Chapter 48
"When Andraste preached the Canticle of Benedictions, she offered her followers a path of virtue. 'In their blood the Maker's will is written' is usually interpreted to mean sacrificing one's life for a righteous cause, but like most of the Chant, deeper meaning hides beneath the surface. 'In their blood' can be understood as a reference to continuity, an unbroken line of humble behavior required to please the Maker.
Rather than a physical fight against demon or apostate, Andraste meant this verse as a warning that her faithful should judge their heart's intentions, questioning those who would lead them astray. Champions of the Just are those with the courage to admit their wrongdoing, while letting none continue in their sight.
Unsurprisingly, the fourth stanza is popular among militant branches of the Chantry, such as the Knights-Enchanter and the Templar Order."
—from Notes on the Chant of Light, by Mother Bezoria of the Grand Cathedral, 9:39 Dragon
Malcolm
After the excitement of the encounter outside the former Mahariel camp, Malcolm decided it best to stay away while the mages and astonishingly fearless Dalish went about their work. He and the children drifted back to the aravels, Nuala and Kennard alongside them, and Nathaniel followed with Cianán. None of the children brought up what had happened between the hunters and the humans. None of the adults chose to discuss it when the children clearly were not ready for it to be discussed. From the way Cáel and Ava jostled against each other and quietly bickered in an attempt to distract themselves, along with the way Cianán had yet to lose his introspective look, the children weren't anywhere near ready to speak about what'd happened. Which was good, because it wasn't like Malcolm was ready to talk about it, either.
As a raven, Morrigan was the first to return. She swooped through the aravels and landed in middle, taking human form once her feet touched the ground. While Malcolm didn't fear for the safety of those at Sundermount, the expression on Morrigan's face was unsettling, because Morrigan seemed enthused about something, bordering on excited. Malcolm wanted to know what that something was, because he was curious and because Morrigan excited about something bespoke of danger, but he was hesitant to ask.
Nuala did not suffer from the same healthy apprehension. "It went well?" she asked Morrigan.
"Yes." Morrigan cast a look of admiration in Sundermount's direction. "Though I am not certain why help was requested from any of us. The Keeper's abilities are impressive."
That had Malcolm sitting forward. "You mean Emrys?" Morrigan had known Lanaya for years, but it was safer to be sure he knew who Morrigan meant. Much safer.
"Yes. His power far outstrips the power of the other Keepers. He truly did not require help to deal with the dangers at Sundermount."
Then Malcolm remembered a conversation he'd once shared with Líadan about the nature of Emrys' relationship to Flemeth. Recalling that exchange while listening to Morrigan go on about him, he couldn't not find amusement in that she stood a small chance of speaking about her own father.
He had to admit, their temperaments and pragmatism were quite similar.
Morrigan lifted an eyebrow at him. "You are amused?"
"No, of course not. Nothing amusing going on."
She didn't fall for it, not that he truly thought she would. "You are amused at me? Why? What do you find so amusing?"
Yet, no matter how hard she pushed, there was no way under the Maker's sun that he would ever tell her what was so funny. While he might have been reckless in his youth, and his reckless streak occasionally showed even in adulthood, he had no wish to die. And he particularly had no wish to die in whatever terrible fashion Morrigan could conjure up. "Nothing."
Finger out and pointing, she took a step toward him. "You will tell me."
He sat back, feigning nonchalance, hoping it would turn into bravado and maybe some courage. "Oh, no, you can't intimidate me. Not anymore."
Her eyebrow arched higher and she summoned magic to her palms. "No?"
No courage manifested. "I take it back! You can. Look, just, you really wouldn't want to hear why. I'm not laughing at you, or with you, obviously, but definitely not at." When Morrigan's magic did not so much as flicker, he tried another method of explaining. "All right. Remember when you told Leliana that she would never want to hear the stories your mother told you when you were a girl?"
"Yes, I recall."
"It's like that. You really, really don't want to hear it."
She huffed. "Fine. I will take you at your word." It did not stop her from stalking off, however.
Líadan, who'd walked into the camp at the head of the rest of the group who'd been at Sundermount, stared after Morrigan. Once the other woman had drifted out of sight, she asked, "What was that about?"
"You wouldn't want to know, either."
Thankfully, she took him at his word and dropped the subject. "It's done. The clan's at rest, as much as they ever will be." Her brows knitted tightly together as she carefully unstrung her bow. Then she leaned against the aravel behind Malcolm—it was Ariane and Oisín's—and equally as slowly coiled the bowstring in her hands. She only looked up when Ava let out a high-pitched squeal, the one that meant outrage and not that she was being truly hurt.
Her eyes fell on their daughter, her cloak carelessly tossed on the ground nearby, the back of her neck wet, telltale clumps of snow and slush clinging to her shirt and hair. Behind her, Cáel stood wearing a slowly fading grin, an extra snowball clutched in his hand. Ava bent, scooped up a sizable amount of snow, and turned on her brother. He wisely bolted, color high on his cheeks as he ran through the trees. His sister gave chase, letting out a strange sort of war cry, the cold drawing her cheeks as red as her brother's. Cianán, who was catching on to the ways of typical children, hurled a surprisingly well-aimed snowball at Cáel, and it smacked into the other boy's shoulder as he ran by. The shock of getting hit rather than the impact itself sent Cáel tumbling, and as Ava leapt onto him and shoved revenge snow down his back, Cáel yelled at his brother for being a traitor. Then Ava let him up and Cáel promptly set after Cianán.
Initially, Cianán seemed puzzled at what to do, so he didn't move.
"Unless you want snow down your own back, you'd best run," said Kennard.
Cianán wised up and ran, cutting near the first aravel before sprinting between two more. Heedless of the Dalish elves around them, Cáel chased, Ava keeping up, dodging hunters and elders both. Many of the Dalish children had started to wander toward the commotion even before the three human children brought their small war into the heart of the camp, and now with them so close, the Dalish children joined right in. Soon enough, there was an entire pack of them, whooping and hollering and chased out of the aravels and back into the clear areas around them. Despite the racket they caused, their light, energetic play provided a soothing counterpoint to the heavy confrontation that had occurred outside the Mahariel camp earlier.
Next to Malcolm, Líadan laughed softly under her breath, and then waved Revas off. "Go ahead," she told the dog shamelessly begging at her feet to be allowed to play. Permission given, the mabari raced right into the gaggle of children running to and fro in the trees around them, churning up the snow under their feet enough to reveal the forest floor. Líadan continued to observe, her small contented smile staying in place instead of hiding.
"Let me guess," said Malcolm, "those are exactly the things you used to do as a kid." Not that he had much room to talk, given what he and Fergus had gotten up to, but there'd been just the two of them and some of the servants and knights' children—nothing like the crowd of Dalish and human children causing a ruckus nearby. Maker, it looked like the Suriel children had even joined in.
"Tamlen and I used to start most of them," she said without looking away, as if directing her attention elsewhere would cause the scene to disappear. "Sometimes, it would get to the point where the elders and Keeper Marethari would preemptively give us an absurd amount of chores to complete just to ensure we didn't have the time to get up to anything." She wrinkled her nose. "I still wouldn't want to muck out a halla enclosure for all the gold this side of the Beyond. Elora hovered over my shoulder every time I got assigned to do it because she knew I'd leave early, otherwise." For once, memories of her clan didn't trouble her. The little smile remained as she kept her eyes on the playing children. Though she didn't glance at Malcolm, she did shift over to lean against him, her hips even with his shoulders.
He rested his head on her side, just above her hip. "You seem better," he said, feeling happiness settling in at being able to interact like this—normally, like any other couple on Thedas.
"I feel better." Yet, her words held only a scant amount of optimism. "For now. It never lasts."
"The dark part doesn't last, either."
"I could do with less of the volatility."
He grinned up at her. "But what would be the fun in that?"
She broke away long enough to return his smile, but too many shadows gathered behind it for either of them to feel entirely comfortable. But when she went back to watching the children, her newfound brightness peeked through. Then her expression changed again, her smile not disappearing so much as transforming, accompanied by a slight nod of her head and an air of contentedness.
Malcolm knew that look. She'd decided on something and, likely, it was something involving him and a prank of some sort, given what they'd just been discussing. Andraste's ass, he had only himself to blame for it. Still, he had to try to find out. Maybe she'd take pity on him. "Copper for your thoughts?"
She didn't. "My thoughts are worth more than a copper. You'll have to think of something better."
With how long they'd been separated, he could think of several things, but most of them he couldn't say right there, and the ones he could were cut off by Merrill's arrival with Emrys and Lanaya.
The two Keepers were a study in contrasts, old Dalish and new, with Lanaya grinning widely at the human and elven children playing happily together, and Emrys outwardly scowling at the same. Merrill, though she lit up a bit when she noticed, was the one who kept up with whatever conversation they'd been having on their return from Sundermount.
"I can't just leave Kirkwall without saying goodbye," she said, mostly to Emrys.
"She's right," Líadan said when Emrys looked to disagree. "Marian would track her down. So if you don't want uninvited human guests, which I know you don't, I'd say give her some time before you make her go."
Emrys' lips pursed in distaste, whether over the delay or being trumped, Malcolm couldn't tell. Either way, he looked as if he'd smelled dog shit. "Very well. Three days. Then we must move on." After glancing over at the children in exasperation, he gave the rest of his instructions. "You may continue on to Kirkwall whenever you wish. The clans will remain here while you retrieve the eluvian and your belongings and conclude your business with the humans."
Malcolm could swear he saw Keeper Lanaya, standing just out of Emrys' sight, roll her eyes at the other Keeper. Then she asked, "Will you be going now? Or will you be staying the night?"
Merrill glanced over at Líadan. "I'd like another night," Líadan said after a grateful smile to her friend.
Lanaya nodded. "It will give you more time for your farewells. Since we'll be traveling overland, it will be a month or more before we see you again."
"Better than the years between the last two times. This won't be so bad," said Líadan. Her positive outlook was feigned, and she fooled no one with it.
When she did make the rounds of the Dalish camp, saying goodbye to the people she'd been so happy to see again, each one of them saw right through the front she put up, but from what Malcolm could hear, no one directly called her on it. They addressed it in different terms, sticking to farewells and see-you-agains and making plans for when they met up again in Highever.
When Líadan returned to their small campsite just beyond the aravel Ariane and Oisín shared, her eyes were heavy with weariness and sorrow. It was a measured amount, however, appropriate to her experience and not a warning for her mood to shift like the winds before a squall. Then they registered surprise when she noticed that Cáel was still awake and sitting next to Malcolm by the fire. Cael's chin rested on his hands, and his elbows were propped on his legs, and he was partially curled into himself, practically a small lump of moodiness. The most Malcolm had managed to pry out of him was that he couldn't sleep. Maddeningly, Cáel wouldn't clarify why he couldn't sleep, which left them staring awkwardly into the fire.
"What's with you?" Líadan gently asked Cáel as she sat on his left side.
For a moment, it seemed Cáel would practice the same reticence as he had with Malcolm. Then he said, "Dane and Callum are mages, aren't they?"
Malcolm fought the urge to scowl. Cáel could've asked him about that, easy. "That's the rumor," he said out loud. Then he realized that being flippant wasn't the nicest thing to do at the moment, considering what the revelation meant for Cáel's future. It also provided the reason why Cáel had waited for his mother's presence before talking about it. Malcolm cleared his throat. "Yes, I mean. Hildur confirmed it."
"This sucks."
"It does." This was definitely the sort of conversation Malcolm could navigate, the kind where there was nothing really to discuss except to complain and confirm that the situation sucked, and that there wasn't anything they could do about it.
Straightening up to cross his arms over his chest, Cáel sent a glare Malcolm's way. "I wasn't talking about my cousins."
"Neither was I."
Cáel's eyes flashed with realization, but he didn't lose the challenging lift to his chin or hardness of his glare. "And there's nothing you can do? There's nothing Uncle Alistair can do?"
Malcolm hid his mirth at the first reply he thought of—Uncle Alistair could make more babies with your Aunt Anora and hope one of them isn't a mage—and held in the reply, too. Cáel had been traumatized enough as it was. The only other option he could think of was for Alistair to name a different heir, one not of the known Theirin line, but Malcolm didn't see the Landsmeet going for it. They'd fought too hard and compromised too much with Alistair and Malcolm and even Cáel to make them legitimate after putting Alistair on the throne. However, other than those choices, there truly wasn't much to be done. "We can do plenty, but none of those things will change your situation."
"I don't want to be… I don't."
He sighed, truly wishing he had the ability to change things. When Alistair and Anora had Callum, Malcolm had truly believed he wouldn't have to worry about Cáel inheriting the throne. Maybe one of them could've turned out a mage, but with Anora not having any magic in her ancestry, thinking both would be mages was preposterous. Yet, there it was. And there it was again, with Cáel very much not a mage, despite both of his bloodlines. "There are a lot of things we have to do that we don't want to. Much as it sucks, it's part of life."
Cáel thought on that answer for a while, his contemplative gaze flipping between the fire and the aravels. Then he asked, "Like when we had to leave you behind in Denerim?"
Malcolm flinched slightly, the memory still tender. "I believe that's high up on the list of sucky things. A few places above fighting an archdemon, in the end."
"I'd rather the archdemon."
"Mmm. I wasn't entirely serious about the thing with the archdemon, so don't say that until you've faced one. Might change your mind."
Cáel shrugged, an actual archdemon not quite as viscerally frightening to someone who'd never stood an arm's length away from one. He didn't know that writhing pit of taint and fear and the infernal song, and he wouldn't have to, because Malcolm and Líadan and Alistair and the entire group of people who'd banded together during the Blight had killed the previous one. There was the issue with Zevran and Morrigan having preserved the archdemon's soul, but Cianán had yet to prove to be anything other than a normal, if rather precocious, elf-blooded child. "Maybe," Cáel said out loud. "Maybe not."
"You'd change your mind," said Líadan.
Cáel grumbled and looked more morose than before. "Then there isn't any way to solve this."
"No, not really." Malcolm gestured toward the tent Cáel shared with Cianán, Ava, and Nuala. "Might as well go to sleep at this point."
Cáel had halfway nodded in agreement before he caught himself. Then he let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine." When neither parent questioned him about his state of mind, which his drama had been an invitation to do in order to delay going to bed, he shuffled back into the tent.
Once the tent flaps had settled and no glow from a magelight shone through the crack along the bottom, Malcolm let himself laugh softly.
"You nearly told him that he was welcome to ask Alistair and Anora to have more kids, didn't you?" asked Líadan.
"I didn't say it," said Malcolm. "And I'm not entirely opposed to the idea, if it could work."
"It wouldn't. Anora would say no."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Just how would you know that?"
"We're friends. We talk about all sorts of things."
"Including girly things, apparently."
She jammed an elbow into his side, hard. Which, in retrospect, he deserved. "Sorry, I clearly meant womanly things."
That earned him a second elbow, also deserved. Before he could say anything that'd get him a third elbow, he took advantage of Líadan's closeness and kissed her the next time she looked at him. No more elbows after that, and there were no grumbles when they stumbled off to their own tent.
A fresh blanket of snow greeted them in the morning. Malcolm stuck his head out from between the tent flaps, noticed the snow, and grinned. Winter was never proper when only a dusting of snow reminded them of the season. Sure, they were still missing the howling wind from the Waking Sea that lashed at Highever during vicious Haring storms, and were certainly missing the stinging snow pelting them in the face, but this was at least somewhat respectable. Still pleased about the snow, he gathered up the necessaries for a quick bath and headed for the portable, mercifully enclosed tubs the Dalish had set up near the camp. Líadan had once explained the broken-down tubs were kept in one of the aravels for when the clan either couldn't find a decent river or lake or pond or it was too cold to bathe in an available body of water. The Dalish weren't a lot of things, but one thing they were was clean. And a civilized clean, too, since Keepers or Firsts enchanted the tubs and their refills to be hot.
Refreshed from his bath, Malcolm paid no attention to surly looks from Suriel elves as he strode back to his group's little outskirt camp. The idea of going home had settled into his mind and he honestly couldn't wait. He didn't want to stay in Kirkwall again, yet he knew they had to. He'd count the days, though, and they'd be few, for everyone's sake. If Alistair wasn't there, then they'd be able to go home sooner, and that would give Malcolm that much more time to sort out his head on how he felt about Alistair and his choices about the Chantry.
No, no time for that now. He was pleasantly warm, he could smell delicious food cooking that he was fairly certain Lanaya's clan would share, and the snow—
A hand shot out from behind a nearby tree and jerked him aside.
"Follow me," said Morrigan, her tone warning him that no ground would be given for disobedience.
His curiosity made him agreeable, mostly because he wanted to know what had her worked up. She only got this intense with deeply personal things, and since neither she nor Nathaniel had clarified what—if anything—was going on between them, Malcolm supposed she could be doing it now.
He was getting all the best gossip lately.
So he followed, Morrigan's fingers digging into his arm in case he got any ideas about not. Her footsteps were silent while his crunched in the fresh snow, compressing it under his boots. When they could barely see the outlines of the aravels backlit by the rising sun, Morrigan stopped. Then she let go of Malcolm's arm in favor of jabbing a finger into his chest. Since he was unarmored, he felt it, and believed it hard enough to bruise.
Maybe it would, and that would be a fun time trying to explain it later. Maybe he shouldn't have indulged his curiosity.
It was something Wynne would say, and a pang of sorrow went through him; she'd never scold him again over things like that.
"You doubted her," said Morrigan.
Definitely not the direction he'd assumed Morrigan would take. This had nothing at all to do with Nathaniel, and at this rate, he'd never know what was going on with them and it just might kill him. "What?" he asked.
She actually looked rather offended that he hadn't immediately known whatever it was she was referring to, and it served as further fuel for her anger. "You insult both of our intelligences when you play the innocent, so I shall spell it out for you: Líadan. You doubted her."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh." Rolling her eyes at him didn't keep her anger at bay for very long. "For however short or long a moment it was, you sincerely believed she might have acted like the angry, wild elf we stumbled upon long ago."
"Zevran stumbled on her, actu—"
Her look went so dark that he immediately shut up.
"Do not think to play this deflection game of yours, for I will not participate. I saw the look upon your face as you approached the clearing. You believed she had killed those humans."
"I didn't believe." It hadn't been belief, had it? He hadn't been sure. In fact, the entire time he'd been terribly unsure of what he'd find, and terribly afraid that his knowledge of his wife had been wrong.
Morrigan crossed her arms. "Explain."
He deliberately did not cross his own. Doing so would have them both digging their feet in for a bloody, protracted battle, and he didn't want to fight. And even if he did, a fight with Morrigan meant he stood a fairly good chance at losing. "I was afraid."
"You play with the words, yet the meaning is the same. You doubted. How could you have doubted her, after everything?" Her outrage drove her arms away from her body to gesture with short, jerky motions. No room existed between them for Malcolm to answer. Morrigan had too much momentum, and she used it to step in closer to him.
Her anger choked the very air, Malcolm fought the urge to fall back, to retreat so he could better breathe, to break the strange sort of intimacy the moment brought. Neither of them were strangers to heated arguments in snowy forests, speaking of trust and love and being at the mercy of the vulnerability that accompanied those feelings. Right now, he was vulnerable because Morrigan had the ability to see past any emotional defenses he might've put up, and Morrigan knew enough about him to wield most precise of knives to pierce him in the most guarded depths of his heart. She'd held this sort of knowledge about him for a very long time, even with circumstances having changed. Standing among the trees as they were, snow underfoot, air still cold enough for breath to be seen as they dueled over emotions, stirred up memories of the Blight. Memories he examined, providing a strange sort of juxtaposition between then and now. Her ability to hurt held no less potency than before, yet the reasons had changed. Back then, when he hadn't even known Líadan existed, his love for Morrigan had really been the only thing he'd held so closely and protected so fiercely. Now, while his still cared for her, still loved her albeit in a different way, those feelings took up far less room, pressed to the side as they were by his love for Líadan and their children. And Morrigan knew. She'd known the moment she'd seen him in Marian's house. She knew his strength and his weakness in one, and could gut him with it if she chose to.
He'd thought the walls protecting one of his deepest vulnerabilities—Líadan—had been impenetrable, yet Morrigan had found a flaw to exploit.
But when he looked back at her, he immediately knew she shared the same sort of vulnerability as he did. She cared for Líadan more than she'd ever admitted out loud, and Malcolm identified it without trouble because he felt the same about Fergus and Alistair. He'd protect his brothers the same as Morrigan was doing now for Líadan.
There was more. Morrigan's distraction, however momentary, betrayed her.
When the laughter of children tumbled through the cold air, warmth left in its wake, Morrigan's eyes flicked briefly over Malcolm's shoulder and toward the encampment behind him. She returned her gaze to him, and when she spoke, her tone had become heavy with certainty. "She was the only person I trusted enough to be Cáel's mother, and she has proven worthy of that trust. I am still unsure of whether she ultimately chose to do it for me, for you, or perhaps for him, but that is immaterial. What matters is that she accepted a human child as her own, and her acceptance of that role has not wavered."
"No, it hasn't."
"Nor has my trust in her. Yet, you… Merrill was right. The woman we met, the woman still entirely Dalish, bright with fever from the blight, would never have accepted what Líadan did. Yet, she did." Her finger jabbed at the camp next to the aravels. "Yet, she is the woman whom you doubted. How?"
The children laughed again. He picked out Cáel's laugh, and it was almost painful to hear.
Malcolm tried to put every ounce of pleading into his gaze as he could—please, please in your heart find pity because I haven't sorted this out in my own head. It fell short. "I don't know."
Morrigan's eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected that answer, and Malcolm wished he had a better one. Maybe it was dread. Maybe it was that tiny spike of truth, the one that had made the ruse of her returning to the Dalish appear real to everyone else, that she might have done it and meant it. Or that the instability the cure for Tranquility had caused had thrown her back to who she'd been when they'd first met her. But to believe it didn't make sense, not when he took her recent choices into account. If anything, like Morrigan had said, it should've given him more confidence in her. Yet, he'd been afraid.
"You had best figure it out," said Morrigan.
"I know." He had to mend that crack in the wall, because neither of them could afford to falter, not now. Líadan needed him to keep his footing while hers slipped unpredictably as if blindfolded while walking an icy winter path and was desperately trying to recover from every sudden slide.
"And you must tell her."
It was his turn for his eyes to widen. "I don't want her to—"
"She is not broken, nor will telling her an honest truth render her so."
"I know." He knew damn well Líadan wasn't broken. If she was, she'd have collapsed like Pharamond had, a hopeless heap of emotions so snarled they'd never untangle, the extent of the work necessary too taxing to undertake, so onerous that he'd requested Tranquility again, or, preferably, death. Líadan had requested neither, and he would be astonished if she did. Yet he stepped lightly, cautiously, as if one misstep would shatter everything.
"You know," said Morrigan, as if she knew exactly what his thoughts were, "yet you do not believe, and that is the problem. Find the solution." She held his gaze for another moment before striding past him and back to the Dalish camp.
Malcolm remained among the trees for a little longer, wondering how he could give voice to his fear when it was one of the hardest feelings to acknowledge, much less out loud.
By the time their group, accompanied by the small party of Ra'asiel hunters who'd volunteered to help cart out Merrill's eluvian, reached the Wounded Coast, Malcolm had managed to set aside his fear until it could be dealt with properly. Now wasn't the time. They were too busy; too much relied on them needing to keep cool heads. Later, when they were safe in Highever, they could talk about it.
What Malcolm couldn't set aside was how bloody hot it had gotten. The snow had all but disappeared as they'd descended to the coastline, and once the Waking Sea came into view, no traces remained. With no clouds in the sky, no discernible breeze from the sea, and the sun slowly broiling him in his armor, Malcolm was actively sweating. Heavily, no less. In the winter, while not engaged in battle, because they weren't in Ferelden. Catching sight of the city's walls should have cheered him up, but he knew better, because Kirkwall would be even hotter than it was out here. Malcolm let go of another string of curses that ended with, "I hate the north."
"This isn't the north," said Ariane, who'd been one of the volunteers, because why wouldn't she?
He scowled, ineffective as it was. "It is to me. It's winter. There should be snow covering the ground and a bite to the wind and ice on the water—yes, even on the edges of the sea—and it isn't like proper winter isn't very far away from here. So, if there isn't snow in the winter, it's the north, and that is a real abomination."
Ariane glanced over at him as she dismounted her halla, the elves sending them off to hide while they conducted business in the city. "Should you ever visit Antiva or Tevinter again, you might actually melt."
"Then let's hope I never have to occasion to, then."
"I am certain both nations would be grateful if you did not," said Morrigan.
"I've always wanted to visit Antiva!" said Merrill. "I've heard so much about it, with their infestation of crows and sharing so many swords with their kings and queens. It sounds fascinating."
Malcolm pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. "You might think you want to visit Antiva, but you really don't. I promise."
Líadan laughed as she smiled over at Merrill. "The Suriel aren't going to know what to make of you."
"No, probably not. But it'll be fine."
Their conversation halted as they passed through Kirkwall's gates near Hightown, the city guards looking them over more than once. The griffon sigils on Malcolm and Líadan's clothing bought grudging nods from the weary guards, while the vallaslin of the non-Warden Dalish drew the narrowed eyes of suspicion, accompanied by several more measured looks. Morrigan initially warranted the same sort of attention, but when she quietly snarled at them—Malcolm wasn't sure if she meant it or not—more than a few jumped away and then refused to look in her direction again.
It would be a lie for him to say he wasn't jealous of that particular ability.
Past the gates, their group split into two parties: Merrill and the other Dalish headed for the Alienage, with Morrigan and Nathaniel following. Cianán elected to stay with Nuala and the other children as the rest of them headed for the Amell estate. Bodahn welcomed them with enthusiasm, and Sandal seemed excited about the children returning, though Malcolm still had a hard time telling with Sandal scarcely speaking more than one word. The estate looked lived-in, belongings scattered here and there in every room, trails of people too busy to pick up after themselves more than absolutely necessary. Yet the presence of people did nothing to make up for the sense of home that Leandra had brought to the estate. If Malcolm could feel the loss, he couldn't imagine how it must be affecting Marian and Bethany. Something was forever not quite right here, and there was nothing to fix it except time, and that alone would never be enough.
"Lady Marian is down at the Gallows," Bodahn said to Malcolm and Líadan as he pointed the returning guests toward various rooms. "She and the Warden-Commander would like to see you as soon as possible."
Líadan looked briefly discomfited, but followed up with a shrug. "Now is as good a time as any, I suppose. It won't get better or worse to wait."
"If you say so," said Malcolm, but he wasn't as sure as she was about the waiting. Then again, he wasn't her, and if she said it would affect her this way, then she had a better take on it than he would.
Ava had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on Revas' collar and the mabari casting her a concerned look. "I don't want to go back there," she said.
Líadan exchanged a brief look with Nuala, and then nodded. "You don't have to. You can stay here with Nuala and Kennard. I suspect Cáel and Cianán aren't terribly taken with the idea of going to the Gallows, either."
"Definitely not," said Cáel, while Cianán nodded.
"Good," said Nuala. "It's settled. You three, stow your stuff, and we'll go find something to do. Maybe even something fun."
Líadan watched them leave with wistful eyes. "Some days, I'd rather go back to being a child."
"Some days, I suspect you were punished a lot less than I was as a child," said Malcolm.
She smiled. "Some of us were better at not getting caught."
"Now you're just bragging."
Her smile grew wider, and the humor didn't fade from her eyes until they started their descent to Lowtown, where breaks through the crowded buildings offered a clear view of the harbor and the Gallows below. Her step faltered and her face crumpled, as fearful and hesitant as their daughter had been. The act of returning to the Gallows was stripping away what control Líadan had regained during their short stay with the Dalish. Then her jaw set, her look darkened, and the dread was hidden, imprisoned once more for however long her mind decided to cooperate. Malcolm hoped it would be longer than before. The last thing Líadan needed was a public breakdown. She'd had too many already and he wasn't sure how many more she could endure.
Then her expression brightened just a little as she studied the harbor with newly-determined eyes. It took Malcolm a moment to catch up, but he did, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to smile or cry or maybe he'd do both, because there was a remarkable number of Fereldan ships in Kirkwall's harbor.
Líadan's voice cracked a bit, but she managed some humor, something that'd been scarce when it came to Kirkwall. "Think we should tell him he's late?"
"Not in so many words."
"Still planning on a fight?" she asked as she resumed their walk down the rest of the steps and headed for the Lowtown docks and the ferry to the island.
"I'm not planning a fight."
She gave him a dubious look.
He sighed. "Nor will I be going out of my way to avoid one. I might try instigating one or I might not. I honestly don't know. I'm pissed at him, yet at the same time, I understand why he did what he did... but I still want to hit him."
Líadan nodded, as if she understood his muddled statement. Then she mulled it over as they arranged passage on a ferry, and kept mulling it over as they boarded.
"Maybe," she said slowly as the ferry got underway, "maybe Fergus already hit him."
He wasn't sure what to make of her tone. "I can't tell if you're grateful or jealous."
"Both."
From what Malcolm could see, Líadan seemed fine as the ferry docked and they headed for the Gallows courtyard. If he hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have noticed her slowing as the gate loomed closer. Since her steps didn't halt entirely, he resisted the urge to help, because whatever help he gave other than walking next to her would be physical—a touch to the shoulder, a hand at the small of her back—reminders that he was there. But any physical action on his part would draw attention to Líadan's plight, which would only serve to worsen her surely growing embarrassment at her perceived inability to move past what'd happened. In Malcolm's opinion, she'd done an amazing job thus far. He certainly couldn't see himself being more put together than she was. Likely, he'd be far worse off. But she remained the only person who needed to be convinced that she was doing fine, and he wasn't under any delusions that she'd allow herself that belief anytime soon.
Then he noticed Líadan glancing at him out of the corner of her eye before she brushed her hand against his, their fingers briefly twining before she let her hand fall to her side again. Whatever reassurance it had been for her, it had been enough. Her shoulders settled back to the confidence she'd possessed before all of this had happened, and her steps did not slow further.
When they were close enough to the gate to make out the faces of the templars stuck on guard duty, one of them addressed Líadan directly. He was a youngish-looking man who seemed genuinely happy to see her, though his eyes did flash with the slight trepidation of anyone who'd once been a target of her temper. Given that the other man was a templar, it was highly likely that he had. Malcolm gave him credit for seeing past the angry person she must've been in the Gallows enough to be glad to meet her again.
Malcolm immediately began to like him, because it meant the other man was a better observer than he was. It seemed it had taken this young templar far less time to recognize the good, kind, and non-threatening elements of Líadan's personality than it had Malcolm. He'd been half-afraid of her for the longest time, and even after that, he'd been ambivalent, so unsure of what to make of her that he hadn't recognized his own developing feelings for what they were. And even after he had, he'd still had those doubts over the conversion of her views on humans. Occasional and surprising, the frequency of his doubts had diminished enough over the years that he'd thought them gone. Up until the other day, when they'd risen up and struck him dumb, leaving him unable to explain to their children how the Dalish they knew, especially their mother, weren't dangerous, not to them, and probably not to humans in general.
It was the 'probably' part that tripped him up when it came to explaining.
He knew Líadan wasn't a danger. Well, she would be if she or her loved ones or friends were threatened, but that was a reaction common to all people on Thedas. He shouldn't have doubted and he had and that wasn't fair because she hadn't doubted him, not since her fears that he'd leave her for Morrigan so many years ago had been proven untrue. Yet his doubt had surfaced, which meant that it had existed throughout that time, and he needed to figure out why.
Not now, of course, not when the young templar lifted his hand in greeting and asked Líadan how she was.
"Better," she said, better enough to have some wry humor behind her reply. As the templar blushed, Líadan motioned from Malcolm to him. "This is Ser Keran. I threatened to kill him more than once, but he isn't so bad. Maybe even good."
As Malcolm shook hands with Ser Keran, he said, "She tried to kill me when we first met, so you're doing pretty well so far."
Keran's eyes widened and he looked to Líadan for confirmation.
"Just the once," she said, and then frowned. "I think it was once."
"I honestly don't remember," said Malcolm.
After smiling a little at him, she returned to Keran and shrugged. "Not the best of beginnings, but there you go."
Keran shook his head, wisely left the subject at that, and gestured toward the open gate. "Everyone's in there, either in the courtyard somewhere, helping sort through belongings and papers that haven't been wrecked or claimed, or they're inside and probably doing the same."
The courtyard bustled, filled with the sounds of shouted questions, the crash of newly-scrapped wood hitting a pile of the same, grunts as laborers carried chunks of rock that had been knocked from the walls during the fight, Shale's cutting remarks regarding their pitiful inability to keep up with her, the clang of metal as pieces of the broken statues were piled higher than the wood from furniture ruined from the carnage inside. It was, in short, a mess.
Yet, Malcolm could see the chaos slowly resolving as templars and mages worked together, templars grateful of mages aiding with magic, instead of reacting with the usual hostility or suspicion. And the mages helping had gained enough confidence to use their magic without hesitation, without a fearful look at a single templar working alongside them.
Cullen stood at the bottom of the Gallows steps, sending orders and reviewing papers, interspersed with occasional shouts at dawdling templars. Near Cullen, but in their own tight knot of heated conversation were Marian, Bethany, Sebastian, and a worn-out Carver. In between moments of disagreement with his sisters, he kept giving the building behind him a surprised look, as if the events hadn't released the shock they'd likely put him in when he first found out what'd happened while he was gone.
Hildur, who'd issued the summons in the first place, was nowhere to be seen. Malcolm frowned. Then Cullen, who'd looked up for another shout, noticed Malcolm and Líadan's approach. He nodded at them and then summoned the templar he'd been ready to scold. After they spoke briefly, the young woman darted inside the Gallows.
The rest of their friends had barely begun to greet them when Alistair and Fergus bounded out of the Gallows, with Hildur and Gratian following at a far more leisurely place. Fergus managed to beat the king to his brother and sister-in-law, and he wrapped them up in great big hugs one after the other. Malcolm mutely withstood his brother's greeting, having experienced them enough as a child to know that protests only prolonged the embarrassment. Though she'd been part of the family for years, Líadan had yet to learn the same lesson, and complained the entire time Fergus refused to let her go. As if to outdo Fergus, Alistair did the same, but with Líadan he went so far as to pick her up. Alistair did, however, put her down before she carried out her threats.
"So," Alistair said as he stepped back and took measure of them both, "here I am in Kirkwall."
"Bit late," said Malcolm. "Hildur already kicked all the asses. There are no asses left to be kicked. Not even donkeys. You'll just have to go home. Or you could always kick your own ass." Before Alistair could respond to that last part, Malcolm peered out toward the harbor. "Is it just you two or did you bring friends?"
Alistair coughed. "There might be a not insignificant portion of the navy and a contingent of the army in a very not insignificant amount of ships in the harbor. Kirkwall's harbor. Over there, where you're looking."
Malcolm drew his gaze away from the safety of the ships and back to his brother. "Lots of friends, then?" They were in public, and no matter how angry he might be with Alistair, he couldn't start a fight right here. And if he kept telling himself that, his mind might be inclined to agree, not that he got his hopes up.
"What can I say?" Alistair shrugged. "Fereldans are a loyal bunch."
Except some elder brothers, Malcolm thought, but dropped and changed the subject once he noticed Hildur sidling up to them. "Are any other templars left alive aside from the ones out here?"
"A quarter of the templars originally assigned to the Gallows are alive, maybe," she said. "Not because Alistair and his troops killed them, or because Fergus got to them, but because they were guilty of various crimes. We kept a record of the proceedings, a copy of which we'll be sending to the Chantry, along with a note saying something to the effect of not listening to their shit anymore, and Wardens will do what they like when it comes to mages and magic."
"Will the Wardens declare war?" Alistair asked. "Because that almost sounded like a declaration of war."
"Not an outright one. More of a personal one between me and them." Hildur's wistful smile told them she'd rather it be more than just her. "But I believe the Chantry will no longer be officially accommodated by the Grey Wardens as a whole. Not after they've shown that they're willing to do whatever they want to our mages, such as abduct them from the streets and keep them prisoner."
Next to Malcolm, Líadan stiffened, yet said nothing.
Having noticed, Fergus tilted his head slightly to the side as he regarded her. When he raised an eyebrow in question, Líadan gave a short shake of her head. While Fergus didn't seem pleased with her putting off an explanation, he didn't contradict her.
It helped that Bethany had finally approached with Marian, Sebastian, and Carver, and she whispered what Malcolm assumed was a short assurance in Fergus' ear, because he relaxed slightly and didn't look quite so confrontational, at least not toward Líadan. But judging from the glare Fergus directed at Alistair, any could see that he was pissed at the King.
Alistair, on his part, didn't catch any of it, too focused as he was on the possibilities of war between the Wardens and the Chantry. "They'll just claim Meredith went rogue," he said to Hildur.
She shrugged. "They can claim whatever they like. I will say that Meredith had declined far into madness by the time we fought her, and that her recent actions were a reflection of it. However, by many accounts, Meredith had been headed in that direction for years, and the Chantry never removed her from her position as Knight-Commander. Grand Cleric Elthina, despite requests from many, never intervened." Then she looked over at Cullen. "And there was something you mentioned about a Seeker?"
He nodded. "One was sent to try to convince Grand Cleric Elthina to leave one final time. The Grand Cleric refused and the Seeker left without doing much more."
Before Malcolm or Líadan could even think to mention the Seeker's role in Líadan's eventual release from the Gallows, Sebastian volunteered his own information. "There were two Seekers, actually, in two separate visits. Elthina mentioned to me a visit she'd had months ago, of a Seeker who'd come to assess the problems with the templars and the problems with Kirkwall in general, and to offer Elthina the refuge the second Seeker urged her to accept. Elthina turned her down, as she eventually did to each one of us who asked her to seek safety." He paused for a moment to gather himself, having caught the rise in his voice. "She also mentioned that the Seeker had found the source of many of the Kirkwall Circle's darker problems and had taken care of it."
Marian jumped. "You mean when they found Ser Alrik's body in the harbor?"
"Yes."
"That explains those weeks of relative calm. Even Anders mentioned it. Alrik was a real asshole. No one liked him, not even other assholes."
"No one mourned his death that I know of," said Gratian.
"He should have been dealt with officially and sooner," said Cullen. No one disagreed, but they fell into an awkward silence, not knowing how to voice that agreement without it sounding like it was judging Cullen.
The awkward silence held fast between them until Alistair couldn't take the discomfort any longer. He studied Líadan again, more than he had during their initial greeting. "You look different." Then he pointed briefly at her face. "Those. Those are different. They are definitely not the ones you had before."
Despite the numerous unkind replies Malcolm could see flashing in her eyes, Líadan opted for civility. "Those were ruined."
Alistair managed to catch the light admonishment. "I like these ones better?"
Líadan lifted an eyebrow.
He ran a hand over his face. "Yes, I know. Sounds bad either way." Then the awkward quiet returned, as if Malcolm's want for a fight—one apparently shared by Líadan and Fergus—was a physical presence manifesting in silence. Everything felt uncomfortable, like a soft, worn-in shirt turning inexplicably scratchy. Alistair always had something to say, especially in moments of tension, but that ability seemed to be gone. Now, like the rest of them, even he hesitated to engage in meaningful conversation, as if he knew a fight loomed and wanted to incite it but didn't at the same time. Alistair shook his head slightly and abandoned the subject of Líadan's new vallaslin in favor of addressing Malcolm. "How was your trip to Adamant?"
Malcolm stared at him, astonished that Alistair would not only resort to small talk, but also to blatantly brush Líadan aside. "Look, I'm fairly pissed at you, so I'm not in the mood for a chat."
Alistair blanched at the bluntness. "I was honestly expecting a punch in the face, so I figured that when you didn't, things were better than… well… this. Whatever this is."
"Just because I haven't hauled off and hit you yet doesn't mean it isn't out of the question," said Malcolm. Since the templars and mages who were potential witnesses to a fistfight between the King of Ferelden and his brother owed the Wardens a great deal of debt, they theoretically could be convinced to keep their mouths shut. It opened up possibilities for an earlier confrontation than Malcolm had planned, and he brightened at the prospect. Anything had to be better than the awkward silences.
"If you aren't going to hit him, little brother," said Fergus, "then it's up to me or Líadan." He extended a hand toward Líadan. "You have the right to the first blow, of course."
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Fergus for so blatantly encouraging a fight. "Does Meghan know you're here? Not that I'm complaining. Just curious." Meghan would have encouraged civility, a sort of civility that involved not a single fight. The whole walking righteously in the Maker's Light seemed to be a Vael family trait. Luckily for Meghan, she had other admirable traits to balance that one out, so he was rather fond of his sister-in-law. Sebastian, however, he was fairly sure he only put up with because of Marian.
Fergus rolled his eyes. "That was complaining and you know it. For your information, she does know I'm here. She'd be here herself if someone didn't have to stay behind in Highever, and if there wasn't the whole carrying a child thing not mixing well with the traveling by ship thing."
Malcolm grinned. "I'd forgotten!" He hadn't really forgotten that Meghan was expecting, but it'd kept slipping to the far corners of his mind as he'd grappled with more immediate concerns.
Beside him, Líadan grumbled about 'not mixing well' being an understatement.
"Don't let her hear you say that," Malcolm said to Fergus. "Though I would like to know if she'd be up for some guests for a few weeks, and if you'd be up for it, too. Maybe more than a few weeks, depending." Depending on when they'd be willing to leave the safe confines of Highever for the bustling, emotionally exhausting city of Denerim.
Fergus offered both Malcolm and Líadan a warm smile. "Highever will always be a home for you."
Líadan visibly brightened. On seeing it, so did Malcolm.
Alistair kept glancing between them, as if stymied as to why they'd be so happy with the arrangement, or why they'd even plan it at all. "So… you're not coming straight to Denerim." It barely managed not to cross the line into an admonishment, but Malcolm saw it as a challenge anyway. Alistair wasn't stupid. He had to know how they felt. He had to know they needed time to recuperate, to gather their scattered minds and emotions to prepare to return to Denerim. To prepare to confront the reality that their son was the throne's only eligible heir. To prepare to weather the presence of two people toward whom they currently felt a great deal of animosity.
"We need time. Our family needs time," Malcolm said, his intentions at first to get Alistair to understand if he truly didn't, but he lost the thread of peaceful explanation fairly quickly. "And I'd also rather not yell at Anora. She holds grudges. And since I want to yell at Anora almost as much as I want to yell at you, it's better I not go for a while. Unless you want me to yell. I'm sure I could muster something right now." He felt his shoulders tighten and his fingers twitch in want to curl into fists at the idea of being let off their leash. "On second thought, how about you ask me to yell, even if you don't want me to. Because I'd like to."
Alistair stared at him as he, too, readied for a fight.
Marian interposed herself between the two brothers, a hand held out toward each of them to keep them apart. "If you gentleman could move on from this not-fighting fight, that would work well for the rest of us. We've got things to decide before anyone goes home, such as what we're going to do with the mages."
"We weren't fighting," said Alistair, though it sounded an awful lot like he was accusing Malcolm of starting the thing they were claiming not to be doing.
Malcolm responded with a glare.
"I know," Marian said slowly and carefully, "which is why I said what I said how I said it."
Bethany sighed. "Talking like that to a king? What would Mother say?"
"Nothing out loud. Likely she'd give me that disapproving look. You know the one." Marian seemed as if she missed the idea of her mother doing exactly that. It was a sentiment Malcolm understood.
"I wonder if she could give that look from the Fade?" asked Carver.
"I wouldn't doubt it," said Marian. "It's Mother we're talking about, after all."
The brief exchange had granted Malcolm enough time to rein himself in. However, Líadan remained on edge, only keeping herself from lashing out at Alistair by glaring at the Gallows. Malcolm wished he knew how to help. Maker, he'd be grateful for just a single thought shared from the ones going through her head her head, but wishing would get him nothing, and she'd never admit to anything in public either way. Malcolm opted to stick with the subject change. "Bethany talks like that to Alistair all the time."
Bethany rolled her eyes. "That's because I do when he's a Warden. In the Warden compound and not in the palace and certainly not in public. I learned the manners my mother taught me, even if some people didn't."
"Oh! You'll pay for that one," said Marian.
"Uncalled for," said Carver. "Honestly."
Having noticed that Líadan had yet to calm, Hildur cleared her throat to get their attention. "We should move this inside." She didn't have to add the 'before fights happen' part because it was obvious to everyone the real reason for getting out of the now curious and attentive eyes of templar and mage onlookers.
"The Gallows has enough space where we can sit down and hammer everything out with less a chance of being disturbed," said Cullen.
Líadan didn't indicate whether she agreed or disagreed with the new plan, and the others took it as agreement.
She continued appearing fine up until the Gallows doors opened, where she stopped.
"You all right?" asked Fergus, who'd chosen to walk next to Líadan. It'd taken him a mere moment to figure out that Líadan was in need of bolstering of some sort, and as Malcolm could attest, Fergus' presence tended to be just that.
Alistair hadn't noticed Líadan faltering at all, because he was at the front of the group, already speaking with Hildur and Cullen about possible actions they could take.
It was more of the king stuff, Malcolm realized, surprised at the sudden surge of bitterness that came out as soon as he'd pinned down what it was. It made no sense for him to be bitter about Alistair being king and filling that role properly by governing well. After all, he'd helped put Alistair on the throne, and it wasn't like he had any aspirations to it for himself. But the problem rested there, somewhere. He just had to find it.
"No. Yes. I'm just…" Líadan scowled at the Gallows and then looked at Hildur, who'd stopped and turned to her after overhearing Fergus' question. "I'm not going back in there. If you need to plan, you can do it without me."
Hildur's expression softened slightly, the work before her set aside for a small moment of compassion for one of the Wardens under her command. "We don't have to plan in there," she said, rather gently.
In response, Líadan's face crumpled a little, reacting to Hildur's understanding with an apparent overflow of gratitude. Then her hand reached up to cover her mouth, then higher, over her eyes, as if she could stop the outpouring if she couldn't see anyone.
Marian glanced frantically between Líadan and Hildur before she whirled to face Cullen and Gratian. "Fancy a trip out of the Gallows?"
"Maker, yes," said Gratian. "Everyone's all but made me First Enchanter, and I need to escape their ridiculous expectations."
"You're more than capable," said Cullen.
"See what I mean? Ridiculous. And don't tell me that you don't think the nominal office you've been assigned to isn't ridiculous, either. I heard you complaining about it."
Cullen, though he'd not disagreed with Gratian's accusations, seemed reticent to leave.
Marian elbowed him. "Come on, I know you haven't been off this island in ages, and I have wine at my estate. Good wine." When that didn't seem to rouse Cullen, Marian tried another type of alcohol. "Or, if you want, I've got good Fereldan ale."
There was a twitch at the corner of Cullen's mouth, where a smile wanted to pull itself free. "Why didn't you mention that sooner?" he asked Marian. "I will gladly accept that invitation."
The pause afterward should have been filled with amusement, possibly even some laughter, but instead of the needed break in the increasing awkwardness, there was nothing. Nothing, except for a disquiet where, once, they had found solace.