Notes: Thank you to my reviewer. Yes, I write long chapters, and as a reader, I get it - I also prefer reading works with long chapters, but at the same time, they are harder to review. And this chapter will hopefully answer one of your questions about red lyrium. I am revealing it early and that does change things for the war.

The song is "Hurt" which has been covered by several bands. I like the Nine Inch Nails version, but it's a good song whoever plays it.

Chapter 56: Full of Broken Thoughts

Caitlyn led the way to their family rooms as her mother and Carver carried Anders' unconscious body. Mal hurried to keep up with them. What she wanted more than anything right now was to take off the heavy leathers, which were indelibly associated in her mind with the deadly firestorm she had just unleashed, but she knew that she could not be selfish when Anders needed her, and she also knew that her internal reckoning was inevitable no matter what.

They entered a guest bedroom and lay Anders on the bed. Caitlyn began to pull away his coat to have a look at his wounds.

"Don't you want us to get a Healer?" Carver asked, furrowing his brow.

"I want to see what the wounds look like first, and if I can heal them myself," she said quietly. "As for the wound that the escaping Templar gave him, no one would have seen that before anyway." Maker curse it all, she thought at that. I ordered the deaths of two hundred people on the basis that they were too dangerous to be allowed to escape—but one of the leaders fled anyway while I was right there! He took advantage of my love and fear for Anders. She tried to put her sudden fury aside as she pulled away the flaps of his coat and lifted his tunic.

He actually did not have many scratches, and those he did have were mild. There were about a dozen dark red pellets, like rubies the size of small beads, embedded in his skin, but they had not torn through his flesh and there was no blood. Instead, his chest looked burned around each pellet. Caitlyn reached with bare hands for one, to pick it out with her fingernails—and recoiled at once at the sensation.

Not only was the pellet not moving—it was like it had formed a bond with Anders' flesh—it was also unpleasant to feel. It was not hot to the touch, but there was something akin to heat, just not in a physical sense. Anger, Caitlyn thought suddenly. Rage and hate. I feel it. It's like it calls to me...

A terrible suspicion suddenly filled her mind as she remembered the one time when she had felt anything like this before: the Deep Roads expedition, in an ancient primeval thaig, surrounded by veins of abnormal red lyrium.

"I need gloves," she said. "Gloves and..." Anders' surgical dagger, which he wore on his belt, caught her eye. Grimacing at what she was going to do, but aware that it was necessary, she unsheathed it.

Leandra handed Caitlyn a pair of leather gloves from a wardrobe. With a regretful sigh, she put them on and picked up the knife. A child's gasp and muffled shriek filled her with guilt. "Mal, you might want to turn away," she said. "I'm going to have to cut these pellets out of him."

He gulped and steeled himself. "I know about... operations," he whispered. "I've seen Father do that from time to time."

"I'm not going to cut deeply, but he might bleed a little," she admitted.

Mal closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "I can watch."

I have to do this, Caitlyn thought, placing the blade against the first pellet. This vile stuff is trying to attach itself to his body. If it's what I think it is, that cannot go on. It has to come off immediately. I am not harming him. I'm helping him. This is what healing is. It's not just bloodless casting. It means drawing blood and causing pain sometimes too... but I have to do it, for him.

She made the first cut, slicing through skin to cut off the red bead that had embedded itself into Anders' flesh. A tiny trickle of blood formed. Caitlyn winced as she put the pellet into an empty tin pitcher. "I'm sorry," she whispered to Anders, though he was not conscious. "I'm so sorry..." Hating it with every drop of blood that trickled from his wounds, Caitlyn continued. Beside her, Mal stood with surprising stoicism, obviously not enjoying this, but aware that it was helping his father.

Leandra and Carver exchanged a look, then rose to their feet. "We'll leave you," Leandra said quietly, pulling the door to the bedroom behind them.

At last Caitlyn picked out the last pellet. Anders' chest was pockmarked with blood drops and rivulets. She readied the healing spell that she knew—

Blue light suddenly blazed across Anders' face and his exposed chest. Although his eyes remained closed, the light also gleamed through the thin skin of his eyelids. Caitlyn jumped back as blue veilfire erupted from his chest where the red pellets had been, the place that was now bleeding.

Anders' eyes popped open, but Justice was still in control, so they were blindingly bright in the dim bedroom. "It is what you think it is," he said in the spirit's deep, attenuated voice. "Thank you for removing it. It was hurting us terribly. I will heal Anders now." With that, he closed his eyes again, though the blue light continued to blaze down his body, healing the bleeding wounds.

Suddenly remembering that they were not alone, Caitlyn turned sharply to Mal, who was gaping at his father as if he had never seen Anders before.

Not this, she thought miserably. Hasn't this night been bad enough? I can't handle this. She took a deep, shuddering breath and faced Mal. "It's all right," she said. "You have seen this before, haven't you?"

Mal shook his head hard. "I've seen the blue light, but not that. You and Father told me it was magic," he accused.

"It is magic, of a sort," she said feebly. "Mal..."

The boy looked more frightened than she had seen in a long time. "What is it, really?" he demanded. "I'm old enough to know."

She closed her eyes. Yes, you are, she thought. She opened them and gazed at him again. "Your father is a Spirit Healer, as you know," she said. "This is the Spirit of Justice that aids him, that renews him when he is drained."

Mal folded his arms across his chest, looking very much like Anders, particularly with the resolute, stubborn expression on his face. "I have read about Spirit Healing," he said. "I've never heard of that happening. The spirit used Father's mouth to speak." He shivered. "Mother, please tell me."

Unable to look at him, she glanced aside, wincing. "Mal... this is something for your father to tell you. It's not my story to tell. It's his."

"But he is—"

Before he could finish this objection, the blue crackles and glows faded, and Anders blinked awake, fully himself now. He groaned, rubbing the spot on his chest that bore healing pink skin now, and gazed from Caitlyn to Mal.

"Father," Mal said at once, "why does your healing spirit do like he does? I thought that they were supposed to stay in the Fade."

Anders could not suppress his groan of dismay. He collapsed backward on the pillow again, grimacing.

"Mal, let's give your father some time to recover," Caitlyn began, but Anders shook his head.

"No," he croaked. "He wants to know." He propped himself on his elbows. "Mal... I want you to understand something. This is a good spirit, a First Child of the Maker, not a demon. Remember that—"

But Mal was very intelligent, and he had already worked it out. He backed away, horrified. "He's possessing you, isn't he?" the child burst out.

"It's not like that!" Anders started to object.

"You let him possess you! You and Mother always told me never to listen to things in the Fade—but you did! And you lied that it was just magic!"

"I'm so sorry for lying to you," Anders said, sounding it. "We didn't think you were old enough to know. But you are now, so let's talk about it, son."

"I'm not your son," Mal whispered. "You are a Fade spirit. You're possessing my father! You stole his body—and I'm not talking to you again!" With that, he ran to the door, jerked it open, and dashed down the hall to his room, leaving his parents to their own shock and misery.

Anders began to sob in earnest. "Not again," he moaned.

She realized that he was thinking of her first reaction to learning about Justice, and guilt filled her at that. "He'll change his mind," she said. "He'll want to talk to you later. He is just shocked now."

"He said he wasn't my son," Anders whispered, gazing at her with hollow eyes. "He isn't cruel-natured. He didn't say that to hurt me. It wasn't a blaze of anger, like you would have. Not that you're cruel—I didn't mean that—"

Am I not, though? she thought, remembering years past in which she had been purposely cruel, and recalling the action she had just now taken tonight. "I know," she choked out anyway.

Anders suppressed a shuddering breath. "He meant it. He really believes he was talking to—to a demon—or a spirit, at best, rather than his own father." Anders covered his eyes and choked out another sob. "I've lost him now."

"No," she objected. "You have to talk with him, to explain the truth to him, and to answer all of his questions with total honesty. Help him to understand, as you did for me. You didn't lose me."

Anders drew his hands away from his face and looked at her miserably. "Go to him, please," he said. "I would do it myself, but..."

"Of course you need to rest," she said, getting to her feet. "I'll talk to him and get him to come back with me." She opened the door and entered the hallway. As she paced to her son's bedroom, she reflected on the fact that this latest crisis had temporarily pushed aside her own reckoning. It's coming, she thought. And poor Anders will probably get the brunt of it for me too. He doesn't deserve this, but I can't resolve it myself. I need him. I need his moral clarity... and I need Justice's opinion too, ironically enough.

She reached Mal's door and knocked gently on it. "Mal," she said, "your father really wishes you would come back to the bedroom. He will answer any question you have and he won't lie. He just wants to talk to you."

There was a pause before Mal spoke again. "Come in."

Caitlyn opened the door, closed it tightly again, and sat down beside him on his bed. "Darling," she said, "your father bonded with the spirit in 9:31, shortly before he came to Kirkwall. Do you think I would have married him, let him raise you, and decided to have another baby with him if there was nothing there but a spirit controlling his body, rather than Anders, really and truly him?"

Mal was silent for a moment, drawing his knees up beneath his arms, gazing ahead. He looked very small and vulnerable—frightened and betrayed, Caitlyn realized. At last, however, he shook his head faintly. "It's still inside him, though," he said in a small voice. "I don't understand. I thought that if you let a demon inside you, it made you an abomination. Is it different if it's a spirit?"

"He is the one who can best explain it," she said, "which is why you should go and talk to him—but this I can tell you. The Spirit of Justice only 'controls' his body when it is like you saw tonight, illuminating his eyes and skin. And even then, Anders can tell him to retreat, and yes, this is because it's a good spirit. You need to talk to him about it, Mal."

He breathed deeply and rose to his feet. "All right," he said.

They walked back to the room where Anders was recuperating, small feet pattering after adult ones. Caitlyn opened the door for him, then crept in herself and closed it. She eased into the shadows as Mal sat on the bed next to Anders.

"I'm sorry I said I wasn't your son," the child whispered.

"Hey," Anders said, so much compassion and forgiveness in his face that it shamed Caitlyn to even look at him, "I won't lie and say that it didn't hurt my feelings when you said that—because it did—but you said it because you were feeling afraid and hurt, too, didn't you?" When the boy nodded silently, Anders continued. "Tell me about it, Mal. Tell me exactly what you're afraid of and ask anything you want. I promise I won't judge you and will tell you the truth."

"I... thought that... that once a demon took someone over, the real person was gone. Trapped in their own body while the demon used it. I know yours is a spirit, but... have I ever just talked to my father?"

And he goes right to the heart of the matter, Anders thought. Straight to the hardest question of all. I did promise him the truth, though. Steeling himself, he answered his son's question. "Justice has always been there," he admitted. "He is in the background, like a memory that you're not thinking about at the moment, but when you said something, he may have heard it. Sometimes he retreats to give me more privacy, and to him that is like when you are preoccupied and miss something that happens in front of you—but he is never gone."

"He is always there," Mal said, almost crying. "Did he change you? Have I ever really known my actual father? Mother said that it was really you... but..."

"It's me, son. It's really me. He does influence me about injustices and grave wrongs that need to be set right, and the way that mages are treated is very important to him, so sometimes he pushes me to think about that. Things about justice, since that's what he is. That's how he influences me, on the issue of justice. But I influence him too, and in a bigger way."

"How?" Mal finally managed.

Let's limit this to the good parts, Anders thought. "He cares about this family. He doesn't want anyone to experience injustice or unfairness, of course—it is his nature—but because he is close to me, he wants it most of all for the people I love. Being bonded with me has helped him to grow and become more like us. And do you know what it means that I influence his nature so much?" He forced a smile on his face. "It means that I, Anders, your father, am here. I have always been here, and this is my body. I am in full control except when I look like I guess you saw a little while ago. Even then, he yields. He knows this is my body, and he knows it would be wrong to steal it from me."

"Then why did he ask to share?" Mal said.

"Oh, son, that is a long and complicated story," Anders sighed, "but what happened was that he was expelled from the Fade by a demon—an actual demon—and was in danger of being killed. We were already friends by then; we met in the Fade when I was locked away in the Circle, apart from you and your mother, and he was there for me during a very hard time. He saved my life many times... and so when that demon tossed him out of the Fade, I wanted to help him in return. At first I wanted to help him go back home, but..."

"You couldn't? He was dying?"

Anders nodded. "This was the only way to save him. He didn't want to possess anyone. He wanted to stay in the Fade... but that was taken from him."

"How do you know that's what he wanted?"

"Because good spirits don't lie. I knew he was a good spirit because the demons I saw in the Fade hated him, and because he had a good aura. And because he is good, because he knew it would be wrong to take my body away from me, he doesn't do that." He leaned forward and tentatively embraced Mal, who allowed it, to Anders' relief. "He enhances my magic when I need him to and heals me when I'm badly hurt. He renews me when my mana is gone but I still urgently need to cast. He did that for me the day that the Knight-Commander hurt your mother, in fact. He renewed my magic and it saved your little sister's life."

Mal leaned into Anders' embrace, still not quite comfortable, but close to it.

"He's good," Anders said again, "and that's how you can be sure that when you talk to me, if I look normal, like you see now—if there's no Fade-light in my eyes—then you are talking to me, your own dad."

Mal finally returned the hug, muffling a sniffle.

"Justice does see and hear you when he is paying attention... but spirits see and hear us when we're in the Fade, you know. And they hear our really 'loud' thoughts, the things we feel most strongly about. And always remember this—Justice never considered sharing my body until he was cast out of the Fade and was dying. The good spirits don't want to leave their home. Anything that comes at you in your dreams, saying honeyed words, seeking to 'share,' is a demon. Always."

The little boy closed his eyes. A single tear trickled from his left eye down his cheek, but he seemed to have accepted his father's explanation at last.

When he was finally settled in bed, Caitlyn and Anders piled into the guest bed together. He still did not feel comfortable moving, and she did not want to sleep alone.

"Justice told me that it was 'what I thought it was,'" she told him as she cuddled against him, caressing his healing wound. "I thought it was that same red lyrium that we found in the Deep Roads, the sort that turned Varric's brother mad."

"It was," Anders replied. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"It means that someone in the Gallows purchased the idol that drove Bartrand mad and then sent for more of it from the cave. And—wasn't it a woman? Didn't Bartrand say that? Anders! Do you think—"

"Very likely," he growled. "She wasn't at the Keep tonight. She did not release a single Templar or mage except the ones we saw. We had the battlemages and Healers who were already approved to serve."

"In the Qunari attack, she did the bare minimum and hardly let anyone else fight, but she did put her own life on the line," Caitlyn said. "She would not even do that this time. Of course she would have agreed with what Mettin and his accomplice were leading... but I bet she was also part of the plans."

"We knew that she was almost certainly still conspiring with him. Were you able to capture him and the other one? They should have this red lyrium on their persons too."

Caitlyn grimaced. "We caught him, but the other one got away while I was trying to help you. I hate that... especially since..." She trailed off.

"Since?" He shifted his embrace slightly to look into her eyes.

She took a deep breath. "You were fighting, but... did you see what happ—what I did just before I reached you?"

He paused before he replied. "You cast an inferno in an alley."

Her heart sank. "You heard it all, didn't you?" she said defeatedly. "You heard what they said and what I said back."

"I... heard, yes."

"Can I talk about it with you?" she said, surprised at how feeble she sounded. "If you don't want to—if you are drained after the talk with Mal, I understand—but I need to talk about it sometime. And... I will leave, if you don't want me here tonight because of this..."

Startled, he suddenly pulled her close and stroked her hair. "No," he said feelingly. "Don't leave. Tell me about it if you need to."

She breathed a shaky breath. "I brought the little girl into the Keep... of course, you know that; you saw her when you and the others returned... but I talked to her while you were fighting in Darktown. She is a mage, Anders. Her father was killed because he was a 'mage sympathizer.' He gave his life while she was hiding. I thought about her... I thought about us, about all the ways that we have suffered... I thought of the hundreds of Fereldans who came to Kirkwall to escape the Blight and died anyway, most in the first year, of starvation and sickness... or turned to gangs and were killed for that... and now, the people who made it this far, who saw me ascend to the high seat and maybe thought things would be better, like the mages and 'mage sympathizers' might have thought things would be better... and they were slaughtered tonight." Her gaze hardened. "Aveline said that there were over two hundred in that mob. From the amount of blood on the steps of the Keep, I believe it. Now just think about how many people two hundred murderers can kill. It could be a thousand or more. And those people in the alley joined that to save their own skins. That's also why they begged me for mercy, to save their own skins."

Anders considered before speaking again. "Justice agreed."

"Well... you heard my final words to them, I suppose. They wanted mercy and I said I would give them the opposite. Justice is not the opposite of mercy. You know what is." She sighed, rubbing her eyes. "And even if Justice agreed, Anders may not have. Am I right?"

He hesitated.

"Just tell me. Be honest."

He gazed unhappily at her. "It... shocked me. I won't lie. It seemed... dark, I suppose, and I wish you hadn't had to do it. I wish that none of these things had happened. I wish that we were still innocent and had never killed another person, like we were in Dragon 9:27." His voice grew husky. "That is gone forever and I mourn it. Maker, I mourn it. I hate knowing what it is like to kill, and I understand how you feel. But... I cannot say that they didn't deserve it."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and leaned against his chest. "But after that, I thought about it. If I had been one of those people in Lowtown or Darktown, what would I have done? We would have been, you know, if the expedition hadn't happened. And perhaps the mob would not even have formed if I had not become Viscountess, but Thrask said years ago that Mettin believed he had the right to go after 'mage sympathizers,' so it might have happened in some form anyway. What would I have done? I'd like to think that I would have fought them, but would I have? If it had meant that they would have just killed me and then moved on to you and Mal?"

"I don't believe for one second that you would ever have joined a violent mage-killing mob," Anders said firmly. "We aren't always best in close combat, but we are very good at attacking large groups. I would have encased them in a storm and you would have cast that very same inferno. And I think we'd have won. That is what you would have done, love. You wouldn't have joined that mob and you know it."

She was relieved for his vote of confidence, and as he spoke these words, she realized that he was right. She wouldn't have joined the mob. Standing beside him, they would have cast the most lethal, effective mass spells they knew. And yet— "Those people didn't have magic," she said. "They might have decided that they stood no chance."

"They still made the choice to join a mob, murder their neighbors, and threaten the rightful ruler, which would have resulted in Meredith Stannard taking over Kirkwall. That's what Mettin and his original mob, the ones who truly believed in his 'cause,' were aiming for. They wanted to install her. And if those cowards that you burned really were mage sympathizers, they would have helped to elevate a ruler who would be horrendous to mages, who has been already. Even if they thought they were protecting others, rather than themselves, their own actions went against that." He pulled Caitlyn close and caressed the back of her head, murmuring very close to her left ear.

"It hurts," she said quietly, almost crying again. "It hurts, even if they deserved it. I did that to people who were begging me for mercy, and I can never undo it." She returned the embrace. "You've told me the 'Justice' point of view... but I need Anders. I need my Healer. Except that... there is no healing." She choked up, breaking into ugly sobs of which she was ashamed.

He cradled her tightly. "I can't say it's all right, but I understand," he said softly. "It hurt me too. The first time... when I killed that Templar in Ferelden, the one who became a Warden... I knew he deserved it, and that there was probably no way that he could have walked away that didn't involve my death and Justice's, but I also knew I had murdered him and I could never undo that. I felt that I had to make amends for it by serving as a Healer here."

"I'm... resolved now," Caitlyn said through tears. "Tomorrow we will have to do an accounting and see just what the death toll was. We'll have to question Mettin and it will probably implicate Meredith. This could be the start of war, and I will fight for what's right. But I wish... I wish it hadn't been me. I wish we were in Ferelden, a farm family, and Father and Bethany were still here, and nobody outside our little village had ever heard of any of us." Sobs choked from her throat, breaking up her words. "I have been made to lead. I understand that. I'm doing the best I know how. This cause matters to me. But Maker, it hurts. Why does it have to be us?"

He didn't know what to say, so he just held her until the words finally came to him. "Perhaps because we do feel this. It hurts, but that pain is what saves us. We have the strength to do what we must and the weakness to question our actions because we see how bloody awful it is."

After a restless sleep, Caitlyn awoke the following morning to terrible memories, anger, fear, and above all, dread. Happy Satinalia, she thought darkly as she got out of bed. Today we tend to the dead piled high in front of the Keep, send out guards to keep order, and question the prisoner.

She hoped that Anders would continue to rest, but he roused himself when she did, getting to his feet, wobbling a bit, but finding his footing. She raised an eyebrow at that, but he seemed able to walk and was on the mend. Silently he followed her back to their own bedroom.

Caitlyn had intended to wear something in vivid colors and ostentatious style, as was usual on this holiday, but that was unthinkably grotesque now. She took out a loose black tunic and black leathers that had been made for her since she had become pregnant. After putting these clothes on, she glanced at Anders, who was also garbed head to toe in dark shades, including a black coat with charcoal grey feathers. It was fitting. As they entered the hall, they saw Mal waiting quietly for them outside his door. He was also dressed somberly. They paused for a moment as he approached them, hesitating when he reached them. He gazed at Anders for a second before enveloping his father in a hug. Anders closed his eyes and returned the hug, smiling in spite of everything.

Silently they extended their hands side by side, Mal on one side of Caitlyn and Anders on the other. Silently they clasped their hands together, taking comfort in the warmth. Silently, as one, they walked into the outer Keep.

Some of the same people who had been sheltering last night were still there. The civilians from Darktown and Lowtown were mostly sitting on their own clothes and packs, or else were clustered around a rough-hewn table that someone had set up, eating eggs and porridge. A few City Guards, battlemages, Healers, and vigilantes stood guard here and there, but their numbers were not nearly as great as they had been the night before. Carver, Merrill, Fenris, and Isabela milled around near Leandra and the Amells, talking quietly. In one corner stood Aveline, Cullen Rutherford, Alain, Varric, and Thrask.

Caitlyn wanted to stay with Anders and Mal, but she had to see to business. They stood aside with her family and friends. Anders gazed encouragingly at her, which gave her the strength she needed. Taking a deep breath, she first approached Aveline's group. She had not formally appointed them to oversee the outer Keep this morning, but with the exception of Varric, they all did have some type of military authority already, so she had no objection to it.

"Your Grace," Aveline said crisply. "We have reports for you."

"I was going to ask," Caitlyn agreed. "I noticed that there were not that many guards from any of the forces here. Have they gone to keep the peace?"

"Yes," Aveline confirmed. "I have sent guards to Lowtown and Darktown to do that. The vigilantes are mostly outside the Keep, standing guard once again." She hesitated. "I have already told your mother this, but the Amell house in Hightown will... well, it will need repairs before they can safely move back in. It doesn't appear to have been looted, and certainly wasn't burned, but the mob did considerable damage to the doors and floor in their rush to pursue Lord Anders and his unit."

Did she think that I was most concerned about the house? Caitlyn thought in bewilderment. Frowning, she replied. "I'm glad to hear that, but... with all respect to my mother... my concerns lie elsewhere. What about the dead? The enemy dead as well as all the civilians who were murdered in their homes."

"The Grand Cleric insisted on going back to the Chantry. She has sent priests out under guard to tend to those who have deceased people in their own homes. There are also bodies in the streets, and I told the guards to remove them and bring them to the Chantry. They're putting out the word that that's where people should go if they are missing someone," she said grimly. "As for the enemy... their bodies have been stacked. They have to be burned too, but they probably should be identified first, if possible."

"Fine," Caitlyn said. "But after a certain point, they have to be burned anyway." Something rather horrible then occurred to her. "Aveline, as I'm sure that Alain and the Templars can confirm, it can weaken the Veil when a large number of people are violently killed in one area. It happens most commonly in battle, in fact." Cullen, Thrask, and Alain were nodding already. "We don't want demons to come out and possess these dead. What is being done?"

"I directed several mages to stand guard over the bodies," Alain said, "and to act immediately if... that happens."

"If there are any who have special knowledge of the Veil, order them to inspect it and fortify it if it needs it."

"Yes, Your Grace. I think some of them are apostates—"

"They are," muttered Cullen.

Caitlyn frowned at him. "I was once an apostate. They're serving their city as I did. Leave them be while they are helping."

"Yes, Your Grace," he said quietly. "You're quite right."

"Speaking of which," she continued, "did the Knight-Commander ever send anyone? Have we even had a message from the Gallows?"

They all exchanged glowers. "No, Your Grace, we have not," Cullen replied. "It wasn't in the area that was attacked, but no one has come out. We could have sent a message of our own, I suppose, but there was so much to do."

"No, it's quite all right," Caitlyn growled. She was not surprised, but she was still angry. "I suppose you know, then, that the captured prisoner who led this attack, and his lieutenant who unfortunately escaped, were Templars. Well, a former Templar, in the case of the prisoner, Mettin. I want to question him before I send any message to the Knight-Commander."

"Do you... did you see something to indicate that they were..."

"I intend to question him," Caitlyn repeated icily. She steeled herself to ask the fatal question. "Do we have an estimate of how many were killed?"

It was Varric who spoke. "We don't have solid numbers yet, but not counting the enemy, at least eight hundred." His voice was sadder and more defeated than Caitlyn had ever heard from him, and it broke her heart.

Caitlyn closed her eyes. "Maker," she cursed. Not one person present, not even Cullen and Thrask, thought to frown at her oath.

At last Aveline spoke again. "Mettin is in a cell. Fenris, Merrill, and Warden Carver kept his armor and belongings separate for you to inspect, as Your Grace ordered, and no one else has handled them. They are in a safe."

Caitlyn had not specifically ordered that, but she nodded anyway. "They may be dangerous to handle. Anders' wound... well, let's just say that something about that is the main reason I want to 'talk' with Mettin. But first, I want to see his belongings. Take me to this safe."

As Aveline and Caitlyn headed toward the Keep jail, she noticed that Anders had broken away from the rest of their family and friends and was talking with a heavily armed blond elf with an inappropriately sardonic expression on his face. She held up her hand, indicating to Aveline to wait for her, and approached Anders.

"Your Grace," said the elf, falling into an ironic bow.

She glared loftily at him. "It's Zevran, isn't it? What is going on here?"

"Your esteemed husband hired me to investigate the people in Mettin's mob to see if any of them had evidence that the Knight-Commander was part of... certain unfortunate past events. I was merely pointing out that the bodies of my intended marks now lie stacked like cords of wood and asking him if he wished me to loot them for this evidence before they are burned like wood."

"Oh, for the..." Anders looked angry. "They wouldn't carry letters with them as they went on their killing spree!"

"What, precisely, was he supposed to investigate?"

"I told him to find out, if he could, whether she knew in advance about the clinic bomber, Selby's assassination, and if she was conspiring with Mettin."

"Well, there is no need to investigate the latter now, since we have Mettin himself. And as for the other things, put your work on hold for now, Zevran. After the bodies are identified, we should know if they were living in Kirkwall—or had taken rooms at any of the inns—and then you will know exactly where to look for evidence." Besides, if Meredith knew about this attack, that's far worse than anything else that might turn up, she thought.

The assassin nodded, smiling, as he bowed to them. Caitlyn turned to Anders. "I'm going to look at Mettin's belongings and then question him. You fought him, so if you want to come..."

He glanced at Mal, who was with his grandmother and uncle, and met the boy's eyes. Mal gave him a shy smile. "Yes," he said, taking Caitlyn's hand.

They headed toward the dungeon, where Aveline led them to a side room instead of the cell block. She took out her key ring and placed a thick, heavy key into the lock of a safe, opening the creaky door. Gingerly, since she was the only one wearing gloves, she drew out a crate containing the armor and supplies and spread them on a nearby stone table.

"Oh, it is definitely there," Anders said at once, glowering. "I feel it."

Caitlyn did not feel the angry buzz until she moved closer, but once she was almost touching the items, she felt it too. "I removed pellets from Anders' chest last night and had to have heavy gloves. We should not handle it barehanded."

Aveline found armored gauntlets for them in a supply cache. As they pulled them on, she explained. "Carver said that he too felt something wrong with the armor, but that the sword seemed normal. There was a lyrium kit too. No one has opened it."

"I wonder what we're going to find," Anders muttered sarcastically. He moved to examine the armor when Caitlyn extended her own gloved hand to block him.

"You were wounded last night," she objected.

"You are the Viscountess of Kirkwall and you're pregnant," he countered. "If anyone shouldn't be anywhere near it, it's you."

"Then we'll make it quick, but I need to see it."

Anders cautiously opened the lyrium kit. An angry glower immediately filled his face. "What a surprise," he sneered.

Caitlyn and Aveline leaned over to look. There was a bottle of lyrium, but instead of the usual blue color—which both the mages and Aveline, whose first husband had been a Templar, knew—it was purplish-magenta.

"Thrask told me about a rumor that Meredith was giving adulterated lyrium to her cronies," Anders said, still staring at the bottle. "He saw a crate arrive that didn't come from the usual source. I didn't think of red lyrium, but..."

"It wasn't this color in the cave," Caitlyn said, frowning. "It was pure red, and so were the pellets I removed from you last night. This must be a mixture. Let's close that kit. It's... wrong. I can feel it." She eyed the armor warily. "And I would guess that it is infused into that, somehow, and in a purer form, a form that they can somehow shoot at people while wearing that armor." She drew away, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the items as she could. "Meredith bought Bartrand's idol."

"She bought it, made it into a potion, and decided she wanted more," Anders agreed. "She must have."

"Aveline, please bring Cullen and Thrask down here," Caitlyn said.

"Cullen?" Anders said. "I agree that he is not an enemy, but can we really trust him with something like this?"

"I think we can. He fought with us last night, one of only a dozen or so. And he might have information that Thrask doesn't, as Knight-Captain."

"On it, Hawke," Aveline said.

"Wait," Caitlyn said as Aveline reached the top of the dungeon stairs. "Aveline, this is the same substance that drove Varric's brother mad. It needs to be destroyed. There is a metal pitcher in the south guest bedroom that has some pellets of it inside. Bring that down here, please, so we can destroy it all at once."

Aveline left, leaving the dungeon entrance open for them. While she was gone, Caitlyn took off one gauntlet and touched Anders' chest. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

He covered her hand with his and held it gently. "I am," he said. "It didn't enter my bloodstream, and you got it all. I promise. I feel nothing there now." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"We have to get rid of it," she said. "We must. And Maker damn it all! Who was that Templar who escaped?"

"Mettin knows."

"He does," she agreed darkly, "though I don't suppose it overly matters. We need to apprehend whoever it is. That is what matters!"

There was nothing to say to that, so he just squeezed her hand and lapsed into silence beside her as they waited.

Aveline returned shortly with the two Templars beside her and the pitcher in hand. She closed the door behind her as Caitlyn ushered them all into the side room again, then pulled out the crate once more and opened the lyrium kit.

The Templars peered over, eyes widening. "Mettin had that?" Cullen said.

"It was confiscated from him, yes," Caitlyn said. "And everyone here knows that it is the wrong color. Ser Thrask... I understand that you told Anders once about a rumor that Meredith was giving unauthorized, adulterated lyrium to certain Templars."

"That was the rumor. I've never seen it, though," he said.

"I haven't seen anything like that before, either," agreed Cullen. He reached in his armor for his own kit, which he set on the table and opened. The supply was the proper blue hue. "If she was giving it to others at the Gallows, and Mettin didn't obtain this himself on the black market, she was limiting it to her own closest cronies."

"You made a good point," Caitlyn said. "The Grand Cleric cast him out of the order last year. How long does a lyrium supply for a Templar last?"

"It depends on individual consumption, but not a year," said Cullen.

Caitlyn emptied the contents of the pitcher onto the table. "This is what it looks like in its pure form. We have... seen this before, in the Deep Roads. It's terrible. Varric Tethras's late brother was driven out of his mind by an artifact made of it. He claimed he sold it to a woman, which rules out Mettin as the buyer. Taking everything together, including the rumor that Ser Thrask heard, we think that the Knight-Commander bought it, sought out more, and has been mixing it into regular potions." She glowered darkly. "And if she has been sending it to Mettin after he was expelled from the order..."

"That could suggest that she was aware of his plans!" exclaimed Cullen.

"You think?" muttered Anders. He sighed. "So neither of you has seen this before?"

"Not until now," Thrask said. "I wish we had. I wish..."

"She has been very paranoid," Cullen pointed out, "trusting almost no one except her favorites. She doesn't even trust me as her Captain." He breathed heavily, staring at the pellets. "The Seekers need to be told about this."

Leliana has said that she doesn't know who in the Seekers can be trusted, Caitlyn thought unhappily. She suspects subversion. What can we do? Aloud she said, "I will write to my contact who is close to the Divine. Leave this to me. There are covert rebellions going on in the high ranks of the Chantry that none of us are privy to, and we're not sure who can be trusted—except for this person I know. I know it's not done this way," she said when Cullen looked alarmed, "but these are unprecedented times. I must insist that you trust me."

Cullen's face suddenly cleared. "Oh, I think I know who you mean," he said. "I think I met... Right, then. I understand."

She instantly decided upon something. "Above all, do not mention red lyrium to any other Templar yet, especially Meredith. If my friend does agree that the Divine should send Seekers to the Gallows to search, we don't want her to have a heads up."

"If she knows that we captured Mettin, and she did give that to him, she'll know anyway," Anders pointed out.

"Then she doesn't need to know that we took Mettin alive." The escaped Templar, the accomplice, entered her thoughts again, and she suppressed an extremely vulgar curse from bursting out. "The other one, though!"

No one said a word. There was nothing to be said.

Caitlyn sighed. "We might as well question Mettin now. Thrask, Cullen, you are free to go."

The Templars took their leave respectfully, heading up the dungeon steps. Caitlyn sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Are you all right?" Anders said quietly as they headed down the cell block to the isolated, separate cell where Aveline had locked Mettin. "Did it give you a headache?"

"I have a mild headache. I don't know if it is from that."

"Better to stay away from it," he agreed. "Maker's blood, this is a nightmare."

"A thousand dead, counting the enemy, just as we feared... an accomplice on the loose... the likelihood that there are more Templars using this stuff, Templars who have the position to abuse mages... and the Knight-Commander was probably in the middle of all of it. We just can't prove that yet."

Aveline rounded a corner, entered a room, lit a torch within, and headed toward the single occupied cell inside this block. Scowling in contempt at the cell door for the prisoner contained within, she took another key from her key ring and turned it in the lock, then pushed the door open. She, Caitlyn, and Anders gaped inside.

"Fuck!"

"Maker damn it!"

"Son of a—"

The dead body of Mettin lay sprawled on the floor. His fingers were locked in a literal death grip around two lethally sharp spikes of red lyrium, which he had plunged into the arteries of his neck. Blood poured down his chest from the wounds, and a smug, defiant last grin was still spread across his face.

Caitlyn whirled on Aveline, utterly furious. "How could you have let him keep those?" she roared. She almost lunged for her friend but managed to restrain herself. Anders was furious and shocked too, but he was ready to physically restrain her if it came to it—not so much for Aveline, but for her own sake, and the sake of the baby.

"I didn't!" Aveline shouted back, eyes wide. "We took everything from him! He sure as the Void didn't have those!"

"Oh, so where did he get them? Did he have them stuffed up his arse? Did he shit red lyrium?" She was so angry that she did not care how crude this was.

"For all I know, maybe he did! None of us know what that vile stuff can do! I swear to the Maker, Hawke, I took everything from him. There is no way I would have allowed him to keep something like that. You know that!"

Caitlyn breathed heavily, trying to restrain her temper and be reasonable. Anders moved behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder to soothe her. She closed her eyes momentarily, breathing in and out. "No," she said in a calmer voice, "you wouldn't have. I... I'm sorry. He must have..."

It sickened her that their valuable prisoner had managed to commit suicide before they could question him, to the point that she almost didn't want to even look at him. But she forced herself to do so. As she scanned his dead body more closely, she noticed that—in places that were not covered with blood—there were several blotchy red areas, like a rash, surrounding dark red spots that looked vaguely like pox.

"I don't want to get any closer," she said, "but is it growing from his skin?"

Anders moved ahead instead. He glowered as he reached the bars of the cell. "That's it, all right," he said, scowling. "I don't even have to touch them."

"Please don't," she begged him.

"They are not pockmarks," Anders confirmed, "nor are they open sores. Well... bloody open sores, at least. That's red lyrium. It's in his skin."

"He grew those spikes from his body," Caitlyn said, horrified. "Maker. We have to find out who else has been taking it, Anders. We have to." She turned aside, disgusted, furious, and frightened. "I have a letter to write. And after that... we're going to the Gallows. And I want a lot of protection this time."

He shuddered, remembering how she had almost miscarried after the Holy Smite. "Templars, guards, and others who will not be affected by the Smite—and standing right behind you, just in case she does it again."

Caitlyn wanted to cry again, just sit down and have a good cry, but she knew that she could not. Her city needed her in this dark hour, and she still had work to do. Numbly she retreated to her study and composed a letter to Leliana, which she sent by swift messenger, regretting the fact that she did not have Leliana's raven nearby. It would arrive in Val Royeaux as soon as it could without that boon, at least.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat, she returned to the outer Keep. Her son, mother, uncle, and Merrill had withdrawn to the family quarters. Isabela and Fenris were ferrying certain items out of the damaged Amell house for them, and Carver and Charade were helping. When she approached Varric to request his support—and that of Aveline, Donnic, and the Templars present—at the Gallows, he agreed at once, especially when she told him about the red lyrium.

"Anything to keep others from suffering like my poor idiot brother's household did," he said, taking out a rag and pouring oil on it to clean Bianca's mechanism.

Caitlyn retrieved the thick black leathers that she had worn the night before. They were still spattered with blood, which nauseated her from the memories it invoked, but there was nothing to be done. Her condition was even more dangerous now than before. Although it was likely that her daughter would survive if born at this date—her expected due date was in the middle of Haring, a month and a half from now—that would not matter if Meredith knocked her forward this time, or directly attacked her pregnancy bump. And she had very good reason to believe that Meredith was using red lyrium now, to boot.

She let Aveline, Donnic, and Cullen walk at the front of their group, protecting her, as they left the Keep. Immediately the reek of blood assaulted her nostrils, and she tried not to focus on the fact that it had seeped into the stone. The stain would probably never entirely go away. The bodies of the enemy dead, the insurrectionists, were piled high to one side, guarded by mages. The bodies of those who had fallen in defense of Kirkwall had already been claimed by their kin or taken to the Chantry, apparently. She mentally closed her eyes to it. It was horrible, but if I hadn't ordered it, they would be planning something else now, she thought as they headed to the Gallows.

Her rage returned as they ceased walking past blood pools, and by the time they reached the pristine, untouched Gallows, she was ready to erupt and unleash another firestorm. She tried to calm herself as Cullen and Ser Agatha, who had returned from the Chantry where she had been all day, went inside to summon Meredith.

The Knight-Commander bore a haughty, contemptuous expression as she emerged from the old Tevinter prison. "Your Grace," she spat, clearly loathing the words, or at least the application of the words to a mage.

Caitlyn held her staff threateningly at an angle in front of herself. "I'm not here to bandy words," she said curtly. "I want to know one thing: Why didn't you come to our aid last night?"

"What are you insinuating now?" sneered Meredith.

"I'm not insinuating a damned thing," Caitlyn hissed, utterly unconcerned about swearing in front of Templars, even those allied with her. If they could not handle a little profanity, they were no allies at all. "I'm stating a fact. You sat in the Gallows, not releasing one mage or Templar to come to the city's aid, while a violent mob of traitorous insurrectionists committed mass murder and then converged in front of the Keep to try to overthrow me!"

"I see Templars with you," Meredith retorted. "The Knight-Captain himself stands with you. Why do you think that is, mage? I sent them!"

Cullen gaped in disbelief and shock. Turning to Thrask, Agatha, and Keran, who stood beside him, he stepped forward. "You did not!" he exclaimed.

"You call me a liar to my face, Rutherford?"

"Do you really think you sent us?" he said, gaping. "Knight-Commander!"

Angrily, Anders strode forward, staff in hand. "Don't give her the benefit of a doubt," he said. "Don't blame it on lyrium sickness! We all know why she didn't send anyone." He pointed a finger accusingly at Meredith. "What did you know in advance?"

Aveline, Donnic, and Caitlyn gaped at him, horrified. "Anders!" Caitlyn exclaimed. She believed as well that Meredith knew, of course, but accusing her like this was not going to accomplish anything—or anything good, at least.

An evil smirk broke across Meredith's face. "Viscountess Hawke, I think you need to leash your wild dog before you make any more demands of me."

"Oh, I'm a dog now, am I?" Anders replied hotly, too lost in his own rage to control himself. "Mettin's thugs said that too about Fereldans! Keep incriminating yourself, why don't you?"

Caitlyn jerked Anders backward by his arm and strode forward. "We are distraught and furious about what happened last night, and whether you like it or not, your lack of action is suspicious. You did nothing to defend this city while a former Templar, Mettin, who was a known crony of yours, led this mob! I'm suspicious too, and I still haven't heard an explanation for why you didn't do anything."

"You believe the Knight-Captain's lie, then?"

Cullen strode forward, furious, breathing heavily. "I am not lying," he said through clenched teeth, "and I will not stand for this. Whether you are saying this on purpose or are truly confused about what you did and did not do—yes, Lord Anders, it's possible," he added as Anders glowered again, "I cannot in good conscience serve under you now. I hereby tender my resignation."

Meredith's eyes popped, and she looked as if she wanted to draw her sword on Cullen right there. She reached for the hilt, but something made her pause and withdraw her hand. Instead she turned to Thrask, Agatha, and Keran. "Do you stand with him? Or do you stand by your duty as Templars?"

Please don't resign, Caitlyn pleaded mentally, staring at each of them. Please. Stay. We need you there. The mages in there need you. Please don't.

The Templars exchanged quick, furtive, almost unnoticeable glances, but in that barely perceptible moment, they seemed to come an agreement. Agatha was the first to speak. "I stand by my sacred vows as a Templar," she said.

"As do I," Thrask said, pointedly glancing at Caitlyn and Anders to let them know that he did not swear loyalty to Meredith with this.

"And I," added Keran.

Meredith's smirk broadened. "Good." She turned to Caitlyn. "There you have it, Your Grace. Now, if we are finished here?"

Let her think she has won, Caitlyn thought, seething. If she believed that a vow to the Templar Order is a vow to her, she's a fool. Let her be a fool. "I suppose we are," she said. For now.

The four Templars—or, rather, three Templars and one former Templar—huddled and whispered together all the way back to the Keep.

One week later.

Caitlyn stood in the outer Keep on the extremely heavily guarded carpeted steps to address the gathered throng. She, Anders, and everyone else standing near her were dressed in black. Anders had worn the color every day since the massacre, and he seemed resigned to always doing so in the future. She wore the diadem of Kirkwall, a grim and heavy symbol of responsibility.

"People of Kirkwall," she began, "I address you today out of a duty I hoped would never again come, after the attack on our city two years ago." She gazed out miserably. "A week ago, we planned to celebrate a day of joy and fun, of frivolity and jokes, a day for children. Instead... it was a day of death, blood, and the tears of children." Her tone hardened at the memories, still fresh. "Eight hundred innocent people of Kirkwall were slain at the hands of two hundred others—two hundred neighbors and relatives." She took a deep breath. "I will not ask you to believe that this was the Maker's plan. I will not urge you to seek 'meaning' in these atrocities. Some of you may be able to find such comfort, but others cannot, and I will not tell anyone how to grieve or make you ashamed for what you think and feel in this dark moment."

The crowd murmured among themselves as she paused.

"Two hundred people turned on their city out of hate," she said, "and not just hate for me—hate for their own neighbors. I will not tell you to forgive this and I certainly will not tell you to forget it. It should never be forgotten. But... I do ask this. I ask that you take the high ground and not retaliate against the innocent. If you know someone who distrusts mages, or those who approve of mages, or those who were born elsewhere, remember that that person did not take part in this slaughter and does not deserve your vengeance. Those who did take part have had to face their Maker for what they did, save for the one who escaped. We do not yet know if there were any other conspirators who knew of this plan or helped plot it, but we are committed to subjecting any such conspirators to the law, and we know that all who actually committed these violent acts—except that one—have been brought to justice.

"It was a violent justice," she said, feeling a pang for her own very large part in it. "It was hard and terrible, and it may have caused some of your friends—or even some of you gathered here—to question many things. Please, to honor those you lost, to prove to your doubting friends and family, or yourself, that we do hold the higher ground, that we do not shed innocent blood, I ask this of you. Those we lost would have wanted justice, but they would not have wanted us to dishonor them by killing innocents in their names. Let us honor them and remember them in peace."

Peace, she thought as she stepped back, turning to the priest to lead a prayer. There will be little peace to be found soon enough. I beg of you, take every bit that you can and hold onto it. As Anders told me, we do this because we must, but it is bloody awful.