Chapter 13: Manipulation
Adrian wasn't sure how long he lay there. Seconds? Months? Decades? It didn't matter. The mind has a tendency to wander, but when there's nothing to wonder about, it simply empties. Time becomes irrelevant, even more so when there's nothing to do.
It was almost alien to be completely alone. Before a few minutes ago, his daughter had kept him company. Before then, Mouse was ever-present, invading his thoughts even when he sought solitude. Before Mouse, the mages and templars of the Circle Tower had always been a few steps away. In the Circle Tower, there was no such thing as privacy.
But now there weren't even birds chirping, or small animals rustling through undergrowth. All that surrounded Adrian was an eternal white. No distinguishing features, no recognizable up or down. There wasn't even air, as a mental projection of oneself needed no such physical sustenance.
Truth be told, no situation in real life could replicate such an empty state. There was no physical stimulus, nothing to fix your vision upon. There weren't even any more memories to walk through, to re-experience. All he was left with was confusion.
And then he started to sleep.
His dreams spoke of times long forgotten, nights of keeping watch in camp with Leliana, or drinking with Alistair and Oghren, or chatting about philosophy with Sten, or arguing with Morrigan. Even though the threat of imminent demise hung over every moment, every painful step, Adrian still missed it.
In a way, being recruited by Duncan was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It saved him from a life of subjugation and emptiness. Without Duncan, Adrian would have lived and died a nobody in the Tower, accomplishing nothing.
He would never have saved Ferelden, he would never have met Rayne. But he would also wouldn't be stuck in the mind of a Pride demon.
Adrian knew why this happened. He drew too much power from Mouse in the final battle with the Archdemon. He lost control in exchange for power. He killed Urthemiel, but lost himself in the process. Morrigan's ritual was useless after all, and had produced... something else.
His daughter didn't refer to herself as human, or even as Urthemiel. She had a superior intellect, fighting ability and the biting sarcasm of her mother. As much as Adrian tried, he couldn't understand the way she thought, the way she acted. At times she'd seem saddened by cruelty, and other times seem utterly unaffected or even joyful around it.
In truth, Adrian had no clue how much time had passed, he'd been asleep too long to know. A whiteness had been replaced by blackness, emptiness, left to his thoughts for time unknown. His daughter could already have lived out her lifespan and he'd be none the wiser.
She was a mystery in every sense of the word. She was the daughter of an abomination, imbued with the soul of the Archdemon of Beauty, mothered by a woman with no humanity. How would she turn out? How would she influence the world? Adrian couldn't tell.
But now his sleep was ending, a light breaking through the cracks of his vision. Except... he could see a ceiling? And someone was shaking him?
"Adrian, wake up. Please, hurry." Eyes had now shot open, but Adrian didn't do it. He turned his head in alarm... no. He didn't. He couldn't move his head. He move any part of his body, but he was moving still.
"Mother... why are you waking me so early...?" The voice that escaped his lips was familiar. It was his own... but not. Too high pitched and irregular. He was... a child? "I can't even see the sun yet..."
Adrian's eyes, or what he thought was his eyes, opened wide. A familiar face stood over him, a worried expression adorning it. A face Adrian had not seen in an eternity. His mother, rushing him to awaken, stood over him. Already she was starting to help him get dressed.
This was a memory, one of his childhood. Back before the Circle Tower, before his magic... before...
"Make sure you put on the extra sweater, son." His mother left him then, retreating to another room of the house. Adrian felt himself stand, straightening his shirt. There was someone banging on the door, yelling.
He knew this memory. It was not a happy one.
"Mother... Mother? Who's at the door?" And now he was maneuvering through the cramped space of his bedroom, struggling to get into the living room. "I'll get it, Mother."
"No!" And suddenly she was there again, ushering him back. Adrian could feel his face crinkle in confusion. "Stay here. I'll get it. Just... don't be a nuisance to our guests, okay?"
Adrian's head nodded, a tuft of black hair swinging into his eyes. As his hand removed it, his mother unlatched the door, revealing two imposing figures in shining silver armor, the Sword of Mercy emblazoned proudly upon the chest plate. One, a woman with a fierce expression, and the other an older man with a stern expression. Adrian thought he could see a sandy-haired boy meekly standing a few feet behind them.
"Lady Amell." The woman in armor stood at attention, surveying the house. Likely she was already regretting addressing her as Lady, considering the shoddy, moldy nature of the house. "We're here for the boy."
"Wha-but why? Did he get in trouble with Master Harriet again? I-I've already scolded him for stealing his tomatoes..." Adrian could see the worry on his mother's face. At the time, he had no idea why, but now he understood the scene much better. She was afraid.
"You are aware of the incident with Sergio a few days ago, aren't you?" The lady didn't change the expression on her face. "Your son has displayed signs of magic use, nearly killing the poor man in the process. We're here to take him the Circle Tower."
"You can't! You're mistaken!" His mother was shouting now, Adrian thought he could see water in her eyes. "My son has done nothing wrong! He's a good kid... He isn't a mage!"
"It is my duty as a Templar to protect Ferelden from mages like your son. This is for his own good, as well as the good of all the nation." Adrian could feel himself back up. He stumbled over a cup on the ground, falling to the ground with a loud thud, knocking over a chair. The female templar snapped her head towards where Adrian lay, taking a step towards him.
"He's my son!" His mother blocked her path, gripping her arm. A mistake. The female templar's other hand shot out, landing a metal-plated backhand across Adrian's mother's face. She fell back, knocked to the floor, where she lay with a shocked, numb expression on her face.
"Ser Henric, grab the boy." The other templar strode towards Adrian, grabbing his arm and pulling him upwards, more gently than Adrian had expected. Adrian struggled, calling out to his mother, but Henric kept him in place. The gentleness was a facade.
"Lady Amell, this is for your son's own good. He is a danger to society and must not be permitted to jeopardize the safety of this village with his continued presence." His mother didn't respond, only hanging her head, a steady stream of tears running down her cheeks. "You will never see him again. This is the way that it has to be."
The female templar strode out of the room. Adrian could feel his own eyes fill with tears, anger in his heart at the woman. Adrian could feel his child-form's emotion. He wanted nothing more than to run to his mother, to escape from the cold grip of Ser Henric as he dragged Adrian outside.
"Mommy!" Adrian called out, struggling in vain. She didn't even look up. She seemed empty, defeated. "Mommy!"
A visage of tragic proportions, it seemed. Adrian knew that all the Fereldens who could possibly have witnessed this scene would overlook it as necessary. Their views were tainted with the mistake that mages were evil, vile creatures that could turn into abominations at any moment.
What Ferelden wouldn't see was a mother torn from her only child. They wouldn't see the evil in the templars actions. And forever after, Adrian always held this thought in his mind. As he trained as a mage, ever watched by the templars, he never forgot the templar's actions. They were given viability by their false prophet, Andraste. They abused this power with the false front of protecting the masses.
Adrian swore on that day, despite being only six years old, that he would have his revenge.
ooo
Bann Rodrigo, minor lord of the Landsmeet, vehement opposition against Adrian. For all intents and purposes he was useless, despite his nobility. But his death could serve a far greater purpose, from what R said.
Saul didn't care why R wanted this particular man dead. All he cared about was Myr, but R still explained it. R liked talking.
Bann Rodrigo had too much empathy. He cared for the sick, he cared for the poor, the elves, everyone. He donated money to orphanages, and overall made himself a saint. And thus he had to die. The blame would be put on Adrian, weakening his status and, by extension, the tolerance the people held for him
According to R, Rodrigo was too passive to accomplish anything against Adrian, but he certainly talked a lot. He held conferences discussing the brutality against elves, the poor, police abuse, on and on about problems Adrian caused. But he would do nothing.
Saul spit. Men who talked and did nothing disgusted him. It was better to get the sword wet with the blood of enemies than to bat your eyelashes and hope the opposition disappears. Violence was beautiful. Pain was understandable. Sitting at a gilded conference table with a large number of other useless, fake nobles, discussing peaceful revolution but making no action would only make oneself out to be pathetic.
Bann Rodrigo held weekly banquets for other noble friends of his, those who identified with his pacifist ideals. They would eat, drink, and chat for hours while heavily intoxicated. Saul was going to crash the party.
The garb of the servant Saul left lying in a ditch fit easily enough, if a bit loose about the cuffs. He was already in the main kitchens, a vial of poison hidden up his sleeve. There was a slight sense of nostalgia about his poisonous mission. As a teenager he'd slip laxatives and other such wonderful concoctions into the drinks of those he didn't like, causing boundless distress. Of course, his current mission was far more dangerous, and mischievous intent wasn't what drove him.
These men would die because they had to, according to R. Their lives served no purpose, but their deaths could amount to so much more than they ever could in life.
"Garçon! Get yourself moving!" The Orlesian head-cook twirled his knife in front of Saul, drawing him from his thoughts. "The master is unforgiving if we're even slightly late. And do not forget the condiments! Bann Theodora puts ketchup and sugar on everything, and she throws a fit if they're not available!"
"Um... Right." Saul bowed his head slightly to acknowledge. He couldn't help but feel as if the rushed nature of this kitchen was similar to the one Nan managed back in Highever. If she was always in such a hurry, it was no wonder she snapped so easily...
Saul grabbed a tray of food carefully, making sure to balance it. It was harder than it looked, and elevating it above the sea of elf heads in the kitchen made it all the more difficult. Finally he emerged in the hallway, turning right. A few doors down was the dining room, where he could hear the nobles laughing, the clinking of their plates, cheers.
He felt his throat tighten, remembering the parties his mother and father would throw. They weren't much for delicacy, so they would be lively, disorganized drinking fests. Everyone would laugh, dirty jokes would be told every few seconds and the laughter was too much to not succumb to.
The young Cousland suppressed his memories. It wouldn't serve him well if he choked up now, just as he was so close to his target. He stepped out of the hallway and into the dining room, met with the chaos that was the drinking revelry of nobles. 8 men and women sat at a long table. All except the man at the head, Rodrigo, held large drinking pints.
"My lady." Saul bowed as he bent over the table, struggling to set the tray of food down in an empty space without disturbing the noble he was leaning over. The lady, if she could be called that, was hard to maneuver around, taking into account her considerable size. He accidentally nudged her shoulder, making her drop the chicken she was about to stuff in her mouth. "Excuse me, my lady."
"Hey! Boy!" She called out, just as he turned away. "Don't just 'scuse yerself and walk away! Apologize!"
Saul gritted his teeth, slowly turning. The fat slob had somehow rotated in her chair, and her voice had captured the attention of the other nobles. He had no time for this. If he missed the drinks, he wouldn't be able to poison Rodrigo.
"I'm sorry." Saul bowed curtly and turned away, striding towards the door. He didn't go far before a fleshy, flabby hand gripped the jacket of his waiter outfit. This woman was interfering!
"That ain't enough. I want you on yer knees, boy." Saul turned slowly, struggling to keep himself from punching her.
"I wonder if you'd even be able to do that, considering everything." Saul didn't mean to say it, but it came out anyway. A gasp erupted from the table. The fat lady's face went slack as she realized it was an insult, then it contorted in rage.
"How dare you insult your superior!" She slapped Saul. Hard. "Do you know who I am? Do you know how far below me you are?"
"No. And I couldn't care less. Considering your ugly mug, I wouldn't even want to listen to you speak. All that fat jingling about when you yell..." Saul leveled his gaze with the chubby lady. Silence fell over the dining room. Saul knew he was jeopardizing his chances to kill Rodrigo, but he couldn't help himself.
"That's quite enough!" A high pitched voice sounded, just in time to prevent the fat woman from screaming. It was Rodrigo, who had stood, slowly walking over to Saul. "What's your name, servant? Why are you being so rude!"
A pathetic man. His reputation of wothlessness preceded him, it seemed. Rodrigo emanated uselessness. Suddenly Saul agreed with R. It was better for him to be dead than alive. Still, the Bann kept moving forward. He was much shorter than Saul, but he got in his face anyway, replacing the fat lady.
"That is Lady Vena, of House Pardu!" Rodrigo's voice fell to a sharp whisper, lecturing Saul. "Show respect or I'll throw you in the dungeons! Apologize immediately and I may only give you lashes!"
Saul noticed an elf serve enter the room, wine and beer on his tray. Saul was too late. He'd missed the drinks. Oh well. He'd have to murder Rodrigo the old fashioned way. Luckily, the man was only inches away.
"No." Saul slowly shook his head. Rodrigo's eyes bulged in anger as he prepared to yell. He didn't get the chance.
Saul grabbed a knife from the table, plunging it into Rodrigo's neck. A dead-on puncturing of the jugular vein, if the bleeding was to be trusted. Fatal.
"Adrian sends his regards, Rodrigo." Saul pushed the dying man away, punching the fat lady as he bolted for the door.
Now he had to get out.
ooo
"How much further do we have to go?" Rayne asked, trudging along in the filth of the sewer carefully. The last week hadn't been kind, as the Alienage wasn't very hospitable. Rayne holed herself in her father's old house after forcibly evicting the current residents. She avoided all outside contact until Zevran approached her with news that Shianni had located the rebels.
"Not far, so shut up." Shianni's retort was quick and sharp in tone. Rayne glared forward at the red head. She had changed greatly since the time before Vaughan's attack. Gone was the jovial, alcoholic red head who cracked inappropriate jokes and lacked all social graces. Now she was somber, had gray-streaked hair and bags under her eyes. Shianni was no longer Shianni, mirroring how Rayne no longer Rayne.
"That's pretty rude, my love." Zevran smiled, glancing back at Rayne. The assassin was hardly understandable. He was completely driven by money it seemed, yet, almost ironically, he wound up chasing after Shianni's tail, who was ruined by it. Was he leading her on, just another source of enjoyment? Or did he genuinely care about her? Not that it should matter. Personal relationships didn't matter in business, and killing Adrian definitely counted as business. Maybe it was for the best for Rayne to detach herself from Adrian emotionally. Zevran too. One can never be too careful. After all, tragedy changes people. Some become more violent and reckless. Others withdraw. Still others mask their pain with jokes and lackadaisical attitudes.
Adrian, Shianni and herself. Three people that had been changed in epic proportions, for reasons most normal people wouldn't possibly be able to fathom. Darkness has a way of reaching everyone. Their hearts were clouded by horrible events in their life. But how did Adrian change so drastically in so short a time? And Shianni...
Rayne wasn't sure about how she should feel about Shianni. The red-head was her cousin, after all. They grew up together, played together constantly. They drank together, fought together. All that changed with 40 sovereigns.
Looking at Shianni now, following a few steps behind where she walked, eyes fixated ahead while Zevran joked, Rayne felt sadness. Regret.
It was alien to her. For the last year, she had brushed aside all that happened with rationalizations, excuses and deception. It was Rayne's fault this happened. If she hadn't taken Vaughan's offer, she would be back in the Alienage now. She never would have met Adrian, never been betrayed by him. She would never been imprisoned. Soris would be alive...
"This is it." Shianni and Zevran stopped at the red-head's word, as did Rayne. Shianni reached for the wall, pushing in an unseen stone. The wall reacted, shuddering as a door revealed itself in the stone, opening as a heavy grinding sound resonated through the sewer walls. In seconds, an opening showed itself where stone was before. Shianni strode in confidently.
They walked in an even darker tunnel than the sewer, if that was even possible. The curious, green light of Zevran's didn't do much to provide light, so they were forced to stumble about in the darkness. It didn't help that the floor was uneven.
After another few minutes of walking, Rayne thought she could see light up ahead. A thin line on the floor, illuminating a foot or so out from itself. A doorway. When they reached it, Shianni turned the knob slowly. It screeched and squeal, revealing a... prison?
The whole room seemed oddly familiar. There was a guard leaning against the door on the far end, looking to be asleep. His armor had a crest... Rayne wasn't sure why it looked so familiar, but she definitely recognized it.
Shianni strode up to the guard, tapping him on the shoulder. He dully acknowledged her, unlocking the door slowly, falling asleep against the wall again when it was done. The three elves passed through, the door slamming shut behind them.
And suddenly Rayne wished she had her weapons. The reason for the familiarity now made sense. Two men stood before them, unmistakable.
"Greetings again Rayne, Zevran." R nodded his head at each, a smile hidden under his green hood. "How nice of you to rejoin me. I believe you've met Taoran?"
ooo
If one wanted gossip, one went to the Gnawed Noble Tavern. And so Ryal sat, seated at the bar with a pint in hand, surrounded on both sides by drunks wailing about the various issues they've had in their lives.
As always, the tavern was filled with people. Made sense, considering no other tavern was active in the Market District. Ryal looked about, checking for conversations. If he listened in on one of them, he knw he might be able to discern the current state of affairs of Denerim, which is what R wanted him to do.
"They say Adrian's the one who stopped the rebuildin' of Fort Drakon." The patron to Ryal's right grumbled to another, taking a long swig of ale from a pint. "The man ain't doing nothing for Denerim. He's like every other politician, just servin' his own interests."
"We best be getting used to it, Geralde." The other man sighed, hanging his head. "The King and Queen won't be returning from Orlais for another few months. By then Adrian will have done all the damage he'd like."
"Rumor has it that the guards have been cracking down on merchants and whatnot. They say he's looking for someone." Geralde leaned in, lowering his voice as if to prevent anyone from overhearing. As that was exactly what Ryal was doing, it was a source of great strain for him. Still, he could make out what the man said next. "The guards were all asking for the same man. A storyteller by the name of Vilhm Madon. You ever hear of him?"
"Not at all. Maybe he wronged Adrian a bit? Like saying something bad, like we're doing right now." The other man looked around nervously. Ryal averted his gaze just as they locked eyes. "Adrian sounds dangerous, you know. I hear there's people that wanna take him out, remove him before he causes any more damage, you know?"
"Maybe it's best we don't talk about that sort of thing. It's treason." Geralde leaned back, taking another long swig. "So how 'bout them trees?"
Ryal focused back on his drink, swirling the foamy liquid about. So far, R and Taoran's plan was working. That didn't answer who designed the scheme, however. As far as Ryal knew, Taoran used to have no designs for conquest. All he wanted was money. And then he brings in R and everything changes. Taoran's views change, his demeanor is less suave and he becomes much more violent. But ever since Emer was executed he just locked himself in his room, refusing most meals.
R had taken over the Irregulars, for all intents and purposes. So maybe the insurrection was his idea after all? The man was mysterious enough. He was an informant for D's carta before joining the Irregulars and was known for his impeccable information. Then he turns out to be a mage, a healer no less, and a capable fighter despite his age.
The way he spoke, the way he acted, the way he thought all seemed alien. He was irrational, playful and sadistic just as much as he was logical, serious and merciful. His actions had no pattern and his very nature remained enigmatic.
Ryal stood, depositing a few bits on the table for the pint. He suddenly knew what he needed to do. He needed to find out more about R. He needed to investigate. If he knew who he was, maybe he could figure out what he was planning, and then...
"Bann Rodrigo has been murdered!" The shout resounded atop the bustle of the tavern. All went quiet. A man, dressed in a bloodied guard outfit, stood at the door, panting. He had slammed it open, nearly splintering the wood frame. "Killed in his own home by an assassin!"
"What!" The first patron to stand slammed his pint down. It was a redheaded knight, a guard from the palace. "Speak sense, man! What happened!"
"Ser Gilmore... I..." The man visibly shook. The bustle started to return, except in renewed fervor, shouts asking what happened resounded, conversations erupting on the nature of the assassination.
"Who sent the assassin!" Another shout rang out. It came from Geralde, who had stood as well. "Who committed this foul deed!"
"They found this thing afterward." The man held out a small pin. Ser Gilmore rushed over, taking it and examining it. After a few moments his mouth hung open, his head shaking slightly. "What is it, Ser?"
"It's..." Ser Gilmore turned to the crowd in the Tavern, which now universally went silent, awaiting his response. The knight gawked again, glancing down at the pin before speaking. "It's the crest of Adrian's personal guard. If the assassin had this, then..."
"Adrian sent the assassin!" Geralde rushed forward, taking the pin. "It truly is... Adrian ordered him to die. If you hadn't found this, Adrian would have been able to say anything about it! He could have made anything up!"
"The lying bastard!"
"He's no Hero of Ferelden!"
The crowd had worked itself into a frenzy, shouting and throwing things. A few fights broke out in the crowd of patrons between those who thought Adrian innocent and those who didn't. Within moments the tavern had devolved into anarchy, a giant mosh pit started by a simple guard in a bloody outfit and a red-head making an assumption. Ser Gilmore disappeared into the crowd, vanishing amongst the violence.
Ryal stood by the bar, avoiding flying chairs, cups, forks and people. The mercenary withheld a compulsion to laugh, instead just smiling and shaking his head. After awhile, he mumbled to himself.
"Damn it, R. You're good."