Chapter Eight: Legacy
A high silken mist shrouded the stars, turned the moon pallid. Rillian gazed at the eerily obscured sky and remembered snatches of childhood warnings about omens and portents. Who was attacking – and why? They had left the Kirkwall galleons far behind. Her hand, fitful, rested on Ravenous' bunched shoulder; her mabari yipped and barked in confusion. He sensed danger, but smelled no enemy, and did not know how to protect her.
Shouts – orders – names flew around the deck, as Isabella's men scrambled to deal with the threat. Torchlight swayed, creating a fitful illumination of confusing shadows. Isabella barked orders – a living flame – organizing, directing, creating order out of chaos. Rillian found Shianni among the Dalish; she and her new husband, Cale Mahariel, joining the line of archers at the bow. Even in the confusion, Shianni darted a pointed glance at Lambert. She had seen the young man emerge from Rillian's cabin in the middle of the night, and still considered herself guardian of her cousin's honour.
Three men moved to the large ballista mounted on a pivot in the stern; two manned the smaller, swivelling crossbows mounted on the corners of the bridge. Many of Isabella's crew lined the rail, drawing hand-held crossbows. Rillian held the weapon she had used during the war, the crossbow based on the design of one Varric Tethras. She had never mastered the longbow – living up to her name of Cloudkiller – but with this weapon invention took the place of skill. Around her belt were vials and daggers. The Dalish Keepers stood by the main mast, and were sending magical wind into the sails.
Rillian gaped at the sight of their enemy – a looming bulk that towered over them like a bleak monument. The enemy ship had no sails – had four propeller shafts powered by steam turbines. A large pipe jabbed into the night sky like a warning finger. Along the side, six cannons. The Qunari dreadnought had no name. Nor did any of her crew. Like Sten, they were defined by their positions.
Grief stabbed her at the memory of her friend, killed at the battle of Drakon River. She still possessed Asala, still intended to honour her vow to bring him home. Now this.
"Why?" she whispered to Isabella. "Why are they attacking?"
"I neither know nor care," Isabella snapped.
You're hiding something, Rillian's thoughts screamed aloud. And then, as the crew frantically tried to dodge those cannons: Not like this. Not like this. Even with the magical wind there was no way sails could carry a ship fast enough to dodge cannon fire at this range. The mist had hidden their enemy until it was too late, too late. This battle could end only one way.
Death loomed at them like a six-eyed monster and terror sat on them all. Rillian looked at the faces of her companions and saw Jowan wasn't even using his magic, that he was so appalled he could only stare as the mouse stares at the approaching hawk. Lambert was pale. The young man put an arm around his mother. Leandra whispered,
"I will see my husband and our daughter again. Death won't be terrible. But you...dear, you would have done great things..." Lambert smiled and shrugged,
"Too bad I won't get to see the Vinmarks."
Shianni and Cale faced death shoulder-to-shoulder. The only one who retained his composure was Ser Otto, and Rillian envied him. She said,
"This isn't how I thought it'd all end, but I'm with the people I'd choose to go with." Her words included Ravenous; the mabari, beside her, gave off heat like a banked furnace.
She reached for Ser Otto's hand, felt the callused palm squeeze hers, gently, and gazed at Shianni through tears. Shianni's eyes swam with the love she rarely spoke.
Suddenly, there was the scent of rain and earth and loam. The rich iron of blood. Merrill – her young friend transformed into a malign creature she did not know. Merrill had slashed her own forearm, and was pointing at their enemy. Lightning, given power by Merrill's own blood, struck the dreadnought.
Next thing Rillian knew, the universe was aflame around her, white-hot. Air itself lived, sizzled viciously. Heat seared her skin, crackled like dry, breaking sticks. Stench scorched her nostrils, sucked the moisture from her throat. For a moment, she felt like every single part of her was floating away from the rest. There was no Rillian; only terror, lightness, and a strange beauty. She fell to her knees.
A bolt from the blue. The words were Urthemiel's, and they drifted to her across centuries. Lightning could strike many miles from the storm, strike with massive power from a cloudless sky. Tonight's high mistiness carried a huge electrical charge. With the steam pipe as lightning rod, and Merrill's spell as the catalyst, nature had combined all those elements to purge and destroy.
Rillian gained her feet, driven to protect. "Get away from metal and salt water!"
Isabella obeyed the warning on instinct, dropped her daggers. Jowan and Lambert were not wearing armour; the Dalish used leather and ironbark. Ser Otto had thankfully not had time to don armour or shield when roused from his cabin. He dropped his Templar sword onto the wooden decking.
The armoured Qunari in their iron dreadnought were not so lucky. Nor were the ocean fish. The storm was now a huge downward vortex. Green and yellow lights flickered in it, like bottled lightning. The dead fish floated to the top of the oily, blue-black sea.
The threshing pile of humanity struggled to right itself. Calls – names - mother – the Maker... They were still alive, the dreadnought a ghost ship. Rillian stared down Isabella's spyglass and saw no living thing on the iron vessel. She looked at the pirate captain and said, "Prisoners?" but Isabella shook her head. Shakily, her crew picked up weapons and prepared to sail the hell away. Rillian thought of the enemy ship, steam powering on, empty of life. She shuddered.
There wasn't much left of the night. Rillian approached Merrill, shyly, awed, and found the young Dalish looking a little overwhelmed at the centre of a crowd. Lambert was asking,
"So, when you first did Blood Magic, it was...just an accident... right? You cut yourself and realized the power? You didn't actually deal with a demon?"
"Oh, no, I did." Rillian gaped at Merrill and, despite her own horror, positioned herself between the young woman and Ser Otto. But the Templar-turned-Warden said softly, "Do you think I could harm a young lady who has just saved all our lives? Blood Magic is wrong...bitterly wrong...but I am a Grey Warden, not a Templar. I can choose, now, and I choose to only fight Blood Mages who are actively trying to harm others."
"That's good to know," Jowan muttered, sotto-voce, and Ser Otto rolled his eyes.
Lambert blinked. "You're amazing...and I owe you my life...but - why would you do that?"
"I needed his help. He was really very nice about it."
Rillian gaped like a landed fish. The Dalish Keeper, Marethari, shot Merrill a dark look. Deshanna Lavellan was thoughtful, considering. It was left to Lambert to say,
"They don't keep helping."
"No, I know, but I know what I'm doing."
Rillian shifted to stand beside Merrill, who leaned into the contact. She gave the crowd a quelling glare. "Merrill just saved all our lives. She doesn't have to answer your questions."
Slowly, the little group dispersed. Isabella put her arms around both Zevran and Lambert, who looked like he couldn't believe his luck, and led the two men to her cabin. Leandra Hawke sniffed, and attached herself to Rillian: "My son was always running off and getting into trouble, back in Lothering. I didn't trust that Leliana and the lessons she taught him. But he is so like his father. Have I told you of the time we met in Kirkwall?"
Rillian would rather have spent the night asking Merrill questions. She was certain the young woman's use of Blood Magic had something to do with her desire to regain the past. To cleanse the object she had carried all this way here, wrapped in waterproof cloth. Removing taint – her struggles were an echo of Rillian's own... But Merrill had slipped away. Rillian smiled at Leandra, deciding that if the older woman wished to reminisce she would at least steer the conversation to the deal Malcolm Hawke had struck with the Grey Wardens. She searched for the smile she had always used to humour Aunt Elva.
"I would love to hear," she said sweetly.
The Siren's Call made port at a small fishing village that huddled on the outskirts of the Vinmark Wastelands. It lay outside the city-state of Ostwick, where Sweeney had told Rillian he had family. The Trevelyans, who had sent the boy to the Circle as soon as his magic manifested, nearly sixty years ago. Behind them, fog billowed and tumbled to the grey sea. A small bay spread inland. A sheer cliff rose from a tumble of surf-lashed rocks. The sinuous coastline defined innumerable inlets and creek mouths. Dun-coloured rock blotched the greenery, and the land was a patchwork of trees and grassland.
At the sea's edge, an unwalled village rested in one of the larger coves. Fishing boats crowded the harbour docks. To the left, Kirkwall jutted in the distance like a painted tower shield. Lambert's violet eyes rounded in excitement.
"Do you see that? I never saw such things. Mother, you were right – this is the home I want to go to."
Lambert and his mother had come to an agreement; the young man had insisted he accompany Rillian to the Warden prison, while Leandra would travel to Kirkwall with Isabella and her crew. She had insisted he join her at the family estate as soon as the quest was complete.
Rillian left Lambert and Leandra to say their farewells. Isabella and her crew were trading at the village for the final leg of their journey. They would sail further west until they reached Kirkwall, which was the beating heart of the Free Marches. Zevran, however, had chosen not to accompany the lady – he had told Rillian that, until he took up duties with his new Lord, Arl Nathaniel Howe, his vow to her held sway. "I am your man, without reservation." Rillian could not quite find words to tell him how she needed him, had come to rely on him for the dark, sarcastic wit that always raised her spirits; that resonance, crackle and spark, that smile on the face of danger.
As evening drenched the landscape in colours of rose and gold, Rillian found Lambert standing with Zevran. Zevran had a lazy arm about the younger man's waist; a smooth and carefully calibrated seducer.
Rillian tried to avoid looking like a prudish aunt, focused on Lambert and said, "There is something I must ask you."
"Flemeth's amulet? I gave it to the Dalish Keeper, Marethari. She'll know what to do."
"That's not it. Although...I think there is a cuckoo in that nest. I hope the Keeper is as wise as she seems. But, no, my question is this: if your father took part in a ritual at the request of the Grey Wardens, why did they not put him through the Joining?"
"Because they needed untainted blood. The blood of the Hawke, they said."
"That means the blood of the Hawke may be needed to open the Seals."
Lambert paled, but managed a cocky grin. "Not too much blood, I hope."
Ser Otto joined them. The disappointment on his face cut Rillian deeper than his anger would have done.
"Rillian, even if you used your own blood, you are walking on the most dangerous ground a person can test. And for you to even consider using the blood of someone else...what happened in the Deep Roads has changed you, I see."
Stung, Rillian said: "Real Blood Magic involves a deal with a demon. Magic that uses blood as a component is not the same thing: else you Templars would all have to turn yourselves in for using phylacteries to track mages."
Lambert nodded thoughtfully. "Ser Templar: I trust the Hero of Ferelden. And I trust my father. He was a good man. He always warned me against Blood Magic. If he took part in this ritual, it cannot have been evil. Besides...I've treated hundreds of men who spilled their blood to defend Ferelden. If curing their blight-sickness now requires a bit of my blood – I think that's a fair trade."
Zevran gave Lambert a lazy salute. "Beauty and bravery – gets me every time."
Rillian and Ser Otto were silent, thoughtful. Rillian felt the hand of fate brush her cheek, lightly as a moth. Lambert was brave...and she had the strangest feeling that the advice Flemeth had once given her applied to him too...
You stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and, when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly...
The Dalish and Wardens made camp outside the village. Rillian watched night pour an intense purple wine into valley depths, where it swelled up the sides of the mountain slopes. Just before the darkness drowned colour, the greens, browns and greys of the land shimmered in a moment of defiant vitality.
The Vinmark Wastelands were far bleaker than coastland ought to be. The land before the mountains was a virtual desert. It's as though the land has suffered Blight – yet the darkspawn never came this far north. Could the being captured by the Wardens, entombed within the fort, have something to do with that? Rillian wondered what manner of creature they would face. An emissary, certainly, evidenced by the Seals. Another being like the Architect?
She faced the morning sun, feeling the part of her that had been born into a taint-stinking, filth-drowning brood shrink away from it. The rising orb would soon be a fiery torch, punishing them through the trek across the Wastelands. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly...the flight of a hawk would be far better than plodding from canyon to canyon, miserably slinking from rock to rock...the part of her that had soared on dragon's wings felt the ignominy.
Ascending the mountain had taken the best part of two days, and Rillian had come to reply on Zevran to help her over obstacles and lift her spirits. Lambert was bearing up surprisingly well. Of course, she realized, Lambert was a mage healer – he could probably use his own powers to ease aches and pains, regenerate stamina. Jowan, however, was in a bind - the only non-blood-mage spells he possessed were entropic – so he was forced to suffer. He coped with his misery by needling Ser Otto,
"If the Maker seriously cares about you washing before morning prayers, he must hate the tiny sprinkle you're affording."
The Templar turned Warden shrugged. "Drink and sing praise, or wash and choke on a dry tongue. Not even He can have it both ways."
The foothills were covered in scree and stunted trees, like the folds in a piece of cloth. The higher slopes were grey as iron, and Rillian found herself thinking of the dreadnought. The slopes went up and up, and Rillian wondered, through the burning in her lungs, what this mysterious Warden prison would look like. She had only a smudged map of the Vinmarks, bought in the village, and had gotten Lambert to make a mark where he thought the prison would be, based on his father's stories. Rillian found herself picturing a volcano, even though she knew there were no such things in the Free Marches. But the sense of danger, of power biding its time...
Rillian gave the map to Zevran, hoping he would have more luck. It was like a puzzle with several pieces missing.
The Dalish were graceful, purposeful, far more used to ranging across harsh terrain than Alienage Elves or humans. Not for the first time, Rillian marvelled at the changes in her cousin. Shianni smiled mischievously at her taller, gawkier cousin.
"First darkspawn, now Warden secrets. Let's make a mark, Ril."
"Keeper Marethari and Keeper Deshanna will not let any of their Clan take such a risk – nor should you."
"Let me?" Shianni's eyes widened. Nostrils flared. "They can't keep me from taking it! Nor can you, Ril. Together, as always."
Rillian swallowed a sudden lump in her thought. "You're right. We'll stand together again. And win again."
"Both of us," Cale's jaw jutted. Rillian realized he would brave any danger beside his wife, even if it meant disobeying the Keeper.
Merrill joined them. "I think that what you're doing is good, and I want to help you."
Merrill and Cale Mahariel exchanged glances, and it was clear the two had a history. Cale had once told her he chose to fight darkspawn in honour of his lethallin, who had become a Blighted creature, but there was more to that story.
She nodded. "First, where is the Keep?"
Lambert Hawke joined them, face shadowed as he tried to remember the half-forgotten stories of his childhood. The quest Malcolm Hawke had undertaken before he was born. He said, "Look for a rock that doesn't look exactly right. It'll be hidden."
"If I were building a prison, I would choose these rocks, here," Zevran said, and gestured to an outcropping several hours away. Rillian blanched but nodded, heaving her pack. Not The Luggage – she had left her samples back in camp. She had taken only enough equipment to collect a new sample, from the creature Lambert had described.
Despite his own exhaustion, Lambert began to sing. His voice was a soaring countertenor, the perfect accompaniment to Rillian's contralto, and the song was one that brought tears to her eyes. Alindra and Her Soldier – Leliana had taught them both. It was like a little piece of home. She had long since forgiven both Leliana and Alistair for unwittingly selling her out to Weisshaupt and the Chantry, and her thoughts were full of the times they had laughed and sang together, in their little camp during the early part of the Blight. Before she became the leader of armies, before making a deal with Loghain – the safe times, the getting-to-know-each-other times. She scratched behind Ravenous' perky ears, and the dog gave a happy bark.
After an hour, they were forced to rest against a rocky outcropping, drenched with sweat. Rillian told Lambert,
"There is a song I learned at Kinloch Hold – well, a counter-spell rather than a song. It is called the Litany of Adralla."
Lambert smiled – the expression one of startling beauty. Considering what they were about to face, Rillian thought it high time she taught Lambert how to resist Blood Magic.
By the time they reached the space Zevran had found on the map, Lambert's rendition of the Litany was perfect. Rillian looked around, squinting, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Blood Magic and Taint – do they come from the same roots?
At the base of a sheer wall, Cale found a patch of rock that looked discoloured. He'd gone only a few feet when he turned back to Rillian with a triumphant grin. "I see a line. It's a cover, Warden."
Rillian and Cale examined the line marking the cover. The wax-covered cloth was made of the same material as the Dalish Aravel sails. Rock-coloured, it followed the most minute contours of the stone behind it. Straining, prying, Cale forced the tip of his spear into the gap. Little by little, he widened the opening. Suddenly, with a loud snap, the cover flew off and the entrance stood revealed. It was full of light; clean, smokeless, steady as the sun. Lambert Hawke approached, and slowly placed his hand into the light. He drew back, startled, clutching a three-pronged staff.
"The Key!"
Rillian led her friends – Zevran, Merrill, Ser Otto, Jowan, Lambert, Shianni and Cale – into the narrow opening. Beside her, Ravenous gave a fierce bark, determined to face every threat beside his mistress. They emerged into a small room, rectangular, with an exit to the right. A table stretched along the wall and the table carried an unmarked box. Inside, a meticulously preserved parchment. Rillian read:
The Wardens set a trap for Corypheus and bound him to a prison of their own making. Beneath the Vinmark Mountains, they carved out a series of caverns – a veritable maze - and enchanted them: spells woven with the help of a powerful artefact they called "the Key". All this to hold Corypheus.
It seems even that wasn't enough.
Corypheus is too powerful. Nothing will hold him forever. The Seals are already weakening. We must find a way to fortify them, and soon.
Janeka
"Corypheus," breathed Rillian. "It means "Conductor" in ancient Tevene."
"How can you know that, Rillian?" Ser Otto asked softly. His milky eyes were lyrium-blue.
"I know because Urthemiel knew." For no-one else would she have told the truth. The shared memories of RillianUrthemielTheArchitect were a painful secret. Is this Corypheus another being like the Architect? An intelligent darkspawn – one who could potentially save us all? The uncaring mountain gave no answer.
The exit to the right ended at wide stone stairs. The group descended into a cavernous auditorium-shaped space. Several open doors led off into dimly lit passageways. Rillian grabbed Ser Otto's arm. "There - straight ahead. Light, coming from under that closed double door."
Ser Otto said, "A darkspawn – or maybe a Warden, far enough into his Calling - is within. I can sense him." Jowan nodded with queasy recognition. The words sent a chill down Rillian's spine. She herself sensed nothing – confirming what she had already begun to suspect. Since the Architect's brooch had accelerated her Calling and Urthemiel's death burned it away, she was no longer a Warden. She could no longer sense the presence of darkspawn – or other Wardens. In the darkness, Ser Otto was less blind than she.
Weapons ready, they set off. When they reached the door, Rillian awkwardly shifted her crossbow and reached for the handle. Ser Otto eased her aside, took over.
A figure slumped in a large, leather chair behind a huge wooden desk. It wore the armour of a Grey Warden mage. Its hood was raised. Inside the soft, black depths was a desiccated head. Gray, filmy hair draped to frame leathered cheeks. Lips like old cord parted slightly to reveal a fine white line of teeth. One hand was exposed. The bones were clearly visible through the near-translucent skin. The fingers were talonlike.
The figure raised its head and whispered, "Two thousand years, the magic holds. Never broken. Give it the Key. Let it take the magic back to itself. Absorb it, all who came before..."
"Do you have a name?" Rillian ignored the looks of the others. She knew a being capable of speech was a who, not a what.
"Name...So long since I've said my name. La...Larius! I was Larius. There...was a title, too... Commander of the Grey."
"He was a Warden," Ser Otto said softly, "Poor man must have come down here on his Calling..."
"Yes! The Calling...the songs get louder. Only death stops them. I am dead. But I never died."
"If you're a Warden, then do you know...what does the Seal have to do with my blood?" Lambert was white-faced, but took a bold step forward.
"The magic, it calls to the blood, reads the thoughts of those who hold it. The last to hold it, the Hawke. I...I was there when he laid the Seals. Before I became this." He reached a desiccated hand towards Lambert, who managed not to flinch. "You favour him. I sense you share his power. The seed has been planted."
Suddenly, terribly, a spasm tore apart the repose... Larius twitched, terrified. Rillian remembered the ghoul she had given mercy in the Deep Roads. "C-Corypheus calls! In the darkness! What waits there?" He vanished into the darkness so completely Rillian would have sworn it was magic, had Zevran not muttered, "Stealth, not magic. Shall we follow?"
Rillian grabbed Ser Otto's elbow, the two in front, while Lambert and Jowan followed and Shianni and Cale guarded their flanks. Zevran had become part of the night, and she knew from experience he would emerge behind the enemy, and they would never see him coming. At the head of the stairs they looked down into a well of smoke. Pulsing, it seemed to be trying to gather itself to lunge up at them. Far below, a thinner, more nebulous veil roiled angrily.
Descending, Rillian stared as the orange light boiled on the colourless stone of the altar. A tomb and a prison. There was the rhythm of a dark, pulsing heart. Out of the darkness, Larius hissed, "He stirs. Slay him now, before he wakes. Before his strength comes. Use your blood, Hawke. Free him and slay him."
Like a willing sacrifice, Lambert shrugged past Ser Otto as the knight tried to stop him. He approached the altar, stood within, and raised his slender forearm. His other hand came up holding a hunting knife. He blinked, several times, gathering his courage, then drew a ruby line across his flesh. Blood dripped onto the altar. It was Rillian who flinched. I told him to do this...what does that make me? Lambert raised the Key and dropped the staff onto the pool of blood.
For a moment, the Seals flared as brightly as the Golden City. Tears leaked from Rillian's eyes as she fought not to close them. The thing that emerged from the light was every fear come to life.
"Be this some dream I wake from? Am I in dwarven lands? Why seem their roads so empty?" The voice was husky from disuse, the language alien, but Rillian understood ancient Tevene. "You!" he raised a taloned hand and jabbed at Lambert. "Serve you at the temple of Dumat? Bring me hence! I must speak with the first acolyte!"
The eyes were milky orbs that looked blinded, but Rillian knew he could see them. As they fell on her, she refused to flinch. "Rattus - soporati – do you belong to the Empire? How come you here?"
Rattus...no doubt it was the ancient Tevinter version of "knife-ear". Soporati – sleeper – their word for non-mages. The sleeper must awaken.
"Whoever you be, you owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. On your knees! All of you!"
A whisper from the darkness, "I draw the line at getting on my knees for darkspawn." Rillian groaned and Lambert giggled. Trust Zevran.
Confused, the darkspawn raised milky eyes to the blank stone ceiling. "Dumat! Lord! Tell me. What waking dream is this?"
A true realization of the immensity of their discovery began to reach Rillian. It was like the first view of the rising sun, the merest hint of what one knew to be the edge of indescribable majesty. And ferocity.
"The light. We sought the golden light. You offered...the power of the gods themselves. But it was...black. Corrupt. Darkness...ever since. How long?"
Larius whispered. "The Golden City. The first violation. The magisters who brought the Blight. He tainted the world."
Rillian whispered, "Patient zero."
Larius said, "We must kill him now. Don't wait."
"Not before I take a sample."
"Cousin...Ril...this just reeks of stupid!"
Lambert said, "You really think he's one of the original magisters? That he's been to the Black City?"
Corypheus cried out – a wail of disappointment. "The city! It was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be ours!"
Jowan's face drained of colour. Ser Otto shrugged, raised his sword. "My life is a brief thing of no importance. But I will spend it in defence of these good people."
Protectively in front of Rillian, Ravenous put a back foot on her boot. That was when Rillian's hatred rolled in. In a few moments, Corypheus would be trying to kill Ravenous. Her throat burned, so different from the draining heat of thirst. This was fury, bringing strength, concentration, will. This ancient creature, this magister who had brought the Blight, was working in her an overwhelming amplification of her long helpless rage against the taint. Ser Tavish…Ser Perth…Mother Boann... She found herself, a Grey Warden, on fire to pay. Her crossbow had its own sharp appetite. You're a scientist, not a Warden, she reminded herself. Your duty is the cure, not revenge.
She whispered, "Now, Merrill."
Blood Magic – heavy and dark, like oil and iron. The chains that sought to bind, not kill, an opponent. Merrill whispered, "For the People!"
Corypheus' scream was a paean of hate. "If I cannot leave with you, I will leave through you! I seek the light!"