-oo-
Chapter 2
The tarpaulin made a crackling noise as it fell from the object with a single tug. The Warden Commander frowned. It was huge as things went, clearly old with a curious design 'style', if one could call it that. It was not however, something he'd be eager to install in the Peak's bathing room. It wouldn't fit for a start.
"I may be stating the obvious," Alistair's second in command, Kristof observed with a thoughtful scratch of his beard. "This object appears to be a mirror."
"And a rather gaudy one at that," Alistair shook his head.
"Creepy…" a small voice piped up from behind.
The Warden Commander turned. He levelled a scolding finger at the small person perched on the crate. "You," he stated. "Are supposed to be at your lessons." He narrowed his eyes. "Why aren't you at your lessons?"
The child; half-dwarven, brown-haired and still smeared with breakfast sauce shrugged unapologetically. "Jemmy has smelly feet," he informed the Warden Commander as though that was all the excuse one needed in the world to escape learning one's letters and numbers and avoid an uncertain fate of illiteracy and ignorance.
"That would be Brother Jemmy to you, young feller me lad," Alistair told him sternly. Perching his fists on his hips, he added. "Do you want me to tell your mother?"
The boy rolled his eyes, completely unperturbed by this threat. "I'll just tell her it was your fault." Another careless shrug. "Everything's your fault, she says."
"She does…?" Alistair reminded himself in time that his second in command was still in attendance and cleared his throat self-consciously. Arguing with an eight year old in front of a fellow Grey Warden did not add to his Commanderly image, even if Kristof was not unfamiliar with this particular scamp. Still…Merran had said that? To their children? Did she really hold him in such poor esteem that she would badmouth…what the Fade am I thinking! The lying little sod has made that up! Fingers twitching at his side, Alistair glared at the boy.
Having realised the jig was up, Brogan grinned an unapologetic gappy-toothed grin at his adopted father. "Yeah," he added. "She also says you're a dumb nug." Banging his heels on the side of the crate, his grin widened. "With a smelly bottom!"
Alistair sighed, narrowing his eyes. "You do realise it's dangerous down here, don't you?" he reminded the boy. "Grey Warden dangerous." He waved a hand about the room, indicating its contents. Being the largest cellar at the Peak, it held plenty of packing crates, trunks of all shapes and sizes and storage chests of similar dimensions among other 'things'. Things such as the artifacts they'd found in the Keep's cellars; things that could have been used as torture devices; devices that had been used as instruments of torture by Sophia Dryden in her heyday as Arlessa of Soldier's Peak and Warden Commander before her rebellious Grey Wardens had been sent packing to the Void by King Arland's more numerous forces. Things that made poor Levi Dryden so nervous in such close proximity, thoughts of discounted goods fled his magic-fearing mind. And then there were the actual magical items required by Avernus for his Warden-friendly experiments. In actual fact, the garishly adorned, malevolent looking giant mirror sent by First Enchanter Irving for Merran and Jowan to analyse looked quite at home down here.
"Tainted…" Alistair continued ruthlessly, "Quite possibly possessed."
"Don't be stupid," Brogan sneered, though underneath the confident façade was more than a hint of a fearful child. Threatening Brogan in this way was unfair, underhanded and dirty Alistair knew, but the fact of the matter was if he'd tried to make a grab for Brogan, he would have found himself in possession of empty air and a trail of broken objet d'mort, leading Merran to banish him from the cheese cellar for life. Encouraging Brogan to leave the room voluntarily (and never return) would be worth the Mean Parent points.
It was working too. Brogan had jumped off the crate, darting worried looks at his surroundings when the door to the cellar creaked open and the familiar tingle at Alistair's spine caused him to turn.
"Brogan," Merran stood on the top stair, arms folded. "It's lesson time. Please return to the study."
This was all the excuse the dwarven lad needed; heading towards the stairs and climbing them rapidly "Yes ma'am!" When he reached the top, boy and mage tagged each other with a bumping of fists; a gesture that completely befuddled Alistair. He did notice however that she waited a few more moments more by the door, ensuring their son had actually left and had not gone to hide around the corner, in case something exciting happened.
Nudging the door closed with her heel, she descended, arms still folded and her eyebrows drawing downward with each step. It seemed to Alistair that the tension in the room rose with every tread made. Was she angry at him? Again? Maker, what have I done this time?
Her grumpiness to his relief, landed on the new addition to the room. "I don't remember this being here," she said with a disapproving frown. "Are we turning this room into some kind of fashionable salon?" she asked. "The kind that Leli keeps telling me Ferelden desperately needs?"
Heroically, it was Kristof that broke the tension, waving a hand at the mirror. "Not with something this ugly," he said. "Even the least fastidious Orlesian would risk seven years of bad luck rather than have such a hideous addition to their surroundings." Too late, Alistair realised that in keeping his focus on his wife, he'd failed to notice Kristof inching towards his own escape. "A magical object," Kristof added. "Sent from the Ferelden Circle of Magi."
"The Circle?" Merran repeated sharply. She moved closer, unwittingly clearing access to the stairwell. Access, Kristof rapidly too advantage of.
"Why?" Merran demanded, narrowing her eyes distrustfully at mirror. It dwarfed her, her reflection in the bleary surface indistinct and ominously gloomy.
Merran bent closer then sprang back in surprise. Had it just…moved? It must have been her imagination.
She looked quickly towards Alistair, but he hadn't seemed to have seen what she had. In his hand was a roll of parchment.
"The First Enchanter is quite keen for you and Jowan to have a look at it," he said, throwing one last, pleading look towards his Second. He wished rather than hoped he wasn't in trouble for something he had done, was doing or was about to do. Unfortunately for Alistair however, Kristof cheerfully ignored the plea.
With one hand on the banister, the Warden Second in Command bowed his head. "Well," he began as brightly as the normally grim and gritty older Warden could be. "I will take up no more of your time, Warden Commander." Continuing to ignore Alistair's frantic hand gestures, he bowed at Merran too. "If you'll excuse me, I will return to my duties…"
"If Merran has no objection…" Alistair started, in a last ditch attempt to keep Kristof between himself and his angry wife when Merran herself cut him off, snatching the parchment from the Warden Commander's hand.
"Why are you asking me?" she demanded sharply – both men flinching at her voice - "I'm just the mage here!"
After a statement such as that, Kristof could not leave the room fast enough; or as fast as he was able to, given that he did not wish to draw undue attention to himself. Merran was – at the present time – the Wardens' only healer. It was best to keep on her good side.
His human shield gone, Alistair fidgeted; steepling his hands nervously in front of his nose, then clasping them behind his back, anxious in her presence and wishing he didn't need to be. He had plenty of work waiting up stairs for him so it wasn't as if he was without an excuse of his own to leave. Paperwork tended to breed in his office…and he truly missed Robert Varel's excellent and efficient document-herding abilities…but not only would it mean passing too close to Merran in his departure, she would be left on her own in front of that…thing. And he didn't trust it.
"The First Enchanter says it's a 'gift'," Merran snorted sceptically, dragging Alistair's thoughts back to the present. "Huh. But Jowan won't be back until the end of the week…" With an accusatory glare, she added; "You sent him away with Mhairi, remember?"
Ah yes…The enthusiastic Warden Mhairi…Well, for one the young Warden needed to get out to kill things. Secondly, Jowan had been getting underfoot lately too…What was it about the Wardens at the Peak lately? It seemed everyone was getting restless. It had never been like this in Amaranthine. Was it simply because it was a busier place? The fact that there had been so many non-Warden duties to attend to that there had never been any time to be restless? True, Soldier's Peak was a newly-settled Arling unlike the larger, established Amaranthine. The population was still relatively small owing to it being fairly remote and – until fairly recently - un…Arl-ed. Or whatever the nobles called it.
"He's the enthusiast for magical runes and ancient writing…" Merran continued, frowning. "Not me…" she sniffed, her foot tapping. "And this looks…well, it looks Elvish too. That's sort of up Jowan's alley too. Or road, pathway…canyon. Whatever."
"Oh. Well then perhaps we should consult Velanna?" Alistair suggested hastily, clutching at another potential distraction to draw attention away from himself, though as he did so, he realised Merran might have already read the part in the First Enchanter's letter where he stated his preference for Circle mages to investigate. Warden Velanna was not Circle. She wasn't even round. In fact any attempt to imply that she was would probably have caused a small, angry pet oakling to attempt to eat one's head. And that was even more terrifying a prospect than Merran purposely flavouring one's cold tincture with Bitterwort.
Luckily for Alistair, all Merran did was shake her head. "The pictograms look elvish, but…" She raised a hand, knuckling her temples before sliding an accusatory glare at him. "Irving's got visitors from Cumberland hasn't he," she stated. "Poking about his little 'collection', no doubt."
She glanced back down at the First Enchanter's letter. "Calls it the Eluvian…If nothing else it sounds elvish, though I could swear this rune right here might be…Damn it!" She stamped her foot in frustration. "I hate not being able to remember what I learned in the Circle! So tell me; what else did he skive off to us for 'safe keeping'?"
"Uh…" Alistair swallowed anxiously. "A…uh, a talking statue, a mabari-shaped hat stand that causes umbrellas to explode and…oh, some kind of fossilised fish made up mostly of teeth and a couple of flippers. Fascinating thing."
She threw up her hands. "Well I don't know what he wants me to do with it!"
Balling up First Enchanter Irving's letter, Merran hurled it at the mirror. Instead of bouncing off the silvery surface however, it ate it.
And then it made a grab for Merran.
The surface of the mirror ballooned outwards with a hungry hiss, enveloped Merran and sucked backwards so quickly, the Warden Commander had barely a chance to breathe, much less react. For a split second, he stared speechless at the now-flat surface of the mirror…then at the empty space where Merran had just been standing. The next half of that second, he took a dive head first into the mirror, expecting it to shatter on contact.
It didn't.
-oo-
"Dagna…!"
As before, the darkness swallowed her cry, returning nothing but an empty, deep silence. Alyce shook her head, disconcerted by the absence of sensation. One moment she'd had a vice grip on the dwarf's ankle, the next…nothing. No sight, smell, touch...All gone. She raised her hands in front and felt no pull of muscle or even the sensation of air against the fine hairs on the backs of her hands and the loss of being able to feel anything was as unnerving as losing her dwarf. She could be trapped here for…well Maker knew how long!
Am I even breathing, she wondered? What if I'm dead and this is some kind of Fade wandering…?
Well, that was a depressing thought.
Not as depressing as the thought of her husband being left a widower at such an, well, if not exactly young, he could hardly be considered about to pop off his perch at any moment.. Still, she told herself pragmatically, walking forward and hoping there were no traps or beasties lying in wait. She would expect him to marry again. Have to really…A single man…and a busy guard Captain to boot…with a young child in tow? Except…She frowned. Never had much taste in women, that man. Probably take up with the first Ferelden bit of tart that batted her eye lashes at him…She stopped in her tracks. Clenching her fists she yelled. "And here's me…! Trapped while you take up with some rambunctious, top-heavy, scarlet woman!" Curse you! "You are not to marry some mindless floozy, you long-haired…stupidly handsome…bastard!"
Something large and metallic collided into her. Surprised by the sudden return of feeling, she only realised she was no longer alone when another voice spoke in the darkness.
"Oh, Maker!" it exclaimed, the relief in his voice quite clear. "There is someone here! You have no idea how…" It was male and sounded oddly familiar. "You aren't some kind of…of demon I hope? What's this squishy-"
"I think you need to move your hand, whoever you are," Alyce interrupted him firmly.
"Oh. Uh…my apologies."
Dead silence.
"So…are you…might you be…human?" the voice asked warily.
Human? "If you must know," Alyce replied, relieved that she wasn't alone, but bitterly disappointed that this person – or whatever it was – was not her dwarf. "I am a large purple turnip."
"Oh, ha ha," replied the voice, unamused. "In that case, I'm a little teapot."
"Short and stout?" Alyce suggested, unable to help herself.
More dead silence.
It did not bode well.
With another shake of her head, Alyce stood, dusting herself off out of habit. "You wouldn't happen to know where we are?" she asked in the hope that if she could keep him, it, whatever conversing with her, she could at least keep track of him, it, whatever it was.
"No, do you?" the voice replied – why does it sound like I've heard it before? – accompanied by a metallic noise that put Alyce in mind of armour…She squinted, 'looking' in the direction of the voice, then raised a hand, the words of a fire spell (that she expected not to work…again in this place) rising into her mind when…"Maker's breath!" the voice exclaimed. "You're a mage!" he exclaimed.
Alyce's eyes narrowed. She knew of only two types of people that could tell she was a mage: another mage and a…"Andraste's spit roast! You're a Templar!"
"Well no need to get so annoyed about it," the voice retorted immediately, offended by her statement and confirming her guess. "You make it sound like we go around stealing sweets from children and knocking over old ladies crossing roads…"
In the darkness, Alyce cocked her head speculatively. So she'd narrowed the voice down to a Templar…and there were two people she knew who would be defensive enough over a simple accusation such as 'You're a Templar'.
"Ser Bran!" she uttered triumphantly.
"Uh, no thank you," the voice replied, sounding puzzled now. "I think I get enough roughage in my diet already."
She snapped her fingers, her choices narrowed from two to one. "Alistair!"
Dead silence.
Then…"How…how did you know my name?"
Alyce didn't answer at first, shuffling sideways; the rustle of her garments giving her away when she least wanted it to. "Oh uh…all Grey Wardens are called-"
"How do you know I'm a Grey Warden?" the voice demanded sharply.
This is getting tiring…"Does this mean that your name is actually Alistair and that you are, in fact a Grey Warden?" she asked. "Are you, in fact Alistair Theirin? Hero of the Blight, formerly His Majesty King of Ferel-"
"What? King? I should bloody well hope not!"
"Ah-ha!" Alyce couldn't help crowing. "You are Alistair!"
The voice sputtered in an incoherent, Alistairy way that further convinced her that her guess was correct. "Not king," he insisted in a stern, un-Alistair way that was slightly baffling. "Commander of the Grey, if you insist on knowin…was that a laugh? Are you laughing at me?"
"No, no, no!" Alyce hastily waved her hands in denial. "That was a…I had a…a furball…cough…cough…"
"Really?" he intoned in a flat, unimpressed voice. "In that case, I really am a teapot."
"And I'm um, Alyce," she stated quickly, firing off in quick succession: "Human. Mage. Senior Ench…uh…" Perhaps it wasn't wise to reveal too much about herself. Not until she knew the exact situation here.
"Uh huh…" Alistair-voice snorted, casting further aspersions on her claims of untimely furballs. "An Ench. They're a kind of talking tree, aren't they?"
"What? Why? I don't know! There's no such thing as talking trees!" Alyce retorted.
"Oh…that's what you know. Have you even met a talking tree?" he demanded. "I have. Prone to bouts of poetry…and hiding their nuts in unusual places," he informed her coolly. "And then there's the kind that'll rip your ears off if you so much as look at their elf funny…Believe me you don't want to tangle with one of those."
"You're just incredibly insane aren't you?" Alyce sniffed, taking another step side-ways. "You and your…mage Warden…" It had occurred to her, perhaps unfairly that Neria Surana, her old Tower friend and absentee Warden Commander of Ferelden might have something to do with this mess. And if she does, Alyce thought darkly, I'm going to be very, very cross.
"Putting aside the rather uncalled-for maligning of my character," he now interrupted her thoughts, "How did you know about Merran? Wait…" his voice turned concerned. "Have you seen her? What am I saying? I can barely see the nose on my face in this place…! Maker's right nut, I hope she's alright."
"So you're saying what now?" Alyce scowled. So this person was an Alistair and a Grey Warden but was asking about someone called…what? "Are you sure you're not a demon?" she asked again.
"No!" the voice denied, irritation as well as worry in his voice. "Are you?"
"Don't be stupid!"
"Oh, I get it. Now we're back to name calling? Well that's just typical isn't it?" he retorted.
"If the shoe fits!" Alyce returned, fists clenching.
"I wear boots, if you don't mind!" he informed her.
"Well, so do I!"
"Hmph!"
"Hah!"
Dead Silence.
Again.
It did not bode well.
-oo-
"Should we try to open that after all?"
Seated on the remains of a stone wall, Senior Alchemist Dagna directed her question to the dark haired woman next to her, their hopeful expressions reflected in the mottled, tarnished silver surface of the elderly mirror.
This portal exit was quite different, Dagna had found, from the one in her Orzammar workshop, housed in what appeared to be a wardrobe; a rather ugly one at that, though the clawed feet base was similar to the one she and Alyce had fallen through. This particular specimen appeared far, far older too and so fragile in appearance that it seemed to her as though breathing too close might cause it to collapse. It was for this reason that the two women kept their distance, waiting for the others to find their own way through. Now and again, the wardrobe would give the tiniest of shakes, their reflections warping and twisting alarmingly.
"To be honest…" The woman beside her was human as far as Dagna could tell. Not that much taller than herself but with the slender build of an elf and with such laughing brown-olive eyes that Dagna had taken to her immediately. "I haven't been this entertained in years." She grimaced as she added; "and that's counting the time I was dead."
"Oh," Dagna's own eyes widened. Though her gaze staunchly refused to leave the wardrobe, she needed to take her mind off the possibility that her best friend and mentor could be trapped in an unknown Nowhere In Particular for…ever. "You're a Legion warrior?" she asked.
"Oh you mean Legion of the Dead?" the woman shook her head. "Oh my golly gosh no. I was actually dead. When I slew the Archdemon I died…I think I might have exploded; disintegrated into teeny, tiny, miniscule little pieces virtually undetectable by the human – or dwarven – eye. Except I'm not too sure…having been – well – disintegrated into teeny, tiny miniscule little pieces virtually undetectable by the human, dwarven or I suspect – elven – eye."
"Goodness gracious!"
"Hm, yes…releasing the soul of the Old God from miserable enslavement by the darkspawn in the process of doing so," the woman continued. The two of them paused in dual tension as the wardrobe gave another worrying rattle. Clearing her throat nervously, she continued. "He – or she…I could never tell and it seemed rather impolite to ask so I never did – was so grateful, he – she – it…granted me another life."
"I say, how lovely!"
The woman nodded, dark eyebrows drawing downward. Although her skin was quite dusky, she looked pale and tired under her tan, the darker dusting of freckles across her nose quite interesting against her skin tone. She was a mage too…Merran, she had called herself. Merran…Amell. Which was a rather interesting thing considering she bore absolutely no resemblance at all to any other Amell Dagna was familiar with.
Except for the magicky bit.
"Must have been inconvenient," Dagna nudge Merran with her elbow. "Being dead."
"Well, not unless it's for tax purposes."
"Oh no, oh no," Dagna agreed as the wardrobe gave the most violent shake to date. "Plenty of those I imagine…If we were in my workshop," Dagna's fingers gripped the stone anxiously. "I might be able to find some way to release them." She winced. Had there been a cry of help just now? The ominous sound of breaking bone? "Find some way to let them out…"
A wince and a nod followed this suggestion. "Yes…"
Dagna turned to her companion. "You sound disappointed."
Merran cringed apologetically. "Well, I suppose you could say I am. You said your friend is a powerful mage?" Dagna nodded an affirmative. "Well my companion is quite adept at anti-magic. Not to mention rather clever in his own way in general. You'd think one of them would have figured out how to come out of the closet by now. As we had…"
Dagna nodded in agreement. The thought had crossed her mind. Several times. "I'm not too sure exactly," she began slowly, because her best friend was also incredibly clever in a rather stupid way. "I have a sort of hypothesis…"
"That…thing absorbs magic?"
Dagna frowned. "Not…exactly…" she continued in the same, deliberate tone. "And it's not exactly a hypothesis either," she added, just in case. "But more of an inkling really."
"A feeling?"
"An itch you can't scratch."
"Oh, I hate those."
Dagna couldn't agree more. "In any case, I hope either one of them realises that the portal's contracting…and I hope they realise it soon."
Beside her, Merran Amell chewed her bottom lip even more nervously than before. "Oh my," she said softly. "I hope your friend's not a big person."
"Ah…" Dagna grimaced rather uncomfortably. "Well. She is. Actually."
"Oh my," the woman said again. "So is Alistair…"
Dagna had turned sharply at Merran's last word, when the doors of the wardrobe gave a frighteningly loud, protesting creak. The latched doors strained outwards; the rusted locks giving way with little other warning, pinging across their heads. There was the sound of shattering glass…the doors sprang open and thankfully – or perhaps not, for the two rather lanky individuals of opposite gender - revealed in an awkward and embarrassingly tangled jigsaw puzzle of humanity inside.
The wood creaked again as the wardrobe visibly shrunk several more inches.
Dagna sprang to her feet. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "I think I'm going to need a crowbar…" Tilting her head, she was finding it difficult tracking where one person ended and the other began. "…failing that, a marriage celebrant."
"You know…" Merran sighed. "Under other circumstances, this might actually be funny if that wasn't my husband." Scratching lightly at her chin, she added; "Actually, perhaps because it is my husband that I'm finding this less unhumorous than usual…"
Dagna lurched forward reflexively, arms thrown out as a single booted foot emerged from the cable knit of arms and legs. She was quite sure that was Alyce's foot. That was Alyce's foot, right?
"Oh gosh!" Merran stamped her own, tiny foot next to her. "Times like these I truly wish I had my old magic back!" Raising her right hand, she cocked her fingers. "All I had to do was wiggle my fingers like this and zap…!"
The slightly more armoured piece of the jigsaw fizzled and abruptly disappeared. With a cry of alarm Merran ran forward. At the same time, the wardrobe contracted again, ejecting Alyce in a tumbling, cursing ball towards Dagna's feet. As Alyce resisted being assisted further detanglement, Dagna shrugged to leave her be, turning in time to see Merran retrieve an object from the inside of the shrinking wardrobe.
Eyes wide as saucers, Merran murmured: "Frog time…"
In the palm of her hands a large, striped brown frog croaked angrily, waving a padded foot under Merran's nose. She stared in disbelief at first then grinned suddenly. "Oh! You have a sticky up bit here, just like you do in real life!" she told it. "It's so cute!"
"And that was an impressive use of transformative magic…"
The frog propped itself up, wrapping its feet around Merran's thumb as the tallest woman Merran had ever seen gathered herself up off the floor, dusted herself off and approached. Tearing her attention from the frog glaring at her speculatively, the woman extended her hand. "Alyce," she introduced herself with a small smile. "Alyce Amell. And you are…?"
"Amell!" Merran clapped a hand to her mouth. "I wonder if you're…? I'm Merran." The smaller of the women was careful to wipe her hand on her trousers before accepting the offered greeting. "Merran Amell."
The one who'd introduced herself as Alyce was taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Well, that's interesting," she said. "I thought I knew every single Amell I was related to." Narrowing her eyes, she asked. "Are you from…Kirkwall?"
Merran shook her head. "Ferelden born and bred."
"Interesting…"
"Terrifying…" Dagna added quietly to the side.
"Grrriddit…" said the frog.
There was clanking noise outside. It came to a dead stop in the doorway. "What the…?" a surprised male voice exclaimed, causing the four in the room to turn towards the only physical exit in the room. "Who are you people?" he demanded, narrow eyes assessing them rapidly. "Are you demons? I'll have you know that I am-"
"Zap."
Fizzle.
The brown frog in Merran's hand took an impressive leap to the ground, hopping in amphibian concern towards the green-striped frog croaking in surprise in the doorway.
"Oh. Oh my…" the brown haired mage stared at her empty hands in shock. "It's…it's back…oh my!" Her rambling was interrupted by the sound of froggy grunting, and Dagna's snickering. On the floor, the two frogs were engaged in what looked like wrestling, confirmed when the brown frog managed to twist an arm free and landed a rather squelchy punch on the green frog's snout. In retaliation the green frog reached out, produced a broken twig which it brandished at the brown frog…who then bounded away, located another twig and – now armed - lunged towards the green.
It didn't get far. Neither did. Merran scooped up the brown while Dagna retrieved the green, both frogs protesting in loud croaking that set the dwarf off into another peal of laughter. Struggling in their respective prisons, both frogs continued to hurl the amphibian equivalent of insults at each other.
As they did, there was a final, creaking, snapping noise. Mages, dwarf and frogs turned just in time to see the wardrobe – and mirror – shatter into a shower of glittering dust…and disappear altogether.
The ensuing silence was somewhat…heavy.
"Ah…" Dagna broke it eventually. "In case no one has guessed by now…that was probably the only way back home."
-oo-