Dragon Age: Last Flight by Liane Merciel Page A

habits were too strong.
    She watched them as a doe watches wolves. Laros, the dwarven templar, struggled with his weight; there seemed to be a sadness in him that he tried to press down with honey cakes and candied almonds, even if it meant his armor barely fit. Reimas, the only woman among them, held herself icily aloof and never smiled, but was so gentle that she carried captured insects from her room and, no matter the weather or the time of day, set them free outside without fail.
    And Diguier, bereft of his duties, spent his days alternately sparring with Grey Wardens on the practice field or praying alone, fervently, in their little chapel. He hardly slept, he barely ate, and he didn’t seem to notice Valya or the other mages. All he did was pray, while worry carved deeper furrows in his face and the weight fell off him day by day.
    “He wants peace,” Sekah said as the Hossberg mages gathered in the library one morning. The season was turning toward autumn, and the blistering heat of the Anderfels’ short summer already seemed a faraway thing. Days came crisp, with a chilly edge that took until noon to melt and warned of bitter nights ahead.
    “Between mages and templars?” Valya asked. Like the others, she wore a borrowed gray cloak to ward off the worst of Weisshaupt’s drafts. It helped, but in a few weeks they’d probably need more to stay warm. Sitting motionless in the library for hours on end didn’t help much with that.
    The younger mage shook his head and turned back toward the weathered old map he’d been reading. They’d worked through about half of the chamber’s contents, but there always seemed to be another map or diary or bundle of bloodstained letters to get through. And for all that work, they’d found maybe four references to Wardens who had disappeared mysteriously, one darkspawn with uncanny abilities of speech and reasoning, and two or three possibly related incidents they weren’t sure the Grey Chamberlain would deem relevant, but had marked for his consideration anyway.
    “Peace for himself,” Sekah said. “Some sign from the Maker that he did the right thing. Better yet, some sign of permission that he won’t be shirking his duty to the Chantry if he becomes a Grey Warden.”
    Valya blinked. “He wants to become a Grey Warden? How do you know that?”
    “Because I’ve talked to him,” Sekah said patiently. His eyes were large and dark and solemn. “You can talk to templars, you know.”
    “Maybe you can,” Valya muttered. “I can’t even stand looking at them.”
    “Try to,” Sekah said. “They might be our comrades-in-arms soon. If we’re lucky. If the Maker gives Diguier the sign he’s looking for, and the First Warden doesn’t decide to pick a side in this conflict after all.”
    Valya hesitated. “How do we make that happen?”
    “The Maker’s ways are his own. There’s nothing we can do about that. But as for the First Warden…” Sekah curled the corner of the map he’d been studying around his finger, just enough to point the yellowed parchment at Valya. “We find something useful. Something to prove our worth. We give the Grey Wardens whatever answers they’re trying to find about the Fourth Blight. Do you have anything like that?”
    “Not yet,” Valya said, “but if that’s what it takes, I will.”

 
    7
    5:12 E XALTED
    “You’re the only survivors?”
    “Yes,” Isseya answered wearily for what felt like the thousandth time. “We lost the royals. The Archdemon blasted them out of the air.”
    She understood why Warden-Commander Senaste was upset. They were all upset. And angry, and afraid. The loss of the entire Antivan royal family, as well as Warden-Commander Turab, was a major blow to the power and prestige of the Grey Wardens.
    The others had regrouped in Wycome as planned. The ship carrying Ostiver, Fenadahl, and their charges remained out at sea, but the griffon riders had made contact with them twice and, for the time being, it