Title: The Grey Path

Author: The Phoenix King

Game: Dragon Age: Origins

Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.

Overall Rating: M/R

Pairings: Tabris/Leliana

Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Thirty: The Cost of Honour - Part One

After the bloodshed and trial that had marked the week prior, it was a great relief to venture through lands as yet untouched by war, the company’s swords sleeping easy in their scabbards in the tranquility of the bright autumn morning. The foul presence of the darkspawn was blissfully absent in Sagramor’s mind, and if any of Loghain’s scouts or bounty hunters were present to recognize the Warden tabard he wore openly, neither Ragnar’s senses, Wynne’s wards nor Zevran’s tracking skills found any trace. Beneath the shroud of the towering canopy, the party made good time travelling north and east along an old forest road wide enough to allow Bodahn’s cart passage, their spirits made light by the prospect of fulfilling one of the treaties.

Nowhere was this more evident than with Merrill. It was as if the light of day had burned away the grief haunting her the previous evening, a process helped by the long chat she’d shared with Leliana all through the night, the two storytellers eager to learn from one another. Come morning, she indulged her curiosity about the rest of the strange band in turn, her cheerful questions accompanying their march alongside the sound of branches rustling in the wind and the birds singing amidst the trees. In particular, she seemed quite interested in learning about the magic the party commanded, as well as their knowledge of the Dalish and their forgotten lore. Currently, it was Zevran who held her attention as she walked alongside him, green eyes fixed upon the assassin. “So what do you know about the Dalish, Zevran?”

“Little enough, other than my mother was one, or so I was told.”

“Really?” asked the Dalish girl, genuinely excited. “What clan was she from?”

Zevran shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know, my dear. For the most part, all I have of her are the stories told to me by others. From what I understand, she had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving behind her clan for good. And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.”

“Creators!” Merrill gasped in horror. At the head of the little column, Sagramor had to restrain himself from doing the same, the shocking nature of the Antivan’s tale only amplified by his matter-of-fact attitude. “That’s horrible!”

“Is it?” Zevran asked, seemingly unperturbed. “It seemed normal enough a tale growing up, no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse. I didn’t know my mother either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.”

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”

Quick as a flash, Zevran offered her a winning smile. “Attending to the needs of a beautiful woman such as yourself is never a bother, mia bella,” he declared, provoking a deep blush from the Dalish girl. “Believe me, if I fell apart every time the subject came up, the Crows would have disposed of me long before.”

“They’re that ruthless?” Merrill inquired.

“Of course. Training is fierce for new recruits, and those that survive take pride in the achievement. The guild’s reputation is everything, and so much of what they do is to ensure nothing undermines that.”

“Including turning their initiates into grist for the mill,” Sagramor finished. “You’ve been wanting to escape the Crows for some time then?”

“The thought did come up more than once, I’ll admit.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” said Merrill. “I haven’t seen my own mother in many years, but at least I have some memories of her to cherish. It must have been sad, not having anything to remember her by.”

“Well, there was one thing,” Zevran admitted. “Though all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother’s that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful. I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually, they were discovered, and I never saw them again.”

“Then why did you not seek out one of our sister clans in Antiva? It is the duty of every clan to shelter those who come in from the cities, to teach them what they have forgotten so that we might one day make a home to call our own. Did you never have the opportunity?”

“I did, but at the time, I was rather content to serve amongst the Crows. In truth, I consider myself to be Antivan first and foremost, no matter my blood. No disrespect to you and your people, but I don’t really think the Dalish way of life is for me.”

“I… I see,” Merrill replied, clearly puzzled. “You wish to remain an assassin, then?”

“And why not? I have a talent for it, I enjoy it, and now that I’m free of the Crows, it might be interesting to go into business for myself once all this is done. For now, I go where the Warden does, as I swore to do.”

“Well, if you should ever change your mind, I know my clan would be happy to welcome you among us. And I know it’s not the same as getting your mother’s gloves back, but I’m certain Master Ilen would be happy to make you a replacement, if you’d like.”

Again came the Antivan’s perfect smile. “Falling in love with me already, are you?”

“That’s…” Merrill blushed scarlet, suddenly finding her bare toes to be of great interest. “That’s not…”

“Don’t tease her, Zevran,” Sagramor interjected sternly. “You’ve made your point. Now check and see how Bodahn and Sandal are holding up.”

Chuckling, the assassin worked his way towards the back of the column, and Merrill flashed Sagramor a grateful look. “Sorry about that. Zevran can be overly… amorous sometimes.”

“It’s fine. And what about you, Sagramor? Did you ever considering joining the Dalish?”

“Every kid in the Alienage thinks about running away to join the Dalish at one point or another, though I think Pol was the only one with the guts to actually do it,” confessed Sagramor. “As wonderful as Dalish life might have been in comparison to what I lived through, I couldn’t abandon my family. When I finally left the Alienage, I did so as a Warden.”

“And you will not break your oaths to your Order. I understand.” A flicker of disappointment passed over her alabaster features and was gone again before Sagramor could comment. “Still, knowing you’re a Warden makes the Blight seem much less scary than it is.” Before Sagramor could respond to the compliment, the sound of beating wings burst overhead, and Merrill gazed up with a delighted smile. “Morrigan’s back!”

Cawing, the great black raven swooped over to Sagramor, transforming back into the dark-haired apostate in a burst of eldritch light. “The road ahead is clear, Warden, though our current course will soon take us into a swamp,” she declared without preamble, falling in beside him. “Loghain’s men seem quite disinclined to venture too far from hearth and home.”

“And the Dalish? Any sign of them?”

Morrigan levelled her staff northwards. “A spell of concealment shrouds the woods no more than a league’s distance, a mist that plays on the mind, not unlike Flemeth’s own sorcery. ‘Tis certain that only another mage would be able to find them when so hidden.”

“Must be one of the Keeper’s spells,” Merrill interjected, looking notably downcast at the thought of facing her teacher once more. “Did you happen to see any of my clanmates?”

“A glimpse here or there, but your people know the art of stealth well. I saw enough to know they have scouts ranging beyond the limits of their caravan.”

“Then we should find a place to rest and let them come to us,” the Dalish girl suggested. “My clan has suffered much since the Blight began, and our hunters are wary of outsiders at the best of times. I don’t want to accidently start a panic by approaching the camp unannounced.”

“I did spy a clearing close by that might be suitable,” added Morrigan.

“Then that’s our destination,” declared Sagramor. “Lead on, Morrigan. We could probably do with a chance to catch our breath anyway.”

As Morrigan took up the lead, Merrill rushed over to her side, hesitant and excited in equal measure. “Could you perhaps teach me how to transform into animals? Ohh, to see the world from up above as a bird would be so wonderful.”

“Mayhaps, assuming you’d be willing to trade your own secrets in return.”

“Well, I’d have to get permission from the Keeper first, and I’m not sure she’d agree. Still, it’s nice to know that power like that exists out there. Did Asha'bellanar teach your sisters the same lore?”

It was a rare thing to see Morrigan taken aback. Indeed, only her disbelief when Flemeth volunteered her to join the Warden’s mission matched the shock that manifested in her beautiful features at Merrill’s query, the full force of her amber stare bearing down on the Dalish girl. “What did you just say?”

“I-- I’m sorry,” Merrill stammered. “It’s just that all the stories I’ve heard about Asha'bellanar speak of many daughters, each blessed with the gift of magic. I’d never go behind your back to one of your sisters, I was simply curious if they were all as skilled as you are.”

“You heard wrong, girl, I have no sisters. And what idiotic fairy tales the Dalish choose to spout is no business of mine,” Morrigan responded curtly, before turning back to Sagramor. “I will guide you in, Warden. Follow me, if it pleases you.”

Black wings took flight without waiting for a response. “Creators, I never know the right thing to say,” Merrill lamented. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt Morrigan’s feelings like that.”

“What? All one of them?” Alistair snorted.

“You did nothing wrong, Merrill. Morrigan can be a bit severe sometimes, that’s all,” Sagramor assured her, his own curiosity piqued. After all, it was not every day that Andrastian and Dalish culture agreed on anything, for every story he’d ever experienced about the Witches of the Wilds always spoke of Flemeth and her many daughters, not just the one. Was it yet another example of rumour and fable far outstripping reality, or was Flemeth really the progenitor of an entire coven, once upon a time? Another mystery to be unravelled, time permitting.

Ten minutes later, the party was safely within the promised clearing, any sight of them from the road lost behind a wall of towering pines and oaks, with Zevran and Shale standing watch as a further precaution. Leaving Leliana and Merrill to discuss Dalish philosophy, Sagramor made his rounds through the little company, checking on their morale and being encouraged by what he saw. At the back of the clearing, Nimue and Geoffrey stood apart from the rest, whispering forcefully amongst themselves, and at the Warden’s approach, they fell silent, looking for all the world like a pair of delinquent pupils caught passing notes by the schoolmaster. “Everything all right, Sagramor?” Geoffrey broke the silence, trying and failing to sound casual, while Nimue attended to her horse’s saddle in hopes of appearing productive.

“All is well,” Sagramor assured them. “How are you both doing?”

“Fine,” Nimue muttered, refusing to meet his gaze. Since learning he’d gained Templar abilities, the elven girl had done everything save for deserting the company entirely to avoid him, and now, a few paces away, Sagramor saw how his childhood friend trembled at his approach, pale fingers clenching nervously at the horse’s bridle. Geoffrey saw it too, laying a comforting hand upon her shoulder, and she drew strength from the gesture, finally daring to turn towards the Warden. “We haven’t been planning on running away, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I never imagined you would. Listen, there’s no need to be suspicious. I just like to check in on everyone. It’s the sort of thing a good leader does, right?”

“I… I guess,” Nimue permitted, turning over to her colleague. “Geoffrey, do you mind giving me and Sagramor a minute?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Think we need to clear the air between us. Why don’t you go check in on Sandal? I know you’ve been waiting for a chance to pick his brain.”

Lingering for a moment, Geoffrey at last complied, offering the Warden a respectful nod as he went. “He seems very dedicated to you,” Sagramor mused aloud, finally daring to voice a question that had been nagging at him. “Are you and he--”

“I should think that’s none of your damned business,” Nimue snapped, arms folded defensively beneath her breasts. “All you need to know is that Geoffrey is a friend and a good man… and he deserves far better than me. Was there anything else?”

“Is this what it’s going to be like? Always walking on thin ice every time the other person is around?”

Sea-blue eyes fixed him with a hard stare, and the words spilled out in a torrent. “You’re a Templar, Sagramor. I know you’re not actually one, and anyone who treats a blood mage so generously is probably a bad fit for those bastards anyways, but… you chose to learn their powers, the same powers they use to keep mages imprisoned. What in Andraste’s name am I supposed to think? You’ve changed, and I’ve changed, and there’s a Blight going on, and…”

“And you’re afraid,” Sagramor finished gently. “Nimue, when I asked Alistair to teach me how to use Templar powers, I did so after Uldred nearly killed me, the demon possessing Connor nearly enthralled me, and after facing more than a few darkspawn emissaries. They’re a tool to help me stop the Blight, that’s all. I would never use them against yourself or Geoffrey. I don’t hurt the people I’ve sworn to lead.”

“What about those you haven’t?”

Sagramor shrugged. “I’m no mage-hunter. Anyone who tries to kill us can expect to get the same treatment, mage or mundane, but if we come across an apostate that offers no threat to us or our mission, I’m happy to leave them be. The Order is supposed to remain politically neutral anyways. Might as well use that to our advantage when we can.”

“That’s… that’s good to hear.”

“Nimue, I’m certain this isn’t easy for you, and I have no right to demand your trust. But would it really be so hard to let us try and earn it?” The mage turned away, her objections withering, and Sagramor pressed his argument home. “We’re a company, and that means we look out for each other, including you. When you’re ready to rely on us, we’ll be there. Okay?”

Turning to go, Sagramor was halted by Nimue’s tremulous voice. “Sagramor?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. We’d either be dead, or worse, back in the Aeonar if you hadn’t stuck your neck out on our account, so… I guess I owe you one.”

“Friends don’t owe each other anything, Nimue. But if you really want to pay me back, believe me, you’ll have plenty of opportunities before this war is done.”

“And I won’t be found wanting in any of them. I swear it.”

************************************

“So it’s Elgar’nan, Mythal, Sylaise, Falon’Din, Andruil, Dirthamen, June and… Ghilan'nain?” asked Leliana.

“Well done!” Merrill proclaimed in delight, beckoning Sagramor closer. “I have to admit, it’s a nice surprise to find a human so interested in learning about Dalish culture. Isn’t that wonderful, Sagramor?”

“It is, and so is she,” remarked the Warden, receiving an appreciative smile from the Orlesian woman. “Though isn’t there a ninth elven god? Or am I simply misremembering?” Merrill’s expression immediately darkened. “I don’t mean to offend, I had just heard--”

“That’s all right. The one you are referring to is Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is kin to the Creators, but not among their number, for he deceived them and sealed them away so they might never come to the aid of the People again,” Merrill explained grimly. “He is the Trickster, and every Keeper is sworn to shield the clans from his evil, for he will stop at nothing to destroy us.” At the Warden’s side, Ragnar whimpered, and Merrill smiled, ruffling the hound’s fur. “Good think we have Ragnar here to protect us. The Dread Wolf would never risk playing his tricks when such a brave hound stands ready to take him by the ear.”

Ragnar let out a proud howl. “Oh, you would like to hear that story? Wonderful. Long ago--”

Zevran’s sharp whistle ended her tale before it could be told, and every eye in the little company turned northwards to watch the assassin approach. A stranger followed close behind, the tread of his booted feet silent, and Sagramor felt his heart leap, the sight of the distinctive markings on the newcomer’s face validating his decision to aid Merrill and putting so many of his fears to rest.

For they had found the Dalish at last.

“So this is where you’ve run off to, Merrill,” the Dalish hunter remarked bitterly, green eyes warily observing the strange company. He was a young man, perhaps no more than five years older than himself by Sagramor’s reckoning, his blonde hair cut short save for a long braid draped over the left side of his face. As with Merrill, he wore the vallaslin of the Dalish proudly, albeit of a different design, while his flesh bore the tanned complexion of a man who’d spent most of his days out of doors and enduring whatever the elements could throw at him. He was clad in a suit of veridium chainmail, complete with armoured gauntlets and boots, the metal dulled for greater stealth, while he bore the weight of longsword, longbow, quiver and a wide, leaf-patterned shield comfortably, though his right hand never strayed far from the hilt of the blade. Behind him, a dozen more Dalish silently crept out from amongst the trees with arrows nocked, some similarly armed and armoured, others clad in supple-looking leather armour and bearing twin blades at their hips. “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been forced to wait? Every moment you’ve been running around has put the entire clan at risk!”

“Fenarel, I…” Merrill mumbled, crestfallen.

“And for what? A dead woman? Mahariel was my friend too, Merrill, but she’s not worth dying for. Half the clan is convinced you’ll bring the darkspawn plague back with you, and I can’t say I blame them!”

“Merrill’s uninfected,” Sagramor insisted, stepping forward before the hunter could berate her further. “If she was, we’d have seen signs of it by now.”

Fenarel’s head jerked towards Sagramor in shock. “And who are you to determine that?”

Wordlessly, the Warden tapped the front of his tabard. “My… my apologies, Grey Warden,” said Fenarel, sounding anything but. “I was not aware you had been caught up in all this.”

“This is Sagramor Tabris, and these are his companions,” said Merrill, pointing out each in turn. “Sagramor, this is Fenarel, captain of the clan’s hunters. Fenarel, they’ve come to see the Keeper.”

“What for?”

“I’m hoping to establish an alliance between us,” Sagramor explained. “If we are to defeat the Blight, then we must stand together, and the strength of the Dalish could mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

“So you say.” Green eyes examined the motley gathering with undisguised wariness. “You travel in strange company, Warden.”

“But an honoured one,” Sagramor replied, loud enough for the rest of the party to hear. “We seek an audience with the Keeper Marethari. Would you be so kind as to bring us to her? We have much to discuss.”

Briefly, Sagramor wondered if Fenarel would deny the request, until finally the Dalish hunter offered a curt nod. “Follow, then, and try and keep up.”

************************************

Any hopes Sagramor possessed of talking more with Merrill’s clanmates as they were guided to the Sabrae camp was swiftly disabused as the Dalish set a brisk pace northward, evidently preferring to escort the strangers from a wary distance rather than march in close order beside them, and the Warden’s company quickly fell behind, their horses and Bodahn’s cart unable to keep up with the swift elven hunters. The terrain wasn’t helping matters either. A hundred paces in, just as Morrigan promised, and the woods devolved into a stinking, cloying mire akin to the Korcari Wilds, ridden with impassable pools of deep, stagnant water and thick mud that forced them to fight free with every step. Where the mire did not rule, the brambles did. Every patch of dry earth that might have offered safe passage was barred by ramparts of foliage so dense they were forced to take their blades to it. In defiance of the day’s warmth, a cold mist had fallen over the woods as well, and soon they were engulfed by it, adding yet another obstacle to their march. Only the glimpses of the Dalish hunters ahead served to guide them, and Sagramor inwardly reflected that any hostile force attempting to strike at the Sabrae Clan would soon find themselves hopelessly bogged down and lost.

Which, of course, was entirely the point. “Can you not feel it?” Morrigan proclaimed, an ecstatic light in her eyes. “Old magic has suffused this place, bending the land to its will. No doubt the Dalish are building upon what already exists, but to manipulate the earth so extensively, and over such a wide area…”

“Imagine this power turned against the darkspawn,” suggested Sagramor, pleased by the thought. “Their numbers won’t matter if they can’t bring them to bear because of the terrain.”

“That may be the least of what their power can offer.”

Sagramor had heard that eager tone from her before, when asking him to steal Flemeth’s grimoire from the Circle, and hastily made to temper any similar ambitions. “I’ll do everything I can to convince this Keeper Marethari to give you access to her lore, but until then, don’t do anything rash. They’re to be our allies, after all, and I don’t want to compromise that, even for your curiosity.”

“Never fear, Warden. I shall behave myself,” Morrigan said with a mocking grin.

Then came the whispers from out of the mist. From a league behind them, Sagramor heard Leliana scream in pain and terror, so sharp and clear that his sword was drawn and he was five paces into a desperate charge before he realized the Orlesian woman was right beside him, quite unharmed. One by one, the magic preyed upon the party’s fears and desires, and one by one, they halted in their tracks or nearly broke formation chasing phantoms, so alluring was its call. Even Alistair was affected, the strength of his Templar abilities availing him nothing, and only Sagramor’s iron grip and Leliana physically throwing herself into his path kept him from vanishing into the mists. “Sorry,” he blurted out as he came to his senses, visibly shaken. “I could have sworn I heard Duncan out there…”

Even with the hunters ostensibly guiding them, they might have been lost if not for Merrill. Uttering words of power, the Dalish girl reached out with her magic, and the land began to reshape itself as the Keeper’s sorceries responded to her presence. Within moments, a path northward emerged across the morass, as foliage parted and marshland transmuted to ground firm enough to bear the weight of horses and cart. The mist likewise drew back, the hallucinations departing with it, much to the party’s relief, and their pace quickened considerably.

Finally, the party arrived before a literal wall of foliage, rising ten feet tall out of the ground and as impassable as any stone fortification, while the path behind them crumbled back into the swamp so that no intruder might follow in their wake. The Dalish hunters fell in around them, bows still at the ready, and Fenarel fixed Sagramor with a distrustful look. “If you betray us in this, Warden, then you will not live to profit from it.”

Sagramor bristled at the suggestion. “I meant what I said, ser. We have no desire to harm your clan, and I’m willing to swear an oath on that if it means winning your trust.”

Fenarel turned away with a scoff. “Don’t mind him,” Merrill whispered so that her clanmate could not overhear. “The Keeper made him leader of the hunters only a short while ago, when Mahariel fell sick. It must be hard living up to her role.”

It’s been hard living up to Duncan’s, but you don’t see me treating people like that, Sagramor remarked inwardly, biting back his anger lest he do something rash. The wall of foliage melted away, vines and brambles and roots slithering back into the ground, and the Warden’s choler vanished just as quickly at the sight of the clearing beyond and what lay within.

Beneath banners marked with a green halla’s head upon a shield of white, a dozen aravels, the iconic “landships” of the Dalish, were assembled in a circle, great, ornately fashioned wagons mounted on several pairs of iron-rimmed wheels and boasting sails of beautiful red silk. To the north, past the landships, Sagramor caught a glimpse of the famed halla who pulled them grazing peacefully within an impromptu paddock, the sight of the stag-like creatures stirring the heart, while Merrill and their escorts made brief gestures of obeisance as they passed the wooden statues of the elven gods mounted about the camp. Armed elves were everywhere, and not just the squads of hunters in chainmail or leather patrolling the camp’s perimeter. Every weaver, craftsman and even the clan hahren kept blade and bow close at hand, and at the party’s approach, a sea of elven faces turned towards them in shock, all but those of the children decorated with vallaslin.

Except for one face that Sagramor had never expected to see again, and with a laugh, the elven Warden broke formation, hand raised in greeting. “Pol! I had no idea you were here!”

“Sagramor?” a tremulous voice sounded from out of the crowd, and an elven man about Sagramor’s age stepped forward, green eyes wide with surprise, the skin of his face unmarked with Dalish tattoos. “Mak—I mean, Creators, I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

“Me too, old friend.”

“You both know each other?” Merrill asked, genuinely curious.

“We grew up in the Denerim Alienage together,” Pol said, and Sagramor noticed instantly how he blushed at the presence of the First. “Is my family doing okay?”

“They were the last time I saw them,” Sagramor assured him. “We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

“I’ll have to ask Junar first, but… yeah, that might be nice.”

Giving Pol’s hand a shake, Sagramor moved on. A growing crowd of Dalish had gathered, whispering anxiously amongst themselves and at the sight of Sten, Shale or the humans, more than one parent hurriedly bundled their wailing child away, offering the newcomers a filthy look as they went. Others still muttered about the tabards Sagramor and Alistair proudly wore, or levelled hostile stares at Merrill, and the first stirrings of unease began to settle in the Warden’s heart. After everything their clan had been through of late, it was foolish of him to expect a wholehearted welcome, and he doubted they often extended their hospitality to strangers in any event. Even so, instinct told him that something was amiss, his anxieties mirrored in Merrill’s own worried looks.

The crowd parted, making way for an older woman in green robes, her white hair drawn into a ponytail, while a long, bladed staff hung at her back. At once, the clan bowed down, Fenarel’s hunters included, yet she did not seem to register their homage, green eyes fixed upon the trembling Merrill. “So, you return to us, da’len,” she said with a voice like dry tinder, every aged line etched deeper by disappointment. “Was it worth it, to leave your kin and clan afraid you had run away to your death?”

“Keeper, I--”

“Your foolishness has put us all in danger. We have been forced to linger so close to this human city, waiting for your return, and with each day spent, the threat of discovery and attack has only grown. Did you even consider such things before you ran off, chasing after a woman who was already dead?”

Small fists screwed up tight at her sides, and Merrill met the Keeper’s gaze, eyes brimming with defiant tears. “Her name is Mahariel, and I was still able to ease her pain, even if I couldn’t save her. Don’t pretend she wasn’t worth fighting for! She didn’t stop being one of us just because she carried the Blight!”

“I grieve for her as well, da’len, but that does not excuse your actions,” the Keeper remarked coldly, finally turning her attentions to Sagramor. “I bid you welcome, Grey Warden. I am Marethari, Keeper of the Sabrae Clan. I hope my First did not cause you too much trouble.”

“Quite the contrary, honoured Keeper,” Sagramor expressed, offering her a respectful bow. “It was a privilege to travel and fight alongside her.”

“I see, Warden…”

“Sagramor Tabris, late of the Denerim Alienage,” said the Warden, introducing his companions in turn. “While it was an honour to stand beside your First in her time of need, it is the threat of the darkspawn that has brought us here. May we speak in private? There are urgent matters we must discuss.”

Marethari raised a hand in welcome, silencing the anxious murmurs running throughout the assembled Dalish. “Very well then, Grey Warden, I offer you the hospitality of the Sabrae Clan. The southern end of this glade should offer enough space for your company’s camp. I will send a runner to bring you to my aravel… once I have settled matters with my apprentice.”

“That is more than acceptable, honoured Keeper,” Sagramor replied, taking her request in stride, even as Merrill gave a small whimper. A few minutes’ downtime was a small price to pay to see one of the treaties fulfilled, and there was no sense offending her with a demand for haste. Likewise, he doubted the Sabrae Clan was eager to bivouac cheek-by-jowl with people they barely knew, even Wardens, at least until he’d earned their respect. “We will not abuse your trust, I swear it.”

Nodding, Marethari beckoned towards Merrill, and the Dalish girl complied, though not before offering Sagramor a look of gratitude as she departed. “Man, I’d hate to be her right about now,” Alistair muttered. “Do you think Marethari knows about, you know--”

“Probably, but that’s no business of ours,” answered the elf, trying to avoid betraying his sympathies for the beautiful maleficar, and failing rather miserably. Maker’s breath, you’re a witless fool for a pretty face… “Let’s get comfortable. Wynne, when Alistair and I go speak to the Keeper, you’ll be in charge. These people are to be our allies, everyone, so mind your manners. I don’t want the treaty to fall through because of some petty grievance.” Merrill did well in helping us get this far. Now to make it count…

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...