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?
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