I Am Yours

Chapter 3

Naia sucked a silent breath through her teeth and clenched her fists as the flap to Zathrian's tent swung shut. She wasn't sure what she'd expected—the Keeper had managed to avoid or half-answer every single one of her questions about Witherfang since they'd arrived. But somehow today's evasions felt especially insulting. They'd saved a Dalish hunter, found ironbark for the clan's weapons, and survived an attack by talking werewolves—what more did Zathrian bloody want from her?

Another deep breath. I can't afford to lose my temper here. We need them.

Even if they are a bunch of blasted stubborn prigs led by the biggest liar I've ever met.

Father, when I see you again, I'm going to apologize for all of those times I threatened to run away to the Dalish.

The other Dalish, at least, seemed less annoyed by her presence as she crossed the camp. One even gave her a wave—a friend of the hunter Deygan's, she suspected. Still, she did not fully relax until she reached the little circle they had set up outside the ring of the main Dalish camp.

Leliana was coaxing a pile of sticks into flame when Naia stepped between the tents. She looked up with a smile—one that quickly faded when she saw Naia's expression.

"Zathrian would not speak with you?"

"Oh, he said a lot." Naia scowled. "He insisted that werewolves don't talk, and then told me he had Keeper business to attend."

"I suppose we cannot blame them for being suspicious of outsiders." Leliana sighed. "We do not share a happy history, humans and elves. Still, I have been impressed. The Dalish are far less savage than I had thought."

Naia felt herself prickle, even though she had been silently complaining about the Dalish for most of the day. "I'll pass that along. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear it."

Leliana looked stricken. "I—oh dear. I did not mean to give offense."

"I know," Naia sighed. "It's just—we can't bloody win, elves. If you're Dalish you're a savage. Live in an alienage and you're a criminal."

"In Orlais there are many elves among the court," Leliana offered. "Skilled elves are much in demand as servants. They can rise higher than many humans and become quite wealthy." There was uncertainty on Leliana's face as she said this, as if she knew that this would not impress Naia but was not quite sure why.

Naia took a deep breath. "But they're still servants. They can't rise unless some human makes a pet out of them."

"I had not thought of it that way," Leliana admitted with a little frown.

Of course not. Leliana was a friend, but she could be such a shem sometimes.

Movement in a little clearing to the side of their camp caught Naia's eye. When she saw the flash of sunlight on metal she instinctively put her hand on her dagger—but then she realized it was only Zevran, training with his own daggers. The spring day was unseasonably warm and the assassin had removed his shirt, revealing a pattern of swirling tattoos over his right shoulder and down his chest and back.

He was clearly following a training exercise of some sort—the motions were smooth and elegant, designed to keep limbs loose and reflexes sharp. Naia watched as he moved, his muscles sliding underneath his olive skin, the tattoos drawing attention to the wiry definition of his arms and chest. Her breath caught a bit in spite of herself.

All right, he was an assassin, but she wasn't blind.

Leliana followed her gaze. "Aha! See something you like?" she teased.