Song is Neverwinter Nights 2: Return to West Harbour
"Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley"
(Bruce H. Norton, Force Recon Diary, 1969)
The rain sang light and the wind moaned through the sodden firs, whipping the sea of grass that echoed the Ventosus Straits. The land lay bathed in a rain haze, which made a rattling spray through the eaves. Rain blew from clouds like dark fortresses and played drums on the Imperial Highway.
The Highway led from Neromenian to Carastes to Castellum Tenebris.
"The city of Neromenian is where Danarius' goods come to port – trading with Vyrantium and Minrathous. Trade is the only reason the permanent cloud cover hasn't caused this dung heap to vanish long ago," Dorian opined.
A sandy footpath was now a gushing torrent that ran down to an overflowing creek of brackish water. A thick trail of chemical smoke leaked from the rainhood, and an aura of song that reminded Lambert of lyrium lingered mournfully. He felt a stab of pain in the Anchor and looked at Fen in concern. Something about the rain was affecting the Anchor and he reasoned it must be true of the Brands as well. But Fenris gave him a blank-eyed stare, and Lambert gave up trying to get to the truth. Fen was so bloody brave – so damn good at hiding pain – he could have been in agony and they would never have known it.
At the places where warm air met cold there were fierce storms, and the ocean currents also had a part to play, but Lambert knew this wasn't the whole story. Somehow, the forever rains were the result of a Rift – high in the clouds. The emerald Waters of the Fade were endlessly pouring down, increasing the magic of those who could wield it – causing pain to him and Fen, and blighting the land so normal crops could not grow.
Castellum Tenebris survived by trade, by the slave children sent to fish in the depths where parts of Arlathan Forest lay buried. Magister Danarius had also kept carp in an enormous pool in the courtyard – considered a rare delicacy in Tevinter.
Fenris had told him of the rare fungus House Danarius grew in the caverns underground: a species called prototaxites, which were living spires each two storeys high. The dense mesh of fungal tissue prevented the soil being sluiced away by the rain and could apparently use the radiation caused by Death Cloud as a source of energy.
Their diverse metabolic abilities provided food for the dragon that housed part of Nenealeus' soul, keeping him immortal as Corypheus' dragon had done. The dragon had been kept prisoner in these caverns for millennia.
"Castellum Tenebris is a very secure dung heap," Fen told Dorian matter-of-factly, "The only way in by land is across a lone bridge, and the archers would cut us down long before we crossed. Magical cannons protect it from Qunari attack by sea – Admiral Isabella and her ships cannot be more than a distraction – they'll never be able to get close. Danarius did once have a secret tunnel out of the Castellum. A way for him to flee should the impossible happen and the fortress fall under siege. But he closed that up once I escaped, for fear I'd camp outside it and kill him once he emerged. I suspect he built a new passage – but only his bodyguards would know of it, and they'll be under Blood Control to make them incapable of repeating anything."
"That's okay," Lambert said cheerfully, "They are so worried about the land and the sea they won't be looking up; you told me the room where Nenealeus experiments with his Red Lyrium subjects is on the highest floor, because it is believed safest. They won't be expecting our griffons."
"That will be three riders – you, me and Varric – and three griffons to carry Varania's children. The mission will be fast and dirty. We'll only get one chance."
"So: you are not even planning to challenge Tractus Danarius?" Hira asked in contempt, "It seems Shirallas was right about you – right to take his chances becoming a Lyrium Warrior for the sake of bringing Tevinter down. What will we accomplish beyond saving three children?"
Miriam was staring at her lover as if she had never seen her before.
Hira turned to Dorian. "You fought your own father to stand up for what you thought was right – and thanks to your courage we now have a powerful ally in Lady Aquinea Thalrassian. If she can make you Divine instead of Rezaren Ammosine you will gain the Circulum Infinitum. I can use that to restore my father, and then we will challenge the Venatori."
At the word 'father' Dorian could not help but wince, and Anders was suddenly between them, all eyes and fury. "Leave him alone, Altus."
"Don't, Lion – she is right," Dorian said wearily, "An heir presumptive cannot fall into emotional pieces every time he hears the word 'father'."
"So, Roland, this group has some real issues, don't they?" Lacklon muttered.
Fen was – typically – worrying about Miriam rather than himself. He turned to Lambert, "I am...not known for my people skills...but I must try to help Miriam. I worry that, once she learns Hira is not the person she pretends to be, she will look at the rest of the Wraiths: Shirallas, who has betrayed us, Gatt and Tallis, who have found meaning in the Qun – and throw away everything she is and can become."
"If anyone can help her it is you. The day you came into the world is the most important day of my life."
Thoughtfully, Fen said, "Does that mean that, if you could go back in time and save my mother from rape, you would not have done so?"
The question wasn't a simple one...Lambert knew Fen wouldn't want the answer most men would...that he loved him unconditionally, would do anything to see him come into being.
"I'd have saved her...because it is right...because you deserved better than that. Because I'd have trusted the Maker had a plan for you, regardless,"
"The same soul in another body?" Fen asked, "Some Andrasteans believe that, though Prince Sebastian says it is heresy."
"Not exactly," Lambert said, thinking it out as he went along, "I think time travel isn't possible this side of the Fade. In the Fade, everything is notional…every possibility exists at once and nothing is real…but the moment the Fade collapses into reality there is only ever one path, and you cannot change it."
"The Maker could," Fen said grimly, "The Maker could have seen Danarius ordering the procurator to take my mother and stopped it. The Maker could have seen Tractus giving Red Lyrium to Varania and stopped it."
"He could have saved Bethany and didn't," Lambert said softly, "I know. There are times I have hated Him for that. But, I think if He had done so, it would have been like Fen'Harel destroying the Veil. Everything notional, everything unreal. This way is the only way we will ever have anything that matters. I think, seeing the evil that happened to your mother, He knew you would be the only man strong enough to make Tevinter right…and created you at that moment."
He thought deeply. Fen waited, knowing Lambert would speak the thought when it was born. They had learned to watch each other for these moments, as love will.
"In the Fade, though, it is different. In Nightmare's realm, we saw our Wardens connect with Verinius – the Warden magister dreaming in the Fade – and tell him the way to defeat Blights was the Joining. A few nights ago, I saw again the time we tried to help Feynriel in the Fade...and I realized I couldn't have won on my own. I had never fought in the Fade before – I tried an Arcane Bolt and it fizzled out – then your image of me came to my rescue. You believed in me before I believed in myself, because you had already seen me in Nightmare's realm, and that's what made it possible. I think you had to forget it, because it isn't possible to remember all our dreams in linear time. Thank you, sweet man."
Fen hugged him, and Lambert's came up to pull him closer. In the Fade, everything was 'now'...in linear time, the moment was the world. Lambert didn't bother to mention the pain of the Anchor or Fen the Brands…they just enjoyed the glory of the flesh, one last time.
The silver-grey waves licked the enormous onyx towers upon which the Imperial Highway was built. Magister Nenealeus' caravan, and its guards, journeyed across, as did the procession owned by Professor Cedric Marquette of Orlais. Among the permanent cloud cover, blood-red flames greeted them like ruby pipe organs, one on either side of the road. Something about the magical flames was crystalline, like Red Lyrium.
The base of the fort was squat, and bulked angular within the dark rock. The top was a series of circular towers with long archer's slits. The black stone that surrounded the fort was a living mountain that jutted into a sky like the emerald waters of the Fade. The sea-green sky was split by slivers of lightning that arced like silverite daggers from the Fade.
This was the Ventosus Staits, and the other side of the Dark Fortress overlooked the Nocen Sea, black and cold as space. A low growl of thunder coincided with the lowering of the drawbridge, and a young mage stepped forward to greet them.
He appeared human, though could not grow facial hair, and was dressed in the fashion of a young Tevinter gentleman: scarlet trousers, an emerald tunic, and shoulder guards of false gold – more akin to iron pyrite than the real thing.
Fool's gold, thought Nenealeus, in contempt.
Long dark hair contrasted with pale skin, and in his right hand the mage clutched a staff with an amber orb.
"Welcome to Castellum Tenebris," Tractus Danarius said graciously, "Magister Nenealeus, Professor Marquette and..." his voice trailed off. He looked around for someone he had expected to see, who wasn't there. "Where is Magister Quintara?"
Yes, the two halfbloods were friends and confidants – but Nenealeus had known for some time Calix was compromised. All that remained was planning the exact mode of death for the halfbreed who had given information to the Wraiths. It would not be painless and it would not be quick. Shirallas had told Nenealeus everything he needed to know.
Thanks to Calix's treachery, the Red Lyrium shipment was not coming – but that did not signify. The Red Lyrium they had was impure – one reason the slaves he turned into Red Mages were fit to be housed upstairs only because – once they reached total maturity – they would spread Red Lyrium at the speed of a storm. The land would be carpeted in the virus particles, and keeping these failed experiments was worth it for that. If he had managed to acquire the Red Lyrium Idol – but, no, some Elven apostate hobo who called himself the Dread Wolf had stolen that, and was staying one step ahead of him.
But they could make a Red Lyrium Warrior. His preference would be to taint the Lyrium Brands of the perrepatae he had trained and force Fenris to fight for him again. Nenealeus knew he could still control his former perrepatae through the Lyrium Brands. He hadn't done so, yet...would spring the surprise when the Inquisition and the Wraiths attempted their attack. Watching the Inquisitor's Dog forced to bite the hand that had fed it would be sweet. His second choice was the ambitious Dalish, Shirallas – he would break him long before his plans to use his powers against the Imperium came to anything. Failing with those two, he would try the boy Leto, who had begged for the honour.
"We do not need him. Magister Qintara the Elder had already told me all I needed to know about infusing Red Lyrium within the sarcophagus. What use could I have for a halfbreed youngster of barely eighteen?"
Tractus didn't miss the insult. The young mage stiffened angrily. "But I had said..."
"What you said is irrelevant. Plans change, and you are not known for your keen intellect. The Red Lyrium will work more rapidly than in your father's experiments. 'Magister' Calix Qintara was never going to be part of my plan."
"Par le creatur," Profesor Marquette agreed.
Wisdom ought to have persuaded the junior mage – talented for his age, but barely eighteen – to drop it...but Tractus had never been known for his wisdom.
"Um...excuse me? So why did you not tell me about my friend, Calix, and since when did this become 'your plan'?"
"You, Danarius the Lesser, are an idiot. This was never about you. And now that I have what I need, I am wondering...what purpose do you serve here?"
"Castellum Tenebris is mine!"
"Because I persuaded the Venatori to accept a bastard imbecile as a Danarius. I also control the magic within this fortress, the magic in the courtyard, and all the mages here. I control your mage-killer brother, through the Lyrium Brands. He will be with us shortly. Care to try your luck against a perrepatae, boy?"
Tractus growled, raised his staff...and Nenealeus willed the illusion of life to drop from his face, for just a moment.
Tractus paled, turned, and ran.
Dorian and Anders were playing the role of powerful human mages at an establishment in the city around Castellum Tenebris, known as 'The Altus' Hall.' It was an abandoned temple to the old God of Night, Lusacan, that had been converted to a surprisingly stylish and restrained meeting place for thieves, hired killers, and others with similarly low aspirations.
Fenris, Miriam, Tallis and Gatt were playing the role of their Elven slaves. Lambert had dropped the 'Inquisitor' act and looked as he had once been: an attractive young prostitute. Fat, heavy droplets of rain made snail trails along faux leather trousers cut so low and tight his butt winked with every step. A sleeveless vest was cut to reveal the taut litheness of his stomach, whose skin was etched with the beginnings of the dark purple griffon tattoo. One claw caressed his belly button; the other curled across the sharp bones of his left hip. Black velvet gloves to the elbows disguised the Anchor – Lambert had not been able to dim the emerald glow, but he had enchanted the other arm to match so they looked no more than a magical fashion accessory. Make-up made eyes and mouth heavy, like wet roses, and the Maker had granted his facial structure every break. Indeed, if Dorian had ever met him while visiting Kirkwall he might have... he squashed the thought at once.
Meanwhile, the rest of Sparky's Folly, The Chargers, Admiral Isabella and the Captain of the Ferelden navy were hiding in a cave, coordinating the attack.
Dorian and Anders were stopped at the door by a polite, golden-haired young man.
"Altus Dorian and...friends. I've been requested to inform all mages that there are wards throughout this establishment whose sole purpose is to capture any magic discharged and turn it back upon the sender tenfold. Now that you have been warned, please enjoy yourselves. There are gambling rooms, musicians, poets, and women and men of severely loose morals if anyone is feeling in need of company."
The group passed several rooms where men and women who would normally be found hiding in shadows, nervously waiting for fresh prey to arrive, were openly laughing and trading stories over drinks. Others played lighthearted gambling games where stakes were kept low for the enjoyment of all. Miriam detached herself from the group and took to the shadows, seeking to find anyone who might know the location of the secret entrance to the Castellum.
"How are you doing?" Anders asked his lover.
"Honestly? I don't know. Father is dead and Mother wants to make me Imperial Divine. I know the path to that will be as bloody as it was for Divine Victoria. I have never actually had to kill anyone before. I've fought, kept others safe, but someone else...usually the House Pavus bodyguards...did the actual killing. Fenris: does the killing ever become easy?"
"Yes. But that can be worse. I am not sure a Divine – whether Southern or Imperial – who finds killing easy would be a good thing. That would be why, like Prince Sebastian, I have put my faith in the Herald of Andraste."
Dorian glanced curiously at Fenris. He had wondered how Lambert's husband would take his transformation back to what he had once been and could see from the blazing green eyes that externals made no difference. It was as if love, once attained, became retroactive... Fenris was looking back at the figure he had once regarded with pity and mild contempt and seeing a courageous young man who had traded dignity so his mother could eat.
A figure deadly as an adamantine blade cut its way towards them.
"Miriam! Have you found someone who works at the Castellum?"
The former Siccari assassin smirked. "No. But I have managed to find Magister Danarius."
"Really? Because I have killed my former master – and all five of his legitimate heirs."
"Remind me never to piss you off," Dorian muttered.
"I didn't do it to 'end the Danarius line' or some such Tevene nonsense," Fenris said defensively. "I did it after the Wraiths discovered each heir treated his slaves no better than their father. One by one they proved they were all of the same cloth."
"Well, Tractus has been taking credit for the deaths," Miriam snorted, "Pretending to be more than he is to impress his fellow magisters. Apparently, Magister Nenealeus persuaded the Venatori to recognize him as a Danarius...only to change his mind when he stood up for Calix Quintara. Now, Tractus is drowning his sorrows amongst a group of hired prostitutes. The best that can be said of him is they are all adults...and his tastes don't run to sadism."
Dorian blushed and winced, thinking of the Elven Star. He studied Miriam and wondered what she was going to do with Fenris' younger half-brother, who had apparently fed Red Lyrium to their sister and was going to make Varania's son a Red Lyrium Warrior.
"We need Tractus alive," Miriam decided.
"Words no one has ever uttered about a Danarius before," Fenris muttered.
"We need someone who knows where the hidden passage is, right? Is there any better candidate?"
"Miriam is right," Tallis agreed.
Gatt had the look of a man remembering things too harsh to be shared. "We could always kill him afterwards," he added hopefully.
Soon they stood before a great set of double doors that had been painted blood red. Figures had been chiselled into the marble: representations of the seven Old Gods.
Fenris phased and opened it from inside, revealing a black marble four-poster bed, surrounded by red silk curtains from which feminine giggles sounded. Tractus himself was issuing orders to his guards:
"Don't tell me I've had too much to drink! I own this town! I own th'whole region! I am not to be disturbed – an'if Magister Nenealeus an'my older brother come looking for me...kill'em both."
"Of course, Magister Danarius," the two guards agreed smoothly, "We'll keep you safe."
Then the young men left. A dark-eyed serving maid winked at them, and they promptly forgot their duties.
Tractus really must be drunk, Dorian realized...it wasn't until he and Lambert and Anders had all followed Miriam and Fenris into the room he even realized his danger. The prostitutes squealed and hid under the covers.
Tractus grabbed his staff – useless to him because of the wards – and got unsteadily to his feet.
"What in the Maker...GUARDS! You..."
Fenris and his younger half-brother stared at each other for a long moment.
"I don't need my staff to teach an errant slave respect!" the young magister blustered.
"Hmmm...your muscles look singularly weak to me, but perhaps appearances are deceptive. Very well: I will use my own muscles to get justice for my sister – whom you force-fed Red Lyrium to make a Red Mage."
"Liar! She came to me and begged for the honour. She'd found working at the Elven Star wasn't what she'd expected freedom to taste like. Apparently, she'd managed to protect Leto for twelve years...but they were soon going to make him earn his keep. Where else can a freed slave go in Tevinter? She asked me to make her a Red Mage in exchange for protecting her children – which I have honoured – just as you begged my father to make you a Lyrium Warrior so he would free us. Are you so keen to avenge the sister who tried to sell you back to him? I don't blame you for killing my father, you know – he was a sadistic rapist of children. I don't blame you for killing my half-brothers – that was justice for a lot of us – besides, I could claim credit. Being thought of as dangerous is valuable currency in Tevinter. But...I do blame you for turning against me now. What have I ever done to you?"
"In the Fade, I heard you tell my sister: "It isn't you I'm taking. It's Fenris."
"Yes," Tractus said, almost wistfully. "I had thought... hoped...that when you heard I'd been made Magister Danarius you'd have come back of your own free will to serve your younger brother. There were papers of emancipation signed for me, our mother and our sister but not for you – you still belong to House Danarius and as I am its magister you are my property. When I realized you had chosen to stay the Inquisitor's Dog instead, I chose to grant Varania's wish – in the hope it would persuade you to rescue her and come back to me."
"I am the Maker's child. You might be able to kill me – perhaps even to keep me – but you will never own me."
"Then why didn't you come to me of your own will?" Tractus asked, hurt. "Protecting me as my older brother rather than my slave? That's what you did before. It's my earliest memory. Would that have been so wrong?" He added, spitefully, "At least I wouldn't have asked for your body – like my father did – like the Inquisitor does now."
Fenris laid a hand on Lambert's shoulder to calm him. Why should they be upset Tractus had made the same assumption as Briala? How could he have known better?
"Leto wants to be my Lyrium Warrior, you know – just like Shirallas. He understands the power and the duty. But I was hoping to gain you rather than either of those two... you've already proven you can survive it, and I've already seen you protect me."
"I'd rather not become your Lyrium Warrior, thanks," Fenris said firmly, "Do you know what happens to a Lyrium Warrior in time? It becomes a lyrium ghost. Its mind starts to die; it forgets everything and becomes a spirit under control of the mage. Why would I want that?"
"Don't be an old woman!" persisted Tractus, "I'm giving you the chance to be part of something big! You're lucky I'm willing to let you join me."
Fenris was speechless for a moment, then snorted with uncontrollable laughter. "I know, I know!" he cackled helplessly, "it's a promotion!"
"Don't laugh at me," growled Tractus.
Fenris found it hard to hate him. His sister's description of Tractus as being, "just like his father" was unreliable: how could she have known? Danarius had preferred to rape male Soporati elves. Varania had believed Fenris "just Danarius' bodyguard" and he had been at no pains to correct the assumption. Every one of Danarius' legitimate heirs had shared his tastes – no Elven child was safe – but all Tractus did was pay adult prostitutes as Dorian had once done and dream of Irian Amladaris.
Yes, Tractus was dabbling in Red Lyrium and trying to recreate Danarius' experiment. Hardly virtuous but…under the tutelage of Magister Nenealeus, what else could he have done? Fenris knew well enough that if a human-passing half-breed did not manage to become a predator he would be prey. Tractus was eighteen – the same age Fenris had been when he had obeyed Danarius' order to kill the Fog Warriors. And, unlike Fenris, Tractus hadn't even had those months with them to learn goodness existed. His younger brother wasn't a monster. He was just a very stupid teenager.
Still, he was a stupid teenager who knew the secret way into Castellum Tenebris, and that was vital to their mission. Without that, they would only have the six griffons...landing on top of the Castellum to rescue Varania's children. They would have to send Varric and his griffon back to lead and protect them on the way to Starkhaven – which meant it would be Fenris and Hawke against the entire Castellum. Unless they could find a way to get SNAFU, the Wraiths and the Chargers in, the Magister Sidereal would survive, and the world would be damned.
As Inquisitor, Hawke had ordered prisoners be taken and treated well – he was the only leader Fenris had heard of who expressly forbade torture – and, while none knew better than Fenris that the public face of a man was very often a mask for horrors, in this case it was no more than truth. Hawke had voted for mercy when they had put the Venatori on trial at Haven.
Fenris knew Hawke would never judge him for the acts the Wraiths committed in their battle to end slavery. But there were things he would never tell his husband. The Wraiths committed torture – mostly to get information but sometimes because it was justice for the children raped and murdered by these magisters.
As for their code of conduct when it came to taking prisoners, the answer was: not very Maker-damned often. The risk of doing that behind enemy lines, knowing the captured mages would use Blood Magic – or just put a knife in their backs – as soon as they had the chance; the sheer inconvenience of finding places to hold them as they moved from city to city. Taking prisoners would not only have slowed them down, it was dangerous. No quarter had been floating around on a low harmonic frequency. Fenris had tuned in...
...Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley...
They showed the enemy no mercy for they would receive none.
Almost pityingly, he said, "You won't withstand torture. I have known men with that strength," (Hawke had withstood the worst Alrik could do to him to protect Anders) "but you are not one. Defy me, and you will end up crippled for life…as well as a traitor to the Venatori. Tell me the way in and you will end up an able-bodied traitor. The Venatori will give you no credit for trying."
Suddenly, Hawke was between Fenris and his brother. "Don't. You are better than that. We are better than that."
Hawke put his right hand over the thudding beat of Fenris' heart in a strange reversal of the way Fenris had always killed mages. Fenris sighed in resignation. Whatever Gatt's rage – whatever the opinions of Miriam and Tallis – he couldn't torture his own little brother in front of the man he loved.
But Hawke was not the Inquisitor for nothing. He turned to Tractus. "I hear Magister Nenealeus stole everything from you. They have a concept in Rivain called karma...and a saying in Ferelden: "if you lie down with dogs, you will wake up with fleas." So...it is just as well for you we happened to find you. If you tell us the hidden entrance to the Castellum I will repay you by killing Magister Nenealeus. If you become the Inquisition's man in Tevinter I will let you keep your position."
Bitterly, Tractus said, "You won't be able to do what Magister Nenealeus was going to do for me: persuade the Senate to accept a half-blood as a magister."
Hawke smiled like a bird of prey. "Don't you worry about that. You'll have your proposal, plus four other Senators to back it. Anyone who checks will find the Archives altered and the knowledge you were always a pureblooded Altus in everyone's memories."
Thoughtfully, Tractus said, "So that's how you got to Calix...I wondered why my friend had betrayed me. And the rumours you are a Somniari – that you have walked bodily in the Fade like the Magisters Sidereal – I did not believe them. Guess I was wrong. Well, I have nothing to lose. What is your price, Herald?"
"The usual," Hawke said flatly, without a trace of the sunny good humour as much as part of him as his love for Fenris, "Your vote. Your honour. Your country. You can keep your body, blood, mind and soul – I don't want those."
"Done," Tractus said, "You've bought me so you might as well wrap me up and take me with you. I can get you all past the wards on the bridge – and I want to see Nenealeus' face when we end him."
The waves of the Ventosus Straits lapped rhythmically around The Siren's Call, the Nocen Sea a red ochre in the dipping sunset. The Siren's Call was one of the most spectacular vessels in Thedas; with three square-rigged masts for greater sailing power, a narrow but lengthy hull giving it maneuverability, and room to carry sixteen cannons. Her sails were striped in triangular Vs of royal blue, blood red and aureate gold.
Isabella had been the first sailor Anders had shared his secret of blackpowder with – that meant the Felicisima Armada were now more powerful than the Qunari – whose gaatlok was inferior –and even Ferelden, who had the secret thanks to Arl Nathaniel Howe. The Siren's Call was thirsted over by nations and pirates alike – but what kept it from being taken over was its mistress, her Captain – Revaud – and her Ship's Enchanter: Revaud's daughter, Rivella.
Revaud's black-clad form seemed to pull in the gathering shadows; his dark, handsome face and burning eyes drank them in.
Isabella was looking out the spyglass at the approaching Qunari ship. Oars reached out from it, like legs extending from a surface-skimming spider. If the wind dropped, there were four propellor shafts powered by steam turbines, and a large funnel that jabbed into the orange sky. The oars rose to vertical in unison, dripping silver droplets. Its sides gleamed with savage designs in brilliant colours. The geometric symbols spelled the Qunari word: Berethlok. Anchors splashed in bow and stern. Rocking easily, mast and picket-line of oars swaying back and forth, it quivered, ready for battle.
"And here I thought we would have a peaceful evening."
"A Dreadnought – even one as powerful as the Berethlok – and five ships following cannot engage both the Inquisition and House Danarius in battle. It is almost five hundred miles of coastline, and you can be sure the Vints will know every creek and inlet."
That was Jan, backed up by Brand. Isabella's two Elven crewmen were both escaped Tevinter slaves, and they did not want anything to interfere with the Inquisitor's war on Tevinter; or Fenris' rescue of other slaves.
This place reminded Isabella of Rivain. It was not the climate, nor the smell coming off the land – rain and lyrium compared with the dry sunniness of her homeland – but the untamed wildness. Along much of the coast, the conquered remains of much of Arlathan Forest came down to the shore in a tangled mess. Long beaches with black sand stretched for miles. The slaving towns that clung to the shore seemed no more significant than limpets crusted to a whale.
But what puzzled Isabella was – for a place so steeped in magic and so keen to conquer the jungles of Seheron – the dark fortress of Castellum Tenebris did not seem to be on the lookout for attack by sea. They must surely know the Qunari would invade any day now – and yet, instead of building up their naval defenses, Magisters Danarius and Nenealeus seemed to be placing all their hopes on their experiments with Red Lyrium. It was as if they had invested all their wealth in defeating the Qunari threat by magic and let their conventional defenses rust.
All this meant was they would be easy pickings when the time came.
And yet...the Inquisitor had been very clear in his orders. He did not wish the Berethlok or any other Qunari vessel to attack the Castellum – exactly because he knew they would care nothing for collateral damage. Lambert intended to rescue his husband's nieces and nephew – planned to save as many slaves as he could – wanted his own conquest of Tevinter to happen as clinically and painlessly as possible. Isabella could have told him the last was a pipe dream – innocents always paid the greatest price in war – but at least the Inquisitor was trying, which was more than the Qunari were going to do.
... "Do not let them fire on the Castellum. The Qunari don't care about the fate of civilians – who do not even have names under the Qun – but I do. I charge you with it" ...
So, Isabella was using the superior maneuverability of her ship – backed up by the Ferelden vessel, The Silver Queen – to keep between the approaching Dreadnoughts and the Castellum. It was just a question of who would blink first.
King Cousland also supported the Inquisitor – although in his case Isabella doubted he cared for the fate of individual slaves. He merely did not wish the Qunari to make landfall on Tevinter. That would bring them one step closer to attacking the South en masse. The Tevinter magisterswho ruled Castellum Tenebris, Carastes, Neromenium and Perivantium were so solipsistic, so reliant on magic, they would not organize in time to stop the Qunari reaching Tantervale.
From Tantervale they would be in the Free Marches. And no Southern nation would be safe. King Cousland, Viscount Nathaniel Howe of Kirkwall and Emperor Prosper all knew this. That was why the Emperor and the Divine were still backing the Inquisition, and King Cousland had given them the most powerful ship in his navy as an ally. The Silver Queen was sleek, deadly, beautiful – and Isabella honestly did not know which of the two ladies would come out on top in open battle.
A shout from the masthead cut off her thoughts.
"Sail off the starboard bow!"
All the officers grabbed their spyglasses and hurried to the rail.
"The Berethlok," Isabella confirmed. The black pennant billowed out from the masthead of the alien ship.
"I count forty cannons," said Captain Revaud grimly.
Every man and woman in earshot looked at Isabella.
"We will be ready to give a good account of ourselves if we must," she said calmly, "But the Inquisitor made sure The Iron Bull passed knowledge of his destruction of the Red Lyrium shipment to the Ben Hassrath. The Qunari no longer have that excuse. And, if they wish open war, then why have they only sent six vessels?"
"They're just giving us a quick twitch," Enchanter Rivella agreed. "Putting on a show."
Rivella was wearing dark Enchanter's robes and a silver mask reminiscent of Orlais. Her brown skin seemed to radiate with magic. She and her father stood ready to back each other up, and Isabella sensed Captain Revaud's pride in her. It brought a pang: she, whose parents had tried to have her 're-educated' by the Qun. The Circle system had taken Rivella from her family – but the Circle of Dairsmuid had always been lenient, and it was not hard for Rivaini families to stay in touch if they chose. By the time the conservative elements in the Chantry had been ready to oppose this, it was too late – Divine Victoria had dissolved their power and freed all mages.
The water between the two vessels seemed spun of stars, a shining expanse that turned from ochre to deep green as it reflected the darkening sky. Fish jumped from the waves, and the black reefs of the Dark Fortress jutted menacingly in the distance. A glistening onyx bridge connected the Castellum with the mainland – the secret way in which Isabella's allies were using – making the coastline appear a linked web of magic.
In the distance, at the furthest range of the light, Isabella could see a vast cloudy column thrusting its way upwards, billowing mud and silt. Green and yellow lights flickered in it, like lightning in a storm cloud. Dark, oily bubbles floated up amidst the debris, slowly flexing, and gleaming with purple iridescence.
Castellum Tenebris bulked angular; a menacing fortress made of jet and silverite that pushed through the dense jungle of reeds and branches; turrets and blue ivy decorating its expanse.
Isabella closed her eyes a moment, savouring the salt in the air, the splash of waves hitting her face. She gazed down at the seaweed-woven bottom.
"They say the slaves here must swim below from morning to night," Rivella muttered, the shadow of the lowering land painting her mask in darkness.
Unlike the waters closer to Seheron, there was more rock and moss than trees and jungle, but Isabella could see it was just as dense with untamed nature. Giant boulders cut into the water at sharp angles, preventing ships from approaching without threat of wreckage. They had sailed from Llomerryn – the Silver Queen from the Minanter River – but it would have been dangerous to attempt to get any nearer to the Castellum. The Qunari must know this. Their cannons could hurt the civilians, but their ships could not take the Castellum.
The Siren's Call was cleared for action. Nets were strung above the deck to catch falling spars, while hammocks were stuffed in the side netting to provide shelter. On the cannon-deck, partition screens were taken down and furniture stowed away. Sailors sprinkled sawdust so the deck would not become slippery with blood. Blackpowder was fetched from the magazine; the marksmen took up their positions.
"The Berethlok is holding her course, Admiral."
The ships converged.
"Berethlok means: 'Predator' in Qunlat," Rivella whispered.
The Berethlok shortened sail, letting The Siren's Call come up alongside her. Paisely Pete, at the tiller, was deathly pale, eyes startlingly wide. His movements were mechanically correct, but his whole attention was fixed on the ominous array of vessels, white with pure naked terror of prey for predator.
On the quarterdeck, the Qunari Karasten took a speaking trumpet and hailed them across the water.
His voice was deep; one that shouted unquestioned orders to be heard over storm or battle's roar. The horned features were young, but carried the dark, ingrained patina only years of wind and sun could produce. Pale grey eyes, almost white, invited a staring match.
"Admiral Isabella – the thief and blasphemer who stole our Tome of Koslun – I know you have allied with the Inquisition. They are fools. They should have allied with us to take Tevinter. Instead, we will defeat the Inquisition and take Tevinter anyway. I have almost one thousand men aboard these six ships. We can land anywhere. You've blinded yourself. Your right hand is almost useless. Your head sits uneasily on your neck."
"Uneasily but firmly," Isabella told him calmly, "You think to lure me away from the Castellum's walls. I kept you in place while the Inquisition marches." She saw the twitch of an eyelid – sensed an opening. "The Red Lyrium shipment is destroyed. The Inquisition have hidden soldiers all along the coast. They can't stop your landing, but, no matter where you come ashore, you'll be attacked. You'll get ashore, but, whichever way you turn, you'll have enemies at your back."
Isabella let the Qunari Karasten digest what he'd heard, then resumed. "You've never seen the Anchor of the Inquisitor, but your Ben Hassrath have heard of the power of this weapon. The Inquisitor is commanding an army of fifty griffons and wyverns. They will land at the top of the Castellum and destroy the rest of the Red Lyrium. They will free all the slaves. Your people will find no loot, no recruits. The armies of the South wait for you. If you attack, you will never see your country again, and the Qun will gain nothing for the sacrifice."
The Qunari Karasten was almost rigid with suddenly increased tension. From the corner of her eye, Isabella noted the postures and attitudes of his crew. Openly hostile, they didn't seem poised to attack. There was a signal, then, something they were watching for.
And the Karasten was ready to send it.
She conferred with Revaud and Rivella.
"I told him three lies: that the griffon riders number fifty, that the Inquisition is marching in force, and that we left units on the coast trail. I think he believed me. The Karasten's scouts are trapped. If they tell their leader they didn't see our numbers shrink – which we all know didn't happen – they have to wonder if they failed, in which case the Qunari fleet lands in an ambush. If the scouts say they did see changes in our numbers, the Karasten has to suspect he's looking at a hard fight for little gain."
"Our cannons are loaded," Revaud said, "We can dismast them with a single broadside, then board him and strike his colours before he even knows what has happened. With our three vessels, we will outmatch the remaining five. They only have gaatlok – an inferior weapon compared with our blackpowder."
"That will start open war with the Qunari. The Inquisitor does not want to risk open war – not while he is dealing with Tevinter."
"Open war is coming whether he would risk it or not. We have an opportunity to strike the first blow – to set the battle on our terms."
"It's my decision," Isabella said. Her need to command put ice in her tone.
Stung, Captain Revaud was formal. "I'm advising, Admiral. Ready for your orders."
Along the deck, a row of expectant faces looked to Isabella. The sulphurous smell of a burning slow match tinged the air. All it needed was for one spark to fall on the touch hole.
Isabella, Revaud and Rivella stood together, looking out at the black silhouette of the Dreadnought. A sinking sun flamed rotund spring cumulous. The peaks of the Dark Fortress were broken teeth against a dying fire.
"I will not start a war," Isabella said, "But the Berethlok...do you think they will attack in the dark?"
"No," Rivella said confidently, "You hit the right note when you told him there was nothing here for them. No slaves to recruit – for the Inquisition will have already freed them – and no Red Lyrium. No loot, no shoot. They'll go home."
"You're right!" Captain Revaud exclaimed, "Look. Sails going up. Everywhere."
Distant shouts came from the ships. Brazen horn signals followed. A drum set an oar pace. More horn blasts followed; eerie now the Dreadnoughts were almost invisible. Stern lamps pierced the darkness, golden against the blackness of the sea. The bobbing lights formed a pattern. They moved away from the extinguished sun. Then they disappeared.
Isabella's last sight of the Karasten was of him raising an arm – half in farewell and half in threat and promise. At that that distance she was too far-off to see his face, even through the spyglass, but it seemed to her there was an arrogance in his stance, almost a smirk.
"Are they sailing back to Qunander – or towards Rivain?" she muttered uneasily.
She knew they had only postponed the inevitable war – made sure it would happen at a different place and time – one that perhaps they would be less prepared for. She wondered if she had been right to follow the Inquisitor's instructions. Lambert was thinking of his vendetta against Tevinter – of securing emancipation and rescuing his husband's family. Isabella knew these were worthy goals. She also knew the Inquisitor was taking his eye off the ball.
Her time in the Fade – trapped there by Aurelian Titus' demon – was a raw wound.
...The Qun offers guidance. The Qun offers truth...
It did not feel right to have had the Dreadnought in their jaws and just let it go. Like letting a wolf from a trap.
The Dreadnoughts had winked out, but there were other gleams in the darkness now. One small, drifting hint of radiance suddenly turned and showed its teeth. Another undulated softly away, yellow and green light shimmering hypnotically in its jellied body.
A brittle mood prevailed upon the ship. Isabella and Rivella remained standing together, so close they were in contact with each other's shoulders. After the death of Zevran – the man closer to her than any other – and now Hawke and Fenris were married and had eyes only for each other – Isabella had assumed her life would be like the men's: a series of short, meaningless encounters snatched between battles. Something about Rivella's touch told her that might not be true. A silence reigned between them. A pregnancy of nebulous, unspoken questions.
When the Qunari did attack, Isabella knew Rivella would be in more danger than any of them. Her father knew it too, which was why Captain Revaud had wanted to start the war at a time he knew they would win.
Isabella said, "The Inquisitor is a mage, allied with Divine Victoria, the Tevinter Magister who will become Imperial Divine, and the Free Mages. We don't need to undermine our efforts against Tevinter by starting a war with the Qunari now. There'll be time. I'll never let them take your tongue."
Rivella smiled like the libertine she was. "Of course not. That's because you know how talented my tongue can be."
Isabella kissed her, and Rivella took her in her arms.
The griffons and their riders were perched atop a broken tree; a black, sere sculpture atop an indigo sky split by lightning. Varric rode Lore, and there was a passenger seat for one of Fenris' nieces; the hazelnut-coloured griffon was particularly friendly and gregarious. So was Duncan, the griffon who had belonged to Alistair. He had taken to his rider – who was none other than Tractus Danarius – with a tolerance that amazed them. Lambert rode Ripples and Fenris rode Dumat. The remaining two griffons – Aquila and Astra – were riderless. Lambert devoutly hoped Aquila – who had been Rillian's raptor Alpha, streaking through the air like a grey arrow, would accept Leto as her main rider and one of the girls as passenger. The other griffon – the silver-white Astra, who had been bonded with Ser Otto – was still too grief-stricken to tolerate another rider.
The lightning was malachite green and Lambert knew the rain over the Nocen Sea was the emerald Waters of the Fade. The endless, glittering torrent hurt Lambert through the Anchor but he sensed the power. It was as if he had been charged up. He had never been able to understand how Fen almost seemed to welcome the pain of the Lyrium Brands, but he did now. He was no fan of pain but he hoarded the power as a miser hoards gold. He knew he would need it to protect those he loved from Nenealeus.
Within the drowned forests were boundless carpets of moss-coated mounds that made him feel like he was in a troll kingdom. The coastline itself looked like a series of sapphire lakes but was actually narrow saltwater inlets, formed by glaciers that had cut deep into the land to produce vast, steep cliffs on either side of the water as they receded. They were intertwined like snakes, making it possible to sail from one to another and onwards as far as the sea.
Below the lightning that was music the rock around Castellum Tenebris loomed like dark slate and the stars shone in the thick mist, smeared across the ether like the glitter glue of Lambert's previous outfit. He was, once again, dressed like a griffon rider. Lambert buried his face in Ripples' multi-coloured fur. She was honey and vanilla and ink and smelled like a tigress, like sunshine, like magic. She had a floppy right ear that jounced with every high-spirited step she took.
Fen's griffon – Dumat – was jet black and quiet like a fire. Both griffon and rider seemed to communicate best without words and shared an understanding that hovered just outside the edges of Lambert's perception. He was happy – just as he was happy Prince Sebastian and Guardsman Donnic Hendyr were Fen's friends before they were his – he had never been a possessive husband. He was, conversely, happier because Fen deserved that loyalty – deserved people to whom he came first. Tonight, Fen was their leader – Tractus might be needed to guide them to the top of the Castellum, but Fen had seen this place so often in his memories – in his Fade dream – he was confident. Lambert saw him trade glances with Dumat. The griffon's dark eyes were luminous with love and intelligence.
"On me!" Fen ordered, and Lambert tightened his thigh muscles to signal to Ripples she should follow. To Lambert, flight was like an extension of pole-dancing; of saying "not today!" to gravity. He tingled all over with a wild, strange, sweet sense of exultation. Raindrops swirled inward on an eddying wind; huge as planets and tiny as marbles.
They landed on the circular tower block at the top of the Castellum and met no resistance at all. The defenses were all lower down – expecting a Qunari attack by sea or the attack of another magister by the bridge. The Castellum was unmanned at this vital point – there were not even anti-magic wards – so that, even while they made relatively easy targets, they slipped through the skylight, unseen.
"Is this what the Siccari train their assassins to do these days?" Dorian asked dryly.
The rain-slicked granite bridge stood like a colossus, held in place by dark chains that weighted it to the Nocen Sea. At both entry and exit points there were smears of tangerine and the aroma of flame. Dovetail joints and heavy timber beams appeared out of the gloom.
Miriam was not attempting to pass over the bridge – where she would be seen by a dozen mage guards and cut down by archers manning the walls. She was using her acrobatic skills to pass underneath it – swinging from one chain to the next, diving into what seemed like certain death, only to land on a rickety perch. Then using the bunched muscles of thighs and calves to spring to a higher vantage point, sure-footed as a lynx.
"I suspect she honed these skills long before Rezaren Ammosine had her trained as a Siccari – and has continued to practice while with the Wraiths," Tallis murmured. She was no mean assassin herself – but this task would have been beyond her. Tallis' preferred weapons were crossbow and thrown daggers – safest out of range – whereas Miriam got up close and personal with her twin adamantine blades, enchanted to a wicked edge.
"We should go," Gatt remarked, ever-pragmatic. "We cannot really see her from the hideout, and we will need to make our way to the exit point Danarius' bastard told us of."
"If we can trust him," Hira muttered darkly.
"Miriam knows what she's doing," Tallis murmured, "She'll be fine." It was if she spoke more to uphold the honour of her fellow Elf than to reassure Miriam's human lover.
The two made their way to the forests that blocked the Castellum from the city that had grown up outside. Tractus had told them the forest concealed an exit that could be opened only from the inside – where the bridge led up to. It opened near the courtyard where the Elder Danarius had grown carp in an ornamental pond.
"It's been a while," Hira murmured anxiously, "She could have been caught inside."
"Miriam has never been caught before," Tallis said – and then added, spitefully, "As you'd know if you'd ever helped us on our missions. Hawke did – even before he became Inquisitor. He posed as a prostitute as we saw him do at the Altus' Hall – gathering information which his husband could use to plan our strikes. Then, Prince Sebastian, who commands the Free Marcher city-state where they live, risks much to allow Admiral Isabella to carry our freed slaves in the cargo hold. She's never been caught yet – and Fenris had killed every assassin sent after his ruler."
"I didn't mean to imply the rescue of three slave children was a worthless undertaking," Hira said quietly.
"Really? Because it sure sounded like that to me. You care about your own father – you care about burning Tevinter to the ground – but you don't care about the children like us, even though the woman you claim to love was one of them."
Hira sucked in a breath, preparing to argue, but Gatt talked over her.
"If the exit is here, then perhaps there's a way to open it from the outside."
"That would leave the entire Castellum vulnerable," Hira said impatiently," No magister would be so foolish."
"If the wards could only be opened by a human mage, Danarius would still have been safe from us – even from Fenris."
"Every one of his enemies in the Senate could use it. Half the Siccari are mage slaves. That would not make the Castellum any more secure and you know it."
"Are we going to lose our heads sniping now?" Anders snapped impatiently, "I can tell you my own Free Mages have broken into harder places."
"I have something that may help," Hira told them, eager to show these upstart Wraiths what a true magister's daughter could do.
She began the incantation – a summoning – which not even Dorian had mastered.
Dorian spotted Hira's handiwork first – an approaching current of magical energy, like a wave captured from the Waters of the Fade. The circular wisp – like a luminous sea creature – swirled to hover, awaiting its summoner's commands.
Hira didn't hesitate. She let the thing hover in midair, then leapt atop the disc, letting it hold her suspended above the ground.
"Impressive," Dorian murmured.
Hira smiled proudly – one Altus to another. "I invented this myself. I call it a 'Hoverboard'."
The viaduct loomed over Miriam, mountain-high, onyx stones slippery with rain. She was soaked through. Massive cracks ran down the loops of stone, and she couldn't make out any hidden entrance on the other side.
Maybe Tractus had lied. It wouldn't be the first time.
Nonetheless, she ploughed on – half-cat, half-acrobat – enjoying the arial freedom and the physical demands that left no room for fear. Like a cat, she passed her life half-out-of-time. An animal had its death in back of it, forever, and only the next meal in front, and when it moved, it moved already in eternity.
Then she made the mistake of looking back at her life within House Ammosine – all small on the other side. Her twin brother Ned, sacrificed so the Master could pass his Harrowing. And then kept alive, as a corpse possessed by the spirit that would have taken Rezaren, to guard him after death as he had before. It was torture to wonder if some feeble, guttering awareness of Ned was aware of the nameless violation that had been worked upon him.
…"Ned, you can't come back. Not to that body – not to this life" …
But the spirit that animated him – that got to wear his memories like borrowed jewels – had been given no choice. She believed – had to believe – her brother's soul was with the Maker Fenris had told her of (the Qun could have provided no solace, and nor could the Dalish, who worshipped immortal Elvhen mages who had pretended to be gods, so she had to be an Andrastean, like Fenris) but the spirit still had no right to those memories – and she had been unable to stay and watch.
Rezaren made a point of calling Miriam his sister – and claiming he was her brother as well as her owner. For Miriam, whose real brother had been murdered to cover his own weakness and stupidity, that was an insult.
…"I am not your sister. I am your slave" ...
…"Then you must suffer the punishment of a runaway slave – and so must everyone who has enabled you. If you will not love me – guard and protect me of your own free will – then be afraid" …
House Danarius was not the House where she had been a slave – but she knew enough to know the Blue Wraith's experiences had been even harsher than her own (though they never swapped details of their pasts) – he was so brave, coming back here of his own will.
...Can I really follow in his footsteps?...
...Yes, I can. To break the curse of Red Lyrium – to free slaves (no one helps us so we have to help each other) – and to teach magisters to fear us. I was wrong not to trust Fenris' halfblooded husband – and perhaps I was wrong to trust Hira. No matter. I will do this for myself, not for our relationship. So that, one day, I am strong enough to return to Nessum – strong enough to bring my real brother peace...
The magical lights that hung from suspended chains were like ghost lights. Tatters of rainbows stretched across the darkness; tiny sparks glinted in the rain.
...It doesn't look very reliable. I wonder what it's made of. Luck, probably...
The rainbow sang like glass as she made her way under the bridge. It was high off the ground, hanging from a barely-there piece of pipe over the fiercest part of the water. Every move brought another ring of steel on a chime like hope; a pale warp of colours that wrapped around her suspended body. She leapt again – from one pipe to the next - her stomach rolling as she struggled to maintain her equilibrium.
…"This bridge will bring you into the courtyard. It's far below the highest levels of the tower. Something is up there – and it would be dangerous for you to look" ...
The air was getting warmer as she neared the other side of the bridge – warmed by the thing that smelled angry – like suphur – and seemed to give off heat. The dragon – or the Red Lyrium? The bridge veered to the left, and when she looked up she couldn't see the viaduct overhead anymore. She was suspended over a lake and sky of darkness, with stars that gleamed with cold indifference and sparks of emerald rain that flickered like shards.
The onyx bridge dipped down into black rocks surrounding the Castellum, and splintered off into thinner marble bridges, spindling around the outside of the tower of glass and darkness in threads of shining silver. The bridges interconnected, making a skywalk.
She was sixty-five yards up hanging on a thin pipeline and – beneath her – the lake had changed. No longer a grey, heaving mass, now it appeared a bright mirror of light.
Her heart was thudding as she made her way down to the steps that led to the courtyard, and she all but flew down them, her boots ringing out an ascending scale like the notes of the Litany of Adralla Fenris had taught her. The exit appeared to be a blank stone wall but – if Tractus had told them the truth – the right sequence should open it. She pushed carefully – and the rock slid aside to reveal a gap into the forest where her companions were waiting. Hira had taken them there on the magical disc she had summoned.
Hira's eyes lit up at the sight of her, and Miriam was warmed – convinced the Altus did truly love her. Hira wanted revenge against Tevinter and to bring back her father: who wouldn't – if Miriam had any way of bringing back the real Ned she would have taken it. Perhaps they could both use the Circulum Infinitum. Fenris had warned her – as gently as he could – that the Red Mage, Fiona, had told them Miriam's former master had offered Hira a deal: Miriam in exchange for the Circulum. But, even if that were true – and who could believe the word of a Red Mage who had already betrayed the Free Mages – it wouldn't be necessary if Dorian Pavus replaced Rezaren as the next Divine. Dorian could offer the Circulum Infinitum to both, with no need for them to fight over it.
"Miss me?" Miriam asked, in feigned casualness – trying, but not quite succeeding, to disguise her shy pleasure.
Hira's embrace nearly bowled her over. "You're safe!"
Miriam stiffened involuntarily – not particularly liking to be touched without warning, any more than Fenris did. Rezaren had called her his sister – but that word clearly meant different things to an Altus than it did to Elves. But she swallowed her discomfort and forced herself to return the embrace – awkwardly, inexperienced, but willing to practice for the rest of her life.
"Um, yeah."
"Are you ready?" Anders asked his lover.
"Born ready. But – I don't think I'm the one that needs to be."
"If Fenris is right – and he usually is, damn him – there will be a lot of Venatori mages in that courtyard. We are going to need all the firepower we can get."
"What's the situation..." Gatt began – just before they got their first look at the vast open-air courtyard in the centre of the Castellum's ground floor.
"Well, shit," Miriam muttered.
They were not only facing Nenealeus, Professor Marquette and about fifty Venatori mages – all surrounding the sarcophagus where Shirallas was trapped and bombarding it with spells –they were facing the Red Lyrium Dragon.
"Is it too late to think of a Plan B?"
Fenris guided Dumat straight through the oculus – the coffered dome that functioned as the main source of natural light in the upper rooms. The diameter was nearly thirty feet, and it allowed rain to enter and fall to the floor, where it was carried away by drains. Fenris had been up here many times. Sometimes the storms were so bad night and day were one, morning dark as midnight. The sky bulged with livid clouds like bruises.
The four men and five griffons landed on a circular marble floor. The designs depicted the pantheon: all seven of the Old Gods, but largest was the God of Night, Lusacan, for whom the constellation tenebrium had been named. Some said the Old God himself lay buried miles and miles below ground...in the Deep Roads underneath Castellum Tenebris. His recent nightmare about being forced to dig – to throw himself down – had that only been a mind-burp, or had it been a portent?
Marble arches interrupted the central chamber at regular intervals. The Red Lyrium slaves – experimental subjects – had turned toward the sound, then disappeared into openings like ants scrambling for burrows when a stone is overturned. Eyes studied them from corners, and whispers splattered throughout the wing.
Fenris' back prickled, long habit raising alarm. Though he knew they would not harm him – could not, since he was immune to taint thanks to Seeker powers, and Red Lyrium thanks to the T1000 – the idea of a horde behind him sent every nerve into jangling awareness.
"What does The Magister's Vase want with us?" an old woman – who looked remarkably like the Elven servant who had taunted Briala as being Celene's pet – sneered. Memory…
… "You're the Master's pet, aren't you?" his fellow slaves asked.
Leto couldn't answer. How could he, when they would know he was lying? The procurators were Laetans – or slaves who, as mages, had hope of being made Laetans – which meant they could read his thoughts before he finished them. They looked at his handsome face, his adolescent body, and saw right through him.
"Secret, eh?" they said, "You like it then, do you?"
"Look at him! His skin's so dark, he can't even blush properly, but the tips of his ears are red."
"Rabbits," another – a human-passing half-elf – sneered.
"What's it like?" they asked him, and he couldn't answer.
"How about me, then, Leto? Would I fit in?"
Unable to punch a procurator – the Master would save him but his mother would be executed in his place – Leto said the most cutting thing he could think of:
"You? You're so tiny you wouldn't even touch the sides."
The other procurators all laughed at the half-elf and he wanted revenge.
"You're that loose, are you? We'd better give you another name, then. How about: The Magister's Vase?" ...
So, of course, he had been Vase to every slave in Castellum Tenebris – the Elven Soporati all having to laugh with the procurators, if they knew what was good for them.
But...after Leto gave his body to the Lyrium Brands and his brain to the cleaners, it had all gone away, cowering in the blackened crevices of his mind out of the light of his thoughts but spreading its unacknowledged blight over every vision of himself.
Until he had run, and Kirkwall had loaned him self-respect on a short-term basis.
Until now. Until these faceless shadows read it in him in this reeking poisonous night-filled room.
It was unfortunate, Fenris thought, how much of his life he didn't want to remember, and how much – like it or not – he did.
Varric carefully pretended to be deaf, and he sensed Hawke's rage – and knowledge that anything he said could only make it worse.
Fenris' world was crashing down around him, each block of confidence carefully erected over the abyss of self-loathing. All of it, shaken to its foundations, unstoppable. Since he'd been back here he'd known the blind implacability of the ocean. Inside him there was nothing in the debris to cling to, nothing that wasn't disintegrating, untrustworthy.
But – wouldn't you know it – his little brother managed to make it worse. Tractus sucked in a breath and roared,
"Who said that? How dare you insult my brother! How dare you insult the Magister of Castellum Tenebris, to my very face? That is a killing offence."
"Shut your mouth," Fenris told him, "You are the reason they are rotting while they're still alive. You've done enough."
Rage swamped him briefly, sharp and red and black. The crunch of Tractus' head pulping beneath his heel was an ugly lust...
...Fenris despised himself for being the sort of person who could contemplate the slaughter of his own little brother with a savage joy. Turning away didn't take the burden from him.
"Fen," Hawke said softly – doing for Fenris what he had always done, which was to make him feel better about himself by focusing on what really mattered – "The mixture Anders and Dorian are calling T1000: that could save these people, couldn't it?"
Once more, Fenris carefully tried to hide a secret. Hawke, of course, didn't know he had taken the stuff himself – would have been furious with him for risking himself like this even though Fenris had felt completely fine over the days since. It would certainly have reignited all his buried feud with Dorian – Hawke would have wanted to murder the Altus for letting Fenris drink the phage. Dorian and Anders had simply explained it to Hawke, in theory, as a mixture they believed would vaccinate against Red Lyrium.
"I...do not know," Feris admitted. "How could we know for sure whether the phage will vaccinate anyone without deliberately exposing them to Red Lyium? Even if we did do something that unethical, that still wouldn't make it a cure for those already infected. Rillian's blood can cure taint – can cure those who are neither mages nor Templars infected by Red Lyrium, but simply ordinary ghouls in the army of the damned – but Anders and Dorian are convinced it would not help people like Varania."
"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try," Hawke said softly.
"Hawke," Fenris said quietly, "You must think like the Inquisitor not like a healer – or like a Spirit of Compassion. Our aim is to take out Magister Nenealeus and his Red Lyrium Dragon as soon as possible – end him permanently – and then to denature the rest of the Red Lyrium. Even if we leave a few vials here and then do this, how long do you think it will take to treat everybody up here...how long before you can know if the cure has worked? Will the time you take be less than the time it will take these poor bastards to reach total maturity?"
Hawke sucked in a breath, the realization striking him like a thunder flash.
"You heard Sweeney's description as well as I did. Hawke: we are on the highest building of the entire Castellum. My eighteen years here – five as a Lyrium Warrior – and I never thought to wonder why it had been ordered so. Because Magister Nenealeus was searching for the Idol, even then. Because he knew total maturity would rain Red Lyrium particles down upon the land."
Faintly, Hawke said, "We can't know how long ago the first of these people were infected...if the T1000 can at least delay things until we find a real cure."
"We can't know – we can judge the probabilities. From the almost-certain to the hazy next-to-nothing impossible. We are both Seekers, and that means we have imminence."
Fenris and his husband moved to the nearest of the marble arches and peered into the corridor beyond. At first, all they could make out was a colour: a deep red glow chilled at intervals by flashes of white lightning. It looked like a cold dream. Then they began to discern shapes in the tunnels, and movement. When Fenris realized what he was seeing he shivered; a spasm so elemental it wasn't visible on the outside.
"Hawke - Tractus – here. The two of you must take T1000. Now. Otherwise you are going to be Red Mages by the time you reach the courtyard."
Hawke gave him a reproachful look. "The fact you are convinced it will work tells me you have already tested the phage on yourself – without telling me. That is so typical!"
Tractus was more pragmatic. He was staring at the Red Mages writhing towards them and shuddering. Everyone knew one moment of blood-to-blood contact was enough and that, once infection began, there was no stopping it. He took the vial and downed it in one.
"How long does it take to work?" the Magister asked nervously.
Fenris didn't answer – refused to look away until he had personally witnessed his husband gulp down the entire contents.
"There," Hawke said, in a kind of exhausted satisfaction, "Anything done to you will happen to me too. One flesh."
"I should have thought of it before," Fenris muttered, ashamed. "I knew what we'd find up here."
They stood together in the cramped, wet space, claustrophobic with humidity and thick with the smell of Red Lyrium and excrement. Red Mages lay all over the floor, curled into foetal positions, sprawled on top of each other or huddled upright against the walls. Fenris' heart began to beat unnaturally fast, and he consciously willed it to slow down.
Hawke told them, "I will help you."
He was seeing what the Red Lyrium slaves' lives were; witnessing what Red Lyrium could create out of living, breathing bodies of beauty. Living in tunnels, waiting to be experimented on, while mangled and dissected bodies stumped around them, clapping hands with no fingers together, rubbing their faces against the walls and letting shit run down their legs. The Pantheon was a butcher's shop where the meat still moved occasionally, always and forever bathed in a dead red light.
"I've never been up here, I swear," Tractus said.
"You're still here?" Hawke said furiously.
"I know you think I'm responsible."
"Really? You think?"
Fenris knew Tractus was lying – had seen him, in the Fade, talking to Varania at least once. Still, he was certain Tractus had not made a habit of it, simply by the fact he hadn't become infected. He pictured himself a teenager – given the choice between co-operating with the Venatori and being made a magister or raising the issue and being force-fed Red Lyrium to stop his mouth.
...It is not immoral to do what you must to preserve your own life... Wryme had told him. Of course, the demon had been lying...it had been very immoral for Fenris to try to make Feynriel Tranquil by killing him in the Fade, but then – Fenris had been a man of twenty-two. The fact he had had only four years of memories made no difference – loss of memory did not make a man a child again. But Tractus had only recently turned eighteen.
...I have seen Hawke at eighteen and I have seen myself. Hawke has the right to judge Tractus. I don't...
In the hard silent shadows, Fenris could make out vials and vials of Red Lyrium. He felt them scrape and crawl along the Brands. A faint tremor surged towards him; the bottles chimed against the symphony of shifting dust.
Here Red Lyrium had already begun to bloom like poppies growing from bruised flesh. The taint had necrotized skin down to bone. The seeds had been planted.
He saw the Red Mages were people, but so disfigured he could not recognize individuals. All seemed to be crumbling and disintegrating; not all the life that pulsated in their bodies was their own. What seemed to be a growth on the arm of one slowly detached itself and became a writhing mass of Red Lyrium. The whole assembly was a fountain of writhing and insectoid life quickening and sprouting out of the Elven forms. But in each form the anguished eyes were alive, sending unutterable messages from the souls which survived, self-aware, though the body was just a fountain of vermin.
A spider-like Red Mage approached them, hovering around with ineffectual bumbling. But the slender hands moved with the deftness of an automaton. Fenris could smell the rot from the crown-like head mixed with a feminine scent like gardenias.
Fenris stood very still, washed with the absurd embarrassment of the able-bodied in the presence of the lame – until Hawke said softly,
"We'll save the children, Varania."
Fenris felt ashamed he hadn't recognized his own sister first – Hawke could use his magic to see via the Fade but he could phase. A second later he stopped wasting time with empty self-recrimination and phased...
...Varania's eyes lost that infrared unfocused look and became a greenish brown. The nodules of Red Lyrium standing proud on her skull started to glitter in shifting patterns. It was like watching a dance of colours that flowed with emotions faster than the speed of an Eluvian. It made Fenris want to cry; the way she stopped being a badly assembled mass of fleshy fragments and became instead a vital woman.
"The Red Lyrium Idol was beautiful, Leto. So pure, the crystal stars sang a paean of wonder and each tiny prism was a world, rich with knowledge. If only I could have stayed there! To be part of that melody of infinite chimes of light. The Maker made it to give his first children – the Titans and the Evanuris – memories, give them free will. But the Evanuris used it to kill Titans and the fruit of the Tree of Life became rotten. It wasn't supposed to be taint! It wasn't supposed to mix with lyrium and become this. I can hear the Song of the Dragon of Night and I can hear Isana's Song, and the harmonics call to me from the ground and from the sky...buried far below the bones of the world and falling with the emerald rain. The Magisters Sidereal thought themselves so clever, going to the Black City as Andruil went to the Void, but they didn't know how to do it! Naked apes who thought themselves clever because they stole our magic."
Unbearable loss wrenched the words from her, biting into Fenris with acid grief. "Nenealeus said I'd never know pain again, or hunger. Look at me, Fenris!"
Softly, speaking to the floor, she added, "No, don't. Just save my children. I can't remember their names, but I know I miss them. It was the very last feeling to go" ...
A shudder passed through Varania and she lay like one dead. Fenris shook the Red Mage – there was no danger; he was immune – but there was no will in her body anymore. He couldn't even feel a pulse when he laid two fingers at the angle of her jaw.
He was grateful...she had made it easier for his husband. Hawke was calling the names of Leto, Keziah and Teiani; terrified of what they would find, desperate to save them.
Small, rustling noises answered him. "Go away!" Shrill fear robbed the girl's voice of definition.
"We mean you no harm," Hawke said gently.
"Leave us alone," the boy said, "You'll bring the procurators back. Go away, so I can tell them I never saw you."
"Don't do anything silly, alright? No trouble."
Without the griffons, Fenris and Hawke would likely have walked straight past the children's hideout. They had hidden inside a disused utility area painted a shade of drab grey, and it was quiet as a mortuary. But the griffons stopped and sniffed them, and five coats of fur and feathers ruffled.
Leto raised a broken sword, the stubby blade ground to a lopsided point, the cutting edges nicked. Nonetheless, hie extended it steadily, his bright green eyes unwavering. His skin was dark as Fenris'; his close-cropped hair silver. His expression was a rending blend of exhaustion, fear and determination.
Fenris spoke solemnly. "My griffon, Dumat, is trying to tell me he thinks you are a good man."
The two little mage girls – one blond and one chestnut-haired – reached up to touch Hawke's Anchor, inspecting it solemnly. Hawke smiled at them.
"My name's Teiani. Who'r'you? What happened to your hand?"
"My name's Lambert. And my hand is like this so I can close Rifts. I can stop the rain. Come on. Varric'll tell you all about it."
The girls turned to go and Leto called a warning. The last word was practically a grunt. His knees buckled. He pitched forward.
Fenris caught him, scooped him up, ignoring the pathetic, dropped sword. A foul smell rose from wetness on the back of the boy's leg.
"Oh no, Broody. It's taint."
Teiani brushed blond bangs out of the way. She looked up at Hawke. "Leto's going to die," she said.
Hawke stared at the tiny child in shock then shook his head. Gently at first, then almost violently.
"Yes, he is," she said, "Just like mother. He thinks we don't know but we do. We're all going to die. Now the procurators will come back. We'll be Red Mages, too. Leto says sometimes it hurts. Please, Lambert, when they do it to me, will you make it not hurt?"
Fenris watched his husband examine Leto – tenderly, expertly as the healer he had been during the Blight.
"We can save him," he breathed, "With the T1000 mixture. He isn't a mage and hasn't yet gone through the ritual to make a Lyrium Warrior. That means he isn't a Red Mage or a Red Templar or a Red Lyrium Warrior. He's in the early stages of infection – as can happen to anyone in close proximity to taint. If we put him through the Joining – or just give him Rillian's blood, on its own – we can save him like Rillian saved Felix."
"Here," Fenris said at once, giving Hawke the last of the T1000 vials. He was aware he was placing Leto's life above the life of the griffon who would carry him away – aware he was doing the very thing he had counselled Hawke not to do. Strange, how a man could see the objectively right course of action, and have it mean nothing when weighed against the life of family.
Hawke gave Leto the vial, tipping it carefully inside his mouth, ensuring he did not choke. Then Varric glanced at the griffons – Aquila, Duncan and Astra – not knowing how to choose.
Astra bent low and gracefully bent front paws to signal he was ready for his rider to be strapped to the saddle. Fenris met the bright blue eyes and understood. Astra would allow no other rider because that would have been like shutting the door to death behind him. He wanted to follow Ser Otto. He would save the boy – and then he would see his bonded rider again.
Fenris could not grieve. Astra was living the life he wanted to live, was choosing how and when to die. Such a glad sacrifice was mighty. It gave meaning to everything that went before.
Varric took Keziah – the quieter of the two girls – and looked with concern at Teiani. Four was a little young to be riding alone on a griffon – even one following a leader.
Then the child threw back her head and let out a shockingly accurate imitation of a baby griffon's screech, her magic warm in her throat. Like a needle plunging through red cloth, Duncan landed at their feet in a rustle of red-gold feathers. His wingspan stretched.
Lifting her arms on either side to form a T, Teiani held steady as Duncan hovered above her, and then – in one swift movement – the griffon used his claws to pluck the girl from the ground. Teiani was too small to sit unaided in the saddle – but she was trusting the griffon totally.
Quickly, Varric and Keziah and Lore rose to disappear through the oculus, followed by Astra with Leto and Duncan holding Teiani. Fenris watched them disappear into the storm, until no effort would bring him another glimpse.
"How many of these others could be saved too...are ghouls rather than Red Mages?"
"If you cast the spell to denature taint it would not kill them. It will either save them or leave them enough life to be cured later. You know this. Warden Commander Rillian explained the difference between ghouls – who have enough mortal in them – and beings like darkspawn and Red Templars who cannot survive without taint. It will kill the Red Mages."
"Who could be saved if we just gave it a month – a week! – to see if the phage might treat as well as vaccinate! Even if it's not a cure, a delaying of the inevitable would still give us more time to find one. Those things I did: for Ser Wesley – for Fiona – I did when there was no other choice. Their deaths were a certainty – and they would have infected others. Doing it now: when we can vaccinate others, when they have a small chance...is not the same. I am not Nightmare – I don't steal memories, even painful ones – and I don't kill to spare a person suffering. Then I'd be killing everyone – because to be mortal is to suffer."
Fenris had never achieved imminence before – his Seeker powers came from being touched by the Spirit of Faith in the Fade at Adamant, rather than following a year's preparatory training. The only time he had seen it done was during Hawke's recent trance. He had not revealed his presence – not wanting to disturb his husband – but he had watched and memorized. He followed the same movements. There wasn't time to get into the correct mental state – but Fenris had always been a more dispassionate person than Hawke. His training in conquering fear and hunger and pain – all mortal emotions – had begun before he had learned to talk.
Yes, it was easy to think that way – until it became time to cue the acupressure codes. Then Fenris was afraid. Suppose he lacked the mental strength to come out of the trance? Suppose he ended up a liability to his husband – a deadweight Hawke would protect at the expense of destroying Magister Nenealeus? He had proved with Wryme he was not mentally strong.
He didn't want to lose his mind to the Seeker trance just as he didn't want to lose it to the Lyrium Brands. However unpleasant the memories that came with being a mortal who lived in linear time – legacy of the original virus, so Dorian had speculated – they were what made him a man able to love his husband, to plan a future, to choose. Fade spirits could not. They were at the mercy of forces outside themselves. Only mortals had free will. He was afraid he would lose it to the trance now. As someone already at the threshold of becoming a Lyrium Ghost, perhaps tapping into the ability to see things as a spirit – every possibility, from the likeliest standing like a clear line and the unlikeliest like ghost tunnels wreathed in fog – would be the final straw.
Then he scoffed at himself. Hawke's words confirming his Fade vision had proven he had the ability to step into chronothesia. He had saved his husband six years ago in the Fade, from a position in the present time. He hadn't been afraid then – he had just gone and done it. There had been no time to talk himself out of believing.
In his head, Fenris started to recite all the things he had learned about time – and, more importantly, energy. In his Seeker mind he could reach into the data banks of the universe and pull out everything he needed to know – all the possibilities.
He felt Hawke looking with him. The same awareness flowed through both. Their consciousness was like an ocean of perfectly flowing waves. They saw the median scenario – that the T1000 would not cure the Red Mages but would give them another few months of life – months to make memories, to say goodbye, to stay people as long as they could.
They saw the one percent chance the treatment would actually cure them...restoring everything they had lost. Like Eveline of the Free Mages, they would never look exactly the same – you couldn't go all the way back – but they would have normal minds, and – with everyone else vaccinated from Red Lyrium – could have normal lives.
And – at about the same odds; that one percent that hovered on the hazy edge of possibility – that at least some would reach total maturity before then: would disintegrate and rain Red Lyrium particles down on Castellum Tenebris before they had been able to vaccinate everyone. This disaster would cause the Red Lyrium plague to spread beyond their ability to contain it.
"Fen?" Hawke asked, his voice shaking. He wanted Fenris to tell him a healer should always do his best for the patient in front of him – not worry about the future extinction event that might happen or might not – should always choose life, no matter the odds. He wanted Fenris to agree that doing right by individuals – the people they were seeing now (including Fenris' own sister!) was more important than the possibility of causing Thedas to fall to Red Lyrium.
"I can't say that. I'm sorry. I don't think it is possible for me to be sorrier than I am. But you are the Inquisitor. You signed on to close Rifts – to defeat the Magisters Sidereal – and to end Red Lyrium. You shouldn't be chasing such golden butterflies as universal rights and emancipation and saving every possible patient at the expense of that mission. That one percent chance these people will reach total maturity before you can vaccinate everyone...that is the outcome that must not happen."
"Yes," Hawke said softly, heartbroken. "I do see it. When I reach the Golden City – it won't be long now – I would rather face the patients I didn't do my best for than face the world I condemned to Red Lyrium. I am the Inquisitor – and I have one job. I will cast Light in the Ultraviolet C range. I am the only one who can."
And that, Fenris thought, was the unfairness of it: that he had persuaded his husband to choose this course against his own conscience when – of necessity – it would be Hawke who had to use his magic to kill these Red Mages. He would also use his ability as a pain-eater to make sure it wouldn't be them that felt it – Fenris had seen him do that too. All through his childhood he had wished to be a mage so his mother might love him – or at least see him – now he wished it because it meant he could have taken the guilt and the pain from Hawke. But he shut down Fen'Harel's offer without even trying. Hawke didn't need his husband to take this cup from his lips. He was the Inquisitor.
Fenris had heard his husband sing often enough: in casual gatherings, which tended toward inconsequential, merry harmonies; and in deeper, more personal times when it was just the two of them and Hawke's melodies grew more advanced: strings of dissonances and wry accidentals melting subtly into rich-textured resolutions. But he had never taken time to appreciate him singing his work, his magic. And Fenris regretted that because it was clear this was where Hawke's greatest virtuosity lay.
Hawke scattered atonal spatters of notes – delicate chromatic inchings-forward. He hit violet and then moved past it, to a hard whitish-violet light. The sequence of notes equalled colours, became photoinactivation as a means to control transmission. The irradiation of high energy and short wavelengths disintegrated the Red Lyrium into a caustic pink mist and sterilized the emerald rain as it continued to fall outside.
The air around them felt strange; a pre-storm vacuum building. The Red Mages rippled, twitched uneasily. Hawke sang the colours with precision and delicacy – the way he spoke – but there was also passion and power and bitter regret. The nonlinear optical process generated harmonies of light – hit the whistle resister – grew past it to something only Elves could see or hear. Fenris had a moment to feel like a glass about to be shattered by a singer – the Brands weren't Red Lyrium but they felt the power.
And Fenris became aware of something else he had not known before. That the power Hawke was releasing from his caging self was not only toxic to Red Lyrium – agitating the chains of sickness until they broke – it was also far enough, high enough, to touch the spectrum that would increase the spread of the Anchor. Every time Hawke was casting this spell he was not only destroying Red Lyrium but he was shortening his own timeline. It was as if Hawke were drowning, with the Anchor becoming something that pulled him into the ocean Fenris had escaped. It was like looking into the jaws of Fen'Harel, as the wolf prepared to sever the thread.
... "Hawke - you can't do this. It will make it that much harder for Dorian to use Death Cloud to kill the lesions..."
... "Yes. Was that ever in question? I am responsible for ending these lives prematurely – without even trying to save them – so the Maker makes sure I am paying the bloodprice. And, since the damage has been done to lives, that is the coin I pay in. It's all in the spell, dear heart. It is justice" ...
The Light grew brighter. Fenris squinted as it grew – not only in intensity but in size – reaching for him and Tractus, washing over them but passing them by – because they were not Red Mages or Red Lyrium Warriors. He covered his eyes; it did no good. The brilliance was too blinding, piercing through and into him as the sound did, 'til whiteness filled the world and he dimly felt himself thump to his knees. The red light tracing the cracks in the stone shone even brighter, as if the surface of the molten sun were peeling away beneath them.
None of this shook Fenris' gaze from his husband. And as Fenris saw the amaranthine eyes look at him he recognized him for all that he was, recognized him as..."
"Inquisitor," Fenris said softly.
The shock wave made the chamber shudder, shaking dust and stone fragments from the walls. Fenris was certain the entire structure would collapse into the Nocen Sea. Rain blew sideways through the skylight; the ground emitted a howl of pain...and then the light faded, the dark fortress settled without collapsing, and everything became quiet and still.
The surviving slaves came out of hiding...a few dozen men and women, some in the early stages of taint, some carrying children.
Tractus was shaking him, and Fenris realized to his fury he was still on his knees. He batted the hands away that would have helped him up. He got to his feet – dangerously close to vomiting – but his will was the lethal focus that had carried him through worse. He went to his husband, whose Anchor was glowing in a way it hadn't before, a way that didn't bode any good. Hawke stayed on his feet, half-drunkenly leaning on Fenris, too guilty about having ended Varania and all the others to smile.
Tractus said, "We don't have much time before the ritual. Since he didn't get you, or Leto, Nenealeus is going to do it to Shirallas in the courtyard – combining the sarcophagus and his Red Lyrium Dragon. We'll want to approach the courtyard from the ramparts above it. Right, then left – watch for a patrol – before heading to the leftmost stairs..."
Fenris and Hawke followed him.
"When my father did this to you, how did it work?"
"I don't remember much. I remember being locked in the sarcophagus and they put Lethandralis into it – into me – or something like that. Lethandralis had been laced with lyrium. The sarcophagus drew the lyrium in – caused it to branch through my nerves, carved it into me. It took a long time. Outside, the sarcophagus was bombarded with magic."
"Do you know the spell?"
"I remember little. Fire, perhaps?"
"A Red Lyrium Dragon will find neither fire nor taint hard to come by," Hawke said sickly. "They are going to make Shirallas a Red Lyrium Warrior, despite Solas having the Idol and us destroying the shipment."
After seeing his own sister die – because of the hard choice he had forced Hawke to make – Fenris was in no mood to feel sympathy for Shirallas. Still, they had to prevent this, prevent the Venatori getting their hands on this living weapon.
"I can kill this Red Lyrium Dragon the same way I killed the last one," Fenris said – half-flex, half-statement of fact – "And I will neutralize Nenealeus, prevent him from casting..."
"He trained you," Tractus reminded him. "It won't be that easy."
"Watch me."
The blinding scarlet light that had drowned the atmosphere seconds earlier had moved on. The corridors that led down were dark. Tractus led them to where he had told Miriam to find the hidden entrance. The walls were solid stone. Fenris and Hawke exchanged meaningful looks. Ripples and Dumat, however, were already attacking it fiercely, rearing on their hind legs, scratching and screeching. One of them, by chance, hit the right spot. A section of the wall slid open. Both men lunged into the gap. There was no light, no sound to indicate progress. The rock sweated a stink of long-trapped moisture and decay. Still, the griffons led with eager whines.
After what seemed an eternity of bumping through the slimy passageway, they were aware the air took on a fresher quality. They heard voices, chanting. In the lowest level of the silent tower, Hawke whispered to his husband.
"I understand what the Anchor can do now. If I use its power while drawing on the last of the lyrium in your Brands, we can both exist simultaneously in Thedas and in the Fade. It will stop your former trainer from using the Brands to control you – and render us invulnerable for about eight seconds. We've got imminence, right? Well, now we've got simultaneity. Let's do this."
Something of Hawke's snake-eating confidence had come back – the confidence of a gambler playing for the highest stakes and to the death. He led them from the tunnel to the courtyard.
To face Nenealeus, the Watchman of Night.
AN: Simultaneity is my name for the Anchor Discharge ability. I just think it's cooler!
