The Calling

18

Duncan bristled angrily as he and the others were led back into the Circle of Magi’s tower. They had been chained again, as well as gagged, and Duncan had been chained even more tightly than Maric or Fiona. Evidently the mages had been informed just who was likely responsible for facilitating their earlier escape.

So they were taken back on horse back, Maric and he exchanging looks of dread but otherwise being unable to talk. Fiona looked like she wanted to breathe fire, her fury was so great, and if the looks she shot at the First Enchanter could actually hurt him, he would be in a great deal of trouble. Duncan was inclined to agree. Genevieve and her brother being mad enough to work with the darkspawn in some scheme to end the Blight was one thing, but would the mages do it for the same reason? Even given what little he knew of such men, that seemed highly unlikely.

Remille chatted with his two fellows in Orlesian as they rode, although not a great deal, as they seemed in a hurry. It was enough to tell Duncan a few things, however. For one, all three of the mages were Orlesian. In Ferelden, that was not exactly common. From what he could gather, it also seemed like the tower had been taken over. There was mention of other mages being “brought under control,” and even killed.

So the entire Circle was not in agreement on this? Good to know.

It also seemed like there were darkspawn in the tower. Duncan assumed that this was a reference to the Architect, but that still surprised him. The idea of the emissary actually coming to the surface was hard to imagine. What if they meant other darkspawn, as well? What if they meant the tower was full of the creatures? Unthinkable!

There was a large boat waiting for them when they eventually reached an otherwise-deserted strip along the shore of Lake Calenhad, manned by a mage and two templars. Also Orlesian. The three of them were unceremoniously thrown into a shallow hold under the deck, pitch black except for what little torchlight came through the cracks around the hatch.

At least they were out of the chilly wind, Duncan thought to himself. And there were furs piled on the floor, so it wasn’t completely uncomfortable. They had put a shirt on Maric, as well, to keep him from freezing to death. Fiona glared up at the deck above her, and had she not still been gagged he was sure she would have been swearing a blue streak. Eventually, exhausted, he simply fell asleep.

He awoke to light suddenly pouring into the hold. He had no idea how much time had passed. Maric and Fiona were both awake and watching warily as three men came below. One of them, an elderly mage with a cruel look to his eyes, carried a lantern. The other two were scowling templars, heavily armed and holding their swords pointed at their prisoners as if they fully expected them to attack even though they were bound and gagged.

The three of them were marched up onto the deck, where Duncan realized they were in the cavernous dock underneath the tower once again. It was eerily quiet except for the rhythmic lapping of water against the boat. There was a sense of something very wrong in the air.

The old mage removed their gags one by one. Duncan gasped and spat when his was taken. Maric licked his lips, and then sniffed at the air. “Do you smell that?” he asked.

Duncan nodded. There was a faint smell of corruption. They had been all but breathing it for days now, so there was no mistaking it here, of all places.

Without a word, they were marched up the stairs and into the audience chamber where First Enchanter Remille had presented the Grey Wardens with their brooches. It was almost barren now. The gallery was empty, as was the dais with its great white pillars. Only a handful of people stood in the center of the chamber, almost directly underneath the domed window high overhead with its single beam of morning sun shining down through the dust.

The Architect stood there, calm-looking in its brown robe and clasping its hands behind its back. Utha stood beside him, resolute, with her fists clenched. Genevieve and Bregan were there, as well, with their bloodred eyes and blackened skin. First Enchanter Remille was speaking calmly with the darkspawn and didn’t turn around when they were led inside, but Genevieve did.

She stared at Duncan accusingly. He wanted to look away, but he felt almost mesmerized by her alien appearance. Bregan looked at him, too, his face twisted into silent fury, and he wondered suddenly what she had told him. Did he know about Guy? Had he known the man? That seemed likely, considering how long Guy had been a Grey Warden.

“Remille!” Fiona shouted across the chamber almost as soon as they entered. “What is the meaning of this? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” The First Enchanter barely glanced her way and continued his quiet talk with the Architect.

Duncan and the others were led well into the room until they were almost in the beam of sunlight. Then a templar kicked at the back of his knees and forced him to collapse. He did the same to Maric and Fiona until all three of them were kneeling, Genevieve and Bregan towering imposingly in front of them in their heavy plate mail armor.

The templars passed a long wrapped bundle over to Bregan, which he took and opened. Duncan saw their weapons inside, Fiona’s staff and Maric’s longsword in par tic u lar. The blue runes on Maric’s sword glowed almost angrily, making both Bregan and Genevieve recoil with a sudden hiss. Bregan tossed the bundle aside onto the floor, where it landed with a dull clatter.

The Architect then nodded, agreeing to something, and the First Enchanter finally turned to regard the three of them. He looked triumphant, almost smug in his victory. “Of course I know what I am doing,” he answered Fiona with a grin.

“You’re allying with the darkspawn?” she spat. “Why?”

“Why, for the good of all mankind!” He spread his hands amicably, but his tone was so false that it was obvious he was lying. Even Genevieve glanced at the man, frowning. “Not to mention that the Architect has access to the most interesting magic. Do you know that the darkspawn possess magic that is quite different from ours? It is driven by the taint, you see, and yet it has a great many uses, even for those of us who are not corrupted.”

Maric stared at him incredulously. “But you know what the creature intends?”

“Of course! Don’t you?” He shrugged. “I had enough supporters here in the tower to stage my coup. Simply another step in the plan, you see.”

The Architect slowly approached, its translucent eyes flicking between Duncan and the others as if studying them curiously. “I apologize for the necessity, but allies were required. I had hoped, in fact, that more Grey Wardens would be lured into the Deep Roads. Even so, the majority of you survived. That is noteworthy.”

Duncan absorbed his words for a moment. “Lured into the Deep Roads?” he asked. Genevieve’s eyes narrowed curiously at the statement, but the Architect only nodded. It walked forward and removed the onyx brooch attached to Duncan’s vest and held it up to the sunlight.

“The brooches hid you from every darkspawn but me,” it said admiringly. “I always knew where you were. And they also served to speed up the rate of your corruption.”

“My creation”—Remille bowed smugly—“thanks to the Architect’s knowledge.”

Genevieve turned sharply toward the Architect. “How did you even know we would be coming?” she demanded. “Surely you couldn’t have known about my dream.”

The emissary glanced back at her as if it found her anger curious, but Remille merely chuckled. “Couldn’t he?” he interjected. “You Grey Wardens dream the dreams of darkspawn all the time, do you not? It would be a simple enough matter to find you in the Fade through your brother, simple enough to—”

“I am sorry,” the Architect said solemnly, still staring at Genevieve.

Her eyes flashed in anger and she drew the greatsword from her back in one swift motion. The Architect did not move, merely stood there and continued to stare at her. “How dare you!” she roared, but before she could rush at the darkspawn, Bregan put his hand on her shoulder to restrain her.

“Genevieve, he is right.”

She spun on her brother, snarling at him in fury. “What do you mean, he is right? We were deceived! We were lured here and sent into the Deep Roads like … like … I thought that I …” She shook her head, unable to find the words.

“He is right that it was necessary,” Bregan assured her. “Remember what we are here to do. The Grey Wardens take what allies they can, in order to do what they must.”

Utha stepped beside Bregan, nodding solemnly in agreement. The dwarf stared up at her former commander with bloodred eyes, a look of compassion on her face, and she made a series of quick gestures that Duncan couldn’t understand. But she nodded as soon as she finished, as if to emphasize that she utterly believed what she said.

Genevieve seemed less convinced. “If it truly means ending the Blight …”

“It does,” Bregan stated firmly.

Fiona snorted. “You don’t really believe that! How many other things haven’t you been told? Why can’t you all see you’re being manipulated?”

Genevieve turned and glared at the elf coldly, her face stone. It was a look that Duncan was familiar with. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Fiona. We gave you the chance to take part in something very important, and yet you chose to throw it away. I know it must be very hard for you to trust in anything.”

Fiona spat at Genevieve’s feet, her face twisted into rage. “And what about Kell?” she demanded. “Was he just some silly elf, too? Someone who didn’t know what it meant to be a Grey Warden?”

Genevieve glanced at the pool of spittle before her feet. Utha turned to face Fiona, however, and made several gestures in sudden interest.

“He’s dead,” the elf declared. “He died heroically. That’s the only thing that’s asked of Grey Wardens. That’s why we drink the blood, not to do this.”

The dwarf nodded sadly, though she seemed unsurprised. She walked back to stand beside the Architect. It looked down at her with an expression that Duncan could almost have sworn was compassion. “It is unfortunate that one could not be convinced, I agree.”

“Enough!” the First Enchanter suddenly exclaimed. “Why are you even continuing to talk to this elf! Obviously she is stubborn! I could have told you that!”

“Perhaps,” Genevieve said quietly, still staring at Fiona, “I had hoped … no, I suppose you are correct.” She sheathed her sword and walked over to Duncan, kneeling down to look him straight in the eyes. He could smell the stench of foulness that clung to her now, like rotted meat. Yet still he couldn’t look away. She seemed angry, and yet also hurt, as if she couldn’t figure out quite what to say to him. He recalled their confrontation in the dream. She certainly hadn’t had any problem then.

But this wasn’t the same thing, now, was it?

“Duncan,” she began hesitantly, “please reconsider. It was really for you that I had them bring you here. I want you at my side when we go and face the Old God. I need you at my side.”

He felt mixed emotions. This was his chance to change his mind, then. He could rejoin Genevieve, stand at her side, and maybe even make some good out of what came from this mad plan of hers. He knew a part of her hated him for what he had done, but a part of him hated her, too. She had dragged him into this life he despised. Yet even so, he still found himself wanting her approval.

Then he saw the daggers on her belt. It was the pair of silverite daggers, the ones missing from the pile of their weapons he’d found back in the ruin. His daggers, the ones that she had given to him. The ones that had once belonged to Guy. And suddenly Duncan felt anger. It welled up in him with such force it almost staggered him, like it had been waiting there for so long biding its time, a fury he had nursed and hidden away but never acknowledged.

It wasn’t simply that she had taken the daggers. She had taken them away from him, the only weapons in the entire pile that she had confiscated. She had taken them away to punish him for refusing.

“No,” he growled at her.

Her eyes went wide with surprise. “No?”

“That’s right. No. I won’t help you.”

She stared at him in disbelief, and then her face hardened into sudden anger. “You won’t help me? You owe me.”

“I owe you? I owe you?” Duncan felt his rage only increasing. He shook as he glared at Genevieve. “I think I know why Guy was so relieved when I killed him. It wasn’t because he wanted to get away from the Grey Wardens. He was happy to finally get away from you.”

She jumped up, her hand on her sword hilt. “You dare!”

He looked at her defiantly. “Go ahead. Kill me. Prove what a powerful warrior you are. The fact will remain that I’ve only been a Grey Warden for six months and I’m a better Grey Warden than you’ll ever be.”

It felt good to say it. It felt freeing. Duncan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he knew he was right. He was willing to die being right. Better than dying being wrong. Genevieve glared at him in outrage, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword.

Bregan stepped forward, putting his hand on her shoulder again. “Leave him. He’s made his decision. He is just as foolish as the elf; what did you expect?”

She didn’t take her eyes off Duncan. Her lips formed into a snarl, her whole body shaking with rage. “I want to kill him,” she gritted between her teeth.

“Then kill him.”

For a moment Duncan thought she would. He felt the sweat beading and dribbling down his forehead as he watched her tense. And then she spun on her heel, storming away from her brother. “No,” she stated with quiet finality. And he knew that they were done. Bregan watched Genevieve walk away and wondered if he should just kill the boy now. Both him and the elf, in fact, and spare them any further trouble of trying to convert them. Kell might have been a possibility, and of some use, but these two were little more than spoiled children. The King, however, was quite a different matter.

Noticing his scrutiny, Maric arched a brow at him. “And where do I fit in here, then?” he asked. “Am I just along for the ride?”

“No, you are my prize,” the First Enchanter said, stepping closer to the King. Bregan fought to keep from reaching out and crushing the mage’s tiny neck. Why the Architect insisted on allying itself with such a treacherous slug, he couldn’t say. He supposed that the emissary needed to take what it could, but had Bregan known originally that this man would be part of the plan, he might have considered differently. Well, it was too late now.

“Out of all of this,” the mage continued, “you are what pleases me most. When I brought the Grey Wardens to make their request at the palace, I had hoped to snare the famous Loghain, the Hero of River Dane! Ah, to take that arrogant fool before the Emperor …” He paused and regarded the King with a wide grin, almost luxuriating in his victory. “But you, the great Maric the Savior, you will please the Emperor more than anything I could possibly have hoped for.”

The King spat, suddenly furious. “Is that all this is, then? Some Orlesian trick?”

“Oh, it’s much more than that, Your Majesty.”

“That’s enough,” Bregan scolded the First Enchanter. “Why you bother with this is pointless, when you well know that there won’t be enough left of Orlais, or any nation, to make such things matter when this is done.”

The mage turned toward him, his eyes flashing in annoyance. “We have the enchantments to preserve those who are most important, those who have helped facilitate the Architect’s plan, and that will include the Emperor. The Orlesian Empire will live on!”

“What do you mean,” King Maric said, his voice low and suspicious. “What does this have to do with stopping the Blight?”

“That is an excellent question.” Genevieve strode back toward them, frowning at Bregan. “What does this have to do with the Blight? What are you speaking of?”

Bregan cursed himself for an idiot. He hadn’t wanted to tell his sister about this part of the plan, not yet. It had been enough to tell her that the Blights could be ended. That was what a Grey Warden would want to do, and her most of all. She had known that. The true scope of the necessary sacrifice could have been told to her in time.

First Enchanter Remille laughed heartily. “You haven’t told her?”

Genevieve didn’t look away from Bregan, her expression brittle and suspicious. “It seems that Fiona is correct. I haven’t been told a great many things.”

He sighed heavily. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”

“Perhaps you should have told me before.”

“I told you exactly what you needed to know,” he snapped. “That the Blights could be ended! That has not changed!”

“Then what are you speaking of? What would destroy Orlais and every other nation, if not a terrible Blight?”

“I can answer that.” The Architect calmly strode into the beam of sunshine that radiated from the window high overhead. Bregan watched it with amazement. The Grey Wardens had thought that the darkspawn could not survive in the sun, that this was why they brought darkness with them when they rose to the surface, why they hid in the Deep Roads in the first place. Yet here this emissary was, unafraid to step into the light. Its very existence challenged all of their assumptions about darkspawn, things that the order had taken as givens for centuries.

“We should speak elsewhere,” Bregan growled. “In private.”

Genevieve turned toward the Architect, her expression steel. “No. I want to know now.”

The darkspawn spread its withered hands and nodded cautiously. “I had wished to speak to you on this, but your brother said you would not understand. I defer to his judgment, for my knowledge of humans and their ways is lacking.”

“Then speak to me now,” she insisted.

“Ending the Blights is not enough.” The Architect put its hands together in front of it, looking almost meditative. “Freed of their compulsions, the darkspawn would tear each other apart. It would be a vast bloodletting. But in time they would regain their numbers, and then the threat of the taint we carry would once again bring us into conflict with your kind.”

“And? What is your alternative?”

“You are,” it said, watching her with appreciative eyes. “The Grey Wardens possess a resistance that allows them to survive even if their bodies eventually become tainted. You are living proof that a middle path exists, a way for our peoples to exist in harmony.”

She frowned in confusion. “But in order for that to …” Then her eyes went wide with shock.

“There, she gets it now,” the First Enchanter said smugly.

Bregan wanted to kill the mage. Kill him and the Grey Wardens and even the King, too. Kill all the Orlesians in the tower and all the mages they were keeping imprisoned. Let their blood cool on the ground and have the Architect find another way to complete its plan. It would be simpler that way. He felt the blood pumping in his chest, dark and heavy from the taint. It moved through him like sludge. It felt right.

“Genevieve,” he said sharply, and his sister turned back toward him. She still seemed stunned, not yet pro cessing the entire implication of the Architect’s words. Utha watched him, too, from nearby. She seemed to be considering the matter calmly. Good. She had always been a worthy warrior, one who knew the true depth of the darkspawn threat. “There is a vision here that you must understand. What the Architect speaks of is not simply ending the Blights. It is peace with the darkspawn, real peace. The kind that can last.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you have any notion how many would die if they were forced to go through the Joining? How … how can this even be done? We can’t possibly force everyone to drink darkspawn blood!”

“It’s not the blood,” Remille answered her casually. He walked a short distance away, sighing as if all the standing and talking were tiring him. “It’s the taint, administered to a body in one dose. Spread the taint quickly enough and it seems we get Grey Wardens, this according to the kind advice of the Architect.” He gestured to the darkspawn, who nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“You’re mad!” Fiona shouted.

He regarded her with a sly grin. “Oh, no, my dear. This is quite possible. With the power this creature has taught to us, we can easily plant an enchantment within enough cities. Enough to spread the taint quickly and cleanly over all of Thedas.” He held out his hand, waving his fingers rhythmically until an orb of blackness formed over it, hovering in the air. Bregan could feel that power reaching out to him, tugging at his blood. Then the orb simply imploded on itself and winked out of existence, leaving the air around it colder. “And what we are left with”—the mage smiled—“is a world of survivors, who will be immune—through our protective enchantments, or by virtue of their blood.”

The Architect nodded, pleased. “And what darkspawn remain, now freed from the call of the Old Gods. Enough to gather, and teach. And begin anew.”

“We can all begin anew,” Bregan added. “A chance at real peace.”

He noticed Utha nodding slowly in agreement, but Genevieve only stared at him suspiciously. She walked up to Bregan, peering into his eyes as if she could find the truth there and nowhere else. “Why do you want peace?” she demanded.

“Shouldn’t we all want peace?”

“I know you.” Her tone was accusing and he didn’t like it. He refused to back down, and instead glared back at her. “To think you might have wanted to destroy the Old Gods, for the sake of having served the order for so long, that I could believe. Even if you hated everything about being a Grey Warden, that I could see you wanting. But peace?” She shook her head in dismay. “No, not that.”

The Architect stepped toward them, holding up a hand. “Do not grow angry. Let us speak on this further, if you have concerns.”

“Shut up,” Genevieve snapped at him. Then she looked back at Bregan. “I want to hear what my brother has to say.”

He felt the rage building up in him again. Strange that now it seemed like it was all he had left. His fear had been burned away by the taint that ran through him, but it had done nothing to take away the rage and the hatred. They sat in his heart like a poison blacker than anything the darkspawn could have given him.

“Let them die,” he swore fervently. “Let them all die. I couldn’t care less how many of them suffer. Let them have a taste of what we’ve had to endure on their behalf.”

“You mean what you’ve had to endure.”

He snorted derisively. “Poor sister. She couldn’t become a Grey Warden, so she had to beg me to become one so they would take her. She couldn’t have Guy, so she had me take him into the order to be with her. And it still wasn’t enough. None of it was.” He snarled at her, feeling the press of his sharp fangs against his lips. “How many have you poisoned to get what you want, Genevieve?”

She reeled away from the ferocity of his words, but still she didn’t retreat. Her eyes welled up with angry, bloodred tears. “And now you’ve poisoned me in return, is that it?” she asked him, her voice thick with anguish. “Is this your revenge, finally?”

Bregan spat at her feet. “You were already poisoned, the moment you drank that blood! Now do something worthwhile with it! So people will die; they always die. They aren’t worth saving!” He pointed accusingly at King Maric. “How many years did we spend begging for scraps from their tables, because they decided the Blight was no longer a threat? How quickly they forget the number of times the order has saved them! They’re cowardly and stupid—” He held a gauntleted fist up before Genevieve, squeezing his fingers so tightly the metal groaned. “ —so let’s give them exactly the saving they deserve.”

“That’s not why I became a Grey Warden!”

He walked up closer to her now, until his face was only inches from hers. “Did you become a great hero, sister? Did anyone care about all your sacrifices? You could kill the Old Gods yourself and still nobody would cheer your name.”

Genevieve struggled, torn between fury and torment, but he refused to let her go. He stared her down. They had come this far, allowed the corruption within themselves to turn their bodies into abominations; why should they turn back now? He knew his sister. She would give him what he wanted. She owed him. Ever since he gave up his entire life to allow her to join this pathetic order, to become the great hero she always desired to be, she owed him.

A new commotion just outside the great chamber suddenly drew their attention. The First Enchanter turned toward the entrance, annoyance etched into his face, as distant shouts of alarm rang through the tower’s halls. Gesturing to the templars still standing guard behind King Maric and the other prisoners to follow, the mage strode imperiously toward the noise.

Before he even reached the entrance, a younger mage ran in. This was an apprentice, most likely, little past his majority. He skidded to a halt, almost running into the First Enchanter, and then gasped for air so that his excited babble was barely intelligible.

“Slow down, boy!” Remille snapped. “Have our other prisoners escaped? Are we to have mages crawling through the tower soon?”

“No!” The younger mage shook his head, doubling over and putting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “Boats! Boats coming!”

The First Enchanter paused, shooting a dubious glance toward the Architect before turning back to regard the panting boy. “In the lake? What manner of boats are these? How many? Speak!” he demanded.

“Three!” the boy gasped. “Big boats! Flying the royal banner!”

Bregan spun about and glared at Maric, who grinned insolently back at him in response. “Don’t look at me,” the king said with a shrug. “I wish I could summon a bunch of boats at will. That would be convenient.”

Remille spat. “It’s Teyrn Loghain.” He said the name with cool derision, then snapped his fingers at the two templars. “Go, seal the entrance under the tower.” As those men ran off, he turned back to the young mage. “I want mages on the upper deck. If they attempt to land on the island, burn down their ships.”

“But they’ll be out of range!”

“Then burn whoever steps off their ships!” he exploded. “Burn the entire island if you have to! Just go! Do it!” With a furious wave he sent the young mage scrambling back into the hall. Already more shouting could be heard outside, and the sound of booted feet racing back and forth.

“If it is Loghain,” Maric said, his smile widening, “then you’re in trouble.”

“With his precious king our hostage? I think not,” Bregan sneered.

“Then you don’t know Loghain.”

The First Enchanter stormed back toward them, swearing angrily. His snarls echoed throughout the massive chamber. The Architect walked calmly over to Bregan, Utha in step beside it. “This is an unfortunate complication,” he stated.

Bregan nodded. “There have been nothing but complications.”

“It may yet be resolved. It must, lest we lose our only opportunity.”

“It will,” he assured the darkspawn, then looked questioningly at his sister. “Provided Genevieve gets over her cold feet and helps us.”

She stood there, indecision written over her features. She backed away slowly from the Architect, glancing warily toward the approaching First Enchanter. She seemed like a cornered cat, he thought. Or a dog. A very stubborn dog.

“What you are planning is wrong,” she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Since when has that ever stopped you before?” Bregan snapped.

Genevieve glared at him hatefully, but said nothing. For a long minute their eyes locked silently. There was a single moment when Bregan thought she was about to break down, to finally accede to his demand. At that moment, however, the dark-skinned rogue chained next to the King spoke up.

“You can still stop this, Genevieve!” he shouted angrily. “You can still do something!”

Bregan snarled and spun around, slapping the lad so hard across his face that he flew back and struck his head against the floor. His chains rattled loudly, and he groaned in pain. Bregan turned back to Genevieve, scowling, and saw it in her eyes: The moment had passed. Her decision had been made.

She drew her greatsword, the metal reflecting the sunlight off its smooth surface as she brandished it toward him. Her look was steady, hateful. “I’m not going to allow you to do this, Bregan,” she stated. “Taking part in this was a mistake.”

He drew his own sword, a growl emerging from deep in his throat. It surprised him how much he wanted to kill his sister. She was just like the rest of the human waste out there, wasn’t she? It had always been coming to this. All the years of jealousy and pride, all those years of resentful glances despite all that he had done for her. He should never have agreed to the Architect’s plan to recruit her. He should have killed her in the Deep Roads when he’d had the chance.

“Let’s rectify that, then,” he said icily.

A blast of black fire struck Genevieve in the chest. She screamed, a peal of terror that turned into torment as she fell back onto the floor. Bregan turned and realized that it was the Architect that had cast the spell, its pale hand still held out before it and wreathed in black flames.

Genevieve clutched at a pool of shadow that spread across her torso. It grew, and appeared to be eating her. Bregan watched in dull horror as her screams turned into shrieks. She spasmed wildly, dropping her sword and struggling as the Architect’s spell slowly enveloped her. It washed over her arms and her legs, and then finally swallowed her head. Her screaming ended abruptly. The shadow-covered body flailed about twice more, and then the blackness simply collapsed, leaving nothing more than a pool of liquid on the floor.

She was gone. The liquid slowly oozed across the stone, hissing and sizzling wherever the sunlight touched it.

Bregan spun angrily on the Architect. “What did you do?”

The darkspawn studied him curiously, as if his response was unexpected. “It was clear she had changed her mind. I did what was necessary, to preserve our task.”

“I don’t care about your task! That was my sister!”

“Who you were about to slay, Warden.”

“No! No, I wasn’t going to do that!” Bregan felt the hate building up inside him again, but instead of fueling him it made him feel sickened. The corruption crawled through every inch of him now, like maggots. He wanted to cut it out, burn it out, whatever he had to do to get rid of it. “You’re lying!”

The Architect blinked its large pale eyes at him. Utha put up her fists and crouched down, glaring at Bregan, but the darkspawn restrained her with a withered hand. “I am not lying,” it said. “Were you not aware of your argument? Did you not hear her decision?” It steepled its fingers together under its chin. “Perhaps it was a mistake to attempt to bring more Grey Wardens down to us. I assumed they would be more amenable, given that their leader had already changed his mind.”

“A mistake?” Bregan scoffed. Then he shook his head incredulously at the creature. “You don’t understand us, do you? Not even remotely. We’re like insects in a jar that you study, and poke, and cut their wings off if it suits your purposes.”

“You know my aim, Warden. I have been forthright with you.”

“You’re a monster!”

The Architect stared at him blankly. “We are not so different, now.”

It was right. Bregan was a monster now, too.

He launched himself at the creature before it could cast one of its spells, slashing hard with his sword at its head. The emissary reacted more quickly than he could have anticipated, however, pulling back at the last second. Bregan’s sword sliced across the darkspawn’s chest, cutting deep and fast.

The creature stumbled back, a look of shock on its face as it clutched at its wound. Black ichor spurted out between its fingers. Bregan didn’t intend to allow it a moment to recoup, leaping up into the air with the intention of stabbing his sword down into the Architect’s head.

Something slammed into him before he landed, however, knocking him down to the ground. It took Bregan a moment to realize it was the dwarven woman, Utha. She had tackled him in midair and now was slamming her fists into his face. They were like stone hammers coming down on him, pain exploding as she busted his nose and cracked his jaw.

Fighting through the flurry of blows, he reached up and grabbed her throat with his gauntleted hand and squeezed. She gritted her teeth, pressing her thumbs into his eyes as the two of them struggled for control. He was blinded, the agony burning through his skull, but finally he felt her strength lessen for just a moment. Taking advantage, he roared and slammed the dwarf’s head down at the ground beside him. It struck the ground with a loud crack, and he threw her aside and off of him.

As he did so, a dark blast of magic struck him. It was the same black energy that had assaulted Genevieve. He screamed as he felt it begin to eat away at him, chewing away at his chest as the darkspawn sent more and more of the magic streaming toward him.

His vision blurred, and for a moment he couldn’t see where the Architect was. He clenched his teeth and willed himself to stop screaming despite the excruciating pain firing through his body. Then, through a dark haze, he saw the vague shape of the emissary. Shouting, he raised his sword and raced toward it. He ran against the stream of magic, feeling it lance into his chest and spread inside him like ice, and when he reached the Architect he brought his blade down and chopped off the creature’s hand.

It shrieked, ichor pumping from the stump, but its spell was broken. Bregan slumped to the ground, most of the breastplate covering his chest having been eaten away and his flesh bloody and still sizzling from the dark magic. The Architect fell, too, grasping at its arm and attempting to staunch the flow of ichor from its wound. Its robes were black with its blood.

Bregan forced himself to his feet with agonizing slowness. The pain in his chest was torture. It was as if someone had carved a chunk out of it, leaving nothing but a vacant hole. He lifted his sword, trying to keep it from shaking, and advanced on the Architect. The creature bared its fangs in a defiant hiss. Bregan raised his sword above his head—

—and suddenly lightning struck them both. The flash of light was blinding, and the boom of thunder threw him off his feet. The agony that raced through him forced him to convulse on the floor, electric currents still arcing their way across his body. The Architect reeled in agony as well, not ten feet away, the jolts of electricity leaping from point to point.

“This is convenient.” It took a moment for Bregan to realize that this was the First Enchanter speaking. He looked up, quivering from the pain, and saw the mage approach them calmly. His hand still smoked from the spell he had unleashed.

The Architect looked at the man in horror. “What … have you done?” it gasped.

Remille snorted. “Did you really think that I would simply go along with your plan, you foolish creature? Originally I was planning on making our enchantments faulty, at least the ones in Orlais, but this makes things much, much easier.”

“But … the Blight!” the Architect protested.

“What do I care of the Blight? When you first approached me in the Fade, I thought I would play along. Nod my head yes, and tell you everything you wanted to hear. And you gave me your secrets, didn’t you?” He held his hand up, black energy crackling between his fingers. “You gave me that and the King of Ferelden both.”

“No! You cannot do this, human!”

“I can, and I shall.”

Bregan had known the mage for an opportunist and still had blindly allowed himself to be deceived, just as the Architect had been deceived. Only he had no such excuse as the darkspawn had. He knew full well what such men were capable of, and yet he had chosen to ignore it. Because he hadn’t cared.

What an utter fool I have been, he cursed himself.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” came another voice.

Through the haze of pain, Bregan turned his head and saw King Maric and the two other Grey Wardens, now freed from their chains. The King was brandishing his runed blade at the First Enchanter, while the elven mage was already lifting up her white staff and summoning a spell. Out in the halls beyond the great chamber, a terrible crashing sound sent quivers throughout the entire structure. The shouts of men went up in the far distance.

“I don’t suppose you’ll stand down quietly?” the King asked gravely.

The First Enchanter turned toward him and sneered. “No.”