Step by step
All the happy saints go marching in
And if a saint step out of line
He'll have to start again
Cause Jacob's golden ladder
Gets slippery at the top
And many a happy-go-lucky saint
Has made that long, long drop
Jesse Winchester, 'Step by Step'
Every night they came for him in his dreams, blades in their hands and blasphemous words on their lips. They poked and prodded, slashed and stabbed. They punished him for silence and punished him for protest. They beat him until he passed out, superficially mending his wounds, leading him along a deceitful path to recovery then starting it all again when he healed.
And that was the least of the torture.
When they did not assault Ferdinand Genitivi's body, they had targeted his soul. It was a cruel thing indeed to desecrate and bastardise a man's faith, the thing he clung to when all else faded. Eirik and Kolgrim's false Chantry left wounds that would linger when physical pain was but a bad memory. So let it be, they chanted with each butchery. The Prohpetess as a High Dragon, a revered father garbed in the robes of an old Magister, the destroyers of heaven. Madness.
Now besieged by another dream, Genitivi could do nothing but endure as he had back then, waiting not for salvation in the form of Aedan Cousland and his oddball associates, but Andraste's flaming sun, slipping under the curtains, pulling him back into the real world.
Every nightmare the same, every gasping, desperate breath bringing him out of it the same way. It was like emerging from water when on the edge of drowning. But it was good air, clean air. Nothing like the stuffy stench of his former prison, or the miasmic, Blighted ash the horde had brought.
His body frequently filled with pain, his mind with finger bones and dragon's blood. Now awake, he could endure the physical throbs and stings but had to banish the phantoms, before they made him sick again. Genitivi peeled off the quilt and with great effort and sharp spasms, knelt at his bedside. He must hear the words of the Chant soon, from his own mouth, lest the tale of Bonny Lynne return.
"Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker. Blessed art tho-"
Genitivi faltered, the holy words catching in his mouth. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stilling the mind, meditating on the Chant. Hot prickles of sweat were forming on his face, heralding cold streaks. No matter how tightly he clasped his hands, they always shook.
Chancellor Cousland and Queen Anora's speeches at the Chantry would begin any minute now. Almost every survivor in the city was going to see them, leaving the neighbourhood almost empty. Genitivi had hoped the rare hour of peace and quiet would clear the spiritual fog, return him to clarity, reground his faith and purpose. But it brought only doubt. Even in the waking hours, he couldn't keep his eyes closed for too long without re-conjuring the darkness of Father Eirik's false Chantry. The place they'd locked him away, left him to die.
Look at what I'm reduced to. My age and afraid of the dark.
There had been so much charity to be found in Denerim when he'd first returned. Leliana and the lovely mage Wynne spared any moment they had. When duty pulled them away it had been volunteers from the local cathedral, praying, cooking and checking on his physical progress. He was left alone again as the war drew closer. Some days he' hurt too much to leave the bedroom. Others he would get as far as the local market, but end up coming home again after only minutes, twitchy and irritable. Too many faces, staring, judging. Too many mage robes. Swords on display. He needed time.
And time he had. Slowly but surely, he began to get better. Eirik was dead, Kolgrim too. They were all dead. Rotting in Haven, hidden from the world, forever lost to the Maker's light. And Genitivi was alive, he had won. He kept clean and washed and shaven, refusing to go the way of too many monkish men before him. He had his dignity, even if it cost him some mobility and forever softened his nerves. Remembering the sight of the Ashes in Cousland's pouch sustained him.
Genitivi was no unthinking, undiscerning fanatic. He had travelled to the shores of Par Vollen and heard the Qun spoken. He had ventured into the Great Thaig and studied the dwarven Paragons and Ancestors. Through all this he became familiar with just how easily faith could slip into embellishment and exaggeration, especially when it came to relics. As such he knew the Chantry was just as susceptible.
But to see the physical remains of his Lady Redeemer! To know she maintained some physical presence still. Nothing had bolstered the healing process quite like that.
Then, just as he dared to believe he could again be as he was once was, the darkspawn invaded Denerim. Genitivi waited out the battle locked in the cellar beneath the Cathedral amidst the weeping of children and manically spoken prayers of their parents. The battle would undo most of his progress. But it was not any sight or stench that harmed him so, it was the sound of the Archdemon; that malevolent, primeval howl. The same howl he had heard in the Frostback Mountains. The High Dragon they gave his Lady's name to.
After the battle, he returned home to find it unmarked. No one came for him then.
He scoffed, hating his pride. There was charity aplenty in Denerim still. The restoration of a capital city took priority over the health of a single scholar. Everyone was giving back to their fair Ferelden, his unfinished manuscript on the Urn would be his contribution.
He came to love his solitude. He came to acknowledge that every choice he made had a price.
What is life but a series of trade-offs? He thought wearily. The greatest knowledge gained, the desires of the flesh unsatisfied. Spiritual devotion cultivated, contact with friends and peers faded away.
Now he had traded a lead role in the legend of the Sacred Ashes for his very health. Would surviving the Battle of Denerim mean the loss of his sanity? How much more would the Maker take?
All the old apologetics, assurances of his Maker's absolute sovereignty –the thin, vulnerable strand separating divine providence and free will that all faithful thinkers were forced to walk, sounded increasingly hollow. They became silly platitudes, theology for children: 'the Maker is a sculptor, chipping away at our fleeting qualities that He may guide us to eventual and everlasting perfection. We don't get to choose what He chips off.'
Enough. He needed a new prayer, a new verse. The Canticle of Exaltations perhaps. The voice he spoke in was scarcely recognisable. It trembled like a shutter in a storm wind. But he did not stop until the verse was complete.
"I covered my face, fearful.
But the Lady took my hands from my eyes,
Saying, "Remember the fire. You must pass
Through it alone to be forged anew.
Fire I have passed through. I am anew. I am crippled, I am haunted day and night but I am anew.
Look! Look upon the Light so you
May lead others here through the darkness,
So much darkness. He'd failed to track the passage of night and day locked in that room. Light meant more torture.
Blade of the Faith!"
Blades, blades, always the blades. He grew tired of blades. Darkspawn blades, cultist blades.
"NO!"
They couldn't do it. He wouldn't let them. They had taken years from his life, his days, his nights. They couldn't take his beloved Chant too.
Groaning, he stood up and dragged disobedient limps across the bedroom to his desk. It was time to be useful again. Where he failed to pray or study he would write. No amount of injury undid his role in this great tale; the discovery of Her Ashes. The world must know. One day people would trek from across the world to see the Temple. He had kept his writings on the Urn under wraps since returning. But the time to reveal all was coming. With the wars over and the nation trying to heal, Andraste's guiding light would be needed more than ever.
"BROTHER!" someone yelled from outside his door.
Genitivi flinched so badly his knee hit the desk. Violent knocking followed, shaking the door on its hinges. This was no clerical visit. He heard armour and mail on that hand.
"COME ON, OPEN UP!"
He wanted to announce his presence, but the words were once again trapped inside. His freshly bruised knee slowed him further. He limped to the door, driven by the ruthless beat hammered by that armoured fist.
He jumped at the sight waiting for him. Snarling mabari hound faces.
Standing in the doorway were half a dozen of Chancellor Cousland's black-armoured personal guard. The people of Denerim were already referring to them as the 'Black Hounds.' Five pushed past him into the house without waiting for an invitation or even a greeting. The sixth…
Maker sustain me.
The sixth, all seven feet and 22 stone of him, waited in the doorway facing out into the street, keeping anyone from getting in. Or out.
"Ferdinand Genitivi?" said the Hound at the front. He spoke with a voice scraped by years of drink and unchaste proposals.
Genitivi couldn't take his eyes off the giant on his porch. Strapped to his unsettlingly large back was a maul that could flatten a qunari.
"Yes?" he managed at last.
"The scholar who found Andraste's Ashes?"
"Y- yes. It's…"
They were all over his desk, knocking his papers out of order, going through private research. A home full of intrusive, armoured men. This is what Weylon's final moments were like.
Oh, poor Weylon. Another wound reopened deep inside him.
"What's going on?" Maker, he wanted to sound bold. The Hounds repaid his attempt with mocking laughter. "Who are you?"
The lead Hound lifted his visor. The pale, wicked face underneath reaffirmed Genitivi's belief in trade-offs. Honour for prosperity, decency for opportunity, respect for gratification, health and youth for vice. It was completed by a sleazy, boy's idea of a moustache and overgrown stubble.
"I am Taoran Hawkwind, captain of the Blackstone Irregulars." His eyes were as black and cruel as his armour. "That means I enforce our dear Hero's will. That means I act with his authority. That means you don't get to ask questions in that tone of voice."
"I'm a friend of the Chancellor!" But despite their connection, Genitivi was not feeling protected right now. "I- if he wants to see my research again, he need only ask."
Hawkwind chuckled in a pitying, patronising way.
"Oh he's seen enough of it. You'd better hope others haven't. In fact…" he cleared his throat and Genitivi knew an official decree was coming. "By order of the Chancellor and Arl Rooke, you need to sit on this for a while."
"I-I beg your pardon?"
"Take a break, brother." At the rate they were manhandling his notes, that break would be permanent. "It's classified information for now, you just need to keep it safe. There's no hurry to go spreading it around."
No, no no. They couldn't rob him of his final purpose.
"The truth of the Ashes must be spread!" he cried. The words always sounded more reassuring in Genitivi's head, but coming from his mouth almost nothing was convincing.
Hawkwind's playful, condescending expression turned cold and frightening. The other Hounds ceased their rummaging.
"Are you saying you've already gone and told others?" the captain breathed. "Couldn't resist sending the ravens off, could you?! Who else knows?"
Genitivi would have backed away were it not for the unmoving creature behind, blocking the door.
"Not many! Th-they only have a vague idea, I haven't had time to finish the manuscript."
"I need names. Everyone who could trace the location of the Temple from what you spilled."
Genitivi's heart was pounding. "The Chancellor took me to the Temple himself, used the Ashes to heal Eamon! Why would he possibly want to cover it all up like thi-"
"Just keep your mouth shut!" Hawkwind snarled, crossing the room and squaring up to Genitivi so fast he cowered.
I do my best to stay out of politics and this is the thanks I get?
What demon had seized the Chancellor that he would allow this? Cousland, who had walked into the heart of the Temple and slain the dragon like some hero from the songs, now forcing the faithful into silence? He needed answers.
"The truth must be told to all!" he gasped. "It's not our place as mere mortals to-"
"Keep your fucking mouth shut!"
Hawkwind emphasised the last word with a backhanded blow to the jaw. Genitivi felt his lip rip open and at least one tooth fly out.
"The Chancellor said no violence!" said one of the other Hounds warningly.
Genitivi's vision swam until the room seemed to warp into another realm of his night terrors. Maker help him, it was happening again. Helpless, hurting and unable to find any shield in the tangible world, he retreated into the Canticle of Benedictions.
"B-b-blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not f-falter!"
The Hounds laughed, and only then did he even realise that the words had come out of his mouth.
"Stand?" said Hawkwind disdainfully. "Chant of yours doesn't say anything about those who lie feebly on the floor before the corrupt and the wicked, eh?"
"B-blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just!" he cried.
An armoured foot smashed into his gut, knocking any more holy words out of his mouth, along with all the air in his lungs.
Everywhere he was trapped on a floor; in memories, in dreams and now in reality. There he was again, bleeding, breathless, broken. The morning sunlight burned into his watery eyes. Then the smiling, hateful face of Taoran Hawkwind blocked it out again.
"Now," he whispered dangerously, "you're going to remember everyone you told about this Urn, 'specially any details about the location. We can handle people knowing it's in Ferelden, Orlesians think they're so bloody special. But if you've told anyone about Haven, about the mountains, out with their names, or my big friend in the doorway gives you more incentive. He's not as gentle as I am."
Genitivi could only groan and splutter as warm blood tickled his throat.
"Smile, brother," the captain cooed. "You're doing your country a great service by holding on to this. You wouldn't want bad people exploiting the Temple for their own gain now, would you?"
The Hounds laughed their hardest yet. Maybe it was his unravelling mind, but the sound they made was an inhuman bark. Hawkwind dropped his mabari visor. Genitivi saw soulless black eyes. Razor-sharp teeth. Sadistic hunger.
He fainted.
Before Denerim's Grand Cathedral stood the largest crowd assembled since The Hero of Ferelden's victory parade. The ensuing weeks had been dominated by the country's no-nonsense work ethic; man, elf and dwarf carrying out demolitions, cleanup, mass burials and burnings. Aedan's survival and ascension had boosted morale, and the Market District lagged behind only the noble estates on the road back to normalcy.
A wooden stage and speaker's podium had been erected just ahead of the church's main doors. Aedan shared it with Queen Anora, Rooke, Gorim, Grand Cleric Elemena and the incorruptible Knight Commander Tavish. He would need to be on his best behaviour to get those signatures. A line of Templars and his Black Hounds guarded them, alongside his regular hound, Berthold.
The Chantry courtyard was reserved for the usual elites; residual Banns and their families. Behind them were assorted servants and bodyguards bearing assorted family crests. The priesthood were next in line, then the wealthiest merchants. Beyond the courtyard, stood on cracked and broken streets was Aedan's adoring, lowborn public. The strata of society took the same shape everywhere.
Elemena's introductions were always brief and uncomplicated, owing to her faded hearing, and before long Aedan was called forward to speak, revelling in the awed hush he created.
"Thank you Grand Cleric," he said with a polite smile and small bow. "And before I begin, may I just extend my gratitude and congratulations to my dear friend Kylon, for his promotion to captain of the city guard. I can't think of a more deserving man. Even when I lived as an outlaw, wanted dead in this very city, he saw reason and risked everything to aid me."
During the resulting applause, Aedan caught Anora's eye. The look he received, though only a second in length, was one he recognised as resentment at his withholding of information. The subject of his pre-existing friendship with Kylon had never come up. Despite the iron fist of Loghain and Howe's rule, Aedan had gained friends in high places as she had lost them.
Plus it's useful to remind her that while has the highest office, I have the highest number of men with swords.
With the success of his strategic congratulations, Aedan dived into the copy that he and Rooke had rewritten and rehearsed several times.
It was another saccharine speech. Aedan could do it in his sleep at this point. The words tumbled out, obedient little dancers on his own little stage. A scriptural quote here, a charming boyhood anecdote from Highever there. Pause dramatically. Deepen your voice when the subject matter tugged at the old heart strings. Look down at your feet, deep in contemplation. Get the guards and Templars on your side with a wisecrack about sword upkeep. When in doubt, mention how lonely it can be at the top, wink at the unmarried young women of high society and hear the longing sighs. Maker it was too easy.
To keep himself amused, he began a game of discerning the happy and blissfully unaware nobility from the ones under Rooke's thumb, through blackmail or otherwise. The first find of the day was Bann Franderel, son of the Amaranthine conspirator, thief of Andraste's supposed tears. He must have been no older than twenty, sticking out crudely with unkempt sandy hair and a struggling wisp of facial fuzz.
Enjoy the fine clothes and hot dinners while they last, little boy. Rooke ran the city now, and his vengeance was assured. Maybe the poor runt thinks he's earning respect or intimidating us by staying. Should have fled back to West Hill. Ah well, too late now.
Maybe he'd spent too much time listening to Morrigan and Leliana bicker on the subject, but it was becoming increasingly difficult and infuriating to heap all this success on the Maker. Leading the faithful could be as tricky a balancing act as any other political manoeuvre.
I need to keep the Maker responsible for your ills and myself for your victories.
Time for another Highever anecdote. Rooke had advised him to keep a diary of all the boyhood tales he told, dividing the true from the false so he could keep track. In code of course, he wasn't careless.
He took a long moment to let his gaze wonder across the sea of common eyes, beyond the courtyard.
"…the words of my father. They are base, human needs my son, he told me. Though we waste time with many unfulfilling and empty pursuits, deep down we crave spiritual actualisation; righteousness, patience, piety, joy, thankfulness, and wisdom."
Bollocks, the common people want a meal on the plate, a roof overhead and a warm body between the sheets. Everything else is fluff. If I Ferelden the basics, they'll eat up the rest. Aedan was glad this was a false story. Bryce Cousland kept the faith but never so cloyingly.
Religion was but a distraction from the uncomfortable truth. The golden rule of post-war leadership was keeping the peasants satisfied enough to not make things very ugly. Aedan saw the gaps in their armour even in this crowd. The honeymoon phase novelty of seeing the Hero of Ferelden out in public would not last forever, not with gold dwindling and the dead rising. Even the most privileged and sheltered of Denerim's gathered nobility were on the cusp of waking up and smelling the decaying flesh. On the surface, the commoners smiled and clapped and cheered and prayed, but inside their stomachs rumbled, their minds were awash with worries over scarce work and scarcer security, of their families sleeping in charred ruins where houses once stood.
Food riots. Demands for shelter. Calls to overthrow the new Arl or hold their Chancellor and Queen to account. All would come if they weren't careful. Their shared relief at having seen off an existential threat in the darkspawn would pass, replaced by the new existential threat of wasted limbs, prominent ribs, skeletal faces. Aedan would be faced with a problem he couldn't simply hack to pieces with Starfang or Maric's Blade.
Civilisation was but an unfortified web of ice over a storm-tossed, monster-filled sea. All it took was the slightest crack and everyone sank together.
"My friends, wait."
He stopped the speech early. Give them something dramatic. Something to gossip about, something to distract from the ambitiousness of his promises. It was time to show some endearingly human weakness, just like he had at Anora's coronation with that Fergus stunt.
"All this talk of my beloved family, and I realise just now how little time I have had to pray for them. To speak my pain at their loss privately with my Maker. As it is a day of celebrating our re-emergence from the ashes, let me rekindle my own faith. I will hand this ceremony over to my queen. I must go inside and take a moment to contemplate."
Another awed hush descended. Aedan bowed again and got down from the stage. He marched into the Grand Cathedral before anyone could stop him. Gorim stayed outside, guarding the doors. Aedan was all for ending certain conventions, but high society wasn't quite ready to watch a dwarven knight enter a Chantry.
Denerim's Grand Cathedral reminded him of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A vaulted, cavernous ceiling decorated with numberless religious scripts and images stretched over row upon row of empty ebon pews. Wooden shutters blocked out the midday sun.
So that's why we're having our ceremony outside.
Elemena was a proud woman, and would not host the rulers of Ferelden in here until the stained glass was restored. With the sun blocked and candles unlit, the only beacon of light shone from the Holy Brazier, which threw its orange glow over masthead-like carving of Andraste above. Aedan took a moment to examine the statue. It was quite absurd, varnished wood painted gold, arms thrown up in the most overused, dramatic gesture in iconography, the sleeves of its robes hanging down so the Prophetess resembled a great bird taking flight. The only admirable craftsmanship lay in the fine stitching of her standard on the banner overhead: the spiralling sun with its many-pronged flames, swirling over a black canvas.
"Forgive me, Lady Andraste, for the deal I'm about to cut."
He began to walk down the main aisle. Slowly, casually. There was still some time to kill.
Adventuring had given him a taste for old, outdated and rather useless buildings. Though of course, many of their crumbling rooms and creaking stairwells overflowed with discarded treasures and suicidal fools for him to practice swordplay on. No such luck in here. He spotted the towering bookcases to the far left. They were packed with the usual drab, lifeless tomes bound in overpriced leather, gathering dust and undeserved reverence, nothing to siphon from their pages but the vicarious self-limiting beliefs of fearful bores.
His lethargic procession halted at the front pew. He sat and bowed his head, idly leafing through a prayer book.
A door to the vestry opened. The man who came out wore the robes of a brother. He carried a brass thurible, which swung to-and-fro on a chain, breathing out ghostly curls of incense. Aedan waited for the brother to reach him.
It took a while; he was slowed and stooped forward by decrepitude. His overlong beard and dirty grey hair hung low, absorbing most of the smoke.
"Brother," Aedan said softly as he passed. "My conscience weighs heavily on me. I have sinned."
The old man stopped, and the thurible with him. Puffs of incense swelled where he stood, obscuring his face. Men had no authority to absolve in the Chantry hierarchy, but could offer sympathetic ears for the repentant.
"What is it my son?" His voice was an exhausted marriage of croak and wheeze.
Aedan discarded the prayer book and leaned back, regarding the statue of Andraste once again.
"I keep…imagining my cock between those luscious, sanctified tits of our Lady Redeemer. If only I was a few centuries older, or she a few centuries younger."
The brother put his smoking burden down, and Aedan saw K's face grinning from beneath the grey beard and wig.
"What gave me away?" he said.
"The voice. You've never done subtlety too well, K. The disguises are getting better though."
"Where is she?" K whined, looking around at the emptiness. "She said she'd be waiting for us."
The cathedral doors opened a crack, just enough to allow the woman in question to enter. Gorim leaned around the door behind her, giving K's wink and nod. Time was short.
Sister Theohild was far better at feigning aged weakness and general battiness than K. Even Aedan had been hoodwinked at first. Now, in clandestine gloom, she crossed the tiled floor with the confidence and speed of a woman one third her age. Even her visage was different; focused, resolute, power-hungry.
"They think I've just come in to fetch you," she said. "We don't have long."
Even her true voice was unrecognisably quick and sharp.
Aedan got to his feet, and the three of them stood in a tight-knit circle, holding hands. Any unwelcome intruders would think they had simply stumbled upon a shared prayer.
"Nice reading the other day, sister," said K. "I particularly enjoyed the bit about the Maker's First Chicken."
"Yes, about that," said Aedan. "I need you to dial back the culinary malapropisms. We don't want them getting in the way of your promotion to Revered Mother."
Theohild's mask of non-threatening senility had served as an excellent cover so far, but he needed her in higher places now.
At this instruction her eyes twinkled with greed. "You promised you'd make me Grand Cleric! You promised!"
"And you will be," said Aedan, eyeing the doors. "When you've lived up to your end of the bargain." He turned to K. "You're sure the message is clear on the Chanter's Board?"
Theohild nodded impatiently. "Crystal clear."
"Read it, K."
The rogue let go of Aedan's hand to pull a scrap of paper from his beard. "I am but a humble alchemist and servant of our Maker-"
"Get to the good part."
"…a reward, what little I can spare for the generous soul who delivers the powdered talon of a buzzard, two replacement lute strings and a tied sheaf of tulips and holly. I would make the collection myself, but with the roads perilous and crops wilted I cannot. Hurry pilgrims, I fear my business will not take off without this act of charity."
"I trust all the appropriate lingo is buried in that waffle?" said Aedan.
"Sure is. Arl Rooke really knows his stuff."
"Yes, yes!" Theohild snapped irritably. "You'll get your assassins."
"Do not say it out loud!" Aedan growled. "With that sorted, are the Tears of Andraste still in the vault, alongside the writings of Maferath?"
"Yes."
"The same place they keep the phylacteries?"
"Yes, why?"
"Have the relics been notarised yet?"
"No, we're still investigating."
"I know the war has distracted the Chantry from the verification process, that's where we press our advantage."
K and Theohild gave Aedan eerily similar looks. The excitement of being let in on a scheme by a true mastermind.
"When you get out of here, tell your superiors –all of them, that I broke down and confessed to recovering the Tears of Andraste myself. That will explain our delay. Tell them I felt the Tears hum with the same holy power the Ashes did. When the Grand Cleric goes into the vault, make sure you accompany her. I need you to touch the Tears. Upon touching them you will drop this nutty old woman act. We will credit your newfound lucidity to some healing miracle. You'll be viewed as the Maker's favourite, and you'll be on the way to making Grand Cleric."
Theohild's eyes were wide. "What…what if the Tears do have power? It could be anything, there's no guarantee I can-"
"Then just touch the bag containing them. Nothing happened to me when I did that."
"Okay, I'll do it. But why did you ask about the phylacteries?"
Aedan handed her a note. "While you're down there, I need you to match these names to their phylacteries. Write down any omissions."
She read the list. "Whose names are these?"
"Friends of mine in the Mage's Collective. They're no use to us captured or dead."
"If you expect me to destroy-"
"Not destroy, just check."
"Leave the destroying to my people," said K.
Aedan knew it was best to sneak in bad news or demanding requests in quick succession. "I also need a copy of the complete Templar registry for Ferelden," he said. "Active, and retired within the last decade."
Theohild's mouth fell open. "The Templar registry?! It's one of the closest guarded secrets in the capital! You do know why, surely? Vengeful nobles who lose children to magic, blood mages settling old grudges and the like. I daresay only the Divine in Orlais has a completely accurate copy."
Aedan felt his jaw tighten. The Chantry was the only tendril of lingering Orlesian power Loghain hadn't cut out. Theohild wasn't done complaining.
"The others I can do, but the Templar registry on top of that? You're asking an awful lot of an old woman, Chancellor!" she huffed.
"Find a way, Sister. I need my future Grand Cleric competent. Or are your unlawful ambitions still limited to smuggling in the occasional bottle of wine and Pearl whore?"
Theohild's sagging, wrinkled cheeks blushed. Aedan saw and heard no denial.
"The Chasind-born lad, Salik, wasn't it? You'd dress him up as an initiate and put him through a naughty rite of passage."
K's hand flew to his false beard, muffling laughter. "I think she got the point, ser."
Theohild only nodded.
"Wonderful. Now, you and I will take the front way out. K, use the backdoor, make sure nobody sees you and for goodness sake get to the Alienage as soon as you can."
Aedan returned to the stage after the roaring, but comparatively tame applause for Anora's speech was over.
The next hour unfolded like a standard royal tour. Anora took the lead in their entourage, progressing through the Market District with smiles and waves, feigning interest in the best wares the merchants had to offer, taking flattery from social climbers and trying not to look too displeased when everyone she encountered showed far more interest in Aedan than her. Aedan hung back in the crowd, only speaking when spoken to. He needed her insecurity to look unwarranted. Explicit displays of one-upmanship would only hinder him.
Everyone from Wade's Emporium to the Wonders of Thedas wanted a piece of the Chancellor. They gave him everything they had; gifts, prayers, songs, enthusiastic updates on the city's repairs. Whether it was business or pleasure, they all made time for him. Aedan played the humble, overwhelmed hero well, always directing his eager admirers back to Anora. After enduring his fill of hand-shaking, flower-receiving and baby kissing (surely there was more to politics than this) Rooke tapped him on the shoulder and declared, loud enough for all to hear:
"Chancellor, you are needed in the Alienage. Keeper Lanaya wishes to discuss the terms of the new Warden Treaties."
Aedan excused himself before anybody could protest. It was a flawless cover story, and Anora couldn't follow. A rugged hero of the people braving the Alienage was standard practice, a queen doing the same was unprecedented. This was one of Aedan's favourite ploys; push for social change when you could, play to tradition when it benefitted.
Aedan, Berthold, Rooke, Gorim and the Black Hounds took a considerable portion of the admiring crowd with them en route to the Alienage gates, forcing a dismissal.
"My friends!" Aedan shouted over their chatter, hurried by the sight of Taoran Hawkwind fast approaching. "I fear this is where we must part ways. Return to your city, she needs you. Restore her to true power and beauty, as only Fereldans can!"
One more moronic cheer and burst of applause later, they dispersed.
"Did Genitivi get the message?" Aedan muttered to Hawkwind when confident no one could hear.
The captain lifted his dog face visor, revealing a sadistic smile. "Loud and clear. He won't be blabbing about that Urn until we tell him to. Nor will any of his friends."
Aedan knew that look and tone of voice all too well. "I told you no violence!"
He couldn't afford to have disobedient subordinates now, least of all his captain. Now away from the crowd, he was remembering the morning's confrontation with Solveig and the Wardens. With that, and their little scheme in the Alienage, the pressure was building and room for mistakes vanishing.
"Don't blame me, that pious stoat started it!"
"Then I have a captain who let a crippled aging man provoke him to blows! I expect this of some no-name noble bastard or common street rat, not my Captain Hawkwind."
If you couldn't make a rogue feel empathy, wound his ego. "Won't happen again, my lord."
Aedan leaned in close to the smaller man. Hawkwind's smile vanished, but he did not flinch.
"Don't make me regret the day I killed your father," Aedan whispered.
Hawkwind nodded nervously.
"Now stand guard at these gates, make sure no one else enters this way. If you get bored, try to think of a way to make it up to Genitivi, before I come up with one for you."
Scandal would grip Denerim if the human citizenry knew how well the Alienage was doing already. Aedan almost felt compelled to tell the Dalish craftsmen to ease off a bit. He and Rooke would be the ones who'd have to deal with accusations of favouritism, and Anora would hardly take their side. The ramshackle elven houses had lost none of their uniqueness, and gained a sturdiness and aesthetic quality thought unattainable mere weeks ago.
His entourage had just crossed over the restored bridge and through the new gates when they were accosted by a beggar, caked in dirt and weighed down by mouldy rags. The elf threw himself at Aedan's feet.
"Alms for the poor, ser?" he croaked. "Help an old war veteran out?"
"Get up Zevran!" Aedan snapped, almost as annoyed as he was amused. "If all my friends keep approaching me in disguise, my feelings are going to be hurt."
The suave Antivan drawl returned. "You told me to wait here and update you on anything conspicuous. I am a very conspicuous elf, so I thought I'd tone down the look to avoid having to write a long report on myself. And somehow, judging by the look on your face, this disguise of mine manages to offend you more than my attempt to end your life?"
"Yes. That didn't come with a bad accent. You and K could compare notes. Now take off those rags and wipe that shit from your face, I need you in top charming form."
Zevran stood and threw off the tattered robe. He was in full Antivan leather armour underneath, daggers sheathed and sharpened. Rooke handed him a clean handkerchief, and the elf began scrubbing his tattooed face.
"You have a seductive kill lined up for me, yes?" he purred.
"No," said Aedan, "more a glorified distraction masquerading as a negotiation. Tell Valendrian and Lanaya I've approved their request for a permanent elven representative in the royal court, and that the Dalish will get the new territory they asked for."
Zevran folded his arms. "Sounds like something better suited for a messenger boy."
"Drag it out. Blag, waffle, improvise, charm, joke, drink. Do what you did when I woke you up; pretend you're at their mercy just as you were at mine. Lanaya will want to go into great detail about the new land. Let her. We just need you to make sure she doesn't find out where I'm going today."
Zevran looked far from sold on the idea.
"Come on Zev, you must have had some contracts that involved dull, diplomatic parts."
"Yes but I got to kill at the end of them. Or make love. Or both. Don't worry, the lovemaking always came first. Besides, I haven't exactly been in Ferelden long, what am I supposed to know of geography?"
"Arl Rooke will accompany you. A cooperative Arl of Denerim is what the Alienage needs right now, all past transgressions considered, wouldn't you agree?"
Zevran's eyes turned serious. He could only nod.
They found Valendrian and Lanaya waiting outside the Hahren's house, where the negotiation would take place.
"Andaran Atish'an, Chancellor," said Valendrian with a bow.
Aedan returned the gesture. "Adopting the old ways already, Hahren?" he said.
"If you fear for my safety, you need not bother," said Valendrian evenly. "I never venture outside the Alienage at my age. And I'm sure the average Fereldan human is still unfamiliar with this tongue."
"That's changing," Aedan said.
"A lot is changing," Rooke added.
Lanaya turned to Rooke, sizing him up with bright inquisitive eyes. Rooke held still, remaining calm. Aedan smiled inwardly, not even a perceptive Dalish Keeper could easily read the former Shrunken Lord.
"Hahren Valendrian tells me you wish to form closer ties," she said to him after an uncertain silence.
"That is correct," was the reply.
For once Aedan allowed himself to relax and bask in the comfort of assured, ironclad loyalty. Overseeing Vaughan's private execution had put Valendrian, and the Alienage as a whole 'in too deep' with Aedan, as K would say. Perhaps he thought it was worth the risk. Enduring years of kidnapping and rapes , helpless to stop them, would break any leader.
"Would that go against the Dalish vows to never again submit?" said Zevran cheekily.
Lanaya's prominent eyes widened again. Gorim glared at Zevran. The Antivan assassin was supposed to pad conversation out, not stir it into choppy waters.
But the young Keeper's mind was a diplomatic one. "Even those of us who hold the oldest customs have to adapt," she said. "I respect the right of the city-dwelling Elvhen to choose the terms of their own growth. And I believe that if Arlathan and the Dales had survived, they would not be the same today as they were then. We had the ability to advance, to progress. The Dalish are fools to keep the superficial customs of their immortal ancestors but forget their talent for innovation."
"An idea I can get behind," said Aedan. "In another life you'd be a politician. In this one you can be something similar, though not as ghastly. You must have heard by now of my plan to keep you as an active presence in court, whenever you're in the neighbourhood that is."
"Flattering Chancellor, but today my duties will not extend beyond making sure my people have land to return to. We appreciate the olive branch, but we are just one clan of many."
"But yours is the clan we signed the treaty with," Aedan said. "The clan we renewed it with. All the other Keepers who fought left at the first opportunity, but you…" he motioned to the emerging generation of buildings, "you stayed and helped. Many clans fought, bled and died to save the shemlen, but only one did more than the bare minimum."
Lanaya's expression softened, and Aedan knew he had her. For all the rules and requirements of intrigue, all it really took was making someone feel powerful and convincing them you needed a slice of it. Once that was done they were clay in your hands. He let her absorb the compliment before handing her and Valendrian over to Rooke and Zevran.
Aedan, Berthold, Gorim and their surrounding Black Hounds dressed up their journey through the Alienage as another chapter of the victory tour. Aedan stopped every so often to oversee construction and peep into shops and markets, though the elves were not near as relentless as the humans had been. No elves remained in their entourage and they received the expected wide berth from the locals, though it was more respect than fear.
With less formality in the air and no one paying too much attention, Berthold did his duty. He frolicked by the vhenadahl with even more alacrity than Aedan was used to, drawing all the nearby children and their protectively post-war parents to himself. No more prying eyes.
Aedan and Gorim slipped around the back of what had been the Tevinter slavers' 'clinic.' Shianni greeted them with a steely-eyed look and forward jerk of her head. That was as close to formal etiquette as he was getting. She lead them into the still abandoned apartments. No words were needed, theirs was a bond sealed in Vaughan's blood.
City elves were a wonderfully practical people, forged in fire from birth, compelled by poverty to seek opportunity, not a single one grown fat and soft and complacent. Not when it meant death. No wonder K could recruit so easily from here. They would serve Aedan well.
They soon reached the entrance to the Tevinter warehouse. Shianni produced a keychain and unlocked the door.
It was dark and empty inside, save for a huge map of Ferelden tacked on the far wall of the lower level. There were large black X marks crossed on various places. Three on Denerim. Two on Orzammar. Three on West Hill. Three on the Circle Tower. Two more on Redcliffe.
Aedan tapped Gorim's shoulder encouragingly and breathed in the beautiful, penumbral mustiness. Chantry halls had always left him cold, nothing like this. The very air hummed with the promise of prosperity. The anticipation of misdeeds. He could already visualise the rows of long tables (let the Chantry keep their pews) and the complementary rows of obedient workers – human elf, dwarf, anybody he could slip through. All of them mixing, packing, storing, checking.
If superstition be the law of the land and grand motivation of the masses, let it sprout from something symbolically meaningful. Here, where so recently elves were caged and sold like flea market poultry, they would now contribute to the most lucrative venture in the Ferelden underground, the cornerstone of his grand plan.
To complete the image, K burst out of a trapdoor in the floor. He had long since shed the Chantry garb, now wearing his rogue leathers, a manic grin plastered across his sweaty face.
"The tunnels are cleared milord!" he gasped. "We can finally mobilise!"
They stood in the heart of what would be the greatest illegal lyrium empire Thedas had ever seen.
I figured a scholar like Genitivi would be drawn to the Canticle of Exaltations, as it's the only part of the Chant with a clear authorship and history.