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It was a silly thing. Her secret shame, in fact. Well, and it looked nothing like him. Almost nothing. She'd bought it anyway when the peddler had come through Gwaren. Given the man a scolding in her sternest voice... and still been unable to pass it up. She kept the woodcut print now, rolled in its reed case, on her person at all times. She didn't dare look often. It felt so intrusive, so intimate, she blushed like a woman several years her junior.
If he were to stop her and discover it, and she fantasized about this more than once, she could explain. It was practiced. "I snatched it from a serving girl, your grace, and I was fit to destroy it." She had no doubt he would be mortally offended... but sometimes she imagined that he was not. Instead he would somehow know of her shameful desires for him. He would smirk under those cold blue eyes, look down his nose at her and know that forever she had been his creature. The slur knife-ear wouldn't be spoken. That was not his way. He used that word around other shems, but never to his staff. He would return her desire in these fantasies. Not love. Never that. The Teyrn was immune to it. In her mind he was remote and shining before the women who yearned for him as if his armor had truly become his skin and there was no fingerhold for them. There was no purchase to make the climb to his unsmiling mouth and bestow warmth in a kiss.
She did not imagine that Lord Mac Tir would abandon his teyrnir for her and they'd ride off on his coal black destrier. Fury hated anyone but the Teyrn on his back and the Teyrn himself would sneer at that idea. There would only the meeting of bodies and shame turned to heat burned off in ecstasy. No untried maid was she. She'd leave him panting and sated. Perhaps he'd even call her back another night when his needs outweighed his propriety.
But more than like he would simply indicate the offending piece in the case with a stabbing glance and mutter, "See it done."
She sighed. Her fantasies were far too logical sometimes.
"Tekhanithel?"
If there was one thing she hated it was her name. The shieldname of an old elven warlord was hardly a name for a woman even if she was the Teyrn's saddle groom. It sounded disgustingly pretentious coming from other people. The Teyrn and her fellow retainers never used the unwieldy thing. She paused, pressing the heavy bone needle into Fury's caparison to keep from losing the stitch. "Yes, Pick. What is it?"
"Teyrn Loghain wishes to see you."
Her heart hammered. Sometimes she wondered if he could read minds. Amusement and a slight trace of fear insisted that he'd find nothing in hers up to muster. "Immediately?"
"Is it ever otherwise with him?" Pick's shoulders slumped.
The urge to berate him strong but she bit back on it. No time. Furthermore it was beneath the Teyrn to be disturbed by the prattle of the King's pampered playthings. She had no illusions why the handsome young elf was personal messenger for the King. Cailan had tried to "woo" her away from the Teyrn once. Woo was the correct term since no foul language or grabbing had been involved. Empty seducing words and fevered glances from the King might have loosened the smallclothes of others and brought them into his retinue, but not hers. She had begged duty and fled, insisting that the Teyrn needed her and he'd best not be kept waiting.
"Very well." After a split-second consideration of the miserable situation of the gesith she added, "Thank you."
Pick nodded and was gone into the afternoon haze. She struggled out from under the yards of stiffened linen and leather that made up a layer of Fury's protection in battle. No one would dare touch this pile of barding, not with the wyvvern so displayed. Men would cut off their own hands rather than anger the Teyrn. She'd seen it happen, once, with a man caught pilfering through the Teyrn's gear. Of course, she'd had a garrote on him at the time and it was either that or be strangled to death in front of her Lord. Elves could not carry weapons, it was true, but a bit of rawhide loose in one's coat? No one made mention of it. The Teyrn had approved with a smile the first time. It was how she'd come into his service, over the struggles of a would-be murderer. She still remembered the look of it, the warmth and praise in that expression, as the man went limp under her fists and soiled his clothes; a last desperate attempt at escape as if she were a wolf that cared what he tasted like. She was no wolf to run wild without loyalty, responsibility or care. Tekha was of Gwaren.
A simpleton could be clothed in gaudy silks to please her master as Cailan's gesith often were, but not a groom. Tekha smoothed out her full leathers as she rose to cross the camp to the Teyrn's tent. The walk brought a sense of dread. The other battles against the darkspawn had not had such a pall hanging over them. The soldiers were uneasy even if their King appeared not to care. The presence of the mysterious Gray Wardens had done little to improve the mood of anyone save His Royal Highness. It seemed, unfortunate though it was, that the more dire the circumstances presented the more joyous the King became as if he were drunk on hysteria or madness. Or he might simply be drunk. With Cailan any of these were probable. The Teyrn's daughter had borne him like a moon curse that never ended since they were wed, poor woman. If the Teyrn hadn't instilled in her a love of country and a nose for politics all of Fereldan would be swimming in foreigners and blood-feuds again by Middelwoch. Maker save the Queen.
Captain Owen nodded to her at the tent entrance. He was spelling in for Ser Nigel who was probably off stuffing his hairy face with mutton stew again. Owen looked uncomfortable on guard. His post was overseeing the coordination between pikemen and lancers, a nerve-wracking duty to be sure but necessary to keep them from killing each other on the field. He'd come by the position due to his skill at mixed-combat tactics but most credited it to being the bastard of Bann Gywddeth, a man she'd never seen or heard much of. She knew the Captain well enough and spent more evenings entangled with his legs than she dared count. He'd never held it against her. Never once had he referred to her as a whore- although he did once say she had skills to put the best at Denerim's Pearl to shame. She'd pinched him for that and slapped his taut stomach. He'd laughed and declared it true.
"The Teyrn's with Ser Cauthrien at the moment, but I'll let him know you've arrived, Tekha."
She nodded and watched him disappear into the striped folds of the tent. There was a moment's quiet conversation before Cauthrien appeared followed by Owen. Tekha bobbed her head politely as the Teyrn's Lieutenant passed and the good Ser, as she often did, looked at her -made eye contact- in a gesture of respect. It was the respect of a superior to a valued underling but it was respect nonetheless and she appreciated it. There were many who didn't bother giving their shems respect, let alone their elves. She'd always liked Cauthrien. Even as a gangly teenager squiring to the Teyrn there'd been a presence about her. It wasn't something that could be taught but was an essential quality needed in a proper leader of men.
Owen caught her eye and nodded towards the draped entry as if to her hurry her along. Stepping inside the tent just reminded her acutely of the reed case hidden underneath layers of clothing. It produced a needling sensation as she allowed herself to examine him. The Teyrn's back was to her while he squatted, intently examining the contents of a small trunk. The Armor of River Dane was racked near him, glinting silver and cold. He wore it still in phantasm even though he sported the scarlet tunic of Gwaren. It was rather unlike him not to get straight to business but she couldn't complain overmuch about the view. She appreciated the bunching of his thighs against the fabric of his trousers with most visceral pleasure.
"You summoned me, Your Grace?" She prompted in the quiet.
"Yes. Tekha." He rose with a drape of mustard cloth in one hand and a sheathed dagger in the other. "You have been in my service for many years."
She frowned at what he held, wondering the significance, but didn't interrupt him.
"Your duty has always been clear to you and that's more than I can grant most of the men in the army."
It wasn't empty flattery. That wasn't the Teyrn's style at all. Most puzzling.
"My duty as your liege is also clear, even if it is at cross purposes with several ridiculous laws." He held out the long dagger to her. "This is yours. It is Dalish, and light, so it should give you no trouble." His wintry eyes held her for a beat as she took the weapon. "I assume all those practice sessions with Owen fitz'Gywddeth will serve you well enough to wield it."
She flushed despite herself. It was a point of embarrassment; if he wanted her in his bed, Owen had to teach her the heft of a blade. Castles had ears and eyes. Sometimes she forgot that.
"Of course, Your Grace."
He nodded and supervised her buckling the backsling over her brigandine so the dagger could easily be pulled from under her left armpit. The cloth was held out next and she donned it. It was a hooded cape that fell to mid thigh with Gwaren scarlet trim. A wyvvern worked in black iron was the clasp at her right shoulder.
"That will serve to hide your weapon from fools until you have need of it."
Unspoken was that it also marked her as his trusted representative among the retainers. Bright cloth was a rallying point in chaos. He expected the battle to go badly then. Her heart sank just a fraction.
"If we are overrun-" He paused and looked away. "If you should find yourself surrounded and cut off, I expect you to behave like a Lady about the situation. There will be no rescues. Do not allow yourself to be taken prisoner by those creatures." The Teyrn looked back at her and his eyes were not cold, but soft like spun blue wool. "If Fury is with you, I expect you know what is required of him as well."
A Lady. She rubbed nervously at the straps that held the dagger sling. If Fury were with her he expected to die himself. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden. "You didn't have to ask, Your Grace." Pitiful words fell from her lips, broken and then faded on the honorific. "I will."
"Yes. I did." He corrected without venom. "And I know."
Tekha had never been in love. Not once. It always seemed like a useless emotion that pandered to the weak whom wished to be chattel rather than take right of place. All that mattered little now. As impossible as it was, her Lord had won her heart with a sound command. Tenderness flooded through her in a languid wave. His words would be forgotten tomorrow when their bodies lay festering on the field, but today he had armed her and wrapped her in his colors. Today Teryn Loghain had expected her to be a Lady. It stirred a love that would never be returned and that was enough. Tears shamed her even though they were silent.
"My thanks." More heartfelt words she had never spoken.
"Take a moment to collect yourself, Tekhanithel. We have time enough for that." He rumbled more than spoke in passing her to exit the tent.
She stared at the small fire burning in a brazier, freely giving both light and warmth, with awe rather than seriously considering the dance of flame. Her name was no longer a hateful thing. The way the Teyrn said it the sounds had meaning beyond their power to be heard. Something wild came to life under their enchantment. It recalled long shadows and longer brands in thick foliage and eyes better suited to that green darkness. It recalled the reason her forebear bore it. She would be the Teyrn's willing blade from now until the moment of her death. Those other useless shems and their edicts of behavior be damned.
Digging in a most improper way under her gambeson, she took out her precious obscene print in its little reed case. She held it over the brazier. Her fist trembled from more than just heat.
"Andruil. Maker. Whatever you call yourself," the whisper was fierce, not pleading. "I give you a pretty dream I have devoted many happy hours to for his life. Stay the hands that would send my Lord to his doom. Slow the steps of death. Delay those in the shadows who would drag him forever into the Fade." The case fell into the flames and caught quickly.
The saddle groom of the Teyrn of Gwaren watched her fantasy become ashes and was satisfied. The grim duties of love were worth more than all the pretty dreams that could be bought from peddlars' carts. With that she left his grand golden-green tent and crossed the camp in a determined step, uncaring of the strange looks her cape garnered her. She had barding and tack to mend before nightfall and woe be to the shem that thought to impede her by making much over the Teyrn's gifts.
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*Taken from "The Nutbrowne Maid" as printed by John Doesborowe, 1502 Translation by BucklesintheSun
14.
Full-well know you, that women be
Full feeble for to fight;
No womanhood is it in deed
To be as bold as a knight:
Yet, in such fear, if that you were
Amongst enemies day and night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand,
To grieve them as I might,
And you to save; as women have
From death many a-one:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.