Prologue

A flash of light shimmered over the door before vanishing with a trace. Enchanter Gravid, who had cast the spell, nodded at the leader of the small group, confirming the damp cellar in the tower's storeroom area to be silenced. The only illumination in the room, a single candle, cast an eerie shadow over Uldred's face.

"Before we proceed, I must remind you all that by being present tonight, you have committed to our purpose." His voice was quiet, but commanded the attention of the men and women present. "There is no turning back."

The assembled mages nodded. They all understood the risk. If found out, they would either be made Tranquil or executed—whether by the templars, or by their fellows.

"You all know my objectives," Uldred continued. "As members of the Libertarian Fraternity, we all believe that mages should be free to govern themselves. But not enough has been done. Until now."

Absolute silence blanketed the room.

"Too long have we been oppressed by the templars, forced to reign in our true powers and cast spells that are a mere pittance of what we are capable of." Uldred's thin lips curled into a sneer. "Worse are the loyalists, spouting the values of the Chantry and agreeing that we should be muzzled like mabari."

Murmurs of agreement echoed his proclamation. After allowing this moment of shared outrage, a gaunt hand silenced the group again.

Uldred narrowed his eyes. "We are not yet ready to act, brothers. Soon, though. Very soon, indeed."

"When, though?"

Uldred searched for the speaker, and allowed himself a small smile at the mage's eager tone. "A few months, perhaps more. We must have patience; we must wait for the opportune moment. Then, when a weakness presents itself, we will strike. Until then, you all know what must be done: continue to quietly monitor those who could be recruited—strong though we are, we will need all the help we can get. When that day comes, though, we will reveal ourselves and our powers." He looked around once more before continuing, taking in the resolute expressions. "As for the rest? They can embrace the gift we offer… or die."

9:29 Dragon, Drakonis 30

Cullen

The ground was damp and soft underfoot on the Imperial Highway that traveled north along Lake Calenhad. Bright asters of purple and pink bloomed in sporadic patches throughout the meadows, their heads nodding lazily in the breeze. Their sweet scent mingled with the earthy tang of the thawing ground. It had been an uncharacteristically warm month, and as Drakonis drew to a close, birds had begun to return to Ferelden after their winter stay in the warmer climes of Antiva.

A small contingent of armed men marched north, the newest, fully instated member of the Templar Order among them. They had traveled at a brisk march to Redcliffe, and were now skirting Lake Calenhad's eastern border. A bead of sweat rolled from his brow down to the tip of his nose, tickling his skin as it went. He knew better than to remove his helm to wipe the offending droplet off, though—he had been tirelessly training for this day since his thirteenth nameday, and his discipline had been legendary in the Honnleath chantry, setting him apart from the other trainees. The bead of perspiration was only another distraction, easily ignored.

A breeze swirled around the travelers, and the young man tilted his head back, relishing the cool scent mixed with pine that wafted east from Lake Calenhad. Safely hidden behind his helmet, the corners of his lips curved up with a hint of a smile. A small amount of pride—that longtime nemesis of the templars—warmed his heart. The Revered Mother, her head held high with the same satisfaction a parent would have for a child, had informed him two nights earlier that he was the youngest recruit in her memory to become a full member of the Order. Some of his earliest memories had been dreams of this day, and he recalled how proud his family had been when he'd been accepted into the chantry as a boy. Now, years later, he was on his way to take up a post at Kinloch Hold: home to the mages of Ferelden.

It was a prestigious position, especially for one as untried as he—it was more common for new templars to be sent to other chantries throughout Ferelden and beyond to hone their skills and control before being entrusted with the keeping of mages. Countless stories had been told to him and his fellow recruits of the dangers of lowering one's guard around a mage for even a moment. Only four years earlier, Ser Bryant had been sent to the Circle in Kirkwall, only to return to the Redcliffe chantry two months later, both his pride and body grievously wounded from a rebellious apprentice's fire spell. More recently, a templar from Ostwick's circle had been disbanded from the order altogether. Though no details had been given to any but the knight-commanders, rumors abounded that the man in question had been secretly fraternizing with one of the mages.

The soldier's attention was brought back to the present as one of his superiors announced that they were nearing a small hamlet, the sole gateway to the circle tower. The boy was unperturbed that he could not see the lake or tower yet—in his evening studies he had learned that the westerly strip of forest would obscure their view until the highway turned west to face the lake. As the road declined sharply, the clamor of their plate metal became louder, and crows perched in the upper branches of the pine trees cawed their displeasure. The trees began to thin, and a thrill of anticipation rushed through the templar, forcing him to control his march so as not to give away his emotions. As the road turned sharply to the west, he got his first glimpse of the legendary Kinloch Hold.

The tower shot skyward, the top spire obscured by blinding sunlight. Vines crisscrossed over the grey façade, and the water-stained lower reaches suggested that in stormy weather, the fortress was battered by Lake Calenhad. At the moment, though, the waters were calm, and small waves lapped at the strip of sandy beach the templars stood upon. At one point, the Highway had stretched across the expanse of lake that separated the shore from Kinloch Hold, but years of neglect had eroded the massive walkway to a series of stone pillars that crumbled away more with each passing month. With the loss of access by foot, the only means of reaching the tower was now by a small boat that ferried between the hamlet and tower. As they neared the docks, an aging man spat a gob of tobacco out and stood with surprising agility to greet the group.

"Kester." The leader of the group of templars greeted the ferryman by name, removing his helmet to reveal closely cropped dark hair.

"Ah, Ser Bran. What was it, only 'round about two weeks ago that I brought you across to this side?" Kester queried.

"Yes. We've returned with the newest member of the Order," Bran said, gesturing to his left. The young man inclined his shrouded head in greeting.

"Ahh," the ferryman nodded sagely, "it's good to know there'll be another one of you to keep an eye on those mages. Some of your brethren just got back with that runner you've been dealing with—Anders is his name, I think? Joked the entire ride across the lake with me… you'd have thought the black eye he was sporting didn't bother him a whit."

"Yes. Anders has been… troublesome," Ser Bran intoned dryly. "I'm certain that the Knight-Commander will not be as lenient this time. This latest infraction is, I believe, his third offense of the year already."

Kester chuckled and shook his head. "So, do you think this lad has what it takes to be one of the illustrious Circle Templars?"

"Time will tell. He comes highly recommended by both the Redcliffe branch and the Revered Mother." Bran's voice conveyed nothing beyond basic information—the impassive tone of a veteran templar.

"Good!" The ferryman clapped his hands together and turned to his small craft. "Well, I know how ruthlessly efficient you gentlemen are, so I'll get you across to the Hold and stop wagging my tongue."

The boat rode low in the water with the combined weight of five men, four of which wore plate metal from head to toe. Kester kept up a steady stream of chatter with Ser Bran, who offered the occasional perfunctory response in return. The tower loomed closer, and the new recruit fought the urge to tilt his head skyward to soak in the view. Instead, he focused on the enormous set of doors that would lead to the interior of his new home. He knew that they would be immensely heavy, and monitored by a minimum of two templars at all hours to discourage mages such as this "Anders" to leave by conventional means. He wondered idly how this mage had managed to escape so many times—surely that was an impressive feat when this tower was as isolated as any he had heard of. He frowned, looking back at the shore, wondering how the mage had managed to cross the lake after making it out of the tower without detection. He made a mental note to spend a good portion of his personal time scouting out the tower for hidden entrances or other possible means of escape.

The boat nudged the side of the dock gently, and Kester roped off the boat as the templars clambered out. A hollow groan echoed across the beach as the enormous doors opened slowly outward to welcome the soldiers. Sweat began to break out across the recruit's brow once again, this time from nervous excitement.

Nods and a few words were exchanged between Ser Bran and the templars that held the doors. They were waved through, and the young man emerged into an enormous foyer—it reminded him a great deal of the main entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle, which he had only been in once when they had travelled to the domain of Arl Eamon for group training with the templars there. No carpets lined the floor, there was no decoration to speak of, and a draft left the room cold. Had he not known to expect this less-than-welcoming entrance, he may have been worried, but as it was, he knew that it was designed to maximize security from the inside, and this room doubled as an open expanse where the templars could dispel magic or smite a wayward mage without fear of crowds or obstacles. It was the first—and last—line of defense within the tower itself.

Their footsteps echoed loudly as they crossed the high-ceilinged chamber, and another templar opened a second set of barricaded doors. The hallway that they walked into was a complete change of atmosphere: torches placed in wall sconces cast dancing flames against the walls, and thick red rugs muffled the sound of their steel boots. As they walked, they passed several rooms on their right, each of which bore a carefully crafted plaque above the doorframe: Primal, Creation, Entropy, and Spirit. These were the apprentice quarters, and each dormitory was named for one of the four schools of magic. As they marched by, the young man noticed that several of the doors creaked open to reveal curious faces glancing out as they passed, only to be withdrawn with hasty whispers and giggles.

"The mages, as you have learned," Ser Bran began, completely ignoring the tittering behind them, "are apprentices until they pass their Harrowing. All apprentices wear blue until they earn the gold of full mage. You can tell which dormitory an apprentice belongs in by the circlets on their upper left arms. All the circlets are gold, and hold a charm that is color-coded to the plaques of the dormitories—red flames for primal, green leaves for creation, blue rays for entropy, and a white sun for spirit."

The recruit nodded his head in understanding, rapidly running over the information he had just been given and committing it to memory. It would not do to forget such critical information should he find an apprentice out of bed, and risk ridicule and shame to himself and the Order.

As they continued, they entered an enormous library, the likes of which the man had never seen before. He had immersed himself in the few books the Honnleath Chantry had to offer, but those fit on two shelves in the Revered Mother's study. The bookcases here spanned wall-to-wall and reached to the ceiling. There were rolling ladders spaced throughout the room, and each shelf was crammed with tomes on various subjects. A cursory glance showed that the open areas of the library served as study areas, and there were small rooms off to the sides that he supposed acted as classrooms. The musty smell of paper filled the air, and the man wondered if there were any templar-approved books in this staggering collection.

Three staircases, and many glances from the senior mages later, the entourage arrived at the fourth floor where the templar quarters were. From what the recruit could tell in passing, the rooms were modest and sparse, holding only the necessities that were befitting of a soldier with a duty to the Maker. At the end of the hall, an imposing man wearing full armor with the exception of a helm stood in front of a desk, his arms clasped behind his back and at attention. The group approached, and as one, brought their right fists to their hearts and gave a short bow.

"Knight-Commander," Ser Bran greeted respectfully.

"Ser Bran. It is good to see you made it back," the man intoned, gesturing for his men to be at ease. "I trust that your journey was without incident?"

"Indeed, ser." Bran nodded, and motioned for the new recruit to step forward. "Allow me to introduce our newest member from the southern division, Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford."

"Ah, yes. Welcome to Kinloch Hold, Ser Cullen. I've heard good things about you. I am Knight-Commander Greagoir."

Cullen dropped to one knee and removed his helm, as was expected of him. Short-cropped strawberry blonde curls lay flat against his head, and a dusting of stubble traced his jawline and chin. "It is an honor, knight-commander. I am at your disposal, and seek only to serve the Maker, through your direction, with distinction." The traditionally-spoken words flowed from his lips with ease—the result of hours of practice in the pursuit of perfection.

"Then rise, Ser Cullen, and welcome to the ranks of the Kinloch Hold templars."

Cullen rose, and was clapped on the back by the men who had accompanied him from Honnleath, and by the rest of the off-duty templars. He was led to the room that he would be sharing with two of the other novice templars, Erik and Warren. His small section of the room was comprised of a chaff mattress, a heavy wooden trunk, and an armor stand. Next to the bed was a small nightstand that held a lamp, his month's ration of oil, and a well-worn copy of the Chant of Light. Picking up the heavy volume, Cullen thumbed lightly through the pages. He noticed that it was nearly as well-worn as his copy from Honnleath had been. The Canticles within—Threnodies, Trials, Benedictions—these were the words that he would do well to remember and turn to while standing vigilant over the mages. Though templars were not allowed much in the way of material possessions, most carried a few trinkets as reminders of home. A hand-carved box made by his father had already been placed on his bed, and Cullen gently lifted the lid, allowing a small pang of homesickness to wash over him as he gazed upon the few contents within. His eyes flitted over his copy of the chant, which had been given to him by his mother when he'd joined the chantry was there, as was a stone chess piece given to him by his sister. His fingers grazed over the cool surface, then he gently shut the lid before placing the box under his bed. Rolling his shoulders, Cullen donned his helmet and strode out into the hallway.

That evening, Cullen found out that dinner was on a rotation. After evening lessons were over, the apprentices dined first along with roughly a third of the templars. They were followed by the full mages and senior enchanters in addition to another group of templars. The men who were posted throughout the tower during the first two meals ate last, and schedules changed for the templars on a monthly basis. As he ate with Erik and Warren, Cullen determined that the tower was marvelously organized, which suited him perfectly.

It was the last day of Drakonis, and Cloudreach marked a new scheduling cycle. One of the Tranquil mages walked throughout their ranks, passing out rosters with duty assignments. It was no coincidence that Cullen had arrived when he did—he would be seamlessly integrated into the ranks, without any fuss. Glancing over the parchment, Cullen found that he was scheduled as a Guardian for the level four Primal classes held each morning, he was to dine with the apprentices, and had overnight watch once a week. He also was to patrol the Adralla section of the library during afternoon and evening hours before and after dinner four days of the week. No additional training would be required until he had been at the tower for a full year—he had all the necessary knowledge to carry out his current tasks. After the first year trial period, he would be eligible for additional training for higher-ranked jobs.

Glancing at the rowdy tables of apprentices, Cullen turned to his new bunkmates. "So, what is it like working here? How are the mages?"

Warren snorted into the bland cornmeal mash that he had been pushing around his plate. "They can be a right handful, I'll tell you that much."

Are they out of control, here? I'd heard that Ferelden's Circle Tower was generally well-controlled and there were relatively few issues compared to other Circles throughout Thedas.

Seeing Cullen's raised brow, Erik elaborated. "Nothing bad—well, aside from Anders' occasional escape. Some people seem to think that the knight-commander is too soft on the mages here. Me? I don't have a problem with the way things are run. The mages seem relatively content, and that leads to them being more manageable. Some of the younger ones, though, do like to play pranks, especially on the templars. Watch your back, especially around that group."

Cullen followed Erik's gaze to a group of four mages, their heads close together as they chatted amongst themselves. All of them appeared to be somewhere around Cullen's age, and would likely be eligible for their Harrowings soon.

"Anders is normally the ringleader of their little club," Warren said. "My guess is those four are probably working out how to sneak him some food later tonight. His punishment for his latest escape is scrubbing chamber pots for the next two weeks by hand, and missing his evening meal."

"Isn't the usual punishment for multiple escape attempts the Rite of Tranquility?" Cullen asked, surprised that this mage was getting away with little more than menial chores after openly challenging the templars' authority.

Erik rolled his eyes. "Yes. Like I said, though, some people think the knight-commander's too soft on the mages. Apparently, First Enchanter Irving believes that Anders isn't actually dangerous, just going through a rebellious phase. Load of mabari shit if you ask me."

Cullen didn't answer as he glanced back at the group of apprentices in question. He wondered what types of tricks they liked to pull, and was confident that he would never fall prey to such childish games. As the bell sounded the end of dinner, Cullen rose with his comrades and left the dining hall. Intent on visiting the small chapel to pray before he retired for the evening, he didn't notice the azure eyes that were fixed on his retreating form. They danced with the flickering candlelight, and promised mischief.