Chapter 31: Blood Rain
Song is The Rains of Castamere, from Game of Thrones.
Escaping Red Bride's Grave with the griffons was easier said than done. Each adventurer took care of one griffon but feeding of course was difficult. Rillian bound them in a padded sling, much like the ones Clan Lavellan used to carry their babies while travelling. As half-bird half-mammal no-one was sure what baby griffons were supposed to eat. Rillian tried bugs and fish, then bought a goat from a farmer and tried milk, as if they were kittens. They seemed to like both. The goat was a rangy, long-legged beast, its black coat splotched with white.
It was Bianca who created the feeding device. The container was a small ceramic bottle, which was carefully cleaned and boiled before each use. The end, tied off with rawhide, was a cone-shaped soft leather nipple. Bianca insisted the leather also be cleaned faithfully – she was more of a scientist than Rillian. The baby griffons made hard work sucking on something so alien, but they did it. They attacked the bottle with astonishing ferocity, as if determined to live. Because everyone – even the man's man Donnic and the fearsome killer Fenris – liked the griffons, their feedings were times of fascination and involvement. They were well-launched into being spoiled.
Fenris told Rillian, "As soon as you find a good campsite, I think you should all settle in. I'll scout. If I can, I'll get some packhorses."
Lambert was worried. "Is that safe? Are the people who live in the Wandering Hills friendly?"
"I'll be careful. I'll be gone three, maybe four, days. The people who live in the Hills can be hard to find. Towards Tevinter, it's best not to find them at all."
"They're all hostile?"
"Yes. Fortunately, they're also all poor." Fenris jingled a sack of coin – his share of Isabella's loot. "This should get us horses and supplies. Without coin, I'd have to phase and steal what we need."
Rillian knew he must have done that when fleeing across Tevinter.
They found their way to a secluded level place, well-shaded, with a clear spring only a few metres away. A welter of tracks indicated game: deer, goats, and one huge bear. The mabaris sniffed and stalked around the water, growling.
"I think you should sleep over there, against those rocks. We'll cut logs for a lean-to, with an adjoining pen for the goat. Keep the mabaris with you at all times. Keep a fire going."
"I'll go with you," Lambert told Fenris.
"Fenris goes alone, Lambert."
Seeing the anger and betrayal on her friend's face, Rillian said, "We can't allow anyone to report which way we travel. I dare not let Weisshaupt know I'm here. You dare not let the Knight Divine know you're alive. None of us has Fenris' skills."
"I do," Zevran offered.
"Take him with you!" Lambert begged. Fenris and Rillian nodded.
The following morning, Fenris and Zevran left. Lambert moped for the four days. Isabella suggested they keep each other warm overnight, but Lambert shook his head and curled up to sleep alone. Rillian kept him busy working on their medical kits. Over a smokeless fire of carefully selected dry branches, Donnic cooked the last of the dried beef.
In the far distance, a buzzard moved earthward in a sinister coil.
Over the next three days, Rillian led the party through a chess match played across the sere mountains and baked valleys of the Wandering Hills. On the fourth day, the two assassins returned – with supplies and horses. Sweat ran in gleaming rivulets across their skin, painted dark splotches on their clothes. Zevran was wearing the green leather of the Dalish – Fenris had opened the clawed armour for ventilation, revealing a wedge of dark skin chained with droplets. Sweat cut paths in the accumulated dust but seemed to avoid – or be eaten up – by the gleaming lyrium brands.
"You haven't been taking 'Fenris' Friend'!" Lambert accused.
Fenris shrugged. "It's only pain. The brands can be useful. They teach you that in the Crows, right?"
"Yes" Zevran agreed, "A good racking can be quite bracing."
"You're both insane!" Lambert shouted. He handed them both a large waterskin, Fenris a vial of Apostate's Friend, and hurried to mix up the ingredients for the injection. Rillian questioned the two. Lambert pointedly strode forward, forcing her to move aside – he still had not forgiven her for risking the man he loved. He took hold of Fenris' forearm very gently, wiped it clean of dust and dirt and injected him. He was furious with Fenris but that never showed in his touch. The others moved aside to give the two their privacy but the row could be heard across camp:
"I make you an amazing mixture that can actually treat the brands – even cure you in time if you take it religiously – and what do you do?! You mess about because you think you need the ability to phase to be useful! You're a great warrior, hunter, tracker – you can cast the Litany - if you miss casting Smite so much then become a bloody Templar! Do you want to become a lyrium ghost?"
"Well, in the phased state I can sneak into Ath Velanis and Titus will have no way to find me. There's a large arsenal in the fortress, and thousands of tonnes of Drakestone, Sela Petrae and charcoal. He's experimenting with dragon's blood just like Qunari, only with Maric's blood. He's trying to make gaatlok. I'll kill him, free the slaves and take the explosive. Free King Maric – then target my next magister..."
"This adventure has turned you into a boy with a toy, I see."
"I never was very old."
"Okay. Let me describe to you what being a Fade spirit is actually like. As my father taught me. In the Fade you are just a cloud of possibilities. You have no free will. Everything you do is indeterminate – at the whim of whichever mage decides to summon you. You are just the number rolled by a mage's dice. Even if you hit the jackpot - get summoned by a mage who is trying to kill a rapist like Titus – how long can you stay in that reality? A day? An hour? The moment the mage no longer needs you, you'll be just a pile of ash, awaiting your next jackpot. And when that moment comes, the mage may live a thousand years in the future and everyone you know will be dead."
Lambert was going for the jugular: speaking Fenris' worst fear aloud in an attempt to make him see reason. But Fenris – infuriatingly – smirked at him! He had faced that bleak future since the age of thirteen - when Danarius had carved the brands into his flesh and told the boy he would be his god after death as he was before – so Lambert's words did not shock him.
"In that case, might I suggest you improve your own summoning skills? Then at least it would be you."
Lambert sucked in a breath. "Fen! That's just...just..." Words failed him. He rallied with a bleak strength to rival his lover's and said,
"You are your own man – now and forever. That will not be your fate. If I have to force-feed you this stuff then, Maker help me, I will!"
"Will you really?" Fenris asked – more curious than angry.
"Noooo..." Lambert admitted reluctantly, "I'd never force something inside you without your consent. But I'm damned well never going to shut up about it! You're taking the injection every morning and the vial every night. No debate."
Fenris rolled his eyes – but the hard reflective green held a glint of affection. "Give a mage a potion and you ruin his friends' lives forever."
Lambert sniffed. Rillian saw he was struggling against tears. He said, softly, "I wish we weren't here, Fen."
Fenris met his eyes. He was a couple of inches taller but due to their positions they were at eye level.
"I'm glad I'm here," Fenris told him, "I don't want to die – I don't want to lose you. Yet I'm drawn to this. One day I'll be my own man. I'm already yours. But, right now, we're Rillian's soldiers. I'll carry out my orders without regret."
Rillian thought to herself Fenris was a warrior she was glad to name a friend. If Varric's tales of Lambert's exploits in Kirkwall were true the young mage was no less a warrior – but he had yet to learn the success of the mission was paramount. Like all humans (despite his mixed heritage Lambert had grown up with human privilege) he could be foolishly individualistic. An Elf learned early on that family – tribe – group mattered more than individuals. It was what Dalish told themselves when they had too many mages in one Clan. It was what Alienage Elves told themselves when Templars came to take mage children to the Circle: some of us have to lose home so the rest may keep it. Becoming a Warden had not changed that - merely widened her focus from Denerim's Alienage to all mortal beings.
Shamed, Lambert looked down. "You're right. This is the right fight, for the right reasons."
Fenris grabbed his shoulders and they leaned into each other, exulting in the shared warmth.
They didn't get much time for romance. Rillian very pointedly called Lambert over to help feed the griffons.
Riordan had told her making the Ultimate Sacrifice would take her soul as well as her life – and she had been prepared to do it. Was that different from asking Fenris to use the brands? Danarius had been an abuser using a child's body for power and pleasure – but Fenris was a man, now, and had the right to make a man's decision. A strange thought chilled her: the cold touch of premonition. Unlike his brother Lambert was not a Warden – but the time would come when he too would be asked to give up body and soul in the Fade to free Grey Wardens.
And yet... she had refused to let Branka use the Anvil – because she had known they would be conscripts not volunteers – and there were things she could never do 'for the greater good.' Verinius had used Corypheus' blood as part of his Joining mixture – telling no-one – and, after what she herself had done to the darkspawn magister, she could hardly judge him for that. Only for not being honest with Brun and Freya and Vhena and the others. Far worse was what his successors had done when they realized Corypheus' nine pints would not be enough for a Warden army. They had bred him. The women had been collateral damage – and Rillian swore she would die before she did that to another woman.
I am not Branka. I am not Avernus. What will they call me, when all this is over?
It was clear Lambert had not forgiven Rillian for her orders. He went about feeding the griffons mechanically – or as mechanically as he could manage, given he was cooing and praising them and treating them like babies. But he did not look in her direction. The silence between them was greyer than fog.
After tolerating Lambert's silence for as long as she could, Rillian made an irritated sound. Her view of Lambert was his clean, sharp profile. His jaw muscles were hardened to knots and a pulse had leapt to life in his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Lambert: I promise you this. I will do everything I can to help you cure Fenris as I expect you to help me cure taint. But – even if taint were cured there would still be Archdemons – and Wardens necessary to make the Ultimate Sacrifice. My superiors told me making the Ultimate Sacrifice would take my soul as well as my life; but my friend – Knight Commander Rylock – told me the Chant says, 'nothing the Maker has wrought will be lost.' I believe that – for Fade spirits as well as Grey Wardens. I promise you this: in my Order, no-one will ever be asked to do anything without full knowledge and the right to say 'no'. I will never ask anyone to do something I would not do myself. But we must end the Blights."
"At any cost?"
"At any cost that's worthy."
After feeding the griffons both Rillian and Lambert moved about aimlessly, each making a great show of studying rocks, plants, the subtle changes in the climate as they approached the Lattenfluss River, where The Siren's Call was moored. Any subterfuge that prolonged the togetherness was seized on. When they caught each other at the game, they broke into spontaneous laughter.
Friends again, Lambert grinned at her. "I'm proud to follow the Hero of Ferelden. You give lousy advice to the lovelorn, but that's a minor flaw, I guess."
Carver and Fenris busied themselves setting up a defensible camp.
"Does Llomerryn feel like home?" Carver wanted to know.
"It feels," Fenris said, thinking of his impending marriage to this man's brother, "That, in itself, has been a surprise."
"There's a war coming," Carver said, thinking of the First Warden, Guillaume Caron, Warden Commander Clarel of Montsimmard, "Does it feel different: fighting by choice?"
"You fought under General Loghain Mac Tir," Fenris reminded Carver, "Were you never ordered to kill?"
"I was a soldier, but I was willing."
"I was willing as well, but not by choice." Fenris laughed. The fact he had enjoyed killing Danarius' enemies - the one and only time a slave could pay back a magister – was a guilty secret he would never share with his husband-to-be. "If that makes any sense."
"Does anything in this mess?"
The journey from the Wandering Hills to the Lattenfluss River was easier on horseback. The thirteen rode companionably, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence. Now he knew Lambert did not judge him for his actions in Kinloch Hold, Jowan was riding beside him, instructing him in magic. Rillian knew Jowan to be a mediocre mage, but he was so pleased to find someone with even less talent he became quite voluble. Fenris and Zevran appeared to have bonded after their four-day mission. And what did they speak of? Killing. They endlessly swapped stories of assassinating this or that magister - this or that Antivan noble – talking about thrusts and poisons and traps until Rillian wanted to scream. They shut up whenever Lambert got too close but did not see her as needing to be shielded. Which, she supposed, was true – as a Warden she had seen things that would make an assassin blanch.
They camped under cirrocumulus clouds, ripples in the sky that veiled the stars. Rillian's lute had been a gift from Leliana. The instrument was the pale colour of driftwood, and the wood had been carved with tiny seascapes, complete with ships, mermaids and wheeling gulls. Lambert got out his lute covered with runes of electricity – she had given it to him the night before the second battle of Ostagar.
Before leaving Llomerryn, Lambert had purchased extra strings, a weather-proof leather covering for the electric lute (he still didn't have a name but his brother had observed the long fretboard and asked if he were compensating for something) and a sheaf of tablature paper on which to scribble new songs. He and Rillian – two who had been Leliana's pupils – blended as well as any duo she had ever heard. In Lambert's soaring countertenor was the beauty of starlight – in Rillian's low, rich contralto the feminine strength of the tree of life.
The Vhenadahl smells like stars. It's been absorbing starlight year after year. A thousand years' worth of light.
Lambert played an original song and Rillian watched the lithe fingers dance on the strings as they danced in the lab. He was telling the story of his and Fenris' voyages with Isabella through music, telling of the Venefication Sea, its storms and calms, of princesses, mermaids, sea monsters and buried treasure (she guessed he had gotten these more from Paisley Pete's tall tales than actual experience but could not be sure). Of palm trees and beaches under the setting sun. Fenris was staring at him as if he couldn't quite believe Lambert existed – as if afraid he would wake in Castellum Tenebris and Lambert would be just a dream. Only – how could somebody like Fenris have dreamed somebody like Lambert? In the light of their fire, Lethandralis lay quietly. Rillian read the thoughts as if they were her own – glanced at Alistair and blushed to find him looking back. The last notes faded away, leaving an invisible bond between the two singers.
"I grew up on Dock Street in Denerim's Alienage," Rillian confided softly, "At night, we could see the harbour – I always wondered what lay on the other side."
"I did my Templar training in the Denerim complex," Alistair said. He looked at Ser Otto and grinned, "I suspect I wasn't a very good pupil. But I used to wonder what lay outside too."
The three of them had met each other once, when Ser Otto was a splendid young knight and Rillian and Alistair two gawky fifteen-year-olds. The memory rose between them.
Rillian murmured, "I've still kept the map you bought me. I carry it with me always."
Then Lambert told them a story of feuding Ferelden nobility in the time of King Calenhad:
And who are you, the proud lord said
That I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat
That's all the truth I know
In a coat of gold or a coat of red
A lion still has claws
And mine are long and sharp, my lord
As long and sharp as yours
And so he spoke, and so he spoke
That lord of Castamere
But now the rains weep o'er his hall
With no one there to hear
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall
And not a soul to hear
The tale, Lambert explained, concerned a certain "red wedding" in which a bloody massacre was committed by one noble family against another for the breaking of an arranged marriage. Rillian knew Lambert had not meant to be tactless - he was telling a story Malcolm Hawke had told his gleeful, excited children - a father whose love of stories and adventure had shaped them - he could not have known the tragedy of her own 'red wedding' in Denerim. So she enjoyed it as it was meant and threw herself into the story of feuding human nobility - a life she had only caught glimpses of during her time as Lady Habren's maid. She suspected Lambert had gotten to enjoy it only briefly too - before he had been outed as a mage and imprisoned in the Gallows.
The two would-be bards enjoyed themselves – and enjoyed the fact both Fenris and Alistair were captivated. Fenris asked Lambert if he knew any songs where feuding magisters all killed each other – and Alistair watched Rillian with unabashed admiration. She flushed with pleasure. The memories of Urthemiel viewed the memories of Rillian as childlike and lesser; being with Alistair made her feel more like herself.
Later, she asked Lambert quietly if it was the same for him with Fenris and he smiled in joyful recognition.
"Yes," the young man said with a shy, wondering smile, "With Zev and Isabella I was acting the part of a man of the world. With Anders I was trying to be like Karl and never able to measure up. With Fen I can just be me. I hope he feels the same – because he is amazing. He's the bravest man I know, the funniest, the least selfish. He has had so very little in his life – his life began at twenty - yet every time he finds something the rest of us take for granted he gives it away instantly. He told me he'll help defend the Gallows mages – even though I know he believes they'll make themselves magisters the first chance they get. He'll do it anyway – because it's right. You heard him sing the Litany – he likes to draw too. Just sketches - he gets embarrassed when I notice. I keep every picture. He's shy but he's talented - he'll be a great artist one day. He's twenty-four – two years older than me. We'll grow old together. I am going to fall in love with thirty-something Fenris, forty-something Fenris - hey – with eighty-something Fenris! He is only going to get better and better."
Then Lambert's lively, mercurial face grew soft, injured, erasing the infectious smile. Rillian knew he was thinking of the lyrium brands and wondering if they would get the chance to fall in love many times over the course of their long lives together.
She said, firmly, "Since you started him on the new treatment his brands seem quieter than ever. Titus' laboratory – that's our next stop. Think of the knowledge his library will contain! We'll do it, Lambert – we'll change the face of Thedas."
Lambert, Bianca, Jowan and Rillian all shook hands. She saw darkness but heard music. The four scientists saluted each other: partners in the dance of life.
The rising wind blustered across the firelight, created a fitful illumination of confusing shadows. The high silken mist that had earlier shrouded the southern stars, veiling Weisshaupt, now lifted. A pallid moon stared down.
It was as if Broken Tooth were a lightning rod for the heavens that attracted a whole universe's worth of storms. Sparks made Rillian tingle all over. There was hardly any gap between the lightning and the thunder: massive rumbles shook every cell in her body. She felt as if the solid ground had been blown to bits and her soul displaced, flitting terrified between bolts with no place to hide.
A middle-aged Elven woman in white robes stood before them, no wind whipping her short black hair, her slight form frail-looking against the web of lightning that flickered within dense black clouds.
"Fiona." Somehow, Rillian was not as surprised as she might have been.
Alistair was terrified. "Come join us – it's dangerous – you'll get soaked!"
Somehow, the rain avoided Fiona as it avoided Fenris' lyrium brands.
"That will not be necessary."
It was strange: normally you had to shout to be heard through thunder but somehow Fiona's gentle tones seemed to penetrate the peals like bells. "I took Isseya's journal from Weisshaupt. I want you to have it. We two women have been through accelerated taint and the magical purging of it and are now immune. Like you, I wanted to find the Architect, cure the taint, and end the Blights. My mistake was trusting the First Warden. I thought I could handle a man in power – my whole life has been defined by those – but he is not a man at all. But you can avoid my mistake – become what I should have been."
"Then help me! There's so much you can teach me – so much I don't know. And you will be able to get things from Isseya's journal I'll miss. I am an Elf but not a mage."
"That's just it," Fiona told her sadly, "You have never been a Circle mage. You can't know how badly things need to change. I can leave the Wardens with a clear conscience because I have you to carry on my work – but who will fight for mage rights if I don't?"
"Anders!" Lambert interjected.
"Anders has shown no interest in working with any of the Senior Enchanters: not Irving, not Orsino. By making it clear he regards their votes as coerced and therefore meaningless he is becoming the thing he rails against. He is forcing his opinion – which may or may not be right, but no man can know that – on the rest. Change must come by a democratic vote – by persuasion, not force. If I can win the vote, and the Chantry ignores us, then we will fight. But it should not be a first choice."
"Anders is thinking of the Gallows prisoners who are being raped and tortured while the Senior Enchanters deliberate," Lambert said quietly, "The two of you should work together."
Fiona inclined her head – a brief acknowledgement of his words – but did not turn from Rillian. It was clear she was racing against time.
"Rillian, for the sake of our ideals, we two women have trodden a lonely road, but I can tell you: you are on the right path. I won't offer vacant blessings, which are useless for a Warden – I'll leave you with a warning: beware the Red Lyrium Idol. A force that can taint lyrium can also taint the soldiers who rely on lyrium. May you never meet them in battle! Take the journal – take the griffons – and run. My replacement – Senior Mage Warden Janeka – is coming for you." Her voice was calm, as if everything that was happening was nothing more than a fluid piece of music she was playing. "I did not say this. I am not here."
Then she vanished as completely as a figment of the storm.
"How?" Alistair gasped.
"I saw Uldred do that once," Jowan explained, abashed, "The spell is called 'Simulacrum' - the being we spoke to had Fiona's mind, will, memories – but she could have been a thousand miles away. When I was at Kinloch Hold, the Senior Enchanters were debating whether the being had its own soul – like a twin – whether every time a mage creates and lets it wink out they are committing murder... Uldred let me listen in once. I made them tea."
The only companion who listened to Jowan's philosophizing was Lambert – who said thoughtfully, "It's necromancy, isn't it? It's wrong to play with life like it's a tool and use sentient creatures as a means to an end."
Rillian ignored them both. She held Isseya's journal gingerly - as if expecting it to vanish like a soap bubble or blow up like a grenade - but the book was real. Whether now or years earlier, Fiona really had found the journal in Weisshaupt's library as part of her research and given it to her mind-double to pass on to her chosen successor. Rillian held the book respectfully.
The only two thinking practically were Zevran and Fenris.
"Cara mia – she told us to run. I'd suggest we head for The Siren's Call. The storm will cover our tracks."
Fenris' saw-edged harshness cut through their conversation. While they talked with Fiona he had been scouting – looking after them when no-one but Zevran had taken note. Rillian was chagrined – it was alright for Lambert and Jowan to be naïve (everyone expected mages to be unworldly) but as the leader of the group she should have been aware. Should have been the one to give the order.
Lifting his chin towards the ridge to the south-east – between them and the bend in the Latternfluss where The Siren's Call was moored – Fenris explained:
"Grey Wardens. Among the rocks. There's no real reason for them to hide – I counted fifty-one – so they're probably waiting for the main body of Janeka's escort to show itself."
Donnic whistled. "Fifty-one against thirteen. Numbers like that aren't odds; they're arithmetic."
Why didn't Fiona warn me? Rillian thought furiously. Why give me the journal - help me find the griffons – if she just wanted Janeka to make me a prisoner?
"Carver – Ser Otto – on me," Alistair barked. Varric and Sebastian readied long-range weapons. Isabella and Zevran disappeared into the shadows – waiting to pop up where the enemy least expected.
Fenris' sharp command stopped them. "We can't win that way. I caught the main element moving forward. I suspect they have a blocking party out to the west, as well. The Senior Warden Mage has her camp over there, in that canyon."
Alistair stopped - held up his hand to delay the others. "Makes sense. We'll use our high ground – make them come to us."
Coldly, Rillian said, "Make no decisions for me."
Stung, Alistair was formal. "I'm advising, Warden-Commander. Ready for your orders."
Rillian's face crumpled. "I'm sorry, Alistair. It isn't easy for me to admit I'm beaten. Anyone who isn't a Warden: slip away. You've done all you can."
Zevran shook his head. "I told you: by your side, I would willingly storm the gates of the Black City. Nathaniel understands."
"I'm a Chantry brother," Sebastian told her, "I've prayed. I told the Maker: if He wants the taint cured, he's going to have to do something about this. Help us escape."
Donnic gaped at him. "That's a prayer? That's making terms!" The former city guardsman shrugged. "It might be worth dying just to hear what you have to say to the Maker in the Golden City."
Varric faced Bianca. "I think we can talk our way out of this – make them an offer. If not – will you marry me in the Golden City?"
"I'm not an Andrastian," Bianca said thoughtfully, "But - alright – an eternity in the Stone beside my husband's family sounds pretty horrendous."
Lambert and Fenris traded a glance. "The only game in town, soldier," both men agreed. "We won't give up on Rillian, or the cure, or the griffons, or anything."
Rillian was startled – embarrassed – to find herself crying. She hadn't cried since before gaining the memories of Urthemiel and The Architect. Tears were what an Elven woman cried at the loss of her husband-to-be and future children. Old Gods and darkspawn did not cry. "What fools my friends are! What wonderful, precious fools! What have I done to deserve you?"
Isabella gave it her own irrepressible twist: "The truth is: you don't deserve us. But we don't have anything better to do just now. First good offer we get, we drop you like something nasty." She winked.
Rillian giggled.
Alistair's smile was the smile of old: the sweet, shy smile of first love. It was as if this adventure had unwritten everything: her allying with Loghain - his accepting Morrigan's offer half out of love for Rillian and half the wish for revenge – his unwitting betrayal of Rillian to Guillaume Caron – the three-and-a-half years apart.
He said, "This isn't how I thought it'd all end, but I'm with the people I'd choose to go with. No regrets."
Her look for him said far more.
The moment was interrupted by Fenris. "You're both being premature."
"What?!"
Fenris went on. "They are more than fifty-one against thirteen. Thanks to the injection, I cannot phase. Lambert is out of mana. We're good, but this battle will end only one way. Yet they are not attacking. That means they want to talk."
As someone who had served Danarius since his thirteenth year, Fenris was an expert. The Tevinter word for 'silence' – dumat – was the same as their word for 'truth'. They had no word for 'mercy'. In Tevinter, songs like 'The Rains of Castamere' were a fact of life - the only requirement for respectability being one did not get caught. Danarius had been an expert at the Game.
Fenris enthused over its moves. He pulled their attention to the eastern ridge. Grey Wardens strolled about openly. Light glinted from bared weapons. "To build fear. What's to the north – between us and Red Bride's Grave? Ah. There. And there. That break in the hills, see? The Wardens are deliberately showing themselves. All this is preliminary. To impress."
"Why do they want to impress me?" Rillian asked. "Weisshaupt sends women Wardens on Callings to become Broodmothers and perpetuate the darkspawn species. I'll never compromise with that. Our struggle is mortal."
Bianca was practical. "You and Fiona are the only two Wardens who have had your taint accelerated and then purged. The only two in existence who are immune. Even if they don't really want to cure taint, they must control your blood - even as Titus wants to use King Maric. For reasons of their own, they let Fiona go – probably because she told them you could replace her. If they fight and kill you, how long will your blood last? They must bargain with you – which gives you time."
Rillian shuddered. She looked, involuntarily, at Lambert and Fenris – the only two people who knew what horror it was to be an unwilling test subject. Alrik had not 'merely' used Lambert for sexual gratification (Rillian could read between the lines of Varric's account) he had wanted to see what would push a mage to blood magic and possession. Danarius had not 'merely' been a child abuser – he had wanted to make a lyrium ghost: immortal and less alive than the poorest of the Maker's creatures. Yavana had wanted to use Alistair's blood as Titus was using Maric's.
And I experimented on Corypheus - who had never done me personal harm – experimented on him while he was conscious and experiencing pain. I did it because I wanted revenge for the Blights – which he may not have caused anyway. The soldiers of the Anderfels bred him – which makes him almost as much their victim as the women who became Broodmothers. If I were Corypheus, I would hate mortals.
Rillian vowed never to forget this realization. Never to become that kind of scientist. Some lines should never be crossed.
"Rillian - don't do it!" Lambert begged. Somehow, he had guessed where her thoughts were taking her. "Don't promise to go with Janeka just to save our lives!"
Fenris nodded. "I'd rather we all die on our feet, fighting, than live because someone volunteered to be a test subject."
Alistair nodded. His look for Rillian said he would die any death for her.
Bianca said, "Don't forget – you have other options. Things they might want more than your blood." She hefted the lead-lined box meaningfully. "You just have to decide what your priorities are."
More thoughtful than chagrined, Rillian mused aloud: "We'll receive her, then."
Rillian's group looked at their campfire as they shivered against the icy blue lightning, as if it were a tiny lifeform they had painstakingly raised, fragile as the thirteen griffons. They had folded the interior tarp upward so the rain collected below, but the tent still seemed too small to protect them from the wrath of heaven. Two of the baby griffons – one jet black and one a hodgepodge of dun, white and black – rested in Lambert's arms. Fenris, practically lounging on a boulder beside his lover, dangled a languid left arm across Lambert's shoulder. It was a pose: the right hand could draw Lethandralis with blinding speed, defend him instantly. The calico griffon sucked noisily on the feeding tube.
The ephemeral crystalline flames gave Rillian a sense of the fragility of life. She saw her twelve friends as precious – a warm embrace while life around them was all odds and chance, a dance above the void. One day they – and everyone else - would fall. But not today.
It was a stormy night. When the blue arcs of electricity flashed Rillian could perceive individual raindrops for just an instant. It was as if they were frozen into solid drops – as if time slowed – dense strands of glittering beads suspended between a gray sky and grey river. The land seemed hung with crystal, surrounded on all sides by chimes that reminded her of the Litany: a deep tone pierced by a sharp high whine, calling to mind a spirit playing a flute from an ancient wasteland. Within the grey world of reality – grey sky, grey clouds, grey rock and grey river – the chimes reminded her of the Fade, suggesting the mysteries of the universe, the possibilities of the world beyond the Veil.
After one dazzling burst, red dust lifted ghostlike from the Wandering Hills and drifted through the air, staining the droplets with its orange glow. The part of Rillian that had been Urthemiel knew this to be a perfectly ordinary weather phenomenon. It happened when dark orange dust particles mixed with the water in storm clouds, so the red rain resembled blood as it fell. But the Alienage Elf saw the unholy red glow and remembered the oil painting hung in the hall of Redcliffe Castle, depicting the Maker emerging from the Fade surrounded by comets with fiery tails, about to judge the world. The sky became a crimson shell. Blood rain fell and it sounded like a voice, or many voices, all trying to warn her of something.
Senior Mage Warden Janeka made a great display of her approach. War horns blared and her escort was a double-column of mounted Wardens, flying the flag of Weisshaupt. The ephemeral firelight illuminated the rocks, casting shadows. Between the blood rain, and the palpable sense of being surrounded by enemies, their campsite resembled a scared little tent in the middle of a vast wilderness.
The man beside Janeka raised the white cloth.
Rillian answered with a white cloth of her own, agreeing to parley. It was nothing more than a dirty strip she had torn off Lambert's tunic – she had nothing else. Her voice rang out, full of confidence, "We've been waiting, Janeka. Come visit." The echoes rang from rock-slabbed hills and canyons and the man beside Janeka – who was clearly not a Warden and who might have been handsome save for the veins that blotched his pale skin and his cold eyes – turned to her and spoke. He couldn't take his eyes off Fenris. Lambert saw that and shouldered in front of his lover. Muscles bunched in his jaw when Fenris – equally forcefully - refused to be shielded. He stood proudly, making no effort to hide the lyrium brands.
Janeka reined in her mount with a hard tug of the reins and glared down at the relaxed group. She told Rillian,
"You've disgraced the Order."
Alistair rose with a threatening swiftness that had Wardens reaching for bows and swords. He ignored them. "Rillian Tabris defeated Urthemiel – saved Thedas from the Fifth Blight while you were cowering at Broken Tooth!"
Janeka kept her gaze locked on Rillian. It was as if Alistair didn't exist. Utterly expressionless, she spoke in a cold, flat voice:
"Erimond: take these Wardens and get back. I have no need of you."
The Tevinter mage named Erimond did as she commanded with a smooth, courtly nod. The look in his eyes said he would have revenge for the insult but Janeka missed it.
As soon as the rest of the Wardens withdrew Rillian took the reins of Janeka's horse, led her to their campsite where cloths Fenris and Caver had arranged kept out the rain. Janeka was a tall human woman in vigorous middle age with brown hair cropped short and the most piercing green eyes Rillian had ever seen. Rillian smiled – remembering the lessons of Queen Anora in how to slay another woman with politeness:
"We have tea. Cheese. Some salted pork, perhaps?"
Janeka dismounted, shaking her head in a brisk negative. "Don't overdo it, Rillian." She gazed, briefly, at the sight of the baby griffons, but her eyes held none of the wonder and awe Rillian would have expected. Her priorities were elsewhere. Rillian filed the knowledge away.
Janeka said, "You have no right to these creatures. You told the whole world Warden secrets - including the most intimate. You told a blatant lie to explain your survival against Urthemiel – darkspawn have no souls hence could not have made the Ultimate Sacrifice. You survived because of the Dark Ritual Alistair confessed to Warden Commander Caron. Then, when confronted at the Landsmeet and asked to explain yourself at Weisshaupt, you fled. You are a criminal now, not a Grey Warden."
Alistair growled – torn between rage and guilt for his unwitting betrayal. He had trusted Guillaume Caron – meant to confess his own sins – never dreamed they would use the Dark Ritual as an excuse to condemn Rillian. Rillian knew the Dark Ritual had been their excuse. It wasn't even her betrayal of Warden secrets that had condemned her. It was the fact that, like Fiona, she had been cured of darkspawn taint. The First Warden wanted to study her as the Architect had once studied her. She believed Fiona really did want to see her cure taint and ride griffons, really did want to free mages, but that did not mean she would not have told Weisshaupt anything and everything to persuade them to let her go. As for Janeka, Rillian knew she was posturing. She didn't care about the griffons - this was merely the opening gambit.
"Griffons choose their riders, not the other way round. If any of these griffons find you worthy of imprinting, I will not dream of interfering." Rillian's sarcasm was subtle; inwardly, she thanked Anora. The Silver Queen had provided a masterclass in genteel insults. A small vein at Janeka's temple writhed. She sat down by their fire, taking a queenly pose.
"Rillian: I know you and your companions broke into Vinmark prison. But the prison has stood up to tunnelling before: how did you manage it?" She finally deigned to look at Rillian's companions - and her eyes fell on Lambert. Now it was Fenris who tried to shield him and Lambert who refused to be protected. "Ah - the mage child of Malcolm Hawke, with untainted blood. Knight Divine Gerard Caron will be most interested to learn you survived the Gallows."
Fenris growled – took a step forward. Rillian knew he didn't need the ability to phase to be lethal. Both she and Lambert placed hands on his shoulders.
"Calm. Please. They stand with the white signal."
Rillian saw Janeka's gaze – hard as emeralds; bright as green stars – fall on Fenris and knew her friend was compromised. Janeka knew love for the ideal weapon. She bent forward, pitched her voice to a near-whisper. The illusion of confidentiality was so complete Rillian shifted uncomfortably, as though she were eavesdropping.
"Don't worry about Gerard Caron. Don't worry about Livius Erimond. I can alter minds. We'll make them see the truth. Make them see you are both free men."
Lambert and Fenris didn't even have to look at each other. They said, "We are free men, and we don't commit rape. If Caron or Erimond want to use their free will to take ours, let them try. We'll fight them as readily as we'll fight you."
"As readily as you fought Corypheus for Rillian? What blind fools you were! He wasn't a threat to humanity – he was our greatest opportunity. A darkspawn who could talk, feel, reason. I knew how to harness Corypheus – use his magic to end the Blights. You have stolen that opportunity..."
Rillian gaped. She had been so appalled by Fiona's revelations about Weisshaupt she had never stopped to think Janeka might be genuine. A ruthless, untrustworthy Blood Mage – but did they actually want the same things? Had she been foolish to trust Fiona?
Fenris wasn't buying it. "Tevinter pays Weisshaupt higher taxes than any other nation. Ever wondered why? You're doing the bidding of Livius Erimond, not the other way round."
"What a shame slaves are never educated about history," Janeka replied silkily, "If Danarius had taught you anything besides how to fight and please him in bed you might have learned about a Magister Verinius, who created the Joining mixture."
Lambert growled – Rillian had never heard him sound like that before; he actually sounded feral. He took a step forward; but Fenris had reached out a hand to stop him without needing to look.
Janeka ignored both men as if they were beneath her notice, looked only at Rillian.
"Livius Erimond has offered me knowledge of how to slay the two remaining Old Gods. Think of it - a cure for taint and no more Archdemons! That's why I don't care if you walk away with the griffons. The spectacle of Grey Wardens riding griffons into battle will be consigned to history. The best Grey Wardens are those who make themselves unnecessary."
It was so like Rillian's own thoughts she gasped. Janeka saw her expression and this time it was Rillian who was compromised. Rillian attempted to rally:
"What does the First Warden think of this?"
"He doesn't take it seriously," Janeka admitted, "but he has allowed me to contact Erimond and conduct my research. Join me. Oh - we'll never be friends. But we need not be enemies. We want the same things."
"Have you ever seen the First Warden's face?" Rillian asked.
Janeka laughed at her. "My dear: if you want to sow dissent among us, you will have to do better than that."
Which was not – exactly – answering the question. But Janeka was pursuing a different train of thought. "You are a criminal," she said softly, "but you really do want to cure the taint. We have the same dream. And that means you would not have killed Corypheus without taking a blood sample. But you are no Blood Mage – not even a mage – you lead a ragtag group with no chance to succeed in your research. The arrogance is breathtaking!"
The proud head turned in slow survey of the group. Her gaze fell on Bianca – on the lead-lined box.
"Bianca Davri – your reputation precedes you," she said – speaking more politely than to anyone else, "But you are an engineer – your scientific knowledge does not extend to working with blood."
For one horrible moment, Rillian feared Bianca would bond with Janeka – scientist to scientist – judging her more worthy, more intelligent, than an Alienage Elf whose only claim to being their peer was stolen memories. But then Bianca looked at her, and in her dark eyes was the reminder: you just have to decide your priorities. But she was leaving it to Rillian to make the decision.
Rillian said – looking at Janeka but the code in her words for Bianca:
"You are right: I did take a sample of Corypheus' blood, preserved as per the methods used in Circles. You are welcome to study it. But I must warn you: I do not believe he was Patient Zero. Patient Zero was the elven goddess Andruil, after her return from the Void." She gazed hard at Bianca - willing her to read between the lines. That, she believed, was where the Red Lyrium Idol came from. That was what she could not give up.
Bianca smiled and winked. "The most important thing is in the box. Everything else I kept on board ship. Oh, don't worry!" she said, seeing Rillian's horror, "I told the crew it had been Yavana's and would turn them all into toads. No-one will touch it."
Janeka smiled patronizingly. "Let me look at the blood sample."
Rillian took the box from Bianca and opened it politely, feeling safe because the Idol was not there. What harm could it do to let Janeka look at the droplet?
"Don't do it, Rillian!" Jowan gasped, "That droplet of blood is sentient! Is Corypheus himself! Are thirteen baby griffons really worth giving him to her?"
Rillian said, "We were lucky to fight the Archdemon in Ortan Thaig. Suppose it had been Denerim? Suppose Razikale and Lucasan rise over Thedas? Janeka believes killing them first will solve that problem, but Warden Commanders Bregan and Genevieve thought the same. We saw how that ended. We might need an airborne force."
"Duke Prosper agrees," Lambert murmured, "That's why he's raising a wyvern army – oh, I'm not saying they'd be as good as griffons! And I've bonded with Ripples like I've bonded with Cog. I'm with you: we don't give them up."
Jowan grasped Rillian's shoulder. "The blood is dangerous. Don't give it to her. We'll ride fast and hard. The ship isn't far."
Rillian said, "We can't if we're guarding thirteen baby griffons." Her words held an iron conviction. By contrast, the hand she put on the downy head of Ripples was gentle.
Janeka took the lead-lined box, fixed Rillian with a piercing stare. Rillian's arms fell to her sides. She looked away. Janeka opened the box – stared within at the petri dish with its single drop of black blood - glittering as a beetle's carapace. She took the box gently, reverently, and turned away. As she prepared her horse, she transferred the blood to a specially prepared vial. It was so cold it turned the blood rain to red marbles.
Settling in the saddle, Janeka turned to Rillian, "I'll return to the First Warden – report on what happened here. My gratitude you have, for what you found in the Vinmarks. I feel like...a whole new person." She hauled on the reins, yanking her horse around. Walling its eyes, it reared. It seemed afraid of her. She controlled it viciously, starting back to her escort.
"A curious ending," Bianca murmured, "If it is an ending."
"If there's one thing I've learned," Varric muttered, "It's that everything catches up with us. Sooner or later."
"You shouldn't have done that," Jowan told her as they rode for the ship.
A silly, foreboding alarum, Rillian thought, irritated.
"What's the worst that could happen?" she snapped, "Even if the blood were sentient – and that's a big if – what makes you think it could take over a Warden when an Archdemon couldn't? If it could, why didn't it attack you, or Ser Otto, or Alistair, or Carver?"
"Perhaps because persuading a bunch of useful idiots to take him to the leaders of Weisshaupt would work out better in the long run," Jowan suggested. Rillian had always thought she would be pleased to see the stammering mage gain in confidence – but it appeared having him man-splain and human-splain and mage-splain things to her was even more irritating.
"We have the real Patient Zero – the Idol – we have the griffons, we have Isseya's journal. And you're obsessing about a single droplet of blood! Janeka is not Uldred and at Weisshaupt she has the facilities to protect herself and others."
"You are only trying to keep what remains of your mind's peace," Jowan told her sadly, "I told myself the same kind of thing when I used Thomas and Lily – told myself everything would be okay."
They rode through the night, and by the time dawn appeared things were scarcely less bleak. The rain had stopped, and by the time they reached the bend in the Lattenfluss where The Siren's Call was moored all that remained of the storm were the blackened stumps of trees. They pointed skyward, like decaying fingers aimed accusingly at the sky. Thick brush claimed the battered ground, glowing with vitality, rich with mineral residue from the destruction. There was little banter from the group; quiet defined exhaustion.
The Siren's Call was held in place by a stern anchor and a pair of mooring lines running from two widely separated trees to the bow. Stern lamps pierced the gloom, golden against the darkness of the water. Casavir was in command. He leaned over the rail to extend a hand. He was naked from the waist up. His loose trousers came to mid-calf. Pale leather boots rose to an inch of them. Knives in scabbards hung outside each boot.
Isabella grinned, weariness forgotten in the reunion. Following her, Carver and Rillian, the two mabaris plunged into the water with every sign of disgust. Lady went first, then the larger Ravenous. Her coat was pale, his dun-coloured, and their ears were flat with irritation. They followed their Wardens as they waded out to the harness lift dangling from the cargo boom. Rillian was carefully carrying her griffon, high above the water. The water came to her waist, which meant it came to the dogs' sides. They stood in it, rocking with the slap of each wave, their expressive canine faces dripping equal amounts of water and accusation.
Carver rested his hand atop the square slab of Lady's head.
"Now they are true hearts," he said. He sounded sad. Rillian knew he was thinking of the wreckage of his dreams of finding a berth where he could live with his wife and son and serve the Wardens honourably. Now they were on the run once more.
A criminal not a Warden, Janeka had said.
Rillian struggled to sound more confident than she felt:
"Carver: it will be alright. We'll set up our base in Ath Velanis - the True Wardens - and King Cousland will support us. We'll approach the Fog Warriors too. Fenris tells me the indigenous tribes of Seheron have been fighting colonization by both Tevinter and Qunari for years – an alliance will benefit us both. Your wife and son will have a home."
Carver nodded politely and turned away to see to his griffon. It was clear he wasn't feeling too confident. Feeling like a failure, Rillian stared into Ravenous' glowing eyes. He licked her hand; wagged his tail. He rose on his back legs and, before she could dodge, licked the side of her face from nose to jaw. Then thudded to the deck across from Lady with what appeared to be great satisfaction.
Calling from the shore, Lambert was cheerful, "We could learn a thing or two from them. The griffons are sulking and the horses are furious." He was holding the calico griffon he had named 'Ripples' on his shoulder – like a pirate with a parrot – and she seemed delighted with this new perspective. Soon, all the griffons were agitating to copy them. Fenris obliged the jet-black griffon who had bonded with him.
Zevran winked. "It's going to be an interesting ride to Seheron."
When adventurers, mabaris, griffons and horses were all aboard. Isabella's men cast off the mooring lines. Anselmo, Celso, Pete and Rawley pulled on the stern anchor, pulling the ship eastward. Working with a chaotic activity that was actually smooth teamwork, the mooring lines were coiled and stored, the anchor heaved aboard, the sails raised. Soon they were speeding away.
Rillian was relieved to find Jowan had subsided – but it appeared she would have to contend with another lecturing mage! Lambert approached to talk about the Idol.
"The Lyrium Idol belongs at the bottom of the ocean," he said fiercely, "It's an unacceptable risk to Fenris. Even if you take it far from him – you heard Fiona's warning. Do you really want to face Templars imbued with that power? Do you think it right to curse someone with that? Get rid of it: I'm begging you."
Rillian conceded Lambert was right about Fenris but dismissed the rest of his argument. As if the Chantry would allow their Templars to be tainted! They worked with Wardens during Blights but saw them as sinful: hangmen, undertakers, Death's Hatchetmen – they would not willingly use a force they saw as the Maker's punishment.
Breathing with slow, structured poise, she willed herself to be calm. "Lambert: I promise you I will let no harm come to Fenris and will work with you to heal his brands for as long as it takes."
Lambert smiled – open, trusting, guileless.
"Thank you."
When Fenris – separately – came to find her, his argument made more sense.
"Warden-Commander, I do not presume to tell you what you should do with the Idol – but I must warn you: my sister," Rillian knew the Elven mage Varania had tried to sell her own brother back into slavery - a deed inexplicable to her – but she had never heard Fenris call her by that name, "told me House Danarius are breeding us like mabari – that any slave deemed suitable will be branded as I was. If we attack Ath Velanis and lose you must ensure they never gain the Idol. Then it will not be Red Templars the world is facing but Red Lyrium Warriors."
Rillian inclined her head in silent token of how much that admission must have cost him. She appreciated that – unlike the two human mages – Fenris did not arrogantly lecture her about what to do.
"Fenris," she said, "I will kill or die before I let the Idol fall into Tevinter hands."
Fenris left, satisfied with that.
Rillian remained, staring into the depths of the ocean, black as inky jaws. She watched the chill air evaporate into white fog. The Idol could spread taint, and taint was a weapon against life. The horror and cruelty of it was beyond imagination. She had seen the things that would strike her family – or the tender flesh of a child – she also knew the best way to prevent these was to understand the cause! If the Idol really were the relic of Patient Zero – Andruil, the Ancient Elf who had been to the Void – could she pass up the chance to study it safely?
But was there any way to study it safely? Bianca had told her the lead-lined box was only a temporary measure. The only beings immune to taint were spirits – Wynne had reassured her of that when Rillian had worried about taking her into the Deep Roads – and the idea of finding a possessed mage who would willingly study the Idol was...unlikely.
And yet...she did not have the right to throw the Idol over the side of the ship. She thought of something Bianca had told her, when they first worked together:
…We two women have chosen the road less travelled. Have asked unanswered questions and thrown ourselves into research. If we think only of sowing, not of reaping, we will benefit people as yet unborn...
They sailed down the Lattenfluss, towards Port Tallo. To their right, the High Reaches were giant's teeth. A lunar rainbow gleamed through the fissures; pale colours shimmering within the white arch.
The crepuscular dawn did little but glint vague silver across the surface of the water. Against the faint, wet, lapping susurrus, the silence felt like awe. Waves glimmered like ghost lanterns.
The vastness of the choice clutched her in its giant icy hand.
She could hear Fenris and Lambert chuckling softly. They were tending to their griffons – Fenris sounding as if he could not quite believe a sentient creature had chosen him – found him worthy of bonding. His griffon was jet-black and he had named him Dumat: "smart enough not to talk". Lambert's griffon was a little calico female. Some of her ginger and white and black fuzz would become fur and some feathers. Lambert was cooing and laughing over how Incognito and Ripples were bonding as big sister and little sister. Incommunicado and Pumpkin had been fed and were now fighting and spraying all over the ship.
Rillian could hear Varric and Bianca in their cabin. Apparently, the two had learned something over the course of the mission:
"You said you'd marry me in the Golden City – how about now? We'll get away with it if we pick a Chantry with a liberal Grand Cleric – not Kirkwall, obviously! The Chantry doesn't recognize marriages of the Stone so you won't have to divorce your husband."
Rillian recalled something Oghren had once told her about dwarven marriages. Apparently, divorces never happened. If the marriage broke down – as in his case – the partners simply kept as far away from each other as possible. Divorce was a mortal insult the other family would have blood for.
Bianca was saying, "We'll spend the rest of our lives being hunted by assassins."
"Sounds like fun."
Rillian did not hear the end of that conversation. Alistair – his armour creaking and jingling - had come to join her at the rail. For a moment she was afraid he, too, would say something about the Idol, but it appeared he had other thoughts. His sword clanking, he shifted and joined her in looking out over the grey sea and caliginous dawn. Contemplative, he said, "I was thinking this voyage reminds me of the time we sailed from Redcliffe Castle to Kinloch Hold because you insisted on seeking a cure for Connor. The creak of the ship – the smell of the water..."
Rillian remembered. She remembered the mess they had walked into – remembered being so sure she, Alistair and Leliana – later Wynne – could defeat Uldred when Greagoir's Templars had failed. Remembered how she had not been strong enough to defeat the Sloth Demon - how she had only seen what she wanted to see – so it was Rylock, showing up with her Rite of Annulment, who had saved the Circle. Saved them all. Why was Alistair reminding her of this failure now? As a prelude for insisting she had been wrong to give Janeka the blood – wrong to keep the Idol?
But Alistair was following a different trail:
"Yes: you insisted on saving Connor. Janeka wouldn't have. Fiona wouldn't have. Weisshaupt teaches the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. Teaches we must defeat Blights by any means necessary: even if that means sacrificing a child to demons. And Fiona won't listen to Anders because she has already written off the Gallows prisoners. I know what they are suffering – I've read Varric's account – and she thinks it's more important to wait years to convince the Senior Enchanters to vote at a Conclave. When we were searching for the Anvil of the Void we had the chance to create a golem army – defend Ferelden from the Blight – and you refused because Wynne told you, "the right of a single innocent soul has to stand against the greater good of billions, or we have made no progress in this life – and won't in the next."
"Was I wrong?" Rillian whispered, "What is the Ultimate Sacrifice but a single innocent soul?"
"Thanks to you, these souls are volunteers. For centuries, Weisshaupt has lied about the Joining – lied about the reason only a Warden can kill an Archdemon – refused to give Wardens the dignity of choice. You have given us that dignity – and Weisshaupt calls it betraying their secrets. That is why I trust you with the Idol."
Her misery inexplicably began to become something else, something that bore a crazy resemblance to joy. He believed in her. Because of that, everything was possible.
"You mean that? After all that's happened?"
Puzzled, Alistair stared. Rillian took in the tall, fair-haired man, with the strength and solidity of a farmer and hazel eyes on fire with belief. He wasn't the young man she had met at Ostagar with more hope in his heart than flesh and blood can hold, but there was a core of that man still inside.
Rillian hurried on. "Running away from Guillaume Caron instead of going to Weisshaupt. Killing Corypheus and taking his blood..."
I did more than just kill him. I tortured him to get revenge for Blights he probably didn't cause. How am I different from the ones who tortured me: The Architect, in his research, Arl Howe, to make a Blood Puppet? How am I different from Avernus, who did it to every Warden in Soldier's Peak and died thinking himself justified?
I'm not going to do it again, and neither are my researchers. As scientists, we'll live ethically – free - or we'll die ethically - free forever...
"Taking the Red Lyrium Idol. Giving Corypheus' blood to Janeka. So many things. Because I won't stop trying to cure taint. My fault..."
"That's just flat wrong," Alistair scolded, "If you'd gone to Weisshaupt they'd have kept you prisoner just like they kept Fiona. Corypheus was a darkspawn magister who would have escaped in time. If Janeka – a Blood Mage with a first-class laboratory – can't handle a blood sample that's on her. What else could you have given up? Your blood, which holds the cure to taint – the griffons, which we'll need to fight Archdemons – Isseya's journal? Rillian: it's not your fault. None of this is your fault."
She didn't smile, yet an inexplicable joy in her started to sing. In the dim early morning the blue waves and white spume had a soft luminosity that Rillian's overworked imagination transformed into gentle, smiling ghost faces. Sea-scented air embraced her, and those tender eddies shielded her from the crushing surf of the Colean Sea that was ahead.
"Rillian, when I first met you at Ostagar, your smile went right through my heart. As if it came down to me from the sky, I knew I loved you. I knew the Grey Wardens were never going to be what they could be without you to lead them. And I knew you needed something from me – something you didn't have yourself."
"What?"
Alistair spread his hands. "Humour. You're not really capable of seeing the funny side. You just think on such a heroic scale. Everything is serious – everything a matter of life and death. You don't have time for jokes when you're busy saving the world."
It was so like something Zevran had once told her she blushed. Zev had once said, "Cara mia, you will have to learn to laugh at the world, if you are to feel and not go mad."
"People who want to save the world – and who make a few mistakes - become tyrants. Tyrants never laugh. It came to me all in a burst, like a sunrise. I swore to give that to you – to balance you and be your friend – no matter what. And then I threw a tantrum at the Landsmeet – Duncan would have been ashamed – and slept with Morrigan. I was afraid of losing you and I wanted to get back at you. Rillian: the only one who needs to be sorry is me."
The words gladdened Rillian, but they also struck her with a weird, confusing power. She was suddenly brisk. "I forgive you. We don't need to speak of it again."
He grinned. "We'll do it, Rillian. Rescue my father - kill that slaving bastard, Titus – set up a base with a real lab. You can study the Idol, and I'd better get fit enough to defend us."
His smile was the one she knew of old – the eager, hopeful expression of youth rising to challenge.
Rillian swore she would never put Fenris at risk. Fenris had promised to help negotiate with the Fog Warriors, but the following year would be helping his friend retake Starkhaven. Lambert and Donnic would be going with him. The Idol was in Bianca's lead-lined box, and Merrill had left notes on how she had cleansed the taint from the Eluvian. She would keep it safe, and only start experimenting once Fenris had left and the lab was secure.
Rillian took Alistair's chin in her hand. "Whiskers," she murmured, "Does an Elf ever get used to them?"
His eyes darkened, as if they were on fire with shadows. Even the hair on his head seemed to burn with desire. He clasped her to him and they kissed: awkwardly, inexperienced, but willing to practice for the rest of their lives.
The fabric of his trousers was so thin she couldn't mistake the way he felt about her, in spite of her inexperience. Unfortunately, they really didn't have anywhere to go. Rillian had been sharing her cabin with Bianca – who had now invited Varric to stay the night. Alistair was sharing the giant cabin with the other single men.
Taking her hands in his own, Alistair kissed the palms. "There'll be time to do it right."
Rillian looked deep into his eyes, still acquainting herself with him again. "So many new things. A creation to be accomplished. Together."
They spent the morning sitting up on deck, with Ravenous and their griffons, just talking. The only words in her mind were rebellious hope. They sang.
AN: Readers may be wondering: just how does Fiona already know about the Idol? She knows because she got far more out of her blood-magic-induced dream with Rillian than the other way round. In Chapter 2 Rillian was furious because she caught Fiona studying her blood samples - things got physical and Fiona left in a hurry. Rillian didn't check whether the whole sample was given back. Fiona can communicate with Alistair because they share blood.
But I do not intend Fiona to be Machiavellian. I was struck in DAI when she tells the Inquisitor, "they have tried, but I cannot be reinfected"- to me there's a world of unwilling medical experimentation in that. So of course she tells them about Rillian to persuade them to let her go! But she really does want Rillian to succeed in curing taint and really does care about mage rights. Her problem is she is too arrogant to admit her failures at Andoral's Reach and Redcliffe and doesn't realise how much Weisshaupt and the Venatori are playing her.
Likewise, Janeka really did hold exactly the same ideals as Rillian – she was too arrogant to realise she was being used by Erimond and could be possessed by Corypheus. Then again, as Rillian has given the droplet of blood to Janeka and kept the Red Lyrium Idol, I am not sure she could lecture either of them!
The story of Rillian and Alistair's first meeting – when he is Ser Otto's squire and she is Lady Habren's maid – is told in my one-shot, I Speak Because I Can.
'I did not say this. I am not here' is from the original Dune - 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one' is (of course!) Vulcan.
'Blood rain' is an actual weather phenomenon in which red dust mixes with a thunderstorm so you get red rain.