Chapter Seven: The Coming of the Ship
"And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."
Khalil Gibran
Rillian slipped through the echoing dark corridors of the palace, away from the Landsmeet, following Loghain's directions. His Night Elves, and the Elves who followed the Dark Wolf, had found Zevran and Isabella. The golden assassin and the dark-skinned Rivaini pirate were laws unto themselves, yet both had agreed to help her just as they had freed her family from Caladrius. Three months ago, The Siren's Call had sailed northward to Rillian's camp on the Hafter River, past the peninsula that separated Denerim from Amaranthine, and the Alienage Elves had joined her army. Now, they were preparing and organizing the details of Anora's reward: Hahren Valendran had been named Bann of the Alienage, and the Elves would enjoy the same rights and protections as humans. Cyrion Tabris had agreed to stay on as head chef at Denerim palace.
Rillian dared to stop and find her father in the kitchens. He knew immediately something was wrong.
"Lass..."
Rillian raced into his arms. Her father only came up to her chin, yet he made her feel protected. She felt the stooped, sinewy shoulders, the wiry upright strength, the palms that stroked her hair dry and rough after a lifetime's hard labour. She wanted to freeze time and remain there forever.
She pulled away and said, "I have to go. Now. I will return. Look after Soris and Valora and the baby." Her cousin's baby, due in spring. Rillian's skills as an aunt were unproven but, she felt sure, exemplary.
"My darling, my blood."
Rillian ran on – no time to find the rest. Soris, Valora, Elder Mathis, Widow Shanis, Tomas, Pic, Girnis. Rica, Shand, Yarly. Elder Valendrian. All family. Her link to the child she had been, far away on the other side of the Joining, innocent of the future, full of loopy hopes and dreams. She felt a ferocious sense of continuity, a pull through her solar plexus as if she were attached to a giant anchor chain. Beneath the deformations of The Architect's research, the slimy residue of Howe's torture, beneath all the accretions of Urthemiel's memories, she was still that self, the core unchanged. Family first, always. But sometimes doing the right thing for your family meant leaving them behind. Rillian left the palace by the back gate, the servants' gate, and headed for the docks.
The starless sky was empty as a plate of black glass. Rillian knew the stars were there, hidden behind the smoke that rose from giant warehouses, like iron dragons. It was like being adrift in space. Even Urthemiel felt the aloneness. Her memories of the dragon were fragmented, scattered. Some of it, like the language of ancient Tevene, she could understand; because the bard-trained Elf had always had a gift for languages. Others were alien and impenetrable as the memories of a shark. There was no road between her and the memories of Urthemiel. They floated above her, like chips of light, or sparks from Nelaros' forge; bright bubbles untethered from the earth. Like the memories of flight – of possessing dragon's wings - so huge and dark they were like night blanketing the world. To reach that from the here and now – from the Alienage Elf who stood on clay feet, immortality lost millennia ago – was inconceivable; there was no connecting path.
A shadow detached itself from the night and a musical, accented voice tickled her ear. "We meet again, my fair Warden."
"You came."
"Several times. But the delights of the Pearl are as nothing to a midnight escape."
Rillian giggled. A second later she was joined by a young man she knew. Lambert Hawke was wearing an outfit suited to Ferelden nobility, but his purple tunic had the stylised silver emblem of his namesake. He was carrying the long, slim lute with electrical runes she had given him at the party before the second battle of Ostagar. Lambert had been steady, hard-working, and gentle as a medic during the war; if he had wanted to gatecrash the Landsmeet, she admired his chutzpah. But what was he doing here? He answered her unspoken question.
"Twenty years ago, my father helped the Grey Wardens. I'd be honoured to do the same for the Hero of Ferelden."
Rillian sized him up. At eighteen, Lambert was two years younger than she. A year older than his brother, Carver, who had recently survived the Joining. The slender frame and delicate hands were not those of a fighter, and the unearthly beauty made her think that, somewhere, he must have an Elven ancestor. Short, black hair framed a skin of ivory, and slightly slanted eyebrows quirked mischievously over a face both sultry and delicate. Long, sooty lashes framed eyes that were the deep purple grey of large, round mountain lakes an hour before sunrise. Zevran's citrine eyes glimmered, and there was something both playful and predatory in his gaze. If the rumours were true, the two had gotten to know each other quite well at that party.
The Hawke family had spent most of Lambert's life on the run, never able to settle for fear the Chantry would find his father, the apostate mage Malcolm Hawke. They had come to Lothering three years ago, and, while Carver and his father had worked in the fields and Leandra and their daughter had been seamstresses, Lambert had been apprenticed to Sister Leliana. She had taught him the same lessons of music and guile she had later taught Rillian.
Malcolm Hawke had died of a wasting disease before the Blight, and Bethany had been killed when the darkspawn overran Lothering. The family had fled Lothering – rescued by the ancient, knowing, cruel being known as Flemeth – and sailed from Gwaren to Denerim, where the brothers had joined Ferelden's army. Carver Hawke had fought in Loghain's wing, and later joined the Wardens, while Lambert had served in the healing tent and assisted Wynne. Wynne had told her the boy had a spark of magical talent, which he had used to heal the wounded and take the pain of the dying, but she had not informed Irving, or Rylock. The teenager had begged her not to.
"If I go to the Circle, my mother has no-one: my father and sister are dead, my brother a Grey Warden. Please let me take her to Kirkwall after the war: it's her only wish. She says we have family there, and an estate."
Rillian and Wynne had agreed to keep his secret.
"What about your mother?" she asked him.
"We're staying in a room next to the shipyard; Garn Brosca put us up." Rillian's old employer, the casteless dwarf who hired Elves to load crates, and smuggled lyrium on the side. "She'll meet us at the docks. She wasn't too happy with me, but we can't afford passage on a regular ship, and I told her helping you is what my father would have wanted."
"Report to Isabella. The Queen of the Eastern Seas. If she can find a place for you on The Siren's Call, I can use a m...edic." Given his life on the run, she wasn't sure the young man would appreciate being called a mage.
Two shadows appeared from a nearby warehouse, resolving into the broad-shouldered form of Ser Otto, wearing armour, mace and shield; and the slighter form of Jowan. Jowan had ditched his robes for a finely-woven tunic and trousers, but there was no mistaking what he was. Now that he was officially a Warden, no longer on the run from the Chantry, he carried a staff that glowed faintly like ice on fire. Despite clothing and staff, Jowan did not look like a seasoned traveller. He was faintly green – as though suffering from seasickness before they had even boarded. Beside him, Ser Otto's smile caught Rillian's eye. Droplets of water spangled his skin like sweat. He said, "This is where the adventure begins."
Jowan griped, "What do you call the past six months? I haven't been warm since the day of my Joining."
"That was just a war. Across the sea is mystery."
"Humph."
Warehouses formed a dark patchwork like decaying molars. Torchlight from a few gilded the streets with an oily sheen. Others were black as darkspawn blood. Yet they made good progress through the rabbit warren: Rillian knew the route to the docks like the back of her hand, Ser Otto had the night senses of a blind man, Jowan and Lambert used magic to faintly illuminate the steps in front. The docks themselves were open, and the smell of the sea hit them in a wave of brine.
The Dalish Clans Sabrae and Lavellan stood lithe and still, the Dalish Elves so used to slipping in and out of human cities that this escape did not seem out of the ordinary. Keeper Marethari greeted Rillian like a favourite niece, her dark bright eyes like raisins in a nut-brown face seamed with lines of laughter, experience, and the green spider-web of her tattoos. Her First, Merrill, squealed delightedly. "You've come back – I always knew you would! And... I would like to travel with you...if you don't mind? You see, I think your cure and Elvhen history come from the same roots. I am trying to cure taint too...trying to restore – I mean," she broke off, darting a wide-eyed, verdant glance at Ser Otto, "I think it would be wonderful to regain a piece of our past. For all Elvhen."
"Merrill, we must talk later – on the ship..."
"Sorry, sorry...this is a midnight escape and I won't mess things up."
The other Keeper, from Clan Lavellan, appeared even older than Marethari. Her cut-glass cheekbones and unreadable eyes held a lifetime of knowledge. Rillian felt the hand of premonition. Deshanna was staring at her just as intently. But said nothing, merely led her Clan aboard the ship.
Standing apart from the Elves was a slender, middle-aged woman who had the look of impoverished nobility, like faded roses. Lambert put an arm around his mother, who eyed Rillian warily.
The sea formed a vast crescent in the harbour. On clear nights, it glittered with reflected stars. Tonight it appeared like black tea, reflecting only the fog. The fog was wisps that muted colours, shifting constantly so that one had to squint to focus on it. The serpentine coastline defined innumerable inlets and creek mouths. At the sea's edge, fishing boats crowned the harbour docks. More boats crowded the water, with full-bellied sails purling in the winter breeze. Further out, Rillian shuddered at the sight off the twenty galleons sent from Kirkwall. These appeared like dark sentinels guarding the ocean. She turned to Isabella, who answered her question before it left her lips,
"Their Captains can't know what just happened at the Landsmeet. They'll see a cargo of Elves heading to Kirkwall, and that is...not unexpected."
Rage hit Rillian low in the gut. Not unexpected...because the slave trade reached from Denerim to Kirkwall to Minrathous. Rylock's burns and Ser Otto's blindness had bought her people a respite they'd had for five years – until Loghain had let the slavers back in. Isabella and Zevran had helped her save them again. Yet, there were many who put greed above lives, and Tevinter was always hungry. She wondered, briefly, why it would not surprise them to see The Siren's Call taking part in slavery – and did not like the conclusions. Isabella had saved Rillian's community with the air of a person atoning for something.
The Siren's Call was a schooner with three masts of billowing, triangular, lateen sails. She was fast, manoeuvrable, and could take both Dalish Clans, the three Wardens, plus Lambert and Leandra with ease. In the smoky darkness, she appeared like a dark bird of prey above the rippling black waves.
"I don't suppose there's anything you want to tell me about all this, eh?" Isabella's first mate, Casavir, asked as the Wardens approached.
"There's nothing to tell. We're just travellers, on our way North."
"Oh, sure. Now come along, and you can watch me hook up the team of swans that's going to carry us across the sea." Laughing at his own wit, the man helped his passengers board. The sails jerked angrily against restraining lines. The thick masts sunk into the deck thrashed back and forth. A squall of wind made the ship pull at the limits of the chains attached to mooring posts.
Saddles and packs removed, the horses boarded the boat on planks. Jittery, they took the ramp down into the ship's cargo space with stiff-legged reluctance. The Dalish halla followed with silvery grace. Ravenous followed Rillian with a look of put-upon determination.
Two of Isabella's men cast off the mooring lines. Astern, four more men hauled on the anchor chain. They worked with a darting activity that suggested chaos, but Rillian realized was actually smooth teamwork. The anchor was heaved aboard, the mooring lines coiled and stored, the sails positioned to take advantage of the south-westerly wind. Rillian was startled by how soon they were speeding away, leaving a creamery turmoil of wake.
When they left the inlet for the open sea, the sails blossomed. The current was swift, faster than Rillian expected for such a huge body of water. The mass and power of the steel-grey sea, this close, was awesome.
Rillian shrugged herself further into her woollen cloak. The wind snatched at irregularities in the water's surface until it created waves. Then, with unthinking cruelty, it tore away the crests. The spew of white droplets somehow twisted itself in Rillian's mind to the executions conducted by Urthemiel's white-robed priests.
She shuddered. The experience of memories not her own left her feeling violated in a way none of her companions could understand. The only one who would was Rylock, and it would be a long time before they saw each other again. They were following different paths, but they would be together at the end. Rillian did not know how she knew that, but she knew.
Rillian was sitting up in bed in a small room. The walls were plain, but, in front of the dresser, pink roses were placed in a vase atop green cloth. The room smelled of old furniture, musty bedding, soft rain, roses, and pork scratchings. In the background, she could hear family: Cyrion, Shianni and Soris.
Rillian was propped up on pillows and she was holding something that weighed heavily in her arms. She looked down, and saw that it was a baby, her baby, and that she had just given birth. The baby had freckled skin, brown eyes, and rounded, shell-like ears. It also had flame red hair. Hers, and Alistair's.
Her husband entered the doorway with a smile for her like sun on flowers. Plain, homespun clothes fit tightly across his well-muscled frame. But he no longer needed the sword at his hip; their fighting days were long over. He opened his mouth to speak, and she tried to shush him. She did not want to hear the words. She knew they would break her heart.
"Alistair, our daughter is beautiful. Do you want to hold her?"
"Rillian, love," he answered softly, "Our daughter is impossible. We are both Grey Wardens."
The room dissolved like a painting left in rain, and she woke in darkness, in the tiny, sea-scented cabin Isabella had given her.
The dream lingered like smoke, and she could almost feel the child she had never actually borne. Rillian remembered the time when it was not impossible; but that baby would have been Elven and that future had been lost to Vaughan's cruelty. She and Alistair would never have been able to have a child. Another, darker emotion gripped her; she remembered feral, ochre-gold eyes, Morrigan telling her what she and Alistair had done. They had argued, Rillian had sent her away, and she would neither forget nor forgive the witch's parting words:
"Poor woman in a girl's body. The only child you'll ever give him is a child of mine."
Even without children, she and Alistair could have been happy together – after he had learned to work with Loghain he had forgiven her betrayal at the Landsmeet. She would have tried to forgive his night with Morrigan. But, after she had returned from the Deep Roads, she had shut him out, and he had confessed everything to Guillaume Caron. Who had told his brother, the Knight Divine, so Grand Cleric Iona could hold the Wardens' deepest secrets up before the mocking, prying eyes of the Landsmeet. Guillaume Caron of the Wardens and Gerard Caron, the Knight Divine, working together so that Chantry and Weisshaupt formed twin jaws of a trap – it was unacceptable. Wrong. She and her loyal companions must flee, as apostate mages had been doing for thousands of years. She had fled, and she did not know when - if - she would see Alistair again.
A knock on the cabin door seemed at first part of her thoughts; it took a second knock to resolve it as a person who wanted something. Ravenous was curled at her feet, a warm bundle that instantly morphed to full awareness, growling softly. A stranger, then, yet not one who was threatening, else the dog would be on his feet, ready to rip out the throat of the person who dared disturb her.
She padded to the door and opened it in the semi-darkness. She held a lantern in her left hand but it was empty and dark.
A soft word of magic and the flame leapt to life. Lambert Hawke was there, beautiful and improbable. Without thinking, she said, "So you are a mage."
He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I can heal wounds and light lanterns with my mind. I've never tried to do anything else. My father and sister were much more talented."
"Do you ever worry about demons?" Rillian could not help the question: the first mage she had ever seen had been the slaver who burned her Templar friends, the second had been Uldred at Ostagar, the third had been Connor as Redcliffe fell to demons. Events at Kinloch Hold had not helped her suspicions. Lambert took no offence.
"I have waking dreams, but I don't think the denizens of the Fade are that interested in me. I've only been tempted once: a Sloth Demon told me I've be better off staying in bed than doing my chores. Mother threw a bucket of water in my face, and that was that." He smiled – he had a smile that could brighten the darkest day.
The memories of Urthemiel and The Architect had not completely taken Rillian's feminine vanity. She mentally took stock of her appearance. Greasy hands, grimy fingernails, surely the utmost in fashionable squalor. Insouciant, frayed cuffs on the rough, stained jumper that featured a cunning hole at one shoulder to daringly expose the baggy homespun shirt. And, of course, scruffy old trousers of the kind she had worn when loading crates, with the weave so hard the dockers called them "ironbutts." All that, and uncombed red hair sticking up like a mad scientist to crown the ensemble. Enchantment.
She smiled back. "Come in, then, Lambert. You served well in the Blight but we've never really gotten acquainted. Do you have questions about my research?"
"Many. But I rudely bothered you now because I wanted to show you these letters. One was written by my father and the other is a page from an old diary. I think...you would want to see them."
Rillian raised the lantern lit by the young apostate and took the yellowed parchment, feeling, as always, a whiff of excitement when she unearthed new knowledge, new stories. The instincts of a bard, which she had had long before she had met Leliana, ever since she could remember.
Warden-Commander Larius,
I have been considering your offer, and I accept your terms. In addition to what was discussed, I find a payment of twenty-five sovereigns per seal to be sufficient. All I require from you is your promise that my wife will be kept safe while I am gone, and that Lord Aristide Amell will be convinced to let Leandra leave Kirkwall with me when I return. I wish for my bride and I to be free, and I do not intend to have her father's men hunting us down.
Before we depart, I would also like to confirm your statement that the ritual does not require contact with demonic influences. I would also like to discuss this "darkspawn of magical talents" in greater detail. It quite defies belief that the Grey Wardens have kept a secret of this magnitude buried so close to Kirkwall.
I await your reply,
Malcolm Hawke
Hands trembling so hard the lantern light writhed and bobbed like a sulky little demon, Rillian took the second parchment.
The records say Corypheus has been trapped below the Vinmarks since the days of the Tevinter Imperium. Can it be coincidence that the darkspawn besiege this area more fiercely than anywhere else on the surface of Thedas? Or that Kirkwall, the closest city, suffers from endless plagues of violence, lunacy, human sacrifice, and blood magic?
If one studies Kirkwall's public records, it becomes hard to deny that some malevolent force has long shaped its history. Could a darkspawn, even a powerful mage, have such influence even as it slumbers?
"Thank you, Lambert." Impulsively, she hugged the young man, who returned the embrace, startled and pleased. "I'm going to find it. The cure for taint. Our next destination will be the Vinmark Mountains."
The sound of the captain's war-horn blared through the darkness like a malediction.
"To me!" Isabella was crying, "Hurry!"