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Blight-Queller
Chapter 3
Blight-Queller

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man liable for a punishment not meted out since a millennia ago.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you demand that your questions be answered, precisely and to the point, without meandering digressions on my part. Very well then – my answer will be short and succinct, so that we can cut to the heart of the matter. I understand that you are eager to bring the hammer of justice down upon my head, so listen carefully now, as I end my story.

-(=DAO=)-

We have spoken of names and of heroism, but now, since we are at the beginning of the end, we need to speak of sacrifice.

As with names, and as with heroism, sacrifice is of three kinds.

One, there is sacrifice as prudence. You give up an unimportant interest, to achieve an important one. This happens in our everyday lives, from the student who burns midnight oil so that he is ready for the next day's exam, to the warrior who engages in punishing training everyday to improve his mastery of arms.

Two, there is sacrifice as benevolence. You put aside your own interests, for that of others. This kind of sacrifice is rarer than the first, for people are inherently selfish.

Three, there is sacrifice as consequentialism. An esoteric term that the scholars at the University of Orlais employ, it means the pursuit of what is best for the world, even if it means trampling on the interests of some individuals. This kind of sacrifice is regrettably common, because men often mistake convenience for necessity.

-(=DAO=)-

I am myself a great admirer of sacrifice. If there's one thing that history has taught us, it is that every problem can be solved by throwing enough death and human suffering at it. Is there a grand temple to be built? A war to be won? A world to conquer? All that and more is possible, if you don't mind sending bodies into the meat-grinder.

You may not find this surprising, but I too subscribe to the philosophy of consequentialism, wherein it is consequences that ultimately matter. I believe that it is justifiable to harm innocents so as to prevent a greater harm from befalling a greater number. Some people object to this, saying that there are inviolable rules of behaviour that should never be broken. They believe that there are some things that we should never do, even if inaction leads to disaster. This has always seemed bizarre to me, for surely if you care about other people, then you care about what happens to them, not just about what you do to them. We all think that murder is wrong, because people dying is a bad thing, but then it follows that we should try to prevent deaths as much as possible, even if we have to kill to do it. We need to accept that sometimes we need to dirty our hands with evil deeds so as to bring about the greater good.

My childhood in the Circle Tower made this idea abundantly clear to me. Let me tell you a tragic tale, Grand Inquisitor. You are aware about the adoption system in place within the Circle of Magi, are you not? Young children, especially the babes plucked from their mothers' breasts, need to be brought up and cared for. So the Circle puts them under the primary care of older mages with the willingness and disposition for parenting. I myself was brought up by a mage couple, and though I always knew that they weren't my birth parents, I was still very fond of them. They doted on me, and were for all intents and purposes my parents. My younger childhood was a relatively happy affair.

But you know how it is – all good things come to an end. My father became increasingly angry and depressed with life as both his relationship and his magi project soured. He took to drinking, which obviously only made his relationship and his project fail even faster. It was a vicious cycle, and the more he drunk, the more abusive he became towards my mother. He beat her, among other things. She wasn't a very skilled mage, and was a healer besides, and so wasn't really capable of defending herself. Ironically, because of her magic, she could always heal herself up after every instance of drunken abuse. And since she never told anyone, nobody knew about the abuse – until it was too late. To be fair, I didn't tell anyone either – because I was still a child, too young to grasp that what he was doing was utterly unacceptable, and too afraid to do anything anyway.

One day, after the end of class, I returned home to my family's quarters, to find her a bloody, broken unconscious mess. He, meanwhile, was dead drunk and near the edge of unconsciousness himself. That scene is etched into my mind, and even now I can recall with perfect clarity every detail. I remember the spots of red on the bedsheet, the noisy gurgle as he drank from his bottle of whiskey, and above all the smell – of blood and alcohol and this other thick odor I did not manage to identify until I was much older.

Do you know what I felt? Not fear. Not disbelief. Not even hatred. What entered my heart at the sight of that scene, was the calm certainty of conviction. My conviction was sharp, flawless and as deadly as any sword. And with that conviction driving me, I set him alight. Not something mage children of my age could do, but I was always the exceptional talent. You couldn't say the same of him, though. He merely screamed and rolled about, unable to put the fire out as any competent mage should be. Then he was still, the fire having consumed him.

Did you know that burnt human smells remarkably like cooked pig? It's true. And I will remember that day, and that smell, until the day I die. Even now roasted pork is a favourite dish of mine – because it reminds me that I did the right thing that day. I do not regret what I did; my only regret was that I didn't do it earlier. What I did, I did to stop him. It is said that no man is as accursed as the kinslayer. It is said that killing one's own family, even those not truly of one's blood, is one of the most heinous crimes one can commit. It is said that there is no evil greater than this. Well, shit on whoever said that. I did what I had to do, and if I had to drench my own hands with my father's blood to stop him from beating and raping my mother, than so be it. Spare me your pity, Grand Inquisitor. I spit on it.

In the end, I managed to fetch help, and with magical healing my mother made a full recovery. Physically, at least – magic cannot heal the scars of the heart. She requested a transfer out of the Ferelden Circle Tower, and it was granted. As for what I did, it was written off as a case of trauma-triggered accidental magic, so of course I wasn't punished for what I did. Instead, I was transferred to the care of Senior Enchanter Irving, whose job it was to see that I got proper emotional support to get over that trauma.

But really, if anything, the event was not a trauma, but a teaching point – of the idea that there if you are serious about protecting other people, you had better be ready to bloody your hands.

This is not as controversial an idea as it would seem. Lady Andraste herself was quite the ruthless bitch when she had to be. Ignorant people talk about how the Maker punished the Tevinter Imperium with drought and flooding and famine. Ha! All the evidence points towards Andraste being a terribly powerful mage. She destroyed the Tevinter harvest, which starved their armies and cities into submission. How many tens of thousands of innocents did Andraste kill, to achieve her goal of destroying slavery and the Tevinter Imperium? She didn't invent the use of starvation as a military tactic, but she certainly perfected it. The Tevinters even have a name for it: hunger-death. For however little it's worth, my opinion is that she did the right thing. Slavery needed to be destroyed, whatever the cost.

Sacrifice is necessary if you wish to prevent some greater evil – no amount of naivety can deny this harsh truth of how the world works.

-(=DAO=)-

This same truth applies to combating the Fifth Blight.

Do you realize what a desperate position we were in? Even after we – or rather, I – destroyed the darkspawn army at our pyrrhic victory at Ostagar, there were still hundreds of thousands of them left. Did you see the death they brought down on the Korcari wilds? It is estimated that thousands of Chasind died as the horde swept out from the depths of the forest, with thousands more fleeing north to the illusory safety of Ferelden proper.

And as the horde slaughtered its way north into the Hinterlands, the Southron Hills, and the Drakon plains, so too did blight disease spread. Many more thousands died from it, and these were the lucky ones, to be honest. Others mutated, with afflictions ranging from tumours on your skin to spikes growing out of your face. The really unfortunate souls are the ones that survive in agonizing pain as they turn into mindless ghouls that will eventually eat their own family if given the chance.

And of course, as the horde spread into the Bannorn, so too did the fields wither, the waters turn black with poison, and the sky itself become overcast with darkness. Ferelden lost a great deal of its food, with the autumn harvest but a fraction of the usual amount. The population was facing a winter of starvation. Come spring, countless would be dead, felled not by the sword, but by hunger.

The horde controlled much of Ferelden. And in truth, if the Archdemon had wished so, the horde could have consumed the whole of the country within a month of Ostagar. They could have marched all the way north, and taken Denerim itself. Who was left to stop them? Our army was decimated, and the remaining forces under Loghain too small to do anything against the massed power of the horde.

Ferelden was small enough a nation that a single defeat was cataclysmic. And let us be honest – the victory we gained at Ostagar was almost indistinguishable from defeat. If we were the size Orlais or the Anderfels or even the Tevinter Imperium of old, we could have afforded to lose a few pitched battles here and there and suffer some losses, since the darkspawn would still have to march a fair distance to take key cities. All the while, guerrilla warfare could be used to slow their advance and pick them off. In Ferelden, we had no such luxury. Denerim was as vulnerable to the horde as a naked babe.

Neither did we have the time we needed. There was no time to reforge our broken army. No time to raise more troops from within Ferelden, to put up even a token defence. Nor, certainly, did we have the time needed for external military support to arrive, to give us a fighting chance.

And yet the time and breathing space we desperately craved, we got. Somehow, the darkspawn advance halted. They were content with rampaging throughout the Bannorn, while the bulk of the horde stayed south in the Korcari wilds. Only later did I learn that the Archdemon, in his infinite cunning, had decided to play politics. By keeping the vast part of the horde hidden in the Korcari wilds, and by staying out of sight himself, it made people wonder whether this was a true Blight at all. It gave them hope – and drunk on that hope, they naively and foolishly believed this was merely a darkspawn incursion without any Archdemon to lead it.

And it worked, didn't it? Aside from Orlais and the token force of chevaliers it sent, the world slumbered. Where were the mighty Magister Lords of the Tevinter Imperium, and the terrifying magics that once brought the world to heel? Where were the vaunted soldiers of the Anderfels, and their legendary military prowess? Where were the wealthy Antivans, and the mercenary army they could easily afford to hire thrice over?

Nowhere. They were complacent, and the Archdemon knew that. As the horde grew in strength, and as Ferelden burned, the world dithered. The Archdemon was confident that, when the time came, the subjugation of Ferelden would be the easy work of a few days. He thought that when he finally took to the field of battle, no mortal man could stand up to him. The dragon was utterly certain of his own godlike power.

And why wouldn't he be? Who could possibly stand in his way? Who could murder a god?

-(=DAO=)-

I could. Or at least, I thought I could. Me and my motley band of fools and madmen.

After I passed out from my overuse of blood magic atop the Tower of Ishal, Alistair and I were rescued by Flemeth. Yes, that Flemeth. The legendary Witch of the Wilds. She told us of the full extent of what transpired at Ostagar, and of how, in the week I had been unconscious, Ferelden had been utterly overrun by the horde. And with the rest of the Ferelden Wardens dead, it fell to us to stop the Fifth Blight. Our plan was as simple as it was ambitious – to use the Grey Warden treaties we had recovered to gather as many allies as we could. Mage or human, dwarf or elf, it mattered not – we needed their help. We would gather an army vast enough to bring the horde to a decisive battle, where we would kill the Archdemon himself.

That day, I swore that I would do whatever it took to stop the Blight. That I would end it, by whatever means necessary. That I would pay any price, bear any burden, and make any sacrifice to see the Archdemon dead and his army shattered. Alistair too, consumed by rage and grief, resolved to finish what Duncan had started. Morrigan, under her mother's hectoring, agreed to aid us, though it was only much later that I learnt her true purpose. And in Lothering, we would be joined by Leliana, a lay Chantry sister who believed that it was her religious duty to stop the Blight. We were quite the group! The apostate, kicked out of the Circle for consorting with demons. The templar-recruit, who didn't even finish his training. The barbarian witch, who had no social skills to speak of. The delusional bard, who thought she could speak to the Maker. Honestly, Morrigan was the most psychologically stable amongst us, which says a lot, I think.

Four of us. Four against the world. It was a journey of a thousand miles, and we had not even taken a single step. Even then, the enormity of our task loomed large in my mind. I understood, in a way that Alistair did not, that we were going to have to do some morally detestable things if we were to succeed in raising our army. But even so, I had underestimated just how much evil we had to do. As the old saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the road to heaven with corpses. Even before Denerim –

...

I do not appreciate interruptions, Grand Inquisitor. But fine. Fine. If you insist, then I'll skip straight to the end.

Let's ignore what happened at Lothering, and how I killed a bunch of starving farmers who attacked us, rather than give them the gold we had gathered for our journey.

Let's ignore the tragedy that broke the Circle, and how I cut my way through the possessed bodies of my dearest friends so that I could kill the demons occupying the tower and save as many mages as I could.

Let's ignore the calamity that befell Redcliffe, and how I tortured a fellow mage to the brink of madness, so that I could learn the name of the poison used on Arl Eamon.

Let's ignore the beastly horror that lay within Brecilian Forest, and how I slaughtered the once-human werewolves so that I could bring the elves over to our side.

Let's ignore the desperate journey we undertook to find the Anvil of the Void, and how I let a Paragon enslave souls with it, just so that we could end the dwarven succession crisis and just so that we could have our war golems.

Let's ignore the chicanery surrounding the Landsmeet, and how I threatened and manipulated and bribed the nobles, so that I could crown a king of my choosing.

Yes, let us dismiss these events as unimportant, and go straight to the only part of my story that you actually care about.

The Catastrophe of Denerim.

-(=DAO=)-

It was the day after the Landsmeet.

The light of the rising sun was banishing the darkness. I stepped out onto the balcony, and the cold morning air greeted me. Below, the gardens of the palace stretched into the distance, a welcome sight to my tired eyes.

The King stood with his back towards me, looking out into distance. I made my footsteps loud and conspicuous, but he didn't turn. I joined him in staring out at nothing in particular, but neither of us spoke. It was not the companionable silence of old, but a new silence of quiet hostility, that men resort to when the only alternative is angry words. The silence stretched between us, not unlike an unbridgeable chasm.

I was the first to break it. I chose my words carefully, to avoid opening any still raw wounds.

"The Chantry is still up in arms – figuratively. As you know, Grand Cleric Elemena was vocally opposed to me – a mage – taking part in the Landsmeet Duel. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him, and that kind of nonsense. The Templars are minded to agree in her opinion that the outcome of the Landsmeet was tainted and thus illegal. I'll be meeting them today, to dissuade them from entertaining the notion of taking up actual arms against us."

I ran my hand through my hair. It was oily and unwashed. Things like hygiene weren't of much importance in comparison to the possibility of armed insurrection.

"And on a more important topic – our scouts have not been sending in any new reports. So far as we can tell, there are marauding groups in the Bannorn, but the greater part of the horde is still in the Korcari wilds. Nor has the Archdemon been sighted yet, though of course, we know that he's out there somewhere."

The Fifth Blight – the looming shadow, always there, never far from our thoughts, like a sword hanging over all our necks.

"This gives us the time we need to restore some semblance of law and justice to Ferelden –"

Too late, I realized that I may not have chosen my words carefully enough. Without missing a beat, the king turned to me and growled,

"Justice? You dare talk about justice? After you decided to let Loghain live despite all the crimes he'd committed?"

And there it was. Letting Loghain live. The issue that divided us, as completely as the horizon divides the sky above from the earth beneath our feet. I sighed. I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands, and settled for rubbing my eyes instead. I hadn't slept at all, and between the fatigue and the emotional tension my nerves were frayed. I did not need to deal with this right now.

"Alistair, for the last time, we need Loghain alive. Don't be naive. The civil war wasn't going to end just because we killed him. To many Fereldans, especially the common people, Loghain is a hero. His name is mentioned alongside the likes of Calenhad and Maric –"

The King's glare sharpened.

"Don't you dare go there."

My frustration boiled up. Frustration at Alistair, for his unrelenting stubbornness. At myself, for being stupid enough to bring up an issue as sensitive as Alistair's father. At the world, even, for placing the crushing weight of responsibility onto my shoulders.

"Look, Alistair if we had killed him, he would have become a martyr. Those loyal to him – and there are still a fucking lot of them – would have rallied to avenge the fallen hero. The civil war would have continued, and Ferelden would have destroyed itself without the darkspawn needing to lift a single sword. And when the horde does come for our heads, even the massacre at Ostagar will be nothing in comparison."

The King's eyes narrowed even further, if that was possible, and his anger was palpable. He was momentarily speechless, as if his rage could find no words to properly express itself. When he finally spoke, he could only choke out a single word, that was half a curse, and half an accusation.

"Ostagar?"

Once again frustration reared its head, but this time it was directed exclusively at myself. Was I so tired and unthinking that I couldn't string two sentences together without enraging my friend? What possessed me to bring up Ostagar? It was the event that made Alistair hate Loghain with a single-minded passion, and of all things I had to bring it up? I've always prided myself on my silver-tongue, but today it seemed that I had contracted a case of foot-in-mouth disease.

"Alistair. Listen to me, please. By sparing Loghain, and by making him publicly affirm his loyalty to you and your authority, his supporters have no reason to continue fighting. Their hero has asked them to put down their swords, and they did. Just like that, the civil war is ended, no one else will die a needless death, and we can finally unite against the Blight. Nothing else matters."

Alistair looked at me. His own anger had faded, to be replaced by a terrible coldness. With a flat voice, he said,

"Justice matters. Justice for Duncan. For the Wardens slain at Ostagar by Loghain's treachery. For the thousand others who died in the civil war that he started. We came here to bring him to justice, and justice demanded that he die for his crimes. We were supposed to avenge Loghain's victims, and let their ghosts rest in peace. We were supposed to make him pay for what he did. But instead of giving him his just deserts, we rewarded him. Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment. I told you yesterday that I would not stand for this, and I won't – if you will not serve justice to Loghain, then consider my resignation from the Wardens permanent, because I will not stay and call a murderer a friend."

There was nothing else to say. In fact, there was nothing else that could be said. We were at an impasse – his justice against the greater good I sought. We had clashed many times over this very issue, during our travels and travails to raise an army. In all those cases, Alistair had ultimately accepted my decision. But sparing Loghain was a bridge Alistair would never be willing to cross.

Alistair looked away from me. When he spoke, I could hear a faint sadness.

"Is this what we've come to, Amell? Our enemies are our friends, and our friends our enemies? Do what you want."

And then he turned around and left.

There was a finality to the scene that I didn't like.

But like it or not, I had an insurrection to head off. A world to save. A country to govern. What did losing a friend matter? I had killed more at my homecoming to the Circle Tower.

-(=DAO=)-

The office was large, its walls lined with bookshelves full to bursting. I sat at the large oaken table in the centre of the room, slumped in my chair. Across me sat Knight-Commander Tavish, leader of Denerim Templars.

He cut an imposing figure. Tall, blond, and with a jaw that looked to have been chiselled out of granite, he looked every inch the hero. And in his polished templar armour, he did indeed look like the literal knight in shining armour. His sword, beautiful, ornate, and looking very much like a dragon-slaying sword out of legend, was propped up next to his chair, near to hand.

And the knight was glaring at me, the mistrust in his eyes clear as day. Perhaps he thought that he was the hero of the story, here to confront the evil magician who had taken over the country. I almost certainly looked the part – gaunt, dressed in Tevinter robes, and with a Magister Lord's staff casually leaning onto the back of my chair. If this were a fairytale, he would fight and defeat me, and then everyone would live happily ever after.

But life is not a fairytale.

I gathered my thoughts, and spoke,

"Knight-Commander Tavish. Thank you for coming to see me so early in the morning. My time is precious, as is yours, so I will not waste any on pleasantries.

"You know very well that the Chantry is deeply unhappy with how the Landsmeet went yesterday. They think it unspeakably wrong that the fate of the country was decided by a duel in which a mage took part. Magic must serve men, and not rule over them, and so on. More generally, they think that Ferelden is now heading the way of the Tevinter Imperium, with mages lording it over ordinary people. And you know, just as I do, that at this very moment the Templars are preparing to take up arms in the name of the Maker. They do so fully believing that they are justified, that they are in the right. They will seek to violently cleanse the city of infidels and apostates and maleficars. In short, they will start a new exalted march."

I didn't need blood magic to read his mind to know that he was one of those who took a low opinion of mages in general, and of me in particular.

"We can't have that, of course. If the Templars were to start a religious crusade, countless people will die. Worse – it will weaken us further at a time when we need to be united against the Blight."

The Knight-Commander was tense as he took in my words.

"That is the problem. And here is the solution. The Denerim Templars will disarm. You are to surrender all your weapons to the armoury at Fort Drakon. You have until twelve noon today to do so."

My proclamation was met with stunned silence, but that was soon broken by the Knight-Commander's outraged protestations.

"This is unacceptable! It is detestable enough that a mage such as yourself is pulling the strings behind your puppet king. And now you have the audacity to demand that we disarm and deliver ourselves to your tender mercies? I categorically refuse!"

The Knight-Commander was red-faced by the time he was done with voicing his rejection. He glared at me, his eyes blazing hatred. It was a very impressive glare, all things considered. If glares were a kind of weapon, I would already have been a tiny smear of blood across the room.

But glares are not weapons, no more than life is a fairytale.

I was slouching in my chair, but made myself sit up. This next part was crucial. I spoke slowly, enunciating every word with the greatest care.

"I do not make requests, Knight-Commander. I give orders. I would rather settle this peacefully, but I am not adverse to doing this the hard and bloody way.

"If you choose to reject the order to disarm, then I will kill you. Right here. Right now. I will paint this office red with your blood."

At this point, the Knight-Commander was so tense he seemed halfway out of his chair. He had gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to rip it out at any moment.

"And then I will find and eviscerate every Templar in the city, and festoon the Denerim market district with their guts."

My speech was ludicrously bombastic. It was so hideously overblown that spouting it almost made me want to cringe. You may well say that this was the kind of melodramatic nonsense a third-rate playwright of revenge tragedies would come up with. And you would be right, because I was borrowing the lines from a play I recalled watching at Lothering. Written by some amateur bard, it was about Ferelden's War of Independence, and these lines were from Maric swearing vengeance against the Orlesians who killed his mother – Moira, the Rebel Queen. The whole play was complete horseshit, with the subtlety of a hammer to the face, but subtlety wasn't what I needed at the moment.

"And after that,"

At this point, I handed a small sheaf of papers to the Knight-Commander.

"I will find and kill everyone on this list."

That last line I delivered quietly, in contrast to my loud, brash voice before. I used no violent, intimidatory imagery. I didn't need to.

The Knight-Commander's face morphed from a rictus of rage to the slack-jaw of shock, as he read what I had handed him. He muttered, more to himself than to me.

"The names and addresses of every templar's family..."

Indeed. Templars for a particular city or town tend to be drawn from that very same place. It makes sense, of course. It's easier to enforce your authority when the populace trusts you, and it's easier to be trusted when your Templars are all local boys whom the people would have known since they were in swaddling clothes. It also helps if your Templars are familiar with local customs and problems. But above all, any man would be more motivated in protecting a local populace when it's their own family and friends they were guarding.

But by that same logic, someone unscrupulous could turn those family and friends into hostages.

As I was doing.

The Knight-Commander looked at me, his face still betraying his horror. In a strangled voice, he said,

"Even you would not..."

He had a fair point. If I were to manage to kill every Templar in the city, and thus head off a potential Chantry insurrection, what need would I have after that to kill innocents? I have done things that will make even the demons of the fade blush in contrition, but everything I do, I do out of necessity, and killing the innocent relatives of the Templars, after having already put down the insurrection, would in no way be necessary.

But the Knight-Commander didn't need to know that. So I fixed the biggest sneer I could summon onto my face, and said,

"Have you forgotten who I am?"

The Knight-Commander stared at me. The horror had faded from his face, and now it was a mask of ice.

"No. I have not forgotten."

Of course he hadn't. My reputation, both in actual deeds and exaggerated rumours, revolved around me, and I could no more escape it than I could escape the gravity of the earth beneath my feet.

Another person making the same threat that I was making would be liable to being laughed off as a fool and a madman. But when I made threats, people believed me. Why not? I've done worse, and everyone knows that.

This didn't settle the matter, though. It was one thing to believe me willing to slaughter their families. It is another to believe that the only way to avoid it is to cooperate, rather than to fight.

I could see the gears of his mind working, as the Knight-Commander considered whether he would be capable of putting his sword through my neck before I immolated him.

I had to put such notions out of his mind.

Again, in a quiet voice, I said,

"Before you do something foolish like drawing your sword in a futile attempt to take my life, let me ask you again. Have you forgotten who I am?"

The Knight-Commander's eyes met mine. He looked at me, and what he saw was not a tired man half dead from exhaustion. No. He saw only the man who had bested the demons of the fade, and who slaughtered a hundred thousand darkspawn at Ostagar. He probably also saw other things – other deeds – which I had not done, but which rumour attributes to me.

He looked at me, and saw my reputation. And he was afraid.

After a long silence, the Knight-Commander finally spoke, in a tone of calm resignation. I've heard that tone before. Men use it when the illusion of choice is stripped away, and they make the only choice left to them. Surrender, in this case.

"We will disarm, if you promise to guarantee the Templar Order and our families safety."

"Promise given."

"Then I have nothing more to say to you."

The Knight-Commander stood up, and headed out of the room. But before he left, he turned around, and said solemnly.

"I pity you, sir, for you will go to hell."

He left before I could say anything in response, witty or otherwise.

I slumped back into my chair, and whispered, almost inaudibly, to the empty room,

"... no hell but the world we live in..."

I had a hundred things to do today, and dozens of people to meet. Speaking to Knight-Commander Tavish was but the first of many appointments that I would have to keep.

I was tired. So very tired. Which was unfortunate, because there is no rest to be had for the wicked.

The door opened as the palace assistant showed the next visitor in.

Grand Cleric Elemena entered the office. She was an old woman, as Grand Clerics are wont to be. It would be easy to underestimate her, and treat her as a harmless old coot. But fools do not become Grand Clerics. Leliana once told me that politics within the Chantry can be just as vicious as the legendary court intrigues in Orlais. I reminded myself not to see the Grand Cleric as anything but a powerful political actor.

Despite appearances to the contrary, she would not be easier to cow than the Knight-Commander had been.

"Grand Cleric Elemena. I appreciate you agreeing to meet me so early in the morning. May I offer you coffee?"

I lifted the jug of cold black liquid in indication.

"No, thank you."

I shrugged, and poured myself another cup, which I downed in one go. It was really good – imported from Orlais, I was told. Idly, I wondered whether that could be considered a sign of insufficient patriotism on the part of coffee merchants.

I took in the severe face of the Grand Cleric, and spoke casually. Or at least, I tried to appear to speak casually. In reality, all the words I was about to say had all been chosen with the utmost delicacy. It's just the game of politics we play – where deception is everything.

"Very well. The reason I asked for this meeting is that we have important matters to discuss. The times change, and we must change with the times. In particular, I do not believe that the current relationship that the Chantry and the Government of Ferelden – between church and state – is optimal. Many of the old state-enforced church-doctrines that legislate upon individual behaviour – banning apostasy, blasphemy and adultery, for instance – are, I think, outdated."

You're an intolerant old hag who wants to use the law to enforce your own opinions on others.

"Many reasonable people would say such laws are unfair, and that their liberties as free citizens of Ferelden are being tyrannically curtailed."

How would you like it if I outlawed the Chantry, you miserable old coot?

"And so to address these very reasonable concerns, it has been decided that the Government of Ferelden will no longer enforce Chantry law on what are, essentially, private matters.

Long live liberty! That, and it would seriously inconvenience me if the criers I hired to spread slander about the Chantry and undermine your public support, were arrested for blasphemy.

I had these, and many other unpleasant things to say to this woman who represented the Chantry and everything I hated about it, but of course I couldn't say any of it. I had to content myself with enjoying the Grand Cleric's facial reaction as she sat there listening to me spout circuitous platitudes – under which lay a declaration of war. The mask of dignified and gentle wisdom that the Grand Cleric wore slipped for just a fraction of a second, as she realized that I had just disowned the Chantry as the state religion.

And then the counterattack began. The Grand Cleric's words were all perfectly courteous and proper, but there was no mistaking the threat they implied.

"Warden, I would urge you to reconsider this unwise decision. The Templars are already in an uproar as it is, and I do not know if I can dissuade them from rash action if you were to announce this most provocative policy.

Threatening to turn your dogs onto me? Too late, old woman. I've domesticated your templars.

"Moreover, in troubled times such as these, change as radical as what you are proposing will be most upsetting to the people."

Meaning you'll sow discontent in the populace and turn that against the new king. Annoying, but propaganda works both ways.

"On the other hand, the Chantry and its charitable efforts will be of immense help in stabilizing the new king's rule, especially if we work together."

Damn you, you doddery old fart. Do you think to take advantage of the current bread shortage? Do you think I won't do anything about the fact that if the Chantry were to shut down its food banks, there would be riots within a week?

And on it went. She would, under honeyed words, threaten to instigate general political instability, and I had to sit there and pretend otherwise. Then I would say something equally honeyed, and equally poisoned.

"Your Grace, cooperation with the Chantry is something I desire above all else –"

I would rather have a Broodmother eat my face than cooperate with the likes of you.

"– but certain factions within the nobility, especially those who remember how the Chantry collaborated with the Orlesians during the Occupation –"

Traitorous quislings. Wasn't Loghain in favour of executing the lot of you, before Maric overruled him?

"– are urging me to take a harder line against you, with one particular suggestion being that Chantry proselytizing privileges be severely restricted, the same way we do to the Qunaris."

So don't fuck me, old woman, or I will ban your priests from opening their mouths in public.

Having made my threat, I sat back.

Your move, Your Grace.

To her credit, the Grand Cleric smiled as if nothing was wrong. Her voice perfectly cordial, she voiced the offer of a temporary ceasefire,

"That is most troubling news. Let me confer with my colleagues, and we can discuss this at a further date. I look forward to speaking with you again.

Very well then. And like the mature adults that we're supposed to be, we agree not to burn Denerim to the ground in the meantime.

I put on the most obsequious and insincere smile I could force onto my face, as I bid her farewell.

"It has been an honour speaking to you, Your Grace. I feel enlightened and edified by your very presence."

For some reason, the first rule of politics seemed to be that you do not, ever, openly acknowledge the use of sarcasm, no matter how thinly veiled. Thus the Grand Cleric had to accept my barb of a parting gift. Of course, she returned the favour.

"May the Maker watch over you."

I smiled, to cover the fact that I was grinding my teeth together. I called for my assistant to show the Grand Cleric out the door, though personally I would have preferred to defenestrate her out through the glass windows.

The second battle of the day was over. And the war, of course, was not won. I took another cup of coffee.

I had about half a minute of precious rest, and before I knew it, my assistant showed the next visitor in.

Where Knight-Commander Tavish was imposing and Grand Cleric Elemena was dignified, Goodman Peel had a friendly, honest, open face, the sort that people tend to trust.

I disliked him already.

Peel was a merchant, a prominent member of the local community, and a member of the Denerim Chantry. Strictly speaking, he had no official role within the church, the same way a Mother or a Templar would, but he was important nonetheless. It was upon Peel that the Grand Cleric relied to operate the food bank – from buying flour, to registering those who came begging for food, to distributing the bread itself. And so it would be upon Peel and his sense of conscience that I would have to prevail, if I were to defang the Grand Cleric's threat to weaponize the bread shortage.

Ha. Ten of these merchants would scarcely have a whole conscience between them.

No. It would be to Peel's sense of profits that I appealed – nothing else. And what a strong sense of it he had.

Peel was a active and enthusiastic member of the Denerim Chantry – but I know his kind. They see it as a kind of investment – to burnish their reputation, to sooth their conscience, and to save their eternal soul. Peel, despite his involvement in the Chantry, was not especially religious, and was definitely no saint. Saints don't embezzle the money the Chantry raises to feed the poor and the hungry and the desperate. Saints don't fiddle the account books. Saints definitely don't mix sawdust into flour just so to make the bread baked seem more filling than it is actually nutritious.

I smiled at him, and the merchant hurriedly gave a bow in return.

There was no hard evidence of his misdeeds, of course, but there were rumours, of this and of less-than-scrupulous behaviour in his other business dealings. It gave me a feel of his personality, and his motivations.

Ah, what a relief it was to deal with a normal, selfish person. Religious zealots are so much more inflexible.

"Goodman Peel, it was good of you to answer my request for us to speak."

"Sir, it was no trouble at all. In fact, it is quite the honour for a man as lowly as myself to meet the Hero of Ishal. Whatever it is that you wish to speak about, I will do my utmost to be of service."

Flattery? I wasn't interested in verbal fellatio in the least, but if Peel was the sycophantic sort, it would make my job a lot of easier. I prodded a bit more.

"If I may ask, Goodman Peel, what is the general opinion of merchant class, as to the victory of the rightful King Alistair at the Landsmeet yesterday?"

Peel took the bait.

"Sir, we are all delighted that a son of Maric once again sits the throne of Ferelden. Teyrn Loghain, whatever his past glories, was running the country and its economy into the ground. The merchant class is utterly confident in the King and in yourself, sir – in your ability to lead us out of this crisis."

Definitely the sycophantic sort.

"I will be frank, Goodman Peel. I understand that you help the Chantry with their food banks. It is, of course, a most admirable enterprise. My only concern is the Chantry's requirement that all claimants, after receiving their loaf of bread, are to attend weekly prayer sessions, or else face being cut off from further charity. The Chantry might take the view that suffering is redemptive, and that it will turn people to the Maker, but some – myself included – are discomfited by such views."

Was it my imagination, or was the unctuous smile on Peel's face slipping ever so slightly?

"We are deeply concerned, that, with the recent bread shortage, many people are suffering, needlessly."

Peel's smiled was visibly strained now.

"Thus, it would be much appreciated – by the King himself, no less – if the Chantry were to relax its rigorous requirements when it comes to the distribution of bread at its food banks. Wouldn't you agree that, in the current crisis, that it is the only humane thing to do?"

Certainly it was the humane thing to do – and besides, it would also bind the Chantry's hands. As it was, food aid went to the relatively devout – those who wouldn't resent the Chantry if the Grand Cleric made good her threat to me to shut down the food banks. Any discontent that arose would be directed against the state – and hence, me. But if food aid were given freely, no matter one's religious inclinations, then cutting off aid became politically dangerous for the Grand Cleric herself. Any discontent unleashed would likely burn the Chantry as well – making her threat an empty one.

Peel responded in a hurry, his words tumbling out as he sought to reject my request without seeming to do so.

"Sir, I do most wholeheartedly agree that the Chantry's policy is less than generous. However, I'm afraid that I cannot help in regards to changing it. It is the Her Grace the Grand Cleric who makes policy – perhaps you should raise the matter with her? I am sure she will be most happy to discuss this with you."

She would love to hang it over my head, perhaps. Which was why I was here, talking to Peel about this matter, and not to the Grand Cleric.

I stared at Peel. It must have been unnerving, for he looked away.

I considered what avenues of conversation to take with Peel – on how to obliquely secure his cooperation via enticements, without making it too obvious that I was offering a bribe.

But I was tired. I didn't have the energy or the concentration to go through, again, what I just went through with the Grand Cleric. Besides, Peel, if I was reading him correctly, was the greedy, unscrupulous sort – the sort most susceptible to bribes. There was little to no chance of him rejecting the offer I would make. So I dropped all pretence of subtlety, and went for a naked appeal to greed.

"To change the subject completely, Goodman Peel. I understand that you have many business interests, and amongst them numbers an interest in the lyrium trade. Now – it might interest you to know that the new government is considering issuing more permits for lyrium potion making."

Peel's eyes bulged out. This is no hyperbole. They literally did. I didn't blame him. Because of how the Chantry – via the state-enforced permit-system – allowed only a vanishingly few number of apothecaries to produce lyrium potions, it was massively lucrative. Huge profits could be made in importing lyrium dust from Ozarmmar, producing the potions, and then selling them on. There was no shortage of buyers – craftsmen, addicted nobles, rogue mages. I should know – since I myself made a massive killing during my travels, by illegally making and selling potent lyrium potions.

The merchant was almost in a daze – probably calculating the enormous profits that awaited him if he were to get his hands on a permit.

If.

I brought him back to earth.

"But of course, Goodman Peel, we can only issue such permits to those that we can trust. It wouldn't do if lyrium potions were to fall into the hands of undesirable elements such as maleficars, now would it?"

I was being a massive stinking hypocrite, seeing as I was one myself – Amell the Maleficar, possibly the most infamous one in recent history – but Peel was good enough to ignore that. He was paying attention now – truly paying attention.

"Our trust can be secured – effortlessly – if you were to agree to suspend the requirement imposed at the food banks."

Easily done, of course. I knew it, and Peel knew it. You just had to fiddle the records in the Chantry's registers, and Peel was, if nothing, a most accomplished fiddler.

Peel nodded – slowly at first, and then more vigorously.

"Then this concludes our business. Carry out your end of the bargain, and we will speak again in week."

He still seemed partly dazed as he was shown out of the room.

Mentally, I scratched off the third item on the long list of things I had to do today.

But there would be a fourth. And a fifth. And so on.

I sighed. It would be a long day ahead.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N (27-08-2014):

1. This is the first in three parts that comprise the final chapter of BQ.

2. I know that what I'm doing here (skipping out most of the DAO journey) is cheating – and god knows I myself fucking raged when Patrick Rothfuss pulled the same shit in The Wise Man's Fear with the Trial and the Shipwreck. But I do think there are good in-story reasons – namely, the Grand Inquisitor is mainly interested in what happened at Denerim, and would rather not suffer through Amell's monologues to get to it. But if anyone's interested in the IRL explanation – I genuinely don't think I have the willpower to write the roughly 100,000 words and 6 chapters to cover everything that happens from Lothering to the Landsmeet. I'll also be starting university in October, which will likely leave me with no time for shit other than studying, eating and sleeping.

3. To anyone still interested in the story – I promise that I will complete the story before I fuck off to university. I've written about 17k out of an expected 30k, so the full chapter will definitely be out by mid-late September. There'll also be an epilogue after that, whenever I get around to writing it, though ironically the epilogue is the only part of the story where I don't lack for inspiration.