The Spectral Breath

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Chapter Three: He Who Lords

The darkness betrayed no length of time. Lain in the corner of a tower, praying for one more birth of daylight from the outside. It never came. It could not come. Even daylight, the most natural of all magic, could not surpass the mundane - a broad latch of sanded oak, one pressed firmly into a door lying slightly ajar from its mooring. She knew the guard did it on purpose. She could hear the breathless chuckle from the outside, sense the mirth kindling within his gut like solid rot.

Perhaps it was his brother she had fatally wounded. Perhaps he despised the power a mage could wield whether intentionally or not and wished only for her to suffer. Perhaps he simply did not like the sight of elves in his presence. She did not care.

Her mind lay on those she had sent to the Fade. Should she have been surprised that she felt no sadness? Nay even a whimper? When she tried, all she could envision were the thousands of her own that had ended in the hands of such round-ears. That was not to say she hated humanity. She tolerated them, even found some of them kindly. But the actions of her guard only fueled a disappointment she knew would never change.

She had begun to hum a small tune when the nights were quietest. The magic of old always seemed to settle when she sung a lullaby, perhaps due to a sense of longing, perhaps due to a calmed host.

All around she felt the presence of spirits keen to gain entry to her dwelling. Angered spirits that fought in the thickest shadow; murmured in the thinnest of rat warrens. Even the birds settled in the rookeries above fluttered at the whispers, causing dust to drift from the beams.

She cast her mind away from such troubles, preferred to trace the outlines of her scars, finding the magic pulsing deep like another heart, another spirit. Sometimes, though subtle and rare, she would glimpse a realm through the blackness, like rippling tar parting to reveal reflected clarity. And within there heralded a heather sky with no stars; scarred earth with no grass. And a mirror, an eluvian, that cast faces too hazy to identify. There was a sense of heat to them however, deep and dreadful like a hearth burning in the foulest of magic.

Then her scars would ripple anew and she would find her own face in the glassy surface - a heart-shaped canvass of tanned skin and mournful features. She never did seem youthful when peering down in such a way, like she was years wiser than she truly was.

And one day it had seemed her prayers had been answered. Yet of course it was not the way she had wished.

She was hauled from the tower by the Inquisition and forced to stand straight against the dawn. There was no blindfold: they allowed her to see as she was guided forth by the hands of the Seeker into the day.

Lahris kept her lips firm at the sight of the Skyhold residents, peasants that surrounded the pathways through the bailey, throwing curses and rotten fruit at her feet. She stumbled against her chains. Fell into rotten cabbage. Her knees stung as she was taken anew to her feet, and the chorus of the widowed only filled her ears with pain.

Is this how they treat justice? she wondered, before spying traces of ash by the front gate. The cobblestone had been blackened beneath the snow. Pillars had gouges cut from the stone and much of the inner chains had to be reattached for the majority had been severed. It must have been the cause for the crowd that stood sentinel beyond the gateway; farmers, carts and scouts that could not gain entrance despite the Inquisition trying to force the gate open.

She had done that. She had caused all that destruction, had almost destroyed an empire before it had the chance to flourish. It was only the beginning.

"They hold you accountable for the deaths of their husbands, their brothers," the Seeker announced. "They need it if to dampen the despair in their hearts. We have been through so much. Our beloved Haven was taken from us by a foe we now face, and just when we gain the courage to make our stand, you come to us."

Lahris stared at the tear-stricken faces, felt the anguish blooming from them like waves from the sea. Her lips parted, breathless. So much hatred. So much despair. All because of her.

"You bring fire and destruction. For that, we demand justice. Repentance."

The elf lowered her gaze, cloaking her face in ash-woven braids. "Ir abelas Seeker, but what you claim was not my doing. I am as much affected by this as your people."

The Seeker scowled, parting from her guards to tug her prisoner further towards the Keep. "Defiant to the end. In another world, I would have admired that. It does not matter."

They halted by a long stairway, were the guardsman of the Inquisition were replaced by knights of an old order: ones of silver plates and blocked helms, so thick that no semblance of life could be seen within. They were statues of armour, induced in a shield that drained her mana, leaving her weak and numb. For that was the purpose of Templars, called upon when a mage had been found and needed to be locked away.

"I can promise a trial," the Seeker said, unlocking her binds with a bronze key. Her shackles clattered against the stone. "I can do no more."

Lahris fell into the arms of the Templars, head hung low and legs drained of all strength. "Is this to be… a fair… trial?"

The Seeker looked away, scowling to her side.

No, Lahris thought grimly, observing the stairway pass beneath her. When was anything fair with their kind?

She struggled, shrugging her shoulders back and forth while her feet continued to be dragged, catching on every third step. By the time she had managed to gain any triumph in her resistance, the great oaken doors of the Keep had come to greet her. Yet once those doors parted, any hope of rebellion immediately ended.

It had been many years since the elf had felt such dread, yet peering upon a sea of dresses and frocks, all concealed in porcelain half-masks, as well as being the sole event among the noblemen of the court, had instantly set her heart to stone. A throne hall, befitting no other than a king, rose before her, long and tall like the rising of a great forest over a distant hillside. In the distance, the dawn shone through jade-stained glass, heralding not only a throne crowned in scepters but also royalty itself.

A lord, born from the threads of a warrior, for his entire raiment was armour wielding a starburst seal, and upon his brow was the sharpest golden aureole ever seen. Whether the play on light was done on purpose, she did not know, but she could understand why the Herald had come to be worshipped as a God. The Keep, all that lay within, from the silver chandeliers to the banners waving in a radiance honeyed by the rising sun, were a grandiloquent celebration to Inquisition and Orlesian glory. The marks of Fereldan lay nestled in the back corners; the light touch of a bear rug or fur pelt were barely bright enough to rival the cutlery.

In the beginning, there was a symphony of resentment; hushed whispers passed between talebearers; servants pausing in their chores to spy one of their knife-eared own being dragged down the isle. She was forced upon her knees, made to bow by the heel of a grand staircase. And from above the judgement of the Herald, the Inquisitor, the Lord of Skyhold, lay apparent for all to bare witness to.

The curl of an upturned lip. The crossing of woollen brows thick in aged lines. The drumming of impatient fingers against a throne-arm of solid silver. The elf may have not known humanity entirely, but she had come to know their customs, their language, even their idioms to some extent. And their body language was all the more understood.

Lahris swallowed thickly, lowering her head even more until her chin rested against her chest.

The symphony ended by a raised hand. Everyone in the court, from the lowly servants to the richest of noblemen silenced in a matter of moments. All that sounded after was the speech of his adviser.

"Mistress Lahris Elgar'shiral, an apostate of the Fereldan Dalish is present, your worship. She is accused of infiltrating the Inquisition in the ruse of aid, and is accused of aiding and betting the downfall of our order. Several of your men perished by her hands. Our spymaster has found no ties to Corypheus, nor the Venatori, nor Tevinter. She claims a curse of old magic is the cause and that she is as innocent as the men she has murdered. To say nothing of justice, you might personally require for what was suffered to the families of the deceased."

The Inquisitor nodded. "Thank you, Ambassador."

The elf folded her hands together, her nails dug deeply into white knuckles.

"My spymaster was unable to find any trace of an accomplice from you, elf. That is impressive. Not many can conceal their secrets from the eyes of the Inquisition, and yet you do," said the Inquisitor, leaning back in his throne. "The severity of murder is thought of very highly in my court. The only befitting punishment I can see for when my subjects have done wrong is simple: justice as severe as the crime. Namely death itself."

Lahris felt a shiver through her spine, and curled her fingers even more.

"I find myself curious, however. The devastation you created was far more powerful than that of a mere apostate. Some of those we have in servitude are unable to create such a feat. And my Templars found no demon in you, so the Fade isn't the root cause. You can speak, yes? The real tongue, I mean. Not that of other knife-ears. You blame old magic. Tell me where you found it. Do not lie. I will know if you do."

Lahris sat quiet for sometime, mumbling events under her breath. Then, she said, "My friend and I were scavengers. We found a ruin to the north of Fereldan and uncovered an artifact that held energy we had never seen before. It was the magic of my God. Somehow the magic came undone and I now harbour it, but I cannot control it. It is not like natural magic. It feels… corrupted. And I believe it is…" She sighed. "It will kill me if it continues. I did come to the Inquisition seeking aid. That was no lie!"

"And how can my Inquisition help you? We do not fool ourselves on your history, elf. We follow the rulings of the Maker, of Andraste. We attempted to offer help to your people in the Dales and that only ended in bloodshed. Perhaps this is retribution for the time we showed compassion. Perhaps I will not share that mistake with my forefathers."

"Compassion?" Lahris pressed her lips together, searching her knees for any loss in her translation. "Compassion? Your people slaughtered the elves. Have you ever walked the breath of that land? Seen the monuments the elves crafted from the living rock, moulded into the foundations? That was what was lost. Vhenas. Magic. And now the only semblance of magic left from that time is within me, and you're just going to drown the very essence of it so that my history is forgotten. That the elves are forgotten. How is that compassion, Inquisitor?"

The Inquisitor scratched his jaw with bony fingers, stroking the stubble down to the throat. "I see you are a knower of history, elf. Though your notions on the subject are flawed. The magic in you is more likely the conjurations of a demon unseen by my Templars, not some magic of a false pantheon."

"Then why would I come here if my fate was to be death? I came because I know you hold someone who knows about elvhen magic, that knows such history. I thought he could uncover what sort of magic I hold and perhaps find a cure. If you do not believe me, and if this does not warrant saving my life, then perhaps you should know something else."

The Lord of Skyhold leaned over the edge of his throne, steepling his thumbs and fingers beneath his chin. "And what would that be, hmm? The murder of men good or ill is a punishable offence that is binding. What could possibly sway my mind in your favour?"

"I-"

From the doorway had come a chorus of commotion, one of guardsmen, screams and drawn swords. And an elf who limped down the isle at first unseen, until the guardsmen heard his steps.

Lahris knew the elf as soon as she noticed the bow strapped to his back, yet the state he was in gave her a momentary pause. His breeches were torn around his bony knees. The feathers along his mantle had been seared by heat and flaked to the floor with every limp. Even his jerkin had been marred in dried blood, and his left arm lay in a bandaged sling. The only thing that kept him upright was a wooden cane, and even that seemed brittle.

Her gaze softened. Oh Jaras…

"Who dares interrupt the court?"

"The defense, of course," Jaras replied, jerking to a halt at the edge of the staircase. He teetered just over the step, tilting his head to see Lahris still bowed. He raised a scarred brow. "Surely you knew I was coming, lad? Did no one inform you on the cripple limping your way? I take pride in my hunting but when I want to be seen, I'm not that hard to miss."

The Inquisitor frowned, glancing over to his adviser who merely shrugged. "No, my advisers refreigned to mention you."

Jaras gave a crooked smirk, crinkling one eye in pain. "That's shemlen for you."

Lahris stared at her friend in bewilderment, not daring to meet the eye of the Inquisitor. "Jaras. It is good to see you but now is not the time."

"Now is the best time, Da'mi. I have the attention of the lord himself! The Inquisitor of Skyhold!" He grinned, elegantly bowing his head. "Your majesty! I must say it is an honour to address such a lording shemlen. Word hath travelled far indeed, and I must say, you do not disappoint."

Silence hung in the air like Orlesian tapestry: startling and scandalous. The Inquisitor himself did not speak, for he merely watched the elf parade across his hall, tapping his jaw with three long fingers.

"I bid you good tidings? I pray your mother remains a fat hearty wench and that all children born from her womb are hefty and noble? That is how your people speak, aye?"

The Inquisitor frowned even further, though he did not seem surprised by the display. "You're Dalish, aren't you? I recognise the smell. Your people do love to make a fool of themselves, do they not?"

Jaras no longer smiled. It was more of a wavering frown, mischievous yet sour, as if his lips were not quite sure which expression to display. "To mock the afflicted, lad, even that is low for a human."

"Oh no, you see that is where you are wrong, on so many accounts. It is in my understanding that should your friend not have attempted to overthrow my Inquisition, you would not be injured. Should you not direct your judgement upon her? She is after all the cause of all this."

"The cause? You're blind if you do not see that she's the victim in all this. These scrapes, they're nothing compared to what will come to us all."

The Inquisitor pursed his lips. "What do you mean, will come to us all? I grow tired of your games. Speak true or I will hear none of it."

Jaras gazed down upon his friend who was at the mercy of a shemlen lord, knowing full well that authority had always been more than a weakness for her. He slipped his hand into the satchel by his thigh and took from the confines a jagged rock of grey smeared in a violet shell, placing it by her knees.

The Inquisitor peered down from his throne, squinting at the object placed by the elf's side. He begun to chuckle, madly it seemed, shaking his head so slowly that his crown struck lines into the air. "You bring a rock into my presence, expecting me to believe that a rock is the cause of the power she wields? We at the Inquisition are in need of a jester. You would be splendid for the role."

"I always knew shemlen weren't that bright but by Andruil was I mistaken," Jaras sighed, holding his brow. "It's truth, shemlen. Why would my ancestors make a grand display on power they wished hidden, huh? There are markings on the side that are elven! And the magical display my Da'mi did was but one display of many, your majesty. There are countless more of these lil' beauties in Fereldan, and the magister that is collecting them is growing more powerful by the day."

Lahris took the shard by the wrappings, cradling it in her lap. "My master is searching for us," she confessed. "For my shard. He wishes to collect them for a plan we still do not know, but it cannot be good. What I do know is di'nan, death, will come to all who stand in his way, and he has seen your Inquisition. Even now, his spies will tell him that we have sought safety from you. He will take that as an act of treachery and end your Inquisition in the coming months."

Gasps spread throughout the entirety of the Keep like wildfire. Many of the noblemen begun to bicker to themselves, whispering in each other's ears with gloved hands concealing their words.

The Inquisitor merely raised his hand again and leaned on the very edge of his throne. "See the organisation I have built around you? This was done in a year. A year. In that year, we have grown to become one of the most fearsome armies any capital could ever face. We hold riches not even the King of Fereldan could uphold. We hold spies in every corner of the world. Nothing is without my knowing."

"And yet I, a lonely elf, managed to gain entry to your Inquisition and cut off your supply of food at the main gate in a matter of heartbeats. By accident, it was but I still managed it. Imagine what he could do with eight times my power." Lahris shuddered, holding her shard more closely. "He would be a God."

The mention of godship seemed to instill fear into the Inquisitor. It was only a mild crease in his brows, a quirk in his lip relatable to a quiver. But she knew it to be true.

The Inquisition was already at the behest of one god searching for lordship over the world by the rumours she had heard. An ancient Tevinter Magister if the tales were to be believed, man and darkspawn combined. Demons poured from the sky daily. Some areas of Fereldan were so treacherous that entire cities had been swallowed whole by the the realm of spirits, the Fade. And now there was mention of another god that could truly be the end of the Inquisition.

Lahris breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, finally, they had come to an understanding. "You might see our coming here as an act of treason, of showing my master where you are. I promise you, Inquisitor, I did not come here lightly. In truth, your Inquisition is our only hope."

The Inquisitor remained silent. Far too silent. He motioned over his adviser, then took a quill and parchment and begun to write laced text into the creases. When he finally put the quill down and gave his adviser the letter, the Keep was dim and chilly. Lahris could feel the walls closing in, as if her fate, to live or die, hung by a thread.

Finally, judgement had been made. "Until your words can be evidenced by my advisers, you will remain within Skyhold under our… protection. You will be escorted through our halls always with a guard, and you will provide all information you know about this opposing threat to my Knight Commander. I will have my advisers arrange a meeting for your artifact to be studied immediately."

Lahris' eyes widened at the decision, not expecting such hospitality from a human. But when she thought she had nothing to worry about, the Inquisitor continued. "But, if we do find that you have sprouted nothing but lies this morning, then as an apostate you will be judged and sentenced as any mage in the Templar Order would have been before the disbandment of the Circle of Magi. You will be made tranquil, left to serve the Inquisition to the end of your days, and your Dalish accomplice will be hanged for treason. Is that understood?"

"Tranquil," she breathed, finding knots twisted painfully in her gut. Her fingers began to shake against her shard. Magic flooded through her arm, yet somehow she managed to resist. "I-I would prefer death, like my friend. Tranquility, it is worse than death, I-"

"Let us hope you have not lied then, elf," the Inquisitor cautioned, beckoning the Seeker up to his throne. "Seeker Pentaghast, escort these two to their new living arrangements. Do see that they don't get too comfortable."

Her mind became a blur of emotion, need, anxiety. She attempted to struggle but found that her arms had once again been constrained by Templars, who imbued a mana drain into her skin. Her legs were soon limp against the floor, allowing the Templars to easily drag her down the isle, as pliable as a puppet to its master.

The last she saw was the glimmering dawn of the throne hall baying her a mocking farewell.