-oo-

Chapter 3 – Where We Are

"I know what you are thinking…and I would advise you against it."

Ser Ryan stared intently at the back of the door. The impulse to chase after the messenger and threaten the man with violence to tell him everything he might not have said had come and gone. There was no reason for the young Templar to omit details. There was so little to omit. The Kester's Pride, bearing Ser Alrik, Ser Mauris, Enchanter Connor and his son had not arrived at either its expected place or time. The first thing Arngrim's associates had done was to send a couple of riders to perform a sweep of the lake's shore west and south for debris or damp survivors. Anxious as they were to find the dwarf and his charges, all knew that if the barge had capsized, taking all of its passengers with it, dredging the lake would take a long time and only turn up a couple of empty sets of Templar armour.

Ryan knew better than to believe Greagoir would succumb to a mere barge overturning or springing a leak in any case. Quite apart from the fact that he had not been encumbered by heavy armour, the lad had learned to swim in the rough waters of the Waking Sea. A limpid pool like Lake Calenhad would hardly be a challenge.

"We have yet to hear from Gherlen's Reach or Redcliffe," Knight Commander Bryant added, returning to his seat behind the heavy desk. "If any of them managed to get that far in such a short space of time." His fingers – Ryan noted - tapped a soft, anxious staccato on the arms of his chair. "And I am not about to start jumping to conclusions," he added further, addressing his desk rather than his worried younger brother. "Or consider conspiracy theories."

Ser Ryan turned. Unlike the Knight Commander, he had remained standing. Resting both hands on the back of the only other chair in the room he frowned at the wood thoughtfully. "Sooner or later, you must."

The Knight Commander waved a dismissive hand. "Enchanter Connor is a trusted mage," he stated firmly. "A credit to the Circle. And I know Greagoir almost as well as you do." His fingers tapping on the armrest again, he continued, "If I were to compile a list of mages most likely to turn apostate, Connor and Greagoir would be the last on that list. And you, dear brother, in case you have forgotten, no longer have the authority to search for either."

"Except as a father," Ryan reminded him, with a lift of an eyebrow.

"Not even as a father," Knight Commander Bryant countered. "Once Greagoir entered the Tower, he became the Circle's responsibility and you, along with his mother – mage or not – relinquished any hold over him. You know that, brother."

Ser Ryan contemplated the edge of the large, wieldy desk between them. After all this time, meeting his brother eye to eye was difficult, even if there was only one of them to meet; Bryant's left eye being lost to whatever tainted creature had nearly bested Bryant during the Blight during his flight from Lothering with the other refugees. Alyce called the eye-patch the Knight Commander wore 'rakish', but Ryan felt otherwise. As far as he was concerned, the still-purple scars adorning the left side of Bryant's once-handsome face was a reminder of how much Ryan had failed his brother.

Though…if he had been able to convince his old Knight Commander to let him go to Lothering, what help could he have been? According to Bryant he and the remaining Templars had had little choice but to try their luck southwards towards Gwaren. By the time they had been able to leave, the darkspawn had cut off all other routes of escape. There was also the tiny fact that by the time he had heard about Lothering, any assistance would have been too late.

Still…and the voice of his wife grumbled in his head, berating him for entertaining his incurable Martyr Complex.

His wife…

"Maker…" Ryan ran a hand through his hair. "Alyce will need to be told…"

"And as her husband, I have no doubt you'll have little trouble letting her know," Bryant told him cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

Ryan's eyes flew to his brother, and would have just as quickly darted away again if he hadn't forced his gaze to remain. "You're the Knight Commander…" Ryan said carefully. "As head of the Circle of Magi…"

"Psht!" Bryant waved his hand again. "First Enchanter Torrin is head of the Circle, not I. I just write the rosters for the Templars and look pretty in my shiny armour." He narrowed his eyes at his younger sibling. "I'm thinking…you had best take care Ryan," he began. "One would think you were afraid of your own wife."

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "Nice try. No, I am not. I don't even know where she is right now."

Bryant's single eye widened. "Really? Well, neither do I."

"What do you mean?" Ryan's frown returned for another outing. "As the Knight Commander surely you have knowledge of the whereabouts of every mage in Ferelden…?"

Bryant merely shrugged. "Not really. Torrin has her doing something somewhere or other…" he said vaguely. "Surely you don't mean she hasn't told you? As her husband?"

"I don't demand a schedule in detail, if that's what you're asking," Ryan stated, thin-lipped. "I do trust my own wife to be able to conduct her own affairs."

"Oh of course, of course."

Heavy silence descended upon the two men with neither willing to look at the other, though Bryant did notice his younger brother gripping the back of the chair as though attempting to squeeze blood from the wood. Ryan on the other hand was becoming irritated by Bryant's finger-tapping. In the otherwise empty silence, it was a sound that caused his back teeth to grind. Eventually, Ryan chose to break the conversation stalemate.

"I should go and speak with the First Enchanter…" he suggested; to himself rather than to anyone else really.

The Knight Commander cleared his throat in a way that did not bode well, though not in a: 'I'm coming down with something awful; pass the honey and lemon' way.

Ryan forced his jaw apart to speak. "He's. Not. Here. Is he?" he asked tightly, already knowing the answer.

"No," was Bryant's too-short answer.

"Doing 'something somewhere or other' as well?" Ryan added, attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice and failing.

"It must be catching," was the tranquil response. "These mages…all cooped up with each other in close quarters…Hardly any surprise, really."

Ryan released his grip on the back of the chair deliberately; finger by finger. If it had been anyone else standing in the Knight Commander's office, they would have received a straight answer; a short one and worded so politely that even the worst insult would sound sweet. Not that Bryant was in the habit of insulting people. He was a natural diplomat, with almost inexhaustible reserves of patience and an analytical mind. With his own family – in particular his younger brother – however, it was different. No matter how many years lay between them; how wide the distance or how varied the experiences, his brother was his brother and he would always take far, far too much pleasure in goading him into an emotional response…as though in doing so, he was balancing his behaviour towards the rest of the world at large.

"Should I find an apprentice willing to tell me the whereabouts of the First Enchanter, do you think?" Ryan asked coolly.

The Knight Commander grinned. "You can try."

"And when I find Alyce, I'm setting her onto you."

Bryant stared, unimpressed at the weak attempt to turn the tables. "When was the last time you saw my dear sister in law?"

"Three months ago."

"Hm."

"Very eloquent, I must say," Ryan glared.

"Hm."

"Has it occurred to you," Ryan said tightly, needing to unclench his teeth again, "that I ask because I am actually concerned for my family?"

The Knight Commander's eyebrows rose. "Considering your family, little brother, I would be more concerned for the world at large." Bryant paused a half second. "I will also reiterate my earlier warning to you: do not be tempted to seek Greagoir yourself. Any effort on your part to do so may be construed as attempting to hinder Chantry business…and no, that does not mean I have already made up my mind."

"I was not-"

"I know you Ryan," Bryant said with a shake of his head. "You wear your self-imposed guilt like a Templar wears his Sword of Andraste; for all the world to see and used as a weapon if the need does arise. For once in your life let someone else help you. If something untoward has befallen either the mages or the Templars, we will know about it and we will act. You," he aimed a finger at his brother, "need to keep out of this. For your own good, as well as for Greagoir's."

Ryan opened his mouth to argue then reminded himself that Bryant did not know Greagoir's true parentage. Or feel the concern he did about the lad's all too convenient disappearance. Not counting young Greagoir himself, the people that did know had been sworn to secrecy and could be counted on the fingers of one hand. He was not about to add another to the list. As much as he trusted his brother, Bryant was the head of all Templars in Ferelden. His duty to the Chantry came first.

Even above his own family.

It was time for a different approach.

"In that case," Ryan said after a slow release of his breath, "I should try to find First Enchanter Torrin. He should at the very least be able to send Alyce a message, if not tell me where she is."

"Is that wise?" Bryant enquired. "Shouldn't you wait a few days for more information?"

"No," Ryan told his brother firmly. "Believe me when I say not telling Alyce early would be most unwise."

"In that case brother," Bryant said with an acknowledging nod. "If I were looking for the First Enchanter, my first stop would be Orzammar…"

-oo-

Connor had lied.

Somewhat north of the Tower…?

Greagoir gritted his teeth as he sighted down the edge of the sword he'd reclaimed from one of the dead darkspawn; its edge as dull as his enthusiasm for his fellow Tower – ex-Tower – inmate.

Well, of course he'd lied! North? North? How Connor had managed to switch course to head south down Lake Calenhad and escape detection by the lookout at Kinloch Hold would forever be a mystery. Perhaps he had help from the demon possessing him. Perhaps somehow the Connor-abomination had managed to penetrate the natural dwarven resistance to magic to influence Arngrim to change his course. Whatever the method, all this time Greagoir thought they had managed to wash up at the northernmost point of the lake, near the Imperial Highway. They were no where near the Imperial Highway, but at an indeterminate, vague point between Redcliffe and the Lake Calenhad docks.

That description covered a lot of land. A. Lot.

The sword clattered noisily to the ground by his knee. Greagoir grabbed handfuls of his hair and growled in frustration.

"I'm an idiot…an idiot…an idiot…an…"

"Not sayin' I'm gunna argue with you, but you'll never get those kernicks and cracks out using a bit of crumbly stone."

Greagoir looked out from between the gaps in his fingers. The dwarf Grey Warden, Denny had hunkered down in front, hand extended.

"Try this instead."

It was a whetstone. He stared stupidly at the offering a few precious seconds too long. Denny tossed it into his lap, forcing Greagoir to go fishing around for it in places he'd rather not in front of a pretty girl. Even if that pretty girl had an axe that was sharper than his sword and she could knee-cap him faster than he could say 'allow me to open this door for you'. Her grin acknowledging his embarrassment, Denny swivelled towards the sword he'd thrown to the ground.

She too held it straight before her, squinting down the length of the blade while making noises of approval.

"It's dwarven made…I think," Greagoir said, trying to make conversation. "But…I suppose you probably figured that out right?" It had been obvious to him, with his fairly narrow knowledge of such things. The balance was slightly different than those made by human smiths normally and the pattern engraved on the hilt was definitely of the dwarven style, even though there were no visible house markings. Either that had been worn away or deliberately removed.

Denny shrugged. "I'd no idea. Does it matter, s'long as it does the job?"

"Well uh…" A dwarf that didn't care about weaponry and smithing, Greagoir wondered? "You've been to Orzammar a lot?" he asked carefully, figuring she was either lying (because how many people had already done that to him today?), or she'd been surface-raised.

Denny shrugged again. "M'family aren't whatchoo'd call 'traditional dwarfs'," she told him, handing the sword back to him hilt-first. "Never had much interest in mines, smelting and 'hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go'."

"Oh?" Greagoir continued, hoping to glean more interesting information from the pretty Warden. It certainly made a nice change from brooding over the lying, double-dealing, conniving, murderous, Circle-betrayer that was Connor Guerrin. "Merchants then?"

"Accountant, actually," Denny gave up nudging him with the sword hilt and simply lay it against his knee. She sat back cross-legged, perching her chin on the palm of her hand to continue observing him. She didn't look particularly interested however, just sort of bored. "You?" she asked.

"Me?" Greagoir blinked, wondering whether he should not mention the mage thing and thinking that might be a very good idea, especially if it provided some kind of separation from himself and the deceitful, perfidious, sneaky abomination. "I'm not from a family of accountants…Um." Think fast! Say something nice…like how her eyes look like limpid pools of something…limp…id…"Really?" was what emerged. "Accountants?" which turned out to be a relief, in hindsight. Good old hindsight, eh?

"Accountant," Denny corrected firmly, stressing the singular form of the word to add, "Just the one. Ma was the respectable one. Da was a bit of a feckless Freddy, but yer know…loveable 'n all that."

"Ah." Well done Ser Charmer of the Year.

"You were goin' to tell me about yerself," she reminded him. "Before you went and threw a rock in the wagon spokes and upturned the cart."

"Uh…" Was she being sarcastic? She was wasn't she? "Well, as I said before I'm not from a family of account-ant," he said slowly, trying to come up with a plausible background for himself that wouldn't sound too suspicious or Connor could completely destroy by yelling 'Oi, mage!' out of the blue for no other reason than that he could because the demon possessing him had no off-lever and enjoyed making a complete donkey's arse of him "Actually," he began, "I'm from…"

"Oi! Mage!" Connor called at him from across the campsite. Greagoir slapped his forehead with both hands. I just had to tempt fate, didn't I?

Beside him, Denny frowned. "Yer name is 'Madge'?" she asked. "I thought it was Gary?"

"Gory," Greagoir said automatically, then cursed himself. "I mean it's Grea…" Would it really be a good idea to tell her his real name as well? Perhaps he should make something up? Keep them guessing? Or…just keep letting Connor call him names…? No, that wasn't an option. Sooner or later, lies had a habit of coming back to bite people very firmly on the bottom. Seeing as Lady Luck had not only deserted him but had left him with a bucketful of debts and an orphanage full of illegitimate children to feed and clothe, he decided against deceit. Unlike the demon.

Damned demon.

Bloody Connor…

"Grey?" Denny squinted at him. "Your name is Grey now?" She shook her head in disgust. "You humans can't make up your bleedin' minds can you?"

"Greagoir!" Greagoir shouted, making Denny jump with the sudden announcement. Scooting backwards slightly, he added far more calmly: "Greagoir. My name is Greagoir."

The Grey Warden looked at him, weighing up this piece of information carefully. "Huh," she said. "Think I like 'Madge' better."

"Look, I…" Greagoir started when Connor jogged over to them.

"Ooh!" the Connor-Abomination cooed. "An intimate tete a tete. Should I leave the two of you alone or should I fetch my hurdy-gurdy and some candlelight? Listen, listen, this one has knowledge of a very good, romantic song…" To his horror, the Abomination threw back Connor's head, took a deep breath and began to sing…"Ohhhhh! When it hides in the rocks and it's covered in spots…it's a Moray…! When it has rows of teeth, both above and be…neath, it's a Moraaaaaaay…!"

"Good eatin' on one of those," Denny commented.

"My life is a mess…" sighed Greagoir. Why didn't I ever think to hurl myself from the Harrowing Chamber?

"Anyways!" Connor-Abomination clapped its hands. "I have a game! It's called Where Do You Think We're Going Next?"

"Cough! Aeonar…" Greagoir muttered with his fist against his mouth. The Abomination reached down and slapped the top of his head playfully and Greagoir's reason to live fell a few more notches, even if his will to murder the Enchanter in his sleep rose several more.

"I'll give you a hint: It starts with an 'S' and ends with a 'K'!" Connor announced. "No one? Oh, come on! You mortals are so hard to please…"

"Mortals?" Denny's expression darkened. "That's rich, comin' from a bleedin' human."

"Why don't you just tell us because we're – I mean I'm – stupid and have absolutely no idea where we are, much less where we're going?" Greagoir suggested in a rapid-fire delivery that made his own head spin.

"Now where would the fun be in that?" Connor pouted at him.

"Nowhere near me, that's for certain," Greagoir sighed glumly.

"Soldier's Peak," Denny told them both. She stood. Pointing at Connor, she added, "It's lucky we were both on our way back, otherwise the two of you'd have to make yer own way there, though why…" Her eyes narrowed at Connor, "you're so interested in going there is beyond me."

"To join the noble order of the Grey Wardens of course!" Connor announced.

"What?" Greagoir choked. "Since when?"

Connor struck a dramatic pose; one hand on his hip, the other sweeping upwards towards the horizon: "Since forever!" he informed them both. "And I have the Warden Commander to thank for that. Neria Surana saved the Arling of Redcliffe from vile abominations…"

"Not very well apparently," Greagoir muttered resentfully. "Since she missed one…"

"And the Arl himself from a fate worse than whatever it is would be worse than death," Connor continued as though Greagoir had not spoken at all. "Who knows what that could be? Being caught wearing socks in one's sandals? Accidental flatulence in front of the Grand Cleric? The possibilities are endless!"

"Well…" Denny shook her head at the eccentricity of humans in general. "Neria Surana ain't the Warden Commander anymore; Nate Howe is, but he ain't gunna turn down any volunteers, that's for certain."

Connor smiled a serene smile that for all appearances looked as though he'd been disappointed by this announcement, but was rallying his troops for the final charge all the same. "Oh, neither yourself nor your colleague mentioned this earlier…" Greagoir on the other hand, did not trust that expression at all. It reminded him of dead Templars and a comatose Arngrim, clinging to life in the bottom of a barge. He stood too; as surreptitiously as possible sliding himself between the Grey Warden and Connor; a gesture that the older mage noticed straight away.

"But I'm sure the new Warden Commander will be able to give us an account of the ex-Warden Commander's whereabouts." Connor smiled extra sweetly at Greagoir.

"Why this obsession with Neria Surana anyway?" Denny asked, peering out from behind Greagoir. The two human men were standing so close, looking very intently at each other that she felt very gooseberry-ish. Or else should find some snacks to keep her company while she watched the show. Maybe she should call Diele, except that the elven warden didn't trust either of these wandering eccentrics. Easy on the eye as both men were, one was jumpier than a nug on a spit and the other kept having odd, nonsensical conversations with himself. Denny was quite sure at least one of them was a mage; owing to the Circle-issued robes, sensible haircut and prissy speech. The other…

She looked up at Greagoir. There was something odd about this one. She felt sort of…tingly around him, like she'd sat on an ant hill by accident and a few had taken up residence in her armour and she was interested to know whether he'd still feel like that with all his clothes off…now there's an idea…

"Why am I obsessed with the Hero of Ferelden?" Connor repeated. "The one who saved us all? Why, hardly an obsession is it? I only wish to thank her personally." Instead of the spark of red, Connor's eyes flashed bright blue.

"For making me the man I am today."

-oo-