Chapter Eighteen
True to his word, when Solona finds Irving in his office the next day he has a list of things for her to do that's as long as his arm. Literally. Perhaps a few inches past as well. He's deep in conversation with a templar that she doesn't recognize and with a wave of his hand, sends her on her way with the list tucked under an arm.
She takes a good look at it in the hallway. She glances around for a second. It's almost dead quiet, save for Irving's hushed conversation. This silence is going to take some getting used to. As she peruses the list she thinks, at least it'll be easy to hear the templars sneaking up now.
A shiver snakes down her spine as the image of Cullen, knelt in front of her and struggling with a terrible internal conflict, flashes through her mind. A heavy sigh shudders through her.
Back to work. Think about something else.
She stands in that quiet hallway and reads over his requests. Catalogue the library. See to the practice room on the first floor. Clean up the Mage quarters. Clean the flagstones.
Solona is no housekeeper and she wonders if her complete lack of magic in a tower full of mages is going to subject her to the life of a servant.
She wishes Irving wasn't so busy this morning. Wishes he'd listened to her when she'd told her tale last night about having no magic and given her possible explanations. Helped her, assuaged her. Made her feel like she wasn't useless.
A child darts past her and around the corner. She has enough time to realize he's not wearing any pants, only his smalls, and is covered in what appears to be jam. The boy looks to be only a handful of years old and he's giggling like mad as he disappears from sight. Moments later, Petra appears. Her eyes wild with frustration, she pauses at Solona. "Did you see Micah? He just came this way."
Solona raises an arm and points in the direction of the fleeing child. Petra follows her finger and then grabs her outstretched hand. "C'mon. Two will be better than one for this little menace." Solona makes no complaints as she's pulled behind Petra. She has the forethought to tuck the list into the sash at her waist. Cleaning can wait. There's mischief afoot.
centeri~!~/i/center
It takes the better part of two hours for the women to wrangle the runaway child. By the time they've got him back in his pants and with the other apprentices, it's almost midday and Solona realizes that she's actually having fun, laughing and joking with Petra while they've captured and cleaned their prey. When the midday meal bell tolls Petra loops an arm through her own and the two walk to the cafeteria, herding the smaller apprentices before them. She is officially free from cleaning duty, for now, while she is drafted for babysitting.
There are five apprentices, in total, under the age of ten. Little Micah is the youngest, having just arrived before the Tower was overrun. Petra ruffles his dark hair and whispers over his head that he seems to be doing fine. The next oldest at six is Gwenaella. The girl is blond hair and beautiful energy and was left at a chantry by her Orlesian parents when her talents had been discovered on a business trip. Gwenaella is a little rough around the edges with her Ferelden but is delighted when Solona attempts a short conversation in Orlesian with the girl.
After the last d'accord Gwenaella melts herself to Solona's side and if this is what having an apprentice is like, Solona thinks she could get used to loving smiles and grubby fingerprints on all her clothing.
Talma and Rinnoa make up the eldest of the girls, both eight years old. They are dark and light, fire and ice, perfect compliments of one another. Both elves, they share many facial similarities that Solona catalogues during that first meal. Same slightly square chin, same upswept nose. Even their golden eyes are the same. Solona thinks they must be twins, or at least sisters, but Petra just shrugs when asked. Rather, the other mage shovels food in her mouth in between reprimanding the eldest of the group, Pip. Solona watches the tops of the elves heads, one red and vibrant and the other shimmering silver.
Pip makes quick work of just about everything. He's nine and full of energy and no time at all for these younger apprentices he seems stuck with. Solona manages to dodge a flying mass of some sort of food product and Petra is clamoring over the table to cuff Pip across the ears. She frowns at the impact thinking that no one ever hit her when she was an apprentice, well at least no one not a templar.
The templars eat in the hall now, Solona notes with a hint of interest. They line the far side, all facing the mages and all watching carefully for a hint of uprising. They have removed their helmets and the line of empty eye slits staring at her from the floor beside their feet makes her want to shiver. Their vigilance is understandable, she thinks. She's read of tribes, probably on Par Vollen, that will commit a magic user's body to the ground while the mage still lives if there is an uprising of abominations. That, at least, is something to be thankful about in the Tower. No live burials. Simply never ending observance.
There is one other table; the other four full mages sit with their apprentices. Irving finds her glance and gives her a little nod. Imperceptible allowance of her new duties as Petra's assistance she imagines. His apprentice is a mousy little elf that Solona remembers. He's a few years younger than her. Flora, his name is. She thinks. Maybe. The young man is bookish in the same way that she is and she's spent many hours mere feet away from the elf and yet has never had the opportunity or inclination to introduce herself.
Next to Irving sits Van Lowe. Pretentious, Solona remembers. Van Lowe is a family name. Distinguished magic users from the Imperium who had fled to Fereldan over a strange dispute a generation ago. Van Lowe does not belong in a Circle, he says. Van Lowe should be a magister. He is, however, by far the best employer of the Arcane Warrior School she's ever seen in her life and as such she likes her head attached to her body.
The other two enchanters are both senior and both women. The eldest, Mirna, is the same loving enchanter who had taken her under her wing when she'd been introduced to the general populace so many years ago. The woman seems the same as she always has and if she doesn't laugh in quite the same joyful fashion as before and if her back seems a little more hunched Solona puts it out of her mind. Solid and formidable Mirna. She has an apprentice as well. Solona doesn't recognize the boy but he's young. Eleven at the most. Old enough to apprentice to a mage yet too young to be of much good for anything besides fetching watch and taking out the refuse.
The last remaining senior enchanter is distinguished by her robes. They are rich velvet and look to be in exceptional shape. The woman has the eyes of a hawk and definitely catches Solona checking her over. She frowns, lines cutting deep grooves in her face. Most severe. Solona has no idea who she is. She has no apprentice.
Thirteen magic users in a palace of templars.
The thought is terrifying.
She shakes off the dread of the idea and glances back down the line of armored men. There are at least twenty templars remaining. Cullen is not present, neither is Greagoir. Thought of the former, of his lips on hers just last night and the demanding way he'd taken her mouth, made her skin flush, rushes into her brain. She really needs to talk to someone, anyone, and find out what happened to him. Has to understand why he'd accost her like he did.
A giggle breaks her concentration on Cullen and of last night. Talma, the redhead, gives her a most innocent look before sliding her hand along the table towards the center, towards Gwenaella and Micah, leaving a small trail of fire behind her fingers. Solona opens her mouth to chide before Rinnoa waves her hand after wards and the flames freeze. The younger two watch with rapt fascination and Solona has to admit it's a neat trick. She and Jowan had almost perfected that sort of teamwork, her fire playing off of his ice.
The illusion is shattered in an instant when a large armored hand comes crashing down on the frozen fire. The entire table jumps and the templar responsible for the interruption growls. He sounds feral and Solona can see its Cullen, can see the light red of his goatee peaking through his helm. He is fear and anger and bellowing voice as he pulls Rinnoa backwards onto the floor. In an instant, the other apprentices are up and away from the table. Solona is rising as Cullen's hand moves to his sword hilt.
Everything happens far faster than she could have expected. Cullen is yelling about abominations and Petra is trying to shield the small group of children. The next table over Irving looks to be climbing over the wood and at the far end of the hall she glimpses Greagoir standing in the door way of the dining hall.
Solona should freeze Cullen, put him to sleep, something. But she can't. She can't do anything with her magic. As the sword is drawn, a long and gritty sound that widens every mages' eyes in the room, she ceases all higher brain functions.
She just moves.
She lets out a shout to distract him and as he's turning to face her she leaps at him. Despite the superior bulk of his armor she gets a grip on his chest piece and helm. The helm comes free as the two tumble to the ground in a mass of robes and metal. She lands on top of him. They both share mirrored reflections of fear and panic but for very different reasons.
When he speaks, his voice is soft. "Why did you stop me? She's an abomination-" She can tell he clearly wants to say more but the changing expression on her face stops him.
The pain blossoms from her the center of her body, at first a sharp pinching and then an ache that fills her chest with agony. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, ask him why he's gone insane or why she's useless or even to let him know she's still fairly certain that she loves him. There are no words. She coughs and the sound is wet; strained. Below her Cullen's face is splattered with the blood she's expelling through her mouth.
People are moving now; someone tries to pull her up and the movement makes her scream. Endless screaming. They can't move the sword Cullen has thrust through her lower chest without tearing anguish from lungs.
Solona knows that it shouldn't even matter. If they'd just give her a few minutes she can die in peace and Cullen can get his sword back and hopefully Rinnoa is safe and she saved Marian anyway, right? She's done well and saved people and if there was ever a time to die, it might as well be now.
There's a group of templars carrying her as she starts to lose touch with the world. At her feet, delicately cradling her ankles in hands free of gauntlets, Cullen watches her face. Her blood, his face. He looks a mess and she isn't even sorry. He has, after all, just killed her. The blood is smeared as though he's tried to wipe it away with little success. He looks gruesome and worried. She wants to tell him everything will be okay. She'll go and join the Maker in the Golden City and will see her mother and her brothers again.
Her final breath comes in deep; she makes the effort to fill her lungs one last time. There is no death in the light of the Maker. She remembers the Chant, flooding back through her mind, reminding her that she'll be all right. She'll be fine-
centeri~!~/i/center
When she awakes the first thing she thinks is:
Really? REALLY?
It's not the pain in her chest or her light headedness from her blood loss that bothers her. It's not the sickly sweet smell of the medical herbs that fills her senses. It's not the fact that she can't move a limb, much less open an eye.
It's the thought, the wonder, that she survives. Maker, you have a strange sense of necessity to save me.
Her lower half is also sore; her knees feel horrible. As do the palms of her hands. What in the Fade-?
"Lona? Lona, can you hear me?" Petra's voice sounds, right next to her ear. Solona tries to answer but cannot force the words past her lips, parched and raw from the screaming. A cup presses against her mouth and she has the good sense to swallow.
It is water and something else. Something . . . bitter. Yet invigorating. A healing potion? She thinks, no, it cannot be. Healing potions are thick and heavy. They coat the throat. This is a light and airy substance and it tastes like starlight. Lyrium.
She tries to protest, to push it away. She has no use for lyrium. It is a tease, what Petra is doing.
Except . . .
except
her body responds. The potion surges through her limbs and her core, warming where it passes and then leaving a cool restfulness in its wake. She can feel it in her fingertips; they curl in response. Her lips are working, asking silent questions, when they open in a wordless scream and her magic surges back to life.
Her back arches, her hands grab onto the bed sheets beneath her as she feels every muscle in her body tense at once with the return.
Magic.
Magic. Its back.
As quickly as the wave of energy hits her it recedes, pulling away from the shore of her consciousness. But enough mana remains in its wake that Solona calls for a simple healing spell, about the only that she's even managed to learn, and presses a fevered palm to her head.
The pounding in her brain ceases. The angry cry of pain still lingering is banished. She falls back into a deep and heavy sleep.
centeri~!~/i/center
Later Irving tells her that when she was healing her, Petra realized that her spells were having violent reactions to the skin at Solona's knees and her palms. Every spell poured into her body caused reddening and the magic would not penetrate these areas. Petra had the forethought to do a little exploratory surgery and found pieces of an unknown metal buried beneath the healed skin.
Petra and Irving ask her about the wounds and she tells them, barely propped up in the bed she's picked out in the Apprentices Quarters, about the moment she had saved Marian. She explains, to the best of her recollection. And then explains again when they continue to ask. The third time she shoots them a glare and attempts a tiny little fireball to send their way.
Her fingertips flare for a moment and then extinguish but she doesn't even care. The look of horror on their faces, the open fear, makes her smile and she giggles and wiggles her fingers again.
The little bursts of magic bring in templars from the hall. Three watch her from a safe distance. Her maniacal laughter brings the children running and she's showing off her relearned talents to Gwenaella much to the girl's amusement. Gwenaella climbs into her lap and Solona holds her tight as though the girl is the only lifeline left in this vast and terrifying tower.
It doesn't matter, not right now, what has happened to her in the past. She is drugged up on the elfroot they've given her for the pain and her magic is back. The world floats by in happy moments.