disclaimer type=standard

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

/disclaimer

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra strode over to the narrow window and looked out over the smoky haze. The scene was difficult to take in, given the limited aperture. "I take it you did not react well to their arrival?" she asked, more to fill the pause in the retelling than for any other reason.

Kathryn spread her hands. "Ha! You'd have thought so. Greagoir had been quite adamant that he would make sure I was a wanted woman. So, as you could imagine, I was a little cautious about being around a sizeable group of templars." The Warden paused, and a look of mischief suddenly crossed her face, which Cassandra completely missed. "And Conchobar, the nominal leader of the group, had been given some more off-the-record instructions. Instructions not passed on to the rest."

The Seeker frowned, her back still turned. That name was very familiar. It was linked to another mystery, one in which Cassandra had a personal interest. She crossed her arms and turned around to face the mage. "Instructions regarding your arrest, I take it?"

"No," the mage retorted, with definite heat. "Instructions regarding my murder."

Cassandra suppressed a shiver. It was not the first time that such an evil path had been suggested in the course of performing the Maker's work, but to hear it announced so casually was chilling. "Murder? Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. Conchobar was quite forthcoming about it." She gave that some thought. "Afterwards, of course. Not at the time, obviously."

A single icy tendril of worried thought wormed into Cassandra's mind. Conchobar was definitely not a common name, even in Ferelden, and few, perhaps only a handful of templars from Ferelden and the Free Marches bore it. There was nothing to suggest that the Conchobar in Kathryn's narrative was the Knight-Commander Conchobar who infamously disappeared from the Nevarran Mage Circle many years before. Yet, there was something - some tiny detail - that made her wonder. "You- you spoke to him? Afterwards?"

Something on the elf's expression changed. Some shadow perhaps, or maybe the set of her shoulders. But suddenly, the elf's smile looked... malicious. "Yes, as a matter of fact. It was during his second attempt on my life, you see, and like all idiotic evil-doers, he wanted to make sure I knew about his plans. I don't imagine he's forgiven me for foiling them," she said, with obvious understatement. "If I ever talk to him again, I'll ask him," she added, watching the Seeker like a hawk for any reaction.

Cassandra stared at the Warden. Did she know that Conchobar was missing? Was it possible? Did this mage have a connection to the Night of the Vanished? It was unlikely, but the expression on the elf's face was disturbing. Very, very disturbing.

It had been six - no, seven years since that terrible night. Details were still vague, despite three separate investigations by experienced Chantry Seekers, but the known facts were simple. On the night of the thirteenth of Harvestmere in 9:33, thirteen templars vanished without a trace. It had been weeks before the full impact of the disappearances became known, as the templars had vanished from monasteries, Mage Circles and Chantries from all over Thedas.

Two disappeared from Ferelden, one from Kinloch Hold, the other from the Gwaren Chantry. Four vanished from Orlais, including two from the Grand Cathedral itself. Three of the other Vanished were stationed around the Free Marches, two others from Navarra and one apiece in Antiva and Rivain.

Had they been initiates or even junior inductees, the incident may even have passed from notice all together. Young men were weak, Cassandra knew all too well, and it was not unknown for some young initiates to decide to abandon their vows – whether for what they thought was love, or to taste forbidden pleasures. It was not so unusual that it would cause much comment.

But the Vanished were all high-ranking, powerful men. Three Knight-Captains, eight Knight-Commanders and, most terrifyingly, a pair of Knight-Divines, two members of the elite group that made up the leadership of the Templar Order. To a man, they were templars who had been singularly forthright in their duty. Each of them had multiple personal commendations from their superiors, including some from the Divine Beatrice herself.

Cassandra had even met Knight-Commander Conchobar once, during her very first investigation as a Seeker. A clandestine coven of blood mages had been uncovered in he Nevarran Circle of Magi, and she had been sent to determine how it had developed and remained undetected for so long. The imposing man's most salient physical feature had been a milky-white eye coupled with an angry scar across his face. But his most defining characteristics, from Cassandra's perspective, had been his blatant misogyny and deep-seated distrust, bordering on malice, for anyone with magical talent.

Initially, searches for the Vanished templars had been carried out and found nothing. Reports had been written and dispatched, of course, but the sudden power vacuum meant that many of the disappearances were disclosed to the Chantry hierarchy in a panicked, unprofessional manner by inexperienced underlings – often leaving pertinent details omitted. When the full reports of the disappearances finally filtered back to Val Royeaux, alarm built slowly, before exploding in one single afternoon, when a dutiful scholar happened to note in passing that all of the Vanished had disappeared on the same night as the two Knight-Divines.

Conspiracy theories abounded, and the highest-ranking Mothers and Grand Clerics were all called to account for those under their purview. Factions within the Chantry accused one another of various, nefarious schemes. Rumours spread, though details were sparse.

As much as practicable, the chaos was hidden from the rest of the world; the death of Beatrice the following year had managed to cover the trouble with perverse effectiveness. The populous inevitably believed that something had happened, yet had to invent fantastic scenarios to explain their ignorance. Now, many years later, the thirteenth day of the month was considered extremely unlucky by the superstitious if it fell on the day before the holy day of rest.

The highest-ranking Seekers at the time had been assembled, which at the time had not included the inexperienced Cassandra Pentaghast. But the delay in recognizing the significance of the concurrent disappearances had made things difficult. Eyewitness accounts were thin on the ground in any case, as it had been an uneventful night, apart from the obvious unexplained and unexplainable disappearance of holy warriors. By the time those of the Silver Eye had visited the scene of each disappearance memories were vague at best. To make things worse, many of those interviewed invented incredible stories that frustrated the Seekers trying to establish the truth.

Despite years of examination, there appeared to be nothing that linked the Vanished at all, besides their duly recognised dedication to the Maker. There appeared to be no personal correspondence between them, no friendships, and no history. Nothing.

"Is something wrong, Cassandra?" the Warden asked, a wide smirk on her face and her gravel voice filled with false concern.

Cassandra shook her head. "No, I was... reminded of something. I has no bearing on your story."

"Are you sure? Perhaps you could tell me exactly what it was that reminded you?" she said in a clear, mocking tones.

Suspicion bubbled in her belly. Did the Warden have knowledge about the Night of the Vanished? Could she have knowledge? How to check? By Divine edict, it was never mentioned to those outside of the Chantry, and not to be investigated except by the individuals Divinely appointed to do so.

Not that the Chantry was in any position to dictate adherence its edicts, as things stood. With the Mage-Templar war sapping its resources and its close allies decimated by the very mage she was interviewing, the Chantry's influence was at historic lows.

"No. It is not important. I would hear more of this Conchobar's orders to murder you."

Kathryn shrugged. "As you wish. The cow-in-chief in Denerim had learned of my missions, and sent details about my whereabouts out to all the templars. Both those still in the Chantries, and the ones who'd been reassigned. As I was quite the celebrity, the orders were that if I was encountered without witnesses, I was to be arrested and returned to Denerim." She snarled at the Seeker. "Extra orders were given to templars who were more inclined to follow the whole mages-should-be-exterminated line. I was to have an accident on the way back to Denerim. Preferably a painful, humiliating and horrifying accident, yet one that enabled the priests to plausibly deny any involvement. The Chantry, that bastion of peace, love, faith and good will towards fellow man, wanted me dead but was too cowardly to do it in the open."

Cassandra sighed deeply and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Kathryn Surana, a tiny elf mage, stomped across the world like a titan of mythology, shaking the foundations of establishment. To those who hated and feared change, she was an anathema. Something that needed to be destroyed.

So many Mothers and Grand Clerics believed that as they had power, they therefore had wisdom. It still astounded the Seeker that some high-ranking priests and templars, who had often never faced much more than pointed stares over dinner, political maneuverings in committees and harsh words from superiors, felt that they could take on someone who had physically cut, bashed, burned, froze and slaughtered her way through thousands of darkspawn during a Maker-cursed Blight.

The fact that they were not a match for her simply did not register. They threw everything they had into stopping her, only to fail time and time again. And when those failures weakened the establishment further, it was the mage that was blamed, rather than the idiots who launched the unwise action.

Cassandra was not one to ever give up. But so far in the story there had been precious little for her to work with to convince the Warden to help the Chantry win the war. Perhaps her best bet would be to convince the Warden to help end the fighting, rather than pick a side in the war. That would benefit the Chantry in the short term.

"Such orders are simply unjustifiable," the Seeker said in a conciliatory tone. "They were wrong. But they were obviously not carried out."

"Not for a lack of trying," the elf replied darkly.

o_ooo000ooo_o

Now that I had been spotted, the templars all marched closer, but kept their weapons sheathed. I counted fourteen of them. There was no hesitation, but no aggression either. I suppose wearing armour and carrying a sword did not shout 'mage' as wearing robes and carrying a staff did.

The leader pulled off his bucket helmet, revealing a plain face framed with blond hair and a thick, full beard. "Greetings, ser knight. I am Knight-Captain Conchobar of the Denerim Chantry."

Under my hand, I could feel Thunder's hackles rise. "Well met," I said evenly, without warmth.

One of the other templars started slightly at my voice, audibly drawing in a surprised breath. The one called Conchobar narrowed his eyes and continued, "May I know your name, ser knight?"

"Why?" I challenged, flicking my gaze over the group. These weren't initiates. This wouldn't be like the Circle.

Conchobar reddened, his expression disapproving. But the other templar who expressed shock took off his helmet too and said, "Warden? Excuse me, Warden-Commander? Is that you?"

I blinked at the familiar voice, and I'm sure my face lit up like a sunrise when I recognised the speaker. Tanned face framed by dark hair creased from sitting under a helm for too long. "Bryant! You're alive! I thought you lost when the darkspawn overran Lothering." Even Thunder stood a bit straighter and whuffed a greeting.

Ser Bryant, one of the few templars I'd ever respected, smiled at me with evident honesty. "By the Maker's will, I am. I was in the last group out." He turned to his fellows. "Be respectful! Remove your helms!"

The remaining templars complied, though the leader didn't seem happy with that.

I pulled my helmet off too, which caused some murmurings among the templars. "Did you cut it that fine out of some sense of mischief, daring or something less exciting?" I asked with a smile.

"Duty," he sighed. "Prosaic, true, but necessary. Some families refused to leave without all their members accounted for. I convinced some to move on in time, but I failed to convince all. It was difficult to leave them, but unfortunately I did not have the resources to force so many to move without stripping those who did of their protection."

I shook my head in sympathy. "Stupidity kills more people than darkspawn. I am very glad to see you alive."

He nodded his head. "Likewise. I hoped that on my reassignment to Denerim that I would have the opportunity to meet with you again, but it was not to be." He looked down at Thunder, his expression suddenly puzzled. "What happened to the hound you had with you in Lothering?"

"This is Thunder," I replied, patting the aforesaid hound. "He's grown a little since you last saw him."

"A little! He's the size of a horse!"

Thunder looked up at me and lolled his tongue with doggy laughter. "A pony, perhaps," I said with a smile. Thunder tilted his head and gave that a whine of disagreement.

Conchobar looked as though he was about to explode. "Ser Bryant! We are not here to socialise."

Bryant nodded in supplication. "Yes, Ser Conchobar. My apologies."

I raised an eyebrow and faced the leader. "Then what are you here for, hmm? What business do fourteen templars have down here in the Wilds?" Was this a clue to the mystery I'd been pondering? Were the templars, as a group, gathering in the south of the Kingdom?

My question caused some shuffling of feet. Conchobar raised his chin. "We are tasked with arresting a dangerous apostate reported to be in the area," he said with a gleam in his eye and an ugly grin.

Ah, you're after me. Bugger. "An apostate? Here in the Wilds?" I said with no surprise.

"Indeed," Conchobar almost purred. "You are a mage, are you not?" he said with anticipation. "And outside of the Circle too..."

"Ser Conchobar!" Bryant interrupted. "This is Kathryn Surana, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. She is not an apostate!"

Staring into Conchobar's eyes, I had an epiphany. The orders were to arrest an apostate, yes, but Conchobar alone had been given my identity. Well, there was one way to play this. "Indeed, I am no apostate. I was just surprised, that's all. I only know of one apostate who lives in these Wilds. Her hut is quite a ways from here."

Several of the templars expressed surprise at this, including Bryant. Conchobar merely looked amused. "Oh, really? Why have you not then reported the location of this supposed apostate to the Chantry?"

I shrugged. "I assumed the King had done so. He was with me when I was last at the apostate's hut."

That little tidbit caused Conchobar's smile to lose some of its bite. "The King?" he said.

I nodded happily. "Yep. You know, the tall chap who wears the crown?" I deliberately misinterpreted their shocked looks as incomprehension. "No? Really? Blonde fellow. Big shoulders. Likes cheese. Thinks he's funny. Goes by Alistair. Surely this rings a bell." I pointed to Bryant. "Bryant here has met him."

"I am hardly on such familiar terms, Warden-Commander," Bryant responded with a smile once he found his voice.

"True, though he'll be chuffed to learn that you're alive. We spoke of you a couple of months ago."

He blinked. "You... spoke of me? With the King?" he asked, astounded.

"Of course," I replied, grinning at both the expression on his face and the effect our conversation was having on Conchobar. I put on an expression of reminiscence. "One always remembers the first time one discovers that one is an accused regicide. Good times."

He smiled back at me and shook his head. "You are still completely irreverent, aren't you?"

"Oh, you say the nicest things."

"Enough!" barked Conchobar, who then took an unconscious step back at Thunder's sudden growl. In a rather more subdued tone, he berated his companion. "Ser Bryant, remember your place. And you, mage, do you have a chit from the Knight-Commander allowing you outside the Circle's walls?" he demanded, his eyes on my mabari.

I rolled my eyes. "No, and I don't need one. The Grey Wardens have existed since the First Blight, more than two hundred years before Andraste marched on the Imperium. The Emperor Kordillus Drakon and Justinia the First ratified the treaty of Silent Plains, more than nine hundred years ago. So unless you have the authority to disregard the long-recognised word of both the person who created the Chantry and the First Divine, you can stick your demand up your bottom. Now, do any of you have a map of the area?"

Conchobar's eyes bulged in rage, and the rest looked absolutely shocked. But not one of them said anything. They were all stunned into silence. Perhaps I'd over played my hand, but while they could not believe events, I would be able to exert some control.

"Well? Does anyone have a map? Any of you?" I repeated, putting my hands on my hips. "Surely you haven't come into the Wilds without one?"

One of the templars coughed. "Uh, yes, Warden-Commander." After a few moments of uncomfortable silence and no disagreement from the leader, he stepped forward. "Here," he said cautiously, withdrawing a rolled scroll from a metal tube.

I carefully unrolled the map. Loghain would have scoffed at the quality, but it was good enough for my purposes. "Right, you see the ruins of Ostagar here?" My question caused a ripple of nervousness amongst the templars. "Oh for the love of Andraste! The darkspawn are gone! It's just an empty ruin now. Look, here," I snapped, jabbing my finger to the map. "Just off in this direction a mile or so are the remains of a Grey Warden watchtower, near some other Avvar ruins. About here," I said indicating a rough area on the map.

"Yes, Warden, I have seen them," the templar said politely. The others, Bryant included, still couldn't believe what was happening.

I continued in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. "Right, just off behind those ruins is a wall of thick vegetation, but through that there is an animal path leading away to the south and east. Follow that for a few miles, keeping to the right of all the bodies of water you pass. You'll arrive at a decrepit hut. About here," I said, running my finger around and around in a small circle over a part of the map. "There's a large, raised clearing off to one side. The apostate you are after lives there." I paused, thinking about how Morrigan would take to having to deal with more than a dozen templars. With a mental shrug, I continued with, "There used to be two of them, but I killed one. The other one might still be there." It would serve the traitorous bitch right.

Bryant gave a soft gasp, looking uncharacteristically surprised. "You killed one of them?"

I nodded. "Yep. Do you remember Morrigan? The woman I was with in Lothering; the one with the... heh, unconventional fashion sense?"

He gave me a blushing nod, and said, with impressive certainty, "Of course."

"Well, the apostate I killed admitted that she was planning on using the blackest of arts to take over Morrigan's body and wear it like a living cloak. I still don't know what that would have done to her soul."

The templars all gave appropriately offended sounds at that. The map-bearer said hotly, "Such evil! And you killed the apostate? Well done, Warden-Commander!"

Maybe half the templars nodded their agreement, though a couple narrowed their eyes suspiciously.

I shrugged. "Well, Thedas is a better place without that witch. So, there you go," I said, rolling the map up and handing it back. "Good luck."

Bryant nodded. "Thank you for your assistance, Warden-Commander."

Conchobar suddenly realised that events were getting away from him. "I think I should place you under arrest in any event. If you are authorised to be outside of the Circle, we can sort it out back in Denerim."

I didn't let my expression change, but that was all I needed to hear. There was going to be a fight. I immediately began calculating scenarios. I needed to split the group at the very least.

"Ser Conchobar! We have no authority to detain the Commander of the Grey!" Bryant protested. "The King himself was a Warden. The Grand Cleric would not wish a potential diplomatic incident of this magnitude."

I looked at Conchobar's eyes, noting with no surprise that he was not relying on logic, but on his orders. Bryant's objections would be overruled. He was going to justify arresting me however he could.

I held up a hand, a rough plan forming. "If I may? I'm nearly done here. I just need a few more samples of this flower, but I can more easily gather them tomorrow morning when it's lighter. After that, I'm heading back to Denerim for the Landsmeet. They're naming me the Arlessa of Amaranthine, you know." I smiled evenly, but internally rejoiced at the sudden look of caution on Conchobar's face. "Why not assign a couple of your men to escort me back to Denerim? There's no need for all of you to go, especially since if you all leave, that apostate you're after will get away." I felt that I could easily deal with a pair of templars.

Conchobar's eye twitched. He couldn't deny that argument, especially if the majority of his templars believed that there truly was an apostate out here to be arrested. A templar stepped forward. "Ser Conchobar! I will happily volunteer to escort the Warden-Commander to Denerim," he said, sounding just like those students in the Circle who longed for the instructing Enchanter's approval.

"No," he said, glaring at me. "I shall take you myself." Glancing at Thunder, he hastily made some mental calculations and modified his solution. "Ser William, you are with me. The rest of you, continue on to the apostate's hut. See if it actually exists, or if this mage is lying."

Well, that went better than I expected. I only had to deal with two of them. Time to put some distance between the two who were coming with me and the rest of their friends. I turned my back on the group and snatched up my bag and flowerpot. "My camp is this way," I barked over my shoulder, and strode away quickly, not waiting for my newly acquired shadows to walk along. If there was going to be any unpleasantness, it had to be far enough away so that the others couldn't interfere. I headed for the densest part of the forest, to make following me as a group difficult, if they all decided to come along.

One advantage I had was that I was an elf. With larger eyes and better night vision, I could move far more easily in the dim, failing light than humans, especially those who routinely handicapped themselves by wearing helmets that limited peripheral vision. The surrounding forest was packed with inconveniently hidden logs and tree roots, hollows and copses. If the templars thought following me would be easy, they were in for a surprise.

"Warden! Stay your course!" Conchobar barked at me as I ghosted away between the trees. I grinned at the sound of his gasping. He was trying to run, give detailed orders and yell instructions at me without taking the time to draw breath. No wonder he sounded winded.

After a minute or so, the templar called William finally caught up with me. Panting and wheezing like a blacksmith's bellows, he reached out and grabbed my arm. "Hold, mage!" he snapped, only to drop my arm in fright as Thunder turned, rose onto his hind legs and placed a massive paw on each armoured shoulder. He shoved his muzzle an inch from the man's nose and growled, deep and long.

William whimpered, but froze under the faint glimmer of saliva on fang.

"Hold, I say!" Conchobar shouted again from quite a ways behind, his breath labouring at the sudden exertion. Running through trees in dim light was not easy for someone of his middle years. He cursed as he went down on one knee. "Damn it, mage, halt! Or I shall Smite you!"

I ignored them both and continued walking, ducking my way between the loosely packed trees. What with them stumbling over hidden logs, dodging Thunder and sinking into the loose earth, keeping ahead of them was quite easy. And if they thought Smiting me would stop me...

I heard Conchobar bark an order. Thunder gave a warning bark. I grinned, gestured him to stay where he was, turned to face the templars and steadied myself.

The Holy Smite crashed down around me. My grin didn't shift. Another followed less than a second later. This time, I grunted with effort, but remained standing.

"My turn."

I took a half step to one side to gain a better angle, and conjured a shard of stone. It flew from my hands and took Conchobar low, beneath his lower edge of his breastplate. Such a blow had the potential to burst his bladder, or perhaps do some other humiliating injury. In any event, it sent him to the earth with a wheezing scream. William was far closer. He had his axe in hand, the blade edge trailing fog and ice crystals, obviously enchanted with cold. He bellowed a war cry and leapt at me, attacking with a hard, overhand swing. I didn't bother moving, except for rolling my eyes.

"Idiot," I told him helpfully, as he looked up in horror at his axe blade buried three inches into the thick branch above my head. Swinging an axe in the middle of a thick forest was a recipe for self-disarmament, a notion that should be self-evident. However, it appeared to come as a surprise to the hard-of-learning. The templar tugged at his axe blade, trying to free it from the tree. His efforts were hampered by the fact that the rune-based cold magic had frozen the tree limb around the blade. Seeing my expression, he panicked and grabbed the axe handle with both hands, forfeiting whatever small defense he could muster. He pulled impotently at the handle with a groan of desperation.

Honestly, could he be any more stupid? With his shield out of the way, I stabbed him through the thigh with Spellweaver's tip. It slid through cloth, skin and muscle with some effort. I gave the blade a half twist, wrenching the wound open, then pulled it out, slicing a new edge to the debilitating injury.

He went down with a shriek, clutching at his leg, his axe still stuck in the tree. "Thunder, cover him," I said.

Trusting that my dog would do his job, I carefully made my way through the woods towards Conchobar. He had risen to his feet, shaking in rage and pain. I waved a hand, and cast a petrification curse at him.

The templar grunted, but managed to resist the spell. I gave a tight grin and a nod of appreciation. "Not bad. Not many people can throw off one of my spells."

He took up his spiked mace and raised it high, setting his shield. "I am protected by the Maker's gaze. Now, you die, mage," he snarled, and attacked - his movements still somewhat hampered.

A few moments later, another pair of templars crashed through the forest, stumbling and cursing. They had their weapons out. Bryant, the leading templar raised his sword. Not in threat, but in supplication. "Warden-Commander! Please hold your strike!"

I looked down on the ground in front of me at the templar Conchobar. Blood ran freely down his face from a cut I'd given him, which unless seen to fairly soon, would probably result in him losing his left eye. There was a bright side however, if he chose to look for it. Any man wearing an eye patch with a scar running from their forehead and ending on their cheek got a great deal of respect from damn near everyone. On the manliness scale, it rated off the chart. He'd never have to buy his own drinks ever again.

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra sucked in a lungful of air in a gasp of shock.

The Warden gave her a lopsided grin. "Is there a problem, Cassandra? You sounded surprised there for an instant."

The Seeker stared at the elf, processing her words. It had been she who had blinded Knight-Commander Conchobar's left eye? It would certainly explain the man's attitude towards women and mages.

"No," she replied, shaken by the implications. "Continue your story."

o_ooo000ooo_o

Despite the cut through his eye, Conchobar's inability to stand was a result of something else. All the templars I'd faced recently seemed to have the same gap in their training. He was still curled into a ball after I planted the point of my armoured boot hard between his legs. It wasn't the first time I'd used that dirty trick on a templar, and I doubted it would be the last. He cupped his groin, his mace injudiciously discarded to one side. Despite the pressure he applied, he was unable to prevent blood from the puncture wound seeping into his kilt.

On the aforesaid manliness scale, such a wound trumped any eye patch, and dropped you into the range of incessant mocking and hushed laughter.

"Hello, Bryant. Any particular reason I shouldn't use this bastard's blood to fertilise the forest?" I asked cheerfully, scanning for any other arrivals. Only two more?

Conchobar drew a haggard breath. His remaining eye, watering alarmingly, turned down so as to look at the tip of Spellweaver as it hovered over his throat. "Bryant!" he wheezed, unwilling to look away from the glittering metal edge. "Smite her!"

"No," the templar replied.

Honestly, I don't know who was more surprised, Conchobar or I. We both looked at the templar in astonishment. Whose question had he answered?

"I gave you an order!" Conchobar hissed, still in agony.

"You attacked her without cause, Ser Conchobar," he said, very formally.

"She was trying to escape," he ground out throatily.

Bryant, his face still carefully expressionless, did not look down. "She was not under arrest, Ser Conchobar," he said evenly.

"She didn't obey my order," he whispered, unable to draw a large breath.

"She is not obligated to obey you, Ser Conchobar," Bryant continued, still in that emotionless tone, staring at me.

I cleared my throat. "Is there a reason you're here, Bryant?" I asked sweetly. "I mean, this waste of space did order you to track down the apostate."

Bryant sighed. "This is Ser Jerrod," he said, introducing the templar at his side. "After you left, he pointed out that your rank among the Grey Wardens is Commander, which by military tradition, is equal to a Knight-Commander."

"And?"

"Well, technically, it also means that as a mage, you are of rank equal to the First Enchanter of a Circle of Magi."

I tilted my head to one side. "And your point is?"

He shrugged. "So, any Senior Enchanter of a Mage Circle is obliged to have an escort of a minimum of four templars when outside the Circle. Ser Conchobar's decision to accompany you meant that, by protocol, he should have selected at least two more of us to join him. Where is Ser William?"

With my left hand, I gestured with my thumb. "Over there somewhere. Thunder is playing with him. Just listen for the screams."

"Oh dear," the templar Jerrod said. "Shall I see to him, Ser Bryant?"

"May he, Warden-Commander?" Bryant asked me politely, apparently deciding that as the person holding the sharp piece of metal at someone's throat, I was in charge.

I shrugged. "I'd either sheath your weapon first or leave it here," I suggested. "Thunder doesn't react well to armed people meaning him harm." Jerrod immediately placed his sword and shield on the ground.

"Quite so," Bryant offered, sliding his own blade into its scabbard. He looked down at Conchobar for the first time as Jerrod headed off into the woods, following the low growling. "If I may, Warden-Commander? Please lower your weapon."

I narrowed my eyes. "This man tried to kill me," I growled.

"Yes, he did. But he did not succeed, and he is helpless now. If you kill him, it would be murder."

"Or simply high justice," I pointed out. "As the Arlessa of Amaranthine, I am entitled to dispense justice."

"You are not the Arlessa yet, though," he pointed out gently. His voice did not rise or harden, he simply spoke in soft, neutral tones.

"Bryant!" Conchobar wheezed.

"No, Ser Conchobar, I hereby relieve you of your command. We shall escort the Warden-Commander back to Denerim, where I shall present your actions to the Grand Cleric."

I stayed silent. While it was nice of Bryant to stick his neck out for me, I suspected I had a far more realistic view of how the Grand Bitch would react to his charges.

Bryant knelt, withdrawing two potions from his belt. Uncorking the first, the aroma of concentrated elfroot filled the air. The first magic-infused concoction stemmed the wounded templar's bleeding. The second stopped it all together.

Conchobar rose unsteadily to his feet. "You..." he glowered at me.

"Ser Conchobar!" Bryant snapped warningly.

"Me what?" I snarled back, ignoring Bryant.

"I shall see you executed for this," he said in a soft, menacing growl.

I groaned. Great. Greagoir, version two. "You hit me with a Smite and I shrugged it off. Two Smites, in fact. What makes you think you have the power to enact your sentence?"

Bryant blinked. "Then it is true? You can resist a Holy Smite?" he gaped.

I shrugged, as though such a feat was of no consequence. "Of course. It's not hard," I said easily. It occurred to me that the eight remaining templars, if indeed they were heading to Morrigan's hut, might also be in for a bit of a shock. I taught Morrigan how to resist Holy Smites too, after she swallowed her pride and admitted that the skill would be of quite some use.

"How?" Bryant asked hoarsely.

I grinned at him. "You expect me to tell a templar how I resist a templar's main weapon against me?" I chuckled.

He glanced at the man from whom he had usurped command. "No, I suppose not."

"My camp is just up ahead," I said in the inky blackness. Night had fallen quickly in the deep forest, with no moonlight filtering through the cloud cover or even torchlight from a nearby town to provide illumination. Thunder had no difficulty in navigating through the forest, trotting along next to me. The templars were having a much harder time of it.

As we rounded a small rise, campfires became visible. Bryant cleared his throat. "Warden-Commander? There appear to be multiple fires in your camp."

I nodded, though in retrospect, he probably couldn't see the action. "Yep. Come on, I'll introduce you to my escort."

"Escort?" growled Conchobar, his voice suddenly a bit wary. "You didn't mention that you had an escort."

I snorted, not bothering to reply.

It must have been an interesting sight. Five people and a dog trundling into an armed camp. Bryant assisted Conchobar, as the senior templar was still not fully mobile, while William leaned heavily on Jerrod, hopping with a thick tourniquet wrapped tight around his upper thigh. I had declined to offer healing to them.

"Commander?" the sentry on duty questioned. "Who are these templars? Did you run into some trouble in the Wilds?"

I shrugged. "They are part of a patrol out hunting for an apostate. They mistook me for one. We had a brief disagreement about it, which has been resolved to my satisfaction."

His eyes widened, and he looked us up and down. I was completely uninjured, while the templars were covered in blood. A massive grin flooded his features. "Right you are, Commander. The Captain is in his tent."

I nodded with a sigh. Explanation time.

We left the Wilds the next day, after I'd gathered a few more living plants. Captain Francois was furious that I'd been attacked after leaving his protection, and took it upon himself to ensure I was never alone with the templars, assigning me a personal guard at all times. As unnecessary as that was, I did find it touching.

As for the templars, Bryant was amiable enough, taking the time to chat with me often. We recounted our respective adventures since we'd parted ways at Lothering more than a year before.

Jerrod avoided me. Conchobar was still sulking that I had taken precautions to prevent him from murdering me in my sleep; said precautions consisting of keeping a two-dozen-strong escort a secret. His partner William travelled in the supply wagon. He was still not able to walk, unassisted or not, and would in all probability have a limp for life even if he managed to keep his leg. Judging by how far we were from civilization and the way he was relying on his dwindling supply of magical healing poultices, amputation seemed likely.

Oddly, Bryant didn't seem too fussed at this. Nor did he try and pressure me into some magical healing. He just... talked with me.

"Once the last convoy of refugees were on their way, I did a quick survey of the surrounding homesteads," Bryant recounted. "A small number of people refused to leave, preferring to wait for news about missing family members."

I shook my head. "I can sympathise with their situation, but that's suicide."

He nodded. "Well, it worked for one family. Their wayward members arrived just ahead of the darkspawn hoard, and they left their home with just the clothes on their backs. Somehow, they managed to make their way to Gwaren. I heard they spent several months in a refugee camp there waiting for a ship to ferry them to the Free Marches."

I looked at him curiously. "You followed the fortunes of one Lothering family? I must say, that's dedication. Are all Lothering templars as dutiful?"

He gave me a wry smile. "I would like to claim so, but I fear you have made an unwarranted assumption. The late head of that family was suspected of being a powerful apostate. Magic runs in bloodlines. We tend to pay a bit more attention to those suspected of possessing magical ability. The Chantry in Gwaren kept an eye on them until they departed."

I tensed. "Suspected? You didn't just arrest them?"

He shook his head, looking taken aback. In a tone of mild offence, he said, "Of course not. We cannot arrest someone without just cause. Suspicion is not enough, there needs to be a reputable witness."

I chose not to comment. Perhaps it was different in Lothering before the Blight. I glanced along the road, noting that our detour was coming up. I turned and called out to Captain Francois. "Our path goes right, up ahead."

Francois nodded, and turned back to his men, giving orders. Bryant looked up at me. "Our path? This is the highway to Denerim. Why are we deviating from it?"

I gestured towards the thick forest. "I have business in the forest with the Dalish. Hopefully, we shouldn't be too long."

"Oh, that won't go down well," he muttered. "Ser Jerrod!" he called out.

The younger templar trotted up the line of soldiers. Thunder barked a greeting. My mabari had taken quite a shine to the young man, graciously allowing him to throw a stick for Thunder's entertainment. But the sudden-onset blush and stutter combination he suffered whenever he so much as looked at me was annoying. "Yes, Ser Bryant?"

Bryant gave me a mildly disapproving look, but addressed his comrade. "Inform Ser Conchobar and Ser William that we will be deviating from our planned route. The Warden-Commander has business in the Brecilian Forest."

Jerrod sighed, but nodded, saluted, and marched back the way he had came. The relative peace was not to last.

Conchobar stormed up the line of soldiers, his facial expression an odd blend of fury and impotence. "What is this?" he demanded, stomping his feet with every step. "You said you were going to Denerim! Ser William needs medical attention! We cannot simply wait here for you to-"

Captain Francois, at the head of the column of soldiers, cleared his throat. "Remain respectful, Knight-Captain," he said in a flat, unfriendly tone. Several other soldiers began fingering the hilts of various weapons.

The templar flashed him a look of disgust, but didn't deviate from his course. He stomped right up to my horse's flank, glaring at me as though he could intimidate me into changing my mind. The effect was ruined somewhat by his left eye; the wound I gave him still weeping puss and other unidentifiable fluids.

"I am going to Denerim," I said sweetly. "I just have to take a short detour into the forest ahead."

"Why?" he demanded.

Conchobar's constant abrasive nature had alienated even the most pious of the soldiers in my escort - though it had to be said that, as a group, soldiers weren't all that pious to begin with. Several frowned and openly grumbled at the templar's attitude.

I just looked at him coolly. "That is my business."

"Now see here-" he exploded, before I cut him off with a sharp wave of my hand.

"No, you see here, templar. I am not answerable to you. I am not required to obey you, seek approval from you or defer to you. You are here by my invitation, and you will comport yourself accordingly. I have business in the Brecilian Forest. That is all you need to know."

The soldier assigned as my personal escort for the morning frowned as Conchobar stormed away. "Are all the templars like that, Warden-Commander?" he asked.

"Most of them," I said sourly, subtly casting a mild healing spell on myself to alleviate the headache brought on by trading barbs with Conchobar.

Bryant coughed. "That's hardly fair," he objected mildly.

I sighed. "Fine." I turned back to the young soldier. "Most of the magic-fearing ones are like that."

The soldier shook his head, and rubbed his left bicep. I suddenly realised that this was the soldier who'd had his arm pinned to his side by a darkspawn arrow on that night just out of Denerim. "Why? I mean, I get that magic is dangerous; you've shown that over and over. But can't templars sort of, get rid of it? Why are they so afraid of it?"

That wasn't a bad attempt at describing magical negation, at least for an illiterate soldier. "It's a puzzler, all right. But you are wrong about one thing. Any warrior with sufficient discipline can negate magic. I could give you some pointers myself, if you wish," I said with a smirk and a sidelong glance at Bryant.

Bryant's eyes widened. "What? No you can't!"

"Can't what?" I asked with a grin.

He looked very uncomfortable, all of a sudden. "Only those trained by the Chantry can summon forth the holy powers necessary to negate magic, Warden-Commander," he declared, though with less certainty than he wanted.

I chuckled softly. "Oghren isn't one for taking vows, Bryant. Despite that, he can Smite harder than Greagoir, a fact to which I can personally attest. And it appears I need to remind you once again; it's Kathryn, to you."

The soldier's gaze flicked between us. "Er, I'm sorry if I've said the wrong thing, Ser Bryant. I'm just a soldier," he offered, taking a few steps backwards.

I waved that away and answered for both of us. "You haven't. It's a common misconception."

Bryant shook his head. "I'm sorry, War- Kathryn, but in this, you are wrong. There are some other… things required for us to use our abilities, beyond mere discipline."

I looked at him sadly. "No, there isn't. But I suspect there is no way to prove it to your satisfaction out here."

I spent almost a week in the forest looking for Lanaya's clan. Or even any Dalish clan. In all that time I didn't find a single hint as to their presence or where they'd gone. There were no recent aravel tracks, no halla droppings, and no abandoned camps. Nothing. It was as if the clans had just left the forest.

Eventually, to Conchobar's smug expression, I had to admit defeat, and head north. The Landsmeet was due to begin soon, and I could not be late.

It rained hard the day we arrived back in Denerim. I rode on my horse with head bowed against the blustering downpour, pitying the poor sods that had to march along the increasingly muddy highway.

We'd camped in the usual planned spots along our route, but the weather during the past day had been a right bugger. It slowed our march down enough that we arrived at the capital almost two hours after dusk. Even Thunder padded along with a bowed head and a mournful air.

The biting rain kept the streets clear of both man and beast, leaving plenty of space for a double column of travel-weary souls. Even the palace guards on duty were keeping out of the weather, huddling in the small alcoves along the outer wall. We approached quite close before one of them decided to brave the rain and moved to challenge us.

Captain Francois met the challenge, gave his credentials, and we were permitted access. It was at this point that Conchobar once more presented his distinctive brand of idiocy to the world, demanding that I immediately go to the cathedral with him.

I ignored him and his rantings, not even turning around. I simply urged my horse into the marshaling yard where I'd first met the Cousland brothers six weeks ago.

"Kathryn?" Bryant called out to me as I passed through the gate.

I sighed, but turned in my saddle. "Come back tomorrow, Bryant. Please? I'll go with you to see your boss then. I'm just too tired to bother with her right now."

I nudged my horse forward and away from the spluttering Conchobar. Several figures emerged from the palace, the stables and the barracks. Rank has its privileges, and not dealing with a fractious, tired horse was one of them. I dismounted, and handed the reins over to a young lad.

Of course, rank also has its negatives, too.

"Warden-Commander," a page greeted me, the pouring rain rapidly dampening his hair and shoulders. "The Arl of Redcliffe would like to see you in his study," he told me.

I grunted, unbuckling the leather pouch with the diplomatic missives from the saddle. "No doubt. Did he want to see me right now, or could he wait until I've had a bath and something hot to eat?"

"Er," the young man prevaricated. "Arl Eamon said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived."

I resisted the urge to snap at the poor servant. "Fine. Thunder? Follow this nice man; he'll take you to Eamon. Take this for me," I said, passing the satchel to my mabari.

He grasped the leather straps in his jaws, and agreed with a muffled, "Whuff."

"Good boy, I'll see you soon." Hopefully, Eamon hates the smell of wet dog as much as I. It wouldn't take me more than an hour to get something to eat. Two at the most.

In the end, Eamon sent another messenger, who caught up to me in the mess. Still, I'd eaten almost a whole bowl of hot stew, so my growling stomach was at least partially satisfied. I grabbed a bone for Thunder and followed the messenger to Eamon's study. As it turned out, to say that Eamon wasn't in the best of moods was quite the understatement.

"Dear Maker! Fourteen templars, Kathryn! Fourteen! Most of them were initiates! Children!"

I glared at him. "Children, huh? Let's not beat around the bush, Eamon. You mean big, armoured children. Big, armoured children, armed to the teeth with swords and axes and were trying their best to bloody well kill me," I pointed out. I crossed my arms and sank back into the soft chair, with a sullen snarl on my face. "I was under the impression that I was permitted to defend myself."

"Defend yourself, yes. Wholesale slaughter, no!" he roared, slamming his palm down on his desk. From in front of the fire, Thunder raised his head. He noted that I was in no real danger, and went back to happily triturating his bone.

I narrowed my eyes. "Lower your voice while speaking to me," I growled.

His eyes bulged. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I can hear you just fine when you speak at your normal volume. Now, have you read the report I sent with your first messenger?"

Eamon's eye twitched. "Yes," he ground out.

"And how does it match up with the version of events you got from the Chantry?"

"It doesn't!" he spat. "But it also doesn't matter! The King and I have had to fend off demands for your arrest by the Grand Cleric every couple of days. She has been threatening us with excommunication and annulment of the Royal marriage, either of which has the potential to forcibly remove them from the throne."

I snorted. "So, because the old bitch has her smalls in a twist, she's making empty threats towards you. I have to say, so sodding what? Her own position is tenuous at best, and because of that she howls as loudly as possible in an effort to divert attention away from her own failings."

He slammed his fist down on his desk. "Her threats are not empty! The country is weak from the Blight and infighting. We need stability now more than ever. A schism with the Chantry could well open the floodgates for those malcontents who would seek to seize more power."

I rolled my eyes. "Maker's breath man, take your balls out of your wife's purse and stand up to her. There are plenty of things you can do to push the pressure back. Write to her boss in Val Royeaux and demand she be replaced on the grounds of gross incompetence and even more gross stupidity. Or throw together a draft of a law you ostensibly plan to debate at the Landsmeet where all templar and priest appointments and demotions to positions of authority within Ferelden need to be ratified by the Crown, and have a copy fall into her hands. Put her on the defensive and bloody well keep her there."

"It's not that simple," he said, thankfully ceasing his pounding the desk.

"Andraste's backside! Anora could come up with better ideas in her sleep! Why is this still woman still a problem?" I didn't mention that even as a last resort, Zevran could be commissioned to neutralise her threat.

Eamon's hands began trembling. "We need to keep her on our side!" he shouted.

"Why?" I demanded.

The Arl swallowed, but didn't answer.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. "Shit. It's Connor. You're protecting Connor. Did she threaten him?"

"This has nothing to do with Connor!" Eamon responded, apparently hoping that intensity could trump the uncertainty in his voice.

I sighed. "Bullshit. It's the easiest way she has to influence you. And the most immoral, but hey, it's a priest doing it, so it's sort of expected."

He placed his elbows on the desk, and dropped his face into his hands. "This is getting out of hand. The harder we push for these reforms, the harder the mages' lives become."

I rubbed some fatigue from my eyes. "What happened after I left? Did Larkworthy complete his negotiations? Was he successful?"

"Yes," Eamon grunted. "I sent him because I believed him to be the most capable of all my agents. He had a clear understanding of what the King and Queen hoped to accomplish, and what they were prepared to sacrifice." He shook his head. "Whatever it was you did there, it worked. Knight-Commander Greagoir couldn't sign the papers quickly enough. The first tranche of mages left Kinloch Hold before the week was out. We got everything we wanted and more. That was the problem."

"What problem?" I asked.

The Arl took a deep breath. "Greagoir has been replaced. He was recalled to Val Royeaux, and forcibly retired. The new Knight-Commander, a fellow from the Denerim Chantry called Tavish, has reneged on the agreements, and has declared the mages who had already left for their assignments to be apostates if they do not return."

I crossed my arms. "I've just had a flash of clairvoyance. The Chantry is leaving it up to the Crown to enforce the order to return." With the templar numbers so low, it was a reasonable deduction.

Eamon looked startled. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess," I chuckled aloud and shook my head. "You have a signed agreement, over the royal seal no less, that allows mages to take up assignments offered around the country. And yet because one man tosses his toys out of his cot, it's null and void, and you are expected to police the broken agreement? I think you may have a bit of a larger problem than just a new Circle Knight-Commander, Eamon."

"He has the backing of the Grand Cleric and the Divine, Kathryn. It is not just one man."

"So tell them to negotiate a new agreement. Take your time. Demand an in-depth investigation of the risks and benefits of having a healer mage in every town. Insist on sending people to personally observe the actions of the mages. Drag out the negotiations for weeks or months. The old agreement still has legal force, unless the Chantry has changed its mind about being subject to mortal laws. They've always been so pious about the fact that they obey all temporal authority. Unless they've changed that policy. I don't remember seeing such a proclamation."

"Don't be obtuse," Eamon snapped. "Of course they have made no such claim. But they are ignoring the agreement as it stands. The mages in the tower are being treated appallingly."

"Oh, that'll make the ones outside want to go back," I snorted. "So, the Chantry is ignoring an agreement made with one of its duly authorised officers, just because it doesn't like it. But they're leaving it up to you to police their decision, so that it isn't them that actually breaks it. Is that about it? And we're back to Connor being threatened, because that's about the only thing that could prevent you from laughing in their faces."

In lieu of a response, Eamon sank back down into his chair. "Damn you, Kathryn. Why did you need to kill so many templars?"

"Oh for the love of... I killed so few templars, because they backed down. They were trying to kill me, Eamon. Do you even understand that? Do you get it?"

"Whatever exaggerations you've convinced yourself…" he started.

My expression must have changed, because he trailed off. In my coldest voice, I hissed, "I now see where you went wrong, Eamon. You believe that we mages are treated like human beings behind the tower doors. We are not." I took a deep breath, let it out, and tried to make him understand. "Look, the templars consider us dangers, and for a very good reason. The simple fact is that we are dangerous. You know from personal experience what happens when a mage makes a deal with a demon. But the easiest way to train a templar initiate to kill a mage he might speak to every day is to dehumanise all mages first."

Eamon swallowed. "I…"

I waved a hand to silence him. "Generations of dehumanisation has literally turned mages into a lower form of life. Like the elves in an alienage or the caste-less dwarves of Dust Town, we have fewer rights than a normal person. Templars don't regret killing mages, Eamon. They see it as a necessary part of their jobs."

His eyes flicked over to a shelf filled with parchment. "Your report to us then, it was all true?"

I nodded. "Greagoir tried to disarm, strip, and imprison me the moment I walked into the tower. Given how the bastards acted afterwards, I'm certain they'd have executed me and told you nothing."

The Arl appeared to deflate. "Being a Warden should protect you from such actions."

I barked a humourless laugh. "As I told Alistair, it will protect me if there are witnesses. Otherwise... not so much."

"It appears that the Chantry is moving even more blatantly that I feared. I have always been a loyal and devoted son of Andraste and the Maker. My wife is devout beyond what is deemed suitable by the majority of the Fereldan nobility. Yet that all counts for nothing when I stand against them in any small way."

I shook my head, wondering if maybe, just maybe, recent events had succeeded in opening his eyes to the world. "You've stood against them in more then just a small way. I'd watch my back if I were you."

Eamon just shook his head. "It is not just me who needs to worry, Kathryn. The Grand Cleric has made threats against you too. Public threats. I would be surprised if she had not already sent out templars with orders to apprehend you, despite the illegality of such actions."

I gave him a wide smile. "Good instincts. She sent out a templar team that caught up with me in the Wilds."

He jerked his head up and stared at me in horror. "You killed them, didn't you?"

I shook my head. "No, as a matter of fact, I did not. I didn't have to. I believe her need to keep overt moves against me secret worked against her."

That caught his attention. "Oh? What do you mean?"

"Not all templars are rabidly anti-mage. They all get the training, but I've met some who respect us as people. Obviously, the idiot woman can't tell everyone to break the law; only those who believe as she does, that the ends justify the means."

Eamon processed this. "The group who caught you had both types of templar?" he guessed.

I nodded. "The leader, a chap named Conchobar, was determined to arrest me, even after he'd been informed that he had no authority over the Wardens. One of the templars was someone Alistair and I met in Lothering, a man called Bryant."

Eamon started. "Ser Bryant is alive?"

I nodded. "As of a few hours ago, yes," I replied, hoping that it was still true. I laid out the recent events, of how I invited a few of the templars to join me on my trip to Denerim, of how I was attacked, and how the soldiers treated the templars on the march home.

Eamon ran his fingers over his beard, deep in thought. "If it is the Grand Cleric and not some rabid underling giving the illegal orders, then things are even more dire than you believe."

I scoffed. "Let me ruin your night completely then. The orders regarding me, whoever gave them, are the least of your worries."

He blinked. "Explain."

I spread my hands. "This is speculation, but it does fit the facts. Keep that in mind."

He nodded, gesturing at me to continue.

"Starting with the facts. One, the Circle is currently getting only one fifth of their usual lyrium ration. Confirmed by Irving himself. Two, the dwarves are shipping out the exact amount as required by their contract with the Chantry, as they have for centuries. Confirmed by direct observation in Orzammar. So, somewhere and somehow, a large amount of lyrium is going missing. I think the Grand Bitch is stockpiling it."

"But the difference could be going missing anywhere," Eamon pointed out. "Why do you suspect the Grand Cleric?"

"You're right. But if it was being stolen in transit, there'd more than likely be a glut on the black market, whereas at present prices are only slightly inflated."

He looked confused. "All right, I can accept that there is lyrium going missing. But you haven't said why."

"Logic dictates that she is either using it or hoarding it. My hypothesis is that she's building a lyrium stockpile."

He frowned. "Why?"

"You know that templars are given lyrium, right? Supposedly to boost their powers?"

Eamon looked stunned. "Really?"

Shit, didn't Alistair tell his chief advisor anything? "Yes. It does nothing of the sort, of course. They are given it because it is addictive. It gives the priests a leash over the templars."

Were it possible, Eamon looked even more flabbergasted. "Really?"

I growled under my breath. "Yes, really. You can confirm it all with Alistair later, but for now, just accept what I'm telling you, okay?"

He nodded mutely.

"Good. Now, the longer templars take lyrium, the larger the dose they need. Older, more experienced templars are being ordered away from their usual postings and replaced with initiates. Even before I thinned their ranks, the Circle had barely half their usual compliment of templars. And most of the ones assigned there have barely started shaving."

From his expression, he still seemed pissed at me about that. "Go on," he growled.

"After I finished at Orzammar, I stopped at Redcliffe on my way south. The same thing had happened at the Chantry there. There were only two experienced templars there in charge of the dozens of initiates. Every town and village I went through followed the same pattern. Almost all of the experienced templars have been ordered away and are presumably assembling somewhere in the country. And because they all wear the same armour and those full-faced helmets that give them that inconvenient anonymity, we have no clue where they are."

He paled.

"I see you've drawn some conclusions. The old cow in the cathedral has a private army at her disposal, with a stockpile of the addictive drug she uses to control them. Tell me, does that terrify you as much as it does me?"

He shook his head, not in denial of my question, but in shock. "This is intolerable. I need to... We cannot just... How can..." He looked up at me. "This is a big problem."

I nodded with broad, overexagerated sweeps of my head. "No kidding." I told him about the templars who'd falled victim to the band of bandits, north of Redcliffe. And of the similar pairs of incognito templars we passed more or less constantly on the roads around Ferelden. I watched him closely, to see what his reaction would be. The sudden intake of breath and terrified expression was all I'd hoped.

"You don't suppose... Oh no."

"Just figured something out, have you?" I smirked.

He covered his open mouth. "There is talk of an Exalted March on Ferelden, due to our change in policy towards the Circle of Magi. I had discounted it simply because there is always talk of such to rectify inconsequential issues, invented by people with no vision. But it occurs to me that while a massing army would be noticed, a large number of travellers constantly on the move around the country would not."

I nodded. "And there it is. Well done."

Eamon's response was interrupted by hurried knocking at the door. "Enter," he snapped.

A guard's head poked into the room. "Your Excellency, there are several templars at the front gates. They are demanding the Warden-Commander surrender to them."

I sighed deeply and rubbed my forehead. "Bugger," I said, with feeling.

Eamon glanced at me. "What do you intend to do?"

"Well," I sighed, rising from my chair. "I suppose I'd better go and tell them to bugger off. Come on boy," I ordered Thunder. He gave me a long-suffering look and ponderously rose to his feet from where he was lying in front of the fire.

Eamon frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked the messenger. At the young boy's nod, he said to me, "They have no authority to detain you. There has been no warrant placed for your arrest, and you are no longer a mage of the Circle. You are beyond their power. I don't understand what they hope to accomplish."

I should try and bottle his naivety. I'm sure there's a market for unquestioning faith in authority. "Have you not been listening to me? These people don't care that I'm a Warden. I'm a mage to them. I'll always be a mage to them. Having me out from under their thumb is offensive."

Eamon wrung his hands together, his faith in the Chantry colliding with reality. "What do you plan to do? I can have an escort assembled to ensure you are not imprisoned unjustly."

I gaped at him. "I'm not going with them! That's absurd! If I place myself in their power I'll be dead within the hour, escort or not. Bugger that!"

"Then... what? What shall you do?"

I sighed, walking through his study door, past the messenger. "Like I said, I'm going to tell them to sod off and go home. Then, I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted."

"But... they won't just go! Not if they have orders from the Grand Cleric!" he said, stress causing his voice to rise in pitch and tone.

I rolled my eyes. "Look Eamon, what do you want me to do? Kill them? It would suit me just fine, and maybe, just maybe, the idiot woman in charge will get the hint that sending templars out after me just leaves her with dead templars. But that would probably cause Alistair more problems than he needs right now, so I'll try to convince them to go home. You might want to call in the undertakers though, just in case."

Eamon pursed his lips. "I was trying to suggest that it would be best if you did not inflame the situation with your presence."

That drew me up short. "Oh?"

He nodded, his eyes looking on some distant idea. "Yes, I think that perhaps I should take care of this problem. I shall convince them to leave you in peace for now. I can at least be of some assistance there."

I raised my eyebrows. That sounded… optimistic. "Really? How?" I challenged, highly suspicious.

He smiled. "There are sometimes better methods of persuasion than merely being in the right. Just, go and finish your dinner first. Give me an hour, then meet me in the entrance hall." He gestured to the messenger. "Young man, come here. I need you to go and get several of your work mates to deliver some messages for me. At least six."

Whatever it was he was planning, it could be examined on a full stomach. Thunder and I marched off towards the mess.

o_ooo000ooo_o

AN: Many thanks to my reviewers - Rhagar, MB18932, qweenseeker, Lil' Bunny Lynn-Lynn, Nightbrainzz, Arsinoe de Blassenville, TheDawgg and Alifangirl21 - they're opiates for writers.

My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I was trawling through the coda and various Bioware sites to make sure I got the titles and the templar structure right, but every time I found something, I also found something that trumped it.

Eventually, I went with information from an interview transcript with David Gaider. Even that interview contained some contradictory information (like the templars actually needing lyrium for their powers - but the effect just wears off slowly…)

Hopefully, a twelve thousand word chapter is reward enough for your patience.