Chapter 13: Ten of Wands

The merchant pursed his lips and held the amulet up close, examining the wrought gold and gems with a tiny glass tube pressed against his eye. Dorian folded his arms over his chest and clenched his hands into fists as he watched the man paw at his birthright amulet. Part of him wanted to hold onto it, a reminder of who he was. However, he was pretty much disowned and disinherited; he had no hope for any financial support from home, and he couldn't bring himself to write to Felix for help. Besides, he didn't want anyone knowing where he was. And as his staff was necessary to his survival, he had to sell the only other thing of value he possessed.

Dorian watched the man, Ponchard, and tapped his foot impatiently. He'd managed to elude templars thus far in Val Royeaux, but he wasn't keen on pushing his luck. In fact as soon as he had the coin, he planned to move again. He sighed. "Solid gold, real diamonds and emeralds. And it's an authentic Tevinter birthright emblem. It will get you into places you simply won't ever access without one."

Ponchard glanced up at Dorian, his thin mustache quivering just under the edge of his simple gold mask. Everything about the man suggested he was an opportunistic upstart; even growing up Tevinter, Dorian could see right through to the insecure core of the little Orlesian man. It was almost painful realizing he had to sell his birthright to begin with, but it was like having his intestines ripped out to be selling it to this weasel. "I don't doubt your word, monsieur. Though I'd need to check on the current selling prices of gold. The burgeoning war between the mages and the templars…"

"Is only burgeoning," Dorian interrupted. He was getting impatient, but he also wanted the transaction to be finished. The sooner he was parted from the amulet the sooner he could have the coin to keep moving; and the sooner he could fully sever ties from his family. They'd track the amulet thinking to track him, and find Ponchard instead. "Remember. You're not just paying for the gold and gems," he said, trying not to sound desperate. "You're paying to do business in the name of House Pavus, one of the most influential and powerful bloodlines in the Imperium."

"If it is so influential, one wonders why you would be parting with something of such value," Ponchard said.

Dorian sighed. "I'll take it elsewhere since you don't seem keen on doing actual business," he said, reaching out for the amulet, but Ponchard held it out of reach. It made Dorian inexplicably angry. "The sale's not made, let alone finalized," he said, clenching his jaw. "It's not your property as of yet, so I'd suggest that, unless you plan to purchase, you return it to me."

Ponchard started at Dorian, his mask making his eyes unreadable, but his lip quivered. He was no good at playing the Game, which was disappointing. Even a Tevinter such as Dorian could play better. Dorian held up his hand and a small ball of lightning coalesced and crackled in his palm. He balanced it there and stared at Ponchard expectantly. He had no respect for his father any longer; but Halward had the expectant, disappointed stare down to an art form and Dorian had learned to replicate it perfectly over the years.

"Fine, fine, monsieur Magister," Ponchard said with a sigh. He began to count coin out of his wall safe, muttering in Orlesian the whole time.

"I'm not a Magister," Dorian corrected him. "Just a mage from Tevinter."

Ponchard handed over two bags of coin. "And now you are no one. At least, you can't prove that you are anyone," he hastily added, seeing Dorian's glowing palm and gulping at the sound of electric crackling when Dorian glared at him.

Dorian just nodded politely, not trusting himself to speak. The weight of coin in his hands was more useful than the guilty weight of the amulet around his neck. But at the same time he realized that he'd now officially severed all ties with his family and divested himself of their influence. He should have felt happy about his defiance; but it just made him feel sad all over again.

No son of mine. Halward had gone from, "You're my son and I love you," to "You are no son of mine," in just minutes. It still mystified Dorian that something so insignificant could cause so much fear and hatred in his father. But Halward had made his choice; Dorian's choice was self-preservation at this point.

Tevinter had always been a land of mages; occasionally southern mages had even made for the Imperium when running from templars. Dorian had always thought it would be home. He was a powerful mage and at one time it was speculated he'd be the youngest Altus to take a seat in the Magisterium, or even the youngest Archon in history, and now even Tevinter wasn't safe for him. "Enjoy your new privileges," he said over his shoulder to Ponchard as he left the shady little shop in Val Royeaux's summer market.

The sun was out and reflecting off the pale stone walkways and buildings, and the thoroughfare was bustling with masked courtiers giggling and chatting, but the air felt thick with tension. It was as if the whole city itself were wearing a mask, trying to delude itself of the trouble roiling outside its walls.

It was the first time Dorian had had more than a few coppers or silvers to his name in months. He'd been holding off selling the amulet, but each passing day tensions between Orlesian mages and templars escalated. It was like living in a keg of gaatlok and firing off primal spells. He had to resist the urge to spend it all at once outfitting himself in something more presentable. He did, however, feel that he'd earned a better meal than what he had been eating of late, so he settled at an outdoor café and ordered wine and a light lunch. Sitting in the sun, sipping Orlesian wine, he could almost pretend he belonged here.

Really, he was thinking of where to go next, especially now that he had the means to get there. He'd heard the hushed whispers, seen the furtive glances whenever the topic of the White Spire came up. He'd felt the nervous gazes as he walked by with his staff, a mage living openly in the seat of the southern Chantry. Only his Tevinter birthright, worn brazenly in the open, protected him.

Further south was out of the question in the current state of affairs. Moving east took him too close to Kirkwall, which he'd heard was still in a tumult nearly a year after the Chantry explosion. North meant going back to Tevinter, and he was certain he'd be stopped at the border and hauled back to his waiting father again, and probably a forced wedding to Livia Hirithinous, his father's most recent marriage choice. Dorian would rather die than give Halward that satisfaction.

Dorian wished he could sneak back to Vyrantium. Relenus had to be wondering what had happened to him… or maybe not, maybe it was wishful thinking. At least the First Enchanter would wonder. But at this point, and knowing Halward and the far reach of his arm, Dorian was certain he'd be unwelcome even at his home Circle. And even if he had been welcomed, Halward would be sure to catch up with him there.

He sighed and stirred his soup. There was one place he could go, one place that supposedly welcomed all, criminals and nobles alike. But he'd never heard of Tevinters being welcomed. There was a first time for everything, he supposed.

Dorian hadn't been able to find a coach willing to travel so close to the Imperium's border, so he spent more money than he'd wanted to part with buying a horse. It was an Orlesian Courser, more delicate than the horses of neighboring Ferelden, but still not the lithe mounts of Antiva or the Imperium. Dorian had learned to ride at a young age, and though it had been long since he'd last ridden, he took to the saddle easily and headed northwest.

He forgot how long it took to reacclimate himself to riding and at the end of the first day he was so sore he didn't think he'd be able to ever ride again. But the next day he gritted his teeth and swing himself into the saddle, and did the same thing the day after that. By the end of the first week he was comfortable riding and hardly sore at all.

The further west he rode the more barren the landscape became. Rolling grassy fields gave way to cracked earth and scrub brush, then to nothing. The sun was hot in a cloudless sky and the dry, whipping wind chapped his cheeks and the grit got in his eyes. But still Dorian pressed onward. He was hot and miserable, and did not want to imagine the places he probably had sand. He tried to remember the alternative: magically altered, mindless, married to a woman of his father's choosing, producing good little mage heirs that he would be expected to control as well.

He'd take a windy desert just south of the Anderfels any day.

Two days later he saw the walls of Weisshaupt Fortress rising over the horizon. Felix had been to Hossberg before, and had told Dorian of seeing Weisshaupt on the way. The walls were expansive and high even from this distance; the fortress was carved right into the side of a mountain that rose up over the windswept plains. His breath caught in his throat as he realized just how much it reminded him of a prison, and hoped that he wasn't exchanging one life of servitude for another.

It took another few hours to ride down the road leading to the impressive fortress. With each mile the walls grew higher and the road darker as the sun dipped behind the mountain fortress to cast shadows upon the road. Dorian just walked his horse; the poor animal was hot and tired, and water was hard to come by in this wasteland region of Thedas; also, he had no desire to hasten the impending confrontation.

Twilight was descending when he finally reached the first gate, set deep into the outer wall. "Good evening," he said pleasantly to the first blue-uniformed gate guard he saw. "I was wondering if I might join you."

The guard looked to the other guard stationed with him. "Your accent's Tevinter."

Dorian smiled, well aware that he was bedraggled and windblown and sunburned, but he was still a well-bred Altus mage. "And yours is slightly Orlesian. But I've ridden a long way and avoided a fair share of troubles, and would like to speak with a recruiting officer, if you have such a thing?"

The two looked at each other and then shrugged before opening the gate. Dorian rode through. Anyone could say what they wanted about the strange insular nature of the Grey Wardens, but they were relatively hospitable when visited on their own territory. His horse was led to the stables to be watered and groomed, and he was brought to a meeting chamber inside the outer keep. Another blue-clad Warden brought him water, which he sipped slowly in spite of his thirst.

Manners, Dorian, he reminded himself. Keep up appearances, even here. You're not that desperate yet.

He heard the door creak and he turned, leaning on his staff. The Warden who entered was another mage. She had smooth skin the color of tea with a bit of milk in it, and shrewd golden brown eyes, that, in spite of their color, were cool. "I am Jeannique," she said in a thick Rivaini accent, and tossed her long dark braid over her shoulder. "I meet with those who wish to join our ranks of their own volition."

Join. Dorian swallowed and smiled. He wasn't sure he really wanted to be a Grey Warden. But it was one place where his father could never touch him again, and one place where he'd be assured a decent living. Sure, he'd die an early death underground fighting darkspawn; and he probably looked lousy in blue-at least this shade of it. But the tradeoff could be worth it. "Yes. I've run aground of some trouble and I've always understood the Wardens to be a haven for those in my position."

Jeannique outright sneered at him. "In peace, vigilance," she said and Dorian was surprised she didn't spit on him. "You think because the fifth Blight ended we are little more than a haven for criminals?"

"I'm hardly a criminal," Dorian countered. Tattered, tired, troubled, maybe, but he'd committed no crime other than being true to himself. If that was a crime, he would gladly bear his punishment.

She grunted. "You're Tevinter."

"Last I checked, that was merely frowned upon in greater Thedas," he said with a sigh. "Not an actual crime." Jeannique leaned against the closed door, arms crossed over her chest, still watching him. "Ah, I see," he said, leaning against a wall and matching her posture. "The old 'Tevinter Magisters started the Blights' bit. Surely I don't look that old?" he asked with a smirk. "I'm not even a Magister, if that helps," he added after a brief pause.

Jeannique sighed. "Do you ever stop talking?" she asked.

"Only once. It wasn't pleasant."

"Tell me why you've left the Imperium." She took a seat and gestured for Dorian to do the same. Dorian explained as much as he felt comfortable telling a complete stranger, which wasn't very much. But he'd gotten so good at telling half-truths that the words rolled off his tongue as earnestly as if they were entirely real.

"You should also know that I was living in Minrathous two years ago when Grey Wardens paid us a visit," he said casually and Jeannique's head snapped up. "They were asking about, looking for information. Something about the Vimmark Mountains."

She lunged across the table and held a dagger to his neck. He kept his expression neutral and calm, though his heart was pounding. "What do you know about the Vimmark Mountains?" she growled.

He held up his hands in a sign of peace. "Nothing more than they're located outside of Kirkwall. But I was studying with a powerful Magister at the time and I made it a point to listen carefully to all that went on around me. And from your reaction I'm guessing that skill was a useful one."

Jeannique sheathed her dagger and slid back into her seat. "It's been a very long time since we've had a Tevinter in our ranks," she finally said.

"So I gather."

"I cannot promise that you will join the order. But I think the First Warden might be interested in what you know about Tevinter's involvement in this."

The Imperium itself had no involvement that Dorian knew of; his knowledge was limited entirely to the Venatori's actions. But technically the Venatori were Tevinter, which meant Tevinter was involved. So he nodded his thanks and bowed slightly and gratefully accepted the offer of a small room normally reserved for visiting dignitaries. It was a start.

Days started to go by and Dorian kept to himself; he was a guest, but not a particularly welcome one. No one was overtly hostile, but not particularly friendly, either. It was just like home, and Dorian actually felt calmer than he'd felt since leaving home. He didn't have to run; just keep up appearances, be smooth, say what he needed to say to continue receiving sanctuary from the Wardens.

He offered to help translate ancient Tevene texts that were perplexing the Wardens' scholars. His offer was met with suspicion, but eventually accepted, since the Wardens had no one fluent in modern Tevene, let alone ancient. For his part, Dorian wasn't fluent in the dead language either; but he was able to recognize enough to use reverse etymology and do some translating. None of what he read meant much of anything; it was the usual drivel about Magisters starting the Blight. At least, since these were in Tevene, it meant that they lacked the usual propaganda slant that such texts had in the south. As such they were slightly more objective, and actually quite interesting reading.

"You're useful." Jeannique had become his unofficial liaison to the Wardens. She never smiled, and only accepted his presence begrudgingly. "We've had these texts for a long time."

"And never thought to request the assistance of someone who actually knows Tevene," Dorian said. "I know, I know," he added quickly. "Tevinters started this mess, so why ally with one, even if it could help your cause?" To that, Jeannique swore in Rivaini and let him be.

It was good to be learning again. He missed so much about Vyrantium: the First Enchanter, Relenus, privacy, a bath and a warm meal whenever he wanted it… but most of all the time to spend learning and growing in a relaxed atmosphere. There was never any rush in that Circle; learning would happen in its own time. Here, it felt like there was always too much to be done and not enough time to do it, though Dorian never knew to what point, nor what purpose any of this served. The Wardens always seemed to be fighting an arbitrary deadline and it made the whole of Weisshaupt so bloody serious they could hardly take a piss. It was stifling.

But at least there was no one threatening him with blood magic just yet.

It was also pleasant, and a relief, to at least be away from the tumult down south. News came from breathless messengers on foam-lathered horses that the White Spire had fallen and the conflict between mages and templars, which had been escalating for the last year, was now full-blown war. Dorian overheard arguments among the Wardens, but the general consensus was that it was not any of their business. They would accept any refugees looking to join, but that was to be the extent of their involvement.

He had to grin at the irony of it all, though it made him nervous; what would all of this do to Tevinter? He'd proudly accepted his outcast status as soon as he decided to flee his parents' house. However, the thought of desperate southern mages looking for refuge in the Imperium was anxiety-inducing. He loved the Imperium, but if there was a better cautionary tale of the dangers of excess, he had yet to find it.

"Have you given any thought to joining the Order?" Jeannique asked him. She stood over Dorian casting a shadow over the Tevinter text he was nearly done translating. "Or is everything still a joke to your kind?"

"My dear lady," Dorian said. "I cannot help it if my country is built on a foundation of humor." Jeannique frowned; she was never quite sure when he was being sarcastic, and Dorian liked to keep her thinking. He had to entertain himself somehow in this place. "Will joining make me so serious that I must deeply contemplate my choice, and the far reaching consequences, of whether to drink white wine, or red?"

"You don't understand it at all," she said, shaking her head, and looking almost sad when she gazed at him. "In war, victory; do you know what must be given to achieve victory? You, from a country that prides itself on power at all costs, without considering the cost. In peace, vigilance; we cannot accept peace as the way of the world. One need only to look to the White Spire to know that. In death, sacrifice. Have you ever given so deeply of yourself for the benefit of others?" Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. Dorian almost felt bad for jesting. "If we are serious here, it is because we know the cost that must be paid and can no longer laugh about it."

Dorian nodded. "Then I apologize for my ignorance," he said, feeling his ears burn with chagrin. "If your beliefs about Tevinter are based in stereotypes, then so are our beliefs about the Wardens. Your Order has a lofty purpose." Jeannique stared at him. "Perhaps being personally blamed for something that happened a thousand years ago conjures up a sarcastic defense mechanism inside of me," he explained.

"Perhaps." She blinked away her tears. But for the slight flush in her cheeks she was stoic and staid again. "I suppose my reason for asking is that the Wardens aren't in the habit of retaining people who don't join. We have our secrets and don't wish to part with them to someone outside of our ranks. Especially…"

"Especially a Tevinter," Dorian finished for her. "What you're saying is I have a choice. Join or leave." It was the same choice here as anywhere else in his life.

"Essentially. Your assistance has been valuable; but the Order demands more than assistance. It demands your life, and if you are not willing to give it, then Weisshaupt may not be the best place for you to keep hiding."

Dorian smiled and closed his book. "In that case, it is probably for the best that I take my leave."

Jeannique nodded, but was fiddling with the end of her braid and wouldn't look at him. "Your horse will be readied for you, and we will give you what supplies we can, as thanks for your help."

"I thank you," Dorian said, standing and giving a slight bow. He projected nothing but calm, however, he was panicking inside again. Where was he supposed to go now? His only hope was that, as his notions about the Wardens had been shattered, he'd at least given the Wardens pause when it came to Tevinters.

"Dorian." He turned to look at Jeannique. "What woke in the Vimmark Mountains a few years ago? Pray, for the sake of all Thedas, that it was defeated."

"I'm not exactly the religious sort, but I will do so, for the sake of the Wardens who sheltered me when I needed it," he said.

"The mage-templar war is nothing compared to it," Jeannique said and watched him go.

The next morning he thanked the Wardens for their hospitality, such as it was, and mounted up his horse. When he'd arrived at Weisshaupt the world had been falling apart; as he left, it was truly broken. Dorian thought he'd had nowhere to go before; now, as he rode out and heard the main gate clang behind him, he felt even more alone than ever.

He walked the horse down the road. He had no direction and no plan. But at least he was free. That counted for something.

Author's Note: In some of these later chapters I'm going off of party banter where Dorian suggests that he's been to certain places. It's fun extrapolating the information from the one-liners! Thank you as always so very much to those who are reading, reviewing, and following and favoriting. It really means so much. Dorian's been a fascinating character to work with, and I'm humbled that people are enjoying my rendition of him, and his backstory. Thank you, thank you, thank you! And now I should figure out how to say it in Tevene! ;)