Chapter Thirty-Seven: You Want It Darker
Lambert's song is Placebo: Running Up That Hill
Anders' song is Leonard Cohen: You Want It Darker
Midsummer 9:36
In Wintermarch 9:36 Fenris and Lambert moved house. Since helping Prince Sebastian retake Starkhaven last summer, they had been living in a suite of rooms close to the Prince's chambers. Lambert had insisted on keeping their quarters like a home where children would be welcome. Fenris thought that biologically unlikely but had humoured him.
Lambert smiled, remembering his parents' own illegal marriage – a noblewoman and an apostate – and how it had never seemed scary to him. They would live in a dump for a year or two – their first dinner always champagne and caviar (Malcolm's magic having 'made them fall off the back of a cart') - and they had known the dump was temporary, and the next home would be a castle. And, of course, while they were waiting for the change of fortunes, Malcolm would turn the place into something so special it might as well have been a castle. And Malcolm would laugh, and Lambert would join him, and soon deals would get made and his father would be paying for the champagne and caviar. Until the next middle-of-the-night move.
Lambert had grown up with that ethic: of enjoying the present, spending money when they had it, and never worrying about the future. The future had a way of coming in a guise no-one expected – the least one could do was enjoy the ride.
The first law Prince Sebastian had passed since becoming ruler had been one that allowed Elves to buy and own property. There were precedents: King Cousland and Queen Anora had done so, as had Viscount Nathaniel Howe (over the objections of Grand Cleric Elthina, who had said Elves were flawed children of the Maker who could not be trusted to handle money, and the rumours that suggested Nathaniel had only done it to please his Elven lover, Zevran Araiani, First Talon of the Antivan Crows).
Which meant that, with the money Fenris was now earning as Guard Captain, he had been able to put the down-payment on the house of Lambert's childhood: with the enormous millwheel beside the Minanter River.
Everything Fenris had – his own money, his first friends, his discovery of how to be a host - his name, Lethandralis - he gave away as soon as he had them. To Lambert. For the pleasure of giving. Lambert couldn't find words for how much he loved him.
Certainly, their three cats (Incognito, Incomunicado and Pumpkin) and two griffons (Dumat and Ripples) delighted in their wonderful new place. They scampered eagerly about, rubbing their faces everywhere to scentmark.
"How considerate," Lambert beamed, "they are making it smell lovely - too much beeswax and patchouli and soap! This is much nicer."
For both it was a step up: an escaped slave and an apostate who had lived in a succession of dumps, Gamlen's hovel the last. The Amell estate had been gorgeous, but he had thought of that as his mother's. As a mage, he couldn't legally inherit anyway. Their rough young men's pad in Llomerryn - their first as a couple - had been amazing; this was their own house. He was so proud of Fenris, who had more than earned it.
It was also the first time he had owned a garden. He had always secretly liked gardening – but the only other time he had had his own patch of earth had been at the Amell estate, and his mother had always insisted gardening was no fit pastime for a nobleman. But now he was living with Fenris in their own private paradise he could do as he liked! As a gardener Lambert was decidedly unskilled – when things grew at all, it tended to be by chance. But he enjoyed himself. A late rhododendron formed an extravagant riot of colour. A patch of self-sown blue linaria set everything off beautifully.
Lambert would never forget the last real conversation he had had with his mother, before he had gone to Chateau Haine as she wished and returned to her awful death. He had told her he would marry a man, not a woman. She had told him about the time she had first met Malcolm. The Amells had attended a banquet at Viscount Threnhold's estate in honour of the visiting Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons, Malcolm had been one of the Circle mages summoned to provide entertainment, like court jesters (this had been in the days before Knight Commander Meredith had banned such outings)…
…"When Malcolm met me I was nothing. I was dead. I had enough friends – said and did all the right things – that nobody thought I was strange, but inside me was nothing. Malcolm saw that. He understood me from the very first night"...
Gamlen had helped them sneak out to the balcony to talk in private and to meet in secret over the next few months. Warden-Commander Larius had offered Malcolm aid in escaping the Circle in exchange for his help with the wards binding Corypheus.
...The blood of the Hawke...
Finally, Ser Maurevar Carver and the former First Enchanter had entered the phylactery chamber and contaminated Malcolm's leash. If any Templars had ever pursued him, they had found no trace.
…"Because of your father's love, I grew stronger, but after he died...I wasn't the mother I should have been. I wasn't strong like the three of you deserved. I... I'm worried you're drawn to this Anders – this apostate – because of what you lost when your father died: a fellow mage – a tutor – a confidant. Anders is much older than you, isn't he? I know you yearn to be a father – you deserve to have what your father and I had. Malcolm always wanted me to have lots of children and grandchildren, because I'd been so alone the first time we met. Now Bethany is dead...Carver is a Warden...and you are telling me you love another man" …
The memory had been too painful to look at for a while, but Lambert could look past it now, to the selfish and unselfish elements of his mother's love. What parent was perfect? Leandra had died before knowing about Carver and Minna's son – little Lambert, born to a Warden against the odds – hadn't known how amazing Fenris was and how Malcolm would have been proud to name him his son-in-law. Family was more than blood: both Carver and Varric were his brothers and any children they had would be his nephews and nieces. He and Fenris would adopt. To give safety, to create happiness, to nurture intelligence, to give meaning: that was parenthood, and it had nothing to do with blood.
This house would be the perfect place to raise children, Lambert thought. Its long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, the noise of the rippling water turned by the millwheel's giant face, was the background to his own first memories. Also, his father's endless books. There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books on the landing, books in the attic and books (three-deep) in the bedroom. In the rainy afternoons he took volume after volume from the shelves, researching the way to cure Fenris – Rillian had given him, 'Veins of Blue Lightning: the making and unmaking of a lyrium warrior' - and he read it as if his life depended on it.
Fenris, though, took up a ridiculously small space: keeping only his clawed armour and his ceremonial uniform - which Lambert washed and cleaned carefully - and Lethandralis. His one personal concession was a single shelf in which the book Lambert had made and illustrated for him held pride of place. The other ninety-nine percent of the rooms were taken up by Lambert's things: his lute with the runes of electricity, endless new outfits, medical textbooks and devices for injections he was developing. He still gave Fenris the injection and the vial once a day (except when Fenris insisted he needed the abilities to cleanse Starkhaven's ruins of demons) but continued to try to improve them. He was in touch with Rillian and his grandmother, in Arlathan Forest.
He had thought he'd found an improvement on Apostate's Friend but Fenris still insisted on drinking that potion before going to sleep. When Lambert had raised his feathery brows in question, Fenris had swallowed hard admitted the truth: that he sometimes had nightmares of Danarius and was afraid he would wake, smell the mana on Lambert, phase before fully conscious and hurt him. Lambert had hugged Fenris tightly in silent token of how much that admission must have cost him, not a bit of fear in him.
"I love you," he murmured, "you do what you need. Only: just say the word, and I'll take magebane. I used to take it all the time in Kirkwall - I'm just lucky Sebastian never allows any Templars near me. But it's fine: I don't mind."
"No," said Fenris, 'I want you as you are. And your patients will need your mana." Sponsored and protected by Sebastian, Lambert had opened a clinic not dissimilar to Anders' - where he healed everyone without fear or favour, charging nothing. He used magic when it was needed and his patients - loyal to him as Anders' had been - would never report him. Even if they did, Sebastian had promised to vouch for him. Few would risk a Prince's ire.
The other thing Lambert found wonderful was Fenris learning to draw as well as read. It was sometimes the best way he had to express himself. Yesterday he had stood by Lambert and the grand piano he had bought and made a quick sketch of him. It was small and simple, depicting Lambert's pale colours – he had been wearing the outfit he had worn when travelling with Rillian – against the black piano. The portrait wasn't a pinpoint accurate portrayal. This was rough, using hardly any colours. The effect was almost black and white, except for the brightness of Lambert's eyes – like twin suns swimming through violet eternities – and a hint of green on the carpet. Lambert treasured it – had given Fenris a heartfelt hug when he gave it to him and gave it pride of place on their mantlepiece.
Fenris had also painted Lambert as a Pale Chanting Goshawk: a rare hawk with a distinctive, lovely song. He had seen one with Zevran in the bleak scrubland around Red Bride's Grave and drawn it from memory. The paintings and the wooden hawk Fenris had sculpted for their wedding were Lambert's three most precious possessions.
Tonight, though, they would not be enjoying time together at their house. Sebastian Vael and Josephine Montilyet would be getting married – a marriage perceived as advantageous by both families as Sebastian had money but was a stranger to nobility – Josephine's family had no money but she was a bard trained by Seeker Leliana and had all the right connections in Antiva and Orlais. Fenris would be on duty as Guard Captain and Lambert...
...Lambert had not been certain he could attend, given Sebastian would be expected to invite at least some Templars (the Trevelyan family of Ostwick was full of them) and it would be looked at askance at if he did not. But Sebastian had found a way. During the banquet Lambert would have to keep to the shadows, but Sebastian had requested a masked ball – currently all the rage in Orlais – and Josephine's family had been delighted. They had set about organizing the whole thing. Lambert already had his vial of magebane and would now just have to go about choosing his mask.
Lambert set about shopping – alone but not minding. Starkhaven was beautiful from every angle. He should be used to it by now but each new vista took him by surprise. To the north, the Minanter River seemed to shimmer against the midsummer sky and then disappear. Zevran had told him the Antivans had a word for this sort of sky. They said 'celeste' for a pale blue and 'azzuro' for a deep blue like this. He smiled. He had always loved the naming of things and the way words expanded thoughts. It was why he cared so much about teaching Fenris to read – not just so Fenris could function in the circles he was now moving in, but so Fenris' mind could become everything his spirit deserved.
South of the palace, the Chantry was a huge white building. Its large pale dome sat about archways and pediments of different heights and styles, with a smaller dome and teetering bell towers behind. Carver would have called it a mess but Lambert saw it as a challenge to his imagination. It was as if it had been brought about by accident by someone dreaming of a half-forgotten country.
Fenris had finally given in and attended the Chantry. Sebastian was making it a spiritual home for Elves as well as humans. Lambert attended with him. Somebody who had had a comparatively privileged life, with his father's rock-solid strength and treasure chest of love, didn't need the psychological support of faith in the same way: for Fenris the belief he had a soul and worth, regardless of Danarius taking his memories, his body, his mind, his dignity - helping himself whenever he fancied a meal - was priceless. Lambert would never do anything to take that from him - never do anything that might keep Fenris dependent on the love of a human (or human-passing) mage to give him self-worth.
For Fenris' sake, Lambert accompanied him to the services, remembering Leliana in Lothering Chantry, appreciating its beauty, even though he would never really be a believing man. He kept quiet about that - did everything he could to strengthen Fenris' faith - that priceless belief he had a Father who loved him - because he could see the value. Letting his own lack of faith effect Fenris - telling himself he was teaching Fenris to be an intellectual who rightly questioned - whilst really ensuring Fenris had nothing beyond the friendship of three human men (Sebastian, Donnic and Lambert) to give him self-worth would be the most selfish cruelty he could inflict.
Lambert was looking for a shop that sold masks, further south from the Chantry. As usual, he was met by an impossibly confusing set of alleyways. It had been hard enough learning to find his way around Kirkwall – another enormous city-state - now he had to start all over again. But, thanks to his childhood, he had the practice. He could make himself at home anywhere.
He soon found himself in a busy thoroughfare, lined with artisan shops of all descriptions. There were bookshops, shops that sold exquisite hand-printed paper, shops of maps and portraits and shoes and baubles made from coloured glass. The streets were more tightly-strung here, and some had several names compressed into it from end to end. Lambert put it down to the quirks of local history and was fascinated. He had been born here but his family had moved when he was only three, so he had nothing beyond a few scattered memories: the sound of rushing water and the millwheel like a giant's face – like the face of the Maker, bringing life. Some of the structural adornments were mysterious indulgences in an area so pressed for room that even the shadows must be shared.
Eventually he found the mask shop he wanted and explored its dusky interior. A steep stairway led to a shrunken platform of a porch, and a thin door put him inside a shop whose shelves spilled over with costumes and masks. To Lambert, these shelves seemed secretive in a way he could not pinpoint, stuffed into silence by strange identities and faces of dreams.
Every mask Lambert saw bore a different expression, all loaded with sorrow and solemn power. The first had his father's faraway look, burying a painful thought in order to tell his son a happy bedtime story. The second was agonized but undaunted - as if looking down a long dark tunnel at an enemy who held absolute power but refusing to flinch or lower its eyes. The third was smiling: the tear-touched smile of a mother regarding her first child - something incredibly precious and fragile. Lambert blinked away his own overwrought imagination. He was seeing his own experience and those of his parents in those masks - why their family of apostates had always needed to hide. To get a grip of himself, he imagined himself an actor in a play - wasn't that what bards did? He would play the role of Despereaux to the hilt, just as he had once played at being Lord Amell.
He hesitantly pulled at a mask that was over-hanging a high shelf. The movement dislodged several others and a heap of them fell on his head.
The shopkeeper was facing him and Lambert blushed red as a beet.
"An excellent choice, ser," the man said, ignoring the mess and looking at the one that had accidently landed in Lambert's hand. Lambert looked down at the false face.
"Put it on, and let's see. Yes, goodness gracious, that is excellent. You see how your entire face is well-covered, from your hairline to just below your manly chin, and no further. And at the sides it clings snugly. It doesn't pinch, am I right?"
Lambert's mask nodded in agreement.
"Good, good. Your ears are uncovered – you have very nice ones, by the way – and that is how it should be. You will not miss a whisper at the ball you are attending – the wedding of our Prince Vael and Lady Josephine, yes?"
Lambert nodded, unable to get a word in edgeways.
"The mask is comfortable, and yet secure enough to stay put in the heat of activity – a must, for dancing. You'll see – after a while you won't even know you're wearing it! The holes for the eyes, nostrils and mouth are perfectly placed for your features. No function is inhibited – that is a must. And it looks so good on you – especially up close, although I'm sure also at a distance. Go stand over there by the mirror."
Lambert obeyed.
"Yes, it was made for you. What do you say?"
Lambert took off the mask and smiled. "Alright. I'll take this one."
"As if there were any question about it."
The shopkeeper quoted the price – and Lambert was just thankful Varric had transferred the last of the Deep Roads funds from Qarinus. He blushed a little, deciding not to tell Fenris he had just spent half their yearly budget on a mask to be worn for one day.
That evening, there seemed barely enough space for a few stars to squeeze their bristling light between the roofs and towers above, and the outsized moon could be seen only as a hazy anonymous glow mirrored in the silvery windows of the palace.
Lady Josephine Monilyet and Prince Sebastian Vael were a gorgeous couple as they made their vows, taken by Grand Cleric Francesca. Lambert – who had gotten to know many people in his comparatively short time in Starkhaven, already knew the modiste who had designed Josephine's wedding dress. Madame Marie had a charming Orlesian accent on some words, but others were pure East Denerim. Lambert sympathized entirely; he had done something very similar himself.
Lady – no, Princess – Josephine's dress had the largest crinoline yet seen in the Free Marches. Tiers of luminous white were bedecked with Orlesian lace frills and garlands of silk rosebuds. Additional buds from real roses had been sewn at the last minute with special pockets made to contain their stems. She wore a delicate headpiece of matching lace and rosebuds for her flowing black hair. Sebastian looked stunned, shell-shocked – looked like a man who couldn't believe his luck. Lambert might have thought a former Chantry brother would have been frightened of his wedding night, but rumours said Brother Sebastian had been regularly sneaking away from Kirkwall's Chantry until he had taken Initiate's vows. And Princess Josephine was, so rumour had it, a bard trained by Leliana. He figured they would know what to do; was happy for both. It might have been an arranged marriage (only Dalish Elves and peasants married for love) but he had seen the two walking together over the spring months, just talking and looking glad the other understood them.
Since Grand Cleric Francesca was guarded by Templars, Lambert had to watch the wedding from an upper balcony and didn't dare attend the banquet. That was okay – Fenris was missing it too, because he was on duty. Lambert had taken magebane, just in case, and he enjoyed getting close to Fenris and trying to distract him. Or eavesdropping on nobles for shits and giggles.
But Lambert – or Despereaux, as he was known here – attended the ball as a masked nobleman. It was Josephine's family who had organized the ball - loving the idea of a masked ball in the Orlesian fashion. Sebastian hadn't told Josephine the real reason - liked his wife-to-be but did not trust her yet - and of course refusing any Templars would have aroused suspicion. Lambert had taken magebane (first time in years) and was happily wearing his ornate mask. He was enjoying the intrigue, getting to mingle with people like Duke Prosper - who knew but would not give him away - and tweaking the collective noses of the visiting Templars (thankfully none who had been involved in the filth at the Gallows).
Chandeliers hung in the air like curtains of pearls. Above their heads, a ceiling adorned with cornices and mouldings; around, the furniture and paintings and candelabras. Lambert's outfit was in the latest Orlesian fashion but made in his own favourite colours: violet and gold. Some might have called this ostentatious – purple and gold were the colours of royalty – but Sebastian, dressed in his white lacquered armour, had not minded. The dyes were orchil and gamboge rather than murex and imperial yellow but nobody needed to know that!
Lambert found it secretly amusing that – below the frills and furbelows of nobility – lay his pirate's and Dalish tattoos. Beamdog had given him the griffon, to cover his scars (he was happy life had imitated art and they now had two sentient companions) and upon leaving the Dalish had asked Craftsman Istimaethoriel (brother of the Keeper) to give him designs of a wolf and hawk, to celebrate his marriage. The two across his right and left shoulders were done in indigofera tinctoria instead of woad. Carver had made fun - claiming Lambert would soon add his cats and have a whole menagerie - but Lambert was very happy.
Carver was now in Kirkwall, having swallowed his pride and asked Lord Gamlen to get him and his family a place with Stroud. Impressed by Rillian's quest, Stroud had agreed. Aveline had joined as well and word had it she was now an item with Donnic Hendyr. Lambert smiled at the idea couples who were meant to be together would always find a way. Oghren – who also had a wife and child – had joined too. Alim wished to stay in Ferelden – Elves had more status in Ferelden than they did in Kirkwall – and Sigrun and Sarela would not leave Orzammar.
The dancefloor was surrounded by an ornate balcony with a staircase of glass, like something out of a dream. Velvet drapes shrouded windows open to the night – Fenris would find this a security nightmare - Lambert merely enjoyed the view. Stars were pallid, overwhelmed by the artificial candlelight.
An exquisitely dressed woman in a mask like metallic lace approached him.
"Ser Despereaux. We met briefly. I am Lady Cybile Maronn of Baisne."
Lambert had not exactly been keeping up with the latest gossip in Orlais – his knowledge of nobility stopped at Chateau Haine four years ago – but he knew from correspondence with Leliana and Duke Prosper that this was a sworn enemy of Divine Justinia. Allied with Grand Cleric Iona and the Chantry hardliners.
Were they onto him as a mage?
Or did they believe they could use him to sway Sebastian to their side of the religious schism?
Careful, Lambert. Be very, very careful.
"Why am I not at all surprised to see you now?"
"Nothing happens by accident. Come. Dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dancefloor."
Lambert let Lady Cybile lead him. Somehow – he could not have said why – he knew Fenris would not mind this; but would mind the sight of him dancing with a man.
"You say you were born here, do you not? But – forgive me – your accent? Have you lived in Kirkwall for a time? Or...Ferelden?"
Lambert smiled and sweated. "I have lived in many places, Lady Cybile."
"How much do you know about our little war in Orlais?"
She might have been referring to the War of the Lions: between Empress Celene and her cousin, Duke Gaspard. Or to the tensions between mages and Templars: a single spark would blow up that powder keg. Or the schism between the progressive elements of the Chantry, led by Justinia and her Left Hand, Leliana, and the conservatives, led by Grand Cleric Iona, Lord Seeker Lambert van Reeves (his namesake) and Knight Divine Gerard Caron. No-one yet knew where the Right Hand, Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, stood. She appeared loyal to Justinia. Yet she had followed the previous Divine and been a Seeker for twenty years.
He found a safe answer. "I assure you the effects of this war reach far beyond the borders of the Orlesian Empire."
Lambert was glad that, though he hadn't danced at a ball for a while, he hadn't forgotten the steps. Some fashions had changed since he last cut a dash on the dance floor, but Lady Cybile was a good teacher - more than happy to take the lead. In more ways than one, came the unspoken invitation. Her hand travelled, spider-soft, across his buttocks.
"Perhaps it does. I should not be surprised to find the Empire is the centre of everyone's world. Let Prince Sebastian enjoy this day: soon he will have to decide whether he stands with the shielder of apostates, Viscount Nathaniel Howe, or with the true Chantry."
Lady Cybile's wandering hands called back Madame Lusine's courtesan. Lambert began to flirt – pretend pleasure – the only defence he had against this very dangerous noblewoman.
"The security of the Empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall."
"Do we both want that, Lady Cybile?"
"I hope we are of one mind on this."
"In times like this it is hard to tell friend from foe, is it not, my Lady?"
"You are a curiosity to many, 'Despereaux'. And a matter of concern to some."
"Am I the curiosity or the concern to you, my Lady?"
Her laughter tinkled: smooth as silk and sharp as cut glass.
"A little of both, I think. Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe? Who can be trusted?"
"An excellent question. I might ask the same of you, my Lady."
They glided like swans – Lambert only vaguely aware they had attracted an audience.
"Everyone is alone. It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight."
Lady Cybile cut her eyes to a slender figure with long legs in expensive tailored sienna trousers. Her fire-red tunic clung in all the right places; her lips - visible through the mask – were dyed with cochineal. An indigo sash marked her loyalty to Empress Celene. This person had been watching from the beginning.
"I thought dangerous machinations were the national pastime in Orlais."
Lady Cybile pressed so close they might have been one person. Under cover of her voluminous gown, she moved to cup him.
Lambert remembered he was a man – Fenris' husband. He gently removed the wandering hand; making it clear he would be spending the night with his Elven husband.
He knew in that moment he had made a sworn enemy. The eyes through the mask were lethal. But Lady Cybile's voice was smooth and cultured.
"You have little time. You must choose tonight."
Lambert laughed shakily, trying to feign a bravado he didn't feel. What was one more enemy?
"We'll see what the night has in store, won't we?"
He turned at the sound of applause. For a mad moment, he thought the person was Fenris. But – of course – it was the masked stranger.
Turning to look more closely, he could see the woman was quite young from the firm look of her jaw and the full softness of her lips. But it was hard to tell exactly, because her silk hat and the chequered mask she was wearing covered her cheeks, nose and brow. Hair spilled like red rain down her back. She positively glowed in the aqueous light. There was a feeling of sharpness, like glowing steel that could be cooled by water.
"Well-played, Despereaux. I see you have not lost your touch. I have found your letters most illuminating."
"Seeker Leliana!"
"Ssshh. Tonight, I am Harlequin."
"Despereaux – I am come to tell you how bitterly sorry I am for the perversions inflicted in the Gallows."
The memories of the Gallows Lambert had tried so hard to put to rest - memories that never slept soundly and were apt to startle like birds at the smallest twitch - rose as they woke. By act of will he forced them away, facing forward, his memories folding their wings and settling again in their nests.
"I am glad your friend Varric Tethras was able to rescue you. Glad for his book that has exposed such practices. In this coming schism, no one will ever be able to claim they did not know."
Something warned Lambert. Leliana's words were kind – but they were leading somewhere.
"My trusted colleague – Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast – has been looking for Varric. She wishes only to speak with him, as she has spoken to Meredith, Cullen and Grand Cleric Elthina."
Lambert was thankful for his mask. He struggled to meet Leliana's eyes: not doing so would be an admission of weakness. He was familiar with the acuity of a bard's eye: by dint of their profession, they missed nothing - a wound, an anomaly, a confusion, a tic. A bard could read him even through the mask, whether he wished her to or not.
He would never betray Varric. Never give away Varric's whereabouts, no matter how he wanted to trust Leliana.
"I am sorry," he lied smoothly. "We parted company two years ago and I have not seen Varric since. He never stays in one place for long – it is not only the Chantry who wish to find him. The Kalnas and the Carta are far less accommodating."
He could not tell whether Leliana believed him or not – but even if she did know Varric's whereabouts he wished Cassandra luck in Qarinus! Maevaris Tilani was one of the 'good' magisters (in that she was liberal and had no name for being cruel to her slaves) but this would not save her from Fenris and would not save Cassandra from her.
"I wish Varric well but he is not my focus. I asked you once – four years ago – what had become of dear Rillian. If I ask you now, will you have a different answer?"
Chilled, Lambert struggled to recall what he had said four years ago in Duke Prosper's gardens. Leliana would remember eidetically; any discrepancy would show up like patches of damp on an otherwise flawless ceiling.
To play for time, he said, "Come with me. Spies will not hear us on the balcony."
He held out his arm, gentleman-to-lady, and she took it gracefully. They might almost have been a couple, meeting in secret as his father had met his mother. They took elegant steps up to a parlour normally used for soirees. Orlesian windows dominated the room. The sky was like kohl, dusted with powder.
Stepping onto the balcony, the garden below was decorated with coloured lanterns, becoming a dark, sparkling jewel around him. It made him think of a phylactery chamber – which made no sense, because Fenris had ensured Templars could never track him. The scent was heady; lilies predominated. Since his mother's death, he could not bear the sight; now he had found they were lethal to cats, his sense of foreboding increased.
"At Chateau Haine I told you Rillian and I parted company as soon as we left the Vinmarks," he began, "That was true – but I have seen her since then."
Something told him her spies would already know that...his father had always taught him, "When you have to lie, make sure you start with a truth first."
"After my rescue from the Gallows, Fenris and I sailed with Isabella for a time: skimming, skipping the waves." His eyes lit up as he warmed to the romance. "The Siren's Call is of wood, but its underside is coated with copper – this prevents barnacles forming and makes her very fast. Sleek, thrifty, and no man will ever really control her..."
"Rillian," Leliana prompted gently.
"Well, two years ago, Warden Commander Rillian asked Isabella, Fenris and I to help her with a mission on behalf of the Wardens. The mission was successful and that is why we have thirteen griffons! Rillian and her Wardens stayed at Weisshaupt. I hope they finally recognize her heroism. I'd recommend the Chantry contact Weisshaupt to learn more."
That was a pretty safe bet, he figured. Weisshaupt were not known to be on speaking terms with the Chantry. They quarreled about phylacteries – the Chantry refusing to give up the phylacteries of Senior Warden Mages – and about the Wardens' use of Blood Magic.
"Hmmmn. So: stories about Rillian setting up a lab in Ath Velanis – protected by Qunari - are all hearsay?"
"We were at Ath Velanis – but you know Rillian! She wouldn't let the Qunari tell her what she could and couldn't do with her research."
"Would she let Weisshaupt?"
The question was shrewd, and Lambert shivered. Very soon Leliana was going to come to the truth: that Rillian, Alistair, Jowan and Ser Otto were with Clan Lavellan in Arlathan forest. He could not tell the Chantry. He had read about the Exalted March on the Dales and the images returned to haunt him.
"Probably not," he agreed, with the smile of someone talking about a mutual friend, "If I know Rillian she's already left them. But she hasn't contacted me and I have no way of tracking her. I don't think she would have risked a Dalish Clan – or that they would have harboured her."
Was that last sentence too much?
The bard's unfathomable stare passed through Lambert, as if reading his very soul. Something in her mist-shrouded gaze drew him in. For a moment, it seemed the mists would part and she would read a face like glass, his every thought reflected in a mirror. He suspected at that moment he was very much like his father – lying to survive and protect those he loved. The day would come when he would look in a mirror and see just who he was but, for the moment, all was fog.
Her eyes released him, and he was just daring to breathe out when her thrust came from the side, silent and treacherous. Varic and Rillian had just been her bait. He was like a player congratulating himself on protecting his rook and Queen, never dreaming he was about to be checkmated. And so the angler played her fish and he never realized the hook was in his tongue until too late.
"I have faith the Maker will watch over Varric and Rillian and all will rise to their proper place. My real fear is the upcoming mage-Templar war, which Divine Justinia has seen for years. She – we – still hope to prevent it. The mages have called a Conclave in Cumberland and Justinia is planning to call one in Haven. She is desperate to find a peaceful solution. She is an ally of mages, though can never say so openly, and only wishes an excuse to give them – you – more freedom."
"I want that too. I just...forgive me but I don't see how I can help make this a reality."
Lambert realized he was gaping like a landed fish and hastily closed his mouth. He was married to Fenris and Leliana celibate but he still did not want to look silly in front of a woman.
Leliana's eyes were ultramarine, with delicate traceries like silicates; ships of gold adrift on a sea with no stars.
"I have come to tell you that – in a way known only to us – we believe a mage could be put through Seeker training and rendered immune to possession. Once the Chantry sees the threat of abominations is over, they will see there is no need for mages to stay in Circles beyond the age of majority. Will you play your part in making this vision a reality?"
In the garden below, maple leaves flashed white warnings and the wind suddenly blew chill against his bare hands.
Lambert knew Leliana was loyal to Divine Justina before she was loyal to him, or to Rillian. But Justinia claimed to be an ally of mages. He had seen no actual evidence of this, but her speeches had moved him deeply.
And yet…he wanted to trust Leliana; wanted to trust them both. Wanted a peaceful solution. Anders had once accused him of being too willing to work with an oppressive system when sometimes the whole system needed to be overthrown. But upending systems cost lives - and usually the lives of those who had never consented to the rebellion. The rebel leaders lived on.
And, of course, since Leliana knew who and what he was, he was at her mercy. The bard did not need to be so crass, but he knew if she told the Seekers of his whereabouts Sebastian would not be able to protect him. When similar situations had happened to his parents, it had meant yet another middle-of-the-night move, but Lambert would never do that to Fenris. Fenris would go with him, of course - would follow him anywhere - giving up everything he had earned in the process. His job, his right to own property, his self-respect. No, Lambert realized - he would have to ensure they could remain here - openly - and that meant doing as Leliana asked. Being a 'good little mage' as Anders would have put it.
He said, "How long does this training last?"
"A year."
A year! How could he bear to part from Fenris for a whole year! How could he expect Fenris to wait for him?
Lambert cared about mage rights - had been ashamed when Anders had accused him of doing nothing to pay forward his own rescue from the Gallows because it was true. It wasn't right that other mages were being raped and tortured just as he had been – because Karras lived and Meredith would promote him again as soon as Justinia's back was turned. Would take other Templars like Alrik – Templars who had learned their trade in the Aeonar.
Lambert knew he could never think of paying Anders back - one, it was impossible to truly pay back just what Anders had done for him in the Gallows - and two, he would never forgive Anders for trying to sell Fenris back to Danarius. The fact he had done it to save Lambert made no difference; to forgive - or even to understand - would be a betrayal of the man he loved. But…he knew he must pay it forward…must help the other mages.
And yet...Lambert cared for Fenris far more than he cared for abstract people he had never met. That was one of the differences between himself and Anders. Anders put the cause above individuals while Lambert would always put the man he loved first.
How could he say yes?
And yet...with Sebastian and Isabella's full support, Fenris had started rescuing slaves from Tevinter: smuggling them away from their masters in the false bottom of The Siren's Call. And every time Lambert tried to help, Fenris found some excuse for putting him off. Lambert knew the real reason – now that he had taught Fenris the Litany there was nothing of value he could add to the group. He couldn't defend himself from even the simplest spells – why Fenris had gotten severely burned and nearly killed protecting him from the demon Allure.
Gaining a Seeker's powers would change that – enable him to be a full partner to Fenris in his quest to free slaves, to take on Tractus Danarius.
More – it would prevent him ever falling to a demon as he had done to Dehn'Kharas: that memory was still a raw wound. Since that day, he had been distracted by might-have-beens and fear-fulfillment dreams. Consumed with what he should have done differently. Not quite trusting himself as he once had.
This would mean an end to the dark layer of worry he carried with him everywhere, the heart that ticked the hours away towards sleep and the risk of possession, the persistent ache his failure had left behind.
Until Lambert had first entered the Fade, as a teenager, he hadn't realized reality was an actual thing he could lose. While being tempted by Dehn'Kharas he had known, intellectually, that he was an individual with free will but it had felt unreal, like a sand-sculpture crumbling under waves of lyrium. He guessed - would never ask - for Fenris phasing must feel the same. At their wedding they had promised to keep each other solid. The best way to fulfil his marriage vows would be to complete Seeker training - become immune to possession and able to defend Fenris in Tevinter.
He owed this to Fenris as well as to the cause of mage rights.
He said, "I'll do it. But let me tell my husband tonight."
"You're a fool to trust the Chantry. They'll take your blood and I'll have to rescue you again. Let another mage volunteer for Seeker training."
Lambert recoiled at the desperation, the forbidden plea struggling in Fenris' words.
Fenris' eyes were luminous as absinthe, and just as compelling.
He lay curled into Fenris while his three cats curled around each other by their feet. The griffons – adolescents now – were in an aviary with the griffon who had bonded with Sebastian, the three creatures playing together. They were not ready to carry riders, but they could fly.
Lambert's eyes traced the slope of Fenris' shoulder, stopping at the grooved scar just where the muscle curved up to connect with his neck. It always made him think of a ploughed furrow. And the scar across his back, that curved like Lothering River. The marks of past floggings overlaid with the – now quiescent – brands.
How could he have fallen so totally in love with a man whose life was combat? How could he separate himself from Fenris? The realization he needed Seeker's training so terribly shamed him. Why couldn't he be satisfied with all they had accomplished – all the amazing man he loved had achieved? What did he need more than Fenris' love?
Fenris smelled faintly of Apostates Friend. Below were warmer, elusive scents that conjured half-formed images of strength and muscularity. Lambert found himself wishing - for a mad instant - time would freeze and hold him in this moment forever. Lambert loved Fenris when his brands were quiescent, like pale scars. And he loved him when they were angry as veins of blue lightning. His wolf, who chose to endure the pain and accept that bleak future if it would protect his husband and free other slaves.
Lambert remembered Fenris singing the Litany - the battle-hymn of a man who has been a slave and found the courage to free himself and others - who, thanks to Sebastian - knew the Maker loved him. And Lambert remembered Fenris' words, 'if there's a Maker who hates mages I'll go down with the ship' and only now fully realized just what a declaration of love that was. For Lambert - a liberal intellectual who had been raised with a healthy disrespect for god - it didn't cost much to say he'd put his husband first. For Fenris it meant more than Lambert could possibly understand - yet he would put Lambert first anyway. Lambert vowed to be worthy of him.
And to do that he had to undergo Seeker's training – a year's separation. He must risk that love – must dare it to survive.
"It won't work anyway. The Chantry will still say the man who can boil blood with his mind is too powerful to the be the next-door neighbour of the man that can't."
"In the days when ordinary folk can wield a gaatlok crossbow with no skill and no training that will matter less. The Champion of Kirkwall hasn't shared the secret – but Varric will figure it out sooner or later. When everyone who can hold a note can cast the Litany we can have buskers on every street corner protecting us from Blood Mages. Immunity to possession – prevention of abominations – this is the last step. I need to do this."
Lambert was not sure he could describe all the controlled inner pressures driving him. First and foremost was the need to help Fenris on his missions - he could not bear to see Fenris get hurt defending him again - needed to be an equal partner. Then the knowledge Seekers could never fall prey to possession - Dehn'Kharas was dead but there would be other demons. Last the need to do something to help his fellow mages.
Lambert thought about Adralla of Vyrantium. She had given up the power she would have had as a magister in Tevinter even though she must have known the alternative was life imprisonment in a Circle. She had done it to teach the Litany so ordinary people like Fenris and Varania could defend their children from rape. That was a sacrifice worthy of Andraste and yet the Seeker Order had kept the knowledge from everyone purely to keep relevance and power.
Fenris was right – he could not trust them.
But he did trust Leliana – and wanted to trust Justinia. Wanted to believe in peaceful change.
Fenris had confided the mages would vote for independence next year – Wryme had used the knowledge to tempt him in the Fade – and the Templar Order would refuse to accept it.
By doing this, Lambert could play his part in preventing a war.
"Anders would say 'no justice no peace'," Lambert said softly, "but I can't see thousands dead along the way - not when there might be a peaceful solution that has the added benefit of protection from demons! But my other reason - my real reason - is I know you and Seb - I mean, Prince Vael - are talking about sending you behind enemy lines to free slaves. I've got to come with you - fight with you - but I know if I go now I'll be a liability. I can cast the Litany - heal your wounds - but the minute a magister casts fireball my game is up. I can't stand seeing you get hurt defending me again. With Seeker powers - I can protect myself."
At that last line Fenris looked thoughtful. His eyes – hard as emeralds when on duty – were mysterious as celadon, as if moonlight were dyeing the Minanter River. He said, "Your torture: if you had possessed Seeker powers you'd have been able to set the lyrium in their blood afire… bend them to your will. I want you to do it, just for that."
Lambert shook his head. "I won't learn that power. I don't want it. I am not a rapist or a torturer."
"Knowing how would not mean using it on the innocent. You are the only person in Thedas I would trust with that power - and I do trust you."
Lambert was awed at the trust Fenris was willing to place in him. Never mind Lambert was no Blood Mage – Fenris' comment made him realize a Seeker could hold power over a lyrium warrior too. Fenris had realized that before he had...and wanted him to learn it anyway, to be able to defend himself against Templars.
"I don't want it. It will be useful to be able to defend myself from magisters at your side – useful to not have to worry about demons - I don't want any power to commit magical rape. I wouldn't ever use it so what would be the point of learning it? It's not concern for the likes of Alrik: they'll all burn in the Black City when the time comes. It's what would happen inside me."
Lambert leaned on one elbow and looked down at his husband.
"My father once told me his personal moral credo: my magic will serve what is best in me, not what is most base. I am my father's son."
"He sounds like an amazing man." Fenris said it without the slightest trace of envy.
"He would have liked you, Fen. He'd have been so proud to name you his son-in-law."
"I'll look after our cats and griffons," Fenris promised, "I'll wait. You say it's your fate: so be it. And - if they make you enter a Circle afterwards - I'll free you from that one too."
Lambert made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I love you. I won't even breathe without thinking of you."
Rising, looking down into Fenris' dark features – blurred through his own tears – Lambert said, "Don't think about me being gone. Think about my return. Think how happy I'll be to see you then. Think how much I'll want you then. No separation can hurt us; can hurt my love for you. Think of how you want to remember me while I'm gone. How you want me to remember you."
Fenris embraced him with a fury more like war than love. It ignited something in Lambert. They burned together.
The night guard stood in formation, having been properly relieved by the day guard, and waited as the new shift ceremoniously threw open the Western Gate. A small crowd was gathered. Quenched fires hissed clouds of steam. Donkeys brayed. Horses whinnied. Goats, sheep, chickens, cattle, contributed their vocalizations to the wall of sound. Above all rang the cries of herdsmen and drovers.
Lambert was saddled up beside Leliana, their panniers laden. They would ride westwards all along the Minanter River, past Andoral's Reach and on to the Hunterhorn Mountains. Justinia knew of this plan, and Lady Seeker Nicoline had given her approval before passing peacefully in her sleep - but neither Seeker Cassandra – the Right Hand who had also served the previous Divine – nor Lord Seeker Lambert van Reeves (Lambert was embarrassed to have been named after such a hardliner) knew. They would not until Divine Justinia called the long-awaited Conclave in Haven. She was waiting only for the result of the mages' own Conclave – held at Cumberland - to play out.
"I love you," Lambert said to his husband, the Captain of the Guard. He bent to him swiftly, kissing him full on the lips before he could react. All around them, there was a sort of group intake of breath, and then spontaneous cheering and applause. Voices called out the names Wraith and Despereaux. Lambert pulled back, eyes fixed on Fenris'. Then, grinning wickedly, Fenris kissed him in return: a long, fiery embrace that pulled Lambert half-way out of the saddle. The crowd howled approval. This time, when they separated, Lambert appeared distracted.
"Maybe we should go now," Leliana suggested gently.
It snapped Lambert out of his bemused state. "Yes. Go." He seemed to have trouble articulating. Fenris looked smug for a moment, but when their horses moved off the expression crumbled into solemn resignation.
From the corner of her mouth, Leliana told Lambert, "Don't look back. Not even once. This hurts him enough, and a lot of waving goodbye will just make things harder."
Feeling very sorry for himself, Lambert was hostile. "I don't think a celibate Chantry Seeker is in much position to give out advice on how to deal with relationships."
Leliana took no offence. "I wasn't always a Chantry Seeker – or a Sister, or even an Initiate."
"Can a bard know real love?"
Leliana was silent for so long Lambert feared he had offended her but then said, softly, "Yes."
The soft shuffle of their horses' hooves in the damp riverside trail sounded like speculative muttering.
Drakonis 9:37
Kirkwall was illuminated by a pallid, almost ashen light.
Anders had not been invited to the mages' Conclave – the one Grand Enchanter Fiona had called for in the College of Magi in Cumberland – and he knew for a fact Knight Commander Meredith had not permitted Orsino to go either. All the Gallows mages were being locked in like prisoners. But mages had ways of communicating such news – faster than any non-mage could hope to emulate. To have that Maker-given gift was to live in a world where knowledge was instant – where mages across Thedas could communicate through sending crystals or in their Fade dreams.
Apparently, the College of the Magi in Cumberland was a palace. It had been the home of a Nevarran Duchess and given to the Chantry when she had discovered her beloved daughter had magic. She had wished her daughter to live in the opulence to which she was accustomed, rather than a dark tower at the edge of Thedas. Anders winced, knowing that was exactly the power the Chantry had over mage children – they made it policy to send them as far away from their parents as they could. But if the parents were a Duke and Duchess, with members of the family in high positions within the Chantry, bribery counted.
That is unjust. For money and power to decide whether mage children get to see their parents.
Anders agreed.
Grand Enchanter Fiona had called for the Senior Enchanters to vote Leave, to break away from the Chantry. Wynne – Anders remembered the tiresome old woman with a groan – had argued against her. Wynne would have won...were it not for the impassioned speech of Thomas Amell - living proof the Rite of Tranquility could be reversed - and the scandalous book by Varric Tethras that had exploded the myth Templars were celibate and kind to their charges.
Anders flinched. Justice thought the rape and torture of Lambert worth the price of that Leave vote. When it came to the man he – still – loved, he could not manage to see the big picture. He had found it possible to betray Fenris to rape and torture in order to gain the support of Danarius, but with Lambert his belief in the greater good – in fighting for mage rights by any means necessary – fell apart. Still, things had happened this way, and the mages had voted Leave.
It should have taken Meredith far longer than Orsino to get the news – but the First Enchanter and Knight Commander had received it simultaneously. Hence the lockdown – and Grand Cleric Elthina calling for Meredith and Orsino to meet with her in the Chantry to find a compromise.
To Anders this could mean only one thing: Orsino had betrayed his fellow mages to Meredith. How else could the Knight Commander have known so quickly? Orsino had also conspired with the necromancer Quentin to murder women, including Lambert's mother. The incriminating letter had been burned along with the rest of the Dark Foundry, but Anders would never forget the contents.
Orsino deserved to die, along with Meredith and Elthina: the two women who – along with former Knight Captain Cullen – had arrested Lambert.
He wished he could kill Cullen too – but after Samson had joined the Champion in exchange for lyrium, Cullen had apparently left Kirkwall to become a Seeker, following a woman named Cassandra.
Still, Anders/Justice knew what they must do. There was only one choice – and it would do no good to confide it to his fellow rebels. They had lost the support of House Danarius and even Gereon Alexius seemed focused on other things – rumour had it he was trying to find a cure for his tainted son. Mistress Selby – a sensible woman Anders had always been able to confide in – had died of lunglock fever the previous year. He could have saved her – but thanks to Meredith's wanted posters the clinic was being run by Jessa – run well, but she did not have his power. Selby was yet another victim of Meredith.
The remaining rebels...Ander liked them but trying to lead them was like herding cats. Emile de Launcet had had the idea that, to preserve anonymity, each conspirator should be known by a number rather than a name. The problem was people kept forgetting which number they had been assigned! Anders sighed, figuring if this were a Varric Tethras novel the mage revolution would be seamless and heroic - instead of a comedy of errors. (Emile had also been caught telling the ladies at the Blooming Rose he was really a powerful Blood Mage - thankfully no one had taken him seriously).
No – there was no-one he could confide in, and perhaps that was justice. Why should a second person have to carry this on their conscience?
He was not planning on making the Kirkwall mages martyrs; Circles had been annulled for centuries - men, women and children murdered on the words of corrupt Knight Commanders and Grand Clerics and no one had turned a hair - expecting Kirkwall to be different would have been beyond naïve. No - he was expecting them to win - to strike the first decisive blow and show other Circles they need not be forever beaten.
That was what Nathaniel Howe had told him. The Champion intended to back the mages against Meredith: had arranged passage for them to Andoral's Reach, where Fiona's rebels were gathering. Anders knew he was not doing it out of the kindness of his heart – suspected the Viscount wanted to use the mage rebellion as a convenient distraction while he declared Kirkwall's independence from the Chantry. Anders did not trust Arl Howe. But what choice did they have? Trusting Nathaniel was a safer bet than trusting Elthina: waiting like sitting ducks for murderous Templars and Seekers to commit genocide.
Anders had of course used a glamour to disguise his appearance then taken magebane - no Templar would sense his mana - the gaatlok didn't need it: this destruction would be conventional - and no one would recognize him from Rylock's description, years earlier. He approached the Chantry.
Anders looked up: there were no clouds in the sky. Above the dome of the building, against the blue-black canvas of night, the stars began to glitter. The stony-faced Templar guard, who had been watching him intently, glowered.
"What have you got to smile about?"
Anders met his eyes. "Life is precious, don't you think?"
When he entered the Chantry Anders felt the cold, firm presence of the sublime. It streamed through the windows as clean, clear shafts of light, suffused in the grey and dappled stucco: in the talc of dove-grey plaster that dusted the well-trodden floor.
The Chantry was dominated by the enormous stained-glass scene that took up the entire far wall - the wall over the confessional. The mouth of hell where Lambert had been brought down to the Gallows dungeons. To Anders the scene was hypocrisy in glass and he wanted justice. The window showed a moon rising in the west, into a sky of electric blue and crimson: and in the east, a burning sun, haloed in purple and orange and gold.
Anders packed his explosives into the tunnel below the confessional. He knew the whole mountain would implode and everyone imprisoned below would be crushed. But he had no way of rescuing them: they were better off dying quickly - in the name of mage rights - than rotting slowly until nothing of them remained.
Anders thought Justice would insist they wait for the end. The injustice - the countless innocents that would be lost as part of his political statement - demanded recompense. His sacrifice would even the scales that would otherwise tip so awkwardly against mages in the Maker's eyes. Anders had always known Justice intended this – was content to be the last sacrifice – but only now realized Justice intended a different kind of payment.
"Don't leave me!" Anders cried – cerebrally, as a voiceless man must speak - "I thought...we will die together. That is justice!"
For a moment, Justice was nascent, quiet. As if, having achieved his pinnacle - and no ecstasy compared with a spirit achieving their purpose - Justice was content to sit back and let Anders deal with the messy pieces. There was a moral in that somewhere, he thought sourly.
My part in this is done. I pray the Maker will show me mercy – pray that spirits can find their way to the Golden City. As for Justice-Anders – the strange hybrid who loved and lost Lambert – we will cease to exist. That is fitting: we should never have happened. Anders will return – and the surviving mages will need him.
In Anders' mind, the scales of justice became a sword and shield: bladed with ravening light, shielded with fire. Justice raised the blade.
It will separate whatever is not one and indivisible.
"No!"
But it mattered not. With a mental pain that was raw and visceral, Anders felt their separation. Felt…or maybe saw…Justice float away like dark wisps, like shadows on the wind. Leaving him empty, hollow, guilty.
"Come back!" Anders wanted to cry. "Be my passenger – me your host – touching each other on Thedas!" But whatever happened to Justice – to the Maker-aimed, eternal spirit – would separate them. The old life – the mental arguments - the shared ideal: mage rights by any means necessary – that was part of the past. And time was one more word for death.
Anders would age, compromise, become disillusioned; Justice was changeless, his sacrifice eternal.
Feeling Justice leave him...the pain didn't really compare to anything except maybe the way women felt during a miscarriage: feeling the life you'd die for slip away like the gentlest leaf in autumn.
The loss echoed down the pathways of his mind; ever to hold a place within his mind.
Alone, bereft, empty of everything – even himself - Anders walked like a Tranquil out of the Chantry, following the last orders he had been given.
Anders knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it. Before his visions had come in the night, never in daylight. The vision came, as always, a pulsing disc of pure light. Lambert was trapped within it. He pleaded for help with outstretched arms. He cried out, and Anders heard nothing. Then the circle grew smaller. Lamberts's image grew obscure. Every time the vision came, the circle shrank to a smaller thing. Justice had promised him either success in their cause or oblivion. He knew - he knew - that if that circle of light should shrink to nothing, the mind that perceived it would welcome oblivion.
He wondered if life after Justice was to be all dreams, all visions.
The giant figure of Andraste rose, in gold-spun robes, a cup over each breast. Winter dropped snowflakes from one hand and blew through a slender scarlet trumpet in the other. Spring shed glowing seeds as she looked to the indigo stars. Autumn held a bow of yellow leaves, sparks of green rain shimmering below. Summer's disembodied hand pressed at her elbow. The frieze had been painstakingly crafted together by the pressing of thousands of strips of coloured glass. Yet now his explosion - the storm of the century - unmade them into a multicoloured rain of light. The panes shattered in the blast, spilling their contents like gemstones across the floor.
A luminous globe of fire like a second sun turned the sky scarlet. Flames spread greedily, silent as a serpent's tongue; tangerine ribbons of fire rippled into the sky. Vermilion rocks sweated droplets of quicksilver as the charcoal and Sela Petrae united with the blazing Drakestone.
The explosion vaporized Elthina and those she had invited, crushed the Chantry and collapsed nearby buildings. Debris fell like black rain.
Monster cloud rising over Kirwall...swelling, mushrooming thing – growing at the speed of dark – expanding like a stain, a cancer.
Anders had sinned against life, and he – the healer – felt it in his soul. The suffering of those who lived, the immolation of those who died...he believed in the Maker, though he hated the Chantry – the warrior-mage Andraste betrayed by blathering clerics - and said a prayer of contrition. He prayed in the name of Lambert and Karl and Thomas Amell – in the name of all who had suffered at the hands of Templars – that the Maker would understand why he had removed the chance for compromise.
There could be no compromise with people who raped mages, took their minds, placed demons inside them.
So the cloud rose and Anders shrank. Anders, who had cringed before the power of a Templar's Holy Smite, hearing now this strange incomprehensible mechanical destruction. Destruction caused not by magic, but by him and Nathaniel Howe working to improve the formula of the blasting powder created by Dworkin the Mad. Sela Petrae – Charcoal – Drakestone: ingredients anyone – whether they hated mages or were defending mages – could use.
Thedas was changed forever.
But suddenly, secretly, covertly, he rejoiced. Because Nathaniel would certainly not be giving this formula to the Chantry – and if he and the mages at Andoral's Reach used it first – struck fast and hard – the Templars would have to lay down their arms. Whatever happened afterwards – and he was certain he could find a magical defence against gaatlok eventually – mages would be free.
The sky was black velvet, shot through with stars. Guard Captain Donnic was in his quarters, recovering after a tough shift. Two flashes lit the sky. Lightning, he thought. Or shooting stars. There was a low metallic rumble, like thunder. Not loud enough to really wake him. By morning, he would have forgotten this moment. But in the sky, a glow. It was like a huge beam of light flooding up into infinity. It was light bluish, and it was very beautiful. It was like the sparks of lightning that danced on ships' masts during storms. It was like the runes of electricity on Lamberts's lute. A bright blue tinted with violet. Then it cooled and settled into dark electric velvet. The swathe of star-strewn sky faded into ultramarine ashes. The veil of ash swarmed through the air like insects.
Soon a pillar of fire could be seen from the wreckage: the Chantry glowing red-hot and the stained-glass windows melting like coloured tears. Rising and falling showers of sparks were silver rain. The air above and around shimmering with heat and steeped in vivid colours: red, orange, luminous green, violet. The colour of blood, Donnic thought. No, he corrected himself, like a rainbow. It was stranger and more beautiful than he could have imagined.
The eerie aureole haloed the wreckage of the Chantry. Then the ground started shaking. Bits of dust from the destroyed Chantry started falling on his head like grey rain. The bright, dusty light flickered and began to fade. He could hear rumbling way down; like dragons in a cave, receding. The light dimmed and there was only silence, and a pinkish glow with dust in it.
Donnic had already dressed and was out the door, at a run. Kirkwall's citizens were his responsibility - he would save as many as he could.
Fenris and Sebastian held the letter from the Champion of Kirkwall in their hands. Neither could believe it.
"The...the Chantry, Fen? Elthina – dear as me own mother – dead? At the hands of the Knight Commander?"
Sebastian's legs gave way; he sat down on one of the armchairs in shock. They were seated over Starkhaven's war table. Fenris had never seen his friend so distraught. His own opinion of Elthina – the Grand Cleric who had sentenced the man he loved to be tortured – was different, but he closed his mouth on it. The pain in Sebastian's eyes hurt him too – right now his friend was more important.
"Surely it cannae be true? The Knight Commander was always warlike – and, after a certain age, lyrium does things to a Templar's mind – but she wouldnae turn on her own mentor like that? Just because Elthina argued fer peace following the Circles' vote?"
Fenris bowed his head. "That is what the letter says. After Grand Enchanter Fiona called a Conclave in Cumberland the mages voted for independence. The Lord Seeker called the vote unlawful, and the mages fled to Andoral's Reach. But in Kirkwall...you know what the Gallows was like. Knight Commander Meredith had them locked down tight. When they heard news of the vote, fighting began – Anders' rebels tried to break in and free the mages; the Templars, led by Knight Captain Keran, fought back. Elthina invited Orsino and Meredith to the Chantry to hold talks. Orsino obeyed the summons – Meredith did not. While Elthina and Orsino were talking, someone packed the Chantry with gaatlok. It... it's gone."
How many worshippers – people Fenris might have sat beside, the one time he had let Sebastian take him to the Chantry – how many innocents...
"The Champion investigated – and argued the fact Meredith had arranged to be absent was suspicious. The people accused the rebel mages; the Champion claimed they would not have turned on one of their own. And no magic was involved."
Fenris doubted Nathaniel's version – knew in his bones it had been Anders, not Meredith, who had destroyed the Chantry. But what good would that news do Sebastian? He could not take on a whole city-state so soon after retaking Starkhaven - absolutely could not afford to march on his own ally – and would hate himself for not having turned Anders in when he had the chance.
Lambert would be devastated. He would feel as if he had lain with a snake – as if, all along, Justice had been using him to achieve this goal. Might feel that - if only he had given the abomination up to Knight Captain Cullen – all those lives would have been saved. It would set his recovery back years.
Lambert had only recently stopped having the aftershocks - the moments reality would ripple and he would be back in the dungeon. Fenris always chose to spar with him - it was his way of helping Lambert through it. The only way he had - he was doing what had worked for him. Sympathy and sentiment were of no use to Fenris. Neither was talking about the memories - they were beneath words - the question of evil unanswerable. Talking, even thinking about the past would not unwrite it - would do nothing save ensure the memories were uppermost in his mind instead of the happy present. Sparring was Fenris' assurance he would never be helpless again; the antidote to the sense of decoherence, the existential terror he would become a lyrium ghost fit only to be put down by Templars.
It seemed to help Lambert in a similar way – and there had been other physical effects. Lambert's stomach was now flat and hard, his biceps visible, his thighs… Fenris' mind went to further delights. There was a time he would have felt guilty about objectifying Lambert - guilt had faded when he realized Lambert enjoyed being desired; didn't mind being eyed like a prize cut of beef by someone who loved him and saw so much more.
Fenris understood now. The fact Lambert loved and admired him as a person, first and foremost, had enabled him to feel easier about being an object of desire. Fenris couldn't enjoy his own body – the body was meat; the spiderweb of lyrium a prison – but liked that Lambert did.
Fenris missed Lambert with a burning ache. Life was just another duty to him until his husband's return. Lambert's eyes were a soft shade of heliotrope: devoted, whimsical, and just a little bit brassy. Sometimes Lambert had a dreamy look in his eyes - the only word that came to Fenris' mind was 'mystic' - and a private smile, as if he were taking pleasure in his own universe. Music or magic - Fenris was never sure; had never known how to ask - and it worried him he had not made Lambert feel comfortable talking about that side of himself. The life and soul of the party - a people-pleaser - and a dreamer: Fenris loved both sides of his husband. But he understood why Lambert had needed to go – understood it was a sign he had become so much stronger since the Gallows.
But all Lambert's progress would be undone if he doubted his very choice of enduring torture rather than betraying Anders.
Let Meredith be remembered as the Knight Commander who, in the throes of lyrium dementia, had murdered the Grand Cleric. She had done worse - to the man Fenris loved - so it was justice.
Fenris would never see the Abomination as an ally – but he had forgiven Anders' deal with Danarius after realizing what it had cost the man to heal Lambert. And he was not sorry Elthina was dead – only frightened for Guard Captain Donnic. The Guard Captain's office was near the Chantry. His one assurance was that Donnic was almost never in his office – he preferred to be with his men, on all the dangerous night shifts. He would never let them shirk that duty – the safety of the citizens was his first priority - but he led from the front. As Fenris tried to emulate.
He hoped the Abomination had picked a time with few worshippers – that there had been enough of the healer left. The rest of Hightown...he wasn't sure of the extent of the damage but if it had been only gaatlok and not magic – surely Nathaniel would not have been so foolish as to let his ally use magic? - perhaps no other lives had been lost. The denizens of Hightown had not been particularly kind to an Elven squatter, but he did not wish them dead. His allies – Athenril and her boys; Anzo and other members of the Carta – would have survived. Like him, the people of the night could survive anywhere.
"Tell me Elthina had justice," Sebastian demanded darkly. Fenris looked into features warped into a caricature of the man he knew. Wide eyes ablaze with inhuman passion. Teeth bared in grimace.
"Meredith is dead, yes. Nathaniel Howe was able to convince many of her Templars – Keran, Paxley, Ruvenna – that she was deranged. They had begun to doubt her already - you know why. Samson had already joined him for the price of lyrium. Those who defended their Knight Commander were quickly defeated. The Champion spared their lives – arguing it was not their fault they had been fooled by a corrupt leader. He's currently holding the Gallows – arguing the mages are his citizens and need protection from the Lord Seeker. I don't know how long the situation will last."
Outside the window, the green-black ships along the Minanter River were like stones set in moving silver. They blurred, merging with the water as the sun slid low enough to bloody the clouds.
There was a feeling in the air around Sebastian; his eyes gleamed unnaturally bright.
"We will ride fer Kirkwall at dawn," he said.
"We? Who will guard Starkhaven in my absence?"
"We'll only be gone a few days. If we ride hard and stop fer no one. I need ye beside me. I'm going te judge fer myself whether Nathaniel's words are true or whether the real murderer is still at large. How could Meredith have acquired gaatlok?"
"How could any mage?" Fenris countered, hating himself. He had guessed Anders and Nathaniel had probably been working together.
Both men stood up, faced each other. Outside, Sebastian's griffon – a little pale-grey female he had named Dawn – whined anxiously.
For several long, eerie moments they stood transfixed, hands lingering just in touch with weapons, leaning towards each other as if held back by invisible bonds. Then Fenris shrugged. Bunched muscles fell slack and lost definition. The warrior's grimace fell from his features, leaving an almost baffled, embarrassed cast. "I'll obey your commands."
Sebastian's answer was almost a snarl. "Not because I'm the Prince of Starkhaven – or a human – or a noble! I need a friend, not a subject."
"I swore an oath. It doesn't matter to me how I die to honour it. Do what your conscience demands."
Sebastian half-turned, his hands dropped and his shoulders slumped. His expression crumpled as he broke down into sobs – for Elthina, for the decisions he was being called on to make daily. He drew a long, shuddering breath, then said, "I told ye we were friends – now I've done this. I'm ashamed."
"Never that."
A thin, uncertain smile added some life to Sebastian's face. "Forgive me, please. Losing Elthina...she was like me mother, Fen. I don't know if ye can understand."
No. Fenris - whose own mother had sold him to Danarius - could not. Just as Sebastian had freely admitted he could never understand what Fenris' life had been like in Tevinter. Understanding wasn't necessary, though. It was enough to just care.
On the cusp of the tide coming in, the waters around the Gallows had gone curiously still and opaque, like linoleum.
Fenris stood beside Sebastian as he faced the Viscount and Champion of Kirkwall. Nathaniel's own bodyguard stood ready to defend him. It occurred to Fenris that one wrong move would set these three men – who had fought beside each other when following Rillian – at each other's throats. Fenris was loyal to Sebastian – Zevran to Nathaniel – one word from either lord would do it.
Nathaniel explained how, after Grand Cleric Elthina had summoned both First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith to the Chantry, only Meredith had ignored the order. She had stayed with her men – and fortified the Gallows.
Deeply suspicious, Sebastian asked Nathaniel, "And how did Knight Commander Meredith acquire gaatlok?"
Nathaniel gave a pale, aloof smile. "Her Templars captured several Saarebas after the war with the Arishok, made them Tranquil, and forced the secret from them. You have seen the lower levels of the Gallows."
Sebastian's muscles relaxed imperceptibly, and Fenris saw he was buying it. Sebastiana already blamed Meredith for 'corrupting' Elthina – believing Elthina could never have authorized the treatment of Lambert without Meredith's manipulation – he could believe she had turned on her mentor in the throes of lyrium dementia. Elthina had argued for peace between mages and Templars – and paid with her life.
Sebastian turned to Fenris. "I just wish...I had been able te say goodbye," he admitted.
"You have told me good people go to the Golden City – and that there, she will know how you felt – how you feel," Fenris answered. He wanted to believe this – for everyone but magisters and the people who had ordered Lambert tortured. Sebastian didn't need to know the last.
Fenris was grimly amused to see Nathaniel had wasted no time appointing Grand Cleric Elthina's replacement – the new Grand Cleric Petrice had always been an ally of the Champion; neither had trusted the Arishok and neither had had patience for Elthina's games. The question was: would Petrice's loyalty hold once Nathaniel did as Fenris suspected he would do and used the mage rebellion as an excuse to break away from the Chantry? He shrugged. As Guard Captain of Starkhaven, such questions were above his pay grade.
"And these mages," Sebastian was saying dubiously, "Including the rebels – just why is it ye are preparing te have them go te a place named Andoral's Reach – so far north it is barely within the jurisdiction of Orlais?"
Nathaniel met his gaze candidly, nobleman to nobleman. "These mages are my citizens – under my protection. They don't deserve to die because of the votes of a handful of Senior Enchanters a thousand miles away. Yet that is what the Lord Seeker has ordered – and he has the backing of the majority of Orlesian Templars, led by Grand Cleric Iona and Knight Divine Gerard Caron. You know as well as I it will be difficult to persuade soldiers to defend mages against people who claim Divine authority. The non-mages are also my responsibility. Sending the mages away – and how much harm can they do so far from the nearest settlement? - seems the only compromise."
Sebastian nodded slowly. Fenris saw him buying it with a mixture of emotions. There was relief at being proven right about Sebastian - he was a good man, not the sort to make mage children suffer for the mistakes of their elders – and there was also bemused wonder at his naïveté.
As soon as he knew Sebastian no longer needed him, he slipped away. He could follow the scent of Anders' blood just as he had followed the scent of Lambert's.
AN: The idea of Nathaniel Howe appointing Grand Cleric Petrice as replacement for Elthina was given me by the amazing Beta Gyre. In her fic, Spells, Petrice is a natural ally for a pro-mage Hawke who doesn't trust the Arishok and has no patience for Elthina's games. Petrice is surprisingly sympathetic to mages in canon – never turning in a mage Hawke or Bethany – and condemns the way Qunari treat Saarebas. I hadn't considered it before, but Spells opened my eyes to how effective a partnership would be between a Hawke who has her head screwed on and an ambitious pro-mage cleric!
In mine my Champion is Nathaniel Howe not Hawke. He and Petrice would agree on the treatment of mages and opposition to Chantry hardliners, but I don't think Petrice (Orlesian and possibly bard-trained) would stand by if Nathaniel opposed Justinia. He'd have to tread a fine line, and possibly not get everything he wants. The main focus of my fics is Rillian trying to cure taint and fenHawke trying to free slaves, but I do find the politics interesting so would like to see it play out in the background.
Anyway: one final chapter to go!