Chapter Text
Lucretia Amell was growing steadily more annoyed by the prattling of her companions. Daveth and Ser Jory, two stooges of recruits were arguing about what they thought the Joining was. Duncan, their commander had tuned them out long since, eyes dead set on the path ahead of them.
“Well, what I heard it’s some dangerous ritual,” Daveth proclaimed.
“Dangerous? Why should they test us now? We’ve already pledged ourselves, haven’t we?” Beads of sweat began to show on Ser Jory’s brow, not just from the effort of hiking through the mountainous region on the outskirts of Castle Cousland in a full suit of heavy grey iron mail. Fear was in his voice when he asked, “Just what did they say about the Joining that was dangerous?”
Lucretia didn’t care to listen to all the gory details of Daveth’s imagined Joining ritual, nor paid much thought to Jory’s whinging. She had had her fill of gory details as of late. She can’t hear someone talking about blood and violence without seeing Jowan pushing a knife through his hand, the ruptured eyes of his templar victims, or Greagoir storming towards her, knife in hand.
Jowan made his grisly escape from the Circle, and poor Lily was sent to the Mage’s Prison for the crime of falling in love with the fool. Greagoir decided that Tranquility was too kind for her, and drew his blade.
Duncan was too late. She should be grateful that he intervened, invoked the Rite of Conscription, and saved her life. But all she could think was that she wished he had been faster. She should be relieved, but she still felt like that danger had not left her. Without Duncan and her fellow conscripts, she was an apostate. She hadn’t been outside the Circle since before her magic manifested itself. She wasn’t technically a Grey Warden yet -- could the Templars still hunt her down, Rite of Conscription or no? Does this fear make her cowardly?
This last nagging thought lingered with her when Jory made another pitiful protestation to Daveth’s tall tale.
“I...I can’t do that, I’ve got a child on the way, what you’re describing sounds barbaric!”
Oh, Maker, someone shut him up, Lucretia thought. Wishing for a moment’s solitude, she aimed a ball of red light to come between the two men in front of her.
At this, they froze in their tracks, looked behind at the woman whose golden eyes hardened in frustration at their constant bickering as Lucretia made a sweeping motion with her hand, whisps of magic obscuring her mouth to indicate silence. She walked forward, attempting to catch up to Duncan. The two men sheepishly -- and silently, Maker be praised -- followed behind her.
***
If the Circle at Lake Calenhad was a towering spiral, Castle Cousland was a sprawling labyrinth.
“Why are we going into the castle? I thought the Teyrn was sending his armies to Ostagar anyhow,” Jory wondered.
“Indeed he is. He is also personally leading his troops, including his eldest son, to fight with us at Ostagar. But we need as many recruits as we can get if we are to defeat the Darkspawn hordes. If this is a true Blight, and I am certain that it is, we need the strongest warriors in Ferelden to help us push it back.”
“And you’ll find them gorging themselves on those fancy Orlesian cakes and wearing silk knickers?” Daveth said, not bothering to hide his disdain for the nobility even in their midst.
Duncan was having none of it. “You will watch your tongue in the presence of the Teyrn and his family. He is generous enough to allow the Grey Wardens to choose from among his household guards -- highly trained Ferelden knights, mind you -- for conscription.”
“Alright, sorry sir,” Daveth said.
Lucretia rolled her eyes at the exchange and turned her focus to the castle itself. For all that Highever was made of stone and wood, there was something oddly organic about its design. Where other places had been built intentionally and with a plan in mind, Highever felt like it had simply grown from when it was a hall and a kitchen off to the side, adding gates and chapels and libraries. The piled stone walls and tall towers grew alongside the Cousland’s stations, until Castle Cousland was more a labyrinth than a hall.
In the center of the stone maze was the great hall, where Duncan was greeted by a man whose apparent old age was matched by his energy and bombast. Two other men were in the chamber, one a younger copy of the nobleman, staring off with his eyes glazed over, and another man who Lucretia thought shared the facial structure of a weasel.
“Ah, Duncan of the Grey Wardens! We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival,” the man declared.
“Teyrn Cousland, I graciously accept your hospitality,” Duncan said with a bow.
“Oh come now, enough of that.” The Teyrn clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder and shook Duncan’s hand. “We have much to discuss. Seeing as Arl Howe’s men are delayed, we have some time to discuss plans for the coming battle.” He turned to the younger version of himself, whose posture improved and his eyes became alert once his father’s attention was on him. “Pup, be a good lad and show Sir Duncan’s recruits to their quarters.”
At this, the young man deflated. “You’re wanting to get rid of me.”
“If I am to leave the castle to you while Fergus and I are gone, I need to trust that you will receive honored guests with the respect and hospitality of the Couslands of Highever.” The Teyrn gave his son the stern command.
“As you say, father.” The young man gestured to his father with a flourish before addressing the rest of his audience. “Arl Howe, Sir Duncan, I bid you welcome, and I wish you luck in the battles to come.” He turned again towards Lucretia, Daveth, and Jory. He was taken aback by their rag tag appearance, as if he had only just taken actual notice of the group of Grey Warden conscripts. The look of utter bewilderment was replaced just as quickly with a cordial mask.
“Well met,” the young noble greeted the group. “I am Seamus Cousland, second son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland and Teyrna Eleanor, and head of the Cousland household in my father and brother’s absence. And to whom do I owe the pleasure of escorting to their chambers?” The last was said in an exaggeratingly polite tone.
“Ser Jory of Highever, your lordship,” the knight’s bow was deeper than it needed to be.
Daveth wasn’t paying attention -- he had been staring at the servant girls since they had entered the Great Hall. Lucretia rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the side before genuflecting herself.
“Oh, right,” Daveth said, coming back to reality. “I’m Daveth.”
This time, Jory elbowed him in the side, whispering harshly “That’s no way to address the Teyrn’s son!”
“Uh...Daveth, recently of the Grey Wardens, your Teyrnliness.”
Duncan rolled his eyes and mumbled something unsavory under his breath before regaining his composure and introducing Lucretia. “The mage you see before you is Lucretia Amell, of the Calenhad Circle Mages. She is pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Lucretia curtseys, and blue sparks ripple down her skirts. Duncan smiles proudly, “blue is good.”
“Surely the lady can speak for herself?” Seamus turned to Lucretia expectantly.
Lucretia simply shook her head.
Seamus continued to look confused, but decided not to pry. Lucretia was grateful for that; Ser Jory had hounded her with uncomfortable questions upon meeting her, and Daveth was no better.
“Well then, if you will just follow me.”
They followed the lordling out of the great hall, and back out into the maze of stone. A few minutes later, Lucretia could have sworn she heard barking.
Suddenly, a knight interrupted them, addressing Seamus, “My lord, it seems your hound has gotten into the larder again.”
Seamus sighed. “Can’t this wait, Ser Gilmore?”
“Afraid not, my lord. The Teyrna is worried the cook will leave if it’s not dealt with posthaste.”
“Nan won’t leave us. But if mother insists, by all means.”
On the way to the larder, the two men chatted away about Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Apparently, Duncan was there to recruit Ser Gilmore, a point that the young Cousland was sore about.
“I wish that he would recruit me, but if father has his way I’ll never see battle.”
“If we don’t get your mabari out of the larder soon, the cook’ll start one.”
As it happened, the mabari was after rats that had gotten into the larder, and large ones at that.
-Cousland talks with his mother
***
The Last Lights were out tonight. The sky was cloudless, the stars beautiful and brilliant. Seamus remembered a scholar suggesting that the constellations are different if you go far enough North, and wondered how it was that the Maker’s Path could be different just because you moved.
Seamus was distracting himself. He needed to sleep, but his bed just wasn’t comfortable, no matter how he moved himself. If he was looking at the stars and wandering the parapets, he wasn’t thinking about tomorrow.
The stars fell around him and he heard a flute’s light tones, like a giggle. He looked around until he found Lucretia hiding a smile behind her hand. Her shoulders shook silently.
“You can do that? I’ve never heard of someone using magic for fun like that.”
Lucretia smiled then, and tapped her ear with her index finger. She moved her hands in front of her, like she was to play a clavicytherium, an instrument from the Anderfels that Seamus had seen played once. As her fingers pushed down on the invisible keys, a chord floats through the air.
Soulful by L’Indécis
Seamus breathes deep, closes his eyes, and allows the music to move him. His head bobs to one side, and then the other, following the claps and snap sounds. When the song ends, he applauds her, and is surprised to see her smiling, with misty eyes.
“The music is gorgeous. Is this what the Circle is like? I always assumed it was all doom and gloom, books and robes and stories about demons. But music, light shows? Do you dance too?”
A sad, slow viol sings throughout the stone balcony. An image of a single person, dancing alone, while a bunch of robed figures walk by.
“Just you then. Well what if we danced together? [Some other stuff]
[They dance, and Seamus heads to bed]