Chapter 7

The Reckoning

As he paced down the long, spiralling staircase to the Vigil's dungeons, Tyran was more than a little apprehensive. His sword was shaking, causing the blade held within to waggle through the air. Each step seemed to bring him a little closer to a confrontation he had previously thought would never come, and which he now wished never had…

"Warden-Commander," the guard on the door nodded, as he reached the base of the staircase. This particular guard was a Warden, not one of the Silver Hand – the… unique situation of his charge required something a little more than an ordinary soldier, after all.

"At ease, Warden," he replied. "I'll take it from here."

"Sir?" the Warden frowned. He was a young thing – a local boy by the name of Oswald, if he remembered rightly, recruited just a few weeks prior and still a little rusty. Of course, by the standards of most armies he was an exceptional swordsman – only amongst the Wardens was he in any way 'rusty'.

"Get some rest, son," Tyran muttered. "That's an order."

"I… yes, commander."

Oswald gave the briefest of nods, placed the torch in his hand back into the bracket on the wall, and departed, his armoured boots issuing a solid clunk each time they made contact with the stone steps.

Slowly, still hesitating with every pace forward, the Warden-Commander drew his own key from his belt, turned it in the lock with a satisfying click, and pushed aside the door, stepping through into the dungeons.

If he was perfectly honest, they weren't bad, for dungeons. He'd seen worse – Rendon Howe's torture chambers sprang to mind immediately – and these were almost humane. A single corridor of mottled, yellowing stone ran off in front of him, and set into the walls at equal intervals were a dozen grated metal doors, six on each side. Beyond that, the corridor split into a 'T' shaped fork, with fresh paths trailing off to left and right, and both, he knew, hosting even more cells.

He didn't need to go far to find his current guest, however. It had been months, maybe even a year since the Vigil had last held a prisoner, and Anders had been dumped close to the entrance, in the third cell along. As Tyran approached, he was sat there almost patiently, propping himself up on his arms and leaning against the wall. His staff was gone, taken from him and stacked against the wall adjacent to his cell door, and just as he had on the beach the day before, the mage looked… weak, forlorn, rather resigned…

"Anders," he muttered, tersely, as he pushed the cell door open.

"Commander," Anders replied, bitterly, not looking up from his studious observation of the wall.

There was an awkward silence, as the Warden-Commander stepped into his former ally's cell, sword chinking off the metal doorframe as he did.

"I must say," the mage murmured, still looking dead ahead, "I'm loving the accommodation… Beds are overrated, hmm?"

"You deserve the best…" Tyran scowled, sarcastically.

"What's this about, commander? You're not here for a social call, so you must want to talk to me about something…"

"You know damn well what I want to talk about, Anders."

The mage paused, and looked up at him for the first time that day. He looked less pitiful now they were out of the rain. His hair had dried to a matted tangle, his robes were stained with dried salt spray, and his face… his face had gone from desperate to manic, with a dreadful spark of violence in his eye. The commander had to wonder if Anders was even still in there any more, or if the demon had taken control completely…

"I deserted seven years ago," Anders snapped. "You can't still be holding a grudge over that."

"I certainly can," the Warden-Commander growled.

"Oh, come on!" he protested, petulantly. "You got a templar to try and execute me, and I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time!"

"I don't think you're in your right mind now. But we both know that's not what I'm here to discuss."

"No we don't!" the mage cried, a somewhat manic tone entering his voice as he did. "I don't have a clue what you're here for!"

"Sure you do," Tyran snarled, tightening his grip on his sword. "I'm here about what you did in Kirkwall."

A pause followed. Anders was silent, staring defiantly ahead. Clearly, the admission wasn't going to come easily…

"The Chantry…" he continued, keeping his voice calm and level.

"What about it?" Anders scoffed.

Crunch. Before either of them quite knew what the commander was doing, his instincts had compelled him to lash out with a steel boot, cracking it against the side of Anders' head and sending him sprawling to the floor, a bloody lump rising on his temple.

"The Chantry, Anders!" Tyran roared, sheer fury taking over proceedings. "I know it was you!"

"Know what was me?" the mage growled, remaining obstinate.

"Keep lying to me, and I will drive this sword through your heart," the Warden-Commander hissed, coldly. "I know you destroyed the Chantry!"

Silence. His knuckles went white on his sword hilt.

"It was the only choice…" his former friend murmured, very quietly.

"What?" Tyran persisted.

"IT WAS THE ONLY CHOICE!" a voice roared, issuing from between Anders' lips. It certainly wasn't Anders' voice, however, and there was a blue light burning in his eyes. It quelled after a moment, though, and in a timid mutter, the mage continued: "It was the only choice… they pushed us, commander. Drove us underground, hunted us, murdered us…"

"No, they didn't – the Chantry didn't. The templars did."

"They're one and the same."

"Not any more. And let me explain to you the key difference: you kill a templar, you kill Meredith, and Kirkwall knows why you did it. The people of Thedas know why you did it. Maybe some of them even support you. But you blow up the Chantry? You destroy any hope of mediation, and you destroy any sympathy the ordinary people might have had for your people. The rest of Thedas sees mages destroying the Chantry and turns against them. The mages are hunted across the land because of your actions, actions they never supported. And the only people who benefit, Anders? That would be the templars…"

More silence.

"You realise that, don't you? You helped the templars. You gave them the excuse they needed to annul the Circles, to break away from the Divine. You gave them the keys to Thedas, and now I have to hold them back, Anders!"

"If you're fighting the templars, why are you in here threatening me?" the mage spat.

"Because I am fighting to defend the innocent, not you. The templars can't get away with murdering innocent mages, but you are guilty. They could take you to the noose and be justified in doing so."

"So, what? You want to do it for them?"

"What I want is to make sure they can't use you against me, make sure they can't turn the people of Ferelden against my men, against your friends, for sheltering you. If you really want somebody to oppose the templars, then you'll know this has to be done – if you remain here, we lose any hope of uniting people against them."

"And what if I refuse to go?" Anders scowled.

"Then I'll kill you myself," Tyran replied, simply.

The reaction was a rather delayed one. For a few moments, the mage simply stared ahead once more, as if willing the wall in front of him to fall apart and allow him an escape. Then, blue fire began to well up behind his eyes. He turned to face the Warden-Commander, and there was an angry, crackling spark in his gaze.

Without warning, he lunged to his feet, face ablaze with blue fire and lightning, fist wrapped in a mass of flame. He swept forward, aiming for Tyran's head-

And the Warden-Commander was ready for him. He clenched his free fist, and a flash of white passed through the room. As suddenly as he had charged, Anders was falling back, screaming – white embers were hovering in the air, and the fire at his fingertips had reversed, shooting back up his arm and scalding him as it did… With a swing of his now-glowing arm, Tyran hurled him into the wall, and he slid down it ponderously, a horrible gurgle of blood appearing through his lips.

"Still playing at templar tricks?" he coughed, spitting out a wad of blood as he did, blue fire fading to leave the much smaller-looking mage in place of the abomination. "Isn't that a little hypocritical, commander?"

"Know your enemy," Tyran shrugged, moving in. "And they certainly help for dealing with fools like you…"

He levelled the silver tip of his sword at the mage's head, and continued:

"Are you going to go, or am I going to have to kill you?"

The mage didn't reply – he just pushed the blade away with a weak hand, staggered to his feet, and made for the door.

They were silent after that. Anders traipsed out into the corridor, turned right – not even bothering to ask for his staff as he did – and headed for the stairs. Tyran followed a few paces behind, blade still ready at the mage's back as they clambered up the stairs to the outside world.

Emerging into the open air, Tyran found dappled moonlight sweeping over his face. The silvery orb had appeared from behind the clouds, and was now hanging low in the sky, as, off in the opposite direction, the slightest of twilight purples began to bloom over the horizon. A new day was coming…

The two of them – the Warden-Commander and the Warden-deserter – traipsed out across the Vigil, boots sinking ever-so-slightly in earth that had been left soft by the previous day's rain. The dungeons were in the outer section of the fortress, and it took just a couple of minutes to reach the gates to the outside world. They were open, leaving a gaping void between those famous granite walls that Voldrik had built, but the void was guarded by half a dozen guardsmen – two on the gate, armed with pikes, and four more in the gatehouse above, wielding bows and crossbows. Not one of them said a word as Tyran and Anders passed by – everybody in Amaranthine could recognise the Warden-Commander, and everybody knew not to question his movements… They simply stood aside, and let him through.

They kept walking for another few minutes – off up the road between the burning torches that lit the way, clattering over the damp stones… Finally, as they crossed the brow of some non-descript ridge, a rise in the path, the Warden-Commander stopped dead. Moments later, Anders realised, and wheeled around to face him.

"You've got until dawn," Tyran muttered, stoically. "Stray near the Vigil after that – stray anywhere near Amaranthine after that – and my men will kill you."

"Then why not just do it now?" Anders scowled, "Get it over with…"

"To spite the templars," the Warden-Commander growled. "I won't stop them killing you, but I won't do their job for them, either."

There was another pause. The mage hesitated, as if torn between turning and leaving and… something else. Finally, he spoke up, very timidly:

"Can I at least say goodbye to Sara?"

"You already did," Tyran replied, coldly. "The Anders she loved – the Anders I called a friend – died in Kirkwall. And I hardly think she wants to say goodbye to a demon…"

Anders looked at his feet. Then he looked up at the commander. Then back to his feet. Finally, without a single word or a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and began to trudge off along the road, head bowed low, feet dragging on the stone. The walk of a defeated man…

Tyran watched him for a while – watched him descend down the far slope of the ridge, watched him turn off the road… watched him disappear, into the distance. The first burning glimmers of sunlight were breaking over the horizon as he finally compelled himself to move. He slid his blade back into its scabbard, turned on his heel, and began to wind his way back to the Vigil…

By the time Sara Hawke and her companions returned to the Vigil, the sun was burning high in the sky. They had left Amaranthine that morning, on the realisation that the templars were there to stay, and the trip back from the city had been much quicker than the trip to it – even better, she hadn't ended up in a ditch.

As she rode into the Vigil, however, and a welcome party emerged to greet her, Sara couldn't help noticing that they all looked… well, a little perturbed to say the least. Nathaniel drew in his horse, tossed the reins to an obliging guardsman, and hopped lightly out of the saddle. A few moments later, he gave Sara a hand down, and her very first move was to stride over to her companions and say what seemed to have become her catchphrase:

"What's wrong?"

"It's… ah…" Aveline murmured, hesitantly.

"It's Anders," Isabela interjected, to the guardswoman's relief. "He was…"

"Exiled?" Sara yelled, storming into the Warden-Commander's study. "You exiled Anders?"

"Problem?" he murmured, barely looking up from his papers.

"Yes! What gives you the right to exile one of my people?"

"One of your people?" Tyran frowned, looking up at her at last. "Anders was a Warden long before he met you, Champion. As for the right… You are currently in my keep, guarded by my men, under my good graces. So if you happen to be hiding a murderer within your ranks, I think I'm well within my rights to send him on his way. He's just lucky I didn't run him through…"

She stared at him a moment, eyes alight with a righteous fire which quickly began to fade…

"You couldn't have waited a day?" she said eventually, staring at her feet.

"What would you have said to him?" the Warden-Commander replied, simply. "What could you have said?"

Silence once more. Sara stood before the arl's desk, head bowed low, and for some reason, a sense of immense calm came over her. She had known, deep down. She had known since Kirkwall. In a way, it was easier to have the Warden-Commander deal with it for her…

As she looked up, she allowed her eyes to rove around the room, and quite suddenly, something struck her. Tyran, who usually stood monolithic by the window, or sat stiffly behind his desk in appraising silence, was bustling around the study, throwing various belongings into a traveller's pack – a map and a few glass bottles were flung into the pack, while a heap of cloth, presumably a cloak, was laid out over the corner of the desk.

"Going somewhere?" she frowned.

"Denerim," he grunted, recovering his sword from the wall.

"And… the second cloak?" Sara asked, as she realised there were two in the pile on the desk…

"Yours," the Warden-Commander answered, with the slightest flicker of a grin.

"I just rode back from Amaranthine. I rode to Amaranthine the day before. I'm sore, I'm tired, and my bones ache. Now why would I go to Denerim with you?"

"Because you don't have a choice. Neither do I."

He slid a scroll of vellum across the table to her, gesturing for her to read it, but Sara barely noticed the cursive script – instead, she focused on the seal still clinging to the top of the parchment. Red wax, with a shield pressed into it, and two lions resplendent. She had seen it before, but where?

"It's the seal of the Theirin family," Tyran muttered, answering her unspoken question. "I received a summons to the court, and King Alistair requested you personally."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Sara. He did talk about meeting you after his visit to Kirkwall. Perhaps you made an impression. You do seem to have a knack for making powerful friends."

"Powerful enemies, too…" she sighed. "When do we leave?"

"This evening. Spend a while with your friends, and meet me by the north gate when you're ready to depart…"