Chapter Ten: A New Path
Dawn came grey-cold into a sodden sky.
"Miserable rain," Rillian complained, "It's not even a decent downpour – just this constant wet that gets into everything."
The three Wardens sat outside, sharing the companionship of tested friends, with their backs to the tents the Keeper had provided for them. Rillian realised she was facing the direction of Tevinter. Since last night, she had felt a small secret voice that was constant, indistinct, not speaking words but muttering, letting her know it was there. It was like the voices of the darkspawn she had felt after her Joining, the black web of the chittering hive mind. A frightening thought. Rillian wrestled with it.
Keeper Marethari and Keeper Deshanna of Clan Lavellan stepped into the circle of firelight. Merrill shuffled after them, looking sad, lost, determined.
"Keeper Marethari told me of her differences with her First; of Merrill's quest to awaken the Eluvian," Deshanna told Rillian, "You seek to find the remains of Arlathan. Is there something in the ruins that will help her, do you think?"
"I don't know. I seek the cure for taint, and I believe Merrill is destined to open the Eluvian and claim its secret. But I don't know what that secret is."
Marethari's smile patronized. "When you're as old as I am, you'll have opened more than one door that you'll wish had remained closed."
Bridling, Merrill snapped, "The Eluvian was a secret of the ancient Elves. I have no fear of anything they left us."
Deshanna said, "Three Wardens, and only one of you a mage. You won't get far in Tevinter, and you don't have our knowledge of the wilderness to be able to keep to the forest."
Flatly, Rillian said, "We must."
"Then let Clan Lavellan accompany you, to ensure the success of your quest."
All three Wardens and Merrill gaped at her. "You would do this for us?"
"Yes. Our tribe has always protected the past. We're not like other Dalish. Our Keepers know the way the ancients lived, and I will train my First to wrap the Clan in the web of our legends."
After that, things seemed to happen incredibly fast. Rillian and Zevran gripped each other's shoulders, spoke a farewell Lambert did not catch. There would be no need for Rillian to bid farewell to her cousin and cousin-by-marriage, as Shianni and Cale intended to go with her. Last, she turned to him.
"Lambert," she said, oddly hesitant for a slayer of an archdemon, "I owe you a great deal. For what you did – for the cure you have made possible. Wynne told me you are a talented healer. I guess...what I mean to say, is – I want you to come with us. To be part of something amazing."
Lambert was truly tempted. To be wanted, told he could be part of something big...most people didn't take him that seriously. He was a dilettante, a lover not a fighter. His younger brother was nearly a head taller, and could beat him in a wrestling match with one hand tied behind his back.
"Thank you," he said, his normally glib tongue failing him, "I am honoured. And if...if my mother weren't waiting for me, I would go with you to the Black City. But...she needs me. I'm all she has left."
And that truly was the greater part of Lambert's reasoning. The other was that he dreamed of satin sheets, of reaching his family estate by midnight and falling asleep on a giant four-poster bed. Of trying on the fashions he had never been able to afford, of seeing whether the life of an idle young nobleman suited him. Ever since he could remember, he and his family had lived life on the run. A series of rooms and hovels and servants' quarters. First, because his father had been an apostate, then, because his sister had discovered she had magic. He had assumed he hadn't inherited the talent, until four years ago when he had been able to heal a stray cat. A scrawny little thing: he had wanted to keep her – but she had run off and they had had to move again. His magic had been a latecomer, seeming not that important, except for the lucid dreams his father had warned him about. He had loved his mother's stories about the grandeur of her girlhood, and, three years ago, had thrilled to Sister Leliana's tales of her life as a bard in Orlais. Carver could tease him all he liked; Lambert knew he was meant for the finer things in life.
"I understand," Rillian said softly, regretfully, "I loved my mother too."
In that moment, she looked softer and kinder than Lambert had ever seen her – not scary and otherworldly as she seemed most of the time. In an effort to keep her talking – Lambert hated farewells – he said,
"Did you know, Keeper Deshanna is my grandmother?"
Rillian spluttered. "Seriously?"
"Oh, yes. Father told me. When she was young, she adventured with his father, an apostate mage. They had an affair, and she had a child. But she had duties to her Clan, and she knew they would never except an elf-blooded human. Grandfather raised my father. When my father was a child, the Kirkwall Circle got them both."
Rillian looked at him intently. "Yes, I can see you have Elven blood."
"I'm very proud of it," Lambert said seriously, "But I know being one-quarter Elven won't let me use an Eluvian. The wine is too well-watered."
Rillian murmured, "The Dalish try so hard to preserve the old ways, but that isn't what's important. What will survive of us is love."
"I'm sorry?"
"Never mind. Thank you for telling me. I believe we will see each other again."
Lambert was deep in thought by the time he left Sundermount, but his travelling companion - Zevran – didn't allow much time for that. Zev was telling him a filthy tale about the Queen of Antiva, and Lambert found himself giggling.
Enormous golden statues marked the black cliffs of Kirkwall, the City of Chains. Some of the statues had claws, and made him think of the creatures that haunted his waking dreams. Staring wide-eyed, Lambert wondered about the millions who had come before him, staring up into their first sight of what had been a slaving hub for the Tevinter Imperium. A crow watched their arrival with a spiteful caw. The high stone walls of the Gallows - where his father had been a prisoner for so many years – watched over him in monumental indifference.
Inside, the town square stank of horses, urine, leather and sweat.
"Well, here is where we part company, my fair Hawke. Arl Howe's estate awaits me, and your own estate awaits you."
Lambert swallowed. He wanted to beg Zevran to stay, suddenly realizing he had no idea where to go. He had never even been to Kirkwall, had no idea where the mythical Amell estate was. All he had were his mother's old stories. Somehow, he had imagined her waiting for him, ready to introduce him to the city, but, of course, he was alone. Squaring his thin shoulders, he determined it was time to man up. Affecting a confidence he didn't feel, he said, "Give Isabella my regards, Zev. It's been..."
"I know. For me too, mi amor. We have dreamed, but now the sleeper must awaken." Zevran gave him a lazy salute, and was off, melding into the noise and chaos of the square like someone who had been born to it.
The enormous white stone buildings and the black cliffs made Lambert think of a chess match played by the Maker. Against people like him, who would always lose. Along some, the red banners with Kirkwall's symbol rippled in the afternoon breeze. He found himself thinking of the Golden City, and the banners which flew without wind. If only the Maker would give him directions now - but it was probably just as well He wasn't. Those directions would have led straight to the Gallows – the Chantry taught it was the proper place for people like him. Lambert disagreed.
He nerved himself to approach a young guardsman and ask for directions to the Amell estate. The lad just looked blank. Lambert tried again. "You know: Lord Gamlen Amell?"
"The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn't rub two coppers together. Gambling Gamlen is usually seen in the Blooming Rose – until they kick him out. Head north to the warehouses, then east and keep going till you reach Hightown. The Red Lantern District...you can't miss it."
"Thank you," Lambert said bleakly, wondering what in the Maker's hairy arse he had gotten himself into. He headed north, past giant warehouses that reminded him of decaying molars. The rain had become heavier, and foul-smelling water pooled darkly in the gutters like black blood. Heading up stone steps crusted with grime and seawater, he was shocked to see a Templar standing guard rather than a city guardsman. He fought not to flinch. Other places he had lived, you didn't see Templars bothering with the little people. The only town to have Templars had been Lothering. Ser Bryant had seemed decent, but his father had always instructed him to take magebane before attending the Chantry – which he had had to do every Sunday as student to Sister Leliana. Lambert understood why; he and Bethany could sense the power in each other, and in their father, and apparently lyrium allowed Templars to sense mages. To Lambert, Templars seemed to glow with a faint blue fire, while other mages burned like a white sun. But he didn't have any magebane on him, so he gulped and shuffled past the hulking Templar as quickly as he could. Afterwards, he turned east, as directed, and kept going.
The buildings of Hightown were of pale stone that looked like the teeth of some vast, noble creature; Lambert found himself remembering his father's stories of dragons, and Nevarran dragon-hunters. The topmost spires of the Chantry glittered like quicksilver daggers in the rain, turning from white to silver then white again as he passed. A high archway led to a long narrow corridor of cobbled stone. Lambert imagined he was passing through the maw of a huge sea-creature that had swallowed a city, and all kinds of buried treasures were hidden within. His father had told him that in the Kirkwall Circle all the storerooms were above ground. This was because the underground network of caverns and tunnels dated from Tevinter, and slaves had been sacrificed in blood-magic rituals. The Veil was thin, and mages were kept away.
As he neared the four-storey mansion that was his destination, his gaze flicked to the rows of red lanterns that gilded the rain-slick streets in a fiery sheen. The rain could be seen as much as felt: a continuous spattering of light-rings on the surface of puddles. It began to pour down, shining on the mirror-wet buildings. The lantern-light reflected in it, making the solid city outline blur in Lambert's vision, becoming a dark sparkling jewel around him.
Two burly bouncers looked him up and down.
"Never seen you before – but you look like Madame Lusine's type. Go on in."
Hardly daring to believe his luck, Lambert entered the building without even needing to grease palms.
As soon as he left the foyer, Lambert was confronted by a scene of absolute chaos: a blinding, dizzying riot of colour. Hundreds of people milled about, some propping up the bar, some in dark corners, all dressed more brightly than anyone he had seen in Ferelden. A woman approached him: plain, but impeccably dressed.
"Are you intending to work, or to buy?"
Lambert blinked.
"I, um, I'm looking for my uncle, Gamlen Amell."
The woman made an elegant gesture towards the most unprepossessing man Lambert had ever seen. He looked up blearily. "Not my type, Viveka."
"He says he's your nephew."
"Oh...shit. Why did Leandra drop this on me?"
Lambert's heart sank, but he smiled brightly. "Would it help if I said you were my favourite Uncle?"
"Humph. It might make me feel better, but that's about it. Look: the money is gone. All of it, the estate...everything. To settle a debt. I've been meaning to write you... I received Leandra's message yesterday, and she's safe in my home...but that's about it."
"Has she eaten since arriving in Kirkwall?"
"Well...that's what today's stake was for. You see, the money wouldn't have gone far, and Leandra was dreaming of the finer things in life. So I said I'd...try to increase it – buy us something worth having..."
"You gambled my mother's food in this...place?" Lambert's voice had gone curiously flat: the tone he used when his brother would have shouted. Gamlen looked as miserable as a beaten mabari. Hangdog...he looks hangdog...
"Well," Lambert said brightly, determined it was up to him to rescue the situation, "I guess I'll need to earn us some money."
The stately, elegant, ruthless-looking Madame Lusine approached them, make-up like a painted shield and mouth forming a moue of regret. "Fereldans, are you? We are not a charitable organization, serahs. If you cannot pay, you will have to take your lonely selves elsewhere." Gamlen's shoulders slumped, and Lambert rose to leave. Madame Lusine eyed him in the way he had once seen a butcher eye a prize lamb. "Mmmn. I don't offer charity – but I might offer you work. We'd have to get you cleaned up, of course."
Lambert was vaguely appalled to realise how inviting he found the prospect of a scented bath and getting out of his filthy travelling clothes. I am the son of Malcolm Hawke, he reminded himself. Father would have gone hungry for a week rather than debase himself. But a small, chittering voice – it sounded remarkably like the tiny Fade demons that still frightened him when he slept – said, "Father used Blood Magic, though – and having sex for money is better than killing for money. Besides, would he have even considered letting mother go without breakfast?" He knew the answer. Even during their darkest times, father had always managed to put food on the table. Despite his attempts to woo the nobles at the Landsmeet, Lambert was far less experienced than he pretended to be: he had loved Sister Leliana chastely; Zev and Isabela had been his first time. He doubted anyone who had to pay for sex would come close. Still...it's only sex, and beggars can't be choosers. I'll find legitimate work tomorrow...
"How much?" he murmured, ignoring his uncle's guilty, shame-faced, relieved start.
"Two sovereigns for premium service, one sovereign for standard service. Fifty silver to touch someone - briefly. The House takes fifty percent – which is more generous than you'll find elsewhere."
"I'll do it. But no Templars." Lambert had seen the shifty old knight in the corner. "I'm picky like that."
"Don't worry – any secrets you have will be safe here. I look after my own."
Madame Lusine smiled: the smile of a cat who has caught another mouse. Remembering the courtly manners Leliana had taught him, he kissed her jewelled hand as they sealed their bargain – her voracious smile widened.
Gamlen shuffled off home, muttering, "I won't mention this to your mother if you don't."
The pre-dawn light was like wet grey wool.
There was dew in the shadows, chill in the air, and shepherds on the hills outside Denerim. Their flocks are calm and obedient, Rylock thought. Mine is full of academics with more learning than sense, a sick old man, and his wife whose voice reminds me of the "shrieking hosts" of Catechism 13.
Her own jaundiced thoughts brought a faint flush of shame - which was soon swallowed up by the unearthly pain in her back. She could only bless Rillian for the gifts that had awaited her and Harith in Wade's armoury: the Templar armour Rillian had ordered made was far lighter than the usual. Rylock suffered an all-too-familiar mixture of annoyance and affection as she looked down at the emblem of the sword of mercy emblazoned in front. Rillian had seen fit to alter the Chantry's design. The sword was not facing upward - to show a Templar's readiness to fight maleficarum - it was facing downwards, forming the shape of Andraste's stake. And how Rillian must have smiled when choosing 'Liberator' as the mace's inscription!
Arlessa Isolde was approaching. Rylock blanched, measuring the distance between herself and the dreaded woman with her eyes. She looked around for help and, finding none, steeled herself.
"Knight-Commander? Are you still in charge of the Temple pilgrimage after the Landsmeet's unpleasantness?"
"Yes, I am," Rylock said stiffly.
"Oh good. Eamon! Darling! She's over here!" A voice like the squeal of pigs in a slaughterhouse.
Isolde didn't look well: there were dark circles under her eyes and her skin was translucent with exhaustion. She sidled up to Rylock and whispered, "I need to find the Maker's forgiveness, you see."
Rylock thought that a worthy goal - until Isolde's next words made it clear she was not worried about having condemned the villagers and servants of Redcliffe to atrocities, but about having caused her own son to be born with magic.
"I keep remembering the time Connor was three and he had such a bad fever, with diarrhoea…"
Maker preserve me. Rylock's eyes slunk around like hunted animals.
"Excuse me, Arlessa, I have to…um, I have to…um…"
"It was like dysentery, only not so watery, so I gave him some Holy Water mixed with gruel."
Briskly, Rylock interrupted: "Giving lyrium to a child might not be the best idea, but I am quite certain it did not turn him into a mage. Else all Templars would be mages."
She frowned, suddenly remembering Wynne's taunt: "you Templars aren't using holy powers: you're low-level, artificially-created mages fuelled by lyrium". The memory of that painful truth stung nearly as badly as the flogging, and she was annoyed with Isolde for evoking it. She expected the woman to look relieved, at least, that she hadn't caused her son to be born with magic - but for some reason Isolde looked more drawn than ever.
"Oh. I…see. It is only - at least if it had been that, I would not need to worry about my second child. Oh…say nothing to my husband, please. But my breasts have been feeling sore lately and there have been other signs…" Mercifully, Isolde stopped mid-sentence, suddenly blushing. "I shouldn't speak of these things to a woman of the cloth."
Reinforcements were on the way. Sister Justine, riding beside Brother Genetivi. Knight-Captain Harith. Leliana, resplendent in her new Seeker's robe…
Rylock said, gravely: "Sister Justine and I have sworn vows at a very young age. But - Seeker Leliana has only been confirmed last month, and as such may be more knowledgeable in worldly matters. I would advise you to seek her counsel."
"Thank you, Ser Templar!" Isolde spurred her horse to ride beside Leliana, and Rylock heard the strains of her dulcet tones drifting into the wind.
Unworthy, she chided herself. A petty response to Leliana telling Grand Cleric Iona what was only the truth. Leliana's piercing dark-blue gaze fell on her the way Andraste's might have fallen on General Maferath.
Brother Genetivi was just a wisp of skin and gristle, held together by clothes. One could practically see right through him. The roll of parchment in his hands looked studier than he did. The Arlessa rounded on him next.
"Can I help you, my Lady? Are you part of the Temple pilgrimage?"
"Yes, we are. This is my husband, Arl Eamon."
"Ah, yes," Genetivi quavered, "The only man ever to be healed by the Ashes. Such an honour."
"Oh, yes, I think it was. Of course, Eamon's backache hasn't cleared up - though we didn't really pray for that. Perhaps we should have. But a man named Slim Couldry told me we could buy a Tear of Andraste from him."
If she's not careful he's going to disintegrate under the sheer force of her personality.
"Where are the horses?" Rylock asked Harith, "We seem to be missing at least four."
"Look there."
A procession of Templar horses emerged from Denerim's gates. Even from this distance, Rylock recognized the figure leading them.
It was the Dwarven trader, Bodahn.
Bodahn and his son, Sandal, were in charge of their trading wagon. The other members of the party: Rylock, Harith, Sister Justine, Seeker Leliana, Eamon, Isolde, and Brother Genetivi all rode - with varying skill. Leliana was graceful as any Chasind horse-archer - Sister Justine looked rather like a sack of potatoes - Eamon and Isolde possessed the training of nobles. Rylock gave a short, sharp grunt of pain through gritted teeth as she mounted up. Harith, beside her, had gone the colour of worn-out ice. The battle-worthiness of their little group troubled Rylock. Their ability to resist bandits depended on Leliana's skills, and the swords of two Templars battered beyond usefulness. She sat up straighter in the saddle and addressed the gathering. The effort brought her out in a cold sweat.
"Maker's pilgrims," Rylock intoned, hoping she did not look as pale as she felt, "There are only three rules governing this trip. The first is that we shall follow the North Road from Denerim to Redcliffe and then Sulcher's Pass from Redcliffe to Haven. The second is that we shall stop at Vigil's Keep, at Soldier's Peak, and at Lake Calenhad docks on our way to Redcliffe; and at Honnleath on our way to Sulcher's Pass. And the third is that when Knight Commander Harith or I tell you to do something you must do it. The darkspawn never came this far, but the north is swarming with brigands, and failure to take defensive measures may cost us our lives."
As they left the city they were joined by the Wardens – Loghain had survived his Joining but looked even worse than she felt – and the mages who had accompanied them to the Landsmeet: First Enchanter Irving, and Senior Enchanters Sweeney and Ines. Rillian, Ser Otto and Jowan had boarded The Siren's Call with indecent haste and were travelling with the Dalish clans; the other Wardens were heading to Soldier's Peak, where Guillaume Caron had been named Warden-Commander of Fereldan. The Wardens of Weissaupt blamed Alistair for conspiring with Morrigan to help Rillian cheat death. Alistair blamed himself for inadvertently betraying Rillian to the Grand Cleric. Rumours had him seeking solace in the taverns. Loghain would be forced to head for Orlais, forever a stranger in a strange land.
Rylock rode beside Harith, whom she had not had a chance to talk to since Ser Alrik had administered their punishment.
"The truth revealed by Seeker Leliana at the Landsmeet – you should have performed the duty of a Templar. If you couldn't bring yourself, you should have told me, and I would have performed that duty."
Harith muttered, "I trusted the Hero of Ferelden."
"Rillian is not a mage. She would have had no way to test Jowan's claim that he had defeated the desire demon inside Connor. You were trusting the word of a confirmed Blood Mage."
Harith went so pale Rylock half-expected him to fall off his horse. He didn't, but his sulky expression was half-defiant and half-shamefaced, "Alright: I didn't want to kill a child. Are you going to punish me for that, add a few more stripes to Ser Alrik's work? Maker, that man was enjoying himself..."
Rylock kept her expression impassive. "Yes, he was very...thorough. But a well-trained mind ought to throw off a bit of pain. The issue at hand is the matter of Connor. Our duty as Templars is to protect villagers like Redcliffe's - or the non-mages at Haven. That duty will fall to me."
The elderly mage, Sweeney, approached her, having heard every word. "You don't deserve to become a child murderer either, young woman. And Connor deserves to grow up."
"You are arguing I should trust the word of a Blood Mage?"
"No. I am arguing that you can trust me. When we reach Redcliffe, I will rally the Senior Enchanters to perform the same ritual - and I will enter the Fade. If I encounter the demon, and fail to defeat it, then you will perform your duty – and both Connor and I will go to the Maker's side. But, really, Ellen, don't be silly! Me? Fail?!"
Rylock wondered, briefly, how this elderly mage could know her given name. It had always annoyed Mother Leanna and secretly pleased Rylock that her birth name had been Ellen: Light. But it was Rylock: Duty – a name off the Chantry list for foundlings – that had defined her life.
"It may not be possible," she muttered, wondering at her own curious reluctance to allow Sweeney to risk...more than his life, "The Templar Rule states that, once a mage has consented to possession, the only way they can be separated is by the death of the mage."
"The operative word here is "consent." As there is no way a child can consent it is possible to free Connor. It is the same with Blood Magic. That is why a mage who chooses to cast Blood Magic is killed, while the victims of Blood Magic are sent to Aeonar. Possession works in the same way."
"Then I will send..." Rylock began, and stopped. Scenes that refused to come into focus swam past her inner vision. Patients, strapped to skeletal beds of gleaming metal and crisp sheets, shaved heads, open mouths being force-fed lyrium. The luminous glow of the Veil, about to flutter aside. Every vision, every muddled memory, punctuated by agony and misery, screams that cried unspeakable abuse. How many times had those terrible, suggestive wraiths drifted across her memory, just beyond her grasp? For the past twenty-one years, lyrium had wiped her mind clean, but as she and Harith were now allowed one vial per week – the second part of their punishment - the memories had started to come at inconvenient times. Harith had been unable to perform his duty in Redcliffe and she had thought him weak. Then I am weak too because I can't send a child to Aeonar.
"Alright," she said, grateful for the gauntlets that hid her shaking hands, "If you are still willing, when we reach Redcliffe, then I trust you."
Sweeney smiled at her - a shaft of light in a dusty room. Maker, did I really just say that I trust a mage? Rylock fixed her eyes on the pewter glow of the morning sky, wondering if she were losing her sense of proportion.
AN: As Dorian refers to Sunday in DAI, I'm assuming they use the Gregorian calendar.