David Gaider - The Calling

Recognition has to be given to my good friends who provide me with much-needed feedback, and who willingly leap on me in order to stop me from tearing up my own work whenever I’m overcome with idiotic self-loathing. Their patience and indulgence are a source of strength and will always be appreciated. In par tic u lar, a thank-you to Jordan for being my co-conspirator and for making me a better writer in every way. I hope I can do the same for her one day.

Big thanks also go out to Danielle and Jay for permitting me to mercilessly plunder their personas for my own purposes. The pain has been brought, and it is awesome. You guys made it easy for me, as always.

Lastly, a huge shout-out to BioWare and the online community for their support and constant enthusiasm. On those days when I’m not pulling out my hair in frustration, I am grateful to have what feels like the best job in the world.

Less than a year earlier, the only way Duncan would have seen the inside of a palace would have been at the sword-point of a prison guard. Perhaps not even then. In Orlais, lowly street thieves didn’t receive the benefit of a judgment handed down personally by the local lord. There, the best one could hope for was a bored magistrate in a dingy courtroom as far away from the glittering estates of the aristocracy as they could manage.

But this wasn’t Orlais, and he wasn’t just a street thief any longer. He was inside the royal palace in Denerim, the capital city of Ferelden … and he was not particularly impressed.

The city was gripped in the winter winds that blew in from the south, and Duncan had never been so cold in his entire life. Everyone in Ferelden wrapped themselves up in thick leathers and furs, trudging heedlessly through the snowy streets, and yet no matter how much clothing he wore he could still feel the chill right down to his bones.

The palace was little better. He had hoped for some warmth here, at least. Perhaps a few mighty hearths with fires blazing, enough to keep the place toasty warm. But no, instead he was left sitting alone on a bench in a hall with frosty stone walls that loomed high overhead. There were probably pigeons nesting in the wooden rafters, judging by the filthy floors, and he saw little about in the way of ornamentation. These Fereldans liked their doors large, solid, and made of oak. They liked their wooden sculptures of dogs and their smelly beer and they even seemed to like their snow. Or at least that was what he had been able to tell in the day or so since he’d arrived.

What they didn’t like were Orlesians. There had been only a handful of palace servants and functionaries that passed through the hall while he waited, and all of them had shot him glances that ranged from suspicion to outright hostility. Even the two elven maids that came through with shy eyes and nervous twitters had stared at Duncan as if he were surely about to run off with the silverware.

Still, it was possible that all the looks might have had nothing to do with the fact that he was from Orlais. He didn’t look the part, after all. His swarthy skin and mop of dark hair marked him as Rivaini, for one. The black leather armor he wore was covered in straps and buckles, running all the way up his arms and legs in a manner far removed from the more practical local style. Not to mention the twin daggers on his belt that he didn’t bother to hide. None of those things marked him as a reputable person, not by Fereldan standards.

Really, if anyone was staring at him it should have been for the grey tunic he wore, adorned with the symbol of a rearing griffon. In any other nation in Thedas that griffon alone would have drawn raised eyebrows and nervous glances … but not in Ferelden. Here it was all but unknown.

Duncan sighed listlessly. How much longer was he going to have to wait?

Eventually the great wooden door at the end of the hall swung open and admitted a female elf. She was petite even for her kind, almost waiflike, with short mousy brown hair and large expressive eyes. She looked annoyed, as well, which didn’t surprise Duncan in the least. As a mage, she would have drawn more stares even than he. Not that she dressed much like a mage, eschewing their traditional robes for a hauberk of finely meshed chain and a long blue linen skirt, but she did carry her staff with her. It was polished white, with a silvery ball clasped in a claw at its end that gave off a constant and diffuse flow of magical power. She brought it everywhere.

The elf strode across the hall toward him, her boots clicking on the stone floor loud enough to echo. Her annoyed expression gave way to amusement as she reached him.

“Still here, I see,” she chuckled.

“Genevieve would cut off my feet if I went anywhere.”

“Ah, poor Duncan.”

“Shut up, Fiona,” he snorted. His rejoinder lacked heat, however. He knew the elf probably did have some sympathy for him … well, a little, perhaps. Maybe a smidgen. There simply wasn’t anything she could do to help him. He sighed and glanced up at her. “Did you see the Commander?”

Fiona nodded soberly toward the door behind her. “She’s still negotiating with the captain of the city watch, thanks to you.”

“Negotiating? She does that?”

“Well, he’s negotiating. She’s staring him down and not budging an inch, of course.” Fiona regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re rather lucky, all things considered, you know.”

“Yes, lucky,” he sighed, sinking dejectedly back down onto his bench.

They waited for several minutes, the mage leaning on her white staff next to him, until finally the sound of voices approached from beyond the doors. They slammed open and two people entered. The first was a white-haired woman, a warrior in formidable-looking plate armor that covered her entire body. Her face was sharp and worn with many years of command, and she strode with the powerful confidence of one who expected no impertinence and usually found none.

The second was a dark-haired man in the resplendent yellow robes marking him as First Enchanter Remille of the Circle of Magi, the ranking mage in Ferelden. It was perhaps odd, then, that his pointed beard and the waxed curls of his mustache marked him as an Orlesian. The sort of man, Duncan assumed, that believed he could fare far better away from the Empire, even if it meant assuming a position of authority in a backwater nation that had thrown off Orlesian rule only eight years ago. At least in this case, his belief seemed to be correct.

The mage simpered after the warrior, and she did her best to ignore him. “Lady Genevieve”—he wrung his hands nervously—“are you certain—”

She paused, spinning about to glare at him. “You may call me Genevieve,” she snapped. “Or Commander. Nothing else.”

“My apologies, Commander,” he quickly assured her. “Are you certain that was necessary? Your order does not wish to antagonize King Maric, after all… .”

“We have already antagonized King Maric.” Genevieve shot a withering glance in Duncan’s direction, and he did his best to shrivel up out of sight behind Fiona. “And our order will bow to no authority, especially not some foolish watch captain who believes he possesses more power than he does.” She cut off further protest by marching over to where Duncan sat.

He avoided her glower. “I trust you are satisfied?” she demanded.

“Maybe if I’d gotten away with it.”

“Don’t be a child.” Genevieve gestured sharply for him to rise and he reluctantly did so. “We did not come to Ferelden to engage in nonsense, as you are well aware. You are no longer the boy I found in Val Royeaux. Remember that.” She took his chin in her gauntleted hand and raised his head until she was looking him in the eye. He saw little more in her expression than checked rage layered in disappointment, and his face burned in embarrassment.