David Gaider - The Calling

But that was why they were here, wasn’t it? If the darkspawn were able to use the captured Grey Warden to find their Old God, then a new Blight would begin. Their threat would suddenly become very real. Provided Genevieve and the others were telling him the truth.

The warning of the witch came to mind again, but along with it came Loghain’s words as well. It would be easy to believe that the witch meant this event, that she was warning him this would lead to the Blight. But what if she hadn’t meant that? What if she had been lying? He had nothing but doubts now, and that made him feel uneasy.

“How do you know her brother is even alive?” he asked. “If he went out into the Deep Roads, there’s no way you can tell what’s happened to him. Or can Grey Wardens sense that, too?”

Julien remained fixed on the flames, clenching his jaw in disapproval. Nicolas, meanwhile, wrung his hands and glanced nervously to where Genevieve stood on the ridge. She ignored them utterly, watching the cave entrance with her arms crossed and a fiery will shining out of her eyes. Yes, Maric could see why the others might be hesitant to anger their white-haired commander. There was no way to know whether she could actually hear them from where she stood, but he wouldn’t put it past her. Obviously neither would they.

“The Commander and her brother were very close,” Nicolas whispered. Utha nodded solemnly as if to confirm his words. “During all the time that I have known them, they were seldom far apart. They joined the order together, trained together, practically spent every waking moment together. I think she would have followed him into the Deep Roads, had it also been her time. In fact, I think she might have followed him anyhow, had her duties not held her here.”

“So is she chasing false hope, then?”

“She is certain. She has had dreams.”

Maric paused, not quite certain he’d heard the man say what he did. “Dreams,” he repeated, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. Nicolas nodded, as did the dwarf. Julien shook his head in dismay, frowning. “You’re aware of how mad that sounds, surely?”

“We’re not mad.” Fiona materialized out of the blowing snow, the elf’s blue skirts whipping wildly about as she approached the fire carry ing a large pack. She put it down next to the log, frowning at Maric coolly. “And neither is Genevieve. Dreams are not always merely dreams.”

“And what are they when they’re not dreams, then?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, perhaps pondering just how she might explain it to him. Or perhaps considering whether she should. That smoldering anger still burned within her dark eyes, just as it had when Maric had spoken to her last. “You’ve heard of the Fade, I hope?”

He nodded, though not with any confidence. The Fade was the realm of dreams, that place where men were said to go when they slept. It was where spirits and demons roamed, separated from the waking world by something the mages called the Veil. Maric couldn’t say that he believed much in the entire concept. He dreamed, like any man, and if those dreams were really his memories of time spent in that realm, as the mages claimed, then he would have to take their word for it.

“There is no geography in the Fade,” Fiona continued. “Place and time are far less important than are concepts and symbols. The spirits shape their realm to resemble the things they see in the minds of dreamers because that is what they believe our world is like, and they want desperately to be part of it. So they emulate a landscape that is based more on our perceptions and our feelings than on reality, drawing us in.”

“And?” He spread his hands helplessly. “That means nothing to me.”

“You dream of those you love because there is a bond between you. The spirits recognize this. That bond has power in the Fade.”

“I once dreamed Loghain brought me a barrel of cheese. I opened it up, and there were mice inside. Made of cheese. Which we ate while singing sea chanteys. Are you saying this held some deeper meaning?” He grinned, suddenly amused by the indignant flare of the elf’s nostrils. “Perhaps my bond with Loghain told me that he actually harbors a deep love of cheese? I should have realized it sooner.”

“And every dream you have is such frivolous nonsense?”

“I have no idea. I forget most of them. Isn’t that what happens?”

She tightened the furs around her as if she could somehow squeeze out her anger. The dwarven woman put a calming hand on the mage’s leg, but her silent pleas were ignored. “The dreams that are not dreams are visions,” Fiona snapped. “Because the Fade is a reflection of our reality as the spirits see it, it may be used to interpret that reality. We mages seek out visions. We look for patterns, and attempt to see the truth beyond our awareness. But a potent-enough vision can come to anyone. When it does, you should pay attention to it.”

“Visions,” Maric repeated incredulously. “And your commander has had these visions? This is why you’re here? No other reason?”

The mage held up a slender hand, and a small orb of fire winked into being above it. It spun slowly, radiating a brilliant energy that lit up the entire camp. He felt a wave of heat across his face. “Visions are surely not so remarkable, King Maric, compared to some of the wonders this world holds.” With a twist of her hand, the orb disappeared. The campfire seemed not quite as bright and warm as it had before.

She had a point. The witch had been a mage, as well, but was he to trust everything to magic, then? And visions? He wasn’t so sure.

Fiona sat down on her pack, continuing to stare at him with open disapproval. So he busied himself by rubbing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. There was a moment of quiet awkwardness among the others that none of them seemed willing to break. Utha looked at the mage with a clear expression of sympathy, though Maric wasn’t certain why. The two warriors, meanwhile, struck up another whispered private discussion. Julien’s eyes darted between Maric and Fiona, clearly the topic of their conversation, but what ever Nicolas was saying to the man couldn’t be made out.

“We believe her,” Fiona suddenly announced. It was enough to startle both of the warriors, who stared at her in surprise. Maric didn’t look up, though he could feel those big brown elven eyes boring a hole into him. “That is why we are here. What I would be interested in knowing is why you are here.”

The question hung in the air.

“Don’t you want me here?” Maric responded, getting annoyed. “Didn’t you come to my court specifically to ask for help? It might have been nice if you’d added that this was all based on a vision one of you had. I’ll have to remember to ask more questions next time.”

“ She asked for your help.” The elf pointed to Genevieve. “I know why she asked you. I know what she thinks you can do for us. Perhaps you even believed what she said. What I don’t know is why you chose to come.”

“Isn’t defending the kingdom enough reason?”

“To come yourself? To voyage into danger so readily?”

“It was either me or Loghain, wasn’t it?”

She thinned her lips, her expression incredulous. “You could have ordered him to accompany us.”

“I’m not sure he would have complied.”

“I would be willing to wager that he offered to come in your stead, no matter his feelings.”

“Clever you.”

Fiona paused, her eyes narrowing at him. Maric could feel the tension around the fire, the pair of warriors stiff and uncomfortable as they witnessed the exchange, while the dwarven woman calmly gazed into the campfire. For a moment he thought the elf might abandon her line of questioning, but he was wrong.