Chapter Six: In Your Heart Shall Burn
Song is Raign: Evergreen
There's references to 'Hell's Bells' 'Pacific Rim' and the game itself.
Since Inquisition shows us a river outside Haven I have assumed that river extends to the Dales, passing underneath the Penitent's Crossing on the Orlesian side. The Frostbacks have fir trees so I have assumed the presence of a forest on either riverbank.
Rillian hunched over her desk writing the results of her latest experiment while shotgunning qahwa. As always, the numbers did not lie – nor were they any use. She ran a distracted hand through red hair that had grown back to the way Alistair liked it – longer than since the day she had started work at Denerim docks – and messed it up even further. It was now a bird's nest, smudged with ink.
Her donor's representative would be arriving shortly. The offer to pay handsomely for her research had seemed too good to be true - but here the money was. The fact she knew her donor was a Tevinter magister mattered less than she had thought it would. She blushed slightly, deciding never to admit that back home – to the friends and family who had been packed in crates to be sold to Minrathous. Right and wrong had a way of changing places when the stakes were extinction. By any means necessary, the Grey Wardens had told her, and they were right.
Go big or go extinct.
Rillian had unexpectedly been contacted by Varania. Varania knew she had journeyed with her brother and had written her a short note:
Tell Leto I'm damned. And by the time I'm blazing the comet's trail into the Void because I sold my soul to Tractus Danarius I won't care.
Rillian had not told Rylock or Lambert - the only two people who knew where she was - and was certain she would not tell Fenris. What could the message do but hurt him? What could he do for Varania? What did he owe her? Since the answer to these three questions was 'nothing' she held her silence.
Varania had sold her soul to the bastard son of the man who had enslaved Fenris. Rillian knew she was about to sell hers to this donor. Magister Gereon Alexius. Who had a son stricken by taint and was desperate for a cure – that was the honourable part. Less honourable were Alexius' other motives, other allies. Time magic...that was beyond her comprehension, but she could not say a thing was evil because she did not understand it.
But...the Venatori faction. Their leader, Calpernia, spoke of empowering slaves, but the only slaves she meant were human mages. She was sure Alexius was involved with these Venatori. Dark whispers suggested he was testing Red Lyrium – the man himself claimed to be studying it, as she was studying taint – but 'studying' meant different things to different scientists. Rillian's research would never involve inflicting taint on another living being. Would this Tevinter magister have the same scruples? She doubted a man who owned slaves would have any qualms about the uses he found for his property.
When Varania had said she was 'damned' what did she mean? Rillian doubted she was talking about remorse – after trying to sell her own brother into slavery Varania's bar was pretty low.
She remembered what Lambert had found under the tarps at Andoral's Reach. Even now, he still could not bring himself to talk about it.
A reptile part of her knew exactly what she was allying with – what had happened to Varania and to Alexius' slaves. She knew – and would work with him anyway. Because it was this or allow her dreams to go to waste.
A person without experience of the Elven perspective could easily miss the lorn desolation of her position. Rillian would not have tried explaining to her friend Rylock. A human woman - even one as honourable and faithful as Rylock - had certain limitations of vision.
Rillian and her people inhabited the waste corners of Thedas. Alienages, Tevinter slavery, or the endless wandering of the Dalish. Only a person who possessed things - independent means or land or inheritance - had any power to rearrange their life, to avoid or defend. Elves were already clinging to crannies and last possibilities. There were only so many nights a Dalish clan could camp in some forest a human nobleman held the deed for - only so many places City Elves could get a morning's work at the docks.
The outwardly most successful - those like Fenris' sister, Varania - were the property of their 'patrons.' Tractus Danarius hadn't mentored Varania because he cared about Elven rights or about nurturing her magic. No human did.
No person did, Rillian corrected herself - remembering people like Fen'Harel were just as racist to non-Elves and non-mages. Tractus Danarius wanted something in return. As did Gereon Alexius. Oh, she believed he loved his son and hoped she could cure Felix - was taking the chance on Rillian's research rather than the Wardens' Joining. But there was more. Rillian had always known that, even if she didn't have all the pieces in place. She had chosen to ally with him anyway because…what other choice was there? No one else would fund her research.
Rillian laid her head in her hands. If it was this or allow the whole world to fall to Red Lyrium it was justified. By any means necessary. But – was it? Was there any quantifiable proof this was more than just a dream? The numbers said no. Was this self-deception? Was she simply happy an Alienage Elf had somehow convinced the wealthy and powerful to invest in her? Was this mere vanity?
People are dying for your ideas now. More will die. For mortals? For happiness? For Rillian ?
A knock shattered her thoughts. "Come in."
She turned to face her husband – to face the sun – and as its clean, new light shone through her she found herself in Alistair's arms.
"Thank the Maker1 Let me look at you..."
She blinked her sight clear and saw him gazing at her hungrily through her own tears.
Her heart burned with love for Alistair – for her husband. A marriage between Elf and human was illegal in the lands of the Southern Chantry and in Tevinter – did not exist in Qunander – was forbidden in every Dalish Clan except Lavellan - and she did not care. They were married in the Maker's sight and needed nothing more than that.
But then he took in her old shirt, her battered appearance, the strain impacted around her eyes, and his face changed. The bones underlying his features seemed to become iron; his eyes seemed to catch and reflect light like tempered steel.
"I have been to Starkhaven – Prince Sebastian has a letter for you. He wouldn't trust it to a raven."
Warden-Commander,
A Tevinter army has just crossed the Minanter River. They carry no banner. They are heading not to Kirkwall – Viscount Nathaniel Howe's defenses are legendary – they are heading for the Heartlands of Orlais. I believe they will set up camp at Emprise de Lion and from there attack Haven. My wife is in Haven – as are Cassandra Penteghast and Leliana, the Right and Left Hands of the Divine. Knight Commander Rylock is in command and Lambert and Fenris Hawke-Lethandralis have joined them. I will be sending a contingent of knights and have sent raven to Viscount Howe to request his aid. I beg you to assist – with your research and with your griffons.
Your ally,
Prince Sebastian Vael
Distinctly, like the sound of a breaking twig, Alistair said, "The Venatori. Tell me what you've learned."
Involuntarily, Rillian faltered. She knew what her husband would say about her alliance. Agreed with him. She wanted to trust him as he trusted her - wanted to be worthy of him - but she couldn't do it. "There's so much..."
He put his arms around her and let her cling to him as hard as she could. Then he murmured, "You're cold. And you look like you can use some food."
Rillian could not remember the last time she had had more than qawva from Seheron.
Turning her with his arm on her waist, he started moving her in the direction of their small kitchen. Their roachy kitchen looked like a team of furious spirits had rampaged through it. Cupboards and contents were open, with their contents partly disgorged. Empty glass bottles – brown, green, clear, blue – were everywhere. Clothes, cushions, shoes, scribbled parchment. Furnishings were by default – every item in the room had known happier times elsewhere.
He smiled self-consciously, "I'll make it. I have learned something since the days I let...others...cook for us."
Rillian remembered. 'Others' had been Morrigan, but neither of them spoke the name of the woman who had borne Alistair's child. Alistair's human child – thanks to Rillian refusing Morrigan's offer of the Dark Ritual. Alistair had still cheated – in retaliation for her betrayal at the Landsmeet. But marriage had untied the knots that had grown between them, helped put together an honest, seamless weave. Sometimes she wondered what Nelaros – her first love and the man whose children she should have borne – would have said about Alistair. She hoped his spirit was at peace in the Golden City. Hoped he would give them his blessing.
Love comes once or twice but only when you fight the good fight.
Later, after she had told Alistair what she could of her sponsor – Magister Gereon Alexius - Alistair nodded as if she had confirmed his worst fears. Rillian stiffened.
"You don't think this is what I was born to do, that curing someone of taint – rather than just putting him through the Joining – is a worthy goal? Is that not what I have already done for Rylock?"
"I do," Alistair agreed, "I am just – worried about what else he may expect from you. Who else he may have allied with to achieve his goals. Whether these goals stop at curing his son."
Rillian was annoyed. The more lies and omissions she told the more she took it personally when her husband did not agree with her truths.
A moment later Alistair surrendered. He shrugged, "I swore an oath. I will always protect you. It doesn't matter to me how I die to honour that. Do what your conscience demands."
"But you don't trust Gereon Alexius?" she asked stiffly, "You don't believe a Tevinter magister could simply be a father concerned for his son?"
Alistair did not answer. "I will sell my soul for you now, if I must. Without another word from you – or from him. But I would prefer to know what it is I am trusting."
"I'm sorry," Rillian whispered. "That's between you and him. He'll have to tell you himself. But I trust him."
Alistair smiled at her with sunlight in his eyes.
"That's good enough for me. What are we going to do about the letter?"
"We will take our griffons and defend Haven, of course."
That morning Rillian braided her hair and Alistair coiled a soft bundle of silk and flame around his fist, savouring the bloodsurge that swept his body. It took up residence – at what felt like the molecular level, some strange song of the cells – the conviction he must bind himself to this woman forever. He saw the gradual dissolution of mystery and romance – its succession by friendship and a sort of tranquil supernatural loyalty. He felt the bearability of the Calling – so long as the life before it was bloodily commingled with hers. The humble truth: build a truly good life and it will reward you with mastery of the fear of death. The days of their lives were as the burning of the leaves and it did not matter. They were together against the world.
"One last time before the road?" Rillian asked with gentle allegiance.
An unmanly sexual pleasure for Alistair, in being completely naked against Rillian completely clothed, her knee between his thighs providing him with an erection and a glimpse of his own large store of submissiveness.
He saw her face above him, amber eyes enormous, alternatively present and abstracted. He put his mouth and hands and hips on hers and there was a void where thinking should have been.
"Let me come on top," Rillian breathed. What was there to do but obey her and move into apotheosis?
Morrigan was waiting for him on his return - the shame, the puzzled regret. How was it that one still permitted the other? This truth - he would preserve it - the other was too monstrous.
Alistair shook his head to clear his mind, forced himself to face the real problem. Going to Haven with their griffons would be dangerous for him and Rillian – too many Wardens wanted their heads for 'treachery' - yet in his heart he wanted the confrontation. Believed Rillian defined what Wardens should be. The stakes were irresistible.
And yet.
He asked himself if he knew the truth anymore. Once, he'd been sure. Always. Now he could never tell.
The light rain chuckled against the window. Rillian reached for him – touched his skin, his muscles, his very bones. She understood who he was and where he was going. He trusted her.
Rillian, Alistair, Jowan and Ser Otto followed the Minanter River to Starkhaven and were joined by Prince Sebastian Vael and a retinue of knights. After years of wandering the world like a nomad, this was not unpleasant. It was certainly nice to see Alistair riding his brown stallion, armoured and looking like the King he should have been. She still had dreams of what might have happened if Alistair had wed Anora, if she had given him up. Sometimes she felt she had cheated Ferelden by taking the last Theirin – then she remembered King Channon Cousland had stayed behind at Highever, fighting while his Elven servants – including Nelaros – escaped.
From Starkhaven they rode to Kirkwall, where she was happy to see Zevran. As First Talon of the Antivan Crows Zevran was a busy man, but he spent what time he could with his lover. Rillian was not present while Prince Sebastian and Viscount Nathaniel discussed aiding Haven. Once, she had been the Hero of Ferelden – talking as an equal with arls and princes – but those days were long gone. Her Dalish Vallaslin and air of secrecy would forever mark her.
Nathaniel Howe sent a token force to Haven but did not accompany them. The Viscount had calculated the citizens of Kirkwall would be better served by staying out of the war against the Elder One – letting them fight it on Ferelden soil – and keeping most of his army in the Free Marches. He was Ferelden too but... Amaranthine was a long way from the Breach. Channon Cousland was fighting – but then he was King.
Prince Sebastian did not see it that way. His wife was at Haven.
Zevran, however, joined her – as he always had. "My fair Warden – by your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Black City itself."
The head of Nathaniel's token force was Guard Captain Donnic – who had been glad to volunteer.
Rillian had not been sure of Isabella – the Admiral of the Felicisima Armada had taken her crew and they were sailing one step ahead of the breaches opening across Thedas. But Isabella joined her – as did Bianca.
"I'm following the bitch who took my husband," the dwarven woman said flatly. "Cassandra Penteghast will learn the price for taking what is mine." Rillian looked into her dark eyes and thought no steel was ever stronger. She had the intimation she would never truly understand Bianca's strength.
She was also aware – shyly delighted - this meant the thirteen who had been to Red Bride's Grave – who had been chosen by their griffons – would be together.
They took ship to the Storm Coast and crossed the Bannorn to Redcliffe. Lady Isolde was worrying about Connor, who had written to tell her he would be fighting with the mage unit 'Equal Rites.' Rillian tried to feel sorry for her but could not get past the fact Isolde had borne two children – Connor and Rowan – while Rillian was barren. She was thankful there was only the Maker to observe the spite, the shameful pettiness, the meanness of spirit, the poison.
They reached Haven from Sulcher's Pass, and Rillian stared. When she had last seen this place it had been a tiny village among Tevinter ruins and a mountain of secrets. Now it was a thriving city, home to the Ferelden Circle – and a fortress bristling with defenses.
Having been the first to discover Haven, Rillian knew of the underground passageway that led from Ferelden to the catacombs below the Chantry – but it would have been impolitic to lead the rulers of foreign city-states through there. Instead, they approached the Eastern Gate via Sulcher's Pass.
She recognized Rylock on the wall and gave a joyful cry. Rylock actually waved. Rillian grinned at the sight of an armoured Templar waving.
She swung to the ground cavalry-style while her charging warhorse was still skidding to a dirt-throwing, shuddering stop. Rylock met her at the gate, plain face lit up like a candle.
"You've come! Where did you spring from?"
"We only just arrived."
"Like an angel into a lion's den. What a relief!" Rylock's voice was low and intense, vibrating through Haven like a bell. "I knew you would."
"If I hadn't you'd only have dragged me here," Rillian smiled.
"It isn't safe outside the walls of Haven. Not even in Wycome. I have heard worrying things about Duke Antoine."
"Clan Lavellan avoid him. And I'm a Warden. Fighting darkspawn is what we do. I thought I had Corypheus the first time. This time, I'll make sure."
It occurred to Rillian Rylock was being very rude to greet her and ignore the Prince of Starkhaven. Rylock was not known for her tact. But Sebastian did not seem to mind. When they entered Haven he and his wife disappeared for hours, and no-one was foolish enough to assume they were discussing strategy. She was vaguely aware of Jowan's terror: this would be the first time he had seen Sister Lily - the woman he had so wronged – and she caught him looking at Ser Otto for reassurance.
"Courage," his friend murmured - in a tone that managed to be both unjudgmental and commanding. Jowan was a Warden and must live up to the title. Jowan had bitterly wronged Lily and must apologize. Rillian looked away, embarrassed to witness something so private.
She was just approaching the wooden palisade around the Chantry when awareness of knifing enmity prickled the back of her neck. The soft rain made a cave for her mind. Force of will erased all expression, leaving flat inscrutability. The dream she'd had since she'd smashed Merrill's Eluvian, night after night, played across the inside of her vision. Sat like a sheet of stained glass she was peering through. Rillian had the Dalish awareness of terrain, and an Alienage Elf's sense of nearby predators. Experience told her the predator misses far more often than it kills. Wary prey survives. Usually.
An Elven man in plain clothes headed towards her. He wore a cloak that billowed outwards like a wet flower; robbed him of form.
...And the world was without form and void...
"Fen'Harel."
The Alienage superstition naming threats caused them to become real had no place here. She knew who and what this was. He was looking at her as though he couldn't quite believe dinner had addressed him. The 'Tranquil' Elf who had not been real enough for him to acknowledge when he had come though Merrill's Eluvian. He had addressed Merrill and Keeper Marethari – the mages – his empty gaze passing over her as if she were a utensil. His lack of notice had allowed her to smash the mirror – prevent the Dread Wolf returning to his own time and reversing his decision to raise the Veil.
She had trapped him here forever – an immortal Elf on the edge of extinction – the only one of his kind.
"Forgive me," he said flatly, "I do not remember your name. I have taken the name 'Solas.'"
"Rillian Tabris Lavellan. You should know the name of your killer."
"Yes," the immortal Elf mused mildly, "You could reveal my identity to the Knight Commander. Rylock would fight me – she is brave – and I would turn her to stone with a glance. And the next. Eventually, you would have no-one to help you fight Corypheus."
"You are the reason Corypheus is here." Rillian spoke with the calm of perfect disbelief, herself as incredible to her as the being she spoke with. "You sent him to the Conclave – told him to use the Orb to sunder the Veil. But something went wrong. Lambert has the Orb – it obeys him now – which is why you are his enemy. You cannot let me warn him. When are you going to do it?"
Panic erupted in the question. She remembered Eleni Zinovia, trapped forever in the stone sarcophagus that had once been her own flesh and blood. Punished for foretelling the downfall of her master.
..."No help can be given me, for this is my doom and my destiny. Weep not for me, child. Stone they made me and stone I am, eternal and unfeeling. And I shall endure 'til the Maker returns to light their fires again" ...
She wondered what that would feel like.
Why was she still breathing?
"After Corypheus is defeated. Doing it now would be wasteful."
The voice's sinister colouration of tone and pitch grew more marked – the phrases slid from his tongue with a cobra's seeking sway, winding their liquid rhythms around Rillian.
It was as if time had stopped, replaced by the elemental force of the voice. The light was a bloody amber, except where a gap in the clouds let in a sliver of blue-white brilliance, bounced off the snow. Rillian scrambled to gather the pieces of her thoughts; struggled to marshal her argument. The words fell from her mouth like silent raindrops.
She needed time. A little. A minute. That wasn't so much. Not for a life. She listened to each heartbeat. So precious.
"Corypheus must be stopped. He really can become a 'god' - an immortal being ruling Thedas from what the Chantry calls 'the Golden City.' He will rape your people as the Magisters Sidereal raped mine. Fenris will be a slave again. You will all be slaves."
"And that is different from your plan for us how?" Rillian asked dryly.
"It isn't. But Corypheus is trying to kill you now and I will only try later. I wish to ally with you to defeat him. He will not ally with you to defeat me."
Rillian faced the being who now called himself 'Solas'. His amber eyes were threaded with gold.
"When the Magisters Sidereal entered the Golden City it required the blood sacrifice of thousands of slaves to sunder the Veil," she reasoned, "You could not have gained the same power by killing Divine Justinia – not even by killing everyone at that Conclave. Therefore, you weren't using their deaths to power the Anchor – you are neither a Blood Mage nor a necromancer. Justinia was simply collateral damage." The words were condemnation. "In that case – why use Corypheus at all? Why not simply enter the Conclave yourself?"
She froze, struck by a realization. "Because you were afraid. Afraid to enter that Conclave full of Templars. Their powers really can nullify yours. You can turn people to stone at a glance – but you still have to do it one at a time. They would have overwhelmed you. You are immortal but not eternal – you do not age but can be killed. You were afraid." The knowledge was reassuring.
Solas did not answer. The rain flicked like a dark, sparkling jewel. Melting snow moved in slithering chunks through the storm.
"One other thing – why ally with us at all? Corypheus does not have what you need – Lambert does. He has the Orb. Why should I believe you want to kill Corypheus and not him?"
"I saved Lambert's life," Solas reminded her, "Corypheus believes he can reclaim the Orb by killing the Herald – I know the process that bound the Anchor to him is irreversible. If he dies the Anchor dies. You have no-one here with more motive to protect him."
"So... Corypheus wants to kill Lambert and you want to use him like a tool? If you could sever his arm you would – but you lack the means to keep the flesh alive. The rest of Lambert is merely life-support to the Anchor for you. And you expect me to ally with you, knowing that?"
Solas gave an exasperated sigh. "Either we ally with each other to destroy Corypheus - and then fight. Or we fight now and Corypheus wins. The choice is yours."
Rillian sighed. Solas was right. He spoke of a choice but this was really their chance. There was no choice.
"Rylock will never accept that. She won't ally with you any more than she would ally with the Venatori."
Solas smiled with gentle amusement. "Then I suggest you don't tell her."
He was across the village in a whirling flurry, never visible for longer than an eyeblink. Rillian thought of the swift, sinister grace of the creatures that lived below Lake Calenhad. Here one minute and gone the next, they made the mind distrust the eye.
"Yes."
She barely heard herself. The rain had stopped before she assumed she was alone. She leaned heavily against one of the old, comforting trees, remembered the Vhenadahl. Her Alienage had worshipped at the Chantry but still kept shrines to the Elvhen gods. How sad to have spent centuries venerating this.
A single word stole through the corners of her mind, fouling all it touched.
Betrayal.
The next person to show up at Haven was Carver Hawke.
"I'm joining you," Carver told his brother, "I've had it with the Wardens. They're all cunts. I mean, obviously I'm a cunt myself but not like these cunts. I'll take Minna and Lambert Junior with me."
"It's dangerous. The Breach..."
"I piss on risk. And there's breaches opening all across Thedas, don't you know. It looks like you could use the extra hands."
Lambert said nothing.
"Oi, bollock-brain, are you listening?"
"You really aren't joking, are you? What in the Maker's name are you going to tell Warden-Commander Stroud?"
"That I know how to fight Corypheus, stupid. I took Rillian's improved Joining, in case the entire planet's forgotten. I'm immune to the false Calling."
"Oh, Maker."
"Yes, Lambo. The benefit of Joining during the Fifth Blight."
"Welcome aboard."
Carver gave him a smile that might have been mocking, might have been solidarity. "Maker help you."
Fade's Eve had come and gone. The citizens of Haven were about to celebrate Winterfest with the closing of the Breach.
They had enough Templars – and mages – to make that possible. Sweeney had gone over and over their plan for the mages to channel power into the Mark, while Rylock and her Templars used their powers to suppress the Breach. The success or failure depended on the man the people of Redcliffe were calling the Herald of Andraste.
The tales had run before him. Apparently, Lambert had used the Mark to seal three more Rifts near Redcliffe - had saved a dying woman with a rare herb - had saved peasants from bandits. They called him, 'the Herald' as a title and the Andrastean in Rylock wanted to reprove the blasphemy. The soldier in her knew how people held to hope - how they gave their leaders nicknames. A name like' Herald' was a sign of belief in him - if Lambert had rejected that, he would have rejected them.
Lambert had recruited a man named Sutherland and was apparently in talks with another rebel leader, Fairbanks, who was a former Orlesian nobleman who had defended refugees in the Dales. Neither man owed loyalty to Ferelden or to the Templars – they had sworn allegiance to Lambert, personally, and through him to the Inquisition. Rylock did not concern herself with their politics, only that the men were valiant allies. But the next person to offer allegiance was concerning.
The Iron Bull - leader of the popular mercenary company 'The Bulls Chargers' - was a strong fighter and leader. The fact he was Kossith would not have concerned her - many Kossith were Tal Vashoth and she didn't think a person's value lay in whether they had horns. It was the soul that mattered. Right now it was finding enough allies that mattered. The Iron Bull had apparently met Lambert near the Storm Coast and been in talks with Leliana. The Inquisition's spymaster had agreed to make him a member of the Inquisition.
Then King Cousland met Leliana. The king had nearly as vast a spy network as she did and had learned things. Rylock was there in the War Room.
"Seeker Leliana - Left Hand of the Divine..." (the King always became scrupulously polite when about to stick the knife in) ... "You are telling me you knew The Iron Bull is Hissrad - a Qunari spy - and you think it preferable to have him in our camp - learning our defenses - because by allowing him to report to his superiors you are keeping the Qunari at bay?"
Defensively, Leliana replied, "Your Majesty - you know neither Ferelden nor the Inquisition can afford a war on two fronts. By battling these Venatori - who have the might of Tevinter behind them, whatever they may say - you have ensured you cannot take on Qunander if they invade now. It is logical to take our allies where we can find them and to leave the war we cannot win for another day. The Qunari are natural allies against Tevinter. As a woman who was born in Ferelden, and will always hold loyalty to your country, you have my word I would never have let Hissrad leave with Fereldan military secrets. I screen everything he sends and - you know I'll never let him return. This mission will be his last." Her voice was chill, dark, hard as hail.
"And when were you planning to inform me of this decision?" the king asked conversationally – all the more dangerously for that.
"At the next War Council. I could not have trusted this to a raven."
The king read the truth of this and thawed imperceptibly. Thoughtfully, Channon said, "Since my ninth summer, I've been trained to rule. I was the 'spare' in Highever, but mother was always ambitious."
That, Rylock knew, was as near as possible an admission not all Loghain's fears about the Couslands had been paranoia. Not that it mattered now. Channon and Loghain's daughter were ruling together: the person who had lost was Arl Eamon.
"Not fight, Leliana. You're a fighter. You play the Game to the highest stakes and to the death. As does Vivienne and Dorian. Rylock is an anti-magic guardsman: her life, skills, body and mind are born, live and die in her oath to protect others from magic. I admire you all. But I rule. You understand the difference? In this game of thrones what is believed is reality. If the Qunari believe we are frightened enough of an invasion we will allow a spy into our camp to postpone it, we encourage them."
"What will you do?"
"Hissrad has not seen anything of our new weapons or tactics. I made sure. So I will allow him to live. He will be given exactly twenty-one days to leave Ferelden. He will be told if he or any other spies return they will be executed. 'The Bull's Chargers' are fooled by him - they won't be punished. But they will choose to leave out of loyalty." As a soldier, Channon was certain of that.
Rylock headed to speak with her men: Knight Captain Harith, who had fought beside her during the Blight, defended her at that fateful Landsmeet (to his own astonished chagrin) and taken the same punishment – Knight Captain Evangeline – Templar Delryn Barris and Brother Rocald. Cullen also offered his aid – he no longer took lyrium but his Seeker training had granted him the same powers. As did Alistair and Ser Otto. Both had been Templars – though Alistair had not yet been given lyrium and Ser Otto had gone through the agonizing process of withdrawal – and both remained able to cast Templar powers without need for it.
The Andrastean in Rylock yearned for that to be evidence of the Maker's grace. But her father had told her privately, "They do not realize it but they are casting through taint, like emissaries."
Rylock had been furious – hurting for Ser Otto. She, of all of them, knew just what losing Boann in that way had done to his faith. The fact he had clung to faith at all was incredible, heroic.
"And I am a 'low-level, artificially-created mage fueled by lyrium'. And Wardens take in something that makes them akin to darkspawn. So what? That doesn't change the honour of what we do, or the purpose. But I will never be cruel enough to tell Ser Otto and - if you are the man I think you are – you won't either."
"I will not," Sweeney had assured her, "But I believe you can handle the truth."
And that, Rylock knew, was Sweeney's version of a compliment – the highest he could give.
It gave her satisfaction to walk around Haven and see new thatches on roofs, and neatly tilled rows ready for spring. Chickens waddled around their pens, while floppy-eared rabbits in hutches ate Flissa's scraps and grew fat. Campfires glowed ruddy in the blue-black gloom, islands of light and warmth in a wine-dark sea.
But the idyll was fragile, and Rylock dreaded the day it would be taken. She had never called a place 'home' before – she believed in the Chantry saying, 'this world is not our home' and Mother Leanna had certainly done her best to teach her children this truth. 'Pain is a way of loosening the bonds of flesh – so that you are ready to return to the Maker when your time comes.' Rylock knew now the woman had enjoyed it. Knew and hated herself for never having tried to find Keili. Now Haven was home to both.
First Enchanters Vivienne, Sweeney and Lydia of Ostwick were joined by Anders and Rhys, and their volunteers among the Rebel Mages.
Vivienne approached her, eyes dancing through a panoply of emotions as brightly radiant as the iridescence of oil on water.
"Are you ready, my dear?"
"It is time," Rylock confirmed.
"The elite of the Templars are ready, Herald," Commander Cullen relayed, "Be certain you are prepared. We cannot know how you will be affected."
"On it." Lambert spoke to Cullen exactly as he would have spoken to a fellow soldier during the Fifth Blight – which Cullen had been. It was as if their past had never happened. Rylock was impressed.
"Mages!" Solas addressed both 'Equal Rites' and the Rebel Mages, "Focus past the Herald. Let his will draw from you."
If Lambert was afraid he didn't show it. Just glanced – once – at his husband. Rylock had the intimation Lambert-Fenris were a gestalt. Beyond channeling power from his fellow mages into the Mark – beyond the Templars using their powers to suppress the Breach – Lambert's Anchor and Fenris' brands were connected. Minds – memories – together they were more than two. Rylock thought of the Ferelden words of marriage...
...Your strength is multiplied, not added...
She heard Lambert whisper, "Today we are cancelling the apocalypse" and saw the nascence of a smile on Fenris' face.
Clouds wrapped Haven, fog choking them with cold, constricting coils.
Lambert raised his left palm as if in blessing and the luminous filament sprang from it, more than whip-fast. The skein of raw force stretched in response to his will, like molten glass at the end of a blower's pipe. It was like the first time but only as a caterpillar resembles a butterfly.
"It is pretty cool," said Knight Captain Carroll – the once-goofy kid who had been tempted by the late Lord Seeker van Reeves but found it more comfortable at Haven. Rylock could not disagree with his assessment.
The pulsating arc of green light breathed in and out like a living thing, its glow reflected on the bellies of the clouds. There was a sudden blast that spattered warm rain on her face. The explosion knocked them backward. Lambert stumbled – fell – was caught by Fenris. Cassandra ran to him.
"You did it!"
Lambert eyed her somewhat warily. If Cassandra was expecting him to celebrate with her she was premature. Lambert had not forgiven Casandra for interrogating Varric, and Corypheus was still at large.
Yet the people of Haven were celebrating. Windows gleamed from settlements and small farmhouses, the glass more dazzling than gems, while the stone was rich and yellow as butter. Woodsmoke curled gently up. A flock of hawks wheeled through manoeuvres more precise than any military effort. Bloodtrail hawks, Rylock recognized with unease. Thomas Amell was dancing with Minna – Seggrit was dancing with Flissa – Adan was quaffing Highever whiskey.
Only Leliana was aloof – watching like an eagle whose proud eyes claimed the land to its furthest end. It was a gleam Rylock had seen in King Cousland's eyes – in Viscount Nathaniel Howe's - she thought of it as a conqueror's gleam. The Left Hand of the Divine beckoned her and Rylock found herself obeying. She joined Leliana and Cassandra as they approached Lambert and his husband.
"The Breach is a healed wound rimed with bright, agonized matter," Leliana said.
More prosaically, Cassandra confirmed, "The heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed. We have reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain – but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread."
Lambert shrugged. "You know how many were involved. Luck put me at the centre, that's all."
"A strange kind of luck. I am not sure if we need more or less. But you are right. This was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory. With the Breach closed that alliance will need new focus."
"We'll defeat Corypheus and his Venatori – the Rebel Mages will live in peace at Andoral's Reach, not bothering anyone – the clerics will elect a new Divine - and Fen and I are going back to Starkhaven," Lambert said firmly, "Our focus is to free Tevinter slaves."
"You are two men, even with the support of Prince Sebastian," Leliana murmured, "If your goal is to free slaves you should use the Inquisition to make war on the Venatori. People won't care about the fate of Elves in a foreign country. They will care the Venatori attacked us and blasphemed the Chantry. Grand Cleric Petrice of Kirkwall agrees, and I will ally with her if need be."
The remark was cynical enough to surprise Rylock. She knew a woman of idealism, of conviction – knew Leliana had some strange ideas but believed in the quality of her soul. This cold schemer was not the person she remembered.
"The only Exalted March my Templars will support is one against darkspawn. Not mages, not heretics," Rylock said flatly.
"And are the Magisters Sidereal not darkspawn – the cause of the Blights and of Red Lyrium? The cause of the abomination that happened to Mother Boann – the cause of slavery in Tevinter?"
There was a feeling in the air around Leliana, an energy that failed to alter the beautiful, knife-sharp features. Rylock knew she was wrestling with the dark angel of grief but for all the emotion she showed she might have been made of stone. Her eyes gleamed unnaturally bright.
Haven's bells seemed an echo of the sudden rolling thunder. Lightning flashed across the sky. A black sensation crawled down Rylock's spine.
"Forces approaching! To arms!"
She heeded Commander Cullen's warning without question. Cullen had begun as 'Commander' of only a few people – but all those who were neither Ferelden nor Templar nor mage had flocked to the Inquisition's banner. He had trained these soldiers well and lived up to the title.
The green-black firs were like emeralds set in moving silver. They blurred, merging with the rain as the sun slid low enough to bloody the white teeth of the Frostbacks.
"We must get to the gates." Cassandra was pale and drawn but indomitable.
"Under what banner?" Princess Josephine was hurrying to join her husband.
"None."
"The leader of the Red Templars is Knight Commander Fornier," Cullen told them heavily, "I know because my...because Samson told me about him when trying to persuade me to join. He was given command of the garrison at Sahrnia, near Emprise de Lion. They are marching over the Penitent's Crossing."
"I doubt they are supplicants," Anders said dryly.
"The leader of the Venatori is named Calpernia," Fenris told them flatly. "My former companion – Marius – begged me not to kill her. I should have ignored him." His voice was dark with guilt. Lambert squeezed his shoulder.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Fen. You couldn't have known."
Vivienne was trying to buoy Lambert. He was not one of her unit – having chosen to fight with Anders' Rebel Mages – but it was clear she saw him as a protégé, as she saw Keili. "What threat could the ground hold? You've already conquered the sky."
"This bodes poorly." Rylock disliked it when Solas pointed out the obvious.
Anders shrugged. "I guess celebratory drinks are on hold."
Cullen called for Scout Lace Harding. They knew the position of the Red Templars on the Orlesian side but the Venatori were like shadows, difficult to place. Lace Harding had been exploring the Ferelden side, where infiltrators might have bypassed the king's defenses to attack unexpectedly. "The Venatori gladiators are riding horses that are calm, and just a little damp. Not wet, mind. They covered some ground today, but not hard-driven."
"How do you know they weren't hard-driven?"
"The saddle blankets were just about dry, and it's a damp night. The reins were dry – soaked leather stays wet, you know."
Prince Sebastian Vael had warned them the majority of the Venatori had crossed the Minanter River from Tevinter. This news meant some of them had been in Ferelden a while, hidden in plain sight. Rylock was chagrined – as a Templar, she should have noticed.
"I understand," she said, cutting a hard look at Cullen. "Did you notice anything else?"
"They've had time to load up food for themselves and grain for their horses. That means they've been here a while – and have a supplier. When Commander Cullen tells us to hurry we've got no time for anything but what we always carry. I don't picture the Magisters living like that. Do you, Knight Commander?"
This time Cullen couldn't hold back his grim laughter, and even Rylock had difficulty. "No, I don't think Calpernia lives with her gear packed the way you do. And I don't think she sees half as much in a day as you saw in the dark tonight. You did a proud job."
Lace Harding grinned and swaggered off.
"You have made Haven a fortress," Cullen told her, "If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle. Get out there and hit them with everything we can."
Rylock made her decision. "There's trebuchets all along the walls of Haven. Any Venatori will be riding into a death trap. We'll stop the Red Templars at the crossing – they won't set one foot on Ferelden soil. Pull in your flankers. Drive straight ahead. Find a good defensive position, organize the ground, then scout ahead and clear anyone who looks hostile. I'll bring up the rest of the Templars."
Cullen was issuing orders before Rylock was turned round. "Inquisition - with the Herald!" For your lives – for all of us!"
As they approached Penitent's Crossing they passed embrasure after embrasure, arrow slit after arrow slit. The field gate facing the Dales was protected by a barbican that included a stone machicolated section. The walls provided cover for archers but Rylock did not intend to rely only on passive defense.
Putting herself in the enemy's place – Fornier was a noted tactician – Rylock weighed the possibilities of moving Red Templars through the forest fast enough to intercept the men of Haven on the move. It would be difficult, but possible. On the other hand, a force exiting the forest at the edge of Haven would find it nearly impossible to get into battle formation because the piled, broken trees would lock them in place. So, a decent tactician would hide his forces a hundred yards or so from the point where the mountain path left the forest and wait to surprise them. Rylock meant to be clear of the trees before anyone could move against them.
Her men only knew that they'd been ordered to hurry forward. Sabatons thudding on the trail overwhelmed the brooding silence of the forest. The column became an arrow, slashing through the forest, seeking a target.
The bloodtrail hawks were circling. They were carrion eaters. It was said they could smell war, because they always seemed to gather where a large number of men were in one place. Rylock remembered the Fifth Blight – how these doomed airborne creatures had taken in ruin and darkness along with their meal. It was to happen again, this time with Red Lyrium. The victims would be far beyond those fighting here.
The soft breeze disguised the movement of Cullen's force. To Rylock's eyes the subtle irregularities in evergreen trees and brush that told her they were getting into position were all too obvious. She pictured them spreading out at extended intervals and imagined she could hear the scrape of metal on metal as they tested the fit of Swords of Mercy in scabbards.
Vivienne was on the move, leading her small unit of 'Equal Rites' into the forest at the northern limit of the field. Her eyes drifted to the rear, where the Rebel Mages were providing supporting fire. Rylock sniffed as she recalled Anders joking with Karl about 'fragging' Templars during the Fifth Blight. Then she shrugged. Anders had told her, "You're better-looking than Corypheus" and she would have to take that as assurance. Vivienne's steadiness would be more important at the point of first contact.
King Cousland's bearing was unmistakable, even though his face was obscured by one of the war masks traditional to the Chasind. His brother, Teyrn Fergus, had led them during the Fifth Blight and some of the customs remained. Channon's men had been allowed to decorate the basic design to suit themselves. They presented some interesting visages.
Admiral Isabella had a wave of boats preparing to strike from the east bank. They made Rylock think of ungainly animals lurching across the water but, once launched, they were suddenly graceful. Pirates crawled over the sites, grabbing oars, pulling toward the ground beneath the crossing. Arrows and portable siege machines would not stop the advance but would slow them. The hubbub of men and horses created a unique sound. It was like a confused rumble of thunder, with the presence of violence in it.
The edge of the field in front of Cullen's hidden troops spread like a stain of mercury – a metallic ripple moving up the frosted grass.
Cullen's archers responded to his signal by rising in perfect unison, their composite longbows humming. The first missiles whizzed among the Red Templars. It was impossible to miss at that range. Dozens of Red Templars dropped but then – incredibly, horribly – picked themselves up and kept moving.
Rylock signalled Vivienne.
Magefire began slicing towards the Red Templars. Icestorm glittered ominously. A mage fell. Then another.
"Get back," she shouted – in the silence of her heart - "Fall back now, Vivienne." Her hands clenched in helpless fists. Her earlier fiery elation turned to a cold bitterness on her tongue. She imagined she could identify individual cries of the wounded.
To her men she whispered, "Your comrades have done their work well. The Red Templars are regaining their balance now. We'll strike in a few minutes. Then the Rebel Mages will come in."
A muted buzz ran through her unit. It was an eerie, almost soundless enthusiasm. They knew their best weapon was surprise, and only silence could protect it.
By the time she eased to a hidden observation post at the edge of the forest, Viviene's mages were fleeing. The Red Templars were barely under control, snarling like animals, but the mages directed their pursuit just where it should go. They stayed far enough ahead to avoid close work, all the while maintaining the galling hail of magic. The enemy redoubled their efforts to overtake.
Rylock directed her men forward. The accumulated sound of their passage through the forest was a vast, anxious whisper. Not until they were clear of the trees and in the field did the mass of Red Templars even suspect their presence.
The crescent moon was a silver axe cutting through wisping clouds. The sliver cast a confusing shimmer over everything. The stars were like tiny ice crystals. The Red Templar attack erupted like flame.
Then Anders' mages appeared on the other side of the field.
Simultaneously, Rylock and the king struck. Anders advanced as well, Dorian casting a devastating fireball.
Rylock remembered Loghain's lessons: what counts is how many against how many at the point of contact. Surrounded, crushed against themselves, the superior numbers of the Red Templars were worse than useless.
Rylock noted their undisturbed acceptance. A slick of fear whipped across her spine. It brought yet another realization: the sound of the enemy combatants was wrong. Except for infrequent grunts and groans the entire area was cloaked in unnatural silence. Something stirred deep in her subconscious: a panic-screeching horror that defied names. She suddenly feared these beings - human yet not human - and the Red Lyrium that transformed them.
A surge of disgust that there was a scheme of things unknown to mortals, belonging to the Red Templars, alien to everyone else. Taint – unliving and undying. Immortal – and less alive than the poorest of the Maker's creatures. Knight Commander Fornier stood there with his face deadened and stupid (now that he had surrendered to the force driving him) and through him Rylock got a glimpse of an entire world against which her own was meaningless. Vertigo. It was like standing over the edge of a sickening drop. Into absolute emptiness.
A large signal of readiness from her muscles. It happened very fast. Some movement from him – and in she went. No honour, just terror and disgust. She had known his hands would be strong – he was a male amplified by the alien substance that added the strength of a golem. The creature fought in silence, aureoled in a dead fury. Part of his strength came from the rage he had been reduced to this. Pressure on her windpipe was a forceful seduction. The air was full of the stench of rot. She could feel it touch her nose like gauze.
Rylock kneed him in the place even a Red Templar cannot ignore. A bass and unbelievable groan came from what sounded like the belly of a giant ship inside him. They grappled with arms and legs flailing like a comical iron toy. He grabbed her as if electrified – his razor-edged hands had already broken her skin. She smashed Liberator against the side of his head. He shook it like a stunned ox, face collapsing into grimace like a tragedy mask. The universe screamed empty physics – physics going indifferently tooth and claw about its business – then her Knife of the Divine finished him.
Brother Rocald helped her up. "You all right?"
Time seemed compressed; Rylock passed into a cloudy version of consciousness. The air felt heavy enough to lean on. She was confused as to why her chest was slick with human blood until she realized it was her own. But it was superficial.
"Fine."
It was as if Rylock had seen something. She didn't know what.
It was more than a victory, it was a massacre. Rylock signalled Anders to open the way to the river and the Red Templars eased towards the trap. A bugler tried to maintain order. Rylock advanced in that direction, determined to silence him. She tried a sweeping sidearm stroke at the first to stand against her. The Red Templar caught it easily with his tower shield. In that instant she thrust upward with the razor edge of Magehunter. The Red Templar tumbled backward with a cut throat.
She saw her first clearly – after that they were a blur: a sword to block, an opening to strike. Her men shouted approval, redoubled their efforts.
A behemoth thrust himself forward to protect the bugler. Twice Rylock's armour saved her – a blow at her throat nearly cut her helm in half. Then she saw her opening. The behemoth knew it as soon as she did and bellowed a denial tinged with relief. The Keening Blade cut him down and Rylock silenced the bugler in the same movement.
The collapse of the Red Templars was a visible thing, a ripple like blood in water.
The numbers streaming through the opening Anders had created for them grew. In minutes they were a seething flood. The Rebel Mages surrounded them, creating a mindless rout. And carnage. The king's instructions had been clear...
...No quarter asked or given...
Then she saw Calpernia silhouetted against the sky. No non-mage could have reached that summit. She was wearing a blood red gown, like a poppy on snow. Rylock realised she had never seen the colour on a Southern mage. She was ashamed when she realized why. Southern mages would have been too worried ignorant people - and this included Templars - might associate the colour with Blood Magic. In Tevinter the rules were different.
Beside Calpernia stood a Grey Warden mage. As Rylock looked up at them, the mage suffered a seizure, his hands clawing at his throat. He convulsed, doubling over, contorting...until his hands came away from his head. His middle fingers stretched into thick talons and the creature straightened, now a foot taller. Corypheus.
The sky opened up, rain pouring from the heavens, but the drops made no sound. In the distance, a winged creature approached. Rylock attempted to judge its size and shuddered. It stopped some distance away, though its dimensions made it seem nearer. Something rustled behind the creature's back. Two broad leathery wings fanned open, their diameter longer than the dragon's height. The Archdemon – that was the only thing this could be – beat its wings, whipping at the air and taking flight.
The flames looked like fat glowing snakes, with long shafts that exploded as they hit the ground. The shock was extraordinarily violent. Her men were cut down by dragonfire that passed over them like a pitiless reaper. Men were jolted off the ground as they ran, to fall back again in pieces. The Archdemon did not care that it was killing its Red Templars along with the defenders of Haven.
The earth shook. Rylock saw the bones of the dead bounce, as if they had decided to reanimate. The bodies who had fell in the river looked long dead because the water had cleansed the blood and bloated the flesh. She knew some were still alive by the noises they made, swallowed in the deafening thundercrash. The colourless dive of the Archdemon's wings hissed with heat. Turned rain to steam.
The dragon struck with pinpoint accuracy, the flames brighter than a thousand suns. Fireballs melted and devoured all matter within a hundred yards. Blast waves travelled faster than sound. The silence was eerie. The flames devoured oxygen around, suffocating those who survived the burns. Winds rushed in to the vacuum, created firestorms that howled through sere forest. The ground heaved. Then, through the silence, trillions of deadly Red Lyrium particles began to fall.
Lightning-lit poison rain fell like steel spears against skeletal trees; poured off bones in a solid curtain. The blast spattered steam that boiled away to nothing. The bright, dusty light flickered and began to fade. There was only silence, and a pinkish glow with dust in it.
Rylock and her surviving men lay stunned, devoid of thought. Drifting in the wind, the particles fell on them like invisible snow. She knew they would die from this, but slowly. It took her several instants to realize Vivienne was protecting them. She had created a magical barrier. The flames were passing over it like oil. Rylock knew Vivienne was powerful but could not know how long her mana would last. As she watched, Vivienne gulped a vial of lyrium.
Everything cleared. The rain stopped, the sky turning into a crimson shell. The trees were gone and the bare dirt reflected the redness of the sky like an ocean.
Rylock signalled for an orderly retreat and saw King Cousland doing the same.
She could not help but be glad Knight Captain Carroll had survived. "Oh, that's just messed up," was his assessment, "the only way forward is to make like the Maker and leave."
"And such a promising start," Dorian agreed mournfully. He was helping Chancellor Roderick, who had escaped the burns but sustained a wound from a Red Templar shadow. Rylock could see it was mortal.
"I'm a necromancer not a healer," the Tevinter mage told him, "The only thing I can do for you will be after death, not before."
"Charming."
Vivienne dredged up the last of her mana to cast Resurgence. The wound closed just enough to even the odds.
Commander Cullen found her at the edge of the Penitent's Crossing.
"Knight Commander," he said heavily, "There are no tactics to make this survivable. Corypheus is going to keep sending his filthy dragon until we are used up. The Venatori and Red Templars will conquer Haven. The only thing that matters is how spitefully we end this. We could turn the trebuchets to the mountains above us, create an avalanche and bury them."
Rylock looked past the snow-dusted blue ice of the surrounding land, to the mountains that circled them like the tightening of a noose.
"We're overrun. To hit the enemy, we'd bury Haven."
"We're dying. But we can decide how. Many don't get that choice."
"Well - that's not acceptable!" Dorian Pavus snapped, "I didn't journey all this way just so you could drop rocks on my head. Dying is typically a last resort, not first. For a Templar, you think like a Blood Mage."
He could have slapped Cullen and had the same effect.
Rylock privately agreed with Dorian but would never say so. "This is survivable," she snapped "We are fortunate to have Rillian and her Grey Wardens – and they have thirteen griffons. The rest of us will simply have to outlast the creature. We will dig trenches and use Haven's defenses. Civilians to shelter in the Circle."
"I must ride with the Wardens," Lambert told her, "Corypheus' desire for the Orb is the only guarantee we have he'll send his dragon into the trap. If we are to have a chance, I must let that thing hear me."
On the other side of the Penitent's Crossing his friends looked at him.
"Perhaps you can surprise the Elder One," Dorian mused.
Chancellor Roderick was shaking his head from side to side, slowly, with a collapsed face, as if standing on the ledge between hope and tears.
"If you are meant for this – if the Inquisition is meant for this – I pray for you."
When they reached the Chantry Keili knelt, hands clasped in prayer, eyes shut tight.
Sweeney and Ines were together, as always – two sides of the same coin. Sleeplessness had left orbit shadows around Sweeney's angular face and stripped an already spartan idiom to its bones. Ines closed her eyes for a moment and let her shoulders slump. Her robe was stained with the unspeakable detritus of tending wounded. Like their non-magical chirurgen, she believed in old-fashioned methods - "you always think fancy magic is best," she had once chided Wynne, "Let me show you what I can do with plain, simple, wholesome herbs"...
Wynne, Anders, Lambert and Rhys had already worked miracles – now they were out of lyrium and mana. The only alternative was one Rylock would not permit. Blood Magic was illegal everywhere outside Tevinter – though she did not doubt the Rebel Mages used it. She hated necromancy yet it was not illegal – the Nevarran royal family employed Mortalitasi and the Chantry looked the other way. She wouldn't permit Dorian to raise the dead – whether enemies or allies - but knew he was drawing on the residual lifeforce to power his spells. She hated it. Hated his power and hoarded it as a miser hoards gold. By any means necessary. Rylock felt a surge of self-disgust.
And there was Brother Rocald. Sandblasted, longshanked, sea-dog face crenelated and fiery with life. A hundred more lines inscribed around his mouth and eyes. Still the sun-drenched skin, the ferocious eyes, the perennial stubble. A tower of wiry strength, moving with calm disgust and anger.
"Through thee, oh Maker, who shall come to judge the quick and the dead by fire. Amen."
The mage children were in the Circle, sheltered from the pink mist of Red Lyrium droplets. Rylock knew a moment of unbearable relief. The system of breathable air Thomas Amell had designed for the Circle would not let such poison through. What would happen to her - and all the adults with her – Rylock did not know but it would be worth the price. Except for Keili...
The mathematics dissolved when she thought of the young woman.
And that is why the Chantry tells us Templar and mage must be separated. How can I be a Templar when my parents and my daughter are mages – when I cannot be unbiased?
She shook the thought away as a mabari shakes off water. Later, when there was time. The rain drummed. Gathered and fell heavily on the Chantry roof.
Vivienne was beside her. "Your wound needs tending. I had the healers heat some of these."
Vivienne helped her remove steel and gambeson and the luscious heat of the bandages steamed out some of the pain. For a moment, Rylock squinted up into the pearl-glow of a candle, luminous against the statue of Andraste. She closed her eyes, absorbed by a feeling of release, as though she could will her body to rise and float, like the flame, and leave pains and worries behind.
She almost snorted with laughter. For the first time in her life she had actually committed to a dangerous act performed by a mage – was calling Lambert 'Herald' like the others though she knew the title was nonsense – and now another mage was swaddling her like an infant and she was loving it like some moonstruck maid.
"You know," said Vivienne, "you really ought to have armour with gilding. Or dragon scales. Preferably both."
"Would that not be impractical?"
"It would be dramatic. Half the value of armour is intimidation."
"I prefer the half that keeps blades out of my innards."
"Take your weapons where you can, my dear."