The final echoes of the crash reverberated throughout the walls of the prison. It was as though one of Flora's Highever giants had tripped and landed on the great hall overhead. The dislodged dust took some time to settle; it not only cascaded from the ceiling, but plumed from cracks in the masonry. The powdery grit settled on the cadavers that lay strewn across the tiles, as if the cremation process had already begun.
A despondent Flora stifled a sneeze in her elbow. A sourness had settled in the pit of her stomach like a gulp of curdled milk: the cause of all Redcliffe's troubles was a demon . She had a sinking feeling that the others might expect her to have some expertise on the matter - after all, she was the mage. Yet Flora's spirits had always shielded her from the Fade's more sinister residents; and she had no experience whatsoever with abominations in the waking world.
He's just a little boy. Can't you do anything to help?
You rejected the most obvious solution.
Mm, we ain't killing a child.
Alistair, teeth clenched in the vice-like grip of his jaw, struck the cell door with the flat of his blade. The prisoner flinched like a beaten Mabari, hands rising protectively to his sunken face.
"We'll be back for you," the young warrior said ominously, letting the full authority of his three inches and six feet frame loom through the wood."I want to know exactly what you've done to the arl."
The two Wardens set off up the corridor , avoiding the eviscerated remains of the ambush. The Qunari fell into step just behind them, quiet and alert. As they passed the first corpse, he retrieved the axe that had cleaved the cadaverous face in two. There had been no more noise from the main part of the castle after the initial crash, but the tomblike silence in what ought to have been a bustling settlement was even more disturbing.
The corridor ended in an abrupt right turn and an ajar door; beyond which, a wedge of spiral steps were visible. The stair was cast in shadow - the wall-torches had been left to grow dust - but some light filtered down in papery streams from above.
"We should have brought Leliana with us," Alistair said, peering cautiously up the spiral stair. "We could use her bow. What did she say she was doing this morning?"
"Um." His sister-warden scoured her memory for the particulars of their brief conversation. "I think she said she was going to the nearby villages to recruit more help for tonight."
Flora wondered if he wished Leliana was at his back in her place. All she had done was provide illumination, and some minor shielding - roles that could be done equally well by a torch and Alistair's own steel bulwark.
"Alistair," she said, following him up into the narrow confines of the staircase.
"Hm?" He had his sword drawn, advancing cautiously around the curved stone. The steps were polished from frequent use, grooves worn in their centres to mark the passage of feet.
"Are you sure there won't be any more fighting after - after today?"
Flora lowered her voice to a hiss halfway through the question, alarmed at how her words were amplified by the stairwell's acoustics. They had now ascended through six rotations of the winding stair. The pale, probing fingers of sun gradually merged into a more cohesive daylight; the wall broken by slitted windows. After more than an hour underground, the rawness of the sky seemed unfamiliar.
Three steps ahead, Alistair was focused on the winding stair. He was almost grateful that he had to focus on potential ambush instead of the return to familiar surroundings. His departure from Redcliffe Castle had been abrupt; his parting from the arl not pleasant.
"What? Oh. Probably not. Unless the teyrn sends more assassins after us."
Flora brooded over this sinister possibility as the stair ended in a small antechamber, empty except for a stern stone bust on a mid-height plinth, and a topped chair. A bar of pale sunlight underlined a door on the far side. Alistair hesitated for a moment with his gloved hand spread against the wood. Flora could not see his face, but she saw his shoulders lift in a deep breath.
Then the chamber seemed to shrink as the Qunari and the pair of remaining soldiers reached the top of the stairway, crowding behind Flora. Alistair gave the door a shove and it swung open, revealing an expanding wedge of earthen courtyard.
Even the low winter sun was startling compared to the subterranean murk; the small party paused to blink back their vision before moving on.
Redcliffe Castle was a fortress built to withstand siege and direct assault: even the interior courtyard was surrounded by bleak and towering, featureless walls. Arrow slits and channels for pouring oil punctuated the limestone facade; the Guerrin colours hung in faded glory on the battlements overhead. The courtyard itself was empty, save for an overturned barrel and a lonely training dummy at the far end. The figure's sackcloth torso had been gutted; it stood in a motionless pool of sawdust.
Alistair was disconcerted: the last time he had set eyes on this courtyard, it was swarming with the bustle of domestic life. There should have been a steady flow of activity between the kitchens - the discreet archway to the south - and the great hall, which lay behind an impressive entranceway to the north. A fan of steps led up to a pair of iron-riveted doors; near which servants were accustomed to linger, exchanging idle chat while balancing trays of soiled silverware.
The castle washing-area, supplied with lakewater pumped through the rock, bordered the kitchen. In usual times, washer-women crossed the courtyard with baskets of spilling linen, cursing at skiving stable lads and avoiding overexcited Mabari as they chased each other in tight knots. Knights clad in the distinctive Guerrin livery swaggered over the cobbles, while passing clerks rolled their eyes; aware that Redcliffe's current power lay in its trade, not in military might.
This was the maelstrom of castle life that Alistair remembered: the constant muddle of people, the barking of dogs and the smell of baking bread. The courtyard before him now stood barren and desolate; motionless except for the flap of wind-teased banners against the stone.
"Where is everyone?" he said under his breath, disconcerted by the hollow rebound of his voice. "Half the town work here."
It had been a rhetorical question: Alistair assumed that most of the servants had taken part in the nightly assaults on their former home. The Qunari however, who believed that all questions required an answer, voiced a blunt confirmation; the young man flinched.
As Alistair stood motionless, Flora slithered between his arm and the doorframe: curious as to what the interior of a castle looked like. She was impressed with the bleak ugliness of the four unadorned walls: solid and practical, and with minimal openings to trap the heat. The keep did not reach the Circle Tower's lofty heights, but it was far broader and sturdier than the delicate stem of Kinloch Hold. She wandered into the centre of the courtyard and turned a slow rotation, the end of her straggling braid swinging.
Alistair had not yet reconciled the diminutive frame of his sister-warden with the formidable defences at her fingertips. He felt uneasy seeing her isolated with so many doorways on all sides: they had already been ambushed once. He strode forward, relieved when they were once again within an arm's reach.
"This is more what I thought a castle would look like," observed Flora, whose experience was limited to stories and second-hand anecdotes. "Where do you think the bann is?"
Alistair glanced to the side before he spoke, his mail-wrapped finger lifting towards the pair of double doors.
"There," he said, a ghost of the word rebounding within the lifeless courtyard. "The crash came from the great hall."
That means the dungeons are under our feet, Flora thought to herself, looking down between her muddied boots. The cobblestones looked innocuous enough, but she thought it peculiar that -in usual times - people could go about their daily business while prisoners lay chained six feet below.
When she looked up, Alistair had his sword drawn and his eyes rested expectantly on her face.
"Ready?" he asked in a low voice, and there was an ominous weight to the word that hung like a millstone: ready for whatever lies behind those doors?
A child possessed by a demon, an abomination, more reanimated corpses?
Flora did not think that she would ever feel ready to deal with any of those possibilities, but she knew that she also did not have a choice. This realisation was not prompted by her spirits, but by her own candid northern consciousness.
No fisherman of the Storm Coast is ever ready to take on the Waking Sea, and yet they do so every morning.
"Eh," Flora replied vaguely, meaning not really. She then lifted her chin and set out towards the steps as though she was striding through churning shallows.
To the whale boats, to the whale boats.
Should I summon my shield now?
Pointless.
She heard Alistair and Sten fall into step beside her; then, some distance behind, straggled the Rainesfere soldiers. They were not cowards, but they were used to facing danger that they could block with a shield. The foul magic that poured forth nightly from the castle, and its abominable source, far exceeded the limits of their experience.
Flora felt her boots growing heavy as she ascended the steps before the door, as if she had wandered into quicksand. There were patches of it on the shore around Herring; it was darker and denser than the grit that covered the beach. She looked down and realised that there was no tangible impediment, save for her own reluctance.
Will I ever stop being scared of things? the girl from the fishing village asked her spirits.
No. But you will learn to manage the fear.
This was an unusually empathetic response from her general; she was astonished.
And if your commander had sent you into the field more often instead of -
Flora stopped listening.
Beside her, Alistair stretched a glove towards the iron ring fixed to the door; he then hesitated. She saw the steel contour of his spaulders rise and fall as he drew in a deep breath. His gaze dropped down and to the side, and met the nonchalant composure of his sister-warden's stare. Flora's face was neither welcoming, nor friendly - her beauty was unapproachable and her eyes glacial in their coldness - but it had the advantage of remaining dispassionate in even the most dire of circumstance. Until very recently, this had never proved to be an advantage.
Reassured by Flora's unruffled stoicism, Alistair grasped the iron ring and gave it a determined shove. Fortunately, the bar within the castle interior had not been slid into place; the door opened with a groan from the hinges, and the great hall extended before them like an unrolled tapestry.
Flora's boots were immobile once again; but this time the cause was pure astonishment. She had never seen such a vast space enclosed by walls before - how could anyone build to such great heights indoors? how could a ceiling be constructed fifty feet above the floorboards? and the sight stole both her breath and her momentum. The framework of the ceiling seemed as vast and intricate as the skeleton of a ship's hull; the lower half of the walls were lined with uninterrupted tapestry. Suits of armour stood guard at regular intervals; weapons of war clutched in lifeless gauntlets. Eight vast tables - each one the length of a tree trunk- were flanked by benches at each side. At the far end of the hall, a handful of sweeping steps led up to a stone platform, where a throne carved from oak stood empty.
Flora was so astonished by the sheer scale of the great hall that when she heard a sharp intake of breath from beside her, she assumed that her companions were similarly impressed. Yet their eyes were not wandering the length and breadth of the cavernous space, but focused on the array of figures near the arl's seat.
"Mother. You didn't tell me we were expecting visitors."
The child's voice, thin and unbroken, was overtaken by a twisted reverberation that came too quickly to be a true echo, an inhuman snarl moulded crudely into words. The demon's voice could not penetrate the Veil intact; it emerged mangled and broken. Connor Guerrin stood on the empty seat of his father's throne, his head cocked like a Mabari. His eyes were as black and glossy as the seeds of an apple. Beside him, the arlessa stood with the hunch of a condemned man at the gallows; twitching as though the creak of the rope already sounded above her head.
On tbe table nearest to the raised platform, Teagan Guerrin was performing tricks that would impress an Antivan contortionist. Yet there was an awkwardness to each somersault; the bann's body flailed like a doll wielded by a child. His face was white and slack, mouth fixed in a rictus grin.
A half-formed plea to the Maker slid from the throat of one of the Rainesfere men. Immediately - although there should have been no way that the child could have heard the prayer from such a distance - the abomination let out a low rumble of anger. It sprung from the throne and landed on all fours, crouched low like a beast; head swinging from side to side. Then it slid upright in a fluid and unnatural motion, eyes focused on the arrivals.
"Connor," whispered the arlessa, though her eyes were still anchored to her stained silk slippers. "Connor, please- "
"Quiet! I want to greet our guests. Come forward."
Alistair swore under his breath; Flora could see beads of sweat rising on his hairline. The Qunari shifted from foot to foot, a low rumble of disapproval sounding deep in his throat. The five of them moved in a knot, weapons in hand - save for Flora - between the columns of tables.
Flora could taste the acrid aura of the Fade on her tongue, as though she had stood too close to a bonfire and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. She hoped that no one would look to her for guidance on what to do: she was a mage, but her spirits had always guarded her from their malevolent counterparts.
They came to a halt at the foot of the steps and the possessed child gazed down at them; his black and shining eyes skittering from one to the other like an ant. The bann had some temporary relief from his torment as the creature's attention was diverted: he fell to his knees and let out a soft groan, raising a hand to his head. Alistair darted a glance sideways at the dazed man, and his gauntlet clenched involuntarily on the hilt of his sword.
The arlessa spotted the small motion and let out a raw sob, extending a hand. She had lost so much weight that her wedding ring swung loose around her finger, kept in place only by the swell of her knuckle.
"Please don't hurt my son," she said, each word a wound. "He - he isn't himself."
"That's the understatement of the Age," murmured Alistair tightly, though his fingers loosened their grip on the blade.
"Hush, 'Mother'," retorted the abomination, and the second word was veined with such jeering contempt that the arlessa flinched. "If you don't stop your whining, I'll split your tongue in two; and see how you nag me then!"
The glassy black stare swept over the Rainesfere men, dismissing them immediately. The Qunari warranted a more studied gaze, and a childish snort. Finally the abomination's eyes settled on the Wardens, who stood elbow to elbow.
"Now, Mother - see?" the child crowed, gleeful. "This looks like a man who could rule. One in prime condition. A proper man."
Alistair drew in a swift and sharp breath, his forehead creasing. Connor Guerrin continued on, one hand scratching at his neck.
"Not like my father. Scrawny and withered old fool! He should have given up his arldom to me long ago. No matter: I've claimed it now. Ha! My legions will swarm the land!"
Flora was still frightened, but she was simultaneously growing annoyed. The arlessa's Orlesian accent was too thick for her to interpret, and although the boy was speaking in Kingstongue, she had no idea what he was talking about either. All that she saw beside the large wooden chair - she did not know it was an arl's throne, and three Ages old - was an obstacle; a delay to their Redcliffe goal.
"You'll be competing with the Darkspawn," she said, with northern bluntness. "They've got a head start on swarming."
The abomination looked at her and Flora felt it's eyes crawl from head to toe.
"I'm surprised you've let this one into the castle, Mother," it said, with a demonic leer that defied the childish shell. "I thought you banished all the beautiful girls to stop Father's eye from- "
Flora recognised the moment that the demon knew her as a mage; the sentence aborted itself in the creature's throat and it narrowed its gaze like an eagle sighting a rabbit. There followed an experimental prod at the corner of her mind - it felt like a greasy fingerprint - and then the abomination recoiled with such fury and shock that it flailed into the arl's throne. Despite the slenderness of the boy's body, the solid wooden chair clattered to the side as if knocked by a giant hand.
"Go away!" shrieked the demon, and amused curiosity had been replaced by pure, incandescent rage. "Go away, GET OUT! Get out of my castle!"
It was as though a hundred voices were yelling; amplified further by the cavernous acoustics of the great hall. The Rainesfere men put their hands to their ears; Teagan groaned and closed his eyes. Alistair half-drew his sword, then hesitated and looked faintly nauseated.
Flora felt the sigh of her spirits resettling themselves in her skull. Compassion hummed in a soft atonal undertone - they rarely communicated in any form of recognisable tongue.
Is it angry because of me? she thought doubtfully, referring to the abomination.
No. It felt us. It knew us.
Flora looked up just as the abomination began to writhe on the spot, hands hidden in a maelstrom of violet energy. Teagan, with the jerking motion of a doll, threw himself upright and wrenched his family sword from his belt. The bann began to stagger towards the intruders; the green Guerrin irises a milky white.
AN: I cannot WAIT for this limbo to be over - had my last day in work and a socially distanced goodbye party last week, and now I'm just trying to tie up all loose ends, pack everything, and look after the baby - there aren't enough hours in the day! Honestly packing and moving is so crap, it's been nine years since I've last had to do it. I wish I could just pay someone to do it for me but I'm too much of a control freak! But anyway, a week on Sunday and we'll be back in my beloved Wales, I'm SO excited! I literally got the Welsh for homesickness (hiraeth) tattooed on my ankle a few years ago so this is a big deal for me.
I just wanted to get this chapter out and I haven't even proof read it or edited it, so apologies for the millions of dodgy spellings/repeated words that it probably contains lol
