Dawn came as dawn does, creeping slowly over the horizon, a sliver of light expanding, stretching into a blinding, fiery circle, bathing everything below it in light punctuated only by long shadows that would grow shorter as the day wore on. Of them all, Isabela was the least pleased about being awake and dressed at such an hour, but a successful night around the card table had made her purse heavier, which in turn made her less annoyed than she might otherwise have been under the same circumstances. Varric greeted the morning as if the evening had been a long one, but Amelle suspected his winnings were no less impressive than Isabela's, which probably explained why he was so very sanguine about the hour. Fenris, though quiet (and she was accustomed to that), was as awake and alert as she'd ever seen him.
She also didn't think she imagined the flicker of annoyance crossing Fenris' face when it turned out Jonah had been as good as his word: an early departure looked as if it wasn't going to be a difficulty at all.
The horses had been fed, watered, groomed to within an inch of their lives, and tacked up by the time they made it down to the stables. With the help of two other grooms—both of whom appeared incredibly taken with Isabela—the packs and bedrolls were strapped into place, and with that morning's magebane dose already an hour into Amelle's system, all she needed was a leg up onto Falcon and they could be on their way, leaving Kinloch Hold a distant memory behind them.
Then the deep, metallic clang of a bell shattered the morning peace, sharply enough that Agrippa and Falcon pawed the ground nervously while Tango pranced to the side. Only Cedric lowered his head to catch a tangle of stray hay between his teeth, chewing it sedately. The sound had startled them all, humans included, but it was Jonah who looked truly alarmed at the noise.
"What is that?" Amelle asked as Isabela groaned, "And how much longer are they going to ring it?"
Shaking his head as if the ringing bell were a figment he could drive off, Jonah turned quick steps toward the front of the stable; Amelle followed in time to see a cluster of men—templars, by their badges—come up the main street before breaking off into groups of two and three and dispersing into the town.
"What is it?" Amelle breathed again. She glanced over her shoulder to find Fenris standing behind her, watching the main street, his expression inscrutable.
"It's the alarm," explained Jonah. "It means someone's broken out of the Circle."
"Someone?" echoed Amelle, her stomach dropping suddenly, violently, somewhere down to the vicinity of her toes.
"A mage, miss."
A mage. A mage had—had broken out of the Circle.
Granted, nobody broke out of places they didn't mind being. Nobody broke out of places they were allowed to leave. No matter how useful mages were to Kinloch Hold, no matter whether they were paid a stipend for their work or not, they were still human beings who'd been taken away from their homes. And something about this development left Amelle feeling vaguely justified in her unease.
"We have to get out of here," Amelle breathed, struggling to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, one she was almost certain was her pounding heart. "So we… so we aren't underfoot," she added as an afterthought.
But Jonah had started shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking. "That won't do, miss. The whole town goes on lockdown after a breakout, until either the mage is brought back, or the Templar Marshall calls it."
"How long's that usually take?" asked Varric.
"Five days was the longest—no one in or out—and they never found that mage, either."
"Five days?" Amelle echoed weakly, her mind spinning. She could not stay here five days. Beyond the obvious reasons, they had a ship to board in Highever—they couldn't stay. She couldn't stay.
"Listen, sweet thing," Isabela purred, and Amelle envied her the grip she evidently had on her control. "Kitten's little brother is a templar in Kirkwall. She's on her way up for a visit, hasn't seen him in five years, poor thing, and their mother's sick… you wouldn't really make her wait five days all for one little mage on the run would you?"
Jonah looked very much like he wanted very badly to acquiesce to Isabela's request. "I'm sorry, miss, truly I am, but it's not up to me. Marshall Greagoir's the one who announces the lockdown. He's the only one who can break it."
Isabela's words came out in a frustrated sigh. "Of course he is."
"That was years ago anyway," Jonah offered brightly, as if doing so might turn Isabela's attention back his way. It didn't. "Hasn't been a breakout in Kinloch Hold in the better part of six months. Least two years before that."
Varric stepped away from Cedric, the shaggy pony giving a shake of his thick mane as he did. "Why don't I go see what I can find out?" Varric said. "Ask the right questions, you never know what you're gonna find." He started down the corridor of stalls, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Isabela. "You coming, Rivaini?"
"Why do I have to go?" she asked, her dark mood budging not an iota.
"Because," Varric explained with long-suffering patience, "when templars won't talk to me, there's a damn good chance they'll talk to you. It's your own fault for being prettier than me."
"Without all the chest hair."
"Hey, nobody's perfect."
They headed out of the stables, voices floating behind them until the sound of their footsteps and their conversation faded away. Once they were gone, Amelle flopped down to sit on a bale of hay.
"Got any cards?" she asked, pushing forward a smile she knew was too weak, too forced to be genuine. Amelle suspected Fenris saw and recognized that too, but rather than commenting, he reached into one of the worn saddlebags hanging along Agrippa's flank, and pulled out an equally worn deck of cards.
Her expression must have evidenced surprise, for his own closed off suddenly, his tone defensive.
"Is it somehow unusual," he asked coolly as he began shuffling the cards, "for a man to carry playing cards?"
"You have to admit, it's a rather sociable past-time, and you, Fenris, do not strike me as terribly sociable," she said, watching his long, white-lined fingers as he shuffled the cards—Fenris didn't have half as much flair as Isabela, nor were his fingers quite so nimble as Varric's, but he shuffled quickly and cleanly. There was no room for artifice, no room for deception in the movements. At that moment Amelle would have bet her entire lyrium stash that Fenris was an honest card player.
Maker help him against Isabela.
"Sociable," he echoed with a dry laugh. "You yourself have learned the importance of behaving in a manner counter to your own inclinations. Do you truly think no one else can have learned such a lesson earlier than you?"
Amelle looked up to find Fenris watching her, his expression arch.
All right, so maybe he wasn't quite so honest a card player.
"Just deal, all right?" she retorted with a huff.
Fenris dealt the cards between them; Amelle's attention was not, however, entirely on their game. She kept one ear cocked, straining to hear Isabela and Varric's approach. With every minute that passed, she ordered and reordered her cards, losing hand after hand and glad she hadn't done anything completely idiotic, like offering to play for money.
Fenris was a better bluffer than she'd given him initial credit for being, though she was still sure he was—more or less—an honest hand at cards. She wondered, suddenly, what this meant for her. Bluffing around a card table was one thing, but what if it came down to bluffing a bigger game? One word from him could lead to her incarceration, magebane or no, and they were currently in a town that was literally crawling with templar deputies. She glanced up from her hand to find Fenris watching her closely, eyes narrowed; she hoped he was just looking for tells.
As it turned out, Amelle didn't have a chance to ponder the matter any further than she had already. Heavy booted steps tromped into the stable, each footfall a dull, hollow echo against the wood. Jonah paled as he leapt to his feet and hurried off to meet the owners of such heavy footsteps. Amelle had a feeling she already knew.
"Morning, Jonah—sorry about the inconvenience. Just a cursory search of the stalls and we'll be out of your hair."
"The stablemaster isn't—"
"Eli's on his way. Spoke with him first." The voice sounded almost amused. "Said he wanted us to check the stalls and go on our damned way. Don't suppose you know of any mages hiding in here?"
Amelle's grip on her cards tightened, bending them beneath her thumbs.
"No, sers," the stablehand answered earnestly. "A mage wouldn't find a good spot to hide in here. Not with all the—"
"Horses," the templar finished for him. "Eli said the same thing." A mighty put-upon sigh followed. "All the same, the Marshall wants us to leave no stone unturned, no stall unchecked. We'll make it quick and try not to unsettle the horses too much. Eli's got a mean left hook when he's feeling ornery—meaner when he thinks someone's been fussing with the animals."
"Yes, sers."
Amelle held her breath as the footsteps drew nearer.
"Anything unusual going on this morning?" the second voice asked.
"We've got a few horses saddled up already," Jonah explained as he led the templars down the lone line of stalls. He raised his voice over the long squeals of protesting hinges as stall doors were opened and closed. "Just folks passing through."
The rustle of hay followed and Amelle tried to remember to breathe.
"Good looking animals," the first voice said as they passed the horses in their cross-ties. "Hopefully this won't take long and they can head out on their way."
The templars came around the corner then, passing the little niche where she and Fenris sat upon the haybale, cards in hand.
Amelle strove to keep her features neutral. Harmless, even. They were looking for a specific mage, and she wasn't it. What would a person who had no reason whatsoever to worry about a templar presence do in a situation like this one? Keep her eyes on her cards? Bid them good morning? Swoon and faint at the thought of one of those wretched mages being on the loose?
The two deputies stopped to take note of their card game. It was a small miracle Amelle's heart hadn't thundered its way out of her chest.
"Miss," one of them said in greeting.
Amelle looked up, a bland, perfectly pleasant smile in place. Templars, two of them, with badges on their chests and gunbelts slung on their hips, cavalry swords hanging to one side, gently curved and maliciously sharp. She would bid them a good morning, act appropriately distraught about the state of affairs and—
The two templars exchanged a look. One of them glanced at a piece of paper in his hand and nodded while the other wore an expression of long-suffering.
"Come with us, please," said Long-Suffering.
What?
"What?" Amelle blurted, darting a furtive glance at Fenris, who looked as baffled as she felt.
But the deputies were already reaching for her arms and as Amelle darted back, cards falling from nerveless fingers, she caught a glimpse of the paper in the second templar's hand.
It was a daguerreotype of a woman, and it looked just like her.
Amelle Hawke well and truly hated Kinloch Hold.
"I believe you've made some sort of mistake," Fenris said, and Maker, she envied him his calm.
"Did you intend to accompany this woman out of Kinloch Hold?" asked Daguerreotype.
"I did," Fenris replied evenly as Long-Suffering hauled Amelle to her feet, pulling the leather satchel that hung across her chest over her head and handing it over to Daguerreotype. "As I have been traveling in her company since Lothering and will continue on so until Kirkwall."
Long-Suffering looked at Jonah, who was staring at the unfolding scene, wide-eyed. "Sers, this— this woman was in the stables last night. I don't— I don't see how…"
But the deputy only shook his head and sent Amelle a disapproving glare. "Marshall's not going to like a mage trying to control anyone's minds."
"What—what?" Amelle sputtered, wishing she could find some other words that were slightly more eloquent. "I haven't—I'm not controlling anyone!" Mind control was definite blood magic territory, and if her father had taught her anything, it was that the very last thing a spirit healer needed to get herself tangled up in was blood magic. Spirit healing was dangerous enough on its own without involving darker forces. The sheer insinuation she was the type of person to control the mind of another was enough to spark some very real indignation.
Daguerreotype peered into her satchel and shook his head. "Looks like potions to me."
"Oh, Maker's breath, those are ointments for the horses!" she shouted. "Elfroot potion! You don't need to be a mage to make potions! I'm a healer, for Andraste's sake!"
There was still a very quiet, very rational place in her brain that pointed out to her shouting at templars might not have been the best idea. It was also the place where she marveled at the fact that she was shouting in the first place; her indignation was genuine, and she had not uttered one untruth so far this morning, for all the good it was doing her. It also happened to be where a single and completely terrifying question spawned:
What if the magebane didn't hide her from the templars?
They were going on appearance right now, and neither Long-Suffering nor Daguerreotype had made any attempt to sense her magic, but what if they did? What then?
"A healer who happens to look a great deal like the Circle's missing mage," Long-Suffering told her, his grip like iron on her arms. "Come along, now."
As they towed her away, her feet stumbling as she tried to resist the fingers scything into her arms Amelle shot one terrified glance over her shoulder to find Fenris on his feet and following them, his face set like stone.
"The woman in that picture isn't me," she insisted. "I won't deny there's a resemblance, but I just arrived in town last night. My friends and I are passing through to Kirkwall. My brother's a templar there—" this news, at least, caused a stutter in Long-Suffering's stride "—he's one of Marshall Stannard's deputies. Maker's breath, if I were an escaped mage, would I be headed that way?"
"Still going to have to take you to Marshall Greagoir," Long-Suffering told her.
If anyone could, the Marshall would be able to sense her magic past the magebane. If he did not, then the tincture worked as well as she could have hoped. This was the one test she'd hoped to avoid.
The man in question, as it turned out, was to be found in the gazebo gracing the town square; deep in conference with three more deputies, his head came up at the sound of Amelle's protests. Rather than waiting for Long-Suffering and Daguerreotype to drag her all the way to the gazebo, he left his post and met them halfway.
Templar Marshall Greagoir was, if nothing else, very tall. Very tall and very broad, with hair the color of iron and eyes like flinty steel. He was also looking down at Amelle as if she were a particularly perplexing puzzle piece. This was worlds better than him looking at her as if she were an escaped mage, so Amelle snapped her mouth shut and waited.
"We've found her, ser."
"Maker's blood," Amelle groaned. "No, they didn't."
Greagoir arched an eyebrow at her interjection, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Is that so?"
Daguerreotype handed over Amelle's satchel to Greagoir. "We found these on her. Potions, ser."
Looking thoughtful, Greagoir pulled one of the vials free and unstoppered it, smelling the neck of the bottle curiously. "This is elfroot potion, Deputy Baker."
The templar previously known as Daguerreotype blinked. "Yes, ser?"
"You could buy this yourself at any apothecary shop." He began rifling through the other potions and ointments in the bag, peering at brightly colored liquids, sniffing the contents of her jars and bottles until he was satisfied. "There is no contraband on this young miss' person."
Sensing—and hoping—the Marshall was a man of sense, Amelle said, "Ser, my friends and I arrived in Kinloch Hold last night." Please don't sense my magic. Please don't sense my magic. Please don't sense my magic. "Ask anyone—I spoke with Jonah at the stables last night and let him know we were considering an early departure. The clerk—the clerk at the hotel! She'd remember me, she—or the bathing attendant would—I'm sure of it."
The longer she spoke, the easier it was to breathe, and instead of growing more frantic, her pulse—though it was still galloping like Falcon with a wild hair—was gradually coming back under her control. She took another breath and plunged on. "I haven't controlled anyone's mind, and if I look anything at all like the woman in that picture, it is nothing but pure dumb luck, I assure you."
"Which of you has this daguerreotype?"
"I do, ser," Baker said, stepping forward, extending the hand that still held the young woman's likeness. Greagoir took it and stared hard at the image.
"This is, you will agree, an uncanny resemblance."
"That is all it is," came Fenris' voice from behind her, a sound so welcome she could have wept.
One of the marshall's thick eyebrows arched. "And you are?"
"I am one of this woman's traveling companions and have been since Lothering." He paused, brows twitching. "Before that, if I am to be accurate. We first crossed paths in Ostagar."
Greagoir shot his deputies a particularly eloquent look. "I assume you've got something to say for yourself, Baker?" He turned flinty eyes on Long-Suffering. "And you, Callhoun?"
Callhoun cleared his throat and shifted his weight. The grips on Amelle's arms were not quite so bruising as they'd been earlier. "We thought, ser. We thought she might have—"
"They accused me of controlling men's minds, Marshall."
"Ah, yes," Greagoir intoned. "The sensible conclusion." He turned his attention back to his two deputies. "Did neither of you consider sensing magic on this young woman?"
It became evident neither Baker nor Callhoun had considered that particular option by the way they shamefacedly released their grip on her arms.
"She is no mage."
Relief, sweet and cool and perfect coursed down her spine and Amelle drew a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. She is no mage. If there were four more beautiful words ever spoken, she didn't know them. Four words that were entirely worth every failed test.
Greagoir examined Amelle's satchel a moment before handing it back. "The buckle is bent. I suspect one of my deputies damaged it in his… haste. You have my apologies, and I'm sure if you take it to the blacksmith, he will be able to fix it for—"
Screams, ragged and rage-filled, cut through the air, and once again the Marshall lifted his head. At this distance he reminded Amelle of a dog on the hunt. She clutched the straps of her satchel and watched him intercept three templars who had in their custody another young woman—a young woman roughly her build, with hair as short but far redder than hers, and in a face that was fuller and softer than Amelle's own were eyes so sharply blue they made the sky look dull in comparison. The sleeves of her dress smoldered as she thrashed and fought and screamed.
Nausea began to uncoil in the pit of Amelle's stomach. She was—and she knew it—just as much a mage as this woman, and yet somehow she'd managed to avoid the templars' notice—had, as point of fact, just avoided notice. Now, though, her heart clutched with guilt as she watched raw, naked fear twist and contort the woman's features.
Greagoir glanced briefly at the daguerreotype he still held, sparing a longer look at the woman's sleeves. Amelle watched as the end of a dangling thread glowed brightly before falling from her cuff and floating to the ground, nothing more than ash. When she looked up from where the blackened strand had finally landed, she found the mage's startlingly blue eyes focused on her. Where Amelle had seen a resemblance in the picture of the woman, she saw no such similarity when placed face to face with her.
Or perhaps fear had transformed her so completely.
Suddenly those blue eyes narrowed. "It isn't me you want!" she cried, fighting against the templars holding her. "It's her. She's the mage! I'm not—I'm not! Can't you tell? It's her!" she yelled, her voice going shriller and shriller, until it was nearly a shriek. "It's her!" she said again. "It's her, not me! Can't you tell?"
Amelle took a step back, fingers gripping the leather satchel straps so tightly her knuckles ached. She knew, intellectually, that if a templar couldn't sense her magic under the magebane, then it was highly unlikely another mage could. She took another step when she backed into a chest. A white-lined hand came to her shoulder, steadying her.
"Can't you tell?"
Baker drew back, one hand on his sword, the other on his pistol while Greagoir and Callhoun—his expression nothing even close to long-suffering now—stepped forward, white light gathering about their hands, extending up their arms, and even though Amelle's magic was dormant and silent, she still felt the pull of holy energy charge the air. She had never had any cause to witness a smite in person, and yet she had every reason to believe that was precisely what both men were preparing.
From the corner of her eye, Amelle saw Varric and Isabela come skidding around a corner. Isabela's eyes went wide and her lips formed an easily read obscenity.
Amelle jerked her gaze back to the mage and templars, and wished she hadn't.
While it was quite true she'd never seen a templar deliver a holy smite, and had no desire whatsoever to witness it, it was also true Amelle had never witnessed another mage become an abomination.
Everything happened too fast. Too fast.
There came a glow from the woman's skin, if "glow" could be the right word. The light pulsing from her skin was dark, and the wrongness of the sight was like discordant chords made manifest—light wasn't dark, couldn't be dark, and yet the power emanating from her skin came off in waves of black and purple. The mage's face began to stretch, her features distorting, her skin bubbling and shuddering and finally darkening to grey; her hair, so deeply red, darkened and went lank across a forehead too wide, too sloping. Her blue eyes bulged and rolled in her head as her body thickened and grew until the thing it became—abomination—towered over them all.
It twisted with a violent lurch, and the templars that had been gripping the mage's arms were sent sailing through the air in opposite directions, both landing on the ground with a sick thud. One man got up, shakily. The other did not. He lay motionless in the street, his head twisted at an impossible angle.
Greagoir and Callhoun's smites hadn't yet finished gathering, so rapid was the mage's transformation. Greagoir let the light flare off into nothing, and freed his revolver from its holster instead, taking aim and firing, bullets not so much piercing the abomination's hide, but merely lodging in it. Amelle had heard it said templars favored lead bullets infused with magebane, but if Greagoir's bullets had been so treated, they were not affecting the abomination.
Perhaps because it was no longer a mage.
Callhoun, however, his brow creased in determination, held his ground. The light had reached as high as his shoulders and was building, growing brighter, brighter, brighter—
Unaffected by Greagoir's unerring shots, the abomination turned with a screech, and with one swipe of its claws, the light of Callhoun's smite went suddenly dark as his head flung back, blood spurting forth from his throat. The force of the strike sent him backward, where he landed hard on the ground, eyes staring upward, mouth gaping open, dark blood pooling thickly in the grit of the street.
She could not tear her eyes from the horrible, lurching thing that had once been a woman.
The thing that had once been a mage.
#
Fenris had known this could not end well. The fact that the altercation had turned even worse than his expectations only left him grimly unsurprised. The sound of gunfire had brought a number of templars running, but a majority, he surmised, had likely been sent beyond the town's limits to search for the escaped mage.
From the corner of his eye, he spied Varric and Isabela; the former cradled his crossbow in his hands while the latter bore a shining dagger in either fist. Hawke's staff, he knew, was wrapped in oilcloth and hidden amongst her things. Even if it hadn't been, it would not have been a wise weapon to bear. But before he could say a word she moved past him, running towards where the dead templar lay, his neck broken, and freed the revolver from his belt.
Unfortunately, bullets and crossbow bolts appeared to be having very little effect. They needed to get in closer. Whipping around, he looked back at Amelle, standing over the fallen templar, the .45 settled in both hands. She wasn't firing, though; Hawke was staring at the monstrosity, eyes narrowed.
She saw the same thing he did.
The ring of a sword being drawn from a scabbard caught Fenris' ear and when he looked back at the abomination, it was to find the Templar Marshall with his sword drawn, while Baker the other men distracted the beast with gunfire.
One man alone could not manage such a task.
"Hawke!" he shouted, twisting back to face her. She lifted her eyes from the weapon's sight and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. "Sword!"
Hawke did not argue. She did not question. She did, however, look at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses, which was… perhaps a possibility. But she crouched down and pulled the cavalry sword free with a long, grinding hiss, placing it on the ground and with a sharp push she sent it skittering his way. He bent, snatching the weapon up by the grip; it was nowhere near as long as he'd have preferred, and with such a length to work with he would have to get in close to the creature indeed, but they were all of them running short on options.
Sword in hand, Fenris sprinted forward to join Greagoir—Baker and several more templars had been rent by the creatures claws and lay, dead or near it, bleeding in the street.
And they with a healer who could not reveal the truest part of herself.
"Well, Broody," Isabela's voice said suddenly from his side. "This is how it is when your horse isn't collapsed on top of you?" She flashed a smile as bright as her daggers. "Interesting." And then, with a wink, she danced in close to the abomination, her blades sinking so deeply into the abomination's thick hide that black fluid oozed forth from the wounds. The stench of it was beyond belief and the abomination's furious scream tore at his ears, but it was wounded.
That it was wounded also meant it was angry. Another violent shriek seared the air as the abomination lunged forward, its mouth gaping open to reveal line after endless line of knife-sharp teeth, its claws slashing—Isabela swore as those claws caught her arm, tearing the sleeve of her shirt and making the material blossom with blood—his own borrowed sword sunk deeply into the thick hide, pulling forth even more screams as black ooze slid from the wounds, leaving dark trails down the creature's skin. Bile burned his throat at the stink of it.
Then the air shifted and a wave of magic burst forth that was so wrong, so twisted, so hideous that it made the lyrium in his skin flare in defense. Isabela angled herself out of the way at the last, blood still dripping from her arm, but the blast hit Fenris and Greagoir unerringly, sending them both soaring back. He landed with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs, and had only pushed himself up to one knee when the monstrosity lurched forward, talons clicking in anticipation, its mouth wide as thick saliva dripped from its maw. His hand tightened on the sword, and though he struggled to draw in a breath, Fenris' muscles coiled in anticipation as the abomination loomed closer—
And then it reeled back, its screech now nearly an octave higher—there was still rage in it, he thought, but there was something else too, something…
When Fenris looked up, it was to find splinters of glass embedded in the abomination's face, liquid streaming into its eyes.
A glance back revealed Hawke, balancing precariously on the gazebo's balustrade, one arm wrapped around a beam for balance—in that hand the borrowed revolver hung from her fingers, its chamber likely empty, given Hawke's current brand of ammunition: in her other hand she held a vial of jewel-purple liquid. With a grunt, she flung it, and the bottle sailed end over end before exploding into shards and droplets against the abomination's face, the liquid running once more into its eyes. It shrieked again, clawing at its face.
She was blinding it.
"Nice one!" Isabela cried, twisting close once again to the beast and plunging daggers into its skin. Fenris and Greagoir followed suit, pushing in close and slashing the tough hide with tougher blades until foul blood coursed from the wounds, spilling thickly onto the ground, and so it went until the air shuddered again and the thing that had been a mage once, that had been human once, was nothing more than foul pulp.
The resultant silence was nearly startling. All at once it had ended—the gunfire, the screams, the cacophony of rotten magic shifting through the air. The world was as silent, as peaceful as it had been before the bell had split the dawn into pieces.
"I sincerely hope, Marshall," Hawke said shakily as she lowered herself back to the ground, the bottles within her satchel clinking gently as she moved. "This means we'll be free to move on now."
Fenris rather imagined that was precisely what it meant.
