Knife ear.
The words cut deeper than they ought to. It had been years since anyone had called her that inside the Circle. She’d almost forgotten what she was to them; an uppity elf, someone who was meant to be cleaning chambers, some thing that no one would miss if it disappeared after it was used up. The First Enchanter had always been her fiercest defender. He’d found those who had wounded her and put them to work. Some had grown from it; others had simply learned to keep their views quiet.
Evidently, now that the First had gone mad, the Knight Commander saw no reason to bite his tongue.
Knife ear. Her face burned, the sting of humiliation touching a nerve of temper. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so furious. She’d worked so hard, had endured so much to earn their trust and their respect. And none of it had mattered. All of her worth had been tied up in the First Enchanter’s clout. And now he was an abomination and Zayra was a knife ear once more. For a moment, she could hear the whispers, stronger now, trying to tap into her rage. They will take you to your children and turn on you. The shems will gut everyone you love or turn them tranquil. Little knife ear, you will be lucky if they kill you. Pray to your Maker that they kill you before they defile you. Let me help save you, let me in—
Zayra grit her teeth, forcing herself to ignore those insidious whispers. She would not save those children by falling. She would only doom them, either to Templars or her own horrors, if she surrendered. She took a steadying breath, eyes shut tight. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned—
Another explosion rocked the courtyard. Zayra’s eyes flew open, and Maker’s breath—that was too close to the library. What if they breached it—the children—she tried desperately to touch the curl of magic in her breast, but it did not respond. These damned Templars, these traitors—
They were opening the door. Zayra wanted to spit at the Knight Commander, but he offered a deal and she stilled her temper. Trade her for the children? Truthfully, she did not think the First Enchanter would take such an offer. She suspected he had sent thralls to the library—Dmitry was mad, but not foolish. He would have sequestered himself in the observatory at the top of the tower. He would not collect his sacrifices himself, not if he had any sense. But it was the only chance she had to return to the tower. She was terrified to die, but better her than blameless children. Their only crime was that they had been born with magic.
“You will do as y'must, I am certain, Commander,” she hissed, ears flattening against her skull in her irritation. Knife ear. Her eyes burned as she struggled to her feet. The chains were awkward and heavy, and she was a slight woman. With her magic, she could have easily altered their weight and born the burden, but she was denied its warmth.
Was this how Tranquil felt, she wondered, heart racing in sudden terror. She felt so empty, so dead inside without the comfort of her magic. It was as if someone had plucked the heart from her chest and replaced it with a stone carving. Everything felt wrong.
The Templars shoved her along. Pins and needles stung her feet as she tried not to stumble, to keep pace with their number. Her chin jut outwards in defiance as she tried to walk with some semblance of dignity. She would die here, but she would not die cowering.
The Knight Commander offered his blessing to their group, and her heart ached with a fresh wound. Why? Why would He let them suffer like this? Why did He let demons and monsters destroy their home and take so much life? She had never known such doubt before this moment. She had loved the Maker, had always found comfort in the Chant of Light. She knew the stories of Andraste and Shartan, knew in her heart that the Maker and His Bride had room even for little knife ears at their side. But she’d also known that the Templars were their protectors, and she’d been proven so very, very wrong there.
Maybe the Maker did not love all His children. Maybe mages and knife ears were not worthy of His love. Who was she to understand the mind of their creator?
“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just,” she murmured beneath her breath, her words lost in the clatter of armor. She wasn’t sure she believed the benediction herself. These righteous men and women, after all, had called for the Right of Annulment. Perhaps it had to be her. Somehow, with no magic nor staff, and in chains, she had to save their youngest from tranquility and possession and death. Zayra was not sure her slim shoulders could carry such a burden.
The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, and Zayra took a shuddering breath. Her feet felt numb, the world span lazily on a slight axis. She was exhausted, but she forced herself forward.
The Circle of Ostwick was a shadow of its former self. The main floor had always been lit by a dozen hearths, drying herbs and oils filling the tower with rich and lovely scents. It had been a warm welcome all those years ago. Now the hearths were cold and empty, the tapestries burned, and the tower smelled of sulphur and copper. The staircases on either side of the gargantuan circular room were dark and still. Zayra eyed the staircase to the right, gathering her nerve.
“The library is on the fourth floor,” she informed the Knight Corporal, heart racing ever faster, trying to find his eyes through his helm. They didn’t trust her, but she had to make them see sense. Maker, they were doomed. “We sealed all entrances, from above and below. Senior Enchanter Uriah will let me in, but I will need to help unlock the seal. Dozens of abominations and demons stalk these halls. We numbered nearly ninety Harrowed mages before this nightmare began. Knight Corporal, you and your men need my magic.”
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