Chapter 30

xxx M xxx

"Do I want to hear what happened?" Hawke enquires with the hint of a wry smile. Viscount Dumar sighs deeply, lowering his head to rub at his eyes. It always makes me wonder how it is that his heavy metal crown doesn't slip from his smooth bald head and go bouncing along the floor whenever he does this.

"A Qunari delegate and entourage paid me a visit. It was civil, tentative. Hopeful." Dumar lifts frustrated eyes to Hawke's, making a helpless gesture with his velvet-gloved hand. "They left my chambers with precision but were not reported by the outer guard. They are missing almost literally from my doorstep. What, do you imagine, will be the Arishok's reaction?"

Poor Viscount. His worry shows in the lines around his eyes. I don't envy him his position in the least, although it does seem like he is putting a lot on Hawke's shoulders, giving her such weighty problems to deal with all the time. At least he pays well, I suppose.

I glance at Hawke, noting her frown of concentration as she mulls over Dumar's words. "Do the Qunari generally keep you updated?" she asks him after a moment. "Perhaps they had business elsewhere and had orders to give your people the slip."

"Qunari do not disappear," he insists with a shake of his head. "They know we watch, and they are not shy about their movements."

"I'll find out what happened," Hawke promises, sharing a purposeful glance with me. "We need to get out in front of this, and fast."

The Viscount gives a brief smile, his eyes showing plainly his relief that Hawke will take charge of this situation for him. "I feel I have been trying to turn a stampede for some time, now. Someone is pushing very hard." Stepping forward, he proffers a forearm for Hawke to clasp with her own. "Speak with Seneschal Bran. Then you will see why I cannot trust anyone else with this."

I do like this about him; how he talks to Hawke like she is his equal, even though he's the ruler of the city and she was once no more than a Ferelden commoner seeking refuge at his gates. And he's always polite to me too, which is quite nice, really. I do hope we can help him. He seems to be somewhat out of his depth in dealing with many of Kirkwall's current problems, poor man. I suppose it's easier to lead when everything's going alright.

"I don't know who would benefit from fighting the Qunari, but it will cost all of us," Dumar says as he crosses back to his desk and wearily takes a seat. "Messere Hawke, you have my thanks. And you, serah Merrill. Take care, both of you, and I hope to hear word of your progress soon."

I close the door behind us as we leave Dumar's office and sigh, glancing towards the office of the Seneschal. Odious man. "Do you suppose we really do have to speak to Bran?" I ask Hawke wryly. "Couldn't we just… not do that?"

Hawke laughs as she strides over to Bran's office, rapping her knuckles smartly on the door. "Afraid not, my love," she chuckles, blue eyes twinkling merrily. "I'm sure it will be quick. Bran usually likes to dispose with riffraff such as we as quickly as possible." She tries the knob when a second knock elicits no response from within and then frowns, turning away. "Hmm. He's not in."

Well, that's all to the good, in my opinion. "He'll be around here somewhere, bothering someone else," I say reluctantly. "Shall we try the barracks?"

Sure enough, we find him in Aveline's office accompanied by a guardswoman wearing an extra shiny, overdecorated suit of armour for Aveline's inspection. These must be the new ceremonial uniforms that Aveline was complaining about being a foolish waste of coin. Hawke and I lean on either side of the open door to wait. And watch.

The hapless guardswoman remains perfectly still at attention under Aveline's perusal. The silence in the room is broken only by Bran's pointed sighs and none-too-subtle throat-clearings as his patience wanes. Aveline is probably making him wait on purpose, I'll wager.

"It's a fine suit," Aveline says at last.

"The finest," Bran agrees quickly, clearly eager to be on his way.

Aveline moves behind her desk, clearly preparing to get back to work. "Break it down. Distribute it," she says curtly to Bran. I'm not sure if she's giving him a suggestion or an order.

Bran bristles visibly at her words but keeps his face impassive and his voice lacks its usual scornful bite. Odd, for him. Maybe he's not allowed to be very rude to her. "The viscount requires parade armour for his inspections," he argues in a forcibly polite sort of way. Hawke and I grin at each other, both of us sensing this is a battle these two have been fighting for a while.

"Then stuff and mount it where he can see it," Aveline retorts in a voice not far from a snarl of exasperation. "I wear the uniform of the guard."

Bran's ears turn a deep shade of red and he crosses his arms belligerently. "His Excellency will not be pleased," he warns the Guard-Captain, who gives him a baleful glare.

"His Excellency can mount it," Aveline says and gestures towards the door to indicate that he should be on his way, and the sooner the better. As enjoyable as it is to watch, I sigh inwardly as Bran gives Aveline a stiff, grudging nod and turns to leave. It's already hard enough dealing with Bran's snide comments and superior attitude. Having to talk to him when he's in a bad mood isn't going to improve the experience.

Hawke steps out to intercept the Seneschal as he leaves Aveline's office. "Seneschal Bran, do you have a moment to-"

"Not just now, serah, if you please," Bran says abruptly, pushing past Hawke in a rather rude manner. "I've got to report the Captain's poor attitude to the Viscount."

"I think the Viscount has enough on his plate at present without worrying about minutiae such as this," Hawke retorts, her brows contracting at his blatant discourtesy. "The Viscount told me to speak with-"

"Not now!" Seneschal Bran snaps, and strides away towards the Viscount's office without a backward glance. The guardswoman with him gives us an apologetic glance as she follows dispiritedly in his wake.

I glare after him, fiercely debating with myself the wisdom of teaching him to mind his manners by setting fire to his pants. Probably not a good idea, I suppose. I'm not surprised by his condescending attitude, but it does rankle to be treated as an inconsequential annoyance, particularly when we are on orders from the Viscount to speak to him! Why else would we wish to? I hope Dumar sets him straight.

"Arrogant arse," Hawke mutters, clenching her fists as she watches him go. I nod my fervent agreement.

"Trouble, Hawke?"

We turn to find Aveline watching us through the still open door of her office. Hawke gives a short laugh and enters, crossing the room to lean a hip against Aveline's desk. "You say that like you expect it."

"You don't know the half of it," Aveline answers, her green eyes flat and the colour still high in her face from her encounter with Bran. "And why don't you, by the way?" Aveline continues, her eyes sharpening as she looks at Hawke accusingly. "Why aren't you tail deep in the problems of this city?"

Oh, dear. I know where this is going. I interrupt her, not wanting to let her take out her frustrations from dealing with Bran on Hawke. "Well, you know Hawke, Aveline. She likes to live quietly."

Aveline stares at me for a moment, then barks a short laugh. "Fair point, Merrill." She takes a breath and calms visibly before looking at Hawke again. "Sure, you do good, but petition a title, take a job. The guard is always looking."

Hawke raises her eyebrows, giving Aveline a reproachful look. "I don't want a title, and I've money enough not to need a regular job. I spend my time helping people in an unofficial capacity, including such prestigious persons as the Viscount himself, and I don't see what's wrong with that." When Aveline gives this no response, Hawke sighs. "Don't blame me for not being you. I'd make a poor guard."

"Well, we agree on that. I don't really see you taking my orders," Aveline concedes, lips quirking in what could have been a smile, if she wanted it to be. "Besides, you won't catch me saying you don't have an effect. You've certainly had one on Hightown."

"But…?" Hawke prods softly. Knowing Aveline as we both do, I'm certain has more to say about this. Likely she's been thinking it for quite some time without saying anything.

Her expression severe, Aveline gives Hawke a long, measuring look. "Maybe it's time to get serious. Before the option isn't your own."

"Me? Serious?" Hawke grins. "You need my good humour. You don't want me as sour and dour as you. You need a counterpoint."

"I don't think I've asked to be made the butt of your jokes," Aveline retorts crossly, her posture stiffening.

Hawke quirks a brow and gives the faintest of crooked grins. "Donnic." Hah!

Aveline holds stock still. I hold my breath.

"… Okay, sometimes I have asked for it," Aveline says, and grins, her stance relaxing. Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink as she smiles in fond remembrance at some pleasant memory. She even chuckles a little bit. I suppose things between her and Donnic must be coming along nicely since yesterday's awkward events. "I do wish there was more time for… levity. It comes so easy to you." Aveline raises her hands in a shrugging sort of gesture that could mean anything. "Maybe a little too easy. That's all I'm saying."

Hawke nods thoughtfully, accepting Aveline's words for now, or appearing to, anyway. I'm not entirely certain what exactly it is that she's trying to say, personally. Does she think… does she think Hawke is having too much fun, or something? Or she's too irreverent? She can't mean she thinks Hawke is irresponsible, surely. I think Hawke is wonderful as she is. She helps a lot of people, and I don't understand what more Aveline thinks she should be doing, unless she wants her to run for Viscountess or something. But Hawke doesn't seem annoyed or upset, so I suppose that's alright, whatever Aveline meant.

"Did you want to see me for something?" Aveline prompts Hawke, clearly keen to move the conversation away from… whatever it was really about.

"The Viscount told me to check in with Seneschal Bran about an issue he needs help with. I was looking for him," Hawke explains with a glance back towards the door. "I tried to speak to him as he left, but he wasn't exactly in the mood to listen." She gives Aveline an amused smirk, which Aveline returns with a small laugh.

"Well, my apologies for ruffling his pompous feathers at such an inopportune moment for you. What's the dire emergency this time?"

We exchange a glance and a nod, and fill Aveline in on the situation quickly. The Captain of the Guard has a right to know about this potentially explosive situation between Kirkwall and the Qunari, if this misadventure goes even more wrong.

Aveline's expression is grim as she digests the information, mulling the possible consequences with grave intensity. After a few moments' thought, she looks up at us.

"As loathe as I am to seek Bran out so soon," she begins dryly, her lip curling ever-so-slightly in distaste, "I think I'd better go with you. I really think I ought to have been involved in this, or at least informed by the Viscount. The less people who know, the better, true, but I need information so I can guide my people around potential political incidents such as this."

"An oversight on the Viscount's part, it seems," I venture, and Aveline nods as we leave her office and move towards the upper chambers.

"Yes. It worries me how often such oversights seem to be occurring of late. Frankly, and just between the three of us, I'm not entirely certain Dumar is still up it." She lowers her voice to a near whisper as we mount the stairs. "He's getting on, and the last few years would have tried the abilities of any ruler. It may be time for him to make way for a more gifted leader to take the reins." I see her glance at Hawke with a speculative look which Hawke, walking ahead of both of us, doesn't see. Is that really what she's been thinking? Hawke should start working towards becoming the ruler of Kirkwall?

I grin to myself. Viscountess Hawke? Creators, how she would hate that!

But… if Aveline put the idea to her in just the right manner… if she used the argument that Hawke could do good for so many, right so many wrongs, focus on issues and people so often ignored… if Hawke thought about it in that way, she might…

Seneschal Bran pops rather abruptly out of the Viscounts office just as we come to the top of the stairs.

"Oh, there you are, my dear Seneschal!" Hawke hails him loudly before he can escape into his office and pretend he didn't see us or any such nonsense.

Seneschal Bran halts a few paces from his door and turns resignedly to watch our approach. He looks extremely annoyed to see us, but he is clearly not surprised. From the colour in his cheeks, and his lack of condescending remarks thus far, I'd say the Viscount told him to be nice to us. I'm sure Hawke notices too, as she strolls towards him without waiting for his invitation to speak.

"Is now a good time to speak to us about the missing Qunari, Bran?" she asks, a knowing smirk gracing her lips.

"I am to help you, yes," Bran concedes, a sour twist to his mouth. "Viscount Dumar would appreciate discretion in this matter." He glares at as all, with a particular focus on Aveline. "I would prefer that you were not involved at all, but that is neither here nor there."

"Well, that's alright," I tell him brightly. "We all feel exactly the same about you, don't worry."

I hear Aveline snort in amusement to my left as Hawke responds to Bran, trying to speak seriously despite the smile tugging insistently at the side of her mouth.

"I didn't know better, I'd say it sounds like you don't want them found."

Bran gives her a superior look, speaking slowly as always, as though he thinks us too slow to follow his words otherwise. "I must think of what is best for the Viscount's office. Bringing attention to such an incident benefits no one."

Hawke frowns, raising an incredulous eyebrow. "You would do… nothing?" she asks slowly, her expression and tone suggesting that Bran's response is both disappointing and typical of his level of competence, or lack of it. She does that sort of thing so well.

From the blush on his face, the man hasn't failed to notice. "The Qunari are neutral hostiles at best," he snaps, nettled. "There is no relationship to salvage by... overextending ourselves on their behalf."

A raised eyebrow is all the response Hawke needs to imply that she finds his response woefully inadequate though she chooses to leave the matter be, for now. "Were they vulnerable somehow?" she enquires. "I'm having a hard time picturing the abduction of a Qunari entourage."

"Unfortunately, they were not at their best. Their swords were tied into their sheathes… as I advised." Hawke's silence seems to judge his actions as careless and foolhardy, and her lack of response appears to put Bran on the defensive, despite himself. "It seemed a respectful compromise. Even I know you cannot separate a Qunari from his weapon."

"Does the Arishok know? Has anyone reported this to the Qunari?" I interject, voicing a question I've been wondering for a little while now.

Bran raises his hands, a horrified look on his face at the suggestion. "Maker, no! I'd be signing the messenger's death warrant." He moves over to the railing, resting his hands on it while gazing down unseeingly at the people below, all waiting for an audience with the Viscount. "He'll find out soon enough of course and when he does, the Viscount is rightly concerned that the illusion of peace will dissolve."

"Could it be a Qunari plot?" Aveline interjects, looking stern. "The Arishok is growing violent. He might want an excuse to end this peace."

"I suspect that if the Arishok wanted to take over, he simply would. For all we fear that heretical Qun of his, its demands have done more to keep him in check than any of our efforts." Bran muses. "Besides, would Qunari stoop to trickery? There is no precedent, but there is unfortunate evidence of influence on our side."

"Indeed," Hawke agrees gravely, and I nod. I'm sure that Hawke too is remembering the misunderstanding regarding the "kidnap" of Seamus Dumar, and that Chantry sister with the escaped Sarebaas who tried to frame the Qunari with our deaths to stir unrest against them, and that unfortunate affair with the gaatlock barrels.

"So, in the interests of not provoking the Arishok into taking over and converting the whole of Kirkwall forcibly to the Qun, where would you start in your valiant attempts to contain this mess?" Hawke asks. "If you were the starting type."

"Or in any way inclined to fix your own problems," Aveline mutters.

Bran does not rise to the bait. He maintains his dour complexion, though his narrowed eyes do flick to her briefly. "I would begin with the most obvious failure. It's clear the city guard has no excuse for allowing this." His voice hardens, becoming louder. "Unless they were involved."

Aveline straightens in surprise, and Hawke and I glance at her. I don't think that possibility had occurred to any of us until this moment, but it's plausible. Unfortunately.

The Guard Captain's eyes grow positively flinty. "Have any failed to report?"

"Several," Bran enunciates coldly, handing her a list of names. "You should start with one of them. Although, where you'd find a swordsman so eager to sell his honour and duty, I'm sure I don't know."

"Oh, I do!" I exclaim brightly, pleased to be helpful. "The Hanged Man!"

"Hanged Man," Hawke repeats in wry agreement.

"Got to be," Aveline concurs.

"Right. Then you know what to look for," Bran drawls, clearly unimpressed with our knowledge of such a disreputable establishment. "I can't imagine this has occurred without notice. There is always a weak link. Please keep this quiet." He glances at the people below, mainly nobles whining loudly at guardsmen and guardswomen about the long wait to see the Viscount. A thinly veiled look of contempt steals over his features. "The Viscount is under enough scrutiny as it is."

xxx H xxx

We delay heading for the Hanged Man until Aveline has made copies of Bran's list of post-deserters and charged several guardsmen with orders to find them and put them on duty on the Wall. A harsh punishment for the winter months, as the cold wind up there on the city battlements is enough to rip tears from your eyes and freeze them on your cheeks, or so I hear. For a city on the coast, the winters are quite punishing in Kirkwall.

Wrapping our cloaks tight about us, we follow Aveline out of the great Keep doors and make our way down to Lowtown as the sun dips towards late afternoon. Merrill is a little slower than usual on the stairs, her little feet unused to being clad in their soft winter boots. I see her glance more than once towards Sundermount as we descend, noting with a pang of concern myself that there is snow on the summit already. I hope the Sabrae are prepared for a harsh winter.

The sun is low in the sky as we enter the Hanged Man, and already the place is full of patrons in various stages of inebriation. Norah the barmaid weaves her weary way between the tables, refilling mugs here and there. A roar of approval goes up in the corner closest to the tavern's living quarters, where Varric and Isabela are holding court. Evidently some sort of card game is in progress between them, with bets on the outcome changing hands from the lookers on. I don't recognise any of them as guards, but neither do I know all the guard as well as Aveline. I turn to ask her if she sees any of her people and find my answer in the incandescent rage building in her face as she glares daggers at a red-haired man with a whiskery moustache ordering drinks from Corff at the bar. Fists balled, she takes a step toward him, but I grasp her shoulder, meeting her eyes.

"Hold on," I caution her quietly. "Before we haul him off to the wall, let's make sure he's the traitor." It's most likely him, judging by the bulging leather pouch at his waist. No sensible man carries that amount of coin unless they've only just received it, and I don't believe that a guard's pay is that sizeable. But I'd like to find out before I let Aveline punish him.

Aveline turns her glare on me for a moment, but nods. "You're right. Easier to get the truth from him now, while he's feeling full of himself and ready to brag. How do you want to proceed?"

"How about I go and talk to him?" Merrill pipes up brightly. Aveline frowns doubtfully, but I grin and give Merrill an approving nod. The man won't recognise her and if he's interested in women, one look at her ought to make him eager to impress. If he's not, hopefully he'll be willing to brag to her anyway.

"Go ahead," I tell her. "We'll be listening."

She smiles at me and threads her way through the tables towards the bar. Aveline and I follow, keeping out of the man's line of sight but close enough to hear their conversation.

"Expensive tastes, for this place," Merrill comments mildly, leaning against the bar as the guard orders a mug of Corff's finest imported whiskey.

The man looks around at Merrill, giving her a wide appreciative grin as he takes in the sight of her in a way that makes my skin crawl, despite the knowledge that that's what we hoped would happen. Knowing doesn't mean I won't feel like beating the moustache off his face just the same.

"That's right, woman," he answers, patting the pouch at his side smugly. "Tonight, I'm paid and blessed. And all I had to do was turn my head."

Merrill turns her head slightly to give me a subtle but deeply incredulous look. I give her an amused grin. She's right; that was far easier than any of us thought. Sometimes, things do go our way at least a little.

The man turns from the bar and raises a mug to those at the table behind him - hangers-on looking for a free drink, I'd say - and smiles. "To all my friends!" he calls to them, and they raise mugs of their own and give various shouts of appreciation. I take the opportunity to move up between him and Merrill. He turns back and does a double take upon seeing me instead of the lovely little elvhen woman he expected. He puts a hand to his belt knife apprehensively, apparently not yet drunk enough to ignore the sword at my hip, nor the steely look I can only imagine is currently on my face.

"Hey, step back!" he says roughly, tapping meaningfully on the hilt of his knife, a gesture which fails to impress me, somehow. "I know important people. We're going to show this city what to do with heathen oxmen!"

Right. No question this is our man, then. And we didn't even need to question him. I rather think Aveline might want to get rid of this particular weak link as soon as possible. I smile politely, my stare still hard, watching as Aveline moves to block the man's exit. "Guard-Captain, would you like to have a word with your man?"

"Guard-Captain!?" the man repeats, surprise and alarm raising his voice several notches.

Aveline advances, her green eyes burning as she fixes him in her sights. "Who?" she demands.

The hapless guard stumbles around to face her, his face as pale as a lily. "What?"

He gasps as Aveline moves swiftly, grabbing him by his shirtfront and pulling him threateningly close. "Who?!"

Varric and Isabela appear abruptly at my elbow, and I realise the entire tavern is now watching us.

"What's going on now, Hawke?" Varric inquires, a hint of weary amusement in his tone.

"Something fun? Isabela asks hopefully. I merely gesture for them to listen and watch. It probably will be fun.

"Who what?" the guard repeats, seeking clarification. Rather foolishly in my opinion. "I don't-"

"Who bought you?" Aveline snarls in his face, an almost fanatical gleam in her eyes. "Who bought the honour of a proud Guard of Kirkwall, and made him a drunken mabari bitch?"

The man's eyes dart wildly about the room, seeking help. His 'friends' don't seem eager to help him at all. They rather seem to be enjoying the show as much as we are. "I-I don't…" he manages, trying to avoid Aveline's gaze. "I don't know!"

"Oops!" chuckles Varric, as Aveline's expression becomes even more fierce. "Not good enough, son. Try again."

Aveline tightens her grip on the guard's shirt, twisting it so that it restricts his airway as she hauls him up onto his toes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Isabela raise an appreciative eyebrow at this impressive display of strength.

"It was a Templar!" he splutters, choking and clutching uselessly at his Guard-Captain's gauntleted hands. "I swear! He had the seal of the Grand Cleric and everything!"

Aveline continues to burn him with her ferocious gaze. "It's true!" he insists, and there is utter conviction in his voice. I frown to myself. This suddenly became a lot more complicated. He would have been put in somewhat of a difficult place, I suppose. The Grand-Cleric's orders, while not binding to the Guard, are expected to be genuinely in the best interests of the City and are not often ignored. If true, then he has not knowingly committed treason. Well, not exactly; just shirked his duty and taken coin he shouldn't have, regardless of orders.

Aveline lets him go and speaks in a brisk, furious tone. "The penalty for abandoning your post is ten days on the Wall. I expect you to report in the morning."

The guard barely manages more than a fearful whimper before he scarpers. I'll wager he resigns from the Guard as soon as he is able.

"Ooh," Isabela purrs approvingly as Aveline approaches our group. "I do love it when you get all tough and threatening like that, Guard-Captain. Positively shivery. It's almost too bad to hear about you being taken, at last."

Aveline spares me a deeply reproachful glance at this. Oh, dear. I should have known this would happen. Of course Isabela would hear about it from Varric. I suppose she would have found out somehow anyway… though perhaps not quite so soon, if I hadn't told the story to Varric. Well, that one's on me. I'll make it up to Aveline, somehow. I give Merrill a quick glance, and she hides a knowing smile as she obligingly pulls Isabela and Varric away, distracting Isabela as she brings them both up to speed on the situation. I turn back to Aveline, giving her my full attention.

"There's your answer," Aveline says, rather shortly, arms crossed. "A Templar."

"With the Grand Cleric's seal, no less," I give her a solemn nod, and a look that promises she can chew me out later for allowing Isabela to hear about Donnic. "Well done."

Aveline gives a half shrug. "It wasn't any real trouble. Unfortunately, it's not the first time I've had to bully one of my guard into admitting they'd been bribed."

"I meant for not breaking any of his various limbs, actually," I respond admiringly. "I saw how furious you were. You've got excellent control."

"I'm no Jeven," Aveline replies, unamused. "I'm strict, and I don't tolerate dishonesty, carelessness or stupidity. I'll admit to having a temper, but I'm not a bully." The corner of her mouth quirks upward ever-so-slightly. "That said, I'm not adverse to a bit of disciplinary intimidation now and again to remind my sorry lot who's Captain."

"You'd have to be daft to forget it," I say, hoping she'll take my remark as the compliment I intend it to be.

Aveline gives a slight cough that might be disguising a laugh. "So, "heathen oxmen", he said? Looks like the people we're dealing with are quite the bigots," she comments, obviously trying to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. "And it looks like the Chantry's involved."

I give her a sly wink. "What a shock."

That earns me a bit of a grin from her. She might forgive me after all. "But would Elthina truly order the kidnap of a contingent of Qunari for any reason, let alone when she would see as clearly as anyone the risk it would bring to the city's peace?" she asks musingly.

"Can I be there when you ask her?" Varric asks delightedly as he, Merrill and Isabela join us again. "I have to see her face when you accuse her of trying to provoke the Qunari into a rampage."

I shake my head emphatically. However ineffectual I believe Elthina to be, I don't think she is a bigot, nor such a fool as to have a hand in this plan. "I doubt she had any hand in this. Certainly not knowingly."

"Want my advice?" Varric asks. "Accuse her anyway. Might shock her into giving us information she might withhold, otherwise."

"Even if she doesn't know, someone is using her seal," Isabela chimes in, her eyes twinkling wickedly as she huskily continues. "Whoever is behind this must be close to her. If you get up close and personal with the Grand Cleric, maybe you'll catch them squirming."

Wrinkling my nose at the images she has taken great delight in conjuring with her deliberately chosen words, I glance out of the dingy window and swiftly calculate the remaining time in the day against the time needed to get back up all those bloody stairs into Hightown. "If we leave now, we can make it before the Grand Cleric retires for the evening. Hopefully we can speak to her without too much of an audience."

"Who's "we"?" Isabela grins, tipping me a wink and a wave as she heads hastily back towards the gaming table where the current round of Wicked Grace seems to be coming to a thrilling conclusion involving quite a lot of unnecessary shouting. "No bloody thanks. I want nothing to do with the Chantry or Qunari. You lot have fun!"

"I'm torn," Aveline confesses. "I want to follow this through myself, but as Captain of the Guard, I thinks it unwise to be seen to be personally involved in anything that might compromise the working relationship between the Templars and the City Guard."

Varric grins amiably up at her. "You mean, you want to stay well clear of any sordid business that might mean you would have to arrest the Grand Cleric for treason, and you want Hawke to suss it out first to make certain of the level of Elthina's involvement before involving you further."

"Got it in one, dwarf," Aveline admits freely, a genuine grin stealing onto her face. "You read between the lines so well you ought to consider a career in politics."

"Hah!" Varric guffaws, tossing his head back in a full-throated laugh. "Your jokes are improving, Red!"

"Don't call me Red," Aveline admonishes him wearily.

Varric merely grins at her. "Don't call me 'dwarf'."

"Fair trade, Varric," Aveline concedes, giving him a friendly hand clasp to seal the deal, and starts heading purposefully towards the tavern door, beckoning us to follow. "I'll go with you as far as the Noble quarter. We'd better get a move on back to Hightown before evening."

We reach the Chantry courtyard as the last of the day's light is slipping from the sky. Aveline studies each of us in turn as we all take a moment to rest our legs. "Good luck with the Grand Cleric. Let me know if you need my help. I'll be at the Keep, drowning in paperwork and making sure my orders regarding all shirkers are being enforced." She takes her leave with a nod and strides towards the Keep.

We look at each other, each of us taking a visible deep breath in preparation and start walking towards the Chantry. The great wooden doors are still open for pilgrims and petitioners to enter as we approach, despite the gathering darkness. They're meant to be a welcoming sight, but to me they only ever look as ominous as the Gallows, casting shadows on the cold stone walls to either side, a great maw of darkness broken only by the blood red glow of torchlight within. Perhaps I'm overdramatising a little, but nevertheless, I don't feel welcome here.

"So, we're about to accuse the Grand Cleric of funding zealots through a rogue templar," Merrill says quietly as we ascend the marble steps to the grand entryway.

"Don't forget the kidnapped Qunari delegates," I murmur wryly in reply

Merrill gives a plaintive little sigh. "And the day started out so peacefully."

I interrupt a young sister-initiate lighting a branch of candles by the door. I recognise her friendly face from previous visits, but her name escapes me. "Your pardon, sister."

"Yes?" She straightens, her curious gaze running over my companions before lingering on my face, and she gives a little start of recognition, and her cheeks pinken as she gazes at me, eyes wide and dark in the candlelight. "Oh! Good evening, Lady Amell."

"It's Hawke, actually," I tell her amiably, favouring her with a wink to show I'm not offended by her mistake. The confusion is understandable, though I'm a little surprised to find she appears to recognise me. "Lady Amell is my mother."

"I beg pardon, Lady Hawke," she stammers, truly blushing now and I smile disarmingly at her, noting with mild bemusement the deeper red that suffuses her cheeks as I do so.

"Just Hawke," I correct her gently, leaning in toward her so she can hear my conspiratorial whisper. "No need to call me a Lady; I work for a living."

She takes me aback by giggling in a manner I can only describe as coquettish. Behind me, Varric snort in amusement, and in a voice pitched low enough not to be heard by the now-crimson sister, mutters, "Tone down the charm, Hawke, unless you want her to follow you home. Leave the sister-corrupting to Isabela."

Ah. Well, shit. I bite the inside of my cheek as I take his meaning, peeking furtively at Merrill, anxious to see her reaction to my accidental flirting and Varric's none-too-subtle comments. She grins at me in apparent amusement, but I can see a sharp glint in her eye that suggests I pack it in now and send the sister on her way.

Fortunately, the sister makes it easy for me. "How may I help you, Serah Hawke?" she says, making a visible effort to regain her sisterly serenity, giving a nervous glance at a passing cleric.

Relieved, I take a deliberate step back from her and make my request, my voice perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary. "The Grand Cleric, please. Tell her…" I pause for a moment, feeling a crooked grin steal over my face. "Tell her; 'Three Qunari leave an estate…' and let her finish."

While not everyone can demand to see the Grand Cleric and get results, I believe Elthina will see me, if she knows I'm here. We're reasonably well acquainted by now, given her history with my mother's family, and my friendship with Sebastian. If she refuses, it could mean I'm wrong about her lack of involvement.

"Aren't you kind of showing your hand a little early there, Hawke?" Varric asks as the woman smiles at me, still blushing, and hurries obligingly away. "Not that that wasn't amusing, but wouldn't it have been more useful to see Elthina's reaction, to see if she knows what you're talking about? You know, gauge her level of involvement?"

I shrug, unconcerned by his worry. "I don't really think that Elthina had anything to do with this. I'm hoping she can tell me who might be using her name and seal to sow chaos."

"Uh oh," Merrill mutters, nudging me none-too-gently in the ribs and pointing to someone striding purposefully down the corridor towards us. "Watch it. Here comes trouble."

Sister Petrice. She must have intercepted the sister-initiate before she reached Elthina. Or, perhaps that blushing young initiate was under Petrice's thumb to begin with and went straight to her. Either way, doubtless the Grand Cleric still has no idea I want to speak to her.

"Serah Hawke." Petrice's utterance is not a greeting, and her narrowed eyes and the sour twist to her mouth suggest anything but welcome. She halts before us, arms crossed forbiddingly over her chest, and plants her feet firmly, deliberately blocking our way into the Chantry worship hall.

"Sister Petrice," I reply, my tone rather less hostile than hers. I take a cautious step towards her, my eyes raking the shadows for the stoic Templar bodyguard I remember accompanying her the last time we crossed paths. Finding him nowhere in sight does little to put me at ease.

"Mother Petrice," she corrects me harshly, the stress on her new title very deliberate. She really wants me to know how far she's moving up in the world. Her eyes rake me up and down. "Time has changed us both."

I raise an eyebrow in response to this pointed reminder of my lowly refugee status when we first met. It's clear she remembers our interaction well and has been keeping track of my rise to power. Have I made her nervous? Enough to have me watched? That may go a long way to explain why that sister-initiate recognised me, if she is Petrice's. This idea puts a new and rather deflating light on the real reason for her flustered state, if true. I study Petrice intently in silence as I recall the elusive person in Chantry robes who appeared to be watching Merrill and me. Could Petrice be behind that, too? Or am I deluding myself that she was watching us with anything other than idle curiosity? I almost snort out loud, considering this possibility. Perhaps I too am becoming unreasonably convinced of my own significance.

"Grand Cleric Elthina cannot grant an audience to just anyone," Petrice snaps aggressively, impatient with my lack of response. "What do you want?"

I survey her calmly, refusing to allow her to provoke me. I know her tactics well enough by now. "Funny how you and issues with the Qunari seem to go together," I comment mildly, letting her make of my comment what she will.

Her lip curls. "And you always assume their side."

Not as such. I have nothing against the Qunari, but I do not like the Qun. Not just for their treatment of mages, but for how free thought and individuality seems to be so discouraged in those who follow it. But at present the Qunari are not hostile, and I see absolutely no good in provoking them. I give her no response, however, preferring to provoke her in turn into filling the silence. As before, she seems unable to prevent herself.

"I was naïve when last we met. I did not want you dead, but I felt a death was necessary." She pauses, letting a superior smirk steal over her face. "That may be too fine a point for you to understand. But you must admit; you came out the better for it."

Refusing to rise to her bait, I ignore the slur on my intelligence and ponder her words. I am not entirely certain what she means by this. She gave me a few coins, certainly, and I came out alive but while this is arguably better than being dead, it was no thanks to her.

"My life would not have been in danger in the first place, if not for you and your 'naïve' set-up," I respond evenly. Well, not in that instance, anyway. "I know you. And I know someone is abusing the Grand Cleric's seal."

"Who are you to question who serves Her Grace?" Petrice counters, righteous indignation perfectly emulated in her voice. "The Grand Cleric may delegate the use of her seal to those in her service whose judgements she trusts. Capable as she is, one woman cannot deal personally with every minor issue requiring her attention." Her arguments are entirely reasonable, and her smug expression says she well knows it. "I am sorry, but I see no reason to let you pass."

"How about the fact that her authority was used to abduct Qunari from the Viscount's very doorstep?" I let that implication lie between us, studying her to see how she will react to my suspicions. Her face is pale, mouth pinched in anger, and perhaps a little fear. Eyes narrowed, she glares at me, apparently at a loss for words. I suppress a small knowing smile at her discomposure. "A pause that says you knew. But does Her Grace?"

"The Grand Cleric trusts her stewards to enact the wishes of the Maker," Petrice reiterates, though without the conviction of her earlier outburst.

"Elthina wouldn't permit this." I shake my head slowly, truly smiling this time. I have her. "It sounds like you've been bad. This will shock her grace no doubt." I give her an unconcerned shrug. "I'll speak to Her Grace another time. You will not always be here."

Petrice glances aside, closing her eyes as though in exasperation. "Stubborn," she mutters, almost to herself. When her eyes meet mine once more, her face is schooled to calm. "Alright, Serah Hawke. If you won't abandon this, let me offer you something." She moves closer to me, reducing the space between us so that her next words do not carry beyond our small group. "The Templar you seek is a radical who has grown… unreliable. Confronting him may do us all a favour."

"And his relation to you is…?"

"He is my former bodyguard, Ser Varnell."

"Oh yes, I remember him," I drawl. "He was with you when you conspired to have me murdered by the Qunari for escorting their Saarebas out of the city, thereby giving those who oppose the Qunari presence here an excuse to be enraged at the cruel waste of my promising young life." I stare at Petrice with undisguised disgust, feeling a sudden urge to remind her that I am now a noble with the Viscount's ear, and my word carries far more weight than ever it did when first we met. "Despite the fact that those same people resent the presence of Fereldan refugees as much as that of the Qunari. And the fact that you chose me because a Lowtown immigrant, such as I once was, is not important enough to be believed, on the off chance that I and my companions survived. The hypocrisy is breathtaking, truly."

"Assume what you wish," Petrice retorts, an ugly sneer on her face, "but I offer him to you as... reconciliation. Meet me at this location." She takes a scrap of paper from a pocket hidden somewhere in her voluminous robes and presses it into my hand. "I invite you, Serah Hawke. Come to this location, tonight, and see the unrest these Qunari have inspired."

She walks away from us, her bearing serene, her pace unhurried. To look at her, no one would ever have suspected she had recently been subtly accused of treason, much less capable of it.

At my side, Varric clears his throat pointedly. "That's a set-up," he states matter-of-factly.

I nod my agreement, though knowing this to be true matters little. No matter how Petrice may be planning to use my presence at this mystery location, I must go. If Varnell has the Qunari, there may still be a chance to retrieve them alive. "It's her game. For the moment."

"Shall we try and speak to the Grand Cleric, now?" Merrill asks, inclining her head towards the dais where Elthina stands, speaking with one of the last townsfolk remaining in the Chantry. Petrice is nowhere in sight. I don't intend to accuse her without further proof. Her careful choice of words, and her apparent willingness to betray her former associate gives me the impression she has been far to canny to have left any conclusive evidence of her own wrongdoing. But I am not going to pass up the chance to see what Elthina knows about this. At the very least, I may be able to put her on her guard where Petrice is concerned.

Elthina smiles affectionately as I approach her, weariness plain on her face. "Good evening, young Hawke. What a pleasure; to see the matriarch and the scion of your family in one afternoon." Seeing my questioning expression, she hastens to clarify. "Your mother was here earlier today."

Caught by surprise, it takes me a moment to respond. As the widow of an apostate mage, and mother to two more, Mother is hardly an ideal Andrastian, though she isn't wholly opposed to the Chantry and its teachings. I know she visits Elthina occasionally. I simply don't recall her mentioning plans to visit today. "Indeed? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes, child. There's nothing to be concerned about. She was on the way to visit your uncle, I believe, and she stopped in to make a small contribution, and to light a candle." Her face grows sombre, grey eyes surveying me with grave compassion. "For your father, and your brother and sister. She does so, every now and then."

I didn't know that. "Oh." A light touch on my arm brings me back to myself and I nod slightly, knowing that Merrill will see the gesture and understand my gratitude.

"Perhaps it would be best if we turned our thoughts to why you are here," Elthina says gently, and I nod again, recalled to the reason for my visit.

"Forgive me for coming so late to ask you what may seem a trivial question," I begin, aware of the peaceful yet purposeful activities of the clerics and lay-people around us, preparing to close the Chantry for the night, "but I have to ask you; what is the Chantry's stance on the Qunari presence here?"

"What the Maker wills is not mine to question," Elthina answers levelly. "Whatever their reasons for remaining in the city, the Maker will reveal their true purpose in time."

"And until that time comes, what are your thoughts on how to approach the situation?" I press doggedly. I'd like to hear her say something that I can use to eliminate her from possible involvement in this, whether passive or active. Maker, I could swear that all Chantry folk must attend daily lessons in ambiguous double-speak. They're all fluent in it. "Should the Qunari be left alone, or should we be actively encouraging them to leave? How does the Chantry advise those who fear a Qunari uprising?"

Elthina ponders my questions for a moment, then breathes in deeply and meets my eyes. Something in the way she holds herself has changed, as though she isn't keeping herself at such a distance. She shakes her head wearily. "Would it help anything for us to get involved? Or is it more likely to light the kindling?" She sighs, her fatigue seemingly causing her to be less circumspect in this conversation than usual. Perhaps I should question her at dusk more often. "If the Qunari act against us, the Templars will defend Kirkwall. Otherwise, we guard ourselves best by waiting."

That's as clear an answer as I'm going to get, and I believe her response to be genuine. She truly believes it best not to provoke them. Good. I would have been greatly saddened to know she was involved in this foolishness. I lower my voice, intent on giving her the true reason for my delaying the end of her wearisome day. "Did you know someone used the authority of your name to instigate a crime against the Qunari?" I watch Elthina's eyes widen in surprise. "A delegate of Qunari who were in peace talks with the Viscount has gone missing, and an order for their abduction with your seal affixed has been found. I suspect one of those in your immediate service of being behind it. A mother, newly risen in the ranks-"

Elthina holds up a hand, halting my words. Her voice is not much more than a whisper. "Hawke. Please. No more on this. Not now." Her eyes flicker carefully about us, noting the proximity of each brother and sister not yet disappeared to the cloisters. "The path to righteousness is never as straight and narrow as we wish. I truly hoped this would not go so far. But do not trouble yourself. I will step in when it's time."

I hear Varric breathe out hard through his nose behind me, and I can't help but sympathise. From what she said, I surmise that Elthina is aware of what I speak, at least in part, and disapproves. But if she has yet to step in, I don't know when she thinks the right time will be, nor what, precisely, she will be able to do about it. Well, all I can really do is assure myself she is on her guard, such as it is. It's clear I will get no overt Chantry assistance, but I hardly expected any. At least I can be somewhat assured that Elthina is not behind this. "Very well. Thank you for your time, Your Grace."

"Goodnight, my child," she answers, giving me a serene smile and a graceful nod, and walks away, ready to retire for the evening.

There's nothing more keeping me here for the moment, and Petrice has now had a generous head start to make her way to this meeting place before us. I can't say the idea of that comforts me in the least.

As we leave the Chantry, the great wooden doors close behind us with a dramatic rush of sound that rings with a grim sort of finality across the dark courtyard below. I take Petrice's paper from my pocket and glance at it, noting with distaste that it contains a series of convoluted directions through an old sewerage system, beginning in the Docks and working its merry way into Darktown.

"I suppose we have to go," Varric mutters disgustedly when I share this joyous news.

"You needn't, if you-"

"Oh, don't be so gracious, Hawke," he chuckles, rolling his eyes at my reflexive civility. "Of course I'm coming with you. Not that you couldn't handle yourself if it all goes pear-shaped once you get there," he assures me. "I just don't want to miss watching you wriggle your way out of whatever clever trap that self-satisfied zealot has for you this time."

"Do you think we ought to talk to the Arishok about this, after all?" Merrill puts in, eyes big in the darkness as she looks at me. "I know that Bran and the Viscount would probably rather we didn't, but he'll probably know soon, and he'll be cross to be left out of the loop."

"He might also get cross enough to kill the messenger, Daisy," Varric cautions. "And quite possibly cross enough to set buildings on fire."

"He might not try to have me killed, if I tell him," I muse. "He doesn't seem to hold me in quite as much contempt as everyone else. And if he does find out, and no one associated with the City has told him anything, he's just as likely to start setting buildings on fire."

Varric looks from me to Merrill and back again, then pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight for a moment. "Read what you sign up for," he mutters to himself, before reaching up to resettle Bianca on his back. "Alright Hawke, you magnificent lunatic. Let's go give some terrible news to a bunch of volatile Qunari oxmen. Why not?" He grins rakishly at us. "All this is going to make one hell of a story."

"What do you want, Hawke?" The Arishok's stoic demeanour betrays nothing, but the note of aggression in his voice warns me to tread lightly. "I have no interest in adding to my distractions."

Well. Someone's in a mood. With a sinking heart, I wonder just how much he may have heard of the situation thus far. "And yet," I say, trying to broach the subject carefully, "you sent a delegate to the Viscount."

He drums his fingers briefly on his knee, the only outward sign of disquiet at my words. "A brief attempt to educate. If the dwarf had stolen the sar qamek, it could have been used to show the price of greed. But you know the outcome of that." A slight curl of his lip. "These fools are determined to be wrong. I won't waste the effort again." His eyes pierce me, demanding I cease wasting his time and disclose the true reason for my presence here.

Taking a breath, I steel myself. "I'll probably regret this, but you should know; your delegate is missing."

As close to the Arishok, and as on edge as I am, it's probably only I who notice the bulge of tendons in his neck that signify a jaw clenched in anger. Behind me, Merrill and Varric shift uncomfortably, and I can see them in my mind's eye scanning about us as subtly as possible for any sign of danger from the hulking grey guards surrounding us. The Arishok stares at me for some moments as around us his men exchange discreet glances, their faces giving nothing away.

"Anyone else, and those words would have been their last," the Arishok intones solemnly at last. His grey eyes, their intensity still holding mine hostage, grow sharper still. "You are handling this, not your buffoon of a Viscount?"

"As best I can," I hedge, trying to sound neither hesitant, nor too confident. Weakness and hubris seem to be despised by the Qunari in equal measure.

"Then I will wait," the Arishok declares, anger and a faint hint of threat still audible in the concession. He leans forward suddenly, the abruptness of the movement startling. "But know this; the provocations we have suffered have worked. If this is not resolved, I can fulfil my duty to the Qun with far less annoyance by sifting through rubble."

I nod my understanding, taking my leave without another word between us. Nothing more need be said.

Merrill falls into step beside me. "You know, I think we're under enough pressure without the help," she murmurs brightly into my ear, making me smile despite the gravity of our current predicament.

"So, Hawke," Varric mutters as we step out of the Qunari compound and breathe the salty air of the docks with relief. "Looks like you're our only hope now. You heard that bit too, right?"

"You mean the part where I either find a way to resolve this to the Arishok's satisfaction, or his patience snaps like a twig and he goes looking for whatever-it-is he isn't allowed to go home without by smashing through the city until he finds it?" I run a hand through my hair and grimace to find it sweat-dampened despite the chill of the winter evening. I am not usually so easily ruffled by my dealings with the Arishok, but the stakes are currently considerably higher than usual now that the Qunari are reaching the end of their rope. "I vaguely recall that, yes."

"We can only do our best, Hawke," Merrill says soothingly, slipping an arm about my waist and squeezing affectionately as we reach the dock for the Gallows ferries and turn left, heading towards the closest Darktown access. Her words take the burden thrust upon my shoulders and share it amongst us, lightening the weight of responsibility on my heart considerably. She meets my smile with her own, eyes twinkling as she notes the positive effect her words have had on my demeanour. "And our best is usually pretty good, if I do say so- oof!"

Her words cut off abruptly as her slender shoulder comes into sudden contact with the metal-clad chest of a Templar walking in the opposite direction, knocking her off balance. Even as my back stiffens in reflex to the presence of a mage-hunter, I reach out to halt her fall, but gauntleted fingers close about her shoulders and set her gently back on her feet.

"I beg your pardon, miss," a familiar voice exclaims apologetically. "Are you alright?"

Merrill, thoroughly nonplussed, babbles a barely discernible jumble of gratitude and apologies.

Knight-Captain Cullen holds up a hand to stay her words, shaking his head ruefully. "The fault is mine; I should have been keeping my mind on my surroundings and off my dinner," he says with a friendly smile. Seemingly satisfied of Merrill's well-being, he steps back from her, looking at Varric and me. His smile widens in recognition.

"Hawke! The new scion of the Amell family. Congratulations," Cullen greets me amiably.

I grin at him, amused despite how little I care to be referred to in such a manner. "I've been acknowledged as such for some time now, Ser Cullen," I counter in good humour. Templar though he may be, I consider him to be a good man, if a little misguided. If he were in any other profession, I would have wanted to befriend him, but it's too dangerous. Keeping him at a safe distance doesn't mean I can't enjoy friendly interactions with him, however. And while I still remember that he once told me that mages cannot be treated like people, as they are weapons with 'the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique', his attitude has mellowed as the years put distance between him and whatever terrible experience taught him to view mages as monsters in the making. "Don't tell me the Kirkwall grapevine doesn't stretch all the way to the Gallows."

He chuckles. "Oh, it does, believe me. I know its past time to congratulate you. It simply occurred to me that I've not yet taken the chance to do so yet. So, congratulations! I'm pleased to see someone of your calibre raised so high." He gives me a conspiratorial wink. "A stark contrast to the stuffed shirts who think that the Maker has gifted the world to them because of an accident of birth. You are probably the one noble I consider to be truly worthy of respect."

I smile at his words, even as I wonder how his opinion of me would change, if he were to discover my apostasy.

"Merrill, isn't it? I believe we've met before," Cullen says, offering a polite forearm, which Merrill grasps with a shy smile at his gallantry. My estimation of him rises considerably at this; many of his order wouldn't bother to acknowledge her, much less remember her name. Though we do typically try to avoid the lot of them for the most part, so perhaps this isn't strictly fair.

"Yes, ser," Merrill agrees softly. "Some years ago, now, during some rather nasty business with missing recruits. I'm rather surprised you remember at all, really."

"Shame on me if I should forget those who lent me such courageous and capable assistance," he replies with a charming grin, and releases her forearm to offer her a salute, fist to heart. Interesting. One would almost think he was trying to flirt with her. Or flatter her in a subtly flirtatious manner, perhaps.

Merrill's cheeks turn pink, her thoughts clearly running parallel to mine, and she glances up at me as if for reassurance. I can't help it: I smirk and raise an eyebrow at her as the tips of her ears glow cherry red. She ducks her head to avoid his kind, but rather avid, gaze and I take pity on her, slipping an arm casually but obviously about her waist and affording Cullen deserved respect by pretending not to see the flare of understanding and embarrassment in his eyes.

"Varric Tethras," Varric interjects into the awkward pause. In response to Cullen's grateful look of inquiry, he adds "Rogue, businessman and, occasionally, master storyteller."

"Ah," Cullen says in amusement, his composure recovered and a spirited glint in his eye. "Cullen Rutherford," he introduces himself to the dwarf, matching Varric's inflection perfectly. "Templar, warrior, and occasionally, master chess player." He holds out a forearm to Varric, who grips it firmly and offers Cullen a speculative look and a sardonic grin. "Well met."

"You're in a jovial mood today, Knight-Captain," I comment wryly, rather enjoying his boyish enthusiasm. "What, pray tell, has you in such high spirits?"

"And can you bottle it?" Varric quips. "We'll make millions."

Cullen laughs. "I found myself with a few hours to spare this evening, so I visited the night market," he answers. "I haven't been in a while. I met with a couple of old acquaintances and we watched the mummers' play."

Merrill's eyes brighten with interest. "Oh, I love the night market! What was the play about?"

"The Battle of Denerim," Cullen answers, smiling. "Loathe as I am to dwell on that dark time, there's nothing quite like the story of the Hero of Ferelden risking her life defeating an Old God to raise one's spirits, even if it's being acted out by a troupe of amateurs who weren't there to see any of it firsthand."

"Were you there?" Merrill asks eagerly. "Did you see her?"

Cullen's smile dims somewhat, and his eyes take on a troubled look. "No," he says, sounding far less buoyant than before. "I did meet her, though. Actually; she saved my life. But," he presses on when Merrill shows every sign of wanting to pester him for details about her clan-mate, "it's not a memory I am particularly eager to dwell on, if you'll pardon me."

"Perhaps you can tell us more another time," I suggest gently, a little alarmed at his sudden lowered spirits. "The Hero belongs to Merrill's clan, you see. We are always interested to hear of her."

"I see," Cullen says, nodding his understanding to Merrill. "Perhaps another time I will tell you what I can, Serah Merrill. Though I fear I haven't much to tell." He smiles, light returning to his eyes. "She is a selfless woman of great courage, that much I can tell you."

"She is," Merrill responds quietly. "Thank you, ser."

"I heard that Ser Karras has been expelled from the Templar Order," I say after a moment, giving Cullen a direct look. As a matter of fact, I had it from Alain, the mage Ser Karras was abusing, that Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast has had Karras taken away to be jailed for his crimes against Alain and other mages. I hadn't meant to bring it up so bluntly, but we seem to keep steering the conversation into dangerous waters. Not that this subject is any less hazardous, as it was in fact my information that lead Cassandra to target Karras, but perhaps a return to more business-like topics would serve us well. "The order is well rid of that asp of a man."

"I agree," Cullen replies levelly. He pauses a moment as though debating with himself, then apparently decides to forge ahead. "I heard, in confidence, from Seeker Pentaghast, that she was directed to pursue Karras from information given to her by a Kirkwall noblewoman who had befriended one of Karras' victims." He raises an eyebrow at me, and I grimace, chagrined. Well. I suppose it would have been fairly obvious it was me. "You didn't feel you could come to me to handle the situation with subtlety, rather than involving the most famous Seeker of the age?"

Ah. "I considered bringing it to you, ser," I reply after a moment's thought, "but I met Cassandra first, and having just heard about Alain's abuses... It seemed… expedient." Not to mention that I had no confidence in Meredith to do anything to properly punish Karras. I haven't seen her doing much to curb the growing violence evident among the ranks of Kirkwall's templars lately. Alrik, for example, was apparently allowed to go unchecked for quite some time.

"Fair enough," Cullen replies after a rather loaded pause. I am sure he knows there is more I am not saying, but to his credit, he doesn't press me. He shifts, leaning closer, and lowers his voice. "I am currently investigating if he, or Maker forbid anyone else in our ranks, is of Karras' or Alrik's ilk." His eyes meet mine, solemn and earnest. "I do not tolerate such abuses."

"I know you don't," I assure him sincerely. "Is there anything I can do to help you with this?"

Cullen gives an appreciative, though grim, smile. "Oh, you're kind to offer, but after what happened with Tarohne three years ago, the knight-commander has closed ranks. Our own men undergo weekly questioning, and she's eliminated all work with outsiders. It's hard to keep recruitment up enough to maintain our numbers."

"I haven't seen Knight-Commander Meredith making the rounds of the city as she used to," I venture, unable to feign concern about falling Templar numbers.

"I'm afraid she's become more reclusive since you came to Kirkwall, Hawke. These last three years, especially, she's been very suspicious of outside influences. I almost wonder if something happened…" He sighs wearily, and I feel a twinge of regret for the way in which our interaction has altered his mood for the worse. "But enough about my worries. All I will say is that if you hear of any other information regarding poor conduct in the Templar ranks, I hope you will bring it to my attention."

I exchange a quick glance with Varric and Merrill, wondering if I should inform him of Ser Varnell's activities. I know Cullen considers the Qunari to be heathens bent on the eradication of the Chantry. Would he consider Varnell's actions against them poor conduct? He surely wouldn't applaud it, but…

"Do you think it would improve matters if the Qunari were… prodded into engaging in open conflict?" I ask cautiously. I want to know where he stands.

He frowns. "Hardly. It would bring the matter to a head, I suppose, but at what cost? I understand the discomfort their continual unexplained prescence in the city is causing folk, but I don't think provoking them into violence is any sort of answer. We can't know the immediate goals of the Qunari in Kirkwall. Should it come to open conflict, we are the largest army in the city. We will be the ones to lead its defence. While I believe we have the strength of numbers to defeat them in battle, should it come to that, I am hardly itching to test my theory." He looks sombre, watching a small group of laughing children pass by, bare feet thrumming on the hard ground as they chase each other joyously down the street. "The casualties would still be immense, and the potential for harm to civilians is far too high."

Liking his answer well enough, I decide to confide in him my concerns regarding Varnell and Petrice. I tell him about the Viscount's request and the Arishok's warning, discussing all that we know and suspect thus far, aided in part by Merrill and Varric as they interject with supporting information regarding the supposed rally we're meant to find Varnell at tonight. All the while, Cullen's face grows more and more grave, though he listens without interruption.

"Petrice seems to have come to the conclusion that Varnell has taken things too far and has given him up. Either that, or it is an elaborate set up," I conclude at last, my throat dry from speaking at such length.

"Either way, it sounds like you could use my support in getting to the bottom of this," Cullen says decisively. "If Varnell is involved in this, I must stop him."

I stare at him for a moment, then look worriedly at Merrill and Varric. It rather sounds like he intends to come along. "You mean…"

"I shall accompany you to this Darktown rally," Cullen asserts, hand wrapped unconsciously around the hilt of his sword, his eyes flint-hard with anger. "I will not have rogue templars taking it upon themselves to instigate unsanctioned war against the Qun. And if nothing else, it may help to stay the Arishok's hand to show that Varnell's actions are not sanctioned by the Templar order. Particularly since the Templars boast the largest army in Kirkwall, and therefore pose the biggest threat."

Ah. Well. Not quite the outcome I intended. I meant to inform him, certainly, but somehow I didn't anticipate him wanting to come along with me into a situation in which fighting is more than likely to ensue… which in retrospect was rather foolish. He is a man of action, after all. Well, I can hardly refuse him. I meet Merrill's eyes and she nods briefly in tacit agreement. If there is to be any fighting, we will simply have to fight without the aid of magic, as we did years ago when Templar recruit Wilmod was possessed by a demon, and we had to defend ourselves without revealing our magic to Cullen. Fortunately, Merrill is more than proficient at stave work, and I am becoming quite practiced with Vigilance. As long as we don't forget ourselves, we'll be fine.

"Come with us, then, and welcome. We'd better get a move on if we're going to find this place in time. Thank you, Cullen." I give the Knight-Captain a respectful nod, which he returns stoically, and we fall in step, heading purposefully towards Darktown.

xxx M xxx

Keeping my eyes on the back of Hawke's head as I follow her through the dark and winding Darktown passage, I can't help but give a small sigh, even though I know we're supposed to be sneaking. Still, I haven't heard anything that sounds like it could be people rallying, whatever that is meant to sound like, and you'd think we'd have heard something by now, so it must be alright to make a little noise, mustn't it?

"Not liking the look of this," I murmur mournfully, grateful now more than ever for my enclosed winter shoes as we traipse miserably through a very old, very smelly, abandoned section of the undercity. "Why do all our trips to Darktown end up involving long walks through abandoned sewerage tunnels?"

"Got to hand it to this Varnell," Varric mutters with grim amusement behind me, which somehow instantly makes me feel better. "Perfect place for an extremist rally."

Hawke chuckles quietly in agreement, though I can tell she'd rather we stopped speaking now. "Petrice is here somewhere," she cautions us quietly, glancing back at Varric and I briefly before returning her attention to Ser Cullen, who is crouched quietly at a junction several lengths in front, waiting for us to catch up to him. "And it looks like Cullen might have found what we were looking for."

I sigh. "Lovely."

Cullen beckons us forward and shifts back so that Hawke can peer around the corner, somehow managing not to make any noise despite the large amounts of clinky armour all over his body. It always amazes me, how quietly some people can move if they want to, especially when covered in all that metal. Mind you, I suppose I'm rather good at sneaking with all this mail on, if I don't think about it too much and fall over my own feet.

I can hear a voice now, as we get closer to Cullen, and frown, straining my ears to turn the sounds into sense. I can just about make it out now…

"Qunari hold no real power. They are absent from the eyes of the Maker. Do not fear them. They die, like any animal."

We exchange horrified looks and at Hawke's nod, hurry around the corner, all attempts at stealth abandoned now. Walking into an open area, well-lit by torches, we stop, taking in the situation at a glance.

That awful Templar, Varnell, stands before a line of bound Qunari, pacing up and down and holding forth to a crowd of restless, angry townsfolk, guardsmen and even a few other Templars like himself. "Like any beast," Varnell is saying, pointing the blade in his hand towards one of the Qunari, "remove the fangs, and it is lost. They are weak before the faithful of the Maker." Varnell turns to look into the eyes of the captive Qunari, who stares back at him, unafraid, with calm disdain. His lack of reaction seems to provoke the templar. "The only certainty in their precious Qun is death before the righteous!" the hateful human booms, sinking a metal-clad fist into the unprotected belly of the Qunari man before him in an act of cowardly aggression.

Hawke and Cullen move forward as one, their twin outrage stamped plain on their faces, but before they are noticed, Sister Petrice suddenly appears from our rear, pushing ahead of all of us and addressing Varnell in a carrying voice. "Ser Varnell!"

All eyes turn to her. Hawke grabs Cullen's arm, halting him, and gestures him back a little. He moves to stand with Varric and I a little behind Hawke's shoulder.

Varnell's eyes widen fanatically as he sees Petrice, and he casts a dramatic arm towards the crowd. "Take a knee, faithful," he crows. "The Chantry blesses us!"

Petrice waits until all eyes are upon her before she speaks, her face composed in the perfect image of righteous indignation. "You claim a blessing when you have used the authority of the grand cleric so openly?" She strides about importantly in front of the assembled zealots, her voice projecting condemnation to the corners of the room. "You have brought wrath down upon you. You remember Serah Hawke?" All fanatical eyes in the room turn furiously in our direction as Petrice ever so helpfully points Hawke out to the group, neatly passing the blame for the kidnapping to Varnell and covering her tracks with the same masterful stroke that turns the wrath of the "faithful" on my Hawke. "The Qunari have friends, templar. How will you answer their allegations?" Petrice finishes goadingly.

Ser Cullen frowns, glancing between Petrice and Hawke, who is glaring daggers at the turncoat Sister. Oh, dear. He doesn't believe Petrice's little performance, does he? Gods, I wouldn't blame him as this is the first he's seen of the woman and she's put on quite a show, but I hope his trust in Hawke is high enough to see past Petrice's manipulations.

I see Hawke clench her jaw, swallowing her outrage at Petrice, her gaze on the stoic but helpless Qunari at the mercy of Varnell's blade. She locks eyes with Varnell, contempt pulling her rosy lips into a snarl. "You want a fight?" Hawke challenges the rogue templar with contained fury. "Face someone whose weapons are not bound!"

Varnell stares up at her, a disdainful, arrogant smile twisting his features, his eyes blazing with feverish purpose. Before any of us can make a move to thwart him, he swiftly raises his blade and drags it violently across the throat of the nearest Qunari. "Righteous!" he screeches over the approving howls of his ragtag army of bigots. "Destroy them!"

At his words, half of the crowd rush towards us brandishing knives and rusty swords, not a one of them besides the odd Templar any sort of true fighter. The other half descends upon the remaining Qunari, falling upon them like ravenous wolves at the throat of a downed deer. Oh, creators! I reach for my staff reflexively, intending to stop them at range with ice or lightning, but halt myself as Cullen surges past me, sword drawn, pelting towards the impending carnage. I can't use magic in front of a Templar! Not one we aren't trying to kill!

I see a helplessness akin to my own in Hawke's eyes as she glances at me, then draws Vigilance and charges after Cullen, dispatching zealots left and right without magic in a hopeless attempt to save the hapless Qunari as Varric frantically sends bolt after bolt into the backs of their attackers. I join the battle with my staff, taking care not to get caught within the press of bodies.

"Coward!" Cullen bellows in fury as Varnell plunges his blade into the belly of the second Qunari, eviscerating him with a terrifying look of satisfaction as his followers surround the third prisoner, their faces devoid of anything sentient, beasts in the bodies of men and women as they brutalise their prey.

Hawke carves a swathe through our enemies, and Varric and I slip into the gap, warding the blows from the Qunari as best we can. One by one the untrained fanatics fall to us, until all that remains are Cullen and Varnell facing off alone amid a sea of bodies as Hawke tries to heal the dying Qunari without Cullen seeing. She slumps her shoulders dejectedly as the last Qunari's life fades beneath her hands, and I close my eyes at her pain.

We failed to save them.

At Cullen's triumphant roar, I raise my head in time to see him strike blade from the hand of his opponent, who hasn't even time to blink in surprise before Cullen reverses the swing of his sword, whipping the edge back across Varnell's throat. The fanatical Templar dies as his first Qunari victim did, choking slowly on the rush of his own life's blood.

We cut the mangled bodies of the Qunari men down and manage together to lay them out at a respectful distance to those of their murderers.

Creators. We failed.

After a few moments' heavy silence, Hawke raises her head. "Alright," she sighs wearily. "Time to bring this mess to the Viscount's attention."

"I'll go, if I may," Cullen offers, gesturing to his bloodstained armour. "No one is likely to challenge the movements of a blood-covered Templar knight in the streets at this hour. And I've the authority to override the Seneschal's orders if he tries to deny me access to the Viscount. I'll report everything to Dumar and escort him here personally, and a contingent of the guard too if I can."

Hawke gives him a grateful nod. "The Guard-Captain will assist you if you tell her I'm involved," she says wryly. "Tell her I'm tail deep in the problems of this city. That should please her no end."

"I'll go with you, Curly," Varric offers, giving Bianca a meaningful pat. "Even skilled warriors like you shouldn't be wandering Lowtown alone. I'll watch your back for you."

Ser Cullen looks surprised, but gratified. He doesn't seem to mind being called Curly. I hope he realises that this means he's sort of one of us now. I've realised that if Varric names you, it means he's probably going to keep you.

Once Cullen and Varric leave, we find the least dirty place we can and slump tiredly to the floor to wait. I lean my head against Hawke's shoulder, staring miserably out over the room of assorted dead people. Neither of us can summon the energy to speak; we simply lean against one another in silent exhaustion, taking what comfort we can from each other's welcome presence. Elgar'nan, but this has been a long day.

The city guard arrive first, Aveline among them. Her expression hardly changes as she surveys the room, but I'm certain I see her eyes soften as they fall on us. She gives her guardspeople brief instructions to begin removal of the bodies, and then picks her way over to us, offering a waterskin once she reaches us, which we gratefully accept.

"Madness." The stunned voice of the Viscount of Kirkwall rings about the chamber as he enters, Varric and Cullen hurrying in his wake. Dumar's pale eyes bulge with horror as he takes in the grisly scene. "Madness!"

"That's a word for it," Hawke agrees irreverently as she rises. I follow her silently as she makes her way to Dumar, to exhausted and sick at heart to do anything beyond stand and listen.

"Chantry involvement..." the Viscount murmurs worriedly as we reach him. "Even if they are fringe elements... It could not be worse." He stares at the bodies of the fanatics and shakes his head, then looks to Hawke. "You killed them. All of them?"

"All that were here," Hawke reports calmly. "No one who attacked us got away, to my knowledge. This group, at least, is crippled. But I suspect a mother serving the Grand Cleric allowed this to happen."

The Viscount's eyes widen. "Are you quite sure? She held a blade with them? Told them to fight you?"

Hawke hesitates. "No, I cannot say that," she replies slowly.

Dumar looks no less worried, though he seems to believe Hawke's word. As he should. "Of course not. A blasted mother..." He curses suddenly, his control momentarily slipping. "You have no idea the storm these allegations would cause. It would destroy what support I do have." There is a sort of pleading in his tone, as though he would like nothing more than for us to tell him that there is no further danger.

"I have had trouble with her before," Hawke warns him. "She is... slippery. This may have scared her off. She claimed this was not her intention. But I suspect she cut Varnell loose and set this event up to implicate him as the sole instigator in order to stay free. I doubt we've seen the last of her." She holds his gaze seriously. "We should be cautious."

The Viscount nods resignedly. "I understand. I will make my inquiries. Gently. And you should be careful in your associations. For now, we have other problems. We have the delegate but..." He gestures meaningfully to the battered Qunari bodies. "I can't return the bodies to the Qunari in this state. Serah Hawke, you know the Arishok. What should I do?"

"He'll know if we interfere with the bodies," Hawke replies immediately and with great conviction, as though there were never any other conclusion to draw. "Hiding this would only make it worse."

I see Cullen nodding thoughtfully to himself, a look of approval on his face at Hawke's advice. Maybe we haven't come out of this as badly as all that, if we can count a high-ranking Templar among our friends now. Although he might feel differently if he knew we were apostates, I suppose.

"It would, wouldn't it?" The Viscount sighs and rubs at his temples. "I am losing my sense of how to balance this nightmare." He glances about and spies Aveline conferring with one of her guard over the bodies of the Qunari. "Guard-Captain?"

"Yes, your Grace?" Aveline responds, springing to attention.

"The bodies of the Qunari must be returned immediately and respectfully to the Arishok, with our deepest apologies for what has happened here tonight," Dumar says commandingly. "Can I count on the City Guard in this matter?"

"You can, your Grace." Nothing in her voice gives her away, but knowing her as I do, I see her face pale at his words, and know how anxious the order makes her. The guards at her back exchange brief glances, and I stare incredulously at Dumar. Surely, he knows that ordering this of them is tantamount to a death sentence? I look at him closely, at the deep dark rings beneath his eyes, at the tremors in his fingers. I don't think he can be thinking clearly at all, to ask this of them.

Aveline's eyes find Hawke's, wordlessly pleading, and Hawke sighs so softly that only I can hear. She glances at me, as though seeking reassurance, or perhaps my blessing. I nod; in resignation as much as in acceptance. Hawke to the rescue, again, and I'll be at her side, as always.

Hawke steps wearily forward to put herself at risk yet again. "If I may, your Grace, I will go with the Guard and report to the Arishok in person. He may take the news better if it comes from me."

Dumar waves a magnanimous hand, gifting Hawke with his permission. "I appreciate your help in this matter. As bad as this is, it could have been much worse without you." He gives her a respectful nod. "Kirkwall owes you. I owe you."

"Thank you, your Grace," Hawke murmurs bleakly. She looks dispiritedly at the Qunari bodies as the Viscount turns his attention to Cullen, ordering him to report to Knight-Commander Meredith.

"I have to escort His Grace back to the Keep," Aveline murmurs to Hawke, shooting a surreptitious but fierce glance at the Viscount's back. "I'm so sorry to ask this of you, Hawke, but if my guards take these bodies back to the Arishok alone, they likely won't see another dawn."

"I know," Hawke replies, her voice low to match Aveline's. "I'll do my best to prevent another massacre, Aveline. My word on it."

Aveline smiles grimly, her eyes hard and bright with supressed anxiety. "Forget Kirkwall and the Viscount," she says. "I'll owe you for this, Hawke. Thank you."

The night is quiet, and still. So quiet I can hear every creak of the timbers of the nearest moored ship outside the Qunari compound, and every shallow, terrified breath of the guardsmen and women at our backs. Hawke finished her report to the Arishok some minutes ago. He hasn't killed us yet, which is encouraging, I suppose, but he hasn't said anything or moved in some time and it's starting to get very disconcerting indeed, now. I shift minutely closer to Hawke, wanting nothing more than to touch her for reassurance, but unwilling to draw undue attention to myself. As many times as I have been in his presence, I still find this man intimidating. Even with Hawke right here, I am frightened of what he could decide to do.

We all are, I think.

Finally, the Arishok lifts his shaggy head, fierce eyes pinning us to the spot.

"So, you could not rescue my delegate, but you killed those responsible." His eyes bore directly into Hawke's as she stares back at him, unblinking. Her courage amazes me. "How do you explain the condition of their bodies?"

"The abuse of zealots" Hawke replies, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "A fanatic used them to incite others of his kind."

The Arishok watches Hawke's face for several long, frozen moments.

"I accept that," he says abruptly, sitting back on his makeshift throne.

Hawke's eyebrows rise. "Well, that was easy," she comments, faint astonishment colouring her tone. "I expected worse."

The Arishok surveys her stoically. "I have seen every vice and weakness of your kind - and how few of you take responsibility. Your viscount remains a fool, but you are not." He lifts a hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Panahedan, Hawke." Something almost like the hint of a smile very nearly lifts the corner of his mouth. "I will keep one good thought about your kind."

Well. I suppose we're making sort-of friends in all kinds of odd places today.

Hawke turns and nods to the guards, who march stiffly out of the Qunari complex, very obviously trying not to break out into a frantic run.

We all walk in silence together into Lowtown. Hawke stops us as we reach the Hanged Man, with a quiet word to Varric to make sure the guards get some food and ale to settle their nerves before they go home.

"Have a meal and a drink on me, all of you," she says to the ashen-faced, but grateful, guards, offering them a small purse of coin. "This has been a trying night for all of us."

"Take it easy, Hawke," Varric says, peering up into her face worriedly. "Don't do anything rash. Or at least promise to tell me about it if you do."

Hawke chuckles a little at that. "Cross my heart," she tells him wryly, some of her usual sparkle back in her eyes at the normalcy of the banter.

Varric grins and gestures for the guard to follow him into the welcome light and noise of the tavern. "What are we waiting for? Corff's finest whisky awaits!"

Hawke takes my hand in hers, saying nothing as we begin the long climb up to Hightown. I think for a moment- just a moment – about suggesting we go to the Alienage and sleep at my house, as it's nearer, but one look at Hawke's stormy face stops the words in my throat.

"You don't want to go home yet, do you," I say, stating the obvious as Hawke turns a steely-eyed glare in the direction of the Chantry.

Hawke stops, blinking almost in surprise as she turns to look at me. She looks uncertain. "I just…" she begins, and then sighs. "I'm sorry, Merrill. I want more than anything for this day to be over, but…" Her voice hardens. "Petrice is playing us. I'm certain of it. I just don't know what her endgame is. And…"

"You can't rest until you've confronted her about it," I finish for her, smiling reassuringly. "I know, ma vhenan." I squeeze her fingers, and turn towards the Chantry, pulling her along behind me. "Then let's go and confront this blasted Mother about it, then. We'll probably have to break in now, you know. Luckily, Isabela has been teaching me how to pick locks, so I think we'll be alright." I grin at the look of surprised amusement on her lovely face and tug on her hand again.

"Come on, then!"

Xxx H xxx

Isabela's nefarious teachings prove to be sound, as Merrill excitedly proved, using her newfound skills to open one of the servant's entrances at the side of the Chantry. I lead the way through the halls, too consumed with my anger at Petrice to allow myself to consider what a terrible idea this is.

We find Petrice in the main worship hall, speaking to the same sister-initiate from earlier today. The woman looks at us in surprise, wide-eyed, and scurries away at a word from the mother, who quickly masks her displeased scowl at seeing us with a mildly unpleasant look instead.

"Miss me?" I inquire dryly, my tone pointedly full of false cheer.

"Serah Hawke, it is good to see you," Petrice lies smoothly as we approach her. She smiles sardonically. "The shame that Varnell brought his order is most unfortunate. Praise the Maker that you were His Champion in that dark place."

So, we're still going to do this, are we? I don't think so. "Look," I say tiredly. "We're both adults here. Can we drop the pretence?"

Petrice raises an eyebrow, radiating smugness. "I think you'll find that I have said nothing threatening or untruthful."

"You and your careful language," I scoff. "I can see through that. You knew exactly what was going to happen down there, and it went exactly according to plan. Didn't it?"

"I gave you what you wanted at considerable cost," Petrice replies, eyes narrowed. "Varnell is more manageable as a martyr, but his loss will be felt. You have avenged heretical Qunari with human blood. Surely that is good enough for you?"

"It might be if you were going to give this up," I counter, feeling my temper rise. This is a fanatic playing with fire without the faintest understanding of its dangers. "But you're not. Where does it end, Petrice? With the Qunari provoked into open war on Kirkwall? How does that benefit anyone, let alone the Maker?"

"Varnell was a fool," Petrice spits, the colour high in her cheeks, eyes flashing dangerously. "But the facts remain: an offense to the Maker goes unchallenged."

"Sometimes, you just know trouble is coming," comments Merrill lightly from behind me. "What good is challenging the offense to the Maker when the consequences will be so much worse than the offense itself?"

Petrice, acting as though Merrill isn't there, points a petulant finger in the direction from which we broke and entered. "If you leave now, I will not call the Templars to report a trespasser, Serah Hawke. I will give you no further cause to shame the Chantry today, but we will have this argument again. The Viscount's incompetence all but guarantees it."

I clench my jaws at the threat, but comply, leading Merrill back out of the stifling confines of the Chantry and into the cold, clear air of the night. I've said my piece, and she knows I'll be watching her. That's the best I can do without further solid evidence against her, for now. Elthina is surely long abed, and as much as I want to report Petrice's words and my suspicions about her to the Grand Cleric, it will simply have to keep until morning.

I turn to Merrill, who steps wearily into my embrace and wraps her arms around me tightly, her warmth pressing into me and melting my concerns away, for now. I kiss the top of her head as she presses her cheek against my shoulder.

"Let's go home," I murmur into the gleaming strands of her hair in the moonlight, and she laces her fingers with mine as we walk in the direction of the mansion, and bed. "I can think of nothing I'd rather do right now than fall asleep with you beside me."

"That sounds wonderful, ma vhenan," Merrill sighs longingly, and then rubs tiredly at a dried spot of blood unfortunately gracing the tip of her ear.

"Although, maybe a bath first would be nice?"

So tired are we both when we finally stumble in through the front door that it isn't until we are practically on top of them that we hear Sandal's voice in sweet, bewildered counterpoint to Gamlen's gruff, increasingly frustrated tones.

"Enchantment?"

"No, not enchantment! Leandra!"

"What is Gamlen doing here?" Merrill asks in consternation as we hurry towards the parlour. "I thought Leandra usually visits him at his house?"

"Yes, and she'd usually be in bed right now," I answer in an undertone. What's going on here?

"Enchantment!" Sandal insists earnestly up at Gamlen, who shakes his head, scowling.

"No, Leandra. Le an-dra!"

"Shouting won't make him understand you any better, you know, uncle," I say it a wry but warning tone as I step towards them. Bodahn enters from the opposite hall as Gamlen and Sandal step back from each other, blinking at me.

"There you are!" Gamlen exclaims in a voice as accusatory as it is relieved. "Where's your mother? Is she feeling alright?"

Merrill and I glance at each other in surprise. Mother was fine, last I saw her. "I'm sure she's alright," I tell Gamlen, though I can feel the first fluttering pangs of anxiety unfurling in my belly. She should be home now, surely. Perhaps she's visiting a friend tonight for dinner. Bodahn should know. "Why are you so upset?"

"Your mother didn't show up for our weekly visit," Gamlen says urgently, running a hand through his greasy hair, his distress obvious. Despite my own increasing apprehension, I feel oddly touched by his open display of concern for his sister. "I waited for hours – I just thought she might have been late. She can't have forgotten to come. She never forgets. Is she ill? She is here, isn't she?"

"No, Gamlen," Bodahn says, glancing at Sandal for confirmation. "We haven't seen her all day."

She's… not here? But if she were going to be out somewhere, she'd have left a note with Bodahn, or sent a runner with a message. I glance out a window into the dark, frosty night.

"Where could she be?" Gamlen muses worriedly.

"With her suitor, perhaps?" Bodahn suggests helpfully.

"Suitor?" Gamlen exclaims, incredulously. "Leandra never mentioned a suitor."

"Well, those lilies arrived for her this morning," Bodahn shrugs, and gestures to the sideboard, where a vase of beautiful lilies sits, their perfect petals glowing in the firelight.

Their perfect, white petals.

No. Oh, no no no, please…

No…

Author's note.

Yep. We're there, and it sucks, but it's gotta happen.

Hang in there, friends and well-wishers. Next chapter will be up as soon as I can create it.

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