Where Margo visits another dungeon, learns more about what happened with the templars, and spends some time with the spymaster.
The path to the dungeons offers only the cold comfort of predictable procedure. Even the Tweedles are being fastidious — and this, in an of itself, confirms Margo's suspicion that the social world of the Inquisition is truly going to hell in a handbasket. Nothing spells sinking ship quite like overwrought and punctilious bureaucracy. The two goons march them over to the requisitions tent, where Thren, scowling under her turban, receives Margo's belongings and notes their arrival in her ledger in an oddly bubbly script. After that, Tweedledum gestures Sera over to Torquemada's tent, and Tweedledee takes it upon himself to herd Margo into the Chantry.
She looks around with a muddled sort of feeling — Haven feels both familiar and alien. The smells are the same: fresh snow, wood fires, frying onions, frankincense. Sulphur and hot metal wafting up from the forge. But the faces have changed. The courtyard is practically crawling with templars. At the sight of their telltale armor, Margo wrestles down a kind of Pavlovian response, her fingers suddenly itching for Molly, or a grenade — or a rock, for that matter — and her legs ready to carry her either to safety or into the fray. She scans their faces. Many are young; most look strained and exhausted; all sport identical expressions of wary uncertainty.
The population of Chantry clerics has increased as well. As Tweedle corrals her up the steps, strands of conversations reach her, and Margo strains her ears to catch as much as possible, in case the information might prove useful later.
"... completely irresponsible, considering that we don't..."
"... the Commander. At least measures are being taken ..."
"... what else, but blood magic..."
The temple's main hall is oddly deserted. The cavernous colonnade, previously used to receive guests and socialize, is empty of people, nothing but the echo of their footsteps chasing after them in the semidarkness.
"Where is everyone?" Margo asks, not really expecting an answer.
Tweedle shrugs. "No congregating inside the chantry outside of scheduled times. Security measures."
They walk down the steps towards the basement, and Margo wrestles with an intense, disorienting feeling of deja-vu. The first time she walked this path was after Solas had dredged up Maile's memories in exchange for her own. For a second, she isn't sure whether she ever left — whether the last month or so actually happened at all and wasn't just a demented dream, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Her mind flashes to a short story by Ambrose Bierce, one of her brother's favorites. The protagonist, a soldier, hallucinates his return home to his wife in the space of the few seconds left to him before the noose snaps his neck. Perhaps all of this — Thedas, the Inquisition, this temple — is nothing but the last fever dream of her dying mind, a liminal space in which her consciousness is lost while her body shuts down.
"We're here. Lud? You...uh... this a good time, then?"
Margo quickly snaps to.
Oh no no no. If this Lud is, as she is guessing, the local jailkeeper, questions about whether this is a good time bode very poorly indeed. She has a flashback to Generic Goon. Her heartbeat picks up. Not that Generic Goon was the worst of her problems at the time, but he certainly did not contribute much to her enjoyment of the mad magister's hospitality. This is what has been irking her about Haven. The place seems to have acquired shades of Redcliffe.
Her fears are somewhat assuaged when it turns out Lud is a she — middle-aged, rotund, with dimpled, rosy cheeks and a web of laugh wrinkles around her eyes, which in the light of the torches are an odd shade of muddy green. Half of her face is covered with blocky tattoos. And she is no more than four feet — so, Margo decides, Homo Dwarvicus.
"'Course it's a 'good time,' you blighted mushroom. If you're thinking of asking me 'bout the spiders, just come out and say it. 'Is this a good time.' Peh. And since you're here — where, tell me, is the cleaning crew? Also, the meals are late again. How am I supposed to do my job with all you incompetent nughumpers stumbling about like sun-addled deepstalkers?" She pauses in her castigations, and looks Margo over. 'Now, what's it you have with you, then? Another one?"
To Margo's utter shock, Tweedle looks apologetic. "Yes, ma'am. I'll talk to Dreyfus 'bout the meals. This is... uh... the spymaster's last prisoner."
Lud narrows her eyes. "Elven lass? Well, if it ain't a sodding collection. Got all kinds now. Just missing one of 'em horned fellows, and we'll have a complete set. And where, by the Ancestors' revered shorthairs am I supposed to put her, eh? Not with Tethras, that's for sure. And I don't think she'd like being stuck with the odd chap, not that he's ever where you left him."
"Prickly? Is that you?"
Margo practically squeals with delight at the sound of Varric's voice. The only thing that prevents her from taking off towards it is Tweedle's gauntleted grip on her arm. "Not so fast."
"Varric!" she calls out instead. "Are you all right?"
She spots movement in one of the cells. "I'm fine, I'm fine. As far as imprisonments go, this one is downright pleasant. I've had worse experiences at the Blooming Rose."
Lud makes a disapproving noise. "No one wants to hear about that . Now. What's your name, lass?"
"Margo," Margo offers.
"Eh. Well, then. Let's see what I got for you..."
"I don't mind bunking with Evie," Margo tries.
"Don't be daft, girl. As if we'd keep the Lady Herald with the common folk. I suppose that thieving rapscallion with the frost-cough ain't coming back, so you might as well take his cell. Step in here, please."
Despite Lud's jovial, matronly bluntness, the dwarven woman moves like a trained killer, so when she unlocks the door to a cell kitty-corner from Varric's, Margo doesn't argue. It's not like there's anywhere to run — she did march herself into this. She looks around. It's everything one would want from a dank dungeon. A thin pile of straw, an excremental bucket, and a couple of metal rings mounted into a wall, complete with chains and manacles. Whatever are they for? Margo's mind volunteers an entirely incongruous image of Lud parading around in a dominatrix outfit, complete with shining thigh-high boots and a riding crop. Margo shakes her head. That's it. She's losing it.
She gets a brisk patdown, during which Lud discovers Auntie's Compendium , leafs through it for concealed weapons — or, perhaps, a lockpick — and returns it to Margo.
"Not a mage, so it's not like you're going to do blood magic from a paper cut, and I don't object to reading materials. Keep it." And then she offers a brief but oddly cordial nod and walks out of the cell. The lock snaps shut.
"Hey!" Varric's exclamation is full of righteous indignation. "She can keep reading materials, but I can't have writing materials? You know, my editor's not known for her patience, and sitting in here is putting me behind on my deadlines."
Lud shrugs. "Think of it as me doing the world a favor. Now, much as I enjoy your sparkling wit, Tethras, I have a job to do. Unlike you sorry lot." And with this, their odd warden proceeds towards the exit and disappears up the stairs, Tweedle in tow.
Margo takes a few steps forward to where she can see into Varric's cell. The dwarf is casually leaning against the metal bars of his cage, his hands in his pockets.
"I hear Redcliffe was a shithole, Prickly. Glad you made it. You all right?"
"It was a shithole, and I'm fine, give or take. Varric, explain to me what's happening here. Lud is... not quite what I was expecting."
Varric chuckles. "Enough to restore your faith in the Maker, isn't she? That's because, believe it or not, Lud answers to Ruffles, of all people."
"She's loyal to the ambassador?"
"Yep. I bet there's a story worth retelling there, but I haven't heard it yet. Maybe I'll just make one up."
"Varric, I am at a loss. What is happening? Who is in charge? And what happened to Evie?"
"Right to the point, eh, Prickly? Much as I hate to step on your right to skip ahead, I suggest you start at the beginning if you want any of this to make sense."
Margo nods in acquiescence. Varric takes a step back from the bars to give himself more room to gesticulate, and settles into what Margo identifies as his storytelling voice. "I'll spare you the journey to Therinfal — it doesn't make for much of a story. The interesting bit started when it turned out that the templar commander had been replaced by an envy demon. Not sure how, exactly, but there you have it. We fought our way through the keep, slipping on rotten fruit and bumping our heads on strangely low beams the whole way — you and I both know why. I'm sure it all looked hilarious from the outside, if you like that sort of humor. My brother Bartrand would have loved it. But that wasn't the end of it. The demon, ambitious thing that it was, decided to take over the Inquisition next. Don't ask me how that harebrained idea popped into its head. To hear the Chantry say it, demons are supposed to be clever — this one must have been the exception that proves the rule."
Margo grins. "Taking over the Inquisition? Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
"Exactly my point. Anyway, it tried to get into the Herald's mind but must have not found it to its liking. Maybe it thought it was too crowded, since it wasn't the only one rattling around in there. There was another spirit, or person, or whatever else you want to call him — goes by Cole, nice kid — who decided to give Her Heraldship a hand. My advice? If ever Cole asks you if he can help you with something, run the other way and don't look back. Long story short, Envy stopped impersonating the commander, killed some templars, threw up some magical barriers, and, next thing you know, we were all charging after it, templars in tow, with exactly zero expectation of surviving."
"Because of Evie's luck siphon?"
"Heh, at that point even without the Herald's luck it was all going to the Void. That should be a curse, you know: 'May you be as lucky as the Herald of Andraste.' I'll give you the latest version of the story. We were getting overwhelmed, the demon was about to prevail, we were swimming in wounded and dying templars, Hero was out of commission with a blow to the head... The Seeker was barely holding her own, and I was out of bolts, just grenades left, and too much of a risk of friendly fire. This templar fellow, Ser Barris, charged after the demon, got a claw to the chest for his trouble, and collapsed practically on top of the Herald. The Iron Lady was occupied with holding up barriers, so by the time she made it over there, the templar wasn't breathing. And then Her Heraldness, still holding on to that dead templar, sort of waved at the demon, like she was about to bless it." Varric shakes his head. "Next thing you know, Envy — not much of a looker, that one, I can see why it thought the Lord Commander was an improvement — just... fell apart."
"Fell apart?" Margo repeats with a frown. "As in, crumbled?"
"No, Prickly. Crumbling would have been fine. I'm all for crumbling . That implies it's dry to begin with. No, no this was ..." Varric scowls in distaste. "Ever come upon one of those things you wish you could unsee? It sort of... scattered. Into uneven little bits. Wet little bits. That was the worst part. And after that, it scattered more, and so on, until nothing was left, just a sticky spot on the ground. I guess it solved the problem, but ugh. It's just wrong ."
Margo winces at the queasy feeling in her stomach. "What about the templar? This Ser Barris?"
"Ah, see, that's where the story gets really interesting. You like mysteries, Prickly? The second Envy... liquified? Vaporized? Anyway, the second it was gone, the Herald did another one of her little benedictions, and next thing you knew Ser Barris was back from the dead, fresh as a daisy."
Margo frowns, trying to construct a workable model for this bizarre narrative. Solas mentioned stories detailing this occurrence, but she had thought it an exaggeration. Is it more than a coincidence? Perhaps, if both spirits and souls are substantial in some way, then a conservation law must be in play. Does thermodynamics apply? Her mind grasps for the fragments of an old conversation — overheard by the warmth of a campfire what feels like centuries ago. Dorian had tried to theorize about Margo's own unlikely presence in their world. What had he called it? "A three-way swap."
She needs to keep focused. Cosmological models aside, the politics is what matters at the moment.
"Is that why everyone concluded Evie is a mage?
"No, Prickly, the reason everyone concluded the Herald is a mage was because of the kid. Cole. I'm sure you'll meet him soon. Until he showed up and started talking, the templars were still inclined to think that the Herald was Andraste reborn."
"I thought it was Cassandra who revealed Evie's status?" Margo frowns in puzzlement. Was that not what Solas had said? On the other hand, Solas had himself admitted that his information might have been faulty.
Varric shakes his head. "The Seeker did come out with it when we got back, but she didn't have much of a choice by that point. The gossip's been following us ever since Therinfal. Cassandra is... moral to a fault, but, sadly, no diplomat. Otherwise, I'd be telling you this story over ale."
"What did Cole say, exactly, that incriminated Evie?"
Varric sighs. "Cole's a bit... different, to put it mildly. Most of what he said didn't make much sense, but it hit the right soil, as it were. Oh, something about stopping the magic from flowing, something about 'those whose care is harmful and whose harm is careful.' Nice chiasmatic opposition, that one — I might even reuse it. The bad part of it was about the Conclave. You know, if I live long enough to write all of this down, I won't even have to embellish. 'Pain, fire. A mountain of corpses. Ash and blood. She didn't know their deaths were necessary. Her magic broken then repaired, she bears the power to mend the world.' Trouble was, he delivered all of this right outside of Therinfal, in front of all the templars, a bunch of terrified nobles, and not a few equally terrified Chantry clerics. After appearing out of thin air. Of course, by the time we got back to Haven, word had spread. It didn't help that the Herald didn't exactly take these revelations in stride."
Margo's eyes widen with the sudden flash of clarity, part of the convoluted picture finally clicking into place. "Varric, wait. Was Cole suggesting that Evie's luck siphon actually caused all that death? Skewed everyone's odds so that Evie could survive?"
"Think about it, Prickly. Hundreds burned to ash, and, right at the center of the explosion, exactly one survivor. One. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in an instant, and she didn't have so much as a scratch. Not to mention that glowing hand of hers that fixes rifts. What are the odds? Divine intervention or not, imagine how this must have felt to her. She's got qualms about killing bugs . By the time we came back to Haven, she was completely unresponsive. And that mark..."
Before Margo gets the chance to ask about the mark, their attention is drawn by the rhythm of approaching footsteps. Two figures materialize at the bottom of the stairs, both of them wearing the telltale hoods of Torquemada's scouts. Based on the long nose sticking from underneath one of them, she recognizes Asher, the snooty elven swordsman who accompanied their team in their fight against the templar camp. The other scout — a young human woman — Margo has not seen before. Behind them Lud is scowling like someone who has discovered cockroaches roaming her kitchen.
When he speaks, Asher's voice is tinged with a hint of malice. "The spymaster wants to see you."
Well, that didn't take long. "And I was settling in so nicely," Margo replies dryly.
The conversation with Torquemada starts predictably enough. Margo is led to the same room she visited during her previous encounters with the spymaster. The redhead is there, waiting at the oversized desk, and save for the dark circles under her eyes and a new sallow gauntness to her cheeks, she remains her familiar corvid self.
Margo occupies what she is beginning to think of as her seat.
After that, the rigamarole begins, but it quickly takes such a bizarre turn that Margo finds her mind drifting, barely able to follow the string of absurd commentary and even more absurd questions Torquemada levels at her. "I hear that Redcliffe was a harrowing experience. I am told you helped rescue a few mages... and a Tranquil? The Iron Bull speaks highly of your singing skills. Is Magister Alexius possessed by a demon too? Are you spying for Nevarra? It would be easier for you to simply tell the truth. Do you believe in the Maker? Did the elven apostate recruit you? How long have you been lovers? Have you read Varric's books? Have you ever been to Ostwick? How long have you known about Evelyn Trevelyan? Have you ever heard the Chant of Light in its unabridged version? What are your ties to the Dalish? Have you ever been to Cumberland? How long have you known Seeker Pentaghast?"
After some time, Margo loses track, except for the overall impression that Torquemada is leading her down the zany path of unchecked paranoia into a thicket of erroneous assumptions so impenetrable that the chances of her finding her way out are slim to none. Still, she attempts to tackle the questions in a reasonable way, though she is increasingly tempted to simply answer everything with "blue."
Finally, Torquemada pauses and glares at the two scouts standing guard by the door. "Leave us," she orders.
Margo swallows. She has no idea what comes over her — a kind of bone-deep lassitude at this Kafkaesque mess, perhaps — but the words are out before she can bite them back. "You believed me to be a Qunari spy, then a Tevinter one. Is it still Nevarra's turn, or will we be moving on to Rivain next?"
Torquemada pauses her aimless oscillations and perches on the side of the desk. Margo notes that the spymaster's shoulders droop down in a weary slouch. When she finally speaks, her words are oddly quiet. "I am not addled, agent." She fixes Margo with her pale eyes. "I do not believe you to be working for Nevarra."
Margo frowns. "Then why..."
Torquemada lifts a finger in warning. Margo prudently falls silent. The spymaster gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "captive audience."
"Cassandra would never betray the memory of the Divine, and hence she would never act against the Inquisition. Not even out of misguided patriotism. I will admit that your place in all of this baffles me, but in the grand scheme of things it is unimportant. I take Cassandra's word for what it is: you reported your suspicions to her and followed her order not to speak of it to others outside of those who noticed the same patterns. Your disrespect for the chain of command is punishable, of course, but it matters little. You matter little beyond your immediate utility. We have much bigger problems."
Margo waits patiently for the rest of the soliloquy.
"Do you know why Solas and Master Adan have kept the Herald sedated?" the spymaster asks, the melodic affectations of the trained bard nothing but a faint remainder in her voice. This weary, melancholy woman is not the Torquemada Margo was expecting. "Definitely not the right droids," she mumbles and tries to see if blinking a few times might help dislodge the overwhelming feeling of absurdity. It doesn't.
"What was that, agent?"
"I heard the mark was no longer stable. And that Evie was... incoherent."
"How very well-informed of you, but I suppose you are sharing your accommodations with Varric, so that is not a surprise. At first, those were the reasons. We thought then that things could not get much worse. Quite naive of us, in retrospect. No, agent, the primary reason Lady Trevelyan remains sedated is that when she wakes she demands punishment. The Herald of Andraste believes herself the cause of the deaths at the Conclave."
Torquemada sighs and rubs her temples in little circles, the gesture oddly banal. "I cannot claim to understand what has been done to Evelyn Trevelyan. Solas believes that someone attempted to make her Tranquil when she was a child. There is no brand, so I find that rather unlikely, despite what the apostate claims about a supposed scar. But... I have seen things. Terrible, awful things done in the name of righteousness. Or love. Or faith. It might even surprise you to know that I have done some of these terrible things myself."
Margo represses a skeptical harrumph. She can think of very few things that would be less surprising, but then again Torquemada's tone is on the sardonic side.
"Attempts to conceal a child's magic are stupid, but, like all stupidity, far from uncommon. Whatever this... Cole did, it didn't simply restore her magic. It must have stripped the protection of forgetting from the traumas of her past. Becoming aware of them, all at once...Well. But, of course, the simple facts remain. If she is indeed a mage, she is untrained, un-Harrowed, and unstable. And, as it appears, immune to templar powers."
"Spymaster, I think Evie is more resilient than you give her credit for. Give her time."
Torquemada's tone turns steely. "There is no time, agent. Evelyn Trevelyan is not a well woman. I was under the impression that you of all people may care that she does not suffer needlessly. The Chantry clerics, incapable of any sort of agreement otherwise, are all convinced that she caused the death of almost five hundred souls, not counting the Divine. Worse, she is convinced she is at fault. And I am inclined to think that this might be true. You were the one to notice this purported luck distortion, yes?" Torquemada's nostrils flare with a frustrated exhale. "It matters little what I believe. What we believe. If the information Cassandra shared had not been leaked, then maybe..." She laughs mirthlessly. "We appear to have a problem with intelligencers, you see. The rumors spread like wildfire. Josephine is flooded with letters from our already scant supporters in both Orlais and Ferelden, demanding to know whether it is true that the Herald of Andraste is an untrained apostate — or possibly Tranquil, or, better yet, an abomination. Or whether she caused the explosion. Or — this one is especially inspired — whether she is a demon that feeds on death."
Margo exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding. This is a public relations disaster of truly epic proportions. Not quite what she had expected, certainly, but Margo isn't sure whether the reality is better or worse than what she imagined. More complex, certainly, but also ironically predictable. How perversely logical that, in a world that runs on it, magic would inspire such fear and loathing. "The Inquisition has a public opinion problem," she offers diplomatically. The understatement of the century.
Torquemada smiles with absolutely no humor. "The people would more readily accept an elf, or a dwarf — a Qunari, even — for their Herald. But an untrained mage of noble birth, concealed from the Circles? One with no control over her magic? One whose inexplicable and seemingly undeserved survival possibly cost us the Divine, hundreds of lives, and a chance at reconciliation?" She shakes her head.
Oh, Evie. The kid didn't ask for any of this.
"We have been hosting several emissaries from noble houses that dutifully relinquished their children to the Circles. They demand an investigation — and threaten to withdraw their financial and political support otherwise. You have noticed that we do not grow our own crops or produce our own food, yes? As things are currently, it wouldn't take much more than the opposition of two or three prominent families to establish a chokehold on trade and simply starve us out. What is more, the competing factions within what remains of the Chantry have united unanimously against what they perceive as a heretical organization and a Herald that is an affront to Chantry teachings. You saw the Chantry delegation visiting Haven, I am sure. There are those among them who are calling for the Rite of Tranquility as the only solution."
"Would you really consider this? And risk interfering with Evie's ability to close the rifts?" Margo tries, and fails, to keep the angry tremble out of her voice.
"Amusing that Solas appears to share your exact concern. It is not a decision I consider lightly, and it gives me no pleasure to entertain it. I simply fear that it might be a mercy, in the end."
"And an expedient way to placate the Inquisition's critics," Margo bites out.
Torquemada lowers herself into the chair opposite Margo and steeples her fingers, the gesture more one of nervous exhaustion than machiavellian scheming. "In truth, I am not certain that this can be salvaged. Perhaps this is the Maker's will. Only He, in His unfathomable mercy, would rain such subtle horrors on his wayward children, don't you think?" Torquemada closes her eyes briefly. "There will be no avoiding a trial. And it will most certainly be a public spectacle — we have absolutely no choice in the matter. At most, Josephine, Cullen, and I can attempt to choreograph it. But we are struggling against unfavorable odds. To put it mildly."
There must be a reason why Torquemada is oversharing. Margo seizes on the opening. "Could the trial be used to project a... different impression? To change people's hearts about the Herald? Create an illusion of strength?" She frowns. Wait a damn second. What does Torquemada mean by "choreographing?" Is this, in fact, an elaborate con? "Spymaster, do you mean to say that you are pretending to be siding with the Chantry clerics?"
Torquemada inclines her head in her habitual avian gesture of speculative interest, though the lethal edge is somewhat dulled by visible exhaustion. "A public trial needs antagonists, agent. It needs victims and scapegoats. Heroes and villains. One is only as good as one's enemies, and is it not much easier to overcome one's enemies if they are already secretly your allies?" She smiles pleasantly. "But my hands are tied as long as the Herald cannot — or will not — stand on her own."
The spymaster remains silent for a long time, lost in thought, her gaze unfocused. Margo waits. "Even if what the four of you have uncovered is true — any of it — you understand that it can never be known, yes? All rumors to this effect must be discredited. It would be easier to retain support if the Herald were a ruthless, cunning monster. But weakness? When it comes to magic, agent, weakness is the one vice that will never be forgiven. We must provide... an alternative explanation."
The former bard turned spymaster stands and pivots to the door. "This is bigger than any of us. The Inquisition must survive long enough to close the Breach. We have the templars for now, but we are unlikely to retain them if something is not done, and quickly. Already they turn a sympathetic ear to the allegations against the Herald."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Margo frowns. "Considering that I am currently imprisoned on your orders…"
Torquemada glances at Margo over her shoulder. "Conveniently for you — and, as it so happens, for me — your time at Redcliffe puts you outside of the circle of suspicion. You could not have disseminated Cassandra's report simply because you were not here to do it. It is more than I can say of others. And whatever else you are, I know you care about Lady Trevelyan. But most importantly, she seems to care for you. Perhaps you will be able to get through to her. I will arrange for you to have access. You have a day. Give me an alternative to Tranquility. If you can't, then I will do what is necessary."
"Spymaster, who else knows about this? Other than the commander and the ambassador?" Because it certainly looks to Margo like both Solas and Varric have been kept ignorant of these background machinations.
"We may not be in Orlais, but The Game is played the same everywhere. We all have our designated dances." Torquemada's smile is charmingly sweet, and all the more terrifying for it. "Tread lightly, agent. And mind your step."
This chapter was brought to you by unreliable narrators.
Next up: Well, it's only been many months and many many words, but we're finally getting to one of the big reveals, so the next couple of chapters are going to be very Evie-centric. In other words, more bad news on the horizon. :-D But most immediately for the next chapter: Solas, Adan, Cole, and venturing into the Fade, Evie, and some revelations.
