Maferath's heart grew cold
As he looked upon the field of the dead and heard
The chant of "Glory! Glory! Glory! Hail to the Maker!''
Apotheosis 1: 6-8
Upon the hour of the wolf's hungry howl, Vivienne de Fer awoke, famished and thirsty. She first sought the familiar bell chain, which might have summoned her maid to bring forth tea with scones, but, in the dark, there was none.
She shifted upon the mattress, which was made of stale straw and smelled as such, then reached out further, only to note that icy needles pierced her skin, for the two logs she had been allotted were spent, and not even their ashes were smouldering. It was dark, it was cold, and Vivienne could barely stop her feet from shaking before she blindly placed them inside the warm slippers she'd carried all the way from Orlais.
Vivienne also reached for a candle in blind, but she found none, as none had been provided; there was neither flint, nor match, just darkness and cold. And a jug of water.
Thinking that the water might have appeased her thirst after the preserved mutton paraded as lamb, and the terrible, sour wine, she gulped from it, only to discover that there was a rather thick film of dust layered upon dust on its surface.
'Merde,' she hissed to herself, putting the carafe aside, and decisively standing in her woollen slippers.
In the dark, she made her way onwards, to the corridor, thinking that she would do what she had never before done – go to the kitchens of this hellish place and ask for warm, edible food, a glass of wine, and some more logs to her fireplace. She was, after all, the Grand Enchanter of Orlais and Ferelden, by the grace of Andraste, and she'd have no hesitation in telling the guards stationed outside her door as much.
There were no guards outside her door.
Darkness, damp and cold were her guardians, and those she could not argue with, only struggle against; she turned a corner, shivering.
'You wanted me here,' Vivienne heard Veldrin say.
She immediately withdrew.
'Herald…' an unknown man's voice whispered.
'She is not the Herald of Andraste,' Vivienne heard, in Dorian's voice. 'Veldrin is not…Oh, good Gods, call her what you wish to call her, but tell us what you wished to tell us, and do so fast. My toes are freezing.'
The unknown man fidgeted; Vivienne could tell by the creaking of his armour. 'My former commander, yeah? Rylan Ostwyn?'
Vivienne peeked behind the corner just in time to see Veldrin offering the Starkheaven man a nerve settling drink of her flask. In that flash of moonlight, she saw the Inquisitor she'd once trusted and not the Magistra she hated, and, for a moment, stood transfixed.
'Your commander, he was demoted?' Veldrin kindly asked.
'No, Hera…m'am. He be dead, m'am.' The man responded, holding on to the flask for dear life. 'Just like everyone from the kitchen maid to the Holy Mother that took in that elf is…Maker, I will die ablaze, like all who set eyes 'pon her did…'
'Your drink is my drink,' Dorian encouraged – not that the man needed much to spill from his tongue such a tale as Vivienne had never heard.
'From the ashes of the first Chantry that took her in she rose, nak'd and proud as an angel,' the man mumbled, 'the Maker's Bride, untouched by the Maker's flame, that took 'em all to give birth to her, the Maiden…only…Herald, forgi'me, mistress,' the man chocked out. 'Magistra….Magistra, they tell us it means teacher in the old tongue, Magister o' Magistra. Be that true?'
'It is,' Dorian said, kindly.
'Teachers don't care for being taught. Nay,' the man said, taking a vigorous swig of the bottle. 'You care not for what…Hells! May I burn in them! If this woman is…why'd she slit his throat?'
'Whose throat?' Veldrin asked, stubbornly remaining the Inquisitor.
'C'mmander Ostwyn that's who, fuckin' stupid head of mine!' the guard exclaimed, hitting himself over the head with the flask and his iron gauntlet. 'Don't you's see? All's eyes were on the Maker's Bride, but we were his men, we looked about, so we did…Everyone in that Church burned a'life, bones clustered by the door... Ostwyn had his throat split in the kitchens, only one who did not fall to flame. He was dead 'fore the flame touch him, the gash in his throat wide enough to...Flame musta widened it too, but… An' the elf, the bleeding elf…'
'Was nowhere to be found,' Veldrin said, drawing a sharp breath, between her tightly clenched teeth; he nodded.
'Ostwyn may have 'ad his faults, Maker forgive him; first rumours were he ran off with the elf, but…We didn't believe it, no m'am, so we went and looked and saw things…There were no elf's bones in the pile huddled by the door – smaller, frailer they be, teeth flat…We looked to all dem skulls, m'am…'
He closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head.
'…an' then, all them men who was with me, they started vanishing too, one a'ter the other…They didn't go running of with no elf, neithers, but gone they were…Till there was only me left, cuz I kept my trap shut, see? Until now, Herald…Maybe now it's too late for me too…'
Vivienne felt lost, much as the man who'd spoken the words did.
'Why did she spare him the fire, but not death?' the man asked, of the ceiling and of the flask.
'I cannot know,' Veldrin softly said, touching the man's arm, and lowering it, before he could empty the flask down his throat. 'Stay safe, my good man,' she followed. 'Your secret is in good hands.'
He nodded sheepishly, and waded off into the darkness of the corridor, forgetting to return the flask.
'Heard enough, Bria?' Dorian called; Marquise Briala appeared from the next turn of the corridor. Vivienne ducked behind her own corner, but, in shame, kept listening.
'I heard enough, but whether it is enough to convince Vivienne…'
'He won't repeat the story,' Varric decisively said, adding his voice to that of the others. 'He fought with the Inquisition in the Arbour Wilds, and I was lucky enough that he recognised me, then heard you were in town. Maybe knowing what he knew became too heavy to carry alone.'
'Or maybe he did not want to die not having spoken his piece,' Veldrin sighed. 'This is going…How do you put it, Amatus?'
'From the horrible to the obscene,' Dorian sighed, in his turn. 'Should we not wake the others? Cassandra at least should be forewarned.'
Veldrin hesitated. 'No,' she replied, at length. 'Let's not cause more commotion than we need to, in this wretched place, and give that unfortunate man at least a chance. I've a feeling that if that story gets to Vael's ears, he'll get him before she does.'
She…she…who on Earth is she… Vivienne's mind churned.
'You're right,' Briala said. 'Our sources indicated Vael had become somewhat more of an oddity than usual, yet not quite to this extent – speaking of which, we should disperse; this corridor is suspiciously empty, which only makes me think that those watching us are very well hidden.'
'Agreed,' Varric said. 'Let's get some rest. Or well,' he reconsidered, mock joviality in his voice, 'as much rest as we can get with a dagger under our pillows.'
They all headed off in different directions, and Vivienne hastily withdrew in her turn; hunger and thirst forgotten, she quietly closed the door to her chamber, then rested her forehead upon the cool wood. She did not quite understand what she had just witnessed, but if it had been an act, it had been an exceptionally good one. Had she decided on such a ruse, she might have wanted to make sure more witnessed it…
It was only when she finally turned around that she noticed him – a dark, fine figure, with glowing, blue eyes – standing just behind her.
Another, lesser woman might have screamed, or at least gasped in fright, and pulled her chamber dress closer about herself, yet Madame de Fer was no lesser woman. She straightened her shoulders, and gracefully walked around Lusacan, to sit on the bed, with her legs crossed.
'Your evening walk takes a strange path this eve, Monsieur,' Vivienne said; he smiled.
'While yours was interrupted too soon, Madame,' he replied.
'Dare I ask what the purpose of this visitation is?' the Grand Enchantress courteously inquired. 'It may not be the habit of Tevinter, but it is normally considered polite for a gentleman to obtain permission before entering a lady's chambers...'
Lusacan grinned wide, which only made Vivienne even more displeased with herself – he was wickedly handsome, and under any other circumstance…
'I, alas, am still unused to asking permission to do anything, Madame. The very notion of it is alien to me; if I have caused you discomfort, I apologise sincerely. I am just here to inform you that I am pleased I am not the only one who enjoys watching.'
A lesser woman might have felt ashamed at being caught spying. Not Madame de Fer, though.
'Intriguing,' she responded, gracefully crossing her thin wrists upon her knees. 'I did not notice you in the corridor.'
'Nor did you notice me watching over you as you slept,' Lusacan smoothly returned.
She frowned. 'That is a gross invasion of privacy, monsieur.'
'A necessary one,' he indifferently replied, 'and one that I shall not apologise for. The Lady Patience…'
'Lady Patience?' Vivienne asked, the frown still hanging on her features.
'Veldrin Lavellan of the House Pavus,' Lusacan clarified. 'The one that you do not hold dear, but keep calling darling.'
'Hm,' the woman said, with a little, mocking grin. 'Quite a few titles she has amassed, our darling Veldrin. And, if I dare, monsieur, I am seeing a disturbing pattern: Lord Watcher, Lady Mystery, Lady Patience…Shall there be a Lord Dawnbringer, next?'
'In time,' the man replied – the certainty and levelness of his voice made her inwardly shudder.
'But,' Vivienne followed, struggling to act as if she had not heard him, 'I have interrupted you twice now, Monsieur. Lack of politeness on your part should not make me forget my own manners…You were about to tell me that the Lady Patience…'
She looked up at him, great golden eyes wide in expectation. Lusacan nodded, and once more flashed his wickedly handsome grin, but did not hurry to speak – instead, he strode to lean on the windowsill, legs crossed at the ankles, and arms crossed over his chest.
'The Lady Patience, our little sister,' he softly spoke, 'thinks you crucial for tomorrow's events – I hate to disabuse our little sister of that notion. She is not alone in thinking thus, yet not all those who think as she does are your friends, Madame; I intruded upon your privacy to assure you will be alive and well tomorrow.'
Vivienne laughed haughtily.
'I assure you I can defend myself against owls,' she said, with an icy grin. 'Besides, you do not seem to think that I am crucial for tomorrow, so I find your concern…shall, we say questionable?'
It was his turn to laugh. 'If Madame implies I merely like watching beautiful women sleep, then her assertion is correct,' Lusacan easily admitted. 'However, both you and I know that the timing is wrong, though I do sincerely hope we may share a moment; do not remain under the false impression that you do not carry significance in other ways. Many a man's fate will rest in your hands soon.'
'Just not tomorrow?' the Grand Enchantress inquired.
He shrugged, making her wonder whether she found his…insouciance charming or merely aggravating.
'Unlike my younger friends,' Lusacan evenly spoke, 'I am very educated on the subject of owls – this one in particular. You will not need any of your skills to see though her. She'll readily show herself, or we will make her do it.'
'Who is she?' Vivienne queried, unforgivably giving in to impatience and curiosity. 'All of you speak of her, but none mentions her name. Even Cassandra seems to be party to knowledge I do not have…'
She darted to her feet, not caring much for the fact that her night gown had come unfastened, revealing the much tighter, delicate night dress underneath.
'You will forgive me, Monsieur,' Vivienne angrily rasped, 'if I only choose to believe the things that I am told to a very small degree. If you yourself are what you claim to be, which, by now, is the only thing I do not doubt, who is to tell me that I am under no spell? That Divine Victoria is under no spell?'
He once more laughed, and it was definitely aggravating, this time.
'The only proof that I can offer that you are under no spell, Madame, is the fact that I am not under your lovely nightdress,' Lusacan said, the warm, sincere amusement in his voice somehow preventing her from becoming even angrier. This did not mean she was not angry still.
'You fancy you can do that?' Vivienne spat.
Lusacan looked her in the eyes, then slowly pressed his hand against the window pane; his flesh dissolved within the glass, and she could see it passing though, slowly, a fraction of an inch for every heartbeat. What Vivienne, the greatest mage the Circle of Montsimard had ever produced, could not see was any sign of a focus object, no matter how small or insignificant. But, as Lusacan's hand passed though the glass, she saw the bones, the sinews, the blood vessels, from fingertip to wrist to elbow, as if the man had been thinly slicing his flesh and showing her each part of it, until his arm was outside the window, fully, to the shoulder.
The touch upon her half-bared shoulder was tender, almost hot. He kneeled behind her, on the bed, for she could feel the indent in the mattress, and there were two of him, the one whose arm was though the glass, and the one behind her, and…
'Maker,' she breathed.
'I do whatever I fancy,' Lusacan whispered, in her ear, 'and fancy all I do, Madame.'
He vanished then, both from the windowsill and from behind her, only to reappear as one in front of the door.
'You want to know who she is,' Lusacan said, still smiling. 'As penitence for touching you without your permission I shall tell you – she is as great a threat to all your truths as I am. Rest you well.' He whispered before he vanished into thin air.
Vivienne did not rest well at all, even though once the creature was gone, the fireplace had come alight, with no logs to sustain the fire.
'Well, really,' Varric said, looking about himself in awe. 'Think she's going to switch the Sunburst throne from Val Royaux to here? Sure looks like it…'
'I know you haven't seen this much gold plating in your life, but don't whistle in church,' Dorian replied, 'else Vivienne will turn you into a newt, and I am sure you won't get better.'
Cassandra looked to them both through the corner of her eyes, thinking of some scathing words to utter. None came to mind, so she quickly gave up; Varric was Varric, and Dorian was Dorian, but they were both right. The Holy Chantry in Val Royaux looked like a beggar's hut compared to…this.
They had been ushered in by an impressive contingent of guards, who'd insisted that they keep in to the main thoroughfare, and that the Divine lead the procession – not that the others had any desire to do so. Vael himself had not accompanied them, perhaps because his distaste of them had not faded, or, more likely, because his latest construction project had not made him exceedingly popular.
Maker, enough gold had gone into every aspect of the building that Cassandra suspected the entire city might have been paved with it – even the joinery of the stained glass windows appeared to be made of gold, and there was no tapestry on which Andraste's hair was not embroidered in gold thread. For one who considered even the Val Royaux Chantry wasteful, this was an inexcusable display, given the fact that the city outside truly looked as if it had been recently plundered by some ravenous foreign army.
What made it all even more alarming was the fact that it all seemed brand new; granted, whomever had restored the building had exceptional knowledge of the Chant of Light and Andraste's life, and some small comfort could be derived from the fact that the Canticle of Shartan had been restored to its rightful place, as one of the many wall hangings depicted him receiving Andraste's sword.
Another sword was notably absent, however. There was no depiction of Andraste's martyrdom, and hence no depiction of Hessarian or the Blade of Mercy.
She wondered whether Dorian had noticed the detail, but felt reluctant to turn around and ask him, out loud. The guards that were keeping the door to the grand hall would certainly report on the fact that they were not waiting to be received in quiet meditation, and she did not wish to further irritate Vael.
How ironic it was, the Divine thought, looking about herself, that the trepidation she'd felt upon entering Tevinter and meeting Radonis had seemed like the worst feeling she'd ever had. This, whatever she was experiencing, was ten times worse…precisely because she should have been with reverence and joy, but instead, felt dread so intense that she was actually chilled to the bone.
'Hm,' Veldrin said. 'Do you notice something off?'
She was whispering to Dorian; all others but Vivienne stood some five feet behind her, still hovering by the door as if they'd been about to bolt out. Still, Cassandra was so tense that she heard them.
'Other than the fact that this place is even too gaudy for my taste?' he whispered back.
'Or the fact that the Enlightened Prince thinks his gold is best spent on this shit, rather than making sure his people don't eat only beets and roots?' Varric mumbled.
'Beets are roots,' Dorian academically corrected.
'No templars,' Vel said, dryly. 'That's what's off – there are no templars.'
'True,' Josephine shakily whispered. 'We have not seen any in…we have not seen any.'
'Maybe they are all in there, with the Most Holy,' Vivienne put in, reproachfully. 'We are not all the most trustworthy of people.'
'There is no templar in there, with the Most Holy,' Lusacan replied; unlike the others, he'd not bothered to whisper, nor stand in one place; he'd in fact wondered about the antechamber as if he'd owned it and nothing impressed him, just as he had in Val Royaux.
'Your mage-killers are all in their homes, shivering and sweating in their beds – I presume that after all this display, there was as much gold to purchase lyrium as there was to purchase food other than root vegetables.'
He chuckled to himself.
'I would not worry about the mage killers, if I were you, though,' he added, indifferently examining one of the heavy tapestries, and rubbing its weave amid his fingers. 'For them and the soldiers, at least, gold and lyrium will soon and miraculously be found. The rest of the peasantry will have to subsist on roots for quite a while longer.'
Vivienne threw him a vile glance, but she did not comment, and neither did Cassandra – whether he was guessing or actually knew was irrelevant – the scenario he described was realistic enough and the one the Divine most feared; it also heightened her sense of dread, for the Maker's Bride would never have subjected her own men to the pain of withdrawal, nor the inhabitants of the city to famine…
'Maker,' she whispered. 'How long will she keep us waiting?'
'As long as she likes, I presume,' Lusacan responded, with the same irksome indifference. 'Or, as long as you let her…'
He cringed, and just as he did so, the two guards, whom, to Cassandra's eyes, had begun to resemble statues, moved aside, allowing them passage. She moved forth with her heart in her teeth, Vivienne and Josephine by her sides, the others following close behind.
The hall that lay behind the doors was even more splendid than the antechamber, and so long that one could not immediately see the woman sitting at its end, or distinguish her features. There were no wall hangings here: all the walls were painted, and, as the small group advanced, it felt as they were quite literally taking a stroll through the pages of the Chant. Still, the long hall may have boasted gilded mosaics, yet had no pews, and no other seats than the prophet's throne. It seemed as though Andraste was in no mood for sharing power, this time around.
Nor was she in the mood of showing herself to the masses, the Divine realised when the door behind them was sealed – not only closed, but actually sealed by a spell so strong that even Josephine felt it; the Ambassador looked over her shoulder, in brief fright.
Yet, there was nothing fearsome about the woman who occupied the throne, except, perhaps for the fact that she did have the exact likeness of all the paintings and tapestries – she wore her long, golden hair in a loose braid, and the resplendently white robes complimented her marble complexion and wide blue eyes. She was smaller of stature and slighter of build than Cassandra might have imagined, but that was to be expected – it had, after all been nine centuries since her martyrdom. Her likeness had been long lost in the statues of her time, and ever since then, humans had imagined her in various ways…
Which made the fact that all the paintings in this hall depicted this woman, and no other, even stranger.
'Our Divine,' Andraste said – her voice was melodious, and sweet, hardly befitting a woman who threatened war upon the entire continent. 'Our Grand Enchanter…And our Herald,' she added, with a small, indecipherable smile. 'All our creatures come to greet us, just as we prophesised.'
Drawn, as if her body had not been hers, Cassandra took a further step forth; she did not notice that Vivienne had extended her hand to stop her, nor that Veldrin had stayed precisely where she was. Josephine had stepped up by her side, hope shining in her eyes, and, for a moment, a mere moment, the Divine forgot all her doubts, and allowed herself to hope too.
There was an aura about this woman, a sense of kindness and peace; maybe, Cassandra thought, thinking to kneel in gratitude, all the things that she'd felt were out of place were Vael's doing. Maybe the threat was Vael's doing too, maybe…
'Most Holy,' she whispered, 'so many fears and doubts I've harboured…'
'All is forgiven,' Andraste kindly spoke, extending her hand. 'Come to me, and all things too shall be as they were.'
Awash with relief and reverence, the Divine did kneel. Her entire body was filled with such a sense of relaxation as she had never experienced. By her side, Josie had fallen to her knees too, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
'You have returned to us,' Josephine whispered. 'After so many centuries of darkness…'
'There will be light renewed,' the woman promised, standing from her throne and gracefully striding forth; she ran her fingers over both of their heads and moved towards the rest of the group. Josephine reached for Cassandra's hand in blind, and though she was not a woman given to such displays of emotion, the Divine took it.
It was a dream, a most beautiful dream…and just as all good dreams, it lasted but a heartbeat, as the gentle, soothing caress turned into a playful, irreverent tussle of Cassandra's hair, and the benevolent, luminous smile turned to an eerie, piercing chuckle.
'See you, my brother, how thirsty the land is for me?' she said, looking beyond the Divine and Josephine – to whom, Cassandra knew, but still desperately wished to deny. 'How easily even the forewarned yield to my sight? To my majesty?'
She strode forth, disgustingly letting her fingers run through the Divine's greying tresses.
'How many, even amid those who know the truth of your nature bent knee to you in such haste? With such faith?' the golden-haired woman ironically asked.
'It is not to you that they bent knee,' Lusacan replied, causing her to laugh, loudly and piercingly – behind she who was not Andraste, Cassandra and Josephine hastily stood, one, in fiery rage, the other, in open grief and terror.
'To who, then?' the false prophet asked, her chuckles receding to a wicked grin. 'See you another depicted here? Feel you a Maker within these walls? If ever he was here, my brother, he has long departed…Nay,' she followed, gracefully twirling amidst the still stunned group to briefly take a glance at each, before heading back to her throne, to sit upon it. 'I alone am here; it is to me that they kneel. It is to me that they will all kneel…'
She leaned her head back, eyes closed in delight.
'Even you, Anaris,' she whispered. 'Just before you die.'
'Anaris…' Vivienne whispered, sounding transfixed – but not looking away from the woman on the throne; she re-opened her eyes and stared back at the Grand Enchanter, still grinning.
'I take it my brother has not properly introduced himself?' she asked, leaning forward. 'Nor me?'
'I thought I should leave you the pleasure,' Lusacan indifferently replied, crossing his arms over his chest. 'It will be the only one we shall allow you. This, I swear.'
He stepped forth, and Josephine covered her mouth with both hands; for a moment, Cassandra did not understand why. After all, she…
But no Cassandra suddenly remembered. Josephine didn't know. Varric didn't know, and Vivienne…Vivienne was not looking to Lusacan, though he'd shifted his ears to their true, pointy shape. Vivienne was staring ahead, behind Cassandra, all colour drained from her cheeks and lips, while Dorian and Veldrin, who knew all truths, stood together as stiff as statues, looking in the same direction as the Grand Enchanter was.
She didn't want to turn, yet just like on the night of Lusacan's awakening, she needed to know – she needed to see…Unlike on that night, however, the world began to turn before she did, for thin rivulets of blood had begun creeping along the tiles, and all colours in the room began to shift.
No longer did the paintings on the wall represent the words of the Chant, but vibrant scenes of hunts, in forests and grasslands, waterfalls tumbling over cliffs, and palaces the likes of which Cassandra had never seen before…some hovering in mid air, some with spires so tall that they pierced though the clouds…
No, Cassandra thought, not the clouds.
The Veil.
She spun on herself so hastily that she all but slipped in the puddle of blood that surrounded her feet. Instinctively, the Divine pulled Josephine to her chest and away from the sight of the throne, as she might have done to Leliana, if Leliana been forced to lay her eyes upon the thing…the abomination…that sat on the throne.
'Maker, Maker…' Josephine was whispering, while hiding her forehead in Cassandra's shoulder; she was grasping the Divine's robes with both hands.
I'm already too late, Cassandra eerily thought. She's seen it. Her…She's seen everything.
'Told you shit's weird,' Varric muttered. 'Sorry, I forgot to remind you of not doing any of the three 'P's, though.'
'And which are those?' Veldrin weakly asked.
'Piss, puke or pass out,' the dwarf said, dryly – and, for once in her life, Cassandra could not agree more.
The woman who sat on the throne was no chaste maiden in white robes, but a very tall, extremely well built Elvhen woman, clad in animal pelts. Her bare feet rested upon a massive bear's skin, a recent kill, one might have guessed, for she had not cleared out its head. Its pelt was still bleeding, and its eyes and tongue were rotting and spreading a sickening smell.
There was a grotesque and savage beauty in her appearance – in her raven, knee length tresses, the glorious, athletic proportions of her body…She was taller than any elf Cassandra had ever seen, and her copper hued skin was decorated with a intricate webbing of green and blue tattoos. She bore a vallaslin, too, and asymmetrical markings on her face enhanced her features, while their colour just served to make her slanted, vibrantly green eyes stand out.
She revelled in the fact that all beheld her in awe – she stood, and it was then that they noticed two small rabbits were hanging from her hip. They still bleeding too.
Disgusted, Cassandra drew back to where all others stood, Josephine still clinging to her bloodstained robes…
Oh Maker, we've been kneeling in animal blood…
She furiously shook her head, but the tall, savage elvhen woman, the Elvhen Goddess stubbornly remained there, standing on the dais in front of the throne.
Andruil.
Cassandra knew her name, so she spoke it, though she did so in a barely audible whisper.
Andruil smiled, and advanced a step, taking great delight in the fact that Lusacan was the only one who'd not drawn back in fear or disgust. All the others had, though.
'Andruil,' she repeated, her own name rolling softly, sensuously off her tongue. 'Yes…It is such pleasure to hear one's name from another's lips, after millennia of silence…Oh, and the smell of fear…' she followed, her nostrils flaring. 'Do you, non-people, realise that your fear reeks just as the fear of woodland beasts? Of course you don't,' she chuckled, advancing a little more, and setting her poisonous glance on Vivienne. 'You think your perfumes hide it…Why did you not warn this one, Anaris?' she asked, looking over her shoulder to the Watcher.
Lusacan shrugged. 'No need to. I counted that your hubris would surface immediately, and it did. Mystery…'
'Ah, yes, is she back from the dead, too.' Andruil laughed. 'Yes, Daren'thal might have predicted this, though I dare say her skills served you little; you walked into my trap, just as I had intended you too, and there is no return from here.'
And yes, Cassandra dazedly thought, from here, there was truly no return – she had mentally prepared herself to acknowledge Andruil as Andraste, if it would quell armed conflict, but there was no way in which she would do so now; the woman claiming Andraste's name was a monster. She spoke as one, she moved as one, and even her unnatural grace reminded the Divine of a great, merciless predator…could she, then, willingly deliver the innocent believers to its claws?
A maggot moved inside the slain bear's eye, wriggling itself out, then burrowing itself back.
'Even an apprentice mage worth his salt would see though you, creature,' Vivienne said, her voice steady under Andruil's ironic scrutiny. 'You have no hope…'
Andruil sighed, in theatrical boredom. 'Magic exists to serve man, but never to rule over him,' she said, smiling.
'In other words, what makes you think she will allow any mages near her?' Dorian hissed.
The Great Huntress threw her head back and laughed.
'Very perceptive of you…who are you?' she asked, in earnest.
'The Bringer of Dawn,' Dorian replied, with courage that even Vivienne acknowledged by a nod. 'The One Who Woke the Sleepers.'
'So, another whose credibility is less than naught in the face of the true faith's army,' Andruil nodded, in mock sympathy.
She walked back to her throne, the hares on her hip dripping blood on the floor at each step, then lazily sat down, looking upon all those who stood before her with the satisfaction and anticipation of a glutton beholding a feast. She once more measured all, for what seemed like millennia, before her glance settled on Josephine, and she frowned in disgust, for the Antivan was still shaking from all her joints.
'Twas but a moment though – the thought that Josie was too menial a prey crossed Cassandra's mind as lightning might have.
'You keep as good a company as ever, Anaris,' Andruil nonetheless mused. 'Don't worry, little girl of fancy words and no authority,' she added towards Josephine, 'I've not brought you here to kill you…Merely to grind whatever power you thought you had into dust, and show you that resistance is futile.'
And she had certainly done that, Cassandra's mind raced. They had all loudly declared they'd come to pay homage to the Maker's Bride – how would they now walk out of this chamber, and speak of who, of what she truly was? Andruil's illusion might have been weak, but it was still powerful enough to take hold over non-mages…and even mages, the Divine bitterly thought, did not need to see to believe.
In a sense, Vivienne was as powerless and trapped now as Cassandra herself was. Her turn as Grand Enchanter had not brought her the love of Thaedas' mages, and, in truth, it was all but impossible to imagine that the leader of the Circle who had condemned the mage rebellion a decade before would start a rebellion of her own.
'What do you want, Andruil?' Veldrin asked; the Great Huntress frowned, and for the first time, appeared to gather anger in her gaze.
'Come closer,' she snapped. 'Come closer, Herald of Andraste, so I can see what Solas saw in you…'
Veldrin stepped forward, passing by Cassandra and leaving even Dorian behind. She seemed unphased by the blood at her feet, untouched by the sight, and as the two Elvhen women measured each other, in silence, the Divine yet again noted how strangely proportioned for an elf Andruil was, and how small and actually…bland…Veldrin looked, in comparison to the Goddess.
Andruil clearly thought the same, for her beautiful features turned into a grimace of curious disgust; she looked over Veldrin's shoulder, to Lusacan.
'After me, this unremarkable little mite?' she asked of the Dragon God; Lusacan merely shook his head. 'How low you've all fallen…'
'Still waters run deep, whereas quick, roaring streams caused by mountain snow melts last but a spring,' Veldrin had replied, smiling. 'I am one, you, are the other thus, I shall repeat myself - what do you want?'
'It even speaks to me as if it was my equal!' Andruil exclaimed, in a shrill tone.
'She's not your equal,' Lusacan breezily responded. 'She's your superior, in more ways than one; I'd tell you in how many, but I doubt you can count that high.'
He stood away from the wall that he'd been indifferently leaning against, and stepped up to Veldrin's side.
'Answer the question, Andruil. Not even you would call us all here merely to gloat,' he evenly spoke. 'You sit upon a throne that is not yours, while myself and the Lady Patience…'
'The Lady Patience?' Andruil laughed, a glint of madness in her eyes. 'Are you insane, Anaris? Have you gotten into Daren'thal's herbs, perchance? This…ant…is not, cannot be one of us; she's barely fit to stand before me – she ought to kneel, you all ought to…'
She wanted to sound sure of herself, yet her voice failed her somehow. Cassandra could not have explained how – it was a mere feeling. Still, for the one moment she'd had it, it had been as if Andruil had sounded uncertain of herself just as she was demanding obedience.
The Huntress shook her head, in obvious anger, as if she too had realised her mistake.
'What do I want, you ask, follower of the dead and fellow of the forgotten?' she queried, looking down at Vel; it took Cassandra a moment to recall that Veldrin's vallaslin marked her as a one of Mythal's faithful. 'Only what is mine, and was denied me by treachery. This world,' she followed, carelessly gesturing towards the window and all that lay outside it, 'the one you falsely call Thaedas, was to be mine, and it shall be mine.'
'I think you may now safely whistle,' Dorian loudly said, speaking to Varric. 'We're definitely no longer in church.'
Never had the Divine been more grateful for their irreverence; Varric did, indeed, whistle, and even the tension in Vivienne's shoulders eased slightly, though she did give the two a suitably scathing look.
'I shan't be mocked!' Andruil screamed, darting to her feet. 'Not by…'
'Well, then, don't say amusing things,' Dorian replied, 'such as - this world will be mine! I don't think anyone present in this room has not killed at least one person who has spoken those words.'
'In my case, two,' Varric shrugged. 'Or the same guy, twice…I still count it as two.'
'What will you do when the others come?' Veldrin asked, untouched by her husband's attempt at levity – she attracted Andruil's furious gaze away from Dorian and Varric, and, as if by magic, the Huntress' mood turned from furious to madly amused. Sadly, Cassandra noted, it returned the tension to Vivienne's shoulders.
'The others?' Andruil inquired, smirking and swiftly passing from fury to chilling coyness. 'What others do you speak of?'
'The others like you,' Veldrin dryly responded. 'I think that you expect us to agree that this world will be yours, which, I assure you, will not be the case whatever name you hide and whomever else you may fool. Do you expect the rest of the Creators…'
The Great Huntress laughed, in a sensual, throaty voice. 'Is this how you stole Solas' ahem, eye, you hapless little thing? By praying for your Creators to come and save you? Ha! Didn't he at least tell you Mythal was dead? Didn't he tell you who I was?'
'Your importance must have faded, over time, for he did not speak of you at all.' Vel answered, with a cheeky grin. 'Elghar'nan and Dirthamen, on the other hand…'
'They're dead,' Andruil snarled, baring her teeth and aggressively leaning forward. 'They're all dead, your precious Evanuris – I killed them, one after the other…'
'You must mistake us for Prince Vael, Most Holy,' the Magistra hissed. 'All six of you, together, could not kill Mythal – oh yes,' Vel smiled, to Andruil's surprised face. 'She has been alive and free for all of these millennia, so how you'd have us think that you alone could slay the others is beyond me.'
'Is it really?' Andruil asked; she had an unsettling capacity for switching moods, for she had once more turned from fury to insane amusement in an eyeblink. 'I'd call it as believable as you having defeated Solas, yet, according to all, you have…My only curiosity is why you have not killed him, yet I presume that watching him squirm is a pleasure I would not have denied myself either.'
She once more leaned back in her throne, but instead of showing any satisfaction for the fact that Veldrin had paled, Andruil dreamily looked to the ceiling.
'Yes…' she whispered. 'I would not have denied myself; another denied me. Remember who that was, Anaris?' Andruil growled, her chin snapping straight. The gaze she directed to Lusacan was so filled with rage that Cassandra shuddered. 'But…nevermind, nevermind.' She followed, in a quiet voice, and rocking back and forth as if attempting to soothe herself. 'I'll have him soon enough…In fact,' she added, clarity returned to her gaze and command to her voice, 'I'll give you a small bargain, brother.'
'I'm listening,' Lusacan said, to the Divine's horror.
He crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow; still, he did not look as relaxed and indifferent as he had but a few minutes before, and he was watching Andruil with tense attention.
'I think I can safely assume you're not as fond of Solas as once you were?' the Huntress politely inquired.
'Not hard to guess,' Dorian muttered from somewhere behind.
'No,' Anaris calmly replied, not taking his unnaturally focussed sapphire glance off Andruil. 'I cannot say that I am. What is your wish?'
'Let's make amends for ills long past,' Andruil purred. 'He's still alive – give him to me, and I'll think your debt evenly settled. Give me this one,' she continued, gracefully gesturing towards Vel, 'and I may consider extending the same favour to our herb demented sister…'
Had it not been for a swift gesture of Vel's hand, all might have drawn weapons. The glance that had passed between the former Inquisitor and Lusacan had been too fast to be noticed from behind, and even if the Huntress took note of it, it caused her no alarm.
'Interesting,' Lusacan said, taking a slow step forward. 'And what might this favour consist of?'
'I won't hunt you once I am done with the rest.' She said, her features once more twisting into a mask of feral fury. 'No promises if you happen across my path, though…'
'That is indeed a very small bargain,' the Dragon God replied, smiling. 'But let us entertain it for a moment…I see why you want Solas, though I scarcely think that he is in the mood or condition to service you in bed for a year and a day, at present.'
'Wha…' Varric began, his lower jaw hanging slack. 'The hell?'
'Not now, dwarf,' Briala hissed; for some reason, Veldrin actually snorted in amusement, and Lusacan himself smiled, and gave the Elvhen Magistra a small wink before returning his freezing gaze to Andruil.
'Are you planning to make the same demands of the Lady Patience, or do you think holding a knife to her throat might improve Solas' mood?'
'Your daring grinds my nerves, Anaris,' Andruil angrily muttered. 'You have the choice of dying with the world of the non-people, or accepting me as your ruler. I do not think that you are in a position to refuse me, and that you know it. These husks of souls that you have around yourself gathered could do nothing to stop you from attacking me, and without Solas on your side, this time, I think we know who'd be the victor…'
'I've come to stop a war, not start one,' Lusacan said, his tone as icy as his dragon body's breath. 'Else, I would gladly end you now. As I might have, in times beyond remembrance, if Solas hadn't stopped me; it matters not. Ambition and jealousy blinded you, then. Now you are not only blinded, but unhinged as well...Come, little sister,' he said, decisively turning his back on the Huntress and her blood soaked throne, and gently caressing Veldrin's shoulder. 'Our discourse here is pointless.'
Veldrin turned with him, as did Dorian and Varric; Briala took the time to shake her head before turning around as well – Cassandra could not move, not yet…or at least not until, with grim determination, Josephine finally managed to stand away from the Divine's robes and walk away in turn. She slipped once, for her fine leather shoes were still soft soled and bloodied, but she then followed the others.
Vivienne, the woman made of iron, turned and walked away too, chin high, shoulders straight, all the ugliness of the scene seemingly leaving her untouched.
'Nobody turns their back on me!' Andruil screamed, stomping her foot on the dead bear's head, and crumbling the tick skull to pieces. Maggots crawled out, in fright; flies buzzed, yet none cared, and none turned around to once more face her. The Divine alone stopped on the very threshold of the doorway, for a moment longer.
'How many, do you think,' the Divine asked, 'will follow you, when you are all knee deep in blood?'
'More than will follow you, once you walk out,' Andruil answered, in a low snarl.
'Perhaps,' Cassandra said. 'Perhaps.'
The Huntress smiled, and somehow, the world once shifted to white and gold; the Elvhen woman was no more. The golden haired Maiden was now standing in her wake. No more bears, animal skins or small, bleeding hares; no more blood on the mosaics of the floor.
The woman who was not Andraste cradled her knees to her chest, crumbling her frame on the throne – a small frail person, once more betrayed, once more denounced. Once more, about to be martyred.
'See you, Sister Nightingale?' she plaintively asked, of the empty chamber. 'How easily the trickery, the deceit…'
'I see,' Leliana said, insinuating herself from behind the throne, and kneeling by its left hand side. 'I see all that you show me, Most Holy. Blessed are the keepers of truth, the lights in the darkness…'
It was only then that Cassandra Penthaghast, Divine Victoria, stepped out of the chamber, and away from the scene. Decorum stiffly maintained inside the Chantry, she nonetheless staggered once she had left it, and stepped onto the muddy street. Varric caught her before she could fall to her knees, and dirty her robes even further.
...and here we see what happens when a Protestant tries to impersonate the Pope. If protestant ministers were all insane, of course; Andruil might have learned the language, but she does a good job of being precisely what Andraste was not, though with her captive audience, she has no reason to give a damn.
There is something else odd about her, too...Isn't there?
Hefty chapter, but we could not break it up; at least we posted on a weekly cycle, which has not happened since our glory days!
Thank you for reading and commenting, and Solas being tied to a tree and asked to perform bed acrobatics is actually true Dalish myth. I bet Vel wishes she'd had that idea :P Might have spared us all some trouble...
Cheers,
Hope you enjoy,
Abstract & Ivi