Chapter 1

Ancient Arlathan

There was a quiet groaning as the gate opened, leading into a wide neat path. Fine mosaic was covering every inch of the floor beneath the elf's feet. He was held in chains that were invisible to the naked eye, but firmer than any iron shackles. His lithe, muscular arms were bound behind his aching back. He was dressed in the humblest of attires, indicating his lowly rank as that of a slave. A fine layer of dust was covering his whole body.

His long dark brown hair hanging in a simple braid between his hunched shoulders. In every muscle he felt the urge to straighten up, but the chains would only tighten around him. Two guards were marching behind him, keeping an eye on his every step. All he could do to vent his anger was to clench his fists.

They approached another gate. Trying to escape was futile. One of the guards would only need to flick his little finger and he would trip. No, his magical powers could not get him out of this. He should have known that the others would not pull along. They would rather walk into certain death than revolt against the complacent slave keepers.

It had felt like an eternity, when he had watched, waited, kept his head down. All for this one opportunity. And he had failed. Surely, they were going to make an example of him, but he did not even know where they were bringing him. He allowed himself a glimpse, as he lifted his head.

There was a gate. It was flanked by two enormous marble statues standing at either side of an arched entrance. The statue on the right was commanding, wings spread behind her back, wearing a pointed helmet, while holding a shield and a spear. This was in complete contrast to the statue on the left, which was holding out a hand in a soft inviting gesture, wearing a crown of leaves, holding a bundle to her chest. He stood at the entrance of Mythal's court. His heart started to beat harder.

The arch in front of them glimmered in a blue hue. They passed the statues the slave and the guards stopped. One of them said, "Mythal'an ensalin."

The guard waved his hand in front of the tall gate. As it opened, the slave was pushed forward roughly. With a pounding heart he passed through the arched gate. It led to a grand hall, so bright, that the three men had to stop for a moment to adjust to the light. As they went onwards, they could see the columns standing in rows letting the day light in. Fine curtains hanging between them, like the mists from a waterfall. If there was a ceiling, it was so far above it seemed to belong to the sky itself. The floors and columns were all made of a smooth light blue stone, cool to the touch like the water in the sea.

At the end of the room in the centre of the opposite row of columns, was a plateau for a throne. Its outline disappearing in the light that h flooded the room, blinding anyone who was attempting to look directly at the throne in front of them. The guards and the slave averted their gaze as they approached the stairs. One of the guards made a downward gesture with his flat right hand, causing the slave to fall on his knees, his head on his chest. He was not sure what he was supposed to expect. Would he get a chance to speak, or would he be dealt with swiftly?

"Release the chains," a smooth, deep female voice said with a calm, yet commanding voice. Is this Mythal?

Although the invisible ropes fell away, he stayed on his knees, still not daring to look into the glaring brightness.

"So… you brought the troublemaker," the voice continued with self-reassured calm, "Alive, as I asked."

All three men were quiet. Even the guards were averting their gaze.

"What do they call you?"

"They call him Durgen'an," one of the guards said with an undercurrent of contempt.

"I should have you killed, Durgen'an, for your audacious attempt alone."

Mythal paused, her shadow now hanging over the kneeling slave. He did not look up. She continued,

"That is what some people would say."

"But you are not them," Durgen'an said not looking up.

There was a shocked silence.

Before the guards could twitch their fingers, Mythal cut in, "Truly spoken. What would I gain by killing you?"

A few moments of silence. She continued, her shadow moving to the side.

"I want to know how a group of slaves managed to corner half of Falon'Din's lieutenant? I know you were behind it."

"How do you know it was me?"

"Someone talked," Mythal said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Of course, they had. I shouldn't have trusted them.

"Guards, you are dismissed," Mythal said quietly, yet loud enough for the two men to know their orders. Reluctantly the guards left.

"You haven't answered my question."

The slave stood up. Straightening his aching back, he replied, "What if I don't give you the answer?"

"Falon'Din would not be forgiving," Mythal said coolly, "but I could arrange it, so that you don't have to be in that position."

The slave stayed silent; his eyes stubbornly fixed to floor.

"Who told you that the lieutenants would go through the mountain pass?"

"I am not giving anyone up. I brought this unto myself."

Humming with intrigue Mythal paced from one side to the other. Then she said coolly, "I don't think you know much after all. I mean…"

The slave's heart was in his throat. He did know more. A great deal more than lieutenants had realised. If she was what they said about her. If she truly cared…There was a sudden rumble, and the room became suddenly dark. As if nightfall had come early and a cool breeze swept through the curtains. From the pillars emerged a spirit, bright white against the dark grey of the room.

"Wisdom," the slave whispered.

"You know the spirit?" Mythal asked calmly.

"I know more than many would have you believe."

"For example," Mythal ventured, "how to find information to plan a coup."

The slave did not reply. He watched silently as the spirit passed. Then he said, "It took more than one spirit, just like it takes more than one hand to move the pillars."

"Conspiring with Wisdom and speaking with audacity," Mythal said in a tone that suggested that there was a hint of warmth and mirth.

He looked up and noticed the glow of a delicate light which illuminated the immediate space around the foot of the stairs, where Mythal stood. Her shape draped in a simple but elegant gown. She stood confident, less intimidating than before, yet, still commanding awe.

The rumble in the distance continued. The rain could be heard, falling onto the smooth marble. He could feel the sweat pearling on his forehead as he listened to the sound of the thunder outside.

"Durgen'an. It clearly it refers to your remarkable stubbornness," Mythal said in a matter-of-fact voice, "But it doesn't suit you."

She shook her head, then asked, "If I told you, that the others would live, would you tell me what happened?"

"You would not simply hand them over to Falon'din?"

"No, I would not. They are not of concern to us at the moment."

She turned towards a corridor, which led away from the grand hall. Durgen'an watched her with an unsettling feeling that she was leaving him to the mercy of the guards. If they came back, he would not let it go, he would fight back. No guards came. Mythal stood facing the corridor.

Durgen'an swallowed hard, then he said, "There were two mountain paths, where we were working. We blocked one path, so that they had to take the other one."

"Leaving them with no other option but to enter a guarded pass and to get into a fight with stone giants," Mythal concluded and turned to face him. A knowing smile played on her expression. Was it approval?

There was a pause then she added, "Most illuminating."

"Will you let me live?"

"Yes, of course. There was never any question. However, You will not return to the mountain site. I have other plans for you"

He did not follow her immediately. He stood there, his back straight, puzzled by her words. She stopped and turned only enough to glance at him as she answered his unsaid query, "I believe you have potential, Solas."

"Solas?"

"Your name, from now on."

"That is a demon's name."

"We all have a spirit that belongs to us. Now follow me."

Later that evening, Solas was alone looking out from a high point in the court, down at the gently lit paths of the sprawling landscape. It was quiet, the scent of damp earth mingled with the herbaceous smell of the gardens.

With relief he recognised Wisdom entering the room. She walked up to him. A while passed, as she stood next to him and said quietly, "You worry about the people being left behind. Be like the eagle, who soars above, to find the path below."

He looked at the horizon, and he knew what he had to do.