By Gods Forsaken

by inwardtransience

One day, the shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see.

18. Unrest in Denerim — The Hammer Falls

This was supposed to be one chapter, but it exploded to 35k words, so I've split it in two. Oops.

Right, time to get going and have fun reading about...war crimes? Oh dear...

(None if it is particularly graphic, but still, seriously dark shit in this one.)

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9:30 Nubulis 21

Elven Quarter, Denerim, Kingdom of Ferelden

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Aedan hated the waiting.

Over the days since he'd ingratiated himself with the peasant rebellion simmering in the capital, their stand-off with the forces occupying the city had gradually deteriorated. Loghain and Howe's men hadn't attempted to storm the walls — they'd already tried that in the opening hours of the rebellion and it hadn't gone well for them, due to a combination of cleverness, guts, and blind luck on the part of the elves — but that didn't mean there wasn't violence.

An archer would take an occasional shot over the walls, but it was a toss-up who made out better in those exchanges. The Kingdom's men were better-trained than the rebels, and wore armor, but the elves had the high ground and better cover. Also, elves made deadly archers, due to their superior eyesight and dexterity, enough to at least partially make up for their lack of training — in combination with their elevation, at the top of the walls and on roofs, and how the soldiers were mostly out in the open, the Amaranthine archers were at an obvious disadvantage.

Amaranthine archers, Aedan had noticed — none of the archers occasionally taking shots at the rebels defending the elven quarter were wearing Gwaren colors. But that was just as he'd expected, for one important reason: most of Loghain's archers were elves. Apparently, he wasn't as certain of their loyalty as he'd been claiming all Aedan's life.

On more than one occasion, even since Aedan had arrived, the besiegers had attempted to set fire to the quarter, either directly with torches against the walls or indirectly with flaming arrows or firepots tossed overhead. But the rebels had been prepared for that. The roofs of all the buildings in the quarter were all slate, something the elves had been doing for going on two centuries now — the paranoid King Arland had burned the elven quarter to the ground at least twice during his rule, so the elves had taken what precautions they could to prevent it from happening again, particularly the fire-proof roofs and the surprisingly defensible perimeter. Even before the rebellion had started, they'd had set up a system of hand-pumps that drew water in from the river (so they needn't travel beyond the walls) and a collection of buckets waiting to be hauled off by volunteers and thrown over flames, after the first fire flew splashed over every flammable surface they could find in anticipation of more. (The water from the river stank a little, but the lingering smell was better than being burned alive.) Aedan had actually been rather impressed — the elves were remarkably efficient about it, especially considering it was a contingency plan they wouldn't have had need to use for decades now.

In fact, Aedan suspected they were too efficient at it. Many of the fires were doused with water, yes, but Aedan had been paying attention (he wasn't quite trusted enough yet to help), and he didn't think they'd actually gotten to all of them. And yet they'd all sputtered out anyway. Aedan suspected there was at least one mage secretly working with the rebellion — secretly to him, anyway — or quite possibly more than one. He'd considered asking Shianni for all of five seconds before deciding not to — he doubted she'd tell him the truth, and they probably wouldn't appreciate him asking questions.

And, of course, their raids beyond the walls continued. The primary goal was to keep the rebellion and the elven quarter supporting them supplied, but they also ambushed patrols of city guards and soldiers whenever they could — partially to steal more weapons and armor for the rebellion to use, partially just to keep the pressure on. They weren't killing the forces occupying the city in large numbers, just a few at a time here or there, but the casualties taken in these little skirmishes were drastically one-sided. The rebels always made sure they outnumbered their targets, and always posted archers on the roofs before striking. The rebels might be untrained and ill-equipped, but by splitting the patrols up so they couldn't form a proper shield wall, surrounding them and cutting them down in detail, assisted by the occasional shot raining down from above, their attacks were absolutely devastating.

Every time Aedan joined one of these teams — which was often, until he was trusted enough to be welcomed into the heart of their operation they felt this was the best use of his skills — he was always struck with an icy shiver of horror crawling up his spine, the hairs on his neck standing up. Peasant rebels leaping out in ambush from shadowy corners and under the fucking ground, elven archers firing from the roofs unseen and unheard, this shit was what the nightmares of Ferelden's nobility were made of. Even fighting on their side as he was, it made Aedan uneasy, old stories and paranoid whispers from his peers echoing in his ears.

Loghain wasn't an idiot, Aedan was certain he'd put together by now what was going on — that there were old dwarven tunnels under the city exploited by smugglers wasn't exactly a secret. But there was very little the "Regent" could do about it. Most of the criminal elements in the city (who hadn't fled) had thrown their weight behind the rebellion, handing over their thorough knowledge of the tunnel system. It was uncertain whether anyone close to the nobility were aware of the exits on the Hill, but they'd all quickly been barricaded just in case. There were checkpoints at critical junctions throughout the city here and there, guarded at all times by small garrisons of rebels wielding spears and crossbows — given how narrow the tunnels were, anybody trying to take them would be pincushioned by bolts before they knew what hit them. (No such attempt had been made, but the defenders remained in place regardless.) Even after over a week, the rebellion still had almost uninterrupted freedom of movement across the entirety of the southern city, with the exception of the most heavily-fortified areas of the Hill to the west, keeping supplies flowing in and fighters flowing out with little opposition. They'd even set up more outposts beyond the walls of the elven quarter, their numbers and their reach growing every day.

And Loghain wasn't an idiot. The obvious goal in besieging the quarter was to starve the rebellion into submission, but that wasn't going to work — and after a week, the determination of the rebels burning as bright as ever and his forces in the city bled in drips and drabs, he'd certainly figured that out. It had only been a matter of time before Loghain surrendered to the inevitable and made a full-scale assault on the gates of the elven quarter. As well as the rebellion had done so far, they would not hold out for long against the Hero of River Dane.

But unfortunately for Loghain, the rebels weren't stupid either.

The warning had come around midday, one of their lookouts near the Hill reporting activity around the base of Fort Drakon. A few of their more subtle people had slipped their way through the streets to get a look, and they'd come back with bad news: the garrison had cobbled together a battering ram, made from a few carts lashed together and weighted with stone masonry, a line of spare shields strapped along the sides to give those pushing the thing cover from rocks and arrows. A solid mass of soldiers marched down the road, hundreds of them, wearing the colors of Gwaren and Amaranthine and the Kingdom itself, the garrison emptied to put down the rebellion for good. The gates sealing the elven quarter were thick and heavy, but only wood — a battering ram would splinter them easily, no matter what the defenders did. And there was no way in hell they'd be able to hold against an outright assault, not in these numbers.

So the rebels did the only thing they could do: they prepared to lose the elven quarter.

They'd known they couldn't hold the quarter forever, so they'd been preparing for just this eventuality from the beginning, and they executed the plan with very few hiccups. Their supplies had already been moved out of the quarter and into the tunnels and their safehouses dotted across the city. Most of the people associated with the rebellion living inside the quarter, which had already been a minority, abandoned their homes to move into the safehouses, many along with their families.

Every single child in the quarter had been evacuated, and the vast majority of the women — after all, soldiers taking a populated area had a nasty habit of indiscriminate rape and slaughter. A small number of women had elected to stay behind to defend the quarter, but Aedan had noticed the volunteers trended older, many of whom having already lost husbands or children to the rebellion. He felt certain they didn't plan on being taken alive.

And they weren't the only ones remaining in the quarter. A fair number of fighters had stayed behind, disproportionately men, posted on the walls or in the tenements, determined to make Loghain's men bleed for every inch of the quarter they took. It was a suicide mission, but they stepped forward anyway, most with hardly an instant of hesitation.

Aedan had gotten a little choked up over the scene, honestly. He dared his peers who talked about the incivility and vulgarity of the commons to watch these people fight against overwhelming odds, and not see what he saw. As terrifying as the very idea of a peasant rebellion like this might be, as vilified as he was certain it already was among people of means, as certain as he was the Grand Cleric had already denounced them, he did not give a single shit. These people were fucking heroes, and if he lived through this he was going to insist as much to everyone who stood still long enough to listen. Maybe he'd have writings published about all this, the fits his peers would throw...

Some unarmed people had also elected to stay behind (disproportionately men), locked up in their homes and waiting for the sword to fall. Chief among them was Valendrian — a kind-hearted but canny old elf, who Aedan understood was sort of the mayor of the quarter — along with a few of his sons and nephews and friends (again, disproportionately men, and disproportionately older). Loghain's men were almost certainly under orders not to kill Valendrian and his family, but mistakes happened in the chaos of a sack, they could well die anyway; Valendrian understood this, but was determined not to abandon his people left behind anyway. Incidentally, displaying ten times the dignity and nobility of spirit Aedan had ever seen in most actual nobles.

The Sisters of the quarter, a mix of elves and humans — elves couldn't become Mothers, but they were allowed to join consecrated orders, though Aedan knew some dioceses inappropriately refused them solemn vows — had also stayed behind, shut up in the quarter's humble Chantry, praying. The orphanage also hadn't been evacuated, the children there the only remaining in the quarter, overseen by Mother Boann.

Boann was relatively young for a Mother running a Chantry on her own, even so small a one as the elven quarter had. And he knew that for certain because she was a favored niece of Sighard, Bann of Dragon's Peak, who happened to be one of Father's friends in the Landsmeet — Aedan and Boann were very close in age, so they'd known each other growing up. In fact, there'd been whisperings in their families of arranging a marriage between them, until Boann had rescued him by going into the Chantry. Not that he'd been surprised — Boann had always been very devout, and in the more pleasant interpretation, all about feeding the hungry and healing the sick and tending to the Maker's children, so forth and so on. She very well could have gotten her uncle to set her up in a comfortable post as a Cleric, but it was really no shock to Aedan that she'd ended up in the thankless job of running the elven quarter's parish instead.

It might seem unwise to leave Boann, the Sisters, and the orphan children in the quarter, but nobody expected them to be in danger. The Chantry itself, along with the living space for Boann and the Sisters and the orphanage directly connected to it, was very clearly marked for what it was — Chantry sunbursts were all over the place, curtains in Chantry red and gold in the windows, one wall covered with a lovingly touched-up mural depicting Andraste teaching children (a mix of humans and elves), an armed figure in black and gold standing vigilant over her shoulder, presumably Shartan. (That was a theme from chivalric art, the loyal knight watching over the lady like that, and also somewhat scandalous, since it kind of implied a, hmm, close relationship between the subjects, but that wasn't even an uncommon theory and it must have been painted by elves, so.) They could not mistake the space for anything else, and spilling blood in a Chantry was something that was simply not done. There were doctrinal reasons for this, relating to the prohibition against blood magic, but also traditional ones — the Chantry was a safe haven, one zealously respected by every major power on Thedas. Even Tevinter, when sacking a city, would leave the people in Chantries alone. Nobody expected the "Regent's" men would set foot in there.

That had been, perhaps, overly optimistic of them.

Someone would put together that the quarter had been evacuated, it would be obvious. But without control of the tunnels, without knowledge of where the rebels were hiding, there was really nothing the "Regent" could do about that. And even so, his goal would be achieved all the same. His forces would make away with what valuables remained, homes and shops would be burned, and those who resisted would be killed — Loghain would consider the elves suitably chastized, with the expectation that his demonstration of merciless, overwhelming force would put an end to the rebellion.

The rebellion knew all that, of course. The peasants of Denerim had been "chastized" enough times that violence no longer carried the weight it once had — kick a mabari too often, and it will stop obeying commands entirely.

Aedan was in one of their nearest safehouses, a warehouse shortly outside the quarter's walls converted into living space years before, packed in a too-small common room with a collection of the rebellion's best fighters. The men in the quarter were to cover up all the entrances of the tunnels as best they could, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that they might be discovered — the duty of Aedan and his fellows would be to hold the tunnels long enough for the families living here to evacuate to the dockyards. A few dozen of them had been crammed into a space meant for far fewer people, some sat at the tables but others leaning against walls or sitting on the floor, the press of too many bodies in too small a space turning the air hotter and thicker minute to minute.

There was some low conversation, tense and intermittent, a few groups here and there playing strained games of dice or cards. Aedan had considered joining a group playing Wicked Grace for a moment, but with how rigid and anxious he was he'd probably end up snapping at someone. Some had decided to work off their nerves another way, sneaking into the apartments ringing the common room in pairs — occasionally a muffled sound of lovemaking would filter through, lightening the mood a little as people muttered filthy jokes at each other, ribbing couples as they returned with much bawdy teasing and sarcastic applause. (Surprisingly shameless about it, but Aedan supposed privacy was hard to come by for the poor.) Outside of these few breaks in the monotony, most of them simply sat, staring off into space, hands unconsciously fingering weapons, and they waited.

Aedan hated the waiting.

By this point, he recognized the majority of the people in the room with him, if only by sight and not by name. Gaenor, the man who'd rescued him from Howe's men and brought him into the rebellion, was sitting somewhere toward the back with a few of his regular comrades. Aedan wasn't sitting with them at the moment, he'd purposefully put himself close to the exit out of practical concerns — most of the rebels were elves, Aedan was far more likely to be able to clear any obstruction in their way if they needed to move out. He assumed that was the same reason Lark was up here, but the leadership was near the door anyway.

The rebellion didn't have formal leaders, precisely, they weren't that well-organized, but there were a number of people who were most influential, they and their friends and comrades sort of acting as de facto officers. One of the more prominent of these was Shianni, the same sharp-tongued fiery-haired elf who'd interrogated him his first day here. And that was kind of funny, because her prominence was partially Loghain's fault.

The way Lark told it, the two of them had been among those who'd broken the shield wall at the riot, putting them on the south side of the platform in the middle of the fighting. Crossbowmen had been lined up on the north side, and had started firing into the crowd — probably with the intention of pushing them back, then wheeling around to pin the rest against the swordsmen's shields, not realizing their line had already been broken — the twanging and the screaming audible all the way from the melee. Lark had been trying to take down a guard when Shianni had suddenly appeared, stabbing the guard in the back and shoving him against the platform, then used him as a stepping stool to climb onto the platform. Instantly realizing what she wanted up there for, Lark had helped push her up before returning to the fight.

Shianni had run across the platform for the crossbowmen, past the beheaded corpses of the executed elves — her cousins, apparently, there was definitely a story there — lifting her stolen dagger over her head, streaked with blood, screaming mïen-harel at the top of her lungs. Above the crowd, out in the open, visible to absolutely everyone.

Over the next days, a warrant had been issued for the capture of the red-haired elf woman who'd "led" the riot. Shianni had done no such thing, of course (though she had done shockingly well in the fighting for an untrained peasant), but now everybody knew who she was, largely due to the Crown offering a weighty pile of gold for her capture. So, amusingly, she'd only become a leader in the rebellion because the Crown had claimed she already was. Shianni was just as tickled by the irony as he was.

She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall inches away from the doorway, ready to jump up and go at the first sign of trouble. Her fingers idly playing with the unadorned bow in her lap — aiming a crossbow was easy but Shianni's skill with a bow was an aberration, she must have been taught in secret by someone — she occasionally spoke with Lark, sitting to her other side, in a low mutter too quiet to pick up from here. The two were surrounded by a collection of their usual comrades-in-arms, few of whose names Aedan knew — he mostly worked with Gaenor's team, since they already knew he was nobility and Shianni wanted to keep that secret from spreading as much as possible. He'd heard rumors Shianni and Lark were lovers, but Aedan didn't know about that. For one thing, Lark was married, had a gaggle of kids and everything, which didn't necessarily rule it out, but that also just wasn't the impression Aedan got from them.

Of course, Shianni also struck him as the sort of woman who'd sooner casually gut a man than casually sleep with him, but that was...only sort of beside the point, he guessed. Scary girl, that elf. Easy on the eyes, yes, but scary.

Or maybe Aedan was just biased — Shianni had held a knife to his throat before he'd even gotten a look at her, so.

"Check your gaze, Dane."

Aedan twitched at the use of his pseudonym — everybody who heard it was certain it was fake, but that wasn't unusual here, they played along — glanced at the person sitting next to him at the table. "Excuse me?"

"You were staring." The man looked up from his work to meet Aedan's eyes, his head tilting a little, lips quirking in a very elven expression Aedan couldn't quite read. Aedan had ended up sitting next to Ferdi, a delicate, willowy elf with shaggy black hair, sun-bronzed skin, and peculiar silverish eyes. (Elven hair and eye colors were quite striking sometimes.) Ferdi wasn't from around here — the name was Anders, but he claimed to be from Markham, and he did have a Marcher accent — though he'd been in Denerim for some years now. He did some kind of work for Valendrian, but Aedan didn't know what. A slight bounce of amusement on his voice, he drawled, "That particular flower may be beautiful, but it's also poison."

"What are you— Oh!" Aedan's eyes flicked back to Shianni for a second, a shocked laugh bursting past his lips. "No, no, Maker, no. That's not what I was thinking at all. You know that woman threatened to murder me the first time we met? I'm not quite that suicidal yet, thanks."

Ferdi let out an amused breath through his nose, turning back to his work. This was a thing he did seemingly all the time, carving animal figures out of spare bits of lumber — this one looked like it'd be a druffalo once it was finished. He would then sand, varnish, and paint it, decorated with complex colorful whorls that struck Aedan as very elven, and gift the completed figure to a child of the quarter. There were dozens of the things around, he supposedly finished one once every week or two.

Aedan had no idea why he did that. It seemed very random and...frivolous, especially for someone like Ferdi in particular. Supposedly, he'd attended the University of Markham for a time, as long as he'd been allowed — the Universities of Markham and Val Royeaux would often offer a basic education to anyone, but higher programs tended to be closed to commoners without well-connected sponsors. The only living elf Aedan could think of who'd actually received a Master of Arts from either of the Universities was Empress Celene's controversial Grand Chambellan Briala of Montsimmard — forget first elf, Briala was the first commoner to ever be appointed a Great Officer of the Royal Household (she was rumored to be the Empress's personal spy and assassin, and also lover, which probably had something to do with it) — and an elf even having an incomplete formal education was exceedingly rare. Ferdi's education must be nearly as good as Aedan's.

And he just...sat around making children's toys. It was weird.

Aedan had no right to talk, of course, he was just saying.

"Well," Ferdi said, a laugh on the edge of his voice, "if you truly fear for your life so, perhaps you should avoid behaving in a manner that might give observers the wrong impression."

"See, I know you're fucking with me, so I'm going to ignore the suggestion that Shianni frightens me."

Ferdi's lips twitched. "I can see that." That last little jab delivered, he turned back to his carving. And that's another thing: his knife looked fucking weird. Double-edged, more like a dagger than a work knife, the grip appeared to be leather wrapped around bone (or maybe horn?), the blade itself matte black streaked with a vibrant green. Seriously, what even was that? It didn't even look like metal somehow — there were curving lines and whorls in the material, barely visible, that looked almost like the rings in a tree, but it couldn't possibly be made of wood. For one thing, Aedan hadn't ever seen Ferdi sharpen it.

...Which meant it also couldn't be any ordinary metal, but Aedan had already guessed that much. Who the fuck knows, Ferdi and his knife were damn bloody strange.

But since Aedan had nothing better to do at the moment, he might as well ask. "Why are you always making these figures, anyway? Is that one a druffalo?"

Ferdi nodded, turning the little thing in his hand a little. "There aren't any druffalo in the north, I'd never seen one before visiting Ferelden." Well of course, druffalo were native to the Frostback foothills, they raised ram and tusket in the north instead. "And it's simply something to do with my hands, I suppose. My father taught me how when I was a child — I suspect he wanted to give me something to occupy myself with while he was busy."

"Ah, one of those things, I understand." Aedan had been given several, probably out of hope that if he were distracted enough he wouldn't make trouble. It hadn't worked, of course. "I did always wonder, it seemed like an...unyieldly use of your time."

One of Ferdi's eyes widened a little — elves didn't have eyebrows, so that was as close as he could get to raising one at Aedan. "I don't know about that. I should think the smiles of children are yield enough for the effort to be worth it."

Aedan smirked. "You know, you're a bit of a softy, Ferdi."

"I know." He cut another little line into the figure, then glanced up to smirk back at him. "You'd be surprised how many women find sentiment appealing in a man."

That managed to surprise a laugh out of him. "I don't think I would, actually. But if that works for you."

"Oh, it does."

"I don't think I could pull that off, they'd probably see through it in seconds."

"I'll grant you, it does require a certain authenticity of character."

"Hey, now..."

Aedan ended up bantering with Ferdi for several minutes back and forth, which was at least something entertaining to do with his time. Though it didn't make Ferdi any lest peculiar, he had perhaps the most precise diction Aedan had ever heard from a commoner — when he asked, Ferdi admitted the only reason he wasn't a Bachelor of Arts was because he couldn't get any of the Doctors at the University to sponsor him for advancement, so Aedan guessed that made sense. Honestly, it sort of reminded him of talking to some of his more entertaining peers — Ferdi, at least, actually had a decent sense of humor — so it was as good a way to pass the wait as any. Aedan was slightly annoyed with himself he hadn't gotten the idea of talking to the person sitting right next to him earlier...

So, when one of their look-outs turned up with news, Aedan didn't even notice him until he caught Shianni popping up to her feet in his peripheral vision. There was someone standing in the doorway, the embroidered curtains the elves often had in place of proper doors pushed out of the way, leaning against the frame and gasping a little — he must have run here. He was an elven boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, face flushed red, his eyes wide with fear.

"What is it?" Shianni had already gotten up to him, one hand on his shoulder, shaking the boy a little. The room had gone dead silent with tension, all conversation abruptly ended, save for the occasional thumping and clattering of wood and steel, people getting to their feet. "Come on, Norry, get it out."

"They went in—" The boy, Norry, had to break for a second to take in a heavy breath. "—the Chantry."

Aedan felt a cold stone drop into his stomach, hairs prickling at the back of her neck. There was absolutely no reason any of Loghain's men should have gone in the Chantry.

"They're standing out—" Another breath. "—side the orphanage."

"How many?"

"Ten, fifteen. They're lighting torches."

Andraste have mercy, it was an orphanage! What the fuck?!

Shianni whirled around to face the rest of the room, her face gone rock hard, her eyes simmering with fury. Her voice rising more than high enough to cut through the low noise, she cried, "They're burning the orphanage! Geanor, Ronnel, take your people and go to the Chantry, get the Sisters out; me and Lark, Ferdi, Dane, the children and the Mother. Come on, now, let's go!"

Woman didn't have to tell them twice — the air was torn apart with a sudden crashing and rumbling as everyone started pushing toward the doorway, heavy steps and chairs and tables knocked aside. The boy had scrambled out of the way and they jostled to slip through, Shianni first, quickly followed by a few of her companions, then Ferdi, and finally Aedan.

They ran full-out along the hall, turning into a twisting stairwell to fly down at entirely unsafe speeds — Aedan heard someone behind him trip and fall, caught by the others, slowing them down for a second — across a moldering cellar, older than the building above it, Aedan dove through the open trapdoor, landing hard in the tunnels. The others were several steps ahead, Lark trailing behind a little bit, elves were quick little things, Aedan dashed after them, somewhat awkwardly, stooped over to make sure he didn't accidentally bash his head against one of the supports criss-crossing the ceiling every few yards.

The tunnels were dark, the lamps the rebels had put up temporarily doused so as not to point the "Regent" at them in case an entrance was discovered, made of an eclectic mix of granite (from Dragon's Peak, the same material Fort Drakon was built from), sandstone quarried from just up the coast to the north, and river mud packed and fired into ceramic. In the darkness, Aedan could only tell the difference between them by the slightly varying sounds they made when his boots fell on them, the footsteps of the others filling the space with thumping and cracking, harsh breaths scraping at his ears. He could barely even see where he was going anymore, his surroundings black shadows over near-black formless shapes, the hair of Shianni and a couple of her elven companions faintly colorful smears, like distant beacons in the night.

And he ran as hard as he could, the elves ahead still slowly pulling away (seriously, elves were damn fast), the pounding footsteps and rasping of breath growing louder behind him, the elves behind were catching up, the sound egging Aedan on faster, like mabari on his heels. (Though mabari certainly would have caught him by now.) His heart pounding in his ears, his skin tingling head to toe, like his nose in the kitchens back home when Nan went heavy on the pepper in the stew for the men-at-arms, his stomach cold as ice and clenched painfully tight, he pushed himself as fast as he could, the impacts of his feet shivering up his spine and his breath tearing at his chest.

He'd read about what happened when a city was sacked. By the time they'd gotten word, it had probably been too late already. The Sisters might be being raped or murdered (or both) right now, and Boann and the children...

Aedan almost missed the turn, skidding around the corner at the last second, his shoulder bouncing off the wall, staggering for a couple steps before he recovered. Several yards later there was another corner, the elves were far enough ahead he only noticed it by the lumbering shadow that was Lark turning off. Not far down the tunnel came to a dead end, an old broken cart shoved against the wall to give people something to stand on — Aedan could have climbed up easily without it, but elves tended to be shorter than humans. Light slipped through the seams in the trapdoor, narrow and weak, slashing through the black along the frame, the thin light narrowly illuminated the elves gathered on the cart, straining to push up the trapdoor. The men left behind would have put something heavy on the door, to make it look less likely there was anything there, the elves probably weren't strong enough to move it.

"Get out of the way! Lark, help me!" The elves scattered, Shianni and a man Aedan didn't know drawing the rest aside. Lark hopped onto the cart, the old wood creaking with his weight, Aedan a step behind him, hunched over to keep his head from scraping against the ceiling. One of them on either side, Aedan bent his knees, his back rigid straight, palms against the door overhead.

An instant before he was about to, Lark called, "One! Two!" Aedan pushed upward, more with his legs than anything, as though trying to stand against a great weight, Lark groaning with effort next to him. There was a low squeal of old hinges, the chink of light widening from one side a bit, voices slipping out — shouts and crying in small, high voices, the children must have fled toward the back of the building. He heard a clinking as whatever was on top of the hatch shifted, but they'd only gotten it open a couple inches, the thing blocking it too heavy, Aedan's limbs were shivering, a long, frustrated shout drawn out of his throat as he pushed, and pushed...

He jolted with surprise, the door dipping slightly, when someone slipped between him and Lark. The newcomer stepped up onto the rim of the cart's bed, the wood creaking a little, and Aedan finally noticed it was Ferdi. The scrawny, erudite elf took a little hup of a breath, planted his hands against the door — and he stood up, nearly all the way, smooth and easy. The hatch suddenly jolted up, levering open a foot or two, a clattering of whatever was on top shifting, nearby children letting out shouts of surprise.

...Woah. Ferdi was a lot stronger than he looked.

"Hold it!" Aedan waited just a second to make sure they'd heard him, then let go — Lark and Ferdi let out grunts of strain, but the door only dipped a few inches. He turned and forced himself up, wriggling through the gap, the door creaking again as Ferdi was shoved a bit, nearly losing his grip. Sparing a quick glance for the kids huddled by the door into the hall, Aedan turned onto his back, gripped the ledge with both hands under his hips, bent his knees up to his chest to plant both feet on the door, and he pushed, hard.

The door was flung open, the tall wooden crate on top finally crashing over, letting out a cracking of wood and a screaming of breaking glass. (Vinegar, he recognized the label.) The children let out more shouts of surprise, terrified sobbing audible beneath them.

When Aedan stood up, the clump of kids out in the hall — all elves, varying in age from maybe four to ten — clearly having been hiding in this room until the trapdoor started opening unexpectedly, reared back further in fear, sending panicky looks down the hall. But they instantly relaxed, tears of relief now sparkling in their eyes, as Ferdi and then Shianni followed Aedan out of the hatch — them the kids recognized.

"Come on, sweetlings," Ferdi said, waving them on, "through the hatch, quick. Seda, stay and help..."

The children swarmed into the room, Aedan and the others picked their way through them, coming out into the back hallway. There were a few more kids back here, a few peeking out of a nearby door — there was a small open courtyard and a well back there, Aedan knew — scrambling toward them. There was shouting and crashing coming from further in the building, a muffled crackling of flames. None of these children appeared hurt, but this wasn't all of them, not even close...

"Ferdi! Aedan!" Shianni shouted, slipping and using his real name, pointing down the hall, "boys' side!" Aedan was tempted to give her a sarcastic salute, but this really wasn't the time for it. He ran down the hall, dancing between the children here and there, Ferdi and a couple others right at his heels. Once the children were all behind him, so he wouldn't unduly frighten them, Aedan ripped his mother's sword of its sheath, the scrape of metal against metal ringing in the air.

Aedan had been here before, but only once, helping to move supplies around a few days ago. He knew the building was split into three sections — common rooms, like the kitchen and the dining room and a sizable sitting room, down the middle; rooms for the boys on the east side, sleeping and play areas, the latter scattered with donated toys and the like; and then the same on the west side, for the girls. It was supposedly the same on the second floor, though Aedan had never been up there. He assumed Shianni's plan was to have some of their people sweep the east side and the other take the west, meet in the cloakroom at the front to bar the door, and then go back down the middle, where they'd climb the stairs in the back and repeat the whole thing on the second floor. With someone sent to check the back courtyard quick, they could sweep the entire building in a matter of minutes.

Hopefully, that would be quick enough.

Aedan came out into a bedroom first, several beds spaced across the floor, half of the wardrobes and cabinets hanging open, the contents scattered. Just as he was pulling ahead of him, Ferdi hitched to a halt, then darted off for one of the wardrobes, throwing open the door to reveal two boys huddled up inside. No idea how Ferdi had known they were there, but good catch — one of the other elves broke off to circle the room, probably to open every one of them just in case. Aedan was first through the next door, stepping into another bedroom.

There were two men in Amaranthine colors in here, a third passing through the opposite door at the same time as Aedan. One had dragged a boy out of a wardrobe, the other bending over to snag another out from underneath a bed.

Aedan's jaw clenched with simmering fury, his teeth squeaking, his stomach churning with hatred — Amaranthine colors, Howe's men, the same bastards who'd killed his family.

The distance between them vanished, Aedan's feet hardly even seeming to touch the floor. His blade was slashing across the throat of the first man before he'd hardly even noticed Aedan was there, a spray of blood speckling the boy, screaming with fright, Aedan grabbed the boy by the shirt and pushed him behind him. The third man's sword was in his hand, he stepped forward and slashed at Aedan, waist-height, he shoved the blow down and around, pushed the man back with a flurry of blows — high-right, high-left, jab, step, parry, low-left, jab...

The second man gave up trying to grab the boy under the bed, plucking his sword up from the floor and making to stand, Aedan dipped and took a step up and to the left, easily ducking past an overhand blow from the third man coming down on his shoulder, putting himself behind the second, planted a kick on his shoulder before he could stand up all the way. He tripped over the foot of the bed, and a pair of elves were falling on him, the man was dead before he could resist. Aedan sharply smacked another blow from the third man aside, the speed of it pushing him off balance, Aedan spinning with his own momentum, turning around the man's back, his blade moving so quickly he heard the air whistle, coming down heavy on his back.

The enchanted silverite easily parted the man's cheap splinted armor, slicing through the flesh beneath, bones cracking with the weight. As the man fell to his knees Aedan wrenched his sword free, before he could finish him off Ferdi was there, his strange knife slashing open the soldier's throat. Ferdi kicked the dying man onto his back, his face contorted into a hateful scowl.

Aedan's eyes were watering from the smoke starting to pour through the doorway, he ducked through to the last room in this row. The play room, flames already starting to chew through high on the front wall, but mostly only smoke and heat let through at this stage, decorative tapestries just starting to catch alight. There were a few small bodies on the floor, Aedan's heart jumped hard into his throat, but then he noticed they were moving — they'd been tied up, the attackers probably meant to take the children and use them as leverage against the rebellion later. Four small boys, none older than twelve, unable to walk, wriggling across the floor further away from the burning wall, terrified tears streaming down their faces.

Running toward them, Aedan foot hit something, he nearly fell over. Distracted by the boys still moving, he hadn't noticed this one. He was maybe twelve or thirteen, there was a hurley laying on the floor near his hand, the wood splintered a little at the neck. He must have tried to fight off the soldiers with the stick, at least one of the blows heavy enough to fracture it.

There was a ragged, bloody crater carved through the boy's chest — he was dead.

For a couple seconds, Aedan could only stare at him, practically choking on his own rage, his hands shaking (his nephew, little Oren, bloodied and dead dancing behind his eyes), but the crying of the still living boys drew him out of it. He ran toward the nearest, sliding down to his knees, Ferdi appearing over another boy a second later. The ropes would be relatively easy to untie — they'd been knotted ahead of time, closed with a couple quick loops — and Aedan's sword was still covered in blood, but he didn't want to waste a second, he pushed the boy's shoulders flat against the ground, cautiously slipped the blade between his back and the ropes, gently cut upward, careful not to put any pressure on the boy himself. Ferdi, strangely, dropped his knife, glared up at the smoking wall. Then he clapped his hands together, and—

Like ripples spreading across a pond from a stone tossed into it, a wave spread across the air in every direction from Ferdi's hands, shimmering with blue and silver sparks. The smoke in the air was pushed against the walls and ceiling, clinging close to the surface, and the crackling of the fire immediately silenced, smothered. There was a harsh gasp from one of the other rescuers, a shocked cry of, "Maker's breath!" Aedan just shot Ferdi a glance, one of his eyebrows ticking up, as the elf picked his knife back up to cut at the boy's bindings.

He guessed he'd found the rebellion's secret mage.

But the "Regent's" men out in the quarter would notice the fire had abruptly gone out, they had to move quickly. Soon all the boys were cut free, told to run back to the right-hand storeroom, one of the rescuers sent with them just in case. Ferdi was the first through the door into the cloakroom, Aedan right on his heels. The entryway was small, wide but shallow, just a place to hang the kids' cloaks and coats and keep their shoes, the floors worn flat and streaked with mud in a couple places. Ferdi darted up to slam the door closed, dragging a wardrobe down to barricade it with a noisy crash, the wood cracking in several places — done far more easily than an elf or even a human should be able to move anything that heavy, he had to be using magic to make himself stronger or something. Not that Aedan was complaining, they would have had far more trouble getting through the trapdoor without it.

There was shouting coming from the door leading to the front room on the girls' side, the only words Aedan picked out a woman begging them to stop, this was Chantry property — Boann.

He charged through the door, glanced through the room quick. A mirror of the one opposite, there thankfully weren't any bodies on the floor, but Aedan didn't know how long that would last. Two soldiers were manhandling a pair of girls, older, maybe twelve to sixteen — not pulling at their clothes, thankfully, just trying to restrain them, one backhanded the older of the two across the face, drawing a furious shout from Boann. (They really did want hostages, sick bastards, they'd have to do a headcount once they were out.) Another soldier was holding her back from intervening, this one a woman, but Boann was putting up a hell of a struggle, her Chantry robes disheveled and even torn over one shoulder. A fourth soldier stood a short distance away, a crossbow held loose in his hands.

He perked up as Aedan dashed through the door, though. Stock brought up to his shoulder to aim, his arm tensed. The air catching in his throat, Aedan dove forward, rolling over his shoulder — there was a heavy clunk and twang, the bolt whizzing through the air, a sharp thump as it stuck into the wall somewhere to his right. He let out a breath, staggered to his feet, darting straight at the pair of soldiers. One didn't react quickly enough, still drawing his sword by the time Aedan got to him, his own sinking into the man's chest under his armpit. The girls screaming, scrambling away, Aedan planted his foot against the dying man's hip and pushed him off straight at the second, he dodged but not quick enough, pushed back stumbling.

The crossbowman was cranking back again, but he wouldn't get there in time, a few figures were pouring through the door deeper into the girls' side. Lark had picked up a new shield (Amaranthine arms, unfortunately); an elf Aedan didn't know had a cut along her shoulder, but it wasn't bleeding too badly; Shianni was streaked with blood, around her hip and down her left leg, but Aedan didn't think it was hers. Lark reached the crossbowman first, slamming into him shield-first, Shianni dipping to slash the back of his knee before he could recover, bringing him down to the floor, Lark's stolen sword biting into the man's throat.

At the same time, Aedan chased after the second swordsman, jabbing in low on the man's abdomen, but he'd recovered in time, turning the stab aside with his own shield. He advanced, slashing out around and above the shield, pushing Aedan back while leaving himself protected. Pretty damn good defensive form, actually, this one had been more thoroughly trained than most lords' commoner men-at-arms. A knight's son, maybe?

Oh, well, it didn't actually make a difference, he just had to fight dirty to knock this one out quickly. Aedan turned aside one attack and then another, stepping back with each one — and then, when the soldier slowed for a moment stepping over his fellow's corpse, he darted quickly up and to the right, grabbing onto the man's shield with his free hand, leaning back to pivot around and then let go, sending the man crashing into the nearby wall face-first. Aedan stabbed the man low on the back, over the left hip, piercing through mail and leather — already a lethal blow, though it could take him hours to bleed out — he slumped to one knee, turning to face Aedan, he contemptuously kicked the shield out of the way and opened up his throat.

While the man choked on his own blood, swiftly dying, Aedan turned to the last one standing. She had backed into a corner holding Boann hostage between them, one armored arm hugging her arms to her sides and blade against her throat. She was shouting at everyone to stay back or she'd kill the Sister — apparently not realizing Boann was actually a Mother, but she was young for it — Boann screaming for everybody to stop and trying to kick at the woman's shins. There was no fucking way they were going to let her leave with Boann, they had her surrounded, Shianni had ratcheted back the crossbow and reloaded it, on one knee with the stock against her shoulder, waiting for a clear shot. If Boann could just throw her weight down, they could—

There was an odd snapping noise, like something flat dropping onto water, a narrow arc of green light slashing across the air — and across the woman's face. She went limp, Aedan jolted forward to pull Boann away by her robes. The woman's face split in half, from the left side of her jaw to her right temple, half of her face starting to slip downward as she collapsed, blood pouring down her side and lumpy pinkish-grayish brains starting to spill out, Aedan turned away as the woman collapsed to the floor, nausea bubbling up his throat.

That bit of magic had been damned effective, but it was also disgusting.

"You!" Aedan tipped back a step as Boann threw herself against him, her arms clenching tight around him for a second before backing off a little to glare up at him. "Aedan Cousland, you crazy lout, what are you doing here?!" There were a few gasps and odd choked noises, either at his real name or a Mother calling him a crazy lout, could go either way on that one.

He'd avoided Boann since he'd gotten to the city, of course — she would recognize him immediately, and the rebels had kept her at arm's length for her own safety. For all the good that had done her. "You know me, Boann, I've got to be where things are happening."

Boann gave him a skeptical frown. Maker, a couple years as a Mother had really upped the intensity of her disapproving glares...

"It's okay, Mother. Aedan's with us." He got the feeling Shianni assumed Boann had recognized him just because he was a Cousland, reassuring her he wasn't an infiltrator or something — Shianni (and Ferdi) might have suspicions now, considering Boann had just out and hugged him, but he hadn't actually told them they knew each other. "I can explain later, but we need to get out of here right now."

"How? You can't fight through all the—"

"There's a secret exit in the back, come on..."

The center row of rooms were thankfully empty, save for a single little girl tied on the floor in the dining room — Ferdi cut the ropes with two quick slashes, Boann lifted the bawling girl up into her arms. The back hallway was mostly cleared, save for a couple stragglers filing in from the back courtyard with the same man they'd sent back with the boys before. Turning to join them, he jumped at the pair of corpses laid out on the floor, soldiers, the wooden floor smeared with their blood. Apparently those hadn't been there when he'd left. Seda, one of Shianni's cousins — the red hair was a giveaway, though Seda's was lighter, more orange — was leaning against a wall nearby, her face streaked with sweat, a shallow cut across her shoulder and a gash under her eye from a gauntleted punch — that was going to be an awful bruise tomorrow. Her dagger and her fingers were bloody, her hands shaking a little.

Aedan's step hitched for a moment, taking in the scene with wide eyes. Had Seda killed both of them on her own? Huh. Impressive.

"Has anyone cleared upstairs?"

Seda shook her head at Lark, took a moment to gather her voice. "A few of the older kids came down, but they said there are men up there."

Without a second of delay, they shuffled the girls toward the storeroom, Boann taking up the rear, and ran straight for the stairs. As they stomped up, Aedan yelled, "Anyone counting the dead?"

"What's that?"

"They were taking prisoners."

There was a storm of cursing from multiple throats, inaudible over the pounding of feet on stairs. Shianni yelled, "Ferdi!"

"Come tu comandi, Maggiore."

Aedan nearly glanced back at Ferdi before catching himself, stumbling on the top step a little. The elf who'd somehow managed to study at the University of Markham, and also happened to me a mage, was now just randomly speaking Antivan? It couldn't just be a joke, his intonation was perfect — Aedan's sister-in-law was Antivan, he would know. Right, he was definitely having a talk with Ferdi later, there had to be a story there...

Shianni didn't bother waiting for everyone to get to the top and split them up, she started dashing off right away. And Aedan was pretty sure why — he could easily hear screaming and shouting from here. He was third in line, shortly behind Shianni and an elf man whose name he didn't know, following them through the door into the middle section, through a library-looking place. Chairs arranged here and there, tables with plain oil lamps, shelves holding a modest collection of ratty old books and scrolls — belonging to the Chantry, most like, made available to the older orphans. (Supposedly, the orphans could all read, which was unusual for dirt-poor peasants, but they were being raised by Sisters.) Through the opposite door was a large sitting room, filling up the rest of the middle section on this floor, with somewhat aged chairs and tables and quilts scattered about, a smoldering hearth against one wall, a couple books or scattered bits from games left sitting out.

There were six armed and armored men in here (all in Amaranthine colors again, interesting), and several orphans, toward the older end of the age range. Aedan didn't know how it was decided how long they could stay here, but some of the older residents were definitely of marriageable age — it could be hard to guess the ages of elves sometimes, but sixteen to nineteen wouldn't seem inappropriate for some of the oldest. The youngest on the second floor was maybe about ten, but none that small were here now, closer to the average of fourteen, maybe a little older.

The residents had clearly put up a hell of a fight. Tables were toppled over, bent and broken hurleys abandoned here and there. (There were a lot of those in the orphanage, but that wasn't really surprising — Aedan knew the children of the city often went to a field out of town to the north to play, he'd joined in himself when he was younger, though the elves of the quarter hadn't been able to since the rebellion started.) Most of the boys, some of them with obvious bruises on their faces and scrapes on their arms, were already tied up, though two were still standing, one brandishing a hurley and another a spindly chair, facing off with a pair of the soldiers. All of them were shouting at the soldiers, a mix of insults and threats and begging, too loud and mixed up for any of them to stick out very well.

There was blood on the floor, near the restrained boys to the right, in splatters and smears and puddles. Apparently, some of the boys had put up enough of a fight Howe's men had decided to use lethal force, despite clearly having orders to take hostages. One Aedan caught a glimpse of was definitely dead — a vicious gash at the join between his neck and shoulder, the pool of blood thick and dark, his eyes open glazed and unmoving — and another wouldn't be long behind him, hands clutched over a weeping wound in his stomach, his shirt soaked red, even if they had a healer with them he probably wouldn't make it.

There was another boy next to him, awkwardly hugging the dying boy's head to his chest with his bound wrists. Aedan noticed they had the same silvery-blond hair — brothers? cousins?

He took all that in at a glance, but he didn't look for long, something else inexorably stealing his attention. The girls were gathered on the opposite side of the room, the soldiers dividing them — the girls and boys must have been intentionally separated during the fighting. Most of the girls were tied up already, a third soldier finishing up, barely managing to hold the girl's kicking legs still long enough to get the restraints around her ankles.

Two of the girls were still standing, but that wasn't exactly a good thing. One, with long, wild hair a sort of steely blue-black (one of those neat elven hair colors, Aedan liked that one), her lip split and dribbling thin trails of blood down her chin, was being held from behind by a fourth man, her arms wrenched behind her back, while a fifth started cutting through the cloth of her drab peasant gown, starting from the neck. Not with a proper dagger, either, that was a cheap work knife — the girl must have been trying to fight them off with it a moment ago. The girl was still struggling, throwing her weight back and forth, trying to break out of the fourth man's grip, kicking at the fifth's shins, but she wasn't getting away and she knew it, her movements panicky, her voice keening high and hateful. The last girl had been shoved against a wall, the last soldier holding her there with one hand on her back — she'd been stripped naked, the man's free hand hidden from this angle, but held near his waist at his front.

Taking in the lay of the land, Shianni and her friend hitched for a second, before dashing in the direction of those last two girls, clearly evaluating them as the ones most urgently in need of help — and Aedan didn't disagree, they were moments from being raped. (If they'd delayed downstairs even a single minute longer...) The soldiers reacted to their appearance almost right away, one of the ones facing off with the last two boys shifting to the side a bit to intercept Shianni, the one who'd been tying up a girl clanking to his feet and drawing his sword. The pair of elves tried to slip past but they were cut off, retreating a few steps from the soldiers, cursing.

But, moving to cut off the elves, they missed Aedan. He hopped to the side, landing on one of the few upright chairs, his momentum tipping it over, he leaped off onto a nearby table, a few steps and a jump back to the floor and he was well behind the pair of soldiers. The two assaulting the black-haired girl had noticed him by now, the one cutting her gown turning to him and dropping the knife, reaching for his sword. But Aedan wasn't aiming for them.

Too single-mindedly focused on the girl, the last soldier didn't even notice Aedan coming until he grabbed him by the hair, sharply yanking him away from the sobbing girl — how thoughtful of him, taking his helmet off to make it easier for Aedan. As the man stumbled back from the force of Aedan's pull, one hand coming up against the back of his head, he noticed he'd made it easy for Aedan another way: he'd already gotten his trousers lowered a couple inches. Sending a stab high between his legs seemed like the obvious thing to do.

While the man collapsed to his knees, both hands now clutching at what remained of his manhood, blood already dripping through his fingers, Aedan started toward the other two. One was already moving toward them, the other releasing the black-haired girl toward the others, a heavy hit of a gauntlet to her face encouraging her to stay there. His lip curling into a snarl, Aedan dipped to pluck a discarded gown off the floor, tossing it toward the girl behind him, then skipped forward to meet the pair of soldiers.

Aedan came down with a slash toward the man's throat, but he turned it aside easily, countering with a slash at Aedan's hip, which he deflected, the motion running right into a stab, which was parried, back and forth and back and forth. Neither of them moved a step, standing only a couple feet apart, the clang of blocks and the grating shiver of parries ringing again and again and again. This one had gotten some decent training too, but even only a couple seconds in Aedan could tell he would best him, though it might take a minute. And Aedan didn't have a minute: the other man had his blade in hand now, moving to the left to encircle Aedan. He could probably hold out against both of them, at least long enough for the others to clear the first three soldiers and back him up, but it was a risk.

So, he just had to fight dirty again. He waited a couple more exchanges for the right moment, until the man's hips turned, preparing to come in from high-left — perfect. Aedan dipped a little, his left hand joining his right, then as the blow fell slashed upward as hard as he could, with all the strength of both arms, even straightening again as it went to give it a little extra oomph. There was a high screaming of protesting metal, a hard jolt shooting through Aedan's hands up to his shoulders — the dwarven-crafted, enchanted silverite parted the folded steel in a single stroke, half of the weaker blade falling to clatter against the floor. Aedan immediately followed through with a slash in the opposite direction, catching the soldier low over the abdomen, knocking him spinning to the floor.

Aedan paused just a second to check the blade. He grinned: it wasn't even nicked, still perfectly clear and smooth, without the slightest hint of damage. Thanks for the family heirloom, Mother, hope she liked the use he'd found for it.

(Actually, she might — Father definitely wouldn't approve of Aedan assisting a peasant rebellion, but Mother had literally been raised by pirates, she had much lesser confidence in the Crown and the Kingdom's nobility. For her, it'd probably depend on why the peasants were rebelling. Also, they were just about to rape that girl, and their lord had betrayed and slaughtered most of the family, so yeah, he suddenly felt quite certain Mother would approve.)

He turned to the other soldier, finding the man frozen gaping at him — which was fair, Aedan had just cut through another man's sword, didn't see that shit every day. So when Aedan advanced on him he wasn't ready, scrambling to defend himself, it only took a few quick exchanges before Aedan caught him low over his left hip. Before he'd even fallen all the way to his knees Aedan had already whipped his sword around, cutting deep into the side of his neck. The man collapsed, one gauntleted hand pressing against the gash, doing nothing to actually hold back the thick stream of blood already puddling on the floor. It'd take a couple minutes for him to bleed out at this rate, he thought, but Aedan wasn't feeling charitable at the moment.

Aedan turned away to his right, blinked at the sight he was met with. The black-haired girl had leapt upon the one he'd injured a moment ago — her knees on his back, she'd yanked his head up by the hair, her knife digging into the man's throat. Her grip was awkward, clumsy, but she was getting the job done, that one wasn't getting up again.

There was a scream from behind, Aedan whirled around, biting out a curse — that hadn't been a fatal or even a completely debilitating injury he'd given that first soldier, he still had to be dealt with. He fully expected to find the first girl fighting off the injured man, skipping forward to inter—

He hitched to a stop. The girl was sitting against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms hugging the gown over her. She hadn't dressed herself, but by how badly she was shaking Aedan wasn't certain she could. The injured soldier was still several feet away from her, lying on his back — Ferdi had appeared perched over him, straddling his hips. The man's right arm kinked at unnatural angles, broken in multiple places, the front of his armor split open and peeled away, as though torn apart by hand. Ferdi was holding him by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes, the other hand pressed against his abdomen, the man screaming in agony, his feet kicking against the floor, his uninjured arm slapping ineffectually at the elf.

Aedan blinked — Ferdi's hand wasn't on the soldier's belly, but inside of it, somehow sunk through up to the wrist, his hand and fingers entirely hidden from sight. And he was clearly doing some kind of magic, black and red sparks flickering where their skin met, and the soldier's flesh was sizzling, shivering and crackling and bubbling like water on the pan, blood leaking out to smear all around and dribble to the floor. The man aimed a punch at Ferdi's head, he ducked under it, but lifted both his hands to catch the man's arm. Gripping his hand and his forearm, Ferdi twisted — pop pop pop pop! — his wrist shattered and dislocated, methodically moving up to shatter the bones of his forearm, then his elbow, the arm reduced to a broken, misshapen mess. Once he was done, Ferdi gripped him by the chin again, his other hand vanishing back into the soldier's bleeding and steaming abdomen — the sizzling was louder now, broken with an occasional harsh crackle of magic, Ferdi's lips twisted and eyes narrowed in a vicious sneer, glaring directly in the man's eyes as he screamed.

Right, then. Do not piss off Ferdi. Noted.

The last of Howe's men were being finished off around then, so Aedan made for the girls tied up on the floor, cutting apart the ropes one after the other alongside the black-haired girl. By the time that was done, the naked girl — a squirrely little thing, blonde and green-eyed, younger than the black-haired girl, maybe fourteen — still hadn't moved, either to leave or dress herself, sitting against the wall shivering. Aedan walked that way automatically, but hung back a little, not wanting to crowd her — she had just been assaulted by human men, probably best to keep a little distance. One of Shianni's companions — tiny and quick and graceful (even for an elf), light brown skin and auburn hair, her name was Valora, Aedan thought? — was speaking to her, trying to get her to stand up.

Oh, her gown had been ripped in multiple places, it wouldn't exactly cover up much at the moment, that was understandable. Aedan made for a pile of blankets and quilts, picked up a large, thick one — green stitched with dancing whorls of color, very elven — and tossed it toward Valora, who barely managed to catch it. He picked a much plainer blanket to wipe the blood off his sword with, finally sheathed it.

In a few moments, they were all up and moving, a couple of their number already gone to sweep through the boys' and girls' sides. The children insisted those should be empty, since almost everyone had been in here when the soldiers had shown up. Apparently, the boys had intentionally tried to occupy the men so as many of the others could flee as possible — just, Maker, brave kids, that was all. Of course, they were going to check every room in the building anyway, but the adults didn't tell the kids they needed to count bodies to make sure the attackers hadn't taken any hostages. Valora had finally gotten the blonde girl to her feet, the quilt wrapped tight around her, guiding her on with a gentle arm around her shoulders. Aedan was maybe halfway back to the door when he realized the black-haired girl was gone, dammit, if she'd run off somewhere—

Before Aedan could hardly even start thinking what they should do about that, she reappeared through one of the doors into the girls' side, a fresh gown folded over her arm, and ran right up to the blonde girl. So eager to be properly dressed again, she immediately dropped the quilt. Aedan respectfully averted his eyes, but he could hear them — apparently the girl was still terribly shaky, she needed help getting the gown over her head correctly.

Listening to the blonde and black-haired girls muttering to each other, Aedan was suddenly struck with a surge of relief that they'd made it in time, if only just. As grisly as it'd been, he couldn't say he judged Ferdi for drawing out that one man's death as long as he had.

Soon they were at the stairs, Aedan hung back at the top for a moment to let Valora and the girls go ahead, so he could hold the rear — it would take them a little bit to get through the trapdoor into the tunnels, and the men attacking the quarter were going to investigate what was going on in here before too long. The blonde girl stared at him as she passed, but her pale, tear-streaked face was too blank with shock for Aedan to guess what she was thinking.

Aedan was halfway down when the air around him shivered, a sudden wind rushing through the stairwell, complete with a fluttering and roaring, like the gusts over the harbor back home during storm season. Something was coming down from behind him, a twisting maelstrom of black shadows and green light flashing over his head, meeting the wall nearby, resolving into a figure — was that— Before he could get a good look it was moving again, bursting into a corkscrewing swirl of green and black, flickering here and there red and blue-silver, skipping over the heads of the last few people still on the stairs, the girls squeaking in surprise, to land in the hallway.

He came out of it at speed, skittering a couple steps before planting his feet and flying off again — yep, that was Ferdi, he must be going about the final body count as fast as possible. Neat magic, that.

As fast as they were moving, getting two and sometimes even three kids through the hatch at once, it was still taking a little while, the storeroom crowded with bodies. Aedan stood out in the hall, watching the progress with one eye, watching for soldiers coming up behind them with the other. There were maybe only a dozen left, maybe half of those Shianni and her people, when the swirling light and shadow and roar of wind appeared again, Ferdi dropping the magic to skip to a halt next to Aedan. "We have to move," he said, leaning around the doorframe to check their progress — he nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little. "They've set more fires, and they'll be through the door in but a minute."

"Can't you just put them out again?"

"I tried," he said, shaking his head. "They must have a mage out there, I fled as soon as I realised — I'm mostly self-taught, I suspect a Circle-trained mage will kill me easily."

Grimacing, Aedan glanced back through the door, finding it almost empty, only a few stragglers left. "Right, lucky we're almost done here. Come on."

The blonde and black-haired girls were just disappearing through the hatch as Aedan and Ferdi stepped inside, Shianni and Seda helping them through, the latter dropping down just after them. Crouched over the edge, Shianni looked up at them, hard amber eyes glittering just a little. "Someone has to cover up the hatch again." If the men were just setting the building on fire, that wouldn't be a problem, debris would cover it, but they probably planned to storm the place as it burned, flush out the rebels — and also the apostate mage, couldn't forget that...

But Aedan had already considered this problem, answered without a second of hesitation. "I'll do it."

Ferdi twitched with surprise, Shianni stared up at him for a second, eyes wide, before speaking. "Are you sure?"

"Don't give me that look, I don't plan on dying — I'm pretty sure I can get out of this one." The plan was slightly mad, of course, but with a little luck he'd be just fine. "Besides, there are too many people between Lark and the hatch, and he's the only other one who can move that shit," he said, nodding at the crates half-filling the storeroom.

"I could do it, and—"

"Not a good idea," Aedan insisted, cutting Ferdi off. "They need your magic more than they need my sword arm. And we don't have time to stand here arguing about it."

Shianni's lips twisted, frowning just a little, as though she didn't quite agree — Aedan wasn't just another fighter, Shianni wanted him to speak for them at the Landsmeet — but after a second of thought she nodded. "Good luck, Aedan." Then she dropped through the hatch, without even waiting for a response. Not that he was certain he would have had one.

Ferdi's eyes had closed, brow wrinkled in concentration. After a couple seconds, he flicked his wrist toward the crates, the little room briefly illuminated with a flash of green-yellow light — the magic had no visible effect, but Aedan guessed he'd figure out what that had been in a minute. Ferdi clapped him on the shoulder, his hand squeezing a little. "You're a good man, Aedan Cousland."

He gave the unusually well-educated elf a crooked smirk — Ferdi might not be Fereldan, but he definitely recognized that name. "Noticed that, did you."

Smirking back, "Of course. Good luck. Or at least take a few of these vile worms with you."

A laugh jumped out of his throat before he could stop it. "Yeah, yeah, get out of here."

With a last crooked smile, Ferdi hopped down into the tunnels. Aedan shut the hatch, the iron-lined wood falling with a heavy thump, then moved to the crates, getting behind the one they'd knocked over, leaning against another to push it with a foot. It was much easier to move than he'd expected, it couldn't weigh more than a quarter of what it should — thanks, Ferdi, made this much easier. Aedan took a couple minutes to rearrange the crates, being much more thorough about it than the men who'd covered it in the first place. (He suspected they'd made the trapdoor relatively easy to get to just in case they had to evacuate the children, and lucky they had.) He moved a couple whole rows up, lined thick enough Aedan had to climb up and roll over the top of the first row to get out again. That should be good enough — the only way anyone should even think to search for the trapdoor would be if they already knew it was there.

Just in case someone got curious, Aedan dragged the bodies of the men Seda had taken out a little further down the hall, more toward the door out into the rear courtyard, ripping a curtain out of a nearby doorway to mop up as much of the blood as he could get in a few swipes — it wasn't all of it, he could still tell the bodies had been moved, but he knew what to look for, it'd probably pass by unnoticed to people not paying too much attention to the floors. He chucked the bloody curtain out the back door, turned to—

There was a crash of splintering wood, the heavy thumping of armored boots on wood, shouts of angry voices. Aedan leaned around a door, looking into the middle section — he could see all the way through, a thick clump of men forcing their way through the door, climbing over Ferdi's barricade. He darted back toward the storeroom, plucked up the loaded crossbow abandoned leaning against the wall — the same one he'd nearly been shot with a few minutes ago, he assumed — checked to make sure the bolt was fixed correctly, ran back to the door. Dropping to one knee, he sighted down at the clump of soldiers gathering in the room for a second — they were waiting for everyone to get through, it looked like, to overwhelm the rebels with numbers. He picked a target at random, and fired, the stock jolting against his shoulder; in a blink, the bolt punched through the center of the man's chest, he collapsed instantly. One vile worm down.

(For the first time in his life, Aedan was glad Father had insisted he learn the basics of every weapon their men-at-arms carried — otherwise there was practically no chance in hell he would have ever picked up how to use a crossbow.)

The men whirled around, but Aedan didn't stop to watch, ducked back around the doorway. Ratcheting the string back as quickly as he could make it go, the wood squeaking a little with protest, he shouted, "That's right, you shit-brained water-blooded whoresons, come and get me!" He snapped a bolt off the pins along the side, slid it in place, leaned around the doorframe on one knee. They were a lot closer now, charging through the middle of the central row — interestingly, there were fewer of them, they must have split off to the sides to cut him off — but he had more than enough time to pick a target and fire. Aiming a little lower, this one was caught in the gut — that bastard was dead, he just didn't know it yet, he might last a few hours before finally bleeding out. Two worms.

Aedan dove across the doorway, bolts zipping through a second after he'd passed, hopped up to his feet and dashed for the stairs, his throat tickling from the smoke thin on the air. He leapt up the stairs two or three steps at a time, skidding slightly rounding the landing in the middle. At the top, he paused again, ratcheting the string back, slipped in another bolt — there were two more left after this one, but he doubted he would have time to use them all.

The smoke was starting to thicken, not quite visible but he could definitely taste it. Good, his plan to get the fuck out of here wouldn't work if the building weren't going up around his ears.

(Of course he'd had to come up with another mad escape gambit, because that bit at the Arl's estate clearly hadn't tempted fate enough, what the fuck was wrong with him...)

He waited, the stock set against his shoulder, unerringly pointed at the landing below — and he wasn't disappointed, the first man to round the corner got a bolt right through the skull, dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, blood splattering on the wall. Gritting his teeth, Aedan ratcheted the string back again, but luckily the soldiers had hesitated a second, he would have enough time. Just as a few soldiers levered around the bend, a three-wide row of men with shields raised, Aedan was ready. He aimed over the swordsmen's heads, picking out a man with a crossbow just as he came into view, the bolt piercing through his face downward into his neck, the force splitting and dislocating his jaw — ugh, that was grisly...

That was four vile worms now — but they were too close to keep shooting, it'd be cold steel from here on.

Aedan dropped the crossbow and drew his mother's sword, the high ringing of the metal hardly audible over the tromping of feet ahead of him and the crackling of fire behind. The men had shuffled a little, the staircase too narrow, now coming up two abreast, a little more confidently now that he wasn't shooting bolts down at them. Aedan crouched a little, narrowing the window any crossbowmen below would have to hit him. The men climbed the stairs nearly in perfect unison — they weren't knights, but somebody had clearly put effort into training them, not bad — smooth and confident, swords out and glinting in the wan light. They were seven steps away, six, five...

Suddenly popping up to his feet Aedan leapt off the top of the stairs straight at the advancing soldiers, slamming feet-first against the shield of the one on the left. The impact stopped Aedan dead in the air, his ass thumping down on the stairs, another jabbing him in the back — ouch, okay, bad idea — the force nearly knocking the soldier off his feet, pushing him into the man behind him, and he the one behind him, the whole line tumbling back toward the landing. The man on the right stabbed down at Aedan's gut but he slapped the blade aside, reached up to grab at the side of the man's shield, yanking himself up. Pulled off-balance, the soldier hunched a bit, Aedan had a good angle over his shield, drew his elbow back and stabbed the man in the throat — five vile worms. Aedan pushed the man back, he hitched against the shield of the soldier behind him and then slumped down to lay across the stairs, forming a conveniently bulky obstruction, that was nice of him.

"Come on!" Aedan climbed a couple stairs — backwards, cautiously — as the pack of soldiers pulled themselves back together, disentangling limbs and shields from each other. "I'm only one man, you bumbling cowards! Kill me already!"

A few men started rushing up at him, one-by-one so they could climb more quickly — damn idiots, honestly. One foot on the second step and one on the third, Aedan swung down at the first man, his sword bouncing off the shield, the man slashed at Aedan's front leg but he just stood upon his back foot, his leg pulled out of the way, jabbed down over the shield at the man's sword arm, the enchanted blade easily piercing through splints and leather, spearing into his shoulder. While he grunted in pain, sword falling out of nerveless fingers to clatter on down the stairs, Aedan grabbed the top of his shield, wrenched him to the side, cutting off the man trying to slip by on the left, stabbed him through the side of the neck — not delivering instant death but still a lethal wound, six vile worms — and pushed him away, the soon-to-be corpse crashing into the man behind him. The one who'd tried to push by on the left had squeezed himself against the wall out of the way, but the dying man's shoulder had pulled his shield down, weapon wrenched out of his hand somehow. That was just too easy, Aedan had slashed open his throat before he could lift his shield to defend himself — seven vile worms.

"Who trained you clumsy oafs!" They were wearing Denerim colors, which meant they must be from the garrison, so Aedan knew it had been Colonel Dickun, but that wasn't the point. "I've fucked whores more intimidating than you lot!" That was actually true, but most of the brothels in the Waking Sea port cities were managed by syndicates of (mostly former) prostitutes — scary women, some of them, but Aedan honestly thought their gang tattoos were wicked.

Of course, he solely patronized brothels run by the syndicates, if only because he didn't have to worry whether any of the women were only working there because they were held in debt bondage. Which excluded every single one in Denerim, one of the reasons he'd never liked this city.

Aedan coughed, the thickening smoke on the air, a pale cloud billowing into the stairwell, turning the sunlight coming through the window into a solid streak — right, that really wasn't an important thing to be musing about just now. The soldiers were making another push up the stairs, and they'd gotten smart again, climbing two-by-two. That jump-and-kick trick probably wasn't going to work a second time. Aedan retreated up to the top, considering his options. He did have the high ground, and in a chokepoint like this they couldn't flank him, so if he was careful he should be able to hold them back and pick off a few—

A man peeked around the corner, head and shoulders. He wasn't wearing armor, but robes — Circle robes. Aedan recognized him immediately: Enchanter Rhenfyr, Cailan's court mage. There was a flicker, harsh white light collecting around the Enchanter's hand.

Fuck!

Ducking, Aedan turned on his heels and dove out into the hallway. There was an eerie whine, the air squealing, a storm of cracking and snapping, like the constant discharge of an intense lightning storm, the shattering of a hundred branches. Pushing himself back onto his feet, he glanced up — a wide furrow had been carved into the ceiling, a couple feet wide and several long, as though a whole section of wood had just been disintegrated, splinters and sawdust trickling down to the floor.

Fuck fuck fuck!

Aedan ran down the hall, his heart pounding in his ears and his breath rasping harsh and hot in his throat, his entire body head to toe thrumming with an electric tension — waiting for the blow to fall, for magic to cut him down from behind. If Rhenfyr could fly like Ferdi did, up past the soldiers and after him, Aedan was dead, he was so fucked...

But the deadly magic never fell. He dipped into the boys' side, the smoke thicker here, warm, like a mid-summer day. These bedrooms were smaller than the ones downstairs, only a couple beds in each, and more of them, but luckily all the doors were open, Aedan just kept charging through, dancing around the occasional bed sticking out into the middle, hopping over a chair. The smoke got thicker and thicker the deeper toward the front of the building he went, soon forming a haze dense enough he could hardly make out any details, furniture looming shadows in the murk. His panicked breaths suddenly broken by the urge to cough, he staggered a little, forced himself forward, only finding the door due to how it framed the vibrant glow of flames further ahead.

Aedan cringed — it was like stepping into a furnace, the heat intense and dry and scratching at his skin, painful tingles already breaking out on every exposed inch. Covering the bottom of his face with the inside of his elbow, he glanced around, his eyes squinting against the searing heat and itching smoke. He couldn't make out much, but he'd reached the front right corner of the building, the walls ahead of him and to his right absolutely covered in flames, crawling across the ceiling overhead, blackening the floorboards nearby. Thankfully the floor wasn't burning, that would have been a problem.

After a second of searching, Aedan managed to spot a quilt, picked it up and quickly wrapped it around himself, covering as much of himself as he could, making sure to cover his hair especially. The weight of the dry heat against him deadened somewhat, but he was sweating terribly, this was still going to get very uncomfortable very quickly. Aedan positioned himself, then covered his face, and he ran—

—right at the burning wall, like a fucking madman. He realized he'd come up with the plan himself, so he really had no right to complain, but this was so very stupid.

Aedan was slapped over the head and chest with piercing, agonizing heat, the cracking of fire-weakened wood audible even over the hissing and snapping of the flames. Cursing under his breath — fuck, fuck, fuck, that hurt — he retreated back a few steps, pulled the quilt back off his face. He'd dented the flimsy wall pretty badly, but that hadn't done it. He tried to take a breath but instantly fell into hacking coughs, forced his lungs still instead, chest spasming in protest, took a few steps forward and kicked the center of the dip as hard as he could. There was more cracking, a few smoldering fragments of wood falling onto the floor. The currents of heated air around him shifted, enough Aedan heard a whistling of wind through gaps in the wall he couldn't actually make out.

The flames near the gap flared larger and brighter, the heat pushing Aedan back a couple steps, cursing. He retreated halfway across the room, made sure the quilt was covering his hair again. He set his feet, lining himself up with the gap, then broke into a sprint, watching the burning wall through a narrow slit in the folds of the quilt, making sure he wouldn't miss when he pulled it down to cover his face for the final few steps. Hugging the quilt tight around him, he turned his shoulder toward the wall, and he pushed—

—heat burned at him in all directions, like he'd crawled into the bread oven back home like a fucking idiot, but he felt the wood shatter against him, and he kept moving forward, the snapping shaking him to the bones, the fires around him giving a bursting roar at the vent smashed into the building. His foot caught on something, yanking him practically to a halt in mid-air, he started to fall, the hold on his foot broken with his weight, and he fell—

—and smashed into something hard, back-first. The blunt force of the sudden stop drove the breath out of his lungs, something in his shoulder popping drew a silent pained groan. Aedan felt himself start sliding — the roof of the Chantry was curved — he planted his feet against the slate, air finally rushing back into his lungs, the cool, wet spring air as sweet as honeyed wine on his desiccated throat. He threw the scorched and smoking quilt back, moaning at the wind against his skin and fluttering his hair, the pain of the heat instantly dropping but his sweat quickly turning cold, in seconds he was shivering.

Right. He couldn't imagine how this would ever come up again, but next time let's not volunteer to run around in a burning building, okay...

He could hear shouting from below, couldn't hear them well enough to tell if they'd spotted him, but he wasn't waiting around to find out. Awkwardly pushing himself to his feet, grimacing at the dull pain pounding all through his back and arms and face — he'd definitely gotten some light burns, and he was going to be one big bruise from the waist up tomorrow — he carefully picked across the thin slate tiles of the Chantry roof toward the back, hunched double both for better traction and to present a smaller target to any soldiers out in the quarter. Soon he came to the flatter, more square edifice of the rear of the Chantry — the altar in the middle, the library to the left and the Mother's rooms to the right, in attics above them storage for emergency supplies. Moving to the middle of the arch, Aedan jumped up, hooking his elbows over the lip of the roof, the shoulder he'd injured in the fall twinging and creaking, hauled himself up.

Good, there was a platform for defenders overlooking the wall exactly where he'd thought it'd be — it was even empty of the "Regent's" men, a couple bodies of elves left behind. It wasn't in close reach, though, this was going to be a pain. The Chantry library ran right into the residential building next door — the Sisters lived on the bottom floor (or at least the rear half of it), the second and third packed with dozens of locals. Aedan walked over the top of the library, again crouching to present a smaller profile. There was a window nearby to the left, over the drop down but close enough he could smash it open and climb inside. Unfortunately, that wasn't where he was going.

Taking a long, calming breath, Aedan took a small step up onto a narrow ledge, marking the level of the floor inside, reaching up to grip a second ledge lined with the tops of the windows with both hands. Gingerly, cautiously, he started inching his way to the side, the wind tugging at his clothes, his toes balanced on barely a couple inches.

Aedan glanced down, and immediately regretted it — he wasn't that far above the ground, only maybe twelve feet, but a fall would still hurt. Stupid plan, stupid stupid stupid...

By some miracle, he managed to get all the way around the corner without falling off, and it was only a few more feet along the wall before he got to the platform, the wooden construction propped suspended between the building and the wall. It was above him, but it wasn't difficult to reach over and grab onto one of the posts in the scaffolding, and they were close enough together it shouldn't be a problem to climb up at all.

Aedan was hanging off the scaffolding when he heard some shouting coming from behind and below him, he carefully leaned back to look over his shoulder. The men in the orphanage had apparently put together he'd jumped onto the Chantry — they were in the narrow alley between the Chantry and the wall, must have left through the courtyard behind the orphanage. He didn't see Rhenfyr or any crossbows, but he booked it up to the platform his fast as he could anyway, his arms burning and his injured shoulder aching.

Once he was up, Aedan walked up to the wall — waist-height from the platform on an elf, so a bit lower than that on him — and looked across the street below. Good, there was a building right on the opposite edge of the street, he wasn't certain he'd remembered that correctly — a collection of craftsmen of various kinds, Aedan knew a few nobles who shopped there, he just hadn't been sure how close it was to the street. The street narrowed a bit here, wider both to the west and east of the elven quarter, part of the foundation of the original road taken over by the wall a century ago. That jump should be doable. He was pretty sure.

Aedan crossed the platform, pushing one of the bodies aside with his foot — cringing a little with guilt for the disrespect despite himself. He took a long breath, gathering his nerves for the completely idiotic thing he was about to do. Seriously, this crazy gambit was even worse than the thing back at the Kendells' place. Did he have a death wish he wasn't quite aware of or something?

Gritting his teeth, Aedan planted his feet and dashed off, crossing the little platform in only a couple steps, he hopped up onto the edge of the wall and jumped.

He was in the air for one beat, the hard tile of the road tilting twenty feet below him, and then a second, and he barely cleared the lip of the craft hall, tucking into a roll over his shoulder before slamming to a stop on his ass, his head nearly coming around to smack into his knees. He flopped over onto his back and took a moment just to breathe, his burns still stinging a little against the cool air, his breath tearing his throat and his heart finally easing back a little, weariness trickling into his limbs.

But he couldn't stop yet — he was pretty sure he hadn't been spotted, but it shouldn't take the soldiers in the alley very long to figure out what he'd done. He had to keep moving.

Groaning as his pounded and burned body protested being made to do anything at the moment, Aedan turned himself over onto his knees, pushed himself onto his feet. Right, so. That hatch right there should bring him into the storage rooms, down the stairs to the ground floor, a quick walk down a couple alleys and he should be able to get into the tunnels again. If he could make it all the way there without having to try to fight anyone in this condition, that'd be great.

He wasn't counting on it, though. His luck just wasn't that good.

---

[dioceses] — Right, let's talk about Chantry hierarchy, shall we? At the bottom you have Sisters and Brothers who are members of consecrated orders. (There's a great diversity of orders with different functions and traditions, too many to list.) When someone first joins any order, the initiates are called Sister/Brother right away, but aren't technically considered full Sisters/Brothers yet — not until they take their "solemn vows", a public oath to serve in the order for the rest of their life (which means they can't marry). Technically, a Sister or Brother can only be released from their vows by being expelled from the order. Many orders are sex-segregated, one of the few exeptions being the Templars. (Yes, every single Templar is a sworn Brother or Sister — they're warrior monks/nuns, basically.)

One rung up and we have the ordained priesthood — the Black Chantry has both Mothers and Fathers, but in the south it's only Mothers. Both Chantries forbid the ordination of anyone but humans. Many people in consecrated orders are also ordained, making them technically Mothers, but most Mothers people see are those that run a single parish. Each parish must have at least one Mother at all times. Many larger Chantries have multiple Mothers, especially if they have orders of Sisters/Brothers attached to them with their own Mothers; in these cases, the priest running the parish is called a Revered Mother, but people often add the "Revered" when they technically shouldn't just to be extra respectful. Each parish will also have Templars attached to it, though how many and how highly-ranked varies.

The organizational tier above the parish is called a diocese (the term taken from the Catholic church). They oversee the various parishes in their region, and handle relations with the secular government. The size and complexity of dioceses varies, but most countries have at least one, some many more — Ferelden only has two, but Orlais and Nevarra have dozens between them. The various officials of a diocese, in the larger dioceses only those in the higher offices, are called Clerics. Most are ordained Mothers, but many of the lower offices are open to Sisters and Brothers as well. (They technically can be elves, so long as they're Sisters/Brothers, but that practically never happens.) There are too many offices to get into, but suffice to say the average diocese will have a couple dozen Clerics at least.

The highest official of a diocese (equivalent to a Catholic archbishop) is the Grand Cleric. Always an ordained Mother, the Grand Cleric is responsible for overseeing the entire diocese (including the local Circles) and acting as spiritual advisor to the secular leadership of their region. The post has some significant power (especially since separation of church and state isn't really a thing in Thedas), so there are a lot of considerations that go into picking someone for the post, reflecting the preferences of the Divine and considerations made toward the wishes of the secular leadership. There's a lot of corruption and nepotism involved, as you might expect.

The highest authority in the Chantry is the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, a complicated institution with a confusing mix of different offices and orders, which really isn't important to get into right now. It's a mess, let's just go with that. Many of the people in higher offices are Grand Clerics, though they don't run their own dioceses. The highest offices, kind of like department directors of the Chantry government, are called Chancellors; about half of these offices (including the High Chancellor, sort of like a prime minister) are open to Sisters/Brothers, so some might be men. (Or elves, but again, that never happens.) The Convocation of the Grand Cathedral is a gathering of Grand Clerics, both working at the Cathedral and those running dioceses all across the south, which meets on the rare occasion to make major decisions — setting doctrine or declaring heresies, for example — and also elect the next Divine. Similar to the College of Cardinals in many ways.

The Divine is the fantasy Pope. The only requirement is that she must be an ordained Mother — or in the north a Mother or Father — but is usually chosen from the Grand Clerics of Val Royeaux. Being the highest authority in the Chantry makes her, considering the lack of separation of church and state, one of the most powerful political figures in Thedas. She is in (indirect) control of a vast amount of wealth through the properties of the Grand Cathedral and all the dioceses, great political leverage over secular leaders due to her control of the clergy (and ability to excommunicate people at will), and a surprising degree of military power through the Templars and Circles, along with other orders and allies. This power is sort of theoretical, since she can be checked by the Grand Clerics (and sometimes the Emperor of Orlais), and is somewhat moderated by the decentralized nature of the Chantry infrastructure, but her religious/moral authority is absolute. Also, the Seekers and the Templar leadership report directly to her, so there's that.

Basically, it's the medieval Catholic church, with all the baggage that comes with that.

Right, that's enough of that nonsense.

[Grand Chambellan] — The officer in charge of the king's private chambers and personal retinue, which sounds mundane but is actually an extremely powerful position. (When someone walks around wearing the keys to the king's bedroom as a necklace, you know they're important.) Of course, "chambellan" is masculine — I'm doing some wild headcanoning here, but all the titles and appointments associated with the royal household in Orlais remain the same regardless of gender. It's only appropriate for the valets/femmes de chambre to be the same gender of the king/queen, but the same applies to the higher officers. Normally, the equivalent office for the queen would be the première femme de chambre (a title Briala did hold for a time when Celene was still a princess), but that's a much less prestigious position — obviously, the queen doesn't have any actual power, so being the person in charge of who gets to talk to her is much less significant. So, if only to preserve the other powers gradually accumulated into the office, Celene said fuck the police and named Briala Grand Chambellan anyway.

And I really do mean fuck the police — Briala is the only elf and the only commoner to ever hold the office (which makes her the first elven noble of modern Orlais by default). The nobility threw a massive shit-fit, and they still haven't shut up about it a decade later. Celene didn't lose the throne over it, though...which might have something to do with Briala's spies completely destroying anyone who tried. Scary lady.

Also, Briala's background is very different than in canon. It'll be coming up eventually.