide their smiles. The other half, Dorian reckoned, would cheerfully cut off his head and use it for a game of polo.

Philion balled his fists at his sides, moustache quivering with fury. "Once again, Magister Pavus, you cheapen this chamber with your childish antics."

"I can assure my learned colleague there is nothing cheap about bingo," Dorian replied airily. "Not when you're playing for the finest equipage in Minrathous. Which is now mine, by the way, thanks to you. Ever so obliged." He gave a courtly bow.

A sigh of impatience came from the Chamber Master, and he rapped the butt of his staff against the marble tiles. "Decorum, colleagues. Magister Pavus, you are out of order. Again. Do not force me to reprimand you."

Dorian's gaze travelled over the multitude of black leather straps that made up the top half of the Chamber Master's vestments, but he somehow managed to restrain himself. Much as he enjoyed a good bondage joke, there was serious business at hand. "My humble apologies," he said. "However, I would point out that my learned colleague is himself out of order, having exceeded his allotted time by a rather generous measure."

The Chamber Master grunted. "Point of order noted. Magister Philion, please conclude your remarks."

Philion's eyes were still on Dorian, promising terrible retribution. "My motion is on the floor," he said coldly. "I have said all I need to."

"In that case, we shall pass directly to the vote." The Chamber Master waved a hand, and the tallying crystal flared to life on its pedestal. "The motion on the floor is for the temporary suspension of Ordinance 641.b prohibiting the use of Certain Magics in the forging of weapons, for a period of one year, subject to renewal. All in—"

"Point of procedure," Dorian called languidly, examining his cuticles.

The Chamber Master sighed and lifted his gaze to the Lucerni balcony. "Yes?"

"I might be mistaken, but I believe motions involving the amendment, withdrawal, or suspension of existing law in relation to Certain Magics must be voted on in the presence of the Archon." Dorian glanced meaningfully at the empty throne, whose customary occupant was presently enjoying the private attentions of a truly gifted troupe of Antivan contortionist-masseuses, courtesy of the Lucerni faction.

Philion flushed an ugly purple. Rage? Humiliation? A bit of both, probably. Dorian almost pitied him, but honestly, a politician as experienced as he ought to have anticipated such a manoeuvre. The Lucerni might be a young, idealistic rabble, but they had Dorian's devious little mind and Mae's exceedingly deep pockets to draw on, which made them a force to be reckoned with. Nearly.

Even the stodgy Chamber Master was amused now. "Your command of the minutiae of magisterial procedure never fails to impress, Magister Pavus. Point of procedure noted and sustained. The motion is hereby deferred to the next session. And…"

Dorian couldn't help smiling as the Chamber Master delivered the coup de grace.

"…having no other speakers on my list, I declare this session adjourned, and the Magisterium in recess. We will reconvene in the fall, and I wish you a pleasant summer, colleagues." With a final rap of the staff, the magisterial season was at an end.

The benches began to clear, an excited buzz filling the chamber as the magisters gossiped like schoolchildren about the little drama that had just unfolded. "Well played, darling," Mae said, giving Dorian's arm a squeeze. "Now we just have to survive the summer."

That would be easier said than done, judging from the murderous look on Philion's face. Ah, well. What would summer in Minrathous be without an assassination attempt or two?

The old goat was waiting for them downstairs, of course. "I suppose you think you're terribly clever," he snapped, blocking their path. His hands still worked at his sides, and Dorian sensed just enough agitation in the Veil that he spread his own fingers warily, defensive spell at the ready. He doubted Philion would be foolish enough to start something here, in so very public a place, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Even so, it wouldn't do to look vexed, so Dorian pasted on his customary smirk. "Come now, don't sulk. You may have lost this round, but we both know it isn't over. You'll be back on the agenda soon enough. And in the meantime, you'll be busy as a little bee shoring up support for your noxious proposal. A bit of blackmail here, a touch of toadying there, a judicious sprinkling of threats. Just think what you can achieve in six weeks."

"You recognize the futility of your actions, yet still you play your little games. I hope they amuse you, Pavus, because they will cost you dearly one day."

Dorian tsked. "And here I thought threats were meant to be issued outside the Magisterial Chamber. Have I misunderstood the etiquette, Mae, or is this fellow just terribly gauche?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," Mae said, sounding exquisitely bored.

"I do not threaten," Philion growled. "I promise."

"Oh, how very dull. Look, shall we just get on with it, then? I see your man over there." Dorian inclined his head toward the stairs, where a servant waited with Philion's staff. Weapons weren't permitted in the Magisterial Chamber, but he had only to pass beyond the colonnade to claim it. "It's been ages since this courtyard saw a good old-fashioned duel. I'd wager we'd put on quite the show, you and I. An elder statesman of the Imperium versus a hero of the Inquisition? Why, they'd sing songs about us all summer. What do you say?"

Philion looked him over scornfully. "Still picking fights in the schoolyard, Pavus? Your father was right about you. You were and always will be a contrary little child."

Dorian's back teeth came together, but his smile remained firmly in place. "A wise man, Magister Halward."

"A wiser man would have known better than to make a nuisance of himself. That didn't turn out well for him, did it? You should take care that you do not meet the same fate."

There was a beat of silence. Dorian's smile curved like a blade. Then he felt a warning hand on his arm, and realized he'd unconsciously gathered the folds of the Veil around him. He let go, but the damage was done; he'd let his temper get the better of him, and Philion sensed it as surely as Mae. The older man sneered in triumph. Then he turned on his heel and glided down the steps, snapping his fingers to bring his servant to heel.

Dorian cursed himself silently. After all this time, he was still letting taunts about the old man get to him. Nor was that his only sore point. It was galling, having his weaknesses so readily known. Not to mention dangerous. Good job the man hadn't made an elf joke, or Dorian might've set the whole bloody place on fire, consequences be damned.

Mae released his arm with a sigh. "Thwarting his designs is one thing, darling, but you're a fool to goad him. Aside from being a talented mage, he has more political clout than the lot of our allies put together. If he chooses to act against you, no one will make a peep."

"Except you, of course."

"Of course." Mae looped her arm through his and started down the stairs. "My vengeance would be swift and terrible, but by then it would be too late. And I would so miss your company." Cutting him a sidelong look, she added, "Even if you are a wretched sourpuss these days."

"Nonsense. I'm as charming as ever."

She led them across the courtyard, keeping to the shade as much as possible. There were few trees in the old part of the city, but the ancient Imperium's affection for massive dragon statues had the virtue of creating a few pockets of respite from the heat. "Charming you may be," Mae said, "but you're so full of vinegar I can practically taste it."

"Vinegar? Me? Don't be ridiculous. I am honey incarnate. Why, just listen to this mellifluous voice."

"Flowers wilt as you walk by. Milk curdles at your glance. Honestly, darling, and I say this as your friend, you are in dire need of a good roll. Why not stop by that place in the square, the one with the pretty elven boys?"

Dorian laughed hollowly. "Yes, because what I really want is to bed some pale shadow of my ex. Not to mention paying for the privilege, all while blithely ignoring the fact that the pretty elven boy in question is almost certainly a slave, whether literally or figuratively."

"Dorian." Mae stopped in the shadow of a stone dragon and gave him a look that was dangerously close to pitying. "It's been two years. It's time to move on, surely?"

"I have," Dorian said, and if his voice was a little rough, it was only from raising it in the chamber a few minutes ago. "Truly. But that doesn't mean I want to go back to the life I had before we met. I'm a different man than I was then, thank the Maker. Casual sex simply doesn't hold the appeal it once did."

"Fair enough. But you need something to occupy you. A hobby."

"Ah, yes, a hobby. Crocheting, perhaps? Or competitive nug grooming?"

"If that's what takes your fancy. You can't spend all your time rattling about your estate, plotting the downfall of your rivals. Such petty joys are not enough to sustain a heart like yours." She patted his chest affectionately. "A hobby, darling. Think about it. But in the meantime - are you sure I can't tempt you to join us this evening? You know I throw the very best garden parties."

"Thank you, but I'm still nursing a headache from last night." This was a lie, of course. But the truth – that he would rather gouge his eyes out with a spoon than spend another evening in the company of the glitterati of Tevinter society – might sound ungracious.

"Suit yourself." Mae air kissed his cheeks. "Just do me a favour and take the long way home. After that scene on the stairs, I shouldn't wonder if our friend has a nasty surprise waiting for you along the usual route."

This was very good advice, and Dorian probably should have taken it. Which words, incidentally, would probably be etched on his memorial.

And as it turned out, Mae was only half right: The nasty surprise was waiting for him right in his own home. No sooner had Dorian walked through the gates than Austus, his normally unflappable Liberati seneschal, came flying down the steps to meet him, a sheen of sweat pasting his grey hair to his temples. The elf was sixty if he was a day and typically moved with the vigour of a potted fern, so the sight of him taking the stairs two at a time was not a little alarming.

"My lord, I'm afraid I have grave news." He held out a piece of parchment. "This was found tied to the gates a few minutes ago."

The note was written in an elegant hand, and stamped with a seal Dorian knew only too well. "Venatori," he growled. Maker's breath, they were like a weed. Every time you thought you'd torn up the last of them... "Austus, fetch my staff, and lay out my—"

"Already done. Armour on the bed, staff by the door. Harmon is waiting in your chambers to help you."

"Good man." Dorian scanned the note one more time, as incredulous as he was furious.

We have your mother, it said. Come alone.