Six: The Mark of the Seeker

Mortals, you are the Second Children of a Maker
neglectful as a cuckoo. We watched over you,
welcomed you in! And now, when we burn
with your hungers, you decry us, name us demon.

Mortals, it is you who have changed us.
Mortals, we are the children of your sins,
the sons and daughters of your virtues.

You name us Hunger and Pride, Rage and Desire,
Justice and Faith, Silence and Caution.
Those are not our names, not even our natures.
They are what we have eaten.
In the waters of the Fade ever-shifting, we become
and become again! But the mortal world
is a chain unbroken, water freezing to ice,
maddening us with desire for its unceasing I am.

From the Canticle of Demons, stanza 2: of the mortal world

Alistair:

"Stand behind them," Kathil said to him. "Try to catch them when they fall."

"I think letting them fall over is traditional," he pointed out. The mage was carefully pouring foul liquid from an iron pot into the Joining cup. It moved restlessly, seemingly on its own. "I mean, they let me fall over, and I think we let you collapse as well."

"Yes, and I woke up with a headache that had nothing to do with the ritual and everything to do with the fact that my head hit the ground when I passed out." She grimaced, and looked sidelong at him. "Or was that a ritual lump on the back of the head and double vision I had when I woke up?"

"Had to make sure your head was hard enough to withstand being a Grey Warden." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Or did you not notice that we both spent a lot of time being hit on the head during the war?"

"That was you. I mostly got stabbed. Or on really good days, lifted into the air and gnawed on by ogres." She frowned into the Joining cup. "Somehow, I remember this cup being bigger."

"Good times, those. Remember that first one? In the Tower of Ishal?" he asked.

Kathil snorted. "You screamed like a little girl."

He poked her shoulder with one finger. "So did you."

"Granted." Kathil grinned, a little sly. "I think I hear them coming. Just try to catch them, all right? If they live, I don't want to spend any time fixing up their cracked skulls, and if they die..." She shrugged one shoulder and turned away to fuss with the cup some more. "Seems like it's only right to have their last memory of this world include human contact. It's a lonely enough world, as it is."

Any reply he might have made was forestalled by the arrival of Sigrun and six potential Wardens, walking into the great Hall of the Vigil with trepidation on every face.

Six times the cup was lifted, and Alistair did catch all six, watching for that moment that their eyes rolled up into their head, the moment when a candidate had one of two reactions—a brief seizure and then a collapse, or clutching at their throat and going into convulsions.

Five lived. One—one of the Templars—did not.

"Better outcome than usual," Kathil said, nudging Kinnon with the toe of her boot. The mage let out a terrific snore. Lorn was sniffing Marcus's body, whining a little. "I'm a little surprised that Keili lived. She's stronger than she seems. Sigrun, could you help me with Marcus?"

"I'll get his feet. Just glad you let the King there catch them." She jerked her chin towards Anders as she stooped to grab the dead Templar's ankles. "That one there is tall as a building. Say, is it true? You and him?" A glance at Alistair made it clear who she was talking about.

Kathil rolled her eyes. "Why is everyone so interested? That was years ago."

"Because the Queen doesn't like you, and I figured that might be why."

Alistair would have thought that the little dwarf was simply unaware that this might be a tender subject, but one look at her face disabused him of that notion. Her light blue eyes were lit with amusement. He said, "Rima and Kathil have a few long-running disagreements."

Kathil put her arms around Marcus's chest, under his armpits. "Can I remind you both that we have a body to lay out and prepare for burial? Come on, Sigrun. I want to write a letter to send with Petra and Guaire, and they're leaving with Oghren and Nathaniel at noon."

"You're sending the Howe with Oghren?" Alistair asked.

"Would you please stop calling him the Howe like you expect him to turn into a darkspawn? He's good at handling Oghren, I trust him not to join in the drinking games, and he's strong enough to drag Oghren out of sight after he passes out."

"I am, too," Sigrun pointed out.

"And you have a habit of egging Oghren on." Kathil gave Sigrun a sharp look. "Besides. I need at least one sane person in this madhouse who knows how to talk to Justice. Because I surely do not. Let's go drop off this poor fellow, all right? Lorn, keep an eye on our new Wardens for me, and come get me when they wake."

Sigrun snorted and picked up the Templar's feet. Lorn settled down next to Kinnon—the Mabari all liked him, for some reason—and laid his head on his paws. "You're a good pup," Alistair told him.

Lorn's tail wagged once. Of course I am. He twitched an ear in Alistair's direction.

"Your human, though. Still not sure about her sometimes." Kathil was out of earshot by now, disappeared into the hallway. "Well. Suppose I should get back to Rima and Duncan, eh? I think some paperwork's followed me to the Vigil."

He glanced over the prone, newly made Wardens once more, and started for one of the back doors of the hall. A flicker of movement caught his eye, near the wall. There was a person there—at first he thought a child, but then he blinked and he could see it was a small woman, probably human, wearing a filthy, ragged garment that he would have hesitated to call a dress. She was walking with her hand on the wall, one hand groping out in front of her. "Can I help you?" Alistair called. Whoever this was, he didn't think she belonged in here—maybe she was lost. She looked like she was blind.

Lorn raised his head and growled low in his chest, then surged to his feet.

The woman turned her face towards Alistair. "Probably not," she said, and smiled. Then she broke into a run, and between one heartbeat and the next, she slipped behind a massive post and didn't come out the other side.

She was gone.

Lorn ran to where they had last seen her, sniffing the post and whining. He reared up and put his front paws on the post, snuffling as high as he could reach. Then he looked up and barked once, meaningfully.

Alistair followed the Mabari's gaze upward, and saw that the post connected to a heavy beam that led to a series of small windows near the roofline. There was a narrow catwalk all the way around the hall, and some of the shutters on those windows were ajar.

"She's gone, boy," he said, oddly grateful for the presence of the wardog. At least the dog was convinced he wasn't seeing things. "Probably went out one of the windows and out to the roof. I think I'll take a walk outside. Talk to Captain Maverlies about some of the construction going on. Whoever that woman was, she showed herself deliberately."

The Mabari settled down again as Alistair turned and headed towards the great doors. He would wait and guard, set the set of his ears.

"This sort of thing never happens in Denerim," Alistair muttered, but he was smiling as he went in search of Maverlies.

Kathil:

To all of their very great fortune, the confirmation of Varel as Arl of Amaranthine went smoothly. Alistair made a speech—he had gotten very good at speeches in the last few years, she realized with some pride—and then Varel thanked the assembled banns and promised that he would do everything in his power to make sure they got through the next few difficult months together. "There is aid for us coming from the other arlings," he said. "And King Alistair has promised me personally that there will be funds and supplies and men coming our way for the rebuilding of Amaranthine herself, and the port."

After the brief ceremony, as Kathil turned to go check on the new Wardens, Alistair caught her eye. "Can I talk to you?"

She nodded and stepped out into the corridor beyond the Vigil's hall. Zevran and Cullen both followed, more out of habit than anything else. Kathil was carrying Cerys. Today, the infant had a strange rash that spread across her cheeks—normal, according to one of the midwives resident in the outer ward. It gave the baby a bit of a poxy look, and she kept on trying to scratch at it with her sharp little fingernails.

"I didn't have a chance to mention it before, and it's probably nothing, but—" Alistair shook his head. "There was someone in the hall, earlier."

After Alistair had described the incident (this woman had to have been in the hall during the Joining, which was bad enough as it was, but that none of them had seen her was worrying) she shook her head. "I saw someone matching that description in the inner ward yesterday—did you say that she looked like she was blind?"

"Let me guess," Zevran said. "She was very short, yes? Sharp little nose, dark hair, very dirty hands?"

"Sounds right," she said. "Let me guess. Old friend?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." He glanced over his shoulder, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. "Her name is Ville, and the impression you had of her is not incorrect. She was born blind. Let me assure you that it does not hamper her effectiveness as a Crow in the slightest. The dirt on her hands covers a set of tattoos that serve the same purpose the ones on my face do, to identify her to those who have the eyes to see."

"I would have thought sending them the head of a monster might have dissuaded them from any more attempts on our lives," Kathil said.

"And the Crows don't strike me as a particularly stupid bunch of assassins," Alistair said. "Generally." He gave Zevran a meaningful look, which the elf ignored. "She showed herself deliberately. So, why?"

Zevran shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Several possibilities. One is that this is Ville's way of requesting that I contact her. She is fond of little games. Or she may be wishing to send all of us a message, of sorts—that the Crows know can reach out with their blades at any time. This fortress was built to withstand armies, not assassins." His hands were straying close to the hilts of his visible daggers, a sure sign that he was much more disturbed than he was letting on. "She may be here for me in particular, and wishes me to know she is coming. Or she may be here for someone not one of us."

"Any way to find out?" she asked.

"Find her. Ask her." He shrugged. "It will take time." He glanced at Kathil, and shook his head slightly.

Find this Ville, or eliminate Lady Liza. Choose one.

"Does Ville have any habits we can exploit?" Cullen asked. "It sounds like you knew her well."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "She was my...mmm, mentor is not quite the word. She protected me, taught me any number of lessons. And no, she will give us no openings to use if she can help it. If she is true to form, she will be traveling with a pair of young Crows who have the talent to stay hidden in plain sight. They will not break cover even to save her life. That is not their function—they are to observe, report, and do the very few tasks that it is necessary to have sight to accomplish. But they will be easier to find than Ville will be."

"I spoke to Maverlies already," Alistair said. "She said she'd keep an eye out, but this fortress is lousy with crevices and cracks. It's going to be hard to find her if she's staying out of sight."

Kathil drew a long breath. "We're leaving for Amaranthine this afternoon," she said. "If she's on a mission, she's had opportunity to kill any one of us and hasn't yet. Let's wait and see what happens. Zev, my request stands."

He inclined his head towards her, and a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

Alistair snorted. "I don't even want to know. I really don't. Amaranthine it is, then. I'll tell my guards to get everything ready to go."

An idea occurred to Kathil, and she turned to Zevran. "Describe Ville to Leliana. If any of us is going to spot her before she wants to be spotted, Lei will be the one who manages it. And that apprentice of hers spends a lot of time staring at people. She might even have seen something."

"I will." Zevran kissed her swiftly, and then Cullen, and then he was heading into the hall. Alistair was looking bemused. Fortunately, he didn't say anything, only followed the assassin back towards the hall.

"If it's not one thing..." She sighed, and turned to Cullen. "Zev has something he needs to do, and he'll meet us in Amaranthine. You're officially in charge of security."

"Who are we taking with us?" Cullen asked.

"The King and Queen and their whole guard, of course. and the Redcliffe soldiers are earmarked for amaranthine proper, so they're going too. Leliana and...Murena, that's right. You and me, Jowan, and Justice. Sigrun is staying here to keep an eye on things, Nathaniel is going with Oghren. The new Wardens are also staying here."

"You just want to keep Jowan and Anders separate," Cullen said. He opened his arms to her, and she stepped into them. Cerys, now cradled between their chests, burbled delightedly. "Probably wise."

"I suppose I can't knock their heads together and tell them to deal with it, eh?" She looked down at their daughter. Cerys grabbed for one of Kathil's wind braids, and yanked it towards her mouth. Kathil winced. "Anders has good reason to hate Jowan. But Jowan has proven himself useful, and we all have to tolerate things we don't approve of in the name of killing darkspawn."

"We do, at that. And without him, we probably wouldn't have Cerys." Cullen was looking down at the infant, and the smile that touched his lips made something warm coil in the pit of her belly.

She rose up on her toes, shifting Cerys, and kissed that smile, those lips. She was still sore from last night, easily the roughest session of lovemaking she'd indulged in since she'd gotten too unwieldy to be particularly vigorous in bed, and she did not regret it in the least. Zevran had just smirked knowingly this morning as he picked splinters out of her shoulders.

She could have mixed feelings about the whole thing later. Right now, there was a part of her that felt replete for the first time since last summer. Zevran was her stone, her quicksilver, her home and her soul; Cullen was the path she trod, the lodestone she looked to.

She had missed him, and badly.

They broke the kiss, and she breathed his scent in, a little altered without the edge of lyrium dust but still familiar. "Do I even want to know what you've asked Zevran to do?" Cullen asked.

She inclined her head toward the hall. "Later," she said. "When it's done. Let's go get ready. I think we get to ride in a carriage. That'll be different, at least."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ever ridden in a carriage?" She shook her head. "It's a lot less pleasant than it sounds. Not even quicker, since we'll be held to the pace of the guards. If we had more horses—"

"Sort of moot, since I can't ride," she pointed out.

"I forget that things with hooves hate mages." His smile warmed his eyes. "Well. Let's go see off Oghren, shall we?"

She blinked, realizing that there was something she'd left undone. "Oh, Maker, I forgot to get the sovereigns for Felsi! Come on, I don't want to talk to Mistress Woolsey without backup." She started towards the administrative wing, moving quickly. "I swear, that woman has a glare that would put most dragons to shame."

"Even the Archdemon?" Cullen said as he caught up with her, stretching his legs.

"No, but only barely." They rounded a corner and started up the stairs. This was all starting to feel familiar, and this time in a good way.

She had Zevran and Cullen, Leliana and Jowan, and for the moment she even had Alistair and Oghren. The question of the arling was settled, and the ranks of the Ferelden Wardens were swelling again. Maybe she could do this, after all.

But up in her room, carefully hidden under the formal mage robes that she hadn't worn since she arrived, was a Warden's Oath that reminded her that the challenges of command didn't end when the Order was re-established.

She had barely known Duncan. Alistair had known him as the father he craved, the leader he'd needed. Kathil had traveled with the Warden-Commander for scarcely a fortnight; in that time, he had barely spoken to her, and she'd been too consumed with the shock of being outside of the Tower to ask too many questions.

Then had come Ostagar, and the world she'd just started to know had been erased and replaced with something far, far colder.

Kathil put it out of her mind and headed towards Woolsey's office. Those days were behind her.

She just hoped they would stay there.

Jowan:

He surveyed the road with a kind of grim satisfaction. If nothing else, it'll be good to be away from Anders for a bit. He was tired, more than tired, of having to check his boots thoroughly in the morning, and his clothes. There was a local herb called rashvine that when dried to a powder and introduced to fabric made wearing the affected clothing absolutely unbearable. It even survived two or three washings, unless those washings were done in boiling water.

He'd found it in his socks and breeches more times than he cared to think about, lately.

Things with Anders had nearly come to blows a number of times, and though he knew it was starting to irritate everyone around him, it was as if Jowan and the healer couldn't help it. Will the two of you at least attempt to be adults? Kathil had asked him about a week ago.

He didn't think Anders had told her about Jowan using him to get to the books on blood magic, or experimenting on one of the Tranquil. Not my finest hour, that. Probably because if Anders told Kathil about that, it was a very short line of questioning that led from there directly to what had happened to Sati.

Jowan had a hunch that Kathil might not forgive either of them, if she found out.

The Warden-Commander was walking next to Leliana, the two of them deep in conversation. Cerys was riding for the moment in the Carriage with Queen Rima and Prince Duncan and Leliana's odd little apprentice Murena, the child who spoke in with a thick Tevinter accent and stared at everyone so. He wondered what had possessed the bard to take that particular child as an apprentice. It was not as if there were not Fereldan children that needed training; why one from Tevinter?

The King was walking amongst his guards exactly as if he were one of them. In fact, he was wearing the same kind of armor they were, though his sword was better than any of theirs. Better than Jowan had ever seen, except for Kathil's Spellweaver; the sword, when drawn, glowed with lines of starlight, almost like veins of lyrium. He didn't dare ask where Alistair had gotten it, because he really didn't want to know. The King had referred to it once, casually, as a gift from Kathil, and Kathil apparently had ransacked all kinds of places during the Blight. It was beyond the usual mageish disregard for privacy and personal property, and it was something Jowan didn't like to think about much.

But other than the sword, it was hard to tell on first glance that Alistair was the King of Ferelden. That was, he assumed, deliberate. Kathil was extremely easy to pick out, and that too was deliberate. I'm not exactly inconspicuous, she'd told him once. And I'm tougher than I look. So I play that up. It helps that if they can hit me, I can hit them. She was wearing robes, instead of her habitual armor. The robes, at least, were easier to rearrange so she could feed Cerys.

Justice was in the vanguard. The non-Wardens kept their distance, not that the Fade spirit seemed to mind. As they walked, they all cast glances at the edges of the road and the margin of the forest that surrounded them. The road was still muddy, but getting more solid; they hadn't needed to dig out the carriage even once, so far. They were too large a group for a small bandit force to take. At least, that was the theory.

Unfortunately for the theory, the reality was that there were large groups of bandits in the arling.

Their first indication that something was wrong were a pair of sharp barks from Lorn and Fiann, who had ranged ahead of the rest of them. The Mabari hurtled back towards them as men and women burst out from the undergrowth at the side of the road.

"Jowan—"

That was Kathil. They had done this so many times that it was reflexive to match his voice to hers, match the edges of their power. The horses pulling the carriage screamed and then froze in mid-rear as a shimmering bubble of power surrounded them and the carriage. Around them, swords were coming out of sheaths, Leliana was pulling her bow, and it was rapidly becoming clear that they were outnumbered.

So many of them. There has to be a hundred, no, more! How—

But there was no time for that, and Kathil was beginning to cast, Spellweaver naked in her hand, electricity coruscating over the metal. He knew this spell, and knew exactly how to help her even the odds.

He took a breath, becoming a still place in the world as chaos grew around him. Ignore it. The Veil was there, already tattered, and it took so little to reach—and pull—there!

And You are the spark of life that grows into a bonfire, the killing mercy of the flame!

Around them, Kathil's icestorm bloomed, winds howling in a circle just beyond the borders of their forces..

Jowan's flame followed the path that her storm set, lacing through it, adding destructive fury. This was why the games with the magelights, this was why they trained mages to join their powers together. Even if the Tower had forgotten.

Even if it never knew.

And together we cry to you in the darkness—our enemies are as sheaves of wheat beneath the scythe, felled for Your glory!

Kathil was grinning. "Jowan, stay with the carriage, you're support—Lei! Cover Jowan!"

The bard sighted and released; her arrow sprouted from the throat of a bandit as she backed up to stand next to Jowan. Alistair and his guards were engaging the bulk of the force that had managed to be within the borders of the storm when it was unleashed. Cullen bashed away a bandit with his shield and came to join Kathil, falling in on her left side. He said something to her and she shook her head, gesturing at Alistair, and Cullen gestured at her sharply. She looked down and scowled, evidently remembering that she was unarmored and therefore not a good candidate for engaging the enemy directly.

Jowan took a breath and tossed a spell into the midst of the largest clump of soldiers, listening for the telltale scream of a man infected with a spell that would eventually turn him into a flesh-based explosive. Kathil was next to him now, Cullen at point before them. "This is stupid," Kathil grumbled. She spat out a couple of words and sent a dart to tag one of the bandits. The man yelped and turned towards them. "They have to know who we are, who we're traveling with."

"Desperation," Cullen said without turning around. The man Kathil had darted reached him, and the Templar bashed him with his shield, sending the man flying. Jowan finished the job with a tongue of flame from one hand. "Kathil—"

"I see him." Her jaw had gone hard. "Jowan. Ward Alistair, now."

The bandits were giving the King a wide berth, but a motion at one side of the battlefield called to mind the sway of ash trees before an autumn wind. Something—someone—had arrived on the battlefield. Jowan swore and reached for the first spell that came to mind, a ward against binding magics. The ward sprang to life at Alistair's feet.

Kathil was gone from Jowan's side, and Cullen was gone as well. Jowan blinked and looked around, only to see what Cullen had drawn her attention to originally. It was a man wearing robes that were only slightly singed from the storm he had to have walked through—a mage, right enough. No one Jowan knew, and that was a mercy.

"Jowan, pay attention!" That was Leliana's voice. "Stop daydreaming, and keep these men standing!"

"The mage—"

Leliana laughed. "Let Kathil handle it, yes?"

And right enough, he could feel two spells being cast in quick succession, and the sickening feel of the cleansing in the same vicinity. The apostate dropped like a poleaxed steer. She's a mage killer—I didn't know they even taught those spells any more—

Then everything was blood, and blades, and trying to keep everyone alive.

Jowan switched entirely to warding and healing spells, keeping only a bit in reserve so he could replenish the shield around the carriage. Someone shoved a lyrium potion into his hands as his strength faltered and the storm that had been separating them from the rest of the bandits dropped. The potion clawed at the back of his throat, but he shuddered and swallowed.

The bandits regrouped slightly and began trying to attack the carriage. It was then that things got genuinely dicey.

"Maker-forgotten archers," he heard Kathil hiss. She had an arrow in her thigh. "Jowan, can you fireball them?"

He wiped sweat out his eyes. "Not if you want this shield to stay up." He was using his staff to fire at the archers in the trees, which seemed to mostly have the effect of causing them to aim at him and Kathil.

"Lovely." But she didn't tell him to drop the shield. They both had their backs to the carriage, pressed against the shield. "Well, shit—"

A group of bandits rounded the corner of the carriage. They looked rather well-fed for bandits, Jowan noted absently as Kathil shoved past him, placing herself between Jowan and the armed men. Lorn was next to her now, his head down and hackles raised, advancing on the bandits. Where was—ah, there Cullen was, barreling in from the side, plowing into the middle of the group. Fiann was with him, howling as she knocked a bandit off of his feet. (And when had she gotten big enough to do that?) Kathil had to be low on spellpower, Jowan realized as he saw her parry the apparent leader's blade. Between the storm and dealing with the apostate—all she was right now was a fighter.

Fortunately, right now what really was needed was extra swords. Leliana pulled her daggers, going after the backs of those bandits unwise enough to expose them. Keep the shield up. Keep them standing.

There were still a lot of bandits out there, and even with the potion Jowan's reserves were dwindling.

The shield began to flicker.

Fine. Let's test this theory about being able to use all of our abilities. He drew his little knife, pulled up his sleeve, and slashed across his forearm.

A normal mage wouldn't have to resort to using his own blood when his power ran low. A normal mage would switch to handing out potions and hauling the wounded to safety to give himself a breather.

The shield steadied under his touch as he renewed the spell, the blood welling from his forearm sinking into his skin and disappearing as if the magic were consuming it.

Lucky for the Queen and the Prince that I'm not a normal mage.

He hung grimly on to the shield, folding himself downward to make a smaller target. Howls erupted nearby from the Mabari, close enough to leave them all feeling a little stunned at the very noise of it. Justice came past, his face a mask of blood. The Fade spirit didn't bleed, as such; that had to all be the blood of others. Justice's blade swept a bandit's head from his shoulders, and that head came bouncing and rolling toward Jowan, to stop, face up, by his knee.

The bandit's bearded face looked startled. Understandable, really. The confusion of battle was beginning to calm, and looking around Jowan thought that they might have won. He could hear Alistair barking orders, sending his guards out after the archers.

Jowan straightened, and looked around. The battle was winding down, but—where was Kathil, and Leliana? He found Cullen, saw him hauling one pale-haired mage to her feet, but there was no pretty bard anywhere in sight. Kathil limped determinedly towards Jowan, looking at the shielded carriage.

"Let go of the shield," Kathil said to him as she neared. "It's safe now."

He looked over his shoulder. "The horses," he pointed out, and he could hear a ragged intake of breath from her as she understood the problem. Horses did not like magic in the slightest, and they were perhaps the least sensible of all the Maker's creatures. The moment the shield was no longer holding them in place, they would panic and bolt.

He saw Kathil glance at his bleeding forearm. "Can you control them?"

"Yes. Though I don't think—"

"Rather a pair of horses die than the three children in the carriage, and the Queen," Kathil said. "Do it. Quickly, while nobody's looking."

He readied the blood leash with a few quick words, running them together in his haste, and with a gesture let go of the shield.

A moment later, it was done. The horses came down from their half-rear and stood still, their only sign of life their white-rimmed, rolling eyes and their panicked breathing—

Then there was no longer even that.

Both of the horses fell in the traces, convulsing, and then stopped moving.

Kathil didn't notice, yanking open the carriage door and peering inside. "Where—ah, good, you're all right."

"Yes, what—" The Queen's voice stopped, and Jowan could well understand her confusion, her realization. The shield made time seem to pause for those it was cast on, and to the Queen it probably seemed as if the battle had been done with in an eyeblink. "Oh."

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, a pair of slim arms handing Cerys to Kathil. Then Murena emerged, surveying the battlefield, its stink and the moans rising from men who were not quite dead. The Queen was muttering, "Oh. Oh, Duncan, my sweet, don't look, come back in here and we'll close the door—Warden-Commander, get Alistair."

The Tevinter child closed the door of the carriage as the first startled wails began from the Prince. She muttered to herself in a language Jowan did not speak, and then bit her lip and set off across the battlefield, one hand on the little dagger she wore on her belt. Kathil was holding Cerys, the look on her face reflecting a mental calculation that he was all too familiar with—who was going to live, who was probably going to die, how to save the most people for the least amount of effort.

The baby in her arms squirmed, protesting. Cullen touched Kathil on her shoulder, and said, "Let me take her."

"You have to go after the stragglers." Kathil frowned. "And where has Leliana gotten to?"

"Let me get you the sling, at least, you're going to need both hands free." Cullen opened the door of the carriage. Kathil seemed to realize that she had a deathgrip on Cerys and gentled her hold. A moment later, Cerys was settled and the two of them parted, Cullen towards where Alistair and Justice of all people stood talking, Alistair gesticulating and the Fade spirit standing still as stone.

Jowan's gaze returned to the two dead horses; the driver was trying to untack them. One of the horses had been a red mare, the other a sandy dun gelding. Poor things. Poor, poor things. You never had a chance.

The song of blood throbbed behind his eyes and beneath his breastbone, shaking him every time his heart pulsed in his chest. Bring it home. Bring it in. He shuddered with the effort to stanch the flow, to pull his awareness entirely back into his body.

After five heartbeats passed, he succeeded.

Back into his own body, sweating and wrung dry, shaking with reaction to the magic and to the blood loss. He fumbled open the pouch he kept close and pulled out a small vial. He hated this restorative. It was worse than lyrium potions. Still, down the hatch it went, leaving Jowan feeling for a moment like all of the hair on his body was standing on end, nausea trying to turn him inside out.

"Jowan. Jowan!" That was Kathil from across the clearing, and that was Murena crouched next to her, staring down at a prone form in a set of familiar leathers.

Leliana.

Maker, this is not my day—

Cullen:

All told, they had acquitted themselves well against a force that numbered just over four times their own. They'd lost five people outright, and eight more were wounded but would patch together well enough to walk. Two more were down with disabling injuries.

One of those was Leliana.

A bandit with a maul had come after her. The bard was fast, and very good at staying out of the way, but sometimes the outcome of a battle turned on luck. The maul had smashed into her right knee, shattering the kneecap and cracking the top part of the bone of her lower leg.

She had other wounds, but the knee was by far the worst. It could be repaired, Kathil was telling her. "But I won't lie to you. It is going to hurt enough to make you wish we were taking it off instead, and there's a decent chance it'll never be quite the same. I'm sorry, Lei."

Leliana's face was white as snow, dark circles standing out beneath her eyes. "But I'll walk?"

"You'll dance." Kathil put her hand atop Leliana's, and curled her fingers around the bard's unresisting hand. "I promise."

Jowan was fussing with Leliana's knee, frowning. It was an ugly wound, a mess of meat with bits of bone showing. "It's going to take some time. Maker's Balls, I am not looking forward to this."

"Just bind it for the moment. We can start on the healing once we've rested a bit." Kathil shook herself a little, squeezed Leliana's hand, and stood. One hand came up to cup where Cerys' head rested in the sling, as if to shield her from some sight. "Murena. Stay with Leliana. Give her water if she's thirsty. Understand?"

Murena nodded, blonde curls bobbing. She was still crouched next to the pack that they had propped Leliana up against. "Yes, massime."

"Dearest." That was Leliana, her lovely voice dulled with pain. "Do me a favor?" Kathil nodded, and Leliana beckoned her close. The mage stooped, and Leliana spoke to her in a low voice for a moment.

Kathil straightened, and was that a smile she was trying to stifle? "You're terrible, Lei. I hope you know this."

"But of course. Besides, it will be fun, no? Surely you can't begrudge me this tiny thing."

"Tiny thing, she says." Kathil waved her hand. "Fine. It'll be done."

"Good—ah!" Jowan had moved her leg slightly, lifting it up a bit so he could get the bandage around it. Leliana went even paler than she had been.

Cullen cleared his throat. Kathil started, and then relaxed. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked as she came over to him, sliding under his arm. He pulled her close. The scent of magic filled his nose, cold as the wind over a snowfield, and her body was trembling slightly.

"Long enough. Alistair's getting us organized to move." He took a long breath, steadying himself. "We searched the dead."

"You found something." She looked up at him, focusing sharply on his face. She was spattered with blood and other less savory fluids. They all were.

He nodded, and handed her a tattered piece of paper that he held. "We found this on the leader."

It was a scrap, nothing more, torn from what had to have been a letter or official paperwork of some sort. There was half of a symbol on it, recognizable despite half being missing. An open eye, surrounded by flames.

The mark of the Chantry Seekers.

"His pouch was full of money," Cullen told her. "Ferelden coin, mostly, some Orlesian."

Kathil's gaze had fixed on the paper. "The mark of the Seekers, and there were too many bandits, too well armed and too well-fed. This was no bandit attack."

"They avoided Alistair," Cullen added. "He wasn't the target."

She looked over to where four of Alistair's guard were pushing the carriage away from the dead horses. Rima was standing beside it, holding a protesting Duncan, trying in vain to keep his eyes averted from the battlefield. "I know," Kathil said, her voice gone deceptively soft. "They were going to keep me and Jowan occupied until the shield dropped. Then they would have taken what they came for and retreated."

Part of him didn't want to believe it. This was the Chantry. It was made up of people who had the best intentions in the world, who wanted nothing more than a world at peace, a world where the Chant rang in every village, every town, every heart. They didn't pay bandits to try to kidnap babies.

Yet they also own the largest standing armies in Thedas, all told.

Perhaps, in some quarters, peace was a goal worth any cost.

He closed his hand around the scrap. "Come on," he said. "We can help load Leliana into the supply wagon." Kathil nodded, and leaned into him briefly before pulling away.

Cullen followed her, and wondered if this was Andraste's vision for the world. Was this what she had fought for, bled for, burned for?

Would she have approved?

She'd been a barbarian war leader. So, maybe. But somehow he doubted it. The Andraste in his mind was no longer the beautiful young woman all the statues depicted. Instead, she was an older woman, her face lined, care worn into every movement. She'd been a mother, all the stories said. Cullen took a long breath, and went to help lift Leliana into the waiting wagon.

He wished Zevran were here.

Zevran:

He traveled across the Feravel Plains on a messenger's palfrey, cloak hood pulled low. Somewhere on the road behind him was Lady Liza and her guards. How far, Zevran wasn't sure. He started out early and rode late, stopping to make cold camps just off the road. He saw few people, and those who did see him merely waved as he passed. He suspected few of them even realized that he was an elf.

The horse he rode was one of the better ones that the Vigil kept, though only someone educated in horseflesh would have been able to see it under the layer of spring mud that covered the gelding. The rolling hills were covered with just the finest mist of green, and the trees were putting out tentative, tender leaves.

It had been some time since he had traveled like this; a bit in Antiva, after the Blight, and when he had first arrived in Ferelden with despair a poison in his veins. It was not comfortable, but when one was racing a group of mounted people the only way to ensure that one arrived at the destination first was to sacrifice comfort for expediency.

Three days after he left Vigil's Keep, he arrived at the farmhold of one Linnet Revan. It was one of the largest farmholds in the arling, having subsumed several smaller ones after the Blight, and the quality of the wheat and cheeses it produced was known throughout northern Ferelden. It was well-situated, bordered by a river on one side and cave-riddled hills on the other.

It was also the home of a young man named Garrett Revan, who Lady Liza Packton was bedding.

Zevran had gone through Liza's things when it had become obvious to him that she was the instigator of much of the political trouble that had marked the last year in Amaranthine. She was a sentimental woman; she kept scrawled love notes in one of her saddlebags, secure in a wooden scrollbox. Young Garrett was, evidently, barely literate, but his notes had painted a story for Zevran that was all too clear.

Linnet Revan did not approve of her son's lover, from the multiple mentions of me mam yellde a mi gain. Probably because the bann apparently had no intentions of marrying Garrett, despite the pleading he did in the notes. Lady Liza was politically savvy, and even if she loved the boy it was likely that, if she married, it would be someone closer to her own station.

Not that he thought that the bann would willingly share her power with anyone. There were rumors that she had once tried to marry into the Howe family, but had been rebuffed and settled for becoming one of their major supporters.

All of this was interesting, but less relevant than the fact that Liza would stop by the farmhold on the way back to her own home, the fortress at the western edge of the arling. And it was there that Zevran would wait.

He rode past the farmhold; if anyone remembered the palfrey and its rider passing, they would only remark him as likely being on his way to Highever. The horse he turned into a field of similarly muddy beasts. If he was very lucky, nobody would notice for a few days. If he wasn't, he might have to resort to stealing his own horse, or—more likely—walking to Amaranthine.

The farmholds were beginning spring plowing and planting, and though cover was relatively scant, Zevran managed to stay out of sight. He'd toyed with the idea of joining the planting, but on a farmhold in backwater Ferelden he would be obvious as a goldfinch. Better to employ stealth, after all.

Garrett Revan was a strapping young man with a face that was just beyond handsome into beautiful, and who had a voice that would have been more at home on the stage than it was calling the cows in to be milked. His mother was a tall, rawboned woman with an efficient manner and a gimlet gleam in her eye. There were perhaps forty others on the farmhold, and in the three days that Zevran hid and watched, five more arrived in anticipation of seasonal work. It was calving and lambing season as well as planting, and there seemed to be more work than there were hands.

He wondered, sometimes, if this was the sort of life he would have had, if his mother's husband had survived. A life spent breaking his back against the land, a life where a good calving season would mean the difference between wealth and penury. It seemed distant as a star to him, a son of the deserts of Antiva.

As well, he thought on Ville, and what her appearance in Vigil's Keep might mean. This is how love ends, boy. With someone dead. (Orphene's eyes glazing over, her blood soaking into the sawdust. He remembered it so clearly, still.) He had not lied; Ville had been kind to him. She'd broken him in, taught him how to glory in touch, how to make men and women sigh and scream both. He'd spent three weeks blindfolded, doing every chore in her apartments from cleaning floors to making her cry out in ecstasy with his tongue alone.

He'd had sex before he had gone to Ville's bed, but it was Ville who taught him that lovemaking was an art form.

She'd never encouraged affection. She was too pragmatic for that, and Zevran was not the first she had broken in and by no means would he be the last. But they had liked each other, he thought.

Ville had warned him against Rinna. She had been senior in their cell, though not the leader, and she had been the first to realize that he had fallen in love with a fellow Crow. "You become soft, boy," she'd said and poked him in the ribs with a hard finger. "You can't afford what she'll do to you."

He'd left Antiva, afterwards, and when he'd returned she was nowhere to be found. There were rumors, of course. Some said that there was a cell led by a blind Crow; other said that she had gone to work as the exclusive assassin for one of the pretenders to Antiva's throne.

Assignment, or personal? It was hard to say, and it had been something of a relief to know that he had higher priorities than finding out. After Taliesin, he had little stomach for old friends turning up unexpectedly.

So he thought, and observed, and waited. On the third day, Lady Liza arrived.

Zevran was lying in the stable hayloft, surveying the courtyard in front of the large farmhouse through the hay door. Liza rode into the courtyard, her back straight and her hoods down, probably teased off of her head by the freshening breeze. She was not a pretty woman, as such, but there was something appealing about her light blue eyes and direct gaze, something of a sly intelligence.

A farmhand saw the bann and went running off, shouting for Linnet. The farmholder herself appeared a few moments later, her heavy apron smeared with substances Zevran did not want to think about too much, given that there were three cows in labor in one of the barns. "Y'Grace," said Linnet, drawing herself up to her full height. "T'what do we owe the honor?"

"I am on my way home, and I will partake of the hospitality of your house," the bann said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The horses need to be fed and watered, and my men need refreshment."

"Your men will eat with the rest of the hands, and there's some spare cots in the bunkhouse." Linnet scowled. "You can have the usual room. I'll get Gracie to freshen it. We haven't much hospitality to spare, y'grace. Not this time of year."

"It will do," Liza said. "Liam, Gull, take the horses. Jorun, bring my bags inside. We'll be here overnight, at least. And I'm sure that the farmholder will see to all our comforts."

The guards glanced at each other, and smirked. It seemed that Lady Liza's little tryst was no secret at all.

They parted, and Zevran stood up and brushed hay from his clothing. The game was in motion, and all was set. He'd had to make a few educated guesses, but he had confidence even in those.

It would play as it played.

Several hours later, he was ensconced on the rooftop above the room that Lady Liza had been given. There had in fact been bedsport—Garrett had boundless energy even after a full day of work, and Lady Liza seemed to have been badly in need of tending, as it were. The music of pleasure continued late into the night, long after the lamps of the house and bunkhouse had been extinguished.

Then the voices from below him quieted. He waited. It would not be long now. There was a flask of water on the table next to the bed; Zevran had treated it with a powerful sleeping draught. After all, lovemaking was such thirsty pleasure, was it not?

The murmurs of the lovers talking dwindled into silence. Then the snores began.

Zevran counted to three hundred, and began to move.

He had a rope secured to the roof. With it, he lowered himself to the window, which he had oiled to open easily and silently. The shutters came open, and he slipped inside. His dark-adapted eyes could quite clearly make out the figures on the bed; he paused and twitched an eyebrow upward. He'd thought that Garrett's affection for the bann had been largely based on the older woman's power and forceful manner, and the fact that her favor might mean he could eventually leave his mother's farmhold.

Zevran could see now that the young man had more reasons than just practical concerns. Lady Liza was built like a goddess. Those were possibly some of the most perfect breasts he'd seen since leaving Antiva. In a rather abstract sense, it was a pity that he was going to have to murder her.

It was a pretty picture, really; the young man curled around the bann, Liza's body stretched out and limned by what little starlight made its way through the window. Both of them were dead to the world, and snoring.

Zevran crossed the floor silently, pulling out a thick pad of cloth made specifically for such occasions as these, when death must come quietly and leave no marks on the body. He treated it with the contents of a vial, the smell of it stinging his nose, and began.

Garrett did not stir when Zevran put the pad of cloth over Liza's nose and mouth. He counted to thirty, and Liza stopped snoring, falling into a sleep so deep that she would not be able to be awakened for many hours. Then he put one hand under her jaw and lifted it up, positioning his fingertips near the large vein in her neck.

With the other hand, he pressed down on the cloth pad.

Time flowed by, and Lady Liza's heartbeat first quickened, then slowed. Then slowed more. Then she shuddered, and her heart ceased to beat. He kept the pad over her nose and mouth for some time after that, to be sure.

It was done.

He packed away the pad and the vial, and made for the window. A little while later, he was slipping past the farmhold's guard dogs (also drugged; he had no inclination to be caught on this outing) and into the hills that the farmhold backed onto.

He had a bit of pity for the lad, who would wake to the cold body of his lover next to him in bed. But likely none would suspect that it had been murder.

He could still hear Ville's voice, drilling him ruthlessly on the eighty-nine precepts of the Crows, the series of questions and answers that formed the foundation of their philosophies, such as they were.

What is the perfect murder?

The murder in which no mortal hand appears to have had a part in.

He walked into the night towards where he'd left his horse. Tomorrow he would ride towards Amaranthine, with none the wiser.

And perhaps, once they returned to Vigil's Keep, he would find Ville and see what it was that a legendary Crow wanted in Ferelden.