Chapter 5

The First Night

"Warden-Commander Tyran..."

"Knight-Commander Caelyd... to what do we owe the honour?"

An icy silence filled the courtyard for a few moments. Tyran had just marched through the main gates, and had come to stand with Varel and a few Wardens at his back, staring fiercely at the party of templars now trespassing in his fortress. More specifically, he was glaring at the man at their head – much as he hated Knight-Commander Caelyd, he couldn't truthfully describe him as a ratty, odious man, although that was the mental image he replaced the templar with. He was a tall, rather strapping man, with a shock of dirty blond hair and a fierce jaw. Anyone but a Grey Warden would have been afraid or awed at the sight of him, but the Warden-Commander had perfected a way of looking down on him, despite being the same height.

"Just a... passing visit," the Knight-Commander smiled, coolly, and they both knew he was lying. "But while I'm here, I might as well take stock of certain loyalties."

"And what loyalties would these be?" the Warden-Commander growled, folding his arms testily. He'd been riding almost non-stop since midnight, he ached all over, and he didn't have time for the templar's games...

"Yours, of course. To Ferelden."

"It's not your place to test those loyalties," he snapped back. "Loyalty to the Chantry, yes, but Ferelden, no..."

"They're one and the same," Caelyd replied, icily. "Need I remind you that Ferelden's king is a templar?"

"Alistair was a templar, and I happen to know he didn't much care for it. What he is isa Grey Warden. I'd remind you of that, Knight-Commander..."

Caelyd gave him a fierce, fiery glare, and simply stared him down for a moment. Tyran met his gaze stonily, and let his hand stray to his sword hilt.

"At any rate," the templar smirked, turning to his fellows as if for schoolyard support, "you didn't answer, Warden." His hand was resting on his own blade, to match Tyran's...

"It's not our place to be involved in politics, templar," he spat back. "So to the Chantry, to you? No loyalty... But for the people of Ferelden, and our brother the king? We would lay down our lives..."

There was a vehement, unreadable expression on the templar's face, before he repeated: "Loyalty to Ferelden is loyalty to the Chantry."

"Tell that the Divine back in Val Royeaux," Tyran retorted. Then he straightened up, and scowled, "Leave, Caelyd, you know you'll find no support here."

"Interesting..." Caelyd murmured.

"What's interesting?"

"There are certain parties within our order," the Knight-Commander continued, turning on his heel, "who believe the Grey Wardens are nothing but a haven for heretics and maleficarum. I'd have thoughtyou might want to prove them wrong."

Quite to the surprise of everyone around him, the Warden-Commander began to laugh, a dark, sarcastic laugh without a hint of mirth.

"So that's what this is about," he chuckled, quite to Caelyd's chagrin. "You know damn well we're allowed to take apostates, Knight-Commander. Take it up with the Divine if you don't like it..."

"I know you are allowed to," the other man glared, fixing his hand on his sword hilt in what he must have thought was a threatening gesture, but was actually just arrogant and rather petulant. "What casts a shadow on you is the fact that you do, with alarming frequency."

"We take the best, no less. If you'd actually let your Circle mages learn something, they might have been an alternative. Too late now, though, isn't it?"

The templar's brow tightened, and he fixed a cold stare on the Warden-Commander.

"Taking 'our' mages is no better. The fact remains that you withdraw these damned souls from the care of the Chantry, withdraw them from the templars who guard them from demons-"

"And enter them into the hands of those infinitely better equipped to do so," Tyran interrupted.

It was Caelyd's turn to laugh, this time. He scoffed, and drew closer, muttering:

"Do you really believe that, Warden-Commander?"

"My men actually know an abomination when they see it," he replied, cuttingly. "They don't just kill every apostate in sight. And they don't need to be fed lyrium to keep their loyalty."

"No, you use darkspawn blood instead," the templar smirked, and Tyran was unable to stop his expression faltering. How the hell did Caelyd know about the Joining?

"The fact remains," Tyran continued, setting his face back to a steady glare, "that any Warden can defeat a templar. By extension, we can defeat an abomination – if you can do it, then the best warriors in Thedas can surely do it better..."

"A Warden can defeat a templar? Ha!"

"You have doubts? Would you care to test them, Knight-Commander?"

Tyran let the tiniest sliver of his blade slide out of its sheath, threateningly, and the templar stared at him as if tempted to accept the duel. After a moment, however, he seemed to reconsider, and turned on his heel.

"The faithful have better things to do than fight with heathens," he growled. "We shall depart, Warden-Commander, but I would advise you to take a long, hard look at your loyalties, if not as a Warden, then as an arl... We may not be so forgiving in the future."

Quite suddenly, the Warden-Commander snapped. He slid his blade free, spun it in his hand, and brought it to rest at the back of Caelyd's neck, the tip just kissing the templar's flesh. The other man stopped dead, and a guttural snarl escaped him, as Tyran murmured:

"There is nothing to forgive, Knight-Commander. You have no power here. Threaten the Grey Wardens again, and I shall hang your corpse from the walls..."

Caelyd didn't reply – he reached back and batted the Warden's sword away, coldly, before striding off without a backward glance. His templars, on the other hand, looked very perturbed – some of them were glaring at the Warden-Commander, others were glancing fearfully at him, but eventually they all turned, and followed their commander out of Vigil's Keep.

"You shouldn't have done that, commander," came Varel's doubtful mutter, as the templars departed. "The templars are frenzied, we can't afford to draw their ire..."

"They wouldn't actually do anything, would they?" a female Warden behind Varel asked, tentatively. "They wouldn't dare!"

"Greagoir wouldn't have," the Warden-Commander agreed. "He knew the price of crossing us, and at any rate, he didn't want to... Caelyd, though? He's zealous enough to see us as enemies, and arrogant enough to think hecan defeat us."

"What do you propose, commander?"

"Send a messenger bird to Ser Rylien, in the Amaranthine Chantry. Tell her the Knight-Commander is on his way, and will need calming down. Also, send one to Delilah Howe – a formal request for her to shelter her brother and his companions when they arrive. If Caelyd is headed for Amaranthine, the Hawkes will need to be hidden well..."

"Very good, commander. What do we do about our guests in the servants' quarters?"

"I'll find some rooms for them," the Warden-Commander decided, after a moment's pause. "I think we need to find out just who they are..."

Ψ

Several miles from Vigil's Keep, the four departing travellers were plodding slowly along what remained of the Pilgrim's Path, having failed to make it to the end before sundown. Amaranthine lay in sight, however, and it was odd to see the shining city sitting on plains dominated by little farmhouses, fields and drainage ditches. The walls were illuminated by torch bearers, who were holding out against the rain much better than those at the Vigil – it was thinner here, although she had the oddest sensation that the swirling storm was tailing them along the road.

"Hey!" Nathaniel hissed, suddenly. He was sat just in front of Sara on the horse, and his hoarse whisper filled her ears, as he continued, "Torches on the road behind us!"

"How many?" Sigrun asked, swivelling around on the back of Carver's horse to watch the road – as Sara turned her head to look too, she could see at least half a dozen torches, moving fast towards them, and bobbing up and down in a manner that suggested horses and riders...

"A dozen horsemen," the other Warden murmured in reply. Then, he seemed to straighten up with realisation, and swore aloud, "Andraste's breath! The templars must be riding to Amaranthine for the night."

"Can we outride them?" Carver suggested.

"Probably, but it would be suspicious to say the least," Nathaniel sighed. "We start galloping at the sight of the templars? They'd want to know why."

"But we can't let them catch up!" the younger man protested. "They'll recognise Sara, and then they'll kill us!"

Nathaniel swivelled around in the saddle to face her, and bit his lip in consideration – whatever they did, it would have to be fast, because the glimmering torches were growing closer, as were the horses and riders beneath them.

Then, quite slowly, Hawke saw Nathaniel's gaze flicker to one side – it passed over the side of the road, and he turned to look at her, somehow mixing a stoic stare with a mischievous grin...

"Oh no," she muttered, catching on. "No way."

"You need to hide," he pointed out, apologetically.

"Yes, but-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the archer had swung around, grabbing her under both arms and hurling her off the horse. Only the presence of the templars made Sara stifle her shriek as she plunged down through the air, hit the road, bounced-

And slid straight into the irrigation ditch that bordered the adjacent field. With a noise best described as sploosh, she thudded down in the few inches of water that filled the bottom, and let out a little cough of surprise as her head banged against the side – not terribly, but just enough to daze her.

As her senses slowly returned, she stared up into the dark sky, silently praying she was out of sight. From here, she could hear the templars' gallop reverberating through the earth into her very nerves, and – wait, what was that?

A pair of beady black eyes were staring back out of the water, and a furry nose twitched in the cold. Great. Rats. She chased the furry sod off with a tiny – and hopefully silent – burst of magic, then set her senses back to the road above. The gallopers were slowing, and she could only pray that Nathaniel was good at making excuses...

Ψ

"Hail, travellers!"

With a slight gulp, Nathaniel swung his horse around, bringing it to a halt as the templars reached their backs. To his left, Carver was still atop the second horse – now sporting a full-face helm to cover his identity, courtesy of Sigrun – and the little dwarf was perched behind him.

"Hail!" he shouted back, then added, "Who exactly am I hailing?"

"The Templar Order," came the reply – Knight-Commander Caelyd's blond-framed face emerged out of the darkness, backed by at least a dozen armoured forms. "Who might you be?"

"Grey Wardens," Nathaniel muttered back – as he did, he was praying Tyran hadn't pissed them off enough to seek revenge... To his great relief, Caelyd simply frowned – as he always did at the presence of Wardens – and continued:

"I see. I've just had business at your keep... What brings you this way?"

"We're taking a message from the Warden-Commander," he lied. "The Felicisima Armada hit a caravan up on Aralt Ridge – we thought we'd warn the patrols they were raiding around there, and let the merchant's guild inform their kin."

"Commendable," Caelyd nodded. "Not many would venture in the night for such a task. You are welcome to ride with us – safety in numbers, no?"

There was a glimmer in the Knight-Commander's eyes, as if he were hoping to catch them out with the request. That meant that, unfortunately, there was only one response Nathaniel could give...

"Of course, it would be our pleasure."

"Sir, are you sure about this?" Sigrun interjected. The very first thing Nathaniel noticed was that she had called him sir – while technically true, now he was the commander's second, she only ever called him that in two situations. In the first, she said it sarcastically, while criticising him. In the second, she said it earnestly, not wanting to use his name – to keep his identity from the templars, for instance, so they couldn't check up on him later...

"Objection?" Caelyd murmured, before the Grey Warden could reply.

"You're moving at a fair pace," the dwarf bluffed, quickly. "We'd be hard-pressed to keep up."

"We could stand to reach Amaranthine a little earlier," Nathaniel reasoned, then added, very deliberately, "We'll attend to our business in the city, then return this way. We could be back at the Vigil by dawn..."

"Fair enough," Sigrun agreed. Nathaniel was just praying Sara had heard his words, and understood their meaning...

"Shall we be off, then?" the templar chipped in. "If you're in a haste..."

"Yes," the Warden nodded. "After you, Knight-Commander..."

Ψ

Sodding Nathaniel. Sodding templars. Sodding ditch.

As she continued mentally sodding everyone who she saw as responsible for her being sat in a wet, freezing ditch, Sara Hawke was finally getting time to think. Well, between the soddings she was. One thought in particular was throbbing in the back of her mind with its enormity:

She was back in Ferelden. And she wasn't sure whether that filled her heart with joy or fear... True, she had always wanted to return – she had said as much on that warm evening when Fenris asked, and she had said the same to King Alistair upon his visit to Kirkwall. But the circumstances were less than ideal...

It wasn't so much the war, the explosion of templars and mages. It was the absence of the war, now they were away from it. To be honest, it was hard to explain, even to herself... The tragedies in Kirkwall had raised terrible questions within her, but previously, she had always been able to suppress them by focusing on their flight, and their fear of the templars. Now, though, she was safe. She was sat in the bottom of a soggy ditch, and the rain was starting to pour down on her, but she was safe – her friends were sleeping in a formidable stone keep, protected by the finest soldiers in Ferelden, and she was now waiting for those same Grey Wardens to take her to their protection too. With that safety, came time alone with her thoughts, and they were tearing her apart.

Mostly, now, she thought of Anders. Since Kirkwall, the single greatest doubt in her mind had taken his form. She had seen him as both man and spirit during their time together, but now, she saw neither. Rightly or wrongly, she saw a demon. All the years she had loved him, she had put up with his misdemeanours, she had accepted who he was, she had taken in his lessons of mages and spirits... But in the end, he had failed to take her lesson of mercy, the one she had given to all her companions. He had chosen his own ideals over everything else.

She couldn't criticise him for that, though, could she? It would be hypocritical... Fenris had done the same, and she had killed him – she had saved him from slavery, from himself, from his former master... and then she had killed him, her own brother spilling the elf's blood over the Gallows. Sebastian had done the same too, and she had sent him away – no, she had allowed him to walk away, not stopping him, even as he swore to bring his armies against the innocent people of Kirkwall. Her double standards became triple when she considered Anders – she had forgiven him, taken him to her side, professed her love for him...

A love that was no longer there, she realised, rather suddenly. Returning here, meeting the Wardens... it had been the final blow to her faith in him. In all the years she had known him, his status as a Warden had been the bedrock, the redeeming, defining truth – Wardens were brave, and strong, and loyal, and so he must be too, at heart... But he wasn't a Warden, Tyran Cousland had made that perfectly clear. The real Wardens hated him, and what did that say about his character? Their bravery, strength and loyalty – was he the opposite of those things, for them to hate him so? Even Nathaniel, who had greeted him so warmly in the Deep Roads, had met him with a cold stare in these less desperate times.

Her thoughts were cut off by the clatter of hooves, and a touch of serendipity. The jangle of stirrups preceded the crunch of boots on the road above – she was half-considering readying a spell, before a familiar face appeared over the edge of the ditch.

"Maker..." Nathaniel sighed, shaking his head. "Are you alright, my lady?"

"Just fine," she scowled. "What took you so long?"

"The Knight-Commander," he growled back. "I swear he was trying to catch our bluff... he insisted on sending a couple of men with us to our meeting with the guard. That took an hour, and they wouldn't leave until we were 'safely in our beds', by their own words. I couldn't go to my sister, or they'd know where to check up on us, so we paid for rooms at the inn, waited for them to retreat to the Chantry, then snuck out..."

"Why would he do that?" Sara asked, trying to stand but failing – her legs were numb from the cold water they lay in.

"I don't know" – with a grunt, Nathaniel swung his legs over the edge of the ditch and dropped down next to her, splashing her arm with the dubious water as he did – "but I don't like it... He kept asking about the Warden-Commander – I think Tyran might have done something stupid..."

"He didn't seem like a very stupid man."

"The really stupid ones never do... Tyran's a great man, and a finer warrior you'll never find, but he has a habit of letting his temper take over. That's good, when you're a berserker on the battlefield. Not so good when you're dealing with the banns. Now, come on..."

He punctuated the last words by slipping a muscular arm under her back and heaving her to her feet. With a slow, deliberate effort, the two of them clambered up the side of the ditch, scrabbling against roots and rocks until they fell onto the road above.

"Come on," Nathaniel repeated, jumping to his feet and pulling her with him. "If we ride fast, we can be back in Amaranthine before the hour's out..."

Ψ

"Maker's breath, Nathaniel, what did you do to the girl?"

"Nothing!" he protested, wilting under his little sister's glare.

'The girl', Sara, was huddled in the next room, shivering beneath a heavy woollen blanket. She and Nathaniel had made it back to Amaranthine in less than an hour, but the fast ride had done nothing to counteract the water soaking into her clothes and skin, and the poor thing was almost blue by the time she staggered into Delilah's house at his side.

"She's almost frozen!"

"Well he did throw her in a ditch," Carver pointed out, tactlessly.

"YOU DID WHAT?" Delilah screeched, and Nathaniel took a step back out of regard for his life...

"It was that or let the templars find her," he reasoned.

"Alright..." she murmured, suddenly very calm. "What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"Ride back to the Vigil," Nathaniel muttered, instantly. "The sooner we get back there, the better."

"Agreed. I got a message from your commander, just after you left... Albert, have we still got the bird?"

"S'on the sill," her husband called back, good-naturedly.

Del bustled to the window, grabbed the protesting pigeon that was tethered to the sill, and plucked a little roll of parchment from its leg, before returning and handing it to her brother.

"Maker..." he sighed, as he read it. "This isn't good."

"What isn't?"

"They almost came to blows – the commander drew his sword and threatened Caelyd with it... This really doesn't help matters."

"Why?" Delilah asked, suspiciously. "What's happening?"

"At this rate?" Nathaniel replied. "We're going to war..."