Thank you very much for your comments, Kyla Baines and Redi Chalyn! :)

The great and wonderful Kyla Baines helped me again with her marvelous beta reading skills - thank you so much! :)

And - I will go on my summer vacations next week. So I won't be near the internet for the next two weeks. So... see you in August for the next chapter! ;)

I.10 The Consecration

In front of the house, a black carriage with dark curtained windows was waiting. Two unknown men - their tattoos indicating their senior rank in the Crows - were waiting for Zevran. The young assassin was blindfolded, the place was secret.

It was a bare, windowless room. Floor, walls and vaulted ceilings were made of simple, raw stones. Small trickles of stinking water revealed to Zevran that he was underground, somewhere in the tangle of Antiva's canals. Hundreds of candles on pedestals, tables, in corners and niches were the only light and heat source. On an altar in the center - which was stained with the blood from former rituals - lay a young man. His chest was moving lightly. His eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping peacefully.

"It is important that he is still alive," said an elf with a dark, sonorous voice. In a long, midnight blue robe, he walked slowly toward the visitors. Zevran had never seen him before. "I am master Dendayar, and a mage. Come over here. I must prepare you." He indicated a simple wooden chair that stood beside a table with strange instruments and equipment. Bulbous bottles and jars in various sizes, pliers, spoons, knives, bowls... An acrid smell came from these things, which increased Zevran's nausea.

While Zevran went to the assigned place, Antonio held the mage briefly back and whispered something in his ear. Dendayar nodded and walked slowly toward the young assassin. It was difficult to determine the age of the elven mage. A hood covered his hair; its shadow obscured his face. Piercing green eyes searched the pale face of the wounded elf. Cool hands touched his feverish forehead and felt the flying pulse at his carotid artery. Finally, the mage asked Zevran to open his shirt and to remove the bandages.

The master focused his hands on the wound in the belly of the assassin. The hands began to glow blue. Zevran felt a warm energy flowing through his organs. A comforting, healing feeling as if his wound would be closed on the spot. Pain and nausea abated. His heart came back to its usual quiet and powerful stroke. Only a metal taste in his mouth remained.

"Better?" asked the mage with a smile.

"Thanks," Zevran nodded approvingly. "Your skills are impressive and quite useful, I would say."

"Nothing of what you experience here will leave this room." The voice of the mage was sharp and menacing. Dendayar grabbed Zevran's left wrist, rubbed the inside of his forearm with a blue-tinted liquid. It prickled his skin, a feeling somewhere between tickling and burning. The mage took a knife, cut into Zevran's arm and collected some of his blood in a bowl. A short touch of his hand was enough to close the small wound again.

The assassin looked in astonishment at the spot to see nothing, not even a tiny scratch. It seemed so pointless to keep such power concealed. A mage with such skills in their cell could prevent many deaths, shorten recovery times. The skills of the known surgeons appeared ridiculous in contrast.

Dendayar approached the altar, a silver dagger glinting in one hand. With a flick of his wrist, he made a small cut on the boy's neck. As blood fell from the wound, the mage caught it in a simple bowl, his eyes gleaming eerily green. He put the vessel on a stone table, opened a vial of purple liquid, and let a few drops fall into the mixture. Then he muttered words in a foreign language. Fired burst from his hands. It transformed the dark red liquid into a deep black substance. This he brought to the young elf, "Drink this!"

Zevran hesitated: "Blood? I shall drink blood?"

"It is not simple blood," the master said. "It is a magical mixture. You have to drink it while it is warm, else this was all in vain." He put the bowl in Zevran's hands. His gaze allowed no opposition.

The elf took the vessel to his lips, closed his eyes and drank. The substance tasted disgusting. It burned his throat and his empty stomach. Zevran had not eaten for two days. It was hard for him to quell the nausea. He wondered what the effect would have been like had he not been healed earlier.

"Well," said Dendayar. "Do you feel something?"

"No," replied Zevran honestly. "Nothing but nausea and a burning sensation in the stomach."

The Master laughed, "That is the most honest answer anyone has ever given me." Zevran was again blindfolded. He was led around the room. Finally, someone gave him a dagger: "Find him," he heard the sonorous voice of the master: "Find the boy and kill him."

Though his eyes were covered, Zevran saw a diffuse red ring and went towards it. As he approached, mysterious runes were visible inside the ring. Perhaps ancient elven symbols? He was attracted to them - the ring was his goal and he stabbed in the middle. A short, faint sigh was heard. The master took off the blindfold. Zevran's dagger protruded from the heart of the young man on the altar.

"Congratulations, that was good," the mage said with satisfaction. "Not everyone hits his target the first time as accurately. You have talent. This is now your gift. You must learn to concentrate, then you can mark your targets magically and meet them more effectively."

"The boy was not simply asleep, right?" the assassin asked.

"Of course not, it was a magical sleep. And now - take advantage of your gift. From time to time it makes sense to repeat the blood ritual; you will feel if this is necessary. But make sure that the substance is pure. Let it never be contaminated by disease – or tainted in any way."

A new wave of nausea and a shudder went through Zevran's body. Surely, Dendayar hadn't been referring to the taint of darkspawn? Though he had never seen one of those vile creatures, he knew the old tales of heroic Grey Wardens like Garahel, who had ended the fourth blight. That had happened nearly four hundred years ago in the Antivan city of Ayesleigh. Zevran gave himself a shake – he wasn't normally sensitive to simple words, though his reaction could be an effect of the ritual, or indicative of a lingering fever.

Dendayar turned to Antonio, who had watched the whole incident in silence. He was sitting in a high chair in a dark corner behind the altar. "How about you, my friend?" asked the mage. "I have just the right woman for you. Sweet twenty, blond..."

The crow master drew the side of his mouth downward. "Not today, my old friend."