Chapter Text
When Mercar received orders from the First Enchanter that they would be sent out of the city for All Souls’ Day, they stormed off to their office before their tantrum could make anything worse. They couldn't even get drunk with the other junior mages because they were supposed to be working. Who ever heard of a magus priest working on a holiday?
Someone slid a note under their door shortly before Mercar left the tower. "Inquisition agents are investigating a slavery ring in Nessus. This assignment is a good opportunity to monitor their progress. Make contact with the agents without drawing attention to yourself," the note read. The Viper's handwriting. "And don't get drunk. Mind your work."
That work was assisting the Nessus temple priests with crowd control during the Funalis fires. All Souls’ Day was, technically, a religious observation, and not just a costumed bacchanal. In Minrathous, there were enough robes that the Circle deacons could pay lip and then spend the whole night vandalizing the town. Every year the templars said something about putting a stop to it and every year they didn't. In truth, most everyone thought of it as an inevitable side effect of the holiday, a recollection of something older than the readings of Apotheosis and the somber lighting of candles, and did little to stop the youngsters from lighting trees on fire and flipping carts.
Mercar had been warned that none of that nonsense would be going on at the Temple of Andraste in Nessus, where people would travel to see the rites done properly and the holy mages engaged in penitent silence. Emphasis on silence. After last year's incident, many of the young priests were being sent away to other, more traditional temples to curtail the merrymaking.
They had argued that Andraste, in whose image the holy mages lived, had quite famously been arrested. Last year's riot wasn't entirely their fault. No one listened. Not even Maevaris, who could usually be tapped to spoil her former apprentice. It wasn't fair.
Before leaving, they paced around their local wing of the tower, the Razikale wing, which housed the College of Augurs. Apprentices darted back into doorways at the sight of the enchanter, no doubt to warn the others to hide the alcohol and red goblets.
The augury department, which dealt with communications across the Veil, was decorated with festive representations of various spirits and demons. Mercar loved making them as an apprentice. Some of the paper and cloth creations were general wishes and greetings for the friendly and helpful spirits around the Circle: Hail Spirits of Wisdom, please guide me during exams. Spirits of Valor, protect our soldiers. Some were made in recognition of powerful entities that were known to the Circle or a specific mage. Mercar's office door had an old paper doll hung in recognition of a Spirit of Choice.
Mercar wasn't the only one pacing around the College of Augurs. They heard the heavy fall of templar boots.
"Tarquin."
"Mercar. Shouldn't you be heading out?"
It wasn't surprising to find Tarquin up here. With the normal functions of the Circle winding down for the last days of the month, they were both trying to escape their offices and find some apprentices to bust for drinking alcohol.
"The rites aren't for a couple days and the cart will wait. I thought I'd give the College one last sweep and make sure everyone's minding their p's and q's before I leave," Mercar explained.
"About that." Tarquin produced a leather bag containing a bottle and handed it over. "I confiscated this from some kids trying to hide it in the records floor. Can you make sure it's…taken care of?"
Mercar solemnly accepted the booze. It was nice. Imported brandy. A waste to leave this in the hands of witless brats. "I'll see that it's properly disposed of."
They matched their paces and walked, heads down, towards a more private hall area. This wing was one of the oldest in the Circle—in fact, one of the oldest habitable structures in Minrathous—and had plenty of secret doors and long, winding staircases for private conversations.
Tarquin broke the awkward silence. "We don't have any connections to the authorities in Nessus. If you get arrested, no one can come get you."
"I won't get arrested. I'm just supposed to make sure the…" Mercar considered how to phrase this. Even in these old and disused stairways, the walls had ears. "That the rites are done properly. I'm sure the Revered Father won't even have any real work for me. It's a punitive assignment."
"Punitive because last year you were arrested," Tarquin said.
"I was unfairly singled out," Mercar countered. Which was true.
"You set a produce cart on fire! You robes can get away with a lot, but what were you thinking?" Tarquin sighed.
"You wanted cover!" Mercar nearly shouted.
Tarquin lowered his voice. The cart fire had certainly drawn the authorities away from the docks, where a group of former slaves had made a successful break for the catacombs. "I didn't mean start a bloody riot. But, it did work. It just won't work again. If slavers are involved, they won't care where you work or who your daddy is. Don't get caught."
"Or what, you'll miss me?"
"Don't get carried away. You'd end up a smear on some floor and there would be no one interesting to talk to around here. Just keep playing the entitled mage and I'll keep track of the town until you get back," he said.
"That's sweet. You would miss me. Remember, magic is meant to serve man, templars are meant to serve tea," Mercar crowed.
Tarquin rolled his eyes so enthusiatically they might have gotten stuck like that. Mercar knew it was a performance, though. Someone had to give Tarquin a hard time if the bluebloods couldn't be bothered to.
"Whatever. Maybe I'll get some work done. See you," he said. He peeled off at the bottom of the staircase to go find somewhere less suspicious to pace and brood.
"See you."
That left Mercar with little excuse to linger in the tower. The cart to Nessus was waiting.
Like most of coastal Tevinter's cities, Nessus took advantage of a natural harbor formed by a small but deep delta system. In the shadow of Minrathous, it lacked its own Circle tower, but made up for it economically with a large shipping industry and busy port. Barges moved timber and agricultural goods from the interior to urban centers along the coast, where they would be processed and redistributed back upriver.
The temple was carved into the base of a dramatic cliffside, overlooking miles of delta and wetland. From the road approaching the temple, the barges below resembled rings on the skeletal fingers of the delta, like some massive creature was trying to claw its way to the sea. It was hard to make out from this close, but the cliffside above was carved into a stylized depiction of a dragon. Dumat, most likely. This temple was ancient.
An elven porter met Mercar at their cart and helped them move discreetly into the brothers' wing of the temple. No tower meant no templars. No tenured robes. No pulling rank for an elf in a strange town.
After tipping the porter, Mercar found the junior mages' dormitory and picked a room at random. The dormitories were divided between sisters and brothers, not co-ed like the Minrathous Circle facilities, but both of them looked empty anyway. Nessus might not have had any initiates or lay mages living here. No wonder they needed help with the rites.
Back home, Mercar had arranged for their own bedroom through a series of favors, to avoid complicated questions. It wasn't just about gender, though that sometimes caused confusion when they were mistaken for a sister in the brothers' hall or brother in the sisters' hall. Even in the south, elves weren't permitted to join the priesthood, and that could be a sticking point when living with other mages. That—becoming a lay priest at all—had been another convoluted series of favors and legal loopholes. As a deacon, and as the adopted heir of a house with enough military spoils to dodge retribution with bribes and bail, they had been able to claw their way into the Minrathous Circle. They had spent more than a little blood and gold to get this far. Only to be cast out like a misbehaving dog, apparently.
They spread out their light luggage, only five trunks, across the dorm. If any initiates decided to come back suddenly and claim the room, they would need to sleep on the floor. Popping one of the chests open, Mercar unfolded a set of formal robes and shook them out, letting the layers of silk and linen fluff back up.
Chantry robes were mainly shades of black, representing the silence of the Maker, with a blood red sash, representing the grief of Hessarian. Mercar's also had gold and blue beading representing the personal wealth to customize one's clothing and a linen hood to cover their ears. They admired the silk robes in the mirror as they changed into them, and hoped that there would be enough candlelight to make the expensive beading stand out among the austere temple priests. Circle magi were expected to wear a toga for formal appearances, dyed lyrium blue for junior enchanters. They struggled to pin it on without help.
In fact, all of this would be difficult without help. In Minrathous, they were never alone, especially living at the Circle. There were always other robes nearby to argue or gossip with. The mages might not always have gotten along, but there were some even that Mercar considered friends. Templars, too. If Mercar ever left the Circle district, it was on a job with the Shadows or to swim in Maevaris's pool. Maybe they needed some time away from the city.
They dropped their travel clothes on the floor in a pile, for the laundry service to pick up, if there was going to be any. A note with a drawing of a candle was folded up in the road-dirty linen robes. If the slaves here recognized it, they would know who to bring their information or concerns to, and if they didn't, Mercar would have to find another way to make contact. They didn't think it would be too difficult to gain the temple slaves' confidence. Being an elf, Mercar was usually mistaken for one anyway, and servants were forthcoming with information.
The mirror seemed unwilling to reflect a rich Minrathous debutante. No matter how they adjusted their toga and hood, it just showed a miserable elf far away from the protections of home. They were alone. If things went poorly here, they were alone.