Something big was happening. It had been building up for weeks, like the charge in the air right before a storm. Everyone in the tower was on edge. They didn’t want the storm to begin, but couldn’t stand waiting for it to happen.
Cole understood only a little. There was going to be a meeting, and it involved important mages who had been slowly arriving from faraway places. Everyone called them “First Enchanter,” though he had no idea how so many people could be first at something. Didn’t there have to be a second, and a third?
As important as they might be, however, they were afraid of the templars. When they argued, they did so quietly because there were templars nearby . . . watching, always watching. They folded their arms and scowled at the mages, the same way the kitchen cooks scowled when they spotted a rat. These mages could wear all the fancy black robes they wanted, it didn’t mean they weren’t prisoners.
Big Nose showed up sometimes. Cole didn’t know where he got his new suit of armor, but it was polished to a shine. He had a scarlet cloak now, as well, just like the one Evangeline wore. Big Nose liked to loom over the mages. He circled them, feigning interest in their discussions until they slowly quieted. They didn’t like Big Nose much, and Cole didn’t blame them. Cole didn’t like him, either.
It was strange. Once Cole would have said there was nothing he was more afraid of than templars . . . but now? Now he walked up to them. He stood inches away, looking into their eyes, and knew they saw nothing. They stared right through him. I can see you, he wanted to say. I can see what you are, now.
Rhys couldn’t help him. They’d locked Rhys into his room, and while Cole had considered going to visit, what would he say? Cole had caused him enough grief. It was better to stay away—maybe that would make things easier for Rhys.
Evangeline couldn’t help Cole, either. She was so pretty and gentle it made Cole’s heart ache. When she’d promised to take him before the templars, he’d been afraid . . . but it gave him hope as well. She seemed strong, and who would know the templars better than she? But now she was down in the Pit, forced to do things a Knight-Captain wasn’t supposed to do. That’s what the other templars said. They gossiped about her, saying mean things that made Cole angry.
Old Woman couldn’t help Cole either. He’d seen her coming and going, sometimes heading up to Rhys’s room. She was watched closely at all times, and she knew it. Maybe she even knew Cole watched her, and pretended not to notice. He suspected she’d always been able to see him, right from the very beginning. It just didn’t matter, because he didn’t fit into her plans.
Red Hair—Rhys called her Adrian—she wouldn’t help Cole even if she could. The templars had locked her inside her room, just like Rhys, but that didn’t change anything. There were others who snuck up to her door to deliver messages, and she even managed to get out once or twice. The lengths she and her friends went to in order to distract the guards was fascinating for him. Adrian had just as many plans as Old Woman, and while Cole could probably have listened in and discovered what her plans were, he didn’t want to know. Whatever she planned, it wasn’t going to help him.
None of them could help him.
But he might be able to help them. When they’d ridden back to the city, he’d been listening. The things the others said about the templars made sense. They were the problem. When he looked into their eyes he didn’t see the danger he used to. He saw fear. A terrible fear that was going to burn up everything in its path.
For so long the templars had been the demons haunting his world, and all he’d done was hide in the shadows . . . but maybe it was time to stop hiding. He wasn’t locked in a room, after all, or banished to the Pit. Nobody was watching him. He was free to act.
Cole moved through the dark hall carefully, acutely aware of everything around him. The tower was asleep, or trying to be. The meeting everyone had been waiting for was tomorrow morning, and the tension had reached such a fever pitch it screamed at his senses. One false move and he would turn a corner and bump into a guard, and everything would be over.
A fat templar was waiting outside the doorway Cole sought, half-asleep. His head kept drooping and then snapping up again. If he’d just nod off, this would be easier, but there was no such luck. Fear kept him awake. Fear of the man in the black armor.
Cole shuddered at the memory. That man was made of steel, honed to a fine edge. When Cole had been in Evangeline’s chambers, that man had sensed him. He had something in him, something different from the other templars, but Cole couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t want to find out what it was.
Slowly he walked over to the guard, heart pounding in his chest. Pharamond said that everyone forgetting him wasn’t just something that happened. It was something Cole did. A power. If so, maybe he could use it.
You don’t see me. You won’t notice anything I do. He stared into the guard’s eyes, concentrating, summoning up . . . something. He could feel it. Way down inside of him, in the dark place he never dared to look, something was there. He tried not to let it frighten him. Instead, he told it to come.
Reaching out, ever so carefully, Cole plucked the keys from the templar’s belt. He maintained eye contact the entire time. The keys jingled, and he froze. Nothing. The man didn’t blink, didn’t react at all.
I can do it. I can make them not see me.
It was an exhilarating feeling. He carefully backed away from the guard, clutching the keys to his chest. When he moved to the doorway, he watched for any signs of a response. Nothing.
Cole closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Now that he’d summoned the dark place, it was spilling up inside of him. He tried to will it away, tried to push it back down, but it wouldn’t go. It seeped into every part of him, trying to take him away. It was trying to make him fade.
No, I won’t let you.
He clenched his teeth. He breathed, each moment slow and excruciating, until finally it wasn’t so bad. It almost felt like the shadows in the hall lengthened, like they stretched out toward him, but he tried to ignore them. He was real. He was standing right there, and he was going to act.
Cole unlocked the door. The slightest click as he turned the key, and then the faintest noise as he pulled the handle. Even though the guard stood not two feet away, he didn’t look. Quickly Cole slipped inside.
The bedroom was tiny and dark. The barred window showed only night sky, and a hint of snow—the first of the season. A single candle burned on the table, reduced almost to a puddle of melted wax. It did nothing but make the shadows seem all the more mournful. This room was a tomb, or was waiting to become one.
“Who . . . who’s there?” A quavering voice from the darkness. Cole could barely make out the figure of a man lying on the small cot. Not that he needed to. He knew exactly who it was.
“It’s Cole,” he said.
Pharamond jumped up, staring at Cole in bewilderment. He had the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days, perhaps in weeks. Worn and pale, dark circles under his eyes, haggard and stretched to the very limits of his endurance. Once someone might have said this elf was handsome with his silky white hair and his blue eyes . . . but not tonight. Tonight he just looked old.
“I can see you,” Pharamond breathed in amazement. “And I remember who you are. Why is that? Has something changed?”
“You’ve changed.” Cole walked over to the elf and sat down on the edge of his cot. Pharamond glanced down at the dagger in Cole’s hands, his eyes widening in fear. “You can see me and remember me because you want to die.”
The elf gulped once, loudly. He didn’t look away. He didn’t question how Cole could know such a thing. He also didn’t say Cole was wrong. “Tomorrow morning they’re going to make me Tranquil again,” he whispered, the words a croak torn from the depths of his throat. “I want to die more than anything.”
Cole nodded sadly, but didn’t respond. He stared at the flickering candle instead, and for a long time the two of them sat in silence. Being Tranquil didn’t sound so bad to him. He’d been terrified of being swallowed up by the darkness for so long it seemed like it would be a relief to get it over with. You were only scared of becoming nothing until you were nothing.
Just like dying.
“I can get you out of here,” he said. “That’s why I came.”
“Get me . . . out? How?”
“The same way I got in.” Cole considered the idea carefully. “I think . . . I think I could make them not notice you either, if you were with me. We could walk out the doors together, and they won’t ever be able to harm you.”
“What if that didn’t work?”
“Then you would die.”
Pharamond looked shocked, like the possibility of escape had never entered his mind. He stood up, pacing back and forth on the floor with growing agitation . . . and then he paused, staring grimly out the window at the blowing snow. “And where would you take me?” he asked.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know there’s anyplace I can go.”
Cole didn’t have any suggestions. He didn’t know anything of the world outside the tower. What little he’d seen during the voyage to the keep made it seem frightening and cold, full of people who paid less attention to each other than they did even to him. “Wouldn’t anywhere be better than here?”
Pharamond walked up to the window, running his fingers lightly along the bars. They were already covered in a faint layer of frost. “Winters in Adamant are horrible,” he said. “The badlands become cold as ice, and that sand . . . the winds blow so hard the sand feels like it’s going to strip the flesh from your bones. The people at the keep spend months preparing, yet every year a few still die. Hunters caught out in a storm, visiting merchants who don’t know any better, a foolish child . . .”
Cole didn’t know why the elf told him this, but he listened even so. It was all very strange. Every time before when he’d sought out some lost and hopeless soul, it had been because a burning need had driven him there. He needed them just as much as they needed him. There was no time for talking because he needed that recognition in their eyes, that moment when they made him real.
What did he feel now? Even with the darkness unleashed, crawling up inside of him like a horde of hungry insects, there was still no burning need. He ran his thumb along the edge of the dagger. Sharp. Giving Pharamond that way out would be easy. If he didn’t need to do it, did that make it mercy instead of murder?
“The first snowfall,” Pharamond continued, “there is always a celebration. I thought it so strange. The winter is dangerous, not something to celebrate. But the badlanders still put up their wreaths and hold a great feast, with dancing. I am always included and asked to dance, even though they know I won’t. I just watch them, puzzled by it all.” He stopped, his voice catching, and looked at Cole. He was crying. “There won’t be any celebration in Adamant tonight.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to escape?”
“I don’t want to escape. I want you to kill me.”
The last conclave Rhys attended had been a spectacle.
The College of the Magi in Cumberland was a palace—once the home of a Neverran Duchess and given to the Chantry, it was rumored, because her daughter had been discovered to have magical talent. The Duchess wished her daughter to live in the opulence to which she was accustomed, and not in a dark tower a hundred miles away.
Rhys believed it. If the White Spire was impressive for its oppressive grandeur, the College was impressive for the sheer wealth on display: marble pillars, brightly painted frescoes, vases, and gilded vines that crawled up the walls. The entry hall had been especially interesting, with sandstone busts of every grand enchanter who had held the office in the last six hundred years. Everything glittered. It didn’t seem like the sort of place mages would be allowed to gather, but it had been exactly that.
The “red auditorium,” so named because of its domed mahogany ceiling, easily held the two hundred people in attendance: first enchanters, the heads of every fraternity, senior mages, and even intrigued apprentices. They argued, postured, split into cliques, and made speeches. Some were there simply to watch, the eldest with no small amusement at the “excitable” newcomers. Rhys had spent his time wandering amidst the cacophony, confused as to the schedule of events until he realized there wasn’t one. Any attempt to enforce order was swept aside in favor of conversation.
Very little had been accomplished and, according to those who attended, that wasn’t unusual. Still, nobody seemed to mind. It made the mages feel like they were a part of something bigger than just their own tower, and that when they chose they could speak as a unified voice.
This conclave, if it could really be called such, was nothing like that.
The White Spire’s great hall dwarfed those present: fifteen first enchanters, short four who couldn’t make it in time, plus the Grand Enchanter. Other than that there was simply himself, Adrian, and Wynne. The templars watching balefully from the walls more than doubled their number. It was intimidating, and everyone felt distinctly uneasy.
Rhys stood off to one side, not really feeling welcome in their inner circle . . . unlike Adrian, who hadn’t left the Grand Enchanter’s side since they’d arrived. No one was talking. They waited for Pharamond to be brought in, and that alone was cause for tension: Wynne had already explained what was being done, and none of the first enchanters were pleased. When the elf finally entered, Tranquil once again, Rhys wasn’t sure what the reaction would be. Nothing good.
Grand Enchanter Fiona was an elven woman, black hair greying at the temples, and almost as short as Adrian. It might have been comical to watch the two of them standing next to the taller mages had they both not possessed an intensity which made them larger than life. Fiona glared daggers at the templars, and it was apparently a sentiment shared by the others.
As he stood there watching, Evangeline walked over to him. Her armor had been newly polished, but he noticed she’d left the red cloak behind. It made her seem . . . less imposing, somehow. Not that he ever thought her imposing, per se, but he had always pictured her as an authority figure. If she was trying to downplay that now, she was the only templar present making the attempt.
“You’re not standing with the others,” she observed.
He grinned at her. “That’s because I’m special.”
“Are you, now?”
“Oh yes, didn’t you know? I’m the mage who might be a murderer. The ladies found my dangerous allure too much to bear and started fainting, so they asked me to wait over here.”
She laughed, and then gave him a scandalous look for making her do so—though he noticed she still couldn’t quite hide her amusement. “I’m certain they don’t really think that.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Either way, I’m no first enchanter.”
“Neither is Adrian, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping her.”
“Adrian is currently attached to the Grand Enchanter’s hip. That makes her more of an accessory, I suppose, like a nice belt or an extra pair of shoes.”
She smirked and followed his gaze to where Adrian stood on the floor. Adrian noticed the attention, and when her eyes caught Evangeline’s the smirk faded instantly. “They don’t seem to be in a hurry to get this conclave underway,” she noted.
“They’re waiting for Pharamond.”
“Ah.”
“Do you know when he’s to arrive? How long does the Rite of Tranquility usually take?”
Evangeline stared off at the row of watching templars, and her eyes flashed with anger. “It should be done by now. I’ve asked, but the most I’ve been told is that Pharamond is ‘on his way.’” She grinned wryly when Rhys’s eyebrows shot up at that. “I’m not exactly in favor with the order right now.”
“I’ve caused you all sorts of trouble, haven’t I? I’m so sorry.”
His apology clearly took her by surprise. “You’re not to blame, Rhys,” she said. “I said I would try to help . . . Cole. I told you that was my duty as a templar, and I meant it. If the order is unwilling to bend, it’s no fault of yours.”
She remembered Cole. There had been a moment of hesitation, but he could see her struggling to hold on to his name. He found the effort touching, though he couldn’t say exactly why. For a long moment the two of them stood there, comfortable in their silence as they scanned the group of mages milling about on the center floor.
“I have to tell you something,” he finally said. “I admire you, Evangeline. Of all the things I’ve ever thought templars were like, you’ve managed to prove me wrong about every single one. If more of them were like you . . .”
She was actually blushing, though she hid it well under a casual air. “The order is a place where ideals are set aside for the sake of necessity. There simply isn’t room for compassion or mercy, and those who feel there should be . . .” She hesitated, and then shrugged. “They find themselves on the outside, as an example to the others.”
“Just like the rest of us?”
“Seems that way.”
He grinned. “Somehow that makes you more attractive than ever.”
Evangeline looked at him incredulously, perhaps wondering if he was serious. He was tempted to laugh it off, pretend it was a bit of teasing and nothing more . . . but he just couldn’t. He held her gaze, and something passed between them. Something neither was willing to acknowledge, but it was there nevertheless.
“I’ve had enough of this!” someone cried from the great hall’s floor.
It was enough to break the moment. Evangeline averted her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and Rhys felt a moment of loss. He should have said something else, something better.
The commotion on the floor was centered around the Grand Enchanter, who was now stamping her staff on the marble floor to get the others’ attention. The staff flared brightly, making her white robes stand in stark contrast to the dark ones around her. The watching templars whispered angrily in response, and several headed toward the doors.
“We’re not waiting,” Fiona declared. “We’re here now, and we’re well aware of what we’re to discuss. We don’t need another Tranquil to underline the kind of contempt in which the templars hold us.”
“Will you keep it down!” one of the first enchanters hissed fearfully, an Antivan man with a braided black beard.
“No, I will not.” Her staff flashed as she turned her glare on the other mages before her. “This is the first time we’ve been allowed together in a year, and I’m not going to waste it.” She took a dramatic breath. “I am putting forward a motion to separate the Circle of Magi from the Chantry.”
Everyone in the room took a shocked breath. More templars moved toward the doors, these ones propelled as if chased. Rhys sensed that something bad was about to happen—the air bristled with anger, ready to explode. He followed Evangeline, running onto the floor.
“We are to discuss Pharamond’s research,” Wynne insisted. “Nothing more. If you derail this conclave, Fiona, we’ll never get another.”
Fiona snorted derisively. “This isn’t a conclave. This is a joke! We could discuss what to do about the Rite of Tranquility until we were blue in the face; do you believe the templars would even think about following our advice?”
“The Divine is willing to—”
“Fuck the Divine.” She sighed when the others stared at her, stunned by her blasphemy, and rubbed her forehead in agitation. “I’m certain the Divine is a perfectly nice person,” she continued in a more conciliatory tone. “So was Grand Cleric Elthina in Kirkwall. She did her best to keep everyone happy, and what happened? Nothing was resolved, until finally her inaction killed her.”
Wynne frowned. “She was killed by the act of one madman.”
“I’m not going to condone what Anders did,” Fiona said, “but I understand why he did it. I’m only suggesting that we act, not blow up the White Spire.”
“Aren’t you? How do you think the templars will respond to this?”
“We are not responsible for their actions. We’re only responsible for our own.” Fiona turned her gaze to each of the first enchanters in turn. “You all know who I am. I came to the Circle from the Grey Wardens because I saw something had to be done. In the Wardens, we learn to watch for our moment and seize it—and that moment is now.”
“And what would you have us do? Battle the templars when they attempt to take us captive?” Wynne stepped in front of the Grand Enchanter, holding her hands out imploringly to the others. “What Pharamond discovered has given us an opportunity. In the face of evidence that the Rite of Tranquility is faulty, the Divine has the excuse she needs to ask for reform. That will be a beginning, I promise you.”
“You promised as much at our last conclave,” Fiona said. Her words weren’t harsh, however . . . Rhys thought she sounded weary more than anything. “And look where we are. We know how you feel, Wynne, but the Chantry can’t wait to decide when it’s safe to do what’s right.”
“And the Libertarians are going to decide for us?” one of the first enchanters asked, a heavyset bald man with an Ander accent.
The mage with the braided beard frowned. “I’d like to know if this Pharamond actually found something significant, or if this is all just so much smoke.”
“He managed to heal himself,” Adrian interjected, “and now the templars have made him Tranquil again. What does that tell you? They don’t care what we learn, or what the Rite does or doesn’t do. All they care about is keeping us controlled.”
The first enchanters appeared to accept her words, nodding uneasily. Wynne looked upset, perhaps because she sensed the same thing Rhys did—the mood was swinging in the Grand Enchanter’s favor. Even the ones whom Rhys assumed would speak up in Wynne’s defense remained silent. First Enchanter Edmonde was an Aequitarian like her, for instance, but he simply scowled and rubbed his long beard.
Rhys saw Evangeline watching nervously as more templars left the great hall. Only a dozen remained clustered near the door, eyeing the proceedings with a dangerous air. The sounds of many booted feet could be heard from the halls. “I know my opinion isn’t welcome here,” Evangeline told the mages, “but whatever you’re going to do, I suggest you do it quickly.”
Edmonde seemed surprised. “You’re not going to stop us?”
“The conclave has always existed to allow the mages to decide their own path,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “So decide.”
Nobody spoke. Wynne looked pensive, but Rhys imagined she’d already said all she could—likewise for the Grand Enchanter. Everyone already knew what everyone else thought, and knew the issue at hand. They merely appeared reluctant to step off the precipice.
“If I may speak?” he quietly asked. Surprisingly, they all turned and paid attention. Even the Grand Enchanter. “I know I’m not one of you . . .”
“We know who you are, Rhys,” the bald-headed first enchanter said. “Wynne has spoken of you frequently. For a Libertarian, your views have always proven moderate. Speak, and we will listen.”
Rhys licked his lips nervously. “The Grand Enchanter isn’t wrong,” he said. “This is the only chance you’ve had to gather, and it’s the only one you’ll get. The Lord Seeker will consider this vote treason no matter how it goes. So there’s only one question left.” His gaze met Adrian’s, and he could almost read her thoughts: Do it. Say it. Convince them. “What do you want to tell the rest of the Circle? Will you try not to make things worse, and trust the Divine, or will you make a stand?”
There was a crash outside. The templars were coming—all of them, by the sound of it. He could see in the eyes of the mages that they knew exactly what Rhys meant: the die was cast. There was no turning back now.
“I put forward the motion,” the Grand Enchanter said urgently. “Who says aye?”
But it was too late. All heads turned as Lord Seeker Lambert marched through the great hall’s doors, a crowd of templars at his back. All had swords drawn. Three men who wore the same black armor as the Lord Seeker walked at his side—more seekers, Rhys realized. The thunderous noise of their entrance was like death approaching.
The templars and seekers spread out, surrounding the mages in a heartbeat, as the Lord Seeker strode toward them. The cold fury in his expression left no mistake as to his intent. “This conclave is at an end,” he declared. “Like children, you cannot even be trusted to do as you are commanded. I will not have treason under this roof.”
Grand Enchanter Fiona stepped ahead of the others, almost protectively. Considering how short the elven woman was compared to the Lord Seeker, it might have seemed laughable were her incredible power not obvious. Her staff flared brightly, mirroring the outrage in her eyes. “This is no treason. The Divine gave us leave to hold conclave, and you’ve no right to tell us what we may or may not do with it.”
“The Divine is a fool,” he snarled at her. “As are all of you, both for thinking this might even be permitted . . . as well as for listening to the words of a murderer.” It took Rhys a moment to realize the man was referring to him. “The Tranquil, Pharamond, was found dead this morning. Stabbed to death. I took the liberty of having Enchanter Rhys’s chambers searched, and found this.”
He tossed something on the floor between them: a knife with a black hilt, the smear of blood on its blade clearly visible. It wasn’t Rhys’s, nor did it look anything like Cole’s dagger. Rhys had never seen it before. “But . . . that’s not mine,” he objected.
“Of course you would say that.”
“It’s true!”
Evangeline stepped forward. “I told you who was responsible for the murders, my lord. If you’d listen to me—”
“I did listen. Now I have evidence that proves you were mistaken.”
“There must be another explanation!” she insisted. “Someone placed that in his room, they’re trying to—”
“Be silent!” the Lord Seeker shouted. “Do not make this any worse for yourself, stupid girl! We are dealing with a blood mage. If you are not under his influence then you have allowed your infatuation with these mages to cloud your mind.” He gestured to the templars. “Take Enchanter Rhys into custody.”
“No!” Wynne pulled Rhys back by the arm. “This is beyond reason! The Divine shall hear of this, I swear it!”
Rhys felt bewildered. He knew the Lord Seeker had it in for him, but to go to such lengths? As he stood there, the templars closed in with their blades at the ready. The mages responded by brandishing their staves, the room crackling with mana. They spread out, facing off against the templars—a battle was imminent.
The Lord Seeker seemed unimpressed. “I am done listening to the Divine,” he announced. “She will lead this land into chaos it can ill afford. All of you have a choice: stand down and return to your towers, unharmed, or be treated as the rebels you clearly are.”
“No, it is you who have a choice,” Grand Enchanter Fiona warned. “Leave us to our lawful conclave. Allow us to investigate this claim against Enchanter Rhys in a rational manner. Or face the consequences.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Threats?” He looked at Evangeline. “And what of you? Do you stand with these traitors, or will you salvage some shred of sanity?”
Evangeline clenched her jaw. She drew her sword. “The only insanity I see here is that of a man who refuses to see what he does is wrong.”
“So be it.”
With a wave of his hand, the templars attacked. Even prepared as the mages were, they weren’t ready for the wave of disruption unleashed—the powers of a templar are uniquely designed to counter a mage’s spells, and here that counted for everything. Blades came down against magical shields, shattering them and sending blinding sparks flying about the hall.
It did not stop the mages. The Grand Enchanter shouted in rage, unleashing a ball of blinding energy at the nearest group of templars. Several raised their own shields in time, but that didn’t stop them from being scattered as the ball exploded. The concussive wave shook the entire chamber.
Templars charged toward Rhys. A nearby first enchanter raised her hands. “I surrender!” she cried in a panic. Whether the templars didn’t hear her over the cacophony or thought she readied an attack, he couldn’t tell. Either way, the first templar that reached her ran her through.
The surprised look on the young man’s face said he hadn’t expected that. He watched in horror as the mage stared down, confused by the sword now piercing her chest. As she opened her mouth to speak, blood spurted out. Quietly she slid off his blade and slumped to the floor, a dark stain spreading on her robes.
The reaction was electrifying. A cry went out as more mages saw what had happened, and suddenly they were no longer merely defending themselves. Rhys heard Adrian scream in fury, and deadly fire rained down on the templars—men burned, screaming horribly. The entire chamber exploded in chaos, a cyclone of lightning and smoke summoned in their very midst. The templars attacked indiscriminately now, hacking down any mage they could reach.
The confusion was too much to follow. Rhys ducked his head as a large chunk of masonry fell from the ceiling, just missing him. Another templar charged out of the smoke, uttering a war cry with his sword raised high. Rhys held out his staff and unleashed a bolt of force, knocking the man back into the fray.
He turned and saw Wynne cradling the fallen woman in her arms. She desperately summoned healing spirits to mend the woman’s injuries, but the magic she poured into the body was pointless. The woman was dead and gone. Wynne shook her head in horror, tears running down her face. “No! No, this is all wrong! That can’t be happening!”
Rhys tried to pull her away, but she resisted. So he grabbed Wynne by the shoulders and dragged her up, forcing her to look at him. She did so, staring with wide eyes, perhaps not comprehending what he was doing. “We have to get out of here!” he shouted.
Evangeline appeared out of nowhere. He noticed blood on her sword, and from her grim expression it was clear she hated all of this. She saw the two of them and ran over. “The front gates!” she cried, wincing as another explosion rocked the great hall. “They’re sealed, but you can blow them open!”
Evangeline grabbed his hand and pulled him along, and he pulled Wynne. Together the three of them stumbled through the battle. Spirits swirled about, their ethereal forms attacking templars without any defense against them. The Veil had been torn asunder by the magic ripping through the hall, and it made Rhys uneasy. How long before one of the mages gave in to rage and despair and allowed a demon to possess them? Then the battle would become something much, much worse.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Fear clutched his heart as Rhys saw the Lord Seeker standing before them, a glittering obsidian blade held casually before him. He appeared undisturbed by the chaos, grey eyes focused on them and only them.
“Get out of our way, Lambert,” Evangeline warned.
“No one is leaving this room,” he said, his tone cold as ice. “Not a single one.” A dozen templars appeared behind him, and Rhys saw more coming. Mages were scattering now, some trying desperately to flee even as they were cut down. Others were being overwhelmed, their mana disrupted until they couldn’t cast a single spell. The mages were losing.
Wynne pushed herself away from Rhys, wiping the tears from her face. “You won’t get away with this!” she cried, her voice hoarse.
“Get away with bringing a murderer to justice? With stopping a new rebellion in its tracks? The Maker’s work is being done today, nothing else.” He strode forward, summoning power into his sword as the other templars surrounded them.
Evangeline raised her blade with a look of determination. Wynne, too, gripped her staff and prepared for battle. Rhys couldn’t let it happen. He dug deep down into the reserves of mana within him, deeper than he ever had before. With a cry of rage, he held up his staff and unleashed a torrent of magic.
The wave of force that expanded from him sent every templar flying back, as if they weighed nothing. The entire building shook, and for a single moment Rhys felt exhilarated. The power . . . it was like nothing he had ever tapped into before. It flowed through his veins, filling him up.
It would have been so easy to do more. The Veil was fragile, and he could sense the demons, lurking just beyond and eager to enter this world. A single call would give him all the power he needed. He could take many of these templars with him, one last hurrah they would never forget.
Forbidden power at his fingertips, beckoning.
With a shout of exquisite agony, Rhys pulled back from the brink. He turned to Wynne and Evangeline, his eyes flashing with power. “Go!” he shouted. They stared at him in shock, but neither budged. “GO!” he roared.
Without waiting, he spun around to face the templars. A sparkling wall of pure force rose up between them, the men slamming against it uselessly. Holding up his staff, Rhys summoned a storm of energy, adding it to the maelstrom. He would tear the entire hall down, if he had to, stone by stone.
The Lord Seeker reached the wall of force. He channeled his own power, shattering it with a single blow of his black sword. Hot pain flashed through Rhys. He fired one magical bolt after another at the Lord Seeker. The man blocked each one, but it was enough to give him pause. His brows knitted in effort as he fought to get closer.
And then something hit Rhys from behind. A blow to the back of his head, making his vision swim. He lashed out with a spell, flinging the unseen attacker up into the ceiling with enough force to shatter his bones. Then something else slashed at Rhys’s side. He unleashed a spell in that direction as well, not even bothering to look.
Then the Lord Seeker was there. The man’s eyes were filled with hate. “Andraste guide my blade,” he uttered, and swung his sword with all his might.
The shock of the disruption sent Rhys stumbling back. The world spun around him, and he fell to the ground. Several templars leapt on him instantly, beating him with metal gauntlets and sword hilts. The pain was blinding until he surrendered to it.
As the world began to fade, he looked around. The Lord Seeker was standing over him, watching the beating Rhys received with his cold, cold eyes. But Wynne and Evangeline were nowhere in sight. They were gone.
Good. At least I did something right.
And then the blackness reached up and claimed him.