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Dagna held her breath as she nudged two runestones into place under her observation lens. Tiny adjustment after tiny adjustment, until—they clicked and sparked green instead of the blue she expected.
She let the breath out. “Rusted shit,” she told it vehemently, pushing back the hair in her face, glaring at the thing through the lens for a few seconds.
"Arcanist Dagna?" A voice behind her.
She jumped on her bench. The world rushed back around her.
"I did not want to disturb your work, but if you have a moment."
"Oh. No. I'm not—did you need something?" Dagna remembered being introduced to Seeker Pentaghast briefly when she arrived, but there had been a lot of tall intimidating people. It turned out she was taller up close.
"I do." She pulled out the bench next to Dagna’s and sat, reducing the distance. "Do you mind?"
Dagna shook her head.
"The Inquisitor has told me about your experiments. I wanted to ask if you could modify a sword for me. Maybe more than one."
Dagna considered. Enchanting weapons was bog-standard routine as long as you had the runes. The Seeker had to want more than that, coming to her. She ought to have something unique.
The excitement she always felt at a new project began to percolate. "You can do a lot with runes and sigils and the right extras. I've been working on going beyond the usual enchantments. Refining the glyphs, combining energies, playing with elemental resonances, amplification of forces, sharpening the lyrium’s harmonic range—" Dagna realized she was still talking. "What I mean is, you came to the right place. I sure can."
“The last time the Inquisitor closed a rift, the demons almost overran us. I will take anything that helps me protect her.” The Seeker’s expression went faraway and angry for a second, and she clenched a fist in her lap before returning her gaze to Dagna.
“That’s what I’m here for.” Dagna made her tone chirpy and reassuring. “Let me do some thinking. Is there a particular blade you like? It’s faster if I don’t have to start from scratch.”
She stood again, pushing the bench under the table, and drew the sword she was wearing. “How about this one?”
It was plain, with a worn wrapped hilt and crossguard that had plenty of space for stones. The steel was well hardened and polished, with a long fuller to lighten, and meticulously clean.
“I can work with that,” Dagna said, taking it and sighting along the blade, nearly her height.
“I will see to it you have anything else you need,” she said. “Just send to me, or Leliana or the ambassador can pass it on.” She was still a little grim-faced. Dagna hoped the Inquisitor was okay. She would have heard if not, wouldn’t she?
After the Seeker took her leave, Dagna clamped her sword to the worktable and stepped over to the writing desk to start a list, while the ideas were bubbling.
Her work on juxtaposed enchantments might be perfect for this. A series of runes that resonated together? Would they magnify the forces, in the right arrangement? And how to calculate the tolerances?
Harritt the blacksmith was up at the armory forges today, not that he seemed to be a big talker when he was around. So she had the luxury of space to mutter to herself and scribble diagrams and pace on her side of the workshop.
She would need a few things, and some of the books in the library had looked promising, and maybe she should start on a rough test blade anyway, till the geometry was stable …
An uncertain number of days later, she was interrupted quite differently when Sera descended on her, bearing a quilt and a steaming flask of something. It wasn’t the first time. She wasn’t yet past the point of delighted butterflies at seeing her, though.
The quilt was from Sera’s own room, blue and gold spoils of some Orlesian chateau. “There.” She draped Dagna in it. “You look freezing.”
She was used to towers now, and sky, although there was an awful lot of it here, not to mention all the ice. But Sera had warmed her the moment they met, with a cheeky joke that made her blush, and hadn't stopped. She reminded Dagna of the red magma lanterns back home, a comfortable bright thing in the chilly Undercroft.
Very unlike Seeker Pentaghast, who was more of a distant stately mountain peak. Possibly foreboding. No one would accuse her of being comfortable.
Dagna sat back from her work, pulled the quilt around herself, and inhaled the steam from the flask: sharp kitchen-shelf brandy and burnt sugar. The butterflies felt warmer too, recalling recent experiences under this quilt. The Circles had helped her shed some inhibitions, but it had been a while.
“Made that myself,” Sera said. “It’s good this time. Since no one’s seen you upstairs in a week.” She boosted herself onto a clear edge of the worktable. “What’s that?” She nodded at the sword amid the mess of notes, crystals, tools, and other projects.
Dagna pushed her goggles up on her head. “A week?” She thought back through a blur of trials and calculations and grinding and soldering and small explosions, counting times she slept and sandwiches thoughtfully sent with the supply deliveries. “Oh, hell, it has been.”
She drank some of Sera’s concoction and coughed. Strong on a dwarf scale. She waved at the table, clearing her throat. “It’s for Seeker Pentaghast. She wanted it enchanted. I’m almost ready to test it.”
“Ooh, is it?” Sera leaned forward to look closer. “What’s it do? Do we all get one?”
“You probably don’t want a big sword,” Dagna said, “but I can figure out something. It’s supposed to—” and she launched into a description of the theory and the design process and the magical principles involved until Sera’s eyes began to glaze over. “Sorry, boring. But it should definitely not be boring in practice.”
Sera sat back. “Well, Cassandra’d better appreciate all this work or else. She’s all right, but she still grew up noble.”
Dagna patted it and smiled. “Oh, it’s fun, not work. This sword is my week-old baby right now. It’s my favorite thing on this table.” She glanced at Sera perched next to it and corrected herself. “Almost.”
Sera wiggled her rear and grinned back at her.
“I think she’ll be happy,” Dagna finished.
“If she doesn’t give you something really nice for it, I’m telling her off.”
Dagna imagined this scene and gave herself over to laughter until Sera jumped off the worktable and kissed her forehead, friendly heat under the goggles. “Bring that back so I can sleep.”
“I owe you another jar of super bees, too,” Dagna called after her, watching her leave.
It really was almost done. She took another warming sip from the flask. Just a couple more tiny adjustments, but she was not going to sleep in the workshop tonight.
"I hope the materials we found you were suitable," said Seeker Pentaghast the next morning, ducking under the lintel of the stairway door, evidently in a better mood.
"Oh, definitely." Dagna grinned. She'd sent up notes and gotten back raw lyrium, a dark lens, silverite flux, and even a piece of stormheart ore. An arcanist could get spoiled in this place.
She gestured to the sword where it lay. She'd neatened up the table and put a cloth under it, since presentation was important to set expectations. The crystal insets were glowing prettily against the metal, all cooperating.
The Seeker’s face brightened further when she saw it, giving Dagna a rush of pride.
"This is not like any runecrafting I've seen." She lifted it in one hand, tried the balance, then made a controlled cut through the air. "And the feel is the same. What do they do?"
"I've set up a preliminary demonstration, Seeker," Dagna said, pointing.
"You can use my name, you know. Nearly everyone does except Varric.” She sounded amused. Dagna revised her mountain peak comparison slightly.
"Okay. Um, Cassandra, then? Mind trying it out over here?"
The test apparatus she’d rigged started with three iron bars lightly charged with different magical energies, hastily welded to a base. She explained how to strike them, and as Cassandra did so, the metal rang and the runes in the sword resonated, shifting color, sparking and humming.
“It feeds on any magic it touches, kind of,” Dagna went on. “And then delivers it magnified. Hopefully.”
Last was an ordinary wooden dummy. Dagna held her breath as Cassandra attacked it; but the runes discharged on cue, flaring and searing deeply into the wood. The dummy's head wobbled and hung by a few fibers, smoking.
She clapped her hands. "It worked! The effect is a little unpredictable, just to warn you. Might be fire, might be something else."
Cassandra ran her gloved left hand down the blade, looking more impressed. "It is not what I expected, but this could be very useful.” She glanced back at Dagna. “Do you know how it reacts to templar disciplines like spell purging?”
“I’d actually love to study that more,” Dagna said. “It’s a whole other branch of arcana.” None of the templars in the Circles had let her study them. Maybe she could here. She stopped herself from bouncing on her toes. “Anyway, the next step for the sword is field testing. You try it in a battle situation, and I’ll observe and refine!”
But Cassandra was already shaking her head. “That is too dangerous. I will answer questions, but not bring you to a battlefield.”
“I’ve seen demons and abominations before.”
“In Circle laboratories, surrounded by well-armed templars. It’s not the same.”
“Well, that’s why you have the sword,” Dagna said. “I just need to see what it does firsthand.”
“Hmm.” Cassandra paced to the mouth of the cave and looked out.
“I have protective gear,” Dagna added. “My own design. I’ll wear it the whole time, and keep out of your way.”
Cassandra drummed fingers on her leg, stared out at the snow for what felt like an excruciating time, then turned back to Dagna. “How about this,” she said, finally. “Commander Cullen reported that a small dragon—not a high dragon, thank the Maker—has been attacking our supply caravans from an ice cavern near here. I was planning to handle it with the Inquisitor. If she agrees.”
“Perfect!” Dagna did bounce a little. “I’ve never seen a dragon.”
The stablemen had found a mount her size for the hunting trip, a shaggy but nimble pony that kept up with the horses on the snowy trails.
Dagna rode bundled in a set of borrowed scout armor under a fur cloak, behind Cassandra and Inquisitor Trevelyan, who were talking in low voices.
Her extra-strong barrier-generating belt was securely fastened, and the rings doubled as hand warmers after some last-minute tweaks. She had a notebook ready, a waterproof grease-pencil, and a bag of well-packed grenades from the workshop.
As ready as she’d ever be to meet a dragon face-to-face. Her curiosity was still beating out her fear. The two of them had planned to fight it alone, after all; she just had to avoid making things worse. Which didn’t seem hard. Besides, she was excited to see her creation put through its paces.
They’d been riding for about an hour when Cassandra called a halt. “The attack was just over the next rise,” she said. “We should go on foot from here, and carefully.”
Dagna climbed off her pony, and they tied the horses in a copse of scrubby pines. She fidgeted with her gear while the other two checked and readied their weapons.
“It is not a high dragon, as I said. Only ten or fifteen feet long. The reports are that it breathes lightning and is unusually fast, but the soldiers it attacked were too injured to say more.” Cassandra unslung the shield from her back and adjusted it on her arm. “So, I believe you and I should flank it,” she said to Trevelyan. “I will hold its attention, and maybe Dagna should give you the grenades now.”
“Oh, sure,” Dagna said. “I brought all kinds.” She untied the bag from her belt to show them, then handed it to the Inquisitor. “Didn’t know what would help most. I’ve seen dragon parts, but not a whole live one.”
“I was in the same boat until not long ago,” Trevelyan confided. “I think we’re both really along to observe, when it comes down to it.” She took Cassandra’s other arm and nudged her, laughing.
After a moment Cassandra laughed too, in a sort of fond embarrassed tone. “Just don’t hit me with those. And stay behind us, Dagna,” she said.
To give them some space, Dagna looked down at her notebook and scribbled as she walked. The barrier fields did make it much easier to write than mittens.
When she glanced up and saw she was falling too far behind, she hurried again, remembering childhood warnings not to dawdle where things hunted. Her boots crunched over the hard snow.
They crested the rise and a screeching, earsplitting roar made her heart skip. The dragon was right there in their path, twice their size, three times hers, beating its wings, making awful noises. Its scales were dirty grey, its neck long and snakelike. Its cave loomed behind it. Dagna committed the details to memory and scrambled back out of its reach.
Cassandra and Trevelyan, on the other hand, charged forward to flank it, leaving circling prints in the snow, leading it back into the cave. Trevelyan seemed more used to this than she let on.
The way the dragon moved, preternaturally flexible and quick, filled Dagna with queasy fascination. She crouched and ran behind them and crouched again, writing as fast as her tense fingers could go, trying to catch every magical event. The dragon’s breath, crackling violet electricity through its rows of too many teeth; Trevelyan throwing tar and Antivan fire under its feet; Cassandra calling down a circle of light around the two of them; the runes on the sword flashing brighter every time she struck with it, drawing on the purple lightning as they were meant to.
But the dragon was so fast, and the battle so mobile, that Dagna was sprinting to keep her distance more than she wrote. Several times she nearly tripped on rocks and bones that littered the floor—animal, she thought.
She was writing and backing away from Trevelyan, as Cassandra attacked it in front, when she did trip, cry out in surprise, and immediately regret it.
The dragon whipped its neck all the way around, malign little eyes suddenly staring into hers. Its body undulated. She dropped her grease-pencil, scrabbling at the icy stones.
Trevelyan jumped in front of her, green-glowing hand outstretched, lighting its snout from below. The dragon snapped at her arm, seizing it in that gruesome mouth and shaking. She screamed angrily and stabbed with the dagger in her other hand.
Cassandra shouted at the dragon, and the bright rune-light of the sword followed her running. It was very bright, maybe beyond tolerances—shit—Dagna tried to calculate—and then she was beside them, lunging at the dragon’s head.
The blade skewered it, and with a palpable sizzle, the energy coalesced; a heartbeat, and then, in a way Dagna was too familiar with, it released, like thunder, crack.
Purple-white light filled her vision. Something wet and foul spattered the barrier. She coughed, spat, and rolled over, ears ringing, squeezing her eyes closed.
When she could see again, she was relieved to see Trevelyan and Cassandra both still standing, amid a blast radius of smoking gore, looking equally drenched, disgusted, and impressed.
The dragon’s front half was shredded; nothing but the hilt of the sword was left.
“You can’t say it didn’t work,” Trevelyan said, wincing and gripping her arm. “Dagna! You’re not hurt, are you?”
Dagna sat up and looked for her pencil. There it was. “No! I’m sorry. Are you?”
“Most of this blood is not hers.” Cassandra rubbed at her face with the back of her glove and only succeeded in smearing it. She frowned and began helping Trevelyan toward the mouth of the cave.
“Well, this is great! I mean, not ideal great, but I know how to fix this next time.” Dagna began to write again, chasing the details still fresh in her mind.
“I am glad to hear it,” Cassandra said over her shoulder, acerbic.
“I’ll be fine,” Trevelyan said, and hissed in pain. “Soon. Never be the idiot putting your arm in a dragon’s mouth. Take your time, Dagna.”
While they went to tend the Inquisitor’s injury, she finished her notes, examining the burnt remains of the dragon and the sword. Had the blade shattered or simply atomized? The barrier fields had kept most of the blood off her, fortunately, and when she poked through the meat, it slid off her hands; an unplanned feature.
She found one hand-width shard of steel stuck in a neck bone, then two smaller ones nearby, and decided that was enough.
Outside the cave, the wind had picked up, blowing snow across their trail back to the road. She found Cassandra standing by the horses, wiping blood off herself with what looked like an extra shirt.
“I found some pieces of the blade to take back for study.” Dagna held them out.
She lowered the shirt to look. “It was very effective, Dagna.” There was less irritation in her voice now, more resigned humor.
Trevelyan was smiling, a bandage around her arm and her face mostly clean. She scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed at her hair. “That’s an understatement. Mission revoltingly accomplished.”
Cassandra laughed, and so did Dagna.
“The next one will not self-destruct,” she assured them, tucking the shards away in the pony’s saddlebag.
On the way back, they let Dagna talk about all her planned and tentative projects, and they both paid attention and gave her useful suggestions, all the way to the Skyhold gates.
After they had dismounted and handed the horses over, Trevelyan said, “I want to ask you more about that, but honestly all I can focus on right now is a bath. Herald’s privilege. Anyone else had better get out of there.” She started toward the bathhouse, then looked back at Cassandra. “Coming?”
Dagna had to cover her smile at Cassandra’s expression. She let them go, and climbed through the courtyards toward the Undercroft entrance still fizzing with ideas, fingers itching to get started on something.
But as she was passing the Herald’s Rest, Sera intercepted her with a halloo from the roof, and between one thing and another it turned out she didn’t make it down to work.
The next morning, when she dragged Sera down to the workshop, on her table was a dark carved bottle with a ribbon bow, labeled “Hunter Fell Dragon’s Blood, 9:21.”
“This looks old and expensive,” Dagna said. “And Nevarran.” She read the note beside it. “‘My thanks and apologies. I look forward to future field tests. Cassandra.’ Aw.”
“I thought she would,” said Sera. “I said she’s all right.”
“Yeah, she is,” Dagna said. “Let’s toast her and my sword.”
She cracked the seal, and Sera found cups. It tasted nothing like actual blood, and burned pleasantly all the way down. “Now, let me show you what’s on the drawing board for you.”