Song is Sam Cooke: A Change is Gonna Come
''We declare our right on this earth…to be given the rights of a human being in this society…which we intend to bring into existence by any means necessary" (Malcolm X)
Trigger Warning: recreational drug use.
The waves of red light from every Eluvian in the Crossroads washed over Dorian as the Dalish mage – Keeper Merrill Lavellan – took them where she wished to go. The Eluvians were dormant afterwards, but he knew they would awaken when she chose. Or when Marquise Briala or Fenris and his Wraiths chose. The mirror the Inquisitor had brought through – the one he had bought for an undisclosed sum from Zenon the Antiquarian – was undamaged.
Dorian knew from the chill aequoreal air they were between Arlathan forest and Fort Viridan. The fort was owned by House Danarius, and it protected their south-easternmost territory; northwest of Arlathan Forest. From here slavers made regular attacks on the Dalish. Magister Nenealaus chose some to be perrepatae and others to be experimental subjects. They were on high ground – Dorian could see the forest's edge and the misty clouds that marked the Ventosus Straits.
The clear waters flowed fast like a scar in the forest – this was water that went into the aqueducts at Fort Viridan. The water was clear and turquoise and temperate. The sky was so cloudless it appeared indigo when Dorian looked up.
Suddenly, Fenris phased out of his black armour and jumped into the cool, pure, fast-flowing water. A moment later Lambert joined him, not caring he was getting his Inquisitor's robes wet. Both men threw back their heads in a wild ululation. It might have looked like baptism – Lambert was the Holy Herald, after all – but Dorian knew the two were delighting in the fact Magister Nenealaus would be drinking their bathwater! Dorian supposed this was how you could feel like you had everything when you had nothing at all...
…"Look out the window, mother! It's like a star made of glass," thirteen-year-old Dorian exclaimed.
Lady Aquinea Thalrassian Pavus reproved him.
"It's vulgar to stare like that, Dorian. That is what slaves might do."
Lady Aquinea – a beautiful woman who appeared to be no older than twenty-five – held out her hand for the tea brought from Seheron. They had won it back from the Qunari after the last campaign. The Fog Warriors were learning what it cost to anger magisters.
Her taster stirred the sweet paste into the drink with her analyzer, and the two sipped and tasted. Then, finding nothing untoward, they handed it to their Domina.
"Why, mother?" Dorian asked – more formally this time.
Aquinea dismissed her attendants with an elegant gesture; the three bodyguards stayed, but that was of no consequence – they were under Blood Control so were incapable of repeating anything. Aquinea smiled, careful not to stretch the skin of her new face.
"Because, you tiresome boy, slaves do not have to care what emotions they display. They don't see how we control them through their fears and expectations. You are different. You are the heir to House Pavus. Reacting visibly like that will be dangerous to you, both inside and outside the family. Isn't that what your deportment tutors teach you – the purpose behind decorum?"
"Aren't I allowed to be happy?"
"Of course you're allowed to be happy. It's just that when you become Magister Pavus, your pleasure will be a slave's reward; your displeasure their punishment. You must learn to keep it all inside, tidily, for when you want it. There are many things you'll want to keep hidden so you must practice."
Dorian could not control his blush. Did mother know about his feelings for other boys? How, when a fellow student had called him a "walking whore-cock from the cheapest brothel in Minrathous" he had had to use fists to mend that person's manners?
It was in him now, and the adolescent boys all saw it. He had never been to a brothel, had no experience with either boys or girls – but they knew, and they were cruel. Dorian knew his mother and father could barely stand to be in the same room with each other...yet they had married because their parents had told them they must produce the perfect mage: perfect mind and perfect body.
...Instead, they got me...
To hide his emotions, Dorian looked out of the enormous window – of a magical material far harder and more durable than glass. Beyond, House Pavus was a diamond of sparkling petals, a circling city belonging entirely to his parents. In it were labs, theatres, grand hotels and aqueducts – Tevinter had perfected the art of running water hundreds of years before any of the southern cities. Home to tens of thousands: mostly slaves and soldiers but some Laetans – his father's bastards who showed magical ability had all been promoted from slave to Laetan – and distant cousins: all mages, of course. Soporati children of House Pavus did not live long.
House Pavus' icy perfection was enchanting; a spun-sugar wonder that sparkled with the fires of nascent day.
"Do you like it, Dorian?"
"It's beautiful."
"And it's yours.
Dorian spun so fast his dark hair flared around his ears, like the crown of a king. "Do you mean it?"
Lady Aquinea smiled; the dimple she'd had put in one cheek performing to specifications. So it should, the amount she'd paid the mage physician to remodel her!
Now Dorian came to kneel at his mother's feet; his face rapt, transfigured. "Thank you, mother." His rising blush made him awkward.
"Why do you think I refused to bear further children to your father after your promise as a mage became apparent? Siblings are always rivals. I should know: I murdered three of mine so I could have the honour of marrying your father. I hate him, of course, but that does not signify. I protected you from full siblings – but there are plenty of your father's bastards who covet your position – plenty of distant cousins too. So you must never give them an excuse to claim you are unworthy. You must rise to power by any means necessary. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. By the time you are ready to inherit you will be adult in deportment as well as in behavior. Sit and have your tea."
Dorian obeyed, not wanting to do anything that might displease his mother. He smelled her soft perfume of authentic musk and rose and gardenias...along with the slightest sharp tang of fixative, the merest hint of the nutrient creams that fed the perfectly grafted skin of her face and neck.
Neither Dorian nor his mother thought of the slave whose skin that had once been.
And Dorian never even noticed as his mother cued his subconscious learning centres with her personal brand of Blood Control:
"Dorian, learn this now: I shan't teach it again. Your exclusive attraction to boys is a secret and must remain so. Not because you are betrothed to Livia Heradanus – no woman of sense will object to her husband raping slaves of any gender. But if it is known you desire only men – in ways considered unmasculine – you will be mocked. You will be vulnerable; and deserve to be. The prostitutes at the Elven Star are forced by their owners to inform on clients. As a mere Altus, you have nothing worth knowing about House Pavus. But they will attempt to cultivate dependency in you, so by the time you do have secrets you will be well and truly hooked. That is why you must only ever indulge with slaves belonging to me and later belonging to you. I will have a boy sent to you. Entirely at your disposal. And under Blood Control so no secret of yours will ever pass his lips. That is the way I manage my secrets. We all have things we have to hide from one another, or even from ourselves."
"And you must learn, my Dorian," she whispered, stroking the skin of his cheek in a way she no longer could when he was awake, "that you can be hurt through your desires. If your enemies know what you want, they can take it from you. And half the time you won't even know who is friend and who is foe. So, no, Dorian, don't make your feelings into a vulgar display. Keep your thoughts and desires to yourself or you offer your enemies a stave pointed right at your heart. And, when you are old enough, you will remember about your secret face, the stranger you keep inside you, and the strangers that watch you out of the eyes of your closest kin. Now: wake up and finish your tea like a good boy" ...
… The river wasn't too cold, a small blessing, and Merrill changed direction, moving them upstream.
"I am sorry, Inquisitor, but I cannot come with you. My first duty is to what remains of my people: to Shianni and Cale and little Andruil, to all who made it out. But I can sketch a map to where the Wraiths are hiding out. They will shelter you, and you can plan your attack on Fort Viridan."
Dorian thought it was typical the Dalish hadn't offered any concrete help to the Wraiths – even though they were Elven slaves fighting to be free. As a Tevinter Altus, he had tended to assume all Elves were the same, but it was clear the light-skinned people like Solas and Merrill – particularly the ones who had magic – did not consider themselves kin to the dark-skinned people who had long ago been sold – by the dying remains of the Elvhenan – to Tevinter, in the hope the rising human Empire would leave them alone.
Fenris – who had apparently been run off by the Elves of Arlathan forest when he first fled Danarius – looked like he hadn't expected anything different. If the Wraiths were all as lethal as him, Dorian supposed it would be good to have them on side rather than Clan Lavellan.
At least, until the Senate did not vote the way the Inquisitor wanted, in which case they would be his enemies in war.
As if Lambert had read his mind, he said to Dorian, "Believe me, this will be the first and last time I do something like this to sway a vote. I don't enjoy rolling around in muck enough to do it again. I am doing this to end slavery , Dorian – not to persuade the Senate to fund my luxury estate!"
Dorian felt both wry and sad. "Everyone always tells themselves it's different when they are using Blood Magic…that this time it's justified. And maybe it is…if that were the only way to save Felix, I'd have given him several pints of mine…murdered other people too."
"This isn't Blood Magic!"
"A detail. The landscape is the forced entry into another person's mind in order to either change their thoughts or – if they fight – make them Tranquil. You are probably telling yourself these Senators are all predators, and so they are; there isn't a one who wouldn't do it to me – but the problem is it never stays at that…you don't stare into the abyss and then look away again. What will you do if the Senators repeal the vote a few years down the line? Even if you were a strong enough man to say: this once, and no further…do you really think Feynriel is? A magister who fell to a demon once already? Don't be naïve."
"Your objection is noted," Lambert said coldly, "But – since you cannot stop me – I'd suggest you save your mental effort for finding a defence against Somniari." He smiled darkly. It was hard, almost predatory; nothing like his old smile. "If you do, I know damn well you won't share it with anyone except your own designated heir, when their time comes. Every magister an Emperor. You won't be able to trust anyone – not even the members of your own family."
And that was so true it hurt. For just a moment, Dorian felt a piercing envy for Hawke, who had grown up among a large, close family – his experience of being who he was (a feminine man who liked other men; a low-level mage and talented bard) going hand-in-hand with the expectation of being loved, like the casual exercise of a birthright. He had once heard Lambert describe himself; with a mix of amusement and utter confidence, as "a flat-eared pillow-biter princess with a big staff" and had wondered what it would feel like to have no shame for his desires, no need to keep them hidden.
Perhaps Lambert had wondered how it might have felt to grow up in a world where he didn't need to take magebane growing up – or flinch every time he passed a Templar or a Chantry. Lambert must have needed to keep secrets during his time working at the Rose.
Dorian had had first not believed the rumours about the Inquisitor's former employment – ever since that fight at school he had been fending off the rumours that, because he was a regular customer at the Elven Star (so he could at least lie to himself they were all their willingly, not because his mother had sent a slave-boy to service him – he would never forget the queasy mix of guilt and desire) he must be taking coin as well as spending it. In Tevinter, that would be the end of his political career, the end of his mother's hopes for him to inherit – in Tevinter there was no shame in using male prostitutes but having been a whore oneself – or being the 'junior partner' in a relationship with another powerful mage – was a political death sentence.
Dorian had assumed Lambert's political enemies were spreading the same lies about him. It had taken a while for him to realize the lies were truths – but that in the South this was seen as embarrassing – not as shameful as owning and using slaves. Lambert's soldiers would have felt sorry for him and fought even harder in his name to clear him of the disgrace.
During their journey to the Wraiths' encampment – in which Hira would be reunited with her Elven lover, Miriam; the runaway slave who had been trained as a Siccari assassin to protect the master who had called himself her brother – Hira sought Lambert out.
Lambert grinned, "If it's anything to do with the burnt stew last night that was Dorian's turn to cook."
Hira was looking as though she couldn't quite believe the Herald of Andraste was speaking to her, human to human. Finally, she said, 'Could I ask you…. about your husband?"
"Fen?" Lambert looked wary for a moment, as if expecting the racism with which some human mages regarded Elves – and Elf-human relationships. He said, "First off, you should know – I'm lucky to be Fen's husband. Second: I'm half-elven too."
Hira looked shocked and said quietly, "I did not mean that in the way you think. The Elf I love…she's from Tevinter too, and it is…difficult. I wonder if she will ever look at me without seeing a human mage."
Lambert said, "We can't expect that. We are human mages – with all the privileges that entails. First thing we need to know is: we mustn't try to be 'human saviours'. It isn't our right to try to make a former slave see 'not all humans'. It isn't our right to help them make peace with their past – because we can't imagine it, not even in our darkest dreams. Any love – they have to come to us. It isn't possible to be a human and seduce a person who was raised to know they can't say 'no' to us. You understand?"
"Yes," Hira said softly, "but…he does trust you. He is at peace."
"That's his story to tell, not mine," Lambert said firmly. "As leader of the Wraiths, Fen tries to help Miriam. He tries to help everyone who has suffered as he has. But that's between Fen and Miriam – all we can do is have the grace to keep out of it. That's all I can say. I wish I could help the two of you but it isn't my place. The lady will get better in her own time, her own way. Till then…you're a good person, and we're lucky to have you."
"Thank you," Hira said softly.
The Wraiths were camping at the top of a Vhenadahl at the edge of Arlathan forest, that afforded a view for miles around. Ferns and orchids sprouted from its trunk, which disappeared into a tangle of lianas in the canopy. High about them, a pale chanting Goshawk worked itself into a slow roar. The rains had only just stopped, and the lush leaves sent heavy droplets in sudden showers. A low mist hung over the ground, disguising their approach.
The Wraiths – Miriam, Shirallas (as a former Dalish, whose Clan had been destroyed by Tevinter, he was more at home here than anyone) Gatt and Tallis – who still nominally followed the Qun but were loyal to Fen above the Ariqun – were glad of the extra reinforcements. Fort Viridan would be a tough nut to crack. The leaders – Lambert and Fen – discussed not love but war plans, making sure they had covered all eventualities.
The other pairs of lovers – Rylock and Vivienne (all at once, the news of this was everywhere – Rylock could be secret at need, but she was never furtive) Roland and Lacklon, Anders and Dorian, and Miriam and Hira – found what privacy they could.
Hira joined Miriam. She broke the news about Clan Lavellan.
Frustration and anger cut across Miriam's sharp, dark-skinned features. "I expected better of them. It is ironic: we are being helped by a human-passing half-elf leading a Chantry organization rather than by the Elves all slaves think of as saviours – the Elves who never fell. But Fenris tells me that is a lie: that these light elves with magic sold their dark elf miners to try to keep the Tevinter wolf from their door – a futile enterprise."
"And I told you they have reason to keep out of it – their Clan was decimated by the immortal Elvhen mage, Fen'Harel."
"The Dread Wolf? Shirellas told me that is a children's story."
"No – he's real. As you'd know if you'd soldiered with him."
The fact Hira – the idealist – had chosen to join the Inquisition and Miriam was still selling her assassin's skills to the highest bidder – unwilling to trust a Chantry organization she did not know – had been the reason for their separation. There was the merest hint of reproach in Hira's voice.
As if to make up for her words, Hira got up, slid in beside Miriam, massaged her taut, muscled shoulders. Not a trace of fat on her – she was all muscle, built like a killer rather than a gladiator. None of the young Elf was for show, and she was all the more lethal.
Hira continued. "The vote for emancipation is the Inquisitor's goal. I believe Tevinter should burn for their crimes – for what they did to you, to my father. I still hear his screams. His voice was different, because his nose was gone."
In Tevinter, it was commonplace to take the nose and ears of an execution victim first (you had to bribe the executioner to do it after death and not before – the person who had ordered the murder would never know the difference) and, in the case of Hira's father, they had killed him by burning him alive; the standard punishment for traitors. The reason they had killed him was because he had proposed emancipation in the Senate.
Her voice softened. "And after my vengeance for you both, I'd like us to retire somewhere...I hear Ferelden has laws that make both Elves and humans equal – but I'd still be stuck living at Haven or Redclfife, because King Cousland doesn't allow mages to travel freely. And, because the Chantry kept the phylacteries in Denerim, we have no guarantee they were destroyed – they're probably under royal guard now. Orlais, on the other hand – Divine Victoria will marry us in a Chantry wedding, and we can go wherever we like, without being watched or me having my phylactery taken. I picture us on a farmstead, near a babbling brook. I don't know anything about farming – but I'll learn, for your sake."
Miriam stepped back. "We talked about that a long time ago."
Leaning back against the chair, Hira reached blindly for her hands. Miriam pulled them behind her, retreated another half-step. Her face was pained, confused.
Hira put her own hands back on the table. "Don't you think that, if one person wants something, she can make that come true for the other person, as well?"
Miriam sighed. "You speak generalities. I'm talking about us. About me. I'll stay as I am forever."
"This is how it started for us," Hira murmured, eyes heavy-lidded. "Do you remember? I was hiring out my skills at Necromancy to help the Nevarra Mortilasi and you were the personal assassin of King Markus. We met in his castle. My back to you, your hands on my shoulders, rubbing away uncertainty. You knew I needed you. You wanted me, then, too – I know you did. I think you still do. I'll always need you. Want you."
"I needed you too," Miriam said. Her own soft tones were reticent. Sadness touched her voice as she continued, "You made me know I was a person, not a thing. All my life, I'll remember. But how can you ask me to marry you, knowing those things may not happen again?"
Swiftly, smoothly, Hira rose, taking Miriam in her arms before she could get away. Miriam stiffened, cold as steel against the Altus. Too excited to notice her reaction, Hira said, "That kind of spark never goes out, Miri. We can find it. I'll be so good to you you'll have to love me. We'll have a lifetime of good moments."
Hira's hands slid down Miriam's back. They came to rest just at the rise of her buttocks; the fingers splaying, pressing.
Miriam raised her hands to Hira's shoulders, pushed her away. Her face was pale; her Elven eyes round. She begged, "Don't do this. I'm not who you think I am, not the woman you want me to be."
"You can be. Let me help you."
Miriam took a jerky, backward step, shook her head in a vehement denial. The movement excited the candle flames; they swayed and cowered as she ran for the door.
Hira stared at the empty doorway for a long time, as if the power of her yearning could fill it with Miriam's body, her voice, her aroma, one more time. After she straightened, she rubbed her eyes – always darker and more alluring when she had had little sleep due to studying powerful Necromantic spells. She licked the ball of her thumb and the tip of her index finger clean of ink. Contemplatively, she snuffed out the candles. However much this appeared as anagapesis, Hira knew Miriam was only afraid to go deeper. By the dim light of the last, hesitant flame, she smiled. "Miriam loves me." The tiny hiss of the last wick could have been an affirmative 'yes'.
Or derision.
Arlathan forest bristled with life. Lambert found himself fascinated by a species of gentian called Voyria – to use the Tevene term – which was about the height of a quava cup, their stalks spindly and white with a single pale blue flower balanced on top. They had lost the ability to photosynthesize, so Ines Arancia had told him, and that was why they no longer had the green colour of plants. She would not be going on this journey, but had requested samples, and he had happily obliged. At the back of his mind was always the thought that perhaps this could save Fen – as her expertise had helped him create Fenris' Friend.
But he knew they had to do more than that; the mixture could rally Fen's immune system – to keep him solid, real, unable to become a Lyrium Ghost – but would do nothing to destroy the Brands.
He had the dark suspicion Anders' suggestion of putting Fen through Rillian's Improved Joining would be the only way to do that – it had a one hundred percent survival rate, Fen would not have to go through The Calling, the taint would kill the Lyrium Brands, while the blood of the dragon of beauty would prevent him becoming a ghoul. His Seeker abilities would protect him from the prospect of it merging – scientists like Sweeney called it lysogenesis – with the Brands to make Fen a Red Lyrium Warrior. That was the difference between the way taint destroyed lyrium – Sweeney had told him the bacteriophage caused lysis – and the way taint merged with lyrium to become Red Lyrium. Here, the bacterium absorbed the virus. With the way lyrium itself suppressed the immune system, and the way taint spread, the symbiosis was a long, slow death sentence.
Sweeney, Anders and Dorian were all in agreement Rillian's Joining Mixture would work as intended – especially if they gave him some of Rillian's blood (she still had frozen samples) because this had cured Rylock of taint without the Templar even needing to go through the Joining. But, still, Lambert was terrified. The coadunation of Fenris' Friend with Rillian's immunity and the Joining mixture seemed an armamentarium of hope rather than sound medical knowledge.
What if they are wrong?
The theory sounded watertight – but Lambert would still have preferred Ines to come up with a miracle cure that didn't involve taint – his experience's during the Fifth Blight and later when defending Andoral's Reach and Haven from Red Lyrium Warriors would always make him shudder. He was hoping against hope Voyria – which apparently did not need chlorophyll because it had a symbiotic relationship with fungi – might be it.
If Voyria could survive without photosynthesizing he suspected that might be able to tell him something of what was going on with taint – which eventually shrivelled lungs because it did not need respiration to survive. Arlathan Forest was not open or flat, so this meant a lot of scrambling and stopping – which got his clothes nice and dirty and led to Dorian (dressed stylishly as always) smirking in a way Lambert found distinctly annoying.
Anders teased him about his small ecology and dainty fascinations. Lambert teased him back about his brute ecology and chirurgeon's machismo. Varric was performing his own ecology – harvesting mushrooms Lambert had tried before in Kirkwall – always before a particularly rough client. They made the sky appear shockingly blue and the clouds large and vivid. Voices seemed louder than before, and city lamps brighter, the filth on the streets more fascinating, the rain more refreshing. Varric had sent a raven to Bianca before even going through the mirror – and Bianca had indulged him with a strain of marijuana famous in Qarinus.
Well, if Varric were planning the party to end all parties to celebrate their last night before preparing to kill or die taking Fort Viridan, Lambert was happy. His life had taught him to live in the moment.
Fort Viridan was Northwest of Arlathan Forest, and the Wraiths had an underground hideout – that had once been dwarven – close enough to launch the attack. It was evening – too late to set off now – so Varric advised holing up here for a day to attack at twilight tomorrow.
The stone intricacies of the hideout were a chilly lake of shadow until Varric used flint and tinder and the mages magic to produce heat and light. Dorian was particularly good with fire magic.
"So good I hope he doesn't manage to burn everything down," Lambert muttered darkly.
"This is shockingly lazy of Nenelaus," Dorian observed, "No security at all. I could paint Andraste in here and he wouldn't even notice."
Within hours they had made the hideout into something vaguely homely: thick-walled, magically fired (they could not use coal because the smoke would have been seen by the guards patrolling the fort) smelling of Varric's magic mushrooms, marijuana and incense-soaked damp. Furniture was a junkies' paradise: upturned crates, discarded farm machinery, a statue of the Old God of Night in fake jet.
Meanwhile, Rylock and Vivienne 'revived the living room' (blatant euphemism for a romantic moment). Still, they did succeed in creating a warming fireplace. The light was diffused by motes of dust that shimmered into rivers. The candlelight refracted the rivers of light into rainbows.
Anders, Dorian, Lambert and Fenris were given the task of washing up. Which meant that Lambert washed, Anders dried, Fenris prowled the kitchen and Dorian flapped like a disgusted peacock.
Magister-spreading , Lambert thought, in judgmental disdain. Growing up in an estate where everyone – servants, slaves, Laetans – would have gotten out of his way, it never occurred to Dorian he could be in anyone else's way. It was not deliberate but insouciant. And somehow, the trait Lambert had always been fond of in his own mother became annoying. Became an example of everything wrong with Tevinter. Lambert – who had grown up with a large family in a tiny house; sometimes just one room, divided by curtains – frowned dismissively at the lack of spatial awareness. Every thought he had about Dorian seemed to be an animadversion.
It was true that, when presented with a Tevinter specialty, he had thought, Ugh. Far too spicy. But, when presented with a similar dish from Antiva or Nevarra, he had lapped it up. That had ended the day he found out Fen liked the Tevinter dish he had disdained… his tastebuds being less nationalistic.
Dorian was proud of his own culture – attached to language, literature and cuisine – but he did not extend that feeling to his actual countrymen. To Lambert that was funny. Fereldans poked fun at their own culture all day long but they felt about each other like family.
Lambert himself was more an 'anywhere' than a 'somewhere'… loyalty had been to family not country. He had feeling for Ferelden because he had fought during the Fifth Blight – Kirkwall was full of unhappy memories – he was proud of Prince Sebastian for his stance on slavery; eternally grateful he had honoured Fen as he deserved… but, still, Lambert was an idealist rather than a patriot. He found the views of people like Loghain and Dorian vaguely disturbing. Fen placed his loyalty in people rather than a country, too, but he was less judgmental. Carver had fought for Ferelden but his loyalty was to the Wardens – he was an idealist too. Anders' loyalty wasn't to a country but to the people who shared his trait of magic and had no one else to speak for them.
The smell of food permeated the house; enough to feed all twenty-two who had gone through the mirror, plus their griffons.
At home in Starkhaven, Lambert had once claimed pillow-biting was a full-time occupation so he couldn't be expected to cook as well…Fenris had agreed and made dinner - and Lambert had quickly realized he preferred his own style. He wasn't sure what Rylock's cooking would be like – devoutly hoped it would be better than the slop Anders had told him they served in Circles.
Then he blushed. Had he forgotten his own childhood so soon? He knew no one could appreciate money until they had had do without food so someone they loved could eat. He remembered his father and Carver and himself smiling at each other while watching mother and Bethany tuck in. Malcolm had taught him what it meant to be a man.
Vivienne transformed the place into a cut-price Orlesian paradise. Rylock cooked a fibrous but well-spiced vegetable hot-pot for supper.
"This is delicious," Lambert murmured in surprise, "I didn't know Templars learned to cook."
Rylock snorted. "The men don't. But I worked in the Chantry kitchens until I was fifteen – when Chantry law changed and women became allowed to join."
The wine, however, was abysmal plonk. Nonetheless, this was a night when Lambert felt like drinking. He set the pace – everyone was tipsy by the time the meal was finished.
Lambert found himself feeling like playing on his long, slim lute with the runes of electricity. It was a piece of music learned from Gatt, which he had never tried before.
"It's Qunari music," Lambert explained excitedly, "The music of both Tevinter and the South is modal; theirs is tonal. I can't help but enjoy the concinnity. It's a very different sound." Indeed, it was. In tonal music the use of chords meant the music could no longer proceed in a completely free way. Yet it was, strangely, more diverse because within a tonal piece all twelve sounds of the chromatic scale were available, while modal music tended to exclude some of them. He tried to explain this – along with a rather anfractuous analogy about the way the Qun was controlling but included all races – but the alcohol hampered his usual way with words.
"Yes," Dorian said dryly, "I suppose everyone is included under the Qun. Given the same 'right' to have their free will removed."
"You've got a nerve talking about free will, " Lambert snapped, "How much free will do you give the slaves you use as walking blood bags – or enforced skin donors so rich women can stay young?"
"It seems you're enjoying your Tome of Koslun a little too much," Dorian said dryly, "I doubt you'll take on board their teachings about mages but you seem to have no problem with the rest. Your military is the hammer, the bullshit about you being the 'Herald of Andraste' is the anvil, and the rest of Thedas the workpiece you seek to shape. You are remaking the world into your own image."
Lambert smiled – slowly and insolently. He knew everything coming out of his mouth was propelled by alcohol but right then it was as if a dam had burst.
"Tevinter isn't the first and you won't be the last. Divine Victoria is preaching the souls of everyone – human, half-elf, Elf, dwarf, Qunari – are equal. I am learning to be the anvil that uses the hammer to enforce that message to all corners of Thedas. Do you have a problem with that?"
"Freedom includes the right to make your own mistakes."
"But never to enforce them on others. Tevinter does rather a lot of that and seems to have no restraint – so I will have to do it for you. People can be more than they are, if they will try for it. How many have tried, because of the Wraiths and Divine Victoria and... yes...the Inquisition. People who turn a blind eye to slavery – and make other people believe in the status quo – kill more than I ever will with this war."
"Danarius was a sadistic rapist of children. You mustn't believe…"
"I don't. The saying not all magisters is tiresome, but true. But it is your laws that enable the monsters. You know, Alrik had to present his abuses as righteous…cloak them when Seeker Cassandra came to investigate. But when Varric wrote Spotlight people were outraged. They knew mages were people and this abuse was of the Void. The Rite of Tranquility had to be presented as a kindness: if anyone had said, "we are doing this so we can rape mages" there would have been an outcry. In Qunander when they sew our mouths shut they have to present it as a heroic sacrifice we are making for the Qun – the only thing that stands against chaos. Only in Tevinter are these abuses – the rape of slave children, the draining of nine pints to power a spell – spoken of with a shrug or a snicker. It is expected – lauded – to rise to power by any means necessary. You call the Chantry and the Qun hypocrites…and so they are. But it is better to be a hypocrite than to be beneath shame."
"When the thirteen-year-old mage girl of say…Lothering…is brought before the Viddasala to have her tongue cut out and mouth sewn shut, do you think she will care that, "They really believe I am making this sacrifice for the good of all"? In Tevinter most magisters will do anything to anyone for power but the good ones will resist. In the Chantry and the Qun the good ones are captured by an evil ideology – when people like Rylock go after fourteen-year-old runaways and people like Iron Bull obey Viddasalas – who is left, then, to oppose it?"
Lambert had to admit this was a fair point. He was just thinking how to answer – the alcohol wasn't helping – when Dorian added:
"If I admit slavery is bad but disagree with you that the way to end it is by forcing a vote or going to war on my country, what then? You can't believe in incremental change?"
"I'd mistrust your motives. I'd suspect you favoured incremental change because you are of the class – Altus – that does very well with the status quo. Your 'incremental change' would start to look a lot like the late Empress Celene's. 'The master's tools won't demolish the master's house' ."
"You remind me of Calpernia: who thought going to war the way to win equality. The only difference between you and her is she wore leadership with style."
"Style won't mean much against Seeker powers and the Litany and Firelances. " Fen had liked the name, so Lambert had kept his word for the design of hand-held Northover projectors.
Dorian faced Lambert, the meal forgotten. "I will be perfectly clear with you. We are the same age, but I have been trained in the use of magic since I was four. Somniaris and Anchors are allies you have now … just as your Seeker powers were gained through pleasing the Chantry. So – much as you may think you've learned since your magic manifested age fifteen – you're not as powerful as you think you are. You are an abecedarian compared with any Tevinter mage of the same age. Nor are you the only one who thinks in terms of controlling the Archon or the Senate or the Imperial Divine. I would advise you not to get in my way."
Lambert sneered. The days he would have been naturally conciliatory were long gone.
"And you may think you're a big player due to the power you inherited from your father … but – given you have done your best to cut ties with that inheritance – I'd think twice before opening your mouth."
Part of him was aware of Rylock and Vivienne choosing this time to absquatulate. He had made sure they had been given a private room. Even though no one could actually lock theirs – the locks were magical wards that had long since run out – he knew no-one would interfere.
Lambert had been going to stop there but – lured on by the smiling spirit of the grape – he thought he could do better yet.
"Cross staves with me and I'll cut you into pieces small enough to feed my cats."
Dorian rolled his eyes. "Oh, we're comparing the size of our staves, now, are we? Has anything actually matured in your mind since age fifteen? Well then: I'd be interested to see the results of Encore – which can produce some helpful tunes, I'll admit – versus Deathward."
Lambert knew the staff given to Dorian on completion of his Necromancer training could do the kind of things whispered fearfully among Southern mages, plus worked synergistically with the Altus' own natural talent for fire magic. Lambert witnessed Dorian's dark smile and knew he was picturing him in the eye of a hurricane of pyroxymulus.
I dare you, Lambert's look said.
The whole gathering seemed to have degenerated into an anecdoche, in which everyone was talking but no-one was listening. Varric looked to Fen for help, but Fen was embroiled in his own dispute with Anders.
"I told you becoming a Lyrium Ghost to save Lambert wasn't a good idea. You must let me treat him as soon as possible, and you must put yourself through Rillian's Improved Joining – along with an injection of her blood, just in case – in order to destroy the Brands."
Fen coughed – which had the effect of spluttering his mouthful of wine at Anders' feet – and said, "That's just what I've come to expect from you. You see – that's the way you chirurgeons think. Still in the old ways. Still shackled to" ... cough cough ..." still with such limits of understanding. The flesh. The body. What Hawke and I have is spiritual. Prince Sebastian explained it all to me. He told me the Maker destined him and Princess Josephine to be together – just as He destined Hawke and I to be together. I've lain awake sometimes thinking how incredible it is Hawke wasn't born in Tevinter or Seheron or the lands east of Rivain. To think of how we might never have met – to think of the age of loneliness. And yet there he was in Kirkwall. And there I was. And the search was over. I can put the small things away. I've found him now."
"Oh Maker. The only thing 'spiritual' is you've drunk so much you're talking absolute bollocks. I thought the Brands gave you a strong head for alcohol – you certainly drank enough in Kirkwall."
"How dare you impinge my..."
"Impugn. Impugn, you idiot. You've been able to read for seven years and in all that time you've read nothing but military texts – you don't even read anything of Varric's! How are you going to cut it as Guard Captain if your vocabulary is no better than a first-year apprentice's..."
Varric had had enough. He rounded on Dorian and Lambert – on Fen and Anders – and said sharply, "Put your handbags down, ladies. I've got a far better use of your time."
Varric brought out the marijuana and rolled joint after joint with dreamy precision. Lambert's favourite strain back in Kirkwall had been Strawberry Banana, because of its sweet taste and the fact it induced a euphoria that made him really not care what clients did to his body – his mind was floating high in the clouds, above the rain. For Lambert, the strain – which Varric had supplied at The Hanged Man and let him have at mate's rates – hit the sweet spot between power and smoothness. It reminded him of a souped-up version of the strawberry milkshakes his father had made when he, Carv and Beth were children – and provided a sense of wellbeing.
In Llomerryn, Slubberdegullions had taught him to appreciate Blue Dream – which was great for socializing – and while on the quest to Red Bride's Grave even Rillian had allowed him to take the mixture called Chemdawg, because it had quite cerebral effects. Lambert had taken it hoping for inspiration and was never quite sure whether it had anything to do with his invention of Fenris' Friend.
But the variant Bianca had sent Varric was Godfather. Godfather was rare stuff, grown east of Qarinus, where it was warmest. The whole of Tevinter had warm climes, but the northern end was lashed by the Ventosus Straits. Not that that, in itself, could be responsible for the forever rain over Castellum Tenebris…. Lambert knew that had to be magical. Godfather was an Indica-dominant strain that hit within minutes of Lambert's first smoke. All at once he forgot his row with Dorian – and knew from the slightly sheepish look on the Altus' face he was feeling the same.
Lambert was feeling happy and replete; and his consumption of Godfather had not lessened his concupiscence for his husband. He made ready to retire, leaning on Fen.
"Sparky," Varric said gently, "I play the bard sometimes. I make things grand… grander than they are. But I never lie unless I can make a lie come true. Sparky, I cannot lie to you. What Blondie told Broody was spot-on. That thing on your arm will kill you unless you chance the surgery."
Lambert grimaced. He knew as well as Varric that by 'surgery' he meant amputation.
"Are you saying the Spirit of Faith wasn't telling the truth?"
"I am saying spirits know a different place and time, and their truths may not be the same as the truths we mortals know on Thedas. Why do you think my most important stories – the tale of Hawke and the Inquisitor – always have an element of fantasy? Why do you think the Chant of Light speaks in allegory? Enemies like Evanuris that can feed on mortals – and lust to feed on mortals – people just won't look at these truths except as legends."
"Thank you, Varric. I will think about what you've said – but not tonight. If this is to be our last night on Thedas, I'll make it one to remember."
That night, Lambert made his husband welcome in every way he knew, and some he had only just thought of. It was a joke of Fen's that Lambert was making a civilized man of him; the truth was Lambert was slowly forgetting how to please anyone else. Anders…and before him Zev and Isabella, Cyril de Montfort and his clients at the Rose, were long forgotten. Though Lambert had the art – learned at the Rose – to draw men into violent pleasures, and had tried it once with Fen, it had left a cloud on him, as if fearing he was going to turn into his former master. Lambert had berated himself for his own insensitivity and for exercising what was, for him, only a taught skill. He should have obeyed his heart … but Fen was the first lover who had really had it. Now Lambert had shown him the way around the garden of earthly delights, Fen wanted a companion there, not an entertainer. Lambert's husband was never clumsy – it was in his nature to be a giver – here as in the rest of their relationship.
Dorian and Anders found pleasure together – their shared magic allowing for several repeats – but Dorian's dreams were troubled.
Fort Viridan was near to Castellum Tenebris but also not far from Qarinus – in which one of the ruling magisters was Halward Pavus. House Pavus had the senior standing – the mysterious Calix Quintara was a notorious recluse, and scarcely bothered to show himself at the Senate. Maevaris Tilani was brave but embroiled in her own problems – as any woman who had the courage to live as her true gender and marry a Dwarven merchant would. Which meant Dorian's powerful father would find few willing or able to restrain him. It was impossible for Halward not to know the Inquisition's men were here – he had spies everywhere. Some of them were shapeshifters – which meant perhaps that shrew they had seen dart away into a smeuse was on its way to report to him. There was no way Dorian's father could fail to know he was here. And the Inquisitor. And the stolen property of House Danarius.
When explaining why Lambert was never going to be able to compromise on slavery, Anders, who had told Dorian what Danarius had done to Fenris, had said sickly, "how can people do these things?"
Perhaps, stripped and strung up in a sound-proofed cell below House Pavus, Fenris was going to be reminded. Perhaps Halward Pavus would return House Danarius' stolen property, as Tevinter law demanded. Dorian saw Danarius – never mind he was dead, they all had the same face – emerging from the shadows, expensive trousers revealing the genital punnet, face sheened as if from a steamy kitchen, eyes remote with desire.
Which of these is truly my ally?
Dorian dreamed he was part of the elite group of Senators, all well-dressed and uglily cosmeticized. They were in the shared bathing facility housed near the Senate and exclusive to the powerful. The porter came to take his name.
"Dorian…it is Dorian, isn't it? For a moment, I mistook you for your father."
They were taking showers.
Soap, shampoo, loofahs – all very prosaic – except through the frosted glass of the cubicles Dorian could see their enforced donors, growing weaker as their blood went into the washing of armpits, toes, genitals.
…"As a magister you will live a long time, my son" ...
The greatest youth potion was to shower until they died.
Dorian woke and saw his lover asleep beside him. Anders' lion's-mane hair had its own heat. His eyes were closed; when awake, they were fierce works of amber that never lied. His supple and fiery self had made the most of Dorian. Not to mention the pulses of wrists, throat and groin, the sacrum's golden down.
Dorian retreated and stepped across (after a brief and cretinous struggle against tears) to the hallway. The door to Lambert and Fenris' room wasn't locked – the place had relied on magical wards and these no longer worked. Dorian poked his head in.
Lambert was asleep, with the look of a happy and lovely corpse. Fenris, standing in just trousers by the window, turned and saw him. The lyrium brands glittered – which Dorian knew must hurt him, though he gave no sign – proving the peace he had found with Lambert had made him all the readier to defend it. Lyrium had an attractive smell, like the air after a lightning strike. A resonance, a crackle and spark, a smile on the face of danger. A moment, then – Fenris' tensing to defend Lambert from the Altus; ready to phase and rip out Dorian's heart – before something in Dorian's expression stopped him. Dorian saw the thoughts – the memory of the fire of love he had passed through last night, the wondering if it was visible, the realization that it was – pass across his dark-skinned face like clouds presaging weather. Fenris was realizing Dorian knew, and wouldn't ruin it.
"I'll make the tea, then."
A thing of beauty being a joy forever, Dorian kept that image of Fenris precise and clear. He imagined it as a tiny, enameled bit of his brain he would remember during the confrontation with his father. He would make use of it like a talisman.
"There's a horseman up there," Krem said, jerking a thumb southward. "Armoured. Military. Under a white flag. There're other troops, under cover. I counted fifty before I snuck back."
Lambert shivered. Their own force numbered twenty-two. His own group, Sparky's Folly, SNAFU, led by Fairbanks, The Wraiths, led by Fen, and the Chargers. Krem had brought five with him through the Eluvian: Dalish, who claimed to be an archer and whose staff-shaped bow had a crystal for "aiming", Grim (he was an agelast who hadn't cracked a smile in decades; it was always a triumph to get a grunt out of him), the Dwarven sapper nicknamed Rocky, the chirurgeon, Stitches, and Skinner – a City Elf who had escaped the purge of Halam'Shiral and was as permanently angry as Fen had once been. He never spoke when fists would do and regarded everyone bar Dalish and the Wraiths with suspicion.
"Did they see you? Can we get around them?"
"They've got the whole valley outposted, so I doubt we can avoid them. He knows we're here, or he wouldn't be sitting there with his white flag. I might as well go and see what he wants."
Despite his attempts to project calm, Lambert was aglifft, aware of danger he couldn't even perceive. The quest was at its most dangerous point yet.
Lambert couldn't say exactly how he knew, but he realized what he did before sunset would determine if his mission continued or ended.
Meeting Krem's dark eyes, he said, "Please, will you order the others to stay here and let me use the Seeker's trance? I need privacy."
Krem frowned. "This isn't going to take long, is it? I don't want to ride up on this man in the dark, and I don't want the others coming upon us in the night."
The journey to Fort Viridan had taken most of the day. As they had not been able to bring their horses through the mirror, and needed stealth, by the time the fort was in sight the sinking sun had broken under covering clouds. The trees were tall and gently susurrating benevolences, opening onto a circle of milky morning sky. The bosky dells were easier to cross on foot; one benefit to having been unable to bring horses. However, they would soon be run down. Worse, the brontide was a low drone that told them a storm was coming.
Lambert touched Krem's armoured shoulder in reassurance.
"A little time is all I need."
He met his husband's eyes and saw understanding. A moment later, Fen phased. He wasn't going to kill the riders – do anything to jeopardize things if Lambert decided to talk terms – but he was going to use his skills to find out everything he could.
Love and fear for Fen crowded Lambert's thoughts, bullied his attempts to concentrate – to find the emotionless Seeker trance he needed. He had found it once – the state of tranquillity that allowed him to see everything – even spirits – as they really were, and so avoid temptation. He needed that state again, so his decisions would not be compromised by fear or anger or pain – not even love, because love could be used by magisters as well as demons to lure a person into a trap. He must protect Fen – save Varania's children. For the sake of love he must banish love, and all its preconceptions.
Could they save all the slaves at Castellum Tenebris? And – if by some miracle they did – could they save the ones who had already been force-fed Red Lyrium?
Lambert remembered his time as a medic, during the Fifth Blight...
...He was holding in pieces of his patient's stomach, trying to cast heal (he hadn't had much mana back then) and trying to ease the pain. He had got to know when it really hurt…so he took the man's pain. In that moment he knew. He looked up at Wynne and said, "this man is going to die." Wynne ordered him to pack up his gear and return to the other patients. She went back by herself for a few moments. Lambert didn't know if she was praying or casting Heal…but soon afterward the man stopped breathing. He never asked Wynne about it...
Lambert thought about how he had told Feynriel to invade the minds of others – judge who would vote for emancipation and who wouldn't. He was thinking…as he had been thinking from the first… that there would be no way a Somniari could tell the difference between the dream-memories of a man like Danarius and the dream-fantasies Tractus had for Irian Amladaris. Tractus' nights would be full of her but he had never actually touched her. To invade a mage's most private sanctum – their dreams – and judge thoughts, and kill. He was Halward Pavus, trying to change his son. He was Danarius, violating Fen.
He might have tried to argue these had punched down while he was punching up...but that was nonsense. In his heart, Lambert still saw himself as the apostate who had cleaned toilets for nobles and graduated to selling his body at the Rose; but now he was the Inquisitor, with a vast amount of unearned, unchecked, military, political and religious power.
He was counting on that power to shield Feynriel. He was going to claim to be the Dreamer himself – he'd be dodging Siccari for a while but, thanks to Fen and the Inquisition, no one would get close. In Tevinter they would not care the vote was not genuine – how many votes were , rather than the result of one Blood Mage overpowering the others? They would fear and admire the Inquisitor who could do that – want him on their side. It was ironic the Tevinter worship of power Lambert sneered at would be the means to victory.
Lambert shuddered when he remembered the fate of all who sought power. Fen believed him incorruptible and that frightened him because he knew it was false. More than defeat, more than death, he feared letting his husband down…proving he was, after all, just another powerful mage. The search for power made magisters ruthless; the finding made them vicious. The position of Inquisitor had cloaked Lambert in power and he was using that to break a country. He thought to himself the Maker was probably being sensible by giving him a three-year lifespan. That was enough to make him urgent about freeing slaves…but would end him before he got too mired in filth. How much damage could one man do in three years…how corrupt might he become?
He knew the Act of Emancipation wasn't – in itself – the answer. What magisters gave they could just as easily take away - politics could become harsher just as easily as it could become more tolerant. The thing was for Fen and his Wraiths to use the time to get the slaves armed – get everyone trained in the Litany and as many as possible as Seekers. Mass-produce blackpowder so every Soporati could wield a Firelance. Only when magisters were no longer invulnerable could emancipation be more than polite fiction.
That must also be true for mages. Lambert had wept tears of joy when Divine Victoria had dissolved Circles and named mages equal children of the Maker but if – Maker forbid – she f ell to assassins (many had already tried) Iona and her ilk would be quick to restore 'order'. The only guarantee mages had was the fact Anders had formed the Free Mages into a state. He had done that to make the mages capable of defending themselves if they had to.
Lambert wondered what would happen when the Southern mages on their way to freedom met the Northern non-mages on the way to theirs . Hopefully they would meet in the middle…a close enough balance that no one group could overpower the other. He didn't see why that wouldn't work. It sort of had when he and Carv had wrestled as boys.
Breathing deeply, he forced himself to relax, centring on the rhythm of heart and lungs, intent on the chug of them as though he were a baby listening to the music of the womb. Controlled body rhythms dispelled the irregular beat born of stress.
Contemplative, sleepy-eyed, he might have been the image of acedia; but spiritually he was alive, awake, inside and out.
The words of the Chant came slowly, caught on hooks and thorns of tension. He immersed himself in the soothing, mind-claiming sounds, came close to that state he had reached when Grace first showed themself. Came close to the ability to see the truth, whatever form it took.
Calm now, receptive now, one graceful dancer's hand moved to take a pin out of the now-grubby Inquisitor's tunic he wore. To an outsider it might have seemed as though he were running it through his hair, scratching an itch.
What he was actually doing was acupressuring memory access codes so a conscious pathway formed to areas of the brain most people could never use. Mages did – but in the Fade only. Being a Seeker meant being able to enter Fade-space in one's own mind, while wide-awake. A lucid dreaming in reality.
It was the creation of imminence – the knowledge of all the possible pathways that could come from this moment. It was the way Fade spirits saw things – the most probable outcome standing out as a clear outline in his awareness, while the least likely hovered like ghosts at the edges of a tunnel wreathed in fog.
Back in the Kirkwall clinic, Anders had tried to teach Lambert a type of maths he had learned at Kinloch Hold: a thing called calculus. In calculus, when a ball was dropped to the ground without benefit of magic, its path was determined only by the forces acting on it at this point in space and time – the force mages called gravity. Many force spells were focused on producing energy to counter gravity.
But spirits, mages in the Fade, and Seekers in the trance, were aware of all possible paths the ball might take. Somehow, the ball would 'know' all possible paths – and then decide to take the path of least action. In reality, the result was the same – either gravity pulled the ball down or it 'decided' to take the path of least action. But, in the Fade, path integrals allowed spirits to take all possible actions.
And beings like Fen'Harel believed life itself a by-product of path integrals, because they solved the problem of decoherence. The Anchor was his taster – when he lowered the Veil life as they knew it would change.
But it would not be any kind of life that concerned mortals.
It suddenly occurred to Lambert that what he had asked the Spirit of Faith:
…"I will cure him, then?"
"Yes. But you will not cure yourself" ...
had been the wrong question. First, because he had never asked whether anyone else might cure him of the Anchor. Second, because spirits saw everything in the way he did now. He had asked a deterministic question when he should have asked a probabilistic one; they had given him the median answer – the most likely scenario. But not the only one.
Lambert forced his mind to more immediate problems.
...All my life, I followed. The Ferelden army, my mother's wishes, Anders in the clinic, Rillian on her quest, Divine Victoria, when she insisted I undergo Seeker training. As a Seeker, I followed her to the Conclave...
...I am an Andrastean, and that means I follow Divine Victoria still, but Chantry custom is only the frozen form of men's choices – does not abolish the need to choose. I have chosen to help my husband end slavery in Tevinter, when Divine Victoria counselled against it. I can no longer claim I am an Andrastean of the old school – I have chosen a path similar to Rylock's, except I do not follow a king. Prince Sebastian is my ruler in every way but one. In this, I have the mastery – and his faith. The Inquisitor can no longer follow. The Inquisitor leads...
Lambert knew he was a mage; his role predestined. If born in Tevinter, a Laetan. If born in the South, a Circle mage.
The thought howled confusion in his mind, nearly shocked him out of the trance, but he held on. Let Divine Victoria and Anders create the freedom of mages – he was fighting for freedom of a different sort. He was fighting for abolition.
Deep within him, something stirred. Not entirely pleasant; not entirely disquieting.
Memories. Long lovemaking and deep conversations in his husband's rooms, when dawn came as a shock; the entire night gone like an hour.
So many lessons. Inspiration.
Suddenly, the answer was there. So simple, so clear.
So dangerous.
Leaving the trance always touched him with a thrill of alarm. There was the fear full consciousness might elude him; leave him suspended in a half-state of inwardness. Light and sound beckoned him as the surface must have beckoned Fen, when submerged and swimming for his life against the wine-dark sea. This time there was instant awakening. He was suddenly, triumphantly, walking to his friends.
"Fen, Gatt, Tallis, Shirellas, Miriam, Dalish, Skinner – please use your talents to slip away and return to the hideout of the Wraiths. I'll put no Elf to the danger of supping with this magister – because that is whom these men follow."
The others obeyed, slipping away so noiselessly it was as if they had never been, but Fen – of course – refused.
"You are my husband. I will be your bodyguard as I was in Chateau Haine. If Halward Pavus thinks you've arrogated me from House Danarius he may respect you more for it. He'd see me as yours, by right of strength."
Lambert swallowed. Hard. "The strength was yours, not mine, and you have chosen to give me your heart, as I have chosen to give you mine."
"He wouldn't understand and doesn't deserve to know. If my presence will make you look like an arriviste, so much the better. If I'm wrong about that, well, any magister who wants to take me is welcome to try. Whatever comes of this, it's worth it to me. I will not leave you."
Lambert's throat was suddenly dry, achingly tight. "What an idiot you are. What a wonderful, precious idiot. What have I ever done to deserve you?"
Fen winked. "The truth is, you don't deserve me, but I don't have anything better to do just now."
Lambert giggled – then scrambled to regain the gravity of the Inquisitor. If this magister was who he thought it would be, he would need all his wits. So would Dorian.
Lambert walked ahead of the other fifteen – all except Fen, who kept pace with him, but phased so no one saw him, and – not to his surprise – Dorian. Dorian didn't need Lambert's Seeker training to know who this would be. Lambert had tried his best to dight his Inquisitor's robes, but he was uncomfortably aware his days of gathering herbs and nights they had all come off in a bundle on a dirty floor had not added much to his stature. He had woken up this morning with his black hair knotted in elflocks – which did amuse him since he had spent a wonderful night with his Elven husband – but, unfortunately, his comb could only do so much. Fen avoided this problem by shaving his silver hair close to his head.
The man with the white flag stepped out from behind a clump of brush. The soft light of the late sun turned hard where it struck his metal torso armour and helmet.
Lambert's bardic training noted the carefully posed arrogance. The Tevinter soldier wore his helmet high on the back of his head. His leather shirt was open to expose glinting chain mail. Worn bands on leather trousers indicated where leg and thigh guards would be attached.
The soldier said, "No-one's going to trouble you, Inquisitor. I am here to give Altus Dorian a message from Magister Halward Pavus."
Dorian took the letter in silence, and, as he read, Lambert felt the fury rise from him like heat. Anders came to stand beside his lover, in support.
"...'I know my son'! What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble. This is so typical..."
Lambert's Seeker training unmasked the deceptiveness of the guard's politeness. The wary dark eyes were too wide, the square young jaw too set. And, though the right hand so casually hooked over his belt was well clear of his sword, his posture indicated a tense readiness to make a sideways move. To the right, Lambert reckoned.
"Magister Pavus has known of your coming ever since you left Arlathan Forest, Inquisitor. My patrol is one of many sent to watch for you, to invite you to Qarinus. Magister Pavus expects you."
Lambert drew himself up. He didn't quite have the height of this young soldier, but he made the most of his five foot ten inches.
"I have my own plans. Magister Pavus means nothing to me. Nevertheless, we wish you no harm. He introduced the rest of the group – everyone except Fen, who remained hidden. On finishing, he asked pointedly, "What is your name?"
Colouring, the soldier said, "My apologies, Inquisitor. My name is Aquila. My rank is Knight Commander. I command a group of fifty mounted Templars."
A Tevinter templar, then. But Lambert knew, from Dorian, that Tevinter Templars were never given lyrium – that when a Templar showed up, all an Altus thought was, "Oh dear – what magister have I angered this time?"
Not that this meant fifty warriors would be easy to take – but Lambert had no doubt Fen could cut through them like wheat. They would not have to go with them to House Pavus if he chose not to.
At that thought, Dorian came to stand next to him. He murmured, "I should tell you: Magister Halward Pavus has just declared against the Venatori. That makes him a mortal enemy of Magister Nenealaus. He will be able to provide horses and manpower for your attack on Fort Viridan."
"And what of his plans for you?"
Dorian snorted. "If he intends to knock me on the head and use Blood Magic to force me to go through with my wedding, we'll escape and kill everyone. Your husband is good at that. If it's not, you can bargain for the raw materials to take Fort Viridan, while I'll tell my father he can stick his alarm in his wit's end!"
Lambert turned his gaze back to Aquila. Tiny signals beckoned him. Dilated pupils. The aggressive rise of his chin. The fact he looked to his fifty riders – now revealed – and issued a silent command. More revealing was the quick, almost imperceptible forward tilt of his body. Expectation.
Knight Commander Aquila had set a trap. Lambert was sure of it. Physical clues were telling him these Templars had been warned about Fen – were searching the lowering dark for his presence. Halward Pavus may have opposed the Venatori, but that did not mean he would not come to a private agreement with Tractus Danarius to return his 'stolen property'. Whatever their political lines, all Magisters believed in the concept of 'moral hazard' – the idea if they let one slave escape then none of them were safe from defiance – and all believed in deterrent sentencing. Fen was in the greatest danger of all, because his fate was sealed the moment he fled House Danarius – traditionalists versus liberals versus the Venatori were a mere side-show compared to that. If these factions were the opposition, all slavers were the enemy.
Both Seeker and bardic training provided a welter of clues that told him the Templars were free to attack them if he refused their offer. Halward Pavus could say he offered help, even protection, to the Inquisition. House Pavus could deny complicity if the Inquisitor should die. Lambert's soldiers would win in a fight, but they would take casualties, and all these people were precious.
...Not as precious as Fen...
But Dorian told him, "There isn't a jail capable of holding your husband. And – if my father desires rapprochement – I'll make declaring for emancipation my condition."
"He'll demand you marry Livia Heradanus."
"Is it selfish, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside?"
"I think it's brave not to want to commit rape against male slaves. I think Anders is lucky to have you."
"Sparky," Varric warned him, in the hand-language used by Kirkwall's underworld, "Attacking the Magisters Sidereal – getting your man in place at Castellum Tenebris – I get it, and I've got your back. You're going to need that to get the bastards to stop chasing Broody. But this war you're declaring on Tevinter – and it will be war as soon as the Senators work out how to guard their minds from a Dreamer – is going to be bad for all mages: you'll be caught between the Qunari and the Southern Chantry, and Nightingale may not last as long as you think. She's a shark among a lot of other very hungry sharks. In my family we had a saying – one my late unlamented brother ignored – 'never shit in your own nest.'"
"You too?" Lambert asked sickly. He remembered Varric and his wife now lived in Qarinus, with Magister Tilani being the only person powerful enough to protect them from the Kalnas. Tevinter was Varric's nest too. "You don't care about all the other slaves…suffering just as Fen did? You don't think ending slavery is worth losing our own 'nest' for?"
"You can't fart against thunder."
The aphorism was typical Varric, but – no longer drunk or stoned – Lambert was up to refuting it. "I've never tried, but since I can use the Anchor to close Rifts I bet I could manage it."
"Sparky: Feynriel is your ace in the hole but telling Dorian was very, very stupid. You can't count on Dorian's anger against his father… loyalties of blood are not nothing."
"What do I do, then?" Lambert asked sickly, "Even if I were prepared to order Halward killed – my husband or Miriam could do it – I couldn't harm Dorian. I will just have to hope Dorian will do the right thing."
"Would you?" Varric asked shrewdly, "if doing the right thing meant betraying your own father? What if it were Malcolm Hawke?"
"Even if Dorian joins his father they won't tell the other magisters about Feynriel," Lambert said flatly, "Every magister an Emperor."
"You're assuming this member of the Old Guard won't be so outraged about abolition he'll put his own anger above self-interest."
"Halward Pavus just declared against the Venatori. He can't afford to lose the support of the Inquisition as well."
"Maybe not, but if you die or Divine Victoria dissolves the Inquisition, the Wraiths will be on their own. Broody will have you, and Chantry Boy, but they won't succeed in overthrowing the Imperium until they become an army. Your husband can't manufacture gaatlok out of his ass. These things take time. It's not enough to get the vote for emancipation…you've got to make sure you've got the manpower to make it stick… else it won't be worth the paper it's written on. You've got the tiger by the tail, Sparky, and you absolutely cannot afford to let it go."
Out of the corner of his eye. Lambert saw Anders standing beside Dorian in unspoken support. It struck him Anders probably saw Halward's attempt to use Blood Magic against his son as akin to his own betrayal by the father who had sent him to the Circle. A betrayal that could be overcome if the father showed genuine remorse.
His own knowledge of Tevinter – gained through Fen and Hira – told a different tale. There was no way a Tevinter paterfamilias and an errant son could 'agree to disagree'. Dorian had not just run from his 'noble duty' – he had openly joined the Inquisition while wearing the Pavus amulet . No paterfamilias could fail to see that as a challenge – it was not the right of a son to decide the politics of the family.
And yet, rather than denounce Dorian and name one of his bastards as heir, Halward had declared himself an enemy of the Venatori. That was not only making a virtue of necessity – it was an act of loyalty. Halward must know every Senator would assume Dorian had joined the Inquisition with his father's backing. Nor had it come without cost. The scandal had forced Halward to step down from his seat on the consiliare for the Archon, a loss of prestige he would only be able to regain if the Inquisition won. It was clear Halward desired a rapprochement of some kind.
The question was: what would his condition be?
If trading Fen to House Danarius, Lambert would burn House Pavus to the ground. But he suspected it was more likely Halward wished Dorian to marry the woman against his will.
The thought made Lambert sick.
...I'm not a whoremaster. I'll never be Madame Lusine...
His look for Dorian said: I don't like you, but I won't trade you as a gamepiece for the Inquisition any more than I'd have sold Celeste Thibault.
Dorian's answering look said: If we dine with my father, I'll have three choices: submit, flee, or fight. And that will have to mean killing.
Lambert understood him. Halward had burned bridges with the Venatori – they did not offer second chances – but he held the power of Qarinus. House Qintara and House Tilani were on his side. He had trading agreements with Neromenian and Carastes. In his own power base, he would not suffer the fate of Hira's father. He could never be arrested, never put on trial.
Which meant, if they fought and killed these fifty Templars, escaped to Fort Viridan and proceeded with their plan, Halward would take that as confirmation Dorian was defying him. Was intending to use the power of the Inquisition to inherit House Pavus early. Halward Pavus would have his blood-feud the moment he heard.
Lambert pictured his twenty-two men, caught between Castellum Tenebris and Qarinus, with nowhere to hide. He pictured Neromenian and Carastes, sailing across the Nocen Sea to take Asariel. He pictured Nessum taking Inquisition forces along the Nevarran border in rear. He pictured ships from Minrathous accompanying the Red Lyrium cargo, ready to take The Siren's Call, sent by Admiral Isabella, and the Silver Queen, sent by Ferelden. The Qunari dreadnought Berethlok would probably show up just in time to take a sample of Red Lyrium back to Qunander. He pictured the Magisters Sidereal, Eluvia and Nenealaus, on either side of the Inquisition army, closing in.
No: we will have to accept. But the only price I'll offer is loyalty of the Inquisition. He looked at Dorian: If Halward Pavus attempts to force your marriage, I'll have him killed, and you can inherit early.
Dorian answered in perfect Ferelden (Lambert hadn't even known he'd learned the language) "If there's killing to be done, I'll do it myself, not delegate the task to another."
Lambert saluted, Ferelden-style, then turned to Aquila and said graciously, "I accept your offer."
Aquila was pleased. For a single, thudding heartbeat Lambert feared he'd misread him – then he realized Aquila had set two traps. He's fallen into the minor one. Braced for his next statement, he readied his staff.
"As our guests, we'll expect it as an act of friendliness if you'll entrust your weapons to us."
Before either Lambert or Dorian could respond, Fen rematerialized. "We're not that friendly, and we never will be. We'll keep our weapons. You keep your distance."
Aquila stared, awed. His mouth worked spasmodically before he managed to speak. "Are you painted? Is it your custom?"
"It's my skin, boot, and that's the last I want to hear from you about it. Did your magister tell you to keep us waiting here forever? Take us to the Pavus Estate."
Aquila's salute was halfway to his chin before he caught himself. Lamely, he turned the movement into a sort of wave. He put on a stern face and spoke to Lambert.
"I'm permitted to use force to take your weapons if I suspect any...unpleasantness."
Lambert's smile disconnected from his eyes. "Aid me in my goal – for which I will compensate House Pavus – and I'll be out of your territory. Or, if you try and take me and my friends by force – and that includes Dorian – you will lose your House and I'll take the materials anyway."
Aquila's jaw muscles bunched. He rose in the stirrups. Pulling a short, straight horn of brass from his belt. Pulling it to his lips, he blew a short, rising call: three notes. They carried the command of the hunt and the appeal of music. Lingering echoes accompanied the charge of his men from their hiding places. They made a brave arrival, sliding to a stop, horses rearing. Then settled into the same cavalry formation Lambert had seen Warden Commander Rillian take by the Drakon River. Apparently, military strategy transcended borders.
Proudly, Aquila told them, "We protect House Pavus. We do it without the tricks of Southern Templars."
"We don't have tricks," Rylock answered him, "We have the Maker's blessing."
Shaking his head, Lambert said, "It's not important right now. We want to be friendly. Can we work together?"
Lambert's eyes said to Dorian: Only if I can do it without injuring you.
His eyes said to his husband: The Wraiths will need time to achieve abolition. I will give you that time.
The almost sing-song voice grew softer. "We will."