Chapter 38: Know Much and Speak Less
Bruna
In the old stories, mages are revered as wise and often the heroes will turn to them for advice. At the same time, one must be wary with mages. The words from their mouth are at times twisted, regardless of their intentions or purposes.
We were led by the mage, Morrigan, and her Avvarian guides to a freehold up the side of a cliff and through a cave into a small valley. It was like a bowl in the rock, with at least three spire outcroppings towering above the village. The tribe had arranged a way to scale the spire rocks to periodically keep watch for possible invaders. These natural rock formations created a highly defensible position and it would be difficult for any type of war band to attack en mass through the narrow cavern leading into the valley… or so Ser Grey told me.
"The defenses here are well fortified, which was a wise decision considering this tribe was trying to dissuade Templar raids," he approved as he examined the edge of the village and craned his neck in an attempt to improve his view of the spire rocks, "having a secure position to fall back to and protect women and children is quite wise. If the supplies are plentiful enough, the village could withstand a long siege, much like a castle."
"So these people meet with your approval thus far, Ser Lion?" I queried with a smile.
He waved me off with his good hand, "I was merely appraising what will probably prove to be our staging area. We will probably have to meet with a number of the area war lords… they are referred to as war lords, correct?"
"Leaders are referred to as chieftans, Ser," I corrected him.
"Chieftans…hopefully I will remember that and avoid causing an incident." He cringed, genuinely worried about his new found position.
"Peace, Ser Lion," I counseled him, taking him by the arm, "let Morrigan present us to the chief of this tribe. We will have a better view of how to proceed when we observe the chief's response to us."
He looked down at me from the corner of his eye, "You do not trust the mage."
"Do you?" I returned.
"She seems…sly."
It was gratifying that his impression of the mage coincided with my own. She clearly had a plan of her own and I was not naïve enough to believe she had told us all of it. I wished the woman no ill and for now her purposes were to our advantage, but she wielded powerful magic. If we should become an obstacle instead of a means, how quickly would she turn on us?
Being an Avvar and raised in the tribe, we had instilled in us a healthy respect for the forces of nature. Very few could wield magic, perhaps one in a generation of children. At a certain point, such persons would have to find their own way and often opted for a solitary existence, living in a hermitage of stone amid the cliffs. It was not that they were not welcome, but tribal life could be distracting and did not afford the same amount of peace necessary for meditation. However, they were never completely cut off from the tribe. These men and women could become gifted in herb lore or runes and if one had need of their talents the tribe knew where to find them.
If a likely candidate presented themselves the "wise one" would take an apprentice. I did not have the same natural ability that mages had to control the elements, but for some reason a "wise woman" related to my tribe saw potential in me. She trained me in herbs, taught me how to locate them and use them in remedies. When my other "abilities" became apparent, she also taught me how to walk the Fade with care.
By the time I had mastered what she had to teach, a true mage child was identified that was in desperate need of training in order to control his immense power. I took my leave of her and returned to living among my tribe, but deep within me I knew a strange craving to wander the Cauldron. It was not that I did not love my people, but I was drawn to a place beyond them and I had no desire to live apart from others.
When I began venturing into the arlings and villages, I discovered that they had need of healers, though they were far more wary of anyone exhibiting these talents. In order to build trust with the people, I began to attend services at the Chantry and discovered the Maker. I learned of Andraste and her sacrifice to help release those enslaved.
For a time I lived in the Chantry in order to learn more about my new found faith. The sisters were friendly with me and through them I was able to discover when there were people in need. At one point the revered mother offered to have me take vows, but I did not feel that was my calling. I stayed on for a little while longer and used my talents to help the flock.
One winter a younger sister fell into a deep slumber and would not wake. The revered mother and the sisters would sit by her night and day, praying and begging guidance from the Maker. I knew that I could reach her using my ability to Fade Walk, but I was afraid. The Chantry taught that a mage's ability to walk in the Fade could open them to demonic possession. I had always been aware that it was dangerous and required concentration, but I had not attempted it since becoming an Andrastian. Wrestling within myself, I held my silence.
The revered mother came to me during a night. She had nearly lost hope, but had felt the nudging of the Maker to find me. It had been revealed to her through a dream that the young sister was trapped and only one gifted could release her from the slumber. The Circle of Denerim was too treacherous a journey to attempt during the winter months. Though I was not a mage, I had a gift that could help that girl and save her.
I confessed to the revered mother my special ability. She agreed to assist me, so we locked ourselves in the room with the young sister. Laying by the girl's side side, I wrapped my focus into my hand using a long strip of linen, while the revered mother steeped the tea I had made and held it to my lips so I could sip it slowly before she lowered me back onto the sleeping pallet. The small granite figure of a badger had been given to me by the wise woman and felt reassuring in my hand and I traced its face with my index finger as I felt myself begin to drift and then sink into the Fade.
The Fade was a waste land. There was no vegetation, just vast dunes and it startled me. Whenever I had walked in the Fade, it had resembled my rocky homeland with trees. It occurred to me that the Fade had altered to fit the mind of the dreamer. The reason for the desolate landscape escaped me and I considered that it might be a clue to why she was trapped.
Closing my eyes, I attuned myself to the sister's distinct tone. It was a sad, piping sound, like a lark that has been closed in a cage. The song tugged on me and drew me in a direction and I followed it for an interminable amount of time, whether it were seconds or days, I could not tell. The song started to become frantic and I found myself running to find her.
When I came upon her, she was immersed up to her shoulders in a sand pit. She was crying and praying, disoriented; unsure of how she had gotten there and how long she had been there. I approached her and began to sink myself so I started shouting at her, trying to get her attention. The more she cried the faster she sank and she was starting to suck me into the mire with her.
Thinking for a moment of how to calm her, I began to sing part of the Chant of Light:
I shall not be left in desolation in the deserts of despair
For the Maker is a source of life and renewal
And none who He has called will fail to hear Him.
Harken to His voice, all you in tribulation,
For your Maker has offered you a new path
And opened doors long thought closed.
You have not been shut out or abandoned,
He has offered you His salvation.
Canticle of Trials 1: 17
Suddenly, it was as if she could hear me and she turned her tear streaked face, the dust traced thin paths down her cheeks. She was confused to see me there and questioned, "Bruna, you are lost as well?"
"No Sister Mabilia, I was sent to fetch you by Mother Enith. Reach for my hand and I will pull you free." I explained, stretching forth my fingers to encourage her to move toward me.
She began to sob again, "But I am snared. A woman brought me here and said that I was worthy only to fertilize the ground. I am impure and unholy. The Maker cannot want me as his handmaid." With these words she began to sink again.
"Who are you to know what the Maker bids? Who are you to know what the Maker wills? I have seen a hundred, nay, a thousand good works done by your hands in the Maker's name, bringing him glory and bringing comfort to your brethren. You were never meant to be swallowed by this desolation. You were called to serve with a humble heart. Only the proud believe themselves to be worthy and are truly beyond the Maker's reach." I argued the sucking at my lower body, pulling me down, caused my words to gain a keening pitch.
"How do you know?" she cried, choking on the question.
"The Maker revealed to Mother Enith my gift to walk the Fade so that I could reach you. If He did not have a plan for you, would He have sent me all this way?"
Her eyes were filled with disbelief and awe; she sniffled and nodded her head, deciding to accept my reasoning. With some coaxing, I managed to maneuver my body enough to get close to her, reach into the sand, and begin to pull her out. As soon as she chose to believe my words, the sand became more stable and ceased to pull us in. With some rolling and slight shaking, we freed ourselves.
Hand in hand, we walked in the direction that I felt the revered mother as she waited. After walking for a while, I felt the need to stop suddenly and turned around. In the distance, I saw a hulking figure, like a large wolf. Behind this figure swirled mist and the Fade seemed greener, lush.
My curiosity niggled at me, but I had a responsibility and I would not be tempted to venture further. I returned to my task. The sister and I lay upon the ground, side by side, and felt a sudden rising, as if swimming to the surface after diving under water. Simultaneously we sat bolt upright, gasping.
The revered mother jumped to her feet, startled and joyous. She embraced us, kissed our foreheads and praised the Maker all at the same time. If she had been any happier she might have been tempted to dance, though her crooked back and cane had long prevented it.
The sisters of the Chantry did not share my secret, except when they knew of a need. When I finally moved on from the Chantry, the young sister took her final vows. Many years later, she became the Revered Mother of the Cloughbark Chantry.
In the days since word had come that the Chantry had fallen, I had often thought of Mother Mabilia, knowing that she had served the Chantry faithfully and that she had not given up, even with the threat of Templars. These thoughts made my heart simultaneously swell and ache. I pray that she had an easy journey to the place beyond the Veil where the Maker guides his faithful and know I too will find her there when I arrive.
Morrigan was lovely but lethal. Whatever she had bartered with this tribe, they were as wary of her as we. The hunters that had accompanied her never looked her in the eyes, keeping them safely downcast whenever she addressed them or when they questioned her. It was a common fear that if you could see your reflection in a mage's eyes, they had the option to steal a piece of your soul. The reasoning was that though most wise ones would shun such a practice, it was better to not risk it. A person unafraid of looking a wise one in the eyes either had developed a trust or was unrepentantly arrogant.
Coincidently, I kept my eyes safely averted when I spoke to her, as I had the habit of doing with everyone. I gained far more insight into a person by not looking at them directly. I had already experienced a variety of revelations in regards to Morrigan.
She was not very unlike Mae, in that she used a mask of confidence to hide her insecurities. The lilt in her voice was practiced, to put one at ease, like a serpent lulling a bird into false security. When impatient, she tapped her middle finger against the staff in her hand. Her ears had a near imperceptible twitch, as if she were constantly listening for a voice: one specific voice to interrupt her whenever she spoke. There was an air of waiting with her, and a fear that what she waited for would find her. Whatever she sought was probably something with which to protect herself and I shuddered to think what she needed to protect herself from considering how formidable she had demonstrated herself to be.
"Well, Mountain Mother, have you learned what you wished to observe by watching me so closely?" she purred the question, informing me what I had already known: she was scrutinizing me as deeply as I had been her.
Not one to mince words, I asked bluntly, "What do you run from girl and how do you hope to repel it here?"
Previously her tone held a note of amusement, since she knew I was not a mage and assumed that meant I could not read her like a tome. When she spoke again, it was tersely, "Why are you concerned with my affairs?"
"I am concerned with where you are leading, for at this time I have no choice but to follow. Do not assume, Child, that I will follow blindly. Mage I am not, but neither am I fool." I stated before walking ahead of her.
She was sullenly silent and did not speak directly to me again until the following day.
When she ushered us into the chief's hut, she had regained her apathetic aloofness. She addressed the chief with polite disdain, drawing out all the required niceties of one who felt they were beneath her, but respected it in the same way as a child who has been rehearsed in their execution.
The chief either missed or chose to ignore this, and addressed me first, seeing that I was of his kind and not an outsider like the mage or Ser Grey, "You are welcome among us sister. You keep strange company. Most of our women would not accompany a warrior in the Cauldron these days. We stay close to the mountains to avoid the Templars."
"Though your women might not wander, I have been led to believe that your men are scouting to find the weakness of your enemies. Is it true that you desire to move against the Templars?" I replied.
The man chuckled, "You have been speaking to this mage, then. Have you looked her in the eyes?"
"I could, but I choose not to." I smiled.
"Yes," he nodded, "you are one of us, but you are obviously not just any woman. You are one trained in the wise ways."
"I know some, though I have not all the abilities such a one would possess. I am a Fade Walker, but cannot wield the elements at a whim." I explained to him carefully.
His eyes widened with my words, "You can walk the Fade and locate those lost. We have far more need of you than a mage who can bandy lightning. Some of our number will not wake. The elderly are not nearly as disturbing as the young. Our tribesmen are not the only ones who have been struck by this malady. Two other tribes on a ridge south have sent word seeking one of your talents as well. The last ones known to us that had your gift are gone: one died in the previous winter and another was taken by the Templars."
"How long has this been occurring, Good Father?" I inquired, disconcerted by this news.
"Three moons since," he answered.
"Take me to see one of the afflicted," I demanded.
The chief stood and signaled us to follow him. Ser Grey remained silent, baffled by this turn of events. He had been prepared to discuss war strategies, not examine ill Avvars. He managed to maintain his calm and followed obediently, without complaint.
We were brought to a hut where a young girl lay on a skin. She slept, but she was as still as a board and the only movement she executed was the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her skin was cool to the touch. They had been regularly helping her to drink water, but she was deteriorating.
"Do you feel it, Mountain Mother?" asked Morrigan.
I knew instantly what she was referring to. There was a low hum emanating from her, just enough to make the back of my jaw ache. It was lyrium.
"She has consumed lyrium," I stated softly.
The chief bowed his head, "I feared as much. We had hoped that by moving higher into the ridge we might be free of the stuff. It had begun to affect our goats at the lower camps. The animals have improved, but my people have not. The water has been poisoned with the stuff."
"How?" demanded Ser Grey, finally finding his voice.
"The Templars," Morrigan spoke, turning to the chief, as if this supported her, "this is why you and your people need to attack them. The longer they dig in that mine, the more of the lyrium leeches into the water that flows through the ground. It is slowly poisoning the Cauldron. Destroy their operation and the water can flow clean again."
"A mine?" My head spinning, the pieces were falling into place, "The Templars are mining lyrium?"
When she turned her eyes to me, I was too disturbed by the words to look away and worry for my soul, "I have gleaned from certain sources, mercenaries much like the one I interrogated in your camp, that the Templars discovered an abandoned thaig close to the surface. They have been mining lyrium there."
"Did they hire dwarves?" Ser Grey puzzled, "Only dwarves can handle and process lyrium."
"You are correct, in a sense. Only dwarves can handle and process lyrium safely. Humans and elves can technically do it, but there is a price. Have you not suspected why they are taking people, these Templars claiming a holy mission?" She gazed at him, her eyes cold, "They need workers to provide what they crave."
"That would kill those people," Ser Grey roared in disbelief and disgust.
"Not immediately. The lyrium takes its time. A good or lucky worker could withstand regular exposure for a month…perhaps two. When he is no longer useful, he will die and another will take their place. Perhaps the body is left where it drops, perhaps it is cast down a long shaft. It probably matters not to them." She spoke in empty earnestness, void of emotion. She was stating what she had gleaned, free of the attachment that caused my gut to tie into knots.
I turned to the chief, "I can help your people afflicted, but if the source is not stopped, this will continue to happen. Eventually you will have no higher to climb. You will have to abandon the land of your fathers and forebears. Your children will no longer walk in the shadow of the Mountain Father's home."
The chief was grim; I had confirmed what he feared. It was apparent Morrigan had already imparted this information to him, but he had hoped it was a mistaken notion made by an outsider. Since I, an Avvar, had spoken the same, he could no longer ignore it, "We will have to drive the Templars from their hole. They must not be permitted to continue to poison our water and our land."
Morrigan smiled, triumphant, "Not only have I brought you a Fade Walker, I have brought you something else you require to meet our aim."
"And that would be, Mage?" the chief queried, reluctant to receive any gift from her hand.
She gestured to Ser Grey who stood beside me, "I have brought you a seasoned warrior, skilled in battle with Templar weapons."
The chief turned to Ser Grey and for the first time, actually considered him, "Can you teach my men the skills necessary to drive out these demons in armor?"
Something had happened to Ser Grey since I had first become acquainted with him, some of it was due to his encounter with Letha. Perhaps the girl on the mat had reminded him of her, for upon seeing her, his countenance had grown dark and determined. When Morrigan had originally made the proposal he had seemed reluctant, now the reluctance was gone.
"Aye," he affirmed, and with that one word I could feel the wings of Fate flutter and Morrigan smirked secretly to herself.
In the old stories, mages are revered as wise and often the heroes will turn to them for advice. At the same time, one must be wary with mages. The words from their mouth are at times twisted, regardless of their intentions or purposes. Mages know much and speak less.