Chapter Eleven: Shadows of the Blackmarsh
Rylock's party reached Vigil's Keep by nightfall. The grey walls were like a crown of stone, with every tower a mighty jewel set in the diadem. Twelve jewels, all flying the flag of Arl Nathaniel Howe. The gate was flanked by two of them; two massive, buttressed towers pierced by arrow-slits, placed there to guard the open mouth of the gateway. Faint light behind the two arrow-slits created the impression of eyes. They gleamed brightly for a moment, as if their movement had attracted the attention of some slumbering beast. An official-looking man in dark green livery took one look at Rylock's party and promptly waved them through.
She realized they were expected - the Arl had left Denerim for Vigil's Keep a week earlier. Revered Mother Hannah, Arlessa Isolde and the three elderly mages had all taken some time to prepare for the trip to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They rode through the cavernous opening, past the armed men, through the jagged teeth of the portcullis. The entryway appeared to inhale them.
Inside, the courtyard was awash with activity – Rylock and Harith dismounted and saw to their horses. A Templar knight who didn't care for his own horse was of little use to the Maker. When Harith turned to Rylock, some trick of the oil lamp softened his features, cast his eyes into strange, secretive shadow.
He said, "I envy these animals. We say they're less intelligent than we. Don't you think it's more like innocence? We puzzle and pose. We talk, but don't listen. We look, but don't see. These two are what they are. No questions. No recriminations. Just loyalty."
Rylock nodded absently, one hand stroking the big, brown backside of her gelding, Ripples. She, too, preferred animals to people.
Ines, Sweeney and Irving headed for the main hall. The Wardens – Guillaume Caron, Loghain, Aveline Vallen, Carver Hawke, Alim Surana, Sarela Aeducan, Sigrun and Oghren – were clustered together. Only Alistair was absent; the young man had flatly refused to serve under Guillaume Caron - blaming him for betraying Rillian to the Chantry - and had last been seen at the Gnawed Noble tavern. Seeker Leliana, Sister Justine and Brother Genetivi stood to their left, while the Guerrins – Eamon and Isolde – appeared the only party members used to the Keep.
Inside, gleaming sconces held lamps that illuminated the austere stone hallways. A mural showed a stylized rendition of Arl Rendon Howe facing down Revered Mother Bronach, who had sided with King Meghren during the occupation. Rendon Howe had hated them passionately after Mother Bronach had stood by while Byron Howe was killed, the castle sacked. He had sent Nathaniel to grow up in Kirkwall, where some argued Meredith had grown too fond of worldly power. Rylock's conscience warred with her loyalty – her determination to concede no weakness in the woman she had loved. Conscience won out. Meredith had taken temporal power – unfitting for a Templar knight – but, then again, the Howes would say anything that weakened their own power was evil. They had historically been opposed to an international Chantry – the organization Rylock loved and had spent her life defending – seeing it as inimical to Ferelden independence. Wrought of gleaming brass, the lamp holders represented sharks. They balanced on their tails, holding chains in mouths studded with silver teeth. The lamps dangled from the chains. Soft, wavering light created regular islands down the passages. The oil they burned was scented with herbs; Rylock recognized thyme, bay, and the prickly dustiness of sage.
A handsome middle-aged man greeted them. "Arl Nathaniel Howe is expecting you. Oh, excuse my manners. I am Varel, Seneschal of Vigil's Keep."
Rylock recognized Garevel, Captain Rullens and Sergeant Maverlies as soldiers who had followed Nathaniel into battle against the darkspawn – since inheriting from his father, the young man had rewarded loyalty. The men who had been loyal to Rendon Howe were nowhere to be seen.
Nathaniel Howe was waiting for them atop a dais in the main hall. It could not be called a throne, of course – Amaranthine was an Arling of Ferelden, not a city state like Starkhaven - but she did not think the similarity was an accident. She did not bow – as a Knight Commander she bowed only to the Divine, and knelt only to the Maker – just strode forward and said bluntly,
"Arl Nathaniel Howe: I am come to collect the mage, Anders."
The memory of how Anders had ended up in Howe's custody rankled...
...The Tower of Ishal was cold, spacious, severe, pale and remote. Pillars like oaks and doors like the gates of the Golden City. And, in the midst of all this splendour, the dilapidated people. Rylock herself: heavy-eyed, her blood-spattered tunic more black than purple. All her men not on the battlements or in the courtyard: stained and creased like bundles of dirty laundry. Wynne: in a stupor of fatigue. Harith's colour was sickly, his fingernails bitten down so far he had drawn blood.
Rylock addressed the gathering: "Brothers and sisters in the Maker's service, I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that we have suffered a terrible defeat. We are surrounded."
She struggled to find the words to tell them of the death of Knight Commander Greagoir.
There was a muffled noise. Ser Bran had bolted for the doors. The look on his face was wild and frantic.
"Stand down, Ser Bran," she said, very gently, "It is not yet time to fight. It is time to pray."
Bran didn't seem to hear her. Suddenly Wynne stood up, just a row behind. Pushed past the knot of Templars and mages and laid a hand on Bran's shoulder. "Need...stay...strong...help..." It seemed to get through. Rylock said not a word - just threw Wynne a look of gratitude.
Carroll was crying. His face was hidden, but his shoulders were shaking. Beside him, Cullen. Glassy-eyed. Grey as offal. Ines was weeping too, her head on Sweeney's shoulder.
The doors were wrenched open. Teyrn Loghain led the way, flanked by Nathaniel Howe, Warden Alistair, Teyrn Fergus, Bann Sighard and Arl Bryland. "Is everyone here?" the Teyrn barked, "Good. Then we can begin." He parted the crowd like Andraste parting the Tevinter straights - except that Loghain had to get in there and do it with his elbows. Straight down the middle, with the others trailing in his wake. The bodies surged together behind him.
Loghain addressed them, his muscles coiled with barely-leashed tension, his iron-clad boot tapping the stone.
"Rylock. We'll start with your assessment."
"General: the breach in the southern wall has doubled in size within a few hours. The ogres are relentless. My Templars are stretched to the limit holding the Western Gate. The Hurlock General will keep using his filthy magic until we choke. The remaining darkspawn attack through Lothering Forest. We won't be able to keep them out for longer than a night."
A babble of protesting voices echoed round and round the chamber the way Lake Calenhad battered the Tower during a storm.
Loghain raised a hand. The noise ebbed. The silence that fell was so heavy it seemed to crush air.
"I had reached practically the same conclusion myself. Wynne: do you have the casualty figures?"
Wynne blinked. She looked a hundred years old. "Five-hundred and twenty-three dead; one thousand and forty-five wounded."
"Maker preserve us."
Rylock made the sign of Andraste.
"Then what are we going to do?" Irving wheezed.
"I believe there's only one thing we can do," Loghain said quietly, "I believe..."
"...that we should charge from the main gates and give our lives to the Maker as Andraste gave her life for us!" Cullen: white face gleaming with sweat and devotion. Rylock could see he had not been stable since he had been tormented by demons at Kinloch Hold, and she frowned guiltily. Greagoir had insisted he must go to Wayside Ward in Denerim to recuperate. She had, instead, offered him a place among her Templars. Forcing an able-bodied young man to remain in safety while the rest of his comrades were fighting had seemed to her shockingly cruel. For the rest of his life, Cullen would have been asked "what did you do during the Fifth Blight?" - forcing him to answer that he had spent it in Wayside Ward had seemed to her unconscionable. But now she saw that Cullen's was just one more face to add to her dead. Faceless, nameless men – apostates – wavered in her mental vision; for a moment, it seemed they beckoned.
"That's insane! That's no more than suicide!" The shrill, frantic voice of Harith.
Cullen slowly shook his head. "Not suicide, Knight Captain. Martyrdom."
"Martyrdom!" Harith screeched, practically climbing the walls. As all eyes fell on him, he pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and wiped the palms of his hands on his purple sash. "Certainly it would be martyrdom," he announced gravely, "But it would also be martyrdom for the people of Denerim. Without us, there will be no-one to stand between the horde and the capital. I cannot condone such an impious action. Is it right to think only of our own souls?"
"I agree with Knight Captain Harith," Rylock said slowly, "We cannot leave Denerim to the mercy of the horde. If we meet the horde in the open, that will happen. Likewise, if we attempt to retreat. We must hold Ostagar for as long as we can."
"Indeed," Loghain said - glaring at both Cullen and Harith. "Knight Commander: I've ordered all remaining barriers put at the western gate. You and your people should stay behind them, firing at range with arrows and magic. Warden Alistair," he turned to the younger man with a feral grin, "How do you feel about taking out the ogres?"
Alistair's lips twitched in a hard-bitten grin. "I've certainly had the practice."
"Good. You're with me, then. Now: Lord Howe intends to take a small group and break out through Lothering Forest. We need a volunteer - a mage."
Rylock was somehow not surprised to see Anders step forward.
"You're in."
She stepped forward too - face like a thundercloud. "Absolutely not! That mage is a flight risk. He'll get off a paralysis spell, leave you to the horde, and be on his way out of Ferelden. I refuse!"
Anders met her furious glare with a louche smirk. "Flatterer."
Nathaniel Howe said: "If this mage has experience fleeing the Circle, so much the better. He'll have some knowledge of stealth."
"And of paralysing or stunning you as soon as you let your guard down!"
Rylock could not read the thoughts behind the silver eyes. They were pale, cool, boiling with some secret amusement. "Knight Commander," he said, with grave courtesy, "I have no intention of letting my guard down. You have the word of a Howe that, if you do not find this mage safely locked up in Vigil's Keep when you return, it will be because the Maker has taken him."
Strangling with outrage, her jaw worked several times before she managed a response. "If...if you feel it is best." The words stuck to her tongue as though they had claws but she forced them out...
Certainly, Rylock had to admit, the three men – Nathaniel Howe, Zevran Arainai and Anders - had saved them all: using a mixture of Blackpowder and magic to incinerate the darkspawn and much of Lothering Forest. She had seen it even from a distance: the sky itself turned to fire, a vast mushroom cloud that began as a single bright point then exploded outward like an enormous red disc.
Nathaniel's mouth moved. It was too tiny a movement to be called a sneer, but the piercing grey eyes chilled any impression it was a smile.
"Knight Commander: the mage, Anders, survived the mission in Lothering Forest – it is thanks to him that we are both standing here. We rode to Amaranthine together. But, last week, we took a detour to the Blackmarsh. I have always wanted to cleanse that part of my Arling from evil, and the presence of a mage seemed to me the right time. Anders was more than willing."
Nathaniel's use of the past tense went through Rylock like slow ice.
The Blackmarsh was a gloomy, desolate place on the northeastern shore of Amaranthine. Nathaniel would have had to go a little out of his way, but not by much. Like everyone, Rylock had heard the rumours the Veil was thin, that foulness seeped out of the sky like ink, that nothing could grow. It was said the Blackmarsh had not always been this way. A hundred years ago, it had been a thriving port. But its Countess was a Blood Mage who preyed on her villagers, seeking to remain young and beautiful forever. One day, the village just vanished; those who searched found burned ruins and nothing else. Since then, sightings of strange creatures and eerie lights in the marsh fuelled the belief the Blackmarsh was haunted. People said there was a green glow that solidified to a brilliant sheet that descended through the air like a blade. Like all Mother Leanna's Chantry children, Rylock had heard the stories whispered from girl to girl on sleepless nights. Unlike most, she too had dreamed of one day fighting to right this evil.
Knowing she had no talent for asking the right questions, she let Nathaniel tell the story. Of a tear in the Veil, of a Pride Demon wearing the face of the long-ago Baroness, of how it had trapped him and Anders and Zevran in the Fade. Of how the three had worked with a Spirit of Justice to defeat the Pride Demon and bring peace to the shades of the long-ago villagers.
"What became of the demon that called itself "Justice"?" Rylock asked tightly.
"He remained in the Fade, of course. I know better than to let such a creature into the mortal realm. But Anders, tragically, paid with his life. I mean to erect a statue in our Chantry in his honour."
Rylock was shocked he had told such a blatant lie to a Knight Commander. Did he think himself immune to Chantry justice? Then she remembered the Landsmeet and how he had enjoyed baiting Grand Cleric Iona. Tersely, she said,
"Did you know it is possible to tell from a phylactery whether the mage is alive or dead?"
"Ah, but acting Knight Commander Rylien asked me what to do. I had seen Anders die – I give you the word of a Howe – so I instructed her to make space when returning the phylacteries to Denerim."
Rylock wanted, quite simply, to kill him. It wasn't enough for Nathaniel to keep an apostate, as his father had done when he had used Jowan to poison Arl Eamon. No, he had refined his father's cruelty. Nathaniel had served Anders up to a demon, groomed and flattered and put him in the perfect place to become possessed. So that he could call on a "tame" abomination whenever he deemed it fit to challenge Meredith for control of Kirkwall.
But, like all his kind, Arl Howe was too complacently powerful to be taken down by an idealist. If she tried, she would only succeed in disgracing her Order and ensuring Sweeney had no-one with him when he tried to save Connor. And what good would it do anyway? The phylactery was destroyed and Anders vanished – probably given instructions to seek out Nathaniel's contacts in Kirkwall. Her one hope was to use her single night here to go to the Chantry and ask Rylien for any clues as to the mage's whereabouts. Afterwards, she would write to Meredith with a full description of Anders and what she thought had happened. Nathaniel had created an abomination and then sent it to hide out among the helpless in Kirkwall. It wasn't often she was astonished by cruelty – Erimond's Blood Control had seen to that – but Nathaniel filled her with loathing.
She nodded once, then withdrew, not trusting herself to speak. Her companions took one look at her murderous rage and wisely remained silent. She said, "Harith: you are in charge here until I return. I will be back by dawn."
She did a quick check of her equipment: Knight Commander armour, Magehunter shield, the Liberator mace and the Keening Blade longsword – memento of her battle against the demon Gaxgang in Denerim. A plain but serviceable crossbow. She flexed the fingers of her right hand: scarred and brittle as sticks. Despite the strengthening exercises ordered by Wynne, she doubted she could wield it with her former dexterity. Nonetheless, the blade had power, and seemed to shine with a cold blue radiance. She mounted a fresh horse and rode hard for the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer.
The surrounding buildings looked like shadows in the mist-shrouded night, but the Chantry glowed like dawn, awash with roseate light. A lattice of dark, winter trees hemmed the place. Rylock dismounted, tied her horse, and entered the place of worship that had watched over her childhood; all Mother Leanna's Chantry children had prayed there once a day. The place was almost deserted. Pale candles burned in the apse and transept; the arched ceiling contained a space of blue shadow. In the half-light the marble-pale statue of Andraste watched over her, arms outstretched, wrists like broken stems.
Ser Rylien, also a Chantry child – that was obvious from her name – greeted her. Her quiet dark eyes looked oddly familiar, though Rylock couldn't say where they had met before.
"Knight Commander: you honour me. Did you come in response to my posting on the Chanter's board?"
"What do you need help with?"
Rylien bit her lip. "I am sorry that my note was vague, but Amaranthine is a hotbed of maleficar activity. Details of who and what they were about would undoubtedly get back to them. I've only newly taken my vows: the more senior Templars all responded to your summons to fight darkspawn. The survivors are still quartered in Denerim. I am sorry: I know I am nowhere near qualified to be acting Knight Commander, but...there was no-one else here."
"You have nothing to apologize for. The fact the safety of Amaranthine was entrusted to a junior Templar is my responsibility. I have answered for that decision, and the punishment was just."
"No, it wasn't! Defending Ferelden from the Fifth Blight had to take precedence. I entrusted the decision to destroy the phylactery of the late mage, Anders, to the Arl of Amaranthine, and I have worked with an artist to create sketches of three suspected apostates. Did I do wrong?"
"I do not think you should have trusted the Arl with the phylactery, but if Anders is alive we will apprehend him. Working with the artist was good thinking. Come, let us begin."
The two Templars approached the dais, each with a single vial of lyrium. It had been nearly a week since Rylock's last dose; the Chantry's punishment meant she had had to husband her resources carefully. Being allowed only one vial per week had been physically painful, but thankfully she had not noticed a reduction in her anti-magic abilities or mental faculties. Harith, though, had really struggled. For someone with a five-vial-a-day habit, being reduced to one vial per week was legalized torture. Rylock could not have opposed the punishment, but she had contrived to remain ignorant of the channels he had gone through to supplement his allowance. She disliked turning a blind eye to illegal lyrium, but it had been the lesser of two evils.
She and Rylien knelt, and prayed:
"My Creator, judge me whole,
Find me well within Your grace,
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed,
Tell me I have sung to Your approval."
She raised the glittering vial, spoke the words that had been said since the beginning: "Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea." Then gave the vial to Ser Rylien. Rylien drank, and Rylock felt the wash of liquid light sear into her comrade and blaze outward like a white rose. Then Rylien spoke the same words and gave the second vial to her.
The use of lyrium to create a Templar's powers was only the physical expression of an experience and values that to her were sacred. The ingestion of lyrium was a fierce and solitary act of will, shielded by custom and transmuted by prayer. All Templars knew perfectly well that the ability to cleanse and smite came from the blue vial and not directly from the Maker - they knew also that it was their faith that transmogrified the substance - said to be the waters of the Fade - into an expression of His light. It was why teaching a Templar's powers to those outside the Order was blasphemy: to have the transubstantiation occur without recourse to the Maker. It was why Wynne's words: "you Templars aren't using holy powers; you're low-level, artificially created mages fuelled by lyrium" had hurt. Rylock had not been able to deny the mage spells Dispel Magic and Anti-Magic Burst were identical to the Templar abilities. Rylock had made peace with the realization, coming to the conclusion that Wynne had been half-right: the Maker had given mages holy powers - the ability to guard non-mages from maleficarum. "A pity you have proven so poor at it, making it necessary for we Templars - who are the ordinary people we defend - to intervene." Her retort had annoyed Wynne, naturally.
The two women went, on foot, to the Crown and Lion Inn, describing Anders and showing the sketches of the three apprentices.
"I haven't seen that fellow Anders for a week – not sure where he went."
It made sense to head to the docks; if Anders was heading to Kirkwall he would have needed to cross the Waking Sea. They hadn't gone far when a ridiculous scene unfolded.
Three young people were heading in the same direction. Two boys – one Elven and one human – and an Elven girl. The lads were in animated conversation:
"Hmmm...lizard eyes, perhaps a heart?"
"Yes, heart's blood can be useful in this type of potion."
The girl frantically shushed her companions. "Will you two cut it out! We must keep calm, act normal. Everything is fine..."
Rylock and Rylien, who had both grown up in Amaranthine, took a shortcut in unspoken agreement to head them off. They came out in front of the three adolescents.
"Halt! I am Knight Commander Rylock of the Ferelden Circle of Magi and you three are under arrest."
A crow alighted on a nearby branch, watching them and cawing spitefully. The human boy looked from Rylock to the bird then back again, as if uncertain who to be more terrified of. Rylien tried again, not understanding, but Rylock snapped, "Move!" as the crow spread its wings. She took aim with her crossbow, just as the form of the bird seemed to melt and crawl and change. Rylock smelled pitch, saw one taloned hand move in an elegant gesture...
...The fireball was a blazing corona, many times brighter than the sun. As he leapt in front of her, shielding her, Rylock saw Ser Otto as she saw him for all time: intense, absorbed, beautiful, calm and austerely bright. Then the fire took his hair, his face, his eyes, his fingertips. Rylock plunged her hands into the inferno, grabbed his shoulders, pulled him backward. The pain was sickening, impossible; the skin on hands and forearms seared to her gauntlets like meat on gridiron. The mage, surrounded by glyphs that protected him from his own magic, was laughing…
Not today. Rylock rolled, came up behind the mage, and jabbed the hilt of her mace into the back of his head. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
Helpless, the mage looked like a thin old man. Rylock knew better – raised her sword to give the deathstroke. Then stopped herself. A dangerous Shapeshifter he might be, but he had not used Blood Magic – technically, he could be returned to the Circles. She frowned, imagining the hours of guard duty, the risk he would corrupt more apprentices, the sheer inconvenience of allowing him to live. But there was no point making rules if you didn't apply them. Chantry law said a first such offence would guarantee the mage a prison sentence, but not death. Aeonar, then – until the guards decided he was no longer a threat, in which case he would go to whichever Circle could take him.
She half-dragged, half-carried the unconscious man back to the Chantry, while Rylien and the three terrified teenagers followed. Rylock opted to carry him on her own horse – in front of her, naturally - while Rylien saddled two other horses, riding with the young man who had wanted lizard eyes while the other two apprentices rode together, squabbling about whose fault this had been. It was an awkward group who rode for Vigil's Keep.
In the first cobalt light of pre-dawn, the fading moon was hidden by fine rain. By the time they reached the portcullis, the rest of the party were already up, readying themselves for the journey to Soldier's Peak. Rylock knew she had lost her chance to apprehend Anders – by the time she could return here, the mage – the abomination? - would surely have disappeared into the slums of Kirkwall. But she could not have let four apostates go for the sake of chasing someone who may or may not be alive. The scruffy glamour, the louche smile and ravenous eyes – the obsession of a Templar suffering lyrium withdrawal, or an actual real-life threat? Time would tell, she supposed, which was not a comforting thought.