David Gaider - The Calling

It was proving difficult to reconcile Maric the Savior—the man who, according to everyone, had single-handedly wrested his nation back from the Orlesians and then set about rebuilding it into a force to be reckoned with—with the sad fellow that sat across from him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned anything about a throne? Maybe thrones were bad.

“My chances are pretty bad anyhow, I’m told.” Duncan smiled apologetically. “And Antiva is a terrible place. All full of assassins and … Antivans. So maybe I’m better off.”

The oarsman glanced back, huffing and puffing from the exertion as he rowed, but made no comment on their exchange. Duncan wasn’t certain the man knew he was ferrying the King of Ferelden across the lake, to be honest. Genevieve had made all the arrangements and had already gone across with the First Enchanter.

The King was silent for several minutes, simply staring out at the lake. Just when Duncan thought that he should probably go back to shivering in his furs, however, the man abruptly turned and asked a question. “What are the darkspawn, exactly?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’ve seen them,” he admitted, “and I was told a little about them back then, but you people are Grey Wardens. Your order has been dealing with them for centuries. You must know more about them than anyone.”

Duncan chuckled. “They’re monsters.”

“And?”

“And what? I’ve been a Grey Warden for six months, maybe.”

“So that’s it? That’s all you know? That they’re monsters?”

Duncan rubbed his forehead, trying to think. It was hard when it was this cold. It snowed in Val Royeaux from time to time, but when it did everyone stayed indoors and the market district all but shut down. Those were difficult days to be a cutpurse. “Well, let’s see. You know about the magisters, I assume?”

“I know what the Chant of Light says about them. It says that the mages of Tevinter grew bold enough to open a portal into heaven so they could usurp the Maker’s throne, but instead corrupted it with their sin.”

He nodded. “And were corrupted in turn, right. The first darkspawn. What’s wrong with that story? Not enough for you?”

The King peered at him curiously. “Doesn’t it seem, I don’t know … a bit pat?”

“Don’t let the priests hear you say that!” Duncan laughed.

“But there must be more to it. Why are there so many? How do they live?”

Duncan spread his hands helplessly. “You’re talking to the wrong Grey Warden. All I know is that the darkspawn spend all their time searching for the Old Gods.”

“That’s it? Nothing else? They must be boring at parties.”

“That’s pretty much it. They don’t think , exactly.”

King Maric gave him a significant look. “But they take prisoners.”

He shrugged, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Apparently.”

For another hour they sat in silence, Duncan watching Kinloch Hold loom larger and larger before them. The thin spire appeared to rise out of the middle of the lake, and he wondered faintly how the mages had built it out there. Had they used magic to pull it up out of the rock? This tower looked elegant, at least from afar. Up close it was weathered and stained, the wider structure at the base standing on a rocky island almost completely covered in snow.

The only sounds were the low whistling of the wind and the rhythmic sloshing caused by the rowing. They passed directly under what had once been a giant causeway that led from the shore all the way out to the tower. Now it was just a crumbling arch, one of several. The fact that it was even partially standing after so many centuries was probably a tribute to the skill of those who had built it, Duncan supposed. He couldn’t begin to guess why they didn’t repair the bridge so that these long ferry rides weren’t necessary. Maybe they didn’t know how any longer? Maybe they forgot why they built a giant tower out in the middle of a lake, as well. That thought brought him no small amount of amusement.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked the King.

“Once during the war. Then again for the last First Enchanter’s funeral, though we didn’t go inside. Otherwise the Chantry objects to me coming here, just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

“Just in case there are mages within who have learned a spell or two that they shouldn’t have. Wouldn’t do to have the King of Ferelden having his mind controlled, would it?’

Duncan’s eyes went a bit wide. “They can do that?”

“I think it’s more important that the Chantry believes they can.”

Duncan had heard of blood magic. That was how the ancient magisters bent all of Thedas to their will, using the blood of their sacrifices to fuel their magic and open up portals into heaven. They were responsible for the Blights, according to the Chantry.

Andraste had thrown down the magisters with that accusation, claiming that magic was meant to serve rather than rule. It was a rallying cry that had spread across all of Thedas. It was the reason such towers as the one to which they were now rowing existed. In such places mages could be trained, and, more important, watched closely. If blood magic meant the mages could actually control someone’s mind, maybe the priests had good reason to be so suspicious.

“I’ve been to one of the Circle’s towers once,” Duncan explained. “It was the one outside of Montsimmard, but it was nothing like this one. More of a fortress. That’s where Fiona was recruited.”

The King looked at him quizzically. “Fiona. That’s the elven woman?”

“That’s the one.”

Duncan stared up at the tower again, which now loomed large and blotted out most of the sky. They had rowed into its shadow, and Duncan could make out the cave they were headed for amid the sharp rocks. Supposedly the base of the tower was in there, as well as a place to park the boat. If not, they would no doubt crash on the rocks and drown. Seemed simple enough.

“They were a gift,” Duncan finally said, breaking the silence.

The King seemed honestly surprised. “A gift?”

“My daggers. Genevieve gave them to me.”

“That’s quite the gift.”

“Maybe. They were an apology. Or at least I think they were.”

Now the King was truly interested. “An apology? Your commander doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who does that often.”

“She’s not,” Duncan said flatly. He turned his attention to the water rippling along the side of the boat, and the King let him be. The boat sailed serenely past a jagged rock that jutted out of the water, slimy algae pooled around it and clinging to its sides. A dirty gull sat on the rock and looked at him curiously, tilting its head to one side. Duncan ignored it and huddled miserably in his fur as another cold wind sliced across the lake and seeped into his skin. “It’s a mistake to bring him with us,” Fiona told Genevieve as they waited in the docks underneath the tower. The cavern walls slick with moisture loomed high overhead, bathed in the orange glow of magical lanterns. In Orlais there were entire streets lit by such devices, the wealthiest districts in the entire Empire. There the Circle of Magi was paid handsomely to keep the lanterns lit, and once a month in the early morning a herd of young apprentices would make their rounds under the watchful eyes of a guardian templar. Every lantern would be checked to see if the chunk of specially enchanted chalk within had lost its dweomer, and replaced if it had. It was a painstaking pro cess, and the Empire’s elite took great pride in the fact that they could afford such a wild extravagance.

That such lanterns existed within the walls of the mage tower, however, was hardly indicative of its wealth. Here it was simply expedient. Fiona suspected that, unlike in Orlais, the tower was the only place she would see such devices in Ferelden. The idea that the practical locals would willingly spend coin for such a luxury, even had they any to spare, seemed laughable.