Redcliffe bustled with more activity than it had seen in years. Refugees and regular soldiers filled the empty houses of the village proper, and Teagan had seen even more men-at-arms raised from his own bannric. Even the tavern which Bella ran on Athadra's behalf was full of the first wave of King Behlen's expeditionaries-who'd brought real dwarven gold with them, along with Behlen's gratitude for the throne, to boot. During Athadra's visit to the tavern during Starfang's forging, she made the arrangements to store the shipments of contraband lyrium in Lloyd's secure cellar, since the iron doors and stone walls were proof against anything but treachery. The castle's bailey rang with clashing steel or thudding arrows from sunup until well past dusk the day of Athadra's arrival; she was surprised to see a few of Lanaya's hunters instructing the shemlen on proper bow-work.

After another welcome-back-to-Redcliffe feast, the Warden's smaller party halted at the top of the stairs to the castle's second level, just by Alistair and Leliana's quarters. Alistair shook his head when the bard told him of the failed ambush. "I knew I should have gone with you. The only thing we saw on the Highway was a band of genlocks. Not even an ogre to liven things up."

"The brigands fell easy," Athadra assured him. "And we'll be seeing plenty more darkspawn after we get back from Denerim, next month."

"True enough," Alistair conceded. "Though I wouldn't mind running into a teyrn or two before we quit the capital."

"There's always a chance Loghain could sway the bastards and try to hang us," Athadra pointed out, her voice far more cheerful than it should have been.

The taller Warden grimaced. "Why do I get the feeling you'd like that?"

The elf shrugged. "I figure this damned country could do with a few new noble families, seeing as how almost half of the ones we've got turned against your brother." She'd made no secret that Alistair would walk out of the Landsmeet as King of Ferelden, one way or another.

Alistair's face grew a shade grimmer. "Don't remind me. I dunno what'll be worse-facing the jackals in Denerim or the Archdemon in the Hinterlands."

"I am sure we'll survive both, with the Maker's help," Leliana proclaimed. She had the decency to wince at Athadra's eyeroll, however, and retreated back into her bedchamber without further comment.

"I was wondering..." Alistair drawled, just as Athadra turned to find her own room. She paused and gestured for Oghren and Zevran to continue on without her, nodding for the tall man to continue. "Well, you see...Arl Eamon told me that I may...kind of...have a sister. In Denerim. You know...where we're headed."

Athadra felt her stomach lurch, as memories of her parents and the Hawkes threatened to break through the mind-forged vault she'd put them in since Lothering's destruction. "And you want to look her up?"

Alistair's lips curled up hopefully. "Right. Well, she's more like a half-sister, really."

"From the same woman what caught King Maric's eye, aye," Athadra said.

"Exactly. And anyway, I know it's...not essential to the mission or anything, but I'd like it if we found her. You and me and Leliana." He paused, glancing from the Warden to the bard and back again. "I've never really had any family before Duncan rescued me, and, well..." He drew in a long breath, and let it out in a long rush. "You two feel like family to me and I'd like it if we met my sister together."

Athadra's crimson eyes widened and she felt her throat go dry. When his brows knitted, she couldn't repress the smile that crossed her lips. "I ain't had any family since the tintops took me away," she admitted, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll stand with you, if you want. We can see Marjolaine put down, while we're at it," she added with a nod in Leliana's direction. The bard had told her something of her past with the Orlesian spymistress and assassin, whom Leliana professed to be the culprit behind their ambush.

Alistair grasped her forearm and nodded. "Eamon says he'll send out riders tomorrow, and we'll head out the day after. The Landsmeet will be officially begun on Wintersend."

"Just like he wanted," Athadra commented. "How long will the bloody thing take?"

When Alistair shrugged, Leliana stepped forward with a snicker. "If it's anything like the Etates-Generales, half of the nobles won't show up for a week, and they'll spend a good two or three arguing over the colour of the drapes hanging in the hall, before any real business can be done."

"So...we're going to spend all of Guardian in Denerim?" Alistair shook his head when Leliana nodded.

"Especially with something so important. Tevinter did not fall in a day, you know," the bard pointed out.

"Figures," Athadra breathed. "It looks like we're facing the dragon in Drakonis." The month of dragons, the last day of which happened to be the day she got her name. She didn't tell them that, however, lest Leliana start gibbering on about it being a sign from the Maker or something even less tolerable. With a small nod, Athadra parted from the two, and stalked down the corridor to her own room.

She paused at the door Zevran shared with Oghren, but when the red-bearded dwarf answered her knock, she didn't see the elf anywhere. "Said somethin' about a score to settle, boss," he informed her. "Told me not to expect him back before the mornin', too." His green eyes appraised her suspiciously, but he didn't say anything else, and Athadra merely nodded gratefully.

The Warden wasn't surprised when she opened her own door and caught sight of him leaning against a wall, picking grime from his fingernails with the tip of his dagger. "I wonder if you'd care for another round?" He asked airily, not bothering to look up from his task for a long moment.

When at last he did so, Athadra felt her need rise once more, dampened only a little by the nerves which still lingered. "I'd like that," she breathed. "On reflection, our last game didn't last nearly long enough..."

Late the next morning she woke alone, though her muscles still ached from exertion and her blood sang with the relief that the Antivan's attentions had brought her. More than a little red tinged her sheets, both from her and Zevran, but she'd been able to heal their scratches without calling for Friga. The Warden was just considering stirring from the bed when a soft knock sounded at her door. With a few mumbled curses, Athadra roused herself and stalked to the chamber's entrance. She smirked at the blush which tickled over the serving elf's cheeks when the Warden threw open the wooden barrier and stood without a stitch of clothing. "What time is it?"

"N-Nearly noon, Champion," the servant stammered. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but my good arl requests your presence. In his study." The sound of Athadra's stomach growling drew the servant's gaze. "There will be food," she said, and that was enough to convince the Warden.

Athadra dressed quickly in a fine shirt and trousers that had mysteriously replaced the well-worn clothes she'd acquired from Aethelbert, in this very village. She left her feet bare, but out of habit she strapped on her dagger-belt, though she was actually starting to feel comfortable in this place. The Warden stalked down the hall and descended the stairs, her sharp nose confirming the serving elf's claim well before she pushed at the half-open door.

"Ah, Champion," Arl Eamon sighed when she entered the small room. His desk was covered with three platters of eggs, sausages, and kippers. "When you missed breakfast this morning, I guessed that you might require a light snack before we get down to business."

Athadra didn't pause to acknowledge the man's attempt at a joke, instead setting upon the food with her unaided fingers; she only slowed enough to speak properly midway through the second dish. "And what's 'business', Arl Eamon?"

The man heaved a sigh. "Most of the preparations for the Landsmeet have been made, and our allies all await our call to arms. Yet I have received some...interesting correspondence, between Mother Hannah and the Grand Cleric, through Ser Greagoir."

Athadra's brow drew down, and she dropped the fish she was chewing. "How interesting?"

"As you know, the Chantry controls trade in lyrium...and as you may also know, the Redcliffe Chantry's supply mysteriously disappeared during our great ordeal," Eamon said.

"Which I kept from becoming a catastrophe," the Warden pointed out.

The arl inclined his head. "Indeed, Champion. And, for the sake of argument, I would admit that I could understand your reticence to see that supply restored. Yet Mother Hannah is very interested in having it so, and re-instituting the corps of templars which the village once boasted."

"Fuck the gods," Athadra replied with a laugh.

Eamon stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "It is whispered that the Tevinter Chantry has come to acknowledge the Maker's majesty reflected seven ways," he mused. "Might I be in the presence of an adherent?" The Tevinters had once worshipped seven dragons they called the Old Gods, and Chantry lore asserted that it was these creatures who became the dreaded Archdemons. After the great schism, it eventually became a death sentence for anyone outside of Tevinter to profess the version of the Chant espoused by the so-called Black Divine in Minrathous.

The Warden's eyes widened as she considered the man's cautious choice of words. "No," she said with a bit of a snarl. "I've never seen the Maker in any form." She tilted her head. "The only god I've ever witnessed has wings and spits purple flame," she told him. "And I intend to bring the bitch down."

The arl heaved a weighted sigh and shook his head, managing to smirk through his beard. "I might have known," he remarked. "You truly hold no faith?"

Athadra's head moved slowly from side to side, and she took a bite of kipper. After swallowing, she suppressed a burp. Nearly as bad as Oghren, she thought to herself. "I don't need no Maker nor any other gods to tell me what to do. You can try and hang me for it, but until you do, I'll be here to guard this village while it sleeps."

The old man's eyes shone, though Athadra couldn't read his expression. "You have nothing to fear as long as I am Arl of Redcliffe, Champion. As for the revered mother's aims..." He shook his head. "The villagers know that you hold magic, and that yet another mage resides in the castle, since the incident with the orphan."

"Where Friga healed a boy's broken leg?" Athadra spat a laugh and finished off the last platter. "Bet the chantrywoman started blathering on about magic serving man and never ruling over him," she sighed, misquoting one of the Canticles of the Chant of Light most often used to justify imprisoning mages in Circles. When Eamon nodded, the Warden shook her head. "That is serving people, by the Void. Neither me nor Friga are going to waltz into the Chantry and turn the faithful little cods into blood slaves."

"Yet templars can protect mages from the mob, as well as conversely," Eamon said, reasonably.

"We'll have to part ways, there," Athadra responded. "Any case," she went on, "I'll not have templars in my presence, and you'd be wise not to let them back into the village. You probably know by now that Behlen's giving me lyrium." Eamon nodded diplomatically, but did not comment. "Well, it should be enough for meself, Friga, and Connor...as well as the mages I'll properly recruit, if I'm lucky enough to see my next name day. But the supply will not touch a tin-top's lips, so long as I am Champion of Redcliffe...and I'm guessing the Chantry don't have the coin to buy any from Denerim, even if the roads were open."

The arl wiped a finger over the gleaming silver; the Warden had literally licked the trays clean, driven by the hunger her tainted blood had blessed her with. "I suspect you are right. Still, it will not always be so...and I have considered well what may happen to Connor, if it is realized that he is not truly a Grey Warden."

"Not yet, at any rate," Athadra pointed out. "He may yet choose to serve, when he comes of age."

Eamon's beard twitched with his grimace. "The law stands unaltered, and he cannot inherit after I'm gone. Still, given what I've seen of you and your companions, and what my brother the bann has reported of your conversation with him, it seems a better fate than what awaited him at the Circle Tower."

The Warden shrugged. "The decision'll be his. But I meant my promise...even if he doesn't wish to join us, I'll give him my protection."

Arl Eamon nodded. "And again I thank you, Champion. There is another matter that Mother Hannah's correspondence revealed, however, which more directly concerns our efforts." He paused for a breath. "The Knight-Commander wishes templars to accompany the mages to the field of battle, as they did in Ostagar...and he's trying to convince First Enchanter Irving to limit his dispensations."

The news was nearly expected, but no more palatable for it. "That's their decision," she conceded. "But if you're able, I'd suggest warning the Knight-Commander that I risked my life to save all of those mages in order to end the Blight. If he seeks to impede that goal, he's serving the darkspawn...and that makes him, and his order, the enemy of the Grey Wardens."

"And I have seen what fate tends to befall those so named, especially of late," the arl commented. "I will press the case with my summoning missive, saying that if fewer than..." He hesitated.

"Twenty," Athadra supplied. That way they'd get a decent number of Senior Enchanters as well as some other seasoned spell-casters.

"If fewer than twenty mages are released, the effort against the Blight might be unconscionably weakened." He stroked his beard once more. "And what of their escorts?"

Athadra drew in a breath. "I'd rather they didn't have any. It'll be tricky to explain how all of them were cut down by the darkspawn, and I don't think dulling my blades on their armour will be a worthwhile distraction."

Eamon shifted uncomfortably. "The Knight-Commander will likely insist, but I will see what I can do to limit his ambition. But please," he breathed, a real note of exasperation entering his tone. "Please try not to get an Exalted March called on my humble little arling, Champion. I doubt even you could stand up against the Divine."

Athadra's tongue readied itself for a caustic reply, but she saw the wisdom in swallowing it, and so she merely nodded. "Do we set out amorn, then?"

"Indeed," Eamon confirmed. "With a small complement of my men-at-arms and a few dwarves, as well as all of your companions. We do not wish to antagonise our hosts in the capitol, but we must be able to defend ourselves, if need be." The man stood and regarded his bookshelf for a long moment. "Denerim is the birthplace of Andraste, as well as the heart and soul of Ferelden. As tenacious as a mabari, and as good to have on your side."

Athadra stood as well, contemplating the light of a candle. "But Loghain's been in control of it for almost a year," she pointed out.

"That may not be to his advantage," the arl replied. "If my sources are correct, he has appointed Rendon Howe as the Arl of Denerim, as well as Teyrn of Highever. One man holding so much power cannot govern competently...the streets will have grown even more lawless than usual, I expect." He turned to look at her more fully. "We should arrive the day before Wintersend, and I predict the first session of the Landsmeet to sit not more than ten days thence. In the intervening time, it may be a good idea to get the citizens on our side, in order to shorten the number of votes required to settle our great matter."

The Warden tilted her head. "So I should...what? Run around rescuing kittens out of trees?" She breathed a laugh, though it turned bitter when she realised that Morrigan would not be on-hand to complain about her doing more good deeds for people the Wilds-witch deemed undeserving. The arl dismissed her with a short bow, and she returned a ghost of one, herself, before stalking from the study.