Chapter Nineteen: Masquerades
DA 9:32
Autumn in Kirkwall was a season of dusk, metallic trees, choking fires, fauvist leaves and burnt sausages. Lambert hurried towards The Hanged Man, absently noting the shopping district in Lowtown seemed rather quiet for the hour. The night was cool, and a sea breeze sent the street lanterns swaying and flickering. Lambert's purple finery left him shivering in the damp chill. He decided he would purchase a whole new wardrobe for his debut appearance at Chateau Haine. He was twenty, and fantastically wealthy thanks to the Deep Roads expedition, though he had still not been able to persuade Seneschal Bran to formally acknowledge his mother's claim to the Amell estate. To the nobles of Kirkwall, he would forever be a vulgar ex-courtesan who had come into blood money.
The Hanged Man was three stories tall, with white-washed plaster gleaming between thick dark beams. Outside, a peppergum tree with brilliant autumn foliage was blooming like a peacock. Lambert smiled and opened the door, to be greeted by the redolent smells of cooking and fine ale. He had not realised how bright the lanterns were until he stepped through the doors of the Hanged Man, A few small oil lamps were the only illumination and those were shielded towards the walls, leaving the interior in shadow. The tables and chairs were hulking blacknesses against the gloom. Though he could see figures huddled at several tables he could not make out any individual features. The exception was at Varric's table, which was always the centre of attention. That was how Varric liked it - he offered privacy but enjoyed notoriety. His table also had a clear view of all entrances and exits of the tavern. He was currently holding court, his hands moving like flickers of light as he regaled his listeners with a story.
"Sparky!"
He made his way to where Varric sat with Fenris and an Elven woman he did not know.
"I hear you are looking for people to accompany you to Chateau Haine, and this young lady has excellent references. Tallis, meet Hawke. Hawke, Tallis."
Lambert greeted her as courteously as he would a great Duchess, and the woman looked nonplussed. After taking a thoughtful sip of his drink, Varric began to explain the situation between himself and the Qunari. He hoped to gain the secrets of gaatlok from them – not the mixture of Sela Petrae, charcoal and Drakestone that Anders had used so effectively during the Fifth Blight, but the true gaatlok - in order to make the vision of Bianca he had seen in the Fade a reality. Tallis wished to acquire a jewel named the Heart of the Many for her own reasons, and the two rogues had offered to help each other. Lambert decided their business was their own – so long as they helped him not embarrass himself during the great wyvern hunt he would not pry. If they needed a human noble to be their figleaf – giving them a reason to be at the Chateau – he would oblige. What mattered to him was acquitting himself well and advancing his mother's claim with Seneschal Bran. For Leandra's sake.
Last week Lambert had told his mother about him and Anders. Leandra had burst into tears and told him she had always wanted grandchildren. She had said more, that he carefully did not remember. Never failing to make a bad situation worse, his uncle had commented "Heh - at least I don't have to ask which one of you is the girl." Lambert had spent the following week with Anders at the clinic, but had managed to wrangle himself an invitation to Chateau Haine as a means of making it up to Leandra. Varric and Fenris had offered to help but Anders had been disdainful of the social climbing. Ever since Lambert had started meeting with nobles, at the behest of his mother, Anders had confided less and less about the mage rebellion.
"I would rather die than betray you," Lambert had promised, hurt, but Anders had only said,
"I know you would never betray me. But there is too much at stake. Kirkwall's nobility are a pit of vipers, all thrashing about, ready to pounce on anyone they even suspect of being a mage. The curfews - the midnight raids on mage's families - I'd rather not have to rescue you from the Gallows."
"You wouldn't!" Lambert had said, shocked and delighted.
"I would drown us in blood to keep you safe."
Lambert sometimes wondered whether it was wrong of him to feel so thrilled when Anders talked like that. Whether it was wrong of him to seek a way to keep both his mother and his lover happy – even though it was clear the worlds of a would-be noble and a revolutionary could not mix. He had smiled wickedly and decided to run with it:
"I can see it now. I'll be in the Gallows, Templars all around, holding the brand for the Rite of Tranquillity. Then you'll burst in and break my chains. And then it will be all about the best way to show my gratitude..."
The talk of chains and showing gratitude had had the desired effect, and the memory caressed him like a desire demon.
"Sparky?"
With difficulty, Lambert dragged his mind out of the bedroom and regarded his friends with a sunny smile.
"I hear Duke Prosper de Montfort's hunts are the event of the year. Perhaps I should purchase something other than my daggers – naturally, a staff would be out of the question."
"As an untrained bowman you would do more damage to the other guests than to the wyverns," Fenris said drily. "I would recommend either a crossbow – or, better yet, to simply stay out of the way. You have me, Varric and Tallis after all."
Lambert frowned. "So my friends take the risks and I get the glory?"
"Isn't that the way of nobility? If you are serious about following the path your mother has planned for you then you had better get used to it."
Lambert looked at Fenris and burst out laughing. "You sounded so like Anders just then!"
"You know, Broody, he's right," Varric added.
Fenris frowned. "Do not compare me with the abomination."
"Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much," Lambert whispered sotto-voce and Varric roared with laughter.
"Children," Fenris had muttered disdainfully, and stalked to the bar like an angry shadow. The greatsword Lethandralis told as much about him as most people ever wanted to know, but Lambert knew better. Now that Fenris had mastered reading, Lambert had taken to sharing the books he had treasured as a child, and found Fenris liked the same stories he did – the tales of heroism, adventure and comradeship. Fenris came across as cynical but deep-down he was an idealist. These were not ideals that Anders would have shared but that did not matter. Likewise, the tales and songs he shared with Fenris were not the bawdy ballads that entertained Varric and Isabella. Few people who met Lambert at Fenris' mansion would have recognized the bard-trained ex-courtesan and diligent social climber.
But tonight he was in-character. Mischievous flirtation lurked in his eyes and his face wore a perpetual smile and an expression of open friendship and artless youth. Many of Varric's patrons glanced up from their cards or dice and greeted him with genuine pleasure, and a few called out invitations to join the gaming. But this evening Lambert intended to go shopping for tomorrow's wyvern hunt, and he knew The Black Emporium was open at all hours. Open – yet no-one could find it save by personal invitation. After tales of his adventures in the Vinmark Mountains and The Deep Roads had reached the ears of Xenon the Antiquarian, Lambert had received an invitation. In return for access to The Black Emporium's rare collection of items, Lambert had promised to help fund Xenon's research into a cure against aging. Even more fascinating, Xenon had somehow acquired an Eluvian and repurposed it as a vanity mirror. Apparently, the glass could magically alter one's appearance! Lambert hadn't dared try – frightened he might end up looking like a Fade's Eve pumpkin – but supposed he might change his mind once he got his first wrinkle. He bade farewell to his friends and fellow drinkers, tossing back greetings and banter as he went.
The following morning he met Varric, Fenris and Tallis at the Hightown market. Chateau Haine was located on the other side of the Planascene Forest, and horses would have seemed sensible, but as none of Lambert's friends were fond of riding he decided to make a day of it instead. He was a city boy born and bred, but thought the scents of the rainwashed forest would make a nice change from the smells of Kirkwall. Much to Fenris' disgust, he had ignored his friend's advice and purchased a longbow. The Jackal's Bow was a gleaming six-foot arc of extraordinary beauty and power. It was composite and double-curved, and Lambert could not even draw it with ease, but he thought he looked the part of a noble archer. He was still wearing his purple outfit, but also a travelling cloak of deep forest green, and practical leather boots.
"Have you guys heard the story of this bow?" he asked cheerfully.
"No, but I'm sure we are about to," Fenris sighed.
"You tell it, Sparky."
"There once was a bard from Montsimmard, whose tongue was made of purest silver. His name was Corsa the Jackal, and he was famous for enchanting emperors and empresses by knowing exactly what to say to please them."
"Is this story really about Corsa the Jackal?"
"Hush. One day, Corsa was traveling to Val Royeaux where he was to press his silver-tongued words into Empress Necessiteuse's ear. As he walked and rehearsed, a mighty storm blew in. Rain washed away the path, and Corsa became hopelessly lost. Chill set into his bones, so he took shelter in a cave."
"I hope this is not an omen of how the day will progress."
"But the cave was home to a big brown bear! Corsa drew his longbow, but the bear seized it. "I was just about to go out for dinner," said the bear. "Nice of you to drop by!" He looked at Corsa and began to drool. "You shouldn't do that," replied Corsa. "I am old and stringy and not at all good to eat. Let me share your cave, and in the morning, I will gather honey and berries. You shall have a feast fit for kings!"
"Agreed," said the Bear, "but go no further into the cave. You won't like what you'll find there."
Corsa warmed himself by nestling into to the bear's thick fur. The bear fell asleep, but Corsa was kept awake by what lay further in the darkness. Finally, he could no longer endure the mystery."
"I seem to remember a saying about cats and curiosity."
"At the back of the cave, Corsa found a huge room. And in the middle of that room? An enormous dragon! "Mmm," said the dragon. "Food!"
"Wait, wait!" cried Corsa. "I am old and stringy and not at all good to eat. Let me leave, and I will bring you the bear."
"I think not," said the dragon. "That bear promised me breakfast!" And that was the end of the Jackal."
Both Fenris and Tallis burst into unexpected laughter. The two looked at each other in startlement. Their gazes clung for a moment, suddenly uncertain. Lambert, who had always hoped Fenris would meet someone to take the edge off his lonely brooding, gave a secret, delighted smile.
"What kind of an ending is that?" Varric wanted to know.
"Well," said Lambert thoughtfully, "I believe a silver tongue can get us out of most things – but I guess it doesn't work against darkspawn and dragons."
"Or wyverns."
"Yes, we'll need a plan."
By the time the evening meal sizzled on the fire, the dangers of Kirkwall seemed very far away, eclipsed by the dangers that awaited them – the mingled dangers of wyverns and Orlesian nobles. In defiance of what awaited them, all four were determined that the night before they reached Chateau Haine would be a celebration.
Fresh-caught fish sizzled on the fire, seasoned with herbs from Lambert's pack - "Never travel without the essentials," he advised them – and the black autumn truffles Tallis had located under an oak tree had been added to the rice steaming in a travel kettle. The heady aroma was earthy and intense. The early evening sky was a creamy gray-purple, the suspended sun orange and huge. There were only two things missing, thought Lambert – cheese and wine.
"I hear the Orlesians make excellent cheese," he mused.
"Ah, yes, you're Ferelden," Tallis remarked.
"We're not actually dog-people, you know," Lambert quipped, "Anders and I prefer cats." His black cat, Incognito, was now a year old; a sleek, cautious little shadow that he loved to bits. Now that he and his family had landed in the lap of luxury, he adored spoiling her. The only downside of living at the Amell estate was that his mother had become fanatically house-proud, as if she could scrub away the years and gain acceptance from the peers of her childhood simply by living in state. She frequently complained that poor little Incognito would leave her fur over the armchairs.
"She's a cat," Lambert had told his mother impatiently, "It's part of her charm. A house is not a home without a bit of cat hair."
All the same, during his week away from home he had not wanted to leave Incognito to the tender mercies of Leandra and Gamlen. She was with Anders and Ser Pounce-a-Lot, in a place where no-one would scold her for leaving cat hairs on the furniture. There was no doubt that Anders' clinic was more a home to them both than the Amell estate could ever be. After they had cleaned up the campsite he fell asleep curled in his tent, while Fenris and Tallis kept watch. Fenris was pointing out the stars of Thedas, which Lambert had shown him from the roof of Danarius' mansion. Lambert went to sleep thinking of Anders and Incognito.
The morning dawned bright and cold. Hunched on the downward side of a scraggly, wind-stunted tree, Lambert pressed his cheek against the tree's rough bark and gazed down at the valley below. A tiny glittering ribbon of silver threaded the broad valley floor. The rushing mountain stream was much wider than the stream beside Lothering. The darker blue-green of fir trees dominated the sloping sides of the valley, with the centre a patchwork of bare brown fields and green pastures.
The mountainside, littered with jagged grey rock, sloped sharply down from their feet. Lambert's boot slipped and the sound of falling scree echoed hollowly across the mountains. His startled breath puffed white in the chill morning air. A stone pathway led to the imposing fortress of Chateau Haine, which reminded Lambert of a proud eagle claiming the land for miles around. On the other side of the walkway the guests were gathering around a middle-aged, hawk-faced noble who could only be Duke Prosper.
"Halt!" The huge Chasind bodyguard did not look like he would take no for an answer.
"Ah, Master Hawke. Allow them through, they are my guests. Please, excuse Cahir. A polite bodyguard is a contradiction in terms. Or so I've been told. And I see you have brought a manservant or two. Already armed and armoured. Excellent. I must say, your presence is a surprise. The Amells were friends of my mother's, but we haven't seen your family at a hunt in ages."
Lambert inclined his head in the manner appropriate between Lord and Duke. "I was more interested in meeting the Duke de Montfort in person."
"Ah, well, you will have plenty of opportunity. At any rate, I won't keep you from the hunt. Wouldn't want you to fall behind the others, yes?"
"It will be an interesting diversion, I'm sure."
"Good luck to you, my lord. Remember: fortune favours the bold."
Lambert scanned the faces of the aspiring hunters, seeing no-one he recognized. None matched his gaze – he was, he supposed, a nobody; here on sufferance because Duke Prosper's wife had fond memories of Lambert's mother. But one seemed less disdainful than the rest and Lambert approached the middle-aged Lord introduced as Gabriel.
"You have come a long way to join our Duke, serrah. You will pardon my saying so, but you do not seem like a hunter. A word of caution, since you are new to this: wyverns spit venom. Their victims suffer terrible pain before they die."
"Death is always the result then?"
"It may take hours or days. But, yes, death is always the outcome if the poison isn't treated."
"Slow agonizing death? This sounds less and less like a fun outing in the woods."
"But the venom can be treated, though it is not simple to do so. A mixture of Drakevein, Andraste's Mantle and Winterberry may counteract the effects. May the Maker's luck grace your hunt. Be safe, serrah."
The healer in Lambert listened with interest, filing the knowledge away and intending to share it with Anders. It wasn't hard to follow the trail; the path to the hunting grounds was well-trodden by men and hounds.
"Manservant," Fenris muttered in disgust, and Lambert winced, feeling guilty for bringing Fenris to a place where people would assume he held the same role as he had with Danarius.
"Shouldn't that be "Elfservant"?" Varric teased.
"It's just a cover," Tallis said reassuringly. Lambert thought her very kind. He would not forget how the nobles had muttered as she passed, "Now there's a fine specimen," as though discussing an animal. Leandra dreamed of returning to this life, and Lambert had to admit he enjoyed spoiling himself, but if this was what it meant to be a human noble then the price was too high.
Fenris was not mollified. "I'd like to cover him with six feet." Lambert fervently hoped he meant Lord Prosper.
By midday the friends were well into the western hunting grounds. The path narrowed until it was completely sheltered by a deep, leafy canopy. On either side grew thick banks of ferns, and the tangle of exposed roots around the ancient trees were shod with velvety moss. Even the air itself seemed green, for the light filtered through layers of trees and the breeze was scented with wild mint.
A rocky path led upward to a clearing, and Lambert gasped. A winged creature the size of a large horse came into view, its enormous batlike wings curved to catch the rays of light. With astonishing grace, the dragonling landed lightly on the bank nearby, and walked towards them on all fours.
Lambert watched the dragonling's approach with awe. He had never seen one before. He had always pictured a dragon as a hulking monster: imposing and deadly but rather ponderous. This creature was beautiful and extremely graceful. Its long slender tail twirled sinuously about in constant motion. Its scales didn't clank like some reptilian version of plate armour, and their surfaces reflected every shade of green in the forest. When the dragonling entered the sunlight its scales took on the brilliance of emerald, veridium, everite and serpentstone. Crown jewels, Lambert thought, and knew he could never kill anything so lovely. Its green eyes were luminescent, slashed by vertical pupils and bright with cold, alien intelligence.
Suddenly, Varric was firing Bianca, and Lambert flinched as the bolts ripped the creature apart. Fenris had disappeared from view. A moment later the elf was bestride the dragonling, glowing like a translucent blue wraith. His arm disappeared into the body of the dragonling and pulled out its heart.
Tallis gasped, having never seen Fenris in action before, and even Varric gaped. "I didn't know you could do that to four-footed monsters. Just human ones."
Fenris shrugged, blood-spattered and unconcerned. "Danarius took me hunting once or twice. I would kill the beasts, and he would get the glory."
Lambert winced, really wishing he had not asked Fenris to come and wondering if he should apologize. But Tallis gave no quarter,
"I grew up in Tevinter too and you shouldn't compare Hawke with our former masters. He asked you to come. You could have said no."
"You are right," Fenris admitted.
"Come to think of it: why did you agree to come? Varric and I wish to find the Heart of the Many. Lambert wishes to come of age as a noble in Kirkwall. What are you seeking?"
"Perhaps I wish to see the wyverns win." Lambert couldn't tell whether he was joking but, after seeing that beautiful creature turned into a mess of flesh and blood, he understood.
"This is not our prey, I suspect," Fenris stated, "Do dragons and wyverns even mix?"
"So, with this heart we could lure a wyvern out to protect its territory?" Tallis reasoned.
"Good thought. Let's do that." Lambert just wanted to get this over with. He did not, he figured, actually need to kill a wyvern in order to gain acceptance. Simply meet and greet enough people and charm the Seneschal into acknowledging his mother's claim. He supposed he would just have to wander the hunting grounds until some other noble claimed the honour of being the first to kill a wyvern, and then he could get to the good part – the dinner and drinks.
Crossing the hilly trails, they came upon a luminous meadow of open, single-flowered fall daisies. The shiny, leathery foliage was topped by sturdy, white two-inch flowers. Lambert smiled. He was not generally an outdoorsy person, but something about their cheerfulness in the face of dragons and wyverns and Maker-knew-what-else appealed to him. Beyond were fir trees. A squirrel was watching from a higher branch, its nostrils deciphering the bark. Many animals lived in the vast forest – boar, stags, sows and does, all fat from the abundant vegetation. Lambert thought of the lengths nobles would go to obtain such meat; riding out early in the morning with slathering hounds and snorting horses to chase the creatures for hour upon hour. He felt sorry for the animals – but knew that made him a hypocrite because he loved a good dinner as much as anyone.
"Nicodemus! Sylvain!"
The Orlesian voice was hoarse from shouting and distress. Lambert led his friends towards the hunter.
"Have you seen a pair of coursers? I've been calling and calling but it is no use. Nicodemus should know better but Sylvain never had an ounce of sense in his head."
The mournful despair might have been a parent worrying about his children. Gently, Lambert asked, "Slow down, serrah, and tell me what's happened."
"My hounds have disappeared. They took off after a stag and the Maker only knows where they have gotten to now. Please, you must help me find them."
"If I see your dogs, I'll let you know."
"Thank you. Nicodemus! Sylvain! Blood of Andraste, where are those hounds?"
"Who needs children when you've got hounds?" said Varric drily, but Lambert was not amused. Incognito was a child to him and he knew very well how the man felt. Incongruously, he remembered something Anders had once said. Apparently, Justice had disapproved of them keeping pets, comparing this to slavery. He and Anders had laughed at that, since both knew they were owned by their cats and not the other way round. All the same, Lambert had never repeated that conversation to Fenris, realizing it would only confirm Fenris' view that neither Anders nor Justice had any idea about slavery.
Anders frequently compared the plight of Circle mages to slavery, and Lambert had once made the mistake of pointing out that, of all the societies in Thedas, the Circle mages were among the few who had votes. Every so often, the Grand Enchanter had the right to call a Conclave, in which all the Senior Enchanters would vote according to their fraternity – Aequitarian, Loyalist, Isolationist or Libertarian – deciding whether to remain with the Chantry. Yes, since only mages who toed the Chantry line ever became Senior Enchanters it was no surprise the Aequitarian faction always won, but they at least had the illusion of representative democracy. The only non-mages who got to vote for their rulers were Ferelden land-owning nobles at the Landsmeet or Tevinter Magisters at the Senate. Everyone else – Alienage Elves, Orlesian peasants, Tevinter soporati – had their lives and deaths in the hands of unelected rulers with absolute power. To be a mage who could vote at a Conclave would have seemed an unobtainable dream to them.
"Yes, that makes me a hypocrite," he had laughed, "since I'm proud to avoid the Circles – I'm just saying the Resolutionists can't use violence to overturn a democratic vote just because they don't agree with it."
Coldly, the revolutionary had ceased to be Anders – his human face had become a gelid mask and the blue light of Justice had shone through the cracks,
"There is no-one in Kirkwall I would not kill to set mages free."
Genuinely frightened, Lambert had murmured placatingly, "Well, let's work on your manifesto and we'll try and avoid that." Anders had become Anders again, and the moment had passed.
As if he had read Lambert's mind, Fenris suddenly said,
"You are too willing to involve yourself in the affairs of others, Hawke. Each time you put yourself at risk. One day you will not be so lucky."
Lambert looked at Fenris, half-touched, half-annoyed. He was a grown man! A veteran of the Fifth Blight. Why did everyone from his mother to his friends assume he couldn't look after himself?
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Guard what you have. Keep your head low."
Lambert smiled wistfully. "Do you know, you reminded me so much of my first boss just then. I was fourteen and she was a wine merchant. We were living in Tantervale - we travelled all over the Free Marches and never stayed in one place for long. I got the job because I knew how to flatter customers – but sometimes I used to talk too much. She always told me, "Head down; trap shut."
"Good advice for anyone – especially an escaped slave or an apostate. She certainly seems to have succeeded very ill so far."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
Lambert sighed. "After the Deep Roads Expedition, I am obscenely rich. Do you think I should never use my good fortune to help anyone? Be like a dragon, guarding my treasure hoard?"
"That's not what I meant."
Lambert decided to run with the dragon theme – it seemed appropriate. "Shall I eat passers-by? Maybe I can demand virgin sacrifices?"
Fenris gave a short, sharp sigh of irritation. There was no use wasting perfectly good admonitions on a friend like this.
The hunting grounds were full of valleys and hollows. Autumn ferns grew in the shade. The arching fronds formed a coppery blanket between pale rocks. Lambert felt eyes on them from coniferous shadows. They came upon a vast shadow of blood, a patch that gleamed like a red lake in the fiery sun.
"I think this is from a fight between two wyverns," said Tallis, and Lambert wondered how she knew but was too shy to ask, "We could add this to the dragon heart, as bait."
"Good idea."
A rocky trail led to a plateau, pillowed with thyme and veiled with cloud. The air condensed as they climbed. In this place of moss and mist a fine rain pooled into the stones, flowing over the rocks in streams of silver. Suddenly, the eeriness of a wyvern's call sang to them. Lambert stared, and his eyes opened wide. Deep greens and blues rippled in the sky as two wyverns mated, flying over the earth until the scree rose to meet them. The sun pulled free of streaming clouds and a shaft of light, golden with the lateness of the day, stabbed down at their scales. The falling sun and shadows created a ladder of light. Lambert could see, beneath the scales, the web of muscles, the graceful interplay. Their teeth were finer than any spear or sword. This was their palace; the reddening trees of the autumn forest, the auburn marshes and the open vault of the sky.
"Could we mimic that?" he asked Tallis.
"No!" she cried, outraged, and then coughed, "Oh. You meant the sound? Yes, that might work."
Tallis reminded Lambert of Fenris in that both had a habit of taking things too literally. But he would never laugh at either of them. He guessed their lives as slaves in Tevinter had left no time to pick up social cues, or nuances of conversation. A magister gave an order, and you obeyed it to the letter or you were killed. Tallis and Fenris would never have known family, or friends, or any of the social relationships Lambert had taken for granted – the experience of being a free person interacting with other free people. Fenris had been free for four years and in that time had either stayed in Danarius' mansion – alone save for when Lambert came to visit him - or been out killing people for money. Tallis – Lambert couldn't know but guessed whoever had rescued her from Tevinter had not cared about her as a person. This was likely to be the patron who had ordered her to steal the jewel. Who, and why?
To the east, Lambert found a beautiful bush that could only be Andraste's Mantle – Gabriel's description had been accurate. He dropped to his haunches and carefully began to harvest the soft, gray-green leaves, adding them to the other herbs in pouches along his belt. Suddenly, a commotion caught his eye: a party of hunters were gathered around a hole in the bottom of a pile of rocks.
"I think we are on the creature's trail!"
"Leave them, Sparky," Varric smirked, "Those idiots don't know a ghast-hole from a hole in the ground."
Lambert laughed. "I'm glad you're with me, Varric! I wonder: who began this Orlesian tradition?"
"The de Montforts – as a way of keeping the wyvern population down."
"I heard the Orlesian chevaliers do something similar in Halamshiral," Fenris muttered darkly, and Lambert flinched. He had always hoped the stories chevaliers came of age by hunting Elves weren't true. "I wonder how long it will take before the Free Marches adopt the same tradition?" He was looking pointedly at Lambert, who met his gaze squarely.
"The day they do is the day I stop being Lord Amell." The train of thought bothered him. If he would give up his mother's longed-for place in society only when Kirkwall nobility started hunting Elves for sport, did that mean by seeking to come of age now he was tacitly supporting the Alienages? The fact that many shops in Hightown had "no dogs, no Elves" signs hung outside? Anders had argued something similar about mages once. Lambert's lover had always been uninterested in the plight of Elves – once stating "mages have it worse" and dismissing Fenris' lifetime of slavery as "one bad experience" - but he gave no quarter when discussing mage rights. He had claimed that by seeking to regain the title of "Lady Amell" Lambert's mother was effectively erasing her dead husband and everything Malcolm Hawke had stood for. He had claimed that by being an apostate who was quietly going along with Kirkwall's system, Lambert was becoming an enabler of the Knight Commander's abuses. There was enough truth in that to sting, but the problem was that revolutionaries and idealists seldom had mothers. Lambert was always going to look after Leandra and try to fulfil her wishes as best he could. There were things he couldn't do – using a wife as a "beard"; betraying Anders – but he was never going to be a hero. The soft, manicured hands of nobility were always going to be a little dirty.
Tallis was looking at him thoughtfully. "There are other paths, you know. They do not always have to lead to the same destination. What if I told you about a way of life in which Elves and humans are treated as equals?"
Fenris snorted, "I would say the person who offered that to you has not told you the price."
"I think it sounds wonderful," Lambert said softly.
As the afternoon drew towards evening the long shadows closed in and the eastern hunting ground became bare of birds and small animals. Lambert was no hunter, but even he could not fail to follow the steaming pile of wyvern shit to find its territory.
"Next time, could we hunt something vegetarian?" he asked his friends, and Fenris groaned.
"If you are from Ferelden, did you know the Warden?" asked Tallis, and Lambert's eyes lit up:
"My brother and I served Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. Carver was an infantryman serving General Loghain Mac Tir, and I was a front-line medic serving Senior Enchanter Wynne. Anders served too – he and the other mages were heroes at Ostagar." Anders and Karl Thekla had fought together and Karl had made the ultimate sacrifice – Lambert knew he could never measure up to that. He ignored the way Fenris rolled his eyes every time Anders' name was mentioned. Ferelden's army – Lambert himself – owed Anders their lives. "Warden Commander Rillian was our hero, our Andraste. Serving her will always be my life's greatest honour."
"But your mother is from Kirkwall?"
"Yes, after the Blight I took my mother home. Lothering was destroyed; my father and sister dead and Carver a Grey Warden. There was nothing to stay for."
"Makes sense."
Lambert broke off the conversation, seeing a long, spiky plant that matched Gabriel's description of Drakevein. The others waited impatiently. Lambert knew he was no Anders, but if things went spectacularly wrong, his friends might be glad of his herbalism.
"You know," Fenris said thoughtfully, "I saw an exact replica of Bianca in the Hightown market."
Predictably, Varric was horrified, "Well, why didn't you say so?!"
"You already have a crossbow," Fenris said with feigned puzzlement, "Do you think Bianca will be lonely?"
Varric huffed, not entirely sure whether Fenris was winding him up or not. Fenris did have a biting wit, Lambert knew – once, when Varric had asked what he did in Danarius' mansion all day, Fenris had told him, "I dance from room to room, choreographing routines," with such a straight face Varric had almost believed him! Lambert knew Varric was horrified by the thought anyone would copy Bianca's design; Lambert's time during the Fifth Blight had taught him such concerns were pointless. General Loghain Mac Tir had said military secrets were the most perishable of all; anything a man could see, he could duplicate. Varric's associate Gerav had already sold a Bianca-prototype to Rillian; this, plus Dworkin's mixture of Drakestone, charcoal and Sela Petrae, had turned the tide at the second battle of Ostagar. When discussing how he, Zevran and Nathaniel Howe had used the imitation gaatlok to blow up the darkspawn (along with a large chunk of Lothering Forest) Anders' face had been lit by a strange, too-eager light. Lambert had shivered, not knowing why.
"Varric?" Lambert asked thoughtfully, "I've always meant to ask: when we met in the Merchant's Guild, you seemed to be waiting for me."
"That's a statement, Sparky. What's your question?"
"Were you waiting for me?"
"Actually, I meant to catch you before you saw Bartrand."
"But you knew I'd be there?"
Varric chuckled. "Maybe I wasn't obvious about this already, but finding out things I'm not supposed to know is pretty much what I do."
A pale grey lake seemed to reflect the colours of firs and sky rather than possessing any colour of its own. Ripples threw themselves against the white pebble teeth and tumbled to ruin in ghostly pale chaos. By the lake grew a plant that could only be Winterberry: Lambert harvested some, ignoring his impatient companions.
Suddenly, an Orlesian courser, its light grey blending eerily with the water, advanced and then ran off, as if beckoning them to follow. Lambert thrilled at the fierce magic, the feeling of wholeness. He thought of it as awareness beyond men's senses, intelligence beyond dogs' comprehension.
"I think he wants us to follow," Tallis whispered, and he knew she sensed it too.
They followed the hound to a tall tree, and the crumpled body of its companion.
"Oh no!" Tallis' face crumpled. "Wyvern poison. I'm almost certain. Poor thing."
Lambert knelt down and it tried to greet him, but collapsed with its head in his lap. The dark eyes were full of pain.
"I can heal you," Lambert whispered, and got out the three herbs from his pack. He was scared – in Anders' clinic potions and salves took hours to brew, sometimes days. And the dog did not have time. Then he remembered how Rillian had taught him to heal mabaris who had bitten darkspawn. They had given the swamp flower to them, and the dogs had bitten into the smooth pale leaves and recovered. He gave the three herbs – Andraste's Mantle, Drakevein and Winterberry - to the dog, in equal proportions, and the great hound seemed to trust him.
Then he felt a familiar tingling in his hands, and remembered he had not taken magebane this morning – surrounded by his friends, he had felt no need. And Duke Prosper had invited no Templars. His mana itched, fighting to break free, and his hands moved almost without his knowing.
"Fenris," he whispered, for he had always suspected the touch of mana was painful on the lyrium brands, though Fenris would never admit a weakness, "I am going to use magic. Please move back."
He ran a finger down the hound's back. Beneath the fur, the muscles were rigid, rock-hard with pain. With a sudden lift, he felt the magic take him over, an exhilaration like no other unless the dogs felt this way when they hunted. He was hunting too – hunting disease and sickness and pain. He knew his enemies. He felt the wave of light, like a translucent ocean, and poured it out. He let himself flow with it, barely aware that he murmured words his father had taught him, so long ago. His hands glowed, he laid them carefully on the dog. Something prickled in his palms, stung like nettles. He wanted to pull back but knew he must not. Behind him, he heard Fenris' indrawn breath. Darkness retreated slowly, grudgingly, from his light; he could feel the slow withdrawal of the poison. If he could hold his focus until all the damage had been repaired; if the plants worked...he felt the sweat trickling down his face, and his vision narrowed to a tunnel of light. Sound was half-drowned, as though the air was water. By the time the last shadow fled, dissipated like smoke, he was light and empty as an eggshell. The hound rolled in his hands suddenly, gained its feet, lolloped and licked his face with its wet pink tongue. Lambert had crumpled to the ground, and sat up gingerly.
The two hounds were gambolling joyously.
"Hawke?" Fenris asked, more hesitantly than Lambert had ever heard him, "Are you alright?"
Lambert smiled at him, and Fenris said,
"You are a good healer – steady-handed."
"Oh, that's nothing!" Lambert grinned self-deprecatingly, "You should see Anders. When I watch him heal the patients in his clinic, he is like a rebel angel. Like a warrior of light."
"Oh, please," Fenris muttered in disgust, clearly back to his usual self.
"Who's a cute puppy!" Tallis was delighted – seemingly not at all concerned that her companion had just revealed himself to be a mage. "I suppose we can't keep him?"
"His owner is probably waiting back at camp," Lambert said regretfully.
"Would Incognito like a dog, anyway?" Fenris wanted to know. Lambert shrugged and smiled.
The friends followed the silvery lake then headed north, towards higher ground.
"Wait," Tallis whispered, "what happened to the birds and... everything..."
As Lambert listened to the suddenly too-quiet valley he relived the sensation of waiting through the unbearably long minutes just before action begins. It had been this way at Ostagar – it had been this way in the Deep Roads Expedition. It had been this way facing Corypheus with the Warden. He tried hard to think of strategy, but the diabolic round of his past wound through his memories – good and bad moments in a rush like beads on a necklace that was slipping through his fingers. He remembered being trussed like a market hog before Danarius; the humiliation and panic-sodden hopelessness – the ogre at Lothering; his sister's terrible death – the hideous wounds he had treated at Ostagar; in which all he could do was comfort the dying... He thought of Incognito, and Anders, and his mother...all the things he still had to do and should have done; the kind of debt that weighs on the heart, when time for settling has run out.
It was misting, but the air was sharp and clean. The circling mountains were stark white monoliths that cast hulking shadows over the valley. The afternoon was darkening to evening; the orange sun had snuffed itself behind a cloud like black cotton wool. The trees themselves were staring at him with sinister shadows. The branches above him were bony arms paused in downward swing. A dark and hidden beast was moving in the shrubs. Lambert remembered the glossy black mabaris felled by darkspawn, and the green dragon torn apart by Varric and Fenris, he thought of Gabriel's description of the hellish death that followed a wyvern's venom. He saw the burning eyes, the serrated horns, the red, wet maw ringed by teeth. The wyvern's tail swayed sinuously. Its legs pistoned slowly, almost delicately.
Probabilities and possibilities raced through Lambert's head. It was extremely unlikely any of them could remain unseen against the pale grey soil, where every protuberance was marked by dark shadow. Stealth was out of the question – they would have to fight.
Fascination overrode fright in Lambert's mind for a moment. He imagined the huge creature savouring the strength of its own muscle and sinew. He looked into the luminous eyes slashed by vertical pupils; saw nothing but savage, free purpose. Incredible details burned his mind. Fluidly beautiful, the wyvern soared into a leap.
Tallis advanced with the tense poise of a halla, shadowy against the shrubbery. She displaced branches and leaves so soundlessly she might have been coming through mist. The wyvern's armoured chest rose; it drew in a deep breath. Tallis placed a small pipe to her lips and puffed out her cheeks. A tiny cannister flew unerringly towards the wyvern. It disappeared into the terrible maw just as the creature opened its mouth to attack.
The result was instant and devastating. An explosion ripped through the valley, stripping leaves from trees. The thunderous noise flooded the valley with a wave of sound. The force of it tore Lambert's bow from his arms and sent him tumbling to the ground. He struggled to his feet, unable to hear anything but the painful ringing in his ears. When his vision cleared, he saw the stunned wyvern lying on its back in the clearing. Its tongue lolled from the blackened mouth, and the lime-green plates that covered its abdomen gleamed through the dissipating wisps of smoke. The explosion had half-buried Varric – the dwarf was struggling to his feet, frantically checking Bianca. Fenris was still standing – the blue wraith vanished and reappeared holding the wyvern's heart like a monstrous trophy.
"Well, if it isn't the Ferelden turnip!" an Orlesian voice huffed. A noble surrounded by his guards hurried towards them. "I paid good coin to be the one who wins this contest! It was my turn!"
Lambert couldn't help it. The bathos that followed the terror had him giggling helplessly.
"Shut your mouth, Ferelden dog!"
"You do realise we could beat you like a rented mule with one hand tied behind our backs?" Tallis murmured.
Well - she, Varric and Fenris probably could, Lambert thought. His contribution was more verbal: "A rented mule would smell better."
"More insolence! I can take no more of this – Prosper, this bloody bastard tried to steal my rightful kill!"
"Now, is that any way to speak of Lord Amell of Kirkwall, Baron?"
"This is your fault for inviting a stinking turnip in the first place! Your mother would be ashamed!"
"Says the man whose mother has slept with half of Val Chevin. My apologies, Lord Amell. Arlange has always been a cheat. What would you have done with him?"
"You're not suggesting..."
"Why not? Do you believe Arlange would have stopped short of murder, given the chance? Anything is acceptable in the Great Game."
"I've no interest in more bloodshed."
"You hear that, Arlange? It behooves you to leave, while you still can."
"I... fine. I will go. You have made an enemy this day, Lord Amell."
"Congratulations on slaying the wyvern," Duke Prosper said warmly – speaking only to Lambert, who had had the least to do with it! "It looks like a fine one, indeed! There will be a celebration in the Chateau courtyard. Do attend, when you're ready."