"Study the image. Trace its every line. See every angle. Know each part and how it relates to all others."
Even in her sleep, a year since she had seen or heard from Miranda, Isehris could hear the clipped tones and smoky gravitas of her instructor's Nevarran accent. The voice brought to her mind the image of which it spoke. Always different, and yet always the same in is scheme.
For days on end Miranda had made her and the other apprentices study the spiralling madala, and then recreate them from memory. At first they had traced it in sand with a wooden staff. At the slightest mistake Miranda would flick her hand, sending a gust of air to scatter the sand across training room floor, obliterating their work, no matter how far through the sequence they had been. Over and over again they had done it, until Isehris had been sobbing with frustration. After the first few days she had begun to dream of the spiralling shapes unfurling around her. That, she knew now, had been exactly what Miranda had wanted. Each day the pattern had been different, sometimes in ways so subtle that they had failed to see them until many failed attempts had been made. Miranda never pointed the differences out until they had noticed for themselves.
Isehris had not mastered it as quickly as the others. One by one they had surpassed her and were sent to the upper floors. After a while she had protested by scratching out any old shape, deliberately making mistakes. Miranda had implacably wiped them all away without comment, only the same command every time: "Again."
She had not even commented when Isehris had screamed obscenities at her and set her wooden staff alight. She had thrown it at the wall, just missing Miranda. The Nevarran warden hadn't even flinched. She did not follow her when Isehris stormed from the room to the barracks. Isehris had stayed there and waited. No repercussions came, no admonitions, no punishment.
She had been left to her own devices with no new duties assigned. It was the first time that she could remember having so much free time. No-one even prevented her from eating in the mess hall. She spent days rattling around the fortress wondering what to do. Finally she had returned to Miranda's training room. Two days afterwards she had completed the mandala for the first time. She had thought at the time that she was doing it out of spite. Yet when Miranda almost smiled at her work she had felt a surge of pride. Then Miranda wiped it all away and said, "Again."
Isehris had done it again.
On the second floor the process had been the same, except they were blindfolded. Two of the seven candidates had been unable to complete this stage and had been reassigned. It had taken Isehris almost a month to complete it for the first time, and another two weeks to repeat it. The third and fourth had not taken so long. On the third floor they were given a staff tipped with lyrium and the sand was mixed with lyrium dust. Miranda had chanted under her breath while they drew the Weaving. The air had trembled and Isehris' blood had sung in her veins. She always awoke at that part of the dream, exhausted and unsure whether she had been sleeping for minutes or for weeks.
The air in the warehouse, musty and muffled with the bales of wool, did not sing. She would be awake long enough to feel relief and regret, before her eyes closed again. Behind them Miranda was always waiting. Always she said the same thing: "Again."
Sounds of dawn activity on the docks finally brought Isehris out of her restless sleep. She stretched out and sat, just listening to the life of the city that came muffled through the walls and the bales of wool. Her whole body ached as though she had been running for miles. Her eyes were sore and heavy. She reached for her pack and slowly took out every object inside, methodically laying them out in front of her. It was an old habit, one she had learned before the wardens; before Miranda. Back on the streets of Hasmal, whenever there had been a small window of saftey, she would always take stock of everything she had before packing it neatly away. Only then could she rest. Back then, this little woolen nest would have been a palace.
The first, and last thing that she checked was her food stash. It didn't take long. The journey to Highever had given few opportunities to replenish it. She made a breakfast of the two ships' biscuit and the nub end of a cured sausage, and that was the end of it. Acquiring food would be her mission for today. She wrapped her belt, with its coin purse and knife around her waist, slung her satchel over her shoulder and then fastened her cloak. With her legs still folded underneath her, she took a deep breath and reached for her staff. It was the most beautiful, and valuable, object that Isehris had ever owned. Its tip was a roughly shaped piece of blood-red amber the size of her fist. The light glimmered and refracted on the myriad cracks and bubbles held inside it as she turned it. The stone was held between three flutes of volcanic aurum fashioned into the shape of eagle's wings. They tapered down to the onyx shaft and spiraled around it down to its tip. There it had been moulded into a guard the shape of two griffons gripping a chalice between them. The blade itself was long and pointed. In the light it glowed with a bluish tinge, a sign of the lyrium infused into the steel. In that it was very like the marking rods she had used in training. Miranda herself had presented her with this staff.
She climbed carefully down to the door of the warehouse. Then she halted abruptly when she saw the side door. It was standing ajar, sunlight and sounds leaking in from the outside world. Isehris tensed and gripped her staff. Its tip glowed as she reflexively fed it with mana. The shadows in the warehouse rippled and danced to the new light, and Isehris cast around, searching for movements or sounds inside. Only slowly did the lengthening quiet her nerves and she stalked towards the door. She checked the lock… but it wasn't there. Then she saw the pile of rust and warped iron fragments on the ground. Dim memories of the night before came back and her head throbbed to recall them. "It's getting worse." she whispered to herself, then chided herself silently. Fears spoken aloud could become real.
She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her safe nest and go to sleep. Yet sleep offered little rest, and the nest didn't feel so safe anymore. Her stomach rumbled. "Food. Go and get some food." she said to herself. Her voice was firm, but when she took a step she stopped and looked uncertainly at her staff. She could feel the power humming within, reaching out to respond to her will. The blood amber glowed and the golden wings seemed to flutter as a heat haze rose around them. It felt good. Too good. Reluctantly, she turned and climbed back up to her nest and set the staff down. She rolled it up in its canvas and tucked it away between two bales of wool. "Back soon." she muttered, and began the climb down a second time.
The narrow pathways between the warehouses were little used and overgrown with weeds. That was why she had chosen them. Carefully she crept to the end. She stopped at the corner just at the edge of the enveloping shadows and peered out onto the dock. Beyond was the light of the everyday; the sound of chattering voices and calling gulls the smell of sea air. Her hand flexed, longing for the grip of her staff. Her fingers fidgeted. She caught her index finger tracing the lines of her weaving in the air, and quickly clenched her fist.
Footsteps.
Instinctively Isehris stepped back into the shadows against the wall. Someone walked past whistling a tune. She wore a long cloak against the Autumn winds and her hair was covered with a hood in the same way as Isehris'. She carried a basket to the fish stalls a few paces away. As she watched Isehris noticed with a jolt that the woman was an elf. Isehris gazed in frustration as she spoke to the fishmonger and handed over a few coins. She had no more protection than Isehris. Less, truly, for Isehris knew that she could turn the fishmonger into a human torch even without her staff. She had lived on city streets for most of her life, but always there had been something to cover her; darkness, a distraction, silent prayers to whichever spirits were listening, the badge of a grey warden. Now she felt naked. Yet this woman seemed at her ease.
Isehris, on the other hand, pressed herself against the warehouse wall. The stone was moist and cold against her palms. "There is nothing to fear." She said to herself. It had been the same when Miranda had first taken her into the deep roads. Then she had been listening to the scrape of darkspawn tools on the stone and their distant song crawling in her mind. Then it had been Miranda telling her that there was nothing to fear. Then she had called the weaving that she had so long practiced. The darkspawn song had grown louder at first as she etched it out in her mind's eye. Then it had been drowned out by choirs under her own command. Once it was complete she had felt the power humming in her staff. When she had stepped out to face the hurlock mob fear had been quite forgotten. Now, though, there was no music. Neither the sickly melody of the taint nor the symphony played on the strings of her own web. There was just the waves and a babble of voices. "There is nothing to fear." She said again, and pushed herself out onto the street.
As she moved she noticed a new ship in the harbour. Beside the five sleek, oar-driven warships lay a tall, big-bellied vessel with two masts. The quay was lined with soldiers in mail where the large ship was docked and Isehris had to fight the instinct to stop and walk the other way. That would have been a sure way to get them to notice her. As she got closer she could make out a man in a fur-lined robe speaking to two others, a man and a woman, in embroidered overcoats favoured by Marcher merchants. "They're here for him. Not me. They aren't interested in me." Isehris said to herself silently. She kept moving, concentrating on not hurrying. She looked straight ahead. She kept her head down . She walked and found that no one cried out and no one gave chase.
Just past the soldiers she turned in through the harbour gates and walked past the tavern where she had met Reid. She kept going into town. A long straight road climbed the hill into the centre of Highever. There the looming towers of the castle reared up above the rooftops. There was also a trail of grey smoke rising into the sky ahead of her.
She had to slow her pace and stopped as she neared the top of the hill. A crowd of people filled the street where it opened out into a square. Instead of flowing into the square, they were gathering around the bonfire that had been built at its mouth. She stopped a few paces away and watched for an opening through the throng.
"Compliments of the weavers' crafthouse." a voice from behind her took her by surprise. She swung around. There she found a young man holding out a mug of ale to her.
"Um… The what?" she replied, warily.
"The crafthouse? Of the weavers of Highever?" he repeated, proffering the mug closer to her, making its contents slosh around. He touched his cap, made from cloth a distinctive shade of russet, as though that would explain everything to her. "The Arl is robbing us to stuff the pockets of Amaranthine wool merchants. We need you to support our protest."
Isehris pushed the urge to ask 'Which Arl?', shook her head and backed away, "No thank you." she muttered and quickly stepped behind another human. She hunched her shoulders and lowered her head as she slipped into the crowd.
"Keep to the busy places." Runner Mauro had always told his 'little rabbits', "Busy humans don't look for you in the crowd." Yet there were humans here looking for her, looking for anyone that approached, in fact. They were all young men that wore the same cloth caps and offered mugs of ale to anyone and everyone that came near, ushering them towards the bonfire.
The golden flames outlined the shape of a man who was speaking to the crowd. His arms moved in wide, impassioned gestures and his words were shouted. His orange cloth cap had two long feathers in it. The ranks of older men standing around the bonfire also had feathers in their caps. One of them held a banner. It was the same burnt orange colour and stitched with the symbol of a rams head and a fleece. He seemed to use the words 'thieves', 'tyrant' and 'usurper' a lot, but Isehris did not try to make out the details of what he was saying. She was here to find food and then to return to her sanctuary. Curiosity about the troubles of the shemlen had no place in that. She kept her mind on Runner Mauro's lessons. He had taught them to spot the attractions, and the distractions; the places that burned too bright for a quiet little girl to be noticed. This was certainly one of those. She stepped carefully, watching patiently for openings, and trickled through the crowd like water through the soil.
Finally she found her way through the crowd and into the square, where she could move more freely. There the colourful ornings of market stalls formed a maze underneath the walls of a castle that she could lose herself in. Above loomed the old, cold stone of the castle, its gatehouse hung with a bear blazoned banner. If there were any soldiers watching the market from its arrow slits, they were not visible from the square. Yet no one had erected any stalls in the empty space before the closed gates, and no one approached. No one, except for one large wagon that rumbled through the market, pulled by two great cart horses. Five soldiers walked in front of the wagon, pushing aside people in its path with their shields and the shafts of their spears. They were all pressed into the sides of the lane together and Isehris' whole body wound with tension as her back touched against the woman behind her. Her arms were held against her sides by the crowd. She made herself small and quiet. No one was looking at her, only at the big wagon, it's deep bed piled high with sacks. A man with heavy, brown stubble on heavy, tanned jowls sat at the reins. He had a long nose and hard eyes that looked obstinately ahead as though he might will the angry glares from the crowd out of existence. Beside him sat an elf with greying hair and a farm labourer's smock. He looked like he wanted to fold into himself. Two more elves, younger, but wearing similar smocks and expressions of discomfort sat on top of the pile of sacks. Another five soldiers followed the wagon. The crowd closed behind them as they passed and Isehris was released from the press. She found her focus and quickly made use of the space to slip away. She spared a glance to watch the castle gates open up to swallow the wagon, before closing once again.
Almost all of the people in the market were human, but there were a few elves. She gave them a wide berth. Here in the shemlen town they would be more watchful, and they would quickly notice a face unfamiliar to the alienage. She did watch for which stalls they visited, however, and made sure only to visit those herself. You could never be sure how strange shemlen might react to you, and she needed to avoid any confrontation. There were plenty of coins in her purse, but she made sure to pay only with coppers as she bought bread, oats, cured sausage and dried fruit. One stall holder, a bald man with dark skin and a running hound tattooed on his forearm, even bid her good day.
"Good day to you too, Messere." She replied.
"I don't think I've seen you before? New to the alienage?" He asked
Isehris didn't miss a beat, "Yes. My father brought us here from Denerim." She replied, surprised at how quickly and naturally the story came.
"Ah, well. Welcome to Highever."
"Thank you, Messere." She smiled and felt an absurd thrill.
She held her head a little higher and stepped more briskly between the milling people. There was pipe music playing from one side of the square, she realised, and she began to add more strings to her story as she drifted along, listening to it. Her name would be Henahriel, she decided, though everyone would call her Henna. Her father, Rindhelas, was a carpenter. He was very skilled and had rough hands that he patted her head with when she was a child. She had found a position as a maid in the house of a wool merchant. Henna was a good worker and kept all the secrets that her mistress' daughter told her. The daughter was planning to elope with an unsuitable young man and Henna was trying to persuade her not to be so impetuous. Isehris smiled to herself as she wove her tapestry.
A rich aroma drew her eyes to a fire pit where a man was cutting off slices of a roast hog while two boys that might have been his sons were packing them into oatcakes with apple sauce to sell to the passers by. Her stomach rumbled. "Being hungry makes you sharper." Another of Mauro's sayings. She had always hated that one. He only ever used it when he gave out meagre portions. She started making her way towards the hog roast. Maybe a maid, especially one as diligent as Henna, might have a silver or two to spend?
The oatcakes only cost a single silver, as it turned out, and she only drew the briefest of curious glances when she handed one over. She bit down into the oatcake and the apple sauce squeezed out over her chin. It tasted sweet and mingled with the rich meat so well that she almost bumped into a woman walking towards her as she savoured it. That would have earned her a beating, had Mauro been watching her; a memory that should have made her bitter. Yet somehow that thought only gave her a triumphant thrill. "You've done what you came to do. Time to go." She said to herself, though it was Mauro's voice that she heard. He wasn't here. In fact, he was most likely dead by now; perhaps in some gang war, or else dangled and dancing on a gibbet outside Hasmal's gates. Isehris was here, alive and free, so she chose to be Henna for a little longer. She kept moving, gliding among the stalls and listening to the hubbub of voices as she let each morsel of her food melt in her mouth.
Time slipped by and the sun rose higher in the sky. Henna bought some cheese, oatcakes and salt fish and tucked them into her satchel. Her attention was drawn when the big wagon rolled past her again. This time it was empty of its load and only the head and shoulders of the two elf labourers could be seen above its side as they stood in its bed. No soldiers marched ahead to open the way for it. Isehris trailed along behind the wagon as it crawled and found herself glancing up at the thick black hair on the head of the boy leaning on the high back of the wagon, his arms spread out wide. His broad ears were only just showing underneath his curls and his long fingers were drumming out a beat on the wood as he whistled a tune. Perhaps he felt that he was being watched, because he turned to look over his shoulder, and broke into a smile as he saw her. "Hello. You're new." He said. He had bright blue eyes.
Isehris' smiled back. "So I am."
He turned around and rested his chin on his hands. "I'm Telhann."
"Hello Telhann." Isehris replied.
"...and you are?"
"Late. You're in my way."
Telhann pouted, "Oh. Now here I thought you were following me. What's your name?"
"Henna." she answered with a half-smile, and decided that the freckles scattered across his nose were pretty. At the same time she noted the smoke of the bonfire just ahead of them. That marked her way home, away from the market; away from Henna.
"Welcome to Highever, Henna." Telhann said, and grinned. It was a bright, sunny thing. It drew her eye away from the flickering fire and rising smoke.
"Thank you. I like it here, so far."
Telhann shrugged, "It's okay, but what would I know? I've never been anywhere else. It seems prettier now you're here."
Isehris… Henna cocked her head and her eyebrow at him, "Flattery will get you nowhere." she said.
"What if I try a lot of flattery?" asked Telhann, flashing another grin.
She lifted her chin, but didn't lose her half-smile, "Then you might get a lot of nowhere."
If Telhann had a reply it was lost when the wagon lurched to a halt. The jolt set him swaying backwards and started a gust of foul language from the jowly shemlen driving the wagon.
"He seems nice." Isehris commented dryly.
"Him?" Telhann sucked his teeth and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the driver. "He's a sour tempered old miser who waters down the ale he gives us. Still, he has to pay us a fair wage because none of the shemlen will work for him."
"How come?" Isehris asked
"'Cause he carts for the Howes. They've had us up and down the country gleaning the tribute due on the harvest. He's made a pretty penny but he's got about as many friends as my Nan has teeth, and they're just as rotten, too." Telhann laughed, but Isehris felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She was suddenly very aware of the angry, resentful eyes looking toward the wagon; towards her. This was just the kind of place that burned bright. It was just where she shouldn't be. Yet here she was with her head bared and gossiping like a child. How could she be so careless? The wagon hadn't started moving and she could hear more than one angry voice now. She realised that Telhann had been speaking and she hadn't heard a word of what he had said. "I have to go." She mumbled in his general direction and tried not to notice the way his face fell as she threw up her hood. Two deft strides and she slipped away into the crowd.
She had to go back into the market for a few paces, then circled around the wagon. It wasn't long before the press of people was too close, blocking her way through to the harbour. They were all looking at the wagon. The driver was standing on his step now, waving his arms and shouting even louder obscenities. Isehris could see the weavers' banner waving and many russet cloth caps in the crowd. In desperation, she ducked under the orning of a wood-turner's stall and jumped over his table of carved utensils. The woman gawped at her, though her foot kept working the pedal of her wood turner even as she held her chisel limp in her hands. "Sorry!" she called and quickly sidled along the narrow space left between the townhouses and the stalls. At the corner she had to push a man with white hair and a russet cloth cap out of the way to slip by. He turned angrily, but the crowd had already pressed in too close for him to catch her.
Only once she was past the bonfire and the view of the sea opened up in front of her did she spare a glance back. The wagon driver was shouting. The crowd shouted back and the wagon was rocking back and forth as they pushed against its sides. Isehris kept resolutely moving towards the sea. "Don't look back." She muttered, but her head turned anyway. A man wearing a russet weaver's cap was climbing up onto the drivers step. The driver raised his crop and flailed at the invader, but the bigger man snatched it from the driver's hand. Isehris turned and kept walking "None of your business." She growled under her breath. She got four paces before she snarled under her breath and turned around a second time. There were three more men climbing aboard the wagon and the shouts were getting louder. She could hear at least one voice crying in pain. "Maker's balls." She cursed at creation in general.
It was harder to climb back up the hill. Isehris had to push and wriggle between people who were turning towards the commotion and drifting towards it. That commotion was more than enough distraction, however, and she was able to maneuovre around behind the barrels and reach the bonfire. When finally stood, bathed in its heat, she closed her eyes and let her finger trace the shapes they wanted to. "I only need a small piece of the web, just for a few moments." The Weaving came to her as she whispered this permission to herself. It took barely any effort to summon it, just a lowering of the thoughts she had raised to hold it back. She saw without her eyes as it spilled out into its shapes like the blood flowing through her veins. She shivered in excitement and tasted the tang of a rising storm. When she opened her eyes the shouting and wailing were fainter, but the scene was somehow more alive with colour.
With a sense that was neither seeing or hearing, yet somehow both, she found the thread she wanted and tugged upon it with her will, releasing the spell that hung upon it. Her hand was wreathed in ice as she plunged it into the bonfire. Her fingers wrapped around a burning timber and it felt cool to the touch. She yanked it out of the fire and held it aloft. Heads turned, and she called upon the whispers. Their soft sibilance crept into the edges of her hearing and she planted a thought to give them shape. Soon she could make out the words: "I am one of you…" She walked forward, taking on the swagger of the crafthouse men. Confidence is a kind of magic, and she felt its thrill as they moved aside for her. Her lip quirked into a half smile as she risked making eye contact with one youth who was clapping and shouting beside the wagon. "Give me a boost." She said, plainly. He took one look that glided past her to focus on the burning timber in her hands. A wolfish grin spread across his face and he shot a furtive look over his shoulder. "Do it quick. Guards'll be here soon." He urged her before cupping his hands to boost her up.
She landed in the bed of the rocking wagon and swayed, catching the edge to steady herself. A big, square jawed shemlen in a crafthouse cap had one of the elf labourers pinned up against the side with one hand. His other, raw-knuckled fist was drawn back. The left hand side of the elf's face was a purple mess. Both of them stared at Isehris. She swung the timber to smack the shemlen hard in the face. The elf staggered as the man holding him fell backwards and Isehris steadied him with one hand. The human hit the floor with a loud thump. The other shems were looking at her now, in disbelief. Isehris could hear a hissing scream overlaying everything, losing coherence as the evidence of their eyes contradicted what her whispers told them. She tugged on the second thread of her Weaving and a burst of psychic energy rippled out from her. In an instant, the focus went out of the eyes of those around her. Their arms fell to their sides and they stared past her into space. The wagon stopped rocking and the voices of the crowd nearby fell eerily silent.
Isehris dropped the burning timber onto the bed of the wagon and let go of the mana keeping the ice around her hand from melting. In a moment it had sloughed off into a puddle on the floor, hissing as it dripped onto the flames. She grabbed the elf and shook him. "Get out of here. Quickly!" she snapped. His brow attempted to furrow in confusion. "Now!" she screamed and pulled him around, pushing him up and over the edge of the wagon. He took five achingly slow seconds to come to his senses and take his own weight, scrambling up and over to drop onto the street.
The whispers were hissing in her ear as she knelt to shake the second elf, who was sprawled on the bed of the wagon. It was the older man, his salt and pepper hair matted with blood. He let her drag him to his feet, but his knees immediately buckled under him and he crumpled to the floor. "Maker's balls!" Isehris swore to herself, looking nervously towards the castle. A wedge of spear points was making its way towards them through the marketplace. Heads were turning. Fingers were pointing. She didn't have much time. "Get up." she hissed at the bleeding man and tugged on his smock. He just groaned and floundered underneath her. She winced and looked around her. The flames were starting to catch on the timbers of the wagon. She spotted Telhann pressed between two of the shemlen and slid over to him, careful not to touch the others. Telhann's lip and nose were bleeding and one of his blue eyes was closed up by bruising, but the other blinked and came into focus as she shook him by the shoulder. He started, but nodded as she pressed her finger to her lips. "Help me with him." she whispered and pointed at the older elf. Telhann moved quickly and nimbly through the dumb bodies and knelt. "Dad. We have to move." he whispered. Between the two of them they lifted him up and got him on the side of the wagon. Telhann jumped over into the street and Isehris pushed the old man over for him to catch. Telhann looked around at the blank-eyed crowd and then back at Isehris with one wide eye before he turned and dragged his father way to the nearest alleyway.
Isehris was just about to swing herself over the side to follow when a strong hand clamped down on her ankle and yanked her back. The wind was driven out of her as she was dragged over the edge and her head hit the floor as she landed. Stars fell in front of her eyes as she gulped desperately for air. The big, square-jawed shemlen was standing over her as she rolled onto her back. He had lost his russet cap and his nose was smashed and bleeding. He was swaying. Isehris couldn't tell whether that was because of the movement of the wagon, the blow to his head, or the blow to hers. She crawled backwards on her hands. He was saying something, but Isehris couldn't hear his words. There were a million half heard words hissing in her ears, and her own thoughts were too scattered to give them shape. She saw, rather than felt, his foot connect with her side. Dully she imagined that the pain would come later.
"Speak aloud. Your senses. Your thoughts. Your words. They all give it shape." Miranda said to her in Isehris' own voice. She tried to speak, but it was too confusing to hear herself in the din. The shem lifted his leg to kick her again, but then he stopped and turned around. There was muffled shouting. Men in mail with spears were climbing over the edge of the wagon. Their shapes were bending as the flames rose higher. She could feel the heat of them on her skin. Then she had it. She had found her focus. She closed her eyes and let the sea of voices melt into a noise, and she found the slow cracking sound of the wood searing under the flames. Fire had always come easily to Isehris. Fire always felt real. She could feel it now, below her and all around her; a latent force sleeping in the wood, just now waking up.
The square-jawed human was being thrown up against the side of the wagon by one of the soldiers. Another was pointing at her. She looked away from them and focused on a flame flickering near her face. It sent up a spark that floated away on the breeze, bright and beautiful and free. She let herself rise like a flame released from the dull fuel. She felt the winds of magic carry her, so much more tangible than gross flesh, mere steel, raw wood. They all became gossamer. She rushed through them all as though they were not there, racing on the wind.