Raviathan woke on a wooden floor in a panic. He stared around the strange room for a moment before remembering where he was. After Allison fell asleep, he had moved to the kitchen floor to keep warm by the stove where his clothing and armor dried. The fire had died down to embers and ash, but the thicker walls of the house held the heat in well. He couldn't remember his dream, only shadows of being lost and afraid. After a quick breakfast of cheese, bread, and a jar of fruit, Raviathan scrawled a note to Allison then left the quiet cottage with Venger behind him.
Frost lay thick on the ground, the grass crunching with each step. Raviathan shivered in the darkness before dawn. Though Venger's coat was short, the dog didn't seem to mind the cold. The panic of the town lay still. Their fears, tangible as bitter roots, were silenced for a time.
With only birdsong as his company, Raviathan walked through the town at random. Had this been Denerim, the guards would have taken him to prison for being outside the alienage during curfew. He was a Grey Warden, and yet, without another human to accompany him, he was back to being a second class citizen. However, with the coming darkspawn, townsfolk, guards, and refugees couldn't be bothered with him. How in the Maker's name was he going to get through Ferelden on this fool's mission?
If only Duncan were still around. More unpleasant news awaited judging by Duncan's secretiveness and Alistair's ineptitude. Raviathan could feel the taint inside himself like a parasite burrowing deeper, becoming entrenched deeper than his bones. A dull burning remained in his veins as the sin of the world settled into his body. It was still a foreign thing, but that wouldn't last. The sin would become part of him. No escape.
A blush of pink touched the night's darkness as Raviathan found a small garden nestled into an older series of buildings. Perhaps one of the lords lived here. Strange how they kept this garden. Though kept clean with medicinal herbs in neat rows next to winter squash, an old briar patch twisted along the length of a low wall. The vines tumbled in on themselves, grey, thick with age. Thorns spiked in all directions ready to shred the unprepared. Why had this gnarled thing been left alone?
Raviathan lifted a hand to the ancient rose, his palm a hair's breadth away from a nest of jutting thorns. Letting a tendril of magic loose, Raviathan explored, layer by year made layer of armored wood. Dead and more death. A battered army armed with swords and spears, yet it fell after long battles against neglect, weather, and time.
He almost left when one last branch, hidden in the deep recesses, caught his attention. Even though the briar appeared to be a dried out husk, and the mass lay as long dead bones, a tiny sliver of life warred at the core of the rose. So faint. So easily crushed. One harsh winter, and the briar would truly be as dead as the sun cracked corpse it resembled.
With the sun still hidden behind distant mountains, Raviathan created his first spell. Despite all the problems being a mage entailed, had he a choice in the matter, Raviathan would never give up magic. Magic had cost Solyn her life, the beautiful soul ending in a torturous death. Magic was a secret that could kill him even now with their status as Grey Wardens hidden.
In his early childhood days he learned what a terrible and insidious thing a lie of omission was. His best friends could never know or they would be in danger too. At the age of five a wall had descended between them that only he was aware of. He loved his cousins, but he could never really be a part of them again. They might play or cry together, they could give comfort, but there was a distance forever put in place that had pained him in those tender years.
Only his mother, aunt, and father knew, and as the women in his life died, his father remained a constant. Since Duncan's death, his father lingered as the last witness. His father had never shamed him, not really, but he was always uncomfortable with magic, with having a son whose soul was a living bridge to the Fade. Cyrion never said anything, but his discomfort lingered in every shadowed glance or in the tension carried in his lined brow.
Still, with all the danger and estrangement, Raviathan loved magic. When he didn't think about his father's disquiet or his friends, in the late hours when he and Solyn played their energies against each other, he knew what living was. He felt sorry for the rest, his parents and friends, who would never understand that feeling. They would never understand how brilliant the light inside felt, how it made his blood vibrate with electricity. Magic was primal, shown inside him like his own personal sun on a warm spring day-full of life and creation-as if happiness could be a physical thing and existed at the very center of him, like a second heart he could feel.
When he was sad, using just a little power, just a lick of flame to light a candle, that little zing of energy could sooth him like arms of sunlight wrapping around him and lifting his heart. When his mother died and grief overwhelmed him, he had turned the iron stove red hot in order to feel the comfort of his magic. The heat had scorched the wall and cracked the windows. If Solyn and his father hadn't been in the same grief he would have been punished. Solyn would have assumed his power was out of control. Instead he scrubbed and whitewashed the wall before the two came back home. The frost was blamed for the cracked glass.
One time he was resting against his mom after a particularly grueling session with Solyn had left him exhausted. He was sweating and limp, but a quiet triumph held him after mastering a difficult spell that would shield him from magic. When Solyn sent a spell at him, he could withstand it behind a hair thin barrier of solid magic. That was the first real spell he was able to master instead of fumbling instinct. Solyn had given him a fierce look of pride for it.
He lay there resting his back to his mother's front. Her long fingers, so nimble compared to his own still clumsy digits that couldn't get the compositions on his harp right, brushed his hair. He could have fallen asleep like that, cuddled with his mother, but the feeling was too good to sleep. He wanted to savor it, his mother's protection and sense of hard won accomplishment. He always associated his mother's voice with his father's pipe tobacco. He loved the smell of the pipe tobacco, smoky and spicy, sweet but not cloying. It was a good smell, rich and masculine. Her voice was like the feminine version of that smell. Low and cool, enticing with the wisdom of adults and exotic places.
She asked softly, her lips near his ear so he could feel her breath, "What's it feel like to do magic?"
He raised his arm, still trembling from the effort of learning the spell, and pointed at the afternoon sunlight on a cracked window. The sunlight glinted in the cracks, making it look like a spider web made of light with faint rainbows. "It's like that light on the inside. It's what beautiful feels like."
Threading his arm through the layers of brambles, Raviathan placed a careful finger on that slender branch that still held the last remnants of life. Had he been certain that the darkened windows held no witness, he would have sent the magic from a safe space, but the spell's bright flame had to be concealed by sending it through touch.
That little life responded like a frightened child clutching at a parent. The briar shifted with newfound growth as his magic flowed forth. A thorn pressed into the palm of Raviathan's hand, but he couldn't stop the spell after feeling the last desperate hope of this little life. A rose. The briar was nothing to most, a plant lost to indifference, but another lesson his magic had brought was the knowledge that all living things struggled for survival. No matter how humble that life was, all living things were touched with the essence of the Fade.
Raviathan watched as a bud formed. He smiled, withdrawing his hand as carefully as possible. Even so, more than one scratch scored his arm, leaving the points of long thorns red. The magic continued to pulse at the plant's core, feeding it though the source of the power left.
Silly little rose. You're out of season.
Solyn had warned him of the demons and abominations. If he ever gave into a demon he would become a mad thing incapable of control. The dark side to magic made everyone fear, though he had never felt the call of demons. She confided that she had heard them whisper to her after her sister died, probably expecting he was having the same experience. There was nothing though. No demons. No whispers to take the pain away or promises of power. Solyn didn't believe him though it was the truth. The powers he called could be used for destruction, the stove was evident enough of that, but magic always remained a living, vibrant thing. It was too life affirming. Maybe if he heard demons he would feel differently.
The taint though. It was becoming part of him. It was darkness made real, but it wasn't at war with his magic. Odd these two forces inside him, hope and sin.
The crawl of the taint, that sense of intense wrongness that he felt from the darkspawn, irritated like a mild acid that slowly ate at him, constant yet internal. There was no shying away from it. No escape. It reminded him of Duncan's iron will. Now more than ever he understood what the Grey Wardens were about, why they fought and were willing to do whatever it took to end the darkspawn. Grey Wardens were like a race on to themselves. The consequence of the taint, and by extension the darkspawn, was as real as their own blood. Grey Wardens knew, knew better than any other what the taint was. Duncan knew. Now Raviathan did as well. He was becoming.
Becoming, but what would be the end point? What happened to a body that lived with this poison for decades?
~o~O~o~
He dared look at his feet only once. When Alistair saw his long, bony feet, the toes were purple running into red half way to his heel. The dirty sock that had barely kept frostbite at bay was shoved back on in haste. The cold that had been holding back this winter now resurged in force. Numb and bleary, Alistair pulled boots on tired feet. Armor followed, but he was too big for the small tent and kept knocking things over or getting stuck.
Squinting at the sun that seemed way too bright, Alistair rubbed at his scalp. While at Ostagar, he forgot how much over-bright sunlight could hurt, like it was sending a knife into his brain through his eyes. Morrigan fed small twigs to the fire like a crow hunched over a dead carcass. Maker's breath, how could she not be freezing in those rags. Soup burbled in the pot. Alistair eyed it suspiciously. Instead, he grabbed one of two potatoes left cooking in the ashes.
"Ow!" Alistair dropped it back in the ashes, waving his burning fingers to cool them.
Morrigan smirked at him. "Did you never learn that objects left in a fire get hot?"
"Don't. Just… just don't."
"Such a wit in the morning. How refreshing considering your normal stone brained state."
"Funny. You don't look like a spider anymore, but you're still as creepy."
"An attitude like that, no wonder your fellow left you last night."
Stung, Alistair let the argument go. Taking another chance with the potato, he tossed it back and forth until it cooled. He bit into it while still steaming hot, but if he didn't get something into his stomach, he was sure he'd start devouring himself. His teeth turned hot, his tongue burning, but he got the half-cooked tuber down. A carrot and second half cooked potato stopped the cramping in his stomach. Maybe they could get some food at the inn? Something with meat to keep his stomach from hurting and, bless the Maker, a bit of cheese?
Part of him felt like he didn't deserve food. They were dead. His brothers. Duncan. Their bodies left to the darkspawn to be gutted, turned into sick altars. Marcus, who had sparred with him. Alistair couldn't get rid of the images of mutilated bodies from the Tower of Ishal out of his mind.
Those men didn't deserve that. Not one of them. They were noble, good men. Some were a bit rough, but to be left on the field, their bodies desecrated? Maker, please, let them have died quickly. Guide their souls to your side. Please, Maker. Duncan was a good man. The best.
The pain crushing his chest competed with the incessant gnaw of his stomach. A better man than he would have the will to honor their passing with a fast. How could he even feel hungry with all this loss? Still, his stomach insisted on attention like a fly buzzing about his head.
Grabbing the last potato and tossing it from hand to hand until it cooled, Alistair left their little camp, eating along the way.
Could they get rid of Morrigan? For the life of him, Alistair didn't know why she had agreed to come with them. Granted, she had been helpful in the two skirmishes they had. He could grudgingly admit that, but why was she here? Not because her mother told her to go with them, surely. She was mean, disagreeable, selfish, and those yellow eyes made his skin crawl, like she was a snake sizing up a mouse. Maybe she would get bored and slither away. If the Maker would bless them, that is.
Was Rav still mad at him? When the elf said they should separate yesterday, Alistair could have sworn that for a moment the earth and sky flipped. Not abandoned, please. Not again. His vision burred as he tried to right what was going horrible wrong. Now the only person he had left was mad at him. He knew learning about the taint would be painful. If he hadn't been so clumsy about it…
Alistair walked through the town, grabbing some Chantry notices as he passed. Loghain and Duncan and Cailan and the whole world was a mess that tumbled in his head without relief. This stiffness in his legs and back abated as he moved, but in this condition, the sword at his back was more decoration than weapon.
In what passed for a town square, a grass field trampled to mud with a well at the center, a barely organized crowd of refugees had gathered. At the center an old woman presided, ordering people to beds or into new lines with no nonsense brusqueness. To his surprise, there was the very person he was looking for. The elf sat on a crate as one tattered farmer or worn family moved forward in the line. They left with fresh bandages or a jar of red concoction, all bowing in thanks as they left.
"Miriam," the elf called in that deep voice of his. Considering how many times he had heard the elf speak over the last week, that voice still surprised him. Though often soft spoken, that voice could snap out commands that had people jump before they realized what they were doing. Such a small man for that kind of vocal power, but Alistair understood why Duncan had recruited him. "Did that delivery of fresh bandages arrive yet?"
"Looks like the boy is coming now." The old woman coughed, a dry wheeze that sounded chronic.
Raviathan gestured for the older man to sit. Judging from the ages of the two, Alistair figured they were a boy and his grandfather.
There was so little he knew about the elf. There were a few rumors about him at Ostagar, of his temper and, um, certain activities. Rav fought well enough though his inexperience made him hesitate. Given his size, Alistair was surprised by how well the elf used his agility and speed to equal out his opponent's strength. With things like ogres, that was a much needed skill that Alistair still had to develop.
The elf was patient and kind when he wanted to be, giving comfort to a child, money to refugees, or helping the sick as he did now. All Morrigan did was scoff and criticize, her snarled lip indication that she thought helping others was a waste. Rav could be a diplomat for the crown the way he handled Morrigan and the Chasind. But then last night… the elf had been brutal. Maybe Alistair was wrong, and maybe Rav wasn't as kind as he thought. The way he went after those bandits was pretty brutal too, but then, there was the elf now, healing people while Morrigan sat sharpening her claws.
He shook his head unable to come up with any conclusions. What Alistair knew was that he wasn't wanted. At all. By anyone. That was clear. The story of his life, he thought. Why should things change now? With that thought, a fresh wave of loss for Duncan welled in his chest, stealing his breath.
Raviathan glanced up, and their eyes met. The elf didn't stop speaking to the next woman in line. For the life of him, Alistair couldn't tell what the elf was thinking. When they had first talked at Ostagar, everything seemed fine, but then it wasn't, and Maker only knew why. When Raviathan's attention returned back to her, Alistair felt like he had been dismissed. He just wanted… what?
Confused by the wounded emotion that surged up, Alistair decided to walk about the town to get his blood moving.
~o~O~o~
By midmorning Raviathan had seen score upon score of people. More came as word spread, but this was no use. With the horde at their heels, he had to prepare and move on. Miriam had all the elfroot potion he could manage to make in the early dawn, which would have to do for all the souls seeking succor.
Snatches of conversation from his patients revealed more news that the Grey Wardens were to blame, were traitors to the crown and Ferelden. Some believed the rumors because the Hero of River Dane would never lie or betray the king, but others found the rumors suspect, though their voices stayed low. Most people walked in a daze, forced from home and field, lost and bereft.
Above all, fears of the darkspawn prevailed. Until Duncan had come to the alienage, Raviathan thought the darkspawn gone, monsters of the past. Like him, all these people were suddenly thrust into ancient history when wars against the darkspawn destroyed nations. Stories of the past or songs of heroic deeds and heroes were fine in the abstract or as lazy fantasies, but this? A true blight with the loss of life and prosperity that entailed? Not surprising, many couldn't believe the stories from the teyrn or southern villagers regarding the surge of darkspawn. With Miriam's help, they counseled each and every person who came for help to flee north.
Those uncertainties of the coming danger were true for Raviathan's little band as well if not more so. These people just had to escape, not stop the Blight hunting them down like the shadows found in nightmares.
"Miriam, I have to go. My companions and I also have to prepare and leave."
She gave him a hug. "Thank you, lad. You've helped so many today."
"Make sure you take that syrup I gave you." He wagged a finger at her. "No giving it away."
She scoffed and batted his hand away, but he saw her smile as she turned to help the next patient.
When Alistair emerged from the more developed part of the village near the Chantry, Raviathan crossed over to meet him. The scowl Alistair had for him wasn't unexpected. "Alistair, I'm sorry."
The scowl turned into confusion. His head tilted to one side, and Raviathan thought of Venger's questioning expressions, which made him smile. Everything Alistair had said had been true. The templars didn't recognize the apostate under their noses. Alistair didn't know about the second apostate in his midst, so Raviathan didn't know if Alistair would have turned him in for that, but so far the human had been honest. In any case, it wouldn't do to alienate the person who could still put Morrigan at risk.
"Last night," Raviathan elaborated. "I'm sorry I snapped. Tired and… I reacted badly. You didn't do or say anything wrong, and I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on you."
If anything, Alistair seemed more confused. "I… well, I guess that's understandable."
Raviathan knew resentment lingered, but this was a start. Maybe if Alistair felt more secure, he would be amenable to going to the Circle on his own. Anything to get the away from the templar.
"Have you been to the inn yet?"
"No."
"Best place to get information." Raviathan started walking, Venger and Alistair in tow. He didn't miss the little moue Alistair still wore, and if Raviathan was honest, he wouldn't be forgiving either if a near stranger yelled at him like that. While Raviathan might hide how he felt, he wasn't going to lie about it either and pretend to make nice when he didn't feel that way.
More rumormongers milled outside the rough wood building with the sign "Dane's Refuge" on the shingle. A young, shabby squire trotted off as they neared. Shems did seem to stare at him so. In that regard, having Alistair around was a relief in case someone started getting ideas about the little elf in a barroom. "Let's split up to talk to people, but keep an eye out in case there's trouble."
"Trouble? What sort of trouble do you expect in an inn?"
You would never understand, shem. "Elves don't mingle with humans often. They might want me out, and once out, teach me a lesson." No need to tell Alistair about the other issues he might have.
Alistair's brows lifted in surprised understanding. "Never thought of that. Has that happened to you?"
"Yes." Before Alistair could blather about whatever knew trivia that had entered his head, Raviathan entered.
Noise filled the high ceilinged main room. From the outside, the building did not appear so large, but even with the mass of people filling every table or standing in groups, the building sprawled with no worry for economy. Shems, thought Raviathan. They take up so much room but crowd us into forgotten corners to build our feeble shelters out of sticks.
A conversation with an older albeit eccentric man who turned out to be a trader proved fruitful, not in information but in trade. Allison had wanted traps, and this man might be the answer.
A Chantry priestess sitting by the musicians kept catching Raviathan's eye, her presence as out of place here as a fish in a field. Raviathan wondered if he should talk to her, but the priestesses he had brief conversations with so far cared for little beyond espousing their precious piety. Alistair, in talks with an armored man by the fire, kept shooting the Chantry maiden glances as well. With Alistair's background, Raviathan hoped he would be willing to chat the woman up to find out why she was here, but the templar didn't seem to be catching on to Raviathan's signals.
Whether the human was too dim or too shy, the priestess fixed the situation when she took an interest in Alistair. She was pretty, red hair cut in a mussed pageboy style. Why she cared about a random fighter of unknown history, Raviathan couldn't guess, but it freed him up to talk to the barkeep.
The door burst open nearly breaking the hinges as bulky forms blocked out the light from outside.
"You said they were here?" The leader of the group called.
The squire nodded. "Fit the descriptions, they did."
"We're looking for two men," the leader called to the tavern.
One of the patrons yelled back, "'ere now! You've been nothing but trouble. Drinking and brawling."
"Please leave," a woman with a worry lined face said, her voice shaking but clear. "We have enough trouble."
The leader took no notice. "A man with short blonde hair in grey iron armor, and an elf, dark as a Tevinter."
The room cleared as people hugged close to the wall. Raviathan felt a hard shove, which sent him into the exposed clearing, Alistair stumbling forward on the other side.
"Grey Wardens and traitors to the Crown! Loghain wants your heads!"
Alistair turned pale, looking to Raviathan. To his own surprise, Raviathan felt rage burn his face. His jaw tightened as he strode forward. "Outside!"
The leader looked at him, his face a mix of scorn and disbelief. "Outside?"
"The people in here will be hurt, so outside!"
A laugh bubbled up from the leader's throat. "Elf…"
Raviathan grabbed a chair, swung around for momentum, and let it fly at the soldiers. "Out-fucking-side!"
The leader had his shield up, the heavy chair bouncing off with a loud crack as a leg broke. Raviathan sprinted the rest of the way, taking his chance to kick the leader's knee. The crack of joints sounded followed by a cry of pain. A sword swung beside him, Alistair taking the flank before the rest could push their way in. Venger's jaws clamped around the leader's sword arm, but the man's pain already rendered him useless. Hauled forward by Venger, the next soldier came into Raviathan's view.
A shield punched out. Its green wyvern took up his field of vision, then slammed into Raviathan. He fell back, dazed, images of the heraldry flashing before his eyes. Raviathan wasn't sure if he imagined the robes or not, but pale red movement caught his attention. The priestess had nothing but a dagger against armored men, but there she was, fighting.
Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Raviathan stepped back into the fray. What was the woman doing? A sword swung down in a desperate move to act in the close fighting quarters. It should have sliced through the priestess, but she twisted out of it's path then grabbed the man's wrist to yank him off balance. Raviathan took the opening to thrust his sword between the man's armor. Red flowed out to pool on the floor. A grunt escaped the soldier before he fell to his knees.
Another sword and shield man appeared. Raviathan spun, jumping high over the shield to thrust down at the soldier's exposed face. A second of shock registered before Raviathan's blade met flesh.
"Stop! Please, stop!" The leader lay sprawled on the floor, his sword forgotten, a mabari on his chest growling into his face. What soldiers remained fell back, fear having replaced the derision in their eyes.
Raviathan slid his toe under the leader's sword, flicking it up to catch the hilt. "You are Loghain's men?"
"Yes. There's only us left here. To wait for any Grey Wardens."
"How did you know what to look for?" Raviathan's growl matched his mabari.
"We were told to look for two. If they didn't show before the horde came, we were to head north. Loghain had drawings made for your warrants."
Maker help us. Raviathan pondered that bit of information. Did that mean Loghain watched the rest of the Wardens die on the battlefield and wanted to make sure all were gone? Instead of leaving to chance what he didn't see, Loghain had made preparations for their death. More than just blame the Grey Wardens, they were now being hunted. The general was thorough to the point of obsessive. Why? What threat were he and Alistair?
"Let's get them outside," he muttered. Alistair had to drag their leader out, the man's knee too damaged to support his weight.
What to do now? Raviathan stared at the men before him, defeated and with their fates in his hands, a few bleeding into the mud at their feet. They watched him, becoming more nervous at his indecision. He could see their worried thoughts on their faces. Would they have to fight, most likely to die? Would they be spared?
Raviathan wondered the same. If he let them go now, what would keep them from recouping and coming back later, maybe with more men to outnumber the last two Wardens? But kill them? Raviathan thought of the bandits from the day before, the only men he had killed after Vaughan's attack. The highwaymen had deserved pain for the damage they did to desperate people, but were their lives too high a price? Had those bandits killed anyone?
Could he kill these men?
These soldiers were afraid, wanted to live. Would these men have spared him if the skirmish had gone differently? No. Take their heads, the leader had said. Did that make killing them now right, when they were helpless? Absolutely not. That answer screamed in Raviathan's head, every instinct balking from the idea.
"Go get one of the templars," Raviathan told Alistair.
The men glanced at each other. One, a man with dark scruff almost covering old scars on his face, spoke. "What do you intend, ser?"
There was that 'ser' again. Raviathan didn't think he would ever get used to hearing it. "Leave your weapons. The templar will escort you to the edge of town."
"Bandits, ser. We will be defenseless. That is a death sentence you give us."
"I could kill you now, if you prefer." Raviathan raised the corner of an eyebrow. "You are trained men and have only to find a lord or catch up with Loghain to secure your safety. That gives you much better odds than the rest of these refugees. Perhaps this mercy will remind you what they face, that you as stronger men would do well to give them some protection."
Raviathan had no illusions that these men would run like cowards to the closest lordling they could find. If they chose not to ambush the two Wardens instead, that is.
To his surprise, the Chantry maid spoke up. "That is most just." Her accent marked her as Orlesian, but she spoke the with Fereldan tongue with fluency. Her chin lifted as she addressed the men. "You have an opportunity to repent for attacking Grey Wardens, our only hope during a Blight. You would condemn us all with these actions led by a fool, just as Maferath let his own desires…"
Maker's blood. Who was this woman? She started lecturing them as if they were children rather than soldiers who had their blades out for her blood only a moment before. Some stared at her with the blank eyed tolerance of cows in the pasture. A few hung their heads in contrition, an act Raviathan thought was ingrained habit rather than piety. He tried to keep a cynical smile off his face. Proof of their contrition would be in their actions.
While she lectured, Raviathan saw to the injured. The awkwardness he felt after the fight left as the clinical part of his mind took over. A few swigs from a bottle of elfroot potion, some bandages, and a splint for the leader's knee had them able to walk without further bleeding out or shock setting in. Maker's ass, this was a strange world, healing men who had tried to kill him, but he couldn't see their wounds without acting.
Alistair returned with a harassed looking templar in tow. After a few words of explanation, the templar followed the men as they trudged towards the north road out of town.
Raviathan turned to reenter the inn. Likely they would be asked to leave, the people fearful of any trouble, but the risk was minimal considering more information could be gleaned.
A hand on his elbow stopped him. He turned to see the Chantry maid, her skin still flushed from the fight.
"Grey Wardens, I'm going with you."
Alistair's astonishment matched his own. "You're what now?"
She smiled, an oddly peaceful expression given the blood splattered on her robes. "You are the Grey Wardens. I'm going with you."
Oh, no. No, that wasn't happening. First the templar, and then to be saddled with a priestess? What masochistic form of divine justice was going on here? What was the proper address for her, anyway? Sister or Mother? Maker, he knew nothing about them other than to steer clear of those robes. "Look, we appreciate your help…"
"I can fight, as you just saw. And I have other skills. Besides, I am doing the Maker's work."
"I'm sure you feel…"
"No, you don't understand. The Maker has sent me to you."
"More crazy?" Alistair leaned against the inn's wall. "I thought we had enough of that with Morrigan."
Raviathan shot Alistair a glare. Instead of chiding the templar, he turned back to the priestess. "What do you mean the Maker sent you?"
She smiled, a rueful twist to her lips. "I know that must sound crazy, but I had a vision."
That got Raviathan's attention. "A vision?"
"You believe me." Her face brightened.
"Perhaps." At Raviathan's answer, Alistair gave him a quizzical look.
"These people are in despair. The darkspawn will come, destroy everything. The Maker doesn't want that, and so I will help you."
The Maker doesn't want that? They why by the blasted Blight did he send the darkspawn in the first place? Raviathan rubbed his forehead. He didn't need this. "I'm not saying yes, but we will talk further."
Her smile brightened as if she had already gotten her way. "So be it."
"Really?" Alistair straightened. "We're taking Princess Stabbity along with us? Do you think that's wise?"
"My name," she said, her face as serene and beatific as a saint's, "is Leliana."