Note: Pack your bags for a trip to Denerim in this chapter. Head on over to my profile page if you need a quick refresher as to where we are in this part of the story.

There was a solid thud as the head of the palace guard closed the heavy oak doors of the King and Queen's private study within the royal palace. A low fire burned in the fireplace, lending the room a cozy, intimate feel. Queen Anora had just ushered out baby Nerys' nurse after taking the child into her arms, leaving Nathaniel alone with Ferelden's royal family. Though they were alone in the room, the palace and surrounding grounds hosted a larger complement of guards and soldiers than was normal, and there were likely a number of them stationed on every floor of the palace. Maker, you could trip over them, Nathaniel thought to himself.

"Now, we can speak more freely," Anora said. She moved to sit on one of the overstuffed and ornate chairs but was intercepted partway by Alistair. He took the infant from Anora's grasp and proceeded to make faces at her. Nerys rewarded her father with a wide and toothless baby smile, her arms and legs kicking excitedly. Nathaniel watched as a small, yet genuine, smile crossed the Queen's face at the sight of the King playing with his princess.

"Yes, I suppose we can," Alistair said, smiling at the infant as if nothing bothered him. "What do you think, sweet girl?" The baby cooed. He spun around in a circle, causing Nerys to giggle loudly. After several turns and more belly laughs, Alistair sat in another overstuffed chair opposite a table between Anora and himself. Nerys' fingers found Alistair's hair and wrapped themselves around a lock of it. "Ow," he said with a grimace as she gave the lock a healthy yank.

While the King was doting over his infant daughter, the Queen's expression became cool and neutral once again, a look similar to one that Nathaniel had seen a number of times on her father's face at the Vigil. It was as the old proverb said: the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

Nathaniel settled himself on a settee across from the monarchs. "Your Majesty, the palace guard told me that there had been an assassination attempt on you and King Alistair."

A deep frown crossed the Queen's features. "Yes," she began, "Alistair and I had been out three days ago viewing a parcel of land that had been an outlying marketplace before the darkspawn stormed the city during the Blight."

"She's always wanted to open a university in Denerim," Alistair added. "With so much open space in the capital now, she has her chance to plan for one. Thankfully, the darkspawn were routed before their taint could take hold." He shrugged. "Never thought the darkspawn would leave a blessing in disguise."

"This was not the first time someone has tried to follow through on a plan to assassinate one of us," Anora continued, "this just happened to be the one that almost succeeded."

Nathaniel frowned. "What made this one so different?"

There was no ignoring the pointed looks the King and Queen gave each other. From their expressions—the Queen's cool demeanor turning hard, and the King's expression of concern as he gazed as his daughter—Nathaniel surmised that this particular attempt may not have wounded them physically, but had instead shaken their feelings of security within their own capital.

It was Alistair who spoke after clearing his throat. "The investigation is ongoing, but what we have discovered thus far is that there was an unwitting accomplice within the palace itself."

Nathaniel frowned. "Within the palace?"

"Mavis... bloody stupid woman," the Queen said with an unusual amount of venom in her voice. Nathaniel felt his brow rise slightly. "I apologize, Warden, if my language is… less becoming of a queen. This woman, Mavis, has been in my employ—"

"Or, had been," the King interjected.

"Had been," Anora agreed. "She had been a washer woman and seamstress in the Crown's employ for several years. She was a vetted servant, one who had performed her duties without incident. Many of the younger servants saw her as a motherly figure, even though she was only a handful of years older than themselves."

The infant began to fuss slightly in the King's arms, interrupting her mother. Alistair turned her so that she faced the others; the fussing stopped. "She just wanted to see what was going on," he said. Content for the moment, Nerys began to examine her tiny fingers as if she wasn't entirely sure what they were.

"Thankfully, she's much too young to understand what had nearly happened," Anora added. She gave Nerys a smile—one that fought to reach her eyes—and received a grin from the little one in return, as well as more excited movements of her arms and legs. After watching her for a moment, the Queen continued.

"From what we have discovered, Mavis had become smitten with a woman who claimed to be from Rivain, posing as a merchant that had come into port several months before to trade cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. They had met in the market district while Mavis was buying bolts of fabric. A conversation ensued, which eventually led to an affair." The Queen's lips pressed together for a moment, a thin line of consternation that distinctly reminded Nathaniel of her father. "The captain of our palace guard is trying to determine who this assassin really was and how she knew to target Mavis."

"Where is this assassin?" Nathaniel asked.

"Dead," the Queen said, her voice brimming with contempt. "Thrown into the harbor, weighed down with rocks so that she can be fodder for the bottom feeders."

It wasn't quite the response Nathaniel expected from the Queen. "Then she was executed? Did you not interrogate her first?"

Alistair cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the Queen's description of the assassin's fate, then continued the story. "Yes, well… we'll get to that. Since the Landsmeet ended, we've kept the details of our excursions outside the palace from the majority of the servants. Gossip travels quickly, so we've tried to minimize what information gets out."

Nathaniel's brows lowered. "Then this seamstress said something."

"Yes," Anora confirmed. "Since I gave birth to Nerys, I've needed to have garments adjusted. While our plans had not been discussed in her presence, Mavis did have to adjust one of my cloaks. She assumed we would soon be leaving the palace and made mention of it to her lover during a conversation about their day."

"After the assassin's death, we searched her possessions and found a vial of something called qamek on her," Alistair interjected. "It was a diluted form, but strong enough to render Mavis susceptible to suggestion. Mavis said that she couldn't remember everything she had told her paramour—'my mind was fuzzy,' she'd said—but palace gossip seemed to be of particular interest, especially the royal variety."

Nathaniel frowned. "What's qamek?"

"It's qunari," the King explained. "A type of poison that can destroy memories in high doses. Sten had mentioned it while traveling during the Blight." His eyes moved to a map of Ferelden on the wall, one that had the blighted lands marked. After looking at it for a moment, he chuckled as he returned his attention to his fellow Grey Warden. "Ah, Sten. Give that man a plate of cookies and he'd sell his own mother, if he'd had one. Once Lhiannon and I had figured that out, we made sure Bodahn Feddic always had cookies on hand. You never knew when you'd have to pry information out of him."

Nathaniel rubbed his chin in thought. "Was this assassin a qunari spy then? Why would the Qunari want to assassinate you?"

The King shook his head several times. "A qunari spy? I doubt it. From what Sten had said, the Qun is always interested in the goings on in the south, but assassination isn't their style. They prefer to convert their followers so that they can conserve resources. That's not to say that they won't go to battle, but conversion is their preferred method of conquest."

There was a pause in the conversation as Nathaniel thought. It was possible, he supposed, that the assassin could have purchased some qamek from a Tal-Vashoth desperate to make some coin. Or, maybe the assassin had killed a qunari and taken it. The thoughts bothered him. The qunari held their secrets close, so how would the assassin have come into possession of the qamek? Was it indeed possible that the Qun had decided to take advantage of the Blight's aftermath and begun some sort of clandestine campaign to conquer and convert southern Thedas? He rubbed his temple; if it wasn't one problem, it was another.

"Back to this woman, the failed assassin," Nathaniel said a moment later, "how could she have known where you were going? Or when? She couldn't have been everywhere at once."

"Apparently, it was as simple as watching the palace and following our retinue on the tour," Alistair said. He paused for a moment before saying, "Oh!" and pointing toward Nathaniel. "Did you know that Brother Ferdinand Genitivi is back in Denerim?"

Nathaniel frowned. "Brother who?"

Alistair scoffed loudly. "I can't believe you don't know who Brother Genitivi is! He's both a Chantry brother and a learned scholar! He's written a number of books on not just the Chantry itself, but also on the history of Ferelden—people, customs, even food!" The king paused, a lopsided grin on his face. "Did you know that there are over thirty types of cheese made in Ferelden alone?"

"I… did not know that," Nathaniel said.

"I'll lend you my copy of The Travels of a Chantry Scholar. It's a fascinating read." He reached for a pitcher that stood on the table between the chairs where he and the Queen sat, opting to pass over another container that appeared to contain wine. He poured water into earthenware cups, offering one to both Anora and Nathaniel, who accepted it with a nod. The King drank for a moment, gently dabbing at a corner of his mouth with a finger when he had finished.

"Anyway," he continued, "it was Brother Genitivi who led the tour of the future university district. He had several students with him—a few from Ferelden, who furiously scribbled notes, and some who had come from Starkhaven to study with him. We had guards in the area, following at a respectful distance so as not to crowd everyone."

Anora took a sip of her water before continuing where Alistair left off. "The assassin was disguised as a Starkhaven student. We believe she had separated a student from the group and killed her in order to obtain a disguise. The body was found during the subsequent search of the area," she explained. "As we toured the district, the assassin picked flowers and other plants that had grown amongst the rubble. She arranged some into a bouquet and tucked others into her cloak. When the tour was nearing the conclusion, the 'student' stepped forward to present the bouquet to me." The Queen's nose wrinkled slightly. "Even from an arm's length or better, they smelled strange. It didn't stop one of the other students from stepping forward to admire and smell the bouquet first."

Nathaniel frowned. "What happened then?"

"The student inhaled and immediately fell onto the ground shaking, like in the falling sickness," Alistair said. "The spy threw the bouquet toward Anora, then produced a dagger and lunged at her. I shoved Anora aside and was able to block the blow. Good thing I was wearing my fancy armor." The King gave his Queen a meek smile; to Nathaniel's surprise, Anora genuinely returned it. "Anyway," Alistair continued, "I tried to grab the assassin but she turned and began to run toward the existing markets. Some of our soldiers—and the other students—quickly gave chase and caught her before she could lose herself in the alleys between buildings." He then sighed. "As they caught her, the spy turned and bit at a raised seam on the shoulder of the shirt she wore. She was dead not long after. A small pocket was found in the seam and we believe it held a bit of hemlock and a poison called Quiet Death."

"Quiet Death," Nathaniel said, raising his brows slightly and giving a slight sigh. It was a poison he had heard of while in the Free Marches, though he had never used it himself. "Potent stuff; that assassin wasn't going to be taken alive. What of the student that fell?"

"Unfortunately, she died not long after the spy. One of the other scholars was also hit by the poisoned flowers and took ill; he still lives and is being given as much rosemary tea as he can drink, along with small amounts of frankincense and sage."

Nathaniel looked to the Queen. "Did you suffer any effects from the poison, Your Majesty?"

"I've had terrible headaches and some stomach pain, but nothing else so far. I, too, am on the same treatment regimen as the scholar," Anora said. She reached toward Nerys and smoothed a small lock of wayward hair on the child's head. "Until they subside completely, however, the healers have suggested that a wet nurse tend to Nerys." Nathaniel watched as a look of sadness crossed the Queen's face for a moment before her neutral mask was in place again. "I am not pleased about that," she said softly, "but know that it's for her own safety."

Nathaniel shook his head, troubled by what he had heard. The monarchs had tried to mend the rifts the Blight had left in its wake, had tried to rebuild their capital and country, yet there were those so unhappy with their rule that they were determined to undermine it to forward… what? What agenda were they trying to achieve? Obviously, there were still those who sought to sow chaos or vengeance by murdering the monarchs, but why?

"Did anyone not question who she was or what she was doing there?" Nathaniel asked. "Were there any accomplices?"

Alistair shrugged slightly. "There are any number of students and apprentices in Denerim at the moment—some are studying the aftermath of the Blight, others are planning new buildings under the tutelage of their mentors. After questioning Brother Genitivi and the students, we determined that they all thought she was just another student or apprentice in the city that had followed them out of curiosity."

"Well, it sounds like you need better guards and more vigilance," Nathaniel said. The comment drew dark looks from the monarchs. For a moment, it appeared as if he had overstepped his bounds.

He hadn't been wrong.

"You would be wise to speak with caution, Warden," Anora said, her voice steely. "No one knows better than we that threats are everywhere. Even with the best due diligence, our enemies never stop trying, which is why we must defy them by continuing our duties outside the walls of the palace. We must not show fear. I will not live my life as a prisoner in my own home. I will not raise my child as a recluse."

Nathaniel held her gaze. "It is not my intent to offend, Your Majesty. The Grey Wardens are keenly aware of the problems in Ferelden. We hope to work side by side with you, as much as our duties and responsibilities allow."

Alistair held up his hands, one toward Anora and one toward Nathaniel, to help calm the rising tension between them. For a brief moment, he saw himself as a street performer balancing spinning plates in each hand, one with a griffon emblazoned on it, the other a crown. "As both a Grey Warden and the King, I understand the concerns of both sides. At least, I hope I do. I often think I'm just muddling my way through both, not knowing a damn thing about either." He grinned that sheepish grin he was known for, and Nathaniel felt the tension ebb somewhat. The Queen didn't appear happy, but the cold look she held moments before seemed to thaw a bit. Perhaps the King's self-deprecating humor was one of the traits that had softened her toward him.

Alistair continued. "Be assured, Nathaniel, we are doing what we can to protect ourselves without turning Denerim into a prison for all. Patrols have been increased, incoming ships and traders are being more thoroughly vetted, and curfews are in place for the time being. We've also asked the reagents traders and Formari within the city to keep close tabs on the poisons they have in stock and to take note of anyone suspicious. The search for accomplices is ongoing as well; where there is one assassin, there could be more." Alistair then cast a nervous glance at Anora. "I've… even asked acquaintances at The Pearl to report any suspicious activity or rumors to the city guard."

Nathaniel's brow rose.

Anora sighed.

"Yes, we stopped there during the Blight," Alistair stammered, his hands in the air in an 'I-didn't-do-it' gesture, "but nothing happened. I swear!" He grabbed his cup and swallowed several large gulps of water. Nathaniel brought a hand to his mouth to hide the grin that pulled on his lips. At least they had chosen one of the better brothels in Denerim.

Alistair then decided to switch to wine, offering some to both Anora and Nathaniel. While Anora declined for the moment, Nathaniel accepted the cup with a nod.

"Yes, well," Alistair began after taking a long draw from his cup and regaining his composure, "Sanga, the proprietor at The Pearl, has contacts with the other brothels and the Blackstone Irregulars."

There was no mistaking the look of distaste that crossed the Queen's face. "Mercenaries," she explained to Nathaniel as his brows knit together. "They claim to be 'honorable' mercenaries—which sounds like a contradiction to me—but I cannot ignore the fact that the seedier elements could be useful to us."

Nathaniel nodded. "For the right coin, I suppose, even mercenaries can find 'honorable' work. Are they reliable?"

Alistair scoffed. "For the amount of coin we've passed through Sanga to them, they'd better be. But to answer your question as to reliability, I believe they are. Their leader is trying to keep them out of the less than legal jobs."

"And now you know why we, and Denerim, have been on edge of late," Anora said. She reached out to take a small sip of the wine that Alistair had offered to her earlier. "Alistair tells me that you have come from Amaranthine on urgent business for the Grey Wardens. What can the Crown do for our friends and allies?"

The first distinct thought Anders had was that he didn't feel so cold; the second was the pounding in his head that was accompanied in unison by the pounding in his leg, back, and arm. He groaned and reached up toward the top of his head. It felt warm and sticky and, when he drew it back, the dampness of blood remained on his skin. He winced. The cacophony of pain in his body did, at least, confirm that he was alive.

"Easy, shem."

He turned his head toward the voice speaking to him before cautiously cracking one eye open. Several images of Anwen filled his vision, dancing and swirling and barely staying in focus. He groaned and closed his eye again as he drew a shaky breath and let it out with a woosh. He wanted to sleep; maybe a long nap would help him feel better. Yes, that's an excellent idea.

A hand rested on his shoulder, shaking it firmly in an effort to rouse him. "Anders. We need you."

A grimace crossed his face as he allowed Anwen to roll him onto his side. "Don't have to shout," he complained to her.

"I'm not shouting," she countered, "but I will if you don't get up."

"All right… all right. You win."

Anders moved into a sitting position, which caused his stomach to roll violently. He turned to the side and retched, bringing up only bile as a cold sweat broke out on his body. His head pounded even harder afterward, causing his stomach to roll again in a vicious circle. He sat cross-legged and rested his head in his hands, breathing steadily in and out, in and out. After several moments spent centering himself, he opened his eyes and looked around him. The red tendril and the glyph beneath him were both gone, which brought him no small measure of relief. His vision was still being slightly uncooperative, but he could make out the large armored form of Loghain not far away, and another form lying on the floor that had to be Sigrun.

Anwen held out a hand to him. "Can you walk?"

"I suppose we'll find out," Anders said as he took her hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet. He felt woozy and unbalanced for a moment, but a few more deep breaths helped him become more sure of himself. As he stood, he looked over Anwen. Parts of her hair were singed unevenly and her one hand was covered in angry red blisters. Burn holes from falling sparks dotted her clothing.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded. "My hand hurts, but I'm fine otherwise. It's Sigrun who needs you."

"Right," he said, slowly putting one foot in front of the other to cross the room.

He felt like shit.

xxxXXXxxx

Loghain had killed many things in his lifetime as a warrior—Orlesians, bandits, wild creatures, darkspawn, demons—but nothing compared to the feeling of killing the Architect. He stood over the body and its severed head, looking down at it with nothing less than contempt. After all this creature had done to Ferelden—to its people, to Maric, to Lhiannon and, especially, to him—he was glad. Glad that this creature could no longer attempt to free the darkspawn or sleeping Old Gods; glad that it could no longer enthrall the surface dwellers and have them do its bidding. Most importantly, it could no longer hurt the Grey Wardens, especially Lhiannon and himself. The thought of what the Architect had almost accomplished made Loghain's blood run cold with anger... and shame.

The shame was the worst. The Architect and his minions had nearly made him do the worst thing possible to Lhiannon… and he hadn't been able to stop it. He hadn't even been able to decently die to stop it as Velanna had prevented even that. He had been helpless, a feeling he loathed with every fiber of his being.

"Warden Loghain."

His thoughts were mercifully broken as Anwen called his name. She had Anders on his feet and was helping guide him to Sigrun. Loghain turned away from the Architect's body and moved to Sigrun's side to join them. He crouched down next to her and removed one of his gauntlets so that he could press his fingers to her neck. The heartbeat was surely there, though slow and erratic. He looked up as a shadow crossed overhead and saw Anders gingerly kneeling down next to him, a grimace crossing his features.

"Are you well?" Loghain asked as he replaced his gauntlet.

Anders placed a hand on Sigrun's forehead, a frown on his face. "I'm alive," he said with a shrug.

Loghain scoffed lightly. "And Sigrun?"

The mage's eyes closed as he concentrated on the dwarf. "Not very good." Anders took a deep breath, pausing for a moment before whispering the words to a healing spell. Loghain watched as a blue glow surrounded Anders' hand, and the wound on Sigrun's head began to knit itself together once again. Her eyes started to flutter and, with a loud gasp, they opened wide.

"Easy," Anders said, nearly echoing what Anwen had told him several minutes before. "Don't sit up too fast or you'll lose your lunch."

Sigrun groaned, but then gave him a small smile. "What lunch?"

Loghain watched as Anders gently helped Sigrun into a seated position. A bit of color had returned to her face, which gave Loghain no small measure of relief. He watched as her eyes moved from Anwen, to himself, and then Anders, studying each one with a troubled expression on her face.

"What is it?" Loghain asked.

She frowned, then reached up and touched the wound on her head, wincing as she did so. "What happened? I remember entering the room and seeing the Architect lighting candles, but nothing after that."

Loghain moved to the side, allowing Sigrun to see past him to where the Architect's body lay.

She snorted. "Is it weird to say that that is the best sight I've seen in a long time?"

"It is no less than the bastard deserves," Loghain replied, his voice deep with his anger and shame. He stood and looked about the room. Now that the Architect was dead, they needed to return to Lhiannon and Oghren as soon as possible, then try to find a way out of the bloody Deep Roads before they became their tomb. He turned back and looked at Anders, who was inspecting Sigrun's injuries in the aftermath of his spell. "Your mana?"

The mage shook his head as he continued his examination. "The Architect's glyph drained a lot of it. I used most of what I had left to help Sigrun." He turned his head and looked Loghain in the eye. "She needs more, however. She can get on her feet and walk about a bit, but anything else is out of the question. Once my mana returns, I'll need to heal her again. The rest of us will have to bear with our injuries for now."

It was worse than what Loghain had hoped for, and he cursed the Architect again. Though the room was defensible, they couldn't remain here long enough for Anders' mana to regenerate in full. He felt a sense of urgency to leave, a weight pressing on the back of his mind that was difficult to resist. Before he could respond, Anwen spoke up.

"I still have a small amount of healing plants with me; ones that the ghouls did not take." She snorted derisively. "They surely didn't know what they were for," Anwen said, opening the pack at her waist. "They may help some of our injuries."

"Then do so," Loghain said as he looked toward the large doors to the room. "We need to return to the Commander and Oghren soon." He motioned toward the books that covered the Architect's table and the dragon altar nearby. "Anders, look at the books and see if there is anything relevant here."

"Got it."

"Anwen, do what you can for Sigrun to get her ready to move." The elf nodded curtly, then turned her attention to Sigrun.

"What about me, Loghain?" Sigrun asked.

"You are to let Anwen treat you."

The dwarf's expression turned into an exaggerated pout. "You cloudheads have all the fun."

xxxXXXxxx

"Loghain! I found something!"

Loghain turned away from the dragon altar, where he had been gathering up the candles that the Architect had lit earlier. Anwen and Sigrun had joined the search once the elf had applied a makeshift poultice to Sigrun's injury, combing the shelves and dark recesses of the room for anything of use. Sigrun had sniffed out a small amount of lyrium stored in two delicate and ancient glass vials within the dragon altar; much to everyone's relief in the moment, but it likely wouldn't get them far in the long run. A small pile of books had been set aside on a square of cloth cut from the Architect's robes, which would be used as a makeshift pack. Next to it, a roughly oval shape sat wrapped in more cloth cut from the Architect's robe, a dark stain spreading near the bottom. A grisly prize, to be sure, but one Loghain intended to show Lhiannon and Oghren as proof that the Architect was dead. The Architect's staff was propped up against the table, another spoil that Loghain intended to take with them.

Anders waved Loghain over to where he stood near another large pile of books. The mage was running a finger across the pages of an open one, looking at what had been written there.

"What is it?" Loghain asked.

"At first, I thought this was just a journal detailing the experiments the Architect had been conducting, which I would have taken anyway," Anders said. Loghain looked at the script: small, neat, and written in both the ancient Tevinter language and the Trade Tongue. "But, it's more than that," Anders said.

"Your point?" Loghain asked impatiently.

"It's a journal… the Architect's journal," Anders said with excitement in his voice. "It's his thoughts, his observations… even memories that had been coming back to him over the years." He pointed to a passage and began to read. "'The brooches are the key. They will hasten the taint. The human gave me his blood. It may be the key. The old mage on the surface will research as well."

Loghain stroked his chin thoughtfully. Brooches… he remembered that the Architect had possessed brooches at one time. For an instant, he thought of Maric and the fool adventure he had taken into the Deep Roads before pushing the memory away. "Interesting, indeed." His expression darkened. "Who did the Architect mean by 'the old mage on the surface'? There had been a mage in league with the Architect years ago."

Anders shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it is referring to Remille."

"You know of him?"

Anders nodded. "Sure, though the older senior enchanters don't like to talk about it. You usually have to get them good and drunk… even then, you're not sure if what they've said is true or myth."

"I only saw the lickspittle a couple of times," Loghain said, "once at the palace in Denerim, then again at Kinloch Hold when he was dead. Much of what I know of him is what I could drag out of Maric after we had returned to Denerim years ago. I was too angry to speak with him before that."

One of the mage's brows lifted. "I'm sure you were… persuasive."

Loghain scoffed. "Maric would have likely said demanding."

"I can imagine," Anders said, putting the first book aside and picking up another one. "Then, there's this one," Anders said, pointing to the faded image of a griffon on the cover. "This one is far more interesting. It's a book written by a Grey Warden long ago. Judging on the syntax, this is hundreds of years old, at least. I'm not sure how the Architect would have come into possession of this." He pointed to a paragraph on the page. "This talks about sealing something in this room… and I think that something was the Architect."

That was interesting indeed, Loghain thought. The Grey Wardens so loved their secrets… it would be fascinating to reveal some of them, even if they were old. "Take only the most important books; the rest will have to remain behind," he said.

Anders nodded, his expression glum. "I understand, but it's too bad, really. Perhaps we could find some way to map out a way back here… send an expedition here in the future to gather more books."

"It won't be me," Loghain said. "I've no intention of returning to the Deep Roads until such time as my Calling comes."

Anders shrugged. "You never know… maybe we'll find a way to keep that from happening."

It was a beguiling thought.

xxxXXXxxx

A rhythmic clicking sound accompanied the Grey Wardens as they backtracked through the ancient settlement. Anders leaned on his staff as he walked, taking some of the weight off his injured leg. The click-click-click noise the end of the staff made while he walked was hypnotic, though Loghain pushed the feeling aside as he led the Wardens. With Anders' leg injured and Sigrun still feeling dizzy as a result of her head wounds—not to mention Anwen carrying the Architect's staff across her shoulders with bundles of books and the gory prize attached to the ends—their pace was slower than it had been before, and much slower than Loghain wanted.

Though they hadn't encountered any ghouls, darkspawn, or demons on their return so far, Loghain had the feeling that they weren't entirely alone. There were occasional skittering noises in the dark, and he thought he had heard the screech of something in the darkness. The Veil is thin here, he reminded himself. They hadn't encountered a tear in the Veil yet, but they were out there… somewhere. He held a glowstone in one hand and his sword in the other, not wanting to take any chances.

The Wardens rounded the last corner between themselves and the room in which Lhiannon and Oghren waited for them. Loghain abruptly halted, holding his sword hand out to the side to indicate that the others behind him should stop as well. A body was on the ground, half out of the room's doorway, the torso facing up and staring blankly at the stone above it.

"Maker's breath," Loghain swore, running toward the doorway, with the other Wardens following behind. He stepped over the body when he arrived—a strapping young man with a gaping wound in the chest—and entered the room with his sword ready for battle.

The first thing Loghain saw were the bones of skeletons, streaked with red and covered with notches as if they had been in battle. To his right, he saw what he presumed were the remains of the dead that had been in the room before the Wardens had left: Velanna, Seranni, and their blood thralls. He surmised that their bodies had been torn open as if their skeletons had taken on a life of their own.

"It's about fucking time you sodding nughumpers got back," Oghren said by way of greeting.

"You missed… this." He held his arms up at his sides, motioning to the room around him.

"What the—" Anders said from behind Loghain as he entered the room. Sigrun and Anwen were just behind him, likewise gasping and cursing as they took in the scene.

"Shit if I know," Oghren said, indicating toward the additional dead bodies on the floor. "I was fighting Utha and her sodding asschabs. Those skeletons just… pulled themselves out of the other dead bodies. That's… some fucked up shit I never want to see again."

"She reanimated the dead?" Anders asked, disbelief in his voice.

Oghren shrugged. "Pretty fucking fucked up."

Loghain looked deeper into the room beyond where Oghren stood. Lhiannon was behind him with her back to the door, gazing over the shelves at the back of the room. There was blood spattered on the back of the shift she wore, but it didn't appear to be hers. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but Oghren raised a hand and stopped him.

"It wasn't her."

His stomach dropped.

Lhiannon turned around, her unnaturally bright eyes taking in the Wardens as they looked about the room. Her gaze fell first to Sigrun and Anwen, before sliding over to Anders then, finally, lingering on Loghain. "Retribution has been given to the Grey Warden who betrayed her brethren," she said, the strange sibilance in her voice. "The one called Utha is no more, as are her minions."

"I suppose we have you to thank for that," Loghain said cautiously.

"It was demanded," Justice said. Her eyes took in the room once again. "The battle is ended. I will return the Warden's body to her until we have found a place where I can return to the Fade. It is what I agreed to, is it not?"

"Yes," Loghain replied, his voice hard. "That was the agreement. Go."

Her head nodded once, then the unnatural brightness in her eyes began to fade. She started to wobble on her feet as if she were ready to fall. Loghain rushed forward and grasped her before her legs could give out on her and send her sprawling to the floor.

A big thank you to beta extraordinaire Suilven, who was able to beat this chapter with her beta stick during the pre-Christmas craziness. You're the best! Also, thanks to all you readers taking a few minutes out of your day for my story. I appreciate you all!