-oo-
Chapter 7 – Greetings and Meetings
"I agree with the Grey Warden. A mage…on her own; unsupervised and in the Deep Roads no less, is a most irregular set of circumstances."
Alyce tore her attention from the dead Legion soldiers dotting the ground to face the speaker; a rather stocky individual of slightly-under-average height with pepper-black hair and hooded, dark eyes. The dust had yet to settle over the battle, she'd barely stepped out of the pool of ogre blood and her head was still buzzing with the lingering after effects of her spell casting. Given all the above, she was not particularly in the mood for a pop-quiz. She surveyed the individual before her, much as she would an interesting specimen she'd just scraped off a rock; like the Strangle Weed earlier. She'd opened her mouth to speak, pausing when she noticed the man wore Chantry garb, though it was in a far more martial style than she normally associated with followers of The Prophet. Few brothers or sisters of the cloth were this heavily armoured or armed.
In fact, the only people she knew that bore the Maker's symbol on their armour this prominently were Templars.
This man was no Templar.
"I didn't say it was irregular." The Grey Warden who'd despatched the ogre stepped between Alyce and the dark-haired man, bristling with…indignation was it? Annoyance? The Warden's tone of voice indicated the two had a history in disagreement and had clashed many times before. It made Alyce wish that she'd been able to bring Ryan along. Not only would it have been far more fun, but she could have used his people skills. She was only here to find stuff, not talk to people, being quite sure that if the First Enchanter had anticipated encounters such as these, then he would have chosen someone who liked doing this sort of thing.
Unless…Alyce thought sourly…Torrin did know something just like this would happen and he thought it would be amusing to make her squirm.
Typical.
"I only asked 'why' Seeker," the Grey Warden jabbed a finger at the man. "And by the way, in case you're wondering, it was a rhetorical question and quite frankly nothing to do with you."
Alyce's eyebrows drew downward. Did the Warden just say…'Seeker'? Why did that sound familiar? Chantry…Seeker…Brushing her hair over her ears; Alyce thought hard. She knew the word. It was a title, wasn't it? She couldn't however, remember any detail other than it had been mentioned by someone important once. Ryan? No…Torrin perhaps? That did not feel familiar either. As she wracked her brain for the memory, the Grey Warden and 'Seeker' continued to argue; the Warden becoming more irritated and flustered, the Seeker more shuttered and cool.
After a short while the Seeker rolled his eyes. "If the mage's presence here has been sanctioned by the appropriate authorities," he waved a bored hand, "then she has nothing to fear from me." Angling himself, he peered around the Grey Warden at Alyce. Man has a big nose, she thought as an aside. And you know what they say about men with big noses…
"Has she?"
They like to stick it in places they don't belong.
Alyce lifted her chin, screwing up her mouth in thought. She'd been about to respond when the Grey Warden once again positioned herself squarely between the two. As the Seeker was shorter than either woman it meant his expression was obscured by the Warden. Personally, Alyce preferred to keep the Seeker in plain view. She wanted to be able to gauge her chances of escaping these characters with as little fuss as possible and right now the Warden wasn't helping.
"The mage has a name, I'm sure!" the Grey Warden snapped. She spun to face Alyce, pale green eyes flashing in annoyance. When she tossed her head Alyce was reminded of one of Lord Aidan's horses; young, spirited and defiant in their demand for freedom.
"As this…gentleman has failed to offer the appropriate courtesy," she sniffed, "I will endeavour to make amends; on behalf of myself and my men." In saying so, the Warden extended her hand. "Annike Leuwen," she stated. "My apologies for not introducing myself earlier…" The Warden's eyes alighted on Alyce's non-standard Circle robes. "Enchanter…?"
Alyce smiled; or it was a close approximation to a smile considering she didn't feel much like smiling this close to the mangled remains of a stinking ogre and people she'd broken fast with just this very morning. She briefly considered encasing both the Warden and the Seeker in a prison of ice and running away very fast…dismissing the idea just as quickly. She might forget the correct fork to eat fish with or consistently fail Political Seating Arrangements 101, but she did know getting on the bad side of the Order of the Grey and the Chantry had the potential to turn out to be a life shortening exercise.
I think I'd prefer to kiss darkspawn, quite frankly…
Patting the Warden and the Seeker companionably on the arm felt like she was back in the Tower, supervising the new apprentices. She sighed inwardly. "Alyce Amell," she stated to both. "Senior Enchanter Amell."
"Senior Enchanter?" the Seeker raised his caterpillar thick eyebrows and beneath his equally thick moustache, his lips twitched. "And…Amell. The name is familiar to me."
Alyce shrugged. "Amells…" she sighed. "We're all over Thedas. Breed like bloody rabbits."
The Seeker smiled a slow, reptilian smile that made Alyce reconsider the ice prison. "Magical rabbits," he added with a knowing nod.
"Well…never met a magic rabbit," Alyce tossed off casually. "They the same kind you pull out of hats?"
"Ah ha," the Seeker said. "Amusing."
"Not for the rabbit, apparently," Alyce told him. "You try being pulled out of a hat sometime and see how you like it, eh?"
Clearly feeling left out of the conversation, the Grey Warden Anike coughed softly. "As he appears to have forgotten, the sarcastic gentleman wearing the Maker's symbol is Giles Moreau," she informed Alyce. "A Chantry Seeker."
"Ah," Alyce murmured politely. "You're seeking the Chantry eh? Not many of those in the Deep Roads." She pointed upwards. "Back on the surface now, that's different. Can't swing a cat without hitting one. Not that I would swing a cat…bit dangerous I hear. For the cat as well as the swinger. Have you ever been mauled by a kitty? Darn things get those hooky claws right under your skin – never make the mistake of pulling them out – rip your skin right out. In chunks."
The Seeker frowned at her. "And…they let you out on your own, Senior Enchanter? I'm not sure that is entirely wise."
"Ah ha ha ha," Alyce smacked the Seeker on the arm; much harder this time. "Good one. You sound like the First Enchanter."
"Who is…?" the Seeker enquired a little too innocently.
"Back at the Tower…Or…buying ale somewhere." Alyce cast her gaze ceiling-wards. "This being the Annual Ale Brewers and Barrel Throwing Convention and Gasbagging time of the year." She leaned closer to the Seeker. "You ever throw a barrel, Ser Giles? You look like a man who'd enjoy chucking a barrel or two. Even manage to keep the dwarf in it, I'll wager."
The Seeker crossed his arms tightly over his barrel-like chest and gave her a keen, penetrating look. "I'll see I'll have to watch you carefully…Senior Enchanter."
Alyce sighed. Watch me? Uh-huh. Good luck with that. Out loud however, she told him; "If you must know, I'm here on official Circle business."
"And you can prove that?" the Seeker pounced on her words.
"No…" Alyce replied with a roll of her eyes. "But I can recite all thirty-seven verses of The Tainted Vole Can Never Be Buggered At All."
"Meaning, Seeker…" the Grey Warden chimed in, "You can go and bugg-"
"Weeeell! Isn't this nice!" Alyce interrupted before the two of them could start trading blows again…not that she had been helping to keep things calm herself…"Look at the three of us…surrounded by putrefying darkspawn and dead Legion of the – uh – already dead and we're all getting on so famously! Isn't it nice?" Alyce moved in closer, the better to loom over the Seeker who stood at eye-level with the very low neckline of her silverite mage armour. Donning the armour after so many years wearing the robes of Senior Enchanter had been like meeting a very old, dear friend after a long absence; involving tears, adjustments and pretending the years had been kind to each other.
At least she'd had to have the armour taken in, not let out, though Alyce wasn't too sure turning into even more of a bean pole was any improvement over being bean poleish in the first instance. However, the silverite did make her look larger, more imposing; taller and she was able to loom over Giles Moreau quite effectively; a strategy she'd used many a time with recalcitrant apprentices.
Recalcitrant apprentices however – unlike the Seeker – did not try to look down her robes.
The distraction came in the form of the Legion of the Dead Commander, seeking her help with the injured. The Grey Warden joined them, offering them the services of their own mage. The ever gracious Hirral accepted. His troops were not the only ones who had been injured and while he was accustomed to simply applying bandages and moving on, his practical side recognised the value of healing by magic. Even those as resistant to magic as dwarves. The party of three broke up though Alyce could feel the Seeker track her movements as she and the Grey Warden healer, a quiet elven mage by the name of Leon, worked their way among the injured.
She had not expected to meet Grey Wardens here, not so close to her objective. No, that wasn't quite correct. She hoped not to meet Grey Wardens here. This was the Deep Roads after all. Home of the darkspawn. Wherever there were darkspawn, one could always find a Grey Warden or two. Meeting with them was a complication she preferred not to have to deal with, though it might have easily been passed off as pure coincidence if it had been just them.
Meeting one in the presence of a Chantry representative?
That was the universe telling her that not only was it a complete and utter bastard…but that she might be on the right trail after all.
-oo-
Ugh…His head felt like it had been trampled under several night soil carts. He'd only ever been the recipient of a Holy Smite once and that had been a practice shot; one of the Templar trainees who thought it would be fun to practice on an actual apprentice, not a training dummy. Greagoir knew the sensation of recovering from one of those well, though it had not been this severe and…Damn!
He bolted upright, the events leading up to this point racing around his brain then coming to a shuddering halt just behind the front of his skull. His vision swam in the darkened room, feeling hands push him gently back down.
"Easy…She hit you pretty hard there. Give yourself time."
Greagoir blinked rapidly, trying to clear the last of the sleep fog. Turning his head turned his stomach too, but it gave him a clear view of the room…and its occupant.
"Maker…" he rasped. "It's you…"
The speaker waved a friendly hand. "Surprise!"
Greagoir squeezed his eyes closed. The room he'd been placed in had been darkened; the curtains drawn, though he hadn't noticed any light peeking through so it may be a tad later in the day than he'd like. A flame burned on a table on the other side of his narrow cot; a piece of furniture built for someone smaller and thinner as his feet hung off the end of it.
"And…" Greagoir added, lifting a hand and knuckling his eyes. "Just so you know: time is something I don't have right now."
"I might argue that you do," the speaker said good-naturedly.
Greagoir used the same hand to slap his forehead. "Argh!" he groaned. "Connor!" Damn it, what is the spell you use to get rid of headaches…? "What the Fade…he was-"
"Tainted," the speaker acknowledged. "Yes. I know."
"And?" Greagoir demanded, attempting to rise again. "What happened? Where is he? And yes I know I'm asking a lot of questions about a person I don't even like but there are…look he's…Andraste's bootlaces!" He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. "He was going to try to be made a Grey Warden. Did he?"
The speaker sat back, shoulders hunching a little. "Ah…about that…"
"You…put him through…?" Greagoir said slowly, grimacing. Please tell me he isn't a Grey Warden.
"Oh, does that make you unhappy? And here I thought the two of you were-"
"No!" Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, Greagoir bent over double hastily, clutching at his pounding head. "Why does everyone think that the two of us are in some kind of intimate relationship?" He lifted his head briefly to aim an accusatory glare at the older man. "Even you."
"Oh well, I was going to say 'friends' but…are you?"
"No!"
The other man threw up his hands, mouth twitching. "Well then."
Thumping the cot on either side of him in frustration, Greagoir growled, "Uncle Alistair…!"
With a grin, the other man held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, I get it. You're in no mood for jesting."
Greagoir's head dropped again. "You have no idea. This whole thing is…this whole thing is a mess."
"So you kept saying in your sleep," was the dry response. Greagoir lifted his head. He sighed. He really ought to stop saying that, but how could he stop when it was still oh so true? How did someone get out of a hole like this when the bottom kept disappearing from beneath his feet and the walls kept collapsing? Giving his temples a final rub, he looked up again.
"That's because it is…" He peered about the darkened room, to find that it wasn't a room at all, but the inside of a tent. What he thought had been a candle burning on a bedside table was actually a lamp hanging from the tent ceiling; low enough to read by, but high enough not to constantly walk into. There were a couple of deep furs spread on the ground and in the corner there was a small writing table; the contents of the space giving the impression this structure was intended to be here for some time and therefore should provide some comforts of a stationary home.
The only chair in the room was more of a stool really; foldable with a stretched canvas in between for a seat and currently occupied by a man Greagoir had known most of his life as 'uncle'; his godfather…a Grey Warden known as Alistair and one of the Heroes of Ferelden. He frowned. Coincidence again? Ferelden is smaller than I thought it would be…
His godfather patted him soothingly on the shoulder and half rose. "You should rest." He suggested with a lift of his eyebrows. "Ser Myfanwy – as I mentioned earlier – hit you pretty hard. I'd be surprised if your headache didn't persist for the next day or two."
Greagoir's mouth twisted in distaste. "Ser Myfanwy…that's the stupidest thing I've ever…How in Thedas someone like Myf got accepted into the order I'll never know."
"Well…" Alistair mused, straightening. "Being a third generation Templar probably helped and what she lacks in stature she certainly makes up for in enthusiasm."
The look Greagoir gave his godfather was so sour, the other man feinted a shudder. Though he didn't think it possible, it provoked an even more unimpressed expression in return. Running a hand through his hair, Alistair sighed. "Look, I know you have a lot of questions, but you should really rest. Just know that…well. There isn't a lot you can do right now and…" He cast a look towards the tent flap then lowered his voice. "This is neither the time nor the place for the kind of discussion I know you're looking for. Later, I promise we'll talk later." Having said that, Warden Alistair turned and walked the short distance to the exit.
"Uncle Alistair."
The Grey Warden paused; looking over his shoulder at the haggard young man perched uncomfortably on the edge of his cot. Maker, the boy had grown. How old was he now? Twenty? Twenty one? About the same age as he had been when he and Neria Surana had fought the Blight together he supposed; the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Greagoir's hair was darker with a tendency to the unruly and his eyes were a definite brown but…it surprised him how much he could look at Greagoir Tremayne and see…himself there. It was one of the reasons why his visits had become more infrequent as Greagoir had grown into teenage hood. He didn't want people drawing uncomfortable – or inevitable - conclusions. Quite apart from the fact that few mage apprentices received visits from Grey Wardens, Greagoir had his own family. A mother, father, grandparents…
A world that – as time went by – he fit into less and less. A point that was both a relief as well as heartbreaking to him.
"Didn't I say 'rest'?" Alistair reminded the younger man.
"I know," Greagoir stated simply. "About…everything."
Alistair's mouth crooked at one corner. "Lucky you."
"No, I meant about-"
"Later, Greagoir," Alistair interrupted before Greagoir said something that might be overhead by people who shouldn't hear these sorts of things. "Rest. Then we'll talk."
"Urgh…" Greagoir gripped the edges of the cot hard, attempting to lever himself off, finding his legs too weak to hold him. What the Fade did that woman hit me with? That was no ordinary Holy Smite. "And Connor?" he persisted.
The half-smile from Alistair's face disappeared completely and there was a definite pause before he spoke again, addressing the tent flaps instead of Greagoir.
"Let's just say," he sighed, "for the time being, that he…lives."
-oo-
When next Greagoir woke, the sun had risen, illuminating the canvas and throwing soft shadows across the furs on the ground. The headache had gone and he felt more rested than he had since leaving the Tower. How long have I been asleep? He'd been so determined to catch only a couple more hours of rest then get up and pursue his godfather to a place where he would talk with him. I mean, how long has it been since I've seen the man? Five…six years? Warden – no, Senior Warden - Alistair looked much the same; or at least appeared to. There was a bit more beard now, more bulk, but after all these years his godfather still sported the same Chantry-boy haircut, still favoured the same kind of heavy plate armour and mail that made him look like a Chantry collection box.
Snickering at his humorous comparison, Greagoir sat up. Someone had left a skin of water hanging from the cot, along with a bowl of something still warm and some thick hunks of bread. He ate and drank, feeling much better for it, reserving a little of the water from the skin to wash his face and hands. He couldn't imagine what he looked like; it had been days since he'd been able to shave or wash properly and growing up in the Tower he'd gotten used to regular washing and dirt-free clothes. It would be good to be – relatively speaking – clean again.
Fed, washed and feeling much more human, Greagoir headed for the exit, bumping into a little wall of metal as he emerged.
Bright sunshine glinted off highly polished armour, obscuring the disapproving scowl that greeted him. He shaded his eyes, but he didn't need to see to recognise the growling noise that accompanied the aggressive stance.
"Myf…" he began.
"You stink, apostate!"
Hooking his thumbs into his belt, Greagoir returned the glare with a bland look of his own. Ser Myfanwy might be pint-sized, unlike her taller, more graceful, elegantly beautiful older sister, but she did have a great big sword strapped to her back and an arsenal of anti-mage 'spells' she was all too happy to dispense. Instead of returning the insult with one of his own, he shuffled surreptitiously sideways and peered up at the pale blue sky above.
"How is my aunt?" he asked politely.
"Hmph," was the response he received. He shook his head. Admittedly, if he had not shown signs of magic, he might have considered joining the Order himself…as a last resort…! Sheesh.
"Well," he said anyway. "I am glad to hear she is in good health…and spirits too, I hope?"
"…"
"Ah well, good to hear, good to hear," he nodded approvingly. Casting her a look sideways, he added; "Uncle Bryant sends his love," I'm sure. "As does father." Ah ha! That got a reaction! Myf had always been a bit of a softie around the Captain. Knight Commander Bryant was a naturally easy person to talk to, but his rank and his removal to the Tower of Magi had kept him from regular meetings with his surviving family and while he was a regular correspondent, he never quite bonded with his two nieces the way Captain Ryan – his father – had. Well…being the Cousland's Guard Captain and Prince Aidan's right hand man kept him in Highever for the most part, even if princely duties – and lordly whimsy - had him travelling frequently from home.
Home…What I'd give right now for one of Serenna's plum pies…with a blazing fire tickling our toes and Grammy singing softly in Nevarran in her old rocking chair…Why that particular image came to mind, Greagoir did not know. Myfanwy's presence perhaps? This nostalgia was unlike him, to say the least.
"Anyway…" was his next attempt at conversation when the welcome sight of Senior Warden Alistair, accompanied by Diele and Denny, came into view. Denny waved; a friendly wiggle of her bare fingers that he returned. Diele on the other hand merely scowled at him, mirroring Ser Myfanwy's expression. Then he caught the Senior Warden's face and the grin fell away. Greagoir could not recall ever seeing his godfather looking this grim before.
The three Grey Wardens halted a few steps from them, Diele pointedly looking away while Denny wiggled her eyebrows at Greagoir in some kind of silent offering of information.
It felt like a warning.
"You've come for the apostate?" Ser Myfanwy's chin lifted defiantly as the words left her mouth like poison.
"Yes," Alistair replied coolly, snapping Greagoir's attention to the older Warden. Grim…and…he wasn't that thick. He knew angry when he saw and heard it.
"The Chantry will hear about this!" Ser Myfanwy growled, looking thoroughly put out.
"Yes, well," Alistair snapped back. "This isn't the first time the Grey Wardens have conscripted a mage, nor will it be the last."
"Well," Myfanwy's hands made squeaking noises at her sides as they clenched in anger. "Better get on with-"
"Wait. What?" Greagoir's brain finally registered the meaning behind the dialogue. Conscription? Connor hadn't been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, had he? He'd volunteered. The Grey Wardens had to consider him. Unless of course Ser Myfanwy had gotten to them first and the Senior Warden had had to…but of course…Connor wasn't the only apostate in the area. There were…two.
Why do I get the impression they're discussing me?
When the Senior Warden grasped his arm and pulled him to his side, Greagoir grimaced. They're discussing me, aren't they?
"Just…" Alistair began, giving the younger man's arm another tug. "Come on. The sooner we get this over and done with, the better." He about-turned, half-dragging Greagoir with him. Jangling footsteps behind only made the Senior Warden hasten his pace.
"I will witness this ritual of yours!" Myfanwy called out.
"No you won't!" Alistair flung over his shoulder.
"But this is…!"
Alistair spun, bringing the entire party to a juddering halt. Myfanwy's armour rattled as she too came to an abrupt stop, her chest heaving in consternation and her mouth drawn into a thin line of disapproval. Senior Warden Alistair towered over her but she was undeterred, facing him squarely. The years of Alistair's experience in battle might weigh heavily against her, but the might of the Maker was at her side.
"I have invoked the Rite of Conscription," Alistair reminded her, back teeth grinding. "This mage is no longer your concern!"
Greagoir winced. Darn. It is about me…
Wait. It's about me?
It's about me!
He raised his hand. "Um…"
"And under the Rite of Conscription, this mage," Alistair jabbed a thumb towards Greagoir, narrowly missing his nose, "now comes under the protection of the Order of the Grey, whether you like it or not!"
Pursing her lips, Ser Myfanwy stepped closer, though having to tilt her head upwards to meet the Senior Warden's gaze ruined the picture of outraged Chantry Warrior somewhat. "I do not."
"Well that's just too bad, isn't it," Alistair snapped back sarcastically.
"Um…" Greagoir raised his hand higher. It only served to remind the Senior Warden of his task. Seizing the young mage's arm once more, Alistair propelled him forward. "A question…if I may?" Greagoir stumbled, but managed not to trip over his own feet.
"Speak!" Alistair barked.
"I'm to…become a Grey Warden…too?'
"Yes!" the Senior Warden replied, not looking at him. Purposely not looking at him, Greagoir thought.
"I see…" Greagoir murmured, thanking everyone's very lucky stars that Senior Enchanter Alyce was not here or else there would be dead people…or parts of dead people strewn about the landscape and Ser Myfanwy would be bent over someone's knee getting a damned good spanking because…Hadn't the Senior Enchanter warned him over and over again that the Order of the Grey was out of bounds for him as a career choice? There was the whole…Archdemon connection thingie for a start, along with the whole…old god…Gods and bazooks! Greagoir's eyes widened at the thought that suddenly occurred to him. Alright, so I have the soul of an old god, so what happens when an old god becomes a Grey Warden…?
"Hm…wonder if that means the Griffons will return…?"
"What?" Alistair snapped impatiently.
"Ah...just wondering…" Greagoir trod carefully. "Why?"
The Senior Warden curled a hand around his shoulder, grasping it hard. "Because if you don't," he said grimly. "Ser Myfanwy will execute you."
-oo-