Unmasked
“The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding.” Morrigan grinned a predator’s smile—bared teeth and dominance—and the flickering light of her campfire added menace to the expression. “You look upon the world around you and think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never dreamed existed.”
“I’ve never heard of magic like that.” Brenna would have thought the tales superstition if she hadn’t witnessed Morrigan transform into a monstrous spider in the middle of battle. Alistair had shrieked so loud that her ears were still ringing, and she echoed the sentiment. She would rather battle a dozen ogres than deal with giant spiders.
“Some of these traditions are old, indeed, passed down as carefully-guarded lore from one generation to the next. The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could, but as luck has it some still exist. My mother is such a one.”
Flemeth. Brenna kept her expression carefully neutral, but she mentally salivated at the idea of learning magics forbidden by the Chantry. Morrigan didn’t know how fortunate she was to have such a teacher.
“Can you change into other human forms as well?” Brenna asked.
“The form of an animal is different from my own. One may study the creature, learn to move as it does, think as it does. In time, this allows one to become as it is. I gain nothing by studying another human. I already am the same as they are, I learn nothing. So the answer is no, my human form is the only one I possess.”
If true, it was a shockingly shortsighted attitude for an apostate who needed to hide from templar hunters. Brenna could think of countless ways where the ability to change one’s features would be invaluable.
“Can you teach me, please?”
Morrigan eyed her speculatively and then nodded. “Very well.”
***
Brenna Amell hated heights and despised flying, but gaining a bird's eye view of Therinfal Redoubt provided valuable information for her mission. She circled high above the fortress, careful to stay out of range of bored templar archers looking for target practice. Not that many knights would be looking skyward due to the inclement weather. Ponderous gray clouds spat cold rain, rumbling thunder and the occasional crack of lightning. It was if the Maker Himself had designed the day to grate on Brenna’s already frayed nerves.
She was going to kill Alistair for this. And Anora. And then she would raise them as undead for the pleasure of killing them twice.
The crow swooped away from the fortress and took shelter in the branches of an evergreen. She shook water from her feathers and squawked in irritation. The numbers were off. Her agents had been quite clear in the count of the templars who had marched from Val Royeaux, and this looked to be a quarter of that size. Unless the knights were packed elbow to elbow inside of the keep to avoid the rain, the bulk of the Order had broken off somewhere between here and Orlais.
Well, one crisis at a time. She had a mission for the throne to complete.
The crow fluttered to the forest floor and a stinging rush of magic pricked her limbs as she transformed into Lady Grace Weatherford, arcane advisor to her majesty Queen Anora. She adjusted her posture and adopted the air of an aging Fereldan courtier—stubborn but sensible, and possessed of little patience for nonsense. Brenna developed this persona over the past five years and was comfortable playing the part of a wise enchanter who had chosen to leave the Circle to serve the throne. She had Wynne to thank for that, Maker rest her soul.
Lady Grace emerged from the trees onto the neglected road that was now more dirt than stone. The Seeker fortress had been abandoned for some time and fallen into disrepair, if not outright ruin in places where wood rotted and stonework crumbled. Mud squelched around her sensible boots as she trudged toward the main gate, and the rain that had slid from her feathers now soaked into the fabric of her heavy hooded cloak.
Three sodden red banners bearing the sigil of the templar order loomed over the gate and slapped the stone walls as the storm strengthened. Two men in templar garb stood sentinel outside and eyed her warily as she approached. She grimaced beneath her hood—these were practically boys. Recruits. But their youth would work to her advantage—after all, Lady Grace was a harmless elderly woman.
“Halt! State your business.”
“Oh, hello!” She straightened and smiled. “I am Lady Grace Weatherford, here on behalf of their majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora. Do be a dear and tell Lord Seeker Lucius that I wish to speak with him.”
The templars exchanged a confused glance. “He’s not seeing visitors.”
“Well, that is unfortunate.” She folded her hands and adopted a stern frown. “You see, you are occupying Fereldan land, and though the king is quite fond of the Order that affection does not extend to marching an army through his kingdom without so much as a by-your-leave from the Lord Seeker. That makes you the visitors in this situation, so I really must insist on speaking with your commander.”
They hesitated—their hasty training had probably not covered how to deal with a scolding from an grandmotherly mage.
“Now be a good boy and open the gate. I’m soaked to the bone and need a strong cup of tea.”
“Err, yes, milady.”
“Here, lend me your arm.” She patted the nearest templar on his shoulder and hooked her arm through his. Neither guard wore armor, simply the attire of recruits. If an enemy rushed the gate they would be slaughtered instantly. “The thunder startled my horse this morning and she ran off. I’ve had quite a long walk without her.”
The portcullis rose with a metallic groan and she entered the lion’s den. Every templar in the fortress would know she was a mage, which was one of the many reasons why this plan was madness.
“There’s something wrong with the Order. I need you to find out what’s going on.”
She shot Alistair a dry look—he was well aware of her opinions on the templar order—and turned her attention to Anora. “You can’t agree with this.”
“Oh no.” Alistair folded his arms. “You’re not teaming up against me this time.”
Anora sighed. “I do agree that their presence is a problem that must be handled delicately.”
Her lips pressed in an annoyed line—the only way she wanted to handle this particular problem involved burning Therinfal Redoubt to the ground with the templars inside.
“Why me? Send Eamon. He’s good at this sort of thing, and, more importantly, he’s not a mage.”
“The fact that you were a Circle mage is what makes you the most useful for this task,” Anora said. “You understand the Order. You will be able to see problems that Eamon might not.”
Damn. There was no arguing with the pair of them when they were a united front--not that she could truly argue with them per the terms of their agreement. Too many lives depended on her.
She scowled in defeat. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
The gatehouse opened into the stables, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell of manure and wet hay. A handful of templars—more young templars—stared at her, and she smiled politely in return. A knight made a beeline for them before they reached the courtyard.
He bowed. “Lady Weatherford, I’m Knight-Templar Delrin Barris. I’m the one who sent word to the king.”
“Oh! Ser Barris, I know your father well.” She smiled—Jevrin Barris had been one of her banns during her time as arlessa of Amaranthine. He was an honest, devout man with a good heart, and Delrin was his second son. The last time she had seen Delrin he and his brother were boys clamoring for her to teach them how to fight darkspawn. “You can escort me and this nice young man can return to his post.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She took his arm but drew him to a halt beneath a stone archway that led to the courtyard. “Where is the rest of the Order?”
“I don’t know.” He grimaced in frustration. She could see a bit of the boy she’d known in the knight he had become. Delrin looked much like his father—tall, broad and dark skinned, though he had his mother’s light green eyes. “As we marched from Orlais the lord seeker ordered companies to split off without warning, and no one knows where they went or why. By the time we arrived here we were left with recruits and a small number of officers.”
“What prompted you to contact the king?”
“Lord Seeker Lucius…” Ser Barris shook his head. “The sky burns with magic, but he ignores all calls to action. Many of us hoped we could aid the Herald of Andraste in finding Divine Justinia’s killers and dealing with the breach in the sky, but the lord seeker would hear none of it. He promised to restore the Order’s honor and marched us here to wait. Lately he sees no one but the officers. We’ve been asked to accept much since Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”
“I see.” She gazed at the rainy courtyard and pondered possible strategies. Lord Seeker Lucius was a new opponent, and she hadn’t been able to gather much information on him before Justinia’s conclave. An unstable zealot in charge of the order would benefit no one.
She patted Ser Barris’s forearm. “I’ll do what I can, my dear.”
Ser Barris led her to a room in the barracks to wait for the lord seeker. Another young recruit brought her a pot of tea, and she sat at an ancient wooden table while templars trickled in to share stories of the various problems they had witnessed. They were so young—like the pair guarding the gate. She doubted that any of them had ever served in a Circle, and had likely been in training when the mage rebellion began.
Whatever was going on with the Order, these templars were afraid and looked to her for help—proof that the Maker had a sense of humor.
A small crowd had gathered by the time an officer finally entered, flanked by guards.
“Knight-Captain Denam,” Ser Barris greeted.
“You expected the Lord Seeker,” Denam said.
Lady Grace remained seated and sipped her tea as her stomach soured. This group meant violence, and there was something very wrong with the knight captain and his companions. The air around them hummed with a discordant buzz like the drone of insects in midsummer. This turn was precisely the sort of confrontation she wanted to avoid—Alistair and Anora were so certain that this problem could be solved with discussion alone, but neither of them had lived as a Circle mage. They had never experienced the depths of violence and cruelty that the Order was capable of.
“This is the might of the Fereldan throne? An old woman?” Denam asked.
“Is the lord seeker still occupied?” she asked.
“Your arrival has interrupted the lord seeker’s plans. You’ve stirred up the rest of the order.” Denam sneered at the templars she had collected. “You are all supposed to be changed! The Elder One is coming. No one will Therinfal who is not stained red.”
The templars flanking him raised their bows and fired, but their arrows froze in mid-air when they hit her frost wall. A thin sheet of ice cracked and snapped as the arrows continued to hover, and Lady Grace sipped her tea.
“Please do tell us more about this Elder One,” she said. “It sounds fascinating.”
Knight-Captain Denam snarled and drew his sword, but was promptly thrown back by her whirlwind spell.
“Ser Barris, please restrain your comrades.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Barris shouted orders to the others as he rushed forward, and they quickly subdued their attackers.
Lady Grace rose when the arrows clattered to the floor. “Well done, Ser Barris. Now, whatever is wrong with them?”
The drone increased as she approached the bound knight captain, who had been knocked unconscious during the scuffle. Up close she spied red veins spidering through his skin and a faint red aura that swirled close to his body.
“He doesn’t seem possessed,” she mused. Her cousins had told her of their encounter with possessed templars in Kirkwall, but they had looked and acted similar to possessed blood mages. This was...odd.
“It could be the red lyrium,” Ser Barris said.
“Red lyrium?” She snapped the words so quickly she nearly dropped Lady Grace’s soothing voice.
He nodded. “The officers have been taking it, to show us that it’s all right.”
“Maker’s breath, have you all gone mad? Do none of you remember what happened to Knight-Commander Meredith?”
“They claimed that it was safe now.”
She swallowed a string of curses that were far too vicious to leave Lady Grace’s lips. “Does that look safe to you?”
“Perhaps it’s some sort of mind-control spell. I’ll try to remove it.”
“No, wait—” she warned, but her words came too late. The numbing cold of dispelling magic overwhelmed her as Lady Grace cracked and shattered, revealing her true form.
Stunned silence hung in the air as the templars stared and she scowled. Andraste’s ashen ass. Five years of work ruined by bloody templars.
“Warden-Commander Amell?” Barris asked.
“Well, shit.” Brenna stood still and folded her hands to ease the nerves of the anxious templars. “I told Alistair and Anora that this wouldn’t work. Though none of us expected that the Order would ever be mad enough to willingly expose themselves to red lyrium.”
“So you do serve the crown?” Ser Barris’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword as though uncertain of how to react.
At least he recognized her—that had been one reason she had developed her cover personas. Everyone in the kingdom recognized the Hero of Ferelden. Of course another pressing reason was that the Chantry had placed a hefty price on her head, which she hoped the templars would overlook.
“I am privileged to serve as the Hand of her majesty Queen Anora.”
Before she could continue an inhuman roar split the air like a thunder clap. “Prepare her! Guide her to me!”
“Oh, that can’t be good.” Brenna winced, but Ser Barris frowned.
“What isn’t?” he asked.
“You didn’t hear that?”
“No.”
The rest of the templars shook their heads, which only increased her worry. Then screams and clashing steel rang from outside of the barracks.
“Did you hear that?” She straightened her armored coat and drew her blades.
“Yes, ma’am. Here, the knight-captain’s keys. I would learn more about this Elder One.” Ser Barris drew his sword and readied his shield.
“Combat experience?”
Ser Barris answered yes, but the rest of the templars stared at her wide-eyed as they shook their heads.
Brenna squared her shoulders and barked orders as though they were her own recruits, and they fell into formation. It likely helped that she didn’t look like a mage—her armored coat bore the crimson and gold of Fereldan heraldry, complete with snarling Mabari accents, and she wielded two spellsteel daggers. Zevran often teased her that she looked more like a court assassin than a spellcaster.
“Call out if you need healing,” she ordered as they prepared to join the battle. “Anyone affected by red lyrium cannot be trusted. Do not stay your hand, for they will not stay theirs. Go!”
She led her small group through a series of crumbling hallways and empty rooms, snatching up anything that looked like correspondence and shoving it into her coat pockets.
When they reached the courtyard she grimaced at the scene before them. Since leaving the Circle of Magi, Brenna Amell had fought a variety of horrors from darkspawn to dragons, but Thedas continued to surprise her with new nightmares. Templars battled against their comrades who had been twisted and corrupted by jagged shards of red lyrium that sprouted from their bodies like a grisly parody of a golem’s crystals.
“Hold formation,” she ordered. “Move as one.” Her best bet at keeping them alive was to keep them close enough for her to protect.
“I would know you. You will be so much more. Show me what you are.”
A man’s voice spoke above the roar of battle, his words distorted but recognizable. Brenna hurled a stonefist spell into the chest of the nearest creature and knocked it away before it could deliver a death blow to a prone knight. They swarmed the monster and felled it, and Brenna cast a healing spell over the knight.
“Well fought.” He grimaced as he rose. “I don’t know what’s happening. All the officers have turned into those...things.”
“Can you fight?” she asked, and he nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”
The group repeated the process as they swept through the keep, climbing up toward the main hall and the officer’s quarters at the very top. They were too late to save many of the templars. The blood of ravaged corpses stained the stones dark red, and the victims looked as though they had been mauled by great beasts.
“The Hero of Ferelden! It’s time we became better acquainted.”
“You really can’t hear that?” Brenna asked Ser Barris.
“No. What do you hear?”
“Nothing good.” She frowned—she wasn’t sure what was more worrisome, that she could hear the voice or that the templars couldn’t.
“Here, this is Knight-Captain Denam’s office.” Barris used the key he’d grabbed from Denam and unlocked the door, and they all recoiled at the smell of rotted flesh.
They found a twisted, decayed corpse within the office, and Ser Barris grimaced. “That’s the knight vigilant. The lord seeker told us he died at the Conclave! Was Denam hiding the body for the lord seeker? Did he kill the man himself? Maker, what’s happening to the Order?”
Brenna didn’t comment. The knight vigilant was a well-known opponent, or at least he had been. Stodgy old bird, predictable as a sunrise. Lord Seeker Lucius had no doubt used his predictability to lure him to his death. She crossed to the desk and briefly searched it for correspondence, adding the few things she found to her pockets before they moved on.
By the time they reached the final set of stairs she was convinced that whoever designed Therinfal Redoubt had patterned it after Kirkwall—one long staircase after another.
“Come, show me what kind of woman you really are.”
Her jaw clenched as she marched toward the figure at the top of the stairs, his back turned toward her.
“Lord Seeker!” Ser Barris called out.
Ah. The bastard was waiting for them. How polite. She readied her blades—she would strike to incapacitate, keep him alive to question—but he spun on his heels and grabbed her coat by its collar.
“At last .”
Off-balanced, he dragged her toward the doors and the world around her vanished.