Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Mirror of her Dreams
Drakonis 9:32
AN: Trigger Warning for depiction of PTSD (Lambert)
The brilliant argent sun scourged the Hunterhorn Mountains with the merciless light of truth. Erratic winds swirled away heat. Three figures struggled up the steep path to the blunt summit of the nearest mountain. They wore heavy black robes, their cowls drawn to their heads. One wore a delicate pattern of long green leaves, one a dark brown that seemed to meld into the robe, and one a stylized nightingale.
The leader – an elderly woman with a crown of silver-white hair – stepped onto the mountain's crown. Almost flat, the entire expanse stood revealed. The plateau was perhaps one hundred metres from end to end. At the far end was a temple. It was hut-sized, but sophistication drew the eye and – like Aeonar – it was only the tip of a structure that continued below ground. The gray iron door was firmly closed. Its metal blankness reminded Leliana of a visor. She felt herself weighed, assessed. Judged. Did the door shield whoever – whatever – dwelt within? Or did it confine danger?
Or both?
Around the Hunterhorn Mountains were woods that mixed oak, ash and beech in temperate forests. The black-green wall pulsed to the wind's eerie music. Ferns and grasses grew in bold abundance. There was no town to speak of and not much in the way of human habitation. Merchants would go elsewhere and outlaws find there was not much to steal. The only life was deer, foxes, rabbits, weasels, stoats and squirrels. By Solace grasses would be sear until winter winds rotted everything down to be fresh for next year. There were not many rivers – one reason the landscape was so sparsely populated – but Leliana had heard the Seeker Order hid an underground river within the structure.
The wind steadied from the south. It darted and swirled away puffs of dust stirred by their footsteps. Crystalline air brought a quick thrill of increased awareness. Beyond the plateau, the world stretched away. To the south, Urthemiel Plateau was a glorified meadow. Plants estivated in late summer and raised their heads in spring. It was early spring and violets and aconites would soon give way to hellebores and bluebells, crocuses and daffodils. Already, the first pale tips were defiant splashes of colour. Then would come poppies, daisies and three-foot-high lupins. Near the building, the Seekers cultivated early garlic mustard and cress herb gardens, while bracken formed a wire fence and mushrooms feasted on decaying wood.
In the distance a wolf howled: eerie, eternally pure. The environment sheltered wild sheep and goats and the animals that preyed on them. More often than not the prey escaped. Wary prey survives, and the sure-footed goats could climb an almost sheer rock face. There were wild horses known as brumbies, although Leliana had never seen one.
The door swung open.
Softly, dry as ashes, a voice echoed hollowly from within the stone walls. "One knows why you have come, Lady Seeker Nicoline."
The eldest woman – she of the pattern of green leaves - nodded formally. "This is Seeker Leliana, our newest acolyte. If it is meant to be, she will prove worthy."
The third woman, garbed in plain brown and black, had cropped dark hair and a severely beautiful face. She smiled at Leliana.
"Do not be afraid. I succeeded – you will – you must have faith." There was a hint of emphasis on the last word that Leliana didn't miss.
A year ago, Cassandra Pentaghast had visited the Temple of Sacred Ashes and reported to the Divine. She had defended Mother Hannah, Knight Commander Rylock, and all those who claimed the healing was miraculous. Holy War had been averted, but the Chantry had decreed no more Tranquil would be permitted to take the Ashes. Thomas Amell would not be made Tranquil again but he would forever be the exception. Leliana knew this was wrong – all Tranquil should have the right to be healed - but knew she did not have the power to change it. She wondered why she should think so strongly of Tranquility – and its reversal – now.
Leliana remembered Lothering – remembered the song of birds and children's laughter. Something in the depths of her soul told her such simple joys never touched this place. Here was mystery. Here the wordless wind warned of power that transcended reality. But she had no choice. In Lothering she had found shelter and succour after being betrayed by the woman she loved. Now she needed to find forgiveness for murder. Marjolaine – friend, rival, lover; the woman who had trained and understood her like no-one else - was dead.
Memory...
...Val Royeaux shone like glass in the spring sunlight and the buildings were golden: towers and turrets and balconies, rooftops and walls. City of the sun and stars, its windows facing southward catching the light, level above level. There were grand tree-lined avenues and shady squares, narrow alleyways and stairs going down between buildings, backstreet taverns and pleasure houses and gambling halls. Mansions, museums and libraries. Leliana explored the crowded, winding, lower, meaner streets that led down to the river – the shops and stalls and craftsman's premises.
It was Solace 9:31, three months after she had watched Knight Commander Rylock walk through fire to cure Thomas of Tranquillity. Seeker Cassandra, the Right Hand of the Divine, had been sent to investigate. Leliana and Wynne had journeyed to Orlais. Wynne to seek out her son, Rhys of Montsimmard Circle, and to tell the mages about the cure for Tranquility; Leliana to convince the Empress and the Divine to not invade Ferelden. But her heart felt cold and afraid, for the Divine had no reason to listen to her, and Iona's report of the Landsmeet – of King Cousland and Queen Anora choosing to keep the Ferelden Circle in Ferelden – had preceded her. Leliana had the support of Revered Mother Dorothea and Revered Mother Hannah but this would not mean much. Marjolaine was back in Orlais, passing messages between Empress Celene and the Chantry, pressing them to invade. Who was Marjolaine truly working for? Grand Cleric Iona? The man who wished to be Emperor – Grand Duke Gaspard – or someone else? Leliana did not know – she knew she had to track Marjolaine down and find out. She hoped the meeting with her former lover would not end in violence.
Shadows boiled on the colourless dive of a hawk's spread wings, and suddenly - as if in response to her thoughts – the shimmering form of a woman she had thought never to see again joined her on the balcony.
Morrigan.
"Do not be alarmed. Tis only I. I know that you are looking for Marjolaine and I can help. I do not wish her to continue to poison the Empress' mind against mages."
"Yes," Leliana said thoughtfully, "I know your magical skills can get us past locks and traps – slip past guardsmen – fool her defenses. But I need to know you do not intend violence."
Morrigan hesitated. "And if violence were the only way to protect Rillian – protect Ferelden – protect myself and my son, what then?"
Morrigan's eyes were golden as a hawk's, brilliant and deep and glowing...almost hypnotic. Their black centres drew her in until it seemed she must flow, like light, towards their core...into a darkness of space and time, where the universe spun, where worlds were born, where past, present and future wheeled in a spiral of black and gold. Leliana sensed the towering being who dwelled inside the human woman's body. Her black cloak unfurled behind her like the shadows of colourless wings.
Grand Cleric Iona was Morrigan's enemy: a zealot who would see her and her baby son locked in the White Spire – who believed Celene taking a Chasind mage as 'Arcane Advisor' was dangerous. That meant Morrigan would work to eliminate Grand Cleric Iona and considered Iona's allies her enemies. Marjolaine was also a rival for Celene's attention. Morrigan did not feel the same about Celene's servant and lover, Briala. Briala's attempts to influence her mistress were confined to improving the lot of Alienage Elves. Morrigan was not threatened by that and even had sympathy.
"Marjolaine is a bard: ruthless, a master manipulator, but only ever a tool. Killing her will not end the schemes of Grand Cleric Iona or Grand Duke Gaspard. It would be far better to convince her to join us."
This, Leliana hoped she might do. Marjolaine feared Leliana's – and Rillian's - knowledge. Celene had sent Marjolaine, Leliana and Adaia Tabris to steal details of King Maric's voyage. It was thought a storm delivered him to the sea's vengeance rather than the Empress' – but dark whispers suggested Marjolaine had been working for the Antivan Crows and King Maric had ended his days in a prison called Velabanchel. Leliana had been tortured by Harwen Raleigh – an evil man but a Fereldan patriot. But, of course, she had not been able to give details of Maric's whereabouts because she was innocent of the double-cross. She had always discounted rumours that Marjolaine had been working for someone outside Orlais – if the Crows truly had Maric then why had they not beggared Ferelden with a ransom? But clearly Marjolaine feared Celene's vengeance if the rumours came to light. Would she ever let Leliana be? Ever trust her not to use the information? Had the rumours been true?
She suspected that was how Grand Cleric Iona – or Grand Duke Gaspard – had won Marjolaine's services: by promising to protect her from Celene. Could Leliana and Morrigan make a counteroffer? Would Marjolaine ever trust them?
Perhaps – if Leliana were to share with her details of the Temple – of touching the Ashes of the real Andraste? Marjolaine had been a good person once, Leliana was sure of it. Their relationship had not all been a lie.
"I agree. Mercy if she will allow it."
Morrigan's citrine eyes smiled: devious, deceitful, yet still compelling her to trust.
The two women reached the small, exotic building of Figor's Imports and left a handful of silver in the eager palm of the merchant's assistant - an enterprising sort with a knack for averting his eyes at exactly the right moment. While the lad went nonchalantly about his duties, the women slipped inside the stockroom and pushed open the cleverly hidden trapdoor. Leliana leapt up and grabbed the edge. Quickly, she crawled up onto the flat, tiled roof. Morrigan had already disappeared in a flurry of wings and feathers. Leliana felt her arrogant pity for all trapped, earthbound creatures.
The roof was level with the second floor of Marjolaine's townhouse. Leliana ignored the lighted windows, focusing instead on the many levels of Val Royeaux laid out before her. The rooftops offered a landscape all their own – one Leliana knew as well as most Orlesians knew its streets. With practiced ease, the bard made her way from rooftop to rooftop.
An aestival sun like a big Orlesian brie shone in the sky as Leliana crept across the high wall of the last building between her and her destination. A space separated this wall from the ledge that ran around the second floor of the mansion. She ran lightly and confidently towards the edge, then leapt. She landed in a half-crouch upon the ledge, exactly two storeys below the open window.
Aided by self-made bracers fitted with steel claws, Leliana began to climb the wall. A water-resistant adhesive coated the steel, but the smooth granite still afforded her little purchase. The claws clicked and skimmed over the rare irregularities, and the slipping of her booted feet seemed more frequent than the solid footholds she gradually managed. But Leliana was nothing if not determined. She stopped in a precarious position, one hand winched around a third-floor sill, relying on friction to keep her feet in place. With a slow, cautious movement, she craned her neck upward. Now she could make out the delicate weave and amethyst colour of the gauzy curtains above. The excitement of a recognized goal made many bards careless, but experience kept Leliana from falling prey to a mistake that might cost her her life. She inched upward more slowly than before, metal claws rasping across stone to settle into minuscule depressions. At last she reached the opened window, studying the interior through the coloured film of the curtain.
A beautiful woman sat by a large mahogany desk, glorious black hair tumbling about her shoulders. Her silken gown was the same amethyst shade as the curtains – and bedecked with a fortune in gold-and-amethyst jewellery. Her oval face was uplifted, exultant, as she studied an ornate mirror. Leliana's own heart quickened slightly. Even now, she remembered Marjolaine's lips, her touch, her scent of caramel and midnight flowers. Everything about Marjolaine bespoke wealth, ease and privilege. The room behind her was vast and luxurious, though carelessly cluttered. The chamber's hand-woven carpet was littered with silken cushions.
Balanced on the sill, Leliana removed her gauntlets, drawing the claws into the leather so they would not click together as she moved. She tied them to the right side of her belt to avoid the dragonbone blade at her left: The Rose's Thorn, which Rillian had purchased for her in Orzammar. Silently, she shifted the curtains, the gossamer fabric slithering across her cheek. Oblivious to her presence, Marjolaine continued to experiment with minor variations in her makeup: a bard's warpaint. Leliana eased into the room, her soft leather boots making no sound upon the inch-thick carpet.
"Marjolaine," she said.
No trace of shock showed on Marjolaine's pale, cool, amused face. She might have been an ivory doll. It was a beautiful mask – one of thousands she possessed, masks so elegant and all-encompassing they had become her face. Only her eyes – black and glossy and opaque as a beetle's carapace – flickered slightly.
"Leliana! So lovely to see you again, my dear..."
Where was Morrigan? Leliana saw the shadow of wings behind the door but did not dare turn – needed all her wits for the confrontation; all her will to keep self-control and sanity. Memories of Harwen Raleigh crowded her mind like persistent ghosts. It had been six years – Leliana knew she would not forget in sixty.
"Spare me the pleasantries. You framed me, had me caught and tortured. What happened to make you hate me so? Why did you betray me?"
In spite of herself, Leliana's voice was that of the girl she had been – the plaintive regret of a cheated lover. How can you not be who you are? I never knew you...
Something flickered in the midnight eyes with the speed of dark – gone before Leliana could interpret it. She hoped it was not contempt – for the naïve, silly young woman she had used and discarded. Contempt from Marjolaine would set a fire under Leliana's rage and pain – she would kill or die before she endured that.
"I am sorry, Leliana. I did love you. But if I hadn't blamed you for the double-cross Empress Celene would have blamed me. I'd have been three days dying. And – I thought you had betrayed me first. I received a counteroffer from Claudio Valisti, Third Talon of the Antivan Crows – an amount that made Celene's favour look like a village's girl's. We could have settled in Antiva, obscenely rich, far away from the Game. But...I did not know Claudio was working for a Tevinter magister named Aurelian Titus. That is where Prince Maric is being held, not Velabanchel. Claudio told me you were working for Magister Titus – that you had betrayed me – and I believed him."
Nothing she might have said could have affected Leliana so deeply. An icy, spine-chilling rage took root like a force growing from the earth. "And that – a tale from an assassin working for a Magister! - that was enough to make you treat me as collateral damage! You were insane – paranoid..."
"The Game makes monsters of us all."
And that was true. I left because I did not want to become you...
"Nonetheless, while Celene remains on the throne, I cannot let you be. For my own safety, I will have to name you a traitor – claim you conspired with the Crows...unless..."
Here it comes...
"With Gaspard on the throne and Iona as the next Divine we can be allies again. More than that – if you will still have me..."
Marjolaine had positioned herself by the candle. Not too close: she stayed at the dim edge of light, using shadow and contrast to confuse the eye. An elegant movement of her slim, wraith hands caused the small flame to sway, heightening illusion, spurring imagination... Leliana remembered nights when Marjolaine lay wearing only shadows, her ivory skin gleaming, her lithe dancer's muscles smooth as silk and supple as velvet...
… The night before they took ship to Denerim, Marjolaine's dark eyes darted arrowy beams from beneath inky brows. She smiled like a crescent dagger. Her voice was smooth as velvet and hard as crushed glass:
"Celene sends us to Ferelden as one sends poison to an enemy. Poison is guile, deceit, treachery. Be those things, my Leliana, and all you want will be yours."
"I want you."
Marjolaine smiled wider, hungering. Her smile spoke of languor like honey; lust like torrents of flame.
"Whatever you want, whatever you need, I am that woman. Whoever says different, whoever says he would hurt you, dies. If I am who you want, come to me" ...
Appalled to realize how tempting she found the offer – to betray Revered Mother Dorothea, the woman who had saved her in every way it was possible to be saved - Leliana played for time.
"What makes you think Iona will believe we weren't working for Tevinter? She hates magisters – you know why."
"Because here is the proof neither of us was to blame. Oh, Iona will realise I betrayed the Empress - but when Gaspard sits on the throne that will no longer matter. Here is proof it was Claudio Valisti who was working for Titus, not either of us – proof Tevinter Blood Mages are using the blood of Calenhad for power. Iona will welcome the proof mages cannot be trusted – Ferelden will descend into civil war...we will be rewarded by both Emperor and Divine..."
Love. I still.
"I am sorry," Leliana said, almost without voice. "I cannot betray Dorothea. I have already betrayed Rillian at the Landsmeet. Never again. I won't kill you...but we must be enemies."
"Dorothea will use you, my Leliana! Worse than I ever did. A thousand lies. A thousand deaths. An assassin for the Maker... you are more than this..."
But even as she spoke the hawk had become Morrigan and slipped a magical blade between Marjolaine's ribs.
Leliana was right against her, then, holding her arms in tight, supporting her as her legs failed her. They stared at each other, unblinking, as Marjolaine slowly slumped to the floor.
"I'm sorry..."
Marjolaine shook her head, refusing any apology. A bard played hard and fell harder. She cut her eyes to the locked chest where Leliana knew she would find the documents. Marjolaine's eyes then closed forever.
Leliana did not respond when the shapeshifter left in a flurry of dark-beating wings. What was there to say? She and Morrigan had never been friends, were not truly allies – their interests had happened to coincide, that was all. Both believed in mage freedom, both wanted to see Empress Celene triumph. Beyond that, they wanted different things and she would never know what Morrigan truly desired – beyond life and success for herself and her son. What did Morrigan care for the fate of nations, for matters of faith? What did she care for mortal creatures like humans and Elves? Leliana knew – without knowing how – that Morrigan and her son were neither. What Leliana saw her do might have nothing to do with what she really wanted. She hoped she would never see Morrigan again – knew she would.
Leliana knelt beside the chest and worked her lockpick in amazing circles. The contents of the chest made her shiver. There they were: documents that proved Marjolaine had double-crossed Celene and sold Maric to the Third Talon of the crows, Claudio Valisti. Only to be betrayed in turn, by Claudio taking Maric to Magister Aurelian Titus.
King Maric Theirin – thought dead at sea six years ago – was alive, in the hands of a Tevinter Magister. But what good was that information to anyone? King Cousland and Queen Anora would certainly not thank her. Arl Eamon – in thrall to the idea of the 'blood of Calenhad' sitting on the throne – would have, but now that the Blight had stolen his mind he could do nothing. Loghain loved Maric – had nearly beggared Ferelden in search for him – but now he was a Grey Warden with no funds and no power. Even Celene – though she had wanted to marry Maric's son – would have no use for an old man who would almost certainly be insane after years of captivity. All news of Maric's survival would cause would be a civil war in Ferelden and Loghain dead after trying to rescue him.
And even if none of the political implications were true – how in hell was anyone going to journey to Tevinter and free a prisoner from the dungeons of a magister? She might as well be considering a journey to the moon.
Still, she hesitated, not able to bring herself to throw the letter and map onto the fire. At the time she and Marjolaine had stolen details of King Maric's voyage she had not seen the mission as wrong. They were Orlesian patriots. Just because I am a bard does not mean I cannot do things for my country. But now – after enduring captivity herself, after being given shelter and succour in Lothering, after fighting to defend Ferelden from the Blight – she knew what a monstrous wrong she had been a part of.
Oh, Maker, hear my cry. Have mercy on me, a penitent sinner, and take King Maric into your keeping.
She tossed the documents onto the fire. They hissed, curled, spat. Ink smiled mockingly at her – the ashes of words.
She bent to close Marjolaine's eyes. Beside her elegant hand the smashed mirror glittered like sparks of ice. Something beautiful smashed beyond repair, the last dregs of innocence gone forever. She saw a woman reflected in the thousand jewelled fragments – a member of the Chantry aware of all the intrigues of her Order, yet trusting Andraste still. Marjolaine had told her Dorothea would make her an assassin for the Maker and she was right. She recalled Dorothea's eyes: they glowed with a strange inner light, the dark centres deep and disturbing. It was as if Leliana had never truly seen Dorothea before - never realized the quiet, terrifying power she possessed – the secrets stored in her mind. But she belonged to Dorothea heart and soul, an involvement that was deeper than her love for Marjolaine and stronger than her friendship with Rillian. Whatever Dorothea ordered her to do Leliana believed good would come of it, that the ends justified the means. Diamonds and glass dropped in the waste bin along with the past.
Guardian 9:33
Arlathan forest in winter was a place of stark contrast and icy brilliance. On the morning of the winter solstice, the forest was surrounded by a deep, unblemished blanket of snow. The trees grew so close that even in winter they almost blotted out the sky. The entwined dark branches were glossy with ice, shining like silver spears. The icicles hung like daggers about to fall. The forest gleamed like a cave of diamond and obsidian.
After taking the lyrium idol from Bartrand's corpse, and rescuing Lambert and his friends, Rillian and her companions had returned to winter in the Planascene forest. The camp had been quiet and hidden but two people had visited. A muscular Elven woman in ironbark armour that gleamed with cold blue radiance, and a slight Elven man in oft-patched Circle robes.
"We heard of your quest," the woman named Ariane had told Merrill, "Keeper Solon said it was the bravest thing he had ever heard. He gave me this," she had shown them an ancient text of which even Keeper Deshanna could understand only snatches, "and bid me accompany you."
"And this," the ex-Circle mage named Finn had added with the flourish of a circus performer, "is mentioned too. I translated the runes myself and am sure this text refers to the Lights of Arlathan I found in Cadash Thaig."
"We pledge ourselves to you." Ariane had knelt to Merrill, knight to lady, with an old-fashioned courtesy Rillian had found charming. Merrill had hugged them both, utterly delighted.
In the month of Drakonis, year 9:32, Rillian, her Wardens, Merrill and her followers, and Clan Lavellan had begun the journey north. Following Keeper Deshanna's lead, they kept to the non-human areas of the Free Marches, the spaces between city-states. Once, guardsmen from Markham had chased them for poaching – Rillian was reminded, irresistibly, of Loghain's tales of the rebellion. Leaving the Free Marches behind, they had crossed the Green Dales and then the Weyrs. By the time they reached the Drylands it had been midsummer. Keeper Deshanna had warned her crossing the Drylands in the heart of summer would be as close to hell as mortals were likely to come. Rillian had heeded her advice and waited until late autumn to attempt the journey. They had camped by the river Seleny, on the Antivan border. Rillian had thought of Zevran, and hoped he was happy serving his new patron - and lover – Nathaniel Howe. She might have been nervous for him – Nathaniel did look so much like his father – but she had seen enough of Nathaniel to know he was unlike Rendon Howe. She hoped Zevran would be happy with his choice.
The Drylands were less fierce during the autumn months, and winter had turned the desert to waves and waves of silver, like a sea of glass. She had thought of Merrill's Eluvian. On the outskirts of the human settlement of Brynnlaw they had met a hunter named Strife, who had guided them to Arlathan forest. Strife did not wear Vallaslin, and when Rillian asked him he told her he was also from an Alienage in Starkhaven. But the shem who ruled it – the Hariman matriarch, Johanne - was even worse than Urien Kendells had been. Urien, at least, had tried to reign in the appetites of his son, while Lady Hariman indulged hers. There were rumours she had also made a deal with Tevinter magisters, as Loghain had done, and that 'units' of Elves were being sold. Strife's fate would have been the same as Nelaros', but he had been rescued by the Dalish Clan Morlyn.
Beyond Brynnlaw was a mountain range called The White Spire. Dark conifers stood militantly along the mountainside, reminding Rillian of Templars. The giant conifers of the lower ranges were replaced by shorter, studier upland varieties as they ascended. As the slope climbed to the top of the peak, elder trees were entwined between them. Rillian remembered the Elder Tree in the Brecilian forest and wondered. The sun was a big pale orb suspended above them like a cheese wheel. Rillan thought of Alistair.
The meeting between Clan Lavellan and Clan Morlyn was not an Arlathvhen, but was still a time to re-establish old acquaintances, see relatives, and find partners. The clans exchanged gossip and stories, and Rillian was aware of the wary looks given to Ser Otto and Jowan. She knew persuading the other clan to accept the presence of two shems was pushing Keeper Deshanna to her limit, and was grateful that, of all of them, Strife understood what it meant to be an outsider. He chose to sit with her and her fellow Wardens, and she was touched.
The sky hung like a flat sheet over the mountains. Yew trees and ice formed a dark green curtain around the chalk grey stone. Sun yellow aconites splashed the primary green of nature with bold colour and shy snow drops were just beginning to peek out. In another month, Merrill told her, there would be primroses, then bluebells, then foxgloves, ferns and a crescendo of summer fecundity: poppies, nettles, parsley, mauve and pink columbine, blue and purple vetch, light lavender iris, white, pale-blue and royal-blue gentian in a diversity of shapes. Rillian enjoyed listening to Merrill. Merrill was the only young Dalish who accepted her, who treated her as one of them. But Merrill herself was preoccupied. Some of that was to do with her plans for the Eluvian – but Rillian was sure most had to do with her fledging relationship with the young hunter, Ariane. The Dalish were more accepting of same-sex love than her own Alienage had been. When she had asked, shyly, Merrill had giggled,
"Oh, when two women are bonded the Keeper asks blessings from Sylaise rather than Mythal, but that's the only difference."
It made sense to ask for blessings from the Hearthkeeper rather than the goddess of Motherhood, but Rillian still felt a pang. She wore the Vallaslin of Mythal, after all, even though she was no more likely to conceive a child with a man than Merrill was with a woman.
"I think the children of dreams outlive the children of blood," she said firmly.
On the other side, a black cloud of foliage trailed over twisted tree trunks and grey fog seethed around the edges of Arlathan Forest. The air reeked of dead leaves and loamy vegetation. The thin, sharp needles of rain were a staccato drumbeat. To the north, the Venification Sea was a foamy song. The myriad colours of dawn were reflected by the iridescence of light on water; the phosphorescent skin on an ocean that hid its depths.
They camped on land grown thick with silvered grass half-flattened by the wind and rain. Clouds hung threateningly overhead, the sky bright and dark all at once. The light was flat and silver, the sky grey and cottoned over with cloud, like black cotton wool.
Feeding both clans meant hunting expeditions had to be organized. While established patterns and ranks made disposition among any one clan's hunters easy; when two or more hunted together, problems arose. The plant-gathering forays had their problems too. This was a case of too many people trying to select the choicest produce. An area could be depleted quickly with no one getting quite enough. In winter, they were reliant on preserved food, but everyone wanted roots and winter berries. There was an adequate supply of water from the glacier-fed stream nearby but firewood was at a premium. Cooking was done in the open, unless it rained, and the clans prepared the food as a unit. Even so, most of the winter trees – which would take more than a season to renew themselves - were used up. Disposal was an issue of equal importance: waste and other refuse had to be accommodated.
Rillian saw the vista as a vast and alien landscape, anchored by the smell of woodsmoke, which reminded her of the army camp – how she had chafed under Loghain's instructions! She wondered what he was doing now, among the Wardens of Montsimmard. Whether she would ever see him again. She wondered what Loghain would think of the way Keeper Deshanna and Keeper Thantiel organized things. Probably, she thought, he would be impressed.
By the time Keeper Deshanna decided to head to the Arlathan Ruins it was spring. By the end of Drakonis, the whitefish were emerging. Rillian, Shianni, Merrill and Ariane took off their boots, rolled up their trousers, and waded in. Rillian did not dare use Dworkin's grenades. It had been bad enough when she had shown the hunters the use of her crossbow. The Dalish archers had looked with horror upon the crossbow but she had stubbornly insisted their artisans fashion as many copies of hers as possible. She waded in to catch the whitefish with her bare hands, and when kingfishers, an eagle and an osprey joined them the women laughed and pushed each other forward. Splashing and giggling like children, they gave themselves up to the moment.
They left before dawn. The grey starlight was a veil dropped onto the greens of the trunks and heavy leaves, darkening them to black. A silver-white halla peeked out, its eyes deep as the ocean.
"She wants us to follow!" Merrill cried.
There were outcropped rocks and boulders in volcanic red and violet grey. A dark river wound like a snake, foaming white against the rocks. They crossed upstream, not directly, trying to leave as little trail as possible. A dead tree jutted out, its twisted branches looking like bony fingers.
"This is as far as Clan Morlyn have ever come," Strife warned them. But Merrill was not listening. She strode ahead, as if she were the Keeper. Her certainty drew Ariane and Rillian. Rillian was followed by her Wardens. Everyone else hung back, both wary and respectful of Keepers Deshanna and Thantiel. Sibilant whispers murmured and Rillian sensed a huge shadow just out of sight. The spirits who remembered what had been. The spirits who were once Elves.
In the distance, a wolf called, long and loud. Startled, Rillian searched anxiously.
Cale said, "That's a mating call. We can be pretty sure he's not interested in us right now."
They found their way to a secluded level place, well-shaded, with a clear spring only a short distance away. A welter of tracks indicated game – told Rillian whatever spirits were present were not harming wildlife. Ravenous stalked around the water; stiff-legged, growling.
"You smell something, boy?" Rillian was worried.
Cale said, "I think we should stop here, against those rocks. Warden, Shianni, I and the mages will take the high ground. Whatever your mabari is sensing, we'll be alright."
"Promise?" Rillian's humour was a bit shaky.
Cale grinned. "When the forest guardians learn the Elven Hero of Ferelden is here, they'll run for the hills."
The joke showed how much Cale's opinion of Rillian had changed since she had accepted the Vallaslin and become Deshanna's apprentice. The young ranger might still dismiss her crossbow and her 'round-eared' ways, but he had come to accept her and Ravenous as equals.
For a moment, Rillian doubted. Deshanna had accepted her as her apprentice but she was not a mage like Merrill but only a bearer of stolen memories. The Arcane Warrior spirit, the knowledge of Shapeshifting that Morrigan had taught her (but only in theory) the memories of the Architect and Urthemiel. But until she could walk bodily in the Fade - or until the Veil came down – she would not be able to cast spells. She was soporati and the sleeper must awaken. She wondered, now, whether the thinness of the Veil – which even she could sense – might affect things. Consciously, she tried, opening herself to its power.
An enormous silver sun glowed through the branches, lit up the forest floor.
She grinned back at Cale. "If there's any foot-racing to be done, you just keep those halla out of my way and you'll see some speed."
Even the reserved Ariane found that amusing. She fought with sword and shield, and advanced side-by-side with Ser Otto; the Elven Champion and the human Templar-Warden making a strange pairing.
The stone ruins were intolerable blocks of edge and weight. Atop a dark tower was the silhouette of an enormous metallic spider. Half-machine and half-crocodile, it seemed animated by a cold alien intelligence. Its five lethal limbs – barbed and segmented like an insect's - swayed in a sinuous dance. Its eyeless head swung from side to side and its stone-fanged maw hung open as the creature hissed and scented the air.
"A Varterral" Merrill whispered awed.
"It can't be – they were only legend!" Ariane advanced, grimly, Ser Otto at her side. He was blinded, and yet, since coming off lyrium he was still able to use his Templar powers. That meant he could sense mages and magical creatures glowing like a white sun. He was less blind than the creature.
"It is said they were rock and tree, wind and rain, given form and breath by our gods to protect our people."
"To protect our people – then why does it look like it wants to eat us?" the Elven Circle mage, Finn, wanted to know.
No time for questions - the Varterral leapt downwards. Its limbs shook the forest floor.
"Andaran atish'an!" Cale shouted. "Andaran atish'an, dammit – this is supposed to work!"
Rillian, standing upon a ledge, checked her ammunition. Twelve vials of magebane. Fifty grenades filled with Dworkin's blackpowder. Twenty flasks of lightning. She braced against the rock and let fly. Her explosions rocked the valley. For several heartbeats, the earth shivered and growled. The archers loosed. Cale's wolf, Vang, and Ravenous savaged the colossal legs. Ariane's shield spun and twisted like a live thing; smashing, blocking. Her sword – incongruously named 'Rain of Petals' - sang destruction. Ser Otto – impossibly agile for a large, armoured man – rolled and came up behind one of the legs and smashed his mace into the join.
The Varterral hissed and snapped its jaws in Ser Otto's direction, and a spray of acid sizzled through the air. He couldn't see it coming – Ariane dived in front of him and blocked it with her shield. Her shield smoked and spattered and the smell of burning metal choked the lungs. Ariane rolled backward to put some ground between herself and the creature. The Varterral bunched, then leapt impossibly high, coming down in a crushing earthquake.
Merrill spoke a word, and at once an armour of living rock rose from the earth like a shroud. It embraced her like a lover. She pounded the hilt of her staff into the earth and a living flame budded and bloomed; a rain of fire that lit the creature like burning spears. The fire cast a papaya glow over their faces, which looked warm in the ruddy light. Vermilion sparks touched the segmented limbs and the creature hissed. The rain was a grey-green torrent. The fire shower of ruin broke the water into coloured drops, like marbles. The translucent drops of rain were like miniature globes, each reflecting worlds.
Finn was appalled to see the Varterral move its huge body to crush him against the stone. He shrieked in wordless terror. On instinct he ducked as it came near, scrabbling to hide underneath. He sent a flurry of arcane bolts – the very first spell he had mastered at the Circle – into its unarmoured belly. It roared but Ser Otto and Ariane were there, smashing and slashing at its legs.
The battle was a dull, painful roar in Rillian's head. Instinct took the place of thought. She was close enough to leap on the creature's back just as she had done when she and Alistair had fought the dragon. She threw a flask of lighting that lit the air like silver tapestries. At the luminescence expanded like the birth of a star, time slowed. Merrill's movements changed to the bulky ponderousness of a knight – Shianni was frozen in mid-shout – Cale's arrow was slow enough she could have plucked it from the air.
Rillian leapt - landed on the neck – legs astride as though riding a horse. She raised Stillicide and cut – as though slicing a chicken. Ichor flowed like black blood and there was an almost explosive dissolution of form. How? Stillicide worked on tainted creatures – and this thing given life by ancient Elvhen magic wasn't tainted. But nobody questioned their good fortune.
Wounds and weariness were forgotten in the celebration. Rillian smiled as she accepted the accolades – the part of her that had been the Champion of Redcliffe enjoying the acclaim. She made much of Ravenous, petting and praising him. Ravenous and Vang were still eyeing each other warily but had come to a truce like stranger dogs.
"My indestructible cousin!" Shianni and Rillian congratulated each other, hugging and dancing as they used to do at the docks.
Ser Otto and Ariane were soldiers talking shop – reliving the tactics that had worked and planning how to improve them. Jowan and Finn were swapping stories of Kinloch Hold.
The afternoon came with a deepening of golden-green light. The Dalish celebrated their victory with the sharing of a wonderful wine made from blackcurrants and honey. The Elves did not keep bees, but they carefully harvested a part of that stored nectar that they found in hollowed trees, adding essence of blackcurrant and magic. A lilting tune played on panpipes was the traditional invitation to dance; as even the humans joined in so did other instruments: flutes, bells and pulsing drums.
That evening Merrill, Ariane, Finn, Rillian and her Wardens, Shianni and Cale explored what the Varterral had been guarding. The ruins were half-drowned in the thick green light. Further inside the ruins, an indigo mirror several times the size of a person stood among the bones of a vast ancient creature. Ripples of purple flickered as the amorphous images writhed. Merrill touched them and the surface became a sea of glass. The Eluvian recognized its master.
The slow rippling of the glass danced on Merrill's limbs. In the burnished light, her robes billowed with dreamlike slowness. Her Vallaslin was patterned like a butterfly's wings, swept in whorls of lyrium blue. As she smiled the pattern shifted, as though the butterfly spread its wings.
Her voice was soft and strange, clear and sweet as the rising and falling notes of a bone flute. A sudden clarity of thought came over Rillian. This was a magic of singing, like Captivating Song, like the Litany of Adralla. Merrill's voice was the hush before a sudden summer storm.
She stepped towards the mirror as a halla might: light and free with no fear of falling. Her right leg disappeared by inches; the flat plane remained stationary so that as she stepped toward it more and more of her leg was cut off. Rillian sensed – but could not have articulated – her passing into a realm where time and distance contradicted themselves. She felt eternity in an instant. Merrill's fall was a vast and elongated plummet from the heights of the world into a universe of satellites and glimmering constellations. An instant, eternal plummet and soar into the vast, redemptive, ruinous night.
August 9:33
Knight Commander Rylock returned to her office on the top floor of the Circle of Haven, accessible through the peak of Temple Mountain, past the Penitent's Crossing. A thin grey rain had begun to drift over the greening fields.
"Knight Commander: Enchanter Amell wants to see you," her assistant – Lysette – told her. Rylock winced. The knowledge of what had happened to his man's cousin made her feel sick inside. Rylock never read the mail of any of her Harrowed mages – talking to Sweeney had convinced her this was an unacceptable invasion of privacy. Nor did she read the mail her mages received from their families in Ferelden. It had made her feel uncomfortable to be opening the letters of Isolde to her mage son and she had realized it would be hypocrisy to avoid reading the letters of a noblewoman but continue to read the letters of others. Some Freeholders and even some Elves could write, after a fashion, and now that the Circle was thriving, they were taking full advantage of their right - granted by King Cousland and Queen Anora - to keep in touch with their mage children.
But when a letter had arrived for Thomas Amell from Kirkwall – a city-state not allied with Ferelden and with a strong Resolutionist presence – Rylock had opened and read it, judging that a letter from Lord Amell might be something that could affect their community. In the letter, Lord Amell (who, Rylock realized, was the brave young medic who had served during the Blight) was asking if Thomas knew anything about how to free a possessed mage! He had not named the mage but his descriptions rang alarm bells in Rylock's mind. This was Anders! She would have bet her life on it. And Lambert had obviously been worried enough about the danger the abomination was causing in Kirkwall to be writing to his cousin. Rylock had not believed Lambert to be a mage (when Cullen had approached her with his suspicions she had believed the assurances of Wynne and Leliana) and the worst a noble would suffer would be polite questioning from Grand Cleric Elthina in the Chantry. So she had acted as a Knight Commander should and warned Meredith about the abomination. She had also sent twenty Templars led by Ser Rolan, a man who had distinguished himself killing emissaries during the Fifth Blight. Ser Rolan had disliked the quietness of his posting to Haven – had frequently spoken of how he missed hunting apostates – and she had thought perhaps the Maker could better use his talents in the field. She had ordered him to bring Anders back – if it were possible to do so without risking innocents – so that a spell in Aeonar might ascertain the truth. She believed Anders was possessed by the demon calling itself Justice but that was too serious an accusation to be judged guilty without proof. Anders was to be given a chance to clear his name.
Instead, the abomination – there could be no doubt of that now – had slaughtered Rolan and the others in a way more reminiscent of darkspawn than anything human. But regret for these deaths was not what Rylock lost sleep over. Rolan had died a hero and his soul – like Guy's - would be with the Maker; she would not insult his spirit by sorrowing for a life lost in the Maker's service.
Rylock lost sleep over what Knight Commander Meredith – the woman she had loved and thought she knew - had ordered done to Lambert Hawke. With Grand Cleric Elthina's full sanction. Varric's account had the ring of unspeakable truth and the confession of Cullen Rutherford – another young man she had let down – had confirmed it.
She might have wondered why Lambert hadn't given them the abomination – but Cullen had answered that. Cullen had said, "Lambert told me he wouldn't even let Alrik have the Blood Mage who killed his mother – that he would kill such men but would not enable rape and torture. He told me Knight Commander Meredith lost the right to defend Kirkwall when she let men like Ser Alrik rape and torture mages. Alrik placed demons inside mages and tortured them until they broke - so he could claim the Tranquil Solution was necessary. That was as evil as Uldred. All done under my watch."
No, mine. It wasn't fair that a twenty-year-old man should be blaming himself when he had been let down by three middle-aged women: Elthina, Meredith – and herself.
"Lambert Hawke's death is on my conscience, not yours," she had told Cullen, "I am sorry. Hawke will have gone to the Maker's side – such a man, after such a death, will be in the Golden City. If I am fortunate enough to go there I will beg his forgiveness."
Now Thomas Amell faced her: white-faced, eyes pools of dark flame.
"I have always been a Libertarian – always believed in mage freedom - but after you reversed my Tranquillity that felt disloyal. I had decided to vote Aequitarian. No longer. I hold you personally responsible for my cousin's death – and I realize no co-operation is possible with an organization who would enable such evil. Even if you weren't to blame: how could I vote Remain when that vote will also affect the mages trapped in the Gallows? Why should they suffer just because we are more fortunate? As mages – as a community – we must vote together. Until all of us have rights none of us do."
"I hear you," Rylock told him resignedly.
Between the reversal of Thomas' Tranquility and Varric's explosive revelations it looked like the Conclave might actually vote Leave this time. What then? But warning Thomas the Chantry was unlikely to accept the vote – it would be an abrogation of their responsibilities to non-mages if they did – would not change his mind. Indeed, it should not. If a thing was right it was right, regardless of consequences.
Rylock did not believe mage freedom was right – unlimited freedom without responsibility was no-one's right - but was it possible the Circle system was a greater wrong?
Suppose the Maker deemed it better to have wrongs committed by free mages - which could at least be policed by Templars – than have the wrongs committed by Templars whom the Seekers were not policing?
Perhaps another Knight Commander might contrive to prevent Thomas going to the Conclave in three years' time – but Rylock believed that would be wrong. Thomas had earned his Enchanter's sash and therefore earned his vote.
"Thank you for your honesty."
Kingsway 9:33
Lambert and Fenris spent the evening in their attic room above Slubberdegullions. Outside, the world was about to go to sleep; hedgehogs were preparing to hibernate, lying dormant beneath decaying leaves. The Innkeep had served autumn blackberries
Campaign season was over. Isabella's crew were less worried about reprisals from the mainland, and their boltholes in the marshes would be empty till spring. They had sailed with Isabella for six months. Castillon's men were defeated; she was truly the Queen of the Eastern Seas.
Lambert had left the seeds of the swamp flower in a sealed message for Rillian at Brynnlaw – he'd heard the Elves of Arlathan traded with the human settlement from time to time so hoped she'd get them.
The room with its red carpet and pink walls was lit by a single fat nub of a scented candle. The ceiling was arched, with worn brick and battered planks of wood. Two narrow wooden beams had been repurposed as makeshift poles. Lambert would never work for the likes of Madame Lusine again but he liked to keep up the skills. He had shown Fenris around the garden of earthly delights and enjoyed performing for him.
A tiny open window had let in air – Lambert had fitted it with stained glass (Varric had excellent contacts). It spread a friendly amaranthine glow, like purple rain, and contorted the blue landscape strangely, making a hill where no hill was. On the worn red carpet Lambert had placed a circular sheepskin rug, and an antique desk with funny clawed feet and brass-knobbed drawers. The walls were papered with hand-drawn pictures of Incognito, of Malcolm, Leandra, Carver and Bethany, of his childhood memories. The luxurious double bed – strewn with cushions - breathed a dual history of amazing sex and flawed sleep.
Lambert was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing only the velvet tight-fitting shorts he used for pole practice. Fenris was sat at the desk, reading a missive. Lambert considered it great progress he was wearing docker's trousers rather than the clawed armour. Previously, the only times he took that off were when he stitched the injuries incurred fighting Castillon's men, before sex, and before sleep. The trousers were not a fashion statement – the weave was so hard everyone called them "iron-butts"- but for Fenris this was the epitome of self-indulgence.
Lambert studied his back: powerful shoulders tapered to a slim, muscular waist, whose dark skin was crisscrossed by the silver brands and by scars. Some of the scars were recent, most were not. Lambert was shocked how near-deadly some were and swallowed hard. But the brands were quiescent. Lambert had realized - though Fenris never said a word – that when they were bright he was in more pain than when they were quiet. He loved the look of absorbed down-bent concentration on that hard, angular profile. Watching Fenris read was like watching worlds unfold and become visible to him for the first time. It was one of Lambert's secret pleasures: little bright moments that winked like lights in the shadow.
Suddenly, Fenris turned to face him. Caught staring, Lambert smiled sheepishly.
"I thought you were concentrating on that."
"How could I?" Fenris joked, "You think too loudly."
Lambert giggled
"The letter is from Sebastian," Fenris told him. A secret, shy pride gleamed in his glass-bright green eyes. The idea that a former slave could actually receive a letter – that someone thought him worth writing to – that he could read it! Lambert smiled inside – his lover's joy was infectious – but he was careful to keep his expression matter-of-fact. He did not want to make Fenris self-conscious – was afraid he would mistake Lambert's pleasure for that of a 'human saviour' who had taught a poor ex-slave to read, rather than the joy of an equal and fellow-traveller. "He's petitioned the Viscount for aid retaking Starkhaven and had hoped to do it next campaign season – but Nathaniel Howe has asked him to wait a year. His position is under threat from..." There was a flicker in the emerald eyes, too quick to categorize, "from many people."
Lambert smiled fondly – Fenris was more transparent than he thought! He had been going to say, "from Knight Commander Meredith," but was careful to avoid anything that might remind Lambert of the Gallows.
Aftershocks still rose up and engulfed Lambert, but he had begun to be able to sense them coming. Initially, he'd had no forewarnings. He would just find himself curling tight in their bed, contracting every muscle, trying to minimize the area in which pain could operate. He would find himself falling and weightless – empty as desert stretched over by a thin slice of sky – his bones and muscles beyond volition. Fenris would straight away be there – insisting they spar – and the times Lambert was beneath understanding he would literally grab him, pull him to his feet, and put the sword in his hands. That usually worked. The one time it hadn't - Lambert just collapsing like a rag doll - Fenris had pulled him upright, leaned him against the wall, poured him a glass of something much stronger than Purple Rain and matched him, sip for sip, until Lambert had passed out. Then remained to watch over him until he regained consciousness...
… Lambert woke in the early hours of morning, passed out across Fenris' knees. Fenris hadn't moved – was just sitting there with his back to the wall and left arm across Lambert's body. The other – the living weapon – he kept free, ready to defend them both. Lambert groaned, staggered to his knees, threw up in their chamberpot.
"Ugh. My mouth tastes like the Arishok's jockstrap and my pits are like a Cloudreach shower."
"Then I suggest we go for a swim."
Lambert went cold. "I... I can't."
"Why not?"
He whispered, "They'll see my scars."
"The only people awake now will be so drunk they won't see a thing."
"Umph." Lambert let Fenris lift him to his feet and guide him down the steps. Beamdog was awake – and gave Fenris an acid glare, blaming him for getting Lambert into this state. The retired sea dog could be quite paternal.
Outside, the unimaginable weight of the sea exerted a kind of gravity. It drew Lambert in until it seemed he must flow, like light, towards a black hole. Fenris kept pace with him, swimming in unison so he was never alone. Cold as starlight, the dark ocean enfolded them, feeling like knives of fire flaying Lambert's warm, sweaty skin. The night sky was cavernous, teeming with bright stars. He and Fenris stopped, by unspoken agreement, and faced each other. Lambert felt both utterly inconsequential and supremely important, as if they were the fulcrum on which sea and stars turned. The smells and sounds of the Gallows dungeon had diminished to the squeakings and jigglings of a puppet show. Fenris was a shadow covered in lyrium brands brighter than the stars. Bright... that meant he was in pain, Lambert realized with a pang. In pain because he had been watching Lambert so closely – unsleeping and alert - he had not taken his nightly dose of Apostate's Friend.
"Let's go," Lambert said softly.
Fenris headed back to shore with him, giving off heat like a banked furnace. Lambert scooped up their dropped clothes, and back inside their room he made Fenris a vial. As he drank it, Lambert towelled him down and wrapped a fleece about his shoulders.
He said quietly, "I'm sorry I'm not stronger, Fen."
He knew Fenris would never tire of him and leave – when the warrior gave loyalty, it was forever – but he was ashamed because Fenris' suffering had made his own seem like a beesting. The last thing Fenris needed was to be burdened with him.
"It's been five years since I was a slave. Five weeks for you. You are not weak. The wound will heal. The scar may always twinge from time to time, but it will not stay like this"...
Fenris was doing for Lambert what he had done for himself – the sparring and the drinking – and Lambert's heart broke at the realization he'd had nobody to be there for him, no one who cared whether he woke up or not, alone in Danarius' filthy mansion. And he had been right, Lambert dared to hope. Now – six months after the Gallows - he could sense the aftershocks coming. It was as if he stood on a shore with his back to the sea but felt it rising up behind him, blotting out the light. When this happened he had time to ask Fenris for a spar – his lover always dropped everything and obliged.
Sparring with Fenris anchored him – made him solid and real - but Lambert felt vaguely puzzled and ashamed of these moments when his own self seemed to bleed away and then recohere. It felt like watching Fenris phase. He couldn't ever ask – didn't have the right to ask Fenris anything about his past – but he wondered. Did sparring make Fenris feel solid in the same way? Did the resemblance between phasing and derealization hold meaning?
Lambert still had good days and bad days. It annoyed him slightly that he wasn't stronger – after what Fenris had endured and still stayed sane, it was ridiculous that, yesterday afternoon, the strangely ominous colour of glacial ice on the ocean had made him think of Alrik's gelid eyes – that he had been absent from himself for a few moments – long enough that Fenris had looked at him and said, "Let's spar."
It was embarrassing to be sensitive to things the rest of the world didn't even notice. He wondered, sometimes, whether the problem was the rest of his life had been so good, so safe, so privileged – the long night was an aberration that sat beneath the waking world like a nightmare and would never cohere. But what was he even wishing – that his life had been as hard as Fenris'?! The only thing to do was accept the moments of unreality as the price for the rest of his life: the amazing memories, the happiness he wished Fenris had known too, the childhood every person had a right to.
"He hopes to march on Starkhaven in eighteen months' time. He's asked Donnic and me to help."
There was no question Fenris would go: Sebastian and Donnic were his first friends; he would never let them down. The warrior padded over to the bed and sat beside Lambert.
"I'll come too – don't even think of leaving me behind! Thanks to you, Lambert Hawke is dead, but I am very much alive and I'm going to pay Seb back for rescuing me." Memories of the Gallows brushed Lambert's mind; he shut them out, like closing a window on insects.
Fenris was silent a long moment – he could be annoyingly protective. Absently, he rubbed the red armband on his right wrist. Lambert had never asked – but it seemed the right time,
"Fen...you've been wearing that since we got back from Chateau Haine. I remember... you had it on when we ate mouse-deer together... the night..." He stopped, drawing an iron curtain over the unbearable events that had followed.
Fenris' emerald eyes were warmed by a faint smile. "You're right: it is from the uniform of Lord Amell's bodyguard. It's a reminder to myself to be ready to pull your nuts out of the fire."
Lambert swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He took Fenris' hand – palm-to-palm – and snuggled closer: two sides of the same coin.
"I love you too."
Fenris was still thinking in practical terms. "The Templars will not be able to trace you, but you will need a new name."
"I can't just use Gadriel?"
"Your full name - Lambert Gadriel Amell Hawke – was etched onto your phylactery. That would be spectacularly stupid."
"A nom-de-plume, then?" Lambert asked, warming to the romance of the idea. Ideas flocked to meet him. "Hmmm - let's see. How about Mad Dog?"
Fenris actually laughed! When Lambert looked at him reproachfully he made a valiant effort to stifle his mirth, snorted, and said carefully, "Well - you are more of a cat person."
That was true enough. Lambert loved the family mabari, Lady, but she was rightly looking after Carver while had he fallen in love with Incognito.
Two months after her farewell to Ser Pounce-a-Lot, Incognito had given birth to two tiny kittens. Both boys: one as midnight-hued as his mother, the other as orange as his father. Lambert had named them Incommunicado and Pumpkin. Now they were four months – which meant they were stroppy adolescents. They played and fought and roughhoused in a way that reminded Lambert irresistibly of him and Carver. Incognito would always be his special baby, but he loved all three and would quite happily spend hours and hours just watching them. Fenris viewed this with a now-familiar mixture of puzzlement, amusement, and affection. He professed to find the whole thing inexplicable – "must be a mage thing" – but Lambert had caught him once or twice petting them when he was not looking. Once, Pumpkin had jumped on Fenris' lap and the forbidding assassin had stroked his head absentmindedly, not even realising what he was doing. Lambert had not enlightened him, merely smiled quietly.
He hoped they'd like Starkhaven just as they'd liked Llomerryn.
"Hmm – how about 'The Hidden Paw'…"
"I like Despereaux," Fenris blurted – surprising both of them. The book Lambert had made and illustrated for Fenris – telling and retelling the story until he had mastered it himself – had pride of place on their mantelpiece. Lambert supposed a tiny mouse with big ears wasn't particularly heroic but… "Okay. Despereaux it is. Maybe they'll think I'm a desperate outlaw – an Orlesian bard serving a mysterious Lord…" He followed his fantasies of derring-do with increasing enthusiasm.
Fenris was already known as 'Wraith.' Lambert didn't like the name – how could these ignorant dullards look at the brave, loyal, wonderful man he loved and only see a killer? Name him because what Danarius had done to him had left him with constant pain and the ability to phase. That was…the least important thing about Fenris! When he tried to say so – spluttering with indignation – Fenris said mildly, "Well, Wraith is a better moniker for an assassin than 'man who likes the tale of Despereaux and loves an apostate'" …only someone who knew him as well as Lambert did could discern in that seemingly unmoved face the slightest tinge of shy appreciation.
"Did you know," Lambert said wistfully, "I was born in Starkhaven? Oh, yes," he added, seeing Fenris' surprise, "It was the first place my parents stopped after Dad escaped the Vinmarks. It was a brilliant, beautiful city – Mother loved it. I spent my first three years living in a flat whose back door opened onto an enormous millwheel. Me and the twins, who were born 11 months after me. My first memory is that millwheel – like a giant's face. The rushing of water: like a vast ocean, endlessly turning. The sense of power, majesty, life. As long as I live my image of the Maker will contain something of that millwheel…" Lambert stopped, suddenly achingly sad. Fenris' first memory was of receiving the brands. But he would not insult him by letting the sadness show. "We couldn't stay, of course. The place was a Chantry hub – the Vael family were very devout. Father's friends in the Mages' Collective all told him he should go north – cross the Minanter river. They had contacts in Tevinter. A mage of father's talent and..." Lambert admitted his ancestry slightly sheepishly, "a distant descendant of Magister Parlathan – he could have been successful. But he didn't. He knew moving to Tevinter would mean he'd never have to worry about Templars again – he also knew it would mean Mother and Carver becoming second-class citizens – soporati – alive only at the whim of whichever Magister was on the ascendant. It would mean being part of the system that allows slavery – it would mean practicing Blood Magic. You were right, what you said to Anders – Father told me he'd have had to do it, or we'd not have survived. He wanted the Hawke family to be good people – and to stay together. So instead my parents went east. We settled in loads of villages – places I can't even name. Taskerdell, when I was fifteen - that's where the boy I liked informed on me… finally Lothering, in Ferelden. Anyway, that's why I refused to go to Tevinter with Bodahn, even when I knew the bastards had my leash. Father…and you. I'll never be a hero but - I want to be worthy of you."
"Worthy of me?" Fenris asked in his deep, gravelly voice, with an extremely odd smile.
Lambert could have drowned in his hard green eyes. Gold specks bled from his pupils: ships of gold adrift on an emerald sea, encircled by a ring of shadow. He leaned in to smell Fenris' skin – clean sweat, metallic rain, leather, salt and wild sage – kissed him, and his thoughts dissolved.
Wintermarch 9:34
The rain blew in from the horizon in waves. Occasionally a brief moment of light enabled Leliana to spot the next undulating curtain of water sweeping towards the Valence Cloister from the Waking Sea. She was now a Seeker in truth as well as in name. Her year in the Hunterhorn Mountains had been a revelation. Afterwards, Lady Seeker Nicoline had directed her to travel here and await Dorothea's summons. Manipulation it certainly was: Leliana had seen the satisfied smile that passed between the two women when Dorothea visited. The elderly Seeker and the worldly Grand Cleric in vigorous middle age: the two of them hand-in-glove. Lady Nicoline had been forced to name the hardline Lambert van Reeves as her successor, but she had passed a book to Dorothea and it was clear her real legacy was knowledge, not titles. Leliana bent her head. She was the keeper of secrets with her silence. She had sought a path and found it her own.
The Valence Cloiser was a building shaped like a winged rose, with arching rooftops and stained-glass windows letting in multicoloured light. Leliana loved it – the sweeping façade of mellow stone, its mosaic floors, its cloistered walks, its rustling library and shadowy stairways. It was a secret, exciting place where soft footsteps whispered and black-gowned Chantry sisters lived and loved and – sometimes – laughed. There was a power that seemed to seep through the very stones and Leliana thrilled in response. This was the home of the woman who had saved her, the indefinable source of the faith that had called her and drawn her towards it. She could not point to it exactly, or say what it was, but she knew she had come home.
She heard the calling bells sweet and clear; bidding the sisters come. The chapel was a chaos of music and voices, and burning pinewood filled the air. Ventilation protected them from creosote and left only the drowsy scent. Wind whined outside, torchlight flickered and moonlight silvered the stone floor. She knew then... had always known... she had been born for a purpose and it had nothing to do with the woman she had loved – with a life of adventure or the intrigue of a bard... it was something more, something deeper... Even as a child – the bastard child of Lady Cecile's husband and her Elven handmaid - she had heard it calling and known one day she would have to go towards it, despite her fear...
Again and again Leliana remembered the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There were no words in human language to describe what she had felt. It was deeper than reverence, stronger than awe. She had gazed at something truly holy, fragments of some vast eternal being which existed within all living creatures, including herself. This holiness had healed Thomas Amell of the blasphemy that had been done to him. The cure for Tranquillity was knowledge the Divine had ordered kept from mages but Wynne had ensured was spread to every Circle in Thedas.
Varric Tethras had published an incendiary book called 'Spotlight' which detailed shocking abuses in the Gallows. Leliana would normally have scoffed – Varric was known for his lurid tales about gallant Knight Captains pleasuring lascivious Chantry sisters – but this clipped, sparse, furious account had the ring of truth. Each word was of someone who had been there - had held the tortured body of his friend as he lay dying – tapping words into the heart of complacent trust in the Templars like coffin nails. Leliana - who had known something of Alrik in Harwen Raleigh – recognized evil when she heard it.
The former Knight Captain Cullen had confirmed it with the air of a confession. He had left the Templar Order and put himself through the agony of lyrium withdrawal as penance. The troubling reports had led Seeker Cassandra to investigate – she had spoken with Cullen and believed him, but then spoken with Meredith and been convinced what had happened was an aberration. Ser Karras had been demoted from Knight Lieutenant to junior Templar but allowed to remain in the Order. Leliana frowned. She did not think that sufficient punishment for a man who had raped his charges. It was also likely the abuses were systemic rather than a one-off. But Grand Cleric Elthina had stated the special nature of Kirkwall – the sheer number of demons and abominations – meant it was unjust to condemn the manner in which Knight Commander Meredith protected citizens. This had always been how Divine Beatrix saw things, and Leliana suspected Cassandra was Right Hand before she was a Seeker. Cassandra had wanted to be a Templar herself – been made to join the Seekers because of her royal blood – and it was clear where her sympathies lay. But public opinion had started to turn against the Templars in Kirkwall.
Leliana had warned Cullen that, after having publicly confirmed Varric's account, it was not safe for him to remain in Kirkwall. But Cullen had merely shrugged and told her he was not leaving his partner – the former Templar, Samson – or abandoning the hunt for the abomination. If Meredith wanted to kill him for disloyalty she was welcome to try.
The first snow powdered the grounds of the Valence Cloister. Winter was a busy time. The autumn rains and sudden cold made people vulnerable; then the rheums began: the coughs and chills, congested lungs and swollen joints. Each of the dozen treatment rooms was crowded with patients, and though Leliana was not a mage she could brew linctus and liniments, treat them with herbs and inhalants. As part of her service she coped with a waiting room full of patients - treated them and sang to them and delivered babies – but unlike Wynne and Anders and Lambert her heart did not lie here.
"Leliana!"
She turned her head. Light from wall torches flickered on the women's faces and across the hall. Sister Natalie was calling her.
"A messenger is asking for you."
Half-curious, half-afraid, Leliana followed her.
The messenger was a grey-garbed man in the robes of a Chantry brother. His eyes held hers.
"I have come from Val Royeaux. Grand Cleric Dorothea will be Divine Justinia, and she needs you."
A great excitement filled her. This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life, the call she had always sensed would come echoing in her soul. And Dorothea did not speak for herself alone – she spoke for the Chantry now – accepting her into the heart of the faith.