Spellbound

4. The Villa on the Graveyard

Lavellan kept his eyes peeled the entire trip to The Iron Bull's home. He memorised the edges and corners they took and kept an eye out for methods helpful to his escape. It seemed the Bull took him through the back alleys of the city, hiding his shady business from the crowded streets. Suspicious shadows in pointed hoods brushed past them and the dubious dealers selling questionable goods from their doors looked after Lavellan with their cold eyes.

The city reeked of magic. Not in the same way the Emerald Graves did. Rather than subtle undertones in the rich scent of wood and resin, Tevinter stunk of blood and foul eggs. Every corner screamed blood magic to Lavellan, and he shivered whenever his mind strayed to imagine what the basements of these houses may hold. Death shrouded the streets like a cloak, but the Tevinters wore it fashionably. It was a daily occurrence to them, nothing to fret over and nothing to fear. The fragility of anything less powerful than them was a bothersome inconvenience.

Lavellan scrunched his nose at a nasty note. His stomach churned, giving a displeased grumble when everything it had smelled in two days was filth and death.

"No worries, we'll get you some food as soon as we are home," the Bull commented. Lavellan nearly broke his spine in his attempt to push himself up to glare at the back of his head.

"You speak a language I speak, right? It would be rather... bothersome to me to learn a new language to converse with you."

At Lavellan's silence, the Bull barked out a laugh. It echoed between tall walls that were just far enough apart from each other to offer space for the Qunari's shoulders.

"I think you just don't want to talk to me. It's fine. I bite only if you want me to." His roguish voice assumed a teasing tilt at the end that didn't match his stormy appearance and scary baritone.

Frozen in dread about what that innuendo might mean, Lavellan hung from his shoulder like a dead fish. The Qunari smelled of coal and iron; it wasn't too bad. He was no mage either, so Lavellan wondered if he had been snatched by a travelling merchant. If the Bull left Tevinter, Lavellan might have good chances to flee.

Unless the Bull had grown up here. In that case, he might be nobility, like the mages they saw tonight. But would he travel these dangerous streets alone without proper spells to protect him?

Lavellan had a million questions, but he remained stubbornly silent. The Bull took it with humour and hummed under his breath as if this were no disastrous situation. It bothered Lavellan, but not enough to break his silence.

Nights in Minrathous were bright. Outside from the torch-lit shine of the main street that peeked through the gaps between the houses from time to time, the sky was lit with the artificial, mystical glow of magic that seemed to seep through the stone. Lavellan bet powerful artefacts hid in the pointed towers of the massive mansions and offered a field trip for anyone practising magic.

Enough lyrium to feed an army of mages with might beyond drunkenness surrounded them. Tevinter's favourable relationship with Orzammar, the nation of the dwarves, supplied them with mountains of treasure and lyrium. Its presence made Lavellan's head swim as his sensitive nerves picked up on the penetrating aura of magical vigour.

Lavellan was relieved when they left the city, for the night became clearer and the overwhelming intensity of the town's magic eased. He could see the stars now and their elaborate signs gave away just how much further north he was than usual.

The city became smaller behind them as the Bull carried Lavellan past tall city walls and golem statues, over a bustling bridge, and up the shore through the dark fields. He didn't startle at the call of lonely animals on the search for dinner, and he didn't light a lamp to ease his vision. Perhaps Qunari had good eyesight in the dark, even when short half their view. Lavellan didn't know them well enough to know.