Chapter 23
"Formerly the Revered Mother Dorothea of Orlais, Divine Justinia V rose to power after the death of Divine Beatrix III in the year 9:34 of the Dragon Age. Little is known of Dorothea's background before she joined the Chantry as an initiate. Within the Grand Cathedral, rivals suggest that her reticence in discussing her past means she's hiding something; few of her flock, however, can imagine her as anyone other than a gentle mother of obvious faith.
When Beatrix III was felled by a massive stroke, she survived just long enough to put forth Dorothea's name as a candidate for her replacement. Grand Clerics from throughout Thedas flocked to Orlais for the Grand Consensus, a private meeting between the heads of all Chantries to select the next Divine.
Though ritual demanded the decision be unanimous, servants attending the Consensus whispered of heated debate over Dorothea's suitability. Her 'worldly' background and demonstrated forgiveness for sinners were held against her; ultimately, however, the will of Beatrix III prevailed, and Dorothea began her reign as Justinia V."
—from The Modern History of the Chantry
Malcolm
"Leliana's gone," Malcolm said to Wynne as they loaded up their horses.
She concentrated on counterbalancing her pack with a separate saddlebag. "Yes, I had noticed. Thank you."
"She tell you she was leaving?"
"And why would she have told me?"
"Oh, I don't know, probably the part about the both of you working for the Divine?"
"We all work for the Divine one way or another."
Malcolm gritted his teeth and forced his fingers to slacken so he didn't cinch anything too tight on Knock. He gave the horse a pat on the flank and then turned to face Wynne. "No. No, you don't get to do that. You can't just play out this vague act of yours, not with what's at stake. She promised me, Wynne. She told me she would help me find my family once we got to Val Royeaux. She promised me, and she's gone the very next day, and I should have known better. Are you like her, now? Are you going to do what she did during the Blight?"
Wynne had the decency to look startled. "No, of course not."
"Have you been working with her?"
"I have, yes. At the Divine's request."
"How long?"
"How long, what?"
She had to make it difficult. She couldn't just answer the sodding questions that he'd waited too long to ask. "Wynne."
"Six years, give or take a few months."
The entirety of Ava's life. Every time she'd visited them in Denerim, every season she served as court mage, every word of every conversation, she'd been working for the Divine. Working with Leliana. The entire time, just like Leliana, she hadn't been who she was.
"Six! Why? Why would you agree to work for the Divine? And for six years? Why would you even trust Leliana after what she did?"
She sighed, but it was weary and sad, and entirely without frustration. "I imagine for the same reason as you."
"What reason would that be? It'd better be a good one, whatever it is. And it's a reason now gone, by the way. Like Leliana is. Gone."
Wynne did not sigh this time, nor did she directly address his frustration. "Hope. Leliana and the Divine offered me the chance to find a way to reverse Tranquility. To restore a mage once thought irreparably broken."
Then he silently waited as Wynne finished tying the flap of her pack, knowing there had to be a point coming from somewhere.
Then Wynne held her hands out in front of her, palms down. "These hands are a healer's hands. If I am anything, I am a healer. I mend what is torn, cure who is sick, repair what is broken. When breath and heartbeat have ceased, yet the spirit clings precariously to its body, I can coax breath and heartbeat to return. I can bring a person from the absolute precipice of death and make them whole. There have always been two absolute things I cannot do as a healer—I cannot bring back a life that has already fled this realm, and I cannot restore a Tranquil mage to the person they truly are."
Malcolm alternated looking at Wynne's hands and her face. Her hands did not shake, though they'd begun the process of becoming knobby as joints did as they aged, and he knew those very hands had healed him more times than he could count. Without Wynne's ability to heal, he would have been dead several times over, as would his friends and family. In the years since the Blight, Wynne's face had earned a few more wrinkles, mostly around the eyes from squinting into the sun, and then around the mouth, the toll of smiles and frowns both. Yet her eyes were still the same clear blue they'd always been, and honesty filled them. Her look on him was the same one he'd seen many times when she provided comfort and guidance to him, or to Líadan or Alistair, when she took on the caring persona of a healer and healed even the wounds that could never be seen.
Then he remembered what Anders had told him, back when he'd been Anders, back when he'd been better at fighting off Vengeance's takeover: out of all the things he was, he was a healer first. It wasn't so much a choice as it was his very being. It was a thing he did, and did well, and couldn't fathom a version of himself who could not.
Wynne had once been Anders' teacher, and she found the same sense of self in her healing, and felt the same frustration when faced with a limitation. Six years ago, she'd been a healer offered the chance to find a way to heal what once could not be. It would be difficult for any mage to turn down the chance. For a healer, it would be unthinkable.
"And now you can," he said quietly.
She nodded. "Or will be able to, soon. I could not turn that opportunity down. I doubt any mage could have, especially not a healer." Her hands returned to her sides. "Now do you see why?"
"I do."
Her smile on him was warm and kind, the very healer he'd known for years. "And you and your family, young man, are another thing that needs mending. I would see it mended. As for Leliana, your guess is truly as good as mine. We have not spoken often since the Divine's initial offer and assignment, nor have we spoken in great detail. She is to help me, yet I rarely know in what way." The smile fell away, and a scowl slipped its way back in. "That she left unannounced does not make me comfortable, and she and I will be exchanging some words should we cross paths again."
"I thought you had words to exchange with Líadan?"
"Oh, don't you worry. I haven't lost those, either."
He gave her a crooked grin before he became serious again. "I need to be able to trust you. I really do."
"Child, you can always trust me. And if you cannot bring yourself to trust me, trust the spirit of faith that sustains me."
"I do. I will. Just… don't let it be another mistake." She was the only person he had left out here to trust. There was Shale, at least once she returned, but she wasn't good at the mushy stuff that involved a little too much emotion. She'd have his back in a battle, certainly. But she wouldn't be much good at listening to him talk things out. So, if Wynne snapped his trust like one would a twig, he himself might snap along with it.
"It will not be," said Wynne.
"We need to go," Evangeline shouted over at them from the front of their forming line.
Malcolm exchanged nods with Wynne, mounted his horse, and they were off.
With Leliana's unannounced departure, the only thing that gave Malcolm hope was escalation of the civil war in Orlais. With Orlais too occupied with themselves to care, and the Chantry geographically in the middle, Ferelden would probably be able to withstand any attacks, if the attacks even came at all. That meant he could bring his family home once he found them. And once he brought them home, they could stay, so long as he convinced Emrys or Feynriel to help. There was just that other tiny detail about not knowing where they were, and the one person who stood the best chance of helping had sodding disappeared in the night.
The stupid pressgangs at least gave him someone to work out his anger on, and the Fereldan in him took great glee in seeing Orlais descending into the same sort of madness that had taken Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. Granted, he wasn't exactly thrilled about people dying, but the overall effect of destabilizing Ferelden's biggest threat did give good feelings. To him, anyway. Evangeline had become more terse and abrupt as the evidence pointing towards war mounted.
By the time they could see a distant Val Royeaux from the vantage point of a hill crest, the vast majority of the traffic on the road headed away from the city, the glut forcing them to slow their horses to a walk. The slog added hours to their journey, and they didn't get to Val Royeaux until dusk. By the time they got within sight of the Sun Gates, they could see hundreds of fires from soldiers encamped around the city.
Various soldiers, knights, and men-at-arms silently eyed them as they headed straight for the city's entrance, their way lit by the many campfires alongside the road. Under the eyes of more observers than any of them cared to count, they finally arrived at the gates.
They were closed.
"I thought the Sun Gates are never closed," said Finn.
"They are not," said Evangeline.
"Not sure about you," said Rhys, "but they look closed to me."
Adrian pointed toward the empty space at the top of the city wall, where one of the guards had taken off running soon after their party had come into view. "I wonder where he's gone off to," she said.
"Probably to fetch the welcoming party," said Malcolm. "A sovereign says it's not the friendly sort."
"I believe I will pass," said Wynne.
"Anyone think we should run?" asked Finn. "Considering that we're certain to meet with violence once those gates open. Maybe we shouldn't want to go into the city."
"It would do you no good," said Evangeline.
"I don't know," said Malcolm. "Technically, some of us could go back to Ferelden."
"There's a joke in there," said Rhys. "Or an insult. Or both."
"Both," said Finn.
They continued to wait as the guards stared down at them and refused to answer questions, and at the same time, the soldiers loitering on the sides of the road studied them and never quite wandered away from their weapons. The sun finished setting and nothing changed except the lighting of additional fires and the darkening of the shadows.
The Sun Gates opened. Lord Seeker Nicanor rode at the front of a company of Seekers and templars, all of them carrying torches that burned brightly in the dark night. He'd declined to wear a helm, and his satisfied smirk made Malcolm's sword arm itchy.
"Why are the Seekers here to greet us?" Adrian asked quietly.
"I don't know," Malcolm said as he watched Evangeline and Nicanor begin to glare at each other. "Why don't you ask Sister Nightingale? Oh! Oh, wait! We can't because she's gone and probably betrayed us, and that's why the Seekers are here waiting. For us. Because she betrayed us, being a Seeker and all herself, and now we're effectively entirely screwed."
Adrian's eyebrow rose. "What did she do to you?"
Malcolm gestured at the approaching Seekers. "Aside from them, you mean?"
"Obviously."
"Then, aside from them, she didn't do much to me personally. Yet." By this time, he knew, she very well might have, but he didn't have proof, nor did he exactly want it.
"What happened between her and your brother is between her and your brother," said Wynne. "You need not be outraged on his behalf."
"Oh, like you should talk. You're outraged on other people's behalf all the time." It wasn't as if Wynne didn't know what Leliana had promised to do and hadn't and might be doing exactly the opposite. And it wasn't as if Wynne didn't know that before she'd learned the truth, she'd been outraged on Malcolm's behalf over what Líadan had supposedly done.
"I'd really like to know what she did," said Adrian.
Malcolm noticed the Seekers massed behind Nicanor beginning to get antsy. "I'll tell you the story after whatever happens here, if we aren't dead because we were betrayed. I wouldn't get your hopes up."
"With your decided lack of optimism, I'm surprised you managed to survive the Blight," said Rhys.
"Optimism was my brother's job."
"And what was yours?"
"Comedic relief," said Wynne.
"That's the meanest thing you've ever said to me!" Malcolm said to her. "What if the Seekers kill us and it's the last thing you ever say to me?"
Nicanor let out a long, loud, and overly dramatic sigh. "We are not going to kill you."
Malcolm pretended to be puzzled as he looked between his small party and Nicanor's sizable one. "Then what's with bringing the whole company of Seekers with you?"
"We are to escort you to see the Divine."
"Right now?"
Nicanor frowned at him. "Yes, right now. When the Divine requests your presence, you don't keep Her Perfection waiting."
"Does Her Perfection know how long it's been since we've had proper baths?" The waterskins had made cursory bathing possible, but nothing got rid the grime and lingering sweat like a decent bath did. It just felt wrong to go see the Divine in the Grand Cathedral while smelling like the inside of a boot. He also had no particular inclination to die smelling like the inside of a boot, either.
"The Divine is aware that you have been on the road, yet Most Holy has requested the presence of your party immediately upon arrival."
"And if I don't want to go?"
"You don't get to decide, Warden-Lieutenant," said Nicanor. "You're going. Now, are we done with the delays? Or have you more objections?"
Well, he had asked. Malcolm made a production out of fumbling at his saddlebag. "If you're up for listening, I've an entire list—"
"We will go as ordered, Lord Seeker," said Evangeline.
Templars and their bloody rules and following hierarchies and such. And then there was the low tolerance for jokes. Maybe if they subscribed to some sort of humor, they wouldn't be so dour all the time. Besides, Malcolm was still somewhat certain that they were being led to their executions. Clandestine, sure, but still dead at the end.
He shot Evangeline a dirty look, but she ignored him.
To Malcolm's surprise, Nicanor had Evangeline ride separately with him, and delegated the responsibility of escorting the rest of them to the Grand Cathedral to another Seeker. Then he wasn't surprised, because he realized Nicanor would be getting Evangeline's report while the rest of them went on their little death march to see the Divine. The soldiers outside the gates gave them sympathetic looks as they rode past them and into Val Royeaux, which Malcolm took as a sign that they'd come to the same conclusion as he had.
There was little talking on their ride, not while surrounded on all sides by Seekers and templars on horseback as they clopped through the streets of Val Royeaux. Surprisingly, it wasn't the two towers of the Grand Cathedral that dominated the night skyline of the city—it was the White Spire. Compared to the Grand Cathedral's towers, the Spire was lit brilliantly by what Malcolm assumed to be magic, a white dagger thrusting into the sky above. It was, admittedly, quite striking, but he had no idea what it meant that the prison for the mages was given so much more attention than the headquarters of the Chantry.
The templars at the Grand Cathedral let them through the gates, and then they rode partway into the massive paved courtyard within before being corralled toward the stables. There, they were made to relinquish their horses to stablehands wearing the livery of the Chantry.
"This is a Grey Warden horse," Malcolm said to the young man who'd come to lead Knock to a stable. Then he pointed over at Wynne's horse. "So's that one, which means we had better get both back in as good a condition as they are now. If I don't get them back, or if I get them back looking worse for wear, the Wardens will be paying you a visit. You don't want that, I promise."
The stablehand gaped at him. Clearly, he hadn't been warned that there was a Warden in the party of mages being escorted to see the Divine.
Malcolm softened a little, realizing at second glance that the stablehand couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen at best. So he offered a small smile and aimed for slightly amiable. "His name's Knock. He likes apples. Take care of him and there's some gold in it for you. Don't take care of him and, well. You'd probably prefer a visit from darkspawn."
"Knock?" came the lad's half-strangled question.
"Don't ask," said Rhys.
"Enough chitchat," said one of the Seekers. "Her Perfection is waiting."
They crossed the empty courtyard, footsteps echoing on the massive stone walls wrapped around it. Then they were going up the steps and being ushered through the tall wooden doors of the main cathedral. While Malcolm had become disillusioned over the years about the religion he belonged to, it did not change the visceral awe he felt on entering the Grand Cathedral. He forced himself not to gawk at the stained glass windows running through the entire outside corridor, each panel depicting a moment from the life and death of Andraste. Only moonlight shone through them now, but even then their color and detail stunned him.
Ser Evangeline joined their party just outside another set of huge doors. Her lips were tightly closed and she offered nothing in the way of greeting or information aside from a nod. But her eyes squinted slightly, and her brow was just as slightly furrowed, as if she were troubled and attempting to hide it. But Evangeline was no bard, and each of the others could plainly see something bothered her.
The Seekers escorted them into the cavernous room, where they were immediately greeted by an Eternal Brazier larger than the one they'd found in the Frostback Mountains during the Blight. The flickering fires within the shallow bowl lent the only light to the room, as if the Chantry didn't possess of any candles, glow lights, lamps, or even rushes for torches. Or, more than likely, the lack of light was for dramatic effect. Malcolm had to admit, Orlesians could do drama. Standing on both sides of the brazier were statues so tall that the heads nearly brushed the impossibly high vaulted ceiling—one statue being Archon Hessarian, and the other Andraste.
Along either side of a long red carpet that led straight down the middle of the room, templars stood guard, swords out and held in front of them with points on the ground. The gauntlet of templars and the red runner ended a short distance from the Sunburst Throne. Seated on that Sunburst Throne was the Divine, who waited for them to approach.
The small child in Malcolm was amazed. The adult Malcolm was worried.
Figures flanked the Divine on either side, but he couldn't make them out until they were closer, penned in on either side by templars, with Andraste and Archon Hessarian looming over their backs. Behind the Divine sat priests in smaller chairs built in the style of the Sunburst Throne, but lacking an actual sunburst over them. As Malcolm and his group approached, he could see that a few of the priests held copies of the Chant, and the rest sat with hands primly resting on their laps, waiting.
Divine Justinia's features became clear nearer the end of the gauntlet of templars. She wasn't what Malcolm expected, though he wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting. Probably someone more of an age with Regula or Beatrix, but she was quite a bit younger, instead. She also had one of those faces that seemed familiar, even if you'd never met the person before. And either the Divine was the best actor Malcolm had ever encountered, or her gaze on them truly was warm, almost friendly and inviting. He certainly hadn't been expecting that.
The figure on her right side turned out to be a now clearly incensed Nicanor. Malcolm wanted to ask Evangeline what she'd said to piss him off, but there was no way he could ask without being overheard by at least twenty people.
There was also the matter of the figure standing at Justinia's left hand—Leliana. She stood right there, straight-faced and unapologetic, like she hadn't disappeared in the dead of night.
It was all Malcolm could do not to shout "Holy shit!" in the middle of the Grand Cathedral, in front of the Divine.
He idly wondered if Justinia was the type to be bothered by swearing.
They reached the end of the runner, and out of courtesy and tradition, each of them bowed to one knee. Justinia motioned for them to rise, and after her eyes appraised each one of them, they settled on Wynne.
"Senior Enchanter Wynne," she said, her voice draped in the same warmth as her expression, "what did you find at Adamant?"
Dead bodies, Malcolm thought. Lots of them. Somehow, he figured that wasn't the information the Divine was looking for. He kept his mouth shut, for the moment unwilling to draw Justinia's ire, and very unwilling to interrupt Wynne.
But Nicanor held no such qualms. "Your Perfection, you need not—"
Justinia held up a hand. "You do not decide what I need and need not know, Lord Seeker. You will be silent, and I will know what was found at Adamant."
Demons in walking undead bodies that really wanted to eat your face. Again, Malcolm kept it to himself. Though he decided he might say it at some point, considering how colossally screwed they were if Justinia didn't approve of Pharamond's discovery. With all the templars crowded into the room, there was no way they could make it out alive if they had to fight. They'd take out a goodly number of templars on their way, but he and his friends would still die in the end.
While he kept quiet, Wynne told the Divine what Pharamond's research had revealed. She did not mention the dead bodies, the face-eating undead, and the only demon she did mention was the one Pharamond had invited in.
Of course, that set Nicanor right off, jabbing fingers at Pharamond and the other mages in turn. "Now you see what they have done! Their little ritual will nullify the one method templars have for neutering uncontrollable mages. There would be chaos. Either all uncontrollable mages would have to be culled, or the rest of Thedas will become Tevinter. Trust me when I say that it is not something you want."
"No," said Justinia, "it is not. I would not approve of the slaughter of mages any more than I would approve of the wanton application of Tranquility." She paused a moment to see if Nicanor would find another objection, but he remained silent. "Some years ago, I requested the aid of Tranquil Pharamond and Senior Enchanter Wynne to investigate the nature of the Rite of Tranquility. I wanted to know if it could be done humanely, so as not to remove a mage's soul. I wanted to know if it could be reversed, if Tranquility was rendered upon a mage unjustly."
Malcolm couldn't help his look of surprise toward Wynne. It wasn't that he'd thought she was lying, but he hadn't expected the Divine to confirm Wynne's story herself. Wynne offered him a slight nod and a tiny, brief smile in return. He had to keep from rolling his eyes. She was still Wynne, obviously.
"Why, Most Holy? Why would you do this?" asked Nicanor.
Justinia's voice quieted, compelling them all to listen closely. "Because mages are the Maker's children, as we all are. Because of this, they are not to be tolerated, but cherished." She gestured toward Pharamond. "This discovery provides us with an opportunity to treat them as they should be, and we now must decide upon how we shall proceed."
Nicanor leapt down the step from where he stood beside the Divine to stand in front of her. "There is no choice, Your Perfection. It must be destroyed."
"What?" shouted Rhys. "You can't do that!"
"I can, and I will." Nicanor drew his sword, and most of the templars in the vast room did the same. Then Nicanor took a step toward Rhys and a trembling Pharamond. "All who know of this rite of reversal must be put down."
Malcolm drew his sword before he even realized that he had. Reversal had to exist. It had to be allowed to exist. It needed to be used to right all the wrongs done to mages, and he owed it to each mage he knew to do his best to assure that the reversal not die with them. If it came to a fight, he would fight.
Movement caught his attention across from him. When he switched his eyes from Nicanor and Rhys just enough to see, he met Leliana's gaze, and she gave him a slight shake of her head.
He wasn't sure what to make of it. She could be telling him it was a hopeless fight, which really wasn't something that needed to be said. Or she could be telling him that it wasn't necessary to fight, that something else was in the works. But there was the question of trust when it came to her. Multiple questions of trust. She'd given him her word that his newly-placed trust in her wasn't unfounded. She'd promised to help. Yet, she'd left their company that same sodding night without a word to any of them, and then when their party reached Val Royeaux, they were immediately taken into custody and brought to the Divine in a room teeming with templars. And now here Leliana stood, and Malcolm had no idea if he'd misplaced his trust, or if she was proving more trustworthy than he ever could have imagined.
Then again, he was certain that he couldn't trust Nicanor or any of the templars except maybe Evangeline.
The Divine rose from her chair. "Stop this at once!"
In that moment, when all their eyes had gone to the Divine, Leliana had moved from her place next to Justinia and grabbed the grip of Nicanor's sword, her hand over his. Then she slowly shook her head at him, as if admonishing a wayward child.
Nicanor's eyes flicked between Leliana and the Divine, and then he scowled as he sheathed his sword. The templars around the room followed suit. Leliana caught Malcolm's gaze again, and then looked pointedly at his sword and then his scabbard. Malcolm grumbled under his breath and sheathed his, too. Even though he didn't particularly want to.
"No matter what you decide," said Wynne, "it's too late. The message sent to Edmonde from Montsimmard wasn't the only one. News that there is a method of reversal was sent to every First Enchanter of every Circle on Thedas that could be reached. And now they are traveling here for the conclave, knowing there is hope. Within a fortnight, the College of Enchanters will discuss the futures of all Circle mages."
Malcolm believed the move both incredibly smart, and incredibly dumb. Great idea to get the information out, not so much a great idea to bring all the rest of the people who knew to the same place. Nicanor held the White Spire, and so bringing everyone there would be stupid. He'd simply kill them all once he had them together. Problem solved. Malcolm could easily see it, and didn't see why people twice as smart as he was didn't see it, too. Then again, maybe they didn't believe anyone capable of killing that many people at once merely because of an ability they'd been born with. Malcolm wished he didn't believe anyone capable of such a thing, including the Lord Seeker.
To say that Justinia seemed displeased to have the choice taken away from her was putting it mildly. She went from friendly and warm to glaring and fiery in an instant, but she recovered her composure nearly as quickly as Emrys had in the Fade.
"The College of Enchanters will still be allowed to meet," she said evenly to Nicanor. "There, the mages will be allowed to debate what they will do about the Rite of Tranquility and its reversal. With hope, a compromise can be found that will prove agreeable to all parties, and matters will not descend into the chaos you foresee, Lord Seeker."
Nicanor licked his lips as he assessed the situation. "I have conditions."
Because of course he did.
The Divine indicated for Nicanor to continue.
"The mages and the Warden with them must be imprisoned during the wait. Further spread of information regarding the ritual—and especially how this ritual is carried out—must be prevented until policy is determined. That rule applies to everyone present here tonight. Enchanter Rhys and Enchanter Pharamond, should you teach anyone else how to perform the ritual, you will be punished with death, as will the person whom you taught."
Rhys and Pharamond both gaped at him, but said nothing.
Nicanor took it as permission to continue. "Once the conclave is over, they may be released."
"Imprisonment is unnecessary," said Justinia. "Confinement to the White Spire will do, for both the mages and the Warden." She looked directly at Malcolm, which was rather unnerving. "The Grey Wardens will be notified so that your detainment of two weeks will not provoke a battle with them."
Leliana looked straight at him, her eyes imploring him not to make the statement he really wanted to make.
Trust. He had to trust her. So, he nodded and said nothing. It wasn't like saying something to irritate the Divine would get him anywhere. Yelled at by the Divine perhaps, which would make a funny story later, if he lived through this. But it wouldn't get the Wardens to act soon enough to get him out, and it wouldn't change them being held at the White Spire for a fortnight, and it wouldn't change that now he was being forcibly delayed from finding his family.
"Lastly," Nicanor said once it became apparent that no one would offer argument, "Enchanter Pharamond must be made Tranquil again. He is not stable enough to withstand the assault of demons while he possesses magic."
Shouts came up from every mage, save Pharamond himself. The former Tranquil fell to his knees, relief on his face instead of anger. Relief instead of the panic and fear that had held him as they traveled. Relief and mouthing 'thank you' as the others railed against the proclamation.
Malcolm said nothing, because he believed he understood. From what he'd heard of Pharamond's nightmares, what Pharamond was going through was much like a Calling. Pharamond's thousands of formerly empty memories had filled with emotion, and they had all flooded back to haunt him at once. All the while, demons waited on his doorstep, eager for one mistake, one vulnerability that would let them lay their claim. Tranquility or death seemed the safer, less frightening choice, a choice that would leave him free of demons both tangible and intangible. Much like a Calling, Tranquility would be a welcome end for Pharamond. And it seemed to be his choice, judging by his reaction. Malcolm wouldn't deny him his choice. It wasn't his place, and so he said nothing as the others argued.
Unsurprisingly, the Divine agreed to Nicanor's demands. Then they were all herded out of the room and escorted to the White Spire, Rhys complaining bitterly about Pharamond's sentence the entire way.
The complaining devolved into arguments amongst all of them once they reached the Spire's front hall and the doors locked behind them. First Enchanter Edmonde was there to greet them, but none of them particularly cared to be greeted. The lone Seeker remaining with them declared they'd have to be searched, and his life was subsequently threatened.
He sighed and left it alone, but did turn his look to Malcolm. "Warden, you will have to relinquish your sword and shield to the templars here."
"No."
"Please cooperate," said the Seeker.
Malcolm shook his head. "Say please all you like, but you still won't get me to agree." He didn't particularly want to be the Theirin responsible for losing another family sword. Also, he really liked his sword, though he hadn't told Alistair, since Alistair had insisted years ago that he use it. Malcolm had repeatedly declined until forced to use it as a replacement for Duncan's broken sword. Duncan's sword, which he'd had mounted, still hung in Alistair's study. Useless, but valued for its sentimentality. The other half had been permanently lodged in an ogre's eye. Alistair had understood why Malcolm hadn't retrieved it.
But his current sword wasn't just any sword. It'd been Maric's sword through most of the rebellion after he found it in the Deep Roads. And if he lost the sword, he'd just be setting a precedent for losing other things, like his brother's kingdom.
"Do you honestly believe you'd be able to fight your way out?" asked Evangeline. She sounded more tired than anything, like she wished he'd cooperate so she could go take a nap sooner rather than later. Then again, it was the middle of the night, so it wasn't unreasonable.
"Not right now," he said. "But you never know when the opportunity will arise."
"Just give it to them!" Pharamond snapped. "Holding onto it and blustering changes nothing! Nothing at all! It only postpones!"
Wynne cast a sad look at the shell of warring emotions that'd once been her friend, and then turned to Malcolm. "Unhinged as Pharamond has become, he does have a point."
Malcolm scowled. "Fine." He refused to feel guilty about coming off like a petulant child. After all, he wasn't heading right into a trap called a conclave, but he was stuck here like the rest of them anyway, which meant his trip to go find his sodding family was postponed. And he still had no idea if Leliana had told the Divine or the Seekers or even the templars about Ava. Since she'd immediately broken her word about helping him, he could see how she'd easily break other promises. Andraste's bones, but he really needed to stop giving people second and third chances when it came to trust.
"The templars here will take custody of your sword," said Evangeline, "and not the Seekers." She inclined her head toward a young templar standing expectantly nearby.
He stepped hesitantly forward, slowly extending his hands, as if waiting for Malcolm to snarl and snap at them. Which, given how he'd reacted, was a valid fear.
Wanting to prove that Fereldans were civilized, he slid his scabbard off his belt without removing the sword, and then handed it gently to the templar. The words that followed were not as civil as his actions. "That sword cannot be replaced. If I don't get it back," he said to the young templar, whom he'd trounced in the sparring ring on his last visit, "I will kill you myself."
"I give you my word that your sword will be returned to you, Warden," said the templar.
Evangeline met Malcolm's eyes. "I will see to it," she said to him in a firm tone.
After another moment of hesitation, Malcolm nodded.
"And your shield, Warden?" asked the young templar.
"I need it back, too," said Malcolm. "Though it isn't as irreplaceable as the sword. I'll be really pissed if you lose the sword, but only miffed if you lose the shield."
The templar gave him a slight bow. "Ser." Then he trotted off, the sword and shield held tightly and closely to his body so as not to drop them.
Malcolm decided he should intimidate more often if it got results like that. Then again, maybe it was a lot harder to intimidate Fereldans compared to Orlesians. Or maybe he'd gotten scarier over the past few weeks. Knowing his people as he did, probably the first.
After the Seeker left, the few Spire templars on duty watched bemusedly as their group continued arguing through the corridors, not even stopping when Pharamond finally had his breakdown, sobbing as Evangeline, Wynne, and Edmonde escorted him to another room to help him regain his equilibrium. They rest of them didn't stop when they were crammed into Edmonde's office to wait for his return.
Rhys hadn't quit going on about Pharamond's Tranquility, though his remarks had become fewer in number, as well as quieter. Adrian had shifted from anger at Pharamond's sentence to excitement over the conclave and its possibilities, which drove Malcolm up the wall because it killed him to see this many intelligent people not seeing the big giant trap waiting for them. Maker, he couldn't see a real trap until he sodding stepped in it and he could see this one.
"You shouldn't do this," he said as Adrian paced around the room, hands fluttering as she put forth her plans. "You shouldn't gather every single one of you in the same room right under Nicanor's nose."
"And why not?" asked Adrian. "You keep saying we shouldn't, but you don't say why. It's a fine opportunity, especially if they insist on disbanding the College afterward."
Finn frowned from where he'd leaned against the wall. "I don't know."
"Because it's a fine opportunity for a trap, that's why," said Malcolm. "Nicanor will find some random excuse and then kill you all." He unhooked the clasp on his gorget and tossed it into the chair where he'd put his helm. His gloves followed, having been in his armor for far too long to keep it on now that they were indoors and he was disarmed. If it wouldn't have been a pain in the ass to carry them to his room, he'd have taken off the other pieces, too.
"Just how to do you know that?" asked Adrian.
"He seems the type."
"So instead of telling us what not to do, how about you do something to help?"
"Such as?" He assumed he was doing the most that he could by pointing things out. There wasn't much else he could do, being non-magical as he was, and therefore having no place in the conclave the mages would have.
She motioned toward him. "You there, Grey Warden, standing there and doing absolutely nothing to help what you keep calling a hopeless situation. You have the power of conscription at your fingertips, and you say nothing of it to the Seekers or the templars or the Divine or to anyone."
"What?" He barely refrained from gaping at her. "You don't truly expect me to conscript all the mages here, do you?"
She stared at him.
So she had. "That's not even possible. No, really," he said to cut her off when she looked to object. "I have to be able to enforce a conscription. If you hadn't noticed, I'm incredibly outnumbered."
"But—"
"Also, I'm a prisoner just as much as you are."
"They let you keep your armor."
"Right, because I could totally fight my way out of here with my bare hands. Or I could somehow find a sword and shield and take on a hundred templars and come out unscathed. Yeah, no. How about I wait until Weisshaupt hears that one of their Wardens is being held by the Chantry, whereupon they'll send a bunch of angry Wardens to liberate me if they keep me a day longer than the Divine said. And that's if they even bother waiting that long. Meanwhile, if the lot of you could not go through with this meeting and end up dead, that would be great."
Of course, Adrian didn't believe him. "The Wardens would free only you?"
All right, so maybe he'd exaggerated a little. "They might conscript some mages. I don't know, seeing as I'm not them."
"But you know for sure they'll come for you?"
"They have to. The second they let the Chantry start bossing them around about how and where to keep their Wardens, it'll never stop. And since Wardens need to do pretty much anything to stop Blights, that means the Chantry can't interfere, unless we all want to end up darkspawn, which I'm pretty sure no one wants."
"Why?" asked Adrian.
Like he could say. "Reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Maker, you're worse than a four-year-old. Look, they're reasons I'm not going to tell you in a Circle, so you should stop asking." He wouldn't tell her ever, but she didn't need to know. Pick your battles and all that. It'd mostly worked when his children were toddlers, and he could see the application of it here and now. He was also cognizant of the fact that he was certain people did the same with him, and probably often.
Adrian bowed right up at the comparison, which wasn't unexpected, but her retort was cut off by Wynne's return, for Leliana walked in with her.
"You sold us out!" Rhys said on seeing her. "You sold us out and now Pharamond is going to be made Tranquil because you had to run to the Divine. Some Chantry sister you are."
"Told you she was no sister," said Malcolm. He had to concentrate on humor or he'd lose his temper and confront Leliana right there, in front of everyone. If he moved quickly and explosively enough, he was fairly certain he could overwhelm her. Maybe not for long, but at least long enough to ask the questions he needed answers to.
"Contrary to what any of you might believe," said Leliana, "the Divine is on your side. My departure had everything to do with protecting you and your knowledge, and nothing to do with the demise of any of you."
"And how exactly does your slinking off in the middle of the night help us?" asked Malcolm.
"Most Holy needed to know as soon as possible so as to prepare the appropriate response. Divine Justinia is the highest player of the Grand Game."
"Bullshit," said Adrian. "The Divine doesn't need to play the Game."
"On the contrary, she plays it so well that it looks as if she does not," said Leliana.
"What did you tell her?" asked Malcolm.
Leliana met his eyes but her expression hid everything of the truth. "I have told you what I can. The rest is up to the Divine."
He crossed the room and backed her into the wall, his face merely inches from hers, wishing he'd kept his sword or even a dagger. Bare hands, as he'd pointed out to Adrian earlier, were useless. "I don't care what you think you can tell me. You need to tell me. I trusted you! I trusted you to keep them safe and for all I know you've told the Divine and Maker knows who about her."
"I cannot—"
Malcolm couldn't accept any explanation from her, not while her expression was so controlled, not when her eyes were so veiled. Maybe if he could see the human being behind this Seeker or agent of the Divine or whoever she was, he'd be inclined to listen. But he had no intention of listening to this particular person. "No, no excuses. All you can do is prance along that path you claim to be set by the Maker, making promises and then casting them aside with impunity, not caring what sort of carnage you leave in your wake. Last time, it was a grown man. This time, this time, it's a little girl."
There was a crack, a tiny one, a twitch at the corner of her eye, a brief downturn of her mouth at the mention of Ava, and some of her humanity peeked through.
But he couldn't even be sure it wasn't a calculated ploy. That was how far Leliana had taken everything.
"Malcolm," she said without rancor, "I have my path to the Maker, as we all do."
"How in good conscience can your Maker let you do these things? How do you even sleep at night, knowing that your actions might have hurt a child? How could—" Then, through the gap in his armor on his neck, where the gorget had protected him earlier, he felt the point of a knife.
He'd lost track of one of Leliana's hands, and while he'd been shouting, she'd pulled a blade on him. After everything she'd done, after breaking his trust again, she'd taken the remains and pulverized them underneath the heel of her boot. "So that's how it is," he said.
"This is not the conversation we should have right now," she said quietly. "I have duties I must attend to. And you, I believe, have some prayers that need saying."
"You say them," he said as he stepped out of the immediate range of her blade. "If you're so close to the Maker, maybe he'll listen to you."
Leliana said nothing for a moment as she returned her dagger to its sheath. Then the glimpse of her humanity brightened, and there might have been empathy shining in her eyes, and possibly some tears, or maybe it was all still an act. "You say that as if I have not been doing so already. I pray for you and your family each day, and I will not stop. I never have, and I never will."
If this is the result, then maybe you should stop, he thought, but she'd already left, the door slowly swinging shut behind her.