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. Then, 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. Whatever 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 whatever 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. Through 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 service. Whatever 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 footsteps 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.
“Which part?”
“I went down to the Pit,” he said carefully. “I needed to find someone. I got caught, and that was the end of it.”
“You needed to find someone.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Fine, then. Don’t tell me.” Adrian pulled him forward again, sternly silent. Rhys couldn’t blame her for being angry. If anyone would believe him about Cole, she would, but what then? She would be determined to do something—even if she had no idea what that might be. As much as he longed to be able to talk about it, getting Adrian mixed up in his mess would just make things worse for her and everyone else.
He looked around, hoping to spot the First Enchanter in the crowd. He felt as if he should go and thank the man, or at least apologize for putting him to so much trouble. The idea behind finding Cole, after all, was to spare the Circle from suffering—not to instigate more of it. But he couldn’t see the man anywhere.
Finally Adrian got to her destination: a small group of senior enchanters, all of whom Rhys recognized. Members of the tower’s Libertarian fraternity—except for Jeannot, of course. One of them, an elven man with long black hair and the strange alien eyes typical of his kind, nodded grimly as they approached. Garys had been the unofficial leader of the fraternity before Adrian effectively supplanted him—not through any scheming, of course, but by virtue of the fact she couldn’t not be the leader and still have things done her way.
Consequently, Garys cared little for either of them. Rhys felt the same in return; Garys was one of the reasons he’d never much associated with the White Spire’s Libertarians except through Adrian. “Good to have you back,” the elf said. It didn’t sound sincere.
“Oh, I was going to stay in the cells a little longer, but who could miss this? An assembly, already? Exciting!” He chuckled inwardly as the elf’s jaw clenched in irritation.
Adrian folded her arms, frowning severely. “It seems Ser Evangeline was telling the truth. He snuck out of his chambers that night, just like she said.”
Garys raised his eyebrows in surprise. “More the fools us for defending you, then. What would possess you to do such a thing? And why would they let you out at all afterward?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Just what did you tell them?”
“He didn’t tell them anything,” Adrian insisted. Then she glanced at Rhys, suddenly uncertain. “You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“That wouldn’t stop you from making something up,” Garys growled.
Rhys shrugged. “I didn’t give the templars a reason to blame the Libertarians, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The elf appeared unconvinced, but Adrian waved the idea away. “It doesn’t matter. We’re together now, and we need to talk about what our next step is. If we sit back and do nothing, they’ll end up pinning the attack on the Divine on us. You know they will.”
“That depends,” Garys said. He turned to Rhys. “The Libertarians stood behind you, and perhaps that’s what got you released. What I want to know is whether you’ll return the favor? You’ve never truly been part of the fraternity, I know that. . . . But will you stand with us now?”
There was a tone to the elf’s voice that gave Rhys pause. He glanced around and noticed only other Libertarians close by. The fraternity was planning something, perhaps something serious. They wanted his help, or they wanted to test him. Either way it made for a dangerous conversation, particularly in the middle of the great hall.
It also made Rhys wonder. Had they been involved in the attempt on the Divine, and not told him? Was Adrian part of it? It seemed unlikely, as she was terrible at keeping secrets, and yet . . .
Adrian looked at him expectantly, as did the others. “Well?” she asked.
Thankfully, fate intervened before he could say anything. The din of conversation in the hall suddenly increased. The mages moved to the seats on either side of the chamber, their steps a clatter of loud echoes that made it difficult to talk. Rhys saw one of the Tranquil circulating among the groups, quietly urging everyone to clear the floor.
“It seems our time is up,” Garys muttered.
“We can speak later,” Adrian said. “Provided this isn’t the Lord Seeker’s way of telling us what new privileges we’re having revoked, and we’re all to be locked in our rooms.” She strode quickly toward a pair of open chairs—in the front row, of course—and waved for Rhys to follow. He did so, leaving Garys to scowl with the other Libertarians.
It wasn’t long before a sudden hush descended. First Enchanter Edmonde had appeared. He wore ceremonial robes: thick black brocade with a golden border, as well as a mantle of white fur that looked heavy enough to bear him to the ground. The man favored his staff, each tap ringing loudly on the marble. As everyone quieted, the tapping became the only sound in the chamber. By the time the First Enchanter reached the center of the hall, he had everyone’s rapt attention.
He looked about, and initially didn’t say anything. The weariness in his posture was just as pronounced as in the Knight-Commander’s office. “I am pleased,” he began, his voice barely audible, “that you have all attended this assembly, and that you are well. These are dangerous times, my friends, and I would not wish to see us adding to the strife. Our gifts can do so much good, if we only allow it . . .”
He trailed off into silence, closing his eyes. Nobody dared to speak, and the only sounds in the entire hall were a few uncomfortable coughs. When the man opened his eyes again, he raised a hand and nodded. “I know, I know. I am old, and here I find myself your leader with so very little to say. Would that I could do better.” He turned toward the doors. “There is, however, someone who may have the words I do not.”
All eyes turned to the doors. An elderly woman walked in, but whereas the First Enchanter had been worn down by his years, she carried hers with pride. She wore a robe of blue silk and a regal white cloak that swept along the floor behind her. Her grey hair was tied up into a matronly bun, but it was easy to see she had once been a beautiful woman. Now she might be called handsome, her face carrying the careworn maturity of one accustomed to power.
This woman needed no introduction, for every mage in the hall knew of her: Wynne, archmage and hero of the Blight in Ferelden nine years before. Despite this, she received no hero’s welcome here. There was a smattering of polite applause, but most of the crowd was shocked into silence. It was she, after all, who had led the College of Enchanters to vote against independence from the Chantry prior to its closure. There were many here who believed that made her a traitor.
Rhys groaned inwardly. Of all the people he might have expected to see walk through that door, she was the very last. He would rather it have been the Lord Seeker. Anyone but her.
“Can you believe it?” Adrian hissed in his ear.
“Not really, no.”
Wynne ignored the tension in the hall, instead nodding politely to the First Enchanter as he withdrew. Her cool gaze swept across the audience, perhaps sizing it up or silently daring those who resented her presence to speak up. None did. Rhys thought her eyes lingered on him, and he did his best to avoid meeting them. Then she raised her white staff high over her head. With a blinding flash, an arc of lightning raced out of it toward the vaulted ceiling. It was followed by a thunderclap that reverberated throughout the chamber, rattling the stained glass windows.
The audience gasped, and many threw their hands over their heads in anticipation of the roof caving down upon them. Nothing happened. Wynne lowered her staff, regarding those seated with a stern expression. “That is our power,” she intoned. “We may unleash great destructive force, or we may control it. It is a choice we must make wisely, for this power can bring great suffering to others.”
She paused, raising her free hand. Her fingers moved in an elaborate pattern as she cast a spell, and slowly a spirit began to manifest. It had a vaguely humanoid shape, as if knitted together from gossamer strands of light. The spirit hovered in the air beside her, bewildered, and Wynne held her hand out toward it. Her fingers passed through its form, leaving ripples in their wake. Her expression was tender, almost motherly.
“And then there are times when that choice is taken away from us.” She waved her hand and the spirit blinked out of existence. “There are spirits far less benign than that one, and should they force their way into your mind, you will become a creature of chaos.” She took a few steps toward the apprentices’ side of the hall, looking straight at a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve. The lad shied away uneasily. “Even the most innocent among us could become a terror, and there is no way to know who will fall.”
Sadness crossed her face, and she turned away. Facing the rest of the audience again, her tone softened. “If I tell you things you already know, it is because we forget how very remarkable we are. We forget the reasons others have to fear us, and that they are good ones. We see only the harsh restrictions placed upon us, and they seem very unfair indeed.”
Rhys heard the susurrus of angry whispers around him. Beside him, Adrian was livid. He could all but feel the grinding of her teeth as she kept herself from exploding. He felt his own temper stirring as well, try as he might to suppress it.
“What is our alternative?” Wynne continued. She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Shall we ask to watch over ourselves, without the Chantry’s help? Ask the people of Thedas to trust that we would not repeat the mistakes of the Tevinter magisters, mistakes that have brought the world to the very end of destruction on more than one occasion?”
She held her white staff in front of her now, and a fiery aura blazed into life around it. “Or shall we fight?” The aura intensified until it shone so brilliantly Rhys was forced to look away. Others did the same. “We stand up against our oppressors and show them their error in underestimating us!” The light suddenly died, and at that the hall became deathly quiet. “To what end?” she whispered. “Even if we could kill them all, it would change nothing.
“I counsel patience, now just as I did a year ago at the College of Enchanters. Yes, things must change . . . but if we do not show ourselves willing to bend, how can we expect those who fear us to do so?”
“Patience!” a new voice cried out, the echoes ringing throughout the hall. Rhys was startled to discover it was his own. He was standing, fists clenched at his sides, and now a hundred robes rustled as all eyes turned toward him. So, too, did Wynne regard him with a curious lift to her brow.
“Have you something to add, Enchanter?” she asked.
He was sick of the theatrics. This woman lecturing them like they should be grateful for their treatment . . . it filled him with rage. Even so, he hadn’t planned on speaking. This was the second time he’d let his temper get the better of him: once with the Lord Seeker and now this. If he were smart, he’d mumble an excuse and sit back down.
Still. That would mean giving in.
“I do,” he finally said. Adrian stared at him in shock, but also amusement. It was she, after all, who had a reputation as a troublemaker. Gritting his teeth, he pushed on. “Who are you to counsel patience? You have more freedoms than any of us. You’re not locked into a tower, herded into your chambers at night like a child. Nobody’s threatening you with the Rite of Tranquility for stepping out of line. It’s easy to be patient when you haven’t been through what we have this last year!”
There was a smattering of applause, most prominently from Adrian and the other Libertarians, but he heard opposition as well. Several voices rose in complaint, while others argued; the general level of noise began to escalate. Wynne raised a hand, and slowly the talk quieted.
“I do have freedoms,” she admitted. “They were earned through years of service, and as a reward for my part in defeating the darkspawn. I worked to gain the trust of the Chantry; I did not expect it to fall into my lap.”
“And what have we done to be denied that trust, those who have spent our entire lives doing everything asked of us? Why are we all held accountable for the mistakes of a few?”
The applause was louder this time. The First Enchanter appeared, approaching Wynne with a look of concern, but she shook her head. “What would you have them do?” she asked Rhys, speaking over the general babble. “Argue over procedure while the tower falls around them? We are all in the same boat, young man, and it behooves everyone to paddle, lest the current carry us away.”
Rhys was going to respond, but a warning look from the First Enchanter made him change his mind. It didn’t matter anyhow. Mages on both sides of the hall had leapt from their chairs, booing or shouting angrily. Others were determinedly clapping in support of Wynne, or arguing with her detractors. The entire chamber was erupting in a cacophony of noise.
Wynne regarded the reaction with an air of resignation. First Enchanter Edmonde whispered something into her ear. Whatever he asked of her, she reluctantly agreed and turned to leave. Everyone was so caught up in their arguments they barely noticed her departure.
Beside Rhys, Adrian stood up. She wasn’t taking part in the arguments, and instead marveled at it all with a bemused expression. “Not bad,” she commented. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Yes, well, apparently my mouth has a mind of its own.”
“I like your mouth. It should do more of your talking for you.”
Rhys watched in disgust as two mages started shoving each other nearby. One was a Libertarian, while the other was part of the Loyalist fraternity—“Chantry apologists,” as some liked to call them, for they advocated obedience to the Chantry and bitterly opposed all attempts at independence. He winced when the men started knocking over chairs, drawing others into the fray.
“Well, don’t look now, but the fun’s about to end.” Adrian indicated the main doors, and he looked just in time to see templars storm in. There were at least a dozen, swords in hand, already shouting at the top of their lungs for everyone to return to their quarters.
The younger apprentices, most of whom had watched the goings-on with wide eyes, immediately scrambled to obey. The others were slower to react, so the templars began wading into the stands to force their point. They grabbed whoever was nearest, roughly hauling them down to the floor area. This prompted general chaos; the mages began abandoning the seating area all at once, some fleeing while others angrily accosted the templars in defense of their fellows.
The tension seemed at the point of turning into something ugly. Rhys held his breath, half expecting someone to cast a spell—a single spark of flame, even a staff pointed in the wrong direction, and that would be the end of it. The templars would be forced to act, and there would be bloodshed.
But it didn’t happen. With excruciating slowness, order was restored. Rhys remained where he was with a handful of the senior enchanters, all of them watching the proceedings with dismay. Adrian shook her head. “Shall we go, before the templars drag us out as well?”
He nodded. More of them were arriving, and the mages were allowing themselves to be herded out. The shouting had given way to a sullen hush, marked only by the clatter of footsteps on the marble. As Rhys and Adrian made their way through the thick crowd at the doors, they were intercepted by an aged Tranquil in grey robes.
“Enchanter Rhys?” the man asked.
“That’s me.”
“The Lord Seeker has asked for your attendance in his office. I’m to take you there immediately.”
Rhys exchanged a wary glance with Adrian. That was quick. Considering that he hadn’t expected to be let out of the cell, being thrown back in—or worse—wasn’t exactly a shocking prospect.
“I’m going with you,” Adrian vowed. He could tell from her tone there wouldn’t be any arguing with her.
“Your funeral.”
The long walk back to the Knight-Commander’s office, now the Lord Seeker’s office, felt more like a death march. As they ascended into the upper levels things became quiet, like a shroud had descended over the entire tower. The tension was palpable. None of the templars they passed said a word, and the Tranquil was content to silently lead the way.
Rhys leaned in close to whisper to Adrian as they walked. “If they decide to punish me, I want you to promise you won’t try to stop them.”
“Are you mad? Of course I will.”
“And give them an excuse to punish you, too? You can’t help me, Adrian, and you can’t help the rest of the mages from inside the dungeons.”
She frowned but said nothing, and avoided his persistent looks afterward.
It wasn’t long before they were in the office foyer once again. Twice in a single week—that had to be a record. The large window was wide open this time, letting in a breeze laced with sour smells from the city below. It also admitted the late autumn chill, making Rhys shiver.
Two templars stood at attention outside the office door, so stiff in their alertness one could almost smell the fear coming off them. Fear of the Lord Seeker, Rhys assumed. They barely acknowledged the Tranquil, who bowed and glided back out without a word.
“You’re expected, Enchanter—alone,” one of them said, and frowned at Adrian. His breath was visible in a fine mist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she growled.
The man hesitated, and then shrugged. Evidently he would rather the mages suffer the Lord Seeker’s displeasure than risk it for himself, so he opened the door and stood aside.
They entered. As before, Lord Seeker Lambert sat behind the desk with Ser Evangeline standing at his side. In the chair across from him, however, sat Wynne. The old woman stood immediately. Her gaze was cool and appraising.
“Hello, Rhys,” she said quietly.
Of course she would be here. He shouldn’t be surprised.
“Hello, Mother,” he said.
If Adrian’s eyebrows could have shot up any higher, they would probably have climbed into her hairline.
The Lord Seeker cleared his throat, leveling a disapproving glare at Rhys. “I’m informed you caused quite the disturbance in the hall.”
“Isn’t that why I’m here?”
“It’s not. Enchanter Wynne requested your presence after the assembly was finished. Why did you think you were allowed out of your cell?” Rhys was taken aback by that. Now it all made sense. The man looked at Adrian and frowned. “She did not, however, request the attendance of anyone else.”
“I invited myself,” she said defiantly.
“It is no bother,” Wynne interrupted before the Lord Seeker could retort.
He eased back in his chair, clenching his jaw in silent fury. “Do what you came to do,” he said through gritted teeth.
Wynne nodded, satisfied, and turned to Rhys once again. “I’m afraid there’s nowhere for either of you to sit,” she began, searching about the room as if expecting chairs to suddenly materialize.
“I can stand,” he said. “What’s this about?”
“I need your help.”
“My help?” Rhys glanced at the Lord Seeker, and then Ser Evangeline, but their stony expressions offered no enlightenment. “What could you need my help for? And why would I offer it?”
“Would you rather go back to the dungeons?” the Lord Seeker interjected.
Rhys didn’t answer. Inwardly he rankled at the threat.
Wynne merely nodded, as if his reply was nothing more than she expected. “An old friend of mine has been turned into an abomination,” she began. “I intend a rescue, and that means going into the Fade to wrest control from the demon that has possessed him. It’s a difficult task, and not one I can do alone. I’ll need you to come with me to help perform the ritual.”
The Lord Seeker let out an angry growl and slammed his fist down on the desk. “You said nothing about taking Enchanter Rhys from the tower!”
“Nor did I need to, until now.”
“Have you forgotten about the attack upon the Divine? This man is involved, and I cannot allow him to leave. I will not.”
“I thought you might say that.” She reached into a pocket in her white cloak and produced a vellum scroll, the wax seal bearing the symbol of the Chantry. The Lord Seeker snatched it away with a scowl. Breaking the seal, he unrolled the scroll and read. “As you can see for yourself, the Divine has given me full authority to perform my mission as I see fit.” She smiled slightly. “And I see fit to take Enchanter Rhys with me. He is a spirit medium, after all, and thus his abilities will prove useful.”
The Lord Seeker ignored her and continued to scan the document. Carefully. Finally his scowl deepened. “Where did you get this?”
“From the Divine, obviously. An old friend introduced us.”
He rolled the scroll back up and tossed it onto the desk as if it were refuse. “You seem to have a great many old friends,” he sneered. “And I’m supposed to let you endanger one mage just to save another? What is so special about this man?”
Wynne considered. “He is Tranquil,” she admitted.
Rhys almost spat in surprise. “What? That’s impossible!”
The Lord Seeker also seemed surprised, and his eyes narrowed at Wynne suspiciously. “The Rite of Tranquility severs a mage’s connection to the Fade forever. They cannot be possessed by demons; that is the entire point.”
“Even so, it has happened.” She looked at Rhys. “You have performed research into demons, according to your First Enchanter. My friend has done the same. If he contacted a demon with extraordinary powers, we need to know what it is and whether this can happen again. If, however, this is a failing of the Rite of Tranquility . . .”
“The Rite has never failed,” the Lord Seeker insisted.
“If it has,” Rhys said, “then we all need to know it.”
Lord Seeker Lambert chewed over the idea, making a face as if tasting something unpleasant. Eventually he made up his mind. “Absolutely not,” he said curtly. “I can’t allow such an ill-considered venture.”
Wynne smiled sweetly. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“I am responsible for the safety of all mages within the Circle.”
“If you prefer to have the Divine order you personally, that can be arranged.”
The Lord Seeker glared at her. It was the dangerous look of a man who wouldn’t soon forget the insult being handed to him. Wynne refused to give in, and a silent battle of wills ensued as the others looked on in tense silence. Rhys wondered if it was about to come to violence.
Instead, the man gave in. “Ser Evangeline will accompany you,” he said curtly, “and ensure that Enchanter Rhys is returned to the tower once your task is done.”
The templar’s eyes went wide, and her mouth opened as if she were about to protest, but then thought better of it. Wynne had no such hesitation. “I don’t remember asking for an escort,” she said.
“Nevertheless, you will receive one.” He glanced at Evangeline, and she nodded acknowledgment of the order. “I’m certain the Divine would not object to my providing extra protection for this mission of yours, not to mention some assurances a dangerous mage won’t mysteriously elude our grasp while he’s absent.”
“Now I’m dangerous?” Rhys snorted.
“Yes.” Lambert fixed him with a dangerous glare. “You think us fools? Ser Evangeline finds you in the crypts, with no explanation for your presence or your behavior? You know far more than you admit to. That in itself is an indictment I will not ignore.” The last was delivered in a tone so forceful it made Rhys retreat a step.
“Take him,” the man barked at Wynne. “But if your intention is to spare your son from justice, you will not be successful. Even the Divine will not protect you if our investigation is interfered with.”
“So I see.” She replaced the scroll in her cloak. Then she sat back in her chair, raising a curious brow at Rhys. “Are you willing to help me now? I won’t force you to come, if you do not wish it.”
He considered. Refusing would no doubt mean a return to the dungeon, but he didn’t trust Wynne’s motives. At least here he knew what to expect. Then again, this friend of hers researched demons, just as Rhys himself once had. What if the man possessed knowledge that could help with Cole’s curse? That could also prove Rhys’s innocence in the murders. It was a long shot, but it might be the only chance he’d get.
“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, already regretting it. “But from what I know of this ritual, you’ll need more than just the two of us. There need to be three mages . . . at a minimum.”
“That’s right,” Adrian suddenly piped up. “You should take me.”
She exchanged a significant look with Rhys. She wanted to come, that was clear. He didn’t care for the idea of taking her into danger any more than going himself—but then again, he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather face it with. Getting her away from the tower would also prevent her from becoming his replacement in the dungeon.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Adrian should come with us.”
Wynne allowed herself a pleased smile. “You should both go and prepare, then. We leave in the morning, and it’s a long journey to the Western Approach.” She looked at Ser Evangeline. “You too, my dear, although you’ll have to provide your own horse. I only brought the one extra.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Nobody moved. After an awkward minute of tense silence, Rhys unceremoniously turned and walked out. There wasn’t really anything more to say. Adrian followed on his heels.
“You owe me an explanation,” she hissed in his ear as soon as they were out the door.
“I’ll bet.”
They passed through the chilly foyer, both guards studiously ignoring them, and back into the corridor outside. If there was one good thing about all this, he thought, it was that he was finally getting out of this templar-infested tower. Even if the respite was nothing more than a delayed sentence, hovering over his head like an executioner’s axe, it would still be a chance for fresh air. The problems of the Circle of Magi could be left behind, for a time.
As would Cole. That thought darkened his mood considerably.
What in the blazes are you doing now, Cole?