Chapter 17
"Passing out of the world, in that Void they shall wander;
O unrepentant, faithless, treacherous,
They who are judged and found wanting
Shall know forever the loss of the Maker's love.
Only Our Lady shall weep for them."
—The Chant of Light, Threnodies 12:5
Malcolm
"You know what? I've about had it with you people," Malcolm called out. As he continued to relay his rather long list of complaints to the pressgang who'd taken exception to their refusal to join up, he deflected one blow meant for Wynne, and then bound the blade of the man-at-arms who'd decided to attack Adrian. The bind brought him close as he stepped into it, and then his blade nicely followed through the parry to become a riposte. He stabbed the man through his leathers and into the gut. With that, Malcolm kicked him off his blade and turned his attention to the others.
From the looks of increasing frustration on his companions' faces, Malcolm could tell they were as sick of it as he was. The skirmishes were never difficult ones to win—it was just that they took time and therefore lengthened their already somewhat long trip.
Wynne flicked her stave out and froze the soldier whom Malcolm had temporarily stunned, and Evangeline capitalized on it, using her sword to smash the soldier into pieces. Luckily, it wasn't like her first time the day before, and she ducked the flying pieces of frozen flesh before they could stick to her armor as they defrosted. The mess they left behind otherwise was considerable, and it'd taken Evangeline the better part of two hours the night before to get everything out of the cloth parts of her armor.
"This really is annoying," said Malcolm.
Finn sent a surge of healing Evangeline's way before he shuddered at the sight of the half-frozen, shattered body scattered at their feet. "This is really messy. If you left it to us mages, combat would be a lot cleaner."
"Also more painful for us," said Rhys. "Hard to keep casting when some fool is waving their shield in your face. I'd rather let the folks in the armor deal with them."
"I could just set them on fire," said Adrian. "All of them."
"You'd set everything on fire if you could," said Evangeline.
"Well, not you, Knight-Captain."
Evangeline snorted. "Lying doesn't become you. I'd be the first you'd light on fire."
One of the last two soldiers took offense at the ugly demise of his compatriot, and glared at them from a decent distance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to exact revenge.
"Come on, then," said Malcolm. "Attack or run. I don't care which. Just decide."
"I'm not sure I'm a fan of your continuing trend of goading our opponents," said Rhys.
"I know I'm not," said Finn. "Be grateful it isn't chevaliers this time."
The only reason Malcolm didn't roll his eyes was because he didn't want to take his eyes off the undecided soldier, or lose track of the one who thought he was being sneaky in the trees. "I didn't goad chevaliers. I goaded their lackeys."
"You should stop goading altogether, lest you accidentally goad an actual chevalier into an actual duel," said Evangeline.
Malcolm frowned. "I can see how that would be unfortunate."
"I hope you mean unfortunate for you, and that you are not attempting to boast or express what would amount to overconfidence," said Wynne.
"I'm almost insulted." Almost, though, because Evangeline had explained to him, in great detail, the extensive training chevaliers went through. While Malcolm still didn't like them, he did have to respect their training, especially if they'd taken to it. They learned every weapon and every technique for each. They also employed unarmed combat methods when called for, and learned the ability to switch between light and heavy armor with ease. It really did explain how Thierry was so damn good, since he'd been a chevalier before he'd joined the templars, and it made Malcolm quite relieved that Thierry was on his side. It certainly gave him the motive to keep it that way.
"Besides," he said to Wynne, "I'll look for the yellow feather. If they've got a yellow feather, I'll do my best to keep my mouth shut."
"I doubt that will be enough," said Adrian.
"Not that you've got much ground to stand on," Rhys said to her.
Adrian rolled her eyes at the other mage, and at the same time, the indecisive soldier rushed at Malcolm.
Malcolm sighed and bashed him a couple of times until he hit the ground and didn't rise. As he checked to make sure he wouldn't be stabbing him in the back, out of the corner of his eye he saw a man nearly as tall as a qunari trying to hit Rhys with a two-handed war hammer—and it wasn't the soldier they'd noticed in the trees, which meant they'd miscounted. Not the time to assign blame, however.
Malcolm dove between Rhys and the attacker to block him with the forceful application of his shield. He buckled the man's knees, but the man continued the follow-through of his swing as he fell backward, and hit Malcolm in the head on his way down.
It'd been a grazing blow rather than the solid hit, but he was more wobbly than he liked as he slowly got to his feet. The sluggishness that followed took a little too long to dissipate, but it did fade, and while he'd gotten up, Evangeline and the mages dealt with the rest of the overeager pressgang. Excellent. Not as much a delay as he'd thought, and it had at least warmed them up nicely from a dawn so chilly that they'd found a furry frost clinging to the grass.
He propped his shield against his leg, cleaned his blade and sheathed it, and then took off his helm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. By the time he'd dropped his arm, Rhys stood in front of him, peering at him intently.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Malcolm asked. He believed it a question to be asking, considering the look. Maker, Rhys looked like Wynne right then.
Rhys didn't answer. Well, he did, but it wasn't a direct explanation. "What's your name?"
"Oh, you have to be kidding me." And he had no one to appeal to, because the others were out of earshot as they gathered the horses and their supplies under Evangeline's direction. Evangeline had thus far been the de facto leader of their little expedition, as her orders often brooked no argument. Since she'd been entirely reasonable and hadn't yet asked anything of them that they already wouldn't have done, they cooperated. Malcolm hoped it would continue that way, but he didn't have high hopes for when they reached Adamant and discovered what Pharamond may have found.
"Just answer," said Rhys.
"Malcolm."
"Where are we?"
"Sodding Orlais, that's where we are."
"Who's the Divine?"
"For Maker's sake. It's Justinia. The fifth of her name, if you want to get specific." It wasn't like Malcolm didn't perfectly well know these types of questions. They were a very special set of questions healers used to determine just how badly someone had gotten their bell rung. But he hadn't gotten hit terribly hard. No stars, hardly any ringing in his ears, and he already felt fine.
"Touch your finger to your nose."
"I'm going to touch my fist to your face if you ask me more of your questions. I'm fine. I've taken worse hits."
"You're awfully irritable."
"And getting more irritated by the second. What's given you the impression that my brain fell out of my head halfway through the Frostbacks? There'd be more drooling, I think, if it had."
Rhys ran his fingers through his short beard and then sighed. "The last time I saw you, you easily could've ended up that way, drooling with your mind lost in the Frostbacks or Andraste knows where." As Malcolm gave him a startled look, Rhys nudged the helm at Malcolm's feet. "I helped heal the head injury you got from some nasty templars in Denerim some years ago."
He frowned. "First, how would you even know about that injury? Second, Wynne's the one who healed it. I know, because she gave me an earful when I woke up the second time and almost undid her work."
"The Seekers brought me in to help."
"That would explain why you seem to know things that you shouldn't. It also would've been nice for you to mention it."
Rhys quirked an eyebrow. "Because you've mentioned who you are?"
The rest of the group was still preoccupied with the horses, so Malcolm didn't end the conversation, not that he wanted to in the first place. "Right, because that would be a grand idea out here. Are you sure I'm the one who got hit in the head?"
"You're welcome," said Rhys. He sounded smug about it, too.
Sodding healers. What got him was that he couldn't be ungrateful, because he'd have been dead several times over if not for them. "And you're welcome for taking that war hammer to my helmed head instead of letting it hit your bare one."
"Yes, thanks for that. But, next time, if you've a choice about which body part you're going to use to block an incoming blow, pick something other than your head." As Malcolm gave him a questioning look, Rhys reached out, a healing spell glowing on his fingers, and moved his hand around Malcolm's head. Then the healing magic winked out and Rhys looked Malcolm in the eye. "Stop getting hit in the head. I'm serious. Unless you want to end up the drooling dullard you alluded to, you need to stop."
"Anders told me that, too. So did Wynne. Considering my line of work, I've done fairly well at avoiding blows to the head over the past several years." And he had. The Blight had definitely been the high for number of times he got hit in the head over the course of a year. He'd even kept avoiding sparring with Cauthrien, even though she could teach him more than a thing or two. However, he'd decided, with her agreement, that it wouldn't be worth risking the potential head injuries.
"Did she tell you why?" asked Rhys.
Malcolm gave him a curious look. "You mean other than the obvious?"
Rhys scowled at the reply. "I can't believe she didn't tell you, because maybe if you knew what could happen, you'd try harder to avoid it."
"You sound awfully angry and ungrateful that I took a hit in your stead."
He threw up his hands and strode away from Malcolm. On his way to his horse, Rhys briefly took Wynne by the arm and told her to tell Malcolm what could happen. Malcolm knew Rhys had told her to because he'd heard Rhys, and because Wynne walked straight for him.
"What haven't you told me?" Malcolm asked once Wynne was close enough.
She sighed, suddenly looking at once tired for all the years the spirit had sustained her. "Ride with me at the rear of the group, and I will tell you." Then she went for her horse, leaving Malcolm to get on his own. Knight-Captain Evangeline had already mounted her horse and taken the lead once more. Rhys, Adrian, and Finn rode behind her, while Malcolm and Wynne slowly took up the rear guard.
For a little while, Wynne said nothing, but Malcolm could tell she was working her way up to saying something she didn't want to. He took the time to enjoy the ride, because the countryside in Orlais was rather pretty in autumn, especially now that they were diverting from the main roads. The nasty glares they'd gotten from the city guards outside Val Royeaux hadn't been so pretty, but one could only hope for so much in Orlais. The rain had at least passed for the morning, though Malcolm could see low-hanging storm clouds waiting above the trees. He looked forward to it. Something about the freezing rain made him feel at home, and judging from the contented look Wynne got on her face with the inclement weather, she felt the same way. The rest of their party did not, including Finn, whom Malcolm was starting to believe might actually be an Orlesian. He did his best not to hold it against him.
With her eyes pinned on the road ahead, Wynne finally started to speak. "There is a kind of illness I have seen many times in knights, men-at-arms, career soldiers, and even some templars. If they sustained many significant blows to the head over the course of their lives, some are stricken by a peculiar sort of wasting illness. The body becomes weak, like any wasting illness. But unlike other wasting illnesses, there is a tremor, and the mind disintegrates as the body does. Often, the mind shows the first signs. It strikes earlier than the typical dementia of the elderly, around Rhys' age instead of a person older than myself."
The thought of losing himself to the fog of unknowing left him treading in the frigid water of fear. Rhys was right. He would've tried even harder to keep from getting hit in the head. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. "You may not have lived long enough for it to affect you, given the taint. Or, if it did, it would have appeared as a sign for your Calling. But Hildur told me of the amalgamated potion, and how your lives are no longer cut cruelly short. I have been remiss in not telling you sooner, and for that, I am sorry."
He knew she was. Wynne was many things, but she was never a woman not to tell someone when and how and why not to hurt themselves. A tiny bit of bitterness dwelled in him over it, but that was it. He was more worried, instead. "Is it already too late?"
"I do not believe so, especially since you have avoided head injuries over the past several years."
Malcolm felt more than a little pride in that he'd been right. "See, I told you," he called up at Rhys.
In return, Rhys made a rude gesture with his hand behind his back.
Malcolm laughed. Wynne's son had thus far proven to be all right, even though he was older and a lot more dashing than Malcolm had thought he'd be.
"However," Wynne said a a little sharply, "it is not out of the realm of possibility, especially if you do not exercise caution. The more blows your head absorbs, the higher the risk becomes."
And the proverbial wind went out of his sails. "I take it that can't be healed?"
She slowly shook her head. "No. The workings of the mind, of the person you are and the personality you possess, it is a delicate, complicated thing beyond even the most advanced magic. An injury itself can be fixed early on. But the longer it goes without healing, the greater the chance that some of the damage will remain—even if all appears to be well."
"And the time Rhys helped you?"
"You had gone hours without aid, with easily the worst hit you have ever taken, and by far the longest you'd gone without a healer's attention. Had it been much longer, I doubt we could have fully healed you."
Malcolm hadn't known it'd been that close. He'd known it was bad, just not to that extent.
Wynne nudged her horse to ride shoulder to shoulder with Malcolm's, and then leaned over and ruffled his hair. He assumed it was to make him feel better or to remind him that he hadn't put his helm back on. Or both.
Still, it wasn't something a grown man could easily bear. "You ruffled my hair! You ruffled my hair! I'd thought that after all these years with you not having done it that you wouldn't. But, no. Lull me into a false sense of security, and then you do that!"
Her only answer was to chuckle, and the chuckles from the rest of the party ahead of them did not help at all.
The next morning brought yet another pressgang, and Malcolm wondered why they'd bothered at all to avoid the cities and main roads if they'd had to put up with this shit regardless. If they were going to fight every day, it was better to eat and rest at an inn. Their group was well-funded, so they could easily afford the luxury.
"Tell me again why we avoided Val Foret?" Malcolm asked Ser Evangeline as he rode next to her.
The way she flexed her jaw before she answered told Malcolm that she knew what he was getting at, but wouldn't concede. "The rumors of riot that others travelers have been discussing whenever we pass them, for one. Best not to be caught up in a riot. More distressing is the rumor of civil war. As you've seen, the nobility involved tend to like pressing peasants into service, and so we avoid the main roads to keep from being forced into said service."
"Given how many people we've run into who want to volunteer us, it doesn't seem to be working."
"Once a day is a low number, Warden-Lieutenant."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is it now? I suppose a party consisting mostly of mages would be an enticing target. Wynne even went through that before we got to Val Royeaux. Finn, too, both right outside Jader. They cared nothing for me. Shows what they know, ignoring a Grey Warden's probable contributions."
"I suspect they didn't think it worth the trade-off," said Wynne.
Malcolm didn't reply. It only encouraged her.
"What did you say?" Evangeline asked him.
"Oh, the incident outside Jader? Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons' men decided they'd like a couple mages for the Grand Duke's army. Wynne and Finn said no. His men had a temper tantrum, and then we went on our merry way. Stayed at a lovely inn that night, too."
"Somehow, I'm thinking there's a lot missing from that little story of yours," said Rhys.
"So, you three have known there's been a civil war in the making?" asked Adrian, who sounded rightfully somewhat annoyed. "Why didn't you mention it to anyone before? Such as in Val Royeaux, where the information would have been of some use?"
Malcolm shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because we're Fereldan? Yes, probably because we're Fereldan. Fight amongst yourselves all you like. It means it's less likely you'll try to take over my country again." And he had somewhat of a personal stake in Orlesians not conquering Ferelden.
"I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be neutral."
"Doesn't mean I'm not still Fereldan."
"You look Fereldan."
He turned to look at her. "Just what are you saying?"
"It's the nose, I think," she said after a moment of consideration.
Malcolm nearly rolled his eyes. "Like I haven't heard that one before."
Even though their effort in avoiding notice from the overeager officers under the nobility had yet to prove they worked, Evangeline insisted they continue to sleep outside, in the forests lining the roads. Rain-swollen clouds had built up on the horizon over the course of the day, and as they finished setting up the last of the tents, the clouds moved over them and started in with a cold drizzle. Malcolm was almost disappointed. He'd thought for sure the clouds would've had at least one downpour in them. Nevertheless, the Orlesians in the group, along with Finn, scowled at the plummeting temperature combined with the light rain.
When he saw Evangeline struggling to make a sustained fire—even the help of mages couldn't easily defeat water dousing flames—Malcolm joined her. Líadan had taught him long ago how he could keep a fire going in almost even the heaviest rain. To his surprise, Evangeline didn't begrudge the help, and paid close attention to the steps he told her as he worked. They were rewarded with a warm fire, and then they were nearly overrun with mages trying to huddle close.
Evangeline sat back a little, gathering her damp cloak around herself as she basked in the warmth put off by the fire, yet kept herself from getting too close to the mages.
Not liking the implications of it, for Evangeline seemed to be distancing herself an awful lot over the past few days, he strove to keep her engaged. "So," he said to her, "we're trying to keep a low profile, aren't we?"
Her eyes never wavered from the fire, but she did at least respond. "Yes."
Malcolm looked pointedly at Evangeline's cloak and then back to her face. "That cloak of yours isn't very good for hiding."
"You would not just throw away your Warden cloak, would you?"
"Mine's grey. Well, more muddy grey and wet and a bit funky smelling from the rain, but still a far sight better at blending in than your not mud-spattered-enough scarlet one. I mean, scarlet. Scarlet."
She sighed. "I meant as a barrier to the cold."
"I suppose not, no." He liked the relative cold well enough, but he wasn't stupid. Not wearing his woolen cloak would practically guarantee hypothermia overnight.
She lifted an eyebrow at him. "And if a native Fereldan finds the weather cold enough to warrant a cloak, do you not think an Orlesian would find it even more so?"
"Oh, well played, Ser Templar." Evangeline was turning out to be way more a fun sport than he'd believed an Orlesian templar could be, his friendship with Thierry not withstanding. "You'd think any of you would be more grateful at being outside that Spire of yours, considering you've got a ghost problem there. The ghost problem that everyone seemed to be discussing, but no one doing anything about. It could be a demon, for all any of you care."
"No!" Rhys looked up from where he'd been jotting notes in a journal while cowering under his cloak in an attempt to avoid the rain. "Could it be?"
Malcolm scowled. "A simple yes would've done nicely." There had to be some sort of class healers took to be this way they all were. "Why are all spirit healers so…" he trailed off as he searched for a better word.
"Cutting?" asked Adrian. "Derisive? Sharp?"
"Yes, those." It seemed Adrian had also garnered disfavor from the healers.
"I can't imagine it hasn't anything to do with those whom we end up healing," said Rhys.
"No," Wynne said from the other side of the fire, "I imagine it does."
"It does," Finn said from inside his tent.
"See, there you go again." Malcolm pointed a finger at each healer in turn, including Finn in his tent. "No teaming up. It isn't fair. We have only the Maker to thank that Anders isn't here." Malcolm's thoughts had been of the Anders he'd known right after the Blight, not the Justice-inhabited man he'd spoken with weeks ago. The old Anders would've fit right in with the joking around, been right in his element, templar escort aside. Then again, Knight-Captain Evangeline hadn't been so bad thus far, for a templar. She'd remained steadfast in her ability to act and appear reasonable, like Cullen had become, and Carver had turned out to be. Maker. He couldn't believe he'd thought that about Carver. He'd have to wash his mind out with soap, once he figured out how to do it.
"Malcolm," Wynne said in a particular way of hers that warned of a coming interrogation she would believe to be on the sly, "I've been wondering. Why did Anders leave the Wardens? I thought the organization would suit him, given his propensity for escaping from the Tower. Also because had he not become a Grey Warden, I believe he would have been made Tranquil. Far better his talents were put to good use instead of wasted."
Malcolm had long believed the same as Wynne when it came to Anders, and largely, he still did—of Anders without Justice. But it was becoming clearer that one now did not exist without the other, and together, the two of them were something entirely different. "He left for… personal reasons." It sounded weak, even to him, but it was all he could rightly say in this sort of company. There wasn't much he could do to make it sound better. "He tried to return once, but then the Warden-Commander at Ostwick made him give away his cat. He left for good after that."
"I heard he took in a demon and became an abomination," said Finn.
And there went that attempt at keeping Anders' condition uncommon knowledge. Malcolm did nothing to hold in his sigh. "It wasn't a demon." At least, Malcolm was fairly certain Justice hadn't been and wasn't a demon, but whatever Justice and Anders were combining to become certainly carried many traits found in demons. "The last time I saw him, he wasn't an abomination. Not yet." The nasty part after the yet was far closer to happening than was safe, but those who hadn't known Anders as the person separate from Justice, those who hadn't been his friend from before, would never truly understand the sadness of what would happen after the yet had passed.
"Not yet?" asked Rhys. "How does that even work?"
Ask your mother, Malcolm thought, but did not say out loud, because Wynne would do something very nasty to him if he did, and that was only if the templar Knight-Captain sitting nearby didn't do something to Wynne first. "It was a spirit of Justice. And, well, Kirkwall's got a lot of injustice, as you've probably heard, and between that and Anders' human emotions, Justice is turning into something more akin to Vengeance. He takes over sometimes. I saw it. Pretty scary, but not like an actual abomination, with the twisted body and such. He gets all glowy and blue and his voice changes. Becomes very stern and declarative. I don't recommend pissing him off anymore. Stopped being fun."
For the first time in the miserable, cold evening, Adrian perked up. "You piss off mages often?"
Malcolm grinned, the amusing memories more warming than the fire. "You have no idea."
Wynne chuckled quietly to herself, but offered no explanation when looks from others asked for one.
"Oh," Adrian said after a moment. "You're a Grey Warden, which means you've been around mages more than most. Tell me, what do the Wardens think of mages?"
"We love them." Malcolm wanted to thank the Maker that Adrian had asked an easy question, in comparison to the hundred other highly complicated questions she could've asked. "Highly effective against darkspawn, and very good at healing us after battles. Truly, they're indispensable. I doubt the Wardens could've existed this long without them."
Adrian briefly slid a look over at Evangeline before her next question. "What about blood magic?"
Back to the hard questions, which meant back to playing dumb. "What about it?"
She gritted her teeth at his less-than-helpful response. "Do the Wardens allow it?"
And here he'd gotten the impression that she was smart. He glanced pointedly at Evangeline before he said to Adrian, "I couldn't tell you either way."
Good job they hadn't spoken frankly about blood magic, because it turned out Evangeline had been paying attention, after all. She frowned first at the fire and then the two of them. "It's long been rumored that the Wardens allow the practice of blood magic, but not once has the Order gained evidence." She looked directly at Malcolm. "Grey Wardens have their pick from Circle mages and apostates, do they not?"
"So my Warden-Commander tells me, yes."
"Then one would assume there would be no need to recruit from the ranks of the Tranquil. Why the interest in this experiment at Adamant?"
He glanced over at Wynne, who nodded, and with permission given, Malcolm returned to Evangeline. "Think about it. If Tranquility could be reversed, the Wardens have a lot bigger of a recruit pool—contrary to what non-Wardens may believe, we always, always need more recruits, especially mages. Now, from what I've heard from some mages, being a Warden is a lot better than being Tranquil. Or dead." He tilted his head to the side, as if he'd only just realized it. "Actually, mostly the Tranquil part, considering." He didn't say that by 'most mages,' he meant every single mage he'd met, ever. And that those mages whom he was closest to had vehemently expressed their wish for death over remaining Tranquil. While he knew the Chantry made young adults Tranquil if they wouldn't go through a Harrowing, and sometimes did the same with captured apostates, he had no idea if they would do the same with a wildly strong mage child. Not just a mage child with extraordinary potential, but one possessing of an ability so powerful that it drew demons immediately, and so rare that an entire Age could pass without one appearing.
Malcolm couldn't imagine Ava being made Tranquil. His mind tried, but his heart forced him to think of other things before the image could fully form. If it happened, he wasn't sure what he would do, or what he was supposed to do. The adult mages had explicitly told him what to do: kill them. While he had trouble seeing himself killing any of them, especially Líadan, he couldn't rightly deny their freedom to choose their own deaths, not when their autonomy and personhood had been stripped away. But Ava was a child. She was six. Six-year-olds should only have to worry about comebacks to their brother's teasing or tracking mud indoors or evading adults when it was bathtime. No six-year-old should have to worry about, or Maker forbid, be forced to choose between Tranquility or death.
"Would you make me a Warden?" Adrian asked.
He started at the question, having fallen too deep within his thoughts to stay aware of his surroundings. Given his company, it wasn't the best time to become distracted. "No."
"You could conscript me, and the Chantry couldn't do anything about it."
The Chantry could do plenty about it, but she didn't need to know what an awful mess it would be. Sure, the Wardens would eventually win, but without a Blight or Thaw going on, the price was generally too high. "I'm not conscripting anyone."
Her eyes flashed with frustration, and then gave way to irritation. "Why—"
"You have no idea what you're asking." No one ever did, and the Wardens preferred to keep it that way. Otherwise, they'd have practically no volunteers. "I know what you're asking. Unless you're facing dire circumstances, it isn't worth it."
"But—"
"I would advise you to let it go," Wynne said as she stood up. "Grey Wardens tend to get obstinate when pressured about joining their order. People do not choose the Wardens; the Wardens choose them."
It sounded so dreadfully serious the way Wynne said it, and the looks of the others on him were only more uncomfortable. "Besides," he said, wanting to turn their eyes away from him or at least lighten them, "it's boring, anyway. There aren't even any griffons to make up for it."
Wynne sighed. "I'm of a mind to get out that griffon book of yours and hit you with it."
"Go for it." She wouldn't hit him, he believed. Well, she might hit him, but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. He hoped. After all, she was always telling him to stop getting hurt, so she'd have to be some kind of hypocrite to dole out the damage, herself.
At the same time, Finn specifically came out from his tent to say, "It isn't his book. He stole it."
Rhys raised his eyebrows. "Thief, are you?"
"Oh, for Maker's sake." He didn't even bother to roll his eyes at Rhys. Instead, he turned to Wynne. "Did you want a book? Not necessarily the griffon one, but take it if you want it, as long as you don't hit me."
"I did finish the ones I brought with me. You brought others?"
Malcolm motioned toward his pack. "Get whatever you need. I apologize in advance for the socks, but don't say you weren't warned." She nodded and stepped over to rummage through it, while he settled back on the damp grass and thought of home.
He'd nearly drifted off when Wynne said, "Malcolm?"
His eyes remained closed. "Hm?"
"Are you aware that you have a stuffed spider in here?"
He sat up quicker than he liked, considering his observant company. "Yes."
Wynne paused to study him before asking, "Why?"
Like he wanted to discuss the real reason why he was carrying around a stuffed animal. Insect. Bug. Creature. Whatever. Besides, it wasn't like Wynne wouldn't know to whom the spider belonged, because she'd seen it enough times in Ava's arms to know damn well. "To help me get over my fear of them," he said out loud.
"Of spiders?" Adrian asked, incredulous about a Warden being afraid of an arachnid. She obviously had not had any run-ins with the giant varieties of them, because when one did, the fear of them was not a thing to be questioned.
"No, stuffed toys." Malcolm finally did roll his eyes. "Neither, actually. I'm holding it for someone."
Adrian gave him a flat look. "Really."
"It isn't like it's standard Warden issue. So, yes, really."
She crossed her arms, looking so smug that she reminded him of… Wynne, actually. "Who are you holding it for, then?"
He didn't really want to answer, but sooner or later, the topic would come up, especially when the others figured out who he was. He just hoped they wouldn't pry too much. Not with a templar amongst them, along with Wynne the Aequitarian who apparently was best friends with the Divine or something absurd like that. "My daughter," he said to Adrian, the humor gone from his voice, "for when I see her again."
Evangeline and Adrian both looked rather surprised at the newly revealed detail, but it was Adrian who spoke first. "When you go home after this?"
"I hope so." He didn't think so, but he had to hold onto a little.
"Why would—"
"Let it go, Adrian," Rhys said quietly, though the request came out nearly a command. Adrian snapped her head around to question him, but Rhys explained before it could be asked. "If he wanted to tell you about any family he has, he'd tell you without your probing. We've all heard that Grey Wardens have it harder than most, so don't go digging where you might uncover something that should've stayed buried."
Behind Rhys, Evangeline silently nodded her agreement.
Adrian huffed, but dropped the subject.
Wynne gave him a long, inquisitive look, which Malcolm pretended to ignore. He wasn't going to open up to Wynne, which she seemed to believe he needed to do. It would just invite more of her grousing about Líadan when she didn't have the entire truth. Better to leave it alone, except that their friendly relaxing around the fire had gotten terribly awkward.
"I've been wondering something, Warden," said Evangeline.
Rhys gave Evangeline the same look of dread Malcolm did, but Malcolm addressed her first. "I'm afraid to ask, but what have you been wondering?" He could only pray—not even hope—that Evangeline intended to lighten the mood. Otherwise, things were going to get a lot darker than any of them could have foreseen.
She gestured over her shoulder, toward where the horses were picketed. "Knock. That's a curious name for a horse."
He smiled. "Another Warden named him before anyone else could. His idea of a joke." And he would never, ever openly tell Oghren that he'd found the joke genuinely funny. Ever.
Adrian stared at him. "You can't just leave it at that."
"I could."
"Oh, come on," said Rhys. "Tell."
Malcolm sighed. "The pony kept in the stall next to Knock's is named Boot."
Rhys and Adrian immediately started snickering, while Evangeline barely muffled a chuckle of her own. Finn frowned at the others, and then at Malcolm. "Not getting it," he said. "Someone fill me in."
"Oh, no, I'm not telling you. It was the Circle's job to educate you on such things, not mine. So, if any of you Circle people would like to fix the gap in his education, feel free."
"Short for 'knocking boots,' I believe," said Wynne, her own amusement showing. Malcolm knew she wasn't laughing at the name and Oghren's joke. Oh, no. She was laughing because she knew who was the pony's rider: Malcolm's own son. Awkward hadn't even begun to describe it when Cáel found out.
When Wynne went to describe in further detail, Finn waved her off. "I get it now. I get it."
No one brought up the uncomfortable moment from earlier, and they certainly didn't mention the stuffed animal.
Malcolm dreamed about his family that night, dreamed until it turned into one of the nightmares that had plagued him since the White Spire. The fires chased him out of his sleep, and the caws of crows chased him from his tent into the cold rain that filled the twilight before dawn. Or it could've been dawn already, for all he could tell with the dark, cloudy skies. Evangeline was already up and awake and ready, like every other Chantry servant Malcolm had come to know. It was strangely reassuring seeing the behavior, since the cheerful early rising was a trait he well knew of friends and family. Irritating, sure, but it was nice to be reminded of people from home.
"You're up early," said Evangeline. "Usually, someone has to poke you with a stick."
"Bad dreams," he said.
"You had those at the White Spire."
He still couldn't understand why or how Chantry people could be so astute this early in the day. "I did, yes. Wardens tend to have nasty dreams."
"Wynne mentioned that. She told me not to be alarmed."
"Yes, well. Keep being unalarmed. And don't think this is a trend, either, getting up early. I didn't do it on purpose." To his knowledge, he never had, but it was far too early to be certain of anything he thought. Ser Evangeline turned out to possess some kindness, because she left him alone as the rain and clouds continued to veil the sun. That mercy alone endeared her to him a little. Every other Chantry or former Chantry he knew took great glee in messing with him this early in the day.
The climate was not so merciful. It kept raining. Overnight, the temperatures would drop, leaving thin films of ice over anything left outside a tent, including the tents themselves. After two more days of it, and yet another storm looming when they finally entered Velun, Wynne had a brilliant suggestion.
"I suggest we overnight at an inn," she said. "A real one. We're tired and cold and even I would like to not be waterlogged or frozen."
"Oh, being dry. I remember that." Malcolm stroked his chin in imitation of his brother in deep thought. "I think it was last year. Maybe the year before. It's been so long."
Finn stared dismally at his clothes. "My robes will never be clean again. I can't bear to look at them."
"Then close your eyes," said Evangeline.
Finn made a face at her as the others laughed quietly. Adrian was the only one who didn't, but that was because she was already striding right for the inn's entrance. The calculated look in Evangeline's' eyes sharpened, and then became mixed with concern as she noted Adrian's progress. Then she passed another look over their surroundings before turning to the others. "As a warning, there could be friction with the inn's other patrons. This area isn't known for their fondness of mages."
"Wonderful," said Rhys. "And here I'd assumed we'd get a warm welcome." Except Rhys' tone said exactly the opposite.
Malcolm understood. Mages rarely got friendly welcomes. Most times that they did, it was because someone needed a healer, and by and large, that was when prejudice went out the window. Funny how that always seemed to happen when people were actively bleeding.
True to Evangeline's word, when they entered the inn, all eyes immediately went to them. They stared, taking in everything in the party that marked them as 'other'—Evangeline's armor, the staves the mages carried, their robes. Malcolm wasn't exempt from the scrutiny due to the Warden griffon sigils on his armor and cloak, but the looks toward him were more sullen curiosity than, well, loathing the mages got. Evangeline and Wynne arranged for food and lodging, and as they all made their way to an open table, Malcolm heard mutters and whispers of slurs used against mages. He hadn't heard them much at all before he'd come to Orlais. While he wanted to believe it was because Ferelden was more open-minded, he believed it had a lot more to do with the people with whom he kept company. Either they were people already predisposed to tolerate or like mages, or they were polite within his earshot because they knew his wife happened to be one.
For once, he was actually grateful that she wasn't there, because she wouldn't have let the comments pass, and there would've been a fight—and he would've joined right in—and they wouldn't be able to have the wine and hot stew and proper chairs at a proper table instead of balancing bowls on their knees. And, again, the wine was quite nice. Better than much of what he'd have gotten in Ferelden.
Despite the fineness of the wine, Wynne ordered dwarven ale the moment she found out the inn had it in stock.
Malcolm was tempted to call her on showing off, but Adrian beat him to it by challenging Wynne to a drinking contest of sorts, which forced Malcolm to take Wynne's side by encouraging caution. His advice went unheeded.
"Your pyre," he said to her. Maker, even Oghren refused to challenge Wynne. But these people didn't know who Oghren was, not really, which made it pointless to bring him into it. And there'd already been enough details about his life that'd been mentioned, enough that anyone who lived outside the White Spire and had half a brain would've put it together by now who he was. He wanted to refrain from mentioning more details as much as he could.
Overall, he was fine with it until Wynne got a little buzz and became chatty about the Blight. The people around them were already paying too much attention to their small party, and Malcolm really didn't want the people he was traveling with to really know who he was, because it would be awkward, and there would be questions about things he didn't want to think about, much less talk about.
Which meant that Wynne started talking about the Archdemon and dragons, and everyone seemed to love the dragons. The only people who didn't like dragons were the people who fought them. He, personally, did not like dragons at all, especially the Archdemon. Who, according to the all-knowing Wynne, had no match on Thedas other than Grey Wardens.
Malcolm groaned and put his head on the table. If Wynne kept it up, he was going to start asking about griffons.
"So, you traveled with the Heroes of Ferelden?" Adrian asked Wynne, sounding remarkably lucid considering the quantity of dwarven ale she'd consumed.
"I did." Wynne nodded, her movements still smooth and controlled, the only hint of her possible inebriation being the slight, slight blush on her cheeks. Possibly also the cattiness, but she could've been using the possible drunkenness as an excuse to gossip. "After they aided us at the Circle."
He was regretting that, now. Definitely regretting.
"I'll be right back," Evangeline said quietly as she stood. "I need to ask the innkeeper something."
When Adrian switched her attention to Malcolm, he despaired. "What about you, Warden? Did you know the Wardens who fought the Archdemon?"
He didn't bother lifting his head. "Sort of."
"Stop talking to the table, dear. It's bad manners," Wynne said to him.
In his opinion, getting somewhat hammered and showing off one's ability to consume significant quantities of dwarven ale and not die was bad manners. Not that he said it.
"What's the deal with griffons?" Rhys asked. "I've always wondered."
Malcolm lifted his head and gave the other man a slight smile. "You should ask your mother about that. She loves to tell stories about griffons."
Wynne glared at him. Malcolm didn't have to even look to confirm, not when she said, "I do not! So help me, if you ask me about griffons one more time, you will not live to see the Maker's mercy."
The comment set Adrian to giggling, and Rhys and Finn weren't far behind. Malcolm was happy that they were far enough into their cups that maybe they wouldn't get terribly curious about how Wynne knew him so well. Or, if they did, they wouldn't remember. When Evangeline returned to her seat, Malcolm realized she stood the best chance of noticing. He'd taken note that she'd only sipped her wine, and that pretty much nothing escaped her notice, which made him really wonder what she'd spoken to the innkeeper about.
The door to the inn slammed inward, and a group of big men in pieced-together armor clattered through, crowing about some sort of victory, shouting at the innkeeper for drinks, and tracking mud everywhere as they kept the door open, letting more freezing rain blow into the large room. A large room that had been warm, which meant Malcolm glared at them for taking it away.
Initially, it seemed like they wanted to challenge him, but their eyes dropped to notice the griffons, and they shrugged him off and returned to their carousing.
"We finally got that last spellbind," the balding man with the fringe of brown hair said to the innkeeper. "Gave us a right good game of hide and seek as she ran. Some of the men didn't want to do it, said she was too young, still a child. But a robe is a robe, I say, and as soon as they can sling fire and ice at you, they're fair game. The mage burned our crops, and she had to pay."
"Made it quick, though," added the man beside him. "No need for more suffering."
Malcolm was struck by the sudden and immediate urge to possibly kill those men. He gripped his mug tightly, using it as an anchor to the table to keep himself from drawing attention to their group. Then he looked over at Evangeline, who was supposed to be the mages' protector. His raised eyebrow served to silently ask her what she planned to do to the group of men who were celebrating having killed a child mage, because if they could so easily kill a child, then doing the same to adults wouldn't bother them at all. But that was tangential, since they'd killed a child. What was really screwed up about the entire thing—aside from the obvious—was that no one else in the tavern seemed troubled by it.
He flexed his free hand, but then resorted to holding his cup with both hands.
"No," Evangeline said to him. "Not yet. Not if we can avoid it."
He did his absolute best to ignore the wild anger surging up at the image of the dead mage child being his child, and he knew he was failing when Evangeline briefly broke away from assessing the rowdy group to give him a wary look. He knew he was doubly failing when Wynne gave him a remarkably clear-eyed and concerned look. Malcolm ignored it, his concentration on visualizing anything but his daughter being the mage those men had killed, and he had no success whatsoever.
As the Knight-Captain averted her attention, Malcolm started to stand. Adrian stood up at the same time, and they exchanged brief nods of tacit solidarity. She'd channeled her anger, as well—into magic. It coalesced over her hand as she headed for the men monopolizing the innkeeper. Rhys was a few steps behind her. Wynne was the only holdout, electing to stand only to put her hand over Malcolm's as he went for his sword.
"You can't kill them all," she whispered to him, managing to get a note of scolding into it, "no matter how much they deserve it for their crime."
He glared down at her. "In case you didn't pick up on it, they don't think they've even committed a crime at all. I'll just have to educate them about their ignorance."
"The research waiting at Adamant is more important right now. The child is regretfully already dead. There is nothing we can do for her."
"I'm inventive. Pretty sure I can come up with something."
Wynne still didn't let go, and Malcolm was reluctant to use force. While he was a lot bigger than she was, she'd also not been drained by a smite, and could have easily petrified him if she'd chosen to. And there was no way he'd smite her himself, not in this situation. There were risks, and there were risks.
Adrian bounced her tiny ball of flame deftly from finger to finger as she drew within striking distance of the leader.
"Oh, look, it's another!" he said. "And this one's all grown up!"
"What gave it away?" asked Rhys, who sounded very different from the man Malcolm had traveled with thus far, a hard undertone lent to his voice that Malcolm hadn't heard before. "The fire in her hand, perhaps?"
While half the man's gaggle of would-be mage hunters cowered, the leader remained steadfast as he stared at Adrian's flame. Then his face twisted into a sneer. "Every mage should be executed the moment it's discovered they're a mage." He pointed a finger shaking with outrage at Adrian. "It's the only way your curse will be cut from the face of the Maker's creation."
"How about I burn your face off, instead?" asked Adrian.
The mage's version of a punch to the face. Malcolm approved, yet hoped she didn't actually burn the man's face off. Not because he particularly cared about the man, but because he wouldn't be able to get any hits of his own in. Maybe Adrian would opt for a good old punch.
When Evangeline leapt up and drained Adrian of magic faster than Malcolm could even fathom that Adrian hadn't summoned her fire just for kicks, he realized Adrian had every intention of using said fire on their antagonizer, and then probably set fire to the entire inn.
He really did try to care about the other mage-killer-approving patrons of the tavern. Really.
At first, the man seemed glad that Evangeline had intervened, even throwing a nod of respect in her direction. Then when Evangeline stepped in between the man and his magic-less quarry, his dark look turned onto her. "You let me past, templar," he said. "This is between the robes and me. You have nothing to do with this."
"They are under my guard. I protect them from you as much as I protect you from them."
The man snarled and tried to shove past Evangeline, but she shoved him back, into his crowd of friends.
The rest of the tavern started in with their own shouts. Malcolm finally shook off Wynne's restraining hand, probably a little too roughly, but she wouldn't sodding let go. Then he took his first step toward the group at the bar. When most of the inn's patrons were up and closing in on Evangeline and the gathered mages, Malcolm drew his sword. The group that'd killed the child mage needed ass-kicking, anyway. Possibly more, and he didn't mind providing either one.
"You protecting the robes, Warden?" someone called to him.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. That just couldn't be a serious question. "No, I just thought I'd draw my sword for the fun of it. Of course I am, you dolts. I came in with them. I intend to leave with them, alive and unharmed."
For a single moment, as the man seemed to mull over Malcolm's words, Malcolm believed the kindling fight might be snuffed out. Then the man said, "You should be on our side, Warden. It's mages who made those darkspawn you fight. If people back then had done the right thing, we'd have no blights. Spellbinds are nothing more than sick animals needing to be culled, and that's what we did tonight: the Maker's work."
The images hurtled forward in his mind, seeing not only his daughter slain by this man's hands, but Líadan, as well. Dead on a street or field somewhere, killed by those doing the Maker's work. His fingers clenched around the grip of his sword, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw some patrons back away, pressing against walls, putting tables in between themselves and Malcolm and the mages. "I'll show you the Maker's work," Malcolm said, needing to drive out the brightly burning images that only became more gruesome the more he tried to ignore them. The man had to be stopped from doing his 'Maker's work' ever again, so that no one else's child would be so savagely taken from their parents and stripped of their very lives.
"Is that so?" The heavily muscled man hefted the war hammer he'd yet to put away. Judging by his overly-developed shoulders, this man was probably one of the town's blacksmiths. Most likely, he was able to forge weapons, and less likely to be formally trained in wielding them. "You're as bad as them, standing up for them like you are. You should get the same as the robes. I guess it's up to me to put you down like a rabid dog." He'd be strong, though. Lots of painful brute force if Malcolm couldn't sidestep his blows, not that it was of particular concern. He had on armor and the other guy didn't.
Both Malcolm and the blacksmith started for each other while the rest of the tavern shouted their support for the smith. Malcolm didn't care. A glyph of protection flared to life underneath him. It felt like Wynne's magic, and he'd have shot her a confused, questioning look if it didn't mean his eyes leaving the smith.
Malcolm advanced to where he could lunge with his sword to reach the smith, yet was far enough away that the smith's hammer would fall short. The smith was astute enough an observer to realize he lacked similar reach, and lacked the necessary training required to overcome that deficit. Sweat tracked through the dirt and soot caked on his skin as his hazel eyes flicked between Malcolm's sword and Malcolm's determined face.
"What?" asked Malcolm. "The child-killer's afraid of a grown man? Color me surprised."
The smith straightened as his reticence fled and his scowl returned. "She burned our crops right before the harvest!
"She was a child." Even if the girl had burned the town's crops, it would've been an accident. An adult might've done it on purpose, but it was rare for a child outside the Circle to have that level of control. It also would've taken a lot of power, given how damp the fields were from all the rain.
"Not like a normal child, not as a mage." Disgust darkly twisted the features of the smith's face. "She had to be taken care of before she hurt more people."
"Killing them isn't how you care for a child!" Malcolm could feel his temper getting away from him in a way it hadn't in a long time, but it had been a child. It was everyone else who was in remiss for not being as outraged as he was.
"Not a child. A mage. A robe. A spellbind. Call it like it is!" The smith loosened his grip on the hammer enough to hold it by the end of the handle, and then he used it to point toward Malcolm. "And you're defending them like the dog-lord you are, Fereldan. No one here should be surprised, coming from a backwards country that lets their royal family consort with mages, even marry—"
Malcolm lunged.
A hand wearing a heavy leather glove caught the blade of the sword during his extension, and then twisted it just enough to bring him to a halt. At the same time, the person's other hand had grabbed and held the smith's hammer by the head. Then the Chantry sister interposed herself between them.
"Gentlemen," said the red-headed woman, "surely there is no need for trouble. These mages and their companions are no doubt some poor travelers seeking refuge from the storm."
He knew that voice. He knew those words. He'd heard those words spoken before, in a place much like this one. This Chantry sister wasn't a mere sister assigned to a town's small chantry. No.
It was Leliana.
Either that, or he was hallucinating. He preferred the hallucination.
"There will be if they don't leave," someone said from the crowd. "Robes, bucket, and dog-lord Warden alike."
"We will leave, Sister," said Evangeline. She tossed a small pouch of coins on their table, and then motioned her group toward the door. "Immediately."
Leliana stared down Malcolm and the blacksmith, daring either of them to disagree. The smith dropped his guard and retreated, and while Malcolm still wanted to fight, Leliana's appearance had rendered him too shocked to act on it. Even so, Wynne once again put a hand on his forearm, this time with enough force behind it to be a clear warning.
Then Leliana slipped out the door behind Evangeline, Adrian, and Rhys. Malcolm gaped at it, and then at Wynne as she released his arm.
"What's she doing here?" he asked. Since Wynne was now best friends with the Divine, she'd have a chance to know better than any of them.
"How would I know?" Wynne asked.
"Since you're both besties with the Divine, I figured you would."
She didn't answer, which, really, was all the answer he needed. It told him that she knew, and he wasn't sure which thought unsettled him more: a woman returned from the dead, or a woman he'd trusted becoming anything but.
"Thank you for the glyph," he said after a quiet moment.
She paused in the doorway. "You are welcome."
After another dark look shot at the blacksmith, he stepped through the door after her and into the freezing rain of the Orlesian night.