disclaimer type=standard

Anything you recognise is Bioware's. I daresay anything else belongs to them too.

/disclaimer

o_ooo000ooo_o

"Adrift? What did he mean by that?" Cassandra demanded.

Kathryn tilted her head slightly. "Exactly that. I didn't understand at the time either. Things he had been brought up to believe in were in the process of being challenged. Maleficarum - bad. Oh, wait. The only pair he'd ever conversed with were both concerned with the safety of Thedas as a whole, researching new and inventive ways to kill evil. One of them had been at it for centuries, while evidently not harming anyone. Chantry - good. Oh, wait. The Revered Mother who held him on his naming day sold the Cousland family out the moment it looked as though they were lost."

"That is a very simplistic view, Warden."

"True, but Fergus is quite a simple man. Not stupid, I'd have given my left eye for his education, but... simple. He believed he knew what was right, and he encountered things that weren't. He believed he knew what was wrong, and likewise."

Cassandra crossed her arms. "So he changed his opinion to an almost diametrically opposing view? That mages and magic were good?"

Kathryn slapped her palm to her face. "Dear Maker, you are dense sometimes. Would you please let go of your own damned prejudices and look at it from his point of view?"

The Seeker opened her mouth to retort, but stopped, drew in a deep breath and let it out. What exactly had Teyrn Fergus seen in those weeks with the Warden? She had threatened him on meeting him, and then offended him with her woeful manners. No, that was irrelevant.

He had seen her use magic to casually wipe out a force the size of his own escort. That had terrified him.

No... That wasn't right...

He had seen her wipe out a terrifying force of nightmares invading his lands. While protecting his own soldiers.

Cassandra's eyes widened. From the Teyrn's point of view, both were valid, but if he had held one before and the other afterwards...

In that one trip, the Warden had protected his lands, and his soldiers, from a visible and pervasive threat. She had saved his brother's valued mabari. She had proven herself loyal to those who were considered evil, but were doing good work. She had solved a problem of the Chantry's making - she had cleared out his own castle of demons and made it safe, all the while preventing him from injury. She had kept him from being enthralled by a demon.

All that in a short trip home. To have your beliefs challenged by someone to that extent... It was suddenly quite believable that the Teyrn would change his views so abruptly.

"I..." she said weakly. "I think I see."

The elf grunted, a lopsided grin on her face. "Yeah, I could actually see the change in your expression that instant. It was ready to applaud."

Cassandra glared at the unrepentant elf.

"You know, that glare still doesn't work on me."

Another tic. "Evidently not. So, you now had the unequivocal support of the second most powerful man in Ferelden. What happened then?"

"No I didn't. Not at that point, at any rate. Fergus had changed his mind, yes. He decided that having Grey Wardens in Amaranthine would be a good thing, given the incessant darkspawn attacks. He began discussions with his vassals on how to present their support for me at the Landsmeet. But he didn't like me personally. He respected my skill but his support for me didn't really build until after I was made Arlessa. It grew over time, especially during and after the incident with the Architect. He told me himself that no one could have been expected to hold the arling together unaided through such circumstances. That I managed it without requesting help silenced almost all opposition to my elevation to Arlessa."

"I would not have believed it myself," Cassandra replied, pacing back and forth in a space not large enough for such activity, "were it not for my colleague's confidence in your prowess." She paused, tapping her chin with one elegant finger. "It does, however, explain the Teyrn's sudden aloofness he held for the Chantry after the Blight. The Revered Mother at the Highever Chantry was shocked at his sudden change in demeanour."

A large smile appeared on the mage's face. "I'm surprised she didn't accuse me of enthralling Fergus. Especially since he asked her about the Chantry's use of Blood Magic to track and control mages. It was her evasive answers that truly set his opinion against her."

With a slow nod, Cassandra said, "Some did make such accusations against you. Some still do. His support of your ennoblement, then his growing admiration of the way you managed and protected your demesne is seen as evidence by those unwilling to see the truth."

Kathryn gave one of her snorts of amusement. "And just what is the truth, Cassandra?"

She growled in frustration. "That you not only saved the city of Amaranthine but also Vigil's Keep, against two armies of darkspawn. And you did so with only a handful of Wardens."

"What can I say? Grey Wardens are awesome."

"They are also responsible for the deaths of countless innocents!" the Seeker spat. "You personally recruited an apostate away from the templars who had legally apprehended him. That one decision had consequences that rocked the entire continent! He assassinated Grand Cleric Elthina; he used her life force to power the spell that annihilated the Kirkwall Chantry."

The Warden nodded, apparently sympathetic to Cassandra's claim. "It must have been terrifying to discover that a single mage has the power to kill every single person in a Chantry or Cathedral."

Cassandra drew a breath. "Do not give me your false sympathy!"

"False sympathy? I wasn't offering any false sympathy. I happen to feel a great empathy with the Chantry over this," she said, watching the Seeker's reaction. The instant Cassandra appeared to accept that she was telling the truth, she continued, "Now that mages and the Chantry are on even footing, there only need to be sixteen more performances of Anders' ritual and the score will be even on Annulments and Annihilations."

The Seeker was momentarily speechless. "I... You... You cannot believe that!" Such a belief would be disastrous if she was ever going to gain this mage's assistance.

"Why not?" Kathryn challenged. "On one hand we have a single person deciding that an entire group of people are beyond saving and need to be eliminated for the greater good. On the other hand we have... no wait, we have that on both hands."

"You condone his actions?" Cassandra all but screamed, her hopes all but gone.

Kathryn sighed deeply. "No. Had he used Meredith's life force to eliminate the templars, that would be a different matter." She shook her head, scarlet hair swaying back and forth. "I was furious with Anders for what he did, because he destroyed any chance of the reformations at the Ferelden Circle being adopted anywhere." She looked up and stared directly into Cassandra's eyes. "But until you fully understand how templars treat mages in Circles, you simply won't understand his motivation."

Cassandra took a deep breath, suddenly feeling lighter. "I know their frustrations, I have-"

"No. You don't," she said simply. "You think you do, I can see it in your eyes. You believe that the Chantry and the templars do the right thing governing the Circles of Thedas. You believe that. You believe that hard. But you are wrong. Or at least, not entirely correct."

Flushed with rage at the contradiction, Cassandra drew a breath ready to castigate the mage. Talking to her was an emotional ride like a voyage through a storm.

Kathryn held up a hand. "Just wait. Before you explode, just wait. Why don't I tell you what happened when I finally reached the Ferelden Circle? Maybe, just maybe, you'll begin to understand why some mages think they have to kill to be free."

Cassandra let her breath out sharply. "Very well," she said. "Tell me."

o_ooo000ooo_o

I spent a few days in Highever after repairing the Veil. I created some potions to refill my bandoleer, and did all the tedious but essential maintenance work on my armour. Several of Fergus' Banns stopped by to reaffirm their vow of allegiance, or try and explain why they'd broken said vow and supported Howe. Some lost their lands to different family branches, some didn't. It seemed quite random to me, though Aedan assured me that there were valid, political reasons behind the decisions.

While Thunder and I wandered the streets of Highever, healing the odd family breadwinner, running the odd errand for the Mages' Collective and looting the odd body of any idiot who tried mugging us, Fergus cleaned house. The Revered Mother of Highever was forcibly expelled from the Chantry and the teyrnir, told to sod off and not come back. The priests on the City Council were sacked, his personal spiritual advisor sent to Denerim and the templars all rounded up and questioned as to their involvement in the unlawful executions of Highever citizens.

It warmed my heart, it really did.

Captain Francois was directed to continue escorting me to Kinloch Hold and then onto Orzammar. The Captain, with his usual efficiency, had a smaller squad provisioned and prepared to leave four mornings after our arrival. Fergus even provided me with a horse, so that I was not required to walk. A fact that my bottom and thighs would have been cursing, had it not been for the glorious existence of healing spells. I did feel a bit odd, being the only mounted traveller in the group, but the Captain assured me that marching along behind a mounted noble was a very common duty for a guard.

The trip down to the old Avvar tower was unremarkable. No bandits or darkspawn attacks, though there was evidence that there had been both about recently. We found both darkspawn and bandit corpses in one spot, so presumably two irritants had managed to cancel each other out. I burned everything, after checking for valuables, of course.

We were met outside the docks by a group of four soldiers and a familiar man. I'd met him in Denerim a few times, while speaking with Eamon, or with Anora. His name was William Larkworthy; quite possibly the most inappropriate name in history. He was one of Eamon's agents, and there was no evidence that he had ever smiled in his entire life. As always, he looked neat. Neat shoes, neat clothing, neat moustache. A quintessential fusspot.

The fussy little man bowed to me as we neared. "Warden-Commander, it is a pleasure to see you again. My lord, the Arl of Redcliffe, has instructed me to conduct the negotiations with the templars on his behalf."

I nodded. "William, likewise. I should have guessed Eamon would send you."

My deliberate lack of manners didn't faze him. Nothing ever appeared to faze him. "Just so. My escort and I arrived three days ago, but we have been denied access to Kinloch Hold. I trust that you have the ability to gain access."

I looked down the hill towards the lake. The ferry was moored just where it always had been, only there was once again a templar on the pier instead of the ferryman. I turned away and back to my escort.

"Of course," I replied, with more confidence than I felt. "Captain, Thunder and I are going over to the island. Take William and your men to the Spoiled Princess and give them the night to themselves. Hopefully I can convince Greagoir to open the doors tomorrow morning, and we can leave for Orzammar. However, don't be surprised if we are here for a few days."

Captain Francois saluted. "As you wish, Warden-Commander. Sergeant! Get the men billeted. Ambassador, if you would join us?"

"Of course, Captain Francois." He turned back to me. "Until tomorrow, Warden-Commander," he finished with a bow.

With that, my escort left me and took the ambassador into the lakeside tavern. I waited until they were inside before beginning my preparations. I cast spells that hardened my skin, made me stronger, shielded me from damage and boosted my spells power. Holding that many spells in place was tiring but it was - when entering a potentially dangerous situation – necessary. The effects were striking - blue mist wafted from my partially transparent body. It never failed to freak people out, but despite my armour, there was no mistaking me for a mage.

As an afterthought, I liberally coated Spellweaver's blade with one of Zevran's potent concoctions. Preparations complete, I began making my way down the slope to the lake's edge. As Thunder and I approached the templar on the pier, I felt my hands clench involuntarily. Thunder picked up on my tension, and I noticed his hackles rising.

I hate templars.

He was silent right up until I reached the pier. "State your name and business," he said, his warbling voice betraying his youth.

"My name is Kathryn Surana. I require passage to the tower."

The armoured boy crossed his arms defiantly. "By order of the Knight-Commander, no one is allowed access to the Circle without his express permission," he said, and I could hear the sneer that the helmet concealed.

"Well that is good news," I said cheerfully. "Why don't you get in your little boat, row on over and tell Greagoir that a Circle mage is here requesting entrance. Then you can row back and pick me up. Once you row me across to the island, you can then row all the way back." I smiled winsomely at him. "Or, why don't I jump in the boat with you now? That will save you making two trips."

"I don't think you heard me," he said, trying to growl.

Thunder showed him how a professional does it. The low, threatening rumble and bared teeth caused the templar to step back involuntarily and reach for his weapon.

"Stop!" I commanded, causing both dog and boy to freeze. I placed a hand on Thunder's collar. "Down, boy. And as for you, don't draw your weapon on a war hound unless you want your life to become extremely, painfully and terminally interesting."

"You can't threaten me!" he declared, despite the evidence to the contrary.

I shrugged. "It's your funeral." I let go of the collar and crossed my arms.

Thunder had obviously picked up a flair for the dramatic. He resumed growling, taking slow, deliberate steps along the wooden pier. The young templar stepped back at the same rate, holding out one hand to placate Thunder while the other hand hovered over the hilt of his greatsword. "Good dog! Nice dog! Er, sit! Stay!"

Thunder continued his implacable advance. I was just considering how amusing it would be to watch a templar initiate fall backwards into the frigid, inky waters of Lake Calenhad when he shouted, "All right! I'll take you!"

"You templars are learning," I pointed out. "Slowly, to be sure, but you are learning. The last time I was here, Carroll was on duty, and he only agreed to take me and my friends across after we directly threatened to kill him and just take the boat."

"Er," the templar said ineloquently while trembling, "you realise that even if I take you across, you still won't be permitted access to the tower itself?"

I shrugged. "One step at a time. And you, my over-zealous friend, are merely the first step. Come on, let's go, the sun has set and it's going to be pitch dark soon."

With that, I strode along the pier past him and jumped lightly into the small boat. I adjusted Spellweaver and sat down. Thunder followed me, pausing momentarily to glare at my new friend, before leaping in after me. The templar climbed in after us, his hands still shaking as they reached for the oars. "Um, your dog isn't going to, um..."

I chuckled for a moment. "Not unless you do something monumentally stupid like try to Smite me."

"Right. Okay, ah, I can't perform a Holy Smite yet, so, er..."

I sighed. "Just row the boat, initiate. The faster you get me to the island, the faster you'll be away from me."

The crossing was quite possibly done in record time. The boat arrived at the island so quickly in fact that the templar assigned to manage the docks was still running from the watch house as we hit the pier. Thunder and I were out of the boat before our welcoming committee reached the shore.

"Halt! You are trespassing!" screamed the templar, sounding a bit winded. "Aaron, what in the Maker's name are you doing bringing someone here unauthorised?" he continued, sounding even more aggrieved at his fellow than at me.

I cleared my throat. "I am a Circle mage; you don't have the authority to keep me out."

"I don't remember y- Maker's breath! What manner of magic is this?" he blurted as I stepped into the light cast by the torches around the pier. I suppose a semi-transparent, armoured elf standing in the midst of a cloud of gaseous mana was not on his list of things to see today.

"Is there a problem?" I asked politely. "It's dark, it's cold, and I need to speak to Irving."

The templar coughed. "Circle mages do not dress so," he said weakly.

"If you can't feel my magic, you don't belong in the order. Don't let the sword and armour fool you," I snapped. "I'm here on official business."

The templar scoffed. "And what business would that be?" he demanded, stepping forward, presumably in an attempt to tower over and intimidate me.

Thunder began his signature growl. Low, deep, menacing. Anyone hearing it felt the hairs on their neck rise. With each step the templar took towards me, the growl increased in volume. After only three steps, the templar stopped his advance. Carefully, he stepped backwards. Each step resulted in Thunder growling a little softer.

Once everyone was quiet again, I replied, "My business is exactly that. My. Business. It is not of any concern to two inconsequential doormen. Now, get out of my way."

Recognising that he was not exactly in the position of power he was accustomed to, the templar's attitude abruptly changed. "Look, er, if you are a Circle mage, can you prove it? We really aren't allowed to let anyone into the tower unless they're authorised."

The fact I was literally steaming magic wasn't enough for him? "No."

"Er, right," he stammered, looking a bit harried. "Um, look, I'll take you up to see the Knight-Commander. Can you leave your dog here?"

"You clearly don't know anything about mabari if you think Thunder would let me be alone in a threatening situation."

Thunder barked an agreement.

"Er, right," he repeated, sounding even more miserable. "Look, we're really not meant to let anyone in. Not without the Knight-Commander's permission," he whimpered, as though being thoroughly pathetic would be all it took to make me change my mind.

"Well, I suppose you could draw your weapon and try to stop me. That won't prevent me from entering either, you realise, but you won't need to suffer a lecture from Greagoir afterwards. That's a plus, isn't it?"

o_ooo000ooo_o

Greagoir had aged quite considerably in the last year. He was still as abrupt as ever, however. "Ah, Kathryn Surana. I should have expected that you would barge your way back into the Tower uninvited."

I glared at the man, refusing to show any subservience. "Greagoir. Your hospitality is just as warm as I remember. Where is Irving?"

"The First Enchanter is indisposed," he snapped. "You, however, will surrender your weapons and armour and go with Marcus." One templar snapped his head towards Greagoir and nodded, before starting towards me.

I glanced around the entry hall, noting templar numbers and positions. Bluffing templars too stupid to get out of guard duty was a little different than persuading Greagoir to allow me through into the tower. I was confident in my abilities, but if a fight broke out it would only take one of the templars to strip my spell protections to leave me in a very dubious position. "No thank you, I believe I'll just hold onto them until my business is complete."

One of the few helmet-less templars stepped forward, a sneer on his face. "The Knight-Commander gave you an order, mage."

I snorted in defiance. "Greagoir does not have the authority to compel my obedience, much less the capability. I ask again, where is Irving?"

Greagoir's eye twitched, but he remained superficially civil. "As I said, the First Enchanter is indisposed. And in the name of the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, I am placing you back under the authority of the Circle of Magi."

"Like I care about what that old biddy thinks," I muttered, not bothering to keep my voice down. "You know that I am a Grey Warden, Greagoir. It doesn't matter what she says, you do not have the authority to arrest me."

Gasps of offence echoed through the hall, and Greagoir's eyes narrowed. "What is it you want, Warden?" he asked, sounding curious.

"I wish to discuss your treasonous disregard for a royal proclamation. The Queen announced in front of the assembled Landsmeet that the Circle of Magi was to be given independence from the Chantry."

He waved my statement away. "The crown has no authority in the matter."

I waved a finger at him. "Now, now, Greagoir, you know that isn't strictly true. The crown retains certain obligations over all its subjects, including the obligation to protect them from abuses."

Greagoir sneered at me. "The Crown of Ferelden and every other nation ceded responsibility for mages to the Chantry. This, I'm sure, you are fully aware of."

I shrugged. "Would you care to discuss it in the First Enchanter's study? I am here on behalf of the King and Queen, and I am not leaving without speaking to Irving. Or would you prefer me to invoke the Right of Conscription on every mage in the Circle between the ages of fifteen and fifty?"

Somewhere within the shouts of outrage, denial and denunciation, a templar decided to raise his arms and call down a Holy Smite on me. I missed it amid the chaotic noise, though Thunder's sharp ears did not. My mabari friend had seen Alistair in action many, many times, and knew exactly what was happening. He bunched and, in a scatter of claws on stone, launched himself at the templar. Before the short ritual could be complete, Thunder crashed into him and locked his jaws around the templar's throat, knocking the armoured man down in a metallic symphony. A sudden crimson spray signaled the change from clear, terrified shrieks to a bubbling gurgle.

o_ooo000ooo_o

"Bullshit! You expect me to believe that a templar of the Chantry tried to Smite you for no other reason than your presence?" Cassandra exploded.

"Yes," the Warden snapped back. "You claim to want to know the truth. Well, there it is. If you can't handle the truth, maybe you need to find a new line of work."

The Seeker crossed her arms, still quivering in anger. "I do not believe you, Warden. No templar capable of calling forth a Holy Smite would be so ill-disciplined as to attack a Royal messenger."

"Ah, but I wasn't a Royal messenger."

"What?"

Kathryn shrugged. "I wasn't a Royal messenger. I was a mage who had just defied the orders of the Knight-Commander."

Cassandra stopped. A terrible thought occurred. "Ah."

Kathryn grinned nastily. "Yes. Ah."

Cassandra stood stock still, unwelcome thoughts running through her mind. Mages were dangerous. This was not an article of faith, but a point of fact. The templars trained to handle them were given certain leeway to ensure safety. Mages were expected to obey instructions from their templar chaperones at all times.

Kathryn continued. "Did you know that some templars volunteer for Circle duty because they hate mages? I don't mean dislike. I mean loathe. Maybe as a kid they pulled some little girl's pigtails and got their hair set on fire. Maybe their parents taught them those Maker-blessed virtues of hatred, intolerance and bigotry. Whatever. But when those templars finally arrive at the Circle and discover that all mages must obey their instructions at all times or be punished, having your orders obeyed by mages becomes a habit. And like all habits, they're hard to break. Having them broken for you makes people pissed. So what do you think happens when a mage who doesn't have to listen to them comes along? Well, I'll tell you!"

o_ooo000ooo_o

Every templar in the room went for their weapon.

The only thought in my mind as I watched the red spray coat the floor was, 'Bugger, that tears it'. I threw a fireball at the highest concentration of templars, and then drew Spellweaver. The instant my sword was in hand, I hurled an awful spirit curse at the only templar I could see holding a bow, even though he was still smouldering from my previous spell.

Well, that was two spells off and no one else had tried to Smite me. Lucky, lucky me.

Greagoir was screaming at everyone to stop. Ignoring him, five helmeted goons closed to sword-swinging distance from me; I lashed out with a concussive blast of mental energy, confounding all templars within weapons range, with one notable exception. Greagoir himself.

The Knight-Commander, having shrugged off my mental assault, gave up trying to stop the violence and raised his arms to Smite me. A piercing howl echoed through the hallways. Every templar flinched, the sound even disrupting Greagoir's concentration. I made a quick vow to give Thunder a meaty bone for dinner. Perhaps even an entire cow.

Frustrated with his lack of success, the Knight-Commander set his face into a mask of determination. He drew his sword and attacked with a gigantic overhead smash. I met his blade with my own, employing a technique Oghren had once shown me – catch the descending blade and half-turn to one side, diverting the blow down to overbalance your opponent. I thrust my arm back, and immensely enjoyed the feeling of Greagoir's nose breaking under my elbow. He staggered back, blood and snot running over his mouth and chin.

A bark, a terrified scream and another resounding crash of metal on stone indicated that Thunder had moved on from his first chew toy and picked a new plaything. I sank into a defensive stance. There were dozens of templars in the Hall. Why no Smites? The first thing templars did when attacking a mage was hit them with a Smite.

Greagoir shook his head and assumed a defensive stance, this time readying his shield as well. I pointed Spellweaver at him and shot a powerful lightning spell into his chest, almost point blank. The deadly spell arced along his armour and shot away, forking again and again, striking templars one way then the next.

More templars charged me, though only one made it unscathed through the swarm of lightning tendrils. He screamed defiantly, swinging his axe in an undisciplined arc. Had it hit, it would have decapitated me. But it was a move designed for the practice field, where one was striking at an unmoving post. I ducked under the blow and struck with my own sword at his unprotected legs. The purple kilt parted under my blow, which all but took the man's leg off. He went down in a screaming heap, Zevran's poison on the blade sapping his strength, adding to his agony.

The other templars in blade range were struggling, seeming unused to fighting in a coordinated manner. Even so, I was outnumbered and could only use spells with extremely short casting times. I swung Spellweaver around at eye level to buy me a second or two from the nearest templars. Every one of them jumped back like scalded kittens. I lowered my shoulder and charged at Greagoir; he was the most potent threat and had to be neutralised. Short as I was, I hit him low down near his centre of gravity. He went over onto his backside with a grunt and found a sharp piece of metal at his throat an instant later. He let go of his blade in surrender, the well-used sword clattering on the stone floor.

"ENOUGH!" a voice roared, accompanied with a pulse of magic. Even through the chaos of melee, it carried enough authority that all the still-standing templars paused.

Even with my sword at his throat, Greagoir turned to stare. "Irffing! Whad ah you doind?" he said, his words hampered by his recent nasal adjustment.

The First Enchanter stepped forward calmly and sent an azure surge of healing at the screaming templar whose leg I almost severed. "Apparently, I am saving your life, my friend. Kathryn, please put your weapon away."

"Why?" I snapped, my blood still pounding in my ears. "To make it easier for these bastards to shove a sword through my chest?"

His dulcet tones still carried immeasurable calm and patience. "No one is going to harm you, Kathryn. Please, put your weapon away."

I snorted. "I'll only believe that if I hear it from Greagoir himself," I snapped, pushing the edge of my sword hard enough to leave a deep indentation in his skin. Any lateral movement by either of us would end up with him bleeding out. I deliberately chose Greagoir's own words from the first time I'd returned to the Circle as a Warden.

"Greagoir?" Irving asked mildly as he sent a healing spell at the Knight-Commander. Honestly, I could not believe how calm the man was as he drifted around the hall, dispensing healing and rejuvenation spells like sweets. Even in the midst of carnage he kept his demeanour level.

There was a muted, grinding crunch as the damage done to his beak was healed. Nose repaired, the Knight-Commander spat out a gob of bloody phlegm and screamed, "You can't be serious! She attacked us! She's signed her own death warrant!"

I'd just decided to drag Spellweaver's razor edge across the Knight-Commander's throat when Irving quickly replied, "And just how many of your templars are you prepared to sacrifice to enact that sentence, old friend? From the looks of things, you may not have enough."

That was true enough. My fireball had knocked down all who stood at one end of the hall and immolated at least four. Many others were only just now shaking off their torpor from my mental and electrical assaults. Thunder had torn the throat out of his second templar and currently had the leg of a whimpering third in his jaws. The one templar who had wielded the bow was hiding behind one of the thick stone columns, out of sight, silently writhing and clutching at his chest as my insidious spell ate him from the inside.

Irving sighed. "I count seven deaths, Greagoir. Will you compound your error?"

"Eight," I said, my eyes still on Greagoir.

Irving paused. "No my dear, there are only…" he said, before being cut off by a small cry and a gory explosion that painted infected blood and entrails all over the floor and walls.

"Eight," I repeated.

Irving swallowed. "I… see," he said wearily, shoulders slumping with defeat. "Could you ask your magnificent hound to release his victim? Preferably before blood loss and shock make it nine?"

I continued to glare at Greagoir for a second or two, but nodded. "Thunder? Drop him, boy. I promise that you can play with him again later if he's naughty."

Thunder released his playmate, giving me a satisfied "Whuff!" before licking sticky red blood from his chops. The templar scrabbled away as best he could with three functioning limbs along a stone floor slick with blood. Thunder trotted over to me and sat at my side, glaring threateningly at the Knight-Commander.

"Who's a good boy?" I asked.

"Whuff!" he barked, happiness incarnate.

"Will you lower your weapon now, Kathryn?"

I shook my head. "Not until I hear the words from Greagoir here," I insisted with a snarl.

Irving sighed, but looked down at the Knight-Commander. "Well, Greagoir? Do you wish for this unfortunate incident to spiral out of control completely?"

Greagoir's eyes blazed with righteous fury.

Irving sighed at the delay. "Greagoir, she has depleted your forces by a quarter, and is completely uninjured. Should you decide to be defiant, she will kill you, and with the deaths of Marcus and Morag, there is only one other templar in the Tower with the ability to Smite. I beg you, please, stand down."

I kept my face as blank as possible, but the news that hardly any of the templars could Smite a mage was a shock. What was going on?

The Knight-Commander still looked defiant and angry that I'd been told about the weakness of his position, but eventually he nodded. "Fine. I guarantee the Grey Warden safe harbour until sunrise tomorrow, but only while her weapon is sheathed," he snarled, his tone begging me to continue to fight.

I was tempted to still kill him, but Greagoir had always kept his word. It was the one thing I admired about the man. I lowered the blade slowly. "Agreed."

Irving smiled at us as though we were a pair of bickering children. "There. All sorted. Keili? Petra? Please summon some more mages and begin healing the wounded. I shall escort our visitor to my office." He held out a hand to the Knight-Commander. "Are you severely injured, Greagoir?"

Greagoir ignored the offered hand, and stood up under his own power. He wiped the blood on his lips away with the back of his hand. "This is not over, Warden. The deaths here today will be avenged."

Thunder grumbled his displeasure at the implied threat. I simply shrugged. "I suspect you'll try. You'll have to decide yourself just how many lives your pride is worth."

Irving sighed. "Children! That is enough! Greagoir, you are in no position to continue to issue threats. And Kathryn, I expected much better of you. Your actions today bring great shame to you and to the Grey Wardens."

I just looked at Irving, idly wondering when - given our recent history - he thought his approval was of any interest to me at all.

Irving slowly lowered his body down in to the soft leather. "Ah, that's better. Please, both of you, sit down."

I nodded and selected the chair closest to me. I reached into my travelling pack, and withdrew the diplomatic satchel. Dropping the pack on the floor next to the chair, I said down with the diplomatic satchel on my knees. Greagoir glared at me, but sat down as well.

"Now," Irving began, looking intently at me. "Perhaps you can tell us what was so important that you felt it necessary to kill a full quarter of the templars stationed here, hmm?"

I shook my head. "You'll have to ask Greagoir that. I am here because Alistair and Anora are concerned with things at the Circle. They proclaimed the independence of the mages, and yet the Chantry not only ignored the proclamation, they locked the doors, shuttered the windows and prevented anyone from visiting." I looked pointedly at Irving. "Alistair hasn't received a single missive from you since before you arrived back at the Tower after the Battle of Denerim. For all he knew, the templars had invoked the Right of Annulment."

"Preposterous," Greagoir scoffed.

Irving glanced at his old friend. "I would have said so myself, Greagoir, had I not personally handed you my weekly reports to the Crown for your review. If those have indeed gone astray, and all other attempts at contact had failed, I can quite readily imagine that His Majesty would send a rather less diplomatic messenger."

I looked at Greagoir and raised an eyebrow. "Intercepting Royal mail is a hanging offence."

The Knight-Commander crossed his arms defiantly. "I was under instruction from the Divine herself."

"Bollocks," I snapped.

His eyes bulged. "I beg your pardon?"

Irving pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a habit I'd seen him do on several occasions when mediating the inconsequential bickering of wayward children.

"That old cow is in Val Royeaux. There is no way she could have found about the Emancipation Proclamation in time to send you an instruction before you started diverting the mail," I said. "So it must have been the other old cow in Denerim who gave the order.

"Show the High Priestesses some respect, girl!"

"No," I said flatly. "Not when they order people to be criminals."

His eyes flashed with anger at me, but he actually looked a bit troubled. "The messenger did come from Denerim," he admitted.

"Oh Greagoir," Irving said sadly. "Is that what this is all about?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What is?"

Greagoir swallowed. "To lock the Tower down, I told Irving that mages were being persecuted."

I barked a mirthless laugh. "How long did you expect that story to last?"

"I expected," he spat, spittle flying from his lips, "that Blessed Divine would have convinced Their Majesties to have changed their minds by now."

Irving cleared his throat. "Does this mean that mages are not being attacked in the streets?"

I snorted and shook my head. "No, quite the opposite, in fact. It's common knowledge that you and twelve other mages stood with the Wardens on top of Fort Drakon to take on the archdemon. It is also common knowledge that the templars and the Grand Bitch herself barricaded themselves into the cathedral during the invasion. People who hid in their locked homes generally survived – the darkspawn don't open doors. But nearly five hundred people tried to seek refuge in the cathedral, thinking that the stone walls would be safer." I shook my head. "They weren't permitted access, even hours before the darkspawn arrived. They were slaughtered like vermin while hammering on the doors, begging to be saved. It was a bloody massacre."

Greagoir swallowed, looking pale.

I glared at him. "So, no, the mages are not being persecuted. Indeed, just about every noble and merchant family in the country is seeking leave to employ a Circle mage or two. And many of them are cutting back on their tithes to the Chantry, on the basis that they did bugger all to fight the Blight, while those dastardly mages that everyone hates actually went toe-to-snout with the big, bad archdemon."

Greagoir shook his head. "Regardless, it makes no difference. Ever since the Tevinters were cast out, magic and those who can use it have been the legal province of the Chantry. The First Justinia made that law in 1:1."

"Only in Orlais, which was the limit of her influence at the time," I interjected.

I got a death glare for my trouble. "It was adopted by all other Andrastean nations within the first age," Greagoir ground out from between clenched teeth. "Nothing Their Majesties say can change that." He shifted in his seat to wag a finger at me. "And if you think I will allow you to simply waltz in here and conscript every mage in the Tower, you are sorely mistaken."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Hypothetically speaking, if I were to invoke the Right, how would you stop me?"

"Do not be obtuse! You know full well that the Wardens can only conscript one mage at a time!"

I smiled at him innocently. "Really? If that is the law, then I'm sure you can tell me exactly where it is recorded."

He blinked. "What do you mean? It's always been so."

I shrugged, noting that Irving also seemed amused. "Actually, it is only a relatively recent tradition, the reason stemming from the rebellion by Sofia Dryden. Maric allowed the Grey Wardens back into Ferelden against the wishes of the Chantry leadership of the time, so Duncan felt it diplomatic to allow the templars to dictate when and how many mages he could recruit. Which was a big, fat zero, until me. But now, with the groundswell of support for ending the Blight in record time, I have no need to continue to observe such an idiotic restriction."

Irving sighed, drawing my attention away from Greagoir's spluttering. "Please, Kathryn, I beg you not to recruit any more from our ranks. The recent unpleasantness has left our numbers depleted. While I have no objection to allowing willing young mages to take up temporary employment opportunities out in the world, we cannot afford to have our numbers whittled any further."

"Well I do!" Greagoir shouted. "I will not allow so much as one mage to leave the tower without a templar escort! And Irving, you know we don't have the manpower any more. If they decide not to return we would have no recourse but to track them down to force them back. That would be a monumental waste of our limited resources."

Another hint to manpower issues in the Chantry. Interesting. It was something to be considered at a later stage. "Well, in that case, Greagoir, I have no choice but to inform you that the King and Queen hereby announce their intention to liberate their subjects that you have imprisoned here that are not under the Chantry's purview."

Greagoir's face flushed bright crimson. "Are you deaf? The mages are the responsibility of the Chantry! Not the Crown!"

I opened the satchel. "I know that. I wasn't referring to them," I said, handing him one of the documents within.

The Knight-Commander frowned, reading his way through the dense legal text. "Preposterous!" he exclaimed.

"Greagoir?" Irving questioned. "What is it?"

"The Tranquil!" he shouted. "The Crown is laying claim to the Tranquil!"

o_ooo000ooo_o

AN: My ebullient thanks to those of you who took the time to review my story - Isabeau of Greenlea, SgtGinger, Bored and Sleepy with Waffles, TheDawgg, MB18932, Nightbrainzz, Iceblack, Arsinoe de Blassenville and Rhagar - I appreciate your words so much.

I have based the way the templars treat the mages on the Milgram and Stanford prison experiments, a pair of rather (in)famous experiments conducted in the '60s and '70s. Milgram found that participants tended to act in conflict with their conscience if instructed to do so by someone perceived as an authority figure. The Stanford experiment involved people being chosen randomly as either prisoners or guards in a faux prison environment, and had to be ended early due to the unexpected way that a third of the 'guards' developed genuine sadistic tendencies.