Dragon Age Book 3: Asunder

by David Gaider

  Rhys froze. Someone was coming toward them. They weren't running, however . . . they were walking. Cole grabbed his hand, and Rhys shuddered as he felt that dark shroud settle over them once again. They were hidden.

  Then their pursuer came into view: it was the Lord Seeker.

  The man waded slowly through the water, a glowing red vial held before him. Rhys's heart sank— it had to be his phylactery. The Lord Seeker was tracking him with it. He moved casually, gracefully . . . a hunter on the prowl.

  Would Cole's ability hide them? Rhys held his breath, watching as the Lord Seeker paused. The man slowly moved the vial around, studying how the crimson lights within responded. Then he frowned.

  "Come out," he said. "I know you're here. All that effort to destroy your phylactery, and here I've kept it with me all along."

  Neither of them moved.

  "Ah yes," the Lord Seeker chuckled. "Invisibility is an interesting trick, I'll give you that. Of course, every trick is worthless once the truth is revealed." He put away the vial . . . and took out a small book. It was an odd thing, the size of his palm and bound in shiny gold. The man opened it and began reading aloud. The words were old, Ancient Tevinter . . . almost a chant, really. What he thought he was doing, Rhys couldn't imagine.

  Then something changed. The tingle of magic, prickling along his neck. It swept through the passage like a wind, and with it went the shroud that hid them. Cole gasped in shock.

  The Lord Seeker's head instantly spun around at the sound. Those grey eyes narrowed as he spotted them, and he smiled coldly. "And there we are," he said. "Cole, I assume?" Tossing the book aside, he raised his sword and charged.

  Cole leapt to his feet, dagger in hand. He ran to meet the seeker without a sound. Rhys tried to grab at him, alarmed. "No! Don't be a fool! You need to run!"

  Cole didn't stop, however, and Rhys only managed to tumble off the edge of the embankment. He fell into the water, blood rushing to his head and making him dizzy. He tried to summon mana, reached desperately down for power— anything at all— but his head only reeled in agony. He screamed.

  Cole dodged the first swing of the Lord Seeker's sword, ducking low and stabbing at him with the dagger. It glanced uselessly off the man's black armor. The seeker instantly spun around, faster than Rhys would have thought possible, and kicked at Cole. The metal boot connected, sending the young man flying back into the sewer water with a grunt of pain.

  Cole didn't stay down long. He jumped up in one smooth motion, crouching low in a fighting posture. The two circled each other now, the Lord Seeker appraising his opponent carefully.

  "I won't let you hurt Rhys," Cole growled. He darted toward the Lord Seeker, striking fast like a snake. As the seeker swung his blade down, Cole jumped aside at the last second and let it strike the water. Then he leapt up and slashed at the man's neck. The dagger connected, and had the Lord Seeker not twisted aside he would have received much more than just a gash.

  As it was, he seemed infuriated. He held a gauntlet up to his neck, and then studied the blood on it. "You're fast," he said. "I'll give you that." He pointed his sword at Cole, the tip tracking the young man as he moved from side to side . . . and then he charged. The Lord Seeker's swings were fast, each coming one after the other, Cole barely able to dodge in time. The young man was forced back, and when he stumbled against the bank, the Lord Seeker moved in for the kill.

  "Cole!" Rhys shouted.

  Cole tried to parry the swing, but only succeeded in having the dagger ripped from his grasp. It fell to the ground, and the Lord Seeker kicked it off into the water. When Cole jumped after it, the seeker nimbly swung the hilt of his sword against Cole's head. The young man flew back, slamming against the passage wall.

  Not letting up, the Lord Seeker stabbed his blade into Cole's shoulder. It sank deep, and Cole screamed in agony.

  When the seeker removed the sword, Cole made a growling sound like a rabid animal and leapt on him. The Lord Seeker was taken by surprise. Cole was all over him, clawing and biting at his face. It was enough to stagger the man, and he dropped his sword, but his confusion lasted only a moment. Reaching up, he grabbed Cole by the hair and threw him aside like a rag doll.

  Cole landed in the water with a great splash, and instantly jumped back up. The Lord Seeker expected that, however, and kicked him in the stomach. It was a solid blow, sending Cole flying several feet to splash in the water again. He tried to rise, but the Lord Seeker kicked him again. Blood flew from his mouth as he sailed back.

  "No!" Rhys cried. "Cole! Run!" He crawled through the murky water toward where the Lord Seeker had kicked the dagger. It must be there somewhere! He felt around in the slime, his hands shaking.

  The Lord Seeker marched over to Cole, yanking him up by the hair. This time Cole was too weak to do more than struggle. The seeker curled his fist and punched Cole in the face. He went down, but still tried to get back up. The Lord Seeker picked him up by the hair and repeated the punishment. Twice. Three times. With the last blow, Cole's nose exploded in a shower of blood. He stayed down, slowly crawling through the water toward the embankment.

  Rhys found the dagger. His hand closed around the hilt, and he shakily got to his feet. The entire world swam around him. He tried to charge, but only succeeded in stumbling toward the Lord Seeker. "Leave . . . him . . . alone!" he shouted.

  The Lord Seeker turned and grabbed his wrist, crushing it until he dropped the dagger. Then he contemptuously backhanded Rhys across the face. The blow sent him careening back, slamming against the wall, where he crumpled in a heap. His stomach blazed with piercing agony, and he writhed along the floor, his scream a mere ragged gasp.

  Sighing irritably, the Lord Seeker walked over to his sword and picked it up. He paused then, watching as Cole pulled himself back up. The young man stood there, his face a mess of blood with one eye swollen shut, and swaying on his feet . . . but ready to fight. The seeker seemed impressed. "So desperate to have your prey, demon? It would be wiser for you to flee into the Fade, and never return."

  Cole spat out dark blood. "I'm . . . not . . ."

  "Not a demon? Of course you are." The Lord Seeker looked around, and spotted where he'd tossed the small book. He picked it up and showed it to Cole. "The Litany of Adralla. Do you know what that is?"

  Cole glared at him and said nothing.

  "Of course not," the man continued. "It was created by a magister of Tevinter to dispel demonic influence over the mind. It works on nothing else."

  Rhys's heart sank. He watched as the anger drained out of Cole. He stared at the seeker in confusion.

  "Poor, stupid spirit," the Lord Seeker said. He put the book away and walked toward Cole. The young man tried to retreat, but he couldn't stop staring, his mouth agape. "Did you try so hard to pretend you were one of us, pretend you were real, that you forgot what you really were?"

  He snatched out with a hand, grabbing Cole around the neck and hoisting him off the ground. Cole choked and flailed weakly, but there was nothing he could do. "You're not real," the Lord Seeker said, his tone biting. "You're just another parasite that's wormed its way into our world, feeding off all the things you can't have."

  "Let him go!" Rhys called out. "He's nothing to you!"

  The Lord Seeker turned and looked at Rhys in honest consternation. "This creature preys upon those I am sworn to protect, no matter how undeserving. It has fooled you, turned you into a murderer, and would have made you its host before long. Why defend it?"

  "You're wrong about him." Rhys steeled himself, and slowly stood. "Not all spirits are the same, just as not all mages are the same. Not everyone possessed is an abomination. Not all magic is equal." He reached deep down inside and summoned mana. The pain was incredible, almost blinding, but he fought through it with sheer will alone. White fire curled around his fists, the air crackling with magic.

  That got the Lord Seeker's attention. Rhys could see the calculation in the man's eyes: Is he bluffing? How much power does he tr
uly have? He released Cole's neck, letting the young man slump to the ground, and pointed his sword at Rhys in warning. "Don't be a fool."

  Rhys did not waver. "A fool is a man who reaches beyond his grasp. A fool is a man that refuses to accept there are limits to his knowledge. I am no fool."

  Cole scrambled away from the Lord Seeker, and then stopped. He looked over at Rhys, their eyes meeting . . . and Rhys saw he was crying. There was no denial there, no refusal or anger. There was a realization. Cole's world had crashed down around him, the one thing he'd always feared finally come true: he wasn't real.

  And just like that, Cole faded away.

  In that moment, Rhys knew the truth. A part of him, deep down, had always known.

  It was if a gaping hole opened underneath him, and into it fell all his strength to fight. His mana fled, the white fire dissipating, and he sank to his knees. Let him kill me, he thought. Let's end it, here and now.

  "I'm disappointed." The Lord Seeker strode toward Rhys, mouth pressed into a thin frown. "It seemed like you had more fight in you, Enchanter. I've awaited this rebellion for some time, and quite frankly I was expecting it to be difficult."

  Rhys barely looked up. "You can strike me down," he said, "but that won't stop the others."

  "Their turn will come. Order will be restored, one mage at a time if need be."

  "I fear it's too late for that, my Lord Seeker," a new voice said from the shadows. It was Evangeline. She walked into the dim light, and it was plain to see she'd been in battle: her armor was covered in streaks of blood, and her eyes held the grim intensity of a woman forced to kill those who'd once been her comrades. The way she walked with her sword held at the ready, however, said she would not be denied.

  "Ser Evangeline." The Lord Seeker seemed surprised. He turned to face her, warily raising his own blade and ignoring Rhys. "You should have fled while you had the chance. You are a disgrace to the order, to your family, and to the Maker."

  They slowly circled each other in the water, eyes locked. "Of all those things," she said, "you're wrong about my family. My father would be proud of what I've done. He always said tyranny was the last resort of those who have lost the right to lead."

  "He taught you poorly."

  "Evangeline," Rhys croaked. He felt utterly drained, barely able to keep himself upright. Even speaking was difficult. "Cole, he . . ."

  She didn't take her eyes from the Lord Seeker. "I heard. It changes nothing." With that she lunged. The two of them clashed, sword meeting sword. They danced around each other, skilled combatants giving no quarter. Rhys could only watch. He tried to summon his magic, but the effort almost made him black out.

  There were others coming. He could hear the echo of their distant voices, the splashes as they ran. Mages, or more templars? Hold on, Evangeline.

  She fought valiantly. Several times Rhys thought Evangeline might actually get the better of the Lord Seeker, coming in for a fast attack as soon as she spotted an opening. Each time, however, the man deflected her swing or spun out of the way at the last moment.

  Slowly he pressed his advantage. Evangeline was forced onto the defensive, doing all she could just to parry his strikes as she backed up. The Lord Seeker knew he was winning. He began hammering her sword, each blow ringing loudly and making her fight all the harder just to hold on to it.

  Finally, more people came into view. It was the mages after all. Wynne was at the lead, staff shining brilliantly, with at least a dozen others right behind her. They ran through the water, intent on stopping the Lord Seeker.

  But it was too late.

  All it took was that single distraction for the Lord Seeker to go in for the kill. One solid blow to Evangeline's sword caused it to fly out of her hand. It spun wildly, landing with a resounding splash not a foot away from Rhys. The man lunged before she could react, thrusting his blade through her breastplate.

  "Evangeline!" Rhys cried. He stretched out a hand toward her, cursing his weakness . . . and for a moment in time, everything was still. Rhys saw nothing else save Evangeline's eyes turning to meet his. There was pain there, the loss of what might have been, and he felt it as keenly as she. Evangeline mouthed the words I'm sorry, blood spurting from her lips. Then she slumped from the Lord Seeker's sword, falling silently into the water as Rhys watched in disbelief.

  The charge of the mages ground to a halt. Wynne walked ahead of them, looking first at Evangeline's body and then at Rhys . . . and then at the Lord Seeker, her expression unforgiving. "Your templars have been defeated," she told him. "You have lost."

  He said nothing at first. He stood tensely poised, calculating his chances. Against a single, wounded mage with barely a spell to defend himself? Against a young man armed with only a dagger? He would win without question. Even against a single, skilled templar he was more than a match. Against a dozen angry mages, however . . . that was another matter entirely. "And you have gained nothing," he finally stated. "What ever you do here, you will not be permitted to run free. We will track you down and put you back in your cages, I swear it."

  Wynne's eyes narrowed. "Not today."

  The Lord Seeker backed off. He held his sword up, warning any of the mages he would strike if they dared approach him, and then turned and fled into the shadows. The mages immediately gave chase, their staves flashing with fire. Within moments they were all gone, the sound of their spells fading into the tunnels . . . all except for Wynne. The old woman remained behind, shaking her head sadly.

  Rhys hardly cared. He crawled through the water, fighting against the pain and the weakness to reach Evangeline. He was barely aware of his tears— inside he was screaming. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Evangeline should have let the Lord Seeker kill him, not intervened and suffered for it.

  He reached her body and pulled it up out of the water. It took all his strength. There he cradled her in his arms, wiping the wet locks of hair from her bloody face. She seemed almost peaceful, her eyes staring off into some distant place. "No . . . no, no, no," he repeated, the grief spilling out of him freely now.

  He didn't want to let her go. He wanted her back. Rhys reached into himself, pulled up what little mana he possessed . . . he shook from the pain of it, and what came was pitifully little, but he poured what ever he had into Evangeline's body. He knitted flesh with healing magic, closed her wounds with healing magic. But it did nothing. She remained pale and lifeless.

  A hand gently touched his shoulder. "Rhys." Wynne's voice ached with pity. "It's too late. You can't . . ."

  He shook his head, almost incoherent in his grief. "She's the best of them. She doesn't deserve this. The Maker can't take her from me now. . . ." He laid his head on Evangeline's breast, sobbing and praying silently for death to come for him, too. He'd lost Cole, lost Evangeline, lost everything. All he'd wanted to do was help, but instead he'd destroyed it all.

  Wynne brushed his hair with her hand. It was an affectionate gesture . . . and when he looked up he saw there were compassionate tears in her eyes. He was reminded of the woman he'd met so long ago— that hero of the Blight who had walked into the White Spire with a warm smile and an open heart, the one he'd felt so proud to call his mother.

  "Let me," she whispered.

  "But you can't. She's . . ."

  "Shhhh." Wynne put her hand over his lips to quiet him. Then she cupped his cheek lovingly, yet there was sadness and regret in her eyes. "I never knew why the spirit kept me alive, when I should have died all those years ago. Now I do."

  Wynne turned her attention to Evangeline. She placed both her hands on the body and closed her eyes. There was a rush of power. Rhys didn't know quite how to describe it. It expanded out of Wynne, filling the sewer tunnel with its warm light, and he watched in amazement as something flowed out of her and into Evangeline. It wasn't dark or terrible. It was life. It was a spark.

  At first it seemed like nothing would happen. But then he saw it— the color returned to Evangeline's cheeks. All at once she took a grea
t, gasping breath. Her eyes opened and she surged up in a panic. Rhys had to catch her to keep her from splashing about in the water.

  Their eyes met. It was her. She was alive.

  Then Rhys realized what that meant. He looked at Wynne . . . and saw his mother smile. It was a smile that said good- bye. And then she fell back and was gone forever.

  Chapter 22

  Rhys surveyed the ruin from its highest remaining tower, the chill wind rustling his hair. The dark clouds had been threatening snow all afternoon, the air heavy with anticipation of a winter storm, but nothing had materialized. It seemed the weather was as restless as his mood.

  Andoral's Reach lay at the very fringes of Orlais, long ago a mighty fortress of the Tevinter Imperium, which had been sacked when Andraste rose up with her barbarian armies to end the rule of mages. How fitting that it should be here the mages gathered for their first conclave since the White Spire.

  They had been coming in dribs and drabs since the first enchanters arrived a month ago. A dozen per day for a while, then slowing in the weeks that followed, until now the ruin was near bursting with over a hundred mages— apostates all. Rhys wasn't certain how they heard of the ruin, or why they came, but they did. Where else did they have to go?

  They came hungry, with empty hands and fear in their eyes as well as tales of what was now happening in the other Circles. The templars had cracked down. In some places they received news of the White Spire even before the mages there did, and had struck preemptively. It made no difference. In each tower, the mages reacted the same way: They fought. Many died. The rest fled.

  Rhys supposed he should worry. The destruction of so many phylacteries had protected them so far, but if the mages at other towers could hear of Andoral's Reach, then so could the templars. They wouldn't need phylacteries. If the templars were going to come, however, they would need to come with an army. The ruin was decrepit, its walls crumbling and covered in ivy, but its fortifications still offered protection. With hundreds of mages to man the battlements, they could hold off an army ten times their size— if not more.