Chapter Nine : Hostile


The dream came in waves of purple and gold, washing over the shores of black intoxication. Six women, bathed in silk gowns the color of the sea, stepped out of the surf and onto the white sand, bare-footed. The flesh on their bones shone in the moonlight; a bright night illuminated these wraiths of the spray, these sirens of the rock. Each was armed, some with gleaming weapons, others with tokens of power. Fright gripped him and he turned to run in the soft sand, but in this dream state he was slow and clumsy, and stumbled to his knees. "What are you?" he cried out, and from the formless dark their faces came to be.

"We are Death," said the First, with a benevolent nod of her head. He did not know her, but she knew him. He felt this at the core of himself, but knew that she was a liar and would lead him into the dark sea if he gave in to her. Yet, for a paralyzing moment, he wanted to give in, to the sad kindness of her arms. The First was a tiny woman, wearing an ivory mask which covered everything but her huge elven eyes. Her long black hair curled lazily around a staff which was taller than she was. She reached out to him with her free hand, as she approached him. When she was close enough to touch, he reached for her, and found her fingers were cold as ice. Cold as death. He shouldn't have been surprised. He pulled away.

"We are Vengeance," said the Second, a sneer set on her lips. He knew her, every inch of her mortal body, but not a single one of her thoughts or breaths or sighs did belong to him. She glowed like a pillar of fire. Her hair burned with licks of orange flame under a golden crown, but she carried a sword in her hand, and blood dripped down from the blade to coat her pale arm in crimson. This creature bore Elissa's face, but it was not she, any more then the next was really Morrigan.

"We are Patience," said the Third, in Morrigan's voice, carrying a dragon's egg in her arms. It seemed an impossible weight, but she did not tire, or flag, or weaken. Indeed she floated along the beach, and only her big toes skimmed the sand. Her gold eyes smoldered with Time, but they were not her own. They were an old woman's eyes, which did not suit her fresh face. He could see the dragon behind them. Another came before he had the chance to think on this.

"We are Choice," said the Fourth, a flaxen haired woman with the visage of his brother's wife. Anora scowled, her head bowing under the burden of a crown much too large for her head. She held a rose in her hands, a familiar blossom, one he knew rightfully belonged to him. The stolen thorns plucked at her soft fingers, and she bled. His brow furrowed and he tried to question her, but found he had no voice with which to speak. He clutched the sand in both fists, his only defense.

"We are Freedom," said the Fifth, chuckling darkly. Freedom at what cost, he wondered, for this spirit was drenched in the blood of others, stained even upon her pretty face. Her black hair was cropped like a boy, and her lithe frame swaggered like a commanding officer, with every firm step. The Fifth was unfamiliar, but though she carried a well-used knife in each hand, he felt no immediate danger. This butcher might be a friend.

"We are the Future," said the Last, a brown-skinned prisoner in chains, who, bizarrely, walked like an empress. No slave was she. She looked upon him with pity, like he was just a grain upon the sand, and spoke like a prophetess. Of this one he was most alarmed, more than Death, for her face seemed to swim and change before him from kind to cruel, the kind of demon who would bring a king to crawling on his belly like a worm.

"What do you want of me?" he questioned.

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes," he answered, honestly.

"As you should be," agreed the Last. "Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us."

"So you... want me to be afraid?"

"We want you to listen, young King Alistair." She shook her head, with bemused exasperation. She was a handsome creature, not a girl but most assuredly a woman, with all the grace and maturity which only age offered.

"I'm not a king!"

"You are not listening," scolded Death, in a motherly tone, from the left. "We are not interested in your opinions."

"You still have options," reassured Choice in her airy voice. "But you would be prudent to heed us."

"I..."

"Accept the gifts offered to you," advised Freedom, toying with her weapons. "Listen to your friends. The wisest leader of men surrounds himself with those who know more than he."

Patience smiled. On that face, it was freakish to him. "You have bumbled your way into a circle of the most talented and powerful beings in Thedas. Do try not to fuck it up."

"I'm sorry... powerful? Leliana? Really?" he scoffed. The sand in his fists trickled between his fingers, like an hourglass. "And I suppose you'll tell me that Sten is really talented at glassblowing or something. For a bunch of impressive ooglies, your information is a bit crap."

"Stubborn to the last," said Elissa- Vengeance- rather, her burning face inscrutable. "Hold onto that."

Frankly, looking directly at her was blinding. He squinted. "Are you spirits or demons? Why do you look as you do? Why not be yourselves? Horrible monsters or balls of light or whatever you Fade things look like."

"It's your dream," explained Anora- Choice- or whatever. Seriously. It was annoying to keep up with all these vague titles. "We draw from your threads. We are women most important in your life."

"Screwed that up, didn't you though!" Alistair laughed sourly, and pushed himself to his feet. No more of this hovering over him business. "Lis, Morrigan, okay fine, but Queen Anora? Really? Couldn't have had my mother? I would have liked to see her face, just the once. Had a wetnurse too, of whom I was most fond. Could have sold me on that. But you three..." He indicated to them carelessly. "I don't know any Orlesian mages, sorry. Maybe you were meant to haunt Leliana."

"We are who we are meant to be, past, present, and future," said the Last. The chains rattled on her bound arms.

Alistair rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of discomfort and annoyance. "Ohhhh, of course, my future. When I'm King of Ferelden. Don't know if you get post in the Fade, but we have a Blight on. S'not going to be any Ferelden soon."

Death chuckled. Of course she would. Was she beautiful under her mask, or perhaps grotesque? "Then you'd better get to it, child. A word of warning- your family is in danger. Wake up!"

The clouds crackled with green light. "What do you- Who is in danger?" he began to say, but before he heard an answer, the sand gave way beneath his feet. He fell into the abyss.


The bastard prince slept poorly, on a wave of frothy ale and inevitable vomiting, and woke with a smashing headache. The sky was just the faintest traces of pink, early dawn after the storm, but the smells of the tavern were too much for his beleaguered head. Blearily, pausing frequently to dry-retch in a slop bucket, he dressed and clomped his way down the stairs.

The last thing he could remember was playing wicked grace with a bunch of dwarves. The more he drank, the better he was at cards, and by the end he was winning as many hands as he lost. Earned a few silvers, and nobody got knifed or anything.

The early morning crowd was a ragged bunch. They clumped to the tables away from the windows, heads down near their plates. Alistair counted a few surface dwarves, sharing a meal with a very phlegmy Chantry Brother. There was a farmer with his family- four skinny children- getting loudly berated by his large wife. A smattering of various others who could be categorized as well armed... but none were his companions. He had the feeling he had drank with some of these, made "new friends" in the night, and felt a rush of hot nausea when he realized they were Carta enforcers.

Patrons breakfasted on sausages, and tomatoes fried in fat, sweet beer, and black bread. Oh, Maker, I bet that tastes delicious, he thought with regret, too ill to partake. The worse it looks, the better it is. That's the rule of Fereldan cooking. Near the bar, a scrawny serving elf balanced an enormous tray of meals on one shoulder. Swaying around her, he very nearly caused an accident.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, as he bounced off her hip.

"Watch where yer goin!" she snapped, spinning her burden to dodge him. The elf gave him a once-over with her eyes. "Mercenaries!" she exclaimed. "You should probably sober up before yer lady-captain drops yer sorry arse in the lake."

Alistair flinched. "Not so loud! Have you seen her? My... captain?"

"Your band is outside, in the stables."

"Well... thank you. Sorry, again. That was clumsy of me." Shit, Maker, just the shittiest morning...

Her pointed face softened at the sincerity of his apology. "Now, you do look proper miserable. Here." She plucked a glass full of red liquid from her tray and offered it to him. "Hair of the dog. Consider it the house special. Yer Alistair, ya? Missus has paid for yer brekky already."

"Oh! Um... Thanks." He warily accepted her offer. He didn't recognize the stuff, but it probably tasted like straight poison. Every tavern had their own proprietary blended cure-all. Some worked, some didn't- all were horrible to drink.

"Don't mention it." She grinned. "Drink it down, there's a lad."

Feeling brave (and put upon the spot, truth be told) he took a large gulp of the pulpy red stuff. It was something like hot coals and old fruit, and burned his sinuses as he swallowed it down. "Maker's breath!" he sputtered.

"Tastes like buttered arse, I know, but don't ye feel better?" A grizzled dwarf with a prominent facial tattoo whistled for her attention. "It's elfroot juice, Antivan hot peppers, whiskey, and- -I know! I'm coming! Keep yer shirt on- -These Carta, no manners." She rushed away, balancing her load as though it was weightless.

The funny thing was, he did feel slightly better. He could breathe, smell again, without needing to heave. The pounding behind his eyes began to fade as the healing herb worked its magic. He dutifully drank the rest of the glass, and left it on the bar-top. The old innkeeper was nowhere in sight. In the kitchen? Or perhaps still asleep. Her girl was more than competent in running the morning crowd. What was the old wisdom? The best whore listened like a spymaster... the best serving girl scolded like a mother. Or something like that.

Squaring his pack over his shoulders, he went outside. The storm of the night before had passed, rinsing the muck off road and filling the air with the sweet freshness of familiar plants and familiar mud. Home. They were so close to home now. Add the odor of fish, and they could have been in Redcliffe village. The first rays of sunlight reflected off the choppy blue waters of Lake Calenhad, swollen from the rain. Clusters of red spindleweed and cat's tail and blood lotus sprung from the pebbled shore. Something about the water's edge struck his imagination, but he couldn't begin to guess what.

On all sides, the Hinterlands, the foothills of the Frostback Mountains, rose around them. Foothills seemed a bit of a misnomer, really, since some paths were as steep as any mountain trail he'd traveled. It was much easier by horse, and like any other Redcliffe lordling of days past, he had learned to ride as soon as he could sit Dennet's gentlest (and laziest) pony.

Later, when Isolde had chased him from the castle nursery, he had roamed the forest with the other village boys. It had been safe, back then, to carry lunch for a day and harass the wild rams. Now those same trees sheltered pockets of foul darkspawn. If they were lucky, the farmers of the outlying region had taken refuge behind the gates of Redcliffe or Rainsfere. Little villages like Honnleath offered no protection against a Blight. Maker watch over them all.

Alistair found Morrigan and Sten outside of the stables, engaged in a frightening conversation about interracial love making. The witch appeared very interested in... jumping the giant's bones, for lack of a more delicate turn of phrase. Shuddering, he chose not to listen further, and found the other girls inside, conversing earnestly with a stranger.

"I don't care if Loghain's closed the border," Elissa said firmly to the courier, touching the flank of his horse, "these simply must get to Val Royeaux. I'm sure I don't need to press upon the urgency. I'm paying you double now, and extra if I hear a timely response from our Orlesian friends. Stay close to the lake, then take the pass through the mountains as far north as can be managed. I imagine you can outrun the Blight through the snow."

The courier nodded. "Milady."

"If your organization is successful, I have many generous friends who can grant you a foothold in Orlais. Your superiors would value this," commented the Chantry Sister. Sly fox girl...

"Of course," he agreed. "We will find you with the answers to your letters."

"You won't fail," said Elissa, dismissing him with a well-practiced gesture. To his eyes, she looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept at all. She was getting better at not showing it, but he read it in the lines in her hunched back, the stiffness of her neck.

He had the pounding urge to flee. Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us, he thought, remembering a line from a play he once read. "Good morning," he said, before his courage totally failed him.

"Good morning, Alistair," replied Leliana, with her usual good cheer.

"Mm. Morning," echoed Elissa, looking past him. He shrank a little. "Now that everyone is up, we'd best be going," she said, to the other girl.

Leliana took him by the arm and guided him back into the morning air. She whispered, "We have word that they've locked the gates at Redcliffe. Nobody allowed in."

He frowned. "Why? That can't be right."

"We shall have to see, yes?"

"Who did you hear this from?"

"The courier, of course," she explained gently, as the witch, the dog, and the qunari fell in step behind them. Their leader lagged behind, fidgeting with the strap on her new scabbard. "He expected to meet Lady Cousland in Redcliffe. We sent out a summons back in Lothering."

"Who is she trying to contact?"

"Many people," Leliana laughed, as though this was an obvious thing. "We composed a list of Fereldan lords who would be sympathetic to our cause. The blessing of the Maker is not enough. This, even I can see. Orlesian finishing schools train their pupils to think laterally to achieve their goals."

"I see." He did not.

"As you may know, the Cousland Family managed a very extensive and valuable trade in textiles. Highever produced its own fabrics, including a lovely taffeta, but more importantly she held control of the imports into Ferelden, and a share of the foreign market. This means that many, many people owed debts to Teryn Bryce Cousland. At my suggestion, the lady has agreed to collect on these debts to bring in some gold to our cause, in the event we manage to summon an army. Spies are also quite useful," she said breezily, as they descended a hill. "However, we have come across a new... complication."

"Howe has been made the new Arl of Denerim and Teryn of Highever," announced Elissa in dull voice. Alistair felt like he had been struck. "The news came in the night."

"Maker, Lis, I'm so sorry," he blurted, instinctively trying to turn and face her. Leliana's hold became stone like a golem's grip, preventing him from doing so. He felt like screaming, but- there must be a reason for this. A warning from the sister?

"Apparently my family were 'traitors colluding with the enemy'. That is to say, Ferelden is now hostile to Orlesians again."

"A sorry state for me," quipped Leliana. "This Arl Howe is very good at the Game."

"We don't play your games in Ferelden," Alistair protested.

Leliana disagreed. "You do. But you are not honest about it. In Orlais, we wear our masks so that we can be our true selves." Which of these true selves are you wearing, Leliana? Sister or bard? He wondered, thinking to Elissa's private accusations. He was uncomfortable with the idea that Leliana might be right about Ferelden.

"None of these games have any honor," scoffed Sten. "You should face your enemy directly, and end his life in combat."

"Yes, yes, we've all agreed to that," said Morrigan. "T'would be wonderful to freeze this Howe's skull, and be done with the rat. But we do not have a dreadnought to tear down his castle walls. Do you think it a sound strategy for the five of us-" the dog barked "-excuse me, the six of us, to go wandering up to his army and commit suicide?"

"Harumph," grumbled Sten. "You fight like Ben-Hassrath."

"I'll assume that is a compliment," retorted Leliana. "Ignoring the lone dissenter, you should be informed that we have sent a letters to Val Royeaux. Which makes all of us traitors, now, in the Regent's eyes. I hope this does not trouble you."

"Not at all," shrugged Alistair. "But why bother with Orlais now? Could they even send money through the closed border?"

Before he got an answer, they had a nasty skirmish with a small contingent of pillaging darkspawn. Leliana, quick as summer lightning with her bow, took the most kills. Not that he was counting. Just around the bend, horror awaited them. They walked on in dour stillness for a while then, among the ruin of lives. Cottages burned, crops rotted in the fields. Even the carrion birds were reluctant to make a meal of the Blighted corpses. These people- had he known them? Had he played with their children? Perhaps their husbands? The familiar sounds of life in the woods had been replaced with a deadly hush. It made him sick.

Suddenly, Elissa broke the silence. "There is a chance that our treaties will be meaningless, with Grey Wardens branded as public enemies." The gate to Redcliffe was in eyesight now. "If this is the case... I am hoping to arrange passage for you to the Imperial Court."

"What?" He stopped dead in the road.

"As the heir to the throne in Denerim, you would be safer under Celene's protection, until the Blight can be defeated."

"WHAT!"

"Oh, that is just marvelous," drawled Morrigan.