It was unwise, Maebh realized now, to attempt to retake the Keep with such a small force. She slowly got to her feet and accepted a handkerchief from Loghain before turning on Levi. "Why didn't you warn us?" she demanded.

Dryden blanched at her sudden fury. "I'm sorry, Warden, I didn't know..."

She wiped her face. "I don't suppose you inherited any skill with a blade. No? Of course not." She shoved the handkerchief back at Loghain.

"That's quite alright," he said, refusing it. "You will most likely need it again anyway."

She crumpled it in her fist and jammed it in a pocket. "Do you think sending for reinforcements is worth it? No, it will take to long and now we have even more work to do before the Orlesians arrive. Forget it."

Loghain nodded. "We should be able to handle whatever else is in store for us. Provided you manage to keep your wits about you, of course."

"Just keep them off my back, Warden. Let's go, I grow tired of talking," and she led the meager group into the Keep.


Maebh drank a small lyrium potion and gagged. She tossed a flame blast at the pile of wood she and Loghain had gathered and it burst into flames. Loghain wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, I suppose that would be easier than flint."

Maebh grunted in agreement, grabbed an undead corpse, and began to carry it to the fire.

"Here," Loghain reached to grab it from her.

"No," she shrugged him off. "There's plenty of corpses. We'll both have to work here, today, Father."

"Very well," he took another by the ankle and elbow and threw it over his shoulder. "You do realize this would have been much easier if you had allowed Cauth--"

"No," she interrupted. "Not now. Not ever. Not so long as I'm Warden Commander, anyway."

"Yes, ser."

She tossed the corpse on the fire. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the smell of these things," she groaned as she held the handkerchief to her face. "It's worse than darkspawn, I'm sure of it." She wiped the sweat from her upper lip. "I'm going to change out of these robes. And you're not going to like what I put on, but I don't want to hear it. I'm sweating like a pig and, besides, it's just the two of us, now that Dryden's left to fetch supplies."

Loghain shrugged and Maebh went to her pack, digging through papers and potions and hair ties and smallclothes and lemons and dagger sheaths the packet of letters until she finally reached the bottom and pulled out a wrinkled, flimsy robe. "This will do," she muttered to herself.


She grabbed another undead body and dragged it toward the fire. Loghain looked up, saw her scanty attire, and pressed his lips together into a thin, angry line. "Not a word!" she said, holding up her hand.

He muttered something to himself as he stoked the fire, which she chose to ignore. She dropped the corpse and shoved it into the coals. She paused a moment, crouched with her hands on her knees. The exertion of the day was beginning to weary her. Alistair was right, she was still weak. She pushed on her knees and forced herself to stand up. She looked up at the gathering gloom of dusk and wondered how much longer she could keep going in one day before she had to sleep.

Loghain cleared his throat behind her. She glared at him. "Maebh, your leg," he pointed.

"What about it," she crossed her arms and stuck her chin out, while subconsciously pulling her right leg back behind the left.

"Those scars on your leg. What caused them."

She turned and started walking toward another corpse. "I got shot up with barbed arrows, Father. I have a dangerous job." He was silent. She turned, irritated. "What is it."

He had gone pale, his brows furrowed. "Your back," he said, voice husky.

She frowned. "My back what."

"The scars. It looks like they... Maker forgive me, Maebh I had no idea." He clenched his fists, his eyes darkened with rage. "This is abominable. It cannot be born. They had no right!"

Her frustration grew. "What are you talking about. Who are 'they'?"

"The Templars! that self-righteous bastard, Greagoir!"

She turned away and started dragging another corpse by the ankles. "Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. I have no idea what you're talking about."

He grabbed her arm and turned her around. "Tell me who beat you! Tell me who gave you the lash, those scars!" he choked. He clutched her upper arms. "Tell me!"

She pulled out of his hands. "It wasn't at the Tower, Father. I got those scars in Fort Drakon."

He jerked back as if he had been burned. "Fort... Fort Drakon?"

"Yes, Father," her irritation grew. "You are surprised?"

He turned away.

Irritation flared into anger. "Honestly, what did you think Howe was doing with me in there? What did you think he was going to do to Anora, for that matter? Or how about when you sent that assassin after me? How can you possibly pretend like you didn't know?"

"No, I was very clear with Howe and the elf. You were to be taken alive."

"Yes, well, I'm not sure what got lost in the translation, but when Zevran stabbed me with a poisoned dagger, he did not seem to be making so subtle a distinction."

He clutched his head with his hands, struggling for breath. "Maker, forgive me. My own children..."

Maebh clenched her teeth. "Yes, well, at least we managed to survive," emboldened by his anguish, she carefully sharpened her words and went for the kill. "What would Good King Maric think, if he were to know what you had done."

He turned on her, advanced, she took a step back. "You have no idea what Maric would think, girl," he growled, "About anything."

"You killed Cailan!" she cried, shaking with rage.

"Cailan's foolishness killed himself and everybody else with him. You want I should have sacrificed my own men to his vanity?"

"He saved my life," she countered, conviction wavering. "And Alistair's."

Loghain scoffed. "So he kept his latest plaything and his rival out of the fray? I should be impressed?"

"I think he knew more than you give him credit for," she replied, recovering some of her anger. "I wasn't a 'plaything'. He loved me. He protected me more than you ever did. He deserved better than that."

He towered over her, seething with rage. "And how many thousands died with him? Did they deserve no better?"

"You could have said something! You could have done something!" she balled her fists. "He trusted you! We all trusted you! You were so quick to find fault in him, and now to find fault in Alistair, because they're not Maric. Maric's dead. And now Cailan is, too." She bent and took hold of the undead corpse's ankles again and started dragging it toward the fire, fighting angry tears. "If you were not so quick to condemn them maybe you would see that they are good men. Or were. Whatever. You underestimated me, too, and look where that got you!"" Her strength gave out and she fell. He came over and tried to take the corpse from her. "No!" She shoved him away and struggled to her feet before beginning to drag it again. "I can do it myself!"

He frowned, still angry, and threw up his hands. "Fine!" he spat, and turned on his heel and left.

Maebh bit her lip and yanked with all the shreds of strength she had left. Her limbs felt like wet noodles, her bones jelly. She sobbed freely now, in anger and frustration. She sat on the ground, grasped the rotting, slimy corpse in her hands and scooted towards the fire on her bottom. She paused and wiped the sweat and tears and grime from her face with the dirty handkerchief and tried to catch her breath. Something warm and wet slopped against her hand. Sal stood in front of her, looking concerned. She turned and looked. She was only a few feet from the fire. "No," she said to the worried hound. "I think I can get it the rest of the way." She crawled to the other side of the corpse, gathered all the strength and will she had left and pushed. Slowly it rolled over once, twice, three times and into the fire. And then, heedless of the mud and the muck and the gore and the stench, Maebh curled up with Sal and slept like the dead.


A curious sensation, like levitation. And then she was set down on something hard. She tried to will herself awake and managed to catch a glimpse of a fire and Loghain's silhouette. There was a pressure on her forehead, then she heard him murmur something, and felt him tuck a blanket around her. She shifted, tried to ask what him to repeat what he said, but was unable to muster the strength and slipped back into oblivion.


Maebh was awoken by a strange sound. No longer sleeping in the mud and the cinders by the fire, she was on a hard surface, and there was that sound. Like rocks clacking together, but hollow. She spread her hands out on the flat surface and felt splinters and breathed in dust. The sound was getting louder, a rhythm like a running mabari but different, somehow. The infernal clattering sound. She blinked against the weak sunlight and sat up. "Where am I?" she wondered, not sure if anybody was there to answer her question.

"Shh!"

She turned to see Loghain, back pressed against the wall, leaning to look out a window, sword in hand. Sal stood at attention at his feet. "Get down," he hissed, "under the table."

Still unsure of what was happening, Maebh threw off the blanket and did as she was told. The dust was even worse under the table. "Are we in the kitchen?" she asked, groggy.

"Shh!"

A voice was shouting outside. A strange sound to the words, it reminded her of Leliana. But no, a man. Maebh shook her head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to cloud her every thought. "What is that sound?"

"A horse," Loghain relaxed slightly. "But just the one, it seems."

"A horse?" Maebh jerked up in surprise, banging her head off the bottom of the table. "Ouch."

"Yes, a horse. You can come out now."

She crawled out. "But who... a horse, really?" Her excitement grew. "I don't... Father, I've never seen a horse in person!"

"Maebh, listen to me, it might be a trap..."

She was already running out the door, Sal at bounding her heels. "Hello?" she called down to the courtyard.

"'Allo?" the voice responded.

Maebh rounded the corner and saw in the courtyard an actual, living, breathing, sure-as-she-was-born, honest-to-Andraste horse. And a man riding it. She shivered and realized with a shock that she was still wearing the scanty robes from the day before, covered in mud and cinders, her hair wild and her face coated with muck. She frantically wiped at her face with the now-filthy handkerchief, ran her fingers through her hair and stood up straight. "Yes, uh, can I help you?"

The man turned the horse around, and Maebh felt a pang of intense desire. She wanted to know how to do that. She wanted to know how to control an animal so large and so willful with only a click of the tongue and a subtle shift of the weight between hip and knee. She found herself staring at the part of his leg between knee and hip. "Ah! Warden-Commander Amell, I presume?"

She jerked her eyes up to see his widening smile. He swung one of those long legs over the side of the horse and dismounted. He began to walk toward her. Maebh stepped back, feeling oddly unsure of herself. "Yes, uh, that is me. Or it could be, I guess."

The smile wavered, his stride slowed. "I am afraid I do not understand."

She twisted a lock of hair in her fingers. "Yes, I am the Warden-Commander," she said, attempting a more certain tone.

"Très bon!" He grinned, and Maebh could not help but notice his very pleasant features. His hair was black, and flowed in loose waves about his forehead and neck. His eyes were deep-set, dark and friendly, and there were charming crinkles forming around them as his smile grew. His skin was dark like fine honey, like he spent every waking moment outside. He was wearing leather armor, but instead of the plated skirt that most Fereldens wore, he had a pair of leather trousers. He had finally reached her, and bowed in the traditional Grey Warden salute. She recovered quickly and returned the gesture.

"And you are?"

"Ah! I am Renaud. I have been sent by the Wardens in Val Royeaux to help assist you in any way I can," he gesticulated widely, his excitement infectious.

Maebh smiled in spite of herself. "Well, that's a relief. We could use an extra pair of hands around here."

And the spell was broken at the sound of footsteps behind her. Oh Maker. Father. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What is your purpose here?"

His smile did not falter. "As I was just explaining to the Warden-Commander, my name is Renaud, and I am--"

"Orlesian."