Chapter Twelve: What Lies Beneath
AN: dark chapter. Flashback to rape and torture (nothing graphic but might be disturbing).
I am Lily, myself, alone. There is no one in this cell except me, and I am myself. I write these words each day. At Aeonar, it's wise to remind yourself of these things.
The last inmate the Templars brought was a boy, wearing velvet with one sleeve torn off. A noble from Hercinia, the whisper ran, suspected to be an apostate hidden by his family while he practiced blood magic on their servants. The Templars locked him in a cell. He ranted and cursed at them, but the rest of us grew quiet, waiting.
Aeonar is a prison designed to let things in. The Veil here is so perilously thin that even I can feel it. The denizens of the Fade gather like monstrous shapes pressing against a fine curtain. And if you are a maleficar or an apostate, you are a beacon to them, ripe for possession. Thus, the templars bring those here who are accused, but whose true nature cannot be proven. Aeonar is the final, terrible test.
Within a few days, we all heard it from the boy's cell – that horrid, gobbling shriek that never becomes familiar. The Templars were quick. Knight-Captain Brynn sees that they keep their swords as sharp as mercy. We exhaled again.
I am Lily, myself, alone. I am no maleficar, just a Chantry initiate who loved deeply, and foolishly. My lover…my Jowan…revealed himself as a blood mage and was forced to flee his Circle. I wanted to go with him. I wanted to stand by his side. He swore the rumors were false – that he'd never think of using such terrible magic. But it was a lie, one of many he must have told me.
It has been twelve months now, studying and praying in my cell or walking the halls where Tevinter mages once did their experiments. New faces arrive, and I lie awake waiting to hear that shriek. Sometimes the Templars administer…tests, as abominations can be cunning and patient. The tests leave their scars, but each time I pass. I am Lily still.
In the dawn light, the river that flowed from Vigil's Keep to Soldier's Peak was like pale luminous glass. Scattered stars still burned, disappearing as Rylock watched. Firs were a black latticework and the icy ground an empty, uncoloured paleness. Sunlight touched the tops of the white mountains, turning them to blazing silver, bright as a sword of mercy levelled at the approaching dark. Behind them, the blue shadows of the Keep shifted against the flow of light like the ebbing of water...
… The rain hissed and spattered upon her Templar armour, plastered her short hair to her scalp. Ser Guy had got a campfire going within the shelter of a small cave - he gestured her towards it, waving a languid hand.
"Gah - no apostate's going to give us trouble in this downpour. There's one thing they value more than freedom and that's their own comfort. One whiff of our cookfire and he'll turn himself in."
Eighteen-year-old Rylock relaxed and sighed in contentment, sure he was right. The fire made yellowish sparks that danced towards the heavens, seemed to become part of the first pinpricks of stars. As they shared the stew - cooked by Rylock and flavoured by Guy's Orlesian herbs - Rylock remembered his many lessons in spar, his words when she finally beat him: "Now I know why they call you Broomstick: you hit hard and sweep clean!" - the words that had transmuted the mocking childhood nickname to something to be proud of. She smiled. She wasn't smug. The ugly duckling hadn't transformed into a swan. But she had found the Maker - and He had seen her. She did not feel Him during prayer or in the Chantry. But when she sparred, or when she did His work, she was aware of His presence, close as her own shadow. Except she was the shadow, and He was light...
Rylock did not need to follow that memory to its conclusion: the apostate who was more than he seemed; her discovery that her body could be stolen, sacked, hijacked. Dignity, sanctity, sanity: Blood Control could claim those at any time. In this strange and naked world Rylock had learned two truths that day: no-one made Blood Mages do it – they weren't victims of "the system" they just liked to hurt others - and no-one came to the rescue. With the Shapeshifter in front of her – his thin reedy whine a constant accompaniment to the clatter of horses' hooves – the memory was a timely reminder. He might not be a Blood Mage or abomination – but she wasn't about to take him to Haven until that had been proven beyond doubt. Aeonar: the final, terrible test for both apostates and the victims of Blood Control. Mages spoke of it like a punishment - 'the mage's prison' - but it was quarantine.
By the time the party reached Soldier's Peak the sun was overhead and their long shadows had changed to fat, squat rings of darkness. The Keep, now owned by Channon Cousland - who had rediscovered it during his guerrilla war against Arl Rendon Howe – and lent to the Grey Wardens, was enormous. Faded flags fluttered in the faint breeze. To the right was a paddock, and three squat wooden buildings were the stables. Just beyond, a puff of smoke came from a stone chimney. It came from Mikkel Dryden's forge – one of the brothers who had helped Channon and agreed to stay on. The towering gate reared all around the Keep – its chill iron railings looked like a rack of spears made for giants to wield, their tips gilded bronze by the afternoon sun. Two figures patrolled the battlements, their chainmail dark against the stone.
Levi Dryden greeted them at the gate, "Warden Commander Caron – Knight Commander Rylock – welcome to my family's Keep."
Rylock thought his introduction a little grandiose for a man whose only claim to the Keep had been that his ancestor, Sophia Dryden, had commanded the Wardens here two-hundred years ago, before they were exiled from Ferelden. As the Keep was in Cousland territory - and as Channon had been the man to reclaim it – it could not in any way be described as belonging to the Dryden family. But – Channon was still at Denerim palace, finding common cause with Queen Anora, and his cause was no-one's here. She decided to let Guillaume Caron and Levi Dryden argue between themselves who owned the Keep. She and Harith would perform the duty of Templars – checking that Channon really had been able to cleanse the Keep of demons – and then they would be on their way to Lake Calenhad docks. Where the rest of the party would camp, while she took the Shapeshifter – whose name Rylock had not bothered to find out – to Aeonar. Aeonar was a hidden facility – below ground – and there were few in Ferelden who knew the location. As a Knight Commander – and someone who had spent twelve months there, after the Blood Mage attack – Rylock was an exception.
Rylock dismounted, and the Shapeshifter followed suit, with much huffing and cursing. He did not appear to be in a better state than Ines Arancia, who gave him a sympathetic smile. His three young apprentices were in the care of Sweeney, who appeared to be lecturing them in his dry, distant voice. Rylock caught the words "...senile..." from one of the lads and rolled her eyes at the ignorance of youth. Sweeney did not hear nor see very well, but the mind beneath the cataracts was clear and sharp as rock crystal. She had still not been able to win either a debate or a chess match against him. As the new Knight Commander of the Ferelden Circle, she had read all the mages' records. She knew Sweeney had been born to the Trevelyan family of Ostwick. A pious family, they had done their duty and sent the boy to the Circle as soon as his magic manifested. Where he had met Ines Arancia, who had been his wife in all but name for the past forty years.
A horse whinnied; the sound echoed around the stone walls. Another one answered, louder. Now several of them called; Rylock could pick out Ripples' whinney from the rest. The gelding stretched his neck when she turned, and bumped her with his massive nose. Rylock rubbed his head and neck, automatically scratching the spots he favoured. Several grooms approached to care for the horses, and Rylock reluctantly let him go – cleansing the Keep of demons had the priority. She and Harith drank lyrium – their last vials until Redcliffe – and she felt the dry whiteness sear down her veins like frozen lightening; pure anti-magic: sterile, clean, precise as starlight. Two guards opened the enormous double-doors and they entered the hall.
A thorough search of the hall, doorways, and rooms revealed nothing – the Keep smelled old, damp and forgotten, but there were no demons. Rylock and Harith followed Channon's description to find the place Avernus had used as his laboratory; the Veil was thin here, but had been repaired. She was aware of shadows just beyond the edges of her vision – pressing on her mind like unwanted memories – but it seemed Avernus had not lied to Channon. Not about this. As for his blood-drenched research, that was in Rillian's hands. Rillian: accompanied by the Blood Mage, Jowan, carrying Avernus' notes and The Architect's memories. Rylock prayed nightly for her.
She returned to the gathering in the hall. "It is safe: you may set up your base of operations, Warden Commander Caron. Templars and mages: it will still be light for several hours; we will press on."
Grumbling surrounded her; she paid it no heed.
"This trip would be a lot easier if you permitted me the use of my powers," said the Shapeshifter mildly – to which Rylock scoffed and Harith and Sweeney looked interested. If he could turn into a bird at will, Rylock supposed travelling on horseback must have seemed primitive... "Do not," she commanded. He mounted up beside her with the air of one humouring an uncultured peasant.
As they rode west, light seeped from the landscape like blood from a wound, leaving a colourless, starlit emptiness. Silver coated the mountains and the moon was an eerie, diffuse glow. In the distance, the waters of Lake Calenhad were green as a bruise. In the centre lay the ruin of Kinloch Hold.
"I will take the Shapeshifter north to Aeonar," Rylock told Harith. "You are in command until I return."
Harith nodded, and then – just as she prepared to ride away - said, "Rylock: do you ever wonder why - if it is possible for a Senior Enchanter to enter the Fade and save a child from possession – the Order tells us to send all suspected of being abominations to Aeonar?"
Rylock was silent, feeling the fine cold mist of rain on her face.
"I have sent hundreds to Aeonar – as have you. Sometimes..." he waved his gauntleted hand in a vague, slow motion, "...sometimes you tell yourself there's nothing you can do. Maybe there's nothing anyone can do. Maybe there's no choice. But if you asked – if you ever asked – then you'd know. So you never, ever ask."
Rylock said nothing. Memory refused to grant her access to what had happened during those twelve months. Still, there was a repeated dream, one she had told no-one, not even Mother Hannah. It took her to a medical ward. She circled the healers surrounding the patient. No-one looked at her, or spoke, and when she looked down at herself, she wasn't a person but a presence, finer than mist. She always accepted her non-existence with resignation.
She smelled the disinfectant soap, the stale air, and the blood. What awaited her in that place never changed either: a heavily pregnant woman in a reclining chair with white sheets. The chair was highly mechanized. Braces clamped down on the woman's head and ankles, immobilizing her. The healers – faceless shadows with strong arms – produced instruments from a leather bag. A large forceps with brutal steel jaws. Huge scissors: sinuous curves and glinting point. Lastly, a blunt-nosed hook. The tools of extremity, the weapons of defeat: to sacrifice the child when there was no hope for it, and little more for the mother.
Rylock knew the patient's thoughts.
The dream ended when the pregnant woman turned her head, agonizingly slow, grimacing terrible pain, and looked toward the door where Rylock, in her guise of fog, watched.
Ellen Rylock looked deep into the lost eyes of Ellen Rylock.
Rylock turned to Harith and said, "I am not going to ask Senior Enchanter Sweeney to risk his soul to spare an apostate who has tried to corrupt three apprentices. That he is willing to do so for Connor speaks highly of him, but it is not a thing you can ask someone to do. Perhaps our Order thought of it in the same way."
Harith said nothing, and neither did the Shapeshifter, though Rylock felt his rapid breathing and smelled the sourness of his fear. She was as aware of him as a predator of prey – knowing that, in an instant, their positions might reverse. She had drained his mana – but if he were a Blood Mage that would make no difference. Hence, she was more aware of him than herself – each heartbeat, each change in position – close as a lover, except she was prepared to cut his throat. With Erimond, there had been a moment – just a second – when his muscles tensed as he bit into his own tongue; if she had killed him then the tendrils of his will, given power by the blood, would have strangled. Over the last twenty-one years she had watched mages like a hawk, waiting for that moment. Such preternatural anxiety had been the only way to survive – until she had watched Rillian cast the Litany of Adralla and realised it worked for non-mages. The Templar Order never told its recruits.
The entrance to Aeonar looked like a stone box, with a single Templar sentry. He saluted and stepped forward to take the apostate. Rylock dismounted, but said, "I will need to descend too; I have a question for Knight Captain Brynn." The young man – on perhaps his first assignment out of training – said, "Of course, Knight Commander."
Rylock stepped into the stale air, atop an adamantine slab with a lever and chain. The young Templar grasped the winch.
Run. Get out. Now.
The thought was Rylock's own, but it came to her so urgently she turned around as if someone behind her had spoken. The first and last time she had descended had been a month after Erimond's attack, after medical treatment at Kinloch Hold had ensured her physical survival. Like Harith, she had sentenced hundreds here, but had handed the apostates to the sentry and never asked questions.
She was reeling, drunk with fear, and for a moment thought she would vomit on the stone. "It's been twenty-one years," she scoffed at herself, but found no help in it. She mouthed a prayer, but the words came out of her mouth stillborn. Then, beside her, she heard the mage swallow, breathing so rapidly she thought he might pass out. The mage's obvious fear helped calm her own. Well, should have thought of that before you tried to kill me – I'll be out in under an hour, you'll be here for twelve months...it was shameful such base schadenfreude made her feel better when prayers had not, yet there it was.
Knight Captain Brynn was only too happy to have a visitor – for him, life in Aeonar was mind-numbingly boring. He invited her to have dinner. Feigning regret, Rylock explained her duties would not permit it, "My party are waiting at Lake Calenhad docks and we hope to reach Redcliffe before stopping for the night."
"Then to what do I owe the honour of your visit, Knight Commander?"
"Twelve months ago a Templar from Kinloch Hold brought a young Chantry Initiate named Lily to this facility. The late Knight Commander Greagoir - Maker rest his soul -intended to check on her in twelve months' time. I wish to hear your report. A year is long enough to test for possession, so, if there is nothing unusual in this case, I ask you to release her."
"Yes. Initiate Lily. Quiet – perhaps a little "too" quiet? Very self-contained. But, no, there are no signs of possession." The unspoken word "yet" hung on the end of his statement. Rylock disregarded it.
"Then release her."
Knight Captain Brynn nodded, summoned a guard, and within a short time the young Initiate was brought before her. Lily did not look up, or react in any way. She wore a white smock, as all patients did – it was customary for the Chantry to refer to them as patients, rather than inmates or prisoners – which Rylock did not think would be practical on the road. Brynn returned with an oversized travelling outfit that had clearly belonged to a Templar – from this Rylock inferred it was rare for a patient to be released.
Rylock stood on the lift and gestured for Lily to follow. Lily obeyed like an automaton. Her eyes remained lifeless as polished stone. The Templar guard raised the lift, and with each metre upward the air tasted sweeter. Rylock fought not to gulp. The stars had never looked so beautiful. Knowing that Lily had not seen sunlight for a long time, Rylock was grateful for the darkness – by the time dawn approached they would be in Redcliffe.
"Can you ride?" she asked the frozen, dissociated figure. She helped Lily mount up and they rode for the camp, still in silence.
Once at the camp Rylock passed care of Lily to Leliana. The red-haired bard spoke to Lily gently, with a force – a knowing – in her eyes that told Rylock she understood what it meant to be imprisoned. Rylock did, too, but could never have translated that knowledge into care of another person. Rillian, Guy, even Meredith – all her friends had told her that her bedside manner was terrible, and they were right.
Instead, she took herself away from the budding campfires and stared into the inky expanse of Lake Calenhad. There were gleams in the darkness. One small, drifting hint of radiance suddenly turned around and showed its teeth, then winked out and vanished like a soap bubble. Rylock recalled that the waters of the lake were said to be writhing with life, but not life as they knew it – the residue of a thousand potions the mages had discarded. During Anders' first escape attempt, he had actually swum across the lake – which, Rylock supposed, probably explained a great deal. Waves undulated softly, yellow and green lights shimmering hypnotically.
In the distance, at the furthest range of the light, Rylock could see the glistening black mass of Kinloch Hold, rearing up into the heavens. Around it, the wreckage of the destruction wrought by Uldred billowed clouds of silt. Dark, oily-looking bubbles floated among the debris, gleaming with purple iridescence.
It had been eight months since Rylock, based in Denerim, had received orders to perform the Rite of Annulment – called for by Knight Commander Greagoir and confirmed by Grand Cleric Leanna. She had led her men into that blood-soaked stone tomb and met Greagoir in the sealed hallway. He had told her that four Grey Wardens had attempted to rescue the mages, but had vanished inside, presumed dead. Together, the two Knight Commanders had led their men inside. A thorough sweep had revealed nothing living – no surviving mages, no abominations and no demons. Greagoir had left the main party to check inside the catacombs, where he hoped against hope some apprentices might be hiding. He had been right: Keili, Petra, Kinnon and the smallest children had hidden themselves there after Wynne had lowered her protective shield to join the Wardens. Despite orders from the Grand Cleric, Greagoir had spared them. Like Harith, he would not have killed children. Rylock hoped she would have done the same, but...she was glad it had been Greagoir who had found them.
Then, in the central chamber on the fourth floor, amid the unspeakable detritus of dead abominations, she had found the bodies of the four who had attempted a rescue. Wynne: whom she had first met when Rylock was an eighteen-year-old Templar sent to the tower, Alistair: the young man she had trained in Denerim, before he chose to become a Warden. Leliana she knew vaguely as a lay sister of the Chantry, and Rillian: whom she had known for five years and thought of as a niece. They were not dead, they were sleeping...and an inner voice said to her,
"You should join them. Join Ser Guy. Sleep. Believe. Surrender."
Rylock had been almost certain it was an inner voice.
… … The rain hissed and spattered upon her Templar armour, plastered her short hair to her scalp. Ser Guy had got a campfire going within the shelter of a small cave - he gestured her towards it, waving a languid hand.
"Guy: we are in danger. Livius Erimond is going to..."
"Oh, don't worry about that old sod. Don't you remember: he would have used Blood Magic, but you beheaded him as soon as he stepped towards our cookfire."
Rylock stared at her friend: eighteen-years-old forever, the young man whose hideous death had not been able to mar his courage. The man whose soul was with the Maker, regardless of this facsimile.
In her dream, her sword was sharp as mercy. She said, softly, "you would not have approved if I had. You would have reported me, in fact. Our friendship wouldn't have prevented you. That is, in part, why I loved you. Because you always did the right thing."
The demon smiled in a way that made it clear it was not Guy. "Would you prefer the other memory?"
Rylock shrugged. "Go ahead. It's not as if I haven't seen it a thousand times. Guy is with the Maker – nothing changes that."
There was a shuffle at the edges of her hearing; her Templar senses crackled to life. Guy heard it too. Both rose quickly, hands on sword-hilts, and fanned out. Rylock squinted into the rain-washed darkness - caught a shape that only showed up as a deeper darkness against the glint of rain and stars. A mage's sodden robe, its wet darkness gleaming like the fin of a shark.
A moment later the figure stepped out. His hands were raised. He had abandoned his staff. Rylock snatched a glance at Guy - what to do? Knight Commander Greagoir had told them the mage - one of First Enchanter Remille's most trusted colleagues - was no threat.
"Don't hurt me - I'll come quietly," came the cultured voice. He sighed - a note of weary resignation - and said: "Your friend is right: I'll give you no trouble in this downpour. Getting warm matters more to me than freedom."
At a nod from Guy, Rylock lowered her sword. "You will be returned to the Tower," she said stiffly.
He spread his hands wide. An ingratiating smile slithered across full lips. "Surely you could spare some of that stew before turning me in?"
Rylock did not think it proper to sit and eat with an apostate - but before she could say so Guy had already resumed stirring the pot. It seemed to them both that the lazy fool was no threat.
"Why, thank you," the man said - speaking to Rylock even though it had not been her idea. "You are a gracious host."
There was a hint of a private smile that unnerved Rylock - while the word "host" seemed a little razor-edged. To be safe, she struck out with a Smite to completely drain his Mana. That should take care of things.
Then she took a step forward - reached to tie his hands.
There was a strange inward prickle. An alien energy - something that slid into her mind like an insect's stinger. Rylock tried to shout a warning but her lips would not move. The words were stones in her mouth. And then - terribly, unimaginably - the sight of her own hand moving...a long-fingered pale spider...white; a horror. The pale, alien thing grasped the hilt of her sword - drew it from its scabbard with a hiss like metallic rain.
"Rylock?" came Guy's voice, confused, "You don't have to hurt the old..."
The Blood Mage smiled. Lips and teeth were stained red where he had bitten into his own tongue.
All her body's history unrolled before her against the background of the storm. Muted adolescent yearnings associated with sin. The mocking laughter of her fellow squires: "No wonder you're training to be a Templar - you'd freeze the cock off any man who tried to touch you." And then Guy's training that had transformed it to a thing of pride and joy - muscles coming awake, reflexes honed and sharpened like steel...sweaty, triumphant sessions of spar and the joy of her first friendship.
Here, now, the Blood Mage inverted it all - made Guy's training and her own hard-won skills the instrument of his defeat. Made her dance like a foul puppet till he lay bleeding on the ground. The root-system of her history a conspiracy of culprits: the above-ground plant a marionette, reflexes and muscle-memory hijacked by a will not her own. Her body - thoughts - feelings - memories - worn like armour: a costume to amuse evil. Her mind torn open; a filthy and malicious hand pawing memories that were golden bubbles of light.
Blood Control traced and mapped the web between the five senses and the ability to govern response. It interposed its will between, sharing consciousness while solely commanding the nerves and muscles. The host, the encoffined soul, was mute and limbless for any least expression of its own will, while hellishly articulate and agile in the service of the mage's.
It was Rylock's own hands that struck her friend down and then tied him, helpless and aware, with her own sash. That used her Knife of the Divine to turn his body to a map of torment that would make a demon smile. And her own body that experienced the orgasms of the mage that crowned his despoliations.
Through everything, Guy had not lost his Orlesian flippancy, his dark sense of humour: "It's alright, Ellen," he had gasped, "if this is the only pleasure the poor sod can manage, that's pretty tragic, really."
Rylock's will - her choice - was her last citadel. The choice between letting sanity bleed away into the void - so she wouldn't have to look out of her own eyes; see and feel what she did to him - and remaining aware. She chose the latter. It was all she could do for him. She couldn't help him, but she could be with him in his suffering.
His eyes knew it. They looked into hers and saw the person behind the blood puppet. He whispered: "You are guiltless."
So the mage made her blind him. Guy's face - turned toward her at the hour of his death - seemed to weep scarlet tears. But his last movement before death was to smile.
Everything that happened afterwards - Erimond had raped his Blood Puppet, a slab of meat on a butcher's block that happened to be still breathing, then made it turn the knife upon itself - were the last trivial and redundant motions of a party that had already reached its peak. It had given her an intimation into the vacuousness of cruelty, the banality of evil. His black pleasure had opened a window into just what Templars protected the people of Thedas from.
A patrol out from Kinloch Hold had found her sometime later - after Erimond was long gone – and first Enchanter Remille had seemed to enjoy practicing healing magic over her objections, because he could feel the disgust around her like an aura. For every part of her he pulled together, she would have happily undone ten of his. She had seen – in Erimond's mind – what he and Remille were working on, what was going to happen. But, of course, Knight Commander Greagoir had not believed her. Nobody ever did, until it was too late.
The demon pretending to be Guy died far more quickly than Guy himself had done. The precise cuts Rylock made, swiftly and without error, were among the first taught to Templar recruits. It appeared sharing her memories had not actually taught the demon how to fight. At once the scene dissolved like a painting left in rain, the colours flowed and reconcatenated into another familiar place.
She was in Denerim Alienage, which she knew because Boann ran an orphanage there and Otto sometimes visited Rillian. Rillian had broken with tradition and actually invited the three shems to her wedding – Boann and Otto had accepted, and Rylock would have done had she not been currently engaged in returning Anders to Kinloch Hold.
Cyrion's house was large for an Alienage dwelling, and Rylock knew from memory it had three rooms: for Cyrion, for Shianni, and for Rillian and her intended husband. She hesitated outside the front door, but her own grief for Guy told her this was exactly where Rillian would be. In truth what Rylock found hardest to bear was not what she had lost, nor even what Guy's parents had lost, but what Guy himself had lost: the years he had deserved. The fact he had been allowed such a short time on Thedas still seemed to her nothing short of outrageous. She pushed open the front door.
Inside, the living room was dominated by a large stone hearth. Atop were a handful of wooden carvings and some books: Adaia had taught Rillian to read and write, and her father had been proud of her skill. The walls were patchy and slightly damp, but looked as though they were whitewashed regularly. The kitchen table was crowned by flowers and herbs, and even the woodpile was neatly stacked. Rillian sat across from Rylock, wearing a tattered but scrupulously clean dress, and an apron. She smiled – a smile like sun on flowers.
"I'm so happy you came to my wedding - and stopped all that unpleasantness with Vaughan. Thank you. Would you like some tea?"
"Rillian - I wasn't there. I could not have left the apostate, Anders, to attend the wedding of a friend. I had to take him back to the Circle. You, Wynne, Alistair and Sister Leliana were attempting to free the mages at Kinloch Hold. A Sloth Demon trapped the four of you in the Fade."
Rillian's frown came slowly, unusually delicate, the expression of someone noting but choosing to ignore a regrettable descent into bad taste. "I know you weren't there for me. I know Vaughan killed my husband, and then I killed Vaughan. That's how I ended up in the Circle Tower, as a Grey Warden. I was trying to free the mages – defeat Uldred – and then I was killed. I met my husband in the Fade, and we celebrated the wedding we never had in life. I was trying not to remind you of your failure."
"You are not dead. You are merely sleeping. But you must wake up, and come with me."
"But, Rylock, think. How can I go back? This is my home. I am a wife."
"Wife! Of what?" Rylock said, shuddering.
"If you only knew him." Rillian's face flushed – the blush she might have had when discussing marriage with a virgin aunt.
"You like it! Oh, Rillian!"
Rillian looked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Rylock saw in those amber eyes unspeakable joy. "I know what you are thinking: that only demons consort with mortals in the Fade. But the Chantry tells us that the dead pass through the Fade on their way to the Maker's side. Nelaros chose to wait for me. We will journey to the Golden City together."
Rylock tried to soften her manner, but the words came out cold and stern. "You're not in your right mind, Rillian. It's the terror and the loneliness – and the Sloth Demon. I'll save you."
"Save me?" Rillian seemed bathed in life and beauty and well-being. It was as if they flowed over her or from her. She looked at Rylock with something like mockery on her face – and her mocking looks had always been some of her loveliest. "You mean take me back to a world in which I will have no husband, no children, and will die in the Deep Roads fighting darkspawn?"
Sadness, even tenderness, came over Rylock, and she asked herself why she should save Rillian from the demon, or warn her against the demon, or meddle with the matter at all. "She is happy," said her heart, "Whether it is madness or the Sloth Demon or even Nelaros' ghost, she is happy. She is ten times happier, here in the Fade, than you could ever make her. Leave her alone. Don't spoil it. Don't mar what you can't make."
Rylock's hand stole to the sword of mercy under her cloak. Would Cyrion have seen his daughter happy as a demon's plaything? When you loved someone, you wanted them to be their best self, not just to be happy. However things might go, whatever the price – by Rillian's death or her own – Rillian would not, least of all contentedly, make sport for a demon.
Rillian read her thoughts, and looked at her with an expression Rylock could not read. "I'll not kill you, Rylock – or force you to kill me. And I know I have a duty. I don't care about my duty to the Grey Wardens – but I do care about Alistair and the others, and I do care about home. I will see my husband again soon." Rylock felt an eerie chill of foreboding, and tried to speak, but Rillian looked away. She stood up, and at once her dress changed to the armour she had been wearing when she confronted the Sloth Demon. Rylock drew on her powers – thinking that the demon who had posed as Nelaros would surely try to stop Rillian leaving – but there was no demon. Just the little house dissolving, and reforming into someone else's memory.
They had found Wynne mourning her dead apprentices, lost in memories, in grief, in regret. Rillian had talked to her kindly – Rylock had snapped at her to pull herself together – and together they had saved Wynne. Leliana had listened when Rillian had reminded her of her vision: the fact Leliana believed the Maker was here, in every heartbeat, closer than a mother to her child. Rylock did not believe her – for one thing, it was against Chantry doctrine, for another, it would have meant the Maker could have saved Guy, but had chosen not to - nonetheless, she had wisely kept out of it and let Rillian do the talking. And Alistair, who had only wanted a family – and not even his own family but just to be welcomed by his sister's – had trusted Rylock and loved Rillian. Together, the five of them had defeated the Sloth Demon and then, back in the real world, Rillian had taken something from the body of the dead mage, Niall. It was a book the size of her palm and bound in gold. The words were in Ancient Tevene and, together, Wynne and Leliana – with a mage's learning and a bard's gift for languages – had interpreted it. It was, they told her, a way of resisting Blood Magic.
Just before they reached the Harrowing chamber Rylock had found Cullen. The young man was the lone survivor of the Blood Magic, the torture, the attempts of the demons to break him. His fractured eyes were empty as glass, and she knew he had seen horrors too great to be borne. Physically, he appeared unharmed, but that did not mean anything: Blood Mages and demons could make a person suffer like the damned without harming a hair on their head. He was also trapped in a magical prison of some sort: she tried to Dispel it but realised she would not be able to do so until she ended Uldred. Cullen had begged her to complete the Rite of Annulment.
"I will do everything in my power to make the Tower safe. You may trust me."
Upstairs, Rylock had seen, beyond doubt, that not only did the Litany prevent Blood Magic and possession, it could also be cast by a non-mage. Leliana had sung the chant – and when she had been struck a glancing blow by Uldred, Rillian had taken over. Rillian was not even singing in Ancient Tevene, merely the same notes. The words she had made up on the spot. And still the Litany worked; the eerie melody accompanied by a ghostly fiddle, played by Rillian and created by the magical energies released in the chamber. The Veil was so thin it was like walking bodily in the Fade, with even non-mages being able to shape reality through will and imagination.
There had been no need to complete the Rite of Annulment: Rylock knew, beyond doubt, that none of the mages in the Harrowing chamber - among them Irving, Ines and Sweeney – had become possessed, because she had seen the Litany work. Seeing that Rylock had aborted the Rite – and Greagoir had saved the apprentices – Cullen had looked at them both the way Andraste must have looked at General Maferath. Betrayed by his senior officers. He had said only,
"I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all."
She had read his thoughts as she remembered her own, when trying to warn Greagoir about Remille: no-one ever listens, until it is too late...
The first curve of the rising sun touched the top of Redcliffe castle. Grey light seemed to flow down the stone, highlighting the red-and-green banners of Arl Eamon's crest. The ground was gently rolling, each low ridge less steep than the one before it, as the land subsided from the northern mountain range.
The Arl and Arlessa were greeted by their seneschal, while Mother Hannah was surrounded and welcomed by both Chantry and common folk. Irving, Sweeney and Ines were greeted by Wynne, and the four mages were soon in agitated conversation. Rylock guessed they were telling Wynne what they had learned about Connor - while Wynne seemed anxious about...something? Wynne was staring intently as Sergeant Rocald – whom Rylock had left in charge of security of the mages – strode towards Rylock and Harith.
Rocald: six-foot-six in his boots, teeth like tombstones, his ravaged crater of a face crenelated and fiery with urgency.
"Knight Commander: two nights ago three apprentices – the troublemakers Hark, Jerren and Tobin – tried to run away towards Honnleath. I followed, and so did Cullen. Hark tossed a spell at me – fireball, he was trying, but he only managed to singe my beard – and Tobin aimed his staff at Cullen, but couldn't get it to work. Jerren just ran. Well, it was clear they were no threat, so I suggested we take them back and see whether a week's loss of privileges would make our would-be Resolutionists see sense. But Cullen wouldn't listen. He shot Jerren with a crossbow bolt – the lad's in the infirmary now – and tried to behead the other two. I wrestled him to the ground, and told him we don't need fanatics: this isn't Kirkwall. He's cooling off in his chambers. Did I do right?"
"Yes," said Rylock, grateful, once again, that she had left this man in charge, and more ashamed than ever that she had initially been worried. Rocald had more reason than any of them to hate mages – his wife and children had been murdered, their corpses reanimated to attack Redcliffe at nightfall. "I will speak to Cullen."
The matter of Connor, though, took priority – she could see the boy being hugged by his mother and had a sense of headlong, unpreventable consequence. No blame to the boy – a child could not be guilty – but a feeling of danger, as though he were the innocent carrier of a deadly disease. Sweeney saw her look and said, "I will talk to Arlessa Isolde. This has to be done, and will be no better done for waiting."
Sweeney was going to perform the exorcism in the boy's bedroom. Rylock would have preferred to conduct the procedure in the Arlessa's dungeon – more practical if things went wrong – but they needed the Arlessa's support and she flatly refused to have her son terrified. Connor was lying on the bed, looking fey and only half-present – which, Rylock recognized from her own past, could be just a defence mechanism. He played idly with the carved wooden horses above his bed, and occasionally chatted to his mother, ignoring everyone else. Lady Isolde seemed quieter than she had been before the Landsmeet: there was something secretive and self-contained about her, and once or twice she patted her stomach. Her pregnancy wasn't showing yet.
Irving, Ines and Wynne had traced warding runes upon the stone floor, around the bed. They stood at each of the three corners, forming a current. Rylock – who had dosed herself with lyrium – could feel the magic like a tingle on her skin. She and Sweeney stood within the circle: he was sat on the bed, and she was standing, ready to do what might be necessary. Sweeney held in his hands a large bottle of raw, unrefined lyrium. Even Rylock could hear its faint song, a melody that reminded her, strangely, of the Litany of Adralla. Magic and music entwined. Sweeney carefully unstoppered the electric blue liquid – raw lyrium was dangerous to anyone, but especially to mages – and poured it into a brass bowl. Suddenly, impossibly, audible song rose from the bowl in clouds of blue vapour. Like veins of lightning, like a growing vine, it sent blind, seeking tendrils towards him. Sweeney reached out his aged hands, drew the lightning inward. The first tremor of Sweeney's head came soon after. Soon he was swaying, as if drunk or sleeping. Rylock reached out a hand to steady him. His rolled-up eyes revealed nothing but whites. His head and angular neck slumped forward, his white hair dishevelled. It made Rylock realise how dignified Sweeney usually appeared. She felt uncomfortable seeing him so vulnerable.
The dank air seemed heavy enough to lean on and time seemed to be compressed – Rylock had the sense that what seemed to be minutes was in fact hours. Like Aeonar, in which there had been no days, no nights, no seasons – the time of the grave. The Veil felt aerated, camphorous; as if, any moment, it could flutter aside.
Then Sweeney's eyes fluttered and Connor coughed. "Mama?" the boy said – but Rylock noticed that Isolde glanced at Sweeney before embracing her son, as though asking for permission.
Sweeney's dark, quiet eyes struggled to reorient a consciousness obviously strained to dissociation. For him, reality was dislocated, permeable. He said, "The demon is gone: Jowan told the truth. He really did go into the Fade and do battle for the boy."
Rylock had been sure the Blood Mage would never have truly risked himself – that Jowan's plan had been to enter the Fade in order to make a deal with the demon inside Connor – getting it to disguise its presence for a time, and in return giving it the promise that, when he was safely in the Circle, the demon could hatch from him like sealed plague bacilli - "mages shedding their larval forms" as Uldred had called it. But he had truly fought the demon. Perhaps he had not won – perhaps he was now possessed and Rillian in danger – but he had still chosen to risk his soul in order to save a child. Seeker Leliana had once preached redemption was possible even for Blood Mages – Rylock had privately scoffed but it appeared she had been right.
Isolde sobbed in relief and hugged Connor fiercely. He squirmed out of her grip and started demanding sweetcakes. Rylock let Isolde take him to the kitchens, petting and soothing while Connor appeared to want to forget the whole thing. She stood, awkwardly, while the three mages surrounded Sweeney, talking and laughing. She felt embarrassed; she knew she was an outsider and would have left the four Senior Enchanters to each other's company - had she not needed to ask a question of Sweeney. He appeared to realise this, though she hadn't said anything, "Ladies, Irving," he addressed them, "I will clean up here and meet you downstairs." Irving and Wynne appeared irritated at being dismissed, while Ines just gave Rylock a strange smile. The expression was odd; curiously like the smile worn by Goldanna in Alistair's dream, the look you might give family.
Sweeney took a single stride over to the chair and sat down in profile to her. He leant forward, elbows on knees, fingers interlocked. He looked tired and wide-awake, a young man in sexagenarian's skin. For long moments, he did not blink. He wasn't seeing the room. His real work was elsewhere; in the past, in the future, not here. This was nothing. Straightforward as testing a child for chickenpox. Rylock wondered, briefly, how many times he had done this – dealt with a suspected abomination away from the eyes of Knight Commander Greagoir – he and the three other Senior Enchanters an efficient team. How many times he would do this again.
"What is eating at you?" Sweeney asked her suddenly, leaving off the honorific. The question took Rylock by surprise.
"In the Harrowing chamber, when Leliana and Rillian cast the Litany of Adralla, you did not seem surprised. Rillian met Enchanter Niall in the Fade, before he died, and he told her you mages were looking for the Litany in the restricted section of the library."
"Yes."
"Why are Templars not told of it during our training?" Rylock doubted she could have cast it – she had no talent for music. But Guy had been a brilliant singer, lute-player – could have been a bard, had he not wished to burn his life away in service to others. If Guy had known about the Litany he could have cast it the moment Erimond's Blood Puppet took a step towards him, and he would be alive today. For a moment, she saw him as he would have been: a knight of thirty-nine, fair hair just beginning to turn grey. The young man still in his eyes, the will to adventure, to laughter, to life.
"I can give you your answer," said Sweeney slowly, "If you answer a question of mine first. What is the worst thing you have ever done?"
It was a brutal question, a presumptuous question, but the weight of it made Rylock realise what she was asking him. This was what Sweeney felt was an equal trade.
"I murdered Aneirin – yes, he had used his own blood to cast Mind Blast, which is why Knight Commander Greagoir told me the killing was not – technically – unlawful. But he and I both knew Aneirin had never made a deal with a demon; he had been frightened, and if I had approached the matter differently - told him I would be taking him back to the Circle instead of casting Smite – he would not have done it. When an adult terrifies a child into casting Blood Magic, it is not the child who is guilty. At the beginning of the Blight, Grand Cleric Leanna ordered me to remain in Denerim rather than muster men for Ostagar. I obeyed her. If I had not, perhaps the filth below Ishal would never have happened to Boann – to all those women... When Rillian invited me to her wedding, I could have left Anders in the care of Ser Tavish – it would have been extremely unprofessional, but no risk to the people of Denerim. I could have saved her from Vaughan Kendells."
Sweeney was giving her an extremely odd look: half-amused, half-something else. "That's three things."
She shrugged. "Well - I'm used to going to confession, not to judging between sins. Which is worst is up to the Maker – if indeed He judges sin in that way."
Sweeney said, "When I was young – oh, perhaps twenty – I learned the Litany: the theory, not the practice. I had the idea of mages and Templars working together – of teaching everyone, even ordinary citizens, to resist Blood Magic. I approached Greagoir's predecessor and he - being a good man – wrote to the Divine asking permission. I don't know whether Divine Beatrix even saw the letter – he was refused permission by the Seeker Order. Apparently, they wanted to keep the knowledge to themselves. You see: new Templars can be made all the time - they are collateral damage. As are peasants and freeholders. Knowledge is power, and the Seeker Order wasn't prepared to share power. At the time, I was an Aequitarian – I believed in co-operation between mages and Chantry. I realised no true co-operation is possible with an Order who would keep a secret like that. I became a Libertarian so I would have the freedom to share knowledge. My biggest regret is I never went further than arguing at Conclaves – and, soon, to just grumbling to Ines. I could have taught apprentices the Litany – in secret. I could have offered to teach every Templar who came to the Tower. I'd have had to be careful – pretend it was just a piece of music. Ser Guy liked music – and the lad liked mischief too – he might have listened. It seems...very idle to say I'm bitterly sorry." He was looking directly at her, making it clear the apology was for what had happened all those years ago.
Rylock had to look away. Stunned, angry at the sheer presumption: who was Sweeney to be sorry! She felt as if he were stealing Guy's death – using someone incalculably precious as part of the Libertarian narrative. Trying to turn a Templar against the Seeker Order in a particularly nasty way. Only – her anger was swallowed up by the sheer monstrousness of the accusation. Had it been only what had happened to her – only (she might as well admit it) what had happened to every mage who had defied Remille and Uldred – she would have been able to rationalize Seeker secrecy as serving the greater good. Ours not to question why... That dissolved when she thought of Guy. She took a short, sharp breath, and, when she was sure she had composure, looked back.
"Why would you be sorry for the fate of two Templars?" Her voice was dry, distant, professional, lifeless.
"I cannot answer that. I would if I could."
Rylock waited for him to elaborate, then realised the old man had no intention of doing so. Sweeney often retreated into maddening reticence whenever the conversation strayed into sensitive territory. He was like a tightly folded scroll of old secrets. Every page you unrolled revealed more. Even now, Rylock knew there were more layers. She couldn't say how many, or what lay at their heart. She vented her irritation with a sigh.
"Sometimes I think you're playing games with me. Throwing out hints like bait, then laughing at me when I bite."
"Perhaps I am," Sweeney said mildly, "At my age, it is important to ensure one does not become dull."
The two rose and headed for the kitchens. Neither had eaten since arriving at Redcliffe, and Rylock was hungry. There was dried meat and bread and small beer; she wolfed it down. Sweeney, though, just picked at his food. This Rylock put down to what she imagined was a slow, irreversible trajectory away from the grosser functions of the body. Another ten years and he would be slightly translucent, a vessel for knowledge.
She said, "I will speak to Templar Cullen now."
He looked her in the eye; the soul beneath the clouded cataracts holding her gaze. "If that young man remains with the Ferelden Circle, Sergeant Rocald may not be there to stop him next time."
Rylock remembered Greagoir's words as he lay dying, "I should have kept you on after what you did to Aneirin. If I had, instead of sending you to Kirkwall, you might have learned another way." That was all very well – may have benefitted her – but would the mages have really needed a hollow-eyed, twitchy young woman stalking the halls, always one miscast spell away from lethal violence. The mage children were not guinea pigs whose purpose was to teach adult Templars another way. She wanted to help Cullen – knew how he had suffered – but risking apprentices would be unconscionable.
"You are probably right," she agreed, "However: why should your argument only apply to Cullen? I am the same person I was twenty years ago: the same mind, soul, memories, reflexes - if I send Cullen away, perhaps I should refuse the role of Knight Commander?"
"You aborted the Rite of Annulment and you brought those three apprentices back from Amaranthine. As a Libertarian, I do not agree with the position of Knight Commander of the Circle – we should be self-governing – but, if someone must hold the position, I am glad it is you."
"Thank you for that ringing endorsement," Rylock said dryly. Then, coming to a decision, she said, "Tomorrow morning I wish you to begin training every mage in the use of the Litany. I will ask Leliana to train the Chantry brothers and sisters and, once you have trained me, I will train every Templar. I will take responsibility."
Sweeney was silent a long moment. Just as Rylock began to turn away, he said, "That is an incredible risk. How do you think the Seeker Order is going to respond?"
"Perhaps the same way Weisshaupt responded to Rillian teaching Warden secrets – how to create the Joining mixture, the fate of Wardens and the darkspawn lifecycle – to everyone in Ferelden. I disagreed with her at the time - told her a thing as dangerous as knowledge needs to be directed through the proper channels. She told me an Elven story about Pandora's Box – said secrets are more dangerous than knowledge - because knowledge always includes hope."
Sweeney chuckled. "Well, don't give me that nonsense about taking responsibility, young woman – I am quite responsible for myself. Becoming an Act of Faith wouldn't have been my preferred way to go, but at least we will have interesting stories to tell each other in the Golden City."
Rylock faced Cullen across the writing desk in his quarters. Cullen's fractured brown eyes were fixed blankly on the wall opposite. They might have been stones, for all the life in them.
She said, "Cullen, I have been to the infirmary and spoken to the healers treating Jerren. They tell me he will live, but he will never walk again. Templar Sergeant Rocald – whom I left in charge here – told me he was running away when you shot him, that he had not attacked anyone, just run from the Circle for the first time. Do you deny this?"
Cullen met her eyes. His lined, strained face seemed to be struggling with something. Finally, he said, "I do not deny it, Knight Commander." He looked down at his hands, as if silently asking how they could have done this, then back at Rylock.
Rylock was ashamed of herself for knowing exactly why Cullen had done it: because Jerren had been running towards Honnleath, Cullen Rutherford's home, and neither of them had seen proof the apprentices had not become abominations. Because a single abomination could destroy a whole village. The Templars' perverse fear of not being fierce enough. Yet it had been unnecessary – Cullen could have gotten on a horse and headed the boy off at Sulcher's Pass. Cullen's quick change to iron-hard composure revealed his dawning awareness of this. The planes in his face shifted, taking on the blank implacability of dragonbone.
"Knight Commander: you have left out what the mage's companions were doing. One tried to burn Sergeant Rocald to death: yes, it's funny because he only managed to singe the man's beard. It won't be so funny in a few years' time. Likewise, the other tried to fire at me. Paragraph Six of the Templar Rule states when mages turn apostate, every mage becomes guilty of the actions of the group."
"Even so, we are still directed to use minimum force. None of the apprentices were Blood Mages, and it was a first offence."
Cullen said, "I will accept your punishment, Knight Commander." His eyes were as stubborn as her own had been when facing Grand Cleric Leanna – the eyes of someone who expected to be punished but would not recant.
Trying a different tack, she said, "Cullen: starting tomorrow, I am going to train every Templar in the use of the Litany of Adralla, which allows a non-mage to resist Blood Magic."
Cullen's face turned white with disgust. "You mean the scroll written by a Tevinter magister, found by mages in the restricted section of the library – something the Order did not see fit to teach us? Don't you think there may be a reason for that? You say you and Seeker Leliana saw it work on the mages in the Harrowing chamber. How do you know it isn't a mages' trick – lulling you into a false sense of security - making you believe the mages have not all become abominations?"
"I can't know – not for sure. Only the Maker can make windows into men's souls. The rest of us can only judge by actions, and I will remind you the mages fought bravely against Uldred and against darkspawn, and have not harmed any innocent..."
"...yet," Cullen finished bleakly.
"Cullen: you are a brave man. You have survived horrors at Kinloch Hold and you did not give in. You have fought darkspawn and may be proud of your service. I will write a letter of recommendation to any Chantry in Ferelden, the Marches, or Orlais. You can visit family, or take time to pray in Wayside Ward. But you cannot remain with the Ferelden Circle of Magi at this time."
Rylock knew what he was going to say before he said it. Past joined present in an extraordinary and humdrum handshake. The years curved away and returned, all quite inevitably.
"Kirkwall," he said, "I wish to serve the Order in Kirkwall."
AN: Lily's diary is from The World of Thedas Vol 2. I have changed it slightly to reflect the difference in timeline between my fic and canon, but I can't take any credit for it.
This is the end of PART ONE. Next chapter, Enemies Among Us, will switch to DA2 Act 1. Cullen and Lambert Hawke take on Tarohne, and Lambert, Varric and Fenris take on the Deep Roads Expedition.