9:27 Dragon, Kinloch Hold

"This isn't a good idea," said the young templar, glancing over his shoulder at the bulk of the Circle Tower behind him.

"Don't worry so much, Cullen." Alaric gave an easy grin through his new beard, the cheerfully leonine expression that had charmed half the female apprentices in the Tower, even earning a wintry smile from Senior Enchanter Wynne. "I've got a pass from the First Enchanter, and all the signed approvals I need."

"That just means you won't get in trouble if the Knight-Commander decides to take notice." Cullen frowned. "It does nothing to protect me. Remember what happened the last time your colleagues got permission to go outdoors and take some exercise?"

"Feh." Alaric held up one hand, a peremptory finger extended into the air. "I will remind you of one significant difference. Anders has half a dozen escape attempts on his record, with four of them at least briefly successful. I, on the other hand, have none. Come on, Cullen, I'm not interested in leaving the Circle. I have too much to learn here, too much to do."

That apparently satisfied the templar, who turned to look for a place to set down the satchel he carried over one shoulder. Thus he did not see when Alaric's smile froze, and evaporated like morning dew.

That was only a half-truth. I do have too much to learn to think about trying to escape. For now.

"All right," said Cullen, producing a pair of wooden practice swords from the satchel. He tossed one to Alaric, who caught it, the hilt slapping into his hand with a satisfying sound. "There's no rule against learning blade-work, even if Greagoir disapproves and most mages never take an interest. I suppose I can teach you the basics. Although I fail to see what this has to do with your magical research."

Alaric hefted the wooden sword, settling the hilt comfortably in his hand, and then stood waiting, the blade pointing to the ground by his side. "It's something I came across while translating elven documents," he said. "The ancient elves seem to have had a method for using magic to support their skills in personal combat. They didn't just become better mages. They became mages who could wear heavy armor and fight with military weapons, even while they continued to use spell-craft. Something the Circle doesn't think is even possible."

"Interesting," mused the templar. "It sounds a little like the skills taught by the Chantry's order of Knight-Enchanters. You would need to begin with some trained skill with the weapons, of course."

"Right. Which means learning something other than simple staff-work."

"I understand." Cullen squared off against Alaric, raising his wooden blade. "All right, what we have here are wooden long-swords. They are called that, not because the blade is all that long, but because the hilt is long enough for two hands."

Alaric frowned. "Do I have to use both hands to manage the blade?"

"No, not unless you want to cut or thrust with extra power, or use a technique that involves putting one hand on the blade. You said you wanted to learn a technique that kept one hand free, so that leaves out a sword-and-shield style."

"That's right. Spell-casting is hard to do with just the off-hand, but at least it's possible. With both hands full of a weapon there would be no chance."

Cullen nodded. "Let us start with the guard positions. Use a two-handed grip for now. Once you have developed more arm strength and more familiarity with the weapon, you can use a one-handed grip when you need to, but for now it's more important that you learn the basic forms."

Slowly, the young templar showed his student four basic guard positions: upright in front, beside the head, beside the hip, and with the sword-point toward the ground. Each position had a name and a number. Once Alaric became familiar with them, Cullen began calling out the numbers while the mage switched from one guard to the next.

"One. Two. Three. Four. Good. Again . . ."

Patiently, Cullen corrected the minutiae of stance and grip. Later, he began to perform slow, telegraphed attacks with his own practice blade, still calling out the numbers, tapping Alaric's blade firmly with each stroke. Before long, Alaric's face bore a sheen of sweat, as well as a determined expression.

"This is hard work," he observed, once Cullen called for a break.

"That it is." The templar grinned. "You are in good shape for a mage, but you need to develop more endurance and upper-body strength. If you are serious about this, you will need to spend time training almost every day."

"I will." Alaric frowned. "I don't think this is going to work, if you and I have to keep sneaking out of the Tower all the time."

"No." Cullen sighed. "I suppose I will need to talk to the Knight-Commander about this. In theory, he is in favor of our charges getting as much exercise as they want, but he will not to be happy about a mage learning sword-play."

Alaric felt a surge of resentment, which he carefully concealed from his friend. "Would it help if I had a word with the First Enchanter? Greagoir seems more, um, flexible with Irving than he is with anyone our age."

"True enough. Not to mention that Irving will be able to argue more effectively than you or I. The man has a positive gift for rhetoric."

Alaric snorted. "I've noticed. Let's work on this some more."

"You're not tired?"

"I have to learn not to be." Alaric took up the high-guard stance once more. "Come on."

After a time, their drills became more free-form, as Cullen taught the mage more defensive techniques and stopped telegraphing his attacks.

"I have often wondered, Alaric, just where you're from." Crack. Crack. "You don't sound Ferelden. I would guess you have a Free Marches accent."

"That's right." Alaric stepped back for a moment to mop sweat out of his eyes, and then took up a guard position once more. "Kirkwall."

"How did you end up here?"

"Well, I was in the Kirkwall Circle at first, of course. Then both of my sisters showed signs of the power, and they had to come in too." Alaric moved quickly, frowning as he blocked a pair of attacks. "Three Amells in one Circle seemed like too many, so the Chantry chose to divide us."

Cullen blinked in surprise, aborting his next attack. "Wait a moment. Amell. You are related to Solona?"

The corners of Alaric's lips turned up slightly. "Yes. She's my youngest sister."

Cullen said nothing, only returned to the attack. Crack. Crack.

"Hah!" Alaric said. "I thought so. You fancy her, don't you?"

"No!" Cullen drew back, a pale expression of shock crossing his face. "No, that's not it! I've just . . . noticed her, that's all."

Alaric gave a sardonic smile, lowering the point of his practice sword to the ground and leaning on it for a moment. "Well, I'm sure this Kirkwall accent sounds more charming coming from her. Just have a care, Cullen. She is my sister, and she's only fifteen."

"I assure you, Alaric, I intend nothing dishonorable."

"I know, Cullen. In truth, I would far rather you kept an eye on Solona than some of your colleagues. She's a talented girl, but something of an innocent."

The templar nodded in eager agreement. "I will keep her from harm."

Alaric watched Cullen for a moment, and then nodded slowly, keeping his thoughts to himself.

That's a promise you won't be able to keep. You're a templar. We're mages. In the end, it's your task to put us down like rabid dogs if we step out of line.

At least you mean well. For all the good that will do you, when your duty comes calling.

For the moment, Cullen looked somewhat relieved. "We have been at this for some time. Perhaps we should finish for the day."

"I'll admit that I'm a bit tired. I suspect I'll be stiff and sore in the morning."

"Oh yes, you will be, but that's a good thing. Your body will not improve without a certain amount of pain and effort."

"I understand. I'll speak with Irving once we get back. Do you think you'll have time to work with me often?"

Cullen nodded eagerly. "Perhaps not every day, but we should be able to have a training session at least three or four times each week. This will be interesting. You know, most of my colleagues think you mages to be soft."

Alaric clapped the templar on the shoulder. "I'll be happy to prove them wrong."

While Cullen put the practice blades away, Alaric looked around him: blue sky, birds flying overhead, green grass and grey stone. The sunlight shimmered off Lake Calenhad, all around the Tower on its island.

For an instant, the mage felt a powerful surge of temptation, almost too much to ignore. The young templar's back was turned, his guard down. A sudden blow to the back of Cullen's head, a dash for the lake-shore, and Alaric could be free.

Free.

Free for just as long as it takes the templars to send an expedition out after me. I don't know this country. I don't know the people or the terrain. I couldn't hide for long or flee very far, and then they would hale me back, and life would become far worse for me than it is now.

Besides, I couldn't do that to Cullen.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head ruefully.

Then there's the fact that I can't swim worth a damn.

When Cullen glanced back at him, wondering what had made him laugh, Alaric only smiled. He turned back, walking beside the templar in companionable silence, as he returned to his long captivity.