Chapter 25

Cullen

"Me, huh?" Ellana raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that means you've got a plan to get us that book?"

Dorian only chuckled. "Of course I do. It was my fault we are standing here now, so I will not allow anyone else to take credit for our daring escape."

Varania's eyes darted across their shadowed faces, finally settling upon Dorian. "What did you have in mind?"

Cullen knew he should believe them. The note he held in his pocket mentioned Dorian. His logic had told him that if Dorian and Ellana's stories lined up, then he would know who to trust. He'd even seen glimpses of his relationship with Ellana when Varania had unraveled some of his memories. A stolen kiss out on the battlements, the wind whipping her hair around her face, her lips parting for him… And yet, something pressed uncomfortably against his logic. A thrumming agitation with this very conversation. Something deep inside of himself was fighting to be released and he was sure if he let it take over, he would never regain control.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply to quiet the battle raging within. "Just spit it out, Dorian. What's the plan?"

The mage wrinkled his forehead and twisted his mustache, his eyes settling upon Cullen. "What has your small clothes in such a knot? Feeling unwell Commander?"

The truth – that he was feeling like he was being split in two, pulled apart from the insides – was difficult. His response was faster and more appropriately vague for his situation. "Slightly."

Varania nodded. "That's the red lyrium. It still has a heavy influence on you. It will take some time to free you from its poison."

Ellana stepped toward the red-haired elf, eyes wide and insistent. "We don't have 'some time'."

Dorian leaned back against the nearest cell wall. "Which is why you, my dear, will enter Corvus' room of horrors, steal the book, and come directly back here." The torchlight flickered, adding an air of uncertainty to the mage's otherwise straightforward plan. "Meanwhile, our faithful commander will report to Corvus and present the information that he has captured the 'false herald'. Then, Corvus will not be able to resist coming down here to view his prize. When he does, we will all be here waiting."

Ellana's eyebrows were knitted tightly together. "What if he doesn't come? Or if someone else comes down here first to alert him?"

"Dorian has been weakened by the Red Templars, but they haven't touched me. I can take care of anyone who might come this way," Varania said.

Ellana was obviously not convinced. "And how will I find this spellbook? This manor is huge, I could be searching for days."

"Well, it just so happens that yours truly did a little investigating before I was inconveniently locked away. Corvus keeps the red lyrium in the room below the East Tower. Trade your traveling clothes for Varania's house clothes and no one will take you for more than a slave. All of you elves look the same anyway." Dorian winked and Ellana's frown relaxed into an easy chuckle.

Then Dorian turned to him. "And you will intercept Corvus to ensure he doesn't find Ellana, because if he does, we are all knee-deep in bronto shit."

Cullen nodded. "I will just wait outside the door to his quarters, tell the servant it's urgent business if anyone asks, and wait for him to emerge. He usually heads straight to the dining room for breakfast."

"Then stall him. Do whatever you can to make sure Ellana has time to grab the spellbook and then encourage him to come to the dungeon. No guards that way. No red templars happening by."

It was a sound plan, if only he could quiet the whispers of discontent amidst his own thoughts. Should he really be helping these people? Was Ellana truly the woman he loved – the woman he still loved? And if it was really that simple then why was there so much blasted sweat beading on his forehead despite the impenetrable cold in this dungeon.

Dorian detailed the type of book Ellana was to look for and they decided on exactly how much time she might need. Varania worked a bit of healing magic on Ellana, who was still feeling the effects of the smite spells he had used on her earlier. It took longer than anyone would have liked, but Varania was able to restore some of her strength for the task of stealing the book. Ellana, who despite the healing, was still not back to one hundred percent, had more hand-to-hand combat skills than Varania. Ellana's skills would be better used outside of the dungeon, whereas Varania's magic would be just about the only weapon you could actually have space to use down in this cramped pit.

"I will find Corvus and keep him occupied for a time." Despite the flutters he was feeling in his chest, he was hoping his squared shoulders and steady face would convince everyone that he was in control… because if they knew how broken he truly was…

Cullen added a sharp edge to his voice when he spoke his last command. "Be ready when we return."

He glanced to Ellana, who offered a smile and reached out to grasp his hand. Cullen pretended not to see her touch coming and whirled away before her hand could reach his. Every time she was near, the closeness ignited feelings within him, feelings that he would rather not have at the moment. Not while he was so… conflicted.

"See you soon," she called, but he was already halfway up the stone steps.

Dawn was coming. The high windows lining the long hallway glowed purple-blue with the looming daybreak. It was still too early for much activity with most of the servants still sleeping, so Cullen strode in silence toward Corvus' quarters. The sconces lighting the long hallway still burned, their flickering light sending shadows dancing across the walls.

Cullen approached the double oak doors he remembered belonged to the mage. Even if he hadn't remembered which door belonged to Corvus, the tapestries hanging on either side of the door might as well have been a name placard. They depicted revelers holding goblets spilling over with wine, bowls spilling over with exotic fruits, and a corseted young woman, her bodice spilling over with… well, Cullen supposed the tapestries reflected the tastes of most men in positions of power. Food and women. This was Corvus' room alright.

And now, here he was, ready to wrest away the entirety of this man's life – his family, his home, his mission – for a tiny hint of a memory. A memory coupled with a feeling, so fleeting but so raw, a feeling that Ellana's motives were true and that he would follow her anywhere. A feeling that she did, indeed, mean to help and that Corvus had, in fact, brainwashed him.

But then there was the low growl of discontent coming from some dark place at the very core of himself. What if he was wrong about Ellana? The very marrow in his bones seemed to be groaning against each step he took to face those double doors. If that mage, Varania, had somehow conjured up those images. Magic masked as memory.

Cullen shuddered at the thought.

But before he had a chance to wrestle any further with his choices, the doors swung open to reveal the man of the house. Javan Corvus wore a deep purple robe tied with a gold sash and an expression a proud father might wear when his son returns home from battle. Cullen expected a look of shock at finding him this close to his doorway before even the sunlight had found its way inside, but Corvus' face revealed nothing but calm contentment. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, the only sign that he'd been recently sleeping, and smiled.

"Back so soon?" he put a hand on Cullen's shoulder. "My guards gave me the message a few moments ago that you had arrived and taken the prisoner down below."

Cullen nodded, not trusting any words that might spill out of his mouth.

"Well done." Corvus stepped the rest of the way through the doorway into the hall, closing the doors behind them. "My wife is asleep and I would rather not wake her. Lack of sleep does not suit her well."

Corvus stepped alongside him, placing an arm on his back, guiding him to walk beside him down the hall the way he'd come. "I trust you didn't run into any trouble, then?" He looked Cullen up and down once, assessing him before letting his unwavering gaze settle on his eyes.

"None at all, my Lord," Cullen said, trying not to let the knot that had settled in his stomach affect the confidence in his voice. "The false herald was alone, gathering herbs as your instructions predicted."

"Good," he said, seeming satisfied for the moment. "I have something for you."

The hall ended, forcing a path either to the left from where Cullen had come, or to the right where his quarters had been as a guest at the Corvus Estate. Corvus headed to the right. The only sound was the swishing of Corvus' robes as they trailed along behind him. The two didn't speak again until they were standing in front of the door to Cullen's room.

A dull ache crept across his forehead, settling at his temples. A pulsing, pounding kind of headache that felt less like a simple pain and more like a living thing burrowing into him. Something was not right.

"I've been working on something. A gift of sorts." Corvus' eyes gleamed and a corner of his mouth drew upward into a half smile. "I hope you find it pleasing."

Corvus drew a key from a pocket in his robes and turned it in the lock. The door fell open, a reddish glow spilling into the darkened hall where the dawn had not yet reached. Cullen pulled his eyes from the floor to the glowing-red suit of armor hanging in the open wardrobe and the tightly wound knot in his gut uncoiled all at once.

"Samson sent the schematic for the red lyrium armor before you arrived. The templars we've helped here all wear pieces of the armor, but this…"

Corvus stepped into the room, gesturing in a wide arc behind him. "This set is by far the most powerful we've managed. The smiths have outdone themselves."

Cullen clenched his fists, it was all he could do to try to remember how to stand upright. He was pretty certain his look of panic-stricken nausea was not the thanks Corvus' was expecting.

"It's… it's incredible." It was true. There was something about this armor. Something powerful in the pulsating light it heaved about the room. A drumbeat straight through to his heart. The armor was…singing to him. Calling his name through his blood. It knew him and it wanted him and Cullen needed to run, but he could only stare straight ahead.

Corvus turned, robes spinning with him. "It is, isn't it?" He strode to the far side of the room and stopped just before the wardrobe. He ran a finger over the armor's chest plate, admiring the flaming sigil of the templar order emblazoned with red lyrium across the center. Corvus' fingers found their way to the fur mantle Cullen always wore over his shoulders, even it had been incorporated into this new suit of armor. Brown leathers, steel, and glowing red and somehow his body was responding to it. The armor knew him.

"Would you do me the honor of trying it on?" Corvus' voice was nearly drowned out by the thrumming of his own pulse in his veins.

Cullen swallowed against the invisible hand that suddenly gripped his windpipe.

"Of course." He had to, he needed to feel that armor against his flesh. Taste the swelling rhythm of power radiating from it. That was why he came here wasn't it?

Cullen crossed the room and stood before the mage, who had picked up the breastplate first. "It should fit over the leathers you wear. Your measurements were taken when you first came to us."

Nodding, Cullen fumbled with the straps on his armor. Corvus snapped a finger and suddenly, two servants appeared, unbuckling and lifting his own chest plate off in seconds. His fur mantle caught on a strap and the lithe elf gave a twist, loosening it, along with a piece of paper he'd had tucked underneath in his pocket, sending both items fluttering to the floor.

Before Cullen even realized what had fallen, Corvus was bent over, retrieving the creased parchment. Over the heads of the two elves who were busy straightening his new armor, Cullen saw Corvus' lips tighten into a hard line. The paper he held was weather-worn and sweat-stained from riding so close to its bearers' skin. He could just make out the ink staining through the paper where he'd let his quill sit a moment too long as he thought of the perfect words to write to her. He'd scrawled those words in this very room. He remembered.

His letter.