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DRAGON AGE: THE CALLING 6 страница

The warning of the witch came to mind again, but along with it came Loghain's words as well. It would be easy to believe that the witch meant this event, that she was warning him this would lead to the Blight. But what if she hadn't meant that? What if she had been lying? He had nothing but doubts now, and that made him feel uneasy.

"How do you know her brother is even alive?" he asked. "If he went out into the Deep Roads, there's no way you can tell what's happened to him. Or can Grey Wardens sense that, too?"

Julien remained fixed on the flames, clenching his jaw in disapproval. Nicolas, meanwhile, wrung his hands and glanced nervously to where Genevieve stood on the ridge. She ignored them utterly, watching the cave entrance with her arms crossed and a fiery will shining out of her eyes. Yes, Maric could see why the others might be hesitant to anger their white- haired commander.

There was no way to know whether she could actually hear them from where she stood, but he wouldn't put it past her. Obviously neither would they.

"The Commander and her brother were very close," Nicolas whispered. Utha nodded solemnly as if to confirm his words. "During all the time that I have known them, they were seldom far apart. They joined the order together, trained together, practically spent every waking moment together. I think she would have followed him into the Deep Roads, had it also been her time. In fact, I think she might have followed him anyhow, had her duties not held her here."

"So is she chasing false hope, then?"

"She is certain. She has had dreams."

Maric paused, not quite certain he'd heard the man say what he did. "Dreams," he repeated, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.

Nicolas nodded, as did the dwarf. Julien shook his head in dismay, frowning. "You're aware of how mad that sounds, surely?"

"We're not mad." Fiona materialized out of the blowing snow, the elf 's blue skirts whipping wildly about as she approached the fire carrying a large pack. She put it down next to the log, frowning at Maric coolly. "And neither is Genevieve. Dreams are not always merely dreams."

"And what are they when they're not dreams, then?"

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, perhaps pondering just how she might explain it to him. Or perhaps considering whether she should. That smoldering anger still burned within her dark eyes,just as it had when Maric had spoken to her last. "You've heard of the Fade, I hope?"

He nodded, though not with any confidence. The Fade was the realm of dreams, that place where men were said to go when they slept. It was where spirits and demons roamed, separated from the waking world by something the mages called the Veil.

Maric couldn't say that he believed much in the entire concept. He dreamed, like any man, and if those dreams were really his memories of time spent in that realm, as the mages claimed, then he would have to take their word for it.

"There is no geography in the Fade," Fiona continued. "Place and time are far less important than are concepts and symbols. The spirits shape their realm to resemble the things they see in the minds of dreamers because that is what they believe our world is like, and they want desperately to be part of it. So they emulate a landscape that is based more on our perceptions and our feelings than on reality, drawing us in."

"And?" He spread his hands helplessly. "That means nothing to me."

"You dream of those you love because there is a bond between you. The spirits recognize this. That bond has power in the Fade."

"I once dreamed Loghain brought me a barrel of cheese. I opened it up, and there were mice inside. Made of cheese. Which we ate while singing sea chanteys. Are you saying this held some deeper meaning?" He grinned, suddenly amused by the indignant flare of the elf 's nostrils. "Perhaps my bond with Loghain told me that he actually harbors a deep love of cheese? I should have realized it sooner."

"And every dream you have is such frivolous nonsense?"

"I have no idea. I forget most of them. Isn't that what happens?"

She tightened the furs around her as if she could somehow squeeze out her anger. The dwarven woman put a calming hand on the mage's leg, but her silent pleas were ignored. "The dreams that are not dreams are visions," Fiona snapped. "Because the Fade is a reflection of our reality as the spirits see it, it may be used to interpret that reality. We mages seek out visions. We look for patterns, and attempt to see the truth beyond our awareness. But a potent-enough vision can come to anyone. When it does, you should pay attention to it."

"Visions," Maric repeated incredulously."And your commander has had these visions? This is why you're here? No other reason?"

The mage held up a slender hand, and a small orb of fire winked into being above it. It spun slowly, radiating a brilliant energy that lit up the entire camp. He felt a wave of heat across his face. "Visions are surely not so remarkable, King Maric, compared to some of the wonders this world holds."

With a twist of her hand, the orb disappeared. The campfire seemed not quite as bright and warm as it had before. She had a point. The witch had been a mage, as well, but was he to trust everything to magic, then? And visions? He wasn't so sure.

Fiona sat down on her pack, continuing to stare at him with open disapproval. So he busied himself by rubbing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. There was a moment of quiet awkwardness among the others that none of them seemed willing to break. Utha looked at the mage with a clear expression of sympathy, though Maric wasn't certain why. The two warriors, meanwhile, struck up another whispered private discussion. Julien's eyes darted between Maric and Fiona, clearly the topic of their conversation, but whatever Nicolas was saying to the man couldn't be made out.

"We believe her," Fiona suddenly announced. It was enough to startle both of the warriors, who stared at her in surprise. Maric didn't look up, though he could feel those big brown elven eyes boring a hole into him."That is why we are here. What I would be interested in knowing is why you are here."

The question hung in the air.

"Don't you want me here?" Maric responded, getting annoyed.

"Didn't you come to my court specifically to ask for help? It might have been nice if you'd added that this was all based on a vision one of you had. I'll have to remember to ask more questions next time."

"She asked for your help."The elf pointed to Genevieve."I know why she asked you. I know what she thinks you can do for us. Perhaps you even believed what she said. What I don't know is why you chose to come."

"Isn't defending the kingdom enough reason?"

"To come yourself? To voyage into danger so readily?"

"It was either me or Loghain, wasn't it?"

She thinned her lips, her expression incredulous. "You could have ordered him to accompany us."

"I'm not sure he would have complied."

"I would be willing to wager that he offered to come in your stead, no matter his feelings."

"Clever you."

Fiona paused, her eyes narrowing at him. Maric could feel the tension around the fire, the pair of warriors stiff and uncomfortable as they witnessed the exchange, while the dwarven woman calmly gazed into the campfire. For a moment he thought the elf might abandon her line of questioning, but he was wrong.

"Don't you have a young son?" she asked.

"Cailan. He is five years old, yes."

"Isn't he without a mother? Perhaps we hear it wrong in Orlais, but my understanding is that the Queen of Ferelden is dead."

He was silent for a long minute, and noticed none of the others offered to change the subject or intervene. Perhaps they wondered the same thing. The thought of Cailan touched a painful place inside him. Like a coward, he'd left Loghain to tell the boy that his father was gone. Cailan would never have understood. His mother had disappeared, and now his father, too? If Maric had gone to tell him, however, he would never have come at all.

"She is," he admitted quietly. "Three years, now."

Fiona's lips pressed together in outrage."And you feel no shame at depriving him of a father now, as well?"

Maric felt the wash of grief tug at him, but he clamped down hard on the feeling. He would rather stick a fork in his eye than give this elven woman with her dark, angry eyes the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was dredging up inside him. "He hasn't had a father for some time now," he answered. His voice sounded flat and hollow, even to himself. "My staying in Denerim wouldn't have changed that."

"So you give up? This is Maric the Savior, the great King of Ferelden?"

Anger flooded through him. He'd thought to halt the witch's prophecy, to act rather than to sit back and wait for it to come true. He thought that perhaps her warning had meant he was supposed to be here, but he hadn't expected this. To be harassed and judged by this brash mage was simply too much. He shot up from the log, wheeling on her. She glared at him defiantly, as if she had every right to ask what she did, and that only served to intensify his rage.

"Maric the Savior," he repeated, spitting the words with contempt. "You know what people call me, so you think you know everything about me? You know how I should feel? You want to tell me what kind of king I should be, and what a terrible father I am?"

Her demeanor softened, but only for a moment. "Why don't you tell me what kind of father you are, then, King Maric?" she asked.

He turned from the fire and stormed several steps away. A blast of icy wind stopped him in his tracks. He let it wash over his skin, closing his eyes. The pounding of his heart slowly subsided, replaced by a familiar silence. It reminded him of those nights when the bustle of the court receded and he retreated to his quarters in the palace, only to be surrounded by a melancholy emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. So many days spent surrounded by finery and servants and all the things befitting a king, but none of it touched him anymore.

How was he supposed to explain that to anyone?

"The truth," he mumbled into the wind, not even caring if those behind him could hear, "is that I haven't been a father to my son since his mother died. Every time I look at him, I'm reminded of her, of all the might- haves and the should- have- beens. He deserves better than that. He deserves a father who can look him in the eyes."

Another gust of wind lashed across Maric's face, making him numb. Numbness was good. He felt a tentative hand touch his elbow, a gesture that startled him a little. He opened his eyes and turned, and saw the dwarven woman standing there gazing up at him. Her eyes were full of sympathy, and she silently patted his arm.

"Maric the Savior is just a name, something they call me because they say I saved the kingdom," he told the mage. She remained seated by the fire behind him, not looking his way. "But the truth is, I've never been able to save anyone."

With that he turned and walked off into the snow, leaving them behind. The dwarven woman let him go, and if the others stared after him they said nothing. He no longer cared if the elven mage was satisfied by his answers. Let her despise him. It wasn't as if what she accused him of was untrue.

It was dark away from the camp, and Maric found himself trudging through shadowed drifts. The moon finally came out from behind the clouds, its silvery radiance against the starkness of the snow more than enough to light his way. When he crested a rocky hill, he found his breath taken away by the sight- the entire valley seemed to stretch in front of him, a field of soft white crowned by a sky full of glittering stars.

It was magnificent. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, his breath coming out in plumes as he watched the expanse. It seemed to go on forever, broken only by the occasional group of pine trees. Why was it he couldn't remember the last time he had looked out over something so beautiful?

This is my kingdom, he thought sadly. And I don't even know her any longer.

The sound of quietly crunching snow signaled someone approaching Maric from behind, and he stiffened. "Leave me alone," he muttered without turning around. "Haven't you people questioned me enough already?"

"I apologize if my Wardens have been rude, Maric." It was Genevieve. He shivered in the chill and realized that she must have left her perch to follow him. Perhaps she intended to finish what the others started? "That is no way to address a king. I will remind them of their manners."

"Don't bother," he sighed. He wrapped his fur cloak around him as he turned away from the view. The Commander stood not far away, her white hair fluttering in the wind. He found the hard edge of her appraising gaze unnerving. "I told you all to treat me like a regular person, so I shouldn't be surprised when that's what you do."

Genevieve said nothing, though from her look he knew that she had more on her mind than his discomfort. She gave a curt nod, as if she had come to a decision. "Perhaps it would be better if you returned to your palace, Maric. We would not be able to escort you, I'm afraid, but I suspect you would be safer than if you accompanied us into the Deep Roads."

"You've changed your mind?"

She arched a pale eyebrow. "Have you not changed yours?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that, and for a moment the silence stretched into awkwardness. "I do not blame you if you do not believe in my visions," she finally said, gently enough that Maric was tempted to believe her. "Not even all of the Grey Wardens do. I was told by some that my brother is dead, and that there was nothing that could be done even if that was not the case."

She shrugged and slowly walked toward Maric, standing beside him and looking out over the same valley he had been admiring moments before. Her eyes softened as she scanned the horizon. "It was difficult to let my brother go, when the time came for his Calling. I think, for so many years, we assumed that when it came it would come for us both at the same time. I journeyed with him to Orzammar, toasted to his honor with the dwarves, and in the end I stood at the seal and watched him walk out into the shadows." Her voice took on an edge of bitterness. "My brother has always been as much a part of me as my arms. To have him wrenched away from me... it was unbearable." She glanced at Maric then, her eyes bright and cold."But I was the one who counseled him to accept his fate. I stayed. When the first vision came, it felt as if he had reached back across those shadows and touched my heart. I felt him as surely as I feel my arms. I know that it was real."

Maric frowned. A new gust of wind rushed between them. Far off in the distance wolves howled, a lonely sound that only seemed to punctuate the emptiness of the land. "So why didn't you say anything about this?"

Genevieve laughed mirthlessly. "And what would you have said?" She stared at him, her tone completely serious. "I am intent on reaching my brother to prevent the darkspawn from learning what they must not. If it must be, I will kill him myself to prevent that from happening. This is not a rescue mission, Maric. I am not running to my brother's side; I am attempting to prevent a calamity."

She shrugged and looked back over the valley with a sigh. "And if there are those who do not believe as I do, then I will be forced to act without their aid. I do need your help, desperately so. But if you cannot lead us in the Deep Roads, then go... return to your son, Maric. No one will blame you for doing so, least of all I."

With that, the Grey Warden commander spun about and marched off. There was no appeal, no farewell. She was gone into the haze of snow within moments, and Maric knew that there would be no further question if he simply picked up his gear and returned to Kinloch Hold. He could be back in Denerim within a couple of days, calling off whatever alarm Loghain was undoubtedly already sounding and seeing his son again as Genevieve had advised.

The thought of Cailan made him pause. Everyone said that the lad looked just like his father, and he supposed that was probably true. The same blond hair, the same nose, and the same smile. But he had his mother's eyes. What would he say, looking into those eyes that would be full of so many questions, asking why he'd left in the first place?

He could imagine what Loghain would say. He would be relieved, and cover it up with irritation at all the trouble Maric had put everyone through.

It was far more difficult to imagine what Rowan would have said. He remembered her best as a warrior, a woman who had helped lead the rebellion to take back the kingdom from the Orlesians. She'd had an indomitable spirit until the sickness had taken her, and in many ways he had always considered her far stronger than him. They'd restored the kingdom together, but it had always been she who knew immediately when something was worth doing or needed abandoning.

He tried to imagine that Rowan would have urged him to return to their son. As a mother, surely she would have considered Cailan more important than any other consideration. Trouble was,he just couldn't believe it. He could picture her sitting in her favorite chair by the window in their chambers, brown curls cascading around her pale skin. She would have put down her book and looked at him, puzzled.

"You're back?" she'd have asked him, more accepting than surprised.

"Yes, I'm back."

"Didn't you think going was important?"

"Our son is more important than saving the kingdom, Rowan."

And then she'd have smiled at him with amusement, tilting her head in that way that told him she expected him to know better. "I wasn't talking about saving the kingdom, you silly little man." Her tone was full of affection, something that had grown over the years of their marriage and yet which he had never felt particularly worthy of. She held out her hand from her chair and he walked to take it...

... and then the image fled, and Maric was left with nothing but moonlight and blowing snow once again. His heart ached. It seemed to him like it had been forever since he had been able to remember what Rowan looked like. His memories had become maddeningly fleeting over the last few years, replaced by impressions and smells and snippets of conversation. Just then, however, she had seemed so real.

Much like a vision.

He smirked at the irony of the thought, especially considering the fact that he wasn't even asleep. Unless, of course, he was asleep, having fallen into some deep snow bank after wandering away from the camp, and was currently freezing to death while blissfully dreaming away. The Grey Wardens would maybe search for him come morning, and then look at each other and shrug, assuming that he'd decided to return to Denerim without a good-bye. They'd enter the Deep Roads, and come spring some travelers would perhaps find his remains half hidden in the mud. Probably steal his boots, too.

It was an intriguing thought. But what were the odds?

With a deep sigh, he began to walk back to the Grey Warden camp.

And down they fled into darkness and despair.

-Canticle of Threnodies 8:27

With the first light of dawn, a bloom of pink and orange, barely peeking over the horizon, the Grey Wardens arrayed themselves in front of the Deep Roads entrance with weapons drawn. Duncan tensed as King Maric approached the door. Without fanfare, he produced a stone medallion shaped like an octagon and inserted it into a similarly shaped depression in the center of the door. A loud crack shattered the quiet, startling a small flock of ravens nearby into sudden flight.

He watched as a line formed in the middle of the door. It became a crack, and then widened as the door split. The King stepped back cautiously. Slowly, with the sound of stone grinding heavily gainst stone, it opened up to reveal the gaping maw of the tunnel beyond it. A faint stench of decay belched forth from the shadows.

They waited. Duncan almost expected a horde of monsters to come rushing out at them, but none materialized. There was only silence.

The group began to step into the cave, but paused as Julien spoke.

"Wait," he said softly. The dark-haired warrior crossed his hands in front of his chest and bowed his head, and several of the other Wardens followed suit. Duncan lowered his head and coughed. Prayer always made him nervous.

"Though all before me is shadow," Julien intoned, "yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing He has wrought shall be lost."

"Amen," Maric whispered, and the others nodded.

Then they entered the Deep Roads.

There was a wide stairway that began not far within, and Duncan suppressed a shudder as they descended. It was warmer inside, he was thankful for that much, but the cold had been replaced by an unease that he just couldn't shake. It was like slowly walking into a pool of filth, the stink of it filling your nostrils and turning your stomach so that you had to will yourself to take another step.

The other Grey Wardens could feel it, too. He could see it in their grave expressions and in the way their hands tightened on their weapons. All of them possessed the ability to sense the darkspawn, yet it seemed impossible that the creatures would standout amid all the background corruption he sensed here. Genevieve reassured them quietly that it was still so, but Duncan remained unconvinced. Probably she was just trying to ensure they didn't lose their nerve.

Only Maric couldn't sense anything, yet he seemed more affected by their descent than anyone else. He became withdrawn, his eyes darting to every dark corner and his skin ashen in the flickering torchlight. Duncan was tempted to ask the man what had happened to him in the Deep Roads so long ago, but decided against it. Clearly it was nothing pleasant.

They followed the stairway for what seemed like hours when the first signs of corruption became visible along the stone walls of the passage: spidery tendrils of black rot, along with a shiny film that covered everything like oil. Duncan touched it, curious, and found that the film wasn't actually wet. It was dry, with a texture like snakeskin.

Genevieve snatched his hand away with a harsh look and warned him not to touch anything again. That confused him a little. Were they not immune to the darkspawn taint? Was that not one of the few benefits they received for being Grey Wardens?

"We didn't see it this early," Maric said, examining the walls more closely. "Last time we were down here, I don't think we saw anything like this until after Ortan thaig."

"Then it has spread," Genevieve pronounced.

Kell glanced around the passage with his unnaturally pale eyes. Duncan knew he was even more sensitive to the darkspawn than the rest of them. To him this must be like walking into sewage, and yet he gave no indication that it bothered him."Almost to the surface?" he asked. "What does that mean?"

"It means we should be careful." With that, she drew her sword and continued down the stairs. The others shared uncomfortable looks but followed after.

It seemed to take forever before they hit the bottom, or at least what Duncan assumed to be the bottom. The feel of the weight pressing down from above and the oppressive darkness pressing in from all sides made him want to gasp for air. He felt trapped under fetid water, desperately clawing for the surface.

Fiona, walking next to him, regarded him with a concerned look.

"Are you going to be all right? You look a bit sickly," she whispered.

He gulped a few times and forced himself to breathe. It wasn't exactly pleasant. "I feel like I'm going to vomit."

"Well, there's a pleasant thought."

"I'm serious! Can't you feel that?"

"We can all feel it. Well, most of us can." Her tone hinted at annoyance, and Duncan realized that she was talking about Maric. The man was walking up ahead next to Utha, oblivious to the scathing glare he was receiving from behind.

He smirked. "I heard you had it out with the King last night at the camp."

"I asked him a simple question."

"It didn't sound simple from what Genevieve said," he chuckled. "I'm just glad she was mad at somebody other than me for once."

Fiona sighed irritably. Raising her staff, she closed her eyes and murmured something under her breath. Duncan could feel the prickle of power surging through the air, and immediately the small globe on top of the staff began to glow. The light was strong and warm, stretching throughout the corridor and driving back the shadows just a little.

The others turned and looked at the mage curiously. "Don't waste your power," Genevieve said, but her words lacked her usual crispness. Even she was probably relieved to have the shadows driven back a little farther, he imagined.

"There." Fiona smiled at Duncan, pleased with herself. "Better?"

"Sure, except for the blinding light in my eyes."

"Now you're just being a child."

With the added light from Fiona's staff, Duncan could make out impressions in the wall behind the rot and decay. Runes, he suspected. Dwarven runes, though to what purpose he couldn't really guess. He'd been told once that the dwarves held a reverence for stone. Perhaps the words they carved into the walls of the Deep Roads were prayers? Prayers now tainted by filth; it had a certain symmetry, didn't it?

He could feel the darkspawn out there now. Genevieve was right. It just took some time to become acclimated. They were at the edge of his consciousness, lurking in the shadows far out of sight.

It was that same feeling when someone was standing behind you, and you didn't hear them or sense them in any way; you just knew. Could they feel the Grey Wardens in return? According to the First Enchanter, the onyx brooches they'd been given would render them invisible to the darkspawn senses, but Duncan wasn't so certain. His was pinned to his leather jerkin, and he turned it about to examine it more closely in the light. There were iridescent colors that slowly flowed just beneath the surface like a liquid. It was also cold, like touching a frosty lamppost in the dead of winter.

He let it go, rubbing warmth back into his fingers absently.

"So did Genevieve make you apologize?" he asked Fiona.

The mage looked at him, puzzled. Her mind had clearly been elsewhere, but when she realized he was referring to King Maric, she rolled her eyes in annoyance. She had pretty eyes for an elf, he thought. Most elves Duncan had known always possessed such eerie eyes- light greens and purples, impossible hues that somehow made them seem alien. Fiona's eyes were dark and expressive. Soulful, his mother might have said. She'd always had a way with words.

"No, she didn't," the mage said curtly. "And I've no need to."

"He's not so bad, you know."

"You can't know that. You hardly know him any better than I do."

"Is it an elven thing? I knew a lot of elves back in Val Royeaux, and every one of them had a chip on their shoulders. Even the ones that didn't come from the alienage."

She shot him an incredulous look. "It's not as if we don't have a good reason to be bitter, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know. We terrible humans destroyed the Dales. One of the elves I knew fancied himself a Dalish elf, even painted up his face to look like them. I thought he'd finally gone off to the forests to search for one of their clans, but it turned out he'd gotten himself arrested. Anyway, he used to talk about the Dales all the time."

She stopped, stamping her staff down onto the stone so that the globe flashed brightly for a moment. Her exasperation with him was obvious."There's more to it than that. Far more! Don't you even know?"

"Know what? That your people were enslaved? Everyone knows that."

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