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DRAGON AGE: THE CALLING 4 страница

"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 process, 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 ofhis 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 daywear 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 naivete.

"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 she 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.

he 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 particular 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 particular 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 whatever 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.

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