Rhys had been to the Grand Cathedral only once before. Shortly after his elevation to senior enchanter, he’d been brought in with Adrian and several others who had been elevated along with him to meet Divine Beatrix III. A courtesy, really, and Rhys remembered standing there in the stifling heat for several hours before Most Holy made her appearance.
It had been less than a year before her death, and at the time he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d expired on the spot. He remembered a shriveled old woman helped into the chamber by no less than four attendants, all but collapsing under the weight of her scarlet robes. The thick, golden medallion hanging around her neck seemed to pull her head down toward the ground, and her great headdress hung askew.
When she reached the Sunburst Throne, the Divine had blinked her eyes and looked around in confusion. “Where are we?” she’d asked, Rhys noting that not more than three teeth remained in her mouth. “Is it time to break my fast already? I told them I wasn’t hungry. No more porridge, I said!”
One of the attendants had leaned in close. “The mages, Most Holy.”
The woman’s beady eyes went wide in shock. “Mages?!” She searched the room, almost falling over in her agitation. “Andraste’s grace, are we under attack?!”
It had taken the attendants, as well as a pair of nearby templars, to finally calm the Divine down and assure her that, no, the evil mages were not here to attack anyone. They got her settled, a pile of rags seated on a throne that dwarfed her in both size and majesty, and then she immediately proceeded to fall asleep. Rhys and the others had been “introduced” one after the other, everyone pretending not to notice the old woman’s thunderous snoring.
He had never considered himself the most faithful of Andrastians. Perhaps it was being raised by the Chantry, or simply being a mage and thus less impressed by events some might call miraculous. Still, he remembered being disappointed. All that preparation, and the vast humility he’d felt stepping into that chamber, only to discover the most exalted person in all of Thedas was simply . . . human.
Now here he was, seven years later, and the Grand Cathedral looked just the same. The structure stood in a walled compound on the far end of Val Royeaux, once having existed outside the capital until the city literally grew around it. It was an imposing fortress of grey stone and arches that seemed to reach high up to the sky. Despite the beauty on display, golden statues and colorful stained glass that reached from one end of the structure to the other, the place possessed a somberness that told of its bloody past.
The Chantry, after all, was a religion born from a war that had shaken all of Thedas. Places like the Grand Cathedral and the White Spire had once been fortresses that had endured countless battles, and all were built upon the bones of countless dead.
It made him wonder if more would be added to that count today.
Once again he stood in the audience chamber, staring at the empty throne. This late at night the stained glass windows were dark, and only the Eternal Brazier cast any light, the flames in its marble basin making every shadow dance. The forty-foot-tall statue of Andraste, depicted as a robed woman with the sword of justice held aloft, seemed particularly ominous now. It was as if she stared down, knowing what lay ahead and pitying him for it.
Lord Seeker Lambert stood near the throne with the templars lined up on either side of the chamber, all of them standing at attention. Evangeline stood with them, her face an unreadable mask. Cole was . . . somewhere nearby, in the shadows. Watching. Only the mages stood out on the open floor. Rhys found the wait almost excruciating.
Then a gong rang. A line of priests filed into the chamber, each of them holding their hands in prayer and chanting. Their voices filled the room with echoes, sending a shiver down his spine.
Immediately following them was the Divine. This was no wizened crone, but a much younger woman who walked straight and proud. She needed no assistance save for the single attendant that carried the train of her voluminous red robes. Everyone in the room fell to one knee as she passed. For a long moment there was nothing but the hushed sound of the Divine’s footsteps as she ascended to the Sunburst Throne.
“All hail the Most Holy Justinia, Fifth of Her Name, Exalted Servant of the Maker!” a templar shouted, his voice booming across the chamber.
“Grant us wisdom,” a chorus of voices answered.
There was a pause, and then the Divine spoke: “Rise, all of you.”
Everyone stood. The woman sat upon the throne, and unlike its previous occupant she appeared to fill it. She sat up straight, utterly in command, and took in her audience with a warm and welcoming gaze.
The attendants hung to the rear of the chamber. Only one of them actually stood on the dais next to the throne: a pretty woman with short red hair, wearing a priest’s robes but standing with such ease and grace that Rhys couldn’t help but get the impression she was a bodyguard. Rumor said the Divine was employing bards in her personal service. He’d assumed the tales were exaggerated, as so many of them were, but perhaps that wasn’t so?
“Such a late hour for an audience,” the Divine commented. Her voice carried easily in the room’s acoustics; it was almost as if she spoke directly in Rhys’s ear. “But it is good you all are here. I have awaited this for some time.”
“Your Perfection, if I may.” The Lord Seeker strode toward the dais. He made a perfunctory bow, and did not wait for permission to continue. “There is no need for this. With the state of the Empire, I’m positive you have more important concerns than an internal matter of the Circle of Magi.”
“Your advice is appreciated, Lambert,” she said. Rhys thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone, and certainly the lack of an honorific did not go unnoticed by the man. He glared indignantly, but said nothing. “The Empire faces war, and while we pray for the souls of the many innocents trapped in its wake, the Chantry cannot forsake its responsibility for the sake of politics.”
“I am dealing with the matter, Your Perfection . . .”
“Indeed?” Her eyebrows shot up. “And yet a mage made an attempt on my life scant weeks ago. The templars have had an increasingly difficult time of managing the Circle ever since that unfortunate business in Kirkwall. Perhaps some assistance is in order, wouldn’t you say?”
His nod of assent was grudging, at best. “If you believe it so, Your Perfection.”
“I do.” The Divine cast her gaze around the room, clearly looking for someone, until she spotted her amid the line of templars. “Speaking of the attempt on my life, I never did have the opportunity to thank the one personally responsible for my rescue. Ser Evangeline, be so kind as to step forward.”
Rhys saw Evangeline’s eyes go wide in shock. She hestitated, until the Divine finally beckoned her over. Reluctantly she left the templar line, and when she reached the bottom of the dais she instantly dropped to one knee.
“The report I received on the events at Adamant fortress were quite thorough,” the Divine said. “I understand you’re responsible for ensuring the mission’s completion and safe return to Val Royeaux.”
Evangeline didn’t look up. “I . . . did my best, Most Holy.”
“Indeed you did. Here I find myself thanking you for not one service rendered to the Chantry, but two.” The Divine looked over at the Lord Seeker. “You have a most promising templar in your ranks, Lambert. I trust you’ll see her adequately rewarded?”
The Lord Seeker said nothing. For a long moment there was tense silence as he and the Divine locked stares, until finally he relented. “As you wish, Your Perfection.”
“Good. Someone will need to look after the White Spire when you return to your regular duties, after all.”
“Most Holy!” Evangeline spluttered. “I . . . cannot ask you to . . .”
“You did not ask. Rather, it is I who am asking you to continue serving the Maker.” She waved for Evangeline to come closer. “Stand at my side while I deal with the matter at hand.”
Evangeline exchanged a look with the Lord Seeker. Standing behind both of them, Rhys couldn’t see the details . . . but from the man’s rigid posture, it was easy to tell he wasn’t pleased. Someone was being overruled. Rhys would be a liar if he claimed that didn’t make him at least a little happy.
He watched Evangeline walk up the steps toward the throne, where she was met by the red-haired woman. She looked proud, if a little flustered. Good for her, Rhys thought to himself. At least someone’s going to benefit from all this.
“Now then,” the Divine began. “Let us continue. Enchanter Wynne?”
Wynne stepped forward, leading Pharamond by the hand. The elf was shaking so badly from terror, he looked ready to vomit. As soon as he reached the dais, he prostrated himself before the Divine. “Please, Your Perfection!” he begged in a quavering voice. “I did only as you asked of me, I swear it!”
Wynne knelt down and tried to console him, but the elf was having none of it. He trembled and sobbed, snot running out of his nose in a pathetic display almost painful to watch. Finally the Divine raised her hand. “Stand,” she commanded him. “For the moment, I wish only to speak.”
Slowly Pharamond allowed Wynne to help him up. He attempted to collect himself, though not very well. “I . . . did only as you asked, Most Holy,” he repeated.
The Lord Seeker strode forward, wheeling on the Divine with an expression of outrage. “What does he mean by that, exactly?”
“I believe you are forgetting yourself, Lambert.”
“And I believe the templars have a right to know what transpires in our own domain!” he snapped. “We have a difficult enough time dealing with the mages, we most certainly do not need interference!”
She frowned, and Rhys wondered if things were about to come to a head. These were two of the most powerful people in Thedas butting heads, right there in front of everyone. The unease in the chamber was conspicuous, and he couldn’t help but notice the templars were not only armed but also handily outnumbered everyone else. But . . . they served the Chantry. The templars would never openly oppose the Chantry, would they? That was unthinkable.
“Allow me to explain, then,” the Divine said in a crisp tone. “Five years ago I asked someone to undertake an investigation into the nature of the Rite of Tranquility. It is a process we use even though we do not fully understand it. I wished to know if the Rite could deny a mage their power without also neutering their mind. I also wished to know if the process could be reversed.” She gestured to Pharamond. “As you can see, that much appears to be true.”
“But why?” the Lord Seeker demanded. “The Rite of Tranquility has served the Circle for centuries. It is our last defense against mages who cannot master their own powers. We must keep order, Most Holy! We must protect the innocent from the mages, and the mages from themselves!”
She nodded. “A convenient tale, so we may sleep better at night. The Maker says that magic is to serve mankind . . . but we possess a responsibility to those who serve us, Lord Seeker. We cannot hail them when their magic is useful and then lock them in a cage when it is inconvenient. They are the Maker’s children, not to be tolerated, but to be cherished.”
Rhys was stunned. He’d never thought to hear such words from anyone in the Chantry before, never mind the Divine. From the murmurs that traveled around the room, he suspected many others felt the same way. Looking to his right, he caught a glimpse of Adrian standing not far from him and watching the throne.
She was crying.
The Lord Seeker furrowed his brow, staring at the Divine in consternation. “And what price would you have us pay for such idealism, Most Holy?”
“Idealism is our stock-in-trade, Lambert. A religion without ideals is tyranny. As for the price”—she turned back to Pharamond—“that is what I intend to discover.”
Wynne bowed low. “Your Perfection, with your permission, perhaps I could answer your questions. Since Pharamond’s . . . restoration . . . he has had difficulty controlling his emotions. I fear this may be overwhelming for him.”
The elf smiled gratefully at her, but the Lord Seeker was not nearly as impressed. “And this is a man we should now trust to resist possession?” he growled.
The Divine silenced him. “Your report was very detailed, Enchanter Wynne. For that I thank you. There are, however, questions remaining. If you would be so kind as to answer them, it would be appreciated.”
“Of course, Your Perfection.”
The Divine sat back in the throne. She steepled her hands together and rested her chin on them, narrowing her eyes in thought. “First I wish to know what happened to the people of Adamant.”
Wynne appeared reluctant to speak, and Rhys could well imagine why. He remembered the room full of charred corpses, the blood smearing the walls, and shuddered. “They are dead,” she whispered.
“Speak up!” the Lord Seeker snapped.
“They are dead,” Wynne said, more loudly.
The Divine closed her eyes, moving her mouth in a prayer. All was quiet for a long minute until she opened her eyes again. Rhys could see they were moist—she was clearly moved, and it made him feel guilty. As horrified as he’d been by the carnage, other concerns had seemed far more pressing than that of lost lives.
“How?” she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.
Wynne hesitated. “The Veil was already thin at Adamant. Pharamond’s experiment allowed demons to pass into our world. They possessed the keep’s people . . .”
“And tore each other apart,” the Lord Seeker finished for her.
She nodded.
“And then possessed the corpses.”
She nodded again.
The Lord Seeker didn’t look at the Divine. He didn’t have to.
“And this experiment,” the Divine continued, “is there promise in it? Is it an accident the Rite of Tranquility has been reversed in this man, or can it happen again?”
Wynne made to answer, but now Pharamond spoke up. “I did not intend to be possessed, I swear it,” he said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “In fact, I believe the process can be replicated far more safely . . . if, that is, you wish it to be. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence.
“But have you learned more of the Rite’s nature?”
“Yes, I believe I have.”
“And do you believe a way can be discovered to allow the Rite to restrict a mage without rendering them Tranquil?”
Rhys noticed the nervous sweat pouring down Pharamond’s brow. He glanced helplessly at Wynne, but she merely nodded for him to answer. He faced the Divine again, stuttering several times before he managed a response: “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe that’s possible.”
His answer hung in the air.
“Then there’s nothing further to discuss,” the Lord Seeker declared. “If the only result of this man’s research is to discover the Rite may be reversed, then I deem it a failure . . . and a dangerous one, Most Holy. Even now there are those in the White Spire who believe we are about to turn every Tranquil back into a mage!”
The Divine pondered his words and did not respond. She did not have to, however, as Adrian suddenly stepped forward. Rhys groaned inwardly, seeing the outrage written clearly on her face right next to the tears. “And so you should!” she shouted. “They should never have been mutilated in the first place!”
The man glared at her in fury, but it was the Divine who responded. “And what would you have us do, my dear? Execute them?”
“Yes!” Adrian looked around at the shocked glances she received, and they only seemed to fuel her outrage. “Yes! You think it’s kinder to turn them into automatons, into servants? If you really fear us so much, then kill us! Don’t pretend that killing everything that makes us human isn’t the same thing!”
The Lord Seeker angrily waved at several of the templars off to the side, but the Divine shook her head. He stared at her in disbelief, but she ignored him. “I understand your frustration,” she said to Adrian, “but we are placed in a difficult position.”
“One that is about to be made even more difficult, Most Holy,” the Lord Seeker said. He got down on one knee before the throne, a show of earnest supplication Rhys found surprising. So did Ser Evangeline and the red-haired woman on either side of the throne. Both stared at the man in surprise. “We cannot indulge this research any further,” he said. “By the elf’s own words, it leads nowhere. We must put our efforts toward keeping order before word of this spreads.”
More surprising still, the Divine appeared to consider his words. She frowned thoughtfully, staring off into the distance as she weighed the options. Rhys almost expected Adrian to object, but then he saw her shaking her head in dejection. She was giving up.
“No!” he cried out. The words were almost ripped from him before he realized what he was saying. They sounded too loud in the massive audience chamber, reverberating until all eyes were turned toward him.
There you go again, he scolded himself. When will you learn, exactly?
Steeling his nerves, Rhys approached the dais, kneeling down in the same manner the Lord Seeker had before him. “Forgive me, Most Holy, but I have to speak.”
The corner of the Divine’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Why not? It seems as if none of us are standing on ceremony today. Who might you be?”
“Enchanter Rhys, Most Holy.”
She smiled. “Ah! The son, is it? I can see the resemblance.”
He was taken aback by that, a combination of Wynne clearly having told the Divine about their relationship and the woman even remembering. Plus, he didn’t look like Wynne . . . did he? In the space of his hesitation, however, the Lord Seeker interrupted. “Do not listen to this man. He is under suspicion of murder, and anything he says will undoubtedly be an effort to save his own skin.”
The Divine chuckled, lowering her hands and easing back in the throne. “We all have our biases, Lambert. Seeing as you allowed this man to accompany the mission, I’m willing to listen to what he has to say.” She nodded to Rhys. “Please continue.”
“I believe setting aside this man’s research would be a mistake,” he said. “So much of what we know of the Rite of Tranquility, indeed of magic itself, is based on tradition and hearsay. What he has learned may not be an alternate solution to the Rite, but that does not mean one cannot be found.”
“And how do you know this?” the Lord Seeker demanded.
“I have been speaking with Pharamond since we left Adamant. Considering my own research deals with spirits, I’ve found what he has to say quite illuminating.”
The Lord Seeker stared, stunned. He spared a withering glance at Evangeline, who kept her own expression stony and did not look away, and then turned to face the Divine. “Do you see? Already it spreads. Next he’ll be trying to convince us that demons are required to further this agenda!”
“Not demons,” Rhys insisted. “Spirits!” At the incredulous look from both the Lord Seeker and the Divine, he spoke more emphatically. “Not everything about spirits is evil. We use spirits to heal, and the Chantry accepts this because it’s useful. This is no different.”
“Of course it’s different!” the Lord Seeker boomed. “We have an entire keep of innocents horribly slaughtered to show us how different it is!”
“And would you make their deaths meaningless?”
“Not I!” he said. “Their deaths were made meaningless by the selfish act of a man who used them to reverse something that should never have been reversed! It is blasphemy!”
Rhys laughed bitterly. “Blasphemy? This door is opened. You can try to slam it shut, or you can see what’s on the other side! It might just be a way to avoid the rebellion even you must know is coming!”
The Lord Seeker drew his sword. The metallic sound it made as it left its scabbard rang throughout the room, and the reaction was instantaneous. At least half of the templars drew their blades, and Rhys didn’t get the impression they intended to stop him; rather the opposite. Rhys fell back, alarmed, and immediately channeled mana. Adrian rushed to his side, summoning a wreath of fire to her hands.
“Enough!” the Divine cried. “There will be no bloodshed!”
Evangeline ran toward the Lord Seeker, weapon already in hand, but the red-haired priest got there first. She grabbed his sword hand, and when he wheeled about to force her off she glared at him with steely eyes. “Don’t be a fool,” she warned, her voice low and deadly.
He scowled, though he did lower his blade. Pulling his hand from hers, he turned to face Rhys. “I see no rebellion coming,” he seethed. “I see mages who take every inch they’re allowed and demand ten more, forgetting the very reasons the Circle exists. And what I hear are threats, coming from a Libertarian who would be the very first corrupted if power were ever placed in his hands.”
Rhys allowed his power to fade, but it was difficult. The Lord Seeker was so full of contempt and self-righteousness it was sickening, and Rhys wanted nothing more than to wipe that sneer off his face . . . even though it would surely mean his own death.
“I’m not making threats,” he said. “I’m telling you there are alternatives, but you’re too blind to see them. If you keep trying to strangle the mages, you’ll lose us. That I promise you.”
The Lord Seeker ignored him, instead turning to the Divine. “Do you see what we contend with? Resistance at every turn. End this, here and now, before it spreads beyond these walls.”
“It’s too late,” a voice cried out. It was Wynne. She reassuringly patted the anxious Pharamond’s hand and then left him to approach the dais. “I’m sorry, Most Holy, but the Circle of Magi already knows about Pharamond.”
“What do you mean?” the Lord Seeker demanded.
She smiled sweetly at him. “The sending that went to the White Spire and the Grand Cathedral was also sent to every other Circle in Thedas. The first enchanters are already on their way to Val Royeaux as we speak.”
Adrian gasped, and Rhys was similarly stunned. Had that been Wynne’s plan all along, then? Had the golem been so incredibly caustic just so Evangeline would be happy to see it leave? He couldn’t help but feel a little chagrined at the realization.
The Lord Seeker wheeled on the Divine. “Execute them,” he growled. “Execute them all. This flies in the face of everything the Chantry stands for, a direct challenge to our authority!”
The Divine frowned and regarded Wynne with a speculative look, tapping her fingers on the arm of the Sunburst Throne. Wynne bowed, and spoke in a carefully guarded tone. “This is a chance for you to work with the Circle, to greet Pharamond’s findings as an opportunity rather than as a threat.”
“You put us in a difficult position,” the Divine said. Rhys could tell she was displeased, perhaps even backed into a corner. She exchanged a dire look with the Lord Seeker, one that made Rhys nervous. Might she refuse, after all this? Had Wynne alienated a woman who had seemingly been their ally?
“None more difficult than we mages are in, Your Perfection,” Wynne answered.
The Divine’s fingers thrummed on the throne for several more moments before she nodded curtly. “So be it.” Before the Lord Seeker could object, she held up a hand. “Expedite the arrangements, Lambert. They will hold conclave here at the White Spire, rather than in Cumberland. Set it to happen in one month’s time. Let the mages debate a policy that both of us can live with.”
The Lord Seeker ground his teeth, but it was easy to see he was just as caught as she. “Very well,” he said curtly. “I believe it a fool’s errand, but it appears we are left with no choice. The templars will allow this, but I have three conditions.”
“Name them.”
“One, that we restrict the size of the conclave. I do not wish to see the tower packed with every senior enchanter from here to Ferelden. Too much power in one place may give these mages foolish ideas.”
The Divine nodded. “I believe those in this chamber will be required at the conclave. Beyond that, I agree. First enchanters only.”
“Two, I wish these mages imprisoned. I do not want them stirring up trouble, not in the White Spire or anywhere else.”
“Confine them to quarters.” She looked at Wynne. “I believe we can make an exception for you, Enchanter, in recognition of your past service. You will remain in the White Spire until the conclave. Should Lord Seeker Lambert believe you are abusing this privilege, you will join the others.”
Wynne nodded. “I understand, Most Holy.”
“Lastly”—the Lord Seeker gestured at Pharamond—“I wish this man to undergo the Rite of Tranquility once again.”
There was silence as his words sank in, and then Pharamond let out a heart-wrenching wail of despair. The elf sank to his knees, staring at the Lord Seeker in utter horror. Tears welled in his eyes. “Please,” he gasped. “Please do not do this, I beg you . . .”
Wynne ran to the man’s side, keeping him upright. She pleaded to the Divine, “For the love of the Maker, have mercy!”
The Lord Seeker scowled. “The reasons he underwent the Rite are true today as they once were. Moreover, look at him. The man can barely control himself. How will he fare against a demon? Whatever knowledge he possesses will remain.”
Pharamond collapsed to the ground. The desperate keening sound he made was like an animal caught in a trap, and it tugged at Rhys’s heart. “You can’t do this!” he shouted. “After all he’s been through, it’s inhumane!”
“Perhaps you’d like to join him,” the Lord Seeker said icily.
The Divine shook her head. “Enough, Lambert. The elf shall become Tranquil once again. It is done.” With that, she rose from the throne. Every templar in the chamber immediately stood at attention. Before she left the dais, however, she paused and regarded Wynne with a warning look. “Let us hope you are correct, Enchanter, and this conclave allows the Circle and the Chantry to build a new accord. If not, may the Maker have mercy on you all.”
The red-haired attendant took the Divine by the hand and led her away. All was silent as the two of them left the dais, save for the sound of Pharamond’s pitiful sobbing. It echoed throughout the holy chamber, and Rhys found himself standing there, stunned.
What had just happened? There was to be a conclave . . . and he was to attend? It seemed he had another reprieve, though the way the Lord Seeker glared at him he imagined it wouldn’t last much beyond that.
He was far luckier than poor Pharamond. Rhys walked toward the man, Adrian beside him, but neither could offer any more comfort than Wynne could. The old woman cradled him like a child beneath the Eternal Brazier as he howled in grief.
Whatever he had done in the keep, whatever mistakes he had made, he was paying for it now. If there was anything worse than being stripped of all your emotion and made to live as a hollow shadow of what you once were . . . it was knowing exactly what it was like, and having it about to happen to you again.