Chapter 25
"One minute you're in love, so much in love that you can't imagine anything wrong ever happening. And the next you're betrayed. Your love has been ripped from you like your own leg, and you swear you'd do anything—anything—to make those responsible pay. Sometimes, vengeance changes the world."
—Flemeth
Malcolm
Nearly a fortnight passed before Malcolm saw Leliana again. For him, it was time spent trapped, waiting for his friends to walk to their deaths, waiting for his own freedom so he could find his family, with the walls of the White Spire closing in each day. It only took him three days to realize that he would have lost his mind if he'd turned out a mage and had been locked up in a Circle. He'd thought he'd understood Anders before, the reasons why Anders had escaped Kinloch Hold so much. Now he knew that back then, he hadn't understood, not truly.
And now he did.
Mostly he knew because he'd attempted to lurk and find a way out a couple times during his involuntary stay, and the Lord Seeker had seen fit to confine him to his room. He'd informed Malcolm that the next step would be the dungeon if he kept it up. Since Malcolm believed the dungeon would be even more boring, he'd not tried escaping again. At least, he had no plans to try unless he could find someone good at it to team up with and make it his last attempt, culminating in never seeing this place again.
Her visit had come as a soft knock on his door. He'd been playing some made-up game where he tossed stolen Diamondback cards at his upturned helm, tallying points whenever one made it in. It was stupid, but it passed the time, and the deck of cards had been the first thing he'd ever successfully stolen. While he was fairly certain Rhys had let him take the cards out of pity, he didn't let himself dwell over it. It was the small things.
He told his guest to enter, assuming it was Rhys or Adrian to join him in his stupid game, or possibly Finn to bring him reading material to try to rouse his spirits, or Wynne to lecture him and lift his spirits at the same time, which never really worked. But he didn't mind the visits, not really, because it took his mind off everything else. Maker, he even would've taken a visit from Evangeline, if she hadn't become so scarce that no one else had caught sight of her in days.
His fingers flicked the card toward his helm, and it made a satisfying ding as it hit the inside and stayed in. "Point for me. Suck it, helm. I'm winning this one."
If pressed, he might have admitted to being a little stir-crazy, verging on touched in the head from being kept indoors for so long.
"This is a strange game that you play," said Leliana.
She was the one guest he did not want to see, and yet did. "Limited resources," he said as he flung another card. It zipped past his helm and hit the folds of Leliana's Chantry robe. Back to a sister again, it seemed. "You know how it goes."
"I do."
From the tone of her voice, it sounded like she not only believed she knew, but had first-hand experience with this sort of thing. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at her, but did not bother to rise from the seat he'd found on the floor.
Her smile at him was tight. "I once was imprisoned. I had been framed for espionage—"
"I doubt that was much of a stretch," he said.
She frowned a bit at his interruption. However, she was used to such comments from him, and it did not deter her from telling her story. "I was framed. I did not commit espionage, nor did I commit the treason I was condemned for. I had been betrayed by Marjolaine. She had been my teacher, my master bard, and my lover, and yet she betrayed me. I still do not know why. Cruelty, perhaps. Or it was just the Game. In the end, it did not matter. I was stabbed, captured, beaten, and thrown into a prison. It was a dark time for me, and I almost gave in to despair."
"Obviously you didn't, because you're standing right here." Malcolm wasn't sure why she was telling him this story, though she had to have some sort of ulterior motive. She was a bard, after all.
"No. I was saved, brought out of my imprisonment by Mother Dorothea. It was then that I entered the Chantry as a lay sister, because of my experience. Because of Mother Dorothea's faith that had become mine."
"And where is this Mother Dorothea now? Does she know what this student of hers does in the Maker's name?" The only Mother Dorothea he knew was the one who'd called off the Seekers in Denerim, years ago. It didn't take much to put together that it had to be the same Mother Dorothea who'd helped Leliana.
"Mother Dorothea became the Divine Justinia V, and is the same woman I have served for a long time. She is well aware of the things I must do."
And that was why the Divine's face had looked so familiar—he had seen her before. There went most of what little was left of his hope. If the Divine knew exactly who he was and still did nothing, unless he did something himself, he was effectively screwed. He sighed, leaned back against the wall, and flipped another card. It fell short by a good foot. "Did you come here to reminisce? Gloat? What? Just get on with whatever you're here for, even if it's to kill me. I have all day, but this is getting dull."
"I did not come here for any of those things. I spoke the truth when I told you that you would not find my blade in your back, just as I spoke the truth about other matters."
"You're not helping your case."
Her robes swished as she shifted her weight and then sat across from him. "The same night that you and the others returned from Adamant, the Divine sent her right hand to Kirkwall to see if First Enchanter Orsino could be convinced to attend the conclave, and to try, one last time, to convince Grand Cleric Elthina to seek and find refuge here in Val Royeaux. Kirkwall is set to burst into flame, and it would be best if both of them were not there, should it happen."
Malcolm paused halfway through his next card toss and looked curiously at Leliana. "Do you mean the Divine's actual right hand or do you mean a metaphor for a person?" Honestly, being able to send her hand long distances for complex messages and missions would be a pretty neat trick for a Divine to have. Also strange, but sometimes fascinating overrode strange.
He really needed to get outside.
"It is a title," said Leliana.
Not so exciting. "Ah." He tossed the card. It swerved left and fluttered to the stone floor. "I take it you're the left? Considering you stood on her left side and all during our last meeting with her. Bit of a giveaway, there."
"I am, yes."
"Yeah, not surprised." His next card went right. Now his helm had taken the lead, the bloody thing.
"I did not think you would be."
Stymied, he tapped the stack of cards against his leg as he glanced over at Leliana again. "Why do I need to know this? First you tell me your imprisonment and inspiration story, and now you're telling me your role and what's going on with the other spy of the Divine's, and I have no idea why. Is it to irritate me further about how the Chantry has all the power? Is it to rub in that I'm stuck here and you're free to do whatever you want? Or is it to lord it over me that you know things I don't—such as what you said to the Divine about Ava—that I might never know? That seems petty, even for you."
"No, that is not why I am here." And there was that infuriating calm of hers, like she was some eternal statue and not someone subject to mortal failings, like everyone else who walked Thedas.
He gestured with the hand holding the cards. "Feel free to explain anytime."
Leliana extended a sealed note to him. "Seeker Cassandra brought this with her when she returned from her mission to Kirkwall. It is for you."
It seemed Cassandra had risen further in the ranks of the Seekers than Malcolm had known if she'd become the Divine's right hand. "You should've told her she didn't have to bring anything back for me," he said. "Nice of her, though." Then he put down the cards and accepted the note from Leliana. The seal holding it together was that of the Seekers, but since Leliana could've done that herself, given her status, it didn't mean much beyond that she'd probably read it already. He cracked the wax and unfolded the paper.
M-
KCM holds your family in the Gallows. They are alive and well, yet the endurance of her mercy is not infinite. You must move quickly.
-C
Malcolm looked up from the shaking paper and at Leliana. "Tell me this is a trick."
It was his friend Leliana who looked back at him, not the Seeker, not the Sister, not the Left Hand of the Divine. It was the friend he'd lost years ago during the Blight, and right now was the worst time for her to appear again. "It is no trick."
He wanted it to be. This was the one time he wanted everything to be a trick, some grand, yet horrible joke that ended in the truth that his family had gone to some place innocuous, like Denerim. "Then make it one." He crumpled the paper in his hand. "Tell me you concocted this whole thing. Maybe you have. Have you?"
Leliana didn't answer with words. Instead, she reached into the folds of her robe, where there were several pockets—which he knew were there because he'd asked, a long time ago—and then came out with something held in a closed fist. She gently took his hand and dropped a necklace in his palm.
It was the single silver thread that Líadan had gotten when they'd bonded.
They had her. They had her and the children.
Practically crushing the necklace in his hand, he jumped to his feet. "I need to leave right now."
Leliana was standing between him and the closed door before he'd even had a chance to take a step. "You can't. There's no possible way I could get you out undetected, not now. Perhaps during or after the conclave. That might be diversion enough. Evading pursuit afterwards would be difficult—"
Not when they had an exit only a Grey Warden could use. "Bless Finn. Bless his curious, finicky little heart." At Leliana's questioning look, he realized he had to explain. "The Deep Roads. Finn mentioned there was an entrance far below the Spire, near the sewers. It's sealed shut with dwarven doors, but I know how to open them."
"Good. That is good. But you must wait."
He gave her a hard look, and then picked up the crumpled message from the floor and handed to her. "It says to move quickly," he said as she read it, probably not for the first time. "Right there. Move quickly. Waiting isn't quickly. You're smart enough to know that." The panic hadn't stopped rising, that Meredith or her templars could be doing absolutely anything to his family, because they were at her mercy. Someone was protecting them, or trying to. He wasn't sure if the sender of the note was Carver or Cullen, and why hadn't anyone heard anything about this before? Both Carver and Cullen had easy access to gossipmongers—Varric Tethras first among them—and there'd been not a whisper of it anywhere. Even the mages here got all the gossip from the city despite being stuck in the Spire.
She handed the note back to him. "It seems genuine, and corroborates what Cassandra told me."
"She told you? Just how long have you known?"
"Not much longer than you."
He crumpled the note again in his free hand, forcing himself to keep from doing something he'd regret. Much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed Leliana's help if he wanted to get out of here and safely into Kirkwall. But she didn't seem to feel the same urgency as he did, and that didn't give him any confidence in her. "You should've told me before."
"I have known perhaps a quarter of an hour longer than you. Not long."
"To you, maybe."
There was a soft rap on the door, followed by Wynne letting herself in. She took one look at the both of them before asking, "What's going on?"
While Malcolm was fairly certain that Leliana had asked Wynne to come before she'd visited, he still provided an answer. "They have Líadan at the Gallows." It hurt to say.
"The children?"
"Them, too." That hurt more, and fueled the panic onward. "I need to go. I have to get them out before… just before." He didn't want to think of the implications of after.
"What did the message say?" asked Wynne.
Malcolm held in a growl. How were they so calm? "To move quickly! That's what it said, and you're both moving slowly and are in the way and blocking the door and are probably doing that on purpose, so stop it."
Wynne ignored his demand. "What else?"
He growled then and tossed the note at her, but it fluttered to the floor. For Maker's sake, it was worse than the cards.
Wynne sighed and bent to pick it up as Malcolm scowled. She read it, and then carefully smoothed it out as best she could before folding it. "You panic because you believe they'll make Líadan Tranquil."
And Ava, he thought, but he couldn't give voice to it. He couldn't. Not now. "You don't think the same?" Wynne didn't tend toward blind optimism. She could be idealistic and hold onto hope, but she also did not close her eyes to brutal reality when it stood in front of her. So it held that she would've come to the same conclusion he had, especially when Wynne knew Líadan nearly as well as he did.
"I…" Wynne trailed off as she fell into thought. Then she changed her mind and spoke her thoughts out loud. "She is unharrowed. They will submit her to a Harrowing. She'll pass easily—"
He shook his head. "No, not if she doesn't go through with it. She won't submit. I know it. You know it." He pointed at Leliana. "Even she knows it. We all do. And what happens when a mage refuses to be Harrowed?"
"Tranquility," Leliana said quietly.
Malcolm gestured at the door. "So you see why I need to go right now. I don't care if I have to fight my way out." Infuriatingly, neither of the women moved. He could smite Wynne if he was forced to, but he wasn't sure if he could get past Leliana. She was fast, and he wouldn't be taking her by surprise.
"You would not make it," said Leliana. "You're skilled, but there are too many of them, and only one of you. Your family needs you alive."
Wynne exchanged a look with Leliana and then moved to stand directly in front of Malcolm. "Think," she said, putting her hands on the outside of his shoulders. "Get hold of yourself. You are not the impetuous young man you were when we first met you. While you are still young, you've become more thoughtful, more deliberate, and able to see the broad view of things for what they are. Remember who you've become and use it."
He couldn't make them understand. He needed them to understand, and they just wouldn't. "They have my family, Wynne. That man means nothing if I lose them for good." He couldn't stop thinking about how frightened Cáel and Ava must be, separated first from him and now probably their mother. How pissed Líadan must be at being held in a Circle and likely kept away from her children. Maybe if he'd been there, he could have made a difference, but he hadn't been. So he had to do something now. He had to.
He really wanted to strangle Emrys at the moment. It was the Keeper's insistence that had separated them in the first place, a mistake that Emrys had admitted to.
Wynne gave his shoulders a squeeze. Once his attention went to her instead of being focused inward, she let go. "If Knight-Commander Meredith's mercy ends, then you will need someone to do the ritual to reverse it. Rhys knows it, and he will be allowed to teach others once the college has met. Teaching the process takes several days, for it is not an easy one. Once the conclave is over, he can either teach someone else, or you can take him with you to Kirkwall. That way, if the worst has come to pass, it will not take long to make right."
"Would she end up like Pharamond?" The former Tranquil was so lost and overwhelmed that he counted down the days to when the Seekers would finally render him Tranquil again. And if Líadan ended up the same and wanted the same return to—no. He couldn't think of it, what he'd have to do if that happened.
"I do not think so," said Wynne. "He was Tranquil for many years. If Meredith goes through with it for Líadan, then it would only be a few weeks for her at most. Her recovery would not be easy, but it would be far easier than Pharamond's has been."
None of that made him feel any better or any less anxious, not when Líadan's very nature never allowed her to be content when held indoors for an extended period of time, especially when staying wasn't her choice. He shouldn't have to plan on how he'd save his wife from Tranquility, and yet he had to, and yet he could barely consider it. He'd even become more anxious about the conclave, since it was still clearly a trap, and now he'd have to do more to protect who he could from their own stupidity and it getting them killed. If he couldn't save them, he couldn't save his family.
"Yet, we do not have to lose hope that the worst has not happened," said Leliana. "Perhaps Meredith's mercy extends far beyond what anyone believes."
Malcolm's head snapped around to look at her. "What color is the sky in your world?"
"I daresay it is brighter than yours," Wynne answered for Leliana.
"You both can afford that sort of outlook," he said to them. "They aren't your family."
Leliana raised an eyebrow. "No? Perhaps not family, but we are friends. Wynne closer than merely a friend of the family, I believe. And if you do not believe any of those things true, then remember that there are children involved here, and neither of us can stand aside while children suffer."
"No?" asked Malcolm, intentionally mimicking Leliana. "Then what about that mage child killed in Velun? You were there! How could you not have done something? It's the sort of thing you see brewing being trained as a bard, so how could you have let that happen?"
A twinge of pain swept through Leliana's eyes before she briefly lowered them to the floor. "I did not arrive in Velun in time to save that poor child. I was perhaps half an hour too late. All I could do was say words over her to help her to the Maker's side."
Before Malcolm could answer, Wynne spoke up, scolding worked back into her tone. "You are looking for someone to fight, young man. We are not those whom you want to fight."
She was right—how could a mortal be right so bloody often?—but he needed to fight something. Someone. Anyone except for pacing in here and fighting himself. The decisions had been made in good faith. They could not have foreseen the results unless they'd believed their worst nightmares would come true.
But he couldn't escape the feeling that they should have expected exactly that, if their prior experiences in their lives taught them anything. Now he was held in this Maker-forsaken Circle, and he'd have to save every mage in here from getting themselves killed so they could save his wife if the worst had happened. And now because he'd been harshly taught that the worst was the most likely and the only outcome he should expect, he dreaded what he'd find in Kirkwall. His family not only held prisoner, but each one of them broken, maybe irreparably.
The silver thread pressed into his palm in the hand he'd yet to open, a reminder of it being where it should not. Líadan was supposed to be wearing it, as she always did. Líadan should be here, with him, caught up in helping others fight against stupidity and injustice. But she wasn't here. She wasn't with the Dalish. She was locked up in a place that neared her worst nightmare. A woman who often felt penned up while in Denerim made to live in a single stone building, if one could call it living at all. He fretted over Cáel and Ava, especially with Ava's unique talent, but they could adapt for the time they were there. Malcolm knew his daughter well enough to know she'd do delight in any lessons she'd receive, relishing the opportunity to test her abilities without the worry of getting caught by a random passing templar. Cáel would… probably not react well, sharing Líadan's intolerance of being restricted as he did. But while he'd rebel in his own way, he wouldn't react like Líadan would. He wouldn't be pushed beyond the boundaries of what he could endure. Human culture was familiar to him; it wasn't something he'd adopted or had to grow accustomed to. He wouldn't like it, but he would deal with it.
Líadan, however. Without a chance to escape the walls and roam, her patience would erode, her intolerance would resurge, and sooner or later, she would break herself against the walls holding her rather than remain and submit.
And he couldn't do anything fast enough. He couldn't do anything at all, not now. As much as it hurt to acknowledge, Leliana was right. If he tried to storm out of here now, he'd only end up dead, and he'd not be saving anyone. He'd never see his wife or children again unless it was the Fade, and the Fade was never the same. He had to play the sodding Game, he had to plan, he had to find the exact right moment to strike, for he'd never get a second chance.
He'd have to be patient, and even the idea of it made him want to crawl out of his own skin and leave it behind to be patient while the rest of him set matters to rights.
Necklace still pressing into his palm, he bent and picked up the short stack of cards with his free hand before dumping them all into his helm. His silly invented game didn't stand a chance at distracting him from the stark reality that he was trapped and could do nothing to help.
Wild anger shot through him, and he kicked the helm. It crashed into the wall and bounced to the floor, where it spun and skittered around until it tipped over and the cards spilled out.
"Feel better?" asked Wynne.
"Yes, actually." And he did. Some of the energy was gone, expended on his poor helm instead of two people who stood a chance at helping him. They'd both done things to erode his trust in them, to erode it almost entirely, but they were less clearly enemies than the Seekers and templars who held him here and his family in another city. "I do."
Leliana picked up the helm from in the middle of the scattered cards and then handed it to Malcolm. "Perhaps you should go easier on it from now on. I suspect you will need it in the near future."
"If that's true, then you'll have to use your influence to get the Lord Seeker to let me train, somehow. Sparring with wasters, using a waster on a pell, I don't care what. I just can't stay here stuck in this room without a way to force my mind to not think about where I should be rather than where I am."
Leliana glanced down at the cards and then nodded. "I will try to arrange it. But if it is to succeed, you must remain on your best behavior or I believe the Lord Seeker will rescind whatever permission I can arrange from the Divine."
"You mean the Divine might order me to hit people with sticks? That's my kind of Divine." The humor wasn't as forced as he'd thought it'd be, mostly because if he didn't wield it effectively, he'd break down in tears or go running for the front doors of the Spire.
Wynne chuckled and gave him a fond smile. "That is the Malcolm you need to keep at the forefront."
"I'll let him know."
Leliana glanced at his closed fist, and then shifted to him. "The necklace, would it fit you?"
He opened his hand to take a look at it, though he knew it wouldn't. "No, I don't think so. Not unless I want it to fit like a choker, which I don't."
She extended her hand. "May I?"
After giving her a puzzled look, he gave her the necklace. She carefully coiled it in a way that compacted it to around the size of a ring. Then she passed it to Wynne, who put some sort of enchantment on it that kept the necklace from uncoiling, and then passed it back. Leliana held it up to him. "There. Now you can wear it until you can give it back to your love."
He took it back, but raised an eyebrow at Wynne. "And how do I get it uncoiled?"
"Merely a cleanse directed right at it will do."
"Thank you." He untied his own necklace and threaded coil onto it, where it slid up against his Warden amulet and his Dalish betrothal ring already there. Then he put it back on and felt a little bit better. Like he was doing with Cáel's book and Ava's toy, he could hold onto Líadan's necklace until he saw her again. He just hoped that it was soon enough, before anything worse could happen.
Then Leliana and Wynne left. After the door closed, he placed his helm upside down on the floor, gathered the cards, and resumed his silly game. Aside from being patient, there wasn't much else he could do.
Two days later, the Grand Enchanter arrived.
Malcolm's mood hadn't much improved, though he'd resorted to sarcasm and biting remarks instead of fits of pique. It mostly worked, and he concentrated a lot of his efforts to remind everyone that their conclave would get them killed. No one appreciated his reminders, and none of them seemed inclined to heed them. The restriction to his room was lifted, and he was even allowed to practice a little with a waster. Except, unwilling the face the Lord Seeker's ire, all templars and Seekers refused to spar with him, aside from Evangeline. Who was, he realized as he fought her again, pretty damn good with her two-hander, even if it was just a wooden version.
"So," he said as he ducked a swing and retreated a step, "how much of this is your innate talent, and how much of this is frustration?"
"What do you mean?" she asked as she took her own retreat and circled around him as he did the same with her. He'd kept his shield up, only peeking over the top rim, giving her far less of a target. While it hampered his mobility and his own offense, it seemed the best course to take. At least they could both see quite well, having agreed to no swings at the head, which meant they'd set aside their helms.
"Well, you're the only one who's been sparring with me. Everyone else doesn't want to piss off the Lord Seeker, so they stay away. You, you've been more than happy to spar, which means you're either frustrated and angry at me, or frustrated and angry at someone else."
"Several someones."
"Oh! It's a list! Can I make some guesses? I bet Nicanor is at the top."
She lashed out with her blade, feinting high before cutting low. "That one is a given."
Malcolm warded off her blow by dropping his shield, and then lunged at her over the top of it. She countered by lifting her blade against his shield, knocking him off balance and sideways. He rolled instead of fighting it, and came right back up with his guard intact. "All right, fine. Next would be me. Wait, no! Rhys." He frowned. "Or Adrian. Which is it?"
She started a sweep toward his knees. "It's a tie."
He went to counter with his shield and she drew back a step before going up and over it. "A tie? Really?" he asked as he scrambled away, his retreat ugly but necessary with how close she'd come to getting him.
Evangeline followed, unwilling to give up the ground she'd gained. Malcolm knew he'd have to get inside her guard to have a shot at taking her down, and to even do that, he'd have to bash her sword away with his shield, and he couldn't do that until he wasn't retreating constantly. The most he could do was keep the distance close enough that she could get in maybe a half-strength swing at best.
The door to the training room slammed open. Malcolm looked over to see who it was just as Evangeline swung, earning himself a waster to the face and an ignominious fall to the ground.
"Knight-Captain!" said whoever had come in. Malcolm didn't recognize the voice, which meant it was probably another templar. Another templar who apparently did not care that their Knight-Captain had just bashed the Grey Warden to the ground because he was stupid enough to be distracted by a door.
He was fairly certain his nose was bleeding, but he'd taken worse, and it was far more embarrassing that a young templar had witnessed the entire thing. Some Warden he was. He did manage to open one eye so he could see what was going on.
"Oh!" the templar said as he skidded to a stop just inside the door. "Is he all right?"
Evangeline glanced nonchalantly back at Malcolm before addressing the other templar. "He took it in the nose. He's Fereldan, so it might end up an improvement."
"That's mean," Malcolm said, muffled because he didn't dare move his hand from his face. "You're a mean person, Knight-Captain."
"Nothing my recruits haven't said using far more colorful terms."
"It might be broken."
"I can take a look at it," said a bearded, gray-haired man. His pristine white robes stood out brightly as he stepped around the templar. Then he stopped to look at Malcolm before he asked in kind voice with a Fereldan accent, "If you don't mind, that is?"
Malcolm used his free hand to push himself to a sitting position, wondering what white robes meant since he hadn't seen them before. "I can't go bleeding around the White Spire now, can I? And by that, I mean please, if you would."
Evangeline took in the new mage before shooting a scathing look at the other templar.
"The, um, the Grand Enchanter is here, Knight-Captain," said the young templar.
"I gathered," said Evangeline.
That would explain why Malcolm hadn't seen white robes before. The tall man looked to be younger than Wynne, which surprised him. He'd assumed the Grand Enchanter would've been someone of an age with Irving or Edmonde, but perhaps the College of Enchanters believed in not-so-old types for their senior-most leader.
Evangeline glanced between Malcolm and the Grand Enchanter. "If you've this well in hand, Grand Enchanter, you must excuse me for a moment while I speak with my templar."
Malcolm pitied the templar a little bit. If he hadn't been injured as a result of the younger man's exuberance, he would've pitied him more.
"Go on." The Grand Enchanter dismissed them with a wave. "I will be fine." Once the door had closed behind the two templars, he turned his attention to Malcolm. "Since neither of them bothered to introduce me beyond my title, my name is Karl Thekla. Feel free to call me Karl instead of Grand Enchanter. That one takes too long to say."
"Malcolm. And you can call me whatever you want if you fix my nose."
Karl chuckled as he knelt. "Wouldn't want a Theirin nose to become too prominent, would we?"
"No, probably not." He didn't bother questioning how Karl knew who he was; there wasn't really a need. If the man was a Fereldan mage, he'd probably been at Kinloch Hold during the Blight, which would mean he'd be familiar with his and Alistair's faces well enough to know on sight who he was. Finn was the only strange exception, but Finn was the strange exception for a lot of things. "My wife says she likes my nose, but I wouldn't want to test it."
After Karl pried Malcolm's hand away from his nose, he visually assessed the damage. "It might actually be broken." Then he called forth his magic and it washed over Malcolm's face. "Oh, yes, she broke it. No worries, I can make it look like it never was." After painfully setting Malcolm's nose, Karl set to healing before he spoke again. "Now, I'd heard your wife left you for the Dalish. So why would you be terribly concerned over what she thinks? Still have hopes for getting back together?"
"Sort of." It felt strange to talk as his nose knitted itself back together, but since Karl had initiated the conversation, Malcolm supposed it was all right. "She left for the Dalish, but not because our relationship soured. We were perfectly fine, but our daughter needed to go to the Dalish."
"There, done." Karl sat back on his heels, looking quite satisfied with his work. "Is she a mage?"
"Unfortunately."
"I'm sorry. Normally, I'd scold any parent for not sending their child to the Circle." He held up a hand to forestall Malcolm's objections. "Not because I like the Circle or the Chantry, but because young mages require instruction. And, right now, the only place you'll find competent teaching is in a Circle or with the Dalish, and possibly the Grey Wardens, though they aren't known for taking in children. Hence no scolding. Were the Dalish a choice for more children with magic, I'd encourage more to go there instead of places like this. And you've experienced the rather ugly side of Circles gone wrong, given what happened during the Blight, so your reticence is even more warranted than most." Karl offered a small smile. "At least they're safe."
Malcolm shook his head. "No, not anymore. I got word that they were captured by templars in Kirkwall. They're being held in the Gallows."
Karl shot to his feet. "And you're still here?"
"Not voluntarily." Malcolm stood up and prodded at his nose to distract himself from his frustration. "I'm a prisoner here until after your conclave. After that's over, you bet your ass I'm getting a pack of Wardens together and getting them out." He frowned at the drying blood that stained his fingers. "You do realize it's a trap, right? The conclave?"
"Yes, probably." Karl ended his statement on a sigh.
"And you're still going through with it?" He'd finally gotten one of the mages—the Grand Enchanter, no less—to acknowledge the obvious trap, and yet said mage still wanted to stroll right into it. If he didn't know better, he'd have named them suicidal.
Maybe he didn't know better. "Why?"
The kind touch to Karl's eyes vanished, replaced by hard determination. "Even if we all end up dying, something has to be done. There are plenty of Senior Enchanters at every Circle who can take over should we perish here. We can't let this opportunity slip through our fingers because we aren't willing to stare down the Chantry. An end to Tranquility would be one less method of leashing us, and if it means death to bring it to its end, then it means death." He looked directly at Malcolm before he said, "I would rather die a mage than live as a templar puppet."
Malcolm nodded, trying to banish the thought of any of the mages in his life being put through the Rite, but he couldn't quite escape it. "Most of the mages I know have told me they wish to be killed if they're ever made Tranquil." If it was Líadan, it would kill him to do it. He needed this method of reversal to survive nearly as much as all the mages, but he couldn't see how it'd work if each of the ones who knew how to do it ended up dead or Tranquil, themselves.
"Aside from those who request it, I have yet to encounter a mage who hasn't said the same, myself included."
"Voluntarily asking to have one's soul blocked off or removed is still something that's hard to accept," said Malcolm. "Pharamond said he couldn't figure out how to make a version of the Rite that would render the same effect of removing magic, but did not also remove the mage's soul, or however it kills the life in them."
"As the Rite stands now, it is an abomination unto itself."
Malcolm frowned. "I don't disagree, I really don't, but the Tranquil never say that. It's like they don't care. It's the mages who aren't Tranquil who say they do."
Karl wandered over to one of the two windows in the room. They were so high up in the Spire that the window wasn't barred, offering an unobstructed view of Val Royeaux spread out below. "That's because once you're Tranquil, you never think of your life from before. All the color, all the music in the world is gone, yet you can't muster a feeling one way or the other about it. There's no reason to live, yet you don't see the logic in dying. That's the information I've gathered over the years from various conversations with Tranquil mages."
It did sound like death. "For Pharamond, the color came back, and then some. Like everything he thought he hadn't felt had been stored in a giant bucket, and then that bucket got poured over him all at once to deal with when the Tranquility was lifted. It's hard enough for him that he wants to be made Tranquil again. He looks forward to it, even. Everyone else argues against it, especially Rhys, but Pharamond only wants the peace he used to have."
"Perhaps he would choose death, were it a choice presented to him."
"I don't think it will be. The Divine and the Lord Seeker were very adamant that it be Tranquility. I don't know why, by they were insistent on it."
Karl's hands tightened to fists and he scowled. "I will tell you why—to make Pharamond an example. For him to be living proof of what happens when Tranquility is reversed."
"That… that would make sense. The Chantry is all about examples."
Anything more Malcolm had left to add was cut off by Knight-Captain Evangeline opening the door. "I've finished with my templar. Grand Enchanter, if I may escort you to your rooms?"
Karl gave her a slight bow. "That would be wonderful." Then he nodded at Malcolm before he walked away. "A pleasure to meet you, Warden."
"Likewise."
Evangeline left the door open behind her, but Malcolm sought out the basin left on the far side of the training room, near the racks of wooden practice weapons. The blood had begun to dry on his face, making his skin itch. As fun as it was to startle apprentices and young templars, it wasn't worth suffering through the itching. Because he felt freer in the large training room rather than his assigned room, he dallied. That meant he carefully picked up the practice weapons and shield and put them away, and then stood at the window for a while to peer down at Val Royeaux. Having been cooped up in the Spire for so long had him believing a visit to the city would be grand. It would be grand long enough for him to breathe the stink of city air before he'd want back into the Spire.
He sighed and headed through the Spire and to his floor, ignoring curious looks from templars and apprentices alike. Inside his room, he discovered it had been made a gathering place in his absence. Wynne had settled into the lone armchair in the room, while Rhys had seated himself on the edge of the bed—a Rhys who, along with Pharamond, had declined risking death to teach the reversal ritual. Finn watched curiously from a plain wooden chair as Adrian walked laps around the room.
"Is there a reason why you've all decided to visit?" asked Malcolm.
"The Grand Enchanter has arrived!" Adrian declared as she hopped from foot to foot.
"You're a fan, I gather?"
She gave him a withering look. "No. Well, maybe. But that's not why I'm excited. Since he's here, it means we can start the conclave tomorrow!"
"You're the happiest person I've ever seen walk into a trap."
Adrian stilled and frowned at him. "You've made your point clear. There's nothing anyone can do about it now."
"You could not convene."
Rhys rolled his eyes. "Right, and griffons will return to bring you hence tomorrow. Not going to happen. What will happen is that the Senior Enchanters, First Enchanters, and the Grand Enchanter will be meeting tomorrow to discuss the rite of reversal."
"And then templars will kill you." Maybe if he said it enough times, they'd believe him and not walk to their deaths. Better the lot of them angry at him instead of dead.
"You've become astonishingly negative," said Rhys.
"I can't think of a reason why I would be." Except he could. He could think of several reasons, none of them optimistic.
"Malcolm," said Wynne.
He glanced over at her. "Hm?"
"You've blood on your armor."
He slowly looked down at his cuirass, where blood from his nose had dripped onto the griffon sigil. "I do. How about that?"
"You didn't kill Evangeline, did you?" asked Rhys.
"What? No, of course not. As a matter of fact, she hit me with her practice sword when one of her templars burst into the room, all excited about the Grand Enchanter being here. She whipped around to see him and caught me in the face with her sword. Really embarrassing, especially when I started bleeding all over the floor."
"Whoever healed it did some nice work," said Finn. "Even made sure it went right back to Theirin."
Malcolm smiled a little. "That's because the Grand Enchanter is Fereldan. How cool is that?" Admittedly, part of him was proud that someone from his country had attained the Circle's highest office.
Finn nodded. "I do know that. Karl's always been fair and even-handed, but he really wants the Circle separated from the Chantry, I've heard."
"I've heard the same," said Adrian. "He told me that he'll be calling for a vote on formal separation again."
"Again?" Malcolm turned to stare at her. "What do you mean again?"
"The College won't be pleased," Adrian said to Wynne.
"Have any of you bothered to keep this a secret?" It would be incredibly stupid for them to speak about it openly, but they'd already proven stupid by agreeing to the conclave. He truly couldn't believe how stupidly they were acting for a bunch of really clever people.
Adrian's friendly gaze at Wynne turned to a glare she fixed on Malcolm. "Why should we?"
But Malcolm had been intimidated by the most intimidating of mages in his lifetime, and he'd even managed to hold his ground a few of those times. Adrian's glare was shrugged off as easily as a cloak. "You really see talking about separation right in front of templars or Seekers going well?"
Wynne sighed. "I've done my best. I've advocated maintaining neutrality, yet my words of caution have gone unheeded."
"Both times," said Rhys.
Malcolm from one to the other. "Both?" He didn't expect an answer, especially since no one had bothered to clarify the again.
Which meant someone finally replied. "First at the College of Enchanters conclave in Cumberland, and then again at the meeting here before we left for Adamant," said Rhys.
Cumberland was the meeting Wynne had just returned from when he and a few other Wardens ran across her in Amaranthine. Maker, that was years ago. Back when Anders had been himself, when Nathaniel had been around, when Velanna had been alive, when Oghren had been more drunk than sober, and when Malcolm and Líadan hadn't figured out what was going on between them. They hadn't even kissed yet, much less had an inkling of what waited for them in the future: bonding, children, and then a painful, Chantry-forced separation.
He wanted those years back, the years in between, when he and Líadan had things figured out, when everything hadn't been crisis after crisis. No wars, no pitched battles, no treachery, just living their lives.
And because of the Chantry, that had all been taken away, and now his wife and children were held prisoner, and the people who could help them were determined to get themselves killed. "Oh," said Malcolm, not bothering to keep the rancor of frustration out of his voice, "that's what everyone meant by the meeting not going well. This one will go worse. Way worse. All of you being dead worse."
Adrian halted her excited march around the room to glare at him. "Look, we've all been locked up in here for a fortnight, but you're the only one being a total ass about it."
To Malcolm, all Adrian—and those mages who were like-minded, including the Grand Enchanter—saw was the chance to be free of Chantry oversight. He saw the chance, same as them, except he could also see that it wouldn't change anything. If they kept insisting on it the way they were, they were sprinting to their own deaths. Everything revolved around the chance dangling in front of them, to the exclusion of their safety or the safety of others. It didn't matter to him whether or not she thought he was an ass, because it didn't matter to them, either.
"I really don't care," he said.
Adrian took a step back from where she'd stopped in front of him. "How can you not care? I thought you said you had family who are mages? Don't you care about what will happen to them?"
"I do."
"Then you should care about what's happening here."
"The fight you're picking is your fight, not mine." Because that was exactly it. They were picking a fight because they could, for that infinitesimally small chance it would pay off, when in all likelihood it would end horribly.
"How can—"
"My fight is in Kirkwall. And the longer this whole meeting takes, the longer I have to wait to leave, and the longer it will take me to get there. What'll be quicker is all of you ending up dead, except that's an even worse outcome."
"Why Kirkwall?" asked Rhys.
"My wife didn't make it to the Dalish, that's why."
Rhys stood up, his weariness wiped away. "What—"
"She's in the Gallows, that's what. She's in there and so are our children and I really don't give a shit if anyone here thinks I'm being an ass." His limbs tensed as he talked, and the volume of his voice had risen to match his sudden preparedness to fight. But his enemy wasn't here, nor was his fight, and no amount of shouting at people who were his allies would change that.
"I thought…" Finn frowned. "Wouldn't the Wardens have intervened? The Chantry isn't allowed to interfere with Grey Wardens. It's Thedosian law."
"The Chantry ignoring the law? Andraste's flames, no!" Then Adrian dropped her mocking tone and grimaced. "The Chantry only follows the laws when it suits them, and that goes doubly so in Kirkwall."
Rhys shot Adrian a look of exasperation before turning to Malcolm again. "If Líadan was going to the Dalish, how did she end up in Kirkwall?"
Which, in Malcolm's opinion, was an excellent question. "She'd been asked to get a former clanmate out of the city before she went. I suppose that's when they got her." But it wasn't like she hadn't gone to Kirkwall before and been perfectly fine. If she'd thought it dangerous enough to warrant extra caution, she would've gone to the Amell estate to have Marian accompany her, or possibly gotten Varric from the Hanged Man if Marian wasn't available. Either way, her armor and cloak had Grey Warden heraldry on it like his did, and that usually resulted in templars leaving them well enough alone. "I don't know," he said with a shrug. "It wasn't like the message was detailed. So, now I know, and there's nothing I can do about it." He'd scrape the skin off his fingers clawing at the walls if he believed it would help. "They're all stuck in there, and Meredith is doing Maker knows what with them."
"She really could just be assuring the instruction of an apostate mage and a mage child," said Rhys. "Nothing more."
Even Finn gave Rhys a look of disbelief.
Malcolm stared at him. "Let's set aside the fact that Líadan was fully trained by a Dalish Keeper and hasn't much power in the first place. Then we'll also set aside the fact that my son isn't a mage at all, which means they've mistakenly assumed he is and he's in the Circle, or Meredith's put him in the Chantry instead.
"Then we'll also set aside the exception that if Meredith sent Cáel to the Chantry, we would've heard by now because my brother or Hildur or both—probably both—would have gone to Kirkwall with enough Wardens or soldiers to force them to return Cáel. Since no one's heard any rumors of Ferelden or the Wardens being at war with Kirkwall, it's fairly safe to assume that no one knows Cáel is there. It explains why the message from Cullen or Carver was sent via such secret channels. Nothing's getting in or out of the Gallows, or we'd all know by know who's being held where.
"We'll just set all that aside." Malcolm motioned with his arm to emphasize his point, just in case any of them hadn't gotten it by now. "Why? Because if Meredith ever found out what ability Ava has, I don't know what she'd do with her. Kill her? Make her Tranquil?" Both hurt so much to say that the words shredded his throat on the way out. "I don't know, but there's no conceivable way she'd still be the little girl I last saw."
Wynne's brows drew together as she took his questions seriously, though her frown at his sarcasm remained.
It was Rhys who asked first. "What could possibly make a Knight-Commander order a child to be made Tranquil? Other than demonic possession, of course." He squinted as he considered it. "Actually, demonic possession is the only reason I can think of, and even that's rare. Unless they're incredibly desperate, demons like to wait until children have gained closer to their full abilities before they really bother them."
Unable to look any of them in the eye to keep from betraying to them the depth of his fear, Malcolm looked over at his pack, where his daughter's stuffed toy waited to be returned to its owner. "Not if the child is a Dreamer."
There was a long pause before Rhys said, "You're not serious. There aren't even that many Circle mages who even know what that is. There was a rumor about one years ago in the Gallows, but he died in an escape attempt."
Malcolm shoved down his fear enough to raise an eyebrow at Rhys. "Him? His name is Feynriel. He's alive and well and being instructed by a very old Dalish Dreamer—Emrys of the Suriel clan."
"Líadan's grandfather," said Wynne.
Malcolm nodded.
"So you're really quite serious," Rhys said, his tone no longer light. "This entire situation is serious because—"
"Because there's really no telling what Knight-Commander Meredith would do, if she found out a young child had such an ability," said Finn.
"Exactly," said Malcolm. "I don't want her to have that chance. The longer I stay here, the greater the chance becomes. But I have to stay here, and you all have to stay alive, because you'll be the only ones who can help if Meredith opts for what she would call mercy."
"How old is she?" Adrian asked quietly. "Your daughter."
"Six." He took another breath and shoved the fear down more. "So, if you could all get your collective shit together and not die, that would be fantastic."
"I must say, you didn't have a foul mouth during the Blight," said Wynne.
Malcolm didn't cooperate with her attempt at levity, not with fear and frustration this overpowering. "Some things change." He looked at his pack again. "Then everything changes."