The rain stopped with a suddenness that suggested some enterprising footpad from the Coterie had climbed up to shank the clouds. The fog drifted off to haunt a better part of the Wounded Coast, and as Donnen reached the Chantry Courtyard, the clouds parted to let a sliver of moonlight shine on the rain-swept flagstones. He stopped to catch his breath and tighten the torn-off coat sleeve he'd used as a bandage. The bleeding was slowing, which meant either the wound in his side wasn't that deep or he was running out of blood to lose. Trying not to dwell on the latter, he pushed open the Chantry doors.
At this Maker-forsaken hour, the Chantry was lit only by the Eternal Flame at Andraste's feet. A single soul occupied the space, lighting a candle for the dead. She rose as Donnen staggered into the firelight.
"Guardsman!" Lady Marielle rushed to help him into one of the pews.
"Might want to wake up one of the healers. He managed a pained smile. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."
"Neither was I. Your message was a little vague." Marielle tried to examine his makeshift bandage, but Donnen waved her away.
He pointed toward the golden statue of Andraste. "I had a friend deliver something for you. Under the altar."
Marielle cast him a sceptical look, but she climbed the dais and returned with a small oilcloth bundle. She picked apart the wrapping's knot and peered down at the rusty blade inside, specks of dried blood still clinging to the pitted guard.
"The Sword of Hessarian," she breathed, almost a prayer.
"You can get it to the Divine?" Donnen asked.
She wiped at her eyes. "I'll take it to her myself. What do you want in return?"
Donnen struggled to his feet. "Just put in a good word for me with the Maker, your ladyship. You never know when I might need it." And he walked away, leaving her standing in the firelight with history in her hands.