Chapter Thirty-Six: Knight Reign
Song is Falconer: The Clarion Call
Solace 9:35
Prince Sebastian's army had been on the march for an hour, riding six abreast across the open country of the Free Marches. They were north of the Vinmarks, and the mountains had crumbled into verdant plains criss-crossed with metallic rivers. Behind a screen of scouts came Nathaniel Howe – Arl of Amaranthine and Viscount of Kirkwall – and his men. They wore his insignia: sharks with chains dangling from mouths of silver teeth. Beside him was Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, who had also agreed to join Sebastian's cause. Their motto was 'modest in temper, bold in deed'; their symbol a stallion rampant against a silver sun. Behind the Lords came their squires, then the lower-ranking knights and finally the archers, infantry and baggage. There were scouts at the flanks, but no rearguard, for they held the lands behind them. The enemy - Lady Johanne Harimann - held the castle of Starkhaven and its surrounding town but had failed to secure allies among the other city-states.
Nathaniel and the others rode at walking pace so he had plenty of time to scan his surroundings. The ground was a rippling carpet of green and yellow grasses. Either side, distant hills faded into a sky like a grey-green lake. Fat, heavy droplets of summer rain struck their armour in a staccato rhythm and turned their vision of the land ahead to a soft blur. The sky reminded Nathaniel of a vast luminous bruise of glowing blues and greens and yellows, all running into each other like paints dissolved in water. The clouds were low and oppressive, dark with moisture. The eerie quality of light, the heaviness in the air, was like being on the shores of Amaranthine, watching sea and sky change places in a storm.
Sebastian had asked Nathaniel for his aid retaking Starkhaven eighteen months ago. Kirkwall was a viper's nest; he hadn't been able to take his eye off the Game last year. Grand Cleric Elthina and Knight Commander Meredith were still thorns in his side, but under Divine Justinia their power was less than it had been. Elthina was bitterly opposed to Sebastian choosing this moment to retake Starkhaven – rather than a moment of her choosing with the support of the Chantry – which was exactly why Nathaniel was keen to help. Better to have Prince Vael indebted to him.
What Sebastian had found in the Gallows dungeon had convinced him he could no longer serve the Maker as a Chantry brother reporting to Grand Cleric Elthina. Nathaniel had promised to field men at the start of campaign season this Drakonis. But it had taken Sebastian longer than that to gain allies among the nobility – few even knew who he was – and it was now late Solace. The season seemed determined to race away from them. Nonetheless, by the time the blackberries were ripening, they had begun the march: from Kirkwall to Ostwick to Markham to Starkhaven.
Sebastian's lack of notoriety did have one advantage: the exiled prince was currently posing as a simple brother in Starkhaven, keeping his ear to the ground, stirring up resistance to the Harimanns.
All this was on Nathaniel's mind as he faced the Minanter River, about twelve hours east of Starkhaven, watching Isabella and crew guide a shallow-draft, flat-bottomed batteau into position. The ship held a crew of ten and was able to operate in shallow waters. The Siren's Call had sailed from Llormerryn to Wycome, then Isabella had taken the smaller vessel west, rowing up the Minanter River towards Starkhaven. This vessel was the heavy earner in her smuggling work.
Isabella stood on top of one of the frames that held the outrigged balance bar in place. It was a remarkable feat: the wood was barely four inches across and at least ten feet long. Nathaniel watched her admiringly as she approached, so agile she almost seemed to drift into the new position.
Coming up to Nathaniel, she said, "It's as I expected, Arl Howe: Starkhaven's defenses will kill or cripple us. Our only chance is to attack after sunset."
Isabella explained her plan. Her two friends – a human healer named Despereaux and an Elven killer named Wraith – would enter the castle through the sewage duct that ran from the south bank of the river Minanter to the cellars. Nathaniel smiled at the nicknames, well-knowing their true identities. They would have had a third companion: an Elven assassin who didn't go in for storybook nicknames – but Nathaniel's lover was currently dealing with the Crows in Antiva and would be First Talon before long. Which was fair enough: Zevran had been glad to help free Hawke but Nathaniel would be foolish to take him for granted – Zevran wasn't a favour he could lend to his fellow nobles. The Crow and the Wraith were hunters: men whom other men – even their allies – spoke of in the careful mix of pride and fear that men afford those who prey on other men. Despereaux was not a hunter – Zevran had described him as too gentle for such work – but if the rumours about Lady Harimann were true then a nascent mage might prove useful.
Without consulting Sebastian, Nathaniel had taken the valuable step of assuring that the men he'd identified as Harimann spies were 'able' to see which nobles had joined him and 'stole' full details of their numbers. Morale among his enemy's forces was low.
"Almost every Starkhaven boat is north of us, waiting for fishermen and merchants to run from your army. I had to dodge them all the way to my hideout after our last meeting. We made a run to the town to sell lyrium – and talk to Sebastian. Sebastian will be able to meet up with my boys through a tunnel that leads from a warehouse to the cellars. It's carved through limestone by a dried-up river, and was enlarged by Castillon ten years ago."
That was useful. Now that Isabella had taken over Castillion's smuggling operations no one knew the underworld better than her – not even the verbose merchant prince, Varric Tethras. For a moment, he regretted Sebastian was going to benefit from Isabella's expertise rather than himself – should he be working through the naïve prince at all? As no one outside the Chantry even knew Sebastian and plenty of people knew the Champion of Kirkwall, could he not simply do away with both the Harimanns and Sebastian? Rule Starkhaven himself? But Nathaniel dismissed the idea. He was Arl of Amaranthine in Ferelden and Viscount of Kirkwall in the Free Marches - if he added another city-state to that list he was in danger of spreading himself too thin. The Free Marches were not his ultimate target – that honour belonged to Val Royeaux – specifically the Chantry. For that Nathaniel would need allies, and a man like Prince Vael - who would owe him a great deal and had become disillusioned with Grand Cleric Elthina - was a fine start.
"That could work. Sebastian and your two men can lower the gates, allowing us to take the castle. We'll be in position and the rain will hide the sound of digging trenches."
Nathaniel did not mention his alternative idea. Now that Gerav had cracked the secret of gaatlok he was curious to see if such an explosion was powerful enough to get them into the castle. A thin and not entirely pleasant smile twitched his lips. Sebastian would owe him far too much to be able to complain he had damaged the infrastructure of Castle Vael. And the display would remind Sebastian – and Bann Trevelyan – that Nathaniel would be a fine ally and worse enemy.
Isabella was saying, "Joanne Harimann started moving men to the Tevinter border two days after we docked. Your boast about wintering in Starkhaven reached her. I think you might have frightened her a little. I know you angered her a lot."
So: Joanne Harimann had started selling Elven slaves in order to pay for Tevinter help? Those were the allies she was counting on. Just as Nathaniel's father had during the Ferelden Civil War. There was a time he would have considered such an idea short-sighted but not shameful. Now that he loved an Elven man Nathaniel's views had changed.
An hour later, he addressed his men. "We move against Starkhaven in twelve hours. We attack at night and we must have surprise. Anyone responsible for breaking security will be executed on the spot, his body left unburned for wild things to devour."
The panoply of cavalry and five divisions of infantry marching to war was a thing of savage beauty. Each had its own signal pennants, proud colours raised on long poles. They snapped in the breeze; their eager crackling seemed to respond to the mile-eating step of the soldiers. They marched in column while they had a good road, and their tread was the rumbling thunder of the promised storm.
Nathaniel swirled to scan the sky. Tonight they would need the wind ruffling those pennants. If Isabella's men couldn't make it down the river to the sewer entrance, the gaatlok would be a necessity.
By evening, a thin sliver of new moon provided barely enough light. The men grumbled – as soldiers will grumble about anything – but knew the minimal light was their best hope.
Only an occasional farmhouse or small fruit tree broke the monotony of the plain. It stretched for miles like a silver river. There was a scrub thicket on their left and an old-grove forest on their right. Behind Starkhaven, the Minanter River was a sickle crescent. Young trees, bamboo and briars were virtually impregnable save for the occasional game trail. Nathaniel was pleased. The old forest might interfere with troop movements during an open battle but it was excellent cover for their planned night raid.
Nathaniel looked out to the river at Isabella's batteau. He could see the sails only when he looked closely: black against the stars. The invisible presence blinded stars and then moved on. A white feather of wake marked the boat's passage, but it was a frail thing, nothing like the boiling swirl that had trailed her earlier. Then, water had flung from her bow, fierce and slashing. Now, a desultory coil of small ripples trailed behind.
Nathaniel said to Gerav, "They're still falling behind."
The dwarf's eyes gleamed with repressed eagerness. He wanted to test his version of gaatlok. "It's going to be a long siege without your men able to lower the drawbridge. We don't have the supplies. There's plenty of wind here. Why not there?"
Nathaniel ignored the unanswerable. He made his decision.
"We test your gaatlok."
Nathaniel's army broke out of cover at a gallop, flying at the town's south gate, storming through while the guards were still fumbling with the winch to lower it. Once inside they cut down any who offered resistance, and then were pounding down the street. At first the scattering townspeople cursed and shouted, but when they realized it was an attack on the castle and not on them, a surprising number came back outside to cheer. The castle guards barely had time to drop the gate before Nathaniel's men were dividing into two separate columns, each racing parallel to the castle wall, shooting arrows upwards as the defenders aimed down.
At Nathaniel's command Gerav and three of his Carta raced directly at the thick wooden door. Two towers flanked it and Nathaniel's archers kept the guards busy while the dwarves worked. In seconds the gaatlok was emplaced and the fuse lit. The heavy breath of pounding feet told him the dwarves were returning
Then a new sound carried: a high-pitched, regular squeaking. The castle defenders had anticipated attempts to burn it and their water-pump doused the fire in cold spray. The lit fuse sputtered and died and the defenders cheered.
Red-faced, Gerav turned back and – ignoring his friends' warning shouts – raced forward with a taper. Nathaniel ordered his archers to protect him. Gerav ran the last few yards and relit the fuse under the protective volley.
Then Gerav ran like mad as water and arrows continued to spew from the towers. Nathaniel and the rest of the men were silent in a breathing hush.
At the sound of the explosion, the gate seemed to move back from its fittings and ripple in the air, red-hot. Bright orange light turned night to day. Shattered timbers whirled; smoke and dust roiled. Ash fell in billowing softness. One tower fell backward into the castle grounds and screams echoed; the other leaned drunkenly. Nathaniel remembered Anders' actions in Lothering forest and smiled. At his order, men poured through while pieces of the gate were still falling. Individual battles whirled across the ground, in and out of buildings, in a maelstrom of individual duels.
Sebastian Vael followed Isabella's instructions to find the largest warehouse he had ever seen. Trade goods were stacked higher than a man's head for at least a hundred yards in front of him, and half that distance on both sides. Alleyways separated stacks. He had come to the city as Brother Sebastian but now wore his pale, lacquered ancestral armour. One hand carried a torch and the other his bow. He was not sure how he felt about that. He did know, after twelve years serving the Chantry – for the most part proudly – it had made him ashamed to wear the robes of a Chantry brother as a disguise. The people of Starkhaven – his people – had regarded him with belief and faith – Starkhaven was a believing city – and he had been ashamed to realize that, for the first time in his life, the robes were a fraud, a disguise, a sham. His real purpose was not the salvation of their souls but to spread disaffection against their ruler. He had wondered – not for the first time – whether disrespecting his vows to pursue his birthright was really the Maker's will.
He had thought not. Despite the tales of Joanne Harimann's cruelty, he had had long talks with Grand Cleric Elthina and decided – after much prayer – that the Maker wished him to be a Chantry brother not a Prince. He had felt at peace with that decision – would not have vacillated.
Until Grand Cleric Elthina had given Ser Alrik permission to do anything he wanted in the interrogation of Lambert Hawke: suspected of being an apostate covering for an abomination.
He, Donnic, Fenris, Zevran, Varric and - yes – the abomination, Anders, had broken into the Gallows dungeon and rescued Lambert. Not before Alrik had worked on him for five hours.
He had known, then, that he could not remain with the Chantry in Kirkwall. Not be part of that wickedness. It had seemed a sign that the Maker wished him to retake Starkhaven and play his part in making the world a better place.
Yet an inner voice whispered to him: you think of kingdoms, while the Maker thinks of sun and stars and all below them. Would you buy your kingdom at the price of these lives? Men are dying for your ideas now. More will die. For peace? For justice? For Sebastian?
The tunnel entrance appeared to be solid stone but, trusting in Isabella, Sebastian placed his palm onto the right spot. A section of the wall creaked open. It was pitch black, and the torch light flickered warily. Sebastian smelled the stink of mould and damp, and took a deep, shuddering breath. He lunged into the gap. There was no light, no sound but his own progress. The rock sweated a stink of long-trapped moisture and decay.
After what seemed an eternity of bumping through the slimy passageway, the air took on a fresher quality. Once, he thought he heard voices and stopped, listening, holding his breath. A few yards further it happened again. The tunnel opened into a cabinet inside a chill, empty room. Something in the quality of air told Sebastian the room was underground. It reminded him of a chill, malodourous cave.
He heard the voices again, made a surreptitious sign of Andraste, and burst out. There was a resonance, a crackle and spark, a flare of blue.
"No, Fen, don't!" a voice squeaked, "It's Sebastian!"
An instant later the blue wraith reappeared, became a muscled, shadowy figure in clawed armour. Green eyes glinted, hard as steel. He had aborted the lethal strike just in time.
"Fen - Lambert," Sebastian greeted them, striving for nonchalance, "I'm glad ye could join me."
"We nearly didn't make it," Lambert said brightly, "The wind was terrible – Isabella's boat was falling behind. But I remembered my father's lessons about creating magical gusts of wind – and it worked! First time for everything." He grinned self-deprecatingly. "I filled the sails and we sped up. We came to an underground sewer exit and swam inside – it could only take one person at a time and Fen insisted on going first..."
Of course he did. Protective as always.
"...The tunnel curved for what felt like miles until we came up – in a guard's latrine!" He giggled. "Good thing there was nobody sitting on it at the time. Anyway: we're filthy, but we're here."
The cheerful voice was exactly as Sebastian remembered. Aside from being filthy – both reeked of sewage and appeared as gross apparitions – he seemed completely at ease, as if he had never been injured. Sebastian had watched Anders heal him completely, literally remoulding the broken body to its familiar shape. Sebastian had seen the Maker's grace that day: through the man the Chantry called 'abomination.' Lambert was, quite literally, a new man.
This is not the same head they shaved. These are not the same wrists they broke. This is not the skin, the flesh, the blood, the bone. But this is the person they tortured; this is the man they raped. What was it Ser Otto said: in the Golden City, we forget the sins done to us? On Thedas, the memory remains.
Lambert had chosen to help Sebastian, to repay him for the Gallows rescue, but if Sebastian had only questioned Grand Cleric Elthina sooner – only investigated the number of suspects taken through the trapdoor to the dungeons beneath – he would not have needed rescuing. Those five hours would never have happened.
The sight of Fenris made Sebastian feel guilty for a different reason. He would never forget the first time he had met this man. Four years ago he had hired Fenris to kill the Flint Company. Mercenaries who had been hired – by Joanne Harimann, he now knew – to murder the Vaels. Fenris had been a quiet, dangerous man no older than Sebastian's twenty-one years, but there had been a world of horror in his past. The watchful green eyes had held an odd frozen stillness, like a mask or a shield. Sebastian had realized there were dreams and desires and hopes behind that forbidding visage, even though no-one but Lambert had ever concerned themselves with them. Sebastian had looked past the unknowable person sowing destruction to the complex of sufferings that drove him.
Sebastian had known there was no way he could ever understand just what Fenris had been through as a Magister's property in Tevinter – empathy, sympathy, imagination: there were places beyond them – but that had not mattered because, as a Chantry brother, Sebastian was only the conduit to the Maker's grace, and the Maker would be able to help him...
..."Are you an Andrastian, Fenris?"
"If I say no, will you attempt to convert me?"
"Many Elves believe in the Maker. I ask only because I wonder if your experiences... soured your faith."
"My faith was never strong. It's difficult for a slave to have faith in someone who abandoned them."
"The Maker didn't enslave you, Fenris."
"He didn't help me much, either."
"And yet you stand here, free. Perhaps He helped you more than you think."
"The Maker didn't free me. I freed myself. If the Maker did anything, He watched. Why should I thank Him for that?"
"Is it so hard to believe the Maker cares for you? Maybe He gave you the chance to escape."
"It doesn't feel like the Maker cares for me... or anyone."
"We all make our own choices, to do good as well as evil. That is our doing, not the Maker's."
"Perhaps."
"It's not too late to start. Were you ever dedicated in the faith of the Chantry?"
"I remember nothing before Danarius, and he had no desire to teach his slaves anything that might make them think they're worthy beings."
"I'm sorry. I can't imagine how difficult your life has been."
"No, you can't."
"Whether you were taught it or not, the Maker has room at His side for every soul."
"Terrible things do happen, Sebastian."
"But what we see is only a piece of the puzzle. Only the Maker can see the greater picture."
"The guilty prosper. Innocents die."
"And then they are brought to the side of the Maker. Their suffering ends. There is always a greater purpose."
"Danarius once killed a little boy to fuel blood magic that let him impress his fellow Senators at a party. What was the purpose there?"
"Perhaps it was witnessing that which will give you the strength to prevent it ever happening again." ...
Now that Sebastian had turned his back on his vows – oh, he was still celibate, still an Andrastian, but he was no longer a Chantry brother – he felt as if they had lost something incalculably important. Because, of course, Fenris would not wish to talk to someone who, while a friend, would always be a privileged human who could never fully understand. And Fenris would not be able to talk to anyone else because the Chantry had so let down Elves. They had excised the Canticle of Shartan from the Chant of Light and did not teach that Elves were worthy beings. Which meant Fenris would have no way to find the Maker's light. Grand Cleric Elthina had taught Sebastian that grace could only be found through the Divine or one of her representatives.
While Sebastian was wrestling with his conscience, Fenris was already searching the room, looking for traps and hidden entrances. He wore his soulless battle-face, and his green eyes held a strange mixture of hunger and absence.
"Nathaniel Howe would advise heading to the towers, taking out the guard and lowering the drawbridge," Sebastian said thoughtfully.
"That would be sensible," Fenris agreed.
Sebastian shook his head. "Armies do several things when entering captured territory and I do not wish to start my reign with any of them. I will not win a city at the price of my people's suffering."
Lambert smiled at him and even Fenris' gaze softened: a thing of confirmed belief.
"Then what?"
"If we find Lady Harimann I am hoping we can persuade her to see reason."
"Well, you might," Lambert agreed, scrubbing at eyes and face self-consciously. He and Fenris were covered in shit and stank to high heaven – clearly a far cry from the former courtesan, former Lord Amell.
The room was empty aside from the cabinet – it led to a deserted dusty corridor. A single, sputtering candle gave light but no warmth. From the chillness and the smell of damp decay, Sebastian knew they were still underground. He assumed Lady Harimann would have taken up residence in his family's quarters, which were in the summer quarters on the north side of the castle. As a child, Sebastian remembered gazing out onto the curved ripple of the Minanter River, knowing the evil Tevinter Empire lay on the other side.
A stone archway led to deeper steps, and three men – minor nobles whom Sebastian had seen attending the Harimanns at dinner parties – stood to guard the passage. They said, in unison, "You cannot pass," and did not seem to recognize him.
"Magical compulsion," Fenris said, "At a guess, I would say the truth you are seeking would lie beneath."
Sebastian agreed. This warranted investigation. He had been going to spare the three nobles – they were clearly not in their right minds – but Fenris slew them from behind with a beheading stroke. Lambert gasped.
"Was that really necessary?" Sebastian asked reproachfully.
Defensively, Fenris said, "It would have been dangerous to leave the thralls between us and escape." He looked a trifle hesitant, though – and cut his eyes to his husband as if fearing Lambert's judgment. Lambert – who had looked even more shocked than Sebastian – faced their friend reproachfully,
"What right do we have to judge? Fen was looking after us – as he has always done."
Fenris relaxed imperceptibly. "Let's end this," he said.
The air smelled of mouldy parchment and cloying incense. The steps spiralled into unknown darkness.
"Light," Lambert whispered, and he began to glow like a pale angel. Sebastian edged unconsciously closer, as if the light would drive away the gloom. Beside him, Fenris was too disciplined to have the same reaction – he moved in front of them, leading and protecting.
Sebastian followed him, feeling as if he were walking into a monster's open throat.
Ten...twenty...thirty steps. And still no end in sight.
Fifty...sixty...seventy. A faint sound brushed his ears, nagged at his mind. A woman's voice, muffled and absorbed by ageless stone. A cold little shiver of fear spiralled through him.
Eighty...ninety...one hundred...
The further they descended, the more the stone seemed to exude a stench of underground water and ancient fear. There was a series of sub-audible rustles and whispers that he could neither understand nor locate. In his taut, heightened state it seemed the rock itself was trying to warn them. Sebastian reminded himself he had been in worse places. The tunnels beneath the Gallows. At the thought, he gazed at the figure wreathed in light. Lambert had been down there too – and not voluntarily. Maker knew how much courage this was taking him.
The steps opened into a vast, curved space. The darkness smothered Lambert's feeble light. But Fenris, too, was glowing: the brands a chill blue radiance. Sebastian had guessed drawing on the brands hurt him, but Fenris gave no sign of pain. He and Lambert moved in front of Sebastian: two glowing figures in a dark sacrificial chamber. Lambert drew his daggers: Bard's Honour and The Bodice Ripper and Fenris his broadsword: Lethandralis. Requiring range, Sebastian nocked and drew his grandfather's longbow.
A woman who had once been beautiful stood before a glimmering altar. She was surrounded by a circle of silver glyphs etched into the stone. She knelt, and the thing she was kneeling to began to take form.
"You must give me more! Starkhaven will not submit. I have put that idiot Goram Vael into the Prince's seat but the other families won't heed him. I must marry him to Flora and solidify our hold. But I need more power."
The desire demon was beautiful: like a too-perfect rose that splits apart to reveal a rotting and loathsome centre. She – Sebastian's desire appeared as "she" although Lambert and Fenris might be seeing something different – spoke in a voice that echoed with emptiness. Beneath the writhing and inchoate loveliness Sebastian sensed a loneliness beyond all light, beyond all comprehension.
"I have given you much. Your desires run deep. You have already traded your husband and your children. What more can you offer?"
"At the Blooming Rose, I wouldn't accept less than a sovereign," Lambert remarked.
The joke was in terrible taste – but Fenris gave a snort of laughter. Sebastian had privately wondered whether anyone who appealed to the Elven killer would be able to make him laugh, or whether his life would consist of sombre brooding. It appeared Lambert and Fenris shared a liking for bad jokes.
Sebastian could not laugh at what had happened to Joanne Harimann, to her husband, or to their children – who had been his childhood friends.
The desire demon turned to Lambert with sisterly sympathy, as if giving advice to a fellow courtesan: "You sell yourself too cheaply, my dear."
The conversation seemed to break a spell. Joanne Harimann whirled on them in alarm. "Who is this?! How did you get here? Sebastian..."
"You were my mother's friend! How could you murder her!" The words were torn from him unwillingly. The baffled need to seek reasons for this senseless evil. The truth seemed to reduce the world around him to a meaningless wasteland – a starlit graveyard where the alien and unimaginable were awakening in dark and silence
Fenris turned to him and said – in rough comfort - "The reasons for evil don't matter. All that matters is we end it."
Sebastian wanted to snap at Fenris – these had been his friends, his childhood, his family! - but he knew of the tormented existence Fenris had endured: if anyone had the right to offer advice on dealing with evil, it was him.
It was the demon who answered. "Murder?" It – the thing was not really 'she' - asked with remote sad humour, "Such an ugly word. I prefer, "removed the only obstacle that stood between her and her dreams."
"This was your idea!" Sebastian hoped that had been true – hoped Joanne hadn't really hated his mother, his father, his brothers...
"I could create such desires if I wished. But it is far simpler to nurture those that already exist. The desire for power is easy to find. You and your friends all possess it, do you not? Lambert: if you had power you could ensure no other mage suffers as you suffered in the Gallows. You think your rapists are all dead," here the voice oozed with syrupy sympathy, "but the one named Karras survived – and will do it to others. Fenris: you could have power over the Magisters who raped you of body and mind: ensure they do not – cannot – hurt others. Danarius is dead but he has been succeeded by his bastard son, Tractus – who killed his brothers and is making your torturer look like a milk-fat kitten. With my help, you can protect your sister and her children. Free all the Elves that Joanne sold to pay for the excavation. Sebastian: you were bitterly jealous of your brother. Now everything he had could be yours. With my help, you can take revenge on Joanne, become a ruler who grants equality to Elves and mages – one who is remembered forever."
Fenris said nothing – merely touched the red armband he wore like a talisman, a promise. Lambert didn't even bother to look at the demon – he simply took Fenris' hand – palm-to-palm to avoid the brands – and squeezed Sebastian's armoured shoulder.
"You don't need this filth to become a great ruler. You'll do it anyway: because it's right. You'll speak up for the Gallows mages and Fen and I will free the Elves."
His words seemed to release Sebastian from a spell. It was as if the chains binding him to a world he neither liked nor understood were suddenly broken. He raised his grandfather's bow and loosed with feral speed. But the wards ensured his arrows swerved harmlessly away from the noblewoman and demon.
Reality rippled and shifted – as if another world were placed on top of this one. The colliding worlds bled into each other like water and blood - eternally separate but dependent on each other. Demons boiled up from the colourless edge of creation; the ground beneath split open in a bone-hard, tentacular birth.
There was sepulchral darkness, a heaviness – Sebastian felt the demon's words enmesh him in a web of horror. Fenris' brands glowed white-hot – Sebastian knew it had to be agony - but his friend smiled through blade-thin lips and charged them, sword leaping and dancing like a live thing. His eyes gleamed like his namesake: the fenris wolf.
Lambert was singing: a silver song of liquid starlight. Sebastian recognized the Litany of Adralla. Lambert had added his own words – and they were not the original Tevene nor the version sung by Rillian Tabris...
...Do you hear the clarion call
It's calling out to one and all
Who will live and who will fall
Who will walk the golden hall...
The burning rage demons – floating shades with rotting faces – shambling skeletons that were Vael ancestors – all swayed and bobbed in time to Lambert's words. They circled him like supplicants – and Sebastian loosed and loosed again, quietly putting an end to them.
But the dead knight in corroded armour was unaffected. Sebastian felt horror creep along his bones. He had read of an entire unit of Templars being slaughtered by a revenant and he believed it.
"Don't look straight at it!" Fenris warned them. Then charged – putting himself between the revenant and his friends. Sebastian gasped. Fenris was good – but not that good.
In the same thought-instant, Lambert realized it too: this fight could end only one way. He charged forward, daggers raised. They were ludicrously ineffective weapons. Worse, the charge broke his concentration. The surviving demons tore free of the Litany. Sebastian had all he could handle trying to keep the demons off his friends. He picked them off one at a time, with workmanlike determination.
The unequal battle between Fenris and the revenant – with Lambert making useless slashes like beestings from behind – continued. The dark, lost holes of the eyes flickered like chitinous soulless holes – the compound stare of an insect. The corroded armour – eaten up from within by the leprosies of its bodily corruption – was not even scratched. The revenant wielded its blade – half as large again as Lethandralis - with serpentine fluidity. Fenris was sweat-streaked – exhausted – indomitable. The revenant blocked Lethandralis and then – with startling speed – whirled to slice the annoyance at its back.
Suddenly Fenris was the centre of a roiling storm. Feral blue light radiated from him – many times brighter than the sun. It hit revenant and demons with the force of a blow. The lesser creatures simply disintegrated – becoming just rags and then nothing – as if tearing themselves apart. The largest rage demon staggered as if concussed – Sebastian finished it with an arrow. The revenant was not destroyed – not even damaged – but was stunned for a moment and a moment was all Fenris needed. He phased – right inside the creature – and then solidified. Two worlds collided – two bodies tried to occupy the same space – and then it was just Fenris. The warrior was covered head-to-toe with shattered metal and bone and scraps of decaying flesh.
The force of the...whatever it was – Sebastian didn't know but thought it looked like Holy Smite – had knocked Lambert off his feet. Groaning, he struggled to his hands and knees – clumsy, beastlike – and vomited on the stone.
Fenris looked stricken. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. The lyrium brands gave Fenris a variant of a Templar's anti-magic: it worked on revenants, demons, and mages. Fenris – who had grown up in a land of mage supremacist slavers – was used to hunting mages. He had - for a moment – forgotten the man he loved was a mage too.
Lambert got to his feet. Any skin not covered by the filth of the sewers was now green with nausea. For a moment he looked as though he would vomit again – but got a hold of himself and wiped his mouth with one corner of a filthy tunic. He grinned at Fenris. "Yep - that was a pretty impressive Holy Smite. You could teach Templars a thing or two."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize! You saved our bacon."
"Bacon? Pig meat? Fereldan is an amazingly crude dialect."
"Oh, hush."
Lambert never heard Sebastian's warning shout – never saw Fenris' sudden move. Fenris shoved Lambert out of the way just as the desire demon's fireball seared towards him. The flame seared across Fenris' back and Sebastian smelled the stink of burned flesh. Fenris rose to one knee, coughing hard. His back was a charred expanse of skin that would have felled an ox with shock and pain. His breath whistled shrilly. The demon's laughter floated on the air like a curse, higher and softer than candlelight.
Fenris gained his feet, phased, and moved within the creature. He came back to reality holding what passed for its heart. Lady Harimann screamed in rage and loss – as though feeling what she should have felt when sacrificing her children – and lunged at him with a thin, stiletto dagger. Fenris whirled, beheaded Lady Harimann, then collapsed atop the corpse.
Lambert was right beside him.
"Fen!" His voice was curiously rough, choked. Fenris amazed them by raising himself to his knees. Lambert knelt beside him and gently removed the top part of his armour. It had to hurt like fury – some of the skin came off with it, hanging in ragged shreds. Fenris' face was a stoic mask. Only the incredible brightness of his widened eyes revealed what effort his control cost.
Sebastian came to kneel beside them. Lambert did not look away from Fenris but said in a panicky flurry, "Seb - I can't cast Healing. I don't have any mana left."
Fenris gave a low, pain-filled chuckle. "That is... poetic justice...I suppose."
Lambert was not amused. He fumbled frantically inside his backpack and came up with a strange device. It was a pottery tube with wooden plugs at each end. Holding it vertical, he unplugged one end, keeping it carefully upright. Reaching back in the bag, he drew out a small box, sealed with wax. Stripping off the cover, he opened it to produce a short stick. One end of the stick was wrapped in leather. It was a snug fit for the original tube. The other article in the box was a wooden plug that exactly fit the open end of the tube. A hollow feather quill protruded from its centre.
Sebastian had never seen Lambert inject his husband but he knew this was Fenris' medication for the brands.
"This should fight the infection of the burns as well as the brands – feverfew and willowbark will dull the pain."
Fenris gazed at it and nodded, trusting Lambert.
Carefully, Lambert cleaned Fenris' forearm as best he could, found an exposed vein in his elbow and placed the tip against it.
"I love you," he whispered. Then jabbed the tip into the vein and pushed the plunger. Liquid, already in the tube, rushed into Fenris' bloodstream.
Lambert withdrew the device, cleaned everything up, then fetched a box of salve from his pack. He spread it over the angry burn, hands light and steady. Some of the tension left Fenris rock-hard muscles.
It occurred to Sebastian that he really should be working to solidify his hold on the castle. Lady Harimann was dead, but she still had allies, and the time to assert his authority was now.
He shook his head, figuring he'd make a bad prince. "Ye both wait here. I'll search inside Lady Harimann's chambers. If she was dealing with a demon, she might have bought illegal lyrium. A lyrium potion will restore yer mana and ye'll be able to heal Fen fully."
"Thank you," Lambert breathed.
"That is unwise."
Sebastian ignored Fenris and whirled for the steps. He headed up three at a time. He pushed himself as hard as he could, exulting in the fiery pain of muscles and joints suddenly called on to perform. Standing at the top, he pulled air deep, deep into his lungs in greedy gulps. He stepped over the dead bodies of the unfortunate thralls and struggled to follow his meagre memories. Struggled to work out which way led to the northern chambers.
When he reached the upper levels Elven servants stared at him with wide, gelid eyes and darted out of his way. He saw no guards – apparently Joanne Harimann had cared more for her demon than for security. He hurried down the corridor, kicking doors open as he went. He found a huddle of servants in one, the rest were empty. Tapestries mocked him with tantalizing familiarity.
In the room at the far end was his cousin, Goran. Goran smiled at him and trotted eagerly forward.
"How's Mercy?" Sebastian asked him – referring to the doll Goran had always had on his arm when they were children.
Goran grinned. "Old Mercy's in the box. I don't need her. There's bringing me a real girl, from Antiva." He added – like a child echoing adults – an obscene boast.
Sebastian wondered about that. Lady Harimann had placed his cousin as a figurehead on the throne and hoped to marry him to Flora and solidify her hold. Was the alliance with an Antivan family a scheme she had had before? Or were there other schemers? He realized, once again, how little he knew of the court.
"Do ye know her name?"
"Josephine Montilyet. Ruxley told me the family are nobles but have no money. I'll look after her." He nodded at Sebastian, then added with friendly confidence, "When you're dead I shall be Prince."
"How about we stay friends? I am the Prince of Starkhaven and I will need ye to be my advisor. We could help each other."
"Yes, I'd like that. What is an 'advisor'?"
"It's just another name for 'friend'."
Goran smiled and the two shook hands.
"When are Josephine and her family coming?"
"Next week."
Sebastian nodded. "Take care of Mercy. She's a good friend. Ye might want her after all."
From here, he was more confident in his directions. He headed for the room that had been his mother's. There was an ornately carved cabinet that held clothes, a writing desk, and a chair. The large bed had a headboard and footboard decorated with the same design as the cabinet. It looked like somebody's dream of a bear. Sebastian opened the drawer on the top right hand corner of the desk - where his mother had always kept her correspondence. Most was meaningless. But he kept hold of a ledger. The names of servants – Elven names – made a long list. Sickened, he realized they had been sold. He remembered hearing what Teyrn Loghain and Arl Rendon Howe had done to raise money in Ferelden's Civil War. A name was signed at the bottom in bold, black calligraphy.
Tractus Danarius.
Sebastian took the ledger. Fenris needed to see it. He would buy the Elves back, if he could. He scrabbled about for other things, but the drawer held nothing useful.
Not willing to give up, Sebastian – blushing slightly – searched in the cabinet that held clothes. In the pocket of a black dress was a small vial. Lyrium.
Carrying both lyrium and the ledger, he retraced his steps.
In the sacrificial chamber, Sebastian was shocked to see his two friends had had a visitor. Fenris had replaced his armour and was managing to guard her as if he had never been injured. His friend's stoicism never ceased to amaze Sebastian. Troubled him too. Lambert stood beside him in silent support. Clearly, the two men had chosen not to kill a surrendering, unarmed woman. Sebastian wasn't sure he could say the same.
"We were friends, Flora!"
"Sebastian. I am so, so...sorry seems such an inadequate word. When I think what mother made us do – what those creatures made us do..."
Sebastian's hand stole to his bow.
"It was like a cloud came down on me. All I could feel or think was what the demon allowed."
To Sebastian's shock – and clearly his own – Fenris said to him, "She isn't to blame for what Blood Control made her do. Or if she is then so am I."
The admission – drawn like an arrow from a wound – stunned Sebastian. He found his hand leaving the bow.
"Was your mother a secret mage? How did she find this demon?"
"We've never had magic in our line. Perhaps that's what made mother too confident. She did not meet the demon in the Fade but in the ruins below Starkhaven."
"Starkhaven is on the border and the Tevinter Imperium has many such ruins," Fenris reasoned. "Lady Harimann did not feel like a mage to me – and attacked with a dagger. Her lack of magical ability probably convinced her she was safe from possession. She thought she could deal with a demon and not fall prey to it." Fenris and Lambert traded an unreadable glance. Sebastian knew they had had an adventure in the Fade, because Lambert had wanted to rescue another Elf-blooded human from demons, but neither had given him any details.
"These ruins were found when our parents expanded the cellars below Starkhaven. I think mother had signed her bargain before we even knew."
Sebastian was chilled. If Flora was telling the truth then the only way the castle could be made safe would be to call for a squad of Templars to exorcise that evil. But inviting Templars into the palace would feel like a betrayal of Lambert. Even if his phylactery was destroyed, it would only take one person to recognize him. The solution came to him.
"Fen," he began, "It's an awful imposition – ye've already helped me so much – but would ye use your powers to make the castle safe? As Lambert said: that was a Holy Smite in all but name. I'd rather have ye than a dozen Templars!"
"It's good to know I'm worth a dozen Templars," Fenris said in arid tones. Sebastian knew him well enough to realize he was joking. "Of course I will."
Sebastian turned to his former friend. "Ye may go."
Softly, Flora said, "If it takes every last coin my family owns, I will make reparations to everyone we've wronged. Starting with you, Sebastian. We weren't the only ones vying for Starkhaven. If you face more opposition, you'll have my support."
"It will not make up for what happened," Sebastian said grimly.
"No."
"Tell the people of Starkhaven they have a Prince."
As soon as they were alone Lambert grabbed the lyrium vial from Sebastian and downed it in one. Sebastian could not exactly sense what was happening inside him. Fenris could, though his face remained impassive, but he thought that Lambert seemed renewed somehow. Lambert was as filthy and tired as ever – his knuckles scraped bloody – but the light of the Fade gleamed in his irrepressible eyes. They were such a deep violet they were Elven rather than human – but not reflective like a full-blooded Elf's. If they reflected anything, it was that other world, shifting and full of dreams.
Tenderly, Lambert took both Fenris' hands, palm-to-palm. Fenris was a couple of inches taller, but they seemed at eye level, and gazed with the intimacy of husbands. There was the sense of a conduit, a current, of two worlds colliding. They might have been opposite sides of the same coin.
Then Lambert tensed but did not let go. Sebastian was stunned to see from his eyes that the spell hurt him. He even thought he caught the ghostly impression of the burn appearing on Lambert's back, even as Fenris' taut muscles eased and the pain slowly left his hard green eyes.
Then Lambert smiled – exhausted, sweat-stained – and a ripple in the world told Sebastian he had let the pain bleed away into the Fade.
The two did not immediately let go of each other. But Fenris had to look away. In a strangely rough voice, he said,
"Now I know what that spell does to you I won't accept it again."
Lambert smiled. "Don't be silly. It's days of suffering for you versus a few moments for me. I let it bleed into the Void and that's that."
"And it takes something off your years each time."
"How did you...!" Lambert caught himself, and his face developed the charming smile it had learned in Tantervale, as a wine-merchant's assistant. Lambert was a great blagger because he half-believed his own hype and could make others believe it too. "Well, that's not even logical. Really, Fen, if you were to give me your opinion on wielding a sword, I'd take your opinion as that of an expert. Magic – nope. Sorry." Would Fenris fall for it? No... He knew his husband too well. His face held a sort of granite certainty, a refusal to be swayed by fast-talking salesmanship. With an odd mix of exasperation and affection, he explained,
"You argue convincingly – but I have seen the spell in reverse. How do you think Danarius managed to live so long? Because he was much, much older than middle-aged."
Stricken, sick, Sebastian put two and two together. From the way his face crumpled, it was clear Lambert did too. But Fenris was uninterested in his former master's sadism and longevity – he was pursuing a different thought,
"Anders did this for you in the Gallows. I'll forgive him his deal with Danarius for that."
"Speaking of Danarius – I am sorry, Fen, but ye need to see this."
Sebastian put the ledger into his hands.
Fenris read the names with barely a tremor – he had not known them, and not expected the world to be different. He said only, "It's always the same." When he came to the signature at the bottom he grunted in mild surprise. "It's been two years three months since I killed Danarius. I had wondered why his sons weren't pursuing me. Now I know. Tractus Danarius – his Elf-blooded bastard – has taken the seat. Which means he killed all five legitimate heirs. And is clearly just as wicked."
Sebastian considered it progress that Fenris could call what had been done to him wicked. When he had first met the assassin, Fenris hadn't even fully realized that. From his next words it was clear he had made more progress than even Sebastian had realized:
"I will return to Castellum Tenebris and rescue these Elves."
"I will do everything I can te help. Ye have the word of the Prince of Starkhaven. And – a request?"
Fenris raised his eyebrows.
"Take over as Captain of the Guard. I need a man I can trust. The Harimanns have taken the heart from the guardsmen here."
Fenris blinked. "I doubt your human guards will be happy taking orders from an Elf."
"Don't sell yeself short. Once the guardsmen realize how much they can learn from ye they'll see things differently." Sebastian's tone brooked no argument. Thoughtfully, he said, "This thing with the Harimanns has damaged them – taken the heart out of them. It will improve their morale to be led by someone who is actually good at the job! Who cares about their lives, and about fairness. I know ye'll more than pull yer weight. Many times over."
Lambert was smiling, totally delighted that someone other than himself valued Fenris as he deserved. Fenris, though, still looked hesitant. It was strange to see this man – with his wealth of terrible skills – so overawed. So nervous.
As if embarrassed to admit anything he couldn't do, Fenris said reluctantly, "I fought a war in Seheron but I have never commanded men. I have learned from the Fog Warriors but I... left before I could put the lessons into practice. The only things I know about commanding a city watch come from listening to Donnic complain over Diamondback!"
Giving no quarter, Sebastian said, "That's good then – ye'll be able te pick Donnic's brains. He's helping us today but he doesn't want te leave Kirkwall – I think there may be a woman. That city deserves a talented man keeping its citizens safe – and Starkhaven deserves the same. He'll be only too happy te talk shop. I know ye can do this."
Fenris opened his mouth to object – realized it would do no good – and shut it. Half-shy, half-honoured, half-dreading it (and probably not caring that this added up to the feelings of more than one person) he turned questioningly to Lambert.
Lambert was beaming; shining, totally delighted. "You've earned this, Fen. You'll be amazing! I am so, so proud of you." He kissed Fenris on the cheek – a kiss that held the promise of more as soon as they were alone. "Ha! Me, Despereaux the Hidden Paw – husband to the Captain of the Guard at Starkhaven!"
Sebastian thought to himself that it was typical of Lambert to be genuinely over the moon. It hadn't even occurred to him that becoming the husband of a Guard Captain was several social steps down from being Lord Amell. He wouldn't have cared anyway. Sebastian felt sorry and guilty that he couldn't offer Lambert an official position too – he more than deserved it – but placing him anywhere the Chantry might notice would put him in danger. He would change things for his friend – for all mages – but it would take time and princes had been destroyed for far less.
It was, he supposed, ironic that Fenris would absolutely hate the court functions he'd be forced to attend as Guard Captain, while Lambert would love the pomp and ceremony – and be forced to keep to the shadows. A mysterious figure who helped Sebastian and shared quarters with Guard Captain Fenris yet had no official position. Lambert and Fenris were made for each other and – one day – they would both have the chance to shine. Sebastian did not know how he knew this, but he knew.
After that Fenris really couldn't object. He said, with carefully-calculated gruffness, "Hmph. Well, if the two of you are behind this foolish scheme, I'll do my best."
They shook on it – a custom Sebastian had taught Fenris was the proper way to seal a deal. Fenris' hand was filthy and bloody as the resto of him but Sebastian did not care. His pale, lacquered armour could do with a clean but his grandfather's bow gave him confidence. He could hear the familiar voice as if it were yesterday...
...the bow is the wise man's weapon. Ye can defend yer city without opening its gates...
Exactly. With the help of Flora and Goran he would reclaim the castle without bloodshed. Arl Howe's men were outside the gates and his dangerous ally would want any number of concessions – but Sebastian must keep the army outside the walls. There was no time to lose.
"Fen: yer first duty as Captain of the Guard is te come with me. We'll organize the men and talk to Arl Howe and Bann Trevelyan."
Sebastian looked back, once, and frowned in guilt. Leaving the dead body of a woman without any funeral rites went against the grain. But lives were in his hands.
Quietly, he said, "I hope the Maker frees her from the demon's influence, and judges fairly how far she had consented."
The three men made quick time up the steps and Sebastian led them through the castle. They found servants milling and guards pouring in. Affecting a confidence Sebastian could tell was copied from Donnic, Fenris rallied them. They looked startled to be addressed by an Elf – looked to Sebastian, back to Fenris – and were persuaded by his certainty.
Sebastian led them through the stone corridors, heading for the Main Hall, with its towers on either side of the drawbridge. He would have to lower the bridge and go out to speak to the encircling army. Fortunately, Nathaniel had not brought any Templars. Bann Trevelyan was a believing man - there were many Templars in his lineage – but hopefully he hadn't brought any. It felt strange to be so wary of Templars: before the Gallows, before befriending Lambert, he would have seen them as allies. Much had changed.
Fenris squared his shoulders and strode forward with a curious spring in his step. He might be careful to disguise it but Sebastian could tell he was proud. Sebastian could not help be glad for the presence of the notorious Blue Wraith. Glad, too, that the equally dangerous Zevran Arainai was not with Nathaniel. With any luck...
There was a strange, incomprehensible whine in the air. A cold, mechanical jargon. The vibrations of the explosion reached them an instant after the sound.
Noise – smoke – dust - chaos. The air became dark as sackcloth and thick as soup. The eerie half-light took on a nightmare quality. Wounded men screamed, and the walls repeated it over and over. Sound became a weapon, striking at the heart of attacker and defender indiscriminately.
They swayed, paralyzed a moment. Fenris recovered first, steadied them both.
Lambert's eyes were wide and round. "Gaatlok!" he breathed.
The explosion had shattered both towers. Chill droplets blew in like sparks of lightning. The sparks melded with spinning flakes of ash. Ash keys – like two seeds joined together – spiralled like dragonflies with polluted wings. The army poured in.
Sebastian headed for the fight as if he had been born to it. Searched the gathering gloom for the figure in command. Nathaniel was a chill, graceful shadow in the Howe ancestral armour. His father had worn just this armour when entering Castle Cousland as a friend.
"Say the word," Fenris whispered, and Sebastian felt the warmth of his loyalty like a physical touch.
"Arl Howe," he said – his voice so calm, so cold, it astonished him. "I see, perhaps, that I am incidental to your plans."
Nathaniel made an elegant, absent-minded gesture borne of years of rulership. "On the contrary, Prince Vael," he said smoothly, "I consider myself a friend and ally. As a friend, I am sure my men will be rewarded for the risks taken on your behalf."
Sebastian smiled coldly. "As a friend, ye and Bann Trevelyan will be my honoured guests. But yer armies must remain outside the walls. I will compensate each and every soldier out of the privy purse. But I will have no looting in my city."
There was a brief pause. "Certainly," Nathaniel said silkily. "Surely victory celebrations are in order?"
Sebastian looked rather pointedly at the two destroyed towers. And the Montilyet family were coming in a week! Fortunately Varric Tethras was an ally and had excellent contacts. He frowned. The dwarf was not – quite – a legitimate businessman, but then neither was Isabella. And he would certainly have to reward her for her invaluable help. He hoped the Maker would forgive him if he appointed an 'official smuggler.'
Cries of pain floated through the ashes like smoke – made him ashamed. He was playing politics while ordinary men and women suffered. What did that make him? At twenty-five, it had taken a long time to discover Brother Sebastian. He had no idea who 'Prince Vael' was.
He was relieved to discover Lambert was no longer at his side. Lambert had already run to help. He caught the tell-tale blue glow of healing magic and realized Lambert was holding nothing back. Sebastian felt both wistful – as Brother Sebastian he would have joined him – and relieved.
He found a silky smile to rival Nathaniel's.
"Nothing would bring me greater pleasure."