♔ remnants of the mesa )

Sairen refused diplomacy, and when war came his warriors held the their land as long as they could. With insufficient supplies, he led his people into the depths of the desert, further than anyone else dared, and mapped new oases, new arable land. The price of survival was heavy. His clan was left with women and children, and few men, with their wealth abandoned. They would not be able to wage war again for centuries. What was he to do? He had sworn vengeance for the countless dead.

He could have taken a wife, and raised their children with the memories of places they never knew, but that would be far too weak. A clan lord fights his own battles. So he forsook his clan. He bowed his head before his shaman, named his brother as his successor, and let his own name die. He left by the evening, by night, retracing his way back towards Tevinter, glad that the shifting sands had already claimed their dead. Sometimes he came across fields of bleached bones, sometimes with insignia of now-dead clans. He learned to endure, and moved on.

As time passed, his fellow travellers gave him a name, a word that was fitting enough in meaning. They called him Falcon, and he let them. Eventually when someone asked him, he ended up answering with it, and so who he was changed. He taught himself to steal and to kill from behind, without honour. What did he need honour for, these days? He lived like a vagrant, following where the road went, taking shelter where it was offered, asking questions, telling stories, learning. He spoke to slaves of freedom, to farm labourers of having their own land. That a revolt was raised in his name, well, he would not deny. He found a gift for speech he never expected, and slowly his name was known. It surprised him that people were so willing to die to keep his face a secret, and so willing to carry a banner when he asked them to. He had followers even, these days. Grim men and women who had nothing left to lose, who thought he could change something in their world.

This would be a night to remember. For tonight, he had discarded his worn traveller's clothes, his family's sword and the traditional braids. His skin was still deeply tanned by the sun, of course, but his black hair was tied neatly back. He had spent months charming a court lady, so that he could pass the main gates, then the guards, so that a narrow door leading into the gates would be left unlocked. If anyone asked, he was a guest of Lady Anayla, and she would lie for him. But it was better to not be known, for his plans to unfold.

The garden was mostly empty, and his daggers were well hidden. These court clothes, with all their complexities. He looked fine in black and silver, he could claim to be in mourning and invent a relative or two, he could claim a lineage other than his true one. His travels had wiped his accent by now. Daggers up his sleeves, and his favourite was sheathed against his leg, strapped to his shin, within easy reach. There would be a death tonight, but not the prince's and not Ammon's.

She might have been his wife once, to end the bitter blood fued between their clans. No doubt in that case she would have hated him in the same way that she hated the prince now â?? Sairen had not been a kind man. He had been fierce on the battlefield, and cruel to his enemies. It was probably not wise that he wanted to sneak a look at the woman the common people called 'a dragon of the desert', who they said looked a fine match for their prince.

He knew her looks: his yellow hawk-eyes narrowed as he studied the moment, well enough in the shadows, he was sure, to not be noticed. He was closer than he thought, but far enough. How to know where someone's allegiances lay?

In the shadows of the tree, he watched the scene. He caressed his claws, their ivory handles worn with use and permanently stained with old blood. His enemy, so close! But that would be a poor vengeance, a wasted death. Nor would he survive such an attempt: there were too many guards a call away, and he had no wish to die in the attempt. When she was gone, he had to rein himself in not to act. No, he must not. Not now, not yet.

When the prince was gone too, and the garden empty once again, he exhaled sharply. He had not realised that he was holding his breath! He undid the hold on his daggers and quietly sighed. There was no one to see him now, so he stepped out and stretched the stiffness in his limbs. He had forgotten the intensity of his his hatred, and his own desire to kill. It was good that he had come tonight: he was beginning to forget those sharp emotions. Most of his days were dull and empty, the murders he committed no challenge, the battles he fought of little interest. A welcome reminder.

It was time to join the party he supposed. Straightening out the sleeves, he stepped into the palace, asking a passing slave for directions, arriving at the party proper. It would be an impressive feast, a fine party, and many broken hearts of women who would not get to marry the prince. Shame Ammon â?? Estelle, now, a name that did not suit her at all â?? seemed to have no interest in the concept. It put a little smile on his lips to see that he was not the only one who waged war on their conquerors.

He was in no hurry. He spent a while studying a tapestry, remembering the rich carpets his clan's women used to make, touching it as if admiring the detail. His tasks were for the early morning, when most would finally reach their beds. It would be a long night.

He picked up a glass of light wine and found a window seat, looking for all the while like he was waiting for someone, with a slightly bored expression on his face. It seemed that was what being noble consisted of here. The more bored you looked, the higher your rank was, most of the time.

If it was a less public occasion, he would have stabbed the guard, just for the insult. But sadly, this evening he had to remember to be polite. His expression did not change the slightest at the guard spoke: outwardly unaffected, of course. He was just about to speak, say that he was the guest of Lady Anayla. She had agreed to lie for him: an enemy of his enemy was a friend. And then Ammon appeared. He let her send the guard away, better to not wear out his own excuses.

When the guard left, he rose and bowed, a little ironically. Once they were equals, and now she was to be a future empress and he was a drifter, a homeless tramp, a wanted killer. How good they did not know his face, but one day, one day they would know him and fear him.

â??Lady Estelle.â? There was an unspoken question in that title. Were those the right words to use? Was it the right name?

He had not realised that she had seen him, and his eyes widened very slightly in surprise, but he caught himself yet again. His lies were smooth, but obviously lies: â??I was curious to see you, my lady. You are indeed as beautiful as is claimed.â? With a tiny smile, he was claiming to be part of her fanclub. â??I overstayed my welcome, I suppose.â?

It was a good question as to whether she could recognise him. Once Lord Sairen Karheante, but travel had worn him down. He was no longer the proud clan-lord. The roads had given him wiry muscle, taken away all the softer parts of him. He was no longer a swordsman either, but a shadow who killed from behind. It demanded a different kind of discipline. He had found how little he had known about life before the war.

â??My lady, the desert wind is not so kind when it carries the smell of blood, and when the oases on whose water I relied are poisoned with corpses,â? he replied with bitterness.

She had left too soon â?? she had not seen those battles. One used to always come across bones on desert travels, often a solitary traveller having lost his way. These days, it was possible to come across strange fields of ribcages, skulls, leg and arm bones, picked clean by scavengers, their weapons discarded forever. He had passed through many such places, stepping over shields, studying scraps of cloth, gazing into the empty eyes of a horse's skull. So much lost. So much wasted.

â??Perhaps one day, I will return.â? He would hate to die under these stars. Maybe, when his work was done, or when he was an old man, he would go to the sands to shed his flesh. The desert stars were more brilliant and more precious than any diamonds.

â??For now, I must make my life elsewhere.â? Well, that was the most blatant lie he had ever uttered. He had no life at all these days: he was simply a weapon, trying to single handedly balance the scales of death. A foolish and pointless task, but he could find no other reason for existence.