David Gaider - The Calling

“So? Is it so unreasonable to believe that bringing the King of Ferelden into the Deep Roads is not a good idea?”

“Not if that’s all it is.”

Fiona snorted indignantly. It was an unladylike thing to do, she knew, but her patience was rapidly running thin. The Enchanter who had trained her had been an elegant woman with perfect manners and porcelain skin, and she had sighed laboriously every time Fiona had so much as twitched an eyebrow. It had only served to compel Fiona to do it all the more often, thus increasing the woman’s suffering.

The oarsman sat forgotten in his boat nearby, trying his best to be unnoticeable. He fished a piece of sweetmeat out of his coat and furtively began nibbling on it, eyes flicking to Fiona and Maric as if he hoped they might go away and leave him to his meal. Or perhaps he enjoyed the spectacle. She couldn’t rightly say.

“I apologize then, my lord, if I have offended you,” she gritted out through a clenched smile. “It won’t happen again.”

He folded his arms stubbornly. “I’m not offended. If you have something to say, however, then say it.”

She looked longingly toward the staircase. Escape was an option, but then King Maric would assume that she was fleeing. Simply telling the man off was tempting.

Genevieve had specified with severity that the man was not to be bothered, however, and that gave her pause. Being censored was something she would normally not abide, but she had seen what defying the Commander had brought Duncan. Genevieve was one of the few people she respected.

“Look,” she began. “This is ridiculous. Why should you care what I think? Or what anyone thinks, for that matter?”

“Are you avoiding the question? Did your commander tell you to do that?”

Perceptive twit. She was not about to be outmaneuvered, however. “Is this what you do in your palace? Run around to all the servants and the groundskeepers and worry about whether or not they like you enough? That must keep you very busy.”

“I think if one of the servants glared at me the same way you do, I would at least stop and ask why.” He paused, the wry grin returning. “Or is it your opinion that I shouldn’t care? That this would be unkingly of me, perhaps?”

“I’ve yet to see a single thing remotely kingly about you. No reason for you to start now.”

“Oh-ho!” He seemed inordinately pleased to have dragged something out of her. She tried to rein in her rising temper, even though she could feel her control slipping. She had really never been very good at this sort of thing. “Have we stumbled on the problem? Your estimation of my kingliness?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “That,” she snapped tartly, “is a problem for your subjects. Of which I am not one. I do feel for them, however. How grand it must be to have a king that would so readily abandon them to play the hero.”

Maric paused. “You think I’ve abandoned them? I’m here to help the Grey Wardens protect them.”

“Of course you are,” she chuckled incredulously. “And it’s none of my business anyhow, is it? My business is killing darkspawn.” She gestured toward the staircase. “And we should get on with it, no?”

“There are no darkspawn up there.”

“There are none down here, either. Just a human with a large ego who insists that everyone like him.”

“I never insisted you do any such thing.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried that I don’t.” With that, Fiona walked away from Maric and marched up the stairs. She imagined he continued to stand there by the water’s edge, staring after her in confusion as the oarsman shifted uncomfortably in his boat. She would leave it up to the King to decide if he should complain to Genevieve about being overly bothered. If anyone asked her about it, her opinion would be that she thought the man needed a little bothering.

Maric didn’t follow her up, at least not immediately. It was a relief, really, and she breathed a little easier as she ascended into the dark heart of the tower. Duncan was doing his best not to yawn.

It was the one thing that Julien had advised him against as the mages led the King and the Grey Wardens into the massive assembly hall at the top of the tower, whispering that at such official functions the worst thing one could do was yawn. At first, Duncan didn’t think the advice was necessary. In fact, it was all he could do to keep from openly gawking.

The hall was domed, with a great window at the very top that allowed the sunlight to filter through. Marble pillars lined the hall, behind which rows of benches allowed for an audience of well over a hundred—and they were packed with people, robed mages ranging from young apprentices to elderly enchanters. A higher gallery at the end of the hall contained the templars and priests, all of whom watched with severe and disapproving expressions. How appropriate, Duncan thought, for them to look down on the proceeding from on high.

In the center of the chamber, standing in the beam of sunlight that shined down from the window, were the First Enchanter and an impatient-looking Genevieve. The mages around the room were straining their necks to gawk at the group of them, and a buzz of conversation rose. Duncan couldn’t be sure if they were more amazed by the presence of the King or by the Grey Wardens. Grey Wardens were a rare sight here, after all. It was a slightly different reception than the order normally received elsewhere.

What followed, however, was a ceremony long enough to bring him from awestruck amazement to utter boredom. The First Enchanter insisted on giving a lengthy speech, mostly extolling the honor of the Grey Wardens and lavishing praise on the King. Duncan had to wonder how this was okay, considering Maric was supposedly traveling with them secretly, but neither Genevieve nor the King appeared to object.

Each of the Grey Wardens was called up by the First Enchanter in turn and given black brooches that had been specially crafted for them. Duncan took a close look at his and found it unremarkable: polished onyx, without even a fancy setting or any par tic u lar embellishment. Completely functional.

Considering that they were intended to hide the Grey Wardens from being sensed by the darkspawn, however, they were extremely useful. Clearly this was why Genevieve was willing to delay their entrance into the Deep Roads and put up with the entire ceremony business. Though even she was slowly losing her patience, he could see.

King Maric was given a leather satchel full of potions, each of them contained in a delicate glass vial. According to the First Enchanter, this was a precious mixture of herbs that would enable Maric to resist the disease spread by the darkspawn. He was, after all, the only one in the group without the Grey Wardens’ immunity. One full vial was to be swallowed each morning; according to Duncan’s count, that meant the King had a two-week supply.

Rather optimistic of the First Enchanter, really.

The droning that followed, Duncan mostly ignored, his attention wandering. At this point the Grey Wardens were mostly relegated to the sidelines anyhow, and Genevieve was clearly itching for an opening simply to excuse themselves and leave—not that First Enchanter Remille was providing one, of course.

So Duncan looked around, staring at the individual mages in the crowd. There was one in par tic u lar to whom his attention kept returning: a rather pretty young apprentice with tousled brown hair and intense doe eyes. And she was staring back at him, too. He looked away initially, but his eyes kept being drawn back to her. No, she was definitely looking at him and only him.

Then she discreetly waved at him and beamed. He reluctantly waved back, trying not to smile too encouragingly. Then he kept looking around. Maybe there was an exit nearby? He didn’t know if he could stand much more of this.