A letter from Lace Harding, to her sister Danica Harding, 9:43
Dear Danica
Thanks for your last letter. I'm feeling quite homesick at the moment. Has Silk whelped yet? Have the twins decided whether they will be apprenticed to that jeweller in Denerim? I know Mother's going to say I need to take leave at some point to reconnect with the family, but with all the craziness of this Corypheus business, surely she'd understand it's simply not possible? I sometimes don't think we'll ever be free of trouble. If it's not Orlais it's Tevinter, and it's us common folk who get get caught in the middle picking up the pieces.
You wanted to know what it was like in the Arbor Wilds, well, that's another region I'm glad to see the back of. It's never quiet there, and never in my life have I ever felt as if the trees simply disapproved of the fact that I scurried beneath their roots. Let me not even get started on the spiders, dear sister. You don't want to know except you get used to emptying out your boots before you put them on, and that's all I'll say on the subject.
Our Inquisitor has been moping terribly. Even Varric can't get a laugh out of her in the evenings. She just stares moodily into the flames. Won't even play a hand of Wicked Grace. Goes to bed early as well. She didn't bring Solas with her this time. In fact, from what Dorian's said to me, Green-eyes and Baldie aren't talking at all – beyond any topics related to the Inquisition's activities, that is. The Commander is deliriously happy, of course. Completely oblivious to any undercurrents too. He's moved into her quarters, or should I rather say she's ordered him to move into her quarters with him. At a glance they seem a happy couple, but when she smiles, the joy doesn't reach her eyes.
Yes, yes, I know I'm waxing poetic about our Inquisitor. I'm also well aware that she'd never notice me, and that I should return Dagna's advances, as you've said, but still, a girl can dream, can't she?
But to get back to that horrible place out in the Wilds, I'm not looking forward to our next mission there. We're to assist a few research teams from Val Royeaux set up camps. Seems everyone's clamoring to go hunt for ancient Elvhen artefacts there now that the Inquisition has stamped its boot prints. You can pick up just about any rock there and discover that it was once part of a pillar or fallen statue. Place gives me the creeps, if you ask me. Made Dorian's moustache wilt. Varric loved teasing him about that, as you can well imagine.
I wish I could send you a more cheerful missive, but things are really building up to a final confrontation. Everyone's talking about it now. Everyone can feel it.
Please give Mother an extra hug from me, will you?
Love
Lace
# # #
Chapter 2
Trees crowded the forest, the trunks so big even three grown men holding hands could not encircle them, and monstrous mushrooms the size of dinner plates thrust up from fallen giants. It was the dream again, the one he kept having of the elf lady who was lost in the forest.
Seith always seemed to hover above her, slightly behind and following like a bumblebee tied to a string.
Always it was the same – she battled with the tangles of creepers, scrambled over rocks and ducked under branches, her long black hair filled with twigs and leaves and catching in low-hanging branches.
The first time Seith had this dream, he had tried to call out to the lady, but there was never any sound. He could see, and follow, but he could not hear or make himself heard.
The scariest was when there were monsters, giant spiders, great bears and other things for which he had no name. Sometimes he cried out to warn her that she was being followed. Not that it ever did any good.
This time she had found her way into a clearing and turned in one spot, her mouth working as she silently called a name over and over again.
Seith awoke with a gasp, his pillows wet. He hated crying in his sleep.
# # #
The day seemed to be made of ill omens. Mother Elaine shouted at him for drawing pictures in his books instead of doing his sums, and later, when their morning classes were over, his father had given him extra chores, which involved running messages around Skyhold. It was as if the Commander was keeping him away from his friends on purpose, to make up for the day before's misadventure.
The only good thing he found in this was that he got to see what was afoot. And there was definitely something stirring, because more people than usual were arriving in groups, and there was talking and laughing and a general commotion of servants rushing to and fro with bags, baskets and piles of laundry.
Snatches of conversation spoke of a conclave, and that the Divine Victoria would put in an appearance. He even had a message to take to Cassandra, who had been in a meeting with Josie. Neither had paid him much attention, which made him sad. Normally Josie had a candy for him, and Cassandra would ruffle his hair and ask him if he was being a good boy for his father.
But he got to see the dwarf Varric again, who had taken a room in the guest suites overlooking the garden, and he hung about asking questions.
Where was he from? Kirkwall. Why was he here? They were meeting to choose the new Inquisitor.
Seith didn't need to ask why. Varric caught him glancing at the statue below in the garden, where crystal graces twined at the base of the figure carved from a glossy stone. He liked the name of the stone – serpentine – and often played with the word on his tongue.
The woman gazed towards the sky, her left arm outstretched in the same way he'd seen pictures of his mother in the paintings and tapestries, only frozen in stone forever in her role of closing a rift.
"Do you miss her?" Varric asked.
"I was only a baby when she went away," Seith replied. How could he explain otherwise? He didn't have the right words for the odd hollow he had in his chest when he occasionally sat by the statue's plinth and gazed up into the dead, stone eyes.
Varric told him a story then, one he hadn't heard tell before, of how they'd gone to the Hissing Wastes and how his mother had saved Varric yet again when the evil Venatori had them surrounded, how she'd opened her own rift right when they'd thought all was lost. He spoke of how Teniël had sung old Dalish songs round the campfire, and how she'd spent hours choosing Seith's name when she knew she was expecting him not long after they defeated dread Corypheus.
"You look a lot like her, you know," Varric said. "It's quite uncanny."
"What do you mean?" Seith asked.
The man gave a dry laugh."Oh, Stinky, you probably make your dad remember far too much."
Seith had other tasks, so he couldn't stay much longer. He liked Varric, who didn't talk to him as if he were a baby. Even if he refused to call him anything else but Stinky. But then he'd already figured out that Varric had funny names for everyone. He liked his father's the best – Curly – but he didn't think it would be a good idea to start calling his father that.
The day would have been fine except for Seith taking some of the passages that led past the kitchen – a shortcut back to the tower room where he and his father stayed.
He didn't know who was more surprised, himself or Delon, who was carrying a big bucket of slops he almost dropped.
The two boys froze, staring at each other.
Then a slow, cruel smile twisted Delon's lips. "My, my... Look what we have here."
Seith swallowed a squeak, and took a step back, his blood turned to slush. Not now. Not again. He'd hoped to have a few days before he had to face Delon again.
He spun about and pelted back the way he had come just as the bigger boy made a grab at him. About half a dozen strides down the passage the chase began in earnest, and out of desperation Seith jagged a sudden right into a doorway. The room was narrow and the only light source came from a tiny slit of an arched window high up. Shelves filled to overflowing with books covered every wall, and Seith made for a lumpy old armchair that stood in the far corner. Just enough space existed for him to wedge himself between the back of the chair and the bookshelf, and he fully expected Delon to drag him out.
Only nothing of the sort happened.
Delon's nasty laughter filled the room then the door slammed shut.
The sound of the latch snicking to had a horrible finality to it.
At first Seith crouched where he was, the edge of the shelf digging painfully into the small of his back. The silence was heavy and musty, and his breaths tore ragged edges in the air.
Someone would come find him, wouldn't they? When he didn't show up for dinner, Father would get worried. The Commander would turn Skyhold upside down looking for him, right?
But Seith still went to try the door anyway. Who had left it open in the first place?
His father had already told him how many times to stay out of the unused parts of Skyhold. Not safe, he'd said. There were places where walls might come down to squash naughty little boys who went poking around where they shouldn't. The stonemasons hadn't yet repaired all the huge, gaping holes that yawned down the cliff sides. Sometimes Seith had gone to look and had felt instantly dizzy when he saw how far away the ground was.
Seith slammed his fists against the unyielding wood. He tried the handle – stiff with disuse.
Must. Get. Out.
Even if Delon hadn't slipped the latch in place, Seith would have struggled to open the door. Now his situation was hopeless, and even though he wanted to be a big boy and not cry, the tears threatened.
What was it that made Delon hate him so much? Delon's father didn't get on with Seith's. He'd seen them having angry words a few times. Also, Delon was rude to the other elves at Skyhold and said nasty things when the adults weren't around to tell them that calling someone a knife-ear was bad.
None of that would help him now, and though he bruised his hands smacking the wood, and his voice grew raw from calling for help, none of his efforts delivered any results. Very few people used these passages. He could be here a day. Three days. A week...
Seith eventually crouched with his back to the door, and sniffled for a while. All he wanted was to be outside, but no amount of wishing was going to change things. For a while he rested his head on his arms, and tried not to think about the hunger eating his tummy nor how thirsty he was. His throat was dry and sore, and his nose was blocked which made it difficult to breathe.
Seith wasn't at first certain that he was alone. Slowly he sat up and looked to his right, where a young man dressed in raggedy patchwork crouched. Most of his face was hidden by messy blond hair, and he was wearing a big hat that made it difficult to look him in the eye.
The young man spoke. "He is sad, I want to help. He calls me from the other place. The unkind boy taunts him because of all the stories he believes. I can make the unkind boy stop but he's still young. He can still learn his words are sharp daggers. His father is a poisoned well."
"Who're you?" Seith squeaked, and shifted to the side.
"You're sad, you don't like it here in the dark. I felt. I came. I can help you. I can't help her. Not where she is now. But she would want you to be safe."
Before Seith could ask any more, the young man got up and placed his hand on the door handle. From the other side of the barrier came the soft clink of the latch being lifted. Then the stranger pulled, and the door opened.
"You can go to your father. It is safe now."
Tentatively, Seith crept out of the mouldy old room. He paused just past the threshold, where he looked right and left down the passage, then right again. No one. He puffed out a breath to get rid of the heaviness in his lungs then turned to thank the young man.
Then jerked back a step in fright. There was no one there. The horrible book room was empty but Seith was not going to go in there a second time. He ran and ran, and this time he went straight to the tower room. The sun was about to slip behind the snowy peaks, and Seith was already late; Father would've wanted him to clean up for dinner by now.
Breathless, he scrambled up the stairs, past startled sentries and a young couple holding hands, until he flew into the chamber.
Father was chatting to Varric, smiling even, as if nothing had been amiss the whole afternoon that Seith had been locked in the old book room.
"Father! Father!" he blurted, and his entire story tumbled past his lips, about Delon chasing him, about being trapped, and about the strange boy with the hat. Better to tell everything, because it had all been so strange, so frightening.
"Did I see a ghost, Father? Gerda was telling me about a grey lady Cook saw when she went to fetch turnips."
Seith had expected his father to get cross about Delon or perhaps even laugh and tell him he was imagining things. Instead he and Varric both went a little pale, and stared wordlessly at each other.
Varric spoke first. "Cole went missing round about the same time as she did, didn't he?"
Father gave a brief nod then got up. "Come on, Seith." He sounded all forced-cheerful. "It's time we get you that bath. It's nearly time for supper."
