Part One: A Young Apostate
She hides under her bed, clutching Ser Bark in her arms as she scrunches under the mattress.
Carver was hitting her stuffed mabari with a stick. She told him to stop. Then he cracked Ser Bark's glass eye. She slapped him and pulled his hair. He punched her in the shoulder. Her hand started on fire and burned his scalp.
She can see her father's boots. His joints crack as he lays down, peeking under the bed.
"I'm sorry, father." She sniffles.
He snaps his fingers, a small flame dances between his fingertip.
"It's OK, Bethany," her father says, smiling.
Bethany cringes as the bitter lyrium touches her tongue and she forces herself to swallow it.
Her father squeezes her hand. "Hold on."
She feels dizzy and her eyes grow heavy. Bethany's small hand tightly holds on as she feels like she is falling. Her body jerks and she opens her eyes. A green valley, filled with wildflowers and small river that pours over the cliff in a white, bubbling waterfall.
"Where are we?" she asks. There was nowhere like this near Gwaren.
"This is the Fade."
"It's beautiful."
"It's dangerous," her father says, reminding her with a gentle squeeze.
"She's not too young."
"She was scared half to death!" her mother shouts from the other room. The thin walls do little to cut her voice. Bethany shivers under her blanket. Eyes wide. Unable, unwilling to go back to sleep.
Carver and Garrett snore loudly in their beds.
"She needs to learn."
"She's only eight."
"Not too young for a demon."
The shifting, shadowy shade had its claws wrapped around her arm before she snapped awake, screaming.
"Maybe-"
"No."
"Malcolm-"
"I said no, damnit!"
The front door slams. Bethany pretends to sleep when her mother slips back into the bedroom.
Carver is still glaring at her as mother's horse trots past them up the road.
"How much farther, father?" Garrett asks. He is old enough to ride his own horse. Bethany sits in front of her father, his arms draped around her as he loosely holds the reins.
The saddlebags on the horses hold everything that was worth taking. The rest of their possessions, her father had sold to an elf and his family.
There were too many Templars in Gwaren.
"Just a little more today, son," Malcolm says.
The Kirkwallers hadn't come for her.
They were looking for him.
"This place smells," Carver whines.
"Be quiet, Carver," Leandra scolds..
The shack outside of Lothering is smaller than their home in Gwaren. The wind carries the smell of manure off the field.
"Why did we have to leave home?" Carver continues.
"I said be quiet," Leandra says more forcefully.
"It's her fault, isn't it?" he accuses.
"Shut up, Carver," Garrett says, shoving his brother.
"Garrett, stop."
"You shut up!" Carver throws a wild punch. Garrett catches it in his hand and returns one that cracks across Carver's mouth.
But it is Bethany, not Carver, crying, as Leandra separates the boys.
She jumps every time the wooden swords clack together.
Garrett's eyes and arms are steady and his feet move with practiced purpose. He's a head taller than Carver and much stronger. Carver growls and grimaces and swings his sword around wildly. Bethany hates watching them fight, even if it's just for practice.
"Do you see how important focus is, Bethany?" her father asks. "Look at Garrett. He's calm, completely in control."
Her hands tremble as she pushes the mana up her arms and into her fingertips.
The cold puff of ice sputters and dies as it brushes the green grass.
The stained glass windows in the west wall of the Chantry sparkle like jewels as the sun pours through them in the late afternoon.
The golden flames around Andraste's feet smolder as dusken beams pour around them. The indistinct black shapes of hooded magisters ringing the stake are dim in comparison.
Her hands are folded as she kneels in the pew and she recites her prayers. She always stares at this one glass panel, even though its image strikes terror in her heart. She always looks past the burning prophet, to the faceless Tevinters.
They are mages, just like her.
Her father extends his hand toward her.
"Come on," he says. "It's time. You're ready."
The cave he beckons her toward is dark and deep. She reaches out toward it, her sixth sense snaking through the ether like fingers dragging through her long hair. What she feels is emptiness, a hole that goes down and down and down and never ends.
She grabs his hand, giving a gentle squeeze.
He doesn't squeeze back.
The Rage Demon screams as she pushes the ice through her hand, holding tightly as its molten body squirms and struggles.
She won't be tricked by its kind.
The wracking cough sounds as hollow and endless as the Fade as the dribble of blood sputters between her father's lips.
Bethany is the only one who stays at his bedside as he lays dying.
Her mother weeps uncontrollably to see him like this. She only goes inside the room during the brief hours when Bethany sleeps.
Garrett rode for Redcliffe to seek a physician. But they have little money and the journey is far.
She doesn't know where Carver is. He bloodied his knuckles punching the wall on his way out.
Malcolm passes overnight while Bethany is asleep.
Birchcore is top-heavy. The wood is nicked in several places. There is nothing elaborate, unusual or fanciful about her father's staff.
The wrapped grip is worn and stained with sweat where her father's hands wrapped around it. As she places her fingers over the dirty marks, they are thinner and smaller than his.
Bethany,
Take care of your mother and your brothers for me.
Forgive them. They'll never understand your gifts, your challenges or the danger you face daily.
Not like I do.
The staff is only remarkable because it was his and because she never saw it before today.