Asunder

by David Gaider

  "Do you do that often?" she asked.

  He shook his head vigorously. "You were taking Rhys away. I had to know why! All I wanted was . . ." Looking into Evangeline's eyes, he couldn't continue. The way she studied him so intently, her brow knitted, it was clear she was upset. Considering how kind she had been to him, he desperately wanted nothing more than to take it back. "I'm sorry," he said lamely.

  They stood by the fence for a time, an awkward silence between them. Evangeline stared down at the sack, nudging it with her foot. It seemed like she was trying to decide something.

  "What was the book?" he finally asked.

  She looked up, startled by the question. "What book?"

  "In your room. You took out a book . . . you seemed to like it a lot."

  Evangeline's expression changed. It became softer, almost sad, just as he remembered her looking when she held the book. "It . . . was my father's," she said, her voice suddenly thick. She glanced away. "The Chant of Light. We used to read the verses together. Do you . . . know anything about the Chant?"

  "No."

  She nodded, as if his answer was expected. Then she favored him with an embarrassed smile. "You would have liked my father. He was a good man." With that, she sighed ruefully and shook her head as if dispelling dark thoughts. Then she leaned in and kissed Cole on the forehead.

  "Go," she said gently. "Talk to Rhys. He doesn't blame you for anything."

  With that, she picked up the sack and walked toward the hay barn. He watched her go, rubbing his forehead in confusion. It tingled where she'd kissed him, and he felt it all the way down to his toes.

  It also made him sad. Evangeline was going to forget him. A week from now, or a month, he'd be the only one who remembered this.

  Cole walked over to where Rhys and Pharamond sat. Rhys's staff was sitting on the ground, glowing so as to provide them light. A book lay open between them, one of several the elven man brought with him, and both were studying it.

  He lingered several feet from the pair, watching glumly and secretly hoping they wouldn't notice him at all.

  No such luck. "Oh, hello!" the elven man exclaimed with surprise, spotting Cole. "Where did you come from?"

  Rhys grinned. "This is Cole," he explained— for the tenth time since they'd left the keep. "I've mentioned him before, remember?"

  Pharamond knitted his brow, clearly confused. "The fellow who people forget? I didn't realize I'd meet him so soon. I rather thought nobody knew we were out here." Then he brightened, and burst out with amused laughter. "Unless it's me, isn't it? He's been here all along and I'm the one who's forgotten! Oh, how wonderful!"

  The man continued to laugh until he wiped tears from his eyes. Cole scowled, and Rhys gave him a wry look that said Be patient. So Cole tried. "What's so wonderful about it?" he asked.

  Pharamond's chuckling faded in fits and starts, and then completely disappeared. Just as quickly, the elven man turned contemplative. He gazed sadly down at the book before him, running a finger along its pages. "It would not be so bad," he said, "to have your deeds forgotten. Better yet to forget them yourself."

  "Nobody remembers anything I do."

  He scratched his chin, and looked at Rhys. "What about writing it down? If there was a written account of the young man, might that jog the memory?"

  Rhys shrugged. "I don't know. I couldn't find any records related to Cole, and I looked. For all I know, the words on the page might disappear."

  "Remarkable!" The elf stared at Cole with those strange blue eyes, like he was some kind of puzzle to figure out. The scrutiny made him squirm. "Tell me, young man, are you able to do magic?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Hmm. Arcanist derangement, perhaps?"

  Rhys exchanged a confused look with Cole. "What . . . kind of derangement?"

  "A term coined by the Magister Allineas at the height of the Towers Age. He posited that magical talent is like a flowing river. Properly channeled, it finds its way to the ocean— mages such as yourself, possessing the ability to cast spells." He gestured at Cole. "Left to its own devices, however, it might flow in a different and unexpected direction. But that talent will express itself somehow."

  Rhys frowned. "You're saying he's a hedge mage."

  "A derogatory term, one created by the Chantry. Prior to the Circle, magical talent expressed itself in many ways, often guided by ancient tradition. Some of these 'hedge mages,' as you call them, possessed powers no Circle spell could replicate. Their unpredictability was considered a threat."

  "You make it sound like a good thing."

  The elf spread his hands in surrender. "I only go by the old texts. I will say the term 'derangement' was no accident, however. These wild talents were more than unpredictable; they were chaotic. Allineas mentions these people communing with spirits, being lured into darker paths . . . many of them went insane. Few lived long lives."

  Cole hung his head. That was it, then. Just as he thought, there was no cure for what he was despite what Rhys hoped. He turned and walked away, and heard Rhys hiss something angry. The elven man leapt up and chased after Cole, catching him by the arm. "Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I spoke without thinking! Please don't listen to me!"

  "But it's true."

  "Words on a page!" His eyes fretted, and he spoke with raw emotion. "If there's anything that what I've done proves," he said, "it's that theories and assumptions can be wrong. Don't ever forget that, young man."

  Cole wondered if he didn't have more in common with this white- haired elf than he'd thought. Pharamond had sunk into that oblivion, and even after he'd crawled out of it he still wasn't real. A paper- thin version of himself ready to blow away at the slightest wind. Cole could feel the shadow spreading over the man's heart as surely as over his own.

  "What's it like to be Tranquil?" he suddenly asked.

  Pharamond turned away as if stricken. He clamped his eyes shut, fighting back a wave of tears. Rhys stood up, a concerned look on his face. "Cole, I don't think this is something—"

  "No," the elf said, his voice thick. He shook from the effort of controlling himself. "You said a young man was returning to the tower to absolve you of those murders. This is he, is it not? He may very well face Tranquility . . . as may you." Rhys nodded glumly. "As may I," Pharamond finished. He shuddered as if the thought were too horrible to contemplate.

  Cole thought he might not continue, but then Pharamond nodded, steeling himself. "I find it ironic the Rite of Tranquility cuts one off from the land of dreams, because a dream is exactly what it feels like. Everything in a dream is as it should be, nothing is out of place . . . yet part of you knows something is not right. This isn't your home, this isn't your life . . . it isn't you.

  "Yet one cannot act other than the dream allows. It follows its course, and you follow it believing nothing is real. You will turn the corner and awaken, safe and sound. Yet you never do. Instead you are slowly smothered in a crystal- clear silence that has no meaning."

  The three of them stood there, a wind slowly weaving through the field of purple flowers, and no one said a thing. For the first time since they left the keep, Cole began to feel truly frightened.

  "That's a grim sight."

  Evangeline had to agree with Rhys. They were approaching Val Royeaux from the western hills, and now they could see with their own eyes what they'd been hearing about. For much of the day they'd encountered swarms of people on the road heading in the opposite direction, all of whom said the same thing: the capital was in chaos.

  News of war in the eastern provinces had struck the city like lightning, leading to a panicked exodus by the nobility. Then a rumor had circulated that the Empress was dead, the first of dozens of wild tales that set the city on fire with speculation— and when the Imperial Chancellor issued the decree calling for conscription of the peasantry, the riots began.

  It seemed impossible that so much had happened in two weeks, and each story they'd heard on the road had been wilder and less credible
than the last . . . but here, at least, was proof they weren't all wrong.

  An army was gathered outside the city gates, a veritable sea of tents. Easily ten thousand men camped down there, she figured. The smoke from all the campfires was compounded by the fact that half the city was aflame, or had been recently. The sky was a blanket of soot, the stench of it filling the nostrils and made only worse by the smell of humanity from the camps.

  The palace on its hill couldn't be seen through the smoky haze. Even the far- off Grand Cathedral was lost amidst the sprawl of buildings that made up the Empire's largest city. The one thing still plainly visible was the White Spire. It rose above the other buildings like a shining beacon of normality.

  "The city gates are closed," Adrian pointed out.

  And she was right. The Sun Gates were a marvel of construction, made of steel and covered with a golden façade that depicted the rise of Emperor Drakon. In full sunlight, it was said, they shone so brilliantly they would blind an attacking army. A foolish superstition to be sure, but the Orlesians held the gates with a certain reverence. Sooner or later everyone in Orlais passes through the Sun Gates, as the old saying went. But that wasn't true today. The last time Val Royeaux had been sealed, it had been attacked by dragons— a terrible event from which it had taken the city years to recover. Hopefully this wasn't nearly as bad as that.

  "Is the army here to lay siege?" Rhys asked.

  Wynne shook her head, and pointed at the mass of tents. "See the red banner with the stag's head? That belongs to the Marquis de Chevin, one of Celene's closest allies. I also see Ghyslain, Morrac, the Countess d'Argent . . . the Marquis has gathered the northern host."

  "Then why close the gates?"

  "I imagine they don't want people fleeing into the farmlands to avoid conscription. Either that or it's a plague— I believe that was one story, was it not?"

  Evangeline waved her hand dismissively. "In two weeks? Most of those people never even got inside the city. We'll have to see for ourselves . . . if they let us in."

  She led the way, riding down the steep path that led directly into the heart of the army camp. They could avoid it by traveling all the way around to the smaller Night Gate, but that would require crossing the river. Theoretically there shouldn't be a problem. They were expected.

  Though that also worried her.

  They moved through the army camp slowly. There were a lot of worried faces, men and women dressed in the meanest of armor if they wore any at all, hungrily lapping up gruel as they sat by their campfires. They contrasted sharply with the chevaliers: knights in full battle dress, each adorned with a colorful family crest. They rode down the lines, shouted orders, and darted from tent to tent like buzzing bees. Not a single one appeared to be standing still, and from Evangeline's perspective they looked more nervous than the rank and file.

  The air was thick with expectation. It made her wonder if there was an army marching on Val Royeaux. Were these men preparing to march? It also made her curious if the Templar Order was planning to take a side. They had in the past, at the Chantry's behest. If so, she might find herself marching with these men.

  There also seemed to be a great number of people who weren't part of the army at all. She saw children scurrying about, and women who were either camp followers or fully intended to become such. There were cooks, elves running errands, merchants trying to hawk protective "charms" to the men, even shifty- looking rogues slipping between the shadows.

  A group of city guardsmen stood in front of the city gates— a large group, in fact. At least twenty of them kept an eye on several hundred supplicants, travelers who evidently intended to wait until the gates finally opened. It was a makeshift shantytown full of dispirited people who sat about with nothing better to do than stare at the guardsmen as if they could open the gates by force of will alone.

  Evangeline and the others were clearly unusual enough to elicit notice. As they rode up, a number of the campers jumped to their feet, perhaps sensing an opportunity. So, too, did one of the guardsmen step forward, holding out his pike in warning. "Ho there! The gates of Val Royeaux have been sealed by order of the Lord Chancellor!"

  "And is no one to get in?" she asked. "We have business at the White Spire."

  "Wait!" a voice called from behind the man. A more seasoned- looking guard stepped forward, a grizzled fellow wearing an Imperial tunic over his armor. Clearly a commander, or at least someone of ranking. "I suppose you have a name, templar?" he demanded, eyeing her warily.

  "You suppose correctly. My name is Ser Evangeline de Brassard."

  He scowled and spat on the ground. "Figures you would show up on my rotation. I was almost ready to retire to the tavern, too."

  "Does that mean you'll open the gate?"

  "Yes, but you're not going inside until the Lord Seeker arrives. I'm to inform him you're here— personally—and you're not to move from this spot. The man was very specific." The commander irritably waved away the confused- looking guard with the pike and marched back to the gate house, disappearing into the sally port.

  "So what do you suppose that means?" Rhys asked once he was gone.

  "It means the Lord Seeker is angry."

  "Oh dear!" Pharamond exclaimed. He anxiously pulled at the collar of his robe, flinching as a group of travelers pushed by them to get closer to the gates. They were anxious, and clearly aware that something was happening. "I'd forgotten how much I used to dislike crowds!"

  Adrian seemed similarly displeased. "Perhaps we shouldn't stay here."

  "Do you have somewhere else you need to be?" Evangeline asked.

  "Ask me that once your templars have thrown us in prison."

  Eventually the crowd was driven back, but not until a pair of loud Tevinter merchants were beaten severely. A rough- looking thug whom Evangeline presumed to be a hireling of the merchants drew his sword, and was quickly run through by a guards man's pike. That appeared to sap the crowd of its interest, and they recoiled from the gates so quickly they almost trampled each other in their haste.

  Evangeline and the others were safe on their horses, though the mounts grew nervous at all the tension. They became even more so when thunder roiled in the clouds overhead. It might be a good thing if it rained— perhaps some of the soot and stench could be washed out of the air. While the clouds threatened a downpour, however, nothing came. Instead they hovered on the edge of expectation.

  Over an hour passed. It had been well into the evening when they arrived, and waiting proved difficult.

  Evangeline felt tense. Who knew what Ser Arnaud might have told the Lord Seeker? He'd been less than pleased to see the group emerge from Adamant alive, and more than a little furious when Evangeline commanded him to surrender supplies and then left. She imagined his report would be less than kind. Not that the Lord Seeker would need more ammunition against her than he already had. Trying to explain to him where she thought her true duty lay would no doubt be like arguing with a wall. There would be a consequence for the decision she made, and it was coming to greet her now.

  When the clang of the gears sounded, Evangeline jumped. The effect on the sullen travelers was electrifying. Many immediately leapt up at the sudden noise, raising a hue and cry to their fellows, and began to run toward the gates. Evangeline saw many snatching up their packs, clearly presuming their chance to enter the city had finally come.

  The commander walked out of the sally port at the same time, his scowl deepening as he took in the activity. "Keep them back, for the love of Andraste!" he barked to the guards. "Cut down any one of them that tries to get past you!"

  When the great doors finally parted with an ominous booming sound, they did so rapidly. For a moment, there was blinding light. Evangeline shielded her eyes and blinked, and then watched as a full regiment of templars rode out. Thirty knights, all carrying torches. At their head was Lord Seeker Lambert, impressive in his black armor and riding the same massive charger she'd seem him arrive at the tower with so many weeks be
fore.

  The surge of travelers stopped dead in their tracks. They shrank back in fear, not a one engaging the threatening guardsmen, and before long Evangeline's group was the only one near the gate. Everything became still and quiet.

  The Lord Seeker's face was rigid with fury. She could see it in the tightness of his jaw, in the flash of his grey eyes, almost hear the way he crushed the leather reins in a viselike grip. That did not bode well.

  "Lord Seeker Lambert." She greeted him with as warm a nod as she could muster. "It's good to see you again."

  "I suppose I should be thankful you made it at all," he said, every word crisp. "No untoward events on the road? You were not waylaid by bandits? They’ve become very common in recent days."

  "None we could not evade, my lord."

  "I see." He urged his horse forward, riding up beside Wynne and Pharamond. Wynne regarded him with a pleasant smile, but the elf quaked in obvious terror. "And this was the object of your rescue?"

  "He is," Wynne answered. "Pharamond's research has—"

  "I'm already well acquainted with his research," the man interrupted. He turned an icy glare on Wynne. "Someone sent word through the sending stones. The White Spire is simply buzzing with speculation." He turned to the waiting templars, waving them closer. "Escort them to the Grand Cathedral. Do not delay, and do not permit any of them to leave your sight."

  Wynne looked puzzled. "Are we not to return to the White Spire?"

  "Most Holy has commanded an immediate audience." Every word he spoke was laced with contempt. "Evidently she has a sending stone in her possession as well, though I'm certain you knew that. I am here to facilitate the meeting."

  Within moments, Evangeline's group was surrounded. The templars didn't draw their weapons, and what ever expressions they held were hidden behind their helmets. Still, there was no arguing with them. The group slowly rode with them toward the gates.

  "Not you, Ser Evangeline," the Lord Seeker called. "You are with me."