Words of note

Wintersend - end of winter. A major holiday observed by many lands.

Markham - a city of culture in the Free Marches, north of Ostwick. Home to one of the largest universities in Thedas.


Chapter I

9.30 Dragon, Late Spring, Barviel Reach

It was hot in the barracks. In spite of the opened windows, the occasional woody tinged breeze that wafted by hardly cool the hall filled with warm bodies. Sweat rolled down Alaryn's forehead, dripping into her eyes as she bent to dip the large coarse brush into the bucket of vinegar at her feet and fling the liquid at the grey green coated wooden wall before her. Back and forth went the brush as rivulets of dirty grey ran down, leaving behind dark soaked wood.

Along the hall, several soldiers were similarly engaged in scouring the barracks clean. The monotony of the chore was relieved by Rhius. His baritone voice rendering song after song as he cleaned the floor near the stairs. Calls and whistles rang out when he started on another.

.. my lady stands o'wer it to it and to it up and down, up and down nary a cry to fill ...

The song and noise stopped abruptly with several muffled thuds. She paid no heed to the silence as she shoved the bucket with her foot over to a new section of wall waiting to be scrubbed. "By the Maker, Alaryn!" The familiar outraged feminine voice hardly gave her pause as she bent to dip her brush in the bucket.

"It's wet and dirty here, mother." She wiped at her sweaty forehead with the rolled up left sleeve of her tunic as she scrubbed unceasingly with her right hand.

"I can see that," Lady Moira Trevelyan said icily. "I can also see that you have not done what I have asked of you."

"Mother, I distinctly remember saying I'm not attending..."

"Friesa has already packed all the things you need. If you do not, in this instant, return to your room and change, you will regret it."

Alaryn finally turned to look at Lady Trevelyan. "I will not." She resisted the temptation of raising her voice. Her blue eyes sparkling with anger, held steady under Moira's equally furious green orbs.

"Your father will see to ..," began Lady Trevelyan.

"Don't make it difficult for me to call myself a Trevelyan, mother."

Moira turned red, then white. "How dare you..," her voice trembled in disbelief. "How dare you make such threats in the face of deep affections I hold for my flesh and blood. Such willful and disloyal conduct only goes to prove that you cannot..."

Biting back an angry sigh as Lady Trevelyan launched into a litany oft repeated in the last several weeks, Ryn turned back to her scrubbing, knowing how Moira would look; the white turning into the crimson flush of deep fury. If she could, her mother would have grabbed her and turned her around to face her but for the sweat and dirt streaming off her that would besmirch the fine clothing she had put on. Silently, she counted. It would not take long for Moira to brandish the old club.

"Your father will hear of this," snapped Moira when she realised her youngest was not listening to her.

"Should have run at first light," Ryn muttered under her breath as Lady Trevelyan walked gingerly away, fingers holding the hem of her dress just so from the dirty waters swirling underfoot. The soldiers who had stood steadfast when Lady Trevelyan appeared, remained as still as statues until the sound of hoofs could be heard clopping away. None of them so much as turned an eye on Ryn as they returned to their chores.

Rhius hummed softly before launching into a well favoured song, The Deeds of Calenhad, and was soon joined by the rest. It was their way of showing sympathy and support for they could not publicly acknowledge they had been privy to a scene not meant to be shared. They meant well but she wished it didn't have to happen. It would not if she had taken herself off to the farthest freeholder tract.

That thought of running off had lasted all of the last dark and a candle mark that morning before she had decided to carry on with her plans of the day. Or at least the schedule she had always held to. The brush went up and down several arm span before it dropped to her side as she regarded the half washed wall blankly. There was no point in continuing. Her mother would go to her father and he would always summon her. Not that he would give her a hard time, more often than not, it was to placate Moira.

With a sigh, she dropped the brush back into the bucket, turned and headed for the stairs. The song did not cease as she went downstairs. There were more soldiers cleaning the ground floor. They murmured greetings as she passed by. Out in the training ground, pallets were stacked high beside white, grey and brown sheets pegged to long lines stretched across the wide space, fluttered in the cool breeze. Clumps of soldiers bent to and fro over large tubs of clean water, wringing out more washed sheets and putting them up to dry.

In between the bellowing and flapping sheets, she spied a familiar tall figure in the distance, coming from the Keep. With that head of silvery white hair, it could only be Krizo. Dipping her arms deep into the nearest tub, she washed off her vinegar smelling hands as best she could before heading towards the Keep, flicking off water as she went.

"My Lady." Krizo bowed when she reached him.

"Let's not keep him waiting." She swept past him without waiting to hear his message. It was always the same anyway.

Biting back a sigh as he regarded the stiffly held back, Krizo followed. "He is really not at his best," he warned. "My Lady...Ryn," he added when she marched on. "Go easy on him," he said when she turned to face him. "He's got a lot of things on his mind."

"Bickering with old skinny over freeholders again?" she rolled her eyes. Her father's feud with Bann Justard Kordin had been as flighty as the seasonal winds, blowing this way and that as they compete for the fealty of freeholders. It had been that way as long as she could remember, the constant tug of war among the bannorns stretching back centuries and no end in sight. There never would be and she was fortunate it would never be handed down to her. She only had to deal with the usual expectations of being the last in the pecking order.

"It's not just Justard, Ryn. Something else is brewing," Krizo said grimly.

Alaryn waited. "What?" she demanded when Krizo did not elaborate. "Does it have anything to do with aunt Lucile's seasonal cattle auction?"

"You should have followed your mother."

She stared at him in amazement. Krizo had been her father's weapons master long before her oldest brother was born. He had trained every single one of her siblings, including herself when she was old enough to hold something properly in her fist. He knew every one of them and he knew very well her aversion to the matchmaking game her mother indulged in. That he would think she'd be better off tied down in a nauseating soiree was jarring. Why did he think it so?

"What is it, Krizo. Just throw it out," she said, using her hand to circle the air impatiently. "Stop wavering around." A thought struck her. "Wait, has my mother gone on to Markham?"

At his nod, she felt even more baffled. "Lady Verene and young Dern have followed your lady mother," he added.

She had thought the trip had been organised for the sole purpose of finding her a suitable husband. But if her mother had continued on to Markham without her, along with her brother's wife and son, then it must have been at her father's insistence. Why? Krizo didn't look like he was going to tell her exactly what was going on so she resumed her march back to the Keep. As she crossed the drawbridge, her nose wrinkled from the pungent sting of astringent powders the servants were carrying from the outer bailey in large baskets to sprinkle and stir into the moat. The smell that always marked the beginning of spring.

The gatehouse guards must have read Krizo's dour mood for they saluted stiffly instead of throwing out greetings as they usually would. Horses neighed and stamped on the dusty ground of the outer bailey, tails flicking away tiny insects as stablehands cleaned out their stalls thoroughly, rakes and brooms busily removing sodden dirty hay and dung. Under the watchful eye of the stablemaster, none looked up as she crossed the yard. The swishing of brooms was drowned out by the clash of steel from the nearby practice ground. At any other time, she would have joined the soldiers at the practice rings and watch them go through their paces. The veterans often had interesting counsel and tales to offer but not today.

The portcullis of the inner wall was drawn up. The inner bailey was much more quiet, with less chaff and dust in the air. Patches of bright colour here and there beckoned from the surrounding gardens, a stark contrast to the grey walls of the Keep. Dust tickled her nose as she passed through the opened main door. She sneezed as a cloud of dust rose into the air as servants on ladders took down the banners from the walls of the main hall. The sight only increased the roiling confusion within. For as long as she could remember, the banners had never been removed. Why was her father having them taken down?

Down a smaller adjacent hallway she went until she came to the door of her father's study. Glancing briefly at Krizo over her shoulder, she took a deep breath and knocked. Opening the door to her father's command to enter, her eyes darted swiftly around the room. Nothing looked out of place. Her father was seated as usual at his desk, the top almost overflowing with parchments and scrolls. Specks of silver in his hair glinted in the glow of the candle stands in spite of the light streaming from the windows. Krizo closed the door behind him and stood by it.

"Ryn." Bann Varal Trevelyan frowned at his youngest daughter, not the lest surprised by her dirty and untidy attire.

"I am not going to aunt Lucille's auc...soiree," Ryn said firmly.

Varal only looked down at the papers before him, as if he didn't hear her declaration of rebellion. "You are certain you do not want to do that," he said after a while as she waited.

"Yes."

"A assertion out of the fog of ado," he shook his head. "As bright as the spark of unforge steel."

"Father?" Alaryn said uncertainly. What was he talking about?

"You are sixteen winters but you have yet to declare for a desired role." He frowned at her.

A question she had been dreading to hear from him again. "Father," she hesitated before the sudden swelling in her throat could prevent her speaking. "I've not changed my mind. I have no wish to serve the Chantry."

"That wasn't what you said over the last three winters." He leaned back in his chair. "You said you do not know, you needed time to think about it. Krizo suggested joining a noble house in either Orleis or Ferelden since he has determined you have the skills to be a knight and your answer was the same."

"Are you asking me to decide now?"

"For how long can you stay in my house, Ryn?" he said gently. "I will not deny you for you are my daughter but neither is it fitting that a father should remain silent when a pair of hands can be lifted to better purpose. And I do not mean puttering at the barracks or wandering among the freeholders."

Alaryn stared down at her boots before meeting Varal's questioning gaze. Was that a glint of disappointment? It hurt her to see that in his eyes than any harsh words her mother had meted out over the years.

"Father, I really do not know," she confessed unhappily. "I tried but my heart can find no mark to settle on. I feel as if it is not the time."

"Time for what?"

"I honestly do not know. I read books, I did research, I talked to the soldiers, Mother Harevis, every one," Alaryn shook her head helplessly. "I don't know what I want." Not to marry certainly or be a lay sister or a soldier or a Templar in the Chantry but she needn't repeat that; he knew how she felt about them.

Varal sighed softly as he gazed at Ryn. She had inherited his looks; red hair, the lean cast of face and firm chin though softened by her youth. She had her mother's eyes though blue like his and slightly deep set. Unlike her mother however, she preferred to be out practising her swordplay and riding. Lean with wiry strength, she towered over her diminutive mother who had not been pleased that she had not been able to turn her into the soft sweet beauty some houses raised their daughters to be, perpetually concerned with their appearance and fashion, the next soiree, the food and dainties they would have. Moira was no true Marcher. After so many years, he did not think she would ever discard the ostentatious Orlesian customs and attitude she had imbibed since birth.

Tradition demanded that he stamped his authority to have the youngest carry out the duty expected of every generation but it was a bitter dose he would far prefer not to force on this daughter of his. The Maker knew he had seen how it had destroyed someone he loved and he would not have it happen to his children.

"You'll have the time you need. I'm sending you to your uncle Tarsus. You will sojourn there, learn from your uncle on matters of estate until after Wintersend."

Her brows drew together. "I don't understand."

"A detachment of soldiers will go with you..."

"Are you banishing me?" she said in disbelief. Uncle Tarsus was custodian of ancestral lands bordering the farthest freedolder beholden to House Trevelyan. Several days' journey at the most. It was not like her uncle was a harsh man. It was the opposite. He had spoken softly and kindly to her when Moira had brought her to Skanvar, but he seemed distracted. She was eight winters then.

After they left, Moira had told her never to speak of her uncle when she asked about him and she never knew why. He hardly visited the Keep either although despatches and the tithe from the freeholders arrived annually. Once she had asked her father about her uncle's absence, even on important occasions when distant relatives would be invited, but he had declined to explain, she remembered. It was as if her uncle Tarsus was a pariah. To be sent there. Was her father obliquely using her uncle as an example?

"Banish?" Varal stared at her.

"Uncle Tarsus can find no favour within this Keep, can he?"

"Because he has never shown his face here all these years?" Varal understood her apprehension. "It is not what you think."

"Is it because of mother?"

He shifted the papers before him, as if debating how he should answer her. "It does not concern you," he said finally. "There is a new development in Ferelden."

"Ferelden?" She stared at him in confusion. What did Ferrelden have to do with her being sent to the farthest reach of Trevelyan holdings?

"There have been numerous outbreaks of darkspawn in the Kocari Wilds."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. Darkspawn? All at once, the tales and descriptions of those horrifying creatures crowded in on her. Surely her father jest? All of a sudden, the sending of her mother, her elder brother's wife and son to safety at Markham made sense. It could only be that and no other.

"The numbers have been steadily increasing over the last week and there are fears that it's the prelude to a Blight," he continued. "King Cailan has marched with his army to Ostagar to counter the threat but there are fears that he may fail. If he does fall, the darkspawn will spread. The Grey Wardens in Orleis may prevent it from spreading west but there is nothing to halt it moving north..," he paused when she made an involuntarily gesture to stop him.

"Do...do they swim?" she asked nervously. "Where would darkspawn learn to handle a boat?"

"Swim?" His brows shot up. "Swim when there're roads underground?"

She felt foolish at once for forgetting the history of the Blight.

"I do know that if King Cailan should fall, his people will flee," her father continued when she remained silent. "Orleis will watch her borders and so must we. Refugees will come north, they will bring chaos and trouble with them."

"Are we to turn them back?" Alaryn tried to imagine what it would be like, a war with darkspawn, and could only conjure up the frightening and heroic tales she had read in books.

"Your uncle will assess the situation if they should cross his lands. Give him this letter." He held out a sealed parchment to her which she took. "Pack whatever you need, you leave at dawn the morrow."

"Why are you sending me?"

"Because it is time for the fledgling to try her wings." He did a little flick with his fingers, indicating that she should go out. Recognising that her father would not discuss it further, she left the room silently with Krizo at her heels.

"He's sending me out there," Alaryn muttered as she stood outside, her eyes lifting in bewilderment and fear to Krizo as she tried to sort out the news. "Alone, out there?"

Taking her by arm, Krizo steered her to the flight of stairs leading to the family's private quarters. "You're not going alone and you won't be alone."

"Who..soldiers, he's sending soldiers." She rubbed her brow and realised she was feeling cold. "I...I supposed he wants to strengthen the garrison at the old Keep."

"And protect the borders. If refugees do come ashore, they're an additional burden."

"Why?" She nearly fell on the stairs and wondered what was wrong with her but his hand at her elbow held her steady.

"They'll run out of food and they'll have no shelter. If they can find none of either, what do you think they'll do?" They came to a halt outside her room. "You've got a shock, why don't you pack what you need and rest? You'll feel better in the evening."

Not having gone away for any length of time by herself, Alaryn had no idea what to bring. "What shall I pack?"

"What any soldier would bring." He saw her bemused stare. "Your heard your father, this is not a pleasure trip and you've heard enough from the old grunts to know what to pack. If you have any other questions, I'm always free to answer them."

Opening the door, he waited till she had stepped inside before closing it. She could hear the shuffle of his boots going away and tried to move but couldn't. It was as if she was frozen to the spot. In her mind, she imagined darkspawn rampaging through the land and the Keep. She stared at her room, imagining it cast into ruin and shambles. How long she stood there, staring into the air she had no idea. The unexpected call at the door startled her. She yelped when it opened and slammed into her back, propelling her forward.

"Oh my Lady, I'm sorry. Are you hurt?" asked the maid at the doorway, eyes wide in alarm.

"It's all right, Friesa. You didn't know I was there." Alaryn waved away the apology. The knock had shaken her out of her daze. She was feeling somewhat calmer and foolish for her terror. Darkspawn would not know how to sail across the Waking Sea, they always came through the tunnels they dug from underground.

"Krizo said you want to wash up so I brought water." Friesa waved to the servants behind her. They trooped into the room with buckets of warm water and filled the bathtub by the fireplace. They left once it was done. Friesa closed the door behind them and went to the wardrobe. "I heard you're going to Skanvar Keep."

"Krizo told you, I supposed." Alaryn tested the water in the tub. Not too hot. Pulling at the fastenings of her clothing, she stripped, tossing the dirty clothes near the fireplace. With a large washcloth, she wet it and scrubbed soap all over herself.

"Will there be parties at the Keep?"

Alaryn looked over to see Friesa holding out a few dresses and shuddered. "Maker, I've yet to hear a whisper of any brilliant parties at the Keep and I hope there isn't any. Just throw in the tunics, trews and the like." Loosening the braid of her hair, she dipped her head into the water and worked the soap into it. The maid opened her mouth and then closed it. It was too late to object to the soap. Knowing her mistress, she wouldn't bother very much what she was using to wash her hair.

"Help me with this," Alaryn said as she held her dripping hair over a bucket.

"Close your eyes." Scooping up water from the bathtub, Friesa helped her washed the suds off. "What do you suppose it'll be like?"

"The Keep? Cold." Alaryn wiped water from her eyes. "I was there once years ago, in summer. It wasn't so bad during the day but at night." She shivered as she wiped off the soap from her body. "It's a really old Keep, dating back to the age of Divine. There're no fireplaces except the kitchen." She sighed as she settled in the bathtub. "It's also much smaller. The garden is nice though." There were small animals in a fenced off corner, she remembered. Rabbits and fowls. She looked over to see how Friesa was doing with the packing and was astonished to see her putting the clothes into the travelling chest. "No, not the chest. Put them in saddlebags."

"No chest?" Friesa stared at her in confusion.

"It's not a pleasure trip. I don't need more than a few sets of clothing. Oh, and I'm taking that pair of old boots too."

"If you're sure...," Friesa said uncertainly as she moved to the storage chest where the saddlebags were kept.

Alaryn nodded, spread her hair over the back of the tub to dry and settled deeper into the water as she mentally ticked off what she would have to put into her kit bag. Would she need money? There wasn't much left from the last trip to aunt Lucille's where she had spent most of it buying a Orlesian glass curio and a new dagger at the market. She'd better bring them, she decided since there might be an occasion where she might need them.

Her mind wandered. This journey would be different from the ones she took with her mother. Where would she spend her nights? Would it at a freeholder's home or would she be camped out in the open? A shiver passed through as she recalled some of the tales the guards had told; she did not want insects crawling into every orifice or worst, have spirits come a calling in her sleep. A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped.

"My Lady, the water is cold," Friesa smiled in apology.

Alaryn realised she was right. Climbing out of the tub, she dried off and dressed before sitting patiently for Friesa to comb and braid her dry hair, wishing she could cut it short. That would give her mother another item to grumble over so she had not cut it. If it had been fine and soft, she wouldn't have minded it so much but it was thick and slightly coarse. The braiding done, Friesa gathered up the dirty clothing and left the room to summon the servants to take out the tub. Alaryn looked through the saddlebags piled on the clothes chest as the tub was carried away. There was nothing she could think of to add so she lay down on her bed.

This would be the first time she would be on her own. She could do whatever she wanted except that now that the chance had come, she was not certain how she felt about it. It was all very well to dream about the tales she read, quite another to set out to do them. But then, they were just tales. What could possibly happen? The journey would be dry and dull. King Cailan would halt the darkspawn. How could he not? She could look forward to running errands for her uncle, mired in a boring cycle of duty. What a thrill. She snorted. A little worn out by her cleaning efforts at the barracks, her eyes drooped and she fell asleep without realising it.

Darkness. Wetness. A terrible stench that seared the lungs. A screeching sound. Was that a gleam of teeth in the mist? Black pitted armor, a grinning skull. What was that sound? Run, she had to run. Run.

Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, she stared wildly at the ceiling above her before realising she was in her room. She felt breathless as if she was running. Did she fall asleep? She sat up and rubbed her eyes, her fingers coming away wet. Was she sweating? She must have been having a bad dream but she couldn't remember what it was except it was all dark, dank, oddly humid and fetid. Like food gone rotten or something. From the light filtering through the shutters of the windows, it must be near evening. She had slept the afternoon away. Shaking her head to clear it, she pulled on her boots and left the room.

The door of her father's study room was still closed and she could hear voices within. She went to the main hall and saw all the banners had been taken down. Without the colourful banners, the hall looked drab and empty. She shivered and made her way to the library. At this time of the day, master Burek would be resting in his room so she had the place to herself. It took some time to look for the book she wanted, standing in a lonely corner of the farthest shelf. Sitting down at a desk, she blew off the thin layer of dust on the old tome. It had been years since she last touched the book and it seemed no one else had bothered with it. But then why would any one be interested in darkspawn? It had been almost five hundred years since the last Blight.

The few pictures were just as she remembered it. A few bland strokes that formed imagery of ghouls and darkspawn. The tome itself was little more than a dry historical account of the Blights, the battles and the names of those notable warriors who fought to repel the horde. There were other books that celebrated the struggle, the flair of heroes and horrors of the darkspawn with more imaginative paintings and tales. If she were to encounter darkspawn, she would far prefer not to be cut off at the knees by her own fancies.

The Grey Wardens particularly captured her imagination. Flying on gryphons and swooping down on the enemy out of the sky. What was it like? To fly so high in the sky and smite bravely down on the horde? It must have been exciting. She turned the pages, as captivated by the accounts as before when she was much younger that she didn't hear the knock on the door. She jumped with fright when a hand clapped down hard on her shoulder.

"Feric!" She glared at her eldest brother.

"What're you reading that has closed your ears?" Feric Trevelyan grinned at her fright. "Ah-," his brows rose when he caught sight of the page she was reading. "Catching up on some dark reading."

"It's not a jesting matter..."

"No, indeed." He sat down across from her.

"Then you think they will invade the Free Marches..."

"If the Ferelden King should fall, they will first spread over Ferelden, then Orleis before heading north. But that is not for certain. They have taken and held the Deep Roads for hundreds of years, it is hard to say with full confidence that that is the order they will infest the land. Whatever it is, do you think the rest of us will stand idly by while this happens?"

It was a relief to hear that. "I was imagining too many things. Father must think poorly of me for my foolish questions," she admitted. "But do you supposed he is taking the far view of the worst that can happen?"

"Why? Did he say something?"

"All the banners have been taken down in the hall, mother headed up to Markham without me and you know she was very insistent that I attend aunt Lucille's party..," she caught the slight grimace around Feric's lips. "Do you know something?"

"The banners have nothing to do with the problems at Ferelden. Mother left instructions that they're to be taken out and aired. Did you forget the incident of the spiders?" he reminded with a grin.

"Oh."

"It's not just the darkspawn horde, Ryn." Feric rubbed his trimmed beard uneasily. "Irregardless of what happens at Ferelden, there will be frightened people eager to get away. Most will head to Denerim but there will be others who will want to flee even further. Likely head to Kirkwall and Ostwick. City authorities will sort them out but there'll be those who will randomly land along the coast and they are the problem. Unchecked, they will eventually breed into a bigger problem. Chaos and worst of all, if any of them is tainted, it will spread.

The taint. She looked down at the book before her. There in a passage of the opened page, it was written that a tainted person, wounded by the dark weapons and blood of a darkspawn, would eventually turned into a ghoul. "How do you tell if a person is infected?"

"In such times," he shrugged, "you can't. If the person appears sick, then he cannot be allowed to live."

She stared at him in shock. "But if it's only a small cut or a fever or..."

"Ryn." Feric sat forward, looking at her steadily in the eye. "There is no cure for the taint. It's stated right there, in the tome. I read it, you read it. Death is an act of mercy, trust me."

"How can you be so certain?" she demanded.

"Because a Grey Warden told me so."

"A Grey Warden? You met a grey warden?" Her eyes went round. "When? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Let's see." He rubbed his nose, pretending to think. When she pretended to swipe at him, he ducked. "I was squiring with Bann Eremon of Waking Sea when a warden came visiting. His name was Duncan."

"And?" she prodded impatiently when he halted. "Why was he there? Was he recruiting?"

"He wasn't..."

From the regret that flashed across his face, she thought she knew why. "You wanted to be a grey warden, didn't you?"

"So I did and I think you do as well," he laughed when she made a face at being caught out. "Does father know about this inclination? He would not prevent you if you have such desire."

"Because I'm the youngest," she muttered. "You know you can't because you're the oldest."

"I'm not certain about that," he said glumly. "If Duncan had offered, I would take it. Drissen can take over," he sighed. "But Duncan was just making a stop over on his way to Denerim. He told me some tales of his journey into the Deep Roads, how he fought the darkspawn and the dangers they bring with them. He watched his friends and comrades died fighting them. He said wardens have the honor and mercy of fighting and dying on their feet before the corruption take them but the others would have to suffer and die in the worst ways possible because they could not face their fears. I saw the truth in his eyes, Ryn. I do not doubt him."

The room seemed to darken. "Why is father sending me to uncle Tarsus if he thinks refugees will arrive from the south?"

"You know why. You did not want to go to Markham with mother," Feric reminded her gently. "You tipped the boat, Ryn. Now you have to see if you can swim."

"What if I fail?"

Feric smiled and reached for her hands resting on the tome. "There is no failure, Ryn. You can't decide where you can ride to because you have not tried riding anywhere. This is the time for you to taste the world out there, by yourself and decide where you truly wish to go. It may take a few falls but believe me, you will know what it is you want." He turned when someone knocked one the door. "Enter."

A servant came in. "Dinner is ready, my lord, my lady. Lord Trevelyan is on his way."

"We'll be right there." The servant bowed and went out. "Come, Ryn. Let's not be tardy." He waited as she returned the tome to its place. "Do you know, you might decide to be a grey warden after all."

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't have gryphons any more and please don't tell me you never dreamt about being a hero swooping out of the sky." She tapped his nose playfully as she passed him, hearing his chuckle as he followed her to the main hall.