Chapter 37: Crossroads - Tainted Hopes

Glancing around to find no one watching them, Raviathan ducked into a narrow alley that led to a small, dead garden hidden well away from the rest of the village. Alistair’s brows rose, but he didn’t comment. Raviathan nibbled at his lip, but he had to know. “Alistair, how well can templars sense magic?”

“I said I wouldn’t turn Morrigan in, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

One worry out of many. “If an apostate is dressed normally, would you be able to tell they’re an apostate?”

Alistair shook his head. “No. Main way to tell is if somebody does magic, which is pretty obvious to everyone then.” Alistair watched him again, a pensive tightness to his forehead. Reluctantly, he whispered, “I’m not supposed to say more. Secrets of the Order, but ... There are higher-ranked templars. The ones who focus on developing ways to defend against mages. Some of them can knock a mage out.”

“How?”

Alistair shrugged. “I know the basic theory, but I haven’t learned the skill myself. Takes a lot of practice and time to learn. From what I understand, they disrupt a mage’s connection to the Fade. A mage will die if they lose too much of their magic. What the templars are able to do isn’t enough to kill them, but it takes their magic away for a time.”

Raviathan went cold. That’s how the templars were able to subdue Solyn.

“Are you alright?”

Raviathan glanced up to see the concern in Alistair’s expression. He waved a hand. “Tired from the walking, the taint, and I need some real food.”

“I’m ready to eat an ox.” Alistair did look pale and drawn. Raviathan had thought that the effects came from grief, but remembering Duncan’s appetite, Alistair must be starved after a week of roots and a few bites of squirrel.

“That ability, you said only very experienced templars can use it?”

Alistair nodded.

“Can someone that experienced sense magic?” Though unsure, Raviathan thought he saw a shadow of suspicion cross Alistair’s face. “I know you don’t like her, but I’ve given my word to protect her.”

“Not as far as I know. If she didn’t look like such a witch, she could attend the Chantry Day Mass in Val Royeaux.”

“Really?”

Alistair relaxed enough to smile. “You’re welcome to wrestle her into a Chantry robe if you’d like and keep her in a convent. They’ll never know as long as she keeps her magic to herself. Actually, that’s not a bad plan.”

“I don’t think she’ll thank me for that, but good to know.” Unless Alistair was lying in order to catch him as well. Raviathan rubbed his forehead. He just wasn’t good enough at reading humans to tell if Alistair was lying or not. The man seemed earnest. Was Alistair’s neediness because he was alone or to lull the apostates into complacency? “So Morrigan could actually walk into the Chantry with no one the wiser? They don’t have wards against magic or some such way to tell?”

“Why would they? Apostates avoid templars like drunks from Mother Henrietta on a temperance march. Morrigan, well, she’s going to arouse suspicion. She could claim she’s Chasind, but it’s best to keep her out of view.”

Though modest by Denerim standards, the Lothering Chantry stood above all the other buildings in the town. Years of conditioning and fear did not release their hold so easily, and Raviathan still wasn’t sure how much trust he could place in Alistair. “Alistair, since you’re familiar with the Chantry, why don’t you see what you can find out from them. I’ll see what I can do to get some basic equipment and food.”

A groan of longing met his words. “Real food? Oh, real food would be nice.”

Raviathan’s mouth twitched. “We’ll see.”

With an eye on Alistair, Raviathan made his way to a merchant selling stuffs out of a wagon who stood within view of the Chantry. As Raviathan walked over, the hard faced merchant shooed two hunched refugees away. This didn’t bode well.

As expected, the merchant frowned at Raviathan as he approached. “Don’t even ask for charity, elf.”

At least he wasn’t called knife ears. “Do you have food or tents for sale?”

The merchant narrowed his eyes. Though not old, his face carried deep lines around his forehead and mouth. Like many of the refugees, he hadn’t shaved in days, the dark stubble giving him more menace. While that might have intimidated many, this man had nothing on the darkspawn. “Tents are ten sovereigns. A bag of carrots or potatoes are a sovereign. Each.”

“A sovereign! Were they watered with the tears of virgins?”

“Now don’t get smart with me.”

“No, I want to know. Did you get a unicorn to vomit rainbows over the garden? Or perhaps you used an ancient dragon’s dung shat during the full moon as a fertilizer? Will the carrots let me see through a maiden’s clothes?”

Pink touched the merchant’s cheeks. He drew himself up, leaning forward to push his bulk at Raviathan. “Do you not see the people here? There are those who are willing to pay, and if you can’t, then off with you.”

“Pay, yes, but this is robbery.”

“The templars are right there. Keep giving me trouble, and I’ll have you taken out of the town and beaten.” The merchant raised his voice when there was a shout from the Chantry courtyard.

Raviathan snorted, hoping his unease at the threat didn’t show. “They can barely keep the town from panic, and you think they’ll protect a profiteer? It would solve a lot of these people’s problems if they overran your cart.”

“I said get away, you nasty little knife ears.”

Oh, that did it. “You think that little display intimidates me? Just last week I battled a creature with feet bigger than your whole body.”

The merchant half turned away as if dismissing him, but Raviathan saw the bunch of muscles that betrayed his next move. When the shem’s fist struck out, Raviathan caught his wrist and twisted with the shem’s movement. With a backwards kick at the unbalanced shem’s leg, Raviathan tossed the man to the ground, a knee on his chest and dagger pressed against this throat. He leaned down, increasing the pressure of the flat of the blade. “Understand this, you vulture. I don’t mind your making a profit, but you will not abuse people in need. And next time you want to punch some knife ear, remember that we aren’t all helpless. Are we clear?”

The shem swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing above the dagger. “Yeah.”

For a second, Raviathan considered the risk he had taken. Elves would have gone through the verbal battle without getting physical, but time and again, he had to remember to adapt to a human set of rules. In many ways he was just as bad as Morrigan. The sullen set to the merchant’s mouth left a lingering concern in Raviathan. The human would seek to have the ‘nasty little knife ears’ who had attacked him beaten, but what Raviathan had said before was true. The templars did not have the time to care about every incident.

Apologize and try to mend this fence? No. This human would only see weakness. Best to be civil but keep his convictions. Raviathan stood and offered a hand to help the shem up. The shem glared at his hand, but he took it.

“Three tents, three bedrolls, canteens, a skillet if you have one, a few glass canning jars, a bag of carrots and potatoes, and salt.”

Raviathan watched as the merchant put together the order. The cast iron skillet the merchant pulled out would be heavy, but with its high sides, it could double as a pot. It was good quality, already seasoned, and Raviathan considered the desperation of the person who had parted with it. Skillets like that stayed in a family for generations. “No jars. Twelve sovereigns for this.”

“Eight and twenty silver.” The shouts of someone near the Chantry grew louder.

“Nine and ... I’ll throw in a bag of apples and half a bag of onions.” At Raviathan’s look, the merchant added, “Some garlic and a half pound of dried venison.”

“Deal.” The price was high, but given the state of the town, no longer unreasonable.

Raviathan left intending to drop the purchases off with Morrigan and hoped they could finally speak in private. Another apostate to talk to after all these years had him giddy.

At a hand on his elbow, Raviathan turned to find an older priestess. The bones of her face stood out, her skin wizened, but she did not look unkind. Still, Raviathan froze, a knot twisting in his stomach.

“Thank you.”

Raviathan almost didn’t catch her words when the shouting from the Chantry grew heated. He blinked in surprise. “For?”

“That man. He has been a plague upon these people, the way he charges for goods he bought at a fourth of the price only a week ago.”

“Oh. It was nothing.”

She made the sign of the blessing for him. Raviathan tried not to shift though his discomfort made him want to hurry away.

“He brings the darkness!”

When Raviathan glanced over at the shout and through the gate of the stone wall of the Chantry, he saw Alistair backing away. Maker, what now? “Excuse me.”

Rushing over, he watched as Alistair raised his shield as a huge Chasind stepped forward, a wicked war axe at the ready.

“From the shadows they come! Devour the mists, the roots, turn the world against itself!

“Stop!” Raviathan tossed his purchases by Alistair. Unburdened, he pushed at the wildling, the full weight of his body barely succeeding in getting the wildling’s attention.

“Elfkin, the darkness sickens you as well. Plague, you bring.”

“Stop this madness!”

“Madness?” The wildling’s eyes flared wide in rage. His skin had the same deep earth coloring of the kennel master, and Raviathan wondered if they were related. “The black of under claimed my tribe. Witness borne as my bloodkin screamed and were swallowed by the black of under. All gone, elfkin.” He grabbed Raviathan’s arm, his squeeze strong enough to bruise. “How am I know myself?”

“I’m sorry.” True sorrow tightened Raviathan’s chest. He and the wildlings had this in common then. If the Denerim alienage had been massacred, Raviathan doubted he would be able to maintain his sanity. He laid a hand on the wildling’s arm. “I’ve lost dear ones too. I know this pain.”

A sob escaped the wildling. He knelt on one knee, and for the first time, Raviathan noticed there were a score of frightened refugees and a templar watching them. The wildling’s mercurial emotions startled Raviathan as well, but he didn’t have the same fear all the others displayed. “My wife. Her return to earth will be to a poisoned land. A sacrilege her soul to suffer. The fire god’s old women will not cleanse her passage.”

Understanding dawned on Raviathan. The priestesses here would not give him the ceremony he desired so his dead wife’s soul would pass and not remain stuck, forever haunting the swamp. Interesting how he did not follow Chantry beliefs but still recognized them as holy. Dull anger rose in him. Those selfish women. Would it have cost them so much to listen to this man and set his mind at ease? He took hold of the wildling’s hand. “Come with me. I can help your wife.”

Like and overgrown child, the large wildling let himself be led by the hand. Raviathan sat him down outside the Chantry wall where few people loitered. “Stay here. I’ll go inside and get a pouch of the sacred ashes. My companion is a, well, he’s like a priest. We’ll purify you with ashes and he’ll say the words to make sure your wife is at peace. You will wait?”

“Elfkin. I have not words for this kindness.”

“Just ... stay here.” Not only was the Chasind’s speech like a fascinating riddle, Raviathan had so rarely been treated with respect by humans, he couldn’t help but like the wildlings.

He found Alistair where he had left him, this time picking up the last of the equipment Raviathan had bought. “Can we get some ashes from the Chantry?”

“I ... suppose.” Alistair blinked at him. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk to that man. He kept yelling all this weird stuff about under darkness and was coming at me with that axe.”

If I had an axe, templar... “I just talked to him. Do you know a chant to say at a funeral?”

“Funeral? Whose?”

“The wildling’s wife.”

“What, is he going after her with the axe now?”

“No, she was killed by darkspawn.” Maker. Did this idiot think Raviathan would leave a woman to be slaughtered? “He just wants something so that he knows her soul will be at peace.”

“Ohhh,” Alistair said as comprehension smoothed his brow. “I ... maybe? There’s the ... no, that’s the lament for the wayward. Um, let’s see. There’s that one with trials of the soul ... no. Er, well, I suppose I could ask.”

“You never memorized a verse to say for the fallen?” Was this a display of arrogance that templars would never fall in battle and have to consecrate their own, callousness for the mages they killed to deny them rights, or just more of this idiot’s ineptitude?

“Have you ever seen a full, unedited version of the Chant? It’s bigger than my shield and weighs a stone if a pebble. That’s a lot of verses to memorize. The one for how to dispose of a defiled goat is no picnic, let me tell you. Apparently that was a problem back in the day, that, um, with the goats. Not that I wanted to know the details of that sort of, um, business, but a few of the other novices were quite keen to learn. Master Tretchenbalm said that even the obscure verses had merit and that he used this one when...”

Raviathan eyed him, his mouth slightly parted as the templar prattled on.

When Alistair opened his mouth to continue, the elf held up his hand. Of all the humans to be stuck with. What kind of templar was this? After weeks of silence, this is what comes out of his mouth?

Off-footed, Raviathan turned and went into the Chantry. He heard Alistair pick up their equipment, a muttered curse following the thud as he dropped something, before hastening to follow. Not until he was inside did he remember he had avoided Chantries his whole life. Of course that shem, that ridiculous shem, would make him forget.

Had Raviathan not walked through the ruins of Ostagar, the Chantry would have been the most impressive building he had ever seen. Thick wooden timbers smoothed by decades of use stood with stone and freshly white washed plaster. In the dim light, echoes of reverent voices carried through the main chamber, the sound filling the space without overpowering the hushed calm, so at odds with the chaos outside the walls. Despite the panic of refugees or hurried footsteps of priestesses, the large chamber emanated peace. Though he was loath to admit it, Raviathan understood why humans would be attracted to such spaces.

Show no fear. Raviathan tried to keep his breaths long and slow or the sudden rush of blood would turn into trembling hands and voice. Don’t let them see you panic. Give nothing away.

Templars in full armor gathered in the center aisle. Show no fear. If he turned and left now, that would bring suspicion. Raviathan’s mind raced with desperate plans if escape was necessary. If he could get out the doors, the chaos of the refugees might help, but he would have to be quick. Plans rose and fell in his mind like frightened birds scattering from the toll of a bell. Fear quickened Raviathan’s heart until it hammered in his chest, audible as a drum through his racing blood. Maker help me, if Alistair decides to turn me in now, I’m done. There would be no escape, not from these odds.

When a templar’s gaze fixed on him and Alistair, Raviathan was sure his heart would stop. His hands started to shake with the need to run. They do know. Alistair, that traitorous fiend, they know! Why didn’t I let him die?

The templar strode to them. Raviathan stood, frozen, watching the templar move with the same fascinated horror as he had watched the ogre. He could already see the templar’s sword pull free, the sword of mercy as the faithful would say. There was no way to warn Morrigan. She would be killed too, all because of this bastard.

“You were the ones who killed the bandits.”

Raviathan blinked. Hand on hilt and ready to bolt, he needed a minute to make sense of the templar’s statement. Alistair looked at him, expecting him to respond, but when Raviathan stayed quiet, he stammered, “Uh, yes. I ... well, it was rather quick.”

The templar laughed. “Indeed. Once I saw they had returned, I was crossing the field to deal with them. Again.” He shook his head in regret. “They’ve been tormenting the refugees, stripping them of already stretched resources. As if the Blight wasn’t enough for these people to deal with.”

He motioned them forward to the other templars. The man in charge was darker than Raviathan, possibly of Rivaini ancestry.

“These are the men I was telling you about, the ones who took out the bandits.”

The leader smiled at them. “Then we owe you a debt.”

This was all too weird for Raviathan. The aftereffects of adrenaline made his legs jittery and hands shake. Though nauseous, he wasn’t going to lose the scant bit of breakfast roots here. Raviathan hoped his shakiness wouldn’t show. Alistair glanced at him nervously. To tell the templars the elf was an apostate or because Raviathan wasn’t acting as he should?

“Thank you,” Raviathan said. Maker’s ass, he couldn’t tell what was normal anymore. The lead templar hadn’t been addressing him, looking more to Alistair, but Alistair wasn’t taking an initiative.

With a small grin, the lead templar crossed his arms and bowed. “I am Ser Bryant, and I believe our thanks are to you.”

This isn’t real. A templar bowing to him? Holy Maker, if only he could tell his mother about this. Solyn would have cursed him for a fool for getting himself in this situation, but his mother would have laughed for weeks. Thinking of his mother gave him courage.

“We don’t have much to compensate you as all our efforts are being put to evacuating the town, but we can...”

Raviathan raised his hand in protest. “No, that’s fine. I know you must be busy, but if we could ask a few questions?”

The other templars had moved on to their duties while the three of them spoke. The bann and all his men were gone, joined to Loghain’s army. All that was left to keep the peace and organize an evacuation were the few templars and priestesses. With such thin resources, Morrigan would be safe enough.

“You are not typical refugees,” Bryant said.

“We served at Ostagar.” At Bryant’s disbelief that an elf was in the army, Raviathan elaborated in a whisper, “Alistair and I are the only two Grey Wardens left.”

Bryant’s lips parted as he searched their faces for the truth. “Loghain has blamed the Grey Wardens for the king’s death.”

“We wouldn’t...”

“What the teyrn said cannot be the truth, not of the Grey Wardens.” Bryant took in a deep breath as he pondered. “The Hero of River Dane. I do not understand this. He would never put Ferelden at risk, but his reputation against the Order of the Grey? This is most strange.” Lips pursed, he gave them a worried look. “There is a warrant out for the capture or death of any Grey Wardens who may have survived.”

Raviathan and Alistair exchanged a worried glance. “You will say nothing?”

“No. Not with all that is happening. What the teyrn will gain from this, only he knows, but the darkspawn are most immediate. Tell me, is this a raid or a true Blight?”

“A Blight, I’m afraid. There is no doubt of that.”

Bryant shook his head, his forehead lined with distress. “Maker’s breath. Grim days lay ahead.” Straightening, he signaled for an approaching templar to wait until their conversation was finished. “I cannot help you. Not openly when there are rumors of treason.”

“Not openly,” Raviathan trailed. Was he really talking with a templar? It was like having tea with a reasonable demon. Soon swans would be black and the sun rise from the west.