The Spectral Breath
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Chapter Four: Eyes of the Old
In the beginning, she believed no other truth than what many had already come to know: that Skyhold was meant to be her tomb. Imprisonment in halls manned by mortal men, where secrets sung willingly from the lungs of the captured. Where even spirits in ethereal flight took pity on the damned. Wept upon the sight of her mistreatment.
When she was shown the bedroll and desk to be hers in a forgotten tower, she felt the fluttering nerves of a dove caged. Her wings flittered against grey-stained glass, her beak pecked at forbidden latches, her talons threaded into the very stonework under hazy radiances of candle flame, chipping into crevices until new stone was found, but did not budge.
Yet after a day of being alone, two days, then three days… the unlikely occurred. The calling of Vhenas. Home.
Her tower no longer felt like unfamiliar stone enraptured in ice and cold. The glass no longer reflected scenes of dream and yearning. The patter of rats no longer bayed her farewell, but rather welcome. And she smiled, beneath the rim of a feathered hood. Warmth grew from the floor, even though little fur draped the cobblestone. Daylight and moonlight lit her home, even inscribed patterns of memory into the shadows.
The essence of Skyhold had become more of a home to her than breathing itself. The tingle in her fingertips, the murmurings of spirits on the wind. Even the evergreens beneath her tower, flaked in chalk and sage, danced in the eve, like all was once as it was. Even the Fade felt less homely to her. Little sleep dared to enter her thoughts. She wished none other than to explore the very depths of the ruin she had found, learn the very intricate details of history. She needed freedom, but not that of will. Instead, in the palace of the Inquisition.
The Right Hand of the Divine had found her not long after the fourth day had passed. Her tower had been opened, the binds of her home unleashed. She stepped through the doorway lightly, unsure, curling her arms further over her chest. Her bare feet tapped along stone steps, curling daintily over the edges. Trails of a magi robe, gold and silver, followed as silk to a loom. The second tower then parted to accompany another, and together the two elves ventured over the parapet walks of the courtyard, passing guardsmen and archers in sway. The Seeker guided them through walkways arched in lichen, oceaned by pools of dawn lotus and crystal grace that entwined in the gardens, were from afar statues of Andraste peeked over leaves in golden delight, her arms cupped out, demanding the attention of her followers. And then they reached the throne hall of the Keep.
Lahris observed the decoration in the fireplaces she passed, of bowing lions and bejewelled crow wings. Even Jaras ogled the shiny gems imprinted into the breast, in the ornaments placed over the flushed hearths. It took a keen eye to spy the shimmer of false glass.
A charade of wealth is a charade of command, and all will eventually fall to plunder, she thought sadly, ghosting her fingers along the mantle. It is pretty, though.
The Seeker halted by the second doorway, cranking the knob with a gauntlet fist. She paused in her turning, peering back over her shoulder to spy Jaras' wandering gaze. Her lips firmed. "Do not attempt to steal from us. You will regret it."
"Believe me, lass, there are worse thieves than I in these halls," Jaras confessed, staring distantly at the glimmering throne, bandaged fingers twitched over his thigh. "At least I'm an honest one."
She snorted. "An honest thief? Surely you cannot have me believe such a lie."
"I'm no different than the lasses in the masks, lass. Didn't think they were eying your lord's throne with all itching fingers and waddling tongues? I may have the ears and marks, might be branded knife-ear or rabbit, but 'least I'm not hiding who I am. Might want the rear of the throne guarded next time you have the shemlen at court. It'd only take a moment for a swindler to chip away the jewels and pouch 'em, ready for when the convicted are hanged."
Lahris folded her arms together, turning to face the door. "He speaks the truth, Seeker Pentaghast. My falon may be a thief, but it is not he you will need to guard closely."
"Is that supposed to reassure me?"
She raised her shoulders. "Being a little cautious can never end badly."
"Believe me, I intend to be cautious. Of both of you. Now, follow me."
The three left the rays of day to find solace in a newly lit hall, one with a ceiling that curved over them like a cave. "You will be spending much of your time here," said Cassandra, closing the door behind her. "Skyhold is open to you, but that does not mean you have free-reign of the fort. You will be watched. There are guards posted in every parameter of Skyhold. If you come into trouble, I will hear of it. The atrium and library are open to you, as are parts of the courtyard. For other areas, you must come to me for permission. Is that understood?"
"And what will we be doing here, exactly?" Lahris asked, leaning on her tiptoes to peek into the neighbouring atrium. She spied paintings adorning curved walls, though the remainder of the shapes were too grand to see even as she leaned slightly into the unlit, darkening half of her face and braids.
The Seeker took no notice. "Studying your mark. Perhaps finding a cure for your condition. I do not know. It is for the Maker to decide."
Lahris raised a slender brow, huffing under her breath. The Maker. False Gods will not aid me now, only Dirthamen. Wherever he may be.
"You were correct in coming to Skyhold. Solas, an apostate like yourself, knows much about your people. Perhaps he can shed light on where you have failed."
"And he is willing to help us, Seeker? Even without payment?"
"That will be for him to decide. Though it seems he has an interest in you. It was he after all who asked the Inquisitor to spare your life."
"He did?" the young elf whispered, frowning down the hall. Such kindness from a pariah never boded well. Her fingers dug deeper into her robe, crinkling slender cuffs.
Just as she had expected, the atrium did indeed hoard more paintings, though the mosaics were far grander than she had imagined, joining into other blends of colour to depict four sections of divided history. Her focus laid upon the first: a confusing display of variants of amber and golden paints, one that depicted an orb surrounded by eyes with a beam of light striking the pinnacle of a mountain peak. The second was far more interesting, depicting a silver claymore striking the heart of the fresco with a starburst eye, the sigil of the Inquisition, fixed along the rain-guard. Four wolves howled around it, and she found herself tracing the outline of the fur with her fingers, circling the paws in the air.
The third and fourth paintings had her tilting her head and pulling stray locks of auburn behind pointed ears. Both displayed shadowed knights though the third painting took place in a tower bathed in moonstone, reminding her of elder castles humans had first erected from mountain rock. In the corner beneath the armour was the sigil of the Templar Order: a long navy sword flaring in bolts of magic. Yet the fourth was not so. Magic was not resembled in a way to represent confinement but rather unleashed ruefully from cupped hands.
Lahris frowned, stepping closer to the wall. She pressed her ear against the fresco, listened for any sound. There was none. When she stepped away, she saw that it had changed only slightly. It appeared familiar. The shape of the knight was straight, regal, and she found that he was not actually a knight but a mage, draped in a cloak of black with only a mask of ashen grey to differentiate his body from his face. It was the shoulders that caught her attention: broad and flat, like waiting for twin crows to purchase on the pauldrons.
Dirthaman?
"Interesting, would you not say?" asked an elf from behind her, cupping slender hands behind a striped tunic of white and green; the ends speckled in oils. "I take pride in my work, but still there are parts I would wish to alter."
Lahris gave a small nod, lightly folding her arms. Her heart ached upon the fourth fresco. She had to close her eyes to prevent tears from surfacing.
"Do you paint?"
She smiled, shaking her head. She slowly turned, under skirts twisting along her legs, to find the painter staring up at his piece. His pale, thin lips gaunted his cheekbones into sharp points with a less than amused sideward scowl. Yet in some way, it was somewhat handsome. He was bald as well, reflecting looming sconcelight, yet though to many it may have appeared humours witnessing such a sight, she found it surprising. There were not many bald elves in the Dalish. They prided their hair just as they prided their bows and dirks, twisting knots and braids into the ends, fixing twigs and leaves into the roots. Yet there was an elf before her cleanly shaven. Her smile broadened, teeth nipping her bottom lip.
"Solas," Seeker Pentaghast announced, halting by his side.
The painter nodded. "Seeker, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Seeker Pentaghast motioned to Jaras and Lahris with a half-hearted gesture. "Have you spoken with the Inquisitor? I am sure you were present in the hearing. As I am sure you know of these two."
Solas analysed the two elves approvingly, his eyes of grey sifting between them in a handful of glances. Then, his focus came to rest upon Lahris and his wry smile lifted. "Ah, I feared you would not survive the Inquisitor's judgement. But it appears I was mistaken," he confessed, lightly bowing. "I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live."
Lahris gave a small nod, quiet and polite.
He raised a brow at the gesture. "Do you not speak?"
There was gentleness in her smile, a softness in her voice when she spoke, "Little, unless I must."
"I see. I too prefer the company of silence when time affords me. It is sometimes wise to allow the world to flow around you rather than be drowned by it."
"Yes," she whispered in surprise. "That is exactly how I feel."
"Then I am glad to find another who appreciates the sentiment. But alas, we find ourselves here. If there is anything I may be of help in, you need only ask."
"I will leave you two to talk," Seeker Pentergast said, stepping back from the elves. "I trust I can leave them in your care, Solas?"
"I do not see why not."
"Good. Remember, the Inquisition is always watching."
"Always," Lahris mumbled glumly, catching the shadow of the Seeker's disappearance. She stared down at her bare feet, chewing her bottom lip. It seemed she was left under the care of the painter, who would inevitably report on everything in the meeting. One way or another, the Inquisitor would hear of it. Only half truths would be necessary now.
"Where you were the one who prevented my magic from spreading when I first arrived?" she asked hesitantly, peeking up from the breaks in her hair to see the painter nod.
"I did. If I hadn't, I have no doubt that very few would still be alive. I do apologise for any discomfort it may have caused."
"Then you know how dangerous this magic can be. Do you know much about this type of magic?"
"No, I fear not. I studied your mark the best I could under the circumstances, but it was not long enough to gain a full understanding. Merely a few hypotheses. Would you be able to tell me the characteristics of your magic, the parts that makes it so unique? It may narrow my search while in the Fade."
Her ears pricked. "In the Fade? As a… Dreamer?"
"Indeed," he replied, straightening his back. "Though I know the subject is frowned upon by the Dalish. I suppose that is understandable. The elves do not take kindly to opposition in their beliefs."
"Yet you are an elf."
He smirked slyly. "A different kind of elf, yes. I do not believe that acts of kinship must inherently lead to identical beliefs. I am an apostate after all, and doubt the Dalish would welcome my philosophy."
"Then you are wrong, Hahren. For the Dalish have sought you out. Jaras and I have nowhere else to turn."
The gaze of the apostate softened and he glanced between the two in his care with a new-found pity. "It would be rude of me to ignore you, and by the wise council of the Inquisitor, I suppose I am endeavoured to provide assistance even if it were against my better wishes. Please, sit. Tell me about the magical artifact you uncovered."
In the centre of the atrium lay two armchairs by an escritoire, one that held a variety of tomes, scrolls and parchment. As Solas began to settle within the first, and she in the second, she felt the presence of a hand on her shoulder, tight but not painful.
"Da'mi," Jaras whispered, lowering his mouth to the shell of her ear. "I'm not sure this is the best course of action."
"Is there a problem?" Solas asked, leaning back in his chair.
"Aye, actually there is." Lahris reached out to take the hand of her friend, but he wafted her touch aside."We've been through many scholars claiming to know magic, lad. We've been to wisemen, mages, healers, Chantry clerics, even our own Keeper never knew what was causing her to go into fits. And now we're with an apostate who can just as easily take the shard and lie to the Lord of Skyhold and get us imprisoned for life! Hanged even. We need reassurance that you know what you're doing, that she isn't going to be put in danger for no reason other than to cure her. You hear?"
Solas drew his hands up, connecting the points of his forefingers and thumbs together. "I'm afraid I can provide no such reassurance. I can try to gain an understanding of the magic, perhaps find a way to subdue it, but I cannot promise that she will be safe. You brought her to an organisation that holds the very idea of magic as abhorrent. You must have known that Templars had been assigned to the Inquisition after the battle with the rebel mages. I am sorry, but she is an apostate and if I cannot even confirm my own safety once this war is over, how am I to do the same for her?"
Lahris listened to the conversation with eyes soft with tiredness, her auburn hair tousled and wariness seeping into her very bones. She had heard this play a thousand times since her curse, knew no other way for the strings to be rung. The painter was her last chance. It was their last chance. She sensed, deep down, that her friend knew that to be true. Yet he just did not wish to believe it.
Lahris slipped a hand into her satchel, taking from the confines an ashen rock with a violet shell, wrapped in a layer of frayed cloth. She stared at the surface for a moment, spied traces of energy humming from within. Then, she placed it on the side of the escritoire, careful not to touch the edges.
Solas learned ever-so-slightly forward.
"This shard of rock is the artifact we originally found in Fereldan. We know it is ancient by the runes escribed into the surface. I'm quite unsure on what to tell. It feels… connected to me. I dare not part from it for even a moment. We tried once, leaving it in the forest by the aravels but I soon reclaimed it. I felt lost without it, as if I left a part of myself. But touching it burns my skin."
"We have no choice but to trust him, Jaras." Lahris reached out with her hand once more, to which he finally took, squeezing her fingers tight.
The way he looked at her, stern with a worrisome scowl, hurt her heart. She knew he trusted her no matter her decision and that her words rung with truth. She was to die if they did not at least consider it.
Solas inspected the shard from a distance, cupping his pointed chin with his left hand. He then hovered it over the surface, closing his eyes and calming his face, as if hoping to sense the foreign magic. Lahris tried to relax, but she felt her mind begin to unsettle. She fidgeted in her chair, tapped the end of the armrests. Only when the painter had removed his hand did she finally take in a deep breath and calm herself.
Solas glanced between her and the shard; a curious glint drifted through his grey eyes. The young elf was not sure why, but she sensed a hope kindling within him, one that had too begun in her. "I will help you."
Lahris blinked. "Just like that? You do not want payment?"
He pulled back, offended. "It is not often I sell my arts as a mercenary, Da'len. You intrigue me. For now, the Inquisitor has no need of me and I'm sure this will be time not wasted. May I keep the artifact in my possession? At least to study it."
Dread lurched in her chest at the mere mention of being parted and she quickly shook her head. "No. Like I said, I dare not be parted from it." She took the shard and folded it back within her satchel. "To examine the shard I must be there or we do not work together."
To her surprise, Solas nodded. "If that is what you wish. But for now I have much to ponder and I'm sure the Seeker will be willing to show you the other areas Skyhold has to offer."
Lahris frowned at the abruptness of his farewell, but rose from the armchair in grace either way. She and Jarus had just parted the shadows towards the doorway when the apostate called out, "I never did get your name."
The young elf parted from the hall, her hair whispering softly over her shoulders like a flurry of dry autumn leaves. Her nails cut into the wall corner she held, wariness creasing her brows. In the end she told the truth. "Emma Lahris Elgar'shiral, Hahren."
His ears pricked at the use of the elvhen tongue, surprise more than evident. "You speak the ancient tongue?"
"The Dalish were very good tutors, and I was an eager student."
"Then you are Dalish?"
She shook her head, a stray braid falling past her ear. "Apart of their culture, yes, but I am not one of them."
His smile was small, taking comfort, she supposed, in that knowledge. When he returned to the parchments on his escritoire she suspected that was all he had to say, only when the doorway finally closed, she lastly heard thus, "A pleasure, Lahris Elgar'shiral."