Prologue
The Making of Minds
The flashing orange light of mage-fire melted the cold shafts of moonlight fanning through the omnipresent clouds, the ancient stone walls of Lowtown throwing up frightening and vivid marionettes frozen for the briefest of moments in the throes of battle. There was a roar like thunder and the square exploded with flame like a shattered star, the air filling with the acrid smell of burning hair and flesh. The hawk could still smell the result of her power from her perched vantage point crouched on the roof of a one story slum; arms thrust out in front of her sending out great arrows of flame, the long arcane staff in her hand crackling and buzzing with electricity. The light was reflected in sparks of bright steel as the wolf danced with his massive two handed weapon, a claymore of hand-biting beauty. The doe stood with her legs apart some distance from him, surrounded by a small ring of her own white flames, her face flushed and icy blue veins illuminated on her porcelain skin. The spirit was cloaked in shadow, his hand carving waves through it, sending it billowing through the Lowtown thugs to steal their strength and foolish bravery. There was one final sunburst of heat and light followed by a terrible stifling darkness and then it was still. The moon stuttered and quivered as though afraid to shine light on the grisly scene.
Corpses littered the ground – charred, damp and stinking. All in all, there were thirty-three men and a single woman sprawled in an undignified state. But their faces were dark, their clothes dyed deep red and their motionless bodies seemed to blend into the dirt and sand and other debris. They weren't invisible, just unimportant.
Merrill had collapsed, and was trying to prop herself up on her shaking hands and knees, panting and coughing fitfully. Anders did not rush to her aid, but only stood there giving her a strange look between pity and disdain. Fenris stood between them, stiffly sheathing his great sword on his back, looking carefully anywhere but at the two mages; the silver veining tattoos on his arms and throat standing out as if greeting their kin, the moon. It was Hawke who slid swiftly down from her perch to assist Merrill, bringing her to her feet and checking her eyes. They were dulled and slightly unfocused, but her pupils were still large, cat-like and shimmering. Mere exhaustion could be recovered from.
Hawks glanced over her other companions. Fenris stood sheathed in moonlight, his body still full of nervous energy despite the draining battle, his hands twitching at his side as though irritated at being without the hilt of a sword. It seemed almost as if it were taking him some strength of will to not shift his weight from foot to foot. He was like quicksilver. Like the moon, he was pale and penetrating and at one with cold darkness – but unlike the moon he was shifting, changing, fluid, not consistent or still. Even the scarlet trickle dripping from his chin seemed cold and metallic. It was a cut lip, barely a scratch, but just enough to bleed. Hawke had forgotten the wolf could bleed.
Anders stood further off. He was so different to Fenris there seemed a polar opposition between the two. The spirit was warm where the wolf was cold. Anders stood still and sure like daylight, his presence alone chasing away the shadows. He was warm and made of flesh and muscle, not steel and silver; tall like a pillar, kind faced and handsome. He casually flicked back his dark hood to reveal hair like sun on sand and reluctantly stepped forward, taking Merril's arms off Hawke.
"You can't keep letting her do that." His voice was stern, but he could not hide an undertone of concern for his fellow mage. Hawke shook her head, refusing to comment. She knew Anders would never stand for Merril's type of magic, but now was not the time or the place to debate the morality of blood and demons. She could sense Fenris behind her, could sense his distrust, could feel his disapproval in the prickle on the back of her neck. It usually didn't bother her when others thought ill of her, but his tenuous reluctance hurt and scratched at her mind. She could not ignore it.
Anders was looking at her expectantly, awaiting her order. His eyes were full of trust and loyalty, his mouth ready to smile. In front of her the sun warmed her face and offered safety, healing and compassion. Behind her the moon chilled her neck and shoulders, pulling her by his cold beauty and dark mystery. She smiled, her heart feeling light and fluttery, but her mind at ease.
She had made up her mind.