Dragon Age: Progeny Ch. 24

"Slow and steady," Master Wade instructed, watching as Methys pumped the bellows for the forge. "That's it. Good."

The child quickly tucked a strand of dark hair that had fallen into her amber-and-moss-colored eyes behind her ear, small brows knitting with concentration. "It's a lot harder than it looks," she grunted. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the forge and her exertions.

"And you're doing a splendid job, Methys," the armor smith encouraged, adding another shovel-full of charcoal. He bent to examine the forge's interior, nodding as he gauged the progress of the glowing coals. They were becoming an even, deep orange color. "Keep at it."

There was a soft thump of footfalls on the ceiling, a groan of floorboards overhead. The child shot Wade a questioning look, and the smith wrinkled his nose at her to make her smile. Herren had gone to the upstairs apartment shortly before midday, and he was making as much noise as a bronto.

The stairs creaked as Herren descended, bearing a tray as he entered the shop. "Lunch is served," he announced with exaggerated stiffness, affecting the demeanor of a butler at a formal gathering.

Wade cleared sheaves of cured leather, over-sized needles and thick thread from a worktable and pulled over a pair of stools. Herren deposited the tray and fetched a chair from the shop. The armor smith pulled a stool out for the girl, who smiled and sat, thanking him as though she had been raised at court, not the wilderness.

Thick hunks of crusty sourdough bread, aromatic sliced sausage, three kinds of cheese and wedges of large, red pears were arranged artfully on a wooden platter. The plates and dainty cups Herren set before them looked to be very old, decorated with painted wildflowers. When the merchant poured pale green liquid from the matching teapot, the light scent of chamomile and mint filled Methys' nostrils, and she inhaled deeply.

As they ate, the room seemed quiet after a morning filled with Methys' pointed, curious questions about Wade's craft. The armor smith had bristled a little at first, thinking that a young child, especially a girl, could neither appreciate nor comprehend the complexity of his art. But as he explained the process, his passion for his work easily took over. That she proved herself to be a bright and inquisitive student only encouraged him.

"Mother's been gone a long time," Methys murmured, her brows knitting with concern as she nibbled on a slice of hard, golden cheese.

"I'm sure she'll be back soon," Herren assured her, then he winked at the child, grinning. "If she's not, then we'll just have to keep you."

"I daresay, you would make a fine apprentice," Wade added with a serious nod, eyes wide and guileless.

Methys shook her head, sniffing in soft laughter at their teasing. She knew they were only trying to put her at ease, but, much like Lissie, she did not like to be separated from her parent for prolonged periods of time. Even in the Korcari Wilds, she rarely strayed beyond where she could easily see the dwelling she shared with Morrigan.

Thinking of her home, her face fell: their little cottage was no more than a ghastly ruin now. All that remained were charred ribs of timber and blackened foundation stones. Everything they had once had, not that it could be called much, had become nothing but ashes.

She hadn't thought much about where they would go after they left Denerim. Lissie often spoke of her home in the Brecilian wilderness, of the wild halla deer and giant golden bears, the waterfalls and deep green pools where minnows swam in single, meandering threads through the shallows. Methys silently wondered if perhaps she and her mother might go there to live with Lissie and Soraya.

Or, perhaps they all could go with Leliana to Orlais. The bard spoke of the city of Val Royeaux with such longing and enthusiasm that Methys imagined the streets there must be paved with bricks of gold and chocolate pastries were served three times a day. Denerim was a smelly mud hole by comparison.

The girl's thoughts were interrupted by the soft tinkle of tiny bells over the shop door, and her head whipped around, expecting the welcome sight of her mother and Leliana stepping in out of the rain.

Instead, a small, stooped form entered, shaking the weather from a worn and patched cloak as she stood at the threshold. Methys' excitement quickly faded, and she resumed her silent fretting.

"Dessa!" Herren greeted their visitor, rising from the table and walking out into the shop. "We were just talking about you earlier this morning."

The merchant helped the old woman shrug out of her cloak, hanging it on an empty armor rack near the door. A gnarled hand reached up to smooth damp gray hair back from a face that was wizened and held an unhealthy pallor. A pair of golden, raptor-like eyes regarded Methys from across the room, and the child stiffened at this tell-tale sign of a shape shifter, someone who had spent enough time in animal form that the outward appearance of their eyes had changed permanently.

"Ah, I see I'm not your only visitor this day." The woman's voice was ravaged by age, an odd combination of bubbling brook and footsteps crunching through gravel.

"Yes, yes," Herren said, ushering the woman into the workshop, where the heat of the forge chased away the chill of a rainy day. "Sit down and have something to eat. I'll heat up another pot of tea. Or would you like some soup to warm your bones?"

"Don't concern yourself with my elderly bones," she snorted at the merchant with a wheezing breath. "But a hot cup of tea does sound delightful."

"Straight away," Herren said, jogging back upstairs, his footfalls like thunder as he ascended the stairs and thumped around overhead.

"Here, take my seat," Wade offered, helping the old woman to sit. "I'll get you a pillow."

"And who is this charming young lady?" she asked, easing herself into a broad, high-backed chair as her yellow eyes regarded Methys thoughtfully.

"Allow me to introduce Miss Methys," the smith said with exaggerated formality. "Methys, this is Grandessa, a wise woman of the Chasind people."

"Oh, posh," the woman sniffed as the smith went into the adjoining chamber, disappearing behind the sales counter as he bent to search for a pillow. She made a wry face at the child, grumbling, "I am an artifact, that is what I am. And, please, my dear, call me Grannie."

Methys inclined her head politely, but she could not tear her eyes away from those golden orbs that watched her so intently. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam."

Dessa cackled with delight. "Such fine etiquette for a child so young! Such a lovely name, too. How old are you?"

"I just turned eight this summer."

"Ah," the old woman said with an appreciative nod. "You're a young lady, then. Who are your parents?"

The child hesitated, agitation pricking at her consciousness. Ever suspicious of strangers, once her initial bristling was over, Methys quite often found them fascinating. But this time, something deep within her kept nudging her that there was something strange about this woman. Grandessa was not a Chasind name; living in close proximity to their tribes all of her life told her that much. But beyond that, Methys could feel the woman's magic tingling like a breeze brushing against her bare skin, making the hair on her arms and nape stand on end.

"My mother is Morrigan," Methys answered, expecting the Chasind woman's eyes to light up with appreciative recognition. "I do not know my father."

The woman nodded, as though humoring the child, giving no indication that she knew of Morrigan. Methys sipped her tea with a slight frown. Most Chasind would know of her mother, even if they had not met her. Hunters and shaman visited on occasion for poultices and to share herb lore. Their infrequent visits were welcome, and the relationship between her mother and the Chasind was not at all adversarial. How could a wise woman be so unfamiliar?

Methys turned as Wade returned from the shop with a pillow that appeared as thin and beaten as the woman's cloak. In his other hand he carried the carved wooden box Soraya had found in the ruins near Ostagar.

"Would you mind taking a look at this?" Wade asked her, arranging the pillow behind the old woman's back. "Methys' mother brought it this morning, and I am simply confounded."

"What is it?" the woman asked.

"A box that is not a box," Wade answered. "No hinges. No lid. But quite obviously hollow." He shook it gently, and something rattled inside.

Dessa accepted the box from his hands, turning it over, her lips pursed in thought. Slowly, recognition dawned in her yellow eyes even as her face remained passive.

"What do you think of this, young lady?" she asked Methys.

Methys shrugged, a flare of annoyance wrinkling her small brow. The old woman's hint of a smile barely curved the corners of her mouth, but didn't crinkle the corners of her eyes, stamping it as false. The girl was clever enough to recognize condescension and proud enough to bristle when she encountered it. But what truly unnerved her was that the woman seemed to think Methys knew something that she did not, that she was keeping this knowledge hidden.

"Surely, you can guess?" The woman's smile voice was sweet, cajoling, but her visage had adopted something feral, making Methys think of a long-faced rat baring its teeth in warning.

The girl shook her head so vigorously that her hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed it back with deft, impatient fingers. "T'is a box that is not a box."

"And what is that?" the old woman prodded.

Methys arched a brow, exhaling sharply through her nose, derisive. "A puzzle. Or a mystery."

Dessa chuckled, narrowing her eyes and wagging a gnarled finger at her. The skin of her hand was gray, covered in brown spots, the joints knobby. Something about them repelled the girl, and she wondered, would hers look like that when she got old?

"Clever, clever girl," the woman said.

Methys looked up at Master Wade in appeal. Surely, he would distract the old woman with some adult-oriented discussion, and then the girl could resume her meal in peace until her mother returned.

But Wade did no such thing. In fact, Methys was fairly certain that the smith would not be able to intercede on her behalf at all.

The man had gone as still as a stone, barely drawing breath.

"Master Wade?" she warbled in concern, sliding off her stool and going to stand next to him. She tugged on his sleeve when he didn't acknowledge her presence, then again and again with frantic urgency as she called out his name until her voice escalated into a high-pitched quaver. He remained as wood, his gaze utterly blank.

Methys did not seek the woman's aid, knowing full well that she was the source of the smith's sudden affliction. Instead, she ran to the foot of the stairs, crying out for Herren.

Behind her, the old woman was chuckling. "I assure you, the merchant is just as incapacitated as the smith, my dear."

Feeling dread fill the pit of her stomach, Methys slowly pivoted, facing the strange, old woman who no doubt had more magic in one of her little fingers than Methys had in her entire body.

Dessa patted the stool next to her, and that awful smile returned. "Come here, my dear. Sit by me. We have much do discuss, do we not?"

In the space of mere heartbeats, Methys calculated how long it would take for her to shape shift into something small and fast enough to escape, and realized it would be a futile effort: The old woman likely could dispel any magic Methys worked.

Blast and damnation! she hissed silently, employing one of Morrigan's favored curses. What would Mother do?

The answer came to her in her next breath: Hold your ground! Wait, and watch. Protect yourself!

With an exaggerated sigh of defeat, Methys gave the woman a sullen look and walked stiffly over to the stool across from her.

"That's a good girl," Dessa cooed, her time-ravaged voice harsh.

Methys snorted, glowering in defiance. Perhaps all she need do was stall this old witch until Morrigan returned. When she saw that Methys was in jeopardy, scant heartbeats later, a smudge of soot on the stone floor would be all that remained of Dessa.

"My mother is going to kick your ass," the girl announced from between clenched teeth.

The old woman's chuckle began low in her chest and spilled out into the otherwise silent chamber, erupting as a mindless cackle that finally dwindled to wheezes of amusement.

"I'd certainly like to see her try, little mageling," Dessa said after she had recovered her composure. "But enough of your sulking, girl. Not a very nice way to behave for your grandmother, now, is it?"

***

"I am liking this less and less," Morrigan complained in a low voice as she followed Leliana into the Bed and Brawl, Alistair just behind them. Three burly shadows of his bodyguards lingered at the entrance.

The last image they held of her friend, being led away in the falling rain, flanked by two flanking columns of templars, stirred a disconcerting sense of helplessness.

Feeling helpless had a secondary affect for the restless apostate: Anger and annoyance.

"You should have just knocked her senseless and carried her out of the Chantry over your shoulder, Alistair," the witch muttered.

The King shook his head. Leave it to Morrigan to part ways with honorifics. She hadn't once referred to him as "your majesty." Coming from Leliana, it was different. He could safely count her among his dearest friends, and she knew when it was appropriate to call him by his given name. But his relationship with the witch had ever been antagonistic, and it did not appear that was likely to change any time soon. And yet, he could not help but find the witch's irreverence strangely refreshing.

"I agree," Leliana grumbled in a low voice.

"Look at it this way," Alistair tried to reassure the women, "the Knight Commander managed to thwart Soraya's 'escape.' He might feel more at ease now, overconfident, thinking another might not be forthcoming any time soon."

"What makes him so important?" Morrigan grated as they made their way toward the darkened rear of the tavern. There weren't that many patrons this early in the day, and it was quiet, the innkeeper nodding a greeting as they passed by the bar. "It's not as though there aren't two-hundred others just like him infesting Fort Drakon."

Alistair shook his head in mock dismay. "And here I thought you knew about templars, having dispatched so many as the Witch of the Wilds," he murmured at her back. "The Knight Commander is the strongest of the templars. He can dampen the magic of twenty mages, rendering their powers useless. He will be essential in their victory."

"I suppose that is why it is so vital that Soraya succeeds in her task," Morrigan muttered, Leliana coming to an abrupt halt as she hissed over her shoulder with a sharp look that demanded the apostate's immediate silence.

Alistair grunted, frowning, mystified. "Her task? The Cuffs of Andaste nullify her magic, what is she supposed to do against the Knight Commander?"

"Think about it," Morrigan snapped, refusing to be silenced. She slipped into a booth and sat, a glowering Leliana sitting down opposite her.

Oh, Maker, Alistair thought, his gut clenching, remembering Soraya's words:

"He wants me to warm his bed, among other things."

"I don't think I want to," he muttered, concern mingled with sullenness as he sat next to the bard.

"I hate to admit this, but she is the distraction the Collective needs," Leliana told him, a challenge in her fierce, blue eyes, daring him to be angry at her friend because of what she might have to do, and threatening him with a sound thrashing if he did. "This was not her choice."

"Don't be an imbecile," Morrigan mocked, bland-faced from across the table. "It most certainly was her choice to go back into that hell hole and do her duty for mage kind. The idiot."

Alistair shook his head, their endless bickering not helping him feel any better. "We need to get there before … that… happens."

"I assure you, your majesty, we will do everything in our power to ensure that our dear Soraya need not sully herself in the interest of duty," a masculine, exotically accented voice said at Alistair's elbow.

He looked up into Zevran Arainai's smiling face, and could not help but glower, his old jealousy simmering. The elf was still lithe with long, smooth muscles beneath tanned skin, hinting at blinding quickness with a blade. His golden hair was longer, bound by a leather thong at his nape. How was it possible that the elf only got better looking with age?

The assassin slid each a flagon of ale – ensuring that Alistair's splashed all over the table and onto the king's breeches – and then thumped down next to Morrigan, amber eyes gleeful as he returned Alistair's glower with a wicked grin.

Alistair shook his head, issuing a low snort of disgust as he brushed foam and amber liquid from his clothes. "This just keeps getting better and better," he muttered.

"Stop it, Alistair," Leliana told him, jabbing his shinbone with the tip of her boot under the table, something Soraya had done many, many times during their associations with the Antivan. With only varied success.

"Yes, majesty," the elf said, still smirking. "Antagonizing me would be most inadvisable. You're going to need all the help you can get, and I can see that palace life has made you… soft. Even, dare I say, slightly pudgy?"

Alistair sucked in an offended breath, then opened his mouth to bellow a response.

"I said, 'stop it!'" Leliana repeated, louder and more sharply, this time kicking the Antivan loudly under the table.

Zevran yelped, his smooth composure fracturing like ice in sunlight, reaching down to rub his bruised shin. He gave Leliana a wounded look, but the bard was neither sympathetic nor apologetic.

"Yes, really," Morrigan added, rolling her eyes.

"He started it," Alistair growled between clenched teeth.

Leliana blew out a sigh of exasperation, muttering in Orlesian. The Antivan apparently understood her, because his brows reached for his hairline in surprise. "Why don't we just settle this childish, ongoing contest between the two of you here and now?" she hissed in annoyance.

"Agreed," Morrigan added with a sour look. "Both of you, present your manhood. Leliana, you get the measuring stick!"

Zevran favored the witch with a saucy grin. "Why, Morrigan, I had no idea that you would stoop to such lengths to examine my… ahem."

"That's rich, coming from the Sisters Who Bicker Night and Day," Alistair shot back, interrupting what promised to be another volley of insults, this time between the Antivan and the apostate. As much as he would have enjoyed watching Morrigan immolate the elf, he determined that deflection was the better tactic. He just hoped Arainai realized that he had likely just saved the skin of his hairless elven ass.

"That's different," Leliana said in an airy, reasonable tone. "When Morrigan and I bicker, it's with the understanding that it has nothing to do with the length of our … ahem."

Zevran blinked stupidly, glancing at the bard and then the apostate in affected confusion. "You two have … 'ahems?' Forgive me, but I always suspected the witch might, but you, my lovely songbird? Never!"

Morrigan narrowed her golden eyes at him, her jaw visibly clenched, and Alistair held his breath. Had Zevran insulted her so, even in play, during their days together fighting darkspawn, the witch likely would have set loose a spell that would catch the Antivan's pants on fire and then cackle gleefully as he ran in flaming circles around camp.

Alistair rubbed his eyes, wishing that Wynne were here to keep the whole barking mess of them in line. When Soraya wasn't around, the matronly spirit healer was the perfect substitute. "This is so not helping."

"First intelligent thing you have said since your arrival," Zevran said, a brow arching over an amber eye. "And leave it to the politician to say it. I was wrong about you, majesty. It would appear that palace life hasn't ruined you completely."

"Oh, really?" Alistair said in a tone that oozed sarcasm. "Thank you ever so much!"

The Antivan sniffed, grinning. "That is as close to an apology as you are going to get, majesty. I suggest you take it."

"Fine," Alistair bit out, determined to get back to the business of saving Soraya and finding his daughter. He took a moment to say it again in his mind: My daughter. It still seemed so unreal, but even in the face of everything that was happening around him – a Queen who was in the process of usurping his throne, Soraya in danger – he could not help but feel a surge of joy knowing that Alissa was more than just his namesake. "So, what's the plan?"

Zevran leaned forward, elbows on the table, making a steeple of his elegant, long fingers. "Two nights hence, second hour, is when everything is to be set in motion. Teams of fighters will enter Fort Drakon and deal with the templars."

"Rogues against templars?" Alistair began. "How's that supposed to work?"

"As you recall, majesty," the Antivan countered with thinly veiled condescension, "templars have thick armor, but a well-targeted bolt can penetrate everything but the armor encasing their chest."

"Making them vulnerable in the arms and legs," Alistair nodded. "But those are harder targets to hit."

"With poison-tipped bolts, even the slightest scratch will paralyze and disable them," the elf elaborated. "But it's more than likely that a few templars will die with bolt feathers sticking out of their eyes, the rest of the barb wedged into their brains. I have some of the best rogues with a crossbow that I've ever seen."

"How will the mages escape?" Leliana asked.

Zevran turned his head, gazing at her with glittering amber eyes. "Another cell is responsible for that maneuver, and I've not been informed of what that entails. It's a safe bet that our dear Soraya will play some role."

"And what can I do in my capacity as king to help?" Alistair asked.

"I don't know, your majesty? What can you do?" Zevran challenged, sarcastic.

The pair locked eyes for a moment, their former adversarial relationship hanging between them, a barrier built of jealousy and prejudice. They loved the same woman, and neither could have her. To Alistair, Zevran was a salacious thug; to Zevran, Alistair was a shem. But each could appreciate the fighting prowess of the other… in private.

Alistair sighed with regret, wondering that had Soraya not been involved, if he and the elf could have been friends. But the circumstances of the assassin's induction into their merry band made Alistair highly suspicious. Zevran Ariani had been sent by the Antivan Crows to murder Soraya. That the suave Antivan saw that she and Alistair were quite obviously in love and together and still continued to flirt shamelessly with her only encouraged the future king's animosity.

"How many men do you have?" Alistair asked, deigning to surrender, if only this once. Without Soraya here to arbitrate, he knew he would have to keep his ire in check and employ whatever diplomatic finesse he could muster.

"Enough," Zevran answered, "but more would be nice."

Alistair nodded. "What do you need? Fighters? Bowmen?"

"Both," Zevran replied. "And a clear path to the Drakon River. Boats will be waiting to get the mages out of Denerim."

"Where will they go?" Leliana asked, finally sipping her ale.

Zevran shrugged. "Some island. I don't know where. I don't really care, just as long as they get out safely… so I can get paid."

Morrigan rested her elbows on the beaten, scratched table, cradling her chin in her hands. Her amber eyes were worried. "This sounds risky," she murmured.

"This has taken months of planning, and there were numerous roadblocks along the way," Zevran told her with a low chuckle. "Trust me when I say this is as good a plan as we're likely to get."

"Very well," Leliana said, tilting her head to the side as she often did while party to a scheme. "Then let's discuss how we're going to make it work."