Death and the Maiden

by Gene Dark

AU story from the Landsmeet to the End Game, including the events of Return to Ostagar, Soldier's Peak and Awakenings. General Loghain and Warden-Commander Tabris campaign against the Blight.

17. Chapter 17: Through A Glass, Darkly

AN: I have a confession to make. I didn't manage to cover Ostagar in this chapter. Instead, I went off into a rather self-indulgent tangent that explores the Dalish, Flemeth, hints of the future, some in-game side-quests and my own strange ideas. There are references to too many games, films, songs and novels to list them all: but they include Baldur's Gate 2, LOTR, Anne of Avonlea, The Deed Of Paksennarion, Pink Floyd: Time, The Persian Boy, Shelley's "Ozymandias", The Iliad and The Picture Of Dorian Gray.

Shout-outs go to icey cold and Shakespira - the scene in which Rilian tells the story of the founding of the Wardens comes from our shared fic: "The Grey Tales" (published under Genespira Cold) - and icey kindly shared her notes on the Legacy DLC with me. And to analect - for Leliana's parentage.

The reason I'm putting this AN here is simply to say: if you prefer to cut straight to the darkspawn action, it's entirely possible to skip this chapter. But, before you do, please take a look at the gorgeous pic of Rilian analect has done for me. It's titled "The Warden Sulked In Her Tent" and illustrates the scene from the last chapter. The link (minus spaces) is: shallowline. deviantart art/ The-Warden-Sulked-In-Her-Tent - 285941254 Thank you, analect. You have made my head-canon Rilian. SQUEE!

The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their final blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost-true

What will survive of us is love

An Arundel Tomb, Philip Larkin

Wynne kept her gaze fixed on the pearly, opalescent back of her horse as she followed the others down the trail. A mane as light and fine as the pale glisten of her breath swirled in the chill sharp breeze. Wynne felt the undulating ripple of muscle beneath saddle and traveling cloak; the way the animal delicately lifted half-moon hooves to avoid patches of sharp stone. Despite their rocky start, mage and horse had developed an unspoken understanding: a graceful interplay of muscles Wynne had seldom used before. She wondered that she had ever thought of the mare as a colourless old nag: in the grey-and-rose wash of dawn, she gleamed almost silver.

"And I should know better than to judge a book by its cover," she murmured in apology. The horse whuffled at her, a delicate toss of mane a clear acceptance. "Do you have a name? No - well I shall call you Lady Silverhair."

Loghain had taken the lead, Rylock second - Rilian dropped back to ride beside her. Together, they admired the fiery wash of dawn that gilded the tops of trees within the forest of South Reach as though rose champagne had been poured over them. The sky was bruise-blue and flesh-pink, Wynne thought - and then berated herself for thinking in terms of healing.

"…and dawn appeared rosy-fingered," Rilian quoted dreamily. She had moved the silly mask to sit atop her head - the bright red hair poked through in spiky tufts - and Wynne could see her faraway smile; head tilted up and a little leftward. She took her left arm off the reins to point, just as they crested a ridgeline.

"You see something in the clouds?" Wynne asked, hiding a smile.

The young Elf nodded, trying to look businesslike. "You see those small, soft puffballs, hurrying along from east to west? Shianni told me the Dalish call them rabbits. The wolves will follow: darker, heavier. It's a weather front. She says a storm's coming. It could get dangerous."

Wynne shrugged, the wool of her cloak rustling slightly. It made her feel secure, like a bird nestled within warm feathers. "This mission is already dangerous. And, dangerous or not, that sky is glorious. Many times I used to gaze from the topmost level of the Tower and…" She cut the words off. "That's what you're really doing, isn't it? Just looking."

Rilian grinned sheepishly. "You got me. I was trying to remember an Elven song. My mother taught me. For years, I couldn't bring myself to sing it - until Leliana told me we shouldn't fear death, or hate it. It's a song about the fall of Arlathan. This sky is that music. The notes seem to mourn: soft, wistful. The lute comes in then, heavy. The bass notes surround the voice, like the swell of rain on surf." She blushed faintly. "Anyhow, that's what I was thinking about." Quietly, pure alto voice blending with the rhythm of hooves, chased by the wind, she began:

...As gentle tides go rolling by,
Along the salt sea strand
The colours blend and roll as one
Together in the sand.
And often do the winds entwine
To send their distant call,
The quiet joys of brotherhood,
And love is lord of all.

The oak and weed together rise,
Along the common ground.
The mare and stallion light and dark
Have thunder in their sound.
The rainbow sign, the blended flower
Still have my heart in thrall.
The quiet joys of brotherhood,
And love is lord of all.

But man has come to plough the tide,
The oak lies on the ground.
I hear their pounding in the fields,
They drive the stallion down.
The roses bleed both light and dark,
The winds do seldom call.
The running sands recall the time
When love was lord of all...

As they descended the knoll, their horse's hooves made moon-shaped depressions within the earth, marking the trail behind them. The Drakon River grew larger in their vision: from a circular noose to a long ripple of iron-grey. The dense-packed valley floor was a brown and green mulch of rotting vegetation. It was as if they descended through the dawn: translucent veils of light formed gauzy curtains that transmuted the blood-red orb to a hazy rose lamp. Ravenous howled: a high, mournful sound. A noise like a sigh drifted lightly down from the distant tops of the Dalish trees. Wynne laid a hand gently on the Warden's shoulder.

"I believe you called it," she said, "I think I just heard your lutestrings."

Loghain and Rylock had ridden far ahead - by the time they caught up the Teyrn had dismounted and tied his horse, was pouring a fine powder into four wooden cups. He was squinting into the firepit as they arrived, as though the flames held answers to unspoken questions. Pale smoke drifted gently eastward. It dissipated before it was as high as Ravenous. Instead of the hot mixed grain mash made by Rilian's father, Loghain's breakfast of choice was thick slabs of bread and cheese, with strips of smoked boar. The shredded meat, heavily salted, was mixed with fat and smoked after it was packed in the cleaned gut. Its sharp scent made the mabari's mouth water. Ravenous begged with dignified eloquence. Loghain, chuckling, fed him. Soon he had the mabari eating out of his hand. Rilian shot the dog a reproachful glance.

As the five of them settled down to eat, Wynne said: "Rilian's predicting a storm. What do you think?"

Loghain nodded - looking at the Elf with slightly less disdain than he had done earlier. "It will be heavy." A sharp squall of wind tossed fir needles like a dark green shower of rain. Loghain wolfed down bread, meat and cheese in a few mouthfuls. Before Wynne had had time to massage her aching calves he had risen to his feet. "Let's get moving. I'd like to be down the knoll when the storm breaks."

The descent soon turned sharply steeper. They saw when Loghain's horse slipped, drawing a furrow in the slippery earth, and dismounted.

They came to a point where the grade was easier. A small fountain trickled from beneath an outcropping of rock, meandering like a silken thread to join the iron-coloured snake that rippled below, the muddy opacity of its waters holding the dullness of a rusted shield. For a while they paralleled the stream. Then Loghain gave a short, sharp gesture, indicating they should cross. The grade of the slope eased more. Soon, they were able to remount. One felt the air now: a pulsation that laboured across ground of damp loam, turning the Drakon River to a choppy series of black-and white squares, like a chess-board. On the other side of the river was a wall of thick brooding trunks that marked the edge of the Dalish forest. It was darker. The sky was a shroud of black, plodding clouds. Under her, Rilian's horse shied nervously, pecking at the mulch with quick, erratic hooves. Wynne was proud to find that Lady Silverhair remained quite steady. The horses picked their way carefully through waist-high scrub and gorse. Wynne looked about. Something startled her - a shadow against the dappled darkness. Her heart leapt to her throat before she recognized it was only Ravenous. The dog bounded towards them, circled Rilian, till the Elf relented and reached down to stroke his square slab of a head. A moment later she startled the others by calling triumphantly:

"Spotted!"

A shadow detached itself from deeper darkness. Reluctantly, as though part of the wild, alien landscape. The leathered-armoured archer was small even for an Elven man, but his scarred, shaven head, viper-sharp face and granite-hard presence of purpose were those of a predator. The bone-sharp gauntness of his face - pale as a bleached insect - was set into unyielding planes. Near-colourless eyes seemed to reflect the hues of the forest.

"Pir Surana!" Rilian gave a cheery smile.

The Night Elf returned the greeting with considerably less warmth, thin slash of a mouth twisted in a look of chagrin:

"You couldn't have seen me coming."

Rilian grinned from ear to ear, her Elven face seeming very young, softly-curved and oddly - human - beside this stone-cold killer. "Ravenous' ears were jerking around. They stayed relaxed. It had to be someone friendly. And no-one but a Night Elf could sneak up on Loghain." She scratched behind the mabari's ears. "Big old tattle-tale." Ravenous accepted the affection with a happy bark, wagging his short stub of a tail - an extravagant display that managed to shake his whole backside.

The crags and scars of Loghain's hard-used features twitched in a rare smile: "My compliments. To you and the twenty invisible men surrounding us."

Pir Surana grinned back. The change was radical. In an instant, he was younger, more appealing. He said: "We're not Dalish, but we have some skills. And every man enjoys a brag. Your mabari knows we're here, but not even he's sure exactly where, because the wind's from one direction." He whistled twice. Answers came in quick single bursts, from left to right: a semi-circle of sound that paralleled the curve of the river. The rapid sequence held a sinister, disorienting quality. Wynne tried to count them, but by the fourth - or fifth - she was too confused to continue.

Rilian laughed and winked. "From me, too. But I bet there's only nineteen."

The Night Elf actually smiled at her, flushed with pride.

Rylock was looking chagrined. She thinks it's a personal failure if she can't do absolutely everything. Or maybe she's thinking of the apostates who could elude her with such skills…

The four of them, Ravenous and the Night Elves continued to follow the winding river, heading in a south-westerly arc. Thunder muttered. When the rain came, it whirled through the branches from the east on a suddenly raging wind that made the forest groan. After that first roaring gust, the rain softened. It continued as a swirling beauty that lifted dead leaves from the ground, created a whirling arc of life that belied the death-shrouded valley beyond. Purple, green, brown, like some impressionist painting. The translucent droplets came down like the ghosts of arrow-tips, before blossoming like ephemeral flowers as it struck their armour. Tiny little arcs of glittering beaded brightness that Rilian said reminded her of the bubbles within her glass paperweight. It had never rained in the Tower: Wynne had been nine when she last felt it on her skin and middle-aged before it touched her again. She rode in silence, hunched over. The posture was a mental response: her wool and furs could withstand far worse conditions.

As the day wore towards evening droplets of darkness gathered like mist at the edges of the world. The clouds were like heavy, wet black wool.

"I think we should stop," Rilian said, "The Dalish will let us camp with them. We won't get much further in this downpour."

Loghain scowled - iron will clearly warring with the demands of his middle-aged body and Rilian's logic. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded ascent. For Wynne it was not before time. Her entire body felt like a chill iron bar. Only pride had kept her going - she was not going to prove to Rylock that mages were soft, hothouse flowers...

They dismounted and continued to lead the horses on foot. Pir Surnana led them deeper into the forest - through curtains of rain that parted about deeply-fissured, ancient trunks. A grey-and-black bird ghosted through them to land sideways on one of them. The bark, gnarled as an old man's skin, provided excellent footholds for the tiny, needled feet. The dark-green canopy provided shelter. Wynne drew her cloak more deeply about herself, staring downwards at her feet in their mud-caked boots. With each step, they formed little hollows that soon filled up with grey metallic water. The sibilant, shivering sounds encircled her - the smell of wet, damp loam reminded her of her old friend, Ines Arancia. She had thought Ines crazy for staying out in all weathers to tend the herb-garden the Templars allowed her.

As they moved deeper into the forest, the long shadows closed around them. The strange, aloof trees rustled eerily in the erratic swirling breeze. Wynne shivered slightly, knowing that while the Night Elves and Loghain were almost one with such places, she was truly a stranger here. The sounds did not seem hostile exactly - but furtive and alien and unacquainted. A quick glance over to Rilian and Rylock showed her she was not alone. Rylock was moving with the watchful air of a stranger in a strange land...of course, thought Wynne, with a touch of bitterness, she has hunted in such places before. She hunted Aneirin... Rilian, a City girl born and bred, was blundering through with more eagerness than grace. Wynne winced as she underscored the thought by tripping noisily on a branch. An indoor person of books and parchment, Wynne had never realised the wilderness held a beauty all its own. She, Rylock and Rilian watched as Loghain and the Night Elves disappeared from sight: Loghain in his element, his slow powerful gait silent and oddly graceful, his great bow strapped to his back like a living extension of his body. And Pir Surana: a slight, whip-thin shadow beside Loghain's quiet, purposeful bulk - elegant and menacing as a rapier. They seemed part of the woods - shadows only visible as a deeper darkness against leaves that glistened with rain. Irritated with Loghain for just forging ahead and leaving them here, Wynne glared daggers after his back, until no effort would bring her another glimpse.

It gave her great satisfaction to hear the sharp, heavily-accented voice of a Dalish sentry challenge them:

"Our treaty is with the Warden - not you, shem! Nor are you welcome, Hunter Surana, with the company you keep!"

A big, smug smile spread over Rilian's face.

"Wait here," she said, grinning, "I'll smooth things over."

Rilian cut her way through with speed if not grace - Wynne heard raised voices - that low, silvery tone the Warden used when trying to get her own way. She re-appeared a short while later - beaming.

"Mithra says we can stay tonight - even you, Rylock!"

Rylock gave the young woman a quelling glare. Wynne, alarmed, remembered the legends of the Elven Keepers and their ancient lore...

"Knight-Commander," she said, voice clipped and professional, allowing no trace of her private knowledge of this woman to seep into her tone, "You're here with Rilian on Warden business, not Templar business. Remember that."

"I don't need a mage to inform me of my duty," Rylock snapped. "The mission comes first - but I will not be blind."

"No." Despite herself, a trace of silken laughter worked its way into Wynne's voice, "No-one could accuse a Templar knight of blindness."

The blank look Rylock gave her showed the comment had gone over her head. She gave a curt nod.

Rilian seemed to revel in her status as host:

"Have I ever told you the story of how I saved Lanaya's Clan from the Werewolf curse?" she asked brightly.

She had - several times. Wynne had not been among the Warden's party on that quest - Rilian had taken Morrigan, who knew the ways of the Wilds, and Zevran, her fellow Elf - but her young friend had lost no time in telling the story. To Wynne's surprise, Loghain gave a grunt of encouragement. She herself wished Rilian hadn't chosen this particular moment to tell it. Zathrian's role would only serve to confirm Rylock's worst suspicions...

"Look," she said, to distract her, "Those are stone pillars dotted among the trees: the carvings look to be ancient Tevinter in origin."

Rilian's eyes widened, and she traced the stone with a gentle hand. "Lanaya told me the trees are five hundred years old. To a City Elf, that's ancient - but the time of Arlathan was long before. These trees grew up after the Tevinter Empire fell - and now Elves have reclaimed their own." A dreamy smile touched her face - as though Wynne had answered some important question. "It makes me think of a poem Leliana taught me." She went silent a moment, placed her hand on her breast, and recited:

"…And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away…"

A fringe of trees hung between them and the forest clearing. Rilian's amber eyes were bright as they approached - she looked back at Wynne, Rylock and Loghain, clearly wishing to share their first sight of the camp.

Wynne gave an involuntary exclamation of pleasure. Nestled in a lush valley, tents spread from one edge to the other in concentric circles. Glass lanterns hanging from branches lit the way, coloured red and green like stained glass windows. They spread an iridescent wash of light in a frozen whirlwind of unearthly hues.

"When I was a child," Rilian said softly, "I dreamed I lived in a world with two suns - one red and one green. The nights were red and the days green."

The valley was dotted with young spruces, dark-green in the rain, gilded with the darkly-sparkling wash of coloured light. The rain-clouds hung heavily over them. Suddenly, for one magical moment, the evening sun peeked out between them. The valley flashed instantly into incredibly vivid green. The lanterns shimmered into ruby. The Tevinter pillars gleamed like white marble in the ghostly luminescence - triangular glimpses of misty, white-capped stone - with the inky black clouds over and around them.

"Oh," gasped Rilian, "Look at that song!"

"I should rather call it a picture," Rylock said, "A song is lines and verses."

"No, silly - a song is no more lines and verses than your sword and armour are you. The real song is the soul within them - and that is the soul of an unborn song. I hope I get the chance to write it before..." Her voice trailed off. Her face was quiet, soft and wistful. Following a train of thought Wynne could not guess at, she said:

"I wonder what a soul - a person's soul - would look like? I like to fancy mine as looking like the golden pattern on my armour: the winged vines."

"That," said Rylock disapprovingly, "Is nothing but vanity. We are not supposed to be staring into mirrors in the Golden City. We are as we do."

She strode on ahead, the conversation having clearly used up her store of sociability for the day. Rilian was left staring after her, looking thoughtful.

They were greeted by a Keeper and her First. Rilian explained that Clan Sabrae and Clan Zathrien were camped together. Lanaya had not returned from the army camp, but Elder Marethari made them welcome.

"Andaran atish'an, Grey Warden."

Rilian returned the greeting in slow and careful Dalish, then lapsed into Common to introduce her companions.

Keeper Marethari greeted the Templar and General with cool disinterest - Pir Surana with slightly warmer regard - but met Wynne's eyes with the respect of an equal. Something subtle crackled between them - shared power reached out with curling tendrils. Rylock bristled warningly, managed a perfunctory nod of her head, and stalked away to feed and water her horse, back stiff with the effort at control.

Keeper Marethari was unlike any Elven mage Wynne had ever seen. She was used to elegant Enchanters who glided about the Tower, all cut-glass cheekbones and unreadable eyes. They tended not to show their age - or any emotion whatsoever - a variant of the strange frozen stillness one saw on the faces of Elven servants: a mask or a shield. Keeper Marethari's eyes were dark - beady, glittering black raisins whose lights danced with laughter and cut like arrowy beams. Her nut-brown face was seamed with lines: the green spider-web of her tattoos, lines of laughter, lines of experience. Pale hair as light and fine as spider-silk was blown in all directions by the wind and rain.

"My First: Apprentice Merrill." Wynne found herself swallowed up by enormous green eyes flecked with yellow: ships of gold adrift on a verdant sea. Merrill bowed - a graceful, sweeping gesture that reminded Wynne of a bird alighting upon a branch, delicately poised for flight. Then she straightened up and met the eyes of the much taller Warden:

"Rilian! Oh - it isn't rude to call you by your name, is it? Only - Shianni has told me so much about you I feel as if I know you..."

"Don't worry, Merrill - that's not considered rude where I come from," said Rilian delightedly. The two girls smiled at each other - not as a deliberate politeness but in a spontaneous flowering of comradeship - and the net result was a pleasure that lit the clearing as though sunlight had been poured over it. Rilian started to say something - then stopped, her attention suddenly caught by the heavy gold amulet Merrill wore around her neck.

"I...I have seen that amulet before," she said - and as if her words had called it Wynne felt the current of an alien power: a dark, pulsing heart. "Around the neck of a woman named Flemeth."

A stillness settled upon the gathering. Wynne could feel Loghain's hackles raised like those of an old wolf. Rilian tilted her head up and a little leftward, ears cocked as though trying to catch the echo of an elusive song.

"She told me...she told me: "We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment...and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly." Rilian paused, hesitated. "She was not wearing it when I killed her."

A collective gasp rippled through the clearing.

"Don't say it!" cried Merrill, eyes huge in her heart-shaped face, "She'll hear you..."

"Nonsense, child," Wynne said bracingly - dismayed to see the Warden had gone quite pale. Rilian suddenly bent, scooped up a handful of dark, damp earth, straightened up - and flung it over her shoulder. It was a variant on an Alienage ritual she had never quite grown out of - no matter how many times Wynne had assured her that neither earth nor salt had any effect on spirits whatsoever.

"A shem gave it to me," Merrill said softly, "One of the Teyrn's refugees. Her name is Emily Hawke. She said Ashabellanar rescued her family in Lothering - brought them safely to Gwaren."

Colour rushed back into Rilian's face. "Oh! That's alright, then - I killed her after that. She's not come back to haunt us after all."

Wynne felt the strands of power curl tentatively outward - the blind seeking of a bulb in springtime, sending its roots into the thawing earth - and wondered.

A group of Dalish archers materialised from between surrounding trees. They'd obviously been ready to attack, if necessary. Now they bounded forward, brandishing double-curved bows, moving so effortlessly, so swiftly, Wynne was reminded of the whistling flight of the hawk. Dressed in cloth that matched the colours of earth and wood, their faces were tattooed in odd, asymmetrical designs.

One - a young man with russet hair and tattoos that looked newer and fresher than the deeply-ingrained ink on the faces of the others - stepped forward to greet Rilian.

"Warden - I knew you'd return! And - what is that...?"

"Hello, Cammen," Rilian replied, a big, pleased smile spreading across her face. Wynne could tell she was delighted to be asked. She hefted the crossbow strapped to her back and held it out to him with careful hands. Her only other weapons were small sacks of black powder and twin daggers belted about her waist - the Hurlock General had snapped her longer Dalish blade.

"This beauty was built by me, a pair of Dwarven brothers named Dworkin and Voldrik Glavonak, and a shem noble named Nathaniel Howe. It's based on the design of one Varric Tethras and his friend Gerav, whom Nathaniel met in Kirkwall. I know Gerav too - he's a Carta member who used to trade with my supervisor down the Docks...but you don't want to know about all that!"

Wynne watched as the young hunter studied the sleek, alien object with fascinated eyes. Rilian rotated the chamber, demonstrating the mechanism that allowed six bolts to be loosed in rapid succession.

"And this," she added, missing the narrow-eyed disapproval on the faces of the other Dalish by a mile, "Was my invention. See how I've centred the spyglass at the top. When you look through, you can see for miles. You try... Now - move the small wooden arrow over your target - then turn this dial to add your estimated windage. You'll hit your man ninety-nine times out of a hundred."

The stock of polished mahogany begged to be held - the shining steel bolts and blue-glinting glass dazzled with technical lordliness. Yet it reeked of cold killing. Death in steel and wood: it seemed to want to fire, to flaunt its power.

Another young hunter hawked and spat. "Where is the honour in letting a machine take the place of skill - of years of dedication? You are a good leader, Warden - but not half the warrior your cousin is."

Loghain said nothing - but managed to convey his own disdain with a meaningful heft of his composite longbow: a gleaming six-foot arc of power and grace.

Rilian smiled - a bit wry, a bit hurt. "Nor half the person. And - be sure you treat her right, Cale. But as for the crossbow: darkspawn don't care what kills them. Is my contribution worth less than yours because it's based on intelligence instead of skill?"

Wynne bent close to the young woman - cowl softly brushing the bouncy red hair - pitched her words for Rilian's ears alone: "Is your responsibility less if we lose?"

Rilian's eyes flew open. She drew her arms across her chest - pulled her cloak tighter - compressed herself into a snug, comfortably warm ball. She turned to face Wynne, confiding, peering up beneath her hood. Its shadows emphasised the broad, strong sweep of high cheekbones; the lantern-light illuminated the seeking eyes. Slightly knitted brows lent power to the smallest change of expression.

"Damn," she said softly, "You did it again, didn't you? Made me answer the question I refused to ask myself."

Wynne smiled - a touch of wistful melancholy behind her amusement - and whispered: "Mages have been asking themselves that question for generations." She immediately tightened her lips over the echo.

"Do not worry, Warden," Pir Surana murmured - eyeing the young woman with a warmer regard than he had shown before. A dark grin curved his thin slash of a mouth. "The traditions, dedication and training of chevaliers did not help them against us. The better warrior is the one left standing: that is the definition of war." Too quietly for Loghain to hear, he added, "The General would be only too happy to turn this weapon on Orlais - if he were not also thinking of the Alienages turning it on him."

Wynne saw in that instant that the Night Elves had not forgotten Loghain's betrayal - nor, apparently, forgiven. Rilian snorted with laughter.

"I'll make you a deal," she said, eyes sparkling, "I'll teach you to make one - if you teach me stealth?"

"Now?"

Rilian turned questioning eyes to Wynne, who smiled. "I'm sure us old folks will find ways to amuse ourselves while you're gone."

Loghain and Cale were eyeing each other like two stranger dogs, hackles raised: a grizzled old alpha intruding on the territory of a whip-thin young predator.

"Can you do anything with that bow besides show off, shem?" Cale wanted to know.

Bristling, Loghain replied: "We Fereldens could teach you a thing or two about archery."

"That sounds like a challenge, shem." Dark eyebrows were raised; startlingly blue eyes peered from an angular, fierce face painted in geometric designs.

In the end, Loghain, the Dalish hunters, the Night Elves and Rilian all headed for the archery range after feeding and tethering their horses. Wynne took care of Lady Silverhair - then Merrill rather shyly offered to show her round the camp.

Wynne looked into the young, eager face. Merrill was not even five-foot - barely came up to her shoulder - and the gnarled heartwood staff she carried looked sturdier. That, coupled with the enormous eyes and gawky enthusiasm, made her seem very young. But there was no mistaking the spiky green mana field that swirled around her like spring leaves around branches. This was someone she would have been proud to mentor, had fate brought her to the Circle...which, through the formula of association that wove a lifetime's memories to a single tapestry, left her thinking of Aneirin...

"That is very kind of you," she said gently. She wrapped her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and picked her way carefully across the green-glowing, rain-slick grass, scented with sage and violets. She revelled in the valley, emblazoned by the concentric rings of Dalish tents. They were made of thin, pliant leather dyed in bold colours: jewel bright against the duns and greens beyond. The rainwashed blur of the lanterns emphasised the sharper greens and reds of the cloth. Sky-blue was repeated occasionally - intensified elsewhere to sapphire or turquoise. Splashes of yellow and orange made her think of the summer gone by - the summer spent campaigning, when the rugged Ferelden hills would concentrate the sun's heat, turning the Warden's camp to an oven. Merrill explained the leather was also treated with a secret compound of beeswax and plant extracts that made them waterproof.

"It's the same as we use on armour and aravel sails. The legends say a boy made the first piece. He wasn't strong enough to bend a bow - and he was small. But one day he learned to use what the forest gave him and other secret things he discovered - all by himself - to make this material. See: he showed the Elder you don't have to be experienced to be important and useful."

Merrill told her that in winter the tents were double-hung with woollen interior blankets to retain heat. One identified families by the pennon in front of every dwelling or by symbols painted onto the leather. The larger symbol was common to all: for Clan Sabrae, the white antlers of the halla, most precious of creatures. In the centre of the gathering, a much larger tent dominated the rest. Outside, on starkly-cleared ground, an array of carved logs and spread blankets circled a blazing fire. A canopy kept out the rain. An elderly Elven couple were already sat there, while a gaggle of children played at their feet.

"I could give you the rest of the tour?" Merrill offered hopefully, "There's so much more to see."

Indeed there would be, Wynne thought with a little sigh, wanting nothing more than to rest her tired body - and Merrill liked to see it all thoroughly, with an attention to detail that was both loving and obsessive. For instance, to Wynne each tent served the same function: a place where families slept, ate, talked and laughed. Yet to Merrill each was worth looking at closely - each had virtues and drawbacks that required evaluation - each prospered or declined according to factors which she took pains to understand. She knew exactly where the tent pegs were laid, and how many yards of rope they required. She knew which Clan had first conceived the idea of making rope that particular way - and why it was superior to the method used before. The Dalish, she explained, recovered the skills of the past only slowly - and shared them once a decade in a meeting of Clans called the Arlathvhen. Merrill knew which human settlements the Dalish traded with for supplies of salt - and how long they would last in an emergency. And she knew every child they passed by name, parentage, and predilection for mischief.

In short, Wynne discovered she had only two choices: she could cut off the rest of the tour, or let Merrill say whatever she wanted. As with Rilian and her desire to remake the world - Rylock and her faith - or Loghain and his patriotism - there wasn't any middle ground.

And I? I love the Circle as much as Merrill loves her Clan. To protect it, I became what no mage should ever be. Perhaps we are not so different...

"I would love to," she said, smiling.

As a result, time seemed to evaporate the way complexities did when she analysed them. She found that in Merrill's company she did very little except smile. The young woman filled her alternately with amusement and affection. Merrill was perfectly capable of distinguishing between good workmanship and bad, between forethought and its absence - but she liked everybody around her, and loved the details she expounded. The more she talked, the more gentle and companionable she seemed. And the more Wynne listened, the more she could feel her tensions and fears going to sleep. To the west, beyond the bordering trees, the Blight seeped towards them like spreading ink, wringing colour from earth and sky, altering everything it touched. To the north-east, preparations for war were being made. But that didn't come near them now: Merrill seemed to carry peace with her wherever she went. She wasn't just amusing, likeable and meticulous: she was a healer. By the time they stood at the western edge of camp, Wynne's legs hurt gently from so much walking, and her boots had rubbed a sore place onto one of her toes, and her heart was full of rest for the first time since Uldred's rebellion. Now, she thought, all she needed was one really good night's sleep, and she would be ready to face the ghosts of Ostagar.

They passed an amazing structure: half-wagon and half-ship. Wooden wheels supported a long galley, carved with windows shaped like arrow-heads. High masts and billowing sails formed a masterwork of sweeping curvature; a red-and-green banner fluttered in the wind, dark and heavy with rain. Wynne thought of a ship, braced to meet a storm.

"This is our aravel - the landship that carries the Clan swiftly and truly. With wind and magic, they cut their way across the landscape like swans across a lake - as though the sails were wings. I cannot wait for Master Varathorn to finish the Warden's gilder!"

Carried on the wings of her own enthusiasm, Merrill led Wynne over to a particularly large tent. Its entire eastern side was thrown open to catch the last of the day's light and as much fresh air as possible. A short distance to the side stood an elongated furnace about five feet high, its fires generating a steady bass rumble. The clay wall sealing the front end portrayed the diamond-white face and glittering antlers of a halla. A ceramic plug filled the mouth opening; another smaller one blocked a hole in the left eye. Heat-shimmer radiated from the furnace in a rainbow shield...the land beyond was obscured and distorted as a vista of the Fade. Little glittering blisters of rain struck the shield and burst apart into steam, with the hissing of a thousand snakes. As they watched, a wiry Elven man with iron-grey war-braids and skin brown as old tree bark yanked the smaller plug to inspect the fiery interior. Looking up, he saw them. He replaced the plug and waited, sinewy forearms folded across an apron streaked with sweat and soot.

"Greetings, stranger. My name is Master Varathorn: smith and craftsman. And you, little Merrill - I never see you anymore."

"You used to make necklaces and jewellery. Now it's just war things. Why would I come here?"

"To brighten my day. Maybe I'll even find time to make a bracelet for you."

Merrill giggled. "This is Enchanter Wynne, who travels with the Warden."

Master Varathorn turned to her. "What can I show you, Enchanter?" he asked formally. It was the reserve all Dalish except Merrill showed with humans: polite, but with the underlying message that friendship did not - and should not - cross racial boundaries. He stepped to a machine and patted it proudly. "As good as any in your cities," he said - with a faint hint of challenge. "A lathe, for arrow shafts. Every one exactly like any other. Do you know anything of my art?"

Wynne hesitated, weighing the narrowed, leaf-green eyes in front of her. She overcame decades of conditioning to let a trace of her healing magic bleed from her hands, knowing the Dalish attitude to magic was unlike any other. The blue glow made the pale rain glimmer like fireflies: water shimmered into a diffuse wash of light.

"I know that the damage done by your wicked toys forces me to use my art."

His eyes went wide - a low chuckle escaped him. For an instant, the veil of separation that cloaked him was torn. "I wish my blades had an edge like your tongue!"

Wynne smiled. "I came to ask about the Warden's glider."

"The prototype is ready - but I have not been able to test it. She would need to do that, from high ground. Come - I will show you."

He led them to his wagon, which doubled as his shop. During the day, wares were displayed on long tables outside. Now the wagon was battened down, the wind knocking against the sides with icy fingers. He led them up rain-slick wooden steps that creaked like Wynne's tired knees, opened the door in the back and lit a narrow tapering candle that cast a watery uncertain glow. Inside, the space was one of strange shadows and alluring corners. Finely-crafted toys and tools and treasures were piled high on shelves. Weapon racks were obscure, hulking blacknesses bristling with sharp edges. Shadows leapt and writhed like dark flames as Varathorn moved the candle here and there. Wynne's attention was caught by a long glistening ripple that flowed about a stand like water. It was a chainmail hauberk, made of silverite, lighter and finer than any she had ever seen. She felt the tingle of enchantment in her fingertips: subtly different from the clean white crackle of the lyrium used by the Formari.

"Did you make this?" she asked wonderingly.

A subtle change swept over the craftsman's face. The intensity was too great to escape her, yet as swift and vague as cloud shadow. "There are rituals - special prayers - that date from the time of Arlathan. In that time all Elves possessed the gift of creation. Now our Keepers - our craftsmen - our singers - all possess facets of that gift. Your kind learned these things from us. Learned - or inherited."

Wynne yearned to duel with him - challenge him to say more. Years of being watched by the Chantry - of weighing every word - had bred a caution that was part of her. She said nothing, and he turned away - pointed to an enormous carrying case, hung from the ceiling. Even diagonally, it barely fit.

"The dismantled glider is in there. To keep away prying eyes, I told the Clan it's full of poison spears. Only the three of us know the truth." He winked - the look of one enjoying a good secret. Quiet satisfaction created a shy inner glow. "Tell the Warden she can collect it at first light."

They bade farewell to Master Varathorn, and Wynne descended the steps carefully. The rain fell in baubles of pale light, running down boots and cloak in ephemeral silver snail-trails. There was no smell like wet grass, and at no time was it so full of delicate promise as in the evening. The smell accumulated potency during the day, until the rain at dusk brought out an aroma so robust it fell to the earth, oozing down slopes and into footprints and hollows, filling them like syrup. In this strange and alien camp, the tang filled Wynne with a rending mix of sadness and determination. The suggestion of life and growth strengthened her resolve, even as haunting reminiscences of Ostagar made her ache to abandon the journey. Merrill brought her right to the edge of camp, and she was struck by the sight of long walkways connecting the circling trees, upon which Dalish sentries patrolled. They were disturbingly delicate rope bridges, flung between sturdy branches in airy, graceful openness. She hoped she'd never have to cross one. To the east, the trees of the Brecilian forest were dark - the setting sun having passed behind, leaving them in shadow. They were faceless, hulking, vaguely threatening shapes that seemed to be closing in, reaching with skeletal fingers. To the south was an enormous lake whose chill grey waters gleamed like a giant silver coin.

"It reminds me of an old story: we say there was once a young Dalish who yearned for the glory of the stars. Fen'Harel the Trickster offered him the stars on a silver blanket, in exchange for all the ironbark the Clan possessed. The hunter agreed to the bargain, but when he had given away the precious ironbark, Fen'Harel brought him to a lake at night, where the stars were mere reflections. Keeper Marethari tells me that story as a warning."

The setting sun cast tree-branches as long shadows across the water, turning the glassy smoothness to the shards of a cracked mirror. Droplets of rain made ringlets of shadow: amorphous holes that continuously expanded then collapsed to nothingness.

Merrill pointed out the small island that jutted from the centre of the lake. A curious six-sided hut stood upon it. Seeing her questioning look, Merrill waved her arms happily. "It's a bathhouse - built over a place where steam billows from hot springs. Clan lore insists that cleanliness fights infection. I don't know exactly how - but dirt makes the sick weaker and sometimes causes the smallest wounds to bring death."

Wynne reluctantly acknowledged that she herself did not know more than that. Which was irritating, because one of the chief benefits of growing old in the Circle was knowing more than young apprentices. Then another, darker thought occurred to her:

"Hot springs come from lava - that would make this forest close to the Deep Roads."

"Oh - yes - but Keeper Marethari says the Deep Roads stretch all over Ferelden. There have never been sightings of darkspawn, and there's no shortage of game. Although personally I think the Keeper's main reason for wintering here is to soak her old bones in that hot water!"

Wynne's lips twitched. She hastily strove for a severe expression. "It's very naughty of you to speak so disrespectfully of your Elder."

Merrill giggled.

In a little valley to the north Merrill pointed out the grazing herd of halla. Their fleet curves and shimmering antlers were the very image of grace. "The halla are as important to our people as water. Any shem war-party would be fools to engage our aravel with our team of halla to pull it! Look - there's Elora..."

Merrill started towards a pale-haired middle-aged Elven woman whose facial tattoos were intricate swirls like falling leaves. The woman was kneeling beside one of the creatures, running one hand along the arched, flowing line of the silvery neck. There was some quiet power of mastery about those slender, callused hands; the absorbed down-bent face. The halla shivered all over. Wynne stared into enormous purple-brown eyes flecked with gold. They were strained - the ears nearly flat. She kept a careful distance - not wanting to startle the creature - but after a moment the Elven woman looked up.

"Ah, Merrill, and - stranger...please excuse my lack of courtesy."

Wynne shook her head quickly. "Oh no - don't let me disturb you! I wonder, though, if I could help? I am a mage - and a healer..."

"Hmm. I can find no wound on her - but she is agitated. I'm worried she has been affected by the Werewolf curse. It would not affect her in the same way...but it would still be lethal."

Hesitantly, Wynne came closer - close enough to look into the great eyes, with their oblong irises, long upper lashes, and almost-human intelligence. She murmured soft, inarticulate reassurances. She approached, ran her hand soothingly over the satiny coat.

"There now, I won't hurt you..." At the touch, the halla quieted...as she did with her human patients, Wynne felt suddenly more than herself: she had four strong legs...another heartbeat joined her own - slower, deeper, stronger...her breaths came on the shadow of another's. She felt something lighter and more tremulous than the heavy red darkness of pain - a grey shadow - yet her hands still prickled and burned with the blue-hot wash of lyrium. The halla was not sick - was she supposed to heal her fear? Light flickered inside her - it pushed against the shadow - like the play of moonlight on dark water. She could just remember, in her early childhood, hiding in the barn that was refuge from the boy who tormented her mercilessly, afraid of the dark that swallowed up her little candle. It had seemed the dark was stronger - because however fast light travelled, the dark was there before it - but the blue flame had pushed it aside. She had realised the light was stronger - because it existed by itself, and shadows only when something stood before it. With a sudden lift, she felt it take her over: an exhilaration like no other, unless birds felt that way, swooping and gliding. She let herself flow with it, becoming the river of light...and felt the slow withdrawal of something poisonous.

"You did it! You calmed her - I did not think it possible. Now she is ready to tell me what's wrong..."

Merrill was waiting for her - an awed light in her jewel-bright eyes - as Wynne quietly took her leave. "What did you do?"

Wynne found herself explaining - far more patiently than she had done with poor Aneirin - and Merrill answered with stories of her own studies.

In this way, they passed the time while Merrill led her in a roundabout route back to the gathering. Wynne had enjoyed herself so much that when Merrill started to bid her farewell she didn't want her to leave. "Where are you going?" she asked, to forestall her.

This time Merrill's smile was shy in a new way - self-conscious about things that hadn't come up before. "Keeper Marethari likes me to help cook for the Clan. She says just having magic isn't an excuse not to do normal everyday things. And it uses up some of my energy, so I go to bed more easily."

The thought of this earnest young woman learning culinary skills delighted Wynne. Guiltily, she recalled how the mages of the Tower relied entirely on the Tranquil for practical chores. It was as if the divide between those who passed their Harrowings and those who chose the Rite - or had it forced on them - marked the divide between gentry and servant. The mages - so subservient to the orders of the Templars - needed to feel superior to someone. Even less honourably, it was the Lucrosian faction who encouraged a certain quota of Tranquil to be created each year. The Chantry had other sources of funds - lands and tithes - but the mages had only the goods traded by the Formari to grant them a modicum of independence.

Not to mention - she herself had been quite happy to rely on Morrigan's skills at hunting and preparing food. The apostate had carried the party: for Wynne had chosen darning as her way of contributing, Rilian, Alistair and Oghren couldn't manage a burned stew between them, Sten had thought it women's work, and Zevran and Leliana had often been away, keeping ears to the ground in major towns.

Impulsively, because Merrill had done her so much good and hadn't asked for anything in return, she leaned forward and gave her a quick hug.

Merrill's eyes widened - she stared at Wynne a moment. Then she ducked her head as though she were blushing. Pleasure seemed to radiate from her like sunlight. "I think you and Keeper Marethari would like each other," she said softly, "She's the only other person who's ever been so patient with me."

Together, Merrill and Wynne waded into the bustle that was the main tent. On the ground outside, what looked like the entire Clan lounged on the log benches and spread blankets. Rain thudded onto the waterproof canopy, but didn't touch them. A massive campfire hissed and blazed as though a rage demon were trapped within; smoke billowed sideways from the shelter, blown into strange cloud-shapes by the wind. Keeper Marethari was stirring what looked like enough stew to feed half the army. Her cheeks were red with heat and exertion; sweat made her silvery-fine strands of hair stick to the sides of her face in streaks. Behind her, Elven men and women clattered about, setting platters and pitchers onto the blankets, bringing pots and tureens and trays. In one corner, two children were arguing hotly: the only part of the discussion Wynne could make out went: "Did so. Did not. Did so! Did not!" An elderly man fixed a string to a beautifully-carved lute, testing its qualities...two young hunters discussed something intently, raising their voices to make themselves heard.

For a second, the clamour seemed so intimidating - so at odds with the peace inside her - Wynne was tempted to turn away. Nothing in her life in the Tower had prepared her for this.

But then Keeper Marethari raised her head, saw Wynne together with Merrill, and smiled. Her pleasure changed the meaning of the din. Suddenly, Wynne understood that the Keeper was in her element, flourishing precisely because her Clan were so busy, so noisy, so full of themselves and each other. And then Wynne understood that the clamour was just another form of peace: hot and hectic, of course - not particularly restful to a novice like herself - but completely without fear.

The hunters had returned - and brought back an enormous wild boar. Wynne saw Loghain being congratulated, demonstrating his killing shot with an uncharacteristic flourish. Cale Mahariel, looking a touch put out, had sat down and was placing a set of carved ivory pieces upon a black-and-white checked board with delicate care. Wynne noticed with a touch of amusement that half the pieces were carved to represent Templars and clerics; the other half were Elven archers and mages. The two large pieces at opposite ends of the Elven ranks were aravels. Cale sent Loghain a challenging gesture - clearly wishing to test him at something else. The Teyrn grunted and settled down to play.

Rilian had swapped her crossbow for a longbow she carried awkwardly on her back - Pir Surana was holding Dworkin's invention.

"Ah - did you get in some practice?" Wynne asked her.

Rilian's face crumpled; a plaintive note crept into her voice. "I try and try, and it's just sad. Arrows go everywhere - as though the birds whose feathers fletch the shafts take control and fly them in all directions. Loghain is calling me Cloudkiller." She gestured at him with her sharp chin and crinkled her nose.

Rilian returned the longbow to its rightful owner and she and Wynne sidled forward to watch Merrill help the Keeper with the boar. The young Warden's eyes rounded when Merrill pressed a fine steel knife into her hands. She held it limply - then squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and gamely made to remove a ham. Merrill practically screamed at her to stop. Rilian obeyed with pitiful eagerness, and Merrill took over, demonstrating. She cut circles around all four legs, just at the knees joints. Another cut circled the neck, a bit forward of the shoulders. From there, she slit down the length of the body. Smaller lines were drawn from the leg cuts to join the body cut. Then she showed Rilian how to slip the knife under the hide and, lifting a small section at a time, separate it.

"We use all parts of the animal," Merrill explained she worked. "The hide can be made into boots...the sinews into cords; bladder and stomach into water-containers. The hair can make brushes - the tusks: well, you see Cales's chess pieces. I have a beautiful ivory comb. Most important is the fat - for salves, for candles, for cooking."

In a short while, the hide sagged between two poles like a bloody, hairy hammock. Rilian stared at the skinned animal in frank horror.

"This is where my favourite pork scratchings come from?"

"City Elf," Merrill giggled, rolling her eyes, "Pork doesn't grow in shem shops, you know."

Showing no mercy, she had Rilian open the body cavity. She made her remove the liver, producing a cloth for her to lay it on. She cut away the lard from the kidneys. "Looks healthy. Already fattened up for winter." Merrill divided the rest of the meat between Keeper Marethari's stew and trail rations for the trip to Ostagar. She made a smaller fire to render the lard, then darted back to her tent. She returned with a well-used leather bag. Scrabbling around in its depths, she retrieved a bundle of willow-bark strips and a squat ceramic jug that contained garlic. She crushed the garlic to a pulp with a small mortar and pestle. Willow shavings and garlic went into the pot with the lard.

In the end all that was left was the offal. Rilian looked at it and swallowed noisily. An unfortunate shift in wind direction sent the odour of blood straight up her nostrils. She gagged, turned green, and moved backward with uncharacteristic speed and grace. Then she stopped - noticed Merrill's meaningful look - and blanched.

"Why me?" she wanted to know.

"Leader's privilege," answered Merrill chirpily. Wynne was blunter: "Because Loghain and the hunters killed the animal, Merrill is cooking and I'm an old woman."

Rilian turned pale - looked around for help and, finding none, gathered the stinking mass into a bundle. She hurried away, desperate to be rid of it.

Merrill rummaged in the leather bag once more. This time she produced a box as long and wide as her hand and about two fingers deep. It held a flour-fine powder. Measuring carefully, frowning in concentration, she added it to the mixture. Seeing Wynne's interest, she said: "Valerian. We call it heal-all. It relaxes the muscles."

Wynne laughed. "Do I seem all that tense?"

"Not you. Your poor Templar, though. When I was on my way to my tent, I passed her and invited her to our gathering. She looked at me as though I were an approaching darkspawn and said she preferred an early night. She was setting up her tent when I left."

"Ah, yes," said Wynne, with a wry smile, "Good of the Knight-Commander to do that for myself and the Warden, since we three will be sharing."

"Oh no!" Merrill protested, eyes wide. "I mean - Rilian can share with the Templar: but you're an Elder! And a healer. You will have my tent - I will share with the Keeper."

Wynne was careful to hide a smug smile.

Merrill stirred the melted lard, sniffed judiciously, tasted the mixture. Wynne watched in a silence so companionable the aching and burning of her muscles slipped away. She nodded off, head lolling.

When she woke, Rilian had returned.

"The cuts I mean to smoke for you and your party are soaking now," Merrill said brightly. "With the army rationing, I don't have enough salt for a brine, so I've made a hot pickle."

Rilian met Merrill's too-innocent smile. The feathery red brows went up. "You laced it with peppers, didn't you?"

Merrill laughed. "Lots. It preserves the meat."

"Where is this poison?"

Merrill pointed at a waterproof basket. Rilian lifted the lid cautiously, sniffed the brew inside. Gasping, she stepped back and clapped the lid back on. "Murder," she breathed.

Archly, Merrill dipped a slender finger into the liquid, tasted it. She blinked rapidly, then sighed. "Ooh good. Just right." Her eyes sparkled. Wynne knew it was as much from tears as high spirits.

"It's even hot for you. It'll fry us poor shems and flat-ears."

"Maybe. But what a way to go, right?"

Rilian giggled.

Merrill added, "There's mint and thyme in there too. It's not just peppers. You'll love it."

"Sure." Rilian's exaggerated eyeroll sent Merrill into gales of laughter.

Before long, humans, Night Elves, City Elf and Dalish were eating together companionably. The campfire glimmered in a red-gold dance. Cale managed to defeat Loghain in chess, and Loghain drowned his sorrows in his bowl of stew. Wynne sat with as much grace as she could manage upon a log, wooden bowl in her lap, while Rilian sprawled in front of her, lying on her side with the indolence of a noble - or a small child - polishing off her helping with the famous Grey Warden appetite. Loghain finished his stew and went over to Wynne, Rilian, and the Keeper.

"I want to thank you for your shelter and supplies," he said to Marethari, "And to tell you of my strategies for the Dalish and Ferelden archers during the defence of Ostagar. Perhaps you can think of something I've missed."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Wynne understood it was unheard of for Loghain to miss anything - or to ask military advice of an Elven mage. It was a sign of his gratitude - the greatest courtesy he could think of. Keeper Marethari looked a little sceptical. Nonetheless she nodded. Clearly, concisely, Loghain began to outline his specific arrangements.

Wynne couldn't absorb them. In fact, she heard only every third word - the rest was lost in the chorus of bickering that had broken out between the two squabbling Dalish children: "Keeper, it's her fault!" - "No, it's his fault!" - "She did it first!" - "He did it first!" And she couldn't help but notice that even Marethari appeared more interested in this than in Loghain's preparations. Feeling vaguely irresponsible - but not enough to worry about it - she relaxed and let her thoughts drift on the tides of the Fade that washed gently through the back of her mind like a dream of colour.

The rest of the evening went smoothly, albeit strangely, as the threads of understanding between Elf, human, mage and non-mage reached out delicately and entwined into a fabric fragile as gossamer thread. The knitting metaphor was hers, Wynne thought - Rilian would have described it as separate musical notes forming a single chord. If the conversation was sometimes a shade forced, it was never without warmth. Droplets of rain glimmered through the dark framework of sky and branches, thrumming upon the canopy that sheltered them. The circle of firelight formed a cosy orange glow that gilded it to molten gold. The setting sun was a flaming arc of red and purple. Rilian sat up, wrapped her arms about her shins, and stared silently, caught in that splendour. One hand stroked the mabari's soft, bristly fur...the dog raised his voice in a howl that melded with her misted dreams and soared.

The elderly Elven lute player took centre stage; commanded the gathering. A fine tremor shook his hands - but the rich timbre of his voice revealed a wealth of experience, of years of perfecting his craft. Rilian listened in hushed awe as the dance of music and firelight curled around them. The entire gathering followed suit, listening to his story of the Dread Wolf.

"That was wonderful," Wynne said to him afterwards. The storyteller looked at her blankly for a moment - and Wynne caught the intimation that he felt as she did when coming out of the trance of magic to find herself, once more, cast down into the grey rain-swept world. Then his seamed face crinkled in momentary suspicion. Ah, Wynne thought, while many Dalish have thawed towards us, this man will never accept humans...

"Elder Sarel: this is Enchanter Wynne, a healer from the Circle of Magi," Merrill introduced her - the pride in her voice clearly showing she expected him to treat Wynne with respect. Only now, even more troublingly, suspicion had been replaced with - something else? A flicker of...recognition?

"Enchanter Wynne? I know that name. The stranger - Aneirin - spoke of you."

Icy shock grasped Wynne's heart like a fist.

"You - you've seen - no, it's not possible!" she choked out. "He was dead. The Templars killed him." Rylock killed him...

"Nonetheless, he lives. He makes his home outside our camp. He tasked me to give you this."

Lost in the blurred sight of the space between the storyteller's face and her own feet in their mud-caked boots, Wynne took the amulet in silence.

"And to tell you he is not angry, nor hurt anymore."

A gentle arm fell about her shoulders. Rilian hugged her, the soft tickle of her breath blowing Wynne's fine pale hair into patterns like falling thistledown. Rilian had been the only person to whom she had told that story.

Wynne finally found courage to meet the storyteller's eyes. They were the pale, lucent green of a river on a misty morning, and hid secrets the way the water's quiet surface hid its bounty.

"Is that why he stayed away from camp? For fear the Knight-Commander would recognise him? I would not have let her..."

"No - that's not the reason. We share food, but the Keeper does not allow him to live with us."

"Because he's not Dalish?" Wynne asked sharply, angry and disappointed. She had expected better of the Keeper.

The storyteller's next words were a bodyblow.

"No. Because no man survives a sword through the chest. Not without - intervention."

The swirling noise and colour and life of the camp seemed to be folding in on itself, like the petals of a closing flower. Reality seemed to leach away, thinned and bled white.

"An - abomination?"

"He's not!" Merrill blurted out furiously, glaring at both Keeper and storyteller. "I take him food - and he is kind and sane and decent! Even if he were saved by a demon, what would it matter? Demons are just spirits - like honour or joy. It's not their fault they are what they are."

"But all spirits are desire demons of a kind, child," Marethari said quietly, "Indeed it is the ones that represent virtues that are the most dangerous. Rage - Lust - Pride - can be overcome. What mortal could resist the promise of Valour - of Justice - of Faith? Yet these can only be a shadow and a thought: because true valour, true justice, true faith, come from within - though suffering and struggle."

Unease crawled like ants along Wynne's spine. She had never considered that before. She did know that while these pale shadows might be completely harmless in their own world, once uprooted they were vulnerable to the vagaries of the physical realm: the world of sensation - the temptations - the violent emotions of their hosts...it was why she kept herself aloof, and under guard. She had shared her secret with only one person - and Rilian demonstrated her loyalty now: a loyalty that Wynne appreciated more than she could express:

"Who can judge another person's soul?" the Warden countered fiercely, "Only the Maker - the Creators, you would say - can do that. I say we can only judge by actions. It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If those are lacking, if the person remains himself, then that's good enough for me. A bad tree cannot bear good fruit, nor a good tree bad fruit."

Wynne could only hope that Loghain had not guessed her secret. She knew he was not above using the knowledge to make her his personal weapon, holding the Chantry's sword over her head as she suspected he planned to do with Jowan. And Rylock - Rylock must never know. It was not only her Sword of Mercy Wynne feared: it was the look of betrayal in those dark eyes. Rylock already suffered shame over what they had done on that night of grass and darkness - if she knew the truth, she would feel as though she had lain with a snake: as if the high, unlovely, unloving intelligence of a demon had been watching her the whole time...a reminder of what that long-ago Blood Mage had done to her.

Keeper Marethari was looking from the Warden to Merrill with a strange expression: a mingling of affection and sorrow in her dark, bright eyes.

"I should like to tell a story," she said, "A story about a tree and its fruit."

She passed into the circle of firelight and raised her arms. Fingers fragile as leafless twigs traced intricate gestures. Her quiet presence of purpose commanded the eyes of all. The dull red glow of the fire painted her skin like ash.

"Long ago, in the time of Arlathan, the world and stars were held within the branches of a tree of silver: the Tree of Life."

Wynne remembered the Mountain of the Sacred Ashes - how the veins of lyrium had run like streams of silver through the rock: like the branches of a tree...

"It's like our religion," Rilian whispered excitedly, "The Golden City - the streets with music for cobblestones, and banners which flew without wind. They say the Maker formed the world out of the Waters of the Fade. I like the Tree better. Did you know I used to dream that the marbles my mother gave me were really worlds, somehow huge and tiny at the same time?"

"And the Creators made Elves their first-born: never-dying, never-changing. But with the creation of the second-born - the younger, hungrier race of men - time and death bled into the world that had been ageless."

The sun was descending in a blaze of glory, turning the leaves of autumnal trees into scarlet candleflame forms. They writhed in the wind like sulky little demons; fell from branches to float in puddles of rainwater like delicate curling ships. The branches seemed to hold up the forest canopy like strips of lead in stained-glass windows. The glass would be green in springtime, Wynne mused - and remembered the green filigree of leaves that had brushed against the third-floor Tower window - how she could see but not touch - how squalls of wind had driven icy needles of rain to strike the glass. It had made her uncomfortable - a reminder that in the world outside the timelessness of the Circle, the seasons changed. It was easy to forget that - to become lost in the forever of dusty parchment and engrossing studies and unchanging routines...until that window at night threw up her reflection: showed her the first line on her forehead - her first silver-white hair...

Wynne vividly remembered those milestones of life - more vividly for the bubble in which she had been forced to live: the moment she first came to the Circle and left childhood behind forever - the wonderful hour when the touch of another mage changed her from girl to woman - the chilling hour when she faced that dark mirror and realised that youth was behind her. The setting sun had seemed blood-red - an enemy that chased her, always coming up behind her - itself unchanged, while she was twenty-four hours older. A little shorter of breath, and one day closer to death. And every one of her son's birthdays had stabbed her like a knife through the heart.

He would be twenty-two now.

"There were those among the People who said that this was simply the way of things: that there was a time to be born and to die, to remember the past and adapt to the future. That nothing was forever: that lives rose and fell like trees, like...like wheat, even brief as that is. That the end of immortality is the beginning of life. But others would not listen. They would not admit their immortality failed - that their children might not have all they had been given. So they hatched a plan to bind their lives to the life of the Tree itself...using their own blood."

"It's like Zathrien's Curse!" Rilian whispered excitedly, "When he created the Lady out of nature and thought - and bound them together - and did not die."

"But such a half-life brings a curse, and a price. Those who had done this lived forever - but as watchers from the other side of the Veil: gazing down upon the life they envied, but could not touch. All they could do was tempt mankind to make the same mistake - and spread their taint to the living world."

"In blackest envy were the demons born," Rilian quoted from the Chant, "Was it really Elves who first tempted the Tevinter magisters? Is that why Blood Magic doesn't work on Wardens - because demons and taint come from the same roots? Is that why the taint writhes and twists in my head like a Song?"

"It's just allegory." Merrill's lower lip jutted petulantly. "Keeper Marethari doesn't know herself why the People lost everything. She's telling that story as a warning."

Softly, Rilian said: "I should like to tell a story now, if I may? Because if Elves played a part in starting the Blights they also played a part in ending them. I told you about Garahel the first time I met you - but I haven't spoken of one who came before. Her name was Vhena - and she was one of the original Wardens who founded the Order at Weisshaupt..."

Rilian moved to the centre of the gathering. Rilian was a lanky, gawky young woman...but storytelling created a strange alchemy that transformed her to a creature of grace. She stood with head cocked, lips parted in a fierce and tender smile.

"Vhena was born after the fall of Arlathan - but before Andraste and Shartan rose against the Empire and forged a new homeland in the Dales. But neither she nor her Clan had ever been slaves. They were Wilder Elves - looked down on by Elven lords and called barbarians by humans. She had come to the Anderfels as a young woman, fleeing with her family to escape the Blight. Vhena was considered a dreamer among her people, because she longed for the gift of flight. This was why she was so good with the bow. When she released an arrow, she became that arrow..."

Loghain gave a meaningful snort, and Rilian blushed crimson. She recovered composure an instant later, resisting the urge to retort.

"...Vhena's desire for the sky brought her to the highest levels of Weisshaupt Fortress. There among the wind and snow she came to know the aerie's oldest residents: the griffons. It was she who first learned the art of griffon taming, and she who taught the fledging Grey Wardens..."

Rilian raised her arms as though grasping reins. She was taut, as though poised on the brink of intense and deadly action; her amber eyes were dark and liquid - their soft metallic glimmer drew her in until it seemed she must flow, like light, towards dilated pupils. Flame-shadows wreathed her body like a shower of falling leaves; an aura of power and strength shimmered around her, as fearsome - yet as achingly temporal - as the warmth of the fire.

Rilian went on to describe how the griffon riders won their first victory at the Battle of Nordbotten.

"...As a Warden, Vhena bore no children - but her legacy lives on. After word spread that nearly four thousand darkspawn had been killed, their black blood forming a lake of death that spread for miles, without a single Warden being slain, volunteers from all over Thedas rallied to join them. One hundred years later, the first Archdemon was defeated at the Battle of the Silent Plains. And Vhena's Clan did more than win a world: they made the Dalish what they are today. For when the Chantry forsook its bargain with Shartan, it was the Wilder Elves who took in the survivors of Halamshiral, and taught them the ways of the forest..."

Merrill's eyes were pools of green delight. "That's a wonderful story! Thank you," she added softly, "For giving us this piece of our past. We have lost so much." She barely breathed the last, but the pain in the words thrummed in the air. Wynne thought of her own losses, and the ghosts of the life she hadn't lived.

Rilian smiled dreamily. "Sometimes I think all legends are fabulous, intricate references to something...something which cannot be grasped. Which can only be approached in symbols."

Sarel was more cautious. "It's still important to sort truth from myth. I find it hard to believe a City Elf could know more of our past than we do. Where did you hear this story, Warden?"

"Alistair told it to me - my fellow Warden."

Wynne wondered if the others could hear the naked yearning in her voice when she said the name.

"A shem!"

"Stories don't care who tells them - or who we pass them onto. Oh - I thought like you, once: we in the Alienage look down on blood-traitors as much as the Dalish. Then I met one of my own kin - and his human woman - and their child. And all I could see was his father's soft russet curls - his blood, his character, his teachings and his history. And her work-hardened hand, tickling that tiny belly, as he rested in the crook of her arm. I have listened to my bard mentor sing a song of mourning for our Elven mothers: hers and mine." Even as she absorbed this revelation about Leliana's parentage, Wynne noticed the unreadable look that passed between Rilian and Marethari:

"What will survive of us is love."

The fire burned to a pale echo then died away; the Clan dispersed into smaller gaggles, families heading towards tents, young lovers giggling in nearby hollows. Wynne was rather glad of the blanket of darkness that shrouded them - even as she knew herself for an old hypocrite. Loghain moved off to set up the tent he was sharing with his men: the old soldier was accustomed to lack of privacy on campaign, and taking all their tents would have been impractical. Rilian had oh-so-reluctantly been forced to leave her golden monstrosity behind. Wynne, Rilian, Marethari and Merrill moved off together, picking their way through the darkened camp. Rilian's mabari yipped and circled them, darting between the little quartet, away and then back again, chasing shadows.

By now the rain had stopped, the clouds emptied and dispersed into grey wispy shimmers. Droplets still sparkled on the sodden grass and the air tingled with moisture. Distant stone pillars jutted into a sky of black velvet: eerie, numinous. Starlight formed a glittering net over the forest. Shafts of moonlight shone through the ageless patience of the trees to centre them in silver-white luminosity. The waxing moon was nearly complete: an unfinished and radiant attempt at wholeness - an almost-moon that shone down open squat shadowy tents, dark hollows and pools of water - brilliant and colourless and ephemeral.

"Oooh, look," Rilian said happily, "Someone's set up my tent for me. Well, I love you all, but I'm so tired I need to hit the hay..." She gave a skip, a leap - and flung herself through the tent flap straight onto the shadowy bedroll.

"Rilian - wait -" was all Wynne managed to say before a thud and yelp shook the tent all over.

"Aaaahh! It's me, Rylock..." A rip in the tent fabric exposed the silver glint of naked steel - in moments, a flailing Elven arm had widened it, pushing so hard the entire tent collapsed inward like a deflated sheep's bladder. Rilian staggered from the chaos, right arm windmilling and left clamped to the side of her neck. The mabari raised his head and howled: a thin, worried whine.

An icy chill shook Wynne before she realised it was only the Warden's jaw that was cut, not her throat. She rushed forward, healing at the ready, limning her hand and the Warden's jaw in a soft and soothing light. Rilian stared at her with round eyes. Now that the danger was past, the mabari appeared more sympathetic than concerned; he bumped gently against the Warden's side, and Rilian reached down to stroke the wiry bristles of his fur.

Rylock emerged from the tent, clad only in a thin shift, Knife of the Divine glinting in her right hand. Wynne took a moment to wonder how Rylock's hair could still be neat - and how she still managed to look as though she could take on half-a-dozen enemies single-handed. Perhaps it was the taut grace of her stance: controlled economy of movement punctuated with sharp, decisive gestures. Perhaps the scars that criss-crossed her limbs. Only some had come from mages and demons - the rest were sword-cuts, gained during the maelstrom of instruction designed to make her more a sword than a person. A sword in the Chantry's hand... Wynne thought, with a complex inward shudder. She knew of the dangers and privations and hardships visited on Templar recruits - had seen the twin mottos carved into the grey stone of their complex in Denerim: I Serve and We Are Born To Die.

Rylock met the Warden's eyes - took in the sight of Wynne healing the gash she had aborted only just in time. "I could have killed you."

Her tone was clipped, her face expressionless. But her dark eyes looked oddly brittle. Wynne remembered the eighteen-year-old recruit who had first come to the Tower - all spit-and-polish - plain face marked by its purity of thought and eyes lit from within by tamped-down, semi-crushed yearning: the sombre desire to do right as she understood it. As the only female Templar in the Tower, she had been ordered to attend the birth of Wynne's child - and to take him away. She had said, briskly:

"As a Chantry child myself, I know that your son is fortunate. Not many are blessed with such a spiritually nourishing start to life." Even through the maelstrom of rage and grief, Wynne had understood that her intent was kind: Rylock honestly believed herself luckier than children raised with mere material commodities like comfort and affection. It had been two years later when the demon-possessed mage had murdered Rylock's comrade Ser Guy but left her alive - just. After months of recovery and a spell in Aeonar - mandatory for all those touched by Blood Magic - Rylock had returned: hollow-eyed, twitchy, with the too-thin, too-taut look of someone who lived on the edge of readiness and seldom paused for either food or sleep. Wynne remembered the young Templar's warnings about First-Enchanter Remille - dismissed by Greagoir's predecessor as paranoia. It isn't paranoia if it turns out to be true...

And she remembered the deadly instincts that had seen Rylock react to Aneirin's mind-blast - which he had done to get away, as any desperate fourteen-year-old would - with a fatal strike. Because if you take even one second to think about how you're going to handle the apostate, you could be dead - and not only will you be dead but your comrades will be dead and the mage will have escaped...

"Yep - your apostate-hunting reflexes are really humming," Rilian told her brightly, "And you're also the only person I know who can look menacing when dressed in just a nightshirt. Don't feel bad, though - it was my fault. Flemeth told me: "Do not hesitate to leap" - Rilian intoned this in a fair approximation of that ancient, knowing, cruel voice; smooth and dry as Orlesian white wine - "But I guess that advice doesn't apply to occupied bedrolls." She gazed mournfully at the wreckage of the tent: collapsed like an old wine-skin atop tangled rigging. "I didn't realise the three of us were sharing. Sorry, Wynne - it'll take a good while to get all this back up."

"Oh - don't worry about me," Wynne assured her - lips twitching in a valiant attempt to control a big, smug smile - "I am to share with Keeper Marethari and young Merrill."

Rilian's eyes widened enviously - Rylock's face turned to vinegar. Rilian took one look at the Templar's expression and burst out laughing:

"Well - don't do anything we wouldn't do! Three mages in a tent - what could possibly go wrong? Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble... Don't worry, Rylock - we can always hang a sprig of garlic outside ours!"

"Grow up," Rylock muttered in disgust and turned away, looking almost peevish as she replaced the tent poles in the ground with more force than strictly necessary. Rilian's idea of helping was to sit perched on a log with arms around her knees, calling out instructions that even Wynne could see were wrong and that Rylock ignored anyway. The mabari's idea of helping was to run in circles all around the Templar, fetching sticks and yelping in glee. One mud-caked paw batted the cloth as she raised the structure, widening the tear. Rylock uttered a quiet hiss like steam from a kettle, but forebore to comment.

"Good night," Wynne called sweetly, heading away with Merrill and the Keeper. Rilian gave a cheerful little wave. The tone of Rylock's "good night" would have spoiled the best night in the world.

Wynne's lips finally quirked in the smile she had held in. The Dalish certainly knew how to treat an Elder - and a mage...

Merrill's tent formed an antechamber to the Keeper's. A beautiful drape made entirely of small glittering gems separated them. Individual stones were threaded onto strings that hung from the ceiling.

"Did you make that?" Wynne asked the young mage, impressed. It must have taken her years to collect all the gems and days of painstaking work to thread each string. They tinkled faintly in the breeze like wind-chimes.

"I did," Merrill answered delightedly as she lit a candle for her guest and plumped a woven pillow. "In sunlight, it becomes a living rainbow." The candlelight fell softly upon a carving hung along one wall - a representation of a woman with a staff in one hand and a nimbus of light around the other. A free-standing set of wooden shelves housed a collection of herbs and plants, meticulously labelled: lovage, elderflower, iris, anise, dittany, hellebore, fennel, rue, dill, hemlock, belladonna, rosemary... I wish I could introduce her to Ines, Wynne thought, smiling at the image of those two working together. Her attention was caught and held by the wooden carving of a bird that Merrill had placed upon the top shelf. Plain wood, unpolished, yet incredibly beautiful. The delicate detail was perfect, down to the last feather on the wings. The candleflame swayed as Merrill gently placed it beside the bedroll, and shadows rippled across each etching, bringing the feathers to warmth and life. The bird was poised for flight: wings spread and eager head raised. Wynne could almost feel the yearning to take off and soar into the skies. Yet there was something hauntingly sad about it. Was it because, trapped by the limitations of its own wooden form, it never could? Wynne asked Merrill where she had acquired it. Struggling to conceal her pride and present a picture of nonchalance, Merrill replied it hadn't been that difficult: she had whittled it herself.

"It must be wonderful to create something by your own hands, your own skill - without magic. I wish I could do that."

Merrill smiled: a ripple of quicksilver with a layer of sadness behind it. "That's an interesting co-incidence. I was thinking of you in the Circle - the studies you told me of - thousands upon thousands of books all adding to an unbroken history. Our people have only fragments. I wish I could do that."

She gazed around the cosy living space, green eyes drifting off into a wan, inward-looking distance. "I hope," she added, in a voice so low and soft and wistful that Wynne looked at her curiously, "I never have to leave my home."

"Why should you?" Wynne asked, startled. Merrill's gaze strayed to the far corner - to a drape patterned with flowers and vines - hung over what she assumed to be a portrait.

"I will show you tomorrow," Merrill promised softly, "It is past time we slept."

Wynne did not need telling twice. Merrill wished her goodnight and quietly withdrew. The candlelight filled the tent with a comforting yellow glow. Wynne used the chamberpot placed thoughtfully nearby, then took off her robes, slipped into her nightshirt, blew out the light and nestled into clean blankets that smelled of sweet herbs. As soon as her head touched the downy pillow, the peace inside her seemed to rise up and swell outward. It reached across the Dalish forest - out to their companions in the army camp - backward into the blue-deep wash of the Fade that ebbed and flowed across her mind. Consciousness bobbed atop the sea of mana like a swift-winged ship, almost ready to surrender. She looked up, charmed to see that Merrill had hung little carved halla above her bedroll. They swayed - took on life for her - and Wynne remembered she had done something very similar with wooden horses above her bed in the barn. She had dreamed of a knight on a white charger who would carry her away from the family who had made it clear they did not want her...and, she thought, with a sleepy smile, one had - even if not precisely in the way she had intended...

Silence and rest spread so far in all directions that they carried her away.

Wynne woke, slowly and softly, to the dawn chill on an uncovered shoulder, the rhythmic, mournful cry three-note cry of a bird - short-long-short, rising and falling - the muffled bustle of camp and the murky wash of greenish-gold light that streamed through gaps in the tent leather, creating the impression of being submerged in undulating water. She dozed in half-dreaming contentment while little bright echoes of the Fade danced through her mind in colourful array. At last, a tentative voice threaded through the peace like curling tendrils:

"Wynne - would you like me to bring you some breakfast?"

"Oh - yes, please," she answered - feeling a little guilty to be waited on by Merrill, but enjoying the hospitality nonetheless. Merrill pushed open the tent flap and luminous sunlight flooded in, warm and thick as honey, drenching her. The breakfast was delicious: freshly-caught, lightly-steamed fish flavoured with mint and thyme. When Wynne finally rose - chagrined to realise she had slept late - Merrill hovered in a kind of sombre eagerness by the drape on the far side. Wynne studied the ornate cloth curiously: velvet flowers and vines curling around the delicate silver branches of a tree.

"I promised to show you something last night. The reason I might have to leave home."

Merrill pulled back the drape to reveal - not a portrait, but a cracked, dust-shrouded mirror. Eerily, the glass did not seem flat, but deep as time...Wynne was reminded of Lake Calenhad - of the swift, sinister grace of the creatures that lived beneath the surface. Here one minute and gone the next, they made the mind distrust the eye. Vulturous shadows writhed within.

"It's an Eluvian," Merrill explained. "A piece of the past."

Heavy barking outside - pounding paws - light, quick footsteps following. "Ravenous - don't! Oh, Wynne, I'm sorry..."

The mabari bounded through the tent-flap, with Rilian trailing ineffectually behind. Merrill quickly closed the drape - as though the revelation were too much for her self-consciousness, her dreams too private and fragile.

"Did you and Rylock sleep well?" Wynne asked the Warden, not without some mischief.

"Oh - well, not exactly. I'd been so tired, but all that fuss woke me right up...I lay awake for hours and thought of the most surprising things. When I finally drifted off, the Archdemon came and stared me in the face until I got so frightened I screamed. Rylock was awake anyway - she doesn't seem to sleep any better than I do. So I told her all about life in the Alienage, about Mother Boann and Ser Otto, about Habren and that fateful Landsmeet. The hours just flew by."

Wynne wondered what state she would find the Templar in, and suppressed a guilty chuckle. She turned back to Merrill - yearning to re-open the subject of the mirror...but the moment had passed.

"I'll help you pack your glider onto your horse," Merrill offered Rilian, and Wynne followed the two young women out of the tent. Merrill, Wynne and Rilian headed over to Master Varathorn's smithy, with Ravenous chasing falling leaves in front, and the two Dalish helped Rilian lash what looked like a bundle of giant sticks onto her horse. The swish of rope and rigging contributed a harsh whisper. Then Merrill skipped off to pack the trail rations, while Wynne and Rilian led their horses down to the pure blue circle of the lake.

The morning sky was living green translucence crackling with sunlight. White clouds were thick and heavy, like finest cream. The Tevinter stone glimmered in the shifting dance. The light plunged obliquely into the rippling curtains of trees, striking darks and lights that worked intricate, unceasing changes. It played about the wine-dark leather armour of Loghain and Rylock, who waited by the lake, watering their horses. Loghain stood half in shadow: a grizzled, dark-shrouded old wolf watching from cover. Rylock stroked the satiny brown coat of her horse with one scarred hand. Her angular face was pale, her eyes dark-rimmed...but for all that she looked oddly - contented. Perhaps she was merely glad to be riding away from this camp of apostates - but, strange as it seemed, Wynne guessed she had found with the Warden something like the peace Wynne knew in Merrill's company. Rylock half-listened to Rilian burble on about the hang-glider with the expression of someone who has found - unexpectedly - something they had thought lost. Wynne remembered long-ago times in the Tower, when Rylock and Ser Guy would stand watch together: Rylock soaking up the stream of chatter like a flower feeling the touch of the sun for the first time.

"Master Varathorn has been so kind. The glider is not the only thing he made for me."

"Ah - I know you needed a new sword."

Rilian looked blank a moment. "Oh," she said, looking a little uncomfortable, "I asked him for something else. Something more important."

"What could be more important than a good blade on the way to Ostagar?" Loghain asked dryly.

"Mind your own business," the Warden snapped, looking rather flustered, ducking her head to hide a blush.

The camp was a dun, green and yellow patchwork in the greasy golden sunlight. Cookfires budded and bloomed: glittering copper blisters that pulsed like living things. What looked like the entire Clan gathered to wish them farewell. A squall of small children blew around them, chasing each other around tents and lean-tos, shrieking and laughing. Cale Mahariel was oiling his bow, all stern purpose, while Cammen tried unsuccessfully to catch his attention. Sarel was eyeing the party and shaking his head, as if to warn that nothing good awaited them. Merrill stood with hands outstretched, emotions swaying her like a strong breeze; Keeper Marethari like a force growing from the earth, feet in their worn coverings rooted in the soil and hair blowing like white clouds as she raised her face to the sky. Wynne was unable to keep from scanning the crowd for the ghost of another face - one she knew she would never see again...

"Warden," said the Keeper, "I leave you this. A book of our lore." Pinpoints of light danced within the ageless darkness of her eyes, encircled by a ring of shadow. She gave the gift into Rilian's hands: bound in green leather, etched with silver filigree that depicted a stylised tree.

Rilian's eyes were suspiciously bright; her voice, when she spoke, was low and rough: "Keeper - I can't. I will have no children to pass it on to."

"The sons of dreams outlive the sons of seed: and you should know this - you who will follow Vhena's path."

Amber eyes swam with tears that pride refused to shed. "I believe you. And...Shianni's children will be born here. I can pass it on to them."

The Keeper's unfathomable stare passed from Merrill to Rilian. Something in her mist-shrouded gaze drew her in, as Merrill's mirror had done...Wynne had the sense of falling sand, of time: rushing...rushing to meet them. For a moment, it seemed that in Marethari's old, old eyes the mists would part and send the future dancing in front of them - and Rilian would know...she would know...something she could not bear to know. But, at the last, Marethari released her.

"Thank you, Keeper," Rilian said softly, "I'm honoured you give me this - even though I'm not a child of the Dalish."

Marethari looked from Rilian to Merrill, a great outpouring of love and sorrow flowing from her dark, liquid eyes.

"You are a child of the Dalish, Warden. You are the only child of the Dalish."

---

Musical inspirations were:

Sandy Denny: The Quiet Joys Of Brotherhood (quoted by Rilian)

Pink Floyd: Time

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Thank you to my reviewers: lynn-writer, Enaid Aderyn, Tyanilth, analect, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Shakespira, Josie Lange, icey cold and Judy - whose previous review was the prod I needed to get back in the writing zone :) Next up - Chapter Eighteen: The Valley Of The Shadow.