Sinead leaned over the frozen log, frowning.
"You've done it again," she said with a sigh. "It's iced through."
"Damn." Dorian walked over to her and kneeled next to the log. "This can't possibly be as hard as I'm making it."
"I told you, it's not about the oomph," she said, irritated. "You must hold back some of your power to keep control. Else you don't have an ice-trap, you have a lump of ice."
"Feels completely unnatural," he muttered, turning the log on its side. "If I hold back, it goes far too slow for me to actually catch anything. Are you sure this isn't a blood magic thing?"
"Of course not. I've done it before without blood. I only used blood with the thieves to speed things along. What you need is better motivation." She walked over to the camp, where Krem was dosing while Tal-Ashkaari interviewed Cole (she chose one of the party every evening as an interviewee), rummaged through Dorian's pack, and pulled out one of his preciously hoarded books. She stepped back to Dorian and set the book on the ground. "All right, aim for the book. You know what you're risking if you don't succeed."
"Which one is that? Oh, no, A Night of Passionate Debate? I can't ruin my favorite book on rhetoric."
"Then don't ruin – wait, rhetoric?" She looked at the cover, which had a rather muscular man holding a sword high among a number of robed men at what looked like a bath hall.
"Tevinter has a very particular idea of what it takes to win a debate," Dorian explained. He took a breath and raised his staff. "Well, let's see if your way works."
They were three days out from Ayesleigh, which was a joyful, colorful town that smelled of so many spices that it made Sinead sneeze. The food was equally spicy, something that she was trying to get used to in the inns they stayed at, though her stomach and tongue desperately demanded the blander vittles she was familiar with. But she felt she could turn nothing down – the Rivainis were incredibly sociable, demanding that she eat and drink until she practically rolled into bed at night.
It was almost a relief to be able to sleep outside for a night, supping on the birds Krem managed to shoot and stale bread, hearing nothing but the sound of wind and wildlife. The trees now surrounded them as they walked the road to Kont-Arr, something that made her feel solid and comfortable. Though these woods were warmer and wetter than the ones she grew up in, the din and smell of life felt like home. She smiled up at the trees, at Luna's face peeking through the canopy.
The only oddness in their travels now was the presence of Tal-Ashkaari. Krem took to her as he seemed to take to anyone he found trustworthy – "if Cole thinks you're all right, I won't complain if you want to tag along for a while with us." He answered her questions with good humor.
Cole was equally content with her following them – in fact, he asked Krem to let her have the extra horse. "She won't complain," he said. "The horse, I mean."
Dorian, on the other hand, was skeptical of the addition of the Qunari. "I understand that she's not a spy or malicious. However, all she does is poke and prod us with questions. And do we really need to be feeding the Qunari information about us, let alone Cole? I see a future where someone in their upper echelons uses that information against us…"
"Their opinion of Thedas will never change if we don't give them reason to believe we aren't all decadent idiots with our eyes closed to the danger of magic," Sinead countered. "Her whole job is to keep the Qunari informed of reality as it is, rather than how they assume it to be. I can't deny her a bit of knowledge. It's not as if we have to tell her everything."
And so Tal-Ashkaari stayed despite Dorian's objections, never enquiring as to the wheres and whys of their travels once she realized it was not a topic anyone wished to discuss. Instead she focused on whats and hows – how it was to work under a Tal-Vashoth, how a Tevinter mage viewed Southern Thedas, what it was like to be a mage, how a spirit saw the world. She always asked politely, making copious notes as her interviewees answered her careful, pointed questions.
"Kaffas!"
Sinead broke from her thoughts and looked down at Dorian's book. The beginnings of a crystalline cage surrounded it, but its pages were frozen together.
"You pushed?"
"Perhaps." Dorian snapped his fingers, melting the ice, and picked up the soggy book with a frown. "I think that's enough for today. It's been a while since I felt like a novice. Oh, no, wait – I've never felt like that."
"It's just a difference of technique," she soothed as they walked back into the camp. "I certainly cannot throw out the kind of power you do with such control unless I'm using blood. When I do a burst, I simply let it go until everything stops burning."
"Well, now you're flattering me to make me feel better." He sat on his bed roll and shook out the book. "It's working. You can continue."
"Pardon me, Sinead." Tal-Ashkaari looked up from her notebook. "I'm not quite understanding some of these descriptions that Cole has given me."
"Oh?" Sinead smiled at Cole, who shrugged his shoulders. He was working on another trinket, a bigger one than previous figurines. It had yet to take shape beyond a cylindrical block.
She had found herself pushed into the role as the Qunari woman's Cole-translator, which was becoming increasingly amusing to her. "What was the question, and what was his response?"
"Question: What does the physical world feel like to a spirit? Answer: Like a frozen river. Question: can you elaborate? Answer: Forever fast in place, formed and solid, static, still. It makes them dizzy." Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. "I do not understand."
"Seems fairly simple to me," Dorian interrupted. "The Fade is constantly changing. One can even affect the very nature of the Fade with emotions alone, if they have the power. The physical world must be like hitting one's head against a brick wall for a spirit."
"That is the most likely meaning," Sinead agreed. "Cole?"
"Yes." Cole said the word definitively, still working on the wood block. "This world refuses to move without pushing. The Fade is mobile. Malleable. It is what those who walk it want it to be." He looked up from his carving. "Even the sleeping people shape it, showing the spirits scenes from their minds. If you fear, there will be fear. If you are calm, there will be calm."
"I have heard this about the Fade," Tal-Ashkaari mused. "It is within our research, though it is not common knowledge. Most Qunari think of the Fade as the place where the dead reside. Not a pleasant idea. Still, even if this belief is inaccurate, the truth sounds no better. The Fade's denizens and visitors shaping the landscape with their thoughts…it is unnerving to contemplate."
"It's only unnerving when the shape is unnerving." Dorian lay back on his bed roll and put his hands behind his head. "Sometimes it's pillows and sweets. Sometimes it's giant spider demons. Either way it's a fascinating experience."
"Is this true? You find it fascinating, even when it's appalling?"
"Qunari generally think of demons as appalling, yet you're analyzing Cole," Sinead pointed out. "Not that he's a demon, but he was once mostly spirit, which your people also condemn – or, I mean. Disapprove of," she corrected.
Tal-Ashkaari smiled. "Ah, yes, of course. Even that which is seemingly unnerving still intrigues." She chuckled. "My superiors fear that it enthralls. They have difficulty trusting that temptation does not plague their charges."
"Sounds like the Templars in the Gallows," Sinead said wryly. "Treating mages as if demons are always picking at our minds."
The Qunari raised her brows. "They are not?"
"Only the weakest mages have that problem." Dorian circled a hand over his head. "Some people have no stomach for magic. Now that is appalling. Oh great Qunari truth-seeker, surely you would know this about mages – it's practically the first thing we learn when the power presents itself."
Tal-Ashkaari cleared her throat. "I have not had the opportunity to fully interview a mage," she said carefully, looking at her notes. Why, she's embarrassed! Sinead thought. "Seers are secretive about their craft. Other mages have been less…open with their knowledge."
"Not too keen to talk to a great horned woman, you mean," Dorian quipped. "Wonder of wonders."
Perhaps," she said. "Whatever the reason for their silence, you are the first mages I've had the privilege to talk extensively to."
"Dorian, don't be an arse." Sinead gave him a cross look. "An arse he may be, but Dorian is right. You can't be a good mage without bolstering yourself. Strong mind, strong heart." Sinead tapped her temple and chest. "You make yourself as uninteresting to the demons as possible. Like a…like a hedgehog. All prickly."
"I like hedgehogs," Cole said, his voice brightening.
"Oh, me, too! They're little clever spikey balls with cute noses."
"And they never worry much about what's around them. Small things are usually afraid. Not hedgehogs."
"Did I ever tell you about the time I found a hedgehog, and my mother –"
"– jumped three feet when you unwrapped it from your shirt?"
They laughed at her memory, at the visions of her mother's face in her mind.
Krem cracked open an eye. "They're doing it again."
"I know. Makes me a bit queasy," Dorian muttered.
"Hm." Tal-Ashkaari started writing furiously in her notebook.
Sinead grinned at the Qunari. She liked the woman – in fact, had grown to appreciate her company. There was something comforting about knowing, without a doubt, that all peoples were the same on some level. Here was a woman who followed a philosophy from birth that was drastically different than anything Sinead had been exposed to. Yet, like many people she had met while at the Circle and then as part of the Inquisition, Tal-Ashkaari was a woman who dedicated herself to research, who reveled in knowing. She kept her eyes open, asked questions, never assumed, and corrected herself when her assumptions were wrong. And she was so polite, and helpful when making up camp, and always had a kind word to say to the innkeepers and shopkeepers they visited on their journey. She was so unlike the Qunari as she was told they should be – always obedient, never questioning, gruff to those who did not follow the Qun.
What else don't I know about their culture? she wondered. What am I missing from their story because all we have seen of them are the soldiers and the ben-hassrath?
Cole gave Sinead a thoughtful look. "Tal-Ashkaari, may I ask you a question?"
"You have earned it," Tal-Ashkaari said with a nod. "You have been most accommodating as an interviewee. I have rarely had a subject so willing to share their thoughts and knowledge with me."
"Be careful about saying yes," Dorian said suddenly. "His questions can be fierce."
"Not this one," Cole reassured her. "I hear the songs you sing to yourself. Why don't you sing them out loud?"
Tal-Ashkaari stiffened. "You hear songs? In my head?"
"Many of them. Some in great choruses. They're very pretty, all the voices flowing together. And your own voice, alone among many, clear and calm…"
Dorian sat up. "You sing? Bull told me the Qunari have music, but he's never shared any with me, which is a pity. Is it all marches? I bet it's all marches."
"I do sing," she said shortly. "My voice was deemed acceptable to use as an instrument. I was allowed amateur study along with my other apprentice duties, so that I could boost the contentment of those around me."
"Only those with good voices are allowed to sing?" Sinead could not help the disapproval within her voice. It was a terrible thought, that someone could not sing if the mood permitted it, even if it was completely off key. Somehow it was worse to her than the idea of not being allowed to ask too many questions.
"It is not that they're not allowed. It is that Qunari, as a whole, demand precision in every craft. One has time to learn, of course. To practice. But if one cannot achieve a relative mastering of a skill, then it is seen as embarrassing to attempt that skill in front of others. To sing when one's voice is not made for singing is to bring yourself shame and pity." Tal-Ashkaari twirled her pencil between two fingers. "Meanwhile, all people with naturally good voices sing." Tal-Ashkaari's voice went flat. "All of them. It is a gift of the body, the ability to make music. It is a duty to hone it along with your true occupation. One should not deny that gift to others. It is selfish."
"Selfish to sing if you're voice is like a foghorn, selfish not to sing if you have the voice of a nightingale. You know, I think I've just heard the only Qunari rule I can agree with," Dorian said.
"I am glad there is at least one," She said, humor returning to her voice. "Perhaps there is hope for you."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"But if you think singing is your duty, why do you hate it so much?" Cole broke in. "Is it because you have to? Because you had to for Itwa?"
Sinead looked at Cole, who was focused on the Qunari. Tal-Ashkaari was quiet a moment.
"I…think I would like to sleep now," she said finally, setting aside her notebook and laying down on her bedroll.
"I warned you," Dorian said, laying down again.
Sinead stared at the Qunari, then sat next to Cole. "Why?" she whispered.
"That's one of the stories you're missing," he whispered back. "But it's her story to tell."
The crew frequently passed through forest villages, small groupings of people whose daily lives consisted of subsistent farming and lumber, who dressed in colorful outfits and greeted the travelers with an easy openness. At every village, Sinead asked to speak to the Seer who was the village's official advisor. The seer was always willing to talk to Sinead, to bring her into her cabin for tea and news of the southern countries. But once she asked after Seer Hana, the village seer would often cut the visit short, politely and firmly.
"This is not nearly as easy as Eluard claimed it would be," she said after they passed through one village where the seer laughed and told Sinead to leave her cabin immediately. "What is it about this seer that has everyone so close-lipped?"
"She could be a pariah," Dorian said.
"Or maybe they're trying to protect her," Krem countered. "If people see her as some sort of leader, it's not that surprising that they aren't giving out her address to every weird set of travelers who passes through town."
"Well, it's becoming a hassle," Sinead grumped. "What's the point of this entire journey if we can't even find the person we're looking for?"
"Why do you need to see this Seer Hana?" Tal-Ashkaari asked.
"Because –" Cole began.
"Inquisition business," Dorian said quickly over him. "Perhaps we should stop talking about it in front of the record keeper."
"Understood," the Qunari responded with a nod.
Though the seers were not keen on telling them anything about Seer Hana, the villagers were welcoming, allowing the crew to sleep in their barns and eat at their tables, so long as they had something to trade. Their money was seen as not particularly useful. Tal-Ashkaari's linens and silks, however, were greatly appreciated.
"It is Rivaini custom," she explained. "Did you not know before you traveled here?"
"I never really traveled through Rivain like this before," Krem said sheepishly. "The Chargers are more, ah, 'camp in the woods to avoid exposing the nice villagers to us' kind of people."
And so they continued northward, from village barn to village barn, down the road to Kont-arr.
One morning, Sinead found herself jolted from sleep and a pleasant dream by Cole – he shook her bodily until her eyes fluttered open and she pushed at his chest with a "What? What's going on?"
"The village is being attacked!" he said frantically, moving over to Krem and shaking him as well. "You have to wake up!" Krem snorted awake, and he moved on to Dorian, who slapped him back almost as soon as he touched him.
Sinead cocked her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes blearily. There was no noise in the village – just the last creaking of the crickets. "I don't hear anything," she said with a yawn.
"Because they're not here yet," Cole said, jumping to Tal-Ashkaari and shaking her awake. "They're sneaking, slinking silently through the forest, weapons ready and raised. They'll kill everyone!"
Krem reached for his breastplate and stumbled to his feet as he buckled it on. "Who?"
"Tal-Vashoth."
Immediately Tal-Ashkaari was alert. She leapt up, taking up her staff, and ran for the door.
"Wait!" Krem blocked her way. "How many are there, Cole?"
"They're surrounding the village, bloody, hungry, angry, raging –"
"How many?"
Before Cole could answer, there was a crash in the distance, and a cry.
"We have to help!" Cole said desperately as the cries increased in number. "They aren't thinking, not like people. They want to destroy, to defeat, to feed the despair."
"This is going to be unpleasant," Dorian muttered as he took up his staff.
"We cannot wait much longer." Tal-Ashkaari ducked around Krem. "They will not be merciful to these people."
"Right," Krem said, his voice gaining an edge of command as he unsheathed his sword. "Sinead, if you can't fight, for Maker's sake stay out of sight. Tal-Vashoth are no joke. You'll not be able to play nice with them." He looked at the others. "Let's go."
Krem, Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari ran from the barn and into the fray, leaving Sinead behind, shocked and ashamed. Cole pulled her to her feet.
"Please help," he said, leading her to the door at a run and pulling her through. "Please help. Look."
The village was in flames. The smell of green tinder filled her nose, and shadows were thrown against the forest by the fires in the early morning twilight. People were fleeing in all directions carrying goods and children on their backs – fleeing right into the flashing swords of great horned men coated in red paint, calling out battle cries as they cut people down.
Her head went blank for a moment as memories of fire and blood filled her head. Then her mind became a pinpoint of anger. Without further thought, she pulled away from Cole and drew her knife, pulled up the sleeve on her dead hand, and cut, drawing power from the blood.
Instantly the early morning became lighter, the cries more individual, the smoke more acrid, her task clearer. She shot Cole a look, who nodded at her, and they ran to a group of four Tal-Vashoth menacing two young families. As one of the fathers darted in front of his children and a sword cut him down, Sinead lifted her hand up, then swung it down with force. The Tal-Vashoth lifted off their feet and were slammed into the ground on bellies and backs. They attempted to recover, but Cole was on them – a knife across one's throat, a spin and another knife through one's heart. One lifted to his knees and Sinead froze him in place, pushing until he was frozen through. Cole jumped atop the ice statue's shoulders and came down on the fourth, jamming his knife into the Tal-Vashoth's neck and pulling it out with a spurt of blood.
"You need to run," he said to the shocked villagers, wiping a sleeve across his blood-spattered face. He pointed at the forest. "That way is clear. Don't stop until you've counted to one hundred."
The villagers ran, the wife of the dead man pulling her children from their father. Cole waved at Sinead, and they moved further into the village toward the sound of clanging. Some of the villagers had taken up old weapons and farm tools, trying to push the Tal-Vashoth back. They were hopeless against the horned men, each swing of a Tal-Vashoth's sword taking a villager with it. Krem was with them, his face a mask of concentration, beating down and slaying any Tal-Vashoth who made the mistake of attacking him.
Sinead's anger grew as she took in the battered men and women littering the ground. She made a fist. The line of Tal-Vashoth burst into flame. They cried out, beating at their limbs, screaming as their flesh seared away. With this advantage, the villagers began overtaking the Tal-Vashoth. Sinead pushed until the flames were blue and the Tal-Vashoth were on their knees in agony.
"That's enough," Cole said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She let the fire burn a moment longer, then let go. She shook her head, feeling a little light-headed as her blood-tinged mana tried to replenish itself. She had nearly overdone it.
Cole gave her a look, then joined the villagers, adding his knives to their fight, until nothing was left of the small horde but smoking bodies.
"Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari are trying to help the villagers clear the perimeter," Krem said, wiping his brow. "I think there's two main groups left of these fuckers. Maker, I hate Tal-Vashoth. Always fight dirty."
Everyone still standing and armed ran for the edge of the village, toward the screams and cries of victims and attackers.
There was a flash of lightning that lit up the trees, then a burst of flame as Sinead turned the corner on a group of buildings. Dorian spun his staff, sending a wave of flame at a group of Tal-Vashoth. A few fell. Most of them jumped back into the trees, out of range of his magic.
"I'm trying not to destroy everything in my path," Dorian panted as the others reached him. "Perhaps I should give that up. These bastards are relentless."
"Let me try." Sinead drew from her power, seeking out the hidden Tal-Vashoth, feeling seven men tramping around, looking for a good place to make another assault, then latched on to each and yanked them bodily out of the woods. They flew into the village, landing with crunches and cries. The villagers were on them in an instant, cutting each horned man down with no pity.
"Another neat trick," Dorian said appreciatively. "Are you sure you're a librarian?"
They continued to the final group of Tal-Vashoth, a scattered bunch who had made their way into the village, killing and maiming indiscriminately, ransacking buildings of goods. The crew and the villagers branched out, running down the attackers before the attackers could kill again. Sinead and Cole worked rhythmically, she grabbing hold of a Tal-Vashoth and forcing him to the ground with her power, he ending them with the point of his blade.
Finally, as they were running around a house whose door had been kicked in and goods scattered across the threshold, Cole took her arm and stopped. He looked up.
"They're all gone, hurt or dead," he said.
"It's over?" Adrenaline still coursed through her body, her mind was still focused, but she began to shake violently. Darkness rimmed her thoughts. She swayed on her feet.
Cole sheathed his knives and caught her as she fell back. "It's not over," he said urgently. "So many are hurting. You can't let go yet."
"Right." She took a shuddering breath and steadied herself. Focused on the anger, focused on the desire to help. "Right. Show me to the injured."
He obeyed, leading her around a few houses to the village square, where men and women were already gathering the injured and the dead. A group of villagers had created a bucket chain between the well and the burning houses. They worked quickly, killing the fires before they took the whole village.
Tal-Ashkaari was walking around the casualties that the villagers stretched over the stones of the square. Tal-Vashoth were among the groaning wounded, calling out in Qunlat. Every Tal-Vashoth she came upon, she stopped by his side, spoke in harsh tones, and waited for a reply. In nearly all instances, none came. Then she flipped her spear and stabbed the Tal-Vashoth through the throat, ending his moans of pain.
Sinead took this all in, and again focus overtook her, the old focus of working in surgeries. She slipped away from Cole, walked up to Tal-Ashkaari and said snappishly, "what are you doing?"
"I am ending their pain," the Qunari replied. Her voice was filled with cold wrath. "I'm cutting them down like the rabid animals they've become."
She turned to another Tal-Vashoth and said something in Qunlat. The Tal-Vashoth said nothing, staring at Tal-Ashkaari defiantly. She flipped her spear.
"Wait." Sinead stopped the spear with her hand. She crouched next to the horned man, whose legs had been sliced to ribbons by a scythe. The amount of pain he was in had to be great – she could see, with the power of her blood, the nerves pulsing within him. She placed a hand on the man's chest and numbed his pain throughout his body. He relaxed, giving her a wary look.
"Why?" The question came from her involuntarily. The man did not have the eyes of a beast, yet what Cole said implied that every Tal-Vashoth among the attackers was beast-like. "Why?"
"Why does the wolf kill?" he said in flat tones.
"To eat." Her voice grew hard. "That slaughter was not simply for food."
"No. The wolf kills for that is its nature. This is our nature."
"To deny the Qun is to deny one's sentience. One's purpose." Tal-Ashkaari placed the tip of her spear against the Tal-Vashoth's throat. "He accepts that he is a creature without honor."
"That is bullshit." Sinead dug her fingers into the Tal-Vashoth's chest, her whole body rigid with anger. "I've met Tal-Vashoth. They aren't all monsters. They don't do this."
"Perhaps those grey ones still hold the Qun within them."
The Tal-Vashoth let out a bark of a laugh. "Maraas imekari, Tal-Ashkaari. You seek the truth and yet know nothing. We are true to the Qun. We know our place. Those that do not go mad are more than lost."
"No man who is true to the Qun would kill innocents. Children," Tal-Ashkaari spat.
The Tal-Vashoth smiled slightly. "I was Sten before I was Tal-Vashoth. Know this truth – a soldier will kill innocents. The Qun does not save him from that duty when his Kithshok demands it." He took hold of the end of Tal-Ashkaari's spear and set it against his throat. "Parshaara. End it."
Sinead looked up at Tal-Ashkaari. The Qunari looked troubled. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes creased in sadness.
"Na'thek," she said finally. "Meravas."
She thrust the spear into the Tal-Vashoth's throat. Blood erupted from his mouth, and his eyes dimmed. His head slumped to the side as Tal-Ashkaari lifted her spear.
"So many untruths to sort from the truths," she muttered.
"Are you all right?" The words left Sinead, and she was not sure if they were for the Qunari or for herself. The blood from the mouth of the former Sten – it nearly sent her reeling back toward the blackness.
Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. "I am not." She wandered down the line, seeking out other Tal-Vashoth among the wounded.
"Sinead." Cole had watched all this from a distance. Now he was at her side, gently pulling her away from the dead man to a woman who held her stomach and whimpered in agony. "They need you."
She looked around at the writhing mass of the injured, two or three people working quickly to help them, the village's seer among them. She came to earth, feeling solid in the need to help, to fix what she could.
She placed a hand on the moaning woman next to her, examining her wounds.