Evangeline was beginning to find the tension wearying.
As uncomfortable as these mages might be with the idea of a templar chaperone, it seemed to her they disliked each other far more. Adrian and Rhys whispered to each other on their horse from time to time, brief exchanges that the others were clearly not intended to overhear, but to the archmage they said nothing. The old woman might as well have been alone.
Until the moment Wynne and Rhys had greeted each other in the Lord Seeker’s office, Evangeline hadn’t realized they were related. None of the templars in the White Spire had. They’d known the man had been born to a mage, and raised in a Chantry orphanage until he was old enough to come to the tower. It was a common enough practice, seeing as the Circle was no place for a newborn. How Rhys had come to know of his mother, however, was a mystery. If they’d met, they did so in secret, although evidently not one kept hidden from the Seekers.
Their relationship did not seem to endear them to each other, however. It made her think of her own mother, who had passed away before she’d joined the order. They’d bickered, particularly because Evangeline had embraced none of the things expected from a young Orlesian woman of breeding. She had enjoyed neither dancing, nor music, nor outings to the city to seek a suitable husband. Instead she’d favored her father’s teachings, the swordplay and martial skills he’d learned from his years spent as a chevalier in the Empire’s service.
Yet when her mother died Evangeline had felt nothing but regret that they’d not been closer. All those years spent resenting a woman who’d wished the best for her, and only feared her unwomanly pursuits would lead to unhappiness. It hadn’t, but she didn’t imagine her life as a templar was what her mother pictured.
Without a husband or children, it also meant her father’s estate had fallen outside of the family upon his death. She still remembered the day a messenger had arrived with the news. Knight-Commander Eron had asked whether she wished to retire from the order and take up her inheritance. It would have meant marriage, with scores of noble families arriving at her doorstep with younger sons they couldn’t pawn off elsewhere but would assume a spinster like herself would be desperate to accept. Even so, it hadn’t been an easy decision. Last she’d heard, her uncle had gambled away his fortune and sold the estate to a Nevarran merchant. This made her sad.
So the life she was left with was the one she had chosen, a life of protecting the world from all the harm magic could do. While many of the mages resented templars for it, she knew there were also many frightened of their abilities. What would they do without the Circle of Magi there to bring them into the fold, to teach them what they needed to know?
Order had to be kept, just as the Lord Seeker said.
It had been four days since they’d left the safety of the White Spire. Evangeline had led the group off the main roads, preferring instead to keep to the side paths that passed through the countryside, away from cities. Still, this was the Heartlands. Even those roads were busy with traffic. They passed merchants, pilgrims on their way to the Grand Cathedral in the capital, farmers bringing their wagons to market, taxmen, elven laborers looking for late-season harvest work . . . the list was almost endless.
What she didn’t see were Imperial enforcers. Normally, soldiers flying the purple banner were a common sight, even on the side roads. Anyone traveling could expect to be stopped by a patrol at least once, but there had been no sign of any.
There were other things, too. On the third day they spotted a pillar of black smoke in the distance, and a pair of dwarven merchants they stopped told them of riots in the city of Val Foret. They said things were worse outside the Heartlands as well, telling a tale of roving bandits and press gangs hired by the country lords to force commoners into army service. Later they saw a disorganized group of refugees, ragged-looking folk carrying everything they owned on their backs, who said they were fleeing a battle in the east. They didn’t even know who was fighting, only that the soldiers were killing everything in their path.
It was troubling to hear. News in Orlais traveled slowly even in the best of times, but it seemed to her that even insulated in the White Spire, she should have heard such things. The capital was a hotbed of gossip, and although there’d been rumblings of displeasure against the Empress and the usual talk of elven rebellion in Halamshiral, there’d been not a single whisper of a brewing civil war.
Just to be careful, Evangeline elected not to seek lodgings in any of the villages they passed. She’d purchased camping gear at the highway inn—indeed, her horse was laden down with it—and despite the protests of the mages, she insisted they sleep outside. Rather, it was Rhys and Adrian who protested. Wynne smiled when they did, and reminded them that she’d all but lived out of a camp during the Blight. If she could endure it, so could they.
It rained the first night, a bitterly cold downpour that kept the group huddling in their tents. The next morning there was a thin layer of ice covering everything, though it didn’t last long into the day. Regardless, a chill permeated the air, and, combined with a sky of hazy grey clouds, told them the weather would be decidedly foul. By the time they returned from the Western Approach, there could very well be snow on the ground.
Adrian complained constantly. Not loudly enough for Evangeline to argue with her explicitly, but quietly muttering to herself and to Rhys. It was like an angry fly buzzing in her ear, one that wouldn’t desist no matter how much she swatted at it. The red-headed woman’s self-righteous indignation set Evangeline’s teeth on edge, and had her wishing it would rain even more than it did.
“Why are we going this way?” Adrian demanded as they rode, the third time she’d asked in as many minutes.
“I intend to avoid Val Foret,” Evangeline answered.
“Why? Because of what that vagrant said? He was drunk.”
“Indeed he was. That doesn’t make him stupid.”
“I once knew a dwarf,” Wynne suddenly announced, “who was drunk more often than he was sober. Yet he could still cleave a darkspawn in two without so much as blinking an eye.”
Adrian rolled her eyes. “That’s nice.”
“My point,” the old woman responded coolly, “is that some things don’t require sobriety. Like knowing that your home village isn’t a safe place to be.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Rhys asked. He looked questioningly at the others. “With all the trouble we’ve been hearing about, you’d think the Imperial army would be here in force. I can’t even remember the last time I heard of there being so much chaos.”
“It probably isn’t—” Adrian began.
Wynne interrupted her. “It’s the war,” she said. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe Gaspard is making his move.”
“The Grand Duke?” Evangeline blurted out, surprised.
“Of course.”
“The only news in Val Royeaux was of a rebellion in Halamshiral. If the Grand Duke was moving against the Empress, everyone in the palace would have been buzzing about it.”
The old woman chuckled lightly. “Oh, don’t be silly, dear. Gaspard isn’t going to send word into the capital, where Celene has all of her allies. No, the whole point was to lure her out east with that story of an elven rebellion.”
Rhys nodded slowly. “So he could ambush her.”
“I imagine Celene did not take as many soldiers with her to fight elves as she might have to confront Gaspard.” Wynne shrugged. “Possibly he even has friends among the chevaliers. Either way, the more quickly and decisively he acts, the stronger he looks. The more chaos is sown in the Empire, the weaker Celene looks and the more desperate the Imperial Court becomes.”
It made troubling sense. Evangeline had to wonder just how much worse this would be if the assassin had managed to slay the Divine that night in the palace. Half the Empire would be up in arms. Which . . . did make her wonder if the mages might be innocent after all.
She glanced at Rhys and Adrian on their horse. The red-headed mage was scowling and difficult to read, but Rhys seemed genuinely bewildered. Evangeline had to admit that were she going to assassinate someone, it would be clever to make it look as if the perpetrator were someone others would not question. Why would templars doubt that rebellious factions within the Circle were trying to lash out at the Chantry?
That did not explain the murders, however. Perhaps the two events were not connected? Lord Seeker Lambert insisted on a larger picture, and saw schemes within schemes. She had to look with clearer eyes. It was worthy of some thought.
“How do you even know this?” she asked Wynne.
“Because Gaspard tried to recruit me.”
“Recruit you?”
“I came here from Ferelden, which meant I passed through the Dales and the eastern lands. Evidently Gaspard got wind of my presence, for he sent men to collect me at Jader.” The mage grimaced at the memory. “They were rather insistent. I don’t know why Gaspard thought such treatment would make me inclined to assist him. The man has enough arrogance to believe night is day just because he pronounces it so.”
“But you refused him?”
“Naturally. He tried to force the issue, but I’m not without my own resources.” She said it with the barest shrug of her shoulders, as if it were nothing of consequence, although Evangeline imagined there was far more involved. Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons was renowned for his temper; what would he think of an old woman who refused his offer? She could only imagine.
“Then why didn’t you tell anyone?” Adrian asked, shocked.
Wynne chuckled bitterly at that. “Who would I tell? Celene was already gone from the capital. Even were that not the case, I doubt I would tell anyone.”
“What? Why not?”
The old mage smiled coldly at her. “Because I am Fereldan, for one. I have no love for the Orlesian Empire, so the thought of it falling to pieces causes me no distress. Plus, there are other benefits if there is war here.”
“Benefits?” Adrian scoffed.
“She means the Circle,” Rhys said, frowning sourly as he considered. “If there’s civil war in the Empire, they’ll come to the mages to ask for our help.”
Wynne seemed pleased at his insight. “That is so. I know you believe I desire no improvement to the conditions we live under, but that’s not the case. A position of strength will only increase our bargaining power as we move forward.”
“With many innocent lives lost,” Evangeline muttered.
Wynne gave her a level stare. “Innocent lives are already being lost.”
She couldn’t offer much argument. It was true, after all, that the Circle probably would be called if the Empire fell into chaos. The mages had been invaluable in the Blights, fighting against the darkspawn, and in the great Exalted Marches of ages past . . . and the amount of prestige the Circle gained after each of those wars was lost on no one. Could she honestly tell these mages they should be patriots? That they should care for people who feared and even reviled them? She couldn’t, although that didn’t mean she had to like such a mercenary attitude.
It was clear Rhys didn’t like it, either. He said nothing, but gave Wynne a dark look that spoke volumes.
They rode on. The skies continued to darken, distant peals of thunder threatening a cold downpour. Adrian dug a blanket out of their pack and miserably huddled inside it. Rhys tried to sympathize with her, but got little more than grunts. As pleased as Evangeline was to have the woman finally quiet, she had to admit she wasn’t looking forward to the weather taking a turn for the worse. It was only going to get colder as they headed south into the badlands.
Wynne pulled up beside her, the first time she’d moved from the rear of their party the entire trip. “Perhaps,” the woman suggested, “we might consider a night out of the rain?”
“I thought you enjoyed camping.”
“Enjoy is a strong word. I can tolerate it, even if I am not as young as I once was.” She glanced back at the pair behind them. Rhys was regaling Adrian with a tale about an elven apprentice who’d become incredibly ill after staying out in the rain, and when the Knight-Commander decided she was feigning her sickness she’d proceeded to vomit all over the front of his armor. Adrian appeared unamused, and Rhys chuckled at her expense. “I think,”
Wynne continued, “it might behoove us to take shelter for the sake of the others. It will not be long before we’re in the part of the country where that won’t be possible, after all.”
Evangeline considered it. “I know of a town up ahead, not far from where I grew up. Perhaps, if there’s no trouble there . . .”
“That would be wise.” The tone she used was just forceful enough to remind Evangeline that she was accompanying them on this journey, not commanding them. Then Wynne allowed her horse to lag behind once again, giving Evangeline no chance to argue.
They continued down the road for several more hours. It was all prime farmland, orchards here and vineyards up in the hills farther to the west. The men and women who worked the land had done so for generations, most under the auspices of a seigneur, but there were freeholders as well. They were the “poor man’s landowner,” and her father had been one of them. He’d held just enough of a title to acquire his land from a baroness desperate for coin, and it had always been a source of pride that he worked it well.
Back when she was younger she used to roam her father’s orchards. She loved the rich smell of the soil, and she’d climb the apple trees until her mother came running out of the estate, skirts in hand, to yell at her. Not an hour’s travel to the east was Lake Celestine, its glittering surface enough to take one’s breath away at the height of summer. Of course, now it was late fall and the lake would be choppy and grey, only fishermen braving its waters.
Part of her wondered if she shouldn’t go to her family’s old estate. Evangeline could probably come up with a pretext the others would believe. Perhaps the new owners might even invite her in, provided they didn’t notice she was accompanied by mages. She burned with a morbid curiosity to see what changes they’d made—even if everything she saw would likely make her sad. No, perhaps it was best she stayed away.
The town of Velun came into view in the early evening, just as it started to rain. The skies practically opened up, pouring down on them with such ferocity that even Evangeline started to feel uncomfortable. The village looked normal enough, really no different from those days she’d sat on her father’s wagon when he went to market. The only thing that seemed out of place was the gibbet just off the road. Three iron cages, each with a man inside . . . or, rather, one had a man and the other two had rotting corpses. The man was well on his way to joining his fellows, and was too weak and dispirited to do more than look up as they passed.
“Grim,” Rhys commented.
“That man is a rapist. The other two were thieves.”
“How can you tell?”
She pointed. “The runes on the post above their cages.”
“Are those dwarven?” He squinted, trying to make out the symbols through the rain. “Why don’t they just put up a sign?”
“Because not everyone reads.”
The mage nodded, although it was clear he didn’t really understand. To someone who grew up in the Circle of Magi, surrounded by books, it was perhaps understandable to think everyone in the world must be the same way. The truth of the matter was that mages were afforded an education few others outside the wealthy received.
Velun was little more than a haphazard collection of buildings surrounding the central square—on market day it would be a bustling place, as the town swelled to several times its normal population, but tonight it was all but abandoned. Many of the windows were warmly glowing, however, indicating everyone was inside. Regardless of the quiet, Evangeline found herself heartened by the familiar sights. This almost felt like home.
A lone guardsman huddled under the eaves of a storefront, shivering from the chill. He nodded when Evangeline and the others rode toward him, their horses making loud clopping sounds on the cobblestones. “Good evening, ser,” she greeted him.
“Late for travelers,” he remarked without much interest, blowing on his hands.
“Indeed. Is the Spriggan still about? I didn’t see it on the way in.”
The guard squinted at her. “You’re a local?”
“My family once owned Brassard-manot.”
That seemed to brighten him a little. People from the provinces could be wary of outsiders. It would be even worse when they left the Heartlands. “The Spriggan burned down some years back,” the guard said. “Old Man Lusseau built a new inn just past the Chantry. Just look for the blue lantern out front, you can’t miss it.”
That wasn’t far. Evangeline smiled her thanks at the man and led the others through the square in the direction he indicated. She found herself looking at some of the buildings and trying to remember if they had changed in the years since she’d last been here. It was surprising how many had not. Such was the way of small towns.
“Did you really come from here?” Rhys asked her as they rode.
“Not Velun itself, but my family’s estate was nearby.”
He cracked a mischievous grin. “So . . . a member of the nobility, after all?”
“If you’re picturing me in a fancy gown, it never happened. I preferred a sword to a dress from the time I could hold one in my hand.”
“You must have been quite the sight at the country ball, then.”
She chuckled at that, despite herself.
The storm was picking up strength, the wind howling to the point where it was becoming difficult to talk. So they rode in silence until the inn came into view. As advertised, a large lantern hung beside the door, the patina having turned its metal bright blue. The sound of laughter came from within, as did the aroma of smoke and cooked meat. Evangeline found her stomach responding with a hungry growl. After four days of dried bread and fruit, it would be good to eat something hearty.
The inn was the sort that one often found in country towns throughout Orlais, little more than a glorified tavern that rented rooms to weary travelers. The fire pit in the center of the main room filled it with a warm glow and the sharp scent of burnt tree sap. Small tables were scattered about, many of them filled either with local laborers or traveling merchants. They gathered in clumps, clinking their wooden mugs and laughing merrily. The place had a cramped, cozy feel to it. Friendly and inviting.
Or it did until they noticed who had stepped through the door.
All conversation stopped, and a dozen eyes looked their way in startled silence. Evangeline grimaced. She knew what they were staring at: her armor, for one, and the staves carried by the mages. The four of them crowded together in the doorway, water dripping onto the wooden floor as the tense scrutiny continued.
“Maker have mercy!” a jovial voice declared.
It was loud enough to make Evangeline’s hand edge toward her sword, but then she hesitated as an enormously fat man strode out from the kitchen. He wore an apron stained yellow with old grease, and busily wiped his hands with a cloth almost as dirty.
“I had to come out and see if everyone had died!” The man chortled and then paused as he noticed his patrons continuing to stare. “What? Have none of you arses ever seen Chantry folk before? Back to your beers lest I tell Amelda to water down the next round more than usual!”
There was a murmur of discontent. Several of the men exchanged dark glances, but returned to drinking—albeit unenthusiastically. Evangeline caught a pair of the laborers glaring at her still. These were rough-looking men, the kind with small lives and smaller minds. It was exactly their sort that had led her to avoid populated areas until tonight.
The fat man rushed toward them, arms wide and an obsequious smile plastered upon his face. “Come in, my good friends! I trust the Chantry supplies its people with an abundance of royals, as usual?”
Evangeline jiggled the purse at her belt, letting the coins inside provide her answer. “Give us room and board for the evening and you’ll be fairly compensated.”
“What more can one ask?” He swept across the small room to a table beside the fire pit, unceremoniously yanking the chair out from underneath the weasely-looking fellow who occupied it. The man shot the innkeeper a hurt look as he rushed to a smaller table elsewhere. “Come! Have a seat!”
Normally Evangeline wouldn’t have chosen something in the middle of the room, but it did look invitingly warm. She smiled at the innkeeper as she took her seat, and he bounded back to the kitchen with purpose. The mages filed in behind her, staring around dubiously at the tavern.
“Are we truly going to sleep here?” Adrian asked.
“If you prefer,” Wynne smiled sweetly, “we can go back outside and find someplace more to your liking.”
“Err . . . no.”
“Then this will have to do, won’t it?”
Evangeline noticed Rhys hiding a smile as he turned and warmed his hands over the fire pit. She took off her gauntlets and laid them on the table, and then unfastened her cloak. It was so heavy with water it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. She would have to wring it out later, and peel herself out of her armor. The mages were no better off. They would all be lucky if they didn’t catch their deaths.
A girl came out from the kitchen, wearing an apron in no better shape than the innkeeper’s. Her father, Evangeline assumed. They shared a bulbous nose, if not a taste for food; this girl was mousy and reed-thin. She dropped off a pair of mugs at one of the tables and then reluctantly walked over to theirs.
“Something I can get you?” she asked.
“Wine,” Rhys said immediately.
Evangeline frowned at him. “Don’t you get enough of that back at the Circle? Our stores are practically filled with wine caskets and little else.”
“Filled because nobody wants to drink that piss.”
She chuckled. “We drink the same piss, I’ll have you know.”
He flashed a charming grin at the serving girl. “Why don’t you bring us a bottle of something that’s been collecting dust in your cellar? A fine local vintage, something the templars wouldn’t dream of serving to us lowly mages?”
“Charming,” Wynne said dryly. She held up a hand to catch the attention of the serving girl, who seemed at a complete loss how to respond. “Bring the wine for them if you must. I’ll have something a bit stronger. Do you have dwarven ale?”
“You must be joking!” Adrian guffawed.
“Why must I?”
“An old woman like you drinking dwarven ale? We’d be lucky to find you alive in your bed come morning.”
Wynne seemed nettled by that. “I acquired a taste for it in Orzammar.”
Adrian looked skeptically at Rhys. “She’s trying to impress us.”
“Not at all,” Wynne said. She arched a brow at the serving girl. “Do you have it or not? I’ll take Fereldan whiskey if I must, preferably something from the coastlands.”
The girl nodded dumbly. “Father keeps a keg for the guild merchants.”
“Excellent.”
“Bring some for me, as well,” Adrian said. She gave the old mage a wicked smile. “I’m willing to bet I can finish my cup and most of yours, and you’ll still be under the table.”
“I doubt that.”
“The . . . ale is very expensive, madame,” the serving girl said cautiously.
Wynne reached into her robes and pulled out a small purse and tossed it on the table. Sodden though it was, it was easy to see it was filled with coin. More than Evangeline had, by far. “I think that should suffice. If that’s stew I smell in the kitchen, bring that out as well.” She glanced archly at Adrian. “Some people here are going to need something in their stomachs.”
“Yes, madame.” The girl ran off, relieved to get away.
“Well!” Rhys declared, smiling at Evangeline as he rubbed his hands together. “More wine for you and me, then!”
She kept her drinking to a minimum, sipping on her cup and letting Rhys have the rest of the bottle to himself. She only picked at the stew, as well, despite it being as delicious as it smelled. The rest of the tavern was too quiet for her liking. Some of the men had already slunk off, and those who remained stared at the mages more often than they talked. When they did talk, it was in whispers. The merriment they’d heard prior to their entry was gone.
Evangeline didn’t trust it. The mages, of course, were oblivious. They drank quietly at first, Rhys cradling his dusty wine bottle like it was some lost treasure while the two women engaged in a battle of wills. Each of them drank as much of the murky black liquid as they could stand in order to show the other how little it affected them. Wynne was clearly far better at it, her cool façade undiminished, and that only seemed to aggravate Adrian all the more.
Evangeline didn’t know how they could stand the stuff. Dwarven ale wasn’t really ale—it was some concoction made from fungus, or so she heard. Normally only dwarves could drink it without making themselves sick. It remained to be seen whether that would be the case here.
“It was a dragon,” Wynne insisted. Her composure was beginning to slip ever so slightly, words blurring at the edges. “We met it on the roof of Fort Drakon, where it had been forced down. The last battle to end the Blight, and a single swipe from that creature could have sent any of us hurtling to our death.” She tossed back the last sip of ale in her cup for good measure, waving absently to the serving girl for more.
“A dragon!” Adrian exclaimed excitedly. She cradled her chin in her hands, staring at the older mage with bleary, awestruck eyes. Her red curls had dried into a frizzy mess of comical proportions. Unlike Wynne, she was a complete wreck. “A real, honest-to-goodness dragon?”
“Adrian is fond of dragons,” Rhys explained with a smirk.
“It was an Archdemon,” Wynne said, “a dragon tainted by corruption, transformed into a thing of evil with no match in all of Thedas.” She couldn’t contain the smallest of proud smiles. “Save for the Warden, of course.”
“The Warden! The Hero of Ferelden?”
“The one and the same.”
Adrian gesticulated inarticulately for a few moments before she realized she couldn’t put her excitement into words. Then she stared at Wynne as if an incredible thought had just occurred to her. “They let you out of the tower to do all that?”
“Not quite. The Circle of Magi in Ferelden had been . . . disabled.”
“I heard about this,” Evangeline commented.
“Most of the mages had been overcome by demons,” Wynne continued. “There were only a few of us left, really, when the Warden arrived.”
“The Warden saved you?”
“Indeed.”
“And took you away from the tower!”
“My help was needed.”
“Lucky for you.” Adrian picked up her cup, disappointing herself all over again to find it empty. She searched around for the serving girl and, not seeing her, tried to stand up. That only succeeded in nearly knocking over her chair, of course, and she stumbled back into it in the most ungraceful manner possible.
“Be careful, Adri,” Rhys warned, grabbing her shoulder out of concern. She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and bleary affection.
“Oh! You haven’t called me that since . . .”
He attempted to look blasé but failed. “You’re drunk,” he muttered. Adrian reached up and cupped his cheek, her expression suddenly so tender and sad that Evangeline felt embarrassed to watch. Rhys reddened and gently removed her hand, his grin apologetic.
“I didn’t realize you two were . . .” Wynne left the thought unfinished, clearly uncertain how to end it. Rhys glanced at her, his eyes flashing with annoyance.
“We’re not.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“I said we’re not.” He straightened in his chair, busily pouring himself another cup of wine—the last in the bottle, Evangeline noticed. “And even if we were, I don’t really see how that’s any of your business.”
“Did I say it was?” She chuckled gaily. “I’m no stranger to the idea of a mage seeking the company of others in the Circle, Rhys. How do you think you were born?”
He looked disquieted. “I . . . don’t want to think about that.”
Wynne waved a hand dismissively. “You’re a grown man, and then some. I’ll assume that you can handle the notion of someone you barely know having lain with a templar forty years ago—even if she does happen to be your mother.”
The old mage downed the rest of her ale even as Rhys’s eyes widened in shock. He tilted his head awkwardly, as if not quite capable of processing this news. Adrian appeared to have no such problem. She slammed a fist down on the table, squealing with delight so loudly it drew the attention of the entire tavern.
“You laid with a templar?”
Wynne paused, apparently realizing what she’d revealed. “Well,” she hemmed, “it was a long time ago.” The old woman looked helplessly at Evangeline, and sighed when Evangeline just looked the other way. She wasn’t getting involved in this conversation, no how and no way.
“That’s marvelous!” Adrian cackled.
Rhys appeared mortified. “I don’t think it’s marvelous.”
Wynne smiled patiently at him. “Demonize them all you like, a templar is a man like any other.” The corner of her mouth twitched as it tried to form into a mischievous smirk. It succeeded. “Trust me,” she chuckled.
The man groaned, and Adrian laughed so uproariously she had to pound the table several times in order to punctuate just how much she loved the entire notion.
“You robes seem pretty satisfied with yourselves.”
The new voice was gruff, and cut through the merriment instantly. Adrian stopped laughing and stared. Evangeline turned in her seat to see a huge, burly man looming beside their table. His beard grew out of his chin like some wild, black bush, and his arms were thick as tree trunks. This was a man hewn from wood, probably one of the local freeholders or one of their workers. Indignant rage smoldered in his eyes like fire.
Adrian looked like she was about to retort, but Rhys spoke first. “We’re just travelers who came in out of the rain,” he said amiably. “How about we buy you a drink, in thanks for your town’s fine hospitality?”
“And what are we going to toast?” the man growled. “You mages trying to kill Her Holiness?”
“We had nothing to do with that.”
The burly man slammed his fist down on the table so hard it sent the wine bottle and cups clattering to the ground. The entire tavern went dead silent. “But it was you and your stinking magic that done it! If Her Holiness had a right mind, she’d tell everyone to string you up! Burn your curse out of this world once and for all!”
Wynne looked calm, but Evangeline saw her hand creeping toward her staff. Rhys remained still, his smile fading. Adrian, however, lurched drunkenly to her feet, her temper clearly aroused. “Our curse?” she spat. “Our only curse is to be faced with ignorant louts like you, as if you mundanes never did anything terrible in all of history!”
“History.” The man repeated the word with disgust, his upper lip curling. “I don’t care about history. I care about Jean-Petit. His farmhouse got burned down two weeks ago, with him in it. You know who done it? His daughter, a spiteful little thing the templars had to drag off before she killed anyone else.” He loomed closer. “You think your magic impresses me? Impresses anyone?”
Several voices chimed in with the man now, as others got up from their chairs. The mood of outrage was thick. These men had been simmering, waiting for someone to express what they’d been thinking all along. The fat innkeeper came out of the back, his look of concern turning into fear. When his daughter started to pass him, he stopped her. They both retreated to the kitchen.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed in hate. She held out a hand in front of her, an aura of blue flame crackling into life around it. The hum of her power reverberated around the room. “I don’t know,” she said, her tone low and dark. “We can be very impressive.”
Evangeline jumped up. She reached out with one hand and grabbed Adrian around the neck, channeling her own power into the woman so quickly it disrupted her magic. The flames disappeared with a flash. Before Adrian could do more than widen her eyes in shock, Evangeline shoved her hard. She stumbled back over her chair, falling to the ground and slamming her head against the side of the fire pit.
Evangeline felt, rather than saw, the burly man move. She grabbed his thick arm before he could touch her, spinning around and shoving him back. Enraged and clenching his fists, he made as if to charge her—
—and halted. Her sword was out, and pointed at his throat.
“Don’t be a fool,” she warned him.
Other men were drawing closer now, fists clenched at their sides. Wynne rose, staff held protectively; thankfully she had enough sense not to invoke more magic. Rhys knelt down by Adrian’s side, helping her up as much as restraining her.
“You’re going to kill us? For these mages?” the man snarled. “You of all people should know what they are.”
“I’m here to protect them, and to protect you from them. Nothing more.”
“They don’t deserve protection!”
“What they don’t deserve,” she stated firmly, “is to be strung up by an angry mob. I know you’re angry. What happened to Her Holiness was unforgivable. But you’ll not condemn the innocent for it, not while I stand.”
“How are they innocent?” he shouted. He turned to face the growing crowd, holding his hands out to them in supplication. “It wasn’t just Jean-Petit. Last year there was the man in Val Bresins who turned into a demon in the middle of the marketplace! The hedge witch who blighted the Arlans crop! The Wickens boy who talked to ghosts—you know it was him that was killing our poor dogs!” The gathered crowd murmured in agreement. “How long are we going to stand by and let this evil fester? The Maker would not have it!”
“The Maker does have it!” Evangeline roared. She glared challengingly at the crowd, and many of them shrank back. “These mages serve the Chantry, as do I! Do not forget that in wars past it was we who have stood between the good folk of Orlais and oblivion!”
Adrian wrested herself free from Rhys and lurched forward. “Yes!” she shouted belligerently. “You should all be grateful!”
Evangeline wheeled on her. “Silence, you foolish woman! It is you who should be grateful, grateful that you have the luxury to worry just how free you are. Do you honestly think mages are the only people in this world who suffer?”
Adrian took a step back, startled, and bumped into the table. For once, she seemed at a loss for words. Rhys stepped between her and Evangeline, an angry look on his face. “No,” he stated. “We don’t think that.”
“Yes, you do,” Evangeline snapped. “You live in an ivory tower, without the slightest clue just how much worse it could be.”
“I know how much worse it could be,” Wynne said. The old woman frowned as she turned to address the crowd. “Please, good folk of Velun. We meant no harm to any of you. Leave us in peace, and we shall do the same, I beg you.”
There was a mutter of discontent among the men, but none of them seemed willing to press the issue any further. Even the burly giant who began the fight did little more than glare. What was one man, even one as large as himself, to do against an armed warrior and three mages? That one of the mages appeared to be no more than an old woman took the wind out of his sails.
“You’re not welcome here,” he said gruffly. “We would have you gone.”
“We’ll go,” Evangeline assured him. “In good time. And we won’t be back.”
The man looked around at the others with disgust. Finally, he let out a frustrated growl and stormed toward the door. Evangeline watched him go, keeping her sword at the ready until the others in the tavern began to follow. They complained quietly, reassuring each other that things could have gone very differently. Within minutes the room was almost empty, save for a few scattered merchants who stared purposefully at their beers and pretended they were elsewhere.
Wynne approached Evangeline. “That was well done.”
“I did it to keep you drunken fools from using magic to hurt these poor people. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“It was well done, nevertheless.”
“Is that how you protect us?” Adrian snapped. She lurched toward Evangeline, standing close enough that the stench of ale on her breath was all too apparent. “I wasn’t the one looking for a fight! Yet you would have let them drag me out into the street!”
“That didn’t happen.”
“Thanks to the generous protection of the templars!” she said mockingly. “We mages in our ivory tower and our heads in the clouds, we don’t know anything about abuse or what it means to stand up for ourselves!”
“Adrian,” Rhys warned her. He gently guided her away by the shoulder, and she resisted him for only a second. Her glare lingered, even as Rhys nodded to Evangeline. “Thank you,” he said. “I know we don’t seem appreciative, but if that mob had pushed it . . . we would have had no choice but to use magic. Nobody wants that.”
He didn’t give her time to respond, instead leading Adrian out the front door. The innkeeper poked his head out not a moment later, looking vastly relieved to find his tavern empty of bloodshed. He simpered over to Wynne and Evangeline, clutching his hands nervously.
“My, that was . . . unexpected!” he declared.
“Sadly, it wasn’t.” Evangeline took out her purse and handed him some coins. “This should cover the drinks, and any damages. We won’t stay in your rooms, just in case those men decide to come back. If you have a hayloft, we’ll sleep there and be gone by morning.”
“There’s one in the stables out back.” He hesitated, obviously torn between wanting the templar and her mage friends gone and hoping for more coin. “I . . . just want you to know that Velun is not always like this. Had I known the men would be so uncivil . . .”
“These are strange times,” Wynne assured him.
He had to be satisfied with that, and could only watch anxiously as they left.
The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, coating Rhys’s skin like ice. He shivered uncontrollably. It would have been nice to have a warm room in which to dry off completely. As it was, he felt as if he would never be warm again. If he’d been wise, he would have stayed in the hayloft with everyone else. It wasn’t the warmest place to sleep, but at least it was out of the rain.
As it was, he was creeping through the town streets in the middle of the night. The windows were all dark now and, short of the occasional hungry dog that wandered up to him with its tail wagging hopefully, everything was still. The guardsman they’d met on the way in was nowhere in evidence, but Rhys still kept to the shadows as much as he could. He didn’t need to answer awkward questions, not from the guard and most certainly not from his companions.
They were asleep, thank the Maker. Adrian had collapsed into a blanket, still wound up from the incident in the tavern and furious at Evangeline, but too drunk to stay awake even so. She would be impossible to live with come morning. Wynne had retired without so much as a word. Evangeline stayed up for almost an hour longer, however, watching for any sign of the townsfolk returning to make trouble.
Rhys had pretended to sleep, watching out of the corner of his eye until finally she nodded off. He’d been certain the creaking of the old ladder would give him away, but she hadn’t stirred. He could thank his lucky stars, for once.
Now he was beginning to wonder why he’d bothered. The hush of the town was impenetrable, and for all his searching, he was finding only empty alleyways and more shadows. Perhaps he should give up and go back. If someone woke, he could always explain that he’d needed to use the privy.
Then he caught a glimpse of movement. A silhouette darted into the alley between two dark shops, and Rhys raced toward it. He turned the corner, half expecting to discover it was just his imagination, but instead was greeted by the sight of a man crouching by the wall. He looked like a drowned rat, blond hair plastered against his face and his leathers drenched black. He shivered miserably, staring up at Rhys with a mixture of fear and wariness.
“Cole,” Rhys sighed. He kept his distance, a firm grip on his staff just in case the young man decided to attack . . . or run, as he had last time. Rhys had first noticed someone was following them only yesterday, keeping far enough back on the road so they were just out of sight. As soon as Rhys realized that Evangeline, alert as she was, didn’t spot their shadow, he knew exactly who it must be.
“I’m sorry,” Cole moaned.
“Did you follow us all the way from the tower? What, in Andraste’s name, are you even doing here?”
The young man rubbed his shoulders, his teeth chattering. “I had to come. I had to warn you, but I was afraid . . .”
“Warn me?”
“I saw Knight-Captain speaking with a man, a frightening man in black armor. He told her that if you found something, nobody else could know about it.” Cole looked up at him, his expression full of concern. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you; you’re my only friend! I just . . . I was so afraid that you’d never . . .” He buried his head between his knees, misery overtaking him.
Rhys stared, unsure what to think. Could Cole be lying? Perhaps making up some story to earn his way back into his good graces? That seemed unlikely. Cole might omit the truth, but there was little guile to him. That much Rhys was still certain of, if little else.
“You came all this way to tell me that?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” Cole said. “I was so scared I might lose sight of you, and I wouldn’t be able to find my way back. I’d be lost forever. I didn’t realize it would be so far!”
Despite himself, Rhys felt bad for the young man. He knelt down beside him, sighing. Cole flinched, and then realized that Rhys wasn’t going to attack him. He clutched desperately at Rhys and hugged him tight.
Rhys hugged him back. What else could he do? Yes, Cole had killed people . . . but he wasn’t doing it out of malevolence. Nobody had taught him how to control his magic, or given him an answer he could understand. He was frightened and lost, and a part of Rhys understood that.
But what now? He couldn’t take Cole along, and the idea of leaving him to his own devices had no more appeal. It would be like abandoning a child in the wilderness. Maker only knew how Cole had been feeding himself so far. Stealing his food, probably, with no one the wiser . . . but there would be nowhere to steal from once they were in the badlands.
“Cole, you have to go back,” he said.
The young man disengaged long enough to give Rhys a hurt look. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. If you find one of the main roads, it should lead you straight back to Val Royeaux. It’s a hard city to miss.”
“I need to protect you!”
Rhys patted the man’s shoulder sympathetically. “It’s enough that you’ve warned me. I can take care of myself, Cole.”
“No, you can’t. They took you away to the dungeons, and I should never have let them. I should have listened to you! I should have gone with you; I’m so sorry!”
“We can deal with that when I get back to the tower.”
“No.” Cole backed away and stood up. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I won’t let them hurt you again.” Without another word, he turned and ran off into the darkness.
Rhys watched him go. Giving chase would be as pointless as it had been the last time, although he couldn’t help but have misgivings. What was Cole going to do? Would he try to hurt Evangeline? He might not realize how much more trouble that would mean for them all.
Even so, it was a relief to once again see a glimpse of the young man he’d known. It was troubling to think of Cole as a murderer, and the shock of the discovery still lingered. How much more was there about Cole that he didn’t know? If he didn’t find a way to help the young man or stop him from killing again, the blood of his victims would be on Rhys’s hands. He had to remind himself that while Cole wasn’t a monster, that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
There wasn’t anything more he could do now, however. He stood up, sighing, and slowly made his way back to the inn. Several times he looked over his shoulder to see if Cole was following, but there was nothing. Rhys just hoped the young man wouldn’t do anything foolish. With luck he would turn around and go back to the tower on his own.
Rhys walked around the side of the inn, feeling his way in the near-darkness, until he was in sight of the stables. The moon was almost completely obscured by clouds, but there was just enough light to see someone standing in front of the stable doors. A woman in templar armor, crossing her arms and waiting impatiently.
So much for returning unseen.
Evangeline arched an eyebrow when she spotted him. “Already returned from your little jaunt?” she asked.
“Call of nature?”
“Funny, then, that you were nowhere near the privy . . . or anywhere else nearby. You must have searched far and wide for privacy.”
He spread his hands and grinned at her. “You caught me. I went to consort with a demon, of course. He gave me the loveliest recipe for blood magic pie. You should try it.”
The joke fell flat. The silence dragged on as Evangeline stared at him, baffled. “You’re not very good at staying alive, are you?”
He coughed uncomfortably. “Evidently not.”
“It’s a good thing you’re charming.”
Oh? “You think I’m charming?”
She suppressed a wry smile. “Like a stupid dog is charming, perhaps.” Then her expression hardened. “I’m no fool, Rhys. What were you thinking? Those men from the tavern could have spotted you, alone and away from the rest of us.”
“They didn’t.”
“This is the second time I’ve caught you wandering off. If I didn’t think you were smarter than that, I’d suspect you were trying to make a run for it. What were you really doing?”
He paused, remembering what Cole had told him. Could it be true? “I’ve a question for you, actually. If we find something with Wynne’s friend that the Chantry wouldn’t care for, what are you supposed to do? What orders did the Lord Seeker give you?”
Evangeline’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? You’re here to protect the Chantry’s interests.”
She stepped away from the door, walking up to him with a look that said she meant business. “There is more than our self-interest at stake here. I will do whatever I must to protect the greater good.”
“Does Wynne know that?”
“She would be a fool not to.” She sighed unhappily, and for a moment Rhys saw the woman behind the templar mask. There was doubt in her eyes. It was good to see he wasn’t dealing with some unquestioning creature of the Lord Seeker’s. “I’ll admit,” she said, “I hope what we find is inconsequential, an aberration we can deal with together. I have nothing against you or the others, but I will do my duty.”
“Even if that means trying to kill us.”
That he’d said “trying” wasn’t lost on her. A single templar against three senior mages would not be much of a battle . . . assuming that they were all on the same side. “Stop trying to evade the question,” she growled. “Where have you been?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
He considered carefully. What would change if he told her about Cole now? The templars already thought Rhys was the murderer, and it seemed pointless to provide her with yet another lie she would see through instantly. If Cole truly intended to listen to him now, then he would need to go before the templars eventually. And if he didn’t . . . it’s not like Rhys’s fate could get any worse.
“Very well,” he finally said. “There’s been someone following us since we left the tower. I went to find him.”
“I’ve kept a close eye on the road.”
“No, you wouldn’t have seen him. He’s invisible.”
Evangeline gave him a skeptical look, evidently trying to decide if he was making a fool of her. “Invisible,” she repeated. “Are you joking?”
“This would be an incredibly poor time to joke, wouldn’t it?”
“Disastrously poor.”
He gave up and sighed. “Yes, he’s invisible. It’s . . . a special ability, I guess you would call it. Most people don’t see him, and even those who do forget about him. I can see him, and I know some of the mages in the tower have caught a glimpse. They’ve been calling him the Ghost of the Spire, although I don’t know if a templar would have heard about that.”
Her look of recognition said she had. Even so, she seemed suspicious. “You’re saying he lives in the tower.”
“He was brought there by the templars, yes, and he’s never left . . . until now.”
“He could be a demon.”
“I can sense spirits. I would know the difference.”
“Demons are masters of deception.”
“I know that, too.” Rhys shrugged. “I’ve been visiting him in the tower’s lower levels for almost a year now, trying to figure out how to help him. I couldn’t tell anyone because they wouldn’t believe me.”
She thought about it. “And this is who you were fighting with when I found you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s . . . a long story.”
She didn’t believe him, just as he assumed she wouldn’t. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she folded her arms again and began circling him, as if looking for a weakness. “Do you have any proof of what you’re saying?” she demanded. “Can you produce him?”
“Not yet. He’s frightened of the templars, and with good reason.”
Evangeline stared at him a moment longer. Then she nodded. “You may be telling the truth, or you may be under the influence of a demon . . . in either case I’ll have to watch you closely. Regardless, this isn’t the time for this conversation. We will discuss this further when we return to the tower.”
He let out a slow breath. “I thought you might try to drag me back there now.”
“I would,” she said, “but I doubt Wynne would come with me. My duty is to help her mission. What comes afterward is another matter.” Her glare became hard. “And for your sake, I pray you’re telling the truth, and this ‘invisible man’ is what you believe he is. Maker help you if he’s not.”
That seemed to be the end of it. Evangeline turned to leave, but paused when she noticed his incredulous expression. “I half expected you to run me through, regardless of what I said,” he admitted. “You’re all right. For a templar.”
She snickered, rolling her eyes. “Such high praise from a man filled with wine.” With that, she walked back inside the stables.
Rhys remained outside, watching her go. There was definitely a woman underneath all that armor, and a fine-looking one. But then he chided himself for the thought. You must be drunk, he thought. She would eat you alive.
He sighed, and his thoughts darkened as he looked around one last time in search of Cole. Still nothing.
Go back, he wanted to tell the man. Go back to the tower and wait for me.
It was no use. If Cole intended to keep following them, there was nothing he could do. This would play out however it was going to.
Maker help them all.