“Genevieve,” he said sharply, and his sister turned back toward him. She still seemed stunned, not yet pro cessing the entire implication of the Architect’s words. Utha watched him, too, from nearby. She seemed to be considering the matter calmly. Good. She had always been a worthy warrior, one who knew the true depth of the darkspawn threat. “There is a vision here that you must understand. What the Architect speaks of is not simply ending the Blights. It is peace with the darkspawn, real peace. The kind that can last.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you have any notion how many would die if they were forced to go through the Joining? How … how can this even be done? We can’t possibly force everyone to drink darkspawn blood!”
“It’s not the blood,” Remille answered her casually. He walked a short distance away, sighing as if all the standing and talking were tiring him. “It’s the taint, administered to a body in one dose. Spread the taint quickly enough and it seems we get Grey Wardens, this according to the kind advice of the Architect.” He gestured to the darkspawn, who nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“You’re mad!” Fiona shouted.
He regarded her with a sly grin. “Oh, no, my dear. This is quite possible. With the power this creature has taught to us, we can easily plant an enchantment within enough cities. Enough to spread the taint quickly and cleanly over all of Thedas.” He held out his hand, waving his fingers rhythmically until an orb of blackness formed over it, hovering in the air. Bregan could feel that power reaching out to him, tugging at his blood. Then the orb simply imploded on itself and winked out of existence, leaving the air around it colder. “And what we are left with”—the mage smiled—“is a world of survivors, who will be immune—through our protective enchantments, or by virtue of their blood.”
The Architect nodded, pleased. “And what darkspawn remain, now freed from the call of the Old Gods. Enough to gather, and teach. And begin anew.”
“We can all begin anew,” Bregan added. “A chance at real peace.”
He noticed Utha nodding slowly in agreement, but Genevieve only stared at him suspiciously. She walked up to Bregan, peering into his eyes as if she could find the truth there and nowhere else. “Why do you want peace?” she demanded.
“Shouldn’t we all want peace?”
“I know you.” Her tone was accusing and he didn’t like it. He refused to back down, and instead glared back at her. “To think you might have wanted to destroy the Old Gods, for the sake of having served the order for so long, that I could believe. Even if you hated everything about being a Grey Warden, that I could see you wanting. But peace?” She shook her head in dismay. “No, not that.”
The Architect stepped toward them, holding up a hand. “Do not grow angry. Let us speak on this further, if you have concerns.”
“Shut up,” Genevieve snapped at him. Then she looked back at Bregan. “I want to hear what my brother has to say.”
He felt the rage building up in him again. Strange that now it seemed like it was all he had left. His fear had been burned away by the taint that ran through him, but it had done nothing to take away the rage and the hatred. They sat in his heart like a poison blacker than anything the darkspawn could have given him.
“Let them die,” he swore fervently. “Let them all die. I couldn’t care less how many of them suffer. Let them have a taste of what we’ve had to endure on their behalf.”
“You mean what you’ve had to endure.”
He snorted derisively. “Poor sister. She couldn’t become a Grey Warden, so she had to beg me to become one so they would take her. She couldn’t have Guy, so she had me take him into the order to be with her. And it still wasn’t enough. None of it was.” He snarled at her, feeling the press of his sharp fangs against his lips. “How many have you poisoned to get what you want, Genevieve?”
She reeled away from the ferocity of his words, but still she didn’t retreat. Her eyes welled up with angry, bloodred tears. “And now you’ve poisoned me in return, is that it?” she asked him, her voice thick with anguish. “Is this your revenge, finally?”
Bregan spat at her feet. “You were already poisoned, the moment you drank that blood! Now do something worthwhile with it! So people will die; they always die. They aren’t worth saving!” He pointed accusingly at King Maric. “How many years did we spend begging for scraps from their tables, because they decided the Blight was no longer a threat? How quickly they forget the number of times the order has saved them! They’re cowardly and stupid—” He held a gauntleted fist up before Genevieve, squeezing his fingers so tightly the metal groaned. “ —so let’s give them exactly the saving they deserve.”
“That’s not why I became a Grey Warden!”
He walked up closer to her now, until his face was only inches from hers. “Did you become a great hero, sister? Did anyone care about all your sacrifices? You could kill the Old Gods yourself and still nobody would cheer your name.”
Genevieve struggled, torn between fury and torment, but he refused to let her go. He stared her down. They had come this far, allowed the corruption within themselves to turn their bodies into abominations; why should they turn back now? He knew his sister. She would give him what he wanted. She owed him. Ever since he gave up his entire life to allow her to join this pathetic order, to become the great hero she always desired to be, she owed him.
A new commotion just outside the great chamber suddenly drew their attention. The First Enchanter turned toward the entrance, annoyance etched into his face, as distant shouts of alarm rang through the tower’s halls. Gesturing to the templars still standing guard behind King Maric and the other prisoners to follow, the mage strode imperiously toward the noise.
Before he even reached the entrance, a younger mage ran in. This was an apprentice, most likely, little past his majority. He skidded to a halt, almost running into the First Enchanter, and then gasped for air so that his excited babble was barely intelligible.
“Slow down, boy!” Remille snapped. “Have our other prisoners escaped? Are we to have mages crawling through the tower soon?”
“No!” The younger mage shook his head, doubling over and putting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “Boats! Boats coming!”
The First Enchanter paused, shooting a dubious glance toward the Architect before turning back to regard the panting boy. “In the lake? What manner of boats are these? How many? Speak!” he demanded.
“Three!” the boy gasped. “Big boats! Flying the royal banner!”
Bregan spun about and glared at Maric, who grinned insolently back at him in response. “Don’t look at me,” the king said with a shrug. “I wish I could summon a bunch of boats at will. That would be convenient.”
Remille spat. “It’s Teyrn Loghain.” He said the name with cool derision, then snapped his fingers at the two templars. “Go, seal the entrance under the tower.” As those men ran off, he turned back to the young mage. “I want mages on the upper deck. If they attempt to land on the island, burn down their ships.”
“But they’ll be out of range!”
“Then burn whoever steps off their ships!” he exploded. “Burn the entire island if you have to! Just go! Do it!” With a furious wave he sent the young mage scrambling back into the hall. Already more shouting could be heard outside, and the sound of booted feet racing back and forth.
“If it is Loghain,” Maric said, his smile widening, “then you’re in trouble.”
“With his precious king our hostage? I think not,” Bregan sneered.
“Then you don’t know Loghain.”
The First Enchanter stormed back toward them, swearing angrily. His snarls echoed throughout the massive chamber. The Architect walked calmly over to Bregan, Utha in step beside it. “This is an unfortunate complication,” he stated.