Ser Anton was in over his head.

He was nineteen years old, and had only just attained his knighthood. He had been assigned to the Chantry in Amaranthine, and was proud of being a protector of both the Chant and of the people. He had not yet been assigned to work in Kinloch Hold – he hoped to be transferred there within a year or two – but he had taken his vows, taken his lyrium, and was eager to learn as much as possible from older, more experienced knights.

He'd been one of a few raw recruits who were present on the day Ser Betron came, supposedly from Kinloch Hold, to ask the Reverend Mother about the possibility of dangerous malificarum in the area. Three templars of the tower were missing and presumed dead; their last known location was near Amaranthine.

Revered Mother had given him and two others leave to accompany Ser Betron in search of these dangerous mages, even though he had no phylacteries to help in the search. These blood mages had apparently had their phylacteries stolen and destroyed; over a half dozen of them had disappeared from the vault in Denerim, apparently, within the last few months.

The blood mage was like no other he'd seen – dressed in loose breeches and a long tunic, no staff, rod or wand, sword strapped to her waist and a mabari hound trotting alongside her. She had the most amazingly beautiful auburn hair, glossy and sleek and falling about her shoulders, and deep sapphire blue eyes that seemed somehow sad….

He had to stop thinking about her as if she were a person. She was a maleficar, by Andraste!

"Well, well… if it isn't…." Ser Betron had sounded ecstatic when he saw the woman walking alone, and looked up and down the road to make sure she was, in fact, unaccompanied. Then he drew them all into the bushes, whispering his orders quickly. "On the count of five, I want you all to hit her with Holy Smite. I've dealt with this one before – a very dangerous and deadly maleficar. Our only chance will be to take her down before she has the chance to meet anyone's eyes and possess them."

And so, they'd all prepared themselves, letting the Smite build up in their chests and behind their eyes, the power rippling along their nerve endings in that not-quite-painful way it had… and on the count of five, they'd all unleashed at her. A split second before it hit, the mabari's head had whipped up, and he only got the chance for a single high pitched bark before she was slammed to the ground, her will and mana completely drained.

The mabari had leapt for Betron, hysterical in its need to protect its mistress – strange that a mabari had imprinted a blood mage, of all things – but Betron met it with his mace and slammed the dog in the skull, flinging it back into a tree trunk. Before the animal could regain its feet, the older templar had stomped on its front leg, and the crack as the bone snapped was one of the most horrifying things Anton had ever heard. The dog actually screamed, its teeth sliding off his greaves as it attempted to defend itself. Betron had beaten it with the mace well past the point of unconsciousness. He'd grabbed the sword belt she'd worn and strapped it around his own waist… why shouldn't he take her sword? She wouldn't need it anymore.

They'd bound the mage hand and foot, gagged her, and covered her face with a mask so she could not see, and thrown her over the back of Betron's horse, tying her there on her stomach so she could not fall. Now several hours later, they were camped in the Knotwood Hills, and Anton had heard one of his fellow templars comment, "She looks a good bit like what they say the Hero of Ferelden looks like."

"The hero of Ferelden?" Anton had squeaked.

"So? It's just a title. Andraste's knickers, don't be such an ass. When all's said and done, she's just a mage…."

"And an apostate, and a malificar at that." Betron had purred, looking over toward the prone mage.

"Why isn't she dead yet?" That was Ser Farrel. "We could have done for her the way she did for Ser Derrick – slit the bitch's throat."

"Because that would be too easy. And it also doesn't serve our purposes. You need to think, Farrel." Betron sneered. "Ennobling a mage, and putting her over real humans as an Arlessa – disgusting! The king must be made to understand that the Divine will NOT tolerate such perversion. Secondly, there is profit to be made. There are certain… powers here in Amaranthine who are willing to pay well to see her ended – but also want her to be certain of who, exactly, had her done in."

Shit, Ser Anton thought. This had little to do with her being brought to justice, it seemed – but why did not Farrel and Neddo say something?

"And lastly… Amell and I are old friends, you might say. And it's said that you never really forget your first."

Anton blanched. Betron had… broken his vow of chastity? Had intimate relations with this wo—with this mage?

Betron kicked her in the side and yanked off the mask, and the mage… the woman lay there blinking owlishly, obviously pained.

"Wait… but… we're doing nobles' dirty work here? I th-thought we were bringing to justice a murderer!" Anton protested.

"You remember what she and her confederates did to Rylock, I hope? Of course it's justice… but there's no reason justice shouldn't pay well."

The woman's eyes were pained, and there was anger… and resignation… in her look as she was forced to look Betron in the eye. She'd managed to look toward Anton, and the look in her eyes made something inside him want to die.

You know this is wrong, the look said. You know this is not justice. There was also no hope in that look… a look that told him she expected to die here, far from Chantry or trial.

He had the oddest feeling that whatever happened, she did not want him to be a part of this. Leave, go, keep your honor.

He'd already slipped away by the time Betron turned his attention back to the woman and slapped her for looking away from him.


Anton had grabbed his horse from the picket, and mounted swiftly. Against three fellow knights, he would be swiftly beaten down – and the three of them could tell the Revered Mother whatever tale they wanted about how he'd turned on them. He needed to get help, and get it now – report to the Chantry, get other knights to come back.

He had been riding hell for leather down the road, ducking his head to avoid a tree branch overhead, when something dropped from it and slammed him from the saddle. The horse screamed and started bucking in panic along the road as he and whatever had hit him rolled into the ditch at the side of the road to relative safety.

There was a menacing snarl, and he looked up to see an elf – beautiful, even though a beat later he understood he was male – sitting on his chest with a dagger to his throat. Beside him, healed, was the mabari Betron had beaten, blood still dappling his brindle hide.

"You've got to come quickly if you're any friend of Amell's!" he blurted.

"Ah, and what a convenient change of heart that is." The elf leaned over him. There was teasing in the voice, but death in his eyes. "Does one good to hear it."

"Please," Anton said, "either get off and come back with me to help her, or get off and let me bring other knights – what they plan is not justice, it's assassination! I must inform the Revered Mother!"

"Pike Twirler, if you're lyin', they will never find all the pieces of you." Two dwarves and an archer came into view.

"Maker's breath, there's no time to waste!" he exploded, shoving at the elf.

"Let him up," the archer said. He glared at Anton. "Know this: if you are leading us into a trap, you will die before I do."


Betron had pulled the gag out of Solona's mouth, and was disappointed that she was not crying or begging, as she had ten years ago. She simply glared at him, addressing her words to the other two templars.

"You realize you follow a pedophile and rapist?" she'd hissed. The two templars looked uneasy at that.

"Maleficar lies," Betron said smoothly. "You cannot trust a word these mages say."

"I was sixteen," she continued calmly, "and I know he'd raped younger mages, male and female. I had to heal some of them. He was transferred from Kinloch Hold because of it."

He slapped her.

"I am the Hero of Ferelden, the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine," she said, spitting out the blood that filled her mouth from his gauntlet tearing her mouth up. "I am no anonymous mage that can disappear without repercussion." She leaned forward. "The king will see you hanged, drawn, and quartered for this."

And she smiled then. Smiled, her teeth outlined in red, and streaked pink. "And you are a coward, Betron. A liar, a coward, a rapist, and you will drag your brother Templars down without a thought. Come, you've poisoned me with Magebane – you know I could not cast a spell to save my life. Cut me loose, and put a blade in my hand – and let the Maker and Andraste judge who is right."

"I will enjoy hearing you beg on your knees," he snarled.


The Wardens had tied off Ser Anton's horse to a tree down the road, and Nathaniel, Zevran, Barkly, Oghren and Sigrun crept through the brush, keeping an eye on Anton. He seemed nervous, but Barkly's growls had tapered off as he walked beside the young templar.

Anton moved more slowly now, more cautiously as he came up to where he had left his fellow templars camped. It seemed from the lack of alarm that they had not yet really noticed that he – and his horse – were gone.


Solona kept her eyes glued to Betron's face, even as she twisted and pulled at the thong which was becoming slick with her blood. She thanked the maker she'd been poisoned with Magebane – no way for them to claim she had used blood magic on them.

Betron grabbed her arm suddenly, hauling her upright.

"You. Gather wood and build a fire. You. Set up tents. I will… question the maleficar." He used his sword to slash the thong binding her feet together, and shoved her toward the edge of camp, toward the river.

As he shoved her through the bushes, Solona hissed, "There is a special place in the Fade for such as you… may you suffer what you've done to your charges a thousand-fold there."

"Shut up." He cuffed her. "Do you know what you've cost me, bitch? I should have been a Knight-Captain at least by now…"

"I'm sorry that your proclivities as a rapist prevented your rise to power," she mocked. The thong slipped, and she wriggled out of it. She faked a stumble, and as he wrenched her upright she bumped against him.

Her hand closed around the hilt of the sword he'd stolen from her, Spellweaver, and it was if the sword welcomed her touch, fitting perfectly into her hand. With another feigned stagger she yanked away beyond arm's distance, facing him, her eyes narrowed.

"Betron, you always were an overconfident, stupid sack of shit," she spat, backing to her left, trying to flank him. "I guess that comes from attacking children and those you'd already rendered unable to defend themselves. But there's something I learned in the years I was on the road, fighting darkspawn and raising an army against the archdemon… would you like to know what that was?"

He stared at her. "Nothing of import, I'm sure," he sneered, moving to keep out of reach as he grasped his mace..

"Oh, of very great importance," she said with a predatory smile. She circled him, and he kept moving to face her.

Her eyes narrowed. "I learned it from another templar, actually… he told me that against a mage, your powers are formidable. Against a swordsman? You're just a man in a metal suit."

Solona lunged.