by David Gaider
The next hour was spent crawling through interminable darkness and dust to find his way. Near the kitchens he had to shuffle between the walls, trying not to choke on the fetid air. Then the crawlspace finally turned into an exceedingly steep staircase. He could stand, but the walls were so narrow he could barely squeeze through. Everything felt closed in. Stifling. Suffocating.
His relief was palpable when he finally felt the air change. He knew the stairs led to an open chamber below, a room that belonged to one of many unused portions of the lower floors, and he was getting close. Rhys eagerly made his way down— too eagerly, in fact. One of the last steps crumbled under his weight, and with a cry of alarm he pitched forward.
The staff flew out of his hands, its light winking out as it landed below with a clatter, and he was not far behind. Trying to slow his descent by clutching at the walls, he only managed to make his fall more awkward. He twisted and bumped, smacked his head against the wall, and then finally met the ground at full force.
Ow.
Rhys lay there in the darkness, getting used to the pain. There was a lot of it, sharp and throbbing. Slowly he tested the extent of his injuries. Hand flexed fine. His feet moved. Nothing was broken, though his body begged to differ. A relief, to be sure.
There were no sounds of footsteps, nothing to indicate someone had heard his fall and come to investigate. That wasn't surprising. This place wasn't far from the dungeons, but the way sound traveled in the Pit, it was unlikely someone could find the source even if they overheard it. The guards didn't generally roam this far anyhow, but there was always a first time.
Groaning, Rhys pulled himself to his knees. He felt around for his staff . His hands encountered dust, dust, and more dust. There were loose stones, as well, and rotten pieces of wood. Once this might have been a storage room, although how long ago was anyone's guess. There were a few ancient crates and barrels, long empty and now just purchase for spider webs. Was there still a stool? Some intrepid mage had brought one down ages ago, but it wasn't safe to sit on any longer.
Finally he found his staff . Closing his hand around it, he willed the orb to shine . . . and gasped in shock. Someone was in the room with him.
A young man sat on his haunches not five feet away, staring with haunted eyes from under a mop of unkempt blond hair. He was clearly neither a mage nor a templar, dressed in worn leathers near covered in dust and grime, and hadn't seen a bath in ages. There was a furtive tension to the way he crouched, like a cellar rat caught out in the open— paralyzed by fear and yet desperate to run.
"Cole," Rhys breathed, taking deep breaths to slow his racing heart. "You scared the life near out of me!"
The young man bit his lower lip, squirming uncomfortably. "I haven't seen you in a long time," he said. His voice had a raspy quality, no doubt from lack of use. "I thought you'd forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten. I told you it was becoming more difficult to get away, didn't I?" Rhys stood up carefully. He brushed off some of the filth, frowning at the tears and bruises that would be more difficult to explain later. Then he stopped, remembering the reason he had gone through all this effort in the first place. He turned to look at Cole, wary of just how he should broach the subject. The young man was nervous enough as it was.
"There are some things I need to ask you about," he began. "Important things."
"Oh." The way Cole twisted in place, like a guilty child eager to find any excuse to leave but unable to tear himself away, told Rhys everything he needed to know. Cole knew exactly what he was going to ask. He knew and had come to find Rhys anyhow, because he couldn't help himself.
"It's you, isn't it? You're the murderer."
Chapter 4
It had been nearly a year since Rhys had first seen Cole.
He remembered the time well, because the White Spire had just received news of the rebellion at Kirkwall. The mages buzzed with fear, templars present in the halls in force. Amidst all that, Rhys caught rare glimpses of a stranger lurking, a young man who wasn't running about like everyone else but instead simply . . . watched. Although this stranger was oddly dressed, Rhys didn't give it much thought. A new apprentice, or a visitor sanctioned by the templars. No one else seemed to pay this stranger much mind, after all, so why should he? Back then strangers weren't a common sight in the tower, but they weren't unheard of.
Later, during a lecture in the great hall, Rhys saw him again. Sitting in the back of the chamber and watching the proceedings with a perplexed expression. The young man seemed entirely out of place, so Rhys turned to Adrian and asked who she thought he might be.
Adrian looked to where he indicated, and frowned. "Who are you talking about? There’s nobody back there."
"Are you sure?"
"Is this a joke? What are you seeing?"
That shut Rhys up. If he was seeing something Adrian didn't, then it was either his imagination . . . or worse. It might be a spirit, or even a demon, and that meant trouble. Still, he was a medium. If this young man was a demon, why didn't he sense him as such?
So Rhys passed it off to Adrian as merely a misunderstanding, half convinced that was the case. Afterward he did some asking around— carefully. Had anyone seen something strange in the tower? Someone who didn't belong? That's when he heard about the Ghost of the Spire.
It was ridiculous, of course. Everything his research had told him said ghosts didn't exist. At best they were spirits masquerading as the dead, or confused. When people died their souls went . . . somewhere. If the Chantry was to be believed, they went to reside with the Maker in some realm beyond the Fade. Even the spirits themselves claimed not to know, if the word of such beings could be relied upon.
Yet these rumors caused him even more concern. So he watched carefully for the young man to reappear, determined to confront him and find out for certain. Like the old saying about watched pots, waiting for a sighting of the young man meant there was suddenly no sign of him anywhere.
So Rhys went down into the Pit to look for him. That's where anyone who mentioned this mysterious ghost agreed it could be found. If it was a spirit, Rhys owed it to his research to find why he couldn't sense it— and owed it to himself to prove that he wasn't being influenced by a rather clever demon.
He looked in the archives. He poked around some of the forgotten areas of the tower, even places that were technically forbidden. Just when he started to suspect the entire thing was his imagination, he had stumbled upon Cole. Or, rather, Cole had stumbled upon him.
Rhys remembered turning a corner and nearly running into the young man standing there, watching him. When Rhys spoke to him, the young man jumped as if struck. The shock of finding someone who could see him had been considerable, evidently, and it took more than a little convincing to calm him down. He'd been drawn by Rhys's search, but never once considered that it might be because Rhys had seen him previously. He'd long ago stopped watching for other people noticing him, because it never happened.
That first conversation was . . . illuminating. According to Cole, he'd been brought in by the templars and thrown in a cell. He didn't remember when, and he didn't remember clearly how he got out— but now he found himself lost in a world that couldn't see him. Rhys had never heard of such a thing. In fact, he had to touch the man to be certain that this was, in fact, a real person.
"How can you be invisible?" he'd asked.
"I don't know."
"But . . . people have seen you. Fleeting glimpses, anyhow. I've heard the stories."
"Sometimes. I don't know why."
Cole's answers were evasive. He was uncomfortable being questioned, and frightened of what Rhys was going to do with the knowledge of his presence. He begged not to be turned over to the templars, to the point of becoming frantic. Rhys had reluctantly agreed— who would believe him, after all, if he said an invisible man was stalking the tower halls? Especially if that man did not want to be seen.
So he left Cole there, promising to return in the future, and didn
't understand why the young man's response was silent incredulity until he found him again several days later. At that point, Cole was startled once again. He said he'd managed to get people to notice him before, he could do it if he really tried. But they always forgot about him again soon after. He just slipped their mind completely, and he assumed the same would happen with Rhys.
But it didn't. Rhys kept coming back, at first because he was intrigued by this strange puzzle. If he could figure out what was making Cole invisible, perhaps it could be undone. Perhaps there was something to be learned by this power. Rhys was no scholar, but interesting research had always attracted him— especially if it could help someone.
And Cole needed help. The young man never spoke of it, but it was obvious he was desperately lonely. As much as companionship was strange and frightening to him, the fear was never enough to keep him away. Eventually it stopped being about helping him; Rhys still wanted to find out the truth, of course, but now it was because he liked Cole. The young man was slow to talk, but had a sharp mind and a curious nature. He was also a perfect example of why the Circle didn't work. What if mages had been there to greet his arrival at the tower, with understanding rather than fear and scorn? What if he had been made to realize his talent wasn't terrifying, but unique and fascinating?
So they met as often as Rhys dared. They played card games by the light of a glowlamp, and Cole showed him some of the mysteries he had uncovered in the Pit— things Rhys hadn't even suspected might be down there. They talked about anything, as long as it was inconsequential. Questions about how Cole became like he was, or even the possibility of helping him often led to him withdrawing back into the shadows.
They were discovered exactly once, by a templar guard patrolling the archives. The man came into the room unnoticed, startling them both as they mulled over a chess board. The guard stood there, staring, and then asked if Rhys always played games by himself. Rhys stuttered through an excuse that he was working out strategies, and the guard moved on with a bewildered shake of his head. Until that moment, Rhys had privately wondered if Cole wasn't simply hard to notice, if someone presented with direct evidence would see him normally. But that wasn't so.
And then the College of Enchanters was shut down.
With that came increased scrutiny on every mage in the tower, and thus less opportunity for Rhys to go anywhere without his absence being noted. His visits became infrequent, and when he did come he found Cole withdrawn and listless. The young man was convinced each time that Rhys had forgotten him, despite assurances to the contrary. Afterward he would be sullen, expressing a doubt that if Rhys hadn't forgotten him now, then he no doubt soon would.
So Rhys redoubled his efforts to find an answer. His search in the archives turned up little. He considered broaching the subject with Adrian— but what would she say? What could anyone say? Ignoring the possibility of the templars discovering his secret, what advice could anyone offer regarding someone Rhys couldn't even prove existed? Being unable to help made him feel guilty, as did the notion his visits were making Cole feel worse rather than better.
The last time Rhys came down to the Pit, he had to search for hours to locate Cole. It was unusual, because normally the young man found him first. Rhys dared not call out, instead combing the forgotten corners where Cole lived, half dreading that he might come across a lifeless body.
Eventually he found Cole in the templar crypts, perched atop a massive sarcophagus like a sad raven. The young man seemed unhealthy and pale, like he hadn't slept for weeks. He didn't say hello as Rhys approached, just watched warily, and then asked out of the blue if Rhys thought he was dead.
"You're not dead," Rhys insisted. "You're as real as I am."
"Maybe you're not real. You could be a demon sent to torment me."
"Is that what I do? Torment you?"
Haunted eyes. "Yes. No."
Rhys reached up to touch Cole, to reassure him, but the young man only scrambled farther up the sarcophagus. "Leave me alone," he muttered, although it didn't sound convincing.
"Is that what you really want me to do?"
"No."
"Cole, come with me. I need to bring you to the First Enchanter, make him see you. We can write things down, so nobody forgets. Then we can get you help. I'm sorry, but I just can't do it on my own."
Silence.
"Don't you want help?" he asked.
"I don't want anyone to hurt me." Cole was a grown man, but this was the frightened plea of a child. Rhys stood there for a long time, staring helplessly up at him.
"You could leave, you know. You don't have to stay in the tower like I do."
"Where would I go?"
Rhys didn't have a good answer for that. Nowhere. Anywhere but here. If I were you I would walk past those templars, leave the tower, and go somewhere they could never find me. But he wasn't Cole. The young man avoided the upper floors of the tower because people frightened him. The city outside the tower was an impossibility, so terrifying in its chaos that he probably couldn't even imagine it. And what sort of life would that be, watching a world bursting full of excitement in which you could only be a spectator?
So Rhys reluctantly left him there, walking out of the crypt with a pair of eyes boring into his back. That was a month ago, and until he'd sat in the Knight- Commander's office today he'd never once made a connection between this sad young man and the murders. The idea that he might be anything more than a victim never even entered his mind.
Now Cole crouched there before him, staring with that same sullen expression as the last time they'd met. Was Rhys in danger? He thought he'd known what this young man was capable of, but he was wrong. More than wrong; he was an idiot. Part of him clung to the notion that there must be an explanation for this.
"Tell me this isn't true," he demanded. "Tell me you didn't actually kill those people, that there's some other explanation."
"I can't."
"Was it blood magic? Were you trying to . . . cure yourself with some ritual you found? Something in the archives?"
Cole looked perplexed. "I don't know any magic."
"Then why? Tell me that much."
"I needed to."
"You needed to kill them? How can—" Rhys stopped short, a terrible idea coming to him. "Was it Jeannot? Did he find you, speak to you? Did he tell you to do this?"
"I don't know who that is."
"A mage like me, but older. Less hair. I know he comes down here . . ."
"Does he eat peaches? There’s a man who looks like that who goes to the archives. Sometimes I see him in the crypt, but only when he's talking to the others."
"Others? What others?"
Cole shrugged. "They talk in the dark, about boring things. He leaves peach pits on the floor. That's how I know he goes there."
Rhys thought about it for a moment. Secret meetings in the crypt? If Jeannot was part of that . . . then the Lord Seeker's assumption about there being a conspiracy in the tower might not be far off. A chilling thought. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" he asked.
"I didn't know you didn't know. Or that you wanted to."
"Could they have seen you? Maybe they cast a spell to force you to do these things. For all we know, they might be the ones who made you like this in the first place."
Cole considered the idea. For over a minute he idly drew lines in the dusty floor, frowning. "They didn't see me," he finally said. "Nobody can see me, except for you. And the ones I . . ."
"The ones you killed."
Cole nodded.
"Was that why you killed them? You thought they would tell the templars?"
"No. They didn't see me until I went to them. But I knew they would." Cole chewed his lip, an expression that Rhys had seen before whenever the man was trying to put a difficult thought into words. "Have you ever been underwater?" he finally asked.
"Of course."
“There's a pool in one of the lower halls. I go there sometimes." He seemed lost in thought.
"You can float when you're underwater. If you close your eyes, it's like you're floating in nothing. You're surrounded by darkness, and all you can hear is yourself. Everything else is far away."
"I don't understand."
Cole sighed in frustration. "Sometimes I feel like I'm underwater, and I won't ever get out again. I just keep sinking and sinking, and there's no bottom. The darkness is going to swallow me up." He stared at the floor, embarrassed. "I'm falling into the cracks between what's real and what's not real, and if I don't stop myself I'll be lost there forever. The only way I can stay is to . . ."
Rhys backed away. Just a step. He didn't mean to do it, but Cole noticed nonetheless. The grief that twisted on his face at that realization was difficult to watch. Rhys found himself torn between fear and concern. He liked Cole, and always had, but it was too difficult to reconcile the harmless young man he knew and a murderer who had stabbed six helpless mages in the heart. "The only way you can stay," he said, his voice small and strained, "is to kill someone?"
"I know they'll see me," Cole whispered. "I don't know why, but I do. So I go to them. The moment they die, they look at me. They know I'm the one that's killed them, and that makes me the most important thing in the world." His face became wracked with grief again. "I've never been that important to anyone." The words came out as a hoarse croak.
"And . . . being important makes you real?"
Cole looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. "Doesn't it do that for you?"
Rhys didn't know how to respond. There was a more important question that lingered in the back of his mind: Would Cole kill him, too? He could see the man, after all, just like his victims. If Cole became convinced that killing Rhys would somehow make him real, wouldn't he do it? As much as Rhys wanted to help this young man, it was becoming clear he was delusional. He was beyond help.
