1. THE ROAD TO MONTFORT: DEPARTURE

Alistair rode north, away from love, away from the only real home and family he had ever had. He was almost grateful for the storm, for it meant that he could weep without shame, knowing that those who saw him would mistake the tears for raindrops on his cheeks.

Nothing he had done in his life, not even in the year of the Blight, had been as difficult as climbing on his horse and riding away. He had resisted the impulse for a last embrace, and even avoided looking back, for fear he would weaken. His lover knew him too well and his personality was too strong. Alistair had never been able to resist him. In this, Aedan was not so different from his daughter.

For a long time—years—he had not tried to resist. He had reveled in the security of Aedan's arms, felt himself enveloped by his love. Why not? He had never trusted in his own judgment. It had seemed far better to let himself be guided by his brother Warden, who had always been so wise and decisive, and who loved him deeply. For more than five years he had awoken each morning and been amazed to find himself in bed with the man they called the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey.

But in the space of a fortnight, everything had changed. He felt like he no longer knew Aedan, and could not trust him. When he had learned of what had been done to save them on the roof of Fort Drakon, he had been afraid. He supposed that he had always known that Aedan had done something with Morrigan, but he had not thought that he would release an old god into the world. More—even if the girl was not inherently evil—he had released her into Morrigan's care. Even then, he had believed—forced himself to believe that Aedan was wiser than him, that this must have been for the best, though it went against everything he had been taught, against what his own heart told him.

He had watched in dismay as Aedan seemed more concerned with concealing what he had done from Yves than with making sure no ill would come from the child. Little things that had been concealed from him during the Blight came to light, and he worried more and more about Aedan's motivations. After what he had done to Leliana—and hidden from him—Alistair felt he had no choice but to leave.

He had told Aedan, I have to trust your heart. If I can't trust that, I have nothing. And it was so. With his loss of faith in Aedan, he felt he had lost his way, wondered whether anything he had done for six years had been right.

No, I do not have nothing. I am a Warden. Just as after Ostagar, when he had strapped himself to a young recruit, willing himself to believe that he could lead them to victory over the Darkspawn, that was one thing he still had. It was fitting that he go to Weisshaupt, a place he had always wondered about. Perhaps there he could find his path again.

Lost in his thoughts and focused only on getting away from Val Royeaux, it was some time before he noticed that it had grown dark. He realized that he was pushing his unfamiliar horse far too hard for the first day of a long journey, and that he must stop and set up camp for the night. In this weather, he would have been prudent to stop at a tavern along the way, but he was fortunate: the rain stopped and a campfire was feasible.

The following morning broke sunny and pleasantly cool, after the heat that had broiled Val Royeaux for the past few days. He examined the stallion, which he had decided to name Somerled, before embarking on the journey. Despite how hard he had ridden the previous day, the horse seemed only a little stiff, with no sign of injury. He chose his horses for strength, knowing that, especially when fully armored, he was a heavy burden to carry, and it seemed he had chosen rightly. Still, he promised himself that he would be more cautious with Somerled in the days to come.

It was not as though he had any real reason to hurry. It seemed that the news he brought Weisshaupt could have no immediate use and he did not think Aedan would pursue him this time. And I don't want him to. I don't, he told himself fiercely.

He kept Somerled in a slow trot as they traveled north along the old Imperial road. On either side of him lay fertile, rolling plains, dotted with many small peasant villages. A ridge of hills rose in the east along the horizon.

As the days passed, he stopped in these villages often for meals and sometimes for lodging for the night. Though he tolerated sleeping on the ground more readily than Aedan—one advantage of his humble upbringing—sometimes it was pleasant to have somewhere dry and soft to sleep. And while he carried food with him, the salted and dried provisions would keep, and were best saved for the wilder country he must traverse later on his journey.

Though he could tell people were curious about the big, fair-haired man on the white stallion, he was rarely approached, except by the serving wenches in the taverns. Timidly, and with elaborate courtesy, they would take his orders, never daring to ask him who he was or where he was going. Am I so frightening? he wondered. More likely, it was just that he was assumed to be a chevalier, and they were terrified of giving offense. And though he was not a taciturn man by nature, his mood did not inspire him to seek out company.

One afternoon, he was riding through a small village, surrounded by golden fields of ripening wheat and vineyards. Despite the obvious bounty of the land, the peasants he saw were ill-clad and lived in rude hovels. When he paused at the stream that ran through the village to water his horse, he heard a woman cry out in alarm from the field nearby. He dismounted from his horse, to look around and saw a blonde man pushing a young woman—she could not have been much older than Ellaire-to the ground. A dark-haired man laughed and held down her arms. The blonde was forcing the girl's legs apart and lifting his chain hauberk, fumbling with the laces of his breeches underneath, smiling in anticipation.

They're going to rape her right here! And yet, there are other villagers around. No one is doing anything!

Alistair pulled the shield from his back and advanced, his hand on the hilt of the keening blade. "Let go of the girl!" he called out.

The blonde spun toward him, while the other man continued to hold the girl. "Who do you think you are, speaking to me—Warden," he broke off, suddenly, seeing the . "What's your interest in this?" His eyes narrowed, and a thin smile appeared. "You like her? Maybe you want a piece of her too?"

Several peasants in the surrounding fields were now staring toward them, but none of them made a move to help. He advanced on the two men, "Let go of her, you beasts, and maybe I'll let you live." The girl was staring up at him now, her face still filled with fear.

The dark-haired man rose and drew their blades, red steel in the blonde man's hand, steel in the dark. "You think to fight both of us?"

Alistair snorted and drew his own sword. "I've faced greater numbers than two. Try me." The two men looked at the violet sparks that danced along the Keening Blade and his dark dragonbone mail and thought better of their challenge. "Very well, Warden. She's yours." He pushed the girl toward him with a mailed boot as she wept.

He knelt down and tried to console her. "It's alright, no one's going to hurt you now."

But the girl continued to weep. "What will my family do?" she asked, then cried some more. "It's all my fault!" Alistair did not understand the question, or how she could possibly blame herself.

An older man—one of the onlookers who had done nothing when the girl was attacked-spoke to him. "I know you meant well, stranger. But the girl has the right of it. The Baron will punish her family, maybe drive them away, for not submitting."

His eyes flicked toward the two men who were stalking off in the direction of a small keep on a nearby hill. "That was the lord of the manor? That monster? Is there nothing—" he turned back to the sobbing girl, "How much would your family need to make a fresh start in another village?"

She looked up at him, her eyes red. "You would…give me money, mon sieur?"

He nodded. "I meant only to help and it seems I have not…"

"I—maybe three sovereigns would be enough." She looked to the older man for advice.

He gave her five, and she thanked him, kneeling at his feet. He had brought enough coin that he judged he could spare it. The thought crossed his mind that they might be taking advantage of him…but no, disgusting as it was, it was not inconsistent with what he had heard growing up of the behavior of the chevaliers. It reminded him of a story he had heard from an Orlesian merchant in Denerim once.

That evening, he related the story to an innkeeper just outside of the walls of of Mormont. Mormont was a large city, at a major crossroads in Orlais. They were more used to wealthy travelers here than in some of the simple village taverns he had stopped at along the way. "But how can they just accept it like that? Surely…the law would punish even a lord for such a thing?"

"The baron would be the law on his manor, and the only law the peasants would know." the innkeeper replied. "I suppose one could try appealing to the royal magistrate, but if it comes down to the word of serf against a baron…"

"But there were witnesses!" pointed out Alistair.

"And would they dare to testify against their lord?" He shook his head as he refilled Alistair's glass of wine. "Is it really so different in Ferelden?"

"Yes!" But then, he paused to consider. A bann was usually the legal authority for a local area. The nobles he knew best—Arl Eamon and Aedan—certainly would not tolerate men ravishing helpless girls. But he knew not all were so scrupulous. He had heard unsavory rumors about the conduct of Arl Vaughn of Denerim. "Well…sometimes it is. It depends somewhat on the local ruler." He admitted unhappily.

The girl really had reminded him of Ellaire. Not that that was likely to happen to her: a petty baron who tangled with a mage would doubtless get what he deserved. Still, he wondered if they had done the right thing, leaving her with the Mage Collective. Like everything else, he had left it up to Aedan. He took a swallow of wine and frowned.