Chapter 38

"And the voice of the Maker shook the Fade

Saying: In my image I have wrought

My firstborn. You have been given dominion

Over all that exists. By your will

All things are done.

Yet you do nothing.

The realm I have given you is formless, ever-changing.

And He knew he had wrought amiss."

—The Chant of Light, Threnodies 5:4

Malcolm

When Malcolm returned to the Amell estate, he brought Revas right to the garden so she could flop under one of the bare trees. Though the day was on the cold side, their traipsing up the steps from Lowtown to Hightown left them unbearably hot, the mabari panting while Malcolm was flushed and sweaty. He unstrapped his cuirass, then thought better of it and unstrapped all the armor on his upper body and removed it. After he piled it neatly on the bench next to him, he loosened his brigandine to get more of the cold air circulating.

Revas watched him from where she rested underneath the tree, her deep brown eyes at once happy and grieving. She was asking, Malcolm knew, about Líadan and the children.

"They're alive," he said quietly to her. "And now that you're here, we've got that much better of a chance at getting them back."

She gave a whuff of understanding, and then went back to resting her head on her paws.

Malcolm tossed a stick in her direction, and it landed right in front of her nose. "You any better about fetch?"

She answered that question with a disdainful look, which only served to make Malcolm laugh.

"Good to see you haven't changed."

Then he swore the mabari rolled her eyes at him. For all she'd been excited to see him a short time ago, they were right back in their usual relationship of them tolerating each other only because they both loved Líadan. It was, Malcolm realized, a lot like the relationship he shared with Líadan's grandfather. And Emrys' reaction would be amazing if he ever told him that he'd compared him to a dog.

"Is that a mabari?" came a question from just beyond the doorway to the kitchen.

Malcolm and Revas both turned to look at the young boy who'd asked the question. "She is," said Malcolm. "You're welcome to ask her if you can pet her. She likes kids and probably misses the ones she usually plays with." Malcolm certainly did, and the brief, sad look Revas gave him confirmed his assumption.

Cianán smiled and strode over to the mabari, who quickly took to the boy. The boy had continued to prove to be just that—a little boy, even if his soul was that of an Old God. His was mortal and mostly human, given that he was elf-blooded, and even given whatever it was Flemeth had contributed to his blood through Morrigan. And that smile was all Zevran.

He missed his friend.

Malcolm scowled as Revas deigned to play fetch with Cianán, because of course she'd favor a child over him. It'd been that way for years, and he had no idea why he'd ever expected it to change. Still, Revas had found him, and her enthusiasm told him how the mabari really felt about him.

Soon enough, both dog and child were mostly tired out, and they wandered over to the bench where Malcolm had stretched out. Revas plopped herself under it, while Cianán stood over Malcolm, a puzzled look on his face.

"What?" asked Malcolm, not unkindly. Then it hit him that he was being impolite by taking up the whole bench, and sat up so Cianán could sit if he wanted.

He did. Then, without pretense, Cianán asked, "Did you love my mother?"

Well. He certainly got right down to it, didn't he? Then again, he should've known, given Cianán's mother. And like Malcolm would have done with his own two children, he opted for honesty. "I did, yes."

Where either one of Malcolm's children would have fidgeted, idly kicked their feet or fussed with a shirt, Cianán sat absolutely still. "But not now?"

It was a good question. Malcolm knew, felt, that he loved Líadan absolutely, without question, and that no other women appealed to him in anywhere near the same way. Morrigan was still more than a friend to him, though he didn't think of her as a lover, nor did he want to resume that sort of relationship with her. Yet, he still cared for her deeply, about her well-being, and couldn't imagine feeling otherwise. "I do now, too," he said after a moment. "Not in the same way, but not any less, either." He frowned. "That didn't make a lot of sense, did it?"

"No."

Malcolm chuckled. "Thanks for your honesty, I suppose." Then he tried to work out a more relatable way of explanation. "The elves in Arlathan, they had husbands and wives of a sort, didn't they?"

"They did."

Hearing Morrigan's matter-of-fact attitude being expressed by a small boy was disconcerting, to say the least, but Malcolm went with it as best he could. "The way I loved your mother before was like that, except without the marriage part."

Cianán's brows drew together as he tried to figure that one out, and reached the same conclusion Malcolm had years ago. "Mother would never agree to it."

Malcolm nodded. "Nor should anyone who loves her expect her to. That kind of love didn't work out for us in the end, but that doesn't mean I stopped caring for her a great deal. She was and is one of my closest friends, and while that's a different sort of love, it's still something that's pretty strong."

He'd yet to lose his stymied frown. "But, you have a wife, don't you? One you love like you talked about before?"

"Yes. She's…" Malcolm gestured vaguely toward the Gallows, because he couldn't bring himself to explain, not again.

"She's the woman being held prisoner." No intellectual slouch, Morrigan's son, but Malcolm wouldn't have expected anything less. "Mother's friend."

"She is." Under the bench, Revas gave a mournful whine. Malcolm scratched her belly with the side of his foot.

Cianán shifted his gaze to the Gallows, the frown fading in trade for a determined set to his jaw. "And you want to get her out, along with my brother and his sister?"

"More than anything."

He took the information in for a moment before he stood up with a little more confidence than a small boy should have. "They'll be all right."

"How are you so sure?"

"I know Mother told you I've been protecting your daughter in the Fade. When I was in Arlathan, I couldn't talk her. Here, I can."

"And?"

"She wanted me to tell you that she's all right. She's safe because there are good templars watching over her. But she hasn't been able to see her mother since they were captured, and hasn't been allowed to see our brother for a while. And I can't even talk to my brother. I can only find him and see that he's mad, but healthy, even though he can't see his mother or sister. They'd let the two of them stay together when they first got there, but now they're kept separated like they'd been from their mother at the start." He frowned, the confidence lent to him by his old soul waning. "Why would they do that? Why would they keep them apart?"

Relief that they were most likely still okay overwhelmed Malcolm's anger. The relief would only stick around for a short time, he knew, but he was grateful for it. "Divide and conquer. If you learned anything about war and strategy and tactics in Arlathan, you'll recognize the technique."

The boy's frown deepened. "But it isn't a war."

"Is it? I'm not sure anymore. Not after everything that's happened."

"Then we'll win. We'll save them."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Is that the declaration of a determined boy or the declaration of a born-again Old God?"

"A little of both, I imagine." Then Cianán scampered off, very much resembling the young child he was.

Revas trotted after him.

It was something Malcolm understood. Being close to a child, especially Cianán, helped with pain of missing their family. Engaging in play was better than miring in guilt or sadness, and he envied the mabari in her ability to do so. He considered stretching out on the bench again and taking a nap. Sleep was a close second second, and he hadn't slept well the night before.

Then Morrigan stepped out from behind a short hedgerow, one barely clinging to its faded green leaves as it fought the coming winter. Her appearance startled him almost enough to send him tumbling off the bench. He managed to hold on, to both the bench and his dignity. What made him wary was that she had that look on her face again, the one where she knew something he didn't and was particularly pleased about it. And, most importantly in their current situation, there wasn't a hint of anger anywhere in her expression.

She'd heard him, obviously. Morrigan had no right to be able to walk as silently as she could. She was a mage, not a sneaky-type like a Dalish hunter or, say, Zevran. Or Nathaniel, now that he thought about it, and he really didn't want to think about that.

He sighed at the loss of a nap. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." Morrigan remained standing, choosing to lean against the tree Revas had been under a short while ago. She folded her arms, but she didn't hold them tightly against her body. They were loose and relaxed, her usual pose instead of a more confrontational one.

Malcolm was more than happy to see the combative stance go away. "That's a rather vague answer," he said. "Which is normal for you, so there you go."

Her eyes darted to the ground for a moment before she looked directly at him. "I admit, I did not know you still cared so much. Nor did I expect you to."

"Yes, well." Feeling the need to move, Malcolm got to his feet. "That goes back to the whole knowing me thing, which you do. I meant what I said. I might not love you like I once did, not romantically. Even though it's changed, the love's still there. You're family, whether you like it or not, and that means I won't stop caring."

Her arms tightened slightly. "'Tis a weakness."

He almost rolled his eyes—they'd had this argument too many times to count over the course of the relationship they'd shared. "No, it isn't, and you know it. Saying that it is doesn't change the truth of it. Maybe, one day, you'll actually believe it."

"Perhaps." With that, she relaxed again, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips.

"Mmm. I know a 'no' from you when I hear it. And I just heard it." He'd missed this, their friendship, and he found himself wishing she wouldn't have to disappear again after they got Líadan and the children out of the Gallows. Líadan would certainly like to have her around, because Morrigan understood Líadan in the most basic of ways garnered from having been raised in the deep forests of Thedas. And then Malcolm knew Cáel would like to actually spend time with the brother he hadn't seen since he was an infant, much as Cáel might deny the sentiment. Actually, much like Morrigan, Cáel was very sentimental. And again like Morrigan, he played at being unsentimental as a way of protecting himself.

"Perhaps you did." Then Morrigan went silent for a time, and Malcolm waited as the quiet grew long enough for the memory of their unfinished argument to creep over them. When Morrigan spoke, she started out looking at the dry brown grass underfoot instead of him. "And perhaps I was too harsh." Her posture went tight again, her arms giving her a protective barrier when she looked at him with eyes softer than she allowed most people to see. "I was too harsh in my judgment of you and your actions. One can only be expected to base decisions on knowledge they possess, for no ordinary mortal can foretell what is to come. My… anger at the situation got the best of me. For that, I apologize."

Malcolm almost let loose the first comment to cross his mind, but it wasn't the time to tease. Not with an apology so sincere, a rare thing offered by Morrigan. He gave her truth in return. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect them."

Her look hardened, though her posture relaxed. "That, I never questioned. My expectations were ones that could not be met. It was unfair to place those upon you."

He shifted his gaze from her to the patches of the harbor he could barely see over the wall of the estate's garden. "Not a single thing you said to me wasn't something I hadn't already told myself."

"You would not be you if you had not." There was a rustle, and Malcolm turned to see Morrigan straightening, no longer leaning against the tree. "We must move forward to repair the mistakes made on both our parts. Our energy, mental and physical, is best spent finding a way to get them out of the Gallows. To spend it on anything else is to waste it."

He couldn't have stopped the amusement from showing on his face if he'd tried. So he didn't. "Except for the part where all we can do now is wait."

"You were never good at exercising patience."

"And I'm surprised you haven't already ripped Knight-Commander Meredith to shreds. Literally ripped, mind."

"'Tis not a thing to be rushed, vengeance."

"So you are planning on tearing her to shreds."

"I had judicious applications of fire in mind, but something of the like, yes. When the time is right." She peered at him curiously. "Were you not?"

He shrugged. "Sort of. My thoughts are more on the rescuing and less on the revenging. Everyone else does the revenging, and I'll go make sure no one can kill the ones who need rescuing. Besides," he said as glanced over at her, "you're way better at revenge than I am."

"I am glad you recognize the superiority of my strengths."

"And yet we're still left with the waiting." Malcolm took a step toward the door to the estate before he paused to see if Morrigan would follow. "I can catch you up on all the gossip you missed out on while you were in Arlathan. There's lots."

She drew up short at his words. "I do not gossip."

"Morrigan." He sent a flat look her way, because he knew better.

It drew a huff of irritation from her. "I will not, however, object to hearing whatever news you believe necessary for me to know."

So he caught her up on the things she hadn't been told yet, which were, to his disappointment, not very many, because Isabela had already told her. Isabela and Morrigan had entered into some sort of inexplicable friendship, and Malcolm wished someone had warned him. If he'd been warned, then instead of accepting the invitation to the Hanged Man, he would've found something else to use for distraction, like wandering the Wounded Coast for wayward bandits to fight, exploring Darktown and keeping track of how many times someone picked his pocket, or possibly even going up to the chantry to stare at candle flames.

Any of those things would've been better than sitting in the Hanged Man, surrounded by the scent of sour ale and woodsmoke, and suffering the consequences of Isabela and Morrigan teaming up against him. Or for him—it was getting hard to tell. While he knew it was good fun on their part, because Líadan was a close friend to both of them, it still left him flustered. They were just so… them.

Maybe he should just go visit Merrill. He was admittedly curious about the eluvian and Arlathan.

"You have to tell me," Isabela said to Morrigan, "how did you get him in bed? I've been trying for ages, and Líadan's with me on the plan, and yet he still hasn't dampened my Divine. Wait, no, I take that back. He's dampened my Divine, and despite being told, hasn't praised my Maker."

"'Tis a shame," said Morrigan.

Malcolm stared at her. Some friend she was.

"As for an answer to your inquiry, I merely asked him," Morrigan went on. "I take it you have tried such?"

Isabela sighed and draped herself across the table in a way that displayed every inch of skin under her tunic. "He runs away. All I ask is that he master my taint."

Then Malcolm stared at Isabela. "Master your—what is wrong with you?"

Her lips spread into a salacious smile. "Would you prefer Arl your Eamon?"

He was going to die and his supposed friends were killing him and the image Isabela's comment put in his head and maybe dying would be better.

Isabela sat up slightly. "Of course, we'd have to rescue Líadan, first. Can't leave her out of the fun."

Dead. He was dead. And he was just the tiniest bit thankful that Líadan was not here, because then it would be exceedingly worse, and frighteningly so.

He stood up. "You know what, Merrill asked me to come see the eluvian. I think I'll go do that now."

"I will accompany you," said Morrigan. Then she set her wineglass on the table, and when he hadn't replied by the time she was done, she turned to him again, eyebrow raised. "Unless you would prefer Isabela?"

"No!" It came out way more strangled than he wanted, and it served only to make the others laugh more. The ability to speak having abandoned him, he walked out of the tavern without saying anything else.

It didn't help that Morrigan's amusement at his fate didn't fade as they started for the Alienage.

Not until they were in the section of Lowtown just outside the Alienage did he bring himself to speak to Morrigan again. "You couldn't have discouraged her? Since when are you about encouraging?"

"It was a diversion, nothing do know this?"

"Doesn't mean it isn't awkward, even when I know you're trying to distract me from getting too caught up in my worry."

"And your reaction is the diversion the rest of us. You know this as well?"

He knew his pause was too long, but he tried anyway. "Of course I did."

"I believe you did not." She didn't even have to face him for her smirk to be evident.

He didn't deign to answer, not that she required one. They traveled in silence the rest of the way to the Alienage, and Malcolm was a bit astonished at how it didn't feel strange. Years of separation and having vastly different goals in life had gone a long way toward distancing themselves from the relationship they'd shared before. Yet, the bonds of friendship weren't broken, not in the least, though he knew Morrigan would never admit to it unless under extreme duress. But, that was her, and if you were her friend, you accepted that about her and didn't push. Nudged, sometimes, mostly to get a rise out of her, but then you had to accept that you were taking your life into your hands. As a friend, Morrigan matched the power she would have had as an enemy, only the power was on your side.

With Morrigan here and literally walking at his side, it helped him believe that Líadan and the children could be freed from the Gallows. It gave him confidence where he'd once only had scraps of it.

Descending the steps of the Alienage with Morrigan, Malcolm noticed that none of the resident elves gave Morrigan much more than a passing look. They were used to her being here, then. Because of the eluvian's presence, it made sense, though it was weird to him to see Morrigan garnering barely any attention at all. Usually, people stared at her on sight, and Morrigan confronted each stare with a challenging one of her own. Rarely was the challenge met. But the citizens of Kirkwall's Alienage didn't seem bothered by Morrigan's presence. Maybe it had something to do with them having lived with Merrill, a blood mage, for years.

Except that Merrill, while probably nearly or just as powerful as Morrigan when it came to magic, presented herself in an entirely different manner, mostly consisting of a huge portion of non-threatening. Actually, appearing totally not threatening at all, or possibly as threatening as a nug and that might be stretching it. Which was, really, the direct opposite of Morrigan.

When Malcolm and Morrigan entered Merrill's home, Malcolm was confronted with another reason for the city elves' lack of response to Morrigan—the two elves standing guard on either side of the eluvian were as much fascinating as they were intimidating. Maker, but the elves on Thedas had gotten a lot shorter in the generations since most of their predecessors disappeared, because their predecessors were as tall as humans.

While Malcolm had a healthy respect for Dalish prowess with weapons, and their fieldcraft gave them an even more deadly advantage, it'd always been hard to feel physically threatened by them if it came down to melee combat alone.

Not so with the Arlathan elves. Even as Merrill introduced them, Malcolm couldn't quit with the wary looks in their direction, while they in return seemed more curious than incredulous. That alone indicated a very different balance of power from what Malcolm was used to. It also didn't help that they refused to speak in the common tongue, though Malcolm contributed to that barrier by refusing to indicate that he understood Elvish.

However, the presence of the Arlathan elves didn't overwhelm the feeling of familiarity he got in Merrill's home. Between the books and the constant light tingle of dormant magic, the Dalish artifacts and the scent of elfroot, it reminded him enough of his wife and children that he felt a little better. Better enough that he voluntarily remained under the scrutiny of the Arlathan guards, and remained as Merrill and Morrigan began debating over various aspects of magic that one knew and the other did not and its various applications.

If he were to be honest, it was a bit boring. Unless it was making things explode or freeze or setting things on fire, it meant it was boring magical theory. Morrigan threw a glare at him when he began to wander the small main room, while Merrill remained indifferent to his wandering. Malcolm almost pointed out to Morrigan that she could learn a thing or two from Merrill about patience, and then decided he liked not fighting with Morrigan. Then the idea of poking fun at either of them was abandoned when he noticed a one-horned halla standing on one of Merrill's shelves.

Even though it wasn't Ava's—hers had the right horn missing, while this one didn't have a left horn—he reached out and picked it up.

"Anders found it," Merrill said before Malcolm could ask. "He found it after…" She stumbled there, tripped up by memories of her clan dead instead of alive, "...after, in with a number of Master Ilen's crafts. He remembered how attached to her other one she was, and couldn't bear to leave it behind. Then he gave it to me, to give to Ava. We figured it would be like a matched pair? Together they've got both horns."

"I'm glad he didn't." Malcolm set it back on the shelf. "But why did he give it to you and not Ava? He could've given it to her the next time he saw her. Or sent it to her, or something. She's the one who's easy to give gifts to. Half the time you give Cáel a gift, he's suspicious about your motives."

Merrill shrugged. "I don't think he was thinking that far ahead." Her frown returned, a stranger of an expression on her. "Or maybe he was. I don't know." She shook herself and the frown disappeared. "Cáel's never been difficult when I've given him gifts."

"Merrill, you give him books. They're practically the only gifts he never questions." Before Merrill could comment, Malcolm recalled the last gift he and Líadan had given their son, and he switched to address Morrigan. Probably a little too quickly, since she looked slightly alarmed at the sudden attention, but he paid no mind. "The ring you gave me, does it still work?"

She recovered as quickly as his topic had shifted. "Perhaps. I have not attempted to use it since before I traveled to Arlathan. Why?"

"We gave it to Cáel, a little while before they left. Maybe you could… but I'm not sure if it'd work if it isn't worn on a finger, and he wears it on a thin enchanted chain around his neck. I'm not even sure if he'd have been allowed to keep it and if this'll come to nothing, but the possibility of finding out something seemed worth bringing up."

"To not try would be foolish."

"You could just tell me that it was a good idea."

"I could."

Malcolm swore he heard one of the Arlathan guards laugh. They were starting to remind Malcolm of Emrys, really. He sighed, but had to admit it sounded more amused than resigned. "Yes, well, the ring was one of the gifts Cáel wasn't exactly sentimental about. He wanted to know what it did, and he wasn't exactly pleased when Líadan and I couldn't come up with a decent explanation, since we had none, really. But the rings and necklaces people around him wear all have enchantments of one kind or another—they're all useful, and not just pretty baubles."

Morrigan nodded. "As anyone should believe."

"Yes, well, you just made my point for me. It's moments like those, when he says things that sound like what you would say, that remind us that you gave birth to him."

Morrigan glared at him. "Despite what I said earlier, I did indeed come to terms with my decision of giving him to you and Líadan. I am not his mother. Do not assign that role to me, for it diminishes what Líadan has done in being his mother. Do not take that from her."

The threat in Morrigan's tone was clear enough that if Malcolm hadn't been sitting, he would've taken a few steps back. "That isn't what I'm saying," he said, hoping he could get his point across without irritating her more. "She's his mother. I believe that, and I'm relieved that you do too, because it would be hard, otherwise. Especially if—when—you meet him and he says something about Líadan being his mother. Because he believes that. But—" he raised his hand before Morrigan could start in on him "—let me finish. You're still someone who's important in his life, even when you weren't here. And neither Líadan nor I ever begrudged him showing traits that reflected you, because we've never stopped considering you a friend. Especially not when you trusted us enough to give us Cáel."

Morrigan seemed skeptical, but not about what Malcolm had assumed she would. "You never begrudged it? Truly?"

"All right, there might've been a few moments when it was frustrating, such as when he insisted that his sister's magic couldn't hurt him, because it wasn't strong enough. I've never known anyone except you who could manage to be as haughty as he was when he declared it."

The mention of magic served to draw Morrigan away from Cáel and surprisingly toward Ava. "Is her magic strong enough?"

"Possibly? Maybe it wasn't then, but it probably is now, if they've bothered to teach her anything while they've had her locked up. Dreamers who survive aren't weak mages."

"No, they are not." Morrigan frowned, but it was the certain look she got when her mind was closely examining something, and not the look she got when displeased. He'd had enough of that look lately to last him a lifetime, and it wasn't like he hadn't already collected more than he should have during the Blight.

Malcolm remained quiet, letting Morrigan have her thoughts in peace until she chose to let them know what they were. If he badgered her, she'd wait ages to share them, if she even shared at all. Merrill seemed to have learned the same thing about Morrigan, because even though her eyes were bright with unasked questions, she didn't pose a single one.

After another moment, Morrigan asked him, "How did you and Líadan have a child together? You are both Wardens, and without magical intervention—which I know she would not seek out, being Dalish—the chance of conception is equivalent to nonexistent. And yet, the two of you have a daughter. How?"

He laughed, though not rudely. "Your mother, actually."

"My—what?"

He almost laughed somewhat rudely that time, because Morrigan shocked into speechlessness would never not be funny. "Keeper Marethari had a debt to her, and Flemeth called it in, so to speak. Something about a potion Flemeth had Marethari put into tea that she then gave Líadan, without telling Líadan about the extra ingredient, whatever it was."

"Why would Flemeth do such a thing?"

"It's hard to know why Asha'belannar does anything," said Merrill.

Morrigan nodded in agreement. "'Tis true."

"If we ever figure it out, I'll let you know," said Malcolm. "The only thing we have to go on is what Marethari told us Flemeth had said to her: 'To give fate a push.' And that's it. All we know."

The rise the skeptical surprise had given to Morrigan's tone faded, softening into concern. "How did she take it?"

Because Morrigan knew Líadan practically as well as Malcolm did, she'd immediately thought of the same concern he had when Líadan had first told him. "Not well." Which, really, was an understatement, given how long it'd taken Líadan to shrug off most of the guilt from her upbringing that came from an elf having an elf-blooded child. Then Ava's magic had manifested, and the guilt had returned.

"And yet she went through with it," said Morrigan, less a question than it was a statement of wonder.

With most people, at this point, Malcolm would've changed the subject, because Líadan tended toward remarkably private when it came to her internal struggles, and it wasn't his story to tell. But Líadan wasn't here, Morrigan had been absent for years, and the two women shared a very close friendship. He suspected Líadan would agree to Morrigan knowing, so he explained further. "She was just as surprised when she chose to do so, as if the decision itself had caught her unawares. But she'd believed it'd be her only chance to have a child of her blood ever, and that's why she chose to keep her. Of course, shortly after Ava was born, Warden-Commander Hildur stumbled onto an ancient blood mage of a Warden living in an abandoned Warden stronghold. Said Warden had devised a new Joining potion that lessened all the bad effects from the original Joining, such as the susceptibility to the Calling, and somewhat importantly, fertility. He'd even come up with an adjunct potion for Wardens who'd already taken the old one."

"All Wardens were required to take it, I presume?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. The decision was largely left up to the Warden-Commanders, and mine chose for all of us to take it. Because we took it, it turns out that Ava wouldn't have been Líadan's only chance, but it wasn't something she'd have chosen in the first place." He resisted shrugging again, because it still confused him, even after years of trying to understand as best he could. "I don't know. I never could quite figure it out. She wanted more children, but didn't at the same time, because she believes it would be a betrayal of her people. So she's kept up with preventing it, even as she's struggled with it. Me, I've just kept my mouth shut. Seemed the best course. But—why am I even talking about this with you? Do you even want to hear about it?"

"I must admit that I was curious once you spoke of the new potion. Yet, perhaps it is an odd topic of conversation."

It felt nice to smile. "We're good at those."

Morrigan arched an eyebrow.

"Fine, I'm good at those. You're just a victim, like everyone else."

Her posture stiffened. "I am not a victim."

He stood up to cover a laugh. "I'm well aware. I was teasing you, and you're out of practice. You should work on that."

And apparently she was already getting back into it, because she ignored his dig without effort. "After I left, what happened? I had felt Flemeth's approach."

"Oh, that." His eyes flicked briefly to the door. "She was waiting for us outside."

"And you are not dead, unlike what I believed."

Feared, Malcolm could see in her eyes. She'd feared it, even though she wouldn't say so. "She didn't kill me. Obviously. She did heal my scar, though."

"What for, I wonder?"

"Not sure. A lesson, maybe?"

"Every moment with Flemeth is a lesson."

He did laugh then, mostly because it was better than the fear of failing one of Flemeth's lessons put into him. "I'll say."

The break in conversation allowed one of the Arlathan guards to ask Merrill, "His daughter is a Dreamer?"

Merrill frowned at him. "He can understand you. So you should ask him instead of me."

Morrigan raised an impressed eyebrow in his direction.

"I'm horrible at speaking it," he said, not wanting Morrigan to get the wrong idea, because then her expectations would become higher, and he already had trouble meeting her current ones. "But I can understand it." Then he turned to the guard who'd asked the question. "She is. Why do you ask?"

"In Arlathan, we are all Dreamers. Yet we had been informed that Dreamers are rare here."

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, the rarity of Dreamers being a large reason for why Líadan had been forced to leave with Ava and Cáel. Without a proper teacher, Ava would've been in grave danger. "They are. It makes finding a teacher incredibly hard. Offering to help?"

The other guard shook her head. "No. We dare not sleep on this side of the eluvian, not with Fen'Harel roaming the Beyond."

He sighed and looked at the halla again. "So much for that."

In the morning, the news Varric had for them was, as always, good and bad. He appeared at the door of the Amell estate at nearly noon, bearing a half-smile and a folded piece of paper he deposited into the fireplace as Malcolm waited with Marian, and soon enough, Morrigan. Bodahn had gone to gather whoever else was in the estate to bring them to the main room because, as Varric had said, everyone needed to hear.

"You're killing me," said Marian.

"I wouldn't dish out anything you couldn't take, Hawke," said Varric. "Not intentionally."

"You haven't yet shown less than happiness with repeating your stories," said Morrigan. "Get on with it."

Varric was unmoved, and Malcolm began to wonder just how big Varric's stones were as he continued to refuse to be intimidated by Morrigan. Even Oghren would've given up by now, and yet Varric seemed no more ill-at-ease than before, which was to say, not at all. The standoff continued until Bodahn reappeared, herding the others into the room. Then he said, "That's everyone I could find," and left.

"Out with it," said Morrigan.

"So," said Varric, drawing out the word, "good news is that my message did manage to deliver said message."

Malcolm leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "And the bad?"

"That was all the information he had, because he apparently hightailed it out of the palace. Something about the guards making him antsy. Or him making the guards antsy. He wasn't exactly clear on that matter."

"Given the types you employ, Varric," said Marian, "those looks might've been warranted."

He smiled. "Totally warranted. Even Andraste herself would've given him the side-eye. But, it also means we don't know when or if any forces will be heading Meredith's way."

"It isn't an 'if' at all," said Malcolm. "If Hildur doesn't send anyone, Alistair will, and if Alistair doesn't, Fergus will. And then afterward, when everyone is safe and sound and at home again, I would kill my brother. Alistair, mind you, and not Fergus."

Varric cleared his throat. "So, there might've been one thing I didn't mention."

Marian groaned. "Maker take you, just tell us already."

"My messenger also heard several rumors that the princes were recently both discovered to be mages. Now, he thinks the rumors are true because he was brought in to see the King when he'd been in a meeting with the Queen, the princes, and a few advisors about that very subject."

Malcolm straightened so fast that he nearly toppled forward. "You're not just screwing around with me, right? Because if you are, fair warning, I'll be angry."

"I wouldn't lie about that."

"Don't think I didn't notice you didn't say you wouldn't lie."

Varric grinned.

"So we wait?" asked Marian. "Is that the unhappy consensus?"

"Either until we find Anders or the Wardens or Fereldans show up," said Malcolm. Then he glanced over at Morrigan to make sure he hadn't read her wrong, since that could lead to dire consequences.

She nodded. "I am in agreement, however much distaste I find in it."

"Maker's mercy, those poor boys," Wynne said quietly.

Malcolm shared her general sentiment, and shared a sympathetic look with her, but it wasn't only his nephews he was concerned for. To be honest, in the entire situation, it was Dane and Callum he was least worried about. Ferelden would be in trouble with both heirs having magic, and if what'd happened at the White Spire was indicative of what would happen at all Circles, then they might not even have to go. Provided they could find teachers, and he doubted Wynne would turn down an offer, the boys would be fine. Alistair and Anora would be more than a little shaken, of course, but they'd handle it. What Malcolm didn't like and worried him the most was that if the rumors were true, then Cáel would be moved to first in line for the throne. It was practically the last thing he'd ever wanted for him, and now it could truly be inescapable. Wynne was too busy making plans for how she'd help in Denerim once she'd seen to Rhys' health in Orzammar for Malcolm to speak with, so he shot a furtive look over at Morrigan.

She was just as displeased. I know, she mouthed to him. I know.

Before they could have a real conversation about it, a young woman dressed in little more than dirty rags ran through the door, with Bodahn shouting behind her not to touch anything and to slow down. But she didn't. She stepped fully into the room, scanned it, and then went straight to Marian. "We've spotted your friend," she said between breaths. "In his clinic. He might be packing, we don't know, but if you hurry—"

Marian shoved the woman out of the way, told Sebastian over her shoulder to see her paid, and took off for the stairs to the cellars. Without hesitation, Malcolm ran after her, wanting to see Anders just as much. The wooden stairs weren't much less rickety than Malcolm remembered, and they shook precipitously as he and Marian sprinted down them. But they had to run, because if Anders had been gone all this time, then maybe he'd found a way into the Gallows and reconnected with the Underground. Maybe he'd found a way to save them and they needed his help.

But it was hard to get help from someone who wasn't there.

What they saw was that he was there in the clinic, like the messenger had said, tossing various remedies and books and the occasional dingy shirt into a large pack. His stave was propped in a nearby corner, within arm's reach. Given that his clinic was in Darktown, it seemed a wise precaution, but Malcolm couldn't help but feel uneasy.

When Marian asked if he'd contacted the Underground, Anders said no. When Marian asked if he'd tried, Anders said no. When Marian plainly asked if he'd help, Anders said no.

Then Marian dispensed with her patience. "Your friend is in there! Your friend! Another Warden, remember? Not only her, but her children! You even delivered one of them! And the other isn't even a mage, and you're just going to stand by and let them stay locked up when they shouldn't be?"

Then came his answer: "I cannot help you because there is no escape route. I cannot waste my time hunting for another, not any longer. Not when another solution is available to me. Your friends will be freed by my hand, but now is not the time."

Marian gaped at him.

Malcolm did the same, unable to believe what his subconscious was screaming to be true. Anders had died, and they had missed it, and this husk filled with righteous wrath was all that was left. "Where's Anders?" asked Malcolm. "Anders would never—"

Blue light swirled in Vengeance's eyes when he turned toward Malcolm. "Anders agreed to our cause."

Marian took the advantage and stepped in closer while Vengeance's attention was divided. "That doesn't answer the question," she said. "Where is Anders?" She pulled her sword, clearly ready to fulfill a promise she'd made to Malcolm only months before. That, if Anders ever became an abomination, she would end him.

Malcolm readied a smite as unobtrusively as he could, which wasn't really, not in front of someone who'd fought at his side for as long as Anders had.

The body that had once been a man named Anders lit painfully bright, lyrium-blue lacing through cracks in his skin and shining from his eyes, chased with a red Malcolm had never seen before. Marian's eyes opened wide in disbelief as it twined with the blue, turning the light the dark purple of blood from a torn vein. Before either of them could comprehend the change in Anders, force magic threw them back. They landed heavily against the wall, the impact jarring weapons from hands and leaving them unable to rise.

"Anders is no longer," said Vengeance. "Vengeance has taken precedence, as it should be. I will deal with this issue. The memory of the friendship Anders and Justice shared with you has granted you mercy this one time. Do not get in my way again, mortals, or it shall be the last thing you do in this realm."

Marian scrabbled at the dagger in her boot as Malcolm tried to find his sword, but they were both caught up in a paralysis spell before they could arm themselves.

Vengeance, his unnatural light dimming to keep his dark secret, stepped over them and vanished into the deep shadows of Darktown.