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Chapter Text

Wildervale was surrounded by gently rolling hills covered with cornfields. Put at ease by this bucolic scenery, not one person from the group returning from the archaeological expedition to Ostwick expected to see a giant, motley dragon vigorously stomping over oats and buckwheat. The dragon, for her part, didn’t really care for the mages’ opinion regarding her presence there: determined, she charged ahead, laying waste to crops and even one chalet that unfortunately happened to stand in her way.

It became clear after a while that the dragon wasn’t alone. A group of heavily armed riders came from the opposite direction, accompanied by the distinctive sound of clanking metal. Templar Marcus raised his gloved fist, stopping the expedition. Then he gave the order to part and step aside, and so the mages, grumbling, pulled up their robes and entered the bushes growing on the sides. After a while the cavalry rode past them, leaving nothing but dust behind them.

“Dragon hunters,” said Nimrod knowingly.

"How can you tell?" asked Trevelyan, trying to get rid of the burrs attached to her dress.

"They were wearing dragon webbing and dragon bone, haven't you noticed?"

If she was to be completely honest, Trevelyan hadn’t really noticed anything but the woman riding at the forefront of the group. Tilted forward in the saddle, she had sharp, handsome features and long, braided hair. On her back she wore a shield and attached to her side was a longsword. If I were a dragon, thought Trevelyan, I’d definitely be wary of her.

"I don’t really know that much about armour," she admitted, getting out of the thicket with the help of her staff. "It goes without saying though that it was the most exciting thing that happened during this trip."

Trevelyan didn’t care much for the history of magic. Nonetheless, she volunteered for the Senior Enchanter’s expedition mostly because, if only for a couple of days, it was her only chance to get out of the humid, claustrophobic keep that housed the Ostwick Circle. Everything was going according to the plan, until they reached the digging site, where it turned out that her job consisted of operating the spade and shovelling ancient elven rubble.

The expedition slowly returned to the road, leaving the sounds of a clearly ongoing battle far behind. Trevelyan even saw a puff of smoke when they arrived at the top of the next hill. Just when she was sure to never again preoccupy herself with the thoughts of the dragon hunters, their habitual tea stop was interrupted by a rider in such a hurry that he almost ran over Templar Marcus.

"I need help!" he cried, jumping down from the foaming horse. "My sister was badly wounded! You must help us!"

Sipping her tea calmly, The Senior Enchanter didn’t really look like someone who had to do anything. "What happened?" she asked. In the meantime, Templar Marcus, almost injured and definitely ignored by both parties, stepped aside with a sour expression.

"A dragon," explained the rider.

"I’m sorry, but we’re researchers, not healers. You should try asking the surgeon from the neighbouring—"

"He said he can’t do anything for her. But she’s still alive!"

Trevelyan felt sorry for him. He could’ve easily been her age, with his dark hair and sharp, handsome features. "I’ll go," she said in the heat of the moment, putting aside her sandwich. Nimrod was so shocked she dropped hers. "I’m not a healer, but I may be able to help."

"With your hedge witchery?" asked the Senior Enchanter. "Out of the question. It’s a task for a spirit healer, someone experienced and aware of—"

"Thank you!" The boy wasn’t listening to her anymore; instead he fell to his knees at Trevelyan’s side. "You’re our only hope!"

"What harm can it do?" Trevelyan was slightly offended by that ‘hedge witchery’ mention. "What if I can help them?"

"I don’t think it’s a good idea."

"Take my horse and go!" The boy got up from his knees and was now pushing the reins into Trevelyan’s hands. "I’ll come on foot."

Templar Marcus cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir," he said. "I’m afraid you need my permission for that. At the very least. Theoretically, I’m not supposed to let any of these mages out of my sight."

"That’s right, I forgot," said the boy, helping Trevelyan get into the saddle. "We intend to use the services of this mage at the sole command and responsibility of the Duke of Cumberland, His Grace Matthias Pentaghast."

"And you are...?"

"Prince Anthony Pentaghast." Turning to Trevelyan, he said, "It’s three miles from here, turn right once you pass the mill," and then he smacked the horse’s ass. "May Andraste lead you!"

Trevelyan spurred the horse forward, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened. There she was, riding alone, without any templar breathing down her neck, without the ever irritated Senior Enchanter, even without Nimrod at her side. Were it another mage in her place, they could have easily chosen freedom, they could have rode straight to Cumberland to sail away on the next ship. As for Trevelyan, it didn’t even cross her mind. So she spurred the horse further and galloped towards the mill looming in the distance.

She turned right in the indicated place, where the trail of devastated crops allowed her to easily find the dragon hunters. The lumpish, colourful body of the dead dragon definitely dominated the scenery. The Duke and his entourage, gathered in a little grove on the balk, parted upon Trevelyan’s arrival.

"Where’s Anthony?" asked a grizzled man menacingly. He was probably the Duke himself.

Trevelyan leapt down from the horse ungracefully. "Going on foot," she said. "He gave me his horse so I'd get here faster. I’m from Ostwick."

The man’s stern face suddenly lit up. "You’re a healer?" he asked, and without waiting for confirmation added, "He brought a healer! Praise the Maker!"

"I am not... exactly qualified," she started, but the Duke was already pushing her towards his wounded daughter. "I’ll do what I can though."

The wounded woman was, as she assumed, the one she had noticed riding at the forefront of the group. Trevelyan recognised her mainly by the hair and the remains of her shield lying next to her on the ground. Everything else was covered in blood, soot and burns. Someone, probably the surgeon mentioned earlier by Anthony, laid her down on a cloak and cut open her armour, revealing terrible injuries.

Trevelyan kneeled down next to her, trying to remember all the things that an apostate had taught her that one time in the past. The one thing she needed for sure was to focus.

The Duke leant over, suddenly so close she could feel the burning smell oozing out of his body. "Is there anything you need?" he asked.

"Some space and quiet, Your Grace. And tell these people to stand back, please."

"Right away."

After a couple of seconds of clashing metal and nervous pacing everything quieted down. Trevelyan put one hand to her own temple, and the other to the woman’s forehead. Naturally, as the healer who taught her had once said, the power to heal didn’t come from the mage, but from the good spirits of the Fade. One had to summon them and convince them of their good intentions, and only then could they be of any help. Trevelyan focused on her desire to help. She thought about the boy, so out of breath, who rode so frantically he almost exhausted the horse only to ask some mages he had met by accident for help. She thought about the Duke, who surely prayed for his daughter’s health right now. She thought about all the other people who must have cared for her, and finally she thought about herself, about how she really wanted to save the woman she had only seen once, and for no more than a couple of seconds.

She felt the touch of something from beyond the Veil and let it flow through her body. She could feel the warm stream of power mending the broken tissue and bringing back the blood flow in the woman’s veins. The apostate was right, she thought. A mage was only a conductor. The real work was done by someone else.

As it was, Trevelyan wasn’t able to witness the results of her actions. Exhausted almost to the point of breaking and with a quite admirable flair for the dramatic, she fainted.