Asunder (47 page)

            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 to night."

            "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."