At a narrow side tunnel, the warden stopped them with an upheld hand. "I know where this leads," he told no-one in particular. Holding the glowing end of his staff up allowed him to see that the passage sloped down and turned sharply to the right. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind. "I've been here before." That, he was sure of.

Hawke joined him to look down. "I don't know. I've never been down there," he replied. "I've passed by any number of times, just never noticed. Looks like it leads to the Chantry. It may just be a drain."

"That it is." Anders shifted his bag to the other shoulder. "It's both drain and air shaft, but it's more than that." The shadows gave his face a sinister cast. "This tunnel is part of our escape route. There's a hidden chamber at the far end of this vent. It's a good place to hide from the templars. The stone seems to… mute their abilities some."

"I don't see anything bigger than a dog going down there anyway." Merrill shivered and stepped back.

Anders didn't smile. "You'd be surprised what you would do if you are desperate enough. He kneeled and took a long look down. "This is where I'll leave you." Standing, he held up a dull grey medallion engraved with a gryphon on the wing. If you see this on the floor here, I've come and gone. Please take it with you, I'd like to have it back." He paused to look up and down the tunnel. "If you don't see it, please wait for an hour or so. I should be right along in any case."

"And if you're not?" Merrill gripped his arm.

This time, he did smile. He took both her hands in his. "Not to worry. I'll be here." He finished with a wink. "I promise."

The elf looked around the chamber at the end of the tunnel. One wall wasn't like the rough-cut rock that surrounded them. It was made of stone blocks that framed a sturdy, iron bound door, made of the same blocks as the wall. There was no latch or handle visible, though. "So, what now?" The muted blue-green light from the signal lamps gave Merrill's eyes an ethereal glow. "This is the heart of the Chantry? It feels, so… quiet. Like nothing… no-one is here."

"This is the back door. It leads directly to the Grand Cleric's personal study. Her people are expecting us. Not many know about this entrance." He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "Elthina… the Grand Cleric is in Orlais. Her personal guard went with her. There is only a single guard on her front door. They won't even know we're here–" The sound of the bolt being drawn interrupted him. "Sister Agnes, Good Even'. Thank you." He ushered Merrill through and pulled the door to behind them.

The elf was all eyes here. The oiled wood and woven tapestries were all new to her. Shelves of books lined the walls, while Nella's handiwork was everywhere. Sketches and printed homilies were propped up all around the room. Merrill's attempts to look everywhere at once brought a smile to the sister's face. "Sister Ursina will be with you shortly," she told them. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything?"

He'd finally made it. This was the sub-cellar, he was sure of it. The diagram Karl gave him was more accurate than he'd hoped for. From Hawke's tunnel to the sewer to a little used air shaft, Anders had made his way into the Chantry in search of the secrets of a Tevinter looking-glass. He'd told his friend a little white lie; He was really looking for something else.

Here it is. Right where Karl said it would be. The heavy wooden door was secured by a massive box-lock. His key opened it without a problem–the lock was well oiled. No wards and no guard, the usual Chantry efficiency. Taking a quick look around, he opened the door to what had to be a quarter of Kirkwall Chantry's fortune. Inside was a small closet with deep shelves lining its walls. Larger bottles were placed on the bottom shelves, while the smaller ones were tucked away near the ceiling. Lyrium, the root of all evil, his thoughts were unkind. It even smells evil. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

A row of bottles to the right caught his attention. Almost all of the containers here glowed a pale blue. Though the glass bottles were shielded, they still revealed what was within. Instead of blue, the bottles on his right had a disturbing red glow, much like that of the idol that had claimed that dwarf Bartrand's sanity.

He set his wooden bucket on the floor and thought for a moment. Then, he pulled a medium sized blue bottle from a shelf, set it into the bucket, and joined it with a red one of the same size. Let's see what the red will do, he mused, closing the door and re-locking it.

From memory, Anders made his way to the north-west corner where he knew the chimneys were built into the far wall. He found the three cast iron doors set into the wall at waist level about five hands apart. They were used to clean the chimney bores from the base, here in the cellar, to the far roof-top, though, they looked like it had been awhile since they had been opened.

After setting his bucket, bag, and staff aside, he felt a door by carefully laying a hand on its rusted face. The left one was warm. This one should be for the kitchen. Its fire was lit at certain times during the day, every day. He rejected it and felt the far right door, pulling his hand quickly away with an angry hiss. It was almost too hot to touch. It was no doubt connected to the furnace. This one, he rejected as well.

The middle door was cool to his touch–this was the one. From the builder's diagram, he knew this chimney served the kitchen annex. It was only used on special occasions. When he opened the door, he could see that the layer of fine ash inside had been there awhile. With a grim sense of purpose, he opened his bag and started pulling out bottles and jars.

Hawke was looking at the titles on book spines. To pass the time while Ursina and Merrill had their heads together, he set out to find the book that started it all. Certain that it was in Elthina's study, he went there first. The Grand Cleric's personal collection was certainly an eclectic mix. Titles ran the gamut from the natural sciences, to physics, to philosophy and history. There was even a top shelf dedicated to popular fiction, though there were fewer books there. He recognized some of the titles from memories of his sister's favorites.

He reached up and pulled a tome that had simple text in gold leaf at the bottom of its spine. The Warden it read. On the flyleaf, he found a handwritten note. It was in a style very familiar to him; Take a look at this, E. Maybe it is a little too close to home? Love, P.

The title page was a little more forthcoming; Circles of Magi–The Real Blight on Thedas, it read. Apparently The Warden was its author. Anders? It came to his mind unbidden. He'd seen copies of his friend's Manifesto and would recognize the style. Giving up his search, he found a comfortable seat and started reading.

After a quick search, Anders found what he was looking for–a tarnished, dented bowl as big around as a serving platter and almost a full hand deep. It had almost escaped his notice. If he hadn't tripped over it, it would still be hidden away under a shelf. It was fortunate that he'd found it. The pewter jars that he brought were so small it would have taken three refills to complete his task. That the metal would be consumed in the process required that he bring more than one jar. With relief, he set them aside.

Pulling a scarf over his mouth and nose, he poured a powdered compound into the bowl and uncapped a bottle of lyrium. Just enough, not too much, he warned himself. He poured in the blue syrup, stirring it carefully with a short-handled wooden spoon he'd brought for just that purpose.

The bowl was just about full of the noxious smelling mixture. As an afterthought, Anders set his unused metal jars into the concoction, pushing their bases down firmly. The metal will only add to the process, he thought grimly. Give it more kick.

Opening the iron door fully, he muscled the loaded bowl inside and set it carefully on the floor. The layer of fine ash cushioned it, keeping it from tipping over.

"Now to light it up," he murmured. Stepping back to channel the flames he summoned into the chimney bore, Anders kicked the door shut just as the mixture caught. While it burned, he got out his wooden bucket and started mixing again.

The final chapter was a revelation to Hawke. The control of lyrium, in The Warden's opinion, was the control of the circle. It was the fuel that ran all magic. Though lyrium was strictly controlled, there was still a thriving black market for it. Would there be a black market at all if the templars weren't involved? The Warden didn't think so. Hawke wondered about that. His sister, it seemed, came down firmly on The Warden's side in this. He and Bethany had had many a discussion about it.

About half-way through the book, Hawke had his answer. The style, the words The Warden used–The Warden was indeed Anders. Maybe some day they could discuss their views. Where did he agree with Anders? Where did he disagree? Who was the spirit called Justice–

"That must be some book." It was Merrill, accompanied by Sister Agnes. "This is the first time I've seen you sitting still for more than a few heartbeats," she teased him.

Hawke looked up and closed his book with a thump. "I'm full of surprises. You never know from where I'll come at ya." he tipped her a sly wink.

"Right. So says Mister Predictable." She eyed him with some skepticism. "We're all done here." She smiled warmly at Agnes. "And Tom and I have some work to do." She patted her shoulder bag. "Felandaris." The word seemed to roll off her tongue. "I'm sure I know where we can find it. Tommy will be so pleased."

He raised an eyebrow. "So, what is it you're looking for?"

She pulled out a sheet of vellum with a list printed in a flowing script. "Orichalcum," she cleared her throat and rattled the sheet to get his attention, "is actually a metal, but it behaves like water. It is known to settle in low places, just waiting to be collected."

"A while ago, Varric was asking me about that. It's not rare, just valuable. He mentioned there was rumor of some in the caves on Sundermount," Hawke recalled. "He also told me that finding it wasn't the problem."

Merrill smiled knowingly. "Varterral," she murmured.

"Right. That's the problem–The guardian. When you and Tomwise go look for it, let me know if you need help."

"Ma serennas, Hawke." Her eyes found his. "It's nice to know I can always count on you."

"Welcome," was all he would say. "Embrium?" He'd sneaked a look at her list. "That's on the Wounded Coast. I've seen plenty of them there. It's got a red flower?"

The elf nodded. "They would be the easiest to find," she said, tucking the list back into her bag. "If you don't count the pirates, the Tal-Vashoth, or the wild beasts that live there."

"Nothing we can't handle," he reassured her. "You mentioned Felandaris. I've never heard of that."

Merrill and Agnes exchanged knowing looks. "Demon weed… from the Witch Grass family." Merrill's face clouded over. She wouldn't meet his gaze. "I know where to find that. I can nip right out and collect some." Her frown deepened. "I would be back before… anyone knew I was gone."

"Take Tom with you. Let him do all the lifting. He's got to be good for something."

Her smile returned. "I'll do that. He still has to make up for his boorish behavior," she said with a wink of her own.

With that, she'd just rolled a stone from his heart. Shelving The Warden's latest book, he took his dalish friend's arm. "Well, I'm glad that worked out. Let's find our wayward author and go home."

Before adding the bottle of red lyrium to this second batch, what was called the catalyst, Anders cracked open the iron door and peeked inside. Like he expected, there wasn't much left. A scorched impression in the ashes where the bowl sat was all that he could see. The smoke from the process left a gritty-looking oily film on the inside of the chimney. From his notes, he knew that the longer that film stayed there, the more volatile it would become. Pleased with the results so far, he left the door ajar to vent the chimney and finished step number two.

When he finally hoisted the wooden bucket into place where the bowl had been, his task was finished. It looked innocent enough–like someone had left a cleaning bucket with reddish-brown mud in it hidden in the chimney.

He took one last look and slowly closed the door on his handiwork. He took a grim satisfaction that no bridges had been burned… until now. With the catalyst in place, a fire lit in the kitchen above would set his plan in motion. Before that happened, he had to be sure the last step in his plan was done. Three notes, all the same, would leave no doubt in anyone's mind–mages had had enough. He would leave a note in the Chantry's collection box, one posted conspicuously in the Marketplace, and another in Hightown, just to be sure. As was his nature, The Warden carefully cleaned up after himself and made his way back to meet his friends.

Hawke's time was up. Anders had waited for what felt like an age. Feeling the press of time, The Warden placed his medallion at the entrance to the drain and left to finish his task.

Citizens of Kirkwall

We mages have endured enough, more than enough. Is oppression all that the templars, and by default, the Chantry stand for?

The Circles of Magi must not be allowed to continue. They must be dismantled!
The time is now at hand!

All, stand with us mages in our struggle to be free. At the sign from above, rise and stand with us.

The souls of our slain brothers and sisters cry out for vengeance!

A/N Thanks ~Vice. C.