Cullen carefully hefted Kheilen's body, placing it reverently on the pyre. Sula, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears, moved forward. She crossed the mage's hands over his chest, straightened out his robes, and ran a shaky hand through the long strands of his hair, carefully arranging each lock just so.
"He's with the Maker now."
She nodded stoically but otherwise did not acknowledge Cullen's presence. He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze before leaving her to say her final farewells.
His muscles were straining, near the end of his endurance. He had refused any help as he lifted each body onto the pyres. These were his men, the mages that had been under his protection. It was his obligation to place them upon the pyres. His duty to see them to the Maker's side. His atonement for failing them.
He moved on to the last two bodies. Acree and Pacey, two of the men who had deserted with Samson. Acree had likely killed and been killed by Kheilen. Pacey had been discovered in the mages' quarters with three other dead. Why hadn't they returned to Kirkwall with Samson? Donnic had been certain that Samson arrived alone. And, Maker, why had they slaughtered everyone in the Gallows? Cullen wondered if he would ever find the answers.
He knelt down, searching their bodies for any clue and looking for any vials of desperately needed lyrium. He came away with a single strange looking draught. The liquid was red, darker and more viscous than a healing potion. Yet it pulsed with an inner light like lyrium. But where lyrium vials were cool to the touch, this flask felt blazingly warm, almost painfully so. He tipped off the stopper and took a careful sniff. It smelled like lyrium that had gone off, an almost sickening sweetness bathed in growing corrosion. He firmly pushed the stopper back in and housed the strange draught in the pouch on his belt.
He signaled to the guards standing nearby to dump the two bodies on the pyre. They were undeserving of his absolutions. He felt no overriding need to personally see them on their path to the Maker's judgment. He waited in silence until torches were set against wood, until logs took flame and oily smoke began billowing up to greet the rising sun before heading to the skiff that would carry him to Hightown.
The sound of his footfalls echoed in the spaciousness. The wide avenues of Hightown would remain mostly empty for several more hours, the nobility and the very rich finding it uncouth to rise before noon. Cullen spied a few servants scurrying about their duties but otherwise was left alone as trekked to the heart of the district. As he drew near the Chantry's current home, Hawke's former mansion, the peacefulness was disturbed with a cacophony of rubble being tossed, numerous hammers pounding nails, and multiple orders bellowed. His curiosity roused, Cullen strode past the Amell mansion to the site of where the magnificent Chantry had once stood.
Following the explosion, with no clear leadership left in the city-state, the skeletal ruins had been hastily shored up and left to deteriorate. Now the site was a beehive of activity. Workmen scurried over large blocks of stone, wrapping them in rope riggings attached to strong pulleys. Other were shoveling rubble into the multiple wagons situated around the Chantry shell. Another contingent was constructing scaffolding to enclose the few portions of walls that remained standing.
"Ya think ya ken da ya wool gatherin' sum place urlse? Sum er us git works ta do!"
Cullen spun quickly at the sound of the heavily accented voice behind him. His first impression was hefty rolls of parchment, so long that the figure behind them was obscured. Holding the parchment was a man, impatiently tapping one steel-toed boot on the brick alleyway. His eyes widened when he took in Cullen's armor with the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on the breastplate.
"Me apolgees, Ser Knight. Ye ken wool gather all ye like wheres ye are."
Before the man could scoot past him, Cullen said, "Hold a moment if you would, Serah. Can you tell me what's going on?"
"Wes tearin' down te old Chantry sos a news one ken be built," he answered impatiently. "Nows I mussen gets ta works."
Cullen yelled out to the quickly retreating man. "On whose orders?"
"Ta news Gran' Cleric."
He stood there a few moments in stunned silence, his spirits lifting at the signs of renewal. A Kirkwall Grand Cleric finally appointed. The ravages of the old Chantry being hauled away so a new one could be built. If the Chantry was being rebuilt then perhaps so too could Kirkwall's Order. He would have to focus first on recruitment, carefully choosing through the candidates for people who would uphold the original intentions of the Circles. The Gallows could become a refuge for mages. Would become that haven if he had anything to do with it.
With a lifting spirit, his steps were not so world-weary as he headed back to Hawke's former home. Normally at this time in the morning, the sisters would be at prayers, bodies bent in supplication, voice beautifully mingling as they recited the Chant. When Cullen pushed open the door to the main room, he discovered a bevy of activity. When the Chantry had taken over Hawke's mansion, the interior had been left mostly intact. Now sisters were hastily covering rich chairs and sofas with heavy protective cloths. Workmen struggled to move the heavy wood cabinets and desks. Other sisters scurried from point to point, issuing random, and often conflicting, orders.
He stood there, waiting for someone to acknowledge him. When that didn't happen, he randomly grabbed one of the scurrying sisters. "I need to see the Grand Cleric."
She tore her squinting eyes from the list she clutched in her hand. He could practically see the cogs in her mind spinning as she studied his armor and the cape attached to his shoulders. "Knight-Captain?" she asked uncertainly. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"As I said, I need to see the Grand Cleric."
Her hands fluttered nervously. "Oh. Of course. I'll fetch her personal secretary."
While Cullen waited for the secretary, he watched as Hawke's former home continued to be disassembled. Ornately carved furniture moved out, beautiful tapestries taken down and carefully rolled up, expensive vases and paintings covered and placed into large wood crates. There was a heaviness in his heart as he watched the signs of Hawke's occupancy disappear. She might have inadvertently helped Anders in his scheme to destroy the Chantry, not to mention permitting the murderer to flee afterwards. But she had come to love Kirkwall, had worked tirelessly to protect it. She had risked herself over and over on behalf of the city-state, nearly dying from the duel with the Arishok. It should not be so easy to remove the evidence of her life in Kirkwall. Though there was the red lyrium statue of Meredith which would likely stand long after the city crumbled into ruins, it was hardly a fitting tribute to Marion and her efforts.
A brother finally approached, weaving effortlessly through the mayhem. "Knight-Captain Rutherford, I am Brother Orbach, personal secretary to interim Grand Cleric Deblyn. How may I assist you?"
"It is imperative that I speak with Her Grace at once to update her on recent events."
"Certainly, Knight-Captain. Give me a moment to consult with the Grand Cleric. I am certain she will make herself available immediately."
Cullen tried to tamper his agitation as the brother climbed to the upper level. With a new Grand Cleric named, he would no longer have to go through the frustrating process of trying to get someone, anyone, to approve his requisition requests. And, Maker willing, he would depart from his meeting with a supply of lyrium.
He began to fidget as time passed, withdrawal rearing its ugly head once again. His headache was returning, its rough thrumming traveling from his temples to the base of his neck. His jaw tightened in reaction to the rolling of his stomach and he fisted his hands to keep from scratching deep furrows into his crawling skin. Only long-instilled discipline kept him from vaulting up the stairs to search for the lyrium stores.
Finally Brother Orbach returned. His calm facade remained though Cullen could sense frustration lurking underneath. When he spoke, the words were clipped. "I'm sorry, Knight-Captain. Her Grace is unable to meet with you today. She has instructed me to tell you that she will send a summons when there is an availability in her schedule."
Cullen could not believe what he heard. "The Grand Cleric must see me! It is a matter of great importance. My men are dead. The mages slaughtered. All lyrium stocks stolen. The few Templars who remain will soon be incapacitated by the lack of lyrium." His passionate plea had grown loud and around him the workers and sisters turned to stare in interest.
Brother Orbach winced as his volume, turning to look anxiously towards the upper levels. He grabbed Cullen's elbow, leading him to the quiet vestibule. In a rushed whisper, he began, "Her Grace is..." The man's voice trailed off, lapsing into silence as he circumspectly made certain no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. "To be sure, Knight-Commander, I will do everything I can to get you a meeting by day's end. The members of the Order will not be left to suffer if I have anything to do with it. I will send word once I have convinced Her Grace to grant you an audience."
Cullen was of a mind to rush pass the sympathetic brother, to charge up the stairs, and systematically search until he found the Grand Cleric's location.
Brother Orbach tightened the hold he had on Cullen's elbow. "I would advise against what you are considering. Grand Cleric Deblyn is not a woman to challenge. She can be ... difficult if thwarted. Give me till the end of the day to persuade her to grant you a meeting."
Cullen nodded sharply, his fury making his movements jerky. "I'll await word at the Gallows." He turned, angrily wrenching open the door. The avenues of Hightown had begun filling while he'd been forced to cool his heels in the Chantry. He wove around servants, ignored the calls of merchants. The pounding of his headache matched the pounding of his boots on the brick alleyway.
He was still fuming when he stepped off the ferry. The lack of courtesy by the new Grand Cleric was unbelievable. Never had a request by the Order's leader for an audience with the Chantry's representative been denied. Even the most mundane issues were dealt with immediately. He simply couldn't fathom her apparent indifference for the Templars' plight.
His angry stride skidded to a stop when he entered the Order's courtyard. Vilna was there, leaning back, bracing himself with a bent leg against a grey stone wall. His arms were crossed over his breastplate while he eyed Evelyn with open contempt.
The mage was at the courtyard well, struggling to pull up the water-laden bucket. By her feet sat the porcelain washing basin from Cullen's room.
Failing spectacularly, he tried to keep his irritation from his voice as he asked, "Evelyn, what are you doing?"
She jumped, the bucket she struggled with splashing water onto her ragged robes and over the soot covered stonework. Apprehension exploded on her face, an expression he'd seen far too frequently on her timid face since the night he had Claimed her. "I ... I ... Declan said I could fetch some water so I can clean up," her voice stammered fretfully.
His terse manner relaxed as he approached her, taking the bucket from her grip. "Of course you can. You can go anywhere within the Gallows that you like," he tried to assure her. He looked her over, frowning at her dirty face, her mangled hair, and the tattered robes that were now soaked through. "But wouldn't you prefer a hot bath?"
Evelyn refused to met his gaze, preferring to stare at her anxiously shifting feet. She whispered, "I don't want to be any trouble."
Cullen cut off the scoff that threatened to erupt. Trouble? You certainly are that. Not to mention a responsibility I never wanted. Your presence as the sole mage amongst five lyrium-deprived Tempars will only lead to more difficulties. And Maker! I can barely control my lust when I'm around you. All I want to do is push you against a wall, pull up your clothes, rip off your smalls, and sate my craving in your tight cunt. He sobered quickly. None of this was her fault. She hadn't asked to be caught and forced into a life of submission to his whims, hadn't wanted to be raped and brutalized by his own hands. And most certainly, she did not return Cullen's lust.
He dropped the bucket down the well and began drawing it back up. "A bath will help you feel more comfortable." He looked over at Vilna who was still watching the mage with angry eyes. "Go get a copper tub and put it in the kitchen," he ordered.
Vilna's eyes blazed as he pushed himself off the wall heatedly. "I'm a Templar. Not a servant for a Maker cursed mage," he spat, striding angrily off to his quarters.
Cullen would have admonished him, would likely have turned it into a physical altercation. The pulsing need for lyrium had him short-tempered and eager for a fight. Evelyn proved to be his saving grace. Her increasing fear was palpable in the large quad. Instead of storming after Vilna, he dropped a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders, the overriding fury melting away to be replaced with compassion and concern. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." His eyes fell upon the remnants of the burned pyres and dried pools of blood. I won't fail you like I failed them.
"Declan!" His voice echoed in the deserted yard.
Within a few heartbeats the young recruit appeared at one of the multiple doorways leading off from the courtyard. "Ser?"
"Get one of the copper tubs and set it up in the kitchen. After that, start heating water."
Declan said, "I've already got the tub set up, along with a privacy screen. Just lit the fire and was about to start fetching water." With a soft smile at Evelyn, "I thought you would prefer a hot bath to cleaning up with a washing basin," he continued.
Cullen felt her relax slightly, noting she returned Declan's smile with a tentative one of her own. He nodded his approval. "Carry on." Looking down at Evelyn, "Let's get you some new robes and other supplies you need."
She followed him back to his quarters where he grabbed the ring of keys from his desk. Maker, I hope they didn't raid the mage supplies. He handed her one of the lit candlesticks from the sideboard while he took another. They descended down to the mages' quarters, the feeble light from the candles doing little to push back the looming darkness. She followed in silence, eyes warily skittering around with each step.
When they entered the grand library, Cullen noticed her footfalls slowing until they stopped altogether. He looked back, grinning at her awed expression. Her tiny mouth open in a perfect 'o', she gawked with delight at the row upon row of shelves packed with books. It seemed as if she'd forgotten his presence as she approached the nearest bookcase and ran an eager finger down the row of books. Evelyn held the candlestick closer as she keenly read the various titles. Fingers plucked at first one book and then another. Abruptly she straightened, looking over at him in trepidation. "I'm sorry," she quavered as she sped back to his side.
He chuckled. "You've no reason to apologize. I've yet to meet a mage who isn't enthralled with discovering new knowledge. It's probably not as impressive as Ostwick's library but I'm sure you can find a tome or two you've not read yet."
He was surprised at her suddenly dejected expression and even more bewildered when she tentatively spoke.
"Which sections am I permitted to read?"
"Any you like," he quickly reassured her. "Just as you can go anywhere within the Gallows' walls, you may read any book you wish. There are no restrictions. I could even have a desk and chair placed in the gardens. That way you could enjoy the sunlight while you read. Would you like that?"
She gave a noncommittal half nod. "If that is what you wish."
Cullen suppressed the desire to sigh. It was only natural that she would be hesitant to express an opinion, even in response to a direct question. Too many times he'd seen a Templar ask their Claimed a question, only to administer punishment for not replying in the way that was desired. He reminded himself that he needed to be patient with her, to show Evelyn that he wanted her to make requests and offer opinions. He wondered how long and how much of a struggle before he could overcome her reticence.
He smiled at her kindly, "For now, we'll get you some new clothes to change into after you bath. Afterwards you can spend as much time as you like browsing the library."
"Truly?" she eagerly asked, her face, for once, joyful.
"Truly," he answered with a smile as he led her to the storage rooms. The Maker was with him for every door was still firmly locked. He fumbled slightly as he placed the key in the lock and soon was pushing wide the door.
The storage room was set up logically and efficiently. Most mages, when brought to the Gallows, arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs. This room, as well as the one geared towards children and adolescents, contained everything that would be needed by a newly arrived mage. Cullen lit the sconces situated near the doorway, bathing the room in a cheery orange-yellow glow. He picked up one of the baskets stacked by the door, handing it to Evelyn, before taking one for himself. He moved over to the first cabinet. Inside was a series of large boxes, each box housing multiple robes of the same size.
"Come here," he said to Evelyn as he took a robe that he thought would fit. He held it up against her, tossing it to the side when it proved to be too large. The next box contained what seemed like it would be a proper fit so he began rummaging through it, selecting a robe in a deep green with gold accenting. He tossed it in the basket and reached in for another robe. This time a light blue with darker blue trimming was added. It wasn't until he was searching through the box a third time that he realized he had been selecting colors he wanted to see her in with no thought to what she might like. "Do you," he sheepishly stammered, "have a color preference?"
She allowed just a moment of surprise to show on her face before dropping back into a neutral expression. "No."
While he took the top robe from the box, now uncaring of the color, he told her, "The wardrobe behind you has sleeping shifts and, er, under things. Fill your basket with what you want."
As she complied, he moved on to the next cabinet, adding a dressing gown, a few drying sheets, several cleaning cloths, and a heavy shawl in case she should grow cold into the near overflowing basket. He set it aside and grabbed another basket from the stack by the door. As he moved over to a bookcase filled with carefully marked smaller boxes, he remembered the third storage room, the one containing all of the ingredients necessary for the making of potions and draughts. If he recalled correctly, there should be a significant amount of lyrium dust. He turned towards her with a hopeful eagerness. "Evelyn, do you know how to brew lyrium potions?"
She paused in the process of placing a sleeping shift in her basket, her face suddenly awash with humiliation, her fire-scarred hand clenching painfully tight. Her voice was shame filled when she finally answered. "Only the most trusted are permitted to brew lyrium."
Unsaid, but clear by its absence, was that Evelyn had not been counted among the trusted in the Ostwich Circle. As his hopes for an easy solution to the question of lyrium supplies were crushed, his curiosity grew. There was so much he didn't know about her or her life in Ostwick. She'd been cryptic about why she'd run from the Circle. Her hyper-vigilance of tracking the location of every Templar. The frustrating timidity that seemed more ingrained than a part of her natural personality. How she clenched her scarred hand and her expression became guarded each time Ostwick was mentioned. Her puzzling question about which books she could read. It all added up to a mystery. One glance at her rigid stance, the clenched fist, and her fearful eyes made him realize that solving the puzzle would have to wait. Pressing her now would only make her more terrified.
Nodding at the nearly empty basket in her hands, he said, "Take a few more sleeping shifts and under things There's no cause to be stingy." He picked up his own basket and moved onto the shelving unit loaded with smaller, well marked boxes. He pulled out several cakes of soap, an ivory comb, a brush made of stiff boar hairs. Just as he was moving on to the next cabinet, Evelyn spoke.
"I was permitted to work in the gardens collecting cuttings of the medicinal plants. I was assigned to make poultices and salves for minor injuries. And I was allowed to brew healing potions," her voice entreated, as if she were trying to raise her worthiness in his eyes.
"Those will be helpful skills here."
She added in a murmur, "The brewing of lyrium was restricted to Claimed mages."
"Oh." He gazed at her astonishment. "I guess that makes a sort of sense."
It was her turn to look amazed. "Is it not that way here?"
He shuffled over to another cabinet, rooting through its contents. "That wardrobe contains slippers," he indicated with a jab of his finger. "See if any fit." He dumped several sheets of parchment into his basket. After a moment's thought, he added the rest of the sheaf. Then a few inkwells and a handful of quills followed. "Kheilen was Claimed but that wasn't why he was the one who brewed lyrium for us. It was because, out of all the mages here, he was the most talented."
Her hand hovered in the process of adding a pair of slippers to her basket, an expression of confusion appearing for a moment before fading into neutrality.
Cullen waited, futilely hoping she might speak more of her time in Ostwick or on any subject for that matter. He sighed at her continued silence as he looked around the storage room. "Is there anything else you need?"
She gave a quick shake of her head, the basket she held already heavy in her hands.
He took up the other two baskets, handed one of the candlesticks to her before extinguishing the other ones and started to lead her back up to the courtyard. As they had earlier, when they reached the center of the library Evelyn's steps slowed until halting altogether. He looked back to find her expression one of indecision. She searched the darkness of the surrounding area, fretfully moving the basket from one hand to the other. Evelyn then took cautious yet determined steps towards him. With a rushed whisper and giving the impression she was revealing treasonous state secrets, she stammered, "About lyrium ... I ... I have studied the theories of preparing it. I only lack the practical application of brewing it. If you have the supplies, I could try to distill some." She then braced herself as if expecting to be struck for her revelation.
Again Cullen was confused and had yet another question to ask once she was more comfortable around him. Why would she be so terrified of having the knowledge to make something so vital to the Order? One of the purposes of the Circles was that mages could study their craft in safety. For those with the talent, the creation of lyrium draughts was a basic lesson. He smiled at her, hoping to quell some of her growing anxiety. "I would appreciate it if you would make the attempt. It would help immensely."
Evelyn relaxed somewhat at his assurance. "I'd like to refresh my knowledge before trying. I'm certain one of the books here has what I need." She started to move off to begin her search of the library.
He admired and appreciated her eagerness and though the need for the bright blue fluid was a constant thrumming that pulsed with every breath, her needs should come before his and the other Templars. He called her back with a chuckle. "After you've had a chance to clean up."
With a longing look at the tome filled library, she nodded meekly and followed him up to the courtyard and back to the Officers' wing. Cullen opened the door across from his office and quarters. "This will be your room. Gather what you need and go take a relaxing bath."
He left her to dig through the baskets of supplies while he headed back to his own quarters. Impulsively Cullen moved to the dresser, opening the bottom drawer and pulled out a small, ornately decorated glass bottle. It had been an expensive purchase and one that had sat neglected long before Meredith's fall. On an impulse, one that was meant to serve as an apology to his sister, he'd bought it. He'd had every intention of sending it off immediately but had postponed because the sending of the gift meant that he would have to enclose a letter. And letter writing was not one of his talents so it had sat abandoned all this time.
He carefully cupped the fragile bottle in his hand and returned to Evelyn's new quarters. A blush grew on his cheeks, and as always happened when faced with speaking with a woman on anything of a personal matter, he began to stammer. "I, er, this is for you." He thrust the bottle at her. "It's orange blossom oil. My sister swears by it for helping to get tangles out of hair. You ... you should have it."
She tried to hand it back but he refused to reach for it. "It's too expensive. I can make do without it."
He ended the argument before it began by turning his back on her and decisively striding into his office. He made his point by firmly closing the door. Shortly after he heard her walking down the hallway and the opening and closing of the door that led to the courtyard. He released a huff of breath. Maker! Why did I do that? It is one thing to make sure she has what she needs. To see to her comfort. But why the impulse to give her a gift. I want ... I need to keep my distance and yet I'm drawn to give her an expensive present like I'm trying to court her. He cut off the thoughts. There was much to do instead of wasting time over the mage he'd Claimed, the woman he needed to avoid as much as possible. He should organize an inventory of all supplies and equipment. The excesses could be sold, the profits used to purchase lyrium on the black market. He needed to pen a message to the Lady Seeker, informing her of the failure of his mission. He then needed to check on Sula though he doubted she was ready to talk. Perhaps schedule an appointment with Aveline to see if some of the Kirkwall guards could be assigned to assist with their duties. Five Templars would not be enough to deal with any dangerous apostates still present in the area and guard the Gallows.
Further planning was cut off at the firm knock on the door. "Come," he said without much thought. The door opened wide to reveal Lady Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale framed in the entry. "I was about to send you a message," he said in greeting as they stepped into the office. "I have failed you. Hawke and Varric managed to evade me."
The Lady Seeker brusquely waved her hand. "That is of little import considering what has taken place here."
"You heard?"
"I may not have many agents in Kirkwall yet but even the few I have heard of the momentous events that occurred here yesterday," Sister Nightingale's silky voice answered. "I am sorry we did not discover the plot sooner so we could take action to prevent it," she added sadly. "I also heard of the loss of your lyrium stocks so managed to procure this for you." She gave him a small leather pouch.
His eager fingers tore open the pouch to find a dozen and a half pulsating blue draughts. Without thought to the two women in front of him, he hastily pulled out one, quickly thumbing off the stopper. It called to him, a plea he was unable to resist. He poured the fluid onto his eager tongue, the icy chill traveling down his throat to calm the churning firestorm in his stomach. Frosty energy raced along the blazing inferno that was his skin. He felt revitalized, renewed, reborn. His thoughts cleared, his focus sharpened. His strength returned.
Abashed at his lack of control, he lifted his gaze expecting to find disdain on the women's faces. Instead, the Seeker looked at him with compassion and empathy. Nightingale's face was carefully neutral, but not without understanding. "I thank you. We have been on half-rations for a near week."
The Sister simply gave a curt nod. "Sadly, someone bought out nearly all the lyrium available on the black market. This will need to suffice until I can find more."
"Knight-Captain," the Seeker began abruptly. Her voice softened to a more friendly tone. "Cullen, there is something we wish to discuss with you."
"Cassandra, now is not the time," Nightingale interjected sharply.
The Lady Seeker snorted in response. "When will it be the appropriate time, Leliana?"
She gave Cassandra a challengingly stare before sighing greatly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I suppose you are correct."
Cassandra turned her attention back to Cullen. "As you are well aware, the rebel mages and Templars are warring across the lands. If it is not stopped soon, it will rip all of Thedas apart. Her Most Holy is calling for a Conclave for the sole purpose of bringing this strife to an end."
Cullen nodded in agreement. It was well past time for the Divine to intercede. Too many lives had been lost already. Too many suffered in the war's wake.
"As you are aware, one of the reasons we are here is to discover Hawke's location," Leilana picked up. "She could be a calming voice, an entreating figure to bring the two sides together for negotiations. Mages will come at her call, to support a fellow mage, one who stood against Meredith's order to annul the Kirkwall Circle. Some Templars, those who disapprove of the harsher treatments permitted of the mages in their care and those, like yourself, opposed to Claiming will answer her summons. She will also have the support of other Templars for her outspoken opposition to the use of lyrium as a leash by the Chantry."
Cullen could see the logic and agreed to a certain extent. "Yes, that is true. Hawke is admired by members of both sides, yet also vilified as well. It could be a blessing from the Maker to have her as a spokesperson or it could assure the Conclave comes to nothing but more fighting and hostility. Plus Hawke won't be found unless and until she wishes to be. I am not hopeful anyone will be able to locate her."
Cassandra sighed. "It is a risk we must take. But finding Hawke is not the only reason Her Most Holy sent us here. Divine Justinia also instructed us to speak with you."
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why me?"
"Traditionally the Order has served as the Divine's army in addition to their duties of watching over mages, dealing with abominations and demons. With the dissolution of the Orders, Her Most Holy must create a new army, one that will serve to protect all attendees at the Conclave and enforce whatever decisions are made during it."
"Are you so certain the Conclave will be a success?" he asked skeptically. The disagreements between mage and Templar were ages old. The resentment, hatred, and distrust built up over generations. Cullen couldn't see how bringing both sides together at a negotiations table would put a quick end to the conflict.
"No," answered Leilana. "The Divine is a practical woman. If the Conclave is not successful, she is making preparations to call another Inquisition."
"I'm glad to see that Divine Justinia is finally taking steps but I still don't see what this has to do with me."
Cassandra, in her gruff manner, said, "We need someone to lead the Divine's army and if it comes to it, command the Inquisition forces. Her Most Holy wants you to be that person. Those Templars who are not swayed by Hawke's pleas will flock to the Conclave at your beckoning."
Cullen looked first at Cassandra and then Leilana, expecting that one of them would begin laughing at the joke being played on him. Why would they want him? He was a failure. He'd failed at Kinlock. He'd failed in Kirkwall. He had failed Meredith, Hawke, and a multitude of others. He couldn't sleep a night through without waking in terror. Maker's breath, he couldn't even wait until their meeting finished to gulp down the given lyrium. At their patient expressions, he realized they were sincere in the offer.
He had a duty to the vows he'd made to the Maker. He had an obligation to stay to protect the city-state. He had to atone to his fallen men by rebuilding and improving Kirkwall's Order.
"I'm sorry. I must refuse."
