Chapter 47: Eyes of Wolves - Mercy

Bright and clean, filled with sun and earth, the scent of the forest filled Leliana’s lungs, so different than the city she was used to. She took a brief moment to admire the bucolic countryside and birdsong, a sight she hadn’t seen since she first traveled from Ferelden as a child. The woodland scents were pretty but plain, nothing like the myriads of fine foods she was learning to enjoy, or the press of perfumed bodies covered in powders and creams, nor the more domestic smells of her childhood, horses and dogs, laundry, or garden flowers. The simple pleasure of the countryside that the nobles described had been one she had heard often but never appreciated until now.

Another set of scents greeted her nose, and her lips turned up as warmth tinted her cheeks. The fragrance of supple leather, sun-heated skin, and perfume made from expensive ambergris and Antivan flowers that Leliana had no name for became stronger. Heat pressed at her back, light hands caressing down her arms, encouraging her to position her bow.

“Here, my dear. Your grip, like so.”

At the feathery touch of her friend’s fingers on her own, Leliana’s breathing sharpened though she tried to hide it. She couldn’t give name to the feeling, the fantastic little fluttering that started in her stomach, oh but how she admired her mentor who teased those silly little butterflies into life.

“Is this right, Marjolaine?”

More than the instruction or perfecting her stance, she wanted Marjolaine’s praising purr in her ear.

Lips grazed the side of her neck, and Leliana’s eyes fluttered closed. Yes, Marjolaine. This, right now, never too much, just enough to make her tighten and glory in this moment. Strange to long for these confusing moments, but oh how they warmed her and made her want for more. She cherished these few seconds, going over them again and again in her mind when she waited for sleep. She kept them close, a collection of dark secrets, like lightning bugs in a jar buzzing in her chest.

Her arrow flew from her forgotten fingers. Leliana’s eyes opened wide in startelment. A deep animal mewl of pain sounded from further in the forest. The hunters who had been tracking the hart turned to look at her in surprise though their stylized wolf-like masks muted the men’s expressions.

“I think you may have the luck of the day, mistress,” one said to her before they started tracking the animal.

Stunned, Leliana mounted alongside Marjolaine though she felt as if she floated rather than rode. Trees blurred beside her as the horses cantered leisurely after the hunters. With a wild laugh, Marjolaine kicked her horse into a fast gallop once they passed a thicket. “Come, my dear! Let us see what your luck has found!”

They followed the blood trail, Marjolaine tracking with unnerving expertise. The hart staggered. A piteous mewl escaped as the hart tried to run with Leliana’s arrow sticking out from behind its shoulder. Blood stained the deer’s side, a dull, wet shine where the sun touched past tree dappled light.

Leliana stared at the animal then back to Marjolaine.

“Excellent, Leliana. And on your first hunt, too,” she said, her voice sweet as the little cakes she indulged in. “Time has come that you must kill it.”

They dismounted close by. The hunters ringed the animal from a distance but let the women proceed now that the hart was trapped. The animal sank to his knees in defeat.

The blood. Leliana drew near, could see the individual hairs of the hart’s short coat. She had seen stuffed animal trophies, but never one so close. Not one still breathing. It kicked as she approached. Leliana let out a shout and backed away, her fisted hands to her mouth. The hart looked at her, soft eyes, black and liquid and full of panic and pain.

“Leliana.” The kindness was gone. A voice as sharp as the dagger in Leliana’s hand. “Leliana, you must. Kill it now.”

“No, Marjolaine. I can’t.” At the thin, disapproving line of her friend’s lips, Leliana quailed inside.

“This animal will die. You can not stop this, even if you wanted to.”

I can’t. “Please.” Her voice wavered.

Eyes tight with displeasure, her mentor moved gracefully around the hart, as practiced a hunter as any wolf. She grabbed one antler, twisted the animal’s head to expose it’s neck, and drew her blade across, all in one quick motion. “Never delay the inevitable. If you can strike, strike.”

The blade flashed in the sun where the blood did not cover steel.

Hunters approached, their masks jovial wolf grins. “Mistress. You are of course welcome.”

One bowed to her, another opening an ornate door set between two trees. Their hunters’ livery shone with silk rather than leather, the cut much finer. “Lady Touraine is grateful for your company.”

The doors opened to a formal garden filled with flowering trees and feminine statues framing a marble patio. Settees with soft pillows, and slender, ornate tables centered around an intimate area for performance.

“These salons of hers are always such an amusement.” Marjolaine took Leliana’s arm in hers, an act so graceful in its naturalness, most would swear the women had been friends for decades. “Truly, my dear, you are socializing with the very best of society. Be on your manners and remember to watch.”

“Of course.” Leliana said the words with a smile and subtle caress of their hands knowing the gesture would please her mentor. Anything to have that smile turned in her direction. She starved for that smile the way flowers begged the sun for spring.

They sat with the other women, the fashions thankfully more subdued for the salon than would be for a ball, a relief from a heated afternoon. Light silks and lace in creams and pastels reigned the fashion of this summer. Phoenix feathers adorned small caps, pearls shone on gowns, and small crystals glittered in patterns along bodices. The masks consisted of finely painted porcelain illustrating summer scenes, flowers and birds tangled in vines, gold-touched here and there for effect. As Marjolaine had said, to display, but not be ostentatious.

A band of minstrels from Antiva gave a demonstration of exotic musical instruments. One movement that was both string and percussion fascinated her so that she did not pay attention to the banal conversations as the rest continued to chat.

Talk consisted of fashion, as usual, the shallowness of the discussion quickly boring Leliana, who had heard the same comments at a dozen different gatherings. The glittering face powder that had been all the rage a few years ago seemed to be making a resurgence by the most daring of young ladies, but whether brave or foolhardy remained a contentious debate between the noblewomen. More than one debutante bore scarring when the glitter had caught fire when too near a candle thereby ruining her marketability. As alluring as many thought the glittering powder was, what sensible lady would chance damage to her skin?

A young elf took stage, a man with a boyish face and oddly long limbs. When he opened his mouth, a hush fell. A sound so pure, high but stronger and more refined than any child’s, rang out clear and sharp as crystal.

“A castrato?” Lady Chartres, a nervous woman of middling age, exclaimed. “But I thought Celene banned them.”

An indulgent if aloof smile graced Lady Touraine’s wrinkled lips. Her voice spoke of long hours of elocution lessons designed for refinement and to ensure behavior alone set her apart from the lower classes as much as her fortune. “Of course she did. But he is from Antiva where such practices are allowed. At least some nations still recognize that these sacrifices need to be continued for the betterment of culture. Terrible that we must import them from Antiva though. Orlais will surely sink into barbarism if this continues, but I am confident Celene will change her views. In time.”

“Indeed,” Marjolaine said. “For the good of Orlais.”

Lady Touraine’s smile turned sly as she reached for her teacup. “Fine as the Antivan castrato is, Orlais has its own jewels.”

The castrato’s voice never faltered from the sweet melody. After three songs, he bowed to polite applause then made his exit.

Marjolaine led Leliana over to Lady Touraine once everyone rose to mingle. Her mentor tisked. “A fine salon, my dear Antoinette. Beautiful as always, but Guillemette’s shoes! What a horror.”

“So dark. Not at all with the fashion.” The older dame’s lips pursed in a web of hard lines. “How did she think she would get away with that display? Here you are, my dear.” Only Leliana’s proximity allowed her to see a small box pass hands. “I do hope you enjoyed the singer. He’ll be leaving back for Antiva this evening.”

“Salut.”

“Lady Montiverde seems rather eager to marry Count Vessinary.”

Marjolaine gave an elegant one shouldered shrug. “Very eager. If she thought glitterpowder would make her more alluring to the Count, she might overcome her suspicions to try it.”

“A shame,” Lady Touraine said with a cold smile, her eyes glittering darkly behind her mask.

Guided past false smiles and pretty manners, Leliana followed Marjolaine out of the sunny parlor and through a wide hallway, empty save for a few refugees from the ball seeking their own furtive pleasures. Moonlight mixed with firelight on the polished marble floor. Music from the ball drifted to the empty hall with the invisible presence of thick perfume. Marjolaine, her hair shining through the veils attached to her mask, laughed as she twirled Leliana about. “You did well tonight, my dear.”

Lips sweetened with wine and peach-glazed cakes grazed Leliana’s neck, seeming to ignite the wine coursing through Leliana’s blood. Oh, more. Not for the first time, she wanted more. She would give anything, and now her former fears were nothing. Marjolaine could lay claim to all of her.

A hand squeezed her breast, a fingernail scraping over her nipple, each pass tightening her body. “You pleased me tonight, my sweet.”

It had been easy. After all the practice, after battling nerves, the deed had been almost anti-climatic. The slip of powder from a little, ornate Antivan box into some wine. She even smiled at Guillemette when the girl sipped from the blood red drink. Not a word said from anyone, not even a suspicious glance. In the end, it had been easy.

Marjolaine swirled her, guided her through the dance, Leliana barely aware of anything until a breeze chilled her. They stood on a balcony, her mentor’s kisses sliding down her neck. A wicked grin and dark eyes, and Marjolaine sunk down. Some small part of Leliana wondered what her mentor was up to, but with the heat and wine, she didn’t care. Marjolaine could do anything.

Fabric tugged from under her corset. Nails, gently scratching, ran down the bare skin of her backside and thighs. Nibbles and licks drowned Leliana’s senses. Below, she saw Marjolaine’s dress peeking out from under her own.

In the corner, Guillemette lay on her side, red spittle flecking colorless lips. “You did this to me.”

Guillemette’s eyes, once a pale brown, turned on her, dark. So liquid. Like an endless pool. Soft as a final breath. Like going to sleep.

“Her shoes,” Marjolaine said, her voice next to Leliana’s ear while her tongue slid between her legs. “Dark to hide the stains of her sins.”

“Yes,” Leliana whispered, one leg over Marjolaine’s shoulder. Her tender skin felt the rough lace of Marjolaine’s dress, each hard bead sewn into the embroidery, and the slippery silk between them.

“You killed me.” An arrow stuck out of Guilemette’s side. Her wet blood shown in the moonlight. A dark pool to drown in.

“You were too stupid to play the Game, my dear.” Marjolaine’s teeth raked along the back of Leliana’s neck.

“Yes.” Anything for you, my love.

Marjolaine’s teeth sunk into Leliana’s neck, sharp fangs, a penetration Leliana welcomed. Another pair of teeth sank into her sex.

Leliana threw her head back, the world spinning in a haze around her. Blood pumped with her pulse, aching so deliciously. Her love had teased her for years now, making her want more and more, sucking her into a whirlpool, one with Marjolaine as its center. Helpless to fight, only to flow along with the currents as she was sucked deeper in, until everything in her life became the currents that brought her to Marjolaine. Unstoppable as death.

The wolves bit her neck, her legs, her belly. Each penetration of teeth as sweet as Marjolaine’s tongue. Sweet with song, sweet with peaches, sweet with cyanide.

Her blood spread. A pool to drown in.

Leliana smiled as the wolves tore her apart.

“Leliana!”

The wolves.

“Leliana, wake up!” The words, panicked, hissed at her. A hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

She blinked, disoriented. Trees. The smell of trees. A wounded hart. Blood and teeth.

Unreleased, her sex hummed from the dream in a mind-stealing ache.

Leliana winced at the sun’s light penetrating through the forest canopy, the dream still heavy on her, to see Alistair. “One of the werewolves,” he whispered. Leliana jolted, but Alistair’s hand on her arm kept her down. “Easy. It’s not attacking. Yet.”

Her gut clenched at the idea of another attack. She had felt pain before, a great deal of it, but since joining the two Wardens, pain seemed to stalk them as insistently as wolves. She shook her head to clear it, but moved slowly so as not to attract attention. Leaves scattered the afternoon sun. Leliana put together the pieces of events, her mind still confused by the dream. They decided to nap since they all slept poorly the night before. Sleep was never restful in this cursed forest.

The werewolf grunted at the edge of the clearing. Raviathan was nearest to the beast, ten paces away. Venger whined behind him. Sten and Morrigan stood another ten paces back, enough to jump into a fight if they were needed though the wolves had indecent speed. Leliana rose slowly to her feet, bow in hand, muscles readying for action.

“Rav wants to talk to it,” Alistair whispered. “I think it’s a trap, so be on guard.”

“Please.” The werewolf’s growl of a voice wavered in pain. Though difficult to tell, Leliana thought this must have been a woman. One of the cursed elves, then?

“You aren’t with the others?” Raviathan asked.

“Swiftrunner? He would have me, but I am not. Please, the pain!” The werewolf’s muscles spasmed, the ripples visible even under her thick fur.

Leliana couldn’t see Rav’s expression, but he held up a hand for the others to wait.

“This is foolish,” Sten hissed.

Raviathan sent a glare over his shoulder, a warning not to cross his orders. Hands out to show peaceful intentions, he neared the werewolf one cautious step at a time. “How do we find Witherfang? Surely you know.”

The werewolf held herself tight, a long stream of saliva dripping from her open jaw. “Please! The pain. Like fire in my blood!”

The howl that came from the creature echoed inside Leliana like the twist of a knife. Dear Maker, the agony she must be in. The werewolf’s claws scraped deep furrows in the ground. Instantly, Leliana felt a deep pity for the creature.

“Be calm. Breathe.” Raviathan rested a hand on the werewolf’s neck, his fingers burrowing deep into her scruff. “Shh. Your name?”

“Danyla.”

“Breathe, Danyla. You have a husband, yes?”

“Athras, my love.” Muscles stilling, she started to pant.

“And you have borne children. You know pain.”

“Not like this.” Head bowed, her voice turned into a whine. “To bring life. It was worth the pain.”

“Endure, Danyla. Why did you seek us?”

“Please. End me. I can’t ... I can’t live. The pain!” She lay on her side, much as the hart had, knowing death would near. Raviathan knelt next to her with one hand massaging her neck.

If you can strike, strike.

Maker, why is he doing this? Kill her. Let her pain be at an end. She is begging you. And you force her to answer questions? This leader was not turning out to be the hope her dream prophesied, not when he made Marjolaine appear merciful in comparison.

“Are the others in pain like this all the time?”

“The Lady of the Forest. She helps them. Always pain. Always rage until it beats the mind, breaks us beyond thinking. But she helps us remember. Ourselves.”

“Would she help you?”

“Y-yes. I can not.” Her panting increased, each accompanied by a thin whine as if crying. “I can’t ... not that life. I can’t be this way. I’m an elf! I can’t...”

“Danyla, listen to me. We will find some way to end the curse.”

“You will kill the Lady. Zathrian. I know he asks it.”

Raviathan frowned. “We don’t seek the Lady. Only Witherfang.”

“No!” The werewolf cried in distress. “You do not understand. Witherfang is our only hope, our sanity.” She howled mournfully. “I would ... but the pain. So tired of the pain.”

“Listen, listen to me. Focus on me. Danyla, you will not leave Athras a widow. You will not leave your children without a mother. Not yet. A little longer. For them. We will end this, and you will go back to them.”

The werewolf whimpered, her body turning so she lay partially on her back. Her legs twitched, and she uttered a low howl. “Warm. Like fire. Like the Lady, but she is cool, like water.”

“Shh, Danyla.”

“Please. The Lady.”

“How do we find the Lady?”

The werewolf mewled, fully showing her belly as Raviathan stroked the sides of her neck. This thumbs rubbed up and down on either side of her windpipe. “Do not kill her.”

“I won’t, Danyla.”

A sigh, the wounded asking for release only to endure more. “Speak with the Lady. All is not as Zathrian claims. And I will speak with the others.”

“Danyla, How do we find her?”

“I dare not say more. The others will kill me as a traitor.”

Raviathan bowed his head in thought. The werewolf whimpered, and he resumed stroking her neck.

“Please. If I do not live. Tell Athras I love him.”

Raviathan’s fingers slid up to grip her head, forcing her to look at him. Understanding passed between them. Leliana felt that though she could not name it. “You will tell him yourself. You hold on to that with every breath. Fix it in your mind.”

The werewolf whimpered and licked his arm.

“Go.”

Once he released her, her body convulsed in pain, a howl silencing the forest. She flipped violently to her feet and vanished into a thick wall of trees.

Raviathan remained on his knees, already deep in thought. A nudge on his arm from Venger brought a brief smile, and he scratched the dog’s ears. “Morrigan, let’s talk.”

“What are your thoughts?”

Morrigan cocked her head, a mimicry of her raven habits. “I’d suggest continuing on our present quest, but the werewolves are proving hard to kill.”

“Not that.” Raviathan sometimes wondered if the witch was honest in her opinions or being contrary for fun. “This curse. Zathrian has been alive hundreds of years. The clan says he’s learned the secret of our ancestors’ long lives, but this curse has more twists to it.”

“So you think he has extended his life in unnatural ways. Well, Mother has.”

Flemeth remained an utter mystery in so many ways, but if she was the Flemeth of legend, only she could answer, and then in riddles that gave no answer. Though a curiosity, she was not Raviathan’s concern at present. “We have no clear knowledge of when this werewolf curse began, but stories of them go back a thousand years or more. It’s possible it’s another malignant spirit, a powerful one, resurfaced.”

“You sound as if you have doubts.”

“Who is this Lady of the Forest? And what’s her connection to Witherfang?”

Raviathan nibbled his lower lip. Zathrian had lied about the hunters dying. The rumors in the Dalish camp were proving true, of hunters turning into the beasts as the Dalish feared. A lie of compassion? To keep the others safe so as not to seek out their kin, as Athras would? A more sinister thought would be that Zathrian wanted the rest of the Dalish to be able to kill without hesitation, but that could also be to save them torment at having to end their loved one’s life or endangering their own in not acting. The werewolves were so fast. Any hesitation would bring death.

More than once Raviathan had seen the truth behind Valendrian’s manipulations, actions his hahren used to help protect the alienage elves from all sorts of trouble. How much of Zathrian’s actions to forgive and how much to be cautious of?

“Must they be connected?” Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest.

“From the way Danyla spoke, I’d say definitely. This Lady of the Forest helps them as does Witherfang. Are they spirits working in concert?”

Morrigan sat on the log next to him. “Of this, I could not say. I wonder though, is this spirit a malignant one if it is helping the werewolves with their rage?”

Leaning forward to rest his forearms on his legs, Raviathan frowned. “Wolves are terrors. They attack farms and animals, wandering travelers, succumb to the blight more easily than almost any other animal for a reason. There are some romanticized stories of Calenhad, but that’s more a metaphor for ferocity. I can’t imagine a benign spirit possessing a wolf.”

“Imagine or not, clearly the werewolves are not unthinking, and these spirits seem the cause.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not malignant. When the werewolves are able to reason, they attack with greater focus, an enemy made worse.”

Morrigan pondered for a minute before replying. “You mention Zathrian, and your mind moves to the curse. You think they are connected?”

When she said the words, Raviathan couldn’t ignore his doubts any longer. “Yes.”

“There is no evidence of that.”

“I know.”

Nodding to herself, Morrigan said, “Good that you are not blind.”

At least he wasn’t alone in his suspicions. “What do you know of curses?”

“A bit, but not much that would be helpful in this case or that you have not already surmised.”

“More than I then. I’m sure my teacher knew some, but she didn’t think that avenue of study was one I should pursue.”