Half the camp was aflame.
Keeper Tathera stood at the far edge of the side as yet unscathed, beyond the statue of Fen'Harel and beneath sheltering trees. His face was grim beneath his vallaslin, and his knuckles white around his staff as he watched an aravel ignite, its brilliantly coloured sails becoming brighter still as they turned to wings of fire. Sparks flew like stars, piercing gold against the darkness of the night sky.
While the remnants of his clan waited nearby, some restringing bows or readying blades in preparation of their next stand, others tending injuries, one or two quietly weeping, a small and fleet shape darted from the undergrowth. The ruddy light shone against red fur an instant before the vulpine shape shifted up into elvhen form, becoming Suvahli, Tathera's First.
"I saw," the young woman said as heads turned and pointed ears listened. "It's Lusacius, Keeper. He said he's after you."
"Inevitably," Tathera murmured, forming a quick mental picture of his pursuer: tall, human, pale-skinned, blond, and exceptionally strong. "Lusacius doesn't like being humbled, or eluded."
"He has more warriors with him than last time," Suvahli said, "but I guess we already know that now…"
A hunter, Pavalath, said, "It doesn't matter. We'll beat him again, and this time the shem dies. You should not have ordered us to spare him before, Keeper, even if you did know the man once upon a time."
"I suspect you are correct. I had hoped…" Tathera's voice trailed off. What had he hoped? That showing the human mercy would have it reciprocated? That he had proven to Lusacius that magic did not have to be the fell power he claimed it was? They had worked together once. They had been rivals rather than friends, but while their opinions on the virtues and dangers of magic had differed wildly before Tathera had quit the Circle in search of a new life, there had been no true enmity between them.
With a splitting, crackling sound and a roar of fire rushing through wind, one blazing sail of the aravel fell.
Suvahli was watching his indecision with concern. "The Vir Atish'an is not an easy path, Keeper," she said, "but maybe Pavalath is right. Look at what the shemlen has done! He will only keep coming and he does not care who he hurts, or who he kills. Lusacius deserves to die!"
Tathera shifted his gaze to the staff in his hand, the symbol of his pact with and duty to the People. It was crafted, as most Keeper staffs were, from the wood of a dahl'amythal. The meaning of this tradition differed from clan to clan, as none remembered the lost lore it had originally sprung from, but this was what Tathera had been told when he'd been First:
"As Mythal's touch calmed Elgar'nan's anger and protected the earth, so too must a Keeper guard against his own rage, guide against the anger of his clan, and protect all from being corrupted by it.
"For anger is not always evil, da'len. It can be righteous and a mighty force against evil; Elgar'nan was not wrong to throw down the sun for burning the earth! But left untamed, wrath poisons the mind and turns the heart cold. Vengeance for vengeance's sake. Guard against this, and may Mythal protect you."
"Look," Pavalath said suddenly, his voice sharp.
A lone figure was striding from the conflagration, little more than a silhouette against the blaze. But it was Lusacius's voice that rang out.
"Tathera! I know you're hiding here. Come out, and your knife-eared friends can keep what's left of their camp."
Suvahli's eyes narrowed. "He's lying. I heard his plan: to take any mages alive and sell the rest of the survivors into slavery."
"Say the word, Keeper, and my arrow flies," Pavalath said, raising his bow and drawing the string taut.
But Tathera shook his head. "It won't strike, da'len. Lusacius is no fool; he has a shield. I will go to speak with him," he decided heavily, "alone. Be aware for treachery," he added, glancing down at the statue of the Dread Wolf. "Suvahli, scout the trees in case he's sent his men to flank us."
"And if they are?"
"Then warn the clan and defend us all as you must. No atrocities, Pavalath. Let the blood of your kills be clean."
They nodded agreement, and so the elvhen mage walked out into the clearing by himself.
To face the human mage.
They stood several feet apart, appraising one another after so many years since their last encounter. Tathera was a Keeper now, an honour he had never thought possible after having been born in Minrathous and schooled at the Circle of Magi there. And Lusacius, judging from his raiment and elaborate staff, had become a magister. Just as both of them had once dreamed.
Age showed as well. Tathera knew his long black hair was going grey and lines were showing in his face thanks to sun, elements and duty, but while Lusacius's blond hair was paling to silver, the markings on his visage were doubtless of the same origin as the burning in his eyes: the weight of power.
The human was first to speak, in tones of dry humour. "I see you haven't discovered the long lost secret of Arlathan's immortality."
"Is that why you're here?" the elf countered mildly. "To immolate elves and learn how to live forever?"
"Elven lore was your passion, my old friend, not mine. Is that how you became Keeper? By returning their secrets to them?"
"It helped," Tathera admitted.
"You didn't tell them everything you learned while studying at the Circle though…did you?"
The elf smiled faintly. "You mean, did I teach them blood magic? How to summon demons? Make their enemies dance as their veins sear? No, I didn't infect them with the lore of the Tevinter Imperium. Why have you come?"
"I've been sent by the Argent Spire. His Perfection, also known as our esteemed Grand Enchanter, wants to speak to you about those chapters of the Midnight Compendium that you destroyed.
"A new chapter was recently unearthed in Kirkwall and secured by Tevinter agents, but it lacks context without its siblings. That's where we need you. You studied the other chapters we possessed in great depth before you…" he flapped a hand vaguely, looking a little disgusted. "…felt the call of the wild."
"That text," Tathera said bluntly, "is evil, my friend. I have performed blood magic, but the rituals I read in those words would sicken all but the most demented of maleficarum. When I finally understood what the compendium's purpose was driving towards I—you…you would not believe the nightmares I suffered, or the things demons whispered from Beyond." He straightened and met the magister's eyes squarely. "Tell the Divine I am flattered by his invitation, but cannot in good conscience accept it. Some secrets are meant to die unspoken."
Lusacius looked down on him a moment, his face shadowed as the fire continued to burn at his back. "It was not an invitation. The Argent Spire also gave me some templars to assist in bringing you back. They await my orders."
The Keeper went still. "Don't make me fight you again, Lusacius. I won't spare you a second time."
"For the knowledge you carry and the power that could come of it, I'm prepared to take that risk. I didn't become a magister by being afraid of death. Nor, I suspect, did you."
The magister's hand lifted at the last, forefinger trailing flame as it rose to point, but before Tathera could duck out of the way a heavy, furred shape crashed down onto his attacker with an awful snarl.
"Suvahli!" he gasped as the wolf's curved jaws flashed and the human beneath her yelled, then there was a blast of fire and an animal scream. The shapeshifter fled howling, her belly streaming smoke, and at the same time the cry came from behind.
"Keeper, get out of the way!"
The song of bowstrings filled the air and arrows pierced the night.
Tathera lifted his staff and felt Lusacius's widening eyes upon him as he transformed, shrinking down into the swift form of a hare.
"Where did you learn such a thing?" the magister demanded, amazed.
From a woman of many years, in exchange for a promise, Tathera thought, staring at him silently. But that secret will not be shared with you either.
Lusacius looked skyward, swore by the Old Gods in sudden realisation and raised his staff. A transparent shield enveloped him; shafts pinged against it with a sound like falling hail and ricocheted into the turf, making a small garden of feathered flowers bloom above the grass.
"I will take that knowledge from you as well, Tathera," he shouted, rising to his feet and clutching his jaw-savaged shoulder as the hare dashed away. "You won't be able to hide anythingfrom me when I'm done! You were a magister, you knife-eared traitor!"
It was too much. Tathera's paws skidded on the grass as he rounded, claws scoring lines in the dirt. He sprang back up into elvhen form and hissed, "Was. I was a magister, and never again, shem! There is no place in your world for mages with a scrap of conscience. Beyond the Imperium we are slaves and criminals, within we must vie with one another for dominance and become monsters to survive! I didn't leave Minrathous with the intent of joining the Dalish, I did it to be free."
"Free of what?" Lusacius snapped back. "Blood magic? Power? Are you prepared to sacrifice your elves just to cling to a petty ideal of morality? The Imperium is at war, Tathera, and we must use every weapon we can find!"
Tathera caught the first burst of fire with a whirl of his staff and muttered counterspell, spinning the light and heat away. He retaliated with a fist of stone flung at Lusacius's chest, but the magister struck it as one would swat a fly and the spell dissolved into a cloud of dust that streamed harmlessly past the human's face. As their duel began in earnest, armed figures leapt from the far end of the clearing with challenging shouts and the Dalish answered with cries of their own, both groups hurtling across the green to reach the mages first and arrows once again singing overhead.
Lightning streamed from the Keeper's staff and ice lanced from the magister's. A storm of fire swept the Dalish and a raging tempest snared the Tevinters, and everywhere there were screams as magic scored flesh and rent minds more viciously than mundane weapons ever could.
"You can't keep this up forever," Lusacius jeered, breathless and bright-eyed. "Not without lyrium or blood!"
"I only have to hold out long enough for my clan to cut you down, human!"
Lusacius laughed and made a twisting gesture. A score of Dalish close to reaching them froze in their tracks or fell twitching, their veins standing in stark relief. Tathera roared in fury at the sight and drove the butt of his staff into the earth, which suddenly erupted with briars and grasping roots. The magister was pulled off his feet, swearing as the fall plunged him into sharp thorns, and behind him several of his warriors were snared by the writhing brambles.
Then, as Tathera stood gasping for air and drained of mana, Pavalath reached him. The Keeper nodded as the younger elf shot him a quick, questioning look.
"Kill the magister."
A dar'misaan swished free and the hunter sprang to end it, the brambles swaying aside before him as though blown by a wind. But before he reached his goal Tathera saw a red glow, the hasty weaving of a spell, and Pavalath reeled back, clutching at his chest. Tathera grabbed him before he could fall.
"Are you all right?"
"I don't—hrgn! I don't know!" Pavalath's eyes were wide and he sucked in air. A spasm wracked his body. "S—something inside me…Creators…"
"This isn't a blood magic spell, it's from the Spirit Scho—" Tathera stopped. His throat went dry. "Elgar'nan…"
"Keeper?"
"Dread Wolf take you, Lusacius! Dispel this curse or—!"
Pavalath exploded.
Tathera was flung backwards by the blast. He was dimly aware of hot wetness spraying across his face and bone shards puncturing his robe before he hit the ground, and knew as pain exploded up and down his spine that he would never forget that sight for as long as he lived. He'd seen the Walking Bomb spell in action before, back in the Imperium, but never upon a friend.
Anger burned, and so did his blood. Visceral, powerful, pounding in his ears like war drums…
"You can still best him, mortal," a throaty voice purred across his pain-hazed mind. "You can still save your clan." A slim, elegant hand seemed to appear before him in both offering and promise. "I can set you free."
He rolled blindly, coughing and clawing at the grass. One hand brushed his staff and his fingers closed around the dahl'amythal wood, a halla guide in a black and maddening storm…
Feminine laughter…or was it a dark chuckle? "As you desire, mage. I'll be here if you change your mind, though I can't say the same for your friends…"
And then…a shadow. Lusacius standing above him, flanked by Tevinter templars.
"You've lost."
"So…have…you." Tathera gripped his staff defiantly as he strove to rise, violet eyes glittering. "I will tell you nothing. We are the Dalish:" he intoned, "keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit!"
Magister Lusacius made a small upwards motion with one bleeding hand and the Keeper felt himself yanked to his feet. His blood was on fire and despite his struggles he stood immobile as the human leaned in and replied, quite softly, "You're wrong."
The human's hand flipped over and pressed down. As suddenly as Tathera had been standing, he folded to the ground into an instant kneeling position. His long hair straggled in the dirt. His eyes stared down at his staff.
"You could have fought me as the magister you once were, my old friend," Lusacius said contemptuously. "With passion. Blood for blood, your mundanes against mine. We both know such power is not foreign to you. But you chose to be weak…and in doing so you have not saved your clan. Only the dead know freedom.
"Bring him."
Cold gauntlets hauled him upright, and he began to follow Lusacius without willing it as the spell entangling his veins clenched and tugged. Around him, other elves were being bound for the long trek to the Minrathous slave blocks.
My fault. Creators forgive me…
And in the shadows somewhere beyond the burning encampment, a solitary wolf howled.