Chapter 10
The Trouble With Redcliffe

"Mother Hannah, it would do the knights so much good..." Lyra's voice wheedled as Alistair rounded the corner.

The Chantry Mother's lips pressed into a fine line, her stern eyes unimpressed as she shook her head. A typical example of her kind, she clasped work-roughened hands before her. Neat gray hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck, her slim body swathed in the crimson robes that marked her station.

"What would?" Alistair whispered as he joined Lyra in the Mother's office. Keeping her eyes on the elder, Lyra gave a slight shake of her head as Mother Hannah began to speak.

"I told you already, child. I cannot. There is no item that will protect them in battle. I have prayed for them and blessed them, and with that they must be content." Her words had a finality to them, and Mother Hannah seated herself at her desk, one hand patting a phantom stray hair back into place.

"But suppose... suppose we just told them an item could convey such protection," Lyra pleaded. "Morale is a powerful thing. It could be that they would make it through the battle on their own faith, if they just had something to bolster it. Just a little." These last words were tacked on hastily, as though she could soothe the Mother's horrified look with pretty phrases.

"You are asking me to... lie... to the knights?"

Alistair spoke up, catching on to Lyra's thought. "It wouldn't really be a lie, would it?" he pointed out. "If you had some... I dunno, amulets or something, and you blessed them, we could tell them you had blessed the amulets in the name of the Maker, and... let them believe what they liked."

Mother Hannah turned her stern gaze on him, and in an instant he was back in the school for new Templar recruits in Denerim, facing down Chanter Rosamund. A wash of heat flooded his cheeks. Yup. Definitely twelve years old again.

Lyra seized upon the idea, however. "Yes! It wouldn't be a lie, it would just give them something to put their faith in. Like the beads the Chanters sometimes use to help them recall verses of the Chant of Light, or... um..."

Alistair came to her rescue. "The statues of Andraste in the Chantry hallways."

"Yes! Just a symbol of their faith, blessed by the hand of their own Revered Mother in the eyes of the Maker." Lyra held her breath.

Mother Hannah eyed them in suspicion, then sighed. From a drawer in her desk, she withdrew a number of small silver amulets. "It feels like lying. But if it will save lives, I don't suppose I can refuse." Bowing her head, she wove her hands in the pattern of a traditional blessing, murmuring a few words from the Chant of Light. Once finished, she thrusted them at Lyra. "Give these to Ser Perth, and may they do the knights good." Her brief moment of compassion finished, Mother Hannah's attention returned to her desk. "Now please leave."

Gushing their thanks, Lyra earned herself another annoyed glare before the two of them scooted out of the office. Just as well - Alistair didn't want to risk anything that might change Mother Hannah's mind.

"For the knights, right?" Alistair lifted his chin at the pile of medallions in Lyra's fingers.

She nodded, a pleased smile raising the corners of her mouth. "You were fantastic! I really didn't think she would give them to me... Whatever made you think of that argument?"

"Well, with the Chantry, it's all about finding the right angle," he said with a satisfied smirk. "You'd be surprised at what you can accomplish with the proper justification. Where're the others?"

"Divide and conquer," she said. "They're speaking with a local veteran about joining the battle tonight."

.oOo.

"Apology accepted. Now get out." Dwyn the Dwarf crossed his arms, his deadpan expression as unimpressed as his voice.

"There's a battle coming tonight, and the brave lads in the town could use a veteran like you to bolster their spirits," Leliana returned, crossing her arms herself. She'd tried knocking - three times, in fact - but when they'd received no answer she'd picked the lock, certain she'd heard voices. Sure enough, the dwarf and his henchmen had been inside, and hadn't been pleased by their rude invasion. Of course Leliana had apologized, pointing out that if he'd only answered the door...

"Not worth my life." Dwyn's uncaring demeanor didn't change. "I'm staying in here, locked up nice and tight – that is, if you didn't break my lock," he added in a dark voice.

Morrigan stepped forward, her hips swaying. "What would it be worth to you, soldier?" She breathed deeply and leaned forward, which made her blouse do... interesting things.

Dwyn seemed taken for about one second, then shook his head. "A night with you? Even if I were into humans, I don't think it'd be worth dying over."

Morrigan's eyes flashed with danger. Sultry lips curled, her fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists.

Leliana hurried to intervene."What about five sovereigns?"

A flash of interest. Dwyn's guarded eyes swung in her direction. "Let's see it, sister."

The clink of gold was good enough for Dwyn, and seconds later the stoic dwarf had pocketed the money. "Done. I'll be out there tonight, and you'd better be, too." He and his henchmen shouldered past them to head outside, their conversation finished.

Leliana looked to Morrigan, her blue eyes dancing with mirth.

The witch sniffed. "Not that I would have done it. I was merely trying to convince him."

"Well, it was a good thought, Morrigan," Leliana said, her mouth quirking upward. They left the house, and Sten followed at a short distance.

"I don't see the point of these good deeds we keep doing," Morrigan complained as they strolled the planked walkway. "People must learn to depend on themselves, and by helping them we only ensure their inability be self-sufficient. They will continue to cling to our skirts, begging for favors and getting in the way."

"Have you never helped someone for the simple joy of it, Morrigan?" Leliana asked as they walked toward the general store.

"Joy? From helping others?" The witch snorted. "Joy is the wilds at night, or the success of the chase, or the way the full moon calls to my blood. Joy is soaring through the night sky as an owl, or the feel of magic as it races through my veins. Joy is not helping people become weaker and weaker," she finished in a firm voice.

"You're wrong. Great joy can be had from helping. When I was in the Chantry, I learned just how much people appreciate help when they need it. It did my heart endless good to see a person in need, and to give them succor."

"Well, I have never found joy in simply helping," Morrigan emphasized, her voice dripping with disdain. The subject closed, she pushed open the door, leading the way into the general store.

"Hello?" Leliana called. All was quiet, the shop nearly empty but for a few scattered papers and stacked crates. The shelves had been cleared of everything but a few simple boxes, set askew on the abandoned slats. No one seemed to be around.

"Whoever owned this store must have been killed in one of the attacks, or is hiding in the chantry," Morrigan mused.

"We should see if there's anything useful, at any rate," Leliana suggested. They began to poke around the shop, opening cupboards and drawers. One corner was dominated by a stack of barrels, filled to the brim with lamp oil.

"Nothing here," Leliana said, disappointed. "It's been cleaned out."

Morrigan lingered, her eyes hovering upon the barrels. "That oil... 'Tis quite flammable."

Leliana's eyes widened in comprehension. "Of course! You're brilliant, Morrigan! We'll tell the knights right away." The former Chantry sister threw her arms around the witch and planted a kiss on her cheek, dashing from the shop a moment later. Disgusted by the display, Morrigan followed, her nose wrinkling at the feel of the sister's lips on her skin.

.oOo.

"Then you'll look for her? You'll find my Valena?" Owen the blacksmith sniveled into his sleeves, his voice muffled.

Lyra wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't be certain the girl was still alive, or wasn't a walking corpse, or hadn't been ritually dismembered. Anything could have happened to Owen's daughter Valena, the arlessa's maid. But she needed Smith Owen to repair the townsfolks' armor and weapons before the attack tonight... "Owen... we'll look for her. But I can't guarantee anything. Believe me, I'll do my best-"

Owen cut her off, his eyes fierce. "Not good enough. You have to promise. Promise you'll look for her, and bring her back safely to me if you can."

Tenacious as his trembling voice had become, Owen was begging for a miracle - one she was hesitant to agree to. But what choice did she have? Lyra bit her lip, then nodded. "I promise. I will seek your daughter, if you will work with Murdock to prepare the villagers." She swallowed hard, afraid she would bring back nothing but a corpse for the grieving father. With no visible activity from the castle for days, it was possible everyone within had been slaughtered. She wasn't lying. She would seek Valena, just as she would seek any survivor. She just couldn't be sure anything would come of her search, and the thought twisted her stomach.

But Owen nodded gratefully, and seemed to stand bit taller. "I'll accept that." He walked to the fire and began pumping the bellows, stirring up the flames for the necessary work. "I'll need more wood. Send Murdock in - we'll work out the details between us." Turning away, Owen muttered to himself as he stuck various smithing implements into the glowing embers.

Lyra fled the smithy, and Alistair followed without a word.

The bright sunshine and fresh air did much to lift Lyra's spirits. Owen had done little to hide his retreat into alcohol, and they'd been in the smithy all of ten seconds when Alistair had sing-songed in her ear, "Somebody's been dring-king!" As if she couldn't smell the booze. The man was lucky he hadn't gone up in flames. Lyra hoped he was one of those people who worked better drunk than sober - Maker knew they needed a good smith.

Kestrel barked as he bounded toward them, panting happily and jumping up on her legs. She ruffled his ears fondly and planted a kiss on the top of his head, then pushed him down. At ninety pounds of solid muscle, the mabari was hardly a lapdog. "Murdock," she called. "Owen is ready to help."

The mayor's brows met above his nose as he stared at her incredulously, then shook his head as he stroked his impressive mustache. "I dunno how you did it," he graveled, "but with Owen helping us, and Dwyn on our side... I almost feel hopeful about the battle. Thank you, Warden. If you've no other plans before tonight, now's a good time to see about any gear you might need for yourself. You look to be well equipped and armored, but if you ask up at the tavern, Lloyd might have a few... special items you could use. Acid flasks, and the like. He's a bit of a hobby chemist, and fancies himself creative with explosives." With that, Murdock turned and walked back to his archers, shouting an admonition to one clumsy young man.

Lyra glanced at Alistair. "Could you use a pint?"

"Before we die tonight? Certainly," he grinned at her. "Nah, we're not gonna die. The heroes can't perish before the tale ends. It would completely ruin the storyline, and the author would probably be shot. But I won't say no to a drink."

She chuckled, enjoying his ridiculous notions. Thus encouraged, Alistair teased her all the way to the tavern.

.oOo.

Alistair glanced across the room as he waited for their drinks to be poured - ale for himself and a cup of wine for Leliana. Lyra had hemmed and hawed and finally shoo'ed him to the bar, telling him to surprise her. So he'd gotten her a water. Surprise!

Morrigan and Sten had seated themselves away from the others, and now were locked in a kind of staring contest. Neither said a word, and yet it seemed they were communicating anyway. Alistair blinked, his eyes sliding from one to the next. They hadn't heard much from the giant qunari. Leliana had told them all briefly about how Sten had been in a cage in the town square of Lothering, and how she'd begged the Revered Mother for the key to his prison, intending to take him with her when she left to seek the Wardens. He might not have killed them in their sleep as yet, but that didn't mean Alistair was totally easy around him. However, he could hardly complain that someone else seemed to be distracting Morrigan.

The barkeep slid a foaming tankard into his hands, and Alistair scooped everything up, balancing the three cups in a triangle between his fingers. When he made it to the table without spilling a drop, he offered the girls a triumphant grin. Sadly, neither of them saw it, but continued to stare across the room, focused on Maker only knew what.

"Great job, Alistair," he said, pitching his voice high in an imitation of Leliana's Orlesian lilt. "You did that so well!"

"Great job, Alistair," Leliana said in a distracted tone. "You did that so well. How proud you must be to carry cups across the room."

"He's brilliant, no?" Lyra flashed a smile at him, then sipped from her mug. "Water? What!"

"Make a decision next time." He grinned at her and took a pull of his own foamy brew. "What are we talking about?"

"That man... there's something about him," Leliana whispered. She twirled her wine glass in a speculative manner. Lyra glanced unobtrusively at the elf sitting alone in the corner.

"What about him?" Alistair whispered back.

"Is that any good?" Lyra indicated his ale with her chin. Before he could reply, she'd snagged the tankard from his hands and put it to her lips.

"Whoa there. Since when are you allowed to take my stuff?" Alistair demanded, though he was hardly angry. There was something adorable about Lyra drinking from his cup.

She lowered the mug, using her thumb to wipe a bit of foam from her mouth. "If I don't try it, I'll never know if I like it. But why pay for a full cup of something I might not enjoy?"

"Smart, pretty and thrifty," Alistair grinned. "So? What'dya think?"

"Eh," Lyra shrugged, passing it back into his hands. Her cheeks had gone a touch pink, the added color piquing his interest. "Leliana, let me try yours."

"Not a chance." Leliana sheltered her wine glass from Lyra's reaching hand. "Get your own."

The sound that came out of Lyra's mouth made Alistair chuckle. Half-whine, half groan, all exasperation. "Oh come on..."

"Don't do it, Leliana." Alistair indicated his own drink. "She's contaminated mine already. I can't drink this now - I'll catch her girly germs."

"Man up, baby, or I'll give you something worse than 'girly germs'." Lyra cracked her knuckles in the palm of her hand.

"Do tell." Another grin tugged the corners of his mouth as he sipped from his contaminated mug.

"How about a black eye?"

From beneath the table, Kestrel snickered. Just how dogs could snicker, Alistair wasn't certain, but there could be no other word for the dog's amused noise.

Leliana giggled as she handed Lyra her wine glass. "Anyway. That man... he's hiding something. See how he keeps fingering the handle of his cup? He's nervous."

"But is he 'My wife will draw and quarter me for being drunk in the afternoon' nervous, or 'I have a dark secret that affects the Wardens' nervous?" Alistair countered.

"He has no wife. No ring, see?"

"He doesn't need a ring to have a wife. But it could be a jealous girlfriend... or maybe he's out of work. Or maybe he's just an escaped murderer and has nothing to do with us," Alistair suggested. "You're jumping at shadows."

By this time, Lyra had finished her tasting of Leliana's wine. Sparing her companions neither word nor glance, she stood and crossed the room, going directly to the elf in question.

Leliana blinked, nonplussed. "Is Lyra always this impulsive?"

"Uh... your guess is as good as mine." Alistair's brows rose as he watched Lyra begin speaking to the elf in a voice too low to hear. "I've known her about a week longer than you have."

"Oh, I see. You two seem so close, I just assumed..." Leliana shrugged, then hopped up from the bench and breezed across the room to join Lyra.

Cheeks burning, Alistair shoved back from the bench where he'd been perched, the wood making an awkward scraping noise as it dragged across the wooden floor. Clambering over it like the oaf he was certain he appeared, he hurried to join the ladies, embarrassed at the idea Leliana had apparently taken away from their joking interaction.

"I told you, I'm just having a quiet drink. That isn't a crime, the last time I checked." The elf hunched over his ale, his face dark and nervous.

Lyra cocked an eyebrow. "Then you won't mind telling us your name, stranger."

Sullen silence from the elf, then, "Berwick."

"Come now, Berwick; this doesn't have to be difficult," Leliana's smooth voice interjected. "Tell us why you're really here."

Just as Leliana had observed, Berwick's fingers twitched on his cup, but this had more the look of someone itching to reach for a weapon. Perhaps there was something to this 'women's intuition' thing he'd heard about, after all. Shifting his stance, Alistair adopted a subtle pose that lent itself more easily to close-hand fighting. An impulse to pull Lyra out of harm's way crept over his bones, but he squashed it - she could hardly question someone while peeking out from behind his back, after all.

The elf's eyes darted. "I'm not-"

Leliana slipped a dagger from her hip, purposefully allowing the blade to ring as it slid across the metallic edge of the sheath.

Berwick gulped, visibly sweating now. "I was paid to watch the castle," he blurted. "To send word if anything changed. That's all! I swear!"

Leliana examined her dagger with apparent carelessness. "Who paid you?" Her lightly accented voice was deceptively soft. There was nothing inherently threatening about her, and yet something about her posture inferred that she meant business and wouldn't hesitate to use that knife. Lyra caught his eye, her brows rising. She didn't see this coming, either, Alistair thought. Not from our Chantry sister.

"I don't know. He was tall... He said he was hiring me on behalf of Arl Rendon Howe." Berwick licked his lips nervously.

At his side, Lyra stiffened, her face going frosty. "Easy…" he murmured, and put his hand on the small of her back.

"Look, I thought I was doing a service. For my country. I was told that Arl Eamon was dangerous - a threat to Ferelden. All I had to do was watch the castle and send a message if anything changed. But I've been watching for three weeks, and the most that's happened is a group of knights left two weeks ago and then the attacks began. I swear, that's it. There's nothing more I can tell you."

Leliana inclined her head toward them and gave a slight nod, as if affirming Berwick's words.

Lyra contemplated the elf, her blue eyes cold and full of judgement. "You should leave Redcliffe. Tomorrow."

"I will miss, I swear - wait, tomorrow?"

"Yes. After you help defend the town tonight."

Berwick's mouth fell open, a rush of garbled protests streaming forth, cut off by the dagger that Leliana flipped in her hand. "Very well. I'll stay, and then tomorrow you'll never see me again." He stood in a hurry, attempting to leave, but Lyra's hand on his chest stopped him in his tracks.

"I'll take any paperwork you have," she said quietly. Berwick simply reached into his tunic and withdrew a vellum scroll, shoving it into her hands before he dashed from the tavern.

Lyra sagged. She looked so sick at heart, the urge rose to put his arms around her in a gesture of support - but something held him off. Instinct, perhaps. The gesture would have been too familiar, even as friendly as they'd become.

Lyra lifted her head after another moment, her eyes seeking Leliana. "How did you know he was a spy?"

A startled look flitted over Leliana's face, but then she laughed easily. "Oh, just something I picked up in Orlais. Lots of spies there, you know."

Lyra seemed to accept this, though it smelled fishy to Alistair. Recognizing spies wasn't something people just 'picked up', but... giving a mental shrug, he followed the ladies back to their table, peering over Lyra's shoulder as she unrolled the scroll to read.

Berwick,

We need your eyes and ears in Redcliffe. Stay in the village, keep your head down, and watch the castle. Report any changes, and you'll be well paid.

A small scribble at the bottom was indecipherable – probably a signature, Alistair thought.

"Nothing to link it back to Howe... just Berwick's word," Lyra muttered, crumpling the vellum. "But it can't be unrelated."

"Uh... what can't?" Alistair asked, certain he was missing something.

Lyra turned to him, her eyes glittering with fury. "My family was murdered. Now Arl Eamon is mysteriously ill, and Berwick was paid to watch the castle. All of this coming on the heels of Cailan's defeat at Ostagar, which only happened because Loghain pulled his troops from the battle. And who is Loghain's right hand man?" The vellum twisted in her nimble fingers, hatred tinting her voice.

"Howe." Alistair breathed, realization smacking him in the face. She was right. It was too much of a coincidence to be just that.

"And who now sits the throne?" Lyra continued. She wasn't purposefully leading him; it was more like they were sharing the thoughts as they occurred, putting together a puzzle that needed completion.

"Anora, Cailan's widow... who is also Loghain's daughter."

"It's all bloody convenient, isn't it?" Rage sparked in her eyes as she stood once more. "They've staged a coup. Loghain and Howe are planning on taking the throne."

Alistair sat back, stunned. Had Lyra not turned and stalked from the tavern, who knows how long he might have sat there dazed, the implications whirling in his head. As it was, he snapped to a scant second later, scrambling out of his seat to chase after her. "Lyra, wait!" Behind him, Leliana called to them both, and more footsteps pattered over the floorboards in his wake.

Lyra was halfway down the hill before she responded to his shouts, offering him nothing more than a glance over her shoulder. "We're going to Denerim," she yelled back, her voice hard with determination.

"Lyra! We can't go now. There's an attack on the town tonight, and what about the Blight?" Alistair grabbed for her hand, missing it as she swung her arms vigorously. "We can't leave Redcliffe to burn." Skirting her hasty steps, he managed to get in front of her, planting his hands on her arms and forcing her to a stop. If looks could kill, Alistair wouldn't have lasted three seconds under her murderous gaze.

"Alistair, my family is dead," she choked out. "How can I let that go, when we're nothing but pawns in a political game of knights and castles? Loghain and Howe could be moving the pieces to take all of Ferelden, in one fell swoop! I have to stop them!"

"How?" he demanded. "You're one woman. They have armies, guards, and Denerim is a week's walk from here. Redcliffe is in danger now. If you leave, these people will all die." His tone was desperate. She couldn't leave... and he couldn't do this without her.

That seemed to shake her, or at least bring her down to earth a bit. Leliana, Morrigan and Sten caught up as she brought her hands to her face, her shoulders crumpling. It was a gesture that begged help, and this time Alistair did put his arms around her and held her close. How could he not, as distraught as she was?

Lyra trembled in his embrace, her own arms creeping around his waist to squeeze him tight. They were nearly the same height, but bent as she was, it was easy enough to drop a kiss on her dark head. A brotherly gesture, nothing more... yet his heart fluttered as he scented her hair. Lyra curled herself tighter into him in response. "We will avenge your family, I swear it," he whispered. "But our duty to the people of Redcliffe must come first. Please... stay."

"This is typical of Grey Wardens?" Sten asked. Alistair jerked his head up. He'd forgotten the others existed for a moment. After so many days of silence, it was surprising to hear the giant speak.

"It certainly seems typical of these two. If one of them isn't bawling, the other is," Morrigan's lazy voice drawled, and Alistair shot her a look brimming with venom.

Lyra took a shuddering breath and pushed herself away from Alistair, turning away without meeting his gaze. As brief as their hug had been, his arms missed her, and an ache bloomed in his chest at the stoic way she held herself.

"I'm fine. You're right. Thank you." Straightening, she turned to the rest of the group, her voice strong and commanding with barely a hint of her previous tears. "We will stay here. For now." Turning on her heel, she strode off.

Leliana hurried after her, and Alistair was left to stand awkwardly, a stinging lump in his throat as he watched Lyra walk away. Morrigan folded her arms, seeming positively tickled by this latest development. The giant qunari grunted, his purple eyes disapproving. Both of them stared at Alistair, as though expecting something.

"What are you looking at?" he snarled. Scowling, Alistair stomped off toward the practice arena where a few swordsmen were swinging wooden blades at each other. After the realizations they'd come to about Loghain, Howe and Arl Eamon, he needed to hit something. And as long as he kept that thought in mind, he could ignore the idea that Lyra's rejection had anything to do with his sudden foul mood.

updated 6/20/13