Chapter Text
They followed the dwarf out of the city, three cloaked figures under a bright gray sky, Eugenia clasping Salriel’s hand. At first, Salriel asked the dwarf questions about the safehouse. His answers were short. Unhelpful. It left Salriel troubled, but it wasn’t like they had other options. He was grateful they had one at all.
Night had long since fallen. With it came silence between the three of them. The road turned into a narrow path. Insects buzzed and chirped, and the scent of the sea began to fade as the trees around them grew thicker. The air was heavy now with the smell of damp wood and fruit, both sweet and rotting.
A breeze or animal ruffled the branches above them. Salriel felt Eugenia’s hand clutch his tighter. He pulled her close, glancing back at her. Her eyes were downcast, one hand on her swollen stomach. His heart lurched, as it always did when he saw her--them, really. His little family. A constant reminder of why their escape was so important.
Why his failure to protect them was so devastating.
Cato will not have you, he promised the child.
“How much longer?” he asked the dwarf, turning his head forward to peer at their guide.
“Not long now,” the dwarf replied. Another non-answer. Salriel frowned, but kept his annoyance to himself. He reminded himself this was a blessing. The dwarf was the only chance he had at saving Eugenia, and the baby.
They’d met him at an inn in Dairsmuid, a place they’d planned to stay that night. The Innkeep had darted her eyes between them, taking in Salriel’s valasslin and Eugenia’s rounded ears and belly. She’d smiled a bit too widely when she said she’d be right back.
Salriel had known instantly.
“He’s here,” he’d told Eugenia.
“I know,” Eugenia had whispered back, her frightened eyes scanning the room.
In that moment, it had seemed like all was lost. They’d been discovered. They’d be escorted back to Minrathous and punished for their attempt. Their child would only know a life of pain and terror and blood.
“You folks looking for someplace to lay low?” a raspy voice had said behind them. They’d turned to see a black-haired dwarf, chewing on an unlit pipe with yellow teeth. They’d told him they were. The dwarf had made a noise, more heh than ha, his Orzammar accent bleeding into his laugh. “Well. I might know just the place.”
And so they’d followed him, hoping against hope that he wasn’t leading them to Cato.
“Salriel,” Eugenia said softly, bringing him back to the present. He turned to meet her tea-brown eyes. It took her a moment for her to continue. “My feet hurt.”
Salriel squeezed her hand. Unlike him, Eugenia had been born into slavery. She still struggled with the concept of freedom. She’d been trained to endure her own suffering, not to address it, and it was hard for him to break her of that habit. He looked back at the dwarf. “We need to rest,” he told him.
“Not yet,” the dwarf said. Salriel’s irritation spiked. “The place'll be just past this next turn, I promise.”
Salriel fell silent again, shooting an apologetic glance back at Eugenia. She was staring at the ground and did not see him. She’d been distant since--well, since they'd met his clan.
Five minutes later, they emerged from the jungle. The building came into view. It was growing too dark to make out the whole thing, but it looked massive, it's grey walls stretching in every direction. There were two towers Salriel could see, and possibly more hidden by the black of the night.
“See?” the dwarf said proudly, jiggling his pipe with his teeth. “What’d I tell ya?”
Salriel took in the parapets, the windows, the ramparts. “It’s abandoned?”
The dwarf shrugged. “Bandits come from time to time. Empty right now, though.”
Bandits. That made Salriel a little nervous. He opened his mouth to ask Eugenia if they could sleep in the woods. He was Dalish, after all. Or--he’d been Dalish once, at least. He had his bow. He could catch them something to eat, maybe even build a little awning if he could find leaves that--
His thoughts were interrupted by the distant rumbling of thunder. He sighed. He had no cloth, no aravel with which to protect them. He did not know if there were caves nearby. They would need real shelter tonight.
“This is perfect,” he told the dwarf.
…
There was no gate, which struck Salriel as odd. The entrance--a simple wooden door--sat between two statues of Andraste, her arms stretched forward in supplication. The door creaked on rusty hinges when the dwarf opened it.
Salriel peered around the room. He lit a torch he found on the floor with the bits of flint he kept in his pocket and placed it in a holder. The entry room was large and bare, clearly stripped clean by looters over the years. The moldy carpet on the ground had probably been too large to carry out. Half-torn banners hung from the walls, symbols he did not recognize decorating them. Beside him Eugenia stilled.
“Oh,” she said. He turned to look at her. “This was a circle.”
He followed her gaze toward the hallway, where a gate blocked the way. The gate he’d looked for outside. Eugenia was right. This was a place built not to keep people out, but to keep people in.
“Yup,” the dwarf said, his hands on his hips. “Dairsmund Circle. It was associated with the city, see, but they didn’t want it so close to the ports.” He lowered his voice. “Runaways,” he explained. “Can’t let them get to sea, or you’ll never catch ‘em.”
You would think, Salriel thought bitterly.
“Now, the beds are on the second floor,” the dwarf explained, taking a few steps toward the fireplace against one wall. He hit the wall right above it. “I’d be careful about these guys if I were you. Make sure you only light ‘em in the rooms that don’t face out, or someone will know something’s up. There’s some food down in the cellar.” He grinned around his pipe. “Most of it’s rotted by now, but I’m sure you can find something, if you look real hard.”
“Thank you,” Salriel said.
“No problem,” the dwarf replied. “Pay it forward when you’re safe, will you?” He wiggled his pipe again. “If I had a gold coin for every time I’ve had to rely on some stranger’s kindness, I’d be a rich man.”
Eugenia was still staring at the gate, her lips squeezed together. “What happened to the mages?” she asked finally.
“Heh,” the dwarf said, crossing his arms, amusement glinting in his eyes. “The war happened, didn't it? Whole place was annulled. Poor bastards.”
“Annulled?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“Yeah,” he said. “Big scandal at the time, having the Chantry up here, killing off the seers. Rivain’ll never forgive them.”
Salriel saw the panic in her eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her, to wipe the worry away with kisses. But for weeks, she'd turned her head away whenever he tried.
Instead, he squeezed her hand and spoke. “Relax, Geni. The war is over. Whatever happened here, it happened years ago.” He tried to sound reassuring. “We’ll just stay one night, alright?”
“Salriel,” she whispered, too low for the dwarf to hear. “What if I escaped from one master, just to serve another? The southern Chantry--they hate mages.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “And the baby. What if it’s like me, and--?”
“One step at a time, ma’lath,” he told her. “We’ll figure it out, hm?”
She nodded, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
Salriel turned around. “We are deeply in your debt, falon. But you never told us your--”
He blinked. The dwarf was gone. He searched the room with his eyes, but the gate to the hallway was still closed, and the only other entrance was the door.
“Did you hear the door?” he asked Eugenia, who was still breathing deeply.
She opened her eyes, confused. “The door?”
Salriel glanced around the room again, his brow knotted. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.” The last thing he wanted was for Eugenia to worry. He took her hand. “Come. Let’s find a bedroom, and you can rest your feet.”
…
After making sure Eugenia was comfortable and warm in a room facing the courtyard, Salriel left to find the cellars. The hallways were tall and thin. He did not dare to light a torch. He was worried he'd be seen from a window. Cato or one of his men could be somewhere nearby. Being raised as a hunter by his clan, he did not need a light to see or explore. He kept his bow on his back, ready to draw it at any moment, but he doubted he would. The halls were still. Quiet. The only disturbance was an occasional flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder.
The staircase he found curled into a spiral, tiny steps with three sides instead of four. He kept his fingers on the stone wall as he went down.
The storm hit while he was descending. He could hear the crescendo of water slamming into the side of the building, the tapping of raindrops suddenly becoming a pounding. The sound grew distant as he reached the cellars. At the bottom of the staircase was a cold torch in a holder. He took out the flint, knowing there would be no windows here.
The flint sparked. There was a figure in armor to his right. Salriel jumped back, his stomach leaping into his throat. He counted his heartbeats. There was no sound. No movement. He let his eyes adjust. He could faintly make out the silhouette of a motionless man.
Cautiously he used the flint again. This time, the torch caught. He let out a whoosh of air as he realized that the figure was a dead templar, his helmet still on. He grabbed the torch and took a few wary steps closer. Beneath the helm, he could see the white sockets of a skull. The skeleton was propped up against the wall in a sitting position, on top of a wooden table, his head turned toward the stairwell. A spear protruded from his shoulder. Black bloodstains that had dried up long ago surrounded him, staining the wood.
Salriel let himself breathe, his pulse slowing to a comfortable beat. He ventured further into the cellar. He could hear vermin scatter as he walked, squeaks and indistinct scurrying in the darkness.
Supplies had been set up in rows--first, three lines of barrels, then the crates, then an array of woven sacks. Next to the sacks were potions--sleeping and healing, from what he could see. The lyrium had long since been looted. He paced slowly in front of the long shadowed avenues between them, taking stock of their condition. The barrels were probably for ale and wine, he decided. From the smell, the crates had been fruit and vegetables. And peppers, he assumed. The Rivaini certainly liked their peppers. There were black splotches on the ground where the fruit had rotted and fermented, leaking into the wooden floor. The sacks were grains and oats.
No meat, he observed. His nose was thankful for that. There must have been a farm of some sort, he decided, or a separate room for a butcher. He went to the bags and began opening them, seeing if anything was salvageable. Ten minutes later, he’d dry-heaved twice at what he found, but he emerged victorious, a sack of good rice slung over his shoulder. After a thought, he pocketed a sleeping potion. He himself would need to be alert, but Eugenia had been having nightmares. She could use a good night’s sleep.
A pot, he thought to himself. Eugenia could make ice into water. In his time as a slave, he’d learned that human cellars like this usually opened up to a kitchen, so he turned, intent on finding a second staircase.
He stopped.
The dead templar’s skull was turned toward the food. Toward him.
The hairs on the back of Salriel’s neck rose. He narrowed his eyes, doubting himself.
Hadn’t it been--? he thought.
He shook his head. Dead men did not move. This wasn’t Nevarra. The dark and the thunder were making him paranoid.
Tearing his eyes from the templar, he gazed around the room again. Sure enough, there was a second staircase toward the back, another spiraling tower with tiny steps. Salriel strode toward it, shifting the sack to make it comfortable to carry.
The rain echoed against in the tiny space. The storm had begun in earnest now. A crash of thunder made the building shudder.
Over the roar of the storm, Salriel did not hear the creak of armor.
…
The room was empty when he returned. A fire crackled, illuminating the room in gold. Salriel looked at every corner. When he saw nothing, he panicked.
“Geni?” he cried, dropping the sack and pot, going back to the hallway. He looked left, then right. There was no response. He chose left, jogging as he tried to contain himself. “Geni!”
Finally he saw a flicker from one of the rooms. He ran faster, grabbing the doorway as he entered.
Eugenia was standing in the middle of the room, in full view of the large window, her arms hugging herself. She had her back to him. Her gaze was on the lit fireplace against one wall. Rain was slanting in from outside. Already, her hair was wet, dark curls plastered against the brown skin of her neck.
“Geni!” Salriel exclaimed. He went to her, dragging her away from the window. He was so relieved that he embraced her, and her wet clothes soaked through his shirt. His hands stayed tight on her shoulders when he pulled his head up to look at her. “Elgar’nan, ma’lath, what were you thinking? Put out the fire!”
She looked at him with unseeing eyes for a moment and then blinked, glancing back at the fireplace. With a wave of her hand, it went dead, a whiff of smoke taking its place.
Salriel touched her cheek, bringing her forehead down to his. He almost felt he could float. Safe, he told himself. They’re safe.
“Come back to the room, ma’lath,” he told her, his voice hoarse.
She closed her eyes, confusion writ on her face. Her brow lowered further. She pulled away from him as soon as she realized how close they were. He reluctantly released her.
“I heard…,” she began. She swallowed, her head turning to the side.
“You heard what?” he asked, concerned.
“A child,” she said. “I heard her screaming. I ran to find her--” She broke off, shaking her head.
“It must have been something else,” Salriel told her, reaching to touch her cheek. “Perhaps the thunder--”
Eugenia shook her head again, ducking away from his touch. “No,” she said. “No. It was loud. So loud. She was.... right here, behind this door, begging them to stop.”
Sahriel dropped his hand. “Begging who to stop, ma’lath?”
Eugenia hugged herself tighter. “I... don’t know.”
Salriel watched her face. She kept her eyes on the floor. “Is that why you lit a fire?” he asked.
Her eyes darted toward the dark fireplace. “I didn’t light it. It was already there when I came in.”
Salriel was silent a moment. “Are you sure? We’re the only ones here,” he said gently. “Maybe your magic reacted to the storm?”
Eugenia looked up, her face hardening. “I didn’t light it,” she insisted.
Salriel hesitated, torn between correcting her again and letting it go. “Alright,” he said finally. “I believe you.” She relaxed, her shoulders releasing tension.
It was a lie. But he did not want to add to the gulf between them.
“Come back to the room,” he said again. This time, she nodded. She followed as he left, though her steps were slow.
When they climbed into bed after a silent meal of rice, he stared at her back, wanting to stroke her hair as it dried into curls. It was shorter now. They’d cut her long braids off for the journey.
She began to shake. He realized she was crying.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. She was quiet. “Please. Geni. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Master will find us,” she said. “Master will find us and punish us.”
“Cato,” Salriel corrected. He reached out a tentative hand and pressed it against her back.
“Cato,” she repeated, bitterly. Her voice became low, accusing. “You promised, amatus. You told me you could save us.” Salriel pulled his hand away, a wave of shame in his chest. “That your clan would take us in.”
Salriel’s reply was a whisper. “I truly believed they would, ma’lath. We're taught that every babe is a blessing.”
“But your brother-- he said the baby--”
He stiffened. “Lashalani is an idiot,” he told her sternly. “Please don’t think my people are so cruel. Keeper Arven would have welcomed you with open arms, I promise you.”
And she would have. Salriel was sure of that. But in the ten years since he’d been stolen from his family, Falon’Din had taken Arven across the Veil, leaving the clan in the far stricter hands of Arven’s First, his brother.
Lashalani’s words still rung in his ears.
“We can’t take them in. The child will be a shem. Just like it’s mother.” A disappointed glare. “You’ve been among them for too long, lethallin”
Eugenia took in a watery breath. “He’ll find us. Mas--Cato. We have no protection.” She just sobbed harder. “He knows it’s yours now. That it has your blood. You know what he’ll do to the child.” Her voice became hollow. “You’ve doomed us to a fate worse than death.”
“Don’t say that, Geni,” he pleaded. He began to run his hand lightly against Eugenia’s back again. “I misjudged. But that doesn’t mean we should give up hope.” He paused, touching her hair. “Cato will not have you. I promise.”
She said nothing. Finally, he tugged her over, pulling her against him. She relented, going into his arms.
“Ir abelas, ma’lath,” he said, over and over, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
Eventually, Eugenia’s tears abated, and they lay in the warm room, drifting toward the Fade. Salriel began to dream of a feast that Cato had thrown after he’d returned from Seheron, when Salriel had managed to steal a jar of olives to share with Eugenia. Master had been too drunk that night to summon him.
That had been their first night together. A bright, glowing memory among the ashes.
Suddenly he heard a woman sobbing, the sound echoing in the hallway.
Half-awake, he murmured, “Hush.”
“Hm?” Eugenia asked, sleepily.
“Don’t cry,” he told her.
Eugenia shifted against him without opening her eyes. “I’m not,” she whispered back, yawning.
The sobs had stopped. Salriel’s eyelashes fluttered, and the lure of the dream tugged him under. He smiled into his lover’s hair, still tasting the brine of the olives on his tongue.
The next thing that woke him was the sound of a dragging foot.