The Calling

3

Duncan sat in the small boat, quite miserable and certain that it would tip over at any second and spill everyone on board into Lake Calenhad. The journey west from Denerim had taken them several days, and he wasn’t even sure why they were bothering. If First Enchanter Remille had wanted to give them something, why hadn’t he brought it with him to the capital? It seemed pointless to drag the Grey Wardens all this way, even if the entrance into the Deep Roads was supposedly not far from here. If time was as tight as Genevieve kept claiming, it seemed like it would make more sense to go after her brother now.

But no. Instead he was forced to squeeze into a boat that had room only for the King and the burly fellow with the oar, freezing as they navigated their way across the lake. The wind howled fiercely, and with each gust Duncan shivered. Really, he couldn’t stop shivering, even with the fur cloak the King had given him to wrap up in. Was everywhere in this country cold?

Chunks of floating ice thumped against the boat with alarming strength and regularity. The oarsman was forced to concentrate on his task, sweating with the effort. Sometimes he would do little more than push the ice away from the boat with his oar. Other times he would start paddling furiously, only to reverse their course a moment later. What happened if the lake froze over completely? Did people just walk to the tower, then?

Only the King seemed unperturbed by the entire experience. He had been quiet since they left the city, mostly keeping to himself and asking very little of his appointed keeper … something Duncan heartily approved of. Once or twice the King had asked some probing questions about the Grey Wardens, questions Duncan had warily answered. Genevieve had warned him that the King might do so, and in the same breath had said that Duncan should tell the man as little as possible. The King had merely shrugged at the responses. He didn’t appear to expect more.

It did make for several days of quiet, however. They had left Denerim by the North Road, traveling quickly along the Coastlands. It wasn’t very busy at this time of year, according to Genevieve, and that meant less chance of them being either followed or recognized. Once the snows came, most traffic resorted to the sturdy ships that sailed the Waking Sea. They’d seen only a handful of others, merchants bundled up in woolens pulling their carts, and pilgrims forced to wait until almost too late in the season to travel. None of them had so much as glanced their way.

Dwarves didn’t ride very well, but Utha did her best to suffer the indignity quietly. Really, Duncan thought she rode far more gracefully than the few other dwarves he had seen do it. Usually her people preferred to ride in carriages or carts, and not on the animals themselves, though he’d heard that in Orzammar the dwarves sometimes rode oxen. He’d asked Utha about it once, and from her grin he could tell she found the question amusing. Maybe it wasn’t true? He didn’t know; he’d never been to Orzammar.

Kell retrieved his warhound, Hafter, as soon as they’d left the palace. He was a giant of a dog, all muscle and teeth and shaggy grey hair. Duncan had no idea what breed of dog Hafter was supposed to be, only that he could tear out a man’s throat in defense of his master. In fact, Duncan had seen him do so. Hafter bounded merrily along beside the hunter’s horse, long tongue hanging out of his mouth. One would never guess the happy hound could transform into a killer at the slightest command.

Julien and Nicolas kept mostly to themselves, as they often did. Duncan supposed they had fought back to back for so long they were simply more accustomed to each other’s company. Sometimes Genevieve rode with them, but usually she rode up front with Kell. There she kept her gaze intently fixed on the horizon, as if by sheer will she could somehow bring it closer.

Normally Duncan would have ridden with Fiona, and they would have chatted amiably during the trip as the quieter Grey Wardens shot them dark looks. He had come to know the elven mage fairly well in the months since he’d joined the order. Now, however, she mostly stayed away. On the few chances he did get to speak to her, she seemed agitated, and as soon as King Maric returned to Duncan’s side, Fiona would scowl and move her horse away. She didn’t trade a single word with the man, and brusquely ignored any of his attempts to make conversation.

The King had glanced at him quizzically, and he’d shrugged in response. Who could tell why the elf did anything? Not him.

The first night they spent in a village had been uncomfortable, to say the least. Genevieve hadn’t liked the idea of being exposed, but they had left the city too hurriedly to properly equip themselves. A tense night had been spent in an inn, the King hooded and kept far from prying eyes. Duncan had rested on the wooden floor next to the King’s cot, shivering and swearing at the icy Fereldan weather that seeped through his threadbare blankets and made for an unbearably sleepless night.

After that they’d avoided most of the small hamlets that dotted the road, skirting the edge of the central Bannorn as they headed westward. Only once had the King insisted they stop at a par tic u lar farmhold on the outskirts. It seemed unremarkable to Duncan, just a holding made of cracked and worn whitestone and fenced pastures given over mostly to goats and sheep.

Who was within was anyone’s guess, and the Grey Wardens waited outside for the King to finish his business. Fiona had bristled at the brief delay even more than Genevieve, and her scowl at King Maric once he returned left little to imagine as to what she thought of the entire business. He ignored her, and she spent the next hour whispering an angry complaint to the Commander loudly enough for the rest of them to hear. Duncan assumed that they were meant to.

Afterwards Genevieve had driven them double time, stopping to camp only when it was absolutely too dark to ride and mercilessly stirring them all as soon as the first sliver of sun was sighted on the horizon. Duncan was happy to do the majority of the complaining, not that anyone listened to him. They were all exhausted and tense. The more time that passed, the more agitated Genevieve became. Finally reaching the shores of Lake Calenhad had been a relief.

Now King Maric sat not a foot away from Duncan in the small boat, staring out across the lake with his eyes half closed as the wind washed across his face and ruffled his blond hair. He seemed to take plea sure in it, Duncan observed, and even after giving up his fur cloak didn’t seem the least bothered by the cold.

The King apparently noticed that he was being watched, and regarded Duncan in return. Duncan should probably have felt self-conscious at being caught, but didn’t. For a king, this fellow was a very odd man. Who had ever heard of a king just up and leaving his palace, heading off into possible danger without so much as a send-off? The group of them had snuck out of Denerim like criminals, and not even Teyrn Loghain showed up to give them a proper scowl. It was very likely nobody even knew the King had left. The man deserved to be stared at.

“Are you curious about something?” he asked Duncan, slightly bemused. His breath came out in a plume of fine mist.

“Is that silverite?” Duncan asked, pointing at the King’s armor, as fine a suit of plate as he’d ever seen. It seemed light as well as comfortable, and reflected the dim sunlight with a brilliance that he couldn’t help noticing. The amount that such a suit of armor would fetch on the black market boggled his mind.

“It is. I haven’t worn it since the war, however. I’m surprised it still fits. Have you seen silverite before?”

Duncan pulled out one of his daggers and showed it to the King, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was made of silverite, as well. “I have two of these,” Duncan explained.

“You’re full of surprises. Should I ask where you got them?”

“You can if you want, but I won’t tell you.”

The King smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to do what I ask? I seem to recall that being mentioned at some point.”

“Fine. I bought them with the vast fortune that was left to me by my parents. They were once the ruling Prince and Princess of Antiva until they were unfairly deposed, and one day I will return to claim my throne.”

King Maric chuckled gamely, and for a moment Duncan thought that maybe this King wasn’t such a bad fellow after all. Then, as another chill gust of wind blew across the boat and set Duncan’s teeth to chattering, the life drained out of the King’s smile. A shadow passed behind the man’s eyes, and he turned to stare out grimly over the water once again.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he muttered.

It was proving difficult to reconcile Maric the Savior—the man who, according to everyone, had single-handedly wrested his nation back from the Orlesians and then set about rebuilding it into a force to be reckoned with—with the sad fellow that sat across from him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned anything about a throne? Maybe thrones were bad.

“My chances are pretty bad anyhow, I’m told.” Duncan smiled apologetically. “And Antiva is a terrible place. All full of assassins and … Antivans. So maybe I’m better off.”

The oarsman glanced back, huffing and puffing from the exertion as he rowed, but made no comment on their exchange. Duncan wasn’t certain the man knew he was ferrying the King of Ferelden across the lake, to be honest. Genevieve had made all the arrangements and had already gone across with the First Enchanter.

The King was silent for several minutes, simply staring out at the lake. Just when Duncan thought that he should probably go back to shivering in his furs, however, the man abruptly turned and asked a question. “What are the darkspawn, exactly?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’ve seen them,” he admitted, “and I was told a little about them back then, but you people are Grey Wardens. Your order has been dealing with them for centuries. You must know more about them than anyone.”

Duncan chuckled. “They’re monsters.”

“And?”

“And what? I’ve been a Grey Warden for six months, maybe.”

“So that’s it? That’s all you know? That they’re monsters?”

Duncan rubbed his forehead, trying to think. It was hard when it was this cold. It snowed in Val Royeaux from time to time, but when it did everyone stayed indoors and the market district all but shut down. Those were difficult days to be a cutpurse. “Well, let’s see. You know about the magisters, I assume?”

“I know what the Chant of Light says about them. It says that the mages of Tevinter grew bold enough to open a portal into heaven so they could usurp the Maker’s throne, but instead corrupted it with their sin.”

He nodded. “And were corrupted in turn, right. The first darkspawn. What’s wrong with that story? Not enough for you?”

The King peered at him curiously. “Doesn’t it seem, I don’t know … a bit pat?”

“Don’t let the priests hear you say that!” Duncan laughed.

“But there must be more to it. Why are there so many? How do they live?”

Duncan spread his hands helplessly. “You’re talking to the wrong Grey Warden. All I know is that the darkspawn spend all their time searching for the Old Gods.”

“That’s it? Nothing else? They must be boring at parties.”

“That’s pretty much it. They don’t think, exactly.”

King Maric gave him a significant look. “But they take prisoners.”

He shrugged, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Apparently.”

For another hour they sat in silence, Duncan watching Kinloch Hold loom larger and larger before them. The thin spire appeared to rise out of the middle of the lake, and he wondered faintly how the mages had built it out there. Had they used magic to pull it up out of the rock? This tower looked elegant, at least from afar. Up close it was weathered and stained, the wider structure at the base standing on a rocky island almost completely covered in snow.

The only sounds were the low whistling of the wind and the rhythmic sloshing caused by the rowing. They passed directly under what had once been a giant causeway that led from the shore all the way out to the tower. Now it was just a crumbling arch, one of several. The fact that it was even partially standing after so many centuries was probably a tribute to the skill of those who had built it, Duncan supposed. He couldn’t begin to guess why they didn’t repair the bridge so that these long ferry rides weren’t necessary. Maybe they didn’t know how any longer? Maybe they forgot why they built a giant tower out in the middle of a lake, as well. That thought brought him no small amount of amusement.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked the King.

“Once during the war. Then again for the last First Enchanter’s funeral, though we didn’t go inside. Otherwise the Chantry objects to me coming here, just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

“Just in case there are mages within who have learned a spell or two that they shouldn’t have. Wouldn’t do to have the King of Ferelden having his mind controlled, would it?’

Duncan’s eyes went a bit wide. “They can do that?”

“I think it’s more important that the Chantry believes they can.”

Duncan had heard of blood magic. That was how the ancient magisters bent all of Thedas to their will, using the blood of their sacrifices to fuel their magic and open up portals into heaven. They were responsible for the Blights, according to the Chantry.

Andraste had thrown down the magisters with that accusation, claiming that magic was meant to serve rather than rule. It was a rallying cry that had spread across all of Thedas. It was the reason such towers as the one to which they were now rowing existed. In such places mages could be trained, and, more important, watched closely. If blood magic meant the mages could actually control someone’s mind, maybe the priests had good reason to be so suspicious.

“I’ve been to one of the Circle’s towers once,” Duncan explained. “It was the one outside of Montsimmard, but it was nothing like this one. More of a fortress. That’s where Fiona was recruited.”

The King looked at him quizzically. “Fiona. That’s the elven woman?”

“That’s the one.”

Duncan stared up at the tower again, which now loomed large and blotted out most of the sky. They had rowed into its shadow, and Duncan could make out the cave they were headed for amid the sharp rocks. Supposedly the base of the tower was in there, as well as a place to park the boat. If not, they would no doubt crash on the rocks and drown. Seemed simple enough.

“They were a gift,” Duncan finally said, breaking the silence.

The King seemed honestly surprised. “A gift?”

“My daggers. Genevieve gave them to me.”

“That’s quite the gift.”

“Maybe. They were an apology. Or at least I think they were.”

Now the King was truly interested. “An apology? Your commander doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who does that often.”

“She’s not,” Duncan said flatly. He turned his attention to the water rippling along the side of the boat, and the King let him be. The boat sailed serenely past a jagged rock that jutted out of the water, slimy algae pooled around it and clinging to its sides. A dirty gull sat on the rock and looked at him curiously, tilting its head to one side. Duncan ignored it and huddled miserably in his fur as another cold wind sliced across the lake and seeped into his skin. “It’s a mistake to bring him with us,” Fiona told Genevieve as they waited in the docks underneath the tower. The cavern walls slick with moisture loomed high overhead, bathed in the orange glow of magical lanterns. In Orlais there were entire streets lit by such devices, the wealthiest districts in the entire Empire. There the Circle of Magi was paid handsomely to keep the lanterns lit, and once a month in the early morning a herd of young apprentices would make their rounds under the watchful eyes of a guardian templar. Every lantern would be checked to see if the chunk of specially enchanted chalk within had lost its dweomer, and replaced if it had. It was a painstaking pro cess, and the Empire’s elite took great pride in the fact that they could afford such a wild extravagance.

That such lanterns existed within the walls of the mage tower, however, was hardly indicative of its wealth. Here it was simply expedient. Fiona suspected that, unlike in Orlais, the tower was the only place she would see such devices in Ferelden. The idea that the practical locals would willingly spend coin for such a luxury, even had they any to spare, seemed laughable.

Genevieve unsurprisingly ignored Fiona’s comment, keeping her arms crossed as she watched the opening that led into the cavern. She awaited the arrival of the King with the same unwavering intensity that she did almost everything. Fiona had explained her objection to the King’s presence three times now since they had left Denerim, and each time the Grey Warden commander had responded with little more than indifference. No doubt she was well aware of all the reasons why taking royalty on their excursion might be considered unwise, and was proceeding anyhow.

Fiona scowled and turned away from the Commander before she said something to the woman that she would regret. It would not have been the first time she’d spoken her mind without thinking. Best not to give herself the chance to do it again.

The dock’s platform was a solid block of stone, wooden posts spaced evenly along the water’s edge to offer something to tie a boat to. As if there was a need for more than one, considering that only a single ferry operated out of the tiny hamlet at the edge of the lake. The few dour folk at the inn there had paid the Grey Wardens little heed, evidently accustomed to strange people coming and going. They’d been forced to cross the icy waters two at a time. What would happen if there was ever a pressing need to bring more people to the tower at once, or perhaps away from it, she really couldn’t imagine.

Perhaps that was the way they preferred it? Where Fiona had been trained, they relied on tall stone walls to keep the suspicious outside world at bay. No doubt an entire lake worked equally well.

The platform was littered with old crates and wheelbarrows, as well as various other tools that might be used to cart arriving goods up into the tower. Did they bring all the needed supplies across the lake one boat ride at a time, too? She imagined that ships could always come from Redcliffe in the south, but that would be a long way to sail. That oarsman must be very busy indeed. A large dumbwaiter was closed off behind a warped and grey wooden gate, while a set of wide stairs curved up and out of sight into the shadows.

Even with the mystical lights, this was a dim and forbidding place. The staccato rhythm of droplets hitting the lake’s surface was constant and almost maddening. The water was littered with bits of flotsam that pooled at the edges, lapping wetly against the stone with a whispery echo that made her skin crawl. The smell of damp and fetid oil was almost overwhelming.

Fiona had sworn she wouldn’t step foot in another Circle after becoming a Grey Warden, not ever, and yet here she was. She had voiced her objections on that subject to Genevieve as well, but the response had been little better. Their mission was vital. Time was vital. Genevieve might as well have had those words carved into her flesh, she repeated them so often.

The possibility that there might be any truth to them made Fiona shiver.

She had seen a darkspawn only once in her entire life, on the very eve that she’d joined the order. She had not been a Grey Warden long enough to repeat the experience, and for that she considered herself fortunate. The few tales she had heard of the creatures had all said the same thing: The darkspawn had been defeated by the order for the final time long, long ago, never to arise again. Now she was told otherwise. The Grey Wardens had impressed upon her the fact that an entire army waited for the chance to spread over the surface lands again like a swarm of locusts. If that was indeed true, then they needed to be stopped, without question.

But why did they require the company of a human king in order to do it?

She left Genevieve standing at the edge and strode angrily back to Kell, who leaned casually against a far wall, his arms crossed and his head low. The hunter’s hood was drawn, and he might very well have been sleeping. Fiona had seen the man sleep on his feet before; it was almost impossible to tell. Even at rest there was a tension to his stance, as if he might spring into action at any moment.

Kell’s grey warhound curled up at his feet. Hafter, at least, was openly snoring, his back paws twitching slightly as he dreamed. Every time she saw the beast she marveled at how huge it was. She would never have thought a hound could be a credible threat to an armed warrior, but the first time she saw Hafter racing toward an opponent with his fangs bared, she quickly revised that opinion.

Where she came from, they didn’t allow dogs. She’d known a street cat once, a skinny thing she’d slipped nibbles of her evening meal. The cat always knew she would come, and every night without fail it would be sitting there in the moonlight waiting. It would perk up at the sight of her, and when she got near it would undulate ecstatically between her legs. To Fiona, the cat was a secret treasure in a world of ugliness.

And then one night it hadn’t been there at all. Somehow she knew that it was gone forever, yet she continued to go out night after night in hopeless desperation. The last night she’d even forgone her evening meal entirely, saving the few scraps of fatty pork with the idea that perhaps a larger offering would attract the cat back to her side.

Finding only darkness outside, she’d wept bitter tears and prayed to the Maker. Perhaps in His infinite wisdom He might see fit to watch over a lone alley cat, wherever it was. Her fervent whispers drew the attention of a nearby vagrant, an elf who had lost one of his limbs and thus could no longer even work in one of the menial jobs allowed their people. No doubt he smelled the pork she carried, for he pushed her down and stole it. She’d fled screaming back to her family’s hovel.

She never saw the cat again. When she was a child, her mind had shied away from the truth, preferring to believe that the cat had found a way past the tall walls that surrounded the alienage. Surely it had voyaged bravely into the human part of the city with all its fine food and fat mice. There a cat could live like a queen, feasting upon scraps tossed aside by ignorant humans that would make any elf drool with envy. Her adult mind now knew better, that the poor creature had likely been snared by the very vagrant who had attacked her. Most of the elves she had known were too proud to prey on vermin and street animals, but not all. That her father had managed to shield her from that desperation as long as he had, surprised her still. After his death, all that changed.

Fiona knelt down and slowly rubbed her hand along the hound’s coarse fur. His twitching slowed, and in his slumber he whined softly. When she reached the back of one ear, he half woke and curled his head inward in plea sure. She grinned and gave it a good scratch.

“You’ll spoil him,” came Kell’s soft voice.

She glanced up at the hunter. He had not moved, but now she could see his pale eyes watching her with a wry smile. Kell was a man of few words, she’d found, but he always managed to make his point known.

“He deserves to be spoiled a little,” she chuckled. “He fights beside us in battle. One day he will get a mouthful of darkspawn blood and that will be the end of him.” As she scratched, the hound lazily rolled over onto his back. His muscled legs stuck up in the air and he made a cute, sleepy groan. She gamely rubbed his belly.

“Hafter is as much Grey Warden as the rest of us.”

Fiona was surprised by that. “You mean he’s … ?”

He nodded. “I doubt it will be his tainted blood that takes him in the end, even so.” With a leather boot Kell reached out and affectionately nudged the hound along the ribs. Hafter opened his eyes and swiveled his head back in order to gaze with happy adoration at his master. She found it a peculiar expression for such a powerful beast, one so obviously bred for combat.

“No more than the rest of us, surely. Aren’t all Grey Wardens destined to die in battle against the darkspawn?”

“Not all,” he murmured, nodding toward where the white-haired Genevieve still stood. “There has been no Blight for the order to combat in centuries. Many of us live long enough to grow old, no matter how hard we might try otherwise.”

“And then what? We take the Calling?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you?”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Having only become a Grey Warden recently, the idea that she might one day live long enough for the dark taint to force her into such a choice seemed impossible. Yet if it did happen, if the immunity should one day wear off … the thought made her shudder. She had seen what happened to most when they became infected by the darkspawn corruption. Knowing that such vileness now swam in her blood made her shudder.

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to be bitter about it. She was thankful to be a Grey Warden. More thankful than most.

Fiona patted Hafter on his belly to indicate she was done, and he sighed contentedly and rolled back over. His big brown eyes looked to Kell in a silent plea for more scratches. In response, the hunter reached into a belt pouch and produced a length of jerky. The massive dog leaped to life immediately, ears perked up as it eagerly awaited the treat. Fiona was very nearly bowled over.

“My apologies,” Kell offered, tossing the jerky down. The dog snapped it up before it even touched the floor. It hardly seemed like it would take more than a moment for him to gobble it up, but his canine dignity demanded he trot off to chew in private around the corner.

Fiona smiled and picked herself off the stone, rubbing some of the dust and dirt off her hands. She turned to Kell, unsure if she should speak, and he regarded her expectantly.

“What do you think of this king being with us?” she asked.

“I think you should speak to Genevieve about it, and not I.”

“Don’t you think it would go poorly for the Grey Wardens if the King of Ferelden died in our care? Is that what we really want?”

“Is that truly your objection?”

She scowled. Kell looked at her without any hint of mockery, and finally she sighed and turned to glance in the Commander’s direction. “I don’t think she would care even if it was.” Her voice carried less bitterness than she felt.

If Genevieve heard, she made no indication. She remained where she was, staring resolutely out into the dim cavern. It would be hard for her not to have heard, however. Irrationally, Fiona wished she could pierce the woman’s iron demeanor just once. The quiet rage she saw behind those eyes terrified her, but it would almost be better than the waiting. One day the Commander would break, all that anger she’d smothered behind a veneer of cold competence bubbling up to the surface like a volcano, and they would all pay the price for it.

“She’s going to get us killed, you know,” she muttered, just loudly enough that there was no way Genevieve could avoid overhearing. “The King, too. Just you wait and see.” Fiona watched her closely, but the woman didn’t even blink.

Kell’s smirk told Fiona what he thought of her brave words, but he declined to add his own comment. As Hafter trotted back in their direction, nose sniffing madly in the hope that another piece of jerky might manifest itself, Kell nodded toward the cavern. Fiona had already heard the rhythmic splashes of the boat approaching. It seemed the King had finally arrived.

“Oh, joy,” she griped under her breath.

Genevieve stirred, glancing back toward them with a steely gaze. “Kell, inform the First Enchanter that we will be coming up shortly. I do not wish to stay longer than we absolutely must.”

The hunter quietly vanished up the stairwell, the warhound padding after him. Fiona and Genevieve locked gazes only for a second, and still that was enough time for Fiona to shiver at what she saw there. Had she likened the woman to a volcano? More like a shelf of ice, chill fog wrapped around it like a blanket, advancing inevitably across the water’s surface in search of a helpless boat to crush under its immense weight.

The ferry slowly came into sight, blotting out the cave entrance for a moment as the oarsman swiftly paddled over the dark water. Poor Duncan huddled within a fur cloak, while King Maric sat next to him seemingly unaffected by the weather. Fiona kept her face deliberately neutral. Her father had always scolded her that anyone and everyone could read her every opinion on her face like an open book. Normally Fiona considered that to be a strength rather than a failing, but perhaps a touch of Kell’s inscrutability would be advisable, considering the King was a man who could make all their lives a living nightmare if he so chose.

It took only a few moments for the boat to bump up hard against the platform. A rope was tied to a post, and both occupants disembarked with Genevieve’s assistance. Duncan took off the fur coat and reluctantly handed it back to the King, who was looking around at the cavern with admiration.

“The last time I came here it was winter, too,” he remarked. “But I think they’ve made it larger since then. Can they do that? They can probably do that.”

Genevieve ignored his question. “Maric, we should proceed. I have no desire to stay the night, if we can at all avoid it.”

“You mean we’ll be rowing back right away?” Duncan cried in dismay. “Why didn’t you just leave me at the inn?”

She leveled a direct gaze at him. “To do what? Guard the chickens?”

He didn’t argue, just crumpled in his own misery in a way that almost made Fiona laugh. Duncan was only a handful of years younger than her, but there were times he seemed more like a boy than a man. She knew there was much more to him than that. The place where he grew up … that was the sort of place that forced one to mature quickly. What ever Duncan suffered from, it was not naïveté.

“It might be kinder to knock him out for the trip back,” Maric suggested with a mischievous grin.

“I think he will survive.” Genevieve turned and marched up the stairs without waiting to see if she was being followed. Duncan trotted after her, and as the two of them disappeared Fiona belatedly realized the King had not moved. She had been left alone with him.

The man made no indication of a desire to go, instead standing there by the water’s edge and watching her with a strange look she couldn’t decipher. Was it anger? Concern? She had to admit he possessed a certain charm, something unexpected in a king. No doubt it was also deceptive. She’d learned a long time ago never to take such men at face value.

Shrugging indifferently, she turned to go. The King could stand in the cavern until he froze, for all she cared. She certainly didn’t feel the need to wait on him.

“Wait,” he suddenly called out. “It’s Fiona, isn’t it?”

Fiona paused, her stomach sinking. Silently she cursed her too-expressive face. You couldn’t just blink and smile prettily like some vapid whore, could you? Would that be too difficult to master? Taking a ragged breath, she slowly turned back around. “Is there something you wished of me?” she asked, keeping her tone as cheerful as she dared.

“Something I wished?” He seemed startled by her question. “I was actually hoping we could speak. I understand you have an issue with my presence.”

“A man of your stature need not concern himself with my thoughts.”

“Nice try.” Maric wagged a finger and walked toward her. She stood her ground, refusing to retreat. She would be damned if she would retreat from anyone, even some fool of a king. “You might think I’m deaf, but I managed to overhear your objections to your commander on several occasions.”

“So? Is it so unreasonable to believe that bringing the King of Ferelden into the Deep Roads is not a good idea?”

“Not if that’s all it is.”

Fiona snorted indignantly. It was an unladylike thing to do, she knew, but her patience was rapidly running thin. The Enchanter who had trained her had been an elegant woman with perfect manners and porcelain skin, and she had sighed laboriously every time Fiona had so much as twitched an eyebrow. It had only served to compel Fiona to do it all the more often, thus increasing the woman’s suffering.

The oarsman sat forgotten in his boat nearby, trying his best to be unnoticeable. He fished a piece of sweetmeat out of his coat and furtively began nibbling on it, eyes flicking to Fiona and Maric as if he hoped they might go away and leave him to his meal. Or perhaps he enjoyed the spectacle. She couldn’t rightly say.

“I apologize then, my lord, if I have offended you,” she gritted out through a clenched smile. “It won’t happen again.”

He folded his arms stubbornly. “I’m not offended. If you have something to say, however, then say it.”

She looked longingly toward the staircase. Escape was an option, but then King Maric would assume that she was fleeing. Simply telling the man off was tempting.

Genevieve had specified with severity that the man was not to be bothered, however, and that gave her pause. Being censored was something she would normally not abide, but she had seen what defying the Commander had brought Duncan. Genevieve was one of the few people she respected.

“Look,” she began. “This is ridiculous. Why should you care what I think? Or what anyone thinks, for that matter?”

“Are you avoiding the question? Did your commander tell you to do that?”

Perceptive twit. She was not about to be outmaneuvered, however. “Is this what you do in your palace? Run around to all the servants and the groundskeepers and worry about whether or not they like you enough? That must keep you very busy.”

“I think if one of the servants glared at me the same way you do, I would at least stop and ask why.” He paused, the wry grin returning. “Or is it your opinion that I shouldn’t care? That this would be unkingly of me, perhaps?”

“I’ve yet to see a single thing remotely kingly about you. No reason for you to start now.”

“Oh-ho!” He seemed inordinately pleased to have dragged something out of her. She tried to rein in her rising temper, even though she could feel her control slipping. She had really never been very good at this sort of thing. “Have we stumbled on the problem? Your estimation of my kingliness?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “That,” she snapped tartly, “is a problem for your subjects. Of which I am not one. I do feel for them, however. How grand it must be to have a king that would so readily abandon them to play the hero.”

Maric paused. “You think I’ve abandoned them? I’m here to help the Grey Wardens protect them.”

“Of course you are,” she chuckled incredulously. “And it’s none of my business anyhow, is it? My business is killing darkspawn.” She gestured toward the staircase. “And we should get on with it, no?”

“There are no darkspawn up there.”

“There are none down here, either. Just a human with a large ego who insists that everyone like him.”

“I never insisted you do any such thing.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried that I don’t.” With that, Fiona walked away from Maric and marched up the stairs. She imagined he continued to stand there by the water’s edge, staring after her in confusion as the oarsman shifted uncomfortably in his boat. She would leave it up to the King to decide if he should complain to Genevieve about being overly bothered. If anyone asked her about it, her opinion would be that she thought the man needed a little bothering.

Maric didn’t follow her up, at least not immediately. It was a relief, really, and she breathed a little easier as she ascended into the dark heart of the tower. Duncan was doing his best not to yawn.

It was the one thing that Julien had advised him against as the mages led the King and the Grey Wardens into the massive assembly hall at the top of the tower, whispering that at such official functions the worst thing one could do was yawn. At first, Duncan didn’t think the advice was necessary. In fact, it was all he could do to keep from openly gawking.

The hall was domed, with a great window at the very top that allowed the sunlight to filter through. Marble pillars lined the hall, behind which rows of benches allowed for an audience of well over a hundred—and they were packed with people, robed mages ranging from young apprentices to elderly enchanters. A higher gallery at the end of the hall contained the templars and priests, all of whom watched with severe and disapproving expressions. How appropriate, Duncan thought, for them to look down on the proceeding from on high.

In the center of the chamber, standing in the beam of sunlight that shined down from the window, were the First Enchanter and an impatient-looking Genevieve. The mages around the room were straining their necks to gawk at the group of them, and a buzz of conversation rose. Duncan couldn’t be sure if they were more amazed by the presence of the King or by the Grey Wardens. Grey Wardens were a rare sight here, after all. It was a slightly different reception than the order normally received elsewhere.

What followed, however, was a ceremony long enough to bring him from awestruck amazement to utter boredom. The First Enchanter insisted on giving a lengthy speech, mostly extolling the honor of the Grey Wardens and lavishing praise on the King. Duncan had to wonder how this was okay, considering Maric was supposedly traveling with them secretly, but neither Genevieve nor the King appeared to object.

Each of the Grey Wardens was called up by the First Enchanter in turn and given black brooches that had been specially crafted for them. Duncan took a close look at his and found it unremarkable: polished onyx, without even a fancy setting or any par tic u lar embellishment. Completely functional.

Considering that they were intended to hide the Grey Wardens from being sensed by the darkspawn, however, they were extremely useful. Clearly this was why Genevieve was willing to delay their entrance into the Deep Roads and put up with the entire ceremony business. Though even she was slowly losing her patience, he could see.

King Maric was given a leather satchel full of potions, each of them contained in a delicate glass vial. According to the First Enchanter, this was a precious mixture of herbs that would enable Maric to resist the disease spread by the darkspawn. He was, after all, the only one in the group without the Grey Wardens’ immunity. One full vial was to be swallowed each morning; according to Duncan’s count, that meant the King had a two-week supply.

Rather optimistic of the First Enchanter, really.

The droning that followed, Duncan mostly ignored, his attention wandering. At this point the Grey Wardens were mostly relegated to the sidelines anyhow, and Genevieve was clearly itching for an opening simply to excuse themselves and leave—not that First Enchanter Remille was providing one, of course.

So Duncan looked around, staring at the individual mages in the crowd. There was one in par tic u lar to whom his attention kept returning: a rather pretty young apprentice with tousled brown hair and intense doe eyes. And she was staring back at him, too. He looked away initially, but his eyes kept being drawn back to her. No, she was definitely looking at him and only him.

Then she discreetly waved at him and beamed. He reluctantly waved back, trying not to smile too encouragingly. Then he kept looking around. Maybe there was an exit nearby? He didn’t know if he could stand much more of this.

It turned out he was in luck. There was a small door not ten feet from where he stood, guarded by two solemn templars more engrossed in the First Enchanter’s speech than they were in their duty. Which amazed him, frankly, but to each their own.

Before anyone knew it, he was gone. Duncan smirked with delight as he crept through the shadows deep within the tower. The thing about mages, he noticed, was that they liked to keep their passages nice and dim. Perhaps it leant an austere air to their studies, or perhaps they could only make so many of those strange lamps they dotted around the tower to provide light. Either way, it made sneaking around rather easy.

Those templars who weren’t in the assembly hall didn’t seem all that interested in looking out for people like him, either. They were far more interested in glowering at any younger mages that passed by. He’d seen two, one not much younger than himself, and another a girl who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. They had nervously walked by one of the heavily armored templars and the man had all but spit on them. Both of them had squealed in fear, clutching their leather tomes to their chests as they ran off. The templar had chortled with amusement.

What would it be like, Duncan wondered, to be brought to a place like this? He’d heard that people with magical talent were sought out while they were young, taken from their families and brought to the Circle. There they were trained to control their power or die trying.

Sounded a great deal like the Grey Wardens, now that he thought about it.

Passing quietly through the hall, he boldly crept behind one of the templar guards standing at attention. The man was practically asleep on his feet, Duncan noticed, though he had to wonder what it was that needed to be guarded so badly. Templars were almost everywhere, as were the priests in their red robes. They numbered more than the mages, at least in this part of the tower. Did they fear magic that much?

He’d known someone who could do magic once. A friend that lived on the street as he did, named Luc. Duncan had always admired his knack with picking pockets, and then Duncan saw the trick. Luc would put his hand above the pocket, and what ever was inside would simply leap into his palm. Duncan had confronted him one night and Luc had confessed: He had always been able to do bits of magic.

Luc’s father had been a mage who had come to see his mother at the whore house until she found herself pregnant. Then there was no mage, and his mother had worried constantly that Luc would develop magic of his own. So he’d hidden it from her, and hidden it from others as well. It was a curse to him, despite its uses.

Duncan hadn’t told anyone, but somehow the rumor still got around. Before long, some of the other thieves grew suspicious. If Luc could make things jump into his hand, what else was he capable of? Could he be stealing from them? Perhaps he cast spells to make them forget, or perhaps he was dangerous.

Luc had been furious with Duncan, certain that he was responsible for all the attention. It didn’t matter in the end. The templars came, and when Luc tried to run, they’d struck him down. Killed him in cold blood, right in front of Duncan. Nobody had said anything, of course. Just one more thief rotting in the gutter, and this one an apostate to boot.

Duncan knew where Luc kept his stash, hidden away in the attic of an abandoned chantry. He’d gone to collect it, considering that Luc wasn’t going to need it anymore, and he’d been pleased by the amount of coin there. It was enough to get him through some hard winters and even put a roof over his head, at least for a little while. He’d felt badly about it, even so. Far better for Luc to still be alive, even if that meant being locked up in a tower like this one. One didn’t acquire friends very often where Duncan came from.

He stuck his head into a dim chamber and saw that it was a library of some kind. Rows and rows of dusty books, and tables covered in even more books with candles burned nearly down to nothing. Duncan wasn’t sure what a mage needed to read in order to learn his spells, but apparently it was a lot. There were two mages in there now, older men in their full enchanter robes, poking through various tomes as a templar glared at them next to a roaring fireplace.

Good thing books weren’t worth stealing, so there was no need to go in.

He continued forward, avoiding the large chambers in the central part of the tower as that was where most of the people seemed to accumulate. He probably needn’t have worried. Most everyone was down on the main floor with the King and the Grey Wardens, watching what ever formalities the First Enchanter had cooked up to honor them. It had made it a simple matter to slip away. With any luck, the long-winded Orlesian would still be talking long after Duncan found his way back … preferably with his pockets full of what ever trinkets he could find up here.

It occurred to him that it was very possible he could get into trouble again. The last time that had happened, he had ended up the serving boy of the King, after all. Well, he thought, I’ll just have to make sure I don’t get caught this time, won’t I?

He ducked into an alcove and hid behind the statue there as the sound of footsteps approached. An elven man in grey robes passed by, this one with the same serene expression that he had seen on others similarly dressed. Fiona had called them “the Tranquil” with a fair amount of distaste. He had asked what that meant, but she refused to say. He knew that they seemed to act as the keepers of the tower, seeing to the day-to-day running of things and acting as the Circle’s merchants to the outside world. Beyond that, he had no idea why Fiona would shudder whenever she saw them. Their emotionless manner was unnerving; perhaps that was it?

As the man glided past, Duncan reached out and snatched a ring of keys that he spotted on the man’s belt. It was a simple matter to slip them free of their hook with nary a jingle. Duncan smiled to himself as the fellow kept on going, completely oblivious to his loss.

The keys were large and iron, the sort that you used in padlocks and gates. Or chests. That thought ran enticingly around Duncan’s mind as he crept out from behind the statue. Where would these keys fit? Would the Tranquil get to wherever he was going and suddenly discover them gone? Would he assume he lost them and retrace his steps, or raise the alarm? Duncan needed to work quickly.

It took some time to move through the next several levels of the tower. He needed to scamper back into the shadows every time some templar roamed his way, and while he poked his head into just about every room he came across, there was always either someone inside or it was just another boring storage room or something filled with even more books. Everyone was so quiet, as well, moving around with a hush that seemed completely unnatural. It served to make Duncan nervous. Not that sneaking around the home of magic-wielders wasn’t call for a bit of sweat as it was.

There were small side stairs that led up, allowing him to avoid the central staircase, and he noticed that as he moved up in the tower it became quieter and more cramped. The halls were narrow now, and he couldn’t even hear the distant thumps of armored templars walking the halls. Good. That would make things easier.

The rooms up here appeared to be mostly dormitories, each with a set of beds and large chests. They ranged from the chaotic to the neat and orderly. Was this where the apprentices slept? That made him a bit dubious about his chances of success. It was unlikely that apprentices would own anything of interest, surely.

But then he reached a darker part of the halls, where the doors were all locked. The quarters of the senior mages, then? That held more promise.

Quietly he tried the keys on several of the doors. Nothing. The keys were too large, and while he was tempted to use the lockpick he kept hidden in his belt, he knew too little about the sorts of protections these mages might be using to guard their privacy. He had heard about traps that exploded in fire or electricity. He had once known a girl, in fact, that had been killed trying to open a chest belonging to a mage. Nothing left of her but some scorched bones and a pile of ashes. The guards had been able to do little else but gawk as the mage responsible rode off in his carriage, leaving the girl’s remains to blow in the windy streets.

So, no. He wasn’t going to force his way anywhere. As angry as Genevieve might be if he got himself stupidly caught sneaking around the mage tower, she would be utterly livid if he got himself killed.

He was just about to give up and look for a way to get even higher into the tower when he noticed the large door at the very end of the hall. It was at least eight feet tall, and made of a dark wood. It had an ornate brass handle that was completely unlike any of the others he had seen. More important, it had a very large keyhole. The sort that an iron key would fit into.

Smirking, Duncan approached the door and attempted to insert one of the keys on the ring. It slid in easily, but didn’t turn. He waited for the bolt of lightning to strike him … and nothing happened.

Silently he exhaled.

He tried two more keys before he found one that slid in and turned. With a loud clacking sound, the door unlocked and opened inward. He tensed, almost expecting a magical beast of some kind to leap out at him, perhaps a demon. Demons were supposed to follow mages around like flies, weren’t they? The whole tower could be full of them!

But nothing happened. There was just a shadow-filled room awaiting him, and his foolishness was the only thing keeping him from it. Shaking his hands out nervously, he walked inside.

There was a tall, arched window that let in faint light, and through it Duncan could just barely make out the lake below and the hint of land on the horizon. The shutters were open, and a crisp breeze caused them to clatter against the wall with a disjointed rhythm. He shivered, squinting to see everything else in the room. There was a fancy bed, with the sort of gilded posts he’d seen in Orlais from time to time. A desk made of a reddish wood he didn’t recognize, covered with an assortment of parchments and leathery tomes. The silver inkwell might fetch a price, he thought, but not enough to make it worth stealing.

A massive wardrobe stood open, filled mostly with—no surprise there—cloaks and woolens and more mage robes, but as Duncan drew close he realized something. Several of those robes were ornamented in exactly the same manner as the First Enchanter’s. Were these his quarters? The idea excited as well as terrified him.

It made sense. There were a number of small statues about the room, all elegant women carved from ivory. Exactly the sort of thing that was all the rage right now among the Orlesian nobility, or so he’d been told by a fence. The shield on the wall looked big, and expensive. The giant set of golden scales against the wall also seemed elaborate, if far too large to carry out. All these things struck him as the type of possessions an important mage might have carried with him to his new home.

If only he could find something actually small enough to take. He froze as he heard what he thought were footsteps out in the hall, but it was just the shutters banging against the wall once again, slowly at first and then once very loudly. The breeze that followed cut through him like a knife.

Duncan was about to start searching the desk more carefully when something tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe caught his eye. Something glittering amid a pile of rolled-up linens. Hidden. A slow smile crept across his face as he knelt down and moved some of the rolls aside. This revealed a red lacquered box, longer than it was wide and with a small golden lock. Very fancy, the sort of thing one might keep jewelry in, he thought.

Ignoring any warning thoughts about magical protection, he examined the lock closely and then reached into his belt to retrieve two fine pieces of wire. The lockpick was small enough to do the job, he figured, and as he quietly plucked away at the lock mechanism he was pleased to see he was right. It resisted him with clicking sounds until finally it gave way and released. Cautiously he pulled it out and opened the lid of the box, half expecting it to explode.

It didn’t. Duncan gasped as he looked in the box to see an ebony-black dagger lying upon red silk. The entire dagger seemed to have been carved from a single piece of glossy stone, looking almost as if it was made of glass. Was it obsidian? He had heard of such a material, but never actually seen it before. The hilt was beautiful, delicate ridges leading up to a pommel carved into a roaring dragon’s head. As he lifted it out gingerly, he saw what looked like red veins within the black blade, tiny cracks along its surface. He would have thought it was blood, but running his finger along the side told him it was perfectly smooth. Not a stain or blemish.

Now this was worth stealing. This was something special, something that the First Enchanter prized enough to hide within his own chambers. Not hide well, of course, but how much could the man expect anyone to steal from him within his own tower?

Chuckling with amusement, Duncan slid the blade into his shirt. Where the smooth metal touched his skin he felt a tingle. Not unpleasant, and almost warm. It made him like the weapon all the more.

He closed the box, relocked it, and quickly rearranged the linens. No need for the First Enchanter to ever know he was even missing anything. With any luck, the fellow never checked his precious box and wouldn’t be aware anything was amiss until Duncan and the Grey Wardens were long gone. He did bring us here to help us out, he thought. Well, he’s simply helping us out more than he guessed.

Glancing around to make sure he hadn’t accidentally moved anything else, he retreated out of the room and very gently closed the door. The lock gave a loud snap as it shut, which made him jump. He paused, listening intently for the sound of a reaction, but again there was nothing. It seemed he was alone up on this floor, after all. Perhaps you should just stop jumping at every little thing, you idiot.

As Duncan turned around, he had taken only two steps from the door before he realized that there was someone standing at the end of the hall, staring at him. He ground to a halt, his heart leaping up into his throat. It was the apprentice from the assembly hall, the one who had waved at him.

She must have seen him come out of the First Enchanter’s quarters. But why was she just standing there? Did she think that he was going to attack her?

He wasn’t, of course. If only there was somewhere to run! But he was standing at the end of a hallway; the only way out was to go through her. He remained completely still, a single bead of sweat running down his forehead as he waited for the mage to act.

Curiously, she smiled with delight and ran toward him. “I saw you leave, and I just had to follow!” She stopped short a few feet away from him. Her cheeks were flushed, and she nervously smoothed down her hair. “I had hoped that maybe your wave was an invitation, that maybe you …” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

Duncan narrowed his eyes at her, slowly catching on. “Oh. Yes, that.”

“My name is Vivian. I cannot believe I am meeting an actual Grey Warden!”

Think fast, fool. “I … am Duncan. I was … looking for you. I thought—”

“You thought I might be up here?” The young woman’s big eyes lit up and she stepped closer toward him, assuming a seductive stance as she ran a finger down his arm. “They say you Grey Wardens are clever. They also say you have a great deal of … prowess.”

“Err … yes. Yes, we do, in fact.”

She beamed with plea sure. “I hope I am not being too forward. My bed is in the dormitory, but most everyone else is in the assembly hall. We will be alone, at least for a little while.”

Duncan glanced askance at her to see if she was actually being serious. She was. The expectant look she gave him left no question as to what she intended. He’d heard that mages largely dispensed with social customs among themselves, but he hadn’t imagined it to go quite this far. Most Orlesian girls he’d known, even the rough-and-tumble ones in the streets, would have guffawed at this sort of display.

Not that he didn’t like it, necessarily. For a mage, she was rather attractive in her way. And clean, too. That alone would be a step up from the few experiences he’d had, furtively groping girls in filthy back rooms at the flop house, the act all sweat and desperation and over almost as soon as it’d begun. If this mage was looking for some kind of virtuoso performance on that front from a Grey Warden … well, he’d just have to give it his best shot, wouldn’t he?

Flashing his most charming smile at her, Duncan leaned casually against the wall. It was the sort of pose he’d seen Kell perform, and from the mage’s excited blush it seemed to have exactly the effect he was hoping for. “Vivian,” he crooned, “you have just made this trip more worthwhile than you could possibly imagine.”

Letting out something between a squeal and a giggle, she grabbed his leather and yanked him in for a kiss. He was taken by surprise and almost stumbled, but kept enough presence of mind to keep the dagger hidden in his shirt from showing itself. And then he was quickly lost in the moment.

She tasted like strawberries. Was that a mage thing? Duncan’s mind flashed to Fiona and he thought that, no, it probably wasn’t.

Evidently the sneaking-away bit didn’t always end in disaster.