Chapter Eleven: Saunière

Berenger Saunière's arms ached to the point of shaking. The tendons in his wrist were weak and he feared his sword would soon fly from his hand the next time he collided blades. Facing death was not as terrifying as he imagined; calmness washed over him like the salty surf rolling onto a rocky shore. Trapped deep inside the ruin hidden in Tylus Canyon, he was defending himself against two impish genlock rogues and one particularly ugly hurlock, with a mouth of decayed teeth and a face that would compel a mother to smother it with a pillow. His life had been in danger before and a fair share of malificars had attacked him when he was younger, but killing apostates was relatively simple. Once he robbed them of their ability cast magic, the rest was nothing more than a flourish and a jab. This time however, with age and an obvious lack of allies, he was aware that he was fighting his last battle. Pride bubbled to the surface as he thought about how others would remember him—a noble son from Ghislain, former templar, eminent Professor of Ancient Andrastian theology—who died valiantly in a failed rescue effort. That did not sound so bad. He wished he could rectify the "failed rescue effort" aspect of his final stand, but he could hardly regret that. No matter how many times he swung his sword, he could not reduce the Darkspawn's numbers or even weaken them sufficiently to gain ground.

Besides regret, there was guilt. He managed to drag Tassilo into this mess, never doubting that his devoted assistant would follow him to the Void, and here they were, right on the edge. Tassilo had run out of arrows and resorted to brandishing his double daggers, dodging blows and managing rather well on his own. Saunière wanted to shout out a meaningful farewell, but did not wish to disturb his assistant's concentration.

Saunière pommeled the hurlock in the head, tired of its mocking snarls and foul breath, hoping to knock out a crooked fang that protruded most annoyingly from its upper jaw. It was not a critical blow, nothing more than a push, and he missed the tooth, but it gave himself an extra moment of existence. With a thud, it fell at his feet with an arrow lodged in the back of its skull. As the genlocks spun around to examine this new threat, the professor noticed that the fletching was not Tassilo's, nor was it friendly fire. Tassilo used the whitest of goose feathers, while Darkspawn balanced their arrows with the feathers from an oily carrion feeder, no doubt corrupted from the taint. The arrow embedded in the dead hurlock had mottled copper and black fletching. If Saunière had more time, he would have taken the time to study and identify the feather, and guessed it was most likely from a hawk.

A female voice echoed through the hall. "Take cover gentlemen!"

The strange woman raised her sylvain-wood staff, gathering a burning vortex and sending a fiery wave to every corner of the chamber. Her fox fur and feather-trimmed cloak spread behind her, unscathed by the flame. Without questioning this opportune guest, he ducked behind the central pillar with Tassilo, grateful to catch a breath. As the fire roared, the screams of dying Darkspawn never sounded so sweet.

"You are bleeding, mon professeur." Tassilo said, rummaging through a pack.

"As are you, my friend. You don't happen to know who our savior might be?"

Tassilo shook his head as he wrapped Saunière's arm with a bandage soaked in a healing ointment. They sat on the floor to take advantage of the cooler, cleaner air. Both men started coughing as the air thickened with smoke. The professor pulled the neck of his tunic over his mouth and remarked how roasting Darkspawn flesh was as repulsive as when it rotted.

His joints were on fire, but reminded him that he was alive. After he gathered his wits, he wiped the black filth from his sword onto his breeches. Grumbling disapprovingly, Tassilo passed him a rag, which Saunière flicked away with his hand. Sweat was running in rivulets down his cheek and the smoke was so dense that he could almost cut it. His lungs worked to expel the searing air and his eyes watered as he fell into a coughing fit.

When the room quieted, the woman approached through the grey ephemeral curtains.

Tassilo stood up, crossed his arms and bowed. "Aneth ara, sister."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement and offered a small hand, with long, slender fingers to help Saunière. With little effort, and to his astonishment, she pulled him to his feet as he hacked and wheezed. With a sweep of her cape, the room cleared, with the exception of the heaps of crackling corpses scattered throughout the chamber. Saunière caught his breath and scrutinized his benefactor. Her vallaslin had a distinct Orlesian design, which Saunier though was odd. He expected an elf with this much skill to hail from a nomadic Dalish clan and not an alienage. He then wondered which one. Surely not the slums on the east-end of Val Royeaux. The templars were quick to clear that area of any mage influence.

"Professor Berenger Saunière," he reached for his hat to tip it respectfully and saw that it had fallen off during battle and now lay flattened near the mysterious elven woman's feet. She must have followed his gaze, because she reached down and handed it back to him.

"Your timely intervention is truly remarkable. My thanks cannot express the depths of my gratitude," he said, reforming the hat and setting it back on his head.

"I am Fiona. I've taken great interest in your research, Professeur Saunière, I'm glad you received my urgent message. Unfortunately, we both arrived too late to save your beloved colleagues." The flame reflected in her amber eyes.

Saunière wondered if this was the same elven mage that travelled with the late King Maric Theirin of Ferelden. A dear friend of his, a Chantry brother living in Denerim, had recorded the life history of his reign. Whenever Brother Genitivi visited Val Royeaux, they would meet for dinner and over a few glasses of Orlesian wine, would discuss his research. Brother Genitivi explained how Maric and Fiona had investigated the Architect, a sentient Darkspawn with the curious desire to bring peace between his hive-minded brethren and the peoples of Thedas. It wanted to use the Grey Wardens as neutral agents to accomplish this. Saunière doubted that the Wardens would agree with such an alliance. But before he lost himself in the past, the wheels in his mind started to turn again. She had met the Architect in person. The first tangential thought that had entered his mind was what does one say to a talking Darkspawn? Before his thoughts took him elsewhere, he cleared his throat and adjusted his coat.

"Begging your pardon, but we were under the assumption that Duchamp's assistant Felix had sent the message that set us upon this search." Saunière replied.

"And I apologize for using subterfuge to bring you to such dangerous places. Unfortunately, the Darkspawn arrived before me and attacked the eminent scholar and his entire research team. We must make haste, they will soon replenish their numbers." She walked over to the central pillar and with an elegant touch, traced a circle inset into the stone door. "You must find this key. What lies in the warrens beneath will not only be of great interest to you, but for all magi across the realm."

Saunière inspected the door. It was sealed so tight not even a slip of parchment could pass between the door and its casing. The inset disk was incised with markings where its companion key would fit, a disk-shaped key, roughly the size of this hand. He realized it was the object Andraste wielded in the carved relief outside.

"I've never heard of such a key. Who else knows about this?" He asked the mage. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled his notebook and started writing.

"Only Duchamp. Go to Ferelden and seek out Nuraya Amell to help you find it. She will have the connections you will require."

"The Hero of Ferelden?" Tassilo asked, as he inspected the strange keyhole. "What would she know of this place? There has been little word of her since the Darkspawn attacked Amaranthine …what five years ago? Does she live? With only rumours, how are we expected to find her?"

She turned to Saunière, "Make for Denerim. I will make certain that she will be there when you arrive. She knows nothing of this door or of the whereabouts of the key, however, she has certain…qualities and connections... that will prove invaluable to your search. What lies beyond will be of great interest to her…to all of us. "

"And what lies beyond this door?" Saunière asked sharply. He had little time for riddles. His patience wore thin even though he was aware that his survival was due to her timely intervention. He stepped over a charred corpse and continued to write.

Fiona pointed to a carving on the top of the key. It bore the same script that decorated Andraste's image on the canyon wall. "This is written in a language not spoken in Thedas since the founding of Arlathan. In a time before men and Qunari, my forbearers lived long and peacefully on these shores. In front of great burning fires, we shared our history in song and stories and had little need for writing. When the Tevinters crossed the seas and made war upon my people, the First of the Firsts took his chisel and carved our words into the stone and onto the trees. Hidden by the wind and the rain, our words are made visible in times of great forgetting. The words you see here are the work of Shartan."

"Is this Shartan's tomb?" Saunière asked. He was the leader of the elven slaves who joined Andraste's rebellion against the Tevinter Imperium. After Maferath betrayed his wife, his supporters killed Shartan. Little survived of Shartan and to find his tomb would be a historic discovery.

"No. It bears Andraste's secrets and what she learned about the Maker. That is all I know. I have suspected for many years that Andraste learned magic from Shartan to use against her oppressors. However, as her allies turned on her and murdered her in the street before she could strike against Tevinter. The Chant of Light tells part of the story and the Chantry has systematically supressed the truth from us for centuries. Behind this door lies the proof we need to show the Chantry that generational magic is Andraste's gift to the mortal world. Magic is not a curse. It was her ultimate blessing. This truth will change the tides of history and empower all mages to rise out from under the Chantry's control."

Saunière stopped writing, raised an eyebrow and looked over to Tassilo. His assistant appeared stunned at the proposition. Although elven by birth, he was Orlesian through and through. Saunière smiled wryly. This was far better than discovering Shartan's tomb. To expose the Chantry's hypocrisy was a worthy goal and one he covertly pursued throughout his academic career.

"And how are you certain that I will not return to the Divine and repeat everything you have just told me?" He continued writing and did not look up. "I am an Orlesian intellectual after all."

Fiona chuckled. "Who do you think told Professor Duchamp about this place, Saunière? We have been working together for years. And like I told your beloved mentor, keep this out of the Seeker's hands and especially out of the Chantry's. There are some that will destroy any evidence that will redefine the Chantry's role in Thedas. Don't forget this is information worth killing for. You have all that you need from me. Go to Ferelden and find the Hero of Ferelden."

~0oOo0~

Saunière and Tassilo walked their exhausted horses into Nessum. As they made their way from the hidden ruin, Fiona placed an owl feather in Saunière's hat and before he could say thank you, she clapped her hands together, transformed into an owl and flew out the sky-light in the ruin's great hall. Why the elven mage had to task an old man to travel across Thedas dogged him as they made their way out of the canyon. He hated the sea and loathed the ships that rocked over their waters even more. The route through Orlais on horseback would take too long. The most direct route was the southern road to Cumberland; he'd have to board a ship to Jader.

On the road, they came across a caravan on its side. The front of the wreck was crawling with vultures, competing for the best morsels of dead flesh. With dark flapping wings and bone-sharp beaks, their shrill cries, like stone on metal sent a shiver down his spine.

"I don't know about you, Tassilo, but the smell of rot is quite tiresome."

Tassilo examined the fallen wagon as his horse lumbered past. "A slaver wagon. Let's hope the cargo was spared and managed escape."

Nessum barely qualified as a town. It was more or less a collection of adobe domes and structures carved into the canyon walls. The source of the Minanter River trickled northwest of the city, but did nothing to wash away the dust and grime. A pair of guards allowed them passage through the city gates, offering them a nod as they passed. It attracted traders passing through with wares from the Imperium and the Anderfels on their way to Nevarra City and Orlais. This northern Nevarran outpost was an eclectic collage of the many cultures that came to trade here. Local merchants were uninterested in their arrival. Peddlers pushed their carts and announced their wares, a carpet seller slept amongst his merchandise and women wove through the crowds balancing tall earthenware pots on their heads. The two road-weary travellers aroused no suspicion or interest.

Saunière removed his hat, wiped his forehead and pointed toward a sign swinging in the wind. "That looks like an inn." As they approached, they tied up their horses near a water trough.

"The Wounded Axe. Strange name for an inn," Tassilo remarked as he passed under the sign.

"All we require is a bed, my friend. And hopefully a decent ale to quench our parched tongues."

Saunière ducked under a thick curtain that hung in place of a door. It was cool inside the wattle- and-daub inn. Cushions and animal pelts lie scattered on the hard-packed dirt floor and patrons settled lazily upon them. Some puffed flavoured tobacco from water pipes, exhaling wafting clouds of blue smoke that hung in eddying curls. A fire smouldered at the centre of the round room and a woman in jeweled small-clothes with tasseled hips, sent her fringes flying to the beat of a skin-covered drum. As she circled the room, she stopped to shimmy in front of a group of traders, their eyes undressing her as she presented her ample cleavage.

They found an empty set of cushions and dropped their packs, settling into their spots. A tall man, with shaggy dark hair eyed them with suspicion as he sat against the mud-brick wall, balancing a greatsword across his long legs.

"By the looks of it, they serve more than ale at the Wounded Axe." Tassilo whispered. Saunière wondered just how sheltered his assistant's life was at the University. Surely someone in the Languages department had managed to drag young Tassilo to Le Chabanais, an infamous bordello in the seedier side of Val Royeaux. A sparsely dressed serving wench kneeled in front of Tassilo.

"How can I serve you, traveller?" she purred. Tassilo ears pinked and looked to Saunière for direction.

"Two ales." Saunière said, holding up two fingers. The dark-haired man continued to stare with his icy-blue eyes, giving the professor a general sense of unease. He recalled Fiona's warning to avoid Seekers and Templars. This man belonged to neither, unless he had gone undercover in his worn and dirty leathers.

The serving girl traced a finger down the length of Tassilo's nose. "And you have no other needs at this moment?" Tassilo shook his head, removed his leather tricorn hat, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Rolling her eyes she slinked behind a curtain at the back of the room.

"I'll be right back, Tassilo. Try not to get yourself into any trouble." Saunière wandered toward the back, looking for the proprietor. A man nearest the back counting coin looked the part.

"How can I help, weary traveller?" When he grinned, his gold teeth gleamed from his wide smile. With a hand laden with gold rings, he gestured hospitably. "Welcome to the Wounded Axe, my friends! I am Hagen. Would you like me to bring out our girls? Magalie is available." He pointed at a near naked, olive-skinned woman reclining on a pile of pillows. Saunière ached for a woman's touch but dared not give in to his desires. She winked and caressed her breast, tracing her finger around her nipple and pulling on her piercing. He turned away to interrupt his fervid yearnings.

"I'd like two rooms if you have any to spare," he said to Hagen.

"For the hour or the night?" The proprietor sucked on a bronze mouthpiece and let the smoke escape his nostrils.

"My companion and I have been exploring the canyons for the past week. We wish to rest before returning to Orlais."

The proprietor grumbled and named his price. Saunière paid without haggling, dropping extra silver into his pot, aware that he and Tassilo would be expected to purchase the services of their women, and hoped that his tip would exempt them from the requirement. Hagen pointed to a back hallway and gave directions to their rooms.

"So what news from the area, Ser?" Saunière asked.

"Ever since Kirkwall, more and more templars and Seekers make their way north, hunting the apostate responsible." He pointed to a wanted sign posted on the wall. "Proof right there, gentlemen. Of course, being so close to the border of the Imperium, they always patrol the area for slavers and wayward malificars. But in the last week or so, the place has been crawling with them. Couldn't be happier though. Templars are my best customers! Don't like it when the Seekers show up…they tend to scare away business. But don't worry. They don't bother the patrons. Just the women. I suspect this Champion of Kirkwall is in the area. But I like to keep my nose out of Chantry business and far away from malificars." Saunière smiled and nodded.

"And what of the caravan lying on its side outside of town?"

Hagen shrugged. "No one is talking. The slaver is dead and his cargo ran into the hills. We hear dozens of stories, from the wild to the plausible. Don't matter though. One less slaver to sell a poor soul."

"Do you suppose this Champion is responsible?"

Hagen shrugged. "Why would an apostate attack a slaver? I suspect he's got his eyes set on grander targets…the Grand Cathedral for instance."

"Well, I doubt either Order will allow an apostate within a league of Orlais. Many thanks for your hospitality, Ser Hagen." Saunière tipped his hat.

A tray of ale was waiting for him when he returned to his seat. As comfortable as the cushions were, seating himself upon them caused all of his joints to crack. Once settled and comfortable, he took his notebook and tore out all of the pages. Tassilo watched the ritual quizzically. Saunière took his sword and unscrewed the pommel and rolled his documents into a secret compartment inside the handle. His ancestors once used this sword to smuggle money and messages out of Orlais to the forces that marched upon Ferelden. Using the ingenuity of his forbearers, he hoped to prevent his documents from getting into the Chantry's hands and was not lost on the irony of the situation. Afterwards, he spent time scribbling in the book.

"Seekers and templars are known to come through here," he whispered. "I've devised quite a story of a hidden temple in Mont-de-glace. Should throw anyone off our tail if my notes are confiscated."

When he finished, he stretched out and groaned. "The Amell mage…" he said aloud, reaching into his coat for his pipe. Stuffing it with a pinch of Riviani tobacco, he stared into the room, thinking about his strange meeting with Fiona. The dark stranger still loomed in the corner, still watching from the corner of his eyes.

"Professeur Marceau suggested that the Divine was interested in meeting this…Ferelden hero. Perhaps to offer her commendation for ending the Blight. If it wasn't for her, things could have been much worse in Orlais." Tassilo stretched out a leg and bent the other. He leaned forward to strike a match and light Saunière's pipe.

Saunière lowered deeper into the cushions, sucking on the ivory mouthpiece, wishing to take some of the pressure from his lower back. "Oh yes…no doubt the Divine would be interested in such a meeting…but offer a Fereldan Warden Apostate a commendation? Let's be realistic my friend. But back to the situation at hand… travel to Ferelden?" He groaned with disdain. "Ferelden is so…" he paused to find the right word, trying to catch it with his hand.

"Lacklustre?"

"That will do. I don't so much mind the countryside, but Denerim is nothing more than a cesspool of beggars and simpletons. This elf Fiona…whom I am sure is working with the White Spire…why couldn't she send the Amell mage to Val Royeaux? I'd have all my research at my fingertips…this request is so inconvenient, Tassilo."

"Only rumors flow out of the White Spire these days…What has this Fereldan mage to offer that we cannot accomplish on our own?" Tassilo wondered.

"Excellent question. I fear that she will attract all the wrong attention. Surely the Seekers and templars would like to have more than just a few words with her…how are we to find this key under their noses with a celebrity in our midst? Such an ill-conceived plan." Saunière's ale was starting to warm. A fresh pipe would have been better with a brandy, but he doubted the Wounded Axe carried anything worth ordering. He looked around to request another ale, but could not tell the difference between the barmaids and the whores. Holding up his tankard, he was able to procure a cooler replacement.

"Why do we have to follow this advice? We should just begin our research without her. I agree, this task is already full of challenges and complications."

Saunière crossed his arms and pointed at Tassilo with his pipe. "Don't forget that Duchamp trusted this elf. She said they had worked together for years. I never underestimate Duchamp. If he thought to trust this Fiona characters, then I can be condescended to do the same. So, within the week, I will reluctantly step foot on a rat-infested galleon for Jader." He realized that his averseness for sailing was more acute than working with a Fereldan mage of renown.

The curtain over the door swung open, scattering the shadow with the afternoon sun. A group of men strolled in, grabbed the woman dancing around the fire, causing her to squeal. They were thick, brawny and armed. As they passed a pair of elderly men playing Wicked Grace, a bald and shirtless oaf and kicked their tankards over, watching the reactions from the room and laughing at their own audacity. Everyone at the Wounded Axe pretended to ignore them. The leader approached Tassilo and stared down at him, his half-open eyes menacing.

"You!" he growled. He had a small head on a thick neck and his face was lumpy, like curdled milk. "You're one of the escaped slaves. You killed Mooney!"

The accusation infuriated Saunière, but knew better than to rankle an ill-tempered and badly mistaken nitwit with weapons. He blew smoke toward them and said in measured tones, "You must have him mistaken for someone else. He is no slave. I suggest you speak with a bit more courtesy to a lecturer from the Université d'Orlais." Tassilo glared but remained quiet.

The thug looked to his companion, a man whose eyes were placed too close together and his nostrils too far apart. "Oh, the old man says he's a lecturer."

"I says we collect him and deliver him to Nevarra City, as promised." the weasel-faced man replied, pulling his blade and pointing it to Tassilo's throat. The third man, large, sweaty and shirtless, drew a serpentine dagger and slapped his hand with it and licked his lips.

"Derko, leave the travellers in peace." The stranger that had unsettled Saunière gripped the man's shoulder. He was rather tall and lanky, not the sort the professor thought would be able to take on the likes of the three goons.

"I had a job to do and I'm gonna finish it, Greer." Derko growled. "Elves just don't show up out of the blue and order drinks. I says he's one of Mooney's and I am going to track each and every one of his snivelling little knife-eared companions, round them all up whip them stupid. If you ain't gonna man up and help me out here, I suggest you just step aside and leave the Vipers to their business."

The dark-haired man furrowed his brow in frustration. "Derko. Come, have a drink, let's play some bix."

Derko wasn't listening. "If you come with me willingly, I might not hurt you. If you tell me where the others are, I'll even let you live."

This time the taller man rolled his eyes, turned Derko around and gave him a sharp uppercut to the jaw. Derko didn't have time to react. He wavered, fell to his knees while the dark-haired man kicked his legs from under him. Not wasting a second, Saunière leapt to his feet and pointed his sword to the weasel faced thug, while Tassilo, backed against the wall, poised with a set of double daggers.

'Who's next?" the dark-haired man with the piercing blue eyes asked Derko's companions.