8

Nathaniel paced.

There was little else to do.

He had been locked in a bedroom for three days. Ever since the mad command from Brighid Cousland — for he'd had no luck thinking of her as Brighid Theirin — that he was to become a Grey Warden. It was not where he expected to end up. If he was honest with himself, he'd expected to end up dead — not just when he was taken from his cell in the Vigil to be sentenced, but from the moment he'd stepped back into Ferelden.

It had taken months for reliable, corroborated news to reach him in the Free Marches. When the civil war was still going strong, his father sent word that he was to stay there in order to ensure that an heir to the Howe name lived if things should go badly. Concern from his father was rare, and Nathaniel could not spurn it. But once things unraveled, once there were rumors that his father was captured or worse, that the war was over, that the Howes and the Mac Tirs had lost to upstarts, Nathaniel could not be convinced to hold back.

The reality he encountered upon returning home was unthinkable. There was nothing left for him — no family, no name, no future. And to make the blow all the more overwhelming it came at the hands of Brighid Cousland. She'd never been soft, of that he was sure. Showing up after two years of presumed death, leading some bastard of King Maric's around by the nose, plowing through everyone that stood between her and the throne — he would not have thought her incapable of any of it, but he also would have never imagined that it would be something she wanted. And he had imagined many things about Brighid Cousland over the years. Of course, none of that mattered now, and he had never known her very well, after all.

The girl he remembered had been relentless and frank, perhaps brutally so, but never wantonly cruel. Yet what else could he call this charade? He had considered it during the long, lonely hours — considered how he might take advantage of the opportunity if it were truly presented to him, but he did not for a moment believe that it ever would be. He was not the same person for his experiences and Brighid Cousland obviously was not either. This was a game that she was playing, and he had no choice but to wait for her next move.

And so he did. For three days.

He was well-fed, as per Brighid's final instructions. On the first night, servants flanked by soldiers had dragged in a metal tub and filled it for him so that he could bathe. They took the worn clothes he'd doffed, and he stood, wet and shivering, until they brought him replacements. He saw no part of his own effects, however, and it became immediately clear that he would be offered nothing more than Brighid had expressly demanded. No one would answer any questions he posed, no matter how innocuous, or really speak to him at all. His only visitors were the servants and their guards — his guards — who brought him his meals three times a day.

It was no longer than he had been jailed before his sentencing, but despite the much improved accommodations, Nathaniel was infinitely more agitated. In the cell, he was resigned to his fate. In this room, thankfully not one of the family rooms in which he'd grown up, he waited for the unknown.

It came walking through the door on the morning of the fourth day. Nathaniel had expected a servant collecting his breakfast dishes. Instead, there was a very tall, very well-armed knight. After a moment of surprise, Nathaniel recognized him as the same one who had stood near Brighid during his sentencing; the one who had looked at him with the kind of hatred that seemed personal. His opinion of Nathaniel had evidently not much improved in the intervening days. Barely restrained ire still burned in his eyes as they looked at each other. Then, he spoke.

"Her Majesty calls. You will come with me," said the knight. On cue, a pair of servants entered carrying a set of leather armor and put it in front of Nathaniel. When he picked up the cuirass, he realized that it was his own—the crest of the Howe family tooled onto one corner. The knight only looked at him impatiently, and Nathaniel took his meaning.

He attired himself, the knight's burning gaze on him the entire time, and when he had barely buckled the final strap, the knight walked out of the room. Nathaniel followed.

Two soldiers dropped into step behind Nathaniel, and the knight led their silent procession through the familiar halls of the Vigil. Not many paused to look at them. Nathaniel supposed they did not look especially out of place — just a group of warriors on their way to some errand. The only people who would have reason to look would be people who knew who he was, and there was very little chance that anyone who would recognize him was still about the keep. He had been away a long time. He wondered how many of the servants who had tended his family and their home had been killed with their masters. Probably only the most loyal ones. Good workers were not to be wasted and as long as they did not plan to poison your food it did not really matter who their previous master had been. Blood relatives, unfortunately, did not get that sort of dispensation.

Nathaniel slowed when they neared the entrance to the great hall, only to receive a rough shove in the back from one of the soldiers tailing him. Up ahead the knight kept walking. He led them through the keep's main entrance and outside. Nathaniel felt some of his anxiety give way to plain curiosity. Evidently, Brighid did not wish to belittle him as she had before, perched in his father's chair and looking down her pert, little nose. Perhaps she had planned some fresh, new humiliation.

The soldiers stayed at the door of the keep and the knight dropped back to walk at Nathaniel's side as they weaved their way around the squat buildings. It was not far before Nathaniel saw Brighid standing near one of the cellar entrances. She was armed and her hair was tied up tight at the crown of her head. She also wore plain studded leather armor that did not seem adorned enough for her station. There was a blond man engaged in conversation with her—a mage if the robes and staff were any indication—and the mabari from the great hall was there as well. So too the Antivan elf who'd lounged at Brighid's feet like an over-contented cat.

"Why in Andraste's name would you wish to take a cat with you?" Nathaniel heard Brighid ask the mage as he and the knight approached. Upon closer inspection, it did, indeed, appear that the mage was clutching a small cat to himself.

The mage grinned stupidly. "With all due respect and no offense intended, my queen, you have a dog."

Brighid's eyes narrowed. "This is a mabari war hound," she said. "He was magically bred for both extraordinary intelligence and battle prowess." The dog barked as if in agreement.

"That," she continued, pointing at the bundle of fur in his arms, "is a ginger kitten and while it is cute, I will grant you, it is also entirely useless in a fight."

"Mages made the mabari," the mage pointed out. "What's to say that I can't start a breed of hyper-intelligent war cats with Ser Pounce-a-Lot here?"

"The fact that Knight is clearly smarter than you are?" Brighid offered, then turned as she noticed Nathaniel and his escort approaching.

"Willem," she said. "I see have you have brought our sixth."

"As you commanded, Your Majesty," said Ser Willem as he bowed and then immediately arranged himself behind his queen.

"And how are you, Nate?" Brighid asked. The diminutive of his name sounded mocking on her tongue, a callback to memories to which she no longer had any right and for which he no longer had any use.

"Nathaniel," he corrected. "And I am your prisoner… my lady."

"You were my prisoner, Nathaniel," she said. "Now you are a Grey Warden recruit."

With that she picked up the bow and full quiver that had been leaning against the door to the cellar and pressed them into his arms. They were his own.

"This is Anders, a fellow Grey Warden," she said indicating the mage. "Zevran." The elf, though she offered no other title or position. "And you've already met Willem."

The dog growled. "Oh, and Knight."

"You brought me out here for introductions then," Nathaniel said, vexed by the entire situation, but particularly her casual attitude, as though he were a true recruit and not some toy with which she'd decided to fiddle.

"No. I brought you out here to make yourself useful," she said. "I have business to attend to in the basements. Like far too high a percentage of my business, it involves killing darkspawn. As such, it will also double as the first part of your initiation rite." She tossed something small and gleaming towards him and he caught it easily. It was a glass vial.

"You need to fill that vial with darkspawn blood. Survive and you become a Grey Warden and have some small chance at digging the Howes out of this latest hole in which they've found themselves. Don't survive and, well, there's one way to be rid of all of your problems. I suggest you survive."

Brighid turned to the door, opened it, and began down the steps. The others trailed after her. The mage waved down a passing girl and gave the kitten to her before doing so. Ser Willem passed with a dirty look at Nathaniel. Nathaniel stood at the doorway, allowing this latest shift in reality to settle.

Somehow, unthinkably, her offer was legitimate.

He bolted down the steps after them. He passed the mage and the elf, but Ser Willem put his massive armored arm out, blocking Nathaniel's progress towards Brighid. Nathaniel was forced to talk past the knight when he called to her.

"You're actually serious," he said, still disbelieving.

"As the business end of my blade," she replied without stopping or turning around.

"I don't know whether to take this as a vote of confidence or a punishment," he said, accusing.

"Nathaniel, I hope you believe I am just as serious when I say that which way you take it does not matter to me a whit," she replied.

He scowled at her back and said no more as they descended into the cellar. A small group of soldiers waited there in the antechamber, and Brighid spoke immediately to one woman.

"Is all ready, Sergeant Maverlies?" Brighid asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Maverlies replied. "We have not gone beyond this point. There were darkspawn bodies, crushed in the rubble. So that is fewer for you to worry about." The soldier seemed torn between wariness of the situation and awe of Brighid.

She continued: "There may also be people down here. There is a dungeon and there were prisoners. There is the chance of servants sent on errands as well."

"They've been trapped down here for nearly four days with darkspawn. I doubt any survive," said Brighid.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Maverlies replied solemnly.

Brighid walked past the soldiers to enter the basement proper, but Maverlies called after her.

"Maker watch over you, Your Majesty," she said with much feeling.

Brighid offered a scant nod of acknowledgement before passing through the door, her party hot on her heels. Nathaniel followed, checking the string on his bow as he walked. They came out in the Hall of Warriors. The walls were lined with statues representing all of the different forces that had held Vigil's Keep at one point or another, all the way back to the Avvar barbarians. It had been modeled by the Orlesians during their own occupation and as such had been in disrepair for Nathaniel's entire life. Instead of a great hall of history, it seemed like dusty storage for unwanted reminders of the past. Nathaniel already had enough of those to be getting on with from the course of his own life.

They walked through it on quickly, no one else especially concerned with the history either. When they neared the far door, it was to find a mabari curled up on the floor.

Brighid knelt beside it and Nathaniel was surprised to see it move. It was wounded and its fur matted with dried blood. He'd thought it was dead. Brighid made soothing noises as she gently petted it.

"Willem, go get Sergeant Maverlies," she commanded.

Ser Willem trundled off towards the door through which they'd entered. Brighid's own mabari approached, then lay down beside the injured dog. He licked it gently and nudged at it with his nose. Brighid inspected the dog carefully and when she backed away, nodding in the mage's direction, Nathaniel saw why.

Brighid held a small scroll that had been attached to the dog. It was stained and crumpled but obviously still legible as Brighid studied it.

"A woman called Adria has descended deeper into the basement to hide," Brighid announced. Nathaniel's breath caught.

"Did you say Adria?"

Brighid just passed Nathaniel the note as she returned to the dog in order to look at what, if anything, the mage was doing for it.

The handwriting was frantic, but still unmistakable to Nathaniel's eyes; she had taught him to read and write after all. Adria had been his nurse and then his tutor. She looked after him when he was sick and was probably one of the only people who missed him after his father sent him away — after the decision had been made that Thomas was to be the heir and Nathaniel was only a spare.

Ser Willem returned with Sergeant Maverlies trailing behind him. Brighid gave the woman swift instructions to care for the dog and then set off through the door again. Nathaniel maneuvered himself beside her before Willem could intervene, note still clutched in his fist.

"Adria was like a mother to me," he said. "We must save her."

"It has been too long," Brighid advised him as they turned a corner and found another descending stairwell. "There is very likely nothing left to save."

"We have to try!" he exclaimed. "Even you cannot be so callous."

"And what do you think we are presently doing, Nathaniel, coming down here for a picnic?" Her normally unaffected voice had risen in irritation. "I had not planned to turn tail and run the other way should we encounter her."

Nathaniel felt momentarily chagrined, but only momentarily, before she spoke again and chagrin was replaced with anger.

"You are an archer are you not? Take up the rear guard with Anders and stop nattering in my ear."

It was a wonder, he thought, that she could be so arrogant as to speak to him that way, to have done what she had done to his family, and then to put him at her back. How she had not already been killed as a result of her hubris he could not understand. But he paused at the bottom of the stairs nevertheless, wishing to be near her no more than she wanted him there. Ser Willem passed him, as did Zevran and the dog. Nathaniel fell into step beside the mage who leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.

"She can be a bit testy in the morning," he confided.

"And on days that end at sunset, I imagine," Nathaniel replied.

Anders chuckled in agreement. "View's better from back here anyway."

He tilted his head then and, upon mimicking him, Nathaniel saw that in the wider corridor, the spread of their other companions allowed a largely unobstructed view of the sway of Brighid's hips as she walked. Nathaniel straightened up, cleared his throat, and concentrated on staring daggers at the back of her head instead — leaving the mage to his prurient amusements.

The mage laughed again.

"Have it your way," he said.

Eventually, they arrived at the door that opened into the lower dungeon. Two cages dominated the room: one closed and empty, the other with its door hanging off the hinges. There were massive bloodstains all over the floor and in the open cell, two men huddled in the corner. Brighid approached with excessive care and, wary of the tension, Nathaniel nocked an arrow.

"Oi, there," she called out and one of the men whipped around, his face contorted into a hideous mask as he yelled then charged at Brighid. She sidestepped him easily, grabbing his arm and using that and a knee at his back to force him to his knees. Then, she drew the knife at the small of her back and slit the man's throat in one swift motion.

Nathaniel lowered his bow.

"I see mercy is, indeed, not one of your strong suits," he said.

Brighid silently cleaned her knife and the elf answered him first.

"He was already dead," Zevran said. "That was the greatest mercy she could offer him."

Re-sheathing her knife, Brighid tipped the dead man over onto his back with one foot. Nathaniel recoiled at the sight of him. Now that he was still and closer, Nathaniel could see that the man was covered with rotting black sores and his skin, a sickly gray pallor, was stained with old blood, not his own that had just been spilled.

"A basic Grey Warden lesson," she said. "The Taint took him. Not everyone is lucky enough to die immediately. It twisted him, drove him mad. We call them ghouls."

"What about the other-" Anders began, but his eyes must have fallen on the second man at the same time Nathaniel's did. The man was well and truly dead, with the same sores as the first, but his body was also ravaged. Parts of him were… missing; one stump of an arm looked gnawed. Beside Nathaniel, Anders shuddered and turned away. Nathaniel averted his gaze as well, but it quickly came to rest on the door leading deeper into the basements. He hated to think that Brighid was right, but he could not imagine how Adria could have survived a run-in with such a wretched creature.

He, however, seemed to be the only one considering moving forward. Brighid had wandered back towards the right wall of the room, just at the head of the cage where the two dead men lay. Her devoted entourage followed and watched as she slid her hands along the wall. She stopped at a section between two wooden support beams and stroked the fitted stone with long, slender fingers as she moved close, all but pressing her cheek to it.

"Do you feel that, Anders?" she asked suddenly.

The mage looked surprised, but then, squinting his eyes, nodded.

"Yes, I do," he confirmed.

"Feel what?" Nathaniel demanded.

Brighid took one step back and regarded the section of wall she had been fondling.

"Darkspawn," she said. "Help me out here, Zev."

The elf came forward, a dagger in his hand that Nathaniel had not seen earlier, and put his own pointed ear to the wall. He moved to a few different spots, tapping the hilt of his dagger against the wall. Then he ran his hands, not along the wall as his mistress had done, but up and down the support beams. Midway through one side, there was a faint click, then the scraping and grinding of stone as a segment of the wall swung back revealing a dark passageway.

"I got a splinter," Zevran said as he studied one of his fingers.

"Would you like me to kiss it better?" Brighid asked drily as she took a torch from a nearby sconce.

Zevran smiled lasciviously. "My dear queen, there are so many parts of me that you are most cordially invited to kiss."

Nathaniel eyed Ser Willem, who was procuring a torch himself. He certainly seemed slavish enough in his service of Brighid to take great offense at the elf's impertinence. But Willem said nothing and Brighid led them into the passageway.

Not satisfied with the torches flickering just ahead, Anders tapped the bottom of his staff lightly on the ground and a brilliant glow sprung up from the odd stone held in the latticework at its top. The passageway was not long. Had it been lit, its end would have been easily visible from within the dungeon. The door at the opposite side was not hidden. Brighid held the torch in her left hand as she turned the knob and threw it open.

The room into which the door opened was large and circular, lit by torches that burned around its length, high on the walls. The light revealed recesses along the walls, each holding a heavy stone coffin.

It was a crypt. Little wonder he and his siblings had been forbidden from playing down here as children.

There were two levels. The door opened onto the top one which was circled by a chiseled stone bannister and, directly in front of the door, there was a wide stairway that led down to the lower level. In the center of that circle, a group of darkspawn gathered around a fire.

Willem dropped his torch and charged down the steps before the darkspawn could even draw their blades. He plowed into the middle of the crowd, knocking one of the darkspawn directly into their campfire before they began to swarm him. Brighid, Zevran, and the mabari followed him, engaging those that had not been distracted by the knight's wild charge. Brighid shoved her torch into one darkspawn's face, then drew her sword and long knife and blocked another's attack. Zevran, who had two daggers now, stabbed it twice in the back before Brighid could counter. She immediately turned her attention to another enemy. The mabari dragged down one of the beasts attempting to hack at Willem. Beside Nathaniel, Anders moved near the banister as he raised his staff.

Whatever the spell was, it swept over Nathaniel like a cool breeze. His senses felt keener and his hands steadier. He nocked an arrow and let fly into the crowd still gathered around Willem. One of the darkspawn fell dead, the arrow protruding from his neck. Nathaniel continued firing and so did Anders, maintaining his helper spell and sporadically letting a crackling bolt of electricity fly at any darkspawn that fled into a corner.

Nathaniel had not had time to think of what it would mean to be a Grey Warden, to face these creatures, snarling and inhuman as they were. In the moment, it did not seem to matter though. His hands and arms moved as if of their own accord and the hellish beasts fell just like anything else as he rained death down upon them. Then, two broke away and dashed up the stairs.

Nathaniel retreated back as far as he could without running into Anders, then shot one darkspawn straight through the eye just before it reached the landing. Its companion, however, was closing fast. Nathaniel glanced at Anders. The mage's eyes were half-lidded and unfocused; energy gathered at his hands and swirled around his raised staff. Below, an aura of similar energy limned Ser Willem. Whatever Anders was doing required his full concentration and was very likely keeping the knight alive. On his own then.

Nathaniel fired at the rushing darkspawn, but the creature was too close. Nathaniel's shot went askew, glancing off of its arm and ricocheting uselessly. Left with few other options, Nathaniel charged. The darkspawn lunged for him and Nathaniel sidestepped, moving behind him. Then, for want of anything better, he hooked his bow around the creature's neck, up under its chin, pressing against its windpipe. For just a moment, he held it, its body bent back as Nathaniel attempted to crush the breath from it. Then, the darkspawn screeched and began to struggle. Nathaniel was lifted off his feet as the darkspawn pulled itself back up to its full height. It clawed at the bow, which was now choking it not just with what force Nathaniel could bring to bear, but the weight of his entire body. The darkspawn bucked and spun, attempting to sling Nathaniel off him, but Nathaniel held tight, arms straining, the wood of the bow creaking. From close proximity the darkspawn's stink filled Nathaniel's nostrils, making it harder for him to breathe as he panted with the exertion. His hands were sweating and his muscles burning when the darkspawn jolted, then began staggering to a stop. It had been facing Anders, who now stood with his staff pointed at the darkspawn's chest.

Whatever he had done had ended the creature, and it teetered dangerously backwards. Nathaniel kicked a foot out and pushed off a nearby wall, causing the darkspawn to fall forward instead. It crashed to the ground and Nathaniel's knuckles scraped on the stone. His bow made a foreboding crack. He lifted himself from the darkspawn's back and freed the bow from under it.

It was splintered and snapped in two uneven pieces. Nathaniel cursed. It had been a fine bow, of Antivan make. But, he supposed, better it be crushed by a darkspawn than him. Below, Brighid and Zevran were disposing of the last two darkspawn. Brighid sliced open one's neck, then deftly dodged out of the way of the spurt of blood that followed. All at once, Nathaniel remembered her instruction.

He rolled the fallen darkspawn onto its back, then drew the small knife sheathed on the underside of his quiver. The vial, which he had stored in a side pocket on his belt, was mercifully unbroken and Nathaniel unstoppered it and held it steady as he opened a gash in the creature's throat. The blood was viscous, nearly black, and smelled ten times worse than the darkspawn itself. It oozed over the edges of the vial as Nathaniel attempted to fill it and he screwed up his face in disgust.

"How very pleasant," he said.

Anders, who stood by watching, patted his shoulder companionably as he passed him to go down the stairs.

"Oh, you have no idea," he said, smiling.

Nathaniel finished filling the vial and stoppered it, and then wiped off as much of the excess as he could before tucking it back into his belt pouch. Below, the others were surveying the darkspawn camp and Nathaniel joined them, his ruined bow tucked under one arm. Once he was down there, it became evident that the crypt had been used for storage prior to the darkspawn's incursion. There were crates and weapon stands scattered about; some, he saw, ravaged by the darkspawn. Still, it was as convenient as could be asked for. Nathaniel searched a nearby stand, looking for something to keep him alive as they continued their sojourn into the depths of the keep.

The room was evidently no great secret as the weapons were too well kept up to have been untouched since his family's time at Vigil's Keep. He drew out a longsword and tested its balance before sliding it under his belt. Nathaniel had sold his own sword a few weeks after coming back to Ferelden. It had been that or starve, and it came down to whether the bow or the sword would be of more use to him. A bow and arrows had more utility and so went the blade. This replacement would do as well as anything. The bows he found, however, would not. They were all short and he preferred a good longbow. He was about to despair of being left to defend himself with sword alone when Brighid called out to him.

"Try that," she said, walking nearer to him and then tossing a longbow at him. He caught it and stared down at the smooth, light wood. "It's playing havoc with my ring," Brighid continued. "It must be enchanted."

She held up her right hand. A heavy, gold signet ring was on her index finger and he quickly banished the question of whether it was Cousland or Theirin. Likely the latter. It was not what she had been referencing at any rate. On her ring finger, there was a silver band and it shined and sparked when he looked at it, the runes covering its surface gleaming in the firelight. In his hands, he could feel the magic humming through the bow, even without any errant enchanted items of his own for it to react to. He studied it carefully, running his hands along its length until he saw it. Burned into the wood was the Howe family crest. Recognition flooded him.

"This is my grandmother's bow," he said. He remembered finding it years ago, as a child. He could barely string it then and his father had been furious when he caught him with it. Nathaniel's grandfather had been an Orlesian sympathizer, but his wife, Ruth, and his brother, Byron, felt differently. They ran off together to join the rebellion. Eventually, Nathaniel father's Rendon had joined his mother and uncle's side and distinguished himself as the Howe heir, returning their name to nobility. But after King Maric ascended to his throne, Ruth was not done. She left to join the Grey Wardens. In the wake of his father's failures, Rendon had never forgiven his mother for either count of what he termed abandonment.

"I'm surprised my father didn't burn it," he continued. "Thank you."

Brighid shrugged one shoulder, flippant. "You were probably going to steal it anyway."

Nathaniel chose to ignore her and instead sat on the steps and strung the bow. They finished searching the area and the others waited—Brighid tapping her foot impatiently at the top of the stairs—for Nathaniel to retrieve his arrows. With Brighid and Willem having disposed of their torches, only Anders' staff lit the way back through the passage, but it was more than enough.

They crossed through the dungeon and to the entry way that would take them even deeper into the basement. There were more stairs, spiraling down, and at first there were intermittent landings, where one hall or two would stretch off leading to a room, each one dustier and longer abandoned than the last. Eventually, the steps stopped entirely. Then there was only a tunnel made of rough stone and tightly packed dirt.

"How far down does this bleeding place go?" Brighid growled when they ran out of stairs.

"No one knows what's at the bottom of the Vigil," Nathaniel said, truthfully. "It's always been here."

"Lovely."

Ten minutes into the tunnels they turned a bend and spotted an opening and a light flickering ahead. Expecting darkspawn, Nathaniel drew an arrow and pulled it back easily, bow singing in his hands. The tunnel opened up into a chamber, once again of smooth fitted stone. There was also a wall of dirt and rubble blocking what Nathaniel assumed was yet another tunnel. Like the crypt, a campfire was situated near the center of the room. Unlike the crypt, there were no darkspawn. Just three people, hunched over with a labored, lumbering gait that was familiar even after just one encounter.

One was a woman and Nathaniel, forgetting himself, moved closer. She turned, hissed, and charged. Her fellows followed. Nathaniel backed away, lowering his bow, eyes locked on Adria's ruined face. She held a little knife in her hand and she swung it at him, eyes uncomprehending.

"Adria!" he yelled. "It's me! Nathaniel!"

She just continued shrieking. Behind them the fight was already over, though it could not truly have been called a fight. Brighid and Zevran had put the other two down like dogs. Adria's eyes were empty, not even the slightest spark of recognition. Instinctually, Nathaniel blocked a swing of her knife with his bow and winced to think of ruining another one — this one particularly — so soon, but the knife did not even make a notch in the spelled wood.

"Please, Adria," he said, though he recognized now that it would have no effect. So intent was he on his former nurse that he did not see Brighid approach until she grabbed Adria by the hair and yanked her back. Brighid twisted the woman to the side until she was facing the floor, then ran her long knife across her throat. Even the blood that pooled beneath her was mottled with viscous black globs, not unlike what was contained in the vial in his belt.

"I said survive," Brighid said quietly. She paused momentarily, looking at him, but said nothing else before turning and rejoining the others.


Author's Note: In Awakening, Nathaniel talks at length about his paternal grandfather being a great hero and a Grey Warden. However, for anyone who read the Howes of Amaranthine codex entry, it quite clearly states that Rendon Howe's father was actually an Orlesian sympathizer who was ultimately ousted and hanged by the Couslands. Rendon later redeemed his family by joining the rebellion and fighting with Bryce Cousland at the battle of White River. This is obviously just another instance of dudes not keeping track of their own lore and my fix was to make Nathaniel's grandMOTHER the hero and acknowledge the codex entry.