Chapter 27
Seeking the Dalish

Alistair's sword crackled as it swung through the air. With a mighty twang, it connected with Lyra's, the electricity from his blade twining with the flame from hers as the elements fought for dominance. Zevran and Leliana clapped enthusiastically, and even Sten looked impressed. From her spot in the grass, Wynne stroked Kestrel, and the mabari panted happily as she scratched behind his ears.

"I told you, my Sandal's a right genius with runes." Bodahn's voice swelled with pride. "Back in Orzammar they said he was a... oh, yes. Savant. Don't quite know what it means, but he does lyrium work as well as any you'll find."

Sandal echoed him with glee. "Enchantment!"

"Tomorrow, we should head into the forest, Bodahn." Alistair slid the runed sword into place on his back. "Hopefully it won't take us too long to find the Dalish."

"We'll set up camp here. I can wait three days, and then we'll have to move on. I'm due in Lothering during the first week of Cloudreach," Bodahn said.

Leliana and Wynne put together an evening meal while the others fortified the camp. Morrigan had found a bed of wild mushrooms, and she prepared them with some of Bodahn's salt and other herbs she had harvested during their travels. They were delicious, and everyone devoured them... except for Alistair, who refused to touch them until Lyra pestered him about it. He finally ate one, and pronounced them very nice.

"Think she might poison you?" Lyra whispered.

"Never can be too careful," he whispered back. "They are mushrooms."

"She's not going to kill you, she told me so. She needs you for something... but she won't tell me what it is."

"She needs me for something? Oh, great. Fan-bloody-tastic. I knew I shouldn't have eaten that mushroom. She'll probably use me in some dark ritual while I'm sleeping," Alistair grumbled.

Lyra wondered. A ritual... but one specific to Alistair?

Alistair and Zevran were elected to clean up, and they went to it with a will after the required whining and complaining.

Leliana busied herself with her journal, and with nothing better to do, Lyra wandered over to Morrigan's fire. "Thank you for the mushrooms, Morrigan. They were divine."

The witch had buried her nose in the black book Lyra had given her, and looked up in surprise. "Oh. You are welcome. 'Twas no trouble; they are a favorite of mine. 'Tisn't often I have salt, which improved the flavor even more, I think," she said, and turned back to her book.

Lyra lingered. "May I sit?"

Morrigan looked up again, her brows furrowing in confusion.

"Or... are you busy?" Lyra finished lamely.

The witch blinked, then finally seemed to understand the question. "Oh! Please, sit." She closed the book and laid it at her side. Lyra knelt, and Morrigan stared at her wordlessly for a moment. Clearly, she was not an idle conversationalist.

"...how's the book?" Lyra asked at last.

"Fascinating. Actually, you may be interested to hear of it, since 'twas you who brought it to me. And perhaps 'twould be good for me to... clear my mind, somewhat. The book is troubling me."

"How so?" Lyra asked, wondering what could possibly be in it that could scare someone like Morrigan.

"When I began to read Mother's grimoire, I expected to find spells, ingredients, lists of potions and the like. Knowledge that would strengthen my power. But what I found instead has made me realize how very little I know, and has frightened me badly."

"What is it?" Lyra asked, intrigued.

"You are aware of the Chasind legends, are you not? About Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, and her covens of sisters who howl at the moon?" Morrigan asked in a tone that said exactly how little she thought of these legends.

"I've heard them, yes."

"I have heard the legends as well, though Mother did not like to speak of them. But what puzzled me was the fact that the legends always mentioned many witches, and I never met any others." Morrigan took up the book, her fingernail tapping the cover. "This grimoire explains why. I have discovered the secret of Flemeth's long life."

Lyra leaned forward, Morrigan's somber words tickling her melodramatic side. "Blood sacrifice?"

"Not... exactly." Morrigan slanted in to meet her, missing the facetiousness in Lyra's tone. "Flemeth's method is to steal a girl child and raise her as a daughter, and then when she is grown, Flemeth takes her body as uses it as her own."

Lyra's levity evaporated. "Her daughter? Then you-"

"Are her next victim." Morrigan straightened, her eyes wry. "You see why I am perturbed."

"But - Maker." Lyra shook her head, amazed. "How can she do that to you? She's your mother!"

"She can, and according to this book, she has, over and over again. But now that I know, I can stop it from happening. 'Tis clear to me. Flemeth... must die."

Lyra reeled. "You plan to kill... Flemeth? The most powerful witch in Ferelden - possibly all of Thedas? Morrigan, you are very, very powerful, but-"

"It cannot be me. You must do it."

"What?" Cold chills shot through her. "I cannot kill Flemeth!"

"You can," Morrigan said crisply. "She is an old woman, and much of her power is fading. She was relying on me more and more, and I do not doubt that she meant to take my body soon. But if I am with you when you confront her, I cannot be certain she will not possess my body immediately. I must not be there when it happens. Will you do this, my friend?"

Lyra sputtered. Friend? Her friend was asking her to commit a murder. Not a defensive killing, but a cold-blooded murder. Of her mother. Who just happened to be the most feared witch in all of Fereldan legend. "I... I don't... Morrigan, it's..."

Morrigan simply waited, saying nothing as Lyra struggled to complete a sentence.

"Is there a time limit on this?" Lyra whispered at last, wondering what was wrong with herself.

"No, I don't imagine so, although the sooner the better, yes? Bodahn said himself we would be in Lothering in the first week of Eluviesta - Cloudreach. It will be a few hours' walk to the Wilds, and the errand can be complete. When she is dead, you must bring me her true grimoire. She keeps it locked in a chest in the house, and she wears the key on a leather thong around her neck. With it, I may be able to-" Morrigan stopped.

"Be able to what?" Lyra asked, still wondering how she would manage to defeat the Witch of the Wilds.

"Become as powerful as Flemeth," Morrigan finished, then stood up quickly. "Alistair is looking for you. You should go to him." Turning on her heel, she stalked off into the darkness, leaving the young Warden seated by the fire.

Lyra shivered... the spring night had gotten cold. Standing slowly, she walked back to the main area of camp.

Alistair was waiting for her, and he took her hands and squeezed them. "There's a river not far from here. Feel like going for a swim?" he said with a sparkle in his eye. Then he caught her expression. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Morrigan..." Lyra choked out. She swallowed. "Morrigan wants me to kill her mother."

Alistair began to laugh, then stopped. "Wait, you're not kidding."

Lyra shook her head with a shiver, then filled him in on their conversation.

Alistair gave a low whistle. "Are you going to do it?"

"I said I would try... will you come with me? When I go?"

"Of course I will, but I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea." He shook his head. "In fact, it sounds positively... deadly. It may not be a good idea, Lyra. We're the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. We can't get killed by Flemeth, we have to give the Archdemon a shot at us first."

"Morrigan said she wasn't very powerful anymore."

"Even so..." Alistair sighed. "This isn't going to be fun, I can tell. Do you suppose Wynne can fix us up with... magical... repellent, or something?"

"Maybe," Lyra said, then shuddered. "You said something about a swim? I need to get my mind off of this."

"Get your soap. I'll wash your hair for you."

The moon hung low in the sky when they got to the river. It had been tough to talk Zevran into trading guard duty with her, but Lyra wanted to get a full night's sleep, and so she'd managed to arrange the time off for both of them. The armor had been left at camp, but Alistair had his sword and shield, and Lyra had her dagger. Alistair reported the area to be clear of Darkspawn; they'd be safe enough for an hour. Lyra spread a soft, waterproof blanket on the ground near the shore. Thinking of climbing out of the river and having nowhere to dry off had prompted the thought... she was hoping to keep as many bugs out of her clothing as possible while they bathed.

Alistair pulled his clothing off and hurried into the river. Lyra took a bit more time, certain the water was glacier-chilly. It might not have been winter anymore, but that didn't mean it was summer. Alistair's yelp was telling, and she watched him dunk underwater with a touch of apprehension. Were it not for the grime she could feel in every crevice, she might have skipped such a wintry bath. She stripped, loosed her hair, and took her soap with her into the water. It was icy, but she gritted her teeth and forded in.

"Any man-eating fish?" she called to Alistair, who was wiping water from his face.

"Don't think so-" he said, then abruptly threw up his arms and disappeared under the water with a violent splash. She shielded her face from the flying droplets, watching him surface again a moment later. "Don't bother coming to save me, I'm-" The words cut off as he was 'pulled' under the water again, and she grinned as she made her way over.

He surfaced, and she handed him the soap. "Big guppies, huh?"

"Huge," Alistair said with a grin, spinning the soap in his hands to work up a lather. Lyra was tempted to help him wash, but the water was really too cold to do much more than bathe quickly and get out. She steeled herself, and ducked under.

It was absolutely freezing. She came up sputtering and took an enormous, gasping breath, her jaw clenching as she shivered. "How can you just... jump... into this? I was hoping for a relaxing swim, but it's still to early for me, I suppose."

"It is pretty cold," Alistair said. He was lathering his hair, and when he'd finished he handed her the soap. She washed as quickly as possible, then lathered the crown of her head and hurried out of the water to stow the soap before forcing herself back in to complete the job. Alistair did help her wash her hair... his gentle fingers worked the suds into her scalp, and she assisted, only because she was too cold to stay in and enjoy his attentions. Ducking under once more, she finished rinsing, then scurried to shore.

The warm air was like a caress. Lyra grabbed the soft leather she used as a towel and dried as quickly as possible, then handed it to Alistair. He threw it over his head and rubbed his hair vigorously, making it stand completely on end. Kneeling on the blanket, Lyra attempted to run her fingers through her hair before going after it with her comb. "What I wouldn't give for a dram of Mother's hair oil," she sighed. "If you'd asked me a month ago what I'd miss the most about Highever, that wasn't something I'd have thought of."

"Tangles?"

"Andraste, yes. Always."

"Can I help you comb them out?"

She looked back at him with a surprised smile. "You want to comb my hair?"

"You say that like you're shocked," Alistair chuckled. "Your hair is amazing. Why wouldn't I want every chance to touch it?"

Shrugging, she handed him the comb, embarrassed yet pleased by his words. "Start at the bottom, and work your way up. You'll make a really big knot if you start up high."

Alistair's fingers were deft, and Lyra was surprised at the skillful way he picked the knots from her hair. It hardly even hurt. "You're good at this."

"I've always been good with my hands," he murmured, absorbed.

"Do tell." Lyra turned her head to throw him a sly glance. "I never would have guessed."

Alistair grinned, his focus on her hair. "Right. Did you know I like to draw?"

"You do?" Another smile touched the corners of Lyra's mouth. "Huh."

"Yup."

"Do you have any of your work with you?"

"No. I haven't really had time since I joined the Wardens."

A shiver tingled through her as his industrious fingers grazed her skin. "How did you learn? Did anyone teach you?"

"Not really. It's just something I always liked doing."

"I'd love to see you draw."

Alistair wound her hair in his fingers, the comb smoothing through the drying fibers.

"So what did you draw? People?" She closed her eyes, losing herself in the soothing rhythm. Maker, it felt beautiful just to be touched.

"Some. Animals, sometimes. Scenery, or weapons, or... I dunno. Emblems. I drew the Grey Warden griffin a few times."

"Like the one on Duncan's shield." The image of that creature would forever be burned into her mind.

"That's the one."

The music of the night was the only sound for a few minutes as the comb worked its way higher. Lyra curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her cheek upon her knees. Her mind lingered on the idea of the griffin. "Did you always want to be a Warden?" she murmured after a time.

The tines scraped harmlessly against the top of her scalp. "I dunno. Maybe. I met Duncan when I was a kid, and he wrote to me while I was growing up. Even came to visit me in the Chantry a few times... So, because of him, the order was always something I knew about. I really admired him. The Wardens always seemed like such heroes, y'know?"

Lyra nodded.

"I guess I sort of did want to join up." Alistair's arms circled her back, his lips finding her neck as a breeze picked up wispy strands of her hair. Lyra melted into him, her eyes closing. "Did you?"

"Mmmm... It was a dream," she admitted. His mouth was so distracting. "I wanted to be anything but a girl. A soldier of some kind, I suppose. Defending Ferelden against invaders, protecting the innocent."

"And now we both get to live it." Alistair gathered her damp hair into a bundle, draping it over her far shoulder. "Exciting sort of life, right?"

"It's got perks." Lyra shivered as his fingers traced paths over her shoulders.

"Your neck is without a doubt the most delicious thing."

"And here I thought you preferred cheese."

"Hunger comes in all forms," he murmured, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

"So you'd rather be a Warden than an artist?"

"Hmm..." Alistair considered as he nuzzled her. "That depends. What do I get to draw?"

"I'd pose for you," Lyra whispered in a teasing voice, then shrugged, feigning disinterest. "If you wanted, of course."

"Would you be wearing clothes?"

"Hmm... I'd leave it up to your artistic vision."

"And how," he asked between kisses, "would you expect me to keep my hands off of you long enough to get anything on the paper?"

"Willpower," she murmured, shifting her body toward his. "You could do it if you really tried."

"You don't even know if I'm any good." Alistair gathered her in, his nose circling hers. He was so strong, his arms and shoulders banded with steel. There was no effort as he lifted her, their bodies flush as her breasts brushed his chest. Lyra hitched a breath, her heart skipping a beat as Alistair's gaze burned through her.

"But I know you're good with your hands," she whispered at last.

Alistair dipped in, claiming her lips in a kiss that left her breathless.

.oOo.

The following morning dawned clear and hot. Lyra, Alistair, Wynne, Zevran and Kestrel left the caravan and headed into the Brecilian Forest to seek the Dalish.

"How do we find them?" she asked Alistair. Kestrel romped at Lyra's side, his exuberance drawing a grin from his mistress.

"I don't know, actually," Alistair admitted. "I thought we might just start looking for any signs of life."

Lyra considered. Her dog whined eagerly, snagging her attention. "Kestrel, think you can sniff out anyone who might be living in the forest?"

He barked an affirmative, then buried his nose in the underbrush. With nothing else to guide them, they followed the dog, keeping their eyes open for any signs of recent passage.

An hour later they were deep beneath the canopy of trees, surrounded by the thick, damp scent of loam and undergrowth. Lyra fanned herself in the damp heat, feeling stifled in her confining armor. Beads of sweat rolled down her neck, bringing to mind the icy river of the evening before.

"Wynne," said Zevran, "you are an enchanting woman. You know this, I hope."

The mage cocked a brow at the assassin. "Me? Enchanting? I am also three times your age."

"It matters not. Your eyes, like jewels. Your hair, like ivory. Your bosom-"

"My bosom?" Wynne said sharply. "Zevran, that is most inappropriate!"

"Why? You have a bosom. I have a-"

"Do not finish that sentence!" Wynne cried.

"-pair of eyes. Why should I not comment on beauty when I see it?"

Lyra jammed a knuckle into her mouth and bit down hard, praying she wouldn't begin snickering and end their dialogue before it could finish. She was dying to hear this.

"I am old enough to be your grandmother," Wynne replied, sounding exasperated.

"Which is what makes your bosom so very magnificent. It has not fallen to the ravages of time, but looks as fresh and young as-"

"This conversation is over," Wynne snapped, clearly ruffled.

Silence ruled the air for awhile, and then Kestrel barked and ran ahead.

"Look." Alistair pointed to a rut in the ground. Wagon tracks. The mabari barked again, and they hurried to follow the trail.

Minutes passed, the air seeming thick enough to slice. Maker, the humidity! The forest was nurtured by the water, without a doubt, but how could anyone stand to live in such a place? Much longer, and Lyra was certain she'd be able to wring out her underclothes.

"You should apologize to me, Zevran." Disapproval rang in Wynne's voice.

"I should? Why?"

"Because you said things that were inappropriate and frankly made me uncomfortable."

"Oh. Then I am sorry." His tone was light and amused.

Wynne paused before speaking again. "No you aren't."

"You are right - I am a bad, bad man. I feel so much regret. May I lay my head on your bosom? I need to be comforted."

"Zevran," Lyra began, not sure what she was about to say, but certain that death would strike the assassin down if he continued to bait Wynne. "uh..."

"Yes, my flower? Do not be jealous of Wynne. Your bosom is every bit as magnificent as hers."

Lyra threw a hand over her mouth, and a giggle slipped out before she could help it.

Alistair slid her a look. "I didn't find that one so funny, actually," he muttered.

Another sticky hour passed without too much incident, though Zevran continued to flatter their mage, who lapsed into icy silence in response.

Kestrel came to a sudden halt, his hackles rising. A low growl rumbled from his throat as muscles bunched in preparation for attack. Lyra sped to kneel at his side, one arm circling his body in an attempt to soothe him. A heartbeat later, she spotted the source of his ire - a tall, graceful elf, standing statuesque amidst the trees.

"What is it?" Alistair asked, then Lyra heard his breath catch as he, too, saw the elf. Without a word, she glided out of the bracken, lissome as morning mist.

Unlike themselves, she wore a short-cropped leather vest and skirt - far better suited to the heat they'd been suffering through. Soft boots embraced her feet, and one hand gripped a beautiful bow. Her ears rose to a sharp point on either side of her head, her eyes almond-shaped, her nose long, wide and straight - a prominent feature in an otherwise aesthetically perfect face.

"Halt, Shemlen," she warned in a low voice. "Come no further. Three of our marksmen have bolts trained on your every move, and it will end badly for you if you think to harm us."

"We mean no harm," Alistair said hastily. "We seek the Dalish. I am Alistair, and this is Lyra. We are Grey Wardens, and we have a treaty with the Dalish for aid during a Blight. Please, may we speak with your leader?"

"Grey Wardens?" The elf studied them for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "I will take you to Keeper Zathrian. But touch a weapon, and we will shoot you where you stand." With this warning, she turned and walked into the trees, and Lyra and the others hurried to follow.