8:97 Blessed Age
Danarius' Town House, Minrathous
Winter had set in.
The air that streamed in from the open harbour was needle sharp on the bare faces of the people scurrying through the streets, darting in and out of shops and buildings, trying to minimise their time spent in the open. From a distance the city seemed to dance, the ebb and flow of its citizens like an orchestrated, swirling pattern. It was a complex show put on for those rich enough to afford rooms in the high turrets of the white buildings, away from the smell and dirt.
And in fact there were people high above, looking down on the crowds as they milled round the streets. Some were beautiful women in expensive clothes who regarded the scene only casually, more interested in how their figures might appear in the soft light of sunset as they stood observing the world below. Slaves nervously darted to the windows, thin faces anxious to see the approach of their master's coach in order to be ready and waiting by the main door on their return.
Others watched just as intently but with a sense of calm and confidence, searching out some unfortunate individual who had said the wrong thing or sold the wrong goods and was now, unaware, about the feel the rush of cool air and the sudden shock of an arrow. These observers viewed the scene dispassionately; quick eyes focused only on finding, following and eliminating their employer's target. If they had been asked, they might have said that there were many worse ways to die in a city run on magic.
In fact, in the great Tevinter capital city of Minrathous, very little went unobserved. To lack knowledge was to lack power. The city, unlike those in the south, was not run by emperors or warrior kings, it was run by those with the best information, the longest history and the darkest Ability.
And yet, in one of the highest, grandest towers in the city, no assassin kept watch on the roof, no slaves waited for their master's return, no beautiful woman preened or simpered as the sunlight faded; the shutters of the highest tower were closed against the world in the hopes of blocking out any intrusion.
The wind however, not one to be told where to go, whistled through the cracks in the window pane, rattling the glass and stretching out the flames of the candles covering the large wooden desk in the centre of the study. Despite the fact that the sun was now low on the horizon, the light in the room was easily bright enough to read by. The dozens of candles casted the illusion of warmth over the wintry young man who sat with his elbows on the desk, his head resting in his hands as he read, with absolute focus, one of his many books. If he felt the chill in the air, or noticed the candle flames as they danced back and forth, there was no sign of it.
Every surface of the room was covered in and by books. Every wall, save only for the window and the door, was taken up with floor to ceiling shelving, each groaning under the weight of a thousand dead trees.
Even this was not enough. The floor itself was a mess of small towers of ledgers, tomes and grimoires. The table itself was equally covered with books, saving the small patches of space that the student's bony elbows took up, and an almost empty bottle of wine. A pale hand now reached across to grab the bottle and the remaining mouthfuls were drained, all without the reader removing his attention from the page.
The study returned to stillness, the air thick with concentration. Danarius had taken over his household some two years ago at the age of eighteen, after the untimely and, some might say, not unexpected death of his parents. He was now often referred to in polite society as determined and one to watch. Behind closed doors, when politeness was banished, these same people would agree he was an obsessive lunatic – but still very much one to watch, though perhaps if only to make sure he wasn't casting a spell or holding a knife.
Danarius was an apprentice Magister, and despite the fact he was not as habitual as some in his use of his Ability, he had a level of determination that did not merely border on the fanatical but had long ago gained residency. He came from a family of deep pockets and long memories. He was at twenty blessed with a distant and calculating intelligence, and a king's ransom in gold.
He had learnt very early in his life that, unless used in the right circumstances, magic in itself was limited. Drawing in and channelling the power needed to manifest and shape the Fade took an inordinate amount of energy and concentration. If the caster had time, or could connect to the Fade from a safe vantage point, it could of course be useful. Most of the time, however, it was overly draining and left the caster open to other, more 'old fashioned' methods of attack.
He therefore used his gift when necessary, but he treated it as only one of many tools in his arsenal. He realised that what he could achieve by spell casting he could achieve as easily, if not more so, though a drop of poison or a small cash expenditure.
He recognised in the Magisters around him a dependence on this elemental, erratic force that left them vulnerable. Years of habit and reliance on one method of doing things had left the elite and powerful controlling families stagnant and unprepared for anything other than a magical assault.
This was a vulnerability he intended to exploit.
The final years of the Blessed Age were drawing to a close, and the city was awash with rumours and gossip about what the next Age would hold. It was the responsibility of the White Divine, the head of the Southern church, to see the signs and to name the next Age, and in naming it so shape its destiny.
Although, Danarius privately felt, it did not take the Divine to see the writing on the wall. Tensions were building in the south, and many now felt that the distant Kingdom of Orlais would soon fall. Even in Tevinter, the political fallout of such an event would need to be carefully controlled, and possibly manipulated.
If Orlais were to fall the resulting power shift would no doubt affect the lives of those in the Tevinter Imperium. The world, Danarius reflected, was a small place. While his so-called peers fought amongst themselves for scraps of power, he had his eyes fixed the grander prize. Magic might very well make him a Magister, but politics could make him King of Thedas. All he needed was an edge.
So he focused on one goal, and aside from the bottles of red wine and plates of food that were delivered by one of his many slaves, there was very little that would have marked the turret, or the mansion in general, as occupied.
The night was now fully set in, and he felt his arms and shoulders protesting against the hours he had spent leaning over his books, moving only to drink or turn the page of the great volume in front of him. He sighed heavily, and began to roll his neck and head in small circles, loosening the stiffened muscles. A sharp pain shot through the left side of his neck, and he realised his body need a break, even if his mind didn't.
He stretched his pale arms above his head and yawned. He was a slender man, with a sallow complexion and light blonde hair, and in many ways he was unremarkable. He was of average height and features, the sharp blue of his eyes being his one distinguishing feature. He face was expressive and open, and he made a habit of smiling at people, in order to set them at their ease. He appeared friendly, and with his clear eyes and generous hospitality he was the focal point of many a young lady's attention.
He was in every respect a perfect representation of a courteous young man, which was exactly how he liked to be thought of. He dressed modestly, ate wisely, and studied religiously. His only observable vice, if it could be called such a thing, was an enjoyment of fine wines. He made sure to maintain it, as he recognised that being too neat, too sterile, would draw as much attention as any depravity.
He blended in, bided his time and amassed his power. He made sure he was present, if only for an hour, at most social gatherings. He whispered in corners, and had a network of slaves in other houses to keep him informed. He hired assassins when he needed to, but was savvy enough to use this as a last resort. Danarius knew what so many of his contemporaries did not: that a well-placed word, at the right time and in the right ear, could devastate much more fully than one simple death. He had, in this way, already 'murdered' two whole families who had blocked his ascent.
He was duly expected to become a full Magister before his twenty-second birthday, despite his limited use of magic. He knew how people worked, he understood the nature of The Game, as they called it in Orlais, and he played to win. It amazed him that others found it so difficult. To Denarius it was absurdly simple, a puzzle easily solved.
And so, when he had stumbled on the writings of Nereda and found a true mystery, he had been unable to resist.
A life that had, after only two decades, become predictable and threadbare, had suddenly taken on a fascinating and mesmerising new aspect. If he could only now answer the riddle, if he could only wield the weapon of which it spoke, he would not only have solved an Age's old enigma, but would also be truly unstoppable.
And so he sat, day after day, studying.
It should have been easy.
And yet so far none of his attempts to create the weapon had been successful.
His aching back now joined his neck in its complaints, and Danarius decided to stand and take a walk around the room. His drew his breath through his teeth as he looked at the state of the study, taking in the piles of books he had read and the even larger piles of books he had yet to read.
Despite the hours spent studying, despite his lightning quick mind, he had in fact only managed to uncover a few answers to the mystery: the weapon would be powerful, it would be magical but more than magic, it would be deadly and it would draw power from the land of the dead. And, finally, that it required lyrium. A lot of lyrium.
To most this would have proven a major hurdle, but Danarius, now he was head of the House, had sovereigns to melt. Lyrium ore was rare and very, very expensive. The sale of it was controlled by the Chantry, and in all but the most suspicious of cases it had to be imported from the Dwarven Thaigs in the south, a journey of several hundred sovereigns before the damned rocks had even been paid for.
The lyrium itself was a blue-ish ore that, when ground down and mixed into a liquid potion, allowed mages to increase their mana, the energy they needed to cast spells. Raw lyrium, that is, lyrium before it is treated, was both extremely addictive and extremely poisonous to humans and elves. Even a small amount of exposure could cause hallucinations and fits; large amounts would kill instantly. In its treated form long term exposure or abuse would still cause madness and eventual death.
The dwarves, however, seemed to be immune to effects, and as a result they held a monopoly not only in mining the ore but also in exporting it via legal and illegal routes, meaning that it was almost impossible for any outside the church but the very rich to acquire it in large quantities.
Danarius, sitting firmly in the second camp, now had a cellar full of it, and had no idea what he needed it for. It was... frustrating.
He walked over to the window, intending to open it fully and let some fresh air into the chamber. He began the tricky business of navigating his way around or over the many mountains of books, lifting his legs high in order not to disturb the controlled chaos of the piles.
But he must have been more tired than he realised, or his muscles too stiff, he may perhaps have even been a little drunk. Either way, as he lifted his leg to step over a particularly high stack, he lost his balance and fell to the floor, sending the pile of books crashing down on top of him. He fell on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs, and swore loudly. Sitting up, he surveyed the damage.
The pile he had tripped over had fallen, taking with it the two nearest piles as well. His legs were covered in a number of heavy, dusty books, and so he reached down and began removing them, stacking them up neatly again next to him. As he worked through the books on his legs a word caught his eye. He peered down at the open page, not daring to believe what was in front of his eyes.
His eyes darted back and forth across the words.
The language was arcane, but not illegible. He breathed out again slowly, and pulled himself up, the books that covered his legs falling loudly and unnoticed to the floor. He walked haphazardly back to his desk, bumping all the while into the low piles of books that blocked his way, his eyes never leaving the page. With one hand he felt around for the chair back, finding it with clumsy, distracted fingers, he landed heavily on the seat. Still his eyes had not left the page, darting back and forth as he took in the short the passage. His mind raced, trying to recognise words that had long ago fallen out of common use.
"Telum" the weapon…
"..quam sanguine et de sanguine.." made of blood... but more than blood, part of the blood?
"..indolorleo.." forged in.. discomfort?.. pain?..
"superste esthaec singulari.." Many die... no, many do not survive...
He paused. Many do not survive? That made no sense – what kind of weapon would it be if it left any survivors? Surely a weapon of prophecy should leave no one alive.
He read the passage again, trying to keep calm, trying to not build his hopes up, and yet desperate to make sense of the text.
"Superste esthaec singulari, post creationen", after the creation…
"vivum ferum impium"the life of the weapon is unholy... No, no, no, the living weapon is unholy.
Danarius' heart slowed and time stilled.
He stared at the page. The years of research, the endless expense, all drifted away.
He knew what the passage meant, and he knew what the weapon was.
He understood his mistakes.
He read on.
"Liquifacta carnem est lyrvm, spiritum ambula repot estsi corpus supersesse. Robar aetati seligendum."
Danarius' face broke into his trademark smile, but his blue eyes remained sharp and cool.
He knew how to make the weapon. Laughter escaped him.
All he needed now was a slave to undergo the process.
Oh, and to buy more lyrium.