Lights in the Shadow

by Gene Dark

Final chapter: This World Is Not My Home. Fenris confronts Anders after the events of 'The Last Straw'. Lambert becomes the first mage to undergo Seeker training. Merrill returns through the Eluvian - with Solas!

29. Chapter 29: The Silent Grove

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Silent Grove

AN: Trigger warning for incest (Alistair and Morrigan did not realise they are both children of Maric).

Morrigan's song is Fever Ray: Keep The Streets Empty For Me and Lambert/Fenris' song is Troye Sivan: Angel Baby.

Early Cloudreach 9:34

Alistair stood on the deck of The Siren's Call, little pellets of rain stinging his face, as Llomerryn's western port slowly faded from view and the ship coursed into the glittering black.

Sebastian Vael and Varric Tethras were discussing archery. Alistair vaguely knew Sebastian. He, Sebastian and Cullen Rutherford had been Chantry boys together. But while Alistair and Cullen had chosen Templar training Sebastian had become a Chantry brother. And was, apparently, a prince by blood – something the two had in common. Not that being a royal bastard had ever done much for Alistair.

Varric Tethras was the owner of The Hanged Man; a merchant who acted like a barkeep or a spymaster, depending on the hour. He had also been Alistair's employer – a kindness that had kept him off the streets. After Alistair had drunk the last of the treasure he and Rillian had collected in Ferelden, he would have starved in Darktown - but Varric had given him work as a bodyguard and not minded – much – when he showed up drunk.

Earlier, Varric and Bianca Davri – the woman he was having an on-off (mostly 'off'') relationship with – had been having words; Alistair had caught the tail end of the conversation:

Bianca had been interested in the red lyrium idol Rillian had taken from the Primeval Thaig, after rescuing Varric, Lambert and Fenris from Bartrand.

"I just want to figure it out."

"You're not saying everything."

"Well...no... A lady must have some secrets. Have you shared all your secrets with me?"

"As if I would tell stories about my own mistakes!"

Varric had been smiling - that same urbane, expansive self-deprecating wit his patrons often mistook for modesty – but Alistair could have cut the tension with a knife.

"Get a room, you two," the ex-Guard Captain Donnic Hendyr had advised, but while Bianca had disappeared with her designs below deck (apparently the Davri Seed Drill, Davri Spinning Frame and Davri Mechanical Thresher were household names among the kalnas: surface dwarves who insisted on maintaining caste and rank) Varric was having some man time up here.

"You know, if you have time, I could give you a few pointers."

It was unclear whether Sebastian was advising on women or archery but, given the Chantry brother had taken vows of celibacy, Alistair guessed the latter.

"Excuse me?"

"Sometimes your shots veer a little left. I thought maybe your cocking ring was off. I could take a look if you like?"

"You want to touch Bianca's cocking ring?" Alistair snorted with laughter at the tone Varric managed to squeeze into that question. Varric had named his mechanized crossbow after the woman he loved and it did lead to some interesting dialogue.

"It was just a thought."

Carver's brother – Alistair always had trouble remembering the slight figure was the elder – snickered. He was supposedly a fearsome mercenary but Alistair had seen little evidence of that. What made him distinctive was his smile, which radiated outwards like sunlight. Alistair chewed on a hunk of cheese and Lambert asked conversationally,

"Did you hear about the cheese factory that exploded in Orlais? De Brie was everywhere."

Alistair burst out laughing. So did the man Lambert was with: a fearsome killer who looked like a dour, more muscular version of Zevran. Fenris didn't say much – but Alistair noticed he and Lambert could make each other laugh like filthy drains.

Alistair had once been able to make Rillian laugh like that: but now? The new Rillian knew fire but she didn't know warmth. Could he give her that again?

Then he looked down at himself in derision. At the flabby thighs and drunken gut. He hadn't been able to get his splint mail over the flab, so just carried it in his backpack. Four years ago he had been a warrior – Rillian had teasingly called him, "my prince" - what would she call him now?

Alistair was twenty-four: the same age as Fenris. But he felt like an old man. A has-been, washed-up and embittered.

Alistair had seen Fenris at work in Kirkwall. On the night of the Great Storm, Alistair had earned his pay as one of Varric's bodyguards. That had been the night the killer Varric nicknamed 'Broody' had showed up. Alistair had seen Varric give him a map of the Gallows, then the assassin had disappeared – literally - hunting his lover's phylactery.

A series of mewls told him Lambert's three cats appreciated his joke. The two black cats and little ginger tom were enjoying the Siren's Call – scampering across the spar and surging up the masts in fluidly beautiful leaps. The crew liked them – Alistair supposed that was natural since mice were a problem – but he himself preferred dogs. Carver's mabari, Lady, was nearly as broad and muscled as Ravenous and reminded Alistair of the times with Rillian. She was currently watching the antics of the three cats with great dignity.

"We have dogs in Antiva, you know," Zevran told her, "They run in the streets and eat garbage. Not like in Ferelden. In Ferelden they make statues of mabari. They carve you into their thrones and put armour on you. Amazing, really."

Lady gave a happy bark.

Isabella and Zevran seemed part of the storm. Isabella's leather tunic complemented form-fitting trousers patterned with horse heads, beige on brown. Her midcalf boots were black, highly polished. Zevran's citrine eyes glimmered in the darkness. The cawing of a crow echoed through the cold, sea-sprayed air and charcoal sky.

"Antiva City, on the coast of Rialto Bay. Where they say every man is a poet or merchant prince, and treachery is the coin of the realm."

"I'm guessing 'poet' is Antivan for 'assassin'?"

"All I know is every street corner smells like seawater mixed with wine and spice...or mould mixed with rotting fish. Ah! It's good to be home."

Zevran was now the bodyguard – and lover – of the Champion of Kirkwall – but the Antivan Crows would not let him be. Zevran had been sold to them, trained to kill, and the only way they would let him leave was in a box. He had refused his lover's offer of support – insisted on returning to Antiva and dealing with the problem. Lambert had offered to help, but Zevran had told him, "You are too gentle for such work." Fenris was certainly not gentle – Alistair had overheard the two assassins talking shop – but Lambert was his priority and Lambert had signed on to help Rillian.

Rillian was Alistair's priority too – yet Zevran had found some interesting information. About the Archive of the Crows, and its detailed records of contracts, blackmail files and recipes... About the true fate of King Maric Therrin, presumed dead at sea nine years ago.

The fate of the King who had sired Alistair on a servant girl and never checked on either was of no personal significance – Maric the Saviour, they called him, but to Alistair he was just a deadbeat dad – but he had agreed to stop here. Zevran wanted information on Prince Claudio Valisti – the Third Talon who had murdered Rinna and was trying to kill him – but he had promised Alistair to look for Maric too. If Maric were alive, Alistair supposed Loghain would want to know. After the two had fought side-by-side during the Fifth Blight, he owed him that. Warden Loghain was as much a prisoner at Montsimmard as Alistair was of the drink but still...Alistair would want to know, in his shoes.

---

Velabanchel stood, a stark forbidding monolith, while deeper levels mouldered below the grey waves of Rialto Bay.

Alistair stared as they sailed past, thinking of screams, of the living dead entombed within rock; rotting in cells, or being taken below by long-dead sadists. He could not imagine; nothing in his relatively privileged existence allowed him to imagine. The closest he had come to being imprisoned was as a ten-year-old boy packed off to the Templars, listening to the Chant of Light – again – and just wanting out... Yes, he was there unwillingly – but Alistair's unwilling imprisonment had included three square meals a day and training in swordcraft. Zevran, Fenris and Lambert – they had known different hierarchies of imprisonment.

Zevran and Fenris were looking calmly at the dark tower: yes, the world is sadistic...and?... Lambert was looking with the expression of a child seeing every fear come to life.

"There's room to spar below decks – come," Fenris told him, and his lover followed.

Alistair couldn't stop looking – couldn't stop thinking.

Four years.

They had held Maric four years. Taken him out to ask questions – their way - then sealed him back in his tomb. Over and over. The Archives contained the records and – according to Zevran - did not lie.

But that was not the end of Maric's story. On the fourth year of his captivity, six days into spring, a woman had released him.

The Witch of the Wilds. Yavana, of the Tellari swamps.

"Damn her," Alistair muttered to Carver. "Four years ago – six days into spring – that was the day Flemeth rescued us from Ostagar! Sent Morrigan to keep an eye on us – to make...never mind..."

Alistair glanced sideways at his companion, relieved Carver hadn't noticed his guilt.

To make a child. Alistair's child. One with the old blood and Morrigan's magic. One who would have contained the soul of Urthemiel – had Rillian not been true to the Wardens. Truer than Alistair had been.

Why did you do it?

I was afraid. Afraid of losing you.

"This Yavana is Flemeth's daughter – Morrigan's sister – they must have known! They never told me."

Bitterly, Carver said, "Flemeth saved me and my brother in Lothering. And let our sister die, because she had no use for Bethany. If I ever see her again..."

"The Tellari swamps are at the end of the River Seleny. Only three days ride from Antiva City. You boys may both get your wish."

Alistair regarded the sturdy but out-of-practice dwarf.

"I thought my father was a prisoner." There was the echo of a boy – the bewildered regret of a love-starved child. Alistair supposed it was pathetic he was looking to Varric to be his father figure – but he was too tired to care. "If he was released, I need to know if he's still alive. I need to know..."

"If he abandoned you?"

He did. At my birth. That ship's sailed.

"If he abandoned his kingdom."

Varric took over from there. Found Isabella on the port side. "Can you take us to the Tellari swamps?"

"For you? Anything – but just this once. Anselmo! Celso! Hands out of your trousers and up on the mast!"

Zevran winked – a bright flash in the gloom. "She's different when she's being Captain," he confided, "I kind of like it."

---

The party stopped in Seleny and Varric tried to hire a guide but nobody would do it – not for a pittance, not for a fortune.

"Ominous, that," the dwarf muttered.

Isabella ordered her crew to sail up the River Seleny until the bright, clear water dissolved into marshland, about three days from Antiva City.

"Rillian was here," Lambert told Alistair.

"Really! How do you know?" Knowing Lambert was a secret mage, Alistair half-wondered at some occult knowledge (the days of his Templar childhood died hard) but the slight figure grinned and winked. "Because she told me in the Deep Roads. That's where she was heading next. Seleny – then the Drylands – then Arlathan forest. Have I told you how she saved our nuts in the Primeval Thaig?"

"Go on," Alistair prompted and Lambert beamed – the look of a born storyteller. He and Varric cued each other, like two bards, and the crew gathered to listen.

During the day, the crew stayed focused – Isabella made sure of that – but at night the ones from Antiva took ghoulish delight in relating horror stories about the swamps. Of the unborn children of drowned girls – Lambert winced at that but Varric provided lurid elaboration. Fenris was sitting side-by-side with his lover, cross-legged in a semi-circle with a friendly candle providing jittery illumination. He had a strange, contented look on his face – the look of someone who knows monsters are real and was enjoying the novelty of being able to swap ghost stories while full and among friends. Alistair remembered moonless nights in the dorms, where the boys swapped similar stories...

"Within the Tellari swamps lurk the buried streets of a plague village, sunk below the marshes, its slimy carcass revealed in times of drought. Nettles grow like serpents, and a skeletal city gate is all that remains..."

He found himself retelling it, and his companions encouraged him. Alistair found himself rediscovering the joy of walking into danger with the wrong people by his side. I've missed this...

---

Next day he wasn't missing it at all.

It had rained until it wasn't rain any more – because rain stops. It was just the background to their lives, like insects and hunger and mud. Nothing could stand against it: Alistair's socks were dissolving on his feet, his sword had to be oiled constantly and everything had the sweet, musty stench of decay.

For the first two days, the Seleny River was wide enough for a pair of ships abreast. They had dropped anchor at a lake that swelled from the river like a bulbous boil and continued to the marshlands on foot. Isabella had left Casavir in charge – and everyone who had been so bold telling ghost stories last night was only too happy to stay. Paisley Pete – with his waxed moustache that tried to be Orlesian; Left-Hand Rawley – who was so bold fighting men and so scared of monsters - Knife-Eared Jan and Brand, who had all the same Alienage superstitions as Rillian. None of them had offered to come along. Alistair didn't blame them.

"It's funny - I've always liked the rain," Lambert was murmuring, "I love playing Beamdog's piano or my lute when it's raining outside. I enjoy the whole peacefulness that develops in every drop, in every note, in every breath. Rain makes me feel alive. But now everything seems to be growing at an accelerated pace – hastening to decomposition from the moment of birth."

"You have to take care of things – the Fog Warriors taught me that. Your parchment is falling apart and your quill has swelled like a boil. Give it here."

"Food, too," Alistair muttered, "These rations are garbage now."

"Always were," Carver muttered - and the two veterans of Ostagar shared a laugh.

"The salted pork wasn't so bad," Alistair reminisced, "I remember Zev added some Antivan spices and..."

Isabella chose that moment to join him. She offered him a wooden mug filled with a steaming liquid, saying, "this is a soup you won't have tried before – duck and apple, with some potato. You can hardly tell it's a dried mix."

Uncertainly, Alistair took it. Most of his experience of cuisine on The Siren's Call had been acceptable. With notable exceptions. Freddy Glug had served things as food that had nearly sent him screaming from the scene. The smell of this one, however, snapped his eyes wide open.

"Is that...orange? Oh wow!"

Isabella grinned. "From Seheron. A nice touch from the Fog Warriors we trade with."

Fenris was listening intently - keen to sample the dish – and they passed the mug back and forth. He smiled with the look of someone who has found – unexpectedly – something he had thought lost forever.

Alistair gave a long sip and sighed in contentment. "Whoever did this has my eternal heart."

The warriors – Alistair, Carver, Donnic and Fenris – were taking point, while the archers – Sebastian, Varric and Bianca – backed them up and Isabella and Zevran scouted the flanks. The only one who didn't have an assigned role was Lambert – he veered from chatting to Fenris to recording details of the journey in his diary. This had granted him the reputation of the Sage of their little group – christened 'Alistair's Folly' – a position he filled with aplomb.

Muddy, brackish, the remains of the river meandered further west. Sky-darkening clouds of starlings braved the dismal early spring, wheeling, whistling, chattering. Their murmuration smothered the eerie noises of the marsh. Occasionally they were brushed aside by massive flight of geese or ducks. Sometimes flocks of pigeons joined them. Hawks patrolled the edges, hurtling down like bullets to strike the careless or the weak.

The river vanished into the swamp like a drowned woman. Endless, unbroken green. Alistair yearned for sunshine. King Maric was forgotten. Who knew what had happened? Who cared? The day was but twenty-four hours and Alistair had only three things to occupy his thoughts: a cup of Seheron coffee, a clean, dry pair of underpants and a place out of the rain. Hours passed in precious contemplation of these treasures. At night, with matches carefully wrapped, a tiny fire was lit and water heated, and their bellies fortified to face the cold black night.

---

On the night of a particularly heavy storm - "not as bad as the Great Storm in Kirkwall, but close" - Alistair had just finished his sentry duty and climbed into his hammock when suddenly he heard an animal scream.

By the light of a lighting flash, he saw two dark figures. They resolved into Varric and Isabella.

"I found animal tracks, but that's all."

"What are we even looking for?"

"Something unusual."

"Like a witch flying around on a broomstick?"

"That would do."

"Or a crocodile gnawing on our corpses?"

"Not so much that."

"It's getting closer..."

"CCRRRRRRRRRK!"

"What do we do!?"

"Brown our trousers."

An enormous dragon blotted out the stars. It was purple, bloated, wreathed in flame that boiled the rain, lit everything in a surrealistic glow. Neon, emerald and purple gases flared over the gangrenous swamp.

Alistair was not inexperienced with dragons. He had taken sword to two: Flemeth in her dragon form and the High Dragon worshipped as Andraste. Calmly, he said,

"It's not attacking."

His friends – his party – looked at him with the desperation of drowning men, eyes orbs of raw terror. All except Bianca – who was frowning slightly as though trying to work out a technical puzzle – Zevran, himself a veteran of dragon battles and Fenris, who had already phased.

"No, Fenris – don't!" he shouted, knowing the killer was about to use his signature move: would disappear within the dragon and rip its heart out.

"Yavana?"

There was a white explosion; the birth of a thousand stars. A woman walked from the chaos; someone Alistair had hoped never to see again.

Morrigan.

No. Like enough to be a sister – but this was not the woman he had betrayed Rillian with. He watched her slow, graceful walk, one hand holding her staff; the other resting lightly and lovingly upon the dragon's snout. She did not seem fazed by the stertorous breathing or the alien eyes: yellow and cold as a wolf's, lucent with intelligence.

"My darling. Return to the grove."

The flocculent monster obeyed like a giant version of Lady; Alistair heard his companions give shaky sighs. Lambert actually laughed: a nervous giggle. "Cog would never obey me like that."

Alistair did not take his eyes from Yavana.

"Why didn't it kill us?"

"She can smell the old blood in you, son of kings. Go back whence you came. Nothing but misery awaits you here."

"When has that stopped a cheerful bunch like us?" Zevran murmured.

Varric agreed, "Don't make me introduce you to Bianca." It was unclear whether he meant the woman or the crossbow. Both were deadly.

Alistair laid his hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "It's alright. I've only come for onething."

He faced Yavana. "Five years ago you freed my father from a Crow prison. Tell me why. Tell me what happened."

"Very well. Follow."

Alistair, Donnic and Sebastian considered the marshlands with a dubious expression. Sunrise was hours away, and the songs of frogs and other, unknown, swamp creatures drifted towards them. The chirping of the frogs grew louder, with an unearthly, reverberating sound that made the swamp close around them like a wet, green stained glass window.

"Reminds me of the effect I get singing dwarven opera in a small bathtub," Lambert whispered.

"Yeah. I don't like it," Fenris responded, and his lover swatted him.

They crossed a river that had an island of rock in the centre. In the murky half-light, its colour was the dark green of a wine bottle. Alistair found himself dreaming of the red served at The Hanged Man. It was harsh as sandpaper, and right then he would have killed for some.

"It's like a crystalline planet, suspended between a lake and sky of darkness," Lambert was saying.

"Enemies would need to approach from that side," Fenris muttered, and Zevran inclined his head in agreement.

They made their way down a slop of mud and scree, pushing past verdant fronds and stinging leaves, and crossed the river like satellites to the floating orb, their muddy boots turning the fetid water to hysterical brilliance

Soon they were completely sheltered by a deep, leafy canopy. On either side grew thick banks of ferns, and the ground beneath their feet was like a green carpet of velvety moss. Yavana stopped suddenly, and Alistair followed her to a grove of sorts – a temple of pale rose quartz. The sky was glowing above them: the dawn light filtered through verdant lace so the very air seemed green.

He was aware, dimly, of Zevran setting up a perimeter, as if he thought that could protect them from the dragon. The assassin was setting traps – kneeling, hands working in fleet circles. Did he think traps could stop a mage or a dragon?

"The Silent Grove," Yavana told them – hushed, as if imparting mysteries. "Built after the fall of the Tevinter Imperium by those who knew that dragons would need protection."

"What would dragons need protecting from?" Donnic scoffed.

Yavana turned back, and the burly Guard Captain blanched, wishing he had not spoken.

"The ignorance of mankind. How many 'heroes' hunted dragons over the centuries, until almost none were left? It was nearly a tragedy for us all."

"Yes: tragic, the thought of a land without flying monsters." Isabella spoke softly, but Zevran heard her, and the Antivan gave a low, dark chuckle.

"In destroying what it does not understand mankind would destroy itself," Yavana said sharply, "The blood of the dragons is the blood of the world. Another subject beyond your comprehension."

The tone was so like another acerbic, scantily-clad apostate it grated on Alistair. Morrigan had loved making these cryptic pronouncements – throwing out hints like dark, sparkling jewels until he or Rillian bit.

"Meaning: you don't understand either, but it's what your mother told you."

"Kid - maybe now isn't a good time..." Varric muttered.

Yavana faced him, her black brows arched. One slim, wraith hand – a blind, white cave creature in the dark – brushed his jaw with the lightness of a moth.

"Don't," he said sharply. Morrigan had touched him like that... "I knew Morrigan. I certainly don't trust you."

"Mmm. I had no idea you had met my sister."

"Then you'll be shocked to hear how I encountered your mother."

"Don't antagonize her," Carver muttered.

"Yes? What do you know of her?"

"Flemeth likes sunsets, turning into things, and talking about how clever she is."

"Yes. Is my mother a human who dreamed she was a dragon or a dragon who dreamed she was human?"

"I'm also told she possesses her daughters."

"Is that right? Ha!"

"What's so funny? Morrigan found out what Flemeth planned. We stopped it."

Unexpectedly, Yavana smiled – a grin so sharp it seemed bloodthirsty.

"That poor, confused child. It is a gift."

"Really?" Alistair drawled. "You are older than Morrigan, are you not? If possession is such a gift, why didn't you want it?"

A strange expression crossed Yavana's face. A faint note of wanting to be understood entered her voice.

"I am a dragon, like my mother, but I do not possess the blood of kings. I needed Maric because I could not do this alone. Morrigan could. Of course our mother would have chosen her."

Alistair had the intimation of a terrible truth: more than he had ever wanted to know.

"Explain."

"Years ago, my mother saved your father's life. And Loghain's. But there was a price."

"There is always a price," Varric muttered.

"Not for Loghain. Flemeth didn't need him. Loghain was ordered to wait outside while Mother conceived a child. Maric's child. You and Morrigan are half-siblings. She, too, has the blood of Calenhad the Great."

Alistair had the impression that if he moved – if he so much as breathed – he would fall into a pit of blackness

"Did Morrigan know?"

"No," Yavana said with a superior smile. "I was there at her birth and visited often. The child wasn't ready. Not for her heritage, nor to know the truth of Flemeth's gift. Your father was permitted to restore his kingdom and play ruler. Until his children were grown. Flemeth had other plans for Morrigan. Maric was suitable for this. She schemed with Claudio Valisti, Third Talon of the Crows, to sink Maric's ship and bring him here. But Claudio betrayed us; to whom, I do not know."

Flemeth was playing with him, playing with all of them, using them in an elaborate and insidious game they couldn't win; a game from which they couldn't even escape because they didn't know the rules.

Alistair shook off the realization like a mabari shedding water; did his best to steady his heart. It wasn't fair to blame himself or Morrigan - they had sinned in innocence. It certainly wasn't fair to blame the child. What mattered was the here-and-now: dealing with this dragon in human form.

"Why bring Maric to the grove?"

"When dragons were nearly extinguished from this world, the builders of the temple called to the few that remained. The dragons that came would rest here for generations – until awakened by power. The blood of Calenhad the Great flowed in Maric's veins. Blood is power – and that is why Maric was taken from me."

Alistair seemed to hear her through an abrupt roaring in his ears: a tumult of anger and distress. For this Maric had been taken from him, from Cailan, from Ferelden. Everything that had happened to his country was because of Flemeth.

"Your heart beats with the old blood. You are tainted, but the Blood of Calenhad is stronger. It sings of a time when dragons ruled the skies..."

The old gods. Urthemiel. Rillian's research.

"...a time before the Veil, before the mysteries were forgotten. Can you hear it?"

Yes. And I don't give a shit about your dragons. Let sleeping dragons lie. If my blood can help Rillian, that is all that matters.

The marsh exploded. Shadows flitted towards Alistair, at the edge of his vision. They seemed inhuman, as though the green hell had come alive to take them. He heard a blood-curdling cry – a woman – Isabella. She was on her knees, left hand wrapped around the obscene arrow jutting from her shoulder. Lambert was running towards her. It was a race – a hundred yards against death.

The leader snapped, "Next time aim for the heart."

Isabella hissed in fury. "Claudio! Bastard."

Alistair drew himself up, hearing his own mocking inner voice: Yes, they tremble when I walk in the room... The leader was stylishly dressed, with a goatee beard, and seemed the type of villain to be interested in exposition.

"If you wanted us dead you could've saved yourself the trouble and done it in Antiva."

"I could have, yes, but this isn't Crow business. My master has been looking for the Silent Grove for years. Alas, the dragon doesn't like explorers – we've never made it through the swamp. Until today."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, shit!"

"Not even a bloodstain?"

Zevran's traps exploded, and it was as if the swamp came alive and took Claudio's men. The assassin smiled, citrine eyes hungry and absent as a shark's. The sly dog – how had he known?

Varric and Sebastian were shooting. "Let me introduce you to Bianca!"

Fenris, Donnic and Alistair closed in.

Isabella was down but not out. "Claudio's a worm and I'm still breathing!"

Lambert was preparing to draw the arrow. Teeth gritted, Isabella muttered, "I haven't had so much fun since...ahhhh!"

Lambert tossed away the bloody arrow and cast a cool blue light. The injury was gone as if it had never been. Alistair remembered Wynne and smiled wistfully.

"Since we sailed from Kirkwall?"

"I was thinking Anselmo's bachelor party."

The dancing lights created the impression Lambert's smile went all the way to the bone.

Claudio was the last man standing and both Zevran and Isabella closed in, hungry as sharks. He looked at Zevran first. "Whatever they are paying you, I can double it."

Zevran's laugh was low, raw, bloody. "Can you undo Rinna's murder?"

"You killed her, not I! Or, rather, her royal blood killed her."

Alistair saw the realization go through Zevran like slow ice. The assassin had assumed Taliesin had arranged Rinna's death because he was jealous – but it appeared Rinna had been, like Alistair himself, a royal bastard. An Elven woman? How?

"And a very common man will kill you."

"Wait..."

"Poor Claudio," Isabella murmured with syrupy sweetness. "Luis had that same confused look."

"You don't deserve to speak his name!"

"He was my husband, not yours."

"Yes. How many nights did you wear that shy, simpering little smile, whispering meekly in your husband's ear? Then, when he asks you to entertain his friends, you decide he's not doting enough? You were lucky to be Luis' plaything – no one else would have lifted you out of that filth you called home! If you thought you were too good for him, you should have crawled back to the sewers – not betrayed him to become the whore of the eastern shore!"

Isabella and Zevran attacked simultaneously. Isabella went for the groin and Zevran slashed his throat – a gaping maw. Blood drenched them as if in joint baptism. Zevran regarded her hungrily. The drawing of the arrow had also shredded her tunic.

"Eyes front," she teased, "I know I look good in blood."

Alistair faced Zevran and Isabella like a beast at bay. "You...you killed him."

Numbed by the inanity of the remark, they could only stare.

"He was the only man who knew where Maric is!"

"I assure you," Yavana said silkily, "The truth is never out of reach."

"She's a necromancer," Varric whispered, "Evidently, she's going to ask Claudio how it feels to have his throat slit."

Alistair's flesh crawled. And yet...if this was the only way to find Maric...

"His spirit lingers in the Fade," Yavana whispered – the cold hiss of ophidian tongues. "I will pin his spirit to this rotting body for all eternity and ask him questions. If he resists, I will let maggots eat his essence as they eat his flesh and protect only enough of his soul to keep him aware."

'I think not.'

Lambert was facing Yavana with a look of very personal hatred - of disgust. He might have been facing a rotting corpse. He clutched his thin dagger in his right hand as though it made him mighty: a sword or sceptre no one could oppose.

Yavana took one look at the overconfident hedge mage and chuckled.

"Sparky - come away!"

"Don't be a fool!"

"Lambert!" Alistair hissed, "this isn't your choice to make! I am – I was – a Templar: I know necromancy is wrong. But so is leaving my...my father to rot in prison. This is the only way..."

"No," said Lambert flatly – not moving from his place between Yavana and the corpse – not backing down. Fenris moved to stand beside him – so lithe he seemed to drift into the new position – backing Lambert against the world.

Yavana was watching this play out: pale, cool, composed. Something in her smile told Alistair she could take them all without breaking a sweat.

"Sparky," Varric said gently, "Claudio is not your mother and Yavana is not Quentin."

Lambert flinched as if struck. His delicate face hardened into new alignments: no gentleness, no grace, no yielding.

"It's still wrong. I won't be part of this: not here, not now, not ever."

"Then don't look," Yavana suggested with a fell smile.

Varric looked from Lambert to the Witch and said, apologetically, "I guess you'd better count me out, too."

Yavana said nothing, merely put her hand on Alistair's forehead: as if she were pulling his very soul out with those slim, wraith hands. His fist clenched around his sword hilt – he turned to settle Lambert. He was a Templar and this a recalcitrant mage.

Zevran got between them, drawing shadows around him in gentle amusement.

"Alistair: much as I would like to watch Yavana interrogate this filth – an eternity pinned to a rotting corpse is the least Claudio deserves – I regret to tell you it is unnecessary. The Archives gave me the name of Claudio's employer. Magister Aurelian Titus."

Yavana regarded the Antivan. "A name. But it is a name I have sought for a very long time."

Zevran was keen to capitalize on her gratitude - perhaps afraid being of no further use to the Witch was a dangerous position - "And we helped you find it."

"You drew out his servants – as I thought you might. Come: you have earned another chance."

"What is this: a test?" Zevran chuckled softly. "The last time I was tested I earned the right to be a Crow. Failure would have been...unfortunate."

Alistair was too angry with Zevran to pay much attention.

"You knew all along – let us come here on a wild goose chase! You set me up..."

Zevran grinned unrepentantly. Alistair had a hard time not punching the assassin in his smug, ridiculously handsome face. "In Antiva we call it a 'bait and switch'. I needed Claudio dead – I knew he would follow us here – and I knew the ten of us could take him. We, my friends, are ridiculously awesome!"

Isabella shrugged and grinned, clearly not sorry her husband's friend was dead. Alistair supposed what Zevran had done was not that different from the story Fenris had told him about how he met Lambert; looking at the very un-hardarse hedge mage, he had his doubts about the story, but still...

He turned away in anger. Zevran had had no right.

"Well, Sparky – all's well that ends well."

But Yavana was not finished with Alistair. Her eyes enveloped him: ships of gold adrift on a sea with no stars.

"Awaken the last of the Great Ones – as your father was meant to. Then we can search for Aurelian Titus together. We can save Maric."

Alistair was suddenly disgusted. A great weight of disgust: for her, for Flemeth, for Morrigan - most of all for himself. "You and Flemeth and Morrigan: all you do is manipulate and lie."

"That is our craft but not our purpose. Mankind destroys without understanding, yet I preserve. What is your purpose?"

"Rillian," he said, without hesitation. "I am a Grey Warden and I am going to help my Commander find a cure for the taint. I am also going to free King Maric – without your help."

He turned his back on Yavana – not really knowing whether she would strike him down – and faced his friends. Faced Lambert with a look of apology. Lambert waved it away. "I understand. If it had been my father..."

"We should be able to find this Magister Titus," Varric told him, "Conversation is what I do."

"Yes," said Alistair, amused, "I'm told your business with the merchant's guild is a cover for your trade in secrets."

"Stories, not secrets. And I enjoy a father-and-son tale as much as anyone. Have I told you my cousin lives in Qarinus? Married to a Magister Maevari Tilani..."

"Unnecessary," Fenris said flatly, "I know where Aurelian Titus is based. Ath Velanis is on Seheron. The magister hosted Danarius on several occasions. The last time we were attacked by Qunari, and this led to my eventual escape, but the fortress remains."

Alistair stared at him in silence. "I... don't have the right to ask you to do that. Go back to the same place where you were a slave and risk recapture."

"You haven't," Fenris said calmly, "I live as I choose and I choose to pay Aurelian Titus a visit."

Lambert was gazing at him, his smile a sun of love. He reached out his arms, grabbed Fenris' shoulders and spun the forbidding assassin to face him.

"Fen - I'm with you. Always. But – are you sure? You don't owe this – to anyone."

Something – not so much a smile but a softening - passed across the lean hungry face. The green eyes were steady.

"This is something I've been wanting to do for a while. Danarius used to 'entertain' his friends too. It's about time I got off my arse and ended Titus."

Lambert's smile faded as the import sunk in. What took its place compared with the small, blasted plants that clung to the surface of a frozen cliff.

"Then the creature dies. Every last one of them."

Embarrassed to witness such a private moment, Alistair turned away, shrugging off Zevran's attempt at talk. He was still too angry with the Antivan for having played him. Angry at Flemeth. Angry at the world...

A luminous flicker darted at the edges of the sky; shadows of the dragon taking flight. Yavana knew the name of her enemy – would be able to follow them. Alistair wondered if he should have ended her when he had the chance.

Later, when they made camp, Alistair allowed himself the memory he would never tell another living soul...

…"You're drunk," Morrigan sighed disapprovingly, as she found him in his softly-lit tent.

"Leave me alone."

She knelt in front of him, strange yellow dragon's eyes on a level with his. Alistair was thinking of Rillian's incomprehensible betrayal at the Landsmeet - and of Riordan's truth.

He thrust a glass of brandy into Morrigan's hand.

The torchlight got too bright for him, after a while. Morrigan's face seemed to be made from cut glass. He couldn't stop flinching at the brilliance of her skin and teeth.

Morrigan pressed close to him and whispered, "You know that I can save her, Alistair, don't you?"

No amount of drunkenness was sufficient, it seemed, even though all breathable air now filtered through Antivan brandy. He stared at her hand in his: alabaster skin, a fine tracing of blue veins, pale, hard nails. She leaned closer. The warmth and sweetness of the brandy on her breath mingled with her scent of damp earth and rain and steel.

All Alistair's thoughts gathered, formed into their inevitable shape. He felt it as the end of a breath he had been exhaling since the result of the Landsmeet. Now was the moment of non-time between the end of this breath and the beginning of the next. Here, in the privacy of his tent, Morrigan was nothing more than a shadow to him. Not a person at all. It was pure space, unoccupied, waiting for his decision.

"Saving Rillian is not an excuse," he whispered.

"There's never an excuse for betrayal."

It came to him, then, what he was doing - and why. He saw Rillian's amber eyes, watching him. To embrace Morrigan at all there had to be some violently willed blindness. So he blinded the image of Rillian and kissed her, hungrily.

At first, as if simply to shatter his expectations, she seemed dull to it; there was no onslaught. They kissed, sometimes with bumped teeth or wrongly angled heads, for some time. Then broke apart.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered, "Do you love Rillian - or hate her?"

His voice in the dark to her. She sat astride him, the Chasind rags, the beads and feathers, tumbled about her as when she shifted forms.

"Flemeth taught me never to ask questions."

She had gone slowly, he realized, because she wanted him sober. She wanted him aware of what he was doing. She wanted maximum culpability for them both. All of it was a punishment for something - for what, he did not know. For letting herself love Rillian?

"Is this for power?" he asked her, though her reasons meant nothing to him, though it was just his mouth making noise.

"Of course. Of course it is. Shut up."

Then the clarity of consciousness as they moved through the dance of betrayal; the creation of some alien child and its unknown future. The thrill of her long, sinuous body rising above him like a snake. The bliss of her weight on him. Long periods of silence, protracted kissing. Staring at each other in the dark.

Then it was over. Her silence; his own somnambulistic dressing.

"And now?" he whispered. His voice was raw as if he had been weeping.

"Now you will travel to Redcliffe and I will await her arrival from Denerim. We will not see each other again; and you must not follow. Ever."

"And after the battle?" Alistair asked softly, "Where will you go?"

Morrigan's laughter rocked through the twilight. Alistair winced at the sound. There was departure in it, a resigned melancholy that made him think of endless roads, of campfires abandoned and gone cold.

Uncaring of her nakedness, her moon-pale body glistening in the soft candlelight, Morrigan moved to the tent flap. Shadows and light played about her form: Alistair saw hard planes, softness, hollow and swell; hair like black fire and eyes like candleflames, with darkness at their centres. Her body rippled and shifted, undulating as her spirit tore itself from its mortal frame. Her hawk form soared upward with a harsh, ascending cry. Wings stiff, she banked, stooped. Pumping once, she increased speed. The last Alistair saw of her, she was dropping down on some unsuspecting prey. Awed, he felt her arrogant pity for all trapped, earthbound creatures. A moment later, she became just a tiny speck against the glowing violet sky…

---

Bloomingtide 9:34

In the nacreous hush of dawn, pink mists swirled around the Venification Sea. Staring out from the port city of Brynnlaw, Rillian thought of a luminous moat around Southern Thedas. Or else a duned lagoon, a watery desert of shellfish and salmon. To her left, a swarm of gulls headed for the distant majesty of Arlathan forest. To her right, she had a glimpse of purple rain heading towards Rivain. Behind her, a lone oystercatcher flew over The White Spire – a series of mountains glittering and cold as giant ice-cubes.

She, Jowan and Ser Otto waited for The Siren's Call in the gardens of an inn called 'The Seven Veils.' Encircling stone walls held pockets of earth planted with ferns and spring flowers. The wall opposite was shrouded in liquid ripples. Glassy sheets of water shattered on a rock ledge before draining into a gelid pool. There was a hidden entry to the garden behind a clump of violet rhododendrons. It was serviced by a path obscured by a solid hedge of white lilacs, like lacy, upside-down doilies dropped by a noblewoman. Three birds from Seheron landed to bathe in the splash of the water. They were large as crows, but a beautiful pale green. Rillian and Jowan exchanged a smile at the sight – and then Jowan turned to his companion and described what he saw. Ser Otto – the face of a handsome young knight behind the burned face, scarred hairless scalp and milky-pale blinded eyes – smiled too. Ser Otto had been through his own dark night of the soul – in which the agony of lyrium withdrawal had taken second place to grief for Mother Boann – and believed the woman he had loved would have her body and mind back at the Maker's side. That He would not let her remember the depravity that had made her The Mother. Part of the reason for this faith was that, even now he no longer took lyrium, he still had his Templars' powers.

"Before, I had wondered if the Maker were a lie put about by the Chantry to hide the derisive nothingness beneath," he had confessed, "Our powers no more than the outward expression of lyrium. But now I see they must truly come from Elsewhere – because I can cast them without. A seed must have a sower."

Jowan had confessed, quietly, to her that he believed both he and Ser Otto were now casting from taint, like darkspawn. "I can keep casting when out of mana and without using Blood Magic – like darkspawn emissaries. If Templar powers are low-level magic the same might be true of him." There was a time Jowan would have shared that opinion with Ser Otto – his needling of the knight the only way he could get back at the Templar Order for Thomas' Tranquility – but now the two Wardens were unlikely friends he would never be that cruel.

"I arranged to meet Captain Isabella in a tavern called The Cock and Seaman," Rillian told them. Ser Otto frowned slowly, unusually delicate – the expression of someone noting but choosing to ignore a regrettable descent into bad taste. Jowan blushed red as a sunset. Rillian snickered. "Creates an image, doesn't it? It's where the pirates buy and sell and do all the fun things pirates do."

Jowan was appalled. "You want us to go there? An Elven woman – a mediocre mage – and a blind Templar?" Ser Otto shrugged and grinned ruefully, not offended.

Rillian brandished her crossbow. Made by one Gerav Tethras, it had been a prototype to the masterpiece now carried by his cousin. Rillian had been corresponding with the brilliant Bianca Davri who had suggested improvements. She couldn't wait to meet her – another woman who did not let either men or humans tell her what she couldn't accomplish. And, she admitted ruefully, while she herself had only dreams and stolen memories, Bianca actually had inventions to her credit.

"Who's going to mess with us?"

Jowan opened his mouth – realised it would do no good – and shut it.

The sun rose higher and The White Spire turned golden. The sea became a blazing turquoise, white clouds billowing overhead like banners. The bay, surrounded by silky sand, gleamed invitingly. The Siren's Call skimmed towards them, too smoothly for any wake to catch the eye. Waves silvered the coastline. Rillian jumped to her feet, gesticulating,

"See: they're signalling from the ship to an observation post with a mirror. Isabella told me in bad weather or darkness they use lanterns. Red – blue- gold: did you ever see anything so colourful?" Her own outfit had been chosen specially to match. She was wearing docker's 'ironbutts' and sturdy boots but the practicality was offset by the scarlet tunic embroidered with a golden ship made by Shianni. The emblem had been chosen to annoy Loghain – it celebrated Isabella's rescue of the Elves he had tried to sell to Tevinter – but now it was a tribute to the Queen of the Eastern Seas. Thinking of Shianni made her smile softly. Her fearless cousin would have accompanied her – but she was five months pregnant with Cale's child. Rillian's skills as an aunt were unproven but – she was sure – exemplary.

Rillian did not question her use of the word "see": she was not particularly tactful in any case but, also, Ser Otto had once remarked he did not enjoy it when well-meaning folk deliberately avoided it as though the word itself might harm him. "The maleficar's fireball was harmful," he had said dryly, "the word 'see' is not."

Three-masted, with a triangular jib forward, The Siren's Call drove hard for the anchor buoys bobbing off-shore. Her sails were striped in triangular Vs of royal blue, blood red and aureate gold. Since Fenris had helped her defeat Castillon she had added his colours to her own like the skin of a leopard. The burnished ship flung herself across the blue of the sea and silver chop of the waves with the mad gaiety of flame.

In preparation for her arrival, a smaller boat was carried to the water by a group of men. They shouted orders, jokes. Rillian and her friends dashed to the water, sand slithering around boots. Rillian watched eagerly as two people climbed over the side of the larger ship to the smaller craft. One was quick, with feline grace, citrine eyes and golden hair; the other bulky, slow-moving, ponderous. She recognised Zevran first and threw her head back with a whoop of joy. The overweight human man followed the Antivan and there was something familiar that nagged her. She stared – her eyes opened wide...

Alistair leapt out of the vessel, onto the sand. His eyes – hazel, good-humoured, dancing – met hers. Rillian stopped in her tracks, unbelieving.

As if to himself, he said, "I've found you."

---

The Cock and Seaman had a great name and the ale wasn't half bad. Lambert was wearing purple leather trousers, grey suede boots and a lilac tunic embroidered with the design of a silver hawk. The impression he was going for was of purple rain lit by a crescent moon. Fenris had once compared him to a walking grape – now that Carver made a similar observation the assassin merely said, "Hawke doesn't need to dress like a mercenary to be deadly." Fenris was not going to bond with Carver – warrior-to-warrior – at his lover's expense.

Lambert was sitting next to Fenris on his right – so that Fenris' right hand was free to defend them – and Carver on his left. Opposite, Rillian sat between Jowan – who seemed to be trying to melt into her shadow – and Zevran, who glowed like the Antivan sun. Zevran wore armour of pale green leather and boots patterned with what looked like Dalish Vallaslin – swirls of blue woad that echoed the design on Rillian's forehead. He looked both indolent and watchful: contemplative, sleepy-eyed; a predator idling before a waterhole pretending no interest whatsoever. If Lambert was representing water – his favourite element – and Zevran the sun - then Rillian could only be fire. As the Hero of Ferelden she had blazed in Dragonscale armour, her cropped hair just beginning to grow out of its docker's crewcut. Now she wore a scarlet tunic emblazoned with a golden ship. Her hair tumbled down her back. It made him think of the dance of flames upon forged steel; a rain of fire. At the foot of the table, hunched and twisted awkwardly to keep his gaze to her, gawky as an injured heron, Alistair feasted on the sight. His eyes danced. He talked loudly, incessantly.

Rillian was listening to his tale of The Silent Grove - of King Maric alive!- with the distraction of someone who has something desperately important to say and no idea how to say it.

"Trying a frontal assault on Titus' fortress on Seheron would be suicide," Alistair admitted, "But Fenris tells me Tevinter is currently battling the Qunari for control of the island – with the Fog Warriors caught in the middle. You told me you were going to return Sten's sword to his people – and I thought..."

Rillian's expression softened; her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. After the Arishok had glowered from his base in Kirkwall like a portentous warning – knowing what they did to mages – Lambert would never see Qunari as potential allies; but he knew Sten had made the ultimate sacrifice for Ferelden. For a moment he was back there: the aftermath of the battle of Drakon River, ground slimy with unspeakable detritus, the hospital tent where all he could do was comfort the dying.

"But," Alistair finished, "Varric has also told me his cousin is married to a Magister Maevaris Tilani in Qarinus. If you think these would make better allies I'm with you."

Beside Lambert, Fenris tensed. Lambert squeezed his muscled thigh under the table – a silent promise neither would set foot in Tevinter unless to kill magisters. After Tevinter had enslaved the man he loved that was non-negotiable to Lambert.

"We don't know how much the Qunari know of events in Kirwall," Isabella murmured. Her position at the head of the table gave her a clear view across the crowded tavern. She wore a silver, close-fitting blouse that glinted like chainmail, black leather trousers with a silver stripe up the side of each leg, and obsidian-and-silver earrings. The firelight cast myriad shifting hues across the material, glowed wildly in her rich black hair. Her hands cupped a flagon of Aqua Magus - which she could knock back like water – and Lambert marveled how they combined strength with feminine warmth and delicacy.

Alistair turned to the Rivaini woman. "I've always wanted to ask you: what's your opinion of Tevinter?" As a trader when outnumbered, and pirate when not, Isabella had been there often.

She glanced round. She had told Lambert that the man carving the pork and the woman by the beer keg were Tevinter spies but that everyone else could be trusted.

"Alright, then: Tevinter stinks – anyplace that tolerates slavery is evil – but the House of Red Lanterns in Minrathous is amazing."

Lambert winced. When working at the Blooming Rose he had heard tales of the infamous Elven bawdyhouse. He met Fenris' hard green eyes.

"At least they made a choice," he murmured – thinking of his own choice to sell his flesh so his mother could eat - "A rotten one, but their own."

Fenris looked at him: not in wonder at his ignorance but envy of his innocence. "They're sent there by their masters to inform on clients."

Isabella had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well don't I feel like the arsehole!"

"It's part of your charm, cara mia," Zevran murmured.

Fenris shrugged. "You fought Danarius with me. Risked yourself – twice – to free slaves. That is what you are."

"Shhh. Don't say that too loud - I have a reputation to maintain!" Isabella whispered – but Lambert thought she looked a little relieved.

Fenris met Alistair's hazel-eyed stare – held the human man's gaze for several uncompromising seconds. "Allying with any magister – even one you consider to be 'good' - would be a mistake."

Dryly, Lambert joked, "The magister doesn't hate you - but you are made of blood that he can use for something else." It was the first time he had ever been able to joke about his first encounter with Danarius. Fenris – who had a liking for bad jokes – snorted into his ale.

Alistair looked away – a little deflated.

"Come on, this is all too serious!" he said suddenly, with a startling shift in volume and emphasis, "I want some more of that meat. And ale. Come with me, Rillian."

Rising without argument, Rillian followed him. She looked back, once – met Fenris' gaze in perfect understanding – but when she turned away, it was with renewed concentration on Alistair. A casual observer would have smiled at the way the attractive, lithe young woman paid attention to her doting escort. Lambert watched them a moment: his bardic training and the months with Madam Lusine had taught him to read nuance. If he'd ever seen a better case of unrequited love, he couldn't remember it. He reflected that what he knew of Rillian – the Hero of Ferelden; the woman who had saved Lambert, Varric and Fenris in the Deep Roads – didn't square with the image of a woman who would use a man in love. Then he wondered if Rillian's idealism had become the sort that has no qualms about manipulating others for the greater good.

He blushed (which always embarrassingly showed up on a complexion pale as cheese) thinking: there I go. I'm as bad as all the rest. Thinking the human man needs protection from the Elven woman! I don't know the whole story, and Alistair can look after himself.

He turned back to the table and tried to catch the gaze of his fellow mage. Jowan avoided him, eyes slinking like hunted animals. He and Warden Jowan could sense the mana in each other – Jowan's felt darker, thicker, slower moving than the bright, flowing current of Anders' power. He knew who this was from Thomas' letters – but Jowan did not appear eager to talk. Perhaps because Lambert's lover was watching him as an owl watches a mouse.

He looked around, taking in his friends: Donnic was playing darts with Isabella's first mate, Casavir; Bianca and Varric were on speaking terms again; Sebastian and Ser Otto were talking quietly – apparently the Templar Warden had been away so long he had not known Justinia was now Divine.

Alistair and Rillian returned to the table. She looked from one person to the other with something in her manner that warned of challenge. Finally, she turned to Alistair.

"We will free Maric – and ask the Qunari on Seheron to help us. I mean to return Sten's soul. Going there is important - but not as important as Red Bride's Grave. The Senior Warden mage – the things Fiona told me – we cannot delay."

Alistair looked at her as if silently wondering how much she had changed. "Every moment is a moment of torture for my...for King Maric."

Rillian dropped words like stones onto the table. "If he has survived for nine years he can survive a few months more."

Lambert flinched. "Easy to say for the person who isn't being tortured," he murmured. Reality wavered and trembled; echoes, faintly, rang in him. Fenris placed his thigh next to Lambert's - just that small physical contact – giving off heat like a banked furnace. The world recohered.

Alistair tried again. "What we find in Titus' stronghold may help us in Red Bride's Grave. He's a magister – will have the kind of laboratory we need to study taint. Think of the knowledge his library will contain!"

That was a better argument – Lambert could tell from the glimmer in the lucent amber eyes. Rillian shook her head as if rallying herself. "It will be just as helpful to us to go there afterwards – with this medical treasure Fiona spoke of."

"Ril..."

"No! I have better things to do than contend with your needs! If you wish to free Maric first I will not try to stop you; you may take anyone who wishes to go. But I will go to Red Brides Grave – with or without your help."

She was bluffing, Lambert was sure. If Isabella decided she'd prefer to take her chances on Seheron it was her ship. Rillian, Ser Otto and Jowan had left to join the Clan Lavellan with nothing.

Isabella was uncharacteristically silent. Ser Otto, Sebastian and Donnic rejoined them and it seemed Ser Otto spoke for all. He said, quietly, "It doesn't matter that Maric is King – or Alistair's father. It matters that he is a living soul who can feel pain. So can the victims of taint – and either way someone may die for the delay. These choices fall only on leaders – you are my leader, Rillian, and I will abide by your decision."

"I," Carver said, "Am Fereldan but I am a Grey Warden first. Red Bride's Grave is for the Wardens - the real Wardens," he added, his look at Rillian a tribute. It was clear he knew neither Guillaume Caron, Montsimmard or Weisshaupt would approve the mission and did not care. His belief was in the woman who had made him a Warden. The woman who had defeated the Archdemon.

Lambert looked at Fenris. "I'm with Fen," he said pointedly – surprising no-one.

Fenris looked at him and his green eyes went very soft – as full of secrets as a cat's. He was, thought Lambert, the handsomest man he had ever seen; the epitome of masculine beauty. Which was not just a matter of bones and angles but the indomitable quality of will that would see the body it drove broken apart rather than yield. Yet he yielded to Lambert, by choice, gave him the treasures of thought and meaning and free will he was discovering as soon as he possessed them.

"The Warden Commander is right. I can wait, too."

Rillian and Alistair faced each other. Lambert thought of the words as a knife and the two as opponents: circling, circling - reaching for it.

Rillian said, "Think about it: a possible cure for taint! As Grey Wardens, that is our primary responsibility – before freeing prisoners, before loyalty to family. Yes, we have no laboratory, no money, and no official sanction – but neither did Brun and Freya when they started. Neither did Vhena – who taught the Wardens to ride griffons..."

That image fell on Alistair like kindling lit with the spark.

Rillian waited with the timing of a bard – Lambert recognized Leliana's lessons – then said quietly, "As Duncan told us: Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn."

That was a slam-dunk, Lambert saw at once.

"You're right," Alistair told her. Defeat ached in the words.

Carver and Lambert went to get more meat. "Well," said Lambert sotto-voce to his brother, shaking his right hand as though the fingers burned. "Is this Rillian Tabris or The Iron Lady?"

Carver grinned. "From here on it's going to be: "Hands off your cocks and on your socks! Heels together, no slouching, and when I say, 'Eyes right' I want to hear eyeballs click!"

Lambert remembered his brother had served under General Loghain Mac Tir. "Right at home, aren't you?"

Carver smirked. "Try to keep up."

---

The Siren's Call skimmed across the Venefication Sea on a favourable current. The sky slowly bled light and the eastern horizon had started to pale more than the rest. Dawn was perhaps an hour away. Lambert squirmed in luxurious self-indulgence, wriggling like an eel, and felt about the bunk of the cabin he shared with Fenris. The warm body next to him had risen; Fenris was already up and dressed. His lean, muscled back was to Lambert; broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The brands glinted like silver daggers. They overlaid the scars of floggings Fenris had endured as a child – other scars, gained in battle, overlaid the brands. A part of his shoulder looked like someone had stuck a pole through it and he hadn't been able to grow enough tissue to fill the hole. He was wearing the tough docker's trousers nicknamed 'ironbutts'; no shirt or shoes. Their experience swimming on Llomerryn had taught him not to be embarrassed about the brands, he had said only, "If other magisters hear about them and want to take me, let them try."

The soles of his feet were tough as the rest of him. That was something Lambert had noticed about other Elves in Kirkwall: unlike Ferelden's Elves they all wore shoes without soles – which seemed a contradiction in terms – even when, like Athenril, they could afford them. The close-knit community had turned a mark of inequality – the fact most couldn't afford shoes – into a mark of cultural pride. That was something beyond Lambert's experience: both belonging to a culture and being seen as lesser. As apostates his family had never dared be part of a community and as human-passing, well-spoken people who – thanks to magebane – passed as non-mages they had never been seen as lesser. They had been able to walk into any inn, shop, market square and be read as 'respectable' folk.

Fenris had never been welcomed by a community either: the Dalish had run him off and the Alienage had treated him as an exotic and dangerous creature – contagious with the disease of the unimaginable. His experience of being Elven had been slavery, racism, slurs. So he hadn't worn shoes without soles as a mark of Elven pride, but only because boots didn't move with him as he phased. Now, though, he was quite happy to fit in with the rest of the crew – many of the old sea dogs didn't wear shoes either. Lambert had seen him drinking with Jan and Brand in contented silence, like veterans of similar campaigns.

Shadowy blocks filled the cabin: Lambert's lute, his clothes in a chaotic pile (Fenris' armour stacked neatly beside it) and the hidey-hole in one corner where his three cats curled into each other. Incognito's babies were full-grown but she was protective as any mother. The water he had boiled last night was placed in a green dish and they had eaten all their fish.

Outside, he could just make out the groans as someone – Donnic, by the sound of it – lost at Diamondback. Donnic, Sebastian, Ser Otto, Jowan, Alistair and Carver all shared one giant cabin – and after Varric's latest row with Bianca he was bunking with them. Which meant he was holding court just as he had done in The Hanged Man. As a result both Alistair and Carver would take their mabaris up on deck more often than not. Alistair had been brooding ever since the disagreement with Rillian, and since that name of Varric's had already been taken the dwarf had nicknamed him, 'Grouchy.' Carver bridled at being christened, 'Junior' - a name that delighted Lambert.

If those two couples – Rillian-Alistair and Varric-Bianca - were more off than on, Zevran and Isabella made enough noise for all. Hearing the growls, screams, curses and praises, Lambert remembered things – but he wouldn't have traded for anything.

The cabin next door was quiet. The area commanded by Rillian Tabris and Bianca Davri was a makeshift laboratory. Keen to research his own interest in curing Fenris' brands, Lambert had shyly offered to help. He was no Anders, but as a medic who had served during the Fifth Blight he knew something of taint. Rillian and Bianca were the senior lab partners, Jowan their assistant and Lambert the dogsbody. He didn't mind – knowing from working with Wynne and later Anders that this was just how scientists operated. Jowan had been wary at first – even without Fenris present he knew this was his friend's cousin - but finding Lambert to be friendly and chatty and peaceable, discovering how nice it was to have someone lower down the food chain, he had gotten over that. Yesterday, when cutting up elfroot, Lambert had quietly told him what he knew – that Lily had been rescued from Aeonar and Thomas cured of Tranquility. Jowan's eyes had become very dark, very bright - Lambert had withdrawn to give him privacy.

In talking with Bianca, Lambert had learned more about the 'prize' he, Fenris, Varric and Bartrand had found in the Primeval Thaig. Apparently, thousands of years before the rise of darkspawn, the worship of the idol had corrupted and destroyed House Valdasine and been sealed inside the Thaig. Awfully, incredibly, the idol could taint lyrium – when Rillian had placed it on a shelf and Ser Otto's unused lyrium vials next to it they had turned the same unholy red. Bianca had created a lead-lined container to house both statue and vials and impressed on Rillian the need to keep Pandora's box closed.

"I believe this Red Lyrium is tainted lyrium – which proves lyrium is alive because only living things can be tainted."

Nothing she could have said could have affected Lambert so deeply. It felt like a punch to the gut. He actually grunted at the force of the words – and excused himself soon after. He spent the evening with Fenris and – unable to find words to tell him – compensated by making him dinner (fish, of course). Fenris fell on it like a starving predator. Lambert realized that, while he and the other researchers had stopped to eat from time to time, Fenris never seemed to notice he was hungry until he was ravenous. Just like he never noticed pain. Wounds were an inconvenience for Fenris, except for the blood loss. Lambert knew these idiosyncrasies were the result of having different hierarchies of pain and hunger to other people. It would be his life's work to take the pain and teach Fenris to experience pleasure: good food, good sex, going to sleep beside the person you loved.

Last night, he had confided a memory he'd never told anyone, pushed Fenris back upon the bed, pulled his trousers off, slithered down and sucked him, selflessly, until he came. He could see Fenris wondering afterward. Pleased – but wondering nonetheless.

Now, though, seeing Fenris about to leave, he couldn't stand it. He had no idea how he was going to say it – only that Fen had the right to know. He blurted,

"Bianca Davri thinks lyrium is alive."

Fenris stopped in the doorway. Noiselessly as a cat, he turned. He only showed up as a deeper darkness against the gloom but his green eyes glinted, seeming to reflect stored light. They were calm, resigned. He grunted, unconcerned.

"I've always known I am sharing my body with something else. I'll fight it for as long as I can."

Seeing the man he loved so self-contained, so matter-of-fact, made Lambert's heart clench.

"I'm going to cure you. I'll get to work at once. Rillian and Bianca have some ideas – secret stuff – you wouldn't believe!" Despite himself, he bubbled over with enthusiasm.

Dourly, Fenris said, "Watch the Blood Mage. He hasn't used it in a while – I can smell it – but he won't have forgotten how. Don't give him any blood samples."

Lambert sighed. He knew Fenris' words stemmed from concern but he didn't want his lover to start acting like a mage guardian.

"I don't need you Templar-splaining my work to me," he huffed, "Go on, then, my croaking raven: you enjoy being a pirate and I'll be where the important stuff happens!"

Fenris' face turned to vinegar. He left, muttering under his breath about arrogant mages and foolish researchers.

By the time Lambert was working at the small station Rillian had given him - cutting up ingredients - he had forgotten his irritation. It had been the same in Anders' clinic – he could just work for hours, falling into the same state Fenris did when practicing sword-forms.

"You're good on the bench," Rillian remarked – high praise. Lambert blushed with pleasure.

On his right, the container Rillian termed The Luggage contained every herb she had been given by Clan Lavellan. Plus the Swamp Flower seeds Lambert had found on Llomeryn and seeds of Northern Prickleweed sent all the way from The Wending Wood by Ines Arancia. Rillian had been excited to receive these because it was the only plant that could thrive on tainted ground. She pored over Ines' 'The Botanical Compendium' with the air of someone discovering treasures.

Lambert described the creation of 'Apostate's Friend' - the bootleg potion he and Anders had invented that made Elves and humans more like dwarves: resistant to lyrium.

Bianca whistled in admiration. "That's a closely guarded secret of the Mining Caste. If you and Anders have stumbled on the formula independently you'll need eyes in the back of your head."

He grinned – a bright, challenging grin. "Well, they haven't managed to get Varric yet so I'll risk it." He continued cutting; fleet, exact, using the same muscles he used when playing the piano. Each ingredient was placed in its own glass beaker, reminding him of the row of unguents his mother had kept in the bathroom... He turned,

"But all this potion does is dull Fen's pain. It makes him insensible to lyrium; more...more solid, I guess. But if lyrium is alive – trying to take him over because that's what living things do – he'll need something else to fight it."

"Deep Mushrooms," Bianca said suddenly, "They grow in the Deep Roads next to lyrium deposits and are antagonistic. They feed on lyrium."

She extended the mushrooms in a wooden cup. It passed under Lambert's nose. Dark brown, they had a greasy cast on the surface and a dank, organic smell. Lambert's mind flashed to deep shade, where furtive insects rustled under decaying leaves and the soil was forever damp.

"Keeper Deshanna told me foxglove rallies the immune system to fight dirt creatures," Rillian said. She was wearing the strange contraption she had taken from The Architect – the headdress that magnified her eyes. They were enormous. He had the impression of amber containing myriad secrets. "In small quantities only – too much and it kills. If lyrium is alive it will function like these dirt creatures. Taint is different: not really living. It needs to hijack a living system – lyrium or a body – before it can reproduce. I believe both taint and lyrium can be fought by a person's own defences."

"The Wardens' Joining?" Lambert breathed, fascinated. He had the feeling a box of secrets were being opened before his eyes – a gift he had never known he wanted until today.

"No - the Wardens' Joining is the exact opposite. We ingest lyrium to weaken our own defences – persuade our bodies to accept taint. A ghoul is more a warrior than a Warden – they at least are trying to fight the infection, though they will lose."

Lambert's face fell. He remembered the taint-ravaged: Ser Wesley's eyes begging for the precise cuts that would ensure he died before drowning in the shadows. Lambert had made the cuts and taken the pain: a mercy for which his wife – who had joined the Wardens with Carver – would never forgive him. Surely that could not be how his marriage-in-all-but-name to Fenris would end?

No! Lambert rejected that with all the force of which he was capable. With all the baffled, uncomprehending anger of his fight against sickness and pain and the evil of creatures like Danarius, he picked up his tools.

"The Swamp Flower in the Korcari Wilds can cure mabaris of taint - First Enchanter Remille created a potion based on it that can rally a person's defences: it had a ten-percent success rate. Ines Arancia improved it during the Blight and it's closer to thirty percent now."

The shadows of memory darkened Lambert's vision. The difference between a ten percent success rate and a thirty percent success rate was not maths to him: it was the difference between the aftermath of the battle at Drakon River and the aftermath of the second battle of Ostagar.

"The variant you found on Llomerryn does not work against taint – but does work against lyrium. Ser Otto told me that. He was my first volunteer. If you repeat the processes Remille and Ines used – they left detailed notes – you'll have the basis for a treatment. If you can strengthen Fenris' own defences he will be able to fight it."

Over the next two weeks of their voyage Lambert worked and worked and worked - hardly emerging from the lab except to feed his cats. He ended up with a liquid mix of: Deep Mushroom, the Llomerryn Swamp Flower, elderberry and foxglove. Rillian showed him a medical secret she had learned from The Architect. It was a pottery tube with wooden plugs at each end. Holding it vertical, she unplugged one end, keeping it carefully upright. Then emptied the liquid into the tube. Reaching back into The Luggage, she drew out a small box, sealed with wax. Stripping off the cover, she opened it to produce a short stick. One end of the stick was wrapped in leather. It was a snug fit for the original tube. The other article in the box was a wooden plug that exactly fit the open end of the tube. A hollow feather quill protruded from its centre. The device was for injections.

Lambert tested it on himself. Under Rillian's directions, he found an exposed vein in the centre of his left arm and carefully placed the tip against it. Then jabbed the tip into the vein and pushed the plunger. Liquid rushed into his bloodstream.

"How do you feel?"

"Never better," he said brightly.

An hour later he was throwing up over the side of the ship. He was vaguely aware of Fenris up on the crow's nest, looking through a spyglass at the narrow gap between Seheron and The High Reaches. Apparently, you needed skill to sail through there – but right then Lambert had other problems.

"No mage has good sea legs!" Carver crowed but Lambert felt too ill to care.

By evening he had rallied. He paid another visit to the lab and added feverfew and willowbark to the mixture. He prepared a fresh injection but decided to leave it 'til morning. He took it with him, carefully wrapped in his backpack, and settled for the night beside Fenris. Exhausted, sweat-streaked, he fell asleep almost instantly.

"Come up with me," Fenris told him next morning, "I'll show you the view from the crow's nest. Safer for you than that bloody lab."

"Oh - it was nothing to do with the lab!" Lambert lied brightly. The best liars were those who half-believed their own tall stories and Lambert was up there with Rillian. "I just ate some dodgy oysters. You go on – I'll see you tonight."

He waited 'til Fenris had left the cabin before carefully unwrapping the device and placing the tip by his other arm. He took a deep breath...

…Fenris walked in!

"I knew you were up to something!"

Lambert gave Fenris the smile he always used when caught in a bluff and trying to brazen it out. Varric would have been proud of him.

"It's a patented invention: one that will make you stronger and the lyrium brands weaker. Yesterday's version wasn't exactly right – this is perfection." He grinned and placed his fingertip on the plunger. "Astia valla femundis!"

Lambert realised in that instant he had never seen Fenris angry before. Terrified, hate-filled, killing like an animal powered by rage. But not horrified, angry, disbelieving. Fenris phased – a moment later was standing before him. With a swordsman's fine control, he plucked the device from Lambert's hands. Placed the quill against his own left arm.

"No don't!" Lambert squeaked in horror. "You'll hit an artery! You don't even know what you're doing..."

Fenris' jaw jutted. Antagonists now, he and Lambert matched stares.

"Arrogant mage."

"Stupid patient."

"Go on then. Inject me. I've had worse things inside me."

Lambert didn't laugh at the black humour. He stammered. Waffled. "It's untested. I don't know how strong the foxglove really is. If you get sick, I could use magic to heal that – but if the brands react badly I don't know what to do. Apostate's Friend might not even help..."

This made Fenris even angrier.

"And this is the mixture you were going to test on yourself? Did you think I wouldn't notice you feeding the fish all day yesterday? You're not even a fit test subject anyway! You're a mage – which means you can metabolize lyrium. If the potion is meant to fight lyrium, and doesn't find any, your heightened defences may turn on you. That's what usually happens when you arm a city to the teeth and don't give them an outside enemy. The only people this might work on are Templars - or me. Do it."

"Damned well I will then!" Stress and anger made the words a snarl. Nonetheless, Lambert was very gentle as he cleaned Fenris' forearm and placed the tip upon the vein on the inside of his elbow. He stopped.

"Fen..."

"Now!"

He pushed the plunger and the liquid sloshed into Fenris' bloodstream. When the glass was empty he carefully withdrew it. He didn't immediately go to sterilize the device. Remained with it drooping in his hand, staring forlornly. Wondering if the whole thing were just one big fat mistake.

"Remain here. I'll need to keep an eye on you for the rest of the day."

"I've got things to do."

Fenris stalked to the door and was gone. For the rest of the day he was helping Isabella with the ship – alternately up on the crow's nest and helping the crew tack around the peninsula. Lambert spent the day with Rillian and Bianca – ostensibly to help them but with help that entailed a lot of complaining about idiot patients. In the evening he complained to Varric – the two sitting up on deck – while Fenris spent time with Donnic and Sebastian. He was less verbal in his complaints – but when one of the three raised an eyebrow expressively or coughed in a certain way the others knew what was meant.

Shafts of dying light shot straight down into the sea, calling up greens, blues, purples, silvers; in the distance was an approaching mass of slate-coloured thunderheads. They streamed towards the ship like dark banners. The wind scoured away the glassy veil of turquoise and made liquid mountains of the waves. The sea's shrill hiss made Isabella order them to prepare for tempest. The four scientists tidied away their samples – having water contaminate them during the storm would be disastrous. Lambert made sure his cats were settled, fed and watered – they would not be leaving the cabin until this was over.

Fenris was sat on the bunk, wearing nothing but the red armband. Lambert was so happy to see him well - actually more than well, with the brands fainter than he had ever seen them – he forgot to be angry. Fenris gazed at him rather sheepishly and then downed his vial of Apostate's Friend. He cut his eyes to Lambert and asked,

"You have a name for this stuff. Do you have a name for the other? Something like, 'Lambert's Immune Booster'?"

"It's called, 'Fenris' Friend,'" Lambert muttered.

Fenris' eyes glimmered oddly. They brightened and seemed full – as though the colour might spill over.

"Thank you."

Fenris spent the rest of the night making love to him. Lambert wondered at the contradictions in him: who was the pragmatic man who served on The Siren's Call as if he had been born to it, and what happened to that man when he was with the one who found exactly the right touch?

The dim lighting painted the cabin walls with dark, velvety shadows. Lambert and Fenris lay cocooned upon their hard bunk, snug within a flimsy blanket not wide enough for two. Every inch of Fenris' compact, muscular frame reflected tranquillity. His brands were quiescent, so pale they could have been scars. His eyes were closed and his breathing deep, but he was not asleep. Lambert snuggled next to him, his mind a green oasis of happiness. He was aware of the storm; a howling darkness that made mountains of the Colean Sea. It roared around them, made the fragile walls creak, throbbed through bone and muscle. He knew they might all drown at the bottom of a sea that roiled like black flame. But his heart was full of sun-washed indolence.

Things that were not true memories, but vivid as present time, crashed and stumbled through his mind. There were the lingering impressions of sensations that defied reality in their dreamlike intensity, like musical echoes, the sensory memory of cries and words spoken. He had never been delirious. He had treated patients. He thought that if delirium could ever be pleasure, it would be like this.

Lambert's lips tickled one of Fenris' lupine ears. He saw shadowy angles of arm, shoulder, jaw; felt the warmth of his skin - always a degree or so higher than normal, as if he were fighting infection. He ran one hand down the hard rolling muscles of his stomach, moved lower, and was pleased to feel him twitch back to life.

"I'm yours," Fenris growled.

Lambert raised his head to look into those green, reflective eyes, glinting in the darkness.

"I love you," he replied.

Fenris nipped his neck with his teeth.

Lambert climbed on top of him and laughed throatily, spiced with mischief.

"Here I come."