A GAME OF THORNS
CHAPTER 1 – Where Do I Begin? (Revised)
No seer could have foretold the events of the past two years. Or more to the point, that I would be at the center of so many of them, and a major player in all of them. People call me a hero. They see me as a leader, second only to the ruler of the land. They see the final outcome of things, but they can't see the person beneath the façade. My mistakes, my countless lapses in judgment, my impulsiveness… the secret failures that will escort me to my grave while the crowd cheers and throws roses at my feet.
Because of my past, I scorned a good man without cause. I mistrusted another who helped me and gave me purpose. In my naïveté, I trusted people who schemed against me. At my most vulnerable, I loved recklessly.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning, and you, dear reader, can judge me for yourself.
Chapter 1, Part 1 - Be Vewy Vewy Quiet. We're Hunting Wabbits.
Rabbits were plentiful in the wooded hills southeast of Lake Calenhad. It was King Cailan's favorite hunting ground, not only for the abundance of game but also because it was days away from Denerim and duty. These trips afforded him the freedom he'd missed since he took the throne. Too, they gave him the opportunity to spend time with his uncle, Teagan Guerrin.
Teagan and his elder brother Eamon had a hand in raising Cailan. Their sister, Queen Rowan, died when Cailan was a young child. King Maric loved his son and spent as much time with the boy as his duties permitted, but there was never time enough. He tried to make up for his absences with extravagant gifts and lax discipline. I t was only with Eamon's firm hand and Teagan's quiet wisdom that Cailan grew to be a reasonably responsible young man.
During the time Cailan spent in Redcliffe, Teagan taught the boy how to hunt. Cailan was a skilled bowman by the time he was twelve years old. As an adult, he was one of the best archers in Ferelden. He took pride in showing off his proficiency. When a plump hare peeked out from a thicket, Cailan's readied arrow skewered it and pinned it to a tree. It was a perfect headshot.
"The pupil has outdone the master," Teagan joked. He was as devoted to his nephew as any father to his son.
Cailan beamed with partly feigned arrogance. "You're just getting old," he replied. "A child could have made that shot. Cailan loved and respected Eamon, and he relied on the elder Guerrin in political matters, but he considered Teagan his closest friend.
"A child did make that shot," Teagan rejoined. They continued the hunt while a manservant retrieved the king's arrow and the rabbit. He tucked the rabbit into a sack and wiped the arrow clean on his sleeve before returning it to its quiver.
They had left their horses at the edge of the forest and set off on foot with the manservant and a half dozen of the king's guards accompanying them. The guards kept a discreet distance between the hunters and themselves, just enough to give the king a bit of privacy and to keep the area quiet so the two nobles could track game.
Teagan noted his nephew was unusually subdued. If one didn't know Cailan as well as he did, they wouldn't have detected it. To Teagan it was as obvious as a beacon. He initiated conversation, general topics, to draw his companion out. I f the king was unhappy, before long he would spill it to Teagan and the two could talk it over. It was never his aim to pry into Cailan's business, only to give him a sympathetic ear and, if warranted, sound advice.
"How is your lovely queen these days?" Teagan knew he'd hit a sore spot when his nephew frowned and looked away.
"Anora is as radiant as ever," Cailan answered with a hard edge to his tone. "A prize to be mounted and displayed like an elk. The perfect mate, one would think, if any man could be content with a semblance of a wife."
"I'm sorry," Teagan remarked, trying to back off the topic. But Cailan wanted to talk.
"I loved her," Cailan lamented. "And I thought she loved me. Truth be told, I doubt she ever had feelings for me. If she performed her wifely duties with half the zeal that she displays when she presides over the court, everything would be well. But Anora is cold. She has a crown and a throne and all that I've given her, and she's content to bask in her power with no regard for my needs. If she were ever to give me an heir, I suspect she would refuse to lie with me again." He paused for a breath and concluded, "I don't believe I will care when that day comes. The sooner the better, I say."
"Surely you don't mean that," Teagan scolded.
"It's exactly what I mean," Cailan responded grimly. "This has gone on for five years. Isn't that long enough? I'm not a cruel man, Uncle, but I could send her back to Gwaren tomorrow. Marrying Anora gained no political advantage for Ferelden. It was simply my father repaying a debt he felt he owed Loghain. As if giving him a title wasn't enough." He paused, waited for Teagan to voice disapproval, and at his uncle's silence he came round to his point. "Uncle Eamon was right when he said I would have done better to wed the empress of Orlais. At least my country would have a strong ally instead of a barren figurehead as her queen."
"Eamon said that, did he?" Teagan mused. It was an uncharacteristically reckless comment for Eamon to make, but the damage had been done. He couldn't honestly disagree with the political aspect of it, but from a moral standpoint it abraded Teagan's sense of loyalty.
Cailan went on, "He's also concerned that Anora hasn't conceived, and she's now thirty years old. If she's incapable of giving me an heir, then she's truly of no use to me." He confided in a lower tone, "I've told no one of this, Uncle, but I've spoken with Empress Celene. She is not opposed to a union. In fact, she favors it."
"You've met with her?" his uncle queried. Each bit of news Cailan dropped was more unsettling than the one before.
"I have," Cailan admitted. "She is…stunning." Noting Teagan's shocked expression, he added quickly, "I met her once, briefly, in my travels. We communicate by letter." If his straight-laced uncle knew the whole truth—that he had bedded the hot-blooded Orlesian empress, and that they'd already made plans to wed as soon as Cailan could divorce Anora—whatever support Cailan might have gotten from Teagan would be lost in his disapproval.
Teagan groaned inwardly at Cailan's impulsiveness. "Have a care, Your Majesty, that no one gets their hands on your letters."
"Well, I know I'm in trouble when you address me by my title in private conversation," Cailan grinned, dismissing the subject before he revealed anything else. "Don't mind me, Uncle Teagan. I'm out of sorts today," he finished. " All will be well. Let's get back to the hunt, shall we?"
In light of these disturbing revelations, the rumors of Cailan's philandering gained credibility. The king was said to have had numerous trysts since his marriage to Anora. He was undeniably Maric's son in that respect.
Teagan wasn't as prudish as Cailan believed. He wasn't pure by any means, but he didn't go about bedding every woman who pursued him because of his rank as bann or his Guerrin lineage. He'd been raised to be a gentleman with the manners of a knight, but without the religious restrictions of a templar. He was single only because—as cliché as it seemed—he hadn't found the right woman. Eamon married late in life and was happy; Cailan married young and was miserable. Teagan wasn't in a hurry to tie himself to anyone. He believed, he hoped, his patience would someday be rewarded.
Cailan, however, was prone to act rashly. No one could fault him for wanting to be loved by his wife, as was every husband's right. But he wasn't just a common man. He was the king, and the populace scrutinized his actions. Teagan and Eamon had spent years trying to instill in their nephew the importance of being a good moral leader as well as a strong military one. Some of the lessons evidently fell by the wayside.
"Have you considered how Loghain would react to your notion of divorcing Anora? Worse yet, to replace her with Empress Celene?" Teagan asked. "It hasn't been so long since he shed his blood to free Ferelden from the Orlesians, Cailan."
Cailan pondered the question before responding quietly, "Because of his friendship with Father and Mother, I think Loghain would take it as a personal affront if I divorce Anora. If I marry Celene, Loghain and Anora will gather their supporters and start a rebellion against me. Even though the marriage would benefit Ferelden more than any other alliance I could make, they would fight it."
The conversation ended on that somber note. The men walked on as if continuing their hunt but neither cared for sport any longer. Though Teagan was concerned for his nephew, he dared not advise Cailan on his marriage like Eamon had done. He kept his opinion to himself but it burned in his gut like coals. Cailan risked tearing Ferelden apart—not by divorcing Anora if she was barren, but by marrying the empress. Loghain was highly respected throughout the land and he had many powerful supporters. If he turned them against Cailan, there would be civil war. The king was playing a dangerous game.
The sound of hoof beats broke the uncomfortable silence. A messenger came galloping into the group, reining his horse so hard it nearly threw him before he could get it under control.
"Calm yourself, man. What is it?" Cailan asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Much worse, Your Majesty," the man said. "Darkspawn, Sire, in the Korkari Wilds. A band of Grey Wardens spotted and killed them, and one of the wardens sent me to find the king. A fellow named Duncan. He said to tell Your Majesty he sensed more darkspawn about. Lots more."
"In the Wilds?" Cailan echoed, unshaken by the news. "It's been centuries since the last reports of darkspawn amassing. Could this be the start of another blight?" His marital problems forgotten, the king's eyes shone with excitement like those of a child receiving a coveted gift. "Imagine it, Uncle! A blight! And I'll be the king who will put and end to it, with the aid of the Grey Wardens. The battle will be glorious! Don't you agree?"
"I might not use the word 'glorious' to describe it," Teagan replied. He hoped the messenger and the wardens were mistaken. Few had seen darkspawn since the last blight four hundred years earlier. The beasts still inhabited the Deep Roads in Orzammar but they rarely showed themselves on the surface. If the report were true, it was a direful sign.
Legend had it that Grey Wardens could sense darkspawn, and the beings were somehow drawn to the wardens. After the wardens' exile and subsequent return to Ferelden under Maric's rule, the king granted the Grey Wardens permission to use the old fortress of Ostagar on the edge of the Korkari Wilds as their headquarters. If anyone knew darkspawn, it was Duncan, the senior Grey Warden and unofficial warden-commander of Ferelden.
"I'm going to Ostagar to meet with Duncan," Cailan announced, voicing Teagan's thoughts. He instructed the messenger, "Get a fresh horse from my guard and bring word to Teyrn Loghain to gather the armies and meet me there." The messenger followed the guard, and Cailan turned to Teagan. "If this is a blight, I intend to put it down before they advance further into Ferelden."
"Would you have me bring word to Eamon to summon his army and join you at Ostagar, Your Majesty?" Teagan asked, assuming his formal manner.
"No need," Cailan answered. "Between my men, Loghain's army, and the Grey Wardens, I'll overpower those monsters and make them wish they'd stayed underground." He strode off toward the edge of the forest and the tethered horses, calling over his shoulder, "I must be off, Uncle. We'll talk again after the battle."
"Maker be with you," Teagan responded absently, making his way toward his horse. He mounted up and turned toward Redcliffe Castle. He had a few things to say to his brother.
Part 2 – O Brother, What Were You Thinking?
"Did you truly tell Cailan he should marry the empress of Orlais?" Teagan asked Eamon.
"Not in those words," Eamon replied. "What's all the fuss about? It was an offhand remark, and it wasn't like I was telling him to divorce Anora and go propose to the empress." Not at the time, Eamon thought. Things are different now.
"May I ask what you did tell him?"
Eamon regarded his brother curiously. "What is this? I made a comment years ago about Cailan's political alignments. Why would it upset you?"
"Cailan would have me believe you told him he would be better off married to the empress."
"Yes, it's what I said. What of it?"
"What in the Maker's name were you thinking?" Teagan demanded.
"I don't care for your tone, Teagan," the arl snapped. "As I said, I made a casual remark to Cailan after he married Anora. The marriage might have made their fathers happy, and it elevated a glorified farmer's daughter to the throne, but it did nothing for Ferelden. I pointed out that a political marriage with the empress would have been more advantageous."
The elder Guerrin's explanation left Teagan nonplussed. "You… you said that to him years ago?"
"Yes, I told him right after his wedding, to be exact," Eamon confirmed. "I wanted to tell him before he married the girl, but I couldn't get in to see him. Are you telling me he remembers it now?" Eamon chuckled, "After all these years, he finally decided to obey an elder?" Teagan didn't find anything about the situation amusing.
"The boy has taken it into his head you're encouraging him to pursue a marriage with the empress. He believes he will have your blessing when he brings his divorce petition before the landsmeet."
Eamon was about to comment when the impact of his brother's words hit him. He'd written Cailan about Anora's apparent barrenness and the problem it presented for the Theirin lineage. He proposed to consult with his nephew on his next visit to Denerim, but he hadn't spoken to Teagan about the issue. What surprised him most was that Cailan had revealed so much to Teagan. At last he said, "Please tell me you're having me on." He shook his head. "I hope he hasn't done anything disgraceful. Surely Cailan isn't that foolhardy."
"It could be he's more manipulative than foolhardy," Teagan said.
"If so, he's more like Maric than I imagined."
"Indeed. I thought we were done cleaning up after Theirin indiscretions."
Eamon asked Teagan to tell him exactly what was going on with Cailan. Teagan told him everything except the part about contacting the empress. Since his nephew had confided the information to him, he wouldn't betray his trust.
"Maker," Eamon sighed at length. "Well, I've always found Anora to be the devious sort. To be perfectly honest, I never cared for the girl. Not a drop of noble blood in her."
"Nonetheless, perhaps you'll be able to talk some sense into our young king when he returns from his war."
"I have a meeting scheduled with him," Eamon said, omitting that he intended to reinforce what he'd said in his letters to Cailan—that he should end his marriage to Anora without delay. "I only hope I can shake off this lethargy before I have to travel all the way to Denerim."
Now that he'd called attention to it, Eamon did look ashen. It was cool in the castle but the arl mopped perspiration from his brow as if he'd been doing hard physical labor. "Feeling under the weather, Brother?" Teagan inquired.
"More like under a rock," Eamon jested, but without much humor. "I awoke yesterday morning feeling fine. Around mid-morning, I began experiencing fatigue. It worsened since then, to the point where I can hardly stand for more than a few minutes. Then headaches and dizziness set in, so I assumed it was some type of fever. You know, nothing to be concerned about. This morning it was worse still. I have difficulty staying awake. I asked Isolde to send for a healer, but she insisted on going herself."
"I'll stay with you until she returns," Teagan said, hiding his worry as best he could. "I can keep you company, talk your ear off if you like. If nothing else, I can keep Connor out of your hair so you can rest."
Eamon opened his mouth to tell Teagan he needn't worry himself, that Isolde would be home any minute, but he couldn't form the words. All that came out was a long, wheezing groan as an icy dark fog engulfed him. His eyes rolled up to whites and he slumped to the floor, as pale and still as death.
Part 3 – Bad Moon Rising
From his vantage point at Ostagar, Duncan gazed over the land. The nightmares had returned with renewed strength and frequency, and he knew his time was short. The taint he'd taken into his body at his joining was killing him. A slow death, thirty years to accomplish, but as undeniable as it was predictable.
His blood ran painfully hot in his veins, indicating darkspawn in large numbers. More ominously, this kind of burning was confirmation of an archdemon's presence. They would soon face a blight, as bad or worse than the one that almost wiped out every living creature four hundred years earlier. And they weren't prepared for it.
The Grey Wardens, and mankind in general, had grown complacent since the last blight. Only the wardens knew it would happen again, but as the decades turned to centuries, they had allowed their numbers to dwindle to a handful of Grey Wardens in Ferelden. In the past year, Duncan had recruited only two new members for his order. The most recent, and most promising in quite some time, was a templar he'd conscripted from the chantry. That had been six months ago.
The archdemon waited for this exact time, when Ferelden's defenses were at their lowest. Duncan had foolishly miscalculated the beast's cunning. Now the wardens were few in number—two dozen at most in the whole country—and the beast was ready to attack. The fate of mankind was in the balance, and Duncan wasn't sure they would come out victoriously.
He left Ostagar and began a circuit through Ferelden to recruit or conscript as many fighters as he could, planning to return with at least twenty new potential wardens. He traveled alone, with nothing more than his weapons and a small pouch of provisions, to complete his journey as quickly as possible. He ate and slept only as much as was required to keep up his strength, and he pushed on, oftentimes on sheer determination. He couldn't allow anything to hinder him from his mission to bolster the Grey Warden's numbers before the war started.
Because he knew for a certainty he would not live to see the war's end.
Chapter 1A - Let Me Introduce Myself
Part 1 – Boulevard of Broken Dreams
To me, there was no place on the planet as beautiful as Starkhaven. Lush and green, nestled between gentle hills and a sparkling river—it seemed the Maker Himself graced our land with unparalleled serenity. Her people were hospitable and kind, and sometimes a bit rowdy, but such was the nature of our blood.
Like my parents, and their parents before them, I was born and raised in our family mansion near the royal palace. We were linked to the ruling prince both by blood and by marriage, and ours was a life of prestige and privilege. Father was Prince Vael's second cousin, and Mother was Princess Vael's stepsister. Because of our relationship, we were referred to as "minor royalty"—not as high as the ruling family, but set apart from other nobles. Thus my family, the MacEwan clan, was well known, and my father widely respected.
While the Vaels' sons were young, Father occupied the role of captain of the prince's armies. In due time, the prince's second son would assume that position, as was his birthright. The role was an easy assignment in our day. There were no wars, no aggressors, not a challenge to our borders. But peace suited us fine.
One who wasn't so enthralled with this idyllic existence was Sebastian Vael, the youngest son. In short, he was bored. Bored with peace, with rules, with the pomp that accompanied him at every step. He was handsome, rakish, and rebellious. By age twenty he'd earned a reputation as a philandering scoundrel, and he went out of his way to cause his father embarrassment. The instances in which the palace guards had to drag him, drunk and fighting, from local taverns, were happening with increasing frequency. The tavern wenches who claimed Sebastian was the father of their infants were numerous—too numerous to be believed. None of that mattered to me, though. I was in love with him. Even so, I hid my feelings because I wasn't the kind of woman with whom Sebastian kept company. I was too… tame. And decidedly too moral.
The prince could see Sebastian wasn't fit for leadership in any capacity. He wasn't adept at melee combat, preferring the bow to a sword. He excelled in archery so much that none in the land could match him, but the prince wanted all his sons to have some proficiency with blades. As was his habit, Sebastian skipped his lessons and went drinking instead. And as usual, the guards were called to haul him back home.
At last Prince Vael had had enough with his stubborn son. Sebastian was too impulsive for his own good, so the prince opted to send him off to the chantry to serve the Maker rather than Starkhaven. With the lad safely promised to the chantry, it would prevent the temperamental Sebastian from competing with his older brothers for the throne. The prince allowed Sebastian one year to get his life in order and to right the many wrongs he'd done in his short lifetime. At the end of his year, Sebastian would be sent to the chantry in Kirkwall, the largest chantry in the Free Marches.
Sebastian was incensed, believing his father rejected him in favor of his elder siblings. The prince and princess tried to calm him, but his fate was set. His rage was ignored and he became depressed. My father took pity on him, and without asking the prince's permission, he tutored Sebastian with me in melee combat. My lessons had been going on for years, since I was strong enough to swing a longsword. When Sebastian joined my sessions, I was far advanced in swordplay and was able to assist with tutoring.
Father was a warrior but he was also well versed in rogue skills. Because of my small build and unusual dexterity, Father had taught me to wield longswords, use a shield to bash an opponent or ward off an attacker's blow, attack stealthily with daggers, and fire a shortbow with relative accuracy. My favorite thing, though, was fighting with two swords. Daggers had their purpose, I supposed, but I loved the heft of a longsword the sound of it slicing through the air.
As our training progressed, Sebastian's swordsmanship skills increased. His gratitude was aimed more at me than at Father. I was flattered. No, I was elated. He left off his womanizing and he wooed me with the finesse of a man much older than his years. After pining for him so long, I finally won his love. And after much persuasion and many promises from him, I let myself be seduced. He swore we would marry as soon as he could arrange it. It would be soon, because his year was almost up.
We would have no choice but to elope. My parents would be disappointed but they would come to understand. To elude the prince, we would have to leave Starkhaven for a while. Eventually, maybe when our first child was born, we'd return. The prince would be unwilling (and unable) to force a married man and a father into the chantry, and we could live our lives as we pleased. In a few years, all our misdeeds would be forgotten.
We met as often as we could and planned our escape. Timing was crucial. We would have to make our move soon. The prince had already taken Sebastian to Kirkwall twice to see the chantry and to meet with the renowned Grand Cleric Elthina. Sebastian was impressed with her. He went on about the magnificence of the Kirkwall chantry and the grand cleric's wisdom. As he spoke of them, unease snaked into my mind. Still, he insisted he was wholly devoted to me.
"I won't be able to leave the palace as often as before," he announced one night, shortly after his second visit to Kirkwall. "Father's always about, and he seems to be watching me. So if I don't see you for a couple of weeks, don't be alarmed. I'll come for you at my first opportunity, and we'll be together. I promise you this."
I believed him. Of course I believed him. He would never lie to me. Never.
I had written a note for my parents and kept it hidden, to leave for them when I eloped. I couldn't vanish and leave them to worry, could I? That would be too cruel. They would be upset, but they would know I was safe and in good care. Father had grown fond of Sebastian. He would forgive him quickly, I was sure, and convince Mother to do likewise.
As he predicted, our meetings were brief and far between. Not just two weeks, but four weeks went by before I saw him again. He was all apologies and promises, and I couldn't stay angry. Another few weeks passed with no word, then I got a message to meet him in a nearby village. And so it continued for… months? A year? His time to enter the chantry was long past. Had the prince had a change of heart? Was he reconsidering his decision, weighing Sebastian's current behavior and attitudes against those of his past? If so, I believed he would approve of him.
I continued to wait. Fueled by a mountain of love letters and those rare, short visits for a stolen embrace, a quick kiss on the cheek, declaring his love again and again, I waited. He treated me with respect, not wanting to make love again until we were wed. He wanted us to live and love in the purity of marriage, and I agreed. All this time, I stayed ready for him to take me away. A sensible woman would have demanded more of an explanation for his long absences, but I was excited by the idea of being stolen away by my lover in the night.
Everything changed when my parents were killed. A group of men invaded our home one night. Even my father's formidable skills were no match when he was outnumbered ten to one. To insure their victory, they broke his spirit by murdering my mother first. The shock of seeing her run through caused him to falter just long enough for the attackers to take him down. I was away from home that evening, having a rare, romantic, clandestine meeting with Sebastian. If I'd been home I would have been killed as well. It wouldn't be the last time fate, or the Maker Himself, intervened directly in my life.
Prince Vael instructed me to stay at a house within the palace walls. My own home was, as he put it, "uninhabitable at this time." My mind conjured up all manner of gory, agonizing images of my parents in their final moments. The prince ordered the mansion cleaned and, at my request, put up for sale. It drew no buyers. Everyone knew it was a murder scene and superstition kept them away. More disturbing was that none of our valuables were taken. Whoever had killed them, or ordered them killed, did so out of a personal grudge.
During my mourning period, word reached me that Sebastian's father had indeed sent him to the chantry. Truth be told, he'd been an initiate for over a year. He wasn't locked away at the palace, as he'd told me all along. He spent most of his time in Kirkwall, and one week of each month at the local chantry—a concession for Princess Vael so she would be able to see her youngest son. He had been lying to me. I had to work at it, but I convinced myself he had good reason to lie.
Sebastian rebelled against the rules, but in his heart he had embraced the religion. Even after I questioned him about his lies, he insisted he was only going along with his father's wishes until he could escape. With the lies, more truth came out. Generations of Vaels had sent their third sons to the chantry. It was their tradition.
If I had to come up with a defense for my gullibility, it would be that I was too stunned by the loss of my family to think rationally. The future we'd planned came to as abrupt an end as my parents' lives. Sebastian's letters continued to arrive, but the tone of them changed. They were more about Andraste and the Maker and the chantry.
I'd had enough of his smooth talk. I was going to learn the truth—all of it, no matter what it was or how much it might hurt. On the week that he was at the local chantry, I went to see him. Placid-faced, robed men and women looked past me into some unseen spiritual world, or gave me a solemn nod of acknowledgement. Initiates, it seemed, weren't allowed to speak to visitors.
When I finally found him, Sebastian was surprised but pleased to see me. He led me to the garden to talk, and there he confessed that he had recently taken his vows. He still loved me, he said, and we would be married, but with conditions. He required me to join the chantry, and we would enter into a chaste marriage. This man who had taught me all I knew of love now wanted to ruin the only good thing I had left. I was crushed. And completely alone.
"A chaste marriage," I repeated. "You fully expect me to pledge my life to you, lie beside you every night, and not be allowed to touch you or kiss you? You deceived me, told me we would be married so I wouldn't bear the shame of your tavern wenches. Now you want to deny the very thing that defines marriage—expressing our love in every way. Having children. Sharing everything. Have you gone mad, Sebastian? Are you able to hold to these rigid rules?"
"I am," he asserted. "And no, I haven't gone mad. I have finally found my sanity. My heart is pledged to Andraste. If I were to make love to you, I would be betraying my true bride. I can't allow myself to think such a thing!" He snatched my hands and held them tightly. "My dear Winter, I wronged you when I took your virtue, and it's my duty to marry you and restore your honor. We can't have relations and we won't have children, but I didn't abandon our love. We can be together in purity."
"Your duty? Marrying me is a duty now?" I was livid and mortified. Did he mean to say he regretted the times we spent together? That he was ashamed of our love? Ashamed of loving me? After bedding scores of village wenches, he was ashamed of me? The touch of his skin became offensive. I jerked my hands from his.
As for my faith, I believed in the Maker and I always had believed. But I had serious reservations about the worship of Andraste. "I don't know what kind of nonsense you've been taught, Sebastian, but you're delusional if you think I'll agree to something as ludicrous as a chaste marriage. Who ever heard of such a thing? And you do it out of a sense of duty? How could you ask that of me?"
"Andraste would have us live pure, as she lived when she pledged herself to the Maker."
"She told you that, did she?" I sneered. "You, who can't commit to the chantry, who uses every excuse to run back to the castle, and to me… You're a hypocrite."
He was unruffled. "I admit I have made some mistakes and I'm battling my sinful nature, but my attitudes are being cleansed every day. Don't be angry, my love. All you need do is give yourself to the Maker, and we can be together." He was earnest, but I wasn't convinced that he was convinced of his so-called attitude cleansing.
He went on as if I'd agreed to his nonsensical plan, and as if what he'd already told me wasn't insulting enough. "You'll have to abandon the violence you've embraced, as I have. Give up those swords you wear. Swordplay isn't for ladies, certainly not for chantry sisters. Leave the fighting to the templars, the guardians of our sanctuary. Forget your past and turn to the Maker. I will cherish you, and you will be my Andraste."
"Your history is a bit muddled, Brother Sebastian. Andraste led the rebellion against the Tevinter Emperium. And her weak, jealous husband betrayed her, as I recall. She was a soldier, and she never laid her weapons aside voluntarily. You revere Andraste as a prophet. I respect her as a warrior."
He gave me the most maddeningly condescending smile, as if he were correcting a wayward child. "You blaspheme the Maker when you don't revere His bride."
In my hurt and anger, I raged at him. "I refuse to believe the Maker fell in love with a human woman—a married woman—and claimed her for His own. What kind of Maker do you serve who condones unfaithfulness? You believe a fairy tale, Sebastian. Your beliefs are in error, and the worship of Andraste is heresy."
Ah, so I touched a nerve. His countenance darkened until he hardly resembled the man I once loved. He'd gone from a delightful companion and sensitive lover to a religious fanatic, but one that, I suspected, was still wavering in his faith. Today, though, he seemed fully in the grip of the chantry teachings or his skewed version of them. "Repent, before the Maker strikes you down. If you don't, and if He doesn't smite you where you stand, I will."
I could take no more of this. Rejection was one thing. But threatening my life over his on-again, off-again beliefs was deplorable, and I wasn't having it. He may well try to take my life, but I would not back down. "You mean to kill me? Do you really believe Andraste is some kind of deity? She is not the Maker's bride. That was some gibberish tale invented by people in her time who felt guilty for betraying her to the Tevinter."
"Enough!" he shouted. Gathering his composure and wrapping himself in his invisible cloak of self-righteousness, he magnanimously gave me another chance. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Winter MacEwan, but I won't have you speaking against Our Lady. Because I care so deeply for you, I will give you one more chance. Recant your lies against the holy Andraste, and I will go with you to the reverend mother to dedicate your life and seek forgiveness for your sins."
I glared at him for a long minute. This wasn't the man I loved. He was a stranger, flighty and temperamental. Worse, he was a pompous fool. "No," I said. "I don't need another chance. I won't recant because that is what I believe. If you believe otherwise, that's your choice. I want nothing more to do with you or with your bullshit religion."
His face went red with rage. His once-beautiful eyes bulged. He began to sputter until he found the words that utterly shattered my heart. "Get out. Get out of Starkhaven. By my authority as a Vael, I strip you of your citizenship and your property. Further, you are to be imprisoned for blasphemy until I decide you've repented. Only then will you be taken to the border and left there. You cannot return; you body cannot be buried here. By royal decree, Winter MacEwan, your are exiled." He turned to a nearby templar and beckoned him over. "This woman has committed blasphemy and conspiracy against the royal family. Have her thrown in prison."
"You lying bastard!" I hissed. "I've done nothing wrong. I would never 'conspire' against your family. Further, some may frown upon blasphemy but it's not a crime. You spout hollow religious rhetoric, but you're as corrupt as a demon."
He backhanded me across the mouth, knocking me to the floor. With a last contemptuous glance, he turned his back on me and walked away. The templar hauled me to my feet and brought me to the city guards. I was disarmed and stripped of my armor, given plain linen prison garments to wear, and shoved into a cold cell. Better there, in the cold, empty room, than a life with a cold and empty man. I hoped he came to a decision on my "repentance" soon. I didn't want to spend another moment in Starkhaven than was necessary. I didn't want to live, for that matter. Starkhaven was stark indeed, but it was no haven.
"Starkprison," I muttered irrationally. "Starkhades. Maker curse this wretched land."
Weeks passed, and I waited for Sebastian to come to some decision on my exile or, better still, an execution. I despised him with the same depth of passion that I had once loved him. My heart grew calloused, but its hardness couldn't compare to Sebastian's cruelty. I was convinced he would have me executed, though he'd not threatened as much. Maybe my mind had snapped as his had.
After a time, a guard came to my cell and tossed some cloth through the bars. "Put these on." They were plain garments, like all the poor women wore. What better to wear to one's execution than a bland frock and worn boots? (I had become obsessed with the execution idea.) When I'd changed, the guard escorted me to the prison courtyard where an open cart awaited. There were neither gallows nor an executioner's block. There was just the cart.
A magistrate approached, pulled a scroll from his sleeve, unrolled it and read: "Winter MacEwan, you are formally exiled from Starkhaven for life. Furthermore, you are forbidden burial in this land. By order of Sebastian Vael, Marques of Starkhaven."
In a display of contempt, I spat on the ground at the mention of his name and his newly-adopted title. Rather incongruous for a chantry brother who had taken vows of poverty and humility, wouldn't you say? The guards shoved me into the cart and it rolled away, taking me south toward Kirkwall and the coast. I could lose myself in the city, or better yet, take ship and leave the cursed Free Marches and its memories behind.
When we arrived at the Kirkwall pier, the driver hopped down and produced a bundle that he'd been instructed to give me when he reached our destination. It contained my armor, weapons, and a sizeable chest of coin, along with a letter from Princess Vael. She apologized for her son's rash decisions and the ill treatment I'd received. She regretted his decree, but it was irreversible for any but the one who issued it—Sebastian himself. The coin, she said, wasn't charity, but mine by right. She had purchased my mansion.
A ship at port was bound for Highever in Ferelden the following day. Perfect. I found an inn, rented a room, and washed the last of Starkhaven's dirt from my skin. It felt good to be back in my armor and wearing my swords again. The only problem remaining was what to do with the gold. It was too much and too heavy to carry about. I knew no one with which to leave it in Kirkwall. I could invest it. Perhaps I could buy house in Kirkwall—what an interesting idea.
A few inquiries led me to a snarky weasel named Gamlin Amell. He was trying to sell his family estate for an exorbitant sum. It was a fine home, to be sure, but nowhere near worth the price he was asking.
"I think I'll have to pass on your offer, Messer Amell," I said, and tried to leave. He grasped my arm.
"Don't be so hasty," he said testily. "We can negotiate, can't we? I see you like the estate. How about I drop the price 100 sovereigns?"
"I have a better offer. First, get your hand off my arm. Then you shove this house—"
"Alright, alright," he interrupted. He explained that he was in deep trouble because of his gambling debts. "So you see, I really need the money. They might kill me if I don't pay."
"What a heartbreaking tale," I said with mock sympathy, "but I don't believe you. No gambler would let a mark run up that much debt knowing he was incapable of paying it off. Now I will suggest a reasonable price, and you can take it or leave it. Final offer." I named a sum that was more than fair, and he knew it.
"You're a cold-hearted one," he groused, but he was eager to get his greedy paws on all that gold and sign the house over to me. In short order, I was four thousand sovereigns lighter and the proud owner of a house I would never inhabit. My problems were solved. As for Gamlin's… well, they weren't my problems, were they? I kept the name of the estate as it was—Amell Estate. My name was listed as owner with the city registrar, but no one else would have that information.
I returned to the inn and slept more peacefully than I had in months. For a person with no country, no family, no home (the Amell Estate was an investment only), and no friends, I was remarkably at ease. Having nothing left to lose gives one a new perspective.
I woke before dawn and went to the pier. The ship was to sail at first light. I paid for passage and boarded it, bound for Ferelden.
Part 2 – Girl, Interrupted
Duncan found me when I was fighting off five bandits who thought to relieve me of my coin. Like most bullies, they thought a woman was an easy target. They likely assumed my armor was a pretense at looking tough, and the two longswords I carried were for show or fashion. Why walk into a trap, you might ask. After the long, solitary stay in prison and the dull sail, a bit of activity was a welcome change.
The thugs, unimaginative beasts that they were, lured me into an alley. One of them came to fetch me, wringing his hands and saying his wife was about to give birth and he didn't know what to do. Neither did I, in such a case. He was as bad an actor as he was a bandit. But I was curious; I followed him into the alley where four more bandits lay in wait. They threatened and postured, brandishing their swords and daggers. I drew my swords as well, twirling them about to show off.
"Let's have at it, then," I said with a wicked smile. "Who wants to be first? Or will it be all of you at once? I'm game."
One of them leered, "So you want to take us on all at once, do you? You foreign women are a wild lot."
"Keep talking that way," I snarled, "and your life won't be the first thing you lose."
They spewed more threats and seasoned them heavily with curses, trying to surround me so only the man in front of me would risk injury. The problem was, none of them wanted to be the man in front. I turned slowly, targeting each one. They moved around. They were cowards, just as I'd figured.
"Oh come on now, are you going to keep a lady waiting all day?" I taunted. They were less motivated than they'd been earlier. "Are you as weak and faint-hearted as you look?"
The last jab riled them up enough to attack. They flailed and slashed in blind rage, without any skill. Too bad for them, because even lacking swordsmanship, they wouldn't give up. If they'd walked away, they would still be alive. If they'd had a whit of sense, they would have fled when the first of their companions fell. They were nothing if not stupidly stubborn. While the short fight went on, I saw another man come into the alley. He didn't join in. I guessed he was their leader, and I'd have to fight him after I finished off his lackeys.
It was all over in about two minutes. I looked down at their corpses in disgust. "The next time you waylay an innocent, try posting an archer on the roof," I advised the dead men, more for the benefit of their leader, obviously, than for the slain buffoons he'd employed. The leader still stood to the side watching, not speaking or approaching. "Come to try your luck too?" I goaded him. I'd had enough of the dirty alley and was ready to move on.
"I came to see if you needed help," he answered. "It appears your attackers were the ones who needed help instead. You're quite an accomplished swordswoman." His diction and tone indicated he was more cultured than the louts that littered the alley. He was an older man, bearded and well dressed—not as a noble but in some sort of light armor and robes, and he carried a beautifully crafted, barbed dagger and a sword. Whoever he was, with weapons like those, he knew how to fight.
"Well then, the show is over. I hope you enjoyed yourself," I said scornfully. It wasn't that I wanted or needed his help. I just found it strange that he didn't try to step in when he saw a woman being attacked. Well, no matter. Maybe all Fereldan men were asses.
"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself," he said as I started to walk away. "My name is Duncan. I was most impressed with your fighting skills."
"Well, ser, I was not impressed with your passivity," I retorted. "What if I hadn't been able to defend myself? Would you have watched them slaughter me?"
"Certainly not," Duncan answered, "and I apologize for giving the wrong impression. I saw that your skill was more than a match for these fellows. If I thought you were in danger, I would have put them to the sword myself."
"I'm so relieved to hear it," I went on in the same derisive tone. "Now that you've put my fears to rest, I'll be on my way."
"Please, if I may have a moment," he said.
"Your moment is over. Good day, ser."
"I'd like to invite you to join the Grey Wardens."
That caught my interest. I'd heard of Grey Wardens but never met one. Famed warriors, blight-quellers, griffin-riding heroes of old. This man didn't look like he fit any of those descriptions. Maybe the warrior part, but famed? I didn't think so. Still…
"Grey Wardens, eh? And who might you be? Their recruiter?"
A handsome, dark-haired young man in expensive-looking custom armor stepped into the alley. He looked around at the bodies and his eyes widened in alarm. "What happened here? Warden-Commander, I trust you are unharmed."
"I am, Aiden." He gestured toward me. "I heard a commotion and found this young lady throwing bandits around like ragdolls."
"You're thinking of recruiting her?"
"That is my hope," Duncan answered him, and then turned to me. "A blight is coming and I need able fighters in the wardens. You've more than proven your courage and capability."
I considered his offer. My life in recent months had gone to hell. I had no purpose. Why not die doing something worthwhile? A physical death was far preferable to the emptiness I felt inside.
"I accept. I'll join your wardens."
Introductions were made before we set out for some place called Ostagar. The younger man was Aiden Cousland, son of the teyrn of Highever. He was a pleasant enough fellow, well mannered and respectful. He had a mabari war hound at his side that he called Alduin. The hound seemed too friendly to be of much help in battle, but in the future I would learn just how well the term "war hound" suited his breed.
"I'm Winter," I said, adding no further details. There was nothing I cared to share with these strangers. Or with anyone else.
"From Starkhaven," Duncan observed, but he didn't ask prying questions. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Winter. Let's go collect my other recruits and we'll be on our way."
The others turned out to be a knight named Ser Jory, a rather shady fellow called Daveth, and a handful of humans and elves whose names escaped my memory as soon as I'd heard them. I was in no mood for chatter, so I kept to myself while the others went on about their wives or sweethearts of an elusive "golden haired lass with bad eyesight". Duncan was quiet too, speaking only when necessary to direct us or when one of the recruits quizzed him about our destination, the wardens, or our responsibilities. He guided us southward for almost four days, across a vast plain that made up central Ferelden, until we came to a bridge over a deep gorge. On the other side of the bridge was an old fortress, very large and partly in ruins. This was Ostagar. In its day, it must have been an imposing place. This day it seemed to be a sad reminder of past defeats.
Before we went to prepare for what Duncan called the "joining ritual," he brought us to meet the king. King Cailan, he said, was an ardent supporter of the Grey Wardens, and he wanted to personally welcome every new recruit.
So this is the great King Cailan, I thought. Not so impressive. He was young, blond, attractive, and reeked of wealth and privilege. Rich, handsome royals weren't my favorite people, as you might imagine. While his words and tone were gracious, he swaggered about like a master warrior in shiny armor that looked like it hadn't been worn for anything more dangerous than a parade. The monarch greeted and shook hands with each of the men, and then he came to me. He latched onto my hand and held it, eyeing me closely. I knew that look well.
"Welcome to Ostagar," he greeted. "Might I know your name?"
I quashed the sassy reply that came to mind and answered, "Thank you, Your Majesty. My name is Winter MacEwan."
"From Starkhaven!" he exclaimed, echoing Duncan's earlier observation but with obvious excitement. "I've been to Starkhaven numerous times in my travels. Would you be acquainted with the Vaels?"
"I am related to the Vaels, Sire."
"You're a noblewoman, then. Marvelous!" He leaned in to share a confidence. "I have to attend a strategy meeting with my advisor, but afterwards I'd like you to come to my tent so we can talk. I'd like to hear how my good friend Sebastian Vael is getting on these days."
I eyed him coldly and extricated my hand from his grasp. "King Cailan, I am not one of your maids or tavern wenches brought here for your entertainment. I'm here as a fighter, and nothing else."
Duncan was horrified at my directness and disrespect for his king. "Your Majesty, I apologize! I had no idea—"
Cailan was already laughing the matter off. "She's a spirited one, Duncan," he grinned. "No harm done." He didn't feel a whit of embarrassment at being publicly called on his clumsy attempt to bed me. Rather, he gazed at me with amused reproach, bowed his head in a mocking gesture of deference, and dismissed me with, "By your leave, Lady MacEwan."
Duncan sent me with the others to find a warden named Alistair to prepare for the joining, and he followed after his king. Probably gushing apologies for my inexcusable behavior, I thought. If anyone behaved badly, it was the boy-king of Ferelden.
Alistair waited for us in an area at the western side of the fortress. He introduced himself and had us do the same, then he told us a little about our first task as recruits. He asked if there were any questions, and answered all except those having to do with the joining ritual. Whether he didn't know or wasn't allowed to tell, I couldn't say.
He led us to the center of the lower camp where Duncan was waiting to give us our assignment. We were to go into the Korkari Wilds, find some documents in an old ruin, and along the way, kill a number of darkspawn and bring back vials of their blood.
"Darkspawn blood!" Daveth repeated. "What in Andraste's name is that for?"
"For the joining," Duncan answered simply, without further explanation. Whatever this "joining" was all about, they were awfully reluctant to speak of it. You'd think we would have been suspicious…
Cailan had been disappointed when he arrived at Ostagar, eager to see the senior Grey Warden again, only to learn that Duncan had already left on his recruitment tour. He had been looking forward to seeing him again. They had been introduced at his coronation, and he held the elder man in high regard. In fact, Cailan was fascinated with the Grey Wardens. He thought them to be the best fighters in Ferelden, and this darkspawn attack gave him the opportunity he'd hoped for—to fight alongside the legendary Duncan.
During the weeks he waited for Duncan to return, there were skirmishes with darkspawn that his men and Loghain's troops easily won. Deep down, he was dismayed that the battles were too easy. The monsters were ugly and they smelled like rotting corpses, but they were scarcely a challenge for Ferelden's weakest warriors.
To Cailan's amusement, though, the warden Duncan had left in charge in his absence was the king's supposedly secret half brother, Alistair. Cailan had known about him since he was a lad, but he didn't think Alistair had an inkling about his paternity and their kinship. Equally amusing was that even though the two men bore a strong resemblance to each other, nobody appeared to notice it.
Alistair was a decent sort, he'd heard. He'd been educated in the chantry and trained as a templar until Duncan conscripted him some months back. Cailan was aware of the rigorous life and discipline of templars, and he didn't envy the fellow. What normal man would want to be locked away with nothing but bland chantry sisters for amusement? But he had to admit it touched off a spark of admiration for his sibling. If this Alistair was as dedicated a warden as he was a templar—and he had no reason to think otherwise, the upcoming war could be more interesting than he'd anticipated. Cailan wished him no ill will, and he hoped the younger, illegitimate Theirin would live up to the battle prowess that marked his lineage. Whether Alistair knew of it or not, Maric's blood flowed through his veins. Cailan didn't want to see a drop of it spilled. Deep in his heart, buried so far he couldn't sense it himself, Cailan cared about Alistair's well-being.
Nonetheless, physical traits aside, the half brothers had nothing in common, the king thought. In some ways, he was wrong.
Part 3 – Swamp People
Our excursion into the swamp was eventful, to put it mildly. First there was the argument over who would lead the group. Naturally, we assumed Alistair would lead, but he told us to choose a leader and follow them.
"Ser Alistair, aren't you going to lead us? You're the only true warden here," Jory said. His tone reflected the confusion we all felt.
"I will not," Alistair answered. "I want to test your leadership skills. Now either pick a leader, or someone can step up and the rest of you fall in line. Failing that, I'll appoint one of you to lead."
It was a bad idea. The other recruits, all male, argued over why they should be the one to lead. Jory was a knight and had battle experience. Aiden was a noble and a natural leader, he claimed. Daveth was adept at stealth and could get us through the swamp undetected—another unsupported claim. A Dalish elf said he was better suited because he was raised in the forest. And on it went. Everyone had a reason why they should be leader, but nobody did anything.
I grew tired of the bickering and walked off, calling back to the group, "I'm going on ahead. When you boys decide which of you is the best leader, feel free to come along." Aiden caught the irony of my statement and he was the first to follow—somewhat sheepishly. The others kept at it until we were almost out of their sight before they fell in line. Alistair observed us without comment.
We fought groups of darkspawn and collected vials of their foul-smelling blood. All the non-aggressive animals we saw had been killed, their bodies broken and twisted, or ripped apart and disemboweled. Everything from large elk to small rabbits lay in bloody heaps. We were attacked by wolves, uncovered the hiding place of a demon, and at last we found the ruin where a broken chest sat. The chest once held the documents we were seeking, but now it was empty.
A strange young woman appeared out of nowhere and berated us for invading her wilds, calling us names and ridiculing each of us in turn. She was very beautiful but wore scanty clothing that revealed most of her chest, and had only a thin string across her back holding the strips of cloth in place. As a woman, I understood that her attempt to entice was calculated. Her attitude, though, was hardly alluring. Instead of being enthralled with her sensuality, the men were frightened of her, calling her "witch of the wilds." Only Aiden watched her with casual interest, unafraid and openly attracted to her. She and Alistair took an instant dislike to each other.
"Could you please tell me if you know where the papers are?" I prompted her.
"First tell me your name, and I will tell you mine," was her response.
Must we go through these idiotic formalities when all I asked for was a damn set of papers? "My name is Winter."
"Winter," she repeated, mocking as usual. I didn't care. Every comment she made was mocking or just plain rude. "So you are cold hearted?" She chuckled. "I like you already. You may call me Morrigan."
Sure, if it will get your stubborn ass moving… "Morrigan, do you have our papers?"
"I do not, but my mother does," she answered. "Follow me if you want them."
Her mother was what I imagined a witch of the wilds to look like. She appeared to be a hundred years old or more, had stringy grey hair and eerie yellow eyes, and she ranted semi-coherent nonsense to us. The elves in our party whispered among themselves, using the term "Asha'Bellanar"—either a name, a description, or a plea to the elven gods for help. The old woman acknowledged their chatter with a faint smile.
Having retrieved the papers, we returned to the fortress. Alistair took us to the western area where we'd first met him, and Duncan arrived minutes later. He finally revealed what the joining ritual involved. We were each to drink a vial of the darkspawn blood we'd collected. Revolting but necessary, Duncan told us.
We were warned that not everyone who went through the joining survived it. Darkspawn blood was poison. Daveth and Jory went first, and they were affected immediately. They choked and died before our eyes. The elves fared better. All of them survived. Among the human men, none of the others died right away, but one went into convulsions and gnawed his tongue until it was a blob of mangled tissue, and he clawed at his face, leaving deep bloody grooves. Duncan put the poor wretch out of his misery. Three deaths, nine survivors, and two of us left to go through the apparently torturous process.
Aiden's joining was successful. As with the others, his eyes went white and he choked, doubled over, and collapsed, but he woke as soon as Duncan spoke to him. I was last. In spite of all I'd just witnessed, I wasn't afraid. Either I would die from the poison or I would begin my new life as a Grey Warden.
The blood smelled awful, like stagnant water and human waste. The taste was as bad as the stench. And the pain was indescribable. There was a violent cramping in my middle, my blood felt like it would boil in my veins, and I thought my heart would explode. A vision of a huge dragon appeared, so close I could have touched it. I heard whisperings beneath the dragon's roar, in a language unknown to me. The sound of hissing voices swelled until it was deafening, louder than the dragon's thundering roar. Dizziness overcame me and I lost consciousness. When I awoke moments later, the pain was gone, leaving only weakness in my limbs and a horrible taste in my mouth from the blood. Duncan and Alistair were standing over me.
"Congratulations," Duncan said. "How do you feel?"
"Grateful, if you'll tell me I never have to do that again," I answered.
Duncan held out his hand and helped me to my feet. "Take a few minutes to regain your strength, then come find me. The king wants to meet with us."
The man standing beside the king wasn't only his advisor, I learned, but also his father-in-law. I was glad for it because it would keep him from making another offer to meet in his tent to 'talk' about his dear friend Sebastian. Not only was the king married, but also with his wife's father in the camp he still brazenly tried to entice a woman to his tent.
No, surely not. Loghain's tent was right next to the king's. Was he that daring, or had I been mistaken? Either way, I had neither trust nor respect for him.
Within hours, I would regret my ill feelings toward King Cailan. Guilt makes a poor substitute for annoyance.