Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  It was not hard to make herself look sad, since her heart was breaking. She could see that Varric and Isabela did not like it, but Varric patted her hand again.

  "All right, Daisy, but I'll be your house before dawn to get you, with two strong, hired backs to lug your luggage."

  "All right. You're a good friend." Impulsively, she got up and kissed his cheek. Then she kissed Isabela's as well, blinking away tears. "You, too, Isabela. I don't want to argue and put you in danger. Good night."

  She packed, certainly, but only her coin and a small bag. The books, the dishes, the ruined, hopeless eluvian were left as they were,. She wrote a little note of farewell for Varric to find, and before midnight, wrapped in her cloak and carrying her staff, Merrill slipped away through the north gate—crowded even at that hour with frightened, shoving fugitives—and was on her way to Sundermount, heart-sick that she would never see Varric or Isabela again.

  * * *

  "And then?"

  Merrill turned reddened, tearful eyes to the frowning man on the other side of the campfire. He was lean and brown, and his elegant vallaslin were crossed at cheekbone and jaw with old scars. It was a joy unlooked for, unimagined, to meet Rhys Mahariel in this distant land, alone in the emerald forest of the Tirashan. He had appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere: a single elf leading a light aravel drawn by a pair of halla. It would have been enough to encounter one of the People. Then she recognized him, and was overwhelmed. They had not stopped talking since.

  "And then?" she echoed. "Nothing. I mean... they were gone. The whole clan. Master Ilen and Hahren Paivel. Junar and Ineria, and Variel. The Sabrae Clan... gone... There were few enough left anyway. They had been gone for some time. I hadn't been there since Marethari... well... I don't know when they left. Sundermount was abandoned to the crows and crickets, and grass was creeping over the firepits. They took everything they had, down to the last horn spoon. The aravels were gone, too. I don't know if somehow they found another clan that would give them halla, or if they hauled them out themselves. I just don't know, lethallin. I've searched and searched... At least I found no bodies... no remains. I like to think of them alive and free, wandering the Planascene Forest or Wildervale or the Donarks."

  After a silence, she asked, "Have you ever had word of them?"

  "No, lethallan," he told her, grieving. "Not in all my wanderings."

  She risked another glance, and whispered, "I made so many mistakes."

  "Yes, you did," her clansman agreed, staring into the fire. "But you're not the only one."

  "I thought you were with the Wardens, Rhys. Even far away in Kirkwall, we heard that you defeated the Archdemon. The clan was so proud of you."

  "But you had no faith in me," he mused. "The clan fled north, out of Ferelden, giving me up for dead. I looked for you, hoping for help and alliance, but my clan was gone."

  "Forgive me, lethallin," she whispered. "I would blame the Keeper, but that would be untrue. We all agreed to go. It was the beginning of all the bad things."

  "No. Finding the cursed mirror and losing Tamlen were the beginning. Everything flowed from that. The Blight is over now, but the damage lingers. Why in the name of the Creators would the Keeper think it a good plan to take ship? I have heard of shemlen captains locking up whole clans of Dalish in their ships and taking them to Tevinter to be sold as slaves. How could you put yourselves in the hands of strangers and shemlen? You could have hidden in the Frostbacks, or you could have ferried over to Brandel's Reach!"

  "We didn't know! We were afraid!" Merrill cried. "We didn't know what it would be like! We didn't know how hard it would be on the halla! Once they were gone, we were lost and trapped on that haunted mountain. Everything soured and turned to evil. I...did bad things...Blood Magic... and the clan cast me out."

  "I'm in no position to judge you for that," Rhys said, with an odd laugh. "But I have other questions. About Asha'bellenar—"

  "I could see you were upset when I spoke of that," Merrill murmured. "But you know that we have always revered age and wisdom, even among the shemlen. If Asha'bellenar can be called that, because I really think she cannot not mortal at all—"

  "Oh, I know she is not, Merrill," Mahariel's face fell into a look of such fierce loathing and disgust that Merrill flinched. "Had you known what I know now, you would never have done the ritual to bring that monstrous, malevolent creature back into the world."

  "What did you discover?" Merrill asked, sniffling a bit, but always eager for new lore.

  "I found out the secret of her long life. You know the tale of Asha'bellenar's Daughters? There is truth in it. She steals away children—little shemlen girls with the gift of magic—and indoctrinates them in her view of the world, teaching them to mock and sneer at the beauty of love and loyalty and sacrifice. When the maidens are mature and their magic is fully flowered, she possesses them, casting out their spirits to prowl the Beyond in despair."

  Merrill had no words at first. "And I... unleashed such a demon?"

  "You didn't know." Mahariel sighed. "Nor did I, until I came upon an old book of lore. And even then, I was tricked and played for a fool by one of the Daughters. She made use of me for her own ends. She persuaded me to a ritual that to this day fills my heart with shame. I tracked her down after the Blight, after hearing how she had stolen a book from another clan, tricking them as she did me, taking advantage of them as she does of everyone. I was too late. She escaped this world, using another of the eluvians. I think she will not return, which is best. Regret is a pitfall, but nonetheless, I regret much of what I did in the year of the Blight. And if I see Flemeth, I shall slay her again."

  He laughed, seeing Merrill's puzzlement. "It is a long story. I did indeed slay Asha'bellenar in her dragon form, but did not know, alas, that she had already made provision for her own survival. Let us agree, in future, to raise no one else from the dead, and to have no dealings with Blood Magic or other people's rituals."

  "Or eluvians," Merrill added sadly.

  "Or eluvians," agreed Mahariel.

  Merrill felt only relief at confessing all her failings to him. It was so good to sit by the fire with him, enjoying a good meal. It was almost as if all the sad, painful past had not happened. Most dear were the soft whufflings of the halla, as they daintily cropped the lush foliage.

  "Where did you find halla and an aravel?" she asked.

  He smiled, remembering. "A long story! You may not know this, but I was made Arl of Amaranthine for a time. Yes, truly: arl over the shemlen. How they hated that! The arling had been given to the Grey Wardens as a reward, with little thought as to how the people there would like one of the elvhen set over them, or how I would like it myself, for that matter. The King thought he was doing me honor, but in truth it was quite unpleasant."

  "I should think so!" Merrill agreed. "It was hard enough to live in Kirkwall. I would not have known what to do had they told me I must rule the city! Shemlen are very... contentious."

  "Indeed. The nobles sought to slay me, and the common folk themselves rebelled. Even with darkspawn ravaging the country, they could not set aside their hatred of our people. I did my duty, and once again saved the land from a cunning, vicious enemy, but I knew I could not stay there afterwards. It was best I leave, which I did; quietly, by cover of night. I have done enough for the shemlen, and for the Grey Wardens as well. That order really cares only for the shemlen, anyway. The Dalish had been given some land to the south as thanks for fighting against the darkspawn. It is poor land, but for a time it seemed the elvhen would have a home. I went there, wanting only to be among those of my own kind once more."

  Merrill looked at his face. "But it didn't last."

  "Not even for five years. Humans wanted to cut the trees and clear the land for farming, even though the soil there s too thin to sustain crops for more than a season or two. The Keepers sent to Denerim to complain, but they were not even permitted within the gates of the city. I do not know
if the King ever heard that we had a grievance. My own influence, of course, was long worn out, and I did not wish to be forced to serve the Wardens again. There was nothing to do but head north and look for a better place. I was given an aravel and halla, and told to scout in the northern lands. For a time, I had companions, but they fell prey to cruel beasts and crueler shemlen."

  "Lethallin," she whispered. "I will be your companion now."

  "Ma nuvenin." He smiled. "As you wish. It would please me greatly. We shall be a clan again, though we are only two. You, as Keeper, and I, as hunter and hahren. The last of the Sabrae Clain, or perhaps its renewal."

  He stood, and offered her his hand. She took it, rejoicing in the warm, firm clasp, and rose to face him. After a long moment, they set about the well-remembered old rituals of breaking camp: smothering the fire, cleaning the plates, stowing the equipment, hitching the halla to the aravel. Before long, they moved out, the heavy green leaves brushed aside as they moved deeper into the forest. Then they were gone, leaving not a whisper of their passing.

  Chapter 21: Firstborn

  "Where's my father?"

  The little girl scowled, stamping her foot. Her mother was unimpressed.

  "Do not show that face to me, my girl. Such a face makes wrinkles, and will make you old before your time."

  "Old like you?"

  She really was an impudent little creature, but her mother could not complain about her looks, wits, or talent. She would do. She would do very well when the time came. And if the Blight came later than expected, the girl would do for other things.

  Impudence she could tolerate; rebellion she would not. If the girl crossed that line, she would find out just how much she had still to learn.

  "Ah, but I am hardly old 'before my time,'" she purred, stroking the child's hair, her claws just enough in evidence to give fair warning. "I have lived long, and know far more than you ever will."

  The child eyed her warily, but was no coward.

  "I must have a father. Every creature has a sire, and so I must have one too. I hope he is not one of those horrid Chasind. They stink."

  "They have their uses, as you will find someday. Your father was the best that I could provide, under the circumstances. His bloodlines were impeccable."

  The little girl did not know the word, but was too proud to say so. A name was clearly not forthcoming. She set her small shoulders and stalked away, chin lifted defiantly.

  It was the first, but not the last such conversation. When the girl turned fourteen, and was nearly ripe for breaking her to her future duties, the matter arose again.

  "Was he Chasind? A Templar? A knight? An elf?"

  "What is it you want, child?" the mother asked, sweetly reasonable. "Do you imagine he will come to take you away—" she gestured around her at the hovel in the marshes "—from all this? I assure you he neither knows your name nor even of your exiArvidce. Nor would he care if he knew. His kind spread their seed carelessly, with little regard for consequences." With mocking gravity, she added, "Will you seek him out? Will you prove your birth to him? And how? With a matching birthmark, a magic sword, an ancient jewel? You have none of those things. Even if you found him, you would be driven away with blows and scornful laughter."

  "I'll find a way to make him believe. Tell me his name, and I will find him."

  "And what if he is dead?"

  The girl paused. "If he were dead, you would have said so. Therefore, he is not. Tell me his name."

  "It does not suit my purpose to tell you," said the mother, with manifestly false sympathy. "So sorry."

  It was not hard to keep the secret, for only she knew it. The brief, long-ago visitor who sired the girl no doubt had thought little of a one-time encounter over the years. Nonetheless, she kept her daughter on a leash: permitted to wander enough to allow her to imagine she knew the world, but not enough that she would ever encounter anyone who could put her on the right track.

  Years passed. The girl was trained in all the useful arts. The magic took the longest time, for her skills must be perfected; but she was also trained to accept any man, without sentiment and without consulting her personal taste. She was trained, in fact, as far as possible to have no personal taste in such a matter at all. First, she was hardened by seeing her mother with a succession of partners, engaging in every act that might—or might not— give pleasure, and then seeing just how casually her mother disposed of them. Then it was the girl's turn to learn to do the same, with no maidenly flinching and no tender words. For the girl to turn silly over some clodhopper and run away with him to breed was hardly a desirable outcome: not after all the time and work invested in crafting such a tool of her will. The girl was restless and resentful. That did not matter, as long as she obeyed in all the essentials.

  Her beauty could be a danger, for the girl was very, very beautiful indeed. Beauty such as hers was a temptation, and could be a formidable weapon. A mirror that could have given her foolish ideas was ruthlessly smashed, and the girl warned against the desire for such trivial possessions. It would not do for the girl to have any ideas other than the ones her mother had spent years putting in her head...

  After further consideration, it seemed prudent to create a false Grimoire: one which she allowed to fall into Templar hands. It would tantalize the girl, and put her on entirely a false scent. True, some of her Daughters had been adopted as the Black Grimoire indicated—but not the best ones. Not the special ones.

  At last, in Dragon—how that nomenclature made her smile—in Dragon 9:25, all the nonsense about fathers became a non-issue. When her daughter brought it up again, the reply was, if not honest, at least not completely a lie.

  "Oh, him. He is gone. Quite gone. A pity you never met him."

  A pause. The girl—not such a girl now, after all—pretended nonchalance, but the repressed disappointment was quite delicious.

  "He is dead?"

  "Gone forever. Put him from your mind. He was never anything to you, anyway. Nor were you anything to him."

  Of course he was not dead, but a captive across the Waking Sea, and thus forever beyond the girl's reach. It was amusing to picture the look on Maric's face had he ever been confronted by his wild and beautiful daughter, but Flemeth's schemes were too important to risk for mere entertainment. And Morrigan was quite vain enough without knowing that she was the daughter of a king.

  Chapter 22: Dea Ex Machina

  They had repulsed the darkspawn attack for the moment. The next assault would be greater. The advance guard of the Horde broke against the walls of Denerim, and so far the defenses had held against all enemies but one. In a thunder of Tainted wings, the Archdemon had flown over the city, spewing flame, terrorizing the citizens who still remained, demoralizing the army.

  Loghain had no illusions that the Great Gate could withstand the Archdemon, if it chose to smash it. So far it was toying with them, waiting for the bulk of the Horde to reach Denerim. The few surviving scouts made clear that they had only three or four days at most. The city was frantic with preparation.

  His daughter was in her apartments, having her morning tea in a brave attempt at normality. It was time for her to go.

  "I'm not saying that you should actually go to Ostwick or Antiva or bloody Tevinter," he growled at her, irritated by her pale, determined face. "Just get on the ship and lead the fleet out. Make landfall on Alamar. The darkspawn can't cross water, so they can't follow you there. The Archdemon might—perhaps—but it may be too busy with the horde to hunt you down. Alamar Town isn't much, but there's a decent keep there. You can keep a government of sorts going there until the Blight is over."

  Privately, he had decided she was going whether she liked it or not. He had spoken to Cauthrien. If it came to it, Freya would be slipped a sleeping draught and he would carry onto the bloody boat himself. Cauthrien would guard her, along with a strong force of Maric's Shield. It was a bitter thing to lose those troops, but Freya would be lef
t with a realm of a sort in the Archipelago: Alamar, Brandel's Reach, Fair isle, Mourne, and the tiny islands that dotted the waters where the Waking Sea became the deep-blue Amaranthine Ocean. Waking Sea Bannorn might survive as well, though it would be far more vulnerable to the Orlesians, who would no doubt fall upon it like the vultures they were.

  "I won't go," Freya said flatly. "I'm not going to hide in a backwater like Alamar. If you can stay here, so can I." Before he could counter her, she burst out in the usual recriminations:

  "If you hadn't killed the Grey Wardens, we wouldn't even be having this conversation!"

  "What's done is done!"

  It was done, certainly. He had suspected the Grey Wardens of subversion for years, and it was confirmed when Arl Eamon of Redcliffe conspired with the two surviving Wardens of Ostagar, Kallian Tabris and young Alistair, reputedly Maric's son. The boy was a failed Templar whom Duncan had recruited into the Wardens.

  To this day, Loghain did not know if Alistair was Maric's son or not: there was a superficial physical resemblance. However, he had never contributed to his support, mentioned him to Loghain, visited the lad, or given him a single gift, much less acknowledged him. Loghain had concluded that it was a fraud, concocted by Eamon.

  The rebels had rounded up support from a variety of malcontents, and even formed an alliance with the Circle of Mages and the King of Orzammar. Their rebellion ended in blood when they tried to challenge Loghain at the Landsmeet. He had not served Ferelden all these years to be bested by a snot-nosed Chantry boy.

  They were not the only Wardens, it happened. One remained, an Orlesian spy named Riordan who had sneaked into the Landsmeet and had been caught after the execution of the traitors. He had escaped Rendon Howe's dungeons, but he had not escaped Fort Drakon. Loghain had questioned Riordan at length before the man's heart gave out. Unfortunately, Freya had managed to secure a copy of the interrogation, and was deeply alarmed. Loghain pretended not to be, but too much now made sense that had been unknown before. And how the dying man had gloated, as he told them why they were doomed. Freya had written to the Wardens of the Free Marches, of Antiva, and of Nevarra, asking for help, but so far had heard nothing…