In the moon-cast shadows gathered at the top of the throne room's great vaulted ceiling, deformed trees shook in an unfelt tempest. Shapes, alluring and terrifying, slipped from tree to tree, making their way toward him with whispered threats and sweet temptations...
Finn shook himself out of his dozing half-sleep and ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. It was ridiculous, how thin the Veil was here. He'd felt it on Sundermount, but they hadn't lingered there long enough for it to really register. Here in Kirkwall, he could find himself in the Fade if he just let his mind wander too far. While waking. That was just... wrong.
The dwarf, Varric, was full of possible explanations. Ancient Tevinter slave trade, rumors of glyphs carved into the city's streets, mages in the Gallows, templars in the Gallows, and a highly suspect tale of red, madness-inducing lyrium under the city. He'd have to pass that one on to Dagna.
Assuming she was still at the Tower. Assuming he ever made it back to the Tower. Assuming they didn't all just die here, like everyone had at the Tower, and you can have the power, power to stay safe, if you only reach out and take it...
He scrambled to his feet; some of the mages bedded down nearby stirred but didn't wake. Whispers in his mind, movement always just at the corner of his eyes, sounds with no source... if there was a worse place to be a mage, he never wanted to find it. It was unbelievable that this apparently had passed for normal here for so long.
He should get some sleep, but that didn't feel possible at the moment. Might as well do something useful, then.Finn carefully picked his way between the mages sleeping on the floor; only the very oldest had the use of the few cots they'd acquired. Then he was carefully picking his way between sleeping templars, the survivors still performing their pledged duty of protecting the mages from others, and others from the mages. They'd turned the left balcony of the the throne room into a miniature Circle Tower.
And just like in a Circle Tower, a pair of templars guarded the exit. They watched him come, and he nodded a silent greeting when he was close enough. "Finn Aldebrant of Ferelden," he identified himself in a low voice. "Can't sleep, thought I'd work on saving the city and such."
It should have been a formality - he was technically out of the Circle, on official Circle Business, per the Very Important Note he kept close at all times. But one of the templars challenged him, poking him right in the breastbone with an armored finger. "It's lights out. Go back to sleep."
Perhaps the fellow thought Finn meant to light a spellwisp in here and wake people up? He tried to explain, "We're working in the old viscount's office, I won't bother any-"
"I said to go back to sleep, mage. Didn't you hear?"
Finn just stared for a moment, speechless. Really? Someone was going to pick now to start throwing her authority around for the fun of it?
Before he could draw a breath to argue, he saw a pale shape rise up from the floor, behind the templars in the right-hand balcony. For one panicked second, he was afraid it was a shade or wraith, before he made out Elsa. "Ser Moira," she called quietly, and the belligerent templar half-turned from Finn. She came closer before continuing: "Knight-Captain Cullen wishes Mage Florian, also known as Finn, to continue his research at every opportunity. Please let him pass."
"Oh. I, uh. Didn't realize Finn and Florian were the same person," Ser Moira muttered unconvincingly, and stepped aside.
"Get many Aldebrants from Ferelden in your Tower?" he asked as he headed down the steps.
"Mage Finn, please do not provoke the templars," Elsa continued serenely, accompanying him down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him, lovely in the moonlight except for the emptiness in her pale eyes. "They are on three-fourths rations of lyrium," she said. Finn inhaled deeply; that explained the temper. "Per the Knight-Commander's contingency plans, I brought a satchel of lyrium out from the Gallows, but it will not be enough to sustain the regiment indefinitely. We must retake the Gallows, and soon."
"Agreed," he nodded. "We just need... half a day, maybe a day, to finish preparing the ritual. From Ser Agatha's report, we're not certain if... the, the vengeance spirit," because it couldn't be, simply couldn't be old Anders anymore, "is thralled to the Champion or not. If it is, we'll need to move quickly once we start moving."
"I understand. Current supplies will last out the week without further reduction of their ration. I thought you should be aware of the matter."
Because just knowing about all the death and killing isn't motivational enough? Finn pinched the bridge of his nose; he really needed a good night's sleep. "Right. Thank you, Elsa." She turned and wordlessly climbed the stairs, her message delivered. Finn threaded his way between ranks of sleeping city guardsmen - they'd moved the barracks into the throne room, because the refugees wouldn't bunk near the mages - and slipped out the door.
He passed the provisions stocked here, in the throne room's antechamber, where they could be more easily guarded. Idunna had told them all that she knew about Xebenkeck. Finn hadn't wanted to believe her, had wanted to say that tales of 'deep Fade entities' and 'primordial gods' were stuff and nonsense, but there was an eight-story tall gaping hole in the Veil that said otherwise. The demon's name was an invaluable asset, something that would allow them to bind her to something without Finn having to cut off a finger, as some anonymous 'Scholar' had done.
Varric had told that tale, of the revenants and arcane horror bound to the three charms, which together bound a powerful pride demon. It was fairly cunning, as such things went - rather than simply hide the charms, the Scholar had essentially trapped them with the undead. Most tinkerers in the dark arts would have just gotten themselves killed before they could loose the true demon.
He wanted to get his hands on those charms. Together, the assembled piece was probably their best bet for binding Xebenkeck. Certainly, creating something from scratch would take more time, and more lyrium, than they could readily muster. Of course the problem, as Varric explained it, was that after Hawke killed the demon Hybris, she'd given two of the charms to her favorite companions - Anders and Merrill, of course- and kept the third for herself.
Which meant their best case was desperately trying to assemble the charms in the middle of a fight with a supremely powerful demon, after they'd stolen one of the parts off of the demon herself.
Finn really wished he had a better idea. But all the news the guards and templars brought back was that the Champion was gone underground, to the tunnels they called Darktown. At night, undead swarmed out of the grates and shafts that led down there, terrifying Lowtown even as the agents of Vengeance wreaked havoc in Hightown. He hadn't the slightest idea how they might lure her out of there and up to Sundermount, where the ancient idol that was his other candidate for a binding agent lay.
At least they knew where Vengeance was. That abomination had holed up in the Gallows. And a thieves' guild, the Coterie, had bartered its way into the Keep's relative safety with news of a powerful elven mage directing some of the undead in Darktown; that gave them an area to look for Merrill. Varric provided maps of the parts of Darktown Hawke would have been most familiar with, and Idunna sketched out her old cult's haunts. Reasonable starting points.
He turned the corner and saw welcome golden light spilling from under the door of the seneschal's office. Bran worked odd hours; Finn wasn't sure when the fellow slept. He knew there was some friction between the guard-captain and the seneschal, and Vashti'd stuck her large nose into the business at some point, but Finn let the man do his work and Bran let Finn do his. Quietly. It was a good working relationship.
He reached for the door when it opened, revealing the selfsame Guard-Captain Aveline. Her eyes widened and she shook her head, pointing that he should go away. Closing the door behind her, she put a heavy hand on his shoulder and steered him back as he asked, "What -?"
"We just took back another hex in Hightown," Aveline said grimly.
"But that's good news."
"Bran's familial estate was there. We... found his son."
Finn's mouth twisted. "Dead, I take it."
Aveline wiped a hand over her face. "Anyone in the city's government... anyone related to anyone in the city's government... He blames them for not stopping the Chantry. Never mind that would have brought an Exalted March down on the city... But yes. Dead. Very. Bastard."
Finn glanced back at the closed door, wondering how long it would be shut. He found that he had very bad estimates for how much privacy normal people required. Aveline appeared to mistake confusion for impatience. "Just give him... probably half a candlemark, knowing Bran. I know you've got important work in there, but it's also important that the closest thing we have to a civic leader holds it together right now. He's got his... uh, that is, his..." The large woman shifted her weight and looked about aimlessly. "...lover, I suppose is accurate, with him for support."
Ah, yes. Serendipity was an elf, and somehow connected to the Coterie. No wonder the guard-captain was uncomfortable discussing the seneschal's relationship with her. "No trouble. I'll just -" Aveline, seeing that he wasn't going to buck her order to stay out of the room, nodded and walked past him before he could quite finish speaking. " - right, then."
Well, there was the "stealing the charm from the powerful demon" problem. He didn't need his notes to pore over that. Their best chance, as he saw it, was to hope that Ariane could smite it and stun it, giving them a moment to find and take the charm. What they lacked was a backup plan, in case the smite didn't work. Which - given the distressing absence of the Knight-Commander from the field - seemed a real possibility.
Finn paced absently down the stairs, dimly aware of the returning guards and templars clanking past him. Of all of them, he had the highest hopes for Vashti being able to do the job. The demon was far stronger than him, magically, but it would still be limited by Marian Hawke's physical senses. And the Dalish Warden was particularly adept at hiding and sneaking. With the warriors drawing the demon's attention, and him healing the results of that attention, they might just have a chance to -
- walk directly into someone's breastplate. Finn stumbled back, arms pinwheeling, blinking in surprise as his reverie was roughly interrupted. "Watch where you're going," Fenris snarled at him.
At that anger, the good-natured apology on Finn's lips evaporated. "Or you could watch where you're going," he shot back instead. Which was ridiculous, but sounded killing in his head.
"I suppose you think I should make way for a mighty mage, then?"
"I think you're belligerent! And when have I given the slightest impression that I think I'm a better mage than you?"
The elf narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"I mean, I think I'm a pretty good mage, glyphs and healing especially. But I understand that the Fade shroud is a particularly difficult piece of -"
The Veil rippled again as Fenris's vallaslin flashed blue, and all Finn could think was "Showoff"as one taloned gauntlet grabbed the front of his robe and shoved him into a wall.
He looked down in horror. His robe. His especially enchanted, favorite robe! "Don't rip it!"
"I am no mage." Fenris ground the words out, and for one terrible second, Finn thought that he might spit. On him.
"Is there another term you'd prefer I use?" Finn felt a bit sheepish now. Every time he thought he knew how to conduct himself respectfully among the Dalish, something new came up. "I think the Keepers in the Hinterlands call practitioners of the art 'arcane warriors.'"
A guard trudged past and lightly punched the elf on the shoulder. "Put the healer down. We like healers." Fenris growled something inarticulate after her, but removed his hand. Finn smoothed and straightened his robe, relieved that there were no tears.
"I am not a mage," Fenris repeated, glowering at him.
Finn shook his head, exasperated. "But you pull the Veil around yourself until you're only half in this world! I've felt you do it several times now. How is that even possible unless -"
Fenris thrust his arm forward again and Finn flinched back against the wall, but the elf only pointed to one of the blue-white lines of his strange vallaslin. "That is lyrium, mage, burned into my flesh by my former master. That is how it is possible."
"Lyrium? But lyrium's toxic. Must be compounded somehow..."
Finn automatically reached up to investigate this new mystery with touch as well as sight, questions tumbling around in his mind. How could lyrium be implanted this way? How was Fenris not dead? Was this a direct effort to replicate the ancient elven mage-warrior discipline? Did that mean there were other sources of knowledge about it? Where were those sources?
A painful, viselike grip around his wrist interrupted that line of thought. Startled, Finn looked up and found Fenris's nose within a finger's width of his own. "I am not your experiment to poke and prod. I am a free man, no longer a slave, and I will not be handled like a thing."
It dawned on Finn that it wasn't so much anger or belligerence in those green eyes as it was simmering rage. Master, slave, mage, experiment, burned... the words Fenris chose to use clicked into place in the linguist's head, and Finn's eyes widened. "The lyrium... It wasn't voluntary."
"No," Fenris sneered, releasing Finn's wrist with a shake that sent it back down to his side. "It was not."
"That's... that's unconscionable."
Fenris straightened up. "Danarius's conscience permitted that and more. That is what happens when mages are given power."
Finn opened his mouth to argue - that historically, non-mage rulers were capable of all manner of atrocity, and some of the archons had introduced needed reforms into the Tevinter Empire - but for once, thought the better of it. His robe might not survive the discussion. "Not a mage. Got it."
"Good." Fenris stalked off after the departing guards, leaving Finn alone in the darkened foyer.