Three: Feather Moon, Scarlet Sky

Zevran:

He most sincerely disliked the Princess Consort, though he had to admit that she was very good at what she did.

His Grey Warden played politics much like she fought battles. She found the weakness in her opponent, hit it hard, and expected that the enemy would fall in the first round. It was an admirable approach, and in the Tower it was entirely appropriate, surrounded as the mages were with men who thought much the same way. After all, the victor of a sword fight was often the first one to introduce steel to flesh.

Unfortunately, Rima was not a warrior and did not play by those rules. She played by the rules of guile, of the trap waiting for the unsuspecting rabbit to wander its way. It was a good game for a ruler to play, but Rima had turned her attention to Kathil, and that was going to profit no one.

The woman was a delight—quick-witted, easy on the eyes, and with a certain savage humor to her that he had found was part of the Ferelden national character. In any other circumstances he might be trying to seduce her. As it was, he was finding himself having to oppose her. Not a position that led to long life for any of them.

"We could go," he said. He and Kathil lay on the overlarge bed in the room they shared, fully clothed, limbs intertwined. "We do not have to stay in Denerim, little bird."

"Except that we do," Kathil said. "I'm not going anywhere without Cullen, and if Cullen leaves now he'll lose his chance to have his Mabari. I am not going to lose him that, Rima or no Rima. I'll talk to Alistair. Maybe he can talk some sense into her."

"Do not underestimate her, my Grey Warden," he said, his voice low. "Do not think she is some silly girl merely because you believe she acts out of jealousy. Today's salvo was merely a warning, and I believe asking Alistair to choose sides in this would do you a disservice ."

"If that was a warning…what do you mean, I think she acts only acts out of jealousy? Why else could she possibly have taken such a dislike to me?"

"Ah, that took our Chantry mouse to point out to me. Rima has spent three years building upon her power base here, yes? Alistair is the leader, she the politician. She sways the nobles to her side, she holds the loyalties of both sides of opposing factions. But now, my Grey Warden, you come in and the factions turn their eyes to you. A figure who trails legends in her wake, who fought and bled at the side of their king." Zevran traced a finger down Kathil's shoulder, dipping a bit to come down her side and then under her breast. "Ferelden does like its warriors."

"Barbarians, all of us," Kathil muttered. "And that includes me, in case you're wondering."

He chuckled. "A barbarian sex goddess, I believe I mentioned when we first met. So the nobles begin speaking of you, wondering if you are going to take sides in thus and such disagreement, whether you might be convinced to speak for them to someone. Rima sees years of careful work blown away by a spring breeze. Her only choice is to try to either reduce your importance, or remove you. The easiest way to do that is to remind all that you are a mage, and mages are altogether unsavory creatures who kidnap their children and who they should not be caught dead speaking to. And so, she lays Isolde in ambush for you." He shook his head. "I could not warn you in time."

Though he had seen Cullen slow, almost responding to his silent, furious thought—take her out of here, there is trouble—but they did not have the unconscious rapport that their small group had had while fighting the Blight.

Yet.

"We could take rooms in the city," she said after a moment. "Would that help? Except I don't think there are going to be any available until after the summer masque."

"It would, and I will look," Zevran told her. She shifted, pressing herself into his wandering hand that was now cupping one of her breasts. "So. I take it that you are planning to finally ravish your poor unsuspecting Templar?"

"Oh, Maker. I don't even know why I did that. Well—I know why. Just not why right then." Kathil propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Say the word, Zev, and I put a stop to it right now."

Ah, she was so serious sometimes. "And why would I do that?" he asked, and smiled up at her. "From what you say, he is a man of great potential for pleasure, yes?"

"He isn't going anywhere, Zevran. He can't. He's not like any of the others. We can't just vanish if things go wrong."

He was silent for a moment, acknowledging that she did have that correct. They were rather stuck with the former Templar. "Ah, little bird," he said, finally, and slid one arm around her, pulling her down on his chest. Her weight was a reassurance, her body a litany sung to some ancient, pagan god. She rested her head on the pillow next to his. "We have always taken this life one breath at a time, have we not? It is not as though we have any assurance we will see next year, or the next sunrise."

A scar on the side of her face, a shoulder nearly ruined by a nightmare's claws. The pattern of scars on his chest and back that made very sure that there were some potential lovers who would reject him out of hand, horrified.

She took a long breath inward, let it out just as slowly. "We have." One of her hands came up, and she ran her thumb over his lower lip. "And every breath is a choice."

"And what do you choose to do now?" he asked, feeling the callus on her thumb snag on his lip a little.

Her answer was to kiss him, her mouth nearly bruising on his, teeth a more than idle threat behind her lips. Her fingernails dug into the back of his neck, and he rolled the two of them over, freeing his hands so he could pull her shirt open, letting her hands tear at his own clothing.

He often liked to take his time with her. This was not going to be one of those times.

Sharp edges, claws and fury, her teeth sunk into his shoulder bruising and drawing blood, him above her and pinning her wrists to the bed as she snarled and told him now, damnit, now and as always he gave into her demands, both of them finding oblivion so very quickly in their joining. Both of them, after, were sweaty, wrung out, unmoving. Both of them awake, neither of them speaking, but she shivered a little and he shifted so more of her body was in contact with his.

He wondered if her Templar was going to know what hit him.

*****

Leliana:

She had left it almost too late.

But now she was slipping along a side street in the market district, looking for the dealer in feathers. There, the stall of the Nevarran trader; no actual feathers, but plenty of bright adornments for noble birds.

There was a small crowd of girls in front of the stall, looking over jewelry and silks. She browsed nearby, waiting for them to be gone. When the girls moved on, Leliana moved in.

The Nevarran was a small, dark woman with her hair bound up under a hat that was not large, but was quite elaborately created in stiffened silk. "Can I help you find something?" the woman asked, showing rows of even, white teeth when she smiled.

"A feather or two," Leliana said. She fished a coin out of her pocket and flipped it at the Nevarran. The other woman deftly snatched it out of the air, first holding to up to the light, then biting it.

Kathil had seen that coin once, had asked if it was Orlesian. Leliana had told her it was a good-luck charm given to her by her mother. It was gold and copper mixed with lyrium, stamped on both sides with peonies, and it was something that her mother had never even dreamed of owning. The Nevarran tossed it back to Leliana. "Thought I might be hearing from you," she said. "What do you want?"

"The jeu de blaireau. I want in."

"Nothing simple it is, with you. Fine, fine. It is already in motion, but I will tell you how to find the crew. The run is during the summer masque." The Nevarran spread her hands. "The score isn't from the mark. It's from the mist."

Now Leliana raised her eyebrow. "The mist has commissioned a jeu? Fascinating. Well, as long as the score is adequate."

"So I hear. Now, here is what you must know—"

A few minutes later, Leliana was tucking her token back into her pocket, sorting through what the Nevarran had told her. The summer masque, and a badger game.

This is going to be so very interesting.

*****

Kathil:

She'd raised her hand to knock on Cullen's door and lowered it again about five times now. She fixed the door with a baleful glare. Stupid door.

She didn't have to knock. Cullen didn't usually lock his door, probably from long-ingrained Tower habit. Even if he had, the sidestep spell would bypass the door, no problem.

Only that was rude.

Just knock.

It was as much an effort of will to raise her hand and rap three times on the wood as it was to cast even the most difficult of spells. It had been a day since Isolde had confronted her, a day spent mostly hiding in her quarters. But there was yet another dance tonight, the last one before the summer masque, and she was expected to be there. She was going to have this conversation sometime. Might as well be now.

When Cullen opened the door and saw her, he saw a quick flash of surprise and anticipation on his features, followed quickly by something approaching dread when he saw her face. "Yes?"

"Can I come in for a minute?" Oh, good, her voice wasn't shaking too much. Cullen nodded and stepped back, and she came inside, closing the door behind her. Instead of advancing into the room, she leaned against the door, feeling the solidity of the wood at her shoulder. "Before this goes any further, Cullen…"

"Let me guess," he said. "You made a mistake. It won't happen again." His jaw was tight, his arms crossed.

Andreste's little apples. "No! No. I just... have something to tell you." Was it too late to sidestep into the hallway and run away? Yes. Yes, it rather was. She took a shaking breath. "I, ah…did some checking when we were in Woodson. Well, more like a little breaking and entering…" Now he was starting to look confused. Just say it. "I looked at the records of their foundlings. Cullen. I know who your parents were."

And now he had gone pale, staring at her like he'd just seen a ghost. "What? Who? And why didn't you tell me before?"

She had the skirt of her robe clenched in her hand, the fabrc twisting. "Because your mother was a mage." She took a shaking breath. "Do you want to know?"

He'd taken a half step forward. "Yes!"

Kathil couldn't look at him. "Wynne," she said to the floor. "She was sheltered in the Chantry in Redcliffe for a few weeks right before she gave birth to you. The Templars stood guard, and accompanied the Sister who helped deliver you to Woodson after. It was recorded that, one night, she whispered to the Sister attending her who the father of her child was…" Oh Maker I don't know if you want to know this, Cullen!

There were a pair of hands on her shoulders. "Who?"

She looked up and saw hunger on his face, a hunger she knew all too well. "Ser Greagoir. Not Knight Commander, yet. Just a young Templar who had an…encounter with a mage. I…doubt very much that he ever knew you existed, Cullen."

Shock was draining all of the color from his face. "Greagoir? But—he's as old as the stones. He's part of the Tower. He'd never—"

She raised her gaze and looked him full in the face. "Find himself drawn to one of the mages? Stand at her Harrowing, dreading the moment when he would have to kill her?" She paused. "Let a Grey Warden into the Tower when it was overrun with abominations because he couldn't go himself, and he was afraid that she was still alive in there—and more afraid she had been taken by a demon?"

Cullen let go of her shoulders and stumbled away to sink heavily onto the bed, putting his head in his hands. Kathil didn't move from where she was. "If it had been anyone else, I would have told you right away. I…just didn't know how you would feel about knowing."

He didn't respond, and she slid down the door to sit down with her back to it, her knees drawn to her chest. Stop talking, Kathil. "I wanted to tell you before anything else happened." Stop talking. "You have Wynne's eyes, you know. I always loved her eyes." Stop stop stop talking!

Kathil covered her mouth with her hand and willed herself to shut up. And what are you going to say if he asks why you didn't tell him before you showed up in his room in Highever, Kathil? She didn't think because I thought it would be only once, to let me get you out of my system was going to fly as an answer and besides it wasn't quite true.

She had told Leliana that she was selfish, once, in a moment of painful honesty.

"I'll go," she said, and climbed to her feet.

He raised his head from his hands. "Kathil," he said, and she remembered her determination only a few hours before that she was never going to hurt him again. "You don't need to go. I'm just…"

"Surprised? Shocked?" She took a step towards him. "Feeling strangely like you thought you were dancing something new only to discover that you've accidentally made up the Remigold?" She saw the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Me, too. I knew Wynne had a child somewhere—Alistair told me—but I had no idea."

She could see his hand clench on the edge of the mattress, his knuckles going white. "They told us mages couldn't have children. But—Wynne—and you—you had a child too—"

Oh.

Fear shivered through her.

And it was altogether too late to run away.

Andraste in your mercy, please let him take this well. I do not want to have to kill him.

Cullen was looking at her, puzzled. She shifted in her place, centered her weight between her feet, made an effort to get a grip on her shredded composure. "I've never been with child, as far as I know," she said quietly. "I lied to the Grey Wardens. Alistair telling me that Wynne had a child inspired that part of the lie. Yes, he and I had a relationship, during the war. And yes, someone was pregnant the day the Archdemon died, with his child. But it wasn't me."

And she told him the truth. About Morrigan, about the ritual, about how she had talked Alistair into completing it. "I'm not proud of what I did, and I know the price may be very high. But if I'd told the Grey Wardens, they probably would have killed me, might have tried to execute Alistair, and then they probably would have gone after Morrigan. If I happened to still be alive she would have blamed me. She bought a lot of things, that night. She traded my life and Alistair's for whatever it is she wanted a child for. And she bought my silence." There was bitterness flooding her mouth. "I was so sodding grateful to her. I didn't want to die, Cullen." Selfish and a coward.

Cullen looked—thoughtful.

Not scared, not horrified, not reaching for his sword, not getting up to find the nearest Grey Warden and share this little pigeon-bomb with them. Well. Better than I dared hope.

"Would you do it again?" he asked.

Her shoulders sagged. "I don't know. I am glad to be alive. And if it had come down to it that day…Wynne agreed to keep Alistair from doing anything foolish. Ferelden needed him. It didn't really need me. Still doesn't."

Cullen closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, an exhausted expression crossing his face. "I think you might have some people who'd argue with that." He dropped his hand. "Are you done with telling me secrets? At least for the moment?"

Kathil thought about nightmares, old roads, the crumbling, scorched walls of the Black City, Wynne…and shut her mouth. Nodded. "For the moment. I should probably go." She bit her lip. "Just so you know, Cullen…if this changes anything, I will not blame you."

She didn't stay to hear a response, if there was one. Two long steps and a sidestep later and she was out in the corridor without having to open the door, and she was fleeing towards the library. Work. That will calm me down.

Dancing the sodding Remigold.

*****

Cullen:

What precisely was one supposed to do when the mage one was Templar for told one by the way the parents you've always wanted to know were in the Tower all along, oh and just so you know I told perhaps the largest lie ever to save my own skin a few months ago sorry about that?

The lie…well, he wasn't exactly surprised. In the hall where Montclair had held her court martial, he'd known that there was at least some of the story she was spinning that wasn't quite true. She was a liar, sure as the day she was born, and though she'd gotten to be a very good liar in the last four years, he could still tell when she was putting just a little extra sincerity into her voice, a little extra I would never dream of speaking a falsehood.

And Alistair had shot him a look when he'd thought about objecting. Not a threatening look. Pleading.

Well. He knew why now, didn't he?

He couldn't really hold it against either of them. Thinking about the magic they'd used made something small and hot burn in his gut, though. From the looks of her as the mage was telling the tale, she felt approximately the same way.

He felt similarly odd about the other thing she'd told him. That she'd bothered to find the records at all said something, though at the moment he wasn't quite sure what. That his mother had been a Circle mage and his father Greagoir…

Andraste, what am I supposed to do with this?

He forced himself to stand. He'd go the chapel. Prayer would comfort him. He grabbed his sword out of habit; he would have to armor up for the dance tonight, since he always attended the dances as Kathil's guard, but right now he was just wearing the almost-uniform which identified him as a mage's guard to everyone in the palace.

Everyone attended the Chantry in the Market District for most services and holidays, but there was a small chapel tucked away in the Palace. There was a small staff of Sisters who rotated through from the large Chantry, and a few Templars who would come with them on occasion.

Today there were no Templars, just a tall Sister whose dark hair was streaked with white. "Sister Byrony," he said as he came in. The smell of incense steadied him. He came up the aisle, knelt before the lectern.

The Sister was lighting candles on the shallow shelves. She turned to him and blew out the taper in her hand. "You look troubled, young man," she said quietly. "How can I help?"

The familiarity of the question, of the place, of the hundreds of times he had come into a chantry and asked to be blessed and shriven, all of it made the knots in his chest come a little loose. "It's a long road I walk, Sister," he said.

She smiled at him, showing crooked teeth. "The Canticle of Trials, I think. I must leave soon, but I will pray with you, ser Cullen." She knelt next to him and drew a breath. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade; for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light. And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost…."

He answered her with the next stanza, and for a few minutes they recited the Canticle together. Then she rose, touched him on the shoulder, and retreated.

Nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

There was a soft step behind him. Another Sister, he assumed. He did not looked around, staying on his knees with his head bowed. The steps paused by him, and then cloth rustled as whoever it was knelt on the stone next to him. "I thought I might find you here," said a very familiar voice, rounded and softened by an Orlesian accent.

Startled, he opened his eyes. It was Leliana, her hair unbound and fluffing around her head like it did when she didn't wind it into little braids. Her mouth was pursed thoughtfully. "Kathil mentioned that she'd told you what we discovered at the chantry at Woodson."

Cullen nodded. "It was—surprising."

"I would think that it would be." One of her hands touched his shoulder briefly, her fingers pressing against the cloth of his shirt. "Tell me—are you ashamed? To come from such a pairing?"

Yes, he almost answered, and then caught himself. That was what Cullen the Chantry child would have said, that Templars had a sacred duty that was never to be transgressed.

The truth was just so much more complicated.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I just didn't think it was possible. I thought that my mother was some poor girl who had gotten into trouble and given me up."

Leliana nodded. "Let me tell you something, Cullen. Alistair spoke with Wynne at some length about her son. She wanted nothing more than to keep you, but she could not have been allowed to do so. Alistair asked her whether she thought about her son. Every day, she said." The bard's blue eyes had gone soft. "Wynne…was extraordinary, Cullen. You may not have gotten to see it, but I believe that she was the closest thing to a purely good person I have ever met. She mothered all of us, during the Blight. Sometimes a bit sharply. But she knitted Sten a hat. And she kept on trying to convince Zevran that murder is wrong."

Cullen blinked. "Did she manage it?"

"He kept deflecting her with compliments on her bosom." Leliana smiled. "And Greagoir, well, he is a good man too, yes? Perhaps weighed down by years of duty. But I think it is a bit romantic, that he and Wynne had a tryst. I like to think that it was something that happened when they were very young, and that the connection lasted even when they could no longer be together. Sad, yes, but also beautiful that they were able to have that. The Maker smiles on love in all of its forms, I think."

He got the feeling that the bard was not just talking about Wynne and Greagoir.

"It's just going to take me some time to get used to the idea," he said. "Did Kathil send you to find me?"

The corners of the bard's eyes crinkled. "She told me to give you some time alone. I ignored her. Are you feeling better now?"

He considered the question. "I am."

"Good. Now, ser Cullen, while we are alone we must plot a bit, yes?" There was an impish expression on Leliana's face. "The summer masque approaches swiftly, only three weeks away. I have talked to the seamstress who has been making Kathil's costume, and she has something for you nearly finished. But we must find you a mask to match."

"What?" The word was a bit strangled. "I'm going as her guard."

"Pfft. You are not. That might be how you have avoided the dances, but I will not allow you to duck out on the masque." She waved her hand. "I have been to many a masque, in Orlais. I think it is admirable that the Amaranthines have elected to be brave and bring the custom to Denerim, though I think there will be small differences. But the important parts are the same, yes? Most of the rules suspended for just one night. Behind a mask, we are allowed to be who we truly are."

Cullen gave her a sidelong glance. "I think you are possibly a very wicked woman, Leliana."

"Me? Wicked? I am sweetness itself." She grinned at Cullen. "Tomorrow morning, Zevran and I will accompany Kathil to a private audience with Arl Eamon. Find your way to the seamstress who has the shop on Vimes Alley. You will have just over an hour, I think."

"What does Eamon want?" he asked.

"Difficult to say, yes? We will see. I will look for a mask for you. Something simple, I think, perhaps a half-face. It seems such a shame to cover that lovely mouth you have, Cullen." The bard got to her feet, pulling him up with her. Cullen could feel his ears starting to go red. "I believe you have a puppy to visit, do you not? We will see you tonight, then."

She left him at the door of the chapel, striding off in that bouncing way she had. He watched her go, then turned and walked towards the kennels.

*****

Kathil:

She should have brought Cullen to this meeting.

She had thought that she was going to be meeting with Eamon alone, and Leliana and Zevran had elected to come along. They had been up all kinds of late last night, at the dance, and Cullen had said that he had an errand to do in the market—something about a Sister at the Chantry. She'd let him go, assuming that it was too early for her to get into any kind of mischief that she might need his help with.

Eamon's note to Kathil yesterday had indicated that there was something of import the Arl (former Arl, at least, and how did that work when an Arl stepped down? She had no idea) needed to speak with her about.

He had not mentioned that he was going to bring his wife.

Zevran's hand was on the small of the back, reminding her that she didn't have the option of retreat. She wished she'd worn anything other than her robes to this meeting—Isolde already looked like she was about to start crying, and it only got worse as Kathil came closer to the grouping of chairs in the small sitting room. The Hall of the Landsmeet was just on the other side of the doors—she could be out and across the hall in moments—

Then she looked at Isolde's face and reminded herself that the poor woman had lost her only child. She took a shivering breath and seated herself, focusing, binding down her emotions. Zevran and Leliana sat down, flanking her, a silent gesture of support. Lorn went to Eamon and gave him a grave sniff of greeting, wrinkled his nose at Isolde, and came back to Kathil to plop down at her feet. He was watching Isolde carefully. "Your Graces. You wished to speak to me?"

Easmon inclined his head towards her. "We appreciate you taking the time to come here," he said. In his voice was a quiet gravity, the same gravity that had convinced her that she really did need to speak at the Landsmeet and put Alistair forward as King. She relaxed, just a little. "I apologize for not telling you Isolde was going to be here, but she insisted—"

"I must apologize, Grey Warden," Isolde said. "I am so sorry about that scene in Rima's bower. I just—saw you, and all I could think was that you had perhaps seen Connor, and I've been so worried about him." Her hands twisted together in her lap, fingers moving restlessly.

Kathil took a shivering breath. "I was taken by surprise, Arlessa. I would not have spoken nearly as I did, had I thought a moment." She felt Lorn shift at her feet, and she bent briefly over to lay a hand on his head. It's all right.

"It's just…" Isolde, stopped, and swallowed. "There is no hope, is there? He isn't going to return to us, or even come to visit."

She fought to keep from clutching at her robes, fisting her hands in the cloth. "What do you want to know, Isolde? And how much? I can give you honest answers, but I don't know what will comfort you and what will make the loss worse."

Eamon reached over to take Isolde's hand in his. "Is he all right? Is he well, is he happy?" he asked.

"That much I can say," Kathil said. "The last I saw him, he was well, and adjusting to life in the Tower. It is easier for the children who are a bit older, like Connor. He was starting to make friends when I left, and he is doing well in his study of magic. Unlike many, he has little fear of the magic, and that helps." Her hand was at her neck, touching the Warden's Oath that hung there, drawing comfort and focus from the skin-warmed metal and the dark blood within.

"You said—they made him forget us," Isolde said. She was clutching at her husband's hand.

"I like it about as well as you do. The same thing was done to me, Isolde. It is done to all of us. We die to our former lives, and are reborn as mages." She fought not to shrink away from the look on both Eamon and Isolde's faces. "I was four years old when I was brought to the Tower. My first real memory is of nighttime in the apprentice quarters, and the girls in the bunk above my head talking about their homework."

"What is the Tower like?" Isolde asked. "They—they said we could not visit."

Maker's Breath. The Tower. "To a child, it seems to go on forever," she said. "The ceilings are high, and it is drafty, and in the winter we all wear about ten layers of clothing. And the stairs—there are hundreds of stairs. But…it is beautiful, Isolde. Out of every window, you can see the lake and all of its moods, how it reflects the sky. And there are other mages there, people who understand—"

Who understand the days when no matter how large the Tower is, it is far too small. Who understand what it is to be always watched, to have the three fates of a mage laid out in front of us in every moment—Tranquil, enchanter, death. Who understand the fire and the lightning and the ice within us and around us, and how beautiful it is in the moment of casting a spell.

Who understand that none of us have very many choices in this life, and the importance even the smallest choices have to us.

Everyone in the room was staring at Kathil, and she was abruptly aware that she had stopped talking. She wondered what they saw on her face. "It is a difficult place, your Graces. But it is also home. I will not lie to you and say that it is easy to be a mage. I do not think the Maker meant for any of our lives to be easy. It is entirely possible to be happy, though."

Sitting with her back against Jowan's knobby knees in the corridor, him braiding her hair so she wouldn't set it on fire during their next lesson. (She had set her hair on fire anyway. She had ended up cutting it all off herself and enduring the teasing for it.) Making up sign languages and secret codes so they could communicate during library silence hours. Daring each other to sneak into the Senior Enchanter quarters.

Clumsy kisses with Sati in an alcove of the chapel, both of them eager as puppies but with no idea what they were about, and completely thrilled with the naughtiness of it all. Teasing the Templars (though after Cullen had become one of them, that game had abruptly lost much its savor).

Home.

Of a sort.

Eamon was looking at her steadily. Isolde was leaning on his shoulder, his eyes closed, silent tears leaking from her eyes. "I believe we needed to hear that, Grey Warden," he said. "Thank you."

He leaned over and put his forehead against the top of Isolde's head, closing his eyes, and Kathil looked away. That was a moment between them she was not meant to witness. Then Eamon got up and gently pulled Isolde to her feet. "I will be only a moment. We have much else to discuss." He escorted Isolde out of the room, and she could hear him speaking to someone on the other side of the door.

Uneasy, Kathil glanced at Zevran and then Leliana. "What else could he want?" she asked. But before either of the other two could answer, Eamon was coming back into the room.

"Isolde has been having a difficult time," he said. "We all have. Too much of it was not knowing what was going to happen to Connor, what his life was going to be like. If I may impose on you later, Isolde will probably have some more questions. But we have something else to discuss, Kathil." He sat back and put an elbow on the armrest of his chair. "I'd like to ask you to consider stepping up as the Warden-General in Ferelden."

Shock washed over her. He could not be serious. He was not—

There was no hint of a smile on his face.

Maker, she wished the world would give her warning when it was about to all spiral out of control yet again…