Chapter Two: I See A Dark Sail
Midwinter snow had turned Castle Redcliffe to an ice sculpture. Loghain rode through the front gates, and a gangly squire rushed to see to his horse. The General sighed, the gust of breath swirling in the cold like mist. After eight weeks chasing the remnants of the horde through the Wilds, his body felt like molten metal poured into an iron exoskeleton. Loghain and his men, Teyrn Fergus and his Chasind, and Alistair and the Orlesian Wardens had pushed the darkspawn back to the original Blightwound, and used Dworkin's Gaatlok to seal the breach. The Dwarven army had successfully defended Orzammar. Loghain grunted, thinking to himself that he'd enjoyed the Orlesians' company about as much as he'd expected. He'd made a point of wearing General Thiebaut Caron's armour in front of his nephew, Guillaume - the skin of a leopard. Riordan's second-in-command had been irritatingly unconcerned. He'd remarked only that he'd no more want the armour back than Loghain would have wanted King Cailan's armour back after the Hurlock General had worn it. Guillaume's own griffon armour was - of course - grandiose. But for all that the Orlesian was a supremely competent fighter.
The chevaliers had not attempted to join the Orlesian Wardens. The Wardens had come through the Deep Roads, all the way from the Dales to Orzammar. For the chevaliers to attempt to cross Gherlen's Pass at this time of year would have been suicide.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the Orlesian fleet sitting off Denerim coast. Twenty ships - carrying around eight hundred men. They had been passive since their arrival. But that could mean almost anything; he needed to know what it did mean. Anora had sent a message he'd only gotten last week, explaining she was "entertaining" the Empress' representative, Lady Marjolaine Reveur, along with the Orlesian Grand Cleric Iona and Knight Divine Gerard Caron.
Loghain had recalled all Ferelden's forces and would lead them to the capital immediately. He had stopped at Redcliffe for one reason only - and that was to see Rillian. He had a number of reasons.
One was that the presence of Bann Sighard, the Cousland brothers, the Carons and the Chantry at the Landsmeet meant his life was forfeit. The murder of the chevaliers at the Pass last spring - his involvement with Uldred and Tevinter slavers - the rape and torture of Sighard's son by Arl Howe - the destruction of Castle Cousland…all debts being called in by the universal treasury of death. And if his death meant the Bannorn could unite against the invaders he would pay it gladly.
The desire to say goodbye might have been enough to make him visit Rillian: they were friends, after all - to the extent that Loghain could be said to have friends. As it happened, however, he had two additional reasons for wanting to see her. First, he had thought long and searchingly - not his favourite form of exertion - about the implications his death posed for Ferelden…and he didn't like any of his conclusions. Second, he had heard from no less than six reliable witnesses that early one evening last week, Rillian had been persuaded to leave the Arlessa's dungeon to visit her father. She had returned to the cell to find someone rifling through her research.
The Senior Mage Warden of Weisshaupt.
Rillian had nearly killed her.
Since then, Rillian hadn't left the dungeon. She was protected from the Orlesian Wardens by a succession of Templar guards. By a twist of fate so odd it made Loghain's guts knot, the person Rillian had trusted to protect her was Rylock.
Why Rylock, of all people? Rillian and Loghain had both argued with her before the Battle of Drakon River. Both had wanted to allow Jowan to use Blood Magic against the darkspawn and Rylock had forbidden it.
Why would Rillian trust Rylock to protect her and her research? Or were the Templars jailors? He had heard from young Carver Hawke - once his best scout, now a Warden - that barely an hour after the attack on the Weisshaupt Warden, Rillian had called Rylock to see her and they had been heard shouting at each other. Perhaps Rylock was keeping her quarantined as much as she was protecting her.
He was determined to find out.
Loghain's first two attempts met with failure. He was turned away by Templar Sergeant Rocald in a manner more suggestive of the Dock Ward Drunk Toss than a polite refusal. Rocald's dark, ravaged face suggested a hound straining on a leash, just begging for the excuse to tear his throat out. Rocald's wife and children had been murdered by the demon at Redcliffe, their animated corpses sent out to attack the village at nightfall. Rocald had been a member of the militia then. The next day, he had joined Rylock's Templars.
Cullen and Irminric gave him no warmer reception. He wondered if Rylock were deliberately picking guards who wanted to hang his guts out to dry. Then again, after all his crimes he would be hard pressed to find someone who didn't want his head on a pike.
On the third day, Loghain got lucky. He didn't know what duty was so important as to call the heavy mob away and leave Carroll in their place like a lame puppy trailing after a victory procession. He didn't question his good fortune. Carroll greeted him with a friendly smile.
"You're not looking to talk to Rillian, are you? Because I've strict orders not to let anyone pass."
Loghain's jaws chewed iron. "I am not anyone. I am Ferelden's General. I need Rillian's assistance in a matter of national security."
"No-one gets to bother Rillian! She's off-limits to all - even Generals. I have my orders."
"I'm going to shove your orders down your throat and open your stomach to pull them back out!"
"Um - is that bad? I'm just trying to do my job! Look…I'll take you right now…just like you wanted…"
"Good lad."
Carroll put up his hands. "Come along, I suppose. Well - since you force me. Someone's got to look after Rillian. See she gets enough to eat. Might as well be you. Stay away from her research through. And don't let her near you with a needle or a syringe."
Loghain gave an exhausted bow. "Thank you. It's good to have a man like you behind me."
"I know, I know. As far behind you as possible."
Chuckling, Loghain opened the door.
The cell was ill-lit, unswept, and cold. Vials of blood were stacked along some makeshift shelves. The cell had a desk, which held an odd-looking object - magical, Loghain supposed. The sheer number of old plates and discarded, half-full cups of tea showed Rillian had given up all pretence of housekeeping. The single torch in its bracket gave just enough light to show the cell was filthy.
Rillian was hunched over her desk, scribbling furiously, tapping one foot. Her eyes were red with exhaustion or malice - or grief - and her left hand curled as though imagining the Weisshaupt Warden's neck between its fingers. The chair she sat on was a strange-looking contraption as well - a normal wooden stool, except that its four feet had small wheels. She spun around on it without bothering to get up. Perched on its edge, she faced Loghain and rasped distinctly: "I'm going to disembowel Carroll for letting you in here."
Several answers fell into place. So: Rylock really was a protector, not a jailor.
The stale air was foul with dirt, rancid sweat, food gone to maggots. Loghain stifled an impulse to gag. Pretending that his nauseated expression was a smile, he replied: "No, you won't. Carroll was just trying to help. If you want to get him, you'll have to go through me. And you won't do that. You wouldn't dare. I'm the most popular man in Ferelden."
Rillian kicked off from one wall and whizzed to the other side of the cell. "Horseshit! You're about as popular as a skunk at a wedding. Ferelden's citizens owe you their lives - but now the Blight is over the vultures are gathering to have you hung, drawn and quartered. You'll be lucky to live beyond the Landsmeet: which is, no doubt, why you've come." Rillian blinked malevolently. "You want me to make good on my promise to Anora: make you a Warden. She'll inherit Gwaren - giving her a legitimate claim to the throne - and you'll be able to continue as General of Ferelden as soon as Weisshaupt's not looking. Amirite?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth."
Rillian was rocketing around the cell on the stool. She'd zoom up to a wall, kick it, and then zoom to the other side. It seemed to help her think. Looking at the way she was dressed made it more clear than anything else that Rillian was not herself. With an odd pang, Loghain recalled the young woman who had boasted: "A Warden doesn't fight darkspawn in less than her best." Rillian's preferred outfit had been tight leggings, emblazoned tunic, gaudy buckles, heavy jewelry, and a black leather cloak with a red appliquéd fox's visage. Or the close-fitting Shadow of the Empire purple leather that had made her look like a walking grape. Or the ridiculously ornate Dragonscale armour. Now she was a moving pile of rags, wearing - of all things! - white. White trousers that hung loosely off bony legs - a badly fitting white tunic that showed every stain of blood and sweat and old food. Stranger still was the odd contraption on her head: a kind of golden mesh. It held in place two lenses that magnified her fractured amber eyes. Their combination of abstracted disfocus and searing intensity made her look like a demented insect. She had tucked her quill behind one pointed ear, oblivious to the ink that dripped onto her neck like black blood. She peered up at him.
"Unfortunately, I can't help you. I don't give a dragon's crap for politics. The vulgar rabble of the Landsmeet is as nothing to me now. I have soared on dragon's wings - been worshipped as a god - I have no use for thrones or other trappings."
On second thoughts, Loghain thought dourly, Rillian is very much herself. A vainglorious little bantam. Adding the memories of the Old God was like pouring Dworkin's Gaatlok onto a naked flame.
"Forgive me," he said silkily, "I didn't realize you were too holy to keep promises. Anora has kept hers: she has made Valendrian Bann of the Alienage."
"I can't do it. Come away with you to the Landsmeet. That's what they're waiting for. That's why they didn't try to stop you seeing me. They want me to come out. They want you to make me come out."
Feigning nonchalance, Loghain inquired: "They?"
"They! The rutting dogs who call themselves Wardens! The ones who sat on a possible cure for taint for twenty years - who experimented with the Architect's brooches and made Weisshaupt an hourglass about to run out! The ones who wanted to make an example of Ferelden - of you - for outlawing the Order. See what happens to nations who don't run to us for protection. The ones who think I ought to be strung up for revealing Warden secrets - and because I slapped their Senior Mage a couple of times. They. They want me to come out so they can jump me. They want you to make me come out."
"Sorry." Loghain loathed dealing with Rillian like this - he'd rather have faced Celene's court without a sword. As a result, he sounded incongruously happy, as though he were having a wonderful time. "I hate to contradict you when you're in such a good mood, but I have no intention of letting the Wardens get their hands on you. In fact, I'm quite certain I want to work against them in every manner possible. Now: you say you know that Weisshaupt has been sitting on a cure for twenty years? How do you know that?"
"I know because the First Warden's bitch was in here! Bold as brass, rifling through my papers! I know because she's like me: we were both given brooches - we both had our Calling accelerated and then cured - we're both immune to taint!" She pointed fiercely at the door, then pounded her fist on her thigh. "I came in to find her studying my blood - my blood!"
Then her ferocity dimmed.
"The woman's name is Fiona. She said Alistair had told her where to find me. She has some kind of hold on him. She told me I'd misunderstood her. That she hadn't tried to deny Thedas a cure. That that was why she'd joined the Wardens of Montsimmard and hoped to fight at Ostagar. That it was your fault for turning them away. That a cure for tainted soldiers - even if it could also destroy darkspawn - didn't mean we could have fought the Blight without loss of life. Injecting a darkspawn - or an Archdemon - with a lethal mixture is harder than just killing them, after all. She told me the cure didn't mean much until we could find a way to replicate Remille's research and make it airborne. She wanted to work with me."
Rillian glared fiercely. "I wanted to believe her - I did believe her. But then I asked what had happened to the remaining brooches." A wild grin stretched her mouth. "And she answered."
Loghain held his breath and said nothing.
"That's when I hit her. She's lucky I didn't stab her in the eye with a tainted needle. I'm a monster. Nobody understands why Rylock defends me. Why she hasn't had me gutted for my forbidden research. The Wardens want to break me. They want me to hide down here until I rot."
Loghain felt frantically that he was getting nowhere. He was tempted to back out of the dungeon, put some distance between himself and Rillian's lunacy. But his regret was stronger than his alarm. He'd already let both Cauthrien and Anora down.
Instead of retreating, he tried a different approach.
"Speaking of Rylock: I've wondered about her involvement in this mess. I heard rumours of an argument."
Rillian interrupted him balefully. "Were we?"
"Were we what?"
"Speaking of Rylock? Or were you just prying?"
Loghain grinned. "I was prying. And I'm going to keep on prying until you say three sentences in a row that make sense. If you don't pull yourself together, you will rot."
"Do you remember when you and Rylock and I disagreed over Jowan at the Drakon River?" As if by accident, some of the tension in Rillian's face loosened. On some level, Loghain had distracted her. "We wanted Jowan to use Blood Magic against the darkspawn and Rylock wouldn't let us."
Loghain grunted.
"She said: We Templars will fight - but it must be the right fight." Suddenly, she glared at Loghain as if something he'd done had left a bad taste in her mouth. "You said: The right fight ends when the dust has cleared and you're still standing - the wrong fight ends when you do."
She paused a moment as though the meaning should be obvious. "That's why I asked Rylock to protect me from the Wardens - and not you."
Loghain began to hope he was on the right track. He didn't quite understand what Rillian was getting at, but she seemed to be recovering her self-command. Maybe it was time to risk…
Because he was the sort of man who took risks, Loghain said:
"That's better. You're doing much better. Any minute now you're going to be your old self again. There's just a couple of things I still want to know."
He took a deep breath. "Rillian," he began - wondering whether she would object to his use of her given name. She had always insisted he call her Warden ("my father calls me by my name - the father you tried to sell to Tevinter!") but he didn't want to use the title and push her back into turmoil. When she didn't react, he said, "What in the name of sanity is the connection between Fiona's answer and Weisshaupt being an hourglass about to run out? Or between that and your need for protection?"
For a long moment, Rillian glowered as if she meant to explode. A muscle in her left cheek twitched…she absently rubbed the old, thin scar - legacy of Arl Howe's assault - smearing ink over the side of her face with her fingertips. Her eyes burned red, drawing the darkness of the cell around her.
"Do you know that the Children bred by the Mother were larval Broodmothers? The Architect's attempt to make his kind self-perpetuating? Do you know how they were created?"
Loghain dared say nothing. He had learned long ago that he had no talent for asking the right questions. Better let Rillian come to the truth in her own way.
"The Architect used the brooch to accelerate Duncan's Calling - accelerate it until he was almost one of them. But human enough to sire Children that bred true. The Architect giving Boann Warden blood to regain her self-awareness was merely a poisoned gift - it had nothing to do with the creation of the Children. They were created because it was Duncan who turned her. What Fiona told me was that they had abandoned testing the brooches because one of their male volunteers - a man nearly as far along as Duncan was when we found him - escaped to the Deep Roads."
Loghain growled, low in his throat. Red rage scored his vision. He understood Rillian now - understood that if he had been there to hear the story he would have snapped Fiona's neck.
Dreamily, Rillian murmured in a sing-song voice: "And the Maker said to them: be fruitful and multiply…" Suddenly her eyes snapped awake, her focus sharpened. "How many Broodmothers could he have created before the taint rode him to a screaming gibbering death? And if every one of them bred Children who became Broodmothers in turn - how many darkspawn could they have created?" She laughed dryly. "Ferelden knows the answer to that. And because Warden Commander Bregan's treachery told The Architect where to find Urthemiel…and Urthemiel drew them here, instead of to Weisshaupt, who deserved them…we have suffered. And after all that - Fiona expected me to trust the First Warden with Remille's research!"
Loghain was right on the point of asking: so why don't you help me go and get them at the Landsmeet? Instead of holing up here like a beaten mabari? He stopped himself just in time. As soon as the question occurred to him, he realized why Rillian had trusted Rylock instead of him. Because he had let Tevinter slavers unleash an Elf-only plague on the Alienage. Because she knew there was nothing he would not do for his homeland - nothing he would not unleash on Orlais, if he had to.
As if she read his mind, Rillian said: "I thought about who to turn to. I could have asked you to send guards - or Shianni to send Dalish archers. But I know what you've done - and Shianni has told me often enough she wishes she had a way to wipe every shem off the face of Thedas. I wondered if Rylock might want the same: an airborne plague that targets Blood Mages. So I tested her. I offered to work on that. That's why we argued. She tried to kill me for attempting to corrupt her - for falling so far myself. You see: Rylock hates Blood Mages like plague - but she wants to be good. Not use evil to fight evil."
"A pity it hasn't occurred to her that the phylacteries are a form of Blood Magic."
Rillian scoffed. "Oh not that tired old argument! The Templars use phylacteries to track - rather like we use the Joining to track darkspawn. They're not using the blood in rituals to kill the mages - even the ones who become maleficarum. They're not hiring "tame" Blood Mages to manipulate it - make the donors controllable."
Loghain's face creased in a worn smile. It was touching, really, that someone so terribly abused as Rillian could retain that kind of innocence. The refusal to use phylacteries for more than tracking might be morality in Rylock's case - for the Chantry as a whole he suspected it was simply to do with the impossibility of controlling "tame" Blood Mages. Or lack of imagination.
He chuckled softly, "So, you trust a Templar who tried to kill you more than you trust the cousin who'd lay down her life for you?"
Rillian looked at him, slowly, like someone waking from nightmare. "Do you think I'm frightened of dying? After what happened in the Trenches? I'm frightened of looking into a mirror and seeing Avernus staring back. I need a friend good enough to kill me before that happens. Maybe if you'd asked for the same instead of for blind loyalty you wouldn't have…"
Something warned Rillian. She stopped the words in her throat. Loghain struggled against a rage that threatened to ruin their friendship forever. "Never insult a woman who gave her life for Ferelden. I won't warn you again."
"I'm sorry," Rillian muttered. She had the sense not to mention Cauthrien by name.
The sorrow in her face wrung Loghain's heart. Without premeditation or forethought he said quietly: "You know, Rillian, if your father saw this pigsty he'd tan your backside."
By luck or intuition, he'd found the right approach. Rillian's face crumpled sheepishly. "I know," she muttered, "I'm going to clean it up. I'll get round to it soon. Then I'll join you at the Landsmeet."
"Thank you. But don't bother clearing up. Just pack up your vials and notes and whatever that contraption is and stay with me in my quarters. I've got a spare room. You can bring your pet Templars and Wardens too - they'll make sure no-one bothers you."
Rillian stared dumbly. She looked around the filthy cell as if Loghain had just asked her to give up the only thing that held her in one piece. She looked like a person lost in memories - her own, and others' - someone who might never find her way back. Then she slowly reached for the enormous case of Dwarven make that had brought the items here. On its side, she had scrawled: The Luggage. He knew better than to offer to help - merely watched as she huffed and cursed. She had fitted wheels to the bottom as she had fitted them to her chair, but she still had difficulty. "If only this thing had legs that walked," she grumbled.
Without tension to keep her upright, however, Rillian's legs wobbled and she swayed. Loghain did help her, then, supporting her as she supported The Luggage.
"Have you eaten anything besides Elven tea lately?"
"Oh," Rillian said absently, "It's not that. I'm only a little less hungry than I was when I was a Warden. It's the samples. I must have more tea than blood in my veins by now."
"Idiot," Loghain growled. "I've seen mabari with better sense than you've got."
A whisper of sadness brushed him. I think Ravenous has better sense than either of us…
Rillian turned strained, sunken eyes to his and managed a shadow of her old smile. "Hey. You're talking about the Dragonslayer, Hero of Ferelden, Master of the Litany, Scope Jockey and all-round genius here."
Loghain laughed quietly. Then subsided into a silence filled with his own dilemma.
Rillian was right to trust Rylock. What she didn't know was that Anora's letter had told him the Grand Cleric would court martial Rylock and Harith as soon as they returned to Denerim. For disobeying their orders to remain in the capital - for leading the Templars of Denerim and Redcliffe in a war the Chantry still considered to be none of its concern. And when they put an Orlesian Knight Commander in Rylock's place, Rillian would find the Chantry no safe haven.
He intended to warn Rylock - but knew already it would do no good. Rylock's stubborn honesty would tie the noose around her own neck. But Rillian still had a choice. Loghain knew if he was a true friend he'd tell her to get as far away from the Wardens, the Chantry, and old Fereldan war criminals as possible. It was madness to expect that sanity newly built from crystal could endure the lion's den that was the Landsmeet.
Should I put Rillian in danger merely to protect a nation whose future is so ambivalent?
Could I throw away thirty years spent defending something just when Ferelden needs me most?
The question left a dusty, rotten taste in his mouth.