"That is…disturbing."
It was the first words any of them had said in quite some time now. Nike had to agree with Leliana's assessment.
They had taken to the upper levels of the temple, which were fairly open, to better keep an eye on their surroundings. They would have to go back down again, but when Leliana spoke they were at the end corridor of the third level, standing in a strew of leaf litter so old and wet it was almost like walking through mud.
Their vantage gave them a remarkable view of the wide courtyard below them. An enormous dragon, bigger than even Nike had imagined it, lounged indolently at one end of this courtyard, and appeared to be finishing up a meal that consisted of at least two fat oxen and had probably numbered half a dozen more before she had started. She was eating with the slow, thorough disinterest of a creature who is full but not quite ready to stop.
At the other end of the courtyard, were the townsfolk of Haven. More than two dozen men, women, and children were clustered despite the cold and the snow. More than half of them were on their knees, visibly making obeisance to the dragon, while one man – the mayor, she supposed, or someone of similar standing – had his hands held to the sky and droned on.
She could not make out his words, only his voice, but whatever it was he was saying was likely not worth listening to.
She instead watched the dragon for a long time, having never seen one in person, and found herself measuring it for weak spots. Of these, she found precious few. Just from the gleam on its scales she could tell that they would be as resistant to sword-strike and arrow-shot as any well-crafted suit of armor. The sheer size of the beast alone meant that even if a sword or an arrow did get through, it likely wouldn't penetrate deep enough to hit anything vital. Even the 'soft' portion of its throat gleamed with scales that looked as impervious as chain-mail.
The only truly vulnerable spot she could pick out were its eyes. An arrow deep enough in one of those would perhaps put it down, but it was hitting one that would be the trouble.
She felt her hand actually reaching for Far Song a moment, before she stopped herself.
"Come on. Let's find the Urn and get out of here while they're all distracted."
They had to move downward again. Leliana didn't feel as if the Urn would be on any of the upper levels and Nike had to agree with her. If she was building a Temple for something so sacred, she'd have it in the most secure part of the place, and that usually meant underground. Knowing now that the Havenites were in the courtyard, they picked up a little bit of speed, though they remained cautious for any further guards that may have been left at their posts.
Zevran found the door in one far corner of the lower level, and the moment Nike saw it she had no doubt as to where it led. It was closed and chained, stood twice as large as any other door in the place, and was conveniently carved over with the symbol of Andraste and a bas relief of the Urn itself.
"Might as well have criers shouting 'here it is!'" Nike said, as Zevran set to work unlocking the chains.
"If one of the cultists comes this way, they will see the chains loosed," Leliana said.
"We can't help that without leaving someone behind," Nike told her. "Zevran-"
"I can hardly do my job in protecting your life if I am left behind to watch the door," he said, the padlock popping open in his hands. "Fortunately, I have an old trick for just such an occasion."
Digging in his pouch, he came up with a length of black thread. He closed the padlock again on the end link of one of the chains, then tied the thread to the same link. Then he pulled the door open and, after he was certain no obvious traps or hazards lay inside, gestured at them with a broad smile.
"After you ladies."
Nike and Leliana slipped into the shadows and Zevran stepped after them, before he tied the other end of the thread to the second link in the chain the padlock itself had previously also been hooked to. Then he pulled the door shut with the black string between it and the wall, and pulled the string taut before hooking it around the latch. Nike blinked.
With the strong thread holding the chain ends up and together, and with the padlock closed, to anyone looking at it from outside the door it would appear that the lock still held the chains fastened and the door was still secure. The illusion would fall apart the instant someone tried to open the lock, but hopefully they'd be long gone before someone got it in their head to do that.
"That's clever," Nike told him, and in the half gloom she could still see the white of his smile.
"That is one of the many tricks of a thief and an assassin," he said. "Yet something else I can teach you. As with all other things, I shall do so with great…enthusiasm."
"Let's keep your enthusiasms to breaking and entering," Nike said, then as he opened his mouth again she put her hand over it. "And I don't mean that as a double entendre so let's not even begin that sentence, shall we?"
He responded by first grinning against her palm, then pointedly kissing it. She grimaced, taking her hand away and wiping it on her trousers. "You are insufferable."
"Why, thank you."
The door had concealed a stairway that wound downward. It didn't look like it had been used in years and was dark enough to make it difficult to see. Leliana quickly found a torch in a sconce nearby, but waited until they had gone carefully down far enough that any light would not be visible through the cracks in the door, before lighting it.
The stair turned ten spirals downward before it entered a wide hall. The air had sort of a still reverence to it, as it might in a mausoleum, and Nike paused as Leliana moved inside and lit a pair of large braziers. Firelight fell on the old carved stone of the walls, revealing columns and large niches holding statues that also appeared to have been carved directly from the stone walls themselves. Each of the figures was in a somewhat prayerful stance, and the painted, faded scenes around them seemed to tell a story.
Leliana, abandoning the torch, moved up to one. "This is Brona," she said with some hushed wonder. "Andraste's mother."
Nike lifted her brows, and went over to another one. There was no plaque or descriptor, but she got vague feelings of familiarity when she looked at the statue's face.
"And this one?"
"Havard the Aegis, one of Andraste's first disciples," the Sister said, moving up to Nike's side. "I also recognize Ealisay, Hessarian, Cathaire…if I had any doubt we had found the Temple, I would have none now."
Nike moved further into the room as they looked at the statues and the faded, almost indiscernible painted scenes. One was clear enough it made her grimace; an image of Andraste upon her pyre, her head turned up toward the heavens as flames licked around her feet.
But there was no statue of Andraste herself, no Urn. Instead, at the far end of the room, was simply another door.
There was no lock. There appeared in fact to be no handle. Nike frowned at it, but as she reached out to touch it, her father's voice suddenly spoke.
"Only you, Pup."
She winced back, hand going to her head before she looked at the others. Seeing the look on their faces she said, "You heard it!"
"I heard the Revered Mother!" Leliana said, awestruck.
"I heard the voice of…a friend," Zevran said, and he sounded so reserved on the last part that Nike looked over at him.
"I heard my father," she said at last. "What did yours-?"
"She said 'Only the Warden'," Leliana said, and Zevran nodded.
"I heard 'only you'," Nike said. "Well, how's that for fair?"
"I don't think fairness factors into it," Leliana said. "This is clearly the will of the Maker. It is said in the Chantry that, when the Maker speaks to you, He uses a voice both familiar and loved. One that is unique to the person who hears it. He clearly only wants you to go in."
"This does not sit comfortably with me," Zevran said. "Who knows what dangers lie in there? I have no desire to be burned alive from the feet upward, but even if you come out safely again, I have little more desire to face the wrath of your lady love when she finds out I let you go in alone."
"Why do you call her that?" Nike asked, irritated, and he blinked at her, before grinning slowly.
"Oh, I see. No reason," he said loftily, and Nike's irritation turned into a flat scowl.
"I'm starting to wish we'd just killed you in that grove," she said, then huffed at the door. "I don't believe for an instant that's the Maker talking."
"Regardless of anyone's wrath," Leliana said coolly, "Or of who is or is not speaking to us, it is clear that only you will be allowed to enter that door, Nike. Our personal desires apparently do not factor into it, and I am not eager to discover what happens if we defy that voice. We have a simple choice in front of us. Either you go in alone, or we turn around and return to the others."
"Either way, we're wasting precious time standing here," Nike said, and lifted a hand. As she touched the door, it swung open easily, and beyond it was only dark. Leliana turned away, probably to fetch the torch again, but Nike did not wait for her. Pulling her bow off her shoulder, she stepped into the darkness.
The door slid shut quietly behind her, the dark so complete it was like being blind. Her hand, gripping Far Song, was suddenly holding nothing. Reaching for her waist, she realized her quiver and her new daggers were also gone. Reaching a hand behind her, she could find no trace of the wall or the door, though she had come in no further than a step or two.
"Hello?" she called into the blackness. "Hello, is anyone-"
Hands like iron closed around her upper arms and she instinctively revolted. A fist grabbed the back of her head, gripping a handful of hair so painfully tight it brought instant tears to her eyes. She was forced forward into a bow, rough rope binding tightly around her wrists. A doorway appeared in the distant dark, perfectly framing a wash of sunshine, a sigh of brisk, fresh air. She was marched toward this door and the doorway also sailed toward her, crossing a mile of distance in a mere few steps.
Smells assaulted her as the sunlight blinded her. Roses and horses, manure and grass and trees, the tang of iron and woodsmoke. People were crowding around her, and she could smell them too. She could smell their breath and sweat, feel the heat of the curses they flung at her. Something wet slapped into her cheek and she revolted. The hands gripping her tightened painfully and as the spittle slipped down her cheek her eyes adjusted. Eyes streaming, she looked around.
She recognized the courtyard. It was one she had played in frequently as a child, with Tom and Nate and little Delilah trailing behind.
She was in Amaranthine, and this was Arl Howe's home.
In the center of the yard a pyre had been built, a stake sticking out of it like a finger of wrath. Realizing she was being dragged toward it by Howe guards Nike revolted again, trying to tear herself away. All it earned her was hair pulled from her scalp and an impatient fist looping into her cheek. The hit was solid and real. Her cheek cut on her teeth, and blood flooded her mouth.
As they neared the pyre she saw a familiar face. Delilah Howe, seventeen, stood in a dove grey dress. Opals sparkled in raven black hair that spilled over her milk-pale shoulders. Her eyes were reddened, and she had a silk handkerchief in one hand. As Nike spotted her, Delilah started to turn away.
"Lilah! Delilah! What's happening? What is this?!" Nike asked, but the youngest Howe did not turn back. Just before she was swallowed in the crowd, her hands came up to her face and she started to sob.
Nike was hauled up onto the pyre. The rough rope abraded her wrists as the loose ends were knotted around the pole, and then another length handed up to tie her tightly to chest, waist, and thighs. Her hands throbbed and ached, and her wrists felt as if they were bleeding. She couldn't move, couldn't shift her hands enough to relieve any of the agony.
Below her, she could see dozens of Amaranthines and Howe guardsmen clustered, all with hate filled looks on their faces. Someone threw a rotted turnip at her and it hit her gut so hard it barked the air out of her lungs.
Now, in the crowd, Nike could see Tom and Nate as well. Tom, the gentler of the two boys, looked troubled. Nate looked incensed, shaking his fist as he looked up at her. She could not hear what he said in all the shouting but 'murderer!' was clearly framed by his lips.
Then the crowd began to quiet down, parting to open a pathway, as out of the Keep came two men. The one in the lead she did not recognize. He was an older man, his hair and beard sporting only traces of black among the gray and white. He wore battered armor, his face serious and careworn, and in his hand he held a scroll.
Behind him, smirking, was Rendon Howe.
"Murderer!" Nike snarled, trying to surge forward against the ropes as she saw him but unable to move. The one at her waist cut in painfully, but she ignored it. "You fucking bastard! You baby-killing monster!"
Howe and the man in armor stopped in a clear spot just in front of her, and Howe smiled up at her. Gathering the blood in her mouth Nike spit at him, but the crimson stream didn't make it past the edge of the pyre. The man in armor cleared his throat and a deathly silence fell over the day. All eyes fixed to her. All sparkled with hate.
"Lady Nike Adela Cousland," he said. His voice was as deep and somber as his eyes, as he unrolled the parchment. "How do you answer the charges laid before you?"
"What charges?" she asked. "What am I being charged with? What is happening?"
"What's happening?" Rendon said in his sneery, nasally voice. "Look at you. Wearing leathers, joining the Wardens, fawning over apostates. Bryce Cousland's insolent little girl, all grown up, and still playing the man."
"You will be silent," the man with the parchment said, barely looking around at Howe as Nike nearly choked spitting epithets at him. As his eyes met Nike's, she found her curses dying in her throat. The only sound was the blood rushing in her ears, her hear thundering in her chest. The stranger's eyes on her were almost sad.
"Nike Adela Cousland, you have been charged with the murder of Rendon Howe. The punishment for such an act of wickedness is death by flame."