Chapter 2: Be Careful What You Ask For
Haven, 1 Cloudreach Dragon 9:41.
Pain.
When he first awakened, Max Trevelyan was not sure that the—encounter—in the Fade had even happened. His short-term memory told him that it had, but his reason said it was a hallucination, the product of a damaged and quite possibly tortured mind. And the extreme pain that he felt in what seemed like every cell of his body seemed to indicate that the latter explanation was correct.
It felt like bruises covered his entire form, and he was reasonably certain that there were some abrasions there as well. His left hand was searing with... heat? Magic? Both?
And now, two highly armed and extremely menacing women loomed nearby, glowering and snarling at each other—or at him. In a flash, he wondered if his brain was not working correctly—if they were speaking to him, but he simply could not make sense of their words due to a concussion that addled his thoughts, and that non-response was why they were enraged.
If I'm injured badly, perhaps that's a good thing. They look like they want to kill me. Surely they won't do that if there's something wrong with me.
The realization that he was thinking logically after all was both comforting and not so comforting, given that the ferocious warrior women would not give him a pass in that case. He wondered if they were Templars. In the Ostwick Circle, he personally had not been in trouble with the Templars since he was a young apprentice, just turned in by his family and full of piss and bile from the abandonment of both himself and his dear sister Evelyn by his ruthless politician father. They had scolded him then and isolated him from his peers until he submitted to his new life. But the Ostwick Templars were not known for cruelty, and had tended to have a decent relationship with the mages—to the extent that jailers and prisoners could have decent relationships. But there had been dark whispers of harsh, brutal Templar interrogations elsewhere in Thedas, like that time that they had had a transfer from Kirkwall before Viscountess Hawke took power there and cleaned things up, a mage who had whispered of beatings and Holy Smites in locked rooms just for the sake of abuse—
The two women did not look like Templars, though. The one who had red hair was hooded and cloaked. There was probably leather armor beneath that cloak, but Templars did not go about like that. The one with a short cut—or perhaps a coiled braid; Max couldn't tell from this angle—was armored, but with the Eye of the Seekers on her breastplate.
Max swore in his thoughts at that realization. That was even worse.
His gaze flitted to his hand, which pulsed with vivid green light. That was new. He had certainly seen green light emanating from his hands before, but it was always at his own instigation as a mage, and it never remained indefinitely like this did. As he stared at it, he had a terrible feeling that it would be his doom and damnation.
The voices that he heard around him—and finally paid attention to—quickly reinforced that fear. They were not aware just yet that he was awake and alert, it seemed. That or they don't care, he thought darkly as he listened.
"I agree that it looks very bad—"
"'Very bad'? The evidence of guilt is quite literally on his hand! It is no different from the capture of a bloody-handed murderer. We must end the threat at once, Leliana."
The one called Leliana, who was the hooded and cloaked redhead, hesitated for a moment, and Max's heart soared with hope at her hesitancy. "Someone can be in the wrong place at the wrong time," she finally said. "I did have the warning from Elissa about that darkspawn."
"I see no darkspawn! Not even a darkspawn corpse!" snarled the armored Seeker. "I see no one living at all—except him!" She whirled around to face him and scowled. "And he is awake and listening to us now."
Leliana lowered her hood. "So he is." She turned to Max, her gaze narrowing. "Who are you and what have you to say for yourself?" she snapped.
With that tone from her, the one who had seemed inclined to give him a chance just a moment ago, Max's hopes went out like a snuffed candle. "I'm Max Trevelyan, Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, and I was sent here by the First Enchanter to speak against weapons of mass destruction," he ground out.
The dark-haired Seeker glowered deeply. "And you objected to that mission, clearly! And decided to set off one of your own?"
"I don't know what happened!" he exclaimed. "I didn't do anything! I was just here when the... the fucking Veil blew up! I think I was in the Fade. That is all that I remember!"
Cassandra's nostrils flared at his vulgarism, but Leliana ignored it. "How did you get that mark on your hand?" she demanded.
Max noticed in a flash that her face was lined not just with anger and fear, but with grief—deep, bitter, darkest grief. He wondered about that but did not dare ask. The truth of what had transpired would come out soon enough, he figured. "I don't know," he admitted in a more somber tone. "I don't remember what happened. All I can recall is a flash, and I think I was in the Fade, and then... falling. I think I hit my head." He gazed at them, recalling that the Seeker had said that no one was alive. Horror sank in as he fully processed the implications of that. "What happened?"
"Divine Justinia is dead!" snapped the Seeker. "That is what happened! The blast killed her and everyone close enough to her!" Her gaze narrowed sharply. "Except for you. And you have that mark on your hand! So I do not especially believe you."
Max ground his teeth. "I didn't do it! What do you want me to say?" It seemed hopeless now. They were convinced that he was guilty of assassinating the Divine and mass murdering everyone around her. This was the end, he thought bitterly. What a useless, pointless life I had. "Do what you want to. Looks like even if mages win a war, nothing will ever change and we'll still be punished, executed without trial, for deeds we didn't commit! But the Maker knows I didn't do this."
His invocation of the Maker seemed only to further enrage the Seeker, who drew her sword with a screech of steel. Max closed his eyes—
"No. Wait."
The one named Leliana had spoken. Max opened his eyes again, hardly daring to hope.
"He is right that we are presuming guilt without evidence," she continued.
"The evidence is on the palm of his hand, Leliana."
Leliana shook her head. "No, Cassandra. You spoke of a bloody-handed murderer, but blood does not prove guilt either. One could simply have been at the scene of the crime and got caught in the splash of blood. And so it could be with this mark. We know that Enchanter Trevelyan was at the scene of the crime." Her voice almost broke at the final word, but she steeled herself.
"But he will not give us an account of what he witnessed, Leliana."
"He fell from the sky. We both saw it. He tumbled out of the rift and fell on the ground. The impact could have scrambled his memories, and that is to say nothing of what he experienced in the Fade itself. He was there bodily, Cassandra. No one has experienced that since..."
"Since the Magisters Sidereal tore the Veil open with a blood sacrifice," Seeker Cassandra finished with a snarl. "And it seems that Divine Justinia and all close to her—save for us—have been used for a new one!"
"I didn't do blood magic!" Max insisted, wide-eyed. "I have never done it. And I would never have harmed Divine Justinia. My Circle was loyal to her. I never wanted her dead at any time in the war. I never supported the schism or any... any radicals like that Orlesian who tried to assassinate her. She was an ally of mages and a holy woman." He was pleading for his life, trying his best to exhume the memories of growing up a Trevelyan of East Peak. Even as a pre-magical child, he had been somewhat delicate, and his father had begun educating him as a politician and scholar—a supportive councilor for his older brother, the Heir of East Peak, rather than a knight at arms. Max tried to remember that and use it now to save himself.
Leliana scowled. "Do not talk of Divine Justinia to me, Enchanter. You know nothing of what she meant to me. You do not share my grief."
"I'm sorry..." he said quickly, not wanting to offend the one of his two captors who had been inclined to give him a chance.
"Get to your feet. If you are innocent, you can prove your goodwill by assisting us. The rift is bleeding demons, and they are overrunning the mountains around Haven!"
At last, Max gazed up and gasped. A vast greenish-gray hole in the sky, like the eye of an immensely powerful storm, crackled with magical charge. He squinted. Indeed, spirits and demons were falling from it even as he watched.
"And there are many more rifts about. The Conclave is in ruins and the Divine is dead. All we can do for now is try to still the chaos. If you are innocent, help us!" She turned to Cassandra. "You take him. I must try to contact my associates and see who is still alive."
Cassandra glowered at him. "You have been given a chance. Do not squander it, mage."
What choice do I have? he thought as he scrambled to his feet.
As Max hustled through the wilderness surrounding Haven, killing demons and helping the injured, he noted that Seeker Cassandra seemed to be softening a bit towards him. She was not fully convinced of his innocence, that much was clear—but Max was pretty sure that she also was no longer fully convinced of his guilt. It was progress, at least.
He was stunned by how frozen everything still was. Ostwick didn't freeze like this except in the absolute dead of winter during cold years. By this time, flowers would be blooming and the storms would be producing rain instead of snow. But here in Haven, the mountains were still covered in snow—and not just at high altitudes—and the river itself was frozen over. It made things easier for him—just walk, or run, across the ice—but the cold was hard on him. He wasn't accustomed to southern Fereldan winters in the highlands.
The first rift that Max encountered frightened him. He could slay the demons that came from it, but how to keep them from continuing to emerge, he had no idea. But then the elven mage they had encountered on the trail, Solas, had grabbed his marked hand and used the mark, as if it were a weapon.
Well, perhaps it was just that. Something that was, in some unknown way, related to his mark had torn holes between the material world and the Fade and had killed the Divine and unknown others. Magic was a weapon. Max knew that better than any non-mage. But so was the big sword that Cassandra carried. Weapons were useful at times, and this was one such time. He soon learned that he could control the magic and seal rifts himself, closing off the entrance points for demons.
He did not want to fall into the same pattern that Cassandra had with him, but he did wonder how it was that Solas knew exactly what to do with the mark. But his brain contained no memories of this elven mage, and Solas's explanation for his knowledge was that he had made a particular study of the Fade for many years. Cassandra seemed to accept that. Max found himself rather resentful that she had been so unwilling to trust him when this elf's appearance as a Fade expert seemed far more suspiciously fortuitous.
The mark on his hand flashed again, and he suppressed a sigh. That was why she hadn't trusted him. There were a lot of mages at the Conclave, he reasoned. Some Circle mages, some longtime apostates like Solas. Some would be experts on the Fade. The Markham Circle was said to have a strong focus on spirit studies. Solas really does look like a bystander here by happenstance, while I got "splashed" with this thing at the scene of the murder.
He wondered if, perhaps, it would benefit his personal cause to appear incompetent in magic—to look feeble against the demons and the rifts, rather than as a powerful spellcaster. He worried that Cassandra might see magical strength as evidence against him. But then shame and disgust for himself filled his thoughts.
I can stop the demons, he thought. I wanted to fight in the Mage-Templar War specifically because I'm a good battlemage. I always have been. I was no good with regular weapons because of my build, but that doesn't matter for a mage. I can stop the demons from hurting more people. What a horrible idea, to consider deliberately holding back in order to make myself look innocent. I am innocent. If I deliberately scrimp on helping others, I won't be completely innocent anymore. I will have thrown others' lives away to try to protect myself. As I told them, the Maker knows that I didn't do this. If helping people in need to the full extent of my ability makes Cassandra decide to condemn me after all, I will go to the Maker without a shadow on my heart.
"Varric," Cassandra's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hi, Seeker." A creak of metal, like the sound of a spring, pierced the wintry air. A well-dressed beardless dwarf emerged onto the path, hoisting a curious weapon, like a mechanized crossbow without a bowstring.
"I am glad that you survived after all. I feared the worst."
Varric snorted. "That's the best I can get from you?"
"We do not have time for this, Varric. This is Enchanter Trevelyan of Ostwick and this is Solas. With his mark, he can close these rifts, and together we can stop the demons. It is all that we must focus on for now."
"You're not going to like what is ahead, Seeker," Varric warned. "I hoped I'd never see it again, myself. And I don't know how it got here. I've only seen it in that primeval thaig, my poor dumb shit brother's home, and the war, used by the enemy against Kirkwall."
Max wondered what was ahead but did not dare yet to speak up. He would find out soon, anyway.
They rushed toward the site—ground zero, as it were—when an eerie echo sounded, the voice of a woman exclaiming in outrage and fear.
"That is Divine Justinia's voice!" Cassandra exclaimed sharply. She quickened her pace.
"Hold the sacrifice still." The other voice was cold, dark, and menacing.
Max noted its word: sacrifice. So it was as the Seeker had feared, someone had used the Divine as a blood sacrifice to tear open the Fade.
But there have been, unfortunately, countless blood sacrifices used over the ages, Max thought. None of them have ever been able to power something like... well, like this. Whatever happened, it had more behind it than "mere" blood magic.
He realized that it would probably be crass to make this argument to Cassandra at the present moment, and likely wouldn't be a great idea to appear to be thinking too hard about blood magic—even though the specific thoughts in question could be generally known even by non-mages. That horrible voice, clearly and obviously not his voice, had been Justinia's death, but it was Max Trevelyan's lifeline. It was the best evidence yet of his innocence, so he would not dare voice thoughts about the limits of ritualistic blood magic in this moment. They were all hurrying rapidly toward the site of the echo, so he didn't even need to account for an unexplained silence.
They reached a desolate, smoking, burned-out clearing filled with malignant magic tendrils, wisps—and projections from the ground of a sinister red substance, like stalagmites, that glowed and created a reddish miasma in its immediate proximity. Max had never seen it before, cloistered in the Ostwick Circle, but he knew what it was. They all did. Varric and Cassandra had personally seen it, and Max had heard about it being used by the "Orthodox Chantry" schism in the war.
Red lyrium, the scourge of the Templars, the malevolent substance condemned by Divine Justinia ex cathedra. Viscountess Hawke's peacekeeping forces were even now trying to uproot and destroy clumps of it from the battlefield south of Tantervale, where it had fallen in the Orthodox Red Templars' failed attempt to defend their capital from the Free Mages' army and rockets. The infamous substance now grew in Ferelden. How?
It had to be the rift. The largest one that Max had yet encountered loomed before him. They were going to attempt to close it—though Cassandra and Solas expected demons to emerge in the process.
Max had never seen red lyrium in his Fade-wanderings before, but how else could it have gotten here? Cassandra and Cullen Rutherford—a former Templar who was also attempting to help the locals in the aftermath of the disaster—were tight-lipped, just wanting to get the rift closed and the demons slain, until they could all regroup at the Haven Chantry and plot a path forward. They had given Max an order to cast a firestorm upon the entire deposit, as hot as he could make it. Heat seemed to denature it. He and Solas both did so, relief filling Max as the flames vanished to leave behind charred black spikes instead of live red lyrium.
And the pride demon that they had expected had emerged from the rift. Fire had done absolutely nothing to it.
Max wiped the sweat off his brow—what a strange thing, sweat in this icebox—and prepared to fight this thing. At least he wasn't alone, and he had enough people now who would vouch for him that he figured he would probably at least live the next few hours.
The Haven Chantry.
In spite of the assistance he had given in stabilizing the situation in the mountains, Max had still expected to be thrown into a cell while his fate was decided. Instead he was being summoned to a council to discuss steps forward, as a valued voice worth hearing. Cullen Rutherford, of all people, had vouched for his probable trustworthiness. He had not expected it of a former Templar. As Varric walked with him toward the Chantry's large conference room, he had explained in an aside about the specific past of Ser Cullen.
"He worked for Hawke in Kirkwall since the first Circle revolt in 9:37," the dwarf explained in an undertone. As it turned out, Varric was a personal friend of the Viscountess of Kirkwall and had come to Haven to advocate for Hawke's military ambitions for the Free Marches—not specifically for her weapons, but for the all-Marcher defense treaty organization she had founded. "On her War Council until he quit of his own accord due to personal issues."
Max's ears perked up at that. "Personal issues?"
Varric lowered his voice even more. "It isn't my secret to tell, but that never stopped me from spreading gossip. Just make sure it goes no further."
Max laughed darkly. "I have nothing to gain and everything to lose from making enemies around here, Varric. Cullen vouched for me. I have no intention of defaming an ally to anyone here."
"True enough," Varric agreed, appreciating the moment of black humor. "All right. Cullen struggled with lyrium use. Anyway, he became sort of... I wouldn't say a friend to Hawke, but a... comrade, I suppose? A relatively non-hostile working relationship?"
Max wondered just what sort of person the Viscountess of Kirkwall was, for a longtime personal friend of hers to speak of her in such guarded terms. She was certainly fearsome as a war leader, and most of southern Thedas was afraid of her after she and her husband and army had demonstrated their new weapons innovations upon the city and cathedral of Tantervale to win the war.
"Anyway, Curly's all right. Cullen, I mean. He went through some serious shit in the Fereldan Circle about eleven years ago, I heard, and it turned him into a real hard-ass for a time, but he mellowed and became more reasonable over the years. I'm not surprised that he spoke up in your favor."
Max took that in. Cullen and Varric himself were allies, at least. And if Solas was present at the conference, he would be as well. Perhaps Leliana would continue giving him the benefit of a doubt, particularly with the evidence of the mysterious menacing voice as Divine Justinia's true killer.
He was not sure about Cassandra—who, Varric had told him, was Cassandra Pentaghast, a distant cousin of the Nevarran royal family. Even if she eventually came to trust him—even if she trusted him already—she had not been inclined to treat him fairly at the beginning. If it had been left entirely up to her, without Leliana, Solas, Varric, or Cullen to speak for him or even to speak for fairness and justice, Max knew that he would be dead now. He might, someday, be able to work with Cassandra as a colleague, but he was not sure that he could ever fully get past such a beginning and what it indicated about her. "Shoot first"—or "swing the blade first" in her case—"and ask questions later" was no way to administer justice. It was the approach of someone who was either self-confident beyond reason, bloodthirsty, or prone to lashing out violently in times of distress. Max suspected the latter.
Now that his life was no longer at immediate risk, Max realized that it was rather a shame. In the Circle, his experiences of the intimate variety had mostly been with other men, and his "type" in men was far broader than his "type" in women—but to the extent that he could be attracted to women, a woman like Cassandra would be just that type: courageous, strong, and not overly "girly." But their terrible beginning and Max's knowledge that she would have slain him had destroyed all possibility of that. Then, too, Max did not think he was imagining that the Seeker and Varric had... something. Despite the grim situation in which they all currently found themselves, Varric's dark, cynical humor made Cassandra smile instead of grow wrathful. It was a clear flirtation.
Max pushed all such thoughts out of his mind. The only matter relating to Cassandra Pentaghast with which he needed to concern himself was whether she would continue to give him the benefit of a doubt and let him assist here. He was still not completely sure that he would survive to see the next day or week. Even if his new comrades trusted him enough to let him live, they had not managed to find the source of that menacing voice whose echo they had heard at the red lyrium site, and the greatest rift of all—the one that they were calling the Breach—still loomed as large as ever, demons and wisps circulating in its orbit and sometimes soaring to earth. That was the immediate problem that he faced, not finding a romantic companion. Men with his specific inclinations were uncommon anyway, and neither Solas nor Varric had that nature; this he could tell already. Cullen, he wasn't sure of, but he didn't interpret the man's trust in him as anything but strictly that.
The unreality of the situation was something Max could scarcely think about. Now and then the full force of the situation slammed into his mind like a stone: The Divine is dead, the sky is torn open, a giant rift looms overhead, and I have no idea yet who lives and who died or what in the Maker's name we are going to do. But if he focused too hard on that, he would fall into panic.
They would, he hoped, arrive at some sort of a plan at the conference. He and Varric reached the great doors and pushed them open. The others were already waiting for them in the room.
"I agree that Enchanter Trevelyan is likely not responsible—"
"Likely not?" Varric repeated, gaping at the Seeker. "The man's innocent, Seeker. It's obvious."
Cassandra sighed heavily. "All right. I admit it: I was wrong about you, Enchanter. I do not believe that you were among... whomever that voice told to hold Most Holy still. But—"
Varric interrupted again. "You know, Seeker, everything before the word 'but' is horseshit."
Cassandra scowled. "No, Varric, it isn't. Not always. What I was going to say was that I do not believe you were among the voice's co-conspirators. But that does leave a certain other group as the most likely perpetrators. There were others slain too, of course," she continued, "as we now know. Every Grand Cleric who attended this Conclave is dead, as is the representative of Kirkwall's Grand Cleric." She turned to Varric. "I am sorry, Varric."
Varric scowled and shrugged. "I'm not. Varnell was an asshole."
Everyone at the table gaped at him, unsure of what to say. Finally Cassandra spoke again. "My point is that others died, but it seems, based on the echo we heard, that they were not the intended sacrifices. They were... collateral damage." She winced, disliking that phrase. "If they were not used as part of a magical blood ritual, their lives could not have been used to tear the Veil open. We have just been through a war in which many thousands more were killed on battlefields, and no such rifts appeared. The voice we heard used Divine Justinia for a blood sacrifice, but the murder of one person alone could not have torn the sky apart. The murder of even several dozen could not have done it. In ancient Tevinter, they had to use the blood of thousands to cast themselves into the Maker's city." She gazed hard at Varric. "But what group is known to have recently developed unheard-of weapons, pray tell?"
Varric stared back at Cassandra in disbelief as her meaning hit him. "You think the Free Mages did this?" he gasped. "Seeker! Be reasonable! We saw red lyrium at the blast site. I know Hawke and Anders, and I know for a fact that they would never use red lyrium! Poison gas rockets, yes," he admitted sheepishly, "but not red lyrium!"
"Who has access to the known locations of it except the Kirkwall alliance's peacekeeping force?" Cassandra shot back. "It was found under the Chantry in Hercinia, and the schism force seeded the ground with it south of Tantervale during the final siege. The Kirkwall-allied forces control both sites now."
"The force of Red Templar war criminals led by Samson and Carroll is still missing and unaccounted for," Cullen pointed out.
"They are indeed," Cassandra said, "and there is no sign of such a squadron here either. It would be impossible to conceal such a force. So who else is known to have access to red lyrium? You know the answer, Varric; you just do not like it. We know that Hawke's people have developed ghastly weapons and that she and Anders are more than willing to use them."
Max had no idea what to think. He did not want to believe either that the Free Mages were responsible for this, but she had made a fair point that they had a weapons development program that had produced results that no one else in Thedas, including the Qunari, had ever achieved. Weapons that I was sent here to speak against, he thought. Did someone find that out and draw me there to eliminate me before I could? But why would the Free Mages kill Justinia or tear a rift in the Veil? Why would they work with such a menacing voice to do it? The being behind that voice was evil; I just know it.
"The rockets couldn't do anything like this," Varric argued. "They're purely physical. A non-mage could use them." He took a deep, uneasy breath. "Hawke may want my tongue for revealing military intelligence, but I will tell you lot in confidence, I know of no weapons development in Kirkwall that could do this." He gazed hard at Cassandra. "Be reasonable, Seeker."
Solas spoke up. "I agree. This was a magical weapon rather than anything physical." He gazed at Max with a nod. "The mark on Enchanter Trevelyan's hand proves that."
"How did the red lyrium get here, then?" Cassandra persisted.
Leliana interjected. "We are all forgetting the warnings that we received prior to the Conclave—which four of us do know about: myself, Cassandra, Cullen, and Varric. Elissa Cousland warned us of a corruption in the Grey Wardens and a menacing darkspawn that could impart thoughts to Wardens in the Fade. The Wardens of Jader told her that it intended to attack Haven." She sighed heavily and regretfully, her eyes hooded by her cloak, though Max and everyone else could hear the sorrow and self-recrimination in her words. "It did. This darkspawn is, in my opinion, the top suspect for the evil voice that the rest of you heard at the red lyrium site."
"And you think the people it was commanding may have been Grey Wardens?" Cullen asked.
"Perhaps. Perhaps there were a few Red Templars among them. The entire squadron would not have needed to come, Cassandra," she said with a pointed look. "We have no evidence that the Free Mages were involved in this."
"Their leaders were very unhappy with Divine Justinia," Cassandra argued. "You know this. You saw their correspondence, the threats they made to her."
Max's eyes widened in surprise, and he spoke before he realized it. "Viscountess Hawke and Consort Anders threatened the Divine?"
"It was after Most Holy told them that she would send representatives to the Ansburg Trials. She used the pretext that Starkhaven and Tantervale's Circles were still under Chantry control when the Annulments occurred due to the fact that they had not sent anyone to Andoral's Reach to vote for independence," Leliana said. "Hawke and Anders took that the wrong way, believing that she would try to assert control over all the Circles again, and sent a reply declaring that they had won the war, expected peace terms to respect their victory, and would defend their independence with force."
"It was a veiled threat," Cassandra argued.
Leliana sighed. "Yes, it was. But I do not believe that Viscountess Hawke would have done this. They were at the peace table, Cassandra. It is not Caitlyn Hawke's way to attack treacherously and dishonorably. Brutally, yes, but she never violated a flag of truce in the war, and she would not attack a peace table like this. You were too quick to blame Enchanter Trevelyan for the Breach merely due to the mark on his hand. I think you are being too quick to blame Hawke's army now due to the fact that the weapon that tore open the Veil is new to us."
Cassandra looked ready to object, but Max noticed the moment that her conviction dissolved. She sighed. "Perhaps you are right."
Leliana nodded. "Barring additional evidence, I am of the mind that the attacker was the darkspawn that has been tormenting the Grey Wardens for two years, and that Enchanter Trevelyan was simply too close."
This seemed to be a cue for Max to speak up, and he did. "I didn't see a darkspawn in the Fade, but I don't actually have any memories of what I saw there. I must have seen something, of course... but between the event itself and my fall out of the sky, I just don't remember anymore. I wish I did." He sighed. "I know that I don't have the sort of power to do this. I guess maybe I do have the power now to close rifts, but not to create anything like... that." The room was windowless, but everyone knew what his gesture upward meant. "I think I just got hit by 'magical shrapnel' of sorts, like anyone would have a scar from being too close to an impact."
Cullen spoke up. "There are people who say that they saw the figure of a woman as a being of light, holding your hand and sending you back from the rift," he said. "They say that it had to have been Andraste."
Max gaped. "Andraste? But... wouldn't she have wanted me to remember an encounter with her? I have no memory of that. I believe in Andraste, but I just can't think that she would have intervened for me. Why me? I'm nothing special."
Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I don't know anyone else who bears a mark on their hand that can close Fade-rifts. There are people saying that your mark is the mark of the Herald of Andraste."
"What does that even mean?" Max said, frustrated. He was developing, at long last, a headache. I wanted my life to mean something, but being named a prophet due to a terrible event that I don't even remember was not it. "Do they think she is going to return and that I'm 'heralding' that? It's people who are looking for hope in a time of panic and despair, Ser Cullen."
"You know that this was once where her ashes were kept."
Leliana sighed heavily from behind her hood. "That part is true—the ashes, I mean to say. I was among three who saw them, and the only other person now living is Elissa Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden herself. We gave a pinch to a lord of Ferelden who was in a magical coma, but he did not pass through the trials of the Gauntlet as we did. But the ashes are gone now."
Max's voice was quiet in respect. "The blast destroyed the Prophet's urn? That's terrible. How could I be the Herald of Andraste if this event destroyed Andraste's ashes?"
"It did not, though. It did destroy the temple that housed the ashes, but they were already missing."
"Oh." He was unsure what to feel about that. "I... don't suppose you know, then, what became of them."
"I do not. I wish desperately that I did." She lowered her hood for the first time in the meeting, and Max nearly gasped at how much grief, bitterness, and misery were in her face. Her blue eyes were as hard as the sapphires they resembled, and her next words were shockingly dark and bitter. "In a way... I almost wish that the blast had destroyed their urn."
Cassandra and Cullen gasped. Max's eyes widened too at the admission.
"At least I would have then known that the rest of Our Lady's remains had returned to Thedas's land itself and no one could ever steal them for some low purpose—as I fear has happened. But it is not so," she spat. "The Ashes could heal anything. If they touched the ground of Thedas, the place would become a holy well, a sacred site of growth and healing. Instead there is a crater of red lyrium, the foulest thing we have ever seen, where once the holiest object in the world rested. What more can be said?" Her teeth were clenched and her voice was filled with something very like hatred. "The Ashes of the Holy Prophet are gone, almost certainly in the hands of rogues, or perhaps a worldly monarch who purchased them for selfish pride. We will likely never know. And the Maker did nothing to prevent this defilement of His Prophet's remains and temple. Just as He did nothing to prevent the murder of His servant, Justinia." No one had any idea how to answer this, but Leliana collected her thoughts and quickly revised herself. "No, I misspeak! I should not blame Him for the latter. Why, when, after all, the person most to blame is the one speaking?"
"Leliana," Cassandra interjected, trying to soothe her.
"No, Cassandra, do not," she said. "This is my doing. I failed to keep Hawke and Justinia as true allies through the war, leading Hawke and Anders to believe that they could not trust Most Holy and had to fight alone by terrible means. I failed to discover what they were building, the weapon that necessitated at least one of the purposes of the Conclave. And, at last, I ignored Elissa Cousland's warnings that Haven was not safe."
"You did no such thing. You warned Most Holy specifically."
Leliana laughed bitterly. "Yes, I suppose I did. Then she was the one to ignore the threat. You are quite right, Cassandra! And clearly this is how the Maker punishes those who ignore His warnings—with death and cataclysm!" She turned to Max with a cynical expression. "I cannot say I blame you for not wanting to be the Herald of Andraste." The cynicism became a grim smile. "I was trained as a bard, as some of you may know. Years ago, my old bardmaster said some things about Andraste that I believed blasphemous. But Andraste did bring blood, death, and the wrath of the Maker in her wake. One of the ancient spirits that used to guard her ashes said so: 'The Maker kindled the sun's flame, scorching the land. Then He opened the heavens and bade the waters flow.'" She gazed out at them all. "So Elissa Cousland once told me, for she spoke with that spirit, the spirit of Cathaire. No, Enchanter Trevelyan, I cannot blame you for not wanting to be the herald of that. Although it seems that you are, even if you are not the Herald of Andraste herself."
No one at the table dared speak. Max was rather shocked at the dark, nihilistic outburst from Leliana. She had seemed so in command of her emotions. Instead they were the magma of a volcano, and this was the eruption.
Leliana gave the entire table a wretched, bitter look before rising to her feet, black cloak falling down her back in elegant inky waves. "But it does not matter what we want," she concluded, her voice icily calm all of a sudden. "We try to forge peace, and the peacemaker is murdered and the sky torn apart. You told us that you were sent here to advocate against the use of terrible weapons, and you have now been marked with the residue of one and forced to use it to fight demons and undo damage that you did not cause. What does it matter what we think or what we do? I agree with you, this was likely not Andraste. She did not save Divine Justinia or anyone else who has died senselessly this day. She didn't intervene to protect her own ashes from rascals and thieves. But if people think you are her Herald, we are going to use that."
No one knew quite what to say for a while. Finally Max spoke, much to his own surprise.
"Use it for what?" he asked.
"For restoring order," Leliana replied, still standing. "The Chantry is still officially in schism, Orlais is in the turmoil of civil war, and the one person who could have united Thedas again is now dead. We must act in her stead, and if people think you are the Herald of the Prophet, we will take advantage of that."
Max exchanged uneasy looks with Varric and Solas. Varric clearly didn't like this any more than Max himself did, thinking it sacrilegious, and, while Max did not think Solas was Andrastian, he seemed to dislike the plan for reasons of his own. Perhaps he would prefer to try to reason with people about the need for leadership and unity rather than cynically and insincerely appealing to blind faith.
If so, good luck with that, Max thought grouchily. He had seen enough unreasonableness from people today to have no faith in that idea. As distasteful as Leliana's bitter suggestion was, he could see the pragmatic value in it.
I just hope that the Maker doesn't strike me dead for manipulating people with an idea that I don't believe myself, he thought. Though, if Leliana is right, why would He? He didn't save the Ashes of Andraste from plunder. He didn't save Justinia. He didn't end the abuse of Circles peacefully, instead letting a terrible war unfold. He didn't prevent the Annulments that made the Free Mages want to crush Tantervale, didn't stop the horrible attack on Tantervale itself, and didn't stop this calamity here at Haven. Yes, I'm safe enough.
Max recalled his wish to amount to something, back at the Circle—his bitter regret that he had missed the chance to fight for mage freedom, and his long-simmering fury with his father and all his relatives except poor Evelyn. I thought I was pushed aside, given consolation prizes, and suppressed. Now people call me the Herald of Andraste for something I wish had never happened.
Ha! Be careful what you ask for, he thought. You might get it.
A couple of days passed, and Max found a certain odd normality in the situation. It was strange to think that he could adapt to the rift in the sky, the mark on his hand, and being called the Herald of Andraste... but perhaps what is happening is that I am not thinking too hard about any of those things, he reasoned. People have called me many things over the course of my life: young Lord Maximilian, apprentice, robe, Enchanter—what's one more? And I am adjusting to the mark on my hand because the only alternative is to cut off my hand, and the mark is at least useful. While the great breach is just a fact of life for the time being. I don't have the power to close that one.
In any case, he supposed cynically, until this Conclave, he had not seen the sky more than a few days a year since he was a child. He didn't have recent memories of what a normal sky should be like, so perhaps that was why it wasn't as jarring to him as it was to others around him. The Circle of Ostwick hadn't been one of the worst, by a long shot, but the authorities also hadn't let the mages out very often, and the windows were thick and the glass hazy. The sky of the Fade was what he was more familiar with at this point, and in that regard, the Breach at least had some disturbing similarity.
He couldn't very well say any of that to anyone except Solas, however. Varric might understand, but then again he might not. He was a dwarf and had never been in the Fade. He was friends with Viscountess Hawke, the "liberator of mages," but also had some sort of flirtation occurring with Cassandra Pentaghast, who instinctively distrusted all mages despite her attempts to be liberal on the topic in this new postwar order. Max liked Varric, but he was not entirely sure where Varric's loyalties truly lay. He just preferred, for the moment, to confide in Solas.
The elven apostate appreciated the company in his odd way. He was guarded at first, unsure of what kind of person Max was. "I can tell you're unsure about me," Max had said early to break the ice, "and to be honest, I'm not sure all the time myself what kind of person I am. I'm still finding out. Someone my age, a man especially, normally would be established with a profession and maybe even a family, but I grew up as a Circle mage."
That had led to a discussion of the Circles. Solas shared Max's disapproval of the system in totality, and it was in him that the "Herald" confided his secret thoughts about the Breach.
"As troubling as the Breach is for the fact that it lets disturbed spirits in, I'm pleased that you are not afraid of the Fade," Solas remarked. "In my experience, those mages who fear their powers are those most likely to fail."
"To fail..." Max mused. "I don't want to do that, certainly. But most mages don't have the opportunity that I suppose I now do. Maybe that will be different now... but until the war, very few of us—at least in the Circles—have had any opportunity to fail or succeed except in our Harrowings."
Solas's mouth became pinched. "Yes, I have learned about your Harrowings. Do you think them a good idea, Herald?"
Max didn't know why this elf who—he now knew—definitely was not Andrastian, and was agnostic about the existence of the Maker, was using the title, but he just went with it. "Between us... no, I don't."
Solas raised his eyebrows in an urge to Max to continue explaining.
"I'm glad that the war is over and that the Free Mages won it," he said. "With mages running our own schools—where required, where the parents or others can't do it—I don't think there would be any situation of 'we're going to throw you before a demon and kill you if you give in to it.' It doesn't prove anything, anyway. In my opinion, any mage who passes might fail before a different demon in a different situation, and any who fails might have passed in other circumstances. Maybe someone isn't vulnerable at that specific moment in their life to desire but would be to pride, but pride wasn't the challenge they got. Or maybe they were vulnerable to pride that day because they felt unappreciated, but wouldn't have been on another day. There is too much luck involved in it for it to have value."
Solas smiled wryly. "There are many of us who would be vulnerable to pride at some time in our lives, Herald." That comment was very obviously borne of experience, almost as if hinting at some deep dark secret, and Max was tempted to ask for details, but the elven mage had more to say. "I wonder, though—do you think it is right that pride should be designated a demon by your Chantry? Are there not good kinds of pride?"
Max considered that. "There are," he agreed.
"As there is nothing inherently wrong with desire or rage. Some things deserve anger, do you not agree?"
"I certainly do."
"And hunger is simply a manifestation of a physical need," Solas continued. "Sloth is as well, the need to rest taken too far. We have seen spirits of despair and fear in the past two days as well; these are also often quite natural feelings in response to distressing events. Fear can be a survival instinct. It is good to be afraid sometimes, and—while I cannot say that despair is healthy, its opposite may occasionally be not hope, but rather denial. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—a situation really does warrant despair."
Solas's face seemed to darken at these words, Max noticed. That also seemed to be a personal hint of a bitter secret. His heart skipped a beat. "Are you referring to our current circumstances?"
Solas was startled at his companion's perceptiveness. He paused for a moment before replying. "No. We will be able to close the Breach. I... speak in general terms. And this raises the question: Why are 'demons' assigned these qualities that, mostly, are not universally vices?"
"That, I can't say," Max admitted. "It could just be people attaching labels that have meaning only to them. I agree that there's nothing inherently wrong with pride, desire, anger, fear, or hunger. Maybe those labels are wrong. But what I do know is that the demons we call by those things act like enemies. They attack us; they try to trick us into possession—whether the names we give them are correct or not, they can't be good. You must agree," he added. "You've helped me to slay several in the Fereldan Hinterlands."
Solas considered this, nodding. "But I do not glory in doing it. It is an act of bitter necessity at that point. They are fallen from what they should be."
"Fallen?" Max considered. "That's what we are taught too, that demons are corrupted forms of spirits who were forced away from their Maker-given purposes."
"Maker-given purposes, you say."
"I know you aren't certain of the existence of the Maker. I'm just saying what we were taught."
"I am open to new ideas," Solas said with a smile. "But... yes, that can be so, but it is more complex than that. These spirits that tumble from the rifts," he said, gesturing upward at the Breach, "they are lost and confused, many of them. In the Fade, they served purposes. Many a dream we may have in which we experience the call of ambition, the flare of anger at an injustice. They can mold the substance around them and plant the seed in our minds. But they are being forced out of the only world they have ever known, into one that does not respond in the same way. They are not perverted from their purposes; they just find it much harder to fulfill those purposes here. Would you say that this world is friendly to ambition or desire, or accommodating of justifiable anger? That it feeds the hungry and calms the frightened?"
Max was silent, taking the point. He knew that to be true personally.
"They are perilous, but all spirits are perilous," Solas continued. "There are also Spirits of Faith, of Justice, of Compassion. Are these not virtues that can be taken too far? Which are also not often accommodated in this world?"
"Fair enough," Max admitted.
"And we are perilous too, Herald. You yourself hold great perils. As do I, and Varric, the Seeker... Unless we meet the personage responsible for the Breach, we might be the most dangerous people we shall ever encounter."
Max finally laughed. "You have a high estimation of us, Solas," he said. "I know that you're arguing that we are not so different from spirits, and that spirits are not really so different from demons, but if you truly think we are this dangerous, that's... actually rather hopeful."
Solas managed a thin smile. "Then I am glad that I could help. Think on what I said, though, Herald. You do not fear the Breach; it does not seem so unnatural to you as it does to others. This is due to an unfortunate reason, your long confinement away from sight of the sky, but the fact itself is a good thing in my estimation. I hope you consider my words about demons and spirits too."
Max did consider the conversation after that. Solas was an interesting and obviously very intelligent man, and he had made some good points, Max had to admit. He could not quite agree that there was no difference between a spirit that acted benevolently, as a friend, and one who sought to possess and control. No, there was a difference. Those who sought to possess might claim to be "friends" too, but Max had known Spirit Healers in his Circle, and there was a clear difference between the beneficial aid that a Spirit Healer's aide provided the mage, without any expectation of sharing the mage's body or mind, and the kinds of slimy, deceitful "bargains" that demons were documented to have offered. And it wasn't just hearsay or propaganda spread by the Templars. Fellow mages had reported the lies of demons, the way they often promised the moon, taking advantage of a desperate, vulnerable mage's fragile mental state.
But, Max supposed, were mortals any different? Cassandra Pentaghast had revealed her worst side to him, blaming him and blaming the Free Mages without a shred of real evidence against either. He now reflected on his attitude back in the Circle and realized how immature and spiteful his thoughts had been. I have apparently had leadership of a sort handed to me by an unknown being that most people want to think was Andraste, he thought. I don't deserve it, and now I realize that I didn't really understand what it entailed. I wanted to make my mark on Thedas, but that means taking on a great responsibility. I coveted what the Viscountess of Kirkwall has without understanding what she must face. I wanted something that I did not even comprehend at the time. We're no better than those beings we call "demons."
But that, he supposed, was the whole problem. Mortals were adaptable. He was evidence enough of that: He was adapting to the strange situation and—rather quickly, if he were honest—growing into the role foisted upon him. In just two days, he had ventured into the Fereldan Hinterlands nearby, relishing the appearance of spring in contrast with the snow of these highlands, and begun a campaign to clear out bandits from the area while also closing the rifts that dotted the region. He had not liked the propaganda campaign that Leliana's agents had begun in the region, calling him the Herald of Andraste, but helping these vulnerable people had brought comfort as well as confidence to him. He was adjusting to radical change. Could a spirit adjust? The rifts he had closed and the demons haunting them that he had slain suggested "no."
Solas was good to talk to, Max decided. His conversations with the elven mage made him think. He would certainly pursue the friendship, just as he would continue the camaraderie that he had formed with Varric—and the tentative armistice he had with Cassandra, though it was likely doomed to always be darkened by the reality that she had wanted him dead once. Still, he would perhaps count her as a friend someday. But—and Maker forgive him for it—he wanted more than friends.
I'm out of the Circle, he thought, likely for good. No one has said a word otherwise. The Free Mages wouldn't have it, anyway. I have a title of sorts. If the Maker truly is behind any of this, can't He send me someone special?
He chided himself for the selfish thought. How could that matter while the sky was ripped apart and the perpetrator, Divine Justinia's murderer, remained nameless and on the loose?
Notes: Cassandra's behavior here is rather unsympathetic, but I do think Max's assessment of her as someone who lashes out violently as a result of distress is pretty spot-on. She has a history of making accusations and being violent based on circumstantial "evidence," too. Her entire canon interrogation of Varric about Hawke is that; she actually believed that canon!Hawke and their friends were sent to Kirkwall to destabilize Thedas and the Chantry. (This interrogation didn't occur in my AU and she didn't suspect Hawke of that because events played out differently, but I guess you could say that now is her time to suspect Hawke without evidence.) And if she would suspect the Herald based on the mark and being in the wrong place at the wrong time, she would suspect the mage army that used terrifying new weapons just months ago and whose leaders issued veiled threats to Justinia in writing.
"Everything before the word 'but' is horseshit" is borrowed from A Song of Ice and Fire. And some of Solas's dialogue is adapted from Gandalf.
I had the Conclave happening on "April" 1, yes. Satinalia may be the closer equivalent in Thedas (it seems to be a combination of Halloween, Christmas, and April Fool's Day), but I've had enough grim things happening on Satinalia in my AU. And it's too far along in the year to work with the DA:I timeline anyway after I established that my own Mage-Templar War actually concluded in Firstfall 9:40 rather than stalemating in 9:41 as in canon.
This wasn't the most interesting of chapters, I admit, but I had to get it out of the way. Next one goes full steam ahead into the political issues I have mentioned in the summary and the opening A/N for the fic. In addition to the canon difficulties with the Chantry, they are facing angry schismatics too who have not been officially reunited (since that was something Justinia wanted to do at this AU Conclave), and they are not all in Tantervale. They also have to work with a newly aggressive and quite arguably imperialist Ferelden under Queen Regnant Anora (who has a half-Theirin daughter) and a distrustful, victorious, extremely well-armed Free Mage Army under Viscountess Hawke and Anders. That begins next chapter!