Haven rises into vision as we finish the climb up the mountain paths, a few soldiers sounding out in relief or joy at the sight of its wooden walls and smoking chimneys. I glance at Lysette, then Varric; both look more relieved than anything to leave the snow and trees behind. In the distance, the sounds of clashing metal and barked instruction let us know that Cullen is hard at work drilling the trainees. We ride up the main road, passing the heat and noise of the smithy, and soon enough we draw to a halt at the stables.

I dismount and pass the reins to an eager young elf, before heading straight for the town gate. The first thing on my agenda is to get to the Chantry and make a full report to the council, hopefully before I get interrupted by any new distractions. Lysette falls in behind me, the familiar clank of her armour setting my mind at ease. I don't see where Varric goes, but I imagine I'll find him at his fire eventually.

Lysette and I pass through the streets of Haven, bustling with new faces. Word of the Inquisition has evidently spread, and I hear my name on dozens of lips as we walk through the pilgrims and recruits alike. Lysette draws closer, slipping a hand into mine, and I find myself appreciative of her possessiveness. The two of us are nearly shoved aside by a man leading a horse, slipping past him instead, and after a few more moments we come to the steps leading up to the Chantry proper.

There, by the doors, I see Templars and Mages alike. It's a mob, men shouting angrily at one another, a mage thrusting an accusatory finger into a Templar's chest, the armoured man responding by raising a fist and shouting back in the man's face. Marcus recognizes this, and Idash forwards, leaving Lysette to follow as I push myself between the pair, a hand on either chest shoving them back.

"Stop this!" I demand, voice harsher than I intended.

The pair recoil, before steadying themselves. I do not recognize either in a moment's glance; they may not even know me for who I am. If they do, they show no signs of the usual respect or reverence I am afforded by those who have been here from the start. Under any other circumstance it would be refreshing. Here and now, it is unfortunate.

"This Templar bastard accuses us of killing the Divine!" the mage spits, reeling back from me and standing amidst his fellows once more.

"You say we let her die!" the Templar retorts, pushing my hand off his chest and stepping back among his own fellows. "The only fault we take is in not wiping your filthy kind out when we had the chance!"

I turn to the man. I have no name to put to his appearance; he wasn't among Rylen's men, so he must be either a new arrival or a latecomer to the Inquisition. He's tall and lean, with a shaved pate and a pinched face. His eyes are narrowed, looking over my head at the mage. I see his hand drop down to his sword, fingers grazing the pommel, and something inside me snaps just a little. If he'd bare steel here, over this, then he's everything I must not be to prove the Templars better than the petty thugs so many perceive them as.

So I take a move from Lysette, and I punch him clean in the face. It's a good hit, a solid jab right in the nose. I don't break it, but there's a crunch of cartilage and he howls as he staggers back, brown eyes flooding with tears. His hands rise to guard his face, and a man behind him catches him and glares at me. Another man draws his blade, and behind me I hear mages clutching staves and feel the low hum of magic in the air. I shake my aching hand.

"I said stop!" I snap, before whirling about to stare down the lead mage, whose staff is sparking with electricity. "All of you! Does this hatred do you any good? Do you even know what you're doing? Or are you children, lashing out because you're afraid?"

That gets the worst of them to calm down, and a few even have the common sense to look somewhat ashamed of themselves. I turn back to the Templars. Their leader glares, and the rest look either chastised or incensed. I clap my fist into my palm, scowling at the whole pack of them.

"We are not Templars any longer," I tell them. "We are men of the Inquisition. That is the oath we swore, all of us. That means we are working alongside the mages, not lording over them. If you can't handle that truth, then fuck off to the Hinterlands and join up with the renegades. They could use a few more thugs."

The Templar leader can't bring himself to look at me, so I turn back to the mages, stepping right up to their leader. He's a shorter man, still an inch or two taller than me, with a pudgy waistline and the dark skin of a northern Antivan. He glares at me, but I'm far less afraid of mages now than I was two weeks ago. I remember a farmer's son, terrified for his life, his father's skull cracked open by a flying chunk of ice. The memory lights a fire in my eyes, and so when I stare this pudgy man down I can see fear in his eyes.

"You are not of the Circle any more." I say to him. "Whatever your grudges and past hatreds, you will not let them carry on. You will serve the Inquisition with honour, and honesty. Or you can ask Gavriel of Tesserana what the Inquisition does to apostates."

The man doesn't know what to say to that. A part of me is well aware he likely has no idea who Gavriel of Tesserana is, but I don't care for such details at the moment. I step past both groups, walking between their divided ranks toward the Chantry proper. I throw both doors open with a mighty shove, walking down the central chamber with Lysette in tow. It is quiet in here, a few Chantry sisters knelt in quiet contemplation, a soldier guarding the door to Josephine's office. A moment after I enter, Cassandra emerges from a side chamber and joins me, nodding in greeting.

"Leliana says the meeting went well?" she asks.

I take a breath, calm myself after the excitement outside. I smell the sweet scent of votives, and it calms me, reminds me of quiet and peace in Chanson. Only once my shoulders slacken and the heat in my chest fades do I allow myself to answer Cassandra's question.

"As well as can be expected," I reply, and I think back to that meeting. "Mother Giselle is willing to use the pull she has within the Chantry to help us gather the clerics at Val Royeaux. She wants to force a change in matters, I think, though it seems… hasty. The chaos would all but disavow the Chantry in the eyes of Orlais."

"You think it is a scheme of hers?" Cassandra asks, and I chuckle, stopping in front of the doorway into the council chamber at the rear of the Chantry.

"I think it's the last hope of a woman watching her world fall apart," I reply, shaking my head. "I think the Chantry could use a bit of public disgrace to wake them up. They need to admit that they're broken before they can hope to start repairing the damage."

Cassandra frowns at that, before pushing open the door. I follow her into the chamber, Lysette waiting outside with a nod. Cassandra halts in front of the great wooden table, leaning over it and staring at the map. It's covered pins and symbols, small statuettes representing current objectives and situations. They've been busy since I left, it seems; at least a dozen smaller pins dot the map here and there across Orlais and Fereldan, and a small pyramid of stone marks Val Royeaux. Cassandra sighs, deeply.

"Do we have any other options?" she asks me.

"I had hoped the others would have come up with something." I reply, shaking my head. "No. From how things look, we have to reach out to the Chantry. At least convince them to stop telling people we're the villains."

She considers my words. It's plain to see she doesn't like them; she scowls and squints and refuses to look up from the map for a few moments, but eventually she nods once. I lean down beside her, fingering one of the pins idly and watching it flex and bend. She shakes her head once.

"I suppose it must be done." she says. "Damn them for forcing this."

"And damn us for making it so." I reply, before straightening up. "I shall inform Ambassador Montilyet of the plan. Will you speak with Leliana? You know her better than I do, and the Ambassador had other news for me besides."

"I will." Cassandra agrees, but before we leave she stops just inside the door, looking at me. "And… for what it is worth, I am sorry I was not there with you. I heard of your heroism in Ferelden. Next time, I will stand by your side… Herald."

"I look forward to next time, then." I tell her, smiling.

She inclines her head respectfully, and opens the door. I pass through, hearing Lysette close it behind us, before she takes up her position at my side once again. Her hand touches my shoulder, though this time she doesn't seek to drag me into some corner. I feel her breath on my ear, sending a shudder down my spine. I subdue it with a reminder that we are in a Chantry and there are sisters and clerics barely ten feet from us.

"She's a frightening woman," Lysette says, voice gentle. "But I think she likes you."

"I hope so," I reply honestly. "Lady Cassandra is a terrible enemy to have. I'm already well associated with the feeling."

I remember the prison cell in the basement of this very building, glancing down at my mark for a moment. Beck hums softly against my skin, and I smile. Then I look at the door to Josephine's office, and nod once.

"Come now," I say to Lysette. "We have diplomacy to attend to."

The disgruntled huff she gives in response is hardly promising, but her dissatisfaction is, unfortunately, irrelevant. We do indeed have diplomacy to get to, and so I open the door to Josephine's office and step inside to find a man already there, seemingly standing in wait for me. Before Josephine can so much as look up, he steps forward and greets me with a short Orlesian bow, before offering me a hand to shake.

"You are the Herald, Ser Markus Venier," he says with certainty, meeting my eye and smiling. "It is good to meet you. I am Ser Renard du Palais, chevalier of Orlais."

The man before me can't be more than a year or two older than I am, with dark red hair tied back in a short ponytail and dark, dark eyes. His face is relatively unmarred by battle or age, though a single scar is notable among his noble, handsome features; a narrow line carved into the flesh over his left eye, so short and shallow as to be almost unnoticeable. He has an easy demeanour about him, almost disarming in how easily his smile reaches his eyes. He glances past me, to Lysette, and inclines his head toward her as well.

"And Ser Lysette du Montefort, his faithful companion." he says. "It is an honour to make both your acquaintance, Sers. I pray you will forgive the suddenness of our introduction. I have only recently come to Haven, and I had hoped to meet you a week ago."

"It is good to meet you as well, Ser Palais," I say, remembering my manners and returning his short bow. "I apologize for our lateness. Much to be done in Ferelden before our return. Are you the individual whom Ambassador Montilyet notified me of?"

By now Josephine is on her feet, slightly flustered from having her usual introductory spiel completely cut off by the two of us. She rushes to my side, smiling hurriedly.

"Ah, Ser Herald, I am glad you have returned in good health," she says, nodding. "This is indeed the individual whom I mentioned in my letter. The confidential letter. Which I sent to you."

She sounds slightly annoyed, though it takes a long few moments before I can discern why. Then it clicks. Ah. Confidentiality. She didn't tell this Ser Palais that she informed me of his coming. Which itself likely means that I wasn't meant to make note of that either. So either she's being incredibly secretive for secrecy's sake, or there's something more to Ser Palais than I'm getting from his face and hair.

"I see." I nod. Then I lie to Ser Renard Palais' face, because I get the feeling I'll need to practice that particular skill a bit before the Winter Palace. "Yes, she informed me of several visitors of note. Your name came up, as well as a few visiting dignitaries and nobles. I had hoped to meet you in person, so this is fortunate indeed."

He seems to accept my words, finally letting go of my hand and glancing at Josephine. Those dark eyes betray no sign of distrust, and he smiles openly and happily.

"I had not known I was a figure of such intrigue!" he proclaims, before stepping back and folding his hands behind him. "I feel honoured!"

"Honour is simply your due," I tell him, and he laughs.

"Pah! Honour may be my due, Ser, but it is your company I have desired these past few days. And here you are!" He looks me up and down, properly this time. "The conquering hero, returned from the savage land of Ferelden! With your sword on your belt and a lovely woman at your side! I must beg your company, so you might tell me of your great adventures!"

He looks between Lysette and I, eager. I nod my head. What harm can speaking to a slightly mysterious chevalier do? If he's a spy of some sort, then I have no doubts that he will take news of me back to his masters in Orlais. And that could prove quite useful indeed. Free advertising, Marcus supplies.

"I cannot say that Ferelden was quite so savage as I'd heard," I tell him, as we turn to step out of the office and leave Josephine to her duties. "Though I only saw the rural regions. The gates of Redcliffe were barred to us."

"A dreadful thing, when men cannot accept the aid of their neighbours," Ser Renard replies. "Though that must be the Bann's Burden, as my fellows are so keen to call it. Stubbornness as legendary as their stink."

"No word of stink, please, I've had no time to bathe." I reply, raising my hands defensively. "And though I would not dare to police your speech, I would warn that there are many Fereldan among our number here at Haven, and I've little interest in seeing a guest drawn into a needless confrontation."

He laughs at that, clapping a hand on my arm and holding fast. He leads me out of the chantry, and I must reflect that Ser Renard Palais is a bold man indeed. Energetic too, guiding me through Haven's streets toward the main gate. Lysette quickens her pace to keep up, and soon enough the three of us are passing back the way I came, out into the open fields before Haven's walls where the men of the Inquisition spar and train. Apparently it is a day for spears, as a Marcher man in gilded platemail directs two squares of Inquisition soldiers in wheeling ranks that look rather roughshod.

"I have seen many of your soldiers in practice these past few days," Ser Renard tells me, before he releases my arm. "But I simply must see the skill of their Herald."

He turns his head, beckoning forward a chevalier in battle armour, carrying in his arms a loosely wrapped bundle that surely contains weapons. The fact that the man was already here… a nerve ticks. He planned this. Expected to bring me here. That puts me on edge.

"I would dare request a spar with you, Ser Venier." Ser Renard says, once more smiling in that charming, disarming fashion.

I glance sidelong at Lysette when he turns to face his man, and she cocks an eyebrow. She's as curious as I am. Likely as clueless as well. A spar with a chevalier… to turn him down would be an insult. To accept is a risk. Both pose potential problems… yet the part of me that relished the battles I faced in the Hinterlands burns hot, raising its voice in a cry for war.

I must accept. It is a matter of honour. And adrenaline. Neither can be denied.

"Very well."

I lead him down into the ring, a circle of frozen ground swept clean of snow and ringed by a crudely made fence. He follows, the man with the bundle behind him, and Lysette behind me. Soldiers of the Inquisition, many on break, follow with expressions of curiosity and excitement in equal numbers. An audience will make this an affair of some gravity, I think. Ser Renard takes from the proffered bundle his armaments.

First is a great tower shield, not unlike Lysette's, but embossed with twin lions-rampant rearing up on their hind legs, their roaring in opposite directions. Dividing them is a long, narrow sword, black on the shield's red enamel. I draw my own blade, and raise an eyebrow when the next thing he pulls from the bundle is a one-handed war axe, with a brass pommel and curved steel head. It's an imposing thing, kept frighteningly sharp, with a keen edge that whistles in the air when he gives it a couple of testing swings.

I twirl my own well-maintained blade. Ser Renard notes the obviously Fereldan make, the blade thicker at the base with a heavier pommel and wider crossguard, less elegant than its Orlesian counterpart would be. But this blade has served me well, and so I brandish it with pride. The last piece of armament he takes from his fellow is a helmet, a plain greathelm with a vision slit and another lion-rampant atop it, roaring at the sun overhead.

And when he dons it, I think I know how to beat him. I drop low, sword held at a ready by my hips. I breathe into my stomach, filling myself up with air. Every scrap of breath will be crucial when the fatigue takes hold, which I fully expect it to do. No man wields a shield of that size and plans to defeat his foe with haste. This will be a slow and steady battle, I feel. Ser Renard takes his place across from me.

Just outside the ring, Lysette watches. I can feel her eyes on me, taking in my form, and for her I smile. The tension settles somewhat. This is a good day to fight.

A better day to win.

Palais' man calls for us to fight, and forward I go. No point in being patient; my foe will wait as long as he needs. I must take the initiative, so freely offered. I open low, bringing my sword upwards in a wicked slashing blow he deflects with the shield. I bring the blade down, and when he moves the shield I step into him and drive a foot against that flat surface.

He expected to deflect a slash, not catch a boot. He doesn't stagger, but he does let out a low grunt and hastily adjust. The axe flicks out from behind his guard, striking at my side. I block, full on, letting him press against my guard for a moment. Let him test me, let him see my strength.

Let him think he knows me. I will prove him wrong.

We back away, slowly circling as we ready ourselves. I am cautious, keeping away from the ring's edge. I'd rather not be rushed with nowhere to dodge, and flattened by that shield against the fence. So we move in little half-circles, only eight or so feet separating us. Under his helmet, I think he's focused. I'm smiling. This feels good. This feels right.

I wink at him. Then I charge again, let him raise the shield to block, axe reeling back for the counterblow. He's ready for me. He's reactive. And so, he'll lose. I let him block my blow, let him bring the axe around in a wicked arc that promises the total destruction of all the ribs on the right side of my body.

And then, just before that impending moment of impact, I catch him. My sword comes up to block, and he braces to contest it. And so he misses, with that helmet cutting off most of his vision and his great shield obscuring half my body, my left hand leaving my right to do all the work in blocking.

It drops to the hilt of the spirit blade, and I slide it free of the little cloth harness I've set it in, and just when he thinks he's broken my guard and nearly knocked my longsword out of my hand, I step into the guard. I turn the blade in a reverse grip, and Beck fills it with herself, summoning a short-bladed blue dagger that grows until it's glowing point is right under Ser Renard Palais' chin. He freezes, recognizing the danger. I smile, wolffish and very pleased with myself.

"I think," I say, slowly, with great confidence. "That is my match, Ser Palais."

He has the wisdom and the grace to nod in agreement, though he is careful in how far he tilts his head. I slide the blade back, unmaking it with my will, and return the hilt to my harness. Once it's gone, Ser Renard draws a deep, relieved breath.

"I did not expect that," he admits, sliding his axe into a loop on his belt and reaching up to take off his helmet. "I had expected you to dodge more."

"In honesty, I was most afraid you'd just smack me with the shield for staying so close," I admit. "I could have been quicker with the blade."

"That blade…" Ser Renard notes, as he looks down at my belt again. "I had thought it a trophy. But… it works in your hands? How can this be so? You are surely not secretly a mage?"

"Oh, not at all." I shake my head, laughing good-naturedly. "It's the Mark, Ser Palais. It burns with ambient magic. Just reaching into the spirit sword the way I do a rift beckons the blade forward."

He tugs his helmet off, and he grins at me. For a man recently bested, he seems to be in good spirits. I had worried about that, but he clasps my hand when offered, and shakes it vigorously.

"You are magnificent." he tells me, and when I chuckle he turns to the other chevalier who has waited with his weapons. "Isn't he magnificent? Everything we had hoped!"

He releases my hand, and passes his shield to the other chevalier. Then he leans against the fence, helmet still tucked under one arm. The two converse quietly, and so I return to Lysette opposite him.

"You were slow," she says, as soon as I am close enough to hear her say it softly. "Too slow. You must train with the second blade."

"I was hoping for a congratulations," I reply, and she shakes her head.

"He was toying with you," she tells me, staring across the ring at a relaxed Ser Renard with a stern glare. "That shield was not his tool of choice. He did not move like a sentinel. He was used to something lighter."

"Why bring the tower shield then?" I ask, before hopping the fence with a grunt. "If he wanted to test me…"

"He knew me." Lysette notes. "From the soldiery here in Haven, like as not. And any man here could tell him I use a shield of similar make. Perhaps…"

It clicks then.

"Familiarity," I say. "He wanted me to be comfortable, so he chose a familiar fighting style, one I've sparred with before. He wanted to see me relaxed."

"He did not want to see how you fight your enemies," Lysette says. "He wanted to see how you fight your friends."

Once again, I observe Ser Renard Palais. There's something about that last name that bothers me, but the man himself is… confusing. He's not lying about his nature, I think. He really is that happy to be here. Every smile touches his eyes, every word sounds as sincere as any other. There's no bitterness in his eye as he waves at me, before climbing over the fence with the aid of his fellow chevalier.

Could he really be that simple? A kind chevalier, looking for a friendly spar? If so, why the obvious planning? The scheme with the shield, if that really was a scheme and not just Lysette being paranoid with my help? I rub my temples and sigh.

"Whatever his motivations, I can't figure out what he might want," I tell her. "But Josephine… er, Ambassador Montilyet warned me about him. She sent a letter and everything."

We both think for a moment. What does it all mean? A chevalier important enough for Josephine to warn me about him in a letter, who deliberately challenged me to a duel he all but completely threw. There must be an explanation. I just need to ask the right person, and with that I know just what to do. I snap my fingers. It's hard in leather gloves, but I do it anyway.

"Lady Nightingale is likely to know exactly what he's after," I conclude. "And I likely owe her a visit by now."

"If Ambassador Montilyet sent a warning ahead, she knows," Lysette replies. "I could ask one, while you ask the other."

I nod, and she leans in to give me a quick peck on the cheek before we go our separate ways. I head straight through the eastern road of Haven, toward the makeshift rookery Leliana has made out of an old grain silo. Lysette goes north to the chantry and Josephine's office. Before we part, we agree to meet at the tavern for supper. It's a date, I suppose.

No. Bad Markus. Focus.

The rookery is guarded by two Inquisition men in heavy armour, the heavy wooden door kept shut. They don't stop me when I pass, pushing it open and walking inside. It's loud in here; the ravens squawk and crow, and beneath one can hear the hushed whispers of different Inquisition agents making their reports. I look around for a moment, seeing the ravens are kept caged near to the silo's ceiling high above, accessible by a series of scaffolding-like platforms, while this bottom floor appears to be more for the purposes of bookkeeping and letter writing.

Leliana is there, illuminated by the dull yellow glow of a row of candles, standing with her head bowed, one hand diligently scraping away with a quill. Her hood is down, red hair falling about her shoulders. I would have thought she'd keep it tied back, and evidently I would have thought wrong. She knows I approach, her hand halting when I'm a few feet away.

"Ser Venier," she says, and somehow I can hear her over the ravens' din above. "My scouts told me of your work in Ferelden. You've done well."

"I only wish I'd had more time," I reply. "We had no luck making contact with Master Dennet."

"Ah," she says. "Lieutenant Lavellan did not tell you. We have made contact with Master Dennet. It will be around a month before he is ready to bring any horses to us however; the Hinterlands must be further pacified, and we shall need to provide him guards for his herd."

Oh. That's… useful. How many other side missions will I not have to undertake myself? It makes sense that Inquisition agents would be able to handle stuff like that. Other Inquisition agents, at least.

"That's good news." I smile, stepping up beside her, though I'm careful not to try to read any of her letters she's writing. "However, I came hoping to ask you for information."

"Everything I have is yours to know, Ser Venier," she replies, without missing a beat. "You are one of the inner circle. What can I help you with?"

Damn. That was fast.

"Ser Renard du Palais," I say, and in an instant she nods and begins sorting through her notes. "There's something suspect about the man."

"Josephine did not tell you," Leliana says, and it isn't phrased like a question. "Good. I told her not to."

She finds a small sheaf of parchment, setting it down in front of me on clear space atop her desk. I pick it up, but before I can read a word she speaks again.

"His name is not Renard du Palais," she notes. "An alias, of this we are certain. He kept his first name the same, which would be foolish were he better known."

The name on the papers is Ser Renard du Rousselle, a name I know nothing about. Markus recalls the du Rousselle family being a wealthy clan of nobles in Orlais. Past that; nothing. I blink, and glance at her.

"Enlighten a clueless former Templar?" I ask.

"Ser Renard's mother is Coralie du Rousselle, the heir to the family's significant fortune, and it's political ties," Leliana explains. "In spite of that, it is his father who matters more."

"And who is our new friend's father?" I ask, and Leliana smiles in a frighteningly excited sort of way.

"Renard du Rousselle is the son of Coralie du Rousselle and Grand Duke Gaspard de Châlons," she tells me, as if that doesn't change everything. "And he may be Gaspard's key to the crown."