Chapter 8: The Beloved Andraste

[morwen_eledhwen]

Title: Unbound, Chapter 8
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Some treasures are found, some lost forever. The same goes for Prophets and Warriors. Also, Simon Templeman talks to himself.

Author's Note: In the game, the crafted items that protect against fire are called Warmth Balms, which to me suggests some kind of salve or rub which the user is supposed to apply topically to the bits he or she doesn't want to get burned –i.e., everywhere. However, since this is highly impractical for combat situations, I have changed the Balms to a potion.

What is not a diversion from canon, however, is the gong. Those who have only played Dragon Age: Origins on the PC will reach a point in this chapter where they will most likely go "Huh? What the –but there isn't—". It is to these readers that I must explain that for console players such as myself, there is no horn on the Mountaintop. There is, however, a gong. . .

As always, extra special thanks to Josie Lange and to ShiningMoon for beta help; ShiningMoon has also provided yet another fantastic illustration for this chapter, which you can view below. If you like it, please click on it and leave her a comment on deviantART. (Comments on the text are also appreciated, of course!)

BioWare owns the Dragon Age universe and characters and a few lines of dialogue in this chapter about Anora.

---

"I'm sorry, Leliana," said the Mage.

"I just don't understand why I can't go with you," whispered the Bard sadly.

"It isn't –it just isn't the time," the Warden answered. "We're going up the mountain on mercenary business. There's a good chance it'll turn bloody. You heard what those cultists are like. They're not likely to just stop sacrificing people to Andraste because we ask them to. And even if we do go all the way to the top, we'll probably be in a hurry to get back down. Is that how you'd want it to be?"

Leliana sighed. "No. I suppose not."

"I am sorry."

The former Chantry sister smiled. "I am disappointed," she said, "but you are right. I would not want to see the Urn of Sacred Ashes when I am covered in blood, and weighted down with the spoils of my kills. Thank you, my friend, for thinking of me."

The Mage's face wore a slightly sick expression as she took her leave of Leliana, and moved to join those whom she had chosen to make a second trip up the mountain. Zevran, Sten, Morrigan and Oghren stood by the entrance to their campsite. Loghain was giving final instructions to Alpha, and promising the Mabari a new treat when he returned.

"Ready for this?" the Mage asked Morrigan, who had donned a bearskin cloak for the journey.

"Tell me again," came Morrigan's voice from under her hood, "why I am being forced to climb this blasted mountain a second time?"

"You know what we'll probably have to do up there. We may need that Revival spell of yours."

"Perhaps I have forgotten it."

"No, you haven't."

The Witch, torn between trying to disqualify herself from this mission and having to suggest that her magical skills were less than they were, expelled a grating breath. "As you command," she muttered.

Loghain joined them just as Sten, who had overheard the Warden's conversation with the Witch, stepped away to his tent. After a moment of rummaging, the Qunari reappeared with a new sword sheathed at his back. Actually, it was a very old-looking sword, but not one the Mage had ever actually seen him wield before. Much to her surprise, he had grudgingly allowed his commander to stow Asala in the Wardens' cache at Soldier's Peak –though he had made it quite clear to Levi Dryden the fate that awaited him if the sword should be damaged or missing when he returned for it. This sword, though it carried an aura of great antiquity, was also obviously powerful and still quite useful. Its sharpened and polished blade was etched on both sides with figures of dragons; Sten had clearly cared for it. Loghain cocked an inquisitorial eye both at it and at the Qunari, but Sten took his usual place at the rear of the travelling party without saying anything.

The delay meant that the Wardens were still in camp when a pair of emissaries arrived from Redcliffe. The Mage had sent a message from the Circle Tower to Anora at the castle, and also to Bodahn, who was doing some trading in the village below, as to where she intended to be camping in three days' time. Bodahn and his cart had not yet joined them, but Eamon's emissary, travelling light and on horseback, had made the journey much more easily. As the knight dismounted, the Mage noted that Pether the Tranquil had hitched a lift on the back of his saddle. Pether slid off the horse as though boneless, his steady but slightly vacant eyes drawn toward the Warden –and specifically, toward the staff she carried in her hand.

"The First Enchanter sent a message to Redcliffe," he said, "saying that if I saw you, I should inquire if you knew anything about a staff that has recently gone missing from the Quartermaster's stall at the Tower." He coughed. "I had thought it an odd request, but—" again his eyes dropped to the Mage's side—"it seems to have been a valid one, after all. Though inquiries are perhaps, now, not necessary."

"Tell Irving he can bill us for it when the Archdemon is dead," barked Loghain, turning away from the emissaries to stalk out of the campsite with Oghren cackling at his side. "Unless you care to try retrieving it yourself," he called back over his shoulder.

Pether glanced at the Mage, who arched an eyebrow at him invitingly. He could not look nervous, but he swallowed once, and his eyelids twitched a bit as he answered. "I do not wish to die," he said. "I shall relay the message."

---

The slopes of the mountain on which Haven lay hidden from the world were heavily forested, for the most part; however, farmers had cleared small patches of level ground in terraces as far up the slope as they were able. Reaching one of these, the company was hailed by a shrill voice. They halted, and a young boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen stepped warily out from behind a tree. He held a short bow from which he aimed a tremulous arrow at the party; its tip wavered from one intruder to the other as he eyed them, wary and defensive as a wild dog protecting its pups. Looking past the boy at the field beyond, the Mage could see a handful of much younger children amongst the early crops, weeding. She glanced at Loghain, who had come up beside her and was regarding the boy with the bow. The Warrior in his heavy armor stood very still with his hands at his sides; the Mage held up one of her hands as a signal to the others not to draw their own weapons. Loghain and the boy continued to stare at one another. Where she might once have expected him to scoff at the idea of a stripling with a pointed stick standing up to the Hero of River Dane, the Mage saw only respect and understanding in Loghain's eyes. She recalled the history books mentioning that the Mac Tirs had originally been farmers; perhaps he knew what it was to stand guard in this way.

The lad seemed also to recognize that the big man with the flaming sword would not harm him or his charges. He stepped back, lowered his bow, and nodded curtly without saying a word. Loghain returned the nod; the boy dropped his eyes and sighed. The Mage smiled.

The smaller children by now had spotted the intruders and had huddled together, ready to flee into the forest if necessary. When they saw their guardian relax, they began to push and shove each other towards the strangers so that they approached in a nervous clump, like young quail. The Mage, whose face was hidden by the hood of her cloak, failed to catch their interest; instead, they worked themselves into a delicious hysteria over the more obviously exotic- or frightening-looking members of the party. They craned their necks to squint at Loghain's face over the massive eclipsing arches of his pauldrons, made admiring noises at the Starfang and at Oghren's Genlock maul that was nearly as tall as the Dwarf himself, and pointed excitedly at the dragons adorning the sword at Sten's back. Sten himself was an object of fear and fascination that would make these children the envy of their friends for months to come. Like Loghain, the Qunari regarded them silently and without moving –but then, thought the Mage, he would have conducted himself thus under any circumstances. On this occasion, however, he allowed the children to become accustomed to him, and then solemnly dropped to one knee so that they could get a closer look at his face. They cocked their heads and gaped at the bronze skin that showed above his armor; they peered into his deep-set, violet eyes with wonder. He returned their critical stares and, finding them not to be over-fed, shared a cookie from his pack with each of them.

The older boy remained where he stood in front of Loghain, watching his charges. As they squealed over the cookies, he turned to the Warrior and offered his hand. "I'm Hal," he said stoutly.

Mac Tir took the hand and shook it solemnly. "I'm Loghain," he replied.

The boy drew a breath. "You are," he said. "You are Loghain Mac Tir. I knew it. I—" he stuttered, suddenly bashful, and looked at the ground. "I've read about you in books."

"It's good to meet you, Hal," said the Hero of River Dane.

"But—" Hal looked suddenly, sharply up at him. "Why aren't you in Denerim? There's a war—"

"Against the Darkspawn?" answered Loghain. "Yes. I'm fighting in it."

Hal looked nervously around the edges of the clearing.

"Well, not right now, of course," said Mac Tir with a smile. "I've joined the Grey Wardens. They'll be on the front lines in the fighting, and they need me." His glance flickered at the Mage, whose eyes under her hood rolled towards the heavens.

"The Grey Wardens?" exclaimed Hal. "But that means—" His eyes searched the group of adults; his body froze when he recognized the figure in white. He gulped, the color abruptly draining from his face. Death had been quietly watching him and his charges the whole time.

The Mage, seeing how well a calm, direct stare had worked for Sten and Loghain, slowly lowered her hood.

The boy let out a breathless, high-pitched scream; the younger children turned, saw the Daughter of the Storm, and wailed. Within seconds, the little ones were pelting for the trees, shrieking and covering their heads; Hal followed with his bow, shouting at them to keep them from scattering.

The Mage stood quite still, watching them go. When the clearing was silent again, she lowered her eyes to find Loghain giving her a sympathetic look. She shrugged sadly.

Yep, chaos, destruction and calamity, that's me.

Suddenly she turned the full force of her baleful eyes on him and made a terrible face, hooking her fingers into claws as if a web of lightning bolts would shoot from their tips. In turn, the former Regent leveled his blackest and most vicious scowl at her, hunching his plated shoulders like a charging beast, his nostrils flaring, the scornful, brutal mouth curled, the jaw set and twitching. The Mage fell back, the fingers of one hand pressed to her lips and the other fluttering against her brow: the innocent damsel surprised in the fields by a monster. With a fainting cry, she fled, all elbows and knees, tripping with exaggerated daintiness to hide behind her Sten. As the Qunari frowned down at her undignified lapse, the Mage heard the rough bark of Loghain's laughter.

She looked up with wide, pleading eyes at her protector. "Save me," she whispered breathlessly. Sten's frown deepened.

"I do not understand, kadan," he admonished her. "You have already demonstrated that you are more than capable of defending yourself against this bas. If he is insubordinate, simply thrash him again."

They continued on towards Haven. The Mage smiled at first, despite having just sent a group of farm children into a screaming panic; presently, however, she grew sober and thoughtful again. She stole a casual glance back over her shoulder at her fellow Warden. How did he know so well the way to cheer her up in such a situation? No doubt he was familiar with the feeling of being the scariest person in nearly any gathering; but it was a child's game he had played with her just now. Surely he had never needed such diversions? Suddenly she thought she understood: of course, this man had prior experience with little girls six years old and already so precocious as to frighten those around her.

"What was Anora like as a child?" Her question might have seemed random, irrelevant; but Loghain smiled knowingly.

"So far as anyone could tell," he answered with pride, "she was the undisputed monarch of the whole world. She'd fall, skin her knees, and command them to stop stinging." He chuckled fondly. "It may have worked, too."

"Did she have many friends?"

Mac Tir lowered his eyes, and shrugged. "Gwaren sits in between the Brecilian Forest and the sea," he replied. "It's far from the old Tevinter roads. The village by our keep was never even as big as Redcliffe. There were always a few children around –charcoal burners' sons and daughters, mostly, or the children of servants. They formed into noisy gangs in the courtyard for their games. But Anora never joined them."

The Mage frowned. "Did she not want to, or was she not invited?"

"I don't know," he answered with a sigh. "Children are, in some ways, vicious animals, forming packs and defending them from outsiders. Anora was always an outsider."

"So, there was no one?" the Warden persisted.

Mac Tir gave a curt nod, his mouth twitching up at the corners. "There was Cailan," he answered, "when we stayed in Denerim. She was a few years older than he, and she led him around like a puppy on a leash, having adventures." Somewhat reluctantly, he chuckled again. "They once fought an army of Ogres in the wine cellar. At least, that was her explanation for all the broken bottles down there." The normally piercing eyes were distant as the mountain sky, remembering.

So that, thought the Mage, explained how someone like Anora wound up marrying a man like Cailan. It was a pity that the one person who seemed to desire her friendship was no match for her in character.

Although it is possible that she chose him as much as he chose her, knowing precisely what he was.

As for Loghain, he had been aware of Anora's isolation, and yet was indifferent to it; as long as she was who she wanted to be, he didn't care what she was –or what the world thought of her.

But what if she had been a Mage? she asked herself. She may have been precocious, but she is still a "normal", non-magical woman, if an extraordinary one. Do you think he'd be as open-minded if she was felling trees with lightning at the age of five?

Her mind flashed with several possible scenarios: Loghain, disappointed and ashamed, shipping Anora to the Tower and refusing to acknowledge or speak of her again; Loghain, Templars at his door, loudly protesting that his child had the same right to freedom as any Fereldan; Loghain—

—telling his daughter that like it or not, this was their lot in life, and she had better just go on to the Circle and be the best Mage she can be.

"I suppose it must have been the same for you, in a way," he said thoughtfully. "Watching from the Tower while the other children played."

"There was nothing to watch from the Tower but the Templars and the lake," she answered. "I suppose the Chantry considered it part of their mercy to us –that we wouldn't feel so isolated, if we couldn't see what we were missing."

He cocked his head skeptically at her. "And did it work?"

"No," she said flatly. Leaving her reverie, she turned her frank gaze full on him; his face, intent, received it without flinching. "We knew what we were," said the Mage. "Even if it weren't for the Templars and the Chantry reminding us, or the Tower walls and the surrounding lake as constant evidence of how far from them the world desired us –kept—" She frowned, and looked away again. "We knew. It is as you said –children always know who is different, who the outsiders are. By the time we reached the Circle, it was too late for any such mercy."

---

The Mage tensed as she saw the same man guarding the entrance to Haven village as before. Not only did she recall the man's previous unwelcoming behavior; she was also aware that, upon being grudgingly allowed to pass, her company had proceeded to decimate Haven's armed guard and slaughter a number of civilians at the Chantry. As she readied her staff to defend herself, he hailed her with what almost passed for a smile.

"Welcome back, Warden!" he called out. "A pleasure to see you again, friend of Haven and of the beloved Andraste!"

"This is getting just a bit nauseating," grumbled Loghain. "I hope you know that."

The guard was now calling to the villagers in the square: "Andraste's champion has returned to us!" Again, no show of hostility; just smiles and waves. One tall man put his arms to his chest and bowed in salute. The guard turned back to the Mage and her companions.

"You are very gracious," said the Warden, biting back the rest of her thought –compared to last time. Her tone of voice must have finished the sentence for her anyway, however, as the guard lowered his eyes and cleared his throat somewhat sheepishly.

"I admit that when you first came here, I dismissed you as just another nosy flatlander. Shows what I know, eh?" he said with a shrug. "But all of Haven has heard of your service to the beloved Andraste. Why should I not greet you with honor?"

"Before performing this service, I did kill many of your fellows," the Mage reminded him.

The Haven guard bowed his head. "Mistakes were made because you were lost," he replied, "but now you are found, and have been given a place in Andraste's sight."

The Mage suppressed a slight cough. "And –how is Andraste?" she asked politely.

"She is most thankful for her freedom, my lady, and will be restored to her full glory soon. Are you going up to pay your respects?"

Zevran and Morrigan sniggered; Sten rolled his eyes. The Mage shot them all a look.

"We will be going up the Mountain, yes. I think we will visit your shop first, though." Predictably, this earned a sigh from her fellow Warden.

"The shopkeeper will be delighted," said the guard, raising a hand once more to the company. "Farewell, then, and the blessings of the beloved Andraste go with you."

They turned and began to climb the hill towards the only shop in Haven village. "Even Andraste herself is indebted to you?" Loghain wondered aloud. "Huh. And so we're going up the mountain to –what? Collect a reward? The rumor I heard in Denerim was that the Ashes of the Prophet had been found, not the Prophet herself."

The Mage coughed again. "While it is true that we've come back here to collect some treasure to which we could not gain access before," she answered, "because someone didn't bring the right lock-picking tools last time—"

"I told you when we met that I could pick locks," piped in Zevran. "I never said it was a specialty. Legs, I can open with ease; locks, they are sometimes a bit trickier."

"We are also here," the Warden continued, "because I have decided that my actions on our previous visit had consequences that I can neither tolerate nor ignore. I hope to make amends."

"But it is these actions that have made these villagers so grateful," Mac Tir argued. "Not to mention the beloved Andraste."

"That is correct."

"So, won't amending or undoing them cause unhappiness in Haven? Or even in Heaven?"

"The former: most likely," she conceded with a smirk. "The latter –well, I'll just have to wait and see, won't I?"

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Not really, no."

They entered the shop and were greeted enthusiastically by the shopkeeper. Loghain groaned in disgust and decided that his commander would be safe enough in such a place without him. As he followed the Dwarf back outside, the Warden saw him reaching into the pouch at his belt for one of the dried, cured leaves that he liked to chew. Sten, however, remained with her. Noting that the shop sold health poultices similar to the ones that she and Morrigan made, the Mage ordered a few more to be added to her pack. As they were being fetched, the Warden looked thoughtfully at the Qunari standing guard by the door. Glancing at the shopkeeper, she stepped over to her lieutenant and beckoned him to lower his ear so that she could speak to him without being overheard.

"Sten," she asked him, "how soon after you drank the dragon's blood did you feel the effects, gain Kolgrim's knowledge, whatever it was that taught you how to fight like these Haven warriors?"

"The effect is still growing in me, kadan," answered the giant softly. "As I master one technique, I suddenly find myself with knowledge of another. It is most disconcerting. I imagine it to be similar to what Mages feel when they are possessed by a demon."

The Mage was taken aback. "I'm so sorry, Sten, I had no idea. Why didn't you say something before?"

"You did not ask."

She frowned. "So is it really that uncomfortable?"

"The knowledge has been useful, and the intrusions brief," he replied. "I do not feel any loss of control; I am always myself. So it is tolerable. I would be quite disturbed, however," he added with a look of great concern, "if I was suddenly impelled to act irrationally or foolishly, and I was powerless to stop myself."

The Mage bit her lip and pretended to speculate. "Like. . .parading through camp on your hands, singing one of Leliana's love songs?" she asked.

Sten's eyes widened with alarm. "I have never done such a thing. . .have I?"

"If you were truly possessed, you wouldn't know if you had, would you?"

His look of genuine distress made her relent. "No, Sten, you haven't," she reassured him. "And I would be sure to let you know if you did. Besides, demons only fully possess weak Mages. I imagine it is the same for whatever effect the dragon's blood has on you."

"That is true, kadan. You and I, of course, need not worry. Thank you for setting my mind at ease."

The Mage swallowed her laughter and nodded solemnly. "But so," she continued as soon as she was able, "how soon after drinking the blood did you start to gain this knowledge?"

"Almost immediately," he answered, "though it was slow, and unformed."

"Do you think a good instructor might have helped?"

Her Sten looked sharply at his pupil. "Proper instruction and study always helps. You know this, kadan."

"Excellent," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear. Thank you, Sten."

She then bought all the empty flasks the shopkeeper had, plus several nature salves, some spirit balm, and a couple of bottles of wine.

They passed the Haven Chantry by, and stopped for lunch at a stream near the entrance to the ruined Temple of Andraste. At this point the Mage emptied the contents of all the bottles she just purchased into the water, except for the health poultices and the wine. The latter she split between her companions to accompany their meal –which meant that everyone but Oghren shared one of the bottles between them, while the Dwarf (after grumbling at its not being ale) clung to the neck of the other and refused to relinquish it.

Loghain watched as his commander serenely sent a measure of green liquid into the rushing water, and then rinsed the bottle from which it had come.

"Have you something against the fish in this stream?" he asked her.

The Mage smiled. "It's not poison," she assured him. "Actually, it's a potion that protects against poison and other nature spells. So in essence, I'm doing the inhabitants of this stream a favor, as some of them now stand a chance of surviving when Oghren relieves himself in it."

After lunch, they entered the temple. The Wardens' company had been attacked in nearly every room on their previous visit, and in defending themselves had cleared much of the lower chambers of the Temple of living things. Some disciples of Andraste were moving about in the ruins, putting as much as they could to rights; they were mercifully few, though, and the Mage could send her Rogue unchallenged to pick the locks on a few interesting-looking chests that had baffled him the last time. Even with better tools, however, Zevran still had trouble with the more stubborn specimens. As he struggled with one of them, cursing softly in Antivan, the others kept a nervous lookout. Finally Loghain sighed and, waving the Elf out of the way, strode over and bashed the lock off its hasp with the pommel of his sword. He and Zevran exchanged stiff, ironic bows as the Elf wrenched the chest open and began to pore through its contents.

After this, the company proceeded through the chambers at an increased pace. In addition to Loghain's assistance, the Mage found that she could melt some locks with the same fire spell she had used to light the beacon in the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar.

"Not that I'd dare to question your decisions—" grunted the Warrior as his sword-pommel descended for the second time on the hasp of a particularly tough lock, "—or to lobby for the Orlesian's company –but if she wanted to see this Urn so badly, why not make use of her superior skills instead of bringing the impious and incompetent Elf?"

The Mage winced at the noise and concussion of Loghain's efforts and glanced out the door of the room, checking the hallway for wandering cultists. "We're operating on the whim of the Archdemon, as you know," she said evasively. "We can't afford to get bogged down in delays or distractions."

"You mean she'd want to spend too much time mooning over the Ashes."

"Something like that."

The caverns above the Temple were more densely populated, but these chambers contained little of interest for looters or thieves, and so the Warden was content to pass through, waving politely at those who acknowledged her. Therefore, though their climb was steeper, their progress was swifter, so that they soon reached a junction high up the mountain from which the Mage knew her company had only explored one exit. That exit had led them to Father Kolgrim, and Kolgrim had led them straight to their meeting with the High Dragon Andraste and the Urn of Sacred Ashes. They had never come back through these caverns to discover what the other path off this junction might offer.

As the Mage, Zevran, and Morrigan worked out an equal distribution of empty bottles and flasks with the heavier gear and looted items in their packs, Sten kept watch along all three branches of the tunnel. Not bothering to wait, Loghain and his fellow Berserker had already started up the unexplored tunnel. The Mage had just hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and begun to follow when she heard a familiar rasping shriek, like the cawing of a monstrous crow. Startled yells from both man and Dwarf were followed by a roar of unknown voices, and the unmistakable crackle of lightning.

"Hey, we're with her!" Oghren shouted at their attackers as the Mage came rushing into the chamber. "Champion of the beloved Andraste right here! Don't y –ah, sod it."

The shrieking had come from two Drakes, younger male dragons, who had issued from recesses in a large, domed chamber. These held the Warriors at bay while a pair of Reavers with axes advanced on them from the flank and a Mage perched on a dais at the far end of the chamber sent lightning bolts into their midst. The Warden quickly put the Drakes to sleep; they would awaken in moments, she knew, but it would give her time to move her fighters out of their trap and into better position. No longer threatened by the Drakes' fire or trampling feet, Loghain and Oghren turned to their commander.

"Get them!" she shouted, pointing at the Reavers. "Morrigan, Zevran, into the chamber behind me!" Her arms now swept toward the Drakes. "When they wake up, keep your distance and keep them out of commission until help comes. Sten, with me! The Mage!"

Sten nodded and followed her up the steps to the dais, a solid wall of growling muscle. Loghain and Oghren bellowed, their rage flaring in unison as each targeted a Reaver and charged. As the axe-wielding cultists faltered and fled down the tunnel with the Bersekers in pursuit, Morrigan and Zevran streaked between the Drakes and into the chamber just as the young dragons began to stir. Morrigan's ice spells and the Elf's arrows kept them occupied.

That left only the cultist Mage, and he was a powerful one. As she sprinted up the steps toward him, the Warden shot a paralyzing spell at his chest, but as soon as she had aimed her staff, her opponent sent forth a fountain of shimmering magic from his that fell around him in a dome, encasing him. The Warden's spell did not just fail to paralyze him; it bounced off the spell shield completely. She ducked as it rebounded past her ear and struck one of the columns that supported the high ceiling of the chamber. The cultist Mage stood smugly in an apparently impenetrable shell; the tip of his staff now emitted a spark that the Warden knew signified a lightning spell on the way.

The spell shield may have been impenetrable against magic, but it stood no chance against a sword-pommel swung by an irritated Qunari. The blunt end of Yusaris struck the cultist Mage between the eyes and he toppled over with a grunt. The spell shield faltered and died as the great two-handed blade made short work of its caster. The Warden turned back to check on the Drakes and found one of them fallen; Morrigan and Zevran, unharmed, were toying with the other. Morrigan took particular delight in freezing the gullets of drakes and dragons just as they prepared to spout fire at her. This Drake was choking even now while the Witch giggled and the Elf snuck around behind it to sever a tendon or a wing.

"Kadan—"

Sten was holding something out to her. Judging that the remaining Drake was in good hands, the Mage turned back to the Qunari and his kill. He held the object away from himself, as if it was an animal that might bite him. It was vibrating slightly. She stepped closer and peered at it. It was a sword, but unlike any she had ever seen. Its blade was curved like a tooth or claw, or like some of the long, thin knives she had seen the Dalish use. But it was clearly a sword –as long as the Starfang, and just as deadly. She could not take her eyes from it.

"It's –incredible, Sten, truly," she murmured, and then shook her head. "But I don't think this is his sword, either."

"Of course not," Sten huffed. "It is yours."

The Mage blinked. A sword –for her? Suddenly she remembered a small, cluttered chamber in the Brecilian Ruins; a glass vial that contained, not a Revenant, but a Presence –one that desired only oblivion after unnumbered years of painful memory. The Mage had granted the Presence's request, and had been rewarded with a promise of knowledge similar to how Sten received his new skills from Kolgrim and the Dragon's blood. Except the kernel of knowledge planted in Sten had taken root immediately and begun to produce results; while the quiet thought that had nestled in the Mage's mind as the Presence faded away had simply lain dormant until the Mage had completely forgotten it was there, or even the name of whatever it meant to teach her.

Now as she reached for the sword in Sten's hand, the thought that the Presence had planted sprang to life; she could feel it straining toward the blade, whose vibrations grew more agitated as it responded to the call. Sten presented the hilt to her with a look of disgust; clearly, the sword repelled him, but he knew where it belonged. The Mage's hand rested on the pommel, and her eyes flew open as the Presence in her head and the energy in the sword leaped for one another; as her fingers closed around the hilt and Sten relinquished it, the connection clicked home.

The sword thrilled in her hand; the Presence filled her body with a sense of purpose, muscles and sinews receiving directions she had never issued in her life. Visions of magic channeled into strength, of fighting at close quarters with a blade, her magic and the Mage's sword making her as strong as Sten, as deadly as Alistair –or even Loghain.

Arcane Warrior.

She looked down at the sword, in whose depths she could see a roll of clouds like an approaching storm. A flicker of lightning arced across the blade. The Mage smiled.

"Yes," she whispered.

As she practiced sheathing and unsheathing it from the belt that normally held her staff at rest against her back, Loghain and Oghren came trudging back into the chamber. Loghain lifted his chin at Sten and jerked his thumb back down the passage.

"These Mountain warriors fight like you do, Qunari," he called up to them. "I had never seen your techniques employed before, but those two-handers seemed adept at it. Have you been holding some sort of training clinic up here? Is this the service to Andraste for which Haven is so grateful?"

"Actually," replied the Mage as she rejoined her companions below, "it was Sten who learned the technique from them."

Loghain raised both eyebrows. "A Sten of the Beresaad –seeking human tutelage? Surely not."

Sten growled; the Mage explained. "It was offered to us as a reward for our services. Any one of our Warriors could have taken the instruction, but Sten seemed best suited for it. And you've seen how it has enhanced his already formidable skills."

"Huh," remarked Mac Tir, and the matter was closed.

---

The Warden feared that the commotion in the chamber might call more cultists to arms, but they made their way through the rest of the caverns and tunnels without incident. The last tunnel ended, and the company found themselves in a high-ceilinged, man-made passage whose windows looked out over the roof of the mountain. Crumbling walls extended for a few feet to either side of this passage, and then the paved road to the temple where the Wardens had found the Urn of Sacred Ashes lay open to the sky.

The company stood in the shadows of the outer walls, blinking at the sunlight. Loghain, still squinting, prepared to stride down the middle of the road as usual, but the Mage raised a hand and he halted with a grunt. The Warden raised a finger to her lips and then pointed Zevran, Sten and Oghren to the shelter of the wall nearest them. She and the others slipped across the road to the far wall. Once in position, she and Zevran each stood on tiptoe and peered over the jagged edges of stone to survey the landscape, including the various crags and ridges between the caverns and the temple.

"Do you see her?" whispered the Mage across the mountain path.

Zevran shook his head. "I don't see her," he mouthed back.

"Perhaps she's sleeping," suggested Morrigan.

"Who?" hissed Loghain.

"Andraste," answered the Mage and Morrigan together.

Loghain looked down at their tense, crouching forms for a moment. "You're all mad," he said finally.

"Yes," agreed his commander. "We're mad. Just please be quiet. And drink this." She handed him one of the earthenware flasks she had purchased from the Circle Tower. She had spent a night in her tent brewing fire-protection potions, and now each of the special flasks was filled with a warm, glowing liquid. There was one in her pack for each member of the party; the Mage beckoned the others over from the far wall to receive theirs. Oghren pulled the stopper on his flask and gave it a sniff, shrugged, and drank. Loghain looked skeptical, but seeing the others all quaffing theirs without question, tipped his own portion down his throat. As the potion descended his eyes flashed, startled, and then were sheathed under a speculative frown. He smacked his lips.

"Bracing," he remarked, "but it's hardly the occasion for a toast, Warden, do you think?"

"Kinda takes the edge off this mountain air, though," observed Oghren, squinting at the high, unfettered disc of the sun. "Caridin's tits, that's bright."

With the coast at least momentarily clear, the Mage led her company down the path and into the open. The high mountain air sang between the rocks and shattered into sparkling fragments against the snow-clad sides of the peak. Loghain lifted his long nose into it, nostrils flaring, and exhaled deeply. The Mage, Zevran and Morrigan continued to look around them as they went, on all sides and above, as though they were walking through the Deep Roads.

"Kadan," said Sten, who was looking ahead. The Warden followed his gaze and spotted Father Kolgrim with a pair of his attendants coming down the path from the temple. Kolgrim's arms were spread wide as he greeted them in a loud voice.

"Ah, our champion has returned," he called as the two parties met up just under the crags flanking the final, narrow path that led to the Gauntlet. "Welcome! Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Hello, Kolgrim," said the Mage. "How are your disciples faring since our last meeting?"

"The damage done to our home and our people was considerable," he answered. "We shall need time to rebuild. But we have joy in our work," he continued stridently, "because we labor in the service of the risen Andraste, whom you have freed: friend and deliverer of our divine Lady!"

The Mage cleared her throat. "Yes," she agreed. "I am sorry about the loss of so many of your Warriors. In truth, I find myself in a similar position. There is a Blight in Ferelden, as you are no doubt aware, and I am building an army to fight the Darkspawn. They may not threaten Haven yet, but if the Archdemon is not defeated, they will overrun this land, including the mountain. We need all the help we can get, Kolgrim. Now that Andraste is freed, could you not spare me some of your excellent Warriors to help defend her temple?"

She had thought it rather a clever and sensible appeal, but Kolgrim laughed. "It was the sin of the Imperium that brought the Darkspawn into this world," he sneered. "Let them come and scourge the land, to pave the way for the risen Andraste." He spread his arms open to the sky. "Already, the weight of the past has lifted off the mountain!" he cried, and looked at the Mage as at a long-lost sister.

"Come," he urged her. "Stay with us, and witness from on high the changing of the world!" The eager voice grew hoarse, fervid. "You are Andraste's knight-champion! You will be richly rewarded for your service. Glory will be yours in the next life! And when there is nothing left to destroy in this one," he crowed, "we will emerge and build a new kingdom in Her name!"

The Mage sighed, and shook her head. "I thought as much," she said wearily. "Still, it was worth a try. . ." She readied her staff. Behind her, she heard the drawing of weapons and a shifting on the path as her companions prepared for battle.

Kolgrim was incredulous. "You would turn on us? After we've bestowed upon you the power granted by the Prophet?"

"I'm sorry, Kolgrim," said the Warden. "I need more Reavers. If you will not provide them for me, I shall have to make my own."

At a sign from his leader, one of Kolgrim's attendants streaked past the Wardens' company and up the path behind them. The Mage looked swiftly at Zevran, who fit an arrow to the string and sent it whistling into the man's leg, pinning him to the ground. Kolgrim turned to Sten.

"Help us, brother!" he pleaded stridently. "We made you one of us! We gave you new life as a child of the risen Andraste!"

Sten drew the greatsword Yusaris from its sheath. "My life is with my sword and my honor as a Sten of the Beresaad," he said solemnly. "They were returned to me by the Grey Warden. I need no new life. I stand with her."

Kolgrim hefted his battleaxe and brandished it at them with a yell of fury. The attendant at his side followed, snarling.

"Oh, good," drawled Loghain, jamming Duty back on his head. "I was beginning to get bored. . ."

"Zevran! Morrigan! Shut them up!" cried the Warden as the cultists' screams echoed off the mountain crags. "And stop him!" she added, pointing at the third man, who was limping frantically up the path with Zevran's arrow buried in his thigh. The Mage had thought that he was running to summon help from the caverns below; she now saw that he was heading for a slight ridge above the path, on which stood a large brass disc suspended in a wooden frame. His progress was impeded, however, as Zevran shot more arrows and Morrigan froze him in his tracks.

The Witch's ice had silenced Kolgrim, as well, while the Rogue and the Mage worked to keep the other Reaver paralyzed and mute. Notwithstanding the constant stream of curses and insults issuing from one or other of the Berserkers, the battle was finished in relative quiet. Even outnumbered, however, Kolgrim and his attendant proved difficult to subdue. When it was over, Loghain leaned on the Starfang and surveyed their fallen, bleeding forms.

"These –what do you call them, Reavers?—they're rather pesky," he panted. "Pity you weren't able to convince him to join you, Warden. We could have used a few like him."

"We may still be able to cultivate some Reavers," replied the Mage, "if Andraste will accommodate us."

"Where is she?" wondered Oghren as his eyes roamed the crags and ridges around the mountain path.

Morrigan tsk'ed, shaking her head. "That ungrateful bitch," she said reprovingly. "Her faithful keeper is cut down and she does nothing to avenge him."

"Look," said Zevran, lifting his chin up the path towards the man who had run.

He was still alive, but barely. He lay on the path in a mire of his own blood. Occasionally he would prop himself up on his elbows and drag himself another foot or two towards the brass disc. He mouthed a strangled prayer as his eyes rolled toward the heavens.

"Hmm," mused the Assassin as he plunged his dagger into the back of the man's neck and gave it a twist, silencing him forever. "Now, I wonder what is so important about that pretty, shiny thing, that this man would die to reach it?"

They ascended the ridge and stood looking at the gong. "I've seen things like this in Orzammar," said Oghren. "They make a really weird noise when you hit 'em. Look, there's a mallet to strike it with." The Dwarf made a face. "He was gonna call her."

The Mage nodded. "That must be how they do it," she agreed. "What else would something like this be doing up here?"

The gong stood serenely between its posts and winked at them in the sunlight. It was fashioned almost like a targe or a large buckler, with a wide, slightly concave brass rim that surrounded a duller, darker, raised centerpiece like a boss. It drew the company to it as though they had been bewitched. Loghain looked at the mallet, and then at the sky.

"Was this the true purpose of this venture, then?" he asked the Mage. "It did seem a long way to travel for a sword, a few trinkets, and the pleasure of provoking and killing a lunatic. But, Warden: if you believe, as they did, that striking this thing will call the Prophet herself –a Prophet, might I add, whose disciples you have just cut down within sight of her temple—would that truly be—" He pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced, as though scarcely willing to form the words that would give credence to this madness. "But –Andraste won't actually –come,"he said finally. "Will she?"

His eyes sought an answer from those of his commander. The Mage merely cocked her head at him and raised an eyebrow. His mouth quirked in annoyance, but it was too late; he had already caught the spark of curiosity from her wordless invitation, and from the gong that gleamed quietly in its frame like the cheese in the biggest mousetrap in Thedas.

Zevran had crept to one of the posts from which the gong was suspended and circled it with one arm, like a lover. "So –tempting, isn't it?" he chuckled slyly. The gong was etched with shallow grooves in concentric rings from the rim to the boss; the pads of the Elf's fingers nestled into them, stroking and caressing. "'Touch me, hit me,' it says; and we want to, in spite of ourselves. Ah, Andraste—" He pressed his body against the wooden frame and sighed.

The disc was responding to Zevran's touch; each sweep of his fingers produced a shimmering note that hummed across the valley.

The Mage glanced at Loghain, who still stood frowning, unsure whether or not to sheath his weapon. "You may want to hold on to something. . ."

Zevran now punctuated his strokes of the gong with loving curls of his palm over the central mound. The Mage could swear he was purring. "And how fitting, isn't it?" he asked them, smiling. "Is it not the legend that Andraste called the Maker to her with music?"

The thrumming notes built up a vibration like approaching thunder in their ears. Zevran laid his head along the wooden post as if in a swoon; his eyes were heavy with longing.

"And so it has always been," he mumured. "Even gods –even goddesses –will come to you. . .if you can only –make –the right—"

Suddenly his knuckles struck the center of the gong; the vibration became a sunburst of thrilling, wavering sound, which was answered by a rush of wings—

"—noise."

The dragon landed on the path above them with a concussion that nearly knocked them off their feet. Loghain staggered back with a curse as the beast called Andraste spread her wings and screamed at them. The Warriors drew her with taunts and blows down into the lowest point of the valley, away from the less heavily-armored Rogue and the two Mages. Zevran gave the Warden a wink and disappeared under his cloak of stealth, slipping down the hill to put the assassin's Mark of Death on their enemy. Then, before she even knew he was there, his daggers flashed from their sheaths, slicing the tendons in her forefeet in one dual stroke. She screamed again and whirled round, searching for him; twisting away from her snapping jaws, he blew her a kiss and sprinted back up the hill to stand by his commander.

"She is almost as fearsome as you are, my goddess!" he shouted as he drew his bow and an ice-tipped arrow. "And yet, I believe we have her."

A few blows from Oghren's hammer shattered the joints in Andraste's forelegs. As the dragon buckled in pain, the Dwarf moved to apply the same tactics to the back end. Here he was hampered not only by the size of the great hind limbs, but by the repeated kicks she leveled at him, sending him sprawling in the dirt time and again and then buffeting him with her tail while he was down. The bulk of the dragon's attention, however, was fixed on Sten and the ancient sword of the Dragonslayer. She followed the Qunari relentlessly with hate-filled eyes, shrieking. Indeed, she seemed oblivious to Mac Tir, which he clearly found insulting. As the dragon shifted to keep Sten locked in her sights, Loghain slashed at her belly and sides with the Starfang; when this failed to earn her notice, he circled around and placed himself before her directly in front of Sten, just as her chest swelled and the long neck curled back. Andraste unleashed a torrent of flame full on the two Warriors, nearly eclipsing them from the Mage's sight. Loghain dropped to the ground with a yelp and threw his shield over his head, curling as much of his body as he could fit under its protection. As the rolling fire washed over him, the Warden saw him jerk in surprise; his head popped out from behind the shield and he looked swiftly at himself and at the Qunari behind him. The last of the dragon's flame was dissolving harmlessly around them, absorbed by the potion that the Mage had made them drink.

Loghain flipped open the visor on his helmet and squinted up at his commander as she watched him from the hill. The two Wardens exchanged a nod. With a chuckle, the Champion turned back to face his enemy, who was once again staring down the pacing Qunari and his sword. Loghain beat the Starfang against his shield and gave a tremendous war cry. At last, the High Dragon's gaze bent toward him.

"That's right, you worthless old hag," he bellowed. "Come to me!"

Rearing on her hind legs, the dragon swung round to face the Hero of River Dane. The sweep of her wings was a cloud blotting out the sky, their shadow that of an enormous bird of prey. Her neck stretched forward, straining to its fullest as she answered his challenge with a piercing scream. The monster's head was so close to Mac Tir's that the Warden imagined he could see right down the steaming gullet. "Huh," she heard him sneer, and he spat at the beloved Andraste. The Mage felt a surge of dark joy that nearly overwhelmed her; she could scarcely draw a breath to laugh. Even Morrigan was laughing as she sent an arcane bolt into the dragon's breast.

Suddenly Loghain whooped and let out a cry of pain. Sensing that he might need healing, the Mage peered at the spot where he had stood, but she could not find him. Andraste was tossing her head in the air; she appeared to have something caught in her jaws. The Mage felt her insides turn to ice and her stomach lurch in horror as she realized that the something was Loghain Mac Tir.

He was inside the dragon's mouth.

There was a horrible crunching noise as the dragon's teeth tried to pierce his chevalier armor. The heavy plate dented, but held, though each crunch wrenched another grunt of pain from Loghain. He was cursing and trying to bash Andraste in the face with his shield and the pommel of his sword. Realizing that she could not bite through him, she grasped the Warrior in her jaws and shook him as if she was Alpha playing tug-of-war with a stick. Loghain's shouts became an awful gargling. Then Andraste spat, hurling Mac Tir's body to the ground. There was a thud and a clatter, and then silence.

Certainly the dragon continued to shriek at Sten and at the Dwarf, both of whom yelled or swore or called down oaths and invectives in various tongues; and Morrigan and the Rogue mocked their enemy from their perch up by the gong; and the carrion birds that haunted the nearby crags still cawed and croaked as they circled overhead. But to the Mage, it was as though a terrible, oppressive silence had fallen over the mountain. The Champion's voice was stilled.

"No!" she cried. She leapt down the hill, unsheathing the arcane sword as she ran. The Mage called to Morrigan over her shoulder, pointing to where she could see Loghain's body lying on the ground.

"The Revival spell! There, now!"

Morrigan looked, but Andraste was preparing another blast of fire and the Witch would not be deterred from her favorite game. She clucked her tongue impatiently.

"What for? She's nearly finished," she called back. "Let him lie!"

"Just do it!"

Morrigan groaned and interrupted the ice spell she was preparing. She stood frowning for a moment on the hill, recalling what Wynne had taught her months before. The Mage continued to run, down to the splash of silverite that lay in the dust of battle, her senses reaching for the fading pulse in the taint that was her fellow Warden.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

She reached his still form, face down on the mountain path. The dragon had resumed her prowling pursuit of the Qunari. Even with the monster's back to her, the Mage gained a new appreciation of just how big High Dragons were. The tail that waved over her head was like a spiked and lashing tree trunk; the hind legs were jointed columns of stone with claws. Any of them could cause considerable damage to her or to Loghain, just by accident. As she looked at the sword in her hand, the tail made a low sweep and she ducked as it whistled past. Rising, the Warden placed herself between Loghain and the dragon. Andraste kicked at Oghren as the Dwarf's hammer descended on one of her clawed toes; the Mage choked and shaded her eyes as the dust flew up, momentarily blinding her.

Idiot, she thought. What are you doing here?

She looked at her staff, which she still held in her off hand. If she wanted to use it comfortably, she should remove herself, away from that thrashing tail. But that would mean leaving Loghain. The Mage's sword was calling to her: Arcane Warrior. And she was one, after all. She would stand her ground. Looking at the fallen Champion, she saw that his shield had been shaken from his arm while he was in Andraste's mouth. Her mouth set; she tossed her staff aside and lifted the shield with its rampant wyvern to her chest. It was heavy, but the Mage's sword channeled her magic into her arm, swirling around both it and the shield, lifting them, holding them. It was good. The Mage slipped her forearm through the straps of the shield and held tight; as she curled it against her, she felt strong. She was a Warrior; she was the Hero of River Dane, bracing himself for a fight. The dragon's tail swept low again; at once she focused her magic into her shield arm and conjured up an image of the Champion in battle. She did not duck this time; instead, she swung the shield with a high-pitched yell and batted the tail away as it flew by. Away from her; away from Loghain. The Mage grinned.

Now she hefted the sword, which was singing to her of all the things she could do with it. The smart thing would be to dart in and attempt to slash the tendons on the dragon's back legs as Zevran had done the front, but that would mean leaving Loghain unprotected. Or, she thought, she could have a go at the tail, and possibly distract Andraste away from Sten so that the ancient sword could do its work. As the great spiked lash whipped towards her; the Mage swung her sword-arm. The impact jarred her elbow and stung like a swarm of hornets. Her blade, meanwhile had made a minor slice between a couple of the smallest scales –no more than Andraste would feel when stepping on a sharp stone, she imagined.

"Pathetic," she snarled.

'The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it,' Loghain had said that, back at Soldier's Peak. She could hear him saying it now.

"Damn you," she whispered to him. He lay still, unresponsive. What was taking Morrigan so long? The Mage glanced up the hill. Though her face still looked sour, the eyes of the Witch were focused on the ground by the Warden's feet. The Mage could see her lips forming the incantation. Her staff was beginning to glow.

The Warden could cast as well, she thought;but she was used to having her left hand free, and the sword was trying to channel her power into her muscles, filling her with images of stabbing and slicing. She felt like a very stupid doll in the hands of an invisible child.

Maker, hear me, she prayed. Give us a little more time. Give him a chance to tell me he was right.

As she grimaced in disgust, wondering if she should forget the sword and find her staff again or if it would be more dangerous to take her eye off the tail, several things happened at once. There was a cough behind her, followed by a deep rasp of breath, and a surge in the taint as Morrigan's spell finally took effect. Then –whether because she had been distracted by the Wardens, or weakened by spells and sword-strokes and the hobbling efforts of Oghren and Zevran, or a combination of all—Andraste stumbled, and Sten sprang. The Mage saw him grab the dragon by one of her horns and swing up on her neck as though he was mounting a Bronto; his legs clasped her just behind her head and he held on, readying his sword for a driving downward thrust between the eyes of the monster. Then all the Warden could see was a wild twisting, thrashing mass of scales and muscle. Sten appeared and disappeared from her view as the High Dragon fought to fling him off. The Mage saw Yusaris rise and fall, and then the top of Andraste's head burst open in a shower of blood. The dragon's tail thrashed and flailed wildly as she screamed out her death; the Mage used both sword and shield to keep herself and Loghain from being pummeled to bits. At last the great limbs buckled, the dragon's head reared one final time to the sky, and Andraste collapsed into the dust.

Morrigan was stalking down the hill towards them, scolding the Mage as she came. "See?" she sneered. "That was a complete waste of mana. We did not need him to finish her off."

Loghain coughed again; the Mage thought she heard a growl in it. Finally lowering her arms to her sides, she turned to look at him. He had propped himself up on one hand and was leaning over, Duty under his other arm, hawking a wad of something bloody onto the ground and glaring at Morrigan. There were double rows of tooth-shaped dents across the torso of the chevalier plate.

"And what on earth you might have been thinking—" continued the Witch, tossing the Mage's staff at her. "Here. This could have been damaged." The staff landed at the Warden's feet; she tried to catch it before realizing that she had both hands full. She clumsily sheathed the arcane blade at her back and then stooped for her staff, legs and fingers trembling in the aftershock of the battle.

Meanwhile, Sten had strolled over to report, blood still dripping from his helm and shoulders.

"I have instructed the others to begin filling the bottles as quickly as possible, before too much of the dragon's blood is spilled on the ground," he said.

"Thank you, Sten," said his commander.

Blood was running from Loghain's mouth and ears, and from a gash on his cheek where Duty's guards had scraped it open.

"Nice move, that," he said to Sten, twirling his finger to illustrate the Qunari's acrobatics. His voice was thick and he spoke gingerly; the Mage guessed that he must have bitten his tongue.

Sten grunted and extended a hand, helping the Warrior to his feet. Mac Tir spat again. The Mage looked at her hands and realized they were both still full, because she was still holding the Gwaren shield. Its owner, catching her eye, pointed an eyebrow at it and looked at her archly. He seemed amused at the sight of her holding a warrior's tools.

"Warden," he rumbled in greeting.

"Warden," she answered back. She shucked the shield off her arm and handed it over.

"If you're going to get into the habit of rushing to my rescue—" he remarked, wincing as he reached for it, "—perhaps some lessons are in order."

Zevran had carried his and the Mage's packs over to where the dragon's head lay on the ground. He and Oghren were filling the empty flasks and bottles from the still-pulsing arteries. The Wardens walked slowly up to meet them, the Mage healing Loghain's cheek and the inside of his mouth as they went.

"This is the weirdest looting I've ever done, Warden," observed Oghren as they drew up. "Hope you've got something planned for all this besides dragon stew. Hey there, buddy, thought we'd lost ya," he added to Loghain. "Ol' Scaly Britches here shook ya like a sodding rat."

Loghain nodded at the Dwarf, plunked his shield and sword down and groaned. Sten and Oghren helped to remove his plate, which was digging into his already bruised flesh. The Mage winced and healed him. Loghain's breathing became easier; as he stretched and shook the feeling back into his arms and fingers, he smirked at the Warden's worried face.

"Thank you," he said deliberately. She lowered her eyes, but relaxed.

Turning away, the Mage stood for a moment frowning in the direction of the temple. Loghain joined her presently, his boots crunching heavily on the path.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her. She looked sidelong at him; his expression was weary, but game.

"I'm thinking of having another peek in there," she replied.

"More treasure?"

"Possibly," she said. "That's what I'm hoping, anyway."

"Lead on, then," said Mac Tir, extending an arm along the path.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest?"

"I think it's best if I keep moving, Warden," he answered. "If I sit down now, you may have to carry me off this mountain."

The Mage turned back to where the others still plundered the corpse of the High Dragon.

"Oghren?" she called out. "Care to see the Temple of the Prophet Andraste?"

Oghren looked around at the searing expanse of bright, clear sky.

"Sure," he muttered, unhooking his flask.

They walked slowly, for Loghain's sake, the Mage sensing bits of him that hurt and healing them as she went. Some of his injuries were beyond her, however; he would need rest and an injury kit when they got back to camp.

"I'm sorry I can't do more to help," she told him.

He grunted. "I've certainly met better healers than you, Mage," he said drily. The Warden bowed her head; she had no argument against him. Mac Tir, seeing her looking crestfallen, softened.

"I'll be all right," he told her.

"You think there are any more of those Reavers inside, Warden?" asked Oghren. "I haven't got more than a few swings left in me today."

"If there were," mused Loghain, "I'm sure they would have been drawn out here already, with the racket we've been making. Besides," he added with a grin, "we have our brave Commander to protect us."

The temple was dark, cold, bereft of life or sanctity. Oghren, who had not yet joined the Wardens' company when they first journeyed here, looked around skeptically.

"It's a neat bit of stonework, Warden," he muttered, "but I kinda don't see the point, if you know what I mean."

They reached the inner chamber, from which all but the barest light had gone. In the dimness, the Mage could see that the stone altar had been tipped over, and the steps leading up to the high dais on which the Urn of Sacred Ashes had been set were chipped and scorched –evidence, she guessed, of their battle with the Guardian.

"I'm feeling strangely underwhelmed, considering," observed Mac Tir.

Suddenly the Mage gasped. "It's gone!" she cried.

"What is?"

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes. It was sitting right up there. . ." She shook her head. "Kolgrim must have taken it," she said. "As soon as he knew the Guardian was destroyed—"

"The Guardian?" Loghain frowned. "But—"

The Mage waved a dismissive hand. "That dragon wasn't guarding the Ashes," she explained. "In truth, I don't know what she understood of Kolgrim, or the Ashes or the Temple or anything. Most likely all she knew was that she had found a devoted servant and protector for herself, her mates and her young. But the Guardian was here first. Those chambers behind us were once a series of trials and traps called the Gauntlet, meant to keep out the unworthy who came to see or to defile the Ashes. Supposedly, they have been here since the Ashes themselves were installed. The dragon was a relative latecomer."

Loghain started suddenly and blinked twice. "About how late, do you know?" he asked. "Did Kolgrim say when the dragon first appeared?"

"Not –no one said, exactly," answered the Mage. "Why?"

Mac Tir shook his head. "I suppose it's not important," he said brusquely. "Never mind. So, quite a cozy setup for a High Dragon, then: a whole mountain as her domain, protected and worshipped by a community of savage isolationists who also happen to be quite fine Warriors."

"Well, she helped with that. It is by drinking the blood of a High Dragon that Reavers are created."

"Ah," exclaimed Loghain. "And thus, the bottles. You mean to collect her blood and make as many of your soldiers as possible drink it." He nodded in approval.

"Well, I was hoping they'd volunteer, but yes." The Mage looked invitingly at Oghren.

The Dwarf belched. "Aye, sure, I'm game. Why the sod not? You in, Berserker?"

The commander shook her head and answered for her fellow Warden. "I don't think I can ask my followers to drink more than one type of their enemies' blood apiece," she said with a smile. "But thank you, Oghren. I'm sure that Sten will be happy to assist with your training."

The Dwarf looked sour. "If he steps on me, I'll Reave him right in the stones," he growled.

"So –the Ashes?" asked Loghain. "Where do they come in?"

"Kolgrim and his followers had gotten it into their heads that the High Dragon who had settled on their mountain was in fact the Prophet Andraste, arisen to life in glorious, semi-divine form," answered the Mage.

"Glorious," echoed Mac Tir with a roll of his eyes. "But, only semi-divine?"

"Yes, and that's where the Ashes come in. It was Kolgrim's belief that the Ashes of the earthly Prophet were the only thing still tying the risen Andraste to mortal life. But he couldn't get to them, you see. He couldn't get past the Guardian."

"So he asked you to destroy them for him."

"Not exactly." The Mage sighed. "He –he gave me a vial of blood," she said softly. "Of the dragon's blood. The power of the Ashes had to be released to the new Andraste, he said. . ."

Loghain turned his head to stare at her. "You –found the legendary Urn containing the ashes of the Prophet Andraste and –poured a vial of that dragon's blood in it?"

"I bet you pissed that Guardian off something fierce," remarked Oghren.

"He was –rather upset, yes," agreed the Mage.

"And it was this service for which Kolgrim rewarded you by allowing your Qunari to become a Reaver."

"And for which he didn't attack the four of us with a roomful of Reavers and Mages on our way up here." She sighed. "I thought he would have left the Ashes alone. He was so dismissive of them, of this whole temple; I thought that once he'd gotten what he wanted, he'd just forget about them."

"Regrets won't help you accomplish anything, Warden," admonished Mac Tir. "Take it from me."

She shook her head. "I just thought –that maybe I could find even a little bit, maybe in the bottom of the Urn, that hadn't been corrupted. It was only a small vial, you see, and –and we are going up against an Archdemon. And you were right: those Ashes were better healers than Morrigan or I will ever be."

There was a silence as Loghain continued to look at her. She could feel his gaze, but could not bring herself to meet it.

"If it helps," she said, "this was the difference of opinion that caused Wynne to leave us."

Loghain blinked. "Aha," he exclaimed again. "Hmm. As mitigating circumstances go, that is a considerable one. I confess that I was not at all looking forward to hearing her snipe and nag at me all the way to the end of this Blight."

The Mage chuckled drily. "Yes, well, after I defiled the Ashes, she could not bear to stay in my company –not even to nag me." She looked down at her hands. "She said I was as bad as the Darkspawn. Worse, even."

"Oh, come now," protested Mac Tir. The Warden stared at the place where the Ashes of Andraste once rested. Loghain followed her gaze and there was another thoughtful silence.

"At the very least," he insisted, "you smell better than they do."

The Mage suspected that the placid statues adorning the chamber had never borne witness to any noise as undignified as the snort that she produced at this remark. They turned blank alabaster eyes to such profanity. The stones, however, recalled the sound of the Grey Warden's laughter long after she had turned and left, as well as the soft plosive chuckle of the Champion who followed her.

---

Outside, Zevran presented the Mage with several scales that had fallen from the dragon's limbs and sides during the battle. She turned them over in her hands.

"Do we have time for a mad dash to Denerim, do you think?" she asked Loghain after a moment. "I don't feel a thing from the Archdemon."

"Nor do I," he answered. "What do you want to go to Denerim for?"

"The armorsmith, Wade, once told me that he could make the most amazing armor out of dragon scales, and that I should come to him if I ever found some. And, the Archdemon does take the form of a dragon. . .I thought, it would be some protection for one of us at least." She shrugged.

"I see," he replied. "Yes, I know Wade, and I would call it a good idea if we had a few months to spare, but you'll not get armor from him in an afternoon."

"He promised me he could make it in just a few hours. With real dragon scales, that is."

"Oh, he did, did he?" sniped Loghain. "That bastard. I'll remind him of that when he tells me it'll take three weeks to bash the dents out of this armor."

"You just need to know how to motivate people, I guess," observed the Mage with a smile.

"Yes –by giving them bits of Andraste's hide."

---

They took a shortcut down to the lower temple, electing to avoid the caverns and their cultist denizens. The sun was set when they re-encountered the Haven guard, still at his post at the lower entrance to the village.

"We heard the beloved Andraste on the mountaintop," he said curiously. "We thought that she might finally have chosen her moment to declare herself to the world. Is she—?"

"I'm afraid not," said the Mage. "She was merely declaring herself to us."

Loghain, now in on the game of words, answered the Guard's slightly puzzled expression. "I, being recently conscripted, had not yet beheld the beloved Andraste in her risen form," he explained. "The Grey Warden called her, and she was gracious enough to grant us an audience."

"Ah," sighed the Guard, "and is she not magnificent?"

"My breath," replied Loghain, "was quite taken away."

As the Wardens left Haven for the last time, Loghain was chuckling again.

"I'm beginning to think that Wynne was right," he said. "You are wicked."

The Mage thought suddenly of the moths that would sometimes come through the open windows of the Tower, attracted by the lamp she used when she studied at night. The moths were softer and muter in color than butterflies, yet less timid, not as fragile. They would tattoo the glass of the lamp with susurrant wing-beats; when she reached out to them, their heated bodies bathed her wrists and the backs of her hands with a sensation like a flutter of warm breath.

If she had not raised her hood upon exiting the temple, her companions would have been able to note that the tips of her ears had gone slightly pink.

"So this is why you didn't bring the Orlesian," declared Loghain after a moment. "She doesn't know a thing about what happened here last time, does she?"

"She does not," answered the Mage.

Mac Tir shook his head, frowning. "That sounds uncharacteristically cowardly of you, Warden," he said. "Why do you not tell her what you did to the Ashes? And if you're so ashamed of it, why do it in the first place?"

"I told you: to gain knowledge and an advantage in battle."

"So for the benefit of one warrior, you defiled an ancient relic that contained a power found nowhere else in this world."

"Not just one: that's why we went back," said the Mage. "To make sure, one way or the other, that we got as many Reavers out of it as we could. And the Ashes weren't helping anyone, anyway," she argued. "They were sitting in a guarded fortress on top of a mountain full of vicious lunatics, doing nothing."

"But they were there," insisted Loghain. "People believed in them. People based their hopes, their faith, in some cases their very lives on their belief in the existence of those Ashes. Even if they never got the chance to see or touch them."

"And now," replied the Mage, "you have the answer to your other question."

The Wardens went down the rest of the mountain in silence. Loghain touched the Silver Sword of Mercy that hung at his breast, and frowned.

When they reached camp again, one of the first things they saw was Leliana's hair. She knelt in front of her tent by the fire, praying.

"I could still tell her, you know," said Loghain in a low voice as Alpha began to bark.

"What," said the Mage, "that a mad dragon cultist stole or scattered the Ashes because he believed they would free his scaly mistress to rule the world? Certainly, if you wished to make her unhappy. I would not be able to stop you."

"You know what I mean. I could tell her everything."

Leliana, beaming, sprang to her feet and came running with open arms to meet them.

"Yes, you could," said the Mage.

But he didn't.

---