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 Eighteen: Debts and Memories
As the seasons turned and the days crept towards autumn, ruin came to Tenedor’s Point.
The village had never been a place of great importance. Local rumour held that Maric the Saviour had once spent the night there, sheltered from the Usurper’s pursuing chevaliers by a family of herdsmen, though few outside the community’s two hundred souls believed it. In any event, the story had not overly changed their lives. They grew their crops, raised their herds, took firewood from the common forest, attended the local chantry, gave up their children with magic to the Templars, and when their bann demanded it, took up their arms in his service, all no different than any other rural community in Ferelden. Some of the younger folk, bored with the quiet monotony of village life, dreamed of glory and adventure beyond, and some were even brave enough to risk venturing in search of it. But for most of its inhabitants, life in Tenedor’s Point was as they expected, the routine of village life rarely broken.
Until the day it was irrevocably shattered. Until the day the horsemen appeared, two hundred of them cresting the northern hills to loom over the town like gargoyles, their armour and weapons burnished bright in brazen defiance of stealth. The first of the villagers gazed towards the ridge, horrified by the sight of the banner displaying the black bar of bastardry, and the peal of a watchtower bell sent them scurrying towards their homes.
Not that it will save them, Raynald Raleigh mused, his aristocratic features turning up at the sight and smell of the village. “This place is a shithole.”
“Aye, that it is, milord,” Pitt, his second-in-command, cackled beside him. All around, the rest of the Hard Line was ready and waiting for the expected order, swords drawn, their horses pawing at the ground in anticipation of the charge. “We do Ferelden a kindness to wipe away this grubby little stain, yes?”
“We do,” the exiled nobleman answered curtly, drawing his red steel longsword. “Hard Line! In the Regent’s name, to battle!”
As one, the assembled mercenaries took up the cry, thundering down the slope, heedless of the few risks the settlement might pose to them. Kicking his spurs, Raleigh pushed his way to the front of the wild charge, drinking in the terrified screams of the villagers, delighting in their helplessness. This was war as he knew it, as his father had taught him: to bring terror upon the enemy, decimate their supply lines and leave them nothing to defend. The first desperate arrows flew up from the town, plucking sellswords from their saddles, and Raynald spurred his horse into a mad gallop, crashing through the thin line of archers like a battering ram, his sword scything down to produce a delightful spray of blood. More mercenaries followed, flowing after their commander in a river of flesh and steel, blades singing, hooves lashing out to heedlessly trample over militia and civilians alike. “You know what do, boys!” Rayland barked, his bloody sword raised in triumph. “So get to it!”
Two hundred voices roared in assent, drowning out the pleas and screams of their victims as they laid Tenedor’s Point to waste. The core of the Hard Line were men like Raynald, the sons and grandsons of Harwen Raleigh’s household guard, the men who had followed him even after Maric left him landless and friendless at court. Their descendants had been nurtured on tales what the King had stolen from them, the loss keenly felt even decades later, and not a man among them would abstain from the darkest deed if it meant reclaiming what was owed. Into this grasping band, Raynald had brought others, each chosen for their cruelty and ruthlessness: Fereldans, Marchers, Nevarrans, men who would kill for a crust of bread or a grimy copper or merely for their own deranged amusement. Men who embraced the use of terror as a weapon, and could spread fear with every breath. In the decades since Maric stripped Harwen Raleigh of his lands, the atrocities they’d been condemned for had been eclipsed many times over in the endless petty border wars between the city-states of the Free Marches, the Hard Line’s reputation for brutal efficiency growing with every engagement. No matter where they marched, what duties they took up or who they fought, they were always greeted by victory and reward.
Until the time she dared to oppose them. It was the one black mark upon the company’s record, a blemish of defeat that could only be washed away with blood. Raynald dreamt of that loss most nights, the shame of it a nagging ulcer only the thought of the vengeance he’d take upon her could soothe, but now, after all these years, retribution was so close at hand he could taste it. Howe’s report had promised it. She was here, in Ferelden.
And he would lay the country waste to find her.
So unchained, the Hard Line swept over Tenedor’s Point. It did not take long to cut down the sparse defenders; the bann’s forces had been called to his castle some miles distant days earlier, preparing to link up with those lords in open defiance against Loghain. The village paid for their absence now, and within the space of minutes, the Hard Line stood triumphant, and the village’s true misery began in earnest.
No orders were needed; for the mercenaries, this was routine. Even as the last of the defenders were cut down, a second group of horsemen dismounted and made their way through the streets, going house-to-house, rooting out any stragglers. Any resistance was met with brutal reprisal, and no one was spared: husbands were cut down in front of their families, women were dragged from their homes to be made playthings, the elderly butchered with all the sympathy they’d show a louse. When the local chantry attempted to shelter the panicked crowds of fleeing townsfolk, they too became targets, the few Templars overwhelmed by the hardened sellswords even as the priestesses were given over to their depraved lusts. Even the children were targeted. The lucky ones, the sickly and small, were put to death, while the older children, those capable of working, found themselves enslaved, sobbing brokenly as their parents were raped and tortured and mutilated before them.
Other sellswords ransacked Tenedor’s Point for anything of value. It was not yet time to gather the harvest, but there was still food to be found: smoked meats and dried herbs hanging from the rafters of peasant’s huts, sacks of grain and barrels of vegetables in the cellars. The local blacksmith was stripped bare of nails, blades and horseshoes, the hiding places of coin stashes were tortured out of their owners, and the chantry’s altars were plundered, the scrolls and texts they had preserved for decades used as kindling to set homes, fields and warehouses alight. The work of generations died within hours, and as the sun reached its zenith, the smoke rising from the burning village could be seen for miles around, a monument to the cruelty of the Hard Line, and only the first to come.
In the midst of the brutality, Raynald busied himself with matters of intelligence. “I believe we understand each other, do we not?”
Pale with agony, the prisoner nodded, ceasing his struggles against the cruel ropes that bound him to the table, his velvet robes stripped to the waist. An hour before, he’d been one of the town consuls, an older man of decent birth who had his lord’s ear and wealth earned from the cattle trade; now, he was the first of the day’s interrogations, knees shattered by a blacksmith’s hammer so he couldn’t run. Beside him, Pitt gave a cruel smile as he passed Raynald a long poker, the metal glowing cherry-red from the brazier. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, I promise!” he babbled, shock rendering his breath pained and frantic. “There was no need for any of this!”
“The Regent disagrees,” Raynald answered calmly, testing the poker’s balance in his hands as he might his sword. “Loghain understands the need to punish traitors, wherever they hide. Now, where is she?”
“Where is who?”
That was the wrong thing to say. The prisoner screamed in agony as Raynald slammed the red-hot poker into his side, the mercenary’s face twisted and nightmarish in the heat of his anger. “Where is she?!” he howled, pressing hard. “Where is the redhaired slut who murdered my father? Where is the Orlesian whore who dared to besmirch our honour? Where. Is. Leliana?!”
Whatever coherent reply the prisoner might have had was lost in his screams of agony. “Question him. Question them all,” Raynald ordered, gesturing towards the line of prisoners chained together, sobbing as their home burned around them. “Find where the whore has gone to ground.”
“And if none of these scum know?” asked Pitt.
“Then we lay waste to the Bannorn until we find her,” the mercenary captain replied, offering a mad smile. “In Loghain’s name, we kill them all…”
*********************************
The day’s rains had come and gone, leaving the Denerim Alienage sodden in its wake, the dirt paths and alleyways honeycombing the ghetto reduced to a treacherous, mud-soaked quagmire. Yet the fleeing figure never broke stride, dancing around those obstacles with a swiftness born of familiarity, quickened by the thought of the hunter closing the distance. Quickly glancing about for signs of pursuit, he stooped beneath the porch of an abandoned shack, the foundation set upon wooden stilts to keep the damp from rising. From out of the gloom, yellowed eyes fixed the intruder with an indignant stare, the skinny black alley cat hissing angrily as it scampered away from its pilfered refuge. A puddle splashed down the alley, and he squirmed deeper into the sheltering darkness of his hiding place, peering outwards for sign of the foe.
The thin light seeping into his refuge darkened as a delicate pair of feet moved into view, and he held his breath for fear of the slightest noise giving him away. Meowing plaintively, the alley cat rubbed itself against the thin, pale legs, a hand reaching down to lovingly stroke its fur. “Where are you?” came a girl’s singsong voice, but he remained stubbornly silent, refusing to take the bait.
Sighing, the feet turned away, the alley cat trailing obediently behind. The fugitive had a moment’s relief before they suddenly darted back around, and he gave a startled scream as his pursuer’s face peered under the shack, blue eyes widening in delight as she saw her prey. “Found you, Sagramor!”
“No fair, Nimmy!” seven-year-old Sagramor Tabris groused, squirming out his hiding place. “You always win!”
Giggling, Nimue Surana took up the alley cat into her arms. “That’s why I like playing hide and seek,” she said, the beast purred contentedly as she stroked its rough fur. “Besides, the kitty likes playing too.”
“He does?”
“It’s a girl kitty. And of course she likes to play,” Nimue replied, looking particularly solemn for a girl who’d barely seen six winters. “She told me so.”
“Cats don’t talk, Nimue,” the elven boy remarked scornfully.
“She does too!” came Nimue’s retort, fishing about in the folds of her dirty apron for a scrap of ham to feed the beast. “She told me where to find you, after all.”
Grey eyes narrowed in confusion. It wasn’t the first time Nimue had said something strange like that. It’s not that he minded playing with her, even if she was a girl. But he couldn’t deny that she was… weird sometimes.
Still, weird or not, he could ask for no better friend than Nimue. For as long as he could remember, she had lived in the small shack three doors down from his own home, and from the beginning, they had become fast friends. Nimue was fearless, courageous even beyond the limits of her dark-haired neighbour. No dare would go unanswered by her, and for two young, curious elves, the Alienage became a jungle of hidden wonders waiting to be explored, the walled island transformed from an impoverished ghetto to a world full of adventure and promise. Whenever Nimue’s strict and conservative parents permitted it (which was becoming more and more rare these days, much to their mutual regret), the two would go off in search of something new to discover. The pair had even been so bold as to venture by the bridges leading in and out of the Alienage, dirt-stained faces peering through the gaps in the portcullises out into the wider city, their imaginations fired by the thought of what lay beyond. The rest of Denerim was so inaccessible to the children it might as well have been the moon, but that only made them long to see it more. If their own home was filled with such adventure, who knew what they would find beyond?
“Want to go fishing?” Sagramor asked, watching as Nimue finished feeding the cat. “Papa made me a new fishing pole, all by himself. Maybe we can catch a sea monster!”
Nimue made a disgusted face. “Sea monsters are icky, Sagramor. How about we climb up the old tower and watch the ships?”
Like lightning, Sagramor was on his feet. “Last one to the top’s a rotten egg!”
Nimue shouted a protest, but the dark-haired elf was already running past, his friend’s words dying unheeded as he raced through the muddy alleyways, mind fixed on the prize. She was pretty good at hide-and-seek, but there was no way she was beating him in a race.
It helped that he knew the route to the tower like the back of his hand. It was one of their favourite places to explore, an old, grim, abandoned edifice raised on the eastern edge of the island during the reign of the Usurper Meghren, when his growing paranoia led him to establish extended garrisons throughout the city. The adults scorned the place; it was the legacy of a tyrant’s reign, a beachhead by which shemlen soldiers had taken root in the Alienage like a poisonous weed, built upon ground where elven homes once stood and elven families called their own. Naturally, such dark stories only increased its appeal for the young elf, the sense of mystery and danger it offered too intriguing to ignore. Panting for breath, Sagramor bolted through the open portal into the partially-ruined tower, darting around the piles of broken stones marking where time and neglect had caused it to crumble. A set of wooden stairs circled to the tower’s summit, built into the curved stone wall; without hesitation, he clambered upwards, ears pricked for any sound of Nimue following close behind, and hearing nothing. I’m going to win! the boy shouted inwardly, leaping onto the next step.
With a terrifying groan, an entire section of the staircase gave way beneath him, the old wood collapsing into a cloud of dust twenty feet below. Screaming, Sagramor desperately reached out for purchase, small hands seizing the step before him, arresting his fall. “Nimue!” he cried out, paling at the sheer drop that awaited him, legs kicking out and finding only air. “Help!”
“Sagramor!” came Nimue’s response as she arrived, her blue eyes wide with shock at his deadly predicament. “Don’t move! I’ll get a grown-up!”
The step he was holding onto for dear life began to creak, and Sagramor felt the wood begin to crack under his weight, slowly inching downwards. “I’m slipping!” the boy shouted in horror, trying frantically to pull himself up, to reach the salvation promised by the intact upper staircase.
He never got the chance to test it. Giving a final, ominous creak, the stair snapped off in his hands, sending him plunging helplessly to the ground. The duo screamed in unison as the boy fell to his death, a babbled prayer and a cry for his parents on his lips, the ground mercilessly rushing up to meet him and end his life before it truly began. “No!” Nimue shouted, all her will focused into that single plea, hands raised in futile defiance of gravity’s law.
And then Sagramor Tabris stopped falling.
Gasping in surprise, the elven boy felt his descent slow, invisible hands cushioning his fall and robbing it of momentum. It became a gentle thing, graceful and absent danger, and in shock, he looked around for the source of this miracle, the fear giving way to utter relief.
It was Nimue. Beneath him stood the elven girl, her raised hands suffused with a strange blue light, blonde hair lifted by an updraft of raw power, blue eyes burning white with an unnatural fire. Groaning, she slumped over, exhausted, and Sagramor fell the last three feet with a grunt, bruised but alive. “Nimmy? What—what happened?”
The elven girl gasped as she awoke from her strange trance, staring in shock at her pale hands, the light fading away before her very eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she whimpered, the full gravity of what she had accomplished sinking in. “This is all wrong, Sagramor, I—are you all right?”
“You saved me,” Sagramor responded with tears of relief, sobbing openly as he embraced her in a grateful hug. Nimue seemed numb to it all, staring blankly outwards as her friend continue babbling, happy to be alive. “I owe you my life, Nimmy, that was incredible! What else can you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before. I didn’t know I could!” Nimue shouted, terror taking hold. “I should go home, I should--”
“Nimue!” a stern voice shouted in front of the tower. Before them stood a greying elven man, mouth cast downwards in a perpetual frown, blue eyes scrutinizing the pair with obvious disapproval. “What have you done, daughter?”
“Papa, I--”
“I am very ashamed of you, Nimue,” her father spoke, stepping forward to roughly seize the girl by the arm. “It is bad enough you spend your time playing with this troublemaking brat, but now I find you casting spells? Using magic?! Do you have no regard for this family’s honour?”
Nimue wept, overcome with shame and the fear of her father’s disapproval. “I didn’t mean to, Papa, I’m sorry. It just happened!”
“I do not wish to hear excuses from you, girl. Your sins must be great for the Maker to curse you with magic, and I will not let you drag this family down into the mire with you. Now come with me!”
Nimue let out a cry of pain as her father’s grip tightened. “Hey, leave her alone!” shouted Sagramor, a loose stone clenched in his right hand. None of this made sense. Mages were supposed to be bad people, wicked folk who would use their powers to trick and hurt others, but Nimue was far too nice and good and brave to be a mage. She had saved his life, she was his friend, and he didn’t want her to be dragged off to some smelly old Circle. “Pick on someone your own size, you big bully!”
Sagramor reeled back, the blow sending him down into the muck, and Nimue screamed, struggling vainly in her father’s grip. “I don’t listen to mage-loving brats, boy. Your influence led to this, to the taint my daughter now bears, and by the Maker, I will see you--”
The hurlock’s blade burst from his chest before he could finish his threat, fresh blood and the stink of the beast overwhelming Sagramor’s nostrils as the elf fell, its filth-ridden hand clamping over Nimue’s mouth to stifle her screams. Cursing, Sagramor went for his greatsword, but he was still a child, still too weak to fight, and the darkspawn horror uttered a cruel laugh, darting forward in a perfect lunge--
*********************************
The kiss of the rusted steel wrenched Sagramor from his slumber, eyes glancing about fearfully in the nightmare’s wake as he came back to reality. The familiar confines of the Alienage were gone, replaced with the glimmer of the sun reflecting off of Lake Calenhad’s calm, deep waters, and the creak of ropes and timbers as the summer winds filled the canvas sails of the fishing vessel to bear it swiftly northwards. Bann Teagan had been good as his word, and by the time he and his companions had returned to Redcliffe Village, Bessie’s Bounty stood waiting for them, its crew eager to assist. The boat itself was a fairly cramped affair; even with nets, rods and traps left back on the pier in Redcliffe, space was at a premium, forcing the Warden and his companions to remain at the bow. But Samuel and his wife Bessie, the Bounty’s owners and experienced fisherfolk besides, were grateful for their assistance against the undead and had done their best to make them comfortable, providing some old woolen blankets upon which they could try and get some rest.
Another nightmare… Sagramor lamented inwardly, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes. His sleep had never been very contented, even before he joined the Grey Wardens, but the bad dreams seemed to be coming with an alarming frequency these days: bloodthirsty darkspawn invading tangled memories from his past, or even worse, visions of an unspeakable presence and a twisted song that curdled the very blood in his veins. He wanted to believe these were just subconscious reactions to all the horrors he’d witnessed in the past month or so; Maker knew there was fodder for a thousand such nightmares from Ostagar alone. But the way his skin crawled in each, the way his blood sang to him as if he was sensing darkspawn in the waking world suggested these were more than mere dreams. Perhaps it’s a side-effect of the Joining, my connection to the darkspawn influencing my unconscious mind? Sagramor considered, casting a glance over to the still-sleeping Alistair at the other side of the prow. They hadn’t been given the chance to speak much about the nature of the Joining and the Order since leaving Lothering, but time and privacy permitting, there’d be some questions to ask of his fellow Warden.
But this nightmare was the worst he’d experienced in some time mostly because, the presence of darkspawn aside, that was how it played out in truth. He knew, logically, that there was nothing he could have done to protect Nimue: he was a child, her father was far stronger than he, and once she was revealed as a mage, her fate was sealed. If anyone was at fault, it was her parents for callously condemning their child to the Circle in the first place, or the Templars that promptly came to collect her, yet it did not feel that way. Enough, the elf chided himself, feeling rather increasingly foolish. The guilt over something that happened a decade ago was something he could ill afford when there were more immediate problems to deal with.
To his left, Leliana gave a sleepy moan as she awoke, blue eyes fluttering open, and the elf was suddenly conscious of how close she was. “Hello, Sagramor,” she whispered, a slim, gloved hand resting comfortingly on his forearm, her gentle touch banishing the phantom pain of the hurlock’s blade. “Did you have some rest?”
“A bit. Just had some bad dreams, is all,” the elf idly remarked, blushing at the warm contact. “And you? Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you. What time is it?”
“About midday, I reckon,” Sagramor remarked. For a moment, the elf felt content to simply sit back and enjoy a sun-lit voyage with a beautiful young woman at his side, but the guilt over what had transpired during his enthrallment reared up in his soul, and he turned away, desire tainted by shame. All that he had done in his magically-induced madness… all that he had intended to do, were bad enough. But perhaps even worse was the realization that he had let himself down, that he had succumbed to the same mindless hatred that had plagued relations between humans and elves for centuries. He had always scorned those who painted humanity with the same vile brush, condemned them for allowing themselves to be infected with other men’s hatred, and yet he could not resist when Connor implanted such hatred in him… or unleashed it.
And that was the truly bothersome notion. It was far simpler to declare all of his deeds under Connor’s enthrallment the mere product of that manipulation, all those thoughts and deeds utterly foreign to his character. Easier too, for it handily dismissed any dark parts of his soul the abomination could have turned to its own purpose. The thought that even the smallest part of him was remotely capable of committing the same evils as Vaughan provoked a shudder of absolute disgust, his self-loathing too great to be contained. “Leliana, that knight I killed. Do you think he had a family? A wife? Someone I—“
“Stop.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but wholly arresting, and Sagramor complied, an electric thrill passing up his arm as she took his hand in her own. “Sagramor, what happened back at the castle was not your fault. Your mind was not your own, and only a fool would condemn someone for things he did under such compulsion. The demon preyed on all of us, Connor included, and you are no more to blame than he is.”
“That doesn’t excuse that I—I almost--” The words lodged in his throat for a moment, too horrible to speak, all thought to a leader’s stoic dignity vanishing. “I almost hurt you. I almost…” The truth, too painful to be uttered, refused to be spoken.
“But you did not. You would not have even considered such an action were you were in control, I am certain of it,” the Orlesian girl assured him, giving voice to what he could not. “Your sense of guilt is understandable, Grey Warden, for any man would question himself after such an experience. But you are a good man, Sagramor Tabris. Believe in that, and forgive yourself, please, for me if no one else.”
Her words were a much-needed balm upon his soul, but even so, his misgivings lingered like battlefield carrion, hungry for wounds to dig into. “I fear you put too much faith in me, Leliana.”
“Do I? When the time came to decide Connor’s fate, did you cry out for his death? Did you demand he be struck down in recompense for the sorcery he inflicted on us? Did you fearfully offer up Arlessa Isolde to Jowan’s ritual rather than risk the abomination taking control again? No,” she reminded him, shaking her head softly. “You decided to save them both, even when other men would have taken the easier path. I can think of no one better to entrust my life to, or to see us safe through all the trials of a Blight.”
Blushing from ear to ear at the compliment, Sagramor nervously cleared his throat. “Believe me, I was tempted to employ Jowan’s ritual. I just hope I made the right call, for the sake of everyone in Redcliffe, our companions included.” Morrigan and Sten certainly deserved a better fate than the abomination would give them, no matter their disagreements, and the thought of Ragnar suffering at its hands tugged at his heartstrings even more than the hound’s injury had.
“You did.”
“And how can you be so certain?”
“Because you made it, and I have faith in you.”
For a moment, Sagramor remained in silent contemplation. “It means a great deal to you, knowing that you did the right thing, doesn’t it?” Leliana asked, wide blue eyes focused entirely upon him.
“It does,” Sagramor acknowledged. “My mother’s great injunction: no matter what happened, I would stay a good man.” The elf gave a small sigh, left wistful at the thought of his mother, the old pain uncoiling itself in his heart. “Andraste knows I try.”
“She sounds like a wonderful person,” answered Leliana, and Sagramor felt an unbidden smile blossom. “Alistair mentioned her off-hand on the journey to Redcliffe. He said she trained you?”
“Yes, all that she had learned from my grandfather. He fought as one of the Night Elves during the Rebellion, and what he’d learned of fighting there, he passed on to her, and she to me. My father had not wished it, not at first.”
“Why was that?” Leliana asked, her query guileless.
“Elves aren’t permitted to bear weapons, Wardens aside,” Sagramor reminded her. “He thought it would only bring trouble down on us, but my mother insisted. She knew that trouble would come for us eventually, no matter what we did, and she wanted me to be ready for it.” Like I should have been ready for Nimue. How was it that even after all these years, he still felt guilty over something he had no control over as a child?
Leliana smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure your mother is very proud of you, Sagramor.”
“Was,” Sagramor corrected gently. “She… she died a few years back.”
“How?”
“The Denerim city guard. They—they stopped her on the street one day, and… It happens to elves a lot.”
“Oh, Andraste, how terrible!” she exclaimed, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Warden. My mother died when I was very small, so I know something of that grief. If you should ever need to talk, I will be here for you.”
“Thank you, Leliana, I appreciate that,” said Sagramor, the guilt starting to fade, worn down like river stones by her heartfelt counsel. In that moment, his soul left elevated and unburdened by her warmth, the elf made a vow. Too often had he failed those he loved: Nimue, by being too weak and small to protect her; Shianni, by failing to prevent Vaughan from abducting her; his mother, by being absent from her side when she needed him most. This time would be different. By the blood of my people, I will see Leliana safe from harm and hurt, whatever the cost to myself.
“Do you have other family, Warden?”
“Yes, my father and cousins, back in the Denerim Alienage. Don’t know when I’ll be able to see them again, but it helps knowing I can fight to keep them safe from the darkspawn. What about you? Any place you call home?”
“Aside from the Chantry? I’m not certain,” Leliana admitted. “The Lady Cecile might be willing to accept me back into her household, but it has been many years since I lived at her estate.”
Entranced, Sagramor listened attentively as Leliana told the story of her upbringing. Her mother was Fereldan, a serving girl working in the household of this Lady Cecile back when Orlais ruled Ferelden. “Lady Cecile’s husband was one of the Usurper’s chief supporters in Ferelden, and was one of the few who stood with him when King Maric besieged Denerim after his victory at the River Dane,” she explained, her sympathy for the rebels clear. “He perished at the Usurper's side, leaving Lady Cecile a widow, and once Maric retook his stolen throne and the common folk began to resent the presence of any Orlesian, she decided to return home to the Empire. My mother was with child, and when given the opportunity to travel with her mistress, she accepted.”
“She didn’t feel like staying in Ferelden?” Sagramor asked, genuinely surprised at her choice.
“Mother had earned an honoured place at Lady Cecile’s side, and she felt I would have a better life in Orlais than I could here. She knew that no matter what happened, Cecile would provide for me. In fact, when I was born in Orlais, she swore an oath before the Maker to that effect.”
“And did she?”
“Yes,” answered Leliana, offering a regretful smile. “Mother passed away when I was very small, only about four winters old, but Lady Cecile kept her promise and did her best to raise me. She could not make me her heir, but I was well-treated all the same. She taught me how to read and write, how to conduct myself as a noblewoman might, the history of Thedas and the lore of the Chantry, and much else besides. When she grew older, I was instructed in the ways of song and dance so that I might entertain her.”
“Sort of a prelude to your career as a minstrel, I guess.”
“Exactly. The Lady Cecile is a wonderful woman, and compassion like hers is rare in the Imperial aristocracy. I am half-Fereldan, born to a servant and out of wedlock; most simply would have thrown me out on the street to fend for myself. It is just a shame I have more memories of her than I do of my mother.”
“You don’t need to feel guilty, Leliana,” Sagramor consoled her. “It’s entirely understandable, given how young you were when your mother died. Just because you knew her only for a few years doesn’t diminish who she was to you.”
“That is kind of you to say, Sagramor. And you’re right, I’ve tried to hold onto my memories of her as much as I can. I remember that she loved wildflowers, particularly Andraste’s Grace; she wore them in her hair whenever she could, and their scent always reminds me of her. It’s been years since I’ve seen any, though.”
“Well, I’ll have to keep an eye out for them, then,” said the elf, eager to be of assistance. “And what about your father? You’ve not mentioned him so far.”
“I never knew him,” Leliana admitted ruefully. “When I was small, I did not note his absence, for he had never been a part of my life to start with. Mother never told me before she died, and the Lady Cecile would not speak of him when I asked.” She gave another of her customary sweet smiles, amused at the thought. “Sometimes, I would dream about meeting him. It would be like a fairy tale: he’d be a handsome chevalier, returning home from the Empire’s wars, and he would marry Lady Cecile, and we would all live in her villa as a family, happily ever after. A bit foolish, in retrospect.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. We all deserve it, and after all the good you’ve done, no one reasonable could begrudge you it. And for what it’s worth, I’m very grateful you decided to join us.”
“It is worth a great deal, Warden,” the Orlesian woman expressed. “You have my trust and my support, no matter what comes. It is important we stand by our friends, no?”
“Right as ever,” Sagramor replied, immeasurably pleased that she considered him as such. Loyalty such as hers could only be earned, never taken, and even as his heart welled up in gratitude at her trust, the elf resolved to never take it for granted. What happened in Redcliffe Castle would not come to pass again.
For Leliana’s sake, he would not be found wanting.
**************************
One hour later, as the sun started its descent towards the horizon, the tower of the Ferelden Circle of Magi came into view. “Impressive looking place, isn’t it?” posed Alistair, giving their blades a final kiss from his whetstone.
Sagramor nodded in agreement, more than a little awestruck by the sight. Kinloch Hold, as the Circle Tower was formally known, was huge, with only the battlements of Fort Drakon or the ruins of Ostagar putting the mages’ enclave to shame. It had been constructed Ages earlier by the Avvar barbarians, its grey stones hewn from the mountains to the west, and built high and proud upon the largest of Lake Calenhad’s northern islands until it shadowed the lands around it like some proud, dark sentinel, only the faint flickers of light from the upper windows giving proof that it stood occupied. In years past, a great stone bridge connected Kinloch Hold to the mainland, but the tall arches had been shattered at several places along its length, further isolating the Circle’s inhabitants from the outside world. From the mainmast, Samuel, the captain of Bessie’s Bounty, made to adjust the sails, his hands bearing the scars both of a life spent fishing for his keep, and of the desperate fighting alongside the rest of the militia the nights before. “Won’t be able to drop you off at the Tower itself, Wardens.”
“Why’s that?” asked Sagramor.
“Templars don’t allow no boats to dock on the island without their permission,” the fisherman replied, spitting over the railing. “We show up on their doorstep, and they’d worry the mages’d use her to escape. Don’t want to lose the Bounty to fire arrows if they’re bein’ a bit jumpy today.”
“It’s a standard security procedure for most of the Circles,” Alistair explained. “Keep the mages in an isolated location, and have the Templars prepared to enforce that isolation on swordpoint, if need be.”
“Then how exactly do we get there?” Sagramor asked. “Doubt they let random swimmers near either.”
“There’s a trail near here that leads to the docks across from the Tower, next to the Inn of the Spoiled Princess,” answered Samuel, gesturing toward a wooded path just beyond the shore where the rocks gave way to the sand. “There’s a fellow there named Kester, runs a ferry to the Tower. He’ll take you the rest of the way.”
From the stern, Bessie shifted the tiller in her hands, as brawny and tough as her man, wavy brown hair tied up in a ragged bun to keep it from her eyes. “You just try and convince them quick, that’s all. If those mages can help stop whatever’s going on in the castle, don’t let ‘em lollygag around.” Another small motion, and she steered them ably towards the beach, the boat gliding to a stop as the wind spilled free of the slackening sails. “We’ll wait for you by the inn.”
Quickly, the three companions hastened off the fishing boat. Alistair took the lead, darting down the path with sword and shield at the ready. “We’ll try not to keep you waiting too long,” Sagramor promised, making certain his pack was secure.
“For what you’ve all done for us and the village, we’ll wait until the Maker returns,” Bessie declared loyally. “But I don’t think Redcliffe itself will last that long.”
“Bessie’s right,” said Samuel, moving to stand by his wife. “You’ve already saved us once, Warden, and we’re grateful for it. Now you just need to finish the job.”
“Then we’ll endeavour not to disappoint,” said the Warden, pleased they’d shown such trust in him. Any misgivings the villagers had about working with an elf seemed to have vanished after the battle, and he felt a touch of pride at the notion he’d earned the respect of such folk. Perhaps they’ll look upon elves more kindly now, he dared to hope, holding onto the thought as he set off behind his comrades, the woods swiftly closing in around them.
They found the corpses but a few minutes later.
Leliana spotted them first, blue eyes cutting keenly through the undergrowth, and she gasped in shock at the very sight of them. “Maker, are those--”
“I think they are,” Sagramor responded, the trail opening up into a small clearing. Before them, a quartet of bodies had been left to rot upon the forest floor, each bearing a multitude of savage wounds, the trees around them scarred by blades in what had clearly been a frenzied attack. Even taking the effects of decomposition, the merciless elements and passing scavengers into account, there was simply no mistaking their nature.
Sagramor recognized Qunari when he saw them.
“Poor bastards,” Alistair muttered, stooping to examine the bodies. None seemed to possess arms or armour, their equipment likely plundered by their victorious killers, and all around them, the sudden stench reared up, immediately recognizable. “You smell that, Sagramor?”
“Darkspawn,” the elf muttered darkly, noticing too where the splash of their tainted blood had caused the trees to sicken and wilt. “They must have come in stealth and in greater numbers to take Qunari down, especially if they didn’t leave any dead of their own behind.”
“Oh, I’m sure they took losses. The darkspawn just have this lovely habit of eating their dead and wounded once the battle’s done. We should be safe for the moment, though. There’s no trace of any more around here.”
Leliana murmured a small prayer. “How horrid. To be brought down by such monsters, and left far from home besides. What do you think they were doing here in the first place?”
“Maybe we should ask Sten?” Alistair suggested, receiving a cold look from Sagramor. “What? You really think he ventured into a hostile country alone, while an entirely separate group of Qunari was running around? You have to admit, there’s things he’s not telling us.”
“There’s things we’re all not telling each other,” Sagramor reminded him, grey eyes cast downwards in pity towards the fallen Qunari. Leliana was right: no one deserved to fall forgotten and far from home, and when Redcliffe was safe again and their alliance with the Circle secured, he’d make the time needed to attend to their bodies with all proper respect. Perhaps he’d have reason to talk to Sten about it after all. “But right now, Redcliffe and the Circle must be our priority. Let’s get to the Tower as soon as we can; Morrigan bought us some time, but let’s not push our luck any more than we have to. Until Connor is freed, Redcliffe will never truly be safe…”
**************************
Never before had a stack of parchments so infuriated Loghain Mac Tir, hard eyes staring down the endless sheets littering his desk like they were the face of a hated enemy. Andraste save me from bureaucracy! he snarled inwardly, resisting the temptation to feed it all to the hearth. Dealing with the petty details of administration was a task better suited for spineless clerks, not soldiers, and the sheer volume alone would have been enough to stoke his ire. But it was their contents that truly angered him; endless pleas for reinforcement against minor darkspawn raids, denouncements levelled against his regency, mewling protests of the difficultly in mobilizing the troops he’d demanded of them, each more vexing than the last, all dripping with pretty words meant to hide the stench of treason and weakness.
And some had even dared go further than mere words. Throughout the central Bannorn, the rumblings of discontent had given way to open revolt, as many of the minor landholders raised their banners in defiance of the regency. The men he had demanded be raised to serve Ferelden against Orlais and the darkspawn now assembled to march against him instead. It was madness. Sheer and utter madness. Ferelden must remain united if Orlais’ ambitions are to be quenched, and these jackals instead seek to turn against me? The man responsible for ensuring their freedom to begin with?
The now familiar sound of a timorous knock on the door served only to further inflame his choler. “Come!”
Fearfully, the door creaked open, revealing a tall, dark-haired young woman, her willowy figure clad in a garment of the finest blue Amaranthine silk. “I beg your apology for the intrusion, my lord,” Delilah Howe said, glancing down at the fresh wad of papers in her arms, “but these require your attention.”
“Bring them in here. I’ll deal with them in due time,” Loghain snapped, examining the young noblewoman with a suspicious eye. Rendon had offered his daughter’s services as a scribe and administrator shortly after the elder Howe accepted governance of Denerim, and thus far, she had proven to be both competent and obedient in her assigned role. He merely failed to understand why she always seemed to insist on wearing such close-fitting and low-cut gowns, a fresh frown sprouting at the sight of her powdered cleavage. The ways of women are a mystery, he reminded himself, glancing over the wax seals adorning each note. “Was there anything else, girl?”
“Is there any other way I can… serve you, my lord?” Delilah asked, head bowed demurely.
Loghain didn’t bother to look up from the first of the dispatches, completely failing to recognize the implication, or see the stray tears rolling down her cheeks. “No, you are dismissed, girl. See to your father, I have no more need of you today.”
Without a word, Delilah fled from the room, the door closing shut behind her. Loghain held his composure for a moment longer before tearing the letter asunder, the emblem of Bann Telman of Jaina’s Crossing squashed beyond all recognition. Dictate terms to me, will he? he spat inwardly, drawing a fresh sheet of parchment before him. Raleigh’s marauders had proven their worth since they entered his service; perhaps the Hard Line’s tender mercies would persuade the arrogant Bann to show proper fealty…
Loghain…
The whisper immediately sent Loghain reaching for his blade. “Who’s there? Who speaks?”
Loghain…
Boots pounding on the stone floor, Loghain wrenched the chamber door open, levelling bared steel against the empty hallway, the echo of the voice fading to nothingness. Seconds passed, the chill of uncertainty crawling up the warlord’s spine, but no one stood to greet him. No hasty footsteps signalled the flight of an intruder.
No dead man whispered his name from an uncertain rest.
“Just my imaginings,” the Hero of River Dane muttered to himself at long last, pretending not to notice the tremble in his right hand. Lingering a moment longer to make certain, he eventually withdrew, sword resting back in her scabbard, a fresh goblet of wine in his grip. It must have been stress. A touch of fatigue, nothing more.
How else could he explain hearing Maric’s voice after so many years?
*********************************
“Let’s hope this Ser Carroll is more cooperative,” Sagramor all but spat, anger radiating from the elf as he stalked towards the pier, his companions following close behind.
“Kester’s an idiot,” stated Alistair, glancing back to where the boatman stood grinning, seemingly obviously to the insult he had caused the elven Warden. “Don’t let him get to you.”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” the elf groused, visibly fuming beneath his hood. “It just couldn’t have been simple and straightforward, couldn’t it?”
“We will overcome this, Sagramor, just as we always have,” Leliana reassured him, the pulse of his anger slowing at the sound of her voice. “The Maker would not bring us this far to have us fail now. We will succeed. Have faith in that.”
It was good advice, well-meaning, but try as he might, Sagramor could not take great comfort in that sentiment. It seemed like a star of ill-omen hung over their quest, cursing them to forever face a new doom, no matter where they journeyed. Is this to be our fate, Maker? To arrive at each of our destinations, only to find them besieged and threatened by some fresh horror? To discover those we come to for aid too mired in their own disasters to help?
The Circle Tower was under lockdown. As Kester had explained it (in between mentioning how he’d “never seen a knife-ear gussied up like that before” and other such anti-elven drivel), the Templars had confiscated his boat and left it under guard by the pier, with orders that no one from the mainland was to venture onto the island where the Tower sat. No explanation was given, what had occurred remained a mystery, and there was no telling when the lockdown might be lifted and travel to the Circle permitted once more. The party had questioned the staff and patrons of the Spoiled Princess, and though the tavern was the main watering hole for both the tower’s Templar brigade and for travellers on their way to the Circle, they knew little of use either.
Sighing, Sagramor kicked a stone that had gotten underfoot. It was easy to focus his ire on the boatman; Kester was more ignorant than truly hateful, but his comments stung far harder than the elf would have liked. But the Circle was the real problem. He’d wagered so much, including the lives of everyone in Redcliffe Castle, his companions included, on being able to quickly enlist the Circle’s aid, only for the lockdown to render that gambit looking increasingly foolhardy. The real kicker was not knowing the true nature of the problem. He hoped he was simply overreacting, that the cause was nothing more than an overzealous Knight-Commander throwing his weight around in response to a minor infraction by his charges. If it was something more serious…
“You! You’re not looking to get across to the Tower, are you?” questioned the Templar standing guard at the pier, hand raised to ward off the trio as they approached. Carroll was in his later twenties, brown hair cut short to regulation standards, his brown eyes unfocused and distant, his boredom obvious. “Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass.”
“I understand that, ser Templar, but our need is urgent,” Sagramor declared. “I am a Grey Warden of Ferelden, and I request an audience with the mages of the Circle.”
“Oh, you’re a Grey Warden, are you? Then prove it.”
“Prove it?” asked the elf, glancing down at the Warden tabard proudly draped over his armour. “This isn’t enough?”
“Anyone can weave some cloth. Kill some darkspawn. Show me some righteous Grey Warden-ing!” demanded the Templar with naked scorn.
Sighing, Alistair threw up his hands in frustration. “Well, we can’t kill any darkspawn if there aren’t any around to kill, now can we?”
“That’s good, I suppose,” Carroll permitted. “Wouldn’t want darkspawn smeared all across the landscape, now would we? I hear their blood is black. Is that true? You’d know if you were a real Grey Warden.”
“Kill one and find out for yourself,” Sagramor growled, his patience coming to an end. “Listen, it’s vital that we cross to the Tower and speak to the mages, for Redcliffe, if not all of Ferelden, is at stake. Can’t we can work something out?”
At least, Carroll pursed fleshy lips, his gaze suddenly focusing on Leliana. “Well… that redhead there at the back? She doesn’t need to go to the Tower, does she? Because it gets a little lonely out here sometimes, and, you know, you could just leave her with me.”
“You dare?” the elf hissed in rage, sword ripping free of its fleece-lined scabbard.
In an instant, Leliana was beside him, hand at his wrist, halting the greatsword’s strike before it began. “You must have me confused with another, ser Templar,” she responded calmly, seemingly unperturbed by his crude insinuation. “I am a poetess, and I am not interested in anything you have to offer.”
“I’ve never met a poetess,” Carroll remarked, intrigued by the very notion. “The other men sometimes tell stories about them—when the Knight-Commander isn’t around, of course. He doesn’t abide that sort of talk.”
Laughing, the Orlesian girl strode towards the bedazzled Templar, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. “The stories sheltered Templars tell will pale in comparison to mine. Would you like to hear my tales of debauchery and excess?”
“Yes.” The Templar’s voice dropped to a pitiful whimper. “Please?”
Smiling broadly, the Orlesian woman strode into the boat, taking up her seat at the rear bench. “Then I’m sure we could talk on that long, dull journey across the lake, yes? Provided my companions are permitted to accompany me, of course.”
In all his days, Sagramor had never seen someone move that fast in full plate. Like a starving hound, Carroll scrambled into the boat, barely giving the Wardens a chance to follow before he threw off the lines securing them to the dock. They were away within moments, the long shadow of Kinloch Hold looming over them, and Sagramor felt the weight of the Warden treaties in his pouch, made all the heavier by the duty that came with it. The trust that others have given you was not offered in vain, Sagramor. Now get in there and prove it…