The Calling

16

“Duncan.”

The word penetrated Duncan’s brain only slowly, and it took him a moment to realize that he was gradually coming out of unconsciousness. Inch by inch he crawled up out of the fuzzy haze of pain that enveloped him. He remembered fighting. He remembered the ogre charging into the cavern, and then being overwhelmed by the endless waves of darkspawn. A spear had stabbed through his gut, gone right through him and out the other side. He remembered the blinding pain, the blood bubbling up out of his mouth and the creatures leaping atop him. And then—

—he started awake, sitting up far too fast. The pounding in his head became excruciating agony. He winced, pressing his hands to the sides of his head as if that might prevent his brain from exploding. That’s certainly what it felt like was going to happen, anyhow. That’s also when he noticed there were heavy iron manacles on his wrists.

“What the blasted … ,” he muttered.

“Not so fast,” the voice cautioned him. “We’re all wounded.”

Still pressing on his head, Duncan opened his eyes slowly. There was light in the small chamber, a harsh orange glow emanating from a strange amulet that hung near the door. It was enough to make his head throb, and he looked away into the shadows.

The voice was correct about one thing: He was bandaged. He could feel the thick bandages around his chest, all stuffed with some kind of material that felt warm and itchy at the same time. There were other strips of cloth wrapped around one shoulder and his left thigh, injuries he didn’t even remember receiving even though they pulsated painfully enough now. The cloth used for the bandages looked yellowed and suspect. Best not to examine them too closely.

“How are you feeling?”

The concerned voice was Fiona’s. He blinked several times, getting used to the amulet’s glow, and saw her sitting next to him. The elf looked quite a fright, her hair matted with dried ichor and her chain shirt not only splattered but possessing several gaping holes. Her skirts were tattered and filthy. She, too, was manacled as he was, their restraints connected by rusty chains to a stone wall behind them.

The others looked no better. He could make out Kell in the dim light, one of his legs heavily bandaged and little left of his leather jerkin other than a tattered vest. Yellowed cloths covered much of his upper chest, dark stains seeping through in two spots. Hafter slept next to him, the hunter stroking the hound’s head absently. The dog was unbandaged, but his fur was covered by enough wet, reddish areas that he was likely wounded as well.

Utha sat beside him with her arms around her knees. She had several cuts on her face, and her brown robes were almost black with blood and soot. The dwarf didn’t look pleased, he thought, and she grimly examined her manacles as if she could find some way to break them open just with the intensity of her gaze.

King Maric was lying on the floor on the other side of Duncan. He was still unconscious, his head covered with a thick bandage soaked through by an alarming amount of blood. His silverite armor was dull and black, and covered in so many splatters of ichor and blood, he couldn’t really tell if the man was injured anywhere else.

They were in a cell. A single, long chamber with stone walls and chains attached to the wall with solid-looking pitons. The amount of corruption covering the wall was extensive, tendrils spidering out in every direction, and he was glad the deep shadows hid most of it. The air was musty, heavy with the smell of blood and layered with an insidious foulness that crept inside him every time he breathed.

“Duncan, how are you feeling?” Fiona repeated. “You look confused.”

“I am,” he muttered. “How did we get here?”

“I don’t know.” She looked around the cell, her gaze lingering on the stone door. “We can’t reach the door to test if it’s locked, and with my hands bound I can’t cast.”

“You can’t cast at all?”

“Nothing that would help us out of here.” Her eyes flicked to Maric beside him, her face filling with anxious concern. “Can you please check Maric? He hasn’t stirred, and I can’t reach him.”

Duncan turned toward the man, lugging his manacles closer—they were heavy—and pressed his fingers to his neck. There was definitely a pulse, weak as it was. “He’s alive.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Kell glanced at both of them, frowning. “The song is very loud here, is it not?” he said.

“What song?” Duncan asked. He didn’t hear anything at all; the cell was completely silent save for their breathing. He could sense the presence of darkspawn all around them, a whole sea of them almost right outside the door. Was there no end to these creatures?

Fiona looked at him archly. “You really don’t hear it?”

“Hear what? There’s no song.”

She glanced at Kell. “I hear it very faintly, like something off in the distance. I thought maybe it was the darkspawn, but now I’m not so sure.”

“It’s the Calling,” he said solemnly. Fiona stared at him, stunned, and Duncan felt the same way. The Calling? There’s no way Fiona should be hearing that already, surely! Utha made several gestures at the hunter and he nodded. “I don’t think it’s just because we’re down here, either. Something is happening to us.” He indicated the spreading corruption over the visible parts of his chest and arms. There was a lot of it. If Duncan had seen the man walking down some street, he would have expected children to be throwing stones at him and calling him a leper, if not worse.

Horror dawned on Fiona’s face. She raised her manacles and let one of her chain sleeves fall to reveal her bare arm. It was covered in several long scratches, and bloodied, but the corruption was clearly visible. It wasn’t as extensive as Kell’s, but it was there.

“I checked not even a day ago! This wasn’t like that!”

“We are corrupting from within,” Kell agreed. “Far more quickly than we should be.” Utha beside him merely nodded grimly, turning back to stare at her manacles.

Duncan twisted himself around to try to look at what bare skin of his own he could. There wasn’t much. Some of the leather straps covering his arms had come loose, but not enough for the armor to peel away, and while his trousers were ripped, the bit of skin underneath was too covered in dried blood for him to tell anything. His hands, however, were clear. “I don’t see anything,” he announced nervously. “And I don’t hear anything, either.”

Fiona shrugged. “You were the last of us to take the Joining.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring. His Joining had been only months behind Fiona’s, while hers had been many years behind Kell’s and Utha’s.

“So this is where darkspawn keep their prisoners, huh?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. “Do they have executioners? Are they going to come and question us?”

Utha made a rude gesture and Kell frowned at her. “He doesn’t know,” he gently reprimanded her. Looking back at Duncan, he answered. “They don’t keep prisoners. The Grey Wardens know that the darkspawn are capable of simple industry, but they don’t seem to care about questioning us or finding our plans. They aren’t the most subtle creatures.”

“Hate to contradict you, but we sure look like prisoners.”

“I know.” His pale eyes narrowed as he considered the matter, troubled. “I had hoped Genevieve might be here,” he muttered.

Time passed slowly. Their weapons had been stripped from them, as had their packs, so there was nothing to eat and the store of healing poultices that Fiona had brought were now uselessly in darkspawn hands. Occasionally strange sounds would come from far off, loud ringing noises as if something was pounding against metal, and then a great groaning. They heard the darkspawn, too, hissing and moving about. It was faint, but they were definitely out there and leaving them alone, for what ever reason.

Maric stirred, in time. He groaned at first, and at Fiona’s urging Duncan checked his bandages and ascertained that what ever muck was underneath them seemed to be working. The man’s bleeding had stopped. Duncan gently shook his shoulder until he opened his eyes.

It took a minute of blinking before he finally turned his head and looked directly at Duncan. His eyes looked a bit unfocused, and he seemed confused. “Cailan?” he groaned.

Duncan chuckled. “Unless your son looks nothing like you, no.”

More blinking. “Duncan?”

“There you go.”

Sitting up was a slow pro cess for him, and the same questions followed that Duncan had asked before. Fiona seemed relieved to see that Maric was awake, at least, and with the passing minutes he seemed to get stronger and stronger. “What was that spell at the end?” he muttered. “Who cast that?”

“It was an emissary,” Fiona answered. “I didn’t see it, however.”

“They’re the ones that can talk, right? Well, if we’re lucky we’ll see it eventually.”

More time passed, and they took turns getting some sleep. Not that any of them rested much. The cell was cold, and their injuries ached. Duncan wanted nothing less than to rip off those bandages and what ever itchy mixture was applied to his skin beneath them. If darkspawn had truly mixed it together, he didn’t want it on him. He could only imagine what it was actually doing, mixing with his blood. The idea made him want to vomit.

Eventually there were new sounds. They perked up as footsteps approached the door. More than one set, Duncan thought to himself. Three creatures, at least. Definitely darkspawn, as he could sense their taint. The door swung open with a loud, wrenching sound—though he didn’t hear a key turning at all. Not locked, then? An odd cell, to be sure.

The first darkspawn who walked through the door was an emissary. Duncan had never seen one before, but the creature looked just as he imagined a darkspawn mage should: dirty robes, blackened staff, and a small, withered head complete with toothy grimace. As evil as it looked, however, it walked with a calmness and sense of self-awareness that spoke volumes of its intelligence. This was no simple, raving monster. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or terrified.

The other two darkspawn who followed the first were much more heavily armored. They looked strange, however. Their withered flesh was not quite the same, and their eyes were bloodred rather than pale white. Were these ghouls, then? Neither had any hair, but even so, Duncan could see that one of them was clearly female—

He paused, shock registering even though he couldn’t quite believe it. The female stared directly at him, her gaze intense. The hard lines of her face were familiar, as was the grim set of her jaw. She wasn’t wearing her black Grey Warden tabard, but her armor still looked the same, simply tarnished now rather than silvery bright as it once had been.

“Genevieve,” he breathed.

Maric’s eyes went wide, as did the others’ when they realized it was true. Hafter raised his head and growled nervously. “What has happened to you?” Kell murmured in disbelief.

Genevieve held a hand up to the robed emissary and the male darkspawn with her. “Wait,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, Duncan thought. There was a sibilant quality to it, a faint hiss that accompanied her words. It made him shudder. She turned and knelt down before them, looking at each in turn with her bloodred eyes. “Please do not be frightened,” she said.

“You’re joking, surely,” Maric scoffed.

“I know that my appearance is horrific. I know that your senses say that I am a darkspawn, but I am not. This is what a Grey Warden becomes, given enough time for the taint to ravage our bodies.”

Kell looked up at the armored figure beside her with recognition. She nodded. “This is Bregan, my brother.” Bregan nodded to them, but said nothing. They could only stare back, dumbfounded. Duncan had never met the man, so he’d had no idea what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “And this is the Architect.” She indicated the robed emissary, and it bowed politely.

“The Architect,” Fiona repeated suspiciously.

“I was lucky to find you when I did,” the creature stated, far more eloquently and softly than Duncan would have expected from a darkspawn. “My ability to direct my brethren is limited, and lacks efficiency. Once their bloodlust was aroused even I could not keep them from you. I apologize for how very close you came to perishing. That would have been unfortunate.”

“You apologize?” Fiona glared at the creature.

Genevieve held her hand up at the emissary once again, frowning. “I know how this may look, but all I ask is that you give me the chance to explain as it was explained to me.”

The group was silent. Duncan had no idea how they could even respond to that. He was too caught up in staring at the Commander, or his former commander, perhaps. One couldn’t rightly be a Grey Warden and a darkspawn both, surely. Her white hair was completely gone, and her flesh dark and withered. Yet the mad intensity had disappeared. It was replaced with a calm sense of iron purpose that suffused her entire demeanor. He wondered if the others could see it.

“I don’t understand,” Kell said slowly. “We were brought here, then? On purpose? And now that you have found your brother, your plans have changed?”

“They have not changed,” she avowed.

“If you actually wish to speak with us, then free us. Why keep us prisoner?”

Genevieve exchanged a look with the Architect. Duncan couldn’t see anything in the creature’s expression, but she sighed heavily and turned back to the hunter. “Until we’ve had a chance to explain, this is for your own good.”

“I see.”

There was nothing else to say. “The Architect is not like others of its kind. It is not controlled by the same impulses, and wants to see the rest of its kind free as it is free.”

The creature tapped its chin thoughtfully. “If we were not subject to the call of the Old Gods,” he said, “there would be no reason for us to search for them. No reason for us to ascend to the surface, and thus no Blights.”

Utha’s head shot up, as if her interest had suddenly been gained. Kell seemed intrigued, as well. Fiona gasped. “No Blights? You mean not ever?”

Genevieve actually smiled, displaying rows of sharpened teeth stained yellow by corruption. “Do you see? The Architect has a plan, one that only Grey Wardens can see carried out.” She took a deep breath. “We exist halfway between humanity and darkspawn, tainted but never controlled by it. The Architect has the ability to advance the state of our corruption, to push us to what we would become in time if we never went to our deaths as Grey Warden tradition commands.”

“But why?” Fiona asked, horrified.

“Because the darkspawn ignore us now,” Bregan answered. Genevieve looked up at him, and he stepped forward to stand beside her. He seemed fierce, resolute. His red eyes burned in his skull. “I know where the Old Gods are. The Grey Wardens have always known. The problem is that they have always lain well beyond our reach, in lands we are unfamiliar with and which are full of darkspawn.”

He paused to let the implication sink in. Utha made several agitated gestures, and Genevieve nodded eagerly. “If there were enough Grey Wardens like us, aided by a darkspawn who knew the underground, we could find the Old Gods and kill them before they were ever tainted. We could stop the Blights before they began and end the Calling.”

“Thus freeing my brethren,” the Architect added softly, almost reverently. The way it steepled its fingers together in front of its chest made it seem almost like a priest to Duncan. Was that intentional? Was it an act?

“You mean to tell this creature where the Old Gods are!” Fiona shouted.

“I already have.” Bregan’s answer stunned the group and they stared at him in shock. He folded his arms defiantly and refused to explain himself further.

“We have an opportunity,” Genevieve explained slowly. “We can do what the Grey Wardens have existed to do for centuries, centuries which have been filled with Blight after Blight, each of which has slain countless people and threatened the destruction of our world. We can stop it!” She punched her hand into her fist emphatically. “As Grey Wardens we have sworn to do what ever is necessary to combat the darkspawn. We sacrificed our own lives the moment we took the Joining and drank that blood. The fact that the Architect even exists gives us a chance now to do the unthinkable!”

“If you trust this darkspawn,” Maric suddenly said.

Bregan regarded Maric with a cool stare. The others looked at him oddly, as well, and Duncan knew why. Of them all, Maric was the only one who was not a Grey Warden. Was he even part of this plan? Duncan wanted to ask what they intended to do with the King, but then he remembered what Genevieve had told him the first night they’d camped in the Deep Roads: If the King ever learned anything he wasn’t supposed to, he would need to die.

Perhaps it was better not to ask just yet.

“Yes,” Bregan grudgingly admitted. “If we trust this darkspawn.”

“And you do?” Kell asked.

“I trust his plan, yes.”

“And I trust Bregan,” Genevieve added, looking up at her brother with genuine affection. It was odd to see the expression on the face of someone so completely blighted, with those red eyes and withered skin.

“And how do we know you are not under some kind of mental control?” Fiona asked suspiciously. “Blood magic is known to control minds. You could be influenced by magic and not even be aware of it.”

“If that were so,” the Architect said, “then why attempt to convince you of anything at all?”

“Then tell me this,” she responded. “If your ‘brethren’ are actually freed, does that make them better? Will they stop attacking the surface? Or the dwarves? Will they stop spreading disease?”

It appeared unfazed by the questions. “I am free,” it stated simply. “This gives me the choice to act differently than others of my kind. Would you deny the rest of the darkspawn that choice?”

Fiona appeared taken aback by his response. Bregan leaned in. “It is one step,” he said. “Only one step of several. Before those other steps can be taken, however, first we must stop the Blights.”

“And what are those other steps?” Maric pointedly asked.

Bregan ignored him. He nodded to Genevieve and she stood. “We will not tell you everything. I know how this might seem, but we have little choice. I am willing to trust my brother and I will do anything if it means fulfilling my vow. You may not feel the same.” She looked down at the ground and became awkwardly silent for a moment, considering her next words. “I appreciate that you came all this way with me. I truly believed you would turn about when I left you, but now that you are here, I need to ask if you will follow me a little farther.”

A silence followed her words. Fiona eventually arched a brow at her former commander. “And if we don’t?”

“Then here you remain,” Bregan answered. “Until our task is done.”

“And what about Maric?” Duncan blurted out. He regretted it as soon as he asked the question. The others looked at him curiously, especially Maric. Only Genevieve didn’t look at him. In fact, she studiously avoided his gaze.

“He will be returned to the surface,” the Architect said carefully. “In time.”

“That’s too kind,” Maric remarked.

“Returned how?” Duncan insisted. “Alive?”

The darkspawn gave a hint of what might have been a smile. “To allies.”

It didn’t elaborate, and Duncan desisted. He obviously wasn’t going to get an answer on this, either, though he had to wonder what sort of “allies” the creature could be referring to. Allies of Bregan’s, most likely. He noticed Genevieve shooting a curious look at her brother at the mention, but only for a second. Perhaps they didn’t tell her everything, either? Curious.

Genevieve turned to go. “I will give you time to decide,” she said. “In the end, if Bregan and I must do this on our own, then that is what must be.” Bregan nodded to her, but as the three of them started to walk to the door, Utha suddenly slammed her manacles down hard on the floor. The ringing sound they made drew everyone’s attention. The dwarf sat there, watching Genevieve and Bregan fervently. Duncan wasn’t sure if she was furious or … something else.

She made several gestures with her hand. They were quick and punctuated. Certain. Her expression did not change. Kell, however, reacted with shock. “No, Utha!”

Genevieve knelt down in front of the dwarf, concern upon her face. “We can give you more time if—”

Utha made a simple, negating slice of her hand.

Kell shook his head at her, stricken. “No, you should wait. We could …”

She turned and gazed at him sadly. Duncan watched as she made a series of complicated gestures to the hunter, most of which he didn’t understand. It was an explanation, however, something involving several chopping movements with her hand and a determined expression.

Kell, in turn, became more and more hopeless. And then finally he nodded, resigned. “If you truly think you must.”

She made a nodding gesture with her hand. She did.

Genevieve watched Utha, torn, but then her face hardened. She looked up at the Architect behind her, and gave him a curt nod. He lowered himself with the aid of his staff to kneel beside Genevieve, his robes rustling as he did so, and held out a slender, withered hand to the dwarf.

Utha took it, her eyes fixed on the emissary and her jaw set. Duncan expected for there to be some kind of incantation spoken, some ritual. But there was only silence. The Architect stared into Utha’s eyes and nothing happened at first. Then black veins began to appear along her hand where the darkspawn touched her. They became darker and darker, the veins branching until her entire hand was criss-crossed with them.

The dwarf closed her eyes, shaking ever so slightly. Duncan watched as the black veins appeared on her neck. Then they spread to her face. Her shaking became more pronounced, and she clenched her teeth hard to keep her composure. Hafter woke up, sensing something, and when he noticed the emissary standing nearby and felt the strange magics at work, he began to growl menacingly. Kell put his hand on the hound’s neck to quiet him. The hunter looked away and shut his eyes tight. He couldn’t bear to watch.

A shadow formed around the Architect’s hand, a black and amorphous mass that seemed to grow out of him. It got larger, and as it did the small chamber grew chill. Duncan shivered, and saw frost forming on the wall next to Utha. Her breath was coming out in white plumes, as it was for the rest of them. The shadow crawled off of the darkspawn’s hand and onto the dwarf’s, and there it slowly sank into her. Her flesh withered and curled, the air filling with the foul stench of decay.

Utha began to spasm. Still she fought against the agony that was burning through her. The stain on her skin spread, crawling up her neck and covering her face. Her coppery hair began to grey, and then it became white. Her long braid twisted and curled behind her, like a match that was burning itself into a cinder. Her eyes shot open, bloodred, and she opened her mouth in a soundless scream … and what wisps remained of her hair simply fell out.

And then it was done.

Utha pulled her hand from the Architect’s and doubled over, her body racked with shudders that grew less and less. The plumes of breath grew fainter until finally they disappeared and she was still. Duncan thought for a moment that she had died, but as she slowly sat up he realized that she was now simply cold.

The darkspawn nodded at her and lowered his hand. The chill in the air lessened almost immediately, although it did not disappear.

Everyone but Kell stared at Utha. The hunter averted his eyes and calmed Hafter as the hound whined in confusion. Fiona shook her head in disbelief, furious, but Duncan didn’t know what to think. The dwarf was now as bald and tainted as Genevieve and Bregan, her eyes that same bloody red, but she seemed calm. She nodded curtly to the Architect and he ran a finger along her manacles. They opened with a loud clicking sound and dropped off her.

Nice trick. Duncan needed to learn that sometime.

The dwarf stood and walked forward to stand before Genevieve, not even looking back at the others. “Thank you,” Genevieve said with the officious tone reserved for a good soldier. Utha nodded again but did nothing else.

Genevieve glanced toward the hunter. “And you, Kell?”

He did not look at her, and said nothing. Duncan could see from his troubled expression, however, that he was uncertain. The hunter closed his eyes, frowning deeply.

She looked to Fiona, though far less hopefully. “Fiona?”

The mage glared at her in pure hatred. “How dare you ask me that,” she spat. “You throw us in here, tell us next to nothing, and then expect us to chase after you again? You abandoned us, Genevieve!”

“You should have turned around.”

“We didn’t! We tried to finish the mission!”

“As did I. As I continue to do.” Genevieve snorted derisively. “You are not a child. This is what our task is. This. We make sacrifices to end the Blight. That is exactly why you followed me here in the first place.”

“You’re insane.” The elf shook her head contemptuously. “If I actually thought what you were doing might end the Blight …”

Genevieve cut her off, turning to Duncan. “And you?” she asked him.

He felt caught. What was he supposed to do? In a way, she was right. They were already dead. He would have been executed had it not been for his recruitment into the Grey Wardens. He was living on borrowed time, so what did it matter how he fought the Blight? He could have died just as easily in that cavern or any one of the battles before it … at least this way he would have a chance to do something significant.

But the sudden shift startled him. Genevieve had seemed so determined to find her brother and kill him if necessary, as if that were all that mattered. But now she wanted something completely different, based on just a single talk with her brother and this darkspawn friend of his. What had been going on here this entire time? Why would she go along with any of this?

Yet he wanted to trust her. He wanted to prove to her that he could be the kind of Grey Warden she expected him to be.

“I …” He stared at her, unable to form a response.

“Don’t do it,” Maric muttered under his breath.

“Stay out of it!” she snapped.

“No, don’t stay out of it!” Fiona slammed her manacles down onto the ground with a loud thud, glaring at Genevieve. “Are we the only sane ones here? You’re willing to throw away everything on some gamble! On the word of a darkspawn!”

Genevieve ignored her. “Duncan?” she asked him again.

“I … don’t know,” he admitted.

It felt weak, and his face burned in shame as her expression changed to disappointment. “So be it.” She gestured to Utha and the others to go. “We will leave you alone for now, to think on your options.” Duncan watched them file through the stone door, and when it closed behind them with a deep thoom his heart sank. He somehow felt as if he had missed his opportunity.

The cell felt empty now, with Utha gone. Her manacles and chains lay on the floor beside Kell accusingly, and Duncan tried not to stare at them. The hunter pulled his knees up and rested his head on them, exhausted with grief. Hafter whined and tried to nuzzle his black nose under Kell’s arms, offering what support he could to his master.

“What do we do now?” Fiona asked hopelessly.

Nobody responded right away. Eventually Duncan looked at her. “What if you’re wrong?” he asked. “What if it’s not insane? What if insane is continuing to fight a hopeless battle when we have the chance to do something about it?”

“Is it hopeless?”

“Sure seems that way,” he snorted. “You ever met a Grey Warden who’s happy about it? How many more Blights are we going to fight before we lose? We could stop that!”

“Or you could make it worse,” Maric chimed in.

“Doing nothing is worse!”

Maric sighed in resignation. “Since when has taking a shortcut ever turned out well, Duncan? This is not a plan that is being acted upon rationally. This is your commander grasping at straws, because this way she and her brother get to be heroes.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“No?” Maric looked incredulous. “Your commander isn’t exactly the most stable person, you know.”

Kell raised his head from his lap sharply. “It’s the Calling,” he muttered, barely opening his eyes. “The song is in our heads, and under our skin. It is driving me slowly mad. If Genevieve was farther along than Utha and me …”

Maric nodded. “Then it’s this Architect who is manipulating them. Waiting for this song you hear—”

“I don’t hear it,” Duncan insisted.

“My point is that this Bregan fellow must have been well along, himself. Genevieve is exactly the same way. They’re at the point where they would need to kill themselves, walking into the Deep Roads. This song is in their head, making them crazy, and what does this darkspawn do? Offers them a chance to make it all better. To give their life meaning.”

“What do you think he really wants?”

“Maybe he just wants to get to the Old Gods.” Maric paused, considering. “Perhaps this is what starts the Blight the witch warned me about. This Architect being led straight to an Old God.”

“Or it starts because we refused to help it,” Duncan countered. “That Architect creature isn’t like any darkspawn we’ve seen. Maybe it’s not like the other darkspawn at all.”

“Does that make it better?” Fiona asked. “These creatures are born of evil, Duncan. You know that. You feel inside you what they have swimming in their veins from birth. Do you really want to trust a creature that’s known that and nothing else its entire life?”

“And it has allies,” Kell pointed out. “Allies they won’t tell us about.” He seemed to be coming around to Fiona and Maric’s point of view, Duncan saw, though the hunter hardly seemed pleased about it. He shook his head grimly. “Whether this creature is manipulating us or not, we can’t take such a risk.”

“But Genevieve is right!” Duncan protested. “Our duty is to defeat the Blight!”

Kell’s pale eyes bored into him. “Our duty is to defend mankind from the Blight.” His voice was low and intense, and as he sat there he seemed to become more and more certain of his words. “There is a difference. We have stood up against the onslaught of the darkspawn time and time again, and that is our task. It is not for us to judge, to gamble with the lives of those in our care.”

“But—”

“It is for us to make the hard decisions that must be made. We cannot pretend that this also makes us gods.”

Duncan sat back against the stone wall, letting the chill of the stone press against the back of his neck. It felt good. His head swam, and he felt less sure what to think than before. Genevieve had always said the Grey Wardens did what ever needed to be done. If a village needed to be burned to the ground to keep the darkspawn from spreading, then it was burned. Nobody told them different. When a Blight was occurring, their word was paramount.

But this wasn’t a Blight, was it? The darkspawn had not yet found their Old God, not yet infected it with the taint and made it rise as an Archdemon. The Grey Wardens’ whole purpose had been to come here and prevent that from happening. Genevieve had told him that even the smallest chance of a Blight couldn’t be permitted, and yet she had changed her tune. This plan of hers—there was a chance it could go awry and start a Blight. If that’s what this Architect actually wanted, it could happen, and the Grey Wardens would be facilitating it rather than preventing it.

Genevieve believed the risk was worth it. She believed it fervently, he could see that just by looking at her. And she had wanted him to believe in it, as well. But perhaps she had lost sight of what she had come to do. Perhaps she wanted her life to have some meaning, to justify all the things that she had given up.

Or the things that had been taken from her.

“What do we do next?” he asked into the silence, refusing to look at the others even though he could feel their eyes on him. He stared studiously at his manacles. Part of him wanted to refuse, to spit in their eyes and stand by his commander. He had always thought her larger than life, a superhuman warrior who could do anything. That was why he had followed her to Ferelden, and agreed to go into the Deep Roads. She would defeat this menace single-handedly, prevent the coming Blight and prove herself to the Grey Wardens, and he would be there to support her. He owed it to her, if nothing else.

But then he remembered what she had said in her dream. Duncan had seen a side of her he hadn’t even known existed. She was just human, and her dream had been no more grandiose than any of theirs. There was no reason to think that she was without fault. Somehow that left him feeling dejected and empty, like he had lost something incredibly important.

“We get out of here,” Kell declared, his voice hushed.

“We need to warn Ferelden,” Maric said. “We need to tell them that a Blight may be coming, or something worse.”

“And if this Architect is right after all?” Duncan asked.

“Then our warnings will not be needed.”

He thought about it, and then slowly nodded. “Okay, then.” Rocking back, Duncan brought his knees up between his arms until he could place his boots on the manacles. Fiona seemed about to object, but he ignored her. Pressing hard with the boots, he ignored the painful scraping of the iron on his wrists as he pushed the restraints as far up on his hands as they would go.

With a hiss between clenched teeth, he suddenly jerked his legs and popped his thumbs out of joint. The manacles tore at his skin and left a bloody trail as they slowly slid off his hands. They fell to the ground with a clatter and Duncan collapsed, panting with the effort.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands hard against the ground, pushing his thumbs back into place. The pain was excruciating, and he could feel the tendons in his hands ripping under the flesh. Still, it worked.

He took a moment to get used to the stabbing pain, and then took a deep breath and leaped to his feet. Then he noticed the others staring at him in shock.

“What?” he asked with mock innocence. “You don’t really think I haven’t broken out of better prisons than this, do you?”

Reaching into his belt, he was pleased to find the lockpick still hidden away inside the leather. He held it up with a grin. “Let’s get out of here before they come back.”