oo-

Chapter 4 – Mostly Harmless

"Are you sure about this?"

As she skipped – a habit she'd picked up trying to constantly keep up with the longer-legged elven Warden – Denny cast an enquiring look over her shoulder. The two humans they'd picked up near Lake Calenhad were quite a way behind, bickering. Again. She grinned a little to herself. They were like a married couple those two…

"Have you changed your mind, Den?" Diele asked quietly, her own gaze following her companion's. Her expression however was not amused, but thoroughly annoyed. Denny might find the humans entertaining but as far as she was concerned, they had better things to do than babysit a couple of men barely able to fend for themselves. Apostates…Curling her lip she returned her attention to the landscape before them. At this rate, it would take them another day to reach Lothering.

If the two humans didn't kill each other first.

Denny shrugged. "You know how much the WC loves recruiting mages, Diele. Even against Emissaries, they make formidable Wardens.

Diele snorted. "I have as yet to witness either of those two…morons displaying any signs of magic. That taller one…"

"Cute, ain't he?" Denny skipped again, just to come alongside the other woman to jab her elbow in the side. "I wouldn't mind undergoing a Joining with him…!"

The elven Warden heaved a long sigh. "I am going to pretend I don't understand what you mean by that statement," she said.

"You surely don't object to them being outside the Circle?" Denny asked, watching her fellow Grey Warden carefully from the corner of her eye. Diele was from Amaranthine; a place known for growing very devout Andrastrians and supporters of the Chantry. Some of Diele's friends outside the Order were Templars; people who weren't known for loose interpretations of Chantry rules, especially where it pertained to mages. On the other hand, Diele was a Grey Warden. She wasn't supposed to care about that sort of thing.

"As long as we don't find ourselves at the wrong end of a Templar's sword, I don't care," Diele snapped. "It's all very well to accept mages on the run from the Circle," she added more calmly, "I suppose, but until they've successfully undergone the ritual, the Chantry still have their right to seize them and have us arrested for aiding apostates."

Ah ha! Thought as much, Denny tried not to smile. "There's always the Right of Conscription…"

Diele snorted again, thumbing sceptically over her shoulder. "Those two?"

"We can always throw a bandit or two at them; see how they fare…" Denny suggested, though the term darkspawn bait came too readily to mind. If the reports were true, they were more likely to be tested against more darkspawn than the odd thief or highwayman and she was no expert. The Commander was better at picking out the best people from dozens of potential recruits. At either a glance or a long, lingering look at either human, she could not predict how either would perform against an enemy. That encounter by the lake did not count. And the thought of facing a group of darkspawn out here with a mage that was unpredictable at best and a boy who didn't know how to sharpen a sword properly did not fill her with confidence.

Denny sighed. "Well, how about this?" she began slowly. "If we come across a Templar, those two are fair game. We make it to Soldier's Peak and we can leave it up to the Commander to decide, how's that?"

Diele ducked her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "How many days is it from here until the Peak?" she asked pointedly.

"Too many?" Denny ventured.

"And we haven't exactly found what we were supposed to find," Diele reminded her. "I'm not too sure if it's a good idea to return to the Peak when we haven't exactly completed our task."

"True…" Denny conceded. Looking forward to a warm bed and a meal they didn't need to kill themselves, she was disappointed to admit either were as far from her future as when they first started out. "It would mean letting them tag along until we're finished."

The elven Warden responded by scrunching up her eyes as though in pain.

"Lucky they're amusing," Denny added.

"To you maybe," Diele said, her shoulders hunching unhappily. "To me, they're…insane."

"I like insane people," Denny stated simply. "It's like being at home with the old folks, but with longer legs."

Diele cast the smaller woman a look that implied clearly insanity was not the sole domain of humankind. "On another subject," Diele added, narrowing her eyes at the diminutive woman beside her. "What's with the weird accent?"

"What accent, look you mun?" Denny snickered.

"Forget I asked."

"Eh, forgotten already lassley Warden! And anyway," Denny added in her own, unaccented Fereldan voice, "If we're lucky, they might be mostly harmless."

Diele shook her head, rubbing at her forehead now. She could feel a headache coming on. Mostly harmless…Luck would have absolutely nothing to do with that. It was a statement she hoped would not come back to bite them.

"And if they're not?" Diele asked, because she knew she had to.

Denny grinned. "Then we have something to throw at the darkspawn while we make good our escape, yeah?"

-oo-

"Lothering…" Framed beneath the ruined arches of the ancient Tevinter aqueduct, Connor spread his arms out in a dramatic, all-encompassing gesture. "Pretty as a picture."

"So they say…" Greagoir's mouth twisted downwards unhappily. Giving his fellow mage a look of disapproval, he sidled several steps further from the abomination. Jostled by the crowd passing beneath the same ruins, he hoped the distance he put between them might make it seem as though he had nothing to do with the demon-mage. He had been dreading going anywhere near a town or settlement; anywhere there were people who could report them. Lothering was a big town, with a Chantry. There were Templars in Chantries. Templars with swords. In Chantries…With swords. His frown of disapproval turned into an intense glare of dislike directed at Connor's unsuspecting, raggedy back. That was another thing. Their impromptu dunking in the waters of Lake Calenhad, followed by the fight with darkspawn then travel across country had given Connor's Circle-issued garb a look that screamed 'Escaped! Escaped from the Tower! Call out the Dogs!'

Neither of them had had an opportunity to shave and while Greagoir might only have a few scant hairs struggling for existence on his chin, Connor was a different beast altogether. It was clear the Guerrins bred for their hirsute characteristics; the growth sporting the older man's cheeks and jaw making him look even more wild and dangerous-looking. And even if countryside inns and taverns might be used to rough-looking folk, Greagoir had no idea how they would go about paying for a room and bath. The Enchanter had been the one carrying the majority of their travelling funds and whether or not the demon had thought to preserve their coin pouch, Greagoir had no idea.

"We'll be heading for the tavern," Diele announced, breaking into Greagoir's thoughts. "Try not to get into trouble while we're gone."

"You say that like you don't intend for us to come with you," Connor batted his eyelashes at the taller of the two Wardens.

The elven Warden's eyebrows drew downwards. Folding her arms across her leather-clad chest she too glared at the human mage. "That's because I don't," she told them. "This is Lothering," she stated, as if it wasn't already clear from the sign post pointing towards the centre of the town or Connor's announcement earlier. "Lothering has a Chantry and Chantries have Templars. With swords." She raised her chin at him. "Or have you forgotten?"

Before his mind could properly warm up to the subject, Greagoir raised his hand. "I didn't." And how did she read my mind…?

"That's because his father…" Connor made a rude gesture at Greagoir over his shoulder, "is a Templar…"

"Ah…ha, ha, ha…Shut up Connor."

"Which reminds me," Connor added, stroking his chin at Greagoir. "You might have relatives here, I'm sure. You wouldn't like to meet them? Give them your regards?"

"I'm good, thanks for asking," Greagoir replied tightly.

"Or would that be too embarrassing?" Connor continued nastily. "Admitting to them how far you've fallen? You're not exactly part of the Circle any more. Could be a tad awkward."

Greagoir narrowed his eyes at the Enchanter. "Is there a point to this?" he asked. "And should you even be saying something like that within hearing distance of anyone who might think there's a reward in that statement?"

Connor refused to meet his eyes, polishing his nails on the front of his robes instead. "No," he replied. "Not really. Just making conversation." Raising his head revealed a pout; a most unattractive one, embedded as it was between the scrubby beard. "Aren't I allowed to converse with my bestest; my favouritest, most specialest friend?"

"They don't teach spelling at your Tower, do they?" Denny enquired.

"I don't have time for this," Diele snapped at the three of them. "Stay, or come, I care not; only keep your distance. Whatever happens between you and any Templars that wish to apprehend you is your business, not mine!" With that, the elven Warden turned on her heel and was immediately swallowed by the crowd entering the town's gates. With an agreeable shrug, Connor took a step forward, intending to follow when he found himself being forced backwards.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Greagoir propelled him into the nearest pillar. "Bad demon! Naughty demon! No more playing with Templars!"

"Aw…"

"Whoa…this is gettin' too hot for me to handle…" Denny's voice appeared by Greagoir's side, though her beaming countenance told him she was anything but unwilling to remain for whatever might follow. "He's yer 'demon' eh? I like that."

"It's not what you think!" Greagoir denied in heated tones. "It's…he's…" Slapping his forehead, he groaned in despair. Was there any point? "Ah…never mind…" He could see no other option. He couldn't let Connor go into Lothering. Not in the state he was in. As Enchanter Connor, with all his faculties intact, the opportunity to offend a passing peasant with his usual tact and sensitivity was already quite high. As a demon-possessed abomination actively looking to test their boundaries, chaos and strife were even more inevitable. Well…more than there has been since I stepped into Arngrim's boat…

Balling up his fist, Greagoir raised his arm. Before he could strike to render Connor unconscious, the mage swayed backwards. Connor clutched at his head then collapsed to the ground, leaving Greagoir standing above him with his arm still raised. Confused, Greagoir peered at his fist. "Funny," he muttered. "I'm quite sure I didn't make any contact…"

"Aw…nug crap…"

Crouching beside Connor, Denny scrubbed at her cheek. "Shoulda known this would happen…"

"What do you mean?" Greagoir knelt alongside the Grey Warden. As he did, Denny peeled back the torn edges of Connor's sleeve to reveal a wide, blackened scar. Connor had been able to stitch the flesh back together but the wound had become infected anyway. Though…Greagoir frowned, puzzled by the strange colour of the injury. Pushing Denny's hand away, he too tugged the material of Connor's robe; the better to assess the wound. Yes, skin and muscle had been rejoined, but what lay beneath the pale flesh had not healed as it should; appearing as a messy, spider web of black and purple radiating outwards from the initial gash up and down the Enchanter's arm.

"What the Fade is this?" Greagoir asked quietly.

"You don't know?" Denny asked, surprise clear in her voice. She cast a look about them. Connor's collapse appeared to have created a wide clearing around the two of them for now. Lowering her voice all the same, she told him; "The Taint."

Snatching his hands from evidence of the darkspawn taint, Greagoir stared at Connor in disbelief. Why hadn't the abomination said something? Had the demon known? Did the demon have anything to do with getting Connor infected in the first place? If so, why?

"Diele ain't gunna be happy about this, I can guarantee," Denny sighed, scrubbing at her cheek again. She slid a look towards Greagoir. "She didn't like you nug nuts coming along with us," she told him. "You can bet she's not gunna want to drag this boyo's carcass 'cross country to the Peak. I ain't carryin' him neither."

And if Connor dies, will the demon return to the Fade, Greagoir mused? Will that solve the problem of having the abomination running about Ferelden in bodily form? Damn! That's too tempting…It would also be no different from what a Templar would have done, Greagoir knew. He was clearly taking too long to respond, finding Denny's sharp elbow nudging him for some kind of a reaction. "He's your friend," jab. "Whatcha gunna do?"

"One," Greagoir stated clearly. "He is not my friend and two…"

"Tell me later," Denny stood, glaring at the people around them who'd begun showing signs of curiosity, now that the initial shock of a young man fainting in public had worn off. "For the mo, let's just get him out of here and someplace quieter," Denny suggested. "Preferb outta town and these bloody gawkers." Thumping at her breastplate, Denny raised her voice, "Oi! You lot clear off! This is Grey Warden business, right! And no, I ain't gunna kill no wild bears, blighted wolves or packs of poisonous spiders for you, so don't ask!"

Crouching beside the unconscious mage once more, she inclined her head towards Greagoir. "Bloody Lotheringers…think they can use us as their personal quest service?" At his raised eyebrows, she added, "Long story, ya don't wanna know." Waving a hand at Connor, she continued more urgently. "Just pick him up. Sooner we get him away, the better."

The Grey Warden was right. Grabbing an unresisting arm, Greagoir hoisted Connor onto a shoulder, wobbling slightly under the man's weight and an arm that smacked him in the face as he adjusted the mage to sit a little more comfortably. He didn't like the thought of simply leaving Connor to succumb to the Taint. That was just…The Senior Enchanter's voice in his head very firmly reminded him of his Healer's responsibilities…even while the Knight Commander shook his head at him. Abominations were abominations and Greagoir had his duty to the Circle as well.

He waited for his father's voice to arrive in his head, to tell him what to do; to give him some kind of direction, but nothing arrived. All that he heard was Denny's more audible – and urgent - request for him to move.

-oo-

It was late. Without Arngrim and the Kester's Pride, services to and from Kinloch Hold had been reduced by necessity. The other vessels needed to be reserved for the merchants transporting their cargo to Redcliffe and beyond and he'd had to wait longer than usual for the last barge back to the mainland. By the time he reached the Lake Calenhad docks, the sun had sunk behind the white peaks of the Frostbacks and the sky had taken on a depressing purple grey that did not help his mood. He was angry and annoyed but not surprised at the way things had turned out. It had been well over a decade since he had worn the Prophet's colours. He was an outsider now. Just another ordinary Fereldan…

"Ah…" a voice emerged from the darkness. "Our hero returns!"

As he spoke a shape half-formed itself out of the gloom and shadowy piles of fishermen's netting and merchant's barrels. It remained a vague outline in shades of black until the speaker stepped into the yellow light of the dock lamps and even then, remained fairly indistinct. With his hood pulled low over his face and his cloak brushing the wood of the dock, few would have been able to recognise the individual, much less have an inclination to remain in close proximity for fear of their lives.

Ser Ryan however, smiled and offered a salute.

"Your Hi…"

"Shh! Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhshshshshshsh shsh!" the shadowy figure waved his hands urgently. "Not here, for the Maker's sake man." Seeing the older man smile however, he accused; "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Is using your correct title so bad?" Ser Ryan enquired.

"Yes," the black-clad man replied so quickly it was clear it was a question he was quite used to. "I prefer the far less offensive address of 'my lord', as you know perfectly well."

Ser Ryan saluted again. "As you wish…my lord…"

"Well alright, alright," the man waved his hand again. "No need to get all gushy about it." He indicated the looming spires of the Mages' Tower behind in the gloom. "You all finished here? How's the mini-mage? All grown up and ready to be First Enchanter?"

The two had begun their way to the Spoiled Princess. In the distance warm light spilled from open windows and the sound of music and laughter floated towards them on the evening breeze. The enticing aroma of almost edible things to eat lingered in the night air, reminding Ser Ryan that in all the excitement, there had been few opportunities for meals. He knew he could have stayed for supper with his brother, but the urge to leave the Tower had been too strong.

When did I learn to hate that place so much, he wondered with a snort. When once, I used to call it home...?

"I heard that."

Ser Ryan's head jerked up. "I'm…sorry, my lord?"

He found a black leather-clad finger prodding the air barely millimetres from the end of his nose. "Some thing is up." Lifting his own head, the younger man pretended to sniff the air. As he did, his hood fell back several centimetres, revealing dark hair and a set of suspicious blue eyes. "I smell an adventure…And you have that look on your face," he added, narrowing those keen, all-knowing eyes. "The one that says 'how can I ask my lord for a leave of absence to take care of 'personal business'?"

Instead of being surprised, Ser Ryan chuckled appreciatively. "You never change my lord; and you are right. I do have some personal business to attend to."

"Ah…and here I was thinking you were going to say 'no, let's just go home James, and spring the horses while you're at it!'"

"Why?" Ser Ryan asked, one eyebrow twitching. "I don't think I know anyone called James."

"Neither do I."

A few more metres passed beneath their booted feet before the black clad man spoke again. "So…" he began, a hint of impatience mixed with eagerness in his voice. "Where are we going?"

Ser Ryan's smile was grim. "'We' are not going anywhere, my lord."

"What?" the young man clutched at his chest. "Depriving me of my favourite Captain already? My heart is quite broken. Anyway…" Hooking his thumbs into the top of his belt, the young lord paused mid-step, scuffing an idle toe into the muddy ground. "Mother's home this week…something to do with renewed attempts to breed more Couslands. Fergus very kindly sent me a note." A grateful grin accompanied this explanation. "So you can say I am looking forward to finding an excuse for being elsewhere. And a good one at that."

Ser Ryan tried not to grimace, he really did, but the last couple of days had been trying to say the least. I'm not as young as I used to be. Where did my patience go? Dragging a member of royalty along on his little search however…? Ser Ryan transferred his gaze to the inviting doors of the Spoiled Princess, thoughts of hot food and a tankard of ale beginning to take over everything else. He was only going to go to Orzammar; a trip that would take him through the safe Arling of Redcliffe, along a path well-worn by ordinary travellers and merchants. Once there, he would locate the First Enchanter, find out where Alyce might be then…What could possibly go wrong with such a simple itinerary?

His brain automatically switched his attention to Aidan Cousland beside him.

What could go wrong, indeed…?

The young lord was already rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "So…" he repeated. "With that in mind – because you couldn't possibly be so callous, cruel and heartless as to throw me to the ruthless matrimonial machinations of my mother – where are we going again?"

Orzammar was a location sanctioned for visitation by the princes, Ser Ryan told himself, though he did so with a twinge of guilt. While King Bryce was all for maintaining good relations with their subterranean allies, Ryan knew he was looking for excuses to have someone as experienced and capable in battle as the Cousland. On the other hand as Captain of the Cousland Guard, he had a responsibility to keep his lord out of trouble, not lead him into it.

Really, what could go wrong?

"Anything and everything…" Ryan muttered under his breath. I should know better than most how something simple can very quickly turn into something vaguely resembling stone fruit.

"And…" Cousland remarked, eyeing his Captain closely for an explanation of that particular, cryptic statement, "If it all goes pear-shaped you can bet it could not possibly be as bad as my walking down the aisle with some tittering, wide-eyed fashion disaster – Habren Bryland comes to mind – but I digress, Maker knows the woman should be shipped off to the Anders or somewhere else where she can do no damage to anyone but herself but I'm digressing again aren't I?. Look, I'm just saying-"

"My son is missing," Ryan told Cousland before he could continue babbling. "

"Missing? Missing how? Kidnapped?" he asked, counting off the possibilities on each finger. "Run away to join the carnival? Gone off on a prior appointment without telling anyone, what?"

Ser Ryan ran a hand through his hair. "The details are unclear, my lord," he told the younger man. "What I do know is that the situation is serious enough that my wife will need to be informed." That is, if she doesn't know already.

"Ooh, scary." Tapping a finger to his scrubby chin, Cousland added, "You know, on second thoughts maybe I'm not that desperate to escape my mother. Being admired by pretty girls, going to parties, scratchy collars, wine, women and being dragged back home half-drunk by the coat tails by the Watch…what's not to love about that?" Extending a hand, he clapped it encouragingly on his Captain's shoulder. "I wish you all the luck in the world. Can I have your best long sword if you don't come back? Oh, and that silverite shield with the wiggly snake thing on it?"

Ser Ryan blinked. "Wiggly snake…?" He frowned. "I think you might mean the one with the burning sword of Andraste on it."

"Yeah that and…" Cousland aimed a light punch at Ryan's shoulder. "Idiot. You honestly think I'm going to let you face the ire of my favouritest mage in Thedas on your own? That is…if you expect her to be ired. Anyway…" Throwing his arm about Ser Ryan's shoulders, he steered them both once more towards The Princess. "Adventure, peril, fluffy white nugs and Dwarven beer. You know how I love to live dangerously."

"All too well, my lord."

"That sounded like criticism, but I'm big enough to let that pass, my dear Captain. And I'll ask you again…where are we going?"

Ryan sighed. "Orzammar, my lord."

"Oh, Orzammar?"

"To see the First Enchanter who will then (hopefully) inform me where I might find Senior Enchanter Alyce Amell."

"Dear me, so formal?" Cousland sniffed. "Oh well and Orzammar too eh? Well two out of three is pretty good," he added.

"Out of…?" Ser Ryan frowned, confused.

"I've always wanted to know whether fluffy white nugs ever existed," Cousland grinned. "That and mage panties…though I suspect the latter might prove more difficult – and painful - to verify…unless you're willing to…? Neh, didn't think so. Well," Cousland continued; his cheer irrepressible. "Never let it be said that I don't like a challenge! But for now…onward brave Captain! Tonight we partake of ale and surly, jaded, tavern wenches! Tomorrow, we adventure!"

-oo-