Chapter 16 – The Circle
Morrigan? What was Morrigan doing there? And how had she been able to reach her within her dream?
"Hurry." The voice resounded strongly in the empty space, although it was spoken merely as a whisper.
Yes, yes – hurry, but what to do?
"What do I do, Morrigan?"
"Must find the nature of the demon. Can't stay any longer – go."
Leliana trusted the witch; only she hadn't realized how much, before. She trusted her advice – but where to begin?
Something had happened in there with the intrusion of Morrigan. Mages talked about the so-called 'ripples'of the Fade; now, Leliana could witness them first-hand. The oily smell was ever-present, the sticky darkness that condensed on her arms and brow even more engulfing. But the inert, dark place that surrounded her was changing – she could feel that. It was shrinking, sucking her in, diminishing. It was - fearful.
She refused to see anything any more.
There had to be a way to do without – if she could live in the real world without her sight, she could very well handle it here as well. She took a first step, carefully, slowly. Then another, and another.
Confront the source.
At a certain point, she started to run. She ran so hard and fast that it hurt her knees, the strength with which her feet hit the ground. Yet, the air around her wasn't moving. Not a breeze on her arms, not a lock of hair misplaced, not a trace of the familiar gust of wind to replace the sticky silence in her ears. Nothing, except the surreal sensation that the world was closing in on her. The exertion however, felt true enough, coming along with burning lungs, wobbling legs and an uncanny pain in the ribs as she bent over to catch her breath and draw the obvious conclusion.
She could run like that forever.
She was utterly out of solutions.
Leliana started screaming from the top of her lungs.
"Greagoir, I am the King. I'm supposed to know where it is."
"Not really, no."
"I tend to remember from my Templar days that the only three persons who knew its exact location were the Revered Mother of Denerim, the Knight Commander and the King."
"It is customary, yes. But it is more like a courtesy from our part. I certainly find it suspicious that you burst in here demanding to know, if I may. Your Majesty."
"Riiight. It cannot be that, let's say, I'm doing a tour of the country and I want it all in good order, can it? By the by, does the Queen know?"
"Yes, she does. So, what does that make you?" A glint of amusement sparked in the old man's eyes.
Alistair was too used to Templar jokes to take the bait.
"Someone who'd rather ask you than her."
Finally. Greagoir's mood seemed to mellow.
"Indeed it does. Can't say I envy your position, your Majesty."
The Knight Commander paced all around his office, making sure that the door was safely closed, and no prying ears behind it. Then he started speaking with the air of someone lightly sharing idle gossip in a tavern around a glass of wine.
"Say that there are several small islands just north-east of West Hill. Say that if one were to sail along those isles one would hear things – see things – such as a glowing mist in the darkest night, the whispered wording of a long forgotten Tevinter ritual, or a wailing song. The sailors believe that if their ship were to go under there they would be caught between life and death forever, and that no debris would ever be found. Maybe they got the gist of it."
Alistair was dumbfounded. Oh wait, had the old Templar just winked at him? But the Knight Commander went on, undisturbed.
"I'd say you ought not to sail your ships that way, your Majesty."
"So-o… that way?"
"That way."
"Thank you, Knight Commander." Alistair paused briefly to contain his exhilaration. His business was not exactly over.
"One more thing. Castle Highever seems to be confronting with a demon invasion. Lady Cousland was wondering whether you'd be able to lend her some mages to help her deal with that."
"Ah, yes. She was wondering about it quite loudly, only a moment ago, in fact, when I passed through the great hall… She has this air about her when she speaks, like she would say 'Can I get you a ladder, so you can get off my back?' – quite unpleasant, don't you agree?"
"Hmm." Alistair couldn't help but chuckle. "I've never thought about it that way. It seems to fit, though... But, back to the issue at hand. What do you think? Would you help?"
"Absolutely not."
"Not?"
"Not. And before you try to coax me into it, I must warn you that I definitely won't have my hand forced twice in one day."
"Sorry to hear, then." Alistair shrugged. "And, why do I have the feeling that it is I who must carry the news?"
"You can do that, now, can't you? Sometimes, you have to face the women in your life, your Majesty. I dare hope that you'll manage to do that outside Kinloch Hold, too."
Quirky old man.
As Alistair knew already, Clarice needed some convincing to leave the Tower without further insistences. However, after a few explanations from his part, she did concede that perhaps the Circle was in no position to help. The sight in the Great Hall was indeed dismal, and both mages and Templars were throwing each other furtive, distrustful looks across the caved-in shelves of the once-impressive library. She'd seen it once before, she said so much with a wry smile, recalling how her Lord-Father had pulled a few strings and made it possible for her and Fergus to see the Circle on the inside, on the pretense of visiting a distant relative – an Amell. While waiting for Alistair to finish his meeting with the Knight Commander, Clarice had inquired upon her twice-removed cousin as she'd waited for Alistair in the hall, finding only that she hadn't been accounted for since Uldred's revolt –news that had saddened her further. Still, she thought that perhaps if they lingered on Lake Calenhad's docks for a while more, the Knight Commander would relent and lend her a few men to weed out the wretchedness that had plagued the Cousland Castle for more than a year.
Alistair begged her to see sense: there was not much he could do – if Greagoir had his mind set on the matter, as it had well transpired, there was no other choice but to take their leave, hoping that Kincloch Hold would see better days.
They were just about to climb Kester's boat when Dagna came running. She handed a small parcel to Alistair, whispering to him under the breath - "You'll need this where you're going, Warden. Er, pardon – your Majesty." The parcel was small and light, irregular in shape and wrapped in the most ordinary paper. Alistair couldn't figure what it could possibly contain, but he thanked her nevertheless, and bid his good-bye. Only when they got on the other side of Lake Calenhad he realized he'd forgotten to pass Zevran's greeting. It was too late to turn back anyway, and he dismissed the thought.
When the party saddled the horses and left the small inn on the lake's shore, the evening fog was falling, and everyone's mood was foul enough to carry a long-lasting silence. They rode hard until midnight past and, forced by a grizzly cold rain that caught up with them around the northern end of the lake, they set camp. Alistair had decided that it was best to take his leave from the others first thing in the morning. They ate a spare meal of dried fruit and traveler's loaf under a makeshift shelter that Clarice Cousland's men had built next to the fire, without anybody needing to tell them to do so.
"Tomorrow we part ways."
Clarice Cousland was mulling over a stale mug of ale that she been working on for some considerable time. Her eyes were glittering with a deep shade of wine-red and her jaw was clenched.
Struggling with a mutton chop that he didn't actually feel like eating, although he'd personally asked for it to supplement the meager offer of food, Alistair muttered something in the way of confirmation. He didn't feel like talking much.
"Are you – are you going to look for your friend, my King?"
"Alistair" he corrected her absentmindedly.
"Alistair."
"Yes. No… What gave you that impression, my lady?"
Clarice hooted in the way of laughing.
"I'm no stupid, King Alistair. Not my place to question your ways, but you have been moving up and about with us – south, to the Circle, then down north again – and now you're taking leave here at the crossroads, quite like you'd intend to go back to Redcliffe… which you could have done a few days ago, when we first reached the shore of Lake Calenhad. So, you're not going back. Nor are you expecting your friend to seek me out for vengeance, as I first thought, since you are not eager to travel with me any longer."
"Leliana may very well be with Kallian in Denerim. I'm not worried over her whereabouts." Alistair said quickly.
"In Denerim?"
Ouch. Clarice had jumped to the news like a dog to the bone, fact that was not to relieve him in the slightest of the distinct feeling that revealing his friends' whereabouts was a mistake – of the 'mistakes with consequences' kind.
"You can trust me." Lady Cousland was measuring him with a knowledgeable eye, half melancholy and half amused. "Such as I am."
"Huh. Right. I... "
"I've been meaning to give these back to you for a while now. I, well just – I didn't seem to find the right moment. But tomorrow we part ways."
Alistair realized that he'd thought of the two notes that he'd kept hidden in his glove not once since his encounter with the darkspawn. He had received clothes and armor and gotten his own weapons back, but there had been no trace of the notes whatsoever. Had they been destroyed in the fight, or perhaps lost forever with the scraps of his trashed armor? He hadn't asked. Faced with the two crumpled pieces of paper that he'd been intent to keep upon him at all costs, he fretted on the spot, feeling his cheeks borrowing some heat from the waning embers of the fire. To conceal his bother, he asked the first thing that came to mind.
"Have you read them?"
Lady Cousland nodded.
"I did, in fact. When I found them stashed in your glove, I took them and kept them away from my men. I thought that they must've been important. But, well, they weren't sealed or the such, and – yes, curiosity got the best of me."
"You mean you've read them both?"
"Yes?"
"You mean, you can both speak Orlesian and read? …er – I'm sorry, that didn't come out right." Alistair fiddled with the two paper pieces nervously.
"You want to know what it says?"
"Anora has this elven maid who's from Orlais, but she can't read. And now, Leliana can't read, either." Alistair took pride in himself for the brilliant line – he couldn't let lady Cousland think Leliana had anything to do with that note, not before truly knowing its content. Only, the way his words wiped out the smile on Clarice's face shrank his enthusiasm substantially.
"Right. Give it over."
She unfolded the paper with curt moves and started reading. Her Orlesian was not bad at all, judging by the way the words flew from her lips, neat and minute. Other than that, as far as Alistair could tell, she could as well be speaking Qunari.
" 'Si un Garde des ombres ôte la vie de l'Archidémon et survit, vous faudra le tuer.'- 'If a Grey Warden takes the life of the Archdemon and survives, you must kill them.'" At Alistair's lack of reaction, Clarice frowned visibly. "It doesn't make much sense, if you ask me. Perhaps the one who received this note had to slay the Warden who delivered the killing blow? Or all the Wardens who fought the Archdemon and survived? The wording is more than unusual."
Alistair was at a loss of words. It couldn't be… Could it? Everyone had agreed that Loghain had died in delivering the final blow. He'd taken it for granted. But what if …? No, it couldn't be. Why kill the surviving Warden, anyway? If whoever had written the note had wanted to weaken Ferelden or the Wardens, they'd better named Kallian in person. It didn't make any sense. Plus, he knew Leliana; she wasn't a killer.
He took the paper from Clarice's hands. Like all-too-often of late, he found good comfort in long sentences and kingly, intricate politeness. Long sentences allowed one to think and to compose themselves, and, slowly, Alistair got his voice back.
"Well, my lady, your words bring more questions than answers. But I thank you, for this, as well as for your straightforwardness in all that concerns me and the kingdom."
"Right."
Lady Cousland seemed curiously bothered. "No need to get formal with me now, your Majesty. I can help, you know."
Shrill voice or no, he enjoyed her companionship. A shadow of an idea had gnawed at a corner of his mind on the road since Kinloch Hold, but he had not decided upon it yet. Now that the offer had been made, he hardly found reasonable grounds to refuse. In the days of the Blight, they had seldom – if ever –left strong, capable warriors behind, when they'd encountered them. Wardens took all the help that was offered. What would Kallian have done in his stead? Alistair being Alistair, he spoke on impulse.
"Yea, well… You still need mages, don't you? How far would you be willing to go to get them, lady Cousland?"
She smiled briefly.
"Clarice. You never call me to my name, however adamant you are that I call you yours."
"Clarice – hmm." Alistair raised an eyebrow. "That's rather élite, don't you think?"
"I got used to it… to the name, I mean. I didn't like it at first, either."
"Maybe that's where it comes from… the-ladder-thing…" Alistair's voice trailed, mincing the words to an almost indecipherable grump.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Nevermind…"
Clarice frowned and paused, as Alistair wasn't willing to elaborate.
"Ah well. But, to answer your question – quite far, I must own." – "About getting magi, you asked me how far I'd be willing to go -" she added, in the ways of explanation.
"Yes. I mean, I was wondering… Anders?"
"He is an apostate, as I suppose you guessed already. He found shelter in my camp almost a year ago. However, one mage is not nearly enough to face the challenges at Castle Cousland."
"How about… well, one more mage and a Templar would not make such a big difference, after all, would they…"
"A mage and a Templar? It would make a great difference, if you ask me. But – if I may venture a guess – acquiring them may not prove all that easy?"
"Quite, my lady – Clarice. The mage is in Aeonar."
"But everybody says that getting someone out of Aeonar is downright impossible. For one, no-one knows where it is…" Clarice stopped suddenly – "You do know, don't you?"
Alistair smirked.
"I know only – it is that way," he said, waving largely at the northern half of the world.
"Right… Left to his own devices, he'd tell you he don't know where Denerim is. Tricky king."
Alistair laughed.
"Come on – I am rather nice a – King – Warden – person…" A pleasant heat caressed his cheeks, coming from the almost smothered embers; it made him talk a little louder and a little higher than he usually did. "It's just that, see, I used to be surrounded by friends; people that I knew well. Also, what I did or said didn't use to amount to much…"
"Feeling a little overwhelmed?..." she put a comforting hand on Alistair's knee. The hand had three fingers, and the touch was gentle, if somewhat oblivious. "Don't. It's the surest way to lose a battle, father used to say…"
Alistair did and did not agree – it was the surest way to lose a battle, or the surest way of keeping it real – the awareness of how easy one could lose everything they put their faith in, again and again, was not new to him. But she had meant it in comfort, and, obviously, remembering her father had made her sad. Alistair covered her hand with his, attempting to give some comfort in return. The silence that followed was friendly, almost, and he almost felt like the first nights at camp, when there had been only Kallian and Morrigan and Leliana and Sten, barely knowing each other, and barely daring to ask and speak about this thing and that, about life in the Chantry, about bad dreams, about Duncan…
"So, breaking into Aeonar with me, are you?" Alistair forced himself to sound cheerful. "Very kingly of me, that my first deed of arms be to storm a prison – the magi prison, no less."
Clarice, though, seemed to have snapped back to the severity of before. She withdrew her hand.
"It is kingly to defend those who have been loyal to you. And yes, it will be a feat. We can't have your name hooked to this one."
"That's why we need a plan. Call for Anders. We will need his help."
"Go to Aeonar. With Anders. Fine."
"If he's willing."
"If he's willing. Indeed, it would be rather dangerous for him - he may refuse. What else? You said nothing about the Templar. Where would we get that?"
"The Templar? Why, that would be me."
Clarice raised an inquiring brow, but Alistair merely shrugged.
"Long story."
She huffed – "I said it. Tricky king."