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.

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Chapter Seventeen: Jowan's Mistake - Part Two

It was a widely-held aphorism that a castle was only as strong as its gates. This was wisdom the Arls of Redcliffe had taken to heart, and over the centuries, the primary gatehouse leading into the castle had been continually reinforced and upgraded until it was a miniature fortress in its own right. Within the rounded towers, a full company of soldiers could be housed as a permanent garrison, while the structure boasted all the features one might expect of a modern fortification; murder holes, crenellated walls, arrow loops to provide enfilading fire, three steel-bounded portcullises blocking off the entranceway, even ballistae capable of hurling great stones across the length of the bridge. Like the rest of the castle’s garrison, the men assigned to the gatehouse had seen their ranks thinned by the hunt for the Sacred Ashes, and the few that remained had been unprepared for a sorcerous assault from within.

From out of the side passage, the Warden’s company struck, a blast of spirit energies from Morrigan breaching the door leading into the gatehouse. Undead rose up to confront them, many clad in the chainmail they had worn in life, their spears abandoned for scything claws. Alistair was first into the fray, Templar energies hurling undead aside in a sudden burst of light. Behind him, Jowan tried to conjure fire once more, only for the flame to sputter weakly in his hands, the torture and starvation he’d endured beginning to take their toll. A rotting hand tore at his right shoulder, sparking a cry of pain, but Leliana was at his side in an instant, the Green Blade taking the creature’s arm before it could strike another blow.

“Sagramor, you take the ones to the left! I’ve got the right!” Alistair shouted, hustling over to a series of three wooden levers, the elf moving to the identical set on the other side of the gatehouse. On the count of three, the Wardens pulled the left-hand lever of each set, metal gears groaning in protest. Chains clanked beneath their feet, and the first portcullis began to rise with a tortured screech. “Now, the middle lever!”

Shades billowed into the gatehouse, giving a ghostly wail as they advanced, only for Morrigan’s lightning to scythe them apart before most had cleared the doorway. Sten and Leliana took on the remainder, the Qunari’s brutal efficiency contrasted by the Orlesian girl’s almost dance-like grace. The second portcullis started to rise, and more undead closed in, the dark power Connor had unleashed throwing its remaining minions in a last-ditch attempt to halt the Warden’s company. But Sagramor and his comrades had endured far too much to be denied here. The final portcullis screeched up, and from outside, the knights of Redcliffe cheered in triumph, storming into the courtyard with blades bared. Already weakened from the losses they had taken at the hands of the Wardens, the undead crumpled under this new assault, and were quickly dispatched by the vengeful knights. “Well done, Wardens!” Ser Perth shouted, sheathing his greatsword to shake Sagramor’s hand. “By Andraste, we may see the Arl safe yet!” The knight caught a glimpse of Jowan skulking behind the Warden, Morrigan attending to his shoulder wound with a poultice, and a confused frown crossed his handsome features. “Who is that?”

“Jowan, an apostate,” Sagramor said, watching the shock descend over the pious knight. Quickly, the elf gave an overview of all they had learned, Ser Perth becoming visibly more distraught with each revelation. “I know this must seem a shock to you, but-”

“Shock barely begins to cover it, Grey Warden,” the knight muttered. “Connor, a mage? And responsible for all this madness at that?”

“That’s our working theory. But we won’t know for certain unless we get inside the keep and see exactly what’s going on.”

Nodding, Perth signalled two of his fellow knights to hold the gatehouse. It was a risky tactic, dividing their already limited forces further, but Sagramor could see the wisdom in maintaining a line of retreat should they need it. The main door leading into the keep lay unbarred, and they encountered no resistance as they made their way through the bloodstained and debris-strewn corridors. Down the passage, Sagramor heard the echo of a child’s laughter, and slowly he approached, sword raised. “Courage now. Whatever happens, we must not be found wanting,” he reminded the others, rounding the corner and walking straight into a new nightmare.

The Great Hall of Redcliffe Castle was one of the most awe-inspiring places Sagramor had ever seen, a massive, cavernous room, where beneath the standards of Redcliffe, Ferelden and the Guerrin family, over two hundred people could feast in comfort. But there was little pomp or grandeur to be found here now. The great tables had been cast aside, some violently reduced to splinters by some tremendous force, and from the main hearth and the wall torches, sickly lights cast shadows that writhed and twisted into shapes no natural shadow was meant to. Along the back wall opposite to the Warden’s company, a half-dozen sentries stood rigidly at attention, their faces left haggard by lack of food or rest, eyes staring into nothingness, seemingly oblivious to either the arrival of the Warden’s company or the drama playing out before them. At the dais before the head table stood Arlessa Isolde, face wet with fresh tears, while beside her, a young boy applauded the antics of a dancing jongleur as he capered over his discarded splint and bandages.

And to their shock, the “jongleur” was none other than Bann Teagan. Like the guards, the Bann seemed ignorant of their presence, instead performing a cartwheel that provoked a further burst of applause from the boy, before reclining lazily on the steps before him. “Bann Teagan?” Sagramor called, his entreaty ignored by the nobleman, gazing upwards with an expression of utter adulation.

And then the boy spoke, and Sagramor felt the icy claws of fear grip him. “So these are our visitors?” he asked, the child’s own tones overlain with another; deeper, crueller and utterly alien. The demon that had taken possession of Connor spoke through him now, Jowan’s speculation proven horribly accurate. “The ones you told me about, Mother?”

“Y- yes, Connor,” whimpered Isolde, downtrodden and helpless beside the monster her son had become.

“And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village? And he’s an elf, like the servants we used to have. Oh, I remember how they screamed when I had their ears removed! The dogs chewed for hours!”

Connor gave a cruel laugh, and instinctively, Sagramor tightened his grip on the greatsword’s hilt. Yet to strike down a child, even one so possessed… The very thought repulsed him, a disgust made all the more powerful by his inability to think of any other solution. Behind him, Alistair cursed softly, likewise recognizing their dilemma.

Isolde must have sensed it too, for she flung herself in front of her son. “Connor, I beg you, don’t hurt anyone!”

A spark of something human flickered back to life in the boy’s eyes, and Sagramor saw him glance about fearfully, as if roused from a walking dream. “M-mother? What’s happening? Where am I?” he demanded frantically in his own voice, shrinking away from the numerous armed men staring him down.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” shouted Isolde, holding Connor close. “Connor? Can you hear me?”

“Away from me, fool woman!” shrieked the demon within. Isolde staggered backwards as if physically struck, recoiling in horror as it reasserted its control, the desperation in Connor’s gaze replaced with an ancient, malign cruelty, studying the newcomers with the same charity a man might view an earthworm. “You are beginning to bore me.”

“Maker’s breath!” cursed Ser Perth. “What has happened here?”

“’Tis as I suspected,” Morrigan whispered to Sagramor. “The boy has become an abomination. Delay no longer, Warden. One way or another, it must be stopped.”

Quiet as she was, Isolde’s hearing and devotion to her child seemed sharper still. “Grey Warden, please, don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!”

“And therein lies the problem,” Alistair reminded the elf. “Connor, we could reason with. But a demon?”

“What did you do with Bann Teagan?” demanded Sagramor, not backing down an inch.

From at the boy’s feet, the Bann gave a demented chortle. “Here, I am! Here, am I! Ha-ha-ha!”

“I like him better this way!” the Connor-abomination laughed. “No more yelling. Now, he amuses me!”

“Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage, the one that poisoned Eamon! He started all this!” Isolde protested, ignorant of Jowan shifting uncomfortably at the back of the Warden’s party. “He’s the one who summoned the demon! Connor was just trying to help his father.”

“It was a fair deal!” Connor screamed, the enthralled soldiers twitching spasmodically in response to the sudden outburst. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. And now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

“Nobody tell him what to do!” Teagan chimed in with another mad cackle. “Nobody! Ha-ha!”

“Quiet, uncle! I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn’t I? Would you like me to leave your arm broken again?” Before Sagramor could take a step forward, the abomination’s calculating gaze focused in on him once more. “But let’s keep things civil. A ruler must permit his subjects an audience, should he not? Tell me, elf, why have you come here?”

“I… was hoping to see Arl Eamon, to make certain he’s well,” Sagramor responded cautiously, trying to appear casual as he slowly edged towards the possessed boy. Perhaps if I knock him out, we could find a way to drive out the demon? he dared to hope.

“So you’re a concerned well-wisher, are you?” Connor sneered. “Then why didn’t you say that in the first place? All this sneaking about and killing things is so unnecessary. But Father is so very ill. We really shouldn’t disturb him, isn’t that right, Mother?”

“I- I don’t think-”

“Of course you don’t!” the abomination declared contemptuously. “Ever since you sent the knights away, you’ve done nothing but deprive me of my fun! Frankly, it’s getting dull. I crave excitement! And action! This stupid elf ruined my sport by saving that stupid village, and now, he’ll-!”

Eldritch fire spat from the tip of Morrigan’s staff, the sudden roar of her magic drowning out Isolde’s terrified scream. The abomination shouted in rage, spirit energy rippling off his arcane shield, the sepulchral silence of the Great Hall shattered irrevocably. Like clockwork, Connor’s guards drew their weapons to answer their master’s call, eyes dead as they threw themselves headlong at Sagramor and his compatriots, all notion of self-preservation discarded in their enthrallment. “Try not to slay them!” Sagramor ordered, locking blades with a demented, giggling Bann Teagan. To his right, Alistair darted in, shield hammering the nobleman down, but the abomination’s control had bred a maniac strength into him, and he rose faster than they anticipated, his own shield blocking the hilt of Alistair’s blade even as his sword barely missed the elf’s midsection.

One of the enslaved guards went for Jowan, jabbing his spear forward in short, professional lunges. His strength nearly spent, the maleficar cast a spell of illusion, his assailant left stricken with horrifying visions and easy prey for Sten’s right hook. The battle was in full swing now, Redcliffe’s knights pleading with their opponents to stand down, begging them, and receiving only silence and blows in return. Leliana put an arrow through the right leg of another guard, and he was still trying to hobble forward to attack when Morrigan clouted him into unconsciousness.

“Connor, please, stop this!” Isolde pleaded, daring to risk approaching her son again.

But Connor would not obey. “This is dull!” the abomination complained. “They’re not even trying to kill my guards! Where’s the sport in that?” Violet light suffused his forearms, Isolde staggering backwards in fear. “This is my castle. They’ll fight the way I want them to, or they’ll be punished!”

With an unearthly scream, Connor raised his hands, sending the incantation hurtling over the brawling combatants. Sagramor felt the unnerving sensation of icewater flowing across the peaks and valleys of his brain, and he clenched his head at the sudden intrusion, greatsword discarded. I am a Grey Warden of Ferelden. Get out of my mind. Get out of my-

The pain suddenly lifted, and Sagramor’s lips curled back in revulsion as Alistair stumbled over, hand extended to raise him up. Snarling, he shoved the shem aside, the mere notion of breathing the same air as such a mongrel race making him want to vomit (What?). How dare such vermin (Wait, no, that’s not) even consider laying hands upon him! (That’s not right). All around him, his companions, the knights and Connor’s guards tore into each other with utter abandon (No, I ordered them to hold back, why would they) and he laughed, delighted at the notion of the shems killing on another (Do something like that? We need to take control!).

“Connor’s… trying to enthrall us,” gasped out Alistair, feeble as ever (Don’t think of him that way, he’s your comrade!). “We have to… resist!”

Sagramor’s right fist shot out of its own accord, hurling the former Templar backwards (Damn you, Sagramor, you have to fight it), and the elf chuckled at the sight of a shem in pain (You need to get control). Oh, how he had come to despise that bastard Prince of Ferelden (That’s not true!) and everything about him; his cowardice, his unwillingness to take responsibility, the way he always sought to undermine his command. How he sought to steal Leliana away from him. He ruled this company, not Alistair! Perhaps a taste of his blade would reinforce the lesson? (Focus, Sagramor. You can do this. Resist!)

And there were others in need of obedience as well. Jowan, the witless fool who had started all this, stood frozen in the corner, left unmanned by Connor’s spell (Must be affecting us all in different ways), as was Morrigan, the shrew finally tamed… and enticingly compliant (Don’t you dare touch her!). Sten, ever the malcontent, had lost all control, his stoic reserve shattered, and dared to strike out at Leliana as she screamed invectives at him, condemning him for a heretic and an unbeliever, a murderous example of a misbegotten, pagan race (No, that’s not like her at all!). Her lithe, leather-clad body darted around the wild swings of his greatsword, daggers seeking an opening (You can’t let this happen, Sagramor. You have to stop this now!).

Snarling, the elf moved to intercept the Qunari, livid that his continued disobedience (Stop it, stop it, stop it!). Leliana was not to serve as prey for this murderous beast, she was his (What?) and his alone, and he would not see his prize touched (She’s not a prize, she’s a person!). Bann Teagan made the error of barring his path, and with a murderous snarl, Sagramor attacked, (Stop! Please!) their blades ringing against each other. The very sight of the nobleman filled him with a righteous fury that could only be quenched with high-born blood, his existence an affront the elf would tolerate no longer (No, he’s a good man, he doesn’t deserve this). All the shems, they would pay for what they had done to his people, every last one (Please, no)! He would claim Teagan’s skull first, then the others, and when he had finally rid himself of those fools, Leliana would be his for the taking (No, no, no!) and take her he would (Andraste, stop this! Don’t make me do this!). She would submit; he would see to it. After all, who was she to deny a Grey Warden?

One of the knights blundered towards him, his intrusion preventing the elf from landing a killing blow. Incoherent with rage, Sagramor carved open his neck instead (No!), delighting in the hot crimson spray, (Andraste, kill me now. Stop this before I hurt anyone else!) and of a shem meeting his deserved fate. Teagan’s longsword nicked the point of his chin, and the elf battered it away with his own blade, pommel slamming the nobleman to the floor, sword raised to gut him once and for all.

Something big slammed into the elf, knocking him down before he could slice Teagan apart. Growling angrily at the intrusion, Sagramor’s greatsword lashed, but his assailant had already gone, barreling down on Connor with all the strength and animal fury it could muster.

It was Ragnar. After bringing Valena to safety, the mabari had not wasted a moment to return to his master’s side, and witnessing the madness inflicted upon him, bore down on its source. The Connor-abomination screamed as the warhound slammed into it, the dreadful sound freezing the combatants in their tracks, his enthrallment wavering. Dimly, Sagramor struggled to reassert control, like a drowning swimmer frantically trying to breach the surface, limbs heavy and unresponsive. “Insolent beast!” Connor shrieked, conjuring a wave of force and hurling Ragnar against the wall (Ragnar! Get clear!), the hound yelping in pain.

That distraction was all Jowan needed. Fighting off the abomination’s influence every bitter step, the blood mage went for a fallen sword, palm slashing the bare steel, a guttural word of power forced from his lips. Blood called out to blood, magic called out to magic, and by the same power that had sought to enslave them, Connor’s enthrallment was shattered.

As one, the combatants collapsed, clutching their heads and screaming. “Andraste!” Sagramor cursed, shivering and shaking as his mind was returned to him, the sight of the knight’s blood on his hands more horrifying than any of the terrors he had yet encountered as a Warden. He dared glance at Leliana, the archer trying to get Sten to his feet despite her weakness, and the shame at what he had intended as Connor’s puppet flooded over him, overwhelming and inescapable. By the Maker, what have I done? I almost-- I almost--

With an angry scream, Connor sent a bolt of spirit energy hurtling at Ragnar, the dog yowling as he was blasted aside. “Not fair! You broke my toys!” he screeched, jaws distending, mouth stretching nightmarishly wide. “You broke my toys!”

He had no other option. Andraste forgive them, but he had no other choice. Greatsword a leaden weight in his hands, Sagramor prepared to cut his enemy down.

But Morrigan struck first.

Like a howling storm of winter, she came, vicious and foreboding, fingertips crackling with arcane power, her proud fury unleashed by the abomination’s attempt to seize her mind. The demon within Connor screamed as she hammered him down with lightning, the possessed boy countering with his own magic, their clashing attacks send stray bolts ricocheting throughout the hall. Leliana ducked as a random shard of voidfire screeched past her head, blowing a hole in the tapestry behind her, while the surviving knights immediately ran to haul the stunned Bann Teagan out of the line of fire.

Deflecting another bolt with his shield, Alistair brought his Templar powers to bear, Connor’s next incantation dissipating in his hands. “No!” the abomination screamed, but Morrigan refused to yield, amber eyes glittering in the fire of her magic. Another burst of electricity shattered the boy’s arcane shield, leaving him defenseless as the apostate girl cast her final spell. Bands of golden light encircled Connor from head to toe, pinioning his arms against his sides. Raging, he tried to resist, arcane energy flaring impotently in his struggles, but Morrigan had the upper hand. Brighter and brighter, the spell glowed, until the light had all but suffused the boy’s skinny frame. And then, in the space of a moment, the light died, the abomination ceasing to rant as he pitched backwards, frozen and seemingly lifeless.

For a moment, no one dared to move, dared to believe that it was over, until at last, Sagramor willed himself in action. “Everyone all right?” he asked, guilt etched into the gaunt lines of his face.

“We’re fine, but Ragnar is hurt,” Leliana responded, kneeling to comfort the wounded beast. Discarding his self-loathing for a moment, Sagramor moved to join her, noticing how the warhound’s back left leg had been broken in the chaos, the hound whimpering as it tried to drag itself over to his master.

“Easy, boy,” Sagramor soothed, forcing away tears at the sight of the dog’s injury, petting the magic-scorched fur in a calming motion. “It’s okay, boy, just rest.”

The hound licked his master’s face, and Sagramor gave a brief smile. “We owe you one, boy.” That was a mild way of putting it, truth be told, and the elf shuddered to think what might have happened if the warhound had not interceded. “Leliana, you have any poultices on you?”

Behind them came the clank of plate mail, and Sagramor turned to see Ser Perth approach, his handsome face left bruised by the fighting. “Allow me, Warden. My men and I know something of caring for hounds.”

The uncomfortable sensation of the fallen knight’s blood lingered on Sagramor’s hands. “Ser Perth, I--”

“You are not at fault, Warden. Ser Percy fell to the unnatural powers of magic, not your hands,” the knight assured him, neither malice nor resentment in his words, just a weary acknowledgement. “We were all caught within its thrall. Besides, your hound is a gallant beast. To tend to its wounds is the least we can do.”

Sighing in equal parts resignation and relief, Sagramor stepped aside, the knights quickly going to work splinting and bandaging the dog’s leg. That crisis dealt with, the Warden looked over his other companions, noting with relief that they were largely unharmed. Alistair had kept his sword drawn, looking rather askance at Jowan’s bleeding palm, while Sten stood rigidly off to the side, as if the slightest movement would release the madness once more. Both Leliana and Morrigan bore little more than some cuts and bruises, though the latter’s spellcasting had left her drained, but still defiant.

Heedless of the rest of the hall, Isolde rushed straight to her son’s side, futilely calling his name. Tear-filled eyes turned hatefully towards Morrigan. “What in Andraste’s name did you do to him?!”

Exhausted from the effort it took to overpower the demon and leaning wearily on her staff, Morrigan still possessed the strength to return Isolde’s glare in kind. “Contain yourself, woman. As much as ‘twould make things easier for us, the boy is not dead. ‘Tis a spell of paralysis, nothing more.” The sorceress gestured towards the boy’s face, his eyes brimming with impotent rage as he stared back at her. “Understand this,” she remarked, her anger bubbling below the surface. "This... creature sought to violate my mind, and trust me when I say the notion of putting the little bastard down was very tempting.”

“Then why not strike a killing blow when you had the chance?” came Sten’s demand.

“Because there’s been enough histrionics as it is lately,” the apostate answered tartly. “I may have merely delayed the inevitable, Warden, but I knew you would wish to consider all possible options.”

“You have my thanks for that, Morrigan. How long will the spell endure?”

“A day? Perhaps longer?” Morrigan surmised. “I used all of my strength to cast the spell, and I will try to reapply it if I can. The problem remains that the demon is a powerful one. Even now, it seeks to break free of the incantation, and I cannot guarantee it will fail.”

“Then we had best decide what to do, and quickly,” Bann Teagan expressed, moving to join them. The effects of Connor’s healing spell had faded in the wake of Morrigan’s own, fresh agony sparking along the nobleman's broken arm with every step he took. Yet the pain of seeing Connor in such a state was far worse, the full horror of what had transpired sinking in, and Sagramor knew that the nobleman was deliberating the same dark choices as he. “What are our options? Connor is my nephew, but death might be a mercy compared to what he is experiencing now.”

Alistair gave an uncomfortable cough. “I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child, but… he is an abomination. We might not have a choice.”

“We can’t kill a young boy, demon or no demon,” insisted Leliana. “Please don’t say we’re considering that!”

“Please! Connor’s not responsible for this!” Isolde begged, her desperation plain. “There must be some way we can save him!”

“We’re not about to kill a child if we can avoid it,” Sagramor assured her. “But as much as we all wish otherwise, it may be the only way we can save Redcliffe.”

From the back of the group, Jowan found the courage to speak up. “Connor is no longer a child, my lady, he is an abomination. You must recognize that, before it is too late.”

Isolde’s reaction was immediate. “You!” she screamed, covering the distance between them with even strides, the smack of her palm against the maleficar’s cheek echoing throughout the hall. “You did this to Connor!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t summon any demon, I told you!” protested the mage, wilting in the face of her maternal fury. “Please, let you’ll let me help--”

“Help?!” Isolde demanded contemptuously, delivering another stinging blow. “You betrayed me, apostate! You poisoned my husband!”

Ever loyal to their liege lord, the knights took up positions around the trembling apostate, blades levelled for a killing stroke. “This is the mage you spoke of?” questioned Teagan. “Didn’t you say he was in the dungeon?”

“He was. I assumed the creatures had killed him by now,” replied Isolde, acid dripping from every word, scornful eyes turning towards the Warden. “It seemed that someone set him free.”

“And seeing as how he saved us all from becoming an abomination’s meat-puppets, I’m happy to stand by that decision,” Sagramor countered, offering Jowan a grateful nod. “Ser Perth, all of you, please, lower your blades. Jowan will pay for his crimes, but I will not see him killed out of hand, not when we owe our very minds to him.”

“If he truly has harmed our Arl, Warden, then we are oath-bound to see him punished,” insisted Ser Perth, visibly on edge being in a maleficar’s presence.

“And he will be, I swear it. But killing him now will not help the Arl. Jowan can still be of use to us, and that use is not yet done. I have no right to ask this of you, but please, trust me.”

Gratitude warred with duty in the hearts of Eamon’s knights, but in the end, gratitude won out… if only just. Sighing, Ser Perth lowered his greatsword, his men following suit, watching ominously as Jowan continued to plead his case to the noblewoman. “I know what you must think of me, my lady. I took advantage of your fear to hurt your family, and for that, I’m sorry. I just… I never knew it would come to this.”

“Well, I shan’t turn away his help. Not yet,” stated Teagan. “And if Connor truly is an abomination-”

“He is not always the demon you saw before you, Teagan. The real Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he break through, you all saw it!” insisted Isolde, frantically glancing around for anyone who might lend credence to her words. “Please, I… I just want to protect him.”

“Isn’t that what started all this?” Teagan retorted, plainly disappointed in his sister-in-law. “You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret to protect him, and now too many of Redcliffe’s citizens lie dead for it.”

“If they discovered Connor had magic, then they’d take him away. I thought if he knew how to hide his curse, then-”

“This isn’t helping,” interrupted Sagramor, his frustration plain. “No doubt there will be blame enough to go around once this is all over, but for now, saving Redcliffe and the Arl is all that matters.”

“On that note, where is Eamon?” Alistair asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “Is he even still alive?”

“He is,” said Isolde, holding back tears. “The demon cast a spell of some kind to sustain him and halt the poison’s progress: he lives, but he will not wake.”

“So, if we kill the demon, by any means…” Teagan began, throat swelling shut in horror.

“Then my husband may perish, yes.”

Pacing, Sagramor turned to Morrigan and Jowan. “You two are far better versed in such matters than the rest of us. Any insights you can offer?”

Swallowing nervously, Jowan took up the proverbial baton. “There is… another option besides killing Connor, though I am loathe to offer it. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, killing it there without harming Connor himself.”

“What do you mean?” Teagan asked, puzzled. “Is the demon not within Connor?”

“Not physically, no, not as you might understand it. The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he slept, establishing a connection that binds Connor to the demon, and allows it to control him from that realm. We can use that connection to find the demon, and hopefully slay it.”

“Like a puppeteer at a mummer’s show,” Sagramor expressed. “You find the man directing the puppets by tracing the strings.”

“Exactly.”

“You can enter the Fade, then?” asked Isolde, new hope blossoming in her eyes. “And Connor will not be hurt by this?”

“I can. Or rather, another mage can while I conduct a ritual to enable them to enter the Fade,” the maleficar explained. “It’s based off of a rite the Circle performs regularly, and while it normally requires lyrium and several other mages to perform, I have… blood magic.”

“More saarebas treachery,” Sten opined. “Let us kill them both now, Warden, and save ourselves further trouble.”

“Sten, enough,” said the elf, waving him down. “Jowan, precisely what difference will the use of blood magic make, exactly?”

“It’s a question of power, really. The ritual needs a great deal of magical energy in order to work, and normally, several mages working in concert with enough lyrium to sustain them would do the trick. But I can use blood magic to take someone’s life energy to fuel the spell instead. The problem, however, is that the ritual would need a lot of it, however. All of it, in fact.”

“So, someone must die?” asked Teagan, clearly shocked at the notion. “Someone must be sacrificed?”

“Yes, and then we send another mage into the Fade: the Lady Morrigan, to be specific. I can’t do it, because I’ll be conducting the ritual.” The maleficar suddenly became aware of the eyes upon him, some more hostile than others, and trailed off. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s… not much of an option.”

“It’s not an option at all!” Alistair exploded, unwilling to contain his disgust any longer. “Blood magic... how can more evil be of use here?”

“’Tis not a bad option, provided we have a willing sacrifice,” Morrigan remarked calmly. “The theory of it is sound.”

“It still requires someone to die, Morrigan,” Leliana reminded the apostate girl. “No cause is worth killing an innocent for.”

Morrigan gave a mocking chuckle. “Innocents, as you so childishly put it, die often, Leliana, and for far less gain. Should all of Redcliffe perish simply because you’re too squeamish to do what is necessary? All achievements require sacrifice. Be content that the cost is but the blood of a single person.”

“Then let it be my blood.” It took Sagramor a moment to register it was the Arlessa who had spoken, her voice calm and collected, even as she spoke the words that could lead to her own demise. “I will be the sacrifice.”

“Isolde, have you gone mad?!” Teagan demanded incredulously. “Eamon would never permit this, and for good reason!”

“Connor is my son, Teagan. He is blameless in all this. He should not have to pay the price for my mistakes. If my blood is what it takes to undo all the harm I have caused, then I will gladly bear that cost.”

For a moment, Teagan wavered in the face of her conviction, but then Sagramor interceded, pleasantly surprised by her willingness to make amends. “Your courage does you credit, my lady, but let us not be hasty in this. There’s something we’re missing here. At the moment, our only options are to either kill Connor or sacrifice you to this ritual, but is there really no other way?”

“There is.” All eyes turned to Leliana, and at the sight of her smile, Sagramor felt the shackles of their dilemma fall away. “If Jowan’s ritual can be done with more mages and lyrium, then why not seek them out? The Circle of Magi would be willing to aid us, I’m sure of it, and they are nearby.”

“That is an excellent point,” said Alistair. “One of the Warden treaties is for the Circle as well; we could gain their help freeing Connor while enlisting them against the Blight at the same time.”

“How far is it to the Circle’s tower, Bann Teagan?” Sagramor demanded.

“By horse? Two days, perhaps more. A good boat though, with fair winds behind it, could get you there by mid-afternoon.”

“So quickly?” Sagramor asked, a new plan coming together. “And what of the village? Will the attacks stop with Connor left paralysed like this?”

Morrigan nodded. “I believe without Connor actively summoning and directing more spirits from the Fade, the enemy’s numbers should wither. There may still be perils remaining in the castle to be wary of, but I doubt they could launch a full-scale attack.”

“Thank you, Morrigan. Then this is what we’ll do. Alistair, Leliana and myself will take a boat to the Circle to enlist their aid,” said Sagramor, receiving nods of assent in return. It was a risk depriving Redcliffe’s defenders of Alistair’s abilities, even in the enemy’s diminished state, but he had no idea of how the Circle’s watchful Templars would receive an elf. Having a former member of their order as well as a former Sister of the Chantry beside him could make them stand up and listen, in spite of his race. With luck, the others could hold until their return. “Morrigan, Sten, you’ll remain here with Ragnar and lend whatever support you can to Redcliffe. It would be nice if the castle could remain in our hands, but if the enemy threatens to overwhelm you, find Arl Eamon and pull back to the village where you’ll be safer.”

“We’ll send word down to the village to prepare a vessel for you,” said the Bann, one of the knights giving a hasty bow before running to deliver the message. “We’ll also see about getting my brother back to the village and out of harm’s way. I’ll also keep Jowan here as a precaution: he says he wants to help, so he can keep an eye on Connor with us.”

“And what of Jowan’s ritual?” asked Morrigan. “‘Tis possible we may need to employ it.”

Grimacing, Sagramor turned to address her. “It’s a last resort. Use it only if the situation turns against us and Redcliffe is threatened with imminent destruction.” To rely on blood magic was a distasteful notion, but the arling’s survival took priority over his personal discomfort. “I rely on your judgment in this, Morrigan. We’ll try to bring help as fast as we can, but if things take a turn for the worst…”

“I understand, Warden. I will not fail in this.”

At the elf’s side, Ragnar whimpered, and Sagramor gave him a gentle pat. “You just rest up, boy. I’ll be back before you know it.” There was risk in this, tremendous risk, and failure could well mean Redcliffe’s destruction. But he had only gotten this far by courting danger, and for Connor’s sake, he would try. Just give us time, Maker, and strong winds to bear us to those who would give us aid. We will set things right again.

One way or another…