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 Thirty: The Cost of Honour - Part Two

In all his years of listening to Elder Valendrian’s teachings, or pestering Alarith the shopkeeper to tell him about how the Dalish saved him one more time, or reading the scant knowledge of the Dalish contained in his treasured books, Sagramor never dreamed he would ever step foot into one of their fabled aravels. He had been recruited by Duncan for a purpose, not a pleasure cruise, yet he allowed himself a moment to indulge in his awe all the same as he made his way down the ladder, lips silently offering thanks once more to his fallen mentor for giving him such an opportunity. Marethari’s landship appeared grown rather than assembled, the timbers that comprised it moulded into sweeping organic curves that had never known the touch of axe, awl or hammer, such that Sagramor and Alistair seemed to descend into the belly of an immense wooden beast. Beneath the glow of magical crystals hung from the ceiling, Sagramor took in a series of great cabinets erected along the far wall, one containing tomes of lore bound in leather, a second filled with sacks of what he assumed were alchemical ingredients and healing herbs, a third with clay bottles individually partitioned by wooden slats and cushioned by dried grasses to protect them from damage. At the rear of the landship, before wide openings that served as windows, a dozen great ravens perched silently on branches growing out of the hull, and Sagramor couldn’t help but shiver as their unearthly blue eyes tracked their arrival with an almost-sentient intelligence, their presence a welcome distraction from Fenarel’s constant scrutiny. “Are you certain you do not want me to stay, Keeper?”

“We will be quite safe in the company of the Wardens, lethallin,” Marethari assured the hunter. “Please make certain we are not disturbed.”

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper,” Fenarel conceded, offering Sagramor a final warning glare before departing.

“Join us, please,” Marethari urged the pair, gesturing towards the brightly coloured rugs draped across from her. Merrill was present as well, the Keeper’s apprentice looking rather chastened as she poured their guests tea, her alabaster features betraying the traces of freshly shed tears. Accepting the cup, Sagramor offered her a reassuring wink, and was rewarded with a gentle smile from the girl and a cold frown from the older woman. “I had not expected you to bring one of your companions, Warden Sagramor.”

“Alistair is a brother of the Order and a very good friend, honoured Keeper,” Sagramor insisted, ignoring the double-take Alistair offered at the praise. “Whatever trust you have in me should be offered to him as well.”

“And the others that follow you? Are they Wardens as well?”

“No, but they are valued allies all the same.”

“I see,” said the Keeper, leaving her tea untouched. “So what is it you wish from us, Grey Warden?”

With the utmost reverence, Sagramor removed the Dalish treaty from the pouch at his belt and laid it before the Keeper, Merrill gasping in awe at the ancient document. “A Blight is upon us, and our world faces annihilation unless we stand together. In past Blights, the strength of the Dalish has often meant the difference between victory and defeat, and we need that strength now more than ever if Ferelden is to be saved. I have come to ask for your aid, honoured Keeper. For the sake of all who live, will you join our fight against the darkspawn?"

Marethari’s expression betrayed nothing as she took up the treaty, and the unease Sagramor felt upon arriving at the Sabrae camp coiled about his guts, introducing unwelcome anxiety in what should have been a moment of triumph. At last, the Keeper returned the precious document, and with it, her answer. “Your treaty is valid, Grey Warden, and your cause is just.

“But the Sabrae Clan cannot aid you.”

Sagramor felt his world rock beneath him, if the Keeper’s aravel had suddenly begun moving of its own accord, and any protest he could offer went unspoken as his voice refused to obey. Beside him, Alistair and Merrill likewise remained in utter shock, and it was the former Templar who gathered his wits first, unable to hide his umbrage. “I beg your pardon?”

“You will find no aid for your campaign here, Grey Wardens. My clan is already committed to another road, and I cannot turn away for any reason, not even the oaths our ancestors once swore. We make for the Free Marches.”

“The Free Marches?” Sagramor finally managed to croak. They’re running away, the thought struck him like a hammer blow, and with great effort, he forced his choler back in check. “With respect, honoured Keeper, the fight’s here, not on the other side of the Waking Sea. What could possibly send you all the way over there?”

Marethari had the bare decency to look uneasy. “I have… an appointment to keep. More than that, I cannot say.”

“Well, can it wait?” demanded Alistair. “I’m sorry, but there’s no polite way to say this: you’re breaking your oath to the Grey Wardens, one upheld by every other clan for centuries. We’d never ask this of you if it wasn’t important.”

“My companion speaks truly. Keeper, believe me when I say that the Blight isn’t something you can run and hide from. Eventually, you must stand and fight, and we’ll only win that fight if we work together. Is there… is there something we can do to help you? Something to make your journey to the Free Marches unnecessary?”

“Keeper, please,” Merrill whispered, utterly heartbroken.

“Be silent, Merrill!”

“I will not!” she snapped back. “Sagramor is right; we have to stay and fight this evil, or there will be no hope for our people. Our ancestors promised to help the Wardens, and they were right to do so. We can’t break our word like this!”

Marethari shook her head. “So you would see more of our people share Mahariel’s fate?”

“I would see the darkspawn stopped before they hurt anyone else. And I know Mahariel would feel the same way.”

“Honoured Keeper, I know what I am asking of you is difficult,” said Sagramor, straining to keep the desperation from his voice. “Believe me, I live with the knowledge that every battle I fight helps to save a kingdom that has brutalized and mistreated our people for centuries. But the darkspawn don’t care about racial injustice any more than they care about which god we worship, or lines drawn on a map, or who owned what land and when, or the shape of our ears. You may not think Ferelden is worth fighting for, but the future is, and if we allow ourselves to be divided by old grievances, there will be no future for anyone. Don’t turn your back on us. Please.”

The Keeper would not meet his eyes. “All things end, Grey Warden,” she answered, shame radiating from her like ashes smouldering in the hearth. “When my task in the Free Marches is complete, then I swear we shall return to aid you. Now…” With a flick of her wrist, the ladder unfolded from the landship’s roof. “We must prepare for our journey to the coast.”

A thousand arguments rehearsed themselves in Sagramor’s mind, a thousand exhortations that she stand and fight against the encroaching darkness… and from the grim expression Marethari wore and the abrupt nature of her dismissal, none of them would find fertile ground here. It was all a waste, the black thought lingered, carrying him out of the Keeper’s aravel, deaf to Merrill’s continued protests towards the Keeper.

It was all nothing but a waste…

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

Leliana had the first watch that evening, yet as his own shift crept closer, Sagramor prowled about the autumn dark with Ragnar trotting close behind, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, the bitterness that prowled about his soul like a caged wolf denying any prospect of sleep. At the other end of the clearing, the aravels of the Sabrae Clan lay dark, any sentries the Dalish might have posted mere whispers on the gentle night winds, while the space between them likewise lay undisturbed. All about him, the world lay at peace, the threat of the Blight made distant trivia in the tranquil stillness, and a growing part of him longed to shatter that stillness, to rouse their hosts from their slumber and, Maker willing, their selfish apathy. How can they be so stupid?!

The Sabrae Clan had no interest in helping them whatsoever. Were it simply a case of its people choosing to place their trust in the decisions of a beloved leader, that might be something he could respect, however much he didn’t like it. But it was just the tip of the iceberg, for Marethari’s offer of hospitality extended to letting them set up their own campsite in the same forest grove and nothing more. Attempts to share information about the road ahead and learn from one another bore no fruit, as they seemed to consider any outside wisdom inherently condescending. Opportunities for trade likewise withered on the vine, Bodahn’s mere presence drawing their contempt. Shortly after the two Wardens returned from Marethari’s aravel, Morrigan ventured over to inquire about learning the spells of the Keepers, returning several minutes later no wiser and more ill-tempered. And if Sagramor had hoped his past friendship with Pol would be the key to setting things right, once more he was left disappointed, as the former Alienage elf had strenuously evaded every attempt to speak with him. For the Sabrae Clan, the presence of the Warden’s party was an inconvenience to be borne until they could break camp, and if any besides Merrill felt shame over Marethari breaking that oath, they kept silent about it. There would be no gloves for Zevran, no spells for Morrigan, no warriors to aid Ferelden.

And no guarantee that the next Dalish clan they came across would act any differently.

A woman’s gentle touch upon his upper arm jolted him from his musings, and blue eyes held him fast. “You must be frustrated,” declared Leliana, gently guiding him over to the fallen log where she’d been taking her watch.

“You can say that,” the Warden admitted, blushing. Without conscious thought, he’d made his way to her in his woolgathering, her kindness and beauty lighting the way even through his blackest thoughts, and gratefully, he took a seat beside her, glancing out into the surrounding darkness. “All quiet?”

“Thankfully. I do not believe we have anything to fear this night. They might have refused to aid us, but I cannot imagine the Dalish would stand by and do nothing if we were attacked either.”

Sagramor offered a non-committal grunt. A nightfall earlier, and he never would have conceived otherwise, but though he trusted the beautiful redhead from the bottom of his heart, oathbreakers had a habit of making liars of them all. The Sabrae Clan would offer them no harm, at least not directly, though if he awoke to discover they’d slipped away like thieves in the night, he would not be surprised. “This is a setback, nothing more,” he said, the words sounding hollow and false in his own ears. Beside him, Leliana yawned, and Sagramor silently cursed himself for only now noticing the dark circles around her eyes. “Merrill really kept you up last night, huh?”

“One sleepless night isn’t much to complain about, especially with what she’s been through,” Leliana demurred, blinking back fatigue. “I would not wish to become a burden to you and the rest of the party.”

“You never have, and you never will be,” the elf stated emphatically. “You’ve earned my trust a thousand times over by now, but even the best of us need a chance to rest. Get some sleep. I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“It’s no problem. I’m far too tense to sleep, and I need to consider our next move anyways. Ragnar and I will be fine here. Anything happens, we’ll wake you.”

His point proven by a second weary yawn, Leliana acceded. “As you wish, then. Pleasant dreams, my friend.”

“You too. Sleep well.”

Smiling, Leliana strode off towards his tent, and Sagramor stared out towards the Dalish camp, resisting the temptation to observe her lithe figure as she departed. Yes, every moment she elected to spend with him was a gift to be cherished, but she deserved far better than to be left exhausted simply because he desired to spend more time with her. After everything she had done for their quest already, in both word and deed, giving her a night to recuperate was the very least he could do.

And he had not lied when he said he needed to think things through. I should have been able to convince Marethari, Sagramor lamented, taking a sip from his waterskin as if to wash away the bitter taste of defeat. He could not have saved Lothering; Loghain’s betrayal had seen to that and remaining to defend it from the darkspawn horde would have pointlessly squandered the lives of his companions. Likewise, the undead attacks upon Redcliffe and Uldred’s rebellion in Kinloch Hold were crises they’d stumbled upon days after they’d started. He could not have stopped them from happening in the first place, but at the very least, he could take comfort in knowing he’d helped set things right. This was different. To be a Warden was to inspire others to take up arms against the Blight, and the knowledge he’d failed in his oath-sworn duty, even with the weight of the treaty backing him, made him sick to his stomach. He’d failed here, just as he’d failed Shianni, and with a shudder of barely contained rage, Sagramor hurled his waterskin away into the space between the two camps.

Whimpering at his master’s distress, Ragnar placed his head upon the elf’s knee, soft brown eyes casting up towards him, and the tide of anger receded to leave only shame in its wake. “I’m sorry, boy,” Sagramor whispered, stroking the hound’s fur and breathing deeply to bring his humours back into balance. It would be easy to blame it all upon fatigue, but fatigue implied weakness, and with so many lives riding on his choices, he could not afford to be weak. No, it was disappointment that stoked the heat of his anger, the awful realization that for all he’d heard of the wisdom and nobility of the Dalish, they were just as capable as any human of ignoring the obvious truth of the Blight’s approach. Never, in all his darkest nightmares, had he conceived that the Dalish could break their oath, or that the treaty they’d taken such care to safeguard would prove useless. He’d always hoped his fellow elves would be better, no matter their origin, and to discover otherwise was a bitter draught indeed. I should have considered that possibility. If I had, maybe I’d have found a way to convince her…

“Creators, who left this out here?”

Such was his despondency that Sagramor failed to register the soft, musical voice emerging out of the darkness, and only at Ragnar’s nudge did he look up to see Merrill approaching, holding out his waterskin. “Did you drop this, Sagramor? I don’t think it belongs to one of my clan, and I haven’t misplaced mine for once,” said the Dalish girl, free hand immediately moving to her waist to make sure it wasn’t betraying her.

Too ashamed to elaborate, Sagramor accepted it back with a mumble of gratitude. “Do you mind if I join you?” asked the Dalish girl. “I was hoping we could talk a bit before the clan departed.”

“I’d be honoured, but would the Keeper mind you seeing me like this?”

Great green eyes blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” the Warden shifted uncomfortably upon the log, uncomfortably aware of how his heart quickened in her presence. “I know with many humans, having a young man and woman left alone together at night might cause a scandal. I’m not sure how it is with the Dalish, and after all you’ve done for us, I’d hate to cause you any trouble.”

“Why would they consider it scandalous?” Merrill asked guilelessly, taking a seat beside him.

“Do humans not like to talk to each other?”

“They do. It’s just that some people worry that talking will lead to something more.”

“Lead to-- ohh!” A deep blush spread over her alabaster features. “Well, the way the clan looks at me these days, speaking with you can hardly make things worse. They might even approve if we did… dirty things, if only to bring fresh blood into the clan. Not that I want to become your lover, of course.” A moment passed, and Merrill turned away in embarrassment, hands flying to her mouth. “Creators, that’s not what I meant! I mean, you are very handsome, and I’m sure your bloodline is strong and… Mythal'enaste, it gets stuffy at night sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” Sagramor remarked dryly, unable to keep himself from smiling. “You are beautiful, Merrill, and were circumstances different, I would be happy to court you.” Her blush deepening yet further, the Warden continued, eager to clear the air between them. “But that is not to be. First off, my duty to the Order must take priority with a Blight raging. I cannot break that oath, nor am I the sort to bed a woman and then move on. Second, my heart belongs to another. I can’t expect her to feel the same way, but I… I can’t ignore the way I feel about her either.”

“She sounds very wonderful.”

“You’re right, she is.” There was more he longed to say, of blue eyes so deep and beautiful he’d willingly drown in them forever, of scarlet hair lovely as fine Orlesian silk, of generous, pouty lips he yearned to feel against his own, of a cunning mind whose counsel he could not do without and a kind heart that inspired him to be a hero worthy of her… Instead, he let discretion rule his tongue, keenly aware of how he’d embarrassed himself of late. “Last, Mahariel was special to you, wasn’t she?”

Green eyes blossomed with fresh tears. “Yes. Yes, she was.”

Sagramor extended a hand, and Merrill took it, sobs dying as he gave her a comforting squeeze. “Then you deserve the chance to grieve without distraction. I didn’t know her, but from what little I saw, she seemed like a great person.”

“She was. I keep telling myself that tears won’t bring her back, but every time I think about her, I just can’t seem to stop.”

“There is no shame in grief. I lost my mother a few years ago, and while that’s a different kind of love, I know what you’re going through. You’re a good person, Merrill. You deserve better than to waste your days in regret.”

“Even though I’m a blood mage?”

The question was calmly asked, but pointedly, and just as the night before, Sagramor could offer nothing but the truth. “Yes, even then. You stood up for us, Merrill, even when it would have been easier to keep silent or support the Keeper. I’m still not comfortable with that kind of magic, and I never will be, but you’ve earned my trust all the same.”

Sighing, Merrill cuffed away her tears. “Thank you so much. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you hate us? The Dalish, I mean.” Sensing his confusion, Merrill hastily explained. “I just hear all this talk from my clanmates about how the city folk knowingly turned their backs on our true heritage, and that they’ve been raised to hate us for worshipping our own gods instead of the human one. I don’t think it’s true, judging from you and Pol. Then again, I suppose we haven’t done a good job of earning your loyalty.”

“What, you think I’m going to condemn you for being ‘too elfy’? I’m not a moron,” Sagramor scoffed. “Merrill, the instant I start condemning an entire group for the actions of a few, whether it’s the Dalish or humans or even nobles, I am lost, and not even the Maker could bring me back then. I save my contempt for Marethari; she’s the Keeper, she made the decision to break oath, so she can bear the responsibility. I’ll never hate the Dalish, Merrill. Upon my honour, I swear it.”

Sighing in relief, Merrill rose from her seat, hands wringing nervously as she paced about. “Thank you. I knew it, I just had to make absolutely certain before…”

“Before what?”

Merrill took a deep breath. “Every First and Keeper of the Dalish swears an oath that they will never bring harm to our people or betray the Dalish to an outsider. I’m going to break that promise. I wouldn’t do so normally, but--”

“It’s fine, Merrill,” Sagramor assured her. “You don’t need to break that promise, not for my sake.”

“There is every need,” Merrill insisted, and in her voice echoed the strength and pride of an ancient culture, unbowed and unbroken despite all it had endured over the ages, her eyes made hard by a will of steel. “You helped me end Mahariel’s suffering, even when the clan turned its back on her. I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay. Besides, your cause is a worthy one, and it doesn’t seem fair that you should face such dangers only to leave us empty-handed. There is another clan that might be able to help you.”

“Go on,” Sagramor expressed, instantly rapt.

“They are the Oberon Clan. Their leader, Zathrian, is said to be one of the wisest and most powerful of the Keepers.” Merrill’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve even heard he has regained the immortality of our ancestors!”

“The immortality of…” Sagramor fumbled for his words.

“Oh, right, I don’t suppose I got around to telling you about that,” apologized the Dalish girl, assuming the air of a teacher instructing a prized pupil. “Long ago, the Creators blessed our ancestors with the gift of immortality, so that we might endure for as long as our world would. It is only after Arlathan fell to the Tevinter Imperium and the Dread Wolf sealed away the gods that we began to age and sicken as the humans do.”

“So how did he manage it, then?”

“No one knows. Perhaps the Creators are coming back, or his magic helped him find a way. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to spend even a few minutes learning what he has to teach!” she proclaimed with a wistful sigh. “From what I understand, he holds great sway with many of the other Keepers. Marethari speaks highly of him. And even if he cannot convince them to aid you, it is said that the Oberon Clan is a powerful one. Their strength alone could make a difference.”

“And where will we find them?”

“It is said they camp frequently along the western edges of the Brecilian Forest, at least from what the Keeper has mentioned.” She must have seen the flicker of disappointment cross his gaunt features, for she hastily tried to elaborate. “If I knew exactly where they were, I’d tell you, but I simply can’t be certain. Every ten years, we Dalish all gather for an Arlathvhen, but beyond that, each clan is free to wander where it wills. I know it’s not much…”

“I appreciate it, Merrill, thank you,” Sagramor assured her. In truth, there were far too many qualifications for his liking, and half-remembered rumours about a clan forever on the move seemed far too ephemeral upon which to place their hopes. Still, in that regard, it was no different than the promise of Andraste’s Sacred Ashes or even the Warden treaties themselves, frail threads to guide them from the darkness of a Blight, something to believe in even as the world burned around them. He had no doubts about Merrill’s sincerity either. Telling him even this much likely constituted a breach of her oath, so she had no reason to hold anything back. “We were already planning on looking for the Dalish in the Brecilian, so it’s good to know about who exactly we might find. I’m grateful for everything you’ve told me, and I swear, I will never use this knowledge to harm the Dalish in any way.”

“Oh, good! I knew you could put it to good use!” Merrill expressed, hugely relieved. “So, where are you going next?”

“Denerim,” said Sagramor, briefly explaining their quest for the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. “I just hope it doesn’t end up being a waste of time. Strictly speaking, hunting down ancient relics isn’t within the Order’s remit.”

“You’ll succeed, I’m certain of it.” The Dalish girl cocked her head quizzically. “This… Redcliffe place, it is important?”

“It’s the most powerful fortress in western Ferelden, and the people who live there are worthy allies. I’m still not convinced the Urn can be fond, but for their sake, I’m willing to try.”

“Have they… have they ever mistreated you because you’re an elf?” Merrill asked.

Sagramor shook his head. “It’s hard to hate someone for being different after they’ve defeated an army of undead to save your skin. I can’t pretend that every single citizen of Redcliffe treats our people equally, but by and large, they’ve been extremely helpful. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” Merrill demurred. “Thank you for everything, Sagramor. I know this has been disappointing for you, but I’m still glad we met.”

“As am I.” Odd as it might be saying so to a blood mage, it was the truth, and both duty and compassion demanded he pose one last question. “Are you going to be okay here with your clan? There’s a place for you with us, and we could certainly use the help.” Maker, Alistair’s going to kill me…

“It’s a very kind offer,” said Merrill, visibly tempted, before finally shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Sagramor, I can’t. My clanmates and I don’t always agree, but they’re still my family, and with a Blight raging, they will need my help more than ever… even if they’ll never admit it. Besides, someone has to hold the Keeper to her promise.” She turned away from him, ashamed. “Guess we Dalish can’t stop letting you down, huh?”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Merrill,” Sagramor reassured her, disappointed though not surprised. Whatever disagreements she was having with her clanmates, leaving them entirely was a massive step, especially for someone she’d only just met. “You’re not the first person I’ve asked who put her family first. Just be careful, all right? Our people have lost too much as it is. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“I… I’ll try not to disappoint you,” Merrill stammered. “I should get back before the Keeper notices I’m missing. Still, let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

The memory of an old promise, eagerly given, drew Sagramor’s gaze over towards Leliana’s tent. “As a matter of fact… do you know anything about flowers?”

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

At the nudge of great paws, Sagramor came awake, the sound of voices raised in anger beyond the canvas walls proof enough that Ragnar had done well in rousing him. Pausing only to offer the warhound some grateful pets, Sagramor dressed, buckled on his cloak and greatsword, and was racing towards the disturbance, armour left behind in his haste. A dozen paces past his tent, Alistair greeted him with a rueful smile. “Sorry for not getting to you sooner, Sagramor, I was just about to wake you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sagramor demurred, heart dropping at the sight of Keeper Marethari and a dozen Dalish hunters staring down his gathered companions. Behind them, the rest of the Sabrae Clan was trickling in to witness the drama, the mutterings of discontent rippling through their growing number setting Sagramor’s teeth on edge. “Now what’s all this about?”

At his Keeper’s right hand, Fenarel greeted the question with a sneer. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Warden. Now which one of your minions did it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Sabrae Clan believes that one of us trespassed in their camp last night,” Wynne explained, her glacial calm a welcome counterbalance to the growing anger radiating from the Dalish. “Apparently, a series of messenger birds were released without Keeper Marethari’s permission.”

“You mean those ravens I saw in your aravel?” asked Sagramor, receiving a tight nod from Marethari in answer. “Did anyone get a glimpse of the culprit?”

“No, we saw nothing,” Fenarel admitted through gritted teeth, his anger at this supposed dereliction projected against the Warden’s company. “What about this golden-eyed witch of yours? She had to gall to try and take our lore for her own. Who knows what else she’s capable of?”

Morrigan offered a smile with far too many teeth for comfort. “You dare accuse me of such a thing? It seems you possess some measure of courage after all. Still, you are wrong in this. I have far better things to do with my time than skulk about your camp like a thief in the night. And I did not try and take knowledge of the Keeper arts, I offered to trade for it, lore for lore.”

“So you say.”

“Morrigan is innocent,” Sagramor insisted calmly but firmly. “If you have evidence proving otherwise, then show me, and I will hold her accountable. But she has earned my trust, just like all my companions have. None of them would go behind my back to violate your hospitality, I swear it.”

Fenarel scoffed again, even as the Keeper remained silent. “Should have figured the flat-ear would side with the humans. Typical.”

Zevran’s blades whispered free of their scabbards, while the tip of Nimue’s black walnut staff burned white-hot in sympathetic anger. Sagramor’s patience, already worn down by Marethari’s refusal to honour the treaty, gave way completely, and before he could stop himself, he was face to face to Fenarel. At his side, Ragnar mirrored his master’s anger, several hundred pounds of lethal warhound ready to pounce, fangs bared in a vicious snarl. “What did you just call me?”

“You heard me, Warden,” Fenarel spat, any pretense of civility or respect discarded. “Did your mother never teach you right from wrong, so that you would side with your own kind?”

“Let me tell you what my mother taught me,” Sagramor answered, tense as a bowstring at full draw at mention of his mother. “I learned that I must always choose to be a good man, no matter what the world throws at me. I learned to always protect the things and people that truly matter, whatever the cost, instead of running away into the woods and turning my back upon the innocent. My mother was a good woman, ser. She never let the world’s darkness warp her into something she was not. She never lost hope or answered hatred with hatred. Even in death, she remained true, and scum like you are not fit to speak of her!”

Blanching, Fenarel stumbled backwards, and Sagramor advanced with a lupine smile, anger blinding him to the half-dozen Dalish arrows levelled at him. Only when a gloved hand fell upon his right shoulder and anxious blue eyes pierced the veil of his rage did Sagramor come to his senses, and with great effort, he forced himself to calm, offering Leliana a grateful nod at her intervention. “I do not answer to oathbreakers and cowards, but for diplomacy’s sake, Keeper, I will indulge you this once. My companions did not intrude upon your camp, and I will face any ten of your so-called warriors on the field of honour to prove their innocence.”

“Then if you didn’t do it, then who?” a voice cried out from amongst the crowd, echoed a moment later by a dozen others.

“I did.”

Two words, so softly spoken, cut through the tumult like a knife, and as one, the entire assembly turned to see Merrill approach, the butt of her staff rapping upon the earth. “Merrill?” asked Sagramor.

“I sent the messenger ravens to seek out our sister clans here in Ferelden, those with the courage and honour to stand alongside the Grey Wardens,” the Dalish girl continued, as if Sagramor had not spoken. “They will know of the threat facing this land, and of the heroes fighting it. When Sagramor and his friends next find a Dalish clan, our people will not be found wanting again.”

For the first time since confronting the Warden’s party, Marethari spoke. “Why? Why do this without my leave, da’len?”

Merrill slammed her staff down a second time, like a gavel of a magistrate passing judgment, lightning dancing at the tip. “Because we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit, not to fear or hatred or bitterness or despair. Are we so afraid that we dare not risk doing the right thing?” she demanded. “Have we become so selfish that speaking a few words of the old tongue justifies turning our backs on the world? Sagramor and his friends played no part in what I did, Keeper; the choice was mine alone and I will accept any punishment you see fit. But I could not stand by and do nothing while our world burns at the touch of the darkspawn!”

“There was no need for such subterfuge!” insisted Marethari. “I would have sent them out in due time.”

“Would you?”

Marethari’s mien darkened like a thundercloud, though she did not challenge the accusation, and in the bitter silence that followed, Merrill crossed over to the Warden’s party and threw her arms around Sagramor. “I hope this will help, even a little bit,” she whispered.

“It will,” Sagramor answered truthfully, blushing at her pleasurable closeness. The notion that a Dalish clan might seek them out at Redcliffe on the strength of her message alone was the second slim hope she’d offered, and as before, he embraced it without hesitation. “Are you going to be all right here?” he asked, conscious of the venomous glares her clanmates were sending her way.

“Merrill, come here!” Marethari’s outraged cry interjected before Merrill could answer, though whether her anger came from her apprentice’s deception or from seeing her embracing the Warden, Sagramor could not be certain. “It is time you and your company were on your way, Grey Warden. You have a duty, apparently.”

“Kicking us out so soon?” Shale asked, even more sarcastically than usual. “And here I was, hoping to enjoy more of its hospitality.”

Smiling ruefully, Merrill leaned over and kissed Sagramor on the cheek. “May the Creators watch over you and your companions, my friend, and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

“And you,” said Sagramor, trying to ignore the unexpected pang at her parting. A final glance over the sullen ranks of the Sabrae Clan told him they would find no more aid here, not even from Pol, shrinking away from his gaze. Too much of what his mother had cautioned against, he saw in them; of strength squandered by an unwillingness to use it for something greater than themselves, of lives driven by bitterness instead of hope, and save for the blood mage returning to her teacher’s side, he could not stand to be among them a second more. “Pack up, everyone, we’re moving out,” he instructed the party, before offering Marethari a stiff bow. “You’re right, honoured Keeper, we do have a duty.”

And unlike some, I have no intention of abandoning it…

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

More than one human scholar had remarked that no force on Thedas could outmarch a clan of the Dalish when pressed, and the Sabrae Clan seemed intent on proving that boast true, eager to leave the sorrows of Ferelden behind. By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the night’s campsite was a memory leagues distant, the Warden’s party largely dismissed as likewise irrelevant, and all throughout their caravan, Marethari sensed a new optimism spreading as her sorcery parted the trees before them, the prospect of never again falling prey to the Blight raising the spirits of the entire tribe. Yet standing on the upper deck of her aravel, the Keeper’s own thoughts remained bitter, not even the focus needed to maintain her spellwork driving the worries from her mind.

Chief among them was her apprentice, mewed up inside her aravel under strict orders to remain until further notice. Creators, where did I go wrong with her? Marethari lamented inwardly. It was bad enough Merrill had fallen into blood magic, but siding with outsiders over her own clan, even if they were Wardens? A Keeper must stay true to herself, and not be so easily swayed by such outside influences. No matter what Merrill said, Marethari doubted she ever would have gone behind her back like she did without the instigation of this Sagramor, and the thought of her apprentice being taken advantage of sent a pulse of purest anger through her heart.

“Keeper?” Fenarel’s voice sounded at the edges of her hearing, and Marethari blinked, turning to face the hunter captain, who immediately dropped his gaze in deference. “Are you all right?”

“Of course, lethallin,” she insisted, concealing her dismay. Such was her distraction that her sorceries had failed mid-incantation, both the woods before her and the rest of the caravan behind left unmoving as a result. Dozens of faces peered from every motionless aravel, anxious at the sudden and unexpected delay, and she forced herself to offer a reassuring smile. A Keeper must never lose control, for how can she govern her clan if she cannot govern herself? “We will be on our way again shortly. Please, calm the others for me.”

Nodding, Fenarel went about it, and Marethari smiled at his eagerness. It had been a hard road for them all, but perhaps none moreso than him, who’d been forced to step into the shoes once filled by dear friends so tragically lost. He would lead the clan’s hunters to glory in time.

Even if he was far too eager to embrace her dishonour.

Not for the first time, Marethari cursed the day she’d accepted the witch’s offer of aid. For years, the spectre of the bargain she’d made had hung over her, unseen by all, made even more troubling by the realization that she would be called upon to repay that debt at the one time she could not afford to do so. Never in her darkest moments, however, did she ever imagine it would be during a Blight.

Or that she would have to sacrifice her clan’s honour in the process.

Sighing, Marethari tried to focus, the magic answering her call and sending the trees ahead parting like waves before a ship’s prow. Regrets were pointless, for she’d made her choice and would live with the consequences as they came. After all, in the end, the anger of Wardens and Firsts, however justified, was but temporary.

But the wrath of Asha'bellanar was eternal…