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[What?]

Let's see how far I actually get with this story.

 

http://archiveofouro...apters/10995542

 

For those who'd rather read it on there.

-----

 

 

 

 

In the summer heat, the swamp smelled of **** and rotted vegetables.

 

They were a long way west, beyond the Hunterhorns, in lands nobody had charted since the Ancient Elves had gone away. Great crumbling arches, cracked columns, and broken marble forms rose jaggedly from the water like teeth, or the shattered bones of some long-dead god. Surana wondered how long they'd wandered here, in this lonely, dead place. Wondered how much time they'd wasted, searching for a cure that might not have ever existed.

 

“You have been quiet, Belinor,” said Morrigan. Her robes were a patchwork of boiled leather and thin dark fabric, accented with feathers of some colorful bird. There was a crude leather satchel slung over her back, a bedroll, and a birch staff decorated with little bones that rattled like wind-chimes whenever a breeze managed to squeeze through the thick cypress canopy. “You were so chatty the other day.”

 

He'd shed his Circle robes a long time ago, favoring wolf-skins, and the sort of cuts his ancestors had worn: angular in the way leaves were, and beautiful, feet and hands wrapped in thin leather, but open so he could feel the world with his toes and fingers. “I suppose I don't have much to say,” he said, swatting a long-hanging branch away with his staff. “I'm exhausted.”

 

“We should rest,” said Morrigan, looking at him. Her alert features and yellow eyes made him think of a hawk, or maybe an eagle. A sheen of sweat glistened on her sun-tanned skin. “T'will be dark soon anyway, and I've had my fill of hiking.”

 

The sunspots on the ground were the dark orange color of dusk. Surana nodded. “Was never one to argue with you,” he said, and chuckled. His pack was starting to strain his shoulder anyway, and his legs ached painfully.

 

They made camp at the edge of the water, where the mossy soil was soft, and dense enough to support their weight. It was hedged in by sedges, pepperbush, and enormous cypress trees, which made Surana feel protected against whatever lurked in the marsh. He watched Morrigan draw the elven character for fire on the ground with her finger, then sweep her hands over it. The mark caught fire, burned so hot that the mosquitoes popped like little kernels above the flames.

 

“I'm impressed,” said Surana, setting his pack on the ground and opening it. “You're a fast learner.” His pack contained a collection of poultices, dry rations, rolls of paper, small leather-bound books, and a copy of Hard in Hightown Leliana had given him last Satinalia, though he'd never bothered to read it.

 

Morrigan smiled. Surana liked her smile. It was almost like a friendly sneer, if that sort of expression was even possible. “Of course I am,” she said, sitting down beside him. “After all, t'was I who taught you.”

 

From the bag, Surana carefully removed a worn journal, the leather old and cracked, the pages made of brittle yellowed parchment. “I'll give you that,” he admitted, and smiled. Gently, he opened the book, turned to a page he'd marked with a strip of cloth. “A shame the Well of Sorrows was lost to Inquisitor Lavellan. We could have learned so much, Morrigan. Perhaps even found a cure.”

 

“No point weeping for it. We'll find a cure.” Morrigan untied the bedroll from her satchel and laid it on the ground, which was crawling with ants and other tiny insects. “It's going to be a miserable night,” she remarked, and sighed. “Ants. Mosquitoes. Humidity. 'Tis going to rain, I think, in the morning.”

 

Surana turned another page, reading lines of elvish written in the ancient dialect, which seemed to shift and change the longer he stared at it. He'd only learned a fraction of his ancestral tongue; it was hard puzzling out the nuances of the language, which were complex and mellifluous, a song written in metaphors. This particular volume, he'd learned, was a research journal that predated the Imperium, and had been written by a scholar-mage named Arengast during the last days of Arlathan. The text mentioned a ritual, a cure for a sickness that matched the Taint. Morrigan had found it in the Black Emporium, among a pile of obscure arcana.

 

“Anything we might have overlooked?” Morrigan took a wafer from her pack, and a handful of nuts, eating them without enthusiasm. They'd gone a few days without meat, and had been scrounging the bushes and trees for their meals. “We should try fishing in the morning,” she suggested.

 

“It mentions something about a coast,” said Surana, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. When he tried to decode the rest of the sentence, the words suddenly seemed nonsensical. He sighed, closed the book and tucked it away. “I don't know if we should fish,” he said. “That water. There's something about it that makes me nervous.”

 

“We need something to eat besides nuts and wafers,” she said. The sun had finally gone away, and the world around their campfire was dark, the humid air alive with frog-croaks, and the buzz of cicadas. “We haven't seen a single beast for miles. Not one hare nor deer, Belinor. 'Tis a bit odd, honestly.”

 

Ever since they'd breached the swamp, Surana had felt uneasy, like something was watching them from the water. He'd deliberately avoided disturbing it, skirting the water along the mossy banks, using tree limbs, logs, and rocks to cross gaps he couldn't otherwise jump over. “Better we leave the water alone, Morrigan,” he said. “There's old elf-magic in this place. It's hard to tell what sort of precautions my ancestors might have taken against intruders.”

 

“Now that you mention it...” Morrigan trailed off, shook her head and joylessly finished another wafer. Then crawled into the bedroll, moving over to make a space for him. “Come sleep, Belinor. Lest your imagination runs too wild, and you give yourself night terrors.”

 

Surana nodded. He crawled under the blanket, and immediately fell asleep.

 

Morning came with warm rain and thunder, as Morrigan had predicted. Surana was too tired and sore to get up, ducking underneath the blankets and curling against Morrigan's back, smelling their sweat in the body-heated air. He was glad that the bedroll had been waterproofed; though it didn't stop him from itching, when the bugs nipped at his feet and arms. “It's raining,” he said, to the back of Morrigan's head.

 

“No. Truly?” she said, sounding half-awake. She rolled, looked him in the eyes. The skin underneath her eyes was dark. “Between insects and mosquitoes, and this horrendous weather, I haven't slept longer than an hour.”

 

“We could stay here until the storm passes,” Surana said. “Bedroll's waterproofed. We have Leliana to thank for that.”

 

“I wonder how Kieran is doing in her care,” said Morrigan, and frowned.

 

“Leliana is caring for him. Our son is fine,” he said, smashing a small beetle crawling up his leg. “Better than us,” he said, inspecting the dead shiny black thing on his palm and wiping it on his pant-leg. “He gets a nice, warm bed, and three meals a day.” Something bit his cheek. Surana went to kill it, but it was gone. “I'm personally envious.”

[What?]

They packed camp and headed west. That sense of being watched never went away as they edged along the water. After a few hours, the trees thinned out, and emptied them into a vast flat bog that seemed to span an eternity. Sharp white fingers of lightning raked across the storm-clouds. Elven ruins studded the wetscape: slender marble towers and arches, most of which had rotted away, or had sunk partially into the mire at odd angles. The rain had picked up again, had flooded the bog to mostly water, which worried Surana.“We need to be cautious,” he warned, proceeding along the moss. “And move swiftly, before the water swallows the bog.”

 

Morrigan had little trouble navigating the network of mossbars and driftwood, because she'd grown up in the Korcari. She moved fast, with the familiarity and ease of a feral woman, loping over pieces of dead wood, using her staff to vault over water and sinks. Surana could barely keep up.

 

He'd almost reached her, before a sudden wave tumbled over him, pushed him down into an undertow. Something massive slipped past him, and he spun in its slipstream, saw something like scales glinting in the murky water-dark. Surana panicked, started swimming toward the surface; but the creature, whatever it was, was fast, and it whipped around, sent him cartwheeling along a powerful undercurrent.

 

It came at him. Eyes like hellfire furnaces burning in draconic flesh. Opened its mouth, ridged with fangs resembling bone-white swords. Surana lurched up, rolled over its narrow head, and kicked off, punching through the surface. He gulped down air, struggling to stay afloat in the rough water.

 

Morrigan was running along a tract of mud and rushes, not far from him, extending her staff. “Grab it!”

 

He swam for it. The beast cut him off, a massive shadow sweeping underneath him, dragging Surana back down into the blackness. The last thing he'd heard was Morrigan yelling his name. Then nothing but the bubbling of water, and the hiss of something gliding through the murk.

 

Red eyes, emerging from deeper shadow.

 

And the beast died.

 

A thing like a lance had punctured the water, speared the serpent's skull. Surana could see its shadow falling away into the depths, a coil several feet long, trailing blood-clouds in the stagnant brown water.

 

Strong hands fished him from the mire. They were man-hands, calloused and sun-burnt, tattooed in swirling tribal markings Surana had never seen before. The hands laid him in the bottom of a boat, a shallow, narrow thing, like the boats the Chasind used to navigate the swamps of southern Thedas.

 

“Not often we see Eastlanders.” A tall man with a craggy tattooed face, though most of it was lost under his matted black beard and hair. He wore animal skins and bone, and reeked of stale sweat and tanneries. His flinty gray eyes were nested in deep pockets of wrinkled brown flesh.

 

“Thank you,” said Surana, without thinking. “For saving me.”

 

“Eadwine. Basilisks are nasty beasts, Ené,” said Eadwine, dipping his oar into the water and pushing, gliding silently along the glassy surface of the bog-sea. Thunder roiled in the clouds, receding. The rain had died down, became a tolerable patter Surana found soothing. “They don't usually come this far east, but with the stormy season being worse than usual, they've migrated beyond their territories near Grev-Dredunédh-Doác, on the Abenac Sea.”

 

“Ené?” Surana asked, sitting up. He felt dizzy and sick. “Where's Morrigan?”

 

“It means elf, in my language,” said Eadwine. For someone so tall and bulky, the man stood perfectly balanced on the narrow boat. “The Wilder woman you came with? She is up ahead, on that bank.”

 

Morrigan was sitting on a patch of mud and grass, waiting, looking anxious. When she saw their boat approach, she ran into waist-deep water and threw her arms around Surana. Her eyes were pink and wet. She'd been crying. “I'm so glad you're all right, Belinor,” she said, and kissed him. Then, to Eadwine, “Thank you. I thought I would not see my husband again.”

 

“I lost my pack in the water,” Surana said. A sudden dread overcame him. He pulled his hood over his eyes, feeling ashamed and angry with himself. “Arengast's journal. It's gone.”

 

Before Morrigan could reply, Eadwine cut in. “Arengast? I know that name.”

 

Surana looked at him. “What?”

 

“It's a name that appears in the legends of my people,” explained Eadwine. “Arengast once tried to enslave us, after my ancestors aided the elves in The Long War. He is known as the White Betrayer in our stories.” He motioned toward his boat. “Come, I'll take you to my village. Though I caution you: you will not find your presence wholly liked by my clan, Ené. It may prove difficult for you and your wife. My people cling to the old stories, because they know nothing else.”

[What?]

The moon was a swollen white thing that hung low in the sky, and bathed the mire in the sort of light Surana imagined his ancestors had lit the crystal lamps of their floating cities. Clusters of blue chrysanthemum crystals that painted the opulent vaulted chambers of some elf-lord's house in the nameless shades of the Fade...

 

“You're different than most Enédh I've seen,” said Eadwine, pushing his oar through the water with the practiced stroke of a fisherman. “That's the plural for elves, if you are wondering.” He grinned, showing dull, square teeth. Then, “You're taller than most. Fair of hair and skin. You look like one of the elven lords of old.”

 

Surana looked at the Wilder man. “Belinor Surana. And do I? Suppose I never thought anything of it.” Water lapped against the sides of the boat. The rain had stopped, but left a wet humidity in the air like damp gauze. “Back there, I saw something like a lance in the water. How did you kill that basilisk so quickly with just a fishing spear, Eadwine?”

 

“Admittedly, I wonder the same,” said Morrigan. She was leaning on the bow, watching some creature skim the water, then disappear into a thicket of rushes. “I'd sensed magic. Was it a spell?”

 

“Old magic,” said Eadwine, and nodded, steering the boat around a dense patch of marsh-grass. There were stones in the middle of the patch, white stones, part of some ancient elven ruin that had sunk into the mire. “You Eastlanders call it blood magic. We, the Dredunédh, simply call it magic.”

 

“So you have been East,” said Surana, pushing back his cowl. A few pale hairs swept into his vision. He tied his hair back with a leather string.

 

“Aye,” said Eadwine. “My people don't dare venture beyond the mountains. The Avvar fear us, and are wont to attack us on sight if we stray too close to their holds. But I don't fear the Avvar, and in my youth, I voyaged East. And continued to, for many years.”

 

“What stopped you?” asked Surana.

 

“My father grew too old to bear his duties as Dredmaegé of our clan, and shortly after, joined our ancestors in Gédrigawen, the Great Earth.” Eadwine smiled under his tangled beard, coaxing the boat right with his oar. “So I became the new Dredmaegé of our clan, and settled down with a woman. We had several children, and I had to care for them. I couldn't leave.”

 

Surana looked back at Morrigan, who seemed entirely uninterested in their conversation now. She was fiddling with the boat-lantern, an iron thing worked in the shape of a wolf.

 

“Your wife reminds me of a great black cat,” said Eadwine, and chuckled. His laugh was deep and gravelly, and reminded Surana of the deep places in the mountains. “The way she paws that lantern.”

 

They floated in silence, passing under a dilapidated elven arch. The area was heavily forested. From the shadows of the cypress trees, the forgotten marble face of some noble elf-lord watched them disinterestedly, eyes blank, mouth carved in a hard line, patches of dark moss clinging to the perfect high angles of its cheekbones. It made Surana shiver. Morrigan looked up from her book and watched the elf-lord's face, expressionless. 

 

As the boat lazed along the river, the cypress trees grew denser, larger, until the night sky was blotted out by the foliage. Occasionally, the cold, distant lights of stars twinkled through breaks in the leaves. There was a certain energy to this place, Surana noticed, a thinness in the Veil he hadn't felt before. Morrigan had noticed, too. She was looking up, reading the magic in the air.

 

The silence soon became overbearing. Surana spoke, longing for some sort of conversation. “What were you doing out on the bog, Eadwine?” he asked. “You appeared as if from thin air.”

 

Eadwine smiled around the stem of a wooden pipe. A smell like mellow wood and earth came from the smoke. “There's a particular type of elfroot that grows around the ruins, and both are thickest in Cúv-Inén-Kean. That's the swamp I found you in. Loosely translated, it means 'Flowers in the Bog'. The plants are important components in many poultices, salves, and potions.”

 

“Are there usually basilisks?” Surana asked, and chuckled.

 

Eadwine shook his head. “Nay, not usually. As I said before, they're normally found farther west, near Grev-Doác-Dredunédh, a ruin on the Abenac Sea.” The boat slid past the remains of an elven temple. “The Síonogedh say it is where Arengast betrayed my people. In our language, the name means 'Grave of the Dredunédh'. It is a white tower on a distant island, though it is guarded by fearsome seabeasts said to have been created by Arengast himself. My people do not go there. Those who have tried never return to shore. Only their bones do, when the tide sweeps in.”

 

Surana remembered Arengast's journal then. It had mentioned a coast. “Have you been there? Could you take us there?”

 

“I wouldn't dare,” said Eadwine, and frowned. “Never in a thousand lifetimes, fair elf. It is a dark place. A cursed place. Some evil thing stirs there. That's why we suffer all manner of terrible things, such as sickness and starvation. You'll see, Eastlander. I won't talk of such blackness any longer.”

 

Eadwine steered the boat through a small gap between obelisks, each marked with red handprints he'd called wuurdendh. As they moved between the stones, the world seemed to shift around them, change. A village appeared, like an Alamarri memory in the Fade. Wooden huts built on enormous stilted platforms, high up in the cypress trees. Each platform was connected by an intricate network of footbridges and ladders. Figures watched them from the bridges like predatory birds. They were wild-looking folk, dressed in skins and bones and feathers.

 

They moored at a dock, made their way toward the center of the village, a large floating platform constructed from cypress logs that shook and bounced when they walked across it. People were waiting for them, watching quietly. Surana could see the slow-burning hate in their eyes. He'd seen those looks a thousand times before, in the eyes of Orlesian and Fereldan nobles, in the eyes of the humans he'd passed in Denerim and other places. It didn't bother him anymore.

 

Someone yelled something in Eadwine's strange phlegmy language. Something sharp cut Surana's cheek. A rock skipped across the platform, plunked into the water. The next one hit him square in the head. Morrigan shouted. Warm blood trickled down the side of his face, and it hurt, deeply. A third stone was thrown, pegged him in the forehead. The fourth struck his eye, which made him stop, double over, white-hot pain burning in his socket.

 

A flash of fire, in his periphery. Morrigan had lobbed a fireball at the man who'd thrown the stone, though she'd intentionally missed, scorching the wood by his thick leather boots. The man quickly withered. Eadwine was communicating with the mob in their language, face red with anger.

 

“Belinor,” said Morrigan, studying his face. “Can you still see?” Her fingers touched the skin beneath his eye, prodding experimentally. “How badly does it hurt?”

 

“It's fine,” said Surana. And hissed, when another rock pelted him in the back of his head. He would have been struck again, but Morrigan deflected the next stone with a kinetic spell, and cursed in Elvish.

 

 Eadwine said something in his native tongue, in a voice like thunder. Then slammed his foot on the platform, making the entire thing jounce. The mob went down, some tumbling into the water, others going sideways or facedown. He swept Surana away. “I am sorry, Belinor, Morrigan,” he said, guiding them up a ladder, across several footbridges, past the wide cataracted eyes of old women, and curious children with scraggly hair and dirty faces.

 

“He did nothing to warrant their ire,” said Morrigan.

 

“It's because he is an elf,” said Eadwine, frowning. He opened a shabby wooden door, which creaked on its rusting hinges, and ushered them inside.

 

The room was small and warm, and smelled of incense and herbal medicines. There was a crude bed covered with animal skins in the corner, a hearth, a couple of flimsy-looking chairs made of wood and animal sinews, and two small square windows. Books, old and dusty things with cracked leather covers, sat on rough-looking shelves. Little bottles were piled on a square table with half-melted candles, plants, and a stone pestle and mortar.

 

“Sit,” said Eadwine. There was a drawstring bag tied to his belt. He opened it, took out a pinch of elfroot that was white and gold-veined, each flower no bigger than a clover. Dropping the elfroot into his mortar and pestle, Eadwine started mashing the plants into a white paste.

 

“I'm okay,” said Surana. Morrigan was sitting beside him, watching Eadwine work. “It's nothing. Just a few cuts and bruises. I've suffered worse.”

 

 Eadwine coated his fingers in the paste and dabbed it on Surana's wounds. Felt a cooling sensation, like pleasant ice, under his skin. And the pain went away. “Best to avoid infection whenever possible,” said Eadwine, smoothing a patch of spider-silk gauze over the cut above Surana's eye.
 

“Thank you,” said Surana, and smiled.

 

“Think naught of it. I'll fetch my wife Eorforhild and get you settled in. She's likely tending the spiders. If you're hungry, as I'm certain you both are, there's stew on the hearth.” He bowed his head, and was gone.

 

 Surana turned to Morrigan and said, “That place Eadwine spoke of? The ruin by the sea.”

 

Morrigan set her satchel down and took off her cloak. “T'will be difficult to convince Eadwine to take us.”

 

“We have to persuade him, Morrigan.”

 

A bird cawed, then flew through the open window. It was one of Leliana's ravens, and it had a message. The little container tied around its ankle was emblazoned with the Inquisition seal. Extending its foot, it watched Surana with eyes like beetle shells.

 

“Leliana sent Bran. From Skyhold, no less,” said Surana, stroking the raven on the head with his finger. He took the container and opened it, extracting a thin tube of parchment from inside. Bran flew away, disappearing into the trees. “It's a letter.” Carefully, Surana unfolded it. Morrigan read over his shoulder.

 

The letter had been written in Leliana's spidery cursive:

 

Belinor and Morrigan,

 

I hope this letter finds you. Things have taken a turn for the worse at Skyhold, and Inquisitor Lavellan asked that I write you. Unrest has been mounting against the Inquisition. Corypheus has been defeated, but we now find ourselves risking the ire of the Exalted Council. They've called for a summit. They wish to see us dismantled, or leashed. The powers-at-be believe we have grown too large, too organized for their comfort. Even Arl Teagan fears the Inquisition might invade Ferelden at Orlais' command, though the very notion of that is just silly.

 

Inquisitor Lavellan asks that you both return east, if at all possible. He believes Belinor could sway support for us, given his position as Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and as the Hero of the Fifth Blight. You would also be a boon, Morrigan, as another veteran of the Fifth Blight, and as Celene's former arcane adviser; you have connections in Orlais the Inquisition could make use of.

 

That said, I now speak to you both as a close friend. My love, Keeper-Warden Mahariel, has seen things in his dreams regarding your quest, Belinor, and it has shook him to his core. He asks that you reconsider your course. Even Kieran is on edge. Nelinael does his best to calm him, distracting him with bow-hunts and hikes in the woods. But Kieran knows there is something wrong, and he is worried for you both, just as I am. Just as we all are.

 

 

 Love,

Leliana

[What?]

Surana folded the paper and handed it to Morrigan. “We can't,” he said, feeling guilty. He found two clay bowls stacked on the mantle above the hearth, and spooned some of the stew into each. Surana ate. It was potatoes and wild herbs, the sort of meal the farmers back in Ferelden might have made in lean times, when the Bannorn went dry during the hot summer months. “We're too far from the Hunterhorns, and I'm not even certain of the way back.”

 

Morrigan ate like a starving woman. When she'd put down her last mouthful, she said, “The tone in Leliana's letter is worrying. And Kieran, I thought he was at her villa.” Suddenly slammed the bowl on the floor and cracked it, in one of her fits. Blood pooled red-hot in her cheeks. “I explicitly told Leliana to keep him safe. Now this political nonsense is brewing, and our son is in the thick of it! What if the Exalted Council resorts to force, Belinor? Inquisitor Lavellan is too stubborn to lay aside his arms; I know this from my time in the Inquisition. Where will Kieran be then? Taken away to some Orlesian noblewoman's home because they think he's some Fereldan waif? Dead?”

 

“I think you need to calm yourself,” said Surana, sitting cross-legged opposite her, staring her in the face, watching the little quakes of anger around her mouth and eyes. “Skyhold is a safe, strong place that's stood since my ancestors walked its grounds. Leliana won't let anything happen to Kieran, and neither will Mahariel. They'd take him as their own before allowing some stranger to assume guardianship.”

 

“I suppose you're right,” Morrigan grumbled, and buried her face in his chest, like she always did when her temper got the best of her.

 

A woman laughed. Surana looked. She was tall, but barely came up to Eadwine's massive shoulders. Her eyes were pale gray and oddly youthful, framed by tangled red hair. Her face might have been beautiful once, but hard living and age had weathered her looks. “I'm Eorforhild, Eadwine's wife.” Eorforhild grinned, showing dull square teeth like her husband's. “My, Ené, you're a pretty one. Fair of hair and skin, with eyes like the silver dawn. And your wife, so dark and lovely like the deepest part of night. Two halves of a day, one necessary for the other. It's quite beautiful.”

 

Surana didn't know what to make of that, and simply nodded. “A pleasure, and thank you,” he said, and stood. Then bowed. “And for the stew? Thank you, it was good,” he added awkwardly.

 

“The dead do not trouble you, do they Ené?” asked Eadwine. He was smoking his pipe again. This time, the smoke smelled of something sweet, like cherries or vanilla.

 

Surana looked at Morrigan, then shook his head. “No. Why?”

 

“A man died recently, taken by the Plague,” said Eorforhild. “He was a good friend. Beorhtsige was his name, one of Eadwine's young disciples. His house is vacant now.” She gestured around the house. “We don't have adequate room for guests in our home, as you can undoubtedly see.”

 

“Plague?” said Surana.

 

Eadwine nodded. “You will be safe, I assure you. When you've renewed your strength, I will take you back to the Hunterhorns.”

 

Surana didn't get a chance to object. Eadwine collected Morrigan's things and left with Eorforhild, expecting them to follow. They did. As they crossed a footbridge, Surana edged past a woman with oozing lesions on her skin, a look of haggard emptiness on her face. Her young daughter watched Morrigan from the folds of a fur-cloak and coughed wetly, lips cracked and bloody, eyes beginning to cataract. Surana couldn't look any longer, and neither could Morrigan. Like him, she'd probably thought of Kieran, had seen their son in the girl's dying face.

 

Beorhtsige's hut was the highest in the village, built in the branches of a massive cypress. Eadwine told them that Beorhtsige had liked it up here, because he could talk to the birds. Inside, it was small and dark, and smelled like flowers. Eadwine waved his hand, and the hearth roared to life. Firelight flooded the room, cast hard shadows on the walls and floorboards. There were three windows, a bed, shelves stuffed with phials and dried plants. A little table layered with several rolls of handmade parchment was in the middle of the room. Surana unrolled one; it was an alchemical recipe with detailed sketches of various plants, and how those plants had to be processed and refined to create the recipe.

 

“Impressive work,” said Morrigan, who was something of an expert herbalist and poison-maker. High praise, Surana thought. “Though I disagree with using elfroot for this particular type of potion. Deep mushrooms are far more potent due to their exposure to lyrium. But I suppose deep mushrooms might be difficult to find around here.”

 

Eorforhild was busy making up their bed with fresh blankets. Eadwine set Morrigan's satchel and cloak on the ground, then started dusting off the furniture with his hands. “It's not much,” said Eorforhild. “But it's all we can offer.”

 

“Thank you again,” said Surana, and watched them go. When he was sure they were gone, he said to Morrigan, “Eadwine wants to take us back to the Hunterhorns. In the morning, we should speak with him about Grev-Doác-Dredunédh. Convince him to guide us there.”

 

“You will persuade him,” said Morrigan, with her usual confidence. She was packing her cloak away in the satchel. Keep the bugs off it, Surana guessed, though the hut was cleaner than some inns they'd stayed in. “After all, you persuaded me to marry you. You've a forked silver tongue, Belinor.” Morrigan grinned.

 

“Yes, but I've no intention to convince Eadwine to marry me,” he said, and laughed. He made sure the door was locked, then turned to Morrigan and kissed her.

 

Her smiled widened. “Don't think he could pull off a wedding dress, Belinor?”

 

“He'd look like a bear in a girl's frock,” he said, and laughed again. Then they made love and fell asleep.

 

It was raining again when he woke, naked, at dawn. Gray light poured through gaps in the floorboards and walls. Luckily, the roof was well-constructed, and they were still dry. Surana groped for his jerkin on the floor, nearly tumbling out of the bed. Morrigan grumbled something that might have been stop moving, and rolled so her back faced him. Surana apologized and dressed. And caught a whiff of something on the air, like burnt meat. He went outside. Below, on the platform he'd been stoned, were bodies being piled atop each other, and set fire.

 

Surana ran back inside. “Morrigan!”

 

Morrigan woke suddenly, stared at him, confused. Then her nose wrinkled, and a look of realization bled into her features. She dressed quickly, came outside into the rain. When she saw the bodies, her expression was unreadable. “'Tis like Ostagar,” she said. “I'd watched the soldiers burn their own.”

 

They went down to the place where the bodies were burning. Eadwine was chanting a prayer in his language, gathering the corpse-ashes in his hands and scattering them in the fire, the air, then in the water. Young disciples in hooded ceremonial robes of animal skins and bones circled the bodies like vultures, their chants weaving into Eadwine's, until it was all one voice. Each of the disciples mimicked Eadwine, scooping up ashes, scattering them in the fire, the air, then in the water. Morrigan and Surana stood away, watching.

 

Another body was thrown to the flames. Surana recognized the young girl. “It is Arengast's curse. His betrayal poisons us, continues to haunt my people long after his death,” said Eadwine. He wore a bearskin cloak, the mouth of the beast pulled over his head, hiding his eyes in shadow.

 

“Then take us to Grev-Doác-Dredunédh,” said Surana, feeling the heat of the flames on his face, smelling burning flesh and incense. “If there truly is a curse, it can be broken.”

 

Eadwine said nothing. He turned away from them and watched the fire, his form a massive black shadow that resembled a bear standing on its hind-legs. “I must tend to the dead,” he said, and kneeled, resuming his chants.

[What?]

When they returned to Beorhtsige's hut, the ritual was over. From the balcony, Surana watched the crows descending on the bodies like a black blizzard, picking at whatever wasn't ash, or feeding from the hands of the priests. Surana found the custom strange, though Eadwine said it was an honorable thing, to return the dead to Gédrigawen, the Great Earth. Life, Eadwine had said, was a cycle. His people never truly died; their bodies nourished Gédrigawen, and Gédrigawen rewarded their devotion. The dead became world-tenders and protectors: spirits that lingered in every leaf, every blade of grass, each a fiber in the world-fabric...

 

A crow landed on the railing and stared at him. A piece of cracked human flesh dangled from its beak, and Surana suddenly became aware again of the stench of smoke and death wafting up from the platform. “Arengast's journal mentioned something about a Taint-like sickness.” He looked over his shoulder at Morrigan. “I wonder if this is it? It gives me pause, Morrigan. I don't know if Eadwine will part with his village, now that so many have died.” Shaking his head, he added quietly, “And all within a night. That little girl...”

 

“'Twas not Kieran,” she said, and touched his arm. “We cannot do anything for the dead, Belinor.”

 

“Had I not lost Arengast's journal, we wouldn't have had to suffer this sadness,” he said, shaking his head. “We could have pushed on.”

 

“Or perhaps not,” said Morrigan. “Does it truly matter now, Belinor? We are here, and we need Eadwine's cooperation.”

 

Surana was quiet, watching the crows turn wheels above the brown water, around the priests. A rainy breeze licked his cheek. “I'll talk to him tonight. He has final rites to perform. I will not disturb him. The dead deserve that much.” Turning around, he went inside. And napped for what felt like forever.

 

Sometimes when Surana dreamed, he could hear a distant voice, like a noise coming across a thousand years. Sometimes it sounded Elvish, and other times it sounded like something else, like a dragon speaking some forgotten Dwarvish dialect, or a man crying out in pain or sadness.

 

When he'd trained as a new Warden, Alistair had told him that it was the Archdemon calling for him. And later, that it was the Calling, a slow dirge Surana could mostly ignore. Though he was older now, closer to death, and it was becoming harder and harder to pretend it was nothing. Like someone yelling, and he'd tuned them out, but they'd kept going, words like little pickaxes chipping his indifference away...

 

This time, the voice sounded Elvish, though it was too faint to make out individual words. It made him think of mothers humming their children to sleep.

 

Then an image, like seeing something through a thick snow-storm. A man in white, though Surana couldn't see the features of his face. Just long pale gold hair, and a smile like a knife.

 

He woke up. Someone was about to cut his throat.

 

The man was young and pale. A long, thin face framed by curly, black hair. His nose was crooked, as if he'd broken it once and it had healed that way. He wore fox-skins around his shoulders, and the sort of robes Surana had seen the apprentices wearing in Eadwine's ritual.

 

“My name is Beorhtsige,” said the young man. His voice was deep, and didn't fit his face. “You're in my home.”

 

“You speak Common?” said Surana.

 

“My mentor taught me. Who are you, Ené?”

 

“I thought you were dead, Beorhtsige.”

 

Beorhtsige didn't reply. “Get out,” he said, sheathing the knife in his belt. “Before I kill you.”

 

“Where's the woman I was with? Did you hurt her, Beorhtsige?”

 

“She's outside. And no, I didn't. I just put her to sleep with magic.”

 

Surana got up and left, confused. His head ached. Morrigan lay on the balcony planks, asleep, features composed in a look of troubled rest. He muttered an elven dispel, silvery light dripping from his palm like melting snow. She woke, looking annoyed. He helped her up. “You're getting sloppy,” he said, and steadied her. “Can you stand on your own, Morrigan?”

 

She swatted his hands away. “I am fine. Angry, but fine.” Morrigan frowned. “That boy cut his hand and flung blood in my eyes. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming all manner of horrors.”

 

“That boy is Beorhtsige, Morrigan,” said Surana, plainly. “He went inside the house and almost cut my throat.”

 

“Beorhtsige?” said Morrigan, glancing at the door. “Are you certain?”

 

“He said it himself. Either there is some foul necromancy at play, or something much darker. We need to find Eadwine. The rites will have to wait.”

[What?]

They found Eadwine praying at a shrine on the eastern bank of the bog, in a muddy clearing by the water. Incense sticks smoldered in the rain around him. He was staring into the incense-smoke with the glazed far-away look of the very drunk, or the very tired. When Surana approached, the Wilder didn't move. Eadwine was chanting, so low it sounded like a bee-hum. Surana waved his hand in front of Eadwine's face. Nothing. He looked at Morrigan.

 

“'Tis a trance,” she said matter-of-factly, looking somewhat disappointed. “You truly couldn't tell, Belinor? What did they teach you in the Circle?” Morrigan came around and conjured a strange violet cloud in her hand, blowing it into Eadwine's eyes, scattering it like amethyst dust in the wind. “He will come around now.”

 

Eadwine snorted suddenly, as if jolted from a deep sleep. He threw off his bearskin hood and scowled at Morrigan through his shaggy eyebrows. Up close, and in this light, Surana could see a patina of scars on the Wilder's sun-browned skin, like tiny scratches on tree-bark or craggy stone. “Is there a reason you've disturbed me from the rites, Witch of the Wilds?” he asked tersely. “If not, I ask that you leave. So I may commune with Énuvenen-Noac-Cwí in peace.”

 

“Who is that?” asked Surana.

 

“My father. Or was,” said Eadwine. “When he died, Gédrigawen rewarded him with the rank of Water Spirit and renamed him Énuvenen-Noac-Cwí, From Which Life Flows.” He stood, knees cracking, his bearish form walling them from the occasional gust of wet bog-wind. “It is the highest rank of the Nature Spirits, as all life flows from the water, and relies on it to sustain it. I wondered if He could give insight as to what plagues this village. If it is indeed Arengast's curse, or because He is angry that proper obeisance has not been observed.”

 

“Did anyone answer?” asked Morrigan, tilting her head.

 

“Nay. He did not answer,” said Eadwine, shaking his large head. “Or perhaps I simply could not hear him.”

 

“Beorhtsige's alive,” said Surana suddenly. “We saw him at his house, Eadwine. He held a knife to my throat.”

 

 “Beorhtsige's alive? Of course he's alive, Ené. He was never dead.”

 

Surana stared at the back of Eadwine's head, at the matted locks of black hair, uncomprehending. “What?” was all he managed to say. Even Morrigan seemed lost.

 

“He was never dead, Ené. I don't know where you got such a silly notion.” Eadwine started walking away. Surana stopped him.

 

“You told us he was dead, Eadwine,” said Surana, gripping the man's thick corded arm.

 

“I never said such a thing.”

 

“We need you to take us to Grev-Doác-Dredunédh,” said Surana, grasping the man's arm a little tighter, almost threateningly, though he knew he couldn't actually do anything to Eadwine; Surana was lighter, thinner, and not much good at knuckle-fighting. And he had no desire to kill Eadwine by lobbing a fireball in his face. “Please. So many people have died already.”

 

Eadwine pulled his arm away and walked on, without a word. Surana stared at the trees the Wilder had disappeared into, listening to the rain, the distant hiss of some waterfall, and the faint cawing of crows. “He fears something,” said Surana finally, glancing at Morrigan.

 

Morrigan was leaning on her birch staff, picking a leech off her boot and tossing it back into the water. “I hadn't guessed,” she said, sarcastic. “His student is back from the dead, for one, and we are without a roof over our heads because of it. And my things are still in his home.” She frowned. “I hate this swamp.”

 

“I'll go there later and get your things,” said Surana. He crossed his arms, watching a flock of crows above him, fluttering around each other like enormous black moths. “It seems the only way we'll convince Eadwine to take us is to wait for more death. I don't relish that thought, Morrigan. I don't take some fiendish delight in seeing these shem'len suffer so.”

 

“I know you do not,” she said, and smiled. “Your son, after all, is one such shem'len. As is your wife.”

 

“You act more elven than I do at times,” Surana joked, shaking his head. “You also taught me more about my people than I could have ever learned on my own. As for Kieran? I like to think of him as a half-elf.”

 

“He is elf-blooded, Belinor. Not half-elven. But if it helps you sleep at night...” Morrigan trailed off and grinned, moving toward the trees. “We should return. Lest you feel like exploring?”

 

“I don't know. His ears are sort of tapered. He also looks a bit elvish in the face,” he said, trailing her. Then, “You mean you would like to explore, and want me to tag along.”

 

“We have been married far too long,” she joked, making her way across a mossy log thrown over a deep brown stream. Green patches of algae congealed on the top of the water. “There are so many Elven ruins in this place. Are you not the least bit curious of them, my love?”

 

“Morrigan, do you think Beorhtsige coming back has something to do with Gédrigawen?” he asked, ducking under an overhang of dark alder leaves. “Eadwine said that his people never truly died.”

 

“Who is to say? The world is full of all manner of strange and wonderful things,” said Morrigan, shrugging. “If that is the case. Why lie? Claim to have never told us about Beorhtsige? 'Tis odd, and makes little sense, Belinor. Something frightens him, as you said.”

[What?]

The swamplands around Eadwine's village were vibrant green. Sometimes Surana glimpsed the white ruins of some forgotten elf-place tangled in the cypresses and alders, or sunk in the water. Surana wondered what sort of civilization his ancestors had had in this place. But most of the ruins were too decrepit, or in places far out of their reach, to know.

 

Further in, the ruins became more frequent, intact enough for him to make out an inscription or two, or the weathered carvings of elf-warriors in a high helms and silver hauberks astride enormous white harts, spears and swords in hand. Eventually, they came across a clearing, and Surana was shocked to see part of an actual building there.

 

The architecture, like most Elven architecture, was pointlessly elaborate, arranged in concentric arcs and tapered towers carved from marble. He'd read in a book once that the ancient elves had employed a kind of magic to shear the marble into impossible angles and heights. Surana had tried the technique once himself, on a rock near their home in the Dales; Morrigan had laughed at him for a week, because the result had been something unintentionally large and phallic.

 

The building seemed to have been a temple once. A nave of crumbling pillars, the pupilless doll-eyes of ancient elf-gods peering down at them from behind curtains of moss. Part of one god's hand lay on the ground, cracked, overgrown, fingers wrapped around the broken hilt of a sword. Slabs of weed-tufted marble were sunk in the wet soil, making the path uneven and slippery. The path led to a stairwell, what remained of it anyway, and to stone clearing that had, a long time ago, likely been the worship chamber.

 

In the center of the stone clearing, they found a slab that might have been white once, but years of blood had stained it rusty brown. Sacrificial. Surana recognized the type of altar from various forays against Maleficarum in the East. A deep groove had been carved into the stone, some kind of channel perhaps. Dry blood was caked there, and it didn't look old. “Look, Morrigan,” said Surana. “Blood. I can still smell it.”

 

“'Tis not the work of Maleficarum,” she said, fingers brushing the altar. “There is dark magic at work here, Belinor. Can you not feel it?”

 

Surana hadn't noticed at first. As a former Circle mage, he'd learned to tune out magic, because he'd constantly been surrounded by it. But when he concentrated, he could read the magic: glittering cobwebs that crisscrossed the air and made his head hurt, like rusty nails had been hammered into his skull. “Yes, I feel it now,” he said. “It is foul magic, Morrigan. Ancient magic.”

 

“Blood magic,” said Morrigan, unfazed. “Filter it. You cannot endure it as I can, Belinor. I wish not to see you in pain.”

 

He did, with some difficulty. He felt better, though there was a dull ache in his temples, and a pressure behind his eyes, like thumbs slowly pushing them from his skull. “Do you think Eadwine's kin did this?”

 

“Who else?” she asked, and looked at him. “They are the only folk we've seen in these strange lands. And I doubt Maleficarum would flee this far beyond the Hunterhorns. Very few are cunning enough to evade the mage-hunters for long.”

 

 

 

It was nightfall when they returned to the village. Surana could see fires burning on the platform ahead, across the water, pillars of smoke rising toward the charcoal sky. In the village, people wept as their families were thrown to the flames, their faces sweat-slick, haggard in the firelight, grimy cheeks streaked with tears. A man, whose face had mostly been subsumed by a necrotic lesion, looked at Surana and yelled something in his tongue. He attacked him with a crude bone-knife, cut open Surana's cheek. Morrigan struck the man with her staff, but was held back by two of the village men.

 

“Do not kill him. It will be my honor.” Beorhtsige appeared, face like a mask. “You've brought these troubles upon us, Ené.” He pushed Surana down, held his face so close to the fire it burned his skin. A charred skull stared emptily at him. “Look at what you have done to my people, Ené. Has the White Betrayer sent you to ail us?”

 

“Let him go! He has done nothing to you, bastard!” said Morrigan.

 

“Silence the elf-******,” said Beorhtsige. Surana heard a heavy blow. His skin was beginning to sear in the heat.

 

Then someone hit Beorhtsige. He went down, hard. Eadwine stood there, eyes glinting like obsidian beads in the firelight. Then he cut the throat of the man who had hurt Morrigan. Loudly snapped the bone of the other man's arm as if it was a brittle twig, and dropped him on the ground like a sack of dung, where the man mewled and dug dirty fingernails into the planks, wanting relief. “Are you all right, Witch of the Wilds?” he asked.

 

“That man hit like a child,” said Morrigan, rubbing her cheek. Then, pleadingly, “Is my husband all right?”

 

Eadwine nodded. “My people know that any further violence will end poorly for them.”

 

Beorhtsige looked at Eadwine. Surana saw tremors of rage in his face. “You dare help the White Betrayer's kin, Dredmaegé?” Uneasily, the young man got to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. “Traitor. If you will not deal with this menace, then I will. I will go to the Stone Grove, and beseech the spirits with a blood-gift. Perhaps they will do something to stem the Plague that slaughters us.”

 

“Do not,” warned Eadwine. “I am the Dredmaegé, and the people will listen to me.”

 

“You are a foolish old man who has done naught for us but bring a terror upon our heads,” said Beorhtsige, pointing at Surana, the corners of his mouth trembling. “I will offer the blood-gift. I will save our people. And when I do, I will feed you to the basilisks of Grev-Dredunédh-Doác, elf-lover.”

[What?]

Beorhtsige left, and the people followed. Eadwine watched them go, then howled at the sky, and tore after them. Surana and Morrigan ran after him. A crowd was massing outside Eadwine's house, chanting and shouting, pounding on the worn walls of the hut, making it violently shake. Eadwine was trying to shove his way through the scraggly gathering, crying out for Eorforhild.

 

Beorhtsige went inside, came out with Eadwine's wife, pulling her by the hair. When she tried to fight, he slugged her in the temple, and she went sideways. “Her blood will be Gédrigawen's!” he cried. People clapped and whooped as he marched Eorforhild through the mob; they struck, kicked, and threw objects at her. “The Dredmaegé makes us suffer, for he loves the elves as kin! When her blood soaks the stone, so shall the elf's.”

 

Surana attempted to stop Beorhtsige, but each time he tried, something stopped him: an invisible thing, like a wall dividing realities. Eadwine lunged at Beorhtsige, but the young man cut his palm, trailed a solid ribbon of blood in the air, which wound around him, repelling each of the Dredmaegé's blows.

 

“You filthy little rat,” said Eadwine, plunging into a long string of what, to Surana, sounded like curses in his language. He unsheathed a sword Surana hadn't seen, and cut through the blood-shield, swinging the length of cold metal at Beorhtsige's neck. Another ribbon coiled up, hardened, and blocked the blade. “You swine-loving núvenach cwen noambeor!”

 

“Stop this madness, Beorhtsige!” cried Eorforhild. Beorhtsige struck her across the face. Eorforhild sobbed, shaking her head. “Stop it right now! Take me, but leave my husband!”

 

Surana found it increasingly harder to watch, because he thought of Morrigan. He'd also noticed most of the mob had forgotten they'd existed, though they'd been trailing them closely. “It's like we're suddenly ghosts,” said Surana, aloud. “I want to help Eorforhild, but something prevents me from interfering.”

 

“I feel that same dark magic from the ruin,” said Morrigan. “'Tis not as strong here, but I can still sense it, read pieces of the pattern in the air.”

 

Eadwine hurled his bulk against the blood-shield, but was deflected, stumbling back. “Even Eadwine seems to have forgotten us,” said Surana, observing the event with a strange sort of detachment. “What is at work in this place, Morrigan? I have not seen anything like it. Not since the Memories of the Stone, down in the Deep Roads. You do not think...?”

 

“I don't feel any lyrium here, in this village,” she said. They were headed toward the swamp. They crossed a narrow channel of opaque water, passed the shrine Eadwine had prayed to Énuvenen-Noac-Cwí, and into the shadows of the cypresses. “For once, I do not have any answers.”

 

At some point, Eadwine had given up his bout with Beorhtsige, resigning to a weird passivity that unnerved Surana, like a man who'd just given up on everything in life because he'd felt there was no point to it anymore. Eadwine plodded after the mob; the sword was slung across his back, in a rig made of leather string. Someone had lit a torch, and the steel glinted silver in the light.

 

Single-file, the clansfolk crossed the log that led to the ruin. Below, water gurgled, and a few raindrops hit Surana's cheek. They were in the ruins of the elf-temple, following the procession of gaunt-faced villagers up the stairwell, toward the sacrificial altar.

 

“Will you not do something?” said Surana, to Eadwine. He wasn't even sure if Eadwine could hear him anymore.

 

“Nay.” Surprisingly, the Wilder was still aware of their presence. He looked at Surana, his expression hollow. “There is nothing I can do. This is the White Betrayer's curse.” There were tears on his dirty cheeks, clinging to the grizzled hairs of his beard. “Nor is there anything you can do. Not here. Not now.”

 

Beorhtsige stood at the altar, bending Eorforhild over it, on her belly. She wailed, reached for Eadwine. “Help me,” she pleaded. “Help me, Eadwine.”

 

“I am sorry, Uvenna,” said Eadwine, barely loud enough to hear.

 

Beorhtsige begun to chant in his language, eyes rolling back into his head, hands moving with the guided purpose of a puppet's. He rose his knife high into the air, slowly moved it in a crescent.

 

“Do something, Eadwine!” said Morrigan.

 

The knife came down. Beorhtsige was still chanting, as he cut Eorforhild's throat, spilling her blood into the channel. It trickled over the altar like a small red waterfall, spreading, webbing the ground in elven geometrics that, upon closer inspection, Surana recognized as elven runes.

 

“It is done!”

 

And it was. The next day, in the village, everyone but Eadwine had died.

[What?]

They didn't bury the dead, or even bother to burn them. “It will happen again,” Eadwine had said, without elaboration, and he'd gone into his empty hut, collected his things, and told them he'd take them to Grev-Doác-Dredunédh. Surana didn't ask any questions. He retrieved Morrigan's things from Beorhtsige's house, packed supplies for himself in an old herbalist's satchel he'd found under the bed, and joined them outside. It was a gray morning, and a chilly mist saturated the air. Eadwine led them out of the village, without a word. Bodies were piled three-high, arranged in neat rows along the water. Surana saw the dead white face of the man who'd attacked him with the bone-knife; a crow was pecking at his eye, managed to dislodge it, and took off, disappearing over the trees.

 

The miles went slowly, as they trudged through thick swamp, where the cypresses and tupelo were so close together they could hardly squeeze between the trunks. Eventually, Eadwine led them along an old footpath, a meandering line that cut through the thick ferned underbrush like a snake. Catbrier snagged their cloaks as they walked on. A steady trickle of water dripped from the canopy, turning the soil to sucking mud.

 

“I noticed you do not use a staff, Belinor,” said Eadwine conversationally, as they passed the husk of an overgrown stone hut.

 

“Blood magic doesn't have much use for a staff,” said Surana, shaking his head. “Besides, I like feeling the magic. Manipulating it with my fingers.” He paused. Somewhere, an eagle cried. “What happened in the village, Eadwine? I saw elf-runes on the ground, at the ruin. And you said something about it happening again.”

 

Eadwine was quiet. “It is part of Arengast's curse,” he said, carefully. “I deceived you both. I know what transpired.” He looked at Surana, apologetic. “Many ages ago, when Arengast cursed my people, he sentenced them to undeath. What you saw were... ghosts, of a sort. Not in the way spirits are, but flesh trapped in this world by powerful magic. Doomed to eternal misery, oblivious to the passing and changing of time. In a few days, they will all be alive again, and then they will die again. And so the cycle goes on.”

 

Surana said nothing. Morrigan looked intrigued. “They didn't even acknowledge us, on the procession to the ruin,” said Morrigan.

 

“The past cannot be changed, Witch of the Wilds,” said Eadwine. “There was nothing we could do to stop Eorforhild's death, or the death of my kin; I have tried, to no avail. Arengast's magic sees to that.”

 

“Does that mean you are one of these spirits, Eadwine?” asked Morrigan.

 

“I am,” he said, matter-of-factly. “My curse was to bear witness to the death of my people, over and over again. To watch everyone I'd ever cared for, including my wife, die. And to know it.”

 

This hadn't been the first spirit Surana had encountered; but the nature of Eadwine was different from Justice, from the boy named Cole Morrigan had spoken of. When he looked at the Wilder, really concentrated, he saw nothing but a blank space in the world, as if a piece of its fabric had been torn out. “I cannot believe I hadn't seen it before,” said Surana.

 

“Mages tend to filter the world for their convenience,” said Eadwine, and smiled. “It is all right, Belinor.”

 

After a few hours, they camped for the night beside a stagnant pool of swamp-water, where duckweed curdled on the surface. In the twilight, the vibrant greens of the swamp were black and purple, etched in sunset-colored hairlines. Crickets chirped in the underbrush, and fireflies wheeled above the water, like little green motes of Fade-light.

 

They ate fish stew Eadwine had prepared. It was bland, but filled his belly. When Eadwine had gone to sleep, Surana walked with Morrigan along the water. “Sort of makes you miss the old days,” he said, holding her hand. “What I wouldn't give to have Leliana along, on one last adventure. Keeper-Warden Mahariel, too. He's a good singer. If Leliana was still a bard, I feel those two would have been an unstoppable force of music.”

 

Morrigan chuckled. “You would even want Alistair here? Sten?” She looked at him. Her yellow eyes seemed to glow, cat-like, in the dark.

 

“And Oghren. And Zevran,” said Surana, and laughed. Then he frowned, felt a sharp pang of sadness. “And Wynne...”

 

“I miss her as well,” she admitted, staring at the space in front of her. “Back then, I thought the worst of her. That old woman, how dare she criticize me, I'd thought. But in hindsight, she was the mother I needed. Someone to kick me in the arse, such a petulant girl I was.” She looked at him, subtle emotion in her features. “'Tis funny how you fail to notice these things until it's much too late, isn't it, Belinor?”

 

“I feel that that is simply a part of growing older, Morrigan,” he said. “To reflect on things, find meaning and goodness in them. Memories become precious commodities in your older years, I've found.”

 

“Stop that,” she said, mouth becoming a thin, hard line.

 

“Stop what?”

 

“That tone. You are not going to die, Belinor. ”

 

Surana smiled, then said, “Sorry, love,” and kissed her.

 

“I wonder how Eadwine factors into this curse of Arengast's,” she said suddenly, squatting by the water's edge. She watched the fireflies. “He is nothing like Cole, nor any spirit I have met. He acts human, down to the need for food and sleep.”

 

“When I tried pressing him on the issue at dinner, he seemed reluctant to reveal his part in all of it,” he said.

 

“There is something he is not telling us,” she said, and stood.

 

“I know.”

 

Morrigan stopped then, stared at the water. She fished something from the duckweed: a silver medallion worked in the shape of Andraste, on a thin chain that had been broken, like someone had ripped it off. “Belinor,” she said, showing him it. “This is Leliana's.”

[What?]

Belinor recognized it. “How did it get here?”

 

“I have a several theories, none of which make sense,” said Morrigan. She paused, touched something on the ground. “Look.” He did. There were boot-prints in the mud, along the muddy bank. Morrigan followed the tracks to a patch of rushes, some of which were bent or broken. “Someone ran through here,” she said.

 

“Morrigan,” said Surana, pointing. “I found more tracks. A man's, I think. Barefoot. Mahariel was with her.”

 

Morrigan came over and examined the tracks. An odd expression on her face. She got up, walked. Pulled something from the trunk of a tupelo. It was an arrow with black fletching. “This is an arrow for a child's bow,” said Morrigan. “No, she didn't dare...”

 

“There are other footprints here, too,” said Surana. He'd learned a few things about tracking from Morrigan, though he was nowhere near as good or certain in his technique. “Dozens of them. The bark on the trees here is damaged. Looks like a blade did it. There was a fight.” He conjured a silvery wisp, illuminating the area. “Perhaps Inquisitor Lavellan told them to come and get us?”

 

“I would not doubt it. Inquisitor Lavellan was a rash, hard-headed elf,” said Morrigan, and frowned.

 

The reeds rustled. They both went quiet, waited. Surana's heart had gone up several beats. Something stalked in the shadows, and it wasn't an animal. Then it lunged at him, knocked Surana to the ground and pinned him there.

 

It was Mahariel. His dark hair was tangled and dirty, and he looked like he'd gone days without sleep. “Belinor?” he said, in a Dalish brogue. Laughing like a man whose mind had finally gone, Mahariel helped him up, hugged Surana. He reeked of stale sweat and animal hide. “By the grace of Mythal, you live!”

 

“Why have you come here, Mahariel?” said Belinor. “I left you to oversee the Gray Wardens in Fereldan.”

 

Unlike Belinor, Mahariel was shorter, and built like a dancer. His hair was long and black, decorated with feathers. Eyes bright green, like duckweed. “The Wardens are fine. Rainier is seeing to them. As for why I've come, it was at the behest of Inquisitor Lavellan.” Like most Dalish, Mahariel wore pelts and an elven tunic, in the shades of the forest. Two curved daggers were slung across his lower back, carved from ironbark, and etched with halla and birds. “I need your help, Belinor. Leliana's been taken, though I don't know what it was that took her. Wild cannibals, it looked like. Like in the stories.”

 

“Cannibals?” said Morrigan, deadpan.

 

Mahariel nodded. “Yes! Cannibals!” he said. “Wild-looking men with hollow faces and empty eyes. I've been tracking her. Then I saw your wisp-light, and thought you to be one of the monsters come to return for me. So I attacked.”

 

“Where did they take her?” asked Belinor.

 

“I don't know. And you're not going to like this next part either.” Mahariel visibly flinched, like a child bracing for his mother's hand. “Kieran came with us. The boy's headstrong as his mum, and insisted we take him along. We said no. Followed us all the way from Skyhold to Jader, he did. Slipped right under Cassandra's nose, in the dead of night, and stole one of Scout Harding's bows to boot.”

 

Morrigan punched Mahariel in the stomach. The elf crumpled, clutching his belly. “Okay, I deserved that,” he conceded shallowly. Morrigan punched him again, hard, right in the nose. “Okay, I'll give you that one, too,” he said, blood dripping from his nostrils. Then he shielded his face. “But it's not like I coerced the boy into coming, Morrigan. He takes after you, he does! Stubborn as a halla.”

 

“Once we find Leliana and my son,” said Morrigan, through her teeth, “I will wring your scrawny elf-neck, Mahariel. Then I will choke Leliana 'til she's as gray in the face as a Qunari.”

 

“We better hurry,” said Mahariel, moving ahead of them. “Before they're hurt.”

 

“Leliana can fend for herself,” said Morrigan. “But if anything happens to Kieran, I will torture you in ways that will make you beg for death, Mahariel. Flemeth imparted more than arcane knowledge.”

 

“I'm certain they're fine,” said Surana, walking behind them, the wisp hovering beside his head, bathing the swamp in pale silver light. “Leliana will keep him safe.”

 

“What precisely happened? The short version,” said Morrigan.

 

The Dalish shrugged. “Not sure. We were tracking you. I used my Sight, so it was easy. Things attacked us: men with white eyes and bloody mouths, teeth like sharks. We all ran; Kieran hit a few with his bow, and I killed one or two with my daggers. One got Leliana by her prayer chain, and she fell. Back there.” Mahariel gestured to where Morrigan had found the tracks. “When I turned back to help her, she was gone. So was Kieran. Spirited away. Vanished.”

 

“That's why you lingered. No tracks to follow,” said Surana. He paused, considering something. “We have a friend, Mahariel. Eadwine. He could help us find them, I think.”

 

Mahariel stopped walking and said, “Then take me to this friend of yours.”

[What?]

Eadwine was awake when they returned to the camp. “Thought you might have followed the will-o'-the-wisps,” he said, throwing a log onto the fire. It crackled, and the smell of cedar filled the air. “Dangerous things, the wisps. Lead folk right out onto the bog, and then they drown.” The air was chilly, and the stars were silver pinholes in the black sky. He looked at Mahariel, crescents of firelight catching in his anthracite eyes. “I see you brought a friend. What might I call you, Ené?”

 

Mahariel crouched on the balls of his feet and warmed his hands by the fire. Then said, “Nelinael Mahariel, Keeper of Clan Mahariel. Though it's more an honorary title than anything else, 'til they find a more suitable leader. I've not a lick of magical talent, you see. But I see things sometimes in my dreams, and sometimes when I touch things. A clairvoyant, of sorts. I'm the Dalish liaison to the Gray Wardens of Fereldan.”

 

“Those markings on your face. Are you a slave?” Eadwine asked.

 

Mahariel looked confused, then offended. He shook his head. “I am slave to no one, shem'len.”

 

“Apologies. I meant no offense,” said Eadwine, stoking the fire, making the flames jump and sputter embers. He offered Mahariel a tin cup of something hot. The Dalish took it, sniffed, then carefully sipped; his face screwed up, as if he'd tasted something foul. “Mínaroche,” explained Eadwine. “Bramblenut tea. Tastes foul, but wards the chill, aye. Nights here are cold and dark, even in summer.”

 

“Thank you,” said Mahariel, setting the cup down.

 

Eadwine nodded. “So what brings you so far west, to these strange and terrible lands, Clairvoyant Mahariel?”

 

“I was sent to retrieve Belinor and Morrigan, at the behest of a powerful man named Inquisitor Lavellan,” said Mahariel. “But my group went missing in this swamp. Belinor said you could help me find them. One was a human woman, red-haired and fair of skin. Eyes as blue as cornflower. The other was a young boy, twelve years of age. Looks like Morrigan, but slightly elfy in the face and ears thanks to his father.”

 

“Ah, so Belinor and Morrigan have a son,” said Eadwine, and nodded again, stroking his dirty beard. “And this red-haired woman? I can see it in your face. She is your lover. Is there a trend these days in the East, I wonder? Do human women pine for elven loins?”

 

“Be serious, Eadwine,” chided Surana.

 

“Fine, fine,” said Eadwine. “Aye, I might be able to help you find the lass, and the lad. Did you see anything in your dreams, perhaps? See what took them? I require something to go on.”

 

“I had a dream shortly before they were taken,” said Mahariel. “Mounds in the shadows of dead cedars, the black stones of some forgotten ruin, all shrouded in a terrible fog. The things that took them looked like cannibal men, they did. Hollow faces and empty eyes.”

 

Eadwine's expression darkened. “Grev-Duír-Doonan. An ancient burial site. And I know of the things that took your beloved and the boy.” He stood, intoned a spell to snuff the fire out. “We call them Gwearogenédh, The Gray People. The ancient honored dead of my kin. When Arengast's dark magic poisoned our lands, the Old Kings woke.”

 

“What will they do to Leliana and Kieran, my companions?” asked Mahariel.

 

“They will siphon the life from them, in a fruitless bid to walk among the Living once more,” said Eadwine. “They are enemies of Gédrigawen, a blight upon it. Poison to the world-blood.”

 

Through miles of dense undergrowth and trees, they came to Grev-Duír-Doonan. It was deep in the swamp, a jumble of ancient stones, glossy and black like obsidian, arranged in tiered pyramids. Dead cedars shadowed the burial mounds, and a white fog curled around their roots, reduced much of the landscape to ghost images. Most of the burial mounds were sealed by smooth black slabs of glassy rock. When Eadwine touched one, runes glowed there, in a language Surana didn't recognize. But the rock didn't open. Old magic lingered in the area like thick dust, made Surana's head throb, his stomach feel like it was full of sludge. He tuned it out, slowly, like burning through cobwebs with a match.

 

“I assume these Gray People are below,” said Morrigan, touching the sealed entrance of the mound. “You said this was an ancient burial site, yes?” A crow cawed, somewhere. “'Tis not what I imagined a burial site of your people looking like, Eadwine.”

 

“It was from an age, long ago,” said Eadwine. “My people were strong, and ruled the West. We were once friends to the elves, who taught us much about magic. But then Arengast betrayed us, and so did his kin.”

 

“Were you there?” Surana asked.

 

“How could he have been there?” asked Mahariel. “He doesn't look a day over sixty, Belinor.”

 

“There is much we haven't told you yet,” said Morrigan, beside him. “And much we have yet to learn still. Steel your patience, Mahariel. Our focus right now is finding Leliana and my son.” She looked at Eadwine. “How do we get inside?”

 

“Before Arengast's magic seeped into these stones, my blood would have been enough. But now? We must find an opening. One of the tombs has been broken open, I'm certain. Otherwise, the Old Kings would still sleep, and the Keeper-Warden's companions would still be safe.”

 

They searched the mounds, and finally found one that had been opened. The slab sealing the entrance was cracked, and a cold draft blew through, stroked Surana's cheeks like icy witch-fingers. There was no light beyond the fracture—just deep blackness, and the sounds of air blowing through empty tunnels. “Mahariel, touch the stone,” said Surana. “Perhaps your Sight could assist us in what to expect. Perhaps even tell us if Leliana and my son yet live.”

 

Mahariel nodded and touched the stone. Grew still, as if hypnotized, eyes focused like a cat's. “Men, once honored and loved, of a kingdom long dead, a memory the world barely remembers. A procession carries a body wrapped in spider-silk, draped in gold, on a marble bed.” His face twitched. Words became quicker, more urgent. “She was dragged through here, screaming. The dead man wants to hurt her. The boy is silent, but his eyes are wide and fearful. Got to get out. Where is mother? Where is father? Dark, cold....”

 

“Stop,” said Morrigan. “Stop it, Mahariel. I do not want to hear any more of it.”

 

Mahariel took his hand off the stone, looking exhausted. “Sorry,” he said, and shook his head.

 

“I'll go in first,” said Surana, and he went.

 

Dark and wet. Surana conjured a wisp. The walls glittered like black glass, and the stairwell went sharply down, strewn with bones and debris, and jagged pieces of pottery. Carefully, he descended, and the others followed.

[What?]

Down here, the air was wet, and smelled of groundwater and decay. The ceiling was vaulted, and the room was wide and elaborate. Stone sarcophagi were inlaid in the walls, some open, others sealed, worked in the likenesses of sleeping long-dead kings. Glazed ceramics and jewelry were laid as offerings to the sarcophagi, coated in a thin layer of dust. There were life-like carvings on the walls depicting the kings, heads bowed, being ferried across a river by a man with a serpent's head.

 

Eadwine spoke. “That is Síobhne, Lord of Death. He once ferried souls across the sea Ysígrim, to Judgment. A soul was then judged by Mávenhild, Lady of the Scales and Spirits, and Síobhne's wife. If found worthy, they were remade into a Spirit of Gédrigawen, and woven into the world-fabric by their child Céawrgi the Weaver. If not, they were cast into Ysígrim, to feed Síobhne's Thousand-Headed Serpent.” The Wilder opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped and shook his head. “Come, let us not dwell on dead gods. We must find your friends before the Gwearogenédh harm them.”

 

The farther they went down, the more elaborate and maze-like the crypt became. High vaulted ceilings and arcades made of obsidian, vaguely Elven in the design. Ivory reliefs of processions of dead kings decorated the walls, chipped and worn from age. Varicose veins of lyrium webbed the walls, silver in the wisp-light. The austere marble face of some dead King watched them from a narrow alcove, dressed in loose robes, mouth slightly parted, hand raised, as if he'd speak an edict at any moment.

 

Surana glanced to his right. There was a large sarcophagi, which had been opened; the inside was coated in a thin veneer of frost. “What manner of magic is this?” asked Surana. “There is ice inside this coffin.”

 

“The eldest of the Old Kings are also the most powerful,” said Eadwine. “Cold as death, one can feel winter on their skin. Take caution if you face one, my friend. Their chill can kill you.”

 

Icy footprints led away from the coffin to a door, on the far side of the chamber. Surana motioned for the others. “This way,” he said, and walked. His breath came in clouds, the further he went down the corridor. The air chilled him to the bone, settling under his skin like a cold mist. Surana pulled his cloak around him tighter, head retreating into the hood.

 

After making a dozen turns, the ice-trail became thicker, a blue-white sheet of frost and ice that clung to the walls and floor. Ahead, Surana could hear a sort of singing, a throat-hum of deep voices that carried through the labyrinth like the countless wings of flies. They turned right. Morrigan stopped them, pushed against the wall. “Look,” she said, and Surana did.

 

Inside the wide chamber beyond the door, several men stood around a marble slab and chanted. They were impossibly tall, their skin the shade of dead things. To Surana, they looked like fresh corpses, not a few days dead, like the bodies he'd seen on the fields of Ostagar. The tallest of the dead men was gaunt-faced and milky-eyed, blood smeared around a mouth with sharp needle-like teeth. He wore black robes over silver plate-mail, and on his head was a cruel-looking crown that looked like it had been beaten from raw silver. A nimbus of frost radiated from his body. And when he moved, his bones creaked, and his sabatons left patches of ice wherever he stepped.

 

“That is King Eadufýr, I'm sure of it,” said Eadwine, keeping his voice low. “The crown is an ancient relic of my people. In your tongue, it would be called The Beaten Crown. It was a gift from Síobhne to Eadufýr's forebears. He was the last great king to rule the West Kingdom, before it fell to Arengast during the rule of his son.” There was a strange look on Eadwine's face; then it was gone.

 

“Eadwine?” said Surana, looking at the Wilder.

 

“Leliana is in there,” said Mahariel suddenly. “On that slab.” He was just about to leave, go into the chamber, but Surana stopped him.

 

“No,” said Surana sternly, and shook his head. “We cannot go in without a plan. Remember what Eadwine had said? The chill in there can kill you.”

 

“If we don't do something, Leliana could die! If she hasn't already because of you,” said Mahariel, trying to shake Surana off.

 

“Listen to Belinor, for once in your impetuous life,” said Morrigan, helping Surana pull the Dalish back, away from the door. She glanced at Eadwine. “Is there something we can do to drive them off, or kill them, Eadwine?”

 

“You cannot kill that which is already dead,” said Eadwine. “They are bound to Arengast's magic, just as I am. Just as my people are. So long as it perverts the land here, there is nothing to be done.”

 

“Dread wolf take you, Wilder,” said Mahariel. “I will not let her die!”

 

“Shut up, whelp. Unless you wish to attract their attention,” said Eadwine. “Just wait. They will go. They must return to their sarcophagi to recoup their magic, for they draw on Arengast's power like parasites, soak it up like sponges. The process takes a very long time. We can save your lover, without carelessly risking lives.”

 

“Fine,” said Mahariel. “But if they don't go soon, I'll save her, I will. I don't give a halla's arse what you say, shem'len.”

 

They waited in silence. Slowly, the dead men finished chanting and left, disappearing into the shadows of the crypt, footsteps hanging in the air like ghosts. When they were sure the chamber was clear and safe, Eadwine cast a counter-spell and thawed the chamber.

 

Leliana was laid on the slab, dressed in chainmail, and a cloak fastened at the shoulder by a broach worked in silver, in the shape of the Inquisition seal. A thin layer of frost clung to her skin; her lips were blue, skin chalk-white, eyes clouded over. She looked dead and frozen, like a corpse that had been caught in a blizzard.

 

Mahariel looked like he was on the verge of tears. He touched her face and kissed her. Then stopped, started to speak. “Lay her on this altar. Rise, old bones, and steal away blood and flesh of which you've been robbed. Cruel Síobhne punishes us. Únvid blód sweodrínevech!”

 

“That is the curse of Slow Sleep,” said Eadwine, moving toward the altar. He looked Leliana over, then said, “I can save the lass. But I require two things: blood of a loved one, and a catalyst to cast the spell. Something the girl valued deeply would do.”

 

Mahariel volunteered his arm. “Leliana is my beloved. Take my blood, Wilder Mage.”

 

“You were just the person I had in mind, though I will need quite a bit of blood to power the spell,” said Eadwine.

 

“Take all of it if you must,” said Mahariel.

 

“That won't be necessary, Clairvoyant. But you will feel weak after the ritual.”

 

Morrigan reached into her cloak, took out the Andrastian chain. “This will do well as the catalyst, I think. Leliana has had this since her days in the cloister; it has seen her through much, both spiritually and physically.” She handed the chain to Eadwine. “Do what you will, Eadwine.”

 

“This is perfect,” said Eadwine, and nodded. He kissed the chain and set it on Leliana's breast, intoning a spell in his language, passing his hand over it. Then he turned to Mahariel and took out a sharp knife. It was an elaborate weapon with an ivory hilt and silvery blade, the sort of dagger a king might wear on his belt. “This will hurt, Seer.” And he cut Mahariel's wrist and chanted, holding it over the chain, soaking the trinket in blood.

 

Mahariel turned white, started losing consciousness. Surana steadied him, until Eadwine was finished. The Wilder cupped Mahariel's gashed wrist between his calloused hands and muttered a spell. When his hands came away, the wound was closed, though a scar remained.

 

“You will feel nauseous for a bit,” said Eadwine. “Your lover will wake soon, and then we must go. I can lead us out of the crypts.”

 

Leliana stirred on the slab. She opened her eyes, as if it was her first time seeing the world. Fingers came up and brushed the bloody trinket on her chest. She looked confused, stared at the little figurine of Andraste. “I thought I'd lost this. I remember being dragged from the bog,” she said. She looked at Mahariel. “Where are we, Nelinael? Where is Kieran? Is he all right?”

 

“We do not know because you put him in danger,” said Morrigan, taking a fistful of the Orlesian's robes and staring at her, hard. “Tell me why I should not dash your brains against this slab, Leliana?”

 

“Morrigan? You are here?”

 

“I am, too,” said Surana. “We'll explain later, Leliana. Right now, we're in danger, and we need to find Kieran.”

 

“Right,” said Eadwine. “You, dear girl, are in a crypt. And thanks to your elven lover, I was able to break a curse wrought on you by the Old Kings. Now rise, and let's be off before the boy comes to harm. He is young, weak, and full of life as all children are—a tempting morsel for the Gwearogenédh.”

[What?]

Surana didn't know how much time had past, as they wandered hallway after hallway, gone deeper into the ground. There was no light down here; even his wisp seemed to shrink in the darkness, a sad white orb swallowed by solid blackness. The walls hummed with lyrium. And the silence was a tangible, living thing that seemed to grow louder, reverberate, like the notes of singing glasses.

 

Morrigan sparked a flame between her thumb and finger, and lit the head of her birch staff. “If anything happened to Kieran,” she said, to Leliana, “I will personally kill you.”

 

“He is fine,” said Leliana. She'd recovered most of her strength; the color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and alert. There was a bow on her back, shaped from Ironbark, and a fine leather quiver with Orlesian stitching. “You do not give him enough credit, Morrigan. The boy is clever. Too clever, if you ask me. He'd make a fine bard.” She smiled. “There's a thought.”

 

“My son is not going to be a Bard, Leliana,” said Morrigan. “And that is final.”

 

Leliana didn't answer, but she did smirk. She looked at Eadwine. “I never properly thanked you for helping me, Eadwine. That is what you said your name was, yes?”

 

“Aye, Eadwine,” said Eadwine. “And think naught of it, Sweet Briar.”

 

“Nicknames already?” said Leliana, amused.

 

“You remind me of my daughter,” he said, and smiled. “She was a good lass, my Edrys. Red-haired and fair like yourself. But would stick you, if you handled her wrong. So I called her Sweet Briar.”

 

“I'm sorry,” said Leliana. “For your loss.”

 

In the next chamber, Surana saw several enormous coffins carved from black marble. “What lies in these?” he asked, trying to make out the etchings in the wisp-light. Faint lines that looked like animals adorned the lid, though he couldn't be certain what kind. “They're very large.”

 

“Great wolves, gifts from Gédrigawen,” said Eadwine. “My kin, even in ages past, loved and worshiped nature, though in a different way than now. Our wolves were swift and strong, and prized among beasts. We used them for everything: as mounts, for battle, as beasts of burden.”

 

“Must have been enormous beasts,” said Mahariel, staring at the sarcophagus. “Seventeen, maybe eighteen hands, I wager. Probably had jaws that could crack diamonds.”

 

“They could bite a man in two,” said Eadwine. “Paws as big as your head, Seer, and claws and teeth like daggers.”

 

“Hopefully they do not wake,” said Morrigan, and frowned. “I would much rather take my chances with Eadufýr.”

 

Mahariel touched the sarcophagus. That distant look came to his face, and he said, “Running. Hand is bleeding; must have cut it on the stone. There's a bitter chill in the air. What was that thing mother had said about mazes? Choose a wall and follow it, I think.” He stopped and pulled his hands away, and shook his head.

 

Surana coaxed his wisp closer, saw dry blood on the sharp corner of the coffin. “Did you see Kieran?” he asked, and looked at Mahariel.

 

Mahariel nodded. “He was running from the Gwearogenédh and tripped, tore his palm on the coffin. Took off through that door.” He pointed at the narrow doorway on the other side of the chamber.

 

“Could you track the boy with your Sight, Clairvoyant?” asked Eadwine.

 

The Keeper-Warden shook his head, black tangles bobbing. “I can't really control it. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. I've a lucky streak, it seems, of late. But I doubt it will last. That, and the images often come so swift, so disjointed, I can't always make much sense of them.”

 

“If he was bleeding, he likely left clues I can track,” said Morrigan. She paused, then asked, like a concerned mother, “Was he badly wounded, Mahariel?”

 

“Nay, he wasn't, Morrigan,” said Mahariel. “Just ripped his palm something terrible, it looked like. He has poultices in his satchel, knows how to make them from deep mushrooms, should he come across some.” The Dalish gestured around the crypt. “And in this sort of environment, he likely will. Stuff grows dense 'round lyrium-rich caverns like this place. He'll be fine.”

 

Morrigan smiled, relieved. “Come,” she said, and left.

 

“You were always such a sweet-talker, vhenan,” said Leliana, nudging the Dalish with her elbow.

 

“I sing as sweetly as the thrushes in the morn, too,” said Mahariel, and winked. “Could charm the robes off Divine Vivienne herself, with just a few pretty words.”
 

“Do that, and you will be sleeping outside with the dogs, Nel,” said Leliana, moving past him.

 

“And have reserved for myself the warmest seat in the Void,” said Mahariel, grinning.

 

There were no more signs of Kieran. They camped in a wide hallway, too tired to proceed, and lit a fire. The shadows on the wall flickered and shifted; the popping of the fire, the deep shadows, the occasional skittering of something in the dark gave a lonely, almost hopeless air to the place, like they were lost in a blank space of time, a place where the world was stagnant. Mahariel had gone to sleep, soft breaths coming from the makeshift bedroll he'd made from his cloak. Leliana was rubbing oil on the wood of her bow, expressionless.

 

“We need to talk,” said Leliana finally, to Eadwine, who'd been meditating by the fire, kneeled there like the inert stone form of some nameless sage. “About Morrigan and Belinor. We will find Kieran, but once we have, they must return East with us.”

 

Surana had been in the middle of eating some dried fish he'd taken from the village. “We cannot,” he said, chewing.

 

“Inquisitor Lavellan will not take 'no' for an answer,” said Leliana. “If we do not succeed, he plans to send a detachment of New Seekers led by Cassandra Pentaghast. And they will not be as pleasant as Nelinael and I. Some are actually quite ruthless.”

 

“Inquisitor Lavellan created this problem for himself,” said Morrigan. “He could have laid aside his arms, but chose not to, and rightfully earned his just desserts. 'Tis not Belinor nor I's matter to resolve.”

 

“Arl Teagan plans to lay siege to Skyhold,” said Leliana, plainly. “He has already mustered several of the Arls to his side, and even has Alistair and Anora's support. Skyhold is on the border of Ferelden and Orlais. You know what that means, yes? Another major war could break out between the nations. The Orlesians would see it as an invasion, an act of war.”

 

“Isn't the Inquisition a neutral organization?” asked Surana. “That was the impression I had gotten from your letters.”

 

“Celene would see the Inquisition on her leash,” said Leliana. “This would be a perfect opportunity for her to sweep in and take it. She would be hailed a hero by many of the Inquisition's loyalists, should she provide support. Perhaps even by the Inquisitor himself. Right now, Lavellan is desperate. Many of his former allies have crumbled away in the wake of the Exalted Council. But with Orlais' extensive trade-connections and military support? He could recover, fight. The alliance would prove very lucrative to a man who has little else to lose.”

 

“A lot of people will die, if war breaks out between Orlais and Ferelden,” said Surana.

 

“Exactly. You are friends with Teagan. You are the Hero of the Fifth Blight, and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Perhaps you could be the voice of reason, Belinor.”

 

“He cannot,” said Morrigan. “He is dying from his Calling, Leliana. You know this. Eadwine is guiding us to a place that could possibly heal him.”

 

Leliana looked at Eadwine, who sat there, motionless, then looked at Surana. “What do you mean? There is a cure?” she asked.

 

“We had a journal that belonged to a powerful elf-mage named Arengast,” said Surana. “In it, it had mentioned something about a cure to something that sounded a great deal like the Taint. But it was lost in the bogs.”

 

“The bogs?” Leliana paused, rifled around in her satchel. She pulled out a worn book, brittle from having dried, but still intact. Surana recognized its cracked leather cover; it was Arengast's journal. “I did my best to dry it. After the water receded, Mahariel found it in the mud, next to a giant dead snake. Said it was ancient, written in High Elvish. He found that name on one of the pages. Arengast.”

[What?]

Eadwine snatched the book from Leliana's hand. “Let me see that,” he said, grimy fingers stroking the leather. Carefully, he opened it and read, and his expression was a heavy, grim one.

 

“You understand the High Speech?” asked Leliana.

 

Eadwine didn't immediately answer. He turned a page and stroked his beard. Then looked at Leliana through his shaggy eyebrows and said, “The ancient Lords of my kin could read, write, and speak the High Speech. We—they—had developed a close kinship with the Elves that once lived here. It was a mark of status, to know the language.”

 

“You were a Lord?” asked Surana. He could feel Leliana's eyes on him, like heat. He looked at her. “You have questions. It is a long story, Leliana. A story which I'm scarce on details, I'm afraid.” He watched Eadwine, through the fire. “Eadwine is not of the living, nor is he of the dead. A strange spirit, to say the least. Arengast cast a powerful necromantic curse on his people. They're doomed to relive their final moments over and over again, unalterable. He guides us because he wishes to break the curse.”

 

Leliana stared at Eadwine and nodded slowly. “I sensed something strange about you. There was a boy back at Skyhold. His name was Cole...” Trailed off, running fingers back through her red hair and pushing it out of her eyes. She sighed in defeat. “Can you truly stop Belinor's Calling, Eadwine? If you go to this place.”

 

“I don't know,” said Eadwine, and shook his head. He looked down at the book in his sun-browned hands and shut it. “But if there is a cure, it is in this book. I'm certain of that. I simply need time to decipher it. It has been a very, very long time since I've laid these tired eyes on the High Speech.”

 

“'Tis a long road ahead of us,” said Morrigan. “Take as long as you need, Eadwine.”

 

Eadwine opened his mouth to speak—and stopped. There was a sudden chill, tendrils of ice slithering through the air, making the skin on Surana's arm prickle. “We need to go,” said Eadwine, and he stood. “Wake the Seer, and let us away from here, ere the Gwearogenédh fall upon us. Eadufýr has woke, follows our life-scent like some wretched voidhound.” There was something kingly then about Eadwine's face, a subtle regality that hung in the lines of his wild features.

 

“Needn't wake me. You woke me with your little talk,” said Mahariel, and grinned, slinging his satchel over his back. “Never met a dead man who can talk. What's that like, then? Being dead.”

 

“What many imagine it like, I wager. Cruelly empty,” said Eadwine, and walked quickly. Ice crept along the walls in great blue-white patches, turned their breath to white mist. He started running.“He draws ever closer. Move swiftly, fools, lest you wish to fall prey to the sleepless kings!”

 

Surana felt ice creeping up his ankle, then his leg, freezing him to the spot. Morrigan shattered the ice with a spell, then took his hand and ran. Behind them, Surana heard armor rattling, the hollow voices of the Gwearogenédh like a bitter winter wind blowing through the halls. The temperature dropped steeply, and Surana remembered nights in the Frostback Mountains, as he shivered in a thin tent along some snowy slope, so cold even Morrigan's heat could do little to dispel the eternal winter that had gripped the higher peaks.

 

His body slowed, and he shivered violently. Morrigan was trying to pull him, but even she was falling prey to the frost. Her lips turned blue, skin cracked from the chill, violent spasms wracking her body as it tried to stave off the cold. Her leg was cast in ice, and Surana worried that, if she moved the wrong way, it would shatter. He reached for her, but the ice had climbed to his waist, held him fast. They were behind him—he could feel the creatures—and Surana tensed, waited for the sudden bite of frozen steel in his back.

 

A loud voice, like a crack of lightning. Eadwine had cast a dispel; the ice melted, and they were free again. Leliana was behind the Wilder; an arrow tore past Surana, nicked his cheek, and lodged itself in something behind him. It cried out; he saw one of Eadufýr's men fold, the arrow between its eyes. The creature's body melted into the floor.

 

“Eadwine enchanted an arrow with his blood,” explained Leliana, grinning.

 

Surana nodded stupidly and ran. Behind him, Eadufýr appeared, face hidden by a silver death mask, gauntleted hands clutching an ornate staff wrought in the shape of a serpent. He spoke in a guttural voice, and a sudden burst of wind ripped through the hall, turned everything to ice. Eadwine shielded them with a barrier; blood dripped from his hand, around the hilt of his sword, and beaded on the stone tile.

 

“Cwenégen moornâst Eadwine, beorgýr chloed draas,” said Eadufýr, sweeping his arms out in a way that was expecting of an embrace, or the way which kings greeted their subjects at important events. “Enédh canoách dur? Naast ven cwearû, gonéch tuurnaév.”

[What?]

“Dunán weordûven Enédh, Fíard!” replied Eadwine. Then, to Surana, “I cannot hold this barrier overlong! His chill is powerful.”

 

Surana, without a word, cut his hand on Eadwine's blade, then slammed his palm on the ground. Blood pooled on the stone, spread and climbed the walls in arterial red blooms, like chains of morning glories. The tunnel started to rumble; stones shifted under his touch, but wouldn't break. “I need more power,” said Surana. “Arengast's magic has seeped too deeply into the stone.”

 

Morrigan cut her hand on Eadwine's blade and kneeled beside him. She touched his hand, started reciting a spell, and the rumbling became louder. A piece of the ceiling crumbled away and hit the ground. Then a pillar, burying one of Eadufýr's men.

 

“Little more,” said Surana, through his teeth.

 

More of the tunnel came down, in a curtain of dirt and stone. He imagined the tunnel collapsing, and eventually it did; the ceiling came apart, down on Eadufýr and his wraiths. Eadwine placed a hand on the debris, left a large bloody handprint there. “Wuurdenedh. Protective barrier,” he explained. “You might remember such a thing from the entrance to my village. We once used them to conceal our cities, among other things.”

 

Surana nodded, feeling a little nauseous. Morrigan didn't look much better. “Arengast's magic. I've not felt anything like it before.”

 

“He was a powerful elf-mage, Belinor,” said Eadwine. He stared at the cairn of debris in front of him and sighed. “We cannot go back. Which means we must find our way to the Wet Plains.” He sheathed his sword in the leather rig on his back. “This will not hold Eadufýr for long.”

 

“You jest, I hope,” said Morrigan, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “We brought a tunnel down on him.”

 

“Surely age hasn't made you that naive, Morrigan,” said Mahariel. “You're getting too soft-headed in your middle-years, dear woman.” He tapped the side of his skull. “Think about it. This Eduu Fear, he's an ancient mage-king. Emanates a frost that can bloody well kill people—and almost killed you and husband dearest. Think a few tons of rock is going to stop him from pursuing us? We've pissed him off something royally, we did. He's going to want revenge for snatching away his meal.”

 

“He wasn't going to eat her in the way you think, Clairvoyant Mahariel,” said Eadwine. “He was simply going to siphon her life away, bit by bit, like a taxman counting a debtor's coins.”

 

“He was going to do what?” said Leliana.

 

“Never mind your fair little head, Sweet Briar,” said Eadwine, patting her on the head like a child. Leliana glared at him, muttered something that might have been I'm not a child. “Come, come,” he said. “We shouldn't linger; the wuurdenedh will only stall Eadufýr for so long. If we continue this way, we should find ourselves in the Wet Plains, and back on course to Grev-Doác-Dredunédh.”

 

“You're adorable when you scowl, Leliana,” said Mahariel.

 

“Would I be adorable if I shot you in the knee, Nel?”

 

“That wouldn't be very nice now, Nightingale.”

 

“Stop your rhyming. Or, rather, stop framing your words to resemble a rhyme. This is not the place for it,” she chided.

 

Eadwine looked at Surana, almost pleadingly, as they walked. “Are they always like that?”

 

“I'm afraid so,” said Surana, and smiled despite the fact he hated smiling, because it always looked awkward on his face. He remembered Alistair saying once he had a smile only Morrigan could love. “You'll grow used to it.”

 

Several miles later, Surana could feel a draft coming from somewhere above. They were close to the surface. Gray daylight poured into the tunnel and seared his eyes. When they emerged, it was raining hard, at an angle, the raindrops pelting his cheeks like sharp little rocks. Surana pulled his hood over his eyes and surveyed the area: wide plains studded with rocky hillocks, and ruins that looked neither elven, nor any sort of human-wrought stone he'd seen before. An enormous statue of Síobhne stood vigilantly above the entrance to the crypt, stone hands wrapped around a staff, his serpent head bowed in contemplation.

 

“He looks lonely,” remarked Leliana, looking up at the statue. She shook her head and pulled her hood up. “I'm glad to see light again, feel the warm rain on my skin. I couldn't stand another moment down there.”

 

“We Dalish don't do well underground,” said Mahariel, shifting the pack on his back to slack the strap across his shoulders. He wiggled his toes in the wet grass. “Feels good to have the grass under my feet again.”

 

“I've not heard of the Dalish,” said Eadwine. A gust of damp wind blew past, whipped his wild hair and furred robes.

 

“They're nomads,” said Morrigan. “Some call them wild elves, barbarians. Very distrusting of humans, though Mahariel's clan is different than most.”

 

“Aye, we don't hate the shem'len that much,” said Mahariel, and grinned. “Some good sorts, like Morrigan there. She comes across real ******-like, I know, but she's a good heart somewhere in that frigid witch-breast.”

 

“Oh, and I'm not a good sort?” said Leliana, and smirked.

 

“Thought it went without saying you're a good apple, Leliana. Chantry sister, once a candidate for Divine. They don't let bad girls do those sort of things. Though I suppose it depends on how you look at it,” said Mahariel, and shrugged.

 

“I'm worried about my son, Eadwine,” said Morrigan. “We did not find him in the crypt.”

 

“I'm certain he made it out, Morrigan,” said Eadwine. “Feel it in my old bones, and I've a good intuition. We'll find him. Besides, we couldn't possibly cover the entirety of the crypts; they extend all over these lands, a deep-earth labyrinth.”

 

“It will be fine,” assured Surana, touching Morrigan's face. He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb and smiled. “Eadwine is right, I'm sure of it. Kieran, I know he's still alive.”

 

Morrigan nodded, eyes downcast.

 

“Ugh, stop making those sort of faces,” said Mahariel. “It doesn't suit you, Morrigan.”

 

The journey across the plains was a long one, and his jerkin and cloak were thoroughly saturated. On the rocky hillocks, ruins sat like jagged crowns, spilled over the sides in screes of black glassy rock. “What are those ruins?” asked Surana, over the wind and rain. A flock of blackbirds flew overhead, shrunk into the horizon and disappeared.

 

“Reminders,” said Eadwine, “of an age long dead. Many centuries ago, elf-magic sealed the Fade away. In the wake of the cataclysm, many of my kin's cities were swallowed by the sky. What you see is all that remains of that kingdom. We relied on the Fade, shaped our cities from it. Perhaps, in your waking dreams, you recall seeing ruins in the Fade?”

 

Surana remembered the Black City then. He nodded, dumbstruck. “The Black City. Your people...”

 

“Are dead,” said Eadwine, and left it at that.

 

The storm worsened, and they were forced to bed down in a cave, in one of the hillocks. Eadwine was reading Arengast's journal by the campfire, an unreadable look on his leathery face. Morrigan had gone deeper into the cave with Leliana to dry their clothes. Mahariel had volunteered first watch, just in case Eadufýr turned up, and sat at the entrance with a tin of Eadwine's bramblenut tea.

 

“So your people? They created the Black City?” said Surana.

 

Eadwine looked up from the book and, slowly, shook his head. “Nay, we did not create it. Not intentionally. When the elf-magic sealed the Fade away, our capital city was swallowed by the sky. Sometimes when I dream, I can still see it, and I feel a longing for that past, for that time of my youth. Mages tainted it. I tried to stop them, but to no avail.”

 

“The Tevinter Imperium,” said Surana, and nodded.

 

“Aye, I believe that is what their land was called,” said Eadwine. “I knew nothing of them, until that day. Then I started inviting myself into their dreams. I learned much about them. That they enslaved the elves, created a powerful mage-kingdom in the East; though it pales in comparison to the one my people once ruled.”

 

“I am sorry, Eadwine,” said Surana. “I did not mean to rile unpleasant memories.”

 

“It's all right,” said Eadwine. “I find it amusing, the tales the Chantry spews of the Black City.”

 

“A lot of folk believe those stories,” said Surana. “Leliana included.”

 

“Foolish girl,” said Eadwine, and sighed. He looked back down at the book, and started to read.

[What?]

They left at dawn. The rain was still coming down. Surana found it strange, how lonely the West Lands were. In Ferelden, he'd seen villages every few miles along the Imperial Highway, in the Bannorn, passed merchants peddling their goods between towns in rickety caravans on the trade-routes. But here, there was nothing but the wild. Vast green plains and rock, the occasional river or stream. A herd of elk grazed in the distance. A triangle of birds moved across the iron gray sky, gliding on the wind.

 

“Would make a fine meal, they would,” said Mahariel, pointing at the elk. He was at the rear of the group. “Sort of elk fit for an Arlathvhen.”

 

“A what?” asked Eadwine, looking back at the Dalish.

 

“Don't you speak Elvish, Sage?”

 

“Not any sort of Elvish I've heard,” said Eadwine. “But language does change, becomes muddled, I suppose.”

 

They walked in silence. The wind was wet and loud, howled across the plains. “How long until we reach this Grev-Doác-Dredunédh?” asked Leliana. Her hood was whipped back by a powerful gust. She cursed and pulled it back up.

 

“Weeks,” said Eadwine. His bearskin cloak made him look like a sentient animal. “It's quite a trek without mounts. Horses never made it West. Terrain's too unforgiving for their hooves, in most places. In the old days, we rode great wolves, or used magic.”

 

“I would be glad for one of those wolves right now,” said Morrigan, wrinkling her nose. Under her hood, yellow eyes were screwed against the rain. She leaned on her birch staff and squared her stance, whenever a gust came her way. They were walking along the lip of a small rocky canyon; below, on their right, a river glinted in the rainy daylight like a green silk ribbon. “'Tis treacherous, this place. I've not seen footing this bad since our venture into the Frostbacks for the Urn.”

 

“It only grows worse, Witch of the Wilds,” said Eadwine, and laughed. “The canyon deepens, slopes into steep jungled valleys. From there, we'll need to brave the passes to reach the sea. And we've an undead wraith-king nipping at our heels, and likely gaining ground on us.”

 

“The Urn. Now that was an adventure,” said Leliana, from behind Morrigan. She grinned, showing even white teeth.

 

“I sense a story,” said Eadwine, and he was smiling his dull old-ivory smile. “Come, tell me of this Urn. We've many miles to go, and might as well find some entertainment in one another's company.”

 

“Leliana's good at telling stories,” said Surana. “She used to be a Bard. Mahariel's a flair for words, too, but he wasn't there for that little escapade.”

 

“No, I was in bloody Weisshaupt,” said Mahariel, and frowned. “Duncan just blew into my clan's camp one day like a stray leaf on the wind, and told me I was dying. Made me drink some foul stuff, and marched me off to the Anderfels. Last I heard, he'd left Weisshaupt to go to Ostagar.”

 

“He died there,” said Morrigan, matter-of-factly. “Ogre snapped him in half.”

 

Mahariel nodded. “Had a feeling something like that had happened, though it weren't an ogre I'd imagined. Ah, well, may Falon'Din watch over him, the sodden bloke. The Sage wanted a story, so let's not spoil the mood with tragic stories.”

 

Leliana spoke, with the fluidity and practiced grace of a professional storyteller. She emphasized her words with hand gestures, like a stage actor. “It was a bitter trip up into those mountains. Cold of the sort that turned your bones to solid ice. It was myself, Surana, Morrigan, and an old woman named Wynne—Maker rest her soul—gone to retrieve the Urn of Sacred Ashes, to heal a dying Arl.”

 

“Already sounds like a story the Síogenedh would be proud to tell,” said Eadwine.

 

“You should hear her tell it when I play my fife in accompaniment,” said Mahariel.

 

“Do you have it with you, Seer?”

 

“I do, matter of fact,” said Mahariel.

 

“Well, get it out and play it then,” said Eadwine.

 

Mahariel grinned like a child and reached into his satchel, taking out a small flute carved from a halla horn, the ivory worn and thumb-smudged. He started to play it; it had a high, mellifluous sound, like the elven language translated to song. The tune was soft and ominous, and somewhat sad.

 

Surana laughed. Leliana smiled and continued to speak. “It was dark by the time we reached the peak. There was a cult that had taken up residence in the mountain, and worshiped the high dragon that lived there as Andraste.”

 

“Haven't seen a dragon in these parts for centuries,” said Eadwine, and sighed. “Beautiful beasts.”

 

Mahariel's flute trilled, in something like excitement. “We battled the dragon on the peak. Morrigan and Wynne wove spells—lightning, fire, great spikes of earth. Belinor dealt the fatal blow—he jabbed the blade of his staff through the creature's eye, turned the snow red with its blood.”

 

“It was rather alluring,” purred Morrigan.

 

“The creature let out a final cry, and died there in the drifts,” continued Leliana. “We pressed on and found a temple nestled deep in the mountain. An ancient guardian kept vigil over the entrance, so only the worthy could see the ashes. After a series of daunting tests—”

 

“They were not daunting,” said Morrigan. “All we did was step on a few tiles.”

 

“After a series of daunting tests,” Leliana went on, giving Morrigan a dirty sideways look, “we finally earned the right to see the ashes. The chamber it was kept was untouched by the ages, filled with glittering treasures—”

 

“I don't recall any treasure,” said Surana.

 

“... Filled with glittering treasures,” Leliana said, scowling. “We came upon an ornate dais, and atop it was the Urn. We took a pinch for ourselves, and left to heal the Arl of his sickness.”

 

“That was rather anti-climactic,” said Eadwine. “Did the Arl at least live?”

 

“He did,” said Surana.

 

Eadwine stopped and raised his tattooed hand. “Hold,” he said, listening for something. They were on a narrow footpath that switchbacked down the side of the canyon, into the ravine; it was the last place Surana wanted to be ambushed. “He comes,” said Eadwine. “He rides here with his host of wraiths. Hurry!”

 

The sound of feet thundering across the plains. When Surana looked up, he saw Eadufýr against the sky, armor glinting like white fire. He rode on the back of an enormous gray wolf, bigger than any war-horse Surana had seen. Its mouth ridged with teeth like long knives, eyes burning red in its skull, like fire caged in rubies. The fur was matted and thin, pieces of it gone, revealing ancient bones and red gut-flesh underneath. It was watching him, crouched on its forepaws; a thick rope of saliva dripped from its muzzle and splattered his cheek. It reeked of rot.

 

“Maker,” said Leliana. She pulled the bow from her back and shot an arrow at the beast, in one fluid motion. It snarled, bit through the projectile and loped down the craggy cliff-side, trailing frost on the rocks. Its pack and their dead riders followed.

 

Eadwine cut his hand on his sword and smeared blood on Leliana's quiver, chanting a spell. Her arrows glittered like darts of blood. “To the river! The spell will not last long, Sweet Briar!” And he ran.

 

One of the riders hefted its spear and threw it at Leliana. She swung underneath it, pressed her back to the canyon wall, and the point grazed her chin, left a deep red line there. Pushing herself off the wall, she pivoted and shot an arrow at the spear-thrower, putting it through the eye-slot of its silver helmet. It screamed, dissolving into curds of blood. The wolf, without its rider, lost its balance and plunged into the ravine, bones crunching against the rocks.

 

“Dûnevec saan lis'vell, gíerd cweord!” said Eadufýr, in a voice like snake-thunder. He yanked on the reins of his great wolf and dug the spurs of his sabatons into its ragged ribcage, made the beast jump; it kicked off the wall, landed behind Leliana and lunged.

 

Leliana side-stepped the wolf's teeth, slipped on a patch of ice; then tumbled over the side. On the way down, she banged her shoulder against a crag. And howled. She managed to swing around and wrap her arms around the rock, dangling there, the toes of her boots scraping at the rock. “Help me!” she cried.

 

Surana dropped to his knees, feeling the bite of Eadufýr's frost on his skin. He reached for Leliana, got her around the wrist. “Hold on, Leliana!” he said, through his teeth, digging his knees into the ground. The cold was getting worse, found its way under his skin, and to his bones....

 

He was going to die. He could see the ice creeping down his arm, heard Eadufýr laughing. The frost was starting down Leliana's arm, too.

 

Morrigan's hands on his shoulders; Surana recognized the black nails. She hoisted him up, and something much larger hoisted her. Eadwine stood there, winded. They were separated from Eadufýr by an arterial red barrier: thick, and almost black. “I cannot hold the barrier for long,” said Eadwine. “We must be swift. Are you all right, Sweet Briar?”

 

“Thanks to you,” she said, and nodded. “Where is Mahariel?”

 

“He fell.” Eadwine started down the path, hobbling, suddenly so feeble-looking and ancient. Blood dripped like a thick sauce from his fingers, trailed ruby beads on the footpath.

 

Leliana looked like she'd been struck, hard, across the face. She ran down the footpath, screaming Mahariel's name. Eadwine tried to call her back, but she didn't listen.

 

They found Mahariel at the bottom of the ravine—barely alive, and badly hurt. His arm had been broken in the fall; it was turned the wrong way, probably had gotten caught on the rocks. There was a large gash on his head, and he'd bleed to death if they didn't do anything soon.

 

“Oh, Maker,” said Leliana. Tears streaked her dirty cheeks, and her nose was wet and dripping. She touched Mahariel's lips with her fingertips, then said, in his ear, “It's me, Nel. Please, don't die.”

 

Mahariel made a wet noise, and coughed blood.

 

The barrier was coming down. Eadufýr and his riders had gone down the canyon, had surrounded them. The pale sunlight glinting on their crude silver armor and weapons hurt Surana's eyes.

 

“Can you not heal him, Eadwine? Belinor?” said Morrigan. She looked over her shoulder, at the wraiths. The chill was creeping from Eadufýr, toward them, in a rolling wave of frost, freezing the water in thick white patches. “We must leave him, lest we all die.”

 

The barrier came down. “I cannot. I am too weak,” said Eadwine. Eadufýr trotted his wolf toward them, clouds of mist pillowing behind him.

 

“You can go. I will not leave him,” said Leliana. “He is my love. I will die by his side. Buy you time to flee.”

 

Eadufýr raised his staff; the serpent head of it was sharpened to a cruel spear-point. He started chanting. His riders rose their spears and joined the chant, their wolves howling and stomping the ground in excitement. The frost grew, turned everything in the ravine to bitter winter.

 

Then Eadufýr cried out. Something had lodged itself in his chest, in the gap between the pauldron and neck.

 

A young boy appeared, clutching a bow, notching another arrow. “Next one goes in your face,” said the boy, and Surana knew that voice.

 

Kieran.

 

Kieran tugged down his hood. His face was pale and angular like an elf's, but his ears were round and human. He was a spitting image of Morrigan: black hair, tied back in a ponytail, and eyes like a hawk's. Like his mother, he favored the color black, and wore a dark leather jerkin and boots trimmed with fur and feathers. There was an elven quiver on his back, one Surana had given to him for his tenth birthday.

 

“You're always getting yourselves in trouble,” said Kieran. “Don't worry about the wolf-riders. A friend protects me from them. Long as I'm around, they can't attack. For a short while, anyway.” He gestured to a pale silver medallion around his neck, worked in the shape of a leaf and sword. He looked at Mahariel. “Uncle Nel isn't looking good. My friend can help him. Tell Eadwine to carry him, but be real careful about it.”

 

“How do you know my name?” said Eadwine.

 

“My friend knows who you are,” said Kieran.

 

Without a word, Morrigan threw her arms around him. Then broke down in tears, muttering incoherent mother things under her breath. Watching Morrigan in that moment was like watching an impregnable fortress slowly crumble. “I'm so glad you're all right,” Surana heard her say, between sobs.

 

“Cry later, mother. We need to make haste,” said Kieran. “Gather Uncle Nel, and let's be off before the medallion's magic wears too thin. My friend can only focus so long.”

[What?]

Kieran led them far away from the wolf-riders, down the river, through a network of narrow ravines flooded with run-off. They came to a small grotto, with a single willow tree in the middle of a pool of smooth green water. Rain dripped through the opening above them and pattered on the pond. “She's through here,” he said, leading them inside a cavern. The slope went sharply down, slick with moss. Surana heard water trickling in the dark. “Watch your footing,” warned Kieran. “Gets real slippery.”

 

Deep in the cave, there was an elven ruin. The door was sealed; but when Kieran touched it, it opened, revealed to them an enormous marble antechamber untouched by weather or time.

 

Inside, there was an elven woman meditating in the center of the room. Tall and dark-haired, dressed in white elven armor wrought in elegant curves, like the tips of goatsbeard leaves. She wore a long black velvet cloak over her shoulder, clasped at the shoulder by a broach cast in the shape of a leaf and sword. Her face was seamless and white. When she opened her eyes, they made Surana think of starlight on a clear winter night.

 

“Your father is an elf?” said the woman, in a voice as cold as the color of her eyes. Then a look on her face, like someone seeing a close friend for the first time in years. She walked over to Surana and touched his face. “You look just like him. Yet you reek of human.”

 

Morrigan glared. “He smells of me, and you will do well to step away from him, elf. I do not like sharing.” She glanced at Mahariel, cradled in Eadwine's enormous brown arms. “And our friend is in need of healing.”

 

“Now isn't the time for your petty biases, Lidriel,” said Kieran. “Help my Uncle Nel. Please.”

 

“Your uncle?” said Lidriel, and shook her head. “Things are strange in the lands you hail from, da'len.” She went over to Mahariel and laid a palm on his forehead. “You would help a slave? He bears valla'slin.”

 

“The Dalish, it seems, know nothing of valla'slin,” said Eadwine. “It has been a long time, Lidriel. I thought you died many years ago. Lest you find yourself bound by Arengast's will?”

 

“He is still quite angry I stood against him,” said Lidriel. “But no, I was not cursed. I am of the Ancient Blood. Immortal. I was sleeping until recently. Eadufýr's awakening stirred me from my slumber.”

 

“Good to see you again,” said Eadwine. He looked down at Mahariel. “You were once one of the greatest healers of the Old Kingdom. Would you heal this elf?”

 

“It's as elf as a dog is a cat,” said Lidriel, wrinkling her nose. “Come.” She turned, vanishing through a narrow door.

 

The room looked like it had been a library once, but Lidriel had converted it into her private residence. There were tallow candles scattered around the chamber, food, an ancient hearth. “Lay it here,” she said, gesturing at a marble sarcophagus; it was carved in the likeness of a sleeping woman that looked very much like Lidriel. “My magic has seeped into the stone. It might expedite the creature's recovery.” She paused. “What age is it, I wonder?”

 

“The Dragon Age. And that 'creature' is Nelinael Mahariel,” said Leliana, with an edge.

 

“Oh. Much longer than I would have liked to sleep.” Lidriel sighed, then said, “I assume from your tone, human, that you're its mate.” She stood over Mahariel and looked him over, with the detachment of a sawbones staring at a corpse. “Broken arm.” She swept a hand over his body, silvery light emanating from her palm and eyes. “Internal hemorrhaging. Broken rib. Ice. It is a wonder it yet lives.”

 

“Will you save him, or continue to mock him?” said Leliana.

 

“I will save it. Kieran wishes me to,” said Lidriel, and kneeled by the bed. “But I require silence. Leave this room. Eadufýr and his wolf-riders will not come near this place, so long as I linger. Find something to pass the time.” Then she closed her eyes and began to chant, softly, in High Elvish.

 

Surana went outside with Morrigan and Kieran, by the willow pool. It was nice, he thought, to have his family together in one place again. “That medallion she gave you,” he said, looking at Kieran. “What is it?”

 

“If you think it's some sort of possession charm, it isn't,” said Kieran, fiddling with the thing. “I checked it, just as you and mother taught me. It's a ward imbued with Lidriel's magic. On its own, it's good for keeping the beasts away. But to combat something as powerful as Eadufýr's frost, she has to actively concentrate and focus her magic on it.”

 

“So 'tis essentially useless against the wraiths, if your friend isn't in meditation,” said Morrigan, and sighed. She wrapped an arm around Kieran, stooped to kiss his head. “You had us worried, Kieran. Mahariel's Sight showed him what happened in the tombs. How you were running from the wraiths.”

 

“I'm glad Leliana is okay,” said Kieran.

 

“I am, too,” said Leliana, and hugged him from behind. She ruffled his hair and smiled. “Thank you for saving us back there, Kieran. We would have surely died, had you not shown up. Mahariel, too.”

 

“Lidriel will take care of him,” assured Kieran. “When she found me, I was near dead in the ravine. She was sleeping in the ruin here.” He gestured behind him. “I don't know why she saved me. She's not really fond of humans. Holds a grudge against them for something that happened a long time ago, though she hasn't said what that something was. Maybe she forgot.”

 

“I very much doubt that,” said Morrigan, with a skeptical look. She looked at Leliana. “You should sleep, Leliana. You have been through much.”

 

Leliana nodded. “I am tired,” she admitted, dropping her hood, exposing her red hair, which had become tangled and dirty on the long trek from the East. Her braid had partially come undone, like a frayed rope. “I want to stay with Nel, but that elf-woman won't let me in to see him.”

 

“It's important her concentration doesn't break,” said Kieran. “If it does, Uncle Nel could end up with a third arm, or half his face gone. Her brand of magic is a potent one that requires enormous amounts of focus.”

 

“Better that I don't disturb her then,” Leliana agreed, and left.

 

They talked for a long time by the willow pool. Kieran told them about the journey from the East. They'd been attacked by a group of Dalish bandit-cannibals in the Tirashan, assaulted by Avvar in the Hunterhorn pass. They'd nearly starved to death crossing the bogs; and once, Mahariel had almost fallen prey to the will-o'-the-wisps, and nearly gotten eaten by a basilisk. “It was huge,” said Kieran, spreading his arms out to emphasize the point. “Shot it through the eye with one of my enchanted arrows and fished Uncle Nel from the mire. I was proud of myself.”

 

Eventually, they exhausted the conversation, and Surana decided to ask, “What can you tell me of Eadwine? Has Lidriel said anything to you, son?”

 

Night had fallen; the rain left a chill damp in the air. Kieran shook his head, snuggled against Morrigan by the campfire. Leliana was asleep on her bedroll, beside them. “No. When I asked who he was, she just said he'd been someone important once, and had made a very big mistake.” He scooped up a tin of tea, blew on it, and drank. “He's been reading some book in the antechamber for hours now. Asked him to join us at the fire, but he declined. Said he was waiting for her, that they needed to talk.”

 

“He's going to help your father cure his Calling,” said Morrigan, and yawned, stroking the boy's head. She looked exhausted, but seemed reluctant to sleep. “He said the book might be the key to it.”

 

“Father is going to be cured?” said Kieran, beaming.

 

Surana smiled. “If things work out? Yes, I will be. And I'll be around to torment you and your mother for decades to come.”

 

“Joy,” said Morrigan, and smirked.

 

“The enthusiasm is overwhelming,” Surana teased, helping himself to some of the tea Kieran had prepared. He looked at Kieran and said, “Your mother just likes to pretend she's a hard heart. You should have seen the way she reacted when I met her at the Eluvian. Started—”

 

Morrigan threw a handful of dirt at him, and laughed. “He's only twelve, Belinor. Needn't know everything about his parents.”

 

“I think I know what happened, and I'd rather not hear it,” said Kieran, making a face. “Bad enough I have to watch you eat each other's faces at home.”

 

“At least you know your parents love each other,” said Surana, and sipped his tea. It burned his lips and tongue; but it was good.

 

“You know a little too much for a twelve-year-old,” remarked Morrigan.

 

“I'm twelve, not stupid,” said Kieran. “I also read a lot. Orlesian libraries have some interesting books in them. And when your mother is Celene's arcane adviser, one finds themselves with a lot of unsupervised independent study.”

 

Surana finished his tea, trying to get comfortable in Morrigan's bedroll; Kieran had wedged himself between them because of the cold, and his elbow was digging into the back of Surana's neck, while his other arm was draped across Morrigan's face. After a bit of shifting, Surana settled on his side, his back to Kieran, so the boy's elbow was pushed into the space between his shoulders, which didn't hurt nearly as much. Sleep came slowly; but when it did, he dreamed.

 

He stood in a large room. The walls were black marble slabs, and so was the floor. Somewhere, Surana heard the sea. There was nothing in this room but a single figure, draped across a throne like some enormous white cat. The figure stood and smiled. Surana recognized that knife-smile from his first dream; but the figure's features were clear now.

 

The man was elven, and spoke in the High Speech. He was dressed in white, soft blues, and silvers. A white wolf pelt was draped across his shoulders. His armor was ornate and elven-made, embellished with little swirling floral designs and elegant elvish geometrics. Long hair, so pale it was almost white, framed a perfect face with high cheekbones and a thin, sharp nose. His eyes were pearls, set in a porcelain mask. “I see. Yes, you would not speak the High Speech.” He stopped in front of Surana. “You've an impressive willpower, to ignore my Calling for so long. Though I should not be surprised, given your blood.”

 

“You're Arengast,” said Surana.

 

The man nodded, almost imperceptibly. It was the controlled, graceful movement of the noble-born. “You are wise, too, it seems,” he said, and smiled meaninglessly.

 

“Your Calling?” said Surana. “Yes, that was you in my last dream.”

 

“Your dreams are hard to break into,” said Arengast cordially, thin white fingers stroking the wolf-pelt. “And yes, my Calling. Did you really think you were dying?” He chuckled. His laugh was like cold water. “Well, you are. But not quite yet. I've need of you, whole and hale, ere the Taint claims you.”

 

“What do you want of me?” said Surana. “I have nothing to offer you. In fact, it is you who has something to offer me. I need a cure.”

 

“It can be arranged,” said Arengast. He glanced to his right and frowned. “Mm. Seems the hound has caught my scent. I despise disobedient dogs.” He looked back at Surana; his pale gray eyes pierced him, seemed to see his soul, his very essence. “I will tell you this before I leave: Eadufýr is the least of your troubles, an unforeseen circumstance. There is a snake in your midst, and you will not know its venom until it is too late. I will see you soon.”

 

Then Arengast was gone, and Surana woke up.

 

It was morning, and a cool mist hung in the air. Kieran and Morrigan were still asleep, but Leliana was up. She'd taken off her hauberk, and was nursing a deep black bruise on her shoulder.

 

“Are you all right?” Surana got up and walked over, to the pool's edge, and crouched beside her. He gently touched the bruise with his fingers. “It isn't broken, is it?”

 

Leliana shook her head. She looked like she hadn't slept very well; there were dark circles under her eyes. “No, but it hurts something awful,” she said, and winced. “I think it is just a bruise. A very bad bruise. I can still move my arm.”

 

From behind them, Lidriel said, “You will be fine, shem'len. Cease your sniveling.” Eadwine was beside her, looking morose and tired. “Because I am about to deliver some news you will need every tear for: your lover is dying. A piece of the wraith's blade broke off in his body and fills it with cursed ice. I have stabilized him for the time being, mended his arm and insides; but the curse lingers.”

 

Leliana shot up. “There is nothing you can do?” She looked like she was about to cry.

 

“Not with my magic alone, no,” said Lidriel. “Eadwine and I spoke at length of a way to treat it. There is a way, but it may prove difficult—and he may die before you even return.”

 

“I will do anything it takes,” said Leliana. “Anything. Tell me.”

 

Eadwine spoke. “There is a plant called Dragon's Bloom, which is said to grow where dragons die.” He folded his thick corded arms across his chest. “It is a powerful catalyst; it emanates heat, a very strong magical heat, which my kin, in ages past, used to burn away curses.”

 

“Where can we find Dragon's Bloom?” asked Leliana.

 

“I do not know,” said Eadwine, and frowned. “Dragons have not been seen in these lands for ages. Arengast's magic drives them away, perhaps. But I remember tales from my youth of a valley, not far from here, where dragons once went to die. Drawn by the magic there, I think; it is ancient, powerful. Or so the Síogenedh said.”

 

“We'll go, if you can start us on the way,” said Surana.

 

Lidriel nodded. “We can. But it will be up to you to find it. And you will need to be swift about it, lest your friend passes.”

[What?]

They were given supplies for the road and pointed southeast. Here, the rocky canyons dropped unevenly and sloped into lush banyan valleys that looked like something out of the Arbor Wilds, if the Arbor Wilds had been designed by an idealistic poet-god. Nights were cold in the West Lands, but the days were hot, and the sun scorched their necks. Sweat dripped from Surana's brow, made his jerkin stick to him like an old bandage; the heat cooked beneath the banyan trees, an inversion layer that smelled of the jungle, and their stale sweat.

 

“'Tis a shame Eadwine could not accompany us,” said Morrigan. Unlike them, her scrap-robe kept her relatively cool; for once, Surana cursed himself for not sharing his wife's lack of modesty. “Perhaps he could have cast some ancient Dreduné magic and brought us more rain.”

 

“I'd take the rain over this,” said Kieran. He was trailing behind Morrigan, bow slung over his back. “As for Eadwine, Lidriel needs his help.”

 

“You should not even be here,” said Surana.

 

“You'll need my arrows, should Eadufýr turn up. The medallion can't protect us from him, not while Lidriel is tending Uncle Nel.” He carefully stepped over the gnarled root of a large banyan tree and ducked under a curtain of moss. “Eadwine isn't around to enchant Leliana's arrows. And I lack the skill to do it for him.” Kieran glanced between them, expression inhumanly patient, calm, for a twelve-year-old boy. “Since neither you nor mother will allow me to learn blood magic.”

 

“It is bad enough we practice it, and true, it is just another form of magic,” said Surana. “But we do not want to see you pursued by the mage-hunters, son. Perhaps when you are older, we might change our minds.”

 

“Right. What's best for me, and all that,” said Kieran, rolling his eyes.

 

Leliana had been silent the entire trek through the valley. She'd left her cloak behind, and only wore her chainmail hauberk. She was studying the hasty map Lidriel had drawn them, on a scrap of yellow parchment.

 

Morrigan moved beside her. “Are you all right?”

 

Leliana didn't immediately answer. There was a far-away look on her face. Then, “No, I am not all right,” she said. “I am sick and worried, and wondering if I will ever see my beloved again. Wondering if this is a fool's errand. I would cry, but I think I've drained myself of tears.”

 

“We found the ashes of Andraste,” said Morrigan. “You truly think we cannot find a plant?”

 

A smile ghosted Leliana's face. “The years really have softened you, Morrigan. I remember when you were all barbs.”

 

“Yes, well, blame Belinor and Kieran for that. And age,” said Morrigan, and smiled.

 

“I always wanted to start a family with Nel,” Leliana announced. “But our duties did not permit for it. First, I was the Left Hand of the Divine. Then a Spymaster. Now would have been a good time, I think, with everything come to lull. Our child would have had a stable home, stable parents.”

 

Morrigan touched Leliana's shoulder; it was the first bit of affection Surana had ever seen his wife show the woman, or anyone. “Your time will come,” she said, still smiling. “We will find this Dragon's Bloom, and we will save him.”

 

Leliana touched Morrigan's hand, nodded. “You're far too soft these days,” she said, and went ahead of the group.

 

“Mother, you're beginning to scare me,” said Kieran.

 

“Sometimes I scare myself, child.”

 

“Makes your skin crawl,” Surana teased, grinning.

 

The jungle was dense. They crossed several streams, a waterfall that crashed over the lip of the canyon and turned the air to cool mist—which Surana lingered in for a bit, wanting relief from the heat. Leliana led them down near-invisible footpaths, down steep craggy hills overgrown with vines and moss, through wet caves that wound and dipped lazily toward the lower ledges of the canyon. The canyons seemed to go on forever, unevenly; they climbed, they descended, then climbed some more. Occasionally, Surana glimpsed ruins in the jungle—some were elven, others were the glassy black rocks of Eadwine's people, carpeted in thick green moss, forgotten. He saw some kind of jungle cat slinking through the ruins, and vanish into the trees.

 

“It won't bother us,” said Kieran, showing his medallion.

 

When night came, they stopped and camped by water, where a waterfall deposited fresh run-off into a pond with enormous lily pads. The foliage screened the night sky, cast eerie shadows on the ground. There was a tenseness in the air; something, Surana knew, was about to happen.

 

“How far is this valley?” Surana asked, staring at Leliana across the fire. Morrigan and Kieran had gone to sleep.

 

“Not too far. A few more miles, maybe a day or two's walk,” said Leliana, nibbling on a thin disc of bread. She made a face, added a drop of honey to it from a small silver phial she'd taken from her satchel. “If we continue at this pace, we can be back before Nel....”

 

“He isn't going to die,” said Surana.

 

“I hope not.” Leliana paused, then said, with gravity, “I am going to have his child, Belinor. I did not want to tell Morrigan, or anyone really, for fear of being treated like a fragile doll. But I don't want to keep it to myself anymore, and we're alone.”

 

A strange feeling descended on him: a wave of elation, then cold fear. “I see,” was all he managed to say. Surana stared at the fire, for a long time, listening to the insects in the trees, the faint rustle of some animal in the bush. “Will it be a son? A daughter?”

 

“I don't know yet,” said Leliana, shifting uncomfortably. She finished her wafer. “I have a feeling it's going to be a girl. You're the only person I've told.”

 

“You mean Nelinael doesn't know?”

 

Leliana shook her head. “I did not want to tell him right away,” she said. “I know he would love the child, but his clan... they are friendly to humans, so long as humans stay out of their affairs. You can imagine what news of an elf-blooded child might cost him.”

 

“The Dalish were never very fond of shem'len. A hatred that was well-earned by humans, albeit misguided. If anything, they should hate their own kin.” He stood. “Have you thought of any names, I wonder?”

 

“I like the name Sophia,” said Leliana.

 

“That's a beautiful name,” said Surana, and smiled. “Have you thought of marrying Mahariel, taking his name?”

 

“Why?” said Leliana. “I don't need the affirmation of a piece of paper. We are married in the eyes of the Maker, and that is enough. Nel has much on his shoulders. I don't wish to needlessly add to that burden by subjecting him to the petty biases of the Chantry.”

 

“What if war breaks out between Orlais and Ferelden, should Teagan assault Skyhold?” asked Surana.

 

“Then I will resume my duties as spymaster,” said Leliana. “I owe Inquisitor Lavellan much, and Cassandra.”

 

He nodded. “What of Cassandra? Are you still in contact with her?”

 

“She has as much skill with the Rookery as she does a lute. And given this revelation regarding your Calling, I've fallen out of contact. I want to help you, old friend,” said Leliana. “My second-in-command, Harding, is seeing to things in my absence. Do not worry.”

 

“Will she come for us, since you've fallen out of contact?”

 

“It's possible,” said Leliana. “Inquisitor Lavellan is desperate, as I'd said before. He might send the New Seekers. They still have your phylactery from the Circle; it is how I located you in the first place.”

 

“Never had a chance to destroy it,” he said, and sighed, sitting back down. “Still, thank you, Leliana. It's nice to have you with us again. Like old times.”

 

“It is nothing, Belinor. You would have done the same for any of us.”

 

Something moved. Surana sprang to his feet and conjured fire in his hand. The temperature dropped, and his breath steamed in the air. Ice crept toward him, from the shadows of the trees. And Eadufýr appeared there, astride his great wolf, clutching his spear-staff in his hand, moonlight glinting on its tip, on his silver death mask and crown. More movement: the sounds of twigs snapping, of leaves being trampled, of ragged animal breaths in the dark. The other riders had surrounded their encampment, each of the wraiths patiently watching them from between the trees.

 

“You have evaded me too long, blood-of-his-blood,” said Eadufýr, in a voice like winter wind. The ice became dense blue sheets on the ground, and snow wheeled around them, a blizzard blowing in from nowhere. “I grow weary of this pursuit. While the she-elf and her dog are preoccupied, your life will be mine.”

[What?]

Surana didn't expect the wraith-king to speak in Common, and it caught him off-guard. He turned, slowly, watching the other wraiths in the winter-darkness, saddled on their wolves, fingers wrapped around the shafts of spears. Bitter cold seeped into his skin, turned his insides to ice, made his lips crack and bleed. The arcane flame in his hand did nothing to dispel the chill.

 

“Your magic holds no sway over me, blood-of-his-blood,” said Eadufýr, coaxing his mount toward Surana, its enormous paws making deep depressions in the snow. The wolf's breathing was ragged, burst from its nostrils and mouth like steam. Its eyes glowed like furnaces. Gore and saliva dripped from his muzzle and globbed on the snow beneath it.

 

Surana couldn't feel himself anymore; his whole body was numb. Frost gathered on his skin, turned it the sort of blue endemic to frozen corpses. He tasted blood on his lips. When he tried to move, nothing happened. The ice had him rooted.

 

“You cannot even ward my chill,” said Eadufýr, and laughed, the sound like air blowing through a dry tube.

 

An arrow punched through Eadufýr's armor like a crossbow bolt. The wraith-king howled. “Now, mother!”

 

The chill left Eadufýr, and Surana could feel warmth returning to his extremities and vitals. Morrigan leaped on the back of Eadufýr's wolf, savagely jabbing her boot-knife into the wraith-king's neck and twisting, opening an artery. Blood, to Surana's surprise, spattered her cheek. The wolf snarled, threw its bulk into a tree, and she went sideways, banging her shoulder on the ground.

 

The other riders flew at her. Morrigan rolled onto her back, cast a kinetic spell that flung one of the riders from its saddle with impressive force, and scrambled to her feet. Another wraith came up behind her, thrust its spear; Leliana pushed her out of the way, and the point took a piece of her shoulder.

 

Kieran was nowhere to be found. Surana wondered if one of the riders had gotten the boy, and the very thought made his chest hurt, like a steel fist squeezing his heart. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked around. Eadufýr, knife still in his neck, charged him, his mount kicking up clouds of snow, its red eyes peering at him from beyond a winter veil....

 

Another arrow, right in Eadufýr's chest. Kieran jumped down from a tree and grabbed Surana's hand. “Needed a good shot.” The boy grinned; the cracks between his teeth were red with blood.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Lost a tooth. Wraith knocked me in the jaw, before I got up in that tree.” He pulled at Surana. “Haste, father! My arrow's dispel won't last long. Leliana's distracting them. She's going to meet us down the nearby canyon.”

 

“What of your mother?”

 

“You still have her ring, right? She'll find us.”

 

Surana nodded, let Kieran lead him harum-scarum through the banyans, which withered and died in the death frost. They came to a steep drop, another canyon. The fall would kill them.

 

Sounds of ice cracking under heavy feet. Surana turned, saw Eadufýr there. The frost billowed around him in pale blue-white clouds, a nimbus of snow and death. The plants around the wraith-king blackened, the ground became solid sheets of compacted ice and snow.

 

“Get down the canyon,” said Surana, helping Kieran over the rocky lip. The boy protested, but Surana wouldn't listen. “Do as your father says, Kieran,” he hissed. “Go. Find Leliana. I will meet with you.”

 

“The whelp will be taken hence soon,” said Eadufýr. “But my quarrel resides with you of this moment, blood-of-his-blood. Whither do you resist? It is futile.”

 

“Father, don't,” begged Kieran. “Without my arrows, you can't even get close to him.”

 

“Go now,” said Surana, to Kieran. “I will not say it again.”

 

Kieran opened his mouth to speak. Surana told him to shut up, and leave. And, reluctantly, the boy left, making his way down the canyon. It made him sad, to see his son go. He never liked maintaining a firm hand with Kieran; but the boy had his mother's jackassed stubbornness. “Where is my wife, wraith-king?” he asked. “If you harmed her, I swear on my life I will see your soul cast into the Void.”

 

“Words that echo His. And yet, here I stand before you. Nay, I did not kill the wench. The pleasure of it would be stripped, were you not present for such a merry spectacle.”

 

“What is your quarrel with me, specter?”

 

“Specter? I am no ghost. I am flesh, made impregnable.” Eadufýr jerked the reins of his mount and trotted closer, bringing bitter frost with him. Snow wheeled around them in chaotic flurries, turned the world into a white void. “Your bloodline wronged my kin, Ené. I come at the behest of the heart-holder. And we will see my people avenged, so that Arengast's evil may never leave these lands in new kin-flesh.”

 

The cold was closing in. “Kin-flesh?” said Surana. “Of what do you speak, wraith?”

 

“Blood-of-his-blood, kinsman of Arengast the White Betrayer.”

[What?]

Arengast was his kin; the revelation settled on Surana's mind like a layer of wet sand. But he didn't have the luxury of time to think on it now. Glancing behind him, he looked down the canyon, judging the fall. Yes, it would kill him; but if he jumped just right, cast the right spell, he could cushion the fall and absorb the brunt of it. It would still hurt, but he wouldn't die. And, he thought, if it did go sideways, it was better than dying from the cold.

 

A deep breath, and Surana leaped from the canyon, wind whistling around him, the ground coming closer and closer, until he could see the finer details of plants and rock, and little streams. Tu felas, he intoned, the words ripped from his mouth by the wind. The air around him slowed, and he hit the ground, dislocating his shoulder against a rock. He howled; then he laughed, because he was alive.

 

“Not like a canyon will stop a ghost,” said Surana aloud, still laughing. He must have hit his head at some point, because he could feel warm blood oozing down the side of his face.

 

Then he suddenly felt very tired, and everything went black.

 

 

 

This time he wasn't in the marble room. It was a balcony that overlooked the sea, and it smelled of brine and flowers, and pleasant summer breezes. There was a garden here, of forget-me-nots and snowdrops, morning glories, and cloud-like clusters of blue chrysanthemums. Below, in the water, Surana saw the pale blue-silver scales of something massive glinting, a long shadow moving through the waves.

 

“My pet. You're dreaming. He can't hurt you here.” Arengast was sitting at a small table with a bottle of wine, and a bowl of fruit. He smiled his empty smile, popped a grape into his mouth, and stood. This time, he was dressed in white elven robes and silver mail.

 

“I found out we're kin,” said Surana. “Eadufýr told me.” He watched the enormous thing swimming in the water, the gulls turning wheels over white foam. He saw no land; though, in the distance, hanging in the air like a specter forever beyond his reach, Surana saw the Black City.

 

Arengast laughed. “Eadufýr. A fool still, even in undeath. But he speaks true. We are kin.” He moved beside Surana. He smelled of incense. “When my people came ashore in an age where the world was young, and Thedas had no name, we happened across a strange people, who the histories would later name the Alamarri. They had a natural talent for magic—enormously powerful for Men. They were already an empire when we arrived, though beginning to break under the strain of civil war.”

 

“The Long War,” said Surana, without looking at Arengast.

 

“Indeed. My people were tired from the long journey over the sea, so we sought shelter among the most powerful of the clan-states, the Dredunédh. In the High Speech, it means 'dread people', for they were violent war-mongers who used blood magic to subsume the lesser clans. Even so, they took us in. They wanted us to help them wage war against the other clan-states, and we did; we were tired, and they had shown us kindness. It was obligation, honor-bound.” Arengast sipped a glass of wine. This had been the first time Surana had seen his face up close; it was beautiful, almost doll-like in its perfection.

 

“Why are you telling me all of this?” asked Surana. “How is this related to us being kin?”

 

“It has everything to do with it, child,” said Arengast. “I am giving you perspective. It was the Long War that separated me from my wife Ithidrild, your great, great, great, and then some, grandmother.” He set his glass down. “We went to war at the behest of the Dredunédh. I was the Lord-King's adviser. We subdued many of the lesser clan-states with ease, though our efforts were halted by the Enuvaris, who'd rallied the other clan-states against us. During the fighting, Ithidrild fled East with her brother Abelas to seek sanctuary among Mythal's people. I was betrayed by her, and betrayed by Mythal, one of my own generals.” Sadness coated his features like a fine dust. Slowly, Arengast shook his head. “Ithidrild was with child. Even now, even after years of searching the Fade, I did not know what became of them. But after a long time Fade-walking, I came across a dream. Your dream. You dreamed of an archdemon, and I sensed your blood. My blood. It was sick.”

 

A warm breeze kissed Surana's face. “It was the Taint you sensed. It's why I want a cure,” he said.

 

“If you come to me, I will give you one,” said Arengast. “I Called you, Belinor. You ignored it.”

 

“Blood magic makes it hard to be in the Fade,” said Surana. “I've learned to ignore a lot of things in my sleep.” He watched the sun on the water, a white line on the waves, glittering like a diamond trail. “You're nothing like I had pictured. Eadwine made you seem so much... worse. Monstrous.”

 

“Eadwine and I have an unhappy history,” said Arengast. “He deserves the Curse I wrought on him.”

 

“What did he do?” asked Surana. “What crime was so great that you had to punish Eadwine, punish his people? His wife suffers an eternity of having her throat slit. These are souls you've rooted in this world, Arengast. Innocent souls.”

 

“They are not innocent,” said Arengast, through his perfect teeth. “They stole our elf-magic and corrupted it, because of the evil in their hearts. They grew greedy, listened to idle promises the Enuvaris gave them of power and glory. They reap the bitter fruits of their gluttony, Belinor. I will not see them released to peace.”

 

Surana said nothing. Eadwine hadn't spoken of this, and he wondered how much truth was in Arengast's words. Somehow, he knew the elf-mage wasn't lying. Not entirely. But telling him something, in careful omissions.

 

“When Fen'harel erected the Veil, their capital city Tuur-Aév-Kenn was swallowed by the sky in the resulting cataclysm.” He pointed at the Black City, on the blue horizon like a mirage. “That is Tuur-Aév-Kenn. What remains of it. And though most would call that justice, I did not. So I cursed them to undeath.”

 

Surana nodded. “Did you know Fen'harel?”

 

“Yes. He was an elf named Solas, and once a close friend of mine,” said Arengast. “Sometimes I see him in the Fade, though we never speak.”

 

Surana wanted to ask him about the ancient elves, about Fen'Harel, about Eadwine and the Black City; he had so many questions, and had no idea where to even begin. “Do we have much longer?” he asked, instead.

 

“No, we do not. And your wife, I can feel her presence.” Arengast made a face. “She often lingers in the periphery of our meetings. Rather troublesome, and nosy, as all humans are.”

 

“It doesn't bother you that she's human?” Surana asked.

 

“Truthfully, a little,” said Arengast. “But my people once intermingled with the Dredunédh. Eadwine was a product of one such pairing; his mother was an elf. And your Morrigan, I sense a little elf-blood in her. Likely, she had an ancestor long ago that was elven.”

 

“That actually explains a lot,” said Surana, and chuckled.

 

 

 

 

 

And he woke up. Morrigan was beside him, asleep. Leliana was up, tending a fire. The sky was a pleasant blue, though the air was humid and alive with insects, and the distant whooping of some animal.

 

Leliana turned, smiled, and said, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” There was a bandage around her shoulder, where the wraith-spear had sliced it. “I was starting to wonder if I would have to eat these eggs by myself.”

 

Surana got up, careful not to disturb Morrigan, and walked over to Leliana. “Where is Kieran?” It was cooler in the shade, where Leliana was sitting.

 

“I was taking a ******,” said Kieran, coming out of the bushes. “Struck your head badly, father. But I managed to patch it up with an elfroot poultice from my satchel. Mother popped your arm back into the socket. I think she enjoyed it.” He sat down by the fire and helped himself to some of Leliana's eggs, shoveling them into his face with his fingers. “No idea what sort of animal laid these,” he said, around a mouthful of egg. “But they're good.”

 

“That was my plate you just took,” said Leliana, and sighed. “You really should learn some manners, Kieran. Perhaps when we've returned to the East, I'll send you to a finishing school in Val Royeaux. You could stand to learn a few things about polite society.”

 

“I already went to one when mother was Celene's arcane adviser, and hated every minute of it,” said Kieran, finishing his breakfast and licking the plate. He set it down by his feet. “I liked it better in the Dales. Father never made me do any of that nonsense. Honestly, think mother did it because of her draconian sense of humor.”

 

Surana looked at Leliana. “Mind if we speak privately for a moment, Leliana? It won't take long.”

 

Leliana nodded. They went into the trees, away from the camp. “In your letter,” he said, “you stated that Nelinael was having bad dreams. That my quest to cure the Calling would lead ruin.”

 

“Why are you asking all of a sudden?” asked Leliana.

 

“I've been having a few strange dreams of my own,” he said. “Do you remember any details Nelinael might have mentioned?”

 

She shook her head. A diagonal slat of sunlight cut across her face. Her brow creased with the effort to recall the details. “Not particularly,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “He said he saw snow, a tower, a shadow of a man. Then he felt sick, and woke up. But it weighed on him for days.”

 

“Thanks,” said Surana. “And don't worry, Leliana. We'll find the Dragon's Bloom.” Leliana smiled, then nodded. Morrigan was up now, coming toward them. Leliana bowed her head and left, so he was alone with his wife. “Pleasant morning, isn't it, darling?”

 

She smacked him, hard, across the face; then she kissed him. “That was for leaving Kieran,” said Morrigan, and kissed him again, this time a little rougher. “And that was for surviving.” She touched his chest and said, “Suppose there is little point in denying the fact I've been eavesdropping on your dreams. You spoke with Arengast. I could not hear the conversation, but I saw you with him. Powerful magic kept me from entering your dream.”

 

“He said you might have elven blood,” said Surana, and grinned.

 

“If I do, I've not heard of it. But I know nothing of my family beyond Flemeth, so perhaps 'tis true.” She shrugged, then said, “In seriousness, Belinor. You spoke for a long time. And I very much doubt it was on the contents of my family tree.”

 

“He said a lot of things,” said Surana. “He told me of Eadwine's ancient kin. Told me that the Black City was actually their capital Tuur-Aév-Kenn, swallowed by the Fade. That they were this powerful empire that waged war, a Long War, against their fellow clans. And he said Eadwine and him have an unhappy history, said his curse was well-earned.”

 

“I would give my limbs to speak with him,” said Morrigan, with a degree of envy. “What else did he say?”

 

“He didn't. But Eadufýr did, right before I jumped from the canyon,” said Surana. “Arengast is my kin, the husband of one of my ancestors, an elven woman named Ithidrild. He said he saw my dreams during the Fifth Blight, before the blood magic started interfering with my connection to the Fade.”

 

Morrigan looked like she'd been smacked in the jaw. “You are kin to Arengast?” She started pacing. “Did he say anything else of this Ithidrild?”

 

“She fled East with her brother Abelas, and sought refuge among Mythal and her followers.”

 

Morrigan stopped. “Did you say Abelas?”

 

“I did. Do you know the name?”

 

“I do. I killed him at the Well of Sorrows.”

[What?]

They went back to the camp. Surana didn't tell Morrigan of Mythal, or the Dredunédh's corruption of the elf-magic. He was still uncertain of the truth in it, and Morrigan was rash, prone to bad decisions when she felt she, or her family, might be threatened. They still needed Eadwine to guide them to Grev-Doác-Dredunédh. And there were several details in both versions of the story that made little sense, which meant either Arengast was lying, or Eadwine was—and Surana wanted the truth. Then there was Eadufýr, and that thing about the heart-holder...

 

It hurt his head too much to think about it; there was too much information to process. Surana sat down by the fire and helped himself to breakfast—eggs and smoked ham, the latter of which Leliana had brought from Val Royeaux, and it was good, probably the best food he'd had since he'd arrived West—and thought about easier things, like what he'd do once he was cured. First, he'd have a long bath, and Morrigan would be there, and they'd be alone. Then they'd go to Rivain, because he'd never been there before.

 

“The Valley isn't far from here, according to Lidriel's map,” said Leliana, and her voice sliced into his daydreams like an oiled knife. She was eating eggs, pieces dropping onto the map, which she quickly wiped away with her fingers. “A few miles. Twenty, perhaps. It's a fair trek, but it is nothing we've not done before.”

 

“We once walked the whole of Thedas, through bog and wood,” said Morrigan. “Twenty miles is hardly anything.”

 

“Then we can help Uncle Nel,” said Kieran. He was picking a tick off his leg, with enormous concentration. “****** hate the bloody woods sometimes,” he muttered, flicking the little black insect away.

 

“Language, Kieran,” chided Morrigan, in her mother voice.

 

“Sorry, mother.”

 

Once they ate, they descended into the valley, down mossy slopes overgrown with ancient banyans. Footing was bad, and they had to walk carefully; tangles of roots snagged their feet and clothes, and vines hung from the branches like thick ropes. Surana imagined one getting around his neck like a hangman's noose. The thought made him shudder; he'd always had a fear of being hanged, more than anything. When he'd been incarcerated in Fort Drakon, he'd made friends with the man in the cell beside him, name of Revec, a horse-thief who'd stolen an Arl's son's best mare. One day, the soldiers had taken Revec away, and when Surana had finally seen daylight again, he'd seen Revec dangling from a nightmarish crisscross of oak beams outside the fort, where men hung like rotting fruits... It wasn't until later that he'd found out it had taken Revec three hours of slow, painful death, to finally die there.

 

They made it into the valley safely. After cutting through several miles of dense jungle, Leliana announced that they had arrived. The Valley was deep, rocky, and brimming with vibrant green vegetation. Mountains rose high around them like prison walls, shaded them from the sun. Waterfalls hissed over the rocks, fed water into a network of meandering streams. Among these streams and plants were enormous bones, ancient, layered with moss. A dragon's skull peered at them from the shadows of the banyans, its mouth open, ridged with sharp sword-like teeth.

 

“Eadwine said Dragon's Bloom gives off an unnatural heat,” said Surana, scanning the brush. His foot plunked into cold water. Small fish wriggled around his ankle and swam downstream. “And I imagine it's fairly obvious.”

 

“Some of the most potent medicinal plants are also the most inconspicuous, father,” said Kieran. He touched the dragon skull and grinned. “This is the first time I've seen a dragon. Mother tells me stories, and so does Leliana. But it's something else to see in the flesh—so to speak.”

 

“You should see them while they're still alive,” said Leliana, amused. “Come, let's fine this Dragon's Bloom. I do not like this place. It feels... strange.”

 

“'Tis potent magic,” said Morrigan, reading something in the air. “Ancient. Arengast's. Has it truly seeped this deeply into the Western soil?”

 

“You know as well as I do, mother, that powerful magic can linger for a long time,” said Kieran, touching Lidriel's leaf-and-sword medallion. “You taught me that.”

 

Further in, they found more dead dragons scattered amid the jungle valley, overgrown, barely visible under the vegetation.

 

The sound of wings beating, high above. Surana pushed the others into cover, watching the sky. “Seems Eadwine was wrong. Not all dragons are dead in these lands,” he said, feeling a strange tingle of exhilaration in his chest. “It is your lucky day, Kieran. You'll get to see a dragon.”

 

Above, a massive shadow swept the tops of the banyans, then landed some ways away from their hiding place. A high dragon, female, judging by the size, and old. She was a large green thing with bright yellow eyes, a long, tapered snout with prominent bone-ridges around her eyes, thick hind-legs, shorter forelegs, and powerful wings that, when unfurled, spanned over a mile. Some of her scales had molted or peeled away; she was sick, Surana decided, and dying.

 

“It's sick,” said Kieran, keeping his voice low.

 

The dragon screeched, shook the jungle around them. Then she lay on the ground and, slowly, like an old woman falling asleep, died. When Surana was sure the high dragon was dead, he crawled from the bushes and made his way over. “The Dragon's Bloom should sprout soon,” he said, crouching beside the corpse.

 

He noticed something in the dragon's mouth; it was glowing, ember-like. “Morrigan, help me open its jaws.”

 

Morrigan looked a little apprehensive, but moved toward him, stretched her arms out, palms upturned. Her hands glowed with a faint purple light, and, in a motion like lifting a heavy crate, she started to pry the dragon's mouth open with magic. “Help me, Belinor. 'Tis difficult on my own.”

 

Surana joined her, repeated her motions, a silvery mercury-glow dripping from his hands. The dragon's jaw cracked, opened. To Kieran, he said, “Get it out. It is the Bloom, I think.”

 

Kieran nodded and dropped to his knees, reached for the ember-like thing in the dragon's mouth. Then quickly retracted his hand, barely keeping it, as the dragon's mouth snapped shut. The creature started moving. “It's still alive!” he cried, retreating behind Leliana.

 

Leliana aimed her bow at the creature's head. Surana tried to restrain the beast with a spell, but Arengast's magic was too potent, snuffed his spell out like a damp cloth to a small fire. The high dragon rose; its eyes were blank white spheres, and its skin had taken a blackish color, etched with a map-work of white arcane light. It roared; saliva and gore splattered Surana's face.

 

And behind him, Surana could feel unnatural cold.

[What?]

Eadufýr rode behind them with what remained of his wraith-host. The dragon roared, forgot about them; the ember-like thing glowed on its tongue, a bloom of unnatural fire. The creature charged Eadufýr, its feet leaving deep, uneven depressions in the ground, and threw out its wings and beat them, sent the wraiths tumbling along a hard current of air. Eadufýr shouted, conjured snow and ice, directed it toward the beast. The dragon slowed, frost clinging to its dead black scales.

 

“I need Kieran's enchanted arrows,” said Leliana, pulling up her hood. “We will clear a path through the wraiths. When he gets a clear shot, he will nullify Eadufýr's frost. And I'll get the Bloom.”

 

“Be careful, Leliana. Both of you,” said Surana.

 

“If you can buy me some time, it would be appreciated,” said Leliana, smiling. “Nothing will happen to Kieran. You have my word.” Then she was gone, and so was Kieran, into the trees.

 

“Like old times, isn't it?” said Surana, without looking at Morrigan.

 

“Indeed. Makes me feel nineteen again,” she said, grinning, leaning on her birch staff, watching Eadufýr and the dragon battling. “Let's quickly get this Bloom, and be off.”

 

“Eadufýr has the scent of my blood. He'll never go away, not entirely,” said Surana, and he went. “I hope the Bloom works for Mahariel.”

 

They went down a gentle decline covered in rock-scree and moss, toward the battle. The dragon had killed—or at the very least, it had exorcised—a few of Eadufýr's riders already. It breathed a strange white light, like a ghostly finger that, when it touched the low-wraiths and their mounts, both howled in raw, terrible pain, and were torn apart, erased from the world. Eadufýr seemed unaffected by the light; something else in the magic, Surana thought, sustained him.

 

Eadufýr spoke in a loud mountain-voice, conjured another blizzard from nowhere, turning the jungle valley into a place of ruin and ice.

 

Surana felt numb and tired, as the snow raged and whipped around him, buried the Valley in winter. The dragon slowed even more, its legs bound in shackles of ice. It wriggled uselessly, thrashing its tail, taking the trees with it.

 

An arrow flew from the trees and hit Eadufýr in the back, between his shoulders. He howled. Surana sat down cross-legged beside Morrigan. “We need to keep the ice cold, long enough for Leliana to reach the Bloom.” He savagely tore his palms open with his teeth, then focused, ignoring the stinging pain, clasping his hands in prayer, regulating his breathing until a trance came. Blood oozed down his arms like a thick brown sauce.

 

Morrigan sliced her palms on a sharp piece of shale, and concentrated. Magic gathered around them in a nexus of power, entered Surana through his pores, flowed through his veins. Softly, he chanted a spell for preservation, for protection and winter's cold, and closed his eyes.

***

 

She told Kieran to stay back and cover her, then jumped from the branch and ran. The blizzard was gone; this was her chance to seize the Bloom. She thought of Mahariel, as she ran across the snow, the tiny white crystals crunching under her boots, and thought about how he might be dead in that bleak little hermitage, and that his child might never know him....

 

One of the low-wraiths cut her off, and Leliana dropped beneath its mace, slid underneath its mount, twisted, and put an arrow in its head. The arrow did nothing but ****** it off, distract it, which was fine; and she ran, hard, toward the dragon, feeling her lungs swelling in her chest, blood throbbing in her ears.

 

In its mouth, she saw the flower glowing. Like a nimble acrobat, she monkeyed up its leg, finding footholds and handholds along the more prominent ridges of its scales, which, even under a veneer of ice, were craggy and uneven. Whatever magic Surana and Morrigan had cast had done the trick; the dragon was frozen solid, an elaborate ice sculpture, like the ones she'd seen in Val Royeaux. And below, Eadufýr was rooted by whatever enchantment Kieran had woven into his arrow, cursing loudly at the sky in his strange language.

 

When she reached the head, Leliana slowed, carefully made her way down its snout. She could feel the heat from the Bloom; it was intense, hot as the sun. It grew from the dragon's tongue. Slowly, she reached for it; the fire on its petals melted the leather of her glove, seared her skin. Fight through it, she thought, and did, plucking it from the creature's mouth.

 

The dragon shifted underneath her. She slid, caught herself on a horn protruding from its jaw, dangling there like a drop of saliva. It started thrashing its head, and she lost her hold, flew through the air, hurtling toward the ground. She was going to die.

 

She hit the ground, hard, felt every bone in her arm and left ribcage shatter. Leliana cried out. Then the cold was returning, and yes, she would die. After all of this, she would die....

***

 

Surana snapped from his trance and ran. “Leliana!” he shouted, voice ripped away by Eadufýr's icy wind. Morrigan followed him. They stumbled through the brush, slipped on ice, which cracked threateningly underneath them.

 

Morrigan reached Leliana first. She threw herself to her knees and looked the Orlesian over, horrified. “'Tis bad,” she said. “'Tis very, very bad. She is wounded, Belinor.”

 

He looked down, and couldn't bear the sight. Leliana looked broken, literally. “Please, tell me you can save her.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Eadufýr coming toward them. “We must hurry.”

 

“I—perhaps, I think,” said Morrigan, reaching into her satchel for one of her salves. “I can give her this. 'Tis of my own design. T'will numb the pain until we can get to safety.”

 

“We need Lidriel,” he said.

 

A strange sensation, like a ghost had walked through him. Blood bubbled from the ground like a hot spring, and from that pool emerged two figures: Lidriel and Eadwine. Eadwine said something in Dreduné, and Eadufýr stopped. Then, with another gentle Dreduné command, the dragon calmed, lay down, and died.

 

Eadwine's bark-like hands were red with blood. “Come, I have opened a blood portal. We will bring you back to Lidriel's Hermitage.”

 

“Our friend is hurt,” said Surana.

 

“I know,” said Eadwine, without elaboration. He looked at Lidriel. “Fetch the boy.”

 

Lidriel nodded. “I will, but not because you command me so. Your time is long-past, Eadwine.” Then she left.

 

Behind Eadwine, Eadufýr was completely still, speaking to him in Dreduné. Eadwine ignored the wraith and said, “Into the portal. And carry your friend gently, Ené.”