Fenris regretted parting with Isabela again; they'd had so little time together, even with him having spent much of the previous afternoon in her cabin with her, and a good chunk of that in her bed. But such was the nature of their relationship; he had commitments on land, with Feynriel, and she needed to take her prisoners off to Cumberland, and perhaps at some point some months down the road their separate journeys would bring them back together again. So he waited patiently while she said good-bye to the two mages, then exchanged a long hug and a short kiss with her, and then he left, following the two mages down the gangplank to the docks. They looked back, he did not, at least not at first, and then did some minutes later, as they stepped off the wood of the dock and onto the cobbled stone surface of the quay. She was already out of sight again by then, gone back to her own work. He smiled; that was as it should be, of course.
Amaranthine was a large city, and even with much of it having been rebuilt with a more sensible street plan since much of it has been destroyed by fire in the plague year after the blight war – straighter, broader streets that only curved as much as was necessary to follow the contours of the land as it rose away from the bay – it took them almost an hour to walk from the docks to the city gates, having to pass through many smaller gates along the way. The city was divided into many interior wards, the walls serving both for defence in war and to help prevent fires from spreading. Much help that had been in the plague year, but then those fires had been deliberately set and spread, fire being one of the few things that would adequately destroy blighted corpses and soil.
Beyond the city gate was a sprawl of additional buildings to either side of the road, the city having begun to expand beyond its existing walls. Judging by the surveyor's stakes and piles of materials, the walls were in the process of being extended to include new wards to either side of the road. Beyond that was fields and farms, the road changing from cobbled stone to a corduroy surface of split logs and sand, well-packed down by frequent traffic. That eventually ended, as fields turned to forest, the road becoming a well-rutted surface of mud and gravel.
It was a pleasant walk, the forest alive with birdsong, the day warming but with a slight, pleasant breeze. Anders walked along in silence, head down and shoulders hunched. Clearly not looking forward to reaching their destination, even though it had been chosen by him. Feynriel walked at his side, equally silent, but looking around at everything. The trees here were a mix of types largely unseen in the north, with a scattering of dark conifers in among the brighter greens of the leafed trees. The further south you went, the more pines and firs there supposedly were, the northern trees becoming rarer and smaller than their counterparts in the north; they didn't like the cold, which in a bad winter was said to break them open as surely as any woodsman's axe might. Far enough south, and even the conifers vanished, it was said, leaving plains covered in low hummocks of moss and grasses, and eventually lichen-covered rock, where stone was seen at all; giving way to year-round snow and ice, somewhere down there at the world's end.
Fenris had no desire to wander that far himself and see if the tales were true. And thankfully their journey today was nowhere near as long a one as that would have taken. They stopped briefly in late morning, where a small lake came within sight of the road, the two separated only by a sloping shelf of worn-smooth rock, warmed by the sun. A pleasant place to sit and watch the lake while eating some of the last of their travel rations.
"This seems a very empty country," Fenris said after a while. "Though beautiful."
Anders grunted. Feynriel spoke up. "Most of the people live along the coast, around the inland sea, and the river that runs from it to the coast, and in a large area of prime farmland to the west from here, that's bordered by all three – the Bannorn. Much of the rest of the country is largely like this – wilderness, crossed by a handful of roads and with scattered small settlements."
"Small wonder Orlais saw it as ripe for the picking, then."
"Yes," Feynriel agreed.
Anders made a grunting sound of agreement as well, then rose to his feet, dusting off the seat of his clothes and turning to look at the road; clear signal that he felt it was time to continue.
Another hour of walking brought Vigil's Keep into view, on a rise overlooking a river that Feynriel named as the Hafter. Their dirt road had joined a large stone road; one of the old Imperial roads, built and maintained by magic in the distance past, and now slowly crumbling. They crossed the river on a substantial stone bridge, and left the Imperial road again to follow a winding dirt road around the base of the rise and then up it, passing through a small area of fields to a village nestled up against the walls of the keep. It was an imposing structure, built on a sloping angle of land between two arms of the high hills backing it, hills that rose even higher than the keep's tallest tower, and mostly steep enough to present a challenge to anyone trying to approach the keep from that direction.
As they drew closer to the keep, Anders went, if possible, even more silent than he had been; his back stiffly upright, head raised now as his eyes looked over the structure, jaw set. His hand were clenched, as much as they could be, and a faint tick twitched the flesh of his cheek beneath his eye. Once again Fenris found himself wondering why the mage had chosen this as a refuge to return to, when he so obviously dreaded doing so.
The gate to the keep was guarded, a pair of men in polished silverite armour standing to either side of the opening. They looked over the three with interest, but made no move to stop or question them as they entered the outer ward of the keep. There were more houses here, and a couple of shops, an obvious continuation of the small village outside the walls. Fenris and Feynriel looked around with interest, taking in the sights; Anders had eyes only for the next gate, atop an easily defensible small platform of stone, leading into an inner ward.
This gate was more closely guarded; another pair of men in brightly polished armour. "Your business here?" one asked, tilting a pike to block their path.
Anders looked to Feynriel. "We're here to speak to the Warden-Commander," the younger man said. "If he'll see us."
"Want to join the wardens, eh?" the man said, and lifted his pike. "Go ahead; it's not one of his open court days, but the gatekeeper can send word and ask if he'll see you anyway."
They didn't correct the man's assumption, simply heading on through the gate and into the inner ward. There were more buildings here, mostly of well-dressed stone; a barracks, another area of houses through a smaller gate off to one side – possibly where servants and their dependants lived – and a large open-air smithy. Adjacent to it was a large gate, the opening partially filled with a half-raised portcullis and giving on to a flight of stairs up to a very large pair of wooden doors; a good design, difficult to bring a ram into play with those steep stairs there, Fenris noted with interest. Another silverite-clad soldier stood to one side of the opening, clearly keeping an eye on traffic in and out of the keep.
Feynriel led the way over to her, and asked if they might speak to the Warden-Commander. "I'll ask," she said, and whistled sharply. In under a minute a page came dashing out of the doors and ran down, stopping and looking expectantly at the woman after only a brief glance at the three of them. "Three men asking to see the Warden-Commander," she said. The page nodded and darted off again. They waited.
It wasn't long until the page reappeared. "Come ahead," he told the three of them, then turned and led the way indoors, moving at a walking pace now instead of his previous headlong dash. They followed.
The doors at the top led into a large room, narrow stairs at either side leading to raised platforms, with an interior gate at the far end leading to a corridor that narrowed rapidly. Fenris was mildly impressed despite himself; an indoor killing-ground, for dealing with any invaders who managed to get this far into the keep. Beyond that was a twisting warren of small passages, opening into large rooms that were often divided in height, providing additional areas where a small force could easily hold off a larger one. Eventually the small corridors took them to a broader one, and from there the page led them through a large metal-strapped door and into what was clearly the great hall of the keep. A huge brazier burned in the middle of the space, warming the room. There was a throne-like seat at the far end, on a small dais; a seat currently unoccupied, though a large man dressed in fine clothing of blue, grey and silver stood nearby, frowning slightly as he talked with a dwarven woman, her face heavily marked with dark tattoos. She was dressed in the blue-and-silver armour of the Grey Wardens.
Anders took the lead, walking down the length of the hall and stopping about halfway between the brazier and the man. The two looked around, the man – a monster of a man, taller than Anders and broader in the shoulders than even Sebastian or Carver – frowned, and tilted his head curiously. "You're a Grey Warden," he said flatly to Anders, then glanced past him toward Feynriel and Fenris. "And you two are not. What is it you wish to see me about?" He turned his attention back to Anders.
In answer, Anders took off his hat, raising his chin stubbornly, one hand rising to push his hair back from his face.
The dwarven woman gasped. "Anders!" she exclaimed, then froze, looking uncertainly at the large man.
He'd frozen as well, stiff as any statue. When he moved again, it was to stalk toward Anders, his eyes narrowing in some mixture of disbelief and anger. "Anders," he growled, one hand reaching out to grasp the mage's chin and turn his face from side to side. "It is you. What happened? Where have you been all these years?"
Anders opened his mouth and made some harsh sound, displaying his lack of tongue. The man snatched back his hand, eyes widening in shock. "Maker's cock... what happened to you!?" he exclaimed, then frowned and turned his attention to Feynriel and Fenris, as being more obviously able to answer. "What happened? Who did this to him?" he snapped out, frowning angrily.
"It is a long story," Fenris spoke up.
The man stared at him a moment, eyes narrowing, then abruptly nodded, and turned back to the dwarven woman. "See to what I said; I'll have further instructions for you later. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me," he said, and then turned to sweep his gaze over the three. "Come," he ordered, and turned away, not even looking back to see whether or not they followed him.