Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

**********************************

Chapter Seventeen: Jowan's Mistake

“Dawn arrives, and we survived the night. We are victorious!”

Before Redcliffe’s chantry, its entire population cheered in triumph at Bann Teagan’s words, fists brandished defiantly towards the morning sky. Released from their protective confines, the village’s non-combatants stood shoulder to shoulder with their bloodstained and exhausted defenders, united in the joy that came with the new dawn. Even Teagan, who had not slept a wink that night, looked revitalized in that moment, the taste of victory doing more to restore him than a deep slumber ever could. The nobleman was as gracious as ever as he addressed the crowd, waving towards Sagramor and his companions on the steps beside him. “And though this victory came at great cost, we must remember none of us would be here were it not for the heroism of these brave folk beside me.” The nobleman turned to Sagramor and his companions, giving a respectful bow. “I thank you, good ser. Truly the Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.”

“We were happy to help, Bann Teagan,” the elf remarked modestly, returning the bow. Behind him, the elf heard Morrigan scoff, the sorceress clearly impatient with such flowery sentiments. Like the rest of the company, she’d only managed a few hours of sleep; enough to shorten her temper, yet far more than most of the defenders, who’d stood watch even after the battle’s end. “To stand in defense of this land and its people was an honour.”

At Teagan’s left, the Revered Mother cleared her throat meaningfully. “Let us bow our heads, and honour those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe. Ser Garth the Strong. Jacob Wainwright. Patrick Miller…”

With each name of the fallen, the assembled crowd genuflected and offered a murmured prayer, a gesture Leliana and Alistair took up. Sagramor stayed silent, merely observing the distant castle, brows furrowed as he considered their next step. Their victory had been noteworthy, but unless they could capitalize on it before nightfall, he feared it would be for naught. As tenacious and remarkable a defense as they had mustered, they could not sustain it indefinitely: their losses could not be replaced, while the demons seemed to manifest out of the very air. Teagan had spoken of a counterattack, and for all their sakes, Sagramor hoped the nobleman had a good plan in mind.

“Now they walk with He who is their Maker,” the Revered Mother finished, arms held out at her sides in prayer. “Long may they know the peace of His love.”

“Let Him watch over the fallen with pride,” Leliana intoned, speaking in time with the villagers. “Let them have a place of honour at His right hand.”

“With the Maker’s favour, the blow we delivered today is enough to me to enter the castle and seek out your Arl,” Teagan declared, the notion of Eamon’s rescue sending his subjects into a flurry of elated chatter.  “Murdock, for the moment, you have command here. Be wary, and watch for signs of renewed attack.”

“I shall, my lord,” the Mayor replied, giving a respectful nod. “Maker watch over you.”

“And you as well, Mayor. Ser Perth, Grey Warden, bring your men and meet me by the windmill as soon as you are able. We’ve no time to waste, and we have much to discuss.”

With that, the assembly began to break up, the village readying itself from the next onslaught. Wives and children moved to embrace their men, the first of the undead corpses were stacked onto the day’s pyre, and from Owen’s forge came the squeal of blades against his grindstone. Ever obedient to the commands of a Guerrin, Ser Perth led his knights up the hill towards the windmill, but Sagramor held back, electing to check on his comrades first. “Everyone fit for the fight?”

“As good as we’ll ever be,” Alistair assured him, flexing his newly-healed shield arm. “I’m sure the Bann wants to get this done quickly: the longer we wait, the more time whatever’s controlling the castle has to regroup.”

“Then perhaps he should not have wasted the dawn on pious drivel,” Morrigan remarked loud enough for the Revered Mother to hear, the apostate smirking at her distrustful glare. Somehow, by means that eluded the Warden, Teagan had convinced the Chantry to release some lyrium potions for Morrigan’s use, a plea the Revered Mother had acceded to grudgingly. The apostate’s mana had been restored by the rations of lyrium meant for Redcliffe’s fallen Templars, an irony that eluded no one, and inflamed the Chantry’s ire even more than Sagramor thought possible.

Still, the Chantry’s barely-concealed enmity was a small price to pay for restoring Morrigan to fighting condition: not only had her healing magic done its work on their more serious wounds, but her other powers would likely prove decisive against whatever lurked in the castle. While Sagramor would have preferred giving his companions time to rest and recuperate, Alistair was right: with daylight upon them and the enemy withdrawn back into the castle, they had to seize the initiative while they had the chance. “Leliana? Sten? Are you good?”

“I am prepared, Warden,” Leliana said calmly, her quiver fully-stocked with arrows requisitioned from the militia. Sten gave a disinterested grunt, as if perplexed why the elf would ever ask such a foolish question of him, while Ragnar barked in affirmation, loping across the square to guide them to their next adventure. Inwardly, Sagramor swelled with pride. His companions had done all any man could reasonably ask of them, all without complaint, and despite having fought to the brink of exhaustion mere hours before, each of them were willing to do it all over again. It was loyalty and dedication that Sagramor vowed to treasure and prove himself worthy of, no matter what it might cost him.

Thus committed, the party made their way up to the windmill, the path leading towards the castle still scorched black from the firewall. Receiving a respectful nod from Ser Perth as he and his knights walked towards to the bridgehead, Sagramor walked to Teagan’s side, the nobleman staring up across Lake Calenhad’s waters towards the castle. “Odd how quiet the castle looks from here. You would think there was no one inside at all,” Teagan mused, smiling in relief at the elf’s presence. “Thank you for your haste in this matter, Grey Warden.”

“It’s not a problem; I want to end this threat as much as you do,” the elf reminded him, visibly awed by the size and strength of the fortress.  Redcliffe Castle was popularly deemed to be impregnable, and looking upon it in the morning light, Sagramor could easily see why. It was a massive edifice, far larger than the Arl of Denerim’s estate, a great granite stronghold built upon high cliffs and surrounded by the waters of the lake on three sides, rugged hills and ridges on the fourth, the high walls crenellated and punctuated with towers and citadels positioned evenly along each circuit. The only approach from the village was a long, high stone bridge that led to the main gatehouse, a squat, brute bastion looming over the bridge like a hungry hawk over a rabbit’s den. Sagramor tried to imagine capturing it with his companions, or even with an army at his back, but the very notion defied all possibility. It was a fortress that could prove critical in turning back the Blight… assuming of course they could return it to its rightful masters.  “I hope your plan doesn’t involve mindlessly trying to storm the gatehouse.”

“Nothing so unsubtle, Warden,” said Teagan. “There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family. Now that the village is secure, I mean to use it to enter the castle, and strike at the evil that holds it.”

“Why did you not employ this before?” Sten demanded, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You could have ended the threat at once, and not waste our time defending this place.”

“I had no idea what we were facing, ser!” the nobleman snapped back, whirling angrily towards the Qunari. “If I had sent men to infiltrate the castle, all I’d have done is sent them to their deaths, and I needed every fighter I had to defend the village. I could not risk exposing the women and children to danger until I was certain we had the upper hand, and—Maker’s breath!”

Sagramor turned, following the nobleman’s gaze to the bridge. To his astonishment, there was a woman there, the violet skirts of her long gown hitched as she darted frantically across the stone span and down the cliffside path, the confused queries of the militia sentry guarding the bridgehead ignored in her headlong flight. As she neared, it became clear this was a woman of some status: her gown, though dirtied, was of fine make, the silk well-tailored to her figure, while she wore a pair of dainty slippers, the sort better suited for lounging about a parlour than running from a haunted castle, her breathing left laboured from the unfamiliar exertion. Most apparent though was the sheer terror in her face, her pale, patrician features left haggard and fearful by the horrors she’d endured, dark circles under her eyes betraying her lack of sleep. This was a woman out of her depth, left adrift and unable to set things right, and upon seeing Bann Teagan, moved to embrace him. “Isolde!” the Bann cried, shocked by her sudden appearance, the pain of his broken arm flaring at her touch. At the sight of her, Alistair shifted uncomfortably, shrinking away despite himself. “You’re alive. How did you—what has happened?”

“I do not have much time to explain,” said Isolde, wife of Eamon and Arlessa of Redcliffe, her voice displaying her Orlesian heritage with every word. “I slipped away from the castle at dawn, but I must return quickly. And I… I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone.”

For a moment, Teagan failed to respond, the request so at odds with what had transpired that none knew how best to answer it. Predictably, it was Morrigan who broke the silence, overflowing with scorn. “Anyone else think this is a trap, or am I the only person of sense here?”

“What?!” the noblewoman snapped, clearly affronted at the implication, staring coldly at Sagramor’s motley gathering. “Who are these… people, Teagan? Who dares--” Disdainful eyes caught a glimpse of Alistair, and a note of venom dripped from her words in recognition. “Alistair. Of all the… why are you here?”

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan interjected, gesturing towards Alistair and Sagramor’s tabards in the hopes of defusing the argument. “I owe them my life. All of Redcliffe does.”

“Pardon me, I…” Isolde mumbled, immediately conciliatory. “I would exchange pleasantries, but considering the circumstances…”

“Please, Lady Isolde,” pressed Alistair, “we had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!”

“My honoured companion speaks truly, my lady,” Sagramor added, his instinctive distrust of the upper classes rising within. From what Alistair had told him, she’d made his fellow Warden’s life difficult enough as a child, and he had no intention of letting her perpetuate that, especially with so many lives at stake. “To the best of our knowledge, everyone inside Redcliffe Castle had been killed by the dark powers attacking the village. If you know anything that can help us save the arling, please, tell us now.”

“I know you need more of an explanation,” Isolde protested, turning back to Teagan, “but I… I don’t know what is safe to tell.”

“Please, Isolde, speak freely. Alistair and the others have my trust. Besides, they’re correct: we need to know what is going on in there before more lives are lost.”

Duly reproved, Isolde began to relate her tale, delicate hands nervously picking away at the hem of her sleeves as she spoke. “Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead wake and hunt the living, demons stalk the corridors, and those that remain are left as playthings for the nightmares that haunt our every moment!” she exclaimed, the first horrified tears beginning to fall. “The mage responsible was captured, but still it continues. And I think Connor is going mad from it all. He will not flee the castle! You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle; you have a chance to reason with him. I do not know what else to do!”

“A mage?” asked Alistair, the old Templar instincts perking up at the word. “Who is this mage?”

“He is an… infiltrator, I think, hidden amongst the castle staff,” explained the noblewoman, her concern for her son outweighing her distrust of her husband’s former ward. “We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That’s why Eamon became ill.”

“Eamon was poisoned?!” Teagan blurted out, aghast. The nobleman shared a glance with Sagramor, and the elf could feel his shock as their darkest theories were confirmed. It was an understandable reaction: speculating that the Arl was poisoned was one thing, but having it revealed to be true was quite another. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“The mage claims an agent of Teryn Loghain hired him. We put him to the test, but he may be lying, I cannot say for certain.”

At this, Alistair spat upon the turf, the anger rising to the fore. “Loghain. It’s always Loghain! The Arl’s dying, Redcliffe is besieged, and I should have known it had his stink all over it!”

Leliana was at his side, placing a hand upon his shoulder in a sympathetic gesture, and Sagramor felt a sudden, irrational jealousy worm its way into his heart. “That gives credence to Berwick’s tale,” the former Chantry Sister calmly reminded them. “Loghain would have wanted to ensure his handiwork succeeded.”

“And what of the Arl?” Sagramor asked. “Does Eamon live?”

“He does,” said Isolde, her relief transparent. “He is being kept alive, thank the Maker.”

“Kept alive?” Teagan pounced on her words. “Kept alive by what?”

“Something the mage unleashed. So far, it allows Eamon, Connor and I to live. The others… were not so fortunate. It wants us to live, but I do not know why,” she expressed, brown eyes fixed pleadingly upon her brother-in-law. “It allowed me to come to you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help!”

“Morrigan, can you offer any insights here?” Sagramor asked. “You think a demon might be responsible?”

“’Tis the likeliest explanation, though why it would bother sparing her, I truly do not know.”

Isolde’s face, already wracked with terror, paled even further. “Oh, Maker’s mercy, could it truly be a demon?” she whispered, panic fast mutating into hysteria. “I can’t let it hurt my Connor! You must come back with me, Teagan, please!”

“Bann Teagan, if a demon truly is behind Redcliffe’s troubles, then there’s no guarantee you’ll walk out of the castle again,” Sagramor reminded him. “You’ve been instrumental in holding Redcliffe together through this. If you die, the village may very well follow.”

“And why would it even care about keeping Connor calm?” Alistair posed, enduring a withering look from Isolde in return. “Sagramor’s right: this may be some ploy to remove you as a threat and undermine the village’s resolve.”

“I know, Wardens. Believe me, I know,” Teagan sighed. “The King is dead, Isolde, and we need my brother now more than ever. I will return with you.”

“Oh, thank the Maker!” the nobleman cried in relief. “Bless you, Teagan, bless you!”

“My lord, this is a mistake,” said Sagramor, seeing disaster loom. “What’s to stop it from killing you the instant you cross the castle’s threshold?”

“I would never allow that to happen!” Isolde retorted hotly, offended by the elf’s blunt criticism.

Morrigan scoffed, rolling her eyes. “And how would you prevent from doing so? Scold the creature?”

“I have no illusions of facing this evil alone, even if I were in fighting condition,” Teagan interjected before the argument could escalate further. “You, on the other hand, have proven yourselves to be quite formidable. Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I enter the castle with you.”

“Please, do not take too long,” urged the noblewoman. “I will wait for you at the bridgehead.”

Escorted by the sentry, Isolde made her way back up along the cliff path, Sten’s violet eyes never leaving her for a moment. “There is much that she has not told us, Warden. To trust in her words is madness.”

“Perhaps we should accompany you, Bann Teagan?” suggested Leliana. “If this is a trap, we could keep you from harm.”

“Your offer is a kind one, my lady, but I will do as Isolde bids here. If the demon or whatever it is sees you entering with me, then it may consider Eamon and Connor’s lives forfeit, and I will not risk that. Here is what I propose,” Teagan declared, stifling a grunt of pain as he tugged a golden signet ring from a finger of his broken arm. “I will go in with Isolde while you enter the castle along the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door.”

Sagramor hefted the proffered ring, shocked by the weight of it. Forged of pure gold and bearing a ruby that would feed a hundred alienage families for a month in its jaws, it was more wealth than he had ever held before, casually lent by Teagan without a trace of unease. “Perhaps I will… distract whatever evil lies inside, and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed,” continued the Bann. “What do you say?”

“It’s a solid plan,” Sagramor allowed, “but a risky one. I don’t like the notion of sending anyone in there alone.”

“Would that we had another option, but I cannot leave my family at the mercy of such creatures either. I’ve sent Ser Perth and his fellow knights to wait at the bridgehead, to watch for danger at the castle entrance. If you can find some way to open the gates, they may be able to support you.”

“And once we’re inside? What then?”

“I wish I knew. But your Order has a reputation for slaying monsters, and whatever has befallen inside the castle, you would be the best prepared to deal with it. But whatever you do, Eamon is the priority. In the worst case, if you cannot defeat the evil inside the castle, then just get him out of there. Isolde, me and anyone else, we’re expendable.”

“You should know by now that I don’t believe in acceptable losses, my lord,” Sagramor reminded him. “We’ll rescue you all, I promise.”

Teagan couldn’t help but grin, giving the party a respectful bow. “You are a good man indeed, ser. The Maker truly smiled on us when He sent you here.” Meeting Alistair’s gaze, the nobleman gave an avuncular smile. “Or when He brought you home. But I can delay no longer; Isolde will be waiting for me by now. Maker watch over you, and keep you from harm.”

With that, the nobleman hurried up the path. “And here I thought he was a man of sense,” Morrigan remarked, dismissive of Alistair’s angry glare. “We’d best move quickly, Warden, if we’re to keep him or anyone else from getting themselves killed.”

“You really don’t get self-sacrifice, do you, Morrigan?” Alistair demanded, thick with contempt.

“Oh, I understand well enough, but this is more akin to utter stupidity. What hope does a single man have, and one left unable to fight at that?”

“Morrigan has a point,” expressed Leliana. “Sagramor, are we really going to send him alone with that woman? It seems far too risky.”

“It is, Leliana,” agreed the elf, “but it is his choice, and he’s right: it may give us the opening we need. Let’s see to this passage, everyone. I have no intention of breaking my word to him today.”

******************************

Down travelled the Warden and his companions, always down, down through the ancient rock of the red cliffs, along a high staircase carved out of the rock, each breath of the dry, stifling air like something from an ancient, long-forgotten tomb. Sagramor took the point, as ever, the lantern he’d borrowed from the mill granting them a weak light by which to make their descent, each narrow step taken cautiously for fear of slipping and falling down the staircase’s whole length. At the bottom, below the deep waters of the lake, they reached a long tunnel stretching endlessly into the darkness, the ceiling sealed with pitch to keep out the damp, and the markings of craftsmanship scratched out in dwarven runes at regular intervals testifying to the robustness of its structure. It had served as a means of escape and a hidden route to sally out of the castle for centuries, enduring the weight of the water and stone above, but even so, Sagramor felt his pace quicken at the thought of an entire lake over their heads. “Any idea where exactly this’ll bring us to, Alistair?” he whispered towards the back of the column.

“No clue. This is the first time I’ve ever been through here,” his fellow Warden explained. “Still, I’d imagine they’d want to make the tunnel as short as possible, so we should exit inside the southern-most parts of the castle. The dungeons, perhaps?”

“Wonderful,” groaned the elf, recalling the horror stories he’d heard of Denerim’s own such prisons, including those in the Arl’s estate. His mother had been held there for a time, several months before her death, and even though she was years in her grave, the fear he’d felt during her incarceration began to gnaw at him, old, irrational, yet never forgotten. Then again, perhaps it was not so irrational: the humans’ prisons were the archetypical symbol of their oppression, and few elves benefitted from the experience of entering them, no matter the context. He’d feel concerned about entering them at any other point: why would one potentially crawling with monsters be any less intimidating?

Thoughts of his mother turned to that of Isolde. Adaia had sacrificed much for his sake, eventually even her own life, and Sagramor couldn’t help but wonder at what the noblewoman was willing to do for the sake of her own child. Could she be luring Teagan into a trap? he pondered, still uneasy about allowing the nobleman to go on his own. Sten had been correct; Isolde was keeping things from them, but what? And if she had been given the opportunity to leave the castle, why had she not immediately taken Connor and made a break for it, to bring her son out of harm’s way rather than leave him alone in a fortress full of nightmares while she spoke with Teagan? Was she so paralyzed by fear that even that option seemed inconceivable? Or was there something else at work here? Enough speculation, Sagramor. The truth will come out soon enough. All that you can do is steel yourself to face it, whatever it might be. “Where might the Arl be in all this?”

“If he’s sick, he’s likely in his chambers, on the second floor of the central keep,” Alistair suggested. “Connor might be there too, I’m not sure.”

“Should they live, they will be under guard, Warden,” Sten reminded him, violet eyes mere pinpricks in the gloom. “This foe is not to be underestimated. Despite the losses we have inflicted upon it, we must consider it a threat until it is wholly expunged.”

“Have you dealt with demons before, Sten?” asked Leliana.

“No, that role falls to the Ben-Hassrath or the Arvaarad, not the soldiers of the Beresaad. But the principle is the same no matter the foe. Only when an enemy lies dead or in submission to the Qun can their threat be considered ended. We must aim for nothing less than a killing blow in all things.”

Alistair gave a small chuckle. “Think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say, Sten.”

“I’ve been saving them up.”

At the end of the tunnel came another high staircase, Teagan’s signet ring once again unlocking the door at the top. Cold, dank air greeted their entrance, carrying with it the sadly-familiar reek of putrification, and in the darkness, Sagramor spotted iron bars lining the walls. “You guessed right, Alistair, the dungeon it is.”

“Can I just say how that’s really not a comfort?”

“Help!”

The scream sounded from down the corridor, and without hesitation, Sagramor charged through the door into the other wing of the dungeon, blade at the ready. Down the hall, three undead clawed and ripped at the grille barring one of the cells, the frantic, helpless cries of its occupant ringing in the small space. The elven Warden was on the first of the monsters before it could turn to face him, greatsword carving off its right arm and leaving it helpless for the following blow. Morrigan’s lightning cut the second apart at the waist, the two halves flopping lifelessly to the floor still smouldering at the point of division, while the last creature was left broken and unrecognizable by Ragnar’s rending jaws. “Sten, keep a sharp eye out for more of them,” Sagramor ordered, keenly aware how much of a clamour they had made. Swiftly, he plucked one of the dormant torches from the wall and lit it afresh, casting lurid shadows against the prison walls. “Alistair, see if any of the other cells are occupied. Are you all right in there?”

So addressed, a grubby, unshaven face peered back from beyond the grill as the prisoner stepped up to greet them, his undernourished body hunched within the cramped confines of the cell. “Wait. You aren’t the Arlessa’s guards,” he muttered, raising shackled hands to shield watering brown eyes from the sudden glare, the torchlight revealing the bloodstains on his filthy sackcloth garb and the fresh scars running along his arms. His imprisonment had not been a gentle one, and no doubt that was before he found himself caged prey for the undead. “Are you from outside the castle?”

“No, we’ve been here all along, enjoying endless bonbons until we’re stuffed,” Alistair remarked coldly, rejoining the others, the light of understanding clear in his eyes. His blade still drawn, he advanced on the cell, the prisoner swallowing nervously at the sight of the bloodied steel.

Sagramor held him back with a warning gesture, electing to cut to the quick of the matter. “Are you the mage Lady Isolde mentioned?”

“You’ve spoken to her?” the prisoner asked incredulously, whatever resistance he might have mustered vanishing like morning mist. For a moment, Sagramor was struck by how young the prisoner was, no more than a year or so between them. This was no hardened criminal spitting in the face of authority or revolutionary apostate railing against the edicts of the Chantry, but a child wilting in the face of a parent’s disapproval, shrouded in the pallor of regret. “I’m not proud of my deed,” he acknowledged. “Poisoning Arl Eamon was what I was hired to do. Lady Isolde had no idea when she took me in to tutor her son, of course.”

“And you think that makes up for it?” Alistair demanded, incensed. “You poisoned a good man and unleashed Maker knows what upon Redcliffe, and you think being regretful will save you?!”

“I… I know it looks suspicious, but I’m not responsible for the killings and the creatures in the castle!” protested the prisoner, shrinking back from Alistair’s fury. “I was already imprisoned when all that began! At first, Lady Isolde came in here, demanding that I reversed what I’d done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the Arl, but she was referring to all these walking corpses. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and lay waste to Redcliffe. That was the first I’d ever heard of this, I swear to you.”

“Then she had you tortured, am I right?” Sagramor surmised, his suspicions regrettably confirmed by the prisoner’s sad nod.

“There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her, so she just left me in here to rot.”

“What is your name, prisoner?” asked Sagramor.

“Jowan.”

“Alright, Jowan, tell us what happened here. If you’re not responsible for these undead, then who or what is? And did Loghain truly order you to poison Arl Eamon?”

“He did,” Jowan answered, miserable at the thought of it. “He said that Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him, Loghain would settle matters with the Circle.”

“You’re an apostate then?” asked Leliana.

“A… a maleficar, actually. A blood mage."

“A blood mage!” spat Alistair, his revulsion for the prisoner growing with each passing moment. “Well, that isn’t good.”

“Yet another saarebas run amok,” Sten muttered. “They breed quickly in this land, it seems.”

“I had dabbled in the forbidden arts, and was sentenced me to death for it,” Jowan explained. “I managed to escape the Circle, but Loghain’s men intervened before the Templars could execute me. He offered to ensure my safety if I would only kill Eamon, but he’s abandoned me here, hasn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart, and I’m responsible; I have to make it right somehow!”

Sagramor and Leliana glanced at each other, surprised by the maleficar’s sudden outburst. To hear the Chantry speak of it, blood mages were uniformly cruel and power-hungry, each and every one wicked men who lacked all conception of conscience and would not hesitate to abuse their powers on a whim. Such men had no hope of redemption, and were as soulless and vile as the demons they called upon for aid, so to hear one openly lament his misdeeds was unexpected. Unless this is all some ploy to make us lower our guard, the elf cautioned himself, remaining vigilant. “But why did the Arlessa hire an apostate mage to tutor her son?”

“Did she even know?” suggested Morrigan. “’Tis not unlikely that the truth could have escaped her.”

“No, she knew. Lady Isolde hired me because Connor had started to show… signs.”

“Signs?” Sagramor inquired.

“Of magic. The Lady Isolde, she was terrified the Circle of Magi would find out and take him away for training, so she hired me to tutor him in secret and help him hide his talents. No one was to know, not the staff, not the Templars and certainly not her husband.”

Alistair gave a gasp of surprise. “Connor, a mage? I can’t believe it!”

“And if he was taken to the Circle, he could not succeed his father, correct?” asked Leliana.

“Exactly. A mage cannot inherit a title, even the son of a powerful Arl,” Jowan reminded them. “And Isolde knew that if her husband found out, he would ‘do the right thing’ even if it meant losing their son, and that infuriated her. She was adamant that he never find out.”

“And suddenly, my mother’s parenting becomes far more attractive in hindsight,” Morrigan remarked icily, glancing at Alistair out of the corner of her eye. “Perhaps ‘tis the custom in this land for fathers to send their children away.”

“How much magic did you teach Connor, Jowan?” came Sagramor’s next question, an unpleasant notion coming over him.

“Little. Lady Isolde wished that he learn to conceal his powers, not develop them. I tutored him only for a few weeks, and he’s still very young: he can barely cast a minor spell at this point, never mind something more powerful. At least, not intentionally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Connor has little knowledge of magic, but he may have done something to tear open the Veil. With the Veil to the Fade torn, spirits and demons could infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses. That is if he’s involved at all. I really don’t know.”

“I simply can’t believe a child would be capable of doing something so monstrous!” Leliana protested.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple,” Alistair reminded her. “Without the proper training and discipline, he may have just lost control of his powers. It does happen, particularly with hedge mages and apostates outside the Chantry’s authority.”

“And that assumes ‘tis still Connor we are referring to,” Morrigan amended, all eyes turning towards her. “A young mage just coming into the spark of his power, taught by his family and culture to fear magic and lacking the control needed to manage it? There are few more tempting targets for a spirit seeking to enter our world.”

“Abomination,” Sagramor said darkly, that unpleasant theory settling queasily into his gut. He’d never seen an abomination, of course, but the theory of them was bad enough: mages possessed by demons from the Fade, drawn by their powers and the hunger to inhabit living hosts, their bodies used to anchor the vengeful entity into the physical world, granting it powers greater than any ordinary mage and allowing it to wreak untold havoc. Such was the curses mages had to bear, or so the Chantry put it, and why they insisted the Circles were needed. If this is true, then how do we stop it? Can Connor still be saved from such a fate? The thought of killing a child, even one possessed, was so utterly repugnant that he dared not contemplate it… and yet for the sake of Redcliffe’s survival, he had to. “I think I understand now, Jowan. Thank you.”

“If Connor truly is an abomination, then Isolde must have known about it,” Alistair declared, still reeling from the maleficar’s revelations. “But that doesn’t explain why she’d risk Teagan’s life by bringing him here.”

“Perhaps she thinks his uncle’s presence will help Connor force out the demon?” suggested Leliana. “Or perhaps she doesn’t quite understand what has become of her son, and is so frightened she’s seizing upon any glimmers of hope.”

“There is no hope for disobedient saarebas,” grunted Sten, the Qunari’s visage betraying no sympathy for the child or his mother. “And the words of those so corrupted are poison, not fit to be trusted. Kill this one quickly, Warden, we can waste no more time.”

“Wait! If you’re going to try and stop this, then please, let me help!” Jowan pleaded, hands clasped beseechingly. “I never meant for it to end like this, I swear. Let me help you fix this.”

“These lands are threatened because of the laxity shown towards saarebas, Warden. Do not make the same mistake. Kill it now, before its magic does any more harm.”

“I say this boy could still be of use to us,” Morrigan declared. “He has certainly proven so thus far. But if not, then let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?”

“Hey, hey! Let’s not forget he’s a blood mage!” Alistair interrupted, aghast at the proposal. “You can’t just… set a blood mage free!”

“Better to slay him then?” Morrigan retorted venomously. “Better to punish him for his choices? Is this Alistair who speaks, or the Templars?”

“I’d say it’s common sense. We don’t know the whole story yet, what magic he wields, what he’s capable of, or even if anything he’s said is true. More to the point, he’s still guilty of poisoning the Arl. He deserves a cell for that alone.”

“He wishes to redeem himself,” expressed Leliana. “Doesn’t everyone deserve that chance?”

“Leliana, he’s a blood mage,” Alistair emphasized, incredulous at her seeming dismissal of the inherent danger.

“I understand, but that does not matter. Everyone deserves to redeem themselves in the Maker’s eyes, this man no less than any. Do not be so quick to end his life, Sagramor, not while that hope remains.”

“We waste time,” growled Sten, reaching for his greatsword. “If you lack the will to end this threat, then I will.”

“Hold, Sten,” urged Sagramor, fixing the full force of his gaze upon the maleficar, grey eyes scrutinizing him for any hint of treachery. “If I were to let you out of this cell, how exactly would you try and solve this?”

“I’d—well, I’d try to save anyone still alive up there. There must be something I can do.”
“And afterwards? Alistair is correct: for poisoning Arl Eamon, you must be held to account. You may win some clemency, but we cannot give you your freedom.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll be imprisoned again. Or executed, or whatever happens to people like me,” said Jowan, his resignation clear. “I’m tired of running, tired of evading the consequences of my actions. I need to do good for once in my life, even if it kills me.”

It was exactly the sort of self-sacrificing declaration that resonated with Sagramor… and that could be used by a canny manipulator to exploit his sense of nobility. And therein lay the danger: by his own admission, Jowan had proven capable of deception. Can he really be trusted to aid us now?

The elf felt all eyes fall upon him, and knew he would have to decide quickly: Teagan would not wait for him in this, nor would the foe. And perhaps it was the devastation unleashed on Redcliffe that convinced him, his distrust of blood magic outweighed by the need to bring every available asset to bear against an enemy powerful enough to summon undead and bring an arling to its knees. Or perhaps that soft Orlesian voice had worked its magic upon him yet again. Sighing, Sagramor motioned Alistair forward. “Alistair, keep a weather eye on him.”

“You’re letting him out?!”

“Which is why I’m asking you to watch him; if he tries anything, you’ll be on hand to end it. You hear that, Jowan? Give me your oath that you will help us save Redcliffe, and I will release you to help, but at the first sign of treachery, Alistair will put you down, and considering how you poisoned his mentor, I wouldn’t dare consider testing him in this. Should you survive, you will be returned to this cell, but in return, I will do all I can to convince Bann Teagan to show you mercy for your transgressions. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered Jowan, mustering what remained of his courage. “I swear I won’t betray you.”

“You’d better not. Now, any chance these corpses have the key on them?”

“Allow me,” Leliana remarked, slipping through the rest of the party, a curiously-shaped piece of metal in her hand. “I can do that for you.”

“Is that a lockpick?” asked Alistair, exchanging glances with Sagramor.

“Yes,” the Orlesian woman confirmed, kneeling down to examine the lock. “I mentioned such skills back in Lothering, did I not?”

“Right. It’s just a little strange to see them in practice, that’s all.”

“And where did a naïve little Chantry Sister learn such arts, hmm?” Morrigan asked condescendingly.

“Well, sometimes, the innkeepers and highborn patrons of Orlais have… payroll issues,” Leliana explained, her dexterous fingers working their magic on the old steel of the lock. Ragnar stood beside her as she worked, giving a warning growl that sent Jowan edging backwards against the dank stone wall. The door swung upon, and Leliana next attended to the manacles. Sagramor kept his blade levelled at the poisoner, half-convinced he might try and seize the Orlesian girl as a hostage, but true to his word, Jowan attempted nothing as the lock came undone with a rusty screech.

Gently taking Jowan by the wrist, Leliana ushered him into the hall. In the dim light, the blood mage looked even frailer and more malnourished than he had been the cell, and despite himself, Sagramor felt a pang of sympathy. “You’ve sworn us an oath, Jowan. Now, let’s see that oath fulfilled.”

********************************

The six companions pressed onwards, Jowan in tow, making their way through the cold halls of what had once been a thriving castle. In deserted chambers and passageways, silent echoes of its former inhabitants could be found: a spilled jug, its contents long since evaporated, cold ashes in the hearths, discarded clothing, fallen candlesticks and plates, the detritus of a place that had once known life and laughter and prosperity, now left bare and haunted. His attention focused primarily on Jowan, Alistair nevertheless directed them along corridors and staircases by memory, his past experiences in the castle, for all the bitterness that came after, halcyon compared to its current miserable state. How many lives has this evil swallowed up? he wondered, unnerved by the tomblike stillness. This had been his home once. Now, he wondered if there was anyone or anything left saving.

Beside him, Jowan gave a frightful squeak, painfully aware of Sten’s fixed, murderous stare, and Alistair had to work at denying the impulse to cut the blood mage’s throat. He understood the logic behind Sagramor’s decision: the Wardens were pragmatists, after all, and if it meant the difference between saving Redcliffe or watching it burn, he could see how employing the one responsible for its current state might seem like a good idea. But that didn’t change the fact that Jowan was responsible, that he knowingly wormed his way into the Guerrin household only to poison the Arl, and deliberately or not, brought all this death and destruction to Redcliffe in the first place. The former Templar caught sight of the blood mage looking at him, and he cut him off before he could speak. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I just—“ Jowan mumbled, lowering his eyes before Alistair could take further offense. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For what I did.”

“Well, I suppose that makes everything better, doesn’t it?” Alistair retorted caustically. Ignoring Leliana’s disapproving look, he pressed home. “I’m sure everyone who got turned into undead will rest a lot easier now, knowing that you’re sorry.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” Jowan protested.

“Well, it did!” snapped Alistair, noise discipline forgotten in his anger. “And now we’re stuck cleaning up your mess when Ferelden has enough problems to deal with as it is! Do you know what’s going on out there, Jowan? Ferelden is facing a Blight, and you may have ended up killing the one man who can help us stop it.”

“A Blight?” Jowan gasped, eyes wide like plates. “I didn’t—if I had known--”

“Doubt you’d have done anything different,” Alistair retorted scornfully. First Morrigan, then Sten, now this deceitful little worm? For all he respected Sagramor and his capabilities as a leader, the elf seemed determined to enlist the aid of truly disreputable folk, each less trustworthy than the last. At least we’ll be stuffing this one back into his cell where he belongs, he reminded himself, the sound of dead feet dragging along the stone creeping into the edge of his hearing. “Sagramor?”

“I hear it,” said the elf, Ragnar growling warningly at his side. “Prepare yourselves!”

From the other side of the hall, the first of the enemy emerged: undead, freshly raised in anticipation of the night’s fighting, shades slipping between them like the winds of winter. Sagramor and Ragnar met the charge head on, the others following close behind, the dead silence of the castle swiftly replaced with the clamour of battle. Howling, Ragnar bullied his way through the enemy ranks, scattering undead like jacks and leaving them easy prey for his master’s cold steel. Another trio of undead emerging from a side passage, and Jowan moved to intercept, waving Sten away. “Get back!” he cried, fingers tracing arcane symbols before him. Fire blossomed in the air, sweeping over the undead and sending them colliding into their fellows in their haste to escape the flames.

Laughing with the red joy of battle, Sagramor pressed the attack, opening up an undead torso. The creature fell, shrieking, and Alistair followed up with a slash that nigh-decapitated the creature, mailed boots stomping it to red slurry. This was not the endless host that had assailed the village the night before. Teagan had been correct: the enemy was still trying to recoup its losses, their numbers still depleted from the vicious fighting the night before, and now, the grief and terror Redcliffe had endured was paid back tenfold, the Wardens their instrument of retribution.

Yet the enemy did not give ground easily. Thought weakened by their losses, the undead still put up a tenacious resistance, unburdened by the fear or despair that might encumber a mortal fighter. On more than one occasion, the beasts came in a rush that threatened to overwhelm the party before the spells of Morrigan and Jowan turned the tide in their favour. The castle’s confusing layout certainly didn’t help matters, and Sagramor had no doubt that without Alistair to guide them towards the gatehouse, they would have gotten lost amidst the endless hallways, chambers and passages that honeycombed the fortress. And throughout it all, the elf keenly felt the weight of time pressing down, the need to come to Bann Teagan’s aid before he too was taken prisoner, or slain, or reduced to yet another hollow vessel for a demon to inhabit.

Down yet another passageway came a woman’s scream, a pair of undead clawing away at the door leading to one of the castle’s many storechambers. Leliana’s arrow threw the first corpse back, the sheer power of her longbow at such close range sending the arrow with enough force to temporarily pin the beast against the wall. Sagramor brought down the second with a mighty overhead blow, before the greatsword arced towards the first and took off its head. “Hello? Is anyone alive in there?”

“Who are you?” came the frightened voice. “Are the monsters gone?”

“Valena?” asked Alistair. “Is that you?”

“How do you know my name?”

Before either of the Wardens could answer, Leliana approached the door, giving a gentle knock. “Valena? My name is Leliana. My companions and I are here to rescue you at your father’s request. Now I know you are scared, but you have nothing to fear from us. We’ve slain all of the monsters in this part of the castle, so it’s safe to come out now. You have our word that you will not be harmed.”

After a few cautious moments, the lock clicked free, and the door opened to reveal a pale, mousy-looking human girl, her haggard and worn appearance betraying the lack of food or rest she’d been forced to endure while in hiding. She glanced at the tabard across Sagramor’s chest, and new life sparked in her tired eyes. “You—you’re Grey Wardens? Here?”

“That’s correct, miss. We’ve been helping Bann Teagan protect the village from the undead,” Sagramor explained. “Now, tell me, do you know of any other survivors?”

“No, I’ve been hiding these past few days. By Andraste, the sounds I’ve heard!” she wailed, trembling in fear at the mere thought of them. “And not just the screams, but the voices.”

“What voices are you talking about?” asked Alistair.

“Whispers, my lord. Dark promises that I hear at the edge of my mind every time the sun goes down,” Valena spoke in hushed tones, too frightened by her experiences since the chaos began to risk calling down further peril. “All I could do is hide and hope they wouldn’t find me.”

“For how long have you heard such things, girl?” Morrigan demanded grimly.

“The whispers started two nights ago,” Valena responded, uncertain of Morrigan’s place in all this but unwilling to test her.

“It is becoming stronger then, testing its powers in ways beyond the physical. It may be trying to exert its influence over mortal minds now, not just its fellow spirits.”

“You mean some sort of enthrallment? Like blood mages are capable of?” Alistair suggested, Jowan giving a nervous cough behind him.

“Indeed. We must act decisively, Warden, before it goes any stronger.”

Or bends Bann Teagan to its will, Sagramor realized, blood going cold in his veins, the need for haste a frantic scream in his subconscious. “Valena, I need you to get clear of the castle as soon as you can. You’ll be safe in the village.”

“But—but the monsters!”

“We’ve been killing all we’ve encountered, so the route behind us should be clear. Ragnar, you go with her. Watch over her until she reaches the tunnel, then catch up with us, okay, boy?”

Ragnar barked in assent, giving the serving girl a gentle nudge with his wet muzzle to hasten her flight. As girl and hound fled the bloody scene, Sagramor turned back to the others, stony in his resolve. “Alistair, we need the quickest route to the gatehouse. One way or another, this ends today!”