The Calling

13

The guard studied the group with a wary eye as he peeked through the massive gate’s shuttered window. The livery of a horned stag on a black background hung from the battlements. Duncan didn’t recognize it, but he assumed it was Orlesian. The guard’s accent seemed to confirm that. “M’lord doesn’t take in travelers,” he sneered.

Maric glanced back at the rest of them, clearly asking for ideas. They had spent the better part of the afternoon traveling through the marshes before they’d seen the remote outpost. It had appeared out of the mist, ivy creeping up its cracked stone walls and greyish moss hanging down. It was as if the marsh was busily trying to reclaim the place, and yet it endured nobly.

There was a single keep within the walls and a small courtyard, room for no more than perhaps a hundred men, according to Kell’s estimation. The sort of outpost the Empire built on the fringes of its borders, watching for incursions even if none had materialized for centuries beyond counting. They were convenient places for out-of-favor aristocrats to be exiled, though Duncan knew that some noblemen took these frontier assignments seriously and tried to make an honest go of it. They brought law to the local villages and attempted to clear the wilds of outlaws and pagan worship. This place, however, looked as if it was barely holding its own against the murky marsh around it, and if there was any local population to speak of, they hadn’t seen evidence of it. This was a cold and wet wilderness, full of snakes, and certainly an inhospitable place to build anything.

Duncan shrugged, and neither Kell nor Utha appeared to offer anything better. Maric sighed and turned back to the waiting guard at the window. “We’re looking for someone. A friend.”

The guard squinted at Maric. “We don’t have no Fereldans here.”

“She’s not Fereldan. She’s Orlesian, perhaps the captain of the guard? Her name is Genevieve.”

“What’s that? I don’t know anybody by that name! She certainly isn’t the captain, ’less he up and turned himself into a woman when I wasn’t looking! Begone, all of you!” The guard made to close the shutter, but paused as someone behind him mumbled something indistinct. Duncan strained to hear but couldn’t make it out. The guard merely grunted and looked back at Maric. “My friend here says the new seneschal’s wife goes by that name. That her?”

“Most like, yes.”

“What’s your business, then? We’ve had our fill of travelers in these parts. We don’t open up the gates for no one without His Lordship’s say. So if you got some message to pass on, I’ll take it and you lot can be on your way.”

Maric paused, and Duncan could see his mind working rapidly—and coming up with nothing. The King of Ferelden was not much of a bluffer, it seemed. Duncan was hardly surprised. “Tell her that her brother is here to see her,” he spoke up.

The guard pressed his face against the trap window, rolling his eyes around so he could clearly see who spoke. “That you?”

Duncan was tempted to say it was Maric, but the panicked look in the man’s eyes said that wasn’t likely to be a good idea. Too bad, as the only other person who could pass believably as Genevieve’s brother would be Kell, and he was an even worse liar than the King. “Half brother.” He nodded. “My name is Bregan.”

The guard chewed his lip thoughtfully, eyeing Duncan’s swarthy skin. Finally he grunted. “We’ll see what she has to say about it, then. Wait here, you lot.” The window slammed shut with a loud clack.

Maric frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea?” he whispered.

“You got a better one?”

Utha made a complex gesture to Kell, and the hunter shrugged in response. “I don’t know who this seneschal might be,” he said to her. “I know very little about our Commander beyond her life with the order.”

The dwarf nodded as if to say that she was no better off.

They waited in the mist for quite some time, listening to some unknown bird cawing off in the distant marshes. When the shutters clacked open again, it startled them all. “You there,” the guard growled, looking at Duncan. “She said she’ll see her brother. The rest of you can wait outside.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Maric asked. “We only—”

“It’s the seneschal’s orders.” The guard slammed the window shut again and a moment later the gate doors creaked open. The courtyard beyond was mostly mud, with only one gnarled tree covered in hanging moss growing next to a smithy and a dilapidated stable. The stable appeared to contain few actual horses, and most of the foot traffic seemed to be between the keep and the larger tower next to the gate. There were a handful of soldiers in sight, all men wearing ill-fitting chain hauberks and the same stag-on-black livery as above the gate.

The weary guard waved Duncan inside, and he had little choice but to go. Maric met his gaze as he passed, and that look seemed to say, It’s all up to you now, lad. Which was wonderful, really. Just excellent. Duncan should have learned a long time ago when to keep his fool mouth shut.

He waited in the mud as they closed the gate behind him. It made a loud and final thoom as it shut. The guard walked up to him and waved at another standing nearby. This was a much younger man, younger than Duncan even, with his armor looking as if it were made for someone much larger. His helmet kept falling in front of his eyes, and he kept needing to push it back up.

“Take this one up to the seneschal’s quarters,” the guard barked. “No dawdling!”

The younger guard bobbed his head nervously and began trotting off toward the keep. He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following, so Duncan sighed and ran after him.

Their path took them under the keep’s portcullis, so rusted he doubted whether it had been lowered in years. Tall reeds grew along the wall. Inside the keep things were much tidier, if dark. There were few windows, and the low ceilings made the passages feel cramped, but the young guard seemed to know where he was going. He urged Duncan to keep up with him as he steered clear of the small inner hall with all its tables and chairs and instead took them down a narrow side passage to a long set of stairs.

“So what is this place called?” Duncan asked as they climbed.

The young man looked at him, surprised. “This is the Garrote. Don’t you know?”

“Is that really its name?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I can’t remember what it’s called on the map. Even His Lordship calls it the Garrote. They say the Nahashin Marshes will choke the life out of you.”

“Clever.”

The stairs led up to the floor where Duncan assumed the lord and his family lived, as well as senior members of the castle staff. A tiny sitting room appointed with a fancy Antivan rug opened up onto several groups of cramped apartments. A young girl with red pigtails and a plain grey dress sat in the corner and looked up at them with interest, but the young guard ignored her and took them into one of the apartments.

The oaken door was open, and inside was another chamber, this one with barely room to move in. It was filled with a small desk piled with papers, with only a stool to sit on. Several swords leaned against a wall, and a lone lantern hung from a hook to offer a bit of light. Two doors led farther in, but both of them were closed.

“When you’re done, ser, I’ll be just down the stairs.” The young guard spun on his heel and marched unceremoniously out the door, closing it behind him.

Duncan looked around the room. He didn’t see much that reminded him of Genevieve, apart from the swords. She obviously wasn’t the seneschal, so what was she doing here at the castle? Was she still a Grey Warden? Was she just part of the garrison here, or maybe a bodyguard to the local lord? He couldn’t picture a proud warrior doing something so unimportant, but he supposed her dream was her own.

One of the doors opened, and Duncan turned to see a figure in plate armor walk in, distractedly carry ing several long scrolls under one arm and trying not to drop them. This was no woman, however, but a man. He had piercing blue eyes and black hair with grey at the temples, as well as a distinguished-looking short beard. He stopped and regarded Duncan curiously, and Duncan suddenly realized who it was.

Guy. The Grey Warden he had murdered.

“You’re not Bregan,” the man said in a friendly, if puzzled, tone. He walked over to the small desk and unloaded the scrolls on top of all the papers already there. Several of them were pushed off and floated lazily to the ground. He studied Duncan again, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I told them not to bring anyone else inside. Bregan is here, is he not? Does he not wish to see us?”

Duncan opened his mouth and tried to form words, but he couldn’t. In retrospect, it should have been obvious that he would find the man here. Guy had been Genevieve’s fiancé when he died. It’s only natural that her fondest wish would be for him to have lived, and for her to have married him. Duncan knew almost nothing about him, however. For understandable reasons the other Grey Wardens had been reluctant to discuss the man with his murderer. He was well thought of, a good man who had known Genevieve most of her life, and who followed her into the order. That’s all he knew.

Guy’s puzzlement increased as Duncan remained silent, then he became alarmed. “Has something happened?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Bregan … he still lives? Has something happened to him?”

“No, he’s … fine,” Duncan managed.

“Ah.” The man nodded and then looked expectant, waiting for the real explanation. He was interrupted by the other door opening and a woman walking in. She wore a long grey dress, and had long white hair that cascaded down her back. She was full-figured and kind-looking, her face worn with smile lines, and Duncan did a double take as he realized this was Genevieve. Not the warrior he knew, with her cropped white hair and hard, muscular features, but merely Guy’s wife.

She smiled at Duncan, but seeing his stunned expression and his gaping mouth, she looked quizzically at her husband. “Is something amiss?” she asked him.

“I can’t truly tell. I was told your brother was here, and I thought it a surprise so I didn’t tell you. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Bregan?” she exclaimed excitedly, her smile lighting up her face as she turned back to Duncan. “Is he really here? Is there news? Oh, do tell me! It’s been ever so long since I’ve heard from him!”

The warm-hearted gushing was too bizarre. She might as well have grown antlers on her head; he couldn’t stop staring. They were both waiting for a response, however, so he had to pull himself together. “I, uh,” he stammered, “need to speak to Genevieve. Alone.”

Concern crossed her eyes, and she glanced at Guy. “Bad news, then,” he said grimly. “I need to speak with Lord Ambrose anyhow. Shout if you need me, love.” He kissed her warmly on the forehead, though she hardly noticed, she was staring at Duncan so intently. With one final wary look his way, Guy walked out to the sitting room, softly closing the door to the apartment behind him.

Genevieve stared at Duncan with dread. He felt immeasurably better now that Guy was gone, but he didn’t know what to say. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that he was wrong.

If anything, her stare intensified. “I don’t know what, exactly?”

“That this”—he gestured around him—“is a dream. It’s not real.”

She peered at him, trying to piece together what he was actually saying, as if it couldn’t possibly be what she thought. Then she frowned. “This is what you came to tell me? Is this some form of joke?”

“It’s not a joke. Don’t you remember me? My name is Duncan.”

“Is Bregan even here? Do you even know my brother?” Genevieve angrily strode past Duncan to the door behind him. “I’m not going to put up with such nonsense, I’ll tell you that. My husband will have you put in the dungeon!”

“Wait!” He grabbed her by the shoulder. She spun around, not frightened but instead glaring at him in outrage. “Tell me you haven’t had a dream where you were a warrior!” he pleaded. “A Grey Warden, leading the rest of us on an important mission!”

“That was just a dream.” The doubt in her eyes, however, told him differently. She didn’t pull away from his grip, and she didn’t open the door to leave.

“Are you sure? How would I even know about your dream other wise?”

“No, this can’t be.” She shook her head, and when she finally noticed that he was holding her shoulder, she pulled it free. She paced to the other side of the room, anxiously wringing her hands. “That dream, it was horrible! This must be some kind of trick!”

“You’re the Commander of the Grey in Orlais. It’s no trick.”

“I haven’t picked up a sword in years! There was a Grey Warden who came to our village when I was young, and he spoke about recruitment, but I was not good enough. My brother convinced me to give it up! No, I remember that clearly!”

“But it’s not true.”

“It is!” She shook her fist at him, her voice taking on a tone of desperation. “My brother is a chevalier, a general in the Empress’s army! He has a wife, and a son! He is nothing like the miserable man in my dream!”

“He is a Grey Warden, like you. Or he was. We’re searching for him.”

“No, no!” She turned away, putting her hands to her head as if she needed to keep it from exploding. Duncan was growing a bit worried that perhaps he was pushing too hard. But what else was he supposed to do? It’s not like he could leave and come back some other time when she’d had a chance to think about it. “I saw him just two months ago! He brought my nephew, and he is so deliriously happy!” She stopped, stunned, and slowly turned back to glare at Duncan dangerously. “What about Guy? Are you saying that he doesn’t exist, as well?”

He took a step back. He remembered that look. If there was anything about this woman who reminded him of the warrior he knew, there it was. Did that make it a good thing? He couldn’t tell. “He … died.”

“He’s alive,” she insisted, her voice steel. “You’re trying to take my husband away from me, the one thing that has made my life worth living. The one thing I cherish above anything else!”

“I’m not!” he protested. “You don’t have a husband!”

“Only because you murdered him!” she roared, her face red with rage. She made as if she were going to charge Duncan, her fists raised, but she stopped herself almost immediately. Her whole body shook with fury, but her eyes blinked with horrified realization.

“And how would you know that,” he asked slowly, “unless you knew who I was?” He cautiously approached her. “Because you do know, don’t you? You just don’t want to know.”

With a scream of rage, Genevieve dashed across the room, scooping up one of the swords leaning against the wall and spinning on Duncan. He saw the murder in her eyes and had his knives out even as she rushed at him. He parried her first blow, but her second almost tore one of the daggers from his hand. This was not the fighting of a woman who hadn’t picked up a blade in years, but of a seasoned veteran.

“Stop!” he shouted, but she pressed the attack. Grimacing, she made one hard slash after the other, pushing him backwards until he almost tripped. In such close quarters his daggers should actually have had the advantage, but he didn’t want to hurt her. Though he didn’t want to get hurt, either.

Duncan darted his dagger out at the hand holding her sword, trying to disarm her, but she was too quick for him. Pirouetting, she bashed his forearm aside and then lunged forward, throwing him against the wall and shoving the sword’s edge against his throat. It held there, pressing hard enough that he felt its bite against his skin. It made him choke, and he pulled his head back, trying not to swallow.

She peered coldly into his eyes, mere inches from his face. This was definitely the Genevieve he knew, despite her appearance. She could cut his throat in the blink of an eye, and he was helpless to prevent it. Could he be killed in the Fade? Would that mean his body would simply die back in the real world? A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, the moment stretching into forever as neither of them made a single sound.

Finally she pulled back on the sword’s edge ever so slightly. He gasped and swallowed hard. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” she demanded.

“You’re the Commander! We need you!”

“This is a good life,” she said, her voice low and filled with steel. “Bregan is happy. I am happy. Guy is alive. And most important, I’ve never had anything to do with the Grey Wardens and especially little bastards like you.”

Her last words bit hard. He stared at her in disbelief, unable to formulate a response.

“What did you think?” she snapped. “That I would recruit the murderer of the man I loved as a reward? It was a punishment. I wanted to be a Grey Warden, but my brother made it a misery. He hated it, and knowing that he joined because of me made me hate it. You took away the one thing that allowed me to forget.”

“I’m sorry… .”

“No, I’m sorry.” She gritted her teeth, the anger making her shake. “I was so certain that you would die in the Joining, that you would get just a taste of what Guy and the rest of us had to go through. Enough for you to choke on. But you survived. The Maker played yet one more joke on me.”

“But I thought—”

“You’ve proven useful,” she cut him off, her tone ice cold. “You have some skill, and you get things done. You’ve made a fine Grey Warden.” She sneered at him. “Congratulations.”

They stared at each other a moment longer, and then she pushed herself away from him. “Go,” she said. “Go back to the others and get out of here. I won’t be retrieved, not by you. Not by anyone.” He dropped down to the floor, coughing and choking and clutching his throat. He could feel blood where the blade had left a shallow cut. She stepped back, looking at him with a hateful glare, and he could do nothing but stare back at her blankly.

Was that what she really felt? He’d always wondered. He’d never thought she’d held any love for him after what he’d done, but to hate him so? Why keep him close, then? Why not send him away to some other Grey Warden fortress as soon as she became a commander? She had that authority.

“I don’t believe you,” he insisted.

She snorted derisively. “What do you believe, then?”

“I believe you’re better than that. I look up to you. You saved me from that cell, and I know it’s because you thought you were doing the right thing. I think you’re just trying to make me leave.”

Genevieve sighed, her face calming. “Then go.”

“So you’re just going to stay here, then? Live a lie?”

“I’ve had my fill of truth.”

He nodded slowly, rubbing his neck and clearing his throat several times. It felt almost as if his larynx had been crushed. “So you’re going to give up. Just like Nicolas.”

She frowned, putting the sword down on the desk with all its scrolls and papers. More of them fell to the floor. Then she glanced up at Duncan. “What do you mean? What has he done?”

“He’s with Julien. He refused to come with us. He’d rather die in the Fade.”

A bit of sadness crossed Genevieve’s eyes and she glanced down at the floor. “He deserves that much, if that’s what he wants.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“Why not?” she snapped irritably. “Would reality be such an improvement? Is it such a crime to be with the one you love? Let the man be with Julien. Let them both have some peace.”

“But it’s not Julien he’s with.”

“You don’t know that. They say the spirits of the dead cross the Fade. I have no trouble believing that Julien’s spirit would stay with Nicolas, if he found him here in the Fade.”

Duncan paused. “Is that what you think Guy is?”

Genevieve stared off in the direction of the door, as if she could see through it. There was a yearning in her expression. A desire for something she had denied herself long ago. As a shadow slowly crossed over her eyes, he knew her answer. “No,” she admitted bitterly.

An awkward silence ensued. Duncan picked himself up off the floor as she stood where she was, rigid and pointedly not looking at him. She hung her head, her mouth twisted into an unhappy grimace. The silence was interrupted as the door to the apartment suddenly flew open, and Guy rushed in.

“What’s happening here?” he demanded, staring with alarm first at Duncan and then at his wife. “I was told there was shouting? Fighting?”

“Nothing’s happening,” Genevieve said flatly. She didn’t look at him, either.

His gaze fell upon the sword on the desk, and his mouth thinned. He glanced at Duncan suspiciously. “Are you certain?” he asked Genevieve. “I can have this young man sent away; there’s no need to have him here upsetting you, love.”

“No,” she said. Then she simply stood there, staring intently at the ground. Duncan wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. Was he supposed to leave? Was she ignoring him now? Guy glanced at him with a mixture of confusion and questioning. He didn’t know any better than Duncan did, but clearly he knew something was very wrong.

He leaned in close to Genevieve, putting a hand on her shoulder until she looked up at him. Tears reddened her eyes. “What’s wrong, my love?” he pleaded. “Please tell me.”

“I need to go.”

“Go? Go where? When will you be back?”

Genevieve wiped away her tears and clenched her teeth. She put a hand on Guy’s face, staring at him as if she was memorizing his every feature. Then she kissed him on the lips, tenderly. His brow knotted in confusion. “Soon, I hope,” she whispered.

And with that the keep around them vanished. Duncan was almost startled by the transition, stumbling as the wall behind him faded away. They were back in a plain of rock, with the endless skies of the Fade overhead. Genevieve was in her heavy armor and her Grey Warden tunic, her white hair cut short once again. She stared at the ground, clenching her jaw, and did not move.

From not far away, Maric and the others ran up. “You did it!” he shouted.

“I guess I did,” Duncan muttered. He kept his eye on Genevieve, however, and saw her close her eyes and collect her will. The hard edges had all returned, but then perhaps they had never quite gone away, had they?

Behind the others, he saw the elven woman with the blond curls, Katriel, slowly approach. Maric stiffened, spotting her at the same time that Duncan did. Genevieve noticed her, as well, and when she did she drew her greatsword in alarm.

“Wait!” Maric shouted, holding up a hand to stop her.

Genevieve’s didn’t lower her sword. “Why? Who is this?”

“Someone I … once knew.”

“Then it is a demon!” She charged toward Katriel, who remained where she was and barely looked at her attacker. Instead, she watched Maric with her sad green eyes. The elf had met them each time they had returned from a dream, and each time she had seemed more desperately sad. Maric was the same way. Duncan could see his heart breaking each time he saw her.

Maric ran after Genevieve now, catching her just before she reached the elf. He grabbed hold of her armor and pulled her back, though it was a struggle. “Stop! She can help us!” he insisted. Kell and Utha looked on, concerned, but did not intervene.

The Commander stared at Maric as if the man were mad. “Help us? A demon?”

He paused, and looked unhappily toward Katriel. For her part, she continued to simply watch him. Genevieve stepped back, scowling with disapproval but keeping her sword at the ready. Maric approached the elf closely, apprehensive and fearful all at once. “Will you help us? Face the demon?” he asked her, his voice small.

She looked at him, her expression pensive. “No,” she admitted. “And you should not go to face it, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I love you.” When he recoiled from her words, anguished, she rushed forward to him. Tears streaked down her face and she became frantic. “Maric, the demon will kill you! Don’t go to your death, not for duty! Not always for duty!”

“I made a promise,” he mumbled.

He tried to look away from Katriel, but she reached up with her hands and clutched at his chin, attempting to make him look at her and crying even more forcefully. He fought against it, but weakly, and when she finally looked him in the eyes, tears were streaming down his face, as well.

“Let them go and do this task,” she whispered urgently, her voice racked with emotion. “Have you not sacrificed enough?”

“I need to save her.”

“There are others to save. Others trapped in the Fade, living in an endless dream.” She kept her eyes fixed on his, her plea desperate. “You mother is here, Maric. We could save her together. Please … don’t go.”

Maric flinched, his eyes filled with stark pain, but he didn’t look away from Katriel. For a long moment there was only silence. Then her expression slowly became resigned, and she nodded desolately. More tears streamed down her cheeks. Duncan felt almost embarrassed to watch, and even Genevieve turned away with a grimace. “I understand,” the elf whispered.

“I wish I could ask you to forgive me.”

She reached up and tenderly brushed aside his hair with a sad smile. “Forgive yourself,” she said. “And forget me.” Then she turned around and walked away. Maric remained where he was, watching her leave. He seemed calm, almost serene. Duncan wasn’t certain why.

It made him doubt. Maybe there were good spirits in the Fade and not just demons. Maybe ghosts were real. Maybe the Maker truly did watch over His children and helped the ones that needed Him the most.

Or maybe it had all been one last trick to try to lure Maric away.

Duncan was suddenly glad they were going to face the demon now. Let them get away from this place or die trying. He was tired of nightmares. The group walked into an elven alienage, a walled-off part of a larger city. The buildings here were mostly hovels, crammed close together and sometimes even on top of one another. It was a haphazard pile of tenements and dirty shops, washing lines strewn across the street sometimes going up two or even three stories high. The street itself was mostly mud, the worn paths filled with stale water and smelling of dung. The only spot of color in the entire quarter was the central square, where a well-tended oak tree spread its branches wide, its vibrantly green leaves forming a canopy that left much of the ground beneath it dry. A wooden stage had been built there, adorned with poles that were covered in bright blue garlands. A place of celebration, Duncan imagined, even if there was nothing on the dusty stage now.

The odd thing, he noted, was that there wasn’t a single person throughout the entire alienage. The street was bare, and not a single elf poked his or her head out of any door or window. Dark clouds billowed overhead and threatened rain, but no one ran about to collect the laundry from the lines. Window shutters clacked rhythmically in the breeze. It looked as if the entire place was deserted.

Duncan drew his daggers. There was an unease to the silence, a strangeness to it that raised the hackles on his neck.

Utha squinted as she looked around and made quick gestures toward Kell.

“You are right,” he murmured. “This seems very different from the other dreams, and it is not solely for the lack of people.”

Duncan had to agree. There was a strange distinctness to his vision, here. It made everything look slightly unreal, as if he were seeing at it all through a pane of glass. Everything also appeared slightly washed out, and that wasn’t just the dinginess of the elven homes. Even the sky was lifeless, nothing but grey clouds from one end to the other. He half expected the clouds to part and reveal the Fade sky with its floating islands on the other side.

“Then where do we find the demon?” Maric asked.

Nobody had an immediate answer. The iron gates leading out of the district were closed up tight. They were solid and forbidding-looking, as apparently the elves were not even permitted to gaze upon the rest of the city and its superior conditions.

Not that the slums of Val Royeaux were much of an improvement over this, Duncan thought. The fact that they were an improvement at all was bad enough—the alienage had the feel of neglect, like the buildings and its people were the refuse that was brushed off the rest of the city. The elves here obviously made the best of it they could, but he imagined even the most down-on-his-luck thief he’d run with in the slums would have turned up his nose rather than stay here.

As Duncan slowly scanned the area, he noticed that not only was the gate closed, but so were all the doors. All except one. A single innocuous building on the other side of the square had its door invitingly open. “Look there.” He pointed.

They all did, and paused. “That almost seems too convenient,” Genevieve muttered. Nobody argued with her, but quietly the group began crossing the square toward the door.

“Will Fiona be here?” Maric asked quietly. “Or just the demon?”

“I don’t know,” Kell admitted.

Genevieve motioned the Wardens to spread out. Kell and Utha went around one side of the great oak while she and Duncan went the other. Maric kept up behind them. Nobody said a word, the only sound the wind through the eaves overhead.

As the group crept through the door, Duncan paused. The hallway just inside wasn’t what he would have expected. It was wide, for one, and the walls were covered in the delicate paper he’d seen sometimes in the homes of the truly wealthy. Here it was decorated with petite roses, each one growing from a vine that stretched up to the peaked white ceiling overhead. The floors here were a polished wood, dark and rich and clean enough to eat off of.

“This can’t be the same place we just entered,” he muttered.

The others were looking around now, as well, their grips tightening on their weapons. “We went through a doorway, didn’t we?” Maric whispered. “We could be anywhere.”

“We are being led,” Genevieve declared. “This is a trap.”

“Do we have much choice?”

She had no answer for him. After a moment’s hesitation the group moved forward again. It became obvious that this was an estate, the home of some Orlesian aristocrat. They passed a luxuriously appointed sitting room, a hallway that seemed to go off into a servant’s wing, and even a conservatory complete with whitewashed doors that opened up onto a sunlit garden filled with flowered bushes.

All of it still had the same unreality that the alienage did, the feeling that everything wasn’t quite right. Duncan noticed, as well, that the estate was similarly abandoned. The hallways should have been teeming with servants and guards, an entire staff bustling about to run the house hold, and yet there was nothing but silence.

“Do you hear that?” Kell asked quietly.

The group stopped in the hall. Duncan cocked his head and ever so faintly heard the sound of a woman crying. It might have been Fiona; it was too far away to tell and would have been impossible to hear if it wasn’t otherwise so quiet. The hunter had good ears.

They moved on, Kell leading the way as he tried to find a path toward the sound. They passed through an open courtyard filled with verdant bushes and a marble statue of Andraste atop a burbling fountain. Opening a sliding window, Kell took them carefully into an empty kitchen. It was large, the sort that would have normally been filled with servants desperate to bake their bread and finish the evening meal, but there was no one. It didn’t even smell as if it had ever been used. The sounds of the whimpering woman were definitely louder, however, and as the hunter brought them to the back of the kitchen they found a narrow flight of stairs leading downward into darkness.

The cries were coming from below.

“Do we go down?” Maric asked nobody in par tic u lar.

There was no answer. They had no way back into the waking world, no way to free themselves from what ever spell the demon had placed upon them. If this was truly a trap, then they had to walk into it with their eyes open and hope that they came out the other side.

Duncan felt growing dread as they descended single file. The stairs creaked ominously beneath their weight, and the air turned chill the farther down they got. His heart began to beat rapidly, and he had to force himself to keep moving. The stones around them changed, becoming natural rock. They entered a dank cave, the sound of the crying ahead echoing past stagnant pools.

This was no natural place, he thought. This was a memory, something so terrible that to Fiona it had become a dark cave filled with terror. He could feel it clawing at his senses, and could see the others feeling the same. Sweat poured down their foreheads, their eyes wide as they pushed ahead in the shadows. Fiona wasn’t trapped in a dream filled with her fondest hopes—she was trapped in her worst nightmare.

A faint light appeared ahead of them, the cave opening up into a small cavern. It was bare except for a candelabrum of wrought iron standing in the center, the candles flickering and sending shadows jumping about the rocky floor. A man stood next to it with his back turned, his grey hair pulled into a genteel ponytail. He was dressed in the embroidered velvet jacket and high leather boots typical of an Orlesian nobleman, and carried a long leather whip curled in one hand.

What he was using the whip on was obvious. Fiona lay prone on the stone floor, facing away from them with her arms raised above her head and chained to the wall. Her head hung down limply, and the back of her robe was ripped open from so many whiplashes across her back that her skin was red with blood. Duncan would have thought her dead were it not for the quavering of her shoulders and her racking sobs.

“Did you think”—the nobleman sneered at Fiona beneath him—“that I was going to let the Chantry take you away from me? Whisk you off to the Circle of Magi, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, master,” Fiona pleaded. Her head still hung down, almost touching the floor. Her voice was reduced to a broken whisper, and she continued to cry.

“You forget my connections! I can ensure they forget about some little elven harlot! The mage who found you was mistaken, as simple as that!”

“Yes, master …”

“It’s not as if I need you for any foul magical gift you possess, do I?”

“Yes, master …”

Although Duncan couldn’t see the man’s face, his rage was obvious. He unfurled the leather whip and cracked it loudly. “You’re not listening to me, foolish girl! I have had enough of your insolence! Enough!” He raised the whip up high, preparing to lash Fiona once again.

“Stop!” Genevieve ordered him. She moved into the small cavern, her greatsword raised cautiously before her. The others followed suit, keeping their distance from the nobleman and spreading out. There was no way of knowing what to expect from him.

He paused, not landing his blow, and instead turned to look at them. The nobleman was arrogantly handsome. His eyes were lined with black kohl, in Orlesian custom, but, far more noticeable, they glowed with a sinister purplish hue. He smiled, as if pleased. “Ah! And here they are at last. Found your way out of your dreams, did you? Well, throw away a gift if you will; I won’t give you another.”

“We do not need your gifts,” Genevieve said, her tone deadly. She lowered her sword at him. “You will release Fiona, and you will release us. Do it.”

He chuckled lightly. “Release my precious girl? I don’t think so! I bought her fair and square! I have spent years raising her; I’m not about to waste all of that!”

“We know what you are, demon. There is no need to pretend.”

He clucked his tongue reproachfully. “Do you think you are actually here? Do you think those are actual weapons that you have pointed at me? Who do you think is the master of this realm, and who the dreamer?” With a wave of his hand, Genevieve was thrown back with terrible force. She grunted as she slammed hard into the stone wall of the cavern, her sword clattering to the ground. He raised his hand, grinning, and she rose as if carried by the throat, kicking her legs and clutching at her neck as she choked.

Kell unleashed an arrow, and it lodged into the neck of the nobleman with little effect. Utha charged at him, Maric right behind her with his sword raised high, and the nobleman merely waved with his other hand and sent the two of them tumbling back along the floor. Kell shot two more arrows, both of them striking the demon harmlessly, before he took out his flail and charged as well.

“Really,” the nobleman sighed dryly, “this is silly.” Still holding Genevieve against the wall, he flicked his free hand at the hunter and sent him flying explosively back, falling hard to the ground near where Maric and Utha tried to regain their feet.

Duncan stayed back, his daggers at the ready. His first thought was to circle around and try to stab the demon unawares, but seeing how effective the others were being with their attacks made it seem unlikely that his would be any better. Instead, he edged over to where Fiona lay and gingerly touched her.

“Fiona?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

She raised her head slowly, and he realized that was a very stupid question. Her back was bloody and flayed open, and as she looked at him with questioning, reddened eyes and a face stained with tears, he gathered she had no idea who he was and barely even registered that he was there.

“Here, let me try to get those manacles off you.” He took her hands, noticing that her wrists were rubbed raw and bloody by the thick iron manacles that held them. It seemed like it might be simple enough to pick. He reached into his belt and pulled out his hidden lockpick.

“Away from her!” the demon roared, spinning on Duncan and thrusting out his hand to dash him away from Fiona. Duncan slid along the ground and bashed his head hard on a stone outcropping by the wall, crying out as agony burned through him. He groggily tried to sit up, and could hear the sounds of shouting as Genevieve and the others charged the demon again. Perhaps he had successfully distracted the creature? That was a comforting thought.

He got to his feet just in time to see Genevieve thrust her greatsword completely through the nobleman’s midsection. It passed through cleanly, spilling no blood as it came out the other side, and he looked at her almost in disappointment. “Truly, is that the best you can do? Are such futile efforts supposed to impress me?” He reached out with a hand, his speed lightning quick and too fast for Genevieve to avoid, grabbing her throat and lifting her off the ground.

She gasped and batted ineffectually at his hand. “See? I can do this the old-fashioned way just as easily,” he chuckled. “As soon as you dispense with this useless struggle, you can all perish quietly. Saving you for later was obviously a mistake.”

Kell lay nearby, sprawled on the floor unconscious. Duncan couldn’t see where Utha was. Maric stood near the demon, his head bloody, clearly laboring to lift his runed sword for another strike.

“Maric, don’t!” Duncan shouted.

The demon spun his head around to spot Maric, and his hand snatched Maric up by the neck the same way he had Genevieve. Maric gasped loudly, holding on to his sword and hacking as the demon lifted him off the ground. His efforts did little more than slash the creature’s embroidered coat.

The nobleman glanced down at the slashes, his purple eyes flashing dangerously. “For that, you will need to suffer.” Still holding Genevieve aloft with his other hand, he began to crush Maric’s throat. The crunching sound was wet and unpleasant, and Maric let out a guttural cry of anguish that filled the cavern.

Suddenly another shout rang out, a feral scream of pain and rage. It was Fiona. She rose from the floor like a madwoman, shaking from the effort, her eyes wild, bright magical power coalescing around her fists. The demon paused and turned a curious eye toward her, but not before she unleashed an enormous bolt of lightning at him.

The flash of light blinded Duncan, and the thunder that followed almost threw him off his feet. He stumbled against the wall behind him, and when he opened his eyes he saw that Fiona had dropped down to her knees, her effort spent. The demon was on the ground, having dropped Genevieve and Maric both. His coat was completely burned away, leaving his bare chest smoking from the strike. He seemed dazed.

Duncan took his chance. He charged across the room, leaping into the air and landing directly on top of the nobleman before he could recover his bearings. Let’s see if this does something now! He plunged both of his daggers into the demon’s head as he landed, and they both slid bloodlessly into the creature’s eyes.

He roared in pain, flailing his arms about and unable to see. Duncan felt himself gripped by an invisible power and propelled high up into the air. He was bashed into the ceiling of the cavern, pressed there as if by some giant hand. He was being crushed, the air forced out of his lungs and leaving him gasping.

“That was a very foolish thing, little one!” the nobleman snarled, yanking one of the daggers from his eyes. The purple glow in that eye was now sickly bright, shining out as if it was bleeding from a crack in his facade. He turned toward Fiona, an inhuman grimace on his face. “You wish to play, do you? You wish more lashes? When will you ever learn?”

“Never!” she spat. She lifted herself back off the ground, so weak she was shaking, her face contorted into nothing short of vicious defiance. “I will never suffer your touch again! Never!”

“We shall see,” he snapped. Flames burned around one of his hands, black flames that filled the entire room with a stark coldness that made Duncan flinch. He pointed his hand at Fiona, the flames growing to even greater magnitude. She glared at him and did not back down.

Before the demon could act, however, Duncan saw a blood-soaked Maric rise up behind him. The King roared a battle cry as he swung his longsword and beheaded the demon in one stroke. They woke up.

Duncan picked himself off the cold stone floor of the dwarven ruin, the skeletons still all around him. He saw the corpse of the dwarven ruler, the one who had been possessed by the demon, and it now sprawled lifelessly on its ancient throne as if it had never moved. The dead were simply dead once again, and he watched as the ruler’s bones crumbled and slowly fell apart, what ever magic had held them together now departed. Within moments there was nothing on the throne except dust.

The ominous sense in the room was gone. He could hear the others stirring, and he saw Maric waking up on the dais. Right next to Duncan, Fiona stirred. She was back to her normal form, he saw, and none of the injuries she had suffered in the Fade translated to her body. None of theirs had.

She stared at her hands, almost disbelieving. “This … is the real world? I’m alive?”

“We all are,” he told her with a grin.

She leaned over and snatched him up in a hug, crying tears of exhaustion and relief, and he held her close. He couldn’t imagine what she had gone through. He didn’t want to. It was bad enough remembering what he had left behind.

Not all of them recovered, however. While the others all began to rise, Nicolas remained sprawled where the demon had flung him, as lifeless as the ancient corpses around him.

Duncan found himself hoping that wherever Nicolas was now, his dream continued and he found the peace he wanted so desperately. Somebody should.