The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99

Written as a 25,000-plus word fantasy fandom fic for the livejournal community scifibigbang.

Chapter One

Denerim Chantry, 9:25 Dragon Age

Training Grounds - A Duel with Ser Palamon - The Brawl - Ser Glavin's Regrettable Disappointment

I hate this place. Alistair thought. I hate it.

He blinked up at the bright noonday sun that hung like a sovereign above the Chantry training ground. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

The Templar initiates had started their training at dawn with a three-hour route march in full kit. The march had been followed by an hour of exercises under the watchful eye of the ruthless Templar Sergeant Ser Mark. The initiates were on their tenth set of sit-ups, and they were beginning to flag.

Look on the bright side, Alistair thought as he pulled himself upright yet again. In forty years, I'll probably be dead.

He looked up at the Sergeant. Of course, if that bastard has anything to do with it, I'll be dead much, much sooner.

Ser Mark took a deep breath. He glared disapprovingly at the line of sweating Templar initiates. "You are weak!" he shouted. "You are an insult to the Maker!"

Nobody replied. Nobody had any breath left to reply.

I hate you, Alistair thought silently at Ser Mark.

"The apostates will not show weakness!" Ser Mark bawled. "You must be ready, for they will not hesitate. You must strike hard, for they will seek to cut you down. You must recall our Maker's teachings, for they will attempt to ensnare you in lies." He paused for breath. "Now give me twenty more."

Alistair decided that he really loathed the man.

Ser Mark was a tall man with a deeply lined face and the scars of a dozen battles on his body. There were a dozen rumors about him, each more outlandish than the last.

Alistair had heard that Ser Mark had never smiled in his life, except once, when his mother died. He'd heard that Ser Mark brushed his teeth with a mixture of wood alcohol and lye soap. He'd heard that a blood mage had cast twenty sleep spells on Ser Mark in quick succession, one after another, and all Ser Mark had done was blink. He'd heard that Ser Mark had only one testicle, having lost the other to a Dalish archer in a long-ago battle, and that Ser Mark had ripped the elf's arm off and beat him to death with the severed limb.

Alistair had also heard that Ser Mark's hobbies included making fluffy kittens cry blood, but he was sure that story was false.

Ser Mark stared down his nose at the struggling initiates. "You have performed...adequately," he said without losing his sour scowl, "However, physical strength is the least of the Templars' weapons. Let me test your memory." He stalked down the line, staring at each initiate in turn. Alistair held his breath as the Templar Sergeant stabbed out a hand, but Ser Mark's finger pointed not at Alistair but at the initiate next to him. "Ser Aleyne!"

Aleyne Wulff gulped as Ser Mark fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Recite the Second Commandment of the Maker!"

Alistair blinked sweat from his eyes as he watched Aleyne squirm. The Second Commandment was one of the few verses he knew well enough to recall after a punishing morning's training, and Aleyne was one of the few nobles he cared enough about to want to help. "The one about the maleficarum," he hissed under his breath.

Ser Mark had retained his hearing despite years of warfare. His head snapped around. "Ser Alistair!"

Alistair groaned.

"I do not recall asking your opinion on the matter, Alistair. But as you have been so kind as to volunteer, and as Ser Aleyne here," he scowled at Aleyne "seems to have temporarily forgotten all of his training, you will have to do. Recite the verse."

"Oh. Um. Right," Alistair sat up. He ran a hand through sweat-damp hair. "The Second Commandment of the Maker. Magic exists to serve men-"

His breath whooshed out of him as Ser Mark took a step forwards and kicked his hand out from underneath him."Did I say that you could cease your training?"

"No," Alistair said when he had gained enough breath to speak. "Ser,"' he added hastily.

"Then do not stop. Ser Aleyne?"

"Yes, Ser?"

"Three circuits of the field in full armor, if you please. Perhaps a little exercise will refresh your mind."

Alistair heard Aleyne get to his feet and clank glumly off. Sunspots sparkled at the edge of his vision. His stomach muscles screamed like demons. Dimly he heard Ser Mark speaking to the other recruits. "The rest of you, pause for a moment. Listen to the..." he paused," wisdom of your companion. Continue, Alistair."

Alistair returned to his sit-ups. "Uh. The ...second commandment of the Maker. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. "

Ser Mark nodded. "Continue."

Alistair's face burned like Andraste's holy fire. "Foul...foul and corrupt are they, who have taken His gift, and turned it against His-his children." He paused to snatch a breath.

"Memory failing you, is it?"

Alistair shook his head. "They-they shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond." Just like me, he thought.

Ser Mark nodded. "You may stop," he said.

Alistair collapsed onto his back in a puddle of sweat and gleaming chain mail. He sucked in air greedily. The sky above was very blue. A tiny puff of dark grey wood-smoke from Andraste's holy fire dotted the bottom right hand corner of his vision. Gradually he became aware that someone was talking to him.

"Ser Alistair?"

Alistair groaned as he pushed himself upright. Ser Mark watched him with bright eyes, as eager as a mabari worrying at a bone. "Your command of the scriptures is astounding, Ser Alistair. Tell me, are the maleficar that Andraste's teachings speak of also apostates?"

Alistair trod the thorny paths of Templar dogma with care. "Apostates are-um, mages outside the tower. Mages that fled the Circle. Or hedge mages-those who never went to the Circle. Maleficar are mages that use the forbidden arts. Blood magic. They're evil."

"Is there any difference between an apostate and a maleficar?" Ser Mark asked softly.

"Um," Alistair hesitated, sensing a trap. "I guess so."

Ser Mark inhaled sharply. "You are wrong, initiate."

"I thought I might be." Alistair muttered.

"Be quiet. You will never be a Templar unless you learn first to hold your tongue."

Alistair searched through his memory for any scrap of information that he could use to win the upper hand. "The Chantry says to forgive first and fight last," he offered.

"Who told you that?" Ser Mark snapped.

Alistair shook his head. "I can't remember." He thought it was one of the Chantry sisters, a quiet, demure little thing that Ser Mark would no doubt eat for breakfast, but he wasn't sure.

Ser Mark took a deep breath. "The brothers and sisters of the Chantry lead a sheltered life," he said. "It is their job to debate the holy scriptures. It is our duty to follow them without question. For is it not written in the sermons of Justinian: 'For she has said to us, "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him?" Therefore, I say to you, they who work magic, which dominates the minds and hearts of others, they have transgressed the Maker's law. In addition, our Lady said to us, "Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." Therefore, it is made clear to me, as it should be to us all: That magic, which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker. Those mages who honor the Maker and keep his laws we welcome as our brothers and sisters. Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate. They shall be cast out, and given no place among us.'" He glanced around at the initiates. "Any questions?"

It was clear that he did not expect any. One by one, the initiates slowly shook their heads. All except Alistair, whose time in the Chantry had taught him many things, but not when to keep his mouth shut.

"But surely all apostates are not maleficar?" he asked. He hesitated before continuing, lulled into a false sense of complacency by Ser Mark's encouraging silence. "The Dalish have their own training, for example."

"The false gods of the elven folk are no concern of ours," Ser Mark said dismissively. "Maleficar are humans, Alistair. They are not elves and they are certainly not dwarves. In my experience, if an apostate is not already a maleficar then it is only a matter of time before they become so. An infection may spread and doom a village if it is not cauterized at its source. If you fail to act promptly, if you underestimate a mage, he or she will kill you. Make no mistake. It is best to strike first.' He looked around at the line of initiates. "Your hesitation in combat may one day cause the deaths of all your companions, Alistair."

Alistair winced. Several of the other initiates glared at him.

"In your case ignorance may very well be bliss, but it is the job of the Templars to dispel ignorance with the sword of truth and the shield of holy scripture."

"Sword of truth."Alistair said. "Got it."

"I do not think you do, initiate. To truly understand the scriptures you must study them ceaselessly. Copy out the relevant passages from the Sermons of Justinian and make sure you have them on my desk by evening. And when you meet with an apostate, as you surely will one day," Ser Mark looked skeptically at Alistair, "I hope you will not falter."

"No, ser."

Ser Mark looked around as Aleyne came panting to a halt. "How nice of you to join us, Ser Aleyne. Just in time for weapons practice."

All of the initiates sighed. Alistair's sigh was a little louder than the rest.

Ser Mark smiled. "Ser Aleyne, you will duel Arcite," he said. "Ser Giles, you will partner Ser Malcolm. Steven will fight Galfrid. And, Ser Alistair?"

"Ser?"

"You will fight Ser Palamon."

Alistair's spirits, already low, sank lower. Palamon was the class's best fighter. He was also one of Ser Mark's pet students, which did nothing to endear him to Alistair. "Yes, ser."

"Very well. Take a break. You have ten minutes."

Alistair got heavily to his feet. He skirted around the other initiates and headed for the water jars. Aleyne trudged sympathetically by his side. "I didn't think you did badly," he said.

Alistair drank deeply. He wiped his mouth before selecting a bated blade from the practice rack. "I didn't do badly? I did worse than badly. And now Palamon's going to beat me into a pulp." He swung the sword. "And he'll probably enjoy it. You'll be fine with Arcite. He fights worse than a drunken nug."

Aleyne laughed. "Yes. But I fought Palamon last week. And I still have the bruises." He glanced over at the big initiate, who was limbering up with his friends. "I think it's time. Good luck."

"And you," Alistair said glumly.

There were several sparring rings marked out with lime on the Chantry grass. He picked the furthest one from Ser Mark and stood in the centre, hoping that he would not be noticed. Palamon spotted him anyway. The noble crossed his arms over his chest and bowed at Alistair as he entered the circle. "Alistair."

Alistair copied the bow, with less enthusiasm."Palamon."

Palamon bowed again and took his place. He adopted the guard of the Ox; sword held horizontally at the level of his eyes. Ser Otto, one of the other Templar weapons masters, said that you could learn a lot about a warrior by observing which posture he used. All Alistair could see was that he was about to be flattened.

He sighed and adopted the guard of the Plow. The tip of his blunted blade pointed hopefully at Palamon's throat. All over the parade ground, the initiates adopted similar positions with varying degrees of success. It was quiet enough that Alistair could hear the delicate hum of the hymns that drifted from the Chantry.

"Begin," Ser Mark bellowed.

Alistair circled slowly, searching for an opening. All he could see was more Ser Palamon. He swung at Palamon's side, but the other initiate pivoted and blocked the move easily. Alistair knew that he would lose a hacking match based solely on strength. He'd have to use skill to beat Palamon.

I'm doomed, Alistair thought as he thrust again. Palamon deflected that blow, too. Alistair's mouth was dry. His clothes felt cold and clammy on his body. The damp cotton tickled relentlessly between his shoulder blades. Alistair shook his head and worked his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to scratch. Too late, he felt the tang of magic in the air.

Alistair had been expecting Palamon to attack with Righteous Strike, but he recognized the spell that crawled uncomfortably across his body as Cleanse Area. It was a spell the Templars used rarely in training. As it did not batter him to the ground, Alistair ignored it. He did not use magic himself. Magic required concentration, and right now Alistair's concentration was being slowly eroded away by the strength of Palamon's sword.

Alistair stopped thinking and let his body take over. Palamon hacked away as if he was splitting wood and he didn't seem to tire. Seconds later Alistair felt the tingle of magic again. Palamon roared and brought his sword crashing down. His blade struck sparks from Alistair's sword. Alistair gritted his teeth and turned Palamon's blade aside. The echoes of the cleanse spell still hung in the air and he wondered for the first time why his opponent had bothered.

Seconds later, he had his answer. Palamon hadn't been attacking with the cleanse magic. He'd been ensuring that Alistair couldn't use Templar techniques against him. And this time he did use Righteous Strike.

The blow sent Alistair to his knees. It was too late to turn Palamon's blade away, so he countered it on the flat. Palamon drew his arm back for another blow and Alistair wished he had a shield. He could have used it to punch Palamon in the face. Or, given his position, his knees. He expected Palamon to step in and press home his advantage, but instead the knight bowed again and stepped away, giving Alistair the chance to get to his feet.

I hate you, Alistair thought. He managed a half-hearted bow in reply before Palamon attacked again. Alistair's shoulders ached. His stomach ached. In fact, his whole body ached. He was tiring fast.

However, there was one Templar technique Palamon hadn't tried. And the cleanse spell Palamon had cast had almost worn off.

I need a distraction, Alistair thought. He knew he couldn't distract Palamon with his blade, so he fell back on his last and most effective weapon, his tongue.

"Hey, Palamon?"

His opponent's eyes narrowed. "Why do you waste time on words?" He swung his sword again in a wide arc that Alistair barely deflected. "Save your breath for blows."

Alistair sought for a topic that would cause the knight to lose his temper. He didn't have to look far. They'd trained together for two years now, and, for better or for worse, all the Templar initiates knew each other well. "I was just wondering?"

"Wondering what?" Palamon's voice held more than a touch of exasperation.

"I was wondering why you were sent to the Chantry. Because I heard that they just wanted you out of the way so you didn't screw up the succession."

As insults went, it was a poor one, but it was the best Alistair could do at short notice. His attention span, divided as it was between Palamon, Palamon's heavy and extremely pointy sword, and the magic he was attempting to summon without Palamon noticing, was short.

Palamon sighed and swung again. The heavy blow that nearly took Alistair's head off. "You heard wrongly. My family has a long and illustrious history of serving with the Templars." He looked at Alistair down his nose. "Something which you would know nothing about, bastard."

Alistair winced. The conversation wasn't exactly going the way that he had planned. "Ouch." He feinted to the side. Palamon didn't fall for it. He fell back on tried and trusted insults. "So you know my mother wasn't noble. No matter. At least she wasn't an Orlesian traitor."

He watched as the insult struck home. Palamon was notoriously touchy about his half-Orlesian heritage.

"You will kindly not..." Palamon punctuated his conversation with shattering blows. "...insult...my...mother!"

Several things happened at once. Alistair's sword snapped under the force of Palamon's blows. The tip of the blade spun to one side and buried itself inch-deep in the soil. Alistair held up the hilt in useless defense as Palamon growled and drew his sword back for another blow, focused in and felt the magic spiral up through him. It wasn't as strong as it could have been-the lyrium that would have lent the enchantment potency was reserved only for full Templars- but it was strong enough.

"Holy Smite!"

The spell burst forth from the hilt of Alistair's useless sword like an avalanche. It hit Palamon in mid-swing and licked over his breastplate like bright fire. It knocked him from his feet and carried him clear out of the practice ring with a noise like a hundred saucepans falling from a wagon.

Alistair dropped his broken sword and collapsed on hands and knees. There was a sudden silence, punctuated only by the hymns drifting from the Chantry and the sound of Ser Mark's slow clapping.

"Very good, Alistair."

Alistair was too exhausted to bask in the rare praise. Ser Mark crossed over to where Palamon lay, blinking owlishly up at the sky. He stretched out his hand and helped Palamon to his feet. "Let this be a lesson to you all," the Templar said, looking around at the frozen duelists, who had without exception stopped their own practice bouts to wonder loudly what all the fuss was about. "It is tempting to focus entirely on swordplay during these matches. Forget the Templar skills and you forget who we are! You forget what we are!" He pointed at Palamon. The initiate leaned on his sword with a dazed expression on his face. "And you lose!"

Alistair struggled to his feet. He wiped sweat from his face ineffectively with the back of his mailed gauntlet and picked up the broken pieces of his sword. His arms hurt like hell.

Ser Mark strolled over to him. "Well done, Alistair.' He looked Alistair up and down, as if it were a test. If it was Alistair got the feeling that he had just failed, but he got that feeling from Ser Mark all the time. "Perhaps you are not entirely useless after all."

Alistair bowed as best he could.

Ser Mark raised his voice. "Well done, initiates. We shall continue this lesson another time. Meditate on what you have just learned. Ser Palamon, you will have removed the dents from your armor by the next time you arrive on this practice field. Ser Alistair?"

"Yes, ser?"

"Don't think that I've forgotten about the scriptures. I want them on my desk by evening. All relevant passages. Understand?"

Alistair, who had been hoping that Ser Mark had indeed forgotten, nodded. "Yes, ser."

The templar sergeant nodded. "Dismissed."

Alistair left the field as quickly as he could. He evaded both his friends, who wished to congratulate him, and Palamon's cronies, who darted evil looks at him like arrows. He skirted around the dormitories where the rest of the initiates would be at rest and he slunk off to the Chantry to find a quill and some parchment. One of the more sympathetic Sisters gave him some much-used scraps of paper. Alistair sanded the scraps clean and spent the rest of the afternoon copying lines from the library's extremely thick edition of Justinian's sermons. He was unsure which passages were relevant so he copied them all, as he suspected Ser Mark had intended. His right arm ached by the time that he had finished and his handwriting was all but illegible, but the work was complete. Ser Mark had only asked him to copy the scriptures; he hadn't specified that they be legible.

At least I've finished the damned thing, Alistair thought as he headed for Ser Mark's study to hand the papers in.

As he pushed open the door, he had the first piece of luck that day. The study was empty. Alistair congratulated himself on his timing. He left the papers on the sergeant's desk and fled, wondering as he went how such a pointless task would make him a better Templar.

Because when I meet some maleficar out in the woods, I'm sure an encyclopedic knowledge of bloody scripture is going to help.

He considered returning to the dormitory and rejected it out of hand. Aleyne would probably be there, but so would Palamon. Denerim was out of bounds. There was always the Chantry, but Alistair had had all the sermons he could take for one day.

Besides, I don't think the Maker's likely to answer my prayers for a way out of His holy orders.

That left only one place to go.

Alistair hurried to the back of the Chantry, hoping nobody noticed him. Nobody did. Tucked away in the far western corner was an overgrown and forgotten graveyard. It was rarely used; cremation having replaced burial as the funeral method of choice for all good Andrastians over the last fifty years. The gravestones were crumbling and ancient. Their inscriptions were indecipherable.

Alistair sank down behind the tallest stone in the most overgrown corner of the courtyard. He shook out his cramped right hand, flopped on his back and stared up at the sky. The walls of the Chantry and the rooftops of Denerim ringed his view. The sight of the town usually reminded Alistair that there was more to life than the Chantry, but this time it failed to lift his spirits. He could see his life stretching out before him, filled with war and duty and an early death in battle.

If I'd chosen this life, then things would be different, he thought.

Nobody in their right mind would actually choose to be a Templar, but then most of the Templar initiates hadn't been chosen as much as sent. Some of them came from families with a tradition of sending excess sons to the Chantry. The remainder hailed from common families in Denerim. Maybe the rest of the initiates were as unhappy with their lot as he was, but if that was true then they hid it damn well. Maybe they actually looked forwards to a lifetime of hunting down half-trained mages.

Or maybe it's just me. I was unhappy at Redcliffe. I'm unhappy here, and I'll probably be unhappy somewhere else in the future.

Great.

Alistair knew that there were good points about the Chantry. It offered shelter, discipline, food and all the scripture you could swallow. Right now it was hard for him to think of more. He toyed with possibilities in his mind. I could run away. Return to Redcliffe. Join the Crimson Oars. Or the Crows. I could smuggle lyrium or become a famous knight.

Of course, with my luck, I'd probably end up dead in a ditch.

Great Maker's breath! I can't do this anymore. There must be more to life than this.

He sighed, pulled his knees up to his chest and let his gaze roam over the Chantry grounds. A tall palisade of rough logs separated the monastery from the sisters' quarters. It blocked most of the sounds and all of the light, but if Alistair concentrated, he could just make out the voices of female initiates on the other side of the wall. They seemed to be having slightly more fun than Alistair was, although he was too far away to make out any of the specifics.

He found the sound of their chatter unsettling. The last woman he'd had anything to do with had been Isolde, and she had hated him. It had been eight years ago, but the memories still smarted.

He could still remember the tightening of her lips every time she looked at him, the wrinkles that appeared between her eyes as she frowned, trying to work out whether Alistair was really Eamon's bastard or not. She'd never come straight out and said it-that would have been unspeakably rude-, but she'd gone out of her way to make things hard for him. His dreams of returning home were as unlikely as his fantasies of becoming a pirate or a knight.

No, I can't go back. There's no place for me at Redcliffe. I have to stay here and learn to make the best of things.

Alistair pushed the cloud of self-pity away from him like a cloak and looked up at the sky. The light had already begun to fade. He'd be expected back in the Chantry for evening prayers before too long.

Alistair got to his feet. He brushed earth from his breeches and groaned at the aches and pains in his back. Wrapped in thought, he failed to notice the small group of initiates walking down the tiny path that ringed the graveyard. He was already on the path before he even noticed them.

By the time he did, it was far too late.

The Templar initiates were made up of nobles, commoners and those like Alistair who sat wedged uncomfortably somewhere in between. It was abundantly clear to which group these initiates belonged. If they were ever sliced in half by an opponent on the battlefield, he'd find 'noble sons' written all the way through them.

Alistair kept his eyes down and attempted to shoulder through them, but one of the nobles stopped him with a negligent hand on his shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't Arl Eamon's bastard!"

Alistair sighed. "What do you want, Giles?"

The noble stepped back and looked superciliously down at Alistair. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Alistair sidestepped, trying to avoid the small group, but they closed around him and he knew that he was doomed. He caught a glimpse of Palamon and Arcite at the back of the crowd. "Trying to avoid you lot."

Giles chortled. "Ha. Good idea, that." He smiled widely. His teeth were white and sharp as a drake's "I heard you've got a grudge against Orlesians."

Alistair shook his head. "I've got no quarrel with Orlesians. I just said that to get a rise out of Palamon. And it worked."

All eyes turned to Palamon, who scowled and touched a bruise darkening around his right eye. "That was not a gentlemanly act," he said stiffly.

"As Ser Giles here has taken such pains to point out, I'm hardly a gentleman. But I'm sorry."

Palamon nodded curtly. The gesture could have come from a book of Orlesian etiquette. Position Ten: Accepting Apologies from Companions of a Lower Rank than Oneself. "I accept your apology."

Giles frowned. "Don't act so hastily, Palamon. This..." he paused "...commoner has not just insulted our Palamon with his poorly-chosen remarks. He's insulted me."

"Oh come on." Alistair said. "This is ridiculous. You weren't even there."

Giles's smile widened. "I'm guessing you didn't know that my mother was Orlesian?"

"Er, no." Alistair said with a sinking feeling in his chest. Of course, the afternoon's combat didn't have anything to do with Giles. Palamon was a noble, but he was an honorable one. Giles was a noble and a nasty, vindictive arse. "But that-"

"Would you not retaliate if somebody insulted your mother, Alistair?" Giles asked with a grin.

Alistair sighed. "If you wanted to beat me up, why didn't you just say so?" He could see exactly where Giles' needling was heading. It was going to end up with Alistair on the floor spitting teeth, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Giles shook his head. "It is a matter of honor," he said. "I'm not surprised that you do not understand. Let me explain. For example, if I were to say that dear Arl Eamon was far too pure and self-righteous to sire a child out of wedlock that would be a compliment. But if I were to say that your mother was a common whore who opened her legs for every man in Redcliffe castle, now that would be an in-"

Giles got no further, because Alistair punched him in the stomach. It was a good blow, with all the force of Alistair's anger behind it. It should have wiped the smile from Giles's smug face and knocked the wind out of him for good measure. It was a pity that Giles had retained his uniform breastplate under his doublet. Alistair did more damage to his hand than he did to Giles's chest.

"You'll regret that," Giles said conversationally as Alistair winced and cradled his hand.

"I doubt it."

"I wouldn't be so sure. For the laws of chivalry state that no true knight can suffer a blow to land on him without first returning it-" He raised his hand and backhanded Alistair across the face. Alistair saw the blow coming a mile away. He stepped back; attempting to avoid it, but the press of the small crowd around him forced him right into the punch and gave him no room to maneuver. The crowd parted like the waves as Alistair toppled backwards onto the cobbled path.

Arcite stepped forwards and aimed a kick at Alistair's ribs. Alistair twisted away, trying desperately to avoid it, but Giles put a hand on the initiate's arm. "He's got to get up first," he said gently, "Then we can hit him. We are gentlemen, after all."

Alistair wiped his mouth. He shook out his aching hand. "No. Can't have you stooping to my level. Stooping is bad." He stared at his skinned knuckles. "Maker's breath. That hurt."

"You only have yourself to blame,' Giles said reprovingly, "Really, I don't know why the Chantry wastes their time on you. You'll never make a Templar."

Alistair looked up from his position on the floor. As long as he didn't get up, he reasoned, he was safe. Ser Giles would never lower himself to hit a prone opponent."Good. I don't want to be a Templar. I've got better things to do with my time than murder Chasind and wilders."

"How fortunate for you that you will never make the grade," Giles murmured silkily. "Besides, it is not murder. The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker guides their hands."

Alistair snorted. "Righteous? You? That's a laugh."

Giles' face twisted. "I should teach you a lesson," he snapped, "It's a good idea to shut your mouth when you're outnumbered." He beckoned Alistair up. "Get up, bastard, so I can hit you honorably."

Alistair had no intention of getting up just so Ser Giles could knock him down again. "I might be a bastard, but at least I'm not a noble," he said. "They say the scum always floats to the top of the pot."

Giles scowled. "Nobles are the sword of the Chantry," he said. "You will never be a Templar. And you will never be a gentleman." He gestured to a couple of his cronies. Arcite and Stephen bent down and grabbed Alistair's arms. They dragged him, protesting, to his feet.

Alistair, reluctantly upright, took one look at Giles's face and knew that he was in trouble. The noble wore gauntlets as well as his breastplate, and Alistair had no desire to collect more bruises to match the split lip Giles had already forced on him."Is five against one gentlemanly?" he inquired. "Come on, fight me one on one."

He watched Giles consider the options. Alistair had never been good at barehanded combat, but he wagered that Giles was even worse. Nobles did not brawl.

"Go on," someone said from the back of the crowd. "You can take him."

Palamon shook his head. "I don't think this is a good idea," he said to thin air.

Giles raised his chin. "I don't have to prove anything to you, bastard."

"Prove to me you're not afraid," Alistair invited.

He should have known better than to call Giles' bluff in front of all his friends. The noble took a step back and punched him. It was probably meant to be a gentle blow. Regardless, it caught Alistair on the temple. He reeled back into Arcite, who pushed him forwards, expecting him to fold. Alistair lashed out and, more out of luck than judgment, caught Giles on the chin. Giles toppled backwards like a felled sylvan. He fell into Stephen, who pushed him away instinctively. Giles, semi-conscious, mistook Stephen for Alistair-it was an easy mistake to make, they were both blond-and punched him instead.

Stephen hit Giles back more out of surprise than real malice. Alistair lashed out again and hit Palamon this time. Palamon snarled and let fly. Alistair ducked hastily and Palamon bloodied Arcite's nose over Alistair's head.

Then it all went to hell in a wagon. There was only so much of Alistair to go around. Not all the nobles could punch him at once, so they punched each other. This sparked more feuds, and soon the small crowd of nobles that had gathered on the path was a wild brawling mess of men.

They scattered about five minutes later, when Ser Mark opened the window of his study and bawled in amazement. "All of you stop it now."

Alistair's brain finally kicked in. Through the muggy mists of semi-consciousness, he realized that he was lying on his back with someone who was not Palamon or Ser Giles punching him in the face. There was another bellow. His opponent vanished like melting snow.

Alistair groaned and dragged himself to his knees. He looked around. There was a conspicuous absence of other initiates. Palamon rolled in the grass of the graveyard a few strides from Alistair, making bubbling noises.

He looked around for Giles and stared instead into the scarlet face of Ser Mark. The Templar Sergeant took a deep, joyous breath. "What is all this about?" he inquired.

"I can explain," Alistair said hopelessly.

"Then please do."

"Um." Alistair brushed at his clothing. His surcoat was ruined; streaked with mud, grass stains and blood. "Okay, maybe I can't."

"I am so surprised." Ser Mark said sarcastically. "And you, Ser Palamon?"

The noble had pulled himself to his knees. He held his head tipped back to staunch the flow of blood from his nose."No, Ser. I'm sorry."

Ser Mark looked from one bleeding face to another. "Knight Commander," he snapped. "Both of you. Now."

"Yes, Ser." Alistair groaned in chorus with Palamon. He stood up tentatively and winced. His few remaining muscles that weren't already aching from training were making themselves known. His body was a blaze of pain.

Ser Mark marched them in silence to the Knight-Commander's office. Ser Glavin looked up as they entered.

"Palamon? I am surprised," he said, and then his gaze turned to Alistair. "And Alistair. Well, I am not. I rather hoped you'd reformed when Ser Mark told me of your performance in the training ground this afternoon. It looks like I was wrong."

"Sorry, Ser," Alistair muttered.

"You will only speak when directly asked a question, initiate!" Ser Mark bawled.

The Knight-Commander winced. "You should be fighting maleficarum, not brawling like common folk amongst yourself," he said reprovingly. It was a familiar litany.

The Templars have a proud heritage, Alistair said under his breath.

"For the Templars have a proud heritage, and -wipe that smile off your face Ser Alistair. I think you'll find that you have nothing to smile about-and you shall not-I repeat not-drag our name through the dust by brawling like commoners!" His gaze flicked from Alistair to Palamon and back again. "You are comrades in arms. You should have no reason to fight."

We are comrades in name only, Alistair thought. He waited for the inevitable punishment, wondering if it would be prayers or extra training.

Ser Mark moved behind the desk and whispered in Ser Glavin's ear. The Knight-Commander's expression grew a little more severe. "Ser Mark tells me that you did not fight alone," he said. "Your punishment will be less harsh if you tell me the names of the other initiates who joined in." He glanced from one face to the other. "Well?"

Alistair shook his head. Whatever punishment Ser Glavin would assign would be soft compared to what the other initiates would deal to Alistair if he ratted them out.

The Knight-Commander sighed, as Alistair's silence was yet more evidence of his regrettable criminal tendencies. He turned to Palamon. "Ser Palamon?"

Palamon knew the unspoken rules of the initiates as well as Alistair did. He mutely shook his head.

The Knight-Commander's face turned scarlet. "You have both brought the brotherhood into disrepute!" he thundered.

Alistair hung his head. He didn't want to be a Templar. In fact, he couldn't decide which was worse-failing the test, or passing it and becoming one of the stone-faced men and women that were little more than weapons. However, neither did he want to be waiting before Knight-Commander Glavin at this particular moment.

I'll die first. I'll go crazy. I'll jump off Fort Drakon's tower and-

"Alistair!"

Alistair looked up.

"Are you listening?"

"I was-uh-contemplating the severity of my crimes," Alistair lied.

The Knight-Commander shook his head. "I believe that both you boys are in need of a lesson in perspective," he said. "There is an expedition leaving for the Bannorn tomorrow morning. They are going to apprehend an illegal mage. It should be an easy mission. You will go with them. Ser Mark will command you."

It was almost worth the pulled muscles and the split lip to see the expression of surprise that Ser Mark tried, but did not altogether succeed at concealing. "Knight-Commander?" he asked. "These lads should be punished. Not rewarded."

"The mission will remind these boys why they want to be Templars," Ser Glavin said.

I don't want to be a Templar, Alistair said silently, although even he was not rash enough to say that to the Knight-Commander's face.

Ser Mark cuffed him around the shoulder. "Thank the Knight-Commander, boys."

Alistair joined in with Ser Palamon's markedly more enthusiastic response. "Thank you, Ser,"

Knight-Commander Glavin waved one hand. "You may go," he said.

Alistair bowed hastily and left the study. He did not wait for Palamon before hurrying down the corridor back to the dormitory. He heard Palamon call out behind him, but he did not pause until he reached the small room he shared with Aleyne and four more Templars in training.

The dormitory was quiet and blessedly empty. Aleyne had spread out all his armor in the middle of the floor and was industriously polishing a helmet with a rag. He looked up from the centre of a pile of greaves and gauntlets as Alistair entered. "Was it that bad?"

Alistair flopped down on the bed with one hand across his eyes. "I suppose it could've been worse."

Aleyne looked sympathetically across at him. "Here," he offered, "I cleaned your armor too. What did they assign you? Extra chores?"

Alistair outlined the afternoon's events, only to find that Aleyne's reaction was not what he had been expecting. "That's great!" his friend said enthusiastically. "I thought you'd be punished for sure!"

"This is a punishment."

"No, it's not. You get to go outside the Chantry! Outside Denerim, even!"

"I'm still with the Templars," Alistair said. "Andraste's flaming sword! I'll have Ser Mark breathing down my neck, and Palamon, and who knows what else?"

"Some of us," Aleyne said pointedly," might think that being a Templar isn't such a bad thing."

Alistair rolled over. "I'm sorry. I'm just...er, nothing.' He hesitated. "Maybe it's just me."

"Maybe it is," Aleyne said. He didn't speak to Alistair again until the evening Chant and then only to intone the Canticle of Benedictions.

Alistair didn't mind. He had enough to think about. He winged the service with the ease of long, long practice; repeating scripture without thinking about the meaning of the words, rising and sitting again at the appropriate times. After the service, the initiates were dismissed straight to their dorms. It was the first time Alistair had ever been thankful for the Chantry's strict curfew.

He lay on his bunk and stared up at the rafters. Below him, Aleyne managed to sound disapproving even while snoring.

All I want is not to be surrounded by people who think I'm not a complete idiot, he thought.

Of course, maybe things wouldn't be different. Maybe I am just a complete idiot.

The thought was not reassuring. Alistair fell asleep nonetheless.