Chapter Sixteen: The Rose and the Gauntlet
Leliana feasted her eyes on the river that began in the Frostback Mountains and ended in Lake Calenhad. She luxuriated in the myriad greens that ranged from the metallic water to the spring growth gracing the banks. A small change in the wind brought the river's cold breath sighing around Sulcher's Pass.
She, Sister Justine, Brother Genetivi and Initiate Lily were riding with Mother Hannah. Knight Commander Rylock, Knight Captain Harith and Templar Sergeant Rocald were taking it in turns to watch their mage charges. Wynne was currently teaching the very young apprentices, while First Enchanter Irving was delivering a lecture on Primal magic to the older apprentices in their wagon. The boy Jerren had recovered enough to pay attention, which he did with the look of a trainee hunter learning the use of a bow. Ines Arancia kept stopping to gather herbs, while Senior Enchanter Sweeney was discussing thaumaturgy with Keili, who would be taking her Harrowing as soon as the Ferelden Circle of Magi was functional.
Leliana's mind cartwheeled – backwards, forwards again. She had taken this route beside Rillian, Wynne and Alistair. They had journeyed from Lothering to Redcliffe and then to Haven, seeking the Urn of Sacred Ashes and the promise of a miracle. In Lothering she had told Alistair of her vision – the storm that swallowed the last of the sun's light and the darkness that drew her in – then showed him the single, perfect rose that grew in the Chantry gardens. To her the rose had been something delicate, struggling to grow, to remake Ferelden after the Blight. Then Alistair had cut it and given it to Rillian. Yes, it had been a romantic gesture, and the bard in Leliana had thrilled to their story – but he had ensured the rose would never grow and would slowly decay.
"A coin for your thoughts?" the whisper came from Lily - shy, still amazed she could. Leliana threw off the foreboding thoughts. How could I expect her to sympathize with my anxiety – it's trivial compared with what she's endured.
"Would you like to hear the story of how the Hero of Ferelden fought the dragon atop Temple Mountain?"
The light in Lily's bright green eyes was her answer.
By the time the party reached the foothills of the Frostbacks, the sun was a glowing disc of pale copper and the sky a luminous greenish gold marred by heavy, brooding grey clouds. The air crackled with the energy that precedes a storm. The mountains that loomed before them were bleak, overpowering stone monuments to nature. The mountain marked on Brother Genetivi's map as the Holy Mountain that housed the ruined temple, the caverns and finally the Gauntlet was the first. On its western side – towards Orlais – a high spur connected it to another mountain, but Holy Mountain stood out in front as the map had shown.
At the foothills of the mountain was the sparse village of Haven. Centuries ago the villagers had provided men to guard the remains of Andraste. But, in their isolation, they had begun to worship a high dragon as the reincarnation of Andraste, and the priest Kolgrim had turned on Rillian. Leliana felt for the villagers, and worried what their reaction would be when the same people who had helped Rillian kill their goddess now showed up as part of an armed party of Templars insisting their village become the hub of the new Ferelden Circle of Magi. It was...appropriation, and it was wrong. But what could she do about it? Mother Hannah had argued for the site, and the mages did need somewhere to settle after the destruction of Kinloch Hold. Rebuilding Kinloch Hold would be foolish: expecting the mages to live and train where the Veil was thin was asking for trouble.
Rylock spurred her horse to ride beside her. "We should camp here," the Knight Commander said in her clipped, expressionless voice. "There is a storm coming." Leliana and Lily dismounted and led their horses to the river. Rylock helped Mother Hannah from her horse.
Mother Hannah let the younger woman help her and stared up towards the hundreds of birds flying away from the coming storm. The gabbling, honking flock were so like people, she thought. But where was she?
With the growing realization that she didn't know, fear sunk its teeth in her. Her heart pounded, hurting her ribs.
"Mother Hannah? Are you alright?" The voice was familiar. Straining, she turned her head as far as the grinding bones in her neck would allow, and swift embarrassment chased away the fear. She mumbled something lame about drifting off for a moment, but the lie was spoiled by the all-too-familiar flutter of her left eyelid. There was an accompanying tic in her cheek on that side. The plain, too-wise face was worried. "How long have you been experiencing this?"
"A few months. It's frightening. I'm used to the pain in my joints. They make me feel old, but we're friends. This thing tells me my time is short. It's no friend." Then Mother Hannah chuckled. "Maybe I misjudge it. It'll certainly make my joints stop hurting, won't it?"
Rylock, too, smiled at the gallows humour. It was something she was familiar with as a soldier. Mother Hannah had never carried a weapon, but she was a warrior, nonetheless.
Mother Hannah said, "You see why I wish to walk the Gauntlet as your young Warden friend described. But I don't know if I can reach it by myself. Would you accompany me?"
Rylock hesitated. "Yes, if you wish it. I am not worthy but – there are things I must ask the Maker, if I get the chance."
Mother Hannah smiled with warm affection. "I hope we both find our answers."
When the storm hit, Wynne and Ines were huddled together in a tent that housed their herbs and supplies. Ines peered outside at the heavy curtain of rain. Wynne stared at her with sharp, seeking eyes.
"Did you know that Sister Leliana is going to ride to Montsimmard after we have founded the Circle? On behalf of Queen Anora and her new King-Consort?"
Ines grunted, not surprised to hear the two nobles had made a match of it. Anyone who had seen Channon Cousland and Anora Mac Tir together at the Landsmeet could be in no doubt. And for Leliana to try and talk the Chantry out of Grand Cleric Iona's hoped-for Exalted March on Ferelden was only sensible. She waited, sensing Wynne had more to say.
"I have asked to accompany her. As one of the Hero of Ferelden's companions and an example of what mages can achieve I feel..."
Buzz buzz. Ines let Wynne's usual refrain wash over her. She only listened again once Wynne came to her point – the real reason she wished to journey to Orlais. "Rylock left Sergeant Rocald in charge at Redcliffe while she and Harith went to Denerim. Rocald is a fine man. A sensible man, one more concerned with protecting mages from people like Cullen than with policing our reading matter. When I perused the documents brought from Kinloch Hold I learned some things."
Ines waited, letting Wynne come to the truth in her own way.
"All Knight Commanders are given paperwork on their charges when they take the position. Nobody else – certainly not the mages – are allowed; but you and I both know we had a right to this information. I learned the name of the daughter you and Sweeney lost to the Chantry. And I learned the name of my son. He is Enchanter Rhys of Montsimmard." She said the last softly, with a touch of wonder.
Ines swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "I don't need you to tell me the name of my daughter. We called her Ellen, and I know exactly who and where she is. I have watched her standing next to Sweeney and I am – not blind."
Sweeney had been born to the Trevelyan family of Ostwick. When his magic manifested, he had been sent to the Ferelden rather than the Ostwick Circle because the family already had several Templars serving. The Chantry had been careful to sever family bonds between mages and Templars. It was at Kinloch Hold that the young man – a skilled Thaumaturgist – had met Ines Arancia. Her practical skills and no-nonsense manner had been the exact opposite of the bookish, thoughtful young man, and opposites had attracted. They had been together forty-five years, husband-and-wife in all but name. And yet, the Chantry had not deemed them worthy of raising their own daughter. And if they ever acknowledged Ellen – in the privacy of her thoughts, Ines refused to use the Chantry name and title – either they would be sent elsewhere (to Kirkwall, perhaps?) or Ellen would. Wynne could introduce herself to her mage son – Ines did not have that luxury.
Wynne hesitated, as though replaying a scene in her mind. "Yes," she agreed softly, "I see the resemblance. Although – and I think you both might kill me for saying so – she reminds me of you too."
Ines made a sound someway between a sniff and a snort. "Damned stubborn, you mean." The herbalist withdrew into herself, as she often did when vulnerable.
Outside the rain fell relentlessly in a cold, blinding torrent.
The village of Haven was shadowed and miserable as sin. Nobody came out to greet the travellers, though Rylock sensed plenty of curtains twitching. Even the tavern appeared deserted. It was named The Singing Maiden after a torture device and the pictures on the sign were unpleasant. Fortunately, they would not need to stop at the village. They had brought a month's supply of dried food in the wagons and the river provided fresh water. The dwarven trader Bodahn had promised regular supplies from Denerim. It was customary for the rulers of a country to supply that country's Circle and Bodahn had sensed a lucrative contract.
The party set up camp north of the village, arranging their wagons in a circle similar to the way the Dalish set up their aravels. Rylock and Harith watered Ripples and Stubbs. Rylock hugged Ripples around the neck, talking softly to him, while Harith made much of Stubbs. Fortunately, there were no mages present to laugh at the deplorable unprofessionalism. The two Templars talked softly: about the darkspawn campaign, the friends they had known during training – anything but the mountain fastness. Wynne had told Rylock it would be deserted because Rillian and her companions had killed all the cultists. She had made no mention of disposing of the bodies. At the thought of what they were going to find in the darkness, Rylock blanched.
"Knight Captain Harith – you will take over here. I will accompany Seeker Leliana and Mage Wynne inside - as they accompanied the Warden they will be able to direct me. And Mother Hannah will want to perform rites for the dead cultists."
"Leave them," Harith recommended "The other animals will take care of them."
"You shame yourself. They were men."
"Have it your way. Rather you than me. Those corpses will rot slowly in the Frostbacks and I doubt the ventilation is any good."
Rylock refused to give Harith the satisfaction of seeing her wince but could not help her pallor. The grimmer the task, the more important it becomes to do it right away. Her trainer at Therinfall Redoubt had taught her that. She remembered the training – in which they had buried one recruit in every twenty over so-called "training accidents" - and the twin mottos carved outside: "I serve" and "We are born to die." Yes, she could do this.
She spun away to relay her instructions. Leliana, Wynne and Mother Hannah would accompany her to Haven's Chantry and its secret tunnel to the mountain fortress.
In the existence of the fortress, it was less than a moment after the crescendo of destruction brought by Rillian. Death had come for the cultists in a maelstrom of daggers and lightning, Templar powers and arrows. In terms of mortals, it was eight months. Rillian and her party had reached Haven in the month of Solace year 9:30 – the height of summer. It was now the beginning of Cloudreach 9: 31. The western sun was low when they reached the deserted Chantry. Faded flags fluttered in the faint breeze. Near-dusk softened the rolling mountain foothills, suffused the sky with a blue that suggested lyrium and steel. They entered and found only sad remnants. The light never exceeded a dim, dusklike quality. When they reached the altar, Rylock uncorked her vial - the glittering blue liquid sparkling like gems encased in glass - and whispered the words of transubstantiation,
"Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea."
Beside her, Leliana murmured a counterpoint:
"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."
Leliana did not possess Templar powers, but she could cast the Litany of Adralla. Hopefully, their abilities would not be needed – but places of violent death sometimes attracted attention from the other side. Unspeaking, Rylock and Leliana reached out to each other. They gripped hands, then withdrew.
Leliana led them to the tunnel that opened out into the mountain. She carried the powerful composite bow Farsong, and a crossbelt of daggers. Her head went up, alert. Blue-grey eyes decoded the darkness. High cheekbones accented the full mouth, now downcurved with stern intent. Beauty and grace surmounted the plain leather armour.
In the brooding quiet the pitch-black tunnel enclosed them. The darkness rose around them like water. The atmosphere was chill and repellent. For thousands of years this place had been the tomb of Andraste, but Kolgrim's ancestor had been seduced by a dark worship, and it was as though he had left shadows, or echoes. Rylock felt at any moment she would hear him breathe, slowly and steadily, like a waiting animal. Beside her, she heard Wynne's breaths, whistling through flaring nostrils. The tunnel walls seemed to close in on her, suffocating her as though a hand were pressed over her nose and mouth. Rylock had the sudden hideous conviction that the tunnel would seal shut behind them, with only the mountain over them and no way out.
For shame! She quickly struck sparks with flint and steel from a small leather pouch, transferred the small glow to rags spread with pitch to create a torch.
"I could have used magic," Wynne whispered a trifle reproachfully, and Rylock sniffed. Incongruously, Wynne chuckled. "You reminded me so much of – someone – just now."
Mother Hannah said softly but very clearly, "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide."
The tunnel opened into the ruined temple. Wreckage was strewn wildly throughout the area, which now stood revealed as an altered natural site, with man-made side-rooms and a floor of smooth stone. Decaying bodies lay on the floor, some crushed by fallen boulders, others trailing rotted robes and scale armour.
Mother Hannah said, "We must bury these poor souls."
Duty warred with practicality. Rylock suggested they collect all the corpses on this floor and put them in one room, then seal and sanctify it. "This will be their burial chamber."
Mother Hannah agreed, and while she and Wynne sat on a dusty dais Rylock and Leliana began the work of dragging the dozens of corpses and bringing them to the lower right side-room, which had a sealable exit. It was sweaty work, and they were soon breathing heavily in the stale air. Rylock found Mother Hannah's prayers to be valuable – but it annoyed her to see Wynne sitting comfortably beside her, calling out instructions as though she and Leliana were apprentices. Wynne could help: she spent the whole of 9:30 travelling up and down the country and at the Drakon River she was most athletic... Rylock shut the train of thought off with a click, horrified at herself. The sin of resentment makes one remember other sins – I have confessed it, but remembering is unseemly. She continued working with alacrity.
The supply room was an eerily disorderly jumble, Precise aisles and shelves were a smashed landscape of refuse. Torchlight barely reached the corners. The darkness of the rough vault overhead was vague, threatening. Wavering shadows suggested wraiths that resented trespass.
After they had gathered all the dead Mother Hannah began her prayer. Rylock had wondered which part of the Chant would be appropriate for members of a cult who had abandoned Andraste to worship a dragon. Several choice quotations came to mind – one of them had been on the wall in Mother Leanna's office. The woman who had raised Rylock and the other Chantry children had often quoted it to her during punishments. Mother Hannah said simply,
"Oh Maker, hear my cry. Welcome these, your children. They loved you too much, that's all: they wanted to meet you before your Return."
Afterwards, Rylock said, "We need to seal the door with something large; that statue will do." She and Leliana hefted the marble statue that depicted Andraste half-way through a transformation to a dragon. They pushed it over then rolled and positioned it to cover the entrance. They were both ridiculously tired.
The four women rested at the central chamber, then Rylock and Leliana moved around the area, lighting torches and placing them in brackets.
"Hmm - this place could use the Orlesian touch," Leliana was saying, "I knew a Marquise who did wonderful things with a stone archway..." Rylock half-listened, while recalling Rillian's words about the next level of the mountain complex. Her friend had told her the cultists had used the caverns to breed dragons. As if reading her thought, Leliana said, "Master Wade of Denerim created a most wonderful set of drakescale armour – so comfortable and shapely. But the armour made from the scales of the high dragon was even more beautiful. Did you know you could walk through fire wearing it and not get burned?"
Rylock absently flexed the scarred skin on her hands; in places puckered, in places satin. "Useful," she agreed.
"I used to arrange Rillian's hair to complement the suit of armour: when she addressed the Bannorn she was a glorious sight."
Finally, they walked past the circular, vault-like doors at the far end. These led to a tunnel that curved upward like a snake, opening into a vast series of dripping tunnels wide enough to hold their wagons, filled with stalactites. Brother Genetivi believed the caverns were the remains of an ancient subterranean quarry started centuries ago. The quarry had been a source of tuff: a porous volcanic rock used for building. The ghostly and bewildering network of tunnels became caverns whose ceilings were seven feet high. Their torches were not powerful enough to illuminate the edges; light was swallowed by darkness. The temperature was chill but humid. Water dripped incessantly and strange, blind, spider-like creatures scrabbled over the rocks. The human bodies of Kolgrim and his lieutenants were surrounded by the corpses of drakes. Rylock and Leliana sorted human dead from dragon. Here there were enough loose rocks to build makeshift cairns, and Mother Hannah repeated her merciful prayer. Rylock was not merciful herself, but she appreciated the quality in others.
Leliana and Wynne led them to a tunnel beyond the cavern at the furthest left. Rylock breathed deeply, and realised the air was fresher. The tunnel sloped and twisted upward. When the mouth widened into glistening night air they took greedy gulps. Nothing tasted as good as pure, clean mountain air. It was thin – they were about five thousand feet above ground – but compared to the airless mountain complex it was crystalline.
"In Orlais the Circle of the White Spire is kept fresh by magical currents of air. We will need to install something similar before we can use this as a replacement for Kinloch Hold."
Rylock nodded. Wynne's words were only sensible.
Mother Hannah wearily sat on a rocky outcropping, waving away Rylock's concern. The others gave her time to catch her breath. Wynne, Rylock noted a trifle sourly, still appeared fresh.
The surrounding view was stark and magnificent. A stone walkway carved into the rock appeared to date from the Tevinter Imperium. Swooping arches and ruined towers were watched by the encircling mountains. Even in springtime the snow still glittered, deep as icing sugar. Fir trees dotted the whiteness. To the right were graceful columns arranged in a circle. What they marked was lost to time.
"There is where Rillian blew Kolgrim's Horn and summoned the High Dragon."
Rylock wondered why she had done so. Surely it would have been more sensible to leave the creature to slumber? Rillian must have been thinking of the farmers below the Frostbacks, she reasoned. Her selflessness was commendable. The fact she had appeared like a storybook hero in the dragonscale armour was mere coincidence.
The mountain path led to a graceful building with domed roofs carved into the highest peak. Inside, an armoured man waited for them.
Rylock's Templar training took over. She cast Dispel on instinct. The blue fire surrounded the figure in an ocean of light, but nothing happened. Then Leliana began to sing the Litany of Adralla. She stared pointedly at Rylock as she did so – inferring that she was doing this to put the Templar's mind at rest, not because she thought the Guardian of the Ashes was a demon.
Templar powers and the Litany proved he was neither spirit nor demon. He did not appear put out or bothered by her suspicions. Wynne, however, tutted impatiently.
"The Guardian is neither spirit nor demon, Rylock. If you use your powers you will sense the Veil here is not thin. The Guardian is the memory of Disciple Havard, given life by the Sacred Ashes. The Ashes really did heal the Arl of Redcliffe. It was not magic – nothing like the healing I can cast. It was a miracle. Try to forget you are a Templar and remember only that you are an Andrastian."
Rylock squashed the unworthy resentment that bubbled up – fought the urge to say she did not need a mage to lecture her on being a good Andrastian. That was petty and unfair. Here they were as they would be in the Golden City: not mage and Templar, just two women. Both, in their own ways, strove to follow the Maker. Wynne had every right to inform her if she had made an error – and her advice was sound.
The Guardian looked right at her. Those ancient, fathomless eyes appeared to read her very soul. "I bid you welcome, pilgrim."
Rylock bowed her head instinctively, feeling presumptuous that the Guardian had addressed her before Mother Hannah. "Guardian of the Ashes," she began formally, "May I present to you my leader in faith, the woman who has led the flock at Redcliffe and now seeks to rebuild the Circle at..."
The Guardian continued as if she had not spoken. "I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have waited years for this."
"Nine months ago you allowed the Warden Commander of Ferelden to take the Ashes..."
"No-one can take the Ashes. They belong here."
"Rylock," Wynne whispered, "He is a memory, not a living soul. His soul is with the Maker. He won't respond to your story about Rillian – he won't respond to the needs of this Circle or the politics of Ferelden and Orlais. He will simply look into your heart and judge whether you – as an individual, not a representative of the Templars or the Chantry – are worthy to look upon the Ashes."
"It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting I have been here, and I shall remain until my task is done and the Tevinter Imperium has crumbled into the sea."
"You have come to honour Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy. If you are found worthy you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not..."
"He does not remember me, or Wynne," Leliana said mournfully, "And yet – when he spoke to me – he knew my heart, my soul."
Rylock turned to Mother Hannah: needing guidance, seeking help.
"Ellen," Mother Hannah said softly – choosing to use Rylock's birth name, rather than the name she had been given as a Chantry foundling - "May I ask you why you wish to see the Ashes?"
Rylock faced her – trusting, wishing to confide. "When we talked, in Redcliffe, you shared your vision of this community: of mages and Templars working together, serving the Maker. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make that a reality. But – I don't believe such a community can be founded on injustice. There were injustices: two, specifically, that I will right if I can. Wynne told me the Ashes can work miracles - that just a pinch will heal, even when magic fails."
"Who do you wish to heal?"
"The boy, Jerren, and the Tranquil, Thomas Amell."
…Thomas Amell, face screwed up in an agonized attempt to recall something that slipped from his grasp. He fought to regain his lost faculties with the hopeless tenacity of the damned…
"I see. If the Ashes could heal the Arl of Redcliffe they should be able to heal the damaged nerves caused by Cullen's crossbow bolt. But the question of whether the Rite of Tranquillity can be reversed by the Ashes is more complex. For Knight Commander Greagoir to order Cullen to put the Brand on Thomas' forehead was unlawful: a Harrowed mage should not be made Tranquil. But the Rite itself was conceived as a mercy – a way of ensuring mages who cannot control their powers do not need to be killed or imprisoned in Aeonar. If Tranquillity is not intrinsically wrong it may not be reversed by the Sacred Ashes."
Rylock remembered Ostagar...
… She stared out at the sea of unknown faces and realised she'd better learn names. Shouting out "mage" or "robe" - all that was needed under normal circumstances - would get her too many responses. Most of them, she wouldn't like.
"Who is skilled in primal magic?"
A young, copper-haired man stepped forward. His blue eyes were serene. He wore the sun-brand on his forehead. With the mild, disinterested air of pure observation, he announced: "I was a skilled elementalist before I was made Tranquil – for helping Jowan escape the Circle. I could have pretended to be a Blood Mage's thrall but instead I chose to argue with Knight Commander Greagoir. Now it seems unfortunate he did not follow the Qun: where it is the tongues that are leashed, and not the magic."
Maker's breath! What sort of a Circle is it where even the Tranquil give me sarcasm?
Briskly, she said: "Are you skilled with herbs or potions? If so, you could..."
"I am skilled at nothing beyond crafting magical armour," he said, and raised a hammer. "It makes the arms very strong. Strong enough to cut through darkspawn defences."
Rylock stared - then shook her head, quickly. "You are not trained. As a Tranquil, we Templars are responsible for your safety."
"Some would say I have no life to lose. That my soul passed on the day I was forced to the Rite. The Chant itself says the Maker intended us to return to the Fade each night in dreams - that we might always remember Him. I neither sleep, dream, nor love. I am like an earthworm shown a sunset that has no place to store the memory. What does that say of me?"
What does it say of us? The thought scratched at Rylock's brain like a cat sharpening its claws. If he is right, then Tranquillity is blasphemy...
"I do not know whether the Ashes will reverse the Rite. But I wish to leave that to the Maker's judgement."
Mother Hannah smiled – a shaft of light in a dusty room - and Rylock could not keep from returning it. Then the Guardian turned to her,
"You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you ever wonder whether you spout only platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past?"
"Yes," Mother Hannah said evenly, "I was a Chantry child and my mind is the product of another's thoughts. Does that make me more or less guilty for failing to challenge King Meghren during the occupation?"
"The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek."
Eight disciples guarded the path on the Test of Faith. Each was insubstantial, a memory rather than a spirit. Rylock found herself drawn to the elderly woman who stood on her left. She wore a robe eerily reminiscent of the robes worn by Chantry sisters, and greying hair in a severe cut framed high cheekbones. Rylock recognized her from carvings of Brona, the mother of Andraste.
"A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and of her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save."
Rylock remembered Aeonar and the recurring dream she knew had been no hallucination. She would have died in childbirth - but the healers had cut open her belly and both she and the female child had lived. She recalled the night just after her return to Redcliffe in which she had read the details of every mage brought to the Circle. The apprentice, Keili, was the result of a rape by a Blood Mage and her mother had given birth while at Aeonar. Like Rylock, Rylien and so many others, Keili had been brought to the Chantry orphanage in Amaranthine, to the tender mercies of Mother Leanna.
Rylock scoffed at herself. For one thing, rapes by Blood Mages had not been uncommon during Remille's uprising – the male mages seeking warped revenge on female Templars and Chantry sisters - for another, she recalled thinking that Ser Rylien's dark eyes had looked oddly familiar. Maker's breath – am I turning into a middle-aged woman who sees her daughter in every former Chantry child of the right age? The last thing Apprentice Keili needed from her was such self-indulgent speculation. Only that she conducted Keili's upcoming Harrowing fairly and with a sword sharp as mercy if the apprentice failed.
The remaining seven visions were less personal. Rylock spoke to Ealisay, the childhood friend of Andraste, and to the vengeful Lady Vasilia. When she met the echo of Thane Shartan she knew a stab of discomfort. His memory had been kept only in the Dissonant Verses, as the Chantry judged giving honour to Elves to be heretical:
"It was my dream for the People to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium. But she was betrayed, and so were we."
Rylock thought of Rillian – whom she would have died any death for – and, for the first time in her life, questioned the Chantry. She half-expected to be struck down.
There was General Maferath - "I loved her too, but what man can compare with a god?" - and Disciples Havard and Cathaire, and finally Archon Hessarian, the penitent sinner.
Guy was waiting for her in the next chamber, wearing his trademark flippant smile. "Had fun with the riddle game?"
Memories of her Fade dream were unhealed wounds. "You are not my friend."
He shrugged. "I didn't think I'd fool you. I am with the Maker, and I don't remember the nastiness of how I died or where I fell. I remember your courage, and I know you will do great things. I will see you soon – but hopefully not too soon."
Guy led them to a small, well-hidden tunnel. Rylock strode forward, protectively in front of Mother Hannah while Wynne and Leliana guarded the flanks with bow and staff. As she stared into the dank darkness, Rylock blinked, all her senses trying to decode the gloom. Then Guy placed his hand upon a recessed door and slowly pushed it open. At once a glow brighter and more intense than the murky torchlight blossomed outward. The light emanated from within the very walls. The walls themselves seemed to be of stone – but a stone unlike any they had ever seen. It was transparent, unnaturally smooth, and glowing with the brilliance of a thousand diamonds.
"How does this work?" Wynne asked Guy – and Rylock had to wonder how the figure she thought of as Guy appeared to her.
As Wynne spoke, Rylock became aware of a faint, almost subliminal hum that seemed to emanate from the heart of the mountain. She sensed instinctively this was connected with whatever made the air fresher than the air in the ruined temple and caverns. The cultists had operated a bellows, but this was something else... Yet Rylock's Chantry education was not able to provide her with the answer – and even Wynne (who liked to irritate her by stating Templars did everything and were allowed to know nothing while mages knew everything and were allowed to do nothing) appeared stumped.
Justice before knowledge, Rylock reminded herself. The technological mystery could wait.
The lighted chamber was massive. They found themselves standing upon a stone balcony which overlooked a hideous drop. Twelve stone steps ran parallel to each other around the void. Across the void shimmered the memory of a stone bridge, ghostly and insubstantial.
"I remember this puzzle," Leliana murmured, "The four of us – Rillian, Alistair, Wynne and myself – survived because we trusted each other."
"Ready to trust a mage?" Wynne asked Rylock and Mother Hannah archly.
Before Rylock could come up with a sarcastic retort, Mother Hannah said gently, "Andraste loved her disciples as she loved the Maker. As we have faith in the Maker, so we must also have faith in our friends."
Rylock stepped towards the chasm, walking lightly and confidently. She turned to Wynne and shrugged. "I was always warned trusting a mage would be the death of me as a Templar. If my tutors were right I will see you in the Golden City."
As the three others stood where Leliana directed Rylock began to cross the worryingly insubstantial bridge. Leliana murmured, "Maker, I hope the Guardian didn't change the sequence."
Wynne and Mother Hannah fell silent in a breathing hush. Rylock did not respond to Leliana. Balance alone required total concentration.
Then she was standing on the other side and the bridge was solid and real behind her.
"Faith in one's friends can become reality," Mother Hannah said softly. She and the others followed Rylock until they stood together on the other side.
Facing a stone altar and, beyond it, a wall of flame. Rillian had told Rylock what the inscription would say but she read it anyway,
"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight."
Wynne and Leliana prayed quietly, their soft words a counterpoint to each other, and took up places on either side of Rylock and Mother Hannah. It was clear they intended to support their friends as they had supported Rillian, but would not enter the flames themselves. Rylock believed it was humbleness rather than cowardice – they did not think themselves worthy. She was not worthy either – but she needed the Ashes to right two wrongs committed by her Order – one by a man under her own command.
Mother Hannah placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I am not worthy. I did not come on a quest to right a wrong. I came because at the end of my life I wanted to refresh my soul; to touch a true miracle and see the real Andraste. I have done this. You go on, my dear."
Rylock looked ahead to where the flames licked upward with reptile tongues and shuddered. She recalled how dismissive she had been of Rillian's pretensions of being a Chosen One – the Elven Andraste – and wished she hadn't been so smug. Rillian had walked naked through this fire, the first person to do so for a thousand years, with only her own faith to assure her she would not burn.
Rillian approached Ser Perth and placed a gaudy amulet around the man's neck, delivering a mangled version of Transfigurations 10 in her musical contralto voice:
"And the Light shall lead you safely through the paths of this world…and you shall know no fear of death - for today is not your day to die: I will make sure of that."
The scales of the High Dragon worshipped as Andraste glittered like rubies around the spring-steel body - a mass of ribbons sparkled like butterflies amid the frivolous red braids. The Elven face was flushed with conviction, uplifted - the lucent eyes fixed on some inner vision.
It was hard to know which was the most outrageous: the fake amulet, the casual misquotation or the false promise. Rylock strode towards her, and as the knight bade them farewell with unseemly haste she planted herself right in front of the Warden and stood glaring down at the much smaller woman.
"You have no right to make promises you can't keep, Warden. An honourable death in the Maker's service is all you can promise."
Rylock expected more flippancy - or perhaps the sort of fast-talking salesmanship with which the Warden had swayed the Banns. Instead she was faced with a kind of grave alertness.
"I know. But do you think the thought of dying - however honourably - will make a man fight better? Immortality can be a self-fulfilling prophecy."
Something in that did not fit Rylock's view of the world, though she was not used to articulating her own beliefs. She tried, and the Warden waited patiently, with none of her usual chatter.
"Isn't it enough to find strength in fighting well, in duty to the Maker, in a common goal?"
The Warden blinked. She looked, for a moment, utterly startled. Then a slow radiant smile spread across her face.
"Do you know," she said, astonished, "You reminded me so much of - someone - just then." She chuckled softly, "I won't tell you whom - you'd both be insulted. Well, I'll answer as I answered her: that's enough for the best of us, but not the rest. My knights are like me: we need the - symbol - of something, when the reality seems far away. A lie that creates hope can be nobler than truth that brings despair." She looked, for a moment, right into Rylock's eyes - then gradually the cocky manner seeped back: the Warden was never without it for long. "You lead in your way, Knight-Commander, and I'll lead in mine."
Rylock remained unimpressed. She met the cocky grin with a withering cut of the eyes and stated:
"Slaying the false Andraste does not make you the real one."
The Warden's face split into a smile of genuine appreciation. One hand moved in an elegant gesture – that of a duellist acknowledging a hit. Then she bowed, turned, and strode away, with a bounce unsuited to the gravity of the situation...
Rillian had not been sinless as Andraste, Rylock knew – her friend had told her exactly what she had done to Vaughan before she killed him – yet in the Maker's eyes the torture of a rapist would not have been as evil as the murder of a fourteen-year-old apprentice. I will undo what Cullen did to Jerren but there is no undoing the death of Aneirin – I am going to burn. Well, I might as well get it over with.
Rylock removed her armour - the breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, sabatons and long hauberk – and piled them neatly, like inert silver sentinels. She placed her shield, mace and longsword beside them. Then stepped forward. Despite the heat, a chill like cold sweat danced over the surface of her skin.
...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 - sure she could not use her sword, disregarding the burned hands for he knew what pain was in them.
Rylock threw herself forward, all her weight behind the burning gauntlets. Like red-hot, twin maces, they crushed the hateful, laughing face; pulped jaw and nose and teeth. Then she fell to her knees atop him. Pain crushed her; she choked on the stench of her own cooked arms...
Her stomach clenched; her tongue felt too large for her mouth. A roiling wave of terror shook her like a terrier shakes a rat. She recalled a time before fire had acquired the resonance of pain and disfigurement:
...The pale, thin, work-callused fingers of the girl she had been, hesitantly reaching out to touch the representation of Andraste's Pyre. A quick, surreptitious touch, for strength, before she was called to Revered Mother Leanna's office. In sermons, the clerics spoke of cleansing, of transmutation, of redemption. These were concepts outside Rylock's experience. To her, the indomitable figure wreathed in flames could represent one thing only: Endurance...
And finally – it was unseemly to think of it now, in this holy place, but all her willpower was being used to ensure she did not run...
"Well, Loghain Mac Tir," Wynne said, voice full of teasing laughter - and something in her voice and in her hand on Rylock's thigh told the Templar that, after the night's events, she was seeing beyond their deeds - seeing them as people. It rang through her mind like an offer of forgiveness. For the first time in her life, she understood the other meanings of Andraste's Pyre.
Once, the rain came even harder, drenching them…and Wynne, who had just demonstrated a move of supreme athleticism, complained that the cold weather would play havoc with her old bones. Rylock was startled to hear herself chuckle: "Don't blame me," she said dryly, "I just came out here to wash." Loghain's soft growl of laughter was warm…the three rocked together, their shared humour rippling from skin to skin like falling dominoes. It was a wave form, like water. Rylock had never expected to find anyone she could laugh with. Her own repressed, dead-pan, teak-hard humour - expressed only as a little dry commentary at the back of her mind, during the Templar recitation of "Ours not to question why…" - when faced with the orders of incompetent superiors - during Mother Leanna's chastisements - was a guilty secret. To find the same sense of humour shared by Wynne and Loghain was a strange homecoming - as unexpected as everything else about this night. Their shared experience spoke together without need for words. Violence had created Loghain - it sustained him, was required of him. He was as much a product of his circumstances as herself and Wynne. All three knew the routines, the stone walls, the confinement and the glory of duty. All three used sarcasm as a way of enduring…but in Wynne the humour became teasing, playful, and she carried the two dour idealists along with her, taught them that lovemaking could be urgent, tender - or a lighthearted expression of joy...
The searing light approached, blazing like the first rose of dawn. Rylock felt all the dark inside her screaming and cowering away; it knew its enemy. She stepped into the fire as she had once dived into a frozen lake, lacking the patience to accustom herself gradually. The flames leapt up to engulf her, hot as knives of fire – she could feel them running along her arms and legs. The stinging fires cleansed her soul, a blasting and shrivelling glory. The flame was a living entity that enshrouded her. As when she fought, she felt both utterly inconsequential and supremely important: on one level, a mote of nameless light - on another, a fulcrum around which the chaos swirled. She could feel the Maker's presence, close as her own shadow; except she was the shadow, and He was light. Every slope she had ever climbed – every attempt at thinking, at feeling, at judging morally, at self-expression – was valued and loved, clothed in the grace and loveliness and freedom of the presence she reached for – a presence that would always be beyond her grasp, yet which illuminated the rest of her life with a beauty she wouldn't have had if she hadn't reached for it. The wonder and exaltation usurped the exhaustion of constant physical pain; she felt alive, awake, both inside and out, for the first time since the night by the Drakon river, shivering a little with the wild, strange, sweet life of the spirit. Everything else was forgotten in the subtle, all-embracing joy of communion.
She came back to herself on the other side of the flames.
"You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet, you have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the Sacred Ashes."
If Rylock had been Rillian, she would have had the nerve to ask for two pinches to heal two people. But she was not Rillian, and would just have to hope there would be as much Andraste in half a pinch. With trembling care, she reached into the Urn and drew out a small amount. She placed half into the leather pouch she had brought for the purpose, and the other half into the pouch that had once carried flint and tinder. Then rejoined the friends who appeared more hesitant than Rylock had ever seen them.
"Rylock, your hands," Leliana said softly. Only then did Rylock realise the skin was smooth and whole as if she had never been burned. For the first time since that day in Denerim, she could feel the air on her skin. The pain left by the Hurlock General's Stonefist was gone too. Shocked, she glanced down at herself, and was curiously relieved to see her other scars – the claws of demons, her own Knife of the Divine controlled by the will of Erimond, the healer's cut across her belly, and the marks of Mother Leanna's whip – were still there. Her history had not been erased. She just no longer suffered pain or disability. At the realization, she felt unutterably guilty she had walked through the fire and not Mother Hannah. She wondered if it would be possible to divide the Ashes a third time. Sensing the thought, Mother Hannah chuckled,
"My illness isn't a disability – it's a steppingstone on the way to the Golden City. I'll live long enough to found this community, I think. But life has something for you, I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear."
Rylock had never been able to wish things other than they were - as the Maker's will was absolute, wishing was only weakness – now, for the first time, she found herself wishing she and Keili and Rylien had been raised by Mother Hannah instead.
She replaced her armour like a shell around a lobster and asked Wynne,
"Are you certain magical healing will not make Jerren walk?"
"It will not. Once the spinal cord is severed, that's it."
"Then mix this with a vial of lyrium and get him to drink it. That's how Rillian told me she cured the Arl." She gave one pouch into the mage's hands and kept the other. It occurred to her Thomas might not actually want to drink an unknown substance given by a Templar, and it would be unconscionable to force him, but he would have the choice.
The exit route bypassed the caverns and ruined temple; the four found themselves atop the mountain. There wasn't much left of the night. An almost-full moon turned the whiteness into an ocean of snow. Cold as starlight, the icy wasteland enfolded them. Rylock took a deep breath and savoured the bite of the chill, pure mountain air. But Wynne shivered, and Mother Hannah suggested they camp here for the remainder of the night rather than descend in darkness. Wynne lit their fire with magic and Rylock did not object. She busied herself banking the fire for warmth and to keep predators at bay, her brain dancing with the newness and wonder of everything. The silence seemed to amplify her thoughts and the vast emptiness became a playground for them. The others did not speak either, as if silenced by the eerie, overwhelming beauty of the landscape. The light of a small forgefire flickered far below. That was Thomas, Rylock knew. He did not sleep and barely rested, as though he were burning himself out. Most Tranquil did not live long. Rylock stared upwards into the inky sky and felt she was looking into the pupils of the Maker's eyes. The future was unknown and unknowable.
Pale rain shone on the surface of Thomas' forge, while a scattering of sparks rose into the sky. Not daylight yet, but the tarnished silver of the hour before dawn. The sky was grey; the stars just beginning to wink out. A soft cloud of shadow absorbed the rain.
At Kinloch Hold Thomas and Owain had been in charge of the Circle stockroom, but during the fifth Blight they had assisted the blacksmith in producing and repairing weapons. As Tranquil, they could imbue Templar armour with lyrium without being affected. Thomas had volunteered to fight the darkspawn– working the forge had made his arms very strong - but instead Knight Captain Harith had suggested he bring Voldrik's waterpump to the battlements. Harith's idea had been to wet the darkspawn then have one of the Primals cast Chain Lightning. For a Templar, Harith had a brilliant mind. Knight Commander Rylock's mind was pedestrian, but she was not one of those Templars who never took advice. The water had acted as a superconductor, and hundreds of darkspawn had died.
The elongated furnace, brought on a wagon from Redcliffe, was exactly five feet high and its fires generated a steady bass rumble. A clay wall sealed the front end and a ceramic plug blocked the hole. Thomas yanked the plug to inspect the fiery interior. A shadow darkened the snow. Thomas replaced the plug and turned. It was the Knight Commander. As Thomas moved away from the sweltering heat, the chill air struck clouds of steam from his sweating body.
Thomas-before had seen Rylock once, bringing Anders back to Kinloch Hold after his seventh escape attempt. He had described her to Jowan as having a face like a winter parsnip and imagined her shoulders and cheekbones icy to the touch. They had laughed – he no longer understood why - and made remarks that were illogical and anatomically implausible. Thomas-now thought Rylock possessed a commendable singleness of purpose, and her orders were consistent. Rylock's eyes appeared as they always did: they were large, dark, steady, the eyes of a night hunter, and around them the orbits were the same blue as the snow-shadows. Rylock's eyes were bright with sleeplessness, her face's skin translucent over the angled bones. She was studying Thomas – examining him. Thomas had never seen Rylock nervous. Exhausted, angry, precise as an automaton; but never this tightness, this uncertainty. He thought it might be best if he approached an important matter.
"Knight Commander Rylock," he addressed her, "I have been speaking to Brother Genetivi and his theories on how the disciples of Andraste caused breathable air to circulate through the Temple were most interesting. All Circles can use bellows to supply an entire chamber, and the White Spire in Orlais uses magic. But we think the methods used here are closer to Qunari technology. This is significant because I doubt you will want a mage-Templar community to be reliant on magic. That would leave power in the hands of the elite few, while Tranquil and Templars would be their dependents."
"You are correct, and your theory is sound, but that is an interesting opinion for a Tranquil to have."
"Why? I lack emotions and magic but I do not lack free will. As an apprentice being fast-tracked into the ranks of Enchanters I doubt Thomas-before would have agreed, but my experiences have been most illuminating. Did you know it was First Enchanter Irving who convinced Knight Commander Greagoir to break the rules and make me Tranquil? Irving was convinced by Uldred and the subsequent outrage empowered the Libertarian cause. The Chantry and Templars are funded by tithes – Senior Enchanters are reliant on the income generated by Formari to grant them a modicum of independence. It would not be logical to depend on those who had a financial incentive to make me Tranquil."
"Thank you for your advice. I wonder if you will change that opinion should the Maker reverse your Rite of Tranquillity?"
Thomas studied Rylock – the face of planes and angles; no curve, no grace, no yielding – and understood this was not a rhetorical question. Rylock brought out a small leather pouch and a vial of lyrium, and tipped the contents of the pouch into the vial. The mixture did not fizz as Thomas had seen alchemical concoctions do, but the colour changed from electric blue to emerald green.
"Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew," Rylock murmured like a benediction. "This is yours. I believe - if it is the Maker's will - it will reverse the Rite."
Thomas shook his head. "I want to think about this. I don't know which self is my true self. Excuse me."
He knew it was rude to walk away from a Templar without being dismissed; he also knew it was necessary.
North of the forge was a river with a waterfall. The noise was a soft roar that dissolved into its component parts. The crash of the main fall hitting the dark rocks, the echoes that blurred into a single rushing hiss, the trickles and spatters of spray, the quiet drip of individual drops. The water was a single entity that flowed smoothly but came apart on the way down. Some drops defied gravity and rose on the wind like the sparks. Thomas concentrated on the water, seeing its pattern, the order in chaos and chaos in order.
He remembered...
Thomas-before waited in a locked room, its walls covered by runes that nullified magic. It had a desk, inkpot, and chair. Jowan was still on the run. Knight Commander Greagoir had not been sure what to do with Jowan's accomplice. As Thomas was a Harrowed mage who had willingly chosen to help a Blood Mage the legal sentence was execution. If Thomas had been sensible he would have pretended to have been a thrall of Jowan – that would have resulted in a year in Aeonar but there would have been no permanent damage. But Thomas had not been sensible. He had argued the Chantry was responsible for his friend turning to Blood Magic:
"A mage like Jowan would have attracted little attention from demons if left alone. Demons are drawn to those with power, not those who struggle with simple spells. But you never leave us alone. You throw us at demons and wait for us to burn. Jowan learned Blood Magic because he knew it was the only way he could survive his Harrowing. You did that to him. I'm glad my friend got away from you."
Thomas-before had blamed the Chantry and specifically its Templars. Thomas-now saw the Templars as useful idiots. It was no benefit to them the Harrowings ensured only powerful mages became Enchanters while the least powerful were made Tranquil. Logically, if Tranquillity were being done to benefit Templars then the mages who could become the most powerful abominations would be made Tranquil. The system as it was benefitted mages like First Enchanter Irving and Grand Enchanter Vivienne, and ensured the Formari provided them a regular income. As in Tevinter, the most powerful mages exploited the least powerful; the only difference was here the Templars provided a fig-leaf and convenient scapegoat. Apostates like Anders claimed the mages were prisoners of the Templars, but prisoners did not get votes. The Senior Enchanters had votes, and in every Conclave they had voted to continue the status quo.
Knight Commander Greagoir had not been impressed. His jowls had quivered like blancmange. Then First Enchanter Irving had suggested Tranquillity was more merciful than execution.
"It is not - strictly – legal; but Thomas has been a Harrowed mage for less than a week. It was my fault for pushing him to become an Enchanter before he had the emotional maturity. I beg you to show him mercy, as Archon Hessarian showed mercy to Andraste..."
"You liar! You hypocrite! You and Uldred wanted me for your little coterie, and now you've discovered my face doesn't fit you think I'll make you more money as a Tranquil than a corpse! Let me die a man. I'd rather be a corpse than a Tranquil."
"That's enough!" Greagoir had shouted.
An hour later they came for him.
The chair was heavy enough to use as a weapon, but light enough to lift. When the door opened Thomas-before swung the chair at the first person to enter the room. It was Templar Cullen and he went down like a felled oak. Greagoir stood behind Cullen. He was older and slower than the eighteen-year-old, but had a life-time's experience. He reached out and yanked the chair from Thomas' grip, set it down then grabbed his hands. Cullen overcame his pain and straightened up. Thomas fought them as they bound his wrists and ankles, and gagged him before taking him from the magic-nullifying room. He tried to kick and head-butt them as they carried him up the stone steps. He fought them all the way to the Harrowing chamber.
The Harrowing chamber was vast and cold. Pale candles glimmered amid the darkness. They flickered upon a marble statue of Andraste, her hand raised in the traditional blessing. This had been the place where Thomas had been sent into the Fade, to defeat a demon or be killed for failing. Knight Commander Greagoir had picked Cullen to perform the strike, and now he chose him to administer the Brand. Thomas-before had called Greaogir a sly dog – had suspected he wished to teach Cullen not to fraternize with his charge. The lyrium rune – the sun-brand - was placed on the altar. Thomas-before had a mental image of the jewelled head of a snake. It seemed to him the only real thing glowing in the well of darkness.
Greagoir and Cullen tied him to a skeletal iron chair. His wrists, ankles and middle were bound, then Greagoir grabbed his head in a vise-like grip.
"Now, Cullen."
Slowly, clumsily, as if responding to Greagoir's command rather than the will of a functioning mind, Cullen picked up the Brand and advanced the last few steps separating them.
"Cullen! Help me!"
Cullen's face turned red. "You brought this on yourself. You pretended to be so good, so pure. You told me you'd never consort with Blood Mages and I believed...almost believed you. What an unscrupulous liar you are."
"At least I don't lie to myself! I know why you chose to be a Templar rather than a married knight of Ferelden. I've seen you following me, watching me get changed. Do you think that, as a Tranquil, I won't be able to say "no"?"
Shock pulled Cullen's features in on themselves. He paled. Eyes seemed to sink deep into his skull. Greagoir snapped, "Stop making an exhibition of yourself! You are in the presence of Andraste. Show some respect."
"Then let Andraste hear me! She will see what you are doing. She will see you killing me! As you deal with me, so may the Maker deal with you."
These were Thomas-before's last words. The Brand filled his vision and the searing ice touched his forehead. He felt it penetrate his heart, his soul, until all he knew of emotion was lost. His mind became still as a crystalline lake. The cold smothered him. Everything was black, black as death without meaning...
Thomas-before and Thomas-now were like two individuals. Once or twice a day they might meet. Thomas-before had been a wildly emotional person. When Thomas-now remembered him he was unable to feel the emotion and so the memories appeared as a disjointed series of stills spinning in a fog of puzzlement. The images were a faded monochrome in which colour had drained away like blood from a wound. They were fragmented, scattered, skipping from one unconnected detail to another. When he tried to understand, sense and coherency wavered and trembled, the fabric of reality dissolving like a painting left in rain. When Thomas-now had been born he had been flooded in sensory input, drowning in it, unable to find any stability, any freedom from the overload. He remembered struggling, moment by moment, to make sense of the patterns of light and dark and colour and tone and resonance and textures and scents and tastes. In the moments when the two selves fused Thomas experienced a strange stillness of time and blankness of mind, as if neither movement nor thought were possible.
He turned back to Rylock. He looked into the pupils of her eyes and only the black looked back at him, unknown and unknowable as space.
"It would not be logical for you to reverse my Rite of Tranquillity. Thomas-before slept a lot and wasted much time on inconvenient and seething emotion. He would not be as competent in designing the air supply of the mountain fortress. And, as you pointed out, the fact he was a talented mage might influence his opinion of the merits of a technology that everyone can use."
"I am a deontologist. If a thing is right it is right. The "greater good" does not apply." Seeing Thomas' expression she gave an odd, dry smile, "Yes, I know what deontology is. Mages are not the only people who have read "The Five Types of Ethics."
"Correct. I saw Senior Enchanter Sweeney fetch you that book in Redcliffe library. I, however, believe the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Even if I wished to be Thomas-before again (I am not certain) and it happened, and you believed it to be the Maker's will, then what would your reaction be if the news spread and led to unrest within the Circles? What would you do if Divine Beatrix ordered me to be made Tranquil once more?"
Rylock did not dodge the question. "I am not one of those who believe the primary purpose of Templars is to protect mages. Our primary purpose is to protect those like the servants of Redcliffe. I put them first because someone has to. That does not mean doing the job in the easiest manner possible at the expense of the helpless few. I would take you to King Cousland and beg his protection. I would then train volunteers in the Templar abilities to ensure Ferelden's citizens were protected. Then I would return to Orlais to face charges."
"That would lead to a Chantry schism. To the formation of a Ferelden national Chantry rather than the international organization it has been for a thousand years. Do you support that?"
"No. I do not trust nationalism – or rulers. But it does not change the fact that to illegally make you Tranquil again – after the Maker Himself reversed the Rite - would be wrong."
The empty grey sky looked like it was creating bubbles of rain from nothing; glittering blisters of light that sparkled and disappeared. If the balance had been this: Thomas remaining as he was now – a useful person who was not unhappy - versus stepping irreversibly into an unknown future that would destroy his new self and might lead to countless deaths, he would not have taken the green vial. But the balance was not this. He knew Rylock would never agree to re-enact the Rite even if he begged her – she was doing this because she believed it to be right, not because she cared about his wishes – but he did not depend on her. He remembered the process eidetically and as a Tranquil had learned to craft lyrium runes. If the reversal of the Rite led to unsatisfactory consequences he would make himself Tranquil again.
This reassured him and allowed him to indulge his curiosity – the one trait unaffected by Tranquillity. If Rylock was offering him anything it was the novelty of an unknown experience; a fascinating scientific experiment.
"I will take the vial," he said, and Rylock gave it to him. She had the most neglected hands of any woman he had ever seen, but she held it with delicate care. The green solution sparkled like an emerald bar as he stared into its depths. He hesitated. For a moment, it was as if he were falling through blackness, faster than any light could ever be. He seemed to see Thomas-before – a shadow waiting beyond a grey curtain of sky. Thomas-before was singing the notes of a familiar symphony. To Thomas-before, this scene would have been that music – a complex landscape, mountains and valleys and clouds and rain and cool windy air. Thomas-now did not see music in the same way but still found it satisfying – pure and clean and precise as mathematics. The music drove away the darkness and he held the vial to his lips. He drank the light, became the light. Every self he had ever been happened all at once: lambent, shivering, a fire of identity. At the speed of light, time stopped. Thomas-before and Thomas-now were the same.
AN: There are a number of inconsistencies between DAO and DAI regarding Haven's location. In SSSF I attempt to make sense of these, hence Haven is at the bottom of a valley and its Chantry contains a secret entrance to the Temple Ruins. This is the entrance used by the Warden in DAO and the route referenced by Roderick in DAI. The Ruins and caverns form the complex inside the Frostback Mountains where the Ferelden mage apprentices will now be trained. Harrowed mages will be quartered in Haven, which will grow from a derelict village to a thriving town. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is on top of this mountain and on the Orlesian side of the Frostback Mountains is the bridge that will become the Penitent's Crossing. It makes sense that when Justinia popularizes the Temple she would not want access to depend on Ferelden's rulers or the Ferelden Circle.