Chapter 9
"The thane of Wyvern Hold, so the story goes, had a vision and in it he beheld his clan, sleeping, deep in their cups after a feast. And as he watched, they transformed one by one into serpents. The only ones who escaped this fate were those snatched up by eagles and carried away.
The thane took this to mean that a terrible calamity would befall his people and that only the Lady of the Skies could save them. So the Wyvern clan forswore all other gods and devoted themselves to the Lady.
But the other Avvar clans feared that the disrespect of Clan Wyvern would bring the wrath of Korth the Mountain-Father upon their people. The other thanes tried words and then blades to change Wyvern's ways without success.
When the Tevinter Imperium came with their legions to claim the mountains, many clans were wiped out, enslaved, or forced to flee across the Waking Sea to the south. Clan Wyvern, however, was not among them. They simply disappeared. And to this day some Avvar thanes will tell you—if they have had enough mead—that the last any soul ever saw of the Wyvern clan was a great flight of eagles descending to their hold."
—from Tales of the Mountain-People, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar
Morrigan
As her child grew, there were times when Morrigan was reminded of an elf she once knew. These times were not when he showed his capacity for magic. These times were not when he switched easily from the trade tongue to Elvish and back. These times were not when he managed to impress even Arlathan's mages with his potential. These times were also not when he read voraciously, taking in every fragment of information he could scavenge, for the sake of knowledge alone. Knowledge, he'd been taught, was power, and he believed it with the same fervor of the elves who believed in their Creators so fiercely that they still guarded Arlathan's temples.
None of those times reminded Morrigan of Zevran. Those particular memories were left to be brought forth by Nathaniel, when he chose to teach tricks of his common trade to the seven-year-old boy with the soul of an Old God. That the boy turned out to be preternaturally good at it did nothing to make it acceptable, and when the boy attempted to charm his way out of being disciplined and nearly succeeded, it irked her. Let him practice his charms on the thousand-year-old elf who spoke too slowly, and yet knew so much that her son was forced to listen. Cianán hated lessons with Taranis, though he saw the necessity of them. Whenever her son stepped too far out of place, he would inevitably find himself trapped in the confines of the old elf's study. The only thing that held the boy there was his thirst for knowledge, and he put himself through the torture of staying for the sake of it. Yet, given the choice, he would not go of his own accord.
Once, Cianán had told Taranis that their lessons were a punishment for him, expecting outrage, leniency, or to be dismissed. Yet because Taranis had already known the nature of the arrangement, he'd simply smiled and carried on, even slower that time. It was remarkably effective as a disciplinary tool, yet did not waste too much of the boy's valuable time. Truly, the few occasions in which Cianán found himself in a spot of trouble always led back to Nathaniel.
When she was certain that Cianán's trudge down the path would carry him dutifully to Taranis' lessons, Morrigan went to confront the real problem. She found Nathaniel in the central grassy field of the city, relegated to a corner that had been portioned off for archery practice. Though they had been away from Thedas for over a thousand years, the elves of Arlathan had not let their martial skills rust, and on any day, there would be many taking shots at the targets. In the beginning, they had grudgingly allowed Nathaniel to practice alongside them. In the years since, they had come to view his presence as sufferable.
Morrigan stood behind Nathaniel, crossed her arms, and waited.
The Grey Warden loosed one last shot before he turned to face her, not even bothering to see where his arrow had struck the target—center. She would not tell him so. If he had wanted to know, he would have looked, and she was not impressed by his show of overconfidence.
"I take it you have a reason to be directing your glare at my person, my lady?"
"You have taught him more of your tricks."
Nathaniel chuckled. "He's learned them rather well, hasn't he?"
"He has magic. He does not need to be a pickpocket." Nathaniel would not charm her, either. His attempts to do so in complimenting her son would not work, and she would prove it thus.
"It hones his dexterity."
"It makes him a thief."
Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Since when do you care about petty thievery?"
"Since it was something of mine he stole." It was not the item itself she concerned herself over. Since her son was the obvious culprit, the item had been easily recovered. What she did not like was the questions the ring had brought forth from the child. It had piqued his curiosity and he had not relented in his tiny inquisition:
It looks like a leaf. Is it a leaf? Yes.
What is it made of? Wood of a silvery color. More, I do not know.
Why don't you know? I am not an expert on trees.
Where did you get it? It was given to me.
Who gave it to you? A friend whom I once named sister.
What does it do? Nothing. It does nothing.
If it does nothing, why do you keep it? Because I choose to.
The last question had diminished her enough to send him to Taranis before she was forced to venture any further into the memory of a life left long ago.
"It was not the first thing of mine he had stolen," she said when Nathaniel began to regard her too curiously. "The thievery must be stopped."
The item he had stolen last time was a cowl given to her as a gift. The gift had not been the cowl itself, but her reaction: laughter in a time governed by the grim oppression of fate. More a hideous pile of cloth roughly sewn together than an actual, useful cowl, it had still served a purpose. Malcolm had never revealed where he'd obtained it, nor was it important. The magic the cowl held was the possibility of respite from fate, if only temporary. And so she had kept it, just as she kept the ring Líadan had given to her before she had stepped through the eluvian. Líadan had explained that it would benefit Morrigan far more than it would her, in how it enhanced cast spells. Morrigan had no argument to such reasoning, for Líadan had been right. They both had not mentioned anything of sentimentality. It was better that way.
Yet, when Cianán had placed the cowl upon his head, Morrigan had almost allowed a laugh to escape, touched by a rare moment of amusement. Then she was very nearly overwhelmed by memories she did not want to relive.
"Do not teach him to steal," Morrigan said to Nathaniel. "I will abide it no longer."
He bowed. "As you say, my lady."
His easy acquiescence caused her to seethe inside, as did his overly formal treatment of her. He would know the discomfort it caused—he was too observant not to—and yet he continued with the behavior.
In the time that followed, if Nathaniel had declined to cease teaching Cianán his low thievery, Morrigan could not tell. What she could tell, and easily discovered once it had begun, was that Nathaniel had changed tactics. He still instructed the boy, yet now in a realm of martial skill.
She stumbled upon it as she walked from one library to another, one clue of eluvian crafting in one book having led to her a new one, which was inconveniently located on the opposite side of the city. However, when she noticed her son lined up with the numerous archers in their practice area, her clue and her hunt were set aside.
The boy held a smaller version of the bows the Arlathan archers used, an arrow nocked and drawn to his cheek, his eyes on the target in absolute concentration. He released the arrow almost as smoothly as the older archers, and it struck the target just outside the bullseye. That a warm flare of pride went through her at her son's ability did not matter. What mattered was that he possessed other, more powerful skills, and those were the ones he should be honing. These lessons were not necessary, and they squandered valuable time.
And that she did not interrupt Cianán when she pulled Nathaniel aside had nothing to do with her pride in her son. Nothing at all.
"I take it you object, my lady?" asked Nathaniel, not a hint of contriteness on his face.
"He does not need to be a common archer."
Nathaniel momentarily shifted his gaze over to the trees lining the central field. "Magic won't get him dinner out in the forest."
"It would if he took the wolf form he is perfecting."
"And if he wishes to hide from templars and needs to eat something more than mushrooms and berries? It's a skill and a disguise that will serve him well to have learned."
Presented with the practicality of the lesson, Morrigan could not argue. So she strode away, unwilling to grant Nathaniel the victory. What she did grant him, though she did not speak it aloud, was that he seemed to have a vested interest in the boy. For what purpose, she did not know, yet it did not seem to be malevolent, and it rendered him and his behavior bearable.
He was, at times, tolerable. Such was her opinion of Nathaniel.
Líadan
"I thought this was yours, Mamae," Cáel said as Líadan handed him the ring.
"It was only mine to hold until it could be given to you." She folded her son's fingers over the ring resting in the palm of his left hand. "Morrigan gave it to your father, a long time ago. After Morrigan left for Arlathan, your father gave it to me for safekeeping. And now I'm giving it to you."
He opened his fingers to examine the ring, tracing the details with a finger from his right hand. "What does it do?"
Malcolm sighed. "You know, sometimes, it wouldn't be a bad thing for you to be less clever."
Cáel rolled his eyes. "Anyone knows that most rings that mages or Wardens have come with some sort of rune or enchantment." He pointed at the ring Malcolm had long since worn on his finger instead of next to the Warden pendant on his necklace. "Yours helps heal you. Uncle Alistair's helps keep him safe from magical attacks. I could come up with more examples, if you want."
"No, we get the idea." Malcolm shifted in his seat next to Cáel. "To be honest, I'm not sure what it does anymore. It might not do anything. At most, it will help Morrigan find whoever wears it on their finger—if Morrigan was on Thedas. But she's not, so there you go."
"So why give it to me? I don't know Morrigan. She isn't my mother, not really. Mamae is."
"She was your mother for the first three months you were alive," Líadan said softly from her place on Cáel's other side. "And she loved you enough to find another mother for you before she left you here with your father. You know this story. We've told you before." She held her hand out toward him. "Let me put it on and I'll give you an answer that you might accept."
With a sigh that rivaled Malcolm's, Cáel handed her the ring and the simple silverite chain it was strung on, and allowed Líadan to fasten it around his neck. With the clasp being the weakest point, Bethany had enchanted it to ensure it wouldn't break.
Líadan felt like rolling her eyes herself at her son's theatrics, but she didn't. "We felt that it would be a good for you to have something of hers. Even if you don't think of her as your mother, or would treat her as one if you ever got to meet her, she was still someone very important in your life, for however short a time she was in it. Maybe the ring will help keep you safe. Creators know, half the things your father and I have been through likely would've killed us ages ago. Maybe the ring had something to do with it."
Cáel lifted the chain and studied the ring again. "So, better safe than sorry?"
Malcolm dropped to his back on his son's bed. "Would it kill you to be outwardly sentimental more than once every three months?"
"I was sentimental twice last week."
After that remark, Líadan knew if she made eye contact with Malcolm, she would laugh. Malcolm just put an arm over his face and muttered under his breath, and Líadan was fairly certain it was about his own mother getting even for everything Malcolm had put her through when he was a child.
"In answer to your question, yes," Líadan said to Cáel. "Now, is there anything else you'd like to ask, or are you done for tonight?"
"I'm not sure." Cáel pulled his legs up onto the bed and crossed them, poking at a new hole in his sock. "Did you say goodnight to Ava already?"
"Yes," Malcolm said somewhat warily, the question bringing him back to sitting up. "Why?"
"She told me today that she's been having nightmares. I wasn't sure if you knew."
And if Cáel had passed along the information without a great deal of prompting, it meant he thought something was wrong. "We know," Líadan said. "She keeps coming to sleep with us instead of her own bed."
He wrinkled his nose. "I don't do that anymore because it's too crowded. Then it gets warm and if I want to sleep, that's almost as bad as the nightmare for keeping me awake. I figured out that I could get Revas to sleep in my room if I need to feel safer. She stays on the floor and I get to stay in my own bed."
"How would you feel about teaching your sister that trick?" asked Malcolm.
Líadan shot her bondmate a glare that he entirely ignored. While she'd had the same thought, she hadn't said it out loud. It did get too warm to sleep comfortably if one or both the children joined them. It wasn't uncomfortable enough to deny them the reassurance they needed—so long as it didn't become a habit—but it did get overly warm.
"I did," said Cáel. "She said she doesn't think Revas could help stop the things after her."
"What sort of things?" Malcolm's tone had taken on a sharp edge, one that Líadan understood.
"She wouldn't say. When I kept asking, she went all quiet and wouldn't answer. Maybe she'd tell you, if you asked." He looked up from his systematic unraveling of his sock. "Do you think they're demons?"
"It's possible," said Malcolm.
"If it's them, can't you go into the Fade and kill them?"
"I could," said Líadan. "It would take a lot of work, and possibly a lot of travel, but I could go into the Beyond and kill them. But even if I did, there would be more. There would always be more."
As if he couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, or how to expend whatever nervous energy that had taken him, Cáel left his sock alone and switched to rubbing his finger along the side of the ring they'd given him. "It's because of the magic, isn't it?"
"Yes." Líadan wished she could have given him a different answer, one with a real solution.
"I'm glad I'm not a mage."
Malcolm chuckled lightly. "Even though she believed you wouldn't be one, Morrigan would have despaired to hear you say that."
With the seriousness only a child could muster, Cáel said, "Then she should know better. I think it's too hard."
Líadan imagined Morrigan's face if she'd heard what Cáel had just said. She barely managed to restrain her laughter, even with the gravity of the conversation.
"I do, too," said Malcolm.
But Cáel had moved beyond mere seriousness to becoming genuinely upset. "I wish Ava didn't have it. It isn't fair." Then the frustration he'd been holding in came out in a rush. He slid off the bed, throwing his hands in the air as he stalked about his room. "And I can't help her. I'm her brother. I'm supposed to keep her safe and I can't. I just have to watch."
"I know," said Líadan. "So do we."
He sat down hard on the chair by the window. "It isn't fair."
"No, it isn't. Magic, I've learned, even as someone without it, is never fair," said Malcolm. "But you can still help your sister. What you can do is watch out for others. Make sure she doesn't do anything that will let others know she has magic. And make sure neither of you say anything, either."
Cáel nodded. "I can do that." Then he got up and headed for the door, as if he'd go start right then.
Malcolm intercepted him and directed him toward his bed. "You can start tomorrow. Right now, it's bedtime."
After he was tucked in and they were about to leave, Cáel asked one more question. "Can Revas sleep in here?"
"I'll ask her," said Líadan, suspecting she already knew what Cáel's nightmares would be about—not being able to keep his sister safe. When she opened the door, Revas was already outside, as if she'd known. Once the doorway was clear, she bounded into the room and settled in at the foot of Cáel's bed. Líadan wasn't sure if her mabari's insight reassured her or frightened her. Maybe a little of both.
Malcolm said nothing as they walked the short distance down the corridor to their own rooms. She knew he wanted to discuss what was happening, and she knew they needed to, but she still didn't have the courage to face it down. They'd done all they were supposed to, everything that would have been done in a Dalish clan. When a young Dalish elf found out they had magic, they were apprenticed. If the Keeper had a First, they were not made a First, but apprenticed nonetheless. Mages had to be trained, guided, helped because of the power within them and the unique dangers they faced because of them. From the very beginning, before their raw magical ability grew into too much a temptation for spirits, those with the Gift were taught control. The time they had before the spirits were truly drawn to them was critical in establishing a young mage's will to remain themselves. And now, before Líadan had even had time to truly comprehend that her daughter had the Gift, it appeared that Ava wouldn't be granted that brief respite from the hounding of dark spirits.
Only when the outer door had closed, and the inner door of the bedroom had closed after, did Malcolm finally speak. "So, do you want to talk about it now?"
"No."
He sighed, glanced at the bed, seeming like he wanted to climb in, but then elected to stand. "At least you're honest. I mean, it isn't like I want to talk about it, either. Frankly, I'd like to stick my head in the sand and pretend none of this is happening. But it keeps getting worse and I can't help thinking…" he trailed off and looked in the direction of the children's rooms.
Like Malcolm had surely intended, he'd pulled her into a conversation. It was a particular talent he had, when it came to her. "Thinking what?"
"If it had to do with what happened when she was born. While she was born? I'm not sure how to describe it."
"You mean the part where the demon tried to possess me? And then tried to go through me to get to her, and that's what started the early birth?"
He made a circling motion with his hand. "Yes to all of that."
"It's a thought."
"I know. I said so, right before I started in with the talking that you didn't want to do. And that you still don't want to do, apparently, given the look you're giving me right now."
She hadn't meant to glare. She hadn't even realized she was until Malcolm had mentioned it. Tiredness seeped into her, and she climbed onto the bed. Then she laid on her stomach and pressed her face on the quilt, as close to sticking her head into the sand as she could get with what she had.
"What's this?" came Malcolm's voice over the thump of him removing his boots. "Now you're illustrating what I'm saying? I'd object, but this could be used for other applications. Or I'd say something about the taking off of shirts, but you didn't even bother taking off your boots, which is very unlike you. Something about not wanting dirt on your sheets, even if it's invisible dirt—which is cheating, by the way, because there's no such thing as invisible dirt. In fact, the last time you were so exhausted that you fell asleep with your boots on when you didn't have to, you were—I suppose it could've been Kirkwall, maybe, since we weren't entirely sober. All right, I wasn't entirely sober but you were fine. No, I was sober. Just feeling extra pleasant. But still, last time you were—" He stopped, and she could hear the rustle of his clothes as he crouched next to the bed to bring his face down to hers. "You aren't, are you?"
Had her eyes been open, she would have rolled them. She did, however, open them and turn to see him. His panic and puzzlement was endearing. "Of course I'm not."
He hopped onto the bed next to her, and then disappeared from her view as he set to work removing her boots. "You know, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed."
"We've discussed this." Annoyed that she couldn't see him, she rolled over. He didn't acknowledge it, still tugging on her boot, but she went on. "Even though the augmented Joining potion from Avernus reversed or mitigated many of the downsides of being a Warden, including fertility, it doesn't change the whole elven guilt about having elf-blooded children. That I have one is difficult enough, and now she's shown that she has magic. If I had another—" She bit down on her words, not wanting to speak them lest she tempt any sort of fate, or give Asha'belannar any more ideas.
With a grunt of triumph, Malcolm freed her first boot and then flung it to the other side of the room. "I know," he said as he went for the second boot. "I was joking. Mostly."
She raised an eyebrow. "Mostly?"
"Yes, mostly. I'm being honest. If it was something that didn't go against your beliefs, and something you wanted, I'd like another. Maybe two, I don't know." With another grunt, he sent her second boot following the first. Then he fell back to lie next to her. "In another situation, with both of us human or both of us elves, would you be opposed?"
Ever since they'd all discovered that the augmented potion had changed Warden fertility for the better, the subject of more children occasionally came up. But she couldn't shake the views she'd been taught and had held since childhood. They were rules that kept the elves from dying out, and she didn't feel like she should break them. Ava had been planned, but not by them. Only Asha'belannar's interference had made Ava's creation possible, along with some key missing information from a certain Warden-Commander. With Avernus' potion, they'd been told quickly enough what could happen, which meant Líadan had taken the precautions she would've taken in the first place, had they not been Wardens. She was glad she did, because Alistair and Anora had proven soon enough that Warden fertility had improved when Anora had Callum. Yet, for Líadan, there were just some taboos she couldn't break. Faced with an elf-blooded daughter having the Gift, she could see why they needed to exist. Malcolm understood, as well as he was able, and only a few times did he wander into this sort of speculation. She didn't hold it against him, just as he didn't hold her choices against her.
"I don't know," she said out loud. "I really didn't like carrying a child. My body didn't move like it was supposed to, there were too many visits to the privy, my balance was off, and I couldn't even walk properly close to the end."
The bed shook with his laughs. "You waddled."
"I did not."
"Go on believing that, if you'd like."
"I will. The point I'm making is that if our situation were different, you'd have to do some very good convincing for me to volunteer to have another." She sighed and sat up, searching for where she'd put the light linen clothes she wore for bed. With as often as Ava had been sprinting to their room due to nightmares lately, it wasn't like she could go to sleep without them. The clothes were on a chair on the far side of the room, and she grumbled as she got out of the bed to fetch them. When she returned, Malcolm had already changed into his loose linen trousers, and had apparently elected to go shirtless, because he liked to torture her like that. "That isn't going to convince me," she said. "Nice try, I'll admit."
He smiled. "No, no convincing. You indulge my flights of fancy, and that's enough. I do think, however," he said as he looked closely at her face, "that you're too tired for anything right now, aside from sleeping."
She wanted to argue. She did, because he was right there, looking all lovely and her eyes kept wandering to his broad shoulders, and she forced herself to not follow the lines of his body downward, and she had no idea how Marian Hawke had endured this sort of temptation with Sebastian every night. None. For Líadan, tiredness won out, both mental and physical, and nothing more than that. Once in bed, she did get as close to him as she could, enjoying the feel of his bare skin.
"So," he said, managing to catch her right as she was about to fall asleep, "when do you want to talk about Ava?"
She squinted up at him, slightly annoyed at his timing. "Let me sleep on it. Even if I'm not ready to talk about it tomorrow, I will. You're right. It needs to be discussed, and we'll need to talk to Perran to get his opinion on what might be going on."
"That's fair," he said with a nod. "Now, I say we get some sleep before the child in question drags us out of our pleasant dreams only to scare us with hers."
"I was almost asleep, you ass." Even as she tried to sound irritated, she could only manage tired. And despite her words, she laid her head on his chest, reassuring herself with the steady rhythm of his heart.
His arm slipped around to her back and massaged between her shoulder blades, where knots often formed from using her bow. "It's the only guaranteed way to get a direct answer from you. Means you're too tired to prevaricate, and that your primary goal is to go to sleep, and not avoid a question."
"You're still an ass." There was more, but she was too sleepy and Malcolm had already relaxed one knot and had moved to another and she didn't want him to stop. "But I don't care."
He laughed quietly, and it rumbled through his chest. She fell asleep before he'd finished laughing.
In the Beyond, things weren't so pleasant. Feynriel was there, almost like he'd been waiting for her to show up. Which was strange, when she thought about it, because he hadn't visited for ages. The last time he'd visited, which had been a few years ago, he'd told her that she had always been hard to find, and he'd barely been able to find her then. She hadn't seen him since.
And now he stood here. If the image of himself that she saw in the Beyond reflected any of what he was on Thedas, his features had become those of a grown man instead of the boy-like qualities they'd had before. It stood to reason he could be a spirit, but unless the spirit was rather bad at trickery, she'd never been able to tell right away.
"How were you able to find me?" she asked.
"You were around the eluvian again," he said. "Enough for it to let me find you this once." He gave her a sheepish, yet subdued smile. "Well, it took more than a few days, but considering I hadn't been able to find you at all before, it's something." Then his smile faded, and by the time the figure of her grandfather had come to stand beside him, Feynriel's smile had gone.
Emrys had no smile at all.
Neither did Líadan. "Why are you here? Feynriel's always been the one to speak with me here."
"Not this time," said Feynriel. After a long, sad look in her direction, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her grandfather.
His even expression had not changed. "You will not like what I have to say."
"I rarely like what you have to say." Yet, even when they disagreed—which was often—a comment like she'd just made would bring at least a hint of amusement to his eyes.
This time, it failed to do so. He remained as somber as before, and when he spoke, his tone carried the same trait. "Your daughter is a Dreamer."
"No." The fear she'd felt when she'd first suspected Ava's magic had nothing in comparison to the dread that now threatened to suffocate her. It couldn't be possible that Ava was, not her—it couldn't. Feynriel had spoken of his difficulties before he'd gone into proper training, and he'd been much older than Ava. "No," she said again, fooling herself no more than she fooled Emrys. The demons, it would explain the demons and the nightmares. The guilt she carried twisted inside her, sending her stomach churning and her sense of self into dark places. If what her grandfather said was true—it is, her instinct told her and she wanted to shove it away—not only had she denied the People another mage, but she had denied them a Dreamer. Then her abject fear for her daughter ousted the guilt, for the guilt meant nothing compared to what torment her daughter would face. If the Chantry ever discovered her, got their hands on her, or she didn't get proper instruction, she would either die or be made Tranquil. "Tell me you're wrong."
The sympathy in his gaze told her the truth in ways his words never could, even as he said them. "I cannot."
Líadan couldn't begin to think of how she could protect her daughter, not for something like this. She couldn't even think of what to say, the denial refusing to be said out loud.
Because Emrys understood, he continued the conversation for her. "Feynriel and I can protect her, for now. It cannot be sustained indefinitely, but we've some time to work with." He took a step forward and hesitantly placed his hands on her shoulders, either to reassure her or rouse her from the dark spiral of her thoughts. "She can be saved."
"How?" Fear enveloped her heart. Ava was her daughter, and she couldn't see how she could save her.
"When the time comes, take Cáel and Ava and go to the Mahariel. Marethari would never turn you away, two human children or not. Find Merrill. Take her from Kirkwall and bring her with you. In as short a time as they can, the Ra'asiel clan will meet you where the Mahariel camp, and you will accompany Lanaya and her clan to where mine has located. The Suriel do not move as often as other clans, and to do this, we are quite distant from the rest of civilization." He took his hands from where they rested on her shoulders, and then stepped back, awaiting her response.
She stared at him. "So, what you're really saying is that you're a malevolent spirit, because my grandfather would never agree to take in two human children, kin of his or not, much less teach one of them."
If her accusation hurt him, his expression did not betray it. "She is a Dreamer. She is your daughter, and you are my granddaughter. My responsibility to guide her is far greater than the responsibility I had to teach Feynriel." He seemed to be done, and then suddenly added one more thing: "And your human bondmate cannot accompany you."
It was an effort, she believed, to make the deal appear more realistic. She wouldn't fall for it. "Changing your terms doesn't change what you are, spirit."
Pain at the distrust passed over his face, but he quickly regained the steady, composed presence of a Keeper. "Da'len, I have given this information to you, and with it, I have given you a path to refuge. It is up to you to choose what you do with it." He paused to look around them at the formless Beyond, empty of wandering spirits aside from their own. Líadan couldn't shrug off her suspicion, and Emrys noticed. "Your strength of will is to be commended. However, if you—"
Líadan was flung from the Beyond as she was torn from her slumber by an upset child crawling into her parents' bed. The fog of sleep fled Líadan's mind as she held her trembling child. She asked her what was wrong, and all Ava could get out was something about bad dreams.
Knowing exactly what sort of bad dreams they were, Líadan fought her own fearful trembling. She was a Dalish hunter, a Grey Warden, someone who fought the monstrous creatures that filled the nightmares of others, all without blinking in the face of it. Yet this nightmare was not of those creatures, and she had no defense against it. No matter how much she wanted to believe it had been a spirit—and not her grandfather—she'd spoken to in the Beyond, she couldn't unravel the thread of truth woven into his words.
Riordan
The pitiful soul that had been the Grey Warden once known as Riordan fell to Corypheus' assault rather quickly, the unfortunate man's consciousness subsumed by the magister's stronger one. He'd left the abominable Warden prison, the place where his lessers had manacled him for far too long. Now he wandered the meticulously built dwarven roads covered with rot and filth, which served as more evidence of his betrayal. These dwarven byways were as black and corrupted as the Golden City he had been promised.
Now he would get even. Now he had found his brother, as if he had been waiting for him, and they had much to do. Filthy though they were, the darkspawn would obey their commands, and they could be used. Mindless, yet biddable. It was enough.
"I know where the remaining gods sleep," he said to his brother, his body as sickly and twisted as the one Corypheus had possessed when he'd been released. The body he now inhabited wasn't much improved.
His brother, who forgotten his name, yet remembered his role as architect, would have lifted an eyebrow, if not for the golden mask that covered his eyes. "They must be awakened."
"They will be tainted, as we are. They will destroy all those who dwell above us."
"I do not care. I tried to save them. Each time, they rejected me. We will bring them to an end and rule the surface as it should be."
"It can be done, yet first we must reach our remaining gods where they slumber beneath the rock. It will take time."
The Architect gave his assent. He understood, as Corypheus did.
Time, they had.
All the time they could ever need.
