Chapter 5: The Face of the Enemy
The first thing Max noticed when the team returned to Haven was that the Free Mages had finally arrived. The mage army had essentially taken over the town. Max had heard that it numbered over five thousand, but Hawke must not have sent them all. It was reasonable; she would still need to keep Kirkwall's defenses shored up, and that included soldiers as well as physical defenses and weapons. But even if only half the Free Mages were in Haven, there were enough to completely swamp the village. Max felt a rush of awe at the sight of mages—mages like him—in leather or mail armor, proudly carrying their staves, going about their business fearlessly. These mages were not like beaten-down Circle captives or terrified apostates, but confident, competent, war-hardened soldiers who knew that they had every right to be here openly. For not the first time, Max felt bitterly jealous that he had missed this.
I'm a leader now, he thought. I'm not "one of them" in the strictest sense, but I am like them. I have the opportunities they do. I'm a free mage too now.
The Free Mages who were around the Chantry recognized the Inquisition and Herald as they returned, but no one seemed particularly awed by it. Vivienne appeared offended, but Max was relieved. He was tired of professions of faith in a title that he didn't believe in.
Some of the Starkhaven soldiers were hustling the bound captives, including Fornier, into the Chantry dungeons. Max left the other Starkhaven soldiers and the Templar conscripts on the grounds under the command of Cullen and Sebastian Vael, and entered the Chantry to report back to those inner circle members who had stayed behind. As he passed through the doors, the face of an angry young Free Mage woman caught his eye. She was auburn-haired and had facial tattoos. They did not look Dalish to him, and she was a human anyway. Unfortunately he didn't have the time to think of what her anger could mean, because as soon as he set foot inside the building, he was accosted.
Max was furious with Leliana and Josephine for putting him on the spot.
"He's a Ben-Hassrath?" he repeated in disbelief to them. "A Qunari spy? And you knew that?" He gave the tall, horned, oddly cheerful-looking man a glance. It irritated him even further that his advisors had forced him into a position of rudeness and inhospitable treatment of a guest. "No offense."
The warrior shrugged. "None taken. It's true, after all."
Leliana spoke up. "Iron Bull is also the leader of a company of mercenaries called the Chargers. We could use their aid."
"He's a spy!"
"Herald, I think we should take this behind closed doors," Josephine said with a pointed look at the Qunari—Iron Bull, as Leliana had called him.
Max sucked in his breath but let them usher him into a side room. They were going to close the door without letting any of his companions inside, but Max saw right through that. "Nope," he said. "Sera, Varric—stay."
"Varric?" Leliana repeated under her breath, clearly concerned.
Max gave her a hard look as they entered the room and closed the door. When the Qunari spy could no longer hear, he answered her. "Yes, Varric, the representative of the Marcher city that was attacked by the Qunari just seven years ago. He personally fought that day. I think he should be in this meeting. I think he has a unique perspective!" His teeth were clenched.
The advisors exchanged looks again before Josephine spoke. "We realize that Ostwick is Kirkwall's coastal neighbor and shares a land boundary, and that there must have been great concern among the lords of your home city after the late Arishok attacked Kirkwall."
"Are you insinuating that I'm blinded by 'hometown' bias?" Max growled.
They were taken aback. This was a side of the Herald that they had not seen much of. "We all have personal biases, Herald," Leliana finally said.
Max heaved an exasperated sigh. "Let's just cut to the chase. Why did you let him join the Inquisition, knowing what he is and who he reports to?"
"I am a spy myself, Herald, our spy," Leliana answered, "and I have agents stationed throughout Thedas. Spies lurk around the courts of every ruler, every significant noble... even in the Chantry. Where important matters are discussed and major courses of action set, rivals, adversaries, sometimes even allies will want to have agents on the inside to know in advance. Espionage is a fact of life. It is reality." Her face and voice were hard. "The Inquisition is becoming important enough that it will be a target for spies. And that being the case, it is better to know who they are, and to whom they report, so that we can watch them. The Qunari are interested in the Inquisition. Do you think they will give up if we send Iron Bull away, or that they will send others, unknown to us? Better a spy that we can watch than spies we cannot even identify."
Max was frustrated. "And they will know that we are keeping an eye on him! If he's got any brains at all—which he must, to be a spy—he'll know it himself, and will adjust his actions and messages accordingly. For all we know, he could be a decoy, told to identify himself as a spy in the hope that we'd take the bait while the Qunari did send other, secret spies here as well."
Leliana looked grimly pleased at this assessment. "In all likelihood, something like that is the case," she acknowledged. "The Ariqun, his ultimate commander, would be a fool to send only a single agent who openly declares himself. Undoubtedly more spies are here, or on the way. By having him here, we have a better chance of flushing them out too."
Max breathed heavily, trying to calm himself. Leliana's words made sense to him. He nodded for her to continue.
She kept speaking. "Iron Bull likely either knows about them already and will seek them out, or they will have received instructions to approach him and collaborate in secret—to ensure that he doesn't give away secret intelligence to us. You would be surprised how often a spy's front ceases to be an act and becomes real—how often embedded spies genuinely turn their coats when they become friends with their targets. It is why spies are sent in groups: to watch each other as much as to watch the target."
That struck Max. He gave her a shrewd, curious look. "Do you think that could happen with Iron Bull? Based on your own expertise in spying?"
"It... might. I have questioned him myself, and... there is something in his past, a period of discontentment with the Qun. His present lifestyle, too... he is very close with his mercenary soldiers."
"Who are not Qunari? You're positive of that?"
"Correct. And it is rather odd for a Qunari to form such a close association with so many people who are not of the Qun. I think... there are possibilities."
Varric spoke up. "I know something about Tal-Vashoth too. There were a lot of them around Kirkwall when the Arishok was there. Some were quite reasonable. Had the spark of independence."
"You must be subtle if you do seek to befriend him with this goal, Herald," Josephine advised. "He will be trained to detect people who are blatantly trying to draw him away from the Qun. But if Leliana is right, the seeds are present within him already. You do not need to plant any ideas yourself. You just need to water the seedlings, as subtle as a spring dew."
Max was becoming resigned. "All right," he finally said. "You've convinced me. But I do want him watched carefully, and the second he becomes an uncontrolled risk to us in your estimation, Leliana—"
"I will act decisively."
Max was surprised at the grim promise in her words, but he nodded curtly.
Max had intended to talk with Iron Bull and get to know him, but the sounds of increasingly angry shouts—lots of them—from outside the Chantry stole his attention. He exchanged uneasy looks with Varric and Sera and hurried through the front doors.
The Free Mage who had looked angry was now shouting at Cullen, Cassandra, and Sebastian. Several hundred Free Mages were standing behind and beside her, staves in hand, magic crackling, as they supported her.
"We came here," the mage leader seethed, "because the Herald"—she gave Max a dark look as he emerged—"said we were needed to help him close that!" She gestured at the Breach overhead. "But Hawke and Anders feared that you people couldn't be trusted, and you've proved them right before we've been here three days!"
"There was nothing in Hawke's contract prohibiting us from making other allies!" Cassandra roared. "And if she—or you—expect that, that is outrageously entitled and arrogant! Who do you think you are?"
Several mages raised their staves threateningly.
Max cut in before this got even worse. He turned to the mage. "Enough! We're going to sort this out! You—you are an officer of the Free Mages?"
The woman drew herself up proudly but tensely. "Enchanter-Lieutenant Terrie, late of the Starkhaven Circle," she snapped.
Sebastian's eyes widened. "An Annulment survivor?" he asked hopefully.
"No," she snapped with a look of withering contempt. "There were no adult survivors of that Annulment, just a few lucky children. I understand that you were playing Chantry mouse in Kirkwall, wiping Elthina's arse—"
Sebastian snarled. "You dare—"
"I'll say whatever I please about that bitch, may she rot in the Void!"
For a moment Max was certain that Sebastian was going to have a go at her. He lunged, and Terrie formed a spell at the tip of her staff. But then the prince seemed to back off, just as Cullen interceded to break them up.
"Enough!" Cullen ordered.
Terrie continued. "The point is, you were hiding from your duty when your home city's Circle burned in Dragon 9:31," she snarled at the prince. "But presumably at some point, you learned some version of that, no doubt a false and slanderous one, given who you consorted with in the war—"
"Enchanter Terrie," Cullen warned again.
She gave him a derisive look. "I don't have to take orders from Templars." She turned back to Max and Sebastian. "I was in the group of mages who escaped from the Starkhaven Circle fire of 9:31. Viscountess Hawke—though she wasn't Viscountess yet—saved us from the Kirkwall Circle. She let us go! I worked in the Mage Underground until the war broke out. And when the time came, I joined the Free Mage Army." She gave Max a sneer. "We came here in good faith to try to help you, to do a good deed for Thedas, and how do you repay us? By bringing in Seekers and Templars! Some of them are former schismatics! We fought against these people in the war!"
Cassandra cut in again, still furious. "You have no right to try to keep us from making other allies—especially since your Viscountess was as unhelpful as she could possibly be in that contract she sent! She barely let us have your aid, and now she lets you think you can dictate who else we ally with? One has to wonder if Hawke actually wants to thwart the Inquisition's mission!"
Max cursed under his breath, and Varric did the same. "Seeker, why'd you do that?" the dwarf muttered.
But the mage Terrie looked oddly, coolly calm at this. "So," she said, "that's it, then?" She smiled mirthlessly. "No, Pentaghast"—and Max could tell that her use of Cassandra's surname rather than her title of Seeker was a deliberate act of disrespect, which did not escape Cassandra either—"we aren't telling you who to ally with. Get in bed with ex-heretics and rebel Templars if you like. I doubt Hawke and Anders will be surprised in the least."
"And then what, they will threaten to bomb and gas the Haven Chantry next?" Cassandra snarled.
"Cassandra, shut up," Varric said through clenched teeth. She gave him a startled look, but seemed to come to her senses. Max noticed the moment that the rage in her eyes stilled.
But the damage was done. "They won't touch you unless you start something first," Terrie replied. "And making these allies"—she sneered at the Prince of Starkhaven and Ser Barris—"isn't, in itself, starting anything. But Hawke did give us the right to leave if we wanted. And I can't speak for anyone else, but myself and the mages who stand with me—we don't trust you since you brought them here. We don't trust your intentions, and you, Pentaghast," she said with another leer at Cassandra, "have just validated our distrust. We're not a part of this anymore. If you want Templars and ex-schismatics as your allies, you can have them. But you won't have us."
Max cut in, appalled and horrified. "Please, can't we talk this out?" he said. "The Templars are conscripted into the Inquisition! They have no choice—they don't have terms of alliance like you do—they're taking orders from us!"
Terrie regarded him pityingly. "The problem isn't the Templars, Herald. And for that matter, the problem isn't you, at least I don't think it is." She eyed Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, and Vivienne. "But you're a figurehead. It's clear enough who is truly in charge of this outfit, and we don't trust the Inquisition." She turned to the mages who had stood by her and began to lead them away from the Chantry.
Max stood gaping in dismay, but neither he nor anyone else tried to stop the company following Terrie. It was in the contract that any of the mages could elect to leave and the Inquisition could not hinder their departure. "Mages! All who are with me, we march north to Jader—and then sail home to Kirkwall!"
He watched in horror as a full third of the Free Mage army departed.
"Cassandra," Varric said later over a round of much-needed drinks in the Singing Maiden tavern, "you really need to control your temper. They might not have left if you hadn't insulted Hawke and Anders."
"I insulted no one, Varric—"
Varric scoffed. "You called them entitled, arrogant, unhelpful, accused them of trying to 'thwart the Inquisition's mission,' and implied that they would gas the Haven Chantry. What qualifies as an insult to you if that doesn't?"
Sera spoke up. "Gotta agree, that's a pretty serious bitch move."
Cassandra scowled. "I—may have lost control of my temper, it is true. But that mage had already made up her mind to leave. That is why I became angry! She had already decided that she and those who agreed with her would leave."
"Then you should have let them go in peace!" Varric exclaimed. "They had that right. We agreed to let them have that right when we signed Hawke's contract. Contractual, Cassandra! Signed and sealed!"
Cassandra's face grew troubled as Varric's words hit her.
He continued. "Now they are going to carry messages back to Kirkwall that you tried to fight their departure—and baselessly accused their leaders of trying to thwart us and wanting to strike us. Maybe we were going to lose that company no matter what. But now we've lost them in a very damaging way!"
Max remained silent. He agreed with every word Varric was saying, but he thought it was better for Cassandra to hear it from Varric alone. They had their personal, private understanding—relationship, possibly—and she tolerated things from him that Max was quite certain she would tolerate from no one else. No one else would get away with telling her outright to "shut up," as he had done in the confrontation on the Chantry steps.
Cassandra finally sighed, draining her pint of ale. "I will try to control my temper better in the future, Varric. But it is very hard to watch as Divine Justinia's dark prediction comes to pass. This is what she warned about, that with the Chantry divided and disarmed, no longer a unifying and universally feared power in southern Thedas, everyone would be out for themselves: allies eyeing each other suspiciously, turning on each other, abandoning their friends, making unreasonable demands simply because they can..."
"The world has changed, Cassandra," Varric said, more gently this time.
"I understand that. And I understand that there are some good things about this. It is good that a future Divine cannot use the threat of an Exalted March to enforce her personal views, take sides in secular wars, or persecute innocents. It is good that mages are living normal lives if they can do so safely. But I cannot pretend that there are no downsides to the destruction of the old order." She sighed. "It is a new world with new merits, but the old one had merit too. And if I had a choice, I freely admit, I might choose to have it back."
"Don't let the remaining Free Mages hear that," Varric joked.
Max was not thinking about Varric's words. He gaped at Cassandra, hurt. "You would... have me put back in the Circle?" he burst out.
She grimaced, clearly pained at that representation of it. "I—no, I..." She broke off. "That is the difficulty. It is good that you are not in that Circle. The same for many of the mages. I would not have Hawke shut up in one either, despite our differences. She is... a great person... and it would be a shame for that potential to be stifled. But this is what I meant. The world gained things, but it has lost things too, Varric. It has lost cohesion, a sense of shared purpose. A sense of trust. That is why the mages under that woman left, after all."
Max couldn't stop himself from speaking up at that. "That 'trust' was more coerced than you realize, Seeker," he said quietly. "Do you think the Free Marches, or Ferelden, or anyone, trusted Orlais? That mages trusted Templars—or, yes, the Chantry? What you see as cohesion and shared purpose, others might see as force. What you see as trust, others might see as powerlessness to have plans and goals of their own."
Sera burst out laughing. "Maker's hairy flaming ballsack. Listen to you. Practically an honorary Jenny."
Cassandra was startled, and clearly wanted to object, but as Sera raised a toast to Max, the truth of his words sank in.
Petra and Lysas had not been among the departures, and they were not very pleased with Terrie for the action, but they knew that Hawke and Anders had empowered each and every Free Mage to make a decision for themselves about whether to stay with the Inquisition or leave.
"I think," Max said in a conference with them that evening, "that we need to seal the Breach as soon as possible, before more arguments break out."
"I agree. Do we have a clear idea of what we, the mage army, should do?" Petra asked.
Solas spoke up. Max had wanted him in the discussion because he knew more about the Breach and the Fade than anyone, and if he didn't have an idea, it was doubtful that anyone would. "The mark on the Herald's hand is an anchor," he said. "It would work even on a person who is not a mage, because it has inherent magic of its own. I do think that the Herald's own magic has made him more effective at closing rifts than he might have been if he weren't a mage. But the magic of the anchor and Trevelyan's own magic are simply insufficient to seal a rift of the Breach's magnitude. Attempting it would destroy the anchor and kill the Herald."
"Then how can we send our magic through his hand without the same thing happening?"
"I doubt you can. But if your soldiers... several hundred, ideally... channel raw arcane power through a conduit that links to the Herald's mark, it will not pass through his body. I have been studying the rifts and have devised such a conduit," he said. "I will implant it in the ground directly underneath the Breach, which is where the Herald needs to be standing for the ritual to be most effective. Then I will magically link it to the anchor in such a way that it does not travel through Trevelyan's body first. He will still be able to control the mark. You will send magic—not a specific spell, just raw magic—into the conduit, from which point it will arc through his anchor, and he will force this power to seal the Breach."
Solas's conduit proved to be a device of an ancient design, which looked somewhat similar to elven artifacts that they had found here and there in the Hinterlands. They moved it outside, directly under the Breach, and as the night sky deepened, Petra and Lysas summoned the strongest mages they knew of from the army. Max winced as Solas cast spells to bind the thing's odd green glow with the green mark on his hand, but soon it was ready. His marked arm was immobile, bound in place by threads of magic, but Solas had assured him that this would break once the Breach was sealed.
About five hundred mages gathered around in a circle. "Mages!" Solas commanded. Cullen suppressed a sigh; he was the Inquisition commander, but Hawke's contract had banned him from giving her army orders directly.
The mages raised their staves. Magic began to flow through Solas's device, arcing up into the mark on Max's hand. He felt it, but it remained on the surface, rather than flooding him with lethal levels of power that would completely disable him and burn him up with magic from the inside. He gazed up at the Breach.
Maker, if you are truly out there, if any of this is your will, let this work, he prayed with eyes open. The magic surge began to hum in an audible chord. Max could no longer see the night sky or even the moon, it was so bright. Everything was green.
"Herald—now!" Solas shouted.
Max gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of his will into the mark. A thick, bright, sharp thread of green ripped from his hand, as it would do when he closed rifts, but this was as large and vivid as a bolt of natural lightning. It arced upward, splitting into branches—green ground-to-cloud magic lightning striking the Breach, seemingly as drawn to it as the electrical kind would be drawn to a charged tree. The ends of each green branch closed around the edges of the Breach like spider legs straddling a hole.
Max poured more power into it, closing his eyes for a moment as sweat dripped off his face. The ends forcing the Breach shut intensified and split off further, strengthening the power of his magic. Slowly—and then suddenly—the sky itself snapped shut.
"It is sealed!" Solas called out. "Mages, let him go!"
The mages stopped casting, and Max felt the overwhelming power leave him. His arm was abruptly free of its magical bind. He fell to his knees, but he was quite well. A smile broke over his face as he gazed at the mended sky.
Celebrations in Haven that night were rowdy and raucous. For once, even the Free Mages and the Templars—some of them, at least—could party side by side in the tavern or in the open air. He did not see any mage-Templar couples, even just couples for the night, but he did see fellowship and possible future friendship among some of them, including Ser Barris, Petra, and Lysas. It filled Max with a peaceful sense of contentment. Perhaps the Maker really was with them in their mission. Perhaps all would be well.
In his heart, he knew it wasn't true. He himself had thought that the creator of the Breach would show himself once he learned that his handiwork was undone. So when Cullen called out, in a voice of alarm, that Haven was soon to be under attack by an incoming army, that part of Max was grimly unsurprised.
It was shocking how quickly the forces mobilized. Max himself had never put his staff down or taken off his light armor. All he had to do was get up from his seat, Solas, Sera, and Blackwall following him immediately. At some point, they had agreed nonverbally and implicitly to stick together amid the Inquisition schemers. Varric was sometimes part of their group, but tonight he was with Cassandra Pentaghast. Max understood. Friends were good, but he wished he'd had a partner.
He scrambled into the icy streets of Haven and was almost immediately accosted by Cullen, Cassandra, the Qunari spy Iron Bull—and another man, whom he had never seen before.
No, Max realized, startled, he had seen this man before—but it was in the envy demon nightmare at Therinfal Redoubt—
He was carrying someone else in magical levitation, not touching the body, and Max smothered a gasp. The other man looked half-dead, with blackened, bloodshot patches of skin on his face. His eyes were closed, but when they fluttered open, they were filmy, the corneas nearly opaquely white. Yet this man could not be much older than Max himself.
The other one, the healthy one, whom Max had seen in the vision, was pleading. "Please," he burst out rapidly, setting the sick one on the ground. "I'm here—to warn you!" He gasped for breath. "Fashionably late, as usual."
Cullen's face hardened. "Get to the point."
"My name is Dorian Pavus and I bring grave news from Winterwatch Tower."
Max's eyes widened. "Winterwatch Tower! That was where the..."
"The cult and the Free Mage deserters had taken up. They are under the command of the Venatori—"
Varric swore loudly, and Max wondered when he had shown up.
"—in service to something called the Elder One—"
"Oh shit," Max swore himself, eliciting shocked looks from the advisors and Cassandra.
But the newcomer—Dorian Pavus—merely raised his eyebrows. "I see these names are not unknown to you."
"We've heard of them," Max confirmed. He gazed past Dorian and nearly collapsed at the sight in the distance. An army over a thousand strong was marching rapidly on Haven. Many of the soldiers carried staves, but not all did.
"I see Red Templars out there too," said a voice in a Starkhaven accent. Max whirled around to see that Prince Sebastian had appeared too, covered in his white armor, his bow at the ready and a look of hate on his face.
"The leader is Calpernia," Dorian said. "She commands the Venatori. I don't know who commands the Red Templars. I don't know where they came from. But they're here, and I must assume they serve the Elder One too."
"Samson and Carroll's companies, revealing themselves at last," Varric said with a meaningful look to Cassandra.
Max broke in. "We don't have time for this! Worry about where they came from later; they're here! I need a plan! Anything!"
Cullen spoke up. "Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!" He turned to the soldiers—mages, Templars, and Starkhaven troops—who had been reveling just minutes before. "Soldiers! Gather the villagers! Fortify and watch for advance forces!" He turned back to his own people, including Max and his companions. "Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!"
Dorian fell in with the Inquisition group, although Cassandra clearly did not like it. But she wasn't going to make this decision, Max resolved. He didn't trust her judgment. And he could not let go of the brief sight of this man in the envy demon vision. Dorian could be trusted. He would be trusted—trusted and valued. The vision need not tell the full future, but it might show some truths.
"What about him?" Varric asked, referring to the sick man on the ground.
"His name is Felix Alexius. He is Tainted. I barely got him away from his... father..." Dorian broke off, pained.
Leliana spoke up. "Blackwall, you are a Grey Warden. You are not at risk from the Taint. See to him."
Blackwall grimaced, and appeared to want to object, but something came over him—a look of guilty, dutiful resolve—as he shouldered Felix Alexius's ill body into his arms.
From there it was a mad scramble through the village to reach the huge trebuchets outside the gates. Max greatly envied Kirkwall at the moment; Viscountess Hawke could strike enemies with incendiary, explosive, and chemical rockets. Their reach was said to approach a mile, which was nine times farther than the reach of these trebuchets. But they did not have Kirkwall's weapons and never would have had them, since she had expressly protected them in her contract of alliance. They would have to make do.
Cullen had taken charge of the trebuchets, giving orders to Starkhaven's soldiers, the ex-Templars, and the rabble of locals who had joined the Inquisition to remain near Haven. Petra was commanding the Free Mages to be in the valley, ready for the enemy forces who evaded the trebuchet's projectiles.
As the enemy army grew dangerously near, Cullen finally gave the order. The machinery creaked, and a stone lofted over the force, slamming into the mountainside. An avalanche of snow, ice, and rock ensued, burying half the enemy. The Inquisition side cheered, but there was no time to waste. The other half was still incoming.
"You can't repeat that," Petra said to Cullen. "You had one chance to start an avalanche and it only got half of them."
Cullen sighed.
Petra turned away. "Free Mages—to battle! These are Red Templars and traitorous, deserter supremacists!" she roared suddenly, rage filling her. She raised her staff high and pointed malevolently at a specific figure. "And look who that is!"
Max followed her fingertip. A female mage marched up the snowbank. She was not wearing robes, but instead a suit of armor with spiked designs on the pauldrons and greaves—except that the spikes appeared to be made of red lyrium. A cape with the Venatori sigil trailed from her shoulders.
The sight, however, set off an enraged bloodlust in the Free Mages. "She mocks the Viscountess!" screamed someone from the front lines.
Max was confused, and his confusion must have showed. Cullen told him in an undertone, "Hawke has a suit of armor and a cape like that."
"The Viscountess has a suit of armor with red lyrium on it?" he sputtered.
"No, it's drakeskin. Black and red, white and gold trim. Red cape, no Venatori sigil of course. That mage is making a mockery of it with red lyrium."
"Who is—"
"Fuck you, Fiona! Traitor to elves!" roared one of the Free Mages, presumably an elf, leading the charge.
Petra turned to Max, absolute hatred in her face. "Stay out of this one, Herald. You can fight the leader—that Calpernia, or the Elder One. We have unfinished business with Fiona. She's ours." And with that, she joined the charge, a war cry escaping her mouth.
Max did not dare interfere with the Free Mages' vengeance against Fiona for whatever she had done—presumably leading the desertion after the Annulments of Tantervale, Starkhaven, and Dairsmuid. He turned back to Cullen to discuss their next steps when the dragon soared overhead.
A searing fireball struck the trebuchet, shattering it and setting the flying projectiles aflame. Several soldiers were killed immediately. Some shouted screams of pain from injuries. Others barely dodged the impacts.
"Take cover!" Cullen shouted.
"Shit!" Varric exclaimed, gaping at the dragon as it soared overhead for another pass. "Who ordered the end of the damned world?"
The Elder One, Max thought. He stole a glimpse of the dragon and, indeed, saw the cloaked figure atop its back.
Max and his companions scrambled through Haven trying to save everyone they could as the dragon continued to set fire to everything it could. Many of the villagers were trapped in burning buildings, half-crushed and blocked by debris. He managed to get several people out when he heard that Adan and Minaeve, a pair of artisans who worked for the Inquisition, were in danger. There was barely enough time to get them out before the potionmakers' pots nearby exploded. Minaeve was injured from the blast, and Max gritted his teeth at the realization that the Inquisition itself had no magical Healers. Perhaps the Free Mages would have some, or perhaps not. Hawke and Anders had not sent the entire army, a third of it had already left, and there was no need for Healers in closing the Breach.
That was all the more reinforced when they got the survivors into the Haven Chantry and none other than Chancellor Roderick, who had opposed the Inquisition weeks ago, emerged, limping. He had been injured in single combat with a Venatori mage. Dorian caught him as he fell, but it was too late to do anything for him.
Cullen frantically ran up to the party. "Herald!" he burst out. "I'm afraid I have dire news."
Max steeled himself. "Let me have it."
"Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us. There has been no communication, no demands. Only advance after advance."
"They mean to wipe us out," he said grimly.
"There was no bargaining with the mages or Breach cultists at Winterwatch Tower, either," Dorian said. "This Elder One takes what it wants. From what I gathered, it marched all of this way to take your Herald."
Max scowled at the glittering green mark on his hand. "Is this what it wants? I'm not surprised. I figured that the second I closed the Breach, it would get the attention of whoever created it."
"It was already on the march. It had to have been. It got here too soon for the closing of the Breach to have been what got its attention. I think it was our work at Therinfal. It must have wanted a lot more Red Templars than we have seen tonight, and we denied it that," Cullen said.
"To the Void with what it wants," Max snarled, getting to his feet. "It won't get it. We're going to stop it."
Dorian and Cullen exchanged dubious glances. "If only we had Kirkwall's weapons," Cullen said.
Max sighed. "We were explicitly told, in the contract, that asking for that information would result in the Inquisition being named an enemy of Hawke's defense treaty organization. And that's assuming any of these Free Mages even know design specifics. I'd bet they don't."
"She's wise, though that is inconvenient for us, to be sure," Dorian said. "It's a shame trebuchets are not an option anymore either."
Cullen hesitated. "They are if we turn them on the mountains."
Dorian gaped in outrage and fear. "Are you mad? That will destroy the entire village! I didn't come here only for you to drop rocks on my head!"
"This is not survivable. This village is indefensible. Damn you, Hawke and Anders, why couldn't you have shared your weapons?" he said as an aside.
"This is hardly the fault of the Viscountess and Consort of Kirkwall," Dorian said sharply.
Cullen gazed hollowly at him, but there was a dark resolve in his brown orbs. "We're going to die, Pavus. If you believe in the Maker, make your peace with Him now—because the only choice is whether we take our enemy down with us or let him escape."
"For a Templar, you think like a blood mage," Dorian spat. "Dying is typically a last resort, not a first!"
"This is a last resort."
Max and Dorian gaped at him. Then Chancellor Roderick rose in pain. "There is a path through the mountains. The people can escape. I took it during my summer pilgrimage... Andraste herself must have shown me, so that I could tell you now..."
Max clung to any shred of faith in this dark moment. He chose not to think too hard about the choices of Andraste, if she had indeed shown this to Roderick—though in the back of his mind, he knew. He knew.
"The people in Haven and the Chantry can escape? What about the army that's fighting the Venatori in the valley?" he asked.
Roderick gazed grimly at him, not saying a word.
"So we kill the Free Mages," Dorian said in disbelief and contempt, "while we escape through this path?"
Max then voiced the decision that he had known he would make as soon as thoughts of Andraste entered his mind. I'm her Herald, he thought. A title bestowed upon me profanely, blasphemously, for worldly advantage, by people who did not believe I was truly that—as I didn't. Yet now I must do as she did. It's not punishment, though. It's... in a certain way... what I wanted. Not to die, but to prove that there is more at work in this than petty, venal considerations.
He thought momentarily of the envy demon nightmare. I wonder what this man, Dorian, would have been to me if things had been different. But maybe that—whatever it was—was only possible if the demon had impersonated me as it meant to do. Maybe by dying this way, I am sparing him the horrible fate of being deceived—in friendship or... in whatever else—by a demon that he would have believed to be me. At least he met the real me, however briefly.
"No," he finally said. "We don't all escape."
Dorian and Cullen gaped at him in dismay, but Roderick shared a grim look of understanding.
As Max stalked out to meet his fate, a dark, grim, but utterly dutiful resolution came over him. He pulled his cloak close and gripped his staff tightly, electricity sparking from its end. The world around him seemed to shrink away as he neared the largest standing trebuchet and the Elder One's dragon landed with a violent crash. The Free Mages and other soldiers were continuing to fight off the Elder One's reinforcements to give Max a clear path, but he paid them no mind. To him, there was nothing in all the world but him and this monster.
He glared at the thing as it leapt from its dragon: a tall, attenuated, strangely distorted and burned-looking being. Half its face was twisted and stretched around chunks of red lyrium, and it wore battered, moldy, rotten robes of an ancient style. Max had never seen a hurlock personally, but he had seen drawings of them in books, and this was no hurlock. Yet it did have certain things in common, and he recalled Leliana's belief about the enemy they faced, the menace that had been suborning the Grey Wardens of Orlais and attempting to get those of Ferelden.
"Enough!" the creature called in a surprisingly powerful voice. He glared at Max. "Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more."
Max regarded the thing with contempt, trying to summon every ounce of courage within himself. I am the Herald of Andraste. He had never believed it before, but now, it was the most powerful thing he could cling to. Roderick's dying words had given him new hope that perhaps Andraste really was looking out for them. "I'm not afraid of you," he sneered.
The Elder One regarded him coldly. "Words mortals often hurl at the darkness. Once they were mine. They are always lies."
"I am a child of the Maker," Max spat. He had thought about declaring himself the Herald of Andraste, owning the title at last, but something in him had recoiled at the last millisecond—the shadow of doubt that he still carried. But he did not have any doubt about the declaration he did make. "There is nothing you could do to me that will stop my soul from passing to His side. But you don't have a soul, do you? Of course you fear death; for you death means nothingness. Of course you fear the dark. Ironic for a darkspawn."
The Elder One gazed at him for an eternal second, filled with fury and hatred—before breaking into a cruel, malicious chuckle.
"The Maker!" he sneered with immeasurable derision. He raised his right hand, and a spell crackled from it, a bolt of lightning shooting through the air. He regarded Max with an evil smile. "There is no Maker."
"You lie," Max snarled.
"I do not, foolish mortal. I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty."
Max had not spent his entire life in an Andrastian family—or Circle—for nothing. He knew of what the Elder One spoke. This thing claimed to be one of the seven Magisters Sidereal, the priests of the Dragons of Tevinter who had committed mass murder by blood magic and breached the Golden City—the second great sin of the Maker's children.
But the Elder One claimed that the Maker didn't exist—indeed, that his own Old Gods were not truly divine—and that he had personally seen evidence of it. And who could say him nay? Who could provide evidence to the contrary? Who in the Void else had ever gone that far, walked such remote and terrible paths, and lived to tell about it?
The certainty of Max's faith dissolved into a screaming, whirling maelstrom, a storm of doubt and fear that this Elder One was right.
"I will end the silence," the Elder One continued, oblivious—or, more likely, cruelly aware—of Max's crisis of faith. "I will bring certainty where there is none. Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus! You will kneel!"
Corypheus. Max stored this name away in his memory, though he realized vaguely that Cullen and some others had heard it too. This was the name, the face, of their enemy. He expected to die, but it still felt important to know.
His faith was fraying by the second, but he still clung to hope. The Maker is not in the Fade. Even the Dalish don't believe their gods are in the Fade, nor the dwarves. It means nothing that Corypheus didn't find any gods in the Fade.
He faced his enemy. "I will never kneel to you."
"Your kind always resist," Corypheus said. "It matters not. I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now."
Pain shot up Max's arm as Corypheus attempted to extract the mark. The creature snarled, then recoiled in anger.
"You have spoiled it," Corypheus spat. "It is permanent. You have spoiled it with your ignorant stumbling."
Max gazed defiantly at his foe as Corypheus continued ranting. "So be it," the creature snarled. "I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation—and god—it requires." He gazed at Max. "But I will not suffer even an unknowing, ignorant, arrogant child of a rival. You must die. Embrace the oblivion that is the fate of everyone in this fallen world if I fail, 'Herald.'"
Max regarded him with a wry, dark, infinitely bitter smile. "Do you truly think you can save us from that oblivion if we are nothing but dust? And you think me arrogant? If that's what we are, there's nothing you can do about it. If you're right, we share the same fate and your hopes meant the same as mine: nothing. But if you're wrong, you go to the Void and I go to the Maker. Either way you lose." His smile widened. "Do you actually think I kept you talking because I wanted to fight you? Enjoy your 'victory,' Corypheus."
He kicked the lever of the trebuchet, and the mountains crashed down.
The remnant of the Free Mages, seventeen hundred strong, fought the Venatori and Red Templars to the death in the valleys, oblivious to the grim discussions occurring in Haven. Caspar Waite, former First Enchanter of the Markham Circle, led the vanguard in the attack.
He was still directing the mages when the first signs of the avalanche appeared in the mountains that surrounded them on all sides. He cursed inwardly as their terrible position became clear. The fall of rock, snow, and ice would bury the enemy, certainly—but it would also bury the entire Free Mage Army that still remained: the ones who had stood by the Inquisition and the Herald in the face of his conscription of the Templars.
Waite gazed back, making a quick assessment of their situation. They outnumbered the Venatori, and they were not—mostly—fighting Red Templars. If they had had the chance to continue this battle in the conventional way, they likely would have won. They had the numbers. There was yet one way to survive the rapidly approaching onslaught of crushing material.
The avalanche reached the base of the mountains and raced toward them inexorably. Waite steeled himself for the order he was going to give.
"Mages!" he said, raising his staff high. "This is life or death for us! Kill the Venatori and make a shield of magic!" His magic erupted in a red miasma. "Sangui—"
The noise of battle and the avalanche muffled his words, but the spell came off—Waite's and that of every mage who cast it with him. That included the majority of the Markham mages, some of the Kirkwallers, a few Antivans, and even a few Fereldans who had survived Enchanter Uldred's attempted takeover in Dragon 9:30—no doubt by keeping their heads down and their mouths shut in the aftermath.
For this was a blood magic spell, and they knew how to cast it.
Across the battlefield, scores of Venatori mages fell in pools of their own blood as Free Mages tore their veins and arteries open with magic. The rockfall continued to speed toward them. In a second, the noise from the incoming lethal avalanche increasing faster than anyone could measure, the Free Mages who knew this spell and were willing to perform it pulled arcane energy from the spilled blood into incredibly strong raw magic. Then they forced it into the shape of a wall, translucent, glittering on the edges, otherwise nearly invisible—but unbreakable as long as they could sustain it.
Every last Venatori on the battlefield died bloodily as the magical wall rapidly erupted. The rockfall slammed into it, rising high against the invisible barrier, snow, ice, and stones collapsing against an unseen limit as the avalanche subsided.
Not one of the Free Mages who had survived the battle itself had died in the avalanche. But every Venatori that had been caught in this valley had fallen to the blood magic spell.
Max awakened to the bitterest cold he had ever felt in his life. This was the cold of incalculably ancient ice in the far south. It was the cold of the Void.
Or the empty Golden City.
The thought passed unbidden and unwanted through Max's mind as he got to his feet, limbs creaking from the cold. He cast a fire spell just strongly enough to warm himself, though he figured it was nothing more than the primal urge to survive. There seemed no point in the act. No one was around. He was all alone in a frigid apocalypse.
"I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty."
In this darkest of moments, with nothing before Max but a seemingly endless expanse of snow and the dark night sky, Corypheus's words seemed impossible to challenge.
All of my friends and comrades either died or escaped through that mountain pass long ago, he thought. I won't survive in this weather long enough to find anyone. Even if I can stave off frostbite with spells, there is nothing to eat out here. There was no point in doing anything but curling up right here and letting the elements take him.
It's like Corypheus said. Nothing. No meaning. No reason. An empty throne. What am I even doing? What is the point of this? Why am I even bothering to warm myself or search for anyone? I won't find anyone. One way or the other, they are long gone. I'll freeze out here. Why not keep my dignity and die in a position of acceptance rather than desperation and panic? Though if nothing matters, my dignity doesn't matter either, I suppose.
He couldn't answer the question he asked himself, but neither could he stop trying to keep himself warm with heat spells, to use the rift mark, to search for someone in the vague hope that perhaps he was wrong and there was someone yet in spite of everything.
He recalled the handsome mage with the Tevinter accent who had appeared at the gates of Haven to warn them. Dorian Pavus. Max hoped he had survived. I wonder what he would have been to me. I regret that I'll never know now. But what else can I expect if spirits, demons, and ancient magisters are the only somewhat godlike beings at work in this world?
For some reason—probably nothing more than the raw animal urge to stay alive a bit longer, Max thought dourly—he still kept walking, towards what, he did not know.
The Free Mages' camp east of Haven's ruins.
The shock of the mages who had not cast the blood magic spell, and guilty relief at their own survival, had transformed into something else. The mage army had been the first to make their way through the ruin of snow, ice, and rock, since none of them had been buried alive. They had found the Inquisition and Haven survivors at last. To the grief and horror of the Free Mage officers, Herald Trevelyan was not among the survivors. The Chantry people and most of the Templars, on the other hand, were—and that uncomfortable fact was what had set off the argument that now raged in the officers' tents.
"Blood magic!" Petra snarled at Caspar Waite. Lysas sat by her in support, glaring at the middle-aged Markham thaumaturgist—and maleficar, he thought.
But Waite stared back impassively and defiantly. "We were all going to die without it. We didn't use the blood of innocents to raise that force wall. We pulled it from Venatori, the dead and those who were still fighting."
Lysas let out a sound of disgust. "That's not the point! It is still blood magic. Using the blood of evildoers doesn't make it acceptable; it just makes it a lesser atrocity."
"Atrocity!" Waite scoffed. "You are alive because of what we did!"
"I would rather have died than survive because of blood magic!" Petra declared.
"So would I, and so would many of us!" Lysas agreed hotly.
Waite gave them a derisive look. "Young, moral, and foolish. When you reach my age, you'll see how rare simple clear-cut answers are. The Inquisition survived. Do you know what that means?"
"It means that they're going to ask us questions about how we survived, especially since the Herald is missing and probably dead. The Inquisition is now just a bunch of Chantry figures and Templars."
"Let them ask! If Templars and Chantry people dare tut at us for surviving after they destroyed a village, Hawke will defend us. But if their avalanche had buried this army, it would have been she who was asking them questions—or more likely, shooting first! If those of us who knew how hadn't raised that wall, we would have been wiped out, and when she heard about it, she would have declared war on the Inquisition! She would have hunted them down to wherever they end up settling and blasted them off the face of Thedas!"
This silenced the younger mages for a few moments—but no longer than that. Petra quickly recovered. "The Viscountess and Consort wouldn't have wanted us to use blood magic, regardless."
Waite scowled. "You weren't at Tantervale the night before the surrender. Neither of you. But I was. I was there when they debated striking the Tantervale Chantry with chemical weapons. I heard it all, and in that dark hour, I saw a side of Hawke and Anders that none of you did. I am damn sure that they would have wanted us to use the blood of the Venatori if that were the only way to survive and prevent a ruinous war that the Elder One would've been all too delighted to see and use. Believe it or not, there are more important issues at stake than your personal morals." At that, he rose to his feet and stalked away, leaving the younger mages to think over what he had said.
Max was trudging through snow toward the light. He hoped that it was not the light of a demon, or of an enemy camp, but the only way to know was to approach it. As he drew near, voices became distinct—familiar voices.
"It is suspicious, Leliana. You cannot deny it. Every Venatori is dead, but none of the Free Mages died in the avalanche. And with the account of the magic wall they raised to block the incoming snow and rockfall? They were fighting! How could they have raised such a powerful wall so suddenly, and with none of their foe surviving despite being behind this wall too? There is only one answer that I can see which explains both of these facts."
None of the Free Mages died in the avalanche, Max thought, delighted at this unexpected news. Of all the people he feared he had condemned to death, he had felt the guiltiest about them, the victors who had just begun to live the free lives they had fought and bled for. Their survival buoyed his spirits.
There was a silence before Leliana spoke again, and when she did, her voice was weary. "Seeker, some questions are better left unasked, as I have learned the hard way." Cassandra started to object, but Leliana cut her off. "They are alive and the Venatori are not, and it's best not to ask how that happened. We might not like the answer. The Free Mages have done us no harm and you can prove nothing against them. Keep it that way. There is innocence in not having to think ill of our allies. The world sneers at innocence, but I think the truth is that we bitterly covet what we know we have lost forever."
Max realized that she was not just speaking about whatever the Free Mages had done—which seemed to be a hint that they had performed blood magic. That troubled him, but in this moment he could not find it in himself to condemn them. They would have died without it—and it would have been my fault. No, Max could not hate them for it, just himself for forcing such a dire decision upon them. But Leliana was not just talking about their actions, he knew. She was also talking about her own life.
Thoughts of Corypheus entered his mind again. And it applies to me too. I wish I had never known certain things. I don't carry the same bleakness that I did at first. Something saved me and led me to this camp. But I cannot be confident in faith anymore.
Cassandra hesitated before letting out a loud but clearly sincere sigh. "Very well. You have a point. I have told no one else of my suspicions, and I will continue to keep them to myself."
"That is wise. Whatever they may have done, they are not the enemy. Not at the moment. We know who the enemy is, and we cannot afford to make more enemies now that we have lost our best hope for defeating him."
Max was at the camp, and this seemed the perfect time to make his entrance. He entered the ring around the campfire where Leliana and Cassandra were talking and drew off his hood.
"If you mean me, no, we haven't. Not yet."
The village of Haven was gone. A thriving town, a site of great importance to Andrastianism, was wiped off the map—and not by Corypheus's hand, but by Max's. He feared what would come once Ferelden's leaders learned about this.
But otherwise, the situation was not nearly as bad as Max had feared. All of his companions had survived. In fact, there had been very few fatalities from any group other than those who had already fallen in battle. Even the prisoners under the Chantry, the Templar conspirators they had wanted to question, had survived. Indeed, the biggest source of regret for the Inquisition survivors was that the Herald himself apparently had not made it.
Now, he had. Yet again, he had survived, seemingly miraculously. His appearance brought out a flood of thankful prayers and exclamations.
Prayers that, once again, I can't fully share, he thought sadly, trying to get away from the strangers and people he didn't know very well. Some of his companions were cynical and cold, but he at least knew them. Their presence would be easier to take than that of people he didn't know, who saw him as some sort of successor to Andraste herself instead of the weary, doubting wretch he saw himself as now.
He didn't see Dorian Pavus among his companions, though the Qunari, Iron Bull, had settled in as if he had always been there. Max wondered if Dorian had made it. He recalled the sick person Dorian had brought with him. Perhaps that fellow, named Felix as Max recalled, was dying and Dorian wanted to be alone. If so, I shouldn't intrude—
He stumbled upon Dorian's camp by sheer accident. The man gazed up at the Herald's approach.
"You made it," he said dully. "Everyone thought you were walking off to your death."
"I thought so too," Max said, taking a seat.
"They say that the Maker Himself preserved you," Dorian said, eyeing him speculatively. It seemed to be meant as a question rather than a statement.
Max sighed. "I don't know about that. I hope so. I don't know if anyone else heard what Corypheus—the Elder One—said to me, though..."
"About being a Magister Sidereal who visited the throne of the gods and found it empty? Yes, Cullen told us." He raised a sculpted eyebrow. "Do you believe him?"
"I'm afraid not to believe him."
"Afraid not to?"
"Afraid of falling into denial, of believing and disbelieving only what I want to, rather than what reason tells me is true."
"Reason," Dorian mused, staring ahead. "What reason is there for any of this? Where is reason in anything that has happened since your Conclave?"
"The question I've been asking myself since the sky blew open."
Dorian sighed and lapsed into silence, but spoke again after a moment. "If Corypheus is telling the truth as he knows it, then obviously there is some truth to the story of the ancient magisters. It is not just a fable about the folly of pride and a warning against blood magic. But that does not mean that it is all true, you know. It does not mean that the Maker's seat was ever in the 'Golden City.' And in that case, it's just an empty site in the Fade."
Max sighed too. He tried to find hope in Dorian's words, but he was, at the moment, too afraid of falling into the deep pool of denial and clinging to false hope. His reason told him that Dorian's argument was logical, but right now, logic and reason were not the strongest functions of his mind.
"What happened to your companion?" Max asked him suddenly.
Dorian's expression darkened. "Felix is dying. He was already in the final stages of Taint when I brought him to Haven. I just knew that if he stayed with the Venatori—with his father, my mentor—that he would definitely die."
"Your mentor?" Guilt flooded Max at this. Someone at Winterwatch Tower who died because I didn't even try to save them. I just wrote them off.
"Gereon Alexius. He took up with the Venatori to try to save his son—and his dead wife. He was experimenting with magic to reverse time, but he never got it to work..." He trailed off. "It isn't your fault. You can't save everyone."
"But did you say he tried to reverse time?"
"That was the idea. It didn't work, though. He could not go back any farther than the moment the Breach opened, which wasn't enough to save either of them. The magic he was using was linked to the Fade and the Breach."
"That's fascinating nonetheless..." Max broke off. Dorian's mentor was dead, and the man's son was dying of the Taint. Now was not the time for the enthusiasm of a magical scholar. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you in peace."
"I had hoped that your Grey Warden could save him by the Warden means, but... he says he doesn't have the ingredients to do it." Dorian put his hands over his face. "It might be better just to end it quick."
Max did not know what to do except to return to the main camp. He trudged back in that direction when a pair of horses, heavy, hairy, and shod for snow, nearly knocked him over.
"Whoa there!"
Max jumped backward as the horses entered the clearing. A tall, muscular human man jumped off the first one, followed by a slender, fey elven woman who had been clinging to his back. Off the second horse dismounted a surprisingly muscular elven man. All three people hurried into the circle, where Inquisition leaders were springing to their feet to greet them.
They threw aside their cloaks, revealing blue-and-silver enameled armor. The human seemed to be the leader and spoke for them, addressing Leliana and giving a courteous nod to Max as he noticed Max's hand.
"Sister Leliana. Inquisition. Herald Trevelyan. Warden-Commander Cousland received your message, and she's sent us to assist you."
Max's eyes widened. "You're Grey Wardens?"
"I am, and so is Darrian there"—he gestured at the elven man—"Warden Tabris, I should say. Merrill isn't, but all three of us fought Corypheus the first time he showed his ugly face. Along with my sister and Varric, but he's here."
"Your sister?" Max repeated. "Who, then..."
"Oh," the man said. "I thought you knew. The name's Carver Hawke."
Notes: Terrie is a DA2 canon character. Her background is unchanged from canon up until the Mage-Templar War breaks out.
This chapter was meant to include more, but I had to cut it off here for length considerations. Next chapter, a Joining or two, Skyhold, the interrogation of Fornier, and the fallout in Kirkwall and Denerim about what just happened. Since you are reading this story, you know that I'm not having everyone on Team Anti-Corypheus play nice and forgiving with each other all the time.