He does not exactly dread Rolant's voice. By's Orlesian fifth-or-sixth-or-something-of-that-order cousin was (and doubtless still is) a sadist, no question of it, but not one whose cruelty was often turned on Byerly. Rolant showed him contempt, and mockery, and made him the butt of any number of japes about Ferelden, but he was no Cousin Richars with his childhood propensity for mock-drownings nor Cousin Anton with his delight at finding out about Byerly's acrophobia. No; Rolant's joy never really came from inflicting pain upon the cowardly, toadying fools who licked his boots so they could partake of his wine. His joy came from hurting women. A long string of women. A long string of undeserving, unsuspecting women whom Byerly did nothing to help.

So Byerly doesn't dread Rolant's voice. At least not for his own sake. But it puts up the hairs on the back of his neck nevertheless, twists like a knife in the guts. Reminds him: look at you, playing at patriotism, when you stood idly by and watched him hurt women. It's easy, when you hate yourself, to allow yourself to feel like a martyr. There can be something satisfyingly righteous about self-loathing. His self-hatred over his sister - there, at least, there's a vindication to it, to knowing that he was never guilty, that he never acted with anything but honor and decency. But then you remember the very real consequences of your weakness. The times you were indecent.

By turns slightly. His face is controlled, tightly controlled, as he looks at this ghost.