Chapter 50: "Eyes of Wolves" - Epiphany

Alistair’s head popped out from his tent. Panting and face flush, he gasped as he took in the pre-dawn camp. Raviathan raised an eyebrow as his only sign of acknowledgment, his attention focused on the breakfast he prepared. A drizzling rain thickened the air, a grey mist obscuring the first light of dawn.

“Not much use sleeping at this point,” Raviathan said. He remained hunched over the sputtering fire, stirring the pot. The skin of a wolf staked over the fire kept most of the rain off.

“Yeah.” Letting his nightmare-induced panic go, Alistair dressed before sitting on one of the wet stones opposite the elf and mabari. Maker, he felt like he’d spent a year in these woods for all the progress they’ve made. The fall from the cliff a few days ago hadn’t helped his chest any, the dull ache becoming sharp each time he stretched too far.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Not with you, anyway, Alistair added in his head.

Weaponless, he had been wandering the halls of the Tower of Ishal by himself. This time the altars made of humans seemed alive. The entrails woven between spears writhed, while exposed lungs at the base of the altars breathed. A heart stuck at the top continued to beat and bleed. The organs remained fresh, the low torchlight reflecting off wet muscles. He sensed the altars had been made out of the other Wardens, could almost hear their cries of pain just below his ability to sense them, the same way he heard the song of the archdemon.

The human-crafted stone of Ishal turned to the rough-hewn caves of the Deep Roads as Alistair walked. The altars made from Grey Wardens turned to fleshy sacks that grew hair and nails. Little mouths of sharp teeth worked when he passed by, as if sensing his presence and wanting to feed. The darkspawn kept out of sight, but Alistair could feel them stalking him, waiting.

As the dream went on, Alistair felt himself dying. Mold grew on his hands, his skin turning sickly, the decay rotting his insides. With each step, he grew more tired, each step becoming a force of will until he could only shuffle, his joints locked in pain. When the darkspawn came, it had been a relief.

“Care for stew instead?”

Alistair shook himself to get rid of the specter of the dream. “Is that what’s left over of the beaver?”

Raviathan nodded. “It’s a proper stew, not the camp dish people call a stew.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Proper stew takes hours, sometimes a day to cook. Thick and rich, letting the flavors mature over low heat. The stuff we make for dinner is more like a soup without enough water, just enough to cook meat and veg.”

“You’ve been up all night then?”

“Parts.” Raviathan spooned a large portion into Alistair’s outstretched bowl.

Too bad they had no bread to go with beaver stew. To Alistair’s surprise, the meat wasn’t the same stringy leather-tough meat he had cooked on spits last night. His jaw had ached from chewing the wretched stuff, and finally he started swallowing hunks whole just to get something in his stomach. Now, with the meat softened, he could concentrate on the taste, a hearty richness, a bit like deer but with the delicious fattiness of bacon. “What else is in this?”

“Some forest herbs, mainly rosemary, roots from Morrigan, wild onions, the last jar of fermented cabbage.”

“If we don’t go back to the Dalish for more supplies, we’ll be spending most of our time hunting and foraging.”

Raviathan caught his lower lip between his teeth. “With spring coming, living off what we gather won’t be as difficult. I’d rather stay out here where we’re closer to finding Witherfang than waste time trudging back and forth. Some days we only gain a few miles.”

They both glanced up as a raven flew eastward, a long branch clutched in her talons. The black wings pumped to take the bird up over the tree line. They would have to wait at the camp until Morrigan returned with the Grand Oak’s boon least they fall prey to the forest without it. Alistair turned to Raviathan to see the elf watching Morrigan’s flight with a strange expression. Was that longing? The two of them spent many evenings together. Did that mean they were... ?

Raviathan turned back to the fire but froze when he caught Alistair watching him. The too-familiar frown knitted the elf’s brows together before his face shuttered closed, as expressionless as a mask. Even so, the mask didn’t hide the note of hostility that caught in the elf’s eyes. Alistair’s jaw tightened in response, and he lowered his head and started shoveling the stew as fast as he could.

Whatever. Alistair had tried. They didn’t have to like each other. So what if Rav thought he was an idiot and useless? Everyone else did, everyone except Duncan, and that was the fire burning in Alistair’s chest. If there was one thing Alistair could do for Duncan, one thing to make some sort of meaning out of his mentor’s death and the slaughter and betrayal of the Wardens, Alistair would see the archdemon killed. For Duncan, for his brothers, he would tolerate that witch and this damn Warden he was stuck with. Whatever it took, Alistair would honor his mentor.

Still, he couldn’t deny his relief the other day when he heard Venger barking, a signal the others had survived the cliff fall. Though Rav would never be the leader he wanted, Alistair would take that over being the last Warden in Ferelden.

“What do you think of magic?”

The question made Alistair glance back up in part for its unexpectedness and part because of the soft tone the elf used. Unsure where this line of questioning came from, Alistair shrugged. “Useful, I suppose.”

“You don’t much care for Morrigan.”

Alistair snorted. “Figured that one out, have you?” The elf’s sharp glance at the comment would have made Alistair feel ashamed for mouthing off so, but he was done with that. Mostly. Maybe if the elf’s cold stare didn’t make him want to squirm just a bit. Well, he wasn’t going to apologize, not for that.

“Let me rephrase then.” The elf turned his attention back to the stew. “Is your distaste for Morrigan because of her magic, because she’s an apostate, or for her?”

Dragging his spoon around his bowl to capture the last of the gravy, Alistair wondered what was the point of this conversation. Didn’t seem to matter to anyone what he thought. “I don’t have an issue with magic. I think it’s kind of neat, actually.”

“You do?”

“Well, yeah. Mostly. I’d see mages practicing in the tower, sometimes. Usually they just studied from books when I was there, which is pretty boring, or listening to lectures. But every so often, I’d see a practicum. Most of the time the students sit around and look really focused, which isn’t any better, but every once in awhile, we’d see something really cool. It’s ... well, it’s magic, you know? All these things which should be impossible, fire just appearing, or lights, and it turns everything you know on its end. It’s like it makes possibilities. There are rules and such, I know, but it’s like breaking the rules of everything you know about how the world works.”

Scraping the final pool of gravy from his bowl, Alistair sucked the last remnants off his spoon. Noting the odd silence, Alistair glanced up, spoon still in his mouth, too see the elf watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

Raviathan shook his head as if to clear it then offered another portion of the stew. When Alistair hesitated, Raviathan said, “There’s enough for you to have another bowl.”

Considering the limitations of camp cooking, the stew wasn’t half bad. Much better than Alistair expected. Filling, too.

“What about mages and apostates, then?”

Alistair shrugged and blew on the first spoonful. “Living with the templars, you see what a danger magic can be. I don’t know. It’s not a life I wanted. The Circles, when they’re at their best, what they’re supposed to do is to help mages learn how to use their power safely.”

“What they’re supposed to do?” Raviathan prompted when Alistair trailed off.

“We talked about this. A bit. Sometimes templars go too far. And the mages ... well mages need fundamentals and control that they can’t learn on their own.”

“But you didn’t want that life.”

“No.” Pondering the gentle tone from the elf, Alistair stirred the stew in his bowl before answering. His stomach still rumbled, but that would be alleviated in a few moments.

Alistair opened his mouth to continue when Leliana emerged from her tent. “That smells good.”

Though her tone tried for light, nobody was happy with the constant clammy weather, and her weary trudge to a rock by the fire spoke of how unrestful her sleep had been. She held out her bowl, shoulders slumped and head drooping. At least she tried to make the best out of the situation.

A minute later, Sten joined the party, wordlessly holding out his bowl. He sat upright as ever, as unaffected by the rain as a duck. Alistair wondered if the giant ever tired. They were all dragging, yet Sten remained as aloof and stoic as the first day they had met. Was that a trait of all qunari, or was that just Sten? Considering all the condemnations from the Chantry, Sten didn’t seem to be the mindless savage the sisters warned them of. But he did murder that family, so there was that. Alistair didn’t know what to think.

“Continue with practice?” Raviathan asked Leliana once she finished with her breakfast. At her nod, the two left their bowls and wandered to the edge of camp. Raviathan stepped behind a tree and disappeared from sight. Leliana spun around once with her eyes closed then began searching for him.

Fascinated, Alistair watched as Leliana would cock her head, this way and that.

“There!” She pointed, and the elf appeared with a muttered curse. He trotted back to the edge of camp and the game began again.

Stomach thankfully full, Alistair worked on repairing his armor as best he could with their limited supplies while keeping half an eye on the two rogues. The long, metallic scrape of Sten’s whetstone against his blade joined with the morning noises of birds.

“There!”

Fifteen feet from his quarry, Raviathan appeared, lips pursed as he frowned in thought. He nodded once then set off towards his starting point. Alistair watched, fascinated, as he disappeared behind a tree. Leliana spied him again a few minutes later and so the game continued.

“How ... how do you find him?” Alistair thought interrupting would result in a reprimand, but Maker, this was fascinating!

Hesitating, Leliana glanced back at him.

“Tell him.” In a swirl of shadow, Raviathan stood where there had only appeared air before. “It won’t distract you too much, will it?”

“I shall endeavor to persevere,” Leliana replied, a little mischief in her eyes.

The elf went back to the twin trees where he kept starting the game, and Alistair hurried over.

“You never learned to find ... devenir l’ombre,” she waved her hands, “those cloaked in shadow? The hidden? I thought every guard learned some basic tricks.”

Alistair shook his head, his eyes wide as he searched the quiet woods. “No need. The mages can’t do that, though I’m sure many wished they could. Most came as children and never learned these kind of thief tricks.”

Leliana made a small sound of ascent at the comment. “It can be a useful skill, but it has limits. Since we’re in the wilderness, notice the flow of the wind. See how the ferns and trees move?” Alistair nodded, but it all seemed rather random to him. “Now look at how that fern is bent.”

Raviathan appeared where Leliana’s finger pointed. He nodded at her, a faint smile on his lips before retracing his steps back.

“This weather is particularly bad for this trick to work. Soft, muddy ground shows any steps but the most graceful. Fog or rain distort around the hidden, so look for odd gaps or shimmers when the weather is foul. Most keeps or fortified buildings will have a sounding board to catch the unaware. Something as simple as a creaky board will catch a trained guard’s attention.”

“And you’ve learned to ... um ... duven ... yellow umbra? With all of those issues?”

“Duv... , “ Leliana frown cleared and she laughed. “Devenir l’ombre. Become like a shadow,” Leliana said. “Me? No. This is a most difficult trick to learn and one easily thwarted, which is why he is practicing in terrible conditions. This can’t be used in a crowd and takes enormous concentration. Only lazy elves who have evil intentions learn such trivial things.”

Raviathan appeared, glaring a storm at Leliana. She grinned at him.

“Oh blast it.”

Leliana chuckled as he returned to his starting place. “See? A second of lost concentration, and you are in a world of trouble.”

“So you don’t know this ... um, method?” Alistair waved his hand at the air.

“There are other methods of being unseen that can be just as effective, better even in a city. With Rav’s style, he opens a door, and who would not notice that? Jostle an elbow, and not only is his concentration gone, he has alerted others to his presence. Of course he would be alone unless he is with an army of same-taught rogues. Appearing in the center of a pack of guards is a fantastic way to lose your head. And out here nature is more than willing to give up your secrets.”

“Huh. It looks like such a useful skill,” Alistair said, gesturing at the empty looking air.

“Very much so, but not infallible.”

“What do you do then?”

“Have you noticed that the best servants do not attract attention? They are everywhere, in the most intimate of places, yet they garner no consideration. Or the plain maiden at a dance who nobody seems to see as she moves through the shadows at the edge of the halls? An old woman with a basket going about her day, the one that doesn’t warrant a second glance? It is a different sort of invisibility.”

“You move so quietly, though.”

“Years of training, observation, and practice. Either path is not an easy one, but as a human, I have more options. I can be but don’t have to be a servant whereas the only things elves are good for is cleaning muddy boots and stealing from their masters.”

Alistair thought he saw a waver in the air. “There.”

Raviathan glared at the both of them before stomping back to the start. Feeling a bit of warmth bloom in his chest and an odd excitement he couldn’t name, Alistair shared a grin with Leliana before they returned to watching the wilderness. The teasing felt good. Companionable, even.

Before Raviathan disappeared, he took a moment to rotate his shoulders and rid himself of tension. A few deep breaths later, he stepped behind a tree and into the shadows.

“I don’t know that I could get away with that,” Alistair whispered to Leliana.

She sent a grin his way before her features settled into a more thoughtful expression. “I have noticed a bit of tension between you two.”

Bothered, Alistair shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it. Speaking things aloud made them real, made the emotions come too close to the surface, and exposed raw wounds that could be forgotten in the dark. “We’re all tense, I suppose. Anyway, what else should I look for?”

A raven dove down at the camp, wings beating sharply as she neared the ground.

“I found him!” Morrigan said the instant she shifted from feathers.

“Found who?” No matter how many times Alistair had seen her shift, he was still stunned by the magic she used. All the training the templars and mages went through to understand magic, and this ability had never been whispered as a possibility.

“Witherfang!” Morrigan said, disgusted at his obtuseness.

“Where?” Raviathan appeared, excitement making his already large eyes huge. Praise the Maker! After three fortnights of wading through the blasted forest with all its traps and twists, they found him! Witherfang, the White Wolf. Raviathan’s heart started to speed with adrenaline.

“To the east, near a canyon. If we hurry, ‘tis a good place to set an ambush.”

“Go!” Raviathan called.

They snatched their packs and raced after the witch. “Is Witherfang alone?”

“No.” Morrigan cast a glance at Raviathan but did not slow her stride. “He’s in a pack. I saw seven.”

Outnumbered. Even at their party’s best, the wolves moved too quickly, too cohesively for their disjointed group to be effective. With the senses the wolves had, and their familiarity with the forest, this fight would be near impossible for Raviathan’s group to win. Morrigan’s idea of an ambush would be fantastic, but Raviathan knew there would be no sneaking up on these predators.

What to do to even the odds? “A canyon you said? What are its dimensions? Can we have archers hidden? Is it straight or curved?”

The best they could hope for would be to narrow the field of battle, get a choke point.

“A small ravine. They are on the far end. Wide enough for five men at the center, two at the end close to us. Lots of trees and brush at the top of both sides, but the base is clear save a few stones.”