Chapter One: Reaching for Freedom

"H-hey! Did you hear? There's a Grey Warden here in the tower!"

I turned at the familiar, nerve hitched sound of my friend Jowan's voice. I had been called for my Harrowing, passed, and become a full mage of the Circle of Magi only two days ago, but Jowan had not yet been called to take his, although he had been brought here earlier than me. He was still an apprentice, when those he had seen arrive were becoming mages.

Ideally, every apprentice who entered the tower for teaching would one day take their Harrowing and become a mage. In reality, however, the First Enchanter was allowed to decide if someone was too, say, dangerous to be allowed to become a mage. The only paths left for them, was to be forced into the Rite of Tranquility, a mysterious rite that split the mage from their connection to the Fade, as well as their emotions and dreams, or execution by the templars for resisting.

So, needless to say, the longer Jowan had to wait, the more paranoid he became.

"A Grey Warden?" I couldn't keep the surprise – and skepticism, as rumors ran wild around the tower, like the one that there were hidden passages that had kept the templars scouring the tower down to every last nook for weeks – out of my voice. "Ferelden doesn't exactly have a lot of them, right? What's one doing wasting his time here?"

Grey Wardens. Thedas's ancient and legendary defenders. Men and women, humans, elves, and dwarves, that stood against the masses of darkspawn and their virulent corruption. Legend said that these skilled warriors were the only ones that could put a stop to a dreaded Blight, an en masse demonic march on the surface led by one of the old Tvinter gods, corrupted by the darkspawn's touch.

The Circle's library had books on absolutely everything.

But... That's what the Warden's presence here in Kinloch Hold had to mean. A new Blight, the first in centuries.

If that was so, then the armies of Ferelden were looking for mages.

And therein lay my ticket out of this place. This cage I was made to call home.

"Where are they?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager. True, Jowan wasn't the brightest torch, so he wasn't exactly the most likely to question what I was doing. But the last thing I needed was him coming with me. Or, more like, trying to. The boy usually had good intentions, but he pretty much always went wrong somewhere between the conception of his idea and the execution of it. I attracted enough trouble on my own, without his black cat bad luck.

"The Warden's with Irving and the Knight-Commander in Irving's office," Jowan replied, tilting his head curiously. "What are you going to-"

I smiled and brushed past Jowan. I had hoped the three would be together. Good. I could get all the approval I would need in one go.

As I hurried down the arc of the tower's hall, past mage's quarters towards First Enchanter Irving's office, I couldn't shake the thought of this place being nothing more than a cage I was bullied into calling my home. The word "cage" throbbed like a drum in my head, and I felt a coil of restlessness burn at the back of my throat, felt the unwinding of a surprisingly angry serpent of cold hatred in my stomach. I hadn't thought about what the Circle of Magi really was in a long time. I hadn't really given much recognition to how much I hated it, with its meticulous order, the stuffiness of being trapped behind stone walls, down to the invisible shackles of the stigma that went with being a mage. Most of the mundane citizens of Thedas at large, and even our own templar guards, feared and hated us. Some of the templars used their position as an excuse to inflict horrendous abuses and perversions on their charges.

The power was, in the end, in the hands of the templars, no matter what we mages could do. They had magic-nullifying, mana-draining abilities, swords, heavy armor, and a holy mandate that they took very seriously. We were merely seen as the walking damned, our magic a stamp of the Maker's disapproval, and we were the oppressed. No one wanted to be caught helping a mage and to face judgment at the hands of the Chantry and the templars.

Never mind that the templars were supposed to help protect us from our own power as well as protect others from us. A good handful of them seemed to forget that when they wished.

My blue mages robes whispered against my legs as I walked, the gold braid at the edges glinting in the torchlight that lit the hall. So far, I had escaped rape and beatings. And though such things weren't as common in Ferelden, I heard, as in other places, I had been here since I was six, so I had a sneaking suspicion that a certain templar might have had something to do with it...

Speaking of...

"Cullen," I smiled as I greeted him. The young templar stood watch outside the door to Irving's office. His brown eyes flicked down to meet my gaze, and a faint blush colored his angular cheeks.

"Rowan," he replied, inclining his head in formal greeting, his short, dirty blond hair dark in the flickering firelight.

Cullen had come here years ago, as a young recruit, sent to Kinloch Hold for final training. I had been twelve, he had been about fifteen. Back then, he hadn't been so formal. He had simply been an awkward young man in a strange new place, surrounded by dozens of people that the Chantry, which would have all but raised him, said were dangerous, vile sinners, rejected and damned by the very hand of their Maker before they were ever born.

And despite all that, and the magical stamp of holy rejection I carried on my soul, he had accepted the hand of friendship that I, at the time a lonely apprentice, had offered him.

Good thing, too, or Jowan would have been my only friend growing up. Cullen had always been my steady rock of reason and sanity to counter Jowan's nervous flightiness. And, when his superiors had their backs turned, he had passed along some of his training in sword and knifeplay to me. Maybe that particular interest was in my blood, because I had taken to blades like a mabari on the hunt. Cullen, before taking his final vows to the order, had given me an enchanted dagger as a gift. Pale white dragonbone with a decorative dragon carved as the handle. It was a templar's blade. It nullified any magic cast at it.

I really doubt other mages ever had such a glowing report to give a templar.

"I'm sorry," Cullen began, raising his head and softly clearing his throat, awkwardly casting his gaze about the hall, as though looking for anywhere to look but into my eyes. It was a little bit cute. "But I don't know if I can let you in there, if you're here to see the First Enchanter. He has," He seemed to struggle for the word he was looking for. "An important guest. I don't think he would want to be interrupted."

"Actually, his guest is why I'm here." Though the days of our easy, secret camaraderie were years in the past now that Cullen had taken his vows and a large portion of his devotion had been turned to the order's mandate, I held hope that he still held the same... Respect for me as I did for him. Or that he would at least do me a small favor in honor of our friendship. I felt pretty certain he would not deny me an honest, reasonable request. "He's recruiting, right? The Warden? Something's going on outside, and someone wants mages. That's really the only reason for a mundane to come here."

"I... Haven't been informed of the details," Cullen replied, but the uncomfortable tone of his voice and the shift of his weight that set the heavy silver plate that was a templar staple clanking gave me the answer I needed. Poor Cullen, he'd never been able to lie to me. When would these noble templars learn that too much virtue only ever got you in trouble?

"I want to volunteer." As a willing recruit of the militant templar order, he would understand an urge to defend Ferelden. "I'll enlist. Mages give any army an advantage, right? All the better that I'm actually okay with fighting alongside mundanes."

A grim smile tugged my lips, and I pulled my little trump card. "Besides," I shifted aside my robes to show the pommel of the dagger he'd given me, strapped to my belt. "I've got more to offer them than your average mage would." Spellswords were rare. An arcane warrior would be an unexpected and incredibly valuable tool on the battlefield.

I was counting on Cullen not to let me down, not to deny me this. All he needed to do was step aside, let me speak to the men in charge.

Cullen hesitated, then moved to let me by with a little incline of his head.

"Just remember, it's your fault if you get in trouble for intruding."

I just grinned and reached for the thick iron handle on the bolted wooden door.

I was in.

First Enchanter Irving stood by his desk in his dark, mossy green robes, his grizzled mane of iron grey hair and chest-length beard obscuring most of his ancient face. He was the oldest resident of Kinloch Hold, and was the long-time face of the Circle tower.

Beside him stood Knight-Commander Greagoir, who, though he was nearly as old, had aged much more gracefully, his silver hair and beard short and neatly kept, with faint worry lines around his eyes and mouth. Irving was the only one still living in the tower that had been around to know what things had been like before our fair-minded, steady Greagoir. The head of the templars might live and breathe the mantra of the order, but he also kept the knowledge that the mages were his charges as well as his prisoners close to his heart. He was a good man.

I assumed that the man that stood opposite them, of dusky skin, a dark brown ponytail, and one very odd set of armor, was the Grey Warden.

All three sets of eyes turned to me the moment I slipped into the room.

"Ah, Rowan," Irving greeted me with the tired tone of a grandparent greeting a rambunctious toddler. "What is it you want, child?"

Irving had a reluctant patience for me. Maker knew why. Greagoir, however, had no such issue.

"This is important business, mage," he said sharply. "You should leave."

"Don't be so hasty, Knight-Commander." The Grey Warden's tone was hard to describe. Polite, but backed with authority, tempered by the wisdom to keep it tucked away, so as not to rumple the pride of those used to being in power. "I think we can spare a moment to hear what this girl has to say."

Surprising. But, well, I knew a chance when I saw it, and I had never been one to just sit idle.

"When I heard a Grey Warden was here, I figured something had to be wrong on the outside. If someone's recruiting mages... I volunteer." I met both Irving's assessing, glitttering dark gaze and Greagoir's stony, highly disapproving one.

"We already have a dozen mages lined up to leave. Its unnecessary to send more," Greagoir said stiffly.

"The king's army needs all the help it can get, Ser Greagoir," the Warden cut across suggestively. "If the girl wishes to go fight-" He turned to me, bobbing his head in a brief, polite bow. "Excuse my poor manners. I am Duncan of the Grey Wardens. I have been sent here to seek aid from mages for King Cailan's army."

The king's own army. That meant my father would be there.

"Why's the King's army gathering?" My heart was pounding. If I could convince Greagoir and Irving to let me leave with Duncan, I would get to see my father again, for the first time since I was a child.

"A horde of darkspawn is gathering in the south, in the Korcari Wilds. My fellow Wardens and I believe that a Blight is imminent. My Wardens and the army are already there. I'm..." he seemed to search for the right words. "Seeking more, last minute assistance."

By the Maker, was I a brilliant guesser.

Irving's expression was serious. At least someone didn't think I was just some crazy, immature child.

"You heard him, Rowan. Are you certain you wish to face these creatures? You are aware that even if they don't attack you, you can still catch the corruption and die. And that is a slow, painful death." He hesitated. "And are you sure you can deal with the other factors, once you arrive?"

I wasn't at all sure that the bitterness that rose and choked the back of my throat and chilled my smile was a good thing, but it sure felt good. How sweet. The First Enchanter was concerned whether or not I could handle seeing the man who had turned me over to the templars and the Circle, then never again contacted me. Not even one letter.

Could I handle it? I'd lived with worse. In fact, I was dying to meet him, now that I'd realized this little detail. I wanted to show him that he could proud of his youngest daughter, just like he was proud of his first.

"I haven't changed my mind," I pressed steadily. "This is what I want. If it means my death, well, at least I'll make damn sure to take some of those monsters with me." There. That should explain away the grim smile.

Irving and Greagoir exchanged a look.

"The child wants to strike out into the world, Greagoir. She's young, can you blame her for wanting to leave the tower?"

"Yes," Greagoir replied dryly. "I'm sure quite a few of us, mages and templars alike, would love to leave sometimes. But can we really go sending out mages in troves? Especially one who asks to leave, who may just be using the chaos to meet up with maleficarum?"

Okay, now that was just insulting.

"I am not a blood mage!" I objected incredulously. "And how could I be meeting up with anyone at all? You read the only letters I've sent or received, and I only have the one correspondent!" One who could definitely never be a blood mage. "Besides, he hasn't written in about a month." I could feel the heat of an embarrassed flush on my cheeks. I missed my friend on the outside, even if, considering who we both were, we would never admit to being my friend anywhere other than in paper and ink.

"The cause is noble, and Rowan has never lied or given any cause to even distrust her intentions, much less suspect them." Irving pointed out.

"You know the rumors that have been flying around the tower," Greagoir said darkly. "You have even agreed that they peg her friend Jowan as a blood mage."

That stopped my tongue cold.

"What? J-Jowan? A blood mage?" The pieces just didn't fit together in my head. At all. Poor, nervous, kind-hearted Jowan, making blood sacrifices all in the name of power? With the resentment he'd felt for his pious mother and how she had ended up forcing his father to send their little "mistake" away to the Chantry, calling him a curse, an abomination waiting to happen?

By the Void, what was going through Bad Luck Jowan's head, if he was thinking he could handle dealing with demons?

Irving was slow to respond to that. I was being given one last crash-course, it seemed. A lesson to teach me just how much I could hate delay and indecision and inaction.

"All the signs we have seen, do point to it," he finally admitted. "The Knight-Commander and I were discussing the best course of action to-"

The door behind me crashed open, and a grim looking Cullen burst in with an older templar who looked so wound up he seemed likely to explode on contact, like one of my fireballs.

"I apologize for the interruption," the templar said, Cullen standing at his shoulder. "But we have an issue. The basement door is unlocked and the sentries are engaged." That meant whoever had gotten down there didn't have a templar escort to nullify the guardian statues. "I can't help but feel that the repository may be at risk."

The repository. The place the Circle stored samples of blood it collected from each apprentice it housed, kept so that, should a mageling run away, the templars could hunt him down. The vials of blood – phylacteries – were sent to a central repository in Ferelden's capital, Denerim, as apprentices passed their Harrowings and proved themselves worthy and able mages of the Circle. Until then, they were kept here in the basement of Kinloch Hold.

And there was a rumor, one that even the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter believed true, of a blood mage in the tower. An apprentice.

"Jowan," I hissed under my breath, turning and dodging past the pair of templars and breaking into a run off down the hall. "What in the Maker's name do you think you're doing?"

Sometimes, as much as we might wish it so, coincidences just never worked out.

Mages' heads poked out of their rooms as my standard Circle issue heeled, lace-up boots clacked against the stone flooras I ran. The Circle was all about order and control. Any running was usually reserved for antsy young apprentices or the templars in a crisis. A mage running full speed – as fast as this Void spawned robe-and-boot combination would let me – being chased by templars – and I could hear the heavy clamor of their plate as they ran after me – Greagoir himself shouting calling out commands for me to "halt", Cullen demanding to know if I was "out of my Maker given mind", was as exciting as it got.

I easily outran the templars in their heavy armor. I had to wonder how they ever managed to actually catch and combat the mages they found. Their size, armor, and weapons all put them at a disadvantage. All a mage would have to do was keep to crowded places, run, and to not get themselves cornered.

Listen to yourself, my mind chided. Are you planning on trying to escape if they don't let you leave?

Maybe.

Racing through the library and the hall that bisected the stockroom, I slammed open the third floor door and hurried down the first flight of stairs, winging a prayer to Andraste that I didn't slip. If the cold stone steps didn't break my neck, Greagoir would when he caught me.

I didn't falter. I burst onto the second floor, a lot more distance between myself and my pursuers, startling loitering groups of apprentices and their templar sentinels as I bolted past their rooms, down another set of stairs, past the training acloves in the lesser first floor library, and skidded, panting, to a halt in the main hall, before the heavy basement doors.

Just as Jowan emerged, followed by a woman wearing the muted red and gold robes of a Chantry initiate.

"J-Jowan!" I snapped, making him nearly jump out of his skin as he shut the heavy wooden door, letting out a frigid gust of stale air. "Andraste's flaming sword, man! What are you doing?"

"Rowan." The way he said my name didn't sound like that nervous apprentice I'd known for years. The stammer still shook at the foundations, but his tone had picked up some stone walls of finality and resignation. His grey eyes held the same emotions. It was the first time I could ever remember being able to see Jowan as a man, not some jumpy little boy. "I'd hoped..." He paused, seemed to think the better of what he was starting to say, shaking his head. "You wouldn't understand."

Okay, so maybe even as a man, he could be infuriating.

"You think I wouldn't understand wanting to leave here? The prospect of living and dying here doesn't thrill me, you know. Even a hound gets let out of his cage to run and hunt," Ohh, not the best analogy when everyone was already scared of mages. Good thing I'd left the templars in the dust on the stairs. "But, no matter how much I hate it, I think!" I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. "You don't chew through the leash when your master has bigger and better dogs than you!"

Speaking of, I could hear the templars clattering up behind me, finally catching up.

Jowan backed up, reaching for the initiate's hand. She clung to him, as though she could shield him and whisk him away by sheer force of will alone.

"They were going to perform the Rite of Tranquility on him!" she cried urgently. "I saw the order on Greagoir's desk, and Irving had already signed it! Jowan's your friend, right? You wouldn't want all his emotions and dreams taken away, would you? We had to destroy it! So we could run away together and live in peace. Without magic!"

Ah. So this was the girl Jowan had been seeing. And to think, I'd been doubting her existence. But, by the Maker, a Chantry initiate? Now that was just poking a stick in the eye of the templar order, stealing one of their priests and shredding her vow of chastity like so many gossamer fibers.

Maybe they were being truthful. Maybe this had nothing to do with any forbidden arts, just forbidden love.

"Shh, Lily," Jowan's affection was all for her as he turned warily back to me. "Are you here to help the templars?"

He really thought I didn't understand. Jowan didn't think I knew what it was like to care for someone so much you gave up on simplicity and selfish desires for them. Unbidden, an image of Cullen came to mind, the first time he had reached for my hand, recruit and apprentice, as friends, to slip me away from a sermon on how magic was a curse in the chapel. The endless evenings of sneaking off to talk and train. The hurt when he had dedicated himself to the templars and we couldn't do those things anymore. How afterward, I had begun humbly bowing my head to the templar's control, no longer flouting the rules in any way and burying my resentment of this guilded cage in a shallow grave. And, finally, how the morning after my Harrowing he had told me how grateful he was that I had been able to pass, because Greagoir had chosen him to be the one to strike the killing blow should I fail and become possessed.

No. I knew. More than Jowan would ever understand.

"I'm not," I assured him. "You're..." I hesitated. "Jowan? Are you a blood mage?"

Before he could answer, Greagoir, Cullen, the other templar, and a wheezing Irving had surrounded us.

"Jowan," Greagoir began grimly. "The punishment for destroying your phylactery is death... But return quietly and allow us to take another sample of your blood, and we will reconsider this, and allow you to live and be made Tranquil." The look on Jowan's face said plainly this was unacceptable. I couldn't help but notice they had already decided he must have destroyed his phylactery, even though Lily had admitted to me that they had, Greagoir didn't know that. "This initiate, however." He turned to Lily, his countenance steely. Yeah, the templars didn't take kindly to "traitors" in their Chantry. "She has betrayed the Chantry, broken her vows, and flouted our laws by assisting a suspected blood mage."

Lily nearly wilted in Jowan's shadow as Greagoir turned to Cullen and the other templar. "Arrest her and take her to Aeonar."

The initiate, only a girl, really, went as white as a sheet and took an unsteady step back.

"A-Aeonar? T-the mage prison? No, p-please-"

"You won't touch her!" Jowan put himself in front of Lily as the templars advanced, whipping a knife out of his robes and plunging it into his hand. As blood surged forth, he quickly, feverishly, began to utter a chant.

My heart dropped. Maleficar. So, it was true. There was only one future in store for Jowan now, especially as he was about to use blood magic on templars.

I didn't know blood magic. I didn't know what kind of spell he was casting. What I did know was that I wasn't willing to wait and just find out. I uttered a quick, quiet spell of my own, and a weak, flickering blue barrier snapped up around Jowan.

I was a pyromancer. I had learned quickly and painfully in my training that only fire spells turned out well with me, but a feeble shield against whatever spell Jowan was casting was better than none at all. His spell shattered my anti-magic barrier like a pane of stained glass, but I hope that the power it took to do it had at least weakened the spell.

An instant later, an invisible force slammed into my chest, rushing over me to hit the surrounding templars and Irving too. I flew back like I had been swatted by the Maker's own hand, fell hard on something cold and smooth, hit my head on it, and blacked out with a ringing in my ears.