Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 52: "Arrived Todaye at the Village of Havene..."
A chilly wind whipped the brown leaves from the trees. Ravens croaked out warnings as Bronwyn and her companions rode up the steep and narrow path into themountains toward Haven.
"At least the water is good!" Zevran called out, trying to be heard over the rushing water of the River Sulcher.
Bronwyn nodded absently, munching dried apples, while Zevran refilled their canteens. They let the horses rest and drink their fill. Cullen knelt by the muddy bank and splashed his face. Water down in the village of Sulcher had a flat taste and a muddy odor. The last thing they needed was to get sick bellies from bad water. Up here air and water were infinitely purer and clearer.
Cullen determinedly looked away from Tara and Zevran flirting together, and came over to speak to Bronwyn.
"I was wondering..." he began. "When we were at Redcliffe, some of the knights spoke to me. Arl Teagan..." He grimaced then spoke forthrightly. "Alistair is King Maric's son, isn't he?"
"There doesn't seem to be any written evidence," Bronwyn temporized, "but that is what Arl Eamon told Alistair, and it would seem that King Cailan believed it."
"I know that Alistair is a Grey Warden, but would that make it impossible for him to be king?"
"No," Bronwyn said. She could hardly say otherwise, after all. "In my opinion, it would not. However, Alistair has made it very plain to me that he does not want to be king. I told Arl Teagan as much, and I could see he was disappointed, but really, I can't imagine what he expects. Alistair was not acknowledged by King Maric, which I believe would be necessary before his claim could even be considered. Arl Eamon did not raise Alistair as a prince, but as a servant—a stable boy. I don't know if King Maric ordered that or simply did not care. However, were Alistair put his claim before the Landsmeet, all sorts of unpleasant things would be said. Speculation would be rife. And Cullen, you know who his mother is. The moment that got out, it would all be over. An Orlesian? An elf? A mage?"
He nodded, his face falling into melancholy. "It seems so cruel...so unfair... Just because his mother... Our world is very unjust to elves."
Bronwyn studied him a moment, wondering if he, as a former Templar, was willing to grant the same for mages. "I agree, but realistically, Cullen, even if Alistair's mother were human and the Redcliffe serving girl she was given out to be, many in the Landsmeet would sneer at him. If King Maric had acknowledged him and educated him, it would still have been difficult. I believe he would have been given a bannorn of his own, and that would have been that. Or he would have been used to make a diplomatic marriage abroad. Our world is unjust, and sometimes it seems to me that it is unjust to everyone."
He sighed deeply. "That's true enough. Arl Teagan was not pleased with what you had to say, I suppose."
Bronwyn had been thinking about that herself. "Arl Teagan is a very loyal man: loyal to Ferelden and to the ancient Theirin line. It is a great wrench for him to let go of it, and of course he is grieving for the king...and for his whole family. Also," she added, more carefully, "I believe he feels very guilty about Alistair, though I don't see how any of that is his fault."
Cullen agreed. "He was his brother's vassal, after all. The old arl would never have allowed him to take the boy in after he himself had kept him in the stables. There would have been a lot of talk. It's sad though. And Alistair's mother is a fine woman. It's not right that having elven mother would set so many people against him."
"As you say, the world is unjust to elves."
"Tara's suffered so much, too. I worry about her."
Bronwyn blinked, startled at the change of subject. Was this what all the talk about elves and injustice was really about? "Tara is more protected now as a Grey Warden. As to her personal life, she has made her choice, and as her friends we must support her."
"I just wish... I don't want Tara to be hurt again."
Bronwyn groaned inwardly. Why did people think she wanted them to confide in her about their love lives? She could barely keep her own in order. She said, "I know you're disappointed, but there are lots of other apples in the barrel, as my old Nan used to say. Brosca is very fond of you..."
He smiled briefly. "Brosca...she's such a good comrade. But..." A sheepish glance. "Yes, I know she's interested in me that way. She made herself very plain. I was a coward, and I told her that I needed time to get over Tara."
"A coward?" Bronwyn felt she was not going to like what she would hear next.
"Yes. I was a coward, giving her false hope. I like Brosca very much. She's a brave, cheerful girl. I just could never feel about her the way she does about me. I don't find her attractive. I couldn't think of any kind way to tell her that, so... I let her kiss me instead."
"Then that was badly done of you," Bronwyn said sharply. "That was wrong. She's practically thrown herself at you for months. You don't want Tara to be hurt? I don't either, but I also don't want Brosca hurt. You think because she's tough-talking and full of bravado that she doesn't have a heart to be broken?"
He turned very red. "No! Maker, of course not! I know it was wrong. I'm hoping that by the time we're back she'll have found someone else. There are thousands of dwarves in Ostagar. I thought it was a good idea to get away for while."
"Yes, it probably was," she said shortly, irritated with him and his bloody lady-like ways. Was he a grown man or a baby? "I want you to be rear guard for the next stretch," she said, swinging onto her horse. "Keep your eyes open. I'll take point. Come on, everyone! Time to go!"
The shallow streambed was rocky, and with the water so white and foamy, trying to ford it would be a serious risk. Instead, they followed along the river's edge, and when the path diverged from the river, they stayed on the path, and did not venture into the water.
Scout was restless and uneasy, sniffing the air now and then, lowering his head as he glared into the underbrush. Bronwyn took another look at the map. The bend in the river was not far now. From due west, their trail would turn more toward the north, and climb higher into the mountains.
The air was still, filled only with the arrhythmic clop-clop of the horses hooves on the stony path. Up ahead the earth leveled off briefly, a little green meadow filling the river's arc.
"I hope Haven has a inn!" Tara remarked. "It's getting too cold to camp outside at night..."
A beating of scores of dark wings, and the sky suddenly darkened as a flock of crows took flight. They swept down, just above the riders' heads. Horses shied and whinnied, shaking their manes in fright. Tara's horse reared and tugged the reins out of her grasp. She jolted back and forth, and then screamed as her chin slammed against the horse's neck. She dropped her staff, and it thudded to the ground and rolled away. Cullen reached out to help her calm her mount. Leliana shrilled out a warning.
"In the trees! They are coming!"
With her right hand, Bronwyn drew her sword. With her left, she was hauling her horse's head around to face the big men bursting out of the woods, branches crackling and falling in their wake. There were a half-dozen of them. A gut-deep roar heralded them, a wordless howl of bloodlust.
Leliana's bow hummed. An arrow struck one of the men in the lead, a tall man wearing a horned helmet of an ancient style. The fellow seemed not even to feel it, and kept on charging.
"Maker!" Leliana cried, and loosed again.
Zevran leaped from his horse and threw a dagger in the same smooth move. With a meaty thunk, it buried itself in a man's eye. There was a whoop and a tumble. Zevran stared in brief surprise as the man actually tried to get up, even with several inches of steel in his brain. Another enemy rushed past, headed toward him. Zevran was only half aware that the first man eventually crumpled, scrabbling furiously at the dying grass until he lay still.
Bronwyn tugged on her reins and Posy reared, brandishing her hooves in a surprised man's face. Clearly he had never faced a warhorse before. He stumbled back, off balance, and Scout leaped on him with a fearsome snarl, knocking him down, and ripping at his throat. Posy stepped on him with one hoof and flinched back.
Arrows whizzed past, thudding into the tree trunks. One glanced off Bronwyn's helmet, ringing it like a bell. With a snarl she brought Posy to order and bore down on the leader, who was charging at Cullen, battleaxe swinging.
Cullen side-stepped a blow that would have felled an ox, and smoothly brought Yusaris down, the blade cleaving through the enemy's collarbone. Another attacker shoved forward, and slammed the flat of his axe against Cullen's chest, staggering him.
Tara was looking around desperately for her staff, when Cullen's attacker barked a shout of laughter and swung his axe. Her horse screamed, a shocking, shrilling deathcry, as the blade missed Tara and cut through the horse's spine.
A shuddering fall, legs spasming. Tara went with it, dropping to earth and crying out in pain as flesh met stone. She scrambled on all fours, groping for her staff, while Cullen rallied and dealt the axe man a buffet with the pommel of his sword.
Leliana had brought down an archer, not quite hidden well enough in the autumn-thinned forest. Another arrow struck a thin man with a pair of daggers, who had thought it would be clever to jump up behind Bronwyn. He stumbled and fell before he could leave the ground.
Bronwyn trampled yet another underfoot and followed up with a sweeping cut from her sword. Another bowstring twanged, and she followed the sound. Posy picked up speed, jumping easily over a fallen log. The archer saw them coming, threw down his bow, and reached for his sword. Not quite in time. Bronwyn's sword tip cut open the side of his throat.
There was another man she hadn't seen. Maker! He jumped at her from the left, trying to pull her off her horse. His gauntlets were tipped with claws, and one finger scratched painfully across her neck.
Scout ran after her, worrying at the man's flailing legs, and yipped as the man landed a hard kick. The man clung to Bronwyn, growling like a beast. She thrust her sword at him awkwardly, point first across her own chest, slashing his face open. The blade slipped and grated against the mail covering her upper left arm. Her attacker got to his feet, spitting blood, and then suddenly froze and fell backwards, an arrow in his eye.
Bronwyn galloped back to the fight to see Zevran wrestling with a burly man with a pair of hatchets. One was lost already, sticking in a tree stump. The other was still in contention. The man grunted, and a slash opened redly on Zevran's arm. The assassin showed no pain, but simply brought up his knee with a sharp jerk. The burly man howled with pain. Zevran rolled away, drew another dagger, reversed the grip, and drove it into the man's heart.
Tara tugged herself free of the dead horse. She screamed with rage, fingers finding her staff. Shortly thereafter, the fight ended in an eldritch blast of bitter cold.
There was no helping Tara's horse, which was long past healing. It lay dead where it had fallen. Tara looked down at the lifeless bulk, eyes misting.
"How could they kill a poor dumb beast?" she protested. "That was rotten! That was cruel!" She kicked the nearest dead enemy, hard. "And we were getting along together really well now! I had really learned how to ride! It's not fair!"
Zevran came up, and squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. Her eyes widened at his wound. Immediately, she pursed her lips with effort and set about healing him. Leliana moved about the little battlefield, retrieving her arrows, while Cullen calmed the surviving horses.
The nearest dead man lay sprawled on his back, his broken teeth grinning up at the sky. Bronwyn wiped at her neck and succeeded only in smearing blood on her armor.
"Hold still," Tara turned to her. "I'm not a great healer, but I can heal a scratch like that."
Bronwyn waited for the flicker of blue, and winced at the sudden throb as her skin knitted itself back into place.
"Thanks. Now I think I'll have a look at our new acquaintances. See to Scout. I think he got a bad bruise."
Zevran moved Tara's bags from the dead horse to his. Bronwyn scowled at the loss of a horse. Bastards. Not that they were moving fast anyway, but if they had to make a quick retreat back to Sulcher, they would be handicapped from the start.
Cullen moved up beside her. "Are these Avvar tribesmen?" he wondered. "Look at those helmets."
They were an ancient, primitive design, covering the face down to the nose, the crest decorated with ox horns.
"The horns of power," Bronwyn muttered, half-remembering some old history. There were woodcuts of old chiefs wearing such helmets. The thanes of the Chasind wore them still. And now these people, whoever they were…
Leliana shook her head, stepping over another dead man. "I have traveled through these mountains before and met the Avvar. I see no tattoos. If they are Avvar, they are a tribe I have never heard of. The helmets could be loot, you know."
Bronwyn hunkered down by the leader, and traced the scales of his elaborate armor. Over his shoulders he wore a rich fur cape that crawled with vermin. Mastering her distaste at the feel of the dead man's skin, she tugged at the thong of a gold amulet tied around his neck.
"A dragon?"
A very fine dragon it was: richly detailed in soft, pure gold.
"Maybe it's the tribe's totem," Cullen remarked. "I still think they could be Avvar. They favor the battleaxe, too."
"At the moment it matters little," said Zevran. "They are enemies."
"It's possible they followed us from Sulcher, waiting for their chance." Bronwyn stood up, pocketing the amulet. "We should move on."
"I'm not done yet!" Taraprotested, tucking one of the dead men's daggers into her belt. "I can't get this one's ring off!"
Cullen made a face. Zevran, however, came gallantly to her rescue.
"Here," he said. With a quick stroke, he severed the finger and retrieved the ring. "This is very nice. You have a good eye for value, bella mia." With a bow, he presented it to her, to Cullen's great disgust.
"Their weapons, too, are of good quality," Leliana said, fingering a blade. "Look Cullen, it is well-forged. These are not savages." She yanked an arrow out of the ground and studied the head. "Good steel tips. I have never seen barbs like these, though."
They moved on, ever watchful. Tara rode behind Zevran, clinging to his waist and giggling. The assassin laughed.
"A more pleasant way to travel, yes? "
"Yes!" Tara laughed, kissing the back of his neck.
The river branched off, and the trail with it; but Bronwyn followed the southerly stream, as the map indicated. She stopped briefly, baffled, as it seemed to end, but Scout sniffed around some boulders, and the broken twigs behind were evidence that men had passed this way. Once past a dense bracken, the trail opened up again.
"Not much longer now. We'd best watch out. They may be waiting for us."
"Well, those men certainly were," Leliana agreed.
The trail grew steeper yet, and the pines closed in around them. Scout seemed to have no trouble following it, but people had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep this trail unnoticeable to the casual eye.
"We're going to have to dismount here," Bronwyn said. "Let's lead the horses for a bit."
Further on, the side of the trail opened up into another little path. Bronwyn stopped, puzzled at which one to follow, and turned off to the left. After a few dozen yards it led to a broad, hidden meadow, where sheep placidly grazed. A young boy with a shepherd's crook saw them and froze briefly in alarm. Then he ran in the opposite direction, and vanished into the trees.
"This clearly isn't the way to the village," Bronwyn said. "We'd best retrace our steps."
The other path turned steep, but soon, looking up, they could see the end of it: a pair of posts at the top of the path that generally indicated the entry to a town of some sort. And, like most towns, there was a watchman there.
"Only one of them," Tara muttered. "That's good, isn't it? And he's not dressed like those others."
"He doesn't look very friendly," Leliana said softly.
He was not at all friendly. He did not appear fearful, and did not immediately go for his sword, but he glared at them with a mixture of suspicious and dislike.
"Is this Haven?" Bronwyn called out.
"We do not welcome intruders!" the guard shouted back. "Go back the way you came!"
Zevran moved carefully to the side, keeping his eyes open for an ambush. He smirked.
"That was a 'yes,' I believe!"
The guardsman shot him a quick, puzzled look, taking in the large eyes, short stature, and delicately pointed ears. His eyes slid to Tara, and betrayed equal curiosity there. It was clear that the man had never before in his life seen elves.
Tara noticed his stare, and gripped her staff a little more tightly.
Brownyn took a quick look about her. The view through the gateway revealed a broad expanse of level ground. The path widened out to a kind of town commons, and led on to a dock on the far side. As the map indicated, there was a small lake feeding the river here: probably the reason for the town's location. Another path branched off, and led on up the hill, presumably to the rest of the village. To the west, towering over all, loomed the mountains.
Leliana distracted the man with her most charming smile, while Cullen, simultaneously, gave the guardsman glare for glare.
Bronwyn kept her tone pleasant. "We've come a long way to find Haven, and to find a friend of ours: Brother Genetivi. Is he here?"
"Never heard of him," the guard said instantly. "We keep to ourselves, here in Haven."
A watchful atmosphere clung to the village. The dark little windows of the cottages gazed on them like unfriendly eyes.
"Ah," Bronwyn said, still pleasant. "So this is Haven. Good. Could you direct us to an inn?"
The guardsman sneered at the visitors, and said, "There is no inn in Haven. There is no place for you here. If you must trade for supplies, there is a general store further up, but it's not likely you'll find what you're looking for."
"We're looking for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes," Leliana said, with disarming candor. "What do you know about it?"
"The Urn is a myth!" the man shot back. "Father Eirik could tell you better than I, if you are foolish enough to insist on staying where you are not wanted."
"Father Eirik?" Cullen said, frowning in surprise. "Your priest…is a man? That is…strange."
"It has always been thus in Haven," the guard replied stolidly. "We do not question tradition."
Bronwyn gave him a hard look. "It would seem not."
Some of the inhabitants of the little cottages had come outside, watching the scene in hostile silence. Children clung to their mothers, whispering.
"Come on, We'll try the store first." She led her horse past the man without further pleasantries. The path to the shop led up another steep hill. Bronwyn pressed her lips together, wondering if she should have left the horses in Redcliffe.
"It's a pretty village, in its way," Leliana said. "The cottages are so neat and the gardens very well tended. What a pity they are heretics and doomed to the Void."
Tara cleared her throat and caught Zevran's eye. He only grinned.
They reached the top of the hill and once again found themselves on a flat clearing, surrounded by cottages. Nearby, a small and sallow boy was playing in the dirt with what looked like a knucklebone, murmuring a rhyme to himself.
"Come, come, bonny Lynne; we've a bed to put you in.
It is soft, it is warm,
It will shelter from the storm.
Come, come, bonny Lynne; we've a bed to put you in.
Dear, dear bonny Lynne sleeps the peaceful crib within.
"A mossy stone, a finger bone,
No one knows but Lynne alone.
Dear, dear bonny Lynne sleeps the peaceful crib within…"
"Hello, my lad!" Bronwyn called. "Can you point me in the direction of the shop?"
He looked up at them, his eyes wide, and pointed at yet another neat wooden cottage. "It's there, but you should go away," he told Bronwyn. "We don't like strangers in Haven."
"Why not?" Bronwyn asked him.
That seemed to puzzle him. "We just don't, that's all. I like your horses, though. I wonder if Father will let me have one."
"If you'll answer some questions," Bronwyn said, smiling. "I'll let you sit on my horse."
He was tempted, and drew closer. "You wouldn't carry me off, would you? Evil witches in the stories are always doing that."
"I'm certainly not a witch," Bronwyn laughed. "Come on! You can pet Posy, if you like. She's quite gentle."
Zevran smothered a laugh. Bronwyn glared at him. "Quite gentle," she muttered, "when people aren't waving axes in her direction." She smiled again at the boy. "My name is Bronwyn. What's yours?"
"Not supposed to talk to strangers," he said, almost to himself, coming a little closer, eyes full of the horses. "Your dog is really big," he quavered uncertainly.
"Scout, sit!" Bronwyn ordered. "Come on, lad! He won't hurt you."
The boy crept closer, detouring around the fearsome Scout. His hand, small and grubby, reached out tentatively to the horse's shoulder. Posy turned her head, soft nose nuzzling at him. "She's soft," was the wondering whisper.
Bronwyn's glance fell on the object in the boy's left hand. "What's that you've got there?"
Entranced by Posy, he did not look at her. "Something of mine," he answered. "Want to see it?"
He opened his left hand, and Bronwyn leaned over to examine the slender object. Tara's breath was a quick, startled intake of breath. Zevran raised a brow.
It was the shriveled remains of a human finger, the dried skin dark brown, the nail a worn stub. Scout sniffed at it and whined.
Leliana saw it, and said, "Maker have mercy!"
"Where did you get that?" Cullen demanded, his brow a thundercloud.
Bronwyn frowned at him and shook her head. "So you don't see a lot of strangers?" she asked the boy "Did you see a man called Brother Genetivi a few months ago?"
The boy shrugged, and stroked down the horse's forehead. "If I had a horse, I'd brush him every day!"
"Horses like that," Bronwyn agreed. "He was an older man, not very tall, in brown clothes with a checked shirt. He was looking for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes."
"If I tell you, can I sit on the horse? Can I ride him?"
"If you tell me, I'll put you in the saddle myself, and lead you all the way to the store."
He cocked his head, considering, and then said, "All right. There was a man I didn't know last summer. I don't know his name. The Reavers found him and took him up to the Chantry."
"Did he leave afterwards?" Bronwyn asked, wondering what "reavers" might be.
The boy bit his lip. "I never saw him leave. They took him to Father Eirik. He was asking too many questions."
A grim silence followed.
"Never let it be said that I don't keep my word," Bronwyn said quietly. She boosted the boy into the saddle and took the reins, walking slowly toward the store.
The boy seemed to like being up high, and sat straight and proud in the saddle, the master of all he surveyed. He noticed Tara, and asked, "What's wrong with you? What happened to your ears?"
"I'm an elf," she replied, trying not to be angry at a small, ignorant boy.
"And so am I," Zevran added, briefly doffing his helmet. "The ears are natural for elves."
"They look funny." the boy told him. "Your eyes, too. They're too big. Are elves bad?"
"Not as a rule."
Blessedly, they reached the store at that moment. It was a cottage, like the rest of the them, probably with the downstairs devoted to the wares and their storage. With such a small village with few visitors meant that the storekeeper must have some craft or skill to fill up his time. He certainly could nor spend all day idling behind a counter. He might be a weaver or a joiner. With any luck, he would be a brewer. It would make sense for the local store to double as the local tavern.
There was a garden in back, golden with ripening pumpkins. Bronwyn remembered Nan's pumpkin soup, and wondered if she could replicate it. Probably not, unless she had chickens, onions, and celery, and a day to simmer them into a proper stock. She sighed, thinking of Satinalia at Castle Highever in days gone by.
In front of the store was a hanging ring of iron with a stick on a string. It was very likely the town alarm, used to rouse the citizenry, or at least summon the folk to the store.
Leliana had mastered her distaste and walked on the other side of the boy. With a dimpling smile, she asked, "Have you heard of the Urn of the Sacred Ashes? Is it spoken of around here?"
"It's old," the boy said, bored. "Andraste doesn't need it anymore."
"But you do honor Andraste here," Cullen broke in. "You know about her."
The boy clearly thought he was an idiot. "Of course I know about Andraste. Everybody knows about her. Here in Haven we know more about her than anywhere else. Did you come to see her?"
"Yes," Bronwyn answered, very surprised. "Yes, you could say that we've come to see her. Perhaps after we're done at the shop, we'll go up to the Chantry and talk to Father Eirik. Is that where people go to see her? To see her image in the Chantry?"
"She's not in the Chantry," the boy said, amazed at her ignorance. He broke off, looking past her. "Oh no!"
A woman had flung open the door of a house and screeched at the boy. "Trevin! Come here right now!"
"I have to go!" the boy said, trying to scramble down from the saddle. Cullen grabbed him and set him on the ground. The boy shrugged free of his grasp and ran to his mother.
The woman hugged him tight, her furious, terrified eyes never leaving the strangers; then she pushed him through the cottage door and shut it behind him.
"Go away!" she shouted. "Go away! We don't want outsiders here!"
"We're on our way to the shop," Bronwyn said soothingly. To her companions, she muttered, "Come on. Cullen, I want you to stay outside and guard the horses."
"Bronwyn—"
"That's an order. We're just going into the store," Bronwyn insisted. "How much trouble can we get into in a store?"
The shopkeeper was not happy to see them. No…that wasn't quite right. He had looked up from a tally, a smile on his pleasant face, at the sound of the door opening. At the sight of unknown faces, unknown armor, unknown weapons—and a large wardog—he froze, as if not believing the unwelcome sight. The smile evaporated, and was replaced by wary tension. He was clearly relieved to have the counter between him and the unexpected visitors.
"What do you want?"
"This is the village store, isn't it?" Bronwyn replied gently. "We're just stocking up."
"And as you might have noticed," Tara added pertly, "we are not from these parts." Leliana nudged her in mock reproof.
The storekeeper stared at Tara as if she were a mythical beast, and then frowned. "I don't have much…probably nothing you'd want, but look if you like." He blinked, after his eyes found Zevran. He looked as much bewildered as horrified.
The place looked and smelled much like any other general store: dusty with flour, with a strange blend of sharp cheese and dyed wool in the air. There was little in the way of luxury goods here—in such stores one usually saw a bolt of bright, cheap silk, or a painted teapot, or something of that sort. Haven was such an insular community that Bronwyn suspected they bartered among themselves a great deal, and used this place for storage as much as anything else. The shopkeeper might act less as an entrepreneur and more as a middleman in such dealings. Smears of clay on his smock indicated that he was almost certainly the village potter. The workshop must be in back.
The companions strolled around the shop, fingering the merchandise. Against the wall opposite the counter was a large chest. Zevran flipped open the lid and whistled.
"Now that is where he keeps the good stuff, so to speak!"
"Look here—" the storekeeper protested.
Bronwyn did look. There were some very nice items in the trunk: among them a jeweled locket, which when opened revealed a miniature portrait encircled with seed pearls; a pair of rather small but first quality leather boots; two good daggers; a monogrammed canteen; religious amulets; a half-dozen books on various subjects.
"Creatore!" Zevran exclaimed. "Those boots! They are Antivan leather! And my size—or near enough! They are for sale, yes?" He snatched them from the chest, and breathed in the scent. "Ah! How I have missed that smell!"
"You like to sniff leather?" Tara laughed. "Has anyone ever told you that you're totally warped?"
"I am!" Zevran declared. "and proud of it!" He sat down on the floor and tugged his old boots off. Handling the Antivan leather with reverence, he murmured, "Let us hope these fit!"
Bronwyn smiled indulgently, and began putting together enough odds and ends to justify pumping the storekeeper for information.
"…Does that cheese keep well? I'd like a round of it, and a half-weight of the dried berries. That jerky looks good… a half-weight of that too…what's this in the bottles?"
"Perry," the storekeeper answered sullenly.
"I love perry! I'll take two bottles. It will be a treat for my friends."
Leliana poked through the contents of the chest herself, admiring the pretty locket, and then sorting through the books. When Bronwyn had finished collecting her supplies and had shoved them at the merchant for a tally, Leliana interrupted.
"Bronwyn, come here. This book is very interesting. Perhaps you will want this as well."
"I really think—"
"You really want to see this," Leliana insisted, her voice full of meaning.
Bronwyn wanted to pay for the goods and question the storekeeper, who looked ready to jump out of his skin. Still, she walked over to look at the little green colume Leliana was holding out. It was not the title of the book —which Bronwyn saw at a glance was Edible Plants of the Frostbacks— that Leliana wanted to draw attention to, as much as the name inscribed on the inside of the front cover.
From the Library of Brother Ferdinand Genetivi
Her eyes met Leliana's, and she blew out a long, long breath.
"You're right. Edible Plants? That's a very practical book. We'll take that, too. What are the others? We might want them."
While Zevran bounded to his feet, rejoicing in his splendid new boots, Bronwyn and Leliana quickly thumbed through the books in the chest. Two others were Genetivi's: his own In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, scribbled over with corrections for a new edition, and a monograph on social customs of the Avvars. The other books were a miscellany, some very old. One was a traveler's manuscript diary, the crumbling yellowed pages of which were blank after the words "…Arrived todaye at the Village of Havene…"
Bronwyn set the book aside, and walked back to the counter, a smile fixed on her face. "How much altogether? Would this…" she dropped a generous handful of silver onto the counter…"cover it all? No doubt you're wondering why we're here. Actually, we've come looking for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes, which some say is a myth…" she waved her hand in mild deprecation, forestalling the storekeeper's protests. "…and we're also looking for a friend of ours. Brother Genetivi? He told us he was traveling to Haven. Have you seen him?"
The man stared at her, mouth working. He stammered a denial.
"Never heard of him!"
"Yes, you have," Bronwyn growled, opening the green book. "For here's his name, right in a book of his for sale in your own shop! Now where is he?"
He was shaking with fear,his eyes almost wobbling. Bronwyn clicked her tongue impatiently, and the man croaked, "Father Eirik can tell you. I don't know anything!"
"Where is he? In the Chantry? Where's that?"
"At the top of the hill. That's all there is up there. Father Eirik. I can show you..." He walked quickly to the door, and opened it, nearly walking into Cullen. He jumped back in almost comical surprise at the sight of the big stranger. A briefly widening of his eyes, and then he darted to the side of the porch and began banging on the iron ring, clanging out an alarm.
"We're under attack!" he bellowed. "Call the Reavers! Reavers!"
"Stop him!" Bronwyn shouted, bursting out of the doorway. Cullen felled the man with his fist, but it was too late. People were rushing out of their homes, armed with anything that came to hand: hatchets, pruning hooks, hunting bows, gutting knives.
"Get back!" Bronwyn shouted. "We have not attacked this village. We are here—"
An arrow glanced off her pauldron. Another buried itself in the porch support next to her. More arrows followed. The shopkeeper staggered up and pulled a knife on Zevran, who promptly cut his throat. A shriek rose from the villagers...a woman's shriek of grief and horror.
Tara flinched back from another arrow and cast a fireball into the gathering mob. It exploded it in red gold light. Villagers screamed, knocked off their feet. Children ran shrieking, their clothes on fire. A girl rushed away, and ran up to the uphill path, crying for help.
"I didn't mean to hit them!" Tara wailed. "I just meant to scare them away!"
"Well, they're pretty scared now!" Bronwyn snapped.
While the villagers surged away in panic, dragging the wounded with them, three armored men came rushing down the hill, axes whirling. A swordsman followed them, running up from the lower slope of the village. Bronwyn recognized him as the gate guard.
"Nothing to do now but fight!" Zevran shrugged. "Now, bella mia! Now shoot your pretty fireworks!"
Tara, instead, froze one of the men in his tracks. Leilana shot one in the throat, and another in the eye. The arrows barely slowed them down. Whatever "Reavers" were, they were tough and took quite a bit of killing. Not even the toughest opponent, however could keep on fighting when his skull was split open, or he was stabbed in an artery and bleeding out. A few villagers ran forward to try to help their warriors and were shot down for their pains.
It was soon over. Some of the people fled down the path to the river, and hid themselves there. Some ran into their houses and slammed the doors and shutters closed. A few lingered, fearful but defiant, shouting curses. Some were on their knees, arms open to the careless skies, beseeching divine intervention.
"—Andraste strike them down!"
"—Murderers! Bandits!"
"—Save us, Andraste!"
"Get back!" Bronwyn shouted, waving her bloody sword at them. "Get away from us! The next fool who attacks will get the same as the rest! Tara!" she ordered in a whisper. "Throw another fireball, but try not to hit anyone!"
Tara gulped, her eyes on the sprawled bodies littering the commons. "All right..."
A small fireball exploded a few yards from the villagers. A pandemonium of shrieks and wails followed.
"Get back!" Bronwyn shouted again. "The next one will be bigger! Back off or we'll set every house in the village afire!"
There was an ominous murmur. With sick disappointment, she saw that a lot of people in this little village were brave: the sort willing to die for their beliefs. Luckily, however, they also had children to protect, and it was late in the year and cold at night. The villagers backed away; hatred and venomous outrage in some faces, blank terror in others.
When they were far enough away, Bronwyn snapped, "Let's mount up! We'll find the Chantry. We're most likely to get answers there." She swung onto Posy, not liking to see what they were leaving behind.
A pair of small children rushed out, crying, and begged their dead mother to get up. An old man ran after at the riders, cursing, and shook a fist at them. A boy threw a rock. Bronwyn gritted her teeth, wondering in what particular she differed from Rendon Howe, and led her companions up the steep hill, leaving the villagers to their dead and wounded.
"They may follow us," Cullen pointed out.
Bronwyn knew they might. "Do you really want to systematically hunt down and kill every man, woman, and child in the village? That's our only alternative at the moment. Would you call down the Right of Annulment, so to speak, on people who are not even mages? They are defending their homes from invaders, for Maker's sake!"
More resistance meet them on the hill: another pair of axemen. Tara cursed them both into paralysis, and Bronwyn was tempted to leave them. But no, it would be foolish. Ordinary villagers were one thing, trained warriors another. These men could be dangerous: creeping up on them or lying in wait as they made their way down the hill. She beheaded one as she rode past. The other fell to Zevran's sword.
"We're making no friends here," Bronwyn muttered bitterly.
It was not far to the Chantry, perched on the hill's summit. No people were outside. Nothing impeded the magnificent view of the mountains surrounding them on two sides. To the south, the slope dropped off, and the river glittered up at them like a bright ribbon.
The Chantry was small, but well built of grey Frostback granite, with colored glass in the windows. It was old, and incomparably the best building in the village; but so Chantries often were. Bronwyn looked for a place to leave the horses. She sighed. In back of the Chantry was a fenced garden—the priest's garden, no doubt. There was a tub of water there for the plants.
"We'll leave the horses there," she pointed.
A little scandalized, Leliana whispered, "They will eat the priest's cabbages!"
"Come on."
Inside, it was something like a Chantry, certainly, if not a Chantry any of them had ever seen. At the far end of the long chamber was a broad wooden platform, but there was no statue of Andraste, and no sacred fire.
"Do you suppose the Urn is here?" Leliana murmured wistfully.
Before a small group of worshipers stood a man, acting as priest. No, he was their priest. Only in faraway Tevinter were men priests. To Bronwyn and her companions a male priest was as bizarre and unnatural as a talking dog. It was so contrary to the normal order of things that it was hard to credit their eyes.
"Those are Tevinter robes the priest is wearing, or something like them," Tara whispered softly. "And he has a staff..."
"Wonderful," murmured Bronwyn. "A priest who is not only a man, but a mage. No one is going to believe this. Let's go meet the revered... father."
Cullen made a soft sound of disgust.
To the sides of the platform were stationed four armored warriors. None of them wore the ceremonial armor and horned helmets the companions had seen recently. Bronwyn felt faintly relieved at that. If it came to fighting, perhaps these would be only ordinary warriors and not the fearsome Reavers.
Kneeling before the priest was the young woman who had run ahead to give warning. She was shaking, not entirely calmed by the priest's hand laid reassuringly on her head. The priest was exhorting his flock.
"...We are blessed beyond measure. We are chosen by the Holy and Beloved to be Her guardians. This sacred duty is given to us alone. Rejoice, my children, and prepare you hearts to receive Her. Lift up your voices and despair not, for She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when—"
His eyes narrowed at Bronwyn and those behind her strode out of the shadows.
"Ah. Welcome. Lydilla told me that we had visitors in the village. Have you found your time in Haven interesting?
"I think Haven has found it rather interesting, too," Bronwyn said grimly. "We did not come to fight, but we are certainly not going to allow ourselves to be murdered. Perhaps you should calm your people, Father. We have come for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes, and to find Brother Genetivi, our friend. Produce the man and send us on our way, and your people need not suffer. If they attack us again, we will stop them."
Angry looks and words were the response. The priest quieted his people, and stood forth, eyes blazing with anger and contempt.
"And what right have you to force your way in here, full of your demands and your importance? Is this your village? Did we ask you to come to Haven? This is what always happens when outsiders invade our village. You have no respect for us: for our privacy, for our traditions. You do not understand our ways. You have brought war to Haven in your ignorance and greed. You will tell others about us, and then what?"
Leliana burst out, "The Urn would bring hope to all the world! It belongs to all who love and worship Andraste!"
The priest flicked a glance at her and frowned.
"You are devout but misguided. The Urn is irrelevant. We, who know the deepest mysteries of Andraste, know better than to worship Her mere ashes. Our duty is a higher one than that."
Cullen was looking very uneasy, and spoke up.
"Your people have tried to kill us since we left Sulcher! It's hardly an act of devotion to kill travelers simply to keep your village hidden!"
"You know nothing of us," the priest countered. "Staying hidden means staying protected; and we must protect Haven and our charges at all costs!. We don't owe you any explanations for our actions. We have a sacred duty: failure to protect Her would be a greater sin. All will be forgiven."
"Where is Genetivi?" Bronwyn asked quietly, not wanting to involve herself in crack-brained theology. "We know he was here. We found some of his possessions for sale in the village. Was he alive or dead when you took them from him?"
"He is not far from here," Father Eirik answered calmly. With a look of contempt at Bronwyn, he murmured to the kneeling girl and pressed something into her hand. She rose and backed away from the strangers, trying to circle around and get to the door.
"Cullen, stop her!" Bronwyn ordered. "I don't want her—"
The priest roared, "Run to the temple, Lydilla! Warn them!" With that he raised his staff and a wave of pure energy knocked Tara, Bronwyn, and Leliana off their feet. The guardsmen leaped past the wooden platform, swords drawn, and attacked.
Most of the women fled, their cries shrilling out in the open air. Cullen swore, caught up with Lydilla, and knocked her senseless with a blow. He pounded back to the fight and summoned a Holy Smite, hoping Tara would forgive him. The air around him coalesced, and then he could feel them, the wisps of magic; and he drew them in like a fishing line. Magic filled him, cleansed and ecstatic, and then faded in a warm glow of victory.
Father Eirik abruptly collapsed, eyes wide in disbelief. His staff dropped from nerveless fingers and rolled away. Cullen swung Yusaris and ended him there, on the stones of his Chantry.
Scout bowled a shocked guardsman over, tearing him apart. Zevran tripped another guardsman and cut his throat. Leliana bounded to her feet and parried another man's blade while Bronwyn stabbed him in the back. One by one, the enemy fell. Some of the worshippers tried to help their priest, but were soon cut down.
Tara staggered to her feet, furious and nauseated.
"Cullen!" she shrieked. "I'm going to kill you!"
"Don't kill him!" Bronwyn shouted over the noise. "He just saved us all!"
The girl, Lydilla, stirred and shook her head. She tried to crawl away from the massacre, but Zevran pounced on her.
"You there! What's your name...Lydilla!" Bronwyn shouted. She strode up and yanked the girl to her feet. "Where is Genetivi? Tell me or I'll burn the whole damned village to the ground. I'm done with playing games with you crazy people! Where is he?"
"Dead!" The girl glared back at her defiantly, rubbing her purpling jaw. "He was given to Andraste, and that is more honor than you deserve." Her gaze wandered to the bodies on the floor, and she moaned with grief. Bronwyn gave her a shake.
"Given to Andraste?" Leliana wondered. "What do you mean?"
Lydilla flinched back a little from Bronwyn's strange green eyes and Zevran's smirk. "He was taken to the Temple and given to Her," she repeated slowly, as if to half-witted children.
Leliana picked up something from a the floor: a strange amulet of bronze: round, with curving points like a star...or like the emblem of the Holy Fire. It was large and heavy, and looked more like a device than an adornment.
"This is what the priest gave her."
The girl tried to snatch at it, but Zevran held her back.
"I know what that is," Tara spoke up. "I've seen illustrations in the Circle library. That's a Tevinter key. They still use those, and a stylized version of the design is often embroidered on Tevinter clothing."
"Hang on to it," Bronwyn said to Leliana. "If it's a key, there must be a lock or two it fits." She turned to their captive. " So where is the Temple?"
The girl looked away, and Bronwyn briefly cuffed her. "It's either the Temple or we go back and finish the village. Your choice."
Lydilla stared at her in loathing. "You're monsters. Savages from the outer world. You're everything Father Eirik warned us about."
"Temple... or village?" Bronwyn asked, with cool menace.
The girl was shoved outside and after some persuasion showed them the other path that curved around the hill's summit, and then up the nearby mountain that loomed over the village. "It is there," she said bitterly. "But they will be waiting."
"So be it," Bronwyn said grimly. "And now, I suggest that you return to the village. If you raise a hand to us again, you will be killed. In fact, I promise you that if your village offers us any violence, it will be destroyed. End of story. Stay in your houses and keep quiet, and we have no reason to do you further harm. Go home, and don't be stupid."
The girl twisted away, and spat on the ground at Bronwyn's feet. She ran down the path to the village, giving them one last backward look of scorn and hatred.
"Cullen, are you all right?" Leliana caught him by the arm. The ex-Templar was pasty-faced and disoriented.
"Sorry..." he managed. "Bronwyn, I really, really need some lyrium. I'm sorry..."
"Me too," agreed Tara. She fumbled in her belt pouch for vials. "Here." She passed one to Cullen, who uncorked it and drank thirstily. Tara downed hers and took a deep breath. "Wow. Go easy on the Smite, Cullen. I thought I was going to die. What's a mage without her magic?"
"Why don't you rest a bit?" Bronwyn said to Cullen, patting him on the shoulder. "You did good work today. Sit out here at the doorstep and give a yell if you see anyone coming. Eat something. We need to search the Chantry, and then get some rest ourselves, if we're going to have to fight whoever is in this Temple."
"We can't rest too long," Zevran shook his head. "We'll just give the village time to regroup."
"We can't fight in the shape we're in. Besides, I think they're more afraid of us than we are of them at the moment. We'll do a quick search. We don't know that that girl wasn't lying. As soon as you feel better, Tara, cast some rejuvenation spells on all of us. Then we'll be fit to go."
To the left of the Chantry nave was a door that led to the sacristy and the priest's personal quarters. It was large and well-furnished. Large chests stood at the foot of the bed.
"A bed!" Tara sighed. "Can I lie down for a minute?" She curled up on the neatly spread blanket and moaned with relief. "Good bed. I wish I could take it with me."
Zevran grinned at her, and opened one of the chests.
"See this! Their Chantry is well-endowed!"
Inside were coins of various ages and nations, small ingots of gold and silver, rings and amulets and brooches. Zevran immediately pocketed some of the smaller items.
"We don't have time for treasure-hunting!" Bronwyn said sharply. "Look for anything pertaining to Brother Genetivi. From the shape of the Chantry there is another room. Come on, Tara! Don't fall asleep!"
The other room proved harder to access. An arched doorway appeared to be walled up, but it was clear that the other room lay beyond. Leliana found a hidden recess with a curious bronze shape built into it.
"The very place for our key!" she said, triumphant, and pressed it into the opening. A loud click, and a panel of wood faced with a thin layer of stone slid away almost noiselessly.
At first glance, the room appeared to be filled with tall bookshelves. The place smelled of old parchment and leather bindings.
Bronwyn looked to her left, around the corner, and said, "Was this a library...or a prison?"
Many books. A writing table and chair. A bed—with manacles to chain the occupant down. The bedding bore ominous dark-brown stains. Scout sniffed at them and looked up at Bronwyn, whining.
"They kept someone here for a time, I suspect," Leliana said solemnly. "We know that Brother Genetivi was in the village. Perhaps they wanted fresh knowledge of the outside world..."
That made dreadfully good sense to Bronwyn. To this fearful, isolated community, a widely traveled scholar like Genetivi would have been a gift from the Maker: knowledgeable about all the nations of Thedas; current with the politics and culture of the day. He might have lived for weeks, hoping for help and rescue. Hoping, Bronwyn feared, in vain.
"And when they thought they knew enough..." Zevran shrugged. "I hope it was fast."
Leliana sorted through bits of parchment on the writing table. "Some of the writing...it does look like Brother Genetivi's..."
"I think we can be fairly certain he was here," Bronwyn agreed. "Everyone eat something, and then we'd better get going."
They had a choice: they could spend the night in the Chantry and face the Temple in the morning, or they could forge ahead, though the sun was dipping behind the Frostbacks.
Bronwyn gave thoughtful, prudent orders, but was sick at heart. Whatever faced them at the Temple, it was clear to her that there she would have no opportunity for mercy. Once committed, they very likely would have to kill everyone they faced. Already she had lost count of the people whose lives she had ended today.
For what? So that one woman could live? Was Anora, Queen of Ferelden or not, really worth this slaughter? Was she worth the lives of the children killed by accident in the village, or the children who would die because Bronwyn had killed their parents? Yes, the people of Haven were heretics, but Bronwyn was not a Templar or a priest, who was given authority to execute those whose theology was insufficiently pure. Considering some of her own secret thoughts, she knew herself to be the worst sort of hypocrite in that regard.
Were the Ashes even in the Temple? The little boy had not thought much of them, nor the man-priest, for that matter. They talked as if Andraste was alive and walked among them. At that idea, a trickle of fear shivered though her. What if she was wrong, and these people were right? Mere numbers did not make right, or Ferelden should have meekly bowed to the Orlesian yoke.
She shook her head, fighting such dark thoughts. She must not fall prey to foolish superstition. A woman named Andraste had certainly lived: a brave, charismatic woman who rallied the subject peoples of Thedas behind her and fought for the freedom of all. Andraste, however, was dead and gone, many ages ago. If anything remained of her, it was mere dust and ashes; the ashes they were here to find.
Still, if She were here today, what would She think of the powerful institution that advised and sometimes commanded emperors and peasants, nobles and freeholders, all in Her name? What would She think of that institution, if She knew that its holy warriors were addicted to lyrium to keep them obedient? What would She think of Tevinter, a place that claimed to worship Her while its capital city contained a slave market that was bigger than all of Highever town? What would She think of the Alienages in the rest of Thedas, where elves were treated as little better than slaves? What would She think of the Circles, where mages were imprisoned for life?
Not much, Bronwyn suspected. She wouldn't think much of any of them, Bronwyn herself included. Andraste had loved freedom and fought for it, and there was precious little freedom to be found anywhere in Thedas.
"You're brooding," Leliana said, sitting down by her on the Chantry doorstep. "You brood very well, but sometimes a little too much for your own good."
"I was thinking of all the people we've killed today, and the others we will kill. I'm hoping that the Urn is not a myth and that the Ashes will be all they are supposed to be; because otherwise all these people were murdered in vain, and we are no better than bandits."
Leliana stared at her, pretty mouth open, and then sighed deeply. "That is a heavy thought indeed! We must trust in the Maker. He knows that we mean well…that our intentions are pure…"
Bronwyn glanced over at Zevran who was presenting Tara with a looted trinket. She blushed, and touched his cheek. Leliana looked too, and squeezed Bronwyn's hand.
"We are sad, imperfect creatures. The Maker knows that. Those people would have killed us, if they had the chance. It is no sin to defend one's life."
"They wouldn't have attacked us if we hadn't barged in here. They haven't killed as many of us as we have of them."
Leliana put an arm around her shoulders. "Remember why we are here: to keep Ferelden stable and as peaceful as possible. To do that, its Queen must rule. To rule, she must be healthy. If there were civil war, many more would die than died here today. As for the Temple…" Leliana bit her lip. "That is in the hands of the Maker. I shall pray that the false priests and heretics see the error of their ways and let us pass in peace. Prayer can accomplish great things." She smiled ruefully. "And even if my prayer is not answered in the way I wish, the act of prayer will give me me the strength to accept what cannot be changed, and the courage to do what must be done."
Cullen called out to Zevran, and the assassin gave Tara a quick kiss before he walked over to join the former Templar.
Leliana rose. "I had better help them."
They were laying traps for any villagers brave or foolish enough to climb the hill to the Chantry. Bronwyn did not want to be attacked from behind, and also wanted to protect the horses, which must be left corralled behind the Chantry. A largest set of traps were at the top of the hill. The entry to the Chantry would be likewise rigged, as well as the garden gate.
The dead bodies had been hauled out of the Chantry and tumbled down the hill. In time, the villagers would find them and give them whatever disposal was customary here.
Bronwyn got up and tended to the horses, making sure they would have sufficient water and food for a day or two. If they were not back by then…well…the villagers would probably like having a few horses. Then she hauled their extra gear and any loot they wanted into the Chantry's secret room, and locked it away.
By the time everything was done, a blood-red sunset peered over the Frostbacks. Bronwyn hoped it was not an omen.
"To the Temple, then."
It was not terribly far, but uphill all the way: a long, well-worn mountain path that took them around to the south side of the mountain. As they went higher, it grew colder and darker. Snow whitened the path, and their boots crunched loudly, the noise echoing back from the towering slopes. Cold mist curled up from the deep valleys below. Icy patches lay in wait to trip them. The snow grew deeper as they climbed. Bronwyn was relieved to see no recent tracks in it.
At first, the path appeared to end at the frozen south face of the mountain. Even as they drew closer, there was little to indicate the presence of any man-made structure, other than some long, low steps that led to an arched bronze door. It was decorated with low reliefs and inscribed, Tara told them, in Old Arcanum. Cullen tried to open the door, and found it locked.
In the middle of the door, however, was a recess: round, with curving points that made it resemble the Holy Fire…
Bronwyn pressed the ancient key into the recess, and turned. A heavy clanking noise vibrated through the door, and she pushed it open easily on its well-oiled hinges.
"Oh…" Leliana gasped.
She was not the only one. The companions, silent in awe, moved forward into a vast vaulted interior shrouded in ice. Pillars, painted and carved and glittering with frost, held up the dim and distant roof. Cracks in the roof let in the fading twilight. Doors led off the immense hall on either side, and in the center a huge fire blazed in a round pit as large as a bedchamber. At the far end was a grand double staircase leading up toward a smoky and mysterious vista. The chamber was truly enormous: bigger than any hall in the ancient elven tombs, easily as big as the mighty caverns of the Dead Trenches. And it was beautiful.
"I don't know if this is the funeral temple of Andraste," Bronwyn said, "but it's the most amazing place I've ever seen, and at this point, I've seen quite a few!"
"If it is not the temple of Andraste," Leliana declared solemnly, "then it ought to be, for nothing could be more magnificent than this. Not even the Grand Cathedral can compare!"
Prudently, the door was shut and locked behind them.
"We'll work our way through systematically," Bronwyn whispered. "We don't want people to sneak up on us from behind."
The place was certainly inhabited: all the side corridors were well illuminated by torches. They turned first to the right, and found no guards, but a rich treasury. The sight of gold was always pleasing, and Tara took in a quick, excited breath at the shine of it; but Bronwyn was weary of wonders, and simply shut the lids and relocked the chamber.
"We can't carry anymore than we're carrying. If we come back this way, we'll take what we can. No more treasure-hunting! I want to get through this alive."
Wise words, for the corridor to the left of the great hall was not deserted, and the first shout of alarm brought battle to them, and warriors charging...
Thanks to my reviewers: EpitomyofShyness, Hydroplatypus, Jyggilag, Zute, demonicnargles, Josie Lange, Kira Kyuu, MsBarrows, Have Travel, Blinded in a bolthole, KnighOfHolyLight, The Moidart, Juliafied, Aoi24, chocolatebrownie12, Judy, JackOfBladesX, Enaid Aderyn, sleepyowlet, Fulminis ictus, Mike, Shakespira, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Ellyanah, almostinsane, mille libri, cloud1004, daab123, Jenna53, Crystal Night, StillDormant, and Nemrut.
Notes: Perry is an alcoholic drink made from pears. Cider comes from apples, perry from pears. They're both good.
After giving this a lot of thought for over a year, I just couldn't see poor Brother Genetivi still being alive. The cultists have zero reason to spare his life. Strangers come into Haven, but they don't go out. Nor are they kept as slaves or hostages. The cultists don't need the extra labor, nor would they hold anyone for ransom. Now, there are canon problems with Haven and the temple (in that the village seems very small to support all the faithful at the temple. Among other things-where is the food coming from? I am positing that there must be fields not presented in canon, and since there is a dock, I suppose they fish the river). Also, I can't see the temple being as distant as the canon map would indicate. They could never keep it supplied. As I see it, Haven is the servicing village for the temple, and would have to be very close.
News: a new story sold! It's in the anthology Horror, Humor, and Heroes, vol 3. The title is "The Widening Gyre." See my profile for the link.
Also-I will be on vacation next weekend and the next installment of KB may well be late. Actually, I'm considering writing another chapter of VaO first, so I don't lose the flow.