A Game of Thorns, Chapter 4 – "Sweet Dreams Are Made of This"

Part 1 – Crow in Sheep's Clothing

As soon as we were out of the arling and on the road to the mage's tower, we came upon a traveler in distress. She claimed her caravan had been ambushed and there were injured people in her party. When we went to help, there was indeed and ambush—for us. The leader of the crew was a well-dressed, blonde elvish man who, frankly, appeared more of a popinjay than a fighter. He gave a signal and several archers stepped out from behind bushes and boulders. At his command, which was basically, "Kill the Grey Warden," they set upon us.

I went for him first. If I took him out, the rest of the band might be less inclined to keep up the fight. Fighting one-handed, I still defeated him easily, and left him unconscious but not dead. His fellows didn't back down, so we had to kill them all. The leader began to stir, and I kicked him in the ribs, none to gently, to bring him fully conscious.

"Ohhh…" he groaned. "I thought I was dead."

"You should be, with your laughable fighting style. If being alive is a problem for you, I can easily take care of it for you," I answered.

"No, no, this is fine. Living is not a problem for me. But since you let me live, what do you plan to do with me, dear lady of Starkhaven?"

My accent gave me away again. His accent was distinctly Antivan. "Who put you up to this? Since you know I'm a Grey Warden, this was no random ambush."

He told me everything, which I found strange for a hired assassin. Loghain had hired him to kill me and any Grey Wardens he found. He was an Antivan Crow, he claimed. His name was Zevran. "Zev, to my friends."

"The famed assassin guild?" I laughed. "You're a Crow? They must have sent a rookie to do a pro's job."

"You wound me with your insult," he pouted. There was something childlike and amusing about him. "Your tongue is sharper than your blade. I take it you don't have many friends, yes?"

"The ones I have are loyal, and that's what matters."

Alistair was growing antsy. "Why are we wasting time with this fellow? I say we kill him."

The Antivan spoke up. "If I may speak, I have a better suggestion."

"Make it quick," I said. He wanted to travel and live with us as a member of our party, giving me his services in exchange for his life. "Your services, so far, haven't been impressive. And why would I want to take an assassin into my camp?"

He had answers for everything. As I listened to him chatter, I realized he wasn't the cold-blooded killer he pretended to be. His skills were amateurish at best, but he was crazy enough to take us on for a few sovereigns. Having failed to kill us, he forfeited his fee and the Crows would be obliged to kill him. "That is how the system works. You kill, and you live well. But if you fail once, you are dead."

"Maybe you should have become a tradesman instead of trying to be an assassin," I said. In spite of the fact that he'd just tried to butcher us for profit, I felt rather sorry for the fellow. Possibly not my brightest moment…

"Truth be told, I wasn't given the choice. But what say you? Will you allow me to lay down my life in place of yours, if need be?"

"Having seen what the Crows are capable of, I don't think I'll be employing you as a bodyguard," I answered, "but I'm in need of skilled fighters. I want to stress, skilled fighters. If I take you along, you'll have to work on your fighting."

"What?" Alistair was stunned at my decision. "You're taking the assassin with us?"

"We need all the help we can get," I reminded him. "And he'll have ample opportunity to hone his skills if he travels with us. Like, in the Deep Roads, for example. Plenty of practice there."

"Yes, and plenty of opportunities to slit our throats while we sleep."

"He won't do that," I assured him. "We have Shale and Sten on watch, and if you like, I can put his tent between the two of them. Either would be more than delighted to kill him if he steps out of line." I said that more for Zevran's benefit that to comfort Alistair. Sten loomed over the elf with a steely, menacing glare. I think he was hoping the elf would dare try something.

"Alright, if that's what you really want," Alistair said reluctantly. "But I think this is a bad idea."

"Shall I take him back to camp?" Leliana offered.

"No, not without me or Alistair being there," I answered. I would take him in, but I wanted him where I could watch him until he'd proven himself. "But I do want you to go back, Leliana. Take the shortcut, and don't let anyone follow you or see which direction you're going." Accepting an assassin into our camp was one thing. Letting every assassin know where we slept was another.

The rest of us, with our newest member walking between Alistair and Sten so we could keep an eye on him, continued on to the mages' tower.

Chapter 4, Part 2 – Dreamboat Annie

"Sorry, lady, the knight-commander has closed the tower," the young templar said importantly. "Nobody in or out."

"First off, you can refer to me as 'Warden'. Secondly, I'm going to the tower if I have to knock you out and take the boat," I said. "Now either bring us across or step aside." I wasn't sure if it was my threat or Sten's deadly cold stare, but the boy changed his mind in a hurry.

"Alright, alright, I'll take you over."

The tower was under lockdown. Their most powerful mage, Uldred, had turned to blood magic. He and his fellow blood mages had summoned a small army of demons, which had killed or enchanted templars for sport. Knight-Commander Greagor had sent for a Right of Annulment. If it arrived from Denerim before we could do something to stop the rogue mages, the tower and everyone in it would be destroyed, and there would be no help for Connor or assistance against the darkspawn.

Greagor gave us access to the tower on the condition that we would be locked in, and not allowed out until we brought back First Enchanter Irving—dead or alive. If he were dead, the tower was already lost and would be destroyed. We agreed to his terms, and we passed through the iron doors that separated the entrance hall from the rest of the tower. The sound of the doors shutting and locking behind us was unnaturally loud.

"I didn't want to burst their bubble," Alistiar spoke up, "but iron doors won't keep out demons. Nothing will, if they take a notion to leave the tower. Nothing short of death, that is."

"Then we'll give them death," I shrugged. "But first we have to find them."

I remembered seeing the old woman at Ostagar. She and a group of young mages were hiding in a large room just inside the iron doors, and a magical barrier was all that separated them from the horrors deeper in the tower. On the other side of the barrier, something that appeared to be a living column of fire roared and threatened them.

And I thought I'd seen everything when we faced the undead at Redcliffe…

Alistair's eyes narrowed to slits. He was in full templar mode.

Sten snarled and held his greatsword at the ready, should the demon cross the barrier.

Zevran gaped, but not fearfully. It was closer to awe.

And I said, "Andraste's pale dimpled ass! What is that thing?"

"A rage demon," the elder mage supplied, eyeing me with disapproval because of my offensive language. Her name was Wynne, and she was the senior mage, second to the first enchanter. "Senior" was putting it politely. She looked as old as Flemeth, but not as haggard. She noticed my injury. "Come, Warden. I can heal you." And she did, by waving her staff and sending a blue ball of light toward me. My arm warmed briefly, then tingled when the flesh knit together. Now that was a skill we could use.

As it turned out, healing was Wynne's only real skill. Her main offensive weapon was a nature spell that affected mortal beings but to which demons were immune. She was a worse fighter than Zevran. He wasn't highly skilled but he was eager to improve. He fancied himself a great assassin, with a fascination for murder and death. (Small wonder he always poisoned his marks. He may have been weak in melee, but he could brew up a mean poison.) It didn't take a great deal of skill to swing a blade against unarmed spirits. Avoiding their spells was trickier.

"Well, let's have this done, shall we?" I prompted. "Lower the barrier."

We encountered demons and beings I'd never imagined existed. Some fell easily before our blades, others almost bested us. There were more flaming rage demons, things called arcane horrors that slashed at us with sharp claws and hurled potentially lethal spells at us; hideous, malformed abominations attacked with spells and with physical attacks, walking skeletons armed with swords appeared out of nowhere, and things that looked like bears with spines covering their bodies jumped out from doorways. And that was only the first two floors of the tower. Thus far, we hadn't found a single living mage, and only a couple of corpses.

I still took every opportunity to collect items that might be of value later, one of which would be of interest to Morrigan: her mother's grimoire. Since Flemeth was a known witch and Morrigan had never been inside a mage's circle in her life, I wondered how the book came to be in the First Enchanter's office. Something wasn't right… to state the painfully obvious.

"Alistair," I whispered when we entered the third floor. "There are templars here."

"I know," he said sadly. "They're possessed. We'll have to kill them."

"Is there no way to break the enchantment?"

"None. They're completely insane by now."

The first of them attacked us with deadly intent, and with skill that rivaled Alistair's. Singly, we defeated them with relative ease. But when we ran across five or six at a time, we were literally fighting for our lives. As Alistair had told me, templars were an army, not mere guards. I witnessed firsthand how true that was.

Room by room, we went through the tower searching for survivors and for mages who hadn't been turned and who could help us. We found neither. In the central room of the fourth floor, we encountered a powerful being who claimed to rule the tower, but then, all of them made that boast. This one went by the name of Sloth. Its slow drawl had an undertone, as if two or more voices of different timbre were speaking in unison. That wasn't bad enough, evidently. It also sounded like its teeth were slipping out whenever it spoke.

Sloth had a nasty little surprise for us. First it tried to convince us that it was time to put down our weapons and rest. (Hence its name Sloth, I imagined.) When we refused, it hindered our efforts to secure the tower by flinging us into the Fade, separate from each other. Alone and in a strange place, my personal nightmare began.

My surroundings appeared to shift in and out of focus before settling into distinct shapes. Objects were solid to the touch. My weapons felt as tangible and heavy as they did at any other time. If this was a dream realm, as I'd always believed the Fade to be, it was disturbingly real.

I'd been transported to a long portico. Ahead of me were stairs leading up to a high porch, and there, waiting to greet me, stood Duncan. He was flanked by two other wardens.

He looked like the real Duncan. He wore the same clothes and carried the same weapons. Was he a hallucination, someone I wanted to see because his presence gave me courage? Or was he an impostor, a trick of the Fade? "What are you doing here?" I asked him. "You died at Ostagar."

"Dead?" he laughed. "No my dear, I'm very much alive and well. I've come to guide you to your quarters in the wardens' new fortress in Orlais. Isn't it grand?"

"So that's were we are," I commented, full of suspicion now. "I thought we were in the Fade."

"You thought we were where?" The jovial Duncan-lookalike laughed again.

"Warden-Commander," I began, using the title he eschewed, "shouldn't you and these wardens be helping us fight the darkspawn? The king is counting on us."

He didn't react to being called by his official title, as he'd done with Aiden. Duncan always insisted on being called by his first name, by everyone. I never knew his surname, and I don't believe Alistair did either. He'd been a modest, unassuming man in life. This small indication of pride confirmed what I suspected—this creature was probably a demon.

"That title was never bestowed upon me, as you are aware," he scowled.

(I wasn't aware of it before, but I am now. The real Duncan cared nothing for titles, prestige, or recognition. Is that a touch of anger in your tone, Senior Warden? I seem to have hit a nerve.)

He continued, "The king was victorious. We put an end to the blight and we've been at peace for some time. Don't you remember? Come with me, and I'll take you to your quarters so you can rest after your journey." He was all smiles once more.

Rest. That was just what the Sloth demon wanted me to do. I'd learned from Jowan that spirits could possess or manipulate susceptible people in the Fade in their sleep. If I gave in, I would make myself susceptible—in effect, I would be giving the spirit permission to control me. This person, or this thing, was not the Duncan I'd known.

"You know what?" I said, matching his jocular tone. "I think you're a demon and you need to die."

He changed instantly, from friendly, persuasive mentor to menacing foe. "I guess people like you only understand death. If that's what you wish, you shall have it." He pulled his dagger from its sheath.

The demon mimicked Duncan's look and voice, but it couldn't duplicate his swordsmanship. It fell to my feet, dead, with a single blow. His fellows, armed with bows, pulled arrows from their quivers to fire upon me. They too were unskilled, easy opponents. The worst part about the apparition was that it looked and sounded so much like Duncan that it saddened me, making me feel I had murdered my leader. I reminded myself that it was a demon, and guilt was exactly what it wanted me to feel. I shook off the pangs of conscience and proceeded.

I passed through a portal and entered a zone that was occupied by darkspawn. Many of them were aflame but not injured by it. I fought groups of them, sometimes six to eight at a time. The area looked like city streets lined with buildings, but few of the buildings had doors. The streets turned and curved, and around each bend or corner was a group of waiting darkspawn. I was a bloodied mess by the time I reached the place where all the streets converged. In the crossway was an ornate building with a single door. At my approach, the door opened. I hesitated. It was either a deadly attack or a way out. I saw no other way out, so I gathered my courage and went inside. As I passed through the portal, the blood on my clothes and skin evaporated.

I recognized him before he turned around. The blonde hair, the athletic build, the armor that looked like brushed gold accented with polished onyx. It was King Cailan, or something that had adopted his appearance. He or it turned at my approach.

"You're the new Grey Warden," he smiled. "From Starkhaven."

Maker help me, it sounded exactly like him, right down to the inflection and accent.

"Yes, Your Majesty," I answered. I wanted to burst into tears. I felt like a complete fool, talking to an apparition and wanting to cry about it. Every unkind thought I'd had about him returned to mock me. The hateful way I'd spoken to him…

"…doesn't matter," he finished. "You weren't quite right about me, but you weren't far wrong."

"How did you know…"

"…what you were thinking?" He furrowed his brow. "I… sense things. Regret. Shame. Grief." He waved a hand as if to wipe away the bad feelings, and to a degree, the sensation of remorse was lessened. He continued, "I don't have much time here, so please listen to me, Warden. Ferelden is in danger of being wiped out. The land cannot fall to the archdemon. You must fight. You. Aiden. Alistair…" His voice grew fainter with each name. "Alistair…" he repeated, his voice scarcely a whisper, and his eyes reflected sorrow. His mouth formed another name or a word, but it was inaudible. And as the sound dissipated, so did the vision of Cailan.

I'd encountered nothing but evil so far in the Fade. Why Cailan, and why here? He wasn't an evil man. If that was a spirit impersonating him, it said exactly what Cailan would have said. Ferelden was in extreme danger. If we wardens didn't gather an army, the blight would consume the land. But… what was it about Alistair that disturbed him? Was he finally acknowledging his sibling now, in death? Regretting the years he'd ignored him? Or… Maker forbid… was Alistair in greater danger than the rest of us?

"You can't leave now! You have to tell me what you meant! Calian!"

I was alone in the room, and my shouts didn't produce so much as an echo. The sound of them was absorbed in to nothingness. There was a door I hadn't seen before, or maybe it formed when Cailan vanished. Behind me, the door through which I'd entered the building was gone. The streets were gone. Everything was blank, like a canvas. There was only the door, and whatever lay beyond it.

I would need volumes to try to explain all that happened during the time I was in the Fade. Most of it defied description. And you probably wouldn't believe it even if I could put it into words. If I hadn't experienced it for myself, I certainly wouldn't have believed it. I'll summarize: The hours felt like days. I fought battle after battle, against demons and spirits and undead minions, and by some unfathomable miracle, I came out of it without a scratch or a bruise.

With the guidance of a mage named Niall, I was able to locate my companions. I can't call Niall a survivor, because Sloth had trapped him and was sapping his life energy to run this extravagant funhouse. By the time I happened upon him he was almost dead. He warned me that once his life energy was depleted, my companions and I would be the next ones to fuel the demons' evil games. They didn't need us to exist, mind you. Mortals were cheap, disposable toys.

"So it isn't blood magic behind all this chaos?" I asked.

"Uldred's magic is blood magic," he replied. "But Sloth and the other spirits feed on our essence, or on our emotions, not on blood. I have no time to explain it. You must gather your friends and deal with Sloth quickly. Now!"

It seemed I'd been the only one fighting during this nightmare. Alistair, Sten, Zevran, and Wynne were experiencing things they would have expected to see in real life. Sten was aware that his setting and companions were illusions. The others were taken in; even Wynne who claimed to have "an affinity for the Fade" didn't recognize it when she saw it.

Once reunited, we again faced Sloth, this time in battle. He tried to instill fear in us, but he was covering for his weakness to sharp blades. Zevran had evidently picked up some new moves during his stay in the Fade, or his anger at being duped worked in his favor, because he whirled and slashed like… well, like a man possessed. We left Sloth in a smoking heap. When the demon died, we were popped back into the real world, just like suddenly awakening from a dream. But Sloth still smoldered at our feet, and to my regret, Niall lay dead near him.

We prepared to face Uldred, the idiot who'd put this entire disaster in motion with his blood magic. Four mages who hadn't turned were trapped in the tower's upper chamber, the "harrowing chamber," with Uldred. At the foot of the stairs leading to the chamber, a templar was held captive in a magic cage.

What are they keeping him for? A snack? I thought, somewhat callously. The poor fellow was traumatized. And he was a good man. He'd seen all of his fellow templars abused, humiliated, and killed by blood mages in the past days. All he had left was a seething hatred for mages and magic, and I can't say I blamed him. I just couldn't wipe out the survivors like he wanted. But I digress.

Uldred was more powerful than Sloth by far. He took on the shape of a huge, grotesque pride demon—a fitting guise, since Uldred was full of self-importance. The surviving mages were scattered about the chamber. Guarding each mage was one or two of Uldred's converts, which had traded their human form for that of an abomination. At Uldred's command, they joined in the fight. He sacrificed each of his former students, former friends, to save his worthless life. When their numbers thinned, he forced another mage to turn and take their place.

Wynne finally found her reserve of righteous anger, and she blasted Uldred with a fireball that rivaled anything Morrigan had done so far. Impressive. The demon-mage staggered, and we blade-wielders took the opportunity to carve some lethal gashes in his tough hide. Greenish blood oozed from his body, and the room stank of decomposing flesh.

"Wynne! Fry that thing!" I called to her. She released a steady stream of flame from her staff. Uldred's skin began to bubble. The beast let out a long, loud bellow. Careful to avoid the fire, we kept stabbing and slashing until it fell. When it was done, two mages remained. One was First Enchanter Irving. We got him down to Greagor as quickly as his age and injuries would permit.

"First Enchanter, I have need of mages…" I began.

"Yes, of course. The blight."

"Yes, there's that. But there's a boy in Redcliffe who's been possessed by a demon in the Fade. A mage, Jowan, told us that…"

"Jowan?" Irving interrupted. "Jowan! What is he doing there? No wonder there's trouble. Take me to Redcliffe at once."

Well, that was easy. I thought he would need some convincing. Or at least a nap.

Irving rode with me on my horse. His weight couldn't have caused the animal much discomfort, because the old mage looked like he was at death's door from starvation. Wynne rode with Zevran, and the two of them provided me with entertainment on the trip back to the castle. I wasn't particularly fond of Wynne but I almost felt sorry for her. Zevran turned on the charm, which wasn't as charming as he believed. Wynne was insulted by the sexual innuendo, his unwelcome observation of her anatomy, and his not-so-accidental roaming hands. Sten found him irritating and asked me if he could kill him. Alistair didn't like Zevran from the start, and he quickly wearied of the risqué banter. Before we reached Redcliffe Castle, he, too, asked me if he could kill Zev.

Things inside the castle were unchanged. The arl's condition had not improved, and Connor was still held by the demon. Irving looked in on Eamon, but whatever Jowan had done to him was beyond the First Enchanter's power to reverse. He muttered something about blood magic. If this was a result of a blood spell, the arl likely had no chance of recovery.

"We don't have enough mages," he announced suddenly. "Blast it all to oblivion, we can't do this ritual with only two mages!"

"I hesitate to put this idea forward," I said, "but we are desperate. You can use Jowan, can't you?"

He responded with a snarl that would have made a bear envious. "Jowan! The blood mage! You would expect me to use a blood mage for this?"

"If it's the only way to save an innocent boy's life, yes," Alistair answered firmly. "I was a templar, First Enchanter, and I don't like blood mages any more than you do, but we have to consider the boy. Jowan won't be leaving this castle alive."

With that agreement between them, Jowan was brought up from the dungeon. The three mages went upstairs to the family quarters and performed their ritual in Connor's room. Alistair stood by to make sure Jowan didn't so much as scratch himself and draw blood. The mage was fully compliant, and he cowed before Irving like a whipped pup. I stayed downstairs with my other companions, Isolde, and Teagan. In short order, Connor was returned to his mother.

Isolde didn't utter a word of thanks, but Teagan was more gracious. "You put yourself in peril to save my brother's family," he commended me. "I cannot imagine what you dealt with in the tower, but you have my gratitude."

I wasn't completely happy with the outcome. Connor was free and had no memory of his possession—a blessing indeed. Isolde was spared being a human sacrifice, which was good for Eamon (I supposed). But Eamon was still comatose, and we were no closer to a cure than we were at the start.

"The ashes," Isolde said to Teagan. "They will cure him. Send the wardens to fetch them."

How convenient! First the knights, now the wardens. Who else is expendable, Isolde? I really, really didn't like that woman.

Teagan turned to me. "My friend, I have no right to impose upon your good graces again, but I do need your help. I'm a practical man and I don't believe in fables, but we've tried everything else and Eamon is still near death. What do you say? Would you be willing to search for this urn?"

I gave him my promise, "If it exists, then yes, I will find it." Brave words from someone who didn't think Andraste was anything more than a war hero.

"Eamon's knights started their search in Denerim," he said. "A chantry historian—Genetivi, I think his name was—might be able to direct you to the urn's location."

The capital city was far to our east, and it took four days on foot to reach it. To locate Genetivi's house, I inquired of one of the city's guards, a Sergeant Kylon. He not only directed us, but he told me there was a message for a Grey Warden named Winter. "I'm Winter," I said. "What's the message?"

"It's a letter, actually, and I left it with the barkeep at the Gnawed Noble," he answered, "right across the street from the Genetivi residence."

A letter. Who knew I was in Ferelden, much less that I would come to Denerim? Since it was so close Genetivi's house and wouldn't take long, I stopped by the tavern and got the letter from the barkeep. Alistair eyed it but didn't ask about it. He wanted to, and badly. I stuffed it into my pack to read later. We had a more pressing matter to tend to first.

Genetivi wasn't home. A search of the house turned up Genetivi's journal, books on dragon worship, and the body of a young man. The corpse couldn't have been Genetivi. By all accounts, the scholar was in his middle years. This poor sod was about twenty.

"Genetivi's son, maybe?" I mused.

"I don't think so," Alistair frowned. "This journal belongs to a 'Brother Genetivi.' He would have taken vows of celibacy."

"His assistant, then? One thing's certain. This man was murdered. He knew Genetivi was onto something, and someone else wanted him silenced."

"Why can't Teagan send us on simple, routine errands?" he grumbled. He held up the book on dragon worship. "This is sure to keep things from getting dull. Dragons. My favorite animal."

The scholar's notes directed us to a village in the Frostback Mountains called Haven. On the way, we stopped at camp for a night's rest. We made a tent for Zev between Alistair's and Aiden's. Now that he knew where we camped, we'd see if he would keep to his oath or betray us.

"An assassin?" Aiden laughed when he'd heard the story. "Loghain hired a Crow to kill us? I guess he has no faith in his own men." He watched Zevran go into his tent, then he confided to us, "He doesn't look very assassin-y, does he? He seems sort of… how would you put it… prissy."

"Hmm, I guess he is a little overdressed for his line of work," I agreed. I took another bite of the meat Aiden had roasted for our dinner. "What is this, by the way? It's not bad."

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

Alistair piped up, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. "If you told me you'd killed a genlock and put him on the spit, I'd still eat it. Winter doesn't believe in stopping for meals when she's on the march."

"We're here in camp, aren't we?" I pointed out. "You get a meal and a night of rest." I finished my dinner and stood. Time for part two of my mini-vacation: a shower under the waterfall. With a full belly and clean skin, I'd sleep through almost anything. I grabbed a cloth that served as my towel and started for the falls.

"You gonna let another opportunity pass you by?" Aiden asked when Winter was out of earshot.

"What opportunity might that be?" Alistair responded.

"Her. The waterfall. You know."

"Wait. What? There's no 'you know' going on between us."

"And there never will be if you don't make a move."

"What makes you think I want to 'you know' with Winter, huh? Or if I did, who says she would want to 'you know' with me?"

Aiden shook his head in exasperation. "Forget I said anything. You're making a joke out of it, but you can't convince me that you haven't thought about it."

Alistair grew quiet. Yes, he thought about her a lot. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd grown fond of her, more so than he wanted to admit to himself. And naturally, the thought of being with her crossed his mind no matter how much he tried to distract himself. But he wasn't brash like Aiden. And Winter wasn't a shameless wench like Morrigan. Until and unless she showed signs of interest in him, he wouldn't approach her.

The following morning I left for Haven with Aiden, Alistair, and Zevran. Alduin trotted along with us. He eyed Zevran with uncertainty.

"You Fereldens and your dogs," Zev muttered in distaste. Alduin curled his lip back and made a low growl. The hound put himself between Zev and Aiden.

"Good boy; keep the bad old assassin away," Aiden taunted, patting his hound on the head. He'd heard the account of Zev gave a haughty snort and ignored us.

"You know," I remarked to Alistair, "if we'd known about this place, we could have saved ourselves a week of walking." Haven was a day's hike from Redcliffe, in the other direction.

"Look on the bright side," he suggested. "Of the treaties we had with the mages, the elves, and the dwarves, we did the hardest one first. This little side trip will secure Eamon's army, and then all we have left to do is talk with the Dalish and the dwarves."

"True," I agreed. "That sounds easy enough."