Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 54: A Pinch of Ashes
The architecture was the same, the decoration the same, but this shrine was in other essentials very different from the temple Bronwyn and her companions had gone through from end to end.
Other than a few footprints in the dust just inside the door, there was no hint that anyone had walked here in many years—perhaps ages. Dust lay heavy on the stone floor, trickling down from the joints in the roof. Light slanted in dimly from narrow openings in the wall. A perfect silence held the place spellbound, making it almost indecent to speak aloud. They had been warned of an angry spirit that guarded this place from the depredations of the dragon cultists. No sign of the spirit manifested, even after they had shut the door behind them. They waited in silence for an attack.
No attack came, however. Bronwyn thought about it, and then said, careful of the smothering quiet. "We must rest. I shall guard. The rest of you, get something to eat, and try to sleep."
"Er, Bronwyn?" Tara whispered, looking past her. "Something about that seem strange to you?"
She turned. Fire burned in sconces in the next hall, illuminating. Torches were lit, too, The light was blue-white, unwavering, and burned without consuming the torches or any substance in the sconces.
"That's beyond me," Tara said. "I can make magical fire, but it doesn't last like that."
"No one lit those fires recently," agreed Leliana, "There are no footprints in the hall."
"Well," Zevran said pragmatically, "it means that we shall not be stumbling in the dark. It is gracious of the Guardian of the Shrine to give us this light. I for one am weary, so I shall follow our leader's commands to eat and rest. Come, carina."
"It's pretty amazing," Tara said, turning away.
Bronwyn patted Scout's furry head. "Is there anything here, Scout? Anything I should be worried about?"
Scout did not seem to think so. Cullen poured out some water in a bowl for him, and the dog drank thirstily, then eagerly chewed on a hambone. After he had begged a few treats, he curled up and went promptly to sleep.
Leliana took note of the dog's complacency. "Our mabari Warden senses no evil here. If the Guardian of this Shrine rejects the dragon worshipers, it could be that he is good—a defender of the true Andraste. We should have nothing to fear from him."
Zevran, snacking on fruit bread, laughed quietly. "Ah, my dear, virtuous beings are sometimes the most dangerous! I could tell you a tale about an incorruptible judge in my beautiful Antiva, and of all those frailer folk whom he sent to be hanged on the gallows or broken on the wheel…"
"Maybe tomorrow," Tara said sleepily, leaning against him. "After seeing that dragon, I'm exhausted, though personally I think we're all pretty heroic not to have fainted dead away."
Cullen ignored the conversation, eating hungrily in silence. Afterward, he found a corner, and fell on his knees in prayer, lips moving soundlessly.
"He is right," Leliana agreed. "That is the best thing right now." She slipped away and knelt at his side.
Bronwyn accepted some bread and water, keeping her eyes on the hall past the vestibule. She did not feel particularly like praying herself. What was the use? The Chantry itself taught that the Maker had turned his face from the world in disgust. Why pray to a being who had manifestly declared his disinterest? As far as she could see, the Maker had cut them loose, to live or die as they would. Some preached that deeds, good and bad, would have justice in the afterlife, but Bronwyn found that hard to believe. If the Maker cared nothing about the world, why would he care what was done there? It would be pleasant to believe that cruelty and wickedness would be called to account before the Maker's throne, but Bronwyn did not believe it. Souls left their bodies, and what happened to them afterward, not even the Chantry knew, for all their claims.
Standing guard was very dull, and caused one's mind to drift along dark paths. Bronwyn roused herself and focused on listening to the silence. There was nothing to hear but the soft breathing and occasional snores of her companions. They looked very young and vulnerable, lying their asleep. She felt a surge of tenderness toward them all: all of them who had put themselves in her hands.
The hours wore on. In time she woke Leliana and settled down to a restless sleep, plagued by gibbering darkspawn. The Archdemon was there, too, but a silent presence. Bronwyn woke from time to time, and tried to put those familiar terrors out of her mind.
By the time light was penetrating into the cold little chamber, they were all stirring, rather curious about what the day would bring them.
"They can't have another High Dragon hidden away," Tara said, managing a smile.
They ate, and Bronwyn cracked the door open to see what lay outside. They would all prefer to go outside for their ablutions, if possible. Scout squeezed past her, but did not stray far.
Bronwyn could barely see the somnolent bulk of the dragon, high up on the bluff—the merest wing joint, folded in sleep, but it was, alas, there. There was a handfu of cultists, but they were far away, down the stone path. If they were all quick, no one should notice them. She scrubbed at her face with a handful of fresh snow.
Refreshed and breakfasted, Bronwyn thought she should say a word before they went on.
"This is the shrine of Andraste. Whether the Ashes are really here or not, I don't want to see any looting. I don't think looting could be considered respectful by any measure, so just don't."
No one argued, perhaps because they all carried as much as they could manage, and still fight. Tara was still purring over her new sword, and trying to get everyone else to touch it, just to see their expressions. Spellweaver had a way of expressing strong dislike for anyone not a mage.
"All right," Bronwyn said, cutting off the byplay. "Follow me."
They stepped out immediately into a long and quiet corridor, which extended only to the right. At the end of it was a large, arched door.
As they moved down, they saw that it was guarded by a solitary warrior.
"Is that…? Tara whispered.
Cullen said, "Who else?"
Zevran murmured, "He looks very like our friend Kolgrim, only…paler…"
Leliana, bright and noticing, said, "And he has a helmet just like yours, Bronwyn!"
All of the observations were true. The man's ancient, gleaming armor was of a style not seen in ages, but his helmet, griffon-winged and shining, was indeed exactly like a Grey Warden helmet. No wonder that Kolgrim had found it interesting. Perhaps the man had come this far and seen the Guardian for himself. Bronwyn wondered if he noticed his own resemblance.
She took a deep breath and walked forward. The warrior's eyes gleamed at their approach, and he spoke, his voice at once mellow and unearthly, as different as possible from Kolgrim's incessant hectoring bellow.
Bronwyn said, "We were told that an immortal Guardian protects this place..."
"Yes, I am the Guardian of the Ashes. I have waited years for this."
Leliana asked, uncertainly, "For us?"
"You are the first to arrive in a very long time. It has been my duty—my life—to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful come to revere Andraste. For ages I have waited and still shall wait, until my task is done, and the Tevinter Imperium has crumbled into the sea."
"We hate the Tevinters, too," Tara muttered, thinking bitterly of the family she would never know.
"And who are these madmen who have taken over the rest of the temple?" Bronwyn asked. "Where did they come from?"
"When my brethren and I carried Andraste's ashes from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to forever revere her memory and guard her. I have watched generations take up the mantle of their fathers. For ages they did this, unwavering, joyful in their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste, and their promise. They have forgotten that Andraste was just a messenger. They speak no more of the Maker, but only of their false Andraste: an even greater sin."
Cullen asked softly, "And who were you—are you?"
"I am all that remains of the first disciples. I swore I would protect the Urn as long as I lived: and I have lived a very, very long time."
"The first disciples?" Leliana asked in wonder. With a shiver of excitement, she blurted out, "Did you know Andraste?"
"Did anyone really know her, save the Maker? She would sometimes spend weeks alone in mediation—often without food or water. I cannot express in words my love for Andraste. You must seek her out for yourself. Everyone must."
Bronwyn glanced at the rapt faces of her friends, and said, "But what about the dragon cultists? Obviously that dragon of theirs isn't Andraste!"
"No. Our Andraste has gone to the Maker's side; she will not return. The dragon is a fearsome creature, and they must have seen her as an alternative to the absent Maker and his silent Andraste. A true believer would not require such audacious displays of power."
"How did the worship of the dragon come to be?"
"It began with an ancestor of the one you know as Kolgrim. He saw himself as a new prophet, preaching Andraste's rebirth. Some disagreed with him. I heard their cries of pain and death."
Red with anger, Cullen clenched his fists. "We shall put an end to this heresy!"
The Guardian gently reproved him. "The Maker will sit in judgment of them, when the time comes."
Cullen subsided, thinking that the time could not come too soon.
Bronwyn laid a calming hand on Cullen's arm, and decided truth was best. "We have come to see the Urn."
"You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall...if you prove yourself worthy."
Leliana asked eagerly, "How can you tell if we are worthy?"
The Guardian, with unruffled serenity, said, "It is not my place to judge your worthiness: the Gauntlet does that. The Gauntlet tells the true pilgrims from the false. If you are proved worthy, you will see the Urn, and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not..."
This all sounded very ominous. Bronwyn began imagining all the ways that this could go wrong. Being tested was fair enough, but she was not going to sacrifice her companions to satisfy some ages-old relic. Before she could decide what to do, the Guardian spoke again.
"Before you go, there is something I must ask you," he said to Bronwyn, his eyes glittering oddly as they seemed to read her soul. "Your path here was not easy. There is suffering in your past: your suffering and the suffering of others. Bronwyn Cousland..."
Bronwyn stiffened in shock. "How do you know—"
"Bronwyn Cousland," the Guardian continued calmly. "you abandoned your parents to the mercy of Rendon Howe. Do you think you failed your parents?"
It was a body-blow. It was falling from the Cliffs of Conobar without a safety line. The raw pain of her family's loss was new again, and tore at her, leaving her incoherent. Bronwyn gaped at the Guardian, struck dumb at the blunt question that no one had ever dared to ask her. While she gasped for breath, her companions had plenty to say. Leliana and Tara were in the Guardian's face, and Cullen and Zevran had their weapons half drawn. Scout lowered his head, growling menacingly.
"—How dare you!"
"—How could you be so cruel?"
"I repeat the question," the Guardian said, unmoved by the tumult. "Do you think you failed your parents?"
"Wait!" Bronwyn said thickly, her hand up for silence. Quieting the guilt and rage and doubt with a fierce act of will, she forced herself to speak rationally.
"No. I did not fail them. I obeyed my parents, and my actions ultimately led to the rescue of my brother and the overthrow of the murderer of my family. I could have stayed and died with them, and my death would have been painful, prolonged, pointless...and stupid. Do you imagine that I have never thought about this? You think I did not relive that night a thousand times, wondering what I could have done— might have done? I have come to the conclusion that I did the best I could, even if others did not. It was not I who killed my parents, but Rendon Howe. It is not I who extorted an agreement from my dying father that I would be a Warden, but Duncan. No. I did not fail my parents. Others did, but I had no control over their actions."
The Guardian seemed satisfied. "Then you do not dwell on past mistakes. Neither yours or those of others. And what of those that follow you?"
Zevran broke in, sarcastic with anger. "And now the self-flagellation! That is what comes next in these things, no?"
Impassive, relentless, the Guardian turned to Tara. "You, Senior Warden Tara Surana, once mage of the Circle... Jowan planned to escape the Circle with his sweetheart. You helped him, and all of you were discovered by the Templars. Tell me, do you regret your actions? Do you think you failed Jowan?"
Tara glared at him, already roused at the way he had hurt Bronwyn. "No! I don't regret what I did for a minute...except...yes! I regret I wasn't quicker and sharper. I regret I didn't run out the door with him. But that's not what happened, and there's no use worrying about it. I regret more what other people did to me. And by the way, I did not fail Jowan! I am his good friend and conscripting him was the best thing that ever happened to him, so there!"
"Thank you," the Guardian answered calmly. "That is all." Then he turned to Cullen, who scowled back, a little nervous.
"Cullen, knight and Warden, you have permitted blood mages to live. You have kept the secret of rites that contravene the teachings of the Chantry. Do you feel you have betrayed your vows and defied the will of the Maker?"
Red with mortification, Cullen choked for moment. "It's complicated..." he protested, trying to find words. "When you swear oaths, and they contradict each other, it's complicated... I've thought about this a lot. Blood magic is evil, but the darkspawn are worse. They'll kill everything and everyone, so we have to fight them, and even ally with people who do wrong things. Sometimes you have to do things that are questionable in a good cause. Killing is wrong, but not if you do it to protect people. So Blood Magic is wrong, but saving lives is more important." His voice trailed off, and he gestured helplessly. "I've just had to use my own best judgment."
Leliana squeezed his arm, smiling up at him. "Well said," she whispered. But the Guardian had a question for her, too.
"Warden Leliana, Bard and one-time Lay Sister: the Maker spoke only to Andraste, yet you claimed to have revelations from him. Do you believe yourself to be Andraste's equal?"
Flustered, Leliana blushed and stammered. "No! no! I never said that!"
"In Orlais you were someone. In the little world of the Lothering chantry, did you fear that you would lose yourself? Did you seek to make yourself seem important?"
Distressed, Leliana denied it all. "You do not understand that when I make stories, I make them from bits of reality... No. Think what you like, but my visions were real. Is there not a Blight? Was I not called to fight against it? I never claimed to be like Andraste! You are trying to make me doubt...to make me fearful..."
"That is all," said the Guardian. "And the Antivan Elf..."
Zevran sneered, "Oh? Is it my turn now? Hurrah! I'm so excited."
"Many have died at your hand," said the Guardian. "But are there any deaths that you regret? Perhaps a woman by the name of—"
Zevran but him off, deeply disturbed. "How do you know about that?"
"I know much. It is allowed to me. The question stands, however. Do you regret?"
Tara put her arm around him, and Zevran stood straight and looked the Guardian in the eye.
"Yes. The answer is yes. If that's what you wish to know. I do. Now move on."
Inscrutable, the Guardian stood aside from the slowly opening door behind him. "The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek."
He faded from view. Each one of the companions was startled when the others promptly vanished as well.
"Hello?" Tara called. "Bronwyn? Zevran? Anybody? Ser Guardian?"
She walked into the chamber beyond, complaining.
"If we had to be tested, why couldn't we be tested together?"
Another figure was waiting at the end of the hall, not pale but corporeal like the Guardian, but pale and ghostly. It was just a nice-looking human woman in peasant clothing. She looked mild and sad, and not at all dangerous.
Tara walked forward, and gave the spirit a tight smile.
"You must be the first test." Tara hoped this pleasant looking woman would not turn into a disgusting monster and attack her, but it would be just her luck. She waited.
The spirit looked at her appraisingly, and then spoke in a sweet and ethereal voice.
"Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?"
"This is a riddle, isn't it? I hate riddles! I had to answer riddles when I was in the Fade during my Harrowing! I'm terrible at them. Let me think... Shadow realm...swept away by dawning light... The Fade is the shadow realm... Oh, this isn't hard at all! I've got it! Dreams! The answer is Dreams!"
The briefest of smiles flickered on the spirit's lips.
"Yes. Dreams. I am Brona, mother of Andraste. A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life and her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save. You may pass."
The spirit vanished. Tara frowned. displeased to be reminded of her own mother once again... a lost mother she could not remember. She swallowed tears and grief, and stalked toward the next door...
Cullen was alert at once, and drew Yusaris, easing into the chamber ahead. What strange magic was this? A tall shape awaited, ghostly, armored, but it did not draw weapon on him, nor did it seem hostile. Taking in the horned helmet, Cullen wondered if it was the spirit of a Reaver. Cullen drew near to the phantom, and it spoke in a deep, sonorous voice.
"A Poison of the soul, a passion's cruel counterpart; From love she grows, till love lies slain. Of what do I speak?"
Cullen stopped, at first not understanding what the phantom was talking about. "Poison of the soul..." Was this some sort of riddle game? "Poison of the soul... love lives slain..." And the phantom was a man in old-fashioned armor. That was the clue that gave Cullen the answer, and a very uncomfortable one it was.
"Jealousy?"
The tall phantom bowed his head. "Yes, jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was Maferath, the greatest general of the Alamarri... but beside her, I was nothing. Hundreds fell before her on bended knee. They loved her, as did the Maker. I loved her too, but what man can compare with a god?"
The phantom dissipated, leaving Cullen to mull over the lesson to be learned here. Whatever dwelt in this place knew entirely too much about him, but it was only to be expected. The Maker knew the secrets of every heart, and had seen his foolish jealousy of a girl he could not hope to win. To be compared to the arch-betrayer Maferath, however... that was profoundly shaming. He must try harder to overcome these feelings. He sighed deeply, and moved on to the next door.
Leliana smiled down at the transparent little girl. Riddles were easy. She repeated the spirit's words.
"The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not... A tune, of course."
A fragile, ghostly smile. "Yes. I was Ealisay, Andraste's dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing, She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard her would be filled with joy. They say the Maker himself was moved by Andraste's song, and then she sang no more of simple things."
The child faded away, and Leliana was left, feeling uneasy and rebuked; once more reminded that it was not for her to imitate Andraste. She left the room quickly.
Zevran found himself face to face with the spirit of an elf in armor: an elf not unlike himself. The spirit acknowledged Zevran, and spoke.
"I'd neither a guest nor a trespasser be; in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?"
"A riddle? You're asking me a riddle?" Feeling rather ridiculous, he considered his answer at some length.
"A home. Not that I have experience of such a thing. Crows have no homes."
Softly, the spirit replied. "Yes. A Home. I am Thane Shartan. It was my dream for the People to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium. But she was betrayed, and so were we."
The elf-spirit faded away. Zevran shrugged. Obviously this place was trying to tell him something. A home? Personally, Zevran thought such considerations were ridiculous in such a place and at such a time.
I will take what comes. If I am permitted to stay at the Wardens' Compound now and then, so much the better. But a home of my own? Unlikely.
The phantom was a handsome and aristocratic man, dressed richly in Tevinter fashion and holding an impressive longsword. Bronwyn readied herself for a duel. Instead, the phantom spoke.
"She wields the broken sword, and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak?"
Storybooks were full of such situations. The hero or heroine was challenged in a riddle game. Bronwyn had always found the idea silly. Faced with the actual situation, she still found it silly, but found herself, in such a situation, even more so. All right, a Tevinter nobleman with a sword could only be one man, the notorious Archon Hessarian, and the Sword was clearly the famed Sword of Mercy: a larger version of the little necklace she wore. The Guardian of this place must be giving her a warning about being a tyrant. Bronwyn felt very strongly that she was nothing of the sort, and would continue to be nothing of the sort, even if she became Queen of Ferelden, but she was not on her own territory, and this was the Guardian's game.
"The answer is "Mercy," she said flatly.
"Yes, Mercy," agreed the phantom. "I could not bear the sight of Andraste's suffering, and Mercy bade me end Her life. I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion may be shown to him."
The phantom faded from view. Very well. A warning against abusing one's power. An adjuration to be merciful. All very proper, she supposed. Still, she had never considered herself a cruel person. Uneasily, she wondered if the Guardian was predicting some challenging situation in her future. She walked past, wondering what the next chamber would bring...
At her side, Scout uttered a loud bark of joy and ran eagerly toward the richly clad figure in the doorway.
Bronwyn stopped dead. "No. This is wrong. Guardian, how can you do this to me?"
Scout sat down in front of his Bronwyn's sire, wagging his tail. He remembered how much he liked this man.
"My dearest child." Bryce Cousland, in the doublet he had wore on his last day of life, greeted Bronwyn, his face grave and unsmiling.
"This is cruel..." Bronwyn sputtered. "You cannot be...real..." In her heart, she hoped he was.
He look real. He looked like her real father. It was a painful joy to see him again. Whether his real spirit or an illusion, the being spoke with her father's voice.
"You know that I am gone, and that all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. Pup, I know you miss me, but my death and my life must no longer have a hold on you. This is how it should be." The spirit paused, and then went on. "I was very nearly a King. I dreamed of greatness for you. But I must warn you, my child: you reach for an earthly crown, but the kingdom you must conquer is the kingdom within. That is the one realm that will be yours in eternity."
He reached out, a glittering amulet in his hand. "Take this, and remember me."
And he was gone.
Tara was startled to come face to face with Jowan: a cheerful, playful Jowan.
"Have fun with the riddle game?"
"Jowan, it's not you really, is it? You're not dead, are you? I'll kill you if you're dead!"
"I didn't think I'd fool you.. Am I a spirit? Are you in the Fade? Honestly, I don't know myself. I am part of the Gauntlet. I am Jowan. I am you."
"Why are you here?"
"To speak to you, and to offer advice.. You have often wondered what would have happened if you had not helped me. I think you know yourself that everything that happened, the horrible and the wonderful, were all part of the fabric of your destiny. You're a mighty mage, Tara. Sometimes you've made me jealous, but you've always made me proud. Be brave, but be happy, too." He put an amulet in her hand. "I have something for you. Use it well."
He vanished.
"Jowan!" She slipped the chain of the amulet over her head, muttering angrily. "All right, but you had better not be dead..."
"Zevran! It's been too long!"
"Rinna," Zevran said tonelessly. The name was bitter in his mouth, but the girl's face was as lovely as ever—or rather, far lovelier than he had last seen it, smeared with blood and mouth open in silent protest.
The girl he had loved ran a hand through her dark curls and gave him a wink. "You should be careful who you listen to, Zevran. You should be sorry you killed me. They played you and Taliesin for fools, and you let them. So here you are, wandering the barbarian south, trying to commit suicide by Grey Warden. That didn't go so well either, did it?"
"Better than I could have known."
"Yes...well, you were lucky there. I admit." She leaned closer, and he found himself recalling a honey-sweet scent. "I know you are haunted by shame and regret. Let the past stay in the past. Set it aside and be happy with your clever little mage. Take this amulet as a keepsake.. But..."
"But?"
"...Perhaps you could persuade her to make a little more effort with her hair?"
"Knight-Commander?" Cullen gasped, astonished to see the old Templar.
Greagoir smiled ruefully. "Greetings, my boy. Don't think I have forgotten you. I think of you every day, with some shame, I must confess. I thought to make a pawn of you—to place someone among the Grey Wardens I could control. An act of pride, but one that proved wiser than I could have known. I have heard good reports of you. You have done well. You have kept your honor and made a new place for yourself among people who call you friend. Forgive a foolish old man. I give you this..." An amulet was laid in Cullen's hand "...and my blessing."
It was only a spirit, Cullen told himself. Only a vision. Nonetheless, he kept the amulet.
"Marjolaine."
"Leliana, my dear! Here you are, saving the world. I confess than when I plucked you from the gutter, I could not have foreseen such heroics."
"I am no heroine. I am only playing a very small part."
"But playing it so well. That, at least, is no surprise. You think of me often, do you not? I have warned you, again and again, against allowing nonessentials to distract you. I am part of your colorful past. As such, you really must learn to set me aside and concentrate the mission."
"Are you really Marjolaine?"
The handsome brunette cocked her head in thought. "I am Marjolaine, and yet I am not. I am the Gauntlet and I am part of you that will never let you go. Those who survive must go on living, after all. Take this, as a last little...token. It will serve you well, whether you deserve it or not."
In the next chamber, they found…themselves.
Each was faced by a phantom double, and it embodied the worst their natures had to offer. Each wondered, "do I really look like that?" Each resolved never to let another person see the face that double wore.
Zevran considered his twin, gratifyingly handsome and debonair, yes... but bloodthirsty, smirking, malicious, lusting for the kill. On reflection, he had no doubt that many of his victims had seen that face. It might be intimidating—which was rather the point—but it was remarkably unattractive. He resolved to spend some time before a mirror and develop a new look. Then he settled in for a hard fight. He was the best, after all.
Leliana felt some distress at her sly and self-satisfied face— if partly because it was a little fuller than she pictured herself. It was very unpleasant to see herself draw bow…on herself. She dashed in, relying on speed, and knocked the first arrow aside with a gauntlet. Then she buried her daggers in her own kidneys, wincing.
Had he ever looked so cold? So merciless? Cullen was almost sure than he had never been as smug in his own righteousness as this disturbing phantom. The surprise of the powerful attack—with a double of Yusaris— nearly finished him before the duel could properly begin. He got a grip on himself, and focused on defeating this unpleasant enemy. It could be treated like just another demon. This one was trying to shake him by wearing his own face, but it was not Cullen, knight and Warden, and so it would discover.
Tara shook off the blast of cold and concentrated power, letting the memories guide her. This phantom with her face was a powerful mage, but that was all she was. Whatever had created her had not dug deep enough inside the real Tara to find the ancient lore of the arcane warrior. Spellweaver was in her hand, and felt good there. Her body was moving, twisting, lunging of its own accord. The misty image of her past was no match for the new Tara. Without a glance behind, she walked away from the dead doppelganger, charged with a new confidence.
Bronwyn knew that this was not a face she wanted to show the Landsmeet… nor anyone else who knew her. Was she really that arrogant? Phantom Bronwyn was a formidable opponent, knowing every trick of swordsmanship she did herself. Perhaps the phantom was a little better…a little more focused...and far more indifferent to the pain and suffering of anyone who happened to be in her way. Beside her, Scout quickly finished off the weak double the power of the Shrine had created. They might penetrate the hearts of men and women, but they clearly knew nothing about mabaris. Scout growled fearsomely and charged in at the wicked stranger who wore his Bronwyn's face. It was not his Bronwyn, of course. He could never be wrong about that…
Their duels won, each found a door. Each opened it and walked through, uniformly reluctant to talk about what they had seen.
"—Bronwyn! Where were you?"
"—Carina! You are well?"
"—That was… strange…"
"—Will we never be done with this place?"
Bronwyn felt unutterable relief to see her friends again. "Everyone all right? Anyone need healing?"
The wounds were dealt with, and they all had time to look around. Behind them, through a single door, lay the empty chamber where it seemed each had fought a double. The chamber they were in now was something new, for an abyss gaped before them.
This was not a bridge broken by time, no longer spanning a pit. This was deliberate. The chamber was nearly filled with a circular hole, cutting off access to the next room beyond. In diameter it was a good fifty feet, and the edge was paved with decorative stones, incised with strange runes. The walls around the gap were round as well, adorned with carved pillars. Temptingly, the companions could see enough of the next chamber to guess that it was the one they sought.
Bronwyn walked to the edge and looked over. A long way down, and water at the bottom. Maybe a natural well, and probably deep. They could not simply climb down, walk across and climb up. In fact, climbing was not an option for them all. Scout could not climb, and Bronwyn was not going to leave him behind.
"There must be some way to get across," said Tara.
Leliana laughed. "We'll have to work together, and join hands, and sing a happy song to get across!"
"Very funny," Cullen growled.
Bronwyn said nothing, and walked around the curve of the pit. A ghostly span arced out from the path as she stepped on one of the runic pavers.
"This is a puzzle!" Leliana exclaimed. "There is probably a combination of stones we can stand on that will cause the bridge to appear."
"You're welcome to try that," Bronwyn said agreeably. "I'm terrible at puzzles. Nor am I too excited about trusting myself to a 'magical bridge.' Possibly the Powers That Be would get a good laugh if it disappeared just as we were in the middle. They might consider it suitable punishment for overconfidence." She set down her pack and began rummaging through it. "As for me, I think a physical solution is called for."
"I have some tent rope in my pack," Cullen offered, "but not fifty feet of it. The pit is at least that wide."
"We don't have to cross fifty feet," Bronwyn said briskly, collecting her own thin, strong rope, and judging the length. "Anybody else have rope? Twine?"
"Not me, Bronwyn. Sorry," Tara apologized, "It's with the gear I left in the Chantry."
Neither Leliana nor Zevran had any either.
"Let's see what you've got, Cullen." It was narrow twine, but there was over fifteen feet of it. Not much, but enough to tie from tree to tree and support a piece of canvas. Bronwyn had a little more.
"All right. We may need belts, too. In fact, I'm certain we will. Leliana, give me a hand with my armor."
She stripped down to her long linen underdrawers and shirt, removing even her boots and gloves. Cullen walked along the curving wall, and began to grasp what she intended. There was a gap of less than ten feet between the end of the pavers and the wide and jutting doorstep of the next room.
"You're going to jump it?" he asked. "It's possible, I suppose, for you. I believe I could do it, too, but I'm not sure the others..."
"You could fall!" Tara protested.
"I'll have a safety line around me," Bronwyn assured her. "If I can't make it, I'll have Cullen swing me out on the rope and climb up. I know you can't all make the jump, and Scout certainly can't, so we're going to make a bridge you can slide down to the other side. We'll put together a sling for Scout, and do our best to persuade him to get into it."
"A sliding bridge?" Leliana said eagerly. "That sounds like fun!"
"Yes," Bronwyn said, with growing confidence. "We can do this. We tie the rope tightly around the top of that pillar there. See? Around the narrow middle of the capital, so it won't slip down. These pillars are about fifteen feet tall, and we'll tie the rope around the narrow bit that's about twelve feet up. Even if I tie the end to the far pillar at the doorway, we should have a steep enough angle that we'll slide down the rope. We'll oil up some of the belts and throw them over the rope. Hang on tight, and we'll all be fine."
With a plan to follow, everyone dumped out their packs and looked for things that could be used. Cullen's spare shirt was the biggest, and that would go to make the sling for Scout, tied to Bronwyn's weapon harness.
"How do you know how much rope you'll need?" Zevran asked.
"I have to estimate, but I can guess the distance to that far pillar and the height of this pillar, and then use the Crotonian Theorem." She clarified, "the square of the distance plus the square of the height equals the square of the length of rope. I find the square root of that, and there you are."
"I have no idea what you just said," Zevran said, staring at her blankly, "but I trust you."
"That's mathematics," Tara said, impressed. "We don't learn that at the Circle. That's what the dwarves use for their engineering."
Exasperated, Bronwyn said, "Not just dwarves."
Leliana, whose education was exclusively in the fine arts— music, dance, and espionage— smiled sweetly. "You are so well-educated, Bronwyn!"
Cullen was staring at her in honest admiration.
Amused and vexed, and once again very much aware of her privileged upbringing, Bronwyn went back to work fashioning Scout's sling. While she twisted and knotted the torn shirt, she spoke in a low, comforting voice to her mabari.
"I'm going to need you to be brave, Scout. You're going to have to do what we tell you. It's going to all right."
Finished with her work, she tied the two ropes together and then knotted one end to the base of a pillar, and the other end around herself.
"Cullen, hold on to Scout's collar. Stay, Scout! You stay right there with the others!"
The area was cleared and she stood still, visualizing exacting where her feet would need to be at the end of the run to make the jump successfully. It looked seductively close, but the curved approach might throw her off. Then she took two deep breaths, and ran, bare feet slapping on stone. She picked up speed, the curving walls flying past her...there were two last steps, launching her into empty air...the pit gaped below her...
And she came down gracelessly on the other side. with several feet to spare. A clumsy landing, but she was across and unhurt. Her friends cheered. Bronwyn gave them an ironic salute, getting to her feet.
"All right! This much is done. The length is a bit short, just as I thought. Throw some belts over that I can buckle together."
The belts were thrown over, and some of Bronwyn's gear, too. She tied the end of the rope to a sturdy dragonbone buckle, and looped the length of belts around the base of the pillar.
"Now fasten the rope to the top of the pillar!"
Leliana tied the best knots, so Zevran gave her a boost up to Cullen's broad shoulders. With some huffing and puffing, she tied the end snugly, pulling hard on it to make sure. Then Bronwyn, on her end, took the slack out of the line, buckling the belts tighter.
Scout thought the sling a very bad idea. He wuffed and resisted, and then growled at Zevran, trying to shake free. Tara distracted him with a bit of smoked pork, and the sling was strapped and tightened. Then came the task of lifting a sling full of massive, squirming war hound up to the line. Zevran caught the end of the harness and buckled it securely.
"Be good, Scout," Tara ordered, "Or I'll put you to sleep!" She stumbled, and in the confusion, they let go of the sling. Scout was suddenly sent down the line, ears back, eyes white and rolling, a howl rising high and indignant. The whole process lasted only seconds, and then Scout was scrabbling furiously on the doorstep, chewing at the hated harness.
"Good boy!" Bronwyn praised him, hugging him tightly. "Good boy!" She unbuckled him and helped him put his legs over the ruins of Cullen's spare shirt. The mabari shook himself, wondering if his pride was wounded.
"I'll go next!" Leliana cried eagerly. Without much ado, she threw a belt over the rope and flew across the gap, landing with a dancer's grace. They applauded, and she gave them a little bow.
"What about the rope, Bronwyn?" Cullen called.
"Leave it for now!" she answered. "We may need to do this again going back. We can fix it then. Come on, throw me the rest of the gear and then come on over."
Cullen was the heaviest of them, and had thought it wise to remove his armor before trusting himself to a thin rope. In due course, the gear was bundled and tossed across the gap, and then first Tara, then Zevran, and finally Cullen slid down the rope to the other side. They rearmed as far as possible, leaving several belts, and advanced down a narrow hallway, draped with spiderwebs, into a high and broad...sanctuary, for that was what it was.
Light poured in from high clerestory windows. A high vaulted ceiling soared above. At the distant end of the chamber, up a grand marble staircase, a great statue of Andraste watched their every move.
Barring the approach to the staircase was a sheet of pale fire, cutting across the chamber from side to side.
"I think this is it," whispered Leliana.
Bronwyn thought so, too.
The wall of flame was fairly intimidating. Obviously it was a last challenge before approaching the holy of holies. A little in front of it stood a small altar. Perhaps an offering was required?
Dust had collected at the top of the altar. Bronwyn brushed it away carefully and found an inscription.
CAST OFF THE TRAPPINGS OF WORLDLY LIFE, AND CLOAK YOURSELF IN THE GOODNESS OF SPIRIT. KING AND SLAVE, LORD AND BEGGAR; BE BORN ANEW IN THE MAKER'S SIGHT.
"Well," Zevran said briskly. "That is clear enough. We are commanded to get naked."
"Zevran!" Cullen hushed him.
"Actually," Bronwyn said slowly. "I think Zevran is right. 'Born anew?' That sounds unclothed to me. Anybody else have a better interpretation?"
"Maybe it's a— what-do-you-call-it? A metaphor!" Tara suggested, looking hopeful.
"'Trappings' certainly sounds like armor and weapons," Leliana pointed out.
"—and clothing, boots, and smallcothes," Zevran added. "Anyone here willing to die for their smallclothes?"
Bronwyn sighed. "It's yet another a warning against pride and vanity. It would be a piece with everything else I've been told here. Better to do more than they require, than not enough. Ladies and gentlemen, unarm and undress."
"I won't peek," Zevran assured them all gallantly.
"And Scout shouldn't wear his collar," Tara pointed out. "A collar counts as trappings."
It was very uncomfortable, but there was nothing else to be done. Feeling terribly raw and vulnerable, Bronwyn piled her armor and weapon together and then laid her shabby shirt and underdrawers on the top, avoiding everyone else's eyes.
"Follow me."
"Gladly," Zevrran said instantly. Tara elbowed him.
Bronwyn was actually quite frightened. The spirits here knew entirely too much about her. Still, there was no way she could refuse to face the fire. A leader had to lead, and some of her people had a good chance of survival. Even if she perished, surely Leliana and Cullen would be left to take the Ashes back to Ostagar. Another wave of anxiety sapped her spirit. Surely an innocent dog like Scout would not be hurt? He did not seem to be afraid of the flames, as he would be of ordinary fire.
She was taking too long: her people might have second thoughts. She wondered if it would hurt very much. Better to walk quickly, and get it over with at once...
Flames roared up around her ears, enveloping her. There was nothing to do but keep walking as long as she could.
Abruptly, the flames hissed away, vanishing, leaving not a trace behind. The Guardian appeared, approving their success.
"And so, pilgrims, you have been found worthy," proclaimed the Guardian in his eerie, soothing tones. "You have endured the trials of the Gauntlet. You have walked the path of Andraste, and like her, you have been cleansed. Approach the Sacred Ashes."
Bronwyn, hardly believing herself alive, could still feel the tingle of magic fire on her skin. Refreshed, rejuvenated, strengthened, she took a deep breath, and went back to find her gear. Fumbling back into clothing and armor, she could not bear to look at the Guardian right away. The entire adventure had been replete with warnings against arrogance and pride, and she felt rather ashamed of how appropriate they were. Why had the fire not killed her? She was no faithful Andrastean, but a secret questioner.
"Perhaps," the Guardian said quietly, reading her mind in a most disturbing way, "you mistake Andraste for the institutions that claim to worship her. What do you think Andraste values? Rigid adherence to a dogma, or a brave heart and loyalty to one's friends?"
She still did not look at him, and was grateful for the distraction of Cullen's shout.
"Leliana! Come back here and put your clothes on!"
"I want to see the Urn now!"
"Put your clothes on first! It's disrespectful!"
"I feel wonderful!" Tara declared. "Zevran, don't you feel wonderful?"
"I do!"
Bronwyn forced herself to speak to the Guardian. "So I can take a pinch of the Ashes now? It's all right?"
"Yes, you have all proven yourselves, and are entitled."
"What?" Tara nearly tripped on her boots. "All of us are entitled? As in each of us gets a pinch of Sacred Ashes?"
"You are all worthy pilgrims," the Guardian agreed calmly.
"That's…astonishing!" Zevran spoke out involuntarily, amazed to be anything but a henchman. It was an honor… a memorable honor, to be recognized as an equal among equals, and to be rewarded equally with them. A pinch of the Sacred Ashes! Someday, in some dark alley or bloody battlefield, he suspected he would be very, very glad he had sworn his loyalty to the Warden Commander.
They were not alone in the great chamber. Piles of scorched bones and old armor were scattered here and there, relics of the unworthy. Bronwyn shivered, and then her eyes were drawn to where everyone else was looking: the tall staircase of white marble leading up to the extraordinary statue of Andraste. The Prophet's eyes were raised to heaven. One hand rested gently on her heart, pledging faith with all the world. From the palm of the other hand, upraised in prayer, eternal flames flickered, needing no fuel. On a plinth at the foot of the statue stood a large and wondrous urn of purest white alabaster, the rarest of stones. Deeply chiseled into the stone were the words they had most hoped for.
THESE ARE THE EARTHLY REMAINS OF ANDRASTE, PROPHET AND BRIDE OF THE MAKER
Leliana glanced at Bronwyn, joy illuminating her face, and she squeezed her friend's hand. "I am…dizzy. I cannot believe that we are here at last. To be in Her presence! I have no words to express it."
Cullen looked very young. "I shall remember this until the day I die."
"It is indeed impressive," Zevran said, with a brave attempt at his usual suavity. "And the Urn is an object of true beauty."
"It is, isn't it?" Tara murmured. "I'm glad it's gorgeous, and not just big and gaudy. "I feel like I could always be a good person here."
Bronwyn was feeling unusually humble, a novel sensation: rebuked by the honest devotion of some of her companions, and the loyalty and trust of the others. Perhaps they had survived simply because they had the deepest faith that Bronwyn could lead them here. Anyway, Andraste had seen something worthwhile in all of them. And in Scout, too, of course, who was as brave as any of them. He panted happily, ready to go wherever Bronwyn went.
"Are we all decent?" Another thought struck her. "The Guardian says we can each take a pinch of the Ashes. Does everyone have a pouch ready?"
"Oh!"
"Wait!"
There was an embarrassed bustle as they groped in pockets and belt pouches, looking for small pouches or purses. Coins were dumped in other places, and pouches carefully emptied and wiped.
"A pinch of the Ashes," Tara said. "That's…almost scary. I'd almost be afraid to use it."
Bronwyn already knew where her pinch was going, but she was glad her companions would have such a splendid reward . Later, away from this holy place, she would probably have to speak of ugly, worldly things: why they must not tell anyone about the Ashes, which were priceless, and which could easily cost them their lives; why they might not want to discuss what had happened with more hardline officials of the Chantry, who, without proof, would call them frauds and heretics. This was not the place to speak of such things, or even to let her heart be troubled by them.
Instead, together, they walked up the marble steps and stood before the Urn of the Sacred Ashes.
"Maker," Tara whispered. "Don't let me sneeze." Zevran patted her arm. Scout sat down on a wide step and innocently scratched his ear.
Bronwyn lifted the surprisingly heavy lid. The Ashes were not the usual amalgam of soot, particles and bony lumps she was accustomed to from her experience of funeral pyres. Time, or long travel, or deliberate effort had pulverized the Ashes to a soft grey dust.
Cullen took the lid. "I'll hold it, Bronwyn," he said. "You go ahead."
"They're warm!" Bronwyn exclaimed, surprised at the sensation. Velvet soft, the ashes felt as if they had come only recently from the fire.
Solemnly, surreally, they took turns. Ashes were carefully packed away in various small pouches and then the pouches were carefully fastened and sealed. Bronwyn had brought a little waterproof Dalish pouch of bear gut with her, but everyone had something. Fingers were carefully dusted off into the Urn, and the lid was replaced.
They stood there a little longer, hardly knowing what to do. The Guardian had vanished, to Bronwyn's distress. She had meant to ask him for more advice about the dragon worshipers outside, and if there was another exit from the shrine. There were doors, at least, leading out from either side of the grand staircase.
Slowly, they walked down the steps, leaving a life-changing moment behind. Tara shook herself, and took a look about the Urn chamber.
"Do you think we should…clean it up? We shouldn't just leave these bodies here, should we?"
Once she mentioned it, the condition of the chamber troubled others as well. Zevran was indifferent, having left many a corpse to rot, but he was willing to follow the will of the majority.
Leliana was particularly compassionate. "They tried to find their way, even if they failed. We should dispose of their remains with dignity." Tara vocally agreed.
Bronwyn wondered if Tara was simply looking for a chance to loot the bodies, but leaving skeletal remains did seem rather indecent.
"Let's take a look outside, and see what's feasible. Cullen, hold the door open so I'm not locked out. I don't want to do this again!"
The shrine was not very big, after all. The door to the side opened out on the no man's land they had seen before. Bronwyn searched the landscape in vain for a way to avoid passing back under the bluffs. It did not look good. She did see a way southwest to the Temple that might allow them to avoid going back through the caverns, but with the sheer face of the mountain behind and to the side of them, a confrontation with Kolgrim seemed inescapable.
Well, they would be ready. They had had a good look at Kolgrim and the men he commanded. He would get no reinforcements. That meant...what? Eight men or so, at the most. Refreshed and strengthened as they felt now, Bronwyn knew they were more than a match for the cultists. The serious problem was the dragon. They needed to prevent Kolgrim from summoning it, if they could. Very likely though, the moment he spotted them, he would know that Bronwyn had not done as he wished.
They would worry about that later. They would show some respect to Andraste by clearing out the urn chamber. Bronwyn found a heavy rock and used it to prop the door open. Then they began gathering the remains.
"There a good place over there to burn them," she said, pointing.
Inevitably, they found valuables: coin, fine armor, jewelry—including a sapphire ring and a remarkable gold necklace with a demon-headed pendant—some good weapons, and a traveler's journal scorched by the fire that had killed its owner. It was too blackened to read, and Bronwyn added it to the pile of remains to be incinerated. The plunder was arranged in a pile, and after Tara set the skeletal remains alight, they shared out what was worth taking. Tara got the necklace, Leliana took the ring.
Since they did not need to go back the way they came, there was the makeshift bridge to disassemble. With a stern command to Scout to stay, Bronwyn jumped over, followed by Cullen. The rope was untied from the top of the pillar and the two of them made the jump again. Tara took apart Scout's sling, and Cullen mournfully regarded the remains of his shirt. The belts were claimed and buckled on, the tent ropes untied from each other and stowed away, and they were ready to leave, though Leliana, at least, seemed loath to depart.
"I wish I could draw," she sighed. "I wish I were an artist who could paint this. I shall have to think about it every day, so my memory does not fade."
Then, they shut the door behind then and made ready to face the last of the Disciples of Andraste.
"They'll probably attack us on sight," Bronwyn warned. "We must stop Kolgrim from sounding the horn. Aside from the dragon, he looks to be the most formidable enemy. Tara, freeze him solid. Leliana, shoot him in the throat, shoot him in the hand. Whatever. Then we'll have to hope that the fight won't make enough noise to attract the dragon's attention. If it smells blood, it might be attracted anyway, so let's finish it as quickly as possible."
"Give me a moment," Leliana said calmly. "I must freshen the poison on my arrows a little."
"Fine idea," Bronwyn approved. "Anything you can do to stop that insupportable ranting before it starts is a fine idea."
Thanks to my reviewers: Kira Kyuu, Nemrut, demonicnargles, Mike3207, Zute, Have Travel, Blinded in a bolthole, KnightOfHolyLight, anon, Shakespira, Jyggilag, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, SnowHelm, JackOfBladesX, Josie Lange, Hydroplatypus, mille libri, Rexiselic, SkaterGirl246, Jenna53, Herebedragons66, and What Ithacas Means.
The US girls' high school record for the running long jump is over twenty feet, so I have no doubt that Bronwyn, even in less than ideal conditions, can manage ten!