Haven really wasn't much of a village, all things considered. Ten was hoping at least for a public house or something, somewhere to sit indoors and take the chill out of her bones. Instead, set directly into the mountainside, were just a handful of buildings, half wooden, half the black rock of the mountain. It would have been charming, she supposed, were it not all so forbiddingly silent. Though it was barely autumn, it seemed winter had already set in in earnest this high in the mountains, and the silence was not helped by the six inches of snow on the ground, already crusted over as though it had been sitting there, melting by day, freezing by night, for weeks.

Sten had arisen that morning a new qunari, evidently needing only an overnight to adjust to the altitude. The rest of them, though, stayed irritable and felt exhausted, despite having had a full night's rest. Something about it changed the taste of the air, the smell of the trees, the sound of the snow crunching and twigs snapping. Ten felt as though she were moving through a dream.

"If this is a holy site, I wonder that it's not just that people feel like they're in a trance because their lungs aren't used to it," Ten observed, "I've heard that among some of the Avvar, those funny mushrooms we all tried as kids are considered to be holy because they give you visions. Maybe it was the same way for ancient people who made it this high."

"What do you mean we all tried as kids?" asked Zev.

"You didn't?" Ten asked, perplexed.

"So we've established that your childhood was short on socks, long on hallucinogens," remarked Alistair, "That actually explains quite a lot."

"Better than being short on familial affection, long on concussions," said Ten.

"Dear Holy Andraste," Zev prayed, clasping his hands and turning his eyes skyward, "I will repent all of my ways, join the brotherhood and take vows of chastity and silence if you will find it in your heart to make these two stop arguing for a solid hour."

"Oh shit, did you hear that?" Ten said, "We lay off each other for an hour and he'll shut his mouth and keep his pants on! I think I can do that."

"Deal. A true miracle. Maker be praised," Alistair intoned.

"So did our Fra Genotivi state exactly where in this village he was headed?" asked Wynne, hurriedly changing the subject.

"No… just that there was an ancient temple which also served as a tunnel through one of the peaks," said Lelianna. She looked upwards, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun on the snow, "And unless there are two of them, it's there!"

"That path is… near vertical," said Wynne. She bent down and rubbed her knee. Ten instinctively went through her pack, found, at the very bottom, gathering lint, an arthritis salve that she had made just to use up the rest of some herbs she'd gathered before they rotted. She handed it to the mage, who looked at her skeptically.

"Fine, don't use it if you don't want," said Ten, "But if magic could have fixed it it'd be fixed."

Wynne went over to sit on a rock and hike up her robes, and the rest of them looked discretely away.

"I did not prepare for this cold," said Sten.

"Remember Bodric the Bear!" Ten admonished, "The cold cannot defeat you if there is warmth in your heart."

The qunari nodded, "You speak wisdom. If the climb were easy, everyone would come to take their share of the relic we seek," Sten said, still gazing upward, "I do not put much stock in your articles of faith, they are…. impractical. However, a challenge is a challenge."

"We should search the buildings," said Ten, "If my… friend back in Denerim is telling the truth - and he has only lied to me when it is in my interest - there is something strange going on here. He said that the Genotivi's flat had been visited by men who wore the robes of priestesses, and recited some version of the Chant."

"What friend?" asked Zevran skeptically.

"Not that one," Ten said, "I am speaking of a well-connected individual who resides close to the building in question. The one I went to after you so indelicately relieved a young man of his life in his territory. He sent his majordomo to inspect some weeks ago, and well, that is what she reported."

"So a cult," said Lelianna.

"What you call a cult, others hold as dear to their hearts as your Andraste," Morrigan admonished, "There were many gods in this land before your Maker, and many prophets before your Andraste. You would all do well to remember that."

"But they were false!" Lelianna exclaimed, "The Maker is real. He has spoken to me."

"I don't doubt that something has spoken to you," said Morrigan, "But how are you so certain that it is the Maker?"

Lelianna's mouth opened and shut several times like a fish out of water.

"This is a waste of time," said Sten, irritably, "Let us search for your monk. If he lives, he may not for much longer, given how long this journey has taken."

"Good point," said Ten, "Theological battles for after we find out what has become of Fra Genotivi."

"And questions about who on earth you could know who would consider that flat his territory," Zevran said, "Come on, manita, you must tell me at some point. I am dying of curiosity."

"Then die," said Ten, "The four of you - Sten, Morrigan, Zev, Lelianna - knock on those cottage doors. Wynne, Alistair, come with me, that building looks semi-public. A store or a pub or something. It smells wrong."

"The dog certainly thinks so," said Wynne, who had treated her knee and, looking much steadier on her feet, returned to the group. She pointed to where Pigeon was running in circles in front of the door in question.

"Yes, that's why we are going there. Can't have the dog mauling anything and I'm the only one with a good record of calling her off," said Ten. She told the dog to sit, and pushed the door open.

A fall of dust baptized their entry. It had not been touched for several days. Ten began coughing, Wynne immediately afterwards, and Pigeon wriggled under their legs. The dog took off in search of the scent, though the wares on the shelf were weeks if not months old. And they made no sense. Most shops would have the basics, tools, cloth, maybe some preserved food, but this one was stocked with just absolute nonsense. Jars half full of dead bugs. Shoelaces, but no two the same. Books in every language with no discernable theme. Ten opened one and snickered.

"What?"

"It's an old Orlesian fabliau," she said, "It's filthy. I'm keeping it."

"Well we're close to the border," Alistair pointed out, "It makes sense. Why, what's it about?"

"Well the title translates to 'The Knight of the Long Ass' so that should give you an idea," Ten said. She took the book and tucked it in with the rest of her things. Winter was coming, and translating a bawdy poem would give her something to do.

"Knight as in warrior or night as in dark?" asked Wynne.

"Chevalier," she said, "I feel like the other meaning would be a different sort of book entirely."

Pigeon was sniffing around at the base of the wall, following the scent of something along it.

"I hope it's mice," Wynne said, looking nervously at the dog.

The hound followed the wall all the way around to a door that likely lead to a back room. She started rooting, trying to get her nose under the door. That failing, she sat back and issued a highpitched yip. Ten obliged her and opened the door.

"It's not mice," she said as the smell hit her full in the face and she wheeled back, hand over mouth and nose, "Andraste's shapely ass, there's three… four… three and a half corpses in here."

"What kind?" asked Wynne, "And which half?"

"Intact ones are grown men. Shit, Alistair, one of them is wearing Eamon's sigil."

"Well that solves one mystery," Alistair sighed grimly. Holding his hand over his nose he came up behind her, "Oh no… that's Ser Gaetan. Poor sod. Guess he got too close."

"How can you tell?" asked Ten, "Not much of a face left on him."

"He was the only left hander," he said, "Look, the scabbard is buckled on his right hip."

"What about the others?" asked Wynne, who had made it clear she was not going anywhere near that chamber of horrors.

"There's a monk," said Ten, "Probably Genotivi's assistant. Zev said the man they killed in Denerim was likely an impostor."

"But no Genotivi?" asked Wynne.

"I don't think so," said Ten, "This one is too young, the other isn't tonsured, and the one missing the top half has a butterfly tattooed on its lower back."

"You'd be surprised what some of the brothers get up to in their free time," Alistair said.

Ten went through her pack. There was a flask of pure mint oil somewhere in there. Finding it, she swiped a fingerful under her nose, tied a kerchief over that, and walked into the back room turned crypt.

"Ten, why do you always have to just do the grossest thing available?"

"Don't tell Zev that, it'll encourage him."

The monk had nothing but prayer beads in his robes. The knight had been relieved of his sword, though, as Alistair had observed, the scabbard remained. The third corpse looked like it had belonged to a scribe, the ink between its index and middle fingers was still visible, and also yielded nothing. The half corpse looked like it had been….

"This one's been eaten," said Ten, "Very large teeth marks. Would have to be the size of my wrist. Punched clean through the lower ribs."

"What could just bite someone in half like that?" Wynne mused.

"We're all thinking it, right?" Alistair said.

"Obviously," said Ten, "So our friend from last night is a maneater. But why would anyone take half a corpse from a dragon and put it back here?"

"It seems this whole place is intended to be as offputting as possible," said Alistair, "Air's barely breathable, snow well before the equinox, half eaten corpses just… there for anyone to find them."

"It's certainly an aesthetic," said Ten, "But if I stay here I'm going to vomit."

They filed back out into the center of town, except for Pigeon, who, of course, could not resist a good roll in some entrails.

"There's nobody home," Morrigan announced, "And there's movement in the Chantry. Didn't want to throw the doors open mid-service without you. There's something… off about this place."

"When a witch of the wilds starts saying something's off…" Ten mused.

"I turned into a sparrow and took a peek in the Chantry. The whole village is in there, if the number of houses are a metric. But only the elderly men, women, and children," said Morrigan, "No men between the ages of fifteen and sixty."

"That's… strange," Ten said, "What were they doing in there?"

"Reciting the Chant as far as I could tell," Morrigan said, "Not that I'd recognize it."

"I'm guessing the burning sensation whenever you walk into a holy building might dissuade one from learning it," Alistair said.

"Well," said Ten, "For those of us who've long dreamed of bursting in during services and making a mess, this is an opportunity."

"Oh… no she's going to hang upside down from the altar and lecture us about the evils of organized religion while drinking from the sacramental chalice," Lelianna said, "Everyone bring cotton for their ears?"

Sten, impatient, was already halfway up the hill, and the rest hurried to catch up with him. He threw the great doors open. At first glance, the congregation was not all that abnormal. But something was off. In the place of the Reverend Mother at the altar, there was an elderly man. Ten knew, intellectually, that the Tevinter Chantry had male clergy, but she had never seen one. While she did not consider herself a particularly spiritual person and had always had a healthy skepticism of the Chantry, some things were just ingrained into her. This just looked wrong, deeply wrong. Who would want to learn about the divine from a man?

The congregation, in unison, rose and turned to face the intruders. They all wore completely blank expressions and, as Morrigan had said, were all either children or of advanced age. Silently, each walked from the pews, and filed out of the door, completely ignoring the strange group outside the doors.

"Reverend… Father?" Ten said. The words tasted foreign in her mouth, "Is this a Tevinter chantry?"

"No," the cleric said, "Come in, children."

"Oh, I don't like this," Lelianna said, "This is sacrilege."

"The Maker hasn't struck them down yet," said Ten, "So let's reserve judgment. People believe in all sorts of ridiculous things."

"Are you cold?" the priest asked.

"Very," said Ten. She walked slowly around the side rather than down the center aisle, "Are you… clergy?"

"Come, child," he said, "It is warmer by the altar."

"Who are you?"

"I am Father Eirik. Please, don't be shy. You are simply lost… are you not?"

"Well, I seem to have wandered into a different version of reality, so I suppose you could say that," Ten said.

"You… girl what is wrong with your ears?!"

"My ears? Have you never seen an elf before?" she asked.

"Elves are real!?"

"Well… I should hope so," said Ten, "Look, there's another one there." She jerked her head back to gesture at Zevran.

"You are not from the valley," Eirik said, his eyes narrowing.

"No," she said.

"So you did not wander into Haven by mistake. You come with purpose," he said, "Will they never cease!?"

"I didn't realize we were not welcome," said Ten, "Look, have you seen an older gentleman, would probably be wearing robes, have a funny haircut with the crown of his head shorn, come through here?"

The kindly mask slipped from the old man's face. "Outsiders," he said, "Again and again, you people brave the cold, the altitude, all to come corrupt what is ours. Why can you not just leave us alone?!"

"I genuinely do not care that you let men be priests," said Ten, "Or recite the Chant differently. It is less than nothing to me. I am just looking for the man I described. I can see from the expression on your face that you've seen him. Point us to where he is and we will be out of your hair. I really don't have it in me to beat up an old man today."

"If we let you leave, you will bring others. They will not be as tolerant as you claim. I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot let you leave this village." He drew from somewhere inside his robes a sacrificial dagger with a sinister-looking wavy blade.

Ten sighed heavily. He raised his weapon. She lashed out with her right foot and delivered a kick to his gnarled hand. The dagger clattered on the floor. She dove for it and got her hand on it before he could stoop to find it.

"Listen, uncle," she said, "Just walk out of here. Go to someone's house. We will treat this building as we would treat our own place of worship. You hear me?!" she shouted to her companions, "No. Looting."

She turned back to Eirik, "So you just go on about your day. There are seven of us - eight if you count that gore-covered beast over there - there is one of you, and we are much better at this than you are."

"The men of the mountain will take care of you, if not the Holy Mother herself!" Eirik spat, but, acknowledging that this was the best way this was going to end for him, limped down the aisle, clutching his right wrist.

Shit I must have broken it. Senile old idiot forgets he isn't what he once was. Though I suppose that day will come for all of us, if we're lucky. Which I'm not. I guess I don't have to worry about breaking a hip…

"The wall to the right of the altar is false," she said, "There's a room behind there, you can see from the outside of the building." She walked up, and was quickly joined by Zev and Lelianna

After some banging on walls and fiddling with various things attached to them, the three of them managed to find the correct combination and, with a shudder, the false wall slid back to reveal a library behind it. And in that library lay another old man, dead or asleep, Ten could not tell.

"He's alive," Wynne said, after examining him, "Looks like they broke his ankle and then gave him something to knock him out."

"Torture?" asked Lelianna.

"Perhaps, or perhaps he's just grown fragile," said the mage, "Never mind, though, shouldn't be much of a trick to…" she laid her hands on him, and they glowed green briefly.

The old man stirred, and then sat straight up with a start, "What in the… what is going on?"

"Fra Genotivi?" asked Ten, kneeling beside him.

"Yes," he said. He looked around the room, and decided Alistair must be the proper one to address, "Why is that elf talking to me?"

Really. Fifty-something, beaten, and trapped in a back room in a chantry at the ends of the earth, still has the energy to be a bigot. I must have some of what he drinks.

"For reasons I do not fully understand, she is in charge," Alistair said, "So why don't you try that again?"

Ha! Small victories.

The monk sighed, closed his eyes. "I apologize. Miss, what is your name?"

"Much better," said Ten, "I'm Ten Tabris, and for reasons I do not fully understand, I am here to assist with your research."

"Oh!" Genotivi exclaimed. He rose slowly. Tested his leg, "So, first, I must explain to you what it is I'm looking into."

Ten would regret her announcement, as the scholarly monk took it as an invitation to launch into an explanation of his research as long and dry as a desert road, all the while pacing around the room on his newly mended leg. She got about half of it. Something something, holy martyr, something something, bearing the ashes to the mountains, something something, pre-chantry Andrastean writings.

"So the… sect that practices here," said Ten, "It's not Tevinter?"

"Not strictly. Why do you ask?" Genotivi.

"Male clergy," she said.

"You're actually quite astute!" Genotivi said.

"The Tevinter chantry has male clergy?" Alistair exclaimed, "I didn't even know that…"

"Yeah, well, everything I know about them has been learned against my will, so don't be too impressed," said Ten.

"Ah. Yes. Most unpleasant," Genotivi said, "But the connection is valid. Before the Southern Chantry was established, there was some controversy about ordaining both genders. The schism came later, though. What they were doing out there is the only living example I've seen of one of the oldest traditions of Andrastean worship. Say, since you got in… did you have to kill their cleric?"

"He lives," said Ten, "Though I'm not sure he'd be thrilled if you asked him to sit down for an interview."

"Perhaps you could help me persuade him!" Genotivi exclaimed.

"Perhaps I could," said Ten, "But in the meantime, it would be really nice to get at that temple."

"Do you fancy a climb?" Genotivi asked, "It's a steep path."

"I have never fancied anything less, but, like most other things in life, I'm going to do it anyway."