Chapter 25

Alistair

Their trip up to the next temple was slow-going, between Genitivi's near inability to walk and Leliana still recovering from her arrow wounds. But the time it took gave the bard the time she needed to regain most of the energy she had lost, so it wasn't all a waste. After a few hours, they arrived at the sealed entrance to a temple that no one would ever seen from the foothills of the Frostbacks. Genitivi manipulated the lock with the medallion and the doors swung open, beckoning the group inside.

They found a cavernous room that once must have been magnificent. Pillars soared to the arched ceiling above, but snow had caved into a few of the walls, and still continued to hug the etched stone floor. There were some books scattered about, and Alistair caught glimpses of bookshelves off in a few of the wings. Genitivi quickly excused himself to explore the shelves, claiming he could keep himself out of trouble. Knowing keeping the older man with them would slow them down too much, he left him there. They continued further into the temple, occasionally meeting resistance from people who must be related to the villagers. The words the villagers, no, cultists of some sort, Alistair corrected himself, spoke made less and less sense.

The people kept insisting that they were followers and protectors of Andraste. They mentioned nothing of the Ashes, but referred to Andraste as if she were alive. Which, the others knew, was patently untrue. Andraste had been betrayed by Maferath to the Tevinter Imperium, and she'd been burned at the stake as a result. What strange people to think she was alive. Did they read nothing of history?

As they trudged ever upward in a tunnel carved through the rock, a roar startled all of them. Then three large creatures that looked like drakes ran toward them, long teeth flashing, and behind them a small herd of dragonlings. Dragonlings? What in Maker's name was going on here? After dealing with what were undeniably drakes and dragonlings once they got a closer look, Alistair asked, "Anyone have any idea just what is going on in this place?"

"I think I do," Leliana said quietly. "I read about this once, in the Chantry. I think these people are a dragon cult, people who worship a high dragon. What we saw in the village, with those bloody altars, they must have been sacrificing dragonlings and... drinking their blood. They believe it gives them power. It is part of a dragon cult's practices. And if this is truly a dragon cult, there must be a high dragon nearby."

"Could it be the archdemon?" Malcolm asked.

"No," Alistair answered. "We would be able to sense it. Besides, do you really think we'd just stumble onto the archdemon?"

Malcolm turned to Alistair. "Knowing us? Yes. That would be our luck. We freed Riordan from Fort Drakon remarkably easily. I'm just waiting for this luck to bite us in the ass." He frowned up into the darkened tunnel ahead of them. "Running into a high dragon might be the ass-biting I've been expecting."

"With extra-large teeth," Zevran added.

Alistair sighed. "Come on. If it's a high dragon, she'll be breathing fire, and we all know Malcolm loves that sort of thing." The group laughed, needing that sort of break from the tension, even if at his brother's expense.

"I hate you all," Malcolm grumbled, and then continued up the passage, Morrigan lighting the way beside him with her staff.

The tunnel ended up connecting to another temple, where they ran into a man in heavy armor who carried himself as a leader. "Stop! You will go no further!" he shouted at them when he noted their entrance.

Alistair raised an eyebrow and calmly asked, "Oh, is that so? And who are you to stop us?"

"I am Father Kolgrim. And you, strangers, have defiled our temple. You have spilled the blood of the faithful and slaughtered our young. No more! You will tell me now, intruders, why you have done all this. Why have you come here?"

Alistair figured they really could've engaged in this sort of dialogue earlier. Before all those nasty deaths had taken place. "You know, your people could have just asked me that before they started attacking me and my friends, here. But if you must know now, we've come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. If you would just let us continue on our way, we will gladly not kill anyone else."

Kolgrim laughed. "You did this all for an ancient relic? Know this, strangers, the Prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine. Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay her now! What hope do you have?"

Hope to slay Andraste? Putting aside the fact that she was already dead and it was her ashes they sought, why would they want to kill her in the first place?

"You're mad," Malcolm said. "Andraste is dead."

Kolgrim rounded on Malcolm, the heat of his anger flaring almost palpably around him. "You know nothing! Andraste revealed Herself to us! We are her Chosen! To arms, my brethren! Andraste will grant us victory!" Kolgrim drew a formidable two-handed maul and advanced on Alistair. As if punishing Malcolm first, a mage on the far side of the temple's vast room cast what seemed to be another crushing prison on to Malcolm.

"Starting. To. Prefer. Fire. Now," Malcolm said slowly and painfully.

Measuring how much time he and Malcolm had before Kolgrim reached them, Alistair decided it was safe and quickly cleansed the area. He'd cut it very close, however, and as soon as he was done, Kolgrim had swung his maul towards him, intent on crushing his chest. Alistair managed to block it with his shield, digging in with his feet to hold the maul away. Malcolm recovered and drew his sword, ducking into a low spin before coming up and slicing into Kolgrim's armpit, where his armor was very weak. Malcolm's sword didn't stop until it had cut deep into the shoulder joint. He quickly pulled it out and cut across Kolgrim's chest, slicing the man open in a shower of blood.

Before Kolgrim had even fallen to the floor, they advanced as a team toward the mage. Another cultist attacked them as Alistair summoned his smite and Malcolm intercepted him, cutting deep into the man's neck, and then pulling out his sword as he kicked the man away. The mage dropped from Alistair's smite and arrows from Leliana finished him off.

Around them, the other cultists lay dead, victims of the others of their group. Ahead of them was another doorway up a slight slope, and Alistair knew that it was where they had to go. Without a backward glance at the remains of the cultists, he led his group through the door and onto the top of the mountain, above the clouds. As they shaded their eyes from the glaring sun, a gigantic dragon flew above them, her beating wings blowing stinging snow into their faces. She roared and flew upward in a spiral before settling down on a ledge far above.

"Holy Maker. That's a high dragon," Malcolm whispered.

Wynne glanced at Malcolm. "Oh, I'm not afraid. It wouldn't eat me anyhow. Tough and stringy. You, on the other hand, ought to be worried."

"I already am," Malcolm said. "In fact, I think I need some clean smallclothes now."

Zevran moved to stand next to Alistair. "We're not planning on actually fighting it, are we? Couldn't we just sneak around it?"

"Because Malcolm and I are so fantastic at sneaking?" Though, if at any time Alistair wished he had any sort of talent in stealth, now was one of them.

"Perhaps if we move as quietly as we can and do not shout insults at her, she will let us pass?"

Alistair studied the path ahead and saw that another temple lay past the field above which the dragon roosted. They would have to get through her, whether by her allowing them to pass or by defeating her in combat. He hoped she would be a benevolent dragon, if such a thing existed. "We have to try. The Ashes must be in that temple beyond her."

Malcolm whirled around. "Are you insane? That is a high dragon. They aren't exactly known to be the most friendly sort. Don't you know why this is called the Dragon Age? In case you don't, let me refresh your memory. A dragon went on a huge rampage in this area, killing everything for miles and miles at the end of the Blessed Age. The dragon and her devastation could be seen from Orlais to Ferelden, even as far as the River Dane. Legend says that it was that very dragon sighting that inspired Loghain and his troops to victory in the Battle of River Dane. This could even be that very dragon. And you want to chance our lives and our ability to end the Blight for Ashes that might not even be there?"

Alistair glared right back at his brother. "We have to retrieve those Ashes. We've come this far. We can't give up now."

"It isn't giving up. It's a tactical retreat. Right now, that dragon hasn't attacked us. We could get away to safety even as we argue about it. We already have to fight one high dragon in our near future—the archdemon. If any dragon should kill us, that's the one. Not this one. This one is an unnecessary risk. And, if I must remind you, it was you and Riordan who told me, rather forcibly, that we aren't to take unnecessary risks. Our job is to stop the Blight."

Alistair crossed his arms and allowed his frustration about Malcolm's sudden reticence to show. "Arl Eamon's army isn't going to follow us on our word, not while Eamon stays in a coma. And we need his army to defeat the Blight. We need Eamon to help us defeat Loghain, or we'll never get a chance to truly strike at the darkspawn in the first place. This is necessary. We must press forward."

Malcolm eyes flicked toward the high dragon and back to Alistair. "No."

Alistair knew his brother wasn't being cowardly. He was being rational in his own way. He didn't see it as Alistair did, didn't realize how necessary having Arl Eamon awake and well would be. While Alistair admitted to having a personal interest in the well-being of the arl, he knew it was the pragmatic part of him that more wished the arl to be well. He stepped closer to Malcolm and lowered his voice. "You act as if you have a choice. You don't. I'm ordering you to continue forward with us."

Eyes wide in disbelief and showing more of the betrayal that had been in there earlier with what happened with Zevran, Malcolm's mouth opened and closed as if searching for a reply. Finding none, he turned and started walking towards the temple beyond the snow field below the dragon. He walked quietly and towards the shadows, however, not putting himself in any undue risk.

Alistair wondered if his brother would ever speak to him again. But it had to be done. There were parts of the leadership that he shared with Malcolm, and welcomed having a partner to do so and was grateful to him when he'd taken the lead early on, but one of them had to maintain perspective. And in the end, a group such as theirs could only have one true leader. With Riordan gone in the Deep Roads and searching for the archdemon, it fell to him. As much as he disliked leading, he had to accept that he was the senior Warden here. And if Zevran survived the Joining, it meant they needed a more traditional command structure, not an equal partnership. He had responsibilities. If it meant suffering his brother's anger to get the job done, he would suffer it.

With a sigh, he turned to the others. "Zevran, Morrigan, please go back inside the other part of the temple, down where Brother Genitivi is. Someone needs to report our fates if something happens to us, and if we can't get back down the mountain today, someone has to get back to the horses and Gunnar." For a moment, it seemed Morrigan was going to object, her concerned look at Malcolm heading through what could be a killing field told him as much, but then she agreed, understanding the practicality of his order. After the other two had ducked back into the temple, Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana followed Malcolm's lead.

To his great relief, and he imagined to everyone else's, the high dragon did nothing but watch them with golden, glittering eyes. More curious than menacing, really. Just how intelligent were dragons, anyway? The doors to the temple were not locked, and they quickly went inside, eager to be out of the high dragon's sight and immediate threat. They found themselves in a small chamber carved from the granite of the mountain around it. It had the feel of being untouched by man for centuries and Alistair was fairly certain that the feeling was true. Piles of rocks fallen from the decrepit walls filled lower corners, cobwebs stretched over the upper corners.

The spirit of a man dressed in intricate heavy armor and wearing a helm of a design Alistair had never seen, either in person or in books, awaited them in front of another door. "I bid you welcome, pilgrims," he said in a deep, yet calm voice. It was almost soothing, in a way. It reminded Alistair of Duncan's voice. He also remembered Duncan's voice could quickly change from gentle to sharp in an instant, and he figured this spirit was much the same way in what seemed to be his post as a guardian.

"We've come seeking the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Alistair said, stepping toward the guardian.

The guardian nodded as if he'd already known. "You come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove worthy. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the ashes for yourself. If not..." The spirit let his statement be with the implied threat. It was obvious—if they weren't worthy and were here, they would not leave alive.

"How do we prove ourselves worthy?"

"You will endure tests of faith that will tell the true pilgrims from the false. We shall see how your souls fare."

Alistair nodded. He knew the others would prove themselves worthy, even Malcolm. There had been no ill will in his reticence to continue, only concern for their mission. "When does it begin?"

The spirit leveled a steady gaze on him. "It begins now. You must each answer a question from me, to determine if you will continue further. Answer truthfully, see the truth in yourself, and you may pass." He waited a moment before continuing, studying each of them in turn, seeking assent from their eyes. Then he returned to Alistair. "Alistair, prince and Grey Warden, do you wonder if things would have been different if you had been on the battlefield with Duncan?"

He would question how the being knew how he felt, but even Zevran, with his scant time spent with him compared to the others, knew that he wished he'd been on the field with Duncan and Cailan. That perhaps he could've taken that first blow from the ogre so that Duncan wouldn't have been mortally wounded and could have protected the king from being crushed to death. "I... yes. If Duncan and Cailan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I'd just had the chance, maybe it truly would have been better." Yes, he still thought that, even now, even with knowing that it was more likely they all would have died on that field, for no one on the front lines had escaped the sea of darkspawn blades. If he was to move onward, to do as he must do, he had to put that behind him. Cailan had died as a hero and Duncan had died a death worthy of a Grey Warden, protecting Thedas from the fury of the Blight.

The guardian moved his gaze to Malcolm. "I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past, your suffering and the suffering of others. You went against your father's wishes even as he lay dying, and refused to join the order he wished you to so that you would live on, so that you would fulfill your duty to Ferelden and Thedas. Do you think you failed him?"

Malcolm's eyes narrowed in anger, his fingers drew into white-knuckled fists at his side. For a moment, Alistair thought his brother might attack the spirit. But when Malcolm spoke, it was in a hurt whisper. "How do you know of my past?"

"Your path is laid out before me and plain to see—in the lines of your face and the scars of your heart." The guardian remained unrelenting in his interrogation. "Do you believe you failed your parents?"

Malcolm's hands relaxed, undid their fists. "Yes." His voice was as broken as Alistair had ever heard it, laced with a depth of guilt he hadn't realized his brother still possessed. He'd thought that after the trip to Ostagar that his brother understood that he was forgiven. But now he realized that while his brother might feel forgiven by Duncan, he didn't from the man who had raised him as his son. Alistair thought about how he would feel if he thought Duncan, the closest thing to a father-figure he'd ever had, was disappointed in him, and knew he would feel the same as Malcolm. It hurt his own heart to see.

"Ask your question, guardian," Wynne said. "I am ready."

The spirit nodded and addressed the mage. "You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you wonder if you only spout platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past? Perhaps you are only a tool used to spread the word of the Circle and the Chantry? Does doubt ever chip away at your truths?"

Wynne studied the guardian as hard as he studied her. "You frame the statements in the forms of a questions, yet you already know our answers. There is no sense in hiding, is there? Yes. I do doubt at times. Only a fool is completely certain of himself."

Alistair fought a small laugh. Wynne would be the one to go toe to toe with an ancient guardian and show no fear.

"And you," the guardian said to Leliana, "why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself her equal?"

The bard's deep blue eyes went wide. "I never said that! I—"

The guardian interrupted her protest. "In Orlais, you were someone. In Lothering you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear. When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative."

Leliana sputtered. "You're saying I made it up for the attention? I did not! I know what I believe!"

And Alistair believed her. She had explained to him, once, how she felt a vision of the Maker before that, how He had saved her after former mentor had stabbed her and left her for dead. His vision had helped her escape her prison and led her to the Chantry in Lothering, where she found sanctuary. That had brought her no attention, for she sought none. He suspected the guardian had been testing her faith in herself.

The guardian stepped aside. "The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek."

Casting the guardian wary looks, the group strode past him and into the chamber beyond. Another spirit awaited, this one Alistair recognized as Teyrn Cousland. Malcolm stopped short, causing Wynne to bump into him. The spirit opened his arms in greeting. "My dearest child."

Malcolm's face went slack in disbelief. "Father?" he asked uneasily.

The spirit nodded. "You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. No more must you question yourself. I am not disappointed in you. You acted as if you felt you must, as we all do. You must take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let it go. It is time. You have a long road ahead of you, and you must be prepared. More pain awaits, it cannot be avoided. Yet you will be able to face it so long as you don't carry the pain of your past with you. I love you as if you were my own blood, and I am ever proud of you. You will do great things."

Malcolm reached out, as he had done in the Fade, but the spirit had gone. But different from the sloth demon's dream, Malcolm did not fall to crippling emotional pain. Instead, his face became confident, resolute. He'd taken his father's advice to heart and been made whole again.

In a way, Alistair envied that.

They moved on to the next chamber, where another spirit greeted them. This time it was Alistair who stopped short, nearly skidding in his attempt to halt his forward movement. In front of them stood the image of King Maric. The man Alistair had only met once but was supposed to be his father. The man whose throne others now expected Alistair to ascend. The man who had helped give Alistair life but who had failed to give him family. Instead, he'd only been given unwanted expectations and no training in how to live up to them. Alistair wanted to curse at him, but found that he couldn't bring himself to speak.

Maric looked steadily at Alistair as the teyrn had done to Malcolm. "I did not want to be king, either."

Further shock that he hadn't thought he could have made Alistair speak. "What?"

"After I watched my mother die in front of me and ran from the forest to escape my own death, I realized that I would be made king. I didn't think I deserved it. I was the Rebel Queen's inept son, a boy who couldn't even ride a horse properly, much less regain his throne and rule an entire country. But it wasn't my choice. Other people believed in me, that I could do it, people who had given their lives to my mother and the line of Calenhad the Great." The look in Maric's eyes changed, took on a depth Alistair hadn't expected, held the same emotion he'd seen when the teyrn had looked at Malcolm. Maric, his father, believed in him? Loved him? "You have this same gift within you. Others see it. Malcolm, Eamon, Duncan. I see it. They all see it, even if you do not. It is my fault that you do not, because I didn't provide you with the family you needed as I was able to do with Cailan and Malcolm."

Maric turned briefly to Malcolm. "And I know that even when you are angry with your brother, you believe in him. You must communicate that to him. He was not given what you had—the love and support of a family. Bryce gave that to you because I could not. Give to your brother that same gift." Then he moved back to Alistair. "You must accept what family you have now and believe in their belief in you, until you believe it yourself. The road ahead will be harsh and unrelenting. Carry this belief, and it will carry you."

The spirit of the former king disappeared, leaving Alistair confused and almost abandoned. He'd seen it, seen what Maric could have been to him. A father, a true father, if he had been allowed. And even if he hadn't been there to take on the role, he still believed in him. Everyone did, and that was what scared Alistair so badly. But if Maric had had the same feeling even as he continued leading the rebellion against the Orlesians and eventually won, then perhaps he could succeed as well.

He could at least try. He owed it to everyone.

Alistair continued forward, moving through the space where Maric had stood, and into the vast chamber beyond.

The guardian was there, as if waiting for them. "You have been through the trials of faith. You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrims." He motioned toward the high staircase behind him, one that led to a statue of Andraste with an altar below it. On that altar rested an ornate urn. The very Ashes they sought. Slowly, they climbed the stairs, almost thinking their eyes were deceiving them, that they weren't actually there. Alistair reached for the Urn hesitantly, fearing that something would leap out and stop him, that he would be struck down by the Maker for even thinking of touching the Urn.

But nothing happened. One hand wrapped around the cool metal and he lifted the lid with the other. Leliana wordlessly handed him an empty pouch, and he carefully took a pinch of the Ashes and placed them inside. Then he tied it up tightly and kept it in his hand. With final respectful glances, no one able to put into words how it felt to be in the presence of the actual Ashes, they exited the temple through a side door. A magical barrier sprang into place behind them, sealing the temple shut once again.

The path led them down to the first temple, where Brother Genitivi and the others awaited them. When he caught sight of them, he tried to run over, and then scowled at the injured leg that kept him from doing so. "Welcome back! You were gone for quite some time. Well? Did you find it?"

Alistair dangled the pouch in front of the brother, and then carefully stowed it in a side pocket of his pack. He noticed Wynne casting some sort of spell on the pocket. He suspected it was to keep anything from falling out or being taken by a cutpurse.

"What was it like?" Genitivi asked, eyes following the path of the pouch as it disappeared.

"I don't think there are any words," Alistair replied, the first thing he'd said since before they'd reached the Urn.

The Chantry brother nodded. "You are a very fortunate person. And so am I. Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now. We must organize an expedition. There is so much history here. It must be studied. And pilgrims should be allowed to come to the Urn."

"What?" said Malcolm, stepping toward Genitivi. "That is not wise. Many will try to exploit this discovery. That's the way people are and you should know that. I'm years younger than you and I do."

"But the Urn belongs to all the faithful!" Genitivi shouted. "How can can you deny this to them? No. We must share it."

"I agree," Leliana said before anyone else could reply. "We cannot withhold this from others. It is not our place."

The naivete from the bard surprised Alistair. "So everyone comes by and takes some ashes from the Urn and we hope that Urn is self-replenishing. Malcolm is right. People will seek to exploit the Urn, far more than would-be pilgrims seeking forgiveness, I'm afraid. Few should know of this place."

"I... I suppose you're right." But even acknowledging the others' opinions didn't stop Genitivi from looking crestfallen.

Alistair let him have his disappointment. Better that than the Ashes being exploited by the selfish whims of man. The temple behind them and Ashes in hand, they climbed down the mountain before either the night or the high dragon fell upon them.