Viscount Dumar appeared to be looking for something on a corner shelf when the seneschal showed Hawke, Merrill, and Varric into his office. Aveline, who would make up the fourth member, had made a quick side-trip to her quarters to change. She wouldn't be representing the guard on this trip.

Dumar's back to them, he made a show of sorting through a stack of correspondence–a task he'd often used to calm himself in the past. This time, it didn't work. Hearing someone enter his office, he dropped the stack of letters he'd retrieved from the shelf and sighed.

Seneschal Bran cleared his throat. "Your Excellency, Cale Hawke… and company."

Giving up, he neatened the pile of papers and finally turned to face his visitors. "Ahh, Serah Hawke." He forced a smile. "Thank you for coming. It seems there's nowhere else for me to turn." He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "Please, forgive me." He looked up. "That will be all, Bran. See that I am not disturbed." His look was stern. "No one."

"Yes, Excellency." Bran shot a worried look at their visitors. "Uhhm, I will be right outside… if you need me." With that, he left them. "A true disaster. There's no pleasing anyone after this," he grumbled to himself on his way out.

"Please forgive my poor manners," the viscount stated, his eyes were on Hawke's companions. "Something has come up and…" He shot a stern look at Bran's retreating figure. "I'll need your discretion in this matter," he said after the door had closed.

"My apology as well, Your Excellency." He faced his friends. "An assumption on my part. My friends who have helped us in the past are here again." He smiled at the viscount's raised eyebrow. "Our Keeper Merrill, and Varric Tethras, as well as I, are at your service." They murmured greetings and shook hands. "Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen will be along shortly, though not as an official, unless it's necessary," Hawke added.

"I am beginning to see there's some truth to the rumors about you," Dumar mused aloud. "Your reputation for getting things done is well earned, it seems." He sighed and shuffled some papers on his desk, moving them to a side table. "On to business. It is apparently not enough that the Qunari define my political life. They must also infect what I hold dear." He paused to look at each one of them in turn, looking for any sign of rebellion.

Varric spoke up, filling the silence. "Rumors have it the Qunari are beyond restless. It's only a matter of time before they make a move. Have they done that… Excellency?" he asked from the back of the room.

"It is not the Qunari… directly. It is my son Saemus," he said stiffly. The viscount was looking out one of the tall narrow windows on the far side of his desk. "The life you all saved, he would… squander by converting to the Qun!" He faced them with his hands flat on his desk. "He has left for the Qunari Compound. Please, Serah Hawke, convince my son to come home."

Hawke hesitated. "He is of age. The decision is his to make, isn't it?"

"There is the conflict." Dumar was firm. "You see, as his father, I want to let him find his own way, but in my position… there are constraints." He paused again, as if to collect his thoughts. "Your example has inspired him. I might agree, but now is not the time. These matters are… delicate."

"It's never easy," Varric commiserated.

"He's taken a great deal of inspiration from you. And I want to allow his idealism, but to follow it blindly? He lacks the experience for such a decision." He looked up with some irritation at a murmur of voices from the waiting room. "Think about it from my point of view; At best, my opponents will claim that my office is now in the hands of the Qunari." He looked down at his clenched fists. "At worst… I lose my son."

"I see." Hawke was thoughtful. "Either way, you know this can only end in trouble."

The viscount's frown deepened. "Fitting. That's where it all started. Still, my son is not foolish. I'm sure he will listen to reason. And you, my friend, are in the best position to offer him the opportunity. Bring him home… please, do what you can."

This time, when the Qunari guard lifted the bar on the gate and opened it, his insult was plain. "You are allowed basra, until the Arishok declares otherwise." He stepped aside just enough for them to pass through one at a time.

He met them at the bottom of the stairway leading to his quarters. "Serah Hawke." At his greeting, the two warriors escorting the Arishok returned to their posts at the top of the stairs, where they leaned on their spears and watched impassively.

Unlike the other times he'd been here in the compound, it seemed to Hawke that there were more Qunari lounging around. There were no weapons out in the open, but they weren't far from hand–he was sure. "I am here about the viscount's son," he said without preamble.

The Arishok seemed amused. "Are you?" he wondered. "In four years I have made no threat, and fanatics have lined up to hate us simply because we exist." He held up a hand, refusing to be interrupted. "But… despite lies and fear, bas still beg me to let them come to the Qun. Why?" He let the silence spin out. "Because they hunger for purpose." Every eye was on the Qunari leader now. "The son has made a choice. You will not deny him that."

Hawke held up empty hands. "Converting the viscount's son… his opposition will have a field day with that."

"His opposition will throw his ass out!"

He heard Aveline; "Varric, shut up!"

"And?" The Arishok chose to ignore the dwarf's caustic remark.

"The enemy of your enemy should be your friend?" Hawke posed, using the old proverb as a challenge.

"I don't fear the whole of them together, and it is not my role to reject viddathari." He took a moment to look around at the warriors assembled here. "The son responded to his own demand of the Qun. He is neither my slave nor my prisoner." Hearing no objection, the Arishok continued. "He is not even here. He went to his father. Ask the viscount why he would send both you and a letter here."

Hawke was thoughtful. "That seems… strange."

"They are meeting at the Chantry. A last, pointless appeal, I assume," the Qunari leader supplied.

"I doubt the viscount would involve the Chantry in such a personal matter." This was Varric.

"No," Hawke agreed. "But we know who would. Mother Petrice."

Merrill, who had been quiet until then, spoke up. "Petrice! That one makes my heart sore. What has she done now?"

"A suspect in many things," the Arishok agreed as well. He raised his voice. "If she has threatened someone under my command again, there can be only one response."

"Don't make things worse by marching your men through the streets without cause," Hawke advised. Maker, Kirkwall is a powder keg and that Chantry bitch is going to light the fuse!

The Arishok drew himself up. "This is cause." His troops were all on their feet. "This is the last insult I will suffer, Hawke. I will be watching," he said in dismissal.

On their way out, none of Hawke's group noticed when the Arishok pointed at one of his warriors and nodded. The bowman slung his weapon and moved out.

When they got to the Chantry and slipped through the massive doors, it seemed deserted. In the Great Hall, large red and white candles in ornate wall sconces and floor stands were lit for the coming evening, chasing the shadows into the far corners.

A murmur of voices from a room just off the hall to their right was the only evidence that anyone was here. "It looks like a prayer service." Varric's eye was at the keyhole. "A sister is speaking to a group of… call it twenty or so locals. Their clothes say they're commoners, not from Hightown by the looks of them." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"So, where is the good mother?" Aveline wanted to know.

"This may be her," Varric replied, moving closer to the keyhole again and squinting. "Hmm, grey robes… red bodice… very well endowed." He looked up and grinned at the Guard-Captain's snort. "'can't see her face, though. Not sure." He carefully tried the latch. "Damn, it's locked."

"There is someone upstairs." All eyes followed Merrill's pointing finger to the balcony overlooking the Great Hall. At the feet of a tall statue of Andraste, a figure in the shadows kneeled with head bowed.

Skirting the pews in the Great Hall, they took the right-hand stairs up in a loose formation; Hawke led Aveline, then Varric and Merrill followed cautiously, ready for anything.

The head and shoulders of Andraste's statue were just visible past the balcony railing. It was facing the Chantry's entrance, so its front side was all they could see. On the balcony, a young man was on his knees facing the massive entry doors. His hands were between his knees–he looked like he was in a state of meditation, in prayer.

Not wanting to disturb him, Hawke took a moment to look around the deserted upper floor. From support columns to statues to pews his eyes wandered, looking for anything out of place. Nothing stood out–nothing moved.

Before Hawke could decide what to do next, Merrill stepped up. "Saemus?" She reached around his shoulders so as not to startle him and recoiled when the body rolled over, showing his sightless eyes. She looked up from her examination. "He's… gone," she said with sorrow in her voice. "There is nothing we can do–"

"You have done quite enough!" Hawke's group looked down at the Revered Mother of Kirkwall Chantry's entrance onto the Great Hall's main floor below. "Serah Hawke, look at what you've done!" Standing behind her were two armed and armored templars ringed by a cluster of common folk. All were armed–some with bows, some with blades, though no weapons had been drawn, yet.

Petrice wagged a finger at Hawke. "To pounce upon the viscount's son, a repentant Qunari convert, in the very Chantry itself? A vicious crime with no excuse!" She looked past the guards standing behind her, then returned her eyes to Hawke. "Your Qunari masters will finally answer!" The crowd muttered its approval.

Hawke gripped the balcony railing. "Mother Petrice. I should've known. You've been a headache for a long time now," he gestured to the body on the balcony, "but to outright kill someone? That's new for you, why?"

The templars moved up beside her, one on each side. "He deliberately denied the Maker!" She raised her voice so all could hear. "How many would follow us if he went unpunished?" Calls of heretic and heathen from behind her brought a sly smile to her face. "And yet… even this sympathizer will inspire vengeance when his brutal murder, by you, is exposed." The rumble from the crowd was getting louder.

He looked down at them and shook is head. "Great plan, Mother, until innocent people start dying in a war with the Qunari that you started!"

She gave a sideways look to her guards. "To die untested… that would be the real crime. One needs the opportunity to test one's faith. Starting with you!" She turned to the crowd. "Earn your reward in this life and the next!" She raised a fist at Hawke up on the balcony. "These heretics must die"

The mob surged forward as one. With shouted curses, they charged toward the right-side stairway. Three archers stopped and set their arrows, while the rest drew weapons and started up to the balcony. Merrill's controlled mind-blast slowed them enough to give Aveline time to gain a firm footing on the landing half-way down. Hawke took her left flank to get behind the first ones to gain the landing.

On the balcony overlooking the main floor, Bianca spoke three times in quick succession, felling two of the archers there. Cursing roundly, Varric fumbled the bolts in the reload when three assassins in black leather appeared at the head of the left-side stairs–He and Merrill had been flanked. The one missile he managed to load flew true, hitting the leading rogue in the right ear–he dropped like a chopped tree. Bianca's bayonet slashed the woman following, causing her to drop one blade and turn to deal with the dwarf. The last assassin now had a free hand at Merrill's unprotected back. Using his cloaking ability, he faded from view and started his approach.

On the right-side stair landing, Fadeshear's length was an advantage. Though it was a longsword, Aveline's long arms gave her a wider striking range–she used it like a greatsword. Not waiting for the whole mob, she descended two steps and ran the leader through, disabling two of his followers with a looping sweep. Raising her shield, she stepped back, drawing those following past Hawke, who dispatched one after another with his main-hand and then his off-hand, until he had five attackers dead on the stairs. Seeing that the Guard-Captain was holding her own, Hawke descended to the main floor to deal with the biggest threat–the remaining archer.

It was a dance. At least that was how Merrill looked at it now. It had taken a while, quite a while it seemed, but she'd finally mastered the mind-set that Dalish Keepers called The Higher Plane when you translated the phrase. A calm detachment came over her, like her life was not the least bit endangered. Her staff, fashioned from a branch cut from Kirkwall's own Vhenadahl tree, was an extension of her focused will. Having razor sharp blades fastened to its head, shank, and tail, she could throw magic missiles as well as slash at closer opponents with it. The missiles flew until a presence intruded. Her finely honed instinct told her of that presence. An unfriendly presence was there behind her, not at the battle front. It was focused on her–she was a target, but a quick look over her shoulder revealed nothing.

She could see that Varric was entangled in a hand-to-hand struggle with a figure in black. Was it his call that caught her attention? Her eyes returned to their front. Something instinctive would not allow those eyes to betray her, though. Seeming to have a will of its own, the ancient wood of her staff told her what her eyes could not and she responded. Her dance was as old as the dalish–the hardened blades spun in a blur. A slash with the shank blade was followed by a head blade slash, topped with a back-handed jab of the tail blade–She twisted the staff out as the assassin's body fell.

"Sorry… Daisy," the dwarf panted when he finally caught up with her. "You all right?" At her fervent nod, he ran to the balcony rail and scanned the main floor through Bianca's sights. The Chantry's massive entry doors had been left half-open by the fleeing survivors.

The fight was over. Hawke and Aveline joined Merrill and Varric at the balcony's bloodstained left entrance. Taking stock revealed minor injuries, nothing that couldn't be treated on the battlefield.

Varric seemed to have fared the worst. Merrill turned to to help him while Hawke tended Aveline. Footfalls on the stone steps made them all look up. "Do you see, Your Grace? Traitors attacking the very heart of the Chantry!" It was Mother Petrice following Elthina closely. "They defile sacred ground with their very presence!"

Hawke opened his mouth to speak, but a stern look from the Grand Cleric silenced him. He was glad to see her. Though she looked tired, she still looked magnificent to him. How had her trip to Orlais gone? He wanted to see her in private–he'd really missed her. For that, her pointed look told him, he'd have to wait.

They all watched as the Grand Cleric circled the balcony, taking in the gruesome aftermath of battle. Her gaze settled on Hawke, then shifted to Petrice. "There is death in every corner, young Mother." When she recognized Saemus, all she could do was close her eyes. Her stern look was for Petrice. "It is as you predicted," she intoned. "All too well."

Elthina faced Hawke, who was standing in front of Aveline and Varric. Merrill was at the balcony rail, looking forlornly down at the bodies in the Great Hall. Elthina's eyes naturally went to Hawke and Petrice. She looked back and forth between them and raised an eyebrow–an invitation for either to speak.

"Forgive me the intrusion, Your Grace. But you must know the truth about what happened here." Hawke spoke to Elthina, but glared at Petrice.

Petrice almost spat at him. Her arms were crossed over an ample bosom. "Don't you spout your Qunari filth. Mind how you speak. This is the hand of the Divine."

Kirkwall's Grand Cleric smiled indulgently and tipped a shadow of a wink at Hawke. "I have ears, Mother Petrice. The Maker would have me use them." She put on a stony face and turned to him. "Serah Hawke, is it?" Her eyes found the floor, then returned to his face.

Did they hear Varric's snort from the back rank? "Aye, Your Grace, it is," Hawke intoned. "Viscount Dumar's son is dead," he glared at Petrice again, "killed here in your name." His voice echoed back at them from the Great Hall.

They all watched as Merrill, who had turned angrily from the balcony rail at Hawke's words, started to say something, thought the better of it, and turned back away. Again, Elthina slowly closed her eyes. "I am sure that my name will not like that." She turned her head. "Petrice?"

She looked away. "Saemus Dumar was a Qunari convert!" She put on a concerned face. "He came here… He came back to us to repent and was murdered!" She pointed in Varric's direction. "By him!"

The dwarf's look of surprise was classic Varric. He held up his hands and shrugged. Hawke could only shake his head. "It is a ruse, Your Grace. Saemus was lured here with a fake letter and killed to turn everyone against the Qunari."

It was dawning on Elthina, Hawke was glad to see it on her face. She turned to Petrice. "Mother?" was all she asked.

She was cornered. "This is no longer a matter of heathens squatting in the Docks of Kirkwall. People are leaving us to join them!" she blurted. Her face fell when she realized what she'd just said.

"And we must pray for them, like any other." Elthina admonished as if to a willful child.

The Revered Mother knew she'd lost. "They deny the Maker!"

"And you diminish Him, even as you claim his side." She spoke her truth quietly. "Andraste did not volunteer for the flame, young mother." Elthina turned abruptly away. "Serah Hawke, do you stand with the Captain of the Guard?"

He was ready. "Aye, Your Grace, as do we all." Varric and Merrill agreed with a nod.

Her face remained stern. "This young mother has erred in her judgment. A court will decide her fate." She spared a pitying look for Petrice. "The Chantry respects the law-of-the-land and so must she." With some dignity, she mounted the stairs and made her way to her quarters.

"Your Grace," Petrice pleaded in disbelief. "Grand Cleric?"

Elthina, taking the steps one-at-a-time, did not look back.

"Grand Cleric!" Did something in the shadows move? Was Elthina turning around? With renewed hope, Petrice took a step forward.

The sound of a bowstring releasing caused Elthina to look back just in time to see Petrice drop slowly to her knees. An arrow had sprouted from her breast, its ragged ebon fletching was dull against the scarlet of her bodice. Kirkwall's Grand Cleric was there to see the shadow that stepped out in plain sight.

The entire balcony was in tableau–the Qunari bowman deliberately, slowly, set another arrow and drew it back, his bow creaking with the effort. The Arishok's sentence was carried out with a well placed, merciful head shot. No-one said a word–no-one moved.

The bowman, his job done, slung his weapon. "We protect those who follow the Qun. We do not abandon our own." Before anyone could speak, he was gone.

It would take a sharp eye to see the single tear that ran down Elthina's cheek. Merrill did and so did Hawke. He wanted to go to her, but propriety forbade it. He could only stand with his friends and watch her walk away.

"Please… Send for Viscount Dumar," she said, turning to make her way upstairs.

My Dearest Petrine,
It has been so long since I have heard from you.
Are you well? Maybe you are just busy. That
is my most fervent hope.

I am so miserable. Last night, I drank myself
into oblivion and my misery today seems just,
but somehow it is not enough. They have killed
my baby! Those vile, heathen qunari beasts
have murdered my Petrice! She did not deserve
to be executed. The agony that she endured,
Petrine! Agony that I witnessed with my own
eyes.

That she was involved in something
not-quite-right, something shady, I have no
doubt. I have yet to get to the bottom of it,
but eventually I will, Maker willing. She was
brutally slain right here in the atrium-in the
heart of our Chantry. What could I… what
could we have done to prevent it? Is this
the Maker's hand at work? Why Petrine,
why?

My dear, I must go. A heartbroken viscount
wishes to meet with me personally. He has
lost his son to this seemingly bottomless
pit of intrigue as well. What shall I tell him?
How do I console him? Do I share my
youngest daughter's guilt in this as well?
Petrine, how I wish you were here. Your
counsel is sorely needed.

Sadly awaiting happier times.
 Love, Elthina.

A/N Once again, thanks ~Vice. You were right.