Song is Queensrÿche: Silent Lucidity
"If you come for the king, you'd best not miss"
(Machiavelli)
AN: I want to thank Beta Gyre for Anders' saying, "The Maker creates no slaves". I decided that to have someone else in my fic come up with that would fail to do him justice, so in mine Anders wrote it in one of his Kirkwall pamphlets, and Lambert has now borrowed it when writing his challenge to Tevinter.
Also, I'm pretty sure my description of Anders owes a lot to her pinned tweet...when writing him, that was the image that came into my head...I looked again and I can see I got it from that rather than the game! It fits him so well.
The spring rains fell over Montsimmard: streams were in spate, and the wet ground made heavy going. Montsimmard was a roriferous fernshaw - deeply welcome after the violet aridity of The Abyssal Reach but inconvenient for marching.
As soon as the news came about Fen'Harel, a vast trumpet sounded, and ravens flew to every corner of Thedas. Including to Archon Radonis and the Ariqun. The horse-train trampled and whinnied; Cullen's orders barked in the snapping air, and in less time than Lambert could believe, the cavalry came out in column. Cullen mounted his Orlesian warhorse and plunged off into the weather. The cavalry would be reinforcing each city along the Minanter River, ending at Wycombe, where they would investigate.
Lambert already knew an investigation would prove futile. The Dread Wolf would be long gone.
The Inquisition foot soldiers were marching across the Dales to return to Skyhold, and on their way meet both Marquise Briala and Morrigan – who of course already knew.
Merrill explained to him Briala had had the foresight and ability to change the password of the Eluvian network. No longer was it 'Fen'Harel Enansal'. It was 'Fit via vi'...a phrase that made Lambert laugh despite the grimness of the situation, since it referred to the bashing in of the doors of power.
"Marquise Briala really should have been a Keeper," Merrill said softly – the highest compliment she could give, though Lambert doubted Briala would regard it as such – "She cannot cast, but music has a magic all its own."
He asked Vivienne for help with the Sending Crystal to get a message to Feynriel, who had surprising news.
"Yes, I have seen where Fen'Harel is in my dreams. He has gone to ground in Marnas Pell. That's not far from my estate."
"Don't do anything foolish," Lambert warned, frightened for his friend. They would have to attack Marnas Pell in force and that meant going through Nessum – seat of power of Magister Rezaren Ammosine – Caimen Brea and Trevis.
"No more foolish than my friend, Lambert Hawke-Lethandralis."
Lambert snorted, caught between laughter and tears. "Small comfort in that."
"Evanuris and Magisters… two cheeks of the same arse," Feynriel said scornfully – proof that, no matter how well he wore the trappings of a magister, underneath he would always be the boy raised in an Alienage.
Lambert grinned, "Serves them right if two half-bloods take them down."
Ever since the darkspawn had attacked Lothering – ever since he had served in the Fifth Blight – Lambert had kept the awareness death could be right round the corner. It was just the odds had shifted greatly in his favour. The realization life had a hundred percent fatality rate was not the same as the panic-sodden hopelessness of captivity – not the same as the derealization he had experienced after Alrik – and was, in fact, the only realistic response. Other Thedosians might pray to the Maker, or tell themselves it would never be them – if only they could stay wealthy and beautiful and young enough – but the ability to stare death in the face was actually a great time saver. It meant he could avoid the first shockwave and period of denial and get straight to analysis.
His three-year prognosis was time enough to achieve his goals and to make memories – and Fen'Harel could be beaten. He was immortal but not invulnerable. If he had been, he would have shown up at the Conclave and turned all the mages and Templars to stone simultaneously. He hadn't – which meant they could have attacked, en masse, and ended him. If all mortals worked together they could collar Fen'Harel…and Lambert could use the Anchor to imprison him in the Fade. He smiled darkly. He doubted Fen'Harel could do much from the other side of the Veil. No other Evanuris had managed to – even Forbidden Ones powerful as Imshael and Gaxhang had to be summoned by mages and work through willing hosts.
...You like the Fade so much you can damn well stay there...
Still, his three-year prognosis hurt. Where once his life had been signposted with the rituals and trademarks of adoptive fatherhood, now it was a blank page. There would be no first steps or first words … he would never take his children rock-pooling, or prodding at sea anemones in the name of science. He would never supply cookies after training, or disapprove of a boyfriend or girlfriend. He would never grieve for all the different versions of his children as they grew into adulthood. He would never be an empty nester because his nest would never be full.
Merrill – who had bathed in the Well of Sorrows – had the knowledge of the Ancients: of Mythal, goddess of motherhood, whom she claimed did not approve of what Solas had become in her name.
Dorian approached him.
No longer was Lambert dressed as he had been in his dream. He now wore the pragmatic armour of a griffon rider: leather that would blend in amid evening clouds, and camouflage paint that had the ability to absorb light. By contrast, Dorian was dressed as a renaissance gentleman: in dark silken hose and a purple doublet whose buttons alone could have fed a Century for a week. It irritated Lambert.
"Does this mean my country no longer looks so bad to you, by comparison?" Dorian asked smoothly.
"What it means is my plans will proceed at an accelerated pace. I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you. Fen'Harel doesn't hate most mortals – we're just collateral damage to him – but which nation are the vultures who built their civilization on the bones of his? Which nation regularly summons and enslaves spirits – including the Spirt of Wisdom whom Solas knew while she was still an Elf? Which nation do you think he will target first? Do you think he went to Marnus Pell for the fun of it? If your Archon and Imperial Divine and Senate have an ounce of sense between them they will race to seek terms from me – and count ending slavery and Venatori and Red Lyrium as cheap at the price."
"Why the Inquisition – as opposed to any other mercenary force? I hear the Bull charges quite reasonable rates."
In answer Lambert held up the poison green of the Anchor. Sparks spat in and fizzled in the wet air – these moments had begun to hurt, but he would die before he showed that in front of Dorian.
"Fen'Harel had graciously given me a foci," Lambert said dryly, "It will end me in three years – but I will use it to end him first."
Dorian started to speak but Lambert made an elegant gesture of dismissal. He suspected his sniping with Dorian was quidling – a means of avoiding the enormity of their situation by becoming irritated by chickenshit. He did not care. He had never found another way to cope – would never be as strong as his husband.
"The Eluvian network is still ours. I will use it to send crack troops as near to Castellum Tenebris as I can, and Isabella's navy can get to the Ventosus Straits from Llomerryn in a week."
"You can't predict the weather..."
"I can. First Enchanter Rivella of Dairsmuid is acting as ship's wizard. The Venatori can blow Qunari dreadnoughts out of the water but they won't have the same luck with a powerful mage."
Lambert liked First Enchanter Rivella, formerly of the Dairsmuid Circle. Her father, Captain Revaud, was a renowned Raider of the Waking Sea – a member of the Felicisima Armada now led by Admiral Isabella – so the alliance was obvious. For a moment, he remembered his prophetic dream at the Winter Palace and was unbearably thankful it hadn't happened.
"All your talk is merely a disguise for the fact you are placing rescuing your husband's family above rescuing the rest of Thedas."
"My priorities aren't being put to the test. The shock and awe of watching Castellum Tenebris crumble in days will make Archon Radonis and Divine Nihalias that much more willing to ally with me, on my terms."
Dorian was silent. Not disagreeing – not even, necessarily, disapproving – but weighing and judging.
Lambert cracked and spoke first. "Do I take it you are rescinding the offer you made to my husband: to help us take on Tractus Danarius?"
"No, Inquisitor. I'll be ready when you are."
With Fen's birthday on the 21st Drakonis fast approaching, the trees were still bare. The first touches of spring were the catkins that hung like stalactites. Anders would be joining Dorian to help them take on Tractus, while he had placed Rhys in charge of the Free Mages who would cleanse Andoral's Reach – the base they had fought for and won – from Red Lyrium corruption.
Ines and Sweeney were returning to Haven for the same reason. Haven had winter aconites that grew in Ferelden. The catkins had made pollen and it was pure chance whether they would light on the female flower or not. Then, they would shrivel like old leaves and fall. If they had been lucky, the autumn nuts would follow. Lambert hoped he would see them.
Crocuses were doing well, despite the rocky gloom, and snowdrops liked the chalky rock. The spores of mushrooms grew in mycelium strands – Lambert harvested them for Fenris' Friend and Ines for Haven. Like people, they could adapt anywhere.
The Inquisition were moving to different posts. Cullen was leading his cavalry along the nation-states of the Free Marches, heading to Wycome. The infantry, led by Threnn, were marching across the Dales, back to Skyhold. The remainder of the Inquisition forces were journeying to the Nevarra-Tevinter border, and to Kal Sharok, meaning Tevinter would be encircled. Once they took Nessum and Castellum Tenebris, Tevinter would be vulnerable. Once Tevinter was forced to accept his terms of alliance, Fen'Harel would have nowhere to hide.
Emperor Prosper had recalled the Orlesian chevaliers back to Val Royeaux – they would be riding across the Imperial Highway, while Cyril de Montfort was taking a deployment to his ancestral estate, from where he had promised to keep the mages at Andoral's Reach supplied. That would not be difficult: Andoral's Reach had fallen into disrepair, but the Imperial Highway – remnant of the Tevinter Empire - had lasted for centuries. First Warden Loghain was remaining to hold Montsimmard.
Lambert missed Carver. He pictured him as a teen, laughing and ranting over some petty injustice at Tantervale quay: a crusader with no shield and a vitality he couldn't even see.
King Cousland was sending the Ferelden Templars against Castellum Tenebris, but that was Rylock's risk, not his, or any of his own men. Channon Cousland could always make more Templars if these ones fell – his wife, Queen Anora, had negotiated an advantageous deal with Orzammar for lyrium – but mages were harder to replace. So, the king had ordered the Ferelden Circle back: mages and apprentices to be housed at Redcliffe.
"Andoral's Reach is no longer sustainable – nor is Haven," Lambert said bleakly, "Both areas will be biohazards for years to come."
"Listen to you all…messing up a whole tract of land with white phosphorus then moving on to the next! Telling yourself it's already tainted so it doesn't matter! I managed to get Northern Prickleweed to grow on tainted land…we can use magic to alter other plants…heal this obscene mess! That is what magic should be used for!"
"Thank you, Senior Enchanter Ines," King Cousland said respectfully, "As a member of Ferelden's Circle you have tenure in perpetuity in my country. As does any mage who has helped us. If you come back to heal Haven you will have my full support."
Ines traded glances with her husband and – as one – they nodded gravely, accepting his offer. "That sounds reasonable. We will help our…the Knight Vigilant…in Tevinter and afterwards we will all return to Ferelden."
The rest of the Ferelden Circle were being recalled to Redcliffe – and this included Keili. She was very bitter.
"I have been trained as a Knight Enchanter by none other than Lady Vivienne!" she told Rylock, "And have proven myself in battle many times over."
"You have," Rylock agreed, "Which is why – if Vivienne and I fail this mission – we will need people like you and Brother Nyle, Brother Cale and Templar Drem to take our places. It would be unwise for the Inquisitor to put all his forces in the same position."
Commanders like Viscount Nathaniel Howe who had sent spies (who were as much double agents as Iron Bull) had recalled them, and the army of Prince Sebastian would be returning home. But, in the case of Starkhaven's forces, this was not a reprieve. They were right on the Tevinter border – just the other side of the Minanter River – and Sebastian had already promised Lambert and Fenris his aid – in opposing Venatori and in freeing slaves. A devoutly religious man, he felt opposing slavery a moral obligation. In this he had – wordlessly and so subtly it might not even be noticed – transferred his religious faith from Divine Victoria to the Herald. In some deeply symbolic way, Lambert had become the representation of this entity to which he was loyal.
Still, Prince Sebastian was a traditionalist who believed in one international Chantry, ruled from Orlais. By contrast, King Channon Cousland was a reformer. Even more so was Queen Anora, who had worked on translating the Chant into the common tongue and distributed it freely with Ferelden's latest invention: the printing press. Simultaneously, she had declared reading a right given by the Maker to all His children – Elves, dwarves, humans and Qunari – and appointed Ferelden clerics to open schools.
It was a subtle opposition to the centrality of the Orlesian Chantry Leliana could not miss. Rylock did not believe – in her secret heart – Leliana disapproved. How could she, when she had been labelled a heretic for her views on the Maker's direct interference in Lothering Chantry? Rylock had disagreed with Leliana at the time – if the Maker did sometimes interfere directly, then why hadn't He helped Guy! – but since their mission to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Leliana had made her wonder.
It was strange that, just as Leliana had strengthened Rylock's faith, the loss of the Sacred Ashes had shaken her own. Rylock no longer believed it was the Maker's punishment for their actions at Haven – that would come dangerously close to blaming mages, as the Chantry had done before – so she had to see it as some kind of test. The Herald of Andraste (and the Spirit of Faith had been right: the Maker could use anything, even a random ricochet) was talking about taking on Fen'Harel as well as Tevinter, and that might mean they could reclaim the Ashes.
She prayed so.
Still, Divine Victoria could do nothing to help them directly. She had to concentrate her energies on surviving the Game: and on preparing for the Qunari attack, as both Right Hand Petrice and the Emperor recommended. Left Hand Iona was in the unfortunate position of finding her allies against Tevinter to be the people she condemned as mages, Elves and heretics! Rylock thought there might be a lesson in that somewhere.
Not everyone was pleased with the fragmentation. The adventurers Roland, trained as an Orlesian bard, and Lacklon, a Dwarven Lord of Fortune, scoffed at the chevaliers for returning to the safety of either Montfort or Val Royeaux.
Roland of Orlais had been so angry at the chevaliers' failure to do their duty – at a time when demons were literally falling from the sky! – he thought: "well, I'm just a bard but – since I am here – the person entitled to the perks of the job is me!" So, with discretion but no remorse, he opened a bottle of expensive Bordeaux (officers only) and shared it with the dwarven Lord of Fortune, Lacklon.
Dust, as usual, followed them, though Lacklon said several times he thought it might rain. Roland disagreed and said the clouds over Montsimmard were deceptive.
The fast-emptying war camp was packed with bare market stalls and rickety poles and tattered cloths; and soon enough the storm demolished it in a welter of splintering wood and wildly flapping fabric.
"What do they want?" Lacklon agreed darkly, "A pay rise? They earn more than us as it is! And, by the time they make Knight Captain and higher, it'll be a lot more. No, if they still can't be arsed to defend the people they are supposed to be protecting – and we're showing up to do their job – we're tasting this wine before we croak! Bottoms up."
They emptied the bottle between them and then argued about whether they were doing the right thing.
Roland won the argument about whether they ought to serve the Inquisitor, and so they settled into a deserted chevalier's outpost – this was in Orlais, after all – and found lots of weapons and more wine and got drunk and told outrageous stories of derring-do and conquest.
"...I shit you not! It was just a hairy nug the whole time!"
At one point one of them asked the other whether he had a girlfriend and was told no – in a tone of surprise – but afterwards neither one could remember who had asked and who had answered.
They slept and they woke and they told more jokes and lies, and a light shower of rain left droplets in their beards, and sometimes Roland would move his hand through his long, thick hair.
They argued about what to do if Tevinter just ignored the attack on Castellum Tenebris: if they would realize the weapons used – the griffons and the Northover projector – had been unique, and so had lost their element of surprise – if they would simply wait it out and carry on their slaving as before, or if they would seek the head of the Inquisitor in an even more ruthless spirit of vengeance. They argued about whether the Venatori would bombard Starkhaven first – with magic fired from aerial discs like the one used by Hira – or send in assassins to take each head of state simultaneously. They had a bet on that.
Vivienne had already made clear she would be going with Rylock and her Templars.
"And afterwards, I will return to Orlais and set up a College of Enchanters. Like the University founded by the late Celene Valmont…but one that trains mages in the proper use of their craft."
Anders was outraged.
"After Divine Victoria dissolved the Circles you will try to bring them back by the back door?!"
"Dear…just because you value freedom above duty to country, to patients, to your craft, does not mean you should judge everyone by your own standards. Divine Victoria has freed mages, yes: but freeing people and then giving them nothing to do – no indication their nation values their Maker-given gifts – no structures in place to train them: do you think that is inspiring? Who do you think a young, idealistic mage will flock to? You, for now, because they can tell themselves they are fighting slavery…but afterwards? To settle in one of the Tevinter Houses – Pavus or Tilani – who can promise them wealth, power, culture, but no meaning? To a mage-only community like Andoral's Reach – where their non-mage brothers and sisters will soon be second-class citizens...don't kid yourself! You may not have that intention but what do you think you are achieving by ensuring some walkways can only be reached by magic? In the end, mages will reside above and non-mages below, as they do in Tevinter. Or in Orlais, that tells them only that they will not be hunted? What do you think a talented young mage boy born in a farming village will do, or become? No: if I do not set up my Circles – overseen by Senior Enchanters rather than Templars – then free mages will flock to a nation like Ferelden, whose king has the sense to let horticulturalists like Ines fix the environment! Who tells them: we need you, we value you, and we will train you."
"Elderly mages, yes – he'll let Ines and Sweeney play at being botanists and researchers. But what do you think Cousland will train the young men to do? Those boys are being raised to soldier."
"You mean the way Lambert did during the Fifth Blight – a medic who saved lives when conventional healing failed and took the pain of the dying when it was too late? Do you see anything dishonourable in that? If Emperor Prosper has sense he will do similar…because a message of freedom – without duty – is inspiring only to the person who has never tasted it."
"Here, already," Anders muttered darkly to Rhys later, "Is proof the proclamation written by Divine Victoria to 'free' the mages wasn't worth the paper it was written on! Yes, she has dissolved Circles, dissolved the Templar Order everywhere but Ferelden – who are national Templars loyal to a king rather than a religion – but in practice all this means is mages are now subjects of whichever country they are a minority in. And we will always be a minority. Emperor Prosper had made no hard and fast rules – yet – King Channon Cousland has given them Haven and Redcliffe to hold as free citizens but does not permit them to move anywhere else in Ferelden without a royal warrant. Nevarra, Antiva and Rivain have changed their systems not at all: meaning the Mortilasi, any mage skilled at contraband, and any mage with relatives in the Armada will be treated well, and the others may as well be living like Lambert did in Lowtown."
"Really – what did we expect?" Rhys replied, "The Chantry were not the only organization keeping us prisoner. Rulers were too – as were the opinions of the majority. That will be much harder to change."
"We shouldn't have to change opinions any more than Fenris' Wraiths should have to convince Tevinter that slavery is wrong!" Anders said furiously. "If Divine Victoria is not prepared to issue a public declaration of Universal Rights – as Lambert is, to give him credit – then we shall have to do it for her. Fenris realizes the vote for emancipation will mean nothing without the power to back it up – and so must we. The Free Mages hold Andoral's Reach – and we would be wise to seek alliances with organizations such as the Lucerni – regardless of whether they are pure enough for the Holy Herald! So long as we are not actively working against him, Lambert will see the necessity. Or, if not him, his husband will. I never thought I'd believe this of Fenris – but being married to a mage, and having mage nieces, has done wonders for his appreciation of diversity."
Lambert woke to the sound of Fenris painting so softly he thought the brushstrokes might well be an element of his dream. It was as if Fen were painting a duet with the hills around them.
He shivered in the cold air, went out of their tent, and saw the pre-dawn sky burning with firelight. The wind was rising in the hour before dawn, and the escarpments shivered like reeds around the tent's cold cloth.
Fen joined him, took his right hand, and together they listened to the breeze that played like a strange and beautiful symphony.
"We have another hour," said Fen.
Lambert went back inside and worked on his proclamation – the one that would be sent to Archon Radonis and Imperial Divine Nihalis and each member of the Senate – with his heart full.
Anders had been a poet and writer as well as a healer… it had been his tracts on the rights of mages as equal children of the Maker – deserving of the same freedoms as non-mages – that had (though Lambert had not realized it at the time) made him think about things like liberty, equality, fraternity long before he met Fen and learned…viscerally… what being a slave meant in Tevinter. Anders had been preparing him for this, he now thought… he hadn't been ready then (all he had cared about was elevating his mother to nobility to make up for having let his sister die and for being a man who loved other men) but he was now.
Lambert did not want his proclamation to contain a request – or even a demand – that the Senate vote to allow emancipation – because that would imply they had the power to decide. Would give legitimacy to the idea slavery was a thing for mage aristocrats to debate on the Senate floor. But for Lambert to write what he really believed: 'the Senate acknowledge Tevinter erred when it ruled the Maker would allow slavery because all people are His children and the Maker creates no slaves'... would carry echoes of the Inquisition being a religious organization declaring a Holy War.
Lambert believed this. He was not nearly as passionate an Andrastean as Fen, who had found the knowledge he had a soul and worth to be both priceless and saving – was in fact a rather lukewarm Andrastean who thought most of its teachings were bunk and was happy to believe in science rather than faith – but he believed that. That his father and mother and sister were together in the Golden City and that the souls of all people were equal – but he would have been happy to couch it in more rational language to avoid giving people like Iona and Petrice a pretext to start burning people for 'heresy'.
The problem was: on what else could he base his argument? He couldn't claim equality was 'self-evident' when it demonstrably wasn't self-evident to the majority of Thedosians! Most Thedosians believed their own family, tribe, nation, race was superior to all others. Lambert couldn't claim equality was 'self-evident' when the late Empress Celene had recently passed a 'scientific' pamphlet that argued the shape of Elven ears proved they were akin to rabbits… and hence lower in development than humans.
The only thing he had to set against this spurious 'science' or the 'wisdom' of the majority was a religious proclamation – one people would expect from the Herald of Andraste. The only reason they had heard of Lambert, after all, was that he was supposed to be blessed by Andraste, not because he was a renowned scientist who could prove 'race science' was bunk!
...And what about the slaves – who are forbidden, on pain of death, from teaching themselves to read but who will hear soldiers discussing it in marketplaces – what do I want children like Fen and Miriam to hear? That science has proven Elves biologically equal to humans and their owners debated it in the Senate – or that the Maker loves them and they have imperishable souls no matter what Magisters have done to their minds and bodies?...
There was no contest. Fate had given him the role of Herald to play and so he must play it to the hilt…the role of a lifetime.
As Leliana was doing. Lambert wondered then – as he never had before – whether Leliana really believed in the Maker or whether she had simply decided, long ago, to use the Maker as a means to change the world for mages like Sketch – or to help her fulfill the dreams of Mother Dorothea, who had saved her from Harwen Raleigh. If she wished to pay that forward to prevent women suffering as her Elven cousin Rillian had done.
Lambert found the question made him uncomfortable.
It was strange because he knew he was simply playing at being the Herald…and he had found it amusing when he and Anders had speculated in the clinic that Andraste had been a powerful mage. All his life Lambert had been raised with her graven image frowning down at him in disapproval – in Tantervale the boy he had loved had betrayed him because the Chantry taught people like Lambert were born bad. It had been wickedly amusing to speculate Andraste was also a mage…how embarrassed all the Chantry zealots would be when they reached the Golden City!
But Lambert found he didn't like it when people shook his faith in Leliana. Leliana had been good to him in Lothering…had known he was a mage and told him the Maker loved him…had kept his secret. Her recent proclamation of the value of mages had been life-changing for him. He found he wanted to believe the words of Divine Victoria meant the Maker loved him…that, however bloody her methods, she was not an imposter like him. Just as Adralla had come to mean to him what Andraste should have been and wasn't. Lambert and Andraste could be fakes…he wanted Leliana and the Maker to be real.
There were three units going through Merrill's Eluvian. The Chargers – at Lambert's request these were led by Krem rather than Iron Bull. Lambert had stated two reasons – which Bull was pragmatic enough to accept.
"Krem was a Tevinter soldier and will know more about the patrol routes than any of us. Any Tevinter farmers will take us for an unscheduled patrol. But...we both know Tevinter does not capture and 're-educate' any Qunari...they torture and kill them. I cannot involve you in his mission without endangering you and compromising our cover."
The fact Lambert had a third reason – his realization Bull would share everything with the Ben Hassrath – he was tactful enough not to mention, though the gleam in Bull's eyes told him he understood perfectly.
Krem was glad to lead a mission against the nation who had enslaved his father and tried to humiliate him when they learned his deadname. Lambert felt ashamed of his earlier judgementalism. Krem was risking a great deal to help Fen and those like him. He had bigger balls than most men Lambert knew.
The Wraiths – Miriam, Tallis, Gatt and Shirellas – were already in place in their hideout between Arlathan Forest and Fort Viridan.
Lambert hadn't yet chosen a name for his own hand-picked group: Fen, Anders, Dorian, Rylock, Vivienne and Varric. Varric had suggested, 'Sparky's Folly' but Lambert was hoping it would not catch on!
The final group was being led by Fairbanks – who had gladly ceded control of the Inquisition's main force to Cullen because he was happiest leading a small crack unit. The muscle were Roland and Lacklon, and these were posing as human Soporati attendants to Hira.
The last member of the group had – briefly – worried Lambert. He had said to Qwydion, as tactfully as he could, "I...am sure the presence of a Qunari Saarebas will not go unnoticed in Tevinter."
Qwydion – beautiful, quirky and always smiling – had taken no prisoners.
"Inquisitor – I can use magic to disguise my horns just as you once used magebane to disguise your magic. I am familiar with the concept of 'when in Tevinter'."
Abashed, Lambert had said no more. Qwydion was actually the person he trusted most to accomplish the task – because she was a powerful mage, but also capable of laughing at herself just as his father had done.
Hira never laughed and, when she smiled, the expression was practiced.
Still, if Lambert had thought 'Sparky's Folly' was an ignominious name compared with team names like 'The Wraiths' and 'The Chargers' he couldn't help but be glad Fairbanks had picked an even worse one! Theirs was: SNAFU! The term, 'Situation Normal All Fucked Up' was a saying Carv and the other soldiers had often used during the Fifth Blight but…well…it didn't exactly inspire confidence!
But Lambert's confidence in its members was total. Fairbanks had done incredible things back in the Emerald Graves – taught the victims of chevalier atrocities they need not be forever beaten. He was happiest when punching up – which they were certainly going to be doing against Venatori and Magisters Sidereal!
As for Roland and Lacklon... Lambert couldn't help but like a couple who reminded him of himself and Fenris. Lacklon had subverted dwarven expectations every bit as much as Varric and Thorold had, and Lambert liked him for it. He had always gotten on well with Roland who – like him – had been trained as an Orlesian bard but was (deep down) an idealist.
Lambert trusted the fourth member of SNAFU too… thought Hira's knowledge of Tevinter nobility a useful counterpoint to Dorian's. Plus, unlike Dorian – who had a regrettable loyalty to that damned country – Hira made no secret of the fact she wanted to see it burn. Lambert trusted the ally he might have to rein in more than he trusted the ally who would turn on him if he were forced to invade. Both Fen and Anders had warned him about Hira but…Lambert couldn't help but think they both had their own reasons. How could Fen be expected to trust an Altus! And Anders, well, aside from loving Dorian, he still suffered from his adolescent, uchronian view of Tevinter as 'the land of the free' for mages. Neither of them was an unbiased judge.
Lambert figured Hira would come to put love for Miriam above hatred for Tevinter. Would…when it came right down to it… realize the people who suffered in war were never the magisters but always the bakers and farmers…and support his non-violent solution. The words, 'Tranquil Solution' came to his mind, and made him shudder, but…yes…he would own it. The mental violation of those six hundred Senators would be cleaner than war… would be (Lambert's training as a healer provided him with the perfect metaphor) a 'surgical strike'.
Of course that was the lesser evil.
Their plan was to take out Fort Viridan – seat of Nenealaus and his Red Lyrium operation – first, and then act – through both Varric's and the Wraith's contacts in Qarinus – to rescue Fen's family before the main attack on Castellum Tenebris began. Lambert was bleakly aware they couldn't rescue all the slaves before the attack…which was why there would be no white phosphorus, no Death Cloud…and why he had chosen elite units whom he could trust to only target combatants. Would it really be possible to win without collateral damage?
Lambert devoutly hoped so.
In the liquid dawn, the only hint of sunrise was the faintest of palings in the constellations to the east.
The three groups assembled on the flat plain north of Montsimmard. On the valley floor, they looked up at the sere stone above. Montsimmard looked like a mountain, its balconies and external stairways mere slashes in the rock. Occasionally, firelight would illuminate a window or throw a griffon shadow.
They stayed on grass and avoided the sharp shrubs that extended spring thorns like claws.
Lambert and his husband led the group. Together, they carried Lambert's mirror from the Black Emporium, which he was intending to take through Merrill's Eluvian.
"Are you sure that is a good idea?" Fen wanted to know.
"We'll go first. If this goes tits up, we've both got ways to ride the Fade currents back here. The others will only follow us once we've proved it's safe."
Their griffons – Ripples, Dumat – walked beside them, intelligent as mabaris. "Smart enough not to talk," so the saying went. Since the disappearance of three of the griffon riders, their lives had been hard. Ser Otto's griffon, Astra, had survived because she was bonded with Jowan's griffon, Thorn. Aquila and Duncan – bonded with Rillian and Alistair – lived still but were sick. It was as if part of them knew their riders were not dead, but lacked understanding of their long, silent absence. Varric's griffon, Lore, was setting a jaunty pace in a coat of wind-rippled feathers and fur, while Bianca was locked and loaded.
Fen was in full battle armour, camouflage lyrium not yet activated so the steel appeared matte-black, absorbing even the firelight. His visor gleamed like a black mirror. He carried his bolter, hand-held Northover projector, and Lethandralis. Lambert knew him well enough to realize there were smaller blades concealed on his person.
Anders followed. He was dressed in his stylish best: starched blouse, formal black trousers and demi-jacket, velvet cape and a gold tricorne. He had to keep a grip on his hat against the wind. The staff he carried had a crystalline focus, and Lambert sensed its power.
Forty minutes out and they had come even with the Eluvian. Its dead silver gleamed in the violet light. Lambert could make out the golden ouroboros encircling the glass – the snake chasing its own tail – and a glow of jade.
He met Merrill's stark green eyes – hard as emeralds – and saw his own grief and guilt reflected. She had brought Fen'Harel through this mirror – the mirror she had so lovingly restored – and Lambert had been idiotic enough to trust him against the advice of his own husband.
Oh, Lambert had trusted Fen entirely…but had secretly hoped and believed they had misjudged Solas...that he had not been responsible for Corypheus' presence at the Conclave nor the Mark on Lambert's arm...that his intention had not been to unwrite life as they knew it.
He had been wrong. Fen'Harel would not allow concern for these fragments from a possible future he intended to unwrite (after all, those 'deserving' would find alternate versions of themselves living as Elves were meant to) to sway him from preserving his own kind. Who were not the Tranquil of today who called themselves Elves, like children imitating their parents, but those who had been condemned to the half-life of spirits.
And then...idiotically...Lambert had insisted on believing Solas had taken the Sacred Ashes because he meant to defeat the Magisters Sidereal and save them all from Red Lyrium. What a fool he had been! The worst of it was the knowledge Solas had actually been carrying the Sacred Ashes away from the Temple when he had stopped Lambert and given him a pinch to cure Fen, whose brands had been tainted by the Red Lyrium Dragon he had pulped after phasing and solidifying.
Lambert had never even thought to ask Solas what he had been doing in the Temple…just why he had conveniently had the Ashes on him.
Like most victims, Lambert was confused. He owed Solas more than he could ever repay for saving Fen from an agonizing death and torturous afterlife…yet he was painfully aware that, by not having the wit and the guts to challenge Solas then and there, he had condemned Rylock's one hundred tainted Templars – led by Carroll and including Lisette – to dying like skinned animals. All those people…dead, and worse than dead. Betrayed by the abject failure of the leader they had trusted and called 'The Herald'.
Herald…hah! The pitiful pathos of that threatened to choke him. After those victims…the world. At least if the ritual with the Anchor had worked as Solas had intended the end of mortals would have been quick…they would simply have winked out of existence like an inane dream. Now that Solas was going to do it…in some horrific, inexplicable way… with the Red Lyrium Idol: the Idol which had sentenced mortal beings to five Blights and created a hybrid that was worse than Fen's agonizing brands and darkspawn combined – he knew the end of mortal life would not be painless and would not be quick.
It would not be a pure, fierce burning into the Golden City…it would be protracted suffering, lingering death. His own absurd naïveté had sentenced mortals to that…had sentenced Fen to – if he were lucky – be cured of the Brands just in time to go to the Golden City rather than the slave-courts of the Evanuris.
Lambert…he would be dead anyway, from the Anchor. But his legacy would not be emancipation and equality and freedom of thought…his legacy would be Fen'Harel's final solution. He coped with the anger and anguish in the way he had been doing since the terror of learning he had magic and the grief over Keran's betrayal…he wrote. Once, he and Anders had shared their poems with each other; now, he would only ever show the poem to Fen.
Fen did not write poetry himself but that did not mean he didn't appreciate it…Lambert had heard him sing the Litany in the deep baritone of a man who had been born in the depths and was now scaling the heights in search of the Maker. Fen expressed his personal feelings in his drawings…which Lambert treasured more even than he treasured his next-most-important thing: the writings of his own father. Lambert didn't draw and Fen didn't write poems…but both understood the other.
Each word of Merrill's had been a hammer into coffin nails of Lambert's last innocence. He was terrified for Fen…his husband was in mortal danger from that…god. That living and immortal Elvhen mage. Solas had spared Fen for a reason just as Danarius had chosen him for a reason. And – by failing to see that the world was darker than his worst fears – he had possibly helped Fen'Harel take his husband. That wasn't betrayal, deceit. But what did he call refusing to listen to Fen's warnings? What did he call letting Fen'Harel walk away from Haven without challenging him?
An acid taste of guilt hung in his mouth. He clenched his teeth on it; spat it out.
Another layer of steel reinforced his resolve to succeed.
Fenris was thinking about Fen'Harel too. Specifically, he was recalling his latest conversation with Anders on how they might cure Lambert of the Anchor. The smell of libraries and rock-walled basements right before rain had become an unexpected part of his life.
The urgency of the task far outweighed any embarrassment Fenris might have felt having to ask Anders for help with his reading…Lambert had taught him to read both Kirkwallian, Fereldan and Tevene…as Malcolm had taught him…but Fenris' skills at reading books by Tevinter magisters was rudimentary at best…sometimes he found himself snorting with laughter at the way Danarius would have hated this!
He had once heard an old Warden mage – born in Tevinter – say reproachfully to Anders (in a voice he had thought too quiet for the ears of a young Elven man) "the sacred treasures of Tevene thought should not be smudged by Soporati fingers". Anders had winced, dared a glance at Fenris and – realizing he must have heard – blushed red as a beet. Fenris hadn't had time to enjoy the moment…he was too busy trying to make sense of the alien magic…and being reduced to asking Anders when he invariably failed. He couldn't help but wish he had spent more time in Anders' clinic…he'd always avoided the possessed mage as much as possible, but then he'd never realized he'd be so desperate to cure his husband from an Elvhen artifact!
Anders, to his credit, seemed to genuinely enjoy teaching Fenris (although he had once complained that answering his questions had all the charm of having his brains pulled out through his ears) just as he had once enjoyed teaching Lambert. Fenris didn't really understand Anders' talk of 'stem cells' and 'telomeres' but he wanted to, desperately: this was life or death for the man he loved.
Fenris had never learned how to express gratitude. Expressing gratitude to Danarius for not raping him that day would not only have been degrading, it would have convinced the magister he had been slacking. Fenris' version of thanking Anders had been to say to his husband – in a voice pitched loud enough for even human hearing – "Don't worry: healers always tell you things are worse than they truly are. That way, when you recover naturally, it looks like they've actually done something!"
Even Anders had snorted with guilty laughter.
But...deep down...Fenris knew the truth. Knew Lambert had been right to tell him the conversation they had had in the Fade – when Fenris had told him, "I'll fall beside you. I hate to be late for dinner" – was no longer possible, because Fenris' first duty must be to the children.
Lambert had looked at Fenris as if adrift in a soft sad dream.
"You know that, right?"
Fenris did know it. Still, it was alright for Lambert – not having to be the one left behind.
Fenris considered the phrase, Ezer K'Negdo...learned through Lambert's grandmother and never spoken in Tevinter...and considered what it might mean to be both Lambert's 'helper' and 'against him'. Did that mean forcing him to have the Anchor removed, and left arm amputated, against his will? No: a partner could not override free will – nor bodily integrity – without consent, not even to save their life. He would never wish Lambert to do that to him – to make him take 'Fenris' Friend' for his own good – he took that on his terms, when he chose – and when he chose to dial up the brands (because they were useful fighting magisters) it hurt Lambert to think of him in pain but Lambert knew it was his right.
They were equals, not parent-child, and for one to override the will of the other – to decide for them as Anders had once decided for the mages in Kirkwall – would be the death of the love between them. Real love was based on respect – they were oppos – and neither was 'the head' of the other. Fenris could not speak for the love between woman and man (he had never experienced it, so it was not within his jurisdiction) but he suspected it must be similar.
Ezer K'Negdo was not intended to be used by one partner to keep the other alive by taking their free will – could only ever be used when one partner was about to do something beneath them: say, if Lambert or Fenris had decided to go down the path of unethical medical experimentation...they would need the other to be strong enough to be their conscience. But Lambert had the right not to be kept alive by unethical means, and Fenris would have to be strong for the children. There were times love could only be pertolerance.
Fenris had manned up and promised, "So be it. I can wait. So can you."
Because, indeed, it made no sense to assume the separation that so hurt the surviving partner would be painless to the one who had gone first. Even if he and Lambert both died at exactly at the same time they would still go alone into the unknown. You couldn't really share someone else's death: the last breath – the final cessation of brain function – was separate.
So might waking up in the Golden City…it seemed unlikely the Maker had so ordered it they would wake exactly at the same time in their own double bed. Fenris doubted the Golden City had been arranged with their own convenience in mind! He did not doubt they would find each other again – that they were meant to be together after death as before – but they might have some individual task first, or challenge to overcome…as they had done facing Nightmare in the Fade.
Lambert had had his demons to overcome, not Fenris', and Fenris had had the memory of Lambert's love but not his actual presence to help him in the echo of Castellum Tenebris…you couldn't really share someone else's fear, or pain, or self-doubt. The best you could hope for was that your love had made the other person strong.
Fenris thought of it like that: "You, Lambert, to the left and you, Fenris, to the right…you will find each other again when your struggles in my realm have made you ready."
So, it wouldn't really make a difference which of them went first…there would still be the same struggle.
Fenris tried to tell himself that but it didn't really help.
They paused before the ink-black glass of the Eluvian. Worse than fear or the knowledge of what lay beyond was the blackness of spirit which seemed to come rushing toward Fenris upon the winds of Castellum Tenebris. It chilled him to the bone and made him want to run screaming back to Montsimmard.
Fenris remembered he was a man. He would not let Lambert – not let anyone – see him like this.
He stepped forward, boldly, carrying the red gem Briala had given him in his right hand. His Brands glowed.
"Together," his husband said softly. His face was very pale. His Anchor glowed like the killer it was: those living and immortal cells.
Behind them, the darkness had engulfed the mountains so the storm swept down and across the grass towards them. The sky continued to bleed light but now the eastern horizon glowed like silver glass. They watched the beautiful violet fingers of light as the storm flowered in the distance. A throaty roar of thunder and the lightning was no longer violet but ice-white and drawing closer.
They smiled at each other. Lambert's violet eyes were flecked with brighter heliotrope: sparks of light adrift on a sea with no stars. When I sleep beside you it's like I'm sleeping in you, he had murmured once – and his voice might have been charged with ecstasy or intolerable grief.
The men behind them cheered and clapped and Roland shouted, "Go on: give him a kiss!"
Fenris looked down, confused. For an Elven former slave to kiss the Herald of Andraste in public was going too far. But the Chargers were shouting too – Krem loudest of all – and Fenris could tell affection from mockery. He drew Lambert into his arms and gave him a firm kiss.
The applause stopped before they did but, finally, they could no longer put the moment off.
As they headed towards the dark mirror, the glass rippled and shifted. At first it only seemed to reflect chips of light – when looking closer it seemed to contain galaxies. Like Lambert's eyes, the surface spun with stars. The ruby in his grasp shone red as the armband he wore as an oath to his husband.
There was a chill inside him and his heart beat faster, and on this side of the mirror there was a rumble of thunder and a deluge of spring rain. White with dust and opaque as milk, it spattered his armour; and behind Lambert's eyes he saw the lightning flicker – saw the flash of his smile.
The ruby became a blazing sunrise, and the billowy shapes behind the mirror became colours of purple and crimson. Fenris nerved himself to touch the surface and blue-violet ripples expanded outward like water.
There was a curtain of shimmering air and a high-pitched whine almost above the range of Elven hearing. Lambert appeared to hear nothing. But the griffons did – Fenris saw Dumat and Ripples, propelled by the same fear. Their viridescent eyes blazed and they arched and spat, their claws extended; ready to fight rather than flee. They would not leave their bonded riders. Fenris had no idea how to comfort them – no idea how to comfort a terrified child, though he had better learn, soon – said, only, "Shhh," so they would know he was not afraid.
They quieted. "Now those are true hearts," Fenris murmured. He didn't quite have words for the honour of these sentient creatures choosing them – trusting them – and it came with the knowledge they must do everything they could to be worthy of that trust.
The griffons were far stronger than children but it was – in a sense – training for fatherhood: for taking the fear of someone who trusted you but couldn't quite understand.
Lambert took Fenris' other hand – palm-to-palm to avoid hurting the Brands – and the Anchor turned the light to the emerald Waters of the Fade. When they stepped through – arm-in-arm – it was like passing through the sheeting veil of a waterfall.
Liminal space surrounded them at the transition from this stage to the next.
The mirror refracted the light like a thousand rainbows. Then…like an intruder bursting through a painting…it tore aside to reveal the world behind it. The place Morrigan had called the Crossroads but Merrill called by its ancient Elvhen name. Reality shattered into a million pieces.
In Montsimmard, it had been raining; on the other side, Fenris looked into the cumatical blue of the sky. A shrew darted away into a smeuse, terrified by the appearance of predators out of nowhere. A gull shrieked and flew away. Shafts of sunlight snaked through gaps in the leafy ceiling. He smelt warmth and flowers and sweet spring air.
Sibilant whispers curled through the branches overhead; like the crackling breaths of a huge creature just out of view. Lambert's late grandmother had apparently told him the spirits remembered what had once been, but that was not a comforting thought. So did Fen'Harel.
Fenris' always felt comfortably numb after phasing. His theory was his soul needed time to catch up with a body moving at the speed of light.
But now he wondered: what if his soul really had gone, and permanently? What if it never caught up? Because he had never felt so completely and utterly disconnected from the world around him.
Even his own body felt distant. It was the feeling he had when he phased. A skip, as if a link in time had broken free. For all he knew about the process, that could actually be true. When the day became real to him, he was outside Arlathan Forest. He had been here before, when the Dalish had run him off as a dangerous outsider marked by the enemy.
Fenris oriented fast, wolf-speed. To the north was Fort Viridan, where he and his Wraiths would break in. Around him, his husband and their companions all looked ill and disoriented. Unlike the Fade – which all mages could use – the spaces between Eluvians were designed only for Elves. Even half-elves were not immune from the debilitating effects. After seeing to his husband – who gave him a brave, wan smile – Fenris wondered about that. If Fade space could be used by any mage – even non-mages through the Anchor or through Marethari's Ritual; even dwarves with no ill effects – while the Crossroads was alien to all but Elves – was it closer to such places as where taint had originated? Rillian was searching for the Black City through the Fade but – was she looking in the wrong place?
The kenopsia gave Lambert an eerie sensation. He pictured Arlathan bursting with life – every statue fountain singing from the water that poured from her mouth – and saw it now: an eerie graveyard, a few stones traced with runes the Dalish had copied like children tracing letters.
Then he shuddered. He knew his own mind well enough to recognize an alien thought. Those were not his impressions – they were Fen'Harel's. He looked at his husband, needing support.
Fen shrugged, unconcerned. "Yup - I experienced that arrogant immortal's mind-burp too. What of it? He cannot make us do anything – this isn't Blood Control – all he can do is communicate with us from time to time through our Elvhen blood."
"Are you sure about that?" Lambert asked shakily, "The Anchor..."
"He put the foci on you just as Danarius – copying the ritual marking of slaves by Evanuris – put the lyrium brands on me. It doesn't matter. Mark – Brands – I promise you, our souls are entirely our own. Your father trained you to ignore demons – Seeker training refined the knowledge – you can apply it here too."
"How did you get so wise?" Lambert murmured. "And brave."
Fen shrugged. "There is a saying: necessity is the mother of invention."
And he was right. Fen was a man who had been born in the depths – his body, blood, mind property of another since before he could talk – and was now scaling the heights in search of the Maker.
For Lambert, the Maker had only ever been a concept he could discuss with intellectuals like Anders … something that fascinated him but that he did not need.
The day you had your flesh, blood, mind, stolen – sacked – emptied, by the will of another; utter helplessness at the mercy of utter cruelty: that was the day belief in free will became essential. The belief that, no matter what was done to you, there was a part of you that could not be touched. What religious people called the soul. Fen had come to this realization because he had to – it was time for Lambert to do the same. To stop playing at being the Herald of Andraste.
Lambert was a gambler at heart. If the Maker had called his bluff the only thing to do was raise the stakes.