Chapter 15
"Kordilius Drakon, king of the city-state of Orlais, was a man of uncommon ambition. In the year -15 Ancient, the young king began construction of a great temple dedicated to the Maker, and declared that by its completion he would not only have united the warring city-states of the south, he would have brought Andrastian belief to the world.
In -3 Ancient, the temple was completed. There, in its heart, Drakon knelt before the eternal flame of Andraste and was crowned ruler of the Empire of Orlais. His first act as Emperor: To declare the Chantry as the established Andrastian religion of the Empire.
It took three years and several hundred votes before Olessa of Montsimmard was elected to lead the new Chantry. Upon her coronation as Divine, she took the name Justinia, in honor of the disciple who recorded Andraste's songs. In that moment, the ancient era ended and the Divine Age began."
—from Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar
Malcolm
"Your names rhyme," Malcolm said to the other two humans in his group as their ship approached a wharf in the harbor of Val Royeaux. "Do you know how frustrating that is?"
"The insipid Warden should forego using official names, as I do. I find it to be much easier," said Shale.
"If you start calling me Flora, I will cast an itching hex on your trousers," said Finn.
Malcolm glanced over at him. "I could just use a cleanse on them. You'll have to figure out some other sort of retaliation, Flora."
Finn glared, but his glare carried with it a decent amount of exasperation. "Removing a hex from clothing isn't as easy as washing it."
"Wasn't talking about washing."
"Then what were you talking about? Because the cleanse that'd remove the hex is one only templars can do."
"You don't say."
"The insipid Warden is toying with the finicky mage," said Shale. "I am rather enjoying the show."
Wynne sighed.
"You're a templar?" Finn tightly gripped the railing in front of him, looking like he was about to heave himself over and into the water. "Because if you are, I think it's something that should have come up sooner."
"No worries, I'm not an actual templar. I just have some of the same abilities. Since there are a pretty good number of former templars in the Wardens, other Wardens who are capable learn what they can from them."
"Why? Do you have to control Warden mages?"
"No, not usually." Malcolm paused to think. "I don't know of any incident where anyone had to. Anyway, not for controlling fellow Wardens. They're for dealing with darkspawn mages."
"Oh, well. That makes sense." Finn's hands relaxed their hold on the railing. "Could you please not call me Flora?"
"He is asking nicely," Wynne said.
Malcolm heard the unspoken warning, however. And it wasn't like Wynne needed to use her magic to make life unpleasant. "All right, fine."
"It could still call it the finicky mage," said Shale.
"They really don't need the encouragement," Wynne told her. Before she could go on with what most likely would be a lecture—Malcolm and Finn had heard a lot of them over the couple days aboard ship—the crew had put down the gangplank and were shouting for passengers to disembark.
"Time to go!" Malcolm said before Wynne could start in. He'd never thought he'd be this excited to go into Val Royeaux, but Wynne could do that to a person. Any person.
The gangplank deposited them on the long wharf, bounded by warehouses and teeming with longshoremen loading and unloading docked ships. The brisk business served to keep them alert as they hustled toward the main street leading out of the harbor, which, Wynne informed them, would bring them right into the middle of the market. Malcolm had been expecting the crowd to thin out a little once they were out of the docks, but his assumption proved to be incredibly wrong. If it wasn't merchants hawking wares from stalls, potential customers gathered around those stalls, or the press of other market-goers, entertainers stole bubbles of free space for their varied performances. Malcolm could see the two towers of the Grand Cathedral just above the roofs of the buildings around them, but he didn't dare look at them for long. Andraste knew how many pickpockets were about, and they didn't have a reformed one of their own to spy them. Sigrun was remarkably good at catching pickpockets in the act—and was also an incredibly talented pickpocket in her own right.
Even Shale's hulking and lumbering appearance barely afforded them more space in the press of Orlesians. If they were intimidated or impressed at all, Malcolm couldn't tell with all the masks. Sometimes, he was able to catch a quick downturn of a mouth because they were half-masks, but without the movement around the eyes, it was hard to tell. Maker, he hated masks.
Being a Warden at least exempted him from the expectation of mask-wearing. The same went for the mages, as Wynne had explained when he'd asked. Mages could wear them, but it usually wasn't safe to do so. They were distrusted enough, and the mask was often too risky an element to add. Chantry priests, sisters, and brothers did not wear masks, nor did the templars. Guards also went unmasked, as did peasants. Most servants wore them, unless they were literally never seen. Shale, of course, needed nothing.
"They like to hide, do they not?" Shale said, more an observation than question, probably to get some sort of rise out of the Orlesians who were not getting out of her way. "Why the hiding?"
"I don't know," said Malcolm. "Feel free to ask them."
"No. I would rather not interact."
"Probably for the best." He doubted Shale would be able to get through a conversation with one of the many people here before she squished them.
He considered encouraging her.
The crowds thinned once they exited the marketplace, returning to normal levels expected for foot traffic on city streets. At least they hadn't had to deal with the horses while going through the marketplace—it would've been a nightmare. So they'd paid some of the ship's crew to bring them to the White Spire's stables. Without having to lead the horses or needing constant vigilance to make sure he wasn't robbed, Malcolm was able to take a few looks over at the Grand Cathedral. It was certainly grand, and was also a lot bigger than he'd pictured. He'd known it was, but until he saw it, he hadn't really comprehended the actual scale.
They passed a huge iron gate guarded by quite a few members of the Val Royeaux City Guard, and it took Malcolm a few moments to realize it was the Elven Alienage. The gates were easily four times the size of the gates that had once been part of Denerim's Alienage. "That's the Alienage, then?" he asked Wynne.
She nodded. "Ten thousand elves live there, I'm told, in a space no bigger than the Denerim Market."
His eyes widened. He'd thought the Alienage would be as big as Denerim itself, given the size of Val Royeaux. Instead, Denerim's elves had far more space available to them, especially after the walls had come down to turn the Alienage into the Elven Quarter.
His mother had been born and lived part of her life in a place like this.
He wasn't sure if it had been here in Val Royeaux, or the Alienage in Montsimmard, since that was the Circle she'd been sent to. But he didn't imagine the Montsimmard elves fared any better than those in Val Royeaux. Wynne might have known, but he couldn't ask with Finn right there—or being in the middle of Val Royeaux, to boot—not with most people unaware that his mother was an elf. Either way, it was hard for him to take in, which meant he tried to understand by working through the details out loud.
"My mother was born in Orlais, I heard," he said. "But she ended up at the Circle in Montsimmard instead of the White Spire."
Sheltered as he was, Finn was still sharp. "Your mother was a mage? Really?"
Malcolm barely kept from rolling his eyes. "Do you choose to disbelieve everything I say or is it just something that happens?"
"If the insipid Warden were not so glib, perhaps it would be taken seriously."
"I doubt it."
"Sadly, I believe it is right."
Then Malcolm's eyes caught on the glittering single tower of the White Spire, and suddenly felt like they hadn't spent long enough wandering the market. "Are we really going straight to the Circle?"
"Of course we are," said Wynne. "We don't have the time to play tourist."
She was really getting good at crushing his hopes. "Do I have to go in?"
"Do you wish to camp outside the city with Shale?"
"It may keep me company, if it wishes. I will not crush it in its sleep."
He grinned over at the golem. "And here I thought you wouldn't want to cuddle!"
Shale's stony eyebrows rose. "I will not allow it to cuddle."
"No? That's too bad." He turned to Wynne again. "I suppose I'll be going with you to the White Spire."
"I will meet it at the designated place outside Velun," Shale said to Wynne.
"How will we find you?" asked Finn.
"Just follow the trail of dead birds," said Malcolm.
Finn made a gagging sound.
He rolled his eyes. "It isn't like I was descriptive about it. And if we run into darkspawn, it's going to look and smell a lot worse than dead birds."
"I prefer the darkspawn," said Shale. Then she trotted off, heedless of the Orlesians who were finally forced to scatter out of her way, like a flock of pigeons. Malcolm figured Shale would have appreciated that comparison.
"Come along," Wynne said over her shoulder to the remaining two.
At first, Malcolm thought he'd have some solidarity with Finn because Wynne kept treating them like children. It wasn't like they didn't deserve some of the treatment, considering, but still. But they'd only gone a few steps before Finn started in on a lecture about the White Spire.
"Kordillus Drakon built the White Spire, you know," Finn said to Malcolm. Malcolm knew it was directed at him because Finn looked right at him when he said it, and did not cast even so much as a glance toward Wynne. "It was the fortress he ruled from until he built another palace."
"Lovely." The Circle did seem to re-appropriate older structures quite often. The Avvar fortress of Kinloch Hold for Ferelden's Circle, then the Tevinter Gallows in Kirkwall—which he still believed a phenomenally stupid decision, but what did he know, not being a mage—and now Drakon's old fortress here in Val Royeaux. He actually hadn't heard of a single time the Circle had been permitted to construct its own building. He suspected that if they had, they wouldn't have so many problems with a thinning Veil. It was like they were purposely trying to drive the mages to take in demons. Sadly, part of him believed that maybe they were.
Meanwhile, Finn hadn't stopped. "Do you think they'll let us explore? Probably you more than me, but we'll have to try. The lowest levels used to be torture chambers and dungeons. Theoretically, they've been abandoned and filled by waters from the sewers, but you never know. Then there's archives! Old archives, recent archives, lots of written records from both the Circle and the Chantry, from what I've read."
"Good for you. Maybe you'll be able to get some reading in during our visit."
Finn sighed. "You don't have to be so discouraging about it."
"I didn't ask for a history lesson."
"I thought you'd like to know about the place where we'll be staying! You're welcome."
"I'd assumed we wouldn't be staying long enough for me to care."
"We'll be there for a few days, I believe," Wynne said without turning around. "It will take a little time to arrange things for the new spirit healer."
Days. Malcolm scowled at Wynne's back, and then scowled at a couple Orlesians passing by, just for good measure. "You haven't said much about this new healer. And by 'not much,' I mean you haven't said anything at all."
"No, I haven't."
Andraste's feathered pantaloons, but Wynne could be trying. He reined his frustration in by reminding himself that she was distracting him, even with her irritation. Then he said to Finn, "All right, go on with your lesson."
"Oh. Well." Finn's shoulders drooped. "That was really it, actually. The main entrance used to be the throne room, and above that are the mages and the library, and then the templars."
"You aren't excited about the library?"
"I am. I just didn't want to encourage you to go there. You'll only deface more books."
"Oh, come on. I didn't deface any books."
"That have been found."
Malcolm wondered what Wynne would do to him if he strangled Finn. Unwilling to test her quite that much, he ignored Finn the rest of the way to the White Spire.
Instead of being grudgingly allowed in, they were practically welcomed into the White Spire. Malcolm supposed it was because templars probably didn't have a lot of experience with mages visiting voluntarily, so it made sense for them not to be ungrateful when some did. Once inside the vestibule—though the hall was so long it could hardly be called that—they were funneled toward the end of the room, where a templar stood watch next to an ornate wooden lectern.
The templar summoned them up to the top of the dais, and Wynne introduced herself before the young man could even ask.
Malcolm did his best not to look bored as they talked, searching the rather large room to see what remaining traits he could find from when it'd been a throne room. The sheer size of it was one, as was the dais. The throne had probably been somewhere near where the lectern now stood. Long benches of dark, richly polished wood lined each side of the hall, presumably for visitors to sit as they waited for permission to enter, though it didn't seem like they'd have to wait for very long. As soon as Wynne had signed their names into the ledger on the lectern, the templar sent a messenger to summon the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter.
While Finn availed himself of a seat, Malcolm elected to stand. His choice was justified when the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter entered the hall shortly after. Finn grumbled under his breath and then stood as Knight-Commander Eron and First Enchanter Edmonde introduced themselves.
After Wynne introduced Finn, she extended a hand toward Malcolm. "And this is Warden-Lieutenant Malcolm. He is our Grey Warden guide for our journey. "
He politely greeted Eron and Edmonde, and then quirked an eyebrow at Wynne.
"Warden-Lieutenant is the Orlesian equivalent of Senior Warden," she said in answer to his unspoken question.
"Of course it is."
"We haven't had a Grey Warden visit for quite some time," said Edmonde. "I daresay the younger apprentices might be somewhat enamored, so take my warning for what you will." His light eyes held a spark of humor, but the lines around them and dark smudges below revealed how tired he was. He seemed as burdened as Irving, and Malcolm wondered if it was something that just happened to First Enchanters. From what he'd seen in Circles, he wouldn't be surprised if they literally sagged under the weight of the office. Maker, even his gold-trimmed black robes looked exhausted and weary.
"If you would be accommodating," said Knight-Commander Eron, "I would invite you to spar with some of my templars during their training."
Malcolm smiled again. "I would appreciate it, Knight-Commander. I'd like to keep my martial skills honed, and Wynne tells me we'll be here for a few days at least." He truly did try his best not to sound bitter, and he mostly pulled it off.
"I'll send one of my Knight-Corporals around to show you where our training areas are." Eron nodded at Edmonde and the rest. "If you will excuse me, I must return to my duties. Welcome to the White Spire."
Edmonde indicated for them to follow, and up the staircases they went. Malcolm wished the Circles would stop establishing themselves in sodding towers. Nothing wrong with a good, rectangular fortress without fifty different levels. In an effort to ignore his complaining knees, Malcolm returned to studying his surroundings. Where Kinloch Hold could be described as austere, the White Spire took the opposite in its opulence. Glowstones in sconces kept the corridors brightly lit, paintings and tapestries lending color to the walls, and even the stone tiles underfoot were marble instead of the usual granite. Prettily dressed, yet still a prison all the same. As they walked, Edmonde pointed out various features. Malcolm took special note of the dining hall, while Finn perked up at the mention of the library. The floors above and below the library, for the library took up an entire floor all on its own, held the classrooms and the dizzying array of spaces dedicated to practicing magic.
The sheer number of apprentices milling about compared to Kinloch Hold astounded Malcolm. Even before the Blight and Uldred's awful takeover of the Tower, he didn't think there had been anywhere near as many mages living there. While in Kinloch Hold they'd only had one rambunctious apprentice run into them, here they had several. Each one got a scolding from both Edmonde and Wynne, yet none of them seemed terribly affected by them.
Malcolm garnered more than a few curious looks, and the youngest of the apprentices, hardly older than his own daughter, outright stared.
"It's the griffons on your uniform," said Wynne.
"It's not a uniform. It's armor that's issued. That every other Warden wears—fine, it's a uniform. With griffons on it, like everyone dreamed of having as a child."
"So you see why they look at you so."
"Well, some of them stopped when they heard me speak. It goes from 'Oooo, a Grey Warden!' to 'Ugh, Fereldan' right quick."
"Many will find you a curiosity still," said Edmonde. "I daresay most of the children have never met a Fereldan who wasn't a mage, much less a Grey Warden of any kind. I hope you like telling stories, because you'll be plied for them while you're here."
"What if I don't like telling stories?"
"Then you will learn," said Wynne.
Malcolm was fairly certain that stepping foot into a Circle automatically made Wynne twice as pedantic. Since that sort of thing shouldn't be encouraged, he didn't acknowledge her statement. "I know I haven't visited many Circles, but you seem to have an awful lot of apprentices here, First Enchanter."
"We have more here than we had anticipated," said Edmonde. "The number of children brought in has increased every year. Our Tranquil archivists have said that the increase is without historical precedent."
"The same is happening at Kinloch Hold," said Finn. "It's made the templars fidgety."
"And ours are anxious." Edmonde sighed. "But there is nothing we can do except teach. No one but the Maker knows why we're suddenly seeing a surge in magic users."
Anxious templars, Malcolm had learned, were not the sort of templars you wanted around. He really hoped that they'd be here less than a few days.
The accommodations were nice, there was that. Each of them were afforded their own room, though Wynne's was on a different level than Malcolm's or Finn's were. Probably better appointed, Malcolm figured, given her rank within the Circle. The food was fantastic, the bed comfortable, and the view of Val Royeaux from his tall, narrow window nothing short of amazing. Yet, amazing views did nothing for being left to cool his heels in a Circle while Wynne did Maker knew what.
While Finn was happy enough to spend his entire day either in the library or the archive, Malcolm wasn't as content with those options. However, they weren't afforded many other choices, because Wynne had practically disappeared, and neither of them knew where she'd gone.
The first morning, over breakfast, when it became apparent that Wynne wouldn't be joining them, Finn asked about it. "What do you suppose she's doing?"
Malcolm, grumpy at having been unceremoniously abandoned—and it wasn't like he hadn't lost friends and family already—wasn't terribly forthcoming with useful speculation. "How should I know? Wynne-things. I have no idea what those things are, other than those are things she does. If you want anything more, you'll have to ask her directly. Good luck with that."
Finn sniffed at being rebuffed, and left him alone for the rest of the day.
Malcolm knew he should've been a little nicer, but something about having to stay there in the Spire left him ill at ease. Even the sparring he did with the templars didn't provide a way to shake the feeling, not with their anxiousness influencing the ways they sparred. It made for bad bouts all around, because Malcolm knew he shouldn't be trouncing every templar he faced, because the former-templar Wardens in Ferelden were almost all incredibly good fighters. Better than him, usually. Maybe Hildur had stolen the best of them, but Malcolm assumed it had to be whatever made them nervous. And nervous templars made him restive and focused at the same time, which meant while he dealt out an unusually high number of bruises, his own were given time to fully heal.
But the disquiet remained, especially in his sleep.
Someone was chasing him. A shadow, something he couldn't identify, but he knew it was wrong somehow. And if it caught him, whatever happened would be horrible. But he was chasing someone, too. Though he couldn't name who or what or anything but the urgency he had to find them. It was dark all around him, the smell like the Deep Roads, only stale, and yet he ran as fast as he could, heedless of the dangers waiting ahead in the dark. Then a rumble and a flare of light pierced the darkness and he stumbled and fell. The ground shook from the explosion, and then flames surrounded him. Beyond the flames, he thought he heard cries. Then he recognized the cries for what they were—his children were calling for him, calling for his help. They needed him and he had to find them and he plunged through the fire. The heat was so intense that it left him strangely cold. He didn't care. He had to get to them, and now their voices were from beyond the walls of rock, walls that had no exits, and he scraped at them as the flames consumed everything in the room. He scratched and clawed until his fingers bled, and he scratched some more, even as the fire licked trails of ash into his skin. He could hear them so clearly—and their plaintive cries grew louder and more frightened and he wondered where Líadan was, why she hadn't rescued them yet, and maybe they weren't the ones who needed rescuing. Maybe it was her and she was too hurt to make any sound at all, and the children's shouting became weakened and hoarse. He fell as the flames enveloped him, the heat so hot it was like falling through ice into a winter lake, and in the middle of it, between the waning cries of his children, the silence from his wife, and the crackling of the fire, there was the throaty call of a crow.
He woke to darkness, and nothing more aside from a cold sweat and a racing heart.
The first two nights he'd had the nightmares, he'd remained in his room afterward, not wanting to surprise or upset wary templars. The griffon heraldry on his brigandine wouldn't be as obvious in the dim lighting the Spire kept in the hallways at night, and so he had stayed in. While he hadn't been expressly told that there was a curfew for him, the treads of templar sentries walking past his door every half-hour to an hour implied that wandering about was discouraged. Now, he didn't care what the consequences would be as long as it got him out of the room and decidedly not thinking about his dreams.
This time, he dispensed with obeying the unwritten rule and tugged on trousers and boots, followed by a linen undershirt and his brigandine. Then after a moment of thought, which primarily consisted of Orlais and Circle of the Magi and templars, he made sure his dagger was at his belt. He left his sword behind, but not without casting a wistful look at it. A dagger was a precaution; carrying his sword around with him in the middle of the night invited the sort of trouble he wanted to avoid in the first place.
He slipped out of the room, checked for templars, and then started down the hall. While he didn't have a destination in mind, he did know it was away from his room. The commons would do, he supposed. He could gape at the statues and walk around and if he still hadn't calmed down, then he'd find more to explore. Except he hadn't thought ahead enough to realize that the statues that formed the bases of the supporting pillars of the tiny commons would be, frankly, terrifying in the dim light.
Maybe staying in his room would've been a better idea, after all.
As he swung around a pillar to head back to the central staircase, Malcolm had the misfortune of walking right into a templar. He yelped and so did the templar, and they both reeled as they fought to keep their footing. He wasn't a small man, and she was in full heavy armor, and they'd both been walking at a fairly high rate of speed, so the collision hadn't been mild. The templar's helm had been in her hand, and on impact, it'd gone flying, clanging against the stone floor until she chased it down. When she stood to confront Malcolm, he noticed her armor was covered in soot and an alarming number of scorch marks.
"Someone set you on fire?" he asked, doing his best to sound as lighthearted as he could. "That's happened to me more than a few times. My condolences."
"What are you doing—" Her flash of irritation disappeared as her eyes cut to the griffon sigil on his brigandine. Then she sighed and tried to shove errant strands of her black hair back into its messy bun. "Warden, this isn't a good time for you to be out of your room."
Oh, irritation to exasperation. He was well familiar with that shift. "There wasn't anyone nearby, so it seemed like a good time to me."
"There's been an incident." The shadows cast from the glowstones darkened ones already under the templar's eyes, making her appear wearier than Edmonde. No, not like Edmonde. She reminded Malcolm of Cullen. Their eyes wanted to be bright, but had faded as they stubbornly clung to their idealism as reality wore it down. "It would be best if my templars weren't caught by surprise by a Warden skulking about in the corridors."
Malcolm straightened, feigning indignity. "I don't skulk, Ser—"
"Knight-Captain Evangeline."
He nodded, though he found the similar rank to Cullen interesting. "Right. Well, Knight-Captain, I don't skulk, because I can't skulk. I walk. Sometimes quietly, most times not. Usually not. I do apologize for surprising you. Generally, it's in one's best interests not to catch templars or mages by surprise. Leads to things like being set on fire or stabbed. Sometimes both."
She sighed again.
Definitely like Cullen with that sort of resignation in her sigh. These people really needed senses of humor if they wanted to survive and not become endlessly dull.
"Warden—"
"Warden-Lieutenant Malcolm." Since they were using ranks, it seemed.
Evangeline gave him a slightly cross look and then rubbed her forehead. "Warden-Lieutenant, if you could please cooperate and return to your room, it would be much appreciated."
He glanced down the hallway he'd come from, as if he were considering going back. "I suppose I could cooperate." Then he returned to Evangeline. "So, what was the incident?"
"I'm sure there will be gossip about it tomorrow, during the day, from every mage and templar in this tower. You can find out then."
"But the anticipation will keep me up for the rest of the night! I'll keep wondering and wondering and I'll never get to sleep. Wardens need their beauty rest, you know."
"I'm certain you'll find a way around it." She'd taken a couple steps toward his room, corralling him as she did.
Maker's blood, she was herding him and he hadn't even picked up on it. He was clearly outclassed. "Fine, fine. Don't tell me."
She didn't. She escorted him all the way to his room and remained outside after she'd bustled him in and closed the door. While he hadn't done much exploring, the minor altercation with the Knight-Captain certainly got his mind off the nightmare he'd had. Unlike what he'd told her, he was able to fall asleep quite easily.
Over their morning meal, Finn shared what he'd heard from other mages. "So there was an incident last night."
"I know." Malcolm happily started in on his food, having decided to take advantage of it while he could. Orlesians were Orlesians, but they were damn good when it came to cuisine.
"How would you know?"
"I don't know what happened, exactly. I just know that something happened. Feel free to tell me."
"There was an attack on the Divine at a ball last night."
Malcolm nearly dropped his knife. "Really?" Because there was a good chance Finn was having him on, because Malcolm had had Finn on enough times where he deserved to have it directed at him for once.
"Really. Rumor has it that it was a blood mage who attacked Her Perfection, but the templars aren't confirming. They aren't denying, either, so there's that."
"No wonder the Knight-Captain was so agitated last night."
Finn did drop his knife. Luckily, it wasn't very far above his plate, so the noise wasn't excessive. "What were—why would you have seen her last night?"
Malcolm studied him for a moment. "I'm not sure what direction your thoughts have taken for you to look so horrified." When Finn opened his mouth, Malcolm waved him off. "No, no. Seriously, don't tell me. Whatever it is you think it was, it wasn't. I couldn't sleep, so I tried to go exploring. I literally walked into her as soon as I got to the commons. The end." While the Knight-Captain was certainly a nice-looking woman—brusque personality aside—he had a wife. A wife whom he loved and very much wanted to see again, whenever that would be. And probably then do those things Finn was likely imagining.
"For a Warden, you have really boring stories."
"The other Wardens stole all the good ones." Oghren, mostly, but he didn't mention him out loud. While Malcolm wasn't a rare name for a human to have, Oghren was a lot more recognizable when it came to well-known Wardens.
"Your good ones lately are about beating up templars. Are you going to do that again today?"
"No." When Finn raised an eyebrow, Malcolm felt compelled to explain further. "They were keen on it for a couple days, but now they want a break. Something about letting bruises heal and muscles regain their strength. Excuses, but they can't all be chevaliers, is what they told me. Either way, I've got hours of incredible boredom ahead of me."
"There's always the library," said Finn.
"I like reading, but not as much as you do. I don't think anyone likes it as much as you do." He slumped in his chair. "Maker, I should've gone with Shale." It meant he'd be outside. Outside sounded good.
"The library has books about golems. And, if you listen closely, rumors. Lots of them."
"All right, fine. Might as well be there as anywhere." Malcolm sighed. It was a better option than moping, even though libraries were places that largely frowned on those who were restless or disinclined to quiet. He decided to keep on the subject of golems, partly for the levity, and partly because Shale wasn't there to get cranky about it. "My brother played with little golem figurines."
"Really?" Finn narrowed his eyes at Malcolm. "The—he played with golems as a boy?"
"No, he played with golem figurines last time I saw him, less than a month ago. He won't admit to it, of course, but he still has them."
"You're having me on." Finn had largely wised up to Malcolm's declarations, and his growing skepticism had required Malcolm to think up more clever ones. This time it was made easy because it was the plain and simple truth—the King of Ferelden played with golem dolls, sometimes without his sons around as an excuse.
"You can ask him yourself. Well, if you ever have a chance to talk to him, I suppose. Or if we ever see Wynne again, you can ask her." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Do you happen to know where any are? I'm that bored. Maybe I can stage an epic battle with the younger apprentices." That honestly did sound like fun. While the rest of the Orlesian mages had pretty much left him alone, the youngest apprentices cornered him whenever they were allowed and pressed him for stories. While he lacked the visceral nature required for Oghren's storytelling, and was a far cry from the raconteur who was Varric, he told them decently enough for the kids to keep asking for more. A couple of the enchanters had apologized for the younger mages bothering him, but he didn't mind. It helped a little bit with missing his own children.
"They do seem to like you," said Finn.
"It's the griffons. Also because I'm a Warden and I'm Fereldan who isn't from the Circle. Mostly the Warden. The Fereldan bit is more a curiosity. I think Orlesian children are taught that we're pretty much hulking, smelly, drooling barbarians. We are, but I think they're surprised that I can speak coherently."
"I'm surprised that you can speak coherently."
Malcolm glared at him and stood up. "You didn't even think I was literate when you first met me."
Finn grumbled, got to his feet, and started for the library at a fast enough clip that Malcolm had to scramble to catch up. "I did hear more about that 'incident,' you know. If you want to know. Do you want to know?"
"I'm bored. Of course I want to know. I'll even promise to be nice to you for the next hour."
"Two."
"Better be good."
"That templar you ran into last night, the Knight-Captain? She's the one who apparently saved the Divine's life. Which is wonderful and all, except the templar I saw this morning outside my room was kind enough to inform me that mages are now subject to more restrictions while the templars root out whatever cabal was responsible for the assassination attempt."
"Cabal?" Malcolm frowned. "I thought you said one mage."
"Well, where there's one blood mage, there's more, or so the saying goes."
"I never said that. Usually, it's where there's one blood mage, there are abominations and reanimated corpses and demons and tears in the Veil, also some fire and incredibly nasty hexes and such. Sometimes there are more blood mages, but even that just means more of those nastier things I just mentioned." When Finn failed to crack even the slightest smile, Malcolm relented on trying to avoid the looming heavy discussion. "What sort of restrictions?"
"Permissions for travel have been suspended and gatherings are forbidden. Oh, and the College of Enchanters will be disbanded after next month's conclave."
"I didn't know they could do that. I thought the College was something that was and would be around forever. Kind of like Wynne." Malcolm was fairly certain Wynne couldn't technically die for the time being, not with her having a passenger, like Anders, who also couldn't die the regular way. Having spirits sustaining your life was a little like cheating. The good kind, mostly, as long as nothing went wrong.
"So did I." The comment had gotten a half-chuckle out of Finn, but he turned serious rather quickly. "Do you think it will affect the mission we're on?"
"Shouldn't. Permission's already been given for you and Wynne, and if they get really nasty about it, the Wardens still have precedence. Worry not! You can still be free."
"I hope so."
Finn's sudden discomfort within a Circle—when he'd been so at home before—bothered Malcolm to a degree he hadn't expected. Of course, that meant any degree of comfort he'd found vanished, which meant he needed to find some familiarity again. Scolding from Wynne tended to do the trick. "Out of curiosity, have you seen Wynne lately?"
"Briefly yesterday, from the other side of a corridor." Finn squinted as he thought. "Maybe. Could've been an illusion, for all we know."
Sod it, he was going to let the cranky out. "How many days has it been since she abandoned us here? Four? Five? I don't know. More than three though, right? And Wynne said a few, which means three at most, yet here we are."
"It isn't like we can question her about it."
"I know. That's part of my point."
"Your pointless ranting?"
Malcolm couldn't help the small smile. "You're catching on."
"So," Finn said as they neared the library doors, "which book are you going to steal this time?"
"None. I didn't steal. I borrowed. Borrowed." He glared down at the shorter man. "You'd think for all your fancy schooling, you'd know the difference. I swear to the Maker, I am going to leave you in the Western Approach."
"Wynne would make you bring me out."
Malcolm refused to look at Finn, mostly because Finn was right. Wynne would give Malcolm a highly disapproving and disappointed glare, followed by endless little comments that would heap on the guilt. Eventually, Malcolm would run back and fetch Finn just to make Wynne stop, because putting up with Finn was pleasant compared to Wynne's guilt trips.
In a small mercy, Finn left him to his own devices once they were inside the library. Malcolm found it hard not to gape—Kinloch Hold's library could easily fit into one of the alcoves of the White Spire's vast library. He picked out a couple books, purposely staying away from anything related to the elves. But when he sat down to read, he barely read at all. Instead, he ended up listening to the whispered chatter around him, because like Finn had said, there were a lot. Far more than he'd heard in Kinloch Hold. He couldn't believe how incredibly right Fergus had been about Orlesians and stories—not that he'd ever tell him. Fergus was insufferable enough when it came to reveling in the always-right-elder-brother role. Malcolm saw no need to encourage him further.
Orlesians gossiped far more about their ruler than Ferelden did, and the topic at the moment was that she'd left Val Royeaux in favor of her winter palace at Halamshiral. Which, to him, sounded a little off since there was clearly the beginnings of a civil war sparking underfoot, and her seat of power was Val Royeaux. Then again, maybe it worked differently in Orlais when it came to things like internal wars, like it did with everything else. Malcolm started to pay a little more attention—because now he'd moved into an academic sort of curiosity even though it wasn't his concern or country—which meant the mages strolling by changed subjects.
And Malcolm had no interest whatsoever in Orlesian fashion, so he went back to the not-quite-riveting Lurking Horrors of the Deep. While it'd initially looked interesting from the shelf, because no one could turn down ancient horrors, the horrors weren't really all that horrific. The tome of Martha's Adventures in the Fade he'd accidentally grabbed started to look appealing. He slumped in his chair as he slipped further into boredom, wondering if there were any non-bruised templars he could find to spar with, because his mind was doing a lot more wandering than it should. Hearing rumbling rumors about some sort of upset going on in Kirkwall with how the mages and templars in the Gallows were being treated didn't help. Not that he wasn't beyond leaning closer to the stack of shelves behind him so he could better hear the gossiping going on behind it, but still. Hopefully, Líadan had already left Kirkwall and Sundermount and was off to places unknown to anyone.
Maybe Cáel and Ava hadn't asked too many questions or been terribly troublesome. Maybe they were all right. Part of him wished that they missed him as much as he missed them, but then he thought that if they didn't, at least they wouldn't feel as much pain over being away.
Maker. He was getting maudlin. Martha's Adventures in the Fade it was.
Two pages in, he was blessed with more gossip from the same mages who'd been whispering fervently about Kirkwall. They'd been joined by a few more, and now they all whispered eagerly to each other about a ghost—because it couldn't be a person—killing mages right under the templars' noses. What worried Malcolm on hearing it was that none of them seemed terribly worried about it. The ghost was actively killing their kind, and no worries at all. Just another rumor. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but he'd have expressed a little more concern than just passed-along whispers. More likely, he'd be shouting at templars, loudly and often.
He was fairly certain that were he a mage, he'd have been made Tranquil years ago.
Malcolm nearly leapt out of his chair when a heavy book was suddenly deposited on the table in front of him. "What is wrong with you?" he almost yelled at Finn. He managed to smother it to just beyond an angry whisper before he could get scolded by the matronly mage who'd already taken to glaring at him and at the gossiping mages.
"Take a look there." Finn jabbed his finger at the diagram on the open page. "The Deep Roads are underneath us."
He didn't bother hiding the roll of his eyes. "They're underneath everything. That's how they work. They're underground, under our feet, which is pretty much everything."
Finn had the gall to look at Malcolm like he possessed the intelligence of a stick. "No, I mean there's an entrance below the White Spire. Far below, but connected to the sewers. The notes in the margins here say that it's sealed with a dwarven door. Can Wardens open those? I read somewhere that they could. Or heard. I can't recall which."
Malcolm was more than vaguely interested in the possibility of the Deep Roads being accessible from below the Spire, but he wasn't going to entertain anyone's thoughts about going into them. "Wardens do know how to open them, yeah. But I have no plans to open it, because it's sealed shut for a reason. People really need to stop going around opening things that are sealed shut. Nothing good ever comes out. You know what'll come out of this one? Darkspawn."
"I just found it interesting." Managing to look disappointed, Finn sat in the chair across from Malcolm. "That's all."
"You find everything interesting."
Finn pretended to think. "Well, not botany. Too much dirt."
Malcolm considered his book for a second, and then glanced over at Finn. "Bored, are you?"
"Terminally."
"Trade books?"
"Better than nothing."
It turned out that Finn had a fond remembrance of the Fade book, and the book Finn had found was a lot more interesting than Malcolm had first believed. He got immersed in it without meaning to, and by the time he looked up from it, the library had pretty much emptied out. The only person aside from Malcolm and Finn was a lone templar who walked in as Malcolm looked around for other people.
"Where did everyone go?" Finn asked.
The templar shrugged. "Some big, fancy assembly for all the mages who live here. I was sent to bring you two to the Knight-Commander's office. Senior Enchanter Wynne wants you there for a meeting she has scheduled."
Malcolm stood. Even if he was in trouble, he welcomed the change. "Wynne isn't at the assembly?"
"She is. First Enchanter Edmonde asked her to speak at it."
"Why?"
"You know as much as I do, Warden."
"Sorry about the bruised shoulder," Malcolm said, hoping a small apology would help with getting the templar to open up with information.
"It was my cheek, and it's fine," said the templar. "Really, I don't know anything more than what I've told you." He motioned toward the doors. "Come on. I'd like to avoid getting into the trouble we'd find if you were late."
Except they were on time, and promptly relegated to waiting on hard wooden benches for everyone else involved in the meeting to show up. If the Knight-Commander was in his office, he didn't bother with inviting them in. Their current situation dragged up memories Malcolm hadn't thought of in… years, actually. The last time he'd been forced to sit on a hard bench outside someone of import's office had been in Weisshaupt while he and Líadan had waited for the First Warden to see them. Gunnar had still been alive then, his warm mabari eyes amusedly watching Líadan as she paced in the small hallway like a caged animal. It was a good memory, of a time when they'd only just started to realize their feelings for each other, yet it brought with it a pang of sadness, that he wouldn't be able to see her at the end of the day and tell her what'd happened to bring the memory back.
More melancholy, and he couldn't distract himself with a book or with teasing Finn, because Maker knew what would happen if the Knight-Commander heard.
Then finally, finally, they saw Wynne and got to speak with her for longer than half a minute. She happened upon them as she came around the corner and into the anteroom outside Knight-Commander Eron's office.
"Oh, so you are alive," said Malcolm. "I was starting to think you'd abandoned us here."
Wynne shot him an irritated look that he believed he didn't warrant, at least not yet, which indicated that her lecture to the assembled mages of the White Spire had not gone well. Then she relented in her glare as she looked over at the closed door before returning her attention to them again. "Before we go in, I thought I should warn you that Knight-Commander Eron has been relieved of his duty and replaced by Lord Seeker Nicanor."
"Why?" asked Malcolm. Eron had seemed perfectly capable. Greagoir had kept his job, and he'd had blood mages and abominations rife in his Circle. Eron had only lost track of a single blood mage, and that mage had only gotten access to the Divine due to geographical convenience.
"I imagine it's something to do with the would-be blood mage assassin of the Divine's originating from this Circle," said Finn.
"While I suppose that would be a rather significant lapse in duty on a Knight-Commander's part, I still don't see why a Seeker had to replace him. Or why I have to be near one. They aren't really my favorite people."
"I doubt they're anyone's favorite person." Then what Malcolm had said seemed to sink in, and Finn gave him an alarmed look. "You've had run-ins with them before?"
"Unfortunately." Very painful run-ins that he had no desire to repeat. "What's this meeting about, anyway? From what I gathered last night, I wasn't in any actual trouble with Knight-Captain Evangeline."
Wynne paused as she started to answer, as if she wanted to ask Malcolm the story behind his comment, and then decided against it with a short shake of her head. "We're meeting with the spirit healer I want to bring with us. We'll have to convince the Lord Seeker that he should allow it."
"Totally out of curiosity, not that I haven't been asking the entire time, but do you know this spirit healer?"
Wynne's focus remained on the closed door. "In a way."
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "I don't recall you being this evasive until recently."
But then the Knight-Commander's door opened, and the Lord Seeker invited them inside. Well, he invited them inside by speaking to Wynne, but said not a word to Malcolm and Finn. He motioned them to sit on chairs in corners, making it clear they were to be silent observers for whatever meeting this would truly turn out to be. Malcolm was surprised to see Knight-Captain Evangeline already there, standing practically at attention along the wall. She greeted him with a cursory nod and said nothing more. Malcolm took it in stride and picked the corner chair closer to the door. Finn took the other corner near the door, while Wynne settled herself in a chair across from Nicanor.
Malcolm did his best not to make eye contact with the Seeker, lest he give him a reason to remember what'd happened in Ferelden years ago. The Chantry had a long memory, and Malcolm had no wish to jog it. Thankfully, two enchanters were brought in quickly enough.
Each of them appeared to be at least a decade older than Malcolm, which made him yet again grateful for Finn's presence. It meant that he wasn't the youngest, and he was completely happy with never being the youngest on an extended mission ever again.
The human woman carried herself with an air of irritation, irritation she kept flicking in short glares over at the Lord Seeker. Her apparent anger was not diminished in the least by her small stature or her freckles, yet the Lord Seeker seemed not to notice. Or not care. Malcolm's bet was on the latter. The woman sat down quickly and with enough force that it made her curly red hair bounce.
He hoped she wasn't the healer, because the tall fellow with the dark beard seemed a lot more friendly. It was the eyes, Malcolm decided. The man's were warm and open, while the woman's were practically on fire. Her eyes reminded him of other prickly mages he'd known in his life, and the one she really reminded him of was Velanna.
The man reminded him of who Anders had once been, before the business with Justice. Oddly, his friendly gaze cooled a bit when he noticed Wynne.
"Hello, Rhys," she said in a tone of voice a lot quieter than the one she'd used with Malcolm and Finn outside the office.
Then Rhys said, "Hello, Mother," and Malcolm nearly fell out of his chair.
He ended up exchanging mutual looks of surprise with the other enchanter who'd come in with Rhys, while Finn just gaped. Of course, that was infuriatingly all Wynne and Rhys said about the matter, and didn't explain a damn thing. Malcolm felt the immediate impulse to plan to tell Líadan later—I totally met Wynne's son—and then remembered he wouldn't be seeing her for a long time. By the time he did see her, this tiny revelation would be old news. His mood darkened as he recalled exactly why they'd left: so that Cáel and Ava wouldn't end up in a place like this. Though the impulse had caught him by surprise, he did his best not to dwell, and shifted to other surprises.
Like the sodding news about Wynne's son. 'In a way,' the Maker's fuzzy ass. No wonder Wynne had been so evasive. Not that her evasiveness wasn't without cause, because Malcolm certainly would've not let up on question after question about him. Still.
As Malcolm half-listened, Wynne explained the basics of their mission to Rhys and the other enchanter—who was revealed to be named Adrian—except she phrased their mission as a rescue. Her only mention of Tranquility was to name the rescue's necessity having stemmed from the mage in question reportedly being Tranquil before possession took place, which was something Tranquility was supposed to prevent. Her partial explanation was impressive enough that it managed to sound complete, even to him, and he knew the entire plan. When she got to the part about bringing Rhys along with her, Nicanor got shouty.
Shouty was never good when it came to Seekers. Nicanor wasn't nearly as frightening as Seeker Cassandra, but Malcolm suspected Cassandra had a special sort of talent for it.
"Absolutely not!" Nicanor finally dropped his feigned nonchalance and stood. "There is an ongoing investigation about an attack on the Divine! I am not going to let this mage—any mage—leave the Spire!"
Malcolm glanced between Rhys and Nicanor. Rhys didn't look like a blood mage. Then again, Merrill had never looked like one, either. He also didn't seem the sort who'd cause the visible kind of trouble that an assassination attempt would be, but Anders hadn't seemed like that, either. Malcolm straightened a little in his chair, wondering if he'd have to use the authority of the Grey Wardens to keep their mission on course. Besides, it wasn't like he could just leave Wynne's son here. He didn't want any child of a friend of his to be stuck in a Circle any more than he wanted one of his children imprisoned in one.
Then Wynne said, "I thought you might say that." As the others in the room watched her, she took out a scroll and handed it to the Lord Seeker.
Malcolm didn't fail to notice that the wax seal was the Chantry's, and Adrian and Rhys both raised their eyebrows on seeing it.
"The Divine has given me full authority to conduct my mission as I see fit," Wynne said as Nicanor read over the paper. "Enchanter Rhys' abilities are necessary to the successful completion of this mission."
"Where did you get this?" asked Nicanor, which Malcolm believed to be an excellent question.
Wynne's answer—from the Divine—wasn't what Malcolm had been expecting. She had never mentioned that she happened to be an agent of the Divine, and Malcolm didn't think that people who weren't the Divine's agents got to carry around special, magical bits of paper that allowed them to do whatever they wanted.
A staring contest ensued between Senior Enchanter and Lord Seeker.
Malcolm wondered if it would come to blows.
Rhys seemed convinced, because his eyes moved more than once to the door behind them. He even took a step toward the door, which met with a dark glare from Evangeline, followed by a shake of her head.
Adrian rolled her eyes.
"Fine," Nicanor snapped. "But Knight-Captain Evangeline will go with you." He pointed at Rhys. "We need to make sure he's returned here when your mission is completed."
Thus began an argument over Nicanor sending an escort, and Nicanor trumped Wynne by playing a Divine card of his own, because surely Her Perfection wouldn't object to an additional safety measure such as a well-respected templar.
And so Wynne relented.
"We should have at least one mage among us who isn't a spirit healer," said Rhys. "It would be safer." He looked over at Nicanor. "And we know you're all about safety, Lord Seeker."
Which meant Nicanor glowered and Adrian volunteered to go and then everything was agreed upon. Wynne told the two new mages they'd be leaving the following morning, and then Rhys and Adrian walked out. After that, the Lord Seeker kicked the rest of them out aside from Evangeline, and soon enough, Malcolm and Finn found themselves standing in the hallway with Wynne.
Finn still seemed more than a little thunderstruck, which left him wonderfully speechless. Not so much for Malcolm, who turned a direct look onto Wynne. "Are you going to explain that?"
She'd yet to show any vulnerability despite what'd happened in that office, despite having practically rescued her son from the Seekers. "Explain what?"
"That letter. You know, the one from the Divine. I didn't realize the two of you were so close."
She remained frustratingly serene. "It's of no consequence."
"Right, because things of no consequence have the power to make the Lord Seeker change his mind all the time. Except they don't."
For a fleeting moment, he thought she'd break. Then she sidestepped his comments entirely. "Be sure you're ready to go in the morning." Without waiting for a reply, she walked down the corridor and passed out of sight.
Her actions left Malcolm uneasy. Wynne was—had been—someone in whom he'd put his absolute trust. Yet now, in a country long named Ferelden's enemy, when he direly needed the solid foundation of that trust, he'd discovered that more than a few bricks of it had crumbled.