The Last Warden

Chapter Twelve

"Singing from inside the Chantry. The entire town, by the sound of it."

Cresting the ridge beside Zevran, Alistair shook his head. "Yeeeah... not creepy at all."

"It is 'creepy' to show one's devotion to the Maker?" Leliana stood now at his other side but the comment was distracted, her gaze fixed on the lone and looming building.

"No, but if my house was full of corpses I think I might – y'know – get rid of them before strolling off to evening services."

She only shrugged.

The singing stopped as they pushed aside the doors, the handful of people gathered in the nave turning with uniform glares. One among them pushed forward, scowl deepening.

"We had heard that there were outsiders in the village. And now you disturb the very sanctity of our worship."

"Um. Sorry? We're just... looking for something."

He smiled at that, lips twisting crooked. "As were we all, once. I am Revered Father Eirik. Tell me, have you come to join with us, to bear witness to Her risen glory?"

"Wait... Revered Father? Priests are women."

Wynne moved to stand at his side. "It was not always so. In the early days of the Chantry there were Reverends as well as Mothers."

The man gave her a gracious nod.

Alistair, though, looked sideways, whispering beneath his breath. "Please stop talking to the crazy people."

Eirik's laugh was hoarse, echoing. "She, too, was thought mad. But we are Her chosen, our duty sacred."

"And that duty included killing those knights, I take it?"

"Thieves and treasure hunters." He scoffed. "Failure to protect Her would be the greater sin. All will be forgiven!"

The others were moving behind him now, drawing simple swords and short blades. Still, Alistair found himself hesitating. "They're just... confused, right? The townspeople... I mean, we could—"

"—Unless that confusion extends to which end is the pointy one, my friend, I think the time for talk is over." Zevran darted sideways, ducking low as one of the men lunged forward.

The Reverend had retreated, slipping behind the pulpit, hands working in familiar patterns.

"Wynne!"

But the others were on them now, the air crackling hot and cold and electric as the mages traded unseen blows. Alistair's shield took one of the townsmen in the chin, his blade sweeping round to take another beneath the knees. Even in the close hall Leliana's bow sang out, deftly sidestepping one of the hard-eyed women as she sank to her knees. She turned now toward the others, lips moving in a half-heard song as she steadied her sights. Soon enough only Eirik remained, the arrow taking him in the side of the neck as he slumped half-frozen to the floor.

Sheathing his blade Alistair moved to Leliana's side, hand falling over hers as she hesitantly lowered the bow. "Was that a song of devotion, then?"

She seemed to shake herself, lips twitching in something of a smile. "Not exactly."

Zevran slipped behind them, clucking his tongue. "Dear Leliana, such violence! And in the Chantry itself! What would your Sisters think?"

"They would understand."

"What? No punishment? Flogging? Perhaps a vicious pillow fight?"

"No."

"Alas. And to think I once longed to be a Brother."

Alistair turned to see Wynne standing cross the room, blinking at the blank, stone wall. "Um... Wynne? Are you all ri—?"

Her staff rapped three times in quick succession, the wall shuddering as it slid aside.

"Oh. Right."

She arched a brow as he moved to her side. "If you think to find me addled, I fear you'll have quite some time to wait."

"Is-is someone there?" The moan echoed as they slipped through the low door. It was a small room, cramped with half-empty bookshelves, the single, low table lit by a row of wavering candles. A man lay on his back in the middle of the floor, twisting his head to peer up at them. He winced, settling again with a sigh.

"Brother Genitivi?"

"Mmm. And who might you be?"

"I'm Alistair. I've been looking for you. I... I'm here to help."

Again the old man shifted, leveling an elbow beneath him. Leliana bent to his side, helping him into a sitting position. "You are injured."

"Only my leg. But it isn't important now."

Wynne tsked, shouldering Alistair aside to crouch beside Leliana. After a moment, she shook her head. "The wound is old. There is little to be done now."

"Really, it's no matter. Not when I'm so close."

Alistair blinked. "The Urn? You found it?"

"Yes... or at least discovered its location. There is a temple above the village. Eirik and the others... they considered themselves its guardians." He was watching Alistair with a curious expression. "I take it they are dead?"

"Yeah. They're dead."

The nod was without expression, without satisfaction. Still, his eyes glinted eager. "And how do you know of the Urn?"

"It's why we were looking for you, actually. We need the ashes to heal a sick man. Arl Eamon, the arl of Redcliff."

"Eamon? He is well liked, as I hear. A good man." Again he struggled, Leliana bending to help him to his feet. "If you make it to the Urn, you need take only a single pinch."

"'If' we make it?"

"I have seen many men during my... detention here. More than the village could support and most heavily armed. I can only assume they reside in the temple. And the Urn itself is said to be guarded by a series of tests—"

"—Tests? Or traps?"

There was a tired smile there. "Take your pick. They were made to weed out the unworthy."

"Great. And how do I know if I'm worthy?"

Genitivi's grin broadened. "Only the tests will tell. I must admit, I am curious to see."

"Are you sure you can... make it? I mean with the leg and the..."

Wynne sighed.

"Does that often, does he?" Genitivi chuckled. "But you are right. I am an old man, and injured. I will take you as far as the doors, show you how to open them. The rest is up to you."

"Of course it is."