Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rook doesn’t need to be an Antivan Crow spymaster to put together that Taash has something on their mind.

(Though, to be clear: she is, so she does.)

They had suddenly whipped their head around, cocked to a thoughtful angle — some question burning bright and obvious on their brow.

Of course, then the Qunari had proceeded to stare down the Antivan while thoroughly chewing an ill-timed chunk of cheese, popped into their mouth the precise moment preceding the arrival of whatever thought that now occupied them.

And so they chew. And stare.

(And Rook waits, certain that this will be another groan-worthy bit of Crow misinformation.)

Even so, Rook is in a very good mood.

The team is winding down another family dinner at the Lighthouse. The Fade-fire crackles warmly on her left — she sits at the head of the table, the team insisted — and Lucanis has just set a fresh mug of strong coffee down upon the tabletop in front of her.

With her stomach full of Bellara’s good cooking and a warm mug to hand, it’s easy to be charitable.

Charitable enough, even, to find it charming (and not annoying) that as soon as Taash has finished chewing, their opening line is still a flat, “hey Rook.”

(As if the assassin hadn’t been meeting their intense eye contact for the last twenty seconds, uninterrupted.)

“Yes, Taash,” the leader confirms, smiling as she lifts her mug. (Her eyes slide closed momentary, involuntarily, as the rich aroma alights beneath her nose.)

“So I was talking to Lucanis before,” they begin, “about the Crows — “

(Rook is pleased to find her earlier guess correct and she rewards her own cleverness with a sip of coffee. It can’t be a large sip, of course: Taash’s halting manner of speaking is too abridged for anything more. But the piping hot liquid is only fit for the barest of samplings, anyway.)

“ — You’re a Crow, too. Right, Rook?,” they finish.

A few seats down the table, Bellara (unsuccessfully) stifles a giggle.

Rook literally has iridescent feathers sewn into the shoulders of her black-and-purple rogue leathers.

Her accent is perhaps less pronounced than Lucanis’, but honestly…

Surely such a silly question can wait. So Rook savors a few more sips.

It’s been a long time since she has so regularly had the pleasure of enjoying coffee brewed by Lucanis. She isn’t aware of his secret but no one seems to make a cup as darkly roasted and yet pleasingly sweet as Lucanis can.

She likes hers with the barest hint of cream and though Lucanis often complains about the inferiority of her preference, she notices that he never fails to match his proffered brew to her preferred pallor.

(She’s never said as much to Lucanis, of course, but Rook’s point of reference for the right cream-to-coffee ratio is the incomparable Andarateia Cantori herself. A smitten pre-teen Rook had decided that she liked coffee best when it evoked the elder assassin’s tawny, bronze-skinned allure, and she had maintained this preference ever since — in her taste in coffee, at least.)

(At some point, one must admit romantic defeat to their elder, dashingly-mustachioed half-brother.)

She also notices that he offers her the coffee brewed from the finer beans of his personal stash, rather than the lower-graded communal supply. It’s nice, this thought, though she avoids examining why.

So it’s only once she’s happily savored a few more sips of coffee in this reflective manner that Rook finally answers Taash’s ridiculous question:

“Yes, Taash,” she says, hardly deigning to pull the ceramic rim of the mug from her lips to answer, “I am a Crow of House de Riva.”

If Taash is annoyed by the lengthy pause before her reply, there is no sign of it. “Knew it,” they confirm, with a lopsided grin.

This time, Bellara’s giggle isn’t stifled and Davrin nudges her with a brotherly elbow and a low chuckle of his own.

“So I was wondering,” the qunari continues, unabashed and unaware that they have caused any levity. “Since you’re a Crow and all — did you ever win any of those…um — ‘assassination games?’”

Assassination games?

Rook is bewildered. Her gaze shoots to Lucanis, mouthing the phrase again to him. She has no idea what Taash could be talking about.

For a moment, the other Crow looks as baffled as she. But as horrified realization dawns on his face (his expression falls, twists — her stomach goes with it), Rook finds herself dreading his explanation.

It must have been some protective mechanism in her brain which kept her from realizing, because when Lucanis translates, scowling, it’s obvious:

“The annual Crow Trials.”

All trace of her good mood disappears. Il dio mio — Anything but the fucking Trials…

“Yeah!” Taash replies, oblivious to the rapid fall of Rook’s face. “Those!”

“I told you, Taash,” Lucanis says testily, glowering at her over his own coffee, “it’s better not to talk about the Trials.”

“I’ve never even heard of ‘Crow Trials’,” Neve volunteers. There are a few murmurs of agreement around the dinner table. The detective shoots an apologetic glance at Rook — she at least has noticed how the female Crow’s mood has shifted.

“The Trials aren’t secret,” Lucanis replies. “They used to be publicly spectated, even,” he shrugs (languid, smooth); the coffee hardly tremors as he holds it. “Across Antiva, there were factions of fans supporting each of the competing Houses. As you might imagine, it… wasn’t a good idea,” he grimaces. “They stopped doing that a century ago.

“But they aren’t fun to talk about,” he continues. “They’re part of our training, so we participate as children. The Trials are an opportunity for all of the fledglings, and by extension the Houses training them, to compete against one another.”

“It sounds awesome,” Taash’s eyes are wide, admiring, but their expression stands alone. The rest of the team knows enough of the Antivan Crows to know: the story they are about to hear will be neither cute nor childlike.

“They are not awesome,” Rook spits, vehement. “They’re cruel.”

“It’s mostly back-stabbing, Taash,” Lucanis explains, after the heartbeat of hesitation that skitters across the table. “Children — back-stabbing one another.”

“Yeah, but —“ they are determined. “Did the two of you ever compete in the same Trial?”

When Rook answers them, her tone is measured and soft. She addresses her coffee, her hands, the ceiling: “Yes, we did.” In her tone is the finality of resigned acceptance. The story is forthcoming. She continues, “You see — a Crow fledgling is conscripted into the annual Trial from the ages nine to sixteen.”

“You pledge to your House at 17,” Lucanis adds.

“— if you survive,” concludes Rook. “The Trials are deadly and fledglings are often killed — perhaps the better word is culled, actually — the survival rate is... Well. It’s grim.” She continues after the table is silent for the space of a few breaths, “Lucanis and I are near enough in age that we competed against one another six times.”

An expressive “My word” from Emmrich about sums it up: that their companions had survived eight events best described as “cullings” in their training (and had survived six together).

“And?,” prompts Taash. Their eyes are wide, expectant, like their line of thinking is blatantly obvious. “Did you ever win, though?”

When Rook doesn’t immediately answer, their eyes slide instead to Lucanis, who takes that as license enough to say, “Rook won twice. But —“

She interrupts him, as he expected she would.

“Once,” she corrects. “The first time doesn’t count.”

Something shivers down his spine at that, how even these many years since their last retelling, Lucanis remembers well how to tell this story alongside her. It’s that pesky nostalgia again, settling low in his gut where it throbs, where it aches (for her).

“As you say,” he allows. “But if you had allowed me to continue, I was going to say: ‘But Rook will tell you the first time doesn’t count.’”

When neither continues, it’s Neve (of course), that prompts: “And? Why wouldn’t it?”

Lucanis starts (the first line in their script is his, always, so that Rook can refute it): “Rook believes,” he emphasizes, “that her first win doesn’t count because Rook believes that I let her win.” He sets down his mug, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Maneuvering into a better defensive position, perhaps.

Rook leans forward over the table, an accusatory finger wagging at him. “You did!” She cries. “I was only trying to help you win, you idiot, and then you just shoved me into the winner’s circle instead.” Her index finger bounces with the cadence of her speech. (Antivans.)

“No,” Lucanis’ argument is steady, plaintive. Like he’s been making it for a long time. “You deserved to win, Rook. You earned it. I simply made it happen. And if you recall, Caterina agreed with me.”

Neve’s voice holds the awe of the room when she says, “Now that’s the story I’m itching to hear and I’m going to need all of the juicy details, please.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Rook,” goads Davrin, preemptively lifting his tankard in toast to her taking the floor. “Let’s have it. I say we hear it all out and then take a vote. Caterina’s doesn’t count,” he warns. “Team only. And we’ll decide, once and for all, if it counts.”

Chapter Text

“So,” Rook continues, “as I earlier said: eight years and eight Trials, like the Eight Talons of the Crows.

“Our histories are poorly documented and even more poorly maintained, yet it’s not so of the annual Trials — the names of the winners have been written down and remembered for centuries now. I do not exaggerate to say that it is our best preserved historical document.

“And across all of this time, in all of these Trials, very few names repeat — to indicate more than one victory. The names which do recur are famous: there are a dozen or so whose names and stories every Crow child knows well, those that won four Trials.

“There are dozens more, lesser known names — a few dozen that won three Trials, some famous examples of double-winners… and the rest are lost amongst the crowd.”

“Only four?” Taash’s disappointment is evident. “Out of eight?”

“Remember that the fledglings all compete in the same Trial, from ages nine to sixteen. It’s most common for the winner of the Trial to be a senior fledgling — winners are very rarely younger than fourteen.”

“That seems likely,” agrees Neve. “The older fledglings would be stronger, smarter — have better skills.”

“Exactly,” nods Rook. “The first time that I won — which doesn’t count, as I’ve said — I was ten. When someone so young wins the Trial, it’s usually because all of the other competitors died.”

“But no one died that year,” Lucanis says, “and that’s because of Rook.”

“Wow,” chimes Taash, “You won when you were just ten? That’s awesome —“

“Wait —“ Rook interjects, but the table is now abuzz with this newfound gem of knowledge on their leader’s secretive (and surprisingly prodigious) backstory.

“Rook, you must have been incredible.”

“Don’t,” she warns.

“Amazing! Bet you outsmarted ‘em —“

“She was incredible,” Lucanis chuckles. She glowers at him as they wait for the praise for her around the table to subside.

“By the Maker, stop,” she says weakly, as soon as she can get a word in, “because that was the year that everyone had expected Lucanis to win his fourth consecutive victory.”

The table is silent as they all turn to the male Crow.

“It would be an understatement to say that Rook upset the betting tables that year.”

“You upset the betting tables!” Rook argues. “Because you’re the only reason that I won, and I’ve never understood upon what whim you did it.”

“Wait,” says Davrin. “Hold on. You’re telling me that Lucanis had already won three Trials before you were even ten years old, Rook?”

She says, “Lucanis is about two years my elder. Not only did he win three trials in a row, he won his first three Trials.”

“Rook,” Lucanis chides, his dark eyes flashing with mischief. “You make it sound as if I didn’t win three more victories after yours.”

(For those doing the math at home: yes — that’s six Trial victories. Lucanis is the winningest Crow in Antivan history. His name will be remembered.)

Davrin groans. “Stop. Rook, make him stop.”

She laughs a little, despite herself, into her coffee. “Sorry. What he says is true.”

“You may find it more palatable to learn, then, that Rook denied me a fourth consecutive victory again, during my last Trial.”

“Yeah, okay,” the warrior allows, grudging. “I guess that does make it a bit better.”

“And that one counts,” smirks Rook.

“Fascinating backstory and all,” drones Neve with an eye-roll, “but let’s get back to why Rook’s first victory, specifically, doesn’t count. I’m afraid the rest is likely destined for another night.”

“My apologies, Neve, but we aren’t through all of the backstory yet,” says Lucanis. “There’s… something you should all know, before we discuss this particular Trial. A bit of stage setting.” He sighs. He picks up his mug of coffee. He takes a steady sip. “When I was a boy of twelve, my entire family was assassinated in a coup that failed. I was one of three survivors, from my family of fourteen — Caterina and Illario are the two others.”

At the first note of sympathetic noises, Lucanis braces a palm mid-air to interrupt them. “Please,” he bites into his coffee, “this was a long time ago. I do not need your condolences now —

“The important thing to know is that my family was killed by poisoning.”

And in the silence that follows, Rook adds, “And four months later, at that year’s annual Trial, the Trialmasters decided to test our knowledge of poisons.”

“Whoa,” Taash expresses the stunned silence of the room. “That’s really messed up.”

Rook laughs, darkly. “You’ve heard nothing yet.”

Chapter Text

She continues, “The Trial is different every year so that you never know what you’re walking into. The year in question, the Trialmasters had set up dueling heats to determine the order in which we’d be allowed to attempt the Trial. We were given training sabers and made to batter one another for the honor of being first.

“Lucanis won that honor, of course.”

“Of course,” he agrees, and arches an eyebrow at Davrin’s disbelieving snort. “What? I am very good with a blade.”

“You were twelve. How good could you have been?”

“Good enough to survive til now, at least,” Lucanis replies. “I won the right of first attempt with my blade, yes, but the Trial itself was a puzzle of poisons. The task was simple: drink the right potion and walk unharmed through a passage of fire. Choose correctly: live and win. Choose wrong: die painfully, and the next takes their turn.”

“How frightful,” gasps the professor.

“And did we mention that this is all happening on a big stage in front of the entire order of Crows?” Rook adds. “And House Cantori has a betting table — one they’ve been operating for centuries — where pledged Crows can gamble on the Trial?”

Neve grimaces. “It isn’t too hard to imagine. The Crows are infamous for their brutality, but… that’s perhaps a touch more than I’d have guessed.”

“I was panicking,” the mage-killer admits. “There were dozens of bottles in front of me, all poisons. I couldn’t see straight — it felt like I had cotton in my ears, in my mouth. In my head.” He leans back in his chair again and continues,

“All I could think was that I was about to die. Like my parents, but in front of everyone.”

“Our people are cruel.”

“I had the wrong vial in my hand,” he holds out his coffee mug, pantomiming the scene.

“Wait,” Rook interrupts. “You don’t remember why you picked up that particular one?”

He frowns. “I don’t. I can only remember my panic.”

“It was something that Illario was saying to do. He was whispering to you, giving you hints — of course I don’t think they were good ones. At least, I couldn’t figure them out. You don’t remember him singing?”

Harding guffaws. “Illario was singing?”

Neve agrees, “Ugh, not Illario.”

“He was? Singing?”

“Yes,” Rook tells him. “He started humming, and then singing. It was Lavender Wine.”

“Ah! A famous Antivan ballad with which I am familiar,” chimes Emmrich. “Though a bit dreary. The Crow’s lover is killed by poisoning, isn’t she?”

“The Crow kills his lover by poisoning,” Neve corrects. “Because he is jealous of her supposed wandering eye. They’ve got a whole genre of ballads warning Antivans of the dangers inherent in loving Crows.”

“How would that help you get through a fire, though?” Bellara wonders. “Unless… don’t tell me — Lucanis, did you pick up a lavender-colored one?”

Rook slaps the tabletop. “Yes!”

Lucanis colors a little. He offers in his defense: “As I said, I am better with a blade.”

“Suddenly I’m finding this story much more believable,” Davrin declares.

Lucanis continues, “So there I am, standing like an idiot in front everyone, sweating beneath a raging purple fire. There is poison everywhere — in front of me, in my hand — when I am startled out of my panic by this little girl screaming her head off behind me — ’Aspetta! Aspetta!’” He pantomimes (with a grin) Rook’s panic, flapping his hands around his head and swooning.

“I didn’t faint,” she gripes. “I’d just had the shit beaten out of me by someone six years my senior! My adrenaline was pumping when I jumped up because you were about to drink poison, but three of my ribs were broken.”

Lucanis blinks. “Your ribs? Mierda, Rook, you have never told me that before. I didn’t know. If I did, I would not have shoved you so hard —“

“You shoved her? With three broken ribs?”

“I just said that I didn’t know!”

“Yeah, hold on, let me see if I’ve got this right.” Neve, ever the investigator, starts marking off fingers. “Lucanis, at this point: you’ve battled to the front of the line, but you’ve chosen the wrong vial, thanks to Illario’s utterly useless singing, and you’re holding poison. And Rook, who is a Crow from a different house, two years your junior — tells you to wait? And you trusted her?”

“I did have her at knifepoint, at first,” he admits. “But she was very convincing. And it helped that when I dropped the poison I had been holding, it burned a hole through the floor.”

Davrin’s whistle is low, awestruck.

“Once Rook was recovered, she was a marvel. She went to the table and sorted through dozens of vials within minutes, narrating aloud for the benefit of the whole audience how she was identifying them and ruling them out.”

“And all of the other fledglings just let her help you like that?”

Rook’s answering grin is fierce. “None of them wanted to challenge Lucanis again and it was technically still his turn, until he succeeded or poisoned himself.”

Lucanis chuckles, low in his throat. “Rook told them that she was going to find the right poison to spare us all because she didn’t want to waste the spring attending a bunch of funerals.”

She gapes at him. “You remember that but you don’t remember Illario’s singing?” He can’t answer that question. (Can’t? Won’t? Doesn’t want to look too closely?)

“But how did you know which one was the right potion, Rook?”

“House de Riva specializes in poisons and I’d spent the last year studying in our family library. Honestly, though, I think I just got lucky.”

“Rook is modest,” Lucanis shakes his head. “She’s a genius. She was outsmarting 16-year-olds when she was ten. It’s why Fanella beat you so badly.”

“Hmm, Lucanis, it’s a good man who can appreciate an intelligent woman,” Neve purrs.

The mage-killer blushes. Furiously.

(Rook is trying to ignore the way that Neve’s flirting causes the backs of her ears to burn.)

“Once I’d identified the right potion, however, things became dangerous again.”

“Suddenly, there were two dozen would-be-assassins, trying to figure out how to snatch victory — and the potion — from our cold dead hands.”

“But the order!” Harding is offended.

Lucanis flaps one hand dismissively at her. “There are no rules in a Crow Trial, only the tortures you are subjected to. Once Rook found the right vial, anyone who could drink that potion and get through the fire could win.”

“But then why did you have to —”

“Because. It’s. Cruel,” Rook spells out for her. “The raison d’etre of the annual Trials. The Crows entertain themselves by watching us fight lopsided matches. Then, once we’re good and tired, mistrusting of each other, and on the knife’s edge — trick a bunch of children into killing themselves by willingly drinking poison.”

“Okay back up. It was just getting good. So there you both are — Lucanis, I expect all of your swords are out at this point?”

His answering “yes” is fierce, low in his throat. “I told her to drink the potion and run, to take the victory while she could. And would you believe it? — she started arguing with me.”

“I believe it,” say at least three of the companions, in chorus.

(Rook’s eyes narrow, trying to figure out which three… )

“So I forced her hand,” Lucanis concludes.

“He shoved me into the fire,” Rook corrects. “I had no choice: win or burn. I drank the potion.”

“And so you won. No damage done.”

“Some damage done,” Rook corrects, again, and reflexively rolls her right wrist. “It was a magical flame, so it immediately started burning through my leathers. I drank the potion as quickly as I could but I still ended up with a massive burn across my shoulders, back, and down my right arm. I was bedridden for months after that Trial.”

She knows better than to look at him as she admits this — she knows better than to admit any of this to him at all. After all, she’s kept these secrets for over two decades.

Still, she’s can’t help it. Her gaze slides, hooded, to catch his eye.

He pales.

“I… mierda, Rook. I didn’t know. I never knew. But — you were at the gala the next day?”

“They had me patched up on healing draughts to limp through the ceremonies.”

“Yikes.”

“I had wondered…” Lucanis begins, but cuts himself off.

“I had three broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, and pretty significant burns. So no, I don’t really like to count that Trial as a ‘victory.’”

It’s silent in the dining hall for a long time, as their companions start to mentally sift through the mound of dirt that’s been unearthed between their two Crows.

“So Rook, I think there’s only one thing left I want to know and then we can take a vote. Why’d you do it?”