Chapter 4: Soldier of Faith

Quinn knelt on one knee in the candlelit hall of Denerim's Chantry, his head bowed and hands folded, his lips moving ever so slightly as he recited the Canticle of Andraste:

"Eyes sorrow-blinded in darkness unbroken, there upon the mountain a voice answered my call. 'Heart that is broken beats still unceasing, an ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten, spear-maiden of Alamarr, within my creation none are alone.'"

He knew the entire Chant of Light by heart, his parents had been extremely religious and had raised their son to follow their example. As a young man, Quinn continued to pay lip service to the Maker and his Prophet mostly out of respect for his parents, but he never had the conviction in his heart that they had. Once they passed away, it was not long before he drifted away from the Chantry completely. He had better things to do with his time than mumble empty words to a faceless god. But that was before his world ended, before he found himself bound between two posts watching his beloved Tessa writhe and scream under the unforgiving lashes of the whip. Quinn had cursed and raged and frothed at the mouth. He had wept and begged his master to show mercy, but that cold hearted man knew nothing of mercy, not even for his own daughter. Quinn still choked up every time he recalled the image of Tessa's blood and tear stained face as she was dragged from the yard. That had been the last he ever saw of her, and it had broken his heart.

Then came the physical pain, pain the likes of which he never dared imagine a man could experience and survive. And after the pain came the darkness, deep in the bowels of the earth. The unending swing of a pickaxe in his hands, the ever present threat of the overseer's whip slashing down at the slightest hint of faltering. Ten years. Ten years which seemed like an eternity living in a grave, a walking dead man. Quinn had experienced hell in the flesh, and it was in hell that he found his faith. At first rage drove him to survive, then his ego and spite, then determination, and finally just a blind animalistic instinct to keep pushing forward. Eventually they all ran out, everything he had turned to for strength abandoned him. It was in that hour of his deepest despair, curled in the darkness and wishing for death that the Chant of Light returned to him. There in that pit for the first time in his life, Quinn said the words and meant them.

The Chant gave him a strength he did not know he possessed, solace he did not know he could achieve. The pickaxe seemed suddenly to weigh nothing at all, the whips of the guards felt like mere feathers falling on his back. And so Quinn kept saying the words, reciting the Chant over and over until the day he was finally released from the mines. He breathed in deep the free air, not knowing what he would do or where he would go, and he put his trust in the Maker.

The words carried him across the Waking Sea to Ferelden, they gave him the courage to stand firm against the dead at Redcliffe and the darkspawn at Denerim. Years later, the Chant of Light was on his lips when he found himself on his knees with a blade to his neck, certain his life was about to end. But it didn't. Quinn looked up and saw Feanor staring down at him with a curious expression. Quinn recognized the elf as a Grey Warden who had helped free Redcliffe from its curse. They had stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the barricades, fighting off wave after wave of possessed dead.

"Hello Feanor," Quinn had calmly said. Feanor's eyes lit up in recognition, his blade faltered and was withdrawn. In its place, Feanor offered his hand, and Quinn had taken it. There in the road, Feanor told him about the brotherhood of the Black Wardens. He, Zevran and the others broke open the merchant's crates and showed Quinn the drugs he had unwittingly been guarding. They told him what the drugs did to people, and what had happened to a little girl who had somehow gotten her hands on a bottle and drank it, not knowing what it was. They told him how her mother had wailed at the funeral pyre. Quinn looked at the heartless smuggler who had hired him, held in place by two Black Wardens, and the image of Andraste wielding a sword flashed in his mind. Quinn ran the smuggler through without hesitation, and at that moment became a Black Warden. Since that day, Quinn never doubted once that the hand of the Maker had guided him to that road and shown him his purpose.

His entire life was summarized in the words of the Chant, and to him the Black Wardens were the Chant's purpose made flesh. They were the torch that drove back the darkness wherever they went. Most of his fellow Wardens thought Quinn a bit mad for believing what he did, but none would ever dare say so to his face. Not only because they respected him, but because they knew that his faith was the one thing in the world to which he owed more loyalty than the Black Wardens. That was fine by him, his beliefs did not require others to share them. Quinn knew that Feanor himself had no use for the Maker or Andraste, but that didn't matter. In his heart, Quinn knew Feanor was of use to them whether he cared or not.

He finished reciting the canticle and rose to his feet, touching his fingertips to his heart and then lightly to the feet of the statue of Andraste. Quinn lit a candle at the altar and said a few silent prayers for his brothers and sisters in the Wardens, the souls of his departed parents, and Tessa, wherever she was. Then he sat alone in one of the pews in quiet contemplation. It was sundown and there were a few other worshippers and priests going about their duties and devotions. It was Quinn's favorite time of day to visit the Chantry, when the fading light cast brilliant patterns as it gleamed through the ornate stained-glass windows. It was quiet and peaceful, the perfect time and place for reflection on the divinity of the Maker. Quinn preferred to pray alone, a luxury he was often afforded. Even the clergy gave him a wide berth and barely acknowledged him. Faithful or not, Quinn's appearance and demeanor screamed that violence was his profession, and his imposing presence was enough to keep the other faithful at bay.

So Quinn was surprised when another man slid into the pew next to him, a normal looking man of average height and build, dressed in the garb of a common laborer and a few years younger than Quinn himself. The man seemed to be focused on reciting his own devotions, so Quinn paid him little mind after giving him a once over and returned to his own private meditations. They sat there for a few minutes in silence before the man whispered four words just loud enough for Quinn to hear: "Fire in the mountains."

Quinn stiffened and every one of his senses immediately heightened to a level of awareness that measured every detail of his surroundings. His hand instinctively went for the hilt of the short sword hidden under his cloak. The words the man had spoken were a call sign used by the Black Wardens to signal when they had urgent information to pass up the chain of command. Except Quinn knew every Warden, informant, and spy in Denerim, and he was certain he had never seen this man before. Quinn continued to stare straight ahead.

"Who are you?" he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fire in the mountains," the man repeated.

Quinn turned his head slightly, his one eye narrowing as he measured the stranger more closely. His head was still bowed and his hands were folded in prayer. His clothes fell about his frame naturally, so if he was armed it was only with a small weapon hidden very carefully. After a moment Quinn looked away, but he kept his hand clutched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

"Ashes from the sky," he replied, the countersign to the code words the man had spoken.

The man gave a barely perceptible nod and a folded piece of parchment appeared as if by magic in his hand. He subtly slid it to Quinn who glanced down at it, wishing for a moment he still had another eye to keep on the strange messenger. Quinn's jaw tightened when he saw the seal on the folded piece of paper: Stylized black feathers forming two white eyes on a field of red. The sigil of the Antivan Crows. Quinn pulled his sword a few inches out of his scabbard and returned his glare to the stranger.

"Who are you?" Quinn asked again, this time with considerably more steel in his voice than before. The man didn't move but smiled slightly as he replied in a whisper:

"It seems Beloved Andraste has delivered a gift to you and your Warden friends," the man said. "The Antivan Crows have decided there will be no more killing for the time being."

"Your ilk doesn't get to decide when the killing stops," Quinn scowled. The only thing keeping his weapon in its sheath was their location. The stranger's eyes drifted momentarily to where Quinn was gripping his sword under his cloak, and then up to Quinn's face. The man actually grinned at him, as if daring Quinn to draw.

"The killing has not stopped, it has only paused," the man said. His voice now dripped with condescension as he abandoned all subtlety. "Nobody crosses the Crows and lives, the time will come for you and yours. But for now it is in our best interest to cease hostilities. You will find it is in your best interest as well."

"I somehow doubt that very much," Quinn replied. The man just shrugged.

"Take that letter back to your brothers," he said. "Read it. Discuss it. I think you will find that in this at least, our interests very much align."

The Crow casually slid out of the pew, bowed slightly toward the altar, and turned to leave. He paused just over Quinn's shoulder, leaned over and whispered into his ear.

"Be patient my friend," he said, "The business between us will be settled soon enough."

The Crow patted Quinn on the shoulder and strutted out of the Chantry. Quinn exhaled between clenched teeth as if he was trying to stifle a scream. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to leap out of the pew and murder the Crow. Had they been anywhere else, anywhere other than the Chantry, he would have done just that. Quinn wasn't stupid, he knew the Crows had sent him this message in the Chantry for that very reason. He had also been in this game long enough to know what that meant: The Crows somehow not only knew his identity, they knew his patterns and some very personal details about him. The possibilities of how they came about that information was something that made him feel instantly and profoundly uneasy. He sat there for several minutes until his heart stopped hammering in his chest and looked down at the piece of paper which was now crumpled in his clenched fist. Quinn considered reading it right there, but he thought better of it and slid the paper inside his cloak. It would be better for Feanor to read it first. And besides, whatever the message contained, Quinn was certain it would evoke emotions from him he would prefer not to feel inside a house of worship.