Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 12: Circles Within Circles

The little cockleshell of a boat swayed under them. Kester, the boatman, talked on and on, full of gossip about the important figures at the Circle of Magi.

"That Irving—he's First Enchanter—seems a decent sort. I know what the Chantry says, but the Maker made mages for a purpose, I reckon, and they have as much right to live as anybody."

Bronwyn wondered what Morrigan would say to that. Silly as Kester sounded, he was far more generous in his opinions than many people. There was widespread support for the view that mages had no right to live at all, and should be wiped out, root and branch.

Kester kept up his stream of chatter, "Now Greagoir, the Knight-Commander—he's the big man there. Very decent and affable, he is. Always asks me how my family's doing. A man to be respected, I always say."

Well, that was something. Greagoir was polite to humble boatmen. Many wouldn't be. Perhaps he would not be like so many Templars—filled to bursting with his own importance.

She studied the tower, now looming before them, so tall that she had to crane her neck back to see the top. If put to it, she could swim from the island to shore fairly easily—as long as there were no storms—and even more easily to the remains of the causeway. There was a gap of only forty yards or so between the ancient spans. The mages, however, were not taught to swim, most likely.

Bronwyn wondered if they were even allowed out of the tower to get a bit of air and sun. From the deserted look of the landscape outside, she would guess not. The Tower truly was a prison. It was a claustrophobic place: a place that looked inward to its secrets, not outward to the world. It must be very unhealthy for the children. She remembered that butcher's boy in Highever town who was discovered to be a mage. He couldn't have been more than eight. How frightened he was of those faceless Templars when they came to take him away…

"And there's been a fair-to-do in these parts," Kester nattered on. "Comings and goings like you never saw. O'course it's not everyday the King goes to war. Strange goings-on in the South, but you know all about that, Wardens."

Oh, yes. Kester certainly knew who they were. Alistair was quite right about the need to make a good impression. The two of them were kitted up in full fig: polished armor with their Grey Warden tunics, winged helmets on display. Leliana had no such accoutrements yet, of course, but looked neat and respectable in her light armor.

Bronwyn had wondered if they should go armed and helmeted, since she was not exactly going to the Circle to fight—except with words and cunning—but decided that they must go as warriors to speak to the Knight Commander. No one ever saw the Templars without their armor, and generally they also wore those unnerving helmets that covered their heads entirely, leaving only the narrow slit for their eyes. It wouldn't do to look weak before them. Therefore, they would match them armor for armor, sword for sword, and helmet for helmet. The Grey Wardens predated the Templars anyway, and were far more important. Bronwyn was not going to them as a suppliant, but as a ambassador, claiming support to which she had an ancient, irrevocable right.

The great doors opened to them, and Bronwyn could not complain of her welcome, Clearly someone in the Tower had seen them coming.

A soldierly man in Templar armor, no longer young but still fit, gave them a slight bow. "I am Greagoir, Knight-Commander of the Templars of Kinloch Hold."

"And I am Irving, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi," said an elderly man with a flowing grey beard and deepset eyes filled with kindness and secrets. "You are very welcome here, Grey Wardens."

"I am Warden Bronwyn and this is Warden Alistair," Bronwyn said, with a polite bow of her own. "And this is Warden Recruit Leliana, formerly lay sister of Lothering Chantry."

They were led upstairs to the First Enchanter's study, moving past the crowded apprentice dormitories: depressing and windowless rooms filled with bunk beds and reeking of ancient toilet facilities too close for comfort. Templar guards stood at intervals along the walls, reminders to the inmates of their fate should they prove a threat.

Pale and scrawny children watched them pass, whispering to each other. They moved through the libraries—no doubt full of astonishing lore—further on past the quarters of mages who must have moved beyond the apprentice stage.

A few came out to watch them. One young woman—fragile, blonde, and sickly-pale as the rest—called out, "Is there any word of Uldred?" before a Templar turned his impassive metal gaze on her, and her friends hushed her and pulled her into the shadows.

Leliana whispered in Bronwyn's ear, so softly she could barely be heard. "I don't care what the Chantry says. No one should have to live like this—especially the children."

Bronwyn did not remember the mages she had seen at Ostagar looking like this. Admittedly most of them had been in the army for a month or two before her own arrival. Perhaps in that time they had acclimated and become stronger. None of them had seemed particularly fit—other than Wynne, who, though old, had a certain wiry vitality. She hoped she could find some mages who were healthy enough to conscript.

They followed the two older men upstairs to chairs, glasses of good wine, and a closed door.

"Word has already reached us, Warden," Irving said, "of your deeds in the south. I confess myself surprised to receive so distinguished a visitor. "

Greagoir was more frank. "No doubt the Grey Wardens wish to make further demands upon the Circle."

Alistair shifted beside her. Bronwyn sensed that he was already put out. She felt rather put out herself.

"If you have heard anything of the Battle of Ostagar, then you have heard that Grey Wardens were nearly annihilated defending this country and its king. You see before you the remains of our order. That alone should make clear to you the nature of the threat we are facing." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes not leaving Greagoir.

"Together we beat back the first assault," Bronwyn went on, not mincing words. "The next will be greater. The larger the forces we can muster now, the better chance we have of ending this Blight before all Ferelden falls." She narrowed her eyes at at her hosts. "Do not mistake me, gentlemen. Fall it will if we are not united. You may think yourself safe on your island, but you may find that its comparative safety means only that you will be the last to die."

Alistair gave her the letter bag. Bronwyn said to the two men, "I have here a letter for the two of you from Teyrn Loghain on behalf of the King, supporting my efforts. The seven mages the Circle provided have proved of immense assistance, but against thousands of darkspawn, greater numbers are needed."

Irving took the letter, scanned its contents, and then passed it to Greagoir, who read it with a frown of concentration.

"So, aside from being a letter-bearer," Bronwyn went on, "my mission here is two-fold. The King's army needs more mages. Badly. Their value has been established time and again, in combat and in the tents of the Healers. My own brother, the Teyrn of Highever, no doubt owes his life to Senior Enchanter Wynne. But there is only one Wynne, and her abilities and strength are being stretched to the utmost. Uldred proved a mighty force on the battlefield, but one mage can be easily overwhelmed by a thousand darkspawn."

"And Ilon—" Alistair put in. "He was great. There's no doubt in my mind that he saved my life when we were fighting at the Tower of Ishal."

Bronwyn smiled at Alistair, and continued, "In addition to the army's need for mages, the Grey Wardens also require new recruits," she said. "While I am here, I hope to replenish our numbers. Mages have served as Grey Wardens since the founding of the order, and I believe that Uldred has some interesting remarks about that service in his letter to you, First Enchanter. He told me when he gave me this letter of them. Perhaps his findings might be of interest—and provide some reassurance—to the Knight-Commander."

Irving instantly broke the seal of Uldred's letter and looked through it. He read aloud a paragraph near the end of the first page:

"…in all my research, I can find no case in which a Grey Warden mage ever became an abomination or was even possessed. Something about their initiation seems to prevent it: either because the unworthy mages perish in the course of joining the Grey Wardens, or because something in the ritual itself protects them. Service among the Grey Wardens might prove a humane alternative to the Rite of Tranquility or to execution in a failed Harrowing. Such talents as they possess might there be of use…"

"Can this be true?" Greagoir wondered, taking the letter to read it for himself. He appeared skeptical, but a bit hopeful as well. Bronwyn was pleased to see that he was not one of those Templars who appeared to live only for the opportunity to put mages to death.

"Uldred is a respected scholar," Irving replied, himself rather pleased with the letter. "What sort of mages are you looking to recruit?"

"Obviously, a Healer would be our first choice, and a valuable addition to our ranks, such as they are, but any magical talent is useful. The darkspawn have mages of their own, you know."

Greagoir looked faintly ill. "So I had heard."

"Not really powerful mages," Alistair added, "but they're troublesome, and they can really make you sick."

The two men looked at each other. Not enemies, then. Mutual respect was there, at least, complicated with the Templars naked power over the mages, and the eternal fear of magic gone wrong. Still, the men were able to work together. That might or might not prove to Bronwyn's advantage.

Irving spoke, almost to himself. "Petra is Wynne's prize pupil, and is a responsible young woman. We'd be sorry to lose her as a teacher, of course, but in these times… There's Kinnon, too. Gwyneth, perhaps—" he looked at Greagoir in a quick, questioning way. "—and possibly Eochaid."

Greagoir nodded. "Yes, those four seems likely prospects. I suppose they can be spared…"

"Four?" Alistair burst out. "You can only spare four mages? There are thousands of darkspawn and you offer us four mages? Duncan is dead! The Grey Wardens died to protect you! Don't you people understand what we're facing?"

"I'm sure," Leliana said softly, "that is a very good start. These are strange times, after all."

Bronwyn was rather pleased at Alistair's indignation. It saved her the trouble of being indignant herself, and let her play the role of reasonable negotiator.

"As Leliana says, four mages is a start." She smiled. "With your permission, gentlemen, I would like to address the mages. You may not know which of them harbors the desire to defend Ferelden."

"You want to address the mages?" Irving was rather surprised at the request. "All of them?"

"Yes—all. Even the apprentices. They have a right, surely, to know what is happening in the world—especially since it's a matter of their own survival."

"Is it really that serious?" Greagoir asked heavily. "Are you Wardens certain that this a Blight?"

"Absolutely certain," Bronwyn assured him. "As you know, Blights have sometimes raged for decades. We are hoping to contain and crush this before it can spread. To do that, we must have greater numbers. It is the only way, and our only hope."

Within the hour, the mages and their Templars were gathered in the Great Hall, up yet another winding staircase.

From the benches, pale faces gazed up at Bronwyn: curious faces, suspicious faces, anxious faces—even eager faces. She took note of those, because they gave her confidence.

"Good morning to you all," Irving welcomed them. "An unusual gathering in these unusual times. I have called you all to meet our distinguished visitors: the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

A rush of whispered excitement filled the room. To her distinct displeasure, Bronwyn heard the dreaded words "Girl Warden." Alistair nudged her, looking like he wanted to laugh. She nudged him back, forcing her face to express nothing but the seriousness of the moment.

She stepped forward. "Well met, Mages of the Circle! It is a privilege to come to this ancient place, even in these troubled times. Among other things, we come bearing letters from your friends who are serving so bravely and effectively in the king's army. Before we leave, our latest recruit, Leliana—"

Leliana gave the assembled mages a charming smile and wave.

"—will distribute the letters. From the weight of the bag, it seems like Senior Enchanter Wynne wrote to half the people here!"

Some slight smiles. Bronwyn realized that these people did not trust her. They had no reason to trust anyone.

"Many of you have heard of the great victory at Ostagar. Every man and woman there played a part in the defeat of the darkspawn horde, but I come today to tell you about the brave deeds of your own, and to urge you to seize an opportunity the like of which you have not seen in hundreds of years.

"No one—no one—who has been healed by Wynne, or stood by Uldred in battle will ever look or think about mages in the same way. Those seven mages of the Circle have cast a shadow beyond their small number. They are not faceless threats in a distant Tower. They are comrades—brothers and sisters in arms against the common enemy of mankind."

She had stolen the phrase from the Revered Mother in Lothering. It was a useful image, as the response of her audience proved. They were listening attentively, apparently pleased to be praised for once, rather than being told that they were at fault for every misfortune since the time of Andraste.

"'Magic exists to serve man.' No doubt all of you have heard that phrase scores of times. But what nobler way to serve than to take part in the great struggle of our times—to serve by saving your country? Teyrn Loghain himself has spoken with the greatest respect and admiration of mages. He calls you 'Ferelden's best weapon.' He would like at least one mage in every unit of the army. Any mage volunteering for service will be welcomed as a valuable warrior against the Blight. The more of you who serve, the greater share of honor to the Circle when final victory is ours."

She smiled at the smallest apprentices, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the benches. One of them, a pretty little girl who must have been part Rivainni from her dark skin, grinned back at her and made a ridiculous face.

"We can all work together. I have seen it," Bronwyn assured them. "I have seen Templar skills drain a darkspawn emissary of mana, and the creature finished off by a cold spell from one of our own Fereldan mages. That kind of cooperation is a thing of beauty. Warriors and mages together, we shall defeat the Blight."

Her listeners did not need to know that she was speaking of Alistair, who had never taken Templar vows, and of Morrigan, an apostate who had never set foot in the Circle. It hardly mattered. Ferelden would be better off without all this fear and enmity between mages and the Chantry.

"We shall be here for some hours. I have been graciously invited to join you for your midday meal by the First Enchanter. Afterward, I will remain here in the Great Hall, ready to accept the enlistment of the mages of the Circle. Think carefully before you reject this great opportunity. This is your chance: this is the most important decision you will ever make. Choose wisely, mages of Ferelden. History awaits your decision."

She bowed respectfully. There was a smattering of applause, which grew rapidly in volume. The little apprentices cheered and the older mages chattered among themselves.

"Leliana!" Bronwyn called. "Please distribute the letters."

The little redhead read out: "To Torrin from Wynne!"

A dark-skinned mage came forward and hastily took his letter.

"To Gwyneth from Uldred!"

The fragile blonde hurried up and snatched at the letter, breaking the seal before she returned to her seat.

"To Niall from Wynne!"

This took some time. The mages seemed pleased with their letters. Of course, everyone likes to get letters, Bronwyn acknowledged. Apparently what was said was generating considerable excitement.

A pair of little apprentices approached Bronwyn, evidently on a dare, shoving and giggling.

"Please, my lady," the little girl asked, "are you the Girl Warden?"

Bronwyn smiled down at them. "I'm called that. It's just a nickname. I'm a Grey Warden, really, just like Alistair there."

"Can mages be Grey Wardens?"

Bronwyn saw others listening to the questions they dared not ask themselves. "Yes," she told the children. "Mages have always served in the Wardens. Alistair and I are looking for some especially brave mages to join us."

The boy whispered something in the girl's ear. Clearly, she was the spokesperson.

"And you wouldn't be scared of them or make them live here in the Circle Tower?"

"Certainly not. They would live with us."

"Forever and ever?"

Bronwyn nodded gravely. "As long as we live."

The girl announced. "Then I guess we'll be Wardens someday."

Alistair came over, grinning. "We'll be glad to have you. Study really hard and learn all the magic you can! We want really smart mages."

The meal was served shortly afterward. Not bad food, though it was apparent that what the Wardens were eating at the head table was not what the balance of the mages were given. Bronwyn ate slowly, watching the whispered debate rage through the Hall, as mages exchanged letters, and gesticulated fiercely to each other.

"Uldred has stirred up his friends in the Libertarians," Irving told her, dryly amused.

"Libertarians?" Bronwyn asked, puzzled.

"Within the Circle are various factions: 'fraternities' we call ourselves. Each has a different philosophy about our role in the world, or what our role would be if we could choose for ourselves. The Libertarians believe that mages should be completely free…"

On her other side, she heard Greagoir snort in disgust.

Irving went on."There are also the Lucrosians, who believe we should be using our gifts to amass wealth; and the Aequitarians, who believe in maintaining the status quo. They are the largest group. Another fraternity is that of the Isolationists. They would prefer that mages withdraw entirely from the rest of the world and live apart, where their magic can harm and frighten no one."

"I daresay we won't be getting any Isolationist recruits, then."

"You'd be surprised," Irving said thoughtfully. "I have always believed the Isolationist viewpoint to be one of despair. If offered other options, some might change their tune. Young Niall, for example, over there—" he indicated a clean-shaven mage with a nod of his head "—appears to be rather excited about the things he's reading. The walls of our Tower can seem very confining, especially when one is young," he added, his voice rising, perhaps for Greagoir's benefit. "It is not so extraordinary, surely, for young people to wish to see a little of the world."

Clearly, Irving was right. As soon as the dishes were cleared away, and Bronwyn arranged herself with parchment and ink, mages were coming forward to offer their services to the army.

A young woman hurried forward, and signed her name "Petra." Bronwyn remember that she was one of the candidates that Irving had predicted. Her boldness encouraged others. Soon a line formed, though now and then the mages themselves pulled someone away, notably some very young apprentices.

"But we can help!" piped a little boy. "Enchanter Lora said my healing spell was very advanced for my age!"

"No more nonsense!"

Greagoir sat there too, watching the candidates come forward with narrowed eyes, occasionally frowning at some of them, more unconcerned about others.

"But I must go!" a young girl was crying. "How else can I expiate this dreadful curse?"

"Keili," Petra quietly explained to Bronwyn. "She's a Healer apprentice—not even Harrowed yet. She's really bought in to the Chantry view that magic is evil. She's in the chapel constantly, praying for forgiveness."

"Is she any good as a Healer?" Bronwyn asked flatly.

"Oh—yes, yes. Quite talented. But a little—off."

"I don't care about that," Bronwyn said. "If she knows what's she doing, she can help. In fact, I can think of nowhere better for a Healer apprentice to train than in a camp of sick and injured soldiers."

Even Greagoir saw the sense in that. After a whispered conference with Irving, it was agreed that the Healing apprentices could go, as long as they were at least sixteen years old.

"I shall also send notice to the mages living outside the Tower, informing them that they may be called for service in the war." Irving told her. "There are a number of them, serving with Chantry permission in noble houses. It will take time to recall them, of course."

It must seem like a second Satinalia to the mages: the regular schedule forgotten, the little apprentices running wild, playing some sort of game, touching the bases of the statues in the Great Hall.

Bronwyn was feeling quite pleased, looking down at the growing list of names. Wynne's letter had encouraged Senior Enchanter Torrin to come forward, and he had agreed to lead the party to Ostagar. Greagoir's expression showed that he respected the man—or at least did not think he would turn into an abomination anytime in the immediate future.

"Do you hear that?" Alistair asked, his head up, listening.

"That rumbling sound?" Bronwyn asked, "Perhaps the wind is up and we're hearing the waves against the stones of the island."

"Maybe." He went back to talking with another knot of young male mages, telling them the story of how he and Ilon fought their way up the Tower of Ishal together. The mages were asking technical questions about Ilon's spells that Alistair could not quite follow, but they seemed to understand what they needed to know from his descriptions of the effects.

More names: the young Isolationist Niall, willing to give the rest of the world one last chance; Petra's friend Kinnon, talking about new "Area of Effect" spells he had learned; Gwyneth, who said little to Bronwyn, but whispered to her friends about "freedom at last!"

As more signed up for service, those who had had doubts took courage and joined the end of the line. Bronwyn knew she would have done the same in their place. She would have done anything to escape this sunless world, where faceless armed men stood guard to kill them at a moment's notice.

"Thirty-five mages!" Alistair read over her shoulder. "The King will think Satinalia has come early!"

"He'll be very proud of Ferelden's Circle," Bronwyn said for the listening ears surrounding them. "This will make a tremendous difference."

Irving and Greagoir were debating how soon the mages would leave, but agreed that it would be at least four days before the wagons, oxen, drivers, and supplies could be gathered. The mages would also need Templars to guard them, and that number was also a matter for discussion.

"I have some letters of my own that I would like to send back to Ostagar with your mages," Bronwyn told them. "I'll also compose a message to the King and to Teyrn Loghain before I leave."

Her letters to Fergus and to Wynne were nearly ready. She had begun an official report to Teyrn Loghain that she would also complete here. She debated whether or not she should send a short letter to His Majesty as well, wondering if she would that be considered presumptuous. In the end, she decided that the King would like to receive a letter from the Grey Wardens. In fact, perhaps he would be hurt if he did not…

"I knew I heard something!" Alistair shouted. Faint screams echoed down the hall, coming closer.

Bronwyn was up from the chair in an instant, knocking it over, Alistair and Leliana were with her as she raced toward the screams. At the door to the staircase, mages were bubbling up from the floor below.

"—Demon!"

"—We can't hold it!"

The mages leaving the assembly seemed to have opened the door to the Fade, and a demon had emerged to greet them.

Huge, flaming, twisting, roaring: its multiple limbs blurred, its face melted from one appearance into another. Someone threw a cold spell at it, but that only served to slow the demon slightly.

"Out of the way!" Bronwyn commanded, drawing sword and dagger. "Alistair! Come on!"

It was unnatural, but corporeal enough to feel her blades. It fought back, one misshapen arm holding an enormous sword on high. Bronwyn dodged to the right, and stabbed deep into the creature's pulsing side. Alistair bashed it with his shield. Leliana threw aside her bow and rushed in with her daggers, an Orlesian war cry echoing off the wall.

The mages were trying to help, but there were too many of them—and too many children in the way. Bronwyn bit off a scream as a tongue of blue lightning missed the demon and crackled through her instead.

Leliana was caught by one of the flailing arms and tossed aside. She was up and at the creature almost instantly, her pretty face intent and joyous. Alistair kept slamming at it with shield and sword pommel, while Bronwyn edged behind the creature and drove both blades into the shifting back.

There was a low bellow and suddenly a silence, and Bronwyn felt herself going up and up, the very air pressing on her until she felt she could never again draw breath. An explosion rocked the Tower, and she fell to the stones, slamming against the floor.

After a moment, she could hear again.

"We won? Yay," said Alistair, sitting on the floor beside her. "I think that was a demon. I'm pretty sure, anyway..."

"Alistair," Bronwyn groaned. "You're babbling."

No one was dead, luckily, and there were only a few injuries. Bronwyn was still so dazed that she hardly felt the First Enchanter's careful hands on her face, or the tickling of the healing spell.

"I didn't expect quite so much excitement on my first visit to the Circle," she confessed.

"A puppet show would have been fine," Alistair agreed. "No need to go all out."

"The ancient spirit Shah Wyrd," Irving murmured. "Wardens, you have done us great service by defending us from this creature. It was thought destroyed for centuries, and all this time it has been lurking in the shadows. Clearly, something summoned it."

Petra bent down, and pulled out a blade of gleaming silverite from the putrefying remains.

Niall, who loved history, came forward to look at it. "I think—look at the runes!" He told Irving, "I believe this is the sword Yusaris—or a very good copy, anyway."

"Yusaris…" Irving took it in his hands, struggling with the weight of the enormous two-handed greatsword. "The Dragonslayer. A storied weapon. How did it come into the possession of an ancient demon? No matter. It is your prize, Wardens. Take it with you with our thanks."

The Templars, who had spent quite a bit of time running and hiding from the demon, told Greagoir and Irving that it had burst out of the cellars below ground level.

"Perhaps we should look into the matter," Irving said. "Wardens, would you care to join us?"

"I didn't summon the demon!" the bearded, filthy, naked young man in the dungeon cell protested. Despite his bruises, Bronwyn could not help noticing that he was far more muscled and fit than any other mage she had seen. "It came out of the cellars lower down, and I was doing my best not to be noticed and killed—no thanks to you lot locking me in and forgetting about me!"

Irving shook his head. "I am not convinced that Anders here is the culprit. Summoning a demon would require a ritual, and he clearly has nothing that could be used."

"Except his blood," sneered a faceless Templar.

"What is this mage imprisoned for?" Bronwyn asked.

"He is a flight risk, Warden." Greagoir told her. "Six times he has escaped the Tower. He was sentenced to a year of solitary confinement, in some hopes of teaching him wisdom. Our hopes were vain, it seemed."

"I am not a blood mage!" Anders shouted back. "If Biff here hadn't taken it upon himself to rough me up, you'd see I didn't have any cuts or wounds a blood mage could use!"

"Let me examine him, Greagoir," Irving urged. "It may well be that he is telling the truth. Reckless and disobedient as Anders is, no one has ever suspected him of blood magic."

Irving took the young mage's face in his hands, and tutted over the split lip.

Meanwhile Greagoir considered it all. "If it's not this one, then it could only be—yes! She's more likely anyway. Consorting with a blood mage… She very well might be the guilty party!"

Through another set of doors they descended to another level and came to yet another cell. This one appeared empty, until a pale face turned toward them, and they saw that a young elf girl was lying on the stone floor. She too was naked: covered in scratches and cuts, her eye swollen and her wrists and thighs bruised.

"Tara Surana," Greagoir said grimly, "We want to know what you did, and we want the truth."

"They just wanted to be free!" the young elf cried, struggling to sit up. "They just wanted to get out of this awful place and get married and live like real people! Lily didn't want to be a priest. Her aunt and uncle traded her off to the Chantry like an animal!"

"What is she talking about?" Alistair asked Irving, uncomfortable with the girl's nakedness and concerned about her injuries.

Irving murmured, "She and a Chantry initiate helped a blood mage escape the Tower."

The girl clutched her head in despair. "I didn't know Jowan was a blood mage. He told me he wasn't!"

"That's enough of that!" Greagoir said sternly. "We are not here about your past crimes. A demon was summoned today and set on the Circle. As it issued from the dungeons, you are the probable culprit. We suspect blood magic to have been used, and your visible wounds are proof of it."

"Of course I'm bloody, you fool!" screamed the elf. "Your oh-so-pure Templars come down here for a bit a sport now and then when they're bored! You must know that! They did this to me, and now your saying I'm a blood mage because I've been attacked?"

"Child, child," Irving said sadly, "raising demons to defend yourself is not the answer…"

Bronwyn thought it sounded like a perfectly reasonable answer to her. If armed men came to rape her, she would do anything to fight back.

She spoke up. "What happened to the other girl—the initiate? Is she here, also?

Greagoir shook his head. "No. She was taken north to the Aeonar Prison shortly after the escape of the blood mage Jowan. As she was a member of the Chantry, sole authority was mine. This mage—" he pointed with disdain at the young elf girl, "—Irving thought might be salvageable, and she was sentenced to three years imprisonment. Now she makes wild accusations against my men. Clearly, Irving's mercy was wasted on her."

"What mercy?" the elf screamed. "What mercy? You people wouldn't know mercy if Archon Hessarian stood beside you and shouted in your ears! I don't care anymore! Do whatever you like. You will anyway."

"A great pity," Irving sighed. "Such remarkable talent."

"Talented, is she?' Bronwyn asked, keeping her face expressionless.

"Oh, my word, yes. Powerful, too. One of our best students. I had such hopes of her, just as Wynne did of Anders."

Alistair winced, and then blew out a breath. This dungeon was a horrible place, and there wasn't a shred of real evidence against either of the battered prisoners.

"Couldn't the demon have been summoned some other way?" he asked.

"Possibly," Irving granted, ignoring Greagoir's glares. "but we have no other suspects. The demon emerged from the cellars, and only Anders and Tara were down here.'

"But—" Alistair pointed out, remembering his training, "—mages don't have to be physically close to demons to summon them. Somebody else could have done this from the top of the Tower, for all we know."

"These are the likely suspects," Greagoir ground out.

"I don't see why," Alistair muttered. Bronwyn put a hand on his arm.

"As you seem to have no further use for these mages, First Enchanter," she said in a gentle, reasonable voice, "Perhaps the best thing would be for me to conscript them into the Grey Wardens. If they are as powerful as you say, they could of great service to us."

"A blood mage?" Greagoir was incredulous. "Better to kill her at once." The Templars beside him moved to unlock the elf's cell. The girl tensed, clenching her fists. Bronwyn thought she resembled a kicked dog, turning on its tormentors.

Bronwyn moved in between the cell and the Templars, raising her voice. "I do invoke the Right of Conscription on this mage—Tara—and on the mage Anders. They are henceforth Grey Warden recruits."

Irving tried to mediate. "Warden, we have many better and more reliable mages in the Tower."

Bronwyn shook her head. "This girl is wounded, and yet she is still full of fight, ready to defend her life against armored men with swords. Anders has escaped you six times. That shows remarkable resourcefulness. I'll take them with me when I leave today, and they shall trouble you no more."

"No one contests your right, Warden," grumbled Greagoir. "Merely your good sense!"

Inwardly seething, Bronwyn gave Greagoir a self-deprecating smile. "I appreciate your concern, Knight-Commander. I shall consider your words and take very great care. Is it possible for them to be clothed and healed before we leave?"

"I shall see to it personally, Warden," Irving assured her. Bronwyn thought she detected a note of relief in his voice.

She trusted the First Enchanter, but she did not quite trust the Templars. The Wardens waited with their new recruits while they were healed; while smallclothes and boots and robes were brought. Irving also provided them both with staffs of their own.

"Grey Warden, eh?" Anders considered. "That works, I suppose."

"We're not coming back to the Circle?" Tara asked, her eyes flat and hostile as she watched Irving heal her arms.

"Not unless you want to, or our duties call us here in the course of recruiting," Bronwyn said. She felt full to bursting about things she would like to say about the Circle, not one of which she could allow past her lips. It was so important to maintain friendly relations with the First Enchanter. Those thirty-five mages were not yet on their way to the army.

Greagoir had already left—to "more pressing duties" as he said. Bronwyn led her party up the stairs and toward the entry hall, only asking Irving if there were some place she could speak privately to the new recruits.

"Of course," He led them to a door, and said to Bronwyn, "Do join me in my study when you are finished."

Once inside the little room—hardly more than a closet—Bronwyn spoke quickly.

"Welcome to you both. Anders: consider this your seventh, final, and completely successful escape from the Circle."

"What if I want to escape from the Grey Wardens?"

"Hey!" Alistair objected. "You can't leave the Grey Wardens! We're in the middle of a Blight!"

Leliana said softly, "Being a Grey Warden is a great honor. And it's nice. We travel and meet all sorts of people and kill monsters."

"I hope," Bronwyn said earnestly to both of her new recruits, "that you won't consider joining the Wardens either a prison or a punishment. In fact, it's the one way you're safe from the Chantry forever. If you're a Warden, you can promenade up and down the street in front of a Chantry, waving your staff, and no one can do a thing to you."

"Sounds like fun," Anders allowed. "When do we get out of here?"

"I've just recruited more mages for the army in Ostagar—"

The elf nodded grudgingly, but Anders looked completely blank.

Alistair filled him in. "We've got a Blight. Darkspawn are attacking in the south. The King led a big army down there and we've won the battles so far, but the army needs mages really badly."

"Teyrn Loghain thinks highly of the value of mages," Bronwyn added, "and there are only seven with the army now. The Grey Wardens have a treaty with the Circle and I was able to enlist thirty-five more to go to the army, but we also were looking for possible Grey Wardens. We heard you were both talented, and I thought you would be glad to get out of here."

"Mere words cannot express it," Anders agreed. "I may have to kiss all three of you passionately."

Alistair backed away in alarm, but Leliana laughed.

Bronwyn turned to the elf, Tara. "I know you were hurt badly," she said in a softer tone. "Do you feel able to travel? We have rooms at the inn across the lake, and you can rest there."

"Not very big rooms," Alistair muttered.

"I can pitch a tent outside," Bronwyn waved that away. "Or sleep on the floor. Tara can have the bed."

Finally the elf spoke. "I can do whatever it takes to get out of here."

"That's the spirit!" Anders approved.

"All right then," Bronwyn said. "Here is what we're going to do: Alistair—Leliana—I want you to take our new recruits to the Templar quartermaster." She passed them a money pouch. "Get them what you can—canteens, plain cloaks, backpacks if they can be had. If they don't have what we need here, we can get it at the village up the hill from the inn. I'll go finish my letters and say our farewells. With luck, we can be out of here within the hour."

It was not that simple, of course.

The First Enchanter very kindly allowed her the use of his desk, and Bronwyn finished her letters to Fergus and to Wynne. Then she wrote with quick but careful elegance to the King. Even more carefully, she finished her longer and more specific message to Teyrn Loghain, feeling very proud of her work today. Eventually more mages would have to be called to serve, but this was a good start.

As she signed her letter to Loghain, the Knight-Commander returned to the study, and not alone. With him was a tall and handsome young Templar.

"I have another recruit for you, Warden," Greagoir said.

Note: Uldred is wrong in saying that Wardens cannot be possessed, of course, as the Soldier's Peak add-on suggests. Whether he is honestly wrong or simply lying doesn't matter. What matters is that he is believed.

Game players will have guessed that Shah Wyrd was accidentally summoned by the apprentices touching the statue bases, and hitting on the right combination. Whether Irving or Greagoir will ever realize this, I don't know. It doesn't matter at this point, anyway.

I originally planned to include Lily in the party as well, but the name confusion between Leliana and Lily was too great, nor was I sure I really had a use for her in the party. However, her imprisonment in the Aeonar will be mentioned in a future chapter.

Thanks to my reviewers: Khaos974, Aoihand, Shakespira, Eva Galana, mutive, mille libri, almostinsane, Sarah1281, Piceron, Night Hunter MGS, Amhran Comhrac, Nithu, Sati James, Angry Girl, rascality, Sailor Miaka, Persephone Chiara, and Sofaspud. Thanks also to those who have alerted, favorited, or otherwise enjoyed this story. I am getting such interesting and useful feedback from you! Keep it coming, please.

Someone will tell a story in the next chapter. Let me know if you want a specific character to take a turn.