I won't lie; I couldn't write this for the longest time. And now I'm back. The next chapter or so will flesh out the other characters a bit before we go back to Zevran and Lucia again. Hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Every sweet has its sour; every evil its good – Ralph Waldo Emerson

The sun beat down mercilessly on the capital of Antiva, glittering against white sands and reflecting over the shimmering sea. The roof of the Alfieri estate sparkled like it was made of precious stones that high afternoon. Within its massive sand and stone walls recuperated a man who had been nearly stabbed to death.

Renaldo managed another breath though each one seemed as if a sharp knife was twisting and gutting the deepest and most sensitive parts of his lungs – and often the pain was so severe he felt himself whimpering.

Why am I not dead? Zevran – nearly murdered by my own son!

It had seemed preposterous and no one had believed him when he had spoken of it. He had not believed it himself when he had awoken shortly after the stabbing to find that Zevran had fled Antiva City and no one could find him.

He is not at my side – I had given him too much faith; I had invested in him too much of my trust.

Renaldo looked up towards his ceilings, surprised at the amount of betrayal that he felt – something which the man had never considered was possible.

His bedchambers were massive. Two rooms encompassed them, each with high, vaulted ceilings and rich dark tapestries and furniture. Though not a small man, he seemed thus, lying in the massive gold and red shrouded bed. When the doors on the far side of the room opened slowly, he knew it was Antonio. No one else had been summoned to him for hours – not since Renaldo had finally accepted what had happened to him and that it had been done by Zevran's hand.

"Master," stated young Felsi, and he lowered himself to the richly carpeted floor in a almost graceful bow, though the boy was rather heavy and all movement was unsurprisingly clumsy.

What was surprising was the certain and deadly way that Felsi wielded a dagger – and it was this which had earned him a place within the Crows. He was like death wearing a cloak – and by the time anyone realized it was too late.

"Come closer," urged Renaldo and the boy moved into the room, his black eyes piercing behind a veil of thick curls. He was breathless, slightly sweaty, no doubt from the exertion of rushing so quickly.

"I came as quickly as I could, my Lord," stated Felsi, always eager to please. "What is it you need?"

The boy wore a look of eagerness, which was something that Zevran had shared- that was until Renaldo had demanded that he finish the job he had started. Just the thought that Zevran loved a Cousland was enough to sour the Master's mood completely.

"Sit," he motioned, and Felsi did so with utmost obedience, lowering himself into a plush burgundy chair with a straight back.

Renaldo regarded the boy for a moment before deeming to speak.

"Have you news of Zevran?" he began slowly, sitting up in bed though it was quite a task.

Once he was situated (doing so and showing as little pain as possible) his caramel eyes turned once more towards Antonio. Felsi's eyes widened and a spark of something – either anger or disgust – lit them from the inside.

"Yes, I have," he stated, leaning closer without meaning to.

"Before he did this to me I sent him on a mission," said the Master and then a sardonic smile touched his full lips.

Antonio was quiet, his mouth hanging open just slightly.

"You must find him for me, Antonio, for I am unable to do so myself."

The oafish boy stared at Renaldo through his thick curls, fat fingers splayed along his overly wide thighs.

"Find him?" he echoed stupidly. The boy's voice was laced with bitter disappointment.

"Yes, and ensure the job has been done," Renaldo said firmly. "Make sure that his mark is dead before he returns to me. I want him back here and want the job done. Unfortunately I am not sure he is in the right…mind frame. He might require assistance."

"But I though he was the one who-

"We must not make assumptions, Antonio," interrupted Renaldo in a tone that was kinder than he usually used with his men.

There was a look of deep concentration on the boy's face now – as if he was on the edge of a cavernous precipice and fighting with himself whether to jump or not. The air crackled with anticipation as Felsi's lips moved with slowness. He finally lifted up his red face and spoke.

"Once a Crow, always a Crow. You have always said that. So why is it that when Zevran returned from his last mission which he had failed that you let him live?" he questioned. As with all his boys, the voice was hesitant, and a slight tremble of fear was barely evident. "Why is it that he is the accused of your injuries and yet, you would not have me kill him?"

Whiny, this one was. Whiny and jealous and scared, for it registered in his overly round eyes, in the beads of perspiration on his upper lip and round nose and in his stiff composure.

"I would kill him for you," he suddenly whispered, moving far too quickly and fluidly than a fat boy ought to have been able to and knelt at Renaldo's bedside, his voice now desperate. "I could rid you of him," he continued, as if begging to be allowed such a pleasure.

It startled the older assassin – put him on a sharp edge.

"If I wanted to rid myself of him, I would have done it a long time ago," Renaldo replied refusing to allow the young boy to know of his sudden unease.

Antonio's face turned down in a pout.

"I only want to understand!" he stated then, eyes flashing for a moment. "Why it is that you favor him!"

"I favor no one," spit Renaldo, for Antonio had hit a painful nerve.

His eyes turned from the boy towards the vast window on the west side of the suite which overlooked the bluff on the other side of the estate. The view here afforded nothing but miles of blue skies and the navy of the Amaranthine glimmering in the far distance. The mood in the room bellied the beautiful and calm view. For a long while, neither spoke.

It was Renaldo who finally broke the tense silence.

"I will tolerate no arguments, Antonio," he said creamily turning his black eyes on the boy once more.

The boy's face was no longer red, but an over exerted pink, his large eyes wide and glaring. Renaldo continued.

"I have given you a roof over your head, the clothes on your back and much food and drink from what I can see," he finished, his tone hardening with each word. "In return I ask for your obedience. You do not get to ask questions. Your job is to kill – no more, no less," he finished.

Antonio's jaw twitched vehemently, as if he was working hard to keep something back. Indeed, another fine sheen of sweat appeared on the tip of his rounded nose as his eyes flashed viciously.

"Are we clear?" asked Renaldo, his voice sweetened once more.

The boy opened his mouth.

"Yes, my Lord," he replied, his voice cracking from withheld emotion.

Renaldo was looking towards the idyllic view beyond his windows once more when he spoke.

"You will go and check in on Zevran then?" he questioned once more. "Follow him for awhile, get your bearings and then ensure that the job is done? Finish it for him if need be. But touch not a hair on his head, do you hear me? Send him here when it is finished."

Antonio bowed ungracefully.

"Indeed."

"Very well, I will provide what you need for your journey, boy. Take leave of me," he ordered not unkindly and he did not move his eyes until he heard the heavy trod of the boy's footsteps nearest to his door.

"Wait," he said then, looking up.

Antonio turned, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Send a message from me," stated a disgusted Renaldo. "Tell him that Bryce Cousland will go the way of his wife if he does not return to me."

There may have been a flash on the round, sweaty face, something that made Renaldo wonder if he hadn't given him a look of icy sternness, perhaps they boy would have lashed back, but as it was, he did not. He only nodded.

"As you wish, my lord," were his parting words, and then the slovenly assassin was gone.

Renaldo turned towards the windows once more, feeling uncomfortable and still a touch agitated. The past – and the part that Bryce Cousland had played in it – always left him on edge. This time was no different, and the thought of Bryce turned into thoughts of his bitch daughter, which turned into thoughts of his own dead wife, and then…Zevran.

And so it begins. They will not stay silent for long – Zevran has done much wrong and it is only a matter of time before the others begin to question me. Why can he not be like the others? Why did he have to be my son, and why did I promise that tartish whore that I would care for him?

The thought was a disconcerting one – a thought Renaldo did not want to have. He hardly ever thought on the past and when he did it was not for long. The past was just what it was called. And he refused to think on the decisions he had made. The image of his long dead wife swam then in the forefront of his thoughts –for no matter how Renaldo had banished her from his mind, the truth was she was never far. Always haunting him and whispering on how things could have been different.

As he sat up straighter in the massive bed, a serving girl wearing a splendid gown of muslin and gold thread entered the room with a pitcher of ice water which he refused rather gruffly, sending her silently back out of the room.

He sighed.

Bettina.

He had always felt that his dead wife still watched over him at times, especially times when he was alone. Though Renaldo was not a spiritual man and he had little time for matters of the Chantry or the Maker, he could not deny the singular feeling of being watched – feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, turning around in an empty room believing that he was not alone when he really was. Over the years he had no doubt Bettina had been with him. Watching him and perhaps even judging his decisions, even though his secret belief of this had never stopped Renaldo from doing just as he well pleased.

This was one of those moments.

He glanced around the room with its majestic maroon tapestries and the long windows with matching drapes. The carpet was thick and luxurious and it was a muted burgundy to match the chairs and his bed. The ceilings spoke of height and grandeur that could only be accomplished through a master builder. Renaldo had commissioned the estate years after Bettina's death – more to distract himself from his past than from actual necessity. He had always been a man of fancy tastes but of little motivation – hence he always lived beneath those things he desired. The sprawling estate had perhaps been the only culmination of all of Renaldo's desires, the conclusion of the symphony of his wants. He had worked on it almost like a man possessed and when it had been finished, Renaldo had retired within it, hardly ever leaving unless it was of dire circumstances. At first his reclusive habits had been frowned upon but after those around him had grown accustomed to his ways, they had allowed him whatever privacy he wanted.

After all, he did his job and he did it well.

Glancing towards the windows once more, he took a breath. Yes, a man of great dreams, and yet…his greatest achievement was his prowess at murder. Until the estate, he had lived in a simple hovel. He had eaten simply, dressed plainly, avoided crowds and shunned popularity and his wife…had been a simple woman.

Downstairs, he heard the commotion of his staff moving about, speaking in light happy voices that their master was in, but that he wished no visitors or conversation and their thank you's as they showed the guests out. People had come and gone in this way from the eve of the stabbing – and although most would have appreciated the thought – Renaldo knew that they came out of fear, not admiration. The only person who had ever loved and cared for Renaldo Alfieri had been Bettina. He was not a stupid man and he knew that to deny that fact would be to look away from the truth. In spite of what she had done – and the birth of a girl child who had not been Renaldo's – she had loved him so fiercely that often times he had lain awake at night feeling the cold grip of guilt on his heart. For what woman looked her husband in the face and knew him for an unremorseful killer?

Bettina had known Renaldo inside and out – from the man he had been when they had met, to all his dealings until her death – and she had never turned on him, never uttered a word of betrayal, and had been endlessly supportive. She had been the one to nurse his wounds and to hold his hand when things had gone wrong. She had been the one who had fed him and kissed him goodbye in the morning, sending him out into the world to make it a more horrid place. His love for her had been unquestionable – a certainty in the mind of a man who took nothing for certain.

She had been a wench at the Weeping Griffon, one of the rowdiest establishments within Antiva City. She had been young and Renaldo had admired her form, the way she moved, the lilting laugh she offered her patrons and the fact that she had a smile for everyone. She had been stunning too – eyes as green as grass and hair the shade of ripe blood oranges always pinned to the nape of her delicate neck. From the moment their eyes had met across the space of the room she had stolen his heart.

He had never stopped loving her – not even on the last night he had seen her, when her death had been assured him. Though he had not wielded the poison which had killed her, Renaldo had caused Bettina's death as sure as if he had done it himself.

Shuddering, the man looked down at his worn, tanned hands his coffee cream eyes closing for a few moments as he tried to banish the horrible memories that affronted him. It had been months since his last bout of guilt over his wife's death.

I will not think on it.

But such demands on the flood of memory were futile. Strange it was after all those years of marriage that Renaldo had never believed or even suspected that Bettina might love another – or even gaze at another – for her devotion to him had been unwavering. And Renaldo had accepted her words as truth when she had come admitting to him that she was with child and the baby would not be his – and begging for forgiveness for her transgressions against him. His anger at her and murderous intent towards the child's father had melted at the glittering tears in her wide jade colored eyes. The same eyes that had won him a thousand times over.

He had rushed from their small house near the canal of Antiva City and had gotten besotted on dark ale and bewitched by a beautiful woman who had hair as bright as the sun. Or so he remembered.

The assassin sat up in the large bed again, fingers clutching his blankets so tightly the knuckles were white. His face turned down in a grimace and his jaw trembled as he looked towards the windows, trying to compose himself.

One night – a night he hardly remembered – and he had done to Bettina what she had done to him.

Good eve, my Lord. You look rather lonely.

The words rattled him – everything about them, the soft lilting voice with its crude dialect for she had not been Antivan born, to the sultry tones which quickly had seduced him. Ah, for she had been a seducer of men and even he had been taken by her.

Shaking his head, Renaldo swallowed his guilt and despair, looking out towards the idyllic view once more even as it did him no good.

Though he had never known if Bettina had loved Bryce Cousland, or even how the affair had transpired, the assassin had asked no questions, simply putting aside his wife's sin to deal with later and focusing instead on how to eliminate the result of the sin – the girl babe born several months later. He remembered the pink, squirming bundle, with eyes the same color as her mother but pale, almost translucent skin like her father.

Renaldo had wanted nothing to do with the child and even Bettina's soft begging had not swayed him – not that time. And when Bryce Cousland had come to Antiva City a month later, bringing with him the startling brunette Fereldian beauty who had been his wife, he had given the child up under the stipulation that the Cousland's never return to Antiva. He had sternly ignored the pleading of his wife and had threatened Cousland that if he ever laid a hand on his wife again, he would have his head.

Though Renaldo had never believed Bryce to be a man of scruples (for what smart man would sleep with the wife of another?) this time he had heeded the assassin's demand, taken the girl child and then gone from Antiva City. This, however, had not appeased Renaldo and he had spent months after pacing his bedchambers, refusing much food and water and plotting against his wife. He had not intended to have her murdered – that was until the night he had also taken the life of Eleanor Cousland.

Once it had taken hold in his mind, there was no letting it go.

Hours after murdering Bryce's wife, he remembered kissing Bettina goodbye, whispering to her that everything would be just fine now as he ran his fingers through her beautiful hair one last time and breathed her in, relishing the scent of the rose scented bathing oil she always used.

He had watched her hurry away to work and it had been the last time he would ever see her and her death was the only that had ever awakened his guilt.

And now? Here I am. Alone in a massive estate which I built to forget about her and yet she will forever haunt me!

The massive doors opened once more and the same muslin clad young girl came in offering supper with a tentative smile on her tanned face.

Renaldo had not realized how much time had lapsed since Antonio's departure and he nodded his acceptance. Supper arrived moments later on a silver tray. The young girl curtsied politely and turned to leave.

"I would go into the city," stated Renaldo and the girl turned a look of surprise on her face.

"Today, my lord?" she questioned.

"Tonight, yes. Have them make preparations. I will dine and then go."

"Yes, right away, my Lord," she replied and hurried away to make preparations.

Renaldo began to eat slowly, tasting nothing of the singular delights of Antiva City, his mind already on the task to come, the visit to the city.