Chapter 6

The Verdict

"Come in, Varric."

With a suspicious expression plastered across his face, the dwarf pushed open the door to the Warden-Commander's study, and stepped inside.

His immediate impression was that this was a seat of power – his keen eyes roved over Cousland's desk, and the first three letters he spotted bore the King of Ferelden's crest, the Divine's seal, and what he presumed to be the First Warden's insignia. Tyran Cousland, it seemed, was even more important than he had imagined...

"Drink?" the Warden-Commander murmured, holding out a misty glass bottle, filled with honey-brown liquor.

"What is it?" Varric muttered, cannily.

"Well it's not poison, for a start," Cousland frowned, good-naturedly.

"Hey, you never know," the dwarf shrugged.

"Varric, what possible reason could I have for poisoning you? Isabela vouched for the lot of you, you've got nothing to fear from me. I just want to know exactly who I'm defending."

"Alright... so, what is it?"

"Chasind sack mead. A chieftain in the Wilds gave me some when I recruited one of his tribe to the Wardens, and he's kept up the habit every time I visit..."

"You visit the Chasind?"

"Of course... We patrol the Wilds every few months, seeing as the last Blight started there, and the Chasind tribes know the Wilds better than anyone – we pass through a village on the border, take a couple of guides, then return and spend a night with them on our way back home. You won't find more gracious hosts in all of Ferelden..."

"Each to their own... is the mead good?"

"Better than Orzammar's," the Warden-Commander replied, casually. "Less dirt in it, anyway."

"I never understood that..." Varric trailed off, laughing weakly. He was beginning to understand just what made Cousland so influential – he had a way of disarming you with casual chit-chat, and it was scarily effective.

"Listen," the Warden-Commander murmured, suddenly wearing an expression of supreme gravity, "Isabela tells me you're a... self-confessed storyteller. So tell me... what do the taverns and inns think happened in Kirkwall?"

"The templars pressed the mages, the mages didn't like being pressed..." he mused, starting off on a flowing tangent, "so the mages pushed back. The harder they pushed, the more the templars pressed. Finally, the templars pressed too far, and the Circle rose up. The Chantry was destroyed, the Grand Cleric killed... The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter killed each other, and the Champion just... disappeared into the night."

The Warden-Commander made a noise best described as a hmm, and once he was sure Varric had finished, slid a small cup towards him. A round of mead sat within, and the dwarf gulped it down gratefully, as Tyran continued to fix him with that piercing, appraising stare of his...

"What really happened, Varric?" the commander asked, finally. It was the question Varric had been dreading.

"How long have you got?" he replied, trying to deflect the question.

"Tomorrow? As long as it takes," Cousland sighed. "But tonight? Just tell me who was to blame, so I know I'm not sheltering them."

"That's... not an easy one to answer, Warden. You could spin this on anyone, including me."

"How so?"

"That bloody idol," Varric muttered, more to himself than to Tyran.

"What?" Cousland frowned, leaning in closer.

"You know we sent an expedition into the Deep Roads?" he replied, cannily – he knew damn well the Warden-Commander knew, and sure enough:

"Yes. Nathaniel led a mission to follow your expedition's route... And you already know that, Varric – Hawke was the one responsible for his returning alive. Why ask if I knew if you already knew I knew?"

The dwarf's face was blank for a moment – the babbled sentence that had just emerged from Cousland's mouth was truly confusing. Finally, however, he shrugged, and said:

"Just checking. Honesty's hard to come by."

"I'll assume I've passed that test. This expedition of yours... Why bring it up? It was... inconsequential, as far as I can see. It may have given Hawke money, but her status wasn't earned until the qunari assault – that's what Isabela said, at least..."

"We found an idol," Varric blurted out, after grappling with his conscience for a strangely short period of time. "Pure lyrium, red as nug's blood. I'd never seen anything like it."

"Pure lyrium?" the Warden-Commander interrupted, dubiously. "Are we talking about pure lyrium ore, or processed lyrium?"

"Processed," the dwarf replied, "but not like any I've ever seen. Not that I've seen much, surface dwarf and all... anyway, Hawke and me found it, and my late brother came to see what we'd found-"

"Late brother?" Cousland muttered, interrupting once more in that decidedly human, very frustrating manner that Hawke had also perfected.

"Late of four years, and I'm getting to that. Anyway, my late brother took one look at the idol and ran with it – he stole it, locked us in a damn thaig, and headed for the surface. We broke out and got back to Kirkwall, but he was long gone..."

"You broke out of a locked thaig?" the Warden-Commander interjected, with what seemed to be a tone of admiration. "That doesn't seem possible. How did you manage it?"

"I had Hawke with me," Varric chuckled. "She's quite good at doing the impossible – same as you, if all the stories I hear are true..."

"Most of them aren't. For example, I did have a sword when I fought Urthemiel," Tyran smiled. "Contrary to popular, drunken wisdom, I didn't beat him to death with my bare hands."

"And the truth emerges," the dwarf grinned – as ever, Tyran's mood was infectious, and it happened to be mirth at this moment in time. Sarcastically, he continued: "You're not actually that tough at all, are you?"

"Complete coward," Tyran sighed, shaking his head in mock shame. Then, quite suddenly, his face went back to its grave, inquisitorial stare. "But, you were telling me about this idol...?"

"Right... He brought it back to Kirkwall, but he fled not long after, to Rivain I think. I guess he was afraid we'd catch up to him somehow. He sold the idol at some point, I don't know when, but then, after three years, he came back."

"Why?"

"Addiction. The idol drove him insane, Warden. He was... hearing voices, songs... he talked about the idol like it was a person."

"Songs, you say?" the Warden-Commander murmured. "That sounds familiar."

"What?"

"The song of the Old Gods is a popular complaint of those suffering from the darkspawn taint," Cousland explained, leaning back in his chair and looking thoughtful. "From what little we know, it's what compels the darkspawn to find the Old Gods and... well, create an Archdemon."

"Create an Archdemon?"

"I don't have time enough to explain, Varric... maybe once this is all settled, I can try. If our knowledge of the Blights spreads through the taverns... well, it would be no bad thing for people to have a little more understanding of our task, and maybe a little more appreciation... But, I'm getting distracted. The point remains, that song your brother described is... similar to that heard by those who are tainted. The darkspawn themselves, infected ghouls, Wardens who-"

He stopped suddenly, coughed, and fell silent. The warning glint in his grey eyes told Varric not to press the matter, and after a moment, the Warden continued:

"But you said your brother died four years ago... Without wishing to cause offence, he seems irrelevant to the world of templars and mages. Why bring him up at all?"

"He died four years ago..." Varric began, beginning on an aside but working his way towards the crux of the matter, "at my hands. When Hawke and I heard Bartrand was back in town... let's just say we both wanted some answers, and a spot of vengeance. We broke into his estate, killed his guards, and cornered him. He was insane, like I said, and in the end I put him out of his misery. Before he died, though, he told us why he came to Kirkwall – he sold the idol, Warden."

"Who to?" was the commander's immediate response.

"That's what I tried to figure out. I spent a year dragging up everything I could, but there wasn't a damn trace of the thing to be found – in the end, I just figured he'd offloaded it in Rivain, and I'd never find out who bought it."

"You know now, though, don't you?" Cousland guessed, shrewdly.

"Oh yes..." Varric muttered, darkly. "It was Meredith."

"Knight-Commander Meredith?" the human replied, aghast.

"The very same. Crazy old bat had it forged into a sword – every time Hawke met with the Knight-Commander, the idol was right under her nose. None of us realised it, though..."

"How did you find out, then?"

"She told us. In the Gallows, when everything went to hell. She cornered Hawke and tried to kill us all. The sword, it... hell, she had powers I've never seen before. She was flying, Warden."

"Well, the taint doesn't do that," Tyran chuckled, sarcastically. "This is something else... what happened to the idol when Meredith died?"

"It was the idol that killed her..."

"What?"

"Look, she was hearing voices, same as Bartrand, only she thought it was the Maker talking. So, when Hawke kicked her ass, she tried to call on Him for help... and the thing exploded."

"If it was made of pure lyrium," Cousland mused, slowly, "it would have killed her instantly when it broke, no?"

"Well, not instantly," Varric muttered. "She did a fair bit of screaming first... in the end, she was just... I don't know what to call it. She was all twisted and on fire... it was a blur, and we didn't exactly hang around to see what happened to her after that. We fled the city right after that."

"So, to summarise," the Warden-Commander mused, "this one little idol brought Kirkwall crashing to its knees?"

"Pretty much," he shrugged. "It drove Meredith insane. The clampdowns, the executions... Meredith was always harsh, but the idol made her paranoid. She saw enemies in every corner, and the more she tried to strike at them, the more it pissed her enemies off. With someone that insane all but taking the viscount's throne... what happened was inevitable, and it was my fault."

"How do you figure that?"

"I brought Hawke onto the expedition. Without her, Bartrand and I never would have made it to the idol – hell, we might not have even made it to the Deep Roads without her finding Anders. If I hadn't brought her into the fold, Bartrand would have never gotten his hands on the idol, and neither would Meredith."

"With or without the idol," Cousland murmured, "something like this has been in the making for centuries. Hell, it almost happened here in Ferelden, during the Blight..."

The great warrior trailed off there, and got to his feet, turning to stare wistfully out of his study's window. There was a pensive look in his eye that Varric didn't like, but as before, the dwarf knew better than to ask.

"Thank you, Varric, I've heard all I need from you. You can go."

As she traipsed into the Warden-Commander's study, Merrill was even more cautious than Varric had been – ironically, she didn't know her dwarven friend had made this same trip not an hour before. The main reason for her caution was simply the Warden-Commander himself. For all the stories of his good virtue, for all the warm tones in which Isabela talked about him, he was a fearsome man to behold. Tattooed face, piercing eyes, and a physique which made even Carver look diminutive... he was a beast of a man, and she felt sorry for anyone who had to fight him, let alone face him.

"Sit down, Merrill," he instructed, from the window. His back was still to her, and his tone was imperious, albeit with a warm, slightly friendly edge.

As the elf took her seat, perching on the tiniest sliver of the chair's edge and staring warily at him, the Warden-Commander swept around and came to sit on the opposite side of the desk. He was fixing her with those tough grey eyes once more, and she found herself compelled to break eye contact, instead staring at her feet nervously.

"I need to ask you a few questions, Merrill. About Kirkwall – I want to know what happened..."

"Then why are you asking me?" she replied, quietly. "Why not Hawke? She was in the middle of it all..."

"Hawke's not here," he muttered, "and I need to know by the morning."

"Isabela, then!" Merrill argued. "Or Varric! They love telling stories..."

"I don't want stories, I want facts. More importantly, I need your point of view."

"Why?" she persisted.

"Because you're a mage," he answered, flatly. "I need a mage's view of this crisis, and you're the only one who might answer honestly – from what I hear, Hawke would go to the noose to protect you all, and Anders wouldn't speak an honest word to me if his life depended on it..."

Hawke would go to the noose to protect you all. Did the Warden-Commander know something already? Why else would he presume Hawke had someone to protect? Or maybe it was a bluff... or a double bluff... or even the fiendish triple bluff that playing cards with Isabela had taught her to be wary of.

"How do you know I'm a mage?" she asked, finally, and rather quietly.

"Isabela told me."

"Oh."

"In her defence, I already knew... she just confirmed my suspicions."

"How did you already know?" Merrill murmured, brow furrowing.

"Your tattoos are Dalish," the commander began, "and you're carrying a staff. The only Dalish who use staves are mages – a Keeper or, I suspect, a First..."

Merrill nodded, meekly, rather impressed by his knowledge of her people.

"I was – am – a First to the Sabrae clan. No, was. Wait... are you still a First, even if you get exiled?"

"Surely you should know the answer to that," Cousland frowned.

"You'd think..."

"So... Kirkwall?"

"What do you want to know?" Merrill sighed. She had come to the conclusion that it was pointless, even detrimental not to answer his questions. He was an engaging man, but she didn't want to test his purportedly short temper, and there was nothing to be gained from lying to him, especially as he was the one sheltering them from the templars...

"One simple question," he muttered. "Whose fault was it?"

"Whose fault was what?" she replied, genuinely lost. The conversation was proceeding rather rapidly, and she was struggling to keep up.

"Everything," the Warden-Commander answered, succinctly. "The fighting, the deaths, the destruction... someone had to be at the bottom of it all – who was it?"

After what felt like an eternity of considering the question, Merrill replied:

"The templars, I suppose..."

"You suppose?"

"Well, they all did bad things, I know they did, but you can't blame the mages – I mean I know mages dangerous, but that's when we're possessed and the templars weren't fighting abominations, they were fighting-"

"Woah there," he interrupted. "Slow down..."

"Sorry I'm babbling again – I always do that... Argh, and again..."

"Just... answer me slowly, then," Cousland murmured, with a surprisingly gentle tone to his voice. "The mages who fought the templars were regular Circle mages – they weren't maleficarum or abominations?"

"No. Well, not until the templars attacked. When they did... a lot of good people turned to a lot of bad things."

"Then the templars forced their hand?"

"Of course they did! Wouldn't you fight back if someone tried to kill you?"

"A fair point... what was it like before that, though? Were the mages treated badly?"

"Worse than the Alienage..." Merrill murmured, sadly. "I mean, they kept them in a place called the Gallows! Every time we went there, there were more and more Tranquil, too..."

"And yet you and Hawke visited the Gallows regularly? Anders too? If the treatment of mages was so bad..."

"We were safe as long as we were with Hawke," she sighed. "Nobody wanted to cross her, not even Meredith."

"So what changed? What did the mages do to provoke her?"

"Nothing! It was just... it couldn't have been helped! Whatever happened, whatever they did, Meredith was always going to end it like that... maybe she was planning it all along..."

"Interesting..." Cousland mused. "Varric was certain it had something to do with his idol, driving Meredith to insanity, but you think she planned the outcome even before that?"

"You talked to Varric?" Merrill murmured, brow furrowing in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"Because I want individual explanations, not a collective story. If I had told you, you would have followed along with whatever Varric said. Instead, you've given me your own version of events..."

The elf merely sat in silence, not quite sure whether to be relieved or angry. On the one hand, he wasn't singling her out, but on the other, he had deceived her. She didn't imagine she had much right to complain, though, so she merely stayed quiet, waiting for some further conversation.

"Thank you, Merrill, that's all I needed. You can go."

It had to be said, Aveline was far less nervous than her friends as she sat opposite the Warden-Commander. However important his status, however fearsome his stature, she could at least look him in the eye, for one simple reason:

"You served at Ostagar?" Cousland began, sure enough.

"The king's guard," she nodded.

"My condolences. You were fortunate to survive..."

"Very, but that was a long time, Warden. We've both come a long way since."

"That we have... Still, it's good to find a soldier to talk to among your band."

"My 'band' are all soldiers," she replied, frowning.

"No, they're fighters," the Warden-Commander insisted. "All fine in their own regard, but they're not soldiers, they haven't been trained and ordered like you have."

"A fair point, I suppose."

"I need to ask you about Kirkwall," he said, bluntly. "I understand you were captain of the guard?"

"I was."

"Then you must have been privy to most of what went on in the city, no?"

"You'd think, wouldn't you? The guard was practically powerless for the last three years. We took our orders from the viscount, and Meredith downright prevented another viscount from being elected."

"So you were left to fend for yourselves," Tyran nodded, "and I'm guessing the templars put pressure on you?"

"They tried to take control of the guard more times than I can count," Aveline sighed. "Sometimes politely, sometimes less so..."

"Then the templars were overstepping their bounds? They were responsible for the city's troubles?"

"Some of them," she replied, measuring her words. "But not all."

"Who else, then?"

"Where to begin? The nobles, the nationalists, Tevinter slavers, Raiders, the Carta, maleficarum..."

"A long list for a troubled city," Cousland laughed, darkly. "But I'm more interested in the... climactic events. The mage uprising, the death of the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander – whose fault was that?"

"Do you want my answer, the people's answer, or my friends' answer?" Aveline murmured, cannily.

"I want the truth," the Warden-Commander muttered. "As you see it."

"Very well... it was the mages' fault."

The surprise was visible on the commander's face – his brow furrowed instantly, and he replied:

"But you fought for them? Against the templars?"

"I fought for Hawke. We all did."

"I see..."

"I'm not saying the templars were right," she added, quickly. "They did horrendous things to the mages, and to the people of Kirkwall. They were in the wrong without a doubt. But the uprising wasn't their fault."

"The mages caused the uprising... but they were right to do so?" Cousland concluded, looking slightly bemused.

"I suppose so," Aveline nodded, suddenly trying to work out whether his words matched her own. "They initiated the fighting, but I don't think many would begrudge them doing so. Meredith was... well, evil is too strong a word, but she was certainly excessive. The problem is, the world doesn't see it that way."

"Very perceptive," the Warden-Commander smiled. "The templars outside Kirkwall are still respected, still an organ of the church. If they say the mages rose up of their own accord, the world will believe them. No matter how justified it may have been..."

He fell silent, rising and turning to the window. Night was beginning to shift into dawn twilight now, and it couldn't be more than a few hours to dawn.

"Guard Captain," he muttered, gesturing to the door over his shoulder.

"Warden-Commander," she nodded, before turning, and taking her leave.

Mere minutes after Aveline's departure, the Warden-Commander's attention was drawn by the noise of a pair of clicking heels behind his back. By his own estimate, they were rounding the corner, passing through his door... He waited until the boots' owner was just a few feet away, evidently thinking herself unheard, before calling:

"Isabela. Have you never heard of knocking?"

"Not my style," she murmured, drawing up to his side. "Now, what's got you so worried, Tyran?"

"Good to see you too, please come in," he muttered, sarcastically. Then, more seriously, he continued: "What are you talking about, Isabela?"

"Alright, Tyran, I might not know you as well as I like to claim, but I know men like you. And men like you only ask this many questions when there's something bad about to happen..."

"How do you know I've been asking questions?" Cousland replied, somewhat petulantly.

"Oh come on. Varric and Merrill told me everything you said to them. And Aveline didn't even notice me by the door..."

"You were eavesdropping?"

"I prefer to think I was... curious," she shrugged, yet again flashing that very white, very brilliant smile. "So come on... why are you asking about Kirkwall so much?"

"Fine, you really want to know? I'm asking about Kirkwall, because it's tearing my world apart. What happened there... the mages, the templars, the Chantry... it wasn't confined to Kirkwall. It wasn't even confined to the Free Marches. The unrest is spreading here, and we're damn close to civil war, again. The king, the country, even our order... everything's at risk, and if I'm going to fight the templars, I need to be untouchable. No weak links, no dirty little secrets."

"And you think we're a dirty little secret?" Isabela concluded, with a slightly angry tinge to her voice.

"I know one of you is," he growled, rounding on her. "Three different witnesses, three different interviews, and three different explanations – Varric says the idol caused it all, Merrill says it was the templars, Aveline says it was the mages... and not one of them mentioned the bloody Chantry!"

"What?" she stammered, looking genuinely confused.

"The Chantry!" Tyran roared, and the pirate shrank back slightly as the levee of the Warden-Commander's exhausted temper finally broke. "You know, the big building full of priests that somebody destroyed! I'm not stupid, Isabela, I've already got a damn good idea who... what amazes me is that you're all protecting him, all covering it up!"

"He's one of us..." Isabela replied, firmly, and they both knew damn well who he was.

"Yeah, well he didn't pay much loyalty to me, did he? He'll abandon you just as quickly as he abandoned this order, and at this rate he'll get you all killed! I have to compete with the templarsfor support – they'll take one look at him, and find all the excuse they need to wipe us out!"

"So, what? You're going to kill him?"

"If he's lucky... But I need to hear you say it, Isabela. I need to hear someone say it besides myself. Who destroyed the Chantry? Who murdered the Grand Cleric?"

"I..."

He closed in, well aware that his eyes were ablaze with anger and his chest was heaving with ragged breath. He closed a hand as gently as possible around the pirate's wrist, holding her firmly in place as he repeated:

"Who was it, Isabela?"

In those few moments, a lifetime of emotions and contradictions seemed to pass over the woman's face – pride, loyalty, anger, sorrow, regret, and last of all, hardest of all, the twins reluctance and acceptance.

"Anders."

"Thank you..." he sighed, releasing his grip on her arm. "That's all I needed."

"He's still our friend, Tyran," she murmured sadly, as he turned to leave, and added, scathingly: "He used to be yours..."

"Don't for a moment think this is easy for me," the Warden-Commander muttered harshly, grabbing his sword from the rack on the wall. "But duty comes first. If the Anders I knew was still in there, he'd understand."