It had become something of an evening ritual, as much as the irregular lifestyle permitted, beginning shortly after Zevran joined the Warden's group. Where most of the party viewed the assassin with justifiable suspicion, Sabhya had made a point of joining him on watch, either engaging in quiet conversation or simply standing in companionable silence... Perhaps a week later, Sabhya had asked diffidently whether he would object to conversing in Antivan during their watch. Surprised, Zevran shrugged and assented.

"Are we to discuss deadly secrets so that none may understand? I am impressed by your resourcefulness." Sabhya looked distressed.

"Ah, no, please don't misunderstand me. Certainly if the others are in earshot, we should speak so all can understand. I just..." He trailed off, unspoken thoughts passing across his countenance like the shadow of a bird in flight. The elf looked at him questioningly.

"I'm being foolish, I know," the little mage said softly, almost to himself. "It's just been so long since I've heard the tongue spoken. Longer still since I last spoke it myself. It would be...I was very small..." He refocused on Zevran, who stood over three inches taller than himself, and his eyes creased in self-deprecating humor. "Even smaller than now, believe it or not."

Initially Zevran's motivation was self-preservation alone: to stay in the good graces of the Warden while gleaning any knowledge about him that might be of use. Judging by the occasional juvenile speech mannerism, it was indeed likely that the mage had stopped speaking Antivan as a child. Far more intriguing, though, were the blurred sibilants and softened consonants – a distinctly upper-class pattern as opposed to the staccato street patois – an observation Zevran filed away for future consideration along with a faint, wholly unfamiliar lilt that defied identification.

After a couple of weeks, however, the assassin realized he was enjoying the conversations in their own right, and after some struggle with his professional conscience accepted the fact. It was pleasant to spend an hour or so hearing the music of his native Antivan, like the patter of rain on a stream compared to that of Ferelden's boots stomping through mud. And Sabhya was different during the conversations, somehow. Not drastically so, nothing one could point at, but different even so. No less polite than ever. Less guarded, perhaps? More relaxed? Not precisely, but something like. (Happy, something whispered in the back of Zevran's mind.)

- from Mabari and Magus, 'Conversations in Antivan'

1. Bautismo

.o0o.

Starting at the quiet tap on the door, Sabhya closed the shutters on his contemplation of the sleeting night rain, and, after a quick glance noting Blossom's unconcerned posture, crossed the room to answer.

"Zevran? Is everything all right? How can I help you?"

The assassin pushed himself from the corridor wall where he had been leaning.

"All is well – as well as this miserable weather permits. It struck me, however, that there is no reason we should not continue our conversation simply because we find ourselves mewed up in relative comfort for a change." He held up a bottle and a pair of glasses, adding in Antivan, "All the more reason we should."

Sabhya's face brightened.

"I would welcome your company, compadre," he replied in kind. "No added incentives are needed, although I certainly will not refuse. Please, come in."

He stood aside to allow Zevran to pass, then collected a second chair from the passageway to place near the fireplace. Zevran filled the glasses, using the chest at the foot of the bed as a table, and handed one to the little mage.

"Gracias."

"De nada." The elf seated himself and nodded toward a glint of silver on the chest. "Is that the item you so surreptitiously purchased from the fair Liselle some days back?" Sabhya looked faintly embarrassed, but inclined his head and handed the piece over for Zevran to inspect.

It was a tiny box, round and slightly larger in diameter than a fingertip. The enameled lid bore an image of a simple bloom, white with a hint of pink at its base. Glancing at Sabhya for permission, Zevran removed the lid and a heady fragrance rose from the balm within, spicy-sweet and uplifting.

"Jasmine?"

Sabhya nodded. "Pink night-blooming, to be precise. I was astonished to see it in her stock."

Zevran took another appreciative breath, savoring the taste of the richly scented twilights alien to Ferelden, and returned the box. "That could not have come cheaply."

"No." Sabhya rolled the silver bit between his fingers, delicately rubbing his thumb over the enameled flower. "But it was worth it to me," he added quietly. "It meant-"

He broke off, his eyes hooded and looking at memory, and Zevran waited, returning the patient silence the mage so frequently offered him.

"I never knew my Madre," Sabhya resumed at length. "She died of an illness before I was a year old. I know she was Rivaini, and if I concentrate, all that comes to me of her is the clink of bracelets and the fragrance of sandalwood. My Amah and my Padre raised me, and they were everything. His name was Paolo Luz de Bailador y Rebosa."

"'Rebosa'?" Zevran raised a brow. "That name I have heard."

"He was a very distant offshoot of the House, just close enough, as he would say, to entitle him to an impressive name for rolling off the tongue." Sabhya smiled. "You would have liked him, I think. He was an adventurer who had made his fortune, a privateer, and a rogue masquerading as a gentleman. Or perhaps it was the other way around."

"So, your name is not truly 'Amell'?"

"It is now..."

.o0o.

.o0o.

Black crowns gleaming, a flock of sparrows scattered from the courtyard fountain at the child's approach, a handful of the bolder ones returning immediately to resume their ablutions. He paused to watch, smiling at the birds' antics, then continued his progress along the rear arcade and entered the gardener's workroom.

Eduardo glanced up from where he knelt beside a potted cypress before making a careful incision in the bark.

"Eh, pequeño, your Amah has left for her half-day, then?"

"Yes." The child sniffed appreciatively at the sharp, green fragrance. "She said she won't be back until after bedtime. I think she was going somewhere important," he confided.

The man painted some substance along the cut. "Today is the anniversary of your Madre's passing," he said after a moment's silence. "I expect her plans have something to do with that."

Uncertain how to respond, the boy considered the information with a slight frown. His face cleared hopefully. "She said Padre should be returning today or tomorrow."

"Ah, now that is good news indeed."

Eduardo sat back on his heels, regarding the precocious child and rubbing absently at the ropey scars that wound around his neck to disappear under his collar. The ridges of flesh always made the boy think of tree roots, somehow, and he pictured them wrapping the length of the big man's body and out his toes to writhe into the ground.

"Well, then, pequeño. I do believe I have need of assistance. Would you be willing to help me?"

"Yes, please!"

"It is an important task. But wait, you are, what? Twenty-nine? Eighteen? Thirty-three?"

He giggled at the familiar joke. "Five!" Hesitating, he pictured Amah's stern look and added, "Almost."

"Almost-five is precisely what we need," Eduardo replied gravely, and the child beamed.

The next couple of hours were spent happily perched on a box at the seed-table, dibbling channels in trays of rich soil and meticulously patting seeds into their new beds, pretending he could hear tiny cries of satisfaction as he sprinkled water to settle them in. When he finished, he cleaned up under Eduardo's watchful eye, put the box away under the table, and wandered out onto the terrace at the far end of the room.

Here jasmine had climbed and mounded over the corner coping to form his favorite hidey-hole, and he dropped to hands and knees to creep within. A tweak to the fronds erased the signs of his passage and he was in a fragrant green cavern. For a time he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, listening to the rustles and clinks of Eduardo working nearby and to the more distant sounds of the estancia's daily life.

The loops and turns of the jasmine tendrils looked like handwriting and the beautiful illuminated manuscripts Padre let him look at. Carefully, he traced the letters of his name in the dust and admired the result, thinking contentedly of the worlds of mystery in the library he was going to unlock at last.

A whinny drifting from the paddock inspired him to feel behind a loose brick for the old chess piece he had hidden, the little horse head with its flaring nostrils and flattened ears. He looped a bit of greenery through the open jaw for a rein and galloped it along the vines, pretending it was the pretty dun pony Padre had promised he could have for his very own for his fifth birthday. He would name it – yes, he would name it Tordito, for the faint dappling in its coat, like the colors of a thrush's breast.

Was someone shouting? He paused, listening, then shrugged. Maybe the potboy let the bread burn again and Esperanza was scolding.

He was going to ride Tordito to the ends of the world with Padre on a mighty stallion of his own, and they would bring back treasure, and books, and flowers, and all the most beautiful presents for Amah, who would hug him and say, "Well done, child" in that special tone that made everything right.

More people had begun shouting, with accompanying crashes and other noises. Was it a fiesta? He frowned, perplexed. If so, why had he not heard anything about it? And anyway, it didn't seem like they were happy, but sometimes adults could be-

"Pequeño! Are you still there?" At Eduardo's urgent whisper he started, the chess piece dropping disregarded into the greenery.

"Yes, Edua-"

"Quiet! Do not speak. Listen and obey me. You must stay where you are, quiet as a mouse and stay hidden! No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, do not move! Not a move, not a sound, not a breath! As still as a stone, do you understand? No matter what: as still as stone!"

The unfamiliar tone of harsh command sent a trickle of dread through the child's stomach, but it was the undeniable note of fear in the big man's voice that caused him to freeze like an infant wild creature. There was a scuff of sandals and he was alone.

Then the nightmare began.

He heard the door to the workroom crash open, and Eduardo shouting defiance. Sounds of violent struggle – earthenware pots shattering – clatter of tools – a meaty, crunching sound followed by a hoarse cry and a splashing sound –

As still as stone . . .

Strange voices, speaking in an unknown yet oddly familiar tongue over the sound of Eduardo's moaning, then –

Eduardo began to scream, and there were sounds of ripping and cracking and popping and he kept screaming –

He wanted to cover his ears, but, unable to move for fear of discovery, had no choice but to hear everything -

As still as stone . . .

- and the screaming was repeated over and over everywhere in the villa – people – horses –

It lasted a thousand lifetimes before the last sounds ended and there was no further movement. The stillness was infinitely more terrifying.

Huddled in on himself, desperately trying to not be there he stopped breathing altogether until black specks swam into his vision and he was forced to take the tiniest, shallowest breaths possible to remain utterly quiet. He did his best not to blink, certain that the click of skin would sound like a thunderclap and They would hear and find him.

As still as stone . . .

The shadows lengthened into full darkness. After a few tentative starts, the crickets began their usual chorus, each note striking like a crystal lash across his straining nerves.

Time.

As still as stone . . .

. . . still as . . .

. . . stone . . .

Whispers.

Hushed voices – raw with emotion – familiar.

"Ah, no . . . Eduardo . . ."

Amah?

" . . . has to be here . . ."

Padre?

He tried to move, to call out, but found that he was unable. He had been stone too long, and his body's only response to his internal struggle was a quickened heartbeat at the thought they would go away, never knowing he was there.

Is this being dead?

Cautious steps onto the terrace – his name whispered urgently.

Make a sound . . . anything . . .

He could not. He could not. He could not.

The jasmine was brushed aside, and in a shower of fragile blooms he was pulled into Padre's strong arms. Amah rushed to join them as Padre fell to his knees, pressing kisses into his child's hair.

"Ah . . . mi tesorito . . . gracias . . .gracias . . ." he whispered raggedly.

The stone shattered, and the child began to sob. Tearless, with the wracking gasps of an ancient of days struggling for his final breath. Amah reached to take him, but, for once disregarded as father and son clung to each other, stroked the little one's back instead.

"Shh, mijito, I have you." Padre's voice was a soothing rumble. "Cálmate, shh, cálmate."

He quieted eventually, lying exhausted with his arms around Padre's neck and head on his shoulder, letting their murmured conversation wash over him.

"Paolo, what shall we do?"

"Staying in this area is out of the question. Even in Antiva . . ."

"We could go to Rivain. Dayo's people-"

"Look around you, vieja!" Padre spoke in bitter tones. The child blinked slowly. "Do you pretend this was the work of the Crows? On this of all days? You of all people know better."

"Yes." Amah sighed.

Over Padre's shoulder, he could see through the archway into the workroom, light from the gibbous moon making odd shadows.

"It was common knowledge I was away, nor was my return any secret. This was a threat. No, it is a promise. He is not finished."

Eduardo was lying across the seed table, which was now full to overflowing with some dark sludge. Why was his head at that awkward angle? And what was that streaky ridged thing on his throat?

"Then where?"

"Ferelden."

"Ferelden? But there's nothing for us there-"

"Exactly."

Amah fell silent.

His perspective shifted abruptly and images from the butchers' stalls on market day superimposed over the scene. With a shiver, he turned his face into Padre's neck and felt the arms around him tighten reassuringly.

"Come, this isn't the place for talk." Padre stood up, still holding him. "We'll get to a safe house and make our plans."

They did their best to keep him from seeing the place of horror his home had become, but he could not help catching glimpses in spite of himself. The pools and splatters of blood. The split body pinned to the fountain with the ribs pulled askew like skeletal wings. The scatter of severed horses' heads around the paddock, one jammed over the head of an impaled man.

Well outside the estancia, settled in front of Padre on his skittish mount, he wondered vaguely if Tordito was still the same color without his head.

.o0o.

A fortnight later found the three on the docks of the little port town of Sciolto. Gulls wheeled and mewed in the impossibly blue sky, and the breeze felt as fresh and clean as if the world had been made only that morning. The child clung tightly to Amah's hand and studied the ship while she and Padre spoke quietly.

"Are you sure we are safe out here?"

"Yes." At the note of grim certainty in his voice, Amah gave him a sharp glance, but chose not to pursue the question. "I've called in some favors with an old crew member – she'll meet you in Highever and help get you inland where you can settle near her home village. I'll lay a false trail and come find you as soon as I can." The child looked up, his eyes widening, as Padre held out an envelope. "Here. Your letters of transport."

Amah turned her hand. "I need my fingers for a moment, child." He let go obediently, then edged closer as she opened the papers, his hand drifting up to grip a fold of her skirt.

"'Amell'?"

Padre shrugged. "Common enough not to raise eyebrows, different enough not to be obvious. And I went ahead and used Dayo's pet-name for him – we all call him that so often it's a wonder if he remembers his given name." Amah snorted at that.

"He remembers everything."

"Then he can remember what he needs to forget." Padre spoke mildly enough, and Amah refolded the documents with a shake of her head.

He was trying his best to be brave, but-

"Papi? Are you going away?"

At the lost note in his voice, Padre instantly went to one knee and hugged him fiercely, which he returned one-handed, carefully maintaining his grip on Amah.

"Only for a short time, mijo. I am the papa-quail, do you see? I run and lead the dogs away so my fat little quail-family can scurry into safety, and when all is clear I return and we make fat little quail jokes about the foolish dogs." He stared solemnly at the boy and held a fist against his head, wiggling a finger like a topknot. When a faint smile flickered across the child's face, Padre kissed his forehead. "There's my son. Think of the grand adventure ahead – see those beautiful white sails? You must learn all about the ship and watch for the dolphins and tell me everything. Now-" He stood.

"You and your Amah must turn around and march on board the ship and do not look back. Never fear, I will join you in a few months, safe and sound."

Amah met his eyes. "See that you do, Paolo."

"As you command, bruja vieja."

"I'll bruja you." The older woman replied automatically, and she turned the child toward the ship.

"Come along, Sabhya. It's time for us to go."

.o0o.

.o0o.

"And did he return?"

Sabhya smiled wistfully. "Yes. Several times over the next few years. Until . . . well, until he did not." He was silent for a moment, and then came to himself with a shake of his head.

"Listen to me. I am sorry for running on so."

"Ah, you know you need not be, my dear Warden."

"Thank you, compadre." The mage reached out and touched the little silver box. "It is a strange thing. One would think that this fragrance would trigger the most visceral memories of the terror and damage the child I was suffered from that night. And yet, quite the opposite.

"Because, do you see, the ones who loved me had sought me out, found me against all odds, and pulled me from the abyssal nightmare in which I was trapped. And there, kneeling in the jasmine, breathing its fragrance, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was safe and loved. Whatever came before, whatever came after, whatever is yet to come: for that one unending instant, nothing could hurt me.

"And that is a memory I will always treasure."