Chapter 29
Hissing Wastes,
Late Harvestmere
"Idiot," Donna muttered as she eased herself down on a rock. Her knee felt as though it was going to burst.
Thank the Maker they'd reached the top of the ridge, yet that was scant comfort as the wind this high up was incessant, a nasty, wicked wind that cut right through every layer she wore no matter how she tucked her coat. Nevertheless, she'd found a spot wedged between a pile of boulders that offered some respite while the rest of the party went on their recon mission, leaving her and Evan with all their gear.
Evan, bless his soul, was helping her with the laces on her boot. She wasn't sure whether she could lean that far over.
"Going back down the ravine's going to be worse for you than going up," Evan said quietly.
"Please don't remind me," Donna said between clenched teeth as he unlaced the side of her breeches so that he could get to her knee. "Is it bad?"
His fingers were cool on the joint, surprisingly so, but his probing sent sharp jolts up her leg.
"Bruised," he said. "Nothing broken, so far as I can tell."
"No shit." Her despair washed over her. What a predicament. Tears wanted to come but she wouldn't let them. "Can you do anything to help?"
"We can bind it with a poultice, to reduce swelling and lend some support, but ideally you need to keep off the leg for a few days."
They didn't discuss their getting off the ridge, but he caught her eye and grimaced before he set to his work.
"You never mentioned to me that you were adept in the healing crafts," Donna said by way of initiating conversation.
"There was no need for it back in Redcliffe. I'd hoped to never need these skills again."
"Yet you learnt them."
"We… Had need of them. More often than we would have liked, back then."
"What was she like? Your other mother."
He paused in opening a jar, his gaze distant. "Driven." He grimaced. "A lot like Fiann in that respect. She had a way with people that made them feel compelled to follow. She could charm giants, if need be." His laugh was choked.
"You speak of her in the past tense." Donna was headed into dark territory indeed, but she couldn't help herself. When else would she have this opportunity between her and Evan?
"She went off on a fool's errand eventually," Evan said with a shake of his head after a moment's pause. "She sent us back to Lothering once it was rebuilt, said it wasn't … safe anymore for us to be haring about on the trail of ghosts. What she hadn't realised it wasn't safe for us anywhere."
"I'm so so –"
"Don't say it!" he snapped. "I don't want to hear it. I don't need your pity."
After that, his emotions were shuttered. He was the cool, aloof Evan she'd grown to despise. Cordial but not familiar as he bound her knee.
There was no fuel to be found, so he couldn't brew her a tea for the pain, but he gave her pellets of some sort of fibrous plant material to chew that were bitter, and made her screw up her face with their astringency. If it weren't for the fact that the results were near immediate, she didn't know if she'd have the wherewithal to chew the misbegotten stuff into a pulp and swallow it down.
Her surroundings were best described as dismal, and despite her bruised knee, Donna couldn't remain huddled, no matter what Evan had said about taking things easy. If she sat much longer, she feared her muscles would seize up. Evan remained watchful, perched like some fey creature atop a rock nearby. He said nothing as she dragged herself onto her good leg and started hobbling about.
"Where've the others gone?" she asked.
Evan peered about him. "Louhan's about fifty paces to the west." He gave a humourless laugh and waved. "And she's just waved at me. Your little elfy friend vanished into what looks like a pile of tumbled pillars."
"You mean there're ruins up here?"
"Of course there're ruins up here. You should sit down, Donna."
"I can't. Need to move otherwise you'll have to carry me down on a stretcher."
He didn't respond, but his pained sigh was abundantly indicative of what he thought about her last statement.
The landscape atop the ridge was weird in the moonlight, like something out of the lurid penny dreadfuls she'd sometimes bought at the market. Pillars had been felled, like giant tree trunks – some massive hall that had once stood here, so far as she could tell. One wall to the east remained – a row of pointed arches still recognisable. She tried to imagine what this must've looked like back in the day before the pale stone was wind-scoured and crumbling. Nothing grew up here save for patches of thorny scrub, and the wind's forlorn voice tore between the stones. All that was missing were some gibbering darkspawn. Ugh. No. Let's not follow that train of thought.
Donna patted the hilt of her dagger for reassurance. Encumbered by her painful knee she might be, but she still possessed teeth, though she prayed there'd be no need for her blades this night, and that Fiann got what he'd come for so they could turn around and head back to camp before daybreak.
#
Seith couldn't help but wonder what his father knew about this place. So far, he'd been scouting for any inscriptions of any form, but the stones were so weathered he could find only hints of relief work and, in places, fragments that may once have been mosaic work. So much for Fiann expecting to find useful artefacts here. He'd really have to dig, and it was doubtful they had time for that tonight.
Bits crunched underfoot, and he examined the pieces with a pang of regret that he'd not have the opportunity to dream here and see what the place might've looked like at the height of its existence, for surely it must've been splendid.
Then again… He cast a speculative glance in Fiann's direction before he clambered down into a hollow. Maybe the dwarf could be persuaded… Especially in the light of Seith having proven that he was perfectly capable of holding up his end of the bargain when it came to keeping everyone safe.
Seith still shuddered at the ease with which he'd despatched the dragonling. His response to the threat had been instinctual; he'd punched through the Veil and drawn upon the power of the Fade hard and fast. It was not so much that he'd punched the beast with raw power, but rather that he'd brought the power to bear within the creature's heart and pushed outward. He'd meant to swat it out of the way, and while the result had been unexpected, it'd served its purpose.
They were safe, weren't they?
Even better, he'd not inadvertently summoned any demons. Or so he hoped.
Just to be sure, he glanced behind him.
Nothing, of course.
Just cold stars glittering above, the moons casting their pale glow over the landscape of tortured ruins and wind-shaped rock formations. Just what exactly he was looking for, he wasn't sure. That he'd found Mihanin's vallaslin daubed on the rock face in the ravine leading up to this point didn't make him incredibly happy. More mystery for him to pick at, especially in the light that Solas had seemed surprised when he'd dropped the other elf's name. Obviously Mihanin was old – a lot older than Seith would have liked to consider. Just what exactly was his father on about in any case? He was used to secrets his entire life, of subjects broached and deflected, and for the most he'd simply accepted that there were things he wasn't ready to know.
I'm tired of being kept in the dark.
That was an honest sentiment he could allow himself, and he was oddly relieved to be out from beneath his father's constant scrutiny, always being judged, always found wanting, as if Solas viewed him the greatest disappointment since the fall of Arlathan.
Which brought him to another thought that he'd come to consider of late. How old was Solas exactly? He'd never questioned his father's authority until recently, had always been content to do what he was told, to abide by his decisions.
But it was the little thing that gave him away – of how he spoke of some of the places he'd apparently visited in the Fade, that appeared too visceral, the knowledge too detailed. As if he'd actually been there. Which in a way he had been through a vicarious apprehension of past events through dreaming. Not to forget the few occasions they'd crossed paths with the one known as Abelas, who had purposes of his own that he'd not discussed with Seith in earshot.
And yet … Mihanin asleep, for many years in uthenera, his symbol cropping up here too, hundreds of years old. The blood magic ritual used to wake him …
The not-knowing of how all these pieces fit together – for surely they must – ate at him like a canker. That Solas hadn't seen fit to include him in his confidence, now that bit deeper. Betrayal. That he'd prefer to see Seith's mother locked in a temporal bubble for all these years; that he'd clearly known what was going on and tried to steer Seith away…
All these thoughts clamoured and made his head a noisy place.
Which was probably why he didn't immediately differentiate the constant screaming of the wind and the ragged screech of something that could only be …
He paused.
Dragon!
"Fenedhis!"
He clambered out of the hollow in which he'd strayed in time to see a large, winged shape blot out a moon as it sailed past. Downdraft from the great, leathery wings buffeted him as the creature let out another unearthly shriek that vibrated right through him and left his ears ringing.
"To me!" someone called – Fiann probably – but Seith couldn't see where he was.
Then the great beast gave off another massive screech that shook the very foundations of the earth and left Seith staggering about as if he'd drunk five pints of ale in quick succession. He was conscious only of a curious numbness, of how the ground seemed to reach up to him.
He came to on his hand and knees as a great gout of flame swept over the ruins, feet above him but the heat was enough to make him gasp and check to see whether his clothing had caught alight.
It hadn't, thanks be to the Creators, and Seith scurried back the way he'd come, keeping an eye on his route but also casting about briefly to see what had happened with the dragon.
The problem with dragons was that they were resistant to magic. Well, most forms of magic. This being a fire dragon was a problem. Apart from his ability to manipulate the Fade, fire was Seith's preference, and the volcanic aurum staff he carried amplified that aspect. While the dragonling had been a fluke, Seith had no such confidence in his abilities to deal with a bigger, angrier problem.
He dodged behind a boulder then peered around. The beast had landed in what once may have been a large courtyard and turned her sinuous neck as she examined the ruins for the trespassers. This close to her, he could see the mottled pattern of her hide, hear how her chest rose and fell like great bellows. Each mighty footfall shook the earth.
High dragons weren't stupid. She knew they were here, could quite possibly smell them. His heart hammered away as if it might burst out of his chest. Seith wanted nothing more than to dash back to the ravine and get as far away as possible from this entire mess.
"I promise I'll spend the rest of my life dreaming in ruins if I can get out of here, Father," he mouthed under his breath.
Then further dismay clawed at him.
The high dragon was between him and the entrance to the ravine, and the way she was turning about, poking her head and sniffing at spots suggested that it was only a matter of time before she found his hiding spot, which admittedly wasn't very good to begin with. Yet if he moved, she might see him.
Where were the others?
His chest tight, he wanted to do nothing more than get sick thanks to the stress of his predicament. No one had ever told him dragons were so big. Well, he'd known they were big, but then there was big and then there was frigging enormous, and that skull stored in the basement of Skyhold, that he'd played on as a small boy was nothing compared to the monster thumping about seeking her prey.
Someone yelled, and an arrow hissed through the air to the north-west.
The dragon roared and turned faster than Seith could've imagined something of that size to move. The tail lashed out and swept down a pillar that crashed into a splintered mess of rock not ten feet from where he lay.
Yet he used the dragon's moment of distraction to dash to an outcropping of boulders five paces away.
Another screech.
He tripped, flailed through the air then fell, where he lay stunned for several heartbeats, expecting the worst. Only the world lit up eerily a little further away as the dragon breathed another explosion of fire.
His palms bleeding and stinging from his scraping fall, Seith scrabbled to his new hiding place, which wasn't all that great, but it was better because there was more solid rock between him and the great beast.
Your staff, you fool.
Seith dragged his staff from its harness. The twisted dragon webbing of the grip was a reassuring solidity in his hands, and his magic flared in response as his connection to the Fade deepened.
The Fade. Of course. A slow grin teased Seith's mouth. While a direct approach might not work unless he wanted to be burnt to a crispy cinder, Seith could try something unusual, something unexpected.
Which might also draw demons, he realised with a grimace.
Yet if he accidentally pulled things out of the Fade, then surely he could put things back where they came from? In addition to squishing other things in there with them? Like dragons…
He was being stupid, foolish, his rational side cautioned. Look at what happened when he'd try to fling aside the dragonling. He'd all but vaporised it. There was no telling what would happen if he tackled a dragon.
Low thuds in the ground betrayed the fact that the high dragon was on the move again, and Seith cringed, tried to make himself smaller than small. A blast of sulphurous, hot air jetted down nearby, and he dared to crack open an eye.
When had he scrunched shut his lids?
Except he found himself being stared at by the largest pupil he'd ever encountered in his years. A membrane slid over the domed expanse and the beast withdrew its head. Lungs sucked in air.
Icy fear slid over Seith and he knew – understood implicitly as though he breathed – that the time for hesitation was over. With a yell, he drew harder on his manna than ever before, and lunged onto his feet, staff at the ready.
#
The detonation was unlike anything Donna had heard before, as if the very fabric of the world had torn. Crackling green lights arced from the tear in the space the dragon had occupied, humming and whipping about like hungry tentacles before they flashed into nothingness.
Then silence so profound it made her ears hurt followed.
The smell of ozone was strong in the air, and Donna crawled out from behind the boulder where she'd sought shelter. Slowly. Carefully.
Yet somehow she knew, she understood implicitly that the threat was gone. Supporting herself on the boulder, she took a tentative step forward then bit back a yelp as fresh pain shot through her injured knee.
Fat lot of good she was doing as a guard. She was the one who needed help.
Should she call out and see how the others were doing? Where was the stinking dragon? That explosion of magic could only mean one thing – that Seith had somehow succeeded in taking out a dragon in one prodigious swoop.
Unless the thing was stunned, and the worst had happened.
Dear Maker no. Apprehension lent strength to Donna's dodgy knee, and she stumbled along, catching herself whenever she was unsteady.
"Seith," she moaned as she approached the blasted area where the dragon had been lashing about.
Deep score marks marred the gravel and the air nearly crackled with the after-effects of whatever outpouring of power had just taken place – so much so that all the small hairs on Donna's neck stood on end.
No dragon. Not even a scrap of hide nor a splash of blood. And no Seith either.
Evan dropped down from a rock and turned on one spot. "Where's the kid?"
"Dunno." Donna's heart beat wildly, and she found it difficult to breathe. "Seith?" she called.
Fiann shouted from the other side of the clearing. "Hulloo there! You guys all right?"
"No thanks to you," Donna muttered and hobbled to a patch where the ground had melted to a glass-like sheen that was still warm to the touch when she laid her palm against it.
"Noooo." Grief dragged at her, and Donna hunched over, hugging herself to contain the sorrow. He'd gone and blown himself and the dragon into nothingness just to protect them.
"He's gone, isn't he?" a woman – Erin perhaps – said to Evan.
Evan grunted a response.
Donna couldn't draw breath.
Gone. Seith, for all his faults, was dead. Like a blade sliced through a thread. Severed. No way to fix, to reattach the life that had been snuffed out.
She'd never had a chance to apologise for being catty to him, to even thank him for saving them from the dragonling earlier.
"Donna," a man said, and squeezed her shoulder.
She allowed herself to be helped to her feet.
Fiann's expression was stricken, his face smudged with soot. She would have found his appearance comical if it weren't for the fact that in a blinding moment her grief was overtaken by a bust of rage more potent than the dragonfire that had nearly incinerated them.
"This is all your fault!" she yelled.
To give Fiann some credit, his attempt to block her punch was half-hearted.
Unfortunately, punching him didn't make her feel any better, and it hurt her hand.
