Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 61: The Golden Bowl

Corbus Bryland was awakened by Killer walking on his chest. Instantly he was miserably aware that it was not just a bad dream. He was not at home. He could smell blood and herbs and voided urine, and wrinkled his nose, wondering if he could make it go away if he slept some more. Maybe if he wished hard, Father would come and fix things. He wondered why his tutor, Master Cletus, hadn't come to look after Lothar. Wasn't that his job?

He asked as much of a servant boy his own age. The boy was eager to share his own gruesome imaginings. "I expect it's too dangerous for him to come, with the Orlesians rampaging through the streets. I hear they're shooting anybody they catch." Corbus ended the conversation there, frightened at the image of Father being killed by those people in bright motley.

He and Lothar had been put in a room with the other wounded people, but at least Lothar had been given a bed. Bann Alfstanna had one, too; up against the far wall. She hadn't made a sound since they carried her in. And they said that Arl Urien was dying, off in his own great chamber. Habren wouldn't like that. Corbus wondered if Habren would come home and live with them now. Then he thought of Aunt Werberga and sniffled. She had been fussy, and Habren was her favorite, but she had always been a part of his life. When they didn't bring her here, Corbus understood that she was dead. The servants said they were putting the dead people somewhere else. Corbus had seen the quarrel sticking out of her chest, and all the blood. Would they take the quarrel out or leave it in when she was burned?

Many people were lying on the floor, on straw pallets or blankets. A servant had gone around giving the wounded a drink of something to help them sleep, and Corbus had been allowed to help. Then more people had come to wash the wounds and bandage them. Bann Alstanna never woke when they bandaged her. Her face was all grey and twisted. The servants shook their heads, and told Corbus that since her insides were hurt, there was nothing more they could do for her.

Lothar had cried and screamed when they pulled out the quarrel, and then they had given him more of the sleepy drink. Corbus was tired and sick after that, and he had curled up next to his brother and fallen asleep without needing any special medicine.

He could hear Lothar's breathing beside him. He blinked his eyes open, ashamed to fall asleep during the day like a baby. He blinked again at the pretty young face looking down at him.

"I'm Bethany," the girl said. "I'm here to heal your brother."

"My little sister could die!" Irminric hissed, glancing around the great nave of the Cathedral for eavesdroppers. His friend and fellow Templar, Ser Otto, put a calming hand on his shoulder, and pulled him into the shadows.

"We have prayed to the Maker for her," Otto soothed him. "That is all we can do for now. That, and watch."

The forces of Chantry were on guard against the outside world, but also against one another. A hum of voices reverberated from floor to ceiling, punctuated by the occasional sharp cry or angry shrilling. Revered Mother Gertrude had declared that they were in no danger. The Queen was here, being rigorously examined for magical influences. Arl Bryland was outside, his mind unhinged by the terrible events of the day; but he would respect the sanctity of the Chantry. Not everyone agreed with her, but no one had challenged her publicly. Yet.

Ser Irminic, elder brother of Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea, and heretofore a loyal Templar, was one of the foremost doubters. His faith had been sorely shaken by the heartless behavior of Knight-Commander Tavish, who had ordered his men to force their way through the crowd at the Arl of Denerim's wedding, injuring and wounding a number of people. They could have stayed and fought the assassins; they could have protected the weak and helpless. Tavish, however, felt that it was a political, secular matter, and that his chief responsibility was Her Grace's safety.

It was all hearsay, of course. Irminric had been put out, early that morning, to find that he was not to be included in the Grand Cleric's honor guard at the wedding. He had thought he would be a logical candidate, due to his high birth. He had even looked forward to it, anticipating spending time with his sister. Instead, Irminric had been ordered to remain in the Cathedral for the day.

Alfstanna was a brilliant bann: strong, fair-minded, sensible. Irminic acknowledged this. He had never held their father's decisions against her, even when they entailed Irminic's relegation to the Chantry. He had not wanted to be a Templar, but he had submitted to his father's will and the will of the Chantry. Why was he being shunted aside now?

"Maybe Tavish knew something was going to happen," murmured one of the younger Templars. "Maybe it was all planned."

"Stennis," one of the young man's friends whispered back, "you'll get in trouble, talking like that."

A pair of young priest-initiates passed the Templars, fair faces flushed red. They hurried away to find a more private place to exchange confidences.

Irminric had always hated politics. It was one of the main reasons his father had made Alfstanna the heir.

"They'll eat you alive at the Landsmeet, boy,"

Poor Father. He, like so many others, never realized that Landsmeet politics were a game of ninepins compared to what went on within the Chantry.

Within the Chantry, everyone agreed that there was but one Maker, and Andraste was His Prophet. Everyone agreed on the importance of restraining and controlling mages.

Beyond that, it was a snakepit of warring factions and furious accusations of heresy, impiety, sacrilege, doctrinal impurity, and heterodoxy. Debates raged on the nature of Andraste's divinity, on the number of children she had borne to Maferath, on the divisive issue of whether elves, dwarves, or Qunari had souls in the truest sense of the word. Had Andraste's mortal body experienced physical death, or had she been translated before Hessarian's blow was struck? Had Andraste in fact been mortal in the usual sense of the word? That issue had sparked angry controversy and the assassinations of highly-placed priests.

And it was a fact that priests and Templars, sisters and brothers, were sometimes all too human. Revered Mothers had taken lovers and embezzled Chantry funds; Templars had abused their power over mages in disgraceful ways; initiates of both sexes ran away with peddlers or mercenaries or each other. There was that terrible scandal a few years ago, when it was discovered that an entire monastery in a remote part of northern Orlais had resorted to outright banditry and extortion. All attempts to suppress the facts had failed—at least within the Chantry itself. The Knight-Commander involved had been executed, and the foundation broken up. The women and young boys held there were paid off to ensure their silence, and then sent abroad for decency's sake.

In Ferelden, the most burning issue was the relationship of the Chantry to the secular government of Orlais, where the Chantry had been founded. Val Royeaux and its Grand Cathedral were the heart of the Chantry. Templars, when their minds and bodies grew debilitated from lyrium, retired to the hospice there. Priests dreamed of the lucrative administrative positions to be had, close to the Divine herself. To achieve such a high position, one had to toe the line of orthodoxy and obedience very strictly.

Of course, no Fereldan priest could dream of being named Divine. That position had been held exclusively by Orlesians since the beginning. Because of that exclusivity, there were sometimes accusations that the Divine favored Orlais in matters not relating to the Chantry. During the Occupation—which any Chantry priest or Templar hoping for promotion must refer to as the Rebellion—the Grand Clerics of Ferelden had thundered denunciations of the Theirins and proclaimed their support for the Orlesian-born subject kings that had supplanted them. Mother Bronach had supported Meghren right up until the moment when Maric and his armies reached Denerim.

People in orders who had grown up as children of the Chantry might be able to swallow the Chantry's official version of recent history, but Irminric had been raised in a noble household, and had heard tales of Meghren's deranged cruelties; and also of how members of the Chantry had spied and informed for the—call him by the right name—usurper and his toadies. It was impossible not to acknowledge, albeit only to himself, that the Chantry had played a shameful role in the conquest and subsequent oppression of his homeland. For obvious reasons, it was imprudent to speak openly of this, unless one wished to be posted to the Aeonar Prison indefinitely. Nevertheless, there were some vocally pro-Ferelden priests, like Mothers Perpetua and Boann. Mother Boann, of course, was dismissed by many as a radical, due to her ministry to the Alienage. Irminric might have dismissed her, too, had he not been made to see the value of her work by his best friend and fellow Templar, Ser Otto.

He could always confide in Otto. Otto loved the Chantry with a deep and abiding passion, but he loved the Chantry Triumphant, rather than the Chantry Mundane. That is to say, he loved the Chantry as it was in the mind of the Maker, rather than the worldly institution that was its pale reflection. It was all very mystical, and Irminric was not sure he always understood what Otto was saying, but he was sure that what Otto said ought to be true, because it was beautiful.

Young Stennis had slipped away, and then returned with a priest, Sister Justine.

"Tell them what you overheard!" the boy urged her.

Irminric liked Sister Justine. She was a nice, well-meaning woman, and Curator of Denerim Cathedral's archive of manuscripts and religious artifacts. The Grand Cleric was fond of her, too, and because of that, Sister Justine had ready access to Her Grace. But not today.

Looking very uneasy, the priest whispered. "I believe that Her Grace has been drugged. She was not wounded when she returned, but she was given some wine to settle her nerves. I heard Mother Heloise speaking of it to Sister Collette. They wanted her to sleep, while they…'did what needed to be done.' They thought it was best that Revered Mother Gertrude have control. I know they've always found Her Grace too…moderate." She looked briefly miserable. "Things would not have got to this pass if Her Grace were herself!"

Ser Stennis clearly agreed. "It doesn't help that half the Queen's guard overheard the argument between her and the Revered Mother. She all but accused the Revered Mother of foreknowledge of the attack. Something to do with the mage that Ser Gauthier and his team dealt with that morning. The Queen claimed the mage was sent to Denerim on the orders of the Grey Wardens, and wasn't it convenient that the only Healer in reach was arrested just hours before an attack that left so many badly wounded?"

Irminric licked his dry lips, thinking of his sister, and then of the healing powers of magic. "That's a very serious accusation."

Sister Justine said gravely, "If the mage was under the orders of the Grey Wardens, then dealing with her as an apostate is in clear violation of the ancient treaties. Ordinary laws do not apply during a Blight."

"Of course," Irminric said, trying to think it through, "only scholars like you you know that. There hasn't been a Blight in four hundred years."

Sister Justine hated to be told—however indirectly—that she was the guardian of little-known and useless facts. "I am quite sure," she said, "that the Grand Cleric, the Revered Mothers, and the Knights-Commander are all cognizant of the treaties. I retrieved the Chantry copies and forwarded the appropriate clauses to all of them!"

"Ah," Ser Otto sighed, "but did they read them?"

"Is it possible," Irminric ventured, the words like lead, "that some individuals within the Chantry might actually…" he hesitated, "be—

"—agents of Orlais?" Otto bluntly finished his thought. "Not in so many words, I think. However, Mothers Gertrude and Heloise were born in Orlais, and love their country. That is only natural. They have brought many old colleagues with them from Orlais. Perhaps they genuinely feel that a union between our countries is the best hope for peace."

"That is putting a very generous construction on their acts," Sister Justine bristled.

"Many villains think themselves virtuous, and their enemies wicked," Otto replied mildly. "Does the Maker care about nations and borders? I think not. No more than do the darkspawn."

A silence. Then Irminric said, "The Maker may not, but the Empress certainly does. We live in the world as it is, and Anora is Queen of this country. I do not think that the Revered Mother is acting in good faith."

"Well, then?" Otto raised his brows, face serene. "Just what are you prepared to do about it?"

The denizens of Denerim Market had not seen such entertainment in years. Arl Bryland had called in the City Guard and his personal militia, and they were lined up in front of the Chantry, demanding that the Grand Cleric release the Queen. Word was that the Arl had sent to Fort Drakon for a battering ram, and was going to storm the Chantry if the Grand Cleric defied him.

"Blessed Andraste!" a red-haired thief declared, in awe of the Chantry's gall. "I never thought I'd see the day when the Chantry would lock up the Queen! You suppose they're going to hold her for ransom?"

"Why did they do it?" a dwarf trader wondered. "Are they crazy?"

His father-in-law told him quietly, "Humans and their religion! Most of them will do anything a priest tells them. The Chantry killed the Viscount of Kirkwall outright and took over the city. Maybe they think they can pull that off here."

"I'm sure the Grand Cleric has good reasons for anything she does..." an old woman murmured fretfully.

"Maybe those assassins have taken over in there," a man speculated. "They were disguised as minstrels before. Maybe they pretended to be priests and Templars and got in that way."

"Maybe the Chantry's in league with Orlais," a crippled old soldier said grimly. "We've seen it before."

There was a great deal of uneasy muttering.

"Do you suppose she could be a mage? Maybe they found her out..." whispered a nervous man in a hooded cloak. He carried a heavy walking stick with curious carvings. Arl Bryland had proclaimed that anyone with Healing skills would receive amnesty from the Crown, but the nervous man refused to be taken in by such a trick.

"Queen Anora? Teyrn Loghain's daughter?" scoffed a mercenary. "Never!"

"Look! Those are Grey Wardens!" came a shout. A confused clamor followed this, as people strained to admire the fabled heroes.

"Oh, is the Girl Warden there? Is it the redhead? She's pretty! I didn't know she was a redhead!"

"That's not her. Too short."

"Bugger. I wanted to see the Girl Warden..."

"Fine-looking lot, aren't they? That's quite a sword the tall one has."

"Who's the other big fellow?"

"That's the Teyrn of Highever!" declared a lounger. "I saw him at the Gnawed Noble! He gave me three silvers for holding his horse! What's he doing?"

People crowded close against the shields of guardsmen to see. The big man had climbed up on a low retaining wall beside the chantry and was swinging a rope in a slow circle, playing a little more out with every circuit. At the end of the rope was a grappling hook.

A woman with the reddened hands of a laundress and a fair but faded face bloomed with the glow of romance. "I know what he's going to do. He's going to rescue the Queen!"

The grappling hook held on the first try. Fergus grunted with relief, glad that he hadn't made a fool of himself in front of all Denerim. He could climb the rope up to the lower buttress, and then should be in striking distance of the top of the tower. Getting the hook up to the top of the tower would be easier and safer than trying to latch onto the window sill.

Climbing armed was no joke. Hand over hand, he pulled hard, boots pressed against the stone. No windows faced this way, so he should be safe from discovery, even though a cry was rising up from the crowd.

"A rescue! A rescue!"

He hoped so. He really did. If the priest had lied and Anora was somewhere else, Fergus was going to be very, very angry with whoever was in the tower chapel. Interesting that the crowd was not more favorably disposed to the Chantry. On the other hand, not so surprising. However much the Chantry spread their talk of the dangers of the magic, blood would tell, in the end. Nearly every Fereldan knew of a child who had been taken away by Templars, never to be heard of again. A large proportion of those children were someone's son or daughter; someone's niece or nephew or cousin or neighbor. There were places, certainly, where mages might be stoned to death on sight. There were more where apostates operated on the sly, tolerated by local lords and freeholders in exchange for healing or fighting or help tilling soil and breaking stones. Fergus knew his father had turned a blind eye toward hedge mages in Highever on more than one occasion. Was that why the Highever Chantry had been so complacent about the murder of the Couslands?

And old grudges died hard. During the Occupation, the Orlesians had squeezed taxes for themsleves and generous tithes for the Chantry. Over the ensuing years, the Chantry had not won many friends with their incessant demand for coin and their interference in secular affairs. Fergus smiled grimly. They had overreached themselves at last. The chickens had come home to roost, with a vengeance.

The wind was colder, up here above the ground. Fergus briefly wished he were a mage, like that luscious friend of Bronwyn's: the one who could turn into a bird and fly away at will. All of this could be so much easier that way. Except for the getting-down-with-the-Queen part. Fergus had a few ideas about that.

Obviously, it would be much pleasanter for everyone if they could just walk out the front door. The Chantry could save face, say that it was all a huge misunderstanding, and Anora would probably let some of it pass, after privately having the hides of the instigators. The Grand Cleric would probably have to retire to Val Royeaux "for her health," and a number of other prominent heads would roll. Then, alas, it would be back to business as usual in a few years.

But perhaps they would not be leaving by the front door. Fergus had allowed for that eventuality as well. He had some strong linen bandages tied around his waist. If the Queen was too ill to cling to him, he could tie her to him. It would be hellishly hard to manage, but he might have no choice. If she was completely unconscious, he would tie the rope around her and lower her down first. That could be tricky to do without bashing her against the side of the Chantry. One way or another, she had to be delivered to Jowan and his healing skills.

He swung out, close enough to the buttress to get a leg over. The cheers were more distant now, blending with the wind. He gave the crowd a wave and then carefully stood on the top of the buttress, found a secure footing, and began circling the rope again for another throw. He wanted to place the hook above the window itself. The window was stained glass and did not open, so no one would see the rope though it. He hoped.

Another roar came from below, surging up like waves against the Cliffs of Conobar. A bronze battering ram, its head a snarling mabari, had arrived, drawn by two dozen oxen. The crowd rushed to help the soldiers, and as if on wings, the ram was being moved into position. There was a partial wall sheltering the Cathedral courtyard, but it didn't look likely to stand long.

Fergus released his grip just before the top of the arc, hope flying with hook and rope. The hook slid down the lead-sheathed roof with a brief, metal-to-metal squeal. The hook caught on the edge. Fergus yanked hard, and sent a prayer Andraste's way. He took a deep breath, and swung out again.

Glad that the tower was not smooth marble, but rough hewn stone, he set his boots firmly on the tower wall and walked cautiously to the side , making the quarter circuit he needed before climbing straight up again. He wondered what Cousin Leonas was doing now, but he knew better than to look down. He must make it to the window, and then he would have the element of surprise. Perhaps it would be enough.

There were candles: candles in pairs making a dazzle of gold on the stone wall. There was a pool of red and blue light on the floor. Anora stared at it, too tired to move her head. Her fingers reached toward the light, but could not quite manage the last few inches.

She was lying on a pallet in front of a little altar. Andraste soared above her on the wall, hands upraised, eyes rolled up to the Maker. It was quite impossible to attract her attention. Voices buzzed like horseflies around her, but Anora ignored them. No one would speak to her sensibly, and now it was nothing but buzzing. Her eyes were playing tricks on her: she was not sure if one priest or two was kneeling in front of the altar.

What had become of her clothes? Her fingers tugged, puzzled at the thin white linen shift. Had someone undressed her without her leave?

There had been a circle of eyes around her: some concerned, some sly and smug, some hostile, some fearful, some uneasy. They had withdrawn, and now there was nothing but distant buzzing. Anora did not recall seeing the Grand Cleric, but she was not sure that her memory was perfect at the moment, either. There had been a Templar, she was sure, because he had buzzed at her in much deeper tones, and his face had been hard and angry. He had gone away, and Anora was glad. She was now certain that she disliked Ser Tavish.

"…I detect no magic, but…"

"…It must be magic! There is no other explanation!"

"…Oh? It's not possible that she could simply be sick? And how are we to explain that the Queen died while in our custody? Her father will think we murdered her on orders from the Empress. Those he kills outright will be fortunate…"

"…Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity…"

Louder than the buzzing was the beating of her heart; irregular and sluggish. Anora listened to it with detached interest. Things had certainly changed for the worse.

There was a scraping near the window. Idly, Anora pictured a raven, black feathers glossy, head cocked, eyes sharp in the autumn air. It would gather itself, and take wing…

A crash. The blue and red window splintered inwards in shards of rainbow light. Anora thought it very pretty. The buzzing about her shivered into screams.

Had the raven she imagined smashed against the glass? There was a black shape, silhouetted by the sunlight now streaming into the chapel. A man? A man had flown in through the window. That was…unusual, wasn't it?

A big warrior in armor. At first Anora thought it must be Father, come to find her. Hot tears of relief blurred her vision.

"What have you done to her?" the man shouted. "Get back!"

The frightened priests cringed away. One lunged for the door, and the warrior pounced ahead of her, cursing.

"I never hit a priest in my life, so don't make me learn new ways. The two of you—into that cupboard, and I don't want to hear a sound!"

There were whimpers and thumps and the bang of a door closing. Another sliding sound and a grunt of satisfaction. "That'll hold them," the man muttered.

His armor clanked a little as he came close, kneeling down by her. Not Father. A younger face with a soft brown beard and kind dark eyes.

"Your Majesty…Anora…" Fergus Cousland said softly. "I'm going to get you out of here. You're going to be all right. Bronwyn found the Sacred Ashes, just as she promised. Warden Jowan has them and he's here."

Someone pounded on the door, shouting. "What's going on in there?"

Fergus laid a comforting hand on Anora's shoulder and then got up and strode over to the locked door.

"What's going on is that you are going to release the Queen! I am Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, and you will be held to account for kidnapping the Queen of Ferelden, Chantry-folk or not!"

Whatever the unseen man behind the door was going to say was lost in thunder that shook the Cathedral. The thunder was followed by screams from far below in the sanctuary. Fergus chuckled. "It's sounds like my cousin Leonas has finally had enough! That, You Majesty, was him knocking on the Cathedral doors!"

There were shouts outside and the clash of steel. An argument had gone violent. Fergus listened at the door, waiting. There was a horrible, gurgling ground and the sound of something sliding down the other side of the wall.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," a man said, "but it's the end of the Chantry in Ferelden if we don't give up the Queen immediately." A key clanged in the lock, and Fergus stood back, drawing his sword.

With tremendous effort, Anora turned her head. The door was opened, and distant shouts filtered up the tower staircase. A group of Templars stood there, along with a pale, fair-haired priest holding a candelabra in her hand. The man in the lead started at the sight of Fergus.

"My lord of Highever!" he cried. "We did not…" He collected himself. "We have come to see that Queen is returned to the Palace. Perhaps you don't remember me, but I am Irminric, brother to Bann Alfstanna."

"Of course I know you," Fergus growled. "What madness have you lot been up to?"

"Nothing of our doing, my lord," said another Templar, his voice gentle. "Nor of the Grand Cleric's, whom we believe to be likewise a prisoner."

Irminric said quickly, "Sister Justine here found the key. We knew that keeping the Queen here against her will was wicked folly. Let us assist you and put an end to the violence below."

Fergus paused, hesitating, and then made his decision. Sheathing his sword, he returned to Anora and bending, gathered her up in his arms.

"Lead the way," he ordered.

Anora gasped a little at the boldness of it. She could not recall ever having been carried like this since she was a little girl, running to Father when he returned to Gwaren. Just as long ago in Father's arms, Fergus' armor hurt a little, but she cared nothing for that, happy to be safe, held again in arms of steel. She gazed up dreamily as the ceiling as it turned with the man's movements, as they wounded down, down, a long spiral staircase. She passed the painted figures on the wall like crowds at a procession.

"My lord!" cried a voice, accompanied by the sound of feet running upstairs. There must be a mabari there, too, from the all the whuffing. Anora smiled faintly at the idea of a mabari running wild in the Chantry.

"It's all right, Hawke," Fergus said. "They're with us."

Anora caught a glimpse of tall and handsome Ser Adam Hawke, sword drawn, moving protectively in front of Fergus. They continued down the stairs. The space enlarged and vaulting stretched out before her. They were descending into the sanctuary. Fergus shifted his arms so it was easier for her to lift her head and see.

The sanctuary was a battlefield. Bryland's men had poured through the front door, and some had fallen. But they had taken even more Templars with them, judging by the armor. Priests were huddled together here and there: some screaming imprecations at the soldiers, some terrified, some explaining themselves very quickly indeed, some already helping with the wounded. There were pockets of resistance, but they were scattered and desperate.

"Fereldans!" shouted Fergus. "Here is your Queen! Put up your swords, and do her homage!"

"The Queen!" Shouts rose up. A deep, heart-felt pause, and the last of the Templars surrendered, and were disarmed.

Bryland, bleeding from a cut over his ear, rushed to the steps. "Your Majesty!" He looked her over, shocked at her appearance. "What did they do to her?" he asked Fergus.

"She's been ill," Fergus told his cousin in a low voice. "The mage's healing was keeping her going. The Chantry took that away, but the Wardens have brought a cure."

"A cure?" Bryland certainly hoped so. Queen Anora looked half-dead—worse, she looked like she had been tortured. If Fergus hadn't told her she was already ill, he would have put the Chantry to the sword on the spot.

The Wardens were here, too: Carver glaring at the priests, and leaning on his sword: Jowan uncomfortable and grim: and Leliana frantically trying to make peace and calm both sides.

Anora tried to speak, but it was so difficult. She managed a whisper, close enough to Fergus' ear that he heard her.

"Not here. Outside."

He looked down at the frail woman. Her hair had come loose, and her face was a sickly yellow. "You want to go outside?"

"Outside," she murmured. "Out of here."

It was hardly surprising, after all. He shifted her in his arms, and carried her down the last steps.

"We're leaving. Wardens, prepare the Ashes outside."

"Ashes?" Bryland asked, puzzled; but he strode along with his cousin, ordering a detail to lock up the prisoners. No one had seen the Grand Cleric as yet. He sent more men to track her down.

The battering ram had been withdrawn, and they stepped past rubble into the light of day. The sun of noon shone down, defeating all disguise. People climbed up on nearby roofs to take in the scene in front of the Chantry. As the people coming outside were recognized, another shout rose up, of triumph and relief.

"There's the Queen!" shouted a man. "I see her yellow hair!"

"Look! The Teyrn's got her!"

"I knew he'd save her!" cried the laundress. "Maker bless good Teyrn Cousland!"

"Is she hurt?"

"What did they do with her clothes?" wondered one woman, scandalized. "She's barefoot!"

"The Ashes!" Fergus ordered. "Quickly!"

Jowan had the little envelope, and had thought quite a bit about how to administer them. He had rejected the idea of using his finger to put them on the Queen's tongue as gross and indelicate. A spoon he had also considered, but now there was surely a need for more spectacle.

"Leliana," he said urgently. "Find that present that Bronwyn was giving her cousin and put a bit of water in it."

Leliana had left the Chantry reluctantly, miserable at the situation there. Glad to have something to do, she hurried to her horse and fetched the golden bowl. Her fingers lingered on the cool hammered metal, admiring it.

It was certainly a princely gift. Not very large, but entirely of pure gold, it was a shallow, footed bowl in the form of a flower. Leliana winced as the sunlight reflected off it blindingly. Quickly she poured some water from her canteen into the bowl, and held it while Jowan opened the little packet of Sacred Ashes and sprinkled them into the clear water.

"What is that?" Arl Bryland asked.

Jowan knew that Bronwyn wanted the Ashes kept secret, but he felt that this was no time for secrecy. What the Chantry had done was open and public. The Queen's cure should be the same. Besides, he really could not resist the chance to stick a finger in the eye of the Chantry and their Templars, pointing up their malice, their stupidity, their uselessness. He would never have a chance like this again. He answered the Arl loudly enough that a great many people could hear him.

"A few months ago, the Queen was poisoned by an Orlesian spy. The poison was resistant to magical healing, despite everything I and Senior Enchanter Wynne—arrested by the Chantry yesterday—could do. Lady Bronwyn Cousland, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, went on a Quest to find the one remedy that could not fail: the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. She succeeded. and you see them here in this golden bowl before you!"

He lifted the bowl to Anora's lips, careful not to spill a drop. She raised weary eyes to him, and drank it down. It tasted...like ashes in water. A little gritty, and rather nasty, in fact; but she was really rather thirsty, and it could have been worse. She swallowed, swallowed again, swallowed the last of it; and then screamed, more in surprise than distress.

"Ahhhhh!"

Fergus held her fast, his hopes plummeting as she spasmed. Was this going to end in disaster?

It was certainly very intense. Anora was not certain if she was in pain or not. Little shocks pulsed through her body, twinging along her nerves, quickening her blood. Pulses collided at intervals, and she seized up, bewildered at what was happening to her. Her heart jolted...almost as if a hand had squeezed it. There was a curious hard pressure on the right side of her head, and then sharp pinches in her back just below her ribs. Lower down, her belly cramped as if she were having her courses. The shocks rippled through her from head to toe and abruptly stopped. And everything was suddenly quite different.

Into the gaping silence, she said quietly, "I'm all right. Put me on a horse, so everyone can see I'm all right."

"You're all right?" Fergus choked out, astonished. Even more astonishing was her appearance. The yellow skin was transforming to rose and ivory; her blue eyes were clear and shining. She did not even look...tired.

Anora wondered if she would burst out laughing. How odd she felt. She had had no idea how sick she really was before. She felt perfectly well now. She could do anything. Bronwyn had found the Sacred Ashes, and given Anora back her life. It was a miracle.

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly well. Get me on that horse—that nice grey— so everyone can see me and hear me. We have work to do."

In wonder and relief, he smiled down at her, and she reflexively smiled back up at him. Her heart seemed to squeeze again, but this time she did not think it was the Ashes.

"Well..." Hawke raised his brows, and remarked his brother, "that was...impressive. Come now, the Ashes of Andraste?"

"Yes," Carver said. "Really and truly. Bronwyn found them in the Frostbacks. She told us not to talk about them, but I suppose Jowan wanted to a make the point that the Chantry isn't the sole conduit to the Maker. Anyway, it looks like the Queen is all right, and that's what matters. It's why Jowan, Leliana, and I were sent to Denerim: to deliver the Ashes to the Queen. We didn't expect it to be so...public, though."

"That was pretty damned public," Hawke snorted, swinging onto his horse. He dug into one of his saddlebags, and pulled out a cloak.

"The Queen looks cold, my lord," he said quietly to Fergus.

A grateful look, and Anora was wrapped in Hawke's best blue cloak. He wondered if he would ever see it again, but perhaps it was a sound investment in his future.

Bryland left a strong force to secure the Chantry, and mounted with the rest of them. Let the Grand Cleric stew for now; he had to get back to his boys. Jowan was gazing thoughtfully at the amazing golden bowl that had held the Ashes, and the Arl spoke, a little wistfully.

"I don't suppose there are any left?"

Jowan glanced up, and inclined his head in respect. "No, my lord. But I'm a pretty good Healer. I'll have a look at your son first thing."

Leliana murmured, "I'll have to ride with you, Jowan. The Queen took my horse."

Jowan gave her the golden bowl, and swung onto the horse. Leliana clutched the bowl, sighing. After holding the Ashes of Andraste, it seemed a shabby thing for this vessel to be handed off as a ordinary wedding present. It should be preserved, as the sacred relic it was. She took Jowan's hand and vaulted up behind him, letting the sunlight play on the gold, bright as a good deed in a wicked world.

"Your family's more interesting than ours," Corbus declared to Bethany. His new friend had a twin brother who was a Grey Warden! And her older brother had been knighted by King Cailan. So her family had a knight, a mage, and a Grey Warden. Corbus felt a little envious. He and Lothar were lords, but they were just boys, and had never done anything important. Habren never did much but go to the Market and spend Father's coin.

Bethany was amazing. She could make blue light come out of her fingers, and she had fixed everybody in the room. She would would have fixed Arl Urien, too, but his guards didn't like mages and had threatened her when she tried to see the Arl. She knew about mabaris too, because her brother had one. Killer already liked her a lot, because she had made Lothar all better.

She was exhausted, and stretched out on the stone floor by Lothar's bed. Corbus gallantly gave her a pillow. Everyone in the room was looking much better. Bann Alfstanna was sitting up now, and talking quietly to a group of ladies. Servants had brought in soup, bread, and cheese for everyone. It was like a party for wounded people.

Old Lady Seria Mac Coo walked over to thank Bethany, carefully leaning on the walls.

"You shouldn't be up, my lady," Bethany said wearily.

"My dear, I had to come and talk to you. I cannot thank you enough! I thought I was going to die, here in this terrible place. And you not only healed my wounds, but you have quite taken away the pain in my joints!"

Corbus politely made room for her on the edge of the bed, and the elderly woman sat down gingerly, lowering her voice.

"Life can be so hard for those with the gift of magic. I want you to know that you are welcome to come and stay with me if you ever need a roof over your head."

"That is very kind of you, my lady," Bethany thanked her, "but I cannot leave my mother. Arl Bryland promised mages amnesty in the Queen's name, and I cannot think he would break his word."

Corbus piped up loyally, "Father says a nobleman always keeps his word!"

Lady Seria gave the boy a kind, sad look. "Noblemen often mean to do many things, and then complications arise. At least let me know where you are staying, my dear. I wish to reward you for all your help today."

"I didn't do it for coin," Bethany said, growing embarrassed.

"Of course you did not," the old lady replied. "No one would do all this for mere coin. A keepsake, perhaps? A token of my gratitude? I may be old, but life is still sweet to me, and I was not ready to leave my children and grandchildren."

"I am staying at Highever House," Bethany said slowly. "My brother, Ser Adam Hawke, is in the service of the Teyrn of Highever."

"Ah." Lady Seria considered. "You are of gentle birth. I thought as much. Nicely spoken. Well brought up. All the more reason, my dear, for me to welcome you as a companion in my household, were you ever to need shelter."

There was noise in the corridor: the trampling of armored feet and the clamor of excited voices. The door opened, and Arl Bryland burst in. Killer filled the room with ecstatic barks.

"Lothar!"

The Arl stopped, astounded, to see his little boy sitting up, smiling. He was pale, and his shoulder was bandaged, but he no longer looked to be dying.

"Father!"

Corbus ran to him, threw his arms around him— heedless of the blood on his father's armor— and started babbling. "Lothar's all right! Bethany fixed him! Come meet her! Her brother's a Grey Warden!"

Bethany groaned inwardly, but forced herself to get to her feet to greet the Arl. Carver and his friends said he was nice, but you never knew how "nice" people would react to mages.

Lady Seria smiled at her. "I suspect you will be receiving other tokens of gratitude, as well."

Bryland hugged Corbus back, and let himself be dragged forward. He hugged Lothar, too—carefully—and then had a look at the pretty, dark-haired girl in traveling clothes.

Others in the room were speaking up, praising Bethany's efforts. Bann Alfstanna herself edged up cautiously from her bed to put in a word. The Bann had been convinced that her stomach wound was a death sentence, but this young girl had saved her. Magic was perilous, true; but it was, by the Prophet's own words, intended to serve man.

"We are all indebted to this young woman, Leonas. Many of us would be dead by now, if not for her."

Corbus caught at Bethany's hand, a little jealously. She was his friend, and all these people were trying to take her away. It was time to assert himself.

"Her other brother's a knight, so she's a lady, Father. Her name is Bethany Hawke."

Bryland could place her, now: he had met both of the Hawke brothers, but of course they would have kept the mage sister very, very quiet. A brave and decent girl, to come forward and risk discovery, since she had no pecuniary motive.

He bowed to her, heart full of relief and gratitude. "My lady, you have my thanks. You have done great good here today. Know I am eternally in your debt, and whatever the Arl of South Reach can do for you, will be done."

Blushing, Bethany stammered, "I'm...just so glad I could do something... What happened was so cruel..."

A guard called out, "The Queen!" and Anora entered, still barefoot in a white shift and Adam Hawke's blue cloak. Fergus Cousland was at her side, and just behind them were the Hawke brothers, who caught sight of Bethany talking to Arl Bryland. Simultaneously, they slapped their hands to their heads in despair. Bethany was no longer a secret. Worse, she was being presented to the Queen.

"Yes, everyone's grateful today," Carver muttered to Adam. "But what about tomorrow?"

Bethany was already speaking to Anora.

"I was not able to go to Arl Urien," she said, embarrassed. "The guards threatened me and chased me away. Arl Urien wanted nothing to do with a mage. I'm sorry I could not do more."

"Arl Urien made his choice," Anora replied coolly. She turned to Bryland. "I regret to inform you that your daughter is already a widow. The seneschal told us that Arl Urien is dead."

Shocked exclamations followed, which Anora silenced. "Our forces are still in pursuit of the assassins. We hold the Chantry, and we will investigate thoroughly their connivance with the attack."

Jowan said softly, "Your Majesty, since you are well, might I be allowed to go there and search for Wynne?"

Anora sighed, "You may go, but I believe it would be fruitless. I was told there that Healer Wynne had been killed by the Templars shortly before the attack—another reason to suspect collusion between the assassins and elements in the Chantry."

Fergus said, "I was told by a priest loyal to us that the Grand Cleric has been locked away. There needs to be a thorough search of the Chantry, both to determine the degree of guilt of those involved, and to clear those who are innocent."

"All will be revealed, in time," agreed Anora. "Therefore, I call all surviving members of the Landsmeet now present in Denerim to attend me in the Landsmeet Chamber tomorrow. We will cut to the heart of this conspiracy, and the enemies of Ferelden will pay."

Thanks to my reviewers: anon, MsBarrows, BandGeedNinja, Zute, RakeeshJ4, hdp, sizuka2, Cjonwalrus, ellechiM, Have Travel, JackOfBladesX, Death Knight's Crowbar, Judy, Nekura Enzeru, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, KnighOfHolyLight, chandagnac, Nemrut, Hydroplatypus, Mike3207, Aoi24, Herebedragons66, Jyggilg, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach-Jenna53, Psyche Sinclair, mille libri, truthrowan, Remenants, Costin, Kira Kyuu, SkaterGirl246, Enaid Aderyn, brrt, EpitomyofShyness, Cor'lii, Biff McLaughlin, undeadyeti, HalmVendrella, Josie Lange, JOdel, vertigomunchkin, Notnahtanha, Syntia13, almostinsane, WhosAmandPhillips, RohanVos, ByLanternLight, Shakespira, Tsu Doh Nimh, Tikigod784, BlackCherryWhiskey, stainglasspeppermint, Forestnymphe, and amanda weber.

To brrt. You were not signed in, so I could not message you. I enjoyed your review.

("I'll need a rope," Fergus said, "and a grappling hook."

Fergus is Batman.)

Could be true. Thugs murdered his parents, he's really rich, and he often wears a cape.