By Gods Forsaken

by inwardtransience

One day, the shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see. (How do you do a summary for something this big? Total retelling, Mahariel!Warden, mage!Hawke, Dreamer!Trevelyan!Inquisitor, worldbuilding, too many OCs, serious plot edits, primarily F/F.)

14. Broken Circle — I

9:30 Nubulis 20

Kinloch Hold, Danesmouth, Highever, Kingdom of Ferelden

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Lýna had never been on a boat before.

She had seen boats, of course. South of the wetlands, east of the hills her clan had most often made their home, the river emptied out into the sea. There was a city there, or the closest thing there was to such a thing in the south — it was perhaps the size of Redcliffe in the winters, though larger in the summers. (Or, there had been a city there, she guessed.) The entire area was dotted with Chasind villages, even some of the People who'd settled there slowly over generations, the flat, fertile land farm after farm after pasture after farm, eventually leading into the city itself at the mouth of the river, a colorful mix of square Chasind homes and lodges painted with clan signs and decorated with glass and furs, here and there rounder buildings, curves coming to graceful points, painted with dense, curling lines in a brilliant rainbow of color, murals of half-recognizable animals and people.

Those were the elven buildings. The city was one of the places in the south where humans and elves lived together, perhaps one of the People for every three Chasind — and they were still People, no matter that their way of life was so different from that of Lýna's clan, still spoke the same language and knew the same stories, blood-writing clear on their faces. It was also one of the few points of contact they had with the north. Gwaren was not so far away by boat, two or three days' sail up the coast, trade trickling back and forth. The People didn't make these trips, of course — Alamarri lands were still thought to be unsafe for them, even with the Orlesians gone — but the Chasind did, an occasional adventurous Alamarri trader coming the other way. To speak with the few Alamarri traders in the bay was the reason Lýna had started learning the language in the first place, though it was a skill she'd never actually had to put into practice, the clan fleeing north before it'd been asked of her.

Lýna had first visited the place when she'd been eight or so, and had been shocked to learn many of the People there could read and write. The clans in the town even kept an archive, records of bondings and births, written copies of stories and histories of the local clans, records of agreements made with the local Chasind. Lýna had never heard of the People doing such a thing before, in her clan only the Keeper and the First could read and write, maybe a tiny handful of others, the other clans she'd met no different.

Of course, all that history, gathered over generations by then, was probably lost — the city had been attacked by darkspawn about a year ago now, the entire region ravaged with blade and fire, the archive would have burned with the rest.

The boats in the bay, there was (had been) some variety among them. The People who lived there sailed in boats long and narrow, graceful, the sails cut in sweeping angles, dyed in brilliant colors that she assumed were clan symbols, though she hadn't recognized many of them. Their boats looked very similar to the ones the Avvar used, in the lakes up in the hills — she assumed the Avvar had learned it from the People, or perhaps the other way around. The Chasind boats were flatter and wider, usually less colorful, but larger, more suited to braving the open sea.

To Lýna's eyes, Alamarri boats were very similar to the Chasind ones, though larger (at least some of them), and rather more intricate in their design. The one they were taking north across the lake was maybe the largest boat Lýna had ever seen — it was hard to guess without anything familiar around to eyeball it with, but she was guessing the floor was maybe three lengths wide and ten or eleven long. The points at either end were mostly flat, without the curl up boats made by Avvar and the People had. There was space below the floor, divided into a few rooms for different purposes, though it was sort of cramped — the ceiling was low enough Lýna could easily reach up and touch it, Fergus had to hunch a bit walking around — and another level further down, below the water line, but not one people were meant to stay in, instead storing supplies. That middle level had a couple windows in it, sealed with slightly foggy glass, holding back wind and the occasional spray of mist from the lake.

The inside was bigger and more complicated than any Chasind boat she'd seen — she assumed, she'd never been on one — but the outside was different too. There was a fence all the way around the floor, in places the sides carved with intricate designs, the jagged up down up down lines, like the tops of the towers and walls at the castle, an occasional leaping dog or bird with wings spread, all in the stark red and white of Redcliffe. It was normal for the Chasind boats she'd seen to have a single large square sail, often with a second more triangular one angled down toward the front point of the boat. This one had...five?

Instead of one big post standing in the middle to hold the sails up, there were two, not quite spaced evenly across the floor, the one in the front a bit closer to the tip. They also didn't stand quite straight, leaning a little back — it wasn't by very much, but still, she didn't think she'd ever seen that before. The one at the back had one big sail, though it wasn't square, the back edge maybe half again the length of the front edge, the sail flaring out as it went; and it made sense to say it had a front and a back edge, because the sail wasn't centered on the post, like Lýna had seen before, but fixed to it along the front edge, the back edge hanging over the water past the left side of the boat. The front post had a similar lopsided sail, but it was smaller, maybe three-quarters the size. Tied high up between the two posts was a small squarish sail which...didn't seem to be doing much?

At the front, a pair of triangular sails were hung. The closer one was shorter and wider, one corner tied somewhere between the two sails on the front post, the other right at the front tip of the floor, the third not quite reaching the post, propped up a couple feet away, low enough Lýna had to duck under it. The further one was narrower, but longer, one corner meeting the tip of a pole sticking out in head of the boat, like a spear outstretched, the second ending in a rope that reached up to the very top of the front post, the third corner attached to another rope tied right around where the closer sail met the front of the floor, held loosely, letting the sail bow out in the wind.

Lýna wasn't really sure how that was supposed to work. She thought the point of sails was to catch the wind, let it pull the boat forward...but these triangular ones were aligned at a similar angle to the floor of the boat which...seemed like wind caught by them would push the boat sideways? Or, mostly sideways, they were it a little bit of an angle, but still.

She didn't doubt the Alamarri sailors must know what they were doing, since the boat was skimming along at a pretty good speed, Lýna just didn't know about these things. She had, after all, never been on a boat before.

She did decide pretty quickly that she liked it.

Not all of them were coming along for the trip, but they didn't need all of them — really, they only needed Alim, to tell the mages what kind of help Eamon needed, and Lýna, to talk to the mages and Templars about helping with the Blight. Alistair had suggested he should come too, he thought the Templars would be more comfortable letting a couple healers out to help with the Arl if they knew he would be around. (Also, so he could clear anything up if Lýna was having difficulty making herself understood, but he didn't say that part out loud.) Fergus had volunteered to join them once they'd begun making plans for the journey, a couple days ago now — he was the rightful Teyrn of Highever (not that Lýna was sure what that meant), and the Circle was in Highever, so he thought his presence would lend their request some weight it might not have alone.

During their downtime between the fight against the dead and their departure for the Circle, Lýna and Fergus had made something of an alliance. The terms hadn't been entirely worked out yet — they both wanted to speak to Arl Eamon before deciding where to go from there — but Fergus had made clear his intention to aid the Wardens against the Blight, in exchange for the Wardens helping him against a man named Rendon Howe, who Fergus claimed had murdered his family and stolen their lands. Lýna, obviously, had no idea who that was, but Alistair had explained Rendon Howe was an Arl, making him a very powerful person on the same level as Eamon (there were only six in all of Ferelden), and one of Loghain's most important allies. So, agreeing to help Fergus really cost them nothing — since the Wardens would need to do something about Loghain, they'd probably end up fighting this Rendon anyway. It was still a very loose, casual agreement, but Lýna fully intended to hold up her side of the bargain, which would probably lead to a much more solid alliance somewhere down the line.

When Fergus had walked out of the room after making their agreement, Alistair had explained that that had been a much bigger deal than Lýna had realized at the time. The Couslands were one of the most important families (clans) in Ferelden, and with the rest of his family gone Fergus was the rightful Teyrn of Highever — Highever was possibly the wealthiest region in the country, and the teyrns were the highest of their lords (jarlar), even more important than these arl people, enough there were only two of them. (The only other was Loghain, apparently.) Once he reclaimed his lands at the Landsmeet — which he would do, Alistair assured her there was no chance of them ruling against him — he would be quite seriously one of the most powerful Alamarri in existence, she could hardly ask for a better ally to assist the Wardens against the Blight.

Also, he was much less annoying than Teagan, at the very least. And not a bad fighter either — he'd been one of their shield-bearers in their battle against the dead, kept pace with them all the way up to the end. So. That worked out nicely.

When he'd volunteered to accompany them to the Circle, along with a pair of his knights, she hadn't thought about it for a second, welcomed him along immediately.

She still wasn't certain what a knight was...

Leliana was the last of their party coming along. Lýna had expected her to come — she did seem to prefer to stick close to Lýna, and she'd seemed strangely listless since the battle, out of place. (She admitted the other Chantry people had refused her help with the funerals and the like, which was strange, but okay.) Coming along to see the mages was at least something she could do with herself.

Keran and Perry had both requested to stay behind. In Keran's case, she'd argued someone should stay to represent the Wardens while they were gone, if only to make sure Teagan didn't forget he still owed them for their help — that was good thinking, and Keran got along best with the Arl's brother and the local knights (liðsmenn?), so Lýna had agreed. Keran had seemed surprised, as though she'd expected Lýna to refuse her. Perry had also asked to stay, mostly just because he was uncomfortable with the idea of going to the Circle (Lýna assumed, he hadn't said). While he was waiting for them to come back, he planned to help with the rebuilding work being done around the town, which Lýna thought was a good thing to be doing — and a good thing for a Warden to be seen doing — so she'd left him to it. Perry hadn't been surprised, but he was relieved — he really hadn't wanted to come along.

Morrigan had flatly refused to come with. When Lýna had asked why — switching to Chasind, in case it was something she didn't want to admit in front of the others — Morrigan had given her an annoyed sort of look, insisted that she had no intention of going anywhere near so many Templars. Which was perfectly reasonable, once Lýna had thought about it, if she were a free mage she probably wouldn't want to go anywhere near the Circle either. Morrigan had set herself up in the Arl's library, and promised to make sure Jowan was cared for in their absence.

Because Jowan was, unfortunately, still imprisoned. Lýna still had to bite back frustration every time she thought about that whole situation. She hadn't realized the Alamarri law against blood magic was quite so intense as it was — it was dangerous, but they seemed to take it a little far. Among the People, using such magics was frowned upon, but there were situations it was called for...most unambiguously as a desperate last stand, the mage sacrificing their life in a single powerful spell to ensure their clan could escape a threat safely, but still, they were at least open to the possibility of its use being justified. The Alamarri apparently believed the smallest bit of blood magic called for the mage to be put to death, without question — they'd nearly executed Alim just for being next to someone casting blood magic, which was just...

Lýna was pleased Alim was with the Wardens, but how he'd been recruited in the first place was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard — and she'd had no idea before talking to Jowan about it, neither Duncan nor Alim himself had ever mentioned it. The Alamarri and their ridiculous magic-hate, just...

Anyway, Lýna had tried to talk Teagan into letting him out. She'd assumed it would be easy, since she couldn't think of a good reason for him to still be imprisoned in the first place — they'd thought he'd put that spell on the Arl, but that was before they'd known the boy had been possessed, it was obvious what had happened looking back on it. It might have gone better if Teagan hadn't been sitting with Isolde when Lýna found him.

The Arl's wife did not like Lýna. She'd demanded multiple times for Lýna to be executed for killing her son...which, that didn't make any sense. Her son had already been gone, the demon had taken him, but even so, Alistair had killed the abomination, not Lýna. (The young boy choking on his own blood, going still with death, Lýna had been frozen with horror and guilt, she would have let the abomination kill her.) Isolde didn't like Alistair either, but the worst of her anger and hatred was directed at Lýna...for some reason?

Morrigan had suggested it was entirely because Lýna was one of the People, and she was going to have to assume that was it until someone gave her a better explanation.

(Lýna now knew the Orlesian word for "rabbit", and also that that was what people in Orlais who didn't like elves called them. She'd honestly never heard of that before Morrigan had translated what Isolde was screaming at her.)

Isolde refused to listen to reason about Jowan. She insisted he'd summoned the demon which had possessed Connor, which... Okay, Lýna wasn't a mage, but she was pretty sure that wasn't how that worked. Teagan, still very tired from dealing with the crisis and in mourning over the death of the boy, hadn't been willing to make a choice about it one way or the other. After a circular, pointless argument, Teagan had said it was out of his hands, they had to wait for Eamon to make a judgement.

Given what his wife would probably tell him once he was awake, Lýna doubted Eamon would be willing to listen to reason either. She was pretty sure she was going to end up Conscripting Jowan. She had already asked for his consent — forcing people to join the Wardens didn't sit right with her, but if she asked the person first she had no problem using that power to save people facing execution — but she suspected taking him while Eamon was still unconscious would not go over well. She didn't expect it to do any good, but she was going to wait until she could explain herself to him first. Jowan wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to stay in his cell for a few more days — especially since the Wardens were making sure he was being fed now, and Alim had even brought him books to pass the time.

As far as Lýna was concerned, Jowan was already a Warden — they just had to go through the motions for everyone else first. In any case, he obviously couldn't come along on their trip to the Circle.

They set out from Redcliffe late in the evening, the sun already dropped below the hills to the west. Their party of seven — Lýna, Alistair, Alim, Leliana, Fergus, and his two companions — weren't alone on the boat, accompanied by a team of sailors. Lýna wasn't certain how many, they moved around too much. Pulling out of the harbor, the boat had been a noisy, chaotic mess of activity, Alamarri sailors running this way and that, dragging ropes around before retying them, wood creaking and metal clanking — they only settled down once they were well off into the water, the people in the village tiny in the distance, for the rest of the journey making but small adjustments now and again.

And it was... Well.

Lýna remembered this one time, she would have been...six or seven, maybe younger, not long after her mother had died. They'd moved up into the hills for the summer, lingering for some time near an Avvar tribe — Stone-River, they returned there a couple times in later years, one of the tribes they had the best relationship with. Lýna remembered being sad a lot of the time back then, still mourning her parents, the other children of the clan not particularly friendly to her. (That was even the year before Mẽrhiᶅ joined the clan, she thought.) She remembered, when she wasn't busy with one chore or lesson or another, she was often off playing with some of the human children (which had only been allowed because her People considered Avvar to be barely human at all) — it was a big part of why her Avvar was so much better than her Chasind (or Alamarri), she'd started learning it early.

There had been a time, a long time ago, when she'd seriously considered running away and joining Stone-River Hold. Avvar didn't much care whether someone was a human or an elf or a dwarf or whatever, and she'd been young and lonely, they'd been much nicer to her than her own clan most of the time. But she'd gotten closer to Ashaᶅ, and then Mẽrhiᶅ had joined them, and then they had to deal with the Blight, people too busy to pick on the Savhrajeᶅ girl, and she'd gradually forgotten about it.

Anyway, one day they'd climbed up the cliffs at the edge of the river valley — which was dangerous and something they really shouldn't have been doing, Ásta's father had been very annoyed with them — by the time they got to the top Lýna had been sweating from the effort, her limbs shaky and soft as jelly. But she'd kept climbing, leaving the other kids laid out on the ground, she'd made her way up one of the nearby trees, up up up, until the branches had been getting thin and weak enough she couldn't climb anymore. And since she'd been a little elven girl, that was very close to the top, enough the tip had started wavering with her weight as she moved around.

The branches had been thin enough that the wind cut through mostly whole, the tree swaying a little with the gusts, tugging at her hair, whipping it this way and then that, brushing her cheeks and tickling her ears and neck. The entire valley had been spread out before her, miles and miles in all directions, Stone-River Hold cradled against the water, the entire breadth of her clan spread out not far away, tiny in the distance, and then further, trees and hills and cliffs, on and on and on. She'd felt unmoored, in a way, like she'd been caught on the wind — or perhaps like the Lady of the Skies had plucked her out of the tree to carry her away, as her Avvar friends might have put it.

And that wasn't entirely inappropriate, because it had been an...almost religious experience, she guessed. For a brief moment — the valley laid out quiet and beautiful before her, the wind rocking her tree, back and forth and back and forth — it'd all seemed so small, so far away and...unimportant. Her parents' deaths, being forced to live with Ashaᶅ, who had been nice enough but not her mother, the other kids of the clan being so awful much of the time, it all fell away, just for a moment, as though she were flying through the skies far above it all, leaving her own life behind, and... It'd been invigorating, almost ecstatic, she'd felt free and pure and untouched, just for a moment.

And then a couple hunters had stumbled across the kids on the ground beneath her and asked what they were doing up here, and the moment had been over. But it'd been amazing while it'd lasted.

Skimming across the lake on this boat, it felt a lot like that. The boat wasn't high up, obviously, but it felt just as removed from the rest of the world as the top of that cliff had. When they'd set off, the shore had been easily visible behind them, of course, fuzzy and gray in the distance to the east and west, but as the sky darkened they faded even to her sight. When true darkness fell — the stars spread out as scattered glittering dust above them, blotted out here and there by the sails and streaks of clouds — the sailors made some more adjustments, bringing their speed down so long as they couldn't see anything, and...

The night was quiet, and still. The chatter of their party and the sailors, the lapping of the waves, the low, gentle roar of the wind, the boat creaking and clinking against the wind — and that was all there was, the darkness around them almost seeming to have a physical weight, pressing in on all sides. Too dark even for Lýna to see that far, the shore was gone, and it was only their boat, and the water, and nothing else.

After sleeping for a short time, Lýna had returned to the top, leaning against the fence and looking out over the lake. And for a quiet, peaceful moment, everything seemed so far away. The rest of the world might as well have ceased to exist, the irritation of Teagan and Isolde, the complicated, confusing politics of the Alamarri, the delicate relationships between the Wardens Lýna was still trying to figure out how to manage — even the Blight itself, the Song at the back of her head had quieted, enough she could barely hear it at all. (The magic of the Blight did poorly in open water, for some reason, supposedly even the Archdemon wouldn't fly over a lake so large as this one.) It all fell away, the wolves snapping at her heels and the weight pulling down at her shoulders gone as though they'd never been.

Struck by a random whim, Lýna had climbed one of the posts — the one at the rear, which she recalled was slightly taller. There were pegs stuck into the wood, worn smooth with the weight of a hundred hands and feet, so climbing it wasn't difficult at all. With each step up, Lýna felt the world trickle off her — like stepping out of a scummy pond she'd fallen into, clinging to her slick and slimy, dropping away bit by bit the further she climbed. She left behind the ghosts of all those who'd died in the south, her confusion with the Alamarri's inscrutable ways, her frustration that nobody would just explain these things properly, Ashaᶅ and Mẽrhiᶅ and Tallẽ, her simmering dislike of Isolde, her worries that the woman's dislike of her would only make things more difficult, her worries Keran's dislike and distrust of her would cripple the Wardens at the worst moment, her fear they wouldn't be enough to stop the Blight, especially with the Alamarri determined to fight among themselves despite the common threat, that she would fail in the task Duncan had trusted her with, that she would watch the Alamarri suffer and starve and die as she already had the People and Avvar and Chasind...

...the boy, Connor, her sword cut deep into his neck, choking on his own blood, wet and hot on her hands as she fruitlessly tried to hold the horrible wound closed, his eyes watery with tears, echoes of countless other dead dancing in her head, Ashaᶅ's disappointment ringing harsher than Alim bringing down the doors of the castle...

...it all fell away, left far below, like her Avvar friends waiting sweaty and tired down on the ground under her, leaving only the wind and Lýna — whoever she even was anymore, Lýna had long ceased being certain by now. The wind tugging at her hair, brushing her cheeks and tickling her ears and neck, the boat over the waves sending the post gently rocking, back and forth and back and forth, and she was left feeling clean and unmoored, as though the wind had swept in and plucked her up, leaving everything else behind.

Lýna had found a place to sit near the top, her back against the post, sitting on a leg folded over one of the pegs, her other foot set on the pole the big sail hung from, the rope at the top of the sail hanging between the posts tucked under her arm. Her head tipped back, the stars spread out above her, absolutely nothing else around, the world small and unimportant and so very far away. Without really thinking about it — hardly thinking at all, letting the rocking of the boat and the gentle touch of the wind carry her away — Lýna found herself singing under her breath, praise and thanks to the Lady of the Skies, a song she'd learned... Oh, she couldn't remember who she'd picked it up from, it would have been years ago. No matter, it was pretty.

Not that she actually followed the Lady of the Skies, of course. The People accepted that she existed — it would be hard not to, as many Avvars shamans there were in direct contact with her — but she wasn't their god. Not that the Lady herself cared whether someone was elf or human, or even whether someone was Avvar that much. She did have the proper respect anyone should for a god as powerful as the Lady of the Skies, but Lýna certainly didn't mean this kind of song the way an Avvar would.

But the Lady should know what she meant by it as well as Lýna did. If she chose to listen, that was fine, Lýna didn't mind.

Somehow, Lýna managed to fall asleep up that post — she was honestly surprised she hadn't fallen off at any point in the night. And she must have slept for some time, when one of the sailors shook her awake the eastern sky was afire with the sunrise. Lýna woke cold, having been out in the spring wind for so long, but she also woke calm and clear and rested. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so well. It might have been so long as before the Blight started thickening in the south, she might have been a child...

Leliana found her a few hours later, sitting on the fence at the front of the boat, looking over the waves ahead of them. The rest of their party had mostly left her alone all day, which was fine, Lýna intended to enjoy the boat trip while it lasted. But Leliana came bearing bread and cheese, and she wasn't bad company anyway, so Lýna didn't mind. Taking the offered food, she said, "Thank you, Lèlja," in Deluvẽ.

"My pleasure," Leliana said, smiling — having gotten a little practice, this at least she could say flawlessly. She waited a brief moment, Lýna chewing at her bread, Leliana's bright orange hair dancing in the wind. "Forgive me, but you seem better, than yesterday. Did you sleep well?"

Lýna wasn't certain why she'd need to forgive Leliana for asking that, but okay. "Yes. I like it out here. It's..." She couldn't think of the word in Alamarri. "...aţishas. Friðsælt?"

"Ah, peaceful. I think, I'm guessing."

"Yes, peaceful, this is it." She recognized the first half, at least, it just hadn't occurred to her at the time. Also, she could never guess when she was supposed to use -ful and when it was -some, as in Chasind, very confusing. "I never go on boat before. I like it, here."

Leliana just hummed to herself for a moment, smiling. "I've never been out on the water much, myself. It's the quickest way to the capital from Lydes, I have taken ferries across a few times, but no more than that. It's very popular with some people in Orlais, though, I've known people who go out sailing for fun."

She wasn't surprised. If she had an opportunity to go out just for the sake of it, and there weren't more pressing issues demanding her time, she didn't doubt she would take it.

"Now that I have you alone, there was something I was thinking of talking to you about."

Lýna turned away from the water to frown at her. "Yes?"

"As I understand it, you are the closest thing Ferelden has to a Warden-Commander right now, and will probably be raised to that position once the rest of the Wardens catch up on what's happened here. Yes?"

"Mm...maybe? Riordan in Denerim is also Warden-Lieutenant, but we don't know where he is. He may not live." Lýna thought it possible he'd gotten out of the city alive — Loghain might have gotten lucky and trapped him, but Wardens had the advantages the magic of the Blight gave them and were usually very well-trained. But they had no way of knowing one way or the other for now. "Weisshaupt may raise him over me. Or they may send someone new. I don't know, but maybe."

Leliana nodded. "Warden-Commanders must deal with their own country, but they're also involved with the surrounding kingdoms. So far as they must to keep their people supplied, at the least."

"Yes?"

"The language of trade and diplomacy in the south is Cirienne." At Lýna's blank look, Leliana smiled. "Orlesienne?"

"Ah, this is odluvẽ." The language of the Orlesians, to the west of here — though Lýna didn't even know how far west, honestly, she didn't know the north very well. "What does— You say, I must learn this? I still learn Alamarri."

"You have learned Alamarri. At this point what you need is practice, there is little more to do there. And the language I would be teaching you in would be Alamarri, so it would help with that too, you see."

"I... Yes, I see." That was how she'd learned Alamarri in the first place, through Chasind, as part of trades with nearby villages. "How big is odluvẽ, here?"

"Very big. It is the most common one people learn as a second language, through all the south — if you are speaking to someone from a foreign land, most often it will be in Orlesienne."

...Oh. Yes, if she did end up becoming such an important person as the Warden-Commander, she saw how she might have to know that. Damn.

Giving her a bright, warm smile, a subtle light dancing in her eyes, Leliana said, "We could make it a trade, if you like? I would love to learn your language. Then I would be able to appreciate your people's stories better."

Lýna found herself smiling — she couldn't help it, none of the other Alamarri bothered offering this kind of exchange. (Which was really very rude, but she was used to it by now.) "Okay. This is well."

"Good, not well."

"I hate this word."

Leliana giggled.

Their first Orlesian/Deluvẽ lesson was very brief, just covering basic things — giving one's name, basic pleasantries, asking how to say something, that sort of thing. Because the humans of the north had to make everything complicated, Lýna ran into something annoyingly difficult right away: the Orlesian word for la was completely impossible to pronounce. It sounded like it was halfway between shy and ᶁy, and Lýna could not get it right. Eventually, Lýna got pretty close — or at least close enough that Leliana said it was clear what she was trying to say, which would have to do for now.

Why did Orlesians have to make even such a basic word so difficult? That was, just, very annoying...

They sailed through the day, quiet and uneventful. By the time the western sky started to redden, the shores to the east and west had loomed out of the fuzzy distance, approaching ever nearer, until the thin finger of a tower poked over the horizon. It was very tall, Lýna making out the top of it long before the rest gradually came into view — she thought she had finally seen the bottom, but minutes later she noticed there was a jagged, rocky island under it, it was even higher above the water than she'd thought. Beyond the tower, just coming into view in the last moments of daylight, the eastern and western shore finally met, curling back out of sight to the east.

That was the River Dane, she was told. This lake was sort of peculiar in that it fed two separate rivers. One was the same river they'd crossed once at Lothering and then again following the Highway west — the River Drakon, as it was called, flowed east through Alamarri lands, the city of Denerim sitting where the waters met. The River Dane flowed north, after about two days' travel emptying into the sea...which was confusing, because Lýna had thought the sea was to the east of here. Apparently, there was a narrow finger of it stretching through the land, about as wide as the distance they'd sailed on this lake, but much, much longer, hundreds and hundreds of miles. After a bit of asking Alistair and Leliana, Lýna eventually figured out the Dayscourse River — the Minanter, Alistair called it once he figured out which she meant — was on the other side of this strip of sea from Ferelden.

The Dayscourse River happened to be where her clan had been headed before Lýna had left for the Wardens, but she hadn't realized there was a span of open water in the way. Despite how pointless it was, she was struck with a distracting tingle of worry, wondering whether they'd made it across safely. And in foreign land, with foreign people speaking foreign languages... There were already People there, of course, that's why they'd been headed there of all places, but...

There was nothing she could do about that.

The tower itself, Lýna instantly recognized as Tevinter — describing this region of the country (the same talk including the information about the rivers and the finger of sea), Fergus claimed the tower had been built by the Avvars ages ago, but Alim behind him rolled his eyes, so Lýna assumed he was wrong about that. Besides, it certainly looked Tevinter. The grayish-white stone almost unnaturally smooth, more perfectly round than seemed quite real — the Tevinters used magic to do that sort of thing, she knew — the tower stretched far over their heads, almost obscenely high. That cliff she'd climbed and the tree above it...was probably actually lower than the top of the tower, which was crazy to think about. There were cliffs along the mountains far to the south that might be higher, but still, Lýna was pretty sure this tower was the single tallest thing she'd ever seen in her life.

Like the Tower of Ishal, this one had little ribs on the sides. Five of them, it looked like, but instead of just running straight into the ground at the tower base these spread out to the sides, sprawling across the little island, each of them eventually rising into a much narrower, much shorter tower, right over the water. The ribs didn't go all the way to the top either, but melded into the sides of the tower maybe two-thirds of the way up, leaving the stone above there perfectly smooth and unbroken. At the very top, ridiculously high, the stone jutted out again, forming a little round platform.

Lýna found she really wanted to go up there. How tall this thing was, what the view must be like! Hopefully they'd be lingering here long enough for her to check it out, it looked like it'd be incredible.

(She started humming that song to herself again without meaning to, quickly cut herself off.)

Oddly, there appeared to be smoke coming out of some of the windows, wispy little curls trailing off to the southeast. Lýna, having never seen the place before, assumed this was normal — they must have fires to keep the place warm, and maybe they did some forging or something, what did she know? But Alim, lingering at the front of the boat, his head tilted back a little to take in the tower, grew more worried as they neared, his face settling into a glare and his fingers tightening against the fence hard enough she could hear the leather of his gloves squeak against the wood.

Then, there was a flash of green-purple light, coming from somewhere about halfway up, a low boom echoing out over the lake. There was no way that could be normal.

They were not so far away when night fell — the tower almost seemed to glow a pale silver in the night, the orange of fire now obvious flickering in some of the windows. The water was rocky here, the sailors wanted to stop and wait for morning but, his voice tight and harsh, Alim insisted they go on. He cast magelight out over the water, the soft, gentle green of the Beyond, and a lot of it, Lýna had never seen so much before. Reluctantly, the sailors picked their way through the rocks looming now and again out of the night, murky but clearly outlined by Alim's magelight, their progress slow and cautious.

Finally, they approached a pier on the island, poking out into the water toward the north. Waiting for them on the floating wooden platform were three figures, the angles their profiles made suggesting they were wearing armor — and then Alim's magelight swept over them, revealing gray metal, red leather, and gold cloth, etched into the plate covering each of their chests the flaming sword of the Templars.

They were still a short distance off when one of the Templars called to them, voice turned thin at range. "The Circle Tower is closed to all visitors! Turn around now!"

"I am Fergus Cousland of Highever!" Lýna cringed — standing so close, Fergus's deep, booming voice echoed painfully in her head. "I demand magical aid on behalf of Arl Eamon of Redcliffe!"

There was silence for a long moment, their boat crawling ever closer. Finally, "We heard you were dead, Your Grace."

"So that traitor Howe wishes! I need to speak with your commander. May my people come ashore?"

"...As you wish, Your Grace, but I don't know what help we can offer."

There was a bit of chaos as the boat met the pier, sailors leaping off to tie down this or that thing, a storm of noise over their heads as something was done with the sails. Distracted, Lýna didn't notice their people were leaving the boat until Leliana got her attention — Alistair, Fergus, and one of his men were already on the platform. The second of Fergus's men was climbing over the fence as she came over, clutching on and cautiously extending his foot over; Lýna just skipped up, planted a hand on the fence and vaulted over, bouncing to a halt next to Alistair. Alim came shortly behind Lýna, Leliana almost as smoothly and easily as the elves, and only then did Fergus's man finally find his feet on the pier.

Lýna remembered the constant rocking of the boat had made this one very sick, that probably didn't help his balance getting off. Personally, the sudden stillness of the floor under her feet was making Lýna feel unsteady, like she was constantly coming up short and nearly tripping over herself, hopefully she'd get back to normal before too long.

One of the Templars, she saw now, had an extra sash around his waist, purple stitched with gold — must be an officer of some kind. Alistair and Fergus were clanking up to this one, Fergus asking what was going on, was the tower on fire, but he never quite got an answer. Before any of the Templars could say anything, they caught sight of Alim. There was a harsh scraping of metal against leather, two of the Templars instantly drawing their swords.

Normally, Lýna wouldn't think twice about Alim facing down three large humans so well armed and armored, but Templars were said to all have those anti-magic powers gifted to them by their magic-hating god — Alim had been completely helpless against just one darkspawn with a similar talent. Lýna didn't know if a fight would break out — Alistair was moving to stand between them, reaching for his shield, Fergus's hand on his own blade — but she wasn't going to take any chances with one of her people.

Darting forward, Lýna tugged Alim back by the elbow, putting him firmly behind her, coming up on Alistair's left. Her sword was already to hand, waiting hanging to her left to intercept any advance. The Templars twitched at her appearance, and possibly the fact that she'd drawn her weapon on them — they had first, of course, but they were sworn warriors of the Alamarri god, that might be part of why Alistair and Fergus hadn't yet. In a low, threatening grumble, one of them asked (to Alistair), "Why do you have a savage with you?"

"I am Warden-Lieutenant Lýna Maharjeᶅ. Alim is of mine, and you will not harm him."

"Oh, Lýna, so forceful, I think I might swoon." It took some effort not to turn a glare back on Alim — she had to keep watching the Templars for sudden movements, no matter what weird thing Alim said.

The Templar, of course, didn't speak directly to her, instead to Alistair next to her. She'd noticed Alamarri do that a lot. "Order her to stand down, Ser Alistair."

"Can't," he chirped, mail clinking as he lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I'm afraid Duncan promoted the savage out from under me — I follow her orders, not the other way around." He spoke light and casual, almost cheerful, but Lýna didn't buy his act for a second. He was still standing between the Templar officer and Alim, his hand not quite on but near the hilt of his sword, his posture tense and ready.

Sounding aghast, "You're a Templar!" Lýna guessed he was offended by the idea of a Templar following a savage like her. Or, maybe it was just because he was defending an evil blood mage, could go either way.

"Not anymore, I'm not — my vows to the Order were broken when I joined the Wardens, you know that."

"Warden." This was the one with the sash, his voice somewhat smoother and calmer than the other Templar. Of the three, he was also the only one who hadn't drawn a weapon at the sight of Alim. "I am Hadley, Knight-Captain of the Holy Order of Knights-Templar."

Lýna nodded, but didn't respond, closely watching the nearest Templar.

"I realize you might not have known this, but you are harboring a mage who has been sentenced as maleficar."

"Oh, Andraste have mercy," Alim groaned, "that sentence was nugshit, Hadley, and you know it! I never touched any forbidden magic!"

"That's not what I heard."

"Then whoever told you that was fucking lying! Last time I checked, being in the room when blood magic is cast by someone else doesn't call for execution! If Duncan hadn't Conscripted me Greagoir would have had me killed for someone else's crimes — and Irving would have just let him do it without protest, like the cowardly, sniveling old bastard he is!"

The Templars tensed at the shouting, Lýna shifted her stance a little in response — the left-most Templar would get to her first, she had to cripple him before he could reach Alim, Alistair would stop the right-most, but she didn't know what Fergus would do... "Surana, you are not doing yourself any favors by—"

"As if any of you ever listen to a damn word we say anyway!"

"This is not the time to argue about—"

"Stop!" By some miracle, the Knight-Captain actually cut off at the snapped word — Lýna's voice was much softer than the big human's, she hadn't been certain that would work. "Alim is Grey Warden now. What came before, is as nothing."

"I understand that, Lieutenant, but—"

"No but! He says he not do it, I believe him. Even so, if he did do it, I do not care." Obviously — she did intend to recruit the person who was actually guilty of the 'crime' they wished to execute Alim for. But these Templars didn't need to know that. "He is Grey Warden now, and you will not harm him."

For a moment, there was quiet, the waves gently lapping on the shore, the sailors nearby still working away. Lýna even heard a faint clinking of mail as the men breathed. There was a wary tension on the air, their two sides glaring at each other. She noticed an odd...not scent, exactly, but neither quite sound, either. Something like the tingling, crackling song of magic, but no melody rose out of it, more like the buzzing of a fly in her ear — the Templars doing their anti-magic thing, maybe? She hadn't noticed it a moment ago...

"If I may, Knight-Captain," Fergus said, stepping forward a bit. The Alamarri man — looking almost Avvar, unsettlingly tall and large, the lack of helmet revealing long curly hair, orange streaked with yellow — stepped forward a little, the right-most Templar tensing, his sword hand angling a little toward Fergus. Hadley's hand snapped out to close around the Templar's wrist, dragging his hand down to his side. "If I remember the law as it pertains to these matters correctly, Lýna is correct: the Templars have no jurisdiction over mages who have joined the Grey Wardens."

The left-most Templar bristled. "If the Wardens shield maleficars, are we supposed to stand back and do nothing?"

"Not a maleficar," Alim sang, his voice light and bouncing.

"Hold your tongue, you—"

"Ser Cordin," Hadley barked; the Templar froze instantly. "This isn't something I can make a decision on one way or the other. The Commander is inside — you should both bring your business to him."

"But ser, with what's happening in the tower right now, we can't possibly allow a—"

"Templars, stand down."

The left-most Templar froze, again. After the shortest hesitation, both men returned their swords to their sheaths — though the tension didn't entirely fade, both still rigid, the one on the left all but shaking with fury, fists clenched at his sides.

A path led up from the pier, weaving back and forth over the uneven, rocky island. Loose stones were scattered across the path, in some places a thin covering of pebbles, one of Fergus's men nearly lost his footing once. One caught Alim, his foot skidding out from under him, he might have fallen off the side of the path if Leliana hadn't snagged him by the wrist. After the surprisingly treacherous walk, they eventually came to the doors — they were huge, wide double doors arcing up, up, had to be at least two times Fergus's height. Shockingly, they appeared to be made out of metal of some kind, glinting darkly in the night, the black inlaid with designs in silver, a twisting tangle of vines, dancing between them great birds and dragons with wings outstretched. (Definitely Tevinter.) Where did they even get that much metal? That seemed like a very wasteful use of materials. Absurd...

Inside the door was a wide, tall hallway, all made of stone save for the doors, the occasional metal lamp or decoration along the walls. The outside of the tower had looked very Tevinter, but the inside was different — she assumed the Alamarri must have redone everything at some point. The metal, mostly gold (bronze?), attached high up on the walls formed itself into a dog now and again, seemingly running and leaping off the corners of the door frames — that was an Alamarri thing, dragons and birds and these fennec-looking things were more Tevinter — the walls and ceiling bare gray-white stone, the floor all made of little six-sided tiles — she'd noticed their Chantry places used a lot of six-sided shapes for some reason — some of them plain white and black, others with the Chantry sunburst in orange traced with gold. Halfway down the hall, the regular pattern was broken with a big circle all in black, six of these little almost serpentine designs in blue and green, didn't know what those were, arranged in a circle around—

Lýna froze, staring wide-eyed down at the symbol shaped out of the floor tiles. A black circle inside a tapered, seed-like shape, this one white, spreading out from it thick lines in red and green, each wavering back and forth a couple times before coming to a point, gently, like kelp wavering in water — or more like, tendrils of the Beyond trickling through a rent in the Veil. She knew this, she'd seen it many times before. The number of tendrils around it was never quite the same, and the colors were a little off, but she knew it.

The Eye of the Lady.

"Lýna?"

Not turning to Leliana, her eyes refusing to pull away from the tiles at her feet, Lýna pointed down at the Eye. "This. What is this?"

"Ah, the Witness Unseen, the All-Seeing Eye." Leliana's voice sounded a little absent, as though she were only half aware of what she was saying. "It's an old symbol of the Maker, from the time of the Inquisition. It troubles you. Why?"

That... The Lady of the Skies was certainly older than Andraste — perhaps not this Maker person, but Lýna didn't know if he'd even been worshipped at all before the Rebellion. She was pretty sure the Eye had been the Lady's first. Did Andraste's people end up using it? Why? From what she understood of the Avvar faith (which was quite a lot), that...didn't seem to make any sense... Maybe Andraste had had old Avvar allies who'd marched under the Eye, but...

Wrenching her eyes away from the tile, Lýna shook her head at Leliana, and started off again, skipping forward a few steps to catch up with the others.

At the end of the hall was a large circular room, perhaps nearly as long as two good shots across, the ceiling propped up here and there with thick columns — the base of the tower, she assumed. The door they came through was one of five, each probably leading into the points stretching out from the tower, along the walls crates and bundles of supplies. (Lýna couldn't tell what any of it was, hidden by wooden slats or covered with canvas.) Beyond those storage spaces the room was mostly empty, a wide floor with some kind of intricate mosaic in colorful tile, how wide across it was and how high the ceiling she was certain it was the single largest enclosed space she'd ever been in. It didn't even feel like she was inside, really, the space open enough that distracting niggling of discomfort at being surrounded with heavy stone failed to set in.

The ceiling was higher after the first row of pillars, revealing the big middle part was actually cut out of the second floor too, a railing all around glimmering silver in the light, five more doors placed directly above the ones on their level. That...seemed like a waste of space? She meant, they could have put a lot of things on the second floor here, but just leaving it open was kind of silly, especially since it couldn't be easy to build a place like this. She wasn't complaining, exactly — having all this open space made it feel much less cramped than the fortress at Redcliffe, for example — but it still seemed like a lot of effort for little benefit to her.

In the big room were Templars, all over the place — there had to be a couple dozen of them, at least — all in that now familiar armor, but with a little more variety than she'd noticed before. With so many in one place, it was more obvious that each set was actually slightly different, the form altered a little to accommodate different statures, lighter or heavier depending on the strength and size of the wearer. Lýna noticed a few women, she'd never seen a woman Templar before — from what she could tell, they tended to have more mail and leather (layered with splints, of course), though still with a few sturdy plates here and there, especially over the chest, featuring the same flaming sword. Several of them had an entirely different design, splinted coat falling nearly to their ankles, tight along their trunks but flaring out below their hips, sturdy enough to intercept incoming blows but loose enough to allow freer movement; these Templars had the same chestplate, but no heavy armor over their shoulders, less constrictive, their gloves leaving the last couple joints of their fingers free. Archers, those had to be archers.

Something had definitely happened: many of the Templars were injured, tended to by more Templars and several people in Chantry robes, more people in modest wool Lýna assumed were locals or servants. Laid out on the floor on pallets covered in furs, armor removed to get at gashes cut straight through steel, or weeping burns. Some had odder injuries — flesh contorted and bubbled (like stew on the fire, though frozen in an instant), little shards of bone rearranged to spear up through their skin in a dozen places, one man's arm was floppy and shapeless, as though the bones inside had simply dissolved, some their wounds took on odd colors, blue and green and purple, in a couple cases browns and blacks of advanced rot, nothing that could possibly have come to be attached to a living body, not by natural means.

This was the aftermath of a magical battle. Lýna had never seen such a thing before, but the results she did see couldn't be anything else.

Hadley led their party through the room, toward a table set up some paces away from one of the doors. Gathered around it were several people, all in Templar armor. One had a sash around his waist, like Hadley, but also with extra golden accents tracing the edges of his armor — which was scorched along the left side, metal blackened and the lines of the bit over his shoulder smeared, as though melted and allowed to reset, his left arm bandaged and held in a sling, leaving him looking absurdly lopsided. Another of them stuck out, a tall willowy man, hair sheared nearly to his skull, wearing a coat much like the archers though with a different design, overlapping scales covering his shoulders and most of his chest and back, instead of splints the lower half of his coat stitched with complex sigils Lýna recognized as enchantments. His gloves didn't match, one simple leather, backed with tiny scales from his elbow through the back of his hand, the other a heavy greave like the other Templars', plate and mail.

They were about halfway to the table when Lýna noticed, abruptly, that she and Alim were the only elves in the room. All the Templars, the Chantry people, even the probable servants, there could be as many as a hundred people and every single one was human. That was...odd. There hadn't been many elves in Redcliffe, but there'd still been some...

Walking nearby — carefully in the middle of their group, ensuring there was always at least one person between him and the Templars — Alim ground out a curse. At Lýna's glance, he nodded toward the table. It was hard to tell at this distance, but Lýna thought he was looking at the man in the leather-and-scale coat. He muttered, low enough his voice wouldn't carry, "Knight-Enchanter Kenrick. Not looking forward to having to talk to him, self-righteous bastard."

On his other side, Leliana hissed, "There is clearly something terribly wrong here, and what concerns you is having to deal with the company of someone you dislike?"

At the obvious disapproval on her face, Alim awkwardly looked up at the distant ceiling, gave a helpless shrug. "I know, but— Look, you don't know how much of a shit this guy is, trust me, he's going to be a problem."

They approached the table soon enough. Hadley started introducing them, but the man in the lopsided gold-lined armor interrupted before he could get more than a few words out. This man was older than Lýna would have expected, face deeply lined and hair streaked with gray, though obviously having retained the bulk of his strength, tall and thick. "My Lord Fergus, welcome to Kinloch Hold — wish that it were in better circumstances. You have my condolences for the loss of your family, Your Grace."

His outline obscured somewhat by heavy plate and mail, Lýna still caught how Fergus tensed, just a little bit. "Thank you, Knight-Commander. But this isn't a personal visit — I come directly from Redcliffe, which has just experienced a serious magical catastrophe, and Arl Eamon requires magical healing. It appears you have your own troubles, however," he added, glancing around at the injured Templars around them.

The Knight-Commander, who Lýna assumed must be in charge around here, grimaced. "That would be an understatement, Your Grace. First, might I know your companions? Some are Grey Wardens, I assume — hello again, Ser Alistair."

Introductions quickly went around the table. The man in the gold-traced armor was named Greagoir, and was, indeed, the person in command of the Templars. (Whether that meant all the Templars in all of Ferelden, like the Warden-Commander, or just the Templars here at the Circle, that wasn't specified.) There were a couple more Knight-Captains — though Hadley was gone, he'd left to stand watch over the boats again — and one Knight-Lieutenant. Of the Templars, the Knight-Enchanter Alim disliked was introduced last — which was very confusing, since this Kenrick was apparently a Templar and a mage, Lýna hadn't realized it could work like that. Wasn't having a mage among their number sort of a contradiction of their weird magic-hating beliefs? Perhaps they just wanted a loyal mage around to help them deal with magical threats, Lýna didn't know.

The introductions the other way around were mostly uneventful. Greagoir seemed a little surprised that Lýna lead the Wardens, bushy eyebrows twitching up his face, but he didn't comment, just gave her a solemn nod and moved on. Of course, the Templars already knew Alistair, probably from back when he'd been training to become one of them. Lýna had expected the Templars to show the same poor reaction to Leliana most Alamarri did — she got the feeling that war-shamans didn't exist up here (unless they were Templars), the Alamarri were uncomfortable with the idea of one of their Sisters fighting — but to her surprise they just pleasantly nodded, welcoming their Sister among them easily enough. She would just think it didn't bother Templars as much as it did ordinary Alamarri, but Leliana did make Alistair uncomfortable sometimes...or maybe that was just the "heresy"...

It was when Alim came up that things didn't go quite smoothly, but still not as bad as Lýna might have feared. Introducing Leliana to the Templars, their group had shifted around a little bit, Alim no longer hidden behind Alistair and one of Fergus's men (that one was Sedrick, she thought). Kenrick, the Templar mage, spotted him first, or at least reacted first, his lips twisting into a faint scowl. "Alim Surana. I didn't think you were stupid enough to show your face here again."

"Hullo, Kenrick," Alim chirped, light and cheerful — seemingly ignoring the way the Templars within earshot stiffened, hands hovering over hilts. "How are things? Did you ever try out that poultice I recommended?" Leaning a little closer to Leliana, he said in a fake-whisper, "He spends so much time on his knees, you see."

Kenrick twitched, eyes narrowing in anger. He clearly felt he'd been insulted, but Lýna didn't really get how. "I wonder, are you talented enough with healing magic to prevent scars from forming on your wrists?"

"No, by the time the Warden-Commander made Greagoir over here get those manacles off me it'd been too long, I wasn't able to reverse all the damage. I'll carry those marks forever, I'm afraid."

"Oh dear, how awful. Perhaps I could take a look at—"

"Ser Kenrick," Greagoir said in a sigh, his eyes tipping up toward the ceiling for a second. "This is no time to revive petty feuds with the more willful of our charges."

"The elf is a maleficar, Commander."

"He is a Grey Warden — the Chantry is a signatory to the Blight Accords, and so we are bound." Greagoir stared down Kenrick and a couple of the other Templars around for a few seconds, eventually getting grudging nods and mumbles of agreement from all of them. Then he turned to Lýna. "Do understand, Warden: upon joining your order, his previous crimes are void. If the Templars have reason to believe he has committed new crimes within the lands we protect, we have the right to pursue justice as we see fit."

Lýna doubted that — she was pretty sure the Templars didn't have the right to enforce their religious law on the Wardens at all ever — but she also didn't care. Alim had never actually used blood magic before, and he wasn't careless enough to cast anything the Templars considered forbidden right in front of them — it would never become a problem. "Even so," she agreed, nodding.

As Greagoir turned back to Fergus, all the other Templars set to ignoring him, as though he weren't even there, tension seemed to lift out of Alim, his stance looser than it'd been a second ago, as though he'd expected a blow that had never come. Lýna even caught the hiss of a sigh, though probably low enough none of the humans could hear it.

The conversation that followed — mostly between Alistair, Fergus, and Greagoir — was too quick and heated, bouncing back and forth between questions and explanations, people quite nearly talking over each other, enough that Lýna with her slow, awkward Alamarri couldn't participate. She did mostly follow it, though.

At the request of the King, the Circle had sent a couple dozen mages to support the army at Ostagar, along with an escort of maybe twice that many Templars. They'd participated in the battle, and most of them were presumed dead — however, a couple days ago several of the mages had turned up here, dirty and exhausted but alive. A day later, the rebellion had started. Perhaps as many as a fifth of the mages had banded together to strike at the Templars, seeking to fight their way down through the tower and escape into the countryside.

The rebellion was led by an Enchanter Uldred. Alim groaned — that was one of his favorites of the Circle's elders, he admitted to Lýna in a whisper.

At first, their attacks had been careful and targeted, taking out Templars by surprise before they could suppress their magic, quickly and efficiently. But it hadn't taken the Templars very long to realize something was happening, so they closed ranks, and started striking back. At that point, though, they'd had no idea who was part of the rebellion and who wasn't, and they'd been jumping at shadows — Greagoir admitted they'd killed a number of innocent mages in those early hours. Templars randomly killing mages who'd done nothing wrong made the mages who hadn't been part of the rebellion scared and angry, so many of them started fighting back to protect themselves.

From there, it didn't take very long for the Circle to descend into open battle. Between the meticulously deadly tactics of Uldred's men, and the unpredictability of the other terrified mages — and also the occasional abomination, though there'd "only" been a few of those — the Templars had fared very badly. After nearly an entire day of fighting, they'd retreated into the lower levels, sealing the tower behind them.

Even with the Templars gone, the fighting in the tower had continued. Of course, they didn't know exactly what was going on up there, but they assumed the mages were putting down the abominations that had cropped up. There'd also been fighting between groups of mages. From what little the Templars had been able to piece together, there were at least three factions: the rebels, mostly Libertarian and Isolationist mages along with their friends and apprentices, led by Enchanter Uldred; their opponents, Aequitarian and Loyalist mages, led by First Enchanter Irving, the leader of the Circle; and then there was a third group, mages who wanted nothing to do with any of this and were just trying to stay alive, who the last the Templars had seen had started to congregate around Enchanter Wynne, who'd been mostly focused on protecting the children. One of the Knight-Captains said they thought Irving had the advantage of numbers, but Uldred had all the better fighters, the core of his rebels with experience with the kingdom's forces against darkspawn or outlaws in the north. It was really anybody's guess which way the fighting would end up going.

Lýna had no idea what some of these words were supposed to mean, like Libertarian or...whatever, but it also didn't seem important to ask right now.

While the Templars healed their wounded, regrouped and rested, the fighting had continued over their heads. It'd gone on most of the day, but it'd finally started winding down not long ago. Greagoir had sent word to Highever and Denerim for reinforcements, and had asked the Grand Cleric — an important Chantry person, Lýna gathered — for permission to invoke the Rite of Annulment.

"What?!" Alim blurted out. The shock hit hard enough his magic flared, a hint of tingling music on the air, the taste of a storm about to hit; the Templars shifted anxiously, must feel it too. "You can't do that!"

One of the Knight-Captains sneered at him. "The Commander can do whatever he feels is necessary to prevent this chaos from being loosed in our country."

"But they didn't—!"

Alim's voice died in his throat when Fergus's over-sized hand came down on his shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt him, Lýna didn't think, Alim was just startled. "Forgive me if I'm mistaken somehow, Ser, but Annulling the Circle strikes me to be a drastic over-reaction. Surely, whatever crimes Uldred and his rebels have committed should be upon them alone, and not laid at the feet of every resident of Kinloch Hold."

Ah, Law-Giver Hold, she just got that. That was an Avvar name, they must have held it for a time, which explained why some people apparently thought the Avvar had built this place, at least. Alright then.

While Lýna puzzled over that, Greagoir was talking. "You misunderstand me, Your Grace — the precise enforcement of the Rite is at the discretion of the Knight-Commander. Assuming Wynne has successfully safeguarded the children, they are to be spared, as well as any mages who have assisted her. All will be put to the question, but if they are found to be innocent, I see no reason they should be harmed. Irving's people we will be more cautious with, but they will also be given an opportunity to demonstrate their loyalty. The rebellion, however, must be suppressed, lest this Circle be permanently contaminated. The Rite gives me special authority to pursue that end by any means I feel are necessary, nothing more."

For the first time in quite a while, silence lingered around the table, though not exactly a calm one. Alim next to her was still simmering with fury, though now controlled enough Lýna couldn't hear magic on the air; Alistair and Fergus looked reluctant, as though unhappy about whatever they were talking about but willing to accept it, Leliana a shade relieved. The Templars across from them, though, most of them seemed tense, frustrated — like a hound tugging at its lead, held back.

The silence held long enough for Lýna to finally get a word out. "What is this Rite?"

A couple Templars glared at her, Alistair and Leliana shifting with obvious discomfort, but Alim answered right away — not happy about it, his voice thick and hot, biting back anger with some effort, but he got it out. "If the Templars decide a Circle isn't to their liking, they can destroy it, utterly. Dismantle any magical artifacts they've gathered over the years, burn all the books, and kill every single man, woman, and child inside, the innocent alongside the guilty, scatter the ashes to the winds and start over from scratch. It's called the Rite of Annulment."

For a second, Lýna could only gape up at Alim, her mouth hanging uselessly open. They could... They... There was a word for it?! "This is allowed? Truly?!"

Alim, bafflingly, smiled. Just a little, the expression thin and twitchy, but still, Lýna couldn't guess what could have inspired that...

"The Rite is only exercised in the most dire of circumstances. We—"

"That you do it once is—" Lýna abruptly cut herself off when she realized she didn't have the words in Alamarri to finish that sentence. Glaring up at the Knight-Commander, her fists clenched at her sides, she hissed, "May the Wolf chase all of you beasts into the Void, how right in this? You have word for this, law for this, and you call us savages? Tevinter did not do slaves so!"

There was a bit of clinking, armored men shifting in place a little. One of the Templars spoke, his voice a low growl, "You don't know the dangers of allow—"

"Shut up!" That came out in Deluvẽ, but it didn't matter, the outburst was enough to startle the Templar into silence — his hand twitched in the direction of his sword, but didn't quite reach it, the man seemingly stopping himself. "You don't deny you will kill child, on nothing, I care not what you say!" Turning to Leliana nearby, "This is good with you?"

Her interruption over with for now, Fergus and Greagoir resumed their discussion, but Lýna wasn't listening, staring up at Leliana. The human woman looked a little taken aback, blinking down at her, it took some time for her to find her voice. When she did, low and cautious, flowing under the harder voices of the men nearby, it sounded as though she were reciting something, a story or a song she'd learned, not her own words. "Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children."

Lýna scowled at the terrible answer. Perhaps there would be a point there, but this Rite of Annulment allowed for Templars to slaughter people, including children, who were perfectly innocent — Alim had claimed so, and nobody had attempted to say a word to refute him! She opened her mouth to say, she wasn't sure exactly, but—

"But that isn't..." Leliana eyes turned from hers, unseeingly gazing off to the side. "The Chant also says, All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker. I don't know how... I suppose I never thought about it before."

...Good. If Leliana actually approved of these Templars slaughtering their enslaved mages for no good reason, for that ability to be enshrined in their law, Lýna... Well, she wasn't sure, but she wouldn't like it, no doubt about that. At least Leliana was thinking about it now.

When Lýna turned back, Fergus and Greagoir were arguing about getting magical assistance for Eamon — Greagoir claimed that wouldn't be possible for some weeks, they would need to hold the mages to confirm their innocence once they retook the tower, which Fergus clearly thought was a waste of time. Lýna didn't disagree, seemed to her the best way for the mages to demonstrate their good intentions was to help out where needed. (And that was assuming the mages should be enslaved at all, which she still hadn't heard a good reason for, but that was beside the point.) She didn't really need to contribute to the conversation, though, Fergus could argue for them better than she could. Especially since she doubted the Templars would feel like listening to her after she'd just called them evil child-murderers to their faces.

Which...might make it more difficult than necessary to get their cooperation fighting the Blight. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut...

"That will not be necessary." The voice came not from anyone around the table, but a short distance to Lýna's left. A human man's voice, deep and heavy, but smooth and level, perfectly calm despite the desperation and horror around them. Appearing out of the crowd was another armored figure, not large for a human man, no taller than Leliana, relatively slight, his pace as they walked up to them easy and graceful. His face was round and plain, and completely expressionless, an old scar stretching from the edge of his brow into his close-cropped hair over his ear. He wasn't a Templar, or at least he didn't look like one. This man's armor was much darker, a reflectionless night-black, the edges traced with dull silver — relatively light-weight, even, thick plate guarding chest, arms, hips, and shins, but otherwise showing the leather beneath, dark but not quite black, faintly purple. There was a straight sword on one hip, a long dagger on the opposite, the edge of a shield visible over his shoulders.

Lýna felt her eyes widen — the man wore, traced in silver large on his chest, the Eye of the Lady.

When the man appeared, all the Templars around the table straightened a bit — unconsciously, as warriors in the presence of their chief, or children realizing a parent was watching them at practice. Even some of their group reacted, Leliana most noticeably, drawing in a hissing gasp. There was a beat of silence, Fergus finding his voice first. "Seeker Esmond. I'd worried you were lost in the fighting."

The man nodded at Fergus. "I could say the same of you, Your Grace." This Seeker Esmond came to a stop a pace away from their table, a small pack of Templars following him — two swordsmen, two archers — keeping a short distance back. "Fortunately, we both yet live, Maker be praised."

Fergus repeated those last three words, but not very enthusiastically. He probably wasn't in the mood to be thanking the gods much, considering his entire family had been murdered not long ago. Lýna really couldn't blame him for that.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, did I overhear something about you needing magical assistance?"

"Ah, yes. Not for myself, truly — Redcliffe recently suffered from the machinations of an abomination of considerable power. With the help of the Wardens here," Fergus said, nodding to Lýna, "we were able to push through the dead it had raised to destroy it, but the Arl remains trapped in a deep sleep he can't be woken from. We'd hoped the Circle would be able to send someone to break the spell."

Greagoir added, "Surana there claims the Arl is under a stasis spell tied directly into the Veil. It would require complex spellwork to break such a thing, as I understand it."

It didn't quite seem like Esmond was listening, leaning a bit to peek around one of the Templars. "Oh, that hair could only be one Surana. Hello there, Alim, it is good to see you yet live. And how are you faring in the Wardens?"

The Templars seemed a little displeased with Esmond's friendliness with Alim in particular, shifting in place and glaring, but clearly too intimidated to actually say anything about it. (Which was weird — who was this man? Lýna had never heard this "Seeker" title before...) Alim, for his part, was rather taken aback, sounding oddly flustered. Lýna even thought his ears might be pinking a little, but it was hard to tell for sure against his hair. "Ah, really good, actually, Seeker, um, thank you. Good to see you're alive and...not angry?"

"Why would I be angry with you, child?"

"Um, I don't know." Alim glanced at the other Templars around, shrugged. "I've kinda been getting kill the evil blood mage glares the whole time I've been here."

For the first time, this Seeker person actually showed an expression: it was very faint, barely there, but Lýna was certain he glared at the Templar commanders gathered at the table. Seemingly all at once, half of the Templars winced, the other half at least glancing away. "No matter the circumstances, you are not guilty of your friend's crimes. I would not have let them execute you over that debacle, child. I was in the process of arranging to transfer you to the Ostwicker Circle when the Commander of the Grey offered to take you. I thought permitting you to join the Wardens was a better solution. The Wardens had desperate need, and you likely would have been in that cell for weeks before all the details of the transfer could be arranged — I didn't want to risk you sickening and dying down there in the meanwhile."

Alim blinked. "...Oh. Um." He couldn't seem to think of what to say to that. After a few seconds just staring, wide-eyed, he jumped. "Wait a second! If you're here, why is Greagoir waiting for a response from the Grand Cleric? Can't you sign off on the Rite of Annulment?"

One of the Seeker's eyebrows twitched up his forehead. "Yes, I can. I have refused, however, so the Commander wishes for the Grand Cleric to overrule me. But that will not be necessary — by the time word returns from Denerim the crisis here will have been resolved." He turned to Greagoir, his voice low and sharp, calm but with a clear note of command. "I am prepared to ascend the tower. If there are volunteers fit to join me, gather them now; if there are none, so be it — I will deal with the rebels myself. We will return when Uldred and his lieutenants are dead. You will order your men to bring down the wards and let me and mine through."

Reluctantly, Greagoir nodded. "Once you're in, I'll be sealing the doors behind you. I won't open them again until I have Irving's word the rebellion has been dealt with."

His voice going even sharper, cold, Esmond snapped, "You will open that door when I tell you to, Knight-Commander."

The larger man grimaced. "Yes, ser."

...Okay, Lýna was pretty sure this Seeker person was in some sort of position of command over the Templars, which at least partially explained what was going on there. That was good enough of an understanding to be getting on with for now, she'd ask Leliana about it later.

The Seeker's call for volunteers was spread through the big room, passing person to person, though only a small handful of Templars answered, Esmond's pair of swordsmen and archers growing to six of the former and three of the latter. Kenrick, the mage Templar Alim so obviously disliked, also offered his assistance. Lýna overheard muttered comments from several people around to the effect that they'd prefer to wait for word from Denerim — apparently, they were reluctant to enter the conflict without permission to kill every man, woman, and child they might find.

Lýna decided she really didn't like Templars.

While they waited, Lýna told Esmond she would be coming along; Alim echoed her a couple seconds later, though only after a meaningful stare from her. It would be better for their negotiating position later if they were seen helping the Templars resolve their problems here, and also with the mages that the Wardens were assisting the faction among the Templars who didn't want to kill every single one of them. Also, at the very least, they needed to ensure enough mages with the skill to revive Eamon lived through this — Lýna needed to be there in case she was forced to Conscript suitable mages out from underneath Templar blades, and she needed Alim there to identify who would be suitable. Esmond's intentions seemed to be to save as many mages as possible, so she doubted she'd need to do anything so drastic, but just in case.

Before Esmond could even respond to their offer, Alistair and Leliana also volunteered — and then Fergus too, somewhat warily. "Forgive me, Your Grace," the Seeker said, "I'm afraid I must refuse your assistance. Under no circumstances should a person the like of the Teyrn of Highever be unnecessarily exposed to such dangers. You have obligations to the Kingdom and, as the last Cousland, to your family I would not wish you forsake."

After the briefest hesitation, Fergus nodded. "You make a convincing argument, Seeker. Though I'm not happy about it."

The Seeker's lips twitched. "I suspect no one is happy with our present circumstances. However, I would be honoured to fight alongside the Grey Wardens," he said, turning to give Lýna a solemn nod. "Ser Frideswith, fetch more arrows for them."

Lýna thought that was an odd command, obviously she and Leliana had plenty of their own, but these weren't ordinary arrows. They appeared normal enough — well-made, the shafts straight and the fletching even, the quivers they were carried in thick leather in a wood frame to prevent breaks — but plucking one out to take a look Lýna could feel the tingle of magic in the sharp metal points. They were enchanted to disrupt magic, Esmond claimed. The area of effect was very small, they couldn't end an active spell just shooting a single arrow at it, but they would punch straight through defensive barriers with little resistance.

Of course, once a mage noticed that, they would employ alternate strategies to protect themselves — knock them out of the air somehow, conjure ice to intercept them, burn the shafts, whatever they could think of. They might only get one shot in each fight, so Esmond advised them to make sure the shot counted.

Nodding her understanding, Lýna accepted the quiver of enchanted arrows. She swapped it with the one slung over her shoulder, leaving the spare quiver where it was at the small of her back, just in case. She handed hers off to one of Fergus's men (they'd both be sticking at their lord's side), asking him not to lose it. The arrows were replaceable (half of them were even scavenged), but the quiver was the same one Ashaᶅ had made for her years ago...as a gift on her bonding to Muthallã, which was hardly a happy memory, but that wasn't why it was meaningful to her — it was the only thing Lýna had of Ashaᶅ now. She didn't explain that, but it didn't matter, the human warrior found her intimidating enough she was sure he wouldn't want to risk angering her.

It wasn't long then that they were moving. Up a wide set of stairs was the second floor — these first two were mostly living and training space for the Templars, as well as for the servants, she was told. Just inside one of the doors looking over the big round room, at the base of the tower, were more stairs, partway up another heavy metal door. The air was thick from the enchantments on it, Lýna's ears ringing, intensely enough she was a little bit dizzy, kept blinking in an effort to keep her eyes properly focused. The door was flanked with a group of six Templars, who moved to get the door open at Esmond's command. The process took longer than Lýna would have thought — apparently, there were enchantments holding it in place that had to be brought down, and there were several locks, complicated bits that had to be operated just so, sometimes at the same time as another, it was a mess.

While the Templars worked at that, Esmond came up close to Lýna, leaning in toward her a little, his voice dropping to a low mutter. "I understand a Blight has risen in the south, and the Wardens of Ferelden are desperately underprepared to deal with the threat. The Arl needs healing, yes, but I expect part of your reason for coming here is to enlist our help with the Blight. Am I correct?"

Flatly staring up at him, Lýna said, "Yes." It might have come out slightly suspicious — she didn't know what the Seeker was getting at, having this conversation now.

"The Circle, Templars and mages both, will help defend the people of this country when it is time to face the horde. The Knight-Commander may be reluctant to open our doors so soon after a rebellion of this scale, but I will ensure it happens. I will remove him from command if I must — I realize you may not know much of how these things work, but I assure you, this is within my power."

...She understood now. "What do you want?"

Esmond smiled, just a little, the slightest curl at the corner of his lips. "You may feel inclined to Conscript rebels or even maleficarum facing execution. I will cooperate. In exchange, I would ask that you leave the leaders of the rebellion, Uldred and his closest followers, to us. I would also ask that you only claim the guilty who surrender without a fight, but if you truly believe you can trust those who do not, I suppose that is your risk to take."

"I think I understand. We help you clear the tower, leave Uldred and his commanders to you; in return, you make Templars let us Conscript as we like, and the Circle will fight the Blight."

"That is what I'm offering. Is this agreeable?"

"Yes." Especially so after she'd been confronted with just how completely unreasonable the Templars were. She really hadn't expected that — Alistair hadn't been nearly so bad about Morrigan as these Templars were about Alim, and he hardly seemed to care Alim was a mage at all. It was a good deal on its face, but much better than she could expect if she were stuck dealing with Greagoir.

Esmond nodded, held out a hand. They clasped arms quick — to seal the deal, Avvar did the same thing — and that was that.

Lýna found herself smiling. The fight hadn't even started yet, and it appeared she'd already gotten everything she could have wanted out of this trip to the Circle. Now if only her dealings with the Alamarri lords could go so smoothly...

---

Length — The measurement Lýna is calling a "length" refers to an average halla, nose to tail. It's not a precise unit, but it's probably right around five feet (slightly smaller than a full-grown red deer). The brand-spanking-new schooner the party takes to Kinloch Hold has a beam of about fifteen feet, sixty to seventy long (not counting the bowsprit the jibs are tied down to). It's probably the most modern ship on Lake Calenhad, not so different from what Orlesian and Antivan traders would be sailing these days (though scaled down).

[the Orlesian word for la was completely impossible to pronounce] — Lýna is talking about the first person singular pronoun here, je. That consonant does not exist in Lýna's Dalish, or Avvar or Chasind. The "sh" and "ᶁ" sounds she references are [ʃ] and [ʝ] which, yes, [ʒ] is sort of halfway between those. Also? There is no "p" in elvish. Her attempted at saying "je m'appelle" comes out something like [dʑə ma bʰɛl], which is, uh, nice try, but no.

It's okay, Lýna, French is hard, I understand xD

[The Eye of the Lady] — Yes, this is the symbol the Inquisition/Seekers use. Canonically, it was the Lady's first, Andraste's followers ended up adopting it, probably due to contact during the Exalted March. Of course, the real reason is that Andraste recognized the Lady alongside a variety of other gods (mostly powerful spirits), and the Lady was worshipped by many of her followers, they would have thought of it as a symbol of the Lady and not the Maker. The historical Andraste's perspective on these things would have been more like Lýna's — other people's gods exist, they're just not her god. (Andraste's first meeting with Shartan is particularly telling in this regard.) Of course, that interesting bit of context has been lost over the centuries.

jarl — The canon use of "thane" makes absolutely no sense. The word þegn applies to literally any franklin (that is, a person who is not a slave or a serf), and carries no implication of authority whatsoever. In fact, thanes were usually understood to be directly subordinate to the local nobility (and ultimately the king). One of the possible translations of the word is literally "subject" — who exactly are the Avvar thanes supposed to be subject to? Sorry, Bioware, not giving you that one. Instead I'll be using jarl, which is much more appropriate. It's the same word as arl, it was mentioned in a previous chapter that the title is a legacy of pre-unification Avvar settlement in Ferelden. (Teyrn is a borrowing from a language now extinct in the area, meaning "king"; bann is the only one of the three titles that's a native Alamarri word.)

[since this Kenrick was apparently a Templar and a mage] — Yes, Knight-Enchanters are members of the Templar Order. They haven't gone through the same rituals to give them anti-magic powers, but they take the same oaths other Templars do and are under the authority of the Order like any other, but are also full Enchanters, part of the College and everything. They aren't permitted to hold any command rank (not even lieutenant), but otherwise are like any other Templar, for most purposes.

As you might imagine, Libertarians and Knight-Enchanters do not get along.

[Magic exists to serve...] — Transfigurations 1:2

[All men are the work...] — Transfigurations 1:3

To nerd out for a moment, the first five verses of Transfigurations are kind of fascinating. The first is basic "thou shalt have no other gods before Me" stuff, the second don't misuse magic, the fourth against any form of lies or deception. Then the third has some pretty clear anti-authority implications to it, which is interesting. The fifth? The fifth is straight-up Communist: "All things in this world are finite. / What one man gains, another has lost. / Those who steal from their brothers and sisters / Do harm to their livelihood and peace of mind. / Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart." Holy. Shit.

There is an argument that Jesus has primitive communist-ish leanings, involving the corruption of wealth and power. (A camel through the eye of a needle, and all that.) Bioware managed to make their fantasy magic-Jesus even more communist — I mean, the implication that any wealth accumulated is just plain stolen is, well, Marxist. I'm not joking, it's literally a Marxist argument. It's kind of great, honestly.

No, Transfigurations 1:3 and 1:5 haven't given me interesting ideas about what the Inquisition might have (/ will be) like, what are you talking about...

Seeker — The Seekers work slightly differently than in canon. They function as oversight on the Templars, circumventing the normal command structure and reporting directly to the Divine through the Lord Seeker, who also acts as one of the Knights-Divine, the Divine's personal Templar retinue. (A rank-and-file Seeker being the Right Hand kind of messed up their traditional hierarchy a little bit, but it still works.) Each Circle in the south has at least one full-time Seeker observer, though sometimes more if the Circle is very large, or if the environment is particularly tense for whatever reason. These Seekers monitor the Templars to ensure they are keeping to their role and not abusing or over-extending their powers, but don't interfere in the running of a Circle on a day-to-day basis.

Though there are, of course, disagreements within the Seekers. Some follow the post-schism party line on the evils of magic — the observer(s) in Kirkwall, for example. Esmond is more traditionalist, closer to the way of things before the schism with the northern Chantry, so is more likely to defend the mages. Cassandra is rather ambivalent, torn between the party line and her sympathies for mages as people.

---

To many notes again, bluh.

I ended up cutting the meeting with Wynne to the beginning of the next chapter. Which means the second part is going to be very long, enough I might end up splitting it in two. Point being, I expect it to be a while before I have it finished.

—Lysandra