Chapter 4
Ceyrabeth felt the world tilt underneath her feet. She fumbled for her sword before remembering that she had left it behind, "I don't know what you're—"
"Do not lie," Sul replied coldly, "Not to me nor to yourself," A shadow flickered across his features as he approached her, "You've done that for far too long, I imagine."
"Beth?" Keiran asked, looking very confused, "What's he talking about?"
"I….I…" She stammered.
"Ma fael na ma valla da shiral," Sul whispered softly, "'My honor and my life are one,'"
"I don't…understand." Keiran's eyes flickered from Ceyrabeth to Sul.
The Captain kindly elaborated, "It was the solemn oath of the Emerald Knights of the Dales, protectors of the elven homeland before the Orlesian Chantry saw fit to exterminate them all during their so called 'exalted' march. And I-"
Suddenly, he stumbled and nearly fell. Atiya was at his side in an instant, holding him steady, "Drachaen," She said in her even tone.
Sul smiled faintly, "The perils of age, I fear, old friend," He gently patted her larger hand, "I am well, Atiya, thank you. Release me."
Carefully, Atiya steadied the older man, "I shall prepare your tonic," She whispered and carefully released him, though she did not stray from his side.
Sul continued as if nothing had occurred, "I sincerely doubt you learned about the Emerald Knights within the halls of the illustrious Orlesian Chantry. There is only one other alternative."
"I…I don't," Ceyrabeth looked about frantically like a caged animal.
"Show me your ears."
"What? No!"
"Show me you ears, please."
Her jaw took on a stubborn set that was becoming painfully familiar. "No!"
"Beth?" Kieran asked puzzled, "Just show him your ears."
"Show me your ears. Now," Sul's tone brooked no further argument.
With a shaking hand, Ceyrabeth drew back her red hair to reveal her ears: they were unremarkable except that they appeared to have been mutilated midway past the auricle.
"An apostate did it," Ceyrabeth faltered, "I was captured and tortured."
"You were tortured," Sul nodded. He reached out to take hold of her face and she found that she could not pull away, "But the angle of these cuts tells me that it was by your own hand. You docked your ears, like a beast, so that you could be counted amongst the ranks of Andraste's faithful as their wretched Chantry dictates," His touch was feverishly hot and it seared Ceyrabeth's skin like a branding iron though she could not recoil. She stared into the folds of his bindings and was certain she saw movement beneath them though of what manner she could not say.
"Why must it be thus?" Sul whispered as he ran his fingers lightly over the mutilated tissue. Ceyrabeth noted that his hands appeared oddly smooth and young-looking for a man his age, "Why must they take all that it is fair, all that is natural and good, and diminish it for the sin of uniqueness?" The elven woman was not certain if it was his words or his tone but it made something in her ache.
Carefully, Sul arranged her crimson locks to cover her ears again and then placed his hands upon them once again, "This will hurt."
"Wha-?" Ceyrabeth began and then she felt something press against her flesh and then penetrate her. Her mouth and eyes opened wide as she felt her flesh begin to soften like wax between his thumbs and forefingers; the feeling was indescribable and she had a horrid flashback to her former commander being consumed by Chirak. She began to convulse uncontrollably, her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth began to open and close gasping like a fish for air.
"Beth!" Kieran cried out, unable to see what was being done to her but clearly able to see the effects wrack her thin body.
"No," Atiya's voice stated calmly and her hand settled on his shoulder gently, but as firm as an iron lock. Kieran could only look on helplessly as Ceyrabeth continued to shudder and shake, the blood rushing to her face with such force that she seemed almost to glow.
Suddenly, Sul released her and Ceyrabeth collapsed to the floor, her body spasming uncontrollably.
"Beth!" Kieran lunged under Atiya's hand and she released him to attend Sul who carefully stepped away from Ceyrabeth's form. Kieran raced to her side and reached out to her.
"Don't touch me!" She screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself for protection and to her shame she began to cry- hard, painful sobs that seemed like they tore her throat with each pull. Nothing- NOTHING- she had ever felt came close to this, this utter and complete violation that wracked her down to her very core.
"What did you do to me?!" She demanded of Sul.
"No worse than what you had already done to yourself," Sul replied wearily, "Had you even bled as a woman yet before you carved apart your own body to appease them?" He held up an iron sunburst amulet, the symbol of the Chantry held together by a simple leather thong.
Ceyrabeth gasped and her hands shot to her throat where the amulet had once rested.
"Beth," Kieran whispered in shock and pointed at her head. Ceyrabeth's hands hurried back up to her ears: They were long and perfectly shaped tapering to a delicate point.
"I-," Shock robbed her of her words as she removed a small piece of metal from her tunic that she kept for sending signals and examined herself in the reflection. The metal twisted and distorted her image but there was no ignoring the two elven ears that now adorned either side of her head.
"Drachaen, calm yourself," Atiya's voice broke in flatly. Ceyrabeth turned to look and could not repress a gasp. Sul had the iron symbol clenched tightly in his fist and soon blood began to dribble from between his fingers. Suddenly the bandages around his eyes also began to soak with blood and soon twin rivulets ran down his pained face.
"Why must it be thus?" He whispered.
"You're bleeding!"
Sul hesitated and then wiped away the blood leaking from under his bandages, "No," He replied, "I am not," He turned his head, "Pellinore."
"Sir?" The elven lieutenant stepped forward.
"See to our newest recruits and then report back to me," He pointed at Ceyrabeth who was still shaking like a leaf, "See that her hair is trimmed; she has hidden for long enough."
"Yes, sir!"
Sul turned his attention back to the serene Qunari, "Atiya, take me back to my tent."
"Yes, Drachaen," Carefully, Atiya helped the smaller man away.
"What have you done to me?" Ceyrabeth cried out.
Sul did not turn, "Corrected an error in judgment. One of many to come," He continued to walk away.
"Your arrogance will be your undoing! You defy the Chantry, Andraste, and The Maker Himself. The armies of the righteous will march upon you and destroy you utterly!" Ceyrabeth screamed, tears of rage, pain and fear running down her face.
"My arrogance," Sul said softly. He then turned to face the enraged woman. She stood proud and defiant, filled with righteous fury, "My arrogance…" He turned his head to address the Qunari, "Atiya I would address our men."
Atiya removed a large ornate horn from her belt and blasted a series of sharp notes. The resonance of the sound made Ceyrabeth's bones vibrate even as it nagged her with a strange sense of familiarity.
"The Captain would speak!" Atiya's voice boomed across the camp. It didn't take long before men, women, and children huddled around the two as Atiya led Sul to a raised mound. Pellinore stepped forward and removed a small vial from his belt. He tossed it upon the ground and a large plume of green flameexploded into existence with a loud whoosh silencing at the crowd at once.
"Thank you Atiya," Sul said softly before turning his attention to the vast crowd that had gathered the green bonfire crackling quietly, "Brothers and Sisters of the Phoenix Legion, hear me!" The camp became quiet. He turned to gesture at Ceyrabeth, "We have been accused of acting in defiance of the Orlesian Chantry and by default in defiance of the blessed prophet Andraste, and the Maker Himself," The crowd began to scowl at Ceyrabeth who kept her face carefully neutral, determined to stand her ground, "I would answer these charges. I speak only for myself. May I speak for you as well?"
A roar of approval cascaded the answer.
"Thank you." Sul cleared his throat, "I derive a great deal of consolation that you have decided to allow me to speak for you. The severity of these charges cannot be overstated," He bent down to pick up a handful of stones,
"Heresy," He tossed a stone to land at Ceyrabeth's feet.
"Blasphemy."
Another stone.
"Treason."
The final stone lay at the elven woman's feet.
"According to the law of the Orlesian Chantry, there is only one sentence for these crimes: death! A slow death wrought with humiliation so that our suffering may serve as an example to those who would dare follow. No peace in the next world; only an existence in the dark, banished from the Maker's sight. Unwanted. Unmourned. Damned."
The Templars gathered looked at the faces looking back at them and became very nervous. Ceyrabeth slowly moved so that they were behind her- closer to Sul, yes, but at least she was between them and an angry mob if the worst happened. Not that she would be much help; suddenly leaving her weapons and armor off seemed like base folly.
"What are we to do about this?" Sul asked the crowd.
The few suggestions offered were extremely graphic and exceedingly final in their resolution. Every word out of their ignorant mouths made Beth stand straighter, her muscles tense. Ser Corellan and Ser Tregan exchanged fearful looks and stepped back away from Ceyrabeth's unyielding rage.
"Why are we here?" Sul cried out, "How is it that this ragtag band of heretics, pariahs, and outcasts have now come to form the largest privately administered military force in Ferelden? Do we fear that if we do not take up arms that those in power will see fit to destroy us for our defiance? Or is it because we have seen the state of Thedas with eyes unclouded by privilege, hypocrisy, or sanctimony, and have found it wanting?"
He cleared his throat again and Atiya handed her his waterskin from which he took a long drink.
"Thank you," He coughed once, "Here we stand together, from all corners of the world in defiance of tyranny. You are all free men! You have not been bought or bullied to risk all that you are in this world, not for me, nor for yourselves, but for each other! For Thedas!" He took another drink of water.
"The Orlesian Chantry, The Order of Templars, The Circles of Magi, The Nobility, and every power and order from Boeric Ocean to the Sundered Sea would label us 'rebels', 'malcontents' and worse. Why? What is they fear? We possess only a fraction of their numbers, their wealth, their influence. Do they fear our methods? Our ideals? Our way of life? Or do they fear something far more dangerous than any of these things:
"The Truth," He turned his bandaged gaze out amongst the assembled throng, "The truth," He repeated quietly.
"They would have us disregard the truth, even as it stands there proudly for all the world to see, mighty and unassailable. The truth which has been obscured and twisted, perverted and corrupted until it is almost unrecognizable. And not through any foul Tevinter plot or unholy alliance of blood mages and demons, nay but by the unyielding arm and unforgiving gaze of the Orlesian Chantry who has declared it to be blasphemy and us damned beyond redemption for believing in it."
The Templars shifted their gaze to their feet uncomfortably save for Ceyrabeth, whose fists were so tightly clenched that it sent jolts of pain through her entire arm.
"I say unto all of you that this is no mere peasant uprising or heretical movement, rather that this is the most important crusade since Andraste's march upon the Imperium. Because what it deals with is the very nature of man and The Maker."
Many eyes widened at the boldness of the last statement. Ceyrabeth's features became flushed and angry; she opened her mouth to speak.
"Don't even think about it, princess," Maul warned her, cracking his knuckles loudly, "I'll pull those fancy new ears right off your bloody head. Now shut your gob."
Ceyrabeth fell mutinously silent as Atiya handed Sul a stack of papers and an amulet depicting Andraste in a finely detailed ivory inlay.
"I have here transcriptions of letters, a correspondence between a Mother…," He frowned and ran his fingers over the letters, "…A Mother Dorothea in which she states her concerns about the treatment of mages in the city of Kirkwall and the state of the alienage in Denerim. These letters were addressed to Lord Seeker Lambert Van Reeves," He coughed once, "For those of you who are unfamiliar with this entity, The Seekers of Truth are a form of secret police that answers to only the highest ranks of The Orlesian Chantry Matriarchy. The Seekers of Truth are tasked with investigating The Knights Templar for signs of corruption or abuses of power," Sul smiled slightly, "I imagine those assembled here would have much to discuss with them given the opportunity."
There was a roll of laughter that was equal parts scorn, contempt, and amusement. Kieran felt his cheeks go red and Ceyrabeth's temper threatened to snap.
"Now, in these letters, Mother Dorothea cites several cases of Templar misconduct ranging from use of the rite of Tranquility as a punitive measure to accounts of rape, torture, and murder, amongst not only the mages they were sworn to protect, but also against elves, dwarves, Qunari, and men, women, and children too poor or too frightened to protect themselves. And even against one another: Templars of conscience, of righteousness murdered in their beds by their own for daring to question those in power."
Gasps of shock rippled through the crowd. Kieran, Corellan and Tregan were looking physically ill at this point. Quinlan, veteran that he was, stood taller, albeit with a face that was growing grimmer by the moment.
'Now," Sul continued, "Revered Mother Dorothea quotes a passage from the Chant of Light," He cleared his throat, "'All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand. Beloved and precious to Him,' Threnodies twelve-five. She quotes this passage and asks the Lord Seeker why this does not apply to mages, elves and others asking him 'Are we not all equal in the eyes of the Maker? In his love and compassion?' Sul looked out among the crowd, "Are we not indeed?"
He took another drink of water, coughing slightly, "I shall now read to you the Lord Seeker's reply. He starts by quoting a passage from Benedictions; 'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.' You may be familiar with this passage. It is the one that the Orlesian Chantry cites the most often to justify whatever action they have taken no matter how violent or merciless," Sul frowned at the parchments in his hand, "I cannot help but wonder if their actions are what Andraste intended or not, but I digress: Lord Seeker Lambert continues with the following,
"'What you consider to be compassion is nothing more than naiveté and fool idealism. Mages cannot be treated the same as people. Each and every one is a threat to the safety of themselves and those around them. Each and every one; an abomination waiting to happen'," Sul smiled bitterly, "I'll take a moment to let everyone ponder that sentiment."
The crowd's mood continued to darken. Hands tightened on sword hilts, bows, and staffs.
"He goes on to repeat that term 'Fool idealism' many times in these letters when Mother Dorothea talks about caring for those who cannot care for themselves or when allowing mercy or pity to dictate their actions. Well, what ideals would the Lord Seeker prefer, I wonder? Ideals that instead embrace intolerance, brutality, and fear? I think not and here is the crux of the matter," Sul leaned forward in earnest, "What the Lord Seeker wants is for the Chantry and those within in it to behave as The Templars do and as the Seekers do. A Chantry that will do what it is told: A Chantry that does not question, a Chantry that is filled with the devout in perfect lockstep, fueled by nothing more than righteous anger and blind obedience," He gestured at Ceyrabeth, "A Chantry that this young woman would be proud to be a part of."
Ceyrabeth felt shame and humiliation deeper than any she had known in her life seep its way into her soul.
"Now these," He handed the parchments back to Atiya and took from her a letter, "are letters written by a Templar in Kirkwall by the name of Alrik Otto."
"Oh, Maker, no!" Ser Quinlan bemoaned.
"Who is that?" Kieran asked him with a frown.
"An embarrassment,"' He stated firmly while Beth nodded affirmation, "and an embodiment of everything wrong in our order."
"In these letters," Sul continued, "Ser Otto outlies his plan for 'The Tranquil Solution' in which he proposes that every mage in every circle in Thedas be made Tranquil. From Grand Enchanters, to children barely old enough to walk."
Silence descended upon the crowd like a pall, each and every one too horrified to speak.
"He asserts that 'Tranquility is neither morally wrong nor sinful in the eyes of the Maker. That throughout the Chant of Light, submission was the unifying theme: that Andraste's followers submitted to her will and that Andraste herself submitted to the Maker's will when she was executed by the Tevinter Imperium.' He goes on to say here that, 'Submission, obedience, and the desire to follow is intrinsic to faith, to sanctity, and to the very nature of mankind and that in forcing the Rite of Tranquility upon every mage or mage-potential, The Orlesian Chantry would be acting only as Andraste would, to ensure peace and order throughout the realm'." He carefully handed the papers back to Atiya,
"Thank you, Atiya," He turned back to the crowd, "Now, it is worth mentioning that Knight-Commander Meredith rejected the plan as did the current Divine- privately, of course. But it is also worth noting that upon that rejection, Otto Alrik was promoted by Knight-Commander Meredith to the rank of Knight-Lieutenant for his 'dedication to the ideals of the chantry and unfailing loyalty.' A promotion that increased the number of mages under tenfold. A promotion that Divine Beatrix the Third neither censured nor revoked."
"Those bastards!" A voice screamed out from within the crowd. Others quickly joined and the crowd rapidly approached a mob that looked ready to storm Val Royeaux and burn it to the ground.
"Is he trying to start a riot?" Ser Tregan hissed.
Sul held up a hand and the crowd quieted, "Well I am afraid that I must disagree with Ser Alrik's views, and with Knight-Commander Meredith and Divine Beatrix the Third who apparently shares those views, however tacitly and instead say that the nature of faith, of sanctity, and of mankind is not in fact submission but instead something far more dangerous: liberty."
Sul cast a look around the crowd, "I say that liberty and, more than liberty… freedom… is the nature of what it is means to be faithful, to be sacred, to be alive. Liberty, not blind submission. And as proof, I offer the actions of those who have been deprived their freedom, deprived of their Maker-given liberty. They will rise against their captors, they will make war against their oppressors, they will fight and bleed and die, rather than surrender," He smiled as he moved in for the kill, "They will even follow….a woman, an escaped slave with nothing more than a name and claims that the Maker has spoken her against the mightiest empire the world had ever known before making the ultimate sacrifice in act of devotion and humility."
Ceyrabeth let him have his moment, as cheers and accolades rolled in from all sides. She let him stand there and soak it in, while the rage turned hard as diamond in her gut and twice as sharp. She bent down to pick up the stones at her feet and as the crowd quieted, she deliberately dropped them again one by one. Blasphemy…heresy….treason.
You. Know. Nothing." Ser Ceyrabeth hissed, her voice quiet. She was not speaking for the masses, had almost forgotten they were there. She spoke straight to Sul. "Nothing of me, nothing of them," She swept her arm out to indicate her Templars, "And certainly nothing of the Maker. I find it funny, that for all your talk about liberty and supposed disdain for brutality, how you had absolutely no trouble viciously robbing me of a choice I made because it didn't conform to your ideal. My story was not yours to tell and yet, here you are telling it. Will I be fitted for my leash and collar after my hair is shorn, Captain? Will it be struck off when I embrace your freedom and liberty?" She held up a hand before the Captain could answer. "I know the answer already, so there's no need to weary yourself further."
"Your story," Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, "You're from Kirkwall, correct?" Ceyrabeth's eyes narrowed hatefully but she said nothing, "Is that your story? You're an elf from Kirkwall? Is that the summation of Ceyrabeth? No, you're a young girl who grew up in an alienage who sacrificed everything she was to be included in an order whose saw fit to defy their own prophet and launched a crusade to conquer their lands and grind her ancestors beneath their collective boot. How did that make you feel, Ceyrabeth? Knowing what they did to your people and swearing your allegiance to them. How did your family feel when you told them?"
A spasm of pain shoot across Ceyrabeth's features before she could suppress it.
"I see," Sul said softly, "Your family was taken from you. Who slew them? Bandits? Nobles seeking a bit of sport?" He frowned and shook his head, "No…." He mused, "A young girl does not cut off her own ears simply for acceptance nor security….but for revenge."
"No!" Ceyrabeth couldn't stop herself from crying out, filled with shame, rage, and denial.
"An abomination," He said softly, "Your family, your community, ravaged by an abomination."
"No!" Ceyrabeth cried again.
"Where were the Templars? When a monstrosity was butchering your loved ones? Where were they?" Sul waited for a few moments, but Ceyrabeth couldn't answer, "They didn't show, because the Orlesian Chantry doesn't have time for dead elves."
"That's not true! A Templar did come and she-!"
"She?" Sul's voice stopped her cold.
Ceyrabeth's face went white and she placed her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
"Oh, I see," Sul sighed, "There is only one Templar in Kirkwall who would have the dedication to enter an elven alienage to fight an abomination. One woman who would then take in an orphan girl and indoctrinate her into her order. And only one who would then convince that girl to saw off her own ears."
"Please!"
"Meredith Stannard. You were the squire of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. I remember rumors of a young girl in Knight-Commander Meredith's company. A striking young girl with red hair. Those rumors hinted that the nature of that relationship had become intimate."
"You were sleeping with Knight-Commander Meredith?!" Kieran exclaimed agog. In fact, all of the men looked very surprised- except for Quinlan. He didn't flinch at the news; simply watched Beth with something akin to sympathy in his eyes.
"No!" Ceyrabeth protested, "I mean, she wasn't Knight-Commander when we—."
"It would appear those rumors were true," Sul nodded thoughtfully, "There was also a very public falling out in the form of a duel that ended badly for the young girl in the form of a broken arm," Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, "Would you be willing to raise both of your arms above your head?"
"I will not!" Ceyrabeth spat.
"Thank you, I believe that tells me what I wished to know," Sul bent down to pick up a stone.
"Beth, you told us you broke your arm when you were young!" Kieran exclaimed.
"Kieran, no!" But it was too late.
"Did she?" Sul commented, "Why?"
"The Void take you!" Ceyrabeth replied furiously.
"Fair enough," Sul's lowered his face to look down at the stone in his hand, "Catch."
He tossed the stone high and above the elf's right shoulder. Her hand automatically shot up to catch it and then drew short and she gasped as an old pain lanced through her arm. The stone fell to the ground.
"You're right handed," Sul spoke calmly, "But you draw your weapon with your left, your shield on the right," Sul rubbed a finger across his upper lip in contemplation, "How old were you when you first broke your arm? Old enough for it to heal poorly, young enough to be taught how to use your other arm. By Meredith."
"Stop!" Ceyrabeth implored, "Please, just stop!"
"Did the abomination that slaughtered your kinsmen that brought Meredith to your alienage do that to your arm?"
Ceyrabeth said nothing, could say nothing except she felt the rage drain from her to be replaced by a fatigue that threatened to drive her to her knees.
"Beth," Kieran whispered, "Is it true? Is any of this true?"
Ceyrabeth's silence spoke volumes.
Sul gestured Pellinore forward, "Pellinore, step forward please, if you would." The elf frowned but complied as Sul placed a hand on his shoulder,
"This man is escaped from the tower in Starkhaven after conditions became intolerable. He attempted to liberate his fellow mages only to be cut down by the Templars and members of the Starkhaven nobility. He is the only survivor, having made it all the way to Ferelden with an arrow lodged in his leg. He is an elf and a free mage, we can all see that. But can we see that which is equally true; that he is, in fact, the bravest person assembled here? If he were human and Andrastian and his captors maleficarum or elves, he wouldn't be standing here now dubbed an apostate and an insurgent. He wouldn't in fact be able to stand at all, he would be so heavily laden with accolades and honors from the Orlesian Chantry. They'd write songs about him and sing them as hymns in the Orlesian Chantry. The most esteemed scribes of our age would fill their books with his tale to be told to our children and our children's children and so on down the ages because we would insist upon it. His name would be as familiar as King Maric, Emperor Drakon, or Justinia the First. "
Sul approached the roaring green bonfire his eyeless gaze fixed on Ceyrabeth, "Yet, if the Orlensian Chantry is right, if Otto Alrik and Divine Beatrix and Knight-Commander Meredith are right," He gestured at the elvish woman, "If indeed, Ser Ceyrabeth is right. What are we to do with that most famous of rebels- Andraste?"
He held up the amulet for all to see, Andraste's kindly expression glowing a faint green in the light of the alchemical fire, "What of her conceits in defying an empire? Her malcontent in giving Shartan and his elves a homeland? 'Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.' What in Heaven's name shall we do this embarrassing truth?" He examined the amulet carefully, running his fingers of Andraste's serene visage.
"I see only one solution."
He tossed the amulet into the fire where it burst into flame and was consumed. The only sound that could be heard was the crackle of ivory and leather burning and from somewhere the soft sound of weeping.
"The other night, I was speaking to my friend, Reaper Maul, and we were discussing dwarven traditions he learned from during his time in their Proving Grounds and he explained to me that the Dwarves practice a form of ancestor worship. They believe that the most exemplary of their people both living and dead which they call 'Paragons' watch over them. These Paragons serve as ideals to be aspired to and in doing so they never really leave their people."
He took another drink and cleared his throat, "It made me curious as to who the 'Paragons' of the Andrastian faith were. Thane Maferath whose frailty ended Andraste's life, but whose bravery and resolve had also sustained her through her great crusade. Eailsay, Andraste's childhood friend who showed us that the Maker's Bride was first a little girl full of song and joy. Havard the Aegis, the first of Andraste's disciples who bore her ashes to the mountains in a final act of devotion and humility. Too long have we denied their wisdom, their insight, their example. Perhaps it is fear that the devotion that we hold so very dear to ourselves would be seen as flawed in their eyes. Perhaps in our fervor we fear that those ancient eyes would look upon our actions in their name and be ashamed. "
He smiled slightly, "But this is not so. There is a truth that I have aspired to, an ideal and it is simply this: We owe our devotion and our allegiance to the future and not the past. That which came before, no matter how sacredly it may be held, is not a guide to the future. Clinging to the past will not make us stronger; learning from it will and when we have learned all we can from it, then it is to be put aside in a place of remembrance and not reverence. I call upon those ancient spirits to hear us. We desperately need your gentle wisdom and your counsel. Help us overcome our fears, our frailties, ourselves, so that we may finally grow as a people and learn to embrace the future and not the past. And if in doing so we anger the Orlesian chantry or the nobility or the Templars and war ensues, then let it come. And may it be finally the last crusade of Andraste."
Silence reigned in the camp as Sul turned away from the crowd and Atiya slowly lead him back to the tent. Long after those gathered had dispersed, only Ceyrabeth remained standing ramrod straight and staring at the last of the green fire as it sputtered and went out and all became serene and dark once more.