Second Milestone: Reflection

[charnia]

The next morning Blair chose a few party members to go with him to retrieve the Urn while the others made preparations for their trip back to Redcliffe. He found himself actually looking forward to the chance to get away from Zevran for a while-not because of anything he’d done, because Zevran wasn’t rude to him, indeed more polite than usual. But he felt guilty, and was worried he lose their friendship, so was glad when he, Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne headed up the trail to the mountaintop.

Blair actually felt a creeping feeling of reverence as they entered the ancient temple. He reminded himself it was a Chantry holy place, nothing that he should revere, and strode in. He slowed when he spotted a man in armor standing in front of a set of doors leading further into the Temple, and they approached cautiously.

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” the man said.

“I am here for the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” Blair said. If this man was a stray cultist he would soon join his fellows beyond the Veil.

“I am the Guardian of the Ashes. You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall-if you prove yourself worthy.”

Then he was not a cultist. It seemed unlikely some other band had survived on the mountaintop, guarding the ashes for centuries. Could it be an illusion? Blair reached out with his senses, testing for some taste of magic. It was immediately obvious that the man was not living, his blood magic could feel no vibration of lifeforce waiting to be manipulated. Instead, he could feel a strange aura around the Guardian, like nothing he’d ever felt before. For the first time Blair started to feel some uncertainty about their ability to retrieve the ashes. He had not counted upon spiritual guardians-nor upon having to prove his worth to them. If they could sense his devotion to the Maker and relied upon that, he would surely fail. “I need the ashes to cure a noble man,” Blair said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Still you must prove yourself worthy. It is not my place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself.”

The Gauntlet? That sounded like some sort of trial by combat, and Blair could fight, if nothing else. “All right, let’s get on with it then.”

“Before you go there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in the past, your suffering and the suffering of others. In Redcliffe you made a choice that caused much harm. Do you regret this?”

Blair froze in shock. It knew? How could it? He force himself to respond calmly, “Killing Lady Isolde was the only way to get into the Fade.”

“And that act had greater implications, did it not?” the Guardian asked, giving Blair an impatient look. “Must I describe the consequences?”

“No!” The Guardian fell silent and Blair continued more quietly. “I understand.” Clearly the Guardian did know of Blair’s choice in the Fade, but it strangely didn’t seem to intend to betray him to the others in his party. He hoped it was not just waiting to hear the rest of his answer before telling the others his secret. If it knew what he’d done, it probably also knew something of how he felt about it, so it was pointless to lie. He answered slowly, taking his time to make sure he didn’t betray himself to his companions. “Yes, I regret my decision. But I cannot say that if I had the chance to go back and make the choice again, I would choose differently. I do not know.”

“Ahh, but you cannot go back. At times reflecting on the past may make the future clear. And what of your companions?” The Guardian turned to Alistair, and Blair barely paid attention to its question to him, too relieved that he seemed to have passed the Guardian’s initial inspection. He heard Alistair say that he should have died instead of Duncan and shot him an annoyed look. Well, perhaps Duncan was better at manipulating people, but Alistair was a good fighter, and much more likable. If Blair had to answer to Duncan’s beck and call on his way to fight the Blight, he probably would have set out for Rivain in the middle of the night by now.

He was surprised when Wynne responded to the Guardian’s questioning by answering that yes, she did have doubts at times. From all appearances, Wynne was resolutely confident in her correctness in every situation.

When the Guardian got to Leliana Blair was so surprised he almost laughed. First the Guardians asked her if she thought herself Andraste’s equal, to say the Maker would speak to her, then insinuated that she’d fabricated her vision.

“You’re saying I made it up for-for the attention? I did not, I know what I believe!” she said indignantly.

Was it true? The Guardian knew the inner thoughts of the others, how could it be wrong about Leliana? Blair was surprised to find himself feeling sympathetic for her. He handed a boy over to a demon and the Guardian only referred to his crime through vague allusions, while Leliana embellished her religious experiences and was publicly embarrassed for it. His initial amusement faded, and he had no trouble pretending complete indifference.

Instead of responding to Leliana’s objections, the Guardian merely smiled and stepped back. “The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek.”

They entered the next room, which at first appeared to be empty. But when Alistair stepped too close to one of the statues near the wall a hollow voice boomed out, “A poison of the soul, passion's cruel counterpart. From love she grows, ‘til love lies slain. Of what do I speak?”

Alistair leaped back and bit off an exclamation that Blair was pretty sure had been a curse. Blair walked closer to the statue and saw a ghostly figure step out, a man in armor, with a winged helm. “Jealousy,” he answered.

The figure bowed his head. “Yes, jealousy drove me to betrayal.” The ghost revealed he was Maferath, and described how his actions had led to Andraste’s death. Finally he fell silent, and faded away.

For a moment the party stood in the hall without speaking. Was this really the spirit of Andraste’s dead husband, or simply some enchantment or spiritual stand-in for the dead king? Blair looked around the room. Seven more statues, seven more spirits? It would be wise to check the statues before trying to move on, if this was part of the Gauntlet.

The next statue also produced a spirit with its own riddle, and another perspective on Andraste’s life and death. Blair knew the stories, of course. Tower apprentices were required to attend services at the Chantry chapel. But it was different, hearing the spirits of those who were supposed to have been there a millennium ago tell the tale as they went from statue to statue. He had always resented the Chantry, and thought little of Andraste. Mages tended to be skeptical and irreverent, and in spite of the Templars they managed to keep some books in the Tower library that were practically heretical. But even he found the story of her rebellion against the Tevinter Imperium compelling. Leliana was the most touched, and tears ran down her face as Andraste’s mother’s spirit told of her grief for her daughter. Wynne put her arm around Leliana, while Alistair watched uncomfortably, seemingly wanting to comfort her but not sure how.

Blair was surprised to find the last spirit was an elf, Shartan, who had led the rebellion against the Tevinter. “I'd neither a guest nor a trespasser be; in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?” he asked.

“Home,” Blair answered, though the idea was as alien to him as it had been to Shartan a thousand years ago. The Tower had been a prison, not a home, and now he wandered Ferelden. Shartan spoke of the Dales and freedom, but not much had changed for the elves in the last thousand years. He hoped that this spirit was not truly Shartan haunting the cold ruins of Andraste’s temple. Homeless in life, perhaps the elf could find something better beyond the Veil. After the ghost disappeared he shook his head, then walked through the door to the next room.

Blair stopped as if he’d walked into a brick wall. There before him stood Lady Isolde. He felt sick-had the Guardian rejected his answer after all? If it told them what had happened, Blair would die on the flagstones, probably run through by Alistair.

“Lady Isolde!” Alistair exclaimed, flabbergasted. “You’re alive!”

“It’s not her,” Blair said curtly. Once they had crossed the Veil, the dead did not return.

“Oh . . . who are you?” Alistair asked the woman cautiously.

Isolde laughed, showing small, pearly teeth. “Honestly, I don’t know. I am part of the Gauntlet. I am Lady Isolde. I am you,” she said, nodding to Blair. “All these statements are true.”

“I know you’re not me,” Blair muttered.

“Am I not? I am part of you, in your blood. What you did to me changed you forever. But that is the past, and I am here now to tell you to think of the future. The last vestiges of your shackled life have all but fallen away. There is nothing holding you back.

“I have something for you.” The woman held out her hand, and Blair reached out to take what she handed him. “Your choices reflect the person you are, and meld the person you are becoming. You remember the past, choose wisely in the future.”

Silently, Blair nodded, and the woman vanished. He examined the amulet. It was a simple Chantry symbol with a silvered mirror on the back. He felt the warmth of enchantment emanating from it, but for the moment didn’t investigate what it might do. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror for a moment, then tucked it away in his pack. It would most likely stay there, regardless of how useful its enchantment might be. He could brood well enough without props, and he resented that the guardians of the Urn seemed to know his secrets and thought fit to pass judgement on them-and it was somehow more irritating that they seemed to consider themselves worthy to forgive them. “Let’s move on,” he said shortly.

They turned the corner into an empty room, and suddenly a ghostly figure ran at them, shadowy sword raised, three others hanging back. Blair saw with astonishment that they were duplicates of the party, down to their clothing. Alistair drew his sword and Leliana nocked an arrow as Blair began casting. “Kill me!” he shouted. If these figures were truly duplicates of the party, his duplicate was the most dangerous. It even cast like he did, he saw, as the flames of blood magic leapt up around it and it began casting a cone of cold. His glyph struck just a split second sooner, paralyzing his double. Leliana’s arrow pierced its shoulder and it slumped to the ground. “Make sure it’s dead,” Blair snapped at Alistair, who knocked his own double back with a shield bash and ran towards the fallen ghostly mage.

Wynne had cast Heroic Aura on him, and an arrow shot from Leliana’s double’s bow arced away to skid harmlessly across the floor behind him. Blair dropped a glyph of repulsion where the three stood as Alistair’s double ran at him. He stumbled back to the far edge of the glyph, afraid the ghost would run right through it, but it hit the glyph and was flung back. Meanwhile Alistair swung his sword down two-handed at Blair’s double’s neck, almost decapitating it. He then turned on Leliana’s double, but didn’t immediately attack.

“It’s not her! Fucking kill it!” Blair shouted. Beside him Leliana’s lips tightened grimly as she sent an arrow flying at her double. Blair ran out of the glyph to cast a cone of cold past Alistair, and immediately ran back to the sanctuary of the glyph as the ghostly warrior reclaimed his sword from the flagstones. Clumsy with the cold, Leliana’s double barely dodged a slash from Alistair, but fell a moment later with an arrow in its throat. Alistair then attacked his own double. Equally matched, neither was able to land a hit on the other, but Alistair maneuvered so he was constantly between it and the rest of the party. Leliana’s next arrow struck its armor and glanced off, but Blair’s lightning and cold spells were more effective. Wynne’s counterpart tried desperately to keep up with healing spells, but finally one last lightning bolt struck, and the warrior fell to one knee and then fell over dead.

Blair was ready to cast again, but found himself curious to see what Leliana and Alistair would do about the last opponent. Leliana had an arrow nocked, but didn’t draw her bow. Alistair turned on Wynne’s double, but hesitated before running his sword through its heart. It fell to the ground, and the ghostly figures faded away like dissipating fog.

“I’m glad for that,” Alistair said with relief, taking off his helmet and running his fingers through his hair. “If they left bodies. . . That was . . . disturbing.”

In more than one way, Blair thought, remembering how Alistair had unhesitatingly dispatched his helpless double. But he said nothing, and led the way to the next door.

He was amused to find the next ordeal was a puzzle, a magical bridge that could be constructed by having his party stand on the proper pressure plates in the proper order. Apparently the Gauntlet was trying to filter out those without either a modicum of intelligence or the patience to use trial and error until the puzzle was solved. They were more slowed down by Blair and Wynne giving contradictory directions to the others than by the puzzle itself.

“Wait, who move? Where?” asked Alistair, frustrated, looking from one to the other mage across the pit.

“You, move to that one,” Blair said, pointing to the right pressure plate. He shot Wynne a challenging look and said, “If I’m to go on the bridge, I’ll be the one directing things.”

“Certainly, you need only ask,” she responded, looking longsuffering.

Things went more smoothly after that, and Blair rehearsed the party’s movements a couple times before taking his first step onto a bridge section, then forward to the next. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, not looking into the black pit below him, though he felt the cold, damp draft of air rising from it. Blair knew which pressure plates needed to be triggered in what order, but still his hands were shaking and his heart in his throat when he told Alistair to move to the next plate. Alistair stepped off his plate and Blair took a deep breath, but the platform stayed solid beneath his feet, and the next platform blurred into existence before him. Soon Blair stepped off the bridge onto the opposite side of the pit. He turned to see the bridge solidifying fully behind him. The others crossed, only a bit hesitantly, and together they went into the next room.

The heat from a wall of flame beat upon them, a glaring contrast to the clammy chill of the rest of the Temple. The flames stretched to their right and left, blocking entry to a nave ahead of them. Blair was sure this must be where the ashes were hidden, just beyond the flames.

“Well, how are we supposed to get past this?” Alistair asked, sound aggrieved.

Blair stepped up to a lone pedestal standing before the wall of fire and read the inscription. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker’s sight.”

Blair understood the “cast off the trappings” part well enough. But he wasn’t sure about cloaking himself in “goodness of spirit”. Blair usually thought the Maker probably existed, but was not particularly paying attention to happenings in the mortal world-perhaps he was off enjoying Andraste’s favors. But when it came to the resting place of Andraste’s remains, maybe he took more interest. Even in the absence of the Maker’s attention it was clear the magical and spiritual defenses placed around the Temple by Andraste’s followers were still in full force, and it was possible they might find him wanting. He could only hope his good intentions were sufficient. He might resent the Chantry and have no regard for the Maker, but his only intention was to take a small amount of the ashes to heal another person and, with fortune, help in defeating the Blight.

Leliana stood beside him and read the altar, then giggled. “No-does it really mean that?” she asked Blair.

“It’s no more silly than the rest of these trials,” Blair said, an edge to his voice from nerves.

Wynne read the inscription and said very seriously, “It is not silly. This is a symbolic removal of the artificial ornaments of rank and position, so we come before the Maker as we truly are.”

Blair rolled his eyes. “And yet if we don’t adhere to this symbolism, I bet we’d get seriously burned when we cross that fire, regardless of the purity of our spirits.”

“What are you all talking about?” Alistair asked, walking up behind them, his boots clanking on the stone floor. He read the inscription. “Wait-we have to get naked?”

Leliana stifled another giggle. “Yes, Alistair, we do.”

“Very well, I’ll go first,” Blair said. “If I can make it across, I’m sure all of you can.”

Leliana grew serious. “Why don’t you let me go? I can bring back some ashes.”

Blair hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think that this Temple has survived undisturbed without the inhabitants making sure everyone who enters passes all tests before leaving alive. Besides, does it look safe in there?” He nodded to a dark figure sprawled on the floor in the long hallway. Through the dancing flames he could see it was the skeletal corpse of some adventurer, probably dead for years. “But thank you,” he said, voice softening. Leliana was arguably the most devout of the party, even considering the Guardian’s insinuations that she made up her visions, yet she tried to spare him this trial. Wynne considered him to be a maleficar, in spite of the fact that she only breathed due to a pact with a spirit that the Circle did not condone, and seemed happy to let him take his chances-and burn if he failed.

“So we just have to take off our clothes? Nothing else?” Alistair asked worriedly.

“And I assume think good thoughts. So watch where your eyes go,” Blair said with an evil grin.

“Oh Maker. You too!” Alistair retorted.

Blair raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then started taking off his robe. Soon he stood naked, flagstones cold on his feet, and the heat of the fire beating against his skin. Alistair took the longest to strip, having a full suit of plate to remove, and slowed by the deliberate care he was taking to avoid looking at Leliana and Wynne as they undressed. Blair knew the others were modest, a trait he’d never developed since privacy was rare for apprentices in the Tower, so he did his best to ignore them as he tested the flames by putting the hem of his robe in the fire. When he pulled it back the fabric was unmarred. “Looks like it’s magicked to only burn flesh,” he said. “All right, here goes.”

He closed his eyes and approached the fire, holding his breath, trying to think only of the reason he wanted the Ashes. He felt the heat on his skin grow uncomfortable, on the verge of being painful. Suddenly Alistair gasped behind him, and he opened his eyes. He was standing in the fire. He almost panicked for a moment at the sight of the flames dancing past his face, in appearance like the caressing flames of blood magic, but harsh and hot. He gasped, sucking scorching air into his lungs. But though the air was uncomfortably hot, it was not burning him. He forced himself to close his eyes and took a few steps more, emerging into cool air on the other side of the fire.

Blair laughed in relief. “I made it!” he said giddily. “Pitch my stuff across.”

Alistair and Leliana threw the party’s clothing through the flames, then slid their packs and armor across the floor. Blair started to get dressed as they hesitantly entered the fire. Wynne resolutely walked straight through, then immediately started dressing. She was already half dressed by the time Alistair and Leliana emerged. Alistair darted a glance at Leliana and blushed, turning away to gather his clothing. Leliana said nothing, but her lips twitched in a small, quick smile. Blair picked up his pack and settled the straps on his shoulders while waiting for the others to dress.

They slowly walked towards the dais at the end of the hall. On an altar stood a tall urn. “Why don’t you take the ashes?” Blair said, turning to Leliana. He knew it would mean a lot to her, and her eyes glowed with gratitude. He handed her a small leather pouch and she reverently lifted the lid of the urn, reached in, and took a small pinch of ashes.

“I think that should do, even the lightest dusting is supposed to be sufficient to heal,” she said. She tied up the pouch securely and handed it to Blair, who put it in his pack.

Blair turned, having seen a door in the back of the hall when they’d gone to the dais. “Shall we try that door?” They headed towards it, Blair pausing to search the dead man as they went by. The corpse was long dead, desiccated, with the bones visible between scraps of dry, blackened flesh.

Wynne made a sound of disapproval. “Is there a reason you disturb the dead?” she asked.

“At least I’m not taking bits of his remains,” Blair said, shooting her an annoyed look. “He certainly doesn’t need his equipment.” But the body seemed to have been searched already, there were no valuables. Only his armor remained, being too heavy to carry away conveniently, and with the fittings too rotten to wear.

“I’ve never seen armor of that style,”Alistair said with amazement. “I think he must have been there for a century at least.” Blair looked at the fallen man with renewed interest, wondering what had brought him to the Temple.

“Should we bring him out and bury him?” Leliana asked uncertainly.

“This seems a fitting resting place,” Alistair said. “He lies within sight of Andraste’s ashes.”

“Yes, and he probably got killed for doing something the Guardian didn’t like, so he should stay as a warning to others to watch their step,” Blair said.

“Well, I hadn’t thought of that,” Alistair muttered, and they continued to the door.

The door was a massive slab of stone that opened easily at a touch from Leliana’s hand, obviously masterfully counterbalanced. They stepped out into brilliant sunlight and found themselves on the plain atop the mountain. The stone door swung close behind them with a thud. Blair turned to find an almost seamless doorway, with no way of opening it from the outside.

Alistair laughed. “I hope no one forgot anything.” Blair smiled, imagining going back into the temple to tell the Guardian he’d forgotten his canteen. But they’d been careful, and headed back to Haven with all their equipment, and the ashes.

The contents of Blair’s pack-clothes, blankets, rope, canteens, tent, dishes, utensils, potions, herbs, and assorted other odds and ends-were strewn across the store’s countertop. Blair picked up a stack of grimoires: one brought from the Tower when he was conscripted, one stolen from Irving’s desk on his return to the Tower, and the last, a thin volume on spirit healing, taken from the library on his way out after defeating Uldred. He stroked the faded green cover and opened to the first section, flipping through a few pages. He hardly knew why he had taken the book. Back in the Tower he had never been very interested in healing magic. Perhaps it was because he had come very close to death in the Tower, his spirit almost reaching the Veil before Wynne had pulled him back. He remembered nothing, but knew that if it were not for her healing magic, he would be dead.

Blair knew many ways to send someone across the Veil, but barely anything about how to draw a person back from it. So he had picked up this thin volume, though he now doubted he could find a spirit who would help him, a blood mage. He closed the grimoire and slid the books into a pocket in his pack, then started stacking up his clothes. He wanted to get his pack mostly settled before nightfall, so they would be ready to go early the next morning.

He didn’t hear Zevran enter the store, but saw him out of the corner of his eye as he straightened up. He smiled carefully, expecting Zevran to go get whatever he was after and leave again. But instead Zevran paused, then said, “I heard there was a Gauntlet, and a fight.”

“Yes, Alistair killed me,” Blair said dryly, sliding a bag of potions into another pocket.

“I also heard the Guardian asked rather nosy questions, though no one will say quite what he asked them,” Zevran said, looking at him curiously. “Wynne said he encouraged ‘self-examination and a recognition of one’s failures’.”

Of course Zevran knew Blair’s secret. He paused, holding a coil of rope in his hand. “Well . . . what he asked them is their business, I suppose. He asked me whether I had regrets regarding the circumstances around Lady Isolde’s death.”

“In just such a diplomatic way?” Zevran asked with a smile. “Quite tactful.”

“More or less. Not what I expected, considering. . .”

Zevran just nodded. “What did you say?”

“That I did, but I don’t know if I would do anything differently if I could go back.”

Zevran tilted his head to the side and asked, “Is that true?”

Blair shrugged. “I thought it best not to lie, so yes.”

Zevran gave him a jaded look. “And what is the point of that? You either would do it, or you would not. If you would not, your guilt is mere self-gratification, a way to tell yourself you are not as bad as all that, or else you would not feel it. Yet it changes nothing.”

Wynne could have preached to Blair all day and he would not have blinked, but Zevran’s reprimand was as good as a slap in the face. For a moment Blair was going to ask why Zevran hadn’t said this before-but when Zevran found out about Blair’s deal with the demon, Blair had told him he wished he could undo it. Now, after using blood magic more and reading about its possibilities, he wasn’t willing to give that power up. And Zevran was right. In a way, he was being dishonest. “I see your point,” he said miserably. “But I can’t make myself not feel guilty, nor can I make myself wish I did not have blood magic.”

Zevran shrugged expressively. He went to his pack, retrieved a whetstone, and headed back out of the store, leaving Blair looking after him, feeling as low as the mud on Zevran’s boots.