Authors: David Gaider
Tags: #Magic, #Insurgency, #Fantasy Fiction, #Dragons, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Imaginary Wars and Battles, #Epic, #Media Tie-In
He felt Evangeline's hand wraparound his own and give it a squeeze.
"You all know who my mother was," he said to the crowd, "and she taught me something before she died. It was that the time has come for us to put aside our assumptions of the past— the assumptions of others as well as our assumptions about ourselves. We know nothing of Tranquility, or of demons, or even our own limitations. What ever comes next, we will only survive if we learn to look upon it with new eyes. If we don't, we will simply make those old mistakes over again . . . and what ever our fate, we will deserve it."
Some nodded at his words, but no one spoke. Grand Enchanter Fiona waited, and then looked at him with a perplexed expression. "Forgive me, Enchanter Rhys," she said, "but I do not believe you made your vote clear."
Rhys took a deep breath, and then cast the final die.
"I vote that we fight."
The snow fell hard that night, but Rhys paid it no heed.
He sat in a dark corner of the ruin's courtyard, alone with his thoughts at last. He had expected an uproar after his vote, but instead there had been only silence. The realization that the Circle of Magi was irrevocably finished had left a question in its wake: What now? It wasn't something he could face yet, and so he'd left. Other mages had done the same, each needing to come to terms with the inevitable.
Evangeline appeared, crossing through the snow and wind. Anyone else he might have considered an intrusion on his solace, but not her.
"It's done," she said as she reached him, her expression grim.
"It is."
Evangeline held out a hand to help him to his feet, and he took it. "What are you thinking of?" she asked.
"My mother."
She nodded sadly, needing no explanation. "I stood on the other side of that blackness and Wynne sent a golden light to bring me back. It was . . . beautiful."
Evangeline hadn't spoken of that night since it happened. Rhys was still amazed to see her alive. Magic had never breached the wall between life and death before. It wasn't supposed to be possible, and yet here Evangeline was: not a spirit, not some facsimile of the woman he knew. A miracle.
"Is . . . it inside of you?" he asked uneasily.
"The spirit? I don't know. I don't feel any different."
"Do you remember what happened before?"
Evangeline said nothing at first. "I remember Cole. I remember the look in your eyes when you . . . realized what he was." Rhys nodded, feeling the shame burn his cheeks, but she laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't torment yourself."
"Shouldn't I? He fooled me. I, of anyone, should have known better."
"I was there in the Fade. That wasn't a lie, Rhys."
He shook his head. "But that can't be. There was never any boy named Cole. That never happened. It must have all just been some . . ."
"And who just told the assembled mages that it was time to put aside our assumptions?" Evangeline chuckled ruefully as he clamped his mouth shut. "I don't know what Cole was. All I know was that he was a lost soul, and you tried to do right by him. That's all that matters."
"I think I killed those people."
"I know. It doesn't change anything about you."
They were quiet for a time. "Do you think we'll ever see Cole again?" he finally asked.
"I don't know. I don't think so."
Rhys nodded in agreement. "So . . . what will you do?" he asked quietly. "The Circle's done. The templars will come for us and it will be war, just as Fiona said. Are you going to fight against them?"
She looked at him then and didn't smile, her expression utterly serious. "If it means I fight at your side, I'll gladly die again and regret nothing."
"Then we'll face the future together." Evangeline nodded and hugged him tight, and he accepted the embrace gladly. Rhys realized the question of what lie ahead no longer seemed as daunting. With her . . . the thought was lost as he looked into her eyes. He'd nearly lost her forever. There in the ruined courtyard, the snow quietly falling around them, they kissed. It felt natural and right.
She smiled and took his hand as they parted. "Come with me."
They walked together to a place not far from Andoral's Reach. There a massive oak tree stood alone in a field, a gnarled and grey thing so old it seemed impossible it should still be standing . . . yet also so majestic it took one's breath away to behold. That tree had watched the ages pass. It had seen Blights fill the land with darkspawn and yet suffered no corruption. Perhaps it had even watched Andraste's armies tear down the mighty fortress, stood witness to battles that had slain thousands upon thousands of men, yet it had not fallen.
It was at the foot of that tree that Wynne's ashes were now buried. It had been Leliana's suggestion. Wynne would have wanted no monument, she said, no marble crypt or fanfare. Just a place to finally rest, someplace where those who knew her could come and remember her as she was: a woman who had fought for what she believed in, who had stood against darkspawn and chaos alike. A woman who'd used the years she'd been given to leave the world a better place than she found it.
Leliana was there now, as was Shale. First Enchanter Irving, too. There were others as well, all hanging their heads in sad memory, marking the passing of their friend. Even the golem had no sarcastic quips to offer, the light in its eyes now dim and grey.
Rhys and Evangeline watched quietly from a distance. He tried to remember his mother, and that last smile she had given him. His heart ached, wondering at the life he might have had if she'd never been forced to give him away, the different life
she
might have had. Maybe they could have been good for each other.
Leliana began to sing. The words were elven, but Rhys understood them even so: they spoke of joy and loss, and how all things must come to an end.
It was at once the most haunting and beautiful melody he'd ever heard.
EPILOGUE
Lord Seeker Lambert strode into his chambers, his face flush
with satisfaction. Swiftly he removed his black cloak and tossed it to an elven page that trailed behind him. Fifteen Knight- Commanders in one room, and not a single one had raised a voice in protest. They all knew what needed to be done. Those few that held private reservations would either remain silent or be replaced.
An army would be assembled and the pathetic mages gathered at Andoral's Reach would be crushed . . . or starved out, it didn't matter which. Their deaths would serve as an example to all who came after. The Circle of Magi was gone, and soon it would be replaced by a new order that would finally have the power to establish a real peace. Where even the Chantry had failed, the Seekers of Truth would stand triumphant in the eyes of the Maker.
"Take a letter, boy," he snapped.
The page nearly yelped in fear, dropping the cloak as well as the papers he carried. The Lord Seeker waited impatiently as the boy scrambled to recover it all. He hung up the cloak and then sat at the tiny desk, dipping a writing pen into the inkwell with a shaky hand.
"Maker's breath, boy. If that letter ends up illegible, I'll have your hide."
The page gulped. "Yes, my lord." His hand slowed, even if his panicked breaths did not. Lambert would be fortunate if the boy made it through the entire letter without expiring on the spot. Well, it didn't matter, so long as it was written and delivered tonight. He unstrapped his armor as he dictated:
Most Holy,
The Seekers are well aware of the part you played in the rebellion. You call me to the Grand Cathedral in the middle of the night on "urgent" business only to speak of trivial matters? And then, when I return to the White Spire, I discover chaos . . . and one of your agents in the midst of the apostates.
Did you think I would not notice? Did you believe yourself above repercussions for such acts? It was a dark day when the Chantry placed such an incapable woman upon the Sunburst Throne. I will not stand idle and watch you destroy what ages of tradition and righteousness have built.
In the twentieth year of the Divine Age, the Nevarran Accord was signed. The Seekers of Truth lowered our banner and agreed to serve as the Chantry's right hand, and together we created the Circle of Magi. With the Circle no more, I hereby declare the Accord null and void. Neither the Seekers of Truth nor the Templar Order recognize Chantry authority, and instead we will perform the Maker's work as it was meant to be done, as we see fit.
Signed this day on the fortieth year of the Dragon Age,
Lord Seeker Lambert van Reeves
He walked over to the desk and snatched the letter up just as the page finished. Scanning it over, he nodded approvingly. "Fix it with my seal and place it in Ser Arnaud's hands. Tell him he is to personally bring it to the Grand Cathedral.
Personally
. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord." The page rushed out of the chamber so quickly he almost tripped. Lambert slammed the door shut and allowed himself a smile. He imagined the Divine reading that. Without the templars, the Chantry was toothless— nothing more than a bunch of old women armed only with words. What would she do? Try to convince the people, after ages of teaching them mages were to be feared and contained, that now everything was different?
In three days the templar host would march on Andoral's Reach. With any luck, by the time he returned victorious the Chantry would have come to its senses and chosen a new Divine . . . one that would be eager to reach a new Accord with the seekers, placing the power much more firmly where it belonged.
The Lord Seeker removed the rest of his armor, dimmed the glowlamp, and crawled into his bed. He would sleep well to night. Soon he would be a hero, the mages would be put back in their place, and all would be right with the world. It was a good day, indeed.
As sleep slowly came, he became aware that something was wrong. A sound in the darkness— the faintest creak, like his door opening. Immediately he reached for his sword by the bed, but before he could reach it something was upon him. A man pushed him back down and placed a dagger against his throat. He froze.
In the dim moonlight that filtered in through the window, he caught a glimpse of the intruder's shaggy blond hair and immediately recognized him. "Demon," he growled, and hissed in pain as the blade pressed against his flesh.
The young man leaned close, his expression one of deadly intent. "There
was
a Cole," he whispered. "You forgot him in that cell, and I heard his cries when no one else would. I went to him, and held his hand in the darkness until it was over. When the templars found him, they erased everything to hide their shame . . . and I was helpless to act." Sorrow, and perhaps even regret, crossed the young man's face, but only for a moment. "I'm not helpless any longer." The words sent a chill through Lambert's heart.
"What do you want from me?"
The young man smiled coldly.
"I want you to look into my eyes."
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