Chapter Text
“Rook? This seems… ill-advised.”
By the time Emmrich voices his concerns, it’s already too late. His companion is airborne, vaulting from one rooftop to the next.
“Really,” he continues. “Are there no streets in Antiva? Or is the Chantry only accessible via zipline?”
Rook laughs. He’s already scaling the nearest wall, pulling himself to even greater heights. It’s quite a thing to witness, years of Crow training guiding him from foothold to foothold. Emmrich follows along—albeit not as gracefully. A trellis serves as his ladder.
“The streets are dangerous,” Rook explains. “Antaam on patrol, angry locals spoiling for a fight… We’re safer up here than we’d be in some alley.”
The trellis creaks under Emmrich’s weight, threatening to snap. “Are you quite sure about that?”
“Trust me! I grew up on these rooftops. A Crow never falls.”
He says that last part like a reminder, a lesson from long ago. When Emmrich replies, his tone is more teasing than doubtful. “Never?”
Rook grins. “Well, I never hit the ground, anyway.”
Two buildings over, they find Lucanis waiting. He leans against an archway with his arms crossed, looking as dark and brooding as ever. Like Rook, he wears Crow armor, the shapes of eyes and feathers stitched into the seams. A cape of deep purple hangs from one shoulder; silver wings adorn his swords.
It’s a striking image, like an illustration from one of Bellara’s serials. The kind where someone ends up dead.
“Rook.” Lucanis turns at their approach. “You came.”
As Emmrich draws closer, a second figure comes into view. It grows slowly, the way a shadow lengthens against the setting sun. He sneers at the newcomers.
“You’re late,” the figure says. His voice is rough, distorted. More of a growl than a statement. “Zara should be DEAD by now.”
For reasons Emmrich can only speculate, the shadow wears Lucanis’ face. The two of them are completely identical, save the creature’s blazing purple eyes. He hovers behind Lucanis like a predatory bird, eager to take flight.
Emmrich finds a smile. Good manners never go amiss, especially when dealing with spirits. “Lucanis. Spite. I apologize if we kept you waiting.”
Lucanis’ mouth pulls sideways. “We haven’t been here long. Spite’s just impatient.”
His companion grumbles, but doesn’t argue. Lucanis surveys the group. “Where’s Neve?”
“With the Shadow Dragons,” Rook answers. “There was trouble in Minrathous—she couldn’t get away.”
Again, Lucanis frowns. Disappointed, but not surprised. Neve’s skills in hunting Venatori are unmatched—except, perhaps, by Lucanis himself. Without her, their chances of success are greatly diminished.
Rook remains optimistic. “But hey, I brought Emmrich! He can see Spite, so, that’ll be helpful.”
It’s a poor consolation, but Emmrich smiles anyway. “Always a pleasure to lend my services.”
Rook searches the air, as though hoping to glimpse Lucanis’ companion. He must not find him, however, because he leans towards Emmrich and half-whispers, “Is Spite happy? I bet he’s happy.”
The spirit growls. He is not.
Moving on to the topic at hand: “So—Zara Renata. She’s in the Chantry?”
Emmrich wasn’t there when Rook freed Lucanis from the Ossuary—that abominable prison beneath the sea. It was there that Zara forced Lucanis and Spite together, in hopes of harvesting a demon from his flesh. The two only survived by relying on each other; an alliance that has only become more strained.
Lucanis crosses his arms. His eyes burn nearly as bright as Spite’s. “If she’s gone there to pray, it will not save her from me.”
They make for the Chantry. As always, they take the most circuitous path, through abandoned buildings and hidden passageways, over rooftops and, yes, the occasional zipline. Emmrich holds back a shout as the city rushes under his feet.
At moments like this, he wonders what his students would think of him. Stuffy old Professor Volkarin, traipsing through Antiva with two men half his age. Would they look at him with envy, or would they think him terribly foolish? Perhaps they’d put it down to a midlife crisis, an old man desperately clinging to youth.
Rook leads them to the edge of the rooftop. The next building over is too far to jump, and this time there’s no zipline, no trellis.
He turns to Lucanis. “We need a bridge. Can Spite pull something from the Fade?”
The demon grumbles. “He says no,” Lucanis translates. “He can only pull things where the Veil is thin.”
“Hmm…”
After a moment’s thought, Rook snaps his fingers. There’s a woodpile stacked against the parapet; a sorry heap of broken crates and wooden planks. Rook digs around until he finds one long enough to bridge the chasm.
Emmrich startles. “Rook…”
The Crow doesn’t answer, too busy testing the board with his foot. It wobbles a little as he takes an uneasy step.
Emmrich’s heart leaps into his throat. “Rook, wait.”
“It’s fine,” Rook says, but even Lucanis seems doubtful. “Trust me! This is the fastest way to the Chantry.”
Emmrich looks to the ground. He knows what happens to a body when dropped from such a height. He’s seen it on an autopsy table, and in the graves of those long dead. The way their bones break and splinter. The way their limbs fly apart.
And there’s Rook, standing in midair, only an inch of wood between himself and that great, final plummet. Emmrich can hardly stand to watch.
“Rook,” he says again. “I really must protest.”
Rook turns. He’s already halfway across the beam. His brows arch when he realizes that no one is following. “Really, guys? We climbed all over Weisshaupt in the middle of a darkspawn invasion! This is nothing!”
Spite mutters something that Emmrich doesn’t catch. Clearing his throat, Emmrich brings his hands together, as if engaged in an academic debate.
“Weisshaupt was… an extreme circumstance. Time was of the essence. But in this exact moment, when our lives are not in immediate danger, would it not be prudent to take the safer, albeit slower, path to the Chantry?”
Rook is smiling. Emmrich cannot imagine why. He seems amused by the situation. Delighted, even. He reaches out, his palm upturned in invitation.
“It’ll be fine,” he says again. His voice is very soft. “Come on. I’ll hold your hand.”
He looks right at Emmrich as he says it, as though asking him to dance in a crowded ballroom. It catches Emmrich off-guard, being looked at like that. His insides twist with something unexpected; a curious sensation, strange underneath all his doubts and fears.
“That’s not…” He shakes his head, aware of the heat rising to his face. “While the sentiment is appreciated, I doubt that ‘holding hands’ would help.”
“Alright, alright.” Rook raises his hands in playful surrender. “We’ll go the long way. Lucanis, do you think you could—”
Rook takes a step towards his companions—just as the board snaps beneath his feet.
It happens so fast. Faster than Emmrich can comprehend. He’s still contemplating the flush in his cheeks when Rook plummets towards the ground.
“Rook!”
Lucanis lunges forward, a cry on his lips. Emmrich doesn’t even hear it. All he knows is the shock on Rook’s face, the look of pure surprise as the world gives out from under him. His arms flail out; his cape rushes upwards like a pair of useless wings.
“Shit!”
There’s a crack of magic—a swift, electrical pop. Rook vanishes in midair, only to reappear a half-second later, flailing onto a distant balcony. A teleportation spell. A Fade Step!
It’s an ungraceful landing. Rook hits the balcony hard, rolling twice before he smacks against the wall. He swears again, barely audible through a hiss of pain.
“Shit! Ahh—fuck!”
“Rook!” Lucanis cries. Emmrich’s heartbeat drums in his ears. “Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah!” The remnants of Rook’s spell shimmer through the air, floating in the moonlight like motes of dust. He sucks a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I- I’m good. Just—ahh—don’t tell Viago.”
A laugh catches in Emmrich’s throat. Of course—after nearly falling to his death, what Rook really cares about is looking foolish in front of his old boss.
Lucanis chuckles. He lifts a foot onto the parapet and leans on his knee. “Want us to come down there?”
“No, no…” Rook staggers to his feet, looking more embarrassed than hurt. “That’ll take too long. We should just meet at the Chantry.” His gaze shifts. “Hey, Emmrich—you okay?”
“Me?” Emmrich says dizzily. His heart is racing, his knuckles white around the shaft of his skull-tipped staff. He forces himself to stand straight. “Yes. Yes—of course. You’re the one actively tempting death.”
Rook waves a dismissive hand. “Nah. I told you, a Crow doesn’t fall.”
Emmrich frowns, silent as Lucanis leads him away. That was close—closer than Rook is likely to admit. In the past, Emmrich has despaired for Rook’s magical education, and his limited grasp on even the most basic spells. That Fade Step, however… There are many First Enchanters who would struggle to perform it in midair. Perhaps that’s what Rook meant when he said that a Crow never falls. That so long as he doesn’t hit the ground, it doesn’t count.
Emmrich allows himself a small, private sigh. At least the Crows teach their mages some things worth knowing.
Up ahead, Spite makes himself known. “He used to look at us that way.”
A muscle twitches in Lucanis’ jaw. “Don’t.”
“He used to laugh with us,” Spite insists. “Coffee and conversation. But no more. Now there’s silence. Disappointment.”
Emmrich draws up alongside them, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, what is this about?”
“Nothing,” Lucanis says. “He’s just anxious about Zara. Lashing out.”
Spite growls in frustration. “Zara! Zara will escape! Just like Ghilan’nain! No blood. Only angry eyes. Pointed fingers.”
Emmrich looks to Lucanis. “What does he mean?”
Lucanis doesn’t answer. To be honest, he doesn’t really have to. There’s only one reasonable explanation.
Emmrich places a hand on Lucanis’ shoulder. Makes him stop. “No one blames you for what happened at Weisshaupt.”
That whole ordeal was—for want of a better phrase—a disaster. Emmrich remembers the crumbling fortress, the darkspawn horde beating at the gates. For all their troubles, Lucanis was granted a single chance to strike at the darkspawn’s master, Ghilan’nain—a chance he sadly missed. They went home with less than when they had started. A thousand Grey Wardens, slain.
Lucanis sighs. “I know,” he says softly. He may even believe it.
Spite curls his lip. “No! He lies. Rook blames us! EVERYONE blames us!”
“Spite,” Emmrich says, suddenly stern. He speaks the way he would to a student misbehaving in class. “That’s quite enough.”
Those purple eyes flash with malice. “Liar! Thief!”
“Alright.” Lucanis holds up his hands. “Spite, save your energy for Zara. We’re going to need it.”
With a growl, Spite relents. His shadow dissipates, swirling off into nothing.
Emmrich exhales through his nose. It feels strange to be at odds with Spite—and stranger still to see Lucanis act the peacemaker. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset him.”
Thief, he said. Emmrich doesn’t understand. What could he possibly have stolen?
Lucanis turns, resuming their path to the Chantry. For a moment, it seems like he isn’t going to answer. A long silence stretches between them, punctuated only by footsteps and the occasional flutter of wings.
“It’s not you,” he says at last. “Not really. Spite likes attention, and Rook has been… preoccupied, as of late.”
Emmrich frowns. “Rook is entirely dedicated to our mission, I assure you.”
“Of course.” Lucanis hops from one rooftop to the next, effortless. “But things were different when I first arrived. The group was smaller then—and I think Rook liked having another Crow around. We used to spar in the evenings, or grab coffee at the café. Nowadays, however… It seems he’d rather drink tea in the Necropolis.”
Emmrich blinks with confusion. “Spite blames me for… for stealing Rook away?”
“And me, for failing at Weisshaupt. Himself as well.” Lucanis shoots a grin over his shoulder. “But mostly you.”
“But that’s absurd!” Emmrich insists. His voice carries in the open air. “Rook doesn’t spend more time with me than anyone else. We aren’t— Rook isn’t—” He shakes his head. “That’s just how Rook is.”
Again, Lucanis glances over his shoulder. What do you mean? his expression says.
“Rook is friendly,” Emmrich explains. He’s certain his whole face is red. “Charm comes to him naturally.”
He thinks of Rook’s smile. Of the offer to hold his hand. Of his first day in the Lighthouse, when Rook told him that he likes a man with experience. It was flattering, of course—but Rook is like that with everyone. It wasn’t personal. Couldn’t be personal.
Lucanis arches a brow, amused. “You think Rook is charming?”
“Isn’t he?”
The very question makes Lucanis laugh, bringing a frown to Emmrich’s lips. He’s seen Rook with their colleagues, and the allies they’ve gained across Thedas. He makes friends easily, always with a smile. Even at Weisshaupt, when anyone else would have punched that arrogant blowhard of a First Warden in the face, Rook talked him into seeing reason, avoiding bloodshed, saving lives.
Emmrich was so proud of him then. So full of hope and admiration. He doesn’t think their companions were equally impressed.
“My cousin Illario is charming,” Lucanis muses. “He flirts as easily as he draws breath. It’s wearying to watch. If Rook was doing that, I think you would know.”
They’re coming up on the Chantry now. Rook is already there, speaking with someone. Another Crow that Emmrich doesn’t recognize.
Lucanis slows his step, half turning to face Emmrich. “Look, I’m not the best person to be giving advice. My relationships are… basically non-existent. But I’m a Crow. I notice things. And Rook has a smile that’s only for you.”
Emmrich stares, his mind whirling. He doesn’t know what to think. Or how they stumbled upon such a topic in the first place.
“Hey, Lucanis!” Up ahead, the new Crow is grinning, eager for blood. “What took you so long? Did you stop for coffee again?”
Lucanis groans. With a shake of his head, he pats Emmrich on the arm. “Come on. Let’s go give Zara our regards.”
*
They return to the Lighthouse covered in blood.
Well, some of them more than others.
Bellara stands straight up at the sight of them. “What happened to you?!”
Emmrich pads silently behind the Crows. While the two of them are wet from the waist down, Emmrich is absolutely drenched. He can feel the blood drying in his hair. Squelching in his boots. His soaked undershirt, clinging to his skin.
“Zara,” he says, by way of explanation. “We found her bathing in blood.”
“Not bathing,” Rook says. “Swimming. The whole room was filled with blood, all the way up to our knees. Emmrich got the worst of it; one of her thralls knocked him down.”
Emmrich grimaces. “I really don’t wish to speak of it.”
It’s strange. For all of his experience with autopsies and embalming, Emmrich found himself utterly unprepared for Zara’s blood bath. The sheer volume of it, coagulating, filling the air with its thick, metallic scent. How it didn’t splash as much as it swallowed, sucking down his boots like mud. And when he fell, how it oozed inside of him, filling his nostrils and sticking his eyelashes together.
Emmrich shudders. He thought himself immune to the sight and smell of blood, but no. No, he is not.
Lucanis has been quiet. He stands next to Rook with an oddly neutral expression, staring off and away. Bellara’s forehead knits in worry.
“Lucanis? Are you okay?” she asks.
Lucanis blinks, as though drawing himself back to reality. He seems to absorb Bellara’s question. “Zara Renata is dead.”
He says it calmly, emotionless and detached. It’s unsettling, given how fiercely he craved Zara’s blood. Bellara shifts her weight.
“I’m… sorry?”
Lucanis sneers. “I do not mourn for Zara Renata,” he says roughly. “Only that I was not the one to kill her.”
He pushes past the rest of them, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. Bellara looks down, ashamed.
“It’s alright,” Emmrich says, reaching out to touch her arm. At the last moment, he thinks better of it, remembering the gore crusted between his fingers. “He’s not angry at you. We captured Zara, but… Things didn’t go exactly to plan.”
Bellara looks small. Sheepish. It’s hard not to think of her as one of his students, someone to guide and mentor. “What happened?”
Emmrich looks to Rook, unsure of how much he should divulge. Rook shakes his head.
“When we got to the Chantry, Lucanis’ cousin, Illario, was waiting for us. I don’t know how he learned about the meeting, but he wanted revenge on Zara just as much as Lucanis did.” Rook crosses his arms, his expression troubled. “In the end, Illario was the one who killed her. Spite was furious.”
Bellara can tell where this is going. “Oh no…”
“Spite took full control of Lucanis’ body. He nearly killed Illario.”
That’s not the full story, but Emmrich remains silent. Bellara places both hands over her heart.
“That’s awful,” she says. “Poor Lucanis! We should make him something. For dinner, I mean. Maybe paella? There’s still some spices left from the market…”
Emmrich smiles. She’s a sweet girl. Naïve at times, but her heart is always in the right place. “I’m sure he would appreciate it.”
Bellara scurries off, leaving Rook and Emmrich alone. The former is pensive, his thoughts clearly turning. The Lighthouse’s astrolabe rotates overhead.
“You didn’t tell her how Illario survived,” Emmrich notes. Rook’s eyes flick in his direction.
“No. I was hoping to talk to you about that.”
Emmrich shakes his head. There isn’t much to talk about. It all happened so quickly: One moment, Lucanis had Illario pinned to the ground, a dagger pressed to his throat. The next, Lucanis crumpled, as if all the strength had left his body.
“Illario did something,” Rook says. “He’s not a mage, but… I don’t know. He controlled Spite. Made him relent. How?”
“There are certain amulets that can control spirits,” Emmrich tells him. “It would have to be bound to Spite specifically, however. I am unsure of how Illario would obtain such a thing.”
Rook paces back and forth, puzzling it out. His furrowed brow recalls certain days in Emmrich’s youth, talking through a problem with his classmates, exchanging ideas.
“Zara said something, before she died. About Venatori and their ‘pet Crows.’ She made it sound like they were working together.”
“She could have been lying.”
“Yeah, but… Her hideout. Did you notice the banners? The statues?”
He did, in fact. When they got to the Chantry, they found a secret passageway to Zara’s hideout. She’d been holed up in an old Crow estate, full of corvid banners and artwork of winged assassins. Emmrich thought it odd at the time, but given what Zara said…
“Why would the Crows ally with blood mages?”
“I don’t know,” Rook replies. “Maybe it was defector. That estate was in pretty bad shape—maybe Zara allied with a fallen House, one that can’t afford to upkeep the grounds anymore. Either way… I think Illario’s in on it.”
Yes… That would make the most sense. It is not a comforting thought, but it is a logical one.
“He killed Zara to cover his tracks,” Emmrich says. “So she wouldn’t reveal him as a traitor.”
Rook swears under his breath. It’s unclear to Emmrich what offends him more: Illario’s betrayal of the Crows, or of his own family.
Eventually, Rook sighs. “I’ll talk to Lucanis. Make sure he’s doing alright.” He spares Emmrich a smile. “You should probably get cleaned up.”
Emmrich goes to do just that, retreating to his room on the Lighthouse’s second floor. Affectionately dubbed “The Laboratory,” Emmrich’s room is filled with towering bookshelves, old bones and vials of bubbling liquids. Some of these things, he brought from the Necropolis, but most were summoned by the Fade itself. That’s how the Lighthouse works, filling spaces to reflect its inhabitants.
As Emmrich enters the room, one of the skeletons hurries to meet him. His favorite skeleton, in fact.
“Ah, Manfred. There you are.”
The skeleton hisses in greeting. If his skull were capable of smiling, it would certainly do so now.
“Have you drawn a bath?” Emmrich asks, already peeling off his bloodied coat. His once white button-up shirt is now a sticky red, dried stiff and crusting.
There’s been some debate amongst Emmrich’s colleagues about where, exactly, he sleeps. There is no obvious bed in the laboratory, leading them to speculate that he sleeps on the autopsy table, or perhaps curled in front of the fireplace like a hound. Emmrich would never dream of correcting them. He finds the whole thing far too amusing.
The truth, however, is fairly simple. With a tug of one of his bookshelves, Emmrich reveals a hidden chamber. The room is small and sparsely decorated, containing only a wardrobe, a canopied bed, and a copper bathtub partitioned by a folding screen. Half-burned candles flicker in the corners, dripping long ropes of wax.
Manfred scuttles about the room, hissing happily. He brings Emmrich a basket for his clothes, as well as a towel and bars of soap. Emmrich rolls up his sleeves and begins the long task of removing his rings and bracelets.
“These’ll need to be cleaned,” he says, more to himself than Manfred. Contrary to what some of his companions may think, Manfred is not his butler. His duties are largely academic; mixing potions and reagents, or assisting with the occasional experiment. Making tea and filling the bathtub are, of course, the rare exceptions; Manfred so loves to boil water.
The skeleton draws up beside Emmrich, his gemstone eyes shining bright. He hisses inquisitively.
“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like to clean them?”
His head bobbles, making Emmrich laugh. “Very well. But do be careful. These are important, not for hiding or trading away. Do you understand?”
Manfred hisses again, already scooping up the bracelets and sliding them onto his own wrists. It’s obvious that no, he doesn’t understand, but Emmrich doesn’t have the heart to stop him.
Alone at last, Emmrich sinks into the bathtub. The water is warm and welcoming, easing his muscles and calming his mind. He scrubs away layers of blood and a thousand burning questions. Illario’s betrayal. Spite’s outburst. An alliance with the Venatori.
Emmrich’s eyes go to his dressing table, just visible around the folding screen. Atop is a simple black box, glowing faintly with green light. Inside is something evil; something Rook discovered in the Venatori’s clutches.
A Hand of Glory.
Only a necromancer could have given it to them. Only a necromancer could have crafted it, and imbued it with such dark magic.
Emmrich doesn’t know who this rogue necromancer is. Not really. But if he’s being honest, there’s only one necromancer in all of Nevarra capable of such monstrosity.
Emmrich sinks beneath the water and pretends he doesn’t know her name.
*
Sometime later, Emmrich emerges, dressed more casually than he’d like. Though he’s wearing at least three layers, he feels oddly naked without his jewelry. He keeps rubbing a thumb against his third finger, missing his father’s ring.
As Emmrich heads into the library, he catches the sound of voices. Rook and Lucanis, he realizes. Sitting together at a small, round table, the two appear to be cleaning their knives.
From a distance, they look like a pair. Two bookends, perhaps, posed identically, with long black hair spilling over their shoulders. The only obvious differences are that Lucanis is human and bearded, while Rook is elven, with ears that come to delicate points.
Lucanis swipes his blade over a whetstone. “It’s never been that bad before. Normally, he only takes control when I sleep.”
“He’s getting stronger,” Rook agrees. “We can’t just keep ignoring him.”
Emmrich pauses, only halfway down the stairs. They haven’t noticed him yet, not without his grave gold jangling on his wrists. He isn’t sure if he should interrupt.
Rook continues. “We have people who can help. Lots of mages. Emmrich—”
“Looks at me like a thesis topic.”
There’s no bite in Lucanis’ words, but Emmrich feels their sting. Rook rushes to his defense.
“No, that’s not… He doesn’t mean it like that. He just wants to help.”
“I know. But sometimes… It’s like he doesn’t understand. It’s my body, not Spite’s.”
“And those are Spite’s wings, not yours.”
Emmrich’s brows go up. Lucanis is equally surprised.
“I’m sorry,” Rook says. “It’s just… When you flew at Ghilan’nain, Spite was the one who carried you. He’s not a horse you can ride whenever you want. He deserves more respect than that.”
An uncomfortable silence settles over the library. Emmrich stares at his own ringless fingers, resting softly upon the banister. He hears the wisdom in Rook’s words, though Lucanis is unlikely to take them that way. His relationship with Spite is too personal, too close for a clear perspective.
It reminds Emmrich of two brothers, twins who once attended his class. You could not compliment one without offending the other. He hoped they would grow out of it, but they never did.
The only solution was to separate them. Sadly, that is not an option here.
Summoning a smile, Emmrich descends into the library. “Greetings!” he says loudly.
The Crows notice him at last. They sit up straight in their chairs, looking anywhere but at each other. It’s awkward, but at least they don’t suspect Emmrich of eavesdropping.
He gestures to the table. “Behold—an attempted murder!”
It’s a bad joke, one that they’ve probably heard before. Rook snorts with amusement, but Lucanis looks completely lost.
“It’s because there’s two of us,” Rook explains. “You need at least three crows to make a ‘murder.’”
Just then, a faint shadow appears behind Lucanis. “There ARE three of us,” Spite says.
“You are not a Crow,” Lucanis mutters.
Rook’s reaction to that is surprising. His gaze snaps to Lucanis, his expression hurt. “What did you say?”
Lucanis looks at him, confused. Rook shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m not a Crow?”
Oh. Oh!
“I believe that comment was addressed to Spite,” Emmrich explains, for Rook would not have heard the spirit’s input. A classic misunderstanding.
Spite bristles. “I’m a Crow! I fly!”
Lucanis sheaths his knife with an impatient snap. He’s obviously heard enough. With a few muttered words, he excuses himself from the table. Spite has no choice but to follow.
Emmrich stares at his hands, feeling guilty and foolish. He’d hoped to lighten the mood, but instead, he’s only driven Lucanis further away.
“My apologies. I believe I said something indelicate.”
“No, it wasn’t you,” Rook sighs. “I… should have handled that better.”
He pats the now vacant seat, inviting Emmrich to join him. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I need help attuning my orb. The magic isn’t… magic-ing.”
“You mean, you’ve sensed a blockage in the etheric flow?”
“Yeah. That.”
Emmrich sits. The table glitters with freshly sharpened knives, and tiny vials of what he can only assume is poison. As Rook passes the orb, his eyes linger on Emmrich’s forearms, his hands bereft of gold. It must be strange to see him without so many adornments, but that’s not what Rook comments on.
“That scent. Is it… jasmine?”
“Hmm? Oh—yes. I like to add jasmine oil to my bathwater.”
Rook looks away, suddenly very interested in his knife. “It’s nice,” he says quickly. The corners of his mouth tug upwards.
Rook has a smile that’s only for you.
Emmrich clears his throat, ignoring the heat that rises to his face. He focuses instead on Rook’s orb, smoothing over the enchantments and tightening the etheric channels. His fingertips sparkle with magic.
It’s nice, sitting here in the library, listening to the astrolabe and the gentle swish of Rook’s whetstone. It would be a pleasant way to spend any evening, but after all they’ve been through today, climbing over buildings and fighting Venatori, Emmrich finds himself exceptionally grateful for the company.
“What Lucanis said,” he offers gently. “‘You are not a Crow.’ I can’t help but feel that he touched a nerve.”
Rook sighs. “Yeah.”
“Because Viago sent you away?”
“Well, sure…” Rook says. “But it’s not just that. It’s that Lucanis is the one who said it.”
He runs a hand down his face, embarrassed. This is difficult for him to admit. “I get jealous of Lucanis sometimes. He was born a Crow. Born into a big, important House with a big, important name. And me? I was just some kid the Crows scooped off the streets.”
Emmrich nods, listening carefully. He understands that feeling; the indignity, the frustration that comes from being overlooked, from needing to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. As an apprentice, he had to prove himself often, not just to the other students but to the teachers who didn’t think him worthy of their time. Why bother with the orphaned commoner’s boy when Young Lord Whatshisname has a famous and very wealthy father?
Rook looks contemplative, working out the problem for himself. He shakes his head. “But that’s not fair to Lucanis. He works as hard as any of us. I need to be a better leader. That’s what… That’s what Varric wanted. That’s why he… put me in charge…”
Rook trails off, his brows coming together. Like he just heard himself, and the words don’t make sense.
Emmrich sits up a little straighter. “The fact that you recognize your jealousy is a good thing. I’m sure Varric would be proud of the job you’ve done.”
Rook doesn’t respond. He stares off and away, almost as though he didn’t hear what Emmrich said. Rook doesn’t speak about Varric often, but when he does, he gets like this. Like he’s realizing something all over again. Like he forgot that Varric is dead.
It’s not an uncommon form of grief. The bereaved often speak of the departed as though they were still living, and then the loss hits them anew.
Emmrich attempts a change of subject. “May I ask you something, Rook?”
His companion blinks a few times, drawing out of his own thoughts. He smiles brightly. “Of course.”
“Did your magic manifest before or after you joined the Crows?”
“Oh! Before. Definitely before.” Rook wipes his blade clean and stows it in its sheath.
“How did you avoid the Circle?”
Rook laughs. “The Templars couldn’t catch me! I was way too quick. The Crows noticed. Figured I had potential.”
“Are the Templars rather severe in Antiva? Or were they, back then?” Emmrich never had much experience with Templars outside Nevarra, but one does hear stories. Even now that the Circles have fallen, he’d rather be a mage inside Nevarra than just about anywhere else.
“I don’t know, actually,” Rook says. “I was too afraid to find out. I was born in Ferelden—have I told you that?”
“I did wonder about the accent,” Emmrich admits.
Again, Rook laughs. He leans back in his chair, one leg drawn up to his chest. He looks comfortable. Reminiscent. “My mother was from Antiva. When the Fifth Blight hit Ferelden, that’s where we ran. I was still pretty young. I didn’t keep much except the accent—oh! And the cheese thing.”
He grips the arm of Emmrich’s chair, feigning seriousness. “I love cheese.”
Now Emmrich laughs. “You and Harding have that in common.”
“My magic showed up around the time my mother passed on. By then, all I knew about mages was how they were treated in Ferelden. I wasn’t going to let the Templars anywhere near me.”
He reaches for a bird-shaped mug. It sits a little too close to the vials of poison for Emmrich’s comfort, but Rook takes an untroubled sip. “The Crows were smarter about it. Instead of chasing me, they gave me food and let me play with knives. I didn’t even realize I’d been caught until Viago gave me his House name. But by then, I didn’t want to leave.”
A sense of warmth curls in Emmrich’s chest, deep and familiar. He thinks of a young boy taken in by necromancers. Of gentle hands, wiping his tears. Of wisps, dancing in the gardens.
“That sounds like me and the Watchers.”
Rook’s brow quirks upwards. “Right. Our stories aren’t so different. Orphaned mages, taken in by a fancy guild… Oh! Imagine if we’d switched places! You in Antiva. Me in Nevarra.”
“Oh, yes!” Emmrich claps his hands together. Rook does know how to make him laugh. “What an image! You, the apprentice Watcher! Me, the Senior Crow!”
Rook poses dramatically, imitating Emmrich’s proper stance. “‘Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid the Crows have sent their regards.’”
Their shared laughter fills the library.
*