It had been nearly a year since Rhys had first seen Cole.
He remembered the time well, because the White Spire had just received news of the rebellion at Kirkwall. The mages buzzed with fear, templars present in the halls in force. Amidst all that, Rhys caught rare glimpses of a stranger lurking, a young man who wasn’t running about like everyone else but instead simply . . . watched. Although this stranger was oddly dressed, Rhys didn’t give it much thought. A new apprentice, or a visitor sanctioned by the templars. No one else seemed to pay this stranger much mind, after all, so why should he? Back then strangers weren’t a common sight in the tower, but they weren’t unheard of.
Later, during a lecture in the great hall, Rhys saw him again. Sitting in the back of the chamber and watching the proceedings with a perplexed expression. The young man seemed entirely out of place, so Rhys turned to Adrian and asked who she thought he might be.
Adrian looked to where he indicated, and frowned. “Who are you talking about? There’s nobody back there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Is this a joke? What are you seeing?”
That shut Rhys up. If he was seeing something Adrian didn’t, then it was either his imagination . . . or worse. It might be a spirit, or even a demon, and that meant trouble. Still, he was a medium. If this young man was a demon, why didn’t he sense him as such?
So Rhys passed it off to Adrian as merely a misunderstanding, half convinced that was the case. Afterward he did some asking around—carefully. Had anyone seen something strange in the tower? Someone who didn’t belong? That’s when he heard about the Ghost of the Spire.
It was ridiculous, of course. Everything his research had told him said ghosts didn’t exist. At best they were spirits masquerading as the dead, or confused. When people died their souls went . . . somewhere. If the Chantry was to be believed, they went to reside with the Maker in some realm beyond the Fade. Even the spirits themselves claimed not to know, if the word of such beings could be relied upon.
Yet these rumors caused him even more concern. So he watched carefully for the young man to reappear, determined to confront him and find out for certain. Like the old saying about watched pots, waiting for a sighting of the young man meant there was suddenly no sign of him anywhere.
So Rhys went down into the Pit to look for him. That’s where anyone who mentioned this mysterious ghost agreed it could be found. If it was a spirit, Rhys owed it to his research to find why he couldn’t sense it—and owed it to himself to prove that he wasn’t being influenced by a rather clever demon.
He looked in the archives. He poked around some of the forgotten areas of the tower, even places that were technically forbidden. Just when he started to suspect the entire thing was his imagination, he had stumbled upon Cole. Or, rather, Cole had stumbled upon him.
Rhys remembered turning a corner and nearly running into the young man standing there, watching him. When Rhys spoke to him, the young man jumped as if struck. The shock of finding someone who could see him had been considerable, evidently, and it took more than a little convincing to calm him down. He’d been drawn by Rhys’s search, but never once considered that it might be because Rhys had seen him previously. He’d long ago stopped watching for other people noticing him, because it never happened.
That first conversation was . . . illuminating. According to Cole, he’d been brought in by the templars and thrown in a cell. He didn’t remember when, and he didn’t remember clearly how he got out—but now he found himself lost in a world that couldn’t see him. Rhys had never heard of such a thing. In fact, he had to touch the man to be certain that this was, in fact, a real person.
“How can you be invisible?” he’d asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But . . . people have seen you. Fleeting glimpses, anyhow. I’ve heard the stories.”
“Sometimes. I don’t know why.”
Cole’s answers were evasive. He was uncomfortable being questioned, and frightened of what Rhys was going to do with the knowledge of his presence. He begged not to be turned over to the templars, to the point of becoming frantic. Rhys had reluctantly agreed—who would believe him, after all, if he said an invisible man was stalking the tower halls? Especially if that man did not want to be seen.
So he left Cole there, promising to return in the future, and didn’t understand why the young man’s response was silent incredulity until he found him again several days later. At that point, Cole was startled once again. He said he’d managed to get people to notice him before, he could do it if he really tried. But they always forgot about him again soon after. He just slipped their mind completely, and he assumed the same would happen with Rhys.
But it didn’t. Rhys kept coming back, at first because he was intrigued by this strange puzzle. If he could figure out what was making Cole invisible, perhaps it could be undone. Perhaps there was something to be learned by this power. Rhys was no scholar, but interesting research had always attracted him—especially if it could help someone.
And Cole needed help. The young man never spoke of it, but it was obvious he was desperately lonely. As much as companionship was strange and frightening to him, the fear was never enough to keep him away. Eventually it stopped being about helping him; Rhys still wanted to find out the truth, of course, but now it was because he liked Cole. The young man was slow to talk, but had a sharp mind and a curious nature. He was also a perfect example of why the Circle didn’t work. What if mages had been there to greet his arrival at the tower, with understanding rather than fear and scorn? What if he had been made to realize his talent wasn’t terrifying, but unique and fascinating?
So they met as often as Rhys dared. They played card games by the light of a glowlamp, and Cole showed him some of the mysteries he had uncovered in the Pit—things Rhys hadn’t even suspected might be down there. They talked about anything, as long as it was inconsequential. Questions about how Cole became like he was, or even the possibility of helping him often led to him withdrawing back into the shadows.
They were discovered exactly once, by a templar guard patrolling the archives. The man came into the room unnoticed, startling them both as they mulled over a chess board. The guard stood there, staring, and then asked if Rhys always played games by himself. Rhys stuttered through an excuse that he was working out strategies, and the guard moved on with a bewildered shake of his head. Until that moment, Rhys had privately wondered if Cole wasn’t simply hard to notice, if someone presented with direct evidence would see him normally. But that wasn’t so.
And then the College of Enchanters was shut down.
With that came increased scrutiny on every mage in the tower, and thus less opportunity for Rhys to go anywhere without his absence being noted. His visits became infrequent, and when he did come he found Cole withdrawn and listless. The young man was convinced each time that Rhys had forgotten him, despite assurances to the contrary. Afterward he would be sullen, expressing a doubt that if Rhys hadn’t forgotten him now, then he no doubt soon would.
So Rhys redoubled his efforts to find an answer. His search in the archives turned up little. He considered broaching the subject with Adrian—but what would she say? What could anyone say? Ignoring the possibility of the templars discovering his secret, what advice could anyone offer regarding someone Rhys couldn’t even prove existed? Being unable to help made him feel guilty, as did the notion his visits were making Cole feel worse rather than better.
The last time Rhys came down to the Pit, he had to search for hours to locate Cole. It was unusual, because normally the young man found him first. Rhys dared not call out, instead combing the forgotten corners where Cole lived, half dreading that he might come across a lifeless body.
Eventually he found Cole in the templar crypts, perched atop a massive sarcophagus like a sad raven. The young man seemed unhealthy and pale, like he hadn’t slept for weeks. He didn’t say hello as Rhys approached, just watched warily, and then asked out of the blue if Rhys thought he was dead.
“You’re not dead,” Rhys insisted. “You’re as real as I am.”
“Maybe you’re not real. You could be a demon sent to torment me.”
“Is that what I do? Torment you?”
Haunted eyes. “Yes. No.”
Rhys reached up to touch Cole, to reassure him, but the young man only scrambled farther up the sarcophagus. “Leave me alone,” he muttered, although it didn’t sound convincing.
“Is that what you really want me to do?”
“No.”
“Cole, come with me. I need to bring you to the First Enchanter, make him see you. We can write things down, so nobody forgets. Then we can get you help. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it on my own.”
Silence.
“Don’t you want help?” he asked.
“I don’t want anyone to hurt me.” Cole was a grown man, but this was the frightened plea of a child. Rhys stood there for a long time, staring helplessly up at him.
“You could leave, you know. You don’t have to stay in the tower like I do.”
“Where would I go?”
Rhys didn’t have a good answer for that. Nowhere. Anywhere but here. If I were you I would walk past those templars, leave the tower, and go somewhere they could never find me. But he wasn’t Cole. The young man avoided the upper floors of the tower because people frightened him. The city outside the tower was an impossibility, so terrifying in its chaos that he probably couldn’t even imagine it. And what sort of life would that be, watching a world bursting full of excitement in which you could only be a spectator?
So Rhys reluctantly left him there, walking out of the crypt with a pair of eyes boring into his back. That was a month ago, and until he’d sat in the Knight-Commander’s office today he’d never once made a connection between this sad young man and the murders. The idea that he might be anything more than a victim never even entered his mind.
Now Cole crouched there before him, staring with that same sullen expression as the last time they’d met. Was Rhys in danger? He thought he’d known what this young man was capable of, but he was wrong. More than wrong; he was an idiot. Part of him clung to the notion that there must be an explanation for this.
“Tell me this isn’t true,” he demanded. “Tell me you didn’t actually kill those people, that there’s some other explanation.”
“I can’t.”
“Was it blood magic? Were you trying to . . . cure yourself with some ritual you found? Something in the archives?”
Cole looked perplexed. “I don’t know any magic.”
“Then why? Tell me that much.”
“I needed to.”
“You needed to kill them? How can—” Rhys stopped short, a terrible idea coming to him. “Was it Jeannot? Did he find you, speak to you? Did he tell you to do this?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“A mage like me, but older. Less hair. I know he comes down here . . .”
“Does he eat peaches? There’s a man who looks like that who goes to the archives. Sometimes I see him in the crypt, but only when he’s talking to the others.”
“Others? What others?”
Cole shrugged. “They talk in the dark, about boring things. He leaves peach pits on the floor. That’s how I know he goes there.”
Rhys thought about it for a moment. Secret meetings in the crypt? If Jeannot was part of that . . . then the Lord Seeker’s assumption about there being a conspiracy in the tower might not be far off. A chilling thought. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” he asked.
“I didn’t know you didn’t know. Or that you wanted to.”
“Could they have seen you? Maybe they cast a spell to force you to do these things. For all we know, they might be the ones who made you like this in the first place.”
Cole considered the idea. For over a minute he idly drew lines in the dusty floor, frowning. “They didn’t see me,” he finally said. “Nobody can see me, except for you. And the ones I . . .”
“The ones you killed.”
Cole nodded.
“Was that why you killed them? You thought they would tell the templars?”
“No. They didn’t see me until I went to them. But I knew they would.” Cole chewed his lip, an expression that Rhys had seen before whenever the man was trying to put a difficult thought into words. “Have you ever been underwater?” he finally asked.
“Of course.”
“There’s a pool in one of the lower halls. I go there sometimes.” He seemed lost in thought. “You can float when you’re underwater. If you close your eyes, it’s like you’re floating in nothing. You’re surrounded by darkness, and all you can hear is yourself. Everything else is far away.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cole sighed in frustration. “Sometimes I feel like I’m underwater, and I won’t ever get out again. I just keep sinking and sinking, and there’s no bottom. The darkness is going to swallow me up.” He stared at the floor, embarrassed. “I’m falling into the cracks between what’s real and what’s not real, and if I don’t stop myself I’ll be lost there forever. The only way I can stay is to . . .”
Rhys backed away. Just a step. He didn’t mean to do it, but Cole noticed nonetheless. The grief that twisted on his face at that realization was difficult to watch. Rhys found himself torn between fear and concern. He liked Cole, and always had, but it was too difficult to reconcile the harmless young man he knew and a murderer who had stabbed six helpless mages in the heart. “The only way you can stay,” he said, his voice small and strained, “is to kill someone?”
“I know they’ll see me,” Cole whispered. “I don’t know why, but I do. So I go to them. The moment they die, they look at me. They know I’m the one that’s killed them, and that makes me the most important thing in the world.” His face became wracked with grief again. “I’ve never been that important to anyone.” The words came out as a hoarse croak.
“And . . . being important makes you real?”
Cole looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Doesn’t it do that for you?”
Rhys didn’t know how to respond. There was a more important question that lingered in the back of his mind: Would Cole kill him, too? He could see the man, after all, just like his victims. If Cole became convinced that killing Rhys would somehow make him real, wouldn’t he do it? As much as Rhys wanted to help this young man, it was becoming clear he was delusional. He was beyond help.
“Cole,” Rhys said firmly. “You have to listen to me. You’re not going to disappear. Murdering innocent people isn’t going to change anything.”
“You don’t know that. You once said you had no idea what was wrong with me.”
Rhys stepped forward and grabbed Cole by the shoulders, lifting him to his feet. The young man’s eyes went wide in shock, but he didn’t struggle. “Cole, you have no idea what kind of trouble this has caused. Not just for me, but for all of us. They think a blood mage has been killing everyone. You have to come with me.”
“No!” Cole struggled to break free, but Rhys held him.
“We have to make them see you! Tell them whatever happened to you is affecting your mind, that it’s not your fault. I don’t know, something! This is the only way you’re ever going to get help, Cole!”
“They can’t help me!” He twisted out of Rhys’s grasp, quickly retreating to the far wall. “They won’t!” His look was one of abject terror and betrayal.
Rhys hesitated. Of course Cole was right. Even if the templars could be made to see him and not forget, they wouldn’t help. Chances are they’d consider him someone who’d fallen under the sway of a demon. The mages, meanwhile, would see someone who had murdered six of their fellows . . . and Rhys wasn’t sure he should try to convince them otherwise. Cole was sick. He killed people in order to help himself. Didn’t that deserve punishment?
He put up his hands to forestall Cole from running. “You can’t keep doing this,” he warned. “One way or another, this has to stop.”
“Please,” Cole sobbed. He looked so agonized it was difficult not to feel sorry for him. “I never meant to make you angry. I don’t want you to stop talking to me, too.”
“Then come with me.”
“I can’t!” Cole darted toward the door. Rhys lunged, but with one hand holding his staff he could only grab on to the edge of Cole’s leather jerkin with the other. It wasn’t enough, and he almost toppled over as Cole escaped into the dark hallway outside.
“Blast!” He didn’t want it to be like this. He ran after Cole and stopped just outside. His staff illuminated a passage that went straight ahead, as well as winding stairs to the right. If he remembered correctly, ahead eventually led to the dungeons, but the stairs went deeper into the Pit. Down below, there was a labyrinth of old corridors that included the templar crypts. He couldn’t see which way Cole had run, and the echoes of the man’s footsteps came from everywhere.
Rhys raced down the stairs. There would be templars at the dungeons, and while they wouldn’t see Cole, he doubted that would make a difference. He took the steps two and three at a time, careening off the stone walls each time the stairs turned. Part of him feared taking another tumble, a more serious one this time, but he didn’t care.
Finally he got to the bottom. Within moments he caught a glimpse of the young man in the distance, running as fast as he could. “Stop!” He channeled mana through his staff, unleashing a bolt of white energy that lanced down the corridor. It struck the wall near Cole, causing the stone to explode with a crack of thunder. Rocks flew everywhere.
He heard Cole cry out in fear. Rhys covered his mouth, coughing at the deluge of fresh dust, but kept running. He found the young man cowering near a pile of loose stones, with smaller ones still crumbling from the ceiling. He was filthy but otherwise unhurt. Good. Rhys hadn’t intended to kill him.
“Cole, don’t make me do this,” he shouted as he drew close, trying to catch his breath. “You have to come with me. There’s no other choice!”
Then he slowed to a halt. Cole wasn’t cowering. He was crouched low to the ground, eyes glinting dangerously. In his hands was a dagger with a jagged blade, a killing weapon. And it was clear he knew how to use it.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cole warned, his voice low and threatening.
They locked eyes, neither willing to give. It made Rhys angry, to think of all the time he had spent worrying about this young man, only to discover he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Even if Cole had never claimed to be anything else, Rhys still felt betrayed.
“Why not?” he snapped. “I can see you. Won’t killing me make you more real?” He may as well have slapped Cole across the face, considering how the man flinched at his accusing tone. Rhys didn’t regret it. He was done with coddling. “This is your last chance.” The orb on his staff crackled with white energy.
Cole’s eyes narrowed, and for just a moment Rhys thought he might attack. Then he suddenly leapt in the opposite direction. Startled, Rhys unleashed a blast from his staff, but Cole nimbly dodged to the side and it missed its mark. More rocks flew, spreading an even thicker cloud of dust, and Rhys staggered back, coughing.
When he recovered, wiping his eyes, Cole was gone. Grit trailed down from large cracks in the ceiling. He would have to be more careful—the last thing he wanted to do was cause a collapse down here. He wasn’t going to stop, however. While Rhys loathed the idea of bringing anyone to the templars, this had to be done. The only way to prove that the murders weren’t done by mages was to have Cole in hand and pray to the Maker the young man’s strange ability wouldn’t mean they’d forget he’d done so five minutes later.
Steeling his nerves, Rhys rushed through the cloud and chased after Cole. He held his staff in front of him, already channeling mana into it. He wasn’t going to miss again.
Evangeline felt exhausted. Had she stayed asleep in her chambers like she’d planned, then she wouldn’t have discovered Enchanter Rhys missing from his quarters. Not knowing would have absolved her of any responsibility to act, and chances were the mage would have been back in the morning with nobody the wiser. She knew very well how the mages snuck around this tower. Like rats they managed to sniff out every dark corner and secret passage where they could find some privacy. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t consider this an issue.
But these weren’t normal circumstances, and she did know. One last check on the sentry she’d posted in the mages’ commons and then she’d rest—that’s what she’d told herself. The man at first had stammered and insisted he hadn’t left his post, which of course meant he had. He tried to sound dismissive when he mentioned the light he’d seen on the stairs, someone carrying a torch, or so he thought. She knew right away what had happened.
After so many years of watching over their charges, one would think templars would be used to the idea that mages could use their spells to do more than fling lightning bolts. Evidently imagination wasn’t something the order could train. Considering Enchanter Rhys possessed a facility with spirits, it wasn’t difficult to piece together who was responsible.
So now she followed First Enchanter Edmonde up the long flight of stairs that led to the phylactery chamber. He lit the way with his staff, although the shadows still pressed in from all sides. The old mage stumbled on every second step, stopping to wipe the bleary fatigue from his eyes. She sympathized, but they had little alternative.
It wasn’t long before the stairs finally opened onto a foyer. A single stone room, holding only a massive vault. The door was an elaborate mechanism of dwarven construction, a series of interlocking circles made of brass and steel and other alloys Evangeline couldn’t begin to name—strong enough to withstand even the most concerted magical attack. The entire tower could be brought crashing to the ground and it would remain intact. Everything inside would be destroyed, of course, which made her wonder why they hadn’t put it underground instead. She imagined the order liked to keep the phylacteries high out of reach from the mages, like a shiny bauble dangled over a desperate child’s head.
On each side of the vault door a glass plate shimmered with a faint reddish glow. Two keys for entry: one for a templar and one for a mage. That was the only way inside, as dictated since the Circle’s inception.
A guard in templar armor stood in front of the vault, his posture so erect there was little doubt he’d been asleep only moments before. “Knight-Captain!” he saluted smartly. It deserved a reprimand, but this was the most boring post in the entire tower. It hadn’t even required a guard until after the Kirkwall rebellion; Knight-Commander Eron decided prudence demanded it. One wouldn’t normally expect the chamber to be needed in the middle of the night, even so. The guard’s lucky day, she supposed.
“Hard at work, I see?” she said as she approached.
“Yes, ser!” The guard blinked hard, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had the soft face of one noble-born, some second or third son from a forgotten corner of the Empire who no doubt despised the fact that rising within the order wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped.
“Stand aside.” She waved her hand at him irritably; he almost yelped as he scrambled out of her way. She turned to the First Enchanter beside her. “Shall we?”
The mage looked almost as if he’d topple over from exhaustion. “Is this really necessary, Ser Evangeline?”
“One of your people is missing, the night after an attempt on the Divine’s life. It was also not long after we questioned him regarding the murders. I think that warrants suspicion, don’t you?”
“Questioned, but not accused.”
“If you prefer, we can wake Lord Seeker Lambert and ask for his opinion.”
The First Enchanter’s shoulders sank. Letting out a laborious sigh, he shuffled over to the plate on one side of the vault and placed his hand on it. The red light reacted to his touch, shifting and swirling until it became blue. Nodding, she strode to the other, removing her gauntlet and touching her bare hand to it. She channeled power through her skin; it tingled as the plate slowly changed to blue as well.
The vault began to shudder, letting out a resounding groan that echoed throughout the chamber. Gears turned, and the metallic circles that were part of the door began to slide in different directions. She watched, fascinated, as each layer slowly lined up one by one . . . until the lock emitted one final clank and was done. A small panel in the center of the door slid open, revealing a handle.
She marched over to it, waving at the gawking templar to stand back, and pulled. The entire door opened far more easily than its weight suggested, making so little sound its great hinges might have been oiled yesterday rather than centuries ago. Those dwarves certainly knew their business.
The windowless chamber inside was enormous. It contained six great pillars that reached to the very top of the ceiling, five around the edges of the room with the largest in the center. Each pillar was lined with delicate glass vials and encircled by a metal staircase. Each of those vials held but a few drops of blood, taken from every mage as they were inducted into the Circle, and imbued with magic that made the blood glow. They made it seem as if the pillars were covered in glittering, dark jewels, and collectively the vials suffused the entire chamber in a ghastly crimson pallor. The color of forbidden things.
Evangeline had always disliked this room. The vials emitted a vibration you felt more than heard. The sensation built and built the longer you remained, until it almost drove you mad. In her mind, the phylacteries were too similar to blood magic—but since the templars found it useful, it was permitted. A bit of hypocrisy in the name of the greater good.
First Enchanter Edmonde stood next to her, staring up at the pillars with obvious distaste. He rubbed his forehead with a withered hand, and then noticed her watching. “Rhys is a good lad,” he said, as if replying to a question.
“Would you have said the same of Jeannot?”
“No, although I doubt you’d believe me now.”
“You’re right.” She walked to the large central pillar, touching the metal stairs that twisted around it to make sure they were solid. It seemed impossible they would hold the weight of a person all the way to the very top, but they had never once so much as wobbled beneath her. Still, for her own peace of mind she tested it every time.
Evangeline climbed carefully. She noticed a number of the vials had stopped glowing. Usually that meant the mage it belonged to was dead. She would have to remember to suggest the Tranquil clear out the defunct vials, an undertaking that was long overdue. Although who would she tell? The Lord Seeker? She had her doubts the man was interested in simple matters like the tower’s day-to-day administration.
Enchanter Rhys’s vial was about halfway up. She checked the runic marking over it against the record to make sure. It occurred to her to wonder if the Tranquil record-keepers were ever wrong. They were inhumanly methodical, and their passive nature made them reliable—but did the templars trust them too much? All of them had once been mages, and while they harbored no emotions, she wondered if it was possible for a Tranquil ever to turn against them.
The Chantry had always claimed it could never happen. But once upon a time the Chantry had considered the idea of a mage rebellion unthinkable as well.
“So are we mages now confined to our chambers?” the First Enchanter called up to her. “Traditionally we have always been given the run of the tower. You cannot squeeze people into a smaller and smaller box and hope they will disappear.”
“Or there will be a rebellion? As in Kirkwall?” She allowed more annoyance into her voice than she intended. As she descended the stairs, blood vial in hand, she tried to keep her temper under control. “Conditions were harsh there, I’ll grant you that. Considering all that’s happened, I’d hope even you might agree it’s not the same thing.”
He shrugged. “An attack on the Divine was foolish, without a doubt. All I ask is that we not all pay for one man’s crime.”
Evangeline reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to him. “Perhaps Enchanter Rhys is not involved after all. What if he is being stabbed right now, to cover up someone else’s guilt? The templars are here to protect mages, whether you like it or not.”
“Even if it kills us?” The man absently waved away her immediate retort. “I apologize for that. It is late. You have what you need?”
“I do.”
“Then let us be off.”
They walked out of the chamber, and Evangeline allowed the First Enchanter to go on his way. He ambled down the main stairwell without further comment while the guard meekly shut the vault behind her. He was clearly torn between wanting to pretend nothing had happened and sucking up to a superior officer. She planned on letting him sweat.
She held up the phylactery vial and studied it. Now let’s see where you got off to, she thought. Concentrating, she channeled a bit of power into it. The crimson glow of the blood pulsated and then slowly intensified.
Still in the tower, then. That was a start.
Evangeline walked down the stairs, keeping an eye on the vial. The lower she went, the brighter the glow became. It wouldn’t tell her in which direction Enchanter Rhys lie, but it would tell her if she got close—and as she descended past the levels where the mages kept their chambers, she realized he was lower still. Definitely a secret passage, then, unless the sentry had wandered farther from his post than he claimed.
She continued to move through the dark halls of the tower, the phylactery’s eerie glow lighting her way. The inner courtyard was empty, devoid of the templars who spent their time training. The chapel was silent, with only the Eternal Flame in the holy brazier to indicate it was ever used at all. She was utterly alone, with only her echoing footsteps to keep her company.
Eventually the vial led her down to the Pit. Not unexpected, really. If the man was as close as the glow indicated, and wasn’t on the mage levels, then this is where he’d be.
The first thing she did was head to the dungeons. Not because she expected to find Rhys there—unsurprisingly, the phylactery agreed with her assumption—but because she wasn’t about to start wandering around in the dark looking for a potentially dangerous mage without telling someone. Her encounter at the ball had reminded her that even one mage could make a formidable opponent.
The dungeons were a morbid place. A relic from a time when this tower did not belong to the Chantry at all, but instead served as the ruling fortress of Emperor Kordillus Drakon. It was he who had founded the Chantry, during a time of great upheaval when cultists were everywhere and magic ravaged the lands. Once, she supposed, these dungeons had been full, and the ancient torture chambers had seen regular use. She shuddered at the thought that those devices might ever be dusted off once again.
It could come to that, if the mages pushed it. Evangeline wasn’t foolish enough to imagine otherwise, and hopefully neither were they.
The two templars at the dungeon’s guard station were playing cards, and she shook her head as they started to rise. “Up late, Knight-Captain?” one of them asked.
“I’m looking for a missing mage.” She indicated the vial.
“We haven’t seen anything.”
“No, I don’t suppose the dungeons would be his first destination,” she chuckled wryly. “But I wanted to let you know before I headed farther into the Pit. Just in case.”
The men exchanged significant glances. “Expecting trouble? Want one of us to come along?”
“No. Check the cells. Make sure everyone is still in one piece.” Evangeline turned to go, but then paused as she noticed the other templar looking anxious. “Something on your mind, ser?” she asked.
The man guiltily ducked the glare from his companion. “Err . . . there’s been noises. From below, I mean.”
“What sorts of noises?”
“Just the usual,” the other insisted.
Now she was interested. She crossed her arms and arched a questioning brow at them both. “What constitutes ‘the usual,’ exactly? It’s been some time since I pulled guard duty in the dungeons. It could, however, be the first of many for some.”
“Now, listen here.” The templar put his hands up defensively. “There’s all sorts of noises in an old place like this. You hear them down below. Things break apart, or something gets in from the sewers. If you go chasing after every single thing you hear, you’ll spend all night running around in the dark.”
“Could be the Ghost of the Spire,” the other suggested, a bit sheepishly.
Evangeline rolled her eyes. She’d heard that rumor, the sort of nonsense spouted by mages. She wouldn’t expect that from a templar. The possibility that such a “ghost” could be a demon, particularly if there were blood mages in the tower, made it somewhat less of a joke. In fact, it might be something she had to take quite seriously.
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.