Marian slams the door to her guest chamber behind her; thankfully, Leliana is gone, leaving only Cú. She leans back against the door and gently thumps it with the back of her head. What is wrong with you? she asks herself. She's had her share of inconvenient lusts, the worst of which was a visiting lecturer from Ostwick named Tellyn. She and Lissette had mooned over her outrageously for the six months she'd spent at Lake Calenhad, along with most of the boys and nearly a quarter of the girls, and only a truly generous nature had kept the smile on Tellyn's face after what they'd put her through.

But now, with the warmth and weight of Alistair still shivering in her palms, she can safely say that this is the worst it's ever been. She presses her hands to her stomach to hold herself in place, and reminds herself to breathe. It's not the end of the world. Alistair is a friend, even if he can't be anything more. This is her problem. She'll deal with it.

Determined now, she dresses for dinner in the enchanter robes that are her only real clothing and takes a deep breath before she walks out the door.

They leave for the Circle early the next morning, leaving Morrigan and Sten to keep a wary eye on Connor. She thinks that Sten will be able to do what is necessary, if it comes to that while they're gone, and Morrigan is more knowledgeable than anyone she's ever met in the ways of magic. Redcliffe is as safe as she can make it.

Unfortunately, that also shrinks her party to Alistair, Leliana, and Cú. She hopes that they won't meet anything they can't handle.

Marian has caught herself looking at Alistair out of the corner of her eye more often than she'd like, and she knows she's being unsociable. Isolde had separated them at dinner last night, but she'd caught him glancing at her more than once.

She'd only caught him because she'd been glancing at him, too.

Now he walks ahead of her, talking in low tones with Leliana, and she's as free as she likes to look at the strength in his shoulders, his hips, the nape of his neck, his fingers when he scratches the back of his head.

So she doesn't. She turns it into a test of control, which as a mage is more essential to her than anything, and keeps her eyes precisely where they should be: watching for darkspawn and bandits. She wonders how long it'll take before she can sense the darkspawn the way Grey Wardens are supposed to, and that leads her back to Alistair before she shakes her head and banishes all thought from her mind.

With the guide Teagan provided, they make good time; they follow the road until around noon, then they strike north to cross the tributary that feeds into smaller lakes and then flows east to become the Drakon. It's marshland here, or will be when it's warmer, but for now it's still frost as far as the eye can see, even though it's nearly midway through Drakonis. They wade through reeds up to her hips, and Marian cannot keep her hands out of the ice. She blows on them as they walk.

Leliana slows her steps to walk alongside her. Marian smiles at her, but she's afraid it's a poor effort, as cold as she is. "Does it get this cold in Orlais?"

Leliana laughs. "Oh, yes! Once I had to go to Val Firmin in Guardian. I nearly froze to death."

"You make Orlais sound so exotic," Marian says wistfully, and then slides a teasing look at Leliana out of the corner of her eye with a lopsided smirk. "Or maybe it's just your accent."

"I wish your countrymen agreed with you," Leliana says, shrugging. "I think the occupation is still too near."

"Do people still treat you poorly?" Marian asks, a little surprised. It's true that the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden is still a fresh wound, but it was over years before she was born.

"No, not often," Leliana says. "It helps that I was with the Chantry. Many of the brothers and sisters are from Orlais, and so people are used to hearing the accent in someone with Chantry robes."

"What brought you to the Chantry, anyway?" Marian asks. "You didn't learn to use a dagger there."

Leliana laughs. "Did you think I was always a cloistered sister? The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it. I chose to stay and become affirmed." The amusement mellows and lingers on her face as she turns her face up to the weak spring sun.

"So you learned it before?" Marian asks curiously.

"Before I came to the Chantry, I was a traveling minstrel in Orlais," Leliana says, glancing over at Marian. The amusement has slipped from her face. "Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin. And my skill in battle..." She shrugs and looks away. "Well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes?"

"Oh," Marian says, suddenly reminded of what she'd wanted to ask Leliana. "While we're on the subject – I was wondering if you'd be willing to teach me how to use a dagger?" When Leliana glances over, confused, Marian shrugs. "It just seems like it would come in handy on the road."

"Of course," Leliana says, her clear brow furrowed. "I would be delighted. Perhaps tonight?"

Marian agrees, and they walk on.

The guide leaves them when they reach the highway that stretches north along the east side of Lake Calenhad. They don't stop for lunch; instead they eat hand pies they'd bought in Redcliffe and push the pace as hard as they can. They're all exhausted and sore by the time they stop to make camp at twilight.

The campsite they choose is already occupied. Luckily, it's someone they know.

"Ah, Wardens!" Bodahn says, scrambling up from his sitting position beside the fire. "So good to see you. Won't you join me?" A boy is sitting next to him, smiling faintly in their direction, and they're framed by a covered wagon behind them. The firelight casts their shadows onto the wagon. It's all very homey and cheerful.

Marian and Alistair exchange glances, and she shrugs; he seems harmless enough, and they'd helped him before. The odds are good that if he decides to try for the bounty on their heads, they can overpower him and the boy easily.

"Thank you," Marian says, shedding packs and dropping to sit on the other side of the campfire. Alistair and Leliana follow suit. "We'd be delighted."

Cú immediately flings himself to the ground at her side with a grumpy floomph and she laughs. "Sorry, boy," she says, scratching his neck and shoulder. "But you're in for more of the same tomorrow."

"Where are you headed?" Bodahn asks. It's not simple curiosity, either; he leans forward, intent, unusually interested in the answer.

Marian hesitates, wondering why exactly he'd like to know, so it's Alistair who answers, distracted as he digs through one of his packs. "We're going to Kinloch Hold."

"Ah," Bodahn says, and glances over at the boy who Marian can only assume is his son. "Then I've a proposition for you."

He's not after the bounty, but rather their protection as they travel Ferelden. He's happy to go where they go as long as there's profit in it for him, and in return he offers a considerable amount of his wagon space for their gear and a discount on his goods.

Marian glances at Alistair again, waiting for him to look up, but it takes him a moment and even then, all he does is shrug as he pulls a pile of rags and two small bottles out of his pack. She shrugs. "Why not?"

"Excellent," Bodahn says, coming around the fire and shaking her hand. "Sandal! Come meet the Warden."

Sandal's eyes wander past her before coming back to her face, and he offers his hand like he's not quite sure of what she's going to do with it. When she shakes it, he smiles so sunnily that she can't help but return his smile with one of her own.

"He's never been quite right in the head," Bodahn says, clapping Sandal on the shoulder. "But he's rather good with enchantments. One of those Tranquil fellows actually called him a..." He scratches his head, looking up at the sky like the word will fall out of the clouds into his head. "What was it now? A savant? Never heard of such a thing."

"Really?" Marian says, instantly intrigued. "Is he a Formari?"

"Like one of those Tranquil fellows?" Bodahn asks, and when she nods, he shakes his head. "No, he's no mage. He might be lyrium-addled, though. Orzammar gets a few of those, accidents and the like."

Faced with a mystery she has no chance of solving, Marian suspects she should be feeling frustration and bitterness, but all she has room for is delight. Nature is infinitely more inventive than anything she's ever dreamt of.

That doesn't mean she won't at least try to figure out how Sandal can enchant, of course. Even frustrating research is fun.

Leliana brings out their food supplies and puts her head together with Bodahn to figure out something for their evening meal, and while Marian is deciding whether to join them or not – she's no idea how to go about cooking food, and it seems like something she ought to know – Alistair approaches her.

"So I realized that nobody's ever shown you how to take care of your armor," Alistair says, clad in his soft clothes again, holding all of his armor and the rags and bottles he'd dug out of his pack. "And by nobody, I mean me. I think that was probably my job."

He seems easier, steadier now. Maybe she hasn't given herself away after all. They'd had several emotionally-charged conversations yesterday afternoon, after all, and any one of them could have made him awkward in her company today. She can do this. She can control herself.

Marian smiles, deliberately cheerful, and indicates the ground next to her with an expansive sweep of her hand. "Pull up a chair," she says.

Alistair drops next to her with a groan. "I haven't done this much walking since loaded marches in templar training," he says as Marian stands and begins the long, irritating process of shedding her armor. "Let me tell you, I didn't miss it."

"I won't miss lugging the packs all over," Marian agrees. "Thank the Maker for Bodahn." She drops her brigandine carelessly on the ground and pulls the tabard over her head before she continues. "But I like the walking. It's nice to be out in the air instead of stuck inside all the time."

With a fleeting smile, she disappears behind Bodahn's wagon to change into her tunic and pants and then carries the whole mess of leather and belts back to him. There, he shows her what to do: their boots are set aside for later to let the mud dry. The rest of the leather is cleaned with saddle soap and wiped clean, then checked over for holes and ripped seams. They both have scale mail, which can only be buffed and then oiled, and then she helps him polish his plate armor and his shield. Her staff requires only a thorough examination to make sure it isn't damaged, but his sword needs careful attention with cloth and whetstone and oil, which she watches with interest until Leliana returns and steals her away for dagger lessons.

She's terrible.

"No, truly, you're not," Leliana insists, but it's spoiled by the laughter she can't quite hide. Marian glares at Alistair out of the corner of her eye, who is pretending to be entirely too absorbed in his sword to be paying attention to them. The grin tugging at his lips suggests otherwise. Marian groans. She can see what Leliana is doing, and she understands how to do it, but manipulating her body to do the same is proving much more difficult.

She sighs. "I don't think I bend that way," she says, but she gets into position again anyhow, determined to at least try.

Leliana takes pity on her after a while, showing her some stances she's supposed to practice every night and then gently suggesting that they break for dinner. Afterward, Marian and Alistair train in some exercises which are supposed to better her reaction time and increase her awareness of what's going on around her. It swiftly devolves into an impromptu game of tag with Alistair, Cú, Leliana, and Sandal that ends only when Cú accidentally knocks Marian over. She seizes on the excuse to stay down and pant for a minute, grunting when Cú lays his head on her stomach apologetically. "I'm all right," she says, patting him.

Sandal appears in her field of vision, peering at her curiously. She can't help but grin at him, and then she nudges Cú. "I think someone wants to play... " she says, teasing, and laughs when Cú leaps to his feet with a bark and tears off with Sandal right behind him.

Marian is tempted to sleep right here, or perhaps to roll herself over by the fire and sleep there, but she knows it's only going to get colder as the night wears on. She rises, brushing herself off, and heads over to set up the tents.

The next morning, they're up with the dawn, breaking their fast and on the road north soon after. Bodahn's wagon is pulled by two oxen he'd had grazing in the next field, and with their heavier gear in the back they make far better time today than they had yesterday.

The road in this part is crowded by trees and sparse ground cover, but where the trees thin she can just see the glossy waters of Lake Calenhad to the west. It comes closer and closer as the day draws on, and when the sun's highest they finally reach the turn for the docks. There's a jury-rigged stone staircase down to the ground and a path that leads them on, down a steep, steep hill and past the inn that guards the gates.

Marian remembers this part, both coming and going. Ten years ago, she'd been terrified out of her wits, newly separated from her family and taken to what she could only think of as a prison. When she'd passed this way with Duncan...

Maker, had it only been a month ago?

She'd been an odd mix of emotions: so guilty about unleashing Jowan on the world, and yet still exhilarated to finally escape and start her life. She'd sworn to herself she'd never go back.

At least they can't keep her this time, not without going through her friends first. And she is rather more formidable than she was when she left. She lifts her chin and leads them down the hill to the docks.

A templar in full armor waits there, his arms folded, bare-faced and frowning. As she draws closer she realizes that she recognizes him; Carroll is one of the templars the apprentices whisper about, the one they call peculiar. Before Marian can speak, he lifts his hand and points at her, his eyes narrowed. "You! You're not looking to get across to the tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass."

He sounds cranky. Fantastic. Well, at least he hasn't smote her yet.

"Where's the ferryman?" Marian asks him, frowning. The same ferryman had been there only a month ago to take her and Duncan across the lake, and she can't be sure, but that looks like his boat.

"Kester?" Carroll asks doubtfully, and when she nods, he jerks his head at the inn, crossing his arms back over his chest and staring over her head.

She's obviously being dismissed. It's too bad that she's not done with him yet.

"We need to get to the tower," Marian says.

Carroll's eyes come back to hers, annoyed. "No one gets to the tower," he says impatiently, trying to stand taller. "No one. The tower is off-limits to all!"

She has no time for this. Connor could be rampaging as they speak.

"I'm a Grey Warden," Marian snaps impatiently. "Let me pass."

He looks her up and down and snorts, dismissing her. He doesn't seem to recognize her, or her uniform, and she wonders if he's entirely addled or if there's still a brain in there somewhere. "Oh, you're a Grey Warden, are you?" he says, sing-song and sarcastic. "Prove it."

Then he has the nerve to tap his foot, like he's waiting for her to hop to it.

"Prove it?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

Carroll shrugs. "Kill some darkspawn. Come on. Let's see some righteous Grey Wardening."

Marian ruthlessly suppresses the urge to correct his grammar and then shove him into the lake. For all she knows, the templars on the other side will attack anyone not escorted by this man.

Though maybe they could knock him out and prop him up in the boat. That should get them close enough, right?

She smiles tightly and gestures at the empty shore. "We seem to be lacking in darkspawn."

"That's good, I suppose. Wouldn't want darkspawn smeared across the landscape," Carroll says, rocking back on his heels thoughtfully. Marian is now biting her tongue to keep herself in check. "I hear their blood is black. Is that true? You'd know if you were a Grey Warden."

Marian has now reached the absolute end of her patience. "Carroll," she says, slowly and calmly, "I am going to set you on fire and drown you in the lake if you don't take us across to the tower." When he stares at her instead of doing anything productive, she raises her eyebrow at him. "Now."

He swallows and waves them into the boat. "I'll take you right now," he says, and she knows she shouldn't enjoy the fear in his voice, but she does. Just a little.

"Maker, finally," Alistair mutters.

The trip across the lake is as bad as she feared; there's some wind today, and it chops the water into tiny waves that drive the boat up and down. Marian clutches the edge and tries not to breathe while Leliana rubs her back.

It's two long, anxious, miserable hours until they dock in a cavern under the Tower and Carroll leads them up the wide stairs to the main level.

And then here she is, exactly where she never wanted to be again. Greagoir is even standing exactly where he'd been those ten years ago, like he knew they were coming.

But something's not right. Usually there are just two templars guarding the doors, a ceremonial post more than anything – apprentices are more likely to try to go out the windows – but now the foyer has all the feverish activity of a war camp. It's crowded with templars, but most of them are over by the doors to the rest of the tower, shields up and swords bared.

The doors are closed.

Those doors are never closed.

Alistair notices them, too, because he says, "Are they keeping people out? Or in?"

That's a question she'd love the answer to.

It's three long strides to Greagoir where he's giving orders to a pair of templars who nod and stride off when they see her. Greagoir turns and when he realizes who she is, his lip curls.

Good to see they're on the same page, then.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir," Marian greets him with all the chilly civility she can muster.

"Marian Amell," Greagoir says, musing out loud. He eyes her uniform. "A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you're not dead."

"Liar," Marian says, narrowing her eyes.

"Perhaps," Greagoir says, shrugging as if it makes no difference to him. Perhaps it doesn't. "Now, we're dealing with a situation that doesn't involve you. Grey Warden."

It's too bad for him that she's no intention of going anywhere. She crosses her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow, daring him to have them thrown out, which is what he'd have to do to make her go away.

Greagoir actually looks like he's thinking about it, glances at Leliana and Alistair behind her and Cú at her side before he shakes his head and turns to the great doors, looking at them like they've failed him. "The tower is no longer under our control," he says quietly. "Abominations and demons stalk the halls."

Marian takes one shuddering, shocked breath and then clamps her mouth shut. This is a disaster. What in the Maker's name could have done such a thing? What is Greagoir, who is quick to judge and quick to punish, going to do? She still has friends here – Lissette, Rashmi, Petra, even Jervais, who at the time she'd thought she'd never be able to forgive. Now she can barely remember what they'd fought about in the first place.

"We were too complacent," Greagoir says, shaking his head, and then turning back to her with a glare. "First Jowan, now this. Don't think I've forgotten your role in Jowan's escape."

Don't think I've forgotten yours, she thinks fiercely, biting her tongue. Oh, how she would love to tell Greagoir exactly what she thinks of him and the Circle and the fucking Rite of Tranquility.

But now is not the time. There are bigger things at work here than either of them. Even so, she can't resist just one twist of the knife. "Does that mean you haven't caught him yet?" Marian asks, all innocent, curious enquiry.

"And how are we supposed to have done this?" Greagoir asks, annoyed. "He is one man in all the world, and you ensured that we have no way to locate him." The pointed reminder of what she'd done sours her mood, and her face darkens as he goes on to say, "I can only hope that someday Jowan gets what he deserves. But right now I have other pressing concerns."

"Tell me what happened here," Marian orders, passing on the comment about what Jowan deserves. That's no longer up to either of them.

Greagoir takes it graciously, with only narrowed eyes showing his displeasure at her tone. "We don't know," he admits grudgingly. He glances at the great doors again. "We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them and... told my men to flee."

A man like Greagoir would never give that order if he could avoid it, and she hears that shame in his voice. She cannot feel pity for this man, but she doesn't have to laugh at his pain either.

Best to move along.

"What is being done?" Marian asks.

"I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment."

"What?" Marian snaps, shocked, appalled, and furious. "You're talking about killing every mage in the Circle!" Her friends, the senior enchanters who were her teachers, even the children – No. It cannot be allowed.

"Marian..." Alistair says reluctantly, and she turns right around to glare at him instead. He cannot think of defending this. He looks like he doesn't want to be saying what he's saying, either, but that doesn't help. "The mages are probably already dead. And if there are abominations in there..."

"Your friend is right," Greagoir says. He is speaking more gently now, like a Chantry Mother delivering bad news, but it still gets her back up. She clenches her fists tight. "This situation is dire. There is no alternative – everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again."

She turns then, once she's sure her face is under control. "They can't all be dead," she says to him, and to her horror her voice wavers. She swallows, her mouth drawn tight, and only when she's sure her voice is steady does she continue. "They can't."

Greagoir shakes his head. "If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them. No one could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find... nothing." He really does sound like it hurts him, and it rings true in a way she rarely hears from him. Can he truly consider Irving a friend?

How can he, when every day he faces the possibility of having to kill Irving? Those feelings ought to be self-contradictory. Where one grows, how can the other?

But maybe she can use that.

"Let us go in," Marian says, and she is not too proud to beg now, not for her friends and for the children she might save. "Please."

Greagoir laughs. "What can you do?"

"Something. Anything," she says, grasping at straws. "I can at least try." That's more than you're doing. When he continues to look skeptical, she gestures at her well-worn uniform. "What did you think I'd been doing since I left? Embroidery? We can handle what's inside, I promise you."

Greagoir studies her for a long, endless moment while she holds her breath, waiting for his answer. If he turns her away, she's triply buggered: her friends, the treaty with the mages, and poor, lost Connor. She can't cut her way through an entire tower's worth of templars.

And then Greagoir nods once, sharp and decisive, and she can finally breathe. "A word of caution..." he says, and she locks her eyes on his, hating that she's once again waiting on his word. "Once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if the first enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen..." He sighs. "Then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed. May Andraste lend you her courage, whatever you decide."

Greagoir lifts his hand, and the templars at the door lift the great, heavy beam barring the doors shut. Marian, Leliana, Alistair, and Cú file through, and the doors creak shut behind them.