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The day after her discussion on the rooftop with Zevran, and the boat tour of Antiva City’s harbor that followed, Dagna prepared to return to her home in Minrathous. For this trip, she booked passage on a ship rather than take a series of carriage across Nevarra and the Free Marches. As long as she sailed under Antiva’s flag, there was little danger from Qunari pirates. Under the Tevinter colors, she had no such assurance.
It was early – too early in the morning, in truth, for more than a hot cup of a weak tea and a long time spent staring out the window of her room at the inn – when Dagna heard a knock on her door. Leaving the mug of tea on the windowsill, she opened the door, and found that as soon as there was room to move through, Zevran was squeezing himself inside, along with a rather large case that he was carrying.
“Close the door. Quickly,” he hissed. “I fear that I have no time for greeting or formalities.”
Dagna did as she was told, watching as Zevran dropped the case onto her bed. The elf then moved swiftly to the window, drew the curtains, then turned toward her.
“You’re scaring me,” she said, pressing her own back to the door. “Steal something hot?”
“I am no thief. This much you know. I, however, have had the unfortunate coincidence of killing someone with a rather, as you said, ‘hot’ item.” Zevran nodded at the strange wooden case that lay on Dagna’s bed. “Have a look.”
Granted, they had met just days before, but she had never seen him so grim. Dagna hesitated at first, but then her curiosity drove her to open the case, removing a pale green cloth from the item within. A sword glittered in the dim light of the room.
Wrapping the cloth around her right hand as a matter of instinct, she picked up the sword in both, studying the blade and hilt very carefully. “This is of dwarven make,” she whispered, afraid to speak any louder. Her eyes slid down the pommel, around the hilt. “No one makes them like this anymore. No one. Not even for the kings. This took a craftsman months – maybe years – of work. Look at the carvings here – this isn’t stamped. This is flawless work.”
“The man that I was hired to kill was a scholar travelling from the Royal Museum in the Anderfels.” Zevran drew a small pile of letters out of his jerkin and held them up. “These are his papers. He believed this sword to be Yusaris.”
Dagna almost dropped the sword. “Zevran, that’s not possible. That sword – it’s legend. No one has seen it in thousands of years.” The words tumbled out from between her lips, and once again, she found herself staring down at the weapon in awe. It had been neglected. Small balls of dust clung to the intricate scrollwork, and here and there, rust crept onto the blade. It could be repaired, however. She could repair it herself, if she had the nerve to do such a thing. “I…If I had my library back at home, I could accurately date this sword. I don’t recognize the craftsman’s mark – if this is a mark. It doesn’t look like part of the design. But I can tell you this – this is a very old sword. As I said, no one really makes them like this anymore. Everything is straightforward and practical nowadays. Even King Alistair’s sword wasn’t this elaborate.”
“I confess that I am at a loss.” Zevran crept over to the foot of the bed and sat there, being very careful not to disturb the sword or its protective case. “I do not know what to do with such a thing. I could never obtain its worth on the black market.”
“No, no, no,” murmured Dagna as she almost lovingly slid the sword back into its protective cradle. “This doesn’t belong on someone nobleman’s wall. Whatever it is, even if it was made for a rank-and-file soldier, it’s a piece of history. I can’t keep this. Any idea of who was the intended recipient of this sword?” She gently draped the cloth over the sword, and very carefully lowered the lid.
“That I do not know. These papers aren’t written to be read by anyone else, if you get my meaning.” Zevran chuckled uneasily. “Perhaps if you take it back with you to the Imperium, you can find a good home for it.”
Dagna’s heart sank as she shook her head. This weapon didn’t belong in the Imperium. She didn’t need a single moment to think it over; it was a matter of fact. She remained kneeling, her feet tucked underneath her, as she stared down at her trouser-covered legs. “This needs to go to Orzammar. I don’t know if I’m the one to deliver it, though. I haven’t been back there since I left – and even if I came to the gates, they wouldn’t exactly let me inside. I’m surface caste now. They won’t exactly welcome me inside.”
“Well…” Zevran trailed off, his gaze resting on the curtained window. “…if you have no prior engagements, perhaps we should travel in that direction. Certainly, between my handsome and dashing good looks, and your quick and rather talented tongue, we can come up with something.”
Blinking hard, Dagna snapped abruptly out of her reverie filled with memories of Orzammar and fears of doors barred and frowning faces. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff? And who told you about my tongue? Are you being coy again?”
“My dear, I am always coy.” He extended a long, slender hand toward her. “Come. Let us have an adventure. I am well overdue.”