Chapter 1
Home at Highever

To say Lyra was displeased would be an understatement.

Hard leather boots rang against the marbled stone as the youngest Cousland marched through Castle Highever. Destination: Father's study. Servants scurried out of her way as she stalked the hallways, dark blue eyes telegraphing her disagreeable mood. The beautiful, unexpectedly warm day did little to cheer her now, though she'd been savoring the weather before she'd heard the news. Anyone could see that it was battle she was heading into, with her dark hair tied into a knot at the nape of her neck, leather and chain jingling and creaking, and twin daggers slid into the sheaths set against her shoulders. It was true that she'd actually been preparing to go out and spar with Fergus, but that wasn't the point. A good warrior improvised.

Determination drove her feet forward, annoyance scripting out the words she would use. Her father was days from leaving Highever for the battle at Ostagar, taking her older brother Fergus and most of the army. Word had just reached her that she, on the other hand, would be remaining at the castle. Why? Because she was female.

Not true, her all-too-reasonable conscience echoed. It's because you're the one Father trusts to look after Highever.

Shut up, she returned. This works much better if I'm being oppressed.

Round the corner, and the door to Father's study stood before her. Not bothering to knock, Lyra pushed it open and stood before him, arms crossed, chin lifted in defiance.

Bryce Cousland raised his head from the vellum scrolls he was reading, blinking in surprise to see his daughter in his study at this time of day. For a moment nothing was said as they stared each other down. Eventually the teyrn stood, taking the opportunity to stretch his lanky frame. His face did not change, but a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth told Lyra he already knew why she was there.

He'd gone almost entirely gray in recent years and was now sporting a trim goatee; a new development since a recent trip to Denerim. Pale blue eyes surveyed her, a cool mask of command dropping over his features to hide his brief moment of amusement. Lyra steeled herself, preparing for the onslaught.

"Yes?" With a single word, the debate was begun.

Lyra narrowed her eyes, calm strategy replacing her normally hot temper."You mean to leave me, the best warrior you have, in Highever?" An excellent opening argument, in her opinion.

"To guard my most precious treasures. Yes," he replied.

Ouch. A telling blow. Thrumming fingers on her arm, she shifted tactics, moving into secondary reasoning. "The battle will not be here. Your 'precious treasures' can certainly be tended by lesser men-"

"All of whom are coming with me. You'll oversee a token force of well-trained guards. I'll not leave your mother and Highever Castle without adequate protection."

Logic flew out the window as she resorted to shouting. "Father, I'm not a child! I want to fight! I'm better than Ser Gilmore, better than Fergus - you know this! Why else have I been training? I am not a weak female who needs protecting-"

The tantrum only served to dissolve her father's final vestige of control, and he began to laugh at his daughter's fury. Lyra's mouth snapped shut, a stubborn glare darkening her face.

Bryce rounded the desk to place his hands on her upper arms. "Pup, I know your skill - you outdo your brother and all of my knights! It isn't your sex that determines my decision. Your mother asked that you stay. She doesn't like the thought of both our children going off to war, and to be plain, neither do I. There aren't so many Couslands that I would knowingly endanger both of you. One of you must stay here, and between you and me, it's your sensible head that I trust to care for Highever while I am gone. Maker knows I have been training your brother in statecraft since he was old enough to walk... but there it is. You are my choice. Highever needs competence, and that is you, my girl."

Lyra knew her father was right, had known before she stormed into his study, but it didn't lessen her frustration. She uncrossed her arms in defeat, mouth twisting. If she was going to concede, she wanted to get something out of it. "Will you tell Mother, at least, that I absolutely refuse to wear that green dress she had made? It makes me look like a houseplant."

Bryce chuckled. "I will do so. But what will you wear to hear the audiences, then? Not your leathers, I hope!"

Lyra glanced down. The sturdy leather armor conformed to her slender body like a glove. Patched, stretched and cracked, but so well-worn and broken in that it barely creaked with her weight as she shifted. There was nothing more comfortable, and very little could get her out of it. "And why not? Shouldn't our people see that I am ready to take on anything that comes our way?"

"Absolutely not." Eleanor Cousland marched into the room, a general taking control of a battle. "You may not like that green dress, but it was made from a pattern brought all the way from Orlais. It is the height of fashion, and Lady Miranda says that her daughters are enraptured with the style."

"Makes sense, because they're chits," Lyra muttered.

"Tone, young lady. If you won't wear the green dress, then you can wear the blue one – the one that your father brought back from Denerim," Eleanor continued.

Giving a much put-upon sigh, Lyra nodded, knowing better than to cross swords with her mother. It seemed she'd be wearing skirts whether she liked it or not, at least for now.

Fergus poked his head into the room. "Is Lyra in here? There you are, sister! We're waiting for you on the field. Oren is begging for a show, and Ser Gilmore wants to match the winner."

"I'll meet you outside, Fergus." She turned back to her parents. "May I have your leave to go, Mother?"

"How much practice do you need, child? You were out this morning, already-"

"Mother!" Lyra wailed.

"Fine, go then. We'll continue this conversation at dinner. I have news you may find interesting."

Lyra raised a suspicious eyebrow at this, but then quickly kissed her parents and hurried outside, her misgivings over being left behind relegated to the backburner for now.

.oOo.

Bryce watched the exchange between his wife and daughter with a fond smile. The resemblance between the two women in his life never failed to amaze him.

Lyra was tall for a girl, but then, so was her mother. One grey as a dove, the other like deep burnished wood, but both had oval faces that featured wide, expressive blue eyes.Whoever said that the eyes were the gateway to the soul must have met my girls, Bryce mused. Those eyes often flashed with impatience or quick intelligence, but could just as easily show humor, love, and quiet happiness. Fine, dark eyebrows curved over Lyra's tanned forehead, and a rather wide nose sat above full, rosy lips. Eleanor had agonized over her daughter's nose, knowing just how much her own had irked her, but Bryce saw nothing wrong with it. It lent personality to both of their faces, and he loved it as part of what made them unique.

But for a few minute differences, the two might have been twins were it not for their ages. Both women were slender and athletically built, but while Lyra was skilled in knife work, Eleanor had been considered one of the best archers of her generation. It made for slight differences in their musculature; Lyra was more toned, while Eleanor was wiry. But either way, both women were striking, and Bryce considered himself a very lucky man.

After accepting Lyra's kiss, he moved to the sideboard, pouring two small glasses of brandy.

His wife took the proffered cup and sat on a carved bench, indulging in a small sip. "She'll be twenty next week, Bryce. That's more than old enough to be married. I already had a son when I was her age," Eleanor fretted.

"Give her time. I want her to have a love match. We didn't force Fergus into a marriage, and Lyra is more than intelligent enough to choose her own husband." Bryce sat, easing Eleanor's hand into his own to keep her from chewing her nails. She shot him a rueful glance, her penchant for nervous gestures going unsatisfied. "Eleanor, what's the rush? You grow more worried every day. Are you truly so concerned about our daughter's marriageability?"

Eleanor sighed. "Lyra is a Cousland. She's a force to be reckoned with; deadly with her daggers, and smart as a whip. She should marry a prince, but Ferelden only had one, and she was far too young, anyway. But that isn't my point." Eleanor swirled her drink. "With her skill at arms and her willful attitude, she'll be lucky to find anyhusband, much less one who deserves her. She's already chased off four suitors since Satinalia." Eleanor contemplated the cup, then took a much larger sip than she might have had she not been so distressed.

"Technically, she didn't chase them off. They left after realizing she could out-do them with her blades."

"And you don't think this is a problem?" Eleanor demanded. "She's setting herself up to be alone forever! What man wants a woman who can carve him up with a dagger?"

"You're an archer, Eleanor-"

"Did I ever challenge you to a contest?" Eleanor pointed out, drawing a sigh from Bryce. "The only men she speaks to with any regularity are your household knights, or the servants. I do wish she would give Thomas Howe a chance."

"You know why she won't." Bryce set his drink on a side table while his wife continued her speech, her words tumbling forth with the doggedness of a trained mabari hound.

"Rendon grows more insistent by the day. I can't keep putting him off, Bryce. First it was Nathaniel, then Delilah, and now Thomas. He seems bound and determined to join his family to ours. Maker forbid anything should happen to you – I rather think he would come knocking at mydoor!"

"Should I be concerned? Do you plan on running away with dashing Arl Howe?" Bryce drew his wife's hand into his own and pressed a kiss to the back of it, his eyes sparkling.

Eleanor sniffed, mouth drawing upward into an unattractive squinch. "Now that you mention it, I understand why Lyra has no desire to marry Thomas. He's just like Rendon, isn't he?"

Bryce chuckled. One hand reached out to tuck a lock of soft gray hair behind his wife's ear. "You know, Lyra is just like the woman I fell in love with," he observed. "Same determination, same temper. But your strength was with a bow, not daggers. You had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen, and dark blue eyes that I felt like I could drown in."

Eleanor patted her silver hair with a faint smile. "It's rather lost some of its coloring, hasn't it?"

"But your eyes are as deep as ever, and your beauty is still without compare." Bryce smiled at his bride of twenty-seven years. "Don't worry about Lyra. She'll find someone." Circling his wife's shoulders with one arm, he tugged her close and grazed her forehead with his lips.

Eleanor cuddled into him, at ease in his embrace. After so many years, they fit together like two well-worn puzzle pieces. From the window came faint laughter, accompanied by the clash of swordplay and Oren's encouraging cheers. It was a fitting accompaniment to the quiet, affectionate mood that surrounded them.

.oOo.

There was just enough time for a quick sponge bath the following morning before Lyra dressed for breakfast. Skin damp, her nimble fingers flipped through the numerous linen shirts and homespun breeches to pause at the few dresses she owned. She fingered the embroidery of the hated green dress, then pulled the blue one over her shoulders instead and wriggled it into place. With luck, it would please her mother. After last night's shouting match at the dinner table over her current unmarried state, guilt had carved an uncomfortable hollow in her stomach.

It isn't as if Mother istryingto be difficult,she thought as she allowed her mother's maidservant to plait her hair. Styled like this, it hung in a thick chestnut rope all the way to her waist. Usually she wore it in two braids bound to the back of her head, but that was for the convenience of training, to conform to the shape of a helmet. Mother expected differently at table.

Her concessions to traditional feminine behavior finished, she walked decorously down the hall to the dining room and slipped into her chair beside Oren. Her father looked pleased, and Fergus gave a low whistle. Her mother arrived a moment later, and the way her eyes lit with pleasure made every bit of effort worth it.

"So Lyra. What's the occasion?"

"Just breakfast, Fergus."

Oren's small hand smoothed the fabric of her dress, an admiring look filling his bright, curious eyes. "I like your dress, Auntie Lyra. You should always wear dresses - you look like a real girl this way."

Lyra chuckled at her small nephew and stole his hand up to her mouth to kiss it, then pressed its warm softness to her cheek. He was so small yet, and such a love.

"I agree with Oren, sister - you do yourself an injustice, running through the castle dressed as a boy," Oriana commented. "You look lovely this morning. You really should wear skirts more often."

"Dresses are for special occasions, and sometimes just for fun." Lyra grinned at Oren and poked him in the side. A high-pitched giggle burst from his lips, and he wriggled away from her twitching fingers. He'll look just like Fergus one day, Lyra thought. Oren wasn't big for his age, but she had a feeling a growth spurt was upon him. Always shooting up like a weed when the mood struck. He'd been like that since he was born, and it seemed as if the time was about right for him to outgrow his clothing again.

Fergus chuckled. "She isn't that much like a boy. I don't see any other boys with hair like hers."

"Well, with it piled under that helmet it's difficult to tell, and in her armor she's a string bean. Sister, will you let me style your hair sometime? The new fashion from Denerim is a short 'do, with a braid to the side..."

Lyra's eyes widened in horror. "Cut my hair? You can't be serious!" Hands flew to grip the braid trailing down her back, smoothing their way along its reassuring length.

Oriana rolled her eyes as she patted her own sleek, short bob. "I don't see why you object so much. It isn't as if you do anything with it but braid it." Always demure and proper to a fault, Oriana straightened her gown, non-existent wrinkles chased away by her refined hands.

Lyra's sister-in-law was so... feminine. Small, soft hands, small, rounded frame, small, dainty nose. Lyra sniffed, thoughts of her own generous nose making an unwelcome appearance in her mind. Whereas Lyra was tall, Oriana was petite. Whereas Lyra was muscular, Oriana was delicate.

Oriana is what men want,Lyra thought. I'm nothing more than a chance to rise politically. She shoved the unpleasant thought from her mind and dunked a spoon into the butter dish, smearing a piece of toast for Oren.

"When father brings me a sward, will you teach me to use it, Auntie?" Oren asked.

Lyra quirked an eyebrow, glancing at Fergus to see his reaction.

Her brother burst out laughing, one hand curving around a mug of tea. "That's 'sword', Oren! And don't you want me to teach you?"

Lyra handed her nephew his toast and reached for her juice. Oren's beatific face shone like the very sun as he took his first bite, talking with his mouth full. "No, I want Auntie Lyra to teach me. She always knocks you over, Da!"

Lyra's juice cup connected with the table, thudding loudly as she nearly dropped it in her mirth. A snorting laugh clawed its way from her throat, and she rushed the orange juice down before she could spit it over the tablecloth. Oren began giggling as well, enjoying the spectacle his aunt was making as she lost further control.

"Lyra, really," Eleanor said, but the corners of her lips were sliding upward, and Bryce's blue eyes sparkled.

"Damned kid," Fergus muttered as he sipped from his mug, fooling no one. He was infernally proud of Oren, and if questioned, would have happily admitted that his son was right. Lyra wasbetter than him. After the thousands of hours she had poured into training, she had a right to be, and if Oren could tell then it only meant his son was incredibly intelligent for his age.

Bryce cleared his throat. "Oren, enough for now. Let us say the blessing, and then perhaps we will have some exciting news."

"What news?" Oren chirped, but Lyra shushed him and clasped his hand, joining her other hand to her mother's. Faces tilted down, eyes closed, and Bryce's steady voice implored the Maker to bless their meal.

"Now?" Oren begged when Bryce had finished, but Lyra began cutting his ham for him, telling him to wait. Papa would tell the news when he was ready, and until then, Oren needed to eat like a good boy.

Eventually, Bryce gave in and admitted that they were expecting a special guest, and Oren allowed Lyra to build him a ham and egg sandwich. As they ate, Eleanor told them about the two letters she'd received earlier that week, both from young men from excellent noble families.

"It seems to me that it would be no bad thing for you to meet these young men, Lyra," Eleanor wheedled. "They are both about your age."

Lyra set her napkin against her lips, inwardly cringing at what 'about your age' might mean in real terms. "Mother, I'll meet these young men, but-"

The door swung open and admitted a serving girl, effectively ending Lyra's response. "Teyrn Cousland, an important visitor has arrived. Duncan, of the Grey Wardens."

"Our visitor, Oren! Excuse me, please." Bryce stood, dropping his napkin into his chair behind him. He hurried out, leaving his family staring in his wake.

After a moment of silence, Lyra crumpled her own napkin beside her plate. "I'm done." Pushing her chair away from the table, she stood to hurry from the room, but Eleanor caught her hand as she passed.

"Lyra, you've barely touched your food. You spent more time on Oren's plate than on your own."

"I ate a whole egg, Mother. I'm fine. I'll get a snack from the kitchens later if I need something." The truth was, food had never been a driving force for Lyra. She ate what was handy, no matter how dainty or tempting, and stopped when she was full, which was usually soon after starting. It just seemed that her body was extremely efficient about how much it needed.

Eleanor's worried eyes searched her daughter's face for another moment before she sighed and nodded, allowing Lyra to escape. Heart lifting, Lyra sped away, calling back a thank you and a promise to be in later.

Darting down the long hall to her room, Lyra loosened the stays of her dress as she went, sliding the garment down her arms almost before she was through her door. Into the chair it went - too little time to hang it up properly. Her leather armor all but flew onto her body, buckles and laces strapped tight. The cascading braid was wrapped around her head and secured with a few pins. Her blades twirled into place over her shoulders, sliding home with a satisfying snick and the comforting weight of steel.

A peek into the reflecting glass, and she was out the door again.

If a Grey Warden was here in Highever, it could only mean he was recruiting, which meant he'd be observing on the practice field. With a touch of luck, she could see this Grey Warden for herself.