That afternoon, Solas returned to the interior of the Chantry.
Creation magic was useful for altering a spectator's perception of their surroundings and of reality itself; in his case, for maintaining a spell of invisibility. However, that enchantment had clear limitations, because while it lasted, he could not make direct contact with the physical world without risking breaking it. To achieve it, he had to disperse the particles of his body until they became translucent—an in-between state that prevented him from manipulating solid objects or opening doors on his own.
That was precisely his problem now. He needed someone to open the door to the Chantry's lower levels, but he could not do it himself, because Cassandra had already denied him access without formal authorization… and besides, the wandering apostate was not an agent of the rebellion. Appearances had to be maintained…
…though, on the other hand, Fen'Harel—well. That was a different song entirely.
Solas had been awake in this world for a year. And since then, he had scarcely had time to stop. His mind had absorbed information with a scholar's hunger, and with the help of his agents he had done nothing but observe and experiment, again and again, with the different races and factions of Thedas. Even so, he could not consider himself an "expert," not even remotely. There was too much he still did not know… and that ignorance was dangerous—especially now, when circumstances had forced him to infiltrate a fledgling organization born out of the chaos unleashed by his Orb's explosion.
One miscalculation, and he would not devote more time to the matter. Not for now.
That afternoon, however, he had decided to test the ingenuity of an average soldier… and, by doing so, measure the ground beneath his feet.
- Good afternoon. - Solas approached a rank-and-file soldier standing guard before the Chantry's great door. The man looked at him with undisguised disdain for the "elf."
If he told him he was a wandering apostate mage, would that earn him points? Most likely not.
- Are you on guard duty? Commander Cullen sent me. - He lied with such effortless naturalness that the man had no choice but to play along.
- And who are you? - the soldier asked, brow furrowing.
Solas assessed him. This man looked like many things—committed to his duty was not one of them. Which was striking. A green wound in the sky should have been warning enough to have every believer, terrified of the Maker's wrath, on their knees begging for mercy… but who was he to judge men's devotion?
- I'm the errand boy. - He said it with such confidence, devoid of any trace of irony, that the soldier had to believe him. He stared at him oddly, yes—then seemed to think it through and accept it, because he was an elf. What else could a "pointy-eared" be, if not the shemlen's errand boy?
- Judging by your looks, you stopped being a "boy" a long time ago, elf.
Yes, yes. Solas knew that too. He was immortal. But what was he supposed to say? The old errand elf? It hardly mattered.
- Commander Cullen requests you conduct an inspection of the Chantry's lower cells, sir. - Solas recited it solemnly.
The soldier's mouth twisted in disgust.
- And why? Isn't THE prisoner down there?
Solas raised his brows, surprised at the man's insubordination. Did a messenger have to explain a commander's reasons? Still, he seized the opportunity to sprinkle a little superstition into the matter.
- It isn't for me to say… but… um… - He stammered masterfully, making himself look uncomfortable before the man. - I believe it has to do with some… unusual events, sir. - he assured him. - The torches have been losing their flame, and I've lit them six times already. I told the Commander, and he asked me to find someone within the military ranks who could deal with it. - He paused; his voice trembled; he averted his gaze. Solas made himself as small as possible, as though he wished he could cease to exist on the spot. - We should investigate in case someone is causing it.
- By the Maker's breath… - the soldier whispered. - The Commander told you he wants me to see that? - Solas nodded. - But… what if it's a demon?
- With that Breach… there could be so... —the elf muttered, still playing innocent while making the suggestion sound like the most likely explanation. The soldier shuddered. - In any case, I've delayed far too long, sir. - Solas bowed. - Once you check the torches, find me and I'll report it to the Commander. - Another deep bow, and he hurried away, slipping between trees and brush as he released an invisibility spell.
Idiot.
From a distance, the soldier visibly hesitated. His hand trembled as he took hold of his sword. Solas observed him. He wasn't a templar. Nor a Seeker of Truth. He wore patched leather—cut and resewn with large, clumsy stitches. The sword wasn't polished; the edge looked dull, and the breastplate was bronze.
Solas made a face. Where had this soldier even come from?
Still, the man summoned his courage and entered the Chantry. Solas ran after him.
He heard him muttering curses with every step, but it served Solas's purpose: he went down into the cells. Solas was tempted to play some little trick on him—purely for the pleasure of savoring his fear—but no. He was an "old" elf now, as the man had so helpfully emphasized. He was no longer the young Dread Wolf who would have granted himself that indulgence amid mockery of his opponents.
Or perhaps the simple truth was that this shemlen wasn't even an opponent…
The soldier quickly lit the three dead torches and hurried out, avoiding at all costs the cell where the Dalish woman lay asleep. When the door slammed shut with a booming thud, Solas released the spell.
- Commander Cullen will have a hard time with his soldiers. That, I can promise you. - He murmured with a half-mocking smile and walked toward the book-crammed room.
He halted halfway, glanced at the worshipper of Ghily. She looked exactly as she had when he'd seen her with the Seeker—expected. He exhaled, then raised his hand to the lock of the cell that held the books, opened it with magic, and stepped inside.
He spent only the time he could afford skimming titles; he knew he didn't have much. Cassandra might come looking for him the next morning to inspect the prisoner, but he couldn't be sure. In any case, he needed to remain visible at all times in case the leaders sought him out. He had already learned that Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana seemed to be the ones with authority here.
But he also needed to deal with the soldier he had sent to light the torches. The Commander would not appreciate learning that a bald elf had been delivering orders in his name—and how many bald, middle-aged elves had anyone seen around here? Only him.
Killing the man would be too extreme… but a touch of blood magic, or dreamcraft… more than enough to remove the loose end.
- "Dissertation on the Fade as the physical manifestation of Mareno, Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi of Minrathous" —Solas whispered one title, and took the book in his hands.
It would do. Solas wanted to understand the beliefs these people held regarding his Veil. He opened to the index, scanned the headings, and turned to a page that caught his attention.
In this world, he had come to understand that, thanks to the presence of his Veil, there was no "constant" magical energy—unlike what Elvhenan had been. Even so, even in his world, the flows of energy had never been invariable. Magic had surged (or weakened) according to alignments: the Sun, the Moon, constellations, cardinal turns of the year (solstices and equinoxes), and rare phenomena like eclipses.
Elgar'nan and Mythal had used that to become the most powerful Evanuris of their time.
And he had used it on the Deadwinter's night.
The night he created his Veil.
- "I detest this notion that the Veil is some sort of invisible 'curtain' separating the world of the living from that of spirits" - he recited, and smiled with disdain. - An excellent observation, Tevinter enchanter. - he mocked. - "There is no 'this side' and 'that side' with regard to the Veil. One cannot think of it as a physical thing or a barrier—least of all a 'shining Wall of sacred light.'"
The elf who had made the Veil let out a low growl. He couldn't sit and read the dissertation properly if he wanted to remain "visible" to this place's leaders at all times. He would have to give it the time it deserved.
He was forced to close the heavy tome and take it—borrow it.
He turned on his heel and looked once more at the Dalish woman. His eyes studied the vallaslin on her face. He made another grimace and remembered Ghilan'nain's greatness in better times.
A pity about everything that came after.
He shook his head and prepared to leave.
As he walked toward the damp stairs, he thought of how he had created the Veil during the longest night of the elven calendar—the night that was not only the longest, but the cruelest winter. It had been the point of minimal solar strength, and the window of opportunity that ensured Elgar'nan could not counter the magic of his ritual.
Revas and Felassan had not agreed. They had told him it would be wiser to wait until the next Deadwinter's night. They had appealed to how unstable he had been after Mythal's death.
Solas had not possessed the wisdom to listen.
And he had paid the price.
The condemnation of the entire world.
He reached the top of the stairs. Opened the door. Wrapped himself in invisibility again. The sound of old wood cracked through the silence. Solas moved.
The guard turned and went pale at the sight of the open door. He rushed to close it, then returned to his post. Solas slipped the tome behind one of the Chantry's columns and broke the spell as he did so. With measured steps, he approached the man.
- Well? - the elven messenger spoke from behind him, making the soldier jump in surprise. - Anything to report to the Commander?
- By Maferath's arse, elf! - The man raised his arm and struck Solas across the cheek. Fen'Harel felt his mana roil inside him with sudden rage. - Don't scare me like that!!
- I'm sorry, sir. - Solas forced himself to say.
- I've lit the torches and everything's in order. Now go tell the Commander.
- Yes, sir.
Solas clenched his jaw and walked away. Was that all? A terrible job, if he was truly meant to investigate whether someone stood behind the events Solas had described.
Once he was out of the man's line of sight, he turned invisible and went back for his book. He took it, let the spell fall, then cloaked himself in translucence again and headed toward the small house Leliana had granted him.
An excellent place to continue his studies.
Later, he would deal with that man in the Dreamers' Realm.