Chapter 37
The Sneeze Heard All 'Round Haven

"So Jowan is dead." Wynne's cultured voice was mournful. "I had so hoped he would return with you."

"He ran that night, and was struck down. It saddened me, but he made his choice," Irving sighed.

Wynne relaxed in her customary chair in First Enchanter Irving's office as told her of all the official goings on, glad to hear of the improvements that were planned for the tower. It was nice to return and see things as they should be. Kinloch Hold had been scoured from top to bottom, and if not for the missing people, she could have believed Uldred's uprising had never occurred.

Such predictability was reassuring, yet Leliana had been right... Wynne did long for adventure. She wasn't unhappy to bid Irving goodbye an hour later, and go in search of her old apprentice before making her way back across the lake.

Petra had taken an apprentice of her own, and introduced the little girl with a proud smile. How young they both seemed. The palsy hadn't come for Wynne as she'd seen it come for others, but every wrinkle and age-spot seemed larger in comparison to Petra's smooth, unblemished skin.

Once Petra had dismissed the little one, the two of them settled in for a nice long chat. Wynne smiled over her teacup as Petra babbled on, telling her of all the latest tower gossip.

"Solona's apprentice was Harrowed a few days ago," Petra remarked as she reached for another cookie.

"What was his name?" Wynne's brow puckered.

"Alim."

"Ah, yes. Elven?"

Petra nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed suddenly and began giggling, then reached for her tea.

"What's funny?" Wynne's heart warmed to see such happiness on Petra's face.

"I've just remembered that Anders got out again," she snickered. "If it was anyone else, we'd be up in arms over it... but Anders being Anders, it slipped my mind as being unusual! There's bets laid for when he'll come back. I've got the hour after sunset. The commander sent Cullen out after him."

Wynne chuckled, then slipped a coin from her purse. "Add this to your bet. If we win, I'll collect when I come home."

Petra winked as she pocketed the coin, then sobered. "When will you be back, Wynne? You worry me."

"Pish tosh. I may not be a spring chicken, but there is still life in these old bones."

"That isn't what I meant..." Petra trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Wynne's smile faded, but then she reached across the small table and gripped the girl's hand reassuringly. "Don't fret, my dear. I am just fine. I have... protection."

.oOo.

"It was here," Sten said.

Leliana's keen eyes combed the landscape, her lips pursing in thought. They stood on the edge of the hamlet by Lake Calenhad, and there wasn't much to indicate anything out of the ordinary, much less a battle of any kind. Leliana wandered through the trees, searching for anything out of place.

A glint caught her eye... the kind that could only mean sunlight on metal. With a squeal of glee, she picked it up and brushed it off. It was a piece of battered metal, rusted, but with a few shiny spots. She handed it to Sten. "Recognize it?"

The giant turned it over in his fingers. "Yes. It is a buckle from the breastplate of one of my fellows. Or perhaps even from myself-"

"Oy! You!" A voice cut him off, and Leliana and Sten turned to see a weasel of a man climbing the hill. "At's mine." He snatched the buckle from Sten's fingers.

"It isn't yours either, we just found it in the dirt," Leliana protested.

" 'is is my spot, and anyfing 'ere is mine to sell or do as I like wif," the man said. "Wan' it? It'll cost you... four silvah."

"For an old rusted buckle?" Leliana scoffed. "It can't be worth more than a few coppers."

The man spat into the dirt. "It ain't my fault all the good stuff is alriddy gone. From wha' I hear, they was all kindsa treasure. Giant shields, swords- "

"Where are the swords?" Sten strode forward and hoisted the man up by his armpits.

Leliana gasped, then snickered to see the peasant dangling like a live fish from Sten's enormous hands. He kicked helplessly, spinning and flopping. "I dunno! I swear! Bloke named Faryn sold me 'is spot - said I'd make good coin! But what 'e didn't tell me is he alriddy took all the best stuff, bloody arse pimple! Put me down! Don' kill me, please... I ain' worf it!"

Leliana giggled again. The man was so very pathetic. "Where is this Faryn now?" she asked, her arms crossing.

" 'e's in Orzammar! 'e's selling what he's collected! Miss, I got nuffink else I kin tell you - please let me go! I'll - I'll give you the buckle for free! One on old Bill, howsaboutit?"

The idea of receiving the rusted belt buckle as an incentive not to kill this sad, wretched little man was enough to dissolve Leliana's composure. She whooped with laughter. As for Bill, he began to cry big slobbery tears. Sten dropped him in disgust, and Bill stumbled all over himself in his hurry to run down the hill and away from his captors.

"Orzammar..." Leliana wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. "Sten, you were magnificent."

"I have never heard that phrase before. I shall have to remember it..." Sten said thoughtfully.

"What? Magnificent?"

"No. Bloody arse pimple."

Hilarity claimed her again. Sten's somber voice uttering such a ridiculous phrase was more than she could take.

The qunari waited for her to quiet before asking, "This is humorous?"

"This is humorous, yes." Leliana smiled as she calmed herself. "I think when we tell our companions about this, you should be the one to relate this story. You have excellent timing, Sten." She strolled toward the tavern. Sten followed, claiming not to understand what she meant by 'excellent timing'.

Leliana pushed open the door. As with their first visit, the innkeep called out, "Welcome to the Spoiled Princess. How may we serve you?"

"Ale, please," Leliana said. He scurried to bring them two tankards as the two of them sat at a table. "Wynne should be back in a few hours. Until then... I suppose we just wait," Leliana said.

Bodahn had set up shop in the middle of the hamlet, and the few citizens who lived in town were perusing his wares. He had told Leliana and Sten to go on. Traffic was so light he didn't need guards of any kind. Leliana was considering teaching Sten to play cards to pass the time, when the giant spoke up. "This Urn of Sacred Ashes. Tell me of this," he said.

"The Urn is a famous legend. But according to Genitivi's notes, it's more real than we thought," she began, then outlined what Lyra had learned from the journal. Sten was interested in the history behind the legend, and she told him everything she could remember.

As she spoke, the same sense of unease that had plagued her during her first visit to the Spoiled Princess began building in her stomach. A quick perusal of the patrons revealed much... just as before, they were hanging on their every word. And all about the Urn, she thought.

"So... that's what there is to know," she said at last.

Sten nodded thoughtfully. "It is an interesting legend. Thank you for telling me. And our companions - do you think they will find the Urn in Haven?"

A sharp intake of breath from behind her. Leliana's head snapped toward the sound. Three men rose and stalked from the tavern without a word, ignoring the innkeep, who had gone pale as a ghost.

"I hope so, Sten." Leliana smiled, but in her stomach, a nest of butterflies had begun a frantic dance. Just what were Alistair and Lyra walking into?

Taking a breath, she sipped her ale,, then pulled a deck of playing cards from her pouch.

.oOo.

They met Wynne on the docks an hour or so later, and that evening Bodahn packed up his wagon. They camped just outside of town. It was a quiet meal without Alistair's jokes, Morrigan's sarcasm and Zevran's flirtations, but after they finished Leliana played her lute. It wasn't long before everyone went to bed, tucked into their tents to sleep; all but Sten, who had the first watch.

A sound in the darkness woke Leliana from her light sleep. Instantly on alert, she sat up and listened, her heart speeding adrenaline through her veins. Wynne was curled up beside her, fast asleep. Leliana crept to the tent flap and drew it just barely aside, keeping most of her body away from the slit in the fabric.

Sten was still sitting at his watch, staring into the darkness. Leliana peered through the tent flap, trying to find the source of the sound, but she saw and heard nothing.

Letting the flap go, she was on the verge of chastising an active imagination when she heard a sharp snap just inches away.

The sound of canvas tearing filled Leliana's ears as she rolled from the tent's entrance, scrabbling for her daggers. Quick as a flash, she slipped beneath the fabric wall of the tent, rolling to her feet and snatching the hair of the man who had just tried to kill her.

Such speed had saved her life more than once. He made no sound as she slit his throat, then spun and kicked the sternum of the other assassin. Only a faint wheeze lifted as he fell, his life ended a heartbeat later in a spray of blood.

Crouching, Leliana froze, extending every sense. The night breathed all around her, peaceful and undisturbed. And though she knew she'd been as silent as possible, there was no reason why Sten should not have at least turned around.

Her eyes narrowed as she crept close to him, her eyes adjusting in the moonlight. He'd been tied up in position. A touch to the pulse at his throat proved he was alive, but unconscious. Leliana frowned as she sat back on her heels, her eyes scanning the ground.

A round metal pot lay nearby, only a few inches in diameter. She picked it up and sniffed it, then dropped it again when the telltale fumes touched her nose. Faint nausea clenched her gut as she scented saar-qamek. Such a small amount wasn't enough to kill the qunari, but just the fact that the assassins had had the gas was worrisome enough.

Cutting Sten's ropes, she eased his huge body to the ground, then scurried back to her tent and woke Wynne. After a moment of hasty whispering, Wynne rummaged in her pack and handed Leliana a bottle. Leliana hurried back out to Sten and poured a little of the contents into her hand, then held her hand over his nose and mouth.

He came awake in a moment, gagging and wretching. When he'd recovered, Leliana spoke to him in a hurried whisper. Back to the tent, telling Wynne what she intended. Wynne objected, but Leliana insisted.

Reluctant, the healer agreed, pressing a few healing poultices into her hands with a motherly air. Leliana dug into her pack, retrieving a formless pair of black boots made from the softest doeskin.

A few moments later, armed and armored and with charcoal smeared over her face, Leliana ghosted her way into the woods, tracking the assassins back to their base of operations.

Lyra had asked her once why her armor was black. Leliana had not told her the truth - that it was made specifically for creeping through the night. The metal bits were roughened so as not to shine, and each piece was muffled against sound with beaten lambswool. Made to fit her body like a glove, it had cost her three hundred sovereigns - a fortune in gold, but worth every copper. A black hood covered her bright red hair, as well, and she blinked as a bit of coal dust got in her eyes. She paused, squeezing them tightly shut, then dabbed gently with the corner of her hood. Grease was better, but it was no longer an item she carried. In a pinch, she made do.

The assassins had not been clever about their tracks. It was easy as lying to follow their trail through the woods, and Leliana was unsurprised when she found herself at the back entrance of the Spoiled Princess Inn. She eased up to the door and inspected the handle.

It's not even locked, Leliana thought with disdain, then considered her approach. She recalled the men in the tavern - there had been three who left the inn suddenly, and at least three more in the tavern, not including the innkeeper. Assume he's not involved - too nervous, and probably being made to harbor these parasites against his will. The fact that the three men had left the tavern suggested they'd reported to a superior, which meant there was at least one other unaccounted for. Seven. Two dead at camp, which meant five leftover. She considered the size of the room she was about to enter, and the size of the inn, and the size of the hamlet, and figured a margin of error.

She knocked on the door, then pressed herself flat into the shadows.

After a moment, the door swung open, and a man peered out. "Vors? Brock?" he called into the darkness.

"They're dead," Leliana growled. Her dagger gleamed in the faint moonlight, a spray of blood painting the door as she cut his throat in a smooth, practiced motion. The man gurgled as he dropped.

Here we go, Leliana thought, leaving the body as she leapt lightly down the stairs. Come and get me!

She tore back into the woods, her soft-soled shoes melding with the bracken and silencing her footsteps. Shouts of alarm followed her. Choosing a secluded spot close to the treeline, Leliana melted into the shadows to wait.

One man ran past her, followed by another, and then one paused right by her hiding spot. With a merciless ease, she slipped up behind him and slit his throat, then dove silently behind another tree as he expired without a sound.

Four...five... Leliana counted, and then they stopped coming. There were no more sounds from the inn, and so Leliana began to stalk her prey. It was almost too easy - one by one, she crept up behind them and slashed their throats, leaving them to bleed into the bracken. These were not trained assassins; it was far too easy to take them down.

When only one man remained, she crept up behind him and drove her foot into the back of his knee. He collapsed with a shout, dropping his sword and rolling over as he moaned and clutched his broken knee. She scooted the sword out of reach with her foot, knelt beside him and pressed the flat of her blade to his neck.

"Why did Vors and Brock try to kill myself and my companions?" she asked pleasantly.

His eyes widened with fear. "What... are you?" he breathed in terror.

"Someone you will not see again," she replied in a cold voice. The blade deepened against his throat. "Tell me who you are, and you will live longer."

"The Urn. You are after the Urn," he squeaked.

She nodded. "You are telling me things I already know. It does not bode well for you." The silvered edge dug deeper, a line of ruby crimsoning the blade. "You are not answering my question. Why did you try to kill us?"

"It must be protected," the man's voice trembled. "Andraste... demands it!"

This took Leliana aback. "Andraste? She is with the Maker. What care could she have for her earthly remains?"

"Andraste has been reborn, and she is more glorious than anything you can imagine." An unholy fervor lit his eyes. "She must be protected!"

"My companions have gone after the Urn. Are they in trouble?"

"They are already dead," the man whispered cruelly.

The shock and insult in his eyes was almost as funny as his words when she began to laugh. The idea of these untrained buffoons killing Alistair and Lyra was laughable.

"That's not true. But I thank you for your information. I think I have enough to go on." Her blade sliced across his throat. Blood splashed into the grass, and the soft, wet sound of his breathing grew strained, then silenced.

Leliana took a few moments to search the bodies, but found nothing useful or informative. She checked the room in the inn and found it empty but for a small, carved wooden box, which contained a gold and silver medallion, set with amethyst and aquamarine. Slipping it into her pocket, she made her way back through the woods to the camp.

.oOo.

Morrigan crossed her arms as her doubtful eyes roamed the tiny hamlet laid out before them. "'Tis a quiet enough village. Looks can be deceiving, of course."

"Strange," Zevran said. "A perfect little village, no? Almost too perfect."

"Stay close," Lyra said. Kestrel gave a short bark, and she shushed him.

Haven spread out before them like a painting. Tiny cabins dotted the landscape, and lanterns hung from poles lining the road. The village was spread along the edges of the only path up the mountain, and at the top of the hill, Lyra could make out a leveled area that might serve as the town square. If she had to guess, she would lay money that the Chantry was up there.

They trudged up the path. The mountains had risen rapidly around them as they climbed the previous day, and the temperature had dropped alarmingly. The elevation was such that it couldn't have been much above freezing, although there was no snow. Thank goodness it's summer, she thought, rubbing her arms as she tugged her cloak around her.

Morrigan seemed unaffected by the weather, and was dressed as always in her skimpy blouse and leather skirt. Lyra assumed she must use magic to keep herself clean, because she wasn't sure she had ever seen Morrigan wash herself or any of her clothing. "Morrigan, do you use witchcraft to keep yourself warm?" she asked curiously.

"Of course," the witch responded.

"Isn't it a bit of a giveaway, then? You're practically naked. Anyone who looks at you will wonder why you're not dressed as we are. You're not blending in very well." Lyra said.

Morrigan gave a much put-upon sigh, then gave a wave of her hand. Suddenly she was cloaked as well.

"Impressive," Alistair commented, then reached out to tug on the cloth. His hand passed through it.

Morrigan jumped away as she snarled at him. "'Tis an illusion, dolt. Keep your hands to yourself."

Alistair snatched his hand away as if he'd been burned. Zevran snickered, seeming unbothered by the scowl Alistair fed him in return.

"Maker, it's cold here. Why's it so cold?" Alistair grumbled in a thick voice, then sneezed. "I think I'm catching something."

"No one is here," Zevran said, puzzled. "If this is a village, where are all the people?"

Lyra saw a few chickens in one yard, and an old, tired looking cow in another, but otherwise the village was as empty as the Archdemon's heart. Making a snap decision, she strode over to one of the doors and knocked.

As she had expected, there was no answer. They repeated this routine on up the path, but the houses were empty.

"Maybe everyone's up there?" Alistair suggested, and pointed to the top of the hill and the large building that dominated the plateau. They hurried up the path. Indeed, voices were raised in song within the building.

"Should we go in?" Alistair whispered.

"Why are you whispering? Of course we should," Lyra whispered back, then marched toward the door with Kestrel at her heels.

"She's whispering, too," Alistair pointed out, his voice sulky. At her back, Zevan chuckled.

Lyra ignored them and pushed open the doors.

The room was large and warm. A fire burned brightly in a huge stone hearth at the front of the room. Rows of benches led to a raised platform, where a man dressed in shining robes stood, leading the service. The benches were full of people. Men, women, children - here were the townspeople, all of them raising their voices in a song of simple praise. The hymn ended, and the leader raised his hands toward the heavens in a gesture of supplication.

"Let us pray, brothers and sisters," he said.

And then... Alistair sneezed.

The sound echoed through the silent church. As if that wasn't bad enough, his head rocked forward, banging into one of the posts with a loud thud. A sickly groan lifted as Alistair pressed his hand to his forehead, seeming unaware of the ruckus he'd just caused.

A sea of faces turned as one.

Lyra swore a silent oath of frustration. Not that she'd hoped for subtlety, barging into the building as she had, but their entrance was now more dramatic than she'd anticipated.

Forcing a smile to her face, she raised a hand in greeting. "Hello, everyone! Sorry to interrupt your meeting like this. We're looking for the town of Haven. Is this it?" she said in what she hoped was a cheerful, non-threatening manner.

"Yes, this is Haven, stranger," the leader replied. "Sit, be welcome. We are in the middle of service. When it is concluded, I will be happy to speak with you more." Smiling, the leader gestured to an empty row of seats in the very front of the room.

The front row? Not a chance. "Actually, we'll wait outside. I apologize for our rude interruption," Lyra said. She turned to hustle them out of the building.

"At least it was warm in there," Alistair sniffled once they were outside, his voice pathetic.

Without a word, Lyra pulled his handkerchief from her pouch and thrust it at him, annoyed at his inconvenient sinuses.

"Did you notice the carvings around the fireplace?" Morrigan said. "Dragons, sporting in flight. Beautiful, but certainly unusual."

"What do you think?" Lyra asked no one in particular, feeling uneasy.

"Something is very strange in this town," Zevran said. "If that was their Chantry, why was a man giving the service? Only women can be ordained as Revered Mothers. My flower, I am recalling your descriptions of Dragon Cults from last night. Does anyone else think it is strange that their fireplace should have carvings of dragons all around it? Exactly what did Brother Genitivi stumble upon?"

"There's only one way to find out," Lyra said. "We have to stay and talk with that man."

"Or, we could run," Alistair suggested in a nasal voice, mopping his nose and honking into the handkerchief.

"Or, we could talk with that man, and then tonight a very talented assassin could sneak into the village and look for clues about what is going on," Zevran said with a sly smile.

Lyra chewed the insides of her cheeks, then nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Me too," Alistair said thickly, then sneezed again, his entire body bowing.

"Not with that cold, you won't," Lyra told him. "You're loud enough normally, but now you're ridiculous."

"Hey, I'm sick," Alistair said petulantly. "Don't be mean."

Amusement curled the corners of Morrigan's mouth.

It was only a few minutes later that people began streaming from the building, staring at the Wardens' group as they fled down the mountain. All went straight to their homes, and if she had been close enough, Lyra was certain she would have heard bolts thrown with every door that clicked shut.

The robed man was the last to emerge. A welcoming smile lit his face as he gestured toward the sanctuary. "Please, friends, come inside and warm yourselves."

They followed him into the building, and Lyra looked around as they walked down the aisle between the benches. It was a simple square, constructed of unpainted wood and stone, which made the fantastic carvings around the fireplace all the more remarkable. Some of the carvings had been dyed with gentle, faded colors. The whorls and swirls brought the dragons to life in the still wood.

"Is this your Chantry?" Lyra asked, attempting friendly curiosity.

"In a manner of speaking," the man said softly. "I am Father Eirik, the leader of Haven's spiritual community, as well as the leader of the town. Why have you come to Haven?"

"Just passing through," Lyra lied cheerfully. "We're on our way to Orzammar, and we thought we might stop for supplies. Is there a general store in Haven?"

Father Eirik looked at her searchingly, and Lyra began to sweat under her cloak.

"Your name, child?" he asked gently.

"Margaret," she said, pulling the first name out of the air that she thought of. He smiled indulgently at her, and Lyra's heart sank.

"Margaret, I distinctly remember you saying 'We're looking for the town of Haven.' Now, why would you tell me you were going to Orzammar, if it's really Haven you seek?"

"I... have heard of Haven. In my travels. Your hospitality is without compare, so said my merchant friends. I was tempted to see if it was true," she said, and mentally damned herself for making such obvious mistakes.

"No merchants come to Haven. Come, 'Margaret.' Let us end this charade. You are here for the Urn."

"The Urn?" she said desperately.

"Do not persist in this foolish game, child. It will not help you." Eirik stretched his hands out toward her. Lyra dove away as lightning sprang from the priest's fingertips. She pulled her weapons from their sheaths as she came to her feet, and saw Eirik engulfed in flames. He screamed horribly as he fell to the ground, writhing as he burned. Morrigan slung her staff back into place with a cocky jaunt of her eyebrow.

"You're murderous," Alistair said, his eyes wide as he stared at the writhing ball of flame.

"The last time a mage tried to cook Lyra with lightning, you were grateful when I set him alight," Morrigan snarked. "Does it matter whether he dies on your blade or of my magic? Stop being so squeamish."

"Wicked witch."

"Idiot templar."

"Anyway," Alistair said, looking away from the smoldering corpse. "We didn't find out anything about who he was, or what they're doing here in Haven. The people here won't be happy to find their Revered Father turned to ashes."

"Let's be gone before they find out," Lyra said. She turned to go, but Zevran's voice stopped her.

"My flower, look at the fireplace..." he pointed.

Nervous, she glanced at it. "I don't see anything, Zevran. Just the dragons."

He chuckled, then strode over to the stonework and pressed a curve in one of the dragon's tails. A panel slid away, revealing a hidden room.

"Zev, how did you see that?" she asked, amazed.

He shrugged. "I see much, my flower. For instance, I see that your eyes are the same color as the ocean on a sunny day, and I see that Morrigan's skin is as smooth and perfect as Orlesian silk. And when I look at Alistair, I see-"

"No one wants to know what you see, Zevran," Alistair cut him off loudly. Not waiting to hear what would undoubtedly be a witty retort, he strode toward the secret room, sneezing once more.

"I was going to say 'that you have a cold'. Your mind is in the gutter, Alistair," Zevran called, then winked at Lyra.

"My, but he is touchy, is he not?" Morrigan smirked as she followed Alistair, her illusory cloak vanished back into the ether.

Grinning, Lyra trailed after Zevran, doing her best to ignore the odor of burnt flesh as she ducked into the secret chamber.