From Sacred Ash

by Son of Caliban

Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.

22. The Magister

I ride to war, in aid of Tevinter men, and only for a moment do I wonder what my life has come to. The warriors in white are beleaguered, visibly so, straining and struggling against their demonic attackers. They lash out with triangular blades and fight in circular motions alien to my eyes, but the demons seem to have trouble following them. I fall upon the rear of the demon pack with my sword downthrust, impaling a Wraith and tearing its wispy body in half with the burning white edge of my sword. The Litany of Fury is a lusty war-song sung from the chest, and I sing it gladly as I kill.

I wheel my horse around and slash at a Shade when it breaks off from the main swarm to assail me, splitting its face wide open. That doesn't stop it, alas, and when its claws fall on the horse's flank my mount bucks wildly. I am thrown from the saddle, hitting the hard-packed earth alongside the cobble road. I gasp for breath and swing my sword wildly, but the Shade is already going for my legs.

The Iron Bull corrects it in that notion, his axe tearing its head from its twisted shoulders as he bellows a Qunari battle cry. I rise quickly, Blackwall covering my flank, and draw up both my blades; steel and blue light both shine in the setting Fereldan sun, and I charge alongside Lysette, our voices conjoined anew. One of the Tevinter mages raises his staff high, beckoning down a mighty bolt of lightning to break up the demon pack, and we surge into the stunned creatures with blades and battle songs.

It is not so simple as butchery, alas; the demons recover quickly, more here than I've beheld since that rift outside the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Over a dozen shades, and several Terrors stalking the edges of the battlefield. One of the Tevinter mages has burnt runes of flame about she and her fellow's flanks, guarding them from the monsters, and together they hammer the demons with spells of fire and lightning. One of the Tevinter men falls when his throat is opened by a Shade's claws, a cry of lament sounding from one of his fellows.

I fight my way toward them, carving a path through the demons. My spirit blade hums and sings as I swing it, parting fade-wrought flesh with ease, while my Fereldan sword does its own work. I dedicate it largely to defense, parrying away claws and forcing back pressing attackers with the point. Bull is a blender in the packed press of demons, his axe sweeping back and forth in vicious cleaving arcs that tear limbs from bodies in sprays of black ichor. Blackwall is more precise, his smaller axe and shield allowing him to draw the attention of our foes and strike as he sees, punishing over-extending enemies.

Lysette is my aegis. She keeps the demons away from my vulnerable left side while I strike with the spirit blade, her voice and mine forcing our foes to remember that here they are real, that they have flesh and blood we can rend and spill.

When the last of the Shades falls, the Terrors at last make their move; a probing tail juts up from the ground in front of me, and I chance a swing at it with my spirit blade. I take the point off it, and the Terror emerges not with a roar but with a scream of pain, Lysette battering it across the head with her shield and forcing it down so we can kill it. The Tevinter with the lightning flicks a bolt of electricity that arcs between all three demons, and soon the rift contracts and swells as the last of the Terrors dies beneath our combined violence.

"Thank you," one of the Tevinter warriors manages, nodding to me, before the rift ejects a dozen more tendrils, each containing a new foe with which to contend.

I can only nod to him as I turn around. I feel my skin tingle as Solas sets a barrier on us, while Varric frantically reloads Bianca with more bolts from his belt. Lysette tosses her head back and laughs at the absurdity of our allies as the Tevinters stand beside us, Bull looking uneasy with the entire affair under the manic bloodlust. Blackwall seems unmoved; his focus is for the demons alone.

"Paratus!" the lightning mage calls, raising his staff high. "Do not let them pass! Hold to the gate!"

The rift screams, and the demons burst into terrible being. I count more Shades, a worryingly large demon of rage that bellows at us as it burns brighter, but it is the other phenomenon that alarms me; rings of yellow and green light encircling the rift. I blink, and all at once the demons surge into motion as the yellow burns bright.

They're fast. Terrifyingly fast. The Shades move at double their usual rate, and a Tevinter man dies mid-step as he prepares to circle around one only for it to twist and tear his chest open. Another assails me and I am forced to throw myself back away from its quicksilver claws, stabbing with both blades so it impales itself. It twists away, more graceful than I've ever seen a demon before, and when Lysette steps into to slam it back it reaches around her shield and slashes at her sword-arm, staying her strike.

The demon of rage smashes through two Tevinter warriors with its bulk, hurtling toward the mages. The fire mage hurls a ball of burning light at it, a foolish mistake; the demon's blazing hide only burns hotter as it absorbs the elemental strike, before one fist dripping with magma slams the mage aside, dashing her against the gates of Redcliffe.

Her fellow cries out a name, before wisely fade-stepping away, rapidly backpedalling in and out of reality to make distance between himself and his monstrous foe. The Shade dodges another of my blows, slashing at me, and I deflect with a hasty swing of my sword while considering what to do. This must be the time distortion I expected, but it's only affecting the demons. Why not us? I anticipated changes, but not of this sort, not this blatant unfairness. Blackwall takes a slash to the back and grunts in pain, before he cocks his arm back and throws his axe at my Shade.

It can't dodge something it doesn't know is coming; it takes the axe full in the back as Blackwall turns to batter his foe with his shield, and as it staggers I stab at it. It dodges, whirling to the left, and therefore right into the gleaming light of my spirit blade, which nearly bisects it at the speed with which it hits the edge. Lysette rallies, her sword-arm limp, but she still has a shield.

I go to assist the Tevinter mage, who by now is already being set upon again by the demon of rage. He is quicker than his compatriot, dodging away from its blows, blasting it with jolts of electric energy whenever he has an opening to do so, but it isn't enough. I silence myself; the Litany of Fury would only encourage this thing, and so I whisper the Chant as I charge it from behind.

"Blessed are the mighty, noble swords shining," I speak Benedictions, and aloft my spirit blade for a vicious downward stroke. "The gleam of blades lofted rightly, shall ever shine with the Maker's glory."

I bring the sword down, and the demon howls as I strike open its back. If it had a spine it would be plainly visible by now, but demons are tragically devoid of bones. It whirls upon me, fists at the ready to beat me down, and behind it the Tevinter mage reaches into his robes to pull out a rod of gleaming silver metal, narrower at one end that he points toward the demon's exposed flank.

"Alight with fire," I chant, voice louder now as I dodge the first fiery punch, striking at the beast's wrist with the edge of my Fereldan blade. "Alight with faith. Unburdened is the arm, and truly it strikes!"

The mage cries a word in Tevinter, a tongue older than the empire I call home, and the lance of lightning that springs forth from his rod of stormheart crackles along the demon of rage's entire being. My spirit blade shines brighter in its presence, as if drinking in the ambient magic, and I grin as I leave my Fereldan sword buried in the beasts arm, raising my spirit blade high with both hands.

The Tevinter mage sees me raise my blade and I feel the air shudder as he calls down a bolt of lightning, feeding the blue flame of my spirit blade. The electricity passes through me, but Beck entangles it with herself, wreathing me in static that dances along the metal of my armour in tiny tendrils. The spirit blade burns with blazing blue light, my dearest friend and daughter-spirit drinking deep of his gift.

"And falls upon the wicked!" I cry, and the sword falls and splits the reeling demon down the middle, from scalp to legless core, the storm-surge of my strike grounding itself in the beast's burning hide.

It screams, and swells, and bursts with black and red, its essence eradicated by the killing stroke. It essence returns to the rift, returns to the fade, and I turn and reach out a hand, emerald light connecting me to the rift. The Tevinter mage stands beside me, awestruck as I force the rift to detonate, clashing the fade against the real and staggering the demons. Their alacrity leaves them in an instant, and they are all but stilled as the green ring burns brighter and brighter.

So that's how it works. I can change the time current by disrupting the rift. Interesting… slowed by temporal distortion they are far less fearsome, breaking into pieces under blades and spells and bolts from Bianca, and the rift soon shrinks down to that familiar black ball. I break it with the mark, and Beck shunts the last of the electric energy from my body into the rift as it explodes, sealing shut at last.

"Well fought, Southlander," the mage says, after a moment of drawn silence. "I've not seen anything of that sort afore."

He steps forward, bowing his head respectfully. His robes and armour are peaked, almost triangular, with lots of sharp points. The fringe of his hood is set with little metal tabs, the mask beneath bearing the visage of a leering demon's face, wild-eyed and sneering. The eyes beneath are a soft blue, however, and in them I see only curiosity and fatigue. He tucks that stormheart rod back inside his robe, leaning heavily against his staff.

He looks ragged; the robes are torn and patched near the waist, and he favours his left leg a bit as we rejoin his company. Of the six warriors only three are left standing, one sat propped up against the wall cradling a broken arm. Injuries among my own company are comparatively minor; Bull nursing a few cuts along his exposed chest and stomach, Lysette's sword arm held close to her side, Solas with a cut on his cheek. Blackwall is retrieving weapons from the ground where the demons he stuck them in have vanished.

"I am glad we came when we did," I reply, nodding to the mage. "Though I must confess, I am left somewhat confused… you are Tevinter, no? What are you doing in Redcliffe?"

The man laughs hoarsely.

"What all Tevinters do, ser; seeking power." He gestures to his fellows. "Our master came to this land in search of mages; we, his loyal servants and disciples, followed as bid. We did not expect the south to be quite so hostile."

He walks to the side of his fallen compatriot, the other mage, a long braid of black hair falling from inside her hood. Her neck is twisted at an angle it should not, and she is still. Silently he falls to a knee and touches a hand to her forehead, fingers against the mask, then sighs.

"Farewell, Ulpia," he says softly. "Go swiftly, and be welcome in your father's house."

"A friend?" I ask, and he laughs again, the sound embittered.

"A colleague," he replies. "Never more, so she said. Such was her pride."

I can all but hear the sad smile he doubtless wears as he stands back up, though he doubles over and begins coughing violently. His hand presses against his stomach, and by instinct I move to his side, taking his arm. He waves me off, shaking his head between fits of hacking coughs. I step back, one of the Tevinter soldiers stepping closer to me with a hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Stand down," he says, looking at the warrior. "Take word to the castle. Tell… tell Magister Alexius that the Herald of Andraste has come."

The soldier bows deeply at the waist, before moving to the gates. Already they have swung open, a few more Tevinter soldiers and several Ferelden peasants peering out from within. The mage takes a long, rasping breath, before standing up straight again, though he braces himself against his staff. With his free handhe reaches up and begins removing his mask, releasing three clasps at the sides and top to detach it. It releases and he takes it off, still facing away from me.

"I should greet you barefaced, as an equal," he explains, turning to face me as he pulls down his hood. "As you have so kindly done for me."

He is young; not so young as I but young still, with no hair on his face. He is darkly tanned, with pale blue eyes and grey-black hair hair beneath his hood that falls to his shoulders. His face is thin, with a long aquiline nose and a high brow.

"Quintus Laval, Quaestor-Militant in service to the ancient house of Alexius," he introduces himself, offering me his hand to shake. "It is an honour to meet you at last, Herald of Andraste. We have heard much of your deeds since we first came to this place."

I take his hand; he has a firm grip, and a strong arm.

"Ser Markus Venier, formerly a Knight of the Templar Order, now agent of the Inquisition," I say in turn, before releasing his arm. "Tevinter came to seek the rebel mages?"

"Not Tevinter, ser," he shakes his head. "Magister Gereon Alexius, my master. He has seen fit to invite these southlander mages into his house, as vassals and Quaestors alike to myself."

I blink. At least that hasn't changed; for a moment I was worried we might be facing a different Magister. If it's still Alexius, and the rifts are still wonky from time travel, that confirms a few things. Their presence at the gate is a change of pace, though it makes sense that Alexius would want to defend his new investment from the rift right outside Redcliffe. Quintus chuckles at my expression, doubtless reading it as confusion.

"As baffled as I was when my master first declared his plan," he notes. "Come, please. Doubtless Magister Alexius will wish to meet with you in person; he has anticipated your coming."

He leads us into Redcliffe proper, and the rest of my companions fall in rank behind me. Lysette comes quickly to my right side, mirroring Quintus on my left. He walks with a limp, leaning into his staff, but any offer of assistance is again waved aside.

"We set off from Tevinter a few weeks ago," he says. "We were in Kirkwall afore then, on business. We sailed as soon as we beheld the Cicatrix, at first to return to the Imperium… but we received news of the plight of the mages here, and my master concocted his scheme of bringing the southlander mages into the fold."

"Cicatrix?" I ask, and he chuckles, gesturing to the distant Breach.

"Each of we dreamers in our master's employ felt its opening," he explains. "You bear a mage's blade, but it is plain you are not among the dreamers, ser. It is like a beacon flame upon the mount there, burning here and in the Fade alike. These scissura, these… rifts, you have called them? They are candles in the dark as well."

He chuckles darkly.

"We sought to close that one," he says. "Tried every arcana we could think of; nothing worked. Ulpia even performed a scathe-ritual; it only worsened it."

"You attempted blood magic upon the rift?" Solas asks, moving closer from behind, and Quintus glances back at him. "Are all Tevinters so foolish?"

"It is blood which conducts the flow of the arcane, laetan," he replies. "And magic is the contortion of the veil by the will of that blood. Is it so foolish to wonder if there may be a solution in blood willingly given?"

Solas has no words for that; not to say the argument impresses him with its brilliance, not at all. I suspect he simply has no words to express his disbelief at Quintus' statement. The Tevinter doesn't seem at all concerned by Solas' lack of response, merely nodding before looking back to me.

"Regardless of our efforts, the scissura persisted," he says. "I was convinced the ability to close it was beyond us… and now I can see I was right."

He nods to the mark, and I wonder how much he knows. Around us Redcliffe is quiet, sombre; there are few Tevinter men, dotted here and there by shop doors or on the corners of streets. I see only one other mage, in white and pale yellow, his hood and mask hiding his features from me. Quintus dons his own mask again, clipping it back on to the leather strapping that ensconces his head, before pulling up his hood.

"You seek the mages, I assume," he says after a time, as we climb up the hill toward the tavern, past huts from the windows of which curious eyes peer. "If you are the Herald, then you represent the Inqusition, which means you likely seek a means to seal the Cicatrix."

"We have hopes that magical energy channeled through my mark will enable us to slam shut the doors of the Fade, yes," I say, nodding. "Would your master be open to such an endeavour?"

"In truth, I cannot say." he shakes his head. "Before… perhaps. But of late my master's mood has darkened, and his eyes do not look skyward as once they did."

I raise an eyebrow, but Quintus has little more to say of the topic. He leads us to the Gull and Lantern, the humble two-story tavern at the northern edge of Redcliffe overlooking the water. I push open the door and step inside; the mood is cold in spite of the fire roaring in the hearth. There are few here who do not wear the robes of the Circle Magi; those bereft of such adornments are more withdrawn, lurking in the corners. I raise an eyebrow when I see Fiona herself, standing by a table and looking quite baffled at my arrival.

"Herald," she greets, nodding. "So my courier did reach you. When she did not return I feared the worst; is she with your company?"

Fuck.

Quintus clears his throat from behind me, and Fiona looks over my shoulder and swallows hard when she sees him. His voice is low, collected, yet he still manages to sound equal parts apologetic and disappointed.

"You were warned against sending mages out of Redcliffe, laetan," he says. "Magister Alexius would not be pleased."

Code for "we found your courier and have her locked in a cell somewhere", I'm sure. I thought I might like Quintus; he seemed surprisingly level headed for a Tevinter who isn't Dorian. But he's Alexius' man, and Alexius is Corypheus'. Behind me Bull can read the tension in the room, squaring his shoulders, but I open my right hand by my hip, fingers together and palm out. He settles, but the tension is palpable.

"The Inquisition received no courier," I reply, shaking my head. "The road betwixt Redcliffe and our position at the Crossroads has been hazardous of late; it is possible she died."

She looks forlorn for a moment, but it's plain she's a woman of strength, if not wisdom; she stiffens her back, sets her eyes and nods once. She was a Grey Warden once; I suspect she knows all too much about losing people.

"I understand the Circle Mages… have found new employ under the Tevinter Imperium," I say, hoping my tone clearly conveys how thoroughly fucking terrible I think that idea is."The Inquisition had sought alliance, but the Arl has turned away any messengers we sent. Do you hold any authority here, or will I need to treat with the Magister directly?"

"The former Grand Enchanter's position is that of a subordinate," a new voice, familiar to only part of me, interrupts from behind. "It is unfortunately necessary that you and I speak of these things in confidence, Herald."

I turn and am unsurprised to find Magister Geryon Alexius stood behind me, flanked by two masked and robed Tevinter mages carrying spear-like staves. Quintus bows at the waist to his master, stepping aside to allow him entrance. Alexius is… it's odd to see him in person. He's old, a bit portly, with a shaven head under his pointy red hood. He goes unmasked, which I now find odd; perhaps Tevinter tradition does not demand masks of its highest echelons? There's probably symbolism in that. He smiles, welcoming and polite, but I see the icy disdain in his eyes. He knows me for who I am, what I represent.

I don't smile, though I want to. Let him hate me. Let him wish me dead. He will not defeat me.

"I hope confidence includes my companions," I reply, bowing my head respectfully. "I would be lost without their council."

Alexius' eyes flick between the Qunari, the Grey Warden, the elven apostate and the dwarven novellist, and I can all but feel his disbelief as he nods slowly. He doesn't even deign to look at Lysette, which upsets me far more than I anticipate. I step forward, into his personal space, and offer him a hand to shake.

"Ser Markus Venier, formerly of the Templar Order, now agent of the Inquisition," I greet him, reciting the by-now familiar string of titles with a smile. "And you must be the Magister Gereon Alexius. Your man Quintus offered an excellent review of your goals here; may I say it is an honour, ser? I have never had the pleasure of meeting a Tevinter Magister before."

He seems… alarmed at my nearness. Doubtless he knows what Templars can do; a gentle hum of the Litanies could give him that moment of weakness for me to strike. But his men behind him, Quintus beside me… why take the risk? This isn't Lucius, whose corruption is a tangible, terrible thing. His goals here are utterly banal until he can actually move several hundred mages through the Fereldan countryside. Until that point all he can muster is upsetting the locals, which, while detestable, is hardly in contest with the poisoning of hundreds of men and women.

A part of me wants to drive my sword through his stomach and spare myself future drama; the wiser half preaches caution, and I listen to the part of me that actually has to deal with the consequences of said stomach-spearing. He shakes my hand, tentative, unsettled; already whatever mask he adorned before joining us is cracked, stolen. He is a Tevinter, not an Orlesian; he plays a very different game, and does not know our rules.

I like having that edge over him,

"It is a pleasure," he manages, nodding weakly. "I… understand you seek the aid of the mages in sealing the Breach?"

"Most certainly," I nod, before turning and walking toward an open table. "I do hope you are open to such discussions?"

My companions are perplexed; Bull looks about ready to take the axe off his back and start massacring Tevinters. Blackwall is more reserved, one hand on the haft of his axe but leaving it at his belt for the time being. Lysette follows me. Like Bull she has no idea what I'm playing at; unlike Bull she delights in it, grin unsettlingly resemblant to a wolf as she beckons Alexius follow us.

He redoubles his confidence and follows us, imperious in gait, but it's obvious he's still disarmed. He sits opposite us, and beckons one of his followers.

"My son," he says, as the mage removes his mask to reveal a tanned youth with dark bags around his eyes. "Felix, fetch us a scrivener, would you? I should like to have all of this recorded officially."

Felix withdraws with a bow, doubtless to make a pass with Dorian and receive the note, or else concoct it himself. How convenient of his father to send him away. From this side of things, I understand better the suspicion toward Dorian in his opening minutes. It all feels very convenient.

Alexius settles in his seat, hands folded in front of him on the table. He looks very prim, very authoritative, a good and honest businessman conducting good and honest business that certainly has nothing to do with chattel slavery. I smile at him, and beside me Lysette does her best impression of a predator's grin again.

Unfortunately, very little of interest occurs in the following discussion. My early successes in unsettling my foe fade as he becomes more comfortable; I can posture all I wish, he still has the plain advantage. And he has no intention of actually giving me the help I ask for; he's quite good at acting like he's offering me a concession without giving me anything at all. It's as pleasant a little dance of lies and treachery spoken over a humble wooden table in a Fereldan as any other.

When Felix returns, I look toward him, awaiting the inevitable. As he stumbles I move to catch him, and feel his hand brush against mine as he slips me a note. I slide it into my belt as I gesture to dust myself off while standing up, though the pageantry is needless; all eyes are on Felix, worrying for his health or the manic reaction of his father. The two withdraw, flanked by Fiona and the rest of the Tevinter mages, Quintus nodding respectfully to me as he goes.

"Kid was pretty slick with the note," Bull grunts, rolling his neck. "What's it say?"

I read it half-hidden behind his bulk, Blackwall stepping in to cover me from the other side. It's exactly what I expected; come to the Chantry, you're in danger, my father is a lying bastard who used time travel to steal a couple hundred mages from you, etc. The last bit is only implied, naturally. I fold the note neatly and pass it off to Bull, who eats it without missing a beat. That alone distracts me from my next move, and all of us stare as he chews and swallows with a grunt.

"What?" he asks. "Can't leave it lying around."

I blink.

"Well… we're heading for the Chantry," I say, glancing at the various mages and peasants, before nodding toward Solas. "You're with me. Varric and Bull, split off, mingle with the populace. Draw attention, make sure the Tevinters don't clue into Solas and I disappearing. Blackwall, stay here, then follow to the Chantry in a few minutes. Lysette, stay with him, alright"

Fortunately all of my companions are talented in subterfuge in their own special ways, bar Lysette; Bull buys a tankard of ale and wanders off with it, out the door, while Varric immediately leaves muttering about looking for a book seller. Blackwall settles in the corner with his own drink, doing an excellent job of making himself as unassumingly distracting as possible. Lysette sits with him, still nursing her injured arm and looking a touch upset by my leaving her behind. Solas follows me as we leave.

"You are surprisingly adept at the liars' game, Ser Markus," he notes, as we walk through the winding streets of Redcliffe, unassuming as we can be amidst the Fereldan natives. "For such a forthright and noble knight, I mean."

I chuckle.

"Lying is like swordplay," I reply. "You dance back and forth, step and counterstep, take little swings at one another, and only in the final moments do you really commit. Everything else is simply in aid of selling the one that matters."

He nods sagely, which seems fitting given that his entire life is a lie told to the world after a point. We come quickly to the Chantry, and I stare up at the surprisingly vast stone structure in the middle of this otherwise very country town. It is the only solid stone building in the entire village, looming large atop a small rise nestled below the greater hills of the northern Hinterlands. I swallow, hard.

"If this is a trap," I say, voice low. "I'll take whoever's on the left, and you can set the rest on fire."

"Naturally," Solas agrees. "Shall we?"

I approach the tall wooden doors and shoulder one open; immediately the silence is shattered, as a gout of flame and a wail of demonic fury fills my vision and my ears respectively. I see the man I've been waiting for standing in the midst of a demon swarm, whirling walls of flame about himself with a joyous grin, the curled ends of his waxed moustache gleaming in the red and orange firelight. He is tanned, well-tended with one arm bare in his Tevinter garb, and the staff in his hands is tipped with a mace-like spiked head that burns with inner light.

A Shade dares approach, and he batters it aside with that mace head, before blasting a second with a gout of fire. When their numbers press upon him in force he fadesteps away, leaving behind a burning trail of singed stone as he comes to a halt beside me. He glances at me, grins in recognition, and then points up at the rift dominating the air at the centre of the Chantry hall.

"You made it!" he remarks. "Excellent. Help me close this, would you?"

I grin right back, drawing both my blades; steel gleams and spirit shines, bathing me in blue light.

"Gladly," I reply, and then I charge into a ichorous bloodbath for the third time today.

Killing demons does not get old. Never. It is a task I have begun to delight in; free of the moral implications of massacring my fellow men it is something to relish, a chance to demonstrate my martial talent without needing to kill people with families and loved ones of their own. Demons are monsters; they have black blood and savage shapes, and fall upon me with unthinking savagery. To slay them is a kindness; I save those they would harm, and save them from the maddening pain of being real in a world that does not understand them.

My blades beckon them back to oblivion, and my voice commands them rise to reality so I can strike them down. It is a match made in the Maker's golden heaven, and heavenly is how it feels when the sword-song rages rightly, and my masterwork is wrought in each note of the hymnal and stroke of the sword. Shades die, Wraiths vanish, Terrors are torn to tatters and sent away into their own fearful realm once again.

It is good. It is right. It is infinitely simpler than lying and sneaking and trying to arrange the world to obey my manipulations. It is honest work, and the Maker loves the honest.

Dorian is a force of nature; what I do not cut, he burns. What I cut, he burns anyways, because more fire solves most problems, and in a stone building such as this he has little to fear if he overshoots. Solas bathes me in barrier light, a lambent blue glow that blocks the claws and teeth of my unholy foes, and then smashes them with lightning and stones hurled from staff and open hand. By time we are finished the demon horde is a spreading stain of black liquid across the floor, and I dispatch the final Shade with a twinned stroke of both my blades, rending it in three.

The rift sputters, surges, and I command it closed with my hand. Dorian delights in the spectacle, and I grin through the familiar pain of forcing reality to shut itself from the Fade again. Thedas' most pleasant Tevinter approaches, staring openly at the Mark.

"Fascinating!" he notes, as Solas closes on us as well. "How does it work, exactly?"

"It is a key," I reply. "The rifts are each doors to the Fade. I close them, lock them, and once they are sealed they are no longer real."

"Fascinating!" he repeats. "I've never seen anything like it… resembles a blood-brand, but hardly so crude, much less malignance and evil red glowing…"

He shakes his head suddenly, forcing himself to focus. I chuckle at his expression, a sort of stoic, yet conversational little frown that quickly shifts back to a smile.

"I trust my note was as trustworthy as I'd hoped." he says. "You're not safe here, as you may have guessed. Alexius is scheming something fierce, and you're the primary target of his plots. He's arranged quite the welcome for you at the castle."

"And here I haven't arranged anything for him," I reply. "How rude."

"Oh, send him a fruit basket; everyone likes those." Dorian says, chuckling, before glancing at Solas. "And you… excellent barrier work, by the way. You layer ambient magic back into them to diffuse hostile spellcraft?"

"Sparingly, but yes," Solas nods. "I find it reduces the need to harden them against particular elemental dangers."

"I've seen the technique used by Rivaini mystics, but I could never get it right," Dorian says. "Always ended up bursting into flame. Rather a specialty of mine, you might suppose."

"What has Alexius got planned for me, exactly?" I interrupt their little technique discussion, though listening to them talk shop about magic is oddly enthralling. "I imagine it's something to do with these strange distortions around the rifts?"

"Alexius' arrival here was no spur of the moment fancy, regardless of what he may have told you," Dorian agrees. "It's odd, isn't it? How a Tevinter Magister and his entourage could beat you here, without any news of their travel through Ferelden reaching your agents' ears? Almost as if he was somehow here before they could even know?"

"I have a bad feeling I know what the answers to theseq questions are," I note, and Dorian nods.

"It's as bad as you may suspect," he says. "Alexius used time magic to get here. Ripped a hole right through the fabric of causality and slipped himself into Redcliffe about a week ago."

Solas goggles. I have the power of meta-knowledge and the idea still irks me.

"That is impossible," Solas insists. "Even the ancient elves could not master the manipulation of time itself."

"The ancient elves also never mastered the art of building roads," Dorian says blithely. "I know Alexius is using time magic because I helped him develop it. We could never get it to work properly, so it was all theory… though I suspect that nasty hole in the sky has something to do with his sudden progress."

"Alexius travelled back in time to steal the mages from the Inquisition?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Why would he even bother?"

"That's the part that confuses me," Dorian admits, before blinking. "Ah, that reminds me. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, at your service. You are the one they're all calling the Herald of Andraste, I presume?"

"I am," I nod, shaking his hand. "Ser Markus Venier. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He smiles, perfect teeth glinting in the light.

"I had hoped Felix would be here, but I'm guessing he played the illness card to get the note to you?" When I nod, Dorian sighs. "Well… his letters said enough. Apparently Alexius has shacked up with some nasty fellows; Tevinter extremists, worshippers of the 'the old ways' and all the blood sacrifices and world-conquering that entails. Their leader is called 'The Elder One', apparently he's a mage of considerable ability."

"Enough ability to tear open a hole in the sky, I wonder?" I glance at the Chantry and ceiling and through it, in spirit, to stare at the ever-present gap in the heavens I must soon slam shut. "Problems piling on top of problems. Next they'll throw a Blight at me for good measure."

"Mmmm… given your track record, one anticipates an Archdemon can't be far away," Solas agrees drily. "But for now… this Alexius has made a terrible mistake. The damage that could be done with even a small trip through time…"

"He dragged himself and a full entourage through," Dorian nods. "Several weeks into the past, I believe. It can be difficult to gauge these things. I only arrived here a few days ago, and that was as quick as I could manage. These distortions around the rifts? They're the fallout of his spell, and they're starting to spread away from the source here. If you don't put a stop to it…"

"They'll destroy the world," I say, and then I sigh. "Great. I suppose that takes choice out of my hands. I can't very well ignore this. I'd be a fool to try."

"I'd recommend a plan before you go charging into Alexius' little home away from home over on the hill," Dorian advises. "He's got the place crawling with his men."

"Then we need a plan," I say, and then I frown. "And I happen to know someone whose broken into Redcliffe Castle before."

I turn toward the Chantry doors, just in time to see Blackwall and Lysette storm in, weapons in hand. I raise a hand toward them, already approaching.

"Change of plans!" I declare. "Back to Haven! We have a castle to infiltrate!"

I don't think I've ever seen Lysette shift between disappointment and excitement quite so quickly before. I look over my shoulder at Dorian.

"If you can, go the the Crossroads," I tell him. "South of the village. Find Ellendra, an elven mage and healer; tell her Markus sent you, and mention that I'm still injury prone as ever. She'll clear you with the guards."

He nods, before going deeper into the Chantry, doubtless to recover some supplies of his or something. I'm not especially worried; he'll find us. It'd be impossible not to. I have business in Redcliffe; there's a couple of agents to recruit, I need to find Bull and Varric… then back to Haven, to arrange for my masterful capture of Alexius. Assuming, of course, nothing untoward happens along the way.

Which of course means I make an ass of myself with my assumptions, because when I find Varric he is in deep discussion with a tall, willowy mage with dirty-blond hair down to the small of her back, telling her all about me. That would be odd, were it not for the sudden, agonizing spike of recognition that jams itself in my brain when the woman looks up, and sees me, and I see her.

"Oh shit," Varric grunts, as I quite literally take a staggered half-step back.

It can't be her. It's not... possible. It's not even probable. But it is, and my heart is pounding, my hands trembling, the sound of my own cries filling my ears as she begs for me to go, to be taken away, so she never has to see my face again. All at once the bravado, the confidence, it all burns away, and I'm a little boy whose mother hated and feared him enough to beg for his exile from her side.

"Markus," my mother says, her voice gentle, her azure eyes so alike to my own wide with surprise, with recognition… with fear. "I… Markus, is that really you?"

AN: Yeah, this was always going to happen. On the bright side; Dorian! Gotta have some sweet to go with the sour, after all.