disclaimer type=standard

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

/disclaimer

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra turned her head away from the Warden, her jaw clenched tight.

Kathryn tilted her head to one side, evaluating the Seeker. "Are you... laughing?"

"No!" the Seeker spat, fighting the involuntary curling her lips were insisting upon. She took a breath and said, "Not at all!"

The Warden smirked. "Oh, I think you are. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

The Seeker shoved a gauntleted fist hard against her lips, trying to appear deep in thought. It didn't work. Behind the hand, her traitorous mouth turned into a smile. The image of the pompous imbecile Greagoir sitting down on some…

"Aha! See? I told you that you were laughing."

"I am n-" Cassandra broke off, coughing. "I do not…" She shut her eyes tightly together, but her shoulders began shaking. "His chair?" she squeaked, to her abject horror.

A wide, genuine smile spread over the tiny elf's face. It was the first expression she had presented that wasn't polluted by her dour cynicism. It was almost as if a different person looked through the bright green eyes; a beautiful young elf girl with no care in the world and a smile like a sunrise. "Yes! It was all I could do not to laugh in Greagoir's face."

Cassandra covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath, her discipline managing to regain control of her mirth. Once she was sure she was fully in control, she dropped her hands and looked at the Warden. "Do all mabari understand instructions so well? I can quite easily imagine a dog expressing its displeasure in such a disgusting way."

"Not all. Generally, the better the pedigree, the better the brains. Aedan Cousland's mabari can recognise hand signals as well as words. You could almost consider Shadow bilingual. But I gather from your expression that you are thinking of some past acquaintances who could have benefited from having their chairs befouled."

"What? No!" she claimed, unconvincingly.

Kathryn raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Well, maybe one or two," Cassandra relented, thinking back to her own induction into the Seekers. Her lips twitched again.

"Ha! I knew it! You are human after all."

Cassandra growled, but the threat just wasn't there anymore. "Enough! Just… enough. Laughing while the world burns around us strikes me as being inappropriate."

Kathryn raised an eyebrow. "Not laughing when a pretentious git like Greagoir sits squarely in dog shit is inappropriate, in my opinion. Whatever plan the Maker has for us must include laughing at idiocy. He put so much of it in people, after all."

That struck Cassandra as incongruous. "You don't strike me as someone who honours the Maker."

Kathryn looked surprised at that. "Really? I am a most devoted servant of Andraste and the Maker. How could I not be?"

The Seeker paused. Was this a test? "I could not fault you were you not. Not after how you were treated by, well..."

The elf tilted her head to one side. "Sorry? What does the Chantry have to do with the my faith in the Maker?"

And there it was. Cassandra had heard that particular argument many times before. "I take it you do not believe that the Chantry does the Maker's work?"

"No one able to think critically would believe so. The Chantry exists to further the interests of the Chantry. Those interests occasionally coincide with those stated by Andraste, but when there is a conflict between them, the Chantry's needs always trumps those of the Maker."

"Bullshit!" Cassandra exploded, her recent good humour vanishing in an instant. "This is not about how you were treated, Kathryn Surana! I told you before that it was a group of rogue templars who kidnapped you and-"

Cassandra blinked, her head buzzing and full of fluff. Pain radiated through her body, from the back of her head down her back, but it was muted, distant. She stared blankly at blurry darkness, wondering where she was. What had happened? Was she lying down?

A blob filled her vision, and details started emerging. Red hair. Pale skin. Pointed ears. Green eyes. An elvish face, looking down at her.

"Wha-" she mumbled, sitting up and shaking the cobwebs from her thoughts.

In a voice dripping with menace, the tiny elf growled out, "Would you care to rephrase your objection, before I revoke your breathing privileges?"

Reality rushed back. With trembling limbs, the Seeker scrabbled back, putting a few precious feet between her and the mage. She rose quivering to her feet and stumbled backwards, glancing at the door to the cell. It suddenly appeared to be leagues away, and offered no escape from this mage. She swallowed, trying to shift an unaccustomed tightness in her throat, more terrified than she had ever been in her life. "I- I simply meant that the Chantry exists to enact the Maker's will. It certainly did not condone the attack on you."

"That is debatable," Kathryn said flatly, with no room for argument. "But why mention those templars at all? We were not discussing the Chantry's incompetence in monitoring the activities of its adherents. Just that it puts its own needs first, ahead of the Maker's."

"But it does not," Cassandra insisted, with much less heat than before.

"The existence of the dissonant verses of the Chant proves otherwise," Kathryn replied. "They show that your Chantry is more interested in changing the Maker's word to suit their position than changing their position to suit the Maker's word."

Cassandra inwardly winced at the mention of the excised verses of the Chant. Voicing the Chantry's justifications for them would do her mission no good here. She grasped at the one positive aspect that had appeared in the dialogue. "You are a true Andrastean then? You believe in the Maker?"

"I am. I do."

The Seeker's heart suddenly rose, despite her fear. That stated belief in the Maker and his bride was something she could work with, something she could build upon. It may still be possible to gain this mage's assistance. "Truly?"

Kathryn sat back on the prison bunk, her emerald eyes still narrowed dangerously. "Truly. Why? Did you think I would not be? I witnessed someone on his death bed, unresponsive to everything - from the most devout prayers from every priest in Redcliffe to the most powerful healing magic in Ferelden. I sprinkled a pinch of the Ashes of Andraste over him, and poof! He wakes up a second later, fully healed and raring to inject his unique brand of idiocy on the world. An honest-to-Maker miracle. How could I not believe?"

Through the odd combination of fear and anger, Cassandra felt a flash of... jealousy? Yes, she was envious. She had devoted her entire life to the Maker and the Chantry, and in the course of her duties had interrogated those who claimed to have witnessed a miracle. Of course, she had inevitably found that the claimants were lying or mistaken, but she had never personally witnessed the Maker's influence. "How indeed," she said weakly. "I envy you."

"Ha!" Kathryn barked. "I can't say I've ever heard those words before."

The Seeker sighed. "No, I suppose not." She swallowed, needing to distract the mage away from this line of thought. "I would still like to know what really happened the next morning at the Circle. Why did so many more templars end up dead?"

"Idiocy."

Cassandra nodded, suspecting as much. "Whose?"

A slow grin formed on the Warden's lips. "That's the question, isn't it?"

o_ooo000ooo_o

It took some time, but eventually Greagoir vented enough of his rage at me to return to his task. He did however, insist that I be immediately escorted to my assigned guest quarters and ensconced within. I only complied once I was given assurances that I would be given Duncan's room, that I was to be woken well before sunrise and that I was permitted to keep my arms and armour. Greagoir's mood soured at my list of demands, but he conceded remarkably quickly.

I stayed in Duncan's room until I could no longer hear Greagoir's footsteps on the stone floor before shifting form into a mouse and squeezing out under the door. Once in the corridor, I scurried past my lone templar guard, hugging the wall. When I was finally away from prying eyes, I resumed my usual form and went about my business without any irritating templar shadows. I made my way through the tower, nodding at various Enchanters, eliciting expressions ranging from terror to amusement. It did not take me long to locate my next port of call.

"Hello Godwin."

The delightfully corrupt mage stiffened, but relaxed once he looked up and recognised me. "Kathryn! I heard that you were back. Was all the excitement downstairs your fault? It is good to see you again!"

I nodded. "Yes, and likewise. How's business?"

He coughed, almost choking, at my blatant mention of his sideline. He cleared his throat, looking around nervously. "Shush! What if-"

"There are no templars around, Godwin. They don't have the manpower to patrol the floors at present. How much lyrium do you have?"

"Shush!" he hissed, not willing to risk discovery, gesturing me to keep my voice down. He eyed me warily. "Er, why?"

"Because with the current shortage, there is an opportunity for enormous profit. And you would render your teeth, eyeballs and gonads down into potion ingredients if you could make some coin by it."

"I've not got any left!" he all but wailed. "If you had a wet cloth you might be able to collect a couple of dust grains by cleaning my shelves. The Knight-Commander's orders to isolate the tower means that my supplier can't get through."

I smiled. "Ah, but I'm not looking to buy, Godwin."

He blinked. "You... you've got some to sell?" he asked, suddenly sounding a lot more eager.

I nodded, unbuckling and removing my bandoleer of potions. "Twenty-four highly potent lyrium potions, hand made by yours truly. If you diluted these beauties I imagine you could get almost two hundred small lyrium doses." I pulled out one of the potions and handed it to him.

He fingered the bottle, holding it up to the steady light of a spell-wisp. Nodding in appreciation of the colour, he uncorked it and took a delicate sniff, blinking at the concentrated bouquet. "Impressive. How much?" he asked quickly.

I named a figure.

"That's most reasonable, Kathryn," he said, his eye's glittering with repressed greed. Maker, he'd lose his smallclothes if he tried playing cards with anyone outside the tower.

"Each."

My response hung in the air for a second before he reacted. His face blanched, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. "Each? That's highway robbery!"

I raised a finger, adopting a lecturing tone. "No, highway robbery occurs when you are travelling from one place to another and a group of armed bandits try to kill and rob you. Personally, I never understood why anyone allows them to do so; it seems counter productive. I always ended up killing them and taking all their stuff." I shook my head and waved my hands. "But that's by-the-by. No, what you and I are engaging in is called commerce. I own a large quantity of a valuable substance. You - literally - have a captive market for said valuable substance. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you wouldn't be able to turn a profit when you hold the only supply for a large demand?"

He grumbled for a moment. "Fine. But at that rate I can only afford," he paused, mentally calculating. "Seventeen. Almost eighteen. I'll take the lot so long as you are prepared to accept some rings and an amulet in trade. Or a promissory note," he finished brightly. It took no effort what so ever to deduce his preferred choice.

I smiled, but shook my head. I wanted coin, in my hand now, and not trinkets. "For that figure, I'll give you seventeen potions and some lyrium dust at only ten times what I paid for it."

He gave me what could only be described as a look. With dripping sarcasm, he said, "Only ten, huh? Goodness, you're all heart. Once again you leave me with nothing."

I snorted. "Nothing except a monopoly on a large amount of lyrium in a sealed tower full of lyrium consumers and addicts."

He sighed, and dug around his pockets for coins. He scrabbled around in his chest for coins. He opened his hidden cache for coins. He scrounged through his dorm-mates' belongings for coins. He even checked under his mattress for coins. Eventually, the agreed amount was accumulated. "There," he said, taking his potions and a large pouch of dust. "I'd say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but you are worse than the dwarves I deal with. Why do you need so much money, anyway? Aren't you the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden?"

"Yes, but I haven't actually been paid yet. I spent a year after Ostagar in abject poverty, working at any job I could get to keep my companions fed and equipped. Until the legendary tithes to the Grey Wardens start materialising, I'll keep my carefully honed mercenary instincts alive."

He goggled at me. "You haven't been paid?" He sounded aghast. "Not even... paid? That's... that's... that's wrong! That's immoral!"

I chuckled softly. "Thank you for that sterling defence of the morality of wages."

Godwin glanced around, and leaned closer. I could smell a faint trace of lyrium on his breath. Apparently his 'available supply' was kept quite separate from his 'personal-use' stash. One of the perks of the job, I suppose. "Are you going to Orzammar soon?"

I nodded. "Next stop, in fact."

"Dust town?"

I shrugged. "If necessary."

He swallowed, holding up one of his new potions. "This is good in the short term, but a lot of the templars and mages are showing some pretty bad cases of lyrium-itch, so it won't last long. Maybe a month. I really need some more, and I don't think Greagoir will open the doors any time soon. Could you visit Rogek and bring back another shipment?"

I winced. I hadn't planned on returning to the Circle so soon. Or ever, if I could get away with it. I had no pressing need nor reason to do so, even had I not pretty much burned my bridges along with a large portion of the local templars. "In the interests of full disclosure, the doors are going to be open very soon, but I don't know how long the lyrium supply will be disrupted."

Godwin shrugged. "I can't imagine my contact will have stuck around waiting for the doors to open, so my last shipment is probably in black market dealers all over Ferelden by now. And I have no way of organising another one. Look, when the Tower was getting a full lyrium delivery, I had a profitable business going. So even with open doors and a steady, official supply of lyrium, I will still need to be restocked."

I really didn't want to come back here. Then again... "If the price is right," I said. Another delivery of similar size would enable me to buy a lot of equipment that I needed.

He winced.

A short, stocky figure shot through the doorway at a sprint. Noticing me, a massive grin flooded her features and she skidded to a halt, leaning to one side in an effort to balance her momentum. "By my ancestors! It is you! The templar outside of your room said that you weren't to be disturbed, but an Enchanter said that he'd seen you pass him in the corridor. It is so good to see you again Warden!"

I smiled at the dwarf. "Hello Dagna. How's things?"

"Wonderful! My treatise on the contrasting evolution of elemental spell research and application in each of the fourteen Circles of Magi was published two months ago! I was sooooo excited. The Knight-Commander told me that the Tevinter Ambassador to Ferelden actually sent me a letter saying how impressed he was with my research. And that he's extended me an offer to go and study with his brother in the Tevinter Imperium!"

I smiled at her limitless exuberance. "Yes, I received a copy, thank you. It was very interesting, I honestly had no idea that some spells were cast differently in other Circles. The Free Marches' version of the Cone of Cold spell sounds fascinating. It would be damned useful to be able to cast it as a short-ranged arc instead of the usual tightly confined cone. Have you considered extending the research to include fire and electricity elements?"

She nodded so quickly I was surprised not to hear her vertebrae creak. "I have, but my initial research indicates that only a fire burst has the potential to be modified so. Lightning travels too quickly."

Godwin cleared his throat. "Unless there's anything else I can help you with, Kathryn..." he said, with an obvious hint.

"Thank you Godwin, I was just leaving. Dagna, walk with me?"

"Sure! Oh, it's so good to see you again. I can't thank you enough for getting me a place here," she burbled as we left Godwin to play with his new haul.

I chuckled. "I didn't do much more than bring your message to the First Enchanter, as I recall. Any success you've had is entirely your own doing."

"Oh, First Enchanter Irving is so amazing! He's let me browse his personal library for research material. I mean, I've been here less than a year, and he still said that I could read anything he owns. It's all so exciting!"

"Yes, well, I suspect that it's your dwarvern heritage that smooths the way there. You're not in any danger of hurting yourself by losing control of a spell beyond your ability."

"Yes, but even so, he has so much knowledge that I've never heard of. There is magical theory in his library that contradicts established lore. I can't wait to get through it all."

I smiled at her. "Tell me, are you happy here?"

"Absolutely! It's more than I could have imagined!"

I nodded. "Well, I'd like you to consider coming and working for me at some stage in the near future. In a couple of years, I plan to establish my own Circle, one where all magical theory is fair game for study. Would you be interested in helping out?"

She gaped. "Really? What about the Chantry? Won't they object?"

I gave her a sly look. "Wardens are exempt from their oversight. My Circle would be small to start with, probably only Warden mages and apostates, but a lot of different kinds of magic would be studied there. Shape-changing magic for instance."

She frowned. "Shape-changing? What magic is that? Turning things from one shape to another? Like, transmutation?"

I nodded, then looked around the hallways. No one was in view. I dropped my pack and shimmered into my mabari form. Dagna squealed in delight.

I shifted back. "Shape-changing," I said. "Changing your shape."

"By the stone, I've never heard of such a thing. That is incredible. Oh, Daylen will be so impressed!"

I blinked. That was a name from the past. "Daylen? Daylen Amell?"

Dagna blushed, and bit her lip. "Um, yes. He's been helping me. With my research, that is. Do you know him?"

I nodded. A human boy who arrived at the Circle almost exactly the same time as I had. He was in most of my classes. But he and Jowan had hated each other almost at first sight, so he was never really a friend of mine. They were both academically inclined, but with diametrically opposing political views. "I spent a lot of time in classes with him, bit I don't really know him well. I'm glad he survived the mess with Uldred."

"Me too," she said softly, looking down at her hands. Suddenly, she jerked her head back up. "Shape-changing magic is so amazing! I have to learn about it. When will you be ready? Soon?"

I picked up my pack. "It will take a few years, I imagine. Don't expect it to be taught here though, the templars won't allow it."

She blinked. "Why not? It would be fascinating!"

I nodded. "It is, but the fact that a mage could turn into a bird and disappear from the tower would immediately put it on the banned list."

"Oh, I suppose so," she said, and the glum tone was shocking for the sheer novelty.

I cleared my throat to cover the moment of discomfort. "I'm heading to Orzammar tomorrow. Do you want me to take anything? A letter to your father, maybe?"

She blinked rapidly, her eyes suddenly shining in the dim light of the corridor. "Um, I don't know. I haven't, er, that is, I haven't written to my father in a while. I'm not sure..."

"Even if he's still upset at your choices, he'd still like to know that you're happy here," I said softly.

She swallowed. "You're right, of course. I'll go and write a letter now. Thank you, Warden."

"You're welcome."

I made my way back to the library, where Connor was putting the finishing touches to his letter. My templar friend was standing over the lad menacingly, waiting for him to finish. Presumably to snatch and censor the letter.

"Finished, Connor?" I asked.

The templar jerked his head up and glared at me. "You! The Knight-Commander confined you to your quarters!"

This was going to be fun. "Yes, he did. But as I explained to him, I'm not under his authority. He begrudgingly accepts that, so here I am to collect Connor's letter before something untoward befalls it."

The templar sounded unconvinced. "He let you out of your quarters to get a letter?"

I shrugged. "Who can say what intentions drive a man who makes difficult decisions?" I said philosophically. "Especially one steeped in politics and bureaucracy, such as your Knight-Commander. It is entirely possible that he has pondered his actions, and come to accept the error of his ways. My presence outside of my assigned quarters could in fact be an argument for the case that he has changed his stance and intends to govern the Circle in a far more democratic and just manner."

There was a pause as the templar process this. "Er, what?"

"I'm here, therefore I must have permission to be here," I lied evenly. "If Greagoir didn't want me to wander the tower, he'd have put a guard on my door, wouldn't he?"

That got a grunt. "I suppose so."

I clapped my hands together. "Excellent! We're all friends again. Now, Connor, are you finished? Splendid. Sign it off and I'll put that in my diplomatic pouch here, with the other reports for your father."

The templar looked as though he wanted to argue, but decided against it, and sullenly slouched his way over to his post. Connor blinked up at me as I led him out of the library. "That was mean." He glanced back and leaned closer as we walked. "Funny though," he whispered.

I smiled. "It was, wasn't it? And I imagine that he'll be in a bit of trouble for not telling Greagoir that I'm out of my room."

"There's a guard on your room, isn't there?"

"Of course."

"How did you get past him?"

I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. "I'll tell you later. I'll even teach you when you're capable, but I wouldn't want the secret to get out too early. Just think about how much trouble you could get people in if they couldn't keep you under guard."

A slow smile grew on Connor's face, and I felt a blossoming hope for the boy's future.

I made my way back to the guest room after returning Connor to his dorm, only to hear some rather heated raised voices. Greagoir was thoroughly reaming out the guard on duty. I stepped around the corner and casually nodded to the Knight-Commander. "Greagoir," I said casually in greeting.

He spun around, face mottled with rage. "What are you doing out of your room?" he shrieked, one vein on his temple throbbing alarmingly.

I gave a casual shrug, loving the way it seemed to anger him even more. "I had a couple of other people to see. You know how it is."

"How did you get out?" he demanded.

"Through the door," I said in a tone conveying as much respect as I had for such a stupid question.

He clenched his hands into fists. "How did you leave without being seen? Did you use magic?"

I rolled my eyes. "I am a mage, Greagoir. Of course I used magic. But you didn't tell me that you wanted me to stay in there."

He trembled in rage. "I ordered you inside and placed a guard on the door! How could I have made myself clearer?"

I shrugged. "You could have simply told me to stay put. But I've done what I needed to, I'm rather tired now, and I have an early start in the morning. So if you want to keep yelling at this poor bastard, do me a favour and take it elsewhere. Cheers."

I swept past the suddenly speechless Knight-Commander and into my quarters, firmly closing the door behind me. Thunder looked up from a blanket in front of the fire, and gave me a soft bark of greeting. The monumental bollocking on the other side of the door continued.

"Hello boy, I hear you left a gift on Greagoir's chair."

"Whuff!" he barked, thumping his tail on the floor.

"I'm sure I remember telling you to crap on his pillow, not his chair."

Thunder tilted his head to one side. He whined softly, questioning.

A sudden thought occurred. "Did you crap on both his chair and bed?"

He jumped to his feet and leaped around in an excited circle. "Whuff!"

I dropped my head back and laughed. "Well done, boy! Very well done!" I scratched at his ears and accepted a rough, sloppy scrape of his tongue on my palm.

I concentrated, held out a hand and conjured a barrier over my side of the door. No one was getting through there without me knowing. Even if the templars did manage to dispel it, I'd feel it. I was safe for the moment.

I pulled out the diplomatic pouch, extracted a quill, ink and parchment, and began chronicling my misadventures since arriving at the Kinloch Hold. Alistair wouldn't be pleased with eight deaths, but honestly, the body count was less than I had feared.

A few hours later, I was trying my best to ignore a hurlock screaming at me in my dreams when a shout of rage echoed throughout the tower, waking me.

"DAMN YOU WARDEN!"

I grinned, rolled over, and fell back to sleep. The mental image of Greagoir with dog shit in his hair buoyed my mood enough that I had no more nightmares.

Thunder woke me early the next morning, as I'd requested. I suspected that he'd have got me up anyway, his sense of time wasn't as accurate as Oghren's 'stone-sense' but he generally knew when he needed to befoul the royal gardens. I splashed my face with water from a basin, and dressed quickly. I wasn't going to hang around for breakfast, not when it was painfully obvious that my welcome would be worn out the instant sunlight touched the top of the tower. And without an openable window in the guest room, I had no real way of knowing just how long I had until that moment.

I was half packed and ready, when there was a knock at the door. "Er, Warden? It is nearly dawn."

"Thank you," I called, stuffing the rest of my gear into my pack. I made my way over to the door, banished the barrier and tried the handle.

I was very surprised to find it wasn't locked from the outside. The door opened easily, and the guard outside cleared his throat. "Warden. I take it you are leaving us now?"

"Absolutely," I replied, walking past him and into the hallway.

He reached into one pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "Er, the dwarf Dagna stopped by, and wanted to give you this. Sorry, but I had orders not to disturb you until just before dawn. Here," he said, handing it to me, before he scurried off in the opposite direction.

Odd, I'd have thought he would have been given orders to escort me downstairs, not run off and sound the alarm. Colour me suspicious.

I made my way to the centre of the tower and down the stairs. The library only had two early-risers browsing amongst the shelves, under the less-than-watchful eye of my templar friend from last night. He was swaying slightly while in a guard stance, faint snores emanating from under his bucket helmet.

I didn't wait. Thunder's hackles were raised, and he was as tense as a piece of garrotting wire. We hurried past the dozing templar, out of the library and around the tower towards the front doors to this prison. I nodded to the two templars guarding the inner doors to the tower, the ones Greagoir had ordered barred against the abominations.

Honestly, I expected them to bar my way, but they simply opened the door, silently allowing me egress to the entrance hall.

Those last, outer doors seemed a mile away. Thunder's low growl had me ready for anything.

As it was, we got halfway to them before Greagoir's inevitable stupidity reasserted itself.

Thunder suddenly crouched down on his haunches, hackles fully raised. I knew what that meant. It meant that it was already too late for me to react. I felt, rather than heard, the doors slam shut behind me.

It only took a second for a templar to call forth a Holy Smite; so a mage's options were limited once it was in progress. Most spells took just as long or longer to cast, which made distracting the templar in question with magic difficult.

I took a deep breath and focused my mind. Thunder roared a challenge, the howl that had caused so very many of our enemies to be momentarily rendered rigid with arse-clenching fear.

Greagoir had obviously been expecting it this time. Despite Thunder's effort, his Smite crashed down around me. I mentally pushed back hard, and found the mental discipline behind Greagoir's Smite to be far less focused than I was used to. My internal reserves of mana remained within me.

Even so, I dropped to one knee under the mystical force. Thunder did not fare so well, and was hurled from my side by the assault, yelping in pain.

"I am a man of my word, Warden. Honest to a fault," Greagoir's voice snarled my own words from behind me. "The sun has risen."

I surged to my feet, unleashing a shockwave of mental energy. It was possible for a sufficiently disciplined individual to resist my spell; Greagoir had managed it just last evening. But the surprise from seeing a mage use magic after being hit with a Smite was enough to shatter their focus. I turned to see Greagoir flanked by two templars, with another four closing in on me, a pair having appeared from behind the columns on either side of the room. All seven of them looked dazed and unbalanced; my spell had been universally effective.

With a quick prayer of thanks and a check on Thunder's position, I cast a fireball that threw Greagoir and his four closest pals to the floor, each of them lightly to moderately char-grilled. I put my hands together and sent out a blast of frigid magic that froze one of the remaining templars solid. I turned and petrified the lone uninjured templar.

So far, so good. As a tactic, it was never a good idea to let a mage stun everyone in your group. Not unless you had your affairs in order. I drew Spellweaver with a steely rasp.

I shattered the frozen templar with a conjured shard of stone and the petrified one with my blade before the stunned and burned templars managed to regain their feet. Unfortunately for them, Thunder had recovered as well.

He bowled Greagoir over in a frenzied, canine rush. Whenever we were ambushed in our travels, Thunder would pick out the most dangerous of the foes we faced. He'd then close and take it down. Having a snarling, lethal hound the size of a lion crash into you tended to distract from the task at hand. The Knight-Commander was no green recruit, however. Even stunned, he had his armoured arm in Thunder's mouth before he fell over, and kept his throat protected afterwards. Despite his inability to escape from the mabari's incessant gnawing attacks, Greagoir successfully kept Thunder from killing him quickly.

The remaining four templars were not so lucky. Already injured by my fireball, they tried downing healing draughts, rather than engaging me. A terminal, tactical blunder.

I levelled Spellweaver at the nearest and spent a couple of seconds generating a torrent of lightning. The spell shot out from my sword and arced from one templar to another; two of them losing so much motor control that they dropped their healing draughts. Their metal armour attracted the magic well, but without corresponding metal greaves it grounded itself through their legs. They danced like puppets on strings.

I closed with the nearest templar and stabbed my sword into his thigh. With no protection there beyond coloured cloth, it was like stabbing a side of meat. He collapsed, head arched backwards and screaming. I silenced him with a swipe, this time between helmet and breastplate. Arterial blood spurted over my face, warm and wet.

Again, I was struck by the inexperienced way the raw templars fought. They had no plan of attack. Of the three that still stood, one rushed at me, another tried to get Thunder off the Knight-Commander, while the third downed another healing concoction. There was no cohesion, no coordination to fight as a team. Where Thunder and I fought as a unit, understanding our tactics and trusting each other, they fought as individuals.

Inexperienced individuals at that. I flicked a feint at the approaching templar's head, which caused him to react predictably, stopping his rush and raising his weapon in defence. With his defence high and balance wrong, I kicked him just as Zevran had taught me, in a manner that always generated tears in the eyes of any male witnesses. His sudden contralto scream coincided with his complete loss of defensive posture, and I stabbed my sword tip through his throat.

My mabari yelped in pain as one of the templars bashed him off Greagoir with his shield. With Thunder out of the way, I side-stepped a yard to my right, putting all three remaining foes in a narrow arc in front of me. I brought my hands together and let loose a blast of lightning, followed quickly by a blast of fire. The two green templars died under my magic, twitching and smoking. Only Greagoir was experienced enough to avoid most of the damage, rolling under and through the sparks and flames; into the clear.

Into my reach.

I whipped Spellweaver around had the point at his throat in a second.

The expression of utter fury and helplessness was a sight that would keep me warm throughout the next few winters. I gulped in air, paying down the debt I'd incurred in the past half minute.

"Seven?" I asked furiously through my gulps. "Is that all you thought it would take to bring me down? Seven templars? Have you any idea how insulting that is?"

Thunder, a great gash down one flank and favouring his right foreleg, limped closer and growled menacingly. I reached into my belt pouch and pulled out an elfroot-infused dog treat. I tossed it to my companion, who snatched it out of the air without shifting his eyes from Greagoir. The inherent magic of the morsel slowed his bleeding.

In the face of the Knight-Commander's expression promising death, I continued my taunting. "So, what do I do now? Do I kill you, or let you live so you can explain to the families of these six kids that you killed them with your idiocy?"

His snarl cracked. "How did you do that?"

"Do what? Kill templars? It's a gift I'm in the process of developing. Apparently, I have a real knack for it."

"No," he snapped. "My Smite did not affect you. What manner of unholy deal have you made?"

I glanced up at the door to the tower, the door that Greagoir had barred that day a year ago as he left the mages - Enchanters, Apprentices and children alike - to the mercies of demons. It was, once again, closed. This time, there seemed to be an argument going on behind it. Odd that despite the sounds of combat that no one had burst through.

Unless...

I looked back down at Greagoir. "Did you leave instructions for us not to be disturbed? How convenient."

He snarled ignoring my taunts. "How, Warden? How did you resist?"

I snarled right back at him. "Ah yes, the traditional exposition. If you don't mind, I shall start with a question to you. Are you ready, Greagoir? It's a simple question. The question is, why, by Andraste's bloody knickers, would I tell you how I resist a Smite?" I finished in a scream.

He actually flinched back from my shriek, delivered as it was point blank. "It's not possible!" he declared.

A slow smile spread over my face. "And that says all that needs to be said about you templars."

"What?"

"You deny reality. You're a fanatic who sees nothing but what you want to see. You believe only that which you want to believe is true. You see yourself as right because you cannot perceive the notion that you may be wrong."

"You're a danger," he shot back. "There is no doubt there!"

"No kidding? Was the big, sharp, magical knife I'm holding at your throat your first clue?"

He swallowed. "You are out of control, Warden. You need to be neutralised."

I started laughing. "Really? You actually believe that? Had you acquiesced to my request for entry last night and not tried to arrest me, no one would have been killed. I'd have conducted my business and left without blood being shed. But no, the fact that a mage is not under your control infuriates you templars. You just had to attack me. And when everything goes to shit, you blame me for having the gall to defend myself."

"You have too much power to be allowed freedom!" he spat, eyes alight with fervour.

I snarled at him. "It is not the power I wield that worries you. It is the fact that you do not control me or my power. For each templar I killed here, both last night and this morning, you have killed a score of mages or more. Tell me again, which of us has the greater influence over life and death?"

The argument on the other side of the door escalated, with raised voices in disagreement.

"I cannot kill so many with a word!" he declared.

"That is bullshit and you know it!" I shouted, putting my face as close to his as I could. "You can invoke the Right of Annulment on a tower full of innocents. Don't you remember? You jumped at the chance once before. One word from you and every soul behind that door was to be slaughtered."

"That was necessary!"

"How can you possibly still believe that? Three people and a dog proved you wrong. We managed to do the duty you and a score of templars were too terrified to undertake. You disgust me, Greagoir. You claim moral authority yet accept no responsibility. You are so damned scared that you cannot function when needed. You know what? I hope you are replaced. The pile of dog shit Thunder left on your pillow could do your job better than you."

Oops. I shouldn't have mentioned that. There was a half second of relative peace before the connection was made.

"My pillow!" he exploded, his face turning purple with incandescent rage. "I knew it! You did tell your dog to do it!"

The doors burst open. Irving strode through, dressed in his bedclothes rather than robes. He held his arms aloft, ready for action. Behind him, two templar guards were petrified solid while holding their weapons out defensively. Behind them, a dozen or so mages and templars - all of them underdressed for their battle readiness - were locked in a what looked like a silent argument, staring out through the door at me.

The tableau held for a few seconds.

Irving dropped his arms. "Oh bugger," he whispered, eyeing the corpses.

o_ooo000ooo_o

AN: Thank you to all my reviewers - Nightbrainzz, MB18932, Isabeau of Greenlea (x2), Rhagar, kija and Arsinoe de Blassenville - I sincerely appreciate your words.

I don't intend to bring in all the other origin stories. IMO, only the Human Noble and the second Magi had any real chance of surviving the Blight. It would take something special for the Dwarf Noble or City Elf to survive their stories without Duncan's presence. And Dalish Elf and Dwarf Commoner are both lost cases.

I am thoroughly enjoying Arsinoe de Blassenville's The Keening Blade, so much so that I just had to slip in a little homage to her Maude's hobby in this chapter.

And finally, happy Australia Day to .au-ians.