Satinalia in Ferelden; the first since Meghren's death at King Maric's hands almost a year before. A joyous time, therefore, for all in the country save the few Orlesians still holed up in their few remaining footholds in the country. Reason enough for why Queen Rowan's eldest brother, Eamon, would not be attending; newly returned from the Free Marches, he was busy laying siege to Redcliffe Castle, the Guerrin's ancestral home, in hopes of recovering it. And doing a reasonably adept job of it, Loghain had heard, for someone only barely past his majority at eighteen years of age. Little Teagan, serving as page to King Maric, was bitterly disappointed not to have been allowed to help. Rowan had soothed the boy, telling him she needed him here to help her with the upcoming royal wedding, and kept him busy running errands for her.
Rowan. It still pained him every time he saw her face. He had made the right choice for Ferelden, he was sure, but... perhaps it hadn't been the right choice for himself. Yet how could he put his own desires before the needs of his country, and his King? Maric needed Rowan, far more than he did. Her steadying influence, her intelligence, her connections... He'd been lucky to have received what few crumbs of affection she'd been willing to share with him; riches un-asked for, and undeserved. She was too good for him, not just by birth, but in every way. No... better that he had done what he had done, and urged her to reconcile with Maric. She would be the Queen that Ferelden needed.
He sighed, little wanting to attend the ball that evening, but knew that Maric would be greatly disappointed in him if he did not. He'd tried to beg off of attending already, but Maric had insisted that he absolutely must be there. He'd said he had no costume and mask to wear, masks being too Orlesian an affectation, and Maric had laughed and said that he himself would provide Loghain with a costume and mask for the event. And then done so, the costume having been delivered an hour or two ago.
The King had a sense of humour, Loghain found himself thinking as he towelled himself off from his bath and glanced at the costume laid out at the foot of his bed, and the mask that went with it. A mask in the shape of a fox's head, but made of black fur, not the more usual red-orange colour, and accompanied by a tailed vest of black fox fur, black suede leggings and boots, and a long-sleeved black silk tunic, all trimmed in silver. He was to be a black fox, it seemed; not the infamous Orlesian adventurer of that name, but the animal itself. He supposed he wouldn't have actually objected all that much to dressing as Lord Vascal, even given his Orlesian origins, as the man had been in rebellion against the Orlesian crown for most of his life. But he had to admit he much preferred the animal, and the nod-of-the-head it was to the man instead of any more direct reference.
He dressed carefully once he was dry, without the aid of a valet – another Orlesian affectation, as far as he was concerned. A squire was acceptable, as armour was difficult – sometimes impossible – to put on or remove without aid, but a valet was pure foolishness. What man required aid to dress, once out of childhood?
Small clothes, stockings, leggings, tunic, boots, vest... he had to admit, as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, that the finery looked rather well on him. He smiled for a moment, then carefully put on the mask, hiding the ribbon under his hair once it was tied. And smiled again, looking as his reflection. Maric did have good taste, he'd give him that. The white-tipped tail dangling down in back was a touch silly, yes, but apart from that he rather liked the overall effect. He looked... dangerous. And that was something he never objected to.
The ball room was packed, and a touch overly warm, even with the great doors at one side open and people moving out to the terrace and walled gardens and back again. Loghain began to regret the fur vest. He circulated for a while, not talking to anyone, though he did exchange nods with a few people that he recognized despite their costumes; a stag-headed man that he was reasonably certain was Bryce Cousland, a mabari hound in company with a pretty shepherdess that he recognized as Bann Sighard and his young wife, married just this summer past. There were any number of people he couldn't guess the identity of, most wearing full-face – sometimes full-head – masks, and elaborate costumes that changed the shape of their body with padding and tatters and cosmetic additions such as wings, tails, in one case the entire hind-quarters of some great clawed beast with a tail like a donkey's.
He picked out Maric easily enough; even full costume and a full-face mask would not have prevented him recognizing the way the man moved. But Maric wore only a small half-mask that did little to disguise his features, and the costume was rather a giveaway anyway, Maric having dressed like Calenhad, in a suit of silver-washed armour with a wolf skin draped over one shoulder. Rowan was with Maric, her mask reminiscent of the head of a blue heron, the floor-length over-sleeves and over-skirt of her costume elaborately dagged and layered to mimic feathers.
He considered going over to greet them. Then Rowan leaned close to Maric, saying something quietly to him. A smile lit Maric's face, and even with the mask obscuring his face it was clearly a fond smile; a happy and loving smile. Rowan's head tilted just so, and even without seeing it Loghain could picture exactly the expression that was on her face behind the mask; one he'd seen several times, down there in the Deep Roads and afterwards, except then that look had been directed at him, while Maric made a fool of himself with that damned elven spy Katriel...
He turned away, suddenly blind to his surroundings, blind to everything but the pain he felt. Loghain walked away, not particularly caring where he went, so long as it took him to where he could no longer see the pair of them.
Morag had been pleasantly surprised by most of what she'd seen of Ferelden so far. The way her mother had spoken of the place, she'd half-expected to find herself greeted at the docks by barbarians dressed in furs who lived in mud-floored huts of sticks and straw. But Denerim looked just as civilized as anything in the Free Marches, as had the people waiting to meet her there.
She still wasn't sure just what she thought of her prospective bridegroom, Rendon. It was, of course, his title that had led her family to pursue a closer tie with him; his title, and more specifically his position of Arl of Amaranthine, one of the four great trade-cities of Ferelden. And it was the great wealth of her mercantile family and her subsequent quite generous dowry that had led to him accepting the proposal, his arling being currently rather desperately in need of money, after decades of the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden and the recent rebellion. Retreating Orlesian forces had taken ship from Amaranthine; they'd also, reportedly, taken anything of value that wasn't nailed down with them, and left much destruction in their wake.
Rendon at least seemed an acceptable young man; a little older than she herself, but not by more than a handful of years. Not quite what she would call handsome, but not ugly either. Striking, with a somewhat long, horsey face, hazel eyes, and dark brown hair. And, having fought long and hard in the rebellion, he was rather nicely fit, with tolerably broad shoulders and nicely shaped legs. She could have done a lot worse, she supposed, thinking of the fat old merchant her best friend Inez had been married to in the spring; another arranged marriage. On the other hand... she could have done a whole lot better, too, she found herself thinking wistfully, studying a nearby young man dressed in what she guessed to be a fanciful interpretation of a Dalish elf's armour, made of beautifully dyed leather shaped and tooled to resemble autumnal leaves. It was as close-fitted as a good pair of gloves, and showed off his muscular legs rather attractively.
A pity Rendon was not so well turned out. Not that she'd had much of a look at his costume – a mask that covered almost his entire head, apart from his unfortunately weak chin, along with a voluminous fur coat, that made him seem like one of the bears that were the part of his arling's heraldry – before he'd left her side to go speak to someone. And not returned.
She was, in fact, beginning to feel more than a little put out at having been so cavalierly abandoned. For all that it was an arranged marriage, no love match, he could have at least gone through the forms of a courtship tonight; attending on her, flirting, dancing, introducing her to people, making sure she was well-supplied with hot or cold drinks as was needed, and some suitable snacks from the well-stocked buffet tables lining one side of the hall. Instead she was left to wander the edges of the cavernous room on her own, alone, unattended, and knowing no one here well enough to begin a conversation, even if they hadn't all been costumed to the point that Arl Rendon was the only person here that she had any hope at all of recognizing.
She watched the dancing for a few minutes, feeling increasingly envious of those with more attentive partners. Dancing was something she adored, and was quite good at; to have to stand out so many dances when her feet wished to move was annoying. No... worse than annoying. Infuriating. If Rendon cared so little about her before they were married, what might he be like as a husband?
Her anger and the noise, light and heat were bringing on one of her headaches. She made her way over to the refreshment tables, and obtained a cup of cold punch for herself. That at least helped a little with the heat and headache, but not with the anger; it was the sort of thing a properly attentive gentleman should have done for her, not left her alone to manage by herself.
A cool breeze touched her cheek, and she turned, noticing the large glass-paned doors standing open nearby, and the people going back and forth through them, out to what appeared to be a large stone terrace. It would be considerably cooler and quieter out there, she was sure, and after obtaining a refill of punch, made her way outdoors.
The area near the doors was more crowded than she liked, with people standing and chatting in clusters; groups she could see no way to politely join when she knew no one here. She withdrew to the edge of the terrace, where the wide stone balustrade was decorated with lighted harvest-heads at intervals, casting small pools of warm flickering light. The air smelled pleasantly of beeswax and warm vegetable flesh – the scent of the squashes, turnips, rutabaga and pumpkins that had been hollowed out and carved into faces. She stood there for a little while, admiring what little she could see of the gardens until she noticed that there were a few stone benches spaced along the base of the terrace. Abandoning her now-empty cup on the railing she descended via a nearby set of broad stone-flagged steps to where they were and took a seat.
It was much more pleasant down there, the loud music and conversations considerably muted by distance and the rise of the terrace behind her. She could smell the pleasantly tannin odour of fallen oak leaves from somewhere nearby. She leaned back against the rough stone wall, truly relaxing for the first time since waking earlier that day, last vestiges of the headache fading away. Her eyes closed, her earlier ire ebbing away as she sat quietly, enjoying the momentary solitude.
A solitude broken by the scuffing of footsteps against stone, and approaching voices; someone talking to another as they walked over to stand near the balustrade overhead. "You have to admit he has a point," a pleasantly deep voice was saying.
"Perhaps, but it is not a point I am overly enamoured with," another voice responded; Rendon, the nasal tones of his voice already quite familiar to her.
"Still, you stand to benefit from Bryce's actions."
"I'd prefer to benefit from my own. But there's nothing I can do to change it; he is Teyrn of Highever, and that makes me effectively his vassal. I have no choice but to obey."
The other man snorted. "It could be worse, I suppose. But enough of that... will you be visiting Denerim again next month? I have a special entertainment in mind, that you might enjoy partaking in."
"Sadly not... too close to the wedding," Rendon answered.
"Ahh, hot for the bedding, are you?" the deep voice asked, and chuckled in a manner that Morag could only consider to be lewdly. "Planning to till some virgin soil and plant a few seeds, are you? I hear she's quite the beauty."
Morag froze, offended by the man's words. She briefly considered rising and making her presence known, demanding an apology... but Rendon responded before she could move to do so.
"Pretty enough, I suppose," he said dismissively. "But it's the size of her dowry that attracts me, not her looks or personality. So far she seems to have damned little of the latter, though I suppose that's just as well. I want her for her father's wealth and connections and to get myself an heir on, not for her dinner-time conversation. Though at least with her being so young I can be reasonably certain she's not shop-worn goods, either."
The other man chuckled darkly. "I wish you much joy of your wedding night then. But are you sure you can't visit Denerim next month? It just won't be the same without you there."
"You do tempt me, Urien, but sadly I must decline." Urien - a name she recognized; that was Arl Urien, Arl of Denerim and a cousin of Rendon's. She was supposed to be meeting him and his wife in another two days, she and Rendon being invited to attend a dinner at his estate, ostensibly to welcome her to Ferelden.
"Well, perhaps another time then," Urien replied. "I've got my eye on a few other choice tidbits. Perhaps I'll put off this one for another month; I have other options available. And if your sweet young wife proves unsatisfactory in bed, I'm sure you'll enjoy the change."
Both men laughed coarsely. Morag sat frozen, cheeks flushed. They were speaking of prostitutes, she guessed; her mother had warned her that few men were loyal to their wedding bed, especially in cases of arranged marriages. Had even said that such outside attachments should be encouraged, as a means of gaining greater freedom and comfort for herself. Still... hearing herself talked of so crudely on the one hand and dismissively on the other had her feeling more than a little angry, as well feeling a deep shame and distress that brought tears to her eyes. This man would be her husband, and yet he could speak of her so! She'd known it was no love match, but she'd at least hoped for respect, and friendship. Inez had that from her merchant; he was kind and gentle and generous, even if rather older than Inez had hoped to marry. She began to think her friend had had the better luck, after all.
She clenched her hands tightly in the skirts of her dress, and as soon as the men retreated from the railing some few minutes later, rose and stalked off into the darkened gardens. She had no wish to see or talk with anyone right now, not until she had regained her shaken composure.
Loghain strolled along a path, enjoying the night, the distant sounds of the Satinalia ball reduced to a faint rumble of sound only barely audible over the rustling of the wind in the trees, many already bare-branched with the approach of winter. A cold time of year, but one he loved. He remembered what a good time of year it had been when he was a child helping his father to gather in the crops; the house smelling of wonderful things as his mother worked to turn much of it into pickles, jams and relishes; helping to string herbs, onions, garlic and dried fruit from the rafters; tending the smokehouse to cure the sausages and hams, fish, and wild game they were preserving for the lean winter months ahead. And later, in winter, the days spent either indoors working on all the things there was little time for the remainder of the year – handicrafts, small repairs, and so forth – or going out hunting fresh game with his father. Fishing, too, though that was a cold and often tedious business involving chopping holes through the ice and tending a small fishing rod at each, supported by a forked stick with the butt-end of the pole jammed into a smaller hole in the ice, or weighted with a rock or large chunk of ice.
But those times were long past, both parents now dead at the hands of the Orlesians who had occupied Ferelden for so long. He had nothing any more, no family, and few friends; those who had once been his peers avoided him because of his close friendship with King Maric, while the nobles despised him as a peasant. Maric loved him as a brother, he knew, and took some comfort in that, even granted that they, like real brothers, sometimes had a rocky relationship. Rowan... he sighed. He still loved her. He would always love her. Seeing her made him ache, deep in his chest. Seeing her with Maric... that was both pain and pleasure. The two people he loved most; a mix of pride in and affection for both of them, and the deeply-felt pain that it was Maric that Rowan was with, not him. By his choice, he reminded himself. His, and in the end, hers as well. They were both so bound to duty, he thought, and smiled briefly.
He rounded a curve of the path, to where it split around a small pond, the small clearing it occupied lit be a few candle-lanterns hanging from a tree branch where their light could reflect in the still waters; an almost magical scene. To his surprise there was someone else there, perched on a large rock beside the pond, arms wrapped around upraised knees, head lowered. Crying, he realized belatedly as he came to a stop, and wished he could have retreated; but the woman had already noticed his approach, and raised her head. He stared in some surprise; he was not the only fox here tonight, it seemed.
She was dressed as a vixen, face hidden by a pointy-nosed mask and her torso swathed in gingery-red furs. Like his, her costume was tailed, though her vest of fur was a knee-length overdress instead of a shorter vest like his. Her hair was a mass of glossy black curls left unbound down her back, a generally reliable sign of an unmarried woman; by that and her slight figure he guessed her likely to be a few years younger than he was, barely out of her teens.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to intrude," he said carefully. "I didn't realize anyone was here."
She sniffed, raising her chin slightly and meeting his eyes, her own pale grey eyes striking in the black-lined eye openings of the mask. "I didn't expect to see anyone else out here," she said, and sniffed again.
"Shall I leave?" he asked courteously.
"Please; I have no wish for company. And thank you."
He nodded and turned away, took a couple of steps, then stopped and turned back, frowning. "Do you need anything? Is there someone I could fetch for you? Or a drink? A handkerchief?" he offered, not liking the idea of leaving her alone there in the dark.
She was silent for a very long moment. He was about to apologize again and go when she spoke. "A drink, please," she said very quietly. "And a handkerchief would not go amiss."
He smiled, and produced one from a pocket, walking over and presenting it to her with a small bow. She smiled tremulously as she accepted it. "Thank you," she said again. She had a northern accent, he noticed; somewhere in the Free Marches he thought, though he wasn't familiar enough with such to pick out just which region.
"A hot or a cold drink, my lady?"
She smiled again, a little more firmly. "Hot, please."
"Of course," he said, and bowed again. "I'll return shortly."
He glanced back before exiting the clearing; she was holding up the muzzle of her mask with one hand, and drying her eyes with the handkerchief held in the other. He quickly averted his gaze again, and headed back to the castle in search of a warm drink for the poor girl.
She'd been frightened at first, when she realized someone had walked into the small clearing. Alone in a mostly-darkened garden was hardly a safe place for her to be. The man was dressed in something dark; it took her a moment to identify the costume as a fox, like hers, except a black one, his furs tipped with grey that in the dim candle-light gave him a silvery sheen. He had a remarkably attractive figure, she found herself thinking, with even broader shoulders and finer legs than Rendon's. And a much nicer chin too, just barely visible under the elongated muzzle of his mask. His pale blue eyes stood out in dramatic contrast to the mask, which blended almost invisibly with his own long black hair. Dangerous looking, and yet when he spoke his voice was perfectly polite, even kind, and her initial fear vanished.
His offer to fetch her a drink surprised her; surprised her, and made her feel a little better. Here was the sort of gentleman she'd hoped her betrothed would prove to be. She accepted both the offer and his handkerchief, and after he'd left hurriedly dried her eyes and blew her nose.
It took him some little while to return, and when he did, he came with more than just a hot drink; he carried two mugs in one hand, wisps of steam rising from them, and a napkin-wrapped bundle in the other. "I thought you might wish some food, as well," he said, as he put the napkin down on the stone beside her, the ends of it falling open to reveal a selection of food; little iced cakes, cubes of cheese, several flaky pastries. He offered her one of the mugs.
"I will leave again if you prefer some privacy," he said quietly, holding the other in one hand and looking more at it that at her. "Though this is not the safest place for a young woman on her own; the grounds are guarded, but some of the nobles can be a bit... riotous, when drink-taken."
She smiled slightly. "I would be glad of some company," she said, and gestured at the expanse of rock beyond the napkin. "Please, be seated."
He smiled in return, and joined her on the boulder, the napkin of food between them. An awkward silence fell.
"You're not from Ferelden, are you?" he asked, after sipping his drink; a hot spiced rum punch, if it was the same as what he'd brought her, sweet with honey, with thin slices of imported orange and lemon floating in it. "Your accent..."
"No, I'm not," she agreed. "I'm from Wycome."
"Just visiting? Or are you here to stay?"
She paused for a moment, and then found herself lying, not wanting to admit to this handsome stranger that she was here to marry. Especially to marry Rendon Howe. "Just visiting," she said lightly. "I was enjoying myself right up until I suddenly realized how homesick this ball is making me. I normally quite like the autumn, and Satinalia celebrations; but tonight it seems to have made me feel very melancholy instead."
He smiled crookedly, one corner of his mouth rising high enough to almost vanish under the edge of his own mask. "I was just thinking earlier, while I was walking, about how much I missed the autumns of my own youth."
She laughed. "Of your youth? Surely you're still young enough to be considered one?"
He snorted, and smiled. "I suppose I am. It only feels like it was a lifetime ago that I last spent Satinalia with my parents."
"Dead?" she hazarded, sobering.
"Yes. During the rebellion," he said, and glanced away for a moment.
Many nobles had died in the wars, she knew; clearly a sensitive subject for many, including him. She quickly changed the subject, peering at the napkin between them and touching one finger lightly to a pastry. "These look delicious. Are they sweet, or savoury?"
"These two should be sweet," he said, gesturing at two coiled pastries, and then pointed at a third, a folded one. "That one is savoury; the filling is chopped sausage fried with herbs and onions, if I recall correctly."
"Since there's only the one, we'll have to share it," she said, and picked it up, splitting it in two and offering half to him.
"My thanks," he said gravely, taking it carefully from her hand. She felt very conscious of the light touch of his fingertips against hers as he lifted it away, and quickly hid her confusion by biting into the flaky pastry. It was delicious, the filling still just slightly warm from baking, rich with fat and tasting deliciously of the fried onions and herbs. She ate every crumb of it, and wiped her fingertips clean on the handkerchief.
Lacking a handkerchief, and not wanting to spoil his clothes with grease, her companion had to lick his own fingers clean, a sight that she found surprisingly attractive. She handed him a few cubes of cheese next, and they ate them while talking quietly of frivolous things; how lovely the lantern-light looked reflected in the pond, how much colder it was here than in Wycome, similar equally innocent topics. She found herself smiling a lot, her earlier anger and embarrassment at least temporarily forgotten.
She really was quite beautiful, what little of her he could see; a trim figure, pale long-fingered hands with carefully trimmed and buffed nails, the striking eyes and cloud of black hair. A heart-shaped face, judging by her delicately pointed chin. She'd regained her composure quite rapidly, and he was surprised to realize just how much he was enjoying their conversation. And startled, once or twice, to realize she was flirting with him, very delicately.
Flirtation had never been something he was good at. He flushed, and turned his attention to their little picnic, pointing at the two sweet pastries that were all that remained, the two of them having just finished off the last of the little iced cakes, the crumbs from which they'd tossed in the pond to feed the colourful fish that lurked there. "This one has a filling of sliced apples, and this is dried cherries and custard," he said.
"How can you tell?" she asked, sounding fascinated.
He smiled, and gestured at some faint lines pricked in the surface. "They're marked; an apple, and a pair of cherries."
She laughed, delighted, and frowned over them before making her choice, the cherry and custard pastry, leaving the apple for him. They each took a bite, smiling in enjoyment as they chewed.
"This is delicious," she said after swallowing, the tip of her tongue flicking out to daintily lick away a tiny smear of custard from her top lip. "How is the apple pastry?"
"Also delicious," he said, then held it out toward her. "Would you like to try a bite?"
She barely hesitated before leaning toward him and taking a bite out of it, then silently offered her pastry in turn as she sat back. He leaned forward and bit into it, his eyes meeting hers as he did so.
Something changed, then, the air suddenly feeling charged. They did not speak for some minutes, merely eating alternating bites of the pastries – their own, each other's – until both were done. When she started to reach for the soiled handkerchief to clean a drip of custard off her hand, he caught it instead, raising it toward his mouth. He paused, meeting her eyes, and then when she neither pulled away or flinched, carefully licked the custard from off her warm, soft skin.
She drew a long, shuddering breath, then turned her hand over in his, her long fingers closing warmly around his hand. She lifted it, and nipped once at his knuckles. His hand tightened on hers, his own breath catching.
"I think perhaps we'd best return to the ball," he said, voice hoarse and a little shaky.
She smiled, slowly. "Or we could stay," she said with surprising calm.
He paused, thinking, then slowly nodded. "Or we could stay," he agreed, and raised her hand again, to kiss it this time.
She was surprised by her own forwardness. She'd flirted before, of course, and was fascinated to realize by the stranger's reactions that her doing so flustered him; he actually blushed and stammered a little once or twice, clearly unused to the attention. It gave her a strangely delighted feeling; that she could make such a fine-looking and well-mannered man blush like a boy!
She didn't intend, at first, to do anything more than flirt, but when he caught her hand, when he met her eyes... she found herself remembering Urien's reference to 'virgin soil' and Rendon's calm assurance that she was not 'shop-worn goods'. Damn him. Damn them both. Given a choice between her first time being in her marriage bed with a man she was quickly coming to despise, and this charming, kind stranger... better kindness, and a good memory to last her in the years to come.
He was kind; kind, and gentle, his hands when they finally touched her flesh handling her carefully and as delicately as if she was blown glass, as reverently as if he was worshipping her. They made a nest of their furs on the ground in the shadows beneath a tree with trailing branches, though they kept on their masks. It was Satinalia; it was a night outside of time, belonging to neither the month before it or the month that followed it.
There was some pain, which she'd known to expect, and carefully hid, not wanting this delicious stranger to know that it was her first time she was giving him. Thanks to things that Inez and a few other friends had told her, she was able to act as if she was far more experienced at this than she actually was, and in the end it was, indeed, very enjoyable for both of them. They lay there for a while afterwards in the shadows, her head pillowed on his broad chest, his hand petting her hair, which she quite enjoyed.
"It's getting late; we should go back soon," he said regretfully. "And probably not at the same time; us emerging from the garden together would not be good for your reputation."
She laughed, softly. "You're assuming I have one. Do you?"
"Yes, but no good one," he said, then raised her hand and kissed it again before sitting up and beginning to put his clothes to rights. "Might I know your name?" he asked wistfully.
She almost answered him truthfully. But there was some chance that, staying in Ferelden as she would be, they would encounter again. Better that he think her someone else, and returned to Wycome, than risk him recognizing her. "Eileen," she said, the name of the cousin who was here as her chaperone; enough like her in looks that it would be a believable lie, and with Eileen due to return to Wycome shortly, one unlikely to be exposed. She did not ask his own in turn, merely setting one finger to his lips before he could offer it.
"You go back first," she told him firmly. "It will take me a little time to put my clothes and hair back in order. I should be safe enough for as long as that will take me," she added before he could protest.
He frowned, then nodded. "If you're quite sure."
"I am," she said.
He took the mugs, napkin, and his handkerchief with him when he left. She finished re-fastening her clothes, and took off her mask long enough to pat her face with fingers dampened in the tiny rill that fed the pond. She combed out her hair, refastened the mask, and then just sat for a little while longer, loathe to return to the ball and seek out Rendon. She should at least return to the safety of the terrace, she decided, and did so.
The terrace was nearly deserted when she reached it; almost everyone having vanished back indoors. The music was stopped; it sounded like someone was giving a speech. She had no interest in that, and instead found a place to one side where she could rest one hip on the broad balustrade and look out over the gardens. She smiled, thinking again of the handsome stranger.
Thoughts interrupted a few minutes later by Rendon's nasal voice. "There you are! I've been looking for you for the last quarter of an hour. Come, it's time we were going back to my townhouse," he said sharply, reaching for her hand to pull her to her feet.
She gritted her teeth, but allowed it. "I'm sorry, the heat inside became too much for me," she said calmly. "I've been enjoying the coolness out here, and the view of the gardens instead." Not even a lie, technically.
He snorted. "Yes, yes... come, let's go. No, not that way," he said when she started back toward the doors into the great hall. "King Maric is in the middle of naming that peasant Loghain Mac Tir as Teyrn of Gwaren; I have no desire to celebrate any longer," he explained sharply, as he led her down a set of stairs and along a path that curved around between castle and gardens, eventually bringing them out in the front courtyard. He was not the only person making a discrete exit; she wondered who this Loghain person was, and what he'd done to earn the enmity of so many nobles. Not all of them though; even from here she could hear the cheering echoing out over the city as those more kindly disposed to the man celebrated his elevation. The sound followed them, as they climbed into a coach and set off for the Howe townhouse.
Morag was pleased when she first began showing signs of pregnancy a couple of weeks after the wedding. Rendon was proving an even more odious husband than she'd feared, caring only about his own pleasure, never hers, and his hands were usually far from gentle; his grip had left bruises more than once. She endured in silence, sustaining herself and her spirit with the secret knowledge of that night in the garden, the memory of far gentler hands. At least the pregnancy brought an end to his unwanted attentions, even if it did confine her to his family seat of Vigil's Keep. A fine fortress castle, but isolated, only a tiny village of huts huddled near it, the nearest city – the post of Amaranthine – a full day's journey away, Denerim even further.
She kept herself busy, making clothes for the baby, working on her needlework, reading amusing old romances she found gathering dust in the castle library. Rendon came and went, spending several days each month visiting his cousin Urien in Denerim, and much of the rest seeing to his city and his lands. She was just as glad not to join him on his journeys to Denerim; she didn't like Arl Urien. His wife was plainly frightened of him, and he set her nerves on edge, though she couldn't say why, other than the memory of his crudeness.
Rendon was away in Denerim when she gave birth to their firstborn; a son, with her own black hair and grey eyes. She adored him from the moment she first held him, still smeared with the bloody fluids of birth, his face all screwed up as he screamed for his first feeding, and then so quickly changing to calm and placid once her breast was in his mouth. A fine boy; a beautiful boy. She fed him for the first two days, as was proper, then turned the feedings over to a milk-nurse so as not to spoil her own figure, though she kept the cradle in her room where she could look at him whenever she wanted, which was often.
Rendon returned on the third day, striding into the chamber without even knocking. She was startled by the thunderous look on his face; a look that only darkened as he looked at their son. "Out!" he suddenly shouted at her frightened-looking maid, all but chasing the girl from the room.
Morag struggled to sit up, still in some pain from the labour. "What's wrong?" she asked, frightened as well by his obvious anger.
His face darkened, and he closed the distance to the bed, knotting his hand in the collar of her nightgown and hauling her upright. "Cuckolding bitch!" he snarled. "I might even have believed he was my own, if you hadn't presented me with a nine month's babe less than eight after the wedding and the bedding! Who was the father?" he snapped, shaking her. "Whose bastard is that!"
She paled. She had not realized... she had not counted. But he was right; it had been too short a time. It must have been... "I never knew his name," she said, as calmly as she could manage.
"Liar!" he roared, and to her shock slapped her, hard. "Who was he!"
For a moment she stared at him, then the first chill of fear touched her, seeing the rage in his eyes. Men sometimes killed their wives for such indiscretions. Killed or turned out the children, too. Her son... no, she must protect him.
"I do not lie," she said, voice ragged. "It was Satinalia; he was masked. I never asked his name, nor saw his face."
He snarled in fury, and raised his hand to hit her again. She flinched, lifting her own arm to block the blow. "Do not!" she exclaimed. To her surprise, he paused.
"And why should I not, wife?" he asked.
Her thoughts raced, and then steadied. She started to raise her chin, then realized that any defiance would likely set him off further, and kept her eyes lowered instead, answering as meekly as she could. "I am my father's favourite child. Harm me, and he will ruin you."
A long silence. "And if I say you died of the birth? And the child with you?"
She paled, even more frightened. "I've already sent him word; he'll know once my letter reaches him that I lived through it, and gave birth to a healthy son."
Rendon hissed like a snake, then abruptly shoved her away, releasing his hold on her nightgown. "You will live to regret this," he said, voice eerily calm, then turned and walked back over to look in the cradle a second time. She started to rise, frightened of what he might do, then froze at the look he give her. "I will not harm him; for the sake of my own reputation, I will even pretend for now that he is my son. But he will never inherit; you will in time give me a true heir, a son that is mine, and once my heir is old enough I will disinherit this dropping of yours. Do you understand, my dear lovely Morag?"
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"Good. You will also remain here, at Vigil's Keep, and never leave it; never leave your rooms without my persmission, by preference. You have cuckolded me once; I will kill you if it happens a second time. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good," he said, gave a final hard stare at the baby, then turned and walked away. He paused, at the door, but did not look back. "Name the brat whatever you like, so long as it is not a name from my family," he said, then let himself out, closing the door softly behind him.
Loghain gave a carefully precise bow. "Arl Rendon," he said. "My condolences on your recent loss."
"Thank you," the Arl said, nodding his head gravely. "I've expected it for some time; my dear Morag was sickly ever since Nathaniel's birth. This last pregnancy proved too much for her; a pity – it would have been another son, had he lived."
"A regrettable loss,"Loghain said. "Still, you have two fine sons and a lovely daughter," he pointed out, looking to where the three children were sitting to one side of the room. "I've heard you're sending Nathaniel off to be fostered in the Free Marches?"
"Yes," Rendon agreed, a thin smile momentarily lifting his lips. "A final promise to my beloved wife; that I'd send him to a cousin of hers there; the cousin married reasonably well, the husband is some sort of minor lord near Wycome. I should have sent Nathaniel to him and Eileen years ago, I suppose, when he was still young enough to start his fostering as a page, but he'll do well enough as a squire; I've not neglected his education. And Nathaniel has always been Morag's favourite; with her as sickly as she was, I always preferred to indulge her and keep him close."
Loghain nodded. "I'm sure he'll do well in the north."
"I'm sure he will too," Rendon said, and smiled.