Ugh, if she never had to sit through questioning again, it would be far too soon. Bethany leaned back in her chair as Ser Hugh made her run through what little she remembered of her kidnapping for the fifteenth time. Only a goblet of water, kept full by a scurrying apprentice, kept her voice from cracking. She would gladly have roasted the little thing on a spit and devoured her in three bites had she been granted the opportunity. Visions of roasted venison and gravy-drenched potatoes danced before her; she couldn't count just how many hours it had been since her last dinner. At least she'd become efficient at recounting her tale; her voice had taken on the precise rhythm of an ox-drawn cart.
"And there's nothing else you can tell us, mage?"
"No. How many times to I have to tell you that I know nothing?"
"Wait here."
She twiddled her thumbs round and round for three revolutions before the repetition drove her mad. She took a delicate swig from the goblet, but not too much. A trip to the privy wouldn't happen any time soon, slow as Ser Hugh had been in asking the same blighted questions over and over. She hadn't braided her hair in years, not since Lysandra had last helped her weave it into an elaborate coif for Father's funeral. You have to choose now to intrude, don't you, memories? She separated a clump from the rest of her hair and split it into three even sections and twisted them about each other as the apprentice watched her from her little cowering –spot by the door. She wasn't worried, not really, for the Templars had always dispensed justice quickly if they truly believed a mage was a danger. Ser Hugh's leisurely pace hardly indicated trouble.
She'd started in on the second strand when the door creaked and the apprentice shot several feet into the air. Maker, I was hoping for a new hairstyle. She untangled her hair as best she could as a tiny figure worked its way slowly through the crack. First a little hand, then the full arm, and then the very tip of a turned-up nose appeared, followed, finally, by a pair of huge blue eyes.
"Mistress?" The hand may have been little, but the voice was even tinier.
"You can come in, Quinn. It's ok."
"The Templar… He told me to come get you."
She tottered as she stood, her legs numb and tingling.
"Mistress!" The little boy ran toward her.
"I'm just a little stiff is all. They've had me in here awhile." Her stomach protested, and Quin giggled.
"I could roast a dog for you."
"You know, I might just take you up on that."
The boy grinned. "Mistress, you have a visitor. An elf."
She nodded. Maker, what does he want?
The boy led her back to her quarters, where not only Ella twitched uneasily as she leaned against the doorframe, but Fenris stood before her bed. The girl shot quick looks at the elf when she thought he wasn't looking, then flushed and stared at the floor. Fenris outright avoided the girl's gaze, and seemed to find the book on her nightstand endlessly fascinating. Can he even read the title? "Flames, Great and Small…" She'd loved that book from the time she first learned to read at Father's knee.
"Bethany!" the girl said and rushed her.
She staggered with an armful of Ella. "Oh, Andraste! We were so worried about you!"
"One of the Templars said you ran away," Quinn said, his voice accusing. "They said you were part of a… a… con-peer-see."
"A what?" Ella still hadn't disengaged, and she spoke over the girl's shoulders.
"Conspiracy, Bethany," Ella said. "I knew you wouldn't run off, and Fenris told me you were taken prisoner by conspirators."
Her stomach grumbled loud enough for the rest of Gallows to hear it.
"Maker, they haven't fed you? It's been two days, Bethany!"
No wonder she thought her stomach was going to pop out her throat and swallow her head-first. Fenris cleared his throat, and she swore to herself as Ella finally let go. The girl ran off with a promise to return with some bread from the kitchen and Quinn glued himself to her waist. She ruffled his hair absently and waited for the elf to speak.
"Bethany," he said after a short pause and bowed slightly. "I see you're well."
"If 'well' means that my stomach is screaming a demon's opera, then, yes."
Fenris rummaged in his pack and straightened with a small box. He smiled as he handed it to her. "Not the best of provisions, but they should quiet you for a short visit."
Ox jerky. Not usually her favorite, but right then, even a pile of dirt would have tasted grander than the finest braised lamb shank. She chewed as Quinn squeezed, and as the elf eyed her tiny charge with typical Fenris-like suspicion. The screaming in her stomach turned to a melodic aria as she swallowed the first bites, and her tongue sang along in contralto. Maker, this is the best thing I've ever tasted.
"Thank you. You know, I used to hate this when…" She stopped to take another bite.
"Hunger changes one's perspective quickly," Fenris said.
She caught his unconscious grimace. "When you were running away?"
The elf's bitter laugh took her aback. "No. The true irony was, even penniless and living off what I could scrounge or steal, I still ate far better than when I was Danarius' thrall."
The chewed clot caught in her throat and she hacked. Quinn clutched tighter at her waist. "Mistress?"
She swallowed and swallowed, and the world went blurry as small streams leaked from her eyes. A strong arm surrounded her shoulders, and the elf said, "Mageling, I could help your 'Mistress' if you let go."
She sputtered as he steered her to her bed. "You'll choke less if you sit."
She forced the rest of the bits down and wiped her eyes, only to be met with a goblet and a tiny frowning face when she opened them. "Mistress?"
She sipped and took a breath. "I…" She coughed. "I'm fine."
"Then you should leave, mageling."
"But Mistress…"
"Fenris, stop! He's just a boy."
"The most dangerous kind of mage."
"Is he going to hurt me, Mistress?" He gripped her hand and tried to squeeze, though his trembling interrupted his grasp.
"Don't be silly, honey. Fenris doesn't like magic, but you're safe." She shot what she hoped was a pointed glare at the elf. "At least, I'm assuming you're not going to hurt him. Tell you what, Quinn, go give Ella a hug, and then go play with Jillan until bedtime."
She knelt beside the boy and gave him a hug.
"Was that necessary?" the elf asked.
"Yes, very necessary. I didn't think you'd be frightened of an eight year old child!"
"I don't wish to fight with you, Bethany. I'm here for another purpose."
"Does Lyssie know you were starved as a slave? What kind of awful creatures are these magisters, anyway? I've never heard of such barbarism!"
"Andra knows."
"Maker."
"Andra's waiting for you."
She swallowed. "And she isn't here?"
Fenris smiled a little too wryly for her taste. The more time she spent with him, the more he reminded her of Lyssie. "She isn't permitted inside the Circle grounds. The Knight-Commander doesn't take too kindly to being told that she is the cause of Kirkwall's mage problems. Her rather personal vendetta has been couched in terms of Andra's supposed 'bad influence' on mages. As much of a talking-to as she's likely giving the Knight-Captain right now, I can't say I blame the Templars."
"Dear Andraste, not one of her lectures! Doesn't she understand such talk only makes things worse here?"
"Worse or no, she did 'free' you. Hours of her insults could wear even the strongest of men down to nubbins. They were going to hold you in custody for another day until they'd 'verified' things enough. The way you're gnawing at that jerky, I'm not so sure you could have withstood it."
"I suppose I'll have to thank her." Fenris eyed her sidewise; apparently her bitterness showed more than she thought.
"Maybe you should."
She took a deep breath, and then took twice as long letting it out. Her head reeled as she took in her next breath. She tried not to give in to the flames that broiled in her gut.
"That boy loves you."
"Quinn?" She thanked the Maker for the distraction. "Yes, he's a dear little thing. They brought him in two weeks ago, bloody and screaming. A dog took a huge chunk out if his leg and the lady whose beast attacked him didn't bother to spare him a bandage before she sicced the Templars on him. Poor thing will always walk with a limp. We can only be grateful that there's a tradition of robe-wearing here; pants will always hang strangely on him."
"Bread, Bethany! And I got you a little… oh…" Ella flushed bright red. "Soup, yes, soup!"
"Eat," Fenris said. "Andra can wait a few more minutes."
"Messere, I know you told me the Champion isn't allowed in here, but could you give me her thanks again?"
"Yes, of course," Fenris said. "You already asked that of me and I haven't forgotten."
"No, of course not." The girl's cheeks hadn't returned to their normal walnut shade. "I'm glad you're all right, Bethany."
Ella set the bowl and the plate down on her little table on top of her book. Oh, Maker, did the soup smell fantastic! She had the bowl in her hands almost before Ella let go, and the first spoonful made its way down her throat in a searing chorus. Vegetables in a lamb broth, with chunks of… pork, was it? She devoured it without pausing as Fenris looked on, no matter how her throat blazed and her tongue swelled.
"Thank you, Ella," she said, her tongue a heavy lump in her mouth. "This…"
"Of course, Bethany," the girl said. "Tell me how everything goes." The last half-whisper Ella mouthed with exaggerated movements, and Fenris snorted.
"Very subtle, Ella."
"Yes, well… Thank you again, Messere!" The girl darted off into the hallway.
"Ella seems quite enamored with you."
"As the mage boy is with you."
"I know you're dying to ask me something, so just do it already!" She took a bite of the fluffy white cloud that waited on her plate.
"You act as if you're his mother."
"I…" Her throat slammed shut, and she resorted to chewing the sticky mass until it turned into a glue.
"If this is too personal, I won't ask any further."
"Not personal," she said after she forced her bite down. "Just… well… I can't have any children here and I never will. The Templars… well, they take them away, and only the Maker knows what happens to them!"
"Hm." If she read Fenris' expression properly, something alien appeared there. It couldn't have been what she almost thought it was.
"Well, now that I've bared my soul to you, I'll just stuff my mouth."
"You remind me a great deal of someone," he said.
"Your mother?"
"No, I barely remember her at all. Only a few flashes, almost like a dream. I was thinking you remind me a little of your mother, and of Andra even more."
"Mother, well, she did what she could."
"As do we all."
"It wasn't easy for her, and the choice she made… You were thinking something else, though. What was it?"
"I was wondering… "
"What?"
"No, it would be too painful, just as it seems to be for you."
"You want to know what Lyssie would be like as a mother? Can you imagine her putting down her knives? Even for a moment?"
"She would have for you. She told me that she helped raise you."
Suddenly, she didn't think she could eat that second slice of bread, no matter how her stomach protested. "She did. Mother spent most of her time with Carver, the little demon that he was. Lyssie…"
She took a deep breath and waited for the memory to fade, but instead it took her over.
"Look, Lyssie, Carver tore her arm off!"
Little Lysandra looks up from the book Father scrounged. "Well, we'll just have to fix her up, won't we, Beth?"
"But I can't…"
"Mother!" Lysandra darts off, leaving her alone with a ripped up and dismembered Mary.
The doll drips stuffing onto the floor as her tears wet her smock. She looks around, but the room she shares with Lysandra isn't any comfort, blurred as it is. She waits, her heart slamming. She's too weak to smack Carver, too little. Lysandra does her best to defend her, but Mother always intervenes before Lysandra can lay down the law. The shortest moment feels like a year when you're a babe.
"Look, let's pretend," Lysandra says. "Mary's going to the healer right now, a man more skilled than Father."
She carries a huge basket—Mother's sewing basket, full of sharp pointy needles and yards of lace. Soft threads. Mother has tried to teach her to thread a needle, but she can't.
"Father can fix her, can't he, Lyssie?"
"I don't know how magic works, and Father's hoeing the potatoes today so he can't tell you."
"She's hurt, Lyssie!"
"Come here, and sit down." Lysandra gestures at the bed. "I have my grimoire and staff right here, and I'm ready for the Fade to help us!"
"You sound silly!"
"Well, if you want her to get better, you have pretend right, don't you? So call on the energy and help me heal her!" Lysandra finds a spool of white thread and, with nimble fingers she can only hope to equal one day, has the end through the eye of a needle in a single deft motion.
"That isn't how magic works!"
"Well, I'm not a mage, am I? That's you, Beth! So, think about Mary all fixed up, in one piece, and we'll heal her."
She hasn't learned to control the power that boils in her. Not yet, though Father has been trying. Instead, she prays to the Maker, to Andraste to intercede as Lysandra slips the needle in and out, and in little time, the arm is back on. Bits of stuffing still spill out between Lysandra's large, even stitches, but as she pulls the doll's dress sleeve down, the stuffing vanishes.
"Look, Beth, she's healed!"
She'll never take the dress off the doll again, just so she can pretend that her Lyssie has worked a miracle. She hugs her big sister, and wishes like always that she'll grow up just like her, and her magic will go away.
She pulled the covers back and lifted her pillow. Fenris gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing as she pulled out Mary, stained from trips across Ferelden, the flight and the boat trip to Kirkwall. She pulled up the sleeve for the first time in years.
"I only wish I could wield a needle half as well. Carver ripped her to bits, but Lyssie 'healed' her using her own kind of magic."
The elf clenched his eyes shut. "As I thought. Likely any child born to us would be cursed as you were."
"That's not true, is it? Lyssie isn't a mage, and you're not."
"Varania is. There's magic on both sides."
"Oh…" Her word was only an exhalation.
"Not that Andra would care, but… Eat your bread and gather your strength."
"Right," she said.
And took another deep breath.