by David Gaider
She left the dungeons, moving urgently now.
She was still finding her way to the lower passages, unfamiliar with the area, when she heard the first strange sound. A distant blast, like thunder . . . or an explosion. She ran faster, racing down a flight of stairs, drawing her blade at the same time. Then she heard something different: a sharp, electric crack. Spells were being cast.
What in the Maker's name was going on down there? A battle?
Evangeline raced through the corridors, holding the phylactery in front of her to judge its brightness. Twice she had to double back when she encountered a dead end, and then a third time when she realized the passage wasn't going in the direction she needed it to. She swore under her breath, half directed at herself for not waking the entire tower when this business began and the other half at whichever idiots thought the bowels of a tower were an excellent place to build a labyrinth. The order should have sealed off these parts of the Pit centuries ago.
Then she entered the templar crypts and saw him. Enchanter Rhys stood next to one of the larger sarcophagi, the statue over it having tumbled to the ground and shattered in a hundred pieces. Dust hung in the air, along with the acrid stench of smoke. The mage himself was filthy, smeared with dirt and grime, and was that blood on his face? His staff crackled with brilliant energy, ready for the attack.
"Stand down, mage!" she cried, brandishing her sword. "This is your one and only warning!"
Rhys jumped at her voice and spun around. She half expected a fight, but as soon as he recognized her the brilliant light around his staff faded. He offered a wry grin. "Why, hello, Ser Evangeline. What brings you to this part of the Pit?"
"The noise. And a missing mage."
He nodded, more seriously this time. "I suppose that was inevitable."
Somehow he managed to be handsome even under the grime. It was the eyes, she thought. They were a warm brown, kind like her father's. With any other eyes, a man with such chiseled features and dark beard might look cold, or even sinister. It made him difficult to judge. Certainly, the way he had stood up to the Lord Seeker said something of his courage . . . or his foolhardiness.
She advanced on him. "Mind telling me what you're doing?"
For a moment she thought he might actually tell her. It was clear he was considering it, frowning thoughtfully. But then he shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Wouldn't I?" She got as close as she dared, her extended sword just short of touching him. He glanced down at it, but his posture remained relaxed. It wouldn't be a battle, then. That was good. "What am I expected to think? The Lord Seeker questioned you and then you sneak down here to . . . what? Demolish the crypt? Work out some anger?"
"Not exactly, no."
"You were fighting someone. Who?"
Evangeline was watching him carefully, and caught him glancing toward a dark corner on the far side of the crypt. She followed his gaze but saw nothing there except stone slabs, scorch marks, and smoke. He'd definitely been casting spells at . . . something.
"Do you see anyone for me to fight?" he asked, his tone evasive.
She paused. It was possible that whoever he'd been fighting had run off. She'd come through the only entrance, but for all she knew there were a dozen secret passages leading out of here. Still . . . something didn't seem right. "No. I don't." She lowered her blade slightly. "But that's hardly an answer."
The mage said nothing, and absently wiped his cheek. There was definitely a gash there amid the dirt, and when he pulled his hand away he seemed startled to see the blood. "Well," he said lightly, as if this were a casual conversation they might be having in the tower halls. "What are you going to do now?"
"You leave me no choice. It's a cell for you, until I figure this out."
"A cell? I don't know that—"
Evangeline didn't give him time to finish. She lunged forward, twisting her sword around so she could strike him in the back of the head with the pommel. He was taken completely by surprise, and went down like a sack of potatoes. His staff winked out, leaving only the crimson light of her vial.
She stood over him, keeping her sword ready as she scanned the rest of the crypt. There had to be something here, but she saw only the smoke rising from the fallen statue and a cloud of dust wafting through the air. Everything else was still, literally as silent as the grave.
Maker's breath, man! What were you doing?
Was that movement she caught out of the corner of her eye? Tightening her grip on the sword, she crept over to the corner of the crypt. She looked carefully at the spaces between each sarcophagus, searched the shadows for someone hiding.
Nothing.
She shuddered. There were too many statues in here, of men dead so long their names had faded even from their epitaphs. And there was too much talk of ghosts. It left her stomach in knots, and she hated that. Fear was not something she could fight.
Evangeline walked back to the unconscious Enchanter Rhys. Sheathing her sword, she heaved him with difficulty over her shoulder and walked out. As she left, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She couldn't escape the feeling she was being watched.
Chapter 5
Rhys awoke in the dark, with no idea where he was.
First there was agony, a throbbing pain that threatened to split his head apart. Then panic followed, until he remembered Ser Evangeline's threat. His hands were manacled. His nostrils filled with the sour stench of sweat. He was in the tower's dungeon, without even a blanket to keep him warm.
He lay there for what must have been hours, shivering and almost sick from nausea. Fitful sleep came and went. When Ser Evangeline finally appeared, he was almost delirious. It could have been weeks he was down there, for all he knew, and he was startled when she tersely informed him it had been little more than a day.
Questions followed. What had Rhys been doing in the lower levels? How did he get there? Who were his accomplices? All of them elaborations on what she'd asked in the crypt, only now was his last chance to answer. He remained silent; the time to answer those questions had passed. Even if he thought the templars had any chance of believing the truth, which he didn't, such a strange story would now only seem like a deception to save his skin.
And it was obvious what she was looking for: a confession that he'd gone to the crypt to meet with Libertarian conspirators. He almost asked her what conspirators those might be— were there any other mages missing from their rooms that night? Perhaps she thought he was in league with templars. There was a chilling thought. If only there were a lie he could spin that she might accept.
In the end, she shook her head in disgust and walked out. He almost begged her for water first— but what was the point? Dying of thirst would probably be a mercy compared to what they had in store for him.
So there was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. Time passed slowly in the dark. The ache in his head eventually faded, replaced by a new one in his stomach. He chafed at the manacles and struggled to find a comfortable position on the stone floor. Sometimes he slept but didn't dream. Other times he just lie there, alone with his bitter thoughts.
Would Cole come for him? There he was, someone who could see him, now bound and helpless. The templars would assume his death the act of mages trying to keep from being named. Would Cole even know the manacles prevented Rhys from casting proper spells? He might be able to summon a spirit, perhaps he might even be able to open the door. But what then? The only way out was past a guarded hall filled with ancient traps that could skewer him instantly.
Each time Rhys opened his eyes he expected to see Cole crouched across the cell, staring with his sad and haunted eyes. There were moments Rhys was sure he would react in terror. Others he felt nothing but rage, and longed to yell at the young man for getting him into this mess. I wish I'd never seen you, he wanted to say. T en, in the darkest moments when he lie there starving and thirsty, he wondered if he wouldn't be glad. A friendly face, come to save him
from a fate worse than death.
After those moments he wept, and tried to banish such thoughts from his head.
The smart thing to do would have been to walk away when Cole refused to go with him to the templars. Just go back up the stairs and hope for the best. But what if Cole killed again? The templars would see their fears confirmed, and everyone in the tower would suffer.
In fact, that could still happen. It was only a matter of time. What ever they did to him, eventually Adrian would be next . . . and any other mage in the tower to whom their suspicion turned. Perhaps he should tell them the truth. If they were going to kill him anyhow, what did he have to lose?
But perhaps they wouldn't kill him. They might make him Tranquil. What would it be like to walk through life, never caring about anything? To be safe and content, knowing what had been done to you but never caring? Would he tell them about Cole? Confess everything he knew without concern for what they might do with that information?
How dare they. No evidence. No trial. Just suspicion and finding him in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that was enough to erase him from all existence? All because they feared what he might be capable of?
Defiance warmed his heart a little; in that cold cell, it was a sort of comfort. Let them come. Let Cole come. He would summon what magic he could and fight, consequences be damned.
By the time the door opened again, he felt ready. He lay in wait, a kernel of magic he had painstakingly gathered nestled deep in his heart and waiting to explode.
"Enchanter Rhys," the templar at the door stated. The man's voice sounded bored, and he tossed down a small pile of folded cloth. "Get dressed. I'm to take you to the bath."
Rhys wasn't certain what to make of that. "The . . . bath?"
"You're being released."
"How long has it been?"
"Since you got put in here? Four days. Now hurry up." The man spun on his heel and left, the door staying open. Rhys blinked several times, not quite believing it. Four days? It felt like a week, if not longer, though without food or water he probably would have died by then. He tried to hold on to his anger, but it drained away like sand through his fingers. For what ever reason, they were letting him out.
He exchanged his dirt- encrusted robe for the new one, and edged out into the hall. He heard men talking and even laughing down at the guard station, so he walked toward them. It was, without a doubt, the most surreal stroll of his life. There were three templars in the room, drinking cups of wine, and they looked over at him as if nothing were amiss.
"Water on the table," the guard who released him said. "Food, too."
Rhys looked to where the man nodded, and saw a pewter mug along with a bowl of stew. The smell of the meat lured him closer, and before he knew it he was digging into the meal with a vengeance. It was cold, practically congealed, but he didn't care. He shoved it into his mouth so fast he almost gagged, but it was still the best meal he could remember. The water poured down his throat like ambrosia.
And then he keeled over, his stomach protesting violently. Kneeling on the ground he clutched at his guts while the men laughed. Eventually the pain went away and the guard hauled him up by the shoulder. "Come on," the man chuckled, not without sympathy.
It wasn't long before Rhys found himself in a small room elsewhere in the tower, sunlight streaming in through a window. It hurt his eyes, and it was all he could do to blink at the pain and wonder what he was doing there. T rough the door he could hear water being poured into a tub, and smelled the bath salts. A sense of foreboding came over him. He felt like a lamb being prepared for the slaughter.
Moments later, a young elven woman entered. She wore a simple grey robe, and he immediately noticed the pale sunburst mark on her forehead. A Tranquil, then. "If you are prepared," she said in a monotone voice, "the water is ready."
She held out a slender hand, but he didn't take it. "Does . . . it hurt?" he asked.
"The water will not harm you."
"No, the . . ." Rhys gestured at the mark. It seemed like it might be a personal question to ask, but then he reminded himself that a Tranquil couldn't take offense. Still, that seemed like a poor excuse. Considering he had been around the Tranquil his entire life in the tower, as they performed every menial and administrative function, he should be more comfortable in their presence. He never was, nor were most mages he knew. Most often they tried to pretend the Tranquil were a part of the background, and hadn't once been just like themselves.
The elven woman blinked, and tilted her head in what might have been confusion. He couldn't really tell. "The Rite of Tranquility," she stated. "I am not permitted to speak of it. You know this."
"If I'm going to be made like you, I want to know."
"I am not preparing you for the Rite. You are to be brought to a gathering of mages in the great hall." She turned and glided into the other room, and he numbly followed after her. "The Lord Seeker requested that you be cleaned, so that is what I am here to assist you with."
Sure enough, the other room contained several brass tubs, one of which was now filled with steaming water. He'd never seen the place before, so he imagined it must be in the templar quarters. How bizarre. He turned to the elf, stunned. "I'm free? Just like that?" he asked.
"I have no knowledge to offer regarding this."
He only hesitated a moment before removing his robe and stepping into the water. Modesty was another thing the Tranquil would have no use for. She watched him with blank eyes and handed him a towel once he was immersed. He mumbled thanks, trying not to stare at her forehead, and she walked toward the door.
She stopped and turned to look at him. "If I felt pain," she said softly, "it is meaningless to me now. Once I knew only fear, but now I know only ser vice. What ever pain there was, I believe it an acceptable trade."
The Tranquil left. Though Rhys sat in near- scalding water, he felt a chill race through his heart.
An hour later he was in the great hall. The massive chamber stood in a structure not within the White Spire but instead attached to its lowest floor. It served as the tower's main entrance; through here kings and queens had been brought before the man who later became the first Emperor of Orlais. The throne had long since been removed, of course, but the palatial arches and stained glass windows served as a reminder of that glorious past. Now it was a testament to the power of the templar order, and on the rare occasion when the mages were allowed to gather here they could not avoid being reminded of it by their surroundings.
The hall itself was incredibly long, the floor made of glistening marble in a black and grey checkered pattern. On either side stood rows of chairs, but all were currently empty. Instead, everyone milled about in the middle of the room, clumping in groups and talking excitedly. As near as Rhys could tell there were more than several hundred mages here, even the youngest apprentices. The entire complement of the tower's Circle of Magi.
He stood at the entrance, staring in amazement. They weren't due for another assembly for at least a month, and with the attack on the Divine he would have assumed the templars would forbid even that.
Then he saw a familiar shock of red curls as Adrian made a beeline toward him from the crowd. "They let you out of the dungeon?" she asked as she drew near. "That's a bit of a surprise."
He grinned at her. "My sparkling personality won them over."
"Oh, I'll just bet."
Rhys gestured at the other mages, some of whom were surreptitiously glancing his way. "So, this is interesting. Mind telling me why the entire Circle's here?"
"I thought you might know. It's a mystery."
"Oh, I like mysteries! An announcement, maybe?"
"That was my thought. The Lord Seeker wishes to address us, perhaps?" She smirked. "Or gather us all into one spot. Less work for the templars to slaughter us that way."
"You have to admire their sense of efficiency."
Adrian chuckled mirthlessly, then took his arm in hers and led him into the hall. Their footste
ps echoed loudly on the marble, drawing curious looks from those present. She seemed oblivious to it, but Rhys was a little uncomfortable. Did the others think he was responsible for what was happening? How much had they been told? Evidently reading his thoughts, Adrian leaned in close as they walked. "You've been the talk of the tower. The First Enchanter said you'd gone missing, but that was it. The templars refused to tell us anything."
"Then how did you know I was in the dungeon?"
"We raised a ruckus, of course, and I led the charge. There was a whole group of us staring down the templars. They had their swords out and everything. You missed the excitement."
"All that for me? How touching."
"I wasn't going to let you vanish, only to turn up Tranquil in a few weeks. Not without proof you'd even done anything." Adrian scowled, a look she normally reserved for whenever she paid someone a grudging compliment. "First Enchanter Edmonde backed us up. He was there with all the senior enchanters, demanding to speak to the Lord Seeker."
Rhys merely nodded, a bit speechless. He could joke all he wanted, but the idea that the other mages would defend him even at the risk of their own safety was daunting. Would he have done the same in their shoes? He liked to think so. "So what happened?" he finally asked.
"Ser Evangeline showed up." Adrian rolled her eyes at the name. She could never keep her feelings about anyone secret, templars least of all. "She ordered her men to stand down, and told us you'd snuck out of your room in the middle of the night. Went down to the Pit, maybe even got into some kind of battle." She paused as they reached the center of the hall, looking at Rhys with guarded curiosity. "It's . . . not true, is it?"
Ah, so here it was. He noticed there were a few others nearby who halted in the middle of their conversations, pretending not to listen even though they clearly were. Adrian was dying to know the truth. They all were. "It's true," he admitted.