A/N: I know 'Mother Superior' is more our world than Thedas, but it just flowed better. I also deleted one of Leliana's in-game lines because I found it it too at odds with Inquisition. Hope you enjoy! :)

Chapter Two

Cullen wasn't the only one whose eye was naturally drawn to Seeker Pentaghast. He was deep in conversation with his lieutenants over how best to divvy the week's training roster when the retinue of Seekers entered the refectory; all four of them looked over. In any close-knit company such as theirs outsiders were immediately noticeable, and Seekers were in any case meant to stand separate to the Order. But more simply, Seeker Pentaghast was - striking. Body and face comprised of straight lines and sharp angles, she somehow gave the impression of perpetual forward motion, even standing still. How could one not look at her when she entered a room?

"May we join you?" she asked, sitting down without waiting for an answer. He couldn't very well say no.

He knew from the watch logs that the Seeker's party had not returned until late in the night; they could not have had more than a few hours' rest, although they gave no sign of it. There was much he might have asked her, had they been alone - but she hardly seemed troubled for conversation, even ignoring her fellow Seekers to focus with single-minded determination on her meal, the same bowl of Myron's thick barley stew and fresh bread that had been served to everyone. "I hope you found your rooms comfortable," he ventured.

"Very. Thank you."

She spoke with the same terseness with which she wrote, Cullen thought with some amusement, remembering the letter he had received informing him of her intended visit. The heavy script and curt tone had seemed ominous at the time; no longer.

His attempt at pleasantries complete, Cullen had just turned his attention back to his lieutenants when a messenger boy crept in from the rookery and shyly made his way to the table. "Seeker Pentaghast? A letter for you. The ravenmaster says it was redirected from Val Royeaux."

"Oh?" She looked up in surprise, accepting the proffered envelope, and Cullen watched her face slowly transform as she took in the script spelling out her name and the wax seal on the back. She tore it open eagerly and, as she read, her severe expression melted into something soft; a secret smile.

Ah, he thought, a lover. And then, unbidden: Lucky man.

"Knight-Captain?" Caspar discreetly coughed at his elbow and Cullen realized his distraction.

"Er, how is Felton's progress?" he asked, shaking himself. "Is he ready to start leading drills?"

The rest of the meal passed quickly and Cullen turned his mind to other business. He badly needed a few hours' peace in his office - there was a stack of contracts waiting there needing his review and signature, but first he meant to see to the Seeker's request from yesterday. He was sure there had at one time, in the years after she was named Champion, been a portrait of Hawke hanging in the Viscount's Keep, but what had become of it he hadn't the faintest idea, and he could hardly consider it worth the time or resources required to track it down. No, but Ser Moira was gifted with a fair hand, he thought, having often supplemented her field reports with detailed maps or illustrations; she could likely put something together that would suffice.

She had lately taken on the Gallows' quartermaster duties, and he found her in her office adjacent to the storage rooms, wearing a rather anxious frown as she bent over her books. "Problem?" he asked. She jumped.

"Oh! Knight-Captain! No, ser, I'm sure it's nothing, only…"

He invited himself in and stood with his arms crossed near her desk. "Only what?"

Ser Moira scowled and shoved her ledger book towards him. "There's lyrium gone missing."

Cullen bit back a curse and bent over the figures.

"It's small amounts, so I only noticed when I did the latest reconciliation. I wasn't trying to keep it from you, ser… I hoped it was just a mistake in the figures at first. And then I wanted to have a solution before I brought it to your attention."

"And have you?"

"Not exactly, ser. Not beyond catching whoever it is doing the thieving and giving them a sound beating for their trouble." Cullen snorted and Moira nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot. Lowering her voice, she muttered, "I keep thinking…about the ones who left."

Cullen hummed in understanding. "It's unlikely to be them, although I've no doubt they've contributed to the disruption in the Chantry supply lines we've been experiencing." Disruption which only made news of the theft more troubling; they could ill afford any shortages at present. The contracts waiting in his office, several of them discreet attempts to mitigate that disruption by forming their own local supply chains, took on a renewed urgency. "Amounts this small, it's more likely one or two men trying to supplement their allotted doses."

Moira nodded. "I just don't like thinking of one of us being behind it."

Neither did Cullen, if he were frank. But it was what it was. "You'll have to set up a watch, and stock will have to be taken every day until we resolve this. How many of your men have keys?" Would it be feasible for them to move the lyrium stores elsewhere?

By the time they had hammered out the details of a plan he'd almost forgotten what had brought him there. Moira stared at him as if he were mad once he explained. "The Seekers of Truth want me to draw the Champion of Kirkwall?" she repeated dubiously.

"A sketch will do, it needn't be anything elaborate."

She sighed, apparently not reassured. "Well, when do they need it?"

Cullen was beginning to lose patience. "As soon as possible. I assume it won't take you long."

Moira shook her head but told him, "Wait there, then," while she fetched parchment and a stick of charcoal. Cullen watched with satisfaction as, in spite of Moira's grumblings and the occasional necessity to smudge over her mistakes, Hawke's distinctive image began to form under his eye. Broad strokes first: the outline of a face, the ghosts of eyes and nose and mouth; and then in one particularly artful sweep the familiar shaggy fringe of dark hair appeared and life seemed at last to jump onto the page. For the last, Moira wet her thumb and then there was even that ridiculous streak of war paint Hawke liked to smear across her nose. He nodded his approval. "That should do nicely. I'll see the Seeker knows she has you to thank for it."

"That's not necessary, ser," Moira hastily interjected, blushing when he cocked a brow at her and adding in a mutter, "I'd rather not catch the attention of the Seekers. You understand."

He did, at that. "Well. You have my thanks, at least." Tucking the sketch away for safekeeping he stood to go.

He stopped by the training yard on his way back to his office to observe the practice bouts in progress. Felton was indeed coming along, he was pleased to see. Hard-pressed by his opponent, he rallied at the last and managed to disarm them before Knight-Lieutenant Caspar called time on the match. Solid technique, but more important to Cullen's eye was the fortitude he was finally beginning to display. A far cry from the nervous boy he'd been three years ago. Then again, there are perhaps few things left which can rattle a man after he has witnessed his commanding officer's transformation to abomination.

It was later than he intended by the time he finally made it to his office, and no sooner had he seated himself than a knock sounded at the door. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Of course. "Yes?"

The door opened and he felt his eyebrows crawl towards his hairline when he saw who stood there. "A word, Knight-Captain?"

"Enchanter," he managed around his startlement, and gestured to the chair across from his. "What can I do for you?"

Enchanter Delia entered and closed the door behind her, but though she walked to the chair he indicated, she did not sit. She gripped the back of the seat, tightly enough that Cullen observed her knuckles whiten, belying her apparent boldness when she looked him in the eye and stated, "There is something I must tell you, but before I do I want something in return."

He could not quite suppress his scoff, leaning back in his seat and frowning at her. "I am not in the habit of making bargains with the mages in my care." They stared at each other for a cold minute before he relented slightly. "You have lived under my command the last three years. You should know by now I am not Meredith. If you think me a reasonable man, then tell me what you wish. But either way, you will out with whatever you have to tell me."

It had been a strange three years in many ways since he had assumed command of the Gallows, but one of the strangest was how easy it had become to almost forget their last remaining mage. Twenty-three, they had counted that first night. In the weeks and months that followed, that number went up and down by turns as they recaptured groups of apostates from the Wounded Coast and closer, relocated some to other Circles, lost others…

Three years later, the Templars of the Gallows were assigned watches and patrols within the fortress and without, as ever they had been, but things were not the same. The classrooms stood empty; the library abandoned. By rights Delia could have addressed him as a First Enchanter might a Knight-Commander, but in fact he hardly saw her. Left as the sole object of Templar scrutiny she became, ironically, easier to overlook; a solitary creature, choosing to take her meals down in the kitchen with Myron and allowed to sleep alone. And he, rather than addressing her, found it easier to pretend there weren't any mages left in the Gallows at all.

Her fingers tightened further on the chair back. At length she said, "There's to be a Conclave." Cullen blinked; he hadn't realized that she knew. "I wish to attend." He must have made some sort of face, for she added sharply, "You needn't look so surprised. I could have fled the Gallows, but I have not. Do you not think my perspective might be of value to such an undertaking?"

"Perhaps," he allowed. "I will think on it."

"I wish you to allow me to make my case to Seeker Pentaghast. When she leaves, I wish to be allowed to go with her."

"She would have to agree to such a thing herself," Cullen pointed out. "I cannot make promises on her behalf. Now what is this thing I must know?"

"But you will not stand in my way?" Delia persisted, leaning forward, her eyes on him intent. "You will let me make my case?"

"I will inform the Seeker of your desire. That is all I promise. Now."

The mage let out a long breath, then drew herself up and announced, "I believe Seeker Pentaghast's life is in danger."

Cassandra scowled at the hovel in front of her proclaiming itself to be the Hanged Man. As if there could be any doubt when over the door an enormous depiction - highly stylized, but still to Cassandra's mind distasteful in the extreme - of the eponymous man twisted back and forth by his feet with the breeze. She harrumphed her disgust, but by all accounts this was the most likely location for cornering their author, so she refrained from expressing her displeasure further, instead directing Anselm, Karina, and Evans to the exits before summoning Violette to her side and entering the tavern.

Despite the early hour, business was already in full swing, or perhaps last night's patrons were still yet to disperse. In either event, their entrance appeared to go largely unmarked by the men and women whose heads hung low over their cups; it seemed not even their blazing Seeker livery could rouse attention here. After casting a quick eye over the room Cassandra went directly to the counter to make their enquiries. At the name Tethras, the barman jerked his chin towards a table near the back, where a dwarven man was seated with a human woman.

He was well-dressed, a cut above the other patrons based on the quality of his shirt alone. While most of the other men and women in the bar were dressed in rough, undyed homespun, the dwarf's shirt was a deep red color and boasted detailed gold embroidery around the low collar and down to its hems. More gold flashed at his fingers and ears. Yet he did not seem out of place; there was no hint of self-consciousness to mark him as an outsider here. As Cassandra watched, appraising, he leaned back comfortably in his chair and laughed at something the woman beside him said.

They approached, their quarry looking up as they drew near, although his face remained cool. A raised eyebrow; a roguish quirk to his lips. "Can I help you ladies?"

"You are Varric Tethras?"

That, at least, caught his attention. The woman beside him made an abortive attempt to stand, her hands making for the sheathed daggers at her side, but a motion from Varric stilled her. After a moment she sat back down, albeit with an unpleasant scowl on her face.

"Seems like you know well enough who I am. But I'm afraid I don't know you. What say you help me out and tell me what this is all about, hmm?"

"We have questions for you. About Hawke."

The smile died on his face. "I see. Well. Sure. Just… give me a minute to settle my tab, then I'm all yours." He stood up and pushed the papers strewn across the table towards his companion. "We'll finish this up later, all right Mother Superior? I can get the rest of those notes off you next week. Meanwhile, you don't mind taking charge of this for me, do you?" After sharing a final, significant look with this 'Mother Superior', the dwarf excused himself and sidled towards the bar.

Cassandra eyed the pages with interest. She had stayed up far too late the previous night reading the first volume of Swords and Shields, but from the little she could see the manuscript on the table did not appear to be linked to the next volume, and the woman clearly had no intention of letting her examine it further, jealously shielding the papers with her arms as she shuffled them together.

"Forgive me, but you don't exactly strike me as a Revered Mother," Violette snidely observed, her eyes on the woman's daggers.

She scoffed. "I'm his editor. Which means, when it comes to his books, that he relies on my guidance the same way most people rely on the Chantry. Allow me to warn you, by the way, if by some chance he doesn't keep our next appointment you won't just be bringing the dwarven Merchant's Guild down on your heads - I'll personally see to it that the Coterie comes looking for him - and you."

Cassandra rapped her fist on the table and leaned in to address the threat when Violette let out a shout. "The rat's trying to escape!"

"Go!" Cassandra barked, but her eyes didn't stray: Anselm and the others would prevent the dwarf's escape. When the woman's hand twitched towards her daggers Cassandra lunged across the table and grabbed her by the throat. "Do not think of it," she growled. "We are going to leave here peacefully. You will not try to stop us. You have no cause for fear; our mission here is just. Provided your friend cooperates he will not come to harm. We will return him once he has answered our questions. That is all."

The woman let out a gurgle and Cassandra released her, backing away until she was a safe distance from the door. Behind her, the woman coughed and sputtered, but the tavern remained largely undisturbed by the commotion.

Outside, she found the dwarf hanging between Karina and Evans' arms, looking somewhat worse for wear. Anselm and Violette looked on. "Let's go," she said to them.

Varric was paraded through the streets of Kirkwall. They marched him through the Lowtown marketplace, beginning to come alive with the morning, then up the long steps to Hightown. The city could look and it would see the Divine's authority on full display.

An hour passed during their trek, and in it, the dwarf complained. Karina or Evans cuffed him each time he opened his mouth, but though he winced and cringed, it did not deter him. He still marched readily enough, though, which was all that mattered - until they came within sight of Hawke's estate. Then he planted his feet and would not go further. So they dragged him.

Head bowed, body limp, they brought him into the house. Cassandra directed them into the library she'd explored the night before. At her gesture, Karina and Evans threw him into a chair, then stood to attention on either side, awaiting her order.

She picked up the inscribed copy of Tale of the Champion she had found on the shelf last night, leafing through its familiar pages one last time, then raised her eyes to examine its author.

Varric was collecting himself. She was expecting defiance, but instead he appeared subdued, shaking himself before peering up at her and stating with a rueful chuckle, "I've had gentler invitations."

She didn't trust it. But she could crack him - would crack him. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast," she told him, stepping forward. "Seeker of the Chantry."

She dismissed the others. Varric watched them go with interest, a sly gleam appearing in his eye. "And, uh, just what are you seeking?" There - there was the defiance she'd expected, disguised in casual flippancy.

"The Champion."

"Which one?"

She lost her patience, striding forward and smashing the book into his nose. "You know exactly why I'm here!" Drawing her knife, she held it to his throat - by the Maker, she would make him take her seriously. "Time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you're good at it." Flipping the knife in her hand, she drove it down into the book which had fallen open in his lap. Breathing heavily, he gingerly reached down and picked it up. The blade had pierced all the way through, missing his flesh by a hairsbreadth.

Letting out a breathless laugh he asked, "What do you want to know?"

She smiled, satisfied, and told him, "Everything."

The truth was nothing like the book. It was nothing like she had expected.

Hawke was not a seditionist fomenting rebellion. She had not known of the red lyrium. The conspiracies she was suspected of did not exist. She had not even written the pamphlet on mages' rights that Cassandra had found in this very room. Word by word, Cassandra's suspicions were stripped away and transformed into - into admiration. For all the failings Marian Hawke demonstrated - and there were many, even in Tethras's recounting - she had acted where others would not. Even in the wake of loss after loss - sister; brother; mother - she had tried, and Cassandra would not fault her for it.

She was exactly the sort of person the Inquisition would need.

Unfortunately, the dwarf remained resolute in his insistence that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. The Champion had fled from Kirkwall in the aftermath of the Chantry's destruction and thereafter vanished. They were no closer to finding her than they were the Warden, which meant the Inquisition was no closer to finding its leader.

Much as it galled her to come away without the knowledge she needed most, the dwarf had answered all that she'd asked. "You are free to go," she told him with a sigh and opened the door. Violette and the others all turned at her entrance, leaping apart from where they had formed their own conference to stand to attention.

Cassandra ignored them and watched Varric depart, the evening mist swallowing him before he'd even left the square.

"Did he have the answers you were looking for?" Violette asked her.

"It was…enlightening," Cassandra replied, keeping her answer as vague as possible.

Someone else was lurking in the square. Cassandra fixed her gaze on them, eyes narrowing - ah. Leliana. Good. She started forward and Leliana moved out from the shadows to meet her. "Did you-?"

"Gone," Cassandra told her. "Just like the Warden." She signaled to the other Seekers to leave them while Leliana frowned over the news. "Do we proceed with the original plan? Or keep looking?"

"It is in the Maker's hands now," Leliana said decisively. "We put our faith in Him."

Cassandra nodded her agreement. They could not delay; the Conclave might last weeks, or even months, but they could not depend upon that time to carry on searching for women who might never be found. If the Inquisition should be needed, they needed to be prepared to act. Word of it might even draw out the heroes they sought; so long as the rest of the infrastructure was in place, an Inquisitor could be appointed later on.

"One thing the dwarf did tell me: Hawke's mother was an Amell. So that was their family crest we saw."

"Yes; I found the details of the family tree. It seems Hawke and the Warden are second cousins, but from what I could uncover it seems unlikely they ever met - at least, not before they both disappeared."

Cassandra growled in frustration. The Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, cousins, both vanished. Both, to varying extents, with dealings with the Grey Wardens. At least two companies of Orlesian Wardens, also vanished. It all seemed too much to be coincidence, yet nothing in their investigations could turn up anything more substantive. And now they were out of time. Leliana met her eye, wry sympathy etched in the lines of her mouth. At least she was not alone in her impotence. Cassandra squared her shoulders and pressed the Inquisition writ into Leliana's hands for safekeeping. "I will see you in Haven," she promised.

Leliana gave her a solemn nod in farewell and Cassandra turned to rejoin the other Seekers.

As they followed the circuitous route back to the docks, her mind remained troubled. Of all the events which had led to Kirkwall's tragedy, it seemed to her the greatest failing was the inaction by the Chantry. The situation with the Qunari which had led to Hawke's title could by some measures be considered unavoidable. But there should have been no need for the Champion to involve herself in Circle affairs. Grand Cleric Elthina, acting in good faith, should have defused the conflict far before it reached crisis point, yet it appeared she had not. From Varric's recounting, it seemed at best she had been guilty of gross complacency; at worst, purposeful negligence.

She recalled Justinia's frustration, still in the early days of her reign, with the Kirkwall bureaucracy, whose correspondence appeared so at odds with other reports, and which had eventually resulted in Leliana's being dispatched to the city to deliver a message of her own. At the time, Cassandra had simply been preoccupied with establishing the truth of the situation; it hadn't occurred to her that the Chantry itself might be contributing to its deterioration. Of course the College of Clerics and holy Mothers were not above infighting and petty power struggles, but there could be no doubt of their devotion to their congregations, surely; that was where true faith flourished, where charity and relief for the downtrodden were to be found. Now… She felt unmoored, uncertain.

In response, the core of her resolve hardened. Let it never be said that she had failed to act when needed.

"Seeker Pentaghast?" Violette's polite tones recalled her from her thoughts. They were nearly at the jetty where boats to and from the Gallows docked; she could smell the refuse of the harbour.

Sighing, she turned - and received a shield bash to the face.