Chapter 25 - Truth and Reconciliation
Even from the highest levels of Redcliffe Castle, Sagramor could hear the hymns of deliverance reverberating from the village chantry below, over a hundred voices united in song to send their praise to the Maker, mere distance and water and stone no barrier to the passion of a victorious community. Ears straining in the welcoming stillness of the Arl's study, the elf reckoned he could hear Leliana's voice leading the chorus, as strong and bright and beautiful as she was, an unconscious smile emerging at the thought of her. The dawn had come for Redcliffe, the terror that had emerged from their place of safety to ravage their lands dispelled, in no small part due to an elf's valour, and it was only fitting that thanks be given for their deliverance and for the prospect of future tomorrows.
Tomorrows that Lothering would never see.
It had taken the party four days to return to Redcliffe, the pace of their journey slowed by the presence of Honnleath's exhausted survivors. Thankfully, the trip northwards had been quiet, their passage left unmolested by darkspawn raiders, and the great horde Sagramor had expected to see closing in behind them never materialized. Still, it was to their collective relief when the walls of Redcliffe came into view, their joy only increasing with the sight of Bann Teagan's personal standard. The Bann had returned the day before, his forces battered yet victorious, and Sagramor listened intently as the nobleman relayed what had transpired since their last encounter, every scrap of information he'd received from the refugees fleeing west assembled in hope of building a picture of the horde's advance.
Hueon had not lied: Lothering had indeed fallen. With the death of Bloch the Skinner, the roads leading out of the village had been secured, and hundreds of people took advantage of the opportunity to evacuate, some fleeing north towards Denerim, others seeking the closer refuge of Redcliffe rather than brave the perils of the journey to the distant capital. Even so, it was estimated that close to half of Lothering's population was still present when the darkspawn struck, their few remaining defenders overwhelmed by a warband a score their strength and the village quickly put to the torch. Teagan's motley host, finally reinforced by the long-awaited troops from Rainesfere, arrived too late to save the village, but they'd done their best to avenge it. The darkspawn, their forces scattered trying to hunt down any survivors, were unprepared for Teagan's aggressive counterattack, and over a hundred of the beasts fell as the forces of Redcliffe eliminated pack after pack in a piecemeal fashion, giving the refugees an opening to escape.
Yet, from all the accounts of the survivors and Redcliffe's dedicated scouts, the main horde had yet to truly advance. The force that attacked Lothering was significant, assuredly, but it was a far cry from the cataclysmic host that had assailed Ostagar's walls. Indeed, the majority of Lothering's destroyers had not pushed any deeper into Ferelden, simply razed the village, carried off some prisoners and retreated as quickly as they had emerged. From amidst the terrified bands of survivors, a feverish rumour began to spread that the worst was over, that what'd they believed to be a Blight was merely a serious darkspawn raid and that the creatures would be gone again for their lifetimes. "Oh, if only," Alistair exclaimed once they'd arrived back at Redcliffe Castle, still marked with the sweat and grime from their travels. "But believe me when I say this is a Blight. If the horde isn't pushing further, that's because the Archdemon sees some advantage in holding back, at least for the moment."
"How cunning an adversary are we talking about here?" asked Teagan.
"From everything the Order's lore says? Very. This isn't a rampaging animal like the lesser darkspawn, it can think, it can plan, and it considers things much longer term than we do. It wouldn't hold back the horde for no reason."
"Maybe they took heavier losses at Ostagar than we thought?" Sagramor posed with a shrug. "Any other army would need to regroup after what it cost them to take that gorge."
"Perhaps, but the horde has troops to spare, and more coming up from the Deep Roads with each passing day. If that really is why it's holding back, it won't do so for long."
"Then we'll be ready for it, lad," Teagan declared. "If you say this is a Blight, then this is a Blight. Neither Redcliffe nor Rainesfere will be found wanting in facing it."
It had been two days since, and as always, Bann Teagan had been as good as his word. The losses Redcliffe incurred against the undead had replaced by survivors from Lothering and Honnleath, by refugees drawn from throughout southern Ferelden, even some of Redcliffe's inhabitants who'd managed to flee the undead threat and return, and Teagan had set to work mobilizing them to face the darkspawn. All those willing to stand against the Blight would be accepted, no matter their origin, a point the nobleman drilled into the villagers upon his return. Indeed, barely an hour passed without some new caravan or band of refugees making their way along the main road, either having received word of the Bann's offer or simply drawn to the promise of protection offered by Redcliffe's high walls. Knights of Redcliffe numbered among them, many with their men-at-arms in tow, further bolstering the castle's garrison and contributing what little they'd gleaned about the location of either Brother Genetivi or the Urn, though to his regret, Ser Donall was not amongst them.
And neither was the Hawke family. Despite his many entreaties, none of the newcomers to Redcliffe had seen Marian Hawke and her family since the fall of Lothering. If they had survived the darkspawn assault, they'd fled elsewhere, and not for the first time, Sagramor prayed that they would be well. Ferelden has experienced enough in the way of tragedy without their deaths to add to the pile.
Sighing, the elf closed his journal, trying to shove away the frustrating melancholy that dogged his soul. It was not just the fall of Lothering that tormented him; they'd done all they could for the village, and to linger there would be to die in vain, not to mention abandon the far more strategically important Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold to the evils that beset them. Nor was it the understanding that Lothering would not be the last community to be devoured by the oncoming Blight: even the Fourth Blight, the shortest of the darkspawn invasions, had taken twelve years of toil and struggle and sacrifice before Gaharel's triumph at Ayesleigh, and Maker only knew how much of Thedas the Fifth would claim or how long it would take to be defeated.
No, what truly concerned him at that moment was not the darkspawn, though it should have been. He was a Grey Warden, oath-sworn to hunt down and battle such creatures, to protect the peoples of Thedas from them, no matter the cost. Yet even as the ruins of Lothering still smouldered, he had committed his little company to search for the Sacred Ashes of Andraste, a relic that had been lost for over a thousand years, if it even existed to begin with, all in the hope that its miraculous powers of healing were something more than a pious fable. And all this while the Blight threatened Ferelden, and the ranks of the country's Wardens were reduced to two new initiates hunted by a power-mad tyrant. Maker, I hope I made the right decision by agreeing to this! the elf inwardly lamented. To search for the Urn was not his duty, a fact both Sten and Morrigan quickly and frequently reminded him, yet he'd made that decision nevertheless.
Would Duncan have done the same? Sagramor considered, ultimately setting the question aside. Perhaps Duncan would have chosen differently, but he was dead now, and the responsibility for leading them through this crisis had fallen upon the young elf, for better or worse. As much as he admired the fallen Warden-Commander, it was not in his nature to blindly follow another's example, no matter how noble. And in the end, any misgivings he possessed were irrelevant: he'd given his word they would try, and to betray Teagan in this after all the nobleman had done for them smacked of the same sort of ingratitude the Wardens had endured too often in the past from the rest of Thedas. And there was a small part of him that truly longed to find the Urn, not just for the sake of religious convictions or to save the Arl's life, but to demonstrate the valour of his people once more, to have a lowly elf, common as muck, achieve what humans only dared to dream. It was perhaps not to the letter of the Grey Wardens' duties to pursue such a task, but such things had never stopped the Order in Blights past, and success justified a great deal.
A brisk rap sounded one the study door, and Sagramor stood up from his seat. "Come!"
Iron hinges squeaked open, and Tomas stepped into the room, offering the elf a respectful bow. "Good morning, Warden. Am I intruding?"
"Not at all, Tomas. What's going on?"
"Owain told me he's just finished up your new armour, Warden. Says he's ready to give it to you and the rest of your group whenever you'd like."
"My thanks," said the elf. "We'll be down there shortly."
As the door closed behind the militiaman, Sagramor felt his spirits lift slightly, buoyed by the unfamiliar yet welcome prospect of armour forged specifically for him, as opposed to the usual scavenged bits and pieces he'd been relying upon since Ostagar. The people of Redcliffe had been more than generous with their aid, and when his little party left on the morrow, they'd do so with packs full of supplies and purses heavy with Rainesfere gold, their journey quickened by the fishing vessels and barges that would carry them northwards along the rivers and tributaries as far as they could without running afoul of Loghain's forces. The armour was just a bonus, another link in the friendship forged between Redcliffe and the Order since they'd first arrived to witness a community besieged.
Tucking his journal within the safety of his pack, the elf made to leave, eager to see the fruit of Owan's grateful labours. I should probably see how the others are faring too. Wynne had spent the time since their return sequestered with Connor, hoping to get his magical education on the right foot before she left with the rest of the party and her colleagues took over, and even now, Sagramor could hear steel bite into wood as Zevran obsessively trained in the courtyard, seemingly tireless, Ragnar watching over the assassin. Shale, he knew, was patrolling the land outside the village, as much to stretch her legs and experience new sights as it was to actually guard Redcliffe from her enemies. As for Morrigan, she'd all but locked herself in the chamber Teagan had provided her while she studied the recovered grimoire, only the firm demands for privacy she shouted through the door proof she still breathed, even her meals going uneaten in her obsessive attempts to unlock the book's secrets. The rest were simply enjoying Redcliffe's hospitality, but it wouldn't hurt to check on them regardless. Owain had made new armour for more than just him, after all; Leliana, Alistair and Sten were also supposed to benefit from the Bann's generosity, and it was the least he could do to inform them.
So compelled, the Warden walked towards the exit, yet as he did, something caught his eye within the Arl's desk, a drawer left slightly ajar betraying a strange gleam that drew him in despite himself. Checking to make sure the study door remained closed so no one could see him poking about like a thief, Sagramor stepped over to the polished pine desk, propriety swept away by curiosity. Teagan had offered their company the liberty of the castle, yet he doubted that extended to rummaging through the Arl's private sanctum, even with every confident document or correspondence of state having already been gathered up by the castle's servants and placed under lock and key in the main vault until Eamon recovered. Now what do we have here?
A moment's rifling through the drawer, and calloused hands withdrew a delicate-looking amulet threaded on an ancient piece of string. Upon the flat surface, a holy symbol of Andraste had been etched in silver, gleaming even with the spiderweb of cracks lacing through the talisman's structure, the scars of some prior damage now left repaired by a patient, steady hand. The elf recognized it even without seeing it before, memory whetted bright, and quickly, he stored it away in one of his belt pouches, hoping Alistair wouldn't mind his brief foray into larceny. He's waited long enough for this, after all…
That Arl Eamon was breathing steadily was the only comfort Alistair could take in seeing him like this. Nearly a decade ago, he remembered the nobleman as a strong, vital figure, and to see him now, wasting away upon his sickbed, was almost more than the former Templar could stand. Forcing himself to continue his bedside vigil, Alistair felt his heart sink, any lingering resentment towards the nobleman that survived his passage to manhood evaporating in the face of the latter's condition. I never wanted this. Andraste forgive me, I know I was angry when he sent me away to the Chantry, but I never wanted anything like this to happen…
From beyond the thick oaken door, voices sounded out in the hallway, cutting through the former Templar's reverie and sending his right hand to the hilt of his blade. After all that had transpired and now knowing the truth behind Eamon's "illness", Teagan was taking no chances. This wing of the castle was forbidden to all but the Warden's party, the Arl's family, and the mages who'd attempted to heal him, with Ser Perth and his most trustworthy knights standing sentinel to enforce that order, vigorously patrolling in the event any intruders managed to enter from the outside past the determined vigil of the sentries along the walls and turrets. Alistair had personally inspected their security arrangements before coming to see the Arl and found nothing wanting, least of all the loyalty and commitment of the guards, but he refused to let his guard slacken until Sagramor's voice emerged from without. "Any change?" asked the elf, closing the door behind him.
Alistair could only offer a sad shake of his head. "I'm sorry, my friend. We'll do our best to find the Urn, I promise."
"I just hope our best is good enough," Alistair confessed, giving voice to one of the worries that had plagued him over the past several days. "If this Brother Genetivi can't help us…"
"Let's wait until we actually find him before we start worrying about that, okay?" Sagramor suggested confidently. "We've certainly beaten the odds before, and after everything we've done so far, I'd say our best is pretty damn good. If there's a way to save the Arl, we'll find it."
Nodding in acceptance, Alistair leaned back in his chair, suddenly ashamed of himself for his momentary display of weakness. Here he was, a man with more cause to find the Urn than most, doubting the viability of their search, while an elf held in general contempt by both the Chantry and the aristocracy for his race was wholeheartedly committed to finding a sacred relic for the sake of a sick nobleman. Not for the first time, he found himself both thankful that someone of Sagramor's strength and resolve was leading their little company, and painfully aware that he lacked those qualities in comparison to the valiant elf. That Sagramor hardly seemed offended by his naysaying only made it worse, and only with conscious effort was he able to force away the self-pitying malaise that plagued him… for the moment, at least. "I wanted to thank you, by the way. You went out of your way to save the Arl's family and you did it, even when it would have been easier not to."
"It wasn't so hard, not when blood magic or murdering a child were our only other alternatives," the elf demurred with a self-effacing shrug. "And it'll be nice to have his family there for the Arl to wake up to."
"Agreed. There's been so much death and destruction, it's… it's good to know that we were able to preserve something, at least."
"And once we stop the Blight, we'll have saved so much more. And speaking of preserving things…" The elf's hand darted into one of the pouches at his waist, and Alistair's eyes widened in shock and recognition as a poignantly-familiar amulet was gingerly produced. "I found this in the Arl's study, and while I'm sure he'd want to give it to you himself, it didn't seem right to keep it from you."
"Maker, it can't be…" gasped Alistair, taking up the talisman with the utmost care, and tears left long buried emerged into the light to witness what had been lost in a child's moment of anger restored. "My mother's amulet… And this was in the Arl's study?"
"It was. And for the record, I don't usually go snooping around other people's property, I just happened to notice it on the way out."
"Then he must have… found the amulet after I threw it at the wall, and he repaired it and kept it," Alistair muttered in shock, gently tracing a finger along one of the many seams and cracks the Arl had glued back together. "I don't understand. Why would he do something like that?"
"Maybe because you both mean more to each other than you might think."
"I guess you could be right," said the former Templar, wiping away the last of the tears. "We never really talked all that much, and the way I left…" He froze at the sudden realization. "You actually remembered me talking about the amulet?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Thank you. I mean it. I… I thought I'd lost this forever to my own stupidity. I'll need to talk to him about this when he recovers. There's so much I should have said, years ago. And if there's anything I can do to repay you for this…"
"Actually, there is something I've been meaning to ask you about, though there's no need to repay me for anything," stressed the elf. "I didn't give you the amulet just to butter you up, so if you're uncomfortable with the idea, feel free to refuse."
"Go on…"
"Would you teach me how to use Templar powers? Your abilities have turned the tide for us more than once. Void, we probably would have perished a dozen times over in the Circle Tower if not for you, and given how often we seem to be stumbling upon demons and blood mages, never mind the darkspawn emissaries, it might be nice to have someone else capable of countering them as well." Sensing the human's hesitation, Sagramor quickly changed tacks. "It's just a thought, Alistair. If you're oath-sworn not to, I wouldn't have you break it."
"That's not a problem. I left the Templars before I took my final vows after all, and, well, considering that I'm travelling with an apostate and a Qunari, they have enough reason to condemn me with that alone if they wanted to. And it's not like I'm the only Templar in the Grey Wardens anyways, I'm just one of the few who was officially trained by the Chantry. I'd be willing to tell you what I know, I just don't know if I'd be that good a teacher."
"As opposed to whom? The valiant Ser Cullen?" the elven Warden remarked, dripping scorn. "I have faith in you, Alistair, I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."
"Then I'll do all I can. How about we start next time we set up camp for the night? I need to figure out how best to teach you, anyways."
"Sounds good, and thank you." A tremulous knock sounded on the door, prompting Sagramor to rise. "Tomas told me Owain's finished working on our armour. Shall we go down and see?"
"You go ahead. I'm going to stay here a while longer, if that's all right," said Alistair. Reverently, Alistair shrouded the amulet in a length of oilcloth, before gingerly placing the bundle back into the pack for safekeeping. "There's some things I need to think about."
"Of course." Sagramor pulled back the door handle to find the wide eyes of Arlessa Isolde there to greet them, the noblewoman visibly taken aback by the presence of the two Wardens standing watch over her husband. "Good morning, my lady. All is well?"
"All is well, Warden," Isolde whispered, quickly reasserting herself. "I apologize, I did not think… I will leave you be."
"No, it's… it's fine," said Alistair, gesturing her inside. "I'll see you later, Sagramor."
With a final nod, the elf departed, leaving the former Templar alone with the woman who'd once been instrumental in sending him away in the first place, the uncomfortable weight of their shared history stilling his already uncertain tongue. The coldness and pride he'd associated with Eamon's wife had faded in the wake of her son's liberation, and now the often-frightening figure of his youth was left reduced, humbled by the weight of her mistakes and the knowledge that the boy she'd scorned as an upstart, burdensome bastard had returned to save them all. She cut a pitiable figure now, pale and drawn, chastened where once she was contemptuous, and without hesitation, he offered her his chair, as he would any other lady.
"Thank you," Isolde acknowledged, accepting the proffered seat. A delicate hand took up her husband's own, and Alistair saw her lower lip tremble, her grief barely held in check. "Is there truly nothing the Lady Wynne can do for him?"
"I only wish there was," replied Alistair, likewise disappointed. For all her experience and talent with healing magic, even Wynne had been left confounded by Eamon's illness, her considerable sorceries ultimately achieving little more than her colleagues before her. Jowan had kept his word and readily confessed the nature of the spell he'd used on the Arl, but even that knowledge availed them naught, and he remained stubbornly resistant to any form of treatment. "Wynne did all she could for him. Believe me, she's as frustrated as we are she couldn't fix this."
"Oh, I do not blame her. I am in no position to pass judgment on anyone, not anymore." An uncomfortable silence followed, only broke when Isolde turned her gaze to him, regret radiating off her like the heat of the midsummer sun. At Teagan's insistence, the full truth of what had transpired in the castle had been made publicly known to the rest of Redcliffe, including how she'd concealed the truth of Connor's abilities, and while the villagers held only pity for the boy after all he'd experienced, that same compassion did not extend to his mother. She'd experienced her share of condemnation for her part in the disaster and weathered it, even enduring how the fate she'd tried to spare Connor from was unavoidable without complaint, but her sorrows drew from more than one well. She had not come just to be at her husband's side, but to meet with Alistair, and the words burst forth in a torrent, overflowing with the desperate need for acceptance. "He hated having to send you away, you must understand that. When he did so, it was at my insistence, my belief that your presence here would bring dishonour to our family, even though it hurt him terribly to do so. Please, don't let my husband suffer for my mistakes, Alistair. Hate me, if you need someone to hate."
"I don't. I— there's only one person I truly hate, my lady, and you're not him. Neither is Arl Eamon, for that matter. He did what he felt was right for his family. And let's face it, if he hadn't, I never would have met Duncan," Alistair expressed, the pain that suffused every thought and mention of his mentor oddly dulled for once, muted by the presence of his mother's amulet and what it represented. "What happened between us won't interfere in the search for the Urn. I will do everything in my power to restore your husband to you, my lady, I swear it."
"And you truly do mean it, don't you?" Isolde sighed, screwing her eyes shut in hopes to stemming the latest flow of tears, only for grief to overcome dignity. She slumped forward, face pressed into her hands as sobs wracked her thin body, crumbling before his very eyes beneath the accumulated burden of her guilt. "I was wrong about you, Alistair. I was wrong about so much, and too many people have paid for my mistakes, and I-"
Armoured limbs encircled her protectively, the noblewoman freezing up in confusion at his embrace. "And I forgive you, Lady Isolde," Alistair whispered, making his choice with only the slightest hesitation. He had seen true cruelty since leaving Eamon's household, true evil, and after all he had done, to remain shackled to that old pain didn't make sense anymore, or to hate her when there were real monsters to fight, both rising from the Deep Roads and sitting on Ferelden's throne. The last, tenuous remnants of his anger at how he was raised vanished with those simple, truthful words, the unspoken burden he'd laboured beneath for so many years disappearing along with it, and he held her close as she sobbed into his chest, patiently letting her grief run its course. "I forgive you. We need to stand together for him, okay? He needs us to be strong, not just for him, but for Redcliffe."
"Duty. My husband's favourite subject," the noblewoman jested weakly, uttering a great, shuddering sigh. "I will spend my life atoning for the pain I have caused, and it will never be enough, but I must try. I cannot undo the things I have done to you, Alistair, but we can make a fresh start between us, here and now, for my husband's sake. Whatever happens in the future, I will stand by you, no matter the cost to myself. Can Ser Sagramor truly retrieve the Urn?"
"Oh, he's like a dog with a bone," said the former Templar, his admiration for the elf undisguised. "He's given his word, and on that alone, he'll scour Ferelden top to bottom if it means finding it. He does things differently than I do, and were our places reversed, I might have chosen differently from time to time, but he hasn't let us down so far. He has my trust, and my respect."
"Then he shall have mine. May I join you in watching over my husband?"
"I think he'd like that."
And that matters to me now more than ever…
Leaving Alistair to continue his vigil, Sagramor made his way towards the main gate, only to run into Sten in one of the winding corridor, the Qunari busy examining one of the castle's oil paintings with a focus Sagramor had never seen in him outside of battle. Indeed, he was so engrossed by the artwork that he only registered the Warden's presence when Sagramor came to stand beside him, a bemused smile on the elf's face. "Good morning, Sten. You heard about our armour?"
"Yes, I shall attend shortly," the giant replied, gaze never wavering from the depiction of a fire-haired woman at the centre of a vast host, sword raised skyward in triumph. Violet eyes narrowed in on the copperplate description at the bottom of the frame. "Who is this 'Moira'?"
"The Rebel Queen, founder of the Rebellion against Orlais," Sagramor explained. "She was mother to Maric the Saviour, and he ended up picking off where she began in the struggle to free Ferelden."
"An important figure to this country, then?"
"I would say so. Certainly important enough to have her image present in the halls of one of Ferelden's most powerful noble families. Tell me, is it the history that interests you, or the artwork itself?"
"The latter," proclaimed Sten, the admission catching the Warden by surprise. "I have never seen such things before, but I see now why the bas put such stock in their works of art."
"I didn't know you were into art, Sten."
"I am not. Yet I can see the focus that went into creating such a work, the discipline of the painter expressed in every stroke of the brush, the drive required to achieve a mastery over their role. It is almost… Qunari. A single glance, and I know that the painter has embraced their purpose, just as I have as a soldier of the Beresaad. Such talent is worthy of acknowledgement, even from one of the bas."
"That's a wonderful way of looking at it," the elf expressed. "The Qunari possess art too, I'd imagine?"
"Not such as this, but yes, works of culture designed to elevate the Qun. In Par Vollen, the only works like this painting are those trophies we took during our previous campaigns. When these lands are brought under the enlightenment of the Qun, I will make certain that this is preserved as such."
Sagramor offered a uncomfortable smile. "You'll have to forgive me if I hope that is many years to come," he said, mien growing serious. "But on a related note, I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now, I just never had the chance. On the way to Kinloch Hold, we came across several dead Qunari in the woods a mile or so from the Tower, looked like they'd been ambushed by the darkspawn. At the time, there wasn't much we could do, what with trying to get the Circle's aid, but I'd be more than willing to make a quick detour to bury them on our way to Denerim. Are there any specific funeral rites or traditions that should be observed for your people's dead?"
Someone less familiar with the Qunari might not have noticed the brief flicker of regret that sparked in his violet eyes before the weight of discipline and personal reserve smothered it down, yet after the battles they'd fought together and the threats they'd dispatched side by side, the Warden couldn't help but notice, nor fail to ignore the undercurrent of sorrow running through his response. "The body is but a shell, Warden. Their corpses have lingered in that forest for over a month now, and to delay our mission for the sake of what little no doubt remains is a distraction no soldier of the Beresaad wishes to become. They would not accept such a thing."
"You speak as if you knew them."
"I did."
"Does this have something to do with why you were imprisoned?"
The question was boldly asked, perhaps to the point of bluntness, and for a moment, Sagramor believed he would never receive an answer, until finally, the Qunari spoke. "I told you before I was sent here in search of an answer to the Arishok's question. I was not sent alone. There were five of us, brothers of the Beresaad, sent to this land. For weeks, we made our way across the Ferelden countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe… until the day we camped near Lake Calenhad. At nightfall, they struck, and they were everywhere: the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harboured the darkspawn, and for every beast we slew, three more seemed to take their place. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, but too late; I fell, and none of my comrades lived to carry on our mission."
Sagramor grimaced in sympathy. "Sounds like what happened to us at Ostagar."
"I heard the stories of that battle. Your kith stood their ground when others fled and did not flinch in the course of their duty. No one can ask any more of them." The Qunari's tone darkened once more. "I do not know how long I laid there amongst the dead, and how the farmers managed to find me, but when I awoke, I was miles distant at their homestead, no longer among my brothers, and my sword was gone from my hand."
"Did they know what happened to it?" asked the elf, the cold chill of realization descending.
"They did not. I was found without it, or so they said, and my own efforts to search for it ended in futility. I killed them, Warden, with my bare hands."
"What? Over a mere length of steel?" the Warden demanded incredulously. He'd not forgotten that Sten was a murderer, of course. Such things could hardly be forgotten, especially as the Qunari had freely admitted his guilt, yet knowing the true reason for the act stoked his outrage afresh. And he had to admit, it was difficult to reconcile the perpetually stoic and reserved warrior he'd come to know and perhaps even trust with the murderer who'd slaughtered innocent civilians over an object, however precious it might be. It was a mindset he could not put himself into, that he did not want to put himself into, even knowing how precious his own blade was to him, and he forced his temper down before it could inspire him to rashness.
"I did," Sten confessed, feelings bare now. "I knew they didn't have the blade. They had no reason to lie to me. I panicked. Unthinking, I struck them down. I know I cannot justify what I have done, Warden. My honour is forfeit. Yet that sword was made for my hand alone. I have carried it since the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I were to cross Ferelden and Tevinter alone and unarmed to deliver my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter, no better than the Tal-Vashoth. No warrior of the Qun would ever cast aside his blade while he drew breath."
"And that's why you can't go home," finished Sagramor, the full weight of Sten's earlier comment finally made clear. "Describe it for me."
"It is a greatsword, longer and heavier than those forged in this land, and made of rare blue steel. The top third of the blade is bifurcated so that both halves run parallel beside each other, while symbols of the Qun run along the flat of the steel. It is called 'Asala'. You could not mistake it for anything other than a Qunari blade if you saw it."
"Sounds like it." The elf had heard of red steel and white steel before, but never blue; such a distinctive material would make it a worthy prize for any treasure hunter or scavenger. Might even make it easier to track down too… "I didn't see a sword like that when we came across your fallen comrades, and given how long it's been since the attack and that the darkspawn often scavenge weapons and armour from those they slay, it is possible that the sword may never be recovered. But we'll try to find it all the same."
It took a great deal to shock the Qunari, more still to make him show it, and the surprise at that proclamation was etched plainly upon his stony visage. "You would do such a thing for my sake, even knowing what I have done?"
"I would. You're part of this team, Sten, and helping you all is my responsibility. If retrieving your sword is needed to ensure you're fighting at your best, then that is what I will do. Besides, if I thought you were utterly beyond redemption, I never would have let you out of that cage to begin with."
"Perhaps your words are hollow, but… thank you all the same."
"You're quite welcome, Sten," said Sagramor, accepting his thanks with a grateful nod. "Now, let's get down to the village. Owain is waiting for us."
And Leliana…
When they'd first arrived in Redcliffe, Sagramor had assigned Alistair and Leliana the task of dealing with the stubborn Owain, for fear that any prejudice the blacksmith might possess against elves would sour even the most convincing words of wisdom. If such things mattered before, the rescue of his daughter had certainly put them to rest, and before Sagramor had even taken two steps into the oppressive heat of the forgeworks, the blacksmith rushed to embrace him like a long-lost friend, meaty arms encircling the elven Warden in a grateful hug. "My daughter Valena was returned to me!" he bawled, blissfully unaware of both the elf's discomfort and Sten's silent contempt at the display. "She told me of your daring rescue, I can't possibly begin to repay you!"
Next to the forge, Valena cleared her throat. "Perhaps letting him breathe would be a good start, father."
"Oh, right." The big arms withdrew, and Owain offered the Warden a relieved smile and a hearty thump on the back. "I'm not too proud to admit I was wrong about you, Warden. Didn't think an elf would be of much help to us, but you made me look quite the fool. You're a credit to your race, ser."
"Why… thank you. And you are well, Valena?"
"Better now that I have returned home," answered the girl, smiling bashfully at her rescuer. "Warden, what my father means to say is we are truly grateful to you. I wouldn't have lasted inside the castle if you hadn't shown up."
"That's quite all right, miss, I understand," replied the elf, choosing not to take offense at Owain's words. There was no condescension or with genuine hatred to be found in them; the sentiment was genuine even if the phrasing was poorly chosen, and Sagramor was even-tempered enough not to take umbrage at every unintentional slight. He'd certainly experienced enough deliberate ones back in Denerim to make that distinction. That Owain had laboured long and hard on their behalf was but another reason not to snap at him. "I merely did my duty, and I couldn't have done it alone either."
"Then I owe you my thanks as well, uhh, ser Qunari," Owain expressed, before walking over to a nearby table where several bundles lay wrapped in oilcloth and bound with string. "Where's Master Alistair?"
"He had some things to take care of back at the castle, but he'll be here before nightfall," explained Sagramor, gesturing towards the table's contents. "Is that the new armour you made for us?"
"Indeed, as promised." The string parted, and Owain pulled the oilcloths away to reveal their contents, inspiring an astonished gasp from Sagramor. "Well, go on then, try them on now and get a feel for them. Think I got your measurements right, but let me know if there's any adjustments I can make while you're here."
Quickly, Sagramor clad himself in the fruits of Owain's labour, his appreciation of the human's efforts only growing with every piece that was unveiled and donned. A full chainmail hauberk went first, the rings newly-forged and reaching down to his knees, and overtop went the various pieces of plate armour: greaves covering his lower arms, rondels guarding his knees and elbows, leg-guards protecting his shins, and a breastplate for his torso, all made of fine steel and fitted well to his wiry frame. He'd specifically asked for a suit of half-plate armour for greater mobility, and a few minutes spent walking about the forge without feeling overly encumbered brought the elf back to the blacksmith's side with a contented bow, the armour exceeding every expectation. "Well done, master blacksmith, it's everything I could have hoped for. Everything good with you, Sten?"
"This will serve," Sten responded, his new suit of chainmail borne as lightly as he did his tattered prisoner's garb.
"Why, thank you kindly. The Lady Leliana seemed to like hers, but I just riveted a few pieces together. The leatherworkers in town did most of it."
At mention of the beautiful Orlesian, Sagramor instantly perked. "Leliana was here?"
"Yes, she stopped by to pick up her armour and then went back to the chantry. Wanted to get some last-minute prayers in, I'd imagine."
Well, I know where my next destination is, Sagramor mused inwardly, the very thought of her sending giddy sparks shooting through his heart. "You did well, Master Owain," he remarked, returning to the subject at hand. "Especially considering the few days allotted to you. It must have been hard, getting our armour made so well and so quickly."
"It was nothing," the blacksmith demurred, the lines of fatigue upon his weathered face putting the lie to that humble statement. "I held help, mind you. A bunch of blacksmiths came in with the newcomers and pitched in once they learned who I was forging for, and Valena here did her part as well. I should have brought you into the forge years ago!"
"Then I am grateful to you too, miss," said Sagramor, the girl blushing in the face of her father's visible pride in her. "Will you not be returning to the castle, then?"
"After what happened with the undead and that poor little boy, I just couldn't. There's just too many bad memories. Besides, helping my father make arms and armour to use against the darkspawn is much more important than scrubbing pots and sweeping floors ever could be."
"Bann's orders," Owain explained. "He wants every man in the village, including the newcomers, to be well-equipped to fight the darkspawn, so that means proper weapons and armour for everyone. Even wants the Circle to enchant as many as they can." The blacksmith visibly grimaced at the notion. "Don't see the benefit of mucking up perfectly good steel with magic of all things, but the Bann knows what he's doing."
"Maker, that'll take some work."
"Well, we'll do our bit. It's what Arl Eamon would want."
That had not been the first time Eamon's name had been invoked of late by his subjects, and to see the hold that bond of loyalty still possessed over them, even with their liege lord still bedridden and stricken to the point of near-death, was a welcome sign. Were he a tyrant, he doubted that would ever be the case. "Then we shall do our utmost to bring him back to you, I swear it," Sagramor reiterated, before turning his focus towards fulfilling another promise. "Tell me, by any chance, have you come across a Qunari greatsword recently? Perhaps by someone looking to sell it?"
"A Qunari greatsword?" Owain repeated, brow furrowing in puzzlement. "Can't say that I have, Warden. Don't even know what one of those would look like, to be honest with you."
"Maybe the peddler might know?" opined Valena.
"The peddler?" asked Sagramor.
"Some travelling merchant," explained the blacksmith. "Came in from the north this morning, and first words out of his mouth were if we knew where any Grey Wardens might be found."
The first stirrings of anxiety plucked at the Warden's heart. "Not particularly subtle, is he?"
"Aye, don't seem like much of a spy. Murdock had a little chat with him and is letting him stay and sell his wares, so long as he doesn't cause any trouble. Still, what could he want with you lot?"
"Not sure," mused the elf, ensuring his long knife lay at his side. "Guess there's only one way to find out…"
"You're a hard man to find, Warden!" the merchant greeted Sagramor with an enthusiastic boom, arms thrown open wide with a showman's flare. They'd arrived just as he'd finished a sale, for behind him, Mayor Murdock and a clutch of villagers were busy carrying a dozen long, heavy crates from the back of his horse-drawn wain, yet his attentions remained focused on the approaching Warden and Qunari, white teeth flashing in an ingratiating smile as he brought his hand forward, warm face framed by a pair of long, ginger braids hanging down either side. "Though I must say, it is a great honour to meet you. Loghain's description doesn't really do you justice, Master Sagramor."
Cautiously, Sagramor shook the proffered hand. "You have me at a disadvantage, ser."
"A thousand pardons, Warden, where are my manners?" the merchant accepted the mild reproof. "Levi Dryden, at your service. Did Duncan ever mention me? Levi of the Coin? Levi the Trader?"
There was a note of expectant, almost desperate hope in the man's voice, one that Sagramor regretted to disabuse. "Unfortunately, Duncan never mentioned you, ser, but in all fairness, I only knew him for a short time, and the fight against the Blight took priority."
"Really? He never told you of old Levi? We'd known each other for years," the merchant muttered disapprovingly. "A shame, but understandable; he was never one to speak of idle things, even old friends, when he had duties to attend to. Still, I can hardly believe he's gone. These are dark days, Warden."
"We'll win through them, merchant, and Duncan will be avenged, I can promise you that. But how did you recognize me? Did one of the villagers tell you who I was?"
"No, I'd heard mention you were in town, but it's not like someone specifically pointed you out. Truth be told, I knew who you were even before I saw you." Darting back to his wain, the merchant rummaged about for a few moments, eventually returning with a cheap paper leaflet in his grasp. "These are all over northern Ferelden, or they should be by now."
Accepting the leaflet, Sagramor's eyes immediately widened at the sight of the familiar-looking visage that dominated the page, his own features twisted into a hateful caricature no doubt meant to stoke the reader's hatred and give further emphasis to the WANTED label stenciled in thick black letters above. There was a name given too, a sobriquet designed to deepen that fear and paint him as something inhuman, the Warden recognizing the cultural prejudice rooted in those words even as he spoke them aloud. "'The Grey Wolf of Denerim.' Interesting name for me."
"A vile one!" Levi all but spat. "It ain't right that any of the Order should be tarred with the same brush as those disgusting beasts. What have the Wardens ever done to be compared to wolves, of all things?"
Making a note of the human's reaction, Sagramor continued examining the wanted poster. Below the portrait, the many crimes Loghain's regime had levelled against him were spelled out in blocktype, and the elf felt his outrage grow with each additional charge he muttered. "Murder, regicide, espionage, high treason, incitement to rebellion… and a five hundred sovereign reward for death or capture?!" It was an astronomical sum, the kind of coin only the richest of guilds or most powerful of noble houses might expect to see in their lifetimes, and Sagramor glanced back upwards at the merchant, instantly suspicious. "You haven't show this poster around to anyone else, I hope?"
"Perish the thought, Warden, it wouldn't do for me to sell you out. It would shame Duncan's memory, not to mention make all my work in bringing the Wardens back in the first place for nothing. No, Arl Howe has been printing these like mad and ordered them distributed across the kingdom. Even us merchants have to make room for them in our wagons or else our goods'll be confiscated. You should be careful if you'd heading up north. The Regent's stopping at nothing to hunt you, and he's even put out bounties on your friends as well. They've got wanted posters for them too, if you'd like to see."
"We'll be careful," the elf declared, making sure not to specify their destination. If this man truly was a spy, then fishing for their plans would be exactly the sort of thing he might try. Still… "You said you brought the Wardens back to Ferelden?"
"Not just me, of course, there were a bunch of us working to get the Order's exile overturned. After the Orlesians were kicked out and Maric took the throne, a bunch of us long-standing Grey Warden supporters petitioned the King to let the Order return. Lots of people looked on the Wardens as freeloaders and renegades, so not much has changed there, but Maric, Andraste bless him, was a fair-minded ruler who realized how important the Wardens were. He actually went with them on some secret mission with the Warden-Commander Genevieve, and when he returned, he immediately rescinded old King Arland's decree banishing the Wardens. That's how I met Duncan, actually; he'd fought alongside Maric, and we became good friends. In fact, you see, he'd promised that together, we'd look into something important for the Wardens, and for me. But poor Duncan's, well, no more. A tragedy it is, at that. But I know he'd want his work carried on, and his pledge fulfilled."
"So, what exactly would you have us do? I'll give you a fair hearing, of course, but I need to know the details before I agree to anything."
"Well, you see, my family's been involved with the Order for a long time. My great-great-grandmother, Sophia Dryden, was the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden before King Arland banished the Order back in the Storm Age, and when he did, he even went so far as to declare House Dryden traitors and strip us of our lands and titles."
"Maker!" swore the elf. "Do you know why he did it? I know a lot of kings wouldn't need a reason to do something like that, but still…"
"Hard to say, Warden, I've never been able to figure that out for certain. After Arland died, there was a civil war, loads worse than the one we've got brewing now, and best I can figure, a lot of the records got destroyed or simply lost to history once the country finished picking up the pieces. My family suffered too, but Drydens are tough. We rebuilt, became merchants, and we never lost our pride."
"So you are not truly merchants, but noblemen turned merchants," stated Sten, arms folded across his broad chest in obviously disapproval. "Such things would never be endured under the Qun."
"We did what we had to do, ser," Levi answered calmly, unperturbed by the Qunari's bluntness. "But getting back to Duncan's promise… you see, my family reveres Sophia Dryden, even back in the day when the Crown was dragging her name through the muck, but we still don't know the truth about what happened to her. All we know is that she died at the old Grey Warden base at Soldier's Peak, up in the Coastlands. That's what Duncan promised, see; he'd find the evidence we need to clear her name and reclaim our family's honour, and we'd restore the fortress as a base for the Ferelden Wardens to use."
"Soldier's Peak…" Sagramor muttered, brows furrowed in thought. Duncan had mentioned it in passing on the road to Ostagar; one of the great Warden chapter-keeps the Order had raised in ages past, the efforts of so many stonemasons and labourers and Wardens now abandoned and shamefully left to rot. "Tell me, what's kept you from investigating it yourself?"
"Well, no one's been to Soldier's Peak since Arland's days, or at least, none's that come back. I can pick my way through the tunnels leading up to the fortress; it's a proper maze, but I've spent years mapping it out. But the fortress itself, well… folks say it's haunted, and it'll be dangerous for certain." The plaintive note returned. "Will you think on it, at least?"
Weighing the merchant's request for a moment, Sagramor at last graced him with a nod. There was much about the man's story he'd need to confirm with Alistair: any man who claimed an intimate friendship with the fallen Duncan would be known to the young man he'd taken under his wing, and to traverse the lands ruled by Arl Howe with an active bounty on their heads would also demand some serious consideration. Yet there was no point in dismissing Levi's offer out of hand, especially if both it and his loyalty to the Grey Wardens were genuine. And despite his caution, Sagramor couldn't help but be intrigued by the notion of reclaiming the Peak, to see a lost fragment of the Order's glory restored to its proper state, especially given how useful a fortress built to endure a Blight would prove. "I will think on it, Master Dryden. Currently, we have some other, more time-sensitive business to attend to, and I'll make no promises, but we'll see what we can do."
"A thousand blessings upon you, Warden!" said Levi, exuberant even at the ambiguous response. "I won't keep you from your duties: you've a Blight to stop, after all, and I can keep travelling up the northern road until you've decided. But when you're ready to head up to the Peak, send word to my cousin Andrei at the Inn of the Golden Dragon in Amaranthine, and he'll get in touch with me so we can go up together."
"Is he trustworthy?"
"Undoubtedly. The entire family's been wanting to find out the truth about Sophia for years now, and not one of us would ever think about denying you shelter or turning you in. I owe you for this, Warden, I really do."
"Then perhaps you might be able to help us with something," Sagramor proposed, gesturing towards Sten. "My friend here is looking for a Qunari greatsword, one taken from him after he was wounded by the darkspawn. Do you have anything like that?"
Levi rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Unfortunately not, Warden. I'm not in the habit of selling salvaged weapons, not with my brother Mikhael forging the best arms and armour in Ferelden, and I definitely don't have anything like that in stock. Mind you, I did stumble across a bunch of dead Qunari about two weeks back, near the shore of Lake Calenhad, though if there was anything there, Faren probably got to it first."
"Faren?" Sten made the unfamiliar name a curse. "Who is that?"
"Another merchant, ser Qunari, bit of a weaselly fellow. He normally travels along the passes leading to Orzammar, though for whatever reason, he came further south this year. When I first got to the battle site, he'd already packed up, left without so much as saying hello. Can't say for certain he has what you're looking for, but it may be worth checking out."
"It may indeed. Our thanks, Master Levi," said Sagramor, shaking the human's hand. "When the time comes to fulfill Duncan's promise, we'll let you know."
As he did every time he stepped into the gilded halls of the Denerim Chantry, Rendon Howe restrained himself from spitting at the cloying aura of self-righteousness, thick as the clouds of incense lingering throughout the grand edifice, taking great care not to betray his disgust at the filthy peasant masses surrounding him. The main hall was packed tight with all manner of folk; widows and orphans grieving the losses at Ostagar, desperate petitioners pleading to the Maker for salvation from the darkspawn threat, even some foolish souls engaged in a service of remembrance for that idiot Cailan. Beggars too littered the halls, and instantly took notice of the nobleman's presence, crowding desperately around him, hands extended for alms. One of the indigents, bolder than the rest, dared reach out to Loghain's right hand, but Howe's bodyguards, six strong knights handpicked for their ruthlessness and dedication to their lord, closed ranks and bullied the beggar back with their shields, the brutality of their reprisal motivating the rest to look elsewhere for charity.
Howe detested going to the Chantry. Indeed, as a rule, he resented leaving his newly-acquired palace, emerging only when the demands of his duty could not be passed off to an underling, and even then, ensuring he travelled in unmarked coaches and under heavy guard. It was more than just a matter of security for the cagey nobleman, but of pleasure; after so many years enduring the discomforts of Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine, the majesty of the Arl of Denerim's estate was a welcome boon, and one he sought to enjoy to the fullest. Nor was he one of the mewling sheep who pleaded for the Maker's grace to improve their lot, he preferred to rely upon his own cunning rather than the patronage of a distant god, to seize upon profitable opportunities as they arose. It was for the sake of such an opportunity that he'd deigned to attend the Chantry's services over the past several weeks, sowing the seeds that, for the sake of his own ambition, he hoped to reap today. And then I can let my messengers bear the burden of coming here, he promised himself, letting that happy thought carry him through the ranks of the diseased and the helpless on the way to the rearmost chapels. Templars, faces hidden beneath full helms, stared down the Arl and his escort for one tense moment, before a sharp female voice from within bade them step aside. Opening the door to the chapel, Howe cautiously examined the room before ordering his guards to remain without, stepping in and greeting its sole occupant with a respectful bow. "Your Reverence, it is wonderful to see you again."
"It is always an honour to meet with the Arl of Denerim," came the woman's reply, as devoid of warmth and empathy as the Frostbacks in midwinter, and stern as a taskmaster at the whip. Howe had met the Revered Mother Hale on several occasions beforehand, either in private audiences like today or in the general Chantry services he'd made a point of attending these past few weeks, and it had not taken him long to discover the fanatic's heart that beat within her. She'd been a foundling, adopted by the Chantry as the merest infant, and forty years of service to the faith had made a woman who actively resented all those who did not share it, grey eyes like chips of flint set into the stony lines of her face, thin mouth perpetually downturn. In that time, she'd gained a reputation as one of Denerim's more conservative clerics, forever railing from the pulpit about the treachery of mages, the corruption of non-humans, the degradation of public morality, and of the need to combat such things without hesitation or mercy. In short, she was a true believer, utterly rooted in the convictions of her dogma, but he'd dealt with true believers before. "Your lordship has been a frequent petitioner to the Chantry as of late. It is good to see there are still men of faith within the Landsmeet."
"I've had something of a spiritual awakening in recent days, Your Reverence," Howe proclaimed, grateful he'd practiced such pious drivel beforehand. A pouch of gold, the latest of several he'd offered up to the Chantry in the past few weeks, was placed upon the altar, clawed fingers emerging from the sleeves of Hale's robes to snatch it away. "I can't help but believe the Maker sent you to guide me onto the path, for your words have inspired me to restore that faith and shape my devotions to Him."
A flicker of pride, quickly stifled, crossed the elder cleric's features. "Perhaps if this country had been faithful to begin with, it would not face this crisis at all," she declared stiffly, iron gaze settling upon him. "Ostagar was the Maker's punishment upon this land, Arl Howe, His means by which to chastise us for our licentiousness, our lack of devotion, our toleration of the mages and nonhuman scum that infest the gutters and corrupt our souls. Only once we have cleansed this kingdom of sin and left it white as snow will we know victory. The Maker will not accept anything less from His children."
Inwardly, Howe's temper flared at the implied criticism, but patience won out over pride… if just barely. He'd spent too much time and gold arranging things to see it all fall apart now, and bridling the excesses of his tongue, changed tack according. "Indeed, I came here today in hopes of furthering that mission, Your Reverence. The loss of the Grand Cleric, and now of the Revered Mother Nwylle, must weigh heavily on you."
"My faith in the Maker sustains me through all trials. And as for Nwylle, she will hardly be missed," Hale remarked acidly. "Why have you come here?"
"The business of state, Your Reverence. Tell me, has the Chantry determined who is to serve as the next Grand Cleric of Ferelden? The Regent is eager to know who the Divine's choice might be, so we might better stand together against the evils that beset us."
"She has not. Indeed, we have received no communication from Val Royeaux since the border was sealed." Grey eyes fixed on the nobleman in a suspicious glare. "I would hope your troops would not dare hinder the Maker's servants for a mere temporal concern."
"I assure you, we would never even dream of doing so," Howe replied, the practiced lie flowing smoothly from his lips. A party of priests and their Templar escorts carrying the Divine's orders to the Chantry in Ferelden had indeed crossed into Ferelden territory a little over two weeks past, their ship passing through the blockades around Highever unhindered, only to "tragically" succumb to attack by raiders further east past the port of Amaranthine. The ship itself had been burned to the waterline and the corpses pitched overboard, but not before his agents learned how the Revered Mother Nwylle had been selected as Ferelden's new Grand Cleric, a heart failure induced by the subtle poisons Ganz laced into her food tidying up that loose end. Nwylle would not have served: she was too humble, too reasonable, too adverse to the dirty business of politics to fit the role Howe intended. But for Hale, to sin in the Maker's name was no sin at all, even the dirtiest deed made clean when committed by His chosen messengers, and that self-righteousness would make her a useful instrument if properly directed. "Perhaps, Your Reverence, if the Grand Cathedral will not stir itself to offer consul and direction to the Chantry in Ferelden, then the Maker's servants here must look to themselves for a guiding hand."
"What exactly are you suggesting, my lord?"
"It simply seems to me that until the Grand Cathedral comes to a decision, someone must speak with the voice of Andraste for this land, and out of all the many clerics in the Chantry's service, you are by far the most capable of doing so. You alone have the strength to do what is necessary, and the Regent would prefer it if you took the Grand Cleric's seat."
Narrow lips tightened. "To speak of such things, for a kingdom to dictate the affairs of the Chantry… some might consider it blasphemy."
"Some might," Howe acknowledged, maintaining a casual air. He was treading on very dangerous ground now, the slightest misstep jeopardizing all he had worked for, and failure here would spoil any value the unforgiving priest might offer them. Not to mention incur Loghain's anger. "But I merely suggest that in times of great adversity, the best amongst us rise to meet these challenges, even if they must have power thrust upon them. Loghain recognizes this. After all, who would think that a mere farmboy would become the greatest general this land has seen since Hafter himself? Surely your leaders would not object to a display of initiative by a valued member of their order, especially if it preserves Ferelden in these dark times? Better that a strong voice rises to offer masses guiding leadership than permit them to wallow in hopelessness and anarchy. Act as a Grand Cleric might, and the Regent is more than happy to treat you as such."
"And what would the Regent want in return for such sanction?"
Howe offered an idle shrug. "Merely that you work with us to protect Ferelden from all her enemies. With crown and Chantry united in their efforts, there is no limit to what we might accomplish. And when the crisis has passed and this land stands secure once more, I have no doubt the Grand Cathedral will reward you for all you have done. Who better to serve as the official Grand Cleric of Ferelden than the woman who shepherded its people through a darkspawn invasion? Who better, perhaps, to sit upon the Sunburst Throne itself?"
To her credit, Hale tried to disguise it, but for a man as base and cunning as Rendon Howe, the glimmer of avarice that flickered in the zealot's eyes might as well have been a shrieking proclamation to the heavens. I have her. "I mean no disrespect towards Her Perfection, of course, but I have heard it said of late that her health has taken a turn for the worse." That was an understatement: the Divine Beatrix III was a senile old woman, barely able to control her bladder much less an institution as powerful as the Chantry. Already, the Grand Cathedral had become a hive of intrigue as rival clerics jockeyed for position and favour, anticipating the moment when she finally died and a new Divine would be elected, the sanctified nature of the position offering no immunity from the intrigues of politics, least of all in that pit of vipers that called itself the Orlesian Empire. Any cleric with the slightest hint of ambition was counting down the days until the Sunburst Throne stood empty, and for all her zealous piety, Hale was clearly one of them, the tantalizing promise of supreme religious power undermining her sense of caution right before his eyes. "Forgive me a moment's lack of faith, but I fear for the future of Mother Chantry when the Divine passes on, with all the evils present in our world. The Chantry needs someone who can make it strong again and inspire the faithful just as you did for me," Howe remarked flatteringly. "The voice of Andraste must be one of resolve and courage, and we will do all we can to ensure you become that voice in the days to come."
"You speak wisely, my lord. It is relief to know that the Regent is taking his responsibilities towards the faith seriously." Stiffly, the Revered Mother offered Howe a nod of acceptance. "The people of Ferelden are weak, impious, forever succumbing to their vices and permitting these evils to take root in their lands and in their souls. A strong hand is needed to guide them and bring them towards the Maker's light, and if the Crown is willing to aid me in doing so, then I may indulge you in kind."
"Thank you… Your Grace," said Howe, the use of a Grand Cleric's honorific drawing a slight, vain smile from the priestess. He doubted the Grand Cathedral would ever see Hale walk through its doors, let alone take up the Divine's seat, but as long as she believed that her path to the Sunburst Throne could be cleared in any way by Loghain, she was theirs, and now any dissenters to the Regent's rule would face not just ruthless punishment but spiritual condemnation. There were other ways to crush dissent and ensure order than simply force of arms. The efforts of the Revered Mother Bronach had done much to keep the Usurper's reign afloat, and now, Loghain had his own pet cleric to call upon. Until we no longer need her… "As a matter of fact, should you be seeking inspiration for your next sermon, there is a topic near and dear to my heart that I would be most honoured to hear you speak on."
"And what would that be, my lord?"
"Elves, Your Grace." A smile with too many teeth shadowed the chapel's light. "I want you to preach about elves…"
His armour retrieved and a lead on his sword obtained, Sten withdrew back up to the castle noticeably more content than when he'd emerged, even going so far as to let that gratitude for the Warden's efforts emerge past the aegis of his stoic demeanour. Sagramor took that as a positive sign. Fate, circumstance and the Blight had thrown their motley little band together, but to forge them into a true brotherhood would require dedication on his part, and if even Sten, perpetually reserved and scornful of all things non-Qunari, was starting to warm up to him, then such efforts had not been in vain.
That duty attended to, Sagramor stepped towards the cool comfort of the chantry, casually working his way around the gaggle of laughing children playing before the great doors, the portal still left scarred and battered from where the revenant had laid into it. Pausing inside to make a brief obeisance at the main altar, he made for the northern side-chapel, Leliana's voice luring him onward like the sirens spoken of by sailors making port at Denerim's great harbour. Though a doom at her hands would be grand indeed, the Warden jested to himself, a sudden, vain urge compelling him to wipe any last traces of red dust from his new-forged armour or his trademark cloak lest he shame himself in front of the beautiful Orlesian. In the tranquil stillness, he could not help but inadvertently eavesdrop on the whispered words emanating from the northern side-chapel, fervent prayers for the people of Lothering, the success of their quest… and for his own safety.
Before Sagramor could come to grips with that fact, her prayers abruptly ceased, and a familiar, beautiful face emerged from behind the bookshelves partitioning the chapel from the rest of the chantry, her inviting smile fixing him in his tracks. "Good day, Grey Warden. All is well?"
"All is well. Am I interrupting your devotions? I can give you some privacy, if you'd like."
"Not at all. Would you care to join me? We haven't had a chance to talk lately."
"I'd be honoured," the elf replied, gratefully taking a seat beside her and taking the opportunity to marvel at her beauty. Owain's doubts about the quality of his leatherwork were unfounded, and Sagramor had to force himself not to shamefully gawk at the lovely redhead in her new armour, the old, battered set replaced with a suit of supple, high-quality black leather, leaving her left arm bare to the shoulder and reinforced with scale mail at her torso even as it highlighted her more feminine attributes. Above her breasts, red cloth was held in place by a series of red cords crisscrossing her athletic figure, bearing one of Andraste's holy symbols upon the field, while as before, her skirt was comprised of a series of reinforced, segmented leather strips, offer both mobility and protection while still permitting tantalizing glimpses of her perfect thighs. "New armour working out for you?"
"Yes, Owain brought in some leatherworkers to help, and they did a wonderful job," Leliana expressed, casting blue eyes over his own half-plate, long booted legs tucked beneath her. "And I must say, your armour looks rather dashing on you."
"That's kind of you to say," muttered the elf, blushing scarlet as her hair. "No doubt I'll be testing it out before long."
"The Maker has smiled on us so far, my friend. We do His bidding by seeking out the Urn, how could He turn His back on such a quest, especially after all we have done so far?"
"Perhaps. I just wish He could have saved Lothering. How are you holding up, by the way? I can't imagine this is easy for you."
Sighing, Leliana turned back to the votive image of Andraste she'd taken such strength from before the undead attack, the ceramic eyes of the Maker's mortal bride seemingly staring back at her, serene and endlessly patient. "It isn't, but… we all knew that Lothering could not be saved, Sagramor. Ostagar's fall had seen to that."
"True, but there's a difference between acknowledging that and actually having it happen. If there was anything more we could have done…"
"I know you would have done so. Think of all you have done since we departed the village: protecting Redcliffe in its darkest hour, standing with the Circle despite the terrible risks in doing so, saving me from Sloth's minions... That anyone from Lothering survived is due in no small part to you, and you have done so much in the time since. I do not blame you for what happened there, Sagramor, you've no reason to feel guilty about anything. I will miss Lothering and those we lost, but there are still so many more communities that we can save, and we will. I will be fine, but thank you for checking." She offered him a wry smile. "And I am certain the Hawkes would have survived Lothering's fall. Marian is a very driven woman, and she's always possessed the strength to see her family safe through any trial."
Sagramor nodded. "I got that impression from her as well. Shame she decided against joining us."
A wistful sigh escaped the redhead's full lips. "It is, but she has her own path to tread. They will go with my prayers, no matter where that road takes them, but I made a choice too, Sagramor. I do not regret it, and I never will."
"Thank you. That means more to me than I can express," exclaimed the elf. "And if you ever need someone to talk to…"
"I shall seek out no one else," Leliana remarked teasingly. "Thank you for trusting in me, Sagramor. I know it must have seemed strange, having someone like me want to join you-"
"Who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?" the elf jested, provoking a musical laugh from the Orlesian woman, blue eyes radiating delight at the compliment. "You've earned your place here, Leliana. I'll admit, I had my doubts when you first offered to join us, but I was wrong to do so. You've more than earned your place here, and saved my life more than once in the bargain. This is your world too. It would have been wrong of me to deny you the chance to fight for it, and… and I cannot not see myself doing this without your skill and counsel to call upon."
"You would have found a way. You always do," Leliana remarked proudly. Their gaze held for a moment, then she turned away, the light of the midsummer sun that streamed through the closest stained-glass window disguising her faint blush as it danced over her beautiful features. "Shall we head back to the castle? Bann Teagan's promised something special for the parting feast."
"And it would be rude to keep our host waiting," quipped the elf, rising and following her lead back out into the sunlight. A final moment of peace before they departed, for Ferelden needed its champions more than ever…