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The Halla Tainted
Chapter 7
"He is beautiful," Adaia whispered as they watched the fledgling totter about, his dark eyes narrowing as he carefully watched the butterfly that swept past his nose, eliciting a tiny giggle. The breeze ruffled his unruly red hair, tickling it along the tips of his pointed ears and delicate chin.
"He looks so much like his father," Ashalle murmured back, pride evident in her voice as they watched the small child scamper about upon unsteady legs, testing his boundaries without a backward glance.
Reluctantly, Adaia turned her eyes from her young nephew, scouring the camp for the young human that had accompanied her thus far. She spied Duncan not far off, enjoying a meal of venison and potatoes, speaking with a young hunter not afraid to sit with a human.
She noticed the suspicious glances cast to the young man, and a slight frown crossed her face. Ashalle noticed the look and shrugged her shoulders. "Since the attack upon Vidor and Aalist, our clan has become more wary of outsiders."
Adaia frowned at that. Her own prejudice against the humans had never been widely shared by her people, even among the hunters she had commanded when she was younger. That was especially true when her brother had led them as the clan's Keeper.
Vidor had openly sought and advocated for the People to become more a part of their world. To do more than just try to recreate and preserve their past, but strive forward in a world that would never see the recreation of their once immense empire. For some reason, knowing that their people, after having lost their Keeper - their leader - at the hands of humans and their pet elves, now shared her own near xenophobic views did not settle well within her heart.
Her eyes shifted once more to Duncan, who was smiling and laughing with the young elf, apparently oblivious to the glares shot his way. A small smile found its way upon her face, and she found herself wondering at that. She watched as Duncan moved a little closer to the hunter - a young female with bright red hair and a wide smile - and shook her head as the girl moved slightly away from the too bold human. The young man smiled congenially, apparently apologizing to the girl, who merely grinned in return.
Adaia further surprised herself with the realization that she could well begin to like this human, if he proved more forthcoming than he had to this point.
She thought of those other humans she could honestly call friends - Loghain, Rowan, even Maric - and the many elves within the Alienage of Denerim. She wondered when the change of her views had occurred.
With a shake of her head, she turned once again to her friend, the smallest of smiles upon her lips.
"Vidor would be most unhappy by this occurrence," the hunter said, and Ashalle nodded her head.
"Indeed he would be," the other woman said, turning her gaze once more to Adaia's nephew, a sad, knowing smile upon her lips. "And even more so should he learn the reason had to do with him."
They sat in silence for a moment, allowing that sad, ironic thought to settle. Not wishing to allow the silence to take hold, Adaia lifted her face to the sunshine, then returned her attention to her childhood friend.
"What is to become of Theron?" she asked, watching as her nephew stumbled to his knees, but did not issue a cry of pain or protest.
"Unless you wish to take over his fosterage, I shall continue to raise him as my own," Ashalle immediately replied, although Adaia could detect concern in her friend's voice.
Her blond head tilted to the side, her eyes raised as she watched the youngling continued to stumble about, his bravery evident with each questing step he took further from the adults. How she would love to take her nephew - her last blood tie to the clan, to her brother - with her, to raise alongside Adela. But, to take the child from the clan, to subjugate him to what the shemlen enslaved elves had to endure on a daily basis…would be most unfair to a child of the Dales. He was born to freedom, and thus she would let him remain so.
It was bad enough that she had not the courage to leave Cyrion and take Adela to raise her free from human influence. Free of the subjugation the elves within the shemlen alienages suffered.
Turning to her watchful friend, Adaia frowned, shaking her head. "I cannot take him away from the Clan, away from you, my friend," she said in a firm voice. "As much as I would love to have my brother's son with me, that would be the most selfish act I could ever commit." Her eyes, now a soft blue, fixed once more upon Theron, who now toddled toward the pair, his dark eyes bright as they fixed upon Adaia. "I could trust him to no other."
Adaia did not fail to notice that Ashalle released a relieved breath, and the hunter smiled, reaching out as Theron neared, happily accepting her embrace.
"He knows you are his blood," Ashalle softly said, running a gentle hand along the toddler's back as Theron hugged his aunt, placing a small kiss upon her cheek.
Smirking, Adaia looked into her friend's soft gaze, savoring the affection from her brother's son. "Of course he does," she said proudly, rising and then placing the boy braced upon her hip. "He is a Mahariel."
oOo
The sky darkened from pale blue to a deeper gray, foretelling of the evening to come. Various campfires had been lighted, the smell of burning wood mingling with the tempting fragrances of cooking meat. Fires crackled, sending tiny volleys of sparks upwards, adding to the overall peaceful feel of the Dalish camp. Various low whooping sounds came from the pens that contained the elves' steeds - majestic white, deer like creatures called halla.
It was at times like this that Duncan wished he could just stay, and not be a Grey Warden, destined for the dark places he had learned early in his tenure to detest. To wander the lands with these free elves, as free as he had ever been.
It was with a heavy sigh of resignation he turned, watching as Adaia and Marethari made their approach to his position.
Now was the time to advise the Dalish of what it was he sought. Now was the time to finally answer many of Adaia's questions regarding their mission.
Maker, how he wished the First Warden had given him more information. He felt rather like a hound, just pointed in a direction and told to go fetch.
It was enough to drive him crazy, and he was used to the obliqueness of the wardens.
His hand patted the pouch hanging from one of his belts, a frown creasing his dark face as he began to walk toward the approaching women.
oOo
The trio stood within the aravel of the Keeper, Adaia leaned against one of the wooden reinforcements as Marethari pulled from a corner a delicate seeming chair, indicating that Duncan should take the seat. The young man glanced over to where Adaia stood, and then shook his head, indicated that the Keeper herself should take the sole chair in the tiny living space. Turquoise eyes searched the young human's face for a moment before, with a nod, settled herself onto the seat.
Okay, now or never…Duncan reached into the pouch at his hip, pulling free several pieces of parchment. Bending over the table that had been pulled up from the wall, braced to the floor with a single wooden leg, the warden spread out one sheet of the parchment.
Adaia abandoned her spot against the support as Marethari bent in her chair, both women seeking a better view of the parchment the man had spread out before them.
Tilting her head, the hunter cocked an eyebrow at the young human, who met her questioning gaze with a little more frankness.
Upon the parchment had been rendered in color the likeness of a human male.
The artist obviously knew this man, so detailed was the depiction, detailing the man down to the scars that criss-crossed one cheek, the slight crinkles at the eyes and around the mouth, and the heavier lid of his right eye.
Red-gold hair hung loose to broad shoulders, braided at the front in twin braids to keep the strands from flying into eyes the color of obsidian. The long narrow face, with square jaw, and a long, aristocratic nose over a mouth with an eternal smirk bespoke of a man with a wry sense of humor. He was drawn with broad shoulders, tapering down to slim hips, and dressed in a simple tunic and trousers.
Marethari stared at the picture, a thoughtful expression upon her face, as Adaia looked up at Duncan. "This is your apostate?" she asked, frowning slightly.
The young man met her gaze steadily, nodding his dark head. "His name is Rikhard. He was originally from Orlais, as I understand it." He frowned as he turned his gaze back to the picture.
Staring at the picture, Marethari spoke, almost as though speaking to herself, so quiet were her words. "This man has elven blood." She looked up, gauging the warden's reaction to her words.
As suspected, his expression registered surprise. "How can you tell?" he asked as his gaze went to the Keeper, then back to the parchment.
The Keeper shrugged her lithe shoulders. "You can see it in the face," a small, sad smile crossed her lips, turning the intricate tattoo upon her cheeks and around her lips to twist slightly with the movement. "He appears human, as all who are the result of an elven and human union will. However, there are always ways to tell, if one knew what to look for," her blue-green eyes raised. "The facial structure is more delicate, more defined. There is a look to the eyes, perhaps even the way one would stand that betrays the heritage." She shrugged again, falling silent in her further study of the depiction.
Confusion furrowed his brow, but words failed him as Adaia interrupted.
"Why are the Wardens hunting him?" Adaia prompted, hoping for an answer - any answer - beyond a man's face and his name.
Taking a deep breath, Duncan responded, "He stole something from the fortress at Weisshaupt." He lifted his gaze, staring at the ceiling of the aravel. He had not noticed until now the scene - a white stag racing through a dense forest, pursued closely by black wolves.
"So, an apostate and a thief," Adaia mused, frowning slightly. "Can you tell us what he stole?"
Duncan lowered his eyes from the scene above, fixing his gaze first upon Marethari, settling then on Adaia's strangely calm features.
Aldrich had wanted as much kept secret about the theft as possible. The young rogue, however, could not quite understand why, and, when he had questioned his superior, had received the most rudimentary of answers: that the Wardens were loathe to make a breach in their security known to any outside of the Order.
They were loathe to let many within their own Order aware of the theft.
Duncan thought that it was all a load of bunk.
He watched the hunter's face as her eyes scrutinized his features. She did not trust him, and the Warden could not fault the Dalish woman at all. He had been secretive, while still demanding her assistance in this matter. She had been forthcoming, even going so far as to show him one of the Dalish's secrets - that of trail marking - and still, he hesitated to share this information that would, in all likelihood, assist them in their search for the warden mage.
"What do you know of the Wardens?" He asked instead, watching as confusion momentarily flashed in her blue-gray eyes and her stern features settled into the scowling mask he had become all too familiar with.
"Little," she admitted, "I know that they battle the Blights, fight darkspawn and," her gaze turned into a glare, "are secretive to the extreme," she spat this last out, her scowl deepening.
The Grey Warden nodded, taking none of her vehemence to heart. "The Anderfels are traditionally the center of the Grey Warden hierarchy," he began, moving to lean against the table as he faced both women. The Keeper remained seated, her sharp eyes intent upon his face as he spoke. Adaia's body language relaxed somewhat as the warden began to give out some information.
"Weisshaupt Fortress is our headquarters, where the First Warden resides. That is also where the tombs of the four who defeated the Blights rest."
"I had heard of such things," Marethari put in, a thoughtful expression upon her tattooed features. "The tomb of Garahel, the elven warden who defeated the last Blight, lies there."
Nodding, Duncan swallowed past the nervous lump that swelled in his throat. "Yes, well, actually, it's interesting that you mention Garahel."
Blond brows rose at that, the women exchanging questioning glances. Shifting from one foot to the other, Duncan continued.
"Rikhard had been stationed at Weisshaupt," he shrugged, the leather of his jerkin creaking slightly. "He was one of the mages that tended the tombs of the Heroes."
"Tended the tombs?" Marethari asked, leaning forward in her chair, curious why a mage would need to tend to the resting places of the deceased wardens.
"Ah, yeah," Duncan replied, frowning slightly, a little ill at ease, "I don't really know why they are tended by mages, but they are." He shrugged, hoping that the Keeper believed him and did not think he was trying to deflect her questions and safeguard any Warden secrets.
He really did not know why mages tended the tombs, and had never been curious enough to ask.
Those eyes, so wise and all seeing, kinder than Adaia's but no less intense, studied his face for a moment. Seemingly satisfied, Marethari offered the young man a reassuring smile as she settled back into her chair.
The young warden stuttered, stumbling over his thoughts. He felt the desire to suddenly just blurt everything out, and he wondered, briefly, if the Dalish mage had cast a spell upon him. Yet, she merely sat there, unhurried, still, waiting him with all due patience to continue.
Even Adaia stood silent, waiting as he collected his thoughts to continue with his tale.
Taking in a deep breath, he continued. "Well, about three years ago, during one of Rikhard's shifts tending Garahel's tomb, he found an amulet," he began to shuffle through his parchments, finally pulling one free, and placed it upon the table next to the mage's portrait.
Drawn, in black and white, was an amulet, oblong in shape, with the raised likeness of a dagger. The point was down, the hilt - the shape of writhing dragons - upwards. Upon the pommel was a great lizard eye, open wide and unblinking. Etched along the slender blade were runes. To the side were larger views of the runes.
"This amulet," the warden pointed a long, dark finger, tapping the parchment briefly. "The eye was of ruby and emeralds, the rest of the amulet was wrought of red steel, dragon bone and silverite." He glanced up to see Marethari's eyes fixed upon the picture, studying the features of the blade, shifting to the enlarged depictions of the runes. "The runes themselves seemed to gleam with some inner light."
There was a hope in the young Warden's heart that the Dalish Keeper would recognize the blade and be able to tell him something of it.
That heart sank as a frown formed upon the mage's smooth face. She looked up, her eyes searching his. "Please continue, young Warden," she bade quietly.
Confused, Duncan continued. "That amulet had been placed upon Garahel's tomb, laying upon the pommel of the sword laid out upon the tomb, depicting the very blade he used to kill the archdemon, Andoral, at Ayesleigh. Rikhard brought it immediately to the First Warden, and he, in turn, assigned the senior mages to study it." Here he shrugged. "Apparently, they sensed a power from it, but none of them could identify the power nor the markings," he pointed to the runes, and Marethari's eyes lit with renewed interest. Adaia had taken a step to the table by now, and was studying the image closely. "Even our most senior mage could not identify even one of the runes etched along the blade."
"They are ancient Arcanum," Marethari muttered, reaching out with one hand to gently trace over the image of the runes. She raised her eyes, "and ancient Elvish."
Adaia's turned to her old friend, watching with weary eyes. "Can you read this, Marethari?" the hunter asked quietly, hope in her voice.
It was Marethari's sigh, however, that told the hunter and Warden more than her words that followed. "I am afraid not, Lethallan." She raised her eyes from the parchment, and Duncan was surprised to see tears therein. "The ancient language, from before Arlathan's time, has long been lost. While I can recognize the runes for what they are, I cannot hope to decipher them."
Deflated, Adaia looked back to the paper, aware of Duncan's move closer to her side.
"Please continue," the Keeper bade, turning her own eyes back to the parchment.
The young man had stepped nearer the Dalish hunter, bending over her shoulder slightly to take another look at the amulet drawn upon the parchment. She looked over her shoulder, moving aside slightly to allow him more room at the table. Aware he may have made the woman uncomfortable with his nearness, he prudently took a step back.
"The amulet remained in the care of the Warden mages for more than two years," the young man said. "But, almost a year ago, the amulet vanished from the vault. And Rikhard was no where to be found at the Fortress."
Here, Marethari rose from her seat, stepping to the Warden's side. "And you believe that this Rikhard has taken the amulet."
Nodding, he turned to face the smaller elven woman. "We know he has it. He was briefly apprehended in Jader, the amulet found on him. Somehow, he managed to not only escape from the Warden compound in Jader but also retrieved the amulet."
"Why do you believe he is heading here?" Adaia pressed, frowning at the human. "You have already admitted you do not know what the amulet represents."
Turning, Duncan met her steady gaze. "The mages at Weisshaupt have no idea what it is. But, apparently, while in the custody of the Wardens in Jader, Rikhard spoke a great deal about the amulet. He gave every indication that he was heading to the Wilds, that he had to go there." He shook his head. "The wardens also advised that Rikhard seems to have gone slightly mad."
"Ashe'bellanar," Marethari whispered, her eyes widening slightly. Blue gray eyes narrowed as Adaia shook her blond head.
"No, Marethari," the hunter warned, and Duncan's eyes shifted from one woman to another.
"She more than likely is involved in this, my friend," the Keeper said, turning her attention fully to her former master's sister.
"The Old Woman usually keeps to her own," the hunter reminded her old friend. "She seldom becomes involved…"
"Unless this is a matter of her own devising," the Keeper pointedly reminded Adaia, who fell silent, scowling at the other woman.
"Ah, who is Ashe'bellanar?" Duncan asked, hoping he pronounced the name correctly.
"You know her as Flemeth," Marethari schooled the young man. "To the Dalish, she is Ashe'bellanar, the Woman of Many Years."
"Maric swore up and down that he and Loghain had met her, during the rebellion," Adaia scoffed. "Loghain has remained strangely quiet about it, even to this day. I do not know whether to believe Maric or not."
"Why would he lie?" Duncan asked, annoyance creeping into his voice that the elf would suggest the king lied.
Shaking her head, she replied, "I do not believe he lied, but could well have been mistaken as to the identity of the woman." She shrugged. "You did not know the king in his youth. He was rather…impulsive, and, dare I say, gullible. I do believe he and Loghain were rescued by a hermit woman in the Wilds. I am doubtful, however, that the witch would have been so kind as to offer them assistance."
Nodding, Marethari added, "Ashe'bellanar is not known for her kindnesses."
Trying not to get caught up in another discussion, Duncan said, "Either way, Rikhard indicated he would be coming through the Brecilian Forest, and on to the Wilds," he cocked his head to the side slightly. "Have you seen anyone who looks like this? Or have you heard of his trespass from any others, whether from your clan or others?"
Aquamarine eyes fixed once more upon the portrait of the mage, studying it even more closely than before. There was a gentle shake of her head as she turned back to the Warden, "I have no seen such a one, nor has any of my hunters." She raised a hand against the protest Duncan was about to issue. "Had anyone seen a shemlen mage, it would have been reported directly to me. We are vigilant in our seclusion from shemlen."
Concern marred Adaia's face. "But, Marethari," the hunter said, taking the time to further confirm her fears, "I had thought Vidor had allowed for contact with outsiders?"
Sighing, the Keeper shook her head. "After the murder of your brother, and then Aalist's unfortunate death," the Keeper shook her head at the questioning look upon Adaia's face, indicating she would explain later, "I and the elders felt it best that we go back to the old ways of avoiding contacting with humans and their elves."
If the Keeper noticed the stiffening of Adaia's back, she made no indication. "We can ill afford to loose any others to our own…negligence." The Keeper then turned to Duncan. "You are fortunate, young one, that it was in Adaia's company that you happened upon our camp. Otherwise, I cannot say how safe you would have been."
Nodding absentmindedly, Duncan's eyes went back to the portrait of his fellow warden. "What would you recommend we do, Keeper?" he asked as he turned back to the mage.
Sighing as she settled once more into her chair, the mage could only shake her head. "I have no answers for you, Warden, at this time." She met his gaze, holding it steady with her own. "Give me a few days to research the runes." She leaned over to tap a long finger to the parchment with the amulet drawn upon it.
"Every bit of information you could provide to us would be most appreciated," the young man said with all sincerity. A glance at Adaia's face told him that she would also appreciate more time among her own people. "A few days one way or another could not make that much of a difference." Or so he hoped.