Chapter Thirty-Two: Those Who Speak
Solace 9:34
The light in Seheron was thick as green rain. On the sunless shore, where the rain forest crowded steeply down to the Colean Sea, Rillian's party entered the devouring jungle. They headed east, and it was not until midday the sun broke from cover, the sky a mosaic of shifting, dancing greens and golds.
The summer growth seemed to reach for Lambert. The vine tips were translucent and the ground nearly dark. Thick, woody stems stood jammed against each other, straining to lift lifemaking leaves up to light. Light balsa wood could grow lightning fast. In the dense jungle they had to out-compete every other tree and they did it by growing at an accelerated pace. There were small, inedible figs that Fenris had told him were a source of food for monkeys – a kind of animal Lambert had never seen in the South. Teak trees grew to 150 feet, their leaves reddish-green and rough to the touch. Their flowers were like pale-blue lace clustered at the branch tips and their fruits were edible. Lambert enjoyed picking them. Black ironwood was used by the Dalish to make armour but Rillian told them to harvest it for firewood. Fenris slashed off the more aggressive intrusions.
Lambert's position at the tail of the column, with Jowan, allowed him to watch the others. There was little brush to obstruct his view, due to the immense trees. The lower branches were twenty to thirty feet above the ground. The tops were almost totally hidden by overlapping growth. Their shade turned the sun's brightness to artificial dusk. It was a strange, haunting light of no shadows. It shrouded the distance yet made whatever was close appear magnified. The plated, channeled bark of the huge trees made him think of armour.
He wondered if the trees had similar thoughts about them.
He remembered Fenris' tales of fighting in this jungle: another adversary – dissolving, corroding, poisoning, chilling, sucking, drenching – coming at him with writhing mists and green mold and endless rain. Poisonous green insects and stinking bugs that seemed to pluck each cell apart like tiny claws. The song of the jungle in which everything fell apart in hollow harmony with the rain.
Until the Fog Warriors had taught him to survive, to adapt, to win. Lambert wondered if they would meet the first good people Fenris had ever known – the people who faced a dual battle against colonization by Tevinter and by Qunari. But were Rillian's soldiers any different, given Rillian had spoken of wanting to recruit the Fog Warriors as allies to her cause?
Animals, large and small, created their own meandering paths. They had left griffons and cats aboard The Siren's Call but the two mabaris – Ravenous and Lady – were scouting ahead. Isabella's crew had been less than enthusiastic about sailing to Seheron – but a barrel full of wine and a chest full of silver had swayed most of them. The rest had held out for the promise that they would stay on the Western coastline, away from Qunari waters. In the opinion of Lambert, Fenris, Jan and Brand the side that faced Minrathous was just as dangerous as the side that faced Par Vollen, but the rest of the crew listened when Isabella called the Qunari, "Bastard horn-headed fanatics who'd ravage their own mothers for the chance to kill or, better yet, convert you."
When a rodent jumped in front of Lambert he squeaked in surprise, wondering if this was the famous mouse-deer his father had told him about. Another one followed, its powderpuff tail winking in agitation. Lambert and Jowan read the concern of Fenris and Zevran – their two hunters on either flank. There was no need for anyone to actually speak of tigers or bears.
When the huge boar appeared directly ahead, it was almost an anti-climax. Lambert had been expecting a fearsome, roaring predator. This animal weighed more than Ravenous – was impressive – but, after all, just a pig. Lambert had eaten pork scratchings.
The boar swung its head from side to side. Lambert had never seen anything like the shining, curving tusks. It opened and closed its mouth rapidly, making a clacking rattle like eager shears...
And suddenly Lambert was back there. In the Gallows, with Alrik's instruments coming for him...
He froze, unable to do anything: attack, defend, even roll out of the way. The boar lunged towards him, trampling the green-spiked acacia underneath.
Then Fenris shouted a hoarse challenge: one predator to another. Lambert was terrified. He had given Fenris his injection this morning – knew his lover couldn't phase. The boar whirled and, with a thick, heavy grunt, accepted the new contest.
Fenris knew he couldn't phase - knew he would have to finish this with Lethandralis. In the same thought-instant, he was secretly glad. Live or die, it would be as a mortal. Fenris Lethandralis. Not a lyrium ghost. A man. Steel in fist.
He extended the broadsword in both hands. The boar took the point in the chest, between the ribs. The impact bowled Fenris over like a toy, but he held the blade rigid. It tore a furrow through hide and meat down to bone. Enraged, the boar kept on, not caring it was killing itself in its need to kill its tormentor. Blood and saliva flew from its snout in a constant spatter.
Glancing off bone, Lethandralis nearly twisted out of his hand. Fenris held on for grim death. The howling and snarling filling his ears wasn't just the animal. He was yelling and screaming himself; life distilled to one moment, one test of strength and will
The mabaris thundered down the trail, hurrying to assist. Their growls rose to an ululating scream.
Varric and Sebastian held their fire because they feared hitting Fenris. Now they hesitated because of the dogs. Then Carver and Alistair were there.
There was so much blood and sweat in Fenris' eyes he couldn't see to be sure, but he thought the handle of his blade still protruded from the boar's chest. That was as much a danger to the mabaris as to the boar. He fell forward, putting himself between. The boar's death throes sent him spinning. His awareness was streaking through a whistling chiaroscuro of colours and plunging into a dark and noisy pit. He hung onto Lethandralis as if it anchored him to life.
He was still clutching it when he heard Lambert's voice.
"Let go now, Fen. It's over. I'll make everything fine."
Fenris felt the wave of Lambert's healing power like water made into light. Lambert's magic tasted like him: vibrant, sweet, like almonds and spices - something that made Fenris more, not less, himself. The power came from the Fade and yet somehow – through Lambert - it became the opposite of that land of lies and nightmares and shifting ambiguities. Solid. Realer than real. He had known for a while that Lambert's magic was good because he was good, yet the touch of mana had still hurt him, because the brands did not distinguish. Now, thanks to the injections and the vial, he was experiencing Lambert differently. It didn't feel like being influenced - as Danarius had used Blood Magic to alter minds - it felt more like seeing the world through one layer removed. Like being let in.
While he was thinking the rest of the group appeared. Rillian was carrying a thick-walled wooden bowl. Raindrops gleamed on its curved sides and steam curled out of it. At the first sniff, Fenris' stomach growled like an angry dog.
"Are Ravenous and Lady alright?"
"Small scratches. That's all. Jowan tended them."
Rillian told him how they'd explored and decided to establish camp here.
"We've a stream a hundred yards or so that way," she said, gesturing, "We're well-hidden, far off the trail. The rain's already hidden our tracks."
The Rillian Fenris remembered meeting in the Deep Roads had been not nearly so trailwise. It appeared her years with Clan Lavellan had taught her something. She directed Alistair and Carver in butchering the pig. When Carver made to remove a ham, Rillian practically screamed at him to stop. Instead, she had them cut circles around all four legs, at the knee joints. Another cut circled the neck, forward of the shoulders. A slit the length of the body ended at the vent. They drew smaller lines from the leg cuts to the body cut. Then slipped knives under the hide and lifted one small section at a time.
Carver met Fenris' eyes with a curious look: half-pleased half-resentful. Fenris returned the look with an unmistakable smile of machismo, very happy to show someone who styled himself a Warden hunter how it was done. Alistair was more generous:
"Wow! You really should be a Grey Warden – you've killed darkspawn in the Primeval Thaig – you should take the Joining... I know, I know: Lambert is worried about the effects of taint on the lyrium brands – but they won't become Red Lyrium until you yourself go through the Calling – which, thanks to Avernus' mixture, we won't have to."
"Oh, you know as much as Researcher Rillian now, do you?" Lambert asked sharply, "Because you are certainly not the one who will suffer if you're wrong."
Fenris put a hand on Lambert's knee. He felt honoured by Alistair's words and was looking forward to the delicious meal his hunting skills had secured - without the aid of the lyrium brands! It would be good to face Titus at Ath Velanis on a full stomach. Fenris, like many warriors, never ate so well as before a battle. He was not nervous to face the man who had...he knew he was not that victim anymore. He was a man, now, a useful, valued member of a team who could be trusted and relied on.
"One day I'd be honoured to become a Grey Warden," he told Alistair, "But Brand and Jan and I are going to free Tevinter slaves first."
"And me!" Lambert said sharply, "I may not have experienced racism or slavery – I'll never understand what the three of you experienced – but you and I will be flesh of one flesh by then and I'll fight beside you as long as I live."
Fenris acknowledged that with a grave smile and nod.
"That works both ways, of course. I expect I'll be fighting for Southern mages from here on." He grinned and shrugged, as if silently asking for an explanation of a world going by too fast for him.
Lambert gave a brilliant, beautiful smile; gazed his entire soul into Fenris' eyes.
"I'll be honoured to be your husband."
"Can we just get on with this?" Carver sighed, not wanting to listen to his brother's romance.
Showing them where to cut, Rillian had Carver and Alistair open the body cavity. Lambert shuddered. Ever since the long night at the Gallows, he had been unable to eat ribs. It was the sound that got him: the rib shears cracking the rib plate, cutting through the cartilage; like the snapping noise that follows a blow to the chest. One time he had ordered ribs in Slubberdegullions – looking forward to sharing with Fenris the delicious meal he had enjoyed as Lord Amell when invited to the de Launcets' - and the sound had been exactly the sound he had heard when Alrik began cutting him open. He had felt everything fracture and found himself bent double with his hands around his chest, trying to hold himself together. Fenris had grabbed his shoulders, said,
"You need a spar," and Beamdog had actually shouted at him:
"He needs a healer, you moron!"
Fenris' face had crumpled for a second – as if silently asking himself whether Lambert would indeed have been better off as Anders' partner.
Lambert had rallied himself by act of will and said,
"I need neither but a Purple Rain would be nice."
Fenris had smiled in relief and Beamdog had brought Lambert's favourite cocktail and a whiskey for Fenris. They had clinked glasses and smiled at each other; the evening not ruined. But Lambert had never ordered ribs again.
He felt silly, though. He knew fish reminded Fenris of Danarius – his former master had loved delicacies from the Nocen Sea - yet he never made a fuss about eating it.
To his vast relief, though, Jowan also turned green and muttered, "You're going to cook that way?"
Fenris smirked. "You're rather squeamish for a Blood Mage."
Lambert looked at Fenris reproachfully and said, "Jowan and I have more refined tastes."
"Perhaps you more perfect mages could hunt mouse-deer?" Fenris suggested – clearly in the mood to wind his lover up.
"I hear Fade wisps are delicious - and you never put on weight," Lambert retorted – smothering delight at the expression on Fenris' face and wondering at what point it had become normal to tease each other about being a mage and non-mage. Exactly how he and Carver had always teased each other! That was unexpected – that Fenris could ever be comfortable enough to not love Lambert in spite of his being a mage but enjoy it as part of his character – and wonderful.
The moment was broken by Rillian, who had both Lambert and Jowan pick up the offal and carry it away.
She explained, "The animals will clean it up soon, and the rain hide our trail, but I'm taking no chances. We leave nothing near the camp."
The two mages hurried away with the stinking mass, desperate to be rid of it. To add insult to injury, as they were burying the offal they saw, on a branch above them, a monster spider! It crouched in its web: a red and black horror, with furry legs stretching out crookedly from a body as large as Lambert's fist.
"We'll leave him alone," Lambert whispered shakily, "He's not doing anything to us."
They returned to find Donnic and Sebastian had cut four stout poles about three feet long and sharpened one end of each. Rillian had got two fires going: one smaller than the other. She showed the men how to drive the poles into the earth, forming a rectangle over the larger fire. Sagging in the middle was the bloody, skinned boar.
Lambert swallowed noisily. The air was already frizzling. An unfortunate shift in the wind sent the smoke billowing around him. He backed off with more speed than tact.
Rillian said, "Lambert and Jowan: I need you two in charge of the smaller fire. That one's for salves."
From The Luggage, Rillian retrieved a bundle of grubby-looking sticks and a ceramic jug with a wooden plug. Lambert was assigned the task of cutting up the bark – which was the willowbark he used as part of Fenris' injection. Rillian gave Jowan a flour-fine powder to add to the mixture. Seeing Lambert's curiosity, she said,
"It's valerian. It relaxes muscles."
Jowan asked, "Do we seem all that tense?" but Lambert was having different thoughts.
"Could I have some?" he asked shyly.
Rillian smiled at him, as if guessing his thoughts, and nodded. Then turned her attention back to the pot. She stirred the melted lard, sniffed judiciously, tasted once. Finally strained the melted mixture through a fine cloth into a clean ceramic pot.
By the time the boar was served - flavoured with herbs from The Luggage and washed down with small beer – the green sky had darkened to indigo. The thirteen companions did not dare to sing but conversation was friendly. Alistair drew Rillian with him to the fire, opposite Bianca and Varric. He put an arm around her shoulders. She shivered, sighed. Then – as if letting go of something treasured but outgrown - she relaxed to lean against his strength. Isabella and Zevran were the first to disappear into a tent. Fenris sat by the fire, Lethandralis across his knees. Lambert sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
"I found the man who stole my...King Maric away," Alistair murmured, "The man who - intentionally or not – started Ferelden on the path to civil war. Sometimes you need to flush a rabbit out of its hole so you can chase it down."
"And if it runs back into its hole to gather a hundred other rabbits – who can all use Blood Magic?" Varric wanted to know.
Rillian smiled - the smile that reminded Lambert why he had been proud to follow her during the Fifth Blight - "Then we'll be living high on rabbit stew for months to come."
Fenris snorted with laughter. Lambert felt the humour through his own body and joined him. Their ripple of shared amusement was a wavefront of light.
The single men played cards, organized by Donnic. Ser Otto was able to participate as well as anyone – thanks in part to Jowan acting as his eyes but also because he possessed a preternatural sense of when someone was bluffing. Lambert guessed this was because the former Templar had spent his career tracking apostates but did not hold this against him. The person he felt sorry for was Carver. He was not a single man, but thanks to Guillaume Caron's cruelty did not know when he would see his wife and child again. Lambert tried hard not to be ostentatiously affectionate with Fenris – not wanting to rub it in – and this wasn't hard because Fenris didn't tend to be affectionate outside the bedroom. That didn't mean he didn't feel it, just that he showed his love in other ways: by teasing Lambert and by being ready – at all times - to kill or die for him. Lambert liked touch but would never touch Fenris without his consent. How could Fenris be different: after Danarius, after the brands?
They ended sitting around a fire of such spent coals the pale glow nearly drowned in the light of myriad stars. They glinted, dagger-like, through the trees. One by one the members of Rillian's Folly drew away from the central fire, wrapping themselves in cloaks or travel blankets. Soon the only sounds were the crackle of the outer fires, the chirping of insects, and the rustle of leaves as Sebastian climbed a nearby ironwood tree to take first watch. Zevran, also on watch, slipped off into the shadows.
Rillian sent Carver and Lambert to get more firewood. The brothers enjoyed themselves – it was so like camping trips with father. Carver, it appeared, was evaluating Fenris:
"He's not bad-looking – once you get past the scars. Did you notice him washing up after killing the undead? That wound on his back, on the right? Curves like Lothering River. Kind of jogs."
Lambert glared at him. "Why are you noticing my lover's body! You rat! You're baiting me..."
Carver snickered. "Of course. You should see your face."
By the time they returned it was time for Carver to replace Donnic and Isabella to replace Zevran. The rogues and part-time lovers passed with a whisper like silk; two sides of the same coin. Lambert found himself staring at the comfortable two-man tent Fenris had erected for them: it was like Fenris to take care to outdo the efforts of the other men. His lips quirked in amusement, thinking of the way Fenris and Carver were with each other. The two were polite. More than polite: they had developed a friendship. Still and all, they watched each other. It was Rillian who had pointed it out to him, amused. As soon as Carver got close enough for swordwork, Fenris' chin dropped. His shoulders hunched forward almost imperceptibly and he hooked his right thumb over his belt, in contact with Lethandralis.
"Just like mabaris," Lambert muttered.
"What have the mabaris done?" Fenris' soft question startled Lambert. He never heard his lover approach. A squeak of surprise popped out before he could stop it. Lady and Ravenous – outside Rillian's and Carver's tents - were completely at ease. They had obviously been watching Fenris approach while Lambert's mind wandered (Carver had once warned him never to let it do that, as it was too small to go off by itself).
"I swear you get quieter all the time, Fen!"
"I came from upwind to alert the mabaris. You were very deep in thought."
Fenris' voice was a low, bass growl. It came from his chest, so heavy a sort of rumble trailed it. It was sexy as hell. Just the sound was enough to get Lambert hard. He shifted, wondering if Fenris would notice. Fenris' emerald eyes gleamed at him from his darkly handsome face. His glossy white hair was cropped in a helmet shape that left his lupine ears uncovered.
When Lambert breathed Fenris' skin he caught an elusive tang: a scent stripped of all sweetness; a comfortable, slightly bitter scent that reminded him of a grassy meadow under the first sun after a rainstorm.
He said, "Come to bed," and Lambert obliged.
Inside the dimness of their tent. Lambert saw Fenris only as shadowy angles of arm, shoulder, hip, knee. He pulled off his tunic and caught his breath at the play of powerful muscles; the brands mere scars and skin gleaming with a sliding, fiery sheen. He caught another whiff of that bitter aroma of sunlit grass after rain, so carefree. He realized he was smelling Fenris, himself, without the metallic rain of the lyrium brands that had defined his teenage years and early adult life. Fenris was becoming more and more himself, emotionally and physically, and Lambert inhaled with a pang of joy and delight. It was like the last wisp of cloud in a boundless clear sky, or a fleeting chime in a deep mountain valley. His unfocused eyes made Lambert think of a boiling emerald sky; of a magical battle where he was needed. The rumble of Fenris' laughter was music to him.
"My turn."
After making love several times over the course of the night, Fenris stared at the marble arch of Lambert's back; at the pale, blurred features. Lambert was rummaging in his backpack and came back with his hands covered in the warm salve Rillian had made earlier. His voice was playful, wicked, his smile a sun of love. Every time he met Lambert's eyes – ringed by long, sooty lashes; their dancing lights half-hidden by lustrous darkness - he felt as if his life were expanding before him.
"Allow me to demonstrate the kind of massage skills one only learns at Madame Lusine's."
Fenris lay back, and Lambert's hands moved with a sure gentleness that turned his wandering thoughts to bird wings or the touch of a breeze. The brands did not hurt at all – since taking both the injection and the vial, he hardly noticed them. When Lambert told him to roll over, he was so nearly asleep he hated to move.
Lambert's hands now kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck, working slowly, deliciously, down both sides of his spine. His weight pressed down, bowed Fenris' ribs. His breath rhythm became Lambert's movement.
Through the scent of the valerian salve, another scent teased him. Lambert's scent of almonds and Purple Rain and cinnamon. The other aroma should have overwhelmed the smell of his skin, but Fenris was much more aware of the latter. Lambert's mana felt like a shimmering blanket of consent – Lambert hadn't taken magebane since Fenris had told him he wanted him as himself. It danced along Lambert's pale skin like a swathe of glistening diamonds; like an angel, sweating light. Fenris' whole body was in flowing co-operation with Lambert's touch; as if he were melting into him, becoming the hot blood that swirled in his veins.
Lambert was singing softly – a Ferelden ballad he had learned from Leliana:
...Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be,
To one, of one, still such, and ever so...
Fenris tried to listen but his mind wouldn't focus. Safe, the song seemed to whisper. We are safe here.
Music and love and peace spread so far in all directions they carried him away.
Next morning they continued east, towards a fort Fenris had known as Akhaaz. The trail twisted and turned, as though blazed by someone drunk on Aqua Magus.
"Old stone, coastal location, easy to defend. This war camp was built by my...the Fog Warriors. This is the place they took me, after I was wounded defending Danarius. They nursed me back to health – but Danarius came for me in the end. Killed them all."
Fenris' voice was harsh as a rusted saw. Lambert brushed his hand with the lightness of a moth but Fenris pulled his hand away. It wasn't a rejection of Lambert – it was because he knew he didn't deserve comfort.
"But trail signs indicate the camp is reoccupied - if you are looking for Fog Warriors, I would suggest you start there."
The alignment of the thirteen was not straight, but deliberately staggered. Fenris took point, followed by Rillian and her mabari. Carver and his dog brought up the rear. Lambert and Jowan marched in the centre: the two mages – one good at Creation spells and the other Entropy – complemented each other. Varric kept his crossbow locked and loaded, and the group fell into a crab-like rhythm: left foot, lean, look, listen, pause; right foot, lean, look, listen, pause.
It was actually Lambert who had more experience with this than Fenris. Fenris had fought in these jungles and Lambert hadn't, but Fenris had been alone - the only times he had ever fought with friends had been with Sebastian and Donnic in Kirkwall, with Lambert and Varric in the Deep Roads, and with this group in The Silent Grove and Red Bride's Grave. Lambert had been part of Ferelden's army – and even a combat medic was expected to keep up with the group. Fenris looked back – briefly - and had a sudden, incongruous awareness of Lambert's attractiveness. Slightly tilted violet eyes – Elven eyes, except they were not reflective – scanned the jungle: bright, lively. High cheekbones curved to a clean, sharp jawline. His mouth – more used to smiling or kissing – was now downcurved with concentration.
Fenris felt instinctively for the potion he carried – hidden, until needed – in his belt pocket. At Lambert's insistence he had allowed his lover to inject him with Fenris' Friend at dawn. But Fenris had known, even as the needle went in, that if Lambert died because he could not phase he would never forgive himself. Failing to protect Lambert would be worse than becoming a lyrium ghost. To avoid a blazing row with Lambert, he'd asked Jowan for a lyrium potion - and to keep it quiet. He'd drink it only if it became clear he'd need to become a lyrium warrior to defend Lambert in Ath Velanis. Fenris could cast the Litany – which worked against Blood Magic and demons - but had no way other than the brands to combat conventional magic. Neither Jowan nor Lambert had mastered thaumaturgy – the use of magic to dispel magic – which meant they would be relying on Alistair and Ser Otto. Who would probably have their hands full.
Fenris grunted, wondering how in the Void he had been reduced to asking a Blood Mage to slip him a lyrium potion on the sly! But somehow – probably stupidly – he had come to trust Jowan. It was nothing to do with fighting together – predators could ally with predators and it did not make them trustworthy – it was because he had seen Jowan act as Ser Otto's eyes. Doing it so discreetly the Templar never felt embarrassed to accept the help. That was a quality Fenris had never known existed until meeting Lambert – the first person he knew who possessed it. Fenris had never known the word for it – Carver had accidentally supplied it once, when describing his brother. Kindness.
Actually, the words Carver had used were, "Lambo is kind. Sometimes too kind. If you hurt him, I'll kill you."
Fenris had studied him gravely for a moment and nodded.
Because of that similarity – ridiculous as it sounded – Fenris had trusted Jowan to give him the right mixture and not drop him in it with Lambert. Convincing the mage had not been easy. Jowan had frowned and told him,
"I watched my friend go through lyrium withdrawal. I know the brands hurt you worse than that."
Fenris had glared, outraged, but Jowan had merely shrugged, "I can't help that Senior Enchanter Sweeney taught a class on the effects of lyrium on the body and I have a brain. Anyway, taking a lyrium potion will turn your whole body into a factory for pain."
"Yes," Fenris had agreed mildly, "Pain can be a problem. And if we lose to Titus because I don't have the ability we won't have any more problems. Ever."
Jowan had agreed reluctantly, telling him, "This is bloody stupid. But I'll do it. You might sit on your brains but you're a good guy. Use it only in an emergency – and have Lambert's mixture ready if it gets too much."
The birds and all the smaller animals were quiet, and it made them uneasy. It might just be a response to their presence, or it might indicate an enemy. It was raining.
Fenris crouched low to negotiate a curve, then slithered on his belly to observe the fort.
What he saw made his heart sink. There were soldiers patrolling the fort – soldiers with horns. That did not, in itself, indicate anything – Tal Vashoth could be Fog Warriors as well as Elves and humans – but, as someone who had encountered both Fog Warriors and Qunari, Fenris knew the differences in body language, marching order, uniform... These were Qunari, which meant they had killed or converted all the camp's defenders. He turned back, carefully out of sight, and made a sharp hand signal to indicate trouble. Rillian edged closer. Ravenous - sensing his mistress' unease - growled softly.
Rillian gestured for her group to listen and told them, "They're Qunari, not Fog Warriors. We don't know if any Fog Warriors remain on this part of the island." She squeezed Fenris' forearm. Fenris did not like to be touched unexpectedly but he knew Rillian's intent was comfort. "But we need allies to face Titus and – if they're anything like my friend, Sten – they'll have already noticed our approach. If we run, we'll look like bas to them. Better to make a virtue of necessity. We'll approach – without trying to hide – and claim we always intended to offer them a deal. The Tome of Koslun in exchange for their help against the magister."
Isabella managed a tight smile, "I'd rather wave a roasted boar at a starving tiger," and the others managed grim laughter.
Rillian asked Fenris, "Do Qunari understand the white signal?"
"Yes. But whether they respect it or not is another matter. They do not respect any customs of bas – they see non-Qunari as Tevinter magisters see Elves: as animals who think themselves men. Do you have a way to prove you are a Grey Warden? The Qunari see Wardens as basalit-an – as outsiders worthy of respect."
Rillian smiled and produced a pendant.
"Duncan gave me this the day I took my Joining." She and Alistair exchanged a look Fenris could not read. Support - comfort – regret – guilt? "It contains the blood of those who didn't make it."
Bianca came forward to Rillian's side.
"Wash your face and comb your hair before you go to talk. You can't show up looking shabby. I'll clean the white cloth. Lambert will carry it."
Varric was looking at her, openmouthed. "Amazing. I never knew you could be so...domestic."
"Dome - what?" Bianca's eyes widened. Her lips went very thin. She shook the white cloth in Varric's face. "How'd you like this rag shoved up your nose?"
Lambert and Jowan were giggling like schoolboys.
Varric waggled a finger. "No time for sweet-talk. But – if we make it through this – I'm thinking about our marriage in Qarinus. As soon as we get there."
Varric had apparently decided that a city that would marry a magister and a dwarf would not balk at one of the partners being already married. Fenris and Lambert traded a glance, and Fenris knew he had Lambert's first loyalty. Despite his friendship with Varric, Lambert would never show up in Tevinter unless it was to kill those who had enslaved Fenris. He hugged Varric, though, delighted for him.
Rillian followed Bianca's directions and faced her friends one final time. "If this operation goes in the bin, head back to The Siren's Call double-time. I'll cover the retreat. If nothing else, I'm going to return Sten's soul. He was my kadan."
Alistair put his hand on her shoulder, squeezed hard. A silent promise he would not leave her.
Fenris smiled to himself; remembering Danarius' bodyguard, assassin, bed slave – he who acted, but dared not speak. He still didn't chat for the sake of it - unlike Lambert and Varric - but, among these friends, he spoke up when he needed to. When it would help them. He said, "You'll need me there to translate Qunlat."
Rillian faced him and said, "That's what I was afraid of." She sighed. "All right. Come on, then, sucker. Keep your dumb butt down."
Fenris understood the compliment he had just been paid. Rillian was speaking to him exactly as she would another Warden.
Rillian led them to the Qunari fort. The wall reached upward at least twenty feet, a daunting stone face. It was marked by archers' window slits at eye level, with more about fifteen feet up. A crenellated top provided more defensive positions. Projecting towers enabled other archers to fire parallel to the wall in mutual support.
Fenris and Lambert followed her, walking side-by-side with death. Lambert was deathly pale, eyes startlingly wide. His movements were mechanically correct. A salty dryness filled Fenris' mouth. He willed it away.
Rillian said, "How did the Qunari ever beat the Fog Warriors? I'd hate to have to crack this nut."
Fenris' sigh might have been mocking, might have been hurting.
"The important thing to remember about any defense is that it breaks easier from the inside."
The remark was cynical enough to surprise Rillian. Lambert squeezed his hand in silent understanding.
"Fen," he whispered, "That word Rillian used: what is a 'kadan'?"
It struck Fenris as both absurd and wonderful that he could even answer Lambert. That he – the ex-slave who had obeyed his master's orders to kill the Fog Warriors – had learned what it was to have a friend.
"It is similar to the Tevinter word: amatus – beloved – but the relationship need not be sexual."
And that was another word Fenris only now realized he understood. As a slave, intimacy had only ever meant humiliation and pain.
"And which are we?" Lambert asked softly as they approached the killing field. He was waving Rillian's white signal as if his life depended on it – which it did.
Fenris chuckled. It had been Lambert and Varric – on the Deep Roads Expedition – who had taught him to laugh in the face of danger. Fenris had never had anyone to laugh with before. "Both, I suspect. When we are married you may call me whatever you like – except late for dinner."
In the valley of the shadow - the fort a mute, massive backdrop - joy radiated from Lambert like light.
The fort's first line of defense was the sharpened stakes that studded its front slope. Beyond, the ground for about fifty metres was mown flat, without any hollow or knoll to provide cover: a killing field for defenders shooting down. Any attacker who got past faced the moat. Ten metres across, with the bottom greenly visible six feet below. Qunari soldiers lowered the sturdy drawbridge, leading to a tunnellike passage. The entry's twin doors were hinged at the top, with lines and pulleys to swing them up to the ceiling.
All twenty-one men were sten - the Beresaad, or vanguard – and moved so seamlessly they might have been a single organism. Fenris guessed that – as with the Fog Warriors – the differences in personality showed most deeply when all else was stripped away: that each had an identity, a way of walking, perhaps a talent for music or way with words or knack for putting colour on canvas. That had been so for the Fog Warriors and perhaps – he hoped – for him.
The smell of stone and brick drew Fenris' mind back to Kirkwall. Unlike the City of Chains, this stone smell wasn't greasy with garbage and unwashed humanity. It was a military camp, maintained professionally. He knew they were being watched; held in an invisible net. The sensation was like the cold wet sea crawling along his bones.
Fenris' impression of the fort interior was smoking darkness. A fire roared in an immense fireplace across the room from the front entrance. Narrow archers' slits dropped vertically from near the ceiling to about waist high. There were wooden stands and wooden shutters, operated by foot levers. An archer could loose his arrows then slam the portal shut against return fire. Ventilation slits under the ceiling emitted the pale green light of the jungle.
The warriors who had led them inside turned to Rillian, recognizing her as the leader. The Qunari had rigid gender roles but were not troubled by the fact of a woman leader because to them gender was determined by role. To them Rillian was Aqun-Athlok: a man. When the leader spoke – his voice the rumble before a storm - it became clear to Fenris the Qunari had been watching them for some time. More thoughtful than chagrined, he listened closely:
"The Arishok has asked for you."
"The dead one?" Lambert whispered, spooked.
"This isn't Tevinter," Fenris reassured him, "One Arishok dies, another is chosen."
Before either could say more, the leader turned to them. They separated like boys caught talking in class.
He said, "My title is Karasten. The fort is my responsibility." His men formed two lines behind him, with minimum fuss, indicating that this was routine. Karasten said, "The Arishok has a stateroom prepared for you."
Rillian's group followed him outside to walk the length of the battlements. Rillian reached down to pat Ravenous' square slab of a head.
"Gut check, pup," she whispered, "Mummy's not that sure of herself if you want the truth."
Ravenous gave a reassuring bark.
Zevran and Isabella were whispering,
"Nowhere convenient to run, once we escape, then?"
"You memorize the exits. I'll remember the patrols."
An enormous – nearly seven and-a-half-feet tall – horned man awaited them at the top of wide stone steps.
"Arishok - they have come."
"Shanedan, Warden. I expected you."
Fenris and Rillian approached the Arishok. Fenris was vaguely aware of Lambert and Alistair starting forward to help them but being restrained by Carver and Ser Otto. Rillian was holding a magnificent two-handed sword in her hands – as reverently as she might have held a friend's body. Her amber eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
"Maraas toh ebra-shok."
She held the sword out to the new Arishok and Fenris translated as she said, "This is Asala, the soul of my kadan, Sten. He and I fought together during the Fifth Blight. He died bravely at the Battle of Drakon River."
The new Arishok took the sword, gravely, but said, "Sten always die well – as do Grey Wardens. But it has been many years since you fought together against the Blight. You were a leader of armies, then – now you are being a fool. Aurelian Titus wants the blood of your fellow Grey Warden and you would chase him into his lair? With only thirteen of you? And two of your recruits are Saarebas."
Fenris translated that, and made a silent promise that if the Qunari even tried to treat Lambert as they treated their mages he would kill the lot of them.
Rillian said, "There is a place for Saarebas among Grey Wardens just as there is a place for them in the Qun. It is not for you to judge how our unit operates. Help us or do not help – but you have no business lecturing me or trying to prevent us doing our duty. We are attacking Titus' fort because it contains information that will help the Grey Wardens end Blights. That is our primary responsibility."
"Long ago, the humans of Tevinter worshipped Old Gods. The Old Gods were like unto dragons as Kings were like unto ordinary men. So it is written in the Tome of Koslun."
Behind Fenris, Isabella shifted guiltily.
"You know the history and you have seen the decaying idols that remain. The old gods granted power to their worshippers in exchange for sacrifices of blood. Aurelian Titus knows this. He endeavors to reignite a spark that died long ago, grasping for the power of the Ancients. I do not know how – or what he wishes to accomplish. But should he succeed he will be a threat to us all. Until this human is stopped, you will be a 'guest' here in Akhaaz."
"No," Rillian said, with granite certainty. "I'll die first. Take as many of you with me as I can."
Fenris nodded, preparing himself to drink the lyrium potion and kill for her without question. He didn't have to look to know his friends were planning the same.
The Arishok growled. "You are basalit-an, Warden – an outsider worthy of respect. For that reason, alone, you and your men are being spared. But we will take the thief who stole our sacred text."
"Never. Isabella has repented and chosen to aid me in my quest. She will be protected. She has chosen, and so have I."
"And are you not responsible for the crimes of your subordinates?"
"Viscount Nathaniel Howe was responsible for Isabella at the time she stole the Tome and he has answered for her crime – by defeating your predecessor in single combat. You cannot reopen the case because you do not like the outcome."
"You argue like a judiciar, not a soldier," the Arishok growled.
"Nonetheless, I return your sacred text. Not in exchange for your aid but because it is right. I request your aid against Aurelian Titus because that is militarily sensible."
Something changed in the atmosphere – a flicker of understanding. The Arishok took the sacred book with reverence. But then shook his head, as if rallying himself, and said, "We leave it to you to discipline your thief – but you will not be permitted to leave. You and your companions may stay together – if that is your wish."
Rillian leaned forward, seething. "Would I say something I didn't mean? You think my orders are mere whims? I said nothing of wishes. I told you what I will have."
"Parshaara. We have a man in place and have been watching Titus for months – allowing you to attack him would compromise our operation."
Rillian did not ask how the Qunari could have a spy among Titus' household and Fenris did not have to. He knew not all Qunari had horns – Elves who converted were no less valued. This spy would be an Elven slave to Titus as he had been a slave to Danarius – and Titus and Danarius had similar tastes - all the while passing information back to the Qunari. That took incredible courage. Fenris made a silent promise he would rescue this spy-slave just as Alistair was going to rescue King Maric.
Rillian shook her head. "There's no time. Titus will act now, not in a few months. Let us face our common enemy, together."
The Arishok made his decision like a soldier: like scissors snipping away alternatives, reducing the world to a series of absolutes. In that moment Fenris understood him – touched the edge of their being, felt the lightest tremor of exaltation. Lambert enjoyed risks – especially at cards – took chances that could lead to serious injury, possibly death. But men like Fenris and the Arishok – yes, and women like Rillian – went where death was, and staked their lives on their ability to embrace her and survive. Whatever the name of that thing that enabled them to bet their lives with an eagerness that counterfeited love, they shared it. Fenris knew what the Arishok would say before he said it:
"Meravas. You have proven your mettle. I agree to your offer."
AN: Lambert's song when massaging Fenris is Shakespeare's Sonnet 105. Rillian v. the Arishok is Led Zeppelin: No Quarter (thanks to my Dad, I love old school rock).