Chapter Seventeen: The Sons of Dreams
Thomas woke to darkness. He felt cool air wash over his face. He lay wrapped in something soft, on a bed. It puzzled him. Tranquil did not sleep. He could see something glittering overhead. A circle of light. He watched it change colour: first the golden yellow of the Templar symbol, then red as it reflected the firelight. The person in armour smelled of pine and horses and woodsmoke. Her face was remote and quiet and self-contained. It was a puzzle Thomas had to solve.
The face turned to his, he saw the surprise on it, and wondered. "Thomas. You're awake."
"How long?" It had been dawn when he had last seen that face, now, beyond the wagon opening, he saw stars. They glittered like remorseless diamonds upon the ocean of snow.
"Twelve hours," said the Templar. She stretched her arms, slowly, made the scapulae meet. Of course, he realised, she would have had to watch over him, because demons waited in darkness. But if he had been in the Fade he did not remember. His sleep had been void as a plate of black glass. Distant sound disturbed him; the noises of people setting up camp. Twelve hours had not been enough time to make the mountain fortress habitable. The noises reminded him of the time they had set up camp at Ostagar – the noise, the stink, the injuries, the deaths – all these jumbled in his mind, and left him speechless. Karl, Leorah, Godwin... And before Ostagar, before the darkspawn, there had been Uldred, and those terrible deaths. Niall... He and Owain had been unable to help, had simply tidied the Circle stockroom while Uldred tortured both mages and Templars...
His tears blurred everything to wavering points of light and blackness. He began to tremble with the effort to stop them – it was dangerous for mages to cry in front of Templars – but he could not.
"You need to drink something," the Templar – Knight Commander Rylock, he remembered – said decidedly, "Here," Thomas felt the rim of a glass at his lips and sipped. It was water, cold and clean. He swallowed again and again. "Good," said Rylock, "That's what you need."
Thomas slipped back into sleep, still crying.
"Happy birthday!" Varric beamed cheerfully at Lambert, though he didn't bother to get up from his baroque chair. It reminded Lambert of the throne-like chair used by the Warden Commander when meeting with the Banns on campaign – Carver had dared him to sneak in there once – and seemed appropriate for the man who was king of Kirkwall's underworld. The merchant prince was holding court as if he had never left: urbane, expansive, witty; every onlooker would leave The Hanged Man knowing Varric Tethras was back, at the top of his game.
The Deep Roads expedition had taken four months. Lambert had followed the promise of riches and glory and been happily surprised to find Varric had hired someone he knew as bodyguard. Fenris was lethal – to darkspawn as well as people – and had pulled Lambert's nuts out of the fire more times than he could count. After Bartrand had betrayed them – taken the lyrium idol and sealed them in the tunnels - the three had struggled to survive. The profanity that had followed would stay with Lambert forever and had bonded them for life.
Then Rillian and her party had shown up – to Lambert she was a storybook hero – and demanded Bartrand hand over the lyrium idol. Bartrand had refused and was now buried in the Deep Roads. Lambert had been worried for Varric, but the dwarf insisted he neither mourned nor missed his treacherous brother. "Family is more than blood." Rillian's party and Varric's had escaped the Deep Roads together then gone their separate ways. Rillian's Wardens and Clan Lavellan were going to cross the Green Dales and the Drylands to reach Arlathan Forest. Rillian had insisted she keep the idol but had not been interested in the treasure. Varric would be able to buy The Hanged Man and pay off the Merchant's Guild, Fenris was the richest mercenary Kirkwall had ever seen, and Lambert and his mother were made for life.
Not a bad way to celebrate his nineteenth birthday.
"The big One Nine," he agreed, and, smiling, toasted both Varric and Fenris, who was sitting there with a sinuous grace that belied his brutal strength. Fenris' cropped white hair, dark skin and eyes the deep silver-green of woodland ponds made him look strange, fey; the lyrium tattoos disappeared into his clawed armour.
"Is Blondie showing up?" Varric wanted to know. Shortly after Lambert's return he and Anders had made their relationship official. They were still working out the parameters. Anders had not minded that Isabella was teaching Lambert to duel and her lessons frequently extended to other skills: "She's a side-dish. She comes with the meal." He didn't even mind the times Zevran joined them – whenever he could get time away from his lord, Nathaniel Howe – "I don't own your body, and if you're going to slip out from High Town to help me at the clinic you'll need to learn some stealth."
"No," Lambert admitted, "He says Justice doesn't allow him to get drunk."
"He needs an exorcism not a bar," Fenris sneered in his gravelly, baritone voice. Lambert winced. Fenris' dislike of Anders was entirely mutual. Anders had told him that, while he didn't mind his adventures with Isabella and Zevran, if he ever slept with Fenris their relationship was over. Lambert had given a disbelieving snort. He had once offered himself as a thank you for Fenris having saved him from Danarius, and Fenris had refused with a contempt that still made Lambert cringe. Instead, he was teaching the former slave to read. To save Fenris' pride, he insisted this was merely payment for not ending up as Danarius' blood meal – Fenris didn't need to know he would have taught him anyway, because everyone deserved to read. The visits to Danarius' former estate - the times he and Fenris would read together then work their way through the wine cellar – were explained to Anders as necessary preparation should the magister return.
A human girl in a low-cut dress brought drinks. Varric and Fenris were comparing dwarven and Tevinter whiskeys, while Lambert had ordered a Purple Rain. It was sickly-sweet and not to be enjoyed by anyone over twenty-one, but he did not care. What was the point of money if you couldn't be yourself? Likewise, he was very happy with the first outfit he had bought after Varric had begun to liquefy the Deep Roads assets: suede boots, purple leather trousers, a velvet tunic with the design of a silver hawk. He was positively dripping in amethyst jewelry. He stretched like a contented cat.
"You look like a walking grape," Fenris observed.
"Anders likes it," Lambert retorted. Anders himself preferred the plainest of clothes – that bloody-awful, feathered tunic that smelled of wet mabari – but his eyes had lit up at the sight of Lambert and the memory made him smile.
"A bunch of grapes served to the abomination on a silver platter."
Lambert flinched. In that look he read Fenris' memory of the first time they had met – not Lambert's finest hour. Fenris thought him a willing victim who had gone from a Blood Mage to an abomination.
"You're a mean drunk, Broody," Varric observed.
"Don't call him that," Lambert told Fenris, sipping his Purple Rain. "Anders is a possessed mage but not an abomination. It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. Anders is a good man. If that ever changes, I will cast the Litany of Adralla. As for Danarius, when I meet him again he'll find the meal not to his taste."
That was the true purpose of his lessons with Zevran. The rooftops of Kirkwall offered a landscape of their own – one Zevran knew as well as Lambert knew Kirkwall's streets - and the Antivan Crows had ways of dealing with Tevinter magisters. The one problem – that Lambert had never killed another person and hoped he never would – he would worry about later.
Fenris looked slightly abashed – as if he wanted to apologize but could not bring himself to take back calling Anders an abomination. Lambert shrugged and grinned peaceably. After four months in the Deep Roads he was not going to ruin his first night out.
"You tell him, Sparky," Varric grinned, and Lambert smiled at the realization Varric had given him a nickname, because everyone got one. Lambert would probably never be able to cast Chain Lightning – as a mage, he was decidedly uninspiring – but Anders had finally taught him the electricity trick.
There were rumours - at Varric's table there were always rumours – and while they had been away Kirkwall had been busy as a kicked anthill. Tensions with the Qunari were running high, and the Viscount had tasked Nathaniel Howe with dealing with them. The Coterie had gone too far, and Meredith Stannard had replaced Kirkwall's useless Guard Captain. Back in the country Lambert still considered home, everyone was saying Seeker Leliana had managed to talk the Divine out of Grand Cleric Iona's hoped-for Exalted March against Ferelden. Other rumours said the change of heart was to do with Empress Celene being persuaded by a new mage advisor: a woman from the Korcari Wilds with a young son. A third rumour had the Divine sending her Right Hand to investigate the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Seeker Cassandra being convinced.
"That's the one that makes most sense to me - human nature being what it is," Varric opined, "The Divine is not well - of course she'd want the rumours of miraculous healing to be true... as for the Empress, I can't see her wanting a military invasion when it's her cousin, Gaspard, who'd get the glory."
"I believe it was Leliana," Lambert said stoutly, "She's amazing."
The documents proving Leandra's claim to the old Amell estate could be found in the cellars of what was now a slavers' den. At that Lambert sat up and Varric winked,
"I heard the cellars open in Darktown, near Blondie's clinic. Planning to skulk around and see what you find?"
With great dignity, Lambert replied, "What's the point of money if you still have to sneak through cellars? I will hire mercenaries to retrieve the will – the Red Iron, maybe. I heard Meeran's boys are good."
"They have links to the Coterie and the Coterie has links to slavery. If the old Amell estate is being used by slavers, Meeran's boys won't touch it."
"Perhaps - if my job offer came with the Tethras name..." As soon as the words left his lips Lambert feared he had gone too far. Varric was a charming man – in the Deep Roads he had treated him like a younger brother – but he was an underworld king and people forgot that at their peril. Varric's eyes did flash dangerously, but in a moment his smile was charming as ever.
"Alright - you've got my blessing. You, Hawke, nobility – ha!"
Yes, it was a ridiculous notion. He and his mother might have money but her former friends would never forget she was a fallen woman who had disgraced her parents by marrying a half-Elven apostate. As for "Lord" Lambert... it was going to get pretty embarrassing running into nobles who had seen him with his clothes off. But none of that would make any difference to his mother – already, her eyes grew curiously vague when reminiscing. After the deaths of her husband and daughter - after Carver had run off to join the Wardens - Leandra Amell no longer cared for inconvenient facts; like a Somniari, she bent the world according to her fantasies. The fine clothes, the rooms of her childhood, the dreams – Lambert was happy he had the power to give her this gift. When nobles tittered behind their hands and swapped stories of the sounds he had made while working for Madame Lusine - "I've had him, too. Was he good?" - she would never know it.
The conversation ebbed and flowed, and Lambert ordered another drink. There was an exiled prince in town – a Chantry brother who was looking for a decidedly unAndrastian revenge against those who had killed his family. Lambert gazed at Fenris - hair like silverite, profile carved by a blade, twin emeralds for eyes – and wondered if he would take the job.
And an Elven woman named Arianni was begging for the return of her apostate son, Feynriel – an elf-blooded human who had run away when she had contacted the Templars and dreamed of finding the Dalish. That could be me... Lambert thought.
Lambert had always known Malcolm Hawke had been half-Elven – the child of Keeper Deshanna and a human adventurer – but it wasn't until a late-night conversation with his mother he had learned Leandra Amell was half-Elven too:
"The very best thing to happen to an Elven maidservant is if her mistress is barren. If the man loves his wife. Say, he impregnates the servant. Half-elven children appear fully human. The mistress wants to claim the children as her own. See how wondrously that increases the servant's status? If she is lucky, she may even live the rest of her life with the children and watch them grow up. She has to be careful never to show any affection that might be seen as parental, of course."
Lambert had never heard anything so cruel – just one more way for human nobles to exploit Elves. He had wondered, briefly, how it was he had Elven eyes and lacked facial hair while Carver had been able to grow a full beard at sixteen. Malcolm Hawke's memoirs had provided an answer. His father had done research on pea plants as an apprentice. Apparently, all the first generation of pea plants had taken after the dominant parent, but only three-quarters of the second generation had done so. Traits that had been hidden in the first generation came out in one in four of the second. Lambert was proud of his Elven traits but doubted they would be enough to get Marethari to take him seriously. Still, after giving the Keeper Flemeth's amulet he might at least have earned an audience. Feynriel would have to do the rest.
"I'm going to help Feynriel," Lambert decided. "If I head to the Alienage now, will you come with me, Fenris?" Perhaps he should go to Darktown and ask Anders, but he thought of how the Elves would feel seeing two men - one human and one human-passing - waltz into the Alienage and winced.
"The best place for Feynriel is in the Circle," Fenris said flatly. The unspoken words – "and you" hung between them.
Oh, not that tired old argument! "Fenris," Lambert said wearily, "The Gallows isn't a strict but fair school of magic. Maybe Haven is – I've heard stories the Knight Commander even reversed my cousin's Tranquillity, though Anders says not to believe it – but Meredith Stannard sees us as the enemy. Cullen is not a bad man but he's over-promoted – the reason Meredith made him Knight Captain at eighteen is because she knew he'd never question her. And now she's employing sadists like Ser Alrik and Ser Karras. If Feynriel and I go to the Circle we will be made Tranquil and then we will be raped. I'd rather not, thanks. I'd prefer to keep my meagre magic and meagre dignity."
"I'll never turn you in," Fenris assured him, "I don't even inform on the abomination. I'm just giving you my opinion."
"Your opinion is noted," Lambert said sourly, "Well, are you going to help me or not?"
He and Fenris bade farewell to Varric – surrounded by dozens of gaudy drinkers desperate for the crumbs of gossip that fell from his table – his clever hands gesturing expansively. In the firelight, Lambert imagined the hands moving the onlookers like puppets. Outside, they trekked into lighter darkness, into a pink and lavender sunrise. They continued west until they reached Lowtown. The smell of dead fish and rotting rubbish assailed their nostrils. There was a rise and fall of street sounds. A one-armed beggar sidled towards them – Lambert noted the tightly-wound tunic under the rags and knew the right arm was as good as the left but paid him anyway. The patchwork buildings that led to the Alienage were a dim whitish mass. Together, they meandered down the vermiform "street" known as Vomit Boulevard. Automatically, Lambert stepped over the broken plank, and glanced into the dark area known as "the Maze". They crossed a back yard full of cat droppings, two warehouses, and a spindly pale tree. It had white, cracked bark and long strands of small, arrow-shaped leaves that made Lambert think of women's hair. Behind a rain barrel slept a tiny black kitten.
"Aww," said Lambert, and instantly she woke, puffed up like three cats and then - realizing he meant her no harm – mewled softly. Lambert bent down and picked her up.
"You are wasting my time," Fenris said aridly.
"Look at this little thing. Have you ever seen anything so sweet? I'm going to make her my familiar."
Lambert couldn't resist winding Fenris up. Fenris, however, took one look at the scrawny, bedraggled little kitten and rolled his eyes.
"An uninspiring mage should have an uninspiring familiar," he agreed.
"Don't listen to the mean mercenary, Incognito." The kitten purred, and her new name received its consecration.
The citizens of the Alienage gave the two armed men a wide berth. Their faces were gelid masks and their eyes watchful. Fenris and Lambert ignored the hollow-eyed stares as they passed their hovels, and only stopped when they reached their destination. In the centre of the Alienage, the Vhenadahl was a late-summer riot of colour. Lambert could not help but gaze into its branches. As always, something called to him – he supposed it might be because he possessed the meagre remnants of an Elven soul. Quietly he turned to Fenris,
"Do you ever visit the Alienage, Fenris?"
"I don't need to visit the Alienage to know how they suffer. I lived it."
It was the first time Fenris had ever alluded to his past. He had once told Lambert the agony of receiving the lyrium markings had wiped his memory, but perhaps parts were beginning to resurface.
"Do the Elves in Tevinter have stories about the Dalish?"
"They've heard. They just don't care."
"But if they ran away, the Dalish might help them."
Fenris sighed. "Are you really that naïve? You might as well say: if they flew into the sky, they could live in the clouds. The Dalish are ruled by their mages, just as mages rule in Tevinter. Do you imagine Elven mages care for the fate of Elven soporati?"
Carefully, Lambert said, "I suppose Dalish mages aren't much like the Elves in human cities."
"Their smug sense of superiority does give them away."
A commotion in the town centre caught their attention. An armoured Templar was addressing a tiny Elven woman:
"Please, Ser Thrask! He won't go to the Circle willingly, but it's the only place..."
"Madam, we'll do our best to find your son, but I cannot guarantee his safety if he continues to resist Templar jurisdiction."
"He's just a boy!"
"He's an apostate. I am sorry for your loss, Mistress. But I can offer your son mercy only if he turns himself in."
The woman's answer carried a weary terror that made Lambert's heart ache. "I'm trying to find him, but..."
"The Templars cannot tolerate apostates." He turned on his heel and the woman was left sobbing. Lambert's words were entirely unplanned,
"It sounds like your son is in trouble. Is there anything I can do?"
"You...you heard all that and still you would help? An apostate? Oh, thank you..."
"I am Arianni. My boy, Feynriel...he's all I have, all my family. When I learned he had magic, I could not bear to send him to the Circle. But his connection to the Fade...it gives him nightmares, dreams of demons, speaking in his mind. I would rather lose him to the Circle than to himself."
When Lambert was fifteen, his world changed. Night after night, he had prayed hard – prayed to the Maker even though the Chantry taught the Maker hated people like him. Prayed he would not dream. But the demons had come for him anyway – strange, glittering creatures and half-formed things. He had felt the queasy tickle of their approach like spider-feet against his mind. The Fade was a web whose strands were the scoop for prey; dreams the trap where the predators crouched and waited.
After Lambert had healed the little cat, his father had realized he had two mage children, not one. Malcolm Hawke had taken him aside, as he had done when Bethany had come into her power years earlier:
"Listen to me. Demons are like drowners. They are flailing in the Waters of the Fade, trying to grab the only real things they can – the minds of mages, who visit the Fade in dreams. Our minds are their lifeboats. They do not possess us because they mean us harm but because they want us to make them real. If you let them in, you are lost. They do not mean to harm you – any more than plague means to harm its victims – but they will, if you let them. They will try to claw their way into your head. Whatever happens, do not let them in. You are a good person and you will find it easy to resist Pride, or Desire, or Sloth. But the demons who appear as Valour, as Justice, as Faith, as Compassion – those are the worst. Because they trick even good mages. Never take anything they offer. Never even give them the chance to speak. Your mind is a blade and you will need to sharpen it."
There was nothing left of the laughing, fun man who was their father – the man who could make a beggar's meal taste like a banquet. Malcolm Hawke's face was deathly serious, sculpted and gilded by candlelight, and there was no gentleness in it, no mercy. His eyes were deeper, his attention on something Lambert could not see and which frightened him:
"You and Bethany will need to sharpen your blades."
"Tell me the whole story."
"I learned years ago that my son likely had magical talent. But we could not bear the thought of him locked in the Gallows...so we hid. When the nightmares began, Feynriel still refused to contact the Circle. But I... I truly think they are the only people who might save his life. He dreams of demons, calling to him, pulling him into their world. Every day it grows harder to wake him. That is why I turned to the Circle. They are the only ones that can protect a mage from his own powers. Feynriel learned I had contacted Ser Thrask. He felt I had... betrayed his trust. He thinks he can live free of the Circle. But I am afraid - so afraid - that without proper training, he'll kill himself."
"Those look like Dalish Vallaslin. Why do you live in the city?"
"I was born to the Dalish, but came to Kirkwall for a time and... dallied with a human merchant, Vincento. When I found out I was with child, neither Vincento nor my tribe wished the burden of an elf-blooded human infant. I raised Feynriel myself, here in the Alienage. Feynriel has talked about finding the Dalish – but Clan Sabrae would not even let me raise him among them."
Lambert knew Vincento. He was a smooth-talking Antivan merchant in the Lowtown bazaar. He wondered if Feynriel had approached his father; he would have done so in Feynriel's shoes.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Just find him, please. Bring him somewhere safe."
"I will not leave you fearful for a moment longer than necessary."
"Thank you. It has been a lonely time, hiding. It's almost a relief to finally confront this openly."
Locating Vincento wasn't difficult – getting him to talk about something other than fine silks proved more of a challenge. Lambert had no way to convince him - he wasn't going to cast a light spell in the middle of Lowtown and leave himself at Vincento's mercy. And, of course, he was known – the gossip had spread all around Lowtown by now – as the former prostitute who had sold out a mage colleague to the Templars. The Templars had killed Idunna, of course, and everyone assumed Lambert's motive had been jealousy. Vincento wasn't going to trust him, and in the end Lambert gave up and wished the man well. He turned to Fenris and said quietly,
"I'm going to see Anders. He knows the Mage Underground better than anyone. I'm not going to ask you to come with me."
Fenris shrugged. "Heading to Darktown, alone, wearing that outfit, is naïve even for you."
"Thanks, then. But - if it's not too much to ask – please don't pick a fight with Anders."
"What is this – stand by your abomination? I doubt the abomination needs you to protect him."
"After spending all day, every day, healing people free of charge, I don't think Anders deserves to be given a hard time by anyone," Lambert said sharply. "You are very quick to judge him for being what he is – for having a spirit inside him - but never for what he does – he pours out his own strength to save the lives of strangers, over and over."
"No amount of free healing services will make the abomination more palatable to me."
Lambert gave up and the two headed deep into the darkness and the chokedamp. The buildings of Darktown were like a patchwork of decaying molars. Though he had the mana to cast a light spell he did not use it – it was better to walk unlit and hence unseen through these streets. He heard a faraway, muffled cry and winced. Someone being murdered? This was Darktown, where, every hour of each night, a life ended violently like a candle snuffed out. There were tiny skitterings which seemed to come from the stone. He heard the rustling and squealing of rats and Incognito squirmed in his grip.
"Shhh..." he whispered, and the kitten quieted until they reached the dim, yellowish lantern that hung from the wall outside Anders' clinic.
"Lambert!" At the sound of Anders' voice Lambert broke into a smile – he couldn't help it. Joyfully, he headed across the rushes – slimy with unspeakable detritus – and feasted his gaze on the man he loved. But Anders' answering smile faded at the sight of Fenris.
"What is he doing here?"
"Making sure I don't get robbed or raped in Darktown – and helping an elf-blooded human named Feynriel. Feynriel is an apostate, like me, and his mother begged us to find him."
"Begged you to find him and hand him over to the Circle, you mean."
"That would be the best place for him," Fenris answered smoothly, and Lambert sighed as the two antagonists squared up. He was astounded to realize how each of them cherished their hatred. There was a stench of obscenity about it. Not having the patience to play peacemaker, Lambert busied himself feeding Incognito and introducing her to Ser Pounce-A-Lot, who viewed this tiny interloper with immense dignity. The orange tomcat, seeking nearness to Anders, surged up from the floor to the shelves behind him, then flowed along the top shelf, the very picture of feline hedonistic aplomb. Incognito gazed up at him in adoration. Finally, after the sight of his kitten being welcomed into her new home made Lambert smile and soothed his tension, he turned to the two and said,
"Actually, I am hoping to bring Feynriel to the Dalish. That is his dream – but we are having trouble finding the boy. I thought...perhaps..."
Anders took Lambert aside and said softly,
"We work with an ex-Templar named Samson – who will send apostates to us, for a fee. But, if Feynriel had no money, I doubt Samson would've helped him out of the kindness of his heart. I pity any mage who is forced to rely on him for protection."
"How do I find this Samson?"
"He stays out of sight during the day. At night - I'll take you to him. Fenris, too, if you promise to keep him under control."
"He's not a dog!" Lambert said sharply, dismayed at Anders' tone.
"He seems less a man to me than a wild animal," said Anders, and Lambert winced. He knew that saying anything would be insufficient – that anything short of getting up and leaving would be a collusion – yet he loved Anders and wanted to help Feynriel. He told himself Anders couldn't have meant that in the way it had sounded – Anders had belonged to the Ferelden Circle, where Elven and human mages were seen as equals - he was simply wary of a man who hated mages, that was all. Still, not challenging the remark made him feel dirty.
At this time of early, early morning the dark, dusty, foul-smelling streets were almost deserted. Anders joined them, his staff at the ready. Lambert smelled the magic like rain and saw Fenris wince. He wondered if the touch of magic on the lyrium brands caused him pain, but knew better than to ask. Lambert might have overlooked the stooped, wraithlike figure hunched over a grate, but Anders approached him.
"Heh. Ol'Vincento said someone might come sniffing around. You're looking for the boy, right? Feyn-something? I'll tell you now, there's not much I can do for you."
"Did you meet the boy?" Lambert asked.
"Afraid so. Blighter was dead broke, though, not a copper on him. Help one mageling for free and I'll never get paid again. I pointed him to a ship captain I know. Reiner. Sometimes he'll take on runaways. Took another apostate last week – girl I sent him. Might have gone wrong, though. I heard rumours he took the both of them captive instead."
Captive. Before his months working for Madame Lusine – before he had been foolish enough to accept a magister as a client - Lambert would have been too innocent to know what that entailed. He knew now.
"If they are dead so are you," he said flatly. Both Anders and Fenris looked at him in surprise – the rage was so unlike him. Lambert, too, was surprised at himself. You don't even know them, he thought, wondering if he were losing his sense of proportion.
"Please tell me it's not too late to save them." Anders interjected.
"Rumour has it Reiner has the pair of them locked in a quays warehouse. Somewhere close to Dockside. You want to go looking, you might find the lad before he gets ransomed to the Templars. Or worse."
They headed to the eastern warehouse district and Arthuris' private dock. The battered sign swung at the entrance, metal fixings creaking with every push of the wind. Fenris was already moving, alert as a stalking cat, making no more sound than the narrow shadow he cast. An instant later, even the shadow was gone - the wraith swallowed by the night. Lambert had seen Fenris' abilities in the Deep Roads – owed his life to them - but Anders was looking startled and inexplicably chagrined. Does he think Fenris will one day oppose the mage rebellion with those skills?
Inside, the warehouse seemed deserted - the three met no resistance until they were several doors down. Lambert opened the next door into what looked like a headquarters of some kind: an opulent rug covered the floorboards and a fire blazed in the grate. Two crossbowmen guarded the door at the far side, and a man in robes sat at a desk, reading a scroll. Fenris stiffened at the sight of the geometric tattoos on his face.
The guards raised their crossbows and the shadows fled like live things from the blue light of Anders' staff. The tattooed man rose, and the heavy breath of velvet robes swirled across the floor. A wave of inexplicable revulsion shook Lambert; he found himself casting the Litany before the man had used his penknife to open a vein. The strange wave that radiated from Lambert – music and magic entwined – drove away the murky darkness of Blood Magic and the air around them took on the fresh, washed feeling of a spring morning after rain. A moment later Fenris reached an insubstantial hand into the mage's chest and ripped out his heart – Lambert really didn't think that was necessary. Anders had already killed the two guards.
They made their way across a series of bare rooms and winding corridors. The stale air surrounded them like a flabby blanket. A young woman in a tattered but still beautiful dress was running frantically. She was being pursued by two burly guards.
"Get a hold of her!"
"Break the hands." The voice carried a sickly-sweet stench of cruelty. "I heard they can't do no spells without hands."
"Please! Help me! Anyone..."
"Leave her alone!" Without planning what he was going to do, Lambert ran towards the two guards. He heard Anders and Fenris curse behind him, but ignored them. The guards took one look at him and burst into raucous laughter. The brief wild hope in the young woman's face guttered and died.
Lambert felt a sudden souring of mood, an upsurgence of grief-filled recollections, an almost physical sense of menace, a cringing of the flesh. The young woman's eyes met his. They were dreadful and white-rimmed in their fixity. A prickling horror worked its way down his neck.
The young woman's skin rippled and shifted as the demon took her – bursting through the soft flesh like an insect from an apple. Working as a medic during the Fifth Blight had taught Lambert much about the grim, lethal miseries to which flesh is heir to, but nothing had prepared him for this. The bright floral dress – stained with the filth of the cells but still beautiful – was the only thing still recognizable as female. Her body – once so glossy and softly-sleek – was now a seamed husk. The face was a twisted mask – the cracked jaw stirred, and the dehydrated lips stretched and snarled to bring words from the gangrenous shaft of the throat. Worst of all was the look in the eyes – the feeble, guttering awareness of the human soul, howling in manic terror, begging to be let out. But the bargain, struck in a moment of despair, could not be undone – her gibbered pleas counted for nothing against the remorseless gluttony of the demon.
The demon spoke, and its leprous mouth spewed loathing and obscenity into Lambert's mind. The foul, murmurous energy was a festering wound, and with it came a black despondency, a decaying of the will. The two Tevinter guards backed away slowly – and were killed by Anders and Fenris before they had even realized the danger.
Malcolm Hawke's lessons in how to sharpen their mental blades had been terrifying – both Lambert and Bethany had yearned just to be ordinary, like Carver. Only now did Lambert realize just what his father had saved them from. How his life might have ended if he had had no mage father to teach him to sharpen his blade. The memories gave him strength. He held his ground and began to cast the Litany. The silver song of liquid starlight was a current of hope and something like a shudder of languid recoil went through the despair demon. To see it touched and turned by his voice was to see a terrifying bridge of thought connect them. The high notes opposed the timeless and unearthly power; the lower notes surrounded it like the bass rumble of a storm. A slow, liquid torsion stirred the demon and the unspeakable remnant of a human being moved as if it recognized him. Fury unshackled Lambert from fear. Hate scorched through him like grounded lightning, fixing him where he stood. With a lithe, fluid step – Zevran's lessons had not all been in lovemaking – he dodged the flaming arms and drew Bard's Honour across the abomination's throat.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He believed that, by the Maker's side, she would have her body and mind back – hoped she would understand him. He searched the body to see if there was anything that could identify her. There was a letter:
Father,
I know the sacrifices you've made to conceal my secret, but I am a child no longer. I cannot burden you my whole life. I must live my own life as a woman...and as a mage. It is oddly freeing to write the word.
Farewell, Father. I hope one day you make peace between what you have been taught and what you have seen.
All my love,
Olivia.
It was addressed to Ser Thrask of the Templar Order.
"That bloody hypocrite!" Anders swore.
"He should have been stronger and taken her to the Circle," Fenris opined.
"Shut up, both of you!" Lambert snapped, heartsick. A moment later, he murmured, "I will take Ser Thrask this letter, and tell him she's free and safe."
"You could blackmail him into being nicer to the Gallows mages," Anders suggested. Disgusted, Lambert ignored his lover. He rose to his feet, knowing only that he had to finish this. The warehouse reeked of bloodshed and repression. The rulers of Kirkwall had stamped out the slave trade a hundred times, in a hundred places, and always it festered in the darkness then burst out again, like a cancer metastasizing.
At long last the dusty corridor opened like a clam shell into vast space. They stood on a wooden gangplank some fifteen feet above the warehouse floor. The building stretched away from them in all directions. Its black spaces and high rafters swallowed up the tiny, guttering lamp. A young man who had to be Feynriel stood packed like an animal behind bars. Between them and Feynriel were six guards and their employer, a Tevinter slaver. Lambert took in the smooth-shaven head and heavily waxed moustache, the air of louche confidence.
"Why, look here, boys! Volunteers."
"Fenris?" Lambert prompted. An instant later Fenris was a blur in front of him, his hand - literally – around the magister's heart. There was a thundery shiver about him that made Lambert's chest tighten.
"Andraste's great flaming arse!" It seemed both the slaver and Anders had spoken simultaneously.
"Now that I have your attention," Lambert said smoothly – one of Leliana's first bardic lessons had been in acting, and pretending pleasure at the Blooming Rose had not been the extent of his abilities - "I'll thank you to release my brother. Feynriel and I are bastards of Viscount Dumar and his Elven mistress. You know – the boys he swore to protect, even if it means razing the entire Free Marches."
The slaver raised his hands, a fixed smile slashed across waxen features. There was a pleading whine in his throat, and Lambert was reminded of a half-starved dog that had wagged its tail in welcome and then – after he had fed it – snapped at his throat.
"I seek no war with the Free Marches. Take the lad to his father."
"Good decision," said Lambert, keeping up his air of confidence as the guards released Feynriel. Fenris darted a glance in his direction. From the strange look of hunger and absence in the green eyes, Lambert knew he yearned to kill these slavers. Lambert didn't blame him - but nor did he fancy their chances against six guards. At least, not without totally ruining his expensive new outfit.
"Who are you? Are you working for the Templars?" Feynriel asked as soon as they were back in Dockside. The young face was taut, beyond fear. They were standing outside the warehouse, next to a great hulking viaduct. It was built of damp, stone bricks that winked in the grey dawn light.
"Your mother sent me," Lambert said gently.
"Hrmph. Hardly a difference. I can't believe her! My whole life, it was all "I'll love you and protect you." Then I have some bad dreams and it's "off to the Templars!"
"We're not going to send you to those bastards," Anders said firmly. "You've got two choices: stay at my clinic for a while, then we'll smuggle you to Tevinter. Or...Lambert told me you wanted to find the Dalish."
"Why do you care?" the boy asked bitterly, "You don't even know me."
"I am you." Lambert fixed Feynriel with his Elven eyes and let light blossom like a flower from his fingertips. Just a moment – then the ephemeral light faded like wisps of smoke.
Anders said, "Locking up mages over an accident of birth is unjust."
"Well, my birth was certainly an accident! If I weren't half-human, we'd be living with the Dalish. I'd be trained by a Keeper, not hustled into the Gallows like a bad secret." The sulky tone reminded Lambert so much of himself at fifteen – complaining that life was unfair, after his father had made them move yet again. "That's where I was trying to go. See if they would take me in. I'm as much Dalish as human. The Dalish: they've had magic forever. They could teach me. I won't be a danger, I swear."
"The words of every mage – usually just before they become abominations."
Fenris was grumbling for form's sake - Lambert could tell his heart wasn't really in it. The alternative – sending Feynriel to Anders' contact in Tevinter – was worse. Anders had confided to Lambert that this contact was a magister named Gereon Alexius. Alexius and his wife, Lady Livia Arida, were known to take apprentices from all over Thedas. If the apprentice was powerful enough. Anders had never asked what these apprentices were used for – or what they did with the runaways who weren't powerful enough.
"Do you think they would have me?" The desperate hope in the young face – the loneliness and the fear, the longing for family – spoke to Lambert. He said,
"I don't know. But I know Keeper Marethari and I know Clan Sabrae are still camped at Sundermount. I will take you, and we can find out together."
"Then - she does not hate humans? Oh, you don't know what a relief that is! I knew she could help me! Thank the Creators you were the one my mother hired to find me. I will forever be in your debt, friend."
As Anders led them back towards his clinic – where Feynriel would be given a decent meal, healing for his cuts and bruises and a change of clothes before their journey – the four of them felt a curious unison of mood, a partial lightening of the horror they had just shared. Out on the landscape of roofs the horizon had lost its sharpness of line. The charged and bloated sky was being bled by quick scalpels of lightning. The humidity and atmospheric tension that enveloped them told of a coming storm.
"So - who's going to tell Mother Dearest? She must be just dying to hear what happened." Anders' jaunty, sarcastic tone set Lambert's teeth on edge. There was no doubt his lover could be singularly unkind when he wanted to be.
"I don't see why she can't return to Clan Sabrae with her son," Lambert said, "Like my mother – back to her childhood home." Both Leandra and Arianni had been exiled for the loves they had chosen and both had put their children above the expectations of family. Feynriel could grumble all he liked, but Lambert knew a loving mother when he saw one. Anders did not share his opinion. Probably, Lambert realised, he was remembering the parents who had given him to the Circle at the age of twelve. Twenty years of escape attempts he had once said. The difference in their ages had never seemed important to Lambert – but the difference in their life experiences sometimes showed. Anders was Lambert's first love – but Anders had had a whole life before him, and when he talked about Karl it was as if he closed the door on a shrine.
In another moment, the storm reached them. A scattered tap on a rooftop became a dense racket of water, and then they could barely see the outlines of the buildings in the roaring gloom. The rain grabbed at Kirkwall with greedy silver fingers. The storm thundered and echoed through the city. It was a thrashing monster, rushing and howling through buildings that looked like giant teeth breaking through the dark streets. It seemed to Lambert as if Kirkwall had been swallowed by the jaws of an airy monster, whose teeth flashed in the lightning and whose back arched high as the thunderclouds.
Lambert felt curiously grateful for the obliterating din. The rain's blind abundance cleansed his mind of the image whose foulness incessantly resurged there: Olivia, her soul encoffined in the mummified flesh; the waxen, coagulated eyes that met his. The sight of what might become of Anders and Justice, of Feynriel, of himself – if he let his guard down even for a moment. Lightning flared quite near; the four stood drenched in their own colours for an instant, blacked out again, and the quick, tumbling thunder annihilated itself against the stone.
Outside Anders' clinic the lantern flickered with light, the glass damp with rivulets of rain. The rain pooled at their feet, slimed with patches of dust that broke up the reflected light. The lantern looked, to Lambert, like a darkly sparkling jewel. When he looked at Kirkwall in just the right way, at just the right time, there were diamonds sparkling in the deep. On the glistening streets, the iridescence of oil on water swirled through a brightly unpredictable panoply, and the lantern splintered the light to rainbows.
Can there ever be a way back?
The storm gave no answer.