"My name is Theron Mahariel. I have killed monsters and men, crowned two kings and tread the...
Setheneran (Dragon Age)
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Part One: Dirthamen's Own
"Of course the House of Repose failed. They're trying to assassinate a man I once saw kill someone with a wooden mug. The only thing more tragic than the waste of ale was the stupidity of the fellow who picked that fight."
- Guildmaster Zevran Aranai
"Leliana," he spoke without turning. "Or should I call you Sister Nightingale now, ma vhenan?"
Theron Mahariel broke off a piece of that delicious little sweetbread Fairbank's people liked to make, popping it into his mouth as he leaned back against his seat. The nights were pleasant, out in the Emerald Graves – he could understand why so many shem lords had made summer homes among the trees. That those same marble palaces silken lords used to lounge in were now in the hand of Dalish was a constant source of amusement to him. The flap of the green and gold pavilion he'd claimed as his own had not made so much as a sound but he knew Leliana, knew her as well as his own heartbeat, and he did not doubt for a moment that she was there.
She slipped out of the shadows without a word, more silent than any human had a right to be, and for a moment he simply drank in the sight of her. She was still beautiful in the way that had once so taken him, he saw, but in the years they'd spent apart she'd grown more... severe. Her crimson hair was no longer free, now hidden away by a dark purple shawl held into place by the burning eye-and-sword of the Inquisition. He wondered if he knew the stranger in front of him at all, but then she smiled and somehow she was his Leliana again.
"You're one to talk, o Lord of Crows," she teased, claiming the seat across from him. "Getting past your sentries was surprisingly hard work, you know. My throat is positively parched. Pour a girl a drink, would you?"
Leliana was, he believed, the only woman in all of Thedas who could sneak past an army of Dalish at night in the middle the woods and treat it as little more than a tedious chore. A smile tugged at the dark-haired elf's lips and he reached for the wine bottle, lazily decanting a cup and offering it to her. Their fingers touched for the barest moments as she took it and their eyes met. Ah, I remember now, he thought. Why it was so easy to fall in love with her. He allowed his hand to linger, but not for more than an instant. Ten years had passed since the Blight, and their loyalties were not so clear-cut as they once had been.
"I had a feeling you might visit me tonight," Theron murmured. "You could have come with the Inquisitor tomorrow, but you always did prefer to talk under moonlight."
It was how this had all begun, after all. Their little talks by the campfire, and what had grown out of them. His memories of that time were gilded, these days, reminders of a time where friends and enemies did not meld into each other so easily and evil was pleasantly uncomplicated to put a face to.
"I will not be there when the two of you talk," Leliana said softly, "I am needed at Skyhold to handle... delicate matters for the Inquisition. But I wanted to talk to you before I left."
The elf raised an eyebrow at her careful phrasing, letting out a derisive snort. As if they weren't both aware that she ran a spy network that spanned halfway across Thedas, if not further. She'd picked up the Orlesian tendency for unnecessary dramatics since he'd last seen her, it seemed.
"You have questions, I imagine," the Hero of Ferelden said, eyeing the wine his cup thoughtfully at he sent it swirling with a flick of the wrist.
"I would have less," the Left Hand of the Divine replied calmly, "if you had not stopped writing me."
Theron grimaced. There was no accusation in that tone – not yet, anyway – but the implied curiosity was rather... firm. He'd had reasons for the decision at the time, but they seemed hard to explain now that it was just the two of them in the moonlight. The seemed less like a necessity and more like expedience, now that Leliana was sitting across from him with that neutral look on her face.
"I did not want you to have to choose between us and your loyalty to Justinia," he finally replied, for in the end regardless of all other justifications that was the real reason he'd stopped writing.
She flinched, and the sight of it was heartbreaking.
"I don't know what is worse," the love of his life said spoke quietly. "That you made that choice for me, or that deep down you believe I would have chosen her."
How could it be, that after all the death and destruction he'd sown on behalf of his people the look on her face still brought more remorse to his heart than the piles of dead he'd set aflame? Perhaps Deceit is right, he mused. Perhaps I really am the most wretched of the elvhen. But the Creators were dead and the Maker was a human idol, so Theron Mahariel smiled a wretched smile and met her eyes.
"Wouldn't you have?" he simply said.
She looked away first, and like all other victories in his life that one left a bitter taste in the mouth.
"I do not know," she finally admitted. "But it would not have come to that. I would have found a way to-"
"Ma vhenan," he interrupted her gently. "Of all the people I've ever met – and will ever meet - I love you most. But for all that, I love my people more. I cannot change this. I am not sure I want to."
Leliana was silent for a long moment before she sighed and reached for her wine, gulping down a mouthful almost fervently.
"It would not be fair of me to blame you for that," she said. "Not after leaving when Justinia called."
The elvhen warrior's lips quirked dryly.
"A decade ago this would have been a much more heated argument, I think," he noted.
The Nightingale's smiled wickedly as her eyes lingered on the shape of his shoulders.
"A decade ago, my love, we did not solve our disagreements with words," she replied lazily.
Theron was too old and too jaded to blush, but he did have to push down the urge to cough in embarrassment. She'd always been much more open about these things than Dalish found to be proper. From the way her smile broadened, she apparently found him as easy to read now as she had all these years ago.
"I did not think it would still feel like this," someone said, and after a moment Theron realized it had been him.
Clearly at some point the wine had started to dredge up whatever passed for his honesty these days. Leliana eyed him intently, and now there was a tension in he pavilion that was almost palpable, like a bowstring going taut.
"And how is "this"?" she asked in that musical accent of hers.
"Easy," he admitted. "Natural. Like I last saw you yesterday instead of ten years ago."
The redhead reached for the bottle and filled his cup, tenderly threading his fingers with hers.
"We have until dawn until our lives belong to others again," she murmured. "Tell me everything."
Theron Mahariel took a deep breath. Then he began to speak.
-
Eamon had somehow managed to become more of an ass after the Blight.
I'd never particularly liked Anora – Loghain's daughter was too prone to betrayal for comfort, too much like the shems in my people's stories – but there was no denying that for all her occasional sharpness she was a gifted woman. The arl of Redcliffe did not have any such redeeming quality, as far as I could tell. His failures as a husband and a father had unleashed a horde of undead upon his holdings, and now that he was Alistair's chancellor I feared his influence would bring much the same upon Ferelden itself. Anora seemed to agree, and so I found myself in the odd position of being loosely aligned with the queen in the wake of the Battle of Denerim. Already Alistair's court was forming factions, the Guerrins consolidating their position at court while the so-called "Queen's Men" found themselves competing for every key position in the capital with Eamon's picked candidates.
"You'd think I'd married Eamon too, from the way he's constantly barging into my chambers," Alistair confided in me as he broke off a piece of sweetbread and offered it while cramming a larger one into his own mouth.
"I do not think you marriage bed would survive the arl's addition," I mused and repressed a smile when the newly-crowned King of Ferelden ducked his head and blushed.
For all that he'd been reluctant to wed the queen in the first place, the bastard prince seemed to have taken to matrimony rather well. He was very attentive to Anora and often gave her soulful looks, something the older woman did not seem to know quite how to deal with but apparently found flattering. I was not so surprised: Alistair had, above all else, always wanted to have a family. The queen seemed happy enough to fill that need, and if the gossip coming from the servants was any indication they were trying quite vigorously to add more members to their fold.
"Anora's not big on beards so I don't think she'd go for it," Alistair drawled, but after a moment he turned serious.
The two of us were on the summit of Fort Drakon, the same place where on that fateful day we'd played out the sordid farce that had been Urthemiel's "death". It was one of the few places we were sure not to be overheard - though the Archdemon's corpse had long been skinned and drained of blood, its death grounds were still blighted in a way that not even fire had managed to scour away.
"You're sure you have to leave, then?" the King asked quietly. "I could use you, you know. I've been thinking about naming you arl of Amaranthine just so you'd stick around and take care of the Thaw for me – Fergus Cousland has been telling me worrying things about warbands in the north."
I eyed him incredulously, pushing back the elaborate braids Leliana had taught me how to make.
"Alistair, I can barely even read," I reminded him. Yet another thing to thank Leliana for. "I know nothing of shemlen laws, and I do not worship your Maker. It would be disastrous."
"Still not sold on the whole Andraste business?" he asked, surprised. "I would have thought that after Haven..."
I scowled. The former templar was a dear friend in many ways, but he did have a talent for making irritating assumptions.
"I will not deny the power of your Prophet, but that hardly makes her divine," I replied. "My gods are older than your Chantry, Alistair, and saving one man by making him eat ashes is not enough to cast that into doubt."
The blond-haired bastard raised his hands defensively.
"Don't give me the glare, you know it makes me queasy at the knees," he implored. "To each their god, everybody's happy and Alistair doesn't get an arrow in the arse from angry Dalish people."
I condescended to let the matter go with a grunt, folding my arms over my chest.
"Regardless, I would rather swallow a live deepstalker than serve as a shemlen lord," I told him, not unkindly. "I am going home, Alistair. When Lanaya takes the Demetrae back north, I will be joining her."
Most of the clans had already left in the days following the Battle of Denerim, judging it unwise to linger when the tensions were so high and so many darkspawn still roamed the countryside. Some had lingered longerm the last being the Latobri who'd finally left last week, much to everyone's relief. Keeper Ilshae was a cool-headed woman, but her First was a hothead called Velanna who'd gotten into several altercations with what remained of the city guard. She'd refrained from lobbing fireballs about, if only barely, but things could have easily turned into a riot if I hadn't intervened. What had once been Zathrian's clan, the Demetrae, were the last to remain. Keeper Lanaya had taken me aside last night to tell him they would be leaving soon, though, and I was coming to realize there was no point in remaining in Denerim any longer. Leliana's last letter had mentioned she did not know for how long the Divine would need her help, and I could not simply idle about until she returned from Orlais.
"You'll be missed, my friend," Alistair told me with a clap on the shoulder before tearing into the last of the sweetbread with enthusiasm. "Will you be looking for your clan?"
That the Sabrae had not shown up for the Battle of Denerim was a private mark of shame for me. Keeper Marethari had known Duncan, known what the old treaties said – had she thought that giving one of our number to the Wardens was enough to discharge the clan's obligations? Keeper Solan of the Haeval had told me that the last he'd heard of her she'd been planning to take the Sabrae across the Waking Sea, hiring a ship for passage into the Free Marches. The cowardice of it rankled me. The People were not above fleeing from battles that could not be won, as was only proper, but this was different: the Dalish had made an oath. And if we Dalish did not even keep our oaths, then what was left of us? I knew the Keepers who'd come had lost much respect for her, and the Sabrae's reputation with the clans who dwelled on this side of the Frostbacks would have taken a hit if not for my own part in the demise of the Archdemon.
"I wouldn't know where to start," I admitted to Alistair. "They could be halfway across the Free Marches by now. I'll accompany Lanaya back to the Brecilian Forest and make my decision then."
"Well, tell me when you'll be leaving," the King of Ferelden demanded. "I think Anora wants to throw a party in your honor or some other fancy boring stuff."
We spoke of other things after that, for we were still young men and full of hope. What was there not to be hopeful about, after all? The Archdemon was gone, and evil defeated. Things could only get better from there.
We would be wrong in this.
-
I would be leaving soon, as it turned out.
When I visited the Demetrae's camp later that night, I was taken aside by Lanaya once more. She took me for a walk along the river, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of her clan.
"We'll be gone by nightfall tomorrow," Lanaya said, golden bangs falling loosely across her forehead. "All those who want to join us already have, and the guardsmen are starting to ask questions."
The Demetrae's numbers had been bled dry this year, first from the losses to the werewolves and then to the darkspawn: to bring new blood into their ranks, they'd taken to recruiting from the Denerim Alienage. Given that the Alienage itself had been set aflame during the battle and that half their number had just recently been sold into slavery with the tacit approval of a Fereldan high noble, they'd found a larger amount of takers than expected.
Most of those that remained were either too old or too set in their ways to consider another way to live. More, regrettably, had lost interest when they'd realized that worship of the Creators was expected of any member of the People: our cousins had had the Chantry's foot on their throat for so long they'd been taught to worship the boot.There was no arl of Denerim to cause trouble over this, since the shemlen nobles were split over who should rule the city – Eamon wanted his younger brother to have the title while the queen wanted it to become the demesne of the crown – but people had begun to notice that the Alienage was emptier than usual. Lanaya seemed to think it was time to leave, and I was inclined to agree.
"I will make my goodbyes then, Keeper," I replied.
"I look forward to hearing tales of your fight against the Blight, lethallin," she told me with a smile.
There were a few people who warranted the courtesy of a spoken farewell still in Denerim, in truth. Wynne was back at the Circle, not that we'd ever been close – that sordid affair with the runaway apprentice Anerin had all but made sure I would never be able to trust her with anything important. I still had a hard time believing she'd actually suggested the man should go back to the Circle when the templars had been waiting on permission to slaughter every man woman and child in the Tower not even three weeks prior. Madness. Shemlen madness at its worst.
Oghren had left to command soldiers clearing out darkspawn in the Bannorn, which seemed to suit him well. He did not have the history up here that he did down in Orzammar, and most seemed to consider his drinking a small fault compared to the skills he brought to the table. Sten had returned to his people and Zevran had disappeared ahead of any Crows that might want to hunt him. Morrigan had fled into the night with her bellyful of Old God, as she had promised she would, and my dearest Leliana had been called back to Orlais by Divine Justinia for purposes untold. Of my companions during the Blight that left only Alistair, but before I would see him there were two others that needed a visit. The first of them was in her sitting room, carefully eating a pear with a silver fork and knife as she read over her correspondence.
"It's quite all right, Erlina," Anora MacTir told her flustered handmaiden when she tried to stop me from entering. "I'm sure Warden Mahariel's business is of an urgent nature."
The servant with the inexplicable Orlesian accent bowed out, though she did glare at me from the corner of her eyes. I ignored her – I'd been glared at by darker and harder things than a handmaiden with an easily-offended sense of propriety – and claimed a seat on a sort of puffy stool Leliana had informed was called a pouf.
"I'll be leaving tomorrow," I told the queen of Ferelden, rather bluntly. "So will the Demetrae."
There was not so much as a hint of emotion on the face of Loghain's daughter. Still as a pond and a windless morning, and just as treacherously deep should you misstep.
"Can you not stay until the Landsmeet?" she asked. "You presence would lend the confirmation a certain... presence."
There was no one in Ferelden who could feasibly challenge Alistair's claim to the crown, as it were. Fergus Cousland might have had a decent one in other circumstances, I'd been told, but his teyrnir had been laid to ruins and Alistair's presence at the front lines of the fight during the entire Blight had made him very popular with the people. With Eamon's and Anora's backing to boot? No, there were no other contenders. If the queen wanted me there it was as a showpiece to display the power of the crown and I had no patience for those sort of games.
"I don't want to," I simply said, and was rewarded by the barest flicker of irritation in her eyes.
It was ill-done of me, baiting the daughter of a man I had killed, but the Dalish in me despised the idea of bending the knee and meekly accept ing the will of shemlen with shiny pieces of metal on their heads. Still, I sighed and shifted on my strange parody of a seat – I had not come for a fight. Would it have been too hard to put in a simple wooden bench instead of this... abomination?
"I do not like you," I admitted after a moment, since she seemed unsure of how to respond to such a blunt admission. "And after what happened on the Landsmeet floor, I expect you must despise me."
Anora calmly cut away a piece of her pear with the silver knife, the transparent juice running own the cool metal.
"I do not hold a grudge," she finally said. "But we will never be friendly."
Unusually direct of her, that, but I could appreciate it. Which is probably half the reason she said it in the first place.
"I know you'll take care of Alistair," I grunted with a clear undertone of approval. "So I can leave him to you. Eamon, though? Eamon is a loose end."
A year ago I would not have realized as much, but the last few months had been something of an education in human politics. The Arl of Redcliffe had been a strong supporter of Alistair from the beginning, but there was a reason he'd wanted Anora back in Gwaren and never to leave again: there was a difference between an untried and unmarried king with Eamon as only advisor and and king wed to one of the most competent politicians in Ferelden. In once case, the Arl as good as ruled Ferelden. In the other he had Anora for only rival, at least until the Teyrn of Highever managed to drag his holdings back from the edge of collapse. Eamon had already plotted to remove Anora from the throne once, and I doubted he would hesitate to do so again, not now that he had more power and influence than ever before. In the end I trusted Anora to look out for Alistair's interests better than the Arl of Redcliffe, and that was why I was sitting in her horrible pouf instead of across from the man's desk in his office.
"I'm not inclined to disagree with you," the queen agreed, and there was a touch of frost there.
Had Alistair shown her the letters? I was beginning to think so. Regardless, I was time to ask the question I'd come here to ask.
"I'll simply ask you this, then," I murmured. "Should Eamon Guerrin survive the night?"
I'd considered killing him simply as a precaution – Teagan would be much easier to handle, to my understanding, since he did not have his brother's years of accumulated influence and alliances – but in the end I would follow Anora's opinion on this. She'd been playing this game her whole life, after all, while I'd only just learned the rules.
"Could you-" she started, before abruptly stopping. "No, better I don't know anything."
She closed her eyes in thought and I let her have the moment to consider. What she'd been about to ask had been easy enough to divine. Could you really make it look like an accident? Of course I could. I'd spent the last year travelling with a former bard and an Antivan crow: I knew more about poison than most herbalists.
"No," Anora finally spoke up, tone regretful. "His contacts in the Bannorn are too useful."
I shrugged.
"Should you ever change your mind, there is a man in the market whose name is Ignacio," I informed her.
Her eyebrows rose, but she made no comment. The man's name was so obviously Antivan that there was no real need to specify what his profession was. As it happened, he was the next man I needed to visit before my departure so I took my leave and left the queen of Ferelden to her sliced pear. I left the palace behind and returned to the wretched ruin that passed for the kingdom's capital these days.
Finding the Crow Master of Denerim was not as hard as the man clearly thought it was. I'd made sure to track down his real home when we'd done a little work for him during the Blight, not just the room he used to meet with his "interested patrons". The house itself was nothing impressive – nothing more than what the moderately wealthy Antivan merchant he claimed to be would be able to afford. Then again, if Zevran was to be believed, the greater part of the wealth flowing from the contracts actually ended up back in the hands of the guildmasters back in Antiva and not the assassins themselves. How high up in the chain of command Ignacio actually was, I had no real way of telling, but as a messenger he would serve just fine.
The balding "businessman" was making himself a cup of tea when I broke into his house – the lock on the back door was shoddy work, which I found bad form for a man in his trade. No guards, though from the look I'd taken last time he'd been out in the market it seemed he didn't keep any papers or valuables in the place: there must have been a safe house somewhere in the city I hand't found, assuming it hadn't been destroyed during the battle. It amused me that a man as powerful as a Crow Master would be making his own tea, given the shemlen fascination with delegating menial work to others, but then I supposed in his line of work letting someone else make your tea would be a dangerous gamble. I ghosted across the earthen floor, silently unsheathing the Thorn of the Dead God as I stepped behind Ignacio. The man was about to take his first sip when the tip of the dagger tapped against the rim of the ceramic cup.
"Mierda," the man screamed, dropping the cup and spilling the boiling liquid all over his nightshirt.
"Good evening, Ignacio," I spoke as I took the only other chair in his kitchen.
"Warden," the man growled back. "These theatrics are not necessary, yes? Ignacio already knows you can find him, the point need not be revisited."
He wiped his hands on the dry parts of his nightshirt and found a rag to clean up the mess while I made myself comfortable, the dagger I'd found in the Deep Roads returning to the sheath nearly soundlessly.
"What can I do for you, Warden?" he asked when he was done. "I do not think you came for the delight of my company, no?"
"This is a courtesy visit," I told him. "I'll be leaving Denerim soon, so I thought we should have a word before I did."
The Master grimaced.
"That is very polite if you, but I feel that what will follow is of a different mold."
Perceptive man, Ignacio.
"Alistair," I listed calmly. "Anora. Any children of theirs – they're now off-limits to the Crows."
"Warden," the Antivan said, sounding pained, "you know that-"
"You don't control who takes contracts on who, yes," I finished for him.
I'd dealt with his man before. I'd killed for this man before, though only when assured that the targets were my enemies as well as his. He knew me, knew what I could do even when I wasn't digging knives into the skull of an Old God. So I smiled a cold, cold smile and met his eyes.
"You think I'm a savage, Ignacio," I murmured. "On very skilled at killing, yes, but still a tattooed elf who spent most of his life in the woods. And you are right, in this – I am a savage."
"Warden," he spoke desperately, "I would never-"
"Which is why when I say," I continued over his protests, "that should one of them die I will slit the throat of every Crow in Ferelden, you can believe me. I don't care who took the contract. I don't care who paid for the death. If one of them dies and the House of Crows was in any way involved, I will see to it you die screaming."
The small man's eyes dilated, though he admirably managed to keep the terror off of his face. I hadn't blustered, or thundered or made extravagant oaths: I'd simply told him what would happen the same way other people talked about weather.
"Now," I continued quietly, "when you tell your masters this, they may take offense that for once they are not doing the threatening. Some may even be tempted to take one of those lives out of spite."
Ignacio nodded, not saying a word.
"Then tell them this: should you do this, I will come to Antiva for three years. And for every day I spend there, I will murder a Crow."
Ignacio swallowed noisily.
"I will them this, Warden, I swear it."
I pushed back my chair and stood up, stopping to pat his shoulder as I made for the front door.
"Good man. Oh, and one other thing – Anora knows of you," I mentioned. "She may send work your way in the future."
I did not bother to wish him pleasant dreams.
-
When I'd first come across the ruins in the Brecilian Forest, I'd seen markings in the chamber where the ghost of the Dreamer had lain in uneasy rest.
Only Keepers were supposed to be able to the ancient tongue of the elvhen, but I'd spent enough time with Merill to be able to grasp some of what had been written: ancient prayers to the Creators, long-forgotten to any clan. It had been nothing more than a passing curiosity at the time, and I'd never seen fit to mention it to my companions. Morrigan might have been able to read them, I think - the witch always knew more than she let on - but I'd been rightly wary of her at the time. Her love of power had a way of trumping all other considerations, and she was not above lying to keep ancient knowledge in her hands alone. And I was right in my caution, I reflected as I padded through the old corridors of the lower ruins. Morrigan's plot had ended with the soul of Old God in the child she carried, a decision I regretted to this day. The whole world might yet come to regret what had been done in the dark of that night, and in this the responsibility would be mine entirely. For all that the shemlen of Ferelden seemed to think me above all flaws, I'd made many missteps on my way to Urthemiel's demise.
"You are frowning again, lethallin," Lanaya spoke up from my side.
The Keeper of the Demetrae sounded more amused than worried, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Aside from an errant piece of webbing in her hair from the giant spiders we'd had to – once again – clear from the deeper tunnels, she seemed entirely unfazed by tour surroundings.
"Dwelling on old mistakes," I replied. "One of my more frustrating habits, I am told."
Lanaya cocked her head to the side in agreement, though she did not press me for more information. I'd grown rather fond of Zathrian's successor during their travels since the Battle of Denerim. She was much like the bitter old mage should have been: wise without being arrogant, patient without being indecisive. And unlike others of the People I'd met since the "death" of the Archdemon, she was not awed by the legend that had been woven around me: she treated me as a clanmate, if a respected one. The Demetrae clan"s Keeper had ultimately chosen to return to the Brecilian Forest when the Thaw began, angling to get away from the roaming bands of darkspawn that still plagued the north of Ferelden. Wise of her, as the Brecilian had been largely untouched by darkspawn.
I"d shared stories of my misadventures during the Blight with Lanaya as we camped by the fireside, and she'd been intrigued when I'd mentioned the ancient elvhen temple I'd come across when hunting down the werewolves. The clan reclaimed their old grounds after a few weeks of travel, and after taking some time to settle in Lanaya had asked to accompany me on an expedition back to the ruins. I'd seen no reason not to agree, given that I was still mildly curious about the prayers.
"We'll be there soon," I murmured, shaking off the thoughts.
The gates to the burial chamber were still open – they'd not closed since the time I'd performed the ritual carved on the tablet. I'd been wary that some other manner of creature would come to lair in the ruins after the previous inhabitants were either wiped out, but besides a resurgence in spiders nothing new had moved in. The trend continued as Lanaya followed me into the chamber itself: I'd half-expected that the weakened Veil would let through shades and demons, but the place was silent and empty. Maybe the Blight has predisposed me to assume the worst, I admitted to myself. Lanaya gasped as she took in the sight of it, passing me by.
"You were right, lethallin," she announced as she strode forward. "This was the resting place of a Dreamer. There are old tales of supplicants who visited places like this, in the days of Arlathan, so that the ancient sleeping would speak to them in dreams."
"We're a little late for that, I'm afraid," I mused.
The Keeper sent me a quelling glare that would have been a lot more intimidating had I not stared down a corrupted Old God. Still, Lanaya was not unskilled at the art – better than Wynne, certainly, though not yet Anora's match. The Queen of Ferelden could work up a glower rivalling her late father's, given proper motivation.
"The inscriptions were on the sides of the tomb itself," I informed her, watching irritation watch with naked curiosity on her face.
Curiosity won, of course. Such was the nature of Keepers. The honey-haired mage knelt by the tomb and ran a hand against the glyphs that adorned it almost lovingly, her other one holding her staff close. After a moment, though, her eyes widened as she read.
"You were right," she spoke into the stillness. "These are prayers."
I raised an eyebrow. That alone would not have been enough to get that reaction out of her.
"And?"
"And a map. For a hidden shrine to Dirthamen," she finished in whisper.
A wolfish smile spread across my face. And to think I'd believed things might get boring after the Blight.
-
"It's in the Korcari Wilds, lethallin," Lanaya sighed. "I can't tell you much more than that."
That was less than helpful, given the span of them. The Falamiel clan under Keeper Velaren might know more, given that they had dwelled in the Wilds for generations, but I suspected that if they'd known of a still-unspoiled shrine to the Creators they would have found it by now. Besides, the Falamiel had an unsavory reputation. They warred with the Chasind more often than not, and there'd been rumors that they had dealings with Asha'bellanar herself – though given that the monster in question had once saved my own life, I supposed I was in no position to judge. I'd seen the Witch let out her last breath in the shape of a dragon, but I knew better than to believe that Flemeth was truly dead. Monsters that had lived as long as Asha'bellanar learned to cheat death in more ways than one.
"I suppose it should be expected that the Keeper of Secrets would not make his shrine an easy find," I acknowledged ruefully. "Tell me of this path, then."
The news that there might yet be a sacred elvhen site on Fereldan grounds that had not been unearthed by the shem had the entire camp buzzing, so Lanaya had taken me to her own aravel to speak privately. Few Dalish ranked an aravel of their own, but the Keeper of the Demetrae had not yet taken a First and there were certain advantages to her position. I pushed back the intricate dark braids that kept my hair in check, noting that they were starting to fray. I'd grown so used to having Leliana's deft hands at my disposal that I'd let her talk me into more fanciful arrangements that were practical on the roads, something I was coming to regret. Normally I would have asked another hunter to help me, but these days they looked at me as if I was more myth than flesh.
"The Dreamer from the ruins was once a supplicant on "the path lined in cedar"," the Keeper told me, laying back against the wooden wall. "It was implied to begin somewhere in the place that the shemlen call the Wending Wood."
It did not even occur to me to question to accuracy of Lanaya's remembrance: with so much of the People's lore being only spoken, every Keeper and First had to be able to keep in mind entire songs at first hearing. Being able to read the prayers more than once had likely been something of a luxury for her.
"Ah," I grunted out enthusiastically. "I will be visiting the Latobri, then."
The honey-haired woman sitting cross-legged in front of me shot me an amused look. While I'd had not qualms with Keeper Ilshae – she rather reminded me of Marethari – my acquaintance with the old mage's First had not gone so smoothly. Velanna hated humans, which was nothing surprising: every Dalish hated the shemlen deep down, if only a little. I'd come to respect many of them, come to love Leliana like I'd never thought I would love anyone, but even I sometimes felt that bitter heat in the back of my throat when a shem opened his fat mouth and called a hunter who'd bled to save Denerim from the Blight knife-ear or rabbit. My issue with Velanna was that she was unable to put that hatred aside for the greater good. While regrettable, this might have been acceptable in a hunter – but it was a dangerous flaw in one who would be Keeper. Decisions made out of wanton pride could cost a clan dearly, as Zathrian had shown in his madness.
"She would not have been so... fervent in her criticisms, if she did not have an eye on you herself," Lanaya murmured, politely hiding her smile behind a cup of halla's milk.
Upon hearing that I was involved with Leliana, Velanna had sought me out after the Battle of Denerim. The ensuing argument had been ugly. She'd said it was unseemly for the only member of the People to become a hero to the shemlen since Garahel to be involved with a human instead of one of his own. What message will it speak to the youth of the Dalish, that the enemy sleeps in your bedroll? The argument had struck a chord in me, which I'd hidden by being particularly cutting with my reply. I would have led more credence to her reproach if I'd had a real chance of having children, truth be told. Every Dalish had a duty to the People in that regard, but Warden infertility had rendered that irrelevant in my case. Lanaya's wild fancy that Velanna had held a more personal interest in my romantic inclinations was just that, and so I did not bother to address the matter.
"Perhaps Keeper Ilshae has a Second whose help she could grant me," I grimaced.
"Has your luck ever been that good before, lethallin?" Lanaya asked wryly
-
Keeper Ilshae did not, in fact, have a Second.
"A shrine to Dirthamen, you say?" the white-haired mage murmured as she held her hands over the fire. "I had not heard of this. The Alamarri once claimed this wood for their god Uvolla, but I did not know it was once sacred to the elvhen."
I popped another of the roasted chestnuts into my mouth, savoring the treat – they were few of the trees that bore them in the lands where the Sabrae usually dwelled, but for the Latobri they were apparently common fare.
"The shrine itself will not be here but in the Wilds of the south," I replied. "Keeper Lanaya tells me there will be a stele near here that can put me on the path to it."
Ilshae shivered, even sitting as close to the fire as she did, and I could not help but frown. She was pale and looked sickly, even for a woman her age.
"Forgive me, Keeper, for waking you at this hour," I muttered, feeling a flash of shame.
I'd only found the Latobri's campsite after the moon had risen and while I'd declined to have Ilshae woken when her clan learned I had come to speak with her, the ruckus caused by my arrival had been enough to drag her away from her sleep regardless. Var'enasalin, the whispers had spread. Our victory. The fervor they spoke the words with made me uncomfortable. Ilshae smiled at me in that gentle way Marethari had always used on my when I'd said something particularly stupid.
"I am old, da'len," she told me mildly. "That is not something a few hours of sleep can take back."
I inclined my head in agreement, making a still vaguely guilty noise.
"It would be a great comfort," she finally said, "if I could help you find something our people have lost before Falon'Din comes for me. I will send Velanna and her sister – one of our hunters - with you. Few know the woods better than these two."
I kept my disgruntlement off my face, nodding sharply in thanks. Ilshae coughed and tightened her blanket.
"I am afraid I must ask a favor of you, Warden," she spoke after a moment. "Some of the nearby shemlen have been lurking close to our camp site, though the hunters have kept them away. I fear it might come to violence, if someone does not intervene."
I frowned. The Wending Woods were part of the arling of Amaranthine, if I remembered well. Since Alistair had shoved a sword through the last arl's guts and I'd ducked out before the title could be pawned off on me, I wasn't sure under whose rule it fell under at the moment. The Cousland teyrn, maybe? I remembered hearing something about how Howe had been his family's vassals before the sack of Highever.
"Are there any villages close by?" I finally asked. "If not, it will take some time to speak to every freeholder."
There was indeed one, and Ilshae marked the spot on the map I'd kept from the Blight – which begged the question of why they'd camped so close to the shemlen to start with, if they'd known there were some close by. It was offered to me to lay down in a family's aravel for the night, but I declined: I'd gotten so used to my bedroll over the last year that everything else felt unnatural. I'd even slept on the floor back in the palace in Denerim, unable to rest on a mattress so soft.
I was among the first to wake the following morning – a handful of hunters were already out, but most were still asleep by the time I'd finished my bowl of berries and halla cheese. Among those that were up before dawn was Velanna's sister, a blond-haired hunter named Seranni who came to sit by me. She had a very unusual vallaslin, a pattern I'd never seen before except on her sister.
"It's been handed down among the Latobri since the fall of the Dales," she informed me. "It's not dedicated to any one of the Creators, not like yours. The Keeper says it might come from the days of Arlathan itself."
"A shame we don't know the meaning of it," I grunted. "We've forgotten even most of what we remember."
"Maybe you'll find out at the shrine," she replied cheerfully. "It's quite a bit of luck, isn't it, for you to find a shrine to the Keeper of Secrets?"
I blinked in surprise.
"I'm not sure I follow, lethallan."
"Your vallaslin, I mean," Seranni pointed out. "It is the pattern dedicated to Dirthamen, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," I agreed.
I did not particularly follow Dirthamen over the other Creators, truth be told. I'd chosen the pattern to prove to Ashalle that I was determined to learn what had happened to my parents and that I had the maturity to handle knowing the answer to my questions. That they had simply died at the hands of shemlen and city-elves had been unexpected: I'd thought her unwillingness to say anything came from the fact that it was some great dark secret, not simple fear I would take my grief out on humans.
"Aneth ara, Warden," the voice came from behind me, interrupting our conversation.
Ah, it seemed Velanna was now to join us. Ilshae's first was a striking figure, I could not deny: she had the slenderness and well-placed curves that made the elvhen so attractive even to humans. The absurd robes she wore – opened in the middle of her chest and turning into a loincloth at hip-height – displayed her charms prominently enough. Still, even if I had never met Leliana I did not think I would have been interested: there was too much bitterness to her, too much bile. One of the things that had first drawn me to my redheaded lover was the almost airy lightness she carried around with her. After a cloying lifetime of Dalish anger, it had been a breath of fresh air.
"Aneth ara, Velanna," I spoke, keeping my wariness out of my voice.
We had not parted on the best terms. Our last conversation had ended in my making a pointed comment about how if she spent as much effort serving the People as she did getting on my nerves, we'd be halfway to a rebuilt Arlathan.
"I understand you are in need of the Latobri's help," the First smiled as she took a seat, helping herself to a ladle of of cheese and berries from the pot.
The sisters did look alike quite a bit, I could see now. Their hair was of the same shade, and they had the same high cheekbones – their identical pattern of their vallaslin only reinforced the resemblance. And yet, I had not seen so much as a hint of the smugness that permeated Velanna in that moment from Seranni during out entire conversation. But I did not see even a flicker of the drive that burns inside the First from her sister, I reflected. The Creators ever delighted in little ironies like this one.
"Keeper Ilshae has offered your assistance," I acknowledged. "Can you recall anything at all about elvhen ruins in the woods?"
Velanna shook her head, though it looked like it pained her to admit as much.
"There no stories of such – or at least none known to the Latobri," she replied. "But I know of someone with a longer memory than even the People."
Creators, I hoped this wasn't going to end with her suggesting a spirit be summoned. That particular brand of stupidity always ended up with a room full of dead fools and my having to clean up another pack of angry demons. Velanna must have sensed my dubiousness, for she scowled.
"There is a pair of statues, men who claimed to be Avvars cursed by a magister. They were here before even the clan, and so may remember what we do not."
I blinked. That was... surprisingly promising. No doubt there would be complications – no one ever gave you what you needed without wanting something in return – but even if the "statues" knew nothing, they might point us towards someone or something that did.
"Ma serannas, Velanna," I said. "This might be the very thing we need."
I had not known before it was possible for a woman grown to preen. Seranni noticed it as well, and shot her sister an amused look.
"Should we get going, then, before my dear sister's head explodes out of self-satisfaction?" the blond hunter suggested.
"Seranni!"
I raised an amused eyebrow, deciding to stay out of that particular scuffle. The thing that caused siblings to set their rivalries aside the quickest was always outside interference – blood was blood, even among a people as tightly-knit as the Dalish.
"It will have to wait until tomorrow, I think," I said before the conversation could degenerate into a shoving match. "The Keeper wants me to have word with the local bann."
Velanna's eyes sharpened at my words, though Seranni remained indifferent.
"The shems have been lurking close again, then?" she asked.
I shrugged.
"Something like that. Having a word with their lord should put a stop to it," I told her.
"Shemlen responding to reason?" the First scoffed back. "That would be a first."
Most of the human lords I'd come across had been reasonable sorts, their tendency to lodge knives in each other's backs aside. Still, how much trouble could this Lord Guy really be?
-
Thistlehome was too small a holding to qualify as a bannorn.
Eamon had once explained to me that one could be a noble without being even a bann: there were knights, who apparently stood above mere freemen, and the nobles whose holdings were not beholden to another bann. The whole thing was a headache and struck me as pointlessly complicated, though I'd been assured by Leliana that the Orlesian ranks made the Fereldan ones seem almost simple. Still, I remembered enough to know that "Lord" Guy was something along the lines of a landed knight. Who owned him I had no way of knowing, but ultimately there was one man holding the leash of all the nobles in Ferelden: King Alistair Theirin, first of the name. It was my hope that persuading the man to rein in the locals would not be too arduous, but if it was I had my own means of forcing the issue. A letter sent to Denerim would take weeks to get there and just as long to return, but simply the threat of royal attention was not something to be underestimated. I'd learned that trick from Morrigan, happened upon it during one of our conversations by the fire: power was in the perception of power. If you used force where everyone could see it, then afterwards you could threaten to bring that kind of destruction to bear and be believed.
What did it say about me, I wondered, that I'd always found it easier to talk to Flemeth's daughter than the likes of sagely old Wynne?
There'd never been any question of my bringing members of the Latobri on my visit to the Thistlehome: the sight of a few armed Dalish strolling into the village might very well have been the spark that set fire to the hay. Instead I made my way alone, noting with disapproval that it had taken be less than half a day to make my way there: Ilshae really should have known better than to camp this close to the shemlen. Perhaps she'd thought it was less risky now that there was no arl of Amaranthine to order any Dalish "vagrants" chased off, but that would have been a mistake. With no one to answer to, I wagered instead that these little would-be-kings would be much prone to attack the clan out of impulse. By the time I arrived in Thistlehome, the sun had reached its apex. If I'm lucky, I might be able to get a hot meal out of this, I thought. There was a large grange on the hill I assumed was Lord Guy's hall, and I took the path up when the voice came from behind me
"Hey, knife-ear!"
I cast a look at the youth who was currently attempting to accost me. Short, shorter than me – the elvhen were not tall, as a rule, and I was no exception – but broadly built. The man was red-haired and and broad-shouldered, handsome in the way that Loghain must have been before he grew merely stern.
At this time of the year and of the day a farmer should have been at work in the fields, tilling, but the mouthy human seemed to have no such preoccupation. His clothes were of good make but had seen better days, making it likely I'd simply come across the village wastrel. There's one in every clan. I turned my back on him and kept walking: it would have been deeply satisfying to teach the young man some manners, but roughing up a villager would complicate my dealings with the local lord.
"I'm talking to you, rabbit," the man sneered. "Don't you walk away from me. Where'd you get those weapons, huh? Stole them off their owner?"
I paused, then sighed. As long as I didn't do any permanent damage, there should be no real consequences.
"That's right, you just stop. Now hand those over," the idiot laughed. "And the bow too. Where'd a little rabbit like you get stuff like this?"
I drew the Thorn in a single, smooth gesture as I turned to face him. The tip came to rest on the shemlen's throat, and I considered taking a finger for his insolence. The man's eyes widened.
"You wouldn't dare-"
"My name," I interrupted quietly, "is Warden Theron Mahariel, of the Sabrae clan. The blade you're trying to claim had drunk the lifeblood of two Archdemons, boy. Shall we find out what it makes of yours?"
The man turned white as a sheet and the lesser part of me loved the sight of it, I will not lie.
"Warden, I had no idea, I mean-"
I'd been attacked by villagers once before, during the Blight. The men of Lothering had been very, very desperate and died against our blades rather than face a slow death through hunger. As selfish and foolish as that way to die had been, at least those villagers had iron in their spine. The man in front of me was just another petty thug, and the sight of his blubber made me lose my appetite for blood.
"Stop snivelling," I snapped. "I have no interest in you. The Lord Guy, is he in his hall?"
The red-haired idiot stared at me in surprise.
"What do you want with my father?" he asked.
A cold smile stretched my lips. Well now. If this wasn't an opportunity, I didn't know what was.
"Of course the House of Repose failed. They're trying to assassinate a man I once saw kill someone with a wooden mug. The only thing more tragic than the waste of ale was the stupidity of the fellow who picked that fight."
- Guildmaster Zevran Aranai
"Leliana," he spoke without turning. "Or should I call you Sister Nightingale now, ma vhenan?"
Theron Mahariel broke off a piece of that delicious little sweetbread Fairbank's people liked to make, popping it into his mouth as he leaned back against his seat. The nights were pleasant, out in the Emerald Graves – he could understand why so many shem lords had made summer homes among the trees. That those same marble palaces silken lords used to lounge in were now in the hand of Dalish was a constant source of amusement to him. The flap of the green and gold pavilion he'd claimed as his own had not made so much as a sound but he knew Leliana, knew her as well as his own heartbeat, and he did not doubt for a moment that she was there.
She slipped out of the shadows without a word, more silent than any human had a right to be, and for a moment he simply drank in the sight of her. She was still beautiful in the way that had once so taken him, he saw, but in the years they'd spent apart she'd grown more... severe. Her crimson hair was no longer free, now hidden away by a dark purple shawl held into place by the burning eye-and-sword of the Inquisition. He wondered if he knew the stranger in front of him at all, but then she smiled and somehow she was his Leliana again.
"You're one to talk, o Lord of Crows," she teased, claiming the seat across from him. "Getting past your sentries was surprisingly hard work, you know. My throat is positively parched. Pour a girl a drink, would you?"
Leliana was, he believed, the only woman in all of Thedas who could sneak past an army of Dalish at night in the middle the woods and treat it as little more than a tedious chore. A smile tugged at the dark-haired elf's lips and he reached for the wine bottle, lazily decanting a cup and offering it to her. Their fingers touched for the barest moments as she took it and their eyes met. Ah, I remember now, he thought. Why it was so easy to fall in love with her. He allowed his hand to linger, but not for more than an instant. Ten years had passed since the Blight, and their loyalties were not so clear-cut as they once had been.
"I had a feeling you might visit me tonight," Theron murmured. "You could have come with the Inquisitor tomorrow, but you always did prefer to talk under moonlight."
It was how this had all begun, after all. Their little talks by the campfire, and what had grown out of them. His memories of that time were gilded, these days, reminders of a time where friends and enemies did not meld into each other so easily and evil was pleasantly uncomplicated to put a face to.
"I will not be there when the two of you talk," Leliana said softly, "I am needed at Skyhold to handle... delicate matters for the Inquisition. But I wanted to talk to you before I left."
The elf raised an eyebrow at her careful phrasing, letting out a derisive snort. As if they weren't both aware that she ran a spy network that spanned halfway across Thedas, if not further. She'd picked up the Orlesian tendency for unnecessary dramatics since he'd last seen her, it seemed.
"You have questions, I imagine," the Hero of Ferelden said, eyeing the wine his cup thoughtfully at he sent it swirling with a flick of the wrist.
"I would have less," the Left Hand of the Divine replied calmly, "if you had not stopped writing me."
Theron grimaced. There was no accusation in that tone – not yet, anyway – but the implied curiosity was rather... firm. He'd had reasons for the decision at the time, but they seemed hard to explain now that it was just the two of them in the moonlight. The seemed less like a necessity and more like expedience, now that Leliana was sitting across from him with that neutral look on her face.
"I did not want you to have to choose between us and your loyalty to Justinia," he finally replied, for in the end regardless of all other justifications that was the real reason he'd stopped writing.
She flinched, and the sight of it was heartbreaking.
"I don't know what is worse," the love of his life said spoke quietly. "That you made that choice for me, or that deep down you believe I would have chosen her."
How could it be, that after all the death and destruction he'd sown on behalf of his people the look on her face still brought more remorse to his heart than the piles of dead he'd set aflame? Perhaps Deceit is right, he mused. Perhaps I really am the most wretched of the elvhen. But the Creators were dead and the Maker was a human idol, so Theron Mahariel smiled a wretched smile and met her eyes.
"Wouldn't you have?" he simply said.
She looked away first, and like all other victories in his life that one left a bitter taste in the mouth.
"I do not know," she finally admitted. "But it would not have come to that. I would have found a way to-"
"Ma vhenan," he interrupted her gently. "Of all the people I've ever met – and will ever meet - I love you most. But for all that, I love my people more. I cannot change this. I am not sure I want to."
Leliana was silent for a long moment before she sighed and reached for her wine, gulping down a mouthful almost fervently.
"It would not be fair of me to blame you for that," she said. "Not after leaving when Justinia called."
The elvhen warrior's lips quirked dryly.
"A decade ago this would have been a much more heated argument, I think," he noted.
The Nightingale's smiled wickedly as her eyes lingered on the shape of his shoulders.
"A decade ago, my love, we did not solve our disagreements with words," she replied lazily.
Theron was too old and too jaded to blush, but he did have to push down the urge to cough in embarrassment. She'd always been much more open about these things than Dalish found to be proper. From the way her smile broadened, she apparently found him as easy to read now as she had all these years ago.
"I did not think it would still feel like this," someone said, and after a moment Theron realized it had been him.
Clearly at some point the wine had started to dredge up whatever passed for his honesty these days. Leliana eyed him intently, and now there was a tension in he pavilion that was almost palpable, like a bowstring going taut.
"And how is "this"?" she asked in that musical accent of hers.
"Easy," he admitted. "Natural. Like I last saw you yesterday instead of ten years ago."
The redhead reached for the bottle and filled his cup, tenderly threading his fingers with hers.
"We have until dawn until our lives belong to others again," she murmured. "Tell me everything."
Theron Mahariel took a deep breath. Then he began to speak.
-
Eamon had somehow managed to become more of an ass after the Blight.
I'd never particularly liked Anora – Loghain's daughter was too prone to betrayal for comfort, too much like the shems in my people's stories – but there was no denying that for all her occasional sharpness she was a gifted woman. The arl of Redcliffe did not have any such redeeming quality, as far as I could tell. His failures as a husband and a father had unleashed a horde of undead upon his holdings, and now that he was Alistair's chancellor I feared his influence would bring much the same upon Ferelden itself. Anora seemed to agree, and so I found myself in the odd position of being loosely aligned with the queen in the wake of the Battle of Denerim. Already Alistair's court was forming factions, the Guerrins consolidating their position at court while the so-called "Queen's Men" found themselves competing for every key position in the capital with Eamon's picked candidates.
"You'd think I'd married Eamon too, from the way he's constantly barging into my chambers," Alistair confided in me as he broke off a piece of sweetbread and offered it while cramming a larger one into his own mouth.
"I do not think you marriage bed would survive the arl's addition," I mused and repressed a smile when the newly-crowned King of Ferelden ducked his head and blushed.
For all that he'd been reluctant to wed the queen in the first place, the bastard prince seemed to have taken to matrimony rather well. He was very attentive to Anora and often gave her soulful looks, something the older woman did not seem to know quite how to deal with but apparently found flattering. I was not so surprised: Alistair had, above all else, always wanted to have a family. The queen seemed happy enough to fill that need, and if the gossip coming from the servants was any indication they were trying quite vigorously to add more members to their fold.
"Anora's not big on beards so I don't think she'd go for it," Alistair drawled, but after a moment he turned serious.
The two of us were on the summit of Fort Drakon, the same place where on that fateful day we'd played out the sordid farce that had been Urthemiel's "death". It was one of the few places we were sure not to be overheard - though the Archdemon's corpse had long been skinned and drained of blood, its death grounds were still blighted in a way that not even fire had managed to scour away.
"You're sure you have to leave, then?" the King asked quietly. "I could use you, you know. I've been thinking about naming you arl of Amaranthine just so you'd stick around and take care of the Thaw for me – Fergus Cousland has been telling me worrying things about warbands in the north."
I eyed him incredulously, pushing back the elaborate braids Leliana had taught me how to make.
"Alistair, I can barely even read," I reminded him. Yet another thing to thank Leliana for. "I know nothing of shemlen laws, and I do not worship your Maker. It would be disastrous."
"Still not sold on the whole Andraste business?" he asked, surprised. "I would have thought that after Haven..."
I scowled. The former templar was a dear friend in many ways, but he did have a talent for making irritating assumptions.
"I will not deny the power of your Prophet, but that hardly makes her divine," I replied. "My gods are older than your Chantry, Alistair, and saving one man by making him eat ashes is not enough to cast that into doubt."
The blond-haired bastard raised his hands defensively.
"Don't give me the glare, you know it makes me queasy at the knees," he implored. "To each their god, everybody's happy and Alistair doesn't get an arrow in the arse from angry Dalish people."
I condescended to let the matter go with a grunt, folding my arms over my chest.
"Regardless, I would rather swallow a live deepstalker than serve as a shemlen lord," I told him, not unkindly. "I am going home, Alistair. When Lanaya takes the Demetrae back north, I will be joining her."
Most of the clans had already left in the days following the Battle of Denerim, judging it unwise to linger when the tensions were so high and so many darkspawn still roamed the countryside. Some had lingered longerm the last being the Latobri who'd finally left last week, much to everyone's relief. Keeper Ilshae was a cool-headed woman, but her First was a hothead called Velanna who'd gotten into several altercations with what remained of the city guard. She'd refrained from lobbing fireballs about, if only barely, but things could have easily turned into a riot if I hadn't intervened. What had once been Zathrian's clan, the Demetrae, were the last to remain. Keeper Lanaya had taken me aside last night to tell him they would be leaving soon, though, and I was coming to realize there was no point in remaining in Denerim any longer. Leliana's last letter had mentioned she did not know for how long the Divine would need her help, and I could not simply idle about until she returned from Orlais.
"You'll be missed, my friend," Alistair told me with a clap on the shoulder before tearing into the last of the sweetbread with enthusiasm. "Will you be looking for your clan?"
That the Sabrae had not shown up for the Battle of Denerim was a private mark of shame for me. Keeper Marethari had known Duncan, known what the old treaties said – had she thought that giving one of our number to the Wardens was enough to discharge the clan's obligations? Keeper Solan of the Haeval had told me that the last he'd heard of her she'd been planning to take the Sabrae across the Waking Sea, hiring a ship for passage into the Free Marches. The cowardice of it rankled me. The People were not above fleeing from battles that could not be won, as was only proper, but this was different: the Dalish had made an oath. And if we Dalish did not even keep our oaths, then what was left of us? I knew the Keepers who'd come had lost much respect for her, and the Sabrae's reputation with the clans who dwelled on this side of the Frostbacks would have taken a hit if not for my own part in the demise of the Archdemon.
"I wouldn't know where to start," I admitted to Alistair. "They could be halfway across the Free Marches by now. I'll accompany Lanaya back to the Brecilian Forest and make my decision then."
"Well, tell me when you'll be leaving," the King of Ferelden demanded. "I think Anora wants to throw a party in your honor or some other fancy boring stuff."
We spoke of other things after that, for we were still young men and full of hope. What was there not to be hopeful about, after all? The Archdemon was gone, and evil defeated. Things could only get better from there.
We would be wrong in this.
-
I would be leaving soon, as it turned out.
When I visited the Demetrae's camp later that night, I was taken aside by Lanaya once more. She took me for a walk along the river, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of her clan.
"We'll be gone by nightfall tomorrow," Lanaya said, golden bangs falling loosely across her forehead. "All those who want to join us already have, and the guardsmen are starting to ask questions."
The Demetrae's numbers had been bled dry this year, first from the losses to the werewolves and then to the darkspawn: to bring new blood into their ranks, they'd taken to recruiting from the Denerim Alienage. Given that the Alienage itself had been set aflame during the battle and that half their number had just recently been sold into slavery with the tacit approval of a Fereldan high noble, they'd found a larger amount of takers than expected.
Most of those that remained were either too old or too set in their ways to consider another way to live. More, regrettably, had lost interest when they'd realized that worship of the Creators was expected of any member of the People: our cousins had had the Chantry's foot on their throat for so long they'd been taught to worship the boot.There was no arl of Denerim to cause trouble over this, since the shemlen nobles were split over who should rule the city – Eamon wanted his younger brother to have the title while the queen wanted it to become the demesne of the crown – but people had begun to notice that the Alienage was emptier than usual. Lanaya seemed to think it was time to leave, and I was inclined to agree.
"I will make my goodbyes then, Keeper," I replied.
"I look forward to hearing tales of your fight against the Blight, lethallin," she told me with a smile.
There were a few people who warranted the courtesy of a spoken farewell still in Denerim, in truth. Wynne was back at the Circle, not that we'd ever been close – that sordid affair with the runaway apprentice Anerin had all but made sure I would never be able to trust her with anything important. I still had a hard time believing she'd actually suggested the man should go back to the Circle when the templars had been waiting on permission to slaughter every man woman and child in the Tower not even three weeks prior. Madness. Shemlen madness at its worst.
Oghren had left to command soldiers clearing out darkspawn in the Bannorn, which seemed to suit him well. He did not have the history up here that he did down in Orzammar, and most seemed to consider his drinking a small fault compared to the skills he brought to the table. Sten had returned to his people and Zevran had disappeared ahead of any Crows that might want to hunt him. Morrigan had fled into the night with her bellyful of Old God, as she had promised she would, and my dearest Leliana had been called back to Orlais by Divine Justinia for purposes untold. Of my companions during the Blight that left only Alistair, but before I would see him there were two others that needed a visit. The first of them was in her sitting room, carefully eating a pear with a silver fork and knife as she read over her correspondence.
"It's quite all right, Erlina," Anora MacTir told her flustered handmaiden when she tried to stop me from entering. "I'm sure Warden Mahariel's business is of an urgent nature."
The servant with the inexplicable Orlesian accent bowed out, though she did glare at me from the corner of her eyes. I ignored her – I'd been glared at by darker and harder things than a handmaiden with an easily-offended sense of propriety – and claimed a seat on a sort of puffy stool Leliana had informed was called a pouf.
"I'll be leaving tomorrow," I told the queen of Ferelden, rather bluntly. "So will the Demetrae."
There was not so much as a hint of emotion on the face of Loghain's daughter. Still as a pond and a windless morning, and just as treacherously deep should you misstep.
"Can you not stay until the Landsmeet?" she asked. "You presence would lend the confirmation a certain... presence."
There was no one in Ferelden who could feasibly challenge Alistair's claim to the crown, as it were. Fergus Cousland might have had a decent one in other circumstances, I'd been told, but his teyrnir had been laid to ruins and Alistair's presence at the front lines of the fight during the entire Blight had made him very popular with the people. With Eamon's and Anora's backing to boot? No, there were no other contenders. If the queen wanted me there it was as a showpiece to display the power of the crown and I had no patience for those sort of games.
"I don't want to," I simply said, and was rewarded by the barest flicker of irritation in her eyes.
It was ill-done of me, baiting the daughter of a man I had killed, but the Dalish in me despised the idea of bending the knee and meekly accept ing the will of shemlen with shiny pieces of metal on their heads. Still, I sighed and shifted on my strange parody of a seat – I had not come for a fight. Would it have been too hard to put in a simple wooden bench instead of this... abomination?
"I do not like you," I admitted after a moment, since she seemed unsure of how to respond to such a blunt admission. "And after what happened on the Landsmeet floor, I expect you must despise me."
Anora calmly cut away a piece of her pear with the silver knife, the transparent juice running own the cool metal.
"I do not hold a grudge," she finally said. "But we will never be friendly."
Unusually direct of her, that, but I could appreciate it. Which is probably half the reason she said it in the first place.
"I know you'll take care of Alistair," I grunted with a clear undertone of approval. "So I can leave him to you. Eamon, though? Eamon is a loose end."
A year ago I would not have realized as much, but the last few months had been something of an education in human politics. The Arl of Redcliffe had been a strong supporter of Alistair from the beginning, but there was a reason he'd wanted Anora back in Gwaren and never to leave again: there was a difference between an untried and unmarried king with Eamon as only advisor and and king wed to one of the most competent politicians in Ferelden. In once case, the Arl as good as ruled Ferelden. In the other he had Anora for only rival, at least until the Teyrn of Highever managed to drag his holdings back from the edge of collapse. Eamon had already plotted to remove Anora from the throne once, and I doubted he would hesitate to do so again, not now that he had more power and influence than ever before. In the end I trusted Anora to look out for Alistair's interests better than the Arl of Redcliffe, and that was why I was sitting in her horrible pouf instead of across from the man's desk in his office.
"I'm not inclined to disagree with you," the queen agreed, and there was a touch of frost there.
Had Alistair shown her the letters? I was beginning to think so. Regardless, I was time to ask the question I'd come here to ask.
"I'll simply ask you this, then," I murmured. "Should Eamon Guerrin survive the night?"
I'd considered killing him simply as a precaution – Teagan would be much easier to handle, to my understanding, since he did not have his brother's years of accumulated influence and alliances – but in the end I would follow Anora's opinion on this. She'd been playing this game her whole life, after all, while I'd only just learned the rules.
"Could you-" she started, before abruptly stopping. "No, better I don't know anything."
She closed her eyes in thought and I let her have the moment to consider. What she'd been about to ask had been easy enough to divine. Could you really make it look like an accident? Of course I could. I'd spent the last year travelling with a former bard and an Antivan crow: I knew more about poison than most herbalists.
"No," Anora finally spoke up, tone regretful. "His contacts in the Bannorn are too useful."
I shrugged.
"Should you ever change your mind, there is a man in the market whose name is Ignacio," I informed her.
Her eyebrows rose, but she made no comment. The man's name was so obviously Antivan that there was no real need to specify what his profession was. As it happened, he was the next man I needed to visit before my departure so I took my leave and left the queen of Ferelden to her sliced pear. I left the palace behind and returned to the wretched ruin that passed for the kingdom's capital these days.
Finding the Crow Master of Denerim was not as hard as the man clearly thought it was. I'd made sure to track down his real home when we'd done a little work for him during the Blight, not just the room he used to meet with his "interested patrons". The house itself was nothing impressive – nothing more than what the moderately wealthy Antivan merchant he claimed to be would be able to afford. Then again, if Zevran was to be believed, the greater part of the wealth flowing from the contracts actually ended up back in the hands of the guildmasters back in Antiva and not the assassins themselves. How high up in the chain of command Ignacio actually was, I had no real way of telling, but as a messenger he would serve just fine.
The balding "businessman" was making himself a cup of tea when I broke into his house – the lock on the back door was shoddy work, which I found bad form for a man in his trade. No guards, though from the look I'd taken last time he'd been out in the market it seemed he didn't keep any papers or valuables in the place: there must have been a safe house somewhere in the city I hand't found, assuming it hadn't been destroyed during the battle. It amused me that a man as powerful as a Crow Master would be making his own tea, given the shemlen fascination with delegating menial work to others, but then I supposed in his line of work letting someone else make your tea would be a dangerous gamble. I ghosted across the earthen floor, silently unsheathing the Thorn of the Dead God as I stepped behind Ignacio. The man was about to take his first sip when the tip of the dagger tapped against the rim of the ceramic cup.
"Mierda," the man screamed, dropping the cup and spilling the boiling liquid all over his nightshirt.
"Good evening, Ignacio," I spoke as I took the only other chair in his kitchen.
"Warden," the man growled back. "These theatrics are not necessary, yes? Ignacio already knows you can find him, the point need not be revisited."
He wiped his hands on the dry parts of his nightshirt and found a rag to clean up the mess while I made myself comfortable, the dagger I'd found in the Deep Roads returning to the sheath nearly soundlessly.
"What can I do for you, Warden?" he asked when he was done. "I do not think you came for the delight of my company, no?"
"This is a courtesy visit," I told him. "I'll be leaving Denerim soon, so I thought we should have a word before I did."
The Master grimaced.
"That is very polite if you, but I feel that what will follow is of a different mold."
Perceptive man, Ignacio.
"Alistair," I listed calmly. "Anora. Any children of theirs – they're now off-limits to the Crows."
"Warden," the Antivan said, sounding pained, "you know that-"
"You don't control who takes contracts on who, yes," I finished for him.
I'd dealt with his man before. I'd killed for this man before, though only when assured that the targets were my enemies as well as his. He knew me, knew what I could do even when I wasn't digging knives into the skull of an Old God. So I smiled a cold, cold smile and met his eyes.
"You think I'm a savage, Ignacio," I murmured. "On very skilled at killing, yes, but still a tattooed elf who spent most of his life in the woods. And you are right, in this – I am a savage."
"Warden," he spoke desperately, "I would never-"
"Which is why when I say," I continued over his protests, "that should one of them die I will slit the throat of every Crow in Ferelden, you can believe me. I don't care who took the contract. I don't care who paid for the death. If one of them dies and the House of Crows was in any way involved, I will see to it you die screaming."
The small man's eyes dilated, though he admirably managed to keep the terror off of his face. I hadn't blustered, or thundered or made extravagant oaths: I'd simply told him what would happen the same way other people talked about weather.
"Now," I continued quietly, "when you tell your masters this, they may take offense that for once they are not doing the threatening. Some may even be tempted to take one of those lives out of spite."
Ignacio nodded, not saying a word.
"Then tell them this: should you do this, I will come to Antiva for three years. And for every day I spend there, I will murder a Crow."
Ignacio swallowed noisily.
"I will them this, Warden, I swear it."
I pushed back my chair and stood up, stopping to pat his shoulder as I made for the front door.
"Good man. Oh, and one other thing – Anora knows of you," I mentioned. "She may send work your way in the future."
I did not bother to wish him pleasant dreams.
-
When I'd first come across the ruins in the Brecilian Forest, I'd seen markings in the chamber where the ghost of the Dreamer had lain in uneasy rest.
Only Keepers were supposed to be able to the ancient tongue of the elvhen, but I'd spent enough time with Merill to be able to grasp some of what had been written: ancient prayers to the Creators, long-forgotten to any clan. It had been nothing more than a passing curiosity at the time, and I'd never seen fit to mention it to my companions. Morrigan might have been able to read them, I think - the witch always knew more than she let on - but I'd been rightly wary of her at the time. Her love of power had a way of trumping all other considerations, and she was not above lying to keep ancient knowledge in her hands alone. And I was right in my caution, I reflected as I padded through the old corridors of the lower ruins. Morrigan's plot had ended with the soul of Old God in the child she carried, a decision I regretted to this day. The whole world might yet come to regret what had been done in the dark of that night, and in this the responsibility would be mine entirely. For all that the shemlen of Ferelden seemed to think me above all flaws, I'd made many missteps on my way to Urthemiel's demise.
"You are frowning again, lethallin," Lanaya spoke up from my side.
The Keeper of the Demetrae sounded more amused than worried, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Aside from an errant piece of webbing in her hair from the giant spiders we'd had to – once again – clear from the deeper tunnels, she seemed entirely unfazed by tour surroundings.
"Dwelling on old mistakes," I replied. "One of my more frustrating habits, I am told."
Lanaya cocked her head to the side in agreement, though she did not press me for more information. I'd grown rather fond of Zathrian's successor during their travels since the Battle of Denerim. She was much like the bitter old mage should have been: wise without being arrogant, patient without being indecisive. And unlike others of the People I'd met since the "death" of the Archdemon, she was not awed by the legend that had been woven around me: she treated me as a clanmate, if a respected one. The Demetrae clan"s Keeper had ultimately chosen to return to the Brecilian Forest when the Thaw began, angling to get away from the roaming bands of darkspawn that still plagued the north of Ferelden. Wise of her, as the Brecilian had been largely untouched by darkspawn.
I"d shared stories of my misadventures during the Blight with Lanaya as we camped by the fireside, and she'd been intrigued when I'd mentioned the ancient elvhen temple I'd come across when hunting down the werewolves. The clan reclaimed their old grounds after a few weeks of travel, and after taking some time to settle in Lanaya had asked to accompany me on an expedition back to the ruins. I'd seen no reason not to agree, given that I was still mildly curious about the prayers.
"We'll be there soon," I murmured, shaking off the thoughts.
The gates to the burial chamber were still open – they'd not closed since the time I'd performed the ritual carved on the tablet. I'd been wary that some other manner of creature would come to lair in the ruins after the previous inhabitants were either wiped out, but besides a resurgence in spiders nothing new had moved in. The trend continued as Lanaya followed me into the chamber itself: I'd half-expected that the weakened Veil would let through shades and demons, but the place was silent and empty. Maybe the Blight has predisposed me to assume the worst, I admitted to myself. Lanaya gasped as she took in the sight of it, passing me by.
"You were right, lethallin," she announced as she strode forward. "This was the resting place of a Dreamer. There are old tales of supplicants who visited places like this, in the days of Arlathan, so that the ancient sleeping would speak to them in dreams."
"We're a little late for that, I'm afraid," I mused.
The Keeper sent me a quelling glare that would have been a lot more intimidating had I not stared down a corrupted Old God. Still, Lanaya was not unskilled at the art – better than Wynne, certainly, though not yet Anora's match. The Queen of Ferelden could work up a glower rivalling her late father's, given proper motivation.
"The inscriptions were on the sides of the tomb itself," I informed her, watching irritation watch with naked curiosity on her face.
Curiosity won, of course. Such was the nature of Keepers. The honey-haired mage knelt by the tomb and ran a hand against the glyphs that adorned it almost lovingly, her other one holding her staff close. After a moment, though, her eyes widened as she read.
"You were right," she spoke into the stillness. "These are prayers."
I raised an eyebrow. That alone would not have been enough to get that reaction out of her.
"And?"
"And a map. For a hidden shrine to Dirthamen," she finished in whisper.
A wolfish smile spread across my face. And to think I'd believed things might get boring after the Blight.
-
"It's in the Korcari Wilds, lethallin," Lanaya sighed. "I can't tell you much more than that."
That was less than helpful, given the span of them. The Falamiel clan under Keeper Velaren might know more, given that they had dwelled in the Wilds for generations, but I suspected that if they'd known of a still-unspoiled shrine to the Creators they would have found it by now. Besides, the Falamiel had an unsavory reputation. They warred with the Chasind more often than not, and there'd been rumors that they had dealings with Asha'bellanar herself – though given that the monster in question had once saved my own life, I supposed I was in no position to judge. I'd seen the Witch let out her last breath in the shape of a dragon, but I knew better than to believe that Flemeth was truly dead. Monsters that had lived as long as Asha'bellanar learned to cheat death in more ways than one.
"I suppose it should be expected that the Keeper of Secrets would not make his shrine an easy find," I acknowledged ruefully. "Tell me of this path, then."
The news that there might yet be a sacred elvhen site on Fereldan grounds that had not been unearthed by the shem had the entire camp buzzing, so Lanaya had taken me to her own aravel to speak privately. Few Dalish ranked an aravel of their own, but the Keeper of the Demetrae had not yet taken a First and there were certain advantages to her position. I pushed back the intricate dark braids that kept my hair in check, noting that they were starting to fray. I'd grown so used to having Leliana's deft hands at my disposal that I'd let her talk me into more fanciful arrangements that were practical on the roads, something I was coming to regret. Normally I would have asked another hunter to help me, but these days they looked at me as if I was more myth than flesh.
"The Dreamer from the ruins was once a supplicant on "the path lined in cedar"," the Keeper told me, laying back against the wooden wall. "It was implied to begin somewhere in the place that the shemlen call the Wending Wood."
It did not even occur to me to question to accuracy of Lanaya's remembrance: with so much of the People's lore being only spoken, every Keeper and First had to be able to keep in mind entire songs at first hearing. Being able to read the prayers more than once had likely been something of a luxury for her.
"Ah," I grunted out enthusiastically. "I will be visiting the Latobri, then."
The honey-haired woman sitting cross-legged in front of me shot me an amused look. While I'd had not qualms with Keeper Ilshae – she rather reminded me of Marethari – my acquaintance with the old mage's First had not gone so smoothly. Velanna hated humans, which was nothing surprising: every Dalish hated the shemlen deep down, if only a little. I'd come to respect many of them, come to love Leliana like I'd never thought I would love anyone, but even I sometimes felt that bitter heat in the back of my throat when a shem opened his fat mouth and called a hunter who'd bled to save Denerim from the Blight knife-ear or rabbit. My issue with Velanna was that she was unable to put that hatred aside for the greater good. While regrettable, this might have been acceptable in a hunter – but it was a dangerous flaw in one who would be Keeper. Decisions made out of wanton pride could cost a clan dearly, as Zathrian had shown in his madness.
"She would not have been so... fervent in her criticisms, if she did not have an eye on you herself," Lanaya murmured, politely hiding her smile behind a cup of halla's milk.
Upon hearing that I was involved with Leliana, Velanna had sought me out after the Battle of Denerim. The ensuing argument had been ugly. She'd said it was unseemly for the only member of the People to become a hero to the shemlen since Garahel to be involved with a human instead of one of his own. What message will it speak to the youth of the Dalish, that the enemy sleeps in your bedroll? The argument had struck a chord in me, which I'd hidden by being particularly cutting with my reply. I would have led more credence to her reproach if I'd had a real chance of having children, truth be told. Every Dalish had a duty to the People in that regard, but Warden infertility had rendered that irrelevant in my case. Lanaya's wild fancy that Velanna had held a more personal interest in my romantic inclinations was just that, and so I did not bother to address the matter.
"Perhaps Keeper Ilshae has a Second whose help she could grant me," I grimaced.
"Has your luck ever been that good before, lethallin?" Lanaya asked wryly
-
Keeper Ilshae did not, in fact, have a Second.
"A shrine to Dirthamen, you say?" the white-haired mage murmured as she held her hands over the fire. "I had not heard of this. The Alamarri once claimed this wood for their god Uvolla, but I did not know it was once sacred to the elvhen."
I popped another of the roasted chestnuts into my mouth, savoring the treat – they were few of the trees that bore them in the lands where the Sabrae usually dwelled, but for the Latobri they were apparently common fare.
"The shrine itself will not be here but in the Wilds of the south," I replied. "Keeper Lanaya tells me there will be a stele near here that can put me on the path to it."
Ilshae shivered, even sitting as close to the fire as she did, and I could not help but frown. She was pale and looked sickly, even for a woman her age.
"Forgive me, Keeper, for waking you at this hour," I muttered, feeling a flash of shame.
I'd only found the Latobri's campsite after the moon had risen and while I'd declined to have Ilshae woken when her clan learned I had come to speak with her, the ruckus caused by my arrival had been enough to drag her away from her sleep regardless. Var'enasalin, the whispers had spread. Our victory. The fervor they spoke the words with made me uncomfortable. Ilshae smiled at me in that gentle way Marethari had always used on my when I'd said something particularly stupid.
"I am old, da'len," she told me mildly. "That is not something a few hours of sleep can take back."
I inclined my head in agreement, making a still vaguely guilty noise.
"It would be a great comfort," she finally said, "if I could help you find something our people have lost before Falon'Din comes for me. I will send Velanna and her sister – one of our hunters - with you. Few know the woods better than these two."
I kept my disgruntlement off my face, nodding sharply in thanks. Ilshae coughed and tightened her blanket.
"I am afraid I must ask a favor of you, Warden," she spoke after a moment. "Some of the nearby shemlen have been lurking close to our camp site, though the hunters have kept them away. I fear it might come to violence, if someone does not intervene."
I frowned. The Wending Woods were part of the arling of Amaranthine, if I remembered well. Since Alistair had shoved a sword through the last arl's guts and I'd ducked out before the title could be pawned off on me, I wasn't sure under whose rule it fell under at the moment. The Cousland teyrn, maybe? I remembered hearing something about how Howe had been his family's vassals before the sack of Highever.
"Are there any villages close by?" I finally asked. "If not, it will take some time to speak to every freeholder."
There was indeed one, and Ilshae marked the spot on the map I'd kept from the Blight – which begged the question of why they'd camped so close to the shemlen to start with, if they'd known there were some close by. It was offered to me to lay down in a family's aravel for the night, but I declined: I'd gotten so used to my bedroll over the last year that everything else felt unnatural. I'd even slept on the floor back in the palace in Denerim, unable to rest on a mattress so soft.
I was among the first to wake the following morning – a handful of hunters were already out, but most were still asleep by the time I'd finished my bowl of berries and halla cheese. Among those that were up before dawn was Velanna's sister, a blond-haired hunter named Seranni who came to sit by me. She had a very unusual vallaslin, a pattern I'd never seen before except on her sister.
"It's been handed down among the Latobri since the fall of the Dales," she informed me. "It's not dedicated to any one of the Creators, not like yours. The Keeper says it might come from the days of Arlathan itself."
"A shame we don't know the meaning of it," I grunted. "We've forgotten even most of what we remember."
"Maybe you'll find out at the shrine," she replied cheerfully. "It's quite a bit of luck, isn't it, for you to find a shrine to the Keeper of Secrets?"
I blinked in surprise.
"I'm not sure I follow, lethallan."
"Your vallaslin, I mean," Seranni pointed out. "It is the pattern dedicated to Dirthamen, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," I agreed.
I did not particularly follow Dirthamen over the other Creators, truth be told. I'd chosen the pattern to prove to Ashalle that I was determined to learn what had happened to my parents and that I had the maturity to handle knowing the answer to my questions. That they had simply died at the hands of shemlen and city-elves had been unexpected: I'd thought her unwillingness to say anything came from the fact that it was some great dark secret, not simple fear I would take my grief out on humans.
"Aneth ara, Warden," the voice came from behind me, interrupting our conversation.
Ah, it seemed Velanna was now to join us. Ilshae's first was a striking figure, I could not deny: she had the slenderness and well-placed curves that made the elvhen so attractive even to humans. The absurd robes she wore – opened in the middle of her chest and turning into a loincloth at hip-height – displayed her charms prominently enough. Still, even if I had never met Leliana I did not think I would have been interested: there was too much bitterness to her, too much bile. One of the things that had first drawn me to my redheaded lover was the almost airy lightness she carried around with her. After a cloying lifetime of Dalish anger, it had been a breath of fresh air.
"Aneth ara, Velanna," I spoke, keeping my wariness out of my voice.
We had not parted on the best terms. Our last conversation had ended in my making a pointed comment about how if she spent as much effort serving the People as she did getting on my nerves, we'd be halfway to a rebuilt Arlathan.
"I understand you are in need of the Latobri's help," the First smiled as she took a seat, helping herself to a ladle of of cheese and berries from the pot.
The sisters did look alike quite a bit, I could see now. Their hair was of the same shade, and they had the same high cheekbones – their identical pattern of their vallaslin only reinforced the resemblance. And yet, I had not seen so much as a hint of the smugness that permeated Velanna in that moment from Seranni during out entire conversation. But I did not see even a flicker of the drive that burns inside the First from her sister, I reflected. The Creators ever delighted in little ironies like this one.
"Keeper Ilshae has offered your assistance," I acknowledged. "Can you recall anything at all about elvhen ruins in the woods?"
Velanna shook her head, though it looked like it pained her to admit as much.
"There no stories of such – or at least none known to the Latobri," she replied. "But I know of someone with a longer memory than even the People."
Creators, I hoped this wasn't going to end with her suggesting a spirit be summoned. That particular brand of stupidity always ended up with a room full of dead fools and my having to clean up another pack of angry demons. Velanna must have sensed my dubiousness, for she scowled.
"There is a pair of statues, men who claimed to be Avvars cursed by a magister. They were here before even the clan, and so may remember what we do not."
I blinked. That was... surprisingly promising. No doubt there would be complications – no one ever gave you what you needed without wanting something in return – but even if the "statues" knew nothing, they might point us towards someone or something that did.
"Ma serannas, Velanna," I said. "This might be the very thing we need."
I had not known before it was possible for a woman grown to preen. Seranni noticed it as well, and shot her sister an amused look.
"Should we get going, then, before my dear sister's head explodes out of self-satisfaction?" the blond hunter suggested.
"Seranni!"
I raised an amused eyebrow, deciding to stay out of that particular scuffle. The thing that caused siblings to set their rivalries aside the quickest was always outside interference – blood was blood, even among a people as tightly-knit as the Dalish.
"It will have to wait until tomorrow, I think," I said before the conversation could degenerate into a shoving match. "The Keeper wants me to have word with the local bann."
Velanna's eyes sharpened at my words, though Seranni remained indifferent.
"The shems have been lurking close again, then?" she asked.
I shrugged.
"Something like that. Having a word with their lord should put a stop to it," I told her.
"Shemlen responding to reason?" the First scoffed back. "That would be a first."
Most of the human lords I'd come across had been reasonable sorts, their tendency to lodge knives in each other's backs aside. Still, how much trouble could this Lord Guy really be?
-
Thistlehome was too small a holding to qualify as a bannorn.
Eamon had once explained to me that one could be a noble without being even a bann: there were knights, who apparently stood above mere freemen, and the nobles whose holdings were not beholden to another bann. The whole thing was a headache and struck me as pointlessly complicated, though I'd been assured by Leliana that the Orlesian ranks made the Fereldan ones seem almost simple. Still, I remembered enough to know that "Lord" Guy was something along the lines of a landed knight. Who owned him I had no way of knowing, but ultimately there was one man holding the leash of all the nobles in Ferelden: King Alistair Theirin, first of the name. It was my hope that persuading the man to rein in the locals would not be too arduous, but if it was I had my own means of forcing the issue. A letter sent to Denerim would take weeks to get there and just as long to return, but simply the threat of royal attention was not something to be underestimated. I'd learned that trick from Morrigan, happened upon it during one of our conversations by the fire: power was in the perception of power. If you used force where everyone could see it, then afterwards you could threaten to bring that kind of destruction to bear and be believed.
What did it say about me, I wondered, that I'd always found it easier to talk to Flemeth's daughter than the likes of sagely old Wynne?
There'd never been any question of my bringing members of the Latobri on my visit to the Thistlehome: the sight of a few armed Dalish strolling into the village might very well have been the spark that set fire to the hay. Instead I made my way alone, noting with disapproval that it had taken be less than half a day to make my way there: Ilshae really should have known better than to camp this close to the shemlen. Perhaps she'd thought it was less risky now that there was no arl of Amaranthine to order any Dalish "vagrants" chased off, but that would have been a mistake. With no one to answer to, I wagered instead that these little would-be-kings would be much prone to attack the clan out of impulse. By the time I arrived in Thistlehome, the sun had reached its apex. If I'm lucky, I might be able to get a hot meal out of this, I thought. There was a large grange on the hill I assumed was Lord Guy's hall, and I took the path up when the voice came from behind me
"Hey, knife-ear!"
I cast a look at the youth who was currently attempting to accost me. Short, shorter than me – the elvhen were not tall, as a rule, and I was no exception – but broadly built. The man was red-haired and and broad-shouldered, handsome in the way that Loghain must have been before he grew merely stern.
At this time of the year and of the day a farmer should have been at work in the fields, tilling, but the mouthy human seemed to have no such preoccupation. His clothes were of good make but had seen better days, making it likely I'd simply come across the village wastrel. There's one in every clan. I turned my back on him and kept walking: it would have been deeply satisfying to teach the young man some manners, but roughing up a villager would complicate my dealings with the local lord.
"I'm talking to you, rabbit," the man sneered. "Don't you walk away from me. Where'd you get those weapons, huh? Stole them off their owner?"
I paused, then sighed. As long as I didn't do any permanent damage, there should be no real consequences.
"That's right, you just stop. Now hand those over," the idiot laughed. "And the bow too. Where'd a little rabbit like you get stuff like this?"
I drew the Thorn in a single, smooth gesture as I turned to face him. The tip came to rest on the shemlen's throat, and I considered taking a finger for his insolence. The man's eyes widened.
"You wouldn't dare-"
"My name," I interrupted quietly, "is Warden Theron Mahariel, of the Sabrae clan. The blade you're trying to claim had drunk the lifeblood of two Archdemons, boy. Shall we find out what it makes of yours?"
The man turned white as a sheet and the lesser part of me loved the sight of it, I will not lie.
"Warden, I had no idea, I mean-"
I'd been attacked by villagers once before, during the Blight. The men of Lothering had been very, very desperate and died against our blades rather than face a slow death through hunger. As selfish and foolish as that way to die had been, at least those villagers had iron in their spine. The man in front of me was just another petty thug, and the sight of his blubber made me lose my appetite for blood.
"Stop snivelling," I snapped. "I have no interest in you. The Lord Guy, is he in his hall?"
The red-haired idiot stared at me in surprise.
"What do you want with my father?" he asked.
A cold smile stretched my lips. Well now. If this wasn't an opportunity, I didn't know what was.
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Chapter Two: Oak and Stone
"He is basalit-an. He is ashkaari to his people. That is all I have to say."
- Arishok of the Beresaad
As much as it pained him to admit it, the few drink that the Dalish could make had nothing on a good Orlesian vintage. There were clans who made sugary ciders of apples and pears and traded the waterskins to other clans, but for the most part what little the People had to offer in this regard was closer to the abominable stuff lurking in Oghren's flasks than the dark wine he was sipping at. Leliana let out a little pleased noise as she tasted her own glass, eyeing him with undisguised surprised.
"That's a grand cru from le Champ D'Or," she stated. "Where did you get your hands on it?"
Theron smiled into his cup. "Have you ever heard of Comte Boisvert?" he asked.
The minute rise of the Nightingale's perfectly-groomed eyebrow served to convey what his lover thought of that question well enough. The dark-haired elvhen raised a hand in surrender to the unspoken reproach.
"The comte did not take to the reclaiming of his lands very well," Theron murmured, he smile stretching his lips showing too many teeth to be anything of the sort. "He was rather mystified when his household troops failed to – ah, how did he put it again? Scatter that heathen vermin infesting his property, I believe it was."
"Boisvert's talent for fitting his foot into his mouth was well known at court," Leliana acknowledged.
"When he found himself surrounded by corpses and Dalish blades," Theron continued calmly, "he tried to placate the savages by granting them access to his cellar."
The redheaded spymistress winced.
"I take it he was... less than diplomatic in formulating this."
"His corpse hung over the front gate for a few months, until we took it down," the tattooed man murmured, not so much as a hint of regret in his voice.
Leliana sighed. "And now a bottle worth enough to buy a marble house in Val Royeaux serves as table wine for the people who killed him," she mused. "There is a lesson in that, I think."
"Fools die violent deaths," he suggested, tone amused.
"Theron Mahariel, philosopher of the age," the blue-eyed woman mocked him gently.
The braided man raised his cup in a silent toast. There was a moment of comfortable silence between them before Leliana stirred herself to speak again.
"You did not know, then, what was waiting for you in the shrine," she half-asked, half-stated.
"I had no idea," he admitted with a crooked smile. "I expected the likes of what we found in the Brecilian, if in a better state, but what we found..."
He let his voice trail off. What he'd found in the depths of the Wilds had set him on the path he was still walking, for good or ill.
"I notice you did not mention the phylactery you found back then," Leliana mused. "Given how many Arcane Warriors came with you over the Frostbacks, I expected you to have spread the knowledge of the art as early as the year of the Blight."
"I intended it as a gift for an old friend of mine," Theron replied. "She's always had an extraordinary interest in the old ways, even for a Keeper."
The Nightingale's eyes hardened.
"The Witch of the Graves."
"She prefers 'Merrill'," he spoke, voice turning to steel in a heartbeat. "Only our enemies use the way you call her."
"She killed thousands, Theron," Leliana retorted fiercely. "The things they say she unleashed on Gaspard's men..."
"Saved hundreds of my people," the Lord of Crows snarled. "You think the death of soldiers is an atrocity? Celeneslaughtered thousands of elves at Haramshiral to restore order - where was this moral outragethen, I ask you?"
The Left Hand of the Divine met his eyes unflinchingly. "The man I knew ten years ago would not have replied to barbarity with more of the same," she said.
Ah, a twist of the knife. Did he deserve it? Perhaps. But then who was she to judge?
"The woman I knew ten years ago no longer slit throats in the dark of night," he replied.
He might have become something of a monster for his people's sake, but she'd become the same for Justinia's. Leliana went still as stone at his words, just the way she'd used to when Morrigan drew blood with a particularly vicious turn of phrase. The very memory of that, though, of the glimmer of dark satisfaction that used to pass through the witch's eye at the sight of it, was enough to snuff out the anger burning in him. Theron sat back down, not that he even remembered getting up.
"I... apologize," he said after a moment, nearly choking on the words. Apologies had never come easily to him. "That comment was uncalled for."
Leliana smiled ruefully. "Not it wasn't," she murmured. "And neither was mine. It has been a long time since either of us had clean hands."
Her fingers were pale as porcelain in the moonlight. She started in surprised when he thread his through them again – he answered her questioning look with a wry smile.
"See? Perhaps not so unclean after all, ma vhenan," he said, and continued his story.
-
"And he just agreed to leave the clan alone?" Velanna burst out, not even bothering to hide her incredulity.
A year ago I would have been just as dubious about this Lord Guy keeping his word, but my travels had granted me the benefit of an extended education in the way Fereldan politics worked. The man was, in the traditional view, responsible for the actions of his son. When the boy had accosted me, he'd offered insult not only to myself but also the Grey Wardens. Said Wardens had never been more popular in Ferelden than they were now, and given that the king had been one before taking the crown... Well, leveraging the situation into a promise to leave the Latobri alone had been easy enough work. I'd offered the concession that the clan would move further into the woods by the end of Justinian, which had been enough to let the man keep face. He'd be able to tell his tenants that he'd driven away the elves with just words, and the Dalish wouldn't have to watch out for peasants with more anger than sense. Keeper Ilshae had agreed to the terms readily enough when I'd conveyed them, which had freed my hands to pursue the matter I'd actually come for the day after.
"He doesn't have the men to drive away the clan, Velanna," I grunted back. "Not without doing something drastic like setting fire to the woods, anyway."
The prospect of such shemlen recklessness was enough to paint a sneer on the beautiful mage's face, even as a hypothetical.
"I would have expected more gratitude, after what we did in Denerim," Seranni interjected as we passed through the hills, straying far from the Pilgrim's Path.
She was not wrong, though I was not surprised. In Denerim and in Redcliffe, where the people had seen the People fight the darkspawn and protect the innocent, the Latobri might have had a different reception. I'd seen children in the Hinterlands weave wreaths of flowers and herbs to offer them to hunters who'd pulled them out of a burning house. I'd seen a mother weeping in gratitude pushing a plate full of spice cookies onto an embarrassed Keeper who'd healed her son, back in Denerim. But out here in the north, all they'd ever known of the Dalish was the clans that stayed to the woods and put arrows in villagers who got a little too curious. We did not fight for their gratitude, I reminded myself. We'd fought because the darkspawn would devour the world hole, given half a chance. We fought because we gave an oath, and there is little enough of us left that if we start breaking those I'm not sure what will remain. I grimaced, chasing the grim thoughts away.
"These brothers of stone," I said instead, "have either of you spoken to them before?"
Seranni shook her head. "Hunters avoid that corner of the woods as much as they can. There's a Tevinter grave not too far away, and disturbing those never ends well."
I snorted. Very practical of her.
"One of them called out to me, once," Velanna contributed. "Begged me to convince his brother to return to sleep."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did you try?"
The First scoffed. "I have better used for my time than indulging the whims of shems, no matter how old."
I looked away so she wouldn't see me wince. I'd once said something very similar, in the early days of the Blight. It had taken the sight of that little lost boy on the bridge in Lothering to make me choke on those words. I had been slow in learning the lesson that loving the People did not mean hating everyone else. In this, joining the Wardens had been good to me: the order did not get to pick and choose who they saved.
"Ah," Serani exclaimed suddenly. "That's the Avvar watchtower. We're close now, we just need to cross the Pilgrim's Path."
I could see the tall stones ruins in the distance myself – an earthen ramp, still in very good shape for how old it must have been, led all the way up to it. Interesting, that the ruins would be Avvar and not Alamarri. Their own sacred site must have been important for them to maintain a presence so far away from the Frostbacks. A quiet sense of urgency suddenly sprang up at the edges of my mind, and I stopped cold in my tracks.
"Seranni, Velanna," I murmured. "Find high ground. Now."
The First shot me a startled look while her sister wasted no time in stringing her bow.
"Darkspawn?" the mage understood after a moment.
"A small warband," I agreed. "I will draw them out in open ground. Velanna - fire works best."
The First nodded, and with a flare of Fade mist she called up her magic: enormous roots sprouted from the ground, and in the blink of an eye she was gone. A year spent in Morrigan's company had taught me better than to gape every time a mage did something impressive, but it was a close thing.
"Seranni..." I trailed off.
The blonde huntress flashed me a grin. "Stay out of your way and place an arrow when I can, I know. Luck in battle, lethallin."
I smiled and reached for my own longbow, taking a quick pace towards the direction I could feel the warband coming from. If I could feel them, odds were that they could feel me – hence why I'd wanted Velanna and her sister spread to the flanks. With any luck, the darkspawn would focus on me until it was too late. Falon'Din's Reach was a familiar weight in my hand, that old elvhen longbow I'd found in a dragon's hoard, and I casually nocked an arrow. I passed through a thicket without a sound and there they were, coming down a sloping hill. A pair of genlock archers, four hurlocks and and an emissary lurking in the back. I grimaced. With my old companions this would have been done in a matter of moments, but the days where I could count on Alistair's shield and Oghren's axe were long gone. I knew Seranni had been a the Battle of Denerim, but I'd never seen her in action: it wouldn't do to rely on her. As for Velanna... well, Keepers could deal out a great deal of destruction, if they chose to, and she seemed to be a particularly powerful mage. I just needed to buy her an opening.
"Andruil, Sister of the Moon, grant me your blessing in this," I murmured. "No hunt is more worthy than the one seeking that which would devour the world."
Draw, release.
They heard the arrow singing, not that it helped them: the silverite-tipped shaft punched through the emissary's helmet with a wet squelch. It would not kill it – the Taint made the monsters harder to kill than they had any right to be – but now I had their attention. The genlocks shrieked in hatred, fumbling for their bows, but the hurlocks were already on the move.
Draw, release.
The second arrow went through the roof of the emissary's mouth, shutting it up as it was about to scream a spell, and that one was enough to be the end of it. I could feel the feet of the hurlocks thudding against the ground as they ran towards me while the genlocks nocked their arrows. No time for a third shot: I had to close the distance before they could get their own arrows in. I laid Falon'Din's Reach against a tree and reached for my blades. The Thorn of the Dead God came free almost too easily, the blade that had now ended both Toth and Urthemiel thirsting to be buried in darkspawn flesh. The Veshialle spun in my hand like an eager child, the axe old as the Dales keening as it cut through the air. It felt like coming home, in a strange way.
The hurlocks were halfway up the hill when I fell upon them.
The leering skull-like face of the first took the Veshialle straight in the teeth, but I did not stick around to struggle: spinning around the darkspawn, I let the motion pull the axe free and pushed forward. The second hurlock's sword came high, too high, and I ducked under it: the Thorn sliced through its tendon behind the heel and the monster dropped. From the corner of my eye I saw the genlocks go up in a sudden ball of flame, tongs of fire licking the ground as the abominations shrieked in pain and dismay. Velanna at work. It felt like old times, like Morrigan and Wynne were at my side again and the only things that mattered in the world were my blades and the monsters I was sworn to kill. The third hurlock tried to bash my head in with a swipe of his shield but I laughed – he was slow, so absurdly slow compared to the true monsters that had led the horde in Denerim. The Veshialle came down like a scythe, taking his hand and then his head with a second razor-sharp spin.
The lead hurlock, toothless thing that he now was, had turned to me and would have swung his axe at my back if not the feathered arrow that sprouted between his eyes. Seranni's patience had paid off. There was only one left alive, and it shifted on its feet for a moment. Darkspawn were not above running when it was obvious they were outmatched, though it was a rarer thing in hurlocks. Not that it ever got to make the decision: the Thorn buried itself in its belly and came free after a hard rip, spilling the black blood and entrails all over the ground. The creature was dead before it hit the ground. The hurlock I'd hobbled earlier was trying to crawl away, but with a contemptuous snort I buried Veshialle's edge in the back of his head. Amateurs. Barely better fare than the blade-fodder the Archdemon had sent our way at Redcliffe.
Kneeling by one of the bodies, I wiped my blades free of blood and sheathed them. My armor would require a more thorough washing, unfortunately, but it would have to wait. Still, I was now in a pleasant mood. It felt like my blood was flowing right again, as if after a night's vigil someone had splashed cold water on my face. Creators forgive me, but I'd missed the killing. It was, in the end, what I was best suited for. I'd never been more than a decent hunter, and I'd never taken enough of an interest in stories or crafts to become Paivel or Ilen's apprentice. No, perhaps I am wrong. I had perfected one craft over the last year, after all, practiced it to obsession and polished it beyond reason. A Warden's craft is death. With the end of the Blight I considered myself no longer in service to the Wardens, much like Alistair, but there was no denying the Taint running through my veins or the duty that came along with it. Seranni emerged from the woods, bow back on her shoulder, and there was an expression on her face I'd never seen there before.
"I'd heard the stories," she said quietly, "but I never thought... Var'enasalin. You truly were touched by them, weren't you?"
I scowled. "I have never made such a claim."
"You don't need to," Velanna's voice came from behind me. "Truth speaks for itself. All those who took an Archdemon's life died – all of them but you."
A hard smile tugged at my lips. "And you think the Creators saw to it that I would survive it? You do not know as much as you think, Velanna."
The First shrugged, unconcerned by the hostility in my voice.
"It is not my place to wonder what secret Dirthamen whispered to you that would accomplish this. All will be revealed in time," she said.
Somewhere, Morrigan had just smiled. The witch had a twisted enough sense of humour that she would be amused at her work being called that of a god, even an elven one. I had no more use for this conversation, and so we moved on in silence. There was no point in arguing with the deluded.
-
"My brother called to you. Do not listen. The Magister's death will accomplish nothing."
Two brothers made into stone by the wrath of ancient Tevinter, when they were ruler instead of remnant. One a warrior, and one a scholar. My sympathies lay more with the one who sought vengeance from beyond even the grave, but the scholar was likelier to have the knowledge we sought.
"You called out to me, once," Velanna sneered. "Begged me to convince your brother to return to sleep. We will do this, if you can answer a question."
Indifferent to the First's sneer, the statue pondered this.
"I will tell you all I know, if you help me," the statue somehow spoke.
I assumed it spoke in the same manner than Caridin had, down in the Deep Roads – an enchantment of some sort, left in place by the magister so they could lament their fates into the night for eternity. The Imperium was a rapacious pack of slavers of blood mages, but even I had to admit that they did revenge like no one else.
"Have you ever heard of elven ruins in these lands?" I grunted.
I could feel the statue's attention shift to me, though how I could not tell you.
"I know of what you speak, warrior," it said. "Before these woods belonged to Uvolla, the elves built a monument to their own idols here. Give us sleep, and I will tell you where it was."
The other brother was... less than interested in such a peaceful resolution.
"My brother has grown weak," it snarled. "In truth, weakness was always in him. Wrongs unavenged are a curse upon the dead."
That Velanna actually looked a little approving at that came as much less of a surprise than it should have.
"This magister," I asked flatly. "Has he not been slain already?"
"Twice before he has been struck down," the warrior replied, speaking the words with relish. "Once very long ago. Once by an Alamarri, Dane."
I frowned. "Then even should I kill him a third, you would still be cursed."
"My soul calls out to smite he who cursed my brother and me," he growled.
Marethari had once told me that revenge was a snake swallowing its own tail, when I was younger and full of anger. No matter how much it swallows, it ever goes hungry. But Marethari had fled across the sea with the other Sabrae, and her wisdom was no longer mine.
"Then you are a fool," I told the warrior flatly, ignoring Seranni's alarmed looked. "Your revenge has already been taken for you, Avvar."
"Lies," it thundered. "A half-life is still a life, and I will have even that from him."
I offered the statue a cold smile, uncaring as to whether or not it could see it.
"And you thing the magister owns this life, warrior? He is a a corpse-puppet moved at the whims of a demon, ever a prisoner in the body that was once his. How many centuries has he been the demon's pet, I wonder? How many long years has he been screaming himself hoarse in torment?"
There was a heartbeat of silence, and then the cursed Avvar broke out in a raucous laugh.
"Yes," he crowed. "You are right, stranger. My brother and I are prisoners of stone, but his prison is much worse. May he be cursed to it forever, and never delivered into death."
It was easy enough to lull him into sleep after that – I doubted he'd ever surface again, unless someone was stupid enough to try to loot a Tevinter grave. The other brother seemed a little miffed I hadn't acquainted his sibling with the wonders of peace, but I reminded him that our part of the bargain had been upheld.
"You are right," he conceded. "Sleep is sleep, no matter how ill-bought. There is a sylvan greater than the rest, the Old One. He grew over what was once an elven statue."
What was once? That did not sound promising. Velanna tried to press the scholar for more information, but the only response was silence. The other statue was right, I decided: this one was a bit of a pissant.
"I don't suppose any of you know where this Old One is?" I asked my companions.
Seranni shrugged. "We try to avoid waking the sylvans when we can. They're not as prone as attacking the People, but they can get a little cranky when we make noise."
Velanna looked grim. "I do. I've been speaking to them, and he's the only that that will not speak back. He might attack us if we disturb him."
I was not overly worried by sylvans, in all honesty. They had a swing that hit like a runaway cart, true, but they were slow enough that they could be outrun with little difficulty. Back in the Brecilian Forest not all of them had been able to do that trick with the roots, though I supposed any tree ancient enough to be called the Old One was bound to have learned a few tricks of its own.
"We'll deal with that as it comes," I said. "Let's move – I'd like to be back to camp before sundown, if we can."
Watching Velanna speak to the sylvans was fascinating, I found out. She murmured things in elvish and they simply... went back to sleep, like children soothed by a lullaby. I wasn't even sure if any magic was involved in it at all. And if she can quiet them, does that mean she can rouse them to anger? Something to consider. The First could likely turn this entire forest into a deathtrap, if she wanted. For some time I wondered if we were lost until we came across a statue and she immediately took us down the path. The were two smaller sylvans that Velanna stilled with a few words, and the sight of the Old One was unmistakable: it was enormous, larger even than the insane rhyming tree whose branch I'd once bargained for. I padded closer to it warily, though it still seemed asleep: I could see the outline of what would serve as it legs, if it started moving, but nowhere was there a trace of an elvhen statue. Had the statue lied?
No. There was a rockslide, a little behind it, and among the debris I could see what must have been a statue's pedestal once. Whistling softly to get my companion's attention, I inclined my head towards it. Seranni grinned at the sight, and a smile lightened even Velanna's stern features: there were writings in elvhen on the pedestal I could almost make out. Creeping closer, quiet as the grave, I tried to get a better look. Something about veilfire? And the something of Arlathan. There was an ominous creaking behind me, and I slowly turned around. The sight of the Old One unfolding its limbs greeted me, and the spirit-tree did not seem to be in a trifling mood. This might get troublesome, I thought mildly.
-
"It really hated Mahariel," Seranni told a crowd of spellbound clan-mates as they sat around the fire. "Kept caging him in roots and the while ignoring me and Velanna completely. It ran after him the whole time we traced the letters, and he was cursing his lungs out during. I guess Wardens aren't popular with everyone after all."
The shit-eating grin she gave me at that was probably a sin by the Chantry's reckoning. Was there such a thing as a smugness demon? A good thing the Latobri would be moving on from here soon, otherwise between the hunter and the First a whole horde of them might just break out from the Beyond. She was right, though: I didn't think the Old One would have so much as rustled a leaf if I hadn't gotten too close. My personal suspicion was that it had sensed the Taint in me and taken offense to that, though there was no way to prove it. They'd managed to get what we needed, in the end, and that was all that mattered. Keeper Ilshae thanked her for her "colourfully told" story in a tone so dry it could have put a dent in the Waking Sea.
"Warden Mahariel will be leaving us in the morning," the Keeper told the rest of the Latobri. There were a few noises of disappointment, and Seranni apparently muttered something dubious enough that her sister saw it fit to elbow her in the ribs. "As this is your last night with us, da'len, I thought you might grace us with a story of your own. We do not know as much of your struggle against the Blight as we would wish."
I smiled, though inside I felt the same sharp displeasure as I had the night Lanaya had asked me the same. Would you like to hear about how I struck a bargain with a blood mage to save a child's life by murdering his mother? I asked them silently. Or perhaps you would care to hear of how Zathrian's inexorable hatred nearly destroyed his clan? I'd travelled across the length of Ferelden and found only madness let loose, come across one tragedy after another. Always I'd been the one to make the choice, and most of my victories had tasted of ashes. But I would not trouble them with this tonight, I decided. There was only one woman I'd even become close enough with to share those thoughts, and while she stood under the same stars as me she was far, far away.
"Someone very dear to me used to call this the Tale of the Two Paragons," I spoke after a moment, and spun the story of Bhelen's crowning for them.
We Dalish did love a good tragedy, and who could call Oghren's life anything but that? Branka too, in her own way: she'd wanted to drag her people back to greatness, and instead had destroyed her entire house out of stubborn pride. As for Caridin... I refrained from passing judgement on the Paragon of steel, for I could not imagine what it must have been like to live all those years in a prison of your own making. But if he had been one of us, I would have said it smacked of cowardice to let himself die into that stream of molten rock when he could have taught so much to the dwarves. They are as lost as we are, in their own way. The difference was that they still had a home, besieged as it was, and that their murderer of a king would drag them into the new age kicking and screaming if he needed to. Bhelen was an untrustworthy weasel, but he was an untrustworthy weasel who wanted to save his people. For that alone, he'd been more fit to wear the crown than Harrowmont.
The evening died down after I finished the tale and I made my way to Keeper Ilshae: she'd asked to speak to me in private before I left and she no longer stayed up after the fires were put out. She ushered me into her aravel, and after covering herself in woven blankets I handed her she coughed out her thanks.
"It is unseemly, Warden," she spoke quietly, "but I have yet another favor to ask of you."
I raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, refusing to make any hasty promises. I was headed for the Hinterlands, where I'd be able to find clan Haeval – they had the book I needed, the one would tell me where to find these Lights of Arlathan the markings had spoken of.
"I want you to take Velanna with you when you leave," Ilshae continued.
I blinked in surprise. This was... Velanna was the First of the Latobri, with the Keeper's health being what it was she should be the last person leaving the clan. If anything, Keeper Ilshae should be in the process of handing off her responsibilities to the other mage to ease the transition. If there'd been a Second I might have thought that the white-haired elder was trying to get rid of an undesirable successor to make place for a more worthy one, but this made no sense at all. And it put me right in the middle of the clan politics of the Latobri, a place I was less than eager to be.
"This seems unwise, Keeper," I replied cautiously.
The old woman sighed. "Velanna is too angry to succeed to me, Warden. She needs to see more of the world before she can lead the Latobri."
"You risk leaving your clan leaderless," I pointed out, tone sharpening.
"Hahren Jenal can handle matters until she returns, should I be taken by Falon'Din too early," Keeper Ilshae replied. "I do not ask this lightly, Warden, and only after long consideration. Velanna as she is now could lead the clan down a path where many would not follow, and with reason."
That I had no hard time believing. I would have thought Velanna unpopular, given her sharp tongue and sometimes waspish behavior, but she was different with the clan. The anger came out less often, and she could be surprisingly sweet with the children. The younger members of the Latobri followed her lead unquestioningly, but the fact that many of the older clan members said nothing of her at all was telling. I would not be party to the ascension of a Keeper that would lead her clan astray. I'd already seen the damage that could do. Ilshae's answer to my next question might very well lead to my refusal, if she was not careful.
"Are you keeping her as your successor because you have no other choice?" I asked.
The sickly Keeper coughed but shook her head.
"Velanna's flaws come only from loving our people too much. She simply needs to learn-"
"That loving the People does not mean hating everyone else," I finished quietly.
And didn't that just strike home? I could hardly blame the First for being slow to learn a lesson I had struggled with myself. I sighed, pushing back my braids absently.
"I will not delay my departure. We'll be leaving with dawn," I finally conceded.
-
"I remember Keeper Solan little from the last Arlathvaren," Velanna said. "He was the quiet one who shaved his head like Zathrian, no?"
Twelve days into our trek across the Bannorn, I had to admit that the First of the Latobri was beginning to grow on me. I'd been expecting her to turn into the flustered angry ball of fury I'd met in Denerim every day as we followed the Hafter further down, but she'd proved to be nothing but civil. She was less tense, now that Seranni was no longer around. As clear as it was she loved her sister dearly, it was equally clear that Velanna felt she had to be stricter around her. To lead by example, I assumed. Now that it was only the two of us, she allowed her sense of humor to glimmer through occasionally – in some ways I imagine she was much like Morrigan would have been if she'd not been raised by Flemeth.
"I didn't pay much attention to the Keepers," I admitted. "I was too busy getting into trouble."
The blonde mage eyed me amusedly. "Would that have anything to do with the halla who got loose with those ugly puppets tied around their necks?"
"They weren't ugly," I protested, "they were made in an ancient and respected elvhen style."
The First snorted. "And yet I don't recall you being one of the boys who got a spanking by Marethari."
I grinned at the memory. Tamlen and Fenarel had been so angry I'd somehow avoided punishment. Merrill had covered for me, assuring a very skeptical Marethari that I'd been with her the whole time so I couldn't possibly have been involved in between shooting me wounded looks at not having been included in the first place. I'd been in favor of her joining the crew, of course, but she'd never gotten along well with Tamlen and... A pang of grief went through me at the memory of my childhood friend. Dead because he touched a mirror. What a stupid, wretched way to die.
"Have I said something wrong, lethallin?" Velanna spoke, breaking my train of thought.
"Remembering a friend," I said simply.
The tanned woman considered me thoughtfully. "Rumours reached us, about the two hunters who came across the cursed mirror. I'd not thought you were one of them."
"The Warden-Commander was able to save my life," I murmured. "Tamlen was not so lucky."
She touched a gentle hand to my shoulder and changed the subject, suggesting we pitch camp early that night. I'd been thinking about it myself, before the turn in conversation: we were running out of foodstuffs, so I'd need to hunt soon. We were close to the junction of the Bannorn and the Hinterlands, thankfully, so there'd be more game out here than in the densely populated breadbasket of Ferelden. We were about a day's march away from Lothering, and with another day we should manage to reach the Haeval. They often camped in the deeper reaches of the Witchwood, Keeper Ilshae had told me, counting on the stories associated with it to keep the knights of Redcliffe from coming too close. Not that Eamon's troops were in any state to be bothering anyone, these days: they'd been through a mauling at Redcliffe itself and then taken heavy losses while clearing Denerim. I'd be years before the Arling recovered enough to pay attention to the Dalish again, as long as there were no altercations with the locals. Both our tents were set up before night fell, and I'd been about to start the fire when I distinctly heard someone making their way through the bushes.
I quietly strung Falon'Din's reach, nocking an arrow as I gestured for Velanna to keep acting normally. Her fingers twitched in her staff's direction, but she obeyed. I slipped behind the tents and looped around the hill as the small noises turned into a ruckus and then some particularly vulgar curses yelled at the top of a man's voice. I wasn't particularly knowledgeable about the finer points of Andraste's life, but I was fairly sure what was being suggested she'd done with a duck had never actually happened. And was physically improbable for any woman at all. I knew that voice, though, and a wry smile was already quirking my lips by the time I stumbled onto the sight of Oghren hacking at a bush with his axe and telling it its mother had done unsavoury things with a nug. I cleared my throat, only to be summarily ignored. I cleared it a little louder. Oghren nearly jumped out of his skin, then offered me a broad grin.
"Hey there, Boss," he slurred. "Don't suppose you got a little bush-killing in you?"
-
"So the pike-twirler sent me to kill darkspawn in the middle of shittin' nowhere," the already drunk dwarf informed both Velanna and I as he tried to get the last leaves out of his beard. "They ran out quick, though, and I got bored. Cousland was good company for a while, but he had to go back to Highever."
I tried not to be too obviously amused at the horrified look the First was gracing my favorite dwarf with - whether it was the waft of hard liquor that the wind was sending in her direction or the constant and inventive cursing that was causing her such distress, I could not tell.
"So you went looking for me," I deduced. "Did you actually desert the Fereldan army?"
Oghren shrugged. "Sent Chantry Boy a letter before I left, figure that counts. Anyway, I was thinking of joining that shiny new Warden-Commander they're going to be getting in Amaranthine but then what do I hear? Some asshole in a backwater hole saw my Warden, and he's going towards Lothering."
"Past Lothering, actually," I informed him, "but you're not entirely wrong."
"So I figure – you know who always gets in the best bleedin' fights? Theron bleedin' Mahariel," he announced triumphantly. "So why should ol' Oghren take a sip from the Warden pisscup when I could just tagalong with you?"
I decided to put aside the concept of the "Warden pisscup", if only for the sake of my already flimsy grasp on sanity. Velanna was, unfortunately, no yet accustomed to Oghren's particular brand of cheerful profanity.
"You cannot be serious," she cut in indignantly. "You think you can just swagger into our camp stinking of a brewery and decide to come with us? You don't even know what we're doing!"
The redheaded dwarf waggled his eyebrows in a horrifyingly suggestive manner.
"Our camp, huh? Thought you were still shacked up with Red, Theron, but I can't blame ya – those are mighty nice robes you're wearing, sweetcheeks."
I sighed, though I'd never quite managed to actually be angry at Oghren. It would have been like being angry at Alistair for having all the decisiveness of a a wet cloth, or angry at Morrigan for being a ruthless opportunist.
"I"m still very much 'shacking up' with Leliana, yes," I told the berserker.
"So you're a free woman, then, Velawhatsyername?" Oghren leered.
The blonde mage seemed to be too furious to articulate anything beyond angry noises, though I did note she was covering the part of her robe that was usually displaying her more visible assets.
"We'll talk about it later, Vellerna," the dwarf assured her. "So what are we doing out in the middle of the blasted hills anyway, Boss?"
I chose my words carefully before replying, choosing something that would make sense to him.
"I'm getting a magical elf book to find magical elf lanterns that should lead me to a magical elf shrine," I told him.
"No shit," the dwarf grunted. "There gonna be anything fun to kill?"
"Every elvhen ruin we've ever been to had a least one ancient abomination in it trying to kill us," I mused. "The one we visited before you joined us had a young dragon in it, too."
The berserker slapped his knees with a hearty laugh. "Now that's what I like to hear! There's nothing that can top a bleedin' Archdemon, but we can try anyway."
That seemed to snap Velanna back into a state of coherence.
"You're that Oghren?" she yelped.
"There's only one Oghren, baby," he told her in what he probably thought was a sensual tone. "It's all the ladies can handle."
"I'm sure that's truer than you think," Velanna agreed between gritted teeth. "You're the same Oghren that was wed to a Paragon?"
A flash of something dark went through the dwarf's eyes. "That's the one. You got anything to drink, Boss? If we're gonna play the question game, I ain't doing it dry."
I did, in fact, have some apple brandy that Seranni had slipped me with a wink when her sister wasn't looking – I handed him the goatskin and he took a long pull from it before declaring it was barely more than apple water. Velanna shot me a betrayed look over his head and I shrugged. I had perhaps embellished Oghren's finer qualities a little bit when telling my story to the Latobri. Glossed over the drinking habits and general smell, focused more on the martial prowess and dogged loyalty. What did she expect? Most of what I knew about storytelling I'd learned from an Orlesian bard, and they were the most famous liars in Thedas.
"You mentioned there's a Warden-Commander coming?" I pressed after he'd somehow managed to put away half of the brandy.
"Yeah," he grunted back. "Some Orlesian girl called Caron the fancy-pants on the other side of the Frostbacks are sending. Eamon's idea – the nobles were making a stink about it when I left."
Considering the distinct lack of Orlesian Wardens helping out during the Blight, I could see how their promptness in sending one over now to rule over a Fereldan arling might rub some the wrong way. The Dalish did not remember the Occupation fondly either: Chevaliers had been fond of hunting the clans for sport. As disgustingly as Fereldans sometimes treated elves, there was no denying that Orlesians were an entirely worst sort.
"They'll send someone who can handle the Thaw," I finally said. "They're too clever to send an incompetent."
"Fergus was telling me stories," Oghren contributed after a loud burp. "The blighters sound worse than the politicians in Orzammars – at least the deshyrs don't wear sodding masks."
I snorted, then patted him on the shoulder.
"We're leaving bright and early, so don't stay up too late," I told him.
He nodded, and I made a mental note to pass through Lothering and stock up – that brandy wouldn't last the night, if I knew Oghren.
-
"A shrine, huh?" Oghren laughed. "If you're a god, Boss, can I be your priest? I'll get all the ladies praying, you just watch me."
I shot the dwarf an irritated look. I'd kept my hood on while we went through Lothering, trying to keep a low profile – as low of a profile as I could keep while accompanied by a drunken loudmouth berserker and scantily-clad sneering Dalish mage – but there was no missing the shrine they were building next to the half-trashed Chantry, dedicated to the Hero of Ferelden. Oghren had burst out laughing at the sight of it and refused to let the whole thing go even when I'd threatened to drink our stock of Chasind mead without him. Velanna had, if anything, been approving of the fact that there was a shrine dedicated to a Dalish elf in the middle of an Andrastian town.
"It is fitting that the People's contribution to stopping the Blight should be recognized this way," she opined.
I sighed. Still, there was something familiar about having a pair of ill-fitted companions chattering on behind me. Occasionally chattering at each other's throats, yes, but that was nothing new. All that was missing was Morrigan doing her level best to hurt Alistair's feelings while the former templar brought up her mother at every opportunity. And Leliana at my side, smiling along, I thought before forcefully chasing the thought away. Lingering on the subject of my lover's absence only made it more keenly felt.
"So Boss," Oghren asked as we made our way down the East Road. "How come Vellerer there knew my name?"
"It's Velanna, you cretinous dwarf," the First hissed.
"I told her clan the story about when we got Bhelen his crown," I replied, ignoring Velanna's outrage with twitching lips.
The dwarf winced and leaned a little closer.
"Even the part about, you know, Branka's dream-friend," he muttered just low enough that he figured our companion couldn't hear.
She could, of course. Elven hearing. I trusted her enough to not abuse any knowledge she gained this way, though, and it might go a little way towards evening out the balance of the banter between them. The again, maybe not. Nobody aside from Zevran every really got the best of Oghren in a conversation, did they? And Morrigan, once or twice, but she lost more often than not. Oghren's unabashed crassness had a way of trumping the witch's best efforts at getting under his skin.
"I didn't think it was something that needed mentioning," I reassured him.
"Good, good," Oghren grunted. "I got a sodding reputation to maintain, you know?"
"For what, fleeing at the sight of soap?" Velanna broke in.
"The smell's a part of the full Oghren experience," the berserker assured her with a leer.
"You'll have to forgive Velanna," I said. "The way I told the story, she likely expected you to be a little more -" I grasped for the right term. Clean? Sober? "- heroic."
The dwarf laughed. "I like it better in the dirt, sweetcheeks," he told Velanna. "You're closer to the Stone, and they don't mind if you drink there."
The First wrinkled her nose and did not deign to respond.
"So I'm a legend with the Dalish now, huh?" the berserker mused. "I like the sound of that. Think I'm gonna get any busty elfy fans, Boss?"
"Who knows?" I replied. "We'll find out when we get to the Haeval, I suppose – some of us helped get us into Fort Drakkon, so a few of their hunters must have seen you fight."
"So where is it, the sodding clan?" he groused. "We've been walking in the middle of nowhere all day."
I frowned, forced to concede we might need to set camp if we didn't find the Haeval soon. Keeper Ilshae hadn't given a precise location, after all – it was rare for Dalish clans to camp in exactly the same place twice when they were this close to a human settlement.
"We'll take a look by the lake," I decided, casually allowing my hand to drift towards the pommel of the Thorn.
Oghren noticed and an ugly grin split his face as he reached for the haft of his battleaxe.
"No need for that," an amused voice came from deeper in the woods. "Andaran antish'an, Warden."
A red-haired elf in leather armor strode out of cover, a pair of swords sheathed at her hips. It seemed that instead of my finding the Haeval, the Haeval had found me.
"He is basalit-an. He is ashkaari to his people. That is all I have to say."
- Arishok of the Beresaad
As much as it pained him to admit it, the few drink that the Dalish could make had nothing on a good Orlesian vintage. There were clans who made sugary ciders of apples and pears and traded the waterskins to other clans, but for the most part what little the People had to offer in this regard was closer to the abominable stuff lurking in Oghren's flasks than the dark wine he was sipping at. Leliana let out a little pleased noise as she tasted her own glass, eyeing him with undisguised surprised.
"That's a grand cru from le Champ D'Or," she stated. "Where did you get your hands on it?"
Theron smiled into his cup. "Have you ever heard of Comte Boisvert?" he asked.
The minute rise of the Nightingale's perfectly-groomed eyebrow served to convey what his lover thought of that question well enough. The dark-haired elvhen raised a hand in surrender to the unspoken reproach.
"The comte did not take to the reclaiming of his lands very well," Theron murmured, he smile stretching his lips showing too many teeth to be anything of the sort. "He was rather mystified when his household troops failed to – ah, how did he put it again? Scatter that heathen vermin infesting his property, I believe it was."
"Boisvert's talent for fitting his foot into his mouth was well known at court," Leliana acknowledged.
"When he found himself surrounded by corpses and Dalish blades," Theron continued calmly, "he tried to placate the savages by granting them access to his cellar."
The redheaded spymistress winced.
"I take it he was... less than diplomatic in formulating this."
"His corpse hung over the front gate for a few months, until we took it down," the tattooed man murmured, not so much as a hint of regret in his voice.
Leliana sighed. "And now a bottle worth enough to buy a marble house in Val Royeaux serves as table wine for the people who killed him," she mused. "There is a lesson in that, I think."
"Fools die violent deaths," he suggested, tone amused.
"Theron Mahariel, philosopher of the age," the blue-eyed woman mocked him gently.
The braided man raised his cup in a silent toast. There was a moment of comfortable silence between them before Leliana stirred herself to speak again.
"You did not know, then, what was waiting for you in the shrine," she half-asked, half-stated.
"I had no idea," he admitted with a crooked smile. "I expected the likes of what we found in the Brecilian, if in a better state, but what we found..."
He let his voice trail off. What he'd found in the depths of the Wilds had set him on the path he was still walking, for good or ill.
"I notice you did not mention the phylactery you found back then," Leliana mused. "Given how many Arcane Warriors came with you over the Frostbacks, I expected you to have spread the knowledge of the art as early as the year of the Blight."
"I intended it as a gift for an old friend of mine," Theron replied. "She's always had an extraordinary interest in the old ways, even for a Keeper."
The Nightingale's eyes hardened.
"The Witch of the Graves."
"She prefers 'Merrill'," he spoke, voice turning to steel in a heartbeat. "Only our enemies use the way you call her."
"She killed thousands, Theron," Leliana retorted fiercely. "The things they say she unleashed on Gaspard's men..."
"Saved hundreds of my people," the Lord of Crows snarled. "You think the death of soldiers is an atrocity? Celeneslaughtered thousands of elves at Haramshiral to restore order - where was this moral outragethen, I ask you?"
The Left Hand of the Divine met his eyes unflinchingly. "The man I knew ten years ago would not have replied to barbarity with more of the same," she said.
Ah, a twist of the knife. Did he deserve it? Perhaps. But then who was she to judge?
"The woman I knew ten years ago no longer slit throats in the dark of night," he replied.
He might have become something of a monster for his people's sake, but she'd become the same for Justinia's. Leliana went still as stone at his words, just the way she'd used to when Morrigan drew blood with a particularly vicious turn of phrase. The very memory of that, though, of the glimmer of dark satisfaction that used to pass through the witch's eye at the sight of it, was enough to snuff out the anger burning in him. Theron sat back down, not that he even remembered getting up.
"I... apologize," he said after a moment, nearly choking on the words. Apologies had never come easily to him. "That comment was uncalled for."
Leliana smiled ruefully. "Not it wasn't," she murmured. "And neither was mine. It has been a long time since either of us had clean hands."
Her fingers were pale as porcelain in the moonlight. She started in surprised when he thread his through them again – he answered her questioning look with a wry smile.
"See? Perhaps not so unclean after all, ma vhenan," he said, and continued his story.
-
"And he just agreed to leave the clan alone?" Velanna burst out, not even bothering to hide her incredulity.
A year ago I would have been just as dubious about this Lord Guy keeping his word, but my travels had granted me the benefit of an extended education in the way Fereldan politics worked. The man was, in the traditional view, responsible for the actions of his son. When the boy had accosted me, he'd offered insult not only to myself but also the Grey Wardens. Said Wardens had never been more popular in Ferelden than they were now, and given that the king had been one before taking the crown... Well, leveraging the situation into a promise to leave the Latobri alone had been easy enough work. I'd offered the concession that the clan would move further into the woods by the end of Justinian, which had been enough to let the man keep face. He'd be able to tell his tenants that he'd driven away the elves with just words, and the Dalish wouldn't have to watch out for peasants with more anger than sense. Keeper Ilshae had agreed to the terms readily enough when I'd conveyed them, which had freed my hands to pursue the matter I'd actually come for the day after.
"He doesn't have the men to drive away the clan, Velanna," I grunted back. "Not without doing something drastic like setting fire to the woods, anyway."
The prospect of such shemlen recklessness was enough to paint a sneer on the beautiful mage's face, even as a hypothetical.
"I would have expected more gratitude, after what we did in Denerim," Seranni interjected as we passed through the hills, straying far from the Pilgrim's Path.
She was not wrong, though I was not surprised. In Denerim and in Redcliffe, where the people had seen the People fight the darkspawn and protect the innocent, the Latobri might have had a different reception. I'd seen children in the Hinterlands weave wreaths of flowers and herbs to offer them to hunters who'd pulled them out of a burning house. I'd seen a mother weeping in gratitude pushing a plate full of spice cookies onto an embarrassed Keeper who'd healed her son, back in Denerim. But out here in the north, all they'd ever known of the Dalish was the clans that stayed to the woods and put arrows in villagers who got a little too curious. We did not fight for their gratitude, I reminded myself. We'd fought because the darkspawn would devour the world hole, given half a chance. We fought because we gave an oath, and there is little enough of us left that if we start breaking those I'm not sure what will remain. I grimaced, chasing the grim thoughts away.
"These brothers of stone," I said instead, "have either of you spoken to them before?"
Seranni shook her head. "Hunters avoid that corner of the woods as much as they can. There's a Tevinter grave not too far away, and disturbing those never ends well."
I snorted. Very practical of her.
"One of them called out to me, once," Velanna contributed. "Begged me to convince his brother to return to sleep."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did you try?"
The First scoffed. "I have better used for my time than indulging the whims of shems, no matter how old."
I looked away so she wouldn't see me wince. I'd once said something very similar, in the early days of the Blight. It had taken the sight of that little lost boy on the bridge in Lothering to make me choke on those words. I had been slow in learning the lesson that loving the People did not mean hating everyone else. In this, joining the Wardens had been good to me: the order did not get to pick and choose who they saved.
"Ah," Serani exclaimed suddenly. "That's the Avvar watchtower. We're close now, we just need to cross the Pilgrim's Path."
I could see the tall stones ruins in the distance myself – an earthen ramp, still in very good shape for how old it must have been, led all the way up to it. Interesting, that the ruins would be Avvar and not Alamarri. Their own sacred site must have been important for them to maintain a presence so far away from the Frostbacks. A quiet sense of urgency suddenly sprang up at the edges of my mind, and I stopped cold in my tracks.
"Seranni, Velanna," I murmured. "Find high ground. Now."
The First shot me a startled look while her sister wasted no time in stringing her bow.
"Darkspawn?" the mage understood after a moment.
"A small warband," I agreed. "I will draw them out in open ground. Velanna - fire works best."
The First nodded, and with a flare of Fade mist she called up her magic: enormous roots sprouted from the ground, and in the blink of an eye she was gone. A year spent in Morrigan's company had taught me better than to gape every time a mage did something impressive, but it was a close thing.
"Seranni..." I trailed off.
The blonde huntress flashed me a grin. "Stay out of your way and place an arrow when I can, I know. Luck in battle, lethallin."
I smiled and reached for my own longbow, taking a quick pace towards the direction I could feel the warband coming from. If I could feel them, odds were that they could feel me – hence why I'd wanted Velanna and her sister spread to the flanks. With any luck, the darkspawn would focus on me until it was too late. Falon'Din's Reach was a familiar weight in my hand, that old elvhen longbow I'd found in a dragon's hoard, and I casually nocked an arrow. I passed through a thicket without a sound and there they were, coming down a sloping hill. A pair of genlock archers, four hurlocks and and an emissary lurking in the back. I grimaced. With my old companions this would have been done in a matter of moments, but the days where I could count on Alistair's shield and Oghren's axe were long gone. I knew Seranni had been a the Battle of Denerim, but I'd never seen her in action: it wouldn't do to rely on her. As for Velanna... well, Keepers could deal out a great deal of destruction, if they chose to, and she seemed to be a particularly powerful mage. I just needed to buy her an opening.
"Andruil, Sister of the Moon, grant me your blessing in this," I murmured. "No hunt is more worthy than the one seeking that which would devour the world."
Draw, release.
They heard the arrow singing, not that it helped them: the silverite-tipped shaft punched through the emissary's helmet with a wet squelch. It would not kill it – the Taint made the monsters harder to kill than they had any right to be – but now I had their attention. The genlocks shrieked in hatred, fumbling for their bows, but the hurlocks were already on the move.
Draw, release.
The second arrow went through the roof of the emissary's mouth, shutting it up as it was about to scream a spell, and that one was enough to be the end of it. I could feel the feet of the hurlocks thudding against the ground as they ran towards me while the genlocks nocked their arrows. No time for a third shot: I had to close the distance before they could get their own arrows in. I laid Falon'Din's Reach against a tree and reached for my blades. The Thorn of the Dead God came free almost too easily, the blade that had now ended both Toth and Urthemiel thirsting to be buried in darkspawn flesh. The Veshialle spun in my hand like an eager child, the axe old as the Dales keening as it cut through the air. It felt like coming home, in a strange way.
The hurlocks were halfway up the hill when I fell upon them.
The leering skull-like face of the first took the Veshialle straight in the teeth, but I did not stick around to struggle: spinning around the darkspawn, I let the motion pull the axe free and pushed forward. The second hurlock's sword came high, too high, and I ducked under it: the Thorn sliced through its tendon behind the heel and the monster dropped. From the corner of my eye I saw the genlocks go up in a sudden ball of flame, tongs of fire licking the ground as the abominations shrieked in pain and dismay. Velanna at work. It felt like old times, like Morrigan and Wynne were at my side again and the only things that mattered in the world were my blades and the monsters I was sworn to kill. The third hurlock tried to bash my head in with a swipe of his shield but I laughed – he was slow, so absurdly slow compared to the true monsters that had led the horde in Denerim. The Veshialle came down like a scythe, taking his hand and then his head with a second razor-sharp spin.
The lead hurlock, toothless thing that he now was, had turned to me and would have swung his axe at my back if not the feathered arrow that sprouted between his eyes. Seranni's patience had paid off. There was only one left alive, and it shifted on its feet for a moment. Darkspawn were not above running when it was obvious they were outmatched, though it was a rarer thing in hurlocks. Not that it ever got to make the decision: the Thorn buried itself in its belly and came free after a hard rip, spilling the black blood and entrails all over the ground. The creature was dead before it hit the ground. The hurlock I'd hobbled earlier was trying to crawl away, but with a contemptuous snort I buried Veshialle's edge in the back of his head. Amateurs. Barely better fare than the blade-fodder the Archdemon had sent our way at Redcliffe.
Kneeling by one of the bodies, I wiped my blades free of blood and sheathed them. My armor would require a more thorough washing, unfortunately, but it would have to wait. Still, I was now in a pleasant mood. It felt like my blood was flowing right again, as if after a night's vigil someone had splashed cold water on my face. Creators forgive me, but I'd missed the killing. It was, in the end, what I was best suited for. I'd never been more than a decent hunter, and I'd never taken enough of an interest in stories or crafts to become Paivel or Ilen's apprentice. No, perhaps I am wrong. I had perfected one craft over the last year, after all, practiced it to obsession and polished it beyond reason. A Warden's craft is death. With the end of the Blight I considered myself no longer in service to the Wardens, much like Alistair, but there was no denying the Taint running through my veins or the duty that came along with it. Seranni emerged from the woods, bow back on her shoulder, and there was an expression on her face I'd never seen there before.
"I'd heard the stories," she said quietly, "but I never thought... Var'enasalin. You truly were touched by them, weren't you?"
I scowled. "I have never made such a claim."
"You don't need to," Velanna's voice came from behind me. "Truth speaks for itself. All those who took an Archdemon's life died – all of them but you."
A hard smile tugged at my lips. "And you think the Creators saw to it that I would survive it? You do not know as much as you think, Velanna."
The First shrugged, unconcerned by the hostility in my voice.
"It is not my place to wonder what secret Dirthamen whispered to you that would accomplish this. All will be revealed in time," she said.
Somewhere, Morrigan had just smiled. The witch had a twisted enough sense of humour that she would be amused at her work being called that of a god, even an elven one. I had no more use for this conversation, and so we moved on in silence. There was no point in arguing with the deluded.
-
"My brother called to you. Do not listen. The Magister's death will accomplish nothing."
Two brothers made into stone by the wrath of ancient Tevinter, when they were ruler instead of remnant. One a warrior, and one a scholar. My sympathies lay more with the one who sought vengeance from beyond even the grave, but the scholar was likelier to have the knowledge we sought.
"You called out to me, once," Velanna sneered. "Begged me to convince your brother to return to sleep. We will do this, if you can answer a question."
Indifferent to the First's sneer, the statue pondered this.
"I will tell you all I know, if you help me," the statue somehow spoke.
I assumed it spoke in the same manner than Caridin had, down in the Deep Roads – an enchantment of some sort, left in place by the magister so they could lament their fates into the night for eternity. The Imperium was a rapacious pack of slavers of blood mages, but even I had to admit that they did revenge like no one else.
"Have you ever heard of elven ruins in these lands?" I grunted.
I could feel the statue's attention shift to me, though how I could not tell you.
"I know of what you speak, warrior," it said. "Before these woods belonged to Uvolla, the elves built a monument to their own idols here. Give us sleep, and I will tell you where it was."
The other brother was... less than interested in such a peaceful resolution.
"My brother has grown weak," it snarled. "In truth, weakness was always in him. Wrongs unavenged are a curse upon the dead."
That Velanna actually looked a little approving at that came as much less of a surprise than it should have.
"This magister," I asked flatly. "Has he not been slain already?"
"Twice before he has been struck down," the warrior replied, speaking the words with relish. "Once very long ago. Once by an Alamarri, Dane."
I frowned. "Then even should I kill him a third, you would still be cursed."
"My soul calls out to smite he who cursed my brother and me," he growled.
Marethari had once told me that revenge was a snake swallowing its own tail, when I was younger and full of anger. No matter how much it swallows, it ever goes hungry. But Marethari had fled across the sea with the other Sabrae, and her wisdom was no longer mine.
"Then you are a fool," I told the warrior flatly, ignoring Seranni's alarmed looked. "Your revenge has already been taken for you, Avvar."
"Lies," it thundered. "A half-life is still a life, and I will have even that from him."
I offered the statue a cold smile, uncaring as to whether or not it could see it.
"And you thing the magister owns this life, warrior? He is a a corpse-puppet moved at the whims of a demon, ever a prisoner in the body that was once his. How many centuries has he been the demon's pet, I wonder? How many long years has he been screaming himself hoarse in torment?"
There was a heartbeat of silence, and then the cursed Avvar broke out in a raucous laugh.
"Yes," he crowed. "You are right, stranger. My brother and I are prisoners of stone, but his prison is much worse. May he be cursed to it forever, and never delivered into death."
It was easy enough to lull him into sleep after that – I doubted he'd ever surface again, unless someone was stupid enough to try to loot a Tevinter grave. The other brother seemed a little miffed I hadn't acquainted his sibling with the wonders of peace, but I reminded him that our part of the bargain had been upheld.
"You are right," he conceded. "Sleep is sleep, no matter how ill-bought. There is a sylvan greater than the rest, the Old One. He grew over what was once an elven statue."
What was once? That did not sound promising. Velanna tried to press the scholar for more information, but the only response was silence. The other statue was right, I decided: this one was a bit of a pissant.
"I don't suppose any of you know where this Old One is?" I asked my companions.
Seranni shrugged. "We try to avoid waking the sylvans when we can. They're not as prone as attacking the People, but they can get a little cranky when we make noise."
Velanna looked grim. "I do. I've been speaking to them, and he's the only that that will not speak back. He might attack us if we disturb him."
I was not overly worried by sylvans, in all honesty. They had a swing that hit like a runaway cart, true, but they were slow enough that they could be outrun with little difficulty. Back in the Brecilian Forest not all of them had been able to do that trick with the roots, though I supposed any tree ancient enough to be called the Old One was bound to have learned a few tricks of its own.
"We'll deal with that as it comes," I said. "Let's move – I'd like to be back to camp before sundown, if we can."
Watching Velanna speak to the sylvans was fascinating, I found out. She murmured things in elvish and they simply... went back to sleep, like children soothed by a lullaby. I wasn't even sure if any magic was involved in it at all. And if she can quiet them, does that mean she can rouse them to anger? Something to consider. The First could likely turn this entire forest into a deathtrap, if she wanted. For some time I wondered if we were lost until we came across a statue and she immediately took us down the path. The were two smaller sylvans that Velanna stilled with a few words, and the sight of the Old One was unmistakable: it was enormous, larger even than the insane rhyming tree whose branch I'd once bargained for. I padded closer to it warily, though it still seemed asleep: I could see the outline of what would serve as it legs, if it started moving, but nowhere was there a trace of an elvhen statue. Had the statue lied?
No. There was a rockslide, a little behind it, and among the debris I could see what must have been a statue's pedestal once. Whistling softly to get my companion's attention, I inclined my head towards it. Seranni grinned at the sight, and a smile lightened even Velanna's stern features: there were writings in elvhen on the pedestal I could almost make out. Creeping closer, quiet as the grave, I tried to get a better look. Something about veilfire? And the something of Arlathan. There was an ominous creaking behind me, and I slowly turned around. The sight of the Old One unfolding its limbs greeted me, and the spirit-tree did not seem to be in a trifling mood. This might get troublesome, I thought mildly.
-
"It really hated Mahariel," Seranni told a crowd of spellbound clan-mates as they sat around the fire. "Kept caging him in roots and the while ignoring me and Velanna completely. It ran after him the whole time we traced the letters, and he was cursing his lungs out during. I guess Wardens aren't popular with everyone after all."
The shit-eating grin she gave me at that was probably a sin by the Chantry's reckoning. Was there such a thing as a smugness demon? A good thing the Latobri would be moving on from here soon, otherwise between the hunter and the First a whole horde of them might just break out from the Beyond. She was right, though: I didn't think the Old One would have so much as rustled a leaf if I hadn't gotten too close. My personal suspicion was that it had sensed the Taint in me and taken offense to that, though there was no way to prove it. They'd managed to get what we needed, in the end, and that was all that mattered. Keeper Ilshae thanked her for her "colourfully told" story in a tone so dry it could have put a dent in the Waking Sea.
"Warden Mahariel will be leaving us in the morning," the Keeper told the rest of the Latobri. There were a few noises of disappointment, and Seranni apparently muttered something dubious enough that her sister saw it fit to elbow her in the ribs. "As this is your last night with us, da'len, I thought you might grace us with a story of your own. We do not know as much of your struggle against the Blight as we would wish."
I smiled, though inside I felt the same sharp displeasure as I had the night Lanaya had asked me the same. Would you like to hear about how I struck a bargain with a blood mage to save a child's life by murdering his mother? I asked them silently. Or perhaps you would care to hear of how Zathrian's inexorable hatred nearly destroyed his clan? I'd travelled across the length of Ferelden and found only madness let loose, come across one tragedy after another. Always I'd been the one to make the choice, and most of my victories had tasted of ashes. But I would not trouble them with this tonight, I decided. There was only one woman I'd even become close enough with to share those thoughts, and while she stood under the same stars as me she was far, far away.
"Someone very dear to me used to call this the Tale of the Two Paragons," I spoke after a moment, and spun the story of Bhelen's crowning for them.
We Dalish did love a good tragedy, and who could call Oghren's life anything but that? Branka too, in her own way: she'd wanted to drag her people back to greatness, and instead had destroyed her entire house out of stubborn pride. As for Caridin... I refrained from passing judgement on the Paragon of steel, for I could not imagine what it must have been like to live all those years in a prison of your own making. But if he had been one of us, I would have said it smacked of cowardice to let himself die into that stream of molten rock when he could have taught so much to the dwarves. They are as lost as we are, in their own way. The difference was that they still had a home, besieged as it was, and that their murderer of a king would drag them into the new age kicking and screaming if he needed to. Bhelen was an untrustworthy weasel, but he was an untrustworthy weasel who wanted to save his people. For that alone, he'd been more fit to wear the crown than Harrowmont.
The evening died down after I finished the tale and I made my way to Keeper Ilshae: she'd asked to speak to me in private before I left and she no longer stayed up after the fires were put out. She ushered me into her aravel, and after covering herself in woven blankets I handed her she coughed out her thanks.
"It is unseemly, Warden," she spoke quietly, "but I have yet another favor to ask of you."
I raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, refusing to make any hasty promises. I was headed for the Hinterlands, where I'd be able to find clan Haeval – they had the book I needed, the one would tell me where to find these Lights of Arlathan the markings had spoken of.
"I want you to take Velanna with you when you leave," Ilshae continued.
I blinked in surprise. This was... Velanna was the First of the Latobri, with the Keeper's health being what it was she should be the last person leaving the clan. If anything, Keeper Ilshae should be in the process of handing off her responsibilities to the other mage to ease the transition. If there'd been a Second I might have thought that the white-haired elder was trying to get rid of an undesirable successor to make place for a more worthy one, but this made no sense at all. And it put me right in the middle of the clan politics of the Latobri, a place I was less than eager to be.
"This seems unwise, Keeper," I replied cautiously.
The old woman sighed. "Velanna is too angry to succeed to me, Warden. She needs to see more of the world before she can lead the Latobri."
"You risk leaving your clan leaderless," I pointed out, tone sharpening.
"Hahren Jenal can handle matters until she returns, should I be taken by Falon'Din too early," Keeper Ilshae replied. "I do not ask this lightly, Warden, and only after long consideration. Velanna as she is now could lead the clan down a path where many would not follow, and with reason."
That I had no hard time believing. I would have thought Velanna unpopular, given her sharp tongue and sometimes waspish behavior, but she was different with the clan. The anger came out less often, and she could be surprisingly sweet with the children. The younger members of the Latobri followed her lead unquestioningly, but the fact that many of the older clan members said nothing of her at all was telling. I would not be party to the ascension of a Keeper that would lead her clan astray. I'd already seen the damage that could do. Ilshae's answer to my next question might very well lead to my refusal, if she was not careful.
"Are you keeping her as your successor because you have no other choice?" I asked.
The sickly Keeper coughed but shook her head.
"Velanna's flaws come only from loving our people too much. She simply needs to learn-"
"That loving the People does not mean hating everyone else," I finished quietly.
And didn't that just strike home? I could hardly blame the First for being slow to learn a lesson I had struggled with myself. I sighed, pushing back my braids absently.
"I will not delay my departure. We'll be leaving with dawn," I finally conceded.
-
"I remember Keeper Solan little from the last Arlathvaren," Velanna said. "He was the quiet one who shaved his head like Zathrian, no?"
Twelve days into our trek across the Bannorn, I had to admit that the First of the Latobri was beginning to grow on me. I'd been expecting her to turn into the flustered angry ball of fury I'd met in Denerim every day as we followed the Hafter further down, but she'd proved to be nothing but civil. She was less tense, now that Seranni was no longer around. As clear as it was she loved her sister dearly, it was equally clear that Velanna felt she had to be stricter around her. To lead by example, I assumed. Now that it was only the two of us, she allowed her sense of humor to glimmer through occasionally – in some ways I imagine she was much like Morrigan would have been if she'd not been raised by Flemeth.
"I didn't pay much attention to the Keepers," I admitted. "I was too busy getting into trouble."
The blonde mage eyed me amusedly. "Would that have anything to do with the halla who got loose with those ugly puppets tied around their necks?"
"They weren't ugly," I protested, "they were made in an ancient and respected elvhen style."
The First snorted. "And yet I don't recall you being one of the boys who got a spanking by Marethari."
I grinned at the memory. Tamlen and Fenarel had been so angry I'd somehow avoided punishment. Merrill had covered for me, assuring a very skeptical Marethari that I'd been with her the whole time so I couldn't possibly have been involved in between shooting me wounded looks at not having been included in the first place. I'd been in favor of her joining the crew, of course, but she'd never gotten along well with Tamlen and... A pang of grief went through me at the memory of my childhood friend. Dead because he touched a mirror. What a stupid, wretched way to die.
"Have I said something wrong, lethallin?" Velanna spoke, breaking my train of thought.
"Remembering a friend," I said simply.
The tanned woman considered me thoughtfully. "Rumours reached us, about the two hunters who came across the cursed mirror. I'd not thought you were one of them."
"The Warden-Commander was able to save my life," I murmured. "Tamlen was not so lucky."
She touched a gentle hand to my shoulder and changed the subject, suggesting we pitch camp early that night. I'd been thinking about it myself, before the turn in conversation: we were running out of foodstuffs, so I'd need to hunt soon. We were close to the junction of the Bannorn and the Hinterlands, thankfully, so there'd be more game out here than in the densely populated breadbasket of Ferelden. We were about a day's march away from Lothering, and with another day we should manage to reach the Haeval. They often camped in the deeper reaches of the Witchwood, Keeper Ilshae had told me, counting on the stories associated with it to keep the knights of Redcliffe from coming too close. Not that Eamon's troops were in any state to be bothering anyone, these days: they'd been through a mauling at Redcliffe itself and then taken heavy losses while clearing Denerim. I'd be years before the Arling recovered enough to pay attention to the Dalish again, as long as there were no altercations with the locals. Both our tents were set up before night fell, and I'd been about to start the fire when I distinctly heard someone making their way through the bushes.
I quietly strung Falon'Din's reach, nocking an arrow as I gestured for Velanna to keep acting normally. Her fingers twitched in her staff's direction, but she obeyed. I slipped behind the tents and looped around the hill as the small noises turned into a ruckus and then some particularly vulgar curses yelled at the top of a man's voice. I wasn't particularly knowledgeable about the finer points of Andraste's life, but I was fairly sure what was being suggested she'd done with a duck had never actually happened. And was physically improbable for any woman at all. I knew that voice, though, and a wry smile was already quirking my lips by the time I stumbled onto the sight of Oghren hacking at a bush with his axe and telling it its mother had done unsavoury things with a nug. I cleared my throat, only to be summarily ignored. I cleared it a little louder. Oghren nearly jumped out of his skin, then offered me a broad grin.
"Hey there, Boss," he slurred. "Don't suppose you got a little bush-killing in you?"
-
"So the pike-twirler sent me to kill darkspawn in the middle of shittin' nowhere," the already drunk dwarf informed both Velanna and I as he tried to get the last leaves out of his beard. "They ran out quick, though, and I got bored. Cousland was good company for a while, but he had to go back to Highever."
I tried not to be too obviously amused at the horrified look the First was gracing my favorite dwarf with - whether it was the waft of hard liquor that the wind was sending in her direction or the constant and inventive cursing that was causing her such distress, I could not tell.
"So you went looking for me," I deduced. "Did you actually desert the Fereldan army?"
Oghren shrugged. "Sent Chantry Boy a letter before I left, figure that counts. Anyway, I was thinking of joining that shiny new Warden-Commander they're going to be getting in Amaranthine but then what do I hear? Some asshole in a backwater hole saw my Warden, and he's going towards Lothering."
"Past Lothering, actually," I informed him, "but you're not entirely wrong."
"So I figure – you know who always gets in the best bleedin' fights? Theron bleedin' Mahariel," he announced triumphantly. "So why should ol' Oghren take a sip from the Warden pisscup when I could just tagalong with you?"
I decided to put aside the concept of the "Warden pisscup", if only for the sake of my already flimsy grasp on sanity. Velanna was, unfortunately, no yet accustomed to Oghren's particular brand of cheerful profanity.
"You cannot be serious," she cut in indignantly. "You think you can just swagger into our camp stinking of a brewery and decide to come with us? You don't even know what we're doing!"
The redheaded dwarf waggled his eyebrows in a horrifyingly suggestive manner.
"Our camp, huh? Thought you were still shacked up with Red, Theron, but I can't blame ya – those are mighty nice robes you're wearing, sweetcheeks."
I sighed, though I'd never quite managed to actually be angry at Oghren. It would have been like being angry at Alistair for having all the decisiveness of a a wet cloth, or angry at Morrigan for being a ruthless opportunist.
"I"m still very much 'shacking up' with Leliana, yes," I told the berserker.
"So you're a free woman, then, Velawhatsyername?" Oghren leered.
The blonde mage seemed to be too furious to articulate anything beyond angry noises, though I did note she was covering the part of her robe that was usually displaying her more visible assets.
"We'll talk about it later, Vellerna," the dwarf assured her. "So what are we doing out in the middle of the blasted hills anyway, Boss?"
I chose my words carefully before replying, choosing something that would make sense to him.
"I'm getting a magical elf book to find magical elf lanterns that should lead me to a magical elf shrine," I told him.
"No shit," the dwarf grunted. "There gonna be anything fun to kill?"
"Every elvhen ruin we've ever been to had a least one ancient abomination in it trying to kill us," I mused. "The one we visited before you joined us had a young dragon in it, too."
The berserker slapped his knees with a hearty laugh. "Now that's what I like to hear! There's nothing that can top a bleedin' Archdemon, but we can try anyway."
That seemed to snap Velanna back into a state of coherence.
"You're that Oghren?" she yelped.
"There's only one Oghren, baby," he told her in what he probably thought was a sensual tone. "It's all the ladies can handle."
"I'm sure that's truer than you think," Velanna agreed between gritted teeth. "You're the same Oghren that was wed to a Paragon?"
A flash of something dark went through the dwarf's eyes. "That's the one. You got anything to drink, Boss? If we're gonna play the question game, I ain't doing it dry."
I did, in fact, have some apple brandy that Seranni had slipped me with a wink when her sister wasn't looking – I handed him the goatskin and he took a long pull from it before declaring it was barely more than apple water. Velanna shot me a betrayed look over his head and I shrugged. I had perhaps embellished Oghren's finer qualities a little bit when telling my story to the Latobri. Glossed over the drinking habits and general smell, focused more on the martial prowess and dogged loyalty. What did she expect? Most of what I knew about storytelling I'd learned from an Orlesian bard, and they were the most famous liars in Thedas.
"You mentioned there's a Warden-Commander coming?" I pressed after he'd somehow managed to put away half of the brandy.
"Yeah," he grunted back. "Some Orlesian girl called Caron the fancy-pants on the other side of the Frostbacks are sending. Eamon's idea – the nobles were making a stink about it when I left."
Considering the distinct lack of Orlesian Wardens helping out during the Blight, I could see how their promptness in sending one over now to rule over a Fereldan arling might rub some the wrong way. The Dalish did not remember the Occupation fondly either: Chevaliers had been fond of hunting the clans for sport. As disgustingly as Fereldans sometimes treated elves, there was no denying that Orlesians were an entirely worst sort.
"They'll send someone who can handle the Thaw," I finally said. "They're too clever to send an incompetent."
"Fergus was telling me stories," Oghren contributed after a loud burp. "The blighters sound worse than the politicians in Orzammars – at least the deshyrs don't wear sodding masks."
I snorted, then patted him on the shoulder.
"We're leaving bright and early, so don't stay up too late," I told him.
He nodded, and I made a mental note to pass through Lothering and stock up – that brandy wouldn't last the night, if I knew Oghren.
-
"A shrine, huh?" Oghren laughed. "If you're a god, Boss, can I be your priest? I'll get all the ladies praying, you just watch me."
I shot the dwarf an irritated look. I'd kept my hood on while we went through Lothering, trying to keep a low profile – as low of a profile as I could keep while accompanied by a drunken loudmouth berserker and scantily-clad sneering Dalish mage – but there was no missing the shrine they were building next to the half-trashed Chantry, dedicated to the Hero of Ferelden. Oghren had burst out laughing at the sight of it and refused to let the whole thing go even when I'd threatened to drink our stock of Chasind mead without him. Velanna had, if anything, been approving of the fact that there was a shrine dedicated to a Dalish elf in the middle of an Andrastian town.
"It is fitting that the People's contribution to stopping the Blight should be recognized this way," she opined.
I sighed. Still, there was something familiar about having a pair of ill-fitted companions chattering on behind me. Occasionally chattering at each other's throats, yes, but that was nothing new. All that was missing was Morrigan doing her level best to hurt Alistair's feelings while the former templar brought up her mother at every opportunity. And Leliana at my side, smiling along, I thought before forcefully chasing the thought away. Lingering on the subject of my lover's absence only made it more keenly felt.
"So Boss," Oghren asked as we made our way down the East Road. "How come Vellerer there knew my name?"
"It's Velanna, you cretinous dwarf," the First hissed.
"I told her clan the story about when we got Bhelen his crown," I replied, ignoring Velanna's outrage with twitching lips.
The dwarf winced and leaned a little closer.
"Even the part about, you know, Branka's dream-friend," he muttered just low enough that he figured our companion couldn't hear.
She could, of course. Elven hearing. I trusted her enough to not abuse any knowledge she gained this way, though, and it might go a little way towards evening out the balance of the banter between them. The again, maybe not. Nobody aside from Zevran every really got the best of Oghren in a conversation, did they? And Morrigan, once or twice, but she lost more often than not. Oghren's unabashed crassness had a way of trumping the witch's best efforts at getting under his skin.
"I didn't think it was something that needed mentioning," I reassured him.
"Good, good," Oghren grunted. "I got a sodding reputation to maintain, you know?"
"For what, fleeing at the sight of soap?" Velanna broke in.
"The smell's a part of the full Oghren experience," the berserker assured her with a leer.
"You'll have to forgive Velanna," I said. "The way I told the story, she likely expected you to be a little more -" I grasped for the right term. Clean? Sober? "- heroic."
The dwarf laughed. "I like it better in the dirt, sweetcheeks," he told Velanna. "You're closer to the Stone, and they don't mind if you drink there."
The First wrinkled her nose and did not deign to respond.
"So I'm a legend with the Dalish now, huh?" the berserker mused. "I like the sound of that. Think I'm gonna get any busty elfy fans, Boss?"
"Who knows?" I replied. "We'll find out when we get to the Haeval, I suppose – some of us helped get us into Fort Drakkon, so a few of their hunters must have seen you fight."
"So where is it, the sodding clan?" he groused. "We've been walking in the middle of nowhere all day."
I frowned, forced to concede we might need to set camp if we didn't find the Haeval soon. Keeper Ilshae hadn't given a precise location, after all – it was rare for Dalish clans to camp in exactly the same place twice when they were this close to a human settlement.
"We'll take a look by the lake," I decided, casually allowing my hand to drift towards the pommel of the Thorn.
Oghren noticed and an ugly grin split his face as he reached for the haft of his battleaxe.
"No need for that," an amused voice came from deeper in the woods. "Andaran antish'an, Warden."
A red-haired elf in leather armor strode out of cover, a pair of swords sheathed at her hips. It seemed that instead of my finding the Haeval, the Haeval had found me.