How many months had she served in the Chantry? Not enough to banish the sin of pride.

At first the lay sisters had looked on her askance. It was clear she was no blacksmith's daughter. Though she wore plain leathers, she spoke with an Orlesian lilt and moved with a dancer's grace.

Yes, she could have concealed these signs. Hadn't she been trained to put on a hundred accents, from the earthy speech of a Fereldan fishwife, to the simper of a Nevarran lady-in-waiting? Couldn't she disguise her movements, adopting the cat-like grace of an Antivan assassin one moment, swaggering like a Rivaini sailor the next?

Yet she had come to the Chantry to cast off her Orlesian masks, not to fashion a new one for the faithful.

Let me unclothe myself of all falsehoods before the Maker. Let the grace of Andraste alone be my robe and my mantle. Let the Maker see me as I am and not despise me, for her sake.

In a perverse way, it had pleased her to be distrusted. She had come to the Chantry when the burden of her sins had grown too heavy to bear. She wanted the faithful to look at her with judgement, even revulsion. If they knew the truth of her life, if they knew the innocent blood her hands had spilt, wouldn't they truly revile her? And still their condemnation would not be enough.

Her vice was that of the Magisters writ small. At a young age, she had learnt that even the meanest handmaid's daughter could partake in the folly of pride, which was all mankind's inheritance. She had not been satisfied with the life of a Ferelden servant, like her mother before her. She had aspired for more than her due, as the mage-lords of old had coveted the Golden City. To an impressionable girl's eyes, the glory of the court at Val Royeaux was as forbidden as the Maker's throne, its glittering inhabitants as remote and wraithlike as the spirits of the Fade. And when her own false god had whispered in her ear, hadn't she been willing to shed rivers of blood to open the path to her ambitions?

Her eyes, which had once gone roving after the gilded arches and silken courtiers of Val Royeaux, now gazed upon the bare stone of the chantry, the serene face of Andraste. Her hands, which could guide a dance partner through the paces of the Pavane or guide a knife between a man's ribs, were reddened and raw from scrubbing, mending, and ministering to the sick. Her lips, which had whispered flattering lies and evil tidings, now only framed the Maker's praise. Her ears, once attuned to gossip and scandal, now hearkened only to the Chant of Light. The scratching of rough linens on her skin, in place of slippery silks and satin, was like returning to the comfort of a mother's embrace.

So she passed her days in the House of the Maker, fleeing from the world which had once entranced her. She won the tolerance, if not the outright acceptance of her sisters, through hard work and dedication. She supped on simple bread and stew in the inn, relishing the rough speech of farmers more than the sparkling wit of troubadours. Best of all, she was surrounded by the Chant of Light, which resounded in this bare Ferelden chantry more sweetly than in all the jewelled chambers of the Grand Cathedral.

Yet she should have known this peace was not to last. Absolution had been won too easily for a wretch like her. The embers of pride still glowed within her breast. She had dampened the flames for the moment, but she could not extinguish them.

In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame,
All-consuming and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams…

Try as she might to turn her heart towards her new calling, there was a growing unease within her. Visions of the Maker troubled her by night. In Val Royeaux she had distracted herself with the Great Game and a thousand idle amusements. She had thought her meaningless life the cause of her unrest. But now, in the stillness and silence of the chantry, her sense of isolation only deepened.

What, then, was her purpose? When a woman had trodden the paths of worldliness, then turned her back on the world to walk the footsteps of the faithful, yet she could still find no peace, where was the place for her? Or had the Maker condemned some of his children to wander without tranquility, without solace? Was she beyond even the power of the Chant of Light to reach, like the Darkspawn and Magisters of old?

"Humble yourself, and be patient," counselled the Revered Mother. "A heart is not corrupted in one day, nor is it cleansed in one night."

And when Leliana told the Revered Mother of her dreams: "The Fade is a realm where nothing is as it seems. We are not all Andraste, to be favoured by the Maker. The Maker has turned his back on this world. We must be cautious when the phantasms of the night appear to us, clothed in raiments of light. It is in the Chant you will find your salvation, not in your own fancies."

So Leliana humbled herself and redoubled her service to the faithful. She stilled her own song, a nightingale in a cage of her making. She had sought a refuge from the world, and she must accept the fetters placed upon her for her own good.

Yet as she toiled by day, the songs of her sisters and the images of the faithful no longer soothed her as they once did. She longed to lay her head upon her pillow, and hear that music which came to her in dreams. It seemed to her that the Chant of Light had been but a foretaste of the Maker's true glory. The True Chant was something that no mortal voice could carry. Echoes of that distant, beautiful melody streamed through the Fade by night and seeped into her heart. She awoke each day to find her eyes wet with tears of joy. The chantry was now an aviary, filled with parrots prattling away, reciting snatches of verse they had learnt as a distant memory.

The true Singer was out in the world - and she had heard Him.