Eleven: Difficult As The Silence After
Author's Note: This chapter contains a discussion of rape, though no real details. Proceed at your own risk.
But there was no answer;
only howling, empty and dry.
We are cracked at our center, we bleed,
we die, mortals, we who are deathless—
We fail and fall forever, dying without ever reaching death.
Our Maker has turned his face from us.
We end without ending.
—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza four: of the Black City
Jowan:
Kathil was giving him a calm, long look. "It's strange. I almost think you're avoiding me."
He stretched out his legs in front of him. They were in the Warden-Commander's office, which meant that this was an official talk. It had been a few days since they had come up from beneath the Vigil, long enough to get used to suddenly having memories of his family he hadn't had access to for years. He'd remembered a little, more than most: that his family had turned on him when they'd found out he was a mage, that his mother had marched him into the nearest Chantry herself.
He hadn't remembered that his older sister had tried to bodily block the door to keep their mother from getting out, that his two younger brothers had watched wide-eyed as Mother had hit his sister with a fire poker and then stepped across her prone form as she writhed in the doorway, holding her probably-broken arm. His father had told Jowan that he was no longer any son of his as his mother had dragged him out the door.
He wondered what happened to his father, if his sister had grown up and married. If any of them had survived the Blight. He wouldn't mind seeing his sister, but Maker only knew where she was now. They had lived somewhere in the Dragon's Peak bannorn, but Dragon's Peak had been overrun during the Blight and most people had fled if they could.
Jowan had been six years old. He probably wouldn't be able to find the place again if he tried.
He blinked and brought himself back to the present. "Sorry. I've had some things to think about."
Kathil signed and put her elbows on her desk, dropping her head to knead the base of her skull with thin fingers. "I still want to know what you and Anders' problem with each other is. I have to assume that Anders is going to resurface some day, and when he does I'm going to have to talk to him about it." She lifted her head, and sat back in her chair. "So. Talk."
She is going to kill me.
"You don't want to know," he said. "Honestly, you don't. Anders is gone, at least for the moment. Can we just let it lie?"
"I know lots of things I don't want to know, Jowan." The scarred corner of her mouth twitched. "I'm good at it."
He glanced at the window, trying to calculate how long it would take him to change into a sparrow and fly out. It was open, at least; the day was a balmy one, at least for this time of year. He came to the conclusion that, no, he wouldn't be able to get out before Kathil managed to take him down.
"You haven't exactly been forthcoming, yourself," he said. "Your scars were glowing, when you...did whatever it was you did. That's not precisely normal."
"Spellscar. It doesn't usually glow." She blew a breath out her nose, almost a snort. "It's a very long story. Suffice it to say that I stumbled across something that the Tevinter magisters have evidently kept as a secret art for many years. It was a last resort when my face was half torn off and I was alone. And you are trying to deflect me, Jowan."
"You noticed." He gave her half a smile. "It started back about...maybe a year and a half before I started seeing Lily." Though he wished he could calm his voice, the words that had been trapped in him too long shook him like an aspen leaf. "About three months after you and Sati got together. I'd kept on finding references in books that had been excised. Little things blacked out, or pages missing. It wasn't too long before I started seeing a pattern. It was all about blood magic. I felt...called, I suppose. I thought I could prove that blood magic wasn't automatically evil, that you didn't have to contract with demons to learn it. I was young. I thought a lot of stupid things." He grimaced. "I told Anders that I wanted to steal some of the books on advanced healing, that there was no way that Wynne was going to let me have at those stacks before I was done with her class."
"I remember that," Kathil said. "You asked Sati first, and she told you to go butter up Anders for them, since he had access and was already Harrowed"
"Well, the books on advanced healing were right next to the books on blood magic. I grabbed one healing book to put on the top of my stack. Anders was—distracted." He took a deep breath. "We were in the Senior Enchanter carrels. On the way in, we passed..." He swallowed. "Uldred was in one of the carrels. With Sati. He must have paid off or controlled the Templars somehow. He was...there's no good way to say this. He was raping her. With both his body and with magic."
The words fell flat into the empty space between them. Kathil was staring at him, and her knuckles went white as she gripped the edge of the table. "He was what?"
"I'm sorry, Kathil. I—thought at first that she was just trying to get into Uldred's good graces. I was going to confront her. Anders dragged me away and explained what was really going on. He did it to all of them. Male, female, it didn't matter. He controlled that whole coterie with it. The moment any of them even breathed a word was the moment they died. Uldred would point the finger and that would be that. Anders knew. He did what he could to help them, afterwards—Uldred would hurt them. But he never opened his mouth. Never told Irving."
"And you never told me." There was a tightly controlled fury in her voice.
"You would have confronted Uldred. And you would have died." He shook his head. "It wasn't right. But I knew that day that I was getting out of the Tower, no matter what it took. I couldn't save Sati, but maybe I could save myself." Jowan shook his head. "When I started practicing what I'd found in the books, I...experimented on a Tranquil. I was trying to undo the brand, restore his connection to the Fade. I thought if I understood the ritual well enough to reverse it, I could somehow put together a spell to make the ritual not work in the first place. I made mistakes." He had been so young and so very, very foolish. "I nearly killed the Tranquil I experimented on. Anders knew it was me who had done it, even though the culprit was never officially found. If he'd talked, I would have pointed out who'd gotten me the books in the first place."
"Anders never did have the courage of his convictions," Kathil said. He could see her descending in a dangerous calm, the stillness of ice. "So there it is. You both knew that Uldred was doing this to Sati, and you both did nothing except work on getting yourselves out of the Tower. Did she even make it to her Harrowing, Jowan?"
"No. She didn't." He forced the words out of his throat where they tried to stick. "She talked to someone, or tried to. The next thing anyone knew, she was gone. You'd have to ask Anders for specifics."
Kathil went white; her scar was flushed a deep, angry red. "She asked me for help. Maker's Tits, she asked me for help. I thought she was asking for help with her Harrowing. I told her she would be fine, that she didn't need my help. She was better than me. Next thing I know, she's gone. I cried on your shoulder and you didn't say a sodding word."
"What could I have said?" Jowan straightened in his chair. "'Sorry Sati's dead, but I think you should know that she was a blood mage and controlled by Uldred'? So many apprentices were dying, that year. I didn't want you to be one of them."
"And she kept it from me." Sorrow was beginning to crack her calm. "She kept it from me for a year. I knew—I knew there were times when she didn't want me to touch her, but I thought..." She trailed off. "I don't know what I thought."
In her voice was a touch of the girl she'd been before her Harrowing, before the world had gone so strangely tilted. The girl who'd had such poor control over the fire side of Primal that she'd burned off most of her hair no less than three times, the girl who had never seemed able to make or keep friends but for Jowan and eventually Sati. His prickly, mercurial, imperious sister, a ghost of a memory of the sister who had stood up for him once.
I was going to carry this for you for the rest of my life.
But he hadn't gotten to, had he? Sodding Anders. Anders wasn't going to have to face the fallout of this. Anders was gone, and like so much in life that was unfair as well.
Anders had run. Like Anders always ran rather than do the right thing or face the hard thing.
"If you don't have any more questions, I should probably go," he said.
The sorrow was gone, submerged beneath a mask of icy anger. "Get out of my sight."
He got.
When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard a muffled rumble. He quickened his pace. Cullen might be in the hall. Best to let him and Zevran try to calm her down.
A long howl came from above him—Lorn. Jowan broke into a run.
Fortunately, both Zevran and Cullen were in the main hall, talking with a harassed-looking Varel. "Kathil," he said, pointing behind him. "Her office. She's—upset."
They were staring at him. "What did you do?" Cullen asked. He was rocking Cerys, who was making fretful noises.
Jowan shook his head. "Later. Just—she needs you."
She may self-destruct and take this fortress with her.
It might have been the look on his face, or the way he shifted from foot to foot that convinced them that this was truly urgent. The two men didn't stay to argue; Cullen handed Cerys to Jowan and the two of them left. Fiann loped after them. Jowan breathed a sigh of relief and raked his hand through his hair.
"What did you do?" Varel asked. His voice echoed in the great hall. A burning log in the great firepit in the center of the room collapsed and sent sparks crackling up towards the vent in the roof.
Jowan shook his head. "A very long story, I'm afraid." There was another rumble, and even this far away the air was abruptly tinged with ice. He looked down at Cerys, who had stopped fussing. She was waving one chubby hand in the air, blinking in fascination. "She and I knew each other before we were Wardens. In the Tower."
"So I'd surmised," Varel said. "It was something you did to her back then?"
He turned towards the fire, looked at the flames and the curls of smoke floating upward. "Let's just say that there were monsters in the Tower. Not all of them were demons." He took a long breath. "I'm going to take this little one and go get some air."
He left before Varel could ask any more awkward questions. Out in the inner ward, he wandered towards the courtyard end of the ward, dodging guards. Maybe Herren had gotten in something new.
When he got to Wade and Herren's stall, though, Keili was there. "I know you can't enchant it," she said to Wade, who was scowling under that enormous moustache. "But a well-built staff is hard to come by. Please, Wade?"
The smith sniffed. "I'll think about it," he said. "The Commander carries a sword, you know. And she's a mage. I could make you something spectacular if you wanted a sword."
"The Commander is not the usual run of mage," Keili muttered. She turned away from Wade, towards Jowan, and came up short. "Oh. I didn't see you come up."
"You were a little involved," he said. "Look, if you need a new staff, I think there are some good ones in the armory. Laurens seems to have been a collector."
Keili scowled. "Just once in my life I want a staff that hasn't been bled on by some other dead mage first," she said. "Something without any memories attached. But...well." She shrugged one shoulder. "The best smith in Ferelden doesn't like the idea of making a masterwork staff."
"They're just so boring," Wade said. "They're sticks. I can't work with sticks."
Jowan raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen some of the staves in the armory?" he asked. "They're all differently balanced, and some of them have beautiful inlays. I even saw one with a blade on the end like a glaive or a fauchard. We should see if there are any Dalish tribes in the area, Keili. The best staves are all Dalish work."
"Herren, are you hearing this? This mage is saying that the elves can do better work than I can." He fixed Keili with a dark look. "You'll have your staff. And it will be divine."
Herren, behind his table, only groaned.
"Ah, we should go," Jowan said. "Wade, thank you." He gave Keili a jerk of his head that meant best get while the getting is good, and the two of them walked away, towards the cluster of houses that served as officer housing for the guard.
"Thanks," Keili said once they were out of earshot. "I didn't think I was ever going to get him to just make me the stupid staff. I did go through the armory, but...all of the staves weren't quite right, and I couldn't help thinking that they've all belonged to mages who are dead now. The best one was a darkspawn staff, believe it or not." She shuddered. "I couldn't bring myself to take it."
"Is there something wrong with your current staff?" he asked. She wasn't carrying one at the moment, which in itself was unusual.
"Something happened to it, down underneath the Vigil. It's...different now. Not in a good way." There was a bench by a cluster of pines at one end of the ward. Keili sat down on it, and Jowan followed suit. He sat Cerys up on his lap. The baby was gnawing on the sleeve of his robe, rendering it rather damp.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "I've barely seen you since we came back up." He'd barely seen anyone; he'd told Kathil the truth when he'd said he had a lot to think about.
Keili looked away from him. It was answer enough. "I've always had this sense that I am secretly a terrible person. That being a mage is a curse, a punishment for something wrong I did. I always hoped that maybe, if I prayed hard enough, believed hard enough, that the Maker would forgive me. Now...I remember what I did. I don't think there's enough forgiveness in Thedas for it." She was staring down at her boots.
"What was it?" he asked, then saw her flinch. "Sorry. I won't pry. I'm just no stranger to doing terrible things, myself."
She shook her head slowly. "No, I...it's just hard, is all. Knowing." She took a long breath. "I don't know how old I was. Maybe six or seven, old enough to start helping with milking the goats, not old enough to chop wood. My oldest brother had a bad temper. He was big, and strong. Everyone said that he should be a soldier, but when he signed on with the bann they sent him home inside of a season. Things got really bad, after that."
"How bad?" Jowan asked.
"I don't think there was anyone in the family he didn't hit, except me. My father had just died, and Rolan was the only person in the house bringing in any coin. He never told us where he got it. I think he'd fallen in with some bandits." She swallowed. "One night, he was angry about something. I don't know what. It was lambing season, and one of the ewes died so we brought in the lamb to get it warmed up. Something about it enraged Rolan. He...picked it up and threw it against the wall. I tried to stop him. I screamed at him, hit him, bit him. He just kicked the lamb away, then grabbed me." Keili huddled in on herself, her voice full of unshed tears. "He was going to kill me. I don't think I've ever been so scared. I..." She bit her lip. "That was the first time I ever did magic. I burned him. I filled the cottage with flame and he was screaming."
Carefully, Jowan said, "You were a child, and it sounds like he got what he deserved."
She closed her eyes. "Maybe he did. But my mother and my other brother and sister were sleeping in the back room, and the cottage was made out of wood. The whole thing went up. They never had a chance. I got out, but...there was nothing I could do. When the Templars came, I was filling buckets from the stream and throwing them on the fire. My whole family was gone, and I killed them. All because I didn't want to be hit."
Keili was shivering. Jowan freed an arm and draped it across her shoulders. She leaned into him, but she did not cry. "You didn't want to die. None of us want to die. It happens that way for a lot of us, I think."
"How did you find out you were a mage?" she asked.
He grimaced. "Some of the boys on the holding thought it would be fun to throw rocks at me. I tried to set them on fire, but I missed and burned a field of wheat that my family was depending on to get through the winter. My father disowned me, and my mother marched me to the nearest Chantry that night."
"It's so often fire," Keili said. "I wonder why? I know why in my case, I'm useless for anything not Primal. But you'd think everyone else would have some variation."
"I've heard stories of mages using ice as their first spell. Or lightning. Healing, in some cases. But the magic seems to come out when we're afraid, and when you're that scared..." He shrugged. "It takes time to learn the subtle stuff."
"If you can at all." She leaned her head against his shoulder. He could feel her relaxing, just a little. "First I'm cursed with magic. Then it turns out that I'm not even a very good mage."
He raised an eyebrow. "When something needs to be burned, frozen, shattered, or lightninged to death, you're the first person we go to."
"But I can't heal," she countered. "Can't cast wards or hexes. I took lessons with Ines but I kept killing her plants. All I'm really good for is blasting things. I'm a weapon."
"So am I, if it comes down to that," he said. "I have more range but a lot less power than you do. Blood magic has some applications that aren't horrible, but at the end of the day what it's really good for is killing people in awful ways."
She stiffened slightly at the mention of blood magic. "That should bother me more than it does," she said after a moment. "The Wardens use everything they can get their hands on, don't they? Even blood magic, even...whatever it is I am."
"That's about the size of it." Keili relaxed again. "Do you remember the exercises they used to have us do as apprentices? Passing magelights back and forth?" He summoned one, balancing it on his fingertips. Cerys gave a squeal of delight and reached for it; he raised it up out of her reach. "Here."
He flicked it toward her. She caught it, the previously-orange light blushing a deep red, and tossed it back at him. The light didn't move more than two feet, from his right hand to her left. The place where their powers touched was ragged, and the light flickered as it passed the boundary.
They passed the light back and forth a few more times. "You're trying to distract me," Keili said.
"Is it working?" He smiled at her. "To be honest, I needed some distraction, myself. I told Kathil something she didn't want to hear, earlier. I'm wondering if she'll decide to kill me after all."
Cerys was wiggling toward Keili; she transferred the baby to her lap and set three magelights to spinning around her head, to Cerys's immense delight. "What did you tell her?" she asked. "I can't imagine it could be worse than being a maleficar."
It was Jowan's turn to study his boots. "Do you remember Sati?" he asked.
"No...wait. She was the tall one with all the hair, right? Looked Rivaini? I think I was in a study group with her for a while, until she got picked up by Uldred...oh." Keili went pale. "She was one of his."
He nodded. "I knew some of what was happening to her. Anders knew more. Anders and I have never liked each other, because I was angry at him for not doing anything about it, and he was angry at me because I used him to get into blood magic. He ended up covering for me on a few things, and he still resents it."
Keili frowned. "I knew Anders in the Tower, a little. If he wasn't up someone's robes, he was mouthing off to the Templars. I always thought he was just incapable of taking anything seriously, but if he knew about what Uldred was doing...maybe it was the only way he kept himself sane."
"Maybe. It was a hard secret to keep." Keili's head was still on his shoulder, and it occurred to Jowan that this wasn't a bad place to be at all, on a bench under a tree that smelled like wild places on a spring day that was very nearly balmy, with this woman, passing an infant between the two of their laps. It had been a long time since he had touched someone even in friendship. A few dalliances, here and there, but there were times when he missed the easy physical intimacies of the Tower.
He couldn't hear any explosions from the direction of the keep. He thought he'd stay out here for a while, anyway.
A cat trotted across the courtyard, tail held high. "That looks like Anders's cat," Keili said. "Here, kitty, kitty." She crooked a finger at the tabby, who paused and looked at them with interest.
"Anders had a cat?" Jowan asked. It was really more of a kitten than a cat still, all lanky limbs and enormous golden eyes. It sauntered over to them, tail curling as if it were asking a question.
"Petra found it on the farmhold we were hiding on over the winter, just a tiny thing." She shifted Cerys back over to Jowan's lap, and reached down to let the cat sniff her hand. "She thought that Anders was probably its best chance to survive. He got really attached to it, even named it something unbearably silly." The cat rubbed the side of its face against Keili's hand, closing its eyes in evident delight. "I'll feed it until he comes back. Poor thing."
Jowan wondered if poor thing referred to the cat, or to Anders.
"And if he doesn't come back?" he asked. "I mean, from what we were told, how he left seemed a little final."
Keili shrugged. The cat jumped up onto her lap, purring like a small thunderstorm. "Then I have a cat. Maybe if Anders turns up somewhere, I'll go bring Pounce to him." At Jowan's look, she wrinkled her nose. "Anders named him Ser Pounce-a-lot."
"That's...very Anders." He reached out to pet the cat, which was looking at him expectantly. He was a little surprised when Pounce let him stroke his back, arching his spine up into Jowan's hand. "Well. I suppose the Keep could always use another mouser. I overheard one of the kitchen staff grousing about how mice had been getting into the flour stores."
"Maybe I'll go make their acquaintance," Keili said. "The cows are starting to come into milk, I can beg some cream from them. Pounce is a little skinny. Besides, it never hurts to have friends in the kitchen." She smiled and tipped her face upward, towards the sun. "It's so nice that spring's finally here. It feels like maybe the Maker has decided we're all right after all."
There was little enough forgiveness in the world, but she was right. This place and this moment felt like a benediction of sorts, a kind glance, the world drawing in a breath.
Maybe it's not possible for Wardens to be happy. And maybe it's not important that we are. But it's nice to pretend for a little bit that someone out there loves us and wants the best for us.
He could borrow a little bit of Leliana's faith, for one afternoon.
Zevran:
The worst was over and the Keep still stood, though how long that was going to be the case was anyone's guess.
His Warden had not been in the stable of frames of mind since they had been down in the tunnels beneath the Vigil; Zevran had hoped that they would have a peaceful few days to let the memories fade. Unfortunately, that had not come to pass. At least Ville had made herself scarce. He rather doubted he would be lucky enough to have her leave without further incident, but one could always hope.
He and Cullen knelt on the Warden-Commander's office, propping up Kathil between them. All around them were shredded papers and overturned furniture, and two Mabari pressed against them back and front. The smell of magic was choking in the small room, but Kathil herself was finally silent. Shudders still ran through her.
They still did not know what this was about, except that it concerned Jowan.
And when she began to speak, to tell them what Jowan had told her, the end that her lover had come to and Jowan and Anders's complicity in it—and Kathil's own guilt—he began to understand. He knew what it was like, to bear that burden. So he murmured sweet nonsense into her ear, Lorn licked her face, and Cullen simply held her and set his forehead against the side of her head.
Eventually, the torrent of words slowed to a trickle, and then into silence. "I'm all right," she said, finally. "Well. I will be."
Zevran kissed her temple. "No more work for you today," he said. "We will take this afternoon and evening and spoil you most mercilessly, yes?"
"I can't—"
"Kathil, you're in no shape to do anything," Cullen said. Worry was clearly evident in his voice, and Zevran wondered what he was sensing that he could not. "Please."
She took a breath to object, then stopped. "All right," she said. "Where's Cerys?"
Zevran traded a glance with Cullen. "I will go fetch her from her minder, yes?" He left out the fact that they had handed the child to Jowan. In our defense, he is her uncle. He kissed Kathil's temple. "I will meet you in our rooms."
They got Kathil to her feet and the Templar got her moving, hemmed in by worried Mabari who were hindering far more than helping. Zevran left them then, heading towards the great hall, hoping that Jowan was still there. He was disappointed, but Varel was still there and pointed the way. Though the newly minted Arl had thousands of questions written on his face, he asked none of them.
It was best that way, after all. There were some truths that did not need to be spoken. Kathil had been clear that she had questioned Jowan, had not given him the option to keep his silence. He looked at me like he thought I was going to kill him for telling me, she had said. When he was finished, I thought I might.
He walked into the long corridor that separated the hall from the inner ward, giving a wave to the guards on the door. Varel had said Jowan had headed outdoors, and spring seemed to be shaking loose winter's chill from the air at last. Everyone who could make an excuse to be outside had done so.
It likely should not have surprised him when Ville's voice crackled from around the vicinity of his elbow, but he startled anyway. "I believe I see why you enjoy her company, my thorn. You did always have a taste for danger, and she is a walking death sentence."
He sidestepped and turned, coming down on his heels facing her. Ville was straightening from where she had been crouched. She wore a servant's dress, and her hands were filthy once more. He raised an eyebrow; she'd spoken in Antivan, and it was only remotely likely that the guards would understand a word they spoke. "It has been years since you were entitled to comment on my affairs, Ville," he said, answering in their graceful mother tongue. "Do not presume, and I will return the favor."
"Tch. You have little to presume about me, my thorn. I am not the one dallying in the public eye, and with such a very visible mage. A very intriguing gambit, I must say." Ville leaned against the wall, turning her head slightly to and fro. Under one arm was tucked a long, thin bundle wrapped in burlap—the sword Vigilance, most likely. "One might wonder what exactly it is you are up to."
"I am up to something? It is news to me, I fear." He glanced around; her accomplices were not in view, though he had to assume they were nearby. "I am an upstanding citizen these days. More or less."
Ville snorted indelicately. "Less rather than more. I wonder if you appreciate the magnitude of the storm that is coming this way, Zevran. I was no less than truthful when I spoke to you before. If you choose to stand against it, you will be obliterated." Her mouth firmed briefly. "You must consider practicality. You are too fine a weapon to waste in this keep."
"What would you have me do?" he asked, curious. "I have given my oath, several times over. I have married. I have a daughter. One would think that it is rather obvious that I have chosen my side."
Ville's hand was on the pommel of the knife she wore on her belt, her only visible weapon. She ran a finger up and down the hilt, a gesture Zevran knew of old. "The Shattered Rose could use your talents. You were my best student, Zevran, before Rinna got hold of you."
He flinched at Rinna's name in Ville's mouth. "I am done with the Crows, Ville. I resigned most thoroughly, yes?"
"Yet I find you plying your trade for the Warden-Commander." Ville smiled, and her mouth was full of secret, well-remembered pleasures. "Killing not for pay but for love. Very romantic, my thorn. Most men would content themselves with flowers."
He ground his teeth and buried his irritation. Getting angry at Ville was never a good idea. "Most men are not married to the woman who killed the Archdemon."
"True." But she was shaking her head. "I told you that Rinna would ruin you, and you did not listen. And I will tell you now that staying here in this keep will end you. But you will not listen to that either, will you?"
He stared at his former teacher; she shifted her stance slightly. The bewildering power of her presence tugged at the edges of his mind, made his belly tighten. His body remembered the months he had spent in this woman's care, learning the true trade of the flesh, learning to turn pain to pleasure and back once more. "Ville. What are you talking about? You sound like a prophet."
Ville turned away from him. "The Blooded still believe they own you," she said. "The failure of their efforts to reclaim you is a public embarrassment. Their patrons are questioning them."
"I have been away from them for...five, six years, now? They have tried to reclaim me, they have tried to kill me. They failed." He shrugged. "Surely I am not so important to them as that? I am only one man, and I am no longer operating in Antiva."
"Only one man, occupying a very prominent position next to the commander of one of the foremost forts in a nation that is poised to become a true power. Ordinarily, the protection of the Wardens would be enough. Now...the Blooded is a dying beast, and desperate." One corner of her mouth lifted momentarily. "Your head would make an adequate trophy to forestall the inevitable for a few months."
"I would prefer that it did not. I am still using my head, after all." Ville snorted in response. "Even if I am not, I would find it most inconvenient to be deprived of it. And I doubt that the Blooded would enjoy at all what Kathil would do in response."
Ville tilted her head. "You have much faith in her."
Zevran shrugged. "I know her. Perhaps the least safe place in Thedas is between her and something she desires. But...there is something to what you say. An escape plan may be useful." He crossed his arms. "Did you come all of this way because you were worried about me?"
The Crow laughed. "No, my thorn, I did not. Though it would have been delightful had I managed to convince you to come back to Antiva with me. As I said, I was following the Seeker." She lifted her chin slightly, shifting her weight. "The Seeker happened to be the younger brother of the current crown prince of Antiva. He would have been forced to leave the Chantry by his grieving family once another contract is carried out by the Shattered Rose. Alas, with Edravad's death, and that of his older brother...well, that family is entirely out of heirs. A pity for the Blooded." Her smile had gone vicious. "So odd, that a Chantry Seeker would travel on a qunari ship—but not so odd once you realize that his family was in the midst of brokering an accord with the Tal-Vashoth. Now..." She shrugged. "We leave it for the next prince to deal with. But there will be no official harbor for the Tal-Vashoth in Antiva. We have enough trouble without issuing a formal invitation for the rest of the qunari to invade."
"And all in the guise of visiting an old friend," Zevran said, impressed despite himself. "You knew his target. All you needed to do was wait for him to strike."
"A stroke of luck, that he decided that the other Grey Warden mage was also a worthy target." Ville rubbed her thumb along her bottom lip.
Zevran narrowed his eyes. "You do not believe in luck, Ville."
Her lips twitched. "I do not trust in luck. There is a difference. Templars, they are so...twitchy, on occasion, especially when there are unrestrained mages running around. Warden Rialt was pleased enough when word came to his ears that there might be those about who feared that the Warden's mages were consorting with demons. A whisper in his ear before we left for beneath the Vigil, and all was in motion. A favor for you—Rialt was not, we might say, the most upstanding example of a Warden I have ever met. Though I am surprised that the mage survived the tender attentions of the Seeker and his men."
"You expected what—that the Keep's guard would apprehend the Seeker?"
Ville leaned back against the crate behind her. "My cohort would have taken care of him, but they had to lift not a finger. The mage did the deed himself. I do not know what that man is, my thorn, but be very glad that he has fled."
He took a long breath. "On consideration, I do not believe I will tell Kathil that you used one of her men to pull an Antivan political coup. So, that done, I take it that you are departing?"
"I am." Behind the thick fall of her dark hair over her eyes, he saw a brief gleam as her eyes darted toward him and away. She made a dismissive gesture with one soot-blackened hand. "My companions and I will depart as soon as we are done speaking. Should you ever find yourself in Antiva, come to Rialto and find the Shattered Rose. Your talents would be put to good use for us. And a mage's talent would not go amiss, either." She sniffed gently. "Your daughter would be protected by the finest blades Antiva has to offer, and there is no king or prince in Thedas who could touch her, much less a Knight-Commander."
"Perhaps one day," he said, remembering the key that hung on a chain under his shirt, an innocuous wooden box that was currently in Alistair's possession. In case the worst happens, Kathil had said.
He put it forcibly out of his mind.
"One day," Ville echoed. She pushed herself away from the crates and stepped close to him. "Goodbye, my thorn," she said, so close to him that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. "We will meet again." She did not kiss him; he did not kiss her. Their lips brushed, but that was all.
She was honey wine and old blood on his lips, an ache all too familiar. "I am patient," she said, the words felt more than heard, breath caressing him briefly.
Then she was gone.
He did not bother to look for her. Ignoring the stares of the guards who had witnessed the conversation (but with luck had understood none of it), he walked out beneath the great gate of the Vigil in search of his daughter.
Justinian, 9:35 Dragon
Kathil:
The green blush of spring strengthened as the land broke free of winter's grasp, as the days and then weeks went by. Leliana stopped using the polished stick to walk with; Varel settled into his role as arl. Nathaniel and Oghren returned, fully of stories about the dwarf drinking his way from Rainesfere and back, and Nathaniel's increasingly futile attempts to keep Oghren at least somewhat in line. (No towns had burned down, which she gave Nathaniel full credit for.) A few weeks later, Felsi arrived at Vigil's keep, small son in tow.
Albert died just before Nathaniel returned. Without Anders to hold back the illness, the souring of the wound turned to blood poisoning, and there was at last nothing they could do to hold it back. Delilah Howe haunted the halls of the Vigil like an empty-eyed spirit. She was leaning on Nathaniel for emotional support, to a nearly obsessive extent. There was nothing any of them could do but wait for time to pass and her grief to lessen.
There was a minor exodus from the keep, once word spread that Kathil had kicked the Chantry out on its ear. The loss was more than made up for by the beginning of summer, as people who had various disagreements with the Chantry arrived. Among those people were apostate mages, come in hope of finding shelter.
Some of them—those unwilling to complete the Joining, mostly—Kathil sent to Orzammar, to Dagna. Dagna's Circle in the Stone provided the dwarves with an invaluable service, and the Chantry had no reach among the dwarves. Some went through the Joining; those who survived, Kathil assigned to Ostagar and Soldier's Peak with only a few exceptions.
The most heartbreaking were the parents who arrived with their newly-minted mage children in tow, often just ahead of the Templars. In three months, there were seven children brought to the Vigil, the adults pale and strained, the children thin-faced and scared. One boy was left at the gates with a note pinned to his shirt that said simply better this than the Templars.
Kathil could not find it in her to turn them away.
There did not pass a week when the Templars did not turn up on her doorstep. She spoke to them and sent them away. They went when she told them to leave, for the moment. She was under no illusion that calm words would work forever, but there was no sign of anything but a sullen resistance, and no more Seekers were sent.
The great beast that was the Chantry was rousing, but slowly. There was time, yet.
She sent people out on recruitment missions. Sigrun went to Gwaren, Nathaniel to Dragon's Peak, Cullen to Denerim and Highever. Kathil, herself, did not step outside of the walls of Vigil's Keep. She argued coppers and silvers with Mistress Woolsey, sent letters to arlings that had offered aid but had not yet come through. And all through this hummed preparations for a rather belated wedding celebration, the favor Leliana had asked of her just after she'd first arrived. Kathil had never been able to deny the bard anything, after all. It would be a homespun celebration, nothing like a Denerim ball. The music would be provided by guards and merchants whose parents had taught them the fiddle and drum; the dances would be simple country dances, the drinks small beer and mead rather than brandy and wine.
Given her last experience with a formal ball, Kathil was rather glad that the Wardens had no coin to spare for formalities and fripperies.
The invitations went with a caravan to Denerim, and from there were dispersed across Ferelden. Dagna wrote back with her regrets, as did Petra and Guaire. Many of the other invitations were not answered.
They will come, Leliana told her. I promise.
Now she was sitting in one of the courtyards of the keep, going through a basket of correspondence that she'd been putting off while keeping an eye on Cerys, who was alternately gnawing on a rag doll's foot and her own toes, a look of concentration on her face. Lorn lay nearby, watchful., and beyond him there were guards posted unobtrusively.
It was full summer now, though so far the weather had remained mild and pleasant. The same winds that brought bitter cold to Vigil's Keep during the winter kept the keep cool during all but the height of summer. The letter she pulled out of the basket next carried Alistair's seal, and she tried not to sigh. They'd carried on an interminable argument by letter for the last three months; Kathil had placed Alistair in an awkward position with the Chantry, and she refused to back down and apologize for kicking the priests out of the keep.
She broke the seal and unrolled the letter. It was shorter than most of them, and it was in Alistair's own ragged hand. She blinked as she read it.
Kathil,
Anora has escaped. We don't know where she's gone. Please, if she comes there, don't do anything foolish. She still has supporters, some of them in very high places. We are hoping she will leave for Orlais—otherwise she complicates an already touchy political situation.
She was last seen in the company of Erlina. If she comes there, just try to hang onto her and send a messenger to me. We're trying to recapture her quietly, before she does any more damage than she already has.
We will be there for your celebration, by the by. I believe most of Denerim is planning on descending upon you. I hope you're ready for the swarm.
Alistair.
She gnawed on a ragged corner of her thumbnail and reread the letter. Kathil had wanted to like the erstwhile Queen; they'd had quite a bit in common, and Anora had seemed in dire need of friends. The problem was what it always was, though. She looks at me like she thinks I might make a nice pet, she'd groused to Morrigan. Whether it was because Kathil was a mage, or because she was a Warden, or because she was a commoner—whatever it was, Anora had looked at her as if she were a cat who someone had managed to teach a trick.
Maybe Kathil would get lucky, and Anora would decide to light out for more pleasant pastures. Somewhere very far away, preferably. She entertained herself briefly with the thought of Anora falling in with Rivaini pirates—what had that woman's name been? Isabela? Ah, yes. Anora and a whole boat full of Isabelas...
"Commander?"
She blinked—there had been a most delicious scene in her head concerning Anora using her wits to talk a pirate out of her blouse—and looked at Maverlies. There was a particular expression of discomfort on her face that Kathil was all too familiar with. "Let me guess. We have Templars on our doorstep. They're a bit late." The last apostate had arrived almost a fortnight ago. Usually, the Templars showed up within the week.
"Er. Sort of." Maverlies shifted her weight. "It's...you're just going to have to come and see. They're at the outer gates. I, ah, took the liberty of notifying Ser Cullen. He and Zevran will meet you there."
Something twisted inside of Kathil; Cullen and Zevran usually left the Templars for her to deal with. Which meant that this was no ordinary run of Templar. "Thank you," she said, and dropped the parchment into her basked. "Would you do me the favor of calling a page to take this back to my office?" She stood as Maverlies nodded, and scooped up Cerys. Baby on one hip, sword on the other, Mabari at her side; if the worst happened, she was absolutely confident in her ability to defend Cerys.
There was a small crowd gathered at the gate of the inner ward. There were enough people that she couldn't see anything beyond them. She made a beeline for Cullen and Zevran; from the way Zevran was standing with his weight forward, violence was a decided possibility.
As she approached, someone at the edge of the crowd noticed her, and nudged his neighbor. Silence fell over the inner ward as the people in the crowd stepped back, and she got her first look at their visitors.
Blessed Andraste, this is not good—
Greagoir stood just on the other side of the gates, looking at her calmly.
She realized she had stopped walking, and there was probably a look of shocked horror on her face. Lorn looked up at her from his place at her side, cocked an ear, and gave an interrogatory whine. The alpha knight was here—was he a bad man?
"We'll see," Kathil told Lorn. She put her free hand on his head, more to steady herself than to calm him. Cerys was a warm weight on her hip.
She stepped forward, trying to ignore her jangling nerves.
"Knight-Commander," she said, inclining her head. "This is...unexpected."
"Former Knight-Commander," he said. "I am retired." And that evaluating look was entirely familiar.
"Retired? Do they even let Templars do that?" Then she blinked and shut her mouth, remembering a Templar guarding the door of the Grand Cathedral, still insistent on doing his duty even though he could barely remember his name.
They did retire Templars, but only after they ceased to be useful.
"In my case, I requested retirement after Guaire came back. I was Knight-Commander for twenty-four years. Guaire is more than capable, and I wanted a change of scenery, so to speak." Greagoir's tenor voice was carefully neutral; Kathil wondered if it was very difficult for him to resist the urge to utter every sentence as if he were declaiming from the lectern of the Grand Cleric herself. "Ser Mathias has been reassigned to Kirkwall, and I decided to accompany him to Amaranthine and consider my options."
With a start, Kathil realized that there was in fact a young man standing at Greagoir's shoulder. He looked familiar. Mathias, Mathias...oh. Right. "Mathias," she said to the Templar who she'd bested in a sparring match the last time she'd been at the Tower. She briefly considered saying that it was good to see him again and dismissed the thought for being rather too much of a lie. To Greagoir, she said, "I assume you've heard the current edict about the Chantry in force here?"
Greagoir's eyes narrowed. "I have. I noticed the makeshift chantry just outside the walls. Mathias will be staying there tonight. I do not believe that the edict covers former Templars." He glanced at Cullen.
She's been rather afraid that someone was going to catch that loophole sometime. Just her luck it had been Greagoir. "I suppose you and I should talk, then." She went to Cullen and handed Cerys to him, acutely aware that Greagoir was watching them intently. "Guard her," she said in a low voice. "I'll be all right. Lorn, stay with Cerys."
Cullen looked doubtful, but nodded. She motioned to Greagoir to follow her, and retreated into the Keep. Crossing the inner ward, the back of her neck was prickling uncomfortably. She'd long since gotten used to the sensation of being stared at, but with Greagoir here it felt exactly like being an apprentice back in the Tower, having been caught yet again trying to prank the Templars.
She didn't bring him too far into the Keep; there was a small room just before the great hall that had been used since time immemorial for greeting the Vigil's not entirely welcome guests. The room was sparsely furnished, with only a pair of chairs and a small table. She motioned at one of the chairs, and sat in the other.
Greagoir settled into the chair with a groan. He was wearing clothing that she remembered from the very few times she had glimpsed the man not wearing armor. Summerday, once, she had caught a glimpse of him in the doorway of the chapel, watching the apprentices pray. She'd been so startled to see him not wearing armor that she'd frozen in place, and when she'd tried to tell Jowan about it later, he hadn't believed her.
She'd thought it finery, then, but all she'd known or remembered were apprentice robes with holes at the hems that smelled a little like all of the children who had worn them before. They'd always been too long for Kathil. Looking back, a well-made shirt and sturdy trousers would have made an impression.
Kathil rested her hands flat on her thighs and reminded herself that she was Warden-Commander and not to be trifled with even (especially) by a Templar. She asked, "Of all the places in Ferelden you could have chosen to visit, Greagoir, why here?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Mathias was not particularly pleased about his reassignment. I chose to make sure he was going to comply with my orders."
She frowned. "Your orders?"
"All of the Templars who were there the day the Harrowing Chamber was invaded, I've sent out of Ferelden. Val Royeaux, Cumberland, Kassel." He scratched his beard; it was a little longer than she remembered. "Mathias was the last. Kirkwall sent out a general request for any Templars that could be spared, so he'll take ship once he reaches Amaranthine."
Kathil didn't want to ask, but she did anyway. "Any reason you sent them out of Ferelden entirely?"
"What happened that day is not a fit topic for discussion." Greagoir fixed her with a very familiar look. "Best that the incident be forgotten, and those who were there dispersed. As far as the mages know, there was a minor incursion of demons that we ended with little trouble. I feared—" He stopped. "Never mind what I feared. It is done, or will be once Mathias is on a ship."
"And will you go with him?" she asked.
"I'm a little too old to go haring off to the Free Marches," he said. "I haven't decided. Perhaps I'll go to Denerim. Or I might find a little farmhold somewhere, settle down, and go fishing." He was giving her a steady look, unflinching. "Or perhaps I will stay and make sure that my granddaughter is safe and well."
She choked, and knew that she'd just gone pale. Of all the things she'd never imagined— "Guaire told you." Greagoir nodded. She pressed her lips together. "You don't believe we are wrong for keeping her?"
He didn't answer at first. The silence in the room thickened and grew oppressive. When he did speak, his words came slowly. "I believe that you are a woman of influence, and that attempting to separate you from your daughter only provokes you to use that influence in ways that are detrimental to the Chantry. And I believe that the world is changing, Kathil. I am far too old to change with it, but I have seen enough in my time to know that the way things are done now is not the way things always have been done." He made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole keep. "This may not be right. But neither was Irving's...experiment. I argued with him over that over the years."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "Experiment?"
"The memory spells," Greagoir said. "First Enchanter Arlen experimented with them, but Irving was the first to place them on the apprentices as a matter of course. His theory was that it would be kinder if the children did not remember their families. He thought it would make the Circle far more of a cohesive institution. I disagreed."
Kathil closed her eyes. She'd been five years old when she'd arrived at the Tower, and Irving had been wearing outlandish clothing. She had been frightened of him, and she'd run to Greagoir for protection. A soldier's child, through and through. "You told me to be brave," she blurted, then opened her eyes. "When I first came to the Tower."
For the first time, emotion cracked Greagoir's stony facade. He looked taken aback. "You remember?"
"It's a long story. The memory spell on me was removed recently." She breathed in. "So those spells weren't always part of how things worked in the Circle."
"Not at all. Irving always did try to be forward-thinking, but I always wondered what else that spell stole. We had more than our share of...eccentric mages, and on the older apprentices the spells seemed to only take partway." He shook his head. "Petra seems to be uninclined to follow in Irving's footsteps. Fortunately."
There was a long silence between them then. Kathil could hear the muffled sounds of life in the keep, the heartbeat of the Vigil. "So why did you come?" she asked. "To judge for yourself whether or not I'm an abomination? To lecture me about my duty to the Chantry?"
Greagoir raked his hand through his hair. "Twenty-six years ago, I made a mistake," he said. There was something Kathil could not name in his voice, something like sorrow. "One that I have never been able to bring myself to regret. Do you think it so strange that now that I'm free of my responsibilities, I might want to get to know my son, and my granddaughter?"
"Your granddaughter, who is the child of a mage," she said. There was a bitter edge to her voice. "That your precious Chantry wants to take away. Why should I believe you, Greagoir? You are the last person I should allow in this keep, considering who we shelter here."
His jaw had gone hard. "What do you want me to say, Kathil? I am an old man, and tired. I do not have very much time left. I want to enjoy what I can before I can no longer enjoy anything at all."
Her breath stilled in her throat. "The lyrium sickness," she said.
"I grow...forgetful," he said, and the shadow of pain crossed his face. "Such is the reward for a life of service to the Maker."
She quirked the corner of her mouth. "And the reward of a Grey Warden is to eventually get eaten by darkspawn. Take Mathias to Amaranthine, and then we'll talk." She chewed on the inside of her lip for a moment. "You may want to consider taking a detour to the Blackmarsh on your way back."
"Why?"
"It's a long story," she said. "And a bit of a hunch. There's someone who lives there who might want to talk to you." How Greagoir would react to the appearance of Wynne's spirit, she had no idea, but if he went mad he was no longer her problem, and she thought it might well bring him—and Wynne, what was left of her—some measure of comfort.
You are meddling, Kathil.
She was a Grey Warden; meddling was what she did. Greagoir was eyeing her, but decided not to press. "I will think about it," he said. "I will see you when I come back from Amaranthine, then. Ah, and these are for you, from various residents of the Tower." He pulled out a bundle of folded paper, and she took it.
She rose; so did he. She escorted him to the gates of the inner ward and left him there to collect Mathias. Her edict was uncompromising, as it had to be. There were those outside the walls who would offer them shelter and comfort.
Cullen found her, afterward. He handed her Cerys as Lorn snuffled at her hip. "So what is Greagoir doing here?" he asked. "Do we have to worry about an invasion of Templars?"
"Not right now," she told him, and gave him a small, tight smile. "I think he has a few regrets that he would like to see addressed before he dies."
He blinked. "Greagoir is dying?"
Kathil bent her head to kiss Cerys's wispy hair, and breathed in her scent. "He's probably sixty years old, at least. Maybe older. They start Templars on lyrium before they're twenty. He's doing very well for how long he's been taking it, but eventually it will destroy his mind. I've met Templars who were far gone with the lyrium sickness. It is not a fate I would wish on anyone."
Cullen glanced at the now-closed gates. "I see." His voice was uncertain. "What regrets?"
Something clenched in her gut, and she turned away from him a little. "Ideals are one thing. Having family in danger of having those ideals do terrible things to them is another thing entirely. Greagoir wants to get to know you, and Cerys. Me, he knows well enough already." Cerys reached up and grabbed her chin, digging in with her sharp fingernails. "Ow, little one. It's really going to be up to you, Cullen. Personally..." she shrugged one shoulder. "I never had a chance to know my father. If I were given the opportunity, I think I'd take it."
"He's leaving now," Cullen said, and inclined his head towards the gate.
"He'll be back. I suggested that he detour to the Blackmarsh on the way back here."
Cullen's mouth fell open. "You what?"
She chewed on her lip briefly, shifted Cerys on her hip. "Whether or not Wynne will talk to him is anyone's guess. But if you had one last chance to speak with someone you loved, even if it's only their shade—wouldn't you?"
"It's still probably a bad idea." He was eyeing her, skeptical. "But I'm betting you knew that."
"If I ever acted only on my good ideas, I'd never do anything," she said, with a wry twist to her mouth. She glanced at the shadows, trying to gauge the time. "Well, that interruption is over with, at least. I'm meant to be tutoring baby mages right now, I think." Cerys was wriggling determinedly. "After feeding Cerys, I think." She started towards the keep proper. Cullen fell in at her shoulder.
The early summer sun warmed them as they crossed the inner ward to mount the steps into the keep. Kathil wondered if the letters that Greagoir had given her would have any answers as to why the Knight-Commander would give up a position that he'd held for so many years with no evidence of growing wearing of it. She wondered if Greagoir himself even knew.
He had been Irving's Templar, as much as those two had been at each others' throats. For all of its faults, the Tower did allow mages to have emotions. The Templars were supposed to be beyond all that. It was no place at all for a knight to grieve, even privately.
She knew about carrying impossible burdens. She suspected the former Knight-Commander had several on his shoulders.
Would have been nice if he'd decided to carry those burdens somewhere else, though.
She glanced up at the portcullis as they passed beneath it. Every day that passed without a disaster was another day the Vigil had to shore up its defenses against what was coming. A day to plant and tend crops, a day to drive pigs and geese to fresh pasture.
Another day to live, and to prepare.
Faith is the memory of a lingering kiss,
a firefly spark in the darkness,
as easy as ringing bells in the cathedral
as difficult as the silence after.
—k.m., from "love's memory"