Song is Blind Guardian: Life Beyond the Spheres (recommended by Beta Gyre!)
Archers moved into position behind the defending Templars. Shortly afterwards, the wasplike buzz of Dworkin's grenades joined the more musical twang of bowstrings and arrows.
Rylock was facing Knight Captain Denam. She had fought him before - in training. She knew he always stuck his tongue between his teeth in the direction he was about to thrust. She watched and sprang like a panther before he knew what had hit him. Then stepped back to avoid the blood spatter. She might be immune to Red Lyrium – after Rillian's blood had cured her of Blight sickness – or she might not.
A sinister red glow limned trees silvered by the full moon. Smoke pillared into the night, obscuring stars. Red Templar war cries carried a malicious ring of certainty.
Templar Sergeant Rocald told his men: "Charge on my command. The fire will expose them. Pick your first man on the approach. I figure at least forty Red Templars. Good hunting."
First Enchanter Vivienne and her mage unit – including Keili - cleared a path to join Rylock.
"Where do you want us?"
"Here. You prepared the electricity spells, the water transported from Lake Calenhad, and the Litany in the Ultraviolet C range?"
"We're ready."
"You've worked hard. When we've won, everyone will be talking about 'Equal Rites' - the battle-winning mage unit who combined electricity, light and music."
"They'll say we did it for the Knight Commander," Vivienne said dryly. An arrow sighed overhead, underscoring her words, but she refused to look away from Rylock.
Vivienne's black skin spoke of her Rivaini heritage, but her manner and carriage were Orlesian. The calculations in her gleaming dark eyes were almost legible. Her beautiful countenance was fearsome in its flinty control.
"Perhaps," Rylock acknowledged. "I'm fortunate you joined us. At least you consider me less evil than the Red Templars."
Vivienne shook her head. Her cowl, sodden with rain, flared out like a black blossom opening against the night. Heavy cloth expelled arcs of water with a scornful hiss. "The word that comes to my mind is 'unfortunate.' It's not you I dislike, it's what you must do."
Rylock blushed. "I haven't talked to you about your perceptions enough, First Enchanter Vivienne. That was an oversight. I'll do something about it once this unpleasantness has passed."
Vivienne smiled at her: a surprisingly bright, challenging grin. "I certainly hope so. For all the best reasons."
A low rumble from the front drew them to the wall. The Red Templars were charging.
Without waiting for instructions, Vivienne aimed and fired. Red Templars staggered, fell, were pushed aside by those coming from the rear.
The mages fought with the desperation of defenders who knew their effort was key. Most were Ferelden, loyal to their king as well as each other. They gave no ground, dying where they stood.
At the howling of King Cousland's forces, and the thunder of their drums, they found the energy for hoarse cheers.
Drums blasted. Warhorns brayed. Shrill, nerve-searing whistles shrieked commands. Above the cacophony intended to sow order among chaos rose the agonised cries of the wounded. The purple and silver Templar colours of the defenders rose above the blood-red enemy flag. Ululating war cries spoke of men who scented victory.
The defenders on the battlewalk poured arrows and magic onto the attackers like metallic rain. Fire spells engulfed the ladders.
Rylock dredged up the last of her energy to engage a Templar who seemed intent on salvaging the honour of his order single-handed. He was not a Red Templar; her animal senses were alive to the difference. Rasping, almost sobbing, she demanded he surrender. He answered with a two-handed descending slash that hammered her sword tip down to earth. In the instant when both weapons were grounded she drove the crown of her head directly into his nose. Cartilage crunched. A knee into his crotch doubled him over. Measuring, she drew back The Keening Blade and swung. The flat took him just at the top of the ear; a sound like dropping a ripe melon.
Rylock slumped to a sitting position, legs splayed in front of her. She almost beat her victim to the ground.
Rocald was standing over her. "Are you alright?"
"Never better. I'll get him in the next round."
Rocald gave her a hand up.
"How are the troops?"
"Many injured. Many dead. There are fires inside Haven."
"I'll get men on the pumps."
As Rocald organized the Templar defenders, Rylock ran to the nearest pump. Checking the hoses, calling for help, she had it working quickly. The fires were stubborn - but so was Vivienne. She joined Rylock and the unnatural chill of ice magic withered the flames.
And it was over. A few shots – from staves and bows – at shadowy, fleeing Red Templar archers and headlong cavalry. The quiet of post-combat swept the grounds. The moans of wounded and dying ebbed and flowed. Tentative voices called the names of friends. Small unit leaders shouted for order. Mage and non-mage healers brought their soothing whispers and ministrations.
Rylock rushed to Keili. "Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"
Keili was weeping freely – disbelief escalating to nausea in the aftermath of the battle. Rylock remembered her first. This needs the same remedy, she thought. She gave Keili a vial of consecrated lyrium. Keili gulped it gratefully.
"We need to increase our lyrium supplies considerably," Vivienne said thoughtfully, "Lord Seeker Lambert took most of it, but Divine Justinia may still have stockpiles we can use. You should bring it up at the Conclave."
"That may not be enough. During the Fifth Blight Warden Commander Rillian made a deal with Rogek in Dust Down." Rylock could not help her face crinkling in disapproval. Then she rallied and said, "The Maker consecrated the substance nonetheless."
"Are you alright, my dear? Were you hurt? You look dreadful."
Rylock pressed a hand to her stomach. She hadn't even felt Denam's blow go in. "It's nothing – I can tell."
"The Red Lyrium..."
"Rillian's blood may have made me immune. But until I know for sure, I'll stay away from everyone. I could be a carrier. Only Seekers and Wardens are immune to taint."
"Don't be silly," said Vivienne. "Healing was the very first spell I learned – and I can do it without blood-to-blood contact. Come with me."
Much to her surprise, Rylock found herself obeying. She recognised the spell Vivienne was casting as Resurgence – one that restored her strength without physical contact. She had never experienced the spell before – Templars considered magic dangerous and healing a job for a non-magical surgeon. But – she had to admit – this was useful under the circumstances. As for whether she had been infected she could not be sure – she did not feel any different but perhaps Red Templars did not, in the early stages.
"Thank you."
"Thank you, my dear – I had not believed Haven to be defensible, but you proved me wrong."
"Sergeant Rocald is responsible for leading the Templars. And your unit made the difference between victory and defeat."
"A victory we must repeat at the Conclave. First Enchanter Lydia and Senior Enchanter Regalyan of Ostwick will be there – the Ostwick Circle have stayed politically neutral. And, through Duke Bastien, I have connections to the Council of Heralds and the highest levels of Orlais."
Yes, things were different in Orlais. No mage could legally marry but Vivienne had been Duke Bastien's mistress for twenty years - had borne him three children - who were all serving the Templar order. Rylock decided it was not her place to judge – Vivienne was using her connections to further a good cause.
"We need the Circles restored. But we also need justice. The Red Templars who murdered mage children at the White Spire – their bodies will be properly burned."
Unconsciously, Rylock grimaced. It was hard to reconcile any goal with Acts of Faith. Harder still when she knew she was a hypocrite who had murdered Aneirin and caused Lambert Hawke to be tortured. Nonetheless, she wouldn't consider mercy for men who had slaughtered children for fun.
Vivienne nodded absently, wrapped in her own counsel. There was an unapproachable quality in her manner that resisted definition. For no identifiable reason, Rylock saw her as despondent.
"Do you...know anyone who obeyed Knight Captain Denam?"
Vivienne was silent for so long Rylock felt certain she had crushed a fragile alliance.
"I do not know what became of my sons any more than you knew what had become of Keili. That is the way of the Chantry. But – if a superior officer had given you a direct order - would you have found the courage to disobey?"
"I do not know. The Maker will judge me. But here, on Thedas, we can only sentence men for deeds, not for what was in their hearts."
Troubled, Rylock fell silent – then remembered something that cheered her up. "But, fortunately, that decision will be made by Divine Justinia, not by me."
Rylock remembered a taunt of Wynne's: 'and is that not also cowardice – a flight from the freedom of thinking for yourself?'
'Better to be unsuited to thinking for myself and have the humility to recognise it, than to be unsuited and insist on doing so anyway.'
Rylock had been quite pleased with her retort (a passive-aggressive dig at the opinionated Wynne) but, all the same, she admitted now that Wynne had been right.
Silence cloaked the victorious defenders. Mage children raced for vantage points along the wall. Their mothers hurried to scoop them up – those who escaped maternal concern nimbly dodged Templars determined to send them home.
Rylock, with Vivienne and Keili, ignored that byplay. She watched magical fire consume the bodies of Red Templars outside the walls.
"Pyres. Committing the dead. It's over. We've won."
Mute, the defenders watched the enemy burn. There were no cheers. Ines and Sweeney appeared on the battlewalk.
Before the battle, Rylock had thought of something that must be done, now her life might be measured in days. She had declared that, as the mages had voted for freedom from the Chantry in Cumberland, this must be respected. Those who were citizens of Ferelden would be bound by the same laws as any other citizen of Ferelden. Those who had come from elsewhere had the right to return to their families. Her one thought had been to protect her mage parents and mage daughter. If victorious, Lord Seeker van Reeves would set up Therinfall Redoubt in Ferelden and the country would be no safe haven. Since Vivienne had chosen to fight with them, she would not be able to use her connections in Orlais to protect Keili. Rylock had thought about it and realised that, as Sweeney had been born to the Trevelyan noble family of Ostwick, he might take Ines and their granddaughter to a place that remained resolutely neutral. Where they would not be threatened by the mage-Templar war.
But now, seeing the other mages wishing her parents joy and kissing them on the cheeks, it broke on her.
"You'll be a loss to Haven...we'll all be sorry to see you go...don't make your journey in winter..." What were they saying?
"First Enchanter!" she cried – no Knight Commander now; all Rylock, even all Ellen. "Do they mean you'll leave Haven?"
Sweney raised towards her a face of infinite trouble. He was lean and long-limbed. His face had a gouged look; deep and bitter lines cutting curves into his cheekbones and brows. He traded glances with Ines, his wife in all but name.
"We'd see the Waking Sea," Ines said, "Smell Amaranthine Harbour. And walking about the market talking, real talk. There'd be northern prickleweed sparkling outside the silverite mines – I could harvest some..."
Rylock looked away. Her only memories of Amaranthine were of growing up a Chantry child – the sting of Mother Leanna's whip. Everything there was filled with memories of dread, sorrow or humiliation. She had no notion of how remembered home looks to an exile. It embittered her that Ines and Sweeney should desire to leave Haven. They had been – she was ashamed to admit it - the pillars of her life here; something as sure and established, and as little thanked, as sunlight.
Fool! She scoffed at herself. What are you to them? You were, perhaps, the solace of their captivity. They say a prisoner will tame a rat. He comes to love the rat – after a fashion. But open the jail door, strike off his fetters, and how much will he care for the rat then?
Sweeney was watching her with a slight frown. "What is it?" the Senior Enchanter asked suddenly.
"What's what?" Rylock was startled out of her thoughts.
"You grind your teeth when something is bothering you," Sweeney remarked. "You're good at hiding pain, but you have a few habits that give you away. I was the eldest son of Bann Trevelyan – now that mages are free I will ask to marry Ines. We will shelter Keili – and you. Because Divine Justinia will not succeed in restoring what was. If the rebel mages have won at Andoral's Reach there will be no more Circles, and no more Templar Order. There will always be a need for anti-magic guardsmen – but there is no reason you could not fulfil that role as Lady Ellen Trevelyan."
Keili said, "Lady Ellen Trevelyan but not Lady Keili Trevelyan. I will always be a bastard."
"Untrue," Rylock countered – her tone softer now. "The laws of Ostwick say a child born to a single mother may be legitimised. I do not wish to leave Haven – I am Knight Commander Rylock, not Lady Ellen Trevelyan – but your grandparents will legitimise you. It is – not a bad idea."
"I am not going either," Keili said firmly. "The good fight is here."
Sweeney looked at Keili, at Ines, and finally at Rylock. His face was very grey and his manner very quiet. But that he did not limp, Rylock would have thought he had been in the hands of Alrik.
"Wish me well, daughter," he said, "For I have won a battle. What is best for a man may not be best for his people. I am a member of Team Haven and must work in the socket where I'm put. Ines and I will stay, and..."
"I'm glad!" Rylock was startled into saying.
"Peace, peace. What would I have done in Ostwick? My father is dead, my brothers will not remember me. I was taken to the Circle at five. Should I not be only a trouble – a dream strayed into daylight? Anyhow, it's a long journey and beset with dangers. We might never have reached Ostwick."
Ines nodded and smiled at Rylock. "I have already sent some northern prickleweed seeds to Warden Commander Rillian. The flowers will grow on Blighted land, you know. She will make far better use of them than I."
And as Rylock's parents went on, making little of their deed, she felt only joy.
There was a long silence. It resonated between them, a pregnancy of nebulous, unspoken questions. Rylock – unusually for her – broke it by an attempt to 'make conversation' in the way she had always found difficult. She remarked that Haven in autumn was much 'wilder' this year than she had expected.
"Stop," said Sweeney, with a suddenness that startled her, "What do you mean by 'wildness' and what grounds had you for not expecting it?"
Rylock replied she didn't know what, still 'making conversation'. As answer after answer was torn to shreds she was stung into attempting a real reply.
A few passes sufficed to show she had been skilled enough to defeat Knight Captain Denam but was not going to win this duel.
"Do you not see," Sweeney concluded, "That your remark was meaningless?"
Rylock sulked a little, assuming the subject would not be dropped. She had been mistaken.
Having analysed her terms, Sweeney proceeded to deal with her proposition as a whole. On what had she based her opinion on the wildness of Haven? She was not an expert on flora as her mother was. Had she seen maps, or read books? What could she cite in defence of her proposal?
She could produce nothing.
Sweeney drew the conclusion – without emotion but without the slightest concession to good manners - "Do you not see, then, that you had no right to any opinion on the subject?"
Ines and Keili had tactfully withdrawn, but to Rylock this was like strong beer. If any man came near to being a purely logical entity that man was Sweeney. The idea people should use their vocal organs for any purpose but communicating or discovering truth was, to him, preposterous. Rylock had known him for seven years now and had come to know the differing values of his three replies. The cry of 'stop!' was designed to arrest a torrent of verbiage which could no longer be endured - the quieter, 'excuse me' ushered in a correction or distinction and the remark, 'heard' was the most encouraging of all. It meant Rylock's remark was significant and only required refutation: it had risen to the dignity of error. Refutation always followed the same lines: had she read this? Had she studied that? Had she any statistical evidence? Had she any practical experience?
Sweeney satisfied that side of Rylock. Here was a man who thought not about her but about what she had said. Here was talk that was really about something. Sweeney never laughed. It wasn't that he didn't get the joke. It was that amusement no longer made him laugh. He'd transcended too much. After seven years of this treatment, she had begun to put on some intellectual muscle. She knew the lion of lyrium dementia lay in wait for her so was glad the instrument was being tuned up to concert pitch before she had to surrender it.
It was the month of Harvestmere and winter was coming. Above Haven was a circumzenithal arc that looked like an upside-down rainbow but was really caused by ice crystals in the sky. The arc was related to the halos sometimes seen around the sun and moon. The Buff Beauty roses were orange as the setting sun. The dying light showed a heavy sky of soft dark cloud passed under by occasional silver-white shreds, like daggers beneath a shroud. Ahead, the conifers made a dark-green resinous tunnel. The evergreen trees swept down to the pale line of the water's glitter. The rain was destroying the snow; the lake looked like marbled meat.
Inside Haven, Rylock saw a tiny mage child pull on Ines' sleeve, bend her closer to whisper in her ear. At the question, Ines' face flamed. She straightened jerkily, painfully. Her answer was gentle and soothing.
"No, little one, you're not going to die, or be taken from us."
"We don't have real mothers or fathers. We have to go where the Chantry says. The Divine is more important than you. She can make us do anything."
"Never again." The words were hard, decided, but Ines' hand on the mage child's head was loving.
"King Cousland: whose side is he on?"
"Ours. There are things we must do for him, but he wants us to be happy."
"He's scary."
"I know. Sometimes men are like that."
"The Divine isn't a man. She's scary too."
Ines nodded calmly enough, but her eyes flashed dangerously at a suddenly smug Sweeney.
"We won't worry about her."
Motes of dust danced about the high, blank spaces of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, higher and softer than the thick yellow candlelight. The city of Haven looked much different from the community Rylock had founded six years ago.
A week ago Rylock had received a letter from the forests around Wycome, brought by a hunter from Clan Lavellan. The envelope bore the griffon seal and the message the familiar bold scrawl. Rillian's message was short, to the point - and contained it's usual flippancy:
It is begun. I'll show you Templars a thing or two about going out in style.
Rylock had known a brief, cold stab of regret. She and the Hero of Ferelden were friends and she had known Rillian Tabris for twelve years. Rylock watched like prey for the first clammy touches of memory loss – the first mark of the sickness that took all Templars not lucky enough to die in battle. She herself was the right age for a Templar to wink out: Rillian was young - far too young to be going through the Calling.
She had told no-one of the letter – not the King of Ferelden, not Leliana, not the Divine. Rylock was Knight Commander of Ferelden and an Andrastean but there were some things that took precedence. One was her own relationship with the Maker – the other was the confidence of a friend.
Rillian had believed herself cured of the taint – claiming the brooch she had been given by The Architect and the death of the Archdemon had burned it away. Clearly, she had been wrong.
I warned you not to continue that creature's research.
Knowing that she herself was about to turn her face to the wall – the day fast approaching when she was relieved of active duty – she had written back,
Anything a Warden can do a Templar can manage faster and more efficiently.
Something of Rillian's gallows humour had rubbed off.
Rylock had lasted long enough to host the Conclave. She could only pray that – by the Maker's grace – the outcome of words would be a fitting memorial. Rylock was indirectly responsible for this chaos, and she yearned to make it right. It had been Rylock who had cured Thomas Amell of Tranquillity by offering the Sacred Ashes – and it had been Rylock who had informed on his cousin.
She remembered Lambert Hawke during the Fifth Blight: the steady, hardworking, gentle medic who had risked his life to save everyone – mage, non-mage, Templar. A touch of annoyance at the memory of both Wynne and Leliana lying to her, claiming Lambert was not a mage when they very well knew he was! All because he had sweet-talked them into letting him help Rillian and take his mother to Kirkwall. But the spark of annoyance fizzled out. She knew her anger was only displacement activity. Lambert had not deserved to be sent to the Gallows, that was on her.
When Varric's clipped, sparse, furious account, titled 'Spotlight', had come out, Rylock had received a missive from Cullen stating every word was true. He had left the Order because of it, sought penance through lyrium withdrawal. Another good man she had let down.
These two things – news that the Rite could be reversed and news of the abuses inflicted by the Templar Order - had led to the Circles voting to leave the Chantry.
The summit was still. Rylock had once told Rillian:
I have never felt the Maker in high places nor the Chantry. When fighting demons there's no time – self dissolves into flow and reassembles on the other side of the job. But sometimes I look back afterwards and – there He was. Doing His work - meeting the eyes of creatures who would unmake me if I looked too long - then I know He sees me.
The rain came down harder, as if to evoke with its hiss time boiling away to nothing.
Soon she would be in Wayside Ward where they sent Templars whom the Maker had seen fit to test beyond their strength.
Nothing will change that now. Time goes only one way - always down to death. I can't go back and choose differently. Her only way of repairing some of it was to ensure that this – her last useful year - would be meaningful.
Those invited to the Conclave trickled in, warily: a contingent from Andoral's Reach, led by Anders, commander of the rebel mages. Representatives from Rivain, Antiva, Nevarra, Orlais. The Grand Cleric of Orlais had already declared her allegiance to Lord Seeker van Reeves and Knight Captain Denam – only the fact they had lost had forced her to join the talks. There were no Orlesian mages. The White Spire – once the only place in the capital that could be seen from anywhere within the city, after dark lit by magic to appear a brilliant silver sword cutting the night - was now a gutted ruin, a decaying monolith, a mass grave.
The mages of Ostwick had chosen to stay neutral – they had neither joined the Seekers nor the rebel mages at Andoral's Reach. Nor helped defend Haven. First Enchanter Lydia – a great friend of First Enchanter Vivienne – and Senior Enchanter Reygalan were joining the Conclave from the Ostwick Circle. So had several members of the Trevelyan family – it struck Rylock this was the family Sweeney had been born to - but rather than join them he had been with her throughout. They had chosen to believe in each other.
She found herself looking, instinctively, at the black-robed cowls of the delegation of Weisshaupt Wardens. They reeked of secrets - and of something else Rylock could not define. A reptile part of her recognized it: she stiffened like an animal sensing a predator.
They were all in danger.
Seeker Leliana had brought Lambert - her proof mages could be put through Seeker training, rendered immune to possession. She was going to show him to Divine Justinia – Mother Hedera – those few clerics and Templars who remained loyal to the Chantry. She was going to argue for mage freedom – and an end to the mage-Templar war.
"You're very handsome," she complemented him, "You look like an Orlesian gentleman as well as a mage, and that's the message we want to get across. Duke Prosper could not journey here himself but has sent his son as representative of Orlais."
Was it just her imagination or did the mention of Lord Cyril de Montfort make Lambert blush?
"King Cousland will be here, of course. The Temple of Sacred Ashes in in Ferelden, and he has an interest in restoring peace – also in keeping the Seekers out of Therinfall. I have tried to find dear Rillian – rumour has it Clan Lavellan have moved from the ruins of Arlathan to the forest outside Wycome – but I lack your access. Seekers Cassandra and Cullen have been searching for Varric Tethras but I doubt they will be here in time. Your husband will be permitted at the Conclave – as Captain of the Guard at Starkhaven and representative of Prince Sebastian – but I have no doubt he will be using his skills to protect you."
Seeing Lambert's sudden anxiety, Leliana was quick to lighten the mood. "I only wish I could dress to match you. I'd love to be dressed in the bright colours Orlesian ladies wear. It's the penalty we pay for being Seekers. Black and more black. If we rise high enough, we get a piece of coloured trim to show off our rank." She made a small sound of disgust, then sighed, "Now I have to ask forgiveness for the sin of vanity. Followed immediately afterwards for forgiveness for the sin of lying."
As she had hoped, the remark made Lambert laugh, and he relaxed imperceptibly.
The first streaks of sunset registered above the snow-tipped crowns of the Frostback mountains. Lambert's violet eyes brightened at the beauty. He said, "I've heard the Red Templars who attacked Haven spread the disease of taint. As I am now a Seeker as well as a mage, I will use my powers."
Anxious fingers twining, Leliana said, "We were lucky at Andoral's Reach. But we don't know for sure you're immune to Red Lyrium. Combining lyrium and taint is like combining oil and fire. If you're wrong, you could end up like the poor Loyalists used by Samson. I couldn't stand that, Lambert."
Lambert remained determinedly cheerful. "We won't worry about it. Let's go get ready for the Conclave. We'll have enough there to keep us busy."
"Especially you. Flirting with Fenris."
Lambert giggled.
Suddenly, he stiffened like a deer sensing a hunter. Leliana glanced in his direction and saw Knight Commander Rylock. She was wearing armour and carried her Magehunter shield and The Keening Blade. Her Knight Commander plate had been polished to a frenetic sheen and she wore a fine red tunic, with the Chantry sunburst emblazoned in gold. But when Rylock approached she did not seem dangerous at all. She looked like a middle-aged woman nerving herself to do something she dreaded.
She faced Lambert, and Leliana was aware of him forcing himself to remain calm, drawing on the Seeker trance. Rylock spoke first:
"Sorry is such an inadequate word. I'll never ask you to forgive me. I just want to be sure you know. My shame. My guilt."
Lambert shrugged. "Hey: you thought reading my letter to Thomas was necessary to protect the Haven community – you sent Templars after Anders because that was your job – you assumed I'd get a gentle interview with Grand Cleric Elthina. I'm not going to blame you for that - I'm not a monster! Nor do I hate Seeker Cullen - he left the Templar Order and put himself through lyrium withdrawal as penance - we're good. Even Meredith was a victim of sorts - of Elthina. The only ones I actually blame are dead."
"That is – extremely generous of you."
Lambert replied, "I'm still a mage. Commander Anders is here as representative of the Free Mages of Andoral's Reach. We won. If you try to finish what Templar Rolan started, I am your enemy."
"Heard and understood."
Three weeks after the victory at Andoral's Reach, Fenris and Lambert had returned home to Starkhaven...
...Fenris' husband had been away for a year. The Minanter River glowed like tinsel in the moonlight. Fenris' black horse and Lambert's pale grey were riding side by side. The sound of their feet was lovely: the clop-rasp of iron on stone. Lambert was pointing out a flower by the side of the road, a flower he called 'auricula'.
"Look at the flowers – as though the Maker has sprinkled icing sugar," Lambert said whimsically. "Their usual season is spring."
"Why are they coming out now?"
"Maybe they just decided they like being here."
Fenris smiled. He felt the palpable touch of Lambert's infinitely permissive love, that asked of him only that he be completely himself.
Before Lambert, Fenris hadn't known love could dissolve selves into and out of each other. He hadn't known love's indifference: love's condescension to Templars, Magisters, the Maker. The flesh had infinity in it. Lambert was two years younger than Fenris; ten deeper. Fenris knew he would be forever running to catch up.
He found himself thinking of home. The attic room where Lambert was apt to curl up with his journal and his cats (the griffons flying and returning to the eyrie) and scribble away for entire afternoons.
Lambert said, "I can't wait to see our garden."
Fenris shrugged furtively. He knew damn well he hadn't done a good job with the garden but decided Lambert didn't need to know just yet. Hopefully he'd be so happy to see their three cats and two griffons - which Fenris had taken care of - he'd forgive him.
Fenris had been correct. Lambert's joy upon seeing them had overridden all other things. Upon seeing the garden, Lambert had merely looked at him a trifle reproachfully, then squared his jaw, donned overalls, and got to work. Fenris had found the sight of Lambert up to his knees in mud, wielding a hoe, unexpectedly stimulating. After more than a month in Starkhaven, the garden was on the mend.
But now they were here, in Haven. Fenris knew he should have been focusing on defense – Grand Cleric Iona would be at this Conclave, and she had been an ally of van Reeves – but since midsummer he had begun to have disturbing dreams.
In Fenris' dreams a wolf slept inside him and wasn't comfortable. It moved its heels and elbows and paws, struggled to make space between his lungs, heart, stomach. The form and scale of its occupancy shifted. Sometimes its legs were in his legs, its head in his head, its paws in his hands and feet. Other times it was barely the size of an Orlesian poodle, hot and fidgety but ignorable. He'd wake and feel his face changed: reach to touch the muzzle that wasn't really there. It was dreaming of being born.
Fenris knew Danarius had named him 'my little wolf' but did not think these dreams were to do with the Magister. Not directly, anyway. They were of an original power Danarius had stolen. The brands were merely copies – the Tevinter's fumbling attempt to recreate an Elvhen ritual. The original wolf was...someone else. Fenris felt him very distantly, like a thickening or clouding of blood.
Atop the Frostback Mountains, the Temple of the Urn of Sacred Ashes was sacred ground. Representatives of the Free Mages of Andoral's Reach, the mage-Templar community of Haven, Ferelden and Orlais were here. The gathering was not as large as the Conclave in Cumberland had been. Still, there were at least two hundred people present.
Large fireplaces, set into the walls, gave the area a roseate, muted glow. A chandelier provided illumination. Unlike the court in the Winter palace, expressions and animations were undisguised, colours unsullied. Also, at the Winter Palace, the music was metallic – iron horns and piercing bells – while here were melodic strings and subtle small drums. People in Empress Celene's court forced laughter, admiration, awe. The air trembled with falsity. This was communion - people trying to find a fair answer.
The meeting at Haven was as necessary for Templars as mages. More – Empress Celene's authority hung by a thread. Gaspard was losing no time stating a woman who had appointed an 'Arcane Adviser' (some said her lover) was not the person to discipline the mages when they rose up. He was promising to deal with them fast and hard - to avenge the humiliation suffered in Ferelden - and Orlesians were buying it.
Movement at the edge of Leliana's vision drew her attention. Grand Cleric Iona rose from her seat across the room. The exposed black silk of her thrown-back hood gleamed jewel-bright, transformed her features to pale, shaded malevolence. She turned slowly, deliberately, and looked directly into Leliana's eyes. In that moment, Leliana lost the thrum of conversation, the melody of instruments. Iona's eyes held her as the jewelled eyes of a snake hold a bird.
Anger released Leliana. She remembered she was a Seeker – the Left Hand of the Divine. She remembered she had fought in the Fifth Blight. She caught the look of the other woman and held it with confidence. The message from Iona demanded submission: one will to another. Leliana smiled mockingly into that arrogance.
Grand Cleric Iona looked away first. Pleased with her small victory, Leliana sought the Divine.
The Divine sat on the Andrastean throne especially brought in for the occasion. It was enormous, and its design was of golden flames. Leliana found herself thinking of Acts of Faith, frozen in time. The metal had the cold omniscience. The intimation of fire the hot. The vantage point allowed her to overlook the entire chamber and meant anyone who approached had to do so from below. She watched in rigid silence, her face a mask of benign neutrality. Justinia was being guarded, but the guard was junior to Leliana. Knight Captain Evangeline de Brassard – the Orlesian Templar who had chosen to defend Haven from the Red Templars. Lord Seeker van Reeves, Knight Vigilant Trentwatch and Knight Divine Gerard Caron had called her a traitor. No matter. All three were dead now, either at Haven or Andoral's Reach. Divine Justinia's choice of guardsman had meaning. Evangeline had been chosen to guard the Divine because Justinia knew she had taken a side.
Leliana's calling was to protect Justinia, but she knew her talents would be better spent prowling the chamber for predators than standing still as bodyguard. The Right Hand of the Divine and Seeker Cullen were still on the quest to find Varric Tethras. Leliana had hoped all three would be here but they were late.
The Divine began by thanking the King of Ferelden for inviting them; for granting the Circle of Ferelden the Temple of Sacred Ashes to rebuild. This was his land.
"I'll be direct, King Cousland, out of respect for your youth. Older women such as I sometimes prefer the Game to the goal. Youth is impatient, has no time for useless manoeuvre. Directly, then: we're concerned about the Ferelden Circle."
The King's features tightened. He suddenly radiated menace. Blue eyes glinted from paled features. Leliana thought of the strangely ominous colour of glacial ice.
"Yes?" The tone betrayed nothing. Still, Leliana wanted to warn the Divine. Justinia didn't know how this man watched and waited, patient and invisible as any wolf.
Justinia went on. "As a true Andrastean, I must ask you to swear that none of what is said here will leave this Conclave."
"No. I keep my options open, Your Perfection. I won't be bound to any blind oath."
There was a slight pause, and Leliana wondered if Channon realized just how telling a blow he'd struck. Justinia wouldn't be used to anyone rejecting her opening, especially a man she regarded as a simple warrior king. Leliana could almost hear the older woman's brain working to realign her argument.
To her shock, Justinia bowed her head saying, "I was rude. If we are to help each other, there must be complete truth and openness. Very well. Now both the Seeker Order and the Rebel Mages have broken away from the Chantry, the Ferelden Circle is a conundrum. The Circle at Ostwick has tried valiantly to stay neutral but, events being what they are, have been forced to choose a side. First Enchanter Lydia is here, out of loyalty to me. As is First Enchanter Vivienne. The Ferelden Circle must follow suit. The Chant of Light says, "Wisdom is the control of magic. Magic is the most destructive force known to man, even to the point of destroying man. The Chanty is the guardian of magic. Not you, King Cousland."
Channon said, "I will do all I can for the Chantry. The Chantry will not tell me what I must do to the Ferelden Circle. These mages fought for their country during the Fifth Blight, fought beside me when a misstep by one meant death for all. Ferelden is now and forever the home of these mages. Where I rule, whatever improves the lives of those I rule will have my full support. Let there be no mistake: the Chantry is supreme in the Golden City. In Ferelden, King Cousland and Queen Anora rule. The world is changing, and we lead the way."
"And you, Knight Commander Rylock?"
Pale, swallowing several times, Rylock answered, "This Circle have fought and died for the lives of non-mages and ask only for safe haven. They have my loyalty. That will only change if I see them using their magic to take the rights of others."
Leliana had heard such a silence only once. In Lothering, waiting for the darkspawn to descend. Justina, however, smiled: a generous mouth in an angular, strong face that carried authority with charm. Leliana wondered if the responses of Rylock and the king had pleased her. Logically, the head of an international Chantry should be displeased by this attempt to create a working national chantry. But these were unprecedented times, the authority of Orlais so much less than it was, and Leliana supposed Justinia might be reevaluating her decision to tie the Chantry to Empress Celene. Revered Mother Dorothea had come from Ferelden.
The Divine stood from her chair, and the Chantry priests began clapping to get everyone's attention. Silence fell as abruptly as if the humans and Elves attending had frozen like statues in a mausoleum.
Nodding thanks to her attendants, the Divine raised bejewelled hands. Her fingernails were painted red and gold. Her voice, amplified by the discreet use of magic – the Chantry was not above using magic to suit its purpose – rang out.
"Honoured citizens, brothers and sisters. We gather in the Temple of Sacred Ashes to give our thanks to the Maker. Here, in the presence of His holy bride, we stop to consider our role as His favoured children. It is here the Chant of Light first began its journey to the four corners of the world..." (the Fereldans cheered; the Orlesians looked shocked and insulted) "so it is fitting that here we stop to consider how best to repay our privileges. Consider our responsibilities."
The Divine paused – then descended from the dais. Her smile was golden and full of secrets as a cat's. Leliana was grimly amused to see Knight Captain Evangeline almost choke in surprise. It was clear she hadn't been warned – and, for someone born to an Orlesian noble family, the Templar wasn't particularly good at hiding her feelings. Leliana's feelings were the same – she really wished Justinia would not risk herself like this – but no one would have known from the bard's icy, controlled grace. The priests on the dais – Leliana recognized Chancellor Roderick – murmured with barely concealed alarm. This was unheard of.
Justinia took the hand of a curtseying elderly woman and the woman shook as she kissed the Divine's rings. This was not a mage, nor anyone Leliana recognized as a citizen of Haven, nor anyone of enough importance to be invited here. A prop, then. Justinia was a master of the Game. Smiling gently, resolutely, fearlessly, Justinia walked forward into the Conclave. They had been searched on the way in, but an assassin could still be hiding among them – Leliana and one other she knew about were already here - and of course mages did not need weapons to be dangerous.
Leliana watched Evangeline belatedly remember her purpose and fall in behind to guard the Divine. Her pretty dark blue eyes scanned over the crowd, wary and watchful.
"We should not allow fear to cloud our reason. We must remember all those who defended us in times of evil in ages past..." here she looked at the delegation of Weishaupt Wardens, and then beyond to a surprising target: "I speak of mages. The Chant of Light says, 'magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him'. And so it has been. The mages have served us well, in many wars over many centuries, yet in times of peace how well have we served them? We mean them no harm, yet have we not harmed them nonetheless?"
"Liar!" The cry rang out from the crowd. Leliana was not surprised to see it came from the rebel mages of Andoral's Reach - was exasperated when she recognized the source. Really, the mages could have picked a more diplomatic representative than Anders!
"You mean us every harm! It is the Chanty that teaches non-mages to fear us! You keep us under your thumb, reminding us again and again that you let us live only because we are useful!"
The Divine remained calm, facing Anders as if they were the only two people present. Leliana eased into position, putting Anders within the range of her poisoned darts. Having fought beside Anders during the Fifth Blight, Leliana knew the man's weaknesses, his tells. She was aware, subliminally, of the other assassin in the room – of the Wraith, easing into position to defend his husband rather than the Divine. Lambert was standing with the rebel mages, openly as himself, rather than behind a mask in Sebastian's delegation.
"Please everyone," the Divine called out, "There is no need to be frightened. The purpose of the Conclave is discussion and I'll happily hear Anders speak."
"You'll hear me speak?! After the vote in Cumberland didn't go your way you disbanded the College of Enchanters, silenced our leaders! You've done everything but listen to us!"
"I am listening. But order must be restored, surely you realise that? The lives of many more than just the mages are at stake."
"'Just' the mages?! The only reason I am here is because we won at Andoral's Reach! It wasn't the graciousness of the Chantry that granted me an audience – it's that we fought and bled! Andoral's Reach has taught us all that nothing will be accomplished unless we fight for it. No justice, no peace."
As a Seeker, Leliana could sense the electric undercurrent of the magic beneath his skin, the heat of his rage.
Evangeline leapt in front of the Divine, sword drawn. Leliana felt the lyrium in the woman's blood – knew she could hijack the waters, control the currents to bend Evangeline to her will, but held back. Evangeline was rash but it wasn't she who hated Justinia.
The eyes of Anders and Evangeline locked. Templar and mage, the oldest of enemies.
"Stand down," Evangline warned him, "You know what I can do."
With everyone focused on this - the milling crowd only just beginning to panic, to form into tribes, to look at those outside with suspicion – only one person saw another danger. Leliana recognized her shout – had fought beside this woman before.
"Darkspawn!"
The Grey Warden delegation – the strangers from Weisshaupt – were murmuring in the slow, heavy pull of blood magic, weaving a net. Leliana shuddered, her Seeker senses waking to what she had been too blind to see before: the insidious and total violation of Blood Control. Darkspawn, like a shark drawn down a bloodstream, proved the oldest of enemies were not mage and Templar but taint and living tissue.
And this was no ordinary darkspawn.
The darkspawn Magister had been there the whole time, using a fine Orlesian mask to hide his rotting face and a subtle glamour to disguise the smell of decay: magic that went unnoticed among a gathering that included a hundred mages. A senior Venatori, Leliana inferred, given mass Blood Control was an elite spell that supposedly took several centuries to master.
Watching the magic freeze the gathering in time was like watching years pass in the blink of an eye. A mesh of dust gathered over everyone, as if the conference were giant chess pieces waiting a hundred years. The game between rebel mages and Chantry only a distraction from the real player.
Knight Commander Rylock was fighting him.
Rillian's letter had contained everything: details of the time she and her friends – including Lambert Hawke – had faced Corypheus in the Vinmark Mountains. Admission of the act she had performed afterwards that had seen her leave with a drop of the Magister's blood. Their discovery at Red Bride's Grave. The dubious actions of Fiona, the arrogance of Janeka that had seen Rillian forced to give up the blood. The fact Janeka was working with Erimond and the Venatori faction in Tevinter.
Knowing all this, smelling the stink of Blood Magic and stink of taint, wires crossed in Rylock's brain. The lower animal in her knew. The higher animal threw up an ice wall of denial. What matters is the mage-Templar war. Anders is threatening the Divine. I am a Templar. I should be standing beside Evangeline.
You must stop Corypheus.
Rylock did not understand the Maker but she recognized divinity when she heard it.
While one part of her mind remained prostrated in a hush of fear and love that resembled a kind of death, something else inside her - the chattering part of the mind that continued to chatter on even in the holiest places - continued to pour questions and objections into her brain. The sin of pride, Mother Leanna had called it, while proceeding to 'beat the devil out of her' (and Keili. And Keili – because you never tried to find her).
It's all very well, said Rylock's inner critic, an inner presence. But Anders is really here, really saying and doing things – this so-called darkspawn Magister is nothing but the letter of a woman beginning her Calling, read by a woman at the edges of lyrium dementia. If it were otherwise – if Corypheus were really and truly here – where is the Maker's representative?
The answer which came to her took her breath away. It seemed blasphemous.
That's absurd! What can I do? I've done all I can. I've talked till I'm sick of it. Lord Seeker van Reeves didn't listen. Mother Hedera didn't listen. Grand Cleric Iona wants me burned at the stake. I would do it, if I thought the sacrifice would achieve something. But it won't. The suggestion Rylock could have received the Maker's warning was itself diabolical, she argued - a temptation to fatuous pride, to megalomania. What was it Rillian had said?
'Alistair told me people who want to save the world - and who make a few mistakes - become tyrants.'
She was talking about herself - but it could just as well be me.
She was horrified when the presence simply flung this argument back in her face, almost impatiently. As Wynne had told her once: 'what do you think I am doing, every time I save a life? If we are created in the Maker's image, should we not try? To refuse is not humility - it is laziness and cowardice.'
Oh, but this is nonsense, she replied - to Wynne, to Rillian, the Maker, she wasn't sure. She, Rylock, a middle-aged woman on the edge of lyrium dementia - the long night about to come for her as it had claimed the woman she had loved and thought she knew. Perhaps this was the first step? Talking to oneself was generally not a good sign. She with her middle-aged body and her ten-times defeated arguments - who would follow that?
Her mind darted hopefully down a side-alley that seemed to promise escape. Very well, then. She had received a warning. She should at least try. As long as she did her best the Maker would see to the final issue. Did not the Canticle of Threnodies say that it was not in mortals to command success? It was in the Maker's hands. One must have faith.
That argument snapped like a lute string. Not one rag of all this evasion was left. Relentlessly, unmistakably, the Maker pressed down on her the knowledge that this picture of the situation was utterly false. The Conclave was not a moral exercise, not a sham fight. Corypheus really could end up ruling the Black City. He could not reach the Golden City himself - could only destroy it for everyone else. He really could create a kind of half-life where people were neither dead nor living, only a series of probabilities at the whim of whichever Magister - Corypheus, Erimond, Danarius - held the power. Fenris really would be a slave again; Danarius his master in death - if you could call it that, it would really be unlife - as he had been in Tevinter. If the issue lay in the Maker's hands, Rylock and her allies were those hands.
The fate of the world really did depend on them; the situation was nakedly real. It rested with no other creatures in all time or space.
Her voluble self protested wildly, swiftly, like the propeller of Bodahn's cart when the cart had been overturned. Spinning uselessly. The imprudence, the unfairness, the absurdity of it! Did the Maker want to lose this world to the Magisters Sidereal?! What was the sense of so arranging things that a matter of such importance should finally and absolutely depend on a sinful woman such as herself? But, at that moment, she could not help but remember the Fifth Blight.
Then, too, white-faced farmers and freckled soldiers who had only recently begun to shave had crawled towards darkspawn in deadly blackness; awakening, like her, to the preposterous truth that all really did depend on their actions. Mages who had spent their lives institutionalized - not allowed to cook or go outside or choose their own clothes - had provided supporting fire to her Templars and died almost to a man. Ines and Sweeney had saved her from the Hurlock General. And teenage Fenris had chosen to defy his master - even though he had no hope and no one had ever taught him right from wrong - and on the way saved another teenage boy who had served as a medic and been driven to prostitution because no one ever checked on the fate of ex-soldiers. Alienage Elves - long forbidden from carrying any weapon larger than a kitchen knife – had fought alongside human soldiers.
Rylock sniffed and ground her teeth but could not help but see: this and no other way had the world been made. She shuddered, remembering her own rape and torture at the hands of Erimond at a time she had been much younger and fitter than she was now. Her body told back the tale to her and she considered what it might really mean to take on Corypheus - who was, after all, a man as well as a darkspawn emissary - to face him 'beard to beard' as the ancient sagas put it.
Vivid pictures crowded upon her: the deadly cold of those hands (she had brushed past the Hurlock General and felt the chill of unlife)…the long metallic nails, ripping off narrow strips of flesh, pulling out tendons. Doing to her what Alrik had done to Lambert. Making her a Broodmother as the Architect had made of Boann. She would lose her mind slowly. Up until the very end the monster would smile into her face. She would give way long, long before she died: beg for mercy, promise him help, worship, anything.
All this she had feared (waking from smothering darkness during nightmares in Aeonar) now she knew it. The Maker, never before so formidable, was putting those truths into her hands like terrible jewels. This was the fate she must save Thedas from. These were the people she must protect. These things happened and there was no guarantee it would not happen again: rape was not an inoculation. Perhaps the best she could do was have it happen to her and not Keili.
Alright, she agreed in resignation: Corypheus would be stopped by Rylock or not at all. It would be one middle-aged woman against an immortal darkspawn Magister. She was faced with the impossible: this she must do, this she could not do. The conflict was too uneven: an immortal mage was always going to beat a mortal non-mage. To face those dead yet living arms…at the thought of the details, terror and disgust overcame her. But she remembered her own training at Therinfall Redoubt - where they had buried one recruit in every twenty over so-called 'training accidents' - and repeated her instructor's words like a mantra.
She felt like a woman brought out under the naked stars, on the edge of a precipice, into the teeth of a wind that came howling from winter. The thing still seemed impossible. But she remembered doing an impossible thing during the Fifth Blight, standing toe to toe with the Hurlock General (not knowing Ines and Sweeney would save her). She remembered when she was screwing her resolution to face Mother Leanna - the terror of her childhood - to tell her that she would be disobeying the Chantry's directive to remain out of the Fifth Blight. In both cases the thing had seemed impossible - she had not thought but known that she was psychologically incapable of doing it - and then, as objective and unemotional as the results of a test - there had arisen the knowledge that, by this time tomorrow, she would have done it.
She might weep, curse or adore - sing like a martyr or blaspheme like a heretic - but the thing was going to be done.
She no longer asked: why me? It might as well be her. Just as it had been Rillian and Guy and Ser Otto and Lambert and Fenris. The fierce light of this moment of decision rested on all.
"In the name of the Maker, here's goes – I mean, amen," said Rylock – and swung the Keening Blade at Corypheus' neck.
When Rylock shouted and leapt for the darkspawn, Lambert turned. Corypheus, cowl thrown back, was framed in strange vividness. The image had the remote clarity of a religious icon. Then Rylock in a single swipe gashed him – a moon-edged arc with a sort of emphatic masculine grace – from throat to belly.
He tottered, staggered...but he did not need his vocal cords to speak. Lambert heard his instructions to his Warden mages in his mind:
Now is the hour of our victory. Keep the sacrifice still.
The Warden mages circled Divine Justinia, the red light from their raised right palms bathing the chamber in a frozen whirlwind of unearthly hues. They weren't individuals, they were a snake chasing its own tail, all chanting the same thing.
Lambert saw the wounded darkspawn Magister raise an orb of luminous green light. The magical device – Lambert's Elven ancestors called to him – was drawing on Justinia's lifeforce to allow him to heal with obscene rapidity. The tainted blood was power.
Lambert realized with distant surprise that he could still move – and so could Leliana. Seekers were immune to Blood Magic. Leliana was rushing to save the woman she called Most Holy. Lambert was staring at Rylock, still fighting, but slower, as the Blood Control of the other Wardens enmeshed her. It wasn't a question of willpower: Lambert and Leliana had been saved by music and the touch of a spirit. Rylock was going to succumb. Which meant it would be him, Leliana and Fenris against twelve Warden Blood Mages and one Magister Sidereal. He wanted to call to Fenris – trusted his husband to get him out of this – but the thing in front of him ate the words like a black hole eats light. And Lambert found himself thinking (along with 'Oh, for fuck's sake!' and 'Who's going to look after Incognito?' and 'What will survive of us is...nothing') that this was the same Magister Sidereal they had fought in the Vinmarks, the one they had killed.
Feeling blood control enmesh her like molasses tinged with decay, the dark came. Horror of death such as Rylock had never known. The dead eyes with whites tinctured brown, his bad meat odour, the feel of his cold hands. Overwhelmingly the power discrepancy. Now that he had Blood Control, his ability to do whatever he wanted. As before.
Erimond hadn't just taken the body. He'd taken the life. In those moments Erimond had come as close to Rylock as the Maker: every secret revealed, every treasure yielded, every shame exposed, every shred of self dissolved. Had taken the life inside himself and warped it into shapes of horror.
This was no fierce burning into the Maker's light. This was protracted suffering, lingering death. They would wake in an afterlife ruled by Corypheus. There was not - had never been - any justice.
Pull yourself together! Rylock sneered at herself. Say a child's prayer if you can't say an adult's. There are children on Thedas facing death this very moment. Repent your sins. If you've failed, the Maker will send someone better. Someone like Fenris, who followed goodness even before he knew goodness existed. We'll do well enough.
Rylock could see the Divine was past pain. Justinia's eyes said she had gone on from it; that she was standing at the rail looking back at the dock. Waiting for the ship to raise anchor. In the moment before her eyes closed they made the last shift. Justinia saw through Rylock and the matter of Thedas into the final solving darkness and annihilating light.
What took her place was a Spirit of... Rylock wasn't sure, but the spirit – immune to Blood Magic – knocked the orb out of Corypheus' hands.
With the unconscious grace of a dancer Lambert caught it in midair.
A climax of total dissolution – as into the Maker or the Void – then the awakening. At first he was merely an unthinking aspect of his surroundings: a state like orgasm, or getting lost in music, recognizable only by coming out of it.
He was in a luminous, undulating realm, as underwater, yet he could breathe. The colours were peculiarly raw and naked, overdone as the paintings he had drawn as a child. Chromium green. Dioxazine purple.
He could have run a thousand miles without getting out of breath, could have travelled to the edges of the universe and back in the blink of an eye. He wondered if he were dead and missed his husband like a limb. He wondered if he would see his family.
Real things could not make Lambert cry. Only false or sentimental things could do that. His father, his sister, his mother...they were a grief too deep for tears. You cry in purgatory. When you are in the Void it is too late. The tears freeze before they fall. The memories went over his consciousness like hurrying cloudshadows.
His time in the Gallows. Still, the odd flash of self-loathing, like distant lightning. He'd emerged from the interrogation by death knowing he'd never be quite as whole. Had pieced himself together through Fenris' love and Seeker training, by the touch of...Grace? After a while, the only thing he had done with the aftershocks was laugh at them. Was it all to happen again? He knew the demon – there was a demon in this place: he could smell it, like slowly spoiling meat – fed on that. Could make him relive it.
Fear flowed to him. He felt again how painful it was to be that helpless, to suffer because someone else chose your suffering. How Alrik's mastery of his flesh had corroded his soul like acid. He scrabbled to find something, anything, he could say to placate the predator. The words came out of his mouth stillborn.
'Soon, all you'll want is to die. But you won't, not for a long long time. Your purpose between now and the end is to suffer. Do you understand? It is only your suffering I want.'
"Someone help me!"
Before, the only answers had been from demons – offering to save him if he only let them in. He had refused. Now a lean, handsome Elven man, dark-skinned, muscular and with a shock of white hair, stood on a ledge of rock high above him. Held out his hand.
"Move it! On your feet, soldier."
What was there to do but obey and run as hard as he could to catch up? His husband's love formed a shield. How was Fen here?
Lambert realized Fenris had phased in order to come get him. Fenris could tunnel through locked doors or into a man's chest – had once described it as becoming like a wave, or a spark of light. Now he was in the Fade. The electricity spell Anders had once taught Lambert didn't affect the brands, but lyrium did. Realizing his husband must have taken a vial from one of the Templars, that it would have caused him agony, Lambert flinched. How many times had he scolded Fen for doing it! But his husband had merely shrugged, and Lambert had known he would choose to go through worse.
He could see the portal behind Fen: a luminous sparkling jewel of many-coloured lights.
"Come home."
Lambert reached for the hand like a drowning man, felt the shock connect them. The oscillations felt like the Litany. The touch felt like love. He had plunged into a sea of emerald light and was surrounded by other swimmers; Lambert could not see them but knew they were there, gliding and swooping around him. The only constant was Fen. His green eyes were distinct; ships rather than sea. Mortals could act with volition; the only beings in the universe not entirely at the mercy of forces outside themselves. He and Fen were passing into and out of each other; two creatures swimming in the Waters of the Fade, neither river nor sea and with no opposite shore. Stars came all the way down to the horizon, nestled in the water. As in the sea around Llomerryn Island, Fenris kept pace with him, swimming in unison so he was never alone.
And then he was hurtling forward into the world he had left behind. Bright light. Pain. Rebirth.