Chapter 45
"I took the road north from Val Royeaux toward Nevarra with a merchant caravan. A scant two days past the Orlesian border, we were beset by bandits. They struck without warning from the cover of the trees, hammering our wagons with arrows, killing most of the caravan guards instantly. The few who survived the arrow storm drew their blades and charged into the trees after our attackers. We heard screams muffled by the forest, and then nothing more of those men.
After a long silence, the bandits appeared. Elves covered in tattoos and dressed in hides, they looted all the supplies and valuables they could carry from the merchants and disappeared back into the trees.
These, I was informed later, were the Dalish, the wild elves who lurk in the wilderness on the fringes of settled lands, preying upon travelers and isolated farmers. These wild elves have reverted to the worship of their false gods and are rumored to practice their own form of magic, rejecting all human society."
—from In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi
Líadan
Once they'd left Kirkwall behind and entered the Planasene Forest, their travel went relatively smoothly. The children, including Cianán, tired quicker than any of them had anticipated. The ponies ended up led, the children split up among the adults to ride with them. Before Ava could say a word, Cáel declared his choice to ride with Líadan. When they were underway again, the horses walking quietly along the trail through the forest, Cáel's reasons became clear.
He had questions.
It wasn't to be unexpected. And Líadan knew her son hadn't asked sooner only because he hadn't been afforded the opportunity with how busy the day had been. But now he had her mostly undivided attention, and he put it to use.
Though he did go about it suddenly and awkwardly, a trait he'd picked up from Malcolm. "Did it hurt?" Cáel asked from in front of her.
His question jolted out of her thoughts, thoughts she strangely couldn't remember. "What?"
"The… you know. When they did it. Did it hurt?"
Even if she wanted to answer, she couldn't, because aside from the snippet she'd felt earlier that day, she couldn't recall. It was a blank place, a moment of time that existed between not-Tranquil and Tranquil. Alive and dead. She remembered the before, and she remembered the after, even though she didn't want to remember either, but she couldn't grasp a solid detail of the moment the brand had seared her skin. She wasn't even entirely sure about the searing part. "I can't remember," she said quietly, though she knew there was no escaping being overheard, not with the excellent hearing the other members of their party had. "I'm not sure if I want to."
"I wouldn't," said Cáel.
"I doubt many would."
Time passed before he started up again, taking the answer he'd gotten and mulling over it before he decided on his next approach. It was a trait he'd not inherited from his father. No one else in their group seemed inclined toward chatter, the measured thuds of hooves, snuffles from the horses, the intermittent calls from Morrigan as she flew overhead in her raven form, and the occasional mumble of protest from Ava whenever Malcolm tried to nudge her awake so she wouldn't fall off were their only accompaniment.
"Cullen wasn't really trying to make me a templar. He was trying to tell Papa that we were there. And," Cáel said begrudgingly, as if a confession were being forced from him, "he was doing his best to keep me out of trouble."
The soft laugh felt good as it tumbled out. "Poor man. Must've had no idea what he was up against, considering your father and I have been trying for years and it hasn't made a difference."
Cáel didn't play along. "He was doing his best to help."
"I know he was," she said, half in apology for her light tone that Cáel hadn't wanted. "I'm sorry if I sounded like I believed otherwise. I wasn't myself, and it wasn't fair of me to scare you or your sister."
His body briefly tensed, his anger causing Hunter's gait to become jerky in response. Then he relaxed, and so did the mare under them. "It's just the Tranquility healing, that's what Merrill said. And I say better this way than the other."
"Still."
He shook his head. "No 'still' about it. It's better, even if it means sometimes you lose your temper or shout or cry or all those things. That sometimes happens to grown ups, doesn't it?"
"None of us would like to admit it."
"So, yes."
"I'm not answering that."
Cáel turned his head around just long enough for her to see him rolling his eyes, which was his entire point. They were better after that, and he relaxed against her as they rode.
When the trail widened, Malcolm urged his borrowed horse to ride next to her, his right hand holding the reins, and his left arm wrapped tightly around Ava to keep her from falling off the horse in her sleep. Despite his many attempts at waking her, she was decidedly out.
"I'll trade you this sleeping deadweight for the chatty-pants you've got over there," he said once they were close enough.
"No deal," said Líadan.
"If my arm goes numb and I drop her, it's on you."
"I'm sure you can hold on a little longer. We're almost there."
Malcolm glanced around them in disbelief. "We are? How do you even know?"
"Mamae did the same thing in the Brecilian Forest," said Cáel. "It was really cool, but also really creepy."
"I think those words can be used to describe your mother in a lot of respects," Malcolm said, and then shared a grin with Cáel.
Líadan rolled her eyes, even though she knew that reaction was exactly what the two of them had been trying to get out of her. Then, after double-checking that her hood was low, she gestured in the direction of the mostly undetected Dalish hunters. "We've had hunters tracking us for the past five minutes. Why do you think Morrigan's been calling more frequently?"
"Honestly, I thought it was just to annoy us. Wouldn't be the first time."
Nathaniel's huff of laughter from behind them drew an angry squawk from Morrigan, along with an indignant flap of wings. But however much Morrigan might protest, Líadan knew Malcolm was right. It wasn't beyond Morrigan to do things simply to irritate them at times. It had been especially so during the Blight when it involved Malcolm or Alistair.
"Mother would do that?" Cianán asked sleepily. "Really?"
"Kid, we've got so many stories to tell you," said Malcolm, apparently sounding slightly too pleased because Morrigan dived at him. She pulled up soon enough to keep Malcolm from dropping Ava, but had held the dive long enough to make her point. Were it left up to her, there would be no stories told of her time during the Blight. But Malcolm had always viewed Morrigan's warnings as challenges, and judging from how his smile hadn't faded, this one would only be another.
Then the Ra'asiel hunters made themselves known by stepping out of the trees lining the trail. Líadan didn't recognize three of them, but the leader she immediately did.
Ariane was a close friend, though with how much the Ra'asiel had traveled in the past years, they hadn't been able to meet at all, but when they'd parted, they'd been good friends. Though Líadan had pulled her hood down far enough to cover the brand, Ariane was observant. She was observant enough to know the behavior strange from Líadan, and observant enough to catch a glimpse of anything under the hood should it shift the slightest bit. And Líadan wasn't sure how Ariane would react once she knew—no. Ariane would be fine. Angry, yes, but not at Líadan. At the humans, at the person who'd used the brand on her, specifically. But Líadan knew the truth, and shame would burn through her even though her friend wouldn't see it the same way.
"Aneth ara, lethallan," said Ariane as she smiled first at Líadan and then the rest of the group. "Keeper Lanaya and Keeper Emrys said to expect you after we brought news of the battles in Kirkwall. It seems they were not wrong."
"Is Keeper Lanaya ever wrong?" asked Malcolm.
"Not that I've witnessed, lethallin," said Ariane.
Líadan gave her a shocked look. While Malcolm had spent plenty of time among the Dalish with Líadan, even the Ra'asiel had kept a certain distance due to him being human and not elvhen. Not once had they referred to him as kin, not in her presence. Had it happened to him not in her presence, he would have mentioned it. He likely would've crowed about it a bit, given how he'd probably assumed he'd never gain that sort of acceptance. And since he wasn't crowing about it now, that meant he'd heard it before, and so Líadan shifted her look from Ariane and to her bondmate.
He raised his eyebrows in innocence. "I saw them on my way to Kirkwall, if that's what you're wondering. That whole 'lethallin' thing started then. Something about kinship not always being about blood or something. It was touching. Also, they call me lethallin now. Sometimes."
"Eloquent, your bondmate," Ariane said to Líadan.
Líadan smiled. "He means well."
Malcolm grumbled under his breath.
After Ariane laughed, she motioned toward the trees. "We should get you to the camp. Keeper Emrys said he wanted to speak with you as soon as possible."
"I'm sure he does." Líadan held tight to the tangled mass of emotions tied to her grandfather as she nudged her horse around to head into the forest. She both wanted to hide her shame from him, yet at the same time, shove into his face what had resulted from his interference.
The levity of their party faded as they followed the hunters to the main camp. When they halted in a small clearing between the aravels and the halla pen, Ariane sent her hunting party back out on patrol, telling them she'd rejoin them shortly. Líadan's group dismounted, Malcolm handing a still-sleeping Ava off to Nuala before he slid from his saddle, while Cáel was awake enough to slide off on his own. Cianán was somewhere in the middle of the other two children, awake enough to walk if led gently, but that was all he could do. Morrigan landed and shifted back to her human form to take over for Nathaniel, her look toward him half thanks and half annoyance. Líadan helped Nathaniel picket the horses near the halla, her hood falling slightly back she straightened from tying the line.
She started to adjust it as she and Nathaniel returned to the others.
Malcolm had a sleeping Ava over his shoulder as he asked Ariane to show them where they could set up their tents. Ariane pointed and then beckoned them to follow, Líadan still straightening her hood and hoping Ariane didn't see too much. After most of their group had gone ahead, Emrys stepped out from between two aravels. One look at Líadan had his fingers curling into fists, bones practically creaking from the pressure he put on them.
"I will kill her."
"She's already dead," said Líadan, the slightest edge to her voice at the mention of Meredith. "It changed nothing."
Emrys strode swiftly to stand before her. The rest of the group continued onward, granting Líadan and her grandfather their privacy. His fingers uncurled, alight with healing magic that sang with its power, and he reached toward Líadan's forehead. Then he stopped, the magic reflecting on her skin, but without being touched.
"May I?"
"Please." The edge had gone from her voice, the reality of having her grandfather see her like this both easier and harder than she'd imagined.
He studied the brand for a few moments, his frown deepening as he did, and then he looked her directly in the eye again. "The lyrium in the brand will require more thorough—" He stopped, his scowl darkening briefly before he could bring his expression under control. "It will require more invasive, thorough healing that will remove not only the lyrium and heal the brand, but also the ink of the vallaslin entirely, because it seems too closely intertwined with the lyrium. This means the healing will take all the ink from your skin, not just what the brand has marred."
"Do it."
Emrys' magic swept across the lyrium brand burned into her skin, leaving smooth, unmarred skin behind. Only once the brand had been entirely erased did he speak again, and his words were ones she had never expected. "I am sorry."
The healing and the apology served to summon her anger from deep within instead of assuaging the hurt close to the surface. "You're sorry? You took advantage of my fear for my daughter's life to further this agenda of yours to separate me from my bondmate. You've held onto it for years, and you took the first opportunity you saw that stood a chance of working, and it only had that chance because you know my daughter's life would take precedence in every part of my mind for just long enough."
"Da'len, I—"
She kept going, because if she gave him room to talk, he would get to her. He always did and she had to stop letting him. "You once told me you wouldn't repeat what happened between you and my mother, yet you did. It took you years, but you did, and this is where it got us. If Wynne hadn't—" sacrificed herself "—if she hadn't asked that spirit for help, I would be among the living and the dead, wishing for death but not remembering that I wished it."
"I am sorry." Though given little room to speak, Emrys said enough.
Líadan had to keep what Emrys had done at the forefront of her mind, because what he had organized had resulted in Líadan losing herself and nearly losing her family. If she didn't keep those things before her, as she had done so many times before, she would revert back to the child who always sought the approval of her grandfather. She was no longer that child, and the person standing before her was no longer that same grandfather. Líadan stepped in closer and lowered her voice. "If I could, I would walk away from you for what you've done, but my daughter needs you. She needs you, and so I will set aside my own hurts and my own wants to see that she's safe, exactly like you knew I would before all this."
It was exactly what she should have done in the Gallows. She would have passed the Harrowing. She could have trusted Cullen. She could have heeded his counsel for patience. She had done none of those things, and thus carried as much culpability as Emrys.
"I will teach her," he said. "Perhaps, one day, it will be enough."
"Not today."
"No." His remorse called to her, but she ignored it, even as he echoed her sentiment. "Not today."
She turned and walked away.
Malcolm had waited for her behind a nearby aravel, his shoulder leaning against it, Ava asleep on the other. Though their daughter's small body was relaxed in her slumber, her bondmate's frame was far from relaxed, and his eyes darted between Líadan and where Emrys likely still stood in the clearing. When she volunteered nothing, he said, "So… that looked rough."
Líadan offered him a tight smile but found she could't offer more.
He looked behind her one last time, and then settled his attention fully on her, motioning toward the main camp of the Ra'asiel with his free arm. "What say we get this pipsqueak to bed?"
She could have kissed him for changing the subject so quickly, and not prodding at a wound that needed some time to heal. If he hadn't been carrying Ava, she would have. "I don't know. She looks comfortable enough where she is."
"Yes, but I'd like to eventually go to sleep, myself. Besides, we let her sleep like this, she'll wake up with an awful crick in her neck and a mood to match. Now, I'm not sure if you noticed, but we're in a Dalish camp. That's enough prickly moods to deal with without adding one that can be prevented."
She let the remark pass as they headed where the nearest hunter had indicated they'd set up their tents. The space given to them was remarkably close to the main camp, as close as another aravel would be. But this was Lanaya's clan, and their acceptance of them was beyond what any other Dalish clan would ever offer—after all, it had been Lanaya who had performed their bonding ceremony. The tents had been pitched while she'd spoken with Emrys. Nuala and Ariane were chatting quietly as they started a fire, with Morrigan, Cáel, and Cianán nowhere to be seen.
"Morrigan is doing Morrigan things," Ariane said when she noticed Líadan searching for them. "You know how that goes."
"And the boys are passed out," said Nuala. "I'm surprised Cianán could walk at all. I think he was asleep before he actually reached his bedroll. Cáel might tell you otherwise, but he wasn't much better. And this one—" Nuala pointed toward Ava "—would sleep through a sodding storm, as you well know. I've got her bed set up in the same tent as the boys, if you feel like putting her down."
Malcolm did exactly that, his movements smooth and gentle enough not to wake her. Remorse crept up on Líadan as she watched, remorse that she had nearly kept father and daughter separated for years. Necessity had certainly called for it, but the result would have been the same either way. While she could look back at her own parenting and her own views of her children and believe that she hadn't been the best of mothers, Malcolm had been and was a very good father. Guilt over feeling guilty about her daughter's existence pricked at her heart, at how she had been so non-accepting of her daughter before she'd been born, simply because she was elf-blooded. Meanwhile, Malcolm had accepted her without reservation from the moment Líadan had told him she was carrying his child. Now, years later, knowing her daughter as she did, loving her daughter as she did, she couldn't comprehend dreading her birth. Yet, dread and a fitful half-acceptance was all she could remember from the time she'd carried her.
Freed from the rules and expectations she'd put upon herself at the behest of her people, she let herself wonder, for longer than an instant, what it would be like to experience it as something to look forward to. She even dared to contemplate going through with the idea, but when she thought about the guilt over her daughter, she wasn't sure if she deserved it. She just wasn't sure. But with Malcolm, watching him, she knew he would be worthy of it. He proved it every day with the two they had.
He ducked out of the tent with a small, pleased smile on his face, one that spoke of the contentedness he felt around his children. His smile grew wider when he noticed her, and the light of it tugged her out of the slow descent of her thoughts. Then his gaze went over her shoulder, and she turned to find Morrigan walking into their small camp with Lanaya at her side.
Lanaya addressed her, and her problem, right away as she wrapped Líadan into a brief hug. "I am glad to see that some of your wounds have been healed. I wouldn't have been able to heal them myself, so Emrys' arrival early this morning was of some providence."
"He would have you think so," said Líadan.
Keeper Lanaya's lips quirked in amusement. "And some wounds remain as open as the day they were inflicted, I see. The Creators themselves may be needed to repair that rift, but the rest I believe we can handle here. Your vallaslin can be redone, but it will still need to be done in a clan ceremony. The rituals beforehand I would leave up to you, as you are already an adult and did them years ago. I realize it might be difficult to face the others of the clan, but—
"The brand is gone. I can face them." Her skin might be as unadorned as a child's, but it was far better than the mark of shame that had existed before.
"While you may not think it, the brand spoke even more of your ability to endure than any vallaslin ever could," said Lanaya.
A spike of horror lanced through her at the idea of keeping the brand, and she shook her head vehemently, both to absolve Lanaya of the notion and to get the idea out of her head. "I wasn't going to let a mark of Meredith's remain. She doesn't get that power."
Lanaya nodded, her eyes briefly distant with whatever she mulled over but did not speak of, then moved on with the practicalities. "Who do you want to do it? There are four of us present who possess the ability and the authority."
It took Líadan no time to decide, because she'd decided the moment she'd realized she would have to undergo the ceremony again. "Merrill." And that was all she needed to say. Lanaya didn't need to ask why—she understood.
She smiled softly and nodded again. "Then we'll gather after dawn, once there's light enough for Merrill to see her work properly. Rest, all of you. We can catch up in the morning."
Before Lanaya had taken a step to leave, a commotion sounded from outside the camp. Ariane leapt from where she'd been sitting, grabbed her bow, and then bolted toward the sounds. Líadan resisted the urge to follow, but this wasn't her clan, she wasn't one of their hunters, she wasn't a hunter at all, and she had to accept it. Her work toward accepting it, however, didn't stop her from staring through the trees at the approaching noises. Voices became distinct, though she didn't recognize most of them. She could pick out Ariane's, and while another sounded familiar, she could scarcely believe it.
"You didn't have to shoot me," came an indignant voice that sounded remarkably like Kennard. "Or if you really thought you had to shoot an arrow, you could've just fired a warning shot and not buried one in my leg."
"If it wasn't in your eye," said another unfamiliar hunter, "then it was a warning shot."
It had to be the children's personal guard. Líadan's suspicions were proven correct as Kennard, his arms slung over the shoulders of the two Dalish hunters he was between, hobbled out of the forest and into the camp. An arrow protruded from his calf, and he grimaced each time his foot struck the ground.
"If you'd dropped your weapon," said the hunter on Kennard's left, "we wouldn't have had to shoot you."
"But I shouldn't have needed to. That's my point! Your clan knows me! Or if you don't recognize me, since it's been a few years, you should at least have known my sodding name!"
Ariane moved to stand in front of them as they drew to a halt, Kennard only putting weight on his uninjured leg. "These hunters were children the last time the clan saw you."
He sighed as he studied the arrow still sticking out of his calf. "Great. Now along with an arrow in my sodding leg, I feel old. Why ever did I stay away from you charming Dalish for so long?"
Nuala, who'd approached the pair of hunters acting as Kennard's crutches, nudged at the arrow with her foot, bringing a yelp from Kennard. "This, probably," she said.
"I need a new job, you evil woman," Kennard said as he narrowed his eyes at her.
She crossed her arms and gave him a level look, though the corners of her mouth rebelliously quirking upward diminished its effectiveness. "You've been saying that for years, and yet here you are."
"I don't like change."
"Then I don't see why you wouldn't get along with the Dalish," said Nuala.
"Oh, that stung," said Ariane. "So I take it we're letting you keep that arrow? You know, since you love my people so much."
"Now you're just being petty," said Kennard. When Ariane didn't relent, he rolled his eyes. Given their last interactions years ago, before Ava had even been born, had resulted in both of them literally going at each other's throats, the two were getting along fantastically. "I would be truly grateful if you could heal my leg. I'll even give the arrow back."
Ariane tapped her foot. "I don't know. You're awfully mouthy for—"
Keeper Lanaya stepped in front of her. "I will do it. My clan's hunters can be slow to change their opinions."
"Isn't like I killed him," Ariane muttered under her breath as Lanaya slipped past her and began to work on Kennard's leg. "Wasn't even my arrow that shot him."
"What?" Kennard asked, trying to put on a shocked face as the arrow being yanked out had him grimacing. "Missed, did you?"
"You're worse." Ariane pointed at him. "You're worse than you were. How is that even possible?" Then she shot an accusatory look at Nuala. "Is this your doing?"
Nuala smiled in return. "I'd like to think I bring out the best in him."
"You wish, woman," said Kennard. "I'm only here because of the kids."
Malcolm chuckled softly before he looked at Kennard. "The kids are fine. Asleep, far as I know. Might not be after all this commotion, but—"
As if on cue, three tousle-haired heads poked out from between their tent's flaps. Then Cáel and Ava ran right for Kennard, nearly knocking Lanaya over in their enthusiasm. The man had been their personal guard for as long as either of them could remember, and they considered him nearly as important to them as they did Nuala. They started in with their questions almost immediately, about where Kennard had been and how did he find them—that one, Líadan wanted the answer to, though she suspected the clan's scouts had probably noticed him days ago—and they asked their questions so quickly that Kennard wasn't given a chance to answer before they were trying to tell him what'd happened during his absence. It was a trajectory that would end in no sleep if they didn't put a stop to it.
"Bed," Líadan said, with Malcolm, Nuala, and Morrigan saying it at the same time.
"Questions can wait for tomorrow," said Malcolm. "Come on. Off with you."
Cáel went easily, but Ava hung back, casting worried looks back toward where they'd picketed the horses.
"What's wrong?" asked Líadan.
"I can't find my spider," she said. "I was holding him earlier, on Papa's horse, but I—"
"Fell asleep," said Malcolm. "You fell asleep. And drooled on me, by the way. Thanks for that, because you didn't do it enough when you were a baby."
Ava drew her head back in surprise. "I drooled?"
"You were the champion of droolers, at least earlier today," said Malcolm. "But when you were a baby? The undisputed champion drooler of all Thedas, you were."
"I was not!"
Malcolm grinned, pleased with the results of deliberately riling up their daughter. At first, Líadan was too distracted to step in as she normally would have, her thoughts on how easy this came to Malcolm, that he'd been this connected and reveled in his role even back when Ava was a small infant—and a champion drooler. But Líadan had still been wrestling with her guilt, lessened though it was and had throughout the years, but it had still been there. Even now, knowing what she did, having experienced what she had, it had to be wrestled into submission. It was her grandfather talking, her upbringing talking, and not herself. Dalish ways were a part of her and always would be, but there was something too terrible in letting the guilt over her daughter and her daughter's abilities continue to thrive. It had no place between her and her daughter; it hadn't in a long time. She refused to let it continue to separate them in any way, as it had tried between her and her bondmate.
Líadan extended a hand toward Ava, who was busy glaring at her father. "Come on, I'll take you to look for him."
After she shot a triumphant look at Malcolm, Ava took Líadan's hand in her own and started for the horses.
"I'm sorry," Líadan said to Ava after a short time, wondering when she'd decided to address this out loud, when she'd decided to face it at all. Her emotions hadn't done a great job as of late with cluing her into their whims.
Ava's brow furrowed. "What for? I heard some of what you said to Cáel. If it's about that, it wasn't your fault, what happened. And it isn't your fault what's happening after."
"Not about that, it's…" Líadan let go of Ava's hand in order to pull her close enough to place a hand on her shoulder. She wondered how if she'd gone to such great lengths to protect her that she'd risked their lives and her bonding, how she ever could have felt the slightest hint of guilt at having had her in the first place. When Ava relaxed, leaning into her side as they walked, Líadan sighed. "I know you know about the guilt. From me being Dalish and you not."
"That doesn't matter," Ava said quickly enough to tell Líadan that she'd thought about it before. "You're Dalish. They're your people."
She squeezed Ava's shoulder the slightest bit tighter, unwilling to let her certainty be stolen, not as Emrys had let his be stolen. "They might be my people, but you are my daughter. You're more important. You deserve to know that."
Ava grinned up at her, the same bright, easy grin of her father. "Don't be silly. I already knew that." The grin only grew wider when she spotted the form of her stuffed spider. She squirmed out of Líadan's grasp and practically skipped over to her doll. Then she picked it up, tucked it under an arm, and headed back for the camp. But she stopped long enough to take Líadan's hand again on the way. At the camp, they found that everyone had either wandered off or retired to their own tents. Ava cracked a huge yawn, which had Líadan bustling her toward her bedroll before her daughter got a second wind.
When Líadan exited the tent Ava shared with Cáel and Cianán, she found Merrill outside, waiting for her. Merrill glanced toward the center of the main Dalish camp, where the Keeper's aravel sat next to the central fire. Then she looked out among the trees, where hunters walked their patrols and protected the camp, before she was able to settle a steady look on Líadan. "We should talk about what happened with the clan, before… before."
Líadan's body felt leeched of energy, tiredness heavy in her bones, but the ceremony was early in the morning, and they wouldn't have any other opportunity to discuss what direly needed to be. "All right."
They wandered the boundary of the Ra'asiel camp, the statues of the Creators marking their trail. After they had passed the hooded figure of Dirthamen and his twin, Falon'Din, Merrill asked quietly, "How much have you heard?"
"I heard you were there."
"I was."
And hearing Merrill this timid with her answers frightened Líadan more than any other tone Merrill could have taken. It meant Merrill was terrified of what Líadan would think when she heard the truth, and Líadan was terrified of Merrill's terror. It made for a great deal of fear, and it dulled their voices. "Meredith told me you were responsible."
The earthy scent of the halla drifted over them as they moved past the halla pen and Ghilan'nain's statue. A few of the halla called out, and two of the younger ones chased them along the fence. Only when the halla were behind them and once again settling down for the night did Merrill ask, "Did you believe her?"
"No." She hadn't and she wouldn't. Meredith had been trying to get a reaction out of her, either despairing or stupidity or perhaps both, and even if she'd been telling the truth, it would only have been a kernel of it. Not the actual truth.
"Maybe you should have."
Líadan didn't like the self-recrimination she heard behind her clanmate's tone, not when she knew, knew, that Merrill couldn't possibly be responsible for a massacre the Mahariel most likely brought upon themselves. Keeper Marethari had been warned, she'd been cautioned, she'd been counseled, and yet she, and the clan with her, remained at the base of Sundermount for years. None of them had left, and as the years had passed, their behavior had grown increasingly strange, acting unlike themselves. If they looked at the past very closely, they would likely find that their clan had died long before they were buried. "Merrill, I know you. I know that if you were involved somehow, that even if it wasn't your fault, you'd believe it was. You'd convince yourself of it, because you'd believe you failed to protect the clan."
"I did fail to protect them!" As the statue of Sylaise looked on silently, Merrill threw the words out, an accusation against herself. "The Keeper, she—she took in the spirit, became a pride demon. She said she did it for me, so that I wouldn't fall into the same trap." The word trap had both of them glancing toward the statue of Fen'Harel in the distance, the wolf looking out into the forest beyond, watching, waiting. If any Creator would know about traps and the truth of them, it would be the Dread Wolf.
"The Keeper fell into the trap instead." Líadan ran a hand through her hair as she forced herself to look away from Fen'Harel and at the path ahead of them. "You were the demon's trap for the Keeper, I think. She wanted to save you. She believed she could save you even when you insisted that you didn't need to be saved. You pleaded for her to stop and she refused. The demon took advantage of her being convinced she knew more than you about the eluvian and the spirit. She was wrong. What's worse, she forced you to kill her."
"I didn't want to." Sorrow wove its way through every syllable Merrill spoke. "But I couldn't let an abomination kill the clan."
Líadan idly ran her fingers over Andruil's feet as they passed her. "Of course you couldn't," she said to Merrill. "We've both heard the tales of clans who've had to hunt and kill their own Keeper. Marethari and the Mahariel will become one of those stories. You did what you had to in order to protect the clan. You didn't fail. The Keeper did."
"And the rest of the clan?"
"From what Marian told me after Aveline told her, the clan attacked you. And Anders—Justice—whoever, protected you from them."
"It was terrible. They were all… they were all so angry, shouting awful things, hands picking up whatever weapons they could find, and then coming after us. But I couldn't see those horrible, wrathful masks that had become their faces. I could only see who they had been, the people I'd known for most of my life, and I couldn't do anything but watch. I'd just killed the Keeper. I couldn't kill them all." Merrill glanced over at an aravel as they walked by, and then shivered when she caught sight of the carved head of Elgar'nan mounted onto it.
"So Anders did," said Liadan. And if Anders hadn't done what he had, Merrill would be dead along with the rest of the Mahariel, and the world would be that much worse off.
"I think it was Vengeance, by then. Anders or Justice, they would have stopped before they got to the children, even if the small ones had taken up arms. Vengeance didn't stop. Later, when he was gone, Justice and Anders helped me with the burial rites."
Part of her wished she'd been there to help with the burials, but that would have required being there for what had resulted in the need for burials, and she wasn't sure if she could have handled it. It was one thing to imagine the bodies of their clanmates, and it was another thing entirely to witness their deaths and have to keep looking at their bodies. One by one, placing them in their graves, covering them with dirt, children and elders and everyone in between, and Líadan was amazed that Merrill had kept this much composure after having done just that. She'd at least had Anders, and that likely had helped. Justice was horrible at empathy, but for Anders, it was a natural thing. Natural enough that he'd helped Merrill with what he could, and yet still thought of others even so. Sometime afterward, he had even come across one of Master Ilen's carved wooden toys, the same as the ones laid out by Master Varathorn here, under the watch of June. "So you didn't fail," Líadan said to her clanmate, "even if you insist that you did."
By the time Merrill replied, they had left behind the blue flame under Mythal's statue and started for the cluster of tents where their friends and loved ones slept. "You think you failed, don't you?" she asked with a deceptive calm for such a forthright question.
Líadan nearly stumbled. Merrill knew her too well, saw too much, and Líadan's breathing hitched just enough to confirm Merrill statement without having to reply.
"But how could you have?" Merrill asked, accepting Líadan's sudden clumsiness as answer enough. "You followed everything you were taught. You fought until you couldn't fight. You did everything you were asked. You didn't submit. You endured."
"Sometimes, it…" She wanted to run and hide from the truth of it, but it would only hunt her down. Better to face it now, better to admit it now, with a trusted clanmate, someone who might understand. "Sometimes, you can do everything asked of you and more, and it still isn't enough. So your family gets split apart, again and again, until each of you is alone. And you try to stay on the path you were taught, the path you were made to believe was the best, because it was supposed to be the right one. Except it turns out it was the wrong path, because it leads to an end where you can't exist beyond breathing, your children are left unprotected, your bondmate alone, your family broken beyond repair because you refused to submit to a mandate or imprisonment. Either trial could have been endured. Nothing would have been as broken as it became when I refused."
"If you'd have submitted to Tranquility, lethallan, the outcome would've been the same."
"It wasn't Tranquility. Meredith asked two things of me: to undergo a Harrowing, and not to attempt an escape. I didn't agree to either one."
"You would have passed a Harrowing," said Merrill, but it was more an academic pronouncement than it was a judgment. "You've been through much harder things in the Beyond."
"I know."
Merrill's tone took on the smallest bit of amusement. "Not trying to escape, however, I'm not so sure about that. You never did well when you were confined, not even when we were little."
"I know. But I could have endured, for my children. I didn't because I thought I had to follow what I was taught, that I had to be the example for my children as my parents had been for me. But you know something?"
Merrill waited.
"My children aren't Dalish. Neither is my bondmate. They never will be. I'm Dalish, but not like I was. Andruil hasn't guided me in years, not as a Warden, not as a mother, not as a person."
After she glanced at the statues of the Creators left along the path they'd taken, Merrill returned to Líadan. She tilted her head to the side and studied her for a long moment, placing her finger to her lips as she thought. Then she said, "Wardens would be more like Mythal, I think. The Great Protector."
"And I failed that. I didn't protect anyone, including myself, when that's exactly what I should have been doing."
If Merrill had an opinion on what Líadan had said, she didn't voice it. Instead, she made the second point of whatever agenda she'd yet to let Líadan in on. "She's the All-Mother."
"I failed that, too."
Merrill's eyes became incredulous, astonished that Líadan could say such a thing, much less believe it. "You never stopped loving them." Despite the incredulity, her statement held no doubt.
"I did when I was Tranquil." It hurt more to say than Líadan could ever put into words.
"No, you didn't." Merrill reached out, placed a fingertip on Líadan's forehead, and lightly traced the outline of where the Chantry brand had once been. "It was locked up, where you couldn't feel it, but it was always there." She dropped her hand. "And now it's back, and it's too much at once. That's how strong it is, as it's always been. Maybe that's what you want to guide you now. Maybe it's what you need, lethallan."
"After tomorrow morning, I'll once again carry the marks of Andruil." They entered their small campsite in silence and found the lonely fire in the middle burning low. Given the late hour, everyone had retreated to their respective tents. Líadan sat cross-legged in the dewy grass near the fire, while Merrill picked a seat close by, a clear indication that their conversation wasn't over.
When Líadan looked over at Merrill, she noticed that Merrill was smiling.
The smile was small at first, then it bloomed fully as her idea did the same. "Who says you have to choose the same god as you did before? Everyone changes as they live, and many of us lead different lives than what we thought when we received our vallaslin. And now you're the first of the People who get to choose a new one that fits who you are now, and not who you were as a new hunter." Then Merrill's smile turned mischievous. It was the same small grin she'd gotten when they were children, when the usually scholarly and well-behaved Merrill had been convinced to help with one adventure, one prank, just this once. "So, you'll be dedicating yourself to Sylaise?"
And that was why. "Creators, no! I can't keep the hearth, much less the peace."
"Maybe you were meant for Mythal all along."
Líadan let out a rueful laugh. "If I was, it would've been nice to know earlier, before I got my first vallaslin. The pain can be endured, but it isn't pleasant, and I don't relish having to go through it twice." The pain of the tattoos, however, was nothing compared to the pain of remaining Tranquil. If it had been a condition to keep from becoming Tranquil, Líadan would have chosen to undergo the etching every day.
It was something Merrill understood without explanation. "If the pain means you can walk the path you choose rather than the one you believed your grandfather and your parents and the People wanted you to walk, the pain will be worth enduring."
"I'll never get his approval, Merrill." She chased away the twinge of sadness at the failure.
"I never thought you'd admit to wanting it."
"It was stupid to think I didn't."
"Not stupid. Blind, maybe. But not stupid." Merrill looked toward the dimly lit Dalish camp, and then at the fire in front of them. She held out her hand, pushing the flames forward, sending sparks and firebrands into the air, where they floated up into the sky until they were indistinguishable from the stars. "Let fly your voice to Mythal, Deliverer of Justice, Protector of Sun and Earth alike. After all this, I think she might hear you."
If she could have, if it were a thing an elf could still do, she would have petitioned Mythal for justice. But the Creators were gone, leaving only a few legends and fewer followers. Still, it was something to cling to. "I hope so."
"You've chosen, then?"
"It would seem." While she hadn't planned on engaging in the rituals, since she'd made her choice of Creator years ago, she'd undergone something of one in her conversation with Merrill. The former First to Keeper Marethari had noted the changes within her and guided her to what she should open her eyes to if she wanted to see her future. Andruil was the past. Mythal would be the future.
"Which version would you like? I should practice it before morning. I wouldn't want to make a mistake. We'd have to do it a third time if I did and that would probably hurt. A lot."
Líadan smiled at the reappearance of her friend's more disarming side. The Merrill she'd been speaking with moments before had been the First readying to take the place of the Keeper. Now, she spoke with her friend and clanmate. "The simplest, I think. The Dalish play a smaller part in my life than they once did, and my vallaslin should reflect that."
"It also means less for me to practice, which is good, because we haven't got much time left, and it's your face that'll suffer if I don't get it right." Merrill leaned over and briefly hugged Líadan. "It'll be all right. You'll see." After she pulled away and stood up, she asked, "Will you be going to bed? One of us should get some sleep."
"In a little while. There's something I need to do."
As Merrill walked into to the tent she'd been given, Líadan stood and removed her sword and its sheath from her belt. Then she strode back toward the Ra'asiel encampment and searched for her grandfather's aravel, which she found on the other side. She set the sword down in front of his door, and then with the same measured pace, returned to her own camp. Without stopping at the fire, she ducked into the tent she shared with her bondmate.
Malcolm sat up as she tied the flaps behind her, setting his book and magelight aside. When she turned, his look directed at her was openly curious.
"It's because my skin is bare, isn't it?" she asked, harsher than she'd intended, a reflection of how she would react had their places been reversed.
"No!" He frowned. "Well, yes, but not how you think."
She shed her armor, Malcolm helping without being asked, as she decided how she'd respond. Her gut reaction was to continue being harsh, to stick to defensiveness to protect herself from more hurt. Yet, this was her bondmate, and she knew he meant well. She knew he fumbled with finding the right words to express how he felt, and that if she gave him the chance, he'd manage it. Hostility was the last thing either of them needed, yet she had to struggle not to give into the impulse. Only when she'd gotten into the bedroll with him, under the blanket and pressed against him, reassured herself that she wasn't dreaming, that he wasn't a spirit or a demon, that he was there, the person she'd missed in ways she'd never fathomed over the past weeks, did she find the courage to continue their conversation without rancor. "What did you mean?"
"I meant that it isn't the lack of your tattoos that had me staring. It was that I could still see them, even though they're technically gone. Weird, right? So I didn't make it clear."
She sighed inwardly at his attempt. While she didn't want to discourage him, she didn't want to encourage him either. He was trying, but this was a bit much. Anyone could see that her vallaslin were gone. "No, you can't. You don't need to lie to make me feel better about them being gone."
"I'm not lying. I can." He propped himself up on an elbow so that he was partway over her. Before she could protest, he leaned in, his face intimately close to hers, but his brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes focused on his task. With the tip of the index finger of his free hand, he gently traced on her forehead and cheeks the exact lines of where her vallaslin used to be.
He didn't make a single mistake.
"You did know," she said, not understanding how she could be surprised.
He smiled, and it brightened parts of her soul she hadn't realized had gone dark. "Of course I did," he said, without a hint of smugness and with all the facets of sincerity. "I knew them by heart, being part of you."
And while she loved him and wanted to express how much at discovering yet another thing about him that made her feel that way, her returning smile tugged loose the lid she'd put on the swirling mire of emotions from that time. They enveloped her her, and the hand she'd used to caress his cheek dropped as she instinctively curled into herself before the entire churning pool came rushing out. She couldn't let them control her. She refused.
Malcolm didn't push. He simply pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, and held her as he listened to her silence.
His actions loosed from within her even more of the nearly overwhelming emotions, but those were easier to bear, because of him.