Rather unusual for an autumnal morning, the air was humid. The chilled earth transmogrified the water vapors rising from the Waking Sea into a thin layer of fog, making all of Val Royeaux feel otherworldly, like the Fade.
Three wooden grandstands had been erected by the training ground on the east side of the palace. They were filled to the brim with nobles and imperials all waiting to see the blessed Herald of Andraste, otherwise known as the great Inquisitor, spar with the Commander of the Inquisition's forces.
The exhibition was planned by Josephine to show off the Inquisitor's finesse as a warrior, thereby imprinting his potency on everyone's minds. Another way to boost the Inquisition's prestige and convince the Orlesian nobility of Tharin's worth notwithstanding their less than enlightened view on his half-elven lineage.
Tharin considered this no different from part of his daily routine, which included a practice sparring with a templar soldier, and was quick to agree to it. In fact, it was he who suggested that Cullen fight him for the exhibition.
Cullen watched as Orlesian soldiers brought the practice weapons and lined them up against a grandstand. The Inquisitor and the three advisors formed a ring, discussing the order of events to follow.
The Inquisitor started, "Is everything ready?"
Josephine nodded. "Yes, I have received the news that all the foods have been allocated across Orlais. And I have sent a third-party messenger to Ostwick." A thin smile appeared on her. "You are all set."
"Good. I suppose it is time for the Commander and I to do our parts then," said Tharin as he grabbed his practice greatsword and Cullen's practice sword, leaving the heater shield for Cullen. He seemed to check the sword for something.
When Cullen lifted the shield off the ground, a cocky smirk surfaced on Tharin's visage, and the young man tossed a scabbarded sword to Cullen. Commander caught it with ease. Tharin then took off his shirt and tossed it aside as he sauntered to the center ground. A spontaneous cheer erupted as a shirtless Inquisitor emerged, and Tharin took a bow toward each of the grandstands.
Cullen sighed. Why all the theatrics?
"Come, Commander," beckoned the Inquisitor.
Cullen obeyed the command and stood on the opposite side. With his shield at ready, he began to unsheathe his sword.
As the steel emerged from its scabbard, a cold chill traveled down Cullen's spine.
The weapon in his hand was no practice sword. It was real. The edges were sharp and deadly, enough to cut through flesh and tendons like they were nothing. And it appeared to be just Tharin and he who knew about this. Everyone else was blithely unaware, eagerly waiting for the two men to start fighting.
"Wait, this–"
Before Cullen could ask for the actual practice sword, Tharin lunged at him with all his might. The Inquisitor's strength was animalistic. It was all Cullen could do to block the greatsword. As their weapons crossed at an impasse, Cullen noted that Tharin's greatsword had dull edges. He begged, "Please stop."
And Tharin answered, "No!"
They broke from each other, but the Inquisitor was clever. He attacked right away, giving the Commander no choice but to fend off those moves. If not for the hits that kept on coming, Cullen would have shouted for a premature end to the exhibition.
Even though Tharin wielded a practice sword, the thrusts were still dangerous. They came fast, but they were calculated. They came in from directions that Cullen knew were exposed. One of them came underneath the heater shield, and if this were a real battle, Cullen would have been felled. The next moment, Cullen had to hop over to the side and push Tharin away with the heater shield. And then Tharin's greatsword drew a wide arc before striking the shield. The force of the hit elicited dull pain that reverberated through Cullen's arm.
Tharin was no longer the impatient warrior with tentative moves the man knew back at Haven. Toughened up by the many expeditions, the young man was nimble and merciless.
As they sparred, Cullen quickly evaluated the situation. Tharin had become someone who relished in the prospect of death. And Cullen would lose from winning against the young man. His victory would mean a serious injury to the Inquisitor, if not outright death.
How could Cullen possibly fight under this condition? How could he possibly win?
Fortunately, Tharin's attack pattern remained consistent, and Cullen could now focus on dodging and parrying entirely. A dodge, a hit to the shield, and a pushback. And as soon as he saw an opportunity in the form of a few feet between his sword and the Inquisitor's greatsword, he took it.
With his heart at his throat, Cullen threw his weapons down and held up his hands. "I yield! You win!" His sight kept blurring from the sweat that seemed to rain down upon his face. His shirt was soaked through.
The grandstands broke out in priggish applause. The Inquisitor looked self-contented as he spun toward the audience and lifted his faux greatsword with his right arm, letting its tip extend skyward. The edges, blunt as they may be, caught the morning light and gleamed. The applause intensified, but not by much. The audience had no clue as to just how close the man came to the death's door.
Once the applause died down, Tharin sheathed his weapon and addressed in his booming baritone, "I extend the Inquisition's gratitude to Her Radiance, Her Royal Highness, and the good people of Val Royeaux! Please…"
The Inquisitor's voice petered out into a moment of inexplicable silence. It persisted a second too long, and the crowd began to whisper.
Cullen could see Tharin's jaw clinch before he began again in a different tone, "Please, um…" A shakier tone beneath which lurked dread. Cullen was certain only a few people noticed the change. But it was clearly there. He turned to find Leliana's face hardened in the sea of nobles.
That sliver of fear disappeared behind the veneer of confidence as the Inquisitor picked up from where he left off, "Please allow me to inform you that every single stalk of wheat, every single grain of cereal that has been distributed in Orlais is my gift to the Empire! The Inquisition shall not seek compensation!"
The grandstands erupted into rapturous applause. Many, including Empress Celene and Princess Adelia, stood as the rousing ovation continued.
The Inquisitor, barechested and bejeweled with sweat, approached the middle grandstand and jumped up the stairs until he reached the imperial box. He then hopped over the enclosure that separated the imperials from run-of-the-mill nobles and knelt in front of Princess Adelia. His face was expectant.
The Princess offered her gloved hand, which the Inquisitor took with both his hands before planting a deep kiss on the back. Cullen remembered Josephine's reprimand after the formal introduction at the palace gate. A bow was an appropriate form of greeting at the Imperial Court; a kiss on the back of the hand was inappropriate, almost risqué between two unmarried persons. And this one lasted a good long while, certainly far longer than what would be considered proper.
The nobles once again broke out in whispers. To them, this must have been a scandal worthy of tawdry circulars. Something ripped straight out of the Randy Dowager Quarterly. A rich fodder for the Game.
But the Inquisitor looked earnest, and the Princess looked pleased.
Eventually, the Inquisitor let go of the hand, stood up, and bowed deeply. The Princess answered with a demure curtsey.
The exhibition was over, and the nobles obtained what they came for – fighting, dramatic pronouncements, and a scandalous show. They began to file out of the training ground one by one. The excitement in the air dispersed, replaced by gratified tranquility of people treading and discussing amongst themselves.
And Cullen's chest ached. At Tharin's recklessness, at the façade of a devoted fiancé he must don.
He cut through the exiting crowd of nobles and meandered over to the part of the grandstand where Josephine and Leliana had taken seats. He found an empty spot on the bench next to the two women and plunked down. Feeling bone-tired, he slumped forward and balanced his head on his arms.
As the three advisors huddled together, Cullen spoke in a low voice, "My weapon was real. The Inquisitor switched out my practice sword."
"What? How could that be?" exclaimed Josephine.
Cullen let forth whatever that came to him, and he ended up sounding flippant. "Because the Inquisitor has a death wish."
Leliana argued in an infuriatingly calm tone, "Tharin does not have a death wish. This is just another of his childish antics. He will come around."
The Commander wrinkled his brow and growled, "You know, Sister, you are right about most things, but when it comes to the Inquisitor, you seem to miss the mark a lot." He then posed a rhetorical question, "And is it all right that the Inquisitor just barged into the imperial box and kissed the Princess's hand in public… again?"
Josephine answered glumly, "I must say, that was thoughtless of the Inquisitor. I will be trying to quiet the rumors for weeks if not months." Suddenly, the divot on her brow deepened, and she said with an assuaging tone as she stared at Cullen, "I'm sorry you had to see that, Commander. Are you… all right?"
Cullen looked straight into Leliana's pitiless gray blue irises as he spat, "Please, you must know that the Inquisitor and I are just friends. My only concern is the Inquisition's reputation."
The Spymaster's countenance remained absolutely still, which seemed to reveal far more than had she made a face. Josephine merely narrowed her eyes. Without another word, Cullen kept his unblinking eyes locked with Leliana.
It was the Spymaster who turned away first.
A day had passed since the perilous sparring that led to the ruination of the Trevelyans at the Inquisitor's hands and the impromptu display of affection between the betrothed. Tharin was slated to luncheon with just Adelia today. With no other official function scheduled until dinner, Cullen took a personal day away from the palace.
He blended into the bustling streets of Val Royeaux in plain clothes with his senses alert and his dagger under his trousers. He was heading to the White Spire, a place that nominally housed the central Circle of Orlais.
But the Circle was not what summoned Cullen to this place. Tucked in the far corner of the White Spire was an annex that housed the home for retired templars run by templars. Or the remnants of the Order still extant in Val Royeaux.
In fact, when Cullen arrived at the White Spire, he was greeted by hushed emptiness. Mages had long since declared independence and departed, and templars had disappeared almost universally. An entire compound of grand towers and halls was devoid of any presence.
Despite its size, the White Spire was not hard to navigate. Every part of the complex was connected to the main corridor, and he soon found the path to the annex. After descending a couple stairs, he arrived at an entrance that seemed melancholy in its unostentatiousness. The austerity was out of place in a city as obsessed with decorations and flourishes as Val Royeaux.
All of a sudden, Cullen found himself irate. His heart thrummed painfully from the realization. After templars outlived their usefulness to the Chantry, this is where they were carted off to. A sad corner away from the discerning eyes of the public.
Cullen used the knocker and the entrance opened from the inside. There stood a middle-aged templar in her formal armor.
"Ah, Commander Rutherford of the Inquisition, we've been expecting you." A Fereldan accent. She was his countrywoman.
The templar bowed, but Cullen extended a hand. He greeted, "Knight-Captain Bennett."
Bennett stared at his hand for a moment. Eventually, her lips upturned. She gripped the hand firmly and shook it. "Welcome to the White Spire."
The Knight-Captain was assiduous with the tour. Cullen was guided into every single room within the annex, even the washroom and the laundry.
To Cullen's eyes, things seemed bleak. Everything appeared slightly worse than the amenities the Inquisition had to endure at Haven, and that spoke volumes. Templar workers looked haggard, furniture looked dusty and barely functional, and with only a few templars to take care of them, retired templars looked abandoned. Some of the walls were covered with mold, which could not be salubrious to anyone. As the tour wound down, he made a mental note to appeal for a fund from Josephine.
Cullen wondered why there were so few templar caretakers for so many retired templars, then realized these people elected to remain instead of following their leader.
"You did not follow Lord Seeker Corin," murmured Cullen, partially to inquire and partially to tell himself in order to reaffirm. Such an act of disobedience must have taken much courage.
Bennett soughed. "It's not that we did not want to, we could not." She pointed to the retired templars, many of them lying unmoving in their cots with glassy eyes. "We could not leave these helpless men and women to their fate. That is not the Maker's will." Bennett hesitated but finished in a trenchant tone, "If the Chantry won't take care of them, we will. Until we no longer can."
Cullen bowed. "I thank you for staying."
Bennett looked genuinely astonished as she waved her hands. "No, thank you. You are the first person beside our suppliers to visit this corner of the White Spire in a long, long time. And you have continued to write to us with glad tidings. Our brothers and sisters yet live and serve the Inquisition."
"I promise you, I shall make a request to divert some of the Inquisition's money to help you take care of your charges. After all…" Cullen bit his lip. "…The Inquisitor is a former Knight-Templar." It was a fact that he could never forget, not as long as Tharin continued to imbibe lyrium against everyone's advice.
"I wish I could say we do not need it, but we could use every help now that the Chantry is moribund and both the Seekers and templars have vanished." The corners of Bennett's lips rose. "I appreciate your kind gesture, Commander."
After the tour was complete, Bennett led Cullen to the communal kitchen. There, they sat at the table in the middle and drank elfroot tea and shared scones at the Knight-Captain's insistence. Cullen did feel somewhat guilty for taking the resources away from the retired templars but figured elfroot and wheat flour were ubiquitous in this part of the world.
A long sip was followed by a chortle from Bennett. "It's ironic, isn't it? We take care of those who have lost their minds to lyrium, yet we ourselves will have no one to look after us when we grow old and feeble. When our minds go, we will be on our own."
Bennett continued after another sip, "But with no mages to watch over–"
Cullen interrupted, "Mages are perfectly capable of watching over themselves. We should've been helpers, not guards." The vehemence in his words surprised even himself. Since when had Cullen Rutherford, both a victim and a victimizer of magical beings, become such a fervent advocate for mage autonomy?
Awkward silence hung in the air as Bennett let go of the teacup and gathered her hands. But she began to speak in an even tone again. Perhaps she was not as bothered by Cullen's radical view as he had expected. "I see. Well, regardless, thanks to your encouragements, we've begun to wean ourselves off lyrium."
"That's wonderful," stated Cullen sheepishly, feeling as though he had violated an unspoken code of conduct in the Templar Order by defending the mages.
Thankfully, the woman did not belabor the point as she moved on to the next topic of conversation smoothly. "Don't get me wrong, it has been very difficult. But everyone agreed that quitting lyrium was the best course of action for us."
Shocked, Cullen asked, "No one resisted?"
"No one."
A disappointment coalesced into a foul mood in Cullen. Part of the motivation for Cullen to visit this place was so he could figure out how to make Tharin quit lyrium. But that was a long shot anyway. Cullen would not be able to force Tharin to do anything the man did not want to do himself.
He asked again to confirm, "So, you did not have to force anyone to quit then?"
"No, not at all."
Mindful of how his tone was turning gloomier, Cullen nevertheless persisted, "Has… has any of you noticed any dramatic improvements in memory? If a templar had begun to forget things, has stopping lyrium helped at all?"
Bennett seemed to be searching as she stared at Cullen. Several seconds passed before she blinked and informed, "I'm truly sorry to say that we have not noticed that kind of improvement on those with advanced lyrium dependency. Memory problems persist."
"…I see."
"I hope this isn't overstepping, but… is this about yourself?"
"No," Cullen denied vigorously only to lose the fervor the next moment, "No, this is about… someone I care for."
An obvious sympathy surfaced on the Knight-Captain's visage. She tried to be supportive. "Perhaps this will help. We have those with lapsed memories carry a little notebook with them. They write down the important things, and we train them so that they will automatically flip through the notebook if they forget something." She nodded. "You could get her a notebook and a quill. That is… unfortunately the best we can do."
Why were there never simple answers? Cullen felt his body somehow turning heavier as he mumbled, "I understand. Thank you, Knight-Captain."
It was not just the elfroot tea that left a bitter aftertaste in the man's mouth.
Cullen left the White Spire without any concrete way to help Tharin overcome his lyrium dependency. But he did not leave completely emptyhanded. He left with a newfound realization about himself.
As he strolled the narrow alleyways and wide boulevards of Val Royeaux back to the Palais Impérial, Cullen contemplated. It was not five years ago when he was working to control the mages of Kirkwall under Meredith Stannard's stewardship. Now, here he was, defending the concept of mage autonomy to a fellow Knight-Captain at the center of templar world.
Cullen could see that fear drove many of his actions in the past. Indeed, fear was ever present. Fear of magic, fear of mages, and fear of demons. Fear was weaved into the very fabric of his conscious by his templar teachings and Uldred. Kirkwall only reinforced it and drove him to serve the Chantry without questions.
But the injustice of the Circles caused so much suffering. All those mages and templars – all breathing, living people – killed to maintain ersatz peace just a few more years. Tharin lost Kyre. Cullen lost his humanity. Red lyrium ravaged the ranks of templars. Was the peace derived from fear ever worth all the suffering?
Yet, fear would always be there in Cullen. Because it had become such an integral part of him, he could not simply incise it off. There was not an insignificant part of him that still distrusted mages and their ability to control their arcane power. He did advocate against recruiting Redcliffe mages, did he not?
Still, his time in the Inquisition had taught Cullen that mages and non-mages could coexist without a repressive regime. Freed from restrictions of the bygone era, Redcliffe mages fought in the war against the Elder One with as much bravery and dedication as their warrior and rogue comrades. Some partners in battle even became romantically linked.
Vivienne, Solas, and even Dorian, a necromancer, demonstrated impressive skills that were only enhanced by self-control. Fear was no longer the dominant feeling when he spent his time around those three. And the autonomous mages led by Fiona successfully managed their own, making sure all received the training they needed to fend off possession. Quite different from the many Harrowings he had participated in.
The thought of the Harrowing put a grimace on Cullen. He saw in his mind the pained faces of the mages who failed their Harrowings. The mages Cullen had to kill with no mercy. Those were the days that led to his bleakest hour. Fear was integral and indivisible from his darkest self forged in the halls of the Ferelden Circle.
Just as free mages demonstrated their capacity to self-govern, Cullen could do better than his fear dictated. He had to do better.
If not for the Inquisition, then for himself.
Adelia de Verchiel considered herself wise beyond her years. She was under no illusion that an arranged marriage would be successful on its own. No, like a sapling, it would need to be nurtured in order to survive.
But she had one advantage: she was determined to be happy no matter what.
Meeting the Herald of Andraste has confirmed her belief that she was preordained for happiness by the Maker. Here was a man who looked like he had leapt out of the pages of romance novelettes she read so frequently – a straight nose, thick eyebrows, emotive blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lightly crimson lips that were surely adept at kissing. A warrior whose muscular body held many scars from the battles won.
After the rustic outdoor luncheon, at which the Inquisitor looked dashing in his adventurer's outfit, Adelia gifted him with a pink rose. As she closed in on him to wedge the rose stem in the coat pocket over his musclebound chest, she blushed remembering the man's naked, glistening torso.
Was this what love felt like?
And after that audacious display at the training ground, the Inquisitor was even bolder with his gestures now. Instead of pecking her hand, he dispensed a lingering cheek kiss, which did not help with her flushed face. Never mind the Inquisitor's overpowering lavender scent, the man was perfection personified.
The man whispered in Adelia's right ear, "I shall be delighted to accompany you to dinner tonight as well. Until then, I bid Your Royal Highness a good day." She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow down. As the man walked away, Adelia stared at his wide back.
With the Inquisitor gone, there remained only Adelia and Lady Élisabeth de Montbelliard, her lady-in-waiting and confidante, at the luncheon table. Well, servants were moving about here and there, clearing the table and laying out a tea set, but they did not count. They were elves, after all.
Not that Adelia had anything against elves. In fact, with the Inquisitor being half-elven with an undeniably elven name – Haretharin, how exotic –, Adelia may as well be a friend and the liberator to the elven race.
As Adelia shuffled back to her rattan chair, Lady Montbelliard relaxed her posture and muttered, "He's laying it on thick."
She decided to ignore the spiky comment and began instead, "The Inquisitor is a handsome man, but he does stink. Lady Laval has told me that all that perfume is to mask the smell of unclean game meat he has to eat to survive up in the mountains."
Élisabeth snorted in amusement. "Please. Carine's got a brain that can barely tell the letters V and W apart. I doubt that is the reason for the liberal use of the lavender."
Adelia tilted her head in curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"I would wager that it has something to do with his templar background." Élisabeth now leaned forward on the table and shrugged. "Do not be disheartened. It is not at all unusual for templars to have strong scents. But they are fine."
Élisabeth's musings did not constitute a sufficient answer to the mystery of the Inquisitor's aromatic overindulgence. But Adelia had other questions. "And why did the Inquisitor pause during his speech at the training ground? That was not an appropriate place to put an emphasis," observed Adelia, to which Élisabeth just looked away without answering.
In the end, the Princess decided these issues were not important and dropped them altogether. She gazed at her confidante and waited until she spoke again.
And speak again she did, in an urgent tone. "I do think it would be prudent for Your Royal Highness to set the wedding date for sooner rather than later. Orlais could use an ally like the Inquisition to end this conflict."
That was her intention in any case. Adelia nodded, "I shall correspond with Lady Montilyet and finalize the date for before the year is over. Perhaps even before Satinalia."
As the bright autumn sun shone down upon the two women, quietude reigned. After soaking in the sunrays, they decided to take a short constitutional around a small garden.
During their walkabout, Adelia casually linked arms with Élisabeth, and the other woman responded by intertwining their hands.
Lady Montbelliard asked without turning, "Just curious, what is your impression of the Inquisitor?" She paused and looked up to the sky before adding, "The rumor is that he favors the company of men in particular."
"It hardly matters to me. I believe it is a quirk of his character, nothing more." Making sure her chin pointed upward and her profile looked as appealing as possible, Adelia continued, "And I am confident I can turn him. He shall love me and only me."
Élisabeth was silent. For far too long actually. Ultimately, she spoke in a warm voice, "I wish you and your Herald all the luck in the upcoming nuptial."
"I am grateful for your blessing, Lisette."
I shall be happy, Adelia was adamant.
END NOTE
I'm proud of Cullen for that realization. The sort of enlightenment that a former templar like him needs.
Next up, Tharin and Cullen's final adventures in Val Royeaux involving a Baroque ballroom and a hunting party, coming on September 26.
If you like this, please give Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) a try, which is nearing its conclusion - four chapters left!