1 -The Duel

Your moment has come. . .are you ready?

There had been a moment, in the Tower of Ishal, when the beacon had sputtered into life and her heart had sparked with it. It was a new spell for her, but she had summoned a steady flame from her staff as Alistair broke chairs and crates and hacked at beams for more wood to fuel the signal; and then the moment came when they knew that they had done it, and they rushed to the tower window to witness what they had set in motion. They leaned out over the windowsill like children playing at castle forts or "rescue the princess" –only the king was the one in trouble and they were doing the rescuing. They grinned at each other, giddy with their success; Alistair actually managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds before being obliged to turn away. He twisted himself around on the sill to check the strength and visibility of the signal they had made, but the young Mage knew that her flame would burn well. She was checking the ground below.

The flames from the beacon, and from the battlefield in the valley under the bridge, made echoes of themselves in the marks, the color and temperature of sunset in winter, that she'd set in the skin of her face. They buried themselves in the russet mask between brow and cheekbone, made embers of her lips -carefully painted the same color—and sent smoldering tracers down her cheeks and up her temples until her face looked like a flaming ivory skull with enormous topaz eyes. She was well aware of how she looked, and didn't blame Alistair in the least for his discomfiture. It was a tribute to his good nature and their high spirits that he was able to withstand that grin for as long as he did.

Nothing had yet changed on the battlefield. The fires scattered across the valley marked where the Grey Warden army was engaging the Darkspawn horde that had come streaming in to Ostagar from the Korcari Wilds. Some of the fires were orderly –rings of soldiers wielding flaming brands, archers with fire-tipped arrows forming a defensive line and sending regular volleys into the ranks of the enemy at a single order. But there were other fires, too –trees on the perimeter set wildly ablaze as well as armor, weapons and warriors from both sides, friend and foe. These flames went up randomly about the battlefield, sending the ordered elements into chaos and setting off smaller fires of their own. Even from her vantage point she could see that the banks of ordered lights were being eroded like a dam in a storm-swollen river; without additional support, the dam would break and the field would be lost to the flood.

That additional support was what their recent efforts in the Tower were all about. The army in the valley comprised only a part of the force assembled at Ostagar against the Darkspawn. Waiting in the shadows was yet another army, not the Grey Wardens but the regular Fereldan legions, commanded by none other than Loghain Mac Tir, master campaigner and hero of the already-legendary rebellion against the Orlesian occupation that had ended some thirty years ago. The Mage had spoken and listened to a few of these soldiers and found them much like their general -grim, war-hardened, and dedicated to their land and their king. The King was not with them, however. He had insisted on fighting with the Grey Wardens in the vanguard. The Mage had seen the battle plans laid out in camp; the King himself had explained it to her. The Wardens would draw the Darkspawn horde in from the forest and engage them in the valley; when the last of the creatures had passed the chokepoint, the beacon in the Tower of Ishal would be lit and the regular army would move in to close the gap. The enemy would be driven between the points of the pincer and crushed. The map on the table had shown it plainly: a golden arc on one side of the battlefield, representing the King and the Grey Wardens, and a line of silver leading from the woods to the other side. The beacon would set that line in motion.

Except nothing was happening –no war cries went up, no shadows doused the flames, no steel support arrived to bolster the dam and stem the tide. Only more Darkspawn entered the field from the opposite end –more and more Darkspawn, an endless wave of them. Had she and Alistair lit the beacon too soon? But the army in the valley was foundering; even if there were still Darkspawn in the woods, help had to come for the Grey Wardens soon, or all the regular army would find when they reached the battlefield was a burst trap and the enemy streaming for the Tower.

Still she watched and waited, her gaze straining into the darkness, willing that silver line to hit its mark. But the army never came. As she watched, the hordes of the enemy swirled over the battlefield, their fires dissolving the last of the golden line, until finally they breached the rearmost defenses and began to climb the ridge on the other side. The Mage and Alistair turned to stare at each other as a slow paralyzing shock hit them: the enemy was about to swarm the Tower, and they were perhaps the only two of their kind left standing in all of Ostagar. Without a word they dropped from the windowsill and faced the chamber, eyes and ears transfixed on the door opposite. Already they could hear the pounding of armored feet below; a moment later, a deep-throated chuckle echoed off the stone walls of the lower floors. The Darkspawn were inside the Tower; the Wardens' tainted blood would draw their enemies to them no matter where they tried to hide. The pounding feet mingled with the thrumming of the beacon fires and the beating of the Fade inside the Mage's head. The Fade was calling to her; as she struggled with the temptation to yield, a shadow blotted out the light from the Tower window. Some monstrous creature shrieked, the flames from the signal fire fanned into the chamber with the beating of its wings, the Mage heard a rushing in her head as the entire scene seemed to fold in on itself until it formed a pinpoint just between her eyes, and then with a pop, it vanished. There was an instant of blackness, and then a stream of light enveloped her, rendering her senseless for a time, until she learned to endure it and navigate its courses. She followed the stream to its ending -or its source, she could not tell which—and found herself lying in bed, in a hut in the Korcari Wilds, being tended by the daughter of the Witch who had come through the Tower window in the form of a great bird and had carried her and Alistair to safety. It was here, as she was still re-learning the feel of bedclothes and what it was like to have an up and a down, and recalling the pulse in her body, that the young Mage learned what had happened: that the Fereldan army had failed to come to the King's aid not because they had been destroyed by the Darkspawn, but because they had never advanced. At some point, beacon or no beacon, they had simply abandoned the field. Those in the valley had been slaughtered –the King, his attendants, and every last Grey Warden in Ferelden. Well. . .all but two, of course.

I am ready.

The memory of that awakening moment, of shaking off the Fade to face with clarity the first cold morning of a new life, came to her these many months later, as she stepped into the gaze of her adversary. Sight and sound drew to a focal point just in front of where he stood in the Landsmeet chamber, and as she was drawn toward the spot she felt the world recede into static around her, heard the voices of foes, allies and neutral parties alike diffuse into the same milky babble –and suddenly, all were extinguished. She stood alone with him on the vanishing point, a cool flame against a thundercloud, and their eyes pierced each other.

"Prepare yourself," he snarled.

He was the one who had turned away –who had led that silver line away from the battlefield at Ostagar instead of toward it. Instead, his army had skirted the main body of the horde, cut their way through the Wilds and marched on Denerim, calling out death for the Grey Wardens as they went. The Wardens were blamed for leading King Cailan to his death at the hands of the Darkspawn; and from that moment to this, the Mage, Alistair and their growing band of companions had been hunted by assassins, betrayed and sold by mercenaries and desperate commoners, trapped by deceits and vilified in word and in print in nearly every corner of Ferelden. It was only because the General's heavy hand had also come down on his own banns, in the interest of securing their allegiance to the Regency he had claimed for himself after Cailan's death, that the Mage now stood where she was. The ruthlessness with which he and his confederates had bullied them into submission –and punished those who resisted—had engendered resentment amongst the Fereldan nobles and dismay amongst some of his staunchest supporters. The Wardens had used all the leverage they could find to push the support of the Landsmeet against the Regent, and their efforts had been successful. His banns had deserted him, his own daughter had renounced him and he was now in a fight for not only his Regency, but his life, with the Mage standing for the Wardens and the Queen. As they faced off for the duel, the Mage was not surprised at the malevolence of his glare, and would not let it shake her. But there was something else in his countenance and his stance for which she was not prepared. It was like a light on the horizon which one mistakes for a distant town or a sunrise, until it leaps forward and reveals itself as one of the raging summer fires that sometimes swept across the Fereldan plains. Looking at his face she could almost see the approaching wall of flame; the air around him seemed to crackle. The Regent was gone, and in his place stood the Champion. He began to circle her, like a great cat even in his heavy armor, and like a cat she could see him preparing for the spring. The Mage's heart became a trapped bird in her chest; the song of the Fade in her ears took on a high, shrill note that she rarely heard and recognized mostly from seeing its effects on those who had faced her: fear. The Champion was clearly no stranger himself to seeing that look in an opponent's face. One black eyebrow arched at the corner, and as he continued to pace he inclined his head toward her with an ironic little smile. You wanted this, Warden, the smile said. Come and get it.

She had been circling opposite him, maintaining her distance and trying to keep him in front as her fear threatened to choke her, but when he smiled she stopped, shrugged her shoulders, exhaled impatiently and regarded him as if to say, Well? He stopped then, too, and the eyebrows flickered again, but the nod this time was one of approval. She felt as if she had passed a test, by not allowing herself to be hypnotized by his predatory little dance. Fine. But now the pleasantries were over. A flash and his sword was drawn; a shrug of his shoulder and the crest of Gwaren snarled at her from the facing of his shield. She took a breath and gripped her staff. The signal was given, and the duel began.

"He'll charge at you straight off and try to knock you down," was pretty much the first thing anyone said when the Wardens had asked for advice on combat against Loghain Mac Tir. "Most of the time he'll succeed, too." Eamon's knights had the most to say on the subject, having either fought alongside him or known those who had. "The Charge of the Hero of River Dane" sounded like the name of a legendary battle of which Leliana would sing on one of her intrigues in some court, but it was simply the fighting style of one man, though it had gained legendary status. Arguments broke out, drinks, gold, equipment and other commodities were wagered on how many fully armored men he could land on their backs in a single rush, and whether or not he had actually managed to dislodge a chevalier from his horse while he, Loghain, was on foot. (One red-nosed campaigner insisted that this was true -that Loghain had lost his own horse and sword and the chevalier, eager to claim him as his prize, had spurred his mount towards him. The force with which Loghain met this charge stopped the horse up short and the chevalier was thrown over its head; while he was still trying to disentangle himself from the reins, Loghain's shield had crushed his skull.) Certainly all were agreed that the less-flexible massive armor of the Orlesian army and their tendency to fight in closed ranks had given them no advantage against him. He had cut them down like a scythe.

The Mage could never hope to withstand the Champion's charge. Her first objective, therefore, was not to let it happen. As soon as the signal dropped she saw him crouch, and felt the fear sing again in her blood. All of her power she now sent into a Paralyzing spell; as it left her staff she prayed to the Maker that it would reach him in time to stop the charge, that it would be strong enough to hold him. It did both. Loghain Mac Tir was now a statue of himself in his most fearsome aspect. The young Mage could not guess how long the spell would hold, and she had spent so much of her energy on it that it would be a while before she could cast that particular spell again, but the first round of battle had gone to her, and that was all she needed. Now that she had time to work, she had other ways to contain him.

Those who witnessed the duel said it took almost no time at all –a matter of seconds, perhaps a minute at most. For her, though, those seconds encompassed a lifetime of thought –the end of one path through the Fade, the beginning of another. She could see the Fade clearly now, more clearly than the Landsmeet chamber in which she knew she still stood. He was there, too, both in the chamber and in the Fade with her, a stark shadow frozen on the path in front of her. Quickly she cast a hex on him that would make him more vulnerable to elemental spells; then she fired two rounds of lightning and an Arcane Bolt in rapid succession. Already she could see him beginning to stir from the Paralyzing spell. His jaw clenched; the knuckles on the hand that gripped his sword turned white with the searing fury in his eyes. She had to act; if she waited for her spells to recharge he would be free, and he would be on her like a gale. She met his eyes with hers, fixing his gaze on the frightful mask of her face, and sent him the Waking Nightmare.

In the Landsmeet chamber his body froze once again, this time by a horror unseen to anyone but himself. Now he inhabited his own part of the Fade where, as in dreams, he could pass a separate lifetime before awakening. It occurred to her for the first time to wonder where exactly the victims of the Waking Nightmare spell went. Surely it was different for the mindless Darkspawn and other monsters on which she had cast it. But what of a living person? What of this man? Where had she sent him; what twisted landscapes or nightmarish corridors did he wander? Was the broken body of Cailan even now staggering towards him, his bloody mouth spouting accusations of treachery? Whatever he was experiencing, before he would be allowed to escape, she would now make it even worse. Swiftly she transformed into a great black bear, using the shapeshifting technique that Morrigan had taught her in one of her more indulgent moods at camp. The effect was startling and impressive enough to those awake and present in the Landsmeet chamber; she could only imagine what Loghain saw. Perhaps his vision was suddenly obscured by a dreadful shadow, and then filled with a bellowing, monstrous beast with saw blades for teeth, claws to rend the soul from the body and eyes that reflected the madness of the Black City beyond. She raised herself up on her hind legs in the threatening bear stance and he staggered back, screaming; one thudding blow to the head and he was down.

There was not much left to be done. She felt reluctant to finish the duel in bear shape, however –it was never really her style and she rarely used the skill except for effect, as now. Undoing the transformation, she looked at him once more with her own eyes and felt a sick jolt behind her sternum that forced her to hesitate, catching her breath. She should finish him off like this, now, while he still groveled out of his mind on the floor. That would leave no one in any doubt. After all, it was what she had set out to do –make an example of him in front of the assembled nobility of Ferelden and toss his broken spirit into the Fade forever. He was very close now. Still, she hesitated. His face was turned away from hers, his ragged breath came in gulps that sounded almost like sobbing. Again she felt the hitch in her chest and thought that she might be sick. Despite her intentions, despite all the promises she had made to Alistair and herself about what she should do if she ever came face to face with Loghain Mac Tir, she was forced to admit that she found no satisfaction in what she was doing to this man. Just as she had found herself unable to kill the proud Werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, and had instead joined them in defending themselves and their home against the Dalish mage, so now she hesitated to end the life of this champion. When Ostagar was lost, he had gathered up his forces and tried to rally the entire country to him as though all of Ferelden was his army. When the Grey Wardens threatened his efforts he had used every available resource to wipe them out. When the Landsmeet turned against him, he had railed at their cowardice, their susceptibility, and their lack of respect. His entire life -family, household, status, his profession as even so much as a common soldier, let alone a commander of armies- had been swept away by the Landsmeet in a matter of minutes. Others the Mage had encountered in their travels had met with similar (or lesser) misfortunes and had responded with groveling, wheedling, temper tantrums, bad promises, crooked deals, murder. This man had stood, enraged and saddened but unshaken from his foundations, defying his adversaries but still consenting to play by their rules; and so he had been led to this duel, and now the Mage held his life in her hands. Misguided and mistaken he may have been, and even perhaps a bit mad, but the spirit within him was unlike any she had ever encountered. Could she simply snuff it out?

As she crouched over him, hesitating, she saw the trembling of his hands and shoulders subside. At first she thought that the life was leaving his body, and that he would never return from that corner of the Fade into which the Waking Nightmare spell had rocked him. Oh, Maker, she thought. Forgive me. . .But then she saw the hands brace themselves against the flagstones; his head rose, shook itself once, and then turned to her once again. The eyes were cool, the shadows under them like livid bruises, but the Mage knew that they were his own, that he saw her now as she was. Her chest lightened and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She felt an inexplicable urge to burst out laughing but clamped that down. And then she saw that his right hand was slowly reaching for his sword that he had dropped earlier in his terror. If he grasped it where it lay, one quick jab would lodge the blade in her throat. Fascinated, she watched the hand touch the hilt and start to close around it; then as his eyes narrowed and his body started to tense she blinked and shook herself awake. Time to end this.

She would not kill him; she knew that now. Leaping to her feet, she raised her staff and, calculating just the amount of force required to drive him back down, sent a single bolt in his direction. When he had recovered and once again raised his eyes to hers, she was standing with a hand on her hip and a look on her face that said she could do this all day if he wanted. His shoulders slumped; he shook his head. The sword clanged as it hit the floor. Slowly he raised himself to his feet, palms outward in the attitude of surrender.

He hadn't touched her.