The Storm Coast
“Again, half speed.”
Blackwall advanced in response to Brenna’s shouted command, and Vanya grimaced, set his footing and raised his staff. The warden’s slowed approach reminded Vanya of the strange pockets of time in the fade rifts in and around Redcliffe, where some spots sped combat into a frenzy while others dragged the battle out as slow as molasses.
Unfortunately, even in slowmotion Vanya’s melee skills left much to be desired, and half speed did not necessarily mean half strength. The impact of Blackwall’s sword against Vanya’s staff sent shockwaves up his arms, and he grunted as he shoved the blade away.
His body ached from the day’s exploration of the Storm Coast, but his new taskmaster wasn’t about to let him rest. After Brenna returned to Haven as the newly minted Fereldan Ambassador to the Inquisition she dove into the role. One of her main priorities was teaching Vanya combat skills so he could properly engage any enemy, and she insisted on training sessions every morning and evening—danger does not wait until you are well rested, cousin. In theory, Vanya was grateful for the help, but his bruised body disagreed.
Blackwall reversed his swing and Vanya batted the sword aside. His gaze focused on his opponent’s weapon as he tried to determine the warden’s next move.
“Mind your footing,” Blackwall warned.
Vanya frowned and then yelped as his boots slipped in the mud. He barely managed to remain upright, but his effort proved to be in vain when Blackwall’s shield collided with his left arm. He spun, off-balanced, and his feet completely failed him. He landed on his back and stared up at the cloudy evening sky. At least the rain had stopped.
Blackwall appeared and offered him a hand up. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Brenna chided from the sidelines. “Again.”
“Give the kid a break, Kingmaker,” Varric called out. “Let him heal and have some stew.” The dwarf sat near the campfire and was doing something to his crossbow. Calibrating? Repairing? Vanya was mystified by Bianca’s workings. In truth, he was mystified by Varric in general—he handled social situations with an ease and humor that Vanya envied.
“I’m not certain that feeding our dear Herald this concoction qualifies as a break.” Dorian’s lip curled as he peered into his bowl. “It might even qualify as punishment.”
“Are you criticizing Ferdelan cuisine, Cousin Dorian?” Brenna asked.
Vanya scraped mud from his coat and tried not to flinch at the reminder that Dorian was a very distant cousin, a few centuries removed. He didn’t want Dorian to view him as family—he wasn’t quite sure what he did want Dorian to see him as, but certainly not family.
“Yes, I am.” Dorian offered the contents of his bowl to Vanya’s mabari, who eagerly gobbled it down. “The dog seems to enjoy it.”
Vanya turned to Brenna, who rolled her eyes. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. That’s enough for today.”
Blackwall bowed to Vanya and Brenna. “You are improving, Herald.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.” He cast a small healing spell over himself and Blackwall to ease minor pains. They returned to their places around the fire, and he helped himself to a bowl of stew. His mabari flopped down beside him and laid her head upon his knee to watch him eat.
They had set up camp on a bluff overlooking the spot where the Long River met the Waking Sea. It rained for most of the day, but despite the inclement weather they managed to make some headway into their search for signs of the Grey Wardens.
Dorian tutted at Brenna as she sat beside him. “If you’re going to teach the Herald to use his staff as a club at least let me teach him to do so with style.”
“No. He has to crawl before he can walk.”
“But he can still crawl with a flourish. The forms you’re teaching him are—”
“Basic,” she interrupted.
“Boring,” Dorian declared. Vanya agreed to a point—it wasn’t the sort of education he would have sought under normal circumstances, but the fact that this situation was anything but normal was the reason he needed it.
Varric chuckled and shook his head. “The Herald can develop his own style later, Sparkler. For now we want to focus on keeping him alive if the red templars get up close and personal.”
“Bah.” Dorian threw his hands up. “That just makes you all sound like barbarians.”
“Spoiled Vint,” Brenna teased. “Speaking of which, this stew is fine.”
“Shows what you know, filthy dog lord.”
“Dog lady, if you please.” She grinned and bumped his shoulder playfully, and Dorian chuckled.
Varric finished fiddling with his crossbow and set the weapon aside. “It’s your turn for storytelling, Herald.”
“Is it?” Vanya frowned. Each night a member of their party was responsible for entertaining the others with a story—when the weather was good they played cards as well, but thus far the Storm Coast had proved too damp for Diamondback or Wicked Grace. Which was just as well, because he was miserable at both.
He was also miserable at storytelling. The others all had exciting tales to share—fighting darkspawn, bandits, mercenaries, or even dragons. Vanya didn’t. Not yet, at least. This was his big adventure, and hopefully it would be over once the Breach was closed.
Vanya peered at Dorian. “What kind of flourishes?”
Dorian grinned, and Vanya’s stomach did a fluttery flip-flop. The mage launched into an explanation of Tevinter’s various combat schools, ranging from the techniques of their infantry to the complex rules of mage duels. Vanya forgot about eating as he listened—he was fascinated by the differences between a mage’s life in the Southern Circles, as Dorian called them, and in Tevinter.
Vanya was fascinated by Dorian in general. Dorian loved magic—he spoke about it with passion and pride, his head held high, and never with the pinched shame that was hammered into circle mages. Vanya loved magic but would never say such a blasphemous thing out loud—not because he feared for his soul, but because he feared retribution from the chantry and the templars. He wanted the courage to bicker and debate with the ease that Dorian and Brenna did, he just wasn’t certain how to learn it.
The others join the discussion on occasion, but otherwise let Dorian talk. Finally Brenna rose. “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”
“I’ll join you,” Blackwall said.
She nodded her assent, and the pair walked off. Once they were out of earshot Varric whistled low.
“That’s going to be trouble,” he said.
“What is?” Vanya asked, bewildered.
“Our Grey Warden is enamored of the former Warden Commander,” Dorian said.
“Really?” Vanya turned and watched the pair as they walked toward the beach.
“Quite,” Dorian said. “He follows her as eagerly as your hound follows you.”
Vanya peered down at Good Girl—or G.G. as he had taken to calling her. “Are you enamored of me?”
G.G. licked his face in reply and Varric whooped with laughter.
“Barbarian dog lords,” Dorian tsked. “Fasta vass, we’re all doomed.”
***
“It’s been many years since I was at sea,” Blackwall said. Their boots crunched through wet sand as they walked just out of reach of the water line. The waves seemed quieter than they had during the day, or perhaps everything had seemed ill tempered during the storm. The bears had certainly seemed angry.
“How were your sea legs?” Brenna asked.
He chuckled. “Bad enough to discourage me from making it a habit. You?”
“I fared well, but I’d rather keep my feet on the ground.”
“Says the woman who can fly.”
“I hate flying.” She shuddered. “I abhor heights. I only do it when necessary.”
They walked in amiable silence, eyes sharp for any trouble. Between the Blades of Hessarian and the Inquisition’s forward scouts the area had been cleared of most common dangers, but they had encountered darkspawn twice along the coast. It was strange to fight darkspawn again—Blackwall had sensed their approach and warned the party, but Brenna was numb to their presence. She didn’t miss being Blighted, but in times like those she felt its absence like the loss of a limb.
She paused near a large, twisted piece of driftwood and stared out at the water. An island blocked the endless stretch of the Waking Sea, and she rather thought it spoiled the view.
“When I lived in Amaranthine I would travel to the cliffs to watch the waves break against the rocks below. I’d stare at the horizon and think about what waited on the other side of the sea.”
“The Free Marches?” Blackwall asked.
“Cullen.” Brenna sighed as her heart ached.
“Have you and the commander reconciled?”
“Not yet. We’re ignoring each other at the moment, save for Inquisition matters. There will be time for that once we can all catch our breath.” Cullen had an army to build, and she understood the importance of leaving the man to his work, but Maker, did she ever want to distract him. Being so close to him, working side by side, and yet there was a chasm between them caused by years of silence.
She straightened and turned to Blackwall. “Do you know Warden Jean-Marc Stroud?”
“Can’t say as I’ve met him, no.”
“He was one of my lieutenants—my eyes and ears in the Free Marches. We were like oil and water, but that was what I appreciated about him. He never failed to speak his mind if he thought I wasn’t going about something the right way. He’s a good man, and a good Warden.” She paused and took a steadying breath. “I can’t be certain yet, but I think he’s the one the Wardens are hunting.”
Blackwall frowned. “What makes you think so?”
“We kept contact in secret—I might have left the order, but I worried about my wardens. I lost contact with him a few months ago with no warning and no word since. It’s not like him.” She grimaced as her stomach twisted with worry. Stroud might have been her mustachioed menace, but he had her utmost respect. “If the Wardens are hunting him, something has gone very wrong.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Blackwall sighed. “We have a few more areas to check. We might learn something else.”
“I’d like to think this is all a big misunderstanding, but...we’ll see. We’d better circle back before Dorian talks the others to death.”
Blackwall laughed.“Of course.”