Twenty-nine

The reports were all brief.

Templars and mages were in place. Mont-de-glace, what was left of it, had been seized. The Chantry had lost most of its Templars to this "Elder One" and was defenseless, the minor clerics who remained scattered and dissonant. With luck, he could find more of this Elder One's red Templars and turn them to his own cause.

The Orlesians battled each other. The Inquisition battled the Elder One.

The time was right to strike.

Raphael shuffled the papers upon his desk, glancing over the reports. Ready in Val Foret. Ready in Lydes. A setback in Verchiel, but corrections being made. Reinforcing positions in Val Royeaux. He would strike Orlais like a hammer, sudden, fierce. The people would have no choice but to submit.

The darkspawn would be excellent tools, but would not be well-received by the people. The Red Templars, he was unsure of. Their looks were horrific, but they still wore the drapings of the Chantry. It was not a face he intended to promote, but a necessary evil needed to save them all.

Florian the Fool had dragged the Empire the edge of ruin and even his cunning niece could not prevent Orlais from falling into the abyss. All was crumbling and failing.

His heart ached for his homeland.

Raphael pushed the letters aside, reclining back into the chair. His bones ached. He rolled his wrists, the joint popping and grinding with each loop, the dull aching of age and use. Carissa would be up soon to give him his daily treatment, her magic halting the advance of time one more day.

How many more days would he need to carry on this way? He was old. So old and so weary. He had already been old when the Fool rose to power. He was even older when they uncovered his plot to save the Empire by killing the cancer.

Raphael could feel the flesh at his jowls sagging, his heart growing weaker by the hour, the weakness in his body, the way his mind drifted. The time between Carissa's treatments had been growing shorter and shorter, his body responding less and less to the magic. Perhaps it was his resistance to magic, or perhaps it was his advanced age when they started that let the magic wane.

Carissa had not aged a day.

He was falling to pieces, slowly, but surely.

There was no more time to delay.

He had waited forty years.

The Seekers dragged him off the boat, hands shackled behind his back and shoved him, forcing him down to the ground just off the shore, planting their thick boots firmly into his side. Althea grabbed his hair, forcing his head into the dirt as she knelt beside him.

"Eat it, you damned snake!" she commanded, jamming his mouth down harder into the dust and ash. "You are a disgrace."

The Lord Seeker had seen to it personally to make the trip to the Sea of Ash, to place him upon the road to Penitence. The empire had wanted to see him hang. Althea had exerted her influence to seize him from the deepest dungeon of Val Royeaux, snatching him from the grasp of the Orlesians. The Fool's seneschal had flown into a rage, screaming curses the entire way down the stairs, throwing out threats he had no power to carry out.

As Althea dragged him out of the cell, she had lost her patience with the seneschal. Her mailed first shattered his jaw, leaving him bleeding and whimpering on the floor as she dragged Raphael away. She led the Seekers of Truth. She was distant blood of the Valmonts themselves. She had abandoned that name for the Chantry, but not even the church could erase blood.

No one, save the Divine herself, was above her influence, not even the Emperor.

A quick death was not good enough. Raphael could not even recall had many weeks the Lord Seeker had him tortured until he spilled the names of every blood mage, noble, accomplice who connected to his plot. He had tried to resist at first, the pain he could endure, but he could not fight the dark magic she hypocritically employed to tear every piece of information from his mind.

Killing him would have been too easy, too clean. Exile, torment, were all that he deserved.

"I hope you suffer," Althea said as she lifted his head from the dirt, spitting upon his face. "They call this road Penitence, but your sin is beyond redemption. Cry out to the Maker. Plead to Andraste. They will not hear you. You are damned. There is no salvation for you."

The other Seekers lifted him off the ground, Althea grabbed the collar of his thin, filthy shirt and tore it open, shredding the rags and pulling them away from his chest. The sun blasted, he could feel his skin burning unabated, the midday heat merciless.

"Give it to me," Althea said, motioning to the others. In her hand they planted a small device, cold, black metal, a tube of shining blue lyrium inserted near the base. The metal spread out, wavy arms surrounding the central cylinder.

The brand.

The Chantry used the device to brand the foreheads of the Tranquil, the white-hot lyrium pressed directly into the flesh, frying the mind, severing the connection to the Fade.

Althea shook the device, the blue lyrium shifting in the glass, bubbling, changing color to a shining white light. The metal began to smoke, the Chantry sunburst growing red with heat.

"Do you have any last words?"

Raphael stared hard into the eyes of Althea. He had once admired the woman, allowed her to convince him to undergo the harsh trials to become a Seeker. He was not a soldier. He was a scholar. He had served the Chantry at White Spire, just happening to stumble upon the corruption of several senior Templars. He had done what was right and reported it, because it was right. He did not ask for this calling. But he had allowed her to persuade him.

But he soon found how cold she was. She did not serve the Chantry like he had. She was ruthless, merciless, the Seekers traveling all over Thedas, leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind them. She was not holy. She was not a paragon. She was a butcher. A thug. Enforcer.

She was no saint.

"You take this message to the Divine. The Chantry is lost. It is you who should reflect and repent. I have, and always will, serve the faith. The world will burn and this lost Chantry will be the center of the inferno."

Althea's face remained hard and scornful. "You are nothing and you know nothing," she said, spitting in his face once more. "Hold him."

The Seekers grabbed his shoulders. The metal of the brand had become white hot, the lyrium inside shining blindingly bright, boiling inside the tube.

Althea pressed the blazing metal to his chest, over his heart, searing and burning his flesh. Raphael gritted his teeth but he did not scream, he did not curse. He endured, accepting the pain as she pushed the plunger, the white-hot lyrium pervading into the wound, agonizing fury as it latched into his flesh, sizzling and settling.

The Lord Seeker pulled the brand away, the others cut his bonds behind his back and shoved him forward. Raphael stumbled, falling into the dirt, the puff of dust and ash mixing in the raw, scorching wound at his heart.

They turned, without another word, boarded the ship and sailed away, never to be seen again.

Raphael lifted himself to his feet, his flesh burned, the white lyrium shining in the middle of the charred and burned flesh all around. The sun blazed. The wind stank of volcanic reek. The air was heavy with heat.

Raphael du Valen stood and took his first step upon the Path of Penitence.

He would not forget, would not die and would not falter.

"Are you ready, my love?" Carissa's voice snapped him back to the small bedroom, the pile of reports upon the table, the sunlight bleeding through the drawn shades.

He had not slept at all. He could not sleep any longer, days dragging by with no rest, the only respite an hour or two of closing his eyes, never fully drifting away.

"Yes," he said. "Lets make this quick."

Raphael pulled his shirt over his head, running his hand over the scar at his heart. The flesh had healed as it could, scars covering the white lyrium still embedded under his skin. His fingertips traced around the edges of each ray, dancing, dazzling off the red sun emblazoned at his breast.

He did not die. He did not forget. It had nearly been a century since his birth, but he did not falter.

It was the most vivid of the thousand scars that now adorned his body. There was scarcely a patch of flesh upon his back, chest, arms or legs that had not felt the sting of Carissa's ritual blade, decades of sacrifice to fuel her magic. A necessary evil for survival.

He would not allow her to have his head, hands, or feet. Everything else had been offered to her blood magic.

"Where shall I rend you, love?" Carissa asked.

Raphael leaned forward, turning slightly to the left. "The right shoulder shall be fine."

"Of course, love," she said. She stood behind him, placing her tools upon the desk. She rubbed her hands together, breathing slowly, chanting to herself in the ancient tongues to summon her power.

The knife bit deeply into his flesh, a long trail of blood spilling down his shoulder blade. She dragged downward, lifting the knife, tracing additional lines in blood as the knife cut into his skin.

More than a thousand times she had traced this rune into his flesh. He could feel the tingle as she wove her spells, the blood spilling from the fresh cuts transforming to energy, her words battling back the creeping senescence. She grew silent, her breath quickening. She placed her hand flat over the bloody wound, her nails digging like claws into the open flesh.

Carissa placed her left hand to her forehead, breathing heavily. The power pulsed into him, the very air around them grew chill, the lights from the window fading and darkening. The air moved, the Veil retreating, pulling back. The spirits pressed close at the barrier, he could feel their energy just on the other side, observing the orgy of raw, tainted power she drew through herself and pushed into his being, mending old wounds, buttressing bones, strengthening his blood.

Carissa moaned, giving herself into the orgy of power, the Veil so thin Raphael could see the shapes of shades dancing like shadows before him. The barrier pulsed, rippling like water as she pushed the magic deeper into him. Her breath was rapid, frenzied, her touch growing cold inside his shoulder. Another ripple, a punch to the Veil, a wispy finger reaching across the plane, stretching out to Raphael's face like smoke.

"Enough," he said sharply.

Carissa withdrew her fingers from his flesh, pulling away blood and bits of skin, cutting the spell. A whoosh of air spiraled around them, the light returning and the opacity of the Veil fading, fading until the other side could not be seen any more.

Carissa's body was covered in cold sweat, her breath panting.

"It is requiring more power," he said. A statement. A blatant observation.

"There are other methods, my love," she said softly. "I will seek out this knowledge in the Fade. There are many willing teachers, the knowledge can be found."

"How much longer?" Raphael asked.

She sighed, stepping forward, her fingers pinching his ear, her olive hand brushing the side of his face. "At least a year. Beyond that, I am unsure," she said sadly. "The blade cuts only scars now. The flesh is spent."

Raphael grabbed her hand, pressing his cheek against her soft flesh. Still so young, so tender. She would carry on long after him. She would have to carry on his dream, his vision, long after his death.

He had pursued her from Antiva City, tracing her footsteps through the Free Marches. She evaded him through Rialto. She had tried to kill him in Wycome. He chased her through the streets of Starkhaven, pursued her across the docks of Kirkwall, always just a step behind. She evaded his trap in Highever, crossed the border in Jader. She killed a Seeker in Cumberland before he finally caught her in Val Firmin.

Everywhere she went, she left a trail of dead Templars, all unprepared to face the force of the blood magic she so willingly unleashed upon them.

He had burned her in the street, his power coursing through her body. He was prepared to push it further, to kill her there and be done with her. Even as he burned her, her face delighted in the agony, a smirk upon the corner of her mouth, her eyes dancing as delighting as she turned the pain to power, forcing her way into his head.

"I am not your enemy." Her voice whispered through his mind. "I see your enemy laid before you, I feel your longing. Spare me, and I can help you achieve your goal."

Florian had no interest in ruling. He was introverted, incompetent, maladroit. Ferelden floundered. The Empire withered. The nobles grew bolder, pressing the commonfolk to their breaking point. The peasantry starved while the nobility feasted. The Game spiraled out of control without a strong power at the top to balance, nobles tearing each other apart.

Tevinter and Nevarra grew bolder. Florian turned his back on the Chantry. The church was damaged without the strong support of Val Royeaux behind it. The devout were forced out, the church filling with the pawns of the nobles, lesser blood acting in the interest of their houses and not of the people.

The du Valens became victims of the Game. The Knight Commander at White Spire had come from noble stock, his disgraceful removal from power echoing through Orlais. His family did not hesitate to exact their revenge upon the weaker du Valens.

The chateau burned in the middle of the night, the doors barred, his father, his mother, his siblings, all trapped within. There were no secrets who had done it and why. Florian the Fool did nothing to exact the justice demanded by a heinous crime.

As he watched blue flame consume her, he could only see the burning chateau.

He spared her. It was wrong, against everything the Chantry had taught. But he felt there was something right to it, that one small evil could be turned to do a greater good upon the world.

They had failed then.

Now he was here, at the precipice again.

He would not be denied twice.

"We invade at the next new moon."